OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

twenty-three.

         THE WORDS WERE on the tip of her tongue. They lingered there, close to escaping her lips and flying out abruptly into the open. She would have even gone as far to say that she really did want to speak them into existence; but that would leave her with a big problem on her hands.

Reagan sat cross-legged on the edge of Dave's bed, wearing only one of his t-shirts and her underwear. Her hair was twisted into a messy braid that laid over her shoulder — she couldn't stop tugging on it with her hands, nervously watching Dave in front of her.

He was crouched down on the floor packing his small collection of things into a ratty duffle bag. Shirts, boxers, pants, the usual works. He would be needing all of it for his trip to England with the band. They were leaving the very next day.

"Do you want this shirt back? For the trip?"

Reagan pulled at the collar of the Buzzcocks t-shirt that Dave had loaned her the night before. She didn't actually want to give it back to him, but forcing herself to speak felt like the proper thing to do. She'd been very quiet up until then.

Plus, it would stop her from saying what she really wanted to say to him.

I don't want you to go.

Dave looked up from the bottomless pit of his bag. He was tossing each article of clothing inside as if he really didn't care what he ended up taking with him across the country. He smiled.

"You can keep that one."

"I already have three others."

"That would explain why my wardrobe is dwindling."

Dave stood up and joined Reagan at his bedside, leaning down and enveloping her into his arms. He was shirtless, which only added to the warmth Reagan felt when his skin met with hers. It was as inviting as a hearth, beckoning her to release her worries and enjoy what she had in front of her.

He kissed her deeply, parting her mouth with his own as he laid her down against the sheets. She pressed her hands against his shoulder blades, wishing she could keep him there in her hold forever.

It was a strange wish, something she had never planned on wishing for, but it was too late to take it back. She could feel the ache of sorrow it caused.

"I'll give it back," she whispered, pulling away from the kiss. She felt Dave's hair fall into her face, soft as a feather as it caught on her eyelashes.

Dave balanced himself over her, placing his hands on either side of her head. He stayed close to her face so that they were barely inches from each other, one of his playful smiles still brightening his perpetually happy visage. When he spoke, she felt the murmur of his words against her cheek.

"I don't want it back. It's yours now."

He went to kiss her again, but Reagan sat up, feeling too miserable to enjoy Dave's endearment. He was leaving her. That was the focal point of her problems. He'd be a whole continent away and once again, Reagan's life would go back to what she deemed normal.

Normal, in Reagan's vernacular, meant empty and boring, filled only with the provincial parts of living that she was used to juggling.

There would a cessation of sleepovers in Dave's bed, laughing into his shoulder and watching him brew coffee for her in the mornings. They'd be halting their guitar lessons and their plan — still small in the works — to soon visit Seattle together.

It was all going to be taken away, even if only for a short amount of time.

She knew he'd come back. He always would, despite the lengthy tours that any good band endured. That was merely the nature of his peculiar job. But his absence would leave a crater sized hole in her heart and Reagan had no idea how to patch it while he was away.