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17 February 2008 @ 11:31 pm
you don't recover from a night like this...  
"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 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 both running away from. Already she is thinking he could save her. And he, he is probably thinking she'll end up a scar herself.

"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, her vision isn't so great, especially when she's seeing only what she wants (but not to the point where she is blinded.)

"They're not always unhappy endings," she offers, in a way that 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, period. 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, though 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 mouth is begging her to stop, but his lips leave bruises on her forehead, her cheeks and 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 might be the cause of all this over-glorification, still she can't help thinking that's just taking the easy way out. Everything about him devastates her. She wants to pin his arms to his sides, to extract herself from the situation or at the very least to hide behind icy apathy. 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.

"Do this, I love it when girls run their fingers through my hair." And 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.)

She collapses against him, in that resigned type of way, "I wish you knew, I wish you knew" (What you've done to me.) She whispers it into his clavicles, over and over. She needs him to understand the significance of the way she needs him now. She needs him to know she, really, has never been this kind of girl. She thinks this might look like romance, but it fucking feels like tragedy. She wants him to know that he has changed her life. She wants him to know that, perhaps, this is not a good thing.
(Deleted comment)
Peter Sellerscubiclefever on February 18th, 2008 07:21 pm (UTC)
it really really means a lot.