wips. (pt. 2)
Series: Original.
Word Count: 1,961 and counting.
Characters/Pairings: Original.
Notes: rolling, rolling, rolling.
Summary: five kisses from a time before now and the men that changed your life.
.
when you’re older, you might understand.
| x |
One (cinnamon and tobacco.)
There was a time from before where the kisses she shared were fragile and fluttered across the skin like butterflies.
She can remember fingers flickering over her cheeks like delicate wings, skimming over her jaw as if they were shy, never really touching. Cautiously pink lips show the children they were-the children that they still are-and whisper promises that neither of them remember anymore and probably broke years ago.
It was from a time where he still smelled like cinnamon and only cinnamon, from before he picked up smoking. The scent was a comfort, and she was more prone to burying her face in his shirt than anything else.
When she gets older, she longs for the fragility of their innocence, wishes he could have stayed with her. His shaggy hair is a memory by this point, six feet under, and she remembers him with a wistfulness that she thinks might be dangerous.
They were more likely to spend time holding hands and running through the forests behind her house, looking for the creek and their special clearing. He grinned like a little kid even though he was eighteen when she rolled around in the grass, laughing.
The weekend her parents were gone he spent at her house, playing video games and laughing and making a mess of the kitchen, until the storm hit. He held her because she was scared of thunder and kissed her to distract her, but it escalated until she didn’t know what was happening, and it was over. She felt like something was broken, but the storm had calmed. He lay next to her, sleeping, and she thought about the feeling of loss, the dull ache forming between her legs.
He went off to college that September, and she took her off year. She remembers the butterfly kisses now and regrets the storm, her fear of lightning and thunder, but doesn’t cry. It doesn’t hurt enough to, but it still aches, like a dull throb that she can’t quite get rid of; a headache that never leaves the base of your skull. She isn’t sure why she feels like this is so wrong, but there’s something in her that regrets and regrets and doesn’t forget, reminding her of the mistake they made.
The next time she sees him, he’s taller than her by four inches and he’s chain smoking, his hair falling into his blue eyes. It’s been dyed a reddish brown that looks like it should be natural. His ears are pierced several times and his clothes are black and red, with boots that clunk against the pavement, and with belts that cling to his hipbones, because he’s gotten so much skinnier.
He takes a long drag of the cigarette and gives her a slight, lopsided grin, and she smiles, but they walk past one another. She doesn’t say a word about how the tobacco masks the cinnamon scent she used to love, and he doesn’t say anything either-but she’s not sure what he would comment on, anyways. They’ve been apart so long that she doesn’t even remember what about her he used to love.
| x |
Two. (fire and leather.)
When she took the off year, she went to work at an orphanage nearby. She sat by them as they scribbled in coloring books; she helped cook meals, and clean up scraped knees and messy rooms. It made her feel like she was training to be a mom.
Then came a child with pretty features, light blue eyes that glittered and long blonde hair that brushed his shoulders neatly, who had a temper like nothing she’d ever seen before. He spiked at the smallest comment, and punched one other boy so hard, that they lost three baby teeth.
He didn’t regret it, he told her sulkily while she took him to timeout. She nodded, and smiled slightly, saying ruefully that she would still have to make sure he sat there the whole time, even if he didn’t. That made him scowl deeper, but he tightened his grip on her hand, almost painfully.
There was something about the innocent fear in that (she wasn‘t even sure why he was afraid), a feeling that just screamed please don’t let go, that made her squeeze back and continue to watch over him. It was as if something inside her had come to life, reviving something she thought had been dead since the storm. She was too hesitant to say it, so she didn’t even think it. Instead, she continued to hold the boy’s hand until he grew old enough to let go.
She worked in the orphanage all through college, continuing to help. Before her eyes, that boy turned twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and older, but she felt no different as she watched. He told her once, “You look the same as you did,” and it made her laugh for some reason. (He scowled, and she said, “Most people don’t look much different from eighteen to twenty-two.”)
At his sixteenth birthday, she gave him a leather jacket she had seen him looking at, black and brand new. He looked at it for a long time and then he looked at her, hard, before he reached out and gave her an awkward hug. It was uncomfortable, and he was only just getting used to his new limbs, grown out and sharp, but she patted his back and waited until he let go.
