So, my summer vacation went a little long. I mean, I usually take a break from the internet during summer, but apparently I still haven't back into the swing of things. And I haven't been watching GH lately, just every once in a while. But here's a little something to help me get back in the writing mood. It's one of those five-by-five challenges, which I'm very fond of.
Title from I'm Your Moon, by Jonathan Coulton. And un-betaed, as usual, so please point out any mistakes.
I'm Your Moon
Five Times Spinelli Didn't Tell Maxie He Loved Her
If I should be so bold
I'd ask you to hold my heart in your hand-- Jason Mraz
"I…" Spinelli says, eyes wide, wet, trying to take in everything he can. "I…"
Maxie is small beneath him, so small, too small for someone with such a larger than life spirit. But every piece of her fits perfectly with him – her skin just right beneath his fingers, the sweat of her skin just right against his tongue.
The strands of Maxie's hair fan out around her head, the couch a perfect backdrop for her beauty in this moment. His skin is on fire, his mouth is parched, and Maxie is the last bit of cool in the universe- the only bit for him.
"Spinelli." She cries, her little hands on his face, and he forgets words.
His breath stutters in his throat, caught up with too many words with too much meaning, his tongue suddenly too afraid to shape the air into the words he wants to tell her. That she's beautiful, that he loves her, that never in his life could he have imagined someone like her. If only he could tell her.
Maxie gestured fluidly, her hands in motion with the words she says, Gucci and Prada falling from her lips like gods—something about those beautiful things made for beautiful people. He thinks of Maxie in a red dress, her skin beneath his fingers, her flesh against his palm.
"Are you okay, Spinelli?" Maxie asked, mid-tirade against some false idol of fashion. Her gaze is so soft, so worried and caring, so – friendly.
Spinelli coughed. "Y-Yeah. Just got something in my throat."
"You-you should just tell her."
Spinelli eyed the bottle of liquid burn with distrust. "I think the Dark Prince has drank too much."
Johnny sighed, tilting to the side. His eyes were glazed and far away, but Spinelli knew they were focused right on him. "No, you-you should. Tell her." The Zacchara hiccupped and blinked. "You know, before—before it's too late."
"Wow." Spinelli tugged the bottle away. "The Jackal had always thought you'd be an angry drunk, but you're just depressing."
How he had wound up with Johnny Zacchara on the peer, sharing vodka and morose stories –it's one event after another after another, and it ends here. Two lonely men without the women they love. The difference between them is that Johnny's love life just isn't working out, and Spinelli hasn't yet set himself up for rejection.
Johnny pressed his forehead against the cool metal railing, stretching out his dangling legs. "I love you. It's easy to say it. Meaning it is the hard part." Port Charles is cool, and the breeze is salty. Spinelli fidgets with the sleeves of his hoodie and thinks I mean it. I would say it and I would mean it.
Behind them, there's the click-click-clack of expensive shoes coming down the stairs and then the angel's voice is in the air. "Hey, what are you two doing out here?"
Spinelli doesn't turn around. He doesn't turn to look because if he did, he knows he would see her, glowing under the moonlight, tired from a long day of work and so, so happy. He would see her, and he'd already had too many mouthfuls of fire, and he knows it will all slip out at once. "Nothing."
Next to him, Johnny lays back to talk to the sky. "I love you," he says," I love you, I love you, I love you."
"Really, Spinelli, why does it have to be so hard to find a guy around here?"
Maxie flopped dramatically onto the seat across from him, her little leather purse nearly knocking over Spinelli's orange soda. She stole a barbeque chip off his plate. "I mean, I'm pretty, right?"
"That's an understatement, Maximista." He swore.
"And I'm not completely stupid, am I?"
"No!" he exclaimed.
Maxie sighed. "So why is it so hard to find a guy who gets me?"
"I get you." Spinelli mumbled.
Maxie blinked. "What?"
Spinelli raised his head and swallowed thickly. "I said, do you want my muffin?"
"Are you alright, Spinelli?" Maxie fretted, her hands flitting around, tucking in his blanket, pulling at his pillow. She cut him off before he could answer. "No, stupid question, of course you're not."
Maxie's blessedly unharmed, save for the small scrapes on her hands, and the fact warms him through his drugged haze. It feels good, having all her concern, all her attention on him. Better than if they'd let him have his laptop and chips and orange soda in the hospital room. "Maximista." He slurred, throwing in too many ms and not enough vowels.
She shushed him, smoothing down some of the wild hair on his head. "Dr. Hunter said you need to rest," she urged, blinking too often. Then quietly, she whispered. "You saved me, Spin."
"Because-" he started, and licked his lips, his own blinking becoming slower and longer. "It's because I-" love you, he finished silently, eyes shutting, too heavy for him to lift them again. The last thing he sees is Maxie's attentive, inquisitive face above him, haloed by the bright hospital lights.