hazel

z

Sid succumbed. Succumbed to the tidal wave that surged over him, submerging him.

Its treacherous depths sang to him, taking him so far in, that rising up wasn't a possibility that he wanted to cling on to anymore.

Familiar, dark blue almond depths, now an unfamiliar elixir to sip, to guzzle.

His eye's projectile again routed to her pink lips, bitten in worry. The flare inside him caught fan. He wanted to say her name. But his voice had hidden itself behind the veils, demanding his lips to work for a change.

No longer did he clench his fists, gritted his teeth, or swallowed his dare risked heart, that peeked from behind his legs. A lost soldier to all the battles of self sabotage. He was left with no will. To stop, that is.

As if drunk, he leaned his flames in.

It could have been because of that mildly steamy scene they'd watched together, a mere few days ago; where Sam had declared that literary erotica was so much more sensual and visual than the visual ones could ever be, which had then led to the ineluctable squabble between them, that had ended up with her being tackled, yet again, by Sid – who tended to be barbarously opiniated, which, of course, was everyone's opinion but his – where, it, supposedly, had all began. It could have been that. It could have been that it had almost been six months now since he had had the fiery, raging curiosity to know what pleasure tasted like, no matter if it had been thought of in regards with an entirely different person.

It could have been any, or every reason that led to this.

But led, it had.

His lips caught hers. Pulling an emergency chain on the word coach that had been gearing on her tongue.

It was she who froze now. Her whole being stilling under a new, soft grey light.

“Sid . . .” The name quavered across their lips, shock trembling in her voice. She didn't respond. Didn't move away either.

Sid did not let go. He couldn't. He knew that if he let go now, if his senses called to him again, things would never be the same.

And because he did not let go, he inevitably clung. Clung on to those pair of full lips that felt deliriously soft against his own, lapping the fire blossoming inside him, blowing it up to a wild fever. Clung on as if it was the only thing he could do, because it sort of was the only thing he could do. His lips moved against hers ardently, leisurely, begging, an open fire that he seethed in, patting a tick of courage on his back, only from the dice slipped hope that she wasn't drawing away.

He bit, and nipped, and caressed her lips, or at least, strove to do so with all that he had, which was little; though all that they culminated to – were pity trodden clumsy, sloppy, and pathetically crestfallen biddings. Truth was, against her hard, ungiving lips, Sid was slowly ebbing away.

At last, he reached the cross from where his wilting heart failed to keep warring on. His cheeks were taut, aflamed, and thoroughly mortified. Humiliation looped around his neck. His lips moved once more, but to part away this time, from the stiff pair.

He completely detached himself, moving to the furthest corner of the floor. He was cold. Enduring an unhinged temperature, as if; the degrees were the plop of iron pins delicately floating down a lake.

No one lifted the pall from over the words. Not them, nor the world that was slowly coming to focus.

Silence hung an albatross round their souls, weighed them; more unbearable than the strangling bounds of the pillow.

The band kept stretching.

A while passed. Ages boxed in mere minutes.

“I'm sorry, Jones.” Before it snapped. With the quietest apology; feathery so, a titillating, brushed sooth of balm.

Sid couldn't quite bring himself to look at her. Everything that he had felt, the desire, the darkness, the fire - the sinkhole slurped them all down to the drain, each last pint; where they should have been all along.

He spoke after two minutes, his eyes desperately grabbing onto the worn out linen of his cuffs.

“The fault was all mine. I . . . don't know what compelled me . . to do it. . I . . .”

Pause.

Then,

“You didn't want it. Didn't mean it. Not really.”

Sid bristled, staggering her meek eyes as he collided against them with a brutal, stormy obstinacy.

“And to decide that, who are you exactly?” His words scowled; honey toned eyes darkened.

“I . . .” Wide-eyed, she blinked. Then gulped. “You still like James.”

It rung a crescendo in his ears. She did know. Sid did still like him. His love, even now, flooded over every patch of his recent firestorm. He could feel the eyes of his three year old flame creeping upon him, over him, now that his name had been slid down; it clanged and chimed its echo in his ears, his mind, his heart.

As the fleeting tidal currents inside him lulled their tempest rave, he felt the smile of his age old, beautiful crush bulkily settle over his limpness, like a cold, damp overcoat.

There were only glassed cinders, in fragmented shatters and whole bits, now, where once the molten magma had sauntered, trampled; the high held head prided a melting golden  sovereign.

Smoke tucked away the barren belongings in itself, in its mercy.

Sid, careworn and listless, sagged back.

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