a / n . I've been tinkering around with this for nearly a week now, and I'm still not completely satisfied with it, but I've decided to put it aside and focus on more pressing things. So, yeah.
For CherryFlavoredChalk because she's made of awesome and has already dedicated way more stories to me than anyone deserves. And, dear, you deserve so much better.
d r o p ; ;
if it hurts, kiss it better.
He knows it isn't right. The way he strings him along with too smooth moves and promises he has no desire to keep. He knows it's wrong to do this, because after all, he's so terribly young and flame-laced touches and sweat-sticky skin are a far cry from candy-spun dreams and low tide lullabies.
But, these games of infatuation-captivation-ohIneedanoperation are so horribly addictive, especially when the decks are stacked in your favor—when you can fold if the stakes get too high.
Besides, he's always wanted an angel (placed in his palm with his fists closed around it, squeeze until its hollow bird bones b r e a k). And when he was angry or sad or just plain bored he could pluck its feathers and twirl them between his fingers. He could throw its halo like a frisbee and watch it crash into the wall—break and shake things up.
"I think I love you." his angel-boys says, lips swollen and cracked and tasting faintly of damnation—smoke and ash and soot. But Axel thinks halos might look better when they lie rusted on the floor, anyway.
The red-haired devil snubs his cigarette out in the ashtray and leaves it there to rot, (and take this to heart, darling, all white things end in smoke and soot and you're well on your way) leaves the boy's words hanging on nooses, because this isn't love. This is heat and limbs and thrills you can't buy at the convenient store. This is a fall from grace without parachutes or paramedics—wake up, shaken up, plastered on asphalt.
And, baby, don't bother getting up.