Promise of Tomorrow
Here's another fic-let for you. This one's not as good as the last, I don't think. It (quite obviously) features Tony Alva as a main character, though it is not outrightly stated.
Her hands, rough and calloused. His hands, smooth and sensitive. Their bodies, entwined. He'll be gone in the morning, she doesn't care. The apartment is cold. They snuggle under the covers, her face buried in his huge mass of curls, tangled, sun-beaten. To him, she's another girl, a one-time fling. A one night stand. Now she matters, but tomorrow, who knows? To her, he's her everything, if only for one night, to herself. Tomorrow she'll be alone, and he'll be who knows where, with someone else. She'll freak out a week later, but she won't be pregnant. Even if she were, it wouldn't keep him around. Maybe they'll meet again, but she'll just be another thoughtless object, someone to get off with.
So for now she holds on tight, clinging to what is left of her sanity, her last shred of hope his arms around her. Discarded clothes litter the room, everywhere. The room swirls with the smoke of forgotten, hand-rolled cigarettes and weed, the smells mingle with the alcohol on their breath, a collective of malt whiskey, Jack Daniels, beer. Something she can't place. His skin smells of cinnamon. Her sense of smell is overloaded, sensitive to the smallest traces of scent. He awakens, jostling her. They're at it again, lips to lips, palm to palm, minds roaming aimlessly. His hands in her dark hair, hers on his stomach. A small clump of dark brown lays on the pillow, her hair is falling out again. The disease she can't get rid of, lupus, hovering in the back of her mind. She can't feel the pain wracking her anymore.
Sanity, scattered like a child's toys in a bedroom, flitters away as he begs with his eyes, and she silently agrees. She knows what he's asking for. She doesn't care anymore; she doesn't want him to leave just yet. She'll do anything to keep him, if only for a bit longer. Seconds, minutes. So she lets him. She feels used, but it's keeping him here for now. Close. She can't get too attached, it won't do any good. She can't let herself feel. To feel would be to acknowledge the existence of a relationship, one she'll never have. His demons keep him emotionally void. She doesn't want to leave this place, but she's wondering if there's life beyond him. They fall asleep again.
She awakens the next morning; what she finds comes as a shock. There he is, holding her, keeping her burrowed in the warmth of the bed. He still smells the same, stale liqueur, smoke, cinnamon, comforting. The smells of the night linger, hovering like ghosts. Outside it is perfectly clear, bright and early. She smiles to herself, amazed. He sighs, she sighs. She turns over, brushes his face. His eye, his lips, his cheek. For once, he stayed. It seems a miracle in the making has chosen her on whom to present itself. She thinks maybe, just maybe, this time he'll stay.
And he does. Some may have called it fate. She, however, attributed it to good fortune and maybe some choice waves.