Tweaker

ii. midnight strikes

ii. midnight strikes

     "WHAT TIME IS it?"  I ask, looking over at him where he stood on the bridge.  We'd left and walked around town a little before heading back to his house and grabbing another pack of cigarettes from the freezer.  He seemed tempted, as he looked over to the cabinet of alcohol, to grab what he usually does on nights like this: cupcake vodka. 

     It's the only kind either of us could tolerate.  I loved the taste but hated the effect; Finn was the opposite from me on that.  He loved the effect but hated how it always got too sweet towards the middle of the bottle . . .  So, usually, I drank three fourths of it and he had about five gulps before he was done, which is probably why he always ended up dragging my ass home and staying the night. 

     "It's midnight," he said, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. 

     "Midnight, huh?"

     "Yeah," he smirked through amusement at me, "It looks like I lived another satisfactory day with the fine Miss Harris.  How do you feel about that?" 

     "I'm very pleased with the outcome, good sir," I said, bowing in front of him.  "It was a pleasure to spend another twenty-four hours with you."

     Laughing, he shook his head and stepped down off the edge of the bridge, grabbing my hands and swaying us a little from side to side.  I smiled at him, grateful that he was still here, grateful that he still had his high spirits, grateful that he didn't hate me for breaking down and crying because he hated that the most: when people cried over things they couldn't control.

     Finn had an unusual way about him.  It wasn't easy to explain but it wasn't hard.  In a way, he was both complex and simple at the same time.  The way he went about things was complex: he would plan it, re-plan and re-plan and re-plan, again.  Then, he would execute it and then he would laugh about the mistakes.  The nights he actually worried and stressed over things were few and far between . . . but he did have those nights, as much as he'd like to hide them. 

     His mind was the truly beautiful thing about him.  The way he thought was so smooth, so easily stated and so hard to grasp.  He had an answer for everything.  Sometimes, I spend nights asking him questions, just to hear his answers, just to try and catch a glimpse of how Finn Fintry sees the world.  

     "What are shooting stars?"  I asked him now, staring up into his beautiful ocean blue pools with the sea green specks.  He smirked, knowing what I was doing.  He knew me too well, especially when I was like this.  I didn't really want a serious answer; I didn't want the scientific definition of what shooting stars are.  I wanted what Finn Fintry saw; I wanted to know what Finn Fintry got out of a falling star.

     "Well, that's easy," he murmured, his deep voice enchanting me in a way it always did on late nights when we were dancing on the bridge.  "They're the cigarettes angels throw away so God doesn't catch them smoking."

     My smile widened; I could feel it.  The sides of my lips tugged up and his eyes sparked when he looked down at them.  We were close, pressed chest to chest as he danced.  The cigarette in his hand that I'd all but forgotten about was now raised to his lips as his eyebrow arched at me.  Taking a drag, he tapped my nose gently as he pulled his hand back down. 

     "You're cute when you're curious, you know," he observed, causing him to laugh a little and drop his hands.  I walked over, grabbed the vodka bottle and took a swig of it.  Offering it to him, which I thought he would deny, he took it and gulped down the burning liquid.  Handing it back to me, he took in another drag and handed me the cigarette, allowing me to finish it and put it out.  Then, we walked over and took a seat next to the edge of the bridge and I closed my eyes, leaning my head down into his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me closer.