Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. The poem in italics is not my either. It is an excerpt from the poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock written by T.S. Eliot. I take absolutely no credit for that genius at all. Ever.
A/N: So I memorize poetry just for fun. That doesn't make me unusual. Lots of people do it.
Warning: PG-13 (non-explicit sex)
ii.)her smile is all sugar&silk
all untried innocence&unbroken trust
(he swears there's nothing like it)
he flips through her pages (but there's nothing flippant about it)
book marks are superfluous
he intends to memorize her
------------------>> >> >> > (she'll let him)
There are postcards of different places all over his walls but nothing is written on a single one (he doesn't have anyone to whom he could send them or from whom to receive them). They're his own kind of wall paper – a paper trail of where's he's been (even if no one knows where he's going). It is a carefree life style but that doesn't mean he is free of caring (he has been known to become easily attached but also very forgetful).
Attachment would be an easy way to describe the way they are touching each other now. His skin is like unwritten poetry in the eerie glow of a lava lamp. He is showing her how artistic his long fingers can be (her body is a canvas that he is painting to rosy pleasure). She tries to return the favor, but he is a blank canvas (much like his post cards) and she isn't allowed to paint him.
The words he spoke were recited verses of Elliot, Longfellow, and Yeats. His kisses are eloquent and well practiced with delicate lines and well placed pauses. It is as though he has done this a thousand times before (and she knows that he has). It doesn't matter to her how long she's know him since she's known loneliness longer and he promised a quick escape from her previous reality (even if he never said a word out loud or a way to get back). How do you escape an escape? It's not something about which she worries. She trusts him automatically (but she doesn't know half of the things he's done when no one was looking). It took her five minutes to love him (and it will take five lifetimes to forget him).
The way his fingers skate down the expanse of her stomach remind her of butterfly kisses she received when she was young (what wouldn't she give just to be young again?). In all of his touches there was a strange childish fumbling (even though it was obvious he had done this before). It was a strange reassurance to her as he helped her stretch muscles she'd forgotten existed. If she tried hard enough she could pretend that she was his first and she his.
It's been at least two dreams and three revisions of her five year plan since she last had been so invaded. When he is this close (or close at all) her words are clumsy at best (he often rendered her speechless which was good since she wasn't always the most articulate) and her hands weren't much better. It would become habit to let him do the talking whether she agreed with the words he was saying or not. It wasn't that she was old fashioned – she just never caught hold of the feminist movement.
"There is no going back once you've left." He whispered (hot and heavy) in her ear.
She doesn't understand what he means (but she will sooner than she could have ever expected). He isn't a teacher but she has the distinct feeling she will learn a lot from him.
Come away with me. She could have sworn she heard those familiar words ring out from his mouth (but his lips were too busy dancing across her skin to have spoken). There is a hitch in her breathing and a hesitation in her physical indulgence. The tension in her body didn't go unnoticed and with practiced fingers he brought her back into his universe (a reality that she would find had very different rules than hers). It was a spiralling into a messy pile of limbs and lasting impressions.
"There is nothing left for you back there." His body pressed as heavily atop of her as his words. Before she could protest his lips gave her reasons to stay quiet.
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit." He ground out each word in time with his powerful thrusts (she'd never liked poetry so much as in that moment.
The clock on the bedside table said that her morning shift was to start in less than an hour.
"Come (away) with me." This time she knew he said it aloud even above the pounding of her heart.
He unplugged the clock while she came.
A/N: So I hope you all are enjoying this. If you are: leave me a note telling me what you like. If you're not: leave me a note telling my what is unappealing to you. If you want to flame me - it's a waste of time.