Basketcase

Frustrating The Confusion

I twisted my neck, catching a glimpse of Marissa's head tilted shamefully before the young celebrity woman. "Come on, Ryan," he called, a grasp squeezed my finer tips, yanking my arm away. I turned forward, quickening my pace, catching up as we walked.

He stopped at the elevator doors pressing the button in with his thumb and set his arm down. The elevator doors opened in an instant and I was pulled in. He hit another button, continuing on in silence. A small itch picked at my forehead; my hand twitching in response as my eyes wandered to the second hand grasping it. My eyes stuck to the other hand gently gripping my finger tips; waving slightly to the motion of the elevator. Harry's masked stare peering off distantly, oddly twitching on the rare occasion. I glanced down at our hands clasped together and scratched the itch with the other; the doors opened and he walk out; an urging yank dug a scarp quick pain to my cheek. Sighing, I flattening my fingers over it as he continued tugging me in, out and around. He stop midst a walk, my hand slipped up, smearing a wetness across my cheek. Cupping my cheek once more, he slipped his card into the lock and heaving the door in.

Less than a few feet into the room, he dropped my hand. "Ryan!" he begged, his voice sounding as he'd been holding it in for hours. His bangs loosely brushed over his healing eye as he turned, "What-" the clench in his teeth parted to a frown, "- happened..." his brows furrowed glancing beyond my gaze. The deep bulging blue shadowed his left eye, "What are you doing?" I catch his gaze as his hand brush my own and my cheek.

Quickly turning away from embrace, "Don't!" I snapped, the movement slipping up my cup and a trickle of blood.

The frown briefly deepened his lips before stepping back. His eyes tracing the radiant rouge drawing down my cheek, gasping as my wrist wiped it away. "What are you doing?" he challenged, tearing away my hand from cheek. Another drop trickled down and hung off my chin to meet the floor, "What-when did this happen?" he fumbled, waving my clasped wrist around, jerking the left side my body.

"It just happened now," I said, pulling my self down and away. He returned with a sheep retreating inward. "And you broke the blood clot I made," I finished with a sigh, massaging where his hold was. I cupped my cheek once again.

"Blood clot?" he shot up, itching forward then composing himself. "I don't think it's a blood clot but- uhh... sorry," he stumbled. His fingers met my cheek, one ruggedly tugged the skin.

My eye twitching to the ping, "You gotta lick it," I informed.

"Mmm..." he nodded a glossy eye stare and suddenly shifting to connect our gaze. "What?" he replied quickly.

"Your stretching the cut," I told him, releasing the realised tension in my cheek.

"You want me to lick it?" he asked, raising a brow.

"Its what you do."

His stare tightened, triggering a hardness in his chest; his lungs enlarged and his chest puffed out before loosening. The warmth released was met with a succulent daze. My own hand removed from the premise and a long stoke of a tongue lifted up my cheek as it lusciously painted over my wound. Pulling back and he wiped his mouth on the back of his hands. My eyes widened, helplessly glaring and fazing, my crossed over to my cheek. My lips parted watching his plumply smudge and spring back underneath his wrist; whipping back a drop of spit from his bottom lips. "You..." I stared, "You  just licked me..." I responded, "With your tongue..."

His cheeks sucked in a sourness and lips squashed in and out, his eyes cringed weakly. A silent swallow fell down his neck and opened his eyes clearly, "It's what you said," he replied neutralising his features.

"I meant thumb, not my face," I clarified, a hand hovering at different angles over the soggy skin. 

"Just wait there a sec, alright?" his voice called; a finger popped out with his pointing finger wagging then disappearing through the door space. Momentarily he walked out with a bandage in hand, focusing greatly on peeling the scraps. He stopped front , lifting the bandage towards my face until and stopped. His hand twitched and fidgeting with the bandage. Eyes wandered off, fumbling and staggering limb, suddenly snatching up his shirt. Peeling up over his stomach, he gently dabbing the material against my skin; wiping above and below the wound. Dropping it, he shifted the band-aid near my cheek; hovering over the cut; and pressed the tape around the edges. "You do the rest," he said, removing his finger, "I don't know where it hurts."