A/N: Writer's block is a fucking bitch, I've got to say. It really sucks. This is my spawn, so I'm sorry to hurt you if you've read it.
WE WERE INFINITE
"Fuck," I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets. The shovel clatters to the driveway with a loud thwack, but I can't care less. Good. Break, you piece of shit. It's not like you're good for anything anyway. Just moving snow around in pathetic paths, making it look like lines of cocaine. Snort that, stupid shovel! You should be shoving crap around, asshole.
Great, I'm angry at a shovel. This definitely means therapy. Actually, maybe therapy would be good for me. Perhaps I could launch at the therapist and rip his head off. That would be good for my fury that is just…just festering inside me. I want to hurt somebody. I want to freaking hurt somebody. I want to, I want to, I want to…I want to kill somebody. But not just somebody. The only somebody that would make me this mad, this furious, is who I want to kill. Reasonable, right? Reasonable that I'd want to just mutilate him till he's a quivering pile of bloody pulp? Heh, that's what I thought too. Apparently Zoe isn't too adamant about it; at least, not as much as I am.
"He's just one boy, Hailie," she chided me, folding her arms over her chest. "It's not like you were in love with him, and obviously he didn't love you."
Thanks, Zoe. Thanks a lot.
What did she know? What did she know about our relationship? Excuse me, but was she the one in the relationship? I thought not. She wasn't the one that got to stare at his gorgeous face every day. She wasn't the one that got to hold his hand. She wasn't the one that got to feel his smooth skin graze softly over hers, ivory over porcelain, gentle as the breeze that whispers across barren landscapes. She wasn't the one that got to feel the satin touch of his lips everywhere, everywhere, anywhere—
Oh, shut up, shut up head! You're going to make me a wreck again! Why did I have to think this way? It's as though I like to torture myself, as though I like to personally shatter my heart. Sure, call me dramatic. Sure, call me pathetic. I am, you know. I'm dramatic I suppose, but I'm even more pathetic. I'm so pathetic that you could laugh at me. I'm so pathetic that it's so funny it's not even funny, so much so that it's funny…does that make sense? I thought not. I tend not to make sense. My thoughts are like bees that whizz by each other, creating a tangled tapestry of strangeness. Maybe that's why he did it…maybe that's why…I've never thought of it like that…
I close my eyes tightly and bite my lip. Stop. Stop now. This isn't healthy, it can't be healthy. I hear a car drive by, but I don't open my eyes. They stay glued shut as though if they opened, everything would come tumbling out, my fears, my hopes, my dreams, everything I want, everything can't have, everything that I've ever thought and everything that's important to me. Without it, I'm nothing. Without it, I'm hopeless. Without it, I'm…I'm…I'm who I am now. I'm a shell. I'm a disgusting hollow encasing filled with a bunch of air, a bunch of emptiness that can't be saved. I can't be salvaged. I'm useless, something that doesn't deserve to live. I really don't deserve to live, do I? It's something that has been bugging me for the past few days. Life is wasted on me, I can feel it. It feels—it feels horrible. It feels horrible to be living when someone else, like someone in Haiti or something, deserves it more than me. They need it. They need this life force flowing prominently through me.
With a soft whimper, I whip around and begin to trot quickly. Where am I going? I don't know. I don't care. I'm just going…going somewhere. Somewhere that's not here. I could say that where I stood, where I stood a few moments ago, held too many memories. It held too much, too much, too much essence of him. I'd be bullshitting. I'd be lying through my teeth. I just need to be moving, to be somewhere, to do something, but be alone. Friends are useless right now; aren't they always? Aren't they only good for giggling, gossiping, making fun of someone? What purpose do they really serve anyway?
