Thanks everyone for being awesome and giving such great reviews. This one is crap, the other one will be more eventful and better hopefully )
Rough and Ready
Arms are pressed awkwardly against my shoulders.
Fingers are clenched tightly together making harsh fists out of usually soft hands.
But I'm still holding her, holding her so close to me, so close that even if her feet stop functioning she will still be held up by the arms I'm covering her with. She hasn't entirely stopped pushing me away yet, still struggling lightly in my arms but I'm not letting her go anywhere. I'm not letting her push me away.
Her hair is disarrayed by my head resting on her shoulder, cheek not touching hers but not far from it. No, they're so close with only a layer of her hair separating them, that it almost feels like we really are touching. Not just through layers of clothes and hair that separates us right now, but in a more intimate way, a more imental/i way. Silent shakes are emanating from her body as she's slowly stopping to resist my hold on her, and I'm grateful that she's finally letting go. Grateful that she's letting me be there for her.
This is such a surreal moment for the both of us, because our places haven't just changed; they've altered. I am not like this, I am not the one who comforts, takes care of people and initiates situations like this. I am so far from it, still I find myself in this setting, so very insecure about my own actions but ignoring them for the sake of a girl that has it worse.
I bet it's harder for her. Being the strong one, known to not be faced by anything, always the one with the upper hand and now suddenly she's anything but. Suddenly she's weak and powerless and depending on my arms to hold her weight up. I can't even begin to comprehend how difficult this is for her, as opposed to me. Because I only seem to be growing stronger.
There's no shaking anymore. No quiet action that hides the awkwardness that was doomed to occur, and now it's looming over us, the absence of comfort as we're starting to realize what kinda setting we're in. But she's still letting me hold her. Still letting us continue this embrace that is so foreign and surreal that I'm starting to doubt that it's really happening. The smell of her hair reminds me that it is.
A foot is stretched out, increasing her height as she's no longer depending on me to hold her up, but her arms have not removed themselves. Her fingers are still clenched into fists by my side. My arms are still around her waist and up her back. They've been like that for quite a while now, but it's only now that we're really starting to understand what kinda compromising position we're stuck in, let alone istill choose/i to be stuck in.
She sighs, so lightly that if it weren't for her breath softly stroking my neck as she does it, I wouldn't have noticed. But I do, I do notice the small change in our stoic embrace, one that has been completely still for several moments now. Not minutes, not hours, only seconds but still moments that hold a lifetime inside them. How could they not when I've got my complete obsession so close to me and in such a weird situation. Then it happens. The thing I've been waiting for but hoping would never come, her arms and fingers releasing their pressure and retracting, hauling themselves away from me while I'm reluctant to let her do so. My reluctance shown in the way I let my hands grace her back and waist as we're parting, never just letting the touch disappear but keeping the connection as long as possible. Finally letting them rest on her hips.
Her eyes won't meet mine however much I try to capture them, her head tipped forward and a hand coming up to touch the wet rim of one. I already knew she'd been crying, the silent shakes a traitor to her vocal silence but she wouldn't have fooled me anyway. Not anymore.
"I'm sorry", is muttered chokingly from the depths of her throat, a polite cough following it right after. There's no tears filling the brim of her eyes anymore but the traces are still noticeable and I can't stop the hand of mine that starts to draw closer to it, closer to the paths of her inner struggles that are painted across her cheeks. She never lets it get far enough to actually touch it.
"I've got to go, Madison's waiting."
She hovers momentarily, one hand of mine still holding onto her, holding us close but she removes it with a warm hand clasping ever so gently around my wrist and when it's no longer on her, she lets it go. Lets my hand go and lets ime/i go as she walks past me and further down the sidewalk, further away from awkwardness and painful tension and further away from what ultimately seems to cause it all: Me.
--
There are sheets over limbs and pillows over a head but none of it belongs to me. None of it is even close to looking like me. The hairy legs are bruised and pale, blond locks escaping the sea of linens that covers this poor guy who suffers a hangover he will soon forget he ever had. And as I snap his leg painfully I hope he will forget that as hurriedly as he'll forget that hangover of his.
"Glen?"
He only grumbles into the mattress, words that are not supposed to have meaning and it's obvious he doesn't want the intrusion. But already on a high from earlier boasts of strength, I'm telling myself it's the hangover talking and deep down I know he's happy I'm taking initiative, that I'm finally coming to him.
"Gleeeen, stop hiding under your sheets!" I try as I lightly push at his side, still feeling slightly guilty for snapping him in such a fragile state. And as the words hit me, I can't help but sneakily insert a "That's my job", before I hear him snickering into the mattress, head shaking slightly at the vibrations.
His head appears from under the pillow, eyes squinting from the light pouring in from the door I left open, not wanting to hurt him by putting on the lights in his room.
"Hey."
"Hey. How was last night?"
It seems so innocent, this question, and I wish I could tell you it was but it's not. It's not innocent at all because it's laced with an agenda, with a hidden meaning because it's not ihis/i night I'm curious about.
"Ah, it was alright. Lots of drinks, lots of people, lots of stupidity."
He's starting to get used to the small streak of light coming into the room, and as he lets his eyes go from squinting and to become fully open, he looks over at me, still laying on his stomach securely covered in his blue sheets.
"You should have been there."