At the end of the party, he pulled her aside and told her he was going to leave the orphanage. She looked at him for a long time, all crackling fire and sparking leather, before she finally said, “Okay.” He stood up, and she noticed he was an inch taller than her now. His pretty features had changed and matured, his eyes growing narrower and harsher, glinting with temper. Even his hair was messier now, a reminder that he really had grown.
Lips landed on her cheek, near the corner of her mouth, chapped and gentle. He pulled back and walked away, not quite quickly but he didn’t look back at her. He never turned around.
He left without a sound that night. She was more surprised by the calm air around the orphanage than the fact that he had actually left. The boss told her they had been expecting it. She said okay, and so continued to act as if nothing had happened (but she feels the loss of that hand clasped in hers almost as much as she feels that lack of the cinnamon smell).
| x |
Three. (white chocolate and bedspread.)
She was twenty-three, finishing school, when she met a man with messy black hair and stormy eyes, like he had been made from the remnants of a thunderhead, less a man and more a force of nature. But at the same time, he was quiet and composed. At one point, she thought he was mute. He finally spoke to her to mildly comment on a book she had been reading.
“Is that any good?” His voice was low and obviously intelligent, but surprisingly young, and it took her a moment to respond. He watched her, waited patiently for her to say something.
“I suppose,” she murmured, looking at the book, “It’s not as good as I thought it would be, but it isn’t so bad.”
“How so?” He removed his messenger bag and took a seat next to her, listening as she spoke. And when he asked her to coffee, she accepted without really thinking. She learned he was twenty years old, from Washington state, and that he was studying to become a criminal psychologist. She nodded as he spoke, soft and quiet, looking at his hands, his coffee. The liquid swirled in his cup as she watched with him.
They met for coffee once a week until it became twice a week. And, abruptly, it changed to three times a week, and he asked her if she would go out on a date with him. She agreed.
Being with him was a remarkable experience. She wasn’t used to being around someone so intelligent, unflappable. He kept his voice quiet, never got angry or sad. She never quite knew what to make of him. But he was respectful. He let her hold his arm, never tried to make inappropriate advances. They didn’t kiss until their eighth date, which was surprisingly unmemorable for her.
She had never thought they would last. So that they got to an eight date at all was something she thought was… funny. They never really spoke, never spent much time together outside of arranged meetings. For her, that was okay. And when he began to drift away from her, it was expected.
They slept together once - she thought it might have been an attempt to “reconnect” - but it didn’t feel like anything. She laid awake afterwards and watched him sleep, the sheets turning ethereal blue in the dimmed light coming in through the curtains. The bed felt lukewarm despite the heat from their bodies, and she eventually turned the other way and went to sleep.
Once, he told her, “You’re sad. And I don’t know why. I’ve been trying to figure you out, but I can‘t.”
She hadn’t completely understood it, and when he sat down and looked at her across the café table and said, “I just want to be your friend,” she still couldn’t explain it. She still wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to understand. (Was is why she was sad? Why he couldn’t figure it out? Why was he trying? Was that the only reason he’d ever - ?)
They had a comfortable kind of silence. The smell of coffee filled the air between them and it didn’t feel like it had to be anything else. She sipped her white chocolate cappuccino - it was painfully sweet and the smell reminded her of baked goods - and felt it burn her tongue, but she kept silent. She couldn’t taste anything, but it was okay.
He said goodbye to her with a kiss on her forehead, an oddly parental thing to do, she thought. But because she wasn’t surprised, it never bothered her. She went back to her dorm room and climbed into the shower with her clothes still on and let her mind go blank. She never cried or broke down. She wasn’t even entirely sure if she was upset or not, but she didn’t want to think about it.
| x |
Four. (cologne and apples.)
Her first teaching job started with a crash course in Why You Never Date A Fellow Teacher. Said fellow teacher polite. He was intelligent, helpful and handsome. He held the door for her and threw her the most disarming, charming smiles she had ever seen. She never quite trusted him (she could never say why), but she still returned the gestures and accepted his help. After all, she was a new teacher and kids at the middle school age had a tendency to push authority whenever possible.
Then one day, while helping her sort through assignments - a huge pile of late work, a recently turned in essay, and a quiz that still needed grading, he paused to watch her and asked if she’d like to go to dinner with him. It was, she thought, a cliché gesture, but she nodded her consent without looking at him. He accepted her non-answer and they continued to work without a word, and two days later he took her out to eat. It was slightly nicer than she would’ve liked, but the food was good, so she didn’t comment.
