I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS IS OR WHY I AM WRITING IT. SO MANY FEELINGS.
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for all the things my hands have held, by far the best thing is you.
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she's probably the first girl he hugs besides his mother, and trust him, it's a world of different. she's a tiny little fairy of a thing (not that he would ever tell her that), and she fits into his arms like a key into a lock, one twist of his head on her collarbone, chestnut curls brushed against his face and the way he can smell the lilacs on her skin.
the lock clicks open.
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two years into their weird thing—thanks dez—he comes to recognize what her touches do to him.
a hand on hand brings his pulse down and slows his nerves, like a blanket of quiet comfort.
a smile across a crowded room sparks a fire in his chest, igniting something he knows for sure lays dormant until the exact moment their eyes meet.
a hand on the swish of her waist, her fingers trailing across his lower back is supportive, like a wall that could hold him against all circumstance.
a hug with their bodies locked and keyed so tightly together that not even the sun could sneak through the cracks.
an almost kiss which is just so excruciating he just can't even you know what never mind. and a kiss, stolen like being pick pocketed in the metro in paris, given like a flower plucked from his mother's garden: easy. heartbreakingly devastating in that simplicity.
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he thinks out of all his talents in the world, he is best at making her laugh, especially when she doesn't want to. she shifts away from him, angling her figure facing opposite because she'll just lose it if she looks at him, and ninety nine percent of the time she does.
his singing, his dancing, his charm, his popularity make no difference because of the way his eyes light up when she laughs.
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when she's happy she sings springsteen, but only in his company. the boss is a personal favorite of his that she knows about and has kept quiet about since he's the one holding onto the secret about her collection of united states teaspoons.
like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays, croons bruce as ally waves her hands and stomps her feet and makes him crack up so much that his eyes are crinkled at the corners. whatever that affect is that she has on him, he hopes to all holy hell that it never goes away.
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she takes her coffee with too much cream and too much sugar. trish takes her coffee straight up black with an extra shot of espresso. dez takes his coffee not as coffee but as herbal tea. austin takes his coffee with ally hovering above his face, sunlight casting a halo around her head and the stitch of irony in her high cheekbones.
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they often watch movies in dez's basement with all the lights off and the noise booming around them. mr. and mrs. wade bring down snacks and dez and trish throw popcorn at each other during the zaliens movie marathon. he can see her nodding off in between the fourth and fifth movie as she swings her legs up on the couch, head lolling onto his shoulder, crimson lips pursed together.
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sometimes she makes a witty comment that surprises him pleasantly and he'll raise his eyebrows at her in reply. she always keeps him on his toes.
she'll grin and even in the smartest flash, it's quicksilver.
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he loves her recklessly never once considering the consequences because let's be fair here, they know the consequences: the end of them and that's a nonnegotiable outcome. when they finally decide, and at some point they will, to become a them again—
as if they'd ever stopped being a them, they'd been a them longer than he can recall, but
—it will be the kind of forever that hopeless romantic him that actually knows Shakespeare has considered time over. him and her dancing in their kitchen of a sunny apartment while ally burns the pasta so they order pizza instead and eat on the floor out of the box because they forgot to go to ikea and get plates.
—it will be the kind of forever that seventeen year old boy him is terrified of time over. him and her growing up and fighting about music and lyrics in the darkness of their apartment and then one storming off to sonic boom and sleeping on the futon in the practice room until the other shows up.
that's what he always keep in mind though. even if he's at his worst, she's always going to push him to his best.
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he'll kiss her clumsily, giggling into her mouth, too busy bumping their lips and limbs together trying to get closer.
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when he hugs her at prom feeling the familiar key of her body sliding easily into the lock, hearing the click of opening, he kisses the curl of her hair, threads a hand through the buttery chestnut strands, leans into the angle of her hips, smells the lilac on her skin.
when he kisses her at prom, it's with that easy swoop in his ribcage where his eyes crinkle at the corners, fingers twitching in anticipation to touch her again. he could crawl inside her chest and hold her heart and never be close enough.
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metal grating on metal, turning in the lock, making that final click.
she fits perfectly.