I Hate The Stars More | Daniela Avanzini
SUMMARY ↣ like a drug you cannot quit, she is there, wearing her stupidly alluring smile and arms which beg you to give in. and of course you do, you always do.
WORD COUNT ↣ 2.2k
PAIRINGS ↣ daniela avanzini x fem!reader
The first time she kissed you was like a dream.
Not the kind which washed over you like a sea breeze on a hot summer day, the word ‘finally’ echoing in the space between your lips and hers.
It was the kind which you regretfully, inevitably, would have to wake from.
It was Friday, and like most nights that summer, you found yourself lazing by Sophia’s pool.
A dizzy smile stretching across your face when a familiar figure drifts towards you, flicking droplets of water your way as she passes. “Megan,” you complain, but she ignores you, offering only a giggle as she floats closer to her next victim. One who is bound to be less lenient.
A screech follows, and then a loud splash, and you laugh; feeling lighter. Perhaps it is the alcohol, or maybe it is because she is there, already wading toward you, a frown creasing her forehead and a pout on her lips
When she reaches you, the rest of the world fades away. There is no music, no laughter, only her, and the sound of words which roll from tongue with flawless grace.
She perches her chin atop your thigh, big eyes gazing up at you in search of what, you know nothing of. But it is the kind of look that dares you to lean closer, and so you do. You always do. And she smiles, bright and perfect. Not even the stars compare.
“I missed you.” The confession is hot where her breath meets your skin, the kind which travels from her lips to the tips of your ears.
Her words strike home, just as she desires, stilling even your heart into silence, daring your eyes to find her own. But you do not dare as she does, forcing your gaze to the stars which you wish would just shine a little brighter. Perhaps then you would not have to feel this way every time she is near.
Lifting your fingers to your lips, you take a drag from the cigarette, for the air which you share is too much. Everything is too much when it comes to her.
One minute passes, then two, and still you cannot bring your eyes to meet hers, which demand nothing and everything all at once.
Like always, she grows bored; tired of a game she started.
And then she is gone, drifting away like the tide. She always leaves, you know this, but you know too that she will always return. You do not know which is worse. Still, your skin burns in place of her touch, the cool air erasing her entirely. It is peace wrapped in pain.
She finds you again, later that same night.
It is darker now, so not even hues of pink and blue might distract you from her. The stars stare down at you; expectant. Still, they are not enough.
You are by the pool where she left when she slips into place at your side. She has lived a thousand lives tonight, and you only one with her, and one without.
You watch the droplets which roll off her smooth skin with idle fascination, and for one small moment, you wonder what it would be like to know her as they did.
“Hey,” her voice is soft, knowing.
“Hey,” you echo, and the corner of her mouth quirks.
“I missed you,” she says again, and this time you can face her.
It is not the night, nor the alcohol which wears your down, but her, as she always does. So you repeat her words in a low whisper, the tension leaving you when her head falls to your shoulder as if it belongs.
Raising a hand, you offer her the last dregs of your cigarette. It is your third, perhaps fourth, no matter, the numbers are lost on you when her wet curls brush the skin of your neck. You feel the shake of her head before you see it.
A scowl taints her features when you exhale, a cloud of smoke drawing her cool skin away from your own. She is pretty even when she frowns. You smile faintly when her soft hand grips your jaw, forcing your gaze on her. She squints, feigning anger, but her eyes never lie.
Smug, she draws you closer, her perfect face just a breath away. “It doesn’t count this way, right?” She asks, and your brows pinch. When her forefinger taps your mouth, expectant, your lips part, unwilling, and all the air is syphoned from your lungs to hers. Now, even your breath belongs to her.
When she presses closer, indulgently, the curve of her lips meets yours, only just, but it is everything. And then she is gone yet again, shifting away with a careless laugh which careens straight for your heart.
When you look at her, she wears the same laidback smile, and you mirror her expression effortlessly. For a fleeting moment, it feels real. The lines are easily blurred when it comes to her.
The cigarette in your hand is lost as you. You watch it fall, doing nothing to stop it, feeling nothing when it finds a home at your thigh. It does not burn as you think it might. But then again, nothing ever burns as bright, or as painfully as she does.
Your skin bears a red mark; a circle so perfect it is impossible to think of anything but her when you look upon it. You trace the spot with a trembling thumb, hoping it might last as long as the burn of her lips against your own.
Daniela Avanzini is your favourite scar.
The rest of the summer passes like rain on a sunny day, only there are no rainbows to look forward to in this wretched sky of yours.
Avoiding her comes naturally, like it was meant to be this way all along. It is simple; wherever she is, you are not. But it is the thought of her which is hardest to escape. So if she is in your mind, you will be out of it.
She does not notice your shift, for better or for worse.
You search for distractions in the people you love, the places she has not yet touched. Days are filled most often by Megan, and a corner of the beach known only to you, one you might drown in, should you let yourself. And still, she haunts you so.
