His teeth shine up at me like streetlamps through a winter storm. And I can see them even from my distance. Shadows break across his back, stretch across his muscles like his skin. I wish to be one of those shadows now; down there with him, splayed over him and his words that drip like cool water from his lips.
Drip.
He speaks, but I hear nothing that he says. I feel it, but not in my ears. His heart beat is close enough for me to taste on my tongue.
Beat. Beat.
Like a drum. But never in time. Never how it should be.
The image crawls in my head, newborn, not yet fully developed and somehow more mature than both of us. And I think of him. Zuko. And I am not myself any more. I am just an extension of him. But that's alright. If I am with him, I am where I need to be.
He is all that I can see, taking over my vision like the tears that fall down oh so often. Flooding. Burning. Like the fire that erupts from his fingertips. Miniature volcanoes in place of fingerprints. I vaguely remember wishing that he would touch me with them, spread the hot magma over me. And I would let it burn me. Wildfire crackle through my veins.
Crackle.
He climbs up to touch me. His fingers graze my skin gently, eliciting feelings that I don't want. Or do I? Perhaps I am lost in his labyrinthine eyes and do not know what I want. But there is no map, so I must stay.
Please, I beg, release me. But he does not. His chains wrap around me and bind me to him. I tug at them. Why is he doing this? I thought that he loved me. But perhaps I have been too quick to judge him for he leans in and hastily says, I will, soon.
His lips move over me like his words, dripping again. I move under his mouth, letting the little droplets fall on me. They splash on my face, cooling me, protecting me. He laughs and moves back down, leaving me like a fly caught in a web, unable to move my limbs.
I look at him, hair jet black and spread over his face like my fingers want to be. Why isn't he nearer to me? I want so badly to touch him. But he does not let me. It's only for now, he reminds me, the word-drip turning into a steady stream as he explains.
Gush.
But I do not understand. The raging water floods my ears and I cannot hear him at all. I only hear the babbling of the brook that his tongue trails under. But it tells me who he is and I understand once more.
This is not meant to be serious or grammatically correct in the least. This is what happens when I am over-tired and decide to try and write like I'm stoned… not that I've ever even been stoned before, and that's why this is so bad. But I warned you it was strange. I think I'll come back to this as I please, so don't expect a schedule. It's more of one of those spur of the moment things than anything. I know it's strange, but I often find the strangest things to be the most beautiful, though I understand completely if you do not like it. I personally find a strong emotional connection with this specific type of prose (not specifically my story, as it is my first attempt and I have nowhere near mastered it). This does not have a plot, really, just so you're aware. Right, so... Leave a review if you like…