I'm running now. I have a massive yard, and the back extends for—for I don't know how long. It just goes and goes, for perhaps a few dozen acres. And it's trees, trees, all trees. All wood, their trunks standing quietly, speaking to each other in some language that I can't hear but wouldn't understand if I could anyway. It's my place, my place of warmth, my place of understanding even in the thick blanket of snow that now suffocates every crevice. It is warm. Why is it warm? It shouldn't be warm, it shouldn't be warm. Maybe it's because I'm cold, desperately cold, why am I so cold? Where's my jacket? What happened to my jacket? My biceps are bare to the howling, fierce wind that's whipping angrily through the spaces in the trees. It laps up every flake of snow that is vulnerable to it and carries it far, far away. Please, take me with you. Don't leave me here, please, I can't be here. I don't belong here. This isn't where I should be, not now, not ever.
But the wind just goes on and on, not even noticing me. Nothing notices me. I'm just an infinitesimal piece of the universe with a frowny face plastered across her expression. I am nothing. As always, I am nothing. What else is new? Nothing. Nothing is new, I am not new, I am the same old sad, sad girl with the shine in her eyes that reflects the stars, the moon, the space that will never acknowledge her. Empty, void of anything, she runs, her legs whipping, sliding, gliding over the layers of white. Empty void of anything, I run, my legs whipping, sliding, gliding over the layers of white. Flakes whip at my skin, little needles diving into me, but I pay no heed. They're just as small as I am in all of this, so why should I note them? They're useless, morose, nothing. I'm useless, morose, nothing.
Where did we go wrong?—
Shut up, head.
Why did he do it?—
Shut. Up. Head.
What did I do?—
Shut up, head!
Was it my fault?—
SHUT UP HEAD!
Wasn't I good enough?—
No. No I wasn't good enough. I'm not good enough for anything. I never was and never will be. Why would I think I'd be good enough for…for him? It's pathetic, sad, pathetic to even think such a thing. It would never happen in a thousand years that I would be good enough for him. I can't be good enough for him because he deserves a goddess. And you know who's a goddess? Sylvia's a goddess. Sylvia's a fucking goddess, decked out in her tiny little skirts, long soccer-toned legs, mid-calf-high black heeled boots, tight tank-tops, cute jackets, and perfect hair. Don't even get me started on her face. I almost went blind when I first saw that perfection. Of course, the first time I saw that perfection was when it was locked with my perfection by the lips, but…still. She deserves him. He deserves her. He deserves someone as pretty, as gorgeous, as lovely as him, a match. An angel isn't good enough for him. An angel can't compete with a goddess. An angel is merely a messenger for God, where as a goddess is an equal of his. An angel simply isn't good enough.
He always called me his angel.
Of course, like the klutz I am, I slip on some ice. The smooth bottoms of my worn Uggs are no use against it, and there I go, flying along through the air. For a moment, I'm weightless, suspended in nothing, floating, free, free from everything. Nothing can tie me down, I'm free. Nothing can hold me, I'm free. I'm free, I'm finally free.
And then I come crashing down again, tumbling from my high, tumbling from my fantasy, tumbling from the whole us idea. Crashing down, crashing. I am once again nothing. I'm bound. I'm suffocated, my face buried into the snow. My butt is in the air, my knees are folded below me, my face buried in the snow. I look like a cartoon. Go on, laugh. Go on, everyone else did. Everyone did, everyone laughed, they cackled, they knew. They knew, damn it. They just knew. They just knew, just as I just knew. Bu the difference was that they really just knew. They were certain. They must've had some strange incite, some strange idea that couldn't go wrong, some psychic talent given to them by God.
They just knew. I just knew. The difference was that they were right.
They were right. We wouldn't last. We would never last, they said.
We didn't last.
What did I do wrong?
With a struggling effort, I pull my face out of the icy barrier between me and the frozen ground. Melted flakes mingle with my tears. My skin is wet, wet from frost and tears, frost and tears coexisting. They suit each other, you know. They really do. Ice symbolizes death, despair, hopelessness while tears represent death, despair, hopelessness. Perfection, really. They're a match made in heaven, I suppose one could say.
Frost and tears. Ice and tears.
