Title: Islands
Author: Skylarcat
Classification: One shot. Short and sweet. Written from Angie's POV. Not sure how to describe it, other then it started with a line and this is what followed.
Rating: PG 13
Feedback: Hell YEAH. I live for that shit.
Summary: She is an island, he the shore. What lies between them, no less, no more.
Note: Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.
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She imagines herself as an island; worn down by the raging seas, marked and discarded there, broken bottles, rusting cans, remnants of seashells. Metaphors, for such things as betrayal, pain, even happiness, the things you become and learn, just by simply living.
She can't remember when she became hard, but who can remember something like that? It's sort of like a cancer—grows from inside out, beneath the skin, and in the bone; too deep for the eye, but in the flesh, where it marks you, and slowly starts to kill you.
And she finds it difficult to believe that a person could love her, even when she's trying—trying to be what other people need—trying to be what other people desire—trying to be everything to everyone, trying to be worthy.
It is her secret; and hers alone, she walks around with it, swollen and crushed beneath the pressure. Sometimes, she thinks she will burst, like a blister, and all she is trying to conceal—to hold back, every thought, every feeling, oozing out.
She thinks about the emptiness that would come from it. The very act of shedding her skin, the coming undone—piece by piece—layer by layer—the depletion of who she is, and yes, the emptiness of being just an empty sack, flapping in the wind, no more, no less of any importance.
If she is an island, then he is the shore that surrounds her; the fringe of land that meets sea. He is gallant and strong, all the things, she is not. He takes her abuse, her ridicule, weathers out each of her storms; resilient beneath her turbulence of pushing and pulling, kicking and screaming, always steady. He is either above or under, that depends on her tides, but he is always there.
Sometimes she thinks of herself as a mere shadow, and he only a light, but neither can exist without the other, for there can be no light without shadow, nor shadow without light, but still, sometimes she catches him watching her.
Like he does now; eyes steady on her, right in front of her, and she pretends to not notice, fakes a yawn and stretches her arms overhead, but still, he continues to stare, and she wonders what it is that he sees—when he looks so intensely at her.
Wonders if his eyes are memorizing the creases of her skin, like the lines of a map; taking notes of the valleys, the hills—the mountains he would have to climb, taking notes of every road, of how they twist and turn, to determine if he is willing to travel among the dark corners to reach her. She feels damaged, yet wanton, beneath his scrutiny.
She can feel her body blush from the attention; unfolds and folds, and refolds on itself—skin onto bone—bone into tissue—tissue to blood.
And it makes her want to give him her heart, if she has a heart, she isn't sure anymore; it's been broken, or discarded, like an afterthought, pushed so far down, that she is now just a shell, congealed and hollow. And he deserves better than that—better than her.
She feels confused; a sort of blindness that comes from walking in the dark. He does this to her—makes her feel unsteady, like a baby's first steps; makes her question herself, the universe.
Till she becomes a wreck—a mass of shattered glass and splintered wood, like a house in a tornado. Sometimes when he stands next to her, she thinks she will come undone, simply fall right there.
And she doesn't know why it matters so much, but it does; a sort of ache—a need, if you will, for his approval; his presence.
This is how it starts, but this is what scares her; for where there exist beginnings, there also exist endings, and she knows herself well enough to know, she destroys that in which is most important, plans out its demise, and like her life, it's always left manacled, despite her feeble attempts to save it.
So, she denies herself the one thing she wants most; keeps her distance, her hands up in guard. If he is an open book, then she is in the margins, hiding in the gaps between paragraphs, and she swears, sometimes he reads her—every sentence, every word.
It is an art; how excellent they are at nonverbal communication. A look, a breath, a touch; he might as well be giving a speech, writing a sonnet—it's loud and clear; and no matter how hard she pretends to not notice, it slams against her, like walking into a wall.
She decides she does not want to be an island anymore. Islands cannot be reached, except by boat, or plane; they're isolated, set aside.
And she doesn't want to be that remote from him. She finds that she stands beside him now. And it seems almost pointless—to want.
She tries not to notice the gradual change, the turning of page, but it washes over her like a sluggish wave, until she is drowning beside him.
But then he slips his hand into hers, and like a lifejacket, she is saved. And she thinks, maybe she loves him a little bit.
They never speak of it aloud, never call it love, or give it a name. It just becomes a part of who they are; a sort of characteristic, but has no real description; it is the air that inhabits them, unnoticed, but completely necessary. It is the skin that covers them, vital, but still pregnable.
And when he moves in and kisses her, she knows; it's not a little bit at all, but fully and completely.
She is in love with him; the head over feet kind of love; the punch-drunk, in your face, delirious kind of love; the kind that shakes foundations, moves islands, it's impractical and ridiculous, and she is completely insane by it.
But there's something to be said about hunger, it reminds you that you are alive, and that, no one person is an island.
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