(no subject)
title: black kettles, glass houses, and something like chemistry
author:
laundrylove
word count: 514
pairing: jacob/leah
rating: pg-13
summary: You know that whole opposites attract saying? How two negative and positive atoms will attach themselves into an orbit, neatly elliptical for the rest of their days?
notes: I wrote this for the un-love you drabble-a-thon. I have no idea why I haven't posted it here yet. ;)
I’m here, which, roughly translated, means that I’m trying harder for you than Sam ever did.
--
You know that whole opposites attract saying? How two negative and positive atoms will attach themselves into an orbit, neatly elliptical for the rest of their days?
Bullshit.
It’s the ones who are exactly the same that will find each other, revel in the similarity and how they are finally able to say, I am not alone. They are the ones that will collide with a scream of fire and rage and dent each other out of circuit forever.
Forever and ever.
They’ve crashed into their own wavering, kind of addicting pattern, and nothing will ever be the same again.
--
Her hands trace scribbles down his back, nonsensical things that he doesn’t try to understand. They’re lying under his blanket, trapping their combined heat together and building it higher and higher.
“I’m hot,” she mumbles against his shoulder blade, full lips rounding out the words and burning them into his skin.
“I’m cold,” he whispers back. He draws her up to him, curling her like a comma into his chest, cupping a hand over her hip and drifting fingertips along her wrist until he’s sure that the only thing she can feel is him.
--
This is some fucked up shit, she tells him, holding a Miller Light and a cigarette. She dips back her head to take a drink, and one twist of hair sticks to the long column of her throat.
He bites back his reply.
(That’s why it’s perfect.)
--
What are we doing? he wonders out loud, because it refuses to make sense in his own head. They were both meant for two other people and ripped away from them by the supernatural- so how does it follow that their own names sound so right next to each other, that their whole bodies fit together so easily, and their similarities mock them with words like meant to be?
She falls, upside down, onto the couch. There’s a smudge of grease on her cheek, and her shirt rides up over her ribs as she stares at him with eyebrows raised in an expression of, are you honestly that dumb?
Her face goes exasperated, and she sighs.
Didn’t you ever learn math, stupid?
Using her legs as leverage, she flips right-side-up.
Two halves equal a whole.
She holds out her hand.
--
He hesitates.
There is one long moment of would-have-been, could-have-been, should-have-been a clumsy pale girl in front of him, offering herself.
In the space of a remembrance, he forgets.
There is only the woman with her own heavy cross to bear, asking if maybe they can walk together- pile the weight of their heartache up and linger with one another until the load lessens into something tolerable.
Without thinking, he presses their palms together, burning hot, until he thinks he can feel their life lines sear on either side to join as one- branching out into a map of the world too large to explore alone.
--
Good thing they’re not alone.
author:
laundrylove
word count: 514
pairing: jacob/leah
rating: pg-13
summary: You know that whole opposites attract saying? How two negative and positive atoms will attach themselves into an orbit, neatly elliptical for the rest of their days?
notes: I wrote this for the un-love you drabble-a-thon. I have no idea why I haven't posted it here yet. ;)
I’m here, which, roughly translated, means that I’m trying harder for you than Sam ever did.
--
You know that whole opposites attract saying? How two negative and positive atoms will attach themselves into an orbit, neatly elliptical for the rest of their days?
Bullshit.
It’s the ones who are exactly the same that will find each other, revel in the similarity and how they are finally able to say, I am not alone. They are the ones that will collide with a scream of fire and rage and dent each other out of circuit forever.
Forever and ever.
They’ve crashed into their own wavering, kind of addicting pattern, and nothing will ever be the same again.
--
Her hands trace scribbles down his back, nonsensical things that he doesn’t try to understand. They’re lying under his blanket, trapping their combined heat together and building it higher and higher.
“I’m hot,” she mumbles against his shoulder blade, full lips rounding out the words and burning them into his skin.
“I’m cold,” he whispers back. He draws her up to him, curling her like a comma into his chest, cupping a hand over her hip and drifting fingertips along her wrist until he’s sure that the only thing she can feel is him.
--
This is some fucked up shit, she tells him, holding a Miller Light and a cigarette. She dips back her head to take a drink, and one twist of hair sticks to the long column of her throat.
He bites back his reply.
(That’s why it’s perfect.)
--
What are we doing? he wonders out loud, because it refuses to make sense in his own head. They were both meant for two other people and ripped away from them by the supernatural- so how does it follow that their own names sound so right next to each other, that their whole bodies fit together so easily, and their similarities mock them with words like meant to be?
She falls, upside down, onto the couch. There’s a smudge of grease on her cheek, and her shirt rides up over her ribs as she stares at him with eyebrows raised in an expression of, are you honestly that dumb?
Her face goes exasperated, and she sighs.
Didn’t you ever learn math, stupid?
Using her legs as leverage, she flips right-side-up.
Two halves equal a whole.
She holds out her hand.
--
He hesitates.
There is one long moment of would-have-been, could-have-been, should-have-been a clumsy pale girl in front of him, offering herself.
In the space of a remembrance, he forgets.
There is only the woman with her own heavy cross to bear, asking if maybe they can walk together- pile the weight of their heartache up and linger with one another until the load lessens into something tolerable.
Without thinking, he presses their palms together, burning hot, until he thinks he can feel their life lines sear on either side to join as one- branching out into a map of the world too large to explore alone.
--
Good thing they’re not alone.