He was happy; happier than the time his brother promise that nothing was going to come in between him and his little brother; happier than the time when he'd road the buss all the way from Eugene to Seattle just to see his ex best friend, and instead of slamming the door on his face, she just opened the door to her house, and and asked if he'd wanted a cup of tea; he was happy, happy- and he thought – it can't be this easy. It pounded out of him, the happiness – pulsing, burning, streaming, and he laughed.
"The hell?" she murmured, curving her body closer to him, her hands – one on his collarbone, one intertwined with his own- the one on his collarbone tapping out a rhythm, a song ( a slow, mournful song, making him wonder whether she was really happy), her fingers, so much smaller than his own. Well, to be fair, she was so much smaller then he was, so small, so tiny, but not fragile (her ? Fragile? Oh god no). He stuck his arm behind her back, her head resting on the crook of his arm, his hand resting on her waist, inching up her camp t-shirt, the other hand cradling her own, feeling all the callouses on her finger tips and the scars to memory- oh, that was from when she'd dropped a frying pan on her hand, this was from punching a boy, her Ex boyfriend ( he remembers the cast she'd gotten from punching him; she written 'here lies the broken ones of T.G.') - just in case she'd never let him ouch her again ( or anyone, actually; he didn't think she'd ever let someone love her, really love her, before). Her eyes were still open, gazing at the stars, the faint outline of her contacts fixing her sight- she'd refused to wear glasses after 9th grade – reminding him that she wasn't perfect; but what had she told him? Oh right. "perfect? Who cares about perfect?"
He adjusted the sleeping bag, feeling the wetness of the grass seep through. There was a movie playing on the projector screen he was pretty sure that they were supposed to be watching- some over rated chick flick, some old story – boy meets girl, girl hates boy, boy loves girl, girl gets together with boy; he's seen it before, hell, he's lived it before, but at this point, he's pretty sure neither of them could care less. She defiantly doesn't care. He's pretty sure that's why he's so fascinated with her- that and the fact that she wouldn't put up with his crap, wouldn't follow him around like a hopeless puppy, wouldn't look at him like he'd put the stars in the sky (he gets that a lot. It bugs him, because he's nothing extraordinary. Well, not that extraordinary). He's pretty sure he loves her and he's also pretty sure she feels the same way, and he looks at he, smiling an glittering at him, and suddenly all he could think was 'this' and 'mine' and 'now.'
She looks up at him and kisses him in a way he's damn sure is illegal in about 37 different ways, and, oh, he feels about as naked to her as a r-rated movie. But shit- the movie aimlessly playing on the projector (serving as a perfect decoy so people like him could just... you know) ended; she leaves, eyes sparkling with a brilliance that could mean something, could mean nothing- he was reading to much into a sparkle; hell, he didn't even know brown eyes could sparkle. There are still- at the moment- about 349 things he wants to know about her, and about 46 things he know he absolutely doesn't want to know. And, as history suggested, there where 567 things he should probably know about her before he declares his undying love to the world (and her) but that was okay- she had sparkles in eyes that shouldn't be able to sparkle, and liked the same music he did- what else was there to know?