The first half deals with the aftermath of Layla's break-up with Will. The second half, some time has passed between Layla and Warren, always falling back on those two years or so after high school. Or whatever you, the reader (I hope), decides within your own mind.
And as usual, please let me know if there are any mistakes. I will keep revising to make sure. With love.
Note: This story should read like a stream of consciousness. Just one night between Layla and Warren in the first half. The breaks made it easier to define the moments between them but one should read it right through. The italic verses is just wishful longing for Warren.
He wondered if it had been a mistake.
To unlock that door and let her in. When it seemed that she stumbled in her need to rush, he remembered this strange feeling of detachment even as he caught her. Regarding her current state, not the way he felt toward her. With the former, he found himself holding on. As she embraced him as if she had every right to do so. They were friends, he reminded himself as he returned it. With the latter, his hold tightened, he dried her face with his shirt, whispered to her that it would be ok. He was walking this tightrope of emotions, thinning into a haze when he pulled back to look at her. He had to second guess, had to understand she didn't come to him out of her own devices, twinning their feelings. She came to him because she needed a friend.
He was her friend.
Warren could feel the warmth of her breath against his shirt, permeating his skin. There were two sides to her weakness then. One that held this broken face, tear-streaked, pale cheeks, ghosts of a relationship clinging to lips he couldn't kiss, wet from the rain, fading...
And the other? she was his, his predilection.
He felt a flutter in his stomach when she held on a little longer that he almost had to peel her off him and gave her a tiny smile, leading her to the room to give her a shirt. She didn't even wait for him to turn around completely as she removed her shirt, catching a glimpse of her back before he did so out of consideration, his mouth dry. She eventually handed him her wet clothes and he raised an eyebrow as she touched the hem of the black shirt playfully. Long enough to do its bidding, yet not long enough that the view of her thighs, her bare legs did him any favours. He stopped her from leaving and knelt down, touching her left leg lightly, noticing the cut on her shin, the scrape at her knee. "You are hurt, Layla." he said quietly, surprised she had not said anything. She looked down, exclaiming softly under her breath. He stood, gesturing for her to stay put and left the room.
He lingered in the hallway, leaning against the wall as he gathered his bearings, holding her wet clothes to his chest. The heat within his belly coiled in on itself until he softened his breath, feeling it spread unevenly through out his body, wanting to exhaust him completely.
Take care of her.
After pacing in the bathroom for a few seconds more, he came back to her. Willing himself to respond to her accordingly but as he regarded her upon entering the room, lying down on the bed, her long legs dangling from the edge... he could feel everything within him tilt, his fingers numb. Acutely aware that he was making his way across the small space, moving hesitantly, he felt awkward. She leaned her head to the right of her, looking at him and eventually sat up. He knelt down alongside her, setting the box of bandages and alcohol down by her feet before handing her the towel. She held onto it as if her life depended on it, anxiously watching him.
He rested his folded arms upon the bed, leaning his head against, watching her clean her wounds. His gaze never wavered even when her hair kept falling forward, shielding her profile from him. He had such a terrible yearning to touch it, tuck it behind her ear. When he was devoid of her face, he let his eyes travel downward, as she touched her shin lightly, hearing her softly blow at the cut. She straightened and handed him the bandage. He made sure not to touch her hand when she waited for him to take it.
"Nothing ever goes away." he said quietly, smoothing the edges of the bandage on her shin. He looked up at her. There was so much pain in her eyes. "You hurt yourself when you think you can run from it."
She looked away, distracting from the moment to start drying her hair. She seemed rather unattached, listless and he stared at her, caressing her legs affectionately.
"Here, let me." and came up behind her. It took every ounce of will to stand this close, smell her, to stand this close and not touch her.
She was...
As he dried her hair, he could see how his hands trembled, how he was compelling himself to keep moving regardless of how intimate the act seemed to him.
...your friend.
His blood like lightning within his veins, the beating of his heart pulsating within his ears.
She is, she is...
Layla seemed to lean into his touch, her eyes palpitating. When it seemed she would get closer, he stopped, and handed her the towel. "Are you hungry?"
