Summary: Two years after Fang left. He comes back for a final farewell. And then leaves. Again. FAX
California King Bed - Rhianna
Chest to chest.
Nose to nose.
Arm to arm.
We were always just that close.
Fang buried his nose in Max's curls, breathing in her scent, clutching her body to his. This would be the last time he would see her. Ever.
Wrist to wrist.
Toe to toe.
Lips that felt just like the inside of a rose.
Soon, he'd fade. Alone this time. Maya, Holden, Star, Kate, Ratchet. Gone. Dead. A Fight. He didn't like to talk about it.
So how come when I reach out my fingers, it feels like more than distance between us?
Fang started to slide out of the bed, fluidly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Except, Max would have done it differently. Inch by inch, hissing in pain the whole time.
But that's what separated them. Put them on two different sides of the galaxy. The Sahara dessert and Antarctica.
In this California king bed.
We're ten thousand miles apart.
Fang slid on his shirt – black, like always – followed by jeans and then his All-Stars. After that, his rugged, worn dark brown leather jacket and blue backpack.
I've been California wishing on these stars.
For your heart on me, my California queen.
Fang unlatched the window, stopping just shy of jumping out. He turned to look at Max, sleeping, arms curled up under her, nose wrinkled. From the look on her face, he could tell she was dreaming. But not a pleasant one.
A note? He wondered shortly. But then he shook his head. He left her a note two years ago. Instead, he scribbled down his number on a sheet of paper, and wrote two words.
Call me.
Eye to eye.
Cheek to cheek.
Arm in arm, dusk to dawn with these curtains drawn.
And a little last night on these sheets.
He jumped out the side of the window, unfurling his wings and pushing down, gaining leverage and rising. His too long black hair whipped around his face, brushing the back of his neck and covering his equally dark eyes.
So how come when I reach out my fingers
It seems like more than distance between us?
With a last glance out Max's warm bedroom window, Fang rose higher, gaining speed.
Higher, higher, faster, faster.
Soon, wind was whistling passed his ears, leaving him feeling like a turbo streaking underwater.
He sucked in a breath and disappeared behind a building, fading, leaving.
"Did you get 'im?" Iggy whispered, his voice sounding crackly and distant on the phone.
"No," Max answered, staring at the words and numbers written sloppily on the paper. She willed them to say anything, anything at all. "I didn't. He left – as always."
"'Dammit, Max!"
"I gotta make a call. Bye, Ig." Max slid her thumb across the screen, ending the call, memorizing the numbers. 555 6…. 555 6….
It rang. And it rang. And it rang. And then...
"'Lo?"
Max cleared her throat. "Fang?"
