Addicted [BoyxBoy]

Cool Kids

"I can't believe this," I muttered as I was wiping the blood off of Bobby's face with a damp towel.

He had an icepack on his forehead, leaning back against the cushion of my plush, white couch. He groaned before he said, "Believe it."

"Why, Bobby? Why'd you have to fight Murphy?"

"He ticked me off."

I stopped wiping at his face and glared at him incredulously.

"Then you walk away, you don't punch him."

Bobby just shrugged and said, "He started it when he called us 'dirty faggots' and said he was gonna fuck you up."

I looked at him blankly. His words were cruel, yes, but that didn't excuse it. I verbalized it, too, "That doesn't excuse it at all."

"I just fucked him up before he could do anything," he muttered with his eyes closed.

"Yeah, you obviously haven't looked in a mirror," I snapped back, referring to his injuries.

"I got a few good hits in," he chuckled, opens his eyes slightly to look at me.

I shook my head and wiped his face rather roughly, earning a wince from Bobby's clenched teeth as I said, "It isn't funny. You could've been seriously injured. And now you might be kicked off the football team."

"I don't care," Bobby mumbled, "They don't need me."

"Really? You're willing to throw away football over a dumb comment? Where was that thought process freshman year?"

I knew it stung both of us mentioning the year when Murphy tormented me and Bobby didn't do anything, but his actions made no sense to me.

He sat up, taking the icepack off and glaring at me with almost fiery eyes.

"That was before I realized just how important to me you are. I was young and stupid, and I didn't have my priorities straight. Now I've realized I'm not straight and it's helped put things in perspective."

I looked down shyly, a little embarrassed. His sweetness was poisonous, eliciting a dangerous flush to form in my cheeks. My boyfriend was literally fighting for me, regardless of the consequences. It made me feel tingly inside, and I hated myself for being such a teenage girl. Despite this, I didn't smile.

"I can't come before your safety," I said after a long pause, "Try to imagine how I feel."

"I regret nothing. No one fucks with you," he said firmly after placing a hand on my thigh.

I looked up to him, his injured face bringing physical pain to my chest. I placed my hand over his for a second before tapping it and saying, "I'm gonna go put this in the wash."

I stood up with the towel in my hand and walked to the laundry room. I started a cycle, but before I could put the towel in the washing machine, I stopped. And I just stared at the towel.

The once-white towel was tainted, blood all over it. It seemed to reflect our relationship in an odd way.

I loved Bobby, and I wasn't afraid to show it. But that love seemed tainted too, with that overhanging possibility that I could get hurt, or worse: he could end up getting hurt, even more so than what had already happened. I could feel myself on the verge of tears, and I didn't know if I could handle that type of anxiety again.

What could we do? Conceal ourselves and become an empty shell of a relationship just to please others?

Or could we wash the towel and make it pure and safe again?