A/N: So this is my first Fan Fiction story. I've had it in mind for a few months, letting it simmer before I thought that maybe it would be received well here. I do love Lauren Oliver's writing, but I refuse to believe that Alex and Lena do not end up together. I won't give any spoilers about anything (or at least I hope I won't), but here we'll say that it all goes according to plan. I guess I should ask for reads and reviews. Please read and review? I won't be hurt if you don't. Well, I guess enjoy. Oh, and the title of the chapters are all going to be songs. Not all by the same artist because I will try and open minds to the amazingness that is music. So this is a song by Thriving Ivory off of their sort of début album entitled Thriving Ivory (surprise, surprise). They're great and on a hiatus at the moment, even though the original three members simply started up another project under a different name. Enjoy!

Runaway

I still hear his voice telling me to run even though its been hours - miles - since he spoke them. His voice was so calm even with the threat of death creeping behind us like a snake in the grass, just waiting for the right moment to attack.

My legs burn and my lungs feel on fire, breathing becomes more difficult at each footfall.

I am suddenly aware that I have not heard Alex. Not for the entire while I've - no, we've - been running. My heart clenches and worry fills me so suddenly that I stop running altogether, faltering and stumbling over a rock. I land hard the ground, thudding. Birds awake in the trees, their flapping wings seen through the trees.

A sob, quiet and forceful, escapes my throat. Where is he?

"Lena!" I hear his voice, shuffling through fallen leaves. It is still so controlled, but worry laces itself underneath the currents of the words. And then I hear him land behind me, his hands winding their way along my shoulders, soothing my whole body, my whole mind.

Another sob echoes through the woods, but it is not my own. I turn my head to look at Alex, tears sting behind his eyes. For a foolish, childish moment, I think he regrets taking me. Regrets saving me.

But then his hands are pulling me back, towards him. He spreads his legs and moves me between them. My back is against his chest and I can feel his heartbeat thud between the sweat and blood soaked fabric of our shirts. His head finds the curve of my neck and he places soft kisses on the grimy skin. I want to push him away, tell him this is no time to be sitting down, but his lips feel good against my skin and we both need to relax.

I turn quickly and straddle him. His legs have come together, to adjust to the new position. His eyes still look wet, but his cheeks have a rosy tinge to them and a wild look has replaced the sad one from before.

I lean in close, teasing him slightly, allowing myself to momentarily forget what has led to this. My breath sticks to the sweat on his face and he lets out a soft groan in anticipation. I inch closer, my hands gripping the ends of his shirt tightly. With each movement I squeeze the fabric tighter, bunching it into my fists. The shirt rises with every movement too, revealing soft, bronze skin beneath it that glistens in the moonlight.

Soon, I can take the waiting no longer and plunge my face forwards to his. For a moment, I am afraid we will collide with utter ungracefulness, but his hands release the ground and find my waist, bringing my body closer to his. My lips crash against his in a frenzy. His lips have broken and chapped, he has chewed on them. But I smooth them over with my tongue, which glazes along in a perfect rhythm.

He opens his mouth now and I move my hands underneath his shirt, trailing along tight muscle. His tongue battles with mine and I can feel him shuffling underneath me, trying to angle us perfectly.

I moan when my shirt rides up and his hands, warm and calloused, spread along my back, up my spine. Suddenly, he his yanking my shirt up, but he gets no where as my arms are wrapped around his back. My thoughts jumble together, but I manage to remove my hands and lift my arms up. Alex pulls the t-shirt above my head, revealing my pale, moly front. It is nothing new to him, but I still get a twinge of nervousness clawing in my belly.

We are no longer kissing as the movement to remove my shirt forced us to stop. He stares at me now, glazing over every inch of skin like he is memorizing the pattern of marks. He traces them lightly with his fingertips as if playing connect-the-dots. I realize I must look like a mess. Hot, sweaty, and tangled. My hair has come loose from its ponytail and hangs in matted knots around my shoulders. The skin on my face is oily and dirt-ridden. Dried blood stains my hands and legs.

But he looks at me as if I, Lena Holloway, were Aphrodite. His eyes look in wonder at my half-naked body and I blush under his tentative gaze. He looks at my face now, moving his fingers along my stomach, over my bra, along my collarbone, across my neck, and around my face. He grabs at my jaw and brings me closer to kiss me.

Once again we are a frantic mess of bodies. He pulls me so close to him, I swear we are about meld into one. His body is warm and relaxing against mine to the point I almost want to melt and become one.

I feel his hands grappling with the hook of my bra and a wild thought shoots my brain. A memory of my Aunt Carol telling me about the expectations of husband and wife. How a husband and wife consummate their marriage, she said. She explained it as if it was a detriment. Something that should be despised. But she also said it was necessary. For children.

