A/N: I challenged myself to write a oneshot with entirely no dialogue. It's more like a continuous prose than a oneshot, but it has probably made me feel more than some of the other stories I have written. I really love how this came out. Although it mentions no names, Chris and Ashley are highly implied.
Just Yet
His hands clamber over her body in an embrace. He doesn't know how to hold her just yet.
Their lips find each other. They kiss awkwardly and frequently – over and over again – because they don't want to let go of each other. Not just yet.
They are finding and discovering each other in ways they didn't know before. He was a best friend, she was a study partner. They were crushes.
Now they aren't.
Now they are more.
He doesn't know what to do with that. He'd always wanted more, but he'd never expected it. He'd never prepared for it. It had always just been something on the horizon, something far off. Something not quite there.
Now it's here. Now he's here. Now.
Now.
Now she's running her fingers down the side of his face. She keeps looking at him, looking into him. Her gaze clings to him. He looks back. He lets his breath get caught in her fingertips.
Her breath is cautious when she kisses him again. He is an amalgamation of all her romantic heroes, of all characters she's ever dreamed of, of every love in every one of her endless and endless stories. And he is nothing like them. He lets her fingers feel the cracks on his face, uncovering the truths of him, the shallow confidence and the deep depths of his hurt.
She sips. She speaks. She doesn't.
Their words are kisses. Their kisses are words.
His glasses keep knocking against her nose. She giggles. He laughs against her skin. He takes his glasses off. He doesn't have to see to know her.
His hands cup around her waist. She is warm. She is all blurs. He closes his eyes, they press their noses together. She holds onto him. He holds onto her.
He tries not to see the gun. He tries not to see the blood. He tries not to see his best friend.
He clings to her.
Every crevice and curve of her is trying not to be a memory. It's trying not to be a sharp corner for him to cut himself on. He knows she's dangerous. He knows she's tiptoeing on the rail between composed and agitated. Between calm and anxious.
He's too scared to love her. He's too scared not to.
He won't be the one to tip her.
They share secrets between their whispers and kisses. It's all tentative and unsure and grasping. They know things no one else does. Of guns and creatures, of night and dark. Of fear and loyalty. This is their past. This is their future. This is who they are.
She murmurs his name. It is simple. It is affirming that he is here. He is now.
Now.
Now she pulls away from him. It is only an inch. And then another inch. But it feels like an aching cavern. She looks at him. Like she's studying him. Like he's a book. Like she's flicking through his pages.
He wants to close the book. He wants to put it back on the shelf.
He wants to keep it open.
They have stopped kissing. They have stopped talking.
They are just looking. Looking and searching and being.
She speaks. She says words. They are simple and scared and strong. She needs to know. She needs to hear him say it. She needs to hear him assure her.
Her eyes are shivering with the threatening of tears. Because memories cannot escape a prison. They are trapped in by eyes and ears and lips. Everything that memories are made from.
She needs to know he remembers. She needs to know he forgets.
She needs to know he can help her forget.
He reaches for her. His thumb wipes away the tears that follow the cracks of her cheeks. Eyes reach for each other, looking into each other, breathing in time with each other. She clutches on his hand. Her pulse thrums in her wrist.
Her gaze is hard. Her gaze is broken.
Broken by someone else. Broken by someone he used to call a best friend.
He can't fix it. He can't fix it, but he can stop it falling apart even more.
He promises her. He holds her. He kisses her.
If this is all she needs for now, this is what he will give her. If this is all he needs, he'll let her give it.
Best friends can turn into creatures. Best friends can turn into messes. Best friends can turn into memories.
Best friends can turn into this.
He kisses her. He speaks words to her. He gives to her. Gives and gives and gives.
And he breathes.
He doesn't want to forget.
Not just yet.