the crooked line
by mistsplash
He's never been a pretender. He's never been one for lying, not only because he's terrible at it. He wears his heart on his sleeve proudly, throwing carefree (but sometimes cocky) grins at nearly everyone he greets.
He's an open book, simple as that.
He doesn't honestly realize that she's slipping away from him; it just sort of happens, but he knows it for sure when she smiles a bit shyly and says his name, because she's never shy around him. He doesn't register hurt or any other similar emotion—just confusion and a small dose of disappointment, which he knows is scribbled all over his features for her to see.
Still, he smiles the fakest smile he can come up with and shrugs it off, because at the end of the day, it doesn't matter—he can move on, he knows he can, and all he needs to do is find the courage to do so. It's an easy feat for someone like him.
He doesn't heal overnight, as it takes at least a week of sleepless nights and restless thoughts to find that sort of bravery, the sort that he's never had to use before.
He finds it, in the end, because staring at a blank wall is too boring for his fast-paced brain and he's not sure what he felt was love, anyways. He's back outside in the world sooner than anyone expected, and his smile is genuine and his eyes are shining and everything's right.
Right isn't enough, though—it's never enough. He likes bouts of calm, not entire, extended periods. He doesn't like the way there's no more life-or-death, run-or-fight situations, because he's not smart like Izzy or musical like Matt and there's just no more time for soccer, and if there's anything he's good at, it's making those rapid decisions at the worst of times and jumping into action without another thought.
He likes where he is now, though, apart from his boring, tedious life of smiling and goodness and no action. He likes the way the adrenaline is pumping in his veins and the way his skin rubs with hers and she's silk under him—there's nothing more perfect.
He runs a hand through her hair, knowing it's wrong, they're wrong, but it's a snap-decision and he's made it and she doesn't seem to be protesting. She pulls his face closer, closer, closer, captures him in a kiss that is warm and sweet like honey but burning and hissing like fire. He likes the rush of desperation and need, because somewhere down there, it's not something like this, and they're just two kids sharing their first kiss again, but there's more to it than that this time.
She pulls back with a start, leaving him in a daze, and then he remembers that she's not like him, that she doesn't like the edge of life, but he can't stop now. He tugs her back to him, and she comes easily, molding into him and they're just two pieces from different puzzles that fit together anyways.
"Love you," she mumbles into him, and he mutters something back, because now's not the time for words and he's never been really good with talking.
(if this is what h e a r t b r e a k feels like, then i'll take it any day)
Author's Notes:
Fluff is fluffy. Reviews are needed, loved, wanted - the whole lot.