He's fire, I'm ice. He's a smile, I'm tears.
We really had no chance did we?
Everything I tried to suppress washes over me now, dragging me into the ocean of memories that hurt, that killed. They're trying to kill me, my mind is trying to kill me. But there's no use in resisting. It all comes back.
She laughed. Her friend gave her a little shove. They laughed together. Smiles. They were happy. She was happy. The grin that swallowed her face was shocking in its size; it could engulf the world. It would have if she'd let it go. It would've infected every corner of the planet with the happiness that radiated from her now. It would've exploded into a million of smiling sparks.
But it didn't go anywhere. It merely clung to her like the flu.
She waved goodbye. Her friend waved goodbye. They parted. They had places to go, things to do, people to see. Lives, they had, as some may call it. Sure, they were in school, but they still had countless other things to worry about besides when they could see each other again, and so they just bid adieu to one another. She began to walk away, a smile still lingering on her face. A smile seemed to be always lingering on her face as though it was permanently cemented there. She fancied her life pretty great at the time. Anyone would. She had decent grades, good friends, a fabulous father, a sister that didn't annoy her, and a lovely home. But, most importantly to her, she had a boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend, oh no. She had John Black, the most incredible-looking guy she could imagine, and the most incredibly-sweet guy she could imagine. He seemed to be perfect to her, flawless, and they spent all their time together. The two were way past the honeymoon stage, which made their fantastic relationship even more odd. They acted as though they were newlyweds when they'd been going out for a year and a half. She'd been a freshman and he a sophomore when they went on their first date. Now, being a sophomore herself, she felt more at home in the large high school she attended. Now, being a sophomore, the fantasy-like trait to their love wasn't lost on her. She reveled in it. She'd been swept off her feet, rescued.
Now all she needed was a glass slipper.
She turned her head, and suddenly everything halted, screeching into slow-motion. Her brilliant blonde hair, curled delicately into loose waves as always, swung around as she redirected her attention to where she was going. It glinted in the sunlight, shiny and nice as it collapsed back into place against her lower back. She had a certain saunter about her, a certain bounce as she strutted through the courtyard. Her hips, petite and narrow, swung back and forth, and her startling blue eyes shimmered. Everyone was in love with her eyes. They were positively flawless, the color of the sky, always wide and happy. They were the epitome of enviable.
And then those very eyes settled upon a sight that turned them the color of envy itself.
At first, they were too far away. At first, they were too far away for her to pinpoint exactly why she felt her heart crack. At first, she had some hope, some blind hope that simply wouldn't leave her alone. Her pace increased as she headed toward the two. Had she been naïve, she would've assumed that it wasn't two people, but one. They were so close together that they looked to be simply a large person.
Unfortunately, she wasn't naïve. Unfortunately, she'd rather been expecting what she came upon. Unfortunately, this hurt her more because she'd had some time to allow it to sink in, if it was only just a few seconds.
Now, she was no more three feet behind them. She could hear the noises coming from their lips, the smacking noises that she knew so well. She could even see herself in the other girl's position, his arms enclosed around her, his mouth covering hers, impassioned. She could feel what the other girl must have been feeling, the feeling of flight, the feeling of freedom, of desire, of absolute perfection. It suited her. She was absolute perfection in herself, with flawless chocolate hair, a flawless body, and flawlessly caramel skin. She was so much better than his current girlfriend, the one that stood, shocked behind them. She was so shocked, in fact, that sound escaped her now. She couldn't say anything. She couldn't scream. She could barely think through the thick fog that was swallowing her brain. The only thing that stuck out like a sore thumb in her mind was a single question: why?
After a few minutes of watching in absolute horror, her feet refusing to move, she found her voice.
"J-John?" she stammered. Her voice didn't have anything that she wanted it to have, but she didn't even know what she did want it to have. She didn't know what she wanted just yet, what she wanted at all. She wasn't even sure if she wanted that girl to get the fuck off of her boyfriend. Everything was frozen, though it all was beginning to come around finally.
