To Take the Plunge
She's ready to jump, fingers slipping against the cool steel railing, bare toes gripping into the gravel, painfully, as it stabs into her skin.
She winces, even though in knowing that it's barely scratched the surface. The air is clear, she's glad for that at least. And in the distance, singing off the edge of the ocean's gaze, the sun rises in a whispering puddle of colors. It reminds her of the city. Of the puddles of oil seeping on the ground, rippling, dangerous, beautiful, so poisonous, constricting, so threatening it takes your breath away.
It takes her breath away. And she wonders for a moment if sheer beauty is all that you would need to die. Beauty, and love, and that soft satin touch running across your collarbone, across her collarbone, as she closes her eyes, remembering taking in the morning air, like she did so many times before, except that he was with her. And that they slept underneath damp sheets, ignoring the traffic, and the responsibility of morning, of how he would lay with her and she could gaze at him and then wonder aloud at the beauty that they were.
The beautiful moments.
Constricting.
Unmoving.
Demolished.
Aflame.
A deadly splendor.
It's gone now though. At least, she keeps telling herself that, her hands are shaking, dark auburn hair sticking stubbornly to her forehead in an uncomfortable clammy sweat that chills her skin and makes her heart beat even harder inside of her chest. But it's not really gone, that beautiful, poisonous love that makes her want to die while he dies with her.
It hurts so much, she never wants it do go away, and yet, as she runs, she does so, so, bad.
The end started with him and his secret missions, his little midnight escapades, his will, so vibrant so full of life, his eyes that poisoned green, glaring in the dark like she had done something wrong, except that they were so full of love. A love so beautiful, that it could kill.
And it did, every night, every hour when he wasn't wrapped in the sheets with her legs twined around his waist. He was killing, every minute that he wasn't brushing the hair out of her eyes and softly, oh so softly, brushing his lips religiously against her brow, against her neck, against her collarbone.
Whispering in her ear, or smiling with that catty grin, eyes speculative against her pale form as he was content enough to just brush his fingers up and down her back, asking for nothing, begging for nothing, except for her soft little whispers and tentative touches.
He would lie with her on the roof tiles, his hands eventually snaking around her neck, and for one moment, as she thought to pull away, she didn't, because his lips brushed against her forehead just, oh so slow, and oh, so soft, she couldn't stop it for anything.
So she grips the steel railing with hesitant fingers, thinking about how it's so damn early—too early to not be in his arms—and how he's sleeping. Red hair astray over his eyes, arms scattered across the mattress, his dreams of her so deep, so luscious, he doesn't even notice that she's stolen away on her own secret mission.
At least, she thinks he does.
She prepares herself, licking the sheet of slimy salty sweat off her lips, and then without a moment's hesitation, she bites it, feeling the bloody swollen skin under her tongue. One less thing to worry about, her lips, always so ready to kiss him, to let him know that she was always going to be there.
'Yeah, right…'
She almost tells herself that he doesn't care, but then, as she tastes the brackish sweat and the coppery taste mingling in a bubbly puddle under the roof of her mouth, she realizes that he does.
And that's what ruins it, really. It's what destroys the beauty of them.
He loved her, and, he was so deserving of it. Even though he killed for a living, even though he's killed thousands, maybe someone from her family—she knows better than to blame him for that—damn government lapdogs. Not his fault, having to do the dirty work, not his fault, that in order to live, he has to kill.
And she knows that if she survives, then, that's one more on his list that he'll have to lose, one more that he has to point the gun at and shoot with precision.
That's what happens in the midst of beauty.
Death…pain…beauty…pain…death…beauty…love…him…
She almost lurches forward, ignoring the smell of city smoke, and fresh air and his cologne, that sweet smelling cologne that she teased him mercilessly about. It was so girlish, she told him, so unmanly, so immature. But in time, even his scent, permeated into everything, was beautiful. So righteously beautiful, so agonizingly breathtaking, it killed her every time he had to leave on his next assignment.
She hated it.
She hates it.
And as she leans forwards, vibrant wind catching her hair as her eyelids meet with the cloudy dampness below, slowly blinking shut, awaiting the rush, oh the so beautiful cold luscious rush that comes every time she even so much as thinks about him. She expects the rush of water, the hard bite of the waves as she sinks into the reflection of the sun, as she sinks into all the glorious beauty, and leaves it behind for a life of simplicity.
