A/N Thank you so much for 500 reviews guys, I'm blown away! I love reading them, keep letting me know what you think ❤️
18+
LII
I lie down on Jasper's jacket, staring up at the sky. It's grey today, in all its shades, the wind directing clouds to shift this way and that. I watch the white patterns sweep across the sky and imagine that they're still, and it's me that's moving, gliding faster and faster away.
It's quiet today. Even as the wind seems to rush wildly in the heavens above, it gusts gently down here, my hair flickering against my cheeks, the grass and leaves rustling like paper against paper, soft slides and hushed whispers.
Louder than that is our deep breaths, and above it, the regular scratch of Jasper's pencil against his sketchbook.
Layers of sound make for peaceful silences.
I tap my cigarette to the side of my body and then take it back to my mouth, sucking in the smoke, feeling it swirl deep, filling every little space it can inside my chest before it rushes out my parted lips in opaque mist.
It's happening now. Or it should be anyway.
I couldn't bear to be in there.
Even out here the anticipation makes my heart feel heavy. My stomach twists and turns the way I flip my pillow when I'm restless, desperately searching for a cool spot, a comfortable spot but finding none.
I told Rose what was going to happen, letting the information disseminate from her. She had just arched an eyebrow at me in response, not deigning it important enough to acknowledge.
It's precisely why I picked her to tell.
I close my eyes, stabbing my cigarette out next to me.
The bell rings, a signal to say it's over. It's shrill sounding shriek is muffled all the way out here, but it still sets my heart racing.
It's over.
But is it?
I don't move. I can't go to class right now anyway; Jasper is mid sketch. Moving wouldn't be worth the look I'd get in response. He only sketches sometimes, has to be in the right mood, and interrupting is sacrilege.
I hear him shift and the metallic flick of a lighter, then he hums above my head softly. I open my eyes and he places a freshly lit cigarette between my lips.
I inhale and then reach up to take it out my mouth, resting my hand at my side. With my other I tap my chest once, and he sits back again, his lips curving up as he studies his black binder, cigarette hanging out his mouth, blue eyes swirling with intensity.
When Jasper works, his eyes hold all the galaxies inside.
You can't stare for too long or you feel lost and breathless, like you're out in space without a suit, staring into the heart of something too big for you to understand.
My eyes close again. His presence is a tonic to my agitation, cooling the way my blood burns a little.
I know that technically it's already done, but doubt flickers, a tiny flame right beside a pool of gasoline.
If it gets too big, everything burns like wildfire.
'You're thinking too loud.' Jasper murmurs, his pencil pausing briefly in its discordant scuffing, 'stop frowning I need to do your face.'
I sigh, but relax my features, chucking the cigarette to my side. I'm done anyway.
The pencil scratches out a rough rhythm against the paper and I let it lull me into a state of semi conciousness.
'Open your eyes,' Jasper's voice ebbs and flows, like water, smooth and deep.
He must be almost finished.
He always does the eyes last.
He says it's because they're the most important part of the face, but that's a lie.
Drawing eyes means looking deep and studying every little detail, every tiny line and curve, every darker and lighter shade.
Eyes are often called the window to the soul, but they're not, they're a mirror.
Stare deep enough, and all you see is you.
I do as he asks, watching the clouds again as he moves a little closer, the scratching getting slower and smoother.