For Kristi. Just because you're a little bit amazing and I love you.
from the love to the lightning
His last night. Your last night together.
See, when you say it like that it sounds like he's dying. Maybe he is, in a way. It feels similar.
And you should know.
Maybe your relationship is dying. Withering into non-existence.
It certainly hurts. More than you'd expected, and more than it probably should. You ache with an all-consuming visceral desperation.
Fingers.
Your fingers clutch at his shirt, his shoulder, his chest, his wrists, his hands. They grasp at him one minute, as if determined to never let him leave this sofa, and then push at him the next, palms splayed across his warm skin, silently begging him to bring this to an end.
End everything.
Freedom. He's said this word a lot lately. You're not really sure what it means. Freedom. Just what does he want to be free of?
You?
Fresh start, clean break, new challenge. These phrases have haunted you for a month, but tonight they're terrorising you, clawing at your very being. He hasn't said them. In fact, he hasn't said anything since you arrived on his doorstep, all rain and tear soaked and raw. But he's thinking them.
Arms.
His arms are locking you against his torso, firmly holding you in place. If you struggle they loosen, if you cling to him they cling harder. They're strong and they make you think of other times, times where they've been around you, times where they've protected you and calmed you and held you steady.
What a bastard. What an absolute bastard he is to do this. He knows you're angry at him. Knows it with some certainty you guess, after everything you've screamed at him recently.
Bastard.
A person doesn't just up and leave, abandon everything they've created, everything they've worked so hard for. You don't leave your only family. You don't leave people behind.
Back.
His hands have strayed behind you, running over your back. Soothing, you suppose.
Only then do you realise you're crying. The not-entirely-surprising wetness on your cheeks cools quickly, causing a shiver.
Or maybe that's because of his hands.
Bastard.
You can't look at him. It makes you feel things.
Cheek on shoulder. Tears on collar.
It's entrancing. The exposed skin between crisp white shirt and neck. The part you don't usually get to see, aren't allowed to touch.
Hands wander. His collar slips through your fingers until they are padding lightly across his bare skin.
That's all it is, really. Skin and bone and muscle.
Then why? Why does it make you feel ... well, like this?
(You know why. You're not an idiot. But denial isn't just a river in Egypt.)
Fingertips softly travel from his jaw downwards.
Mandible, thyroid, trachea, clavicle. Pectoral mayor muscles.
He hums quietly at this point, the vibration sending sparks through your whole body.
Your fingers catch gently on the edge of his shirt, caught on a button, bumping over it, continuing their journey, on perhaps safer ground.
Manubrium. Ribs. Sternum.
The path is slow. Steady. You want to memorise every line, every curve, every touch.
It gets softer after the ribs. Unprotected, less important organs. Organs left to fend for themselves. Uncaged. They're not so visible, not as prominent, as the bones before them. But they're still there.
Liver. Stomach. Hip. Recto abdominal muscles.
He makes a funny noise in the back of his throat.
The soft cotton puckers in your fingertips as you tug until his shirt becomes untucked from his trousers.
His hand snaps closed around your wrist. You can feel his pulse throbbing through you. Or is that yours?
Just one word. Breathed as if he has no breath. Stop.
You want to ask why. But you already know.
Forehead.
It falls to your shoulder, his hot breath tickling the stray hairs on your neck.
It's a motion of hopelessness, anguish in the knowledge that this can never and will never happen.
It's sad and it's lonely.
It's quiet chaos and despair.
Lips.
A shudder.
His mouth brushes your neck. Just for a millisecond, but time doesn't really seem relative anymore.
Hypocrite. Two can play at this game.
Your fingers, momentarily stilled, continue their exploration. They toy with the hem of his shirt and then slip underneath it (of their own volition, you're certain), crawling across his hot skin until they discover the bottom of his spine.
He stiffens. Inhales sharply.
You drag your fingertips up almost imperceptibly, pulling folds of material with you, following the channel created by his vertebrae.
The arc of his torso is curved against you, fusing you together.
His weight is solid, warm, comforting.
