Disclaimer: Something witty, okay. Oh and something about me not owning iCarly. But mostly something witty.
A/N: Funny that I continue on in one of my least reviewed stories but the style is a welcomed break from my normal ventures and 'Not Your Demographic' desired resolution and so did I kind of. Though it's not really a resolution, but there is acceptance! Chapter title and first line is borrowed from Mewithoutyou, A sweater poorly knit.
Thanks to Vix for the beta.
The music our collisions make.
He does not exist, only she exists.
Happiness is lamence terms, misery is poetic.
Until this point; until things went so far off course did he finally understand insightfulness is a curse when the realization hits you that another human being has become more vital to you than the oxygen filling your lungs. He still can't tell if it's her making his chest swell and reside or if it's just the air.
Either answer is devastating for their own special reason.
He pulls away slow and painful, like a dragging handclap provoking from her a dying sound wrapped in a heavy breath; a growl of protest that heats his bottom lip, which is caught between her teeth.
She releases him, looks up at him and presses harshly against him in one movement.
Eyes held need and want and heat.
She's like a candle standing there in the dark. Burning and burning, dripping her hot wax essence on top his skin and making sure it melts and blends until there is never a chance he'll be able to wash her off.
He's blinking hard to keep focus, her hands sneaking up and resting in the hollow between his shoulder blades.
"We can't do this anymore."
She laughs and it's warm, thick and heartrending.
It dies out to a confused whisper of his name when he untangles himself and walks right out the door.
It's been a week and the withdraw almost brings him to his knees.
He knew he was addicted, it's clear now he's an addict. He misses her so much that he breaks in two every three to five minutes with the vision of her body swaying towards him with treacherous intention. If he could just reach out and touch, feel those coaxing curves one more time then it might be enough and not nearly enough to exist for the next moment.
In one intense breath, he exhales (purges) the desire trapping him in this state of longing and in one intense second, he thinks maybe he can recover from her.
The indulgence is brief, falling and failing; gone.
He goes back to burning.
They just got done filming iCarly and the tension in the room is so suffocating that they should all be dead in a matter of moments.
But they don't die and he just wants to die every time she looks over at him with a hardened glare and those lips strained in a thin line. She's pissed at him because the universe doesn't feel like there is enough unfairness filtered through irony floating around the world.
He swallows the bile coating everything and continues to ignore her which in turn causes her to glare even more.
Good, he thinks.
Let her experience the stabbing feeling that has been ripping at his gut for months now, he hopes.
Chest tightens, tears well and he lays sheltered under the bed sheets.
He's bitter to the point of plotting her death, that's how messed up she's got him. He has everything planned right up to her painted white skin; like porcelain to match the all black burial dress.
Disgustingly, he misses her.
Hopelessly, he dreams of her.
She corners him on the fire escape and in equal parts, he fears for his life and feels shame for the rush of desire and adrenaline through his blood.
"We're done playing this little game."
Cue the marker for violent kiss.
Pan the camera for arms flailing before his back is brutally shoved into the brick of the wall while she tries to murder him with her lips, those lips.
Breathing becomes an issue. A slight one.
Minute later, it becomes a large one. They pull apart and it's all ragged inhale and exhale. It's all nails digging into forearms and bodies flush against one and other.
"I- I'm not going to back down. I don't want to do this deal anymore." He paused, forcing courage into his chest and the words out his throat. "I want something more than this."
She stares at him, it's unnerving and never ending.
"So call it what you want."
And her lips are back on his, and then his jaw line, trailing down to his neck. His thoughts get off track, he's dazed by the want buzzing through his bones. This blissful bewilderment doesn't last long though. He yelps in more of surprise than pain when she bites down on his collarbone and whispers heavily into his skin.
"But it is what it is."
When she moves back up to reclaim his lips for the third time, he's not sure who just won. If this was her admitting and agreeing to a relationship masked in her usual careless way or just more of the same they've been molding for the last two months.
In the end, he decides it's him who has won because he's tried walking away from her but all roads just seem to lead right back into her.
It saves time and sore feet to stand in place while she wraps all around him and just listen to the music their collisions make.