The two yanked apart, and the boy fixed his perfect, flawless, deep blue eyes upon the girl staring dumbly at him. Immediately, the gaze turned tortured, sorrowful.
"…Hailie…" he choked, and his hands dropped from the girl's waist. She knew the girl; her name was Sylvia Thomas, and she was absolutely gorgeous. Her face was literally perfect. Her skin was naturally, perpetually tanned, her lips put Angelina Jolie's to shame, her cheekbones were defined, her chest was incredibly ample, and her hair was the color of mahogany. But her eyes were the color of ice. John's girl nearly gasped out loud. Out of all three of them, hers were the most striking.
"Oh, shit," Sylvia grumbled. John jumped up.
"Hailie, I…" but he didn't finish. Words seemed to fail him, just as they failed her as she gazed at him. Even in the light of an absolute slime-ball, he still looked too hot. His brunette air grazed his eyelashes, the same lashes that framed his drool-worthy eyes that were massive with guilt. He began to come toward her, and she melted from a statue to herself.
"Stay away from me," she whispered. Those words, where did they come from? Where on earth did they come from? They couldn't have come from her. That couldn't be her. She would never say that, not to John. John was hers, John was her precious gem, and she was his. He'd told her before. He told her that she was the best thing to happen to her. He promised her. He promised her. Those words would never be uttered to someone that treated her so lovingly, so tenderly, so perfectly. And that's just what he did.
But he lied. He had to have. He lied. If he was the John she knew, he never would've done this. Never, never in a thousand years. He was gone.
Who was this in his place?
"Hailie, I'm—I'm sorry," he pleaded with her, and came toward her again. His hands were outstretched, begging with her, begging like a puppy. A lost puppy, a puppy that needed a home, a puppy that was perfect for her, that would take care of her when she was in danger and would love her to bits, love her so much she wouldn't know what to do with it all.
And she had to walk away.
"No, you're not," she growled. She skipped backward, her pace increasing. "You're…you're not sorry."
"Hailie—" but she turn and ran. She ran. She ran, she ran, she ran. She ran her heart out, her lungs bursting, her legs aching. She ran until she couldn't hear him calling her name anymore, until he faded away into the wind rushing by her, until she had the excuse that the howling air was the reason her eyes were watering.
The fairytale crumbled. She was dropped on her ass. The glass slipper shattered, splintering her heart.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Oh, my God, shit. How could I be so stupid? Why did I let that happen? How couldn't I see…how was I so blind…how? Where did he come from, where had I gone? What happened? I feel like everything is just a dream, everything is slipping through my fingers, I can't hold on. I can't hold onto anything, everything is leaving, bleeding out of me, seeping away into the ground to feed the roots.
I could've dealt if it was different. I would be relatively fine now if it was different. I could be over it by now if it was just fucking different. But it's not. There is one glaring difference between Sylvia and me, and no, it's not our looks. Though she's the exact opposite of me there, that isn't the problem. She can keep her caramel locks, her caramel skin, everything. She can keep her icy eyes, her perfect body, everything. She can keep it all, everything. John was with me long before that.
But Sylvia…Sylvia is charming. Sylvia is funny. Sylvia is nice. Sylvia has an incredible personality.
Now, I guess I am, too. I have a little bit of all of that. I'm rather charming, kind of funny, nice, etc. But she's…she's all of it. She has a hypnotic attribute about her, and that's what pulls everyone to her. She's got a magnetic pull that's impossible to resist. John was attracted not only by her looks, but by her as well, and that just drives me insane. She's so different from my personality-wise that it's crazy that he could even be associated with the two of us.
It would be so much easier. It would be so much easier if she's just some slut, or if she's dumb, or if she isn't who she is. To change my looks would be one thing; if I really tried, I could look just like her. But changing my personality is something else entirely. It's ten times more difficult to change who I am, to hide what I believe, to mask my personality. I can't…I can't do it. And that's why he left. That's why his arms aren't wrapped around me now as I sob into the frozen popsicles that are my hands. That's why he hurt me; because the person that I am deserves to be hurt, deserves it, deserved everything he gave me. My uselessness must've finally gotten to him.
