#jameschaoxyn

“you’re not even listening to me, are you?” he says, smiling as if you were some helpless little lamb, aloof and in need of a shepherd.

“i am.” you lie, softer than the low hum of the fridge amidst the booming speakers. “you’re cute.” he smirks this, his obliviousness of much comfort to you. then again, the only person aware of the walls imperfection is the painter, and the owner of the home.

across the room, somewhere between the flashing lights and the drunken, ever changing silhouettes, is the person you are listening for. the one presence that settles somewhere deep in your chest whether you want it to or not.

james.

your older brothers best friend.

you don’t look. you can’t look. instead, you focus on the boy in front of you, fingers already three inches up your black top. you let yourself lean in a little, let your fingers linger like you’re trying to convince your own body of something.

he gave you an easy smile, an easy distraction— an almost connection. and somewhere between a beer and a cheesy pick up line, you found yourself thinking; this could be enough.

history doesn’t plague this interaction, this simple fun that doesn’t have to be hidden— that can exist in the real without consequences.

this could make you forget the way your heart flutters every time he walks into your home. the way he points out the bumps and cracks in the paint, without the urge to take the bristles and cover them up again. it’s better this way— better not to notice him, or not to linger, not to want.

his hands are warmer now, or maybe it’s his desires bleeding through his skin. his lips travel down your neck, your arms finding their way into his tangled mane. but even as the lights flicker, changing your paint layers as the music swells—

you can’t seem to get rid of that plain white wall, and its owner. james can see it too, the way the purple lights color your skin, the way your hands get stuck in the guys hair— the way your eyes stayed wide and devoid of life as they flicker up, meeting his.

your breath hitches, a faint “relax” travels through the air, wet kisses moving up, a light bite adorning your earlobe— you wince.

the lights turn gold, and you feel as though you’ve been secured in a bubble. the music halts, although it truly booms as bright as ever, just not enough to reach you inside your soundproof chamber.

you look for something to pull you out of the darkness that surrounds you. a window, a door, a rabbit hole. but james is just… there. unmoving in a room that won’t stop moving.

his gaze drops— just briefly— to the hand that’s rushing to wrap gently around your neck. the boy next to you, unlatched from your side, leans down to kiss you, and you almost miss it. his lashes and bangs cover your view, but your right eye, just inches away, catches the light enough to put together the last image of the boy across the room.

something in his expression changed. not loud or dramatic, but different nonetheless.

it sends an arrow through your chest, and you wonder; did cupids bows always sting?

the guy in front of you keeps existing in a version of the night that suddenly feels far away from you. because you’re not here anymore.

you’re there. in that look.

he murmurs a response to your sudden freeze up, thinking you’re just another girl lost in the moment. but you’re not lost. in fact, you’ve never felt more found.

“i”— you start, hands coming up to keep the boy at bay. “i have to get some air.” you say, messily making your way out. he’s disappointed, you think, though you don’t stay long enough to see it take form.

you stumble through the crowd, bodies pressing against you like the enemy closing in on its prey. you cross straight out the back door, and you swear you can feel the heat of his stare against the fabric on your back.

your steps carry you to the edge of the pool, feelings being reflected back at you through blue waves and beach floats. the tears don’t spill out, and you think they’re being evaporated alongside the water at your feet, although the sun had long hidden behind the trees. the moon cut through the sky, pulling your gaze upwards into it— something the sun never allowed.

for the first time tonight, you let yourself close your eyes. the wind picks up your hair, dragging and looping it along in gentle patterns. at some point, maybe two minutes later, or two hours— it was hard to tell; the patterns started speaking in the form of footsteps.

their pattern was irregular, some fast, others slow and hesitant— as if they were keeping the distance enough to turn around if you commanded them. you wouldn’t turn him away, and he knew, yet here he was being polite. he was giving you the choice of letting him in, or waiting until you’ve finished another layer of paint.

you look towards the empty beer cans to the side, crushed and bent out of shape. you wonder what led them there, and who had broken them. would someone pick them up once more?

“you always let people that close, or was i just lucky enough to witness it?”

he seats himself next to you, an empty spot among many empty spots, one that felt like it was being saved just for him. he’s close enough for you to feel his presence, yet far enough that you can’t feel him.

you fix your gaze down to the water, and for a split second you think about taking all your clothes off and jumping into the deep end. “you always watch people that closely?” you ask, body stiff against the wind, not from cold, but from the heat radiating off him. you can’t physically feel it, but it’s plagued your mind, somehow.

silence. not comfortable, or dangerous, but intimate— vulnerable even. “just you.” it’s almost a whisper, but the sound travels through the silence like the music behind you, spilling though the windows.

this sudden confession wasn’t asking for an answer, no explanation; there was no need for acknowledgement. still, you turned towards him. you gave him something he was searching for, something he hadn’t lost or been oblivious to— just something to confirm his own observation.

