Draw Me In

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Sixteen – Don't Look Down

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*~ I feel like I'm on fire
nothing I can do ~*

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I open the door like how I might pull off a plaster.

Really bloody slowly.

It's not that I always take my time peeling back that painful little sticky strip – innocuous looking it may be, innocuous feeling it is not – but I do so way more often than the 'rip' approach the common phrases favours. I get that it's supposed to apply to your wider life in that sometimes you just need to get stuff over with and not be all faffing about with it.

But really.

Really?

By now it should be painfully obvious that I'm sick in the masochistic way, say, 109 year old vampires sometimes are. I.e. I have a penchant for drawing out the painful moments to the nth degree.

Not that I, you know, fall in love with my supposed-to-be dinner.

Because that would be weird.

Anyway. Plasters.

Plasters, plasters, plasters.

Not that it's even an apt analogy because I have really limited experience in that area.

My mum never used to buy them.

Didn't like them or something.

Can't say I blame her.

Anyway.

What am I doing again?

My mind falls out of its emergency-nonsense place and back into reality just in time to avoid hitting myself in the face with the door. I jerk my head and timber just about grazes my cheek, and suddenly, the door is all the way open.

(Well, as all the way it can get with our uncooperative carpet).

My heart is in my throat again, and my eyes don't know where to look. But like at the concert when I first heard his voice, I find them super-glued to him; the dark colour of his shirt, the jacket in his hand, the absolutely mental state of his hair and the sharp cut of his jaw that's dusted in burgundy. My gaze goes all over, like in the moments before, my body talks before my brain can.

But not too much.

Because I still can't settle on him.

"You . . . " he starts, but doesn't finish, and in the ensuing trail-off my gaze darts to his mouth.

In place of words, he smiles.

My eyes widen.

My skin heats.

And I squeak – "Me."

His smile grows.

My brain catches up, and I look away.

And then he's asking, quietly –

"May I . . . may I come in?"

And because I can't say no.

I say –

"Yes."

My gaze remains fixed on the thin slice of side-ways door as he moves; his black shirt and bright hair smudging in my peripheral. I'm still a bit out of body, so I don't scarper when I should. Instead, all I can do is freeze when he brushes against me as he passes through the doorway.

Too close, I think, and despite the sudden warm particles zapping about in the air, my insides feel full of snow.

Kind of robotically, I shut the door.

Then I just sort of stare at the mixed-grain wood as I try to get my heart under control. But I should know from my vast experience in being uncomfortable that this –

– never works.

But I'm at a loss. Because forgoing the whole famous thing, this is a situation I've never found myself in before.

Ever.

And by that I mean: ever ever.

I mean, Rose and Alice had had blokes round before, but they weren't here for me.

Crap, my mind mutter-shouts, crap, crap, crap.

I cringe, still facing away, feeling my face flame anew.

He's not here for me, I try to console myself, remembering his words from earlier.

You humble me.

Okay.

Fine.

Fine.

Plaster, I think.

With that in mind, I release my death-grip on the handle and let my sweaty palm fall to my side. I count to five and then can't count anymore because the anticipation is making everything feel so much worse.

Just a person, I assure, and this should make me feel better, at least in part. Because it was when people swarmed in groups that stole my breath and made me shake. Singularity was easier to accept because when people are by themselves it's more likely that they want to be alone; more probable you're not going to even register in their peripheral, let alone their centre.

I don't know how to deal with this – him.

And I really hate how it's making me feel.

Why did I open the door again?

"I'm sorry."

The voice, the words, make my eyes snap open from when they'd unwittingly fallen. Colour flashes in front of me and a spark of pain before it fades. I eye the door before finding myself reluctantly rotating on my feet.

I turn around – how else? – slowly.

My eyes catch on him but they spin and sway and make everything fuzzy fuzzy fuzzy. Finally, my gaze lands on a safe spot over his shoulder, and I think god might be taking the piss because my safe spot is my bedroom door.

Ace.

Great.

Don't show me that.

I want to run.

But instead I mutter –

"Okay."

Okay.

In the following silence, I start to fidget. I can't keep my gaze up and instead drop my eyes to my twisting hands, digging fingernails. I can feel the heat on the back of my neck, because even though I can't see his stare, I can feel it.

I always thought that was complete and utter bollocks when I read that in books. How could you feel a person's stare? I'd always roll my eyes and scoff a little bit, as you do, because it seemed ridiculous.

