Sometimes He Wonders
That blonde hair had a mind of its own. He should know, he studied it as it flowed, bouncing around her perfect body. Sweat glistened, the tiniest droplets leaving its mark every now and then on her locks. Only a goddess could make sweat look attractive. In fact, with each passing second that he was around her it become clearer, everything that emmitted from her was gold. Her passion, her personality, her smile, her words, her voice...they were each their own seperate drug and he was addicted to the toxic concoction of them all.
The bass drum pulsated, keeping his mind in tune with the song that had just begun. Luckily he had the notes engrained in his muscle memory because there wasn't an instant where his eyes weren't locked on the woman singing for thousands in front of him.
Sometimes he wondered if people in the audience noticed that the only stage presence he had involved a slight grin, adoring eyes, and being as close to her as possible.
Most of the time he didn't care what people in the audience noticed.
He couldn't help it, his fingers danced around the frets of the hot guitar, but the only place he wanted his fingers to dance was all over her body. Long ago, he had passed over the thought that the precision to which he wanted to know her was creepy. After months of distant research on the road and even more glasses of wine in her home the verdict was clear; she was perfect. This was the first time he actually cared about someone else. He would have been terrified, but every story, every memory, every time she opened up to him he got higher and fell deeper in love.
If her baggage were to fly, it would stuff a cargo plane and have lingering feelings and dreams rip out the window at mach speeds. But he clung to his belief that the people with the most baggage had taken the most adventures. Each crippling story weaved the narrative of her, her past, her family, her life. He filled in the blanks because he could and connected them to the what, where, when, who, and how of her now. It made so much sense it scared him. Yet he loved it all. He loved how she overcame her hardships the second she was welcomed onto this planet, pushed harder, and made it to the top. He loved how she still faltered, flashed her proof of humanity, but then roared straight back up like a rocket. But most importantly, he loved that all of that was just the tip of her iceburg.
Sometimes he wondered why everyone couldn't see the real her.
Most of the time, though, he didn't care what the world thought because the feeling of pride that filled his body knowing that he was one of the only ones to know the real her kept his heart beating. She was a thousand times more courageous and caring than anyone knew. A thousand times stronger, wiser, funnier, sweeter. And also a thousand times more timid, reserved, and insecure. And he got to experience all of it.
And when he looked at her on stage, singing their songs to thousands of nameless faces it sometimes hit him that he was a nameless face not too long ago. There was a point where he thought she was just a rhinestoned trashy diva. It almost made him sick knowing he was just like the rest of them, quick to define her with three generic words. He wasn't sure when his not-so-glamorous title of roadie turned to friend turned to something more, looking back, it was all such a blur. All he knew was that he would never look at pink macaroni the same way again.
The song currently being played reached its instrumental point and she turned around, back facing the crowd. The second her eyes found his he was done. She made him feel more comfortable than anyone and at the same time managed to wrangle his breath away. And there wasn't a physicist who could explain that, but he could. It was love. She scooted across the stage to be by his side and the smile she wore indicated that she was just as happy to see him.
She wrapped her free hand around his back and bit her lip, nodding with the overlaying beat. Because he can't take it anymore, he lifts his fingers off the electric strings and goes to touch her. But then she gets farther away, like some sort of apparition. He reaches, and reaches, until he finally makes contact with something.
Except it's not her.
His fingers grip the neck of a warm beer bottle but the only place he wants his fingers to grip is around the perfect curves of her body.
He's in a cold sweat, melted into the couch in the most pathetic way possible. He's not lonely though because his friends' beer, whiskey, and rum never leave his side. He hates himself for letting his mind run away from him, even just for a little bit. He doesn't let anything run away now...he's learned damn well that the things he lost take too much time to find again.
The only way to make some progress, people tell him, is to talk about it. But everytime he opens his mouth the meter starts to run and the only currency racking up is pain. The second he thinks he's over it, he thinks and then all hope is lost. Everything is so different now.
Sometimes he wonders what his life would be like if he hadn't stepped back and left her alone on her patio all those years ago.
But laying in a cold sweat, melted into the couch in the most pathetic way possible it becomes very, very clear:
Most of the time he doesn't need to wonder.
A/N: I know this isn't usually the style I write so I honestly have no idea where this idea came from, I just started typing and there you have it. Obviously Javery has enough angst to go around so I hope you all enjoyed! EdgeofTown: this doesn't exactly balance out your dark haha but don't worry it's nowhere near as deep and dark as you go!
Thank you all and please be sure to review! -Bettakappa