intoxicate

the man in ecstasy and the man drowning—both throw up their arms.

[afterxwinter-blog]

yellow light.

[afterxwinter-blog]

  She took measured, slow steps over to Chris, albeit there was a hint of a skip in her walk as she turned around the corner of the island—a hint of excitement, an eagerness in succumbing to the boy her dreams knew well. Who did Iris fool, was the question, and the answer? No-one at all. Except the one person who needed to, of course. Chris. Although, Iris was just as bad, if not worse. Those eyes—the ones which brightened upon Iris’ arrival, the ones which narrowed with the curve of a smile, the ones who scoped her but getting nothing in answer to a million forbidden questions. Those eyes which loved her. That depth which Iris breezed past in a skip, a smirk dancing on her lips all the while, because this kind of love was brutal, and pain was merely a symptom.

  But Iris was no more human than anyone else. Potential mistakes and hurts beckoned her name, the devil disguised in temporarily pleasure and, desperate for a connection, how could Iris do anything but grasp at his hold and beg eternity? Just give me a day longer, a week, a month, hell, why not a life time? Greedy desires bred from the luxury of healthy relationships, relationships that juxtaposed the ones she had when such beliefs were ingrained. Habits were hard things to shake.

  If their time was limited, if one day Chris would pack up and leave  ( though is this not precisely what Iris did several months ago?? ),  she would enjoy it while it lasted. It was why she allowed her arms to rest comfortably around his shoulders, for her fingers to entwine at the back of his neck where her thumbs drew invisible patterns, both natural reactions triggered by being so close to Christopher Briggs. It was also why she paid no conscious mind to her rabbit heart, beating like a hammer, and why it was a smirk to rest on her lips, though it badly hid a smile a layer underneath. Iris loved Chris. Iris loved Chris. Iris loved Chris.  But if Chris didn’t have to know, why did Iris?

   Brown hues flicked up, down, up, down: his eyes, his lips, his eyes, his lips. A lingering look and then… Up. Her smirk grew and it didn’t matter her intentions, nor her spills of internal conflict, because it shifted without her consent nor knowledge into something resembling a smile. Mystery was something she wore like armour, but smiles chipped at it, granting Chris one step closer on the mile hike to Iris Winters. The one nobody knew, except Andrew, maybe, if he remembered, if he still saw glimpses of her like Chris did   ( he did ).

   They were close enough now that she felt his breath on her lips. Not even nearly enough. She inched herself higher on her toes- just a little- allowing her lips to breeze past and touch his before pausing dangerously close to a kiss. Oh God,  Iris had missed this too damn much. “Well,” the top corners of her lips lifted all the more as she continued in a playful whisper, eyes full of mischief, “Go on then, Briggs. Show me how much you missed me.”

[narchrissistic-blog]

Foolish, fearful boy - he’d grown so accustomed to feeling nothing at all that he truly believed nonchalance was his sole, true state. He rejected love, rejected comfort for he would rather be without than to have it ripped so cruelly from his grasp. That masquerade he wore so well - did it exist under Iris’ tender gaze? Gone, nothing. No sight of the man who could mimic the emotion he wanted to feel. He did not know this. He loved, he feared. Her hands were on his neck and his breath caught - oxygen in headlights, stupefied by the wonderment that is Iris Winters. HIs hands: one hand around her ribcage, gentle movements over skin, flesh, bone; she was here, she smiled, he missed. The other, half resting on her neck, half on her jawbone. His thumb grazed her skin, tilted her chin - so familiar and domesticated. An act of veracious caring.  For his own sake, it was fortunate he could not see his own smile. He’d try to hide it, surely - the hardest task of all when genuinely, blissfully happy to be in someone’s presence. From a young age, Christopher had felt trepidation towards the idea of attachment. His parents would sign him up for classes, after-school activities of the hobbies he enjoyed and he’d go once, never to attend again. His mother always asked him why. How could he tell her how much it hurt to feel, to simply be?

His lips were touching Iris’, barely, gently - not quite a kiss, not yet. He felt her smile on his and he felt - oh, how he felt. Oblivious no longer. He loved, he loved. The urge to run, to escape hit; a firm blow to the head. His heart passed him before he’d even left the starting line. Could she feel the disquietude on his breath? He spoke, hushed, astounded by his own heart. “I missed you.”

He kissed her.

[afterxwinter-blog]

yellow light.