You cannot bring yourself to reach for solace the pack of red twenties, still snug in the pocket of your— her hoodie.
She had slipped it over your shoulders the night of the party, after you walked her home. The smell of her perfume still lingers, in your room, your sheets, your head. She was everywhere you were because she was everything.
It only gave you another reason to hate her.
It grows harder to forget, to pretend, as summer’s end comes near. Her presence lurks in the eyes of others, and you feel her name building in your throat. She knows too. She always knows.
Three weeks have passed by the time she seeks your company again. Like she forgot you entirely. It does not hurt as much as it should. Not when you have grown to love the pain almost as much as you do her.
She does not come with an apology, just herself and a knock on your door with a rhythm only she knows, one which opens not only the door to your bedroom without permission.
Like a drug you cannot quit, she is there, wearing her stupidly alluring smile and arms which beg you to give in. And of course you do, you always do.
When her arms snake around your waist and the scent of her perfume leaves you dizzy you know the summer has been wasted. “I missed you,” the words are soft on her lips, lips which have pressed against your own, utterly unremarkable ones.
It happens again when she presses a kiss to your cheek, and the corner of her lips brush yours. As close to an ‘sorry’ as you will get, but it is all it takes to make you forget there was ever anything to be sorry for in the first place.
It is a curse and a blessing all at once.
The next time you see her is at yet another party, only this time it is hers.
It is no surprise that you go, you will always be wherever she is. The shadow to her light. It is always that way with her. You never leave each other long enough to find out what might happen if it were real.
It is a cycle that always repeats itself. You are not brave enough to break it. You wonder if she is. A part of you already knows the answer.
“You came.” She smiles, leaning against the door.
You brush past her. “I always do.” Your skin prickles where her shoulder bumps yours, and she cranes her neck to watch you venture into her home, eyes knowing.
“I missed you!” She yells after you, rolling her eyes when you lift your middle finger without looking back.
She doesn’t follow you. Not yet. Instead, she watches; calculating.
You feel her eyes on you all night. It is strange, but not uncommon. It is the same game you unwittingly agree to each time you indulge her further. The more you drink the easier it is to forget.
Tonight even the quiet spaces cannot save you from her. So you take to the crowd for a change, searching for distraction in a stranger. Megan finds you before a bad decision can. She will do just fine.
The two of you drunkenly stumble to a couch where people cheer at your— or rather Megan’s — arrival. She falls into the black leather, pulling you down with her. It is not graceful, nor comfortable, but is an island untouched by storm, yet raging with a chaos of its own.
You are faintly aware of the bottle being spun, but it matters little to you when her eyes meet yours from across the room. God, you fucking hate them. Once you see her, you can never unsee her. It is a burden you will carry for the rest of your miserable life.
You feel lips at your neck, but they don’t burn the way hers do, the way even her stare sets your skin ablaze. Nothing ever will. She knows it too, because she grins a stupidly smug grin, discarding her drink in the hands of a stranger, one of the many she leaves in her path of perfect destruction.
She makes her way towards you, cautious and reckless all at once. And like the irresistible pull of a tide, you will always sink back into her, meeting her halfway if you must.
“Wanna get out of here?” She asks. And you cannot help but smile, because only she would leave her own party to be with you.
She presses a kiss to your cheek when you nod dumbly, careful this time, but her hand still slips into yours. It is not a perfect fit, but she squeezes tightly, not once, but twice. As if trying to convince herself everything is as it is supposed to be.
Her lips leave a deep red mark on your skin, and it burns just right. A reminder of a fate you will doom yourself to till the day you die an unremarkable death, one just as ordinary as your life has so far been lived.
You will always be hers, and she will never be yours, but you will always have these moments. The ones where she chooses you.
She is the exception to your otherwise colourless life, the splash of light on your blank canvas.
“You’re different.”
The comment draws a smile to your lips.
She lies beside you now, in a bed more hers than it’ll ever be yours. Blurry pictures line the wall, she is in almost every one. You are in none of hers.
You shift your gaze from hers to the ceiling, littered with glow in the dark stars. They cast a faint glow over the room, and a bitter feeling twists in your chest. They will always be dull compared to her.
“You noticed.” The words are not sharp, but she bristles. The fingers which trace the space between you pauses. It is brief, but telling. They twitch, but stop just short of your arm.
She frowns, “I always notice.”
You feel the weight of her words where her breath tickles your shoulder. She is both too close and not close enough. It is suffocating, but it is the price you pay for her presence. It makes you wonder where she ends and you begin. The answer is clear. You simply do not; not without her.
A sudden laugh breaks from your lips. It sounds wrong, distant in your ears. She shifts, uncomfortable. “I hate you, you know?” You whisper, the words bitter on your tongue.
She smiles because she knows you mean it. “I know.”
“But,” when you face her again her eyes glimmer in the darkness, and for the first time in your life, you wonder if they shine as brightly for anyone else. “I hate the stars more.”
“Me too.”
and if i just leave this here and disappear for another two years? 😝
