Love More Tangible
It was disconcerting, at first, checking her email account only to see hundreds of emails - possibly thousands, she never counted, didn't want to know - from teenage girls and, sometimes, older girls or even boys, stating how bad she was for Conor, she wasn't good enough for him. Maybe it was because she didn't wear too much eyeliner, but these kids seemed to think she wasn't suited for Conor, and it wasn't even jealousy - they claimed to know what was good for him, and it wasn't her, it was them. All of them insisted that they were better for Conor than she was, that they knew how to handle him - they were better qualified, almost, just because they understood "emo" or because they "got" him, this made them qualified - as though Conor was a job! As though he was hard work.
And true, y'know, he was hard work, at least he could be. He didn't try, a lot of the time, didn't seem to want to try - he expected her to give up on him pretty quickly and it wasn't just him - thousands of posts on message boards, blogs, forums - no one thought she would last, thought she could make it.
(But she could.)
He didn't think she could, he thought she just saw him as some sort of challenge - used to scream at her sometimes, on the bad days, "Why are you doing this," was a favourite, so was "Why do you put up with me," as though he couldn't see-!
And yes, okay, some of it was the challenge but he was the challenge, and that was part of it - any other boy wouldn't have been a challenge, not like this, not like he was. And the bad parts of their relationship were bad, so bad. He got so depressed, paranoid, neurotic - he was a mess, an absolute mess. And he'd lock himself in the bathroom without speaking for hours and she'd get so worried, and so angry, and call his cell phone and leave messages on it, when she knew it was in the bedroom, just so he'd know she'd been worried, thinking about him, just so he'd know, and most of all she didn't use logic. He hated logic.
But the good parts were amazing, made it all worth it. He'd sing her songs, not even songs, just tuneless speaking over aimless strumming on the guitar, but it was so heartfelt and he meant it, oh, he meant it. And he'd talk nonsense to her as she slept, stroking her hair back from her face and whispering compliments in a sing-song voice for hours, if that's how long it took, adamant that his words would be the last thing she heard, his face the last thing she saw - "so you can see me," he'd tell her earnest, "hear me even while you sleep. So I'll never leave you."
She'd met him about a year ago when he had walked into the shop where she walked and demanded to know if she had any copies of Fevers and Mirrors - startled by his abrupt manner, she'd failed to recognise him - slightly shaken, she'd said "I think so."
"Don't sell them," he'd ordered - because yes, there was no other word for that tone of voice other than order - and then he'd walked out, gone, without another word, just that instruction. Unsure of what to do, she'd at least hidden the records behind others, wanting to do something to please the strange, awkward man.
Later, he told her that he'd fallen in love with her the minute he'd seen her fingernails painted alternate shades of white and black - "Like a chessboard," he'd said earnestly, then refused to explain the metaphor further. Conor saw the world through metaphor, heightening his inability to distinguish a lot of the time between what was real and what was not.
"Do you ever see things that aren't there?" he'd ask solemnly and at first, she hadn't known what to say, had lied to him or just pretended she'd been asleep - because he usually asked in that strange time between evening and dusk, when they were lying in a bed striped golden by rays of the setting sun. But after a while, she'd learned to be honest, to tell him no if she hadn't, or yes if she had - because sometimes, yes, she did see things - hear things that she knew didn't exist.
It was being around Conor so much, he was intoxicating in a way that couldn't be understood, not by anyone other than her. Because she was special, she was the only one with Conor almost 24/7. He wasn't clingy and he wasn't dependant, he just needed her - and this was another thing that couldn't be understood. She was the only one who understood his signs, his metaphors, the only one that could talk him down out of his frequent fits of depression. Like when his band had called, that first time - it had surprised her, because they knew Conor, had been around him longer, but - and she didn't know this then, of course she didn't - they didn't have the connection that she did, with him. Because, simply enough, she was special.
"He's staring at the mirror," they'd said, "crying."
She was out of the door and in her car in an instant, snatching the keys from the dish beside the dresser. She'd since listened to Fevers enough times to know that mirrors meant self-loathing for Conor. Surprisingly obvious if you thought about it for long enough, and these days Conor was pretty much all she thought about. When she found him, she knelt down in front of him, and took the mirror away. Kissed the top of his head, the tip of his nose, his lips.
