someone to save you,
part of dreaming out loud,
& (a codename: knd fanfic)
title: someone to save you
author: hikasne
words: 917
torturetime: 45MIN
playlist: john mayer, adam lambert
snack: strawberry soda
-
There are bumps in the road, obstacles in the plotline…
&
"Hey, buddy."
Wally turns. Looks. A thug looking guy, smoking a cigarette. "Yeah?"
"Who is that?" He blows a smoke ring towards a girl –his girl—rolling a shopping cart toward the parking lot, singing. Her raven black hair was swinging out in the wind behind her.
Wally's gut tightens with anger. "She's…nobody. Don't look at her." He wants to grab her from the parking lot, kiss her possessively.
The thug stops and smirks. "She looks like somethin' to me. If she's nothin' to ya, why can't I look at her--?"
He can't help himself—his fist shoots out sharply, and the last thing he hears before a flurry of punches hit him is Kuki's cry from their car.
(--You make me laugh, you make me cry, but I guess that's both I'll have to buy...)
.
.
.
TWO
(Pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere, 'cause I'll dose off safe and soundly,)
"I still can't believe you."
She stands at the doorway, holding a soggy Kleenex, looking partway amused, partway about to burst into tears. Her thick woolen scarf is wrapped haphazardly around her neck, halfway hanging open to reveal her long white swan neck—a desirable place, he muses, to put his lips—but he can't think about that now; she looks angry.
(--Cause I wish you were here—but it's not the same without you,)
"Sorry," he says hoarsely. His lips, tongue, are so dry he can barely find the words inside himself. He wants to reach out, touch her, pull her to him, but his arms are frozen to his sides.
Her face softens, and she looks tired, beautiful, approaching him with her heels clicking on the silvery linoleum floors. Her hair is unbrushed, soft, a little damp with melting snow, tickling his chin as she leans over him with a sympathetic look on her face; a pained one. She runs one long finger across a scar reaching diagonally across his forehead—he closes his eyes, exhales—her expression is otherwordly: totally focused, as if touching his scar was the most delicate thing she'd ever done and she was suppressing her strength, fragile like a gentle bird in a cage.
(--It takes two to whisper quietly, the silence isn't so bad,)
Her voice comes out softly, unintentionally lusty (--or is that just him?), and she perches on the metal rail adjacent to his stiff white hospital bed. "You had to get into a fight the day before Christmas?" There's a humorous tonal quality tinged in her musical voice. Her breath comes softly, cool, comfortable, minty like a candy cane and sweet like hot chocolate. Snow flows down in torrents outside the window, setting the dimly-lit parking lot aglow with silvery flakes.
"Couldn't help it." He grunts, trying to hitch himself up onto his elbows and succeeding, only to fall back onto the pillows, pain shooting through both his broken casted arms. "Guy was ticking me off."
(--I look at my hands and feel sad 'cause the spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly,)
She pats him gently on the forehead just above his scar, smoothing the blond hair away from his face. She half-smiles, tucking her silky hair behind a delicate ear and leaning forward as if to whisper a secret to him. "Does he look worse?"
Wally grimaces—the pain is too extreme to manage an actual cocky grin—and nods. "'Course. Much."
(--As many times as I blink, I'll think of you tonight (tonight, tonight, tonight,)
She laughs, but it's a laugh teetering on the brink of tears. "Oh," she mutters, finally, as another pained look sparks across his face, so quick like lightning that she's not sure she's seen it at all.
The expression on her face forces him into silence, because she looks almost as fragile as he feels. Her eyes, an aubergine shade of violet and another subtle ultramarine hue of navy and cobalt, indigo, are shimmering with suppressed tears, her separated obsidian lashes glimmering threateningly.
(--Violet eyes get brighter and heavy wings grow lighter I'll taste the sky and feel alive again,)
"Don't—" he offers, and reaches up, ignoring the click of his broken bones, and presses his calloused thumb to the soft, rosy swell of one white cheek. Her visage is pogo-sticking from sad to angry, then an in-between, her mouth wavering.
He knows what she needs, what she wants. What he wants is to take her, just hold her, feel her soft skin under his hands.
"You're going to have to lean down," he says, sensing what she's trying to say and do, and hoping her thoughts mimic his.
(--I'll forget the world that I knew, but I swear I won't forget you,)
She looks momentarily surprised, then relieved.
"You did always know me too well, Wallabee Beetles," she murmurs, and leans down to press her lips against his, falling from the metal rail into the bed, using her elbows to hold herself up above him, pressing her lips together as if holding his kiss inside her, fearing it will flee into forever.
(--I'd whisper in your ear: Darling, I wish you were here.)