Kismet

Thirteen [The Spark]

He didn't think that you had noticed anything unusual about his behavior from the coffee shop incident since you never mentioned it, but now he realizes that you've just been polite this entire time by not accusing him. His paranoia begins to send him into a backwards somersault, his thoughts wild with how many other perceptions you've made or what conclusions you've drawn without his knowledge. He considers lying but he knows at this point it would only be regarded as suspicious, "I - did. Yeah." His cheeks flame, he isn't comfortable enough to dig the depths of his extensive premonitions about you but his mind blanks when he tries to think of a way to change to subject.

The amount of questions that climb in your throat are almost unbearable; wondering how detailed or coherent the dreams are, how often he has them, if they ever reoccur, whether or not he always sees the evidence of their impact, if he's ever intervened with one and if there is any way to control them. Your hands are squeezing his so tightly that his fingers start to sting, your brain hopscotching with ideas, inquiries, fears and empathy, "do you ever have dreams that aren't predictions?" He nods and your next question pops out on top of his feeble gesture, "how do you know the difference?"

He feels desperate to talk about something different but he hopes that if he answers your questions as lucidly as possible you will eventually begin to paint your own picture, "premonitions are in color. Really vivid color. Ordinary dreams are dull, black-and-white. Usually things that have already happened that I'm rewatching."

You consider this for a moment before scooting closer to him, your knees bumping and overlapping with his as you turn his face to align with yours, "your volcano dream... was it in color?" He nods and closes his eyes, trying desperately to keep the images dormant, "when will it happen?"

He rolls his lips together before releasing them, their curve somehow appearing even more plump than usual. Their color is a shocking magenta that complements the emerald of his eyes, highlighted by the backdrop of gray skies and the manmade mountainous landscape of steel buildings, "either today or tomorrow."

You feel satisfied with the amount of information he has graciously and generously agreed to reveal, the tears on his cheeks nearly dry but his eyelashes are still wet and impossibly dark as they fan out across the tops of his cheeks and flit just underneath his eyebrows with each blink. Stubble litters his upper lip and jaw, his lips separating just enough to reveal his opaline top teeth. It's easy to imagine how exquisite he would look with nights of decent sleep, a filling meal and that internal sunshine that gleams from the patter of your heart when someone loves you and you know it.

The person before you is drained both physically and mentally but it seems as though nothing could shroud his beauty, "we can stop talking about it. I'm sorry if I pushed you and thank you for sharing what you did." You lean towards him and cup the back of his neck, the volume of your voice lowering with your new proximity and his heart slows to a crawl to match, "I will do whatever I can to distract you and make you feel happy, drown those horrible images and sinking grief. Make you waffles and watch movies somewhere under comfy blankets with a shrine of candles all around us. I'd like to kiss you again. And again. And again..."

A soft moan slips from the back of his throat when your fingers drift into his hair and grip tightly, pulling him close to cave the notch between your mouths and seal your lips together with a sharp inhale through your nose. His fingers curl against the tops of your thighs and dig into the dark denim there, drinking you in and savoring each dip and arc of your mouth. Your stomach is churning at the plush sensation of his kiss, the very tip of his tongue peeking out to trace a line against your sensitive skin.

He tilts his head and deepens the embrace, your tongues finding one another to flick in infinite strokes that are punctuated with the sweetest of pecks. He's a skilled kisser, not too surprising based on his looks and physical grace alone but a bit unforeseen due to his modesty. One of his hands leaves your thigh and reappears tucked into the hair at the base of your neck, a cushioned whine slipping from your tongue and disappearing down his throat.