[afterxwinter-blog]

Iris’ “I love you”s translated better in her actions. It was in the smile she failed to hide around Christopher Briggs, the one she aimed at the ground, especially when tempted by an “I missed you…more.” He never seemed to notice her flamed cheeks, perhaps the one thing she had no control over, and what a relief. But then she was just kidding herself, wasn’t she? The large, sparkling doe eyes, the upturned lips settled only for him all gave her away. Her lack of control of such things painted her a fraud. The girl who didn’t believe in love deemed powerless to it.

“Oh yeah?” Iris tested in light humour, quirking a brow, only temporarily holding his gaze before dropping it after a few seconds. Like Chris, her eyes gave her away. That was dangerous. Now her eyes scanned the room, as if scouring for information. When was she not, though? Iris had to read everything. She had to understand. And in the topic of Chris, what better text was there to read than his home? Stepping back, turning around, Iris did just that.

Doe eyes met a dozen beer bottles counted beside the bin which was likely full. No comment. A packet of cigarettes on the counter beside the fridge. The temptation it struck within her was beyond shameful for the apparent recovered addict. But still, no comment. Except it was nearly empty. Maybe she should have taken Chris’ hand and dragged him off to rehab too. No. Comment. Over-analysing came later, out of anyone’s eye.

At least they’d invested in a coffee machine. It was an interest in one drug after another for the brunette but she wasn’t complaining; she’d rather her bad habit be coffee than ecstasy. On the thought of her addictions… Chris was, again, her visual focus. Her four second scope would likely be missed, mistaken for Iris thinking, as she seemed to do a little too often. Did Chris want to crack open Iris’ brain and solve the puzzles of her mind like Iris did him? --What is it you are hiding in there??  Do I even want to know??

Her wandering and wondering had left her situated at a greater distance from Chris than she would ever like. Beside the island in the middle of the kitchen. Now she wore a smirk, teasing him the way she did best as her palms propped her up on the counter. Iris lifted a shoulder into a half-hearted shrug. “Prove it.” In a coffee, in a kiss?? She left it open to Chris to decide, although harboured a dominant preference.

[narchrissistic-blog]

“Oh yeah.” Clarification. Certainty. He had missed her greatly. He had felt her absence so deeply; in sobriety, in intoxication, in slumber. He had drowned in it. His subconscious had brought him to her door countless times though he seldom remembered. He had searched for her in his dreams. He remained ashamed of the part of his soul that was so very human. After all, it had always been much easier to believe he couldn’t feel at all. 

He missed her even now, as she stood mere feet away from him. He couldn’t force the feeling away and so he kept his distance. He followed her only to the entryway of the kitchen, where he leaned against the wall, watching her. He hated himself for not thinking of the temptations that lay strewn across the room - not just for Iris’ sake, for but his too. A bottle stood within arms reach, three quarters drained and most likely flat. His fingers twitched. He wanted to apologise - for the alcohol, for wanting to drink it, for not thinking about what it must feel like for her; for not visiting, for not noticing how much she’d been struggling. He didn’t.  

Prove it. He held her gaze silently, one brow raised marginally, his trademark smirk in situ in order to play along with her game. Chris had always been a man who was able to merge with the emotion he wanted to project to those around him. He could become it, fool everyone, even himself. He would face the reality hours later when he was surrounded only by the cacophony of his wretched mortal thoughts. 

Thirty seconds of looking into Iris’ eyes was all it took. He was done for; with an exasperated sigh, folded into himself. He ran a hand through his hair, a vulnerable act that, to him, only solidified his failure. Iris made him happy. He could no longer resist and thus, he surrendered. “Jesus.” He motioned her towards him with a tilt of the head, his features gripping to an expression of equal parts frustration and adoration aimed at the one he loved. Unbeknownst to them both, the force of the capitulated white flag’s wave had pulled aside the cracks of the great beating vessel in Christopher’s chest - it beckoned Iris into it, it allowed her to seep through. It felt at home. “Get your ass over here, Winters.” 

[afterxwinter-blog]

yellow light.

[narchrissistic-blog]

If she denied it so it would make her a liar. If she admitted it true it would make her an idiot. Because she did, didn’t she? All she knew was after three nights in the hospital she was confronted by an astounding truth when her roommate asked: “Who’s Chris?” Iris, apparently, mumbled his name in the midst of sleep on a number of occasions and really did that not solidify the fact they both knew? The question was not did she miss him, but was it only her subconscious mind willing to admit the vulnerable truth?