Word Count: 1,961 and counting.
Characters/Pairings: Original.
Notes: rolling, rolling, rolling.
Summary: five kisses from a time before now and the men that changed your life.
.
when you’re older, you might understand.
| x |
One (cinnamon and tobacco.)
There was a time from before where the kisses she shared were fragile and fluttered across the skin like butterflies.
She can remember fingers flickering over her cheeks like delicate wings, skimming over her jaw as if they were shy, never really touching. Cautiously pink lips show the children they were-the children that they still are-and whisper promises that neither of them remember anymore and probably broke years ago.
It was from a time where he still smelled like cinnamon and only cinnamon, from before he picked up smoking. The scent was a comfort, and she was more prone to burying her face in his shirt than anything else.
When she gets older, she longs for the fragility of their innocence, wishes he could have stayed with her. His shaggy hair is a memory by this point, six feet under, and she remembers him with a wistfulness that she thinks might be dangerous.
They were more likely to spend time holding hands and running through the forests behind her house, looking for the creek and their special clearing. He grinned like a little kid even though he was eighteen when she rolled around in the grass, laughing.
The weekend her parents were gone he spent at her house, playing video games and laughing and making a mess of the kitchen, until the storm hit. He held her because she was scared of thunder and kissed her to distract her, but it escalated until she didn’t know what was happening, and it was over. She felt like something was broken, but the storm had calmed. He lay next to her, sleeping, and she thought about the feeling of loss, the dull ache forming between her legs.
He went off to college that September, and she took her off year. She remembers the butterfly kisses now and regrets the storm, her fear of lightning and thunder, but doesn’t cry. It doesn’t hurt enough to, but it still aches, like a dull throb that she can’t quite get rid of; a headache that never leaves the base of your skull. She isn’t sure why she feels like this is so wrong, but there’s something in her that regrets and regrets and doesn’t forget, reminding her of the mistake they made.
The next time she sees him, he’s taller than her by four inches and he’s chain smoking, his hair falling into his blue eyes. It’s been dyed a reddish brown that looks like it should be natural. His ears are pierced several times and his clothes are black and red, with boots that clunk against the pavement, and with belts that cling to his hipbones, because he’s gotten so much skinnier.
He takes a long drag of the cigarette and gives her a slight, lopsided grin, and she smiles, but they walk past one another. She doesn’t say a word about how the tobacco masks the cinnamon scent she used to love, and he doesn’t say anything either-but she’s not sure what he would comment on, anyways. They’ve been apart so long that she doesn’t even remember what about her he used to love.
| x |
Two. (fire and leather.)
When she took the off year, she went to work at an orphanage nearby. She sat by them as they scribbled in coloring books; she helped cook meals, and clean up scraped knees and messy rooms. It made her feel like she was training to be a mom.
Then came a child with pretty features, light blue eyes that glittered and long blonde hair that brushed his shoulders neatly, who had a temper like nothing she’d ever seen before. He spiked at the smallest comment, and punched one other boy so hard, that they lost three baby teeth.
He didn’t regret it, he told her sulkily while she took him to timeout. She nodded, and smiled slightly, saying ruefully that she would still have to make sure he sat there the whole time, even if he didn’t. That made him scowl deeper, but he tightened his grip on her hand, almost painfully.
There was something about the innocent fear in that (she wasn‘t even sure why he was afraid), a feeling that just screamed please don’t let go, that made her squeeze back and continue to watch over him. It was as if something inside her had come to life, reviving something she thought had been dead since the storm. She was too hesitant to say it, so she didn’t even think it. Instead, she continued to hold the boy’s hand until he grew old enough to let go.
She worked in the orphanage all through college, continuing to help. Before her eyes, that boy turned twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and older, but she felt no different as she watched. He told her once, “You look the same as you did,” and it made her laugh for some reason. (He scowled, and she said, “Most people don’t look much different from eighteen to twenty-two.”)
At his sixteenth birthday, she gave him a leather jacket she had seen him looking at, black and brand new. He looked at it for a long time and then he looked at her, hard, before he reached out and gave her an awkward hug. It was uncomfortable, and he was only just getting used to his new limbs, grown out and sharp, but she patted his back and waited until he let go.
