'cause i'm nothing, nothing on my own.
The words are bitter on her tongue. They both know that she's much too prideful for these words. Her teeth grind together, breaking the silence that he ignites, puffing away at his cigarette as he stands just in front of her, close enough to touch but too far to hold.
Because the very thought of him exiting through the door permanently, taking flight and leaving her behind with these broken wings, this very thought makes her erupt in violent shudders. It may be pathetic. It may be disgusting. But it is so true that she wants to wretch.
"I saved you," he says finally. And she remembers. All the screeching, counting the tiles one by one as they're drenched in red. Watching her black, black hair becomes sticky and warm and red.
"You're holding that against me?" Her laugh is hollow. "You're sick. You're so, so sick."
His entire body stiffens.
"Then that makes two of us."
the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.
He's the one coming back to the club, his hair messy as always and his face set and a little frantic, and there she is, laughing and grinding and flying.
"We're leaving," he says, his tone harsh as he steals her away from her happy grinding partners. In her dazed state, she giggles and says,
"Noooo we're not, let's dance."
And even in that dazed state, she complies, her laugh honey-smooth and her hand rubbing into his, fitting like a glove on its owner's hand.
"He broke up with me, Ken did," she says woozily. His brain processes the information hotly, as if he's missed something.
"Ken broke up with you in the eighth grade."
"Still hurt. Thought I loooved him," her voice says, but it's not her speaking. It's the alien heads. And it sets him off, and conveniently, there is that dark abandoned alley all stories like this need, and he drags them both in and throws her against the wall, waiting for her to yelp.
"Ow," she whispers, head spinning.
He never responds, because his lips are mashed up against hers, and her cold hands creep up his jacket and shirt and feel his chest for two seconds before settling on his back. He presses closer still, unsatisfied with the barely-there distance that is set between them. Closer, until they are fused together, closer, until it is as if they're fucking with their clothes on, and they might as well be.
'cause talk is cheap.
They stand in his office, he still in his dress shirt, tie long flung away; she in a wrinkled dress that should be flat and glorious on her thin frame. Her eyes are bleak and tired, and his are unreadable and dark, as if he's only just seeing the curve of her cleavage and the length of her legs for the first time.
"You're late," ice feeds into her voice.
"Sorry," he mumbles, taking a step towards her. "I got caught up. Please." She takes a step back, shaking her head, an incredulous look on her face.
"I'm not waiting for you forever." She whips around and begins to walk out.
"No. Apparently, you're coming to find me. Because I'm yours, and you're mine." Inevitably, his hands find her arms, his mouth finds her neck. She swallows her moan because it's been too long, and he isn't winning.
"I'm not yours, and you're - you're not mine," she says, defiance struggling as he bites and nips away at his heated pace. "We're not for each other, obviously. You're a dickhead and I'm a bitch, so get the fuck away from me."
It's truly been too long.
He turns her around, absolutely glad that it's long after hours (but he could really care less even if it wasn't) and she doesn't look eighteen with those shadows under her eyes and those come-hither eyes, and slams her against the closed door.
She lets out a hiss that he smothers, and he wishes they didn't have any clothes on in the first place because it's truly
been too long.
'hey, you know this could be something.'
"You're not the same person, kid."
His voice is like music in her ears, but she ignores him as she folds the clothing piece by piece. He isn't even in a hurry to stop her. Maybe they've just gotten tired of each other.
"Neither are you, bud." Because while other people called each other honey-bun and darling and chickweed, they were kid and bud. They always were.
What happened to high school, where he was in the twelfth grade and she was in the tenth, and he wasn't yet taking over his family firm and she wasn't his fuck buddy? Because back then, they were in love. They really were, if you could think that.
"I'm done here. Peace."
It's her turn to leave, and she'll be damned if he doesn't try to stop her.
Her bags bump into her hip every other step, and the headache that was only just forming begins to eat up her head. She's already at the door, slipping into her Converse, when his voice comes weakly,
Because she'll be damned if he doesn't try to stop her.
hoping it would come soon, so that they could die.
"Do you even like me?" Her voice is fluid, still that honey-tint when it hits just right. It's barely a year later, and they're still living together, still breathing, still fucking, still dying. And it's so wrong, but it feels like they need it.
He doesn't anwer, and that's all the answer she needs. She even lets herself fall under some crazy illusion that he'll say, I don't like you, I love you, and then she briskly remembers that that only happens in cliche fairy tales and happy stories where the boy always falls for the girl, even if they start off as fuck buddies.
"I don't either," she says. "So it's fine that you don't like me. I mean, I wasn't expecting you to absolutely fall in love with me anyways, so whatever." And she catches herself before she continues to ramble on, because she's read so many romance novels if her youth that it's stained the back of her mind permanently, and she's so, so afraid that she'll end up telling him she loves him because that's what all the rambling protagonists do.