It's getting to me too. I can't do anything right. I drive away everyone I love with my hideousness, with my disgusting self. I'm unlovable. I'm a lost cause. No one would ever want me, and that's why John and I were like a fantasy. I never was worthy of someone like that. I never will be worthy of someone like that. He was perfect, perfect, beautiful, funny, nice, adorable, romantic, everything I want.
My shoulders shake. My sniffles are loud as tears roll relentlessly down my bright red cheeks. I don't hear the footsteps approaching.
"Hailie," a voice chokes. I leap to my feet and whip around. I really didn't have to. The way the voice dances along each syllable of my name is too familiar, too perfect to be anything but the very person I long to see and/or long to see at the bottom of a ditch.
He doesn't look any different. He hasn't changed, not one bit, since the last time I saw him. Three weeks ago, I'd say. I've ignored his calls, his texts, his visits, everything. I conspicuously avoid him in school and I'm always with friends so they can block me whenever he tries to come at me with his pleas. Sure, I catch glimpses, glimpses of his fabulous face. But even that cuts my heart to shreds. But this…this drives a stake right through me. His face is gorgeous as always, his nose slightly pointed but altogether straight, his cheeks are defined, his jaw is square and manly, his hair flops boyishly against his forehead, and his body is great. Nothing different. His clothes are even the same; I recognize his puffy black Northface and worn blue jeans instantly, along with his navy scarf. For some reason, the boy can pull off the neck accessory without looking the least bit gay. I'll never understand that ability of his, I'm sure, but I don't want to. I don't want to understand anything about him anymore. I want to forget he exists so I can forget the flawlessness that he is, the flawlessness he represents, the flawlessness of the oceanic eyes that are gazing at me now.
He takes a step toward me and begins to stretch his hand out to me, but I hop backward.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, completely dumbfounded. He shouldn't be here. He can't be here. I don't want him here. As badly as I wanted to stare at him, ogle at him, I can't. He's the first and last person I want to see at the same time. But, for some strange reason, he always knows just where to find me, knows just where I'm hiding.
"Please, Hailie, listen to me," John begs. The perfection of his eyes reaches out to me from beneath the fringe of his hair and caresses me, caresses my soul, caresses every point of me that I've tried to keep a secret from everyone for nearly the past month. He can see right through me, and abruptly I am naked. Abruptly my front is torn away from me and everything I own, every part of me is revealed to the entire world, shown as though a trophy after a hunting trip. Is he proud? Is he proud of how he makes me feel, how he makes me feel like I want to tear my heart out and stomp on it till it dies, until I die? Is he proud of that? Surely he must be, for it takes a lot of influence to make someone think of that. He's in control. He must adore it.
"No," I snarl. "No, I won't listen. There's nothing to listen to."
"Come on, you know that's not true. You haven't talked to me in three weeks and two days."
Of course he's kept track. Of course. That's just John for you.
"No," I repeat, my head whipping back and forth. "No, no, no, there's nothing. Nothing left."
"STOP!" I scream. He doesn't flinch away from my outburst. His eyes don't widen in surprise. He doesn't do anything. He just stands there, sorrow etched across his face in lines like age. "Stop. Saying. My name. Stop. Just…just stop. You're driving me insane, John, and you know it."
"Then listen to me," he pleads.
"I don't think so," I hiss. "You listen to me, Mister Black—" a hissy fit is welling up inside me, gathering all specks of anger that have gotten caught on crevices of my insides—"You've fucked with me long enough. Don't act like I don't understand, because I understand perfectly. I'm just not good enough for you, am I?"
His face drops immediately from sadness to shock like I've just slapped him across the face.