She hugged the towel to her chest, nodding. Without thinking twice, he came close and smoothed down the collar of the shirt. Liking how big it seemed on her tiny frame, knowing that the scent of her would linger and stood back, extending an arm and she shivered as she left the towel behind, taking his hand.
Warren could hear her humming faintly, keeping his eye on her as she moved about the kitchen, not knowing where to put herself. As he separated the food equally onto the plates, he noticed how she suddenly knelt close to a plant he kept at the corner window, one he had meant to throw away and watched as she leaned in close to breathe it in despite how it was dying.
Say yes.
Instead she brings the fork to her mouth, the jasmine rice semblance to chalk, pressing the tips of the tines into her lips as she averted her eyes, losing taste. She knew it was delusive. He was the source of her hunger, she realised. Layla sat back and regarded him as she chewed softly. She would have drank from the wickedness of that mouth, licked her lips with the taste of him, suck at his flesh as if it were fruit, the nectar of his sweat, the salt of his tears, his fire a sigh across her tongue. He was staring mindlessly at his plate, poking pieces of food with his fork, clearly uninspired. "What do you think of?" she suddenly asked.
Say yes, please.
He dropped the fork with a clatter, pushing his plate away and leaned his elbows onto the table, taking the beer bottle in hand, seeing that it was empty and stood suddenly. "Do you want one?" and he stopped halfway, turning his head, looking at her. "Sorry. I have tea. Water."
"No, I would like one."
His eyes lingered as she edged the plate away from her, hiding her hands with the cuffs of the shirt and smiled so tenderly. The fluttering in his stomach felt like a scratch. It hurt him.
She uncovered him.
As he uncapped her bottle and took a deep breath as he neared her, he wondered why he was pushing himself away from her. "You need to eat, Layla."
She lowered the cuffs and took the bottle with both hands, shrugging. "I ate enough." she took a sip, raising her eyes to him. He let his vision stray toward the window when the rain decided to fall a little harder then. The rim of the bottle grazed his lips before he took a long swig, turning away from her. He cleaned up, not minding when she left the small space and stole minutes to drink in silence, leaning wearily against the sink, staring into nothing. She was all over him, the scent of her adhering to him and he couldn't get enough. Warren rubbed his face, that constant heat gathering within his belly, fingers tingling.
How did it come to this?
He walked behind her like the shadows of her that clung to every strata of his being, watching how her hands caressed his books, admiring some, skimming through others. It felt like she had to keep moving and he, compelled to follow. She would talk here and there. Pulling verses from a dispersed mind, hoping he would piece them together. He concentrated upon her words as he tried to steer his eyes from the paleness of her, how the hem of the black shirt brushed against the back of her legs.
There was a moment where she pulled a visible thread from a button of the shirt, pulling until it came apart and mouthed her apology when the button fell off. As Warren watched the small disk bounce across the floor to hide forever beneath the bookcase, he realised it was the button he had sewn back on. It was just as well, he thought. He had used the wrong colour thread too. He brushed her off when she apologised again. She left his side, to sit at the couch, her eyes wet. She said his name, patting the space beside her. They sat in silence or what silence pretended to be due to the heaviness of the rain. He could hear her gentle humming, how she tucked her legs beneath her, playing with the red thread, long enough to twine her fingers with his. He observed her while she did it. She seemed lost... yet determined to keep at it, not giving thought if he minded. She wanted to keep reaching out, to make sure he was there, that he was not a figment of her imagination.
She tied the thread on his finger and leaned her head against his shoulder.
Say yes.
She sits there and braids her hair. She is so lost within her reverie, she touches him without qualm. As if this is how they were, together, sitting within their silence, as if they had created it as one. This silence was hollow though, like the silences that puts up walls to hinder, keep away, that Warren wanted to keep pushing her against until they all came tumbling down, to kiss her until he forgot how to.
Her lips are sticky.
