You and I » Lip Gallagher [1] {EDITING}

»part 15 » immature idiots

           

We're together.

What do you call two people who can't breathe when they're apart? Two people who instantly grow colder when they're separated? Two people who can't keep their hands to themselves when they're finally reunited?

Fuck buddies?

I don't think so. At least I hope not. Lip is more to me than that and I'm more than that to him. I know it.  It's in the way he holds my hand. It's in the way he kisses the side of my mouth. It's in the way he looks at me with low lids. It's in the way he breathes my air. It's in the way he is my air.

It's in the way we are.

We're more to each other than people could ever understand.

We're us. And I reek pity for anyone who tries to take that away from us.

I forgave him for forgetting my birthday. After he lit the wick of that candle he also lit a fire in my soul. A fire that told me that what we had was untouchable.

Whether we defined it or not. Labels were for punks anyways. Right?

The Gallagher's still don't know. If they found out who knows what would happen. We'll tell them, eventually. Until then, it's stolen looks and stolen kisses.

I'm fine. Really, I am. This is okay.

It's good.

After an awkward dinner with the Gallagher's, Monica, and Bob, things sort of fell into place. Monica was outnumbered by her kids who were more than willing to fight for Liam. She had an emotional departure that didn't include their beloved baby brother.

Now that, that's what a family is. There didn't have to be a mother or father. There only had to be love because sometimes blood isn't thicker than water. Especially if that blood is watered down with cheap vodka and wine, like my family.

The Gallagher's were family. And I needed to relish in that while I could.

So Lip and I couldn't exist while family was around.

And I was okay with that. I think.

Lip and I were sitting under the train tracks, tangled together on the battered couch that seen more action than a bed. If the couch could talk, it'd scream.

My ear was glued to his heart as he played with my fingers, "What school were you talking to?"

I closed my eyes listening to the rhythm of his heart, "Some art school in San Francisco."

I could hear his heart pick up.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"San Francisco, huh?" He didn't seem the bit enthused.

I traced the length of his long fingers with mine, "I guess they have a good fine arts program or something." I shrugged.

He remained quiet before speaking, "I didn't think you wanted to go to school."