"Actually, don't answer that," I hold my hand up to him, palm right in his face. "I already know the answer. But you know what? You can have her. Go on, go running back to Sylvia, your precious little goddess. She's perfect for you. She's gorgeous, she's funny, she's nice, she's smart, she's, she's—she's not me, that's what she is. So go ahead. I don't care anymore. I'm giving up. I've had enough of…of this," I gesture wildly around me, trying to indicate to our entire situation but probably just ended up looking retarded. "And I am done. I'm done."
I certainly look a mess, I'd bet. My hair has to be a rat's nest, being so windswept. My nose must be cherry red from crying, my cheeks must match from the cold, and snot has to be pouring from my nose like water from a tap. Disgusting, that's what I must look like. But, as I said, I don't care anymore. I really have given up. There's no way I can have him again, not after he's sampled the forbidden fruit. Sylvia is perfection wrapped in sun kissed skin, and what am I? Please, tell me, what am I? What do I have on her? I'm just this pathetic little girl, skin so pale you'd swear I was a snow queen, hair so blonde you'd swear I bleached it, and so in love you'd swear I'd gone insane.
Who could choose that over Sylvia? I can't think of anyone. And of course, this causes a knot to tie itself in my throat, so I'm forced to just stand there and listen as John speaks words too sweet to be true in a tone too loving to be honest.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says. I can swear that I see a little anger sparkling in his fabulous eyes. "I don't know how you could ever say that…that…you're not good enough for me? Are you crazy? Do you even know what's happened to me since you saw—saw that? I've been a wreck, an absolute wreck. I can't do anything. I can't even dress myself. My mom chose these clothes for me, for Christ's sake!"
I can't help it. A little giggle slips from between my lips, slips from my angry front. Even if I immediately hush it up, his expression softens immensely.
"I need you, Hailie," he whimpers. "I don't even know what I did that for. I don't…I can't…it just doesn't make sense. I go over what I could've possibly been thinking at the time, and nothing reasonable comes to mind. I really, truly, honestly don't have a clue what the hell happened or why, but it just did, and I couldn't feel worse about anything than I do now. I make myself sick. I disgust myself. I can barely stand breathing without you breathing beside me. Please,"
He walks toward me, slowly, steadily. I can't move; my feet are riveted to the ground, betraying me, holding me there against my will and yet doing exactly what I want them to do. I can't make up my mind, and it's killing me. But as his hands cup my cheeks and his glorious eyes stare straight into my own, everything disappears.
"Hailie, I promise you," his face is so earnest, so open, so pure. "I swear, I love you. I swear to you, Hailie, I'm in love with you."
And he kisses me with such fervor and excitement that I fall backward, making us tumble into the soft cushion of a large snowdrift that's gathered against the trunk of a bare tree.
I don't have a choice. I've never had a choice. There was never anything else I could've done, and there never will be. I press into him just as he pressed into me, and then we're fully locked together, forming a real, true kiss. I can feel what he feels; the blind desire, the odd need, the complete lack of hesitation bubbles inside me just as it does in him as though we're sharing a soul, a mind, a heart, a body. Everything is right. This is right. This is…this is what I had wanted since I saw the kid, but it's the exact thing that I should have already gotten past. I should be slapping the shit out of him right now, but I can't. I can't bring myself to want to push him, let alone actually push him away. Fate had spoken for us before we'd spoken for ourselves.
He pulls back, only a few millimeters, just enough for me to see the perfection that was his pair of eyes. His eyelashes bat softly against the bridge of my nose and I have to resist the urge to giggle at the tickling sensation. Instead, I feel my hand jerkily make its way through the space between us and hover just over his cheek, not yet committed to clasping his beautiful face in my clammy, unworthy palm.
But then we're together again, and it doesn't matter. My fingers begin at his face, falling lightly against his cheek, and then they're abruptly clutching the back of his neck, the back of his hair, everything that's within reach. We aren't kissing. No, we're far beyond that—we're welded together now, joined as one, connected as though God had sewn our lips together Himself. How shocking it is to have something feel more natural than breathing, than blinking. It's equally as natural as the beating of a heart, and ours beat against the others, an even beat like a metronome. It's as though it's not enough for our mouths to be glued together; our entities have to become a single unit as well.
