Silver Lungs

Chapter One: Hot Mess; Hot Hands

She's not in love with him, she knows that when she pushes away from him and her bare body presses back down to his own slick chest. The two of them are tied down together, huddled up close in the tight confines of a single cab Chevy truck; it's the middle of September but the heat shared between them makes it feel like the hottest day in June. Between the smell of their breaths mingling and the tang of teenage sweat, the interior stinks of past make out sessions shoved back into the stained fabric of the bench seat. 

The windows are just barely cracked, and the doors are locked out of habit; outside the air is cold enough to be an obvious separation of temperatures. She breathes out on the glass, nose barely touching the cool surface as the hot air filters through; it flares up with fog until the only source of light outside, the moon, becomes nothing more than a blurry reflection on the creek's surface.

He's probably not in love with her either. But, he likes her in a way that makes it hard to admit. He attempts to cover his tracks by staring in the opposite direction and turning up the radio whenever any mention of feelings manages to come up in conversation, and for this reason she doesn't hold on too tight and counts whatever is between them day by day. 

"Come on, Dove," he whispers in a voice that probably sounds husky to himself. To the girl above him, it sounds completely wrecked. His fingers wrap around the nape of her neck, they only stay anchored because of the callouses of his rough hand earned after countless days spent as a farmer's hand, and he brings her back down to his lips.

She liked his mouth at first, it splits if she kisses too hard, becomes ruby red and swollen after a few minutes spent on her own. It's beginning to taste like mint gum and her own breath and empty space. All she imagines is the way he lies so easily, and how none of this really means anything and how many other people have been in the middle of nowhere, watching as everything that was supposed to mean something became nothing but a way to past time or forget time.

They kiss, Dove's mouth dancing with his, and when they part, it's obnoxiously loud in a way that makes her pretty blue eyes roll.

He thinks he's playing her. He thinks she's falling in love with him. He thinks he knows her, like she's simple and malleable and completely gone for him. That she'll give him everything because he calls her beautiful every other day and shakes her daddy's hand and compliments her momma.

It helps that the world is ending, too. That's probably why she continues to search for something she can only find temporarily in another warm body. And by this, she meant the heat from another human being, not the searing temperature of one of the wolves.

She likes it when he pushes his hands deeper into her back, and refuses to let go of her neck, and meets her halfway in between her frantic thrusts in search for friction. She trusts him enough with her body, even though his hands are lost and confused until they restrain. And how strange is that, she thinks, that the only thing he knows how to do is keep her flush against his body.

"I need your hands, Eli," she demands, fingers pushing up from where they had locked onto either side of his jaw to capture his wandering touch and plant one palm on her ass. The other escapes and moves to Eli's own accordance. It captures her hair, brings her up until she feels muggy air on her sticky abdomen. She bites her bottom lip like she wants more, even though she doesn't know if she really likes it.

"Damn girl," Eli tells her. It's the only coherent thing he can say in between his lips moving frantically over her skin. She doesn't say anything, just continues to grind down, and wonders why she trusts him enough to do these things to her body. Right, the world is ending. She forgets that sometimes.