Iris delivered a soft blow with a clenched fist to his shoulder and a childish grin followed. “You missed me more.” Not as an accusation, but as a tease because, to Iris and Chris, it always seemed that whoever felt more was the loser. Always Iris would think the shoes slipped right onto her feet, yet she would kid around like that– acting like she was worth more to Chris than what her body gave him, like she mattered to him the way he mattered to her.

It would destroy her when the thunder destroyed what they had made and Iris was forced to accept and fear how far astray she’d traveled from loving him–  just as a friend.

With one hand remaining cupped around his neck drawing invisible circles with the tips of her digits, the other moved to stay poised at her hip. Her eyes were on his. She wanted to ask if they were still… like they were 6 months ago. She wanted to ask what they were now. If he’d… found someone else. It seemed like Chris could read her mind, but he wasn’t that good, she’d have to at least voice a hint, but… No. No, she couldn’t. It would mean she was thinking about them and thinking was dangerous when it came to Chris and Iris and…

How long had she been staring at his lips? Brown hues shifted imminently to Chris’ and she held her breath momentarily, waiting, daring him to respond. But the moment was lost in a second; she took a step back and let her hand drop from where she had spent the last several seconds caressing him, as if luring him towards her. Dammit, Iris. It was in her nature to fuck people around like that– leave them hanging, thinking about what could have been if they didn’t act as impulsively as her, and she’d much rather have just let him inch closer and kiss her if that’s what he was going to do. Was that what he was going to do? Dammit, Iris.

“Maybe.“ Iris murmured, quiet. He probably hadn’t, but in case Chris had forgotten, Iris clarified, “Maybe I missed you,” with only a slight playfulness, daringness in her tone, because she was, after all, Iris Winters. A beautiful wreck and a labyrinth of a girl. Maybe this was her way of reassuring Chris. Maybe it was her way of testing where they stood, if he still wanted her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

It was a rare occurrence for Christopher Briggs to be stunned into silence, and yet that is what happened as they looked at each other truly, for the first time in months. Overwhelmed with a feeling of tenderness and affection for the brunette who had captured him long ago, he could only gaze back at her, searching her features for the answers to never to be uttered questions. He remained steady, restrained the muscle memory in his hand that wished to cup her chin. He would of kissed her; he wanted to. Uncertainty, killer of all, pulled him back by the collar of his shirt, tightening the air around his throat. 

It went unmentioned, of course, but Chris realised that their interactions had rarely taken place when sober. As he stood there, watching Iris step away, their frames untangling, he found himself itching to walk towards the liquor cabinet, to pull out a drink, pour it equally between two glasses and feel its security wrap around him. He wondered, not for the first time, if intoxication had lead to false beliefs; if it added meaning to lips joining, fingers entwining, badly hidden glances. He was sober, and he was unsure of all that he’d previously thought.  He was sober, and he loved her. He was sober, and he pushed it away. He was sober, and still wished to drink. To wash away vulnerabilities with something stronger than his own sense of mind - oh, that was his idea of bliss. But still, he wondered. She may not think the same way as he; the alcohol had been ridden from her system, and here she was - did she look at him and see only friendship? Flirtation had always been her skill; the way she caressed him did not necessarily signal towards something more. But did it? He wasn’t so foolish as to miss the way she looked at him (and his lips), but he also wasn’t as foolish to know that tension and chemistry can always remain. They had never been platonic, but...what were they? Lovers who never loved. Refused to. Despised it. Did he want to go back to that? Could he? Of course he could. And yet, he loved, he loved, he loved. 

Recalling her previous words, he said it. The smallest of smirks began to play on the upper corners of his lips, but one look at the man’s eyes and it was impossible not to understand. Teasing? No. The truth. A confession, as if it were shameful. “I missed you” and then, “more.” More than maybe, more than he wanted to admit. He felt safe behind the smirk, believing they hid the meaning behind his words. He did not realise that his eyes were the ones that betrayed him.

[bunney]

*takes gulp of vodka straight from the bottle* my day was fine

[afterxwinter-blog]

yellow light.

