You're asleep. You woke up at 1 and had late breakfast. We played an intense game of Scrabble to calm you down and talk a little bit about last night. I didn't get far at all. It's hard to get anywhere with you, Ryan. All I got out of our two hours together was the knowledge of a new word.
You're a bright kid. But if you were a smart kid, you'd just fucking talk to me.
I don't know what I'm going to do all night. I want to go out again, but damn, I can't just leave you here. Am I really that awful? Had it really never occured to me that maybe it really was me that's screwing this all up? Yes, you are always at the studio. But I'm always partying. And there's a difference there. The difference in doing what has to be done and what is just wanted.
I'm watching you sleep. I crawled onto the bed right next to you and sat up cross-legged, all without disturbing you at all. I watch you make all kinds of cute baby-like noises as you sleep. The small smacking of your lips as you move around. The little high-pitched noises that break from the back of your throat. I could watch you all night.
Finally, after about twenty minutes, your eyes flutter open. You smile at me with squinted eyes.
"Hi, baby," I say and touch your warm hand.
You run your hand through your hair and breathe heavily. God, it's 6 PM. You can't still be hung over.
"So...you staying home tonight?" I ask.
You shrug. "Might go over to the studio and work on some things alone."
"Want me to drive you over there?"
You shake your head, still laying down. "No. You can go out tonight, if you want. I just need to work. Or Brendon will kill me." I nod, stroking the back of your hand with my fingers. I know it's not helping your splitting headache or anything but it makes me feel better. The most tender places of our skin against one another's. I don't feel it enough.
"William..." you say quietly, slowly beginning to lace your fingers with mine. Part of me doesn't even want to know what your prolonged tone means. But another part of me knows, knows that it just can't be anything bad. I know we have an unusual relationship. But it's perfect in so many more ways than not.
"Sh," I silence you as I lean over your body, moving my face inches away from yours. "I know." And I kiss your lips gracefully, treating them like antique glass, knowing that they and you are worth so much more than what they tell you. You deserve better than this. You deserve more than slanted ceilings in dust-gathering relationships.
That's why we live modern.
It's raining outside. And I don't know why I bothered showering. My hair will be a curly, frizzy mess and I'll smell like alcohol and cigarette smoke by the end of the night anyway.
You're applying some eyeliner in front of the steamy mirror when I wrap a towel around my waist and step out of the shower. "Why are you putting on makeup? I thought you were gonna be alone," I comment.
You shrug, saying nothing. I'm not sure how to interpret that.
A clap of thunder screams from outside and you jump, dropping the black pencil in the sink. I laugh. "Are you alright?"
You hastily pick up the pencil again. "Fine. I just don't like thunderstorms."
And you're going to go into a dark, deserted building in the middle of the night by yourself? I would ask this out loud, but I'm thinking it may make matters worse. "Do you want me to come?" I ask instead, quietly.
"No," you quickly reply. "I need to be alone."
"Okie-dokie," I say and leave the bathroom, going into our room to put on some clothes.
"Drive careful," I say loudly as we both walk steadily to our cars in the parking lot. You nod and open the door to your small car. "I mean it," I add earnestly.
"I'm fine. Don't stay out past midnight," you say smiling and pointing a finger at me before sliding into the driver's seat. I shake my head and laugh, slipping my keys in the ignition and closing the door.
Mike's place again. It's not hard to miss this place. It's fucking gigantic. I've always been kind of jealous of Mike in a way. He has everything. The looks, the talent, the girls lined up at his feet.
But what I've got is so much better.
Thunder roars again and I wonder how you're holding up. This cold weather we're having is really rather depressing. This apartment is depressing. It's reminding me of lesser times. Times before your long, thin legs walked in on me at my lowest point. I was about to give up. Then your bright eyes met mine. Back at a party much like this one.
It seems so long ago. It seems like we've been this way forever.
I sit down at the bar. Yes, Mike has a bar. He and I spent many nights here that I do not remember now. All I know is that they occurred. The headaches the morning after are what remind me of their very existence and their reasoning. Because during a morning like you experienced this morning, you feel like there isn't any reasoning.
Tonight, I have a headache and I haven't even touched a glass.
As temporary relief, I pour myself a drink. Everything will be okay.
I throw back a shot and feel eyes on me as I do. I must be quite a sight; all alone, even though the gossip clearly states that I'm intertwined in the hottest relationship of the week. I follow the powerful force of eyes on my skin and find that they're right next to me. His eyes are rimmed with a red gloss, as if he hasn't slept in weeks. In this business, I wouldn't be surprised if I was right. And I usually am.
Brown and green make up the pattern under his drooping eyelids. It's a really pretty color, and I find myself staring. I'm so caught up in the intensity of those eyes that I barely notice that they're staring straight back, along with a cunning smirk on his pink lips.
