home isn't a place, but a feeling

cry cry cry

“...not now. Not here.” He reached up and pressed his lips to her cool forehead. Their hands locked together and squeezed. Who knew a person could feel so much like home.

“Me too.”  His hands were warm and her lips were parted. She knew he hadn’t consumed enough juice - like all the other times they’d kissed - to lose control of himself and act so recklessly. Oxford wanted to do this, and she wanted him to do it too.

She spun around.  “I’m going to be here for you in times like this, now.” She smiled. “Whether you want me here or not, you berryloving buttface.” Oxford gave her a smile that was so charming and infectious that she smiled right back.  “I’m glad I bumped into you that New Years eve.” He uttered, voice hoarse and low.

“W-what?” His head was rested on her shoulder and she felt small, warm blotches spreading on her collar bone.  “I didn’t want to tell you before...But, my grandma, she died today. Years ago now, but I always get so sad around this time? I barely knew her really, but I’ve always felt so close to her? Apparently she adored me. She died when I was barely a year old. But I miss her. I don’t remember much from being a kid now, but she...I remember her clear as day.” Pidge stroked his soft hair. He cared too much, but too often. “It’s okay, Oxford. You’re okay.”

Afterwards, Pidge began to walk over to the books they had left scattered in piles around the room. After a few pieces of pizza not only did Oxford drink a little, but he became distant. “I’m going to clear up, okay?” Before she could even begin she was already finished. She couldn’t concentrate with him behind her. “Glacier...Oxford, please back up a bit.” “Thank you for coming over today.” His unusually quiet and sad voice whispered in her ear.

same

“If I'm such an idiot, why did I get your favourite pizza?” He grinned as he walked back over to the kitchen where she was already standing, excited.  A smile that stretched over her whole face met his eyes. “You know me too well Glacier.” They practically danced over to the kitchen counter to fetch out plates, and every time they caught a whiff of the spicy warmth from the dish, Pidge giggled and Oxford poked the dimple in his cheek with a finger.

“Like you paid attention to that last one!” “Well, it’s not my fault I don’t especially understand all these musical puns and terminology.” “Ah, you should be sharp-er!” Pidge glared at him, as he chuckled and sat up. “You’re a berryloving idiot, you know that right?” Oxford only smirked in reply.

The next weekend, Pidge came over and helped Oxford study, write (and rewrite) reports for him. After the seventh or eighth report, Pidge could tell he was beginning to space out.  “Glacier. Glacier!” She pulled on a part of his fringe. “After all this work, you’re finally not playing attention?”