Girlfriend / Boyfriend
Title: Girlfriend / Boyfriend (two drabbles)
Author: deepseabed
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: 15
Warnings: Nothing.
Summary: Two teenagers changing into confused young men.
Disclaimer: It's all fantasy. It happens only in my dreams.
Feedback: Anything will be loved. ♥
I'd like to say Happy Holidays ♥ to every one of you with two drabbles, although they're not really delightful. I consider these two tiny stories to be a pair, and I hope you enjoy both. :) (I'm sorry I haven't been here for ages. I'd like to come back properly when my life gets stable.)
It's not that you're gay. It's just... Everyone knows you are special to each other. You know that yourselves, even though you might not admit it if someone tells you so.
Girlfriend.
It's what's annoying you at present. Moreover, it's not even your girlfriend. It's his girlfriend, and yet you think you already know too much about her. Because he won't stop boasting. Actually, you think he's been talking only about her for nearly two weeks. Since he and the girl started what he calls 'a romantic relationship'.
If only he would take the time to imagine what you're thinking. He might appear abrupt, sometimes. But the truth is that he can be quite sensitive and caring. Too affectionate, at times. He doesn't give a shit about people or things that don't interest him, and therefore, that tender part of him is usually reserved only for his mates.
Perhaps, only for you. That's what your friends say. You seem to have lost that privilege somewhere along the line, though.
The vocalist and bassist are long gone. You're just studying the way his dark lashes are fluttering. The way his eyes are twinkling and shining with joy. You think they're like the brightest stars in the night sky. In fact, it's what attracted you most, when you first spoke to him about music. And then, you realise how long his hair has become. So, when he asks you if you are listening to him, you nearly say no. Instead of giving him an answer, you enquire of him why he's here with you, not with the girl he adores so much.
"Because we must practise. We've only got three weeks till that contest."
He responds, with a look and tone which make you feel as if you've just asked one of the most ridiculous questions in the world. Okay, you think. He knows what you two should be doing, at least.
Three weeks later, He turns up for the band contest, 18 minutes late for the rehearsal and wearing a tee his girl chose for him. Which makes you extremely angry, somehow, and you think the T-shirt is impossibly uncool. The anger might have a great effect upon your drumming on stage. Skin hot and tight, you play fiercely. When he looks back at you at some point, there's no way you imagine his blue irises flaring up.
It's the first time you've ever felt this unidentifiable desire rushing up your spine.
You think you've known your band will win since that particular moment, and you're not let down. As the name of your band is called, he opens his eyes and mouth wide in a comical way. He says he can't really believe it, and then flings himself at you, giggling and nearly knocking you over. Hesitatingly, you hold his small body, and catch a faint smell of soap, sweat and something sweeter. Maybe, some perfume his girlfriend wears. You close your eyes momentarily, and take a deep breath. The weight in your arms doesn't feel the same any more.
He heaves a tired sigh, and sits up. Just the same as always. You're not really sleepy under the duvet, when you should be. That's the same, as well. The chill night air in this dark room is seeping quickly into his flesh, and you almost feel his pale back shuddering, without even touching it. He's always very sensitive, almost too sensitive to the cold. Just several minutes ago, his skin was damp and hot under your palms. Remembering how he called your name, breathily, you feel yourself missing it already, and feel ridiculous at the same time. Turning your back to him, you pretend to be asleep.
Stay.
Maybe, one tiny word could change something. But, you're not sure which way. Which way the dice would roll. Which way you want it to be. You haven't had a steady girlfriend for ages, and he hasn't talked about his for months. You don't know if this means something. And suddenly, you decide that you want to know.
"You leaving?"
He stops his search for his sock for a moment, and then finds it and picks it up, his back towards you the whole time.
"Why?"
"...Cos this is not my bed."
"But that's not really yours either. Our own beds are miles away."
He sighs frustratedly, and rubs his face with his palm. Despite the fact that his hands look delicate, it's so rough that you almost want to stop it.
"You used to sleep in my bed."
You can't deny the nostalgic tone in your voice. Some nights, he would just stay over for no reason, smoking fags, listening to your collection of CDs and chatting aimlessly about music or girls until the small hours. Some nights, he was desperate not to be at home, shutting his mouth tight, needing to be with someone who didn't question him. You picture him from those nights on the insides of your lids. He's still as thin, but you think he's got used to concealing his true feelings. Not that he's always successful.
"It's different, y'know. We're not kids any more."
When did he become such a moralist? You want to snort. And it seems you've actually done it. Since he's glaring at you.
Slowly, you raise yourself in bed. His skin looks unnaturally pale, bathed in moonlight. You reach your hand out, your fingers lightly circling round a slender, bony wrist. You feel his body become rigid, which only makes your grip tighter.
"Because I know how cold your hands are, I want to warm them. Isn't that enough reason for you to stay?"
Shivering a little, he lets out one more sigh. This time, it's not deep, it's soft and sounds resigned. Just like the expression on his face. You take his hand in yours, kissing it and putting it on your shoulder, where he's left lots of tiny scratches on your skin. Feeling gentle, yet coarse fingertips stroking those marks he's made on you, you wish he were as truthful as his fingernails.