hello

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Warnings: Abuse Mention, PDA, Sadness

With his breath on my cheek, I think I begin to understand his faults and his struggles. I grasp for a deeper understanding and for his hand.
There it is, thin fingers grazing my palm as his head falters, finding it's place in the crook of my neck where his tears soak my shirt and wet my skin. I use my spare arm to hook up and under his, burying my own fingers into his curly, blond locks of hair. The only noise besides our shallow breaths is the sound of cricket's sharp chirps, cutting through the crisp night air.

I don't want him to feel so lost in this world, even though it is inevitable. There is no other way; this world kills every last sliver of innocence a person has, blowing it out like a candle and leaving it in the dark. I want to be his wick. I want to be the thing that keeps his hope burning and alit. But, I am cold and hardened by the world he just barely escaped from. I can not be any good for the boy with the bruised face and trembling hands that is clinging to me so desperately, searching for something to keep his flame burning. I am not that. I know I can not help Ron Anderson. It makes me sick to my stomach, how I must be leading him on with hallow promises of friendship and love. I am not capable of such human ideals. Humanity left me long ago, back at the prison. My hope is gone.

Yet, here I am, holding him as if my own flame is still burning. I hear his whispering through his sobs, but I am not sure what he says. I turn my head, my face in his hair now where I inhale deeply, taking in his earthy scent mixed with the faint trace of shampoo and sweat. He is pressed against me and I know I am falling for him. He must know too, because I feel something wet on my collar bone that is not his tears, but his mouth. I allow his kisses.

He needs love. We both do.

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