“i wasn’t looking for anything, i just— it was just a small moment. didn’t mean anything.” your voice trailed off at the end. you didn’t confess to him, although at this point in your life there’s no need to. but your words held weight, you just hoped he was willing to carry it.

he smiles, not a loud gesture, not a paint roller— but a small, detailed brush. bristles built for reassuring, for getting in the small crevices behind a bed, or dresser. “i know.” he states, and you really believe him. and you feel calm, and understood, until you realize this is all too much. this push and pull of little to no words laced with meaning. stares reaching inside the soul, slowly but surely pecking away from the inside out.

you could feel his energy on you now, and you wondered if he got closer somehow? your hands rested next to each other, fingertips sending shockwaves through the ground, into your arms, until reaching your hearts and jumpstarting them.

“you looked off, like you were there physically but mentally just, checked out.”

“yeah.” you said, mirroring his description as you got lost in your thoughts, sinking deeper and deeper into this feeling.

“you’re not the type to get pulled though, you know? maybe he was just a bad kisser, right?” he chuckles. “poor guy.”— “james.”

he pauses as your name rolls off the tongue like honey, like a bee carrying pollen across the field. natural and powerful, though his thoughts are cut short by your expression— your tone.

you sighed your emotions out, because for the first time in your life, you’re going to question him. “what are you doing here?” you ask, eyes searching for an answer years in the making. of course, it’s not that easy with him.

“well, you walked out of there pretty fast so i came—“

“no, what are you doing here? with me.”

he shifts in his spot, and you imagine a beads of sweat dripping down his face, the moonlight reflecting his inner thoughts through them.

he shrugs, giving you a half-smile, light and teasing. “since when do you interrogate me?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow. he tries to flip it on you, avoiding the real question.

but this time— you don’t let him.

“don’t do that. not right now. not like before.”

he gets quieter, his posture straightens, and the teasing drops like a cannonball. “i just didn’t like seeing you like that.” he states; but it’s still not the truth. so you push, until your words give out, until he walks away— which he never does. and that’s the kicker; he never walks away, but he never gets closer.

“i don’t know what you want from me. i know i’ve been pulling away for years now, but it’s safe, you know? because the truth is—“

“y/n wait, i don’t think you should be saying this right now—“

“no let me just say this, please.”

he pauses, weighing the consequences, and then nods, accepting his fate. this was bound to happen, he know so.

“you’ve always— you’re always there, james. just.. not enough. not close enough. and now this, all of this, the one time i let myself move on from you— you don’t get to act like it matters now.”

something clicks for him in that moment, something hard and heaving hanging from his heart. you hadn’t noticed his gaze had shifted towards the same water you found comfort in until he snapped his head towards you.

“you think it doesn’t matter? you and that guy-“ he cuts himself off, afraid of what might come out. he’s restrained, tense, but for a brief moment you saw some release. still, it’s not enough.

you call it out, feeling the energy in his outburst fueling yours. “this isn’t about him, it’s never about him or anyone. never.”

something snaps, not loud, not noticeable— but you notice. you always do. he leans closer, voice low, eyes dark. his arm brushes yours, and it sends heat waves through your body, the sensation crawling up and through your veins. it’s addicting, and you yearn for more.

“i keep trying to stay where i’m supposed to… but you keep ending up where i can’t ignore you.”

every word brings him closer, until you’re merely inches apart. you’re like opposite magnets, poles pushing each other away in a sort of dance. you don’t clash, but you don’t touch— and it’s excruciating just as much as it is exciting.

his eyes grow darker by the second, glowing just enough for you to notice. you take this as an invitation, leaning in just enough to feel his now irregular breathing mesh with yours. the night is cold, and you’ve never felt hotter.

your hand comes up almost instinctively, cupping his cheek. his flesh is warm against your naturally cool skin, and you imagine a light rosy color painting his cheeks and the tip of his ears.

“then don’t ignore me.”

he scans your face as best as he could at this distance. his eyes travel from yours, to your nose, then lips— he pauses. then, he asks for your permission, not with words, but you heard him.

his arms rest beside you, palms firmly gripping the ground beneath you. he leans in, your lips centimeters apart, in that in between space he left just in case he lost control.

then, you filled the space with something fragile yet inevitable.

he doesn’t rush, fingers brushing against you once— twice— as if asking for permission to let himself sink into the moment. he only touches one spot, but you feel it everywhere.

it’s controlled, a touch of lips that lingers just enough to make you ache for something deeper. he pulls back, forehead against yours, breath uneven and heavy.

“tell me to stop.” he whispers, but his voice betrays him. he doesn’t want you to.

and you don’t.

this time, when he kisses you again, it’s slow— if not slower than before, but it’s surer. the kiss deepens, not urgently, but intentionally. he takes his time exploring you, the way you melt into him, the sound you make as he presses just a little closer.

your fingers find his hair, not to control, but to confirm the reality of it all. you kiss him back with equal care, equal hunger, equal tenderness. the way his thumb brushes against your cheek, how his breath synced with yours— the slight smile you both wore.

it’s almost unbearable how gentle it all is.

when you finally pull apart, it’s not abrupt. its reluctant, afraid to end the moment— afraid of how much you enjoyed it.

but this time, you knew it would happen again, and again. and that was liberating.

his eyes stayed close for a moment, his forehead still resting against yours like it was used to it. he’s memorizing the feeling before it can slip away.

when he finally looks at you, there’s something new. something deeper than wanting, or longing to be with you. instead, he was choosing to be with you. you were choosing each other.

because no matter how many layers you chose to cover yourself with;

the color still bleeds through.

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