[narchrissistic-blog]

Often was said that of all Iris’ features, her eyes were the best. The warm heart that shined between the unusual blur of raw umber and the subtle, barely noticeable, flecks of ecru of her iris on rainy days to reveal how much, in actual fact, of a sweetheart the girl was. The very same girl who spent her youth and early adulthood corrupting those—playfully, of course—who idolised the image she portrayed. Alas, those who detail as much have never been gazed at in the particular way that Iris does at very few. A way that makes you stop noticing her eyes, and start noticing the way she looks past you, as though in a place only Iris Winters knows exists—the place she lives without fault. It’s only natural she doesn’t let anyone else in. But how terribly tempting it was to open the doors for Christopher Briggs, the one man who looked at her the very same way she looked at stars; with a longing desire. The slightly older young man inched closer, but Iris didn’t notice. Her eyes were too trained to his to notice anything so significant (which was anything, when their gazes were locked as they were).    When Iris spoke it was with a petite playfulness that was encouraged by Chris’ own. “Separate rooms, eh? Well, we all know what rules are for.” To be broken.           –As per usual, there was a teasing nature between them, the way her body would lean closer to him and if only one and a half steps closer she would fit into Chris’ hold like a sculpture of lovers, and the banter hopping to and fro their lips like a dance only Chris and Iris knew the steps to. Everything about them was intimate. Hell, even in public places without actual realisation.  Perhaps in the same way Iris refused to acknowledge Christopher Briggs was terribly in love with her, Andrew refused to believe his two closest people found forbidden comfort in the warmth of each other’s touch, in the gentle, simple presence of one another. If it were so, were they not all to blame?        When they were alone, though, such trivial matters needn’t bother the couple without a label. Especially when, following Chris’ unnatural honest demeanour, her eyes that for any other person would show so little betrayed the labyrinth of a girl by depicting something so antonymous to Iris Winters:     honesty.                Iris’ smile dipped, the same way her head often did when her chin was cupped by the young man as a safe, trusting reliance. For a moment, Iris went to the place she lived, the place behind her eyes known to nobody but her. And when she returned with a small, fragile smile, she knew the answer. Her eyes met his and she didn’t offer words, but instead a movement. As Iris treaded the short distance closer, her arms lifted and wrapped around the shoulders of the man for whom she would do anything, her head resting in the crook of his neck and breathing in the scent—the scent she had missed dangerously too much. It made her smile and she closed her eyes. No words because really, Chris knew her well enough to find difficulty in speaking about it, did he not? Of course he did. He was one of the few who knew her almost—if not better- than she knew herself. In the very same way did Iris too know Chris. So though they were still hugging and though he could fool her with her back turned, she had to ask.                                “Are you?”

Whenever Chris looked at Iris, he saw himself. But not only that - he also saw her as an individual. He saw her in a way few did. He saw her as what she was - incessantly human. She saw him the very same way, and that in itself holds so much beauty. But there were times when neither of them wanted to admit to themselves or the world that human is exactly what they are, and there lies the problem: with denial, comes untruthfulness. With untruthfulness, comes facades. And the facade that Christopher has created around himself is the way he wants to be seen, so more often that not, that’s what happens. It only seemed to truly start to crumble when his eyes were locked with Iris’, when she was in his arms, or holding his hand. He’d started not to mind, and this petrified him, and his brain told him, at a deafening pitch, to run. Yet, when she moved towards him, he did not object. The masquerade mask of his features fell to the ground, and for a moment, just before she wrapped him in her arms, he knew she’d been witness to the unveiling. 

With a heavy sigh of what could only be the sound of the weight of his worries being lifted from his shoulders, he pulled her to him. For a second, he wondered what this relief meant, but then his thoughts grew lost in her scent, in the feeling of her nose grazing the skin of his neck. And it was only him, and her. He’d always been one to scoff at the thought of hugs; they were far too chaste, meaningless. Practically unnecessary. But when he was with her, when his head was resting against hers, and his eyes were closed and she was pressed against him, and he was pressed against her, he understood. It meant everything. 

She understood him. They understood each other. Neither of them liked to talk about this, and it somehow made their bond stronger. So, instead of answering her question, he simply held her tighter. It said all he needed to say. Besides, he didn’t want to dampen the mood; he didn’t want to mention that drinking is usually the only way he can feel anything at all, though sometimes it’s the only way to numb it all and that he can feel himself slipping, further, further.  He didn’t want to think about how ashamed his mother would be of him, because that only reminded him of how she wasn’t there to tell him so. In this moment, he was happy. So by holding her to him, by feeling her heartbeat against his chest, he wasn’t lying. She knew him well enough to know that. She also knew him well enough to know that there was more to the story. When he pulled back slightly, so that her arms were still around his neck and his were still around her waist, but they could see each other’s faces, he took a moment to look at her; truly look at her, so that he could spot any changes, or to be be reminded of the unnoticeable. And then, out of nowhere, a grin appeared; one of equal parts happiness and cockiness, caused by the remembrance of the magnificent realisation he’d had when she’d first buried her face in his neck: 

“You missed me.” 