When she got near him, he caught the scent of pineapple. That gloss she wore left a viscid film on his hand when she kissed him goodbye one afternoon. Warren had rubbed it into his flesh. Staring at the relucent petals of her lips now, he felt the memory of that afternoon shove at his heart. He couldn't remember whom they had been waiting for but the game of string had lasted for hours. She had held his hand in hers thereafter, cradling it, her lips warm. Like the colour of the cotton candy clouds that longed to set the sun.
And he had rubbed and rubbed at the phantom sensation that night, alone, spent with the idea of her. The alchemy of Layla. That was the fifth or the nth illusive palpation he would endure. And realised she had wrapped herself around his finger, her very essence planting its seed within him, flowering beneath his skin.
Are they ... or have they ever been?
Oh, how others loved to talk. He would never admit it but he echoed their sentiments.
Of how others were willing to bring them close, twin their hearts, connect them... yet why couldn't they?
Say yes, yes... yes please.
Except he felt now as if the air was strangling his lungs from within, squeezing the life out of him, making his eyes water. He kept taking sips of his beer, holding strands of her hair because she asked him to. She would have asked him to do anything and he would have done it, blindly.
How is it that I love you?
You came in search of me. You threw the net of your eyes upon me, capturing me with your smile, as it wore time thin until it slowed completely.
Reborn, rearranging stars of a revenant universe you were shaking off, unfolding the map and drawing lines to a life you searched for to graph your heart, thinking he could make it beat while I held it.
The rain stopped.
"It felt like we were playing a game of truth or dare." she dropped her eyes, outlining the bottle with a finger. "Truth, however, was our lie in the world we unfolded together and I ask myself why."
Warren crumbled the paper in his hands and glanced at her. He seemed oblivious to her, sitting forward and cross-legged on the couch as she started to pick at the label on the bottle, her brow furrowed. It almost felt like she was talking to herself. Warren exasperatingly crumbled another, clenching the paper ball tightly in his hand.
She had not questioned him when he sat down upon the floor with a small stack of paper, had not been curious to know why he kept folding this and that. Headfirst into another reverie and he thought it safer then, to some extent. Either it was consume the whole apartment or have several small fires at his feet. Inspired, he burned the ninth attempt and fussed with another sheet of paper, forcing himself to continue despite the paper cuts and the nagging urge to burn the idea into the ground.
"He kissed me after he told me, after he let me go."
Warren stopped folding, wiping his hands on his jeans and bit his tongue, refusing to let her read his mind. Only Will can make a kiss an insult, he thought acridly. She gingerly set the bottle on the floor and laid herself down, her eyes searching him, finding him until she closed them, as if making sure he was still around, still there. Warren looked at her one last time before he continued folding.
"Can you read to me?" she asked after a long moment.
He stared at the outcome in his hands and crawled over to her. He whispered her name and she languidly opened her eyes, ever so still, her eyes growing wide as she regarded what he was handing to her and sat up suddenly. "Warren?"
"Yes?"
"Did you just..?" she caught the lunar moth from his hands, quickly, as if it would fly away if she didn't, a smile dancing its way onto her lips. Her voice held wonder, eyes with mirth and he felt this twinge within his heart. How he despised Will at that very second. That this other had the chance to love this girl and he let go. He let this girl go without second thought. He looked away, his throat enclosing, choking him.
"You made this for me." she whispered. She sounded exhilarated, enough to silence him. And closed his eyes with a sigh at his lips, with such unbearable respite when she came down to his level and hugged him. His heart almost stopped, his throat hurting as he felt his eyes water, drawing his arms around her, holding on. She didn't let go. His shirt was wet when she eventually parted from him and reached out desperately, pulling her back. He dried her face with his hands. "It's ok." he said silently.
"What is?"
"This, all this."
She raised her eyes to his face, staring at him, her eyes searching him but she said nothing at its end and looked down at the moth, the blue origami bright against the paleness of her small hands.
He did as she asked. Read poetry to her. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, until he started noticing her inch closer with every other word, till she brazenly laid her head upon his lap. Tempted, always tempted to stroke her head, soothe her to sleep, so he could dwell within the shadows of her.
