i hate becca.
Oct. 16th, 2008 11:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
behindthecexcept for how i love her, etc. but mostly right now i hate her. (yeah i pretty much stole that from her blog.) she demanded a drabble to help her along with her vampire!fic. i delivered. 200 words on the dot. i wrote het, people. THE SHIT I DO FOR HER. there are so many signs the end is nigh... (the only upside is that i get to use my tag of "annoying heteros," which i haven't had occasion to use in a long time.)
prompt: alex/greta angst, and this, which, idek:
Not touching him is different, now.
Before, she didn't find herself measuring, memorizing all the physical contact she'd have with him on a daily basis: a morning bear-hug, a post-set piggyback ride; the brush of fingertips as he'd hand her a guitar pick, asking for input on a second verse. She didn't think of all the times they spent not touching, and how many hours a day that took up.
It's different, now.
Now, when the new memories exist, demanding attention, stealing it away from all other thoughts (thoughts of before, before) until all she can think of is the way his hand feels curled around her hip, the way he breathes her name into her skin in the darkness as they both tip over the edge.
She watches him from the side of the bus, across the parking lot, across a gathering of sixteen-year-olds in Panic tees. Guitar nestled into his lap, he gestures wildly with his hands, words spilling from his lips and grin stretching to his ears, and they laugh.
A shadow crosses his face, smile dropping, and his eyes widen their focus without warning, settling on hers, posing an unknown question.
She thinks, yes.
He smiles.
prompt: alex/greta angst, and this, which, idek:
I am your thought but the water is amnesia
my name is on the tip of your tongue
My image is slipping
but your memory is gripping it
this is my breath in your lungs
my name is on the tip of your tongue
My image is slipping
but your memory is gripping it
this is my breath in your lungs
--THS
Not touching him is different, now.
Before, she didn't find herself measuring, memorizing all the physical contact she'd have with him on a daily basis: a morning bear-hug, a post-set piggyback ride; the brush of fingertips as he'd hand her a guitar pick, asking for input on a second verse. She didn't think of all the times they spent not touching, and how many hours a day that took up.
It's different, now.
Now, when the new memories exist, demanding attention, stealing it away from all other thoughts (thoughts of before, before) until all she can think of is the way his hand feels curled around her hip, the way he breathes her name into her skin in the darkness as they both tip over the edge.
She watches him from the side of the bus, across the parking lot, across a gathering of sixteen-year-olds in Panic tees. Guitar nestled into his lap, he gestures wildly with his hands, words spilling from his lips and grin stretching to his ears, and they laugh.
A shadow crosses his face, smile dropping, and his eyes widen their focus without warning, settling on hers, posing an unknown question.
She thinks, yes.
He smiles.