prompt: Bluesey + "It's all my fault."
"Maybe..." his breath is a whisper away from your lips, a terrible temptation to resist. It feels like you've played this game far too many times to count, danced on tiptoes around each other too many times to matter. When he pulls, you push; when you sidestep, he goes after you; when he leans left, you turn with him. There isn't an elaborate choreography, one that you know of, but you always find yourselves back on the dance floor anyway. There doesn't seem to be an exit; not from his thin mouth and wire framed glasses and annoyingly bright shirts. "Maybe," he repeats after a swallow, still too close and still too tempting, "maybe I'm not your true love."
You make a noise of dismissal.
He ignores it, whispers, awfully wanting, "Maybe I could kiss you. Maybe in a year you'll meet a charming French philosophy student who has bad hair and calls you Bleu and doesn't eat the fruit at the bottom of your yoghurt, and you'll fall madly in love and break my heart but for now..." He draws in a breath, closes his eyes for a half a second and when he opens them, he catches your gaze and holds it, makes it unable to look away from the intensity of his stare. "I could kiss you."
You can't quit him.
As your own eyes fall closed, you inhale deeply to clear your head but it proves to be a mistake because you did not consider what the familiar scent of mint, old books and forest trees would do to you. You can almost imagine what it would feel like to have that be the only thing you breathe while he presses his mouth against yours, while he takes your breath away, while he suffocates you in the most pleasant way, while he makes it impossible to think straight. You can imagine his hands in your hair and what his weight on top of you would feel like. You can imagine his gasping breath and his eyes a shade darker than what you're used to. The only thing you can't imagine is the warmth of his mouth, the taste of him.
Your lips crave knowledge.
You chuckle quietly. You open your eyes and find him still staring at you, still vaguely hopeful, and you hate to crush his dreams but he doesn't know what you know. You're the responsible party here, the one terribly aware of the dangers of your mouth especially for him, the one that has to keep a clear head.
Your foreheads are pressed against each other. You remember a similar a moment, a similarly naive hypothesis (Maybe it wouldn't hurt if I kiss you. Maybe it's only if you kiss me.) and how that night ended - yet you're both still here, both willing to try again.
"What kind of person do you think my true love is?" you say in a teasing tone, easily focusing on his description of said hypothetical true love rather than acknowledging anything else he said and providing reasons for why they're false.
Either you're his true love or you killed him.
You're sure you would not kill him in a thousand lifetimes and a thousand universes. That only leaves one thing.
You could feel it too, the truth of Gansey being your true love pumping in your veins to keep your heart beating every day.
It is so, so hard to quit him. But you don't kiss him that night.
He's waiting on a red light, on your way back to reality after another night of pretending, when you cover his hand with your own, trace the pattern of the ley lines on his skin. He smiles fondly and you know he noticed what you're doing. You want to keep pretending for a little longer. Just until you arrive home. So you say,
"You don't have to worry about any French philosophy students coming to steal my heart, by the way." You make a careful pause, mind numbingly aware of the weight of your next words. "If you were not my true love... I would still rather be with you than anyone else."
It's not a love confession but it's as good as one.
You look straight ahead but you feel his gaze on you, burning holes into your skin, feel him gravitate closer like a puppet on a string. You're attuned to him, always observant of him, but you can't imagine what his face looks like at the moment. You're too vulnerable to look.
The light turns green but the car stays immobile, there's no one around, no one else on the road in sight, and he presses his face into the crook of your neck and blows on your skin, watches as you turn into a shivering mess in his hands. You're supposed to be on your way home, you're supposed to be Blue and Gansey, just friends, again, not Blue and Gansey, a girl and a boy, but the streets outside the car window are still dark and empty, and technically, you can be what you want to be until you reach 300 Fox Way. So you stay like that for a while, caught in the spider's web you've both made great attempts to escape just a few minutes ago. He murmurs his nickname for you into the skin of your neck and something else that may sound like "I love you" but you don't mention it or dwell on it for too long.
When he pulls away and you allow him, reluctantly, he puts two fingers to his lips, kisses them and then presses them against your mouth. He lingers, his touch soft before putting his hand back on the steering wheel. Your heart feels like it's breaking inside your chest, too full of love and misery and yearning and unable to contain any of these emotions anymore. Surely, it can't get worse than this.
But then you remember the vision of a ghost on St. Mark's Eve and you quickly change your mind.
When reality catches up with you, your mother's waiting on the stairs. Gansey winces as he pulls up on the sidewalk and turns to see your reaction. Maura does not look furious or worried or disappointed - what sits on her face is frustration and lack of surprise.
You know Gansey would only make this worse by trying to help so you tell him, "Stay in the car. I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight," and get out to greet your mother.
She stands up as you near her and out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gansey idling in the Camaro. He's not going to leave. His hand is already on the door handle but he remains seated for now.
"You knew I was fine," you tell Maura because it's a fact.
"That's not the point."
"We weren't doing anything."
"That's not the point either."
Gansey gets out. You were expecting this but you hoped he would surprise you. You shoot him a look which he ignores as he ambles closer, all bravado gone, looking sheepish in the face of the mother of the girl he just drove home in the dead of the night.
"I'm sorry, Maura, it's all my fault," he begins, running his hand through his hair, a sure sign of his uncertainty. Dealing with the angry parents of his girlfriend does not fall into his field of expertise, it seems. Except Maura's not angry, not really. And you're not his girlfriend, not really. "I've convinced her to go for a drive. It was my idea and I'll take full responsibility."
Your mother gives you a look and you roll your eyes at him. You knew he was only going to make it worse. "I'm here too, I can speak for myself, thanks. Go home, Gansey."
"Yes, I think it's better if you go now, Gansey," Maura agrees. She does not say it unkindly but firmly enough to make him comply. He looks at you one last time, an unspoken question, and you nod. It's clear he feels badly about abandoning you but he drives away and once the last roaring sounds of the Pig die off in the distance, you make your way inside. Your mother follows and levels you with a stare you can easily decipher. You busy yourself with shrugging off your shoes and jacket to avoid it.
"I know, I know, I just wanted... wanted to be normal. Wanted to be a normal girl who has a crush on a normal boy who she is not going to kill."
Sympathy and disapproval roll off Maura in waves, strangling you. "I want to know when you leave the house and I want it to not be 3 am. That's all I want."
You nod, still not looking at her. "Sorry."
You move to trudge up the stairs but she catches your arm with a sigh and holds you back. There's a beat of silence before she speaks up. "I know what it's like to be a teenager and in love. I know that forbidding you to act on your hormones only leads to secrets and lies and unplanned pregnancy, but..." Here she pauses until you look up at her. You can tell by her face that you won't like what she has to say but she's resolved to say it anyway. She looks sad for you as she speaks, the words choking the breath out of you, "You're digging his grave, Blue."
The grave is already dug, you think. Who will fall into it is up for debate. It's meant for Gansey but maybe you will fall after him, to be buried six feet under right along with your heart, love and happiness.