"You don't need a mirror." Each word punctuated with a kiss. "Because I can see all the best bits of you. And the worst bits. And each part is beautiful to me."
That was the first time he'd said he loved her.
She took up smoking soon after she'd met him, just so he'd have something to feel guilty about, because Conor couldn't survive without a reason. It was a flaw, something visibly wrong with her, something to stop him from accusing of being perfect, too perfect and yeah, she knew those were stupid reasons but it wasn't logical and that was what mattered. Because you know what, when it came down to it, when it really came down to what mattered then yes, yeah, she loved him too. And she liked being able to go for a cigarette with him and she liked the way the smoke from their respective fingers would twine together in the air, and she loved him kissing her tasting of smoke - because it was just another part of him.
(Because it was Conor.)
Her friends - her family, too, but most of all her friends - they said it was unhealthy, that it would never last - and they were scared most of all that it would, that it would last, that she'd prove them wrong - them, and all the teenage fangirls. Fanboys. It was unhealthy, sure, the way they needed each other so badly, the way Conor told her, seriously, "I'd die without you," and didn't add anything, didn't expand on that, because it was fact. And she was beginning to see that she'd die without him as well - who else would sing to her while she played endless games of Mortal Kombat? Who else would carefully comb her hair with his fingers so well, taking the time and effort to smooth out the tangles, trying to kiss each and every strand? Who else would call her phone just to hear the message - she'd changed it, for him, "Conor, I'm not here, I can't pick up my phone, but I love you," because no one else ever left it ringing for long enough to go to answerphone.
She went on tour with him and the band didn't mind, it was a relief, because they didn't have to go with him when he'd storm off, they didn't have to coax him out when he locked himself in various rooms ("you're such a diva, Conor," she'd whisper through the keyhole, "you're such a fucking rock star") and they didn't have to worry when he holed up by himself in his bunk, muttering angrily, scribbling in a notebook - because he wasn't by himself anymore, and that made it all okay.
She made it all okay. Getting him to smile began as such an achievement and each time she never lost that sense of triumph - it was a nervous smile, a shy one, almost as though he were asking her if it was okay, checking to see if she'd be mad, and she couldn't help wondering about his past relationships - no one could have taken care of him like she did, it wouldn't be such a big deal if they had, Conor wouldn't be so broken.
And as everyone she had turned against her she knew that they couldn't care about her, not really, because they wouldn't listen to her, didn't give her a chance to explain - "But mom, really, I'll see you at Christmas and I'll bring Conor," - wouldn't give him a chance at all - "no, I don't want to meet this boy, the one that you're running halfway across the world with, you deserve better," - deserve better than what? Better than someone she loves, better than someone she needs, better than someone who cares so damn much about her that it's like a physical pain, and vice versa? Even if she could do better (and she didn't believe there was anyone better - safer, maybe, but not better) well, she didn't want better. She wanted Conor, needed Conor, and she had Conor.
They had each other, just as it should be. Her and Conor, against the world - Conor and his guitar, that was all he needed ("and you, of course, I can't forget you") and his voice. He never wrote songs about her that went on the records, too personal, he'd say, he wanted her all to himself and besides, the songs he wrote about her were for her, not for anyone else, he didn't want to share them - and he meant it, so so much, and why couldn't anyone see that?
Some people could, though. His band could, for a start - they'd tell her how much she meant to Conor - they never said they were grateful to her, for calming him down or stopping his tears, because they weren't, Conor wasn't like that, he wasn't a job; never said they appreciated her hard work, because Conor wasn't like that - but they'd tell her how important she was, what a connection Conor had with her. Her friends called bullshit, said it was lies, that he was playing her but they didn't know Conor and sure, yeah, maybe it sounded like that but it wasn't, and there was no way to convince them of that. And gradually she met people - Conor went to group counselling sessions for therapy, to help him, and she'd meet this boy or that girl and they'd say, "You totally get him," and "Why don't I have someone like that," or she'd meet so-and-so's girlfriend or boyfriend and it would be exactly the same, and hey, they could be unhealthy together.