Summary: Seth/Marissa. He's surprised at how easily she forgets. Sequel to "Oil and Water."
Disclaimer: The Josh Schwartz/midtowngirl89 wedding is fast approaching and you're all invited! Yippee! Right, so as usual, I own nothing.
A/N: A sequel? Gasp! Yes. It's not vital that you read "Oil and Water" first, but it might be helpful. I guess this should have gone under the disclaimer, but the first line in italics belongs to "A Lack of Color" by Death Cab for Cutie, and the other lines in italics belong to "Made for Each Other/You Can Breathe" by Jack's Mannequin. I hope you like it!
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He's surprised at how easily she forgets. She blinks her shattering eyes and he disappears, like the lines of the song he used to whisper, that she can't quite remember. He sings to himself, murmurs the notes that reek of her smile, when no one can hear him and the silence is oddly earsplitting. The words drift independently across the room, then collide until the letters blur and the origin of each is a mystery. I should have given you a reason t o s t a y.
He misses her voice, strangely enough, considering the fact that speaking was entirely inconvenient for both of them, when all he could think about was his thumb gliding shyly across her collarbone and her lips barely touching his cheek. He breaks for her dizzy giggle, his head swirling with the strum of her laugh and the sea salt smell of her hair whipping past his face. Then he remembers that he's lying face down on his floor, rubbing the uneven carpet along his chin, wishing it was her skin.
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She glances unassumingly, as he sails smoothly across the California waves. She kicks sand absently off the undersized cliff, watching it quickly scatter to the ground. Leaning back and forth in rhythm with the boat, he grimaces slightly as he grips the ropes and heads away from the shore. And for a moment, she thinks she sees him looking back at her, squinting in the light and meeting her eyes. But the image flickers, and he's farther away than she had thought.
She files through photographs from last summer, a hazy disarray of moments she couldn't let slip between her fingers, for fear of not being able to recall the exact placing of the elements. But she discards most of them; shadowy skies, finger-over-the-lens, lifeless beaches and miniscule sandcastles. She falters as one snapshot flutters to the floor. It's an off-centered picture, consumed more by the sky than his face, but his hair thrashes wildly over the edges and she detects a dimple appearing discreetly in one corner. And his eyes are burning holes in the thin paper, smoldering like a day-old fire in her hands. She thinks smoke is rising, because her throat closing and her body tingles with heat. So she relents, and tears seep pervasively down her cheeks, smothering the flame.
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"And maybe we were made, we were made for each other. Is it possible for the world to look this way forever? You can breathe, you can breathe now. You can breathe, but the air is running out…"
The music sifts through the club, while the band mesmerizes the crowd. Seth nods his head softly in the corner, jiggling his nervous hands in the deep pockets of his jeans. It's not until the song ends that he notices her, standing awkwardly in front of the stage, crossing her arms beneath her small chest. Her eyes shine quietly, watching the band with steady admiration, singing the words of her life. He pushes abrasively through the masses to the front of the room. But she's out the door before he can reach her, because waiting has never really been her style.
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He fights sleep for days, overlooking the appeal of slipping into a world without thoughts and sounds. So he escapes in the dark, running aimlessly into nothingness while others are forgetting, and he can only try. The night is deafening, he discovers, when he expects stillness from the sand to the stars. But the water rushes with conviction and threatens to devour his gangly form. He hears a voice from behind, but it's late, late, late and he must be dreaming. He spins to find her eyes, those catastrophic eyes, unblinking and pleading with his. He slides his hand around her wrist, until her shallow pulse tickles his fingertips, and he thinks, maybe, this is what they need.
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Final A/N: I can't believe I ended it semi-happily. What is wrong with me! I'm soft-core, what can I say?