Deflower

Chapitre Dix-Neuf

Regardless of his unkempt appearance, at that moment, with his hair in his eyes and his dark brows furrowed and eyes fluttered close, he looked the fairest of all the boys she'd ever lay eyes on; even the ones that had fallen at her feet and practically proffered her their hearts. His long, slender fingers caressed the instrument he had within his hands and Lourdes stood witnessing from afar, from within the frame of the door to the garage—and to say that she was in absolute awe, would remain to cut the young brunette girls emotions short. A trickle of sweat dripped from his temple and tendons of his neck glittered in the faint lighting of the otherwise dark chamber. Her dainty fingers desperately sought for something—anything—to fiddle with whilst she stared at him, in order to temper her undeniable nervousness, and eventually, Lourdes settled upon the loose threads that eloped down her skirt (it'd become an awful habit, to curl her fingers around the hem of her skirts and to toy with them, every time she was in distress, until the garments became more torn at its seams per they were before).

Lourdes hadn't slept much the night before. She'd struggled to lull into the abyss of sleep merely because of the words Kyle had spoken to her. This, in sordid combination with the manner he'd done it. A sigh had left her lips as she appeared incapable of hardly closing her eyes, and not because of the rather tame thunderstorm that plagued the town—nor the raindrops that dripped against the glass. Anxiousness flickered within her mind, his muffled voice persisting to be a reminder of the fact that evil did not hide where it was evident, but where it was unexpected. Her mother had intruded her amidst of finally having found the capability to enclose her eyes; she'd shivered when she felt cold skin against her cold flesh, and she was suddenly wide awake, again, but, much to her own surprise, instead of roughly gripping it, the older woman had pressed a worrying hand atop her arm. Kyle ricocheted through her mind again, when her mother had closed the door behind herself. Lo thought that it didn't make sense; that some had to grieve without loss, or had to smile without cause. She'd thought of the possibility that she'd lost grip of her sanity, too.

Vincent looked up from where his eyes had moments prior been pinned strictly to the guitar in his hands, and he grinned to ear to ear when his eyes intently skimmed over Lourdes. She looked beautiful, as per usual, even in a scholarly outfit—she'd felt fervently uncomfortable in it, per she was adamant that she looked hideous in that heinous getup of hers—and her cheeks rapid to flush bright pink when his eyes made contact with hers. The tension in the air was tangible, as if Lourdes could merely see it and grasp it if it happened to come close enough, with his orbs stoic on his as he sensually strummed along to the familiar beat of the music that thumped in the background of the scenery, sucking his bottom lip between two rows of white teeth occasionally.

When the song ended, Vincent was quick to drop the large, red instrument to the ground—its sole companion being the dust that littered it and a few unpacked boxes, here and there—and he muttered a few words to his comrades, words Lo couldn't understand; he'd told them to pursue without them. Vincent knew his priority to be the girl that awaited him, her body pressed nonchalantly against the wall, and doing all within her power to avoid his penetrating gaze. To no avail, because, when he found himself standing before him, one of his slender fingers were deft to grip her jaw gently, turning her face to him without hesitation. Her skin practically burned at the abrupt contact, but she didn't want the feeling to come to a halt. Ever.

There was an awareness of her own heartbeat, the intent throbbing—the kind it does when you would walk through a dark alley and when escape is impossible, or when you're reminded each time that you're still here when you don't urge to—of her heart against her ribcage, signaling her that she felt somewhat unsettled; but not in the worst manner. The sky was littered with stars, gorgeous shades of blue clad with speckles of white, like pearl necklaces, and the moon shone bright and amidst of each star, carefully nestled a glimmer of hope. The scenery had much of one of those Van Gogh masterpieces, a topic tossed back and forth by eager tongues, the brush that orchestrated the hues dancing between the dainty fingers of whichever mythological creature that ruled up there. Red was had always been and would forevermore remain the color of love, untamed and unkempt like a raging fire—not the mightiest of all forces that could put a halt to it—or like the blood that rapidly made its way through one's veins, without which one couldn't live. But perhaps, Lourdes thought to herself when she seated herself upon the doorstep to Vincent's home, per his request, the beautiful boy sitting next to her, that love was blue. Drowsy and sad, but intimate and vast like the ocean—pulling one in but pushing right back if coming too close.