shewaswarned | (no subject)

[Continued from here.]

I might be starting to sober up at this point, but I can't really tell. My heart feels like it's close to practically beating straight out of my chest, but my hands aren't warm to the touch. I can tell they're as cold as ice against his, as his practically envelopes mine despite the fact that our fingers are tangled. I look up at him and it's strange, how much changes on his face as we walk down the path together, how the shadows age him and the light makes him look even younger, almost like a little boy. It strikes me then that I don't know that much about him, how old he is or even where he's originally from, what his story is. And then it strikes me that he doesn't know anything about me, not really, in much of a similar vein, and so I stop worrying, stop thinking, and my gaze starts to track the line of his shoulders instead, the sloping curve that delves down into long arms.

"We don't even know where we're going, do we?" I murmur out loud, stopping beneath the shadow of a nearby tree, looking up and up, higher and higher, above our heads, until I can squint into the darkness, my eyes making out the shape of a house as they adjust. It's dark up there, literally no sign of life, but it's a house, and it's in a tree, and something about that strikes me as infinitely funny. The hand that isn't holding his points upward, and I chuckle softly, my mind immediately racing with the possibilities. "What about there?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Already she's starting to feel like one of those things that happens to someone else, though there's a satisfied weariness in my limbs that says otherwise. I'm tempted just to stay here for the night. It's not like anyone would care or I have a real home to get back to. And it'd probably be less awkward than walking back toward the hut I'm staying in, ending up keeping her company part of the way.

Which is when I remember I don't even know where she lives.

I fasten my belt, watching her, not sure how to reply to that, not even sure for a moment why she'd thank me. For the sex? For helping her dress again? Neither seems worth much, not from her end. "You're welcome," I tell her, stilted, unsure. What I really mean is she's the one who should be getting thanked, but it doesn't make it out of my throat. "Do you... want me to walk you home?" It feels awkward. I wish I could tell her that's not her fault. Sometimes it feels like Callie never went home, or like she never left it. She appeared to me like a dream and went away again, fading into the air like a spirit, and I don't know what the protocol is or how much I care to follow it.

It's a bit of a balancing act at this point, struggling to slip on heels without anything to reach out to at first, but I finally nudge my hip against the wall, giving myself some leverage as I move to put one stiletto back on and then the other, easing up a few inches when I finally put my second foot back down. The question he poses is somewhat unexpected, and there's an innocence in that too that directly contrasts everything else, even the way I've just kissed him, that it makes my heart ache thinking of the possibility that I could have ruined him purely from an overeager desire to satisfy myself.

But he's still standing there, tall and slender, those jeans dipping low over his hips, looking at me with those dark eyes searching, watching. I thought they were brown at first but I'm starting to realize that isn't the case, not up close when I can finally see the blue. My resolve, my aim to make it out of here with something resembling dignity is crumbling fast, and I have the overwhelming urge to snag fingers in the denim waistband, to sink to my knees in front of him until he tangles his fingers in my hair and utters my name again.

I settle for a small, tight smile and a quick nod, conceding that much and concentrating on keeping my balance as much as possible. "Okay," I reply, absently reaching up towards my hair and almost breathing a sigh of relief when it isn't matted and tangled against my fingers. "Come on, I think there's only the one way out of here."

I glance back at the rumpled bed, the last remaining evidence anything happened at all, and head in the direction we came from. It makes me wonder if we're the first or if others have come here, if others will after. If we will again. I don't know if it means something that she wants me to walk with her when she could have said no. I don't even know if I want it to mean anything. I mean, I know I want to fuck her again, but that's about all that's certain in my head.

For a moment, I almost stumble in the hallway; it's darker here and I think we should have turned on the lights, but I didn't want to. If there even are any. The darkness makes things easier, and I could see her well enough in the moonlight. I can see her still, and I step back to let her move ahead of me into the next room. This place seems even less real than most of the island, maybe just because it's up in a tree with an elevator and all.