At the end of the party, he pulled her aside and told her he was going to leave the orphanage. She looked at him for a long time, all crackling fire and sparking leather, before she finally said, “Okay.” He stood up, and she noticed he was an inch taller than her now. His pretty features had changed and matured, his eyes growing narrower and harsher, glinting with temper. Even his hair was messier now, a reminder that he really had grown.
Lips landed on her cheek, near the corner of her mouth, chapped and gentle. He pulled back and walked away, not quite quickly but he didn’t look back at her. He never turned around.
He left without a sound that night. She was more surprised by the calm air around the orphanage than the fact that he had actually left. The boss told her they had been expecting it. She said okay, and so continued to act as if nothing had happened (but she feels the loss of that hand clasped in hers almost as much as she feels that lack of the cinnamon smell).
| x |
Three. (white chocolate and bedspread.)
She was twenty-three, finishing school, when she met a man with messy black hair and stormy eyes, like he had been made from the remnants of a thunderhead, less a man and more a force of nature. But at the same time, he was quiet and composed. At one point, she thought he was mute. He finally spoke to her to mildly comment on a book she had been reading.
“Is that any good?” His voice was low and obviously intelligent, but surprisingly young, and it took her a moment to respond. He watched her, waited patiently for her to say something.
“I suppose,” she murmured, looking at the book, “It’s not as good as I thought it would be, but it isn’t so bad.”
“How so?” He removed his messenger bag and took a seat next to her, listening as she spoke. And when he asked her to coffee, she accepted without really thinking. She learned he was twenty years old, from Washington state, and that he was studying to become a criminal psychologist. She nodded as he spoke, soft and quiet, looking at his hands, his coffee. The liquid swirled in his cup as she watched with him.
They met for coffee once a week until it became twice a week. And, abruptly, it changed to three times a week, and he asked her if she would go out on a date with him. She agreed.
Being with him was a remarkable experience. She wasn’t used to being around someone so intelligent, unflappable. He kept his voice quiet, never got angry or sad. She never quite knew what to make of him. But he was respectful. He let her hold his arm, never tried to make inappropriate advances. They didn’t kiss until their eighth date, which was surprisingly unmemorable for her.
She had never thought they would last. So that they got to an eight date at all was something she thought was… funny. They never really spoke, never spent much time together outside of arranged meetings. For her, that was okay. And when he began to drift away from her, it was expected.
They slept together once - she thought it might have been an attempt to “reconnect” - but it didn’t feel like anything. She laid awake afterwards and watched him sleep, the sheets turning ethereal blue in the dimmed light coming in through the curtains. The bed felt lukewarm despite the heat from their bodies, and she eventually turned the other way and went to sleep.
Once, he told her, “You’re sad. And I don’t know why. I’ve been trying to figure you out, but I can‘t.”
She hadn’t completely understood it, and when he sat down and looked at her across the café table and said, “I just want to be your friend,” she still couldn’t explain it. She still wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to understand. (Was is why she was sad? Why he couldn’t figure it out? Why was he trying? Was that the only reason he’d ever - ?)
They had a comfortable kind of silence. The smell of coffee filled the air between them and it didn’t feel like it had to be anything else. She sipped her white chocolate cappuccino - it was painfully sweet and the smell reminded her of baked goods - and felt it burn her tongue, but she kept silent. She couldn’t taste anything, but it was okay.
He said goodbye to her with a kiss on her forehead, an oddly parental thing to do, she thought. But because she wasn’t surprised, it never bothered her. She went back to her dorm room and climbed into the shower with her clothes still on and let her mind go blank. She never cried or broke down. She wasn’t even entirely sure if she was upset or not, but she didn’t want to think about it.
| x |
Four. (cologne and apples.)
Her first teaching job started with a crash course in Why You Never Date A Fellow Teacher. Said fellow teacher polite. He was intelligent, helpful and handsome. He held the door for her and threw her the most disarming, charming smiles she had ever seen. She never quite trusted him (she could never say why), but she still returned the gestures and accepted his help. After all, she was a new teacher and kids at the middle school age had a tendency to push authority whenever possible.
Then one day, while helping her sort through assignments - a huge pile of late work, a recently turned in essay, and a quiz that still needed grading, he paused to watch her and asked if she’d like to go to dinner with him. It was, she thought, a cliché gesture, but she nodded her consent without looking at him. He accepted her non-answer and they continued to work without a word, and two days later he took her out to eat. It was slightly nicer than she would’ve liked, but the food was good, so she didn’t comment.