"Would you just kiss me?" she asks, and with that she is breaking one of her rules. She justifies this by thinking maybe, somehow, all her problems will dissolve between the cracks in her lips as they connect with his. She could, of course, attribute that to her ever-present desire to be saved by someone (anyone?). And honestly, with every sip from the bottle her line of sight is more blurred, and yet he only looks more and more like some kind of knight in shining armor. It's the kind of cliché that fits perfectly with her only seeing what she wants (though not to the point where she is blinded.)
"I refuse to be a character in one of your stories!" But while he says this, he is lacing his fingers within hers. Or maybe is standing, she's not so sure the positions even matter at this point. But his eyes are lackluster and he is looking at her in a way that can only make her breaths harsher and she, she is finally understanding, admiring the way she can convince herself that, more than anything, she wants him.
Band-aids on both their sleeves cover the kind of pain they are running away from. Already she is thinking he could save her. And he, he is probably thinking she'll end up a scar herself.
"They're not always unhappy endings," she offers, but he will never understand. What she wants to say is, "I could be falling in love with you right now," that is, if she had the slightest idea of what love consists of, or if it exists at all. Maybe, she is just falling, or maybe it is just what she thinks he needs. In that self-loathing kind of way, maybe she is just aching for a broken heart. He keeps telling her it is just the music, just the moment, and she despises his rationality.
His eyes though, they are fierce with unmistakable longing. Though his heart beats faster with it, regret stings his tear ducts, and he is so fucking sure that nothing good will come of this. And she, she is desperate to be his mistake... but not quite desperate enough. Still, she'd like to think if she put her mouth to his he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
He pulls her toward him, his fingertips explore the safe side of her, if there is one. His lips leave marks on her forehead, her cheeks but his mouth—it is begging for her to stop. The syllables stick to the edges of his lips in an urgent kind of way and it almost doesn't matter what he is saying. More so that his voice continues to crack and his gasps are evident and his fingers massage bruises into her scalp. It is true what they say about actions speaking louder than words (especially when his words are so unappealing to her desires.) This, this is what she means when she is explaining compassionate deception.
The looks he gives her, the way his arms feel wrapped around her, they are breaking her. Tears slide down her cheeks and he whispers against her earlobe, "I envy that you can cry in front of me." She thinks it might be an insult.
What she knows is, the liquor is sticky on her lips (syrup in her bloodstream.) It is probably the cause of all this over-glorification, still she can't help thinking that's just taking the easy way out. It's so indie-hollywood, the kind of movies on her shelves at home, and her idealistic mind just can't help but to eat it up.
Everything about him devastates her. She wants to hide behind the illusion of apathy, though the alcohol infecting her is dishonesty enough. She is torn between extracting herself from the situation and the idea of her lips against his. But god damnit, they could fucking save each other, and she can't let that go, so instead she breaks a rule and lets him lead her fingers to his hair.
"I love when girls run their hands through my hair." His hands are shaking when he touches them to her face and she looks at him with some kind of familiar fear, and he is hurting her and she wonders how he feels about it.
This scene is soaked in tenderness and it is just the kind of deception she has always run away from. And he, he is running too, though neither of them far enough to end up anywhere but within each others arms (And that is another rule she is breaking.)
“Don't you see? We're the kind of people the audience wants to end up together in the end.” This is what she wants to say, but honestly, her vocal chords can't find it in themselves to even bother and she can already imagine his responses and none of them are pleasing.
She collapses against him, resigned to whatever he's done to her. “I wish you knew, I wish you knew.” She whispers against his skin over and over. She needs him to understand the significance of how she feels right now. She needs him to know that she, really, has never been this type of girl. She needs him to know that he has changed her life, and especially; she needs him to know that, perhaps, this is not a good thing. Or maybe, she just needs... him.