[wordsnquotes]

If I were to lose you, I should be lost.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice (via wordsnquotes)

[afterxwinter-blog]

yellow light.

[narchrissistic-blog]

It could have been three seconds or four and a half or close to a hundred, but it felt to Iris like the latter. The distance was  s a f e,  for now;   the petite brunette needn’t worry about brown hues fixed on lips she wanted to touch, or the subtle tremble in her digits, the ones that felt as though underneath its membrane was a magnet, and Chris’ chin its iron, the magnetic pull becoming stronger after each step, as they became closer and closer and…

And it was a good thing Iris and Chris were not in close proximity because all he had done was spoken her name on his lips and the bum bum bum of her heart was in her ears and it was like 177 days had never created a chasm between now and their last moment.  For her nothing had changed… But for Chris? She couldn’t read his mind, unfortunately, so she was left with a pathetic, vulnerable ponder:  Was there someone else?

Iris could not read his mind, that was true, but she could read him and sometimes that was enough. The usual perfectly trimmed chin was now dominated in a stubble on the verge of being deemed out of control, eyes glazed over in an unreadable expression that juxtaposed the shocking, rare sight of Chris’ smile, and Iris found herself wondering how much smiling he had done the past few months.    Cue the pang of guilt– but more than that, worry.

They would never be the type to discuss their mistakes and issues and insecurities unless accompanied with the taste of their favourite liquor, so Iris wouldn’t highlight the clear change in the young man. Her worry was compartmentalized, pushed away, for now, because Chris was expecting a response and Iris Winters was not one to miss a beat.                                       “Briggs.” Iris’ words triggered a broadening of her smile, an automatic response at the name.  Arms poised at the waist, a diminutive tread was taken. Her confidence was illuminating, a wondrous thing given countless unspoken words of concern and for now she had everyone- even herself- under a dazzling spell.  “Guess we’re roomies, now, huh?” A teasing tone but in it leaked the emotion depicted in her eyes, presented in her steps that inched, without her attention, closer to him– and a teasing tone that would fade in mere seconds if overpowered by the pull, if encouraged in even a glance by the blonde himself.  A desperate tug that would soon have her stood directly before the boy she had been forced to avoid and when they were that close… Who knew how much control they’d have over themselves?

Many emotions can be depicted in a man’s eyes, some which are identifiable, some which have yet to be discovered. If you look closely at someone’s eyes, you can see it all - happiness, sadness, rage, fatigue, uncertainty. Those who wish to see the emotion can pinpoint the exact moments in which it occurs; those who do not believe it is there at all just see the shade of blue, green, brown, grey surrounding the pupil. They do not wish to delve deeper into the intricate fine lines, so they do not. At this particular moment, a fairly foreign emotion painted its way across Christopher Briggs’ eyes: love. He did not know it was there, he did not feel the change. It was subtle, but so very identifiable, so very certain. One look at Iris Winters was all it took. He did not wish to realise it. 

The sound of her voice caused his body to creep forward against his knowledge. She was drawing him closer, closer; just by speaking, just by gazing. But not too close. Only close enough to witness the gentle rise and fall of her breath, only close enough to be overcome with the desire to reach with his arms and merge their frames in such a way that made it difficult to see where Iris ended and Chris began. He stopped himself, but only just - apprehension creeping in, telling him she may have moved on, or that he was no longer required. But no matter his emotions, he could always match her teasing tone. Just like old times - one eyebrow raised, the smallest hint of a smirk (though this was soon overpowered by his smile)               “Mm. Separate rooms though. Sorry. What with Andrew still convinced you’re a virgin and all, he even said no to bunk beds for the sake of preserving your vow to chastity.” 

Only now did he realise that he’d stepped closer to her once more, close enough to touch, though his arms remained at his sides and his eyes were once again the only opening of intimacy. There goes any hint of mischief across his features, as if they’d never appeared at all.              “Iris.” The smallest, softest uttering of her first name; as gentle as the way he used to caress her jawline with the pad of his thumb, as loving as his gaze portrayed. His smile remained, only it was slightly smaller now; the happiness of seeing her was still situated firmly on his lips, the sound of her name only increasing this, and yet he wanted to know. He needed to know. “Iris.” he said again. vulnerability seeping through, its head peering out from its hiding place. His gaze, searching, searching - for what, he was unsure. Truth, perhaps. “Are you happy?” So much meaning in such a simple question. Such a lot of hurt in two bodies. 

[afterxwinter-blog]

yellow light.

