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

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.