His lips curl when he talks about him; he looks beautiful when he's jealous, which sounds shallow, but he's just like that, you know? His lips curl in the most exquisite way, lightly bitten from his own teeth and some whore's, probably, but he's still beautiful. He's still mine. Even if I miss him more than anything, Dallon is mine and always will be; I might sound like a selfish fucker for saying so, but it's true. I love him, I guess. He loves me; he reminds me every night.
I ignore him; tell him to fuck off, that I need space. He spits out something toxic that I ignore. Our relationship was never conventional; one fight isn't going to break us.
So he does; in a flash of teeth and icicle eyes, he leaves, and I don't start breathing until I hear the heavy slam of the door; then, I exhale, long and deep, letting my eyelids flicker. My lashes still stick together as they close and I hold my cellphone to my chest, my brain in a flurry of yesnomaybepossiblynoyesyesyes, the drunked thoughts overcoming any sober ones as I press the home button. I'm blinded by the bright light from the miniature sun inside the screen; I key in my passcode, getting it wrong four out of five times, before checking my texts. Hayley from Paramore wants to hang out. Fat chance. Pete from Fall Out Boy - the Pete, of course - wants to know how I'm holding up. Badly, of course. Like always. A few angry texts from Sarah, demanding me to text her back because she's worried. She's a groupie whore, really; she doesn't care about the band, or me, not truthfully. She probably just wants my dick. I roll my eyes, ignoring the PR texts about my latest fuck-up.
I decide against the stupid thoughts whispering in my ears to call him, hear his voice, talk to him, tell him I love him. Instead, I text Sarah; she's on the other bus, but I guess she'll do.
She appears after a quick text - im bored wnna cme over?? - but she doesn't hold her usual soft, seductive smirk. Her lips are downturned; her eyes stormy, free of makeup - no smoky eyeshadow or inch-thick eyeliner like usual; her face is clean. It makes her look vulnerable, especially accompanied with the ensemble of overly domestic pajamas she's wearing - a pair of pajama pants decorated with ducklings and mice, paired with an undershirt with our band's name on it. She sits beside my bed, but she doesn't touch me; instead she just stares, and it's strangely intimate and terrifying and electrifying all at once. Her lips part. She doesn't speak.
When she does it's strangely terrifying, electric; her voice is hollow just like her stare, and there I realize how incorrect all my assumptions about Sarah Orzechowski are. She is not a siren but rather a frightened girl, two years my junior, hiding behind bitten lips and seductive stares and soft hands lingering against my skin. She is small and weak and terrified, and yet. And yet, she still breathes.
"You should call him." She croons, "You haven't been yourself recently."
She's right; I am never myself. I am never what I like, however desperately I try to be. My skin isn't the right one for my body; it stings, fitting over my bones just enough to itch, but I can't pull it off, and it sticks, melding to me like the mascara on my eyelashes; like my skin, it's waterproof, so no matter how hard I cry, it stays and it sticks, making a big mess and I just sob into Sarah's neck.
Her hands are small, and gentle; her short fingernails brush against my scalp, soothing my tears as she runs them through my slightly greasy hair. I should shower. If I can be bothered. She hums something vaguely Polish in my ear; a croaky croon of a song, motherly and caring - the kind of thing her mother might've sung. I've never met her mother. I don't care for her mother already; I care for her far too much. I shouldn't get attached, but she's like a younger sister. A younger sister I've slept with, but a younger sister all the same.
She leaves ten minutes after I stop crying; she kisses my forehead before she leaves, however, and it fills me with warmth. It's definitely not a romantic feeling, however; it's.. a strange rush that's a mixture of affection and admiration for the fragile porcelain doll of a woman, and suddenly I realize I'm sober again. I groan, but decide against getting up to grab another beer. Instead, I fumble for my water bottle underneath my bunk. Maybe then I'll get some Tylenol, a Panadol, some kind of medication to stop my head from buzzing.
homesick (ryden/brallon)
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