And while she is busy telling herself to shut the fuck up, she completely misses that hollow, heartbroken look he gives her, silence speaking for all its worth.
don't fly fast, oh pilot can you help me?
"I'm leaving," he says nonchalantly.
"Yeah? Have fun." She doesn't move from where she stands, against the balcony railing, puffing out smoke from her pale cheeks. The cigarette dangles between her fingers, ash flaking off every so often.
"I'm leaving," he repeats. "Away. Loft's yours now." And he turns on his heel. Her cigarette drops.
"What?" She says, following him to their room, where his clothing is neatly packed and he hands her an envelope.
"Money for the first few months. Get a job, kid. You're not surviving on what I make anymore," he tells her, a wilted smile making its way onto his face. Her eyes shutter a few times before she realizes what he means. He's leaving, and she's going to be alone. And it takes all her will not to drop down and tell him not to go.
or are we ashes?
The phone rings, and she picks up unceremoniously, feet aching and face about to fall off from exhaustion.
"Hello?" Because as rude as she wants to be, it's still a loft under his name and the small conscience underneath her rough, badass demeanor tells her that of course she can't leave anyone with a bad impression. It enrages her, how whipped she is. And she's not even in a relationship. She's not even male. She's not him.
"Tired enough," his voice cuts in, lighter than it has been for such a long time. She nearly hangs up, but instead, she says,
"I work two jobs bud, you try telling me that you wouldn't wanna foot massage after that." And his chuckle makes her stomach clench, and she wonders when the last time she heard that was. Two years ago, maybe, after their one year fuck-buddy-a-versary.
"I love you," she says nonchalantly, filling in the space accidentally.
And she hangs up.
quit so our thoughts could rest.
It's been a year, and she hasn't heard from him. But she stays in the loft, empty and breathes the sexual tension that has been left behind since he left. And she has not been counting the minutes that he has been gone, because it's hopeless to think that he will come back. That the keys will jingle and he will step through the door and throw his shoes off and moan and groan and throw himself on her and demand she take care of him.
She doesn't need to tell anyone how much she misses that. She works decent hours, decent jobs, knows decent people. Nothing about him was decent besides his job, which was much more than decent, and nothing about him made her feel secure.
And she just about punches a hole in the wall when the phone rings, and she picks up, grinding down a harsh Hello? and it's only a telemarketer, and just a little, her heart cracks more than it already is. Some distorted, disgusting left-over pumping robot that stains her entire body red. She wishes she lived in those stupid cliche romance novels.
'cause it's tragedy and it'll only bring you down.
She's back to grinding and hollering. He's not going to come back, and she's come to terms with that such a long time ago, but she can't help but wish sometimes, and grinding and smoking and fucking just helps squash that a little, occasionally.
And some asshole grinds a little too close, alcohol reeking from his breath as he presses himself right up to her, and she's attacked by the quaintest memory of an alley and a dark night and LSD, and it makes her entire face light up, and the asshole thinks he must be doing something right, so he grabs her ass and attacks her face with his own, and she punches him and stumbles out of the club.
The only thing she prides herself on, being beside him for so long, is that not once in the years she's been 'with' him has she cried. Not after he's left, not before, not ever. Not for him. So of course those aren't tears leaking down her face, are you kidding?
gonna pick you up, and it's here we stay.
He isn't lonely. That's a figment of anyone's fucking imagination. He genuinely enjoys the women that throw themselves upon his lap, and sometimes he even finds someone that fills her spot. Someone who can suck better, who can rock better, who can moan louder.
He pretends that the reason he left is because of work, not because of her. She was drowning, and he was the black water she was drowning in. It doesn't work well, and he likes to avoid those situations, where you're drowning who you want to stay alive.
He remembers her I love you, though, that time a year and a half ago, and he remembers how laid-back she was saying it, but somehow he knows that she was completely honest, and he wants to slap himself for dragging her down with him.
He's not boarding a plane right now. It's not headed back home. He's not going to knock on her door. And she won't open the door, eyes teary and fist bleeding and she's not going to jump on him and want to kill him and kiss him at the same time.
pumped this out in record time. (Y)
this was basically one of those ipod challenges, where you put it on shuffle and write within the timespan of each song for ten songs. (maybe this isn't even ten, my math is too terrible.)
-sarah - tyler kyte
-lucy in the sky with diamonds - the beatles
-fall for you - secondhand serenade
-two is better than one - boys like girls ft. taylor swift
-all good things - nelly furtado
-bruised - jack's mannequin
-ashes & wine - a fine frenzy
-the bleeding heart show - the new pornographers
-breathe - taylor swift ft. colbie caillet
-pick you up - the dykeenies
Characters : nameless, but may be named & used again. :)
Prompts: ipod challenge, songs. no shit, sorry.