fic: got a sky full of stars.

 got a sky full of stars

elvis and annabelle, elvis/annabelle, rating r, 1026 words, he catches her sighs between his lips, like its easy, effortless and she wonders when her world stopped spinning off its axis and started spinning around him instead.

notes: i blame morningslugger for making me watch this movie and then comparing max minghella to penn badgley- she should have seen this coming.

He pulls on her hand.

They’ve never been much about the words, about long eloquent speeches over candlelight dinners or roses strewn at her feet.

His eyes, dark and liquid- that’s really all she needs. All she needs from him.

The sink sits by the window. She stares out of it as she washes the dishes, eyes wide as saucers in the dusk light.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, voice low in her ear and she shivers. He wraps his arms around her waist and she presses her back close to his chest, placing her soapy hands over his own.

“Thank you.”

She turns her head as she says it- looks right into his midnight eyes. There is no smile, no big fake flash of her teeth because she doesn’t need it. He tells her she’s beautiful and gosh darn, she believes him.

He catches her sighs between his lips, like its easy, effortless and she wonders when her world stopped spinning off its axis and started spinning around him instead.

They wander into a café, hands linked as they sit down on one of the couches. He grips her fingers hard, when she dips her free hand into the large purse on her shoulder and pulls out one of his stories. She stole it from his dresser- he knows. He saw her take it.

But she was smiling, then. Standing there before him in nothing but one of his shirts, feet bare against the mouldy carpet and he didn’t have it in him object, to say anything- anything at all.

It’s daylight now. She’s staring at the words and biting her lips and there is no patch of skin to distract him for her intent. He throat constricts, knots forming at the pit of his stomach.

“Annabelle-”

“Hush,” she smiles at him, eyes bright as the sunshine, “I’m reading.” She asks him to bring her some coffee and returns to the pages.

She’s still absorbed when he returns, her eyes fixed to the yellowing sheets  (he leaves them out sometimes, and sometimes he leaves them where the sun shine) and clutches the mug with one hand till the drink grows cold and the sun too.

He’s waiting outside the toilet when she emerges. Arms crossed over his chest and back against the wall. He’s looking at her intently and she knows that he sees more than she ever wanted to show.

“Elvis,” -she put her hand on her heart- “You startled me.”

It doesn’t work. His face is grim.

They don’t talk all night. She wants to apologize, wants to tell him she loves his stories, loves him and she’s sorry.

He leans his forehead against hers and decides that he’d rather not speak tonight. She thinks she’s all right with this, as long as his skin stays stuck to hers.

They don’t fight very often.

She thought maybe they would. She thought he might throw things like her step father used to or swear long and hard into the silences.

He just stares when he gets angry, mouth turned down at the corners like a child in disgrace and she wants to kiss at the corners till he smirks with delight. She isn’t good at staying mad at him.

It’s lamentable.

He doesn’t like dealing with uncertainties, she realizes. She spills into his life like one too many awkward shots of tequila and she loosens the edges of his heart, peeling of the layers like unwrapping a present. She smiles, reaches out and takes the heart he hands her on a platter and he doesn’t like surprises.

She’s a surprise, though. A miracle.

And he likes her.

They don’t fight. Some would say you need to fight, once a while, if you love someone. Keep things interesting.

They don’t really care about interesting, about thrills or rushes- they’ve had enough of that for ten lifetimes.

Even so. Her mouth tastes fresh, tastes new every time that he kisses her.

Even so.

Sometimes, he thinks, he never stood a chance. She walks away from him, hands propped up on either side of her apron and she’s swishing her hips to the side in that southern belle way that is as amusing as it is sexy. She grins when she catches him staring, pulling her lip between her teeth and twisting at the hem of her dress.

If she looked at him like that, he’s never stood a chance and maybe Belle calls this fate.

He stops short of calling it a miracle.

The nights were never her best.

The nights were made of unwanted visitors, sometimes and unwanted nightmares at other times.

She’d often hated the night time, for she’s a creature made for sunlight.

(stage light once- she shudders and shuts that away)

That’s different with him. She closes her eyes and there are fields in her mind and the boy beside her in bed is beside her in her dreams.

She dreams about their first time, his mouth on her skin. She dreams about him leaning over and “Are you allright?”

She buried her nose in his hair, arms pulled around his shoulders. Her hair smelt of sex, smelt of love, smelt of death and smelt like he carried all the world in his head.

In her dreams they don’t ever stop. They make love till their bodies grow old in each others embrace and she dies with his name carved to her lips.

She gets lonely sometimes. She says she doesn’t need anyone, anyone but him- but she gets lonely sometimes and stares out of the window, hands wrapped over her knees.

He gets her a dog.

It’s a small dog and she calls it Baby.

“Baby?” His voice goes up at the end but there’s a resigned grimace on his face. They both know it’s not a question.

She grins, wide and nods. “Baby.”

It’s like a promise on her lips, vows of love hidden in her mouth and he thinks she’s got a heart in there. Tucked into the pockets of her chest and baby, said soft and low in her southern twang.

She smiles like they’re complete now.

Baby.