Electricity, for twilightprompts.
He watches her dream, and he can recall the days of his life when he was not unusual, electric. When he did not burn with something close to fire.
( +++++ )
They hum. She does not realize the extent of it — perhaps she shouldn’t — but there are silent tones ringing in the space between them, and with their constant presence he can feel even the slightest change in her atmosphere.
It’s Wednesday, and she is humming to him even now. Her hair is a dark bird against the pillow, her breath fanning heat into their negative space, and he cannot help but be drawn to her. He pays attention to the days now; doesn’t just let them slip through his fingers, doesn’t let the hours simply melt together and away. He watches her dream, and he can recall the days of his life when he was not unusual, electric. When he did not burn with something close to fire.
She did not exist for him then. He tries not to dwell. But dawn is beginning to glow on the horizon and his skin prickles in an understanding beyond him, his insides filling with a yearning to go, his heart with the need to stay. He reaches, carefully, so carefully, and brushes his fingers lightly across her cheek, her lips. He does not know how far this will take him. He does not want to know.
When he runs home, air whipping around him and a restlessness coiling unbidden in his legs, he feels as if he is heading in the wrong direction.
She remembers her dream. It was of him, as it is always invariably of him, and her mind curls warmly around his name while she slips from underneath her covers. Edward. She shuffles to the window, peers through the yellow lace to watch how grey suffuses the sky. It seems like the clouds have not shifted in days, but it no longer feels like the cage she once assumed it would be, no longer feels as if they are refusing the sun its rightful domain. It feels safer than that. Her sigh breaks against the panes, creating a heart of fog on the glass.
He is waiting in her driveway, as always, and the excitement of it rushes through her with a force she does not wish to get used to. He asks her odd questions; scattered thoughts about her favorite words, her peculiar dislikes, her need for direction. His laugh enchants her, pulls her into the resounding chimes as it echoes impossibly in her ears. She listens to his voice as he tells her a story about the habits of humans at lunch and she smiles, thinking only of him, of his intangible draw. She feels flushed and glowing when they walk together to Biology.
And it is there, then, that she comes to realize exactly how far he draws her in. The video begins and the dark space in between them rings suddenly and intensely with an electricity she has never felt before. It crawls through her system and lights her nerves, and her thoughts become disordered, erratic, centered only on him. Her body aches to be closer, as if they are magnets meant to collide, and her fingers itch to smooth over his skin. She feels flustered and absurd, her face red and her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. It is almost too much to bear.
And then, from the corner of her eye, she can see his hand lift toward her before hesitating, hovering in the heavy space between their bodies. Her lungs feel, inexplicably, as if they are going to stop working, and her heart is red hot—molten in her ribs. She can feel every part of her waiting for him, can feel the atoms shift around him when he blinks, can feel him when he draws his arm back and places his hand carefully on their table.
She is not thinking when her hand reaches out for his.
The very second her fingers slide across his, cool and smooth, the relief is as painful as it is instantaneous. Her heart stutters, veins shuddering and heat flooding her system and there is nothing, nothing that could compare to this. His breathing is quick and quiet, almost labored, and his eyes close slowly, as if it causes him great effort. He pulls his hand carefully out from under hers, his fingers curling into fists under the table. He is still for the rest of the hour.
They walk to her next class in silence, and when she turns to him, to bid him farewell, his lips are suddenly against her forehead and her heart stops. Stutters. Restarts. His breath falls across her face as he says goodbye and she can only stand, dazed and unmoving, as he walks away.
She knows that if she had any doubts before, they would have vanished in that moment, curling up into the sky like smoke.
She knows that she would not be able to part from him.
It takes all of his will not to turn back to her. He can feel her skin humming to his, even now, and remembers the white-hot pressure of her fingers against his. His dead lungs burn with her last breath and he knows, beyond anything, that he has no choice.
He could not be apart from her.