People don't have x-ray vision.

They're not shooting little beams of radiation at you.

But as it turns out, and with practically everything in life, I was wrong.

Dead wrong.

He may as well be shooting little beams of radiation at me.

My hands twitch.

Want to cover my face.

I refrain.

Just.

"Bella . . . " Trail off. He likes doing those. Not that I'm one to talk.

Right.

Me. Talk.

Ha ha.

Ha ha ha ha.

"Please," he pleads.

I swallow thickly, and something inside of me tears a little at his tone. It's the raw aching, the sound of his lonely song.

Directed at me.

My insides whir and kick up a fuss again, and my hands stop fidgeting to clench into tight fists. There's the taste of bitter in my mouth as I bite my own tongue, and my breath tumbles past my lips, forming a loud sigh – the kind you can't control but wish you could.

But I don't lash out.

I just look up.

Unlike before, my gaze doesn't dart all over the place; my eyes don't really give me much choice this time.

They just look up – straight up – and right into his.

I don't measure the distance between my gaze and his – don't really know how many steps he took into the flat before he decided that's enough and turned around. But even if I did, even if I counted them now, it wouldn't matter.

I look at him and I know.

He's near me.

Physical distance suddenly seems superficial.

But also, abruptly –

Really, really necessary.

"You can sit," I blurt.

His already wide eyes grow even wider, and I watch as the hand that had been twisting his jacket come to a halt.

"Settee." I carry on tumbling, mumbling, imagining the letters landing in a heap on the floor at my feet. "Over – over there." I do a head-jerk-nod thing before lifting an arm and (a bit too violently) prodding at the air, pointing behind him.

He doesn't say anything for a minute, and all I can do is hold my breath as I continue to hold his gaze. My heart thinks it's a drum; with each moment that passes the skin at the mercy of its thumping grows tauter and tighter.

Look away, I think. Look away, look away, look away.

He does.

The air spills out of me silently as he turns, effectively severing all ties that might have been. I press my trembling hands into my back as I watch him move further into the apartment, fighting the urge to push him out of the door as he takes a seat.

On my settee.

In my living room.

I don't move from my place by the door for a minute, too weirded out by the foreign sight – the very idea. But then he looks up, at me, before his eyes dart all around and he starts wringing his jacket again and I really wish the apartment was bigger because then I couldn't see how nervous he looked and then I wouldn't be able to empathise with him and –

Breathe in . . .

. . . Aaaaand out again.

I do as prompted and take a couple of deep breaths, glad his gaze isn't on me because I'm sure I look mental. Just hyperventilating over here because my thought process became too manic and I forgot to breathe.

Right.

I take a step.

Then two.

Then three.

I eye him nervously as I approach, more than a little worried he's going to swing his apparent (I haven't looked long enough to make sure) green back to me. I'm sure it's already been made obvious, but I'm not good with eye contact, so the fact that he's evading mine right now is the only thing keeping me moving forward – toward him.

I wonder if he knows this, too.

Shaking my head at myself, I take the final step, and then I'm in the living room. With him. A stranger. All alone.

With him.

A stranger.

All alone.

Who I let into my house.

Willingly.

I do my best to trample over the sharp shoot of panic that zips up my spine and jolts my heart. And then I just sit my arse down on the chair – not the sofa – because if I don't then I don't think I ever will.

Frozen, I stare at his hair.

Still, he stares at his hands.

Another phrase I thought was baloney whenever I read it in books: the silence was deafening.

Well, guess what?

Silence really can be deafening.

But then he –

He sighs.

I watch as his fingers tighten, white-knuckling black leather before they loosen completely. His jacket lies limp in his lap as his hands rise, all eight fingertips skating through the red before they meet his thumbs pressing into the back of his neck. His hair is long, almost-but-not-quite brushing the neck of his shirt. My blinks fall rapidly as I watch the shorter pieces fall forward again, feathering his brow and lashes with streaks of auburn and burgundy.

I kind of (really want to) touch it.

Inwardly, I gape at myself.

Outwardly, I snap my eyes closed and try to stem the fluttering in my stomach.

I'd take another meltdown over this feeling any day.

"Do you want me to go?"

His voice startles me from the deafening silence and my eyes shoot open. The fluttering in my stomach forms a tight knot as I come to the miserable realisation that this time, he's looking at me.

My insides are all:

He's being polite.

