I Have Two Faces; Blurry is the One I'm Not

|five|

Dean sits across from me, circling his finger around the rim of his porcelain coffee cup, the left corner of his mouth curled into a smirk, his eyes locked onto mine. "So, you look drier."

I sip my latte, not breaking eye contact with him, my own lips curling into a small smile. "Very much so, actually." I set my cup down, raising an eyebrow.

"I could change that if you'd like." He winks and clicks his tongue against his teeth, bringing his cup to his lips and slurping loudly. His eyes glimmer with mischeif, hazel orbs peering out from long, dark lashes.

Refusing to look away, my hand searches the table for the double-fudge brownie that I'd ordered, but my refusal to look away from his angelic face leaving me tapping the table as if I was a seal desperately flopping around on the ice.

Dean reaches over and picks up my brownie, holding it up. "This? Is this what you want?"

"Yes."

He cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. "Oh?" He finally breaks eye contact as he examines the brownie, and the instant he looks away I'm flooded with both relief and disappointment. "This brownie here?" He shakes it a little bit back and forth, smiling coyly, his eyes darting between the brownie and I.

"That would be the one." I squint my eyes and once again I can practically see the gears in his head turning as he searches for something witty to say.

"Do you want it back?"

"Yes."

He slowly, in an awkward attempt to be sexy, licks one side of the brownie. This display launches me into a fit of giggles in which I must stifle them, resulting in my looking constipated. "How about now?"

I lean a little over the table, putting my hands together and propping my elbows up on the table, resting my chin on my locked together hands. "Your saliva is supposed to turn my away from my food? Is-"

"I certainly hope my saliva isn't a turn off." He cuts me off, leaning over the table as well. "That would be a problem."

I haven't been around anyone with intentions as what I assume to be Dean's in a very, very long time. Blurry had always prevented that, warned me, pushed them away. I've only ever been in a handful of situations like this, and every time Blurry was there.

And every single time, something happened to take them away from me.

He's so close.

He's too close.

My tiny black heart starts to race inside my chest, beating ferociously like a war drum, threatening to crack my ribs with each beat. As Dean leans closer, I find myself stumbling over my words. "Give me back my food." I choke out, my throat suddenly dry.

"Make me."

"You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?" I breath, my eyes fixated on his lips, pink and damp with coffee and spit.

He cups my chin with his free hand, and I return my gaze to his eyes, brimming with joy and life and everything that I've avoided for the last twenty-five years that I've existed. "Maybe just a little bit." He's much quieter now, his voice less playful, and his eyes...they were so much more intense. Now, they hinted at darkness, at personal battles that I were to never know, because I was a fixated point in the world and I could tell that he was a nomad, a drifter, roaming the world and leaving holes in people and things wherever he went, and I couldn't have him.

He brings my brownie to my lips and I raise an eyebrow before nibbling off a corner of the brownie. "I don't want it anymore," I mutter, which is true. I don't want the brownie.

While Blurry is gone, I want Dean.

It was as if the cafe and its inhabitants had suddenly disappeared into nothingness, and the only things that were real were myself and the mysterious man from the bar that I'd only met the night before. And even then, he didn't seem real - his worn leather jacket, the smell of car air fresheners and leather that radiated off of him, his brooding expression, his burning hazel eyes and full pink lips - none of it felt like it was real. If anything it felt like some sick dream, and I was doomed to wake up in my dark bedroom, alone. Well, alone with Blurryface.

"You know," I begin, my stomach doing nervous flips, "I have a cat."

"Huh?" He grunts, his face contorted into confusion.

I'm really great at ruining the moment, aren't I?

"A cat. His name is Abbadon. He's black and white," much like everything about my life, "you want to see him? He's a real sweetie."

Dean scruches up his face, his expression straddling the line between amused and confused. "Does that mean we're going to your place?"

I sigh, leaning my head back. "I couldn't think of a polite way to invite you over to my house besides tea and we're already at a cafe." I explain with lightning speed, rushing through my words to avoid giving him the satisfaction he'll recieve at knowing that he was right in his assumptions about me.

He leans back in his seat, a new expression on his face, one that I've never seen before. "Let's go then."

We jump up out of our booth and I leave a few dollars on the table before racing out to the Impala, rain pouring down in curtains so heavily that if Dean wasn't holding my wrist that I'd lose him. The sound of our laughter mixes with the thunder overhead and the rain pelting the pavement as we run to the car.

My lungs seem to fill with some sort of childlike wonder and awe in this very moment as a weightlessness fills my bones. If Dean wasn't holding me, I'd probably float away.

I don't know what this is, but I like it.

Dean suddenly stops and I slam into him. "Hey, what're you-"

He whips around and grabs my shoulders, his enormous hands grasping me with more force than I think he realizes. Rain has soaked his neatly styles hair and flattened it. "Okay look," he yells over a clap of midday thunder, "you're just some bartender I met a few hours ago and I thought I just wanted to sleep with you but there's just something about you and I don't want to just hit it and quit it I want to see you again after today."

"What?"

"You want to go get dinner sometime?" Water has soaked through my jacket and makes it feel ten times heavier than it really is.

"Again, what?" I can't believe what I'm hearing.

That's when he does the most unthinkable thing.

Dean pulls me to his chest and crashes his mouth onto mine as every nerve in my body becomes a live wire, my veins thrumming with electricity, my bones acting as copper conductors as my lips form to match his in order to write silent symphonies that only the two of us will know. One of his hands snakes into my sopping mess of dark brown ropes, pulling and twisting, the other hand on the small of my back, pressing me closer.

Then he lets me go. And the circuit shorts.

"I uh," he stammers, "I'm really sorry."

I stare down at my boots as my cheeks flood with colour. "No no, its, um, its okay."

"So, uh, dinner?" His voice is equal parts hopeful and embarassed.

"Let's go dry off, and then we'll talk about it," I suggest awkwardly as I shove my hands into my waterlogged pockets, "but yes, I'd love to get dinner with you. Anytime."

As we turn to keep walking towards the car, a sudden pressure fills my lungs and it takes all of my willpower to hold in the gasp.

Blurry is home.