AUTHOR'S NOTE: Kind of a second part to "Midnight Conversation" but can be read as a separate and complete one-shot. A big thank you to Margui for suggesting I write a second when I hadn't even considered it. Please read, review, and enjoy!
The screen flickered as the third set of end credits rolled upwards before dying in a rush of static. Pieces of dialogue were rumbling around in his head, and he wasn't too sure if they all came from the same movie. The marathon of black-and-whites had become a biweekly occurrence barring no scheduling conflicts. It helped them unwind and de-stress; shared company and snacks were just a bonus. He stretched and yawned, wincing at the popping in his shoulders and the tightness in his left leg. Shreds of fluffy popcorn pooled at their feet, and he was sure that the caved center of the couch was slowly eating him. He sighed and carefully bent around her sleeping form to clear the mess, only to still as her drowsy protests reached his ears. He chuckled.
About halfway through the second film, the sandman had claimed her, and she had wrapped her arms around his and used him as a pillow for the next two hours. Red strands of hair tickled his arm, and he twitched at the sensation, unintentionally shrugging her off. On the upside, his arm was finally free. On the down side, well...without the use of both of his legs, he wasn't getting up any time soon. He sighed and patted her back, reluctant to wake her.
Pre-dawn sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, and the first stirrings of city life drifted into the small quarters. Birds belted out greetings to the day, their songs occasionally punctuated by noise from the streets below. Cabbies and pedestrians swore and hailed in each breath, and the thousands of LCD lights that defined the New York skyline illuminated the wall on the far side of the apartment. Sliding her limp head onto the couch cushion, he rose and looked out the window, deeply inhaling the scent of smog and coffee and releasing a hacking cough for his trouble.
Good morning, NYC.
The grandfather clock against the far wall rang out the time in regally measured rhythm. He blanched slightly at the late - or rather, early - hour. A green sliver on the horizon faded into gold faded into the blue empyrean still dotted with stars and blanketing the cityscape. He knew he really had to leave before it got much lighter. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as she nuzzled deeper into the cushions. Leaving her unceremoniously tossed over the couch didn't sit well with him but moving her would surely wake her. The crease of her brow and the swollen lines gathering just under her eyes told him how desperately in need she was of a solid night's sleep. He carefully lifted her light frame into his arms and carried her toward her room.
His glance roamed over her relaxed body, and for just a fleeting moment, there was nothing he desired more than a chance to be hers. He snorted, disgusted with himself, and allowed his mind to take him back to the lie of contentment with the norm. Or tried to, anyway. Her finger lightly traced the sinew in his arm, nearly causing him to moan from the pain of the pleasure of her touch. His senses were on fire, overwhelmed by the conflicting intimacy and impropriety, and innervated with a long dormant desire. Moisture collected on his face and arms as he became infinitely more aware of every point their skin met. The smell - her smell - of honey and melon wafted around him. His head swam as she made a slightly miffed noise and nudged a little closer to his heart.
She didn't stir much as he placed her on the bed, nearly tripping over the pile of blankets in the floor in the process. Stretching and yawning, she cast a bleary eye at him and smiled the first genuinely happy smile he'd seen in months. He cast an eye around the quarters. A pile of laundry was in the corner, socks and undergarments thankfully out of sight. There was a faint twinkling on her dresser, and he recognized the watch as her grandfather's. The closet door was shut tight and barricaded with boxes of papers and old texts. In the center of the room, the heretofore unoccupied bed had a pair of green flip flops peaking out from underneath the box spring, and a quick shuffling sound told him she no longer faced him. He sat on the edge of the mattress and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, waiting to capture that last perfect glimpse to keep in his heart until next they met.
She slept on her side with her legs half curled into a fetal position. A grin tugged at his lips when she squirmed, sticking her legs out, followed by her arms, then held all her limbs close as she flopped onto her stomach. He frowned when noticed a shadow that didn't quite release its hold but turned with her. Carefully, he pulled up the hem of the large shirt and gasped. Two thick, jagged, angry red lines ran the length of her thigh before scattering into spots just above the bend in her knee. He tensed as she moved, praying she wasn't conscious enough to notice that the bottom of the shirt rested well above the line of blue cotton lace.
The back part of his hand moved across the injury, which seem to have healed fairly well on its own. Coarse flames cascaded through his veins simmering only when they reached the porcelain skin cool and soft as snow. Keeping himself in check took all of the strength he had and then some. How dare anyone touch her, hurt her, view her in such a grotesque manner. A thought struck him and deflated both the anger and pleasure rising in his chest. The void left filled with a hollow chill.