A smile appears on my face and it's genuine, it's purely genuine because he hasn't stopped trying to include me, he hasn't stopped caring. I hope he never will.
"Yeah, maybe."
He perks up, seeing an opening I didn't know I was giving, and as his next words are voiced, I'm not sure how to answer.
"Does that mean you'll come to the next one?"
"I don't know."
Thankfully he doesn't press on, and in case he's about to say something else I'm not ready for, I shoot in with something else.
"So, where did you sleep last night?"
I'm smirking, not even trying to hide the teasing in my voice. His head is buried back into the mattress, pillow back over his head as he groans more gibberish into nothingness, and I press on because I know he likes it. I know he secretly wants me to.
"So, who is she? Is she nice? She better be nice...!"
He stops his hold on the pillow over his head but still lets it rest there, covering him and the expressions he might be making.
"Who says I went home with a girl?"
"Well, was it a boy...?" I tease, not thinking about my own situation before it's already voiced, and the topic of how he's going to react and how it could possibly affect me doesn't hit me before it's too late.
"No, it wasn't a boy..!!" is shouted from him as he throws the pillow away from his face and looks up at me. I'm waiting for him to say more, cover his response with degrading comments I know isn't directed at me intentionally but will still affect me. But nothing more is said.
"So it was a girl then?"
He rolls his eyes gently, probably in fear of increasing his self-inflicted headache even more. Back is raised from the mattress and he's no longer looking up at me but instead looking straight at me. It makes me less powerful somehow, less forward when he's no longer laying there defeated but instead sitting there, looking straight at me just as powerful.
"Yeah, it was a girl."
I smile at him, smile reaching my eyes but with the way he's looking intently into mine, I think he's searching for a flicker, for a hint of me not being happy that he's found someone.
"That's great, Glen. Do I know who it is?"
Still staring at me, he gives up and lets his eyes fall onto his palm that lays upon his sheets in between his thighs.
"Nah, I doubt it. But she's really nice."
"So she's a prospect girlfriend or what?"
His eyes hits mine ever so slightly before they're thrown away again, his face suddenly more solemn than when the teasing started. I don't know what I'm saying wrong or how I'm treading this incorrectly.
"Yeah, maybe."
It's awkward suddenly, not because of the silence that fills the room, but because of the thoughts developing by it. It's at this point I wish I was better at this, that I wish I'd made a better attempt at the counselor's office when she urged me to start a conversation, end the awkwardness that fills a quiet room. Thankfully, Glen is here and does it for me.
"I'm never drinking again."
"Sure you are."
We smirk ever so slightly, trying to restore the previous banter that felt so much better than this weird toe-stepping dance we suddenly seemed to tangle ourselves into.
"So, you had fun last night?"
I sit fully on the bed as I say this, entwining my legs with one another, fully facing Glen who's still halfway under the sheets. The whole question is fishing, fishing for things and happenings I'm dying to know, dying to inot/i know.
"I guess."
"...did something happen?"
"Nah, just some guys who were being assholes."
I don't know if I'm getting warmer or if I'm still on ice-cold ground but I'm not going to let the opportunity pass me to maybe get to know the circumstances that led to last night. That led to Spencer coming home earlier than I've ever seen her and let alone icrying/i.
"How so?"
"I just didn't like the way they were talking."
I'm looking at him intently but he's not looking back at me, hiding from me the possible proofs of something more laying between his words.
"What did they say?"
He's quiet for awhile, stroking out creases in his sheets, as if contemplating what he should or shouldn't say. I hope he says it all.
"They were just...being an ass to someone. Saying all kinds of untrue things."
"How do you know they were untrue?"
I know I'm probing, I know I'm stepping over the line of polite interest and entering flat out curiosity, but I can't help it. It feels like I'm so close, so close but still so far away.
"Because I know her, and I know she's not like that...!"
I'm stunned, his outburst never directed at me but still taking me by surprise. And it's then that I'm taken back to the night before, the night that altered so much and there are certain sentences that suddenly start to replay over and over in my head, not leaving me alone, never leaving me be:
i
" They're just so wrong, you know, they think they know everything about me and they-... They're so wrong, I'm not-.."
--
"You've heard them, haven't you? The million rumors that is passed around about me."
--
"I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't, I was just drunk and... and she was there, I didn't mean to kiss her."
/i
He notices, he senses by the glaced over look on my face that I'm far away in a different sphere, having the answer so near me, so impossible near but never managing to fully grasp it, to fully see the whole picture.
"So, what did you do last night? Stayed up with the 'folks?"
He's sending this conversation into another direction, hoping in vain that I'll forget what he previously said, what he unintentionally blurted out. I can't help but grant it to him, but only for show, never in reality. Because I doubt I'll ever forget what he previously uttered.
"I read some. Just hung around, really. Nothing special."
«That sounds boring.»
«It was okay.»
He looks at me tiredly, eyebrows slightly scrunched up in pain, his hangover still clinging to him desperate to not let go. I'm still not enlightened, still not with knowledge as to what happened the previous night but I can't ask him any more. I can't torture him anymore by sitting here, forcing him to have his eyes open when all he wants is to go back under the sheets and sleep it all away. So I leave, I stand up from his bed and walk out the door, trying to block out as much light as possible before I shut the door, but not all the way.
No, I can't leave without telling him one important thing.
«I think you should go for her. The girl, I mean. If she's nice.»