Wanting / Lost / Boone/Shannon pre-island AU / slight spoilers for 2x06 "Abandoned"
When you creep up and tell me darling
it breaks my heart each time you darling
you break my heart each time you
you slip your hands inside my pockets Tegan and Sara
His first weekend in New York was cold and dreary - contrary to the sunny skies that he left behind. A real apartment, not some silly student place - already full of things thanks to his mother, down to milk in the fridge. Still wasn't a home, but nothing beside that house he grew up in was a home - the house he left when he was ten and his mother wore short dresses and he had a new father.
He let his hair grow long; Shannon's father had always hated long - would tell him it made him look like a fag - just like his father, was the implied yet unspoken follow-up. He couldn't remember much about his father, beside the garden in the back and running around free and barefoot in the grass. His mother was different then, not full of hate and ice. Then something happened and everything changed.
The story of his life, something happened (unknown or unexplained) and then everything changed. His life had been broken and reformed that it was hard to see back to the beginning.
New York was a good change, or at least he kept telling himself so - the painful phone calls back to her, hearing the strain and the mixed happiness too. He didn't think that he's miss her this much. All the lost moments-nights-whispers swept under the rug, never to be spoken of again. But they where there, every time she called late at night, he knew that she wanted more then just a voice on the other line.
She use to crawl into bed with him, half dressed and smelling of smoke and booze - she'd steal his covers and make him shiver in the dry California heat.
He'd wake up to the sounds of her feet on the carpet, little rustles of linen against skin that would let him know that she had come home safe. She'd slide into bed, not touching him, her body tense - her face turned away from his half open eyes. She'd stretch out, bare feet touching his legs - shocks, shocks - all though his veins.
It would happen before his sleepy eyes, the change from the harsh party girl to the childlike sylph that smiled like a butterfly in the summer sun. Her body would relax, her feet curling and coming to rest against his calves. All the lines on her face would slowly glide away - sleep smoothing over all the stresses and lies.
She'd turn over, casually and like a swan ruffling its feathers; he'd open his eyes to her smudged eyes and smoky hair. With a flutter of lashes, she'd tuck her chin against her chest and move closer to him. Heads on the same pillow, less then a breath away, she smelled like ash and jasmine; he couldn't take his eyes off of her, even as broken as she was.
Her fingers burnt his skin; transference of pain from her to him in just a feather light brush of lacquered nails. She always touched him first, sometimes all they did was touch, outside/inside, she'd been all over him, in him. Everything was automatic, unbidden; his brain rolled back and his body took over, the spark.
New York wasn't the same, wasn't the same without her. Cold, and damp, the dry winds didn't reach this far-east and her smell didn't linger on her lips anymore. He had moved away but he couldn't move beyond her.