One of his hands gets lost in your hair. He wraps a soft blonde curl around his finger like a lifeline, gently tugging on it as if to ensure that you are indeed real.
In response you press your lips to his jaw, just underneath his earlobe.
A faint murmur. Mouth against skin. His name. Just once.
His muscles contract, clutching you tighter, unyielding. His reply. A whisper. You're killing me.
Anger comes. Frustration.
Recoil.
The small distance you create forms a gulf, swallowing the intimacy between you and replacing it with confusion.
There's a strange ache in your chest when you response: good, visibly shocks him.
Green eyes seek out brown. The pain gets worse.
One word. Why.
It could be either of you asking it. But this time it's him. (Your turn will come later.)
You choose your answer carefully. We wouldn't have a happy ending.
Rough stubble grazes your cheek. Soft lips touch your skin. Once, twice, three times, until he reaches your mouth.
This isn't fair. He isn't being fair, or kind, and you suspect that he knows it.
A shiver of desire. An ache of longing.
You turn your head, just a fraction of an inch. Corner of lips meets corner of lips.
And then you don't really move. Lips parted, you gently touch them to his, as if he's a magnet with an irresistible pull. You feel his exhalation, his fingers pushing into your hair again.
Desire.
Ache.
Longing.
Lips close. Mouths move. Tongues probe. Slowly. Torturously.
And you're certain that he's breaking you in two.
Recoil. Again. But gentler this time.
Fingers. Oh, fingers. They come up to his face, tracing his forehead, that small scar that came as a result of falling off a bike as a child, his cheekbones, the curve of his nose, the prickle on his jaw, his lips. His soft, slightly swollen lips.
He kisses your finger before lowering your hand.
Your turn now. Why.
A small smile. Last chance saloon.
His smile fades in the shadow of your look.
Eyes.
His next words snatch all the breath from your body. To say goodbye.
Your brain screams no. Screams so loud you screw up your eyes against the noise, blocking out the world. But then you hear him utter your name, in a rush, with a groan, like he can't hold it in any longer. Nikki.
And heart beats head.
For the first time in your life when it comes to him, your heart beats your head.
Eight years spent trapped in a stalemate comprised of faulty logic and misguided rationale, unravelled with something as simple as a kiss.
Your fingers start working on his shirt buttons. His eyes don't leave yours.
And then he reminds you that he's leaving in the morning.
And you stop. Like I don't fucking know that, Harry.
That's when it happens.
You fall together in a whirlwind of discarded clothes and lips on skin and hands everywhere. It's intense, and raw, and you open yourself up to a kind of vulnerability that terrifies the crap out of you. Out of both of you.
And you need him more than ever.
Afterwards, when your bodies are tangled under cold sheets and he is smoothing hair over your damp forehead, you say the only thing that is going through your head.
I hate you.
A kiss to your hairline. I know.
And he does. You know he does. Because you have a suspicion that he hates himself, too. You love him so deeply, so profoundly, that it has reached that point where you can't stand the sight of him.
The aching sadness is almost overwhelming.
Tears. Again.
A kiss. Again.
You tell him you hate him over and over and over again until he must feel like the worst person in the world. And his answer is the same over and over and over again. He knows. He knows. He knows.
Until one time it isn't.
I love you.
The silence screams louder and louder as you process those three tiny little words; three words that have done more damage than if he'd confessed that he hated you.
I hate that I love you, too. Your voice is a little hoarse, but he hears you.
Much like this night started, your hands are clasped tightly in his own, desperate not to release him to the clutches of a foreign country. Much like this night started, you are crying. Much like this night started, you know that you are fighting the inevitable.
Sure enough, seven hours later, he is gone.
I don't even know what this is. I'm terribly sorry.
Also, before you all shout at me, I know about the two multi-chapters I still haven't finished. I'm an awful awful person who has an actual problem in that she is profoundly lazy. But I'm writing a new short multi-chap at the moment that I am determined to finish before I publish any of, so that should appear in the next few weeks and be updated so regularly you will not believe your eyes.
Anyway, let me know what you think of this pile of angsty nonsensical mess.
Charlotte x