「 stray curls 」

viii.

「 II 」 EIGHT.

it used to be rare for her to forget how to think.

used to.

but the way Morrison trailed his lips along the side of her neck, stopping here and there to make dark marks on her otherwise pale skin, canceled out every train of thought that could've possibly been running through her head.

it was as if he didn't want them all to fade. didn't want her to walk down the street with no signs of h i m in plain sight on the surface of her skin.

not that she minded.

gosh, not that she minded at all.

how could she?

no one in Morrison's family was home. so they were hiding in his room.

and he was leaving his signature bruises all over her collarbone, and she knew of no better feeling, not the feeling of warm air contrasting the dark sky during windows-down night drives with him, not the feeling of old ivories beneath her fingers in the back of the antique-smelling music store, not—

his dark eyes met hers.

"where have you been going?"

not this feeling. anything but this feeling.

"w-what do you mean? when?"

she couldn't sound any more at fault.

and his eyes were beyond dark, deep brown and black blending until she couldn't tell where iris stopped and pupil began, and

she didn't want to lose him. so she was scared.

"where. where have you been going, Marguerite?"

she couldn't imagine how red in the face she was at that moment. she couldn't, didn't know what to say, and so she did what Marguerite did.

she forgot how to speak.

his hands were still around her waist, tracing the bare skin on her back underneath her t-shirt, which actually wasn't hers and was, in fact, one of his, and she had never deserved him less.

"Marguerite."

"no...nowhere in particular."

"then why do you lie every time you go somewhere?"

because i don't even know what the truth is.

"i don't."

"you avoid your parents as much as possible. why would you, all of a sudden, be going back into their hellhole so often?"

she smiled a nervous nervous smile. "t-to make amends?"

he released his hold on her, and she fought back the urge to protest. she loved it when he was holding her. it was a safe feeling.

then he stood up from where she was still sitting, in the middle of his bed looking absolutely l o s t.

"then go there now." a sour smile twisted his features, and she had caused it. stupid girl. you brought this on yourself.

"w-what? why?"

"go, Marguerite. wouldn't want to be without your lovely parents, would you?"

she couldn't see them right now.

not when there were fresh purple blossoms decorating her collarbone, and she had just been d r o w n i n g in his warmth, and she still hadn't quite started thinking again yet.

"i...i can't."

"you have to. get out."

she leaned forward to smell his bedsheets. straightened up slowly and made the agonizing journey out of the comforts of his bed. walked slowly, tentatively—but towards him instead of the door. stopped just inches from his sad, sad form.

how could she have done this to him?

"please don't make me go."

"tell me why not."

stop shaking. please, please, stop shaking.

trying to will herself was no use.

"because we're not making amends," she finally answered.

he laughed. it wasn't a happy laugh, the rare one she adored hearing from him. not that kind of laugh. "good job stating the obvious, Marguerite. what's been occupying your time?"

she stared at his shoes, unable to meet his eyes any longer. "just..." she didn't realize her hands had been in fists until her fingernails dug painfully into her palms. and yet she couldn't release them. "some catching up."

silence.

then he sighed. and it made her so sad.

he said, "do you think i'm fucking stupid, Marguerite?" but it came out more calmly than it should've.

"alright, then. tell me who he is."