How would you want the first Fitzsimmons kiss to happen?
Signs of Life
A/N: If you asked me back in s2, I would have answered with this.
Listen, the musicians and the poets, the novelists and the playwrights, they rarely get it right.
Reality is not beautiful. It’s unretouched, blunt, and there’s no swelling music or cursive lines of metaphors when his lips on yours is the climax to an epic saga.
There’s just you on the empty rooftop of a building somewhere not on the maps, the night as fractured and frail as you are. You’ve long learned to chart constellations from the scars on your flesh instead of stars, but there are times when you just want the world to be softer because you’ve fought hard enough.
(And God have you fought hard. Hold your hand over your chest and know that your heart is a fist covered in blood.)
“I checked on you, but you weren’t in bed. I got worried.” The boy is panting when he finds you here in your solitude. He always finds you, twenty footsteps or entire galaxies apart.
He loves you. It hurts how much you love him too.
It hurts, for you know in another universe everything could have been kinder to you both, and you’re sorry he’s stuck in this one with someone who’s more ghost than girl.
“I’m scared of falling asleep” is what you say instead. I’m scared of my own mind.
“Then fall asleep with me. I can’t chase away your nightmares but I promise to be there when you wake up.”
He’s trying to help and it’s a desperate kind of hopeful. He’s looking at you and it’s a million tiny miracles pulsing from his veins to your heart.
(Sometimes you need it to fight. Other times just let it be a heart, let it remind you that you’re alive.)
So you kiss him. Even though life has woven itself into the notches of your spine and it cracks messily every time you breathe, even though tears are in your eyes and the dull ache never leaves your lungs, you still kiss him.
You kiss him, and you taste salt against his lips, it’s melancholic and clumsy, and the night is silent save for his revered whisper of your name.
It’s not beautiful, this kiss, but yours is not a story for spilled ink and timeless love songs.
Yours is a boy who smells like coming home, like a safe place to fall apart and to build each other up again.