What is simpler than death itself?
She expects the ocean to swallow her in a cold gulp, she expects her mouth to be full of water, her stomach cold and senseless, numb…gratifyingly insensitive.
And as she leans forward, his lean arms wrap around her, and she remembers seconds ago, that salty morning air, smoky city smog, vibrant, intense, beautiful, scent of his cologne.
She feels his muscles taught, his eyes closed as his nose nudges her neck, breathing, breathing, breathing the scent of the two of them in.
He's just holding her and breathing in the beauty underneath the city pollution, and the sea worthy air, and his exhaustive cologne wafting in from yesterdays discarded shirt.
His voice isn't tired, just…slow, just lingering in her ear, as he pulls her tighter against him, his fingers curling themselves into the loose fabric of her billowy t-shirt—his, actually.
"What exactly were you doing…?"
She responds with a stubborn tug, he just pulls her tighter, fingers almost latching onto skin, as he once again breaths into her neck, his lips whispering against her nervous damp skin, he's rough, she winces, and then she wonders how he can be so damn gentle after all she's done to tear them apart…
"I was doing us a favor…"
She whimpers quietly as his fingernails graze softly against her skin, his voice breaking, desperation, the need to know…know why…
"You were trying to off yourself… why, tell me why on this earth and any other, why, why, you would do that to yourself? To me, to us?"
She whimpers again as she feels his voice cracking, his lips kissing her temple frantically, kissing the side of her jaw, brushing against the shell of her ear. He doesn't want to lose her, lose the only beauty he has left in his life.
She's his muse, his rope…
She's his sunrise every morning. She's what lets him know that he's still alive.
Alive enough to love.
"I-It doesn't matter…"
He grips her tightly now, his voice harsh against her skin, rough with hurt and rubbed raw with worry and concern. 'It's beautiful', she thinks, just beautiful, the way he cares for her.
So beautiful, she could die without it, without him. And, she knows he'll die on one of those missions and that the one he'll be attacking will suddenly attack him and then she'll be left alone, all alone, a lonely beauty, left to rot, left to die…
A beauty that doesn't matter.
"And that's what you think? That you don't matter? That you'd fall forever, in the red?" And she backs down, slowly cradling her face in her hands.
"Yes..."
He moves her hands, encasing them in his own lean fingers before pressing them to his lips, his bright red hair still flaming behind the sunrise, his eyes still clouded and limp, and a damp tired green, he's just wearing those wrinkled dress pants from two days ago, buttoned haphazardly around his hips.
An outfit dug out of under the bed in a hurry.
"God…you scared…you scared me so damn much, I thought…God…I don't know what I thought, damn…I just…"
"Y-you…just…?"
She manages to squeeze out a response, drowning now, drowning now in the sunrise and his scent, and the lingering husky rasp of his voice, drowning out the screeching traffic, and rumble of the train.
"You think it's so damn hard, bein' loved like this, don't you? Think it's so damn difficult, bein' with me, don't you? I swear to you…God…for years to come, I plan on making your life that much more difficult, so don't you run away again, m'kay? Just...goddamn…just don't you dare…"
She thinks to herself, as he backs away, his eyes looking at her, shirt whipping in the cool wind, his forehead covered in sheens of sweat, that it's dazzling. She looks at the wrinkles under his eyes, from stress, the grimace set on his lips, the cragged edges of his jaw, and the rebellious strands of scarlet hair sweeping across smooth scarred cheeks, and thinks; she could put dying off for another day…
And then, without warning, her hands clammy and sweaty, she looks at the smirk twitching onto his lips, and she knows that her limbs are shaking, and she knows that someday they'll die, and maybe he'll be the one to kill her. And she knows as she walks forward, that being with him is its own kind of suicide, but as he stands there, arms open, eyes squinting in the first light in the sky, it's too beautiful to waste. She wonders what he'll think, what he'll do.
So, she turns, takes a running leap…
And jumps...
A/N:
I'll leave it to you to decide whether she kills herself or end up jumping towards him.
It's one of those dreaded two way stories we all hear about.
Tata,
TMoh
Disclaimer: The-Music-of-hands, doesn't even wish that she owned Final Fantasy Seven, or Reno or Tifa, because then where the hell would be the amazing plot?