"I didn't even know they made treehouses like this."

"They don't." Even as I'm saying it, I'm not sure of what I mean, whoever they are. Is it the island, the forces behind these changes that happen so often and expect us to simply follow along with it, to give in for however long it lasts? Some of the huts have been here since before I arrived, since before most of the people here arrived, and yet this one is filled to the brim with trinkets and gadgets, some still laying unfinished, ghostly remnants of the treehouse's past inhabitants as we walk through in near-silence, aside from the occasional knock when my heels collide with wood flooring instead of the rugs.

I swivel toward him as we reach the lift, my fingertips fumbling back behind me, reaching to find the switch. My eyes find his in the darkness and I wait calmly, patiently, even as my fingers start to itch to reach out for him again, and I curl them in against my palms, digging fingernails into the skin until the pain jolts me enough to turn the switch in my brain.

"They didn't, not - I don't think it's a commonly used model," I add, by way of explaining. "Whoever lived here before us probably designed and built everything, but no one's come to claim anything in their absence. It's all just - here." The door slides open behind me as the lift rises and for a moment, I have to just stand there and take it all in, trying to make out shadows of shapes barely visible in the dark, before my gaze sweeps up to his face and I reach up, adjusting the cuff on the sleeve of his t-shirt without much preamble.

It's depressing, honestly, the idea that all this shit just got abandoned. Not because I care about the stuff, I don't know what most of it is in the darkness, but someone made it. Someone worked hard on it all and lived here, and then one day, they just up and left. Vanished into thin air.

There's a moment where I feel something tug sharp and hard at my heart. I did the same, too. I just wound up here.

If there's something guaranteed to get my mind off that, though, it's the faint graze of her fingertips as she tugs at my sleeve, fixing it or something, I don't know what. The door for the elevator's open and it doesn't have far to rise, but I don't think about it. She touches me and I forget to think, I just lean in and kiss her again, forgetting about the kind of invisible barrier that's been up ever since she put her clothes back on, too. It occurs to me too late that walking her back to her place means knowing where she lives, wanting to come in with her, things that probably shouldn't happen, because this isn't exactly anonymous, but I doubt she wants me tagging around after her either.

Someone will reclaim this place again, I think, trying to put an optimistic spin on my own stream of consciousness. They'll have to, eventually. Leaving these things here to collect dust and rust away (everything inevitably falls to ruin) just seems like such an utter waste, but our being here, even for a little while, in this dark space, it almost feels as if there's been some life infused here, just for those moments when everything was simple in that bed. There's a mountain of complications heaping onto my shoulders, so heavy, but when he shifts in my periphery and I turn to find his eyes, all of that doesn't really seem to matter.

He's concrete under my fingers, much more than the cold memory of a dead fiance, and I can find comfort in that much, for however long I'm permitted. I can't tell if this is only going to have happened the once, and I'm trying to read him to see if that's the case. If there's one thing I'd at least feel confident admitting I've learned from Patty, it's this. But he's leaning in before I can get a good glimpse of his face, shadows shifting over his features, and when his lips press against mine, I don't need to keep thinking. Somehow, during it all, we both manage to get onto the elevator, but even then, I've still got a hold on him, one hand fisted in his shirt and I've managed to graduate to openly devouring his mouth.

This time around, as the elevator descends, I can focus on kissing her just for the pleasure of kissing her, groaning into her mouth, welcoming the force and how plain she is about it all. It's not like there's any need for us to pretend the desire isn't there, but it's always seemed to me like girls are a lot coyer than they need to be anyway. Mostly it would help a lot if they would just spell out what they want so we can get it right the first time. This, here, with Ellen, is simple, and I'm remembering again how not to think about it too much and to kiss her without groping blindly at her, less needy.

I regret that about the second we hit the ground and doors slide open again, and I have to step back to let her out of the elevator. There's no way of knowing if I'll get the chance again without outright asking her, and i'd feel like an idiot doing that.