So this is what it feels like, he thought as he lowered his eyes and brushed the hair from his face, susceptible to her warmth, her body close to his and he obscured his vision with a hand. Dawn was too unforgiving at that moment as it entered uninvited into the room, unmasking their pretense. He brought his left hand to his lips, slowly licking the tips of his fingers, distracting from the itch. As he did so with the right, he lost himself in the colour of her hair, the refuge of her breath, whispers of it seeping into his shirt, how her hand held onto his side, protectively it seemed.
I love you, he thought.
And waited until she escaped her sleep, biting the side of his finger as she stretched lightly, looking so much like a sleepy cat and felt a feverish inrush make his skin run as she moved her body languorously, burying her face into his chest before placing her cuffed hands there, withdrawing slowly. He jumped when she passed them over his lower region and she regarded him with lidded eyes, yawning into her shoulder. He held his breath, holding a hand up, not knowing how to read her face. Did she do it on purpose? As she smiled at him, she seemed so devious... yet innocent. He made his eyes small. Only she could pull that look, he thought.
She looked down and brought her cuffed hands to her face, rubbing lightly. "I'm sorry." she muffled.
"For?" he swiftly covered his lower half with the book.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
Warren watched her carefully, saying nothing. Her eyes fell down to the book, her cheeks pink.
He closed his own, clearing his throat.
"You spent a night taking care of me."
He swallowed as he opened his eyes, looking at her. "Isn't that what friends do? Take care of each other?"
"You didn't have to do this."
"I know." his voice raw, like his soul.
He wasn't like the others. He never was, never will be. And she knew this, like one suffers a vicious beating to the heart, a cruel pain wanting to make it stop, forever dead to the reality of what could have been but never was. He was her friend. And she, his.
As she admired his beautiful face, she realised how wrong she was, how utterly wrong she had been.
She had taken Warren for granted.
Dispirited he moved about his flat, rubbing at his lips inconsistently, searching for her, as if expecting her to appear round every corner. She had been there, he had taken care of her within a night that seemed unending yet the loss of her was so great that morning after, he felt as if everything had died with her leaving. He didn't hear or feel the life outside his heart, a heart that was beating backwards, inconstant, discomfiting him. Scraping impassive hands against the walls, the roughness of these walls causing sparks at his fingertips.
He was trapped within his own home, with the ghost of her.
She had kissed him at the door. Twice. The first was a gentle press of her lips, so soft against his, so sweet until she pulled back, looking at him and kissed him chaste the second time, just to make sure.
Say yes.
Please...
But he never said. He could hear the echoes of it, resonating against the beating of her heart against his but he never gave it sound. He had let her go.
The kiss was like a tattoo upon his lips, wishing it gone as he rubbed at it. He had not returned the kiss so he was undeserving of it and as he stubbornly continued to rub at his lips, the movement caused the red thread to untie, falling unnoticed.
The day dragged him into a state of corrosive enervation, dwelling under his skin, wishing he could tear himself apart. When he couldn't sleep that night, shivering upon damp sheets, the arid aftertaste within his mouth was enough to strangle him. And as he drank the water, his eyes scattered aimlessly about the kitchen. Till it was that the plant came into his line of vision.
She had made it come alive.
Almost choking, he absently set the glass down into the sink with such force that he broke it, not caring, not noticing how it buried splinters within his palm. He knelt down before it, caressing its leaves, filled with so much life, so much more than he remembered. When he stained one of its blades with his blood, the debility of his miss crushed him, his heart, making him stagger. He set fire to it, the flames of his undoing blinding him until it disintegrated and laid himself down on the floor, burying his face within his arms, spent.
I had said yes... a long time ago.
(2 months, 2 years... I just know this scene is long after that one night Warren took care of Layla)
Did time stop... or did you?
Warren brought a hand to his chest, the disquietude of his rapid heart tiring him, arousing a lambency of heat to veil his vision and peered into the peephole a second time, trying hard to focus. He heard another knock, much more desperate this time and he sidestepped, leaning his forehead against the door. A trail of sweat he left behind as he forced himself to unlock it after the fifth knock. It didn't matter how long he took. She was not leaving.
