A/N: High school is lame. Anyway, I'm not the most religious person on the planet, but for some reason, I opened up Word and out came this.
And then there's you and there's her, underneath the glare of a deity you don't believe in, watchful eyes staring you down. You fear you may just get struck by lightning; you're tainting one of God's angels, and she'll never quite be the same.
Watch as she looks at you like you're a savior, a saint to help her with her problems and to want her and to cherish her. Watch as she closes her eyes because she doesn't want to see what she's doing. Hear her whisper your name.
It's like you're Adam and Eve, the first boy and girl of all time, fumbling and new and inexperienced. (You may as well be a virgin.)
Her eyes are closed – you think she may be wishing it's someone else.
You're savoring her and holding her and wanting her (it's what she needs). There's a flash of pain in her eyes, a quick hitch in her breath. You pause, she breathes; you always knew you'd hurt her.
"I need you," she says in a soft promise.
And there's something like the truth in her eyes, something like sadness, something like bitterness. She doesn't want it to be you; it's not a surprise (not really).
But you don't stop. You're not that person, not Finn, not anyone. You're just a means to the end, a bump along the way before Heaven calls her.
You always knew it'd end like this, the day God sent you to hell; you'd break something that wasn't yours and commit the worst sin in the world.
(Didn't you always know you'd hurt her?)
The end of the world doesn't happen in 2012. The day of reckoning doesn't come just yet; it doesn't end with science or God or death.
It ends with her; wide green eyes and wispy blonde hair and a broken smile. A kiss on the cheek. A fleeting memory of ghastly butterfly wings against your skin, thrumming in your blood.
She's smiling. Her smile always made you want to sing, dance, laugh; it always made you want to see it again, hear the tingling of her laugh in your ears, like the purest bell in the world.
(But this time you only want to cry.)
"But I love you," is the argument right now.
And you watch as she closes her eyes when you say the words; you watch as she swallows, her throat constricting as you speak. It's a soft breath of hesitance, a moment of uncertainty, and you know that you've lost. You can already hear the words before they come out:
"It's not that simple," she says.
The end of the world does not end with your death but rather with the burst of life in her eyes, the press of her lips to your skin. You can smell her sweet breath, her perfume, her hair; it's swathed in a halo around her head.
It's as if she's sending you to Hell.
On the third day, you awake from your dreaming state and decide you must have her. God will hate you for hurting his angel again but you know you must tell her, you must be that savior for her again.
She's walking down the hallway in a white dress (perhaps she's the angel of death); and she's so pure, she's so untouched, she's so...
There's something in her eyes that you don't understand – something like rapture and fear and warmth, flitting by in rapid technicolor. Her eyelashes fall, her lids fluttering closed; like the beat of feathery wings.
"I love you." You're hurting her again. But haven't you always known you would?
There's tears in her eyes and a word on her lips but you capture the word before it can escape, swallow it into the depths of your stomach, kiss her lips and take her hands and beg her to look at you again, see the savior and the one she wanted to cherish, to want.
She holds your heart in her hand, pressing her palm against your chest. It thrashes there, wanting her to hold it, to carry it forever.
"I know," she tells you when you let her breathe.
It sounds less like a promise; it sounds more like acceptance.
In the rain, no one knows she's crying. Not even God.
He holds her close, wrapping his coat around her body, huddling underneath an oak tree in the park. Through the thunder you don't even hear her sobs.
"Why can't you leave me alone?" she sobs, clutching onto your heart and your skin, tearing welts into the tender flesh. "Why can't you let me go?"
You brush the cold, wet hair out of her eyes. "Because I love you," you say, like it's the easiest thing in the world. You're the Adam and she's the Eve; you're the chaser and she wants to run forever. Her legs are weary and her eyes are falling.
You take her hand and link her fingers through yours. Because I love you.
"Stop doing this to me," she begs you, she implores you. "Stop making me..."
She doesn't finish what she's saying; there's a flash of lightning and booming thunder, drowning out her thoughts and her words and forcing her to swallow it all.
In the rain, you can't see her crying, yet you feel the warm tears on your skin as you succeed in what you always knew you would do.
("Because I love you.")
In the darkness you can forget she's an angel.
You can watch the darkness cover her, watch the shadows press into her skin. She looks like she's on your level, now; a demon, an outcast, just like you. A fallen angel. (Has she always been a Lucifer?)
She's not there; she's here, in the darkness, with the crickets surrounding them in an ominous tune, the song of the river of Styx. They play it so well.
You hold her like you're dancing to the melody of sin; there's no music, there's no flashing lights or prom dresses or beats.
It's just you (it's just her), on the same level, on the same page for once.
"I can't let you go," you tell her. Her fingers are in yours, linked tightly together, as if you cannot bear to tear them apart. Her palms are cold, her hands are soft; she's such a beautiful Eve. "I'm sorry."
She doesn't answer, yet she doesn't let go either, pressing her face into your shoulder, wrapping her arms around your body.
"I love you," she tells you; dead butterflies whisk behind your eyes, full of stars and primordial joy. She meets your gaze; she smiles; you think you need to see it again.
God glares down at them from the blazing nova above them, the velvet sky shining with moonlight and rhinestone stars.
You always knew you'd corrupt the angel.
"Do you?" You search her face for something like regret or sorrow or bitterness. There is nothing but bliss and a hint of fear; there is not even a wisp of hesitation.
(You can see from the recognition in her eyes, the fright behind her smile, that you are not the first boy and girl in the world at all; she is the Eve and you are the snake.)
"Forever?" Take this apple from this tree, m'dear.
She lifts her head and captures your thoughts with her lips, holds the unsaid joy on her tongue. (Eve takes a bite from the apple; the air is fragrant with sin.)