disjointed
;;
throw me away, by all means—i'm not the broken one
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He finds her crouched beside the back door of a dingy bar downtown, face buried in her knees, trying to block out a shouting world with booze and bruises. What he can't tear his eyes from isn't the smears of blood on her torn knuckles, not the shaking in her fingers, not the tear tracks on her cheeks that light up like moonbeams in the dim, dirty streetlight; it's none of that, because he's seen them often enough to know how to block them out.
Or rather, he can accept them, live with them, move on from them without letting his heart squeeze in a way that threatens to choke him to death. He can bear to see her trembling and weak, see her trying to tear herself apart.
(He's always been a fucking liar.)
He can bear it now. He's... not used to it, but— well, he can bear it. This is what he's here for. So that's not what he sees. It isn't what burns itself into his eyes, cold as ice, and leaves him with stinging vision that he can't blink away.
"Gray."
She says it like you'd order your favourite coffee on a snowy evening from the barista who sees you enough to throw you a special grin, turning to make what they know you'll order. In the same way you automatically reach for your keys even though you know the door will be open. She says it in case. She knows, but just in case.
What he sees, what blinds him, is her mouth—fake, cruel, beautiful, forced. He knows she knows he knows it's fake, and she gives it to him every time like poison on a silver platter. Lips stretched, utterly charming, fucking gorgeous in every sense of the word; gets everyone around her weak-kneed, sends girls stuttering, leaves boys following her like leaves follow the summer breeze.
He grips her forearm roughly (gentle, always gentle with her—shines like a diamond and tears like wet paper, this perfect mess of a girl), coaxes her to her feet. She's drunk enough to have to lean on him, but sober enough to hate herself for it; he knows.
"Gray," she murmurs, cold against his shoulder. Slumps into him, hair falling like a halo, fists clenching like the devil's on her back. "It's such a shame."
He says gruffly, "Let's go."
She just laughs, and her stunning static smile stretches. "Such a tragedy. Gave yourself to someone who can't even handle themselves. Crazy boy."
He stays silent. Steady. Lips in a firm line, eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead, ears listening for cars, hand hot and heavy on her back. She's a wisp of smoke in his hands, and he's taking her home once again. Back to her flames, where she can burn out, hide in the dark until the screams get too loud, and then set herself on fire all over again only for him to, again, again, carry her out of the blaze.
She giggles drunkenly into him, light as air in his arms. "This is what I told you, isn't it?" More laughter. "I told you to stay away. Fucking— fucking trainwreck, always kneeling in alleys waiting for you to rescue me, aren't I? Was it worth it?"
He doesn't bother tell her she's drunk—they both know she is. This isn't rare. This is what they are. He understands that—can't accept it, won't accept it, but lives with it, works with it, takes it into himself like he does oxygen and let's his body take from the agony what it can. Oh, but agony? Is it agony?
"Went and got your heart handcuffed to a stranger, didn't you? I feel sorry for you, Gray." There's a bruise on her temple, he notices, blooming black and blue; the colours of a broken-hearted rainbow. She always asks too many questions when she's withering inside, and he can hear her in his chest like a heartbeat gone wrong. "You're stuck here, and you're never going anywhere, are you? You're aren't. You aren't. Such a fucking tragedy. Could have done so much better, but instead, you're here, aren't you? Instead, you're stuck here, crashing with me."
Waiting for you, she says, waiting for you to rescue me, and the truth of it makes him have to shut his eyes for a moment, rest in the dark, hide from all the broken things he never thought love would mean. Because this is what they are. They are bitter walks home. And waiting. And carrying her home like smoke in his arms, this girl who leaves a trail of broken hearts like the aftermath of a storm, raging forwards—his girl, a ghost with demons she'll never defeat, heavy on her back like the devil—he carries her in his arms, strong and steady, hand hot and heavy against her back, laughter like pearls fluttering in his ears, tears left like a trail all the bitter walk home—
Agony like a summer breeze, if he can say that. A mess of broken diamond; a tapestry in grey.
"My crazy lunatic," she whispers, breath a puff of white in the night, "Gray Surge."
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if you're broken glass, it's worth bleeding out