(or, there is a boy in my world somewhere and somehow, and i wish he’d drop like ash)
his elbows dig into his thin sides like sticks glued too close its origination, and collarbones jut out against his smooth pale skin, just so delicately sloping it takes pains to actually resist running your fingers along the long descents. he’s way too skinny for your taste, perhaps his flesh was sucked out from incessant cigarette puffing, huff huff huff and now it’s all gone - but dear god, is this boy beautiful, one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever beheld with thine humble eyes. and you can’t help staring at him, his finely chipped and plastered yet suave muscle tones, the sharp angles at which the lines of his face rise and fall like, like fucking empires on fastforward, quick history lesson compacted to one look. his eyes flick upwards, noticing your gaze. embarrassed, you quickly avert, but it’s too late - his lips carve into a small smirk and he says, “something wrong?”
and he knows exactly what’s racing through your head, because he gets this reaction from e - very - one. his pompousness speaks for itself. “no, nothing’s wrong” - though something is wrong. very wrong indeed.
“what’s your name?” you ask in what you hope to be a cool, contained manner - but to your despair, he looks away, like he’s already lost interest.
“ash,” he answers simply.
now it is your turn to smirk. “ash, like the pokemon trainer?”
“no, ash, as in short for ashley, as in a perfectly reputable guy’s name.” his british lilt is huffy with indignance, and now you’ve probably insulted him beyond return. (at least, you console yourself, he’s not leaving.)
“ash,” you say, rolling the name over your tongue, languid, luxurious, but burning. you love the way the name leaves a bittersweet taste in your mouth, the kind that only comes after good perfume and good wine and midnight trips to the eiffel tower amidst summer rain and broken hearts. if you weren’t already intrigued, the man is a mystery of sorts, a beautiful enigma.
he glances at you. i’m merely that great puzzle, don’t go before you crack it all open. he says, “what do you want?”
what do i want? what do i want? what a question to ask, what a question to answer. perhaps i want a lot of things, perhaps i want, as one of my friends have phrased, to be your lever, just give me a place to stand; what is my place in this world, i want to know? maybe i want to know whether we’d be right, whether we’d be able to take the universe by storm, you and me, just by the forces of our very souls. (but of course i am nothing special, and you are everything in existence.) or that i merely want to love you, because i think you want to be loved, and i want to be loved back, because you know i want to be loved. or…or…
the world is flowing with possibilities. you smile, turn to him, and respond, “i want you to take my hand and never let go.”
(he takes it, and with a tip of his head, says, “agreed.”)
-
a/n: not the crazy ranting obsessions of a fangirl, i swear. think of it as a method towards achieving the beautiful. ;)
