He needs a distraction from it all. He needs you to put your hands on him and kiss him, eyes shut and hands trailing against patches of skin. He needs it deep... hard, slow and rough. He needs something -- anything at all that has to do with you -- to push back the thoughts of pain and remorse and have you in his arms instead as he kisses you back and forgets about everything but getting you undressed and under his covers, where nothing can harm anyone. It's just you and him, in a sea of tangled limbs of heat and kisses to leave marks on skin.
He needs to get drunk, or at least a little tipsy. So, it isn't the healthiest thing when coming to 'calming down' or getting rid of his demons, but it works. The alcohol trickles through his blood system and into his veins, buzzing him in a way where everything is deliciously numb and hazy. He slurs against you, kissing you sloppily with his hand latched to the back of your neck as he pulls you closer... and closer... and closer. You see -- the alcohol is not from a bottle or a shot glass. It's from you and your lips. That is what he gets drunk off of; you.
He craves you. There is nothing else that can calm him other than knowing that you're there with him, breathing and safe and tucked away with him and only him. Seeing you, breathing you in, touching your skin and tasting your lips is all that can soothe him. No alcohol, no drugs, no therapeutic bullshit that doctors swear by. If he can't have you -- can't be with you -- his walls start crumbling down and nothing is calm. The ocean's waves are close by, reading to create hurricanes and tornadoes like no other. Without you, nothing is alright.
He wants to sleep it off. The bad thoughts, he means, or whatever is bothering him to the point where he's ready to rip his hair out of his head or break a few antique glasses. So you pull him into bed with you, under the duvet in a darkened room, where the only sound is him breathing against your neck, small whimpers coming past his lips. You push your fingers through his flat hair and allow him to drift off, clutching onto you tighter even in his sleep. He needs you there, next to him, in warmth where nothing bad can get into his head.
He likes it when his hair is played with. It reminds him of nightmares when he was a little kid, and how his mom would always come to the rescue to bring him back to the present, rubbing her fingers through his hair and against his scalp. More importantly, he likes it when you do it when he's laying down, his flops of hair resting against your stomach of in your lap. His breathing evens out and his tears come to bay just from having the reassurance of your hands on him. It's a reminder that he's alive -- that he's okay, breathing, living and loving.