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“I don’t know what made me do it. I’ve never wanted to hurt you before.”
“But now? Why?”
“...Oliver, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to hurt the whole world.”
“James.” I took his arm, turned him back toward me. Before I could decide what to do next, I felt his hand on my chest and glanced down. His palm was pressed against my shirt, his fingertips splayed across my collarbone. I waited for him to pull me closer or push me away.
But what do I want?
I waited, and every tick of the clock in the corner began to feel like a month. It was odd, compared to the rushing flood of the past few minutes.
James’s glance swinged up and down between his hand and my bruised cheek. I caught his eyes lingering on my lips for an instant, or maybe I just imagined it.
That’s not what I should be wanting. But then again, I had already decided to ignore that when I grabbed his arm. When I asked him if he was all right. When I came up here.
I did know what I wanted, after all. It had always been there, in the back of my mind. Leaning against my brain every time I thought of him, knocking on it every time I looked at him, and when I tried to drown it out by pressing Meredith’s lips on mine, it just started banging on it, shouting and screaming and eating me alive. But I just kept the door closed, because what would have happened if I were to unlock it?
His palm was warm on my chest, as if melting my shirt away.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to hurt the whole world.” Maybe he was scared of what he could do, as well. Maybe, his head was just as much of a mess as mine was. Maybe his true self was buried so deep under layers of grimy guilt and crusty shame and tangled up fears, that he just swept all the dust under a couple Shakespeare characters and all he could pull out of it were their own words.
…words like a quote from the balcony scene.
Had it been a reminder of his efforts? Then he’d better attach a demonstration. An invitation, perhaps? Then he had to go through with what he started.
But what if he simply can’t?
A cry for help?
Maybe I had to be the one making the decision we had been throwing back and forth from one another. Maybe I had to open up the door.
“James…” I let out again, barely a whisper.
And then he kissed me.
I was way too caught up in my surprise to take it all in. I didn’t properly feel his lips on mine, his lashes tickling my eyelids, his hair brushing against my forehead. I didn’t smell his bergamot shampoo how I had always wanted to. I didn’t distinctly hear the moment he took in his racing breath. James Farrow was kissing me, and I could only bask in my disbelief and taste the whiskey that had probably given him the nerve to do so.
As soon as the disbelieve gave way to realization, I barely parted my lips, ready for more, but I was met with void. Alarmed, I opened my eyes to see James backing out a step. He was studying my reaction with an illegible stare– doubtful, awed, apologetic, questioning. The pearlescent shine of the night sky peeked through the small window, making him glow like pale porcelain, so fragile yet so beautiful, and I was terrified he could have crumbled with a single brush of my skin. However, I also wanted more of what I had finally allowed myself to desire. And, maybe, my touch could hold him together, instead of making him fall apart.
“No, no– I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry– I–” he burst out, whether because of my unreadable stillness or his built up sense of guilt.
I cut him off, carefully taking his hand and softly pulling him back in.
Little did it matter that I deserved that apology, that I should have been mad. I wasn’t. Screw common sense, screw everything, all it took was one, pleading sentence telling me he hadn’t been acting like himself, and I believed him. I believed him because I knew who James was, and he was standing right in front of me. He was the good one. The hero. The boy that, while I shouted out hell at him, kept his mouth shut just because I asked him to. The boy who apologized profusely after pressing his lips on mine, the boy who came back to our Tower and stayed, despite everything.
I kissed him gently, like he had to be nurtured, relieved, wanting to envelop him into my arms and cocoon him until he’d heal from everything that had been torturing him. I cupped his cheek with the hand that wasn’t intertwined with his, and he pressed his left palm against my chest again, the right one sliding behind my neck and sinking beneath my short, dark curls.
He followed the lead of my lips, abandoning himself, as a display of trust, or as an apology, or both.