  You won’t stay any longer here than you need to. When it’s time to go, don’t linger like you did six months ago in your father’s home (turned house after the passing of his wife) in frozen fear at the words– “psychiatric ward”.   Blackwell had opened locked doors for Iris Winters, but this time the other side revealed not repressed memories, but instead Andrew Winters. Her twin. Her sense of belonging.  And suddenly it wasn’t so easy to get the hell out of there, so caught up in his arms and he was swinging her off her feet and it was her brother and with eyes tightly closed, a crack of them showed another presence… One that made her falter–  and it was a good thing Drew could not see her face.

A time much later when the sun took shield behind clouds that festered up a rain shower, Iris had still offered him nothing but a soft smile. One that said ‘I’m happy’, but, like the clouds, was armor to a deeper something– a deeper happiness, particularly when she looked at…

 Iris…    No amount of therapy would ever stop her from internal conflict, especially when it regarded Christopher Briggs and especially when it had been 177 days since they’d spoken. Disastrously too long a time… But her expression, her tone and her mannerisms suggested otherwise. When his familiar voice was raised in the room comprising of Chris, Iris, Louisa and Andrew, though she really payed no attention at all to the tea she stirred, her eyes remained on it. In fact, she remained apathetic towards him yet involved with Louisa and Andrew’s dialogue up until the very moment they were left alone. Andrew required for work, Louisa without question accompanying him, and then they were finally alone side from the unspoken fear of change between the two young adults.  And a vulnerability:            Do you still care?

Iris looked at him only now and found herself unable to glance away and– yep, the smallest smile tugging at the top corner of her lips. As if nothing had changed. And there her answer lied:  Yes, she cared. Oh, absolutely.

[afterxwinter-blog]

[narchrissistic-blog]

The truth is, much like a sailboat with a pinprick of a hole in the side, Christopher had been sinking slowly. Only those close to him had begun to notice, and if they commented on it he’d simply shrug, say something witty, behave like the party boy he’d grown up to be. He always had an excuse - for skipping class, for coming home at seven in the morning with only one shoe, for being found with his head in his hands on the curb of an unknown street five miles from home. But no one had asked him about the bottle of liquor, constantly drained and refilled, that lived deep in the pocket of his jeans. No one asked him why his smirk seemed forced, no one wondered if there was a reason on the days he didn’t shave. No one asked why he kept showing up at parties with black eyes, and bloodied fists. He wouldn’t answered them if they did.

He missed his mother. He didn’t want to become a psychiatrist, because human emotion made him uncomfortable. He was beginning to query the meaning of his actions; he no longer found drinking fun, but a necessity.

Weakness, weakness, weakness.

                     Iris, Iris, Iris.

He hadn’t notice her sink to the bottom of the ocean. He didn’t have the strength to dive down and help her swim. What did that say about him as a person?

He cared, he cared, he cared. But not about himself. He cared, he cared, he cared, but not enough to see through to the cracks in her skin. Who caused them? Who carved them in? Did he, did they, did she?

177 days. He wanted to say everything and nothing, so he chose the latter, because it was easier. If his friends were speaking, he didn’t hear, nor did he notice the concerned expression Andrew directed at him upon realising he hadn’t said a word. He tried not to look at her - he couldn’t look at her. It would say too much, it would reveal too much.

Then they were alone, and for the first time, his eyes found hers.

A storm had been raging in his bloodstream for near two hundred days, and now she was here, standing before him. The sunshine in her eyes had dried the rain dripping through his frail frame, and a sense of calm swept through him for the first time in months, dissipating the thunder cloud above his heart. Then there it was, on his lips. A mysterious thing, a little known friend: a smile.

“Winters.”

But did she care for him, as much as he did her? Did her bandaged heart beat to the tune of his name? Did her smile say, ‘Oh, my dear, I missed you too’?

[medeae]

Say Maybe

I bury my face in the crook of your neck and tell myself this is nothing. You slide your hand up into my hair, tip my head back and kiss my forehead. I close my eyes. I still tell myself this is nothing. Your arms settle around my waist and grip lightly. We breathe into one another. Is this still nothing? I let you kiss me and it’s so chaste I feel like we’re 13. You run a finger down the side of my face, let it linger at the edge of my jaw, let it drop down to my pulse point. It’s steady and strong. My heart isn’t tripping over for you. A warm feeling spills over in my gut. This isn’t nothing.

[bepeu-deactivated20171202]

i am not a smoker i just smoke socially and am a smoker

[nefariouscinephile]

[mancandykings]