Starry Eyed. Lashton AU

12.

Ashton's hands did wonderful things. And not in the dirty way. They traced patterns into my back and on the backs of my hands in maths class made it even harder to concentrate than it was without my medicine.

Every Friday, we would drive to my house right after school and pop in a movie, cuddle up on the couch and just lay there and enjoy each other's company.

I never payed much attention to the movie; I just focused on the boy in my arms. And since every single Friday we would watch the same movie, he had the words memorized, it seemed, and he would mouth the words as the characters on the tv said them. And after it was over, he would fall asleep, and still I would watch him. The way he snored so softly that it made me hold my breath to be able to hear him more clearly until my lungs were screaming for more air.

The way he looked when he slept was always so peaceful and it made me want to stop the world just to keep everything like it was and never let it end. And when he would shuffle around trying to get comfy, I would let my fingers comb through his hair when he was finally at peace again and just watch him once more.

But then, when it was time to go to sleep, after putting it off for as long as I could to avoid waking such a breathtaking boy, I'd finally scoot out from under him and go up the stairs. I'd make the bed and leave only the lamp on my side table on, then brush my teeth and do anything else I had to do, like open the window. Then I would go back to Ashton who would always still be asleep and I'd pick him up like a groom carries his bride and I would carry him to bed.

I knew Ashton would never let me carry him like that if he were awake, he hated being picked up. He always had problems with himself that I couldn't focus enough to see.

But when he was asleep, or at least half-asleep and sometimes more, he never fought me on it. And so every Friday night, I would carry him up to my bed, tuck him in, give him a kiss on the forehead and sit at his side.

Sometimes I'd forget I was supposed to be going to bed too, but it was hard to remember anything else when I was looking at him, because all I could think about was immense amount of love I had for this boy, and how no matter how hard I tried, I could never express it in enough words for it to sound like I wanted it to.

But after I was done admiring him, I'd lean down by his forehead, press my lips to his skin in a quick chaste kiss and whisper the words, "I love you," trying them on like a new pair of shoes. I never said it to him when he was awake, not really, not out loud. He thought it was more romantic in letters, at least that's what he claimed at that point.

Then I'd turn off the light and cuddle up in my blankets and close my eyes and repeat the word sleep in my head over and over until I was finally waking up every morning.

But every Friday night, before I went to sleep, I swear to god I could feel the bed creak and the boy next to me whisper, "I'm sorry."

But of course, every Friday night, I convinced myself it was just the wind. And I started to leave the window open to help myself believe my own lies as well.