What.

You want him to stare at the table when he's speaking to you?

Yes.

…

…

Gain another syllable and then we'll talk.

"Um," I mumble, having trouble concentrating because he's awfully close. I bite the inside of my cheek and lean all the way back in the chair.

He looks at me, waiting, his expression frost sharp. If I weren't this close maybe I wouldn't be able to tell, but his eyes – yes, to confirm, green – seem to flicker, maybe waver, like the transparency in his see-through voice is leaking into his wide, water-coloured gaze.

Inevitably, I want to say yes, but that is clearly not where this night is going.

But I can't say no, either, so I just end up repeating his words from earlier: "You'll come back." And then I shrug and I'd lean back further if I could to pretend everything is nonchalant, to pretend I am.

My charade, like his eyes, is see-through.

No pretending – he nods.

A little trickle blooms in my chest, but before it can reach my heart I blurt – "Why'd you give me that card?"

Blood filled with quickened beats pools in my mouth as I wait.

His eyes dart between mine, looking, seeking. I want to drop my gaze but don't, even though I feel the sting of it. "I . . . I was hoping you'd get in touch."

Why, why, why – "Why?"

He'd already answered this, of course. I humbled him, apparently. By . . . what? Not being bowled over by his 'status'? By running away from him? Ignoring his texts? (Par one accidental slip?)

I was different because I didn't want to know?

I feel a trill of relief shoot through me at the possibility that this is based on my indifference. Because in reality, we'd barely said five words to each other. What else could it be based on?

He clears his throat; fingers skating, pulling red threads again. "I wanted – still want – the chance to get to know you."

Um.

Um?

My brows fall into a frown. My throat tightens. "That doesn't make any sense."

His black-brown eyebrows fall. "Why doesn't it?"

"Because," I say helplessly, suddenly feeling prone in my chair. I push steel into my spine and straighten up; gripping the arms, I vault myself away from him. His eyes follow my movement across the expanse, and I press my hands into my back again.

"You're . . . you're only here because I'm something different for you." I watch his eyes narrow at my use of his word from earlier. "This is . . . this is just some – and – and I don't want to – " I break off with an annoyed groan, my hand lifting automatically to tug harshly at my hair. My inability to speak is really irritating at times.

Thankfully, he seems to get the gist.

Eyes set, he says, again – "I'm not playing with you." Then his gaze softens, like blades of summer grass turned liquid. "I wouldn't do that."

My hand tug tug tugs and my fingers press press press. "You can find someone else to ignore you."

His lips twitch before his expression freezes – just like that. His smile slowly drops, and his eyes grow a little wider.

Realisation dawned.

Another, apparently, not pointless phrase.

"You think I'm here because you didn't act like . . . everyone else."

I don't reply, just find my gaze falling to my feet.

Aren't you?

You are.

You have to be.

Silence, and then –

"It's not like that."

I want to deny it, but refrain. He wanted to say his piece, and he'll probably leave the sooner I let him.

"I like that you didn't act like everyone else . . . but your . . . your indifference – " he says the word slowly, like it's not quite right. " – isn't why I gave you that card. And it's not why I'm here, right now."

I frown down at the carpet.

"This is going to sound really bloody stupid but . . . " He lets out a sigh – heavy, filled with . . . something. I sneak a peek at him just in time to see his hair doing that falling thing again. I flutter and abruptly snap my gaze away. "I just . . . I saw you in the crowd and you seemed so . . . " he trails off, and I'm sort of grateful because my heart is racing. " . . . It's hard to explain. But it's . . . you had all of these people around you but you were so . . . you were right there and I – I don't remember ever seeing anyone that clearly before."

My frown wobbles and my blood bubbles and I start to burn.

I want to sink to the floor and run to my room all at once.

But I do neither.

Instead, I look up.

I just look up.

–|*|–

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A/N: *peeks at you*

faffing = spend time in ineffectual activity

plaster = band-aid

taking the piss = to make a joke about someone or make someone look silly

settee = sofa

What we got from this chapter: Bella really likes the hair.

Yes, I'm alive! And hopefully, updating frequently for a while! I am officially broken up for Christmas (and officially excited because CHRISTMAS!) so I have about a month of no-Uni. Good news for you, good news for me, good news all round!

'Alone' will be updating soon, too, so if you're reading that, no fear!

Thanks for reading! See you soon. :) xoxo