I freeze for a moment, worried all of a sudden that this will be a terrible experience. The health teachers described it as loosely as they possible could, "It is painful, usually short, and unfulfilling." It is only for children. It hurts. It is shameful. God will look down upon you with despair in his eyes.

And then I notice Alex's lips are no longer on my own. His preoccupation removing his own shirt tearing him away from me. The silent air creeps around us and he stops, pulling his shirt back down. His eyes are golden in the moonlight and they look feral. I imagine a stray cat sitting before me instead of this boy who has run away with me. This boy who loves me. He stares at me, a confused look slowly spreading across his features.

He is handsome. Right here and now. Under the blanket of night, the stars not visible through the cursed clouds, he is handsome. Even with blood trickling through his shirt from a small wound on his chest, even with dust melding with the pores in his skin, even with death hanging over him like the sun.

So I smile. And he smiles back. Slowly, carefully. He is treading lightly and I love him for it.

I lean forward, forgetting Aunt Carol and teachers, and even myself. My hands grab the ends of his shirt and I help lift the shirt off his body. I take my time to look at him the way he looked at me. The way he always look at me. Like he is studying a work of art. I place a hand on the wound, cleaning away the blood with my thumb. He doesn't flinch beneath my touch, so I spread my hand around his bare chest, adding my other hand for good measure. I place a concentrated look on my face, trying to lock away the feel of his warm skin against my own.

I can almost hear the smile playing on his lips and glance at his eyes. He pulls me closer, resting his hands on my back. I stop breathing and he kisses me. My eyes flutter close.

Once we get into a rhythm again, I allow him to wrestle with my bra grip. His hands are strong against my back and his lips haven't left mine again as he finally unhooks it. He raises his fingers to my shoulders and guides the straps off of my arms. I am tentative to allow him at first, but then his tongue shoots over mine and I am too confused to care about any of it. Once it is discarded and thrust against our shirts, his hands graze the two mounds.

His touch is graceful and light. He squeezes lightly against my right breast and I pant softly into his mouth. An unknown feeling shoots through me and lands at my core, making it throb with pleasure and desire.

My hands move against my wishes, fiddling with the belt that holds Alex's trousers up. I barely know what I am doing when I eventually get the strap loose. I yank it hard and toss it somewhere. I hear Alex gasp against my lips and then he stops kissing me. Well, stops kissing my lips. He pushes me back, resting me against our forgotten shirts and begins pressing kisses to my neck all the way to my breasts.

I can't stop the sigh of pleasure that escapes my mouth. His lips graze across tender bumps and my hands once again are at his trousers, struggling now with the button. It doesn't take long for the button to relinquish itself and, with the hand that is not laced around my left shoulder, Alex leans up and pulls the shorts down. Underclothes replace their presence, but Alex is too focused on now removing my pants. The button pops open and he pulls down hard. My underwear follows the tight jeans, leaving me no time to be nervous.

With his right hand, he feels up my leg and lands at the crook between my thighs. Alex mouth has found mine again, but my scream of love and fervor forces his lips off. He moves his head to my neck and I can feel him laugh against my skin. I smile, too, lost in the drug that is Alex.

I move my hands again to his boxers. Before I am even aware what I am doing, my fingertips slip inside the waistband at the front. Alex stops moving and I'm worried for a split second that I have done something wrong, but then he moans. I continue what I am doing until he finds my hand and stops me, guiding my fingers and helping me remove the boxer-shorts.

I feel a pressure at the base of my stomach. Something is pressing against me. Something is forcing its way inside of me. Alex looks at me, an anxious expression painted on his face. I make my eyes stare at him and a breath hitches in my throat. His body is rippling with surges of want. I close my eyes to keep from crying out of pure happiness and nod my head once.

Then I really feel the pressure. It builds from my stomach all the way through my veins like adrenaline. It touches my fingertips, the tips of my toes; it blockades my brain. It is painful at first and I squeeze my eyes shut, but the pain subsides quickly and is replaced by a pleasure I have never felt in my life.

I open my eyes and look at Alex.

He smiles a great smile and I realise that Aunt Carol and the teachers were wrong. They may have hated this, but it was because there was no zeal. No tenderness. No love.

My body is pulsating with it. The deliria. It is wracking my bones, clouding my mind. I said long ago (or maybe not that long ago, time seems to have lost all meaning at this moment in time) that this would kill me. It was going to kill me and I didn't care. Back then, I didn't know what was going to happen. I was just beginning to experience the disease. But now, in the warmth of Alex's fingertips grazing against me, his body a part of my own, I would happily die here. Happy, adored…and loved.