A/N- Hey! I'm back! cheezy grin Didja miss me? Another fluffy, plotless one-shot. I proooomise I'll have the new Mussolini chap up reallyreally soon! Promise!
The Best Kind of Crying
You run out the back door and slam it as loud as you can, just for the hell of it, but of course they can't hear you. Their own voices far eclipse any noise you can make, and you know it. The long dirt road beckons, and you shove your hands into the pockets of your camo skirt and walk down it, fuming and kicking at stones.
They're fighting. Again. Of course. Like always. And this time, it's about you. Peachy. Inside, you know you haven't done anything, and that this fight is not your fault, really, that you are just an excuse for them to get in another of those vicious verbal brawls they seem to like and hate so much. Can't they see how much it's tearing you up? Selfishly, you wonder if they realize how selfish they are being in doing this to you. . .you mean the family. Ah, screw it, who are you kidding. Of course the sole person you're worried about here is yourself.
Wrapped in a blanket of loathing, both for yourself and for them, you trudge down the road, not knowing or caring exactly where you're going. By the time you check back in with reality, you realize that you're standing at the end of the driveway of the sheep farm where your best friend works. You watch, almost bemused, if you were in the sort of mood where you could bother with being something as trivial as bemused, as your feet carry you in the direction of the barn where you have been many, many times when you needed to spill your guts to somebody or just hang out, smelling the sweet animal smells of hay and lanolin.
You don't realize how cold you are until you are standing in front of the entrance of the barn, the wooden planks radiating heat from the generator inside. You stupidly fled the house wearing nothing but your short skirt and black tee-shirt and the temperature has been dropping steadily since then as the sun skulks away behind the hills.
As if on cue, you begin shivering violently as you push open the door. At first, he doesn't notice your presence, being too busy forking hay from the loft down into the mangers, but when the wind blows the door shut with a loud bang, he looks down and notices you, standing there looking up at him like a stupid cow or something. Instantly, his face is all concern. He once told you he could see everything you're feeling in that face of yours, and you can only imagine what he must be seeing now. You're suprised he hasn't run off screaming from the whirling emotions, because that's what you feel like doing.
He swings down from the loft and approaches you, frowning. "Dammit, you're freezing," he says as a greeting. "Why the hell'd you leave the house without a coat?" He peels off his hoodie and hands it to you silently, and you take it and stare at it numbly. You can't bring yourself to put it on. What good will a hoodie do for the tsunami ripping up your insides?
He rolls his eyes and sighs softly, putting your arms into the sleeves and easing it over your head. You stand stiff and unmoving, and let him dress you like a doll.
"Hey," he says, putting a finger under your chin and bringing your face up to meet his eyes. "Are you okay?"
His voice sounds as if it's coming from very far away, and when it finally does meet your ears, it sounds muffly and blanketed. Slowly, you shake your head no.
And then you begin to cry. Not crying like they do in movies, with a few perfect tears drifting one by one in pretty patterns all down the heroine's face while the hero leans down and kisses them away. No. You gain speed until you are sobbing, great big shuddery, heaving, loud sobs like the kind you cry when you're three and your pet parakeet dies and you don't understand anything but the fact that he's never coming back again and it's the end of the world until somebody goes to the store and buys you a prettier, new one.
He holds you, but no one can check it by you because you're too drawn into your own cold shell of hopelessness and despair to notice. You don't notice how long it is you stand there, but eventually your crying runs out, as only that type of crying can, with a definite stop followed by hiccups and wobbly legs from all the exertion you've just gone through. Then you notice his arms around you, and realize that you've been gripping the front of his black Led Zeppelin tee-shirt with both fists, and when you finally step back and let go, there are two tight whorls of wrinkles in the fabric and a big wet patch on his shoulder.
He takes you by the hand and sits on a hay bale and pulls you up into his lap and puts his arms around you again and rocks you like your mother used to do when you were tiny, his lips on your hair. You quiet and your hiccups subside into nothingness and you feel as if all the crying hs washed away the cold shell and you can finally see where you are going to go from here, and it's pretty dismal, but nothing you can't handle.
You look up at him with a weak smile, an unspoken thank you. You try to tell him how much it means to you that he's there, real and solid even when everything else is flying apart at the seams, but you don't really know how.
Instead, you place a cold hand on your red, hot cheek and wince. You can tell, even without looking, that your eyes are read and puffy and that you have eyeliner and mascara running in tracks all the way down to your chin. And your hair, too, your hair is an absolute bird's nest from walking in that wind.
"I look like something out of Edward Scissorhands," you say, looking up at him.
But he obviously doesn't think so because of what he does next. He brings his hands around so they're cupping your face and closes his eyes and kisses you on the lips. Not the brotherly ones he always used to give you so thoughtlessly when your cute naivete used to make him laugh. This is softer, and gentler, and much more enjoyable. Sure, you've been kissed before, but never like this.
You wrap your arms around his waist and kiss him back, helping him in his quest to kiss away all your problems and everything that's making you cry.
You break away and he runs a thumb down the side of your face, smiling a little, and you settle deeper into his lap with a sigh, pushing the sleeves of the hoodie that smells like him all the way up to your elbows so they won't get in the way of your hands.
You look up again, and you can see the future, and somehow, somehow, it doesn't look quite so bad.
A/N- PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! They mean sooooo much to me. Oh, and I don't own Edward Scissorhands. If I did, would I be living here?