to love or lust [mike schmidt AU]

iv.

iv.

[blood]

                       there must have been
                              an angel by my side
                                   something heavenly
                                                  led me to you

kiss of life — sade

| "This doesn't mean we're friends." |

MIKE.

Trembling, and with her face sickly pale, Sol bends over to gather the red roses discarded across the floor. She's barefoot, standing on her tip toes to avoid fully stepping on glass. She appears in shock, going through the motions, numbed to the danger the glass presents. Her long, french-tip acrylic nails are what lifts the roses off of the floor. She shakes the rose free of glass, and with it, tumbles out little pieces of shards. I stand there, too, dumbfounded; my heart feels like it's going to explode with how fast it beats, but Sol takes this in stride, picking up the roses and scraping aside the glass.

I don't know how to tell her to stop.

She bends her knees and still manages to be on her toes—it's impressive, but a threatening position to hold, because if she topples over, she'll land on thick shards. And she isn't covered by any means to prevent glass from cutting her; she's in black spandex shorts and a white camisole.

I swallow my adrenaline and push our differences aside.

I bend down to her level in silence. I help her pick up the roses.

"No, no, no, don't," she says to me, under her breath. Her slightly vulnerable voice seizes the breath of my own. It catches in my throat. She's so quiet—a direct contrast to the volume of her voice just moments ago. Had I not been paying attention to her quivering lips, I wouldn't have heard her speak. She moves quicker now, trying to prohibit me from helping. I pause for a few seconds. There's one rose in my hand. She snatches it from me, just barely scratching me with the point of her long nails. "Don't. I don't need your help."

She doesn't even look at me. Sol looks ashamed, embarrassed.

I don't listen to her. There's about seven roses left on the floor, out of the twenty or so in her hands. She's struggling to carry them all, and while she gathers more roses, a few fall out of her pile.

I wait a beat before I continue helping her. I extend my hand, careful not to startle her with any sudden movement of mine. I lift a single rose in my hand, and she's tugging it out of my grasp.

I sigh in defeat.

Sol hisses—a thorn had pierced her skin when she grabbed it from me. I give her a disapproving look, but there's hints of concern. With the roses bunched in her arms, she begins scraping the glass all to one side, which isn't a smart idea considering she could cut herself even more. And I notice, where the thorn had cut her, there's a tiny drop of blood, running down the length of her nail. The last few roses sit there, and I grab them before she could.

"I don't need your help!" she hisses. The remnants of her shock and fear disappear, because she allocates those emotions through anger, and projects them onto me. It's frustrating; I just can't get through to her. She tries to snatch the roses out from my hands, and I pull my arm away. I shake my head—this angers her further. "I'm serious. I'll kick your ass. Go the fuck away!"