"You okay, Beckett?" Shaant Hacikyan says, shaking me straight out of my daze. He takes a slow sip of something that is a deep shade of red, watching me through the corners of his eyes as he does, patiently awaiting my response. He has total composure, making me think he's not actually drinking anything alcoholic. Then again, he shouldn't be.
He holds his frame so steadily. His muscles are loose. He doesn't shake.
"I'm fine," I say simply. He quickly raises his eyebrows incredulously and takes another sip from the glass. It's like that's all he's concentrating on: driving me insane by the way his lips wrap around the cold rims. The way he somehow just knows that he can drive me insane in the first place. I only wish he could help me out and tell me how this is happening. I have a boy. You're the only boy that makes me feel like this. I promise, baby.
"It was a good move moving out of this place," he says quietly. It's a wonder how I can hear him over the music. It's a wonder why he's talking to me, why he's doing everything in his power to put every single effect on me in the most repulsive ways. Why?
I breathe, smelling the alcohol on my own breath as I do. Shaant does too and he smiles. "How'd you know about that?" I slightly slur, not yet unintentionally.
He finally really looks at me again. He looks at me like he's looking at me through a black and white x-ray machine. He can see the pulse in the side of my neck quicken the longer he stares. He can see my muscles contract in attempt to calm my shaking skin and nerves. He sees everything.
Before answering, he moves even closer, finally setting his glass down on the counter. The best offense is a good defense and Shaant just gave his up...
"I think you're amazing," he whispers. "You don't know how much I fucking admire you."
I'm not sure if I should be flattered, but in a way I suppose I am. I look away from his movie-star eyes that are now inches away from my own. I feel so plain. I think back to everything about my face that I hadn't checked before I left your apartment. I think about if my breath still smells of the last cigarette I had. What is this kid doing to me?
Shaant, he gets up off the stool. First I think he's leaving and I wonder if that's all he wanted. To compliment me. But he's got much more in mind. He brushes past my leg and as one of his hands cups the side of my face, his lips suck the bottom of my ear. Oh, no, it doesn't feel "right" in any form of the word. But it still doesn't feel wrong.
He's nineteen tiny little years old. But then again you're only twenty.
I feel my eyes fall shut, as if they'd been open for far too long. I gently grasp Shaant's wrist that connects to his own fingers that caress the very center of my cheek. The veins in his fingers find their way straight to my cheekbones, achieving that savoring expression on my face without any coercion at all.
Soon I feel his breathing crescendo, and what started as gentle teasing is now deep and humid kisses all along my neck and jaw. Yes, there is now no doubt in my mind that this boy is drunk. He can just obviously keep an amazing level of equanimity when under the influence.
"Come here," Shaant breathes straight into my ear and laces his fingers with mine, spinning me around and pulling me out of the main room, away from the party. He actually leads us into my old room, and a bunch of memories come back to me. A lot happened in this room.
He's standing and staring at me, that smirk of his finally returning to its natural habitat. I feel discomfited by his lusty intentions, which I would have been stupid to not have recognized, and I stuff my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. Shaant, I don't think he has much to say. Because the next thing I know is...his lips are against mine. The collision of our mixed alcohol stings. He's gentle...moving very, very slowly.
His next move is the zipper of my coat that runs down the middle of my chest. He takes it centimeter by centimeter, giving me every single oppurtunity to turn him down. I'm still unsure though, so silence still remains. Aside from the bitter taste of underage drinking and the smell of lost senses, his kiss is incredible. His touch is even more undefined. And his little whispers send me over the edge in anticipation. But once my coat hangs loose off my shoulders and Shaant moves straight down to the belt around my hips, I give in.
I just can't do it.
Every kiss I placed on your precious lips comes back to me and I'm hit with a wave of guilt. Emotion. Thoughts like "I am the worst boyfriend ever" and "Ryan will never forgive me". Thoughts like that. Thoughts that I never thought I'd hear myself think when I obliged to such a perfect relationship.
I try and pull away from Shaant's equally perfect kiss but his teeth grab a hold of my bottom lip, and I whimper in part pleasure, part pain, part fear.
That's all it really ever comes down to.
I tear my lip from between his teeth and see my blood on his white teeth as he backs away, open-mouthed. "It's late, Shaant," I say truthfully, readjusting my belt and beginning to zip up my coat once again. "Ryan wanted me home half an hour ago. He doesn't like thunderstorms, and-"
"Will I see you again?"
I abruptly pause the hurry-out-the-door routine and stare in Shaant's wild eyes. I slowly nod.
He smiles, and it's out the door. I hear the only blast of thunder in hours as I rush out of Mike's lush apartment. It's been raining the whole night. I didn't hear a thing. I didn't hear the storm, I didn't hear my cell phone ring, I didn't hear a single song that came out of Mike Carden's expensive stereo. All I heard was the pulse that was adding to my headache. All I heard was the blood rushing straight through my veins.
He's so young. He's not a day over prom nights and teen angst.
Thunderstorms could never stop me.
AHHHHHHHH!
rate and talk :]]