"I did this," he whispered. "Oh, no, please, no.…"
She remembered she had been sleeping soundly after he tucked her in. The silence had crept in, and she wriggled into the comfort of freshly washed sheets. The bed had moved beneath her and his hand gripped her shoulder briefly. Had he left after that? A cool breeze played across her midriff, playfully petting the skin across her lower back and abdomen before fingering at the area just beneath her breasts. The cool pleasure sent goosebumps up her spine. Figuring she must have lain awkwardly on the shirt, she enjoyed it for a moment before deciding to untwist it.
Rough knuckles caressed the flat of her thigh and she froze, terrified. There was a rippling strength in that hand, one she didn't know could accord with the tentative strokes on her leg. A thousand scenarios, each more terrifying and bloody than the last filled her mind, and she felt her heart and lungs trying to keep up with her racing thoughts. She wondered if she was hyperventilating. The entity sighed a familiar sigh that flooded her with relief.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Her heart broke at the defeat in his voice. He repeated the words over and over as if hoping some absolution might come from it. His fingers continued to move over her leg, their touch having a hesitant yet poised bearing. Fire raced through her nerves as they met the unrequited love only just restrained in the calloused fingertips. A few tears crept into the edge of her vision.
It's not my place to slake your thirst for the love you most definitely deserve.
She shifted her weight slightly and let her own hand clutch his. He stilled and gave a sharp intake of breath as she propped herself up on one elbow and eyed him curiously. The blood rushed to his face and tinted his olive skin an odd auburn color. She waited until he lifted his gaze to hers before speaking. "There is nothing to apologize for. Nothing."
Especially not this.
"B-but….but I-" he stammered. "I really could have -"
I know.
She shook her head firmly. "But you didn't. I'm okay."
And so are you.
The wound looked inflamed and ugly, a permanent marring of their friendship. He could have seriously hurt her, and from the look of the lines that undulated as she sat up, he couldn't believe he hadn't. A solitary tear blazed down his cheek and dripped off of his chin. The spot on the bed grew, eagerly swallowing the dry cloth. Clenching and unclenching his fist, he futily tried to block the rush of images.
The solitude of the basement-he could hide there. Something warm ran down the length of his forearm. The salty iron taste registered as blood and satisfied a sick hunger deep within. His head split with tremendous force, and he spiraled into the most painful darkness he had known, lost in the cavernous recesses of his mind.
"Hey, hey." Her sweet voice broke through the cloud. "We can't both have a breakdown on the same night."
He chuckled lightly as a gentle finger wiped away the wetness on his face. Pale hands interlocked themselves around his neck in a light hug, which he returned with the arm she wasn't practically sitting on. As she was holding on to him a beat or two longer than necessary, he wasn't prepared for the cold unoccupied space as she flung herself off the side of the bed.
"Oh-kay, y'know what? We're redecorating."
"We're wha- now?"
"Mm-hmmm." She drew the last syllable out in a yawn before disappearing into the living room. Completely befuddled by the turn of events, he plodded out the door to find her tugging the couch out of place. "Help me out here?"
He numbly followed her orders. Within forty-five minutes, the couch, the coffee table, and the television were all rotated, and the small sitting area next to the window was taken apart. She disappeared into the basement with two of the four chairs and came back with an old table and an even older chess board. Having set up the den, she whizzed past him to begin accessorizing the room - something he thought best to gracefully bow out of. He took it upon himself to clean up their coffee mugs and empty popcorn bowls.
"So," - he tossed a glance over his shoulder as she addressed him - "what do you think?"
He slowly set the dishes away, knowing himself to be no expert on room decor. The adjustments they made were unfamiliar but nice. It would take him a bit to get used to it, but if he had to be honest, she had won him over with the antique chess board. Coasters from the coffee table had been replaced with a glass candy bowl filled with potpourri that gave the space a fresh and welcoming scent. The TV would arguably be easier to view and be more out of the way, and the absence of the two extra chairs opened up the room more than he had expected.
A splash of color - as vibrant as her hair and as deep as the last vestiges of the night - caught his eye. She had flung a throw over the back of the couch. It gave the furniture an air of elegancy and coziness and hid the….
He abruptly strode over to the couch to make sure.
It hid the ripped seams and the chipping wood. Her arms wound around him as he smiled. "It's something my grandmother taught me. Helps in...getting on with life."
He hugged her tighter. "Thank you."
She beamed and gently called after him as he turned to go. "Hey."
He spun around and froze as she pecked him on the cheek.
"Love ya."
"You too."
More than you'll ever know, my girl.
A whispered breath, a heartbeat, then he fled into the morning, the sunrise revealing the warming city streets. Reveling in the wisps of a friendship remembered that rested on the fleeing stars, he stopped to look back at her window. There she stood. Strong, supportive, encouraging, eternal. He'd found the snapshot he was looking for.