Pencils & Polaroids

55: the storyteller

His back greets me, and then his heaving shoulders, and then his loosely hanging hands hitching on his waist tenses as I step on a dried pine tree branch. His chin subtly shifts to one of his shoulders but he doesn't fully turn to recognize me. 

"I don't want to talk." His voice and his words, they're both rough. 

Thank you, Grayson. "Me neither. I came for a walk." 

His tilted face now faces the sky. He breathes out a loud exhale and fog appears out of his mouth. "I want to be alone."

When someone wants privacy, you give them. There is only so much I can try. If what he really wants is to be left alone, I can't force my presence onto him. I'm not that kind of person. I can never be. 

So I give him his privacy. I sigh and turn around, ready to leave. I cause another rustle as I step on a bunch of dry twigs. But I don't say anything to worsen his mood anymore. I continue to return. 

"Park!" I see him turning around with his hands still hanging on his waist. "You're really leaving?" 

What the heck! "You told me you wanted to be alone--"

"So?" His hands drop down in disappointment. "Fight me. You're stubborn everywhere else, push a little here too. Don't give up so soon. I'm worth at least a little effort." 

A little effort? I walked into the fucking woods at 11:30 on a very cold December night. I am freezing and I am not having fun. This is more than just a little effort. 

I remember Grayson's words and play it on a loop inside my head. When he said violent mood swings, I thought it would be a 7/10. I didn't think it was on the high PMS radar. I hold back my immediate reaction and step back into the clearing. Closer to him. 

"Do you want me to be practical or corny?" 

His brows furrow. "Neither. Both. I don't know." 

Definitely PMSing. "Okay, do you want a solution or do you just want me to comfort you?" 

"I don't want to play this or that!" He lashes out again. "I just-- I tried not to let him affect me. I t-tried--I hate that man! I don't--my head feels like it's on fire. I feel cold and hot at the same time. I'm sweating and shivering--my ears are ringing and I can't breathe--I can't figure out--" he shakes his head looking away "--I don't know what's happening." 

I do. He's having a mild panic attack. He didn't come first in the camp, his father humiliated him in front of everyone, he is shit scared about the exam, and it's all piling up. There is only so much stress even he can take. This is a lot for him. He's being too hard on himself. 

I near him until I can get the scent of his perfume mixed with cold sweat. I look up at his hesitant eyes and get them to latch onto mine. And then, I wrap my arms around his waist and push my head into the crook of his neck. His thick white hoodie feels like fur under my cheeks. I tug on the fabric tighter and squeeze his frame inside my small arms. 

A moment later, his chin falls on the top of my head and both his arms completely glue me to his chest. He sighs at the same time his eyes close shut. His entire face bows down and rests on my head. 

We lose track of time in that hug. I don't know when I decide to tilt my face and toe up to reach his cheek. I don't know how many soft butterfly kisses I end up pecking on his cheek before he moves his head and takes my lips in his. Soft kisses don't hasten but they become deep and intense. His hands move from my back to the back of my head. He grabs a fistful of my hair to angle my face before diving further inside my mouth. 

It was the longest that we'd kissed. Rhythmic, not breathless, and so long. By the time we stopped, both our faces were red, both our lips flush and swollen, and both our eyes dripping with desire.