Ficlet: Meeting
Thursday, April 22nd, 2004 01:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seraiThanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
goldilocks_took for the pic. I hope you're satisfied. ;P
Meeting
by Serai
I look at him, sitting there on the couch, running his finger down the side of a page as he skims the script. The rose of his lips and the soft skin on the inside of his elbow. Long lashes feathering his eyelids, and he's so young, so sweetly young, that suddenly I feel like weeping. Tears prickle behind my eyes, and I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep them in, because I know he'll never look at me. Oh, he will, but not with the look I want. He'll smile and be attentive and polite at first, his eyes will spark and then sharpen as his interest grows progressively more intense. His heart will start to race just a little, and the blood will come up in his cheeks. He'll gesture and laugh and become more excited with every minute.
But it won't be me that does that to him, I know that. It'll be the pages in front of him, the people in those pages, and the ideas attached to them. The challenge. As we talk I'll watch him, a part of me tied and helpless, hearing those tones and colors in his crackling, happy voice, and imagining him instead whispering in a darkened room, that politely composed face instead slack and hypnotized, a droplet trickling down his temple, and the shift and strain of muscles in those deceptively slender arms. As I tell him about relationships and motivations, I'll be envisioning that velvet throat arched back in dim light, and the ghost of rhythm will echo in my mind, skin sliding on skin, the taste of salt, the secrets of his mouth. His hands will flutter and mold the air as he meets me halfway with his own theories, and all that time I'll be imagining those fingers at my neck, my thighs, clutching my ass, stroking my cleft, plundering me. Teeth at my shoulder, making me scream.
And he'll say yes, I know he will, for how could he not? We'll talk for an hour or two or three, and he'll leave flushed and happy, buzzing with the chance of a lifetime, one that maybe he thought he'd never get. He'll go out into a world that gives him what he wants - a bright future, a charmed life, a brave new world out there in the sweet sunlit day. I'll go on with my own day holding it all inside; I'll drive home, answer calls (how'd it go dude?), fight the butterflies in my stomach. It'll all start now, the change in my life - from this moment on, nothing will be the same.
And not until the night comes down and I finally unwind, sliding into my bed and the coolth of my sheets, folding in on myself and opening that bundle of heat and nerves and the vision of moist lips and brilliant eyes that look like they're in love only they aren't - not until then will I let go, let it all race over me in a phantom tide of memory and imagination, frantic movements releasing the storm that will drown me. And I won't cry 'til then.
I won't.
goldilocks_took for the pic. I hope you're satisfied. ;Pby Serai
I look at him, sitting there on the couch, running his finger down the side of a page as he skims the script. The rose of his lips and the soft skin on the inside of his elbow. Long lashes feathering his eyelids, and he's so young, so sweetly young, that suddenly I feel like weeping. Tears prickle behind my eyes, and I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep them in, because I know he'll never look at me. Oh, he will, but not with the look I want. He'll smile and be attentive and polite at first, his eyes will spark and then sharpen as his interest grows progressively more intense. His heart will start to race just a little, and the blood will come up in his cheeks. He'll gesture and laugh and become more excited with every minute.
But it won't be me that does that to him, I know that. It'll be the pages in front of him, the people in those pages, and the ideas attached to them. The challenge. As we talk I'll watch him, a part of me tied and helpless, hearing those tones and colors in his crackling, happy voice, and imagining him instead whispering in a darkened room, that politely composed face instead slack and hypnotized, a droplet trickling down his temple, and the shift and strain of muscles in those deceptively slender arms. As I tell him about relationships and motivations, I'll be envisioning that velvet throat arched back in dim light, and the ghost of rhythm will echo in my mind, skin sliding on skin, the taste of salt, the secrets of his mouth. His hands will flutter and mold the air as he meets me halfway with his own theories, and all that time I'll be imagining those fingers at my neck, my thighs, clutching my ass, stroking my cleft, plundering me. Teeth at my shoulder, making me scream.
And he'll say yes, I know he will, for how could he not? We'll talk for an hour or two or three, and he'll leave flushed and happy, buzzing with the chance of a lifetime, one that maybe he thought he'd never get. He'll go out into a world that gives him what he wants - a bright future, a charmed life, a brave new world out there in the sweet sunlit day. I'll go on with my own day holding it all inside; I'll drive home, answer calls (how'd it go dude?), fight the butterflies in my stomach. It'll all start now, the change in my life - from this moment on, nothing will be the same.
And not until the night comes down and I finally unwind, sliding into my bed and the coolth of my sheets, folding in on myself and opening that bundle of heat and nerves and the vision of moist lips and brilliant eyes that look like they're in love only they aren't - not until then will I let go, let it all race over me in a phantom tide of memory and imagination, frantic movements releasing the storm that will drown me. And I won't cry 'til then.
I won't.
