Random R/K one-shot, back in the Portland days. Nothing to do with TTE!
They were two ships passing in the night, their sails brushing the wind with warmth. She was tiny and strong, always taking the impact of the storm. He ghosted through the stars, whispered through the thick Portland air, docked in sheets smelling of marijuana and old Chinese food.
Being with her was never easy, and it wasn’t always worth it, but he knew nothing else. She anchored him to this strange world of filming and fights by day, making love and tuning guitars by night. He learned how to count again by the freckles on her back, and he learned how to sing again by the ache in his marrow. She taught him everything he knew, lessons he never wanted to learn.
She always closed her eyes on a sleepy smile after she came, and the way she could look so blindingly beautiful against the backdrop of sweat and sin made him want to cry. He often did, after she went to sleep, and he was awake with his rough fingers plucking a discordant tune. The saline ran into his five o’clock shadow and onto his neck, and it tickled, and it pissed him off.
He would wake her up, and yell at her, ask her how she could just sleep while his whole world was changing. She would take his storm, misleading eye and all, and then he would leave, all drama and flinging fabrics, pounding out the streets of Portland. He would end up in a bar, singing of signing his soul over to the Devil, and begging her to never think, and to forgive him for straying like a dog.
And she would find him, and he would let her lead him back to her apartment over and over again, until the fizzy taste of her cheap American beer and the kiss of her lips started feeling less like betrayal, and more like home.
And that’s where he stayed.
Being with her was never easy, and it wasn’t always worth it, but he knew nothing else. She anchored him to this strange world of filming and fights by day, making love and tuning guitars by night. He learned how to count again by the freckles on her back, and he learned how to sing again by the ache in his marrow. She taught him everything he knew, lessons he never wanted to learn.
She always closed her eyes on a sleepy smile after she came, and the way she could look so blindingly beautiful against the backdrop of sweat and sin made him want to cry. He often did, after she went to sleep, and he was awake with his rough fingers plucking a discordant tune. The saline ran into his five o’clock shadow and onto his neck, and it tickled, and it pissed him off.
He would wake her up, and yell at her, ask her how she could just sleep while his whole world was changing. She would take his storm, misleading eye and all, and then he would leave, all drama and flinging fabrics, pounding out the streets of Portland. He would end up in a bar, singing of signing his soul over to the Devil, and begging her to never think, and to forgive him for straying like a dog.
And she would find him, and he would let her lead him back to her apartment over and over again, until the fizzy taste of her cheap American beer and the kiss of her lips started feeling less like betrayal, and more like home.
And that’s where he stayed.