(c) Close Your Eyes [PG-13]

Title - Close Your Eyes
Author - Woe [liz]
Rating - PG-13 for language.
Summary - Close your eyes, everything will be okay in the morning . . .



* * *


She closes her eyes.

Her fingers move from her sides and begin feeling your skin. They dance up your arms, dipping and twisting with the groves your muscles make. They skip the fabric and go straight to your collar bone. She spends a moment or two longer at your collar bone, just going back and forth. And then up your neck, pausing only to feel your pulse rushing through your veins, until she’s at your jaw bone. She smiles and touches your lips. When she doesn’t feel a returning smile – she stops. She doesn’t open her eyes, but she lets her fingers move away.

”What’s wrong?” She whispers.

You grab her tiny, tiny, hands and place them back on your lips so that she can feel the smile. “Nothing, don’t stop.”

So she keeps going. She traces your lips one finger at a time. She parts them and feels the inside, and then moves to your nose. You can hear the smallest of giggles starting in the back of her throat as she pushes the cartilage down. And then your cheeks are her canvas, and she might as well be painting the red on. You close your eyes so she can feel each and every eyelash. You hear her counting them. Or, attempting to.

And then she cups your face in her hands, and that’s when you open your eyes again. To your pleasant surprise, her eyes have opened as well. You will never get used to the color of them. Every time you see them, all you can think about are raindrops. And when her lashes are so dark and thick, the sight is so beautiful it’s hard to remember how to breathe. But you do your best, so she won’t get worried.

Her lips draw back to reveal her teeth and her trademark crooked smile. Your heart does a back flip, and you bring her closer. You’re breathing her in. You can taste her on the tip of your tongue, but it’s not good enough. You want her to smother you. You want every inch of her against you and all yours. And it is, and it can be. And just knowing that makes everything bad in the world go away.

You don’t need to ask, not really. But you’re curious as to how she’ll answer. So you ask it anyway.

“Why do you do that?”

She pulls an inch or two away and tilts her head to one side. “Do what?”

”Touch me like that. I’ve never understood. Not really.”

She smiles and looks away, her pale face turning the most subtle color of pink. It’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen in your life, but you swallow the remark you want to make about it and let her speak.

”When you leave, it’s usually months before I get to see you again. So . . . I memorize you. You know? So I won’t forget. So I’ll have something to look forward to. Like how your lips feel, or the way your face gets hot when I touch it.”

You swallow past a lump in your throat and let your fingers tangle through her multi-colored hair. “I’m sorry that I always have to leave.”

She looks at you from under her lashes and grins. “When I said I’d be yours, I knew that you wouldn’t always be around. You’re doing what you love. I’m going to support. I won’t hold you back.”

You take in such a deep breath, that she rises with your swelling chest. And then you kiss her. Hard. Hard enough to leave a bruise. Because whether or not you chose to vocalize it or not, you need to memorize her too. You need to remember every last detail, or you won’t be able to make it through the time you’re apart. You need to taste her, smell her, and feel her even when she isn’t there. And you hope and pray to whatever God is listening that your mind is strong enough to paint her perfectly. You don’t want a watered down day-dream version. You want to actually feel her breath on your face when you think about her talking to you.

When you pull away, she’s as red as the sheets that you’re sprawled across. You can feel her heart ricochet against her ribcage in a desperate attempt to join your own. How you wish it could happen.

”I love you.” She whispers.

You close your eyes and let the words run straight through your veins. You let them warm every frozen part of your body, and then smile as you melt straight through all the fears and doubt. As long as she says that. As long as she says that, and means it – everything will be alright.

”I love you too, baby.”

* * *

Just one more week. One more week and you’ll be back in her arms. Back in her bed. Just with her. But you can barely stand the wait. Every note you play is sloppy in anticipation. You’re shaking. You just need her, so damn bad. So bad. . .

She calls your phone, and you answer with a breathless “hello?”

”I miss you.”

You smile and slouch against the back wall of the venue. “I miss you too.”

”I can’t sleep.”

You knew this would happen. No matter how strong she said that she would be, you knew she’d end up crying herself to sleep. You knew she’d be sitting in her bed with her knees up to her chest – shaking because she’d been trying for hours to sleep. You knew, but you tried to avoid the mental image for the past three weeks . . .

”I know, baby. But just one more week.”

You hear a sigh of relief, and release one of your own. It feels so good to say that. One more week. Seven more days. So close. So fucking close.

”It’s late.” She whispers.

”What time is it?”

There’s a pause and then you hear her sigh again. “Three.”

You roll your eyes. That’s so like her. To wait up all night just to call. Just to talk. But you know what she wants this time. You know what she needs.

”Get under the covers.”

You hear the rustle of sheets.

”Turn off the light.”

You hear the ‘click’ of the lamp.

”Turn down the TV.”

You hear whatever cartoon she’s watching go down.

”Close your eyes.”

You know she won’t, but you say it anyway.

And then you sing. A soft little song. It’s simple and it’s sad, but it’s yours. Your voice cracks and goes out of tune. She doesn’t mind, and you could really care less who’s listening in. You’re just worried. You’re worried about the soft little girl waiting back home. Trying to sleep. Trying not to get sick. Trying to stay positive. Remembering to take her medicine. Missing you. Crying, because of you.

You pause and you listen to the pattern of her breathing. It’s even, and slow.

”Baby?” you whisper.

”huh?” she murmurs.

”Are you awake?”

There’s no reply.

”Hang up the phone, sweetie.”

There’s another pause and then a slurred “I love you” before the line disconnects.

You press the ‘end’ button on your phone and rest your head against the brick wall. You picture her fingers, tracing your arms, and then your neck, and then your jawbone. You picture them dancing across your lips, and then pressing down on your nose. Painting your face with scarlet, and then counting every eyelash. And then her lips, forming perfectly with yours.

And you close your eyes.

And suddenly one week doesn’t seem so far away, at all.
checked t.b.