"Hi." Layla half-smiled for a second before she let it go, biting her lip nervously. He raised his brow. "Hey." He held the door handle tightly, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
"Are you busy?"
"Just... reading." he lied. Her face twitched, as if she wanted to say something but no matter how she tried, nothing came out and she sniffed. He gestured for her to enter. She hesitated and managed a small smile as she passed him. He locked the door and turned around, leaning against it. He regarded her, his eyes traveling the length of her.
"How are you-"
"How long-" and he shook his head, raising a hand.
Layla stared at him. "How have you been?"
"It's been too long." he said quietly. He could feel the prickling of his heat make his skin itch, a film of sweat cover him from head to toe and wiped at his lips, mesmerized by her beauty. As she stood there, watching him, she was Mother nature reborn as Venus, her rain of red hair a stark contrast to her black coat, her mouth a diadem to his sin. He felt his lips twitch with such hunger, shaking his head.
"You cannot go any further than this, Layla."
He was being unreasonable but he couldn't move just yet. He couldn't let her go far yet he knew that when she left this time around, it would be for good. He felt it. He felt it within the distance she kept from him, even in the small space they were sharing at that very moment. A moment he wanted stripped of time, of strings, of others, of the past. Despite how he edged toward slowly, the scrape of her heel against the floor would get under his skin for she was taking another step away from him.
She closed her eyes when she hit the wall and he came close, leaning his palms against the wall, to either side of her, entrapping her. She seemed short-winded, her cheeks flushed. He realised she was the effect to the heat that was radiating off his body. "Please, Warren."
"Why did you come here?"
She was not looking at him and this bothered him. He bent at the knees, peering into her face. "Finish it." he said under his breath.
Layla finally looked at him.
It was a tug of war, their proximity, their beating hearts, their want of a kiss yet it seemed as if the other was afraid to act upon it, to complete it. He was so close he could almost taste the flesh of her lips, her breath making him feel funny. His fingers dug into the wall, this ache to rip off every inhibition, every memory, everything off of her. The only remaining thing would be his name on her lips.
"Why do we lose so much with the things we are not saying?"
He drew a hand to her mouth, his finger touching her lips, her teeth, her tongue. He kept his eyes on hers as he did this, determined to keep touching her.
"I want your words."
Her eyes were brimming with tears and it hurt him that he was bringing her to this point. He wanted to plead with her, to let him know if she felt the same.
"Why did you come?"
She furrowed her brow, a rivulet down her pale cheek. He couldn't wipe it off. He needed to know how far it went, how deep her pain was. If they walked the same hell, always missing each other.
"I should have fought for you." he whispered, watching the tear hang from her chin.
She seemed offended by his words and pushed him hard. "Ask me to suffer you, Warren, ask me!" and she hit him repeatedly, even as he held her while she did it. "Make me fall apart, Warren." She is fighting him while she fights her tears, her nails digging into his skin despite the gloves. The manner in which she said his name, as if it were the first, the last, the one thing she wanted on her lips. He wanted to brand the flesh of her lips with it, to have her suck on it, yet knowing it was not enough, that it would never be enough. "Your words betray me. I prefer your fires to consume me, Warren. As I try to save myself from you, you keep pushing me back under. You keep me there. Holding me down." she pushed him again even though she took hold of his shirt, gripping hard. "You frighten me."
He stared at her.
"To wholly understand that I was wrong."
She started to remove the velvet glove from her left hand, to let him see the band that adorned her ring finger. He felt everything stop at once. She started to lose colour before him, felt this hammering ache within his head. He winced, feeling as if everything was losing momentum, expecting to turn completely as she let him go but she grabbed his arm.
"I cannot finish it, Warren."
He couldn't look at her, the blood in his ears throbbing with white noise that her voice sounded illusive. Was this real? Was she? He narrowed his eyes as she removed another object from her pocket and handed him the lunar moth.
"It has not even begun."