Everything leaves me. As hard as I try, I can't hold my anger to myself. I can't hold my betrayal, my hurt, my sadness, my depression, my offended feelings trapped to me. They drip off of me and flow away like runoff after a rain. The storm has passed, the storm is gone, a distant cloud in my memory. But I know the sunshine shouldn't be so bright, it shouldn't be so warm, so life-giving. I shouldn't rely so much on the sunlight for my life because I know that I can't always count on it.
Well, I think to myself. I should enjoy the sun while it's here.
With that thought in my head, I sigh happily into him, and I feel him push a little more into me, forcing my head to sink deeper into the snow. I don't argue. I can't. This is what I want, and as much as I should hate it, I adore the feeling of him against me more than I adore the feeling of being alive. You don't think about breathing until you can't breathe, and it feels like now I'm gasping for the sweet air that I'm finally able to gorge myself on.
Time slips by. Time is nothing. Time doesn't exist, just as the future, the past, everything doesn't exist. Nothing makes sense, but nothing has to. We don't need sense; we have emotions, we have thought. And as the tip of his tongue slips eagerly into my mouth, thought disappears as well. All we have is animal instinct, that carnal need that drives us deeper, deeper, sending us into a spiral. It's unavoidable, I guess. Now, as he's pressed against me, I know that this is something. This has meaning. This is what everyone has been destined to search for their entire life, some never finding it and the lucky ones stumbling across it. I must be a lucky one, for I utterly tripped right into it as easily as I tripped downstairs. I just fell into his arms. They were made just for me. This is what the human mind pines for, this is what it craves, this is what it gropes everywhere for.
This is love. It has to be. There was nearly an audible click the second we connected as it all came into place, and there was almost an audible whoosh as Sylvia flew out of both of our brains.
"Hailie," John hisses huskily, and with that, he straddles my waist slightly. Suddenly, his hips are right up against mine, and the friction between us flares instantly, just as it always does. This, too, nearly makes an audible click. Everything is just clicking, clicking, tumbling back into place. It's too easy. It's too perfect, and yet it's just right. Again, time seems to evaporate from everything, evaporate from consciousness. There is no consciousness; the only thing I'm aware of is the skilled movements of his tongue, the soft dance of his lips, and the purposeful trail his hands make as they traveled everywhere they wish. Here we hover, untouchable, unhampered, perfect. Here we hover, the epitome of desire, the epitome of love, perfect. Here we hover, forever, infinite, perfect. We are infinite. We are infinite.
We are infinite.
"I love you," I whisper softly, so softly, against his mouth. For a moment, I pray he doesn't hear it. I plead with God almighty that he doesn't catch the quiet words that fall from my tongue. The absolute power he has over me is obvious, considering I contemplated suicide when I couldn't have his heart beating beside mine. With that power being acknowledged and admitted by those three little words, that one phrase, I would be toast if/when he decided to jet off again. But then he pulls his face away from me and gazes intensely at me, his eyes huge.
"…You do?" he asks. I bite my lip, reluctant, but then I nod. There was no use in denying it; it would have come out anyway.
A massive grin erupts across his perfect face, and he lets out a wild laugh.
"Oh, thank God!" he howls, and then he plasters his lips against mine again. I can feel the exultation, the gratitude flow through him and into me, infecting every space possible, every infinitesimal crevice open to his touch. A smile pokes at the corners of my lips, and with a small giggle, I hitch my legs around his hips. He groans into me.
"My God, I love you so much," he breathes, then takes my face in one of his hands and wraps one arm back around my waist.
A/N: Again, sorry if you had to read that. I didn't mean such torture, I swear!
But if you liked it, great. If you didn't, fuck you. Thank you!