Desire grew uncontrollably in my chest, and so did anxiety. My heart pounded in my ribcage, my veins, my throat, and I couldn’t tell whether it was fear, pining, or the fear of my own pining. His lips were slim, chapped, tasted like winter; nothing like the smooth, round, velvety mouths I had experienced before. Everything was so dauntingly new. If it was so “wrong”, how could it feel so right? How could it be making me crave more? Was that okay?
My throbbing skin might have been a telltale sign of my thoughts –though it wouldn’t surprise me to know that James was simply able to read my mind–, and reassurance soon came from him. Ready to satisfy the need I was too petrified to indulge in, his lips barely parted and his tongue slid tentatively into my mouth, this time meeting mine. We unhindered each other, progressively reciprocating our growing hunger and catching up with each other’s increasing confidence.
He let his hands fall down to the back of my waist, resting upon the curve of my lower back. Satisfying his need for closeness, I wrapped my arms around his neck, as James tilted his head to the side and upwards. He took advantage of the shift to catch a breath, and a quiet moan escaped his mouth.
I needed to press myself against him as much as I could, to forge my body in a shape that complemented his, to annihilate the space between us. He’d been so distant since everything went down that I felt the urge to get as close as possible, as if doing so could bring us back before November 22nd. I wanted to finally catch him and see through his mask. I wanted James, my James.
As I tightened my grip around his neck and played with his hair, finally experiencing the silky feel of those black waves that I had longed for for ages, he returned my light push and deepened the kiss, exploring my mouth as if it was unknown yet familiar, natural. I wondered if he had kissed other boys before. Or maybe, it was just because I was the boy he was kissing.
We started to hold on so tight to one another that we lost our balance, stumbling a little bit, and he inevitably fell backwards, sitting onto my bed. I didn't want to let go, so my arms followed him around his neck, leaning forward. He was supporting himself with one elbow, the other hand still gripping the nape of my neck, desperate not to break apart. I craved him so much that I didn't even care that being in that position was breaking my back, until he took care of that himself and lied down, then slid up towards my headboard, and let me straddle him with my knees. I tumbled down to my side, and he rolled onto his to follow me. Our movements were kind of awkward, choppy, but I still felt comfortable, safe. Not as if I was being pulled out of reality, but as if we were sheltered inside our own little bubble of tranquility. Laying down in front of each other, sinking into the comforter, slowly and deeply twisting our tongues, I couldn't help but think of how new and different this was. He didn't kiss me like Meredith did, bursting with passion but with the lingering sensation that I was the last resort; he kissed me quietly, like I was some precious gift he had to handle with care and hold on to, after having risked losing it.
James's lips left mine as he started tracing my jaw with his kisses, slowly working his way up to my cheekbone, savoring every taste of my skin.
I shivered and held my breath, afraid of what would escape my mouth if I let it go.
Those past few minutes had erased all the latest events, including (and especially) our argument, but I paid the price of our easy forgetfulness once he reached a spot beside my eye, pressing his lips where my skin was still dark, swollen and sore. I could have bore that discomfort as a punishment for letting go of what he did too easily, as a price for the moments of paradise I was experiencing. Hell, I would have bore that pain three times if that meant I could live in that instant forever. However, I must have twitched or hissed, because James immediately pulled away, gaze filled with a kind of terror I’d only seen on him as he looked at agonizing Richard. He was paralyzed, lips trembling, eyes unnaturally wide and growing wet. Then he burst out, a whisper thick with desperation: “No, no no no, oh no, Oliver I’m so sorry-”
“James...”
“I'm so so sorry, I… I don't know what…”
“James, I-”
“I didn't… I shouldn't… I-”
“Shh,” I finally murmured under my breath, placing a hand behind his head, pulling it close so that it hovered inches over mine “I know.”
That was all it took for him to collapse, forehead falling heavily on my chest. His voice came out muffled, lips buried into my disheveled shirt: “I’m sorry… Oliver, I’m so sorr-”
“Shh.”
“No… no, I-”
“It’s okay.” He was trembling. A brittle, little sparrow in the barren cold. I nested him with my arms, my heart, my soul. Little did he know that, against all sense, he was protecting me as well. “We will be okay.”