Atonement
By Seniya
Stay
Let him know that you know best
Cause after all you do know best
Try to slip past his defense
Without granting innocence
How To Save A Life by The Fray
There are words seated upon the edges of her lips. Words, integrated with emotions, sensations, discoveries and realizations that she wishes not to be heard. For in her heart, upon that edge, she can at least pretend that they are sacred, but in the open, they hint at embarrassment, they scream mortification, so Will likes to pretend that they've fallen off of her lips, silent, her wishes hidden within an exaggerated sigh.
She's curious if anyone else feels this way. But again, curiosity alone doesn't persuade her to ask. How does one go about phrasing that question in any case?
Does he?
He's too nice to ask, probably hesitant because he's wary of her reaction—or maybe he simply doesn't think about it as much as she does, which then makes her feel very…perverted. Boys were supposed to—weren't they?
It can't be her…
It's not all she thinks about—no, it just crosses her mind sometimes, like now, when she's cradled in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. He drops a slumberous kiss on the top of her forehead every so often, kisses that never make it further than her neckline—kisses that she shouldn't want to go any further.
Because she's Will, the good girl, and good girls don't think about things like that, good girls wait for the white satin sheets and marquis diamonds with twenty four karat gold bands. His hand brushes along her sleeve, slowly, up and down, slowly.
She sighs again, bites her lip. It's there once more, the words, the feelings, gnawing at her insides with an increasing ferocity. She closes her eyes, begging the blackness to make her white, pure.
This shouldn't be this difficult. She's almost eighteen, more than half of her classmates have already taken the plunge…she's heard them as they swap war stories during class breaks. It isn't wrong, it isn't unnatural—so then why couldn't she just…bring it up?
It is her.
Her, the good girl, who can't release her inhibitions enough even for tonight—because tomorrow, no, she doesn't want to think about tomorrow.
"Shouldn't…you be going over plans with…" her voice fades, these aren't the words that she wants to say.
"I'll have to go soon." Up and down, slowly. "In a while."
This wouldn't have bothered her so much a few years ago, back in the times when she could have followed him along, back then when his mortality hadn't seemed so impermanent. He notices her silence and raises his hand, tangling the heavy red locks about his fingers, "Don't worry about me."
And order, a direction—she flinches a little, hating when he does this. "Then stay." Let it be known that she tries, she urges every ounce of conviction that she can into those words. "Don't go, stay with me."
"Will, don't do this." The mist from the overheated road rises up, she watches as her breath curves before her, pulling away from his embrace even though her shivering limbs and lonely heart scream their displeasure.
"I don't know what else to do," vulnerability, that's all she hears, helplessness and bitterness, a horrible change from the bravery that she's manufactured over the years. "You could die tomorrow."
His face softens; he turns to face her, the bench they'd been seated on suddenly feels smaller, confining; tears cloud her line of vision, she closes her eyes in order to keep what's left of her pride safe. "I won't," his hand reaches across the space between them, a peace offering; it has to be, because he must know that something so small can't calm her.
"How do you know that?"
"How can you even ask me to stay here? To do nothing…Meridian needs me."
"And I don't?" Her voice catches; the dry night air stings her now painfully dry eyes. She doesn't look at him, she can't. "Forget it." Her face darkens, she's being selfish, unreasonable, she mumbles, her gaze focuses on a complicated knot in the wooden seat, "I don't mean that…I know…I know…"
He draws nearer, pulling her awkwardly into his arms. They stay like that for a while, absorbing the silence, finding solace in the company. "We've never really fought before." She offers her voice muffled and small from her place on his sleeve.
"No…I don't want you to be upset." He whispers, "but I don't think that it's something that I can help."
"It's not that…" Now she felt stupid, even worse than she would have had she mentioned…that. "It's not like this is new to me…"
His hand just touches her chin, and she easily parts her lips waiting for his touch. It comes, simple warmth, his mouth, his breath heating her cheeks—it leaves much, much too soon, their lips still clinging to the others.
She sighs.
"You gonna leave now?"
She feels old, resignation flows cold somewhere inside of her…the knowledge that she lives in constant fear of her boyfriend's safety make her recall the story of some old lady who waits for her husband to come home from the Holocaust.
"Don't worry Will; nothing's going to happen to me."
She smiles, her skin pulls tight across her face. He kisses her again longer this time, she can feel the urgency, sense the desperation—was it her own? She isn't certain. And it begins, just like that, the edge of this magnificent waterfall of memories. A wave of reminiscences that stream past her defenses, black and white, some years old, some days—minutes.
He twines his fingers in between hers, and the routine begins, he'll walk her home or as near to home as they can come, then she'll create a portal, and he'll kiss her goodbye. Tonight she'll pray to God that he'll be safe and tomorrow she'll wait for the slightest signal that he's alright. A thousand times, they've done this a thousand times. She is tired, so very tired of doing this.
Standing before the wall, graffiti and paint both smeared across the brick surface in copious amounts, the great light stunning her, temporarily distorting her senses, for a moment snatching away her willingness to feel frightened.
He leans in close, and she breathes in his warm, clean scent, trying to memorize it, because in her mind, he's already gone. "My mother…" Oh God, "she's in Jayden with my cousins…you can stay…longer…if you want to…because I want to."
The words themselves are laughing at her, jeering, mocking, in loud obnoxious voices. He's silent, she shrinks. Withraws. Until he holds her against him and kisses her again, it doesn't take her long to realize that he's refusing her.
"Are you that worried?" His voice carries more than its share of humor; it's really a pity that she can't share the joke.
"Good luck." She whispers, her long hair moves with the frigid night breeze.
And he kisses her forehead; it's really all that she can ask from him. He turns and walks away, and she stares at the bright blue abyss—a world away.
She closes it then, because the lights and sound and current mental instability might push her into a state of epileptic shock.
It has to be her.
Author: Not much to rant about guys, we're nearing the halfway mark now. Good for me—maybe good for you. I dunno.
Well yes, cookies will be about Will and Irma buying condoms. I mean seriously, doesn't that just write itself?
And that's right PORTAL, hahaha, take that to your stupid FOLDS.
In a bit of personal news, I'm a lot sicker than I first thought, I actually went for some tests recently to see what's wrong with me. It turns out having the same "cold" so many times in five months isn't normal. We'll see what happens.
Next: A is for Assume.