Title: The Heart and the Breath
Author: cantbesilent
Rating: PG13
Category: Drama
Disclaimer: I borrow.
Notes: Its Transition, because I'm gonna milk that material till
theres nothing left. This ones kinda weird cause I really wanted to
write something that was all descriptions and images and no dialogue
and really internal and thoughtful. I was craving it. I had to. I
think its okay. Not my best, not my worst.

Also, shout out to my love Idina with the title. I'm trying to do that
as many times as possible. Woot!

Comments are appriciated. :)

His lips burn your skin. He blazes a path across it, sliding and
skidding across you, touching you in as many places as possible
because he can't get enough ever.

You can see him, a strong and dark form above and around you, moving
you and sweeping you, keeping you but not owning you. He's slower this
time, calmer and more methodical, as if he knows this doesn't have to
be the last time he sees you this way but is still unsure. He's taking
his time, moving his hands across your skin, breathing you in with a
low and husky breath.

You think its a lot like those times you'd stay late and sit in the
dim light with him, rattling off talk of politics and policy. It was
slower those nights, his mind more relaxed, his thoughts more free. It
was passionate but intimate, a sharp contrast to the frenzied moments
of your on-the-clock discussions.

Its a lot like now, with the way he's whispering inaudibles into you,
moving his mouth like an instrument with passion, without a deadline
or a timer.

Your eyes meet his and you reach up to him, placing your hand behind
his neck and bringing him down to kiss you, because if you can't taste
him at that very moment you don't know what you'd do.

You need him so badly and you hate that you can't say it. It moves
within you, a familiar punch of feelings and fears that has been with
you since you can't remember. You need him to touch you like this
always, to speak this way forever, to kiss you for no reason. You need
him there, like he was before, with his smile and his careful glances
and his poorly thought out good intentions.

You need him because you need him, and its been on your lips dozens of
times but has never escaped, and you won't let out now.

You can not let it out now.

You move your eyes to him, and you see him smile slightly at you as he
brushes his hand across your stomach, and you can't believe you used
to bring him his lunch every day.

You ache for him, and you whisper his name because its all you can
say, and you know it drives him crazy. You know that already.

You touch him because he's there and needs to be touched, with his
strong arms and broad shoulders, and you think he could smother you
right now and you wouldn't care at all.

He's giving you everything, and you know it won't be there in the
morning. You know that when the light creeps through the curtains and
you can see every emotion on his face, that the abandon and freedom of
tonight will have left, and in its place will be a large and loud
confusion and the growing pattern of this nothing routine.

Its painful, this dance. Its delirious, this movement. It lacks a
label, it lacks name, it lacks a steady voice of reason and
rationality. Its all husky voices and hard kisses and a dizzy,
drowning, suffocating fervor. Its paint splatters that people hang in
art galleries and nonsensical poems that English majors pour over,
reading a meaning into each and every hard thought syllable.

The meaning is there, if you think over it long enough, if you reach
deeper into the depths of the mind. No one understands it, no one gets
it, and only a selected few see its beauty. And that's you tonight,
with your bodies pressed together and your hearts beating faster and
your names slipping out like you can't control a thing.

You don't know what it is, this abstract expressionism with bed sheets
and body movements. You don't know what it is, and amidst the sweat
and shudders and the fingers on skin you don't care. But in the
morning you'll care, and in the morning you'll speak as if you never
thought any of this at all.

You don't know what it is, but you know what it feels like and you
know what it tastes like and you know what you want to say as he
kisses you again. And anyone in the world would be quick to give it a
name and call you what you are. But you can't because that's too much,
and from that you may never recover.

He runs his hand down your hair and he makes you feel beautiful, and a
part of you hates that because its pathetic and needy, but he sweeps
aside a wave of blonde and you can't help it.

This is so different than before, and you feel like it might just be
everything you've ever needed and your scared out of your mind. This
is how it is suppose to be, how the years before dictated it be.
There's less denial, less fear, less painful trepidation. Its like
those moments where he'd look at you and you'd try not to smile but
fail. When he'd lead you out of a room with a hand on your back and
you'd try not to feel it.

But you would feel it, all of it. You still do.

Like ten thousand other things, all here tonight in this room with
these movements and this washed out and rewired denial because nine
years is too long to break all at once.

You treasure those ten thousand moments, those smiles, those touches,
those denial filled looks. You take them for what they are because you
need them. Because its always been him. Always.

That scares you.

He kisses a trail down your neck and a beautiful word makes its way to
your ears. You treasure this moment too.

You let yourself go.

Its all gentle harshness, scattered with mumbles and moans, and its
like fighting off the surf as you force yourself into the sea. Forcing
yourself to the calm.

You're moving closer to the danger, and the seconds tick off.

You hold onto him as you spiral, because you've always been holding
onto him and if you let go you'll have to deal with it all, the
nothing covered everything of these three varying trysts. Of these
past nine years.

You think you could go on forever like this, make this your new nine
year stagnation. These words, this patchwork of emotions, these
passionate interludes. You could fill each other up, make each other
whole for years without the other knowing. No one will say a word
because if you run too fast you'll fall, and then you're a million
tiny pieces of might-have-been.

You could do that, you could touch each other like you'll break for
years, talk like you'll run forever. You've done it before.

But you know you can't do that, you know you have to fold or go all
in. So you let him burrow his face into you and make you shiver as he
reads you with his fingers because its something you crave. And in the
morning you'll throw open the windows and speak the unspoken, and let
him own it or walk away.

In the morning you'll speak, because soon or later, this will make you break.