Hey all, been a while.

I haven't been writing terribly frequently, but I pulled this together a few days ago and figured it deserved to see the light of day.

Review if you'd like more RosexScor, otherwise I might, just maybe, move to a new pairing. We'll see.

Summer comes with cloudy days and puddles of mud. She twirls in the rain, picking up dizzying amounts of speed until she finds herself very much unable to stay upright. With a laugh that sounds like a hailstorm, she falls. There's water seeping through her skirt, feeling like ice on her fevered skin. The skirt soaks through and clings to her pale legs with transparent desperation.
She sits there for an hour, head tilted towards the sky, and wonders if she's mad.

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"Dance with me," he had taken her hand and brushed his lips across her torn and dirty knuckles.
She laughed, "but there's no music," she told him, her skin feeling like fire from his touch.
"Listen," he said. She strained her her ears in the following silence, shaking her head when she heard nothing at all, "the rain is our drums, the rustling leaves our tamberines. The world is full of music, Posie, you just gotta listen."
And so they danced.

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He had brown hair and eyes like oceans. He was just nobody, nobody at all, until the day that changed. He was a dreamer, quiet but never timid, only lost. And she found him sitting in a tree and all of a sudden he didn't blend into the wall anymore.
And he took her hand and showed her the stars and how to dance in the rain.

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"What are we?" She asked him one day, studying his freckles with her emerald eyes. They trailed down his face, evidence of a thousand days beneath the sun, dreaming away reality in favor of a nicer world.
"Stardust." He answered, "every single atom in your body came from the stars and will return to them one day."
She considered his answer, her fingers tangled in his. "That's not what I meant."
"I know."
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
She sighed in patient exasperation, "well," she spoke slowly, "are you going to answer?"
The corners of his mouth quirked up, "I already did."

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"People are unbearably fragile," he told her. There was a frosty meter of space between them and daggers shooting from her eyes.
"I'm not," she spat, "overreacting."
He took a step forward, arm stretched towards her, "I didn't say you were, just that we are all fragile and sometimes that's unbearable." His arms found their way around her and he held her tightly, as if afraid she'd fall apart.

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He loved her except when he didn't and it was driving her crazy. They were made of stardust and fallibilities and sometimes it didn't feel like it was quite enough.

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He finds here there, sprawled in the storm. "May I have this dance?" He asks, extending an arm down to her. She takes it and he brushes his lips over her torn and bruised knuckles.
"What are we doing?" She asks a moment later.
"Dancing,"
"That's not what I meant."
He breathes in deeply. Raindrops land on his eyelashes, glistening there for a long moment. "I know."
"Why'd you do it?"
There's a moment of silence that feels heavy and oppressive and she thinks she can't inhale the air when it's this thick. "Because," he says slowly, "humans are unbearably fragile, subject to whims, and also somehow incapable of foresight."
She sighs quietly, "and where does that leave us?"
His hand feels light on her back, barely touching the fabric that clings to her pale skin. "Here," he tells her, "it leaves us, no more than a collection of all the dead stars that have ever been, right here in the rain."
"I wonder if I'm insane sometimes," and the words leap from her mouth so quickly she doesn't have time to realize that maybe she's lying. Maybe she thinks about it all the time.
"I'll tell you a secret, Posie," he leans forward to confide in her, "all the best people are."

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They weren't anything so she really couldn't have cared when she found him and Marcy tangled together, all skin and teeth and lips. They really weren't anything, so she choked back a few sobs and held back the breathless laughter that wanted to spring from her lips with the devastating discovery that she was no more than stardust, no more than every star that had ever been, to him, not special only because of how ordinary it was to be made of a substance so extraordinary. They weren't anything, and sometimes that didn't feel like it was quite enough.

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He left her with the phantom pressure of his lips on her knuckles and she wondered if she was crazy for wishing he'd come back.