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I hear sneakers squishing into the grass and turn my face in the direction of the sound. Only a moment later, Rhys's scowl comes into view, his hand pulling from his jean pockets to wave for me to shift over. I oblige his silent request, scooting over to make room for him. I'm here so often that the grass has died where I sit, rubbed away, so there's nothing but dirt that stains the butt of my pants. Rhys drops down beside me, long legs stretching in front of him as his side presses into mine. I turn my face away without comment, eyes falling to the rips in his denim. Unlike the jeans you can buy, I know his were made from actual use. They're also his favorite pair if the amount of times I've seen him in them says anything.
Reaching to my side, I grab the pair of coffee cups I'd brought with me, passing one off to Rhys while resting my own between my drawn-up knees. Finding the thermos that was sitting in the grass beside them, I unscrew the top and fill my cup to the brim before handing that over as well. I don't watch as he fills his cup, but my lips do pinch together in quiet laughter when I hear his disgusted scoff.
"Seriously, Hadley? You're so fucking weird." I look over at him in time to see his grimace as he gulps down half of his cup, eyes narrowing on my face as I take a long drink out of my own mug. The gin burns down my throat, bitter and earthy like pine needles. I think I like it because I can associate it with something I know, unlike other kinds of alcohol.
"Am I, though? I'm visiting my Nana, and I like gin." I take another drink, smiling around the edge of my cup as he throws the rest of his back with a scrunched nose. "You're the one sitting in a graveyard without reason, chugging alcohol you don't even like. That seems weird to me."
He sets his empty mug down, lips smacking as he leans back onto the tombstone. His head tilts my way as I follow his example, gulping back the rest of my drink. My rings clink against the cup as I palm it between the bend in my knees, my mood stone shining with a soft pink and purple. Colors I now only associate with Rhys. I don't know why he comes here almost every day to sit with me, but it's a part of my day I look forward to. We don't talk all that much here, but the silence is welcome. It's just nice having someone to sit in silence with. Someone who doesn't pressure me into talking about Nana or question why I spend so much time sitting on top of her grave.
"Well, you would know all about being weird, wouldn't you?"
I roll my eyes at his late retort, eyes skirting over his black university hoodie, over the necklaces resting just below the collar, and up to the hoops adorning the length of his ear. It doesn't matter what the weather is like, rain or shine, he is always in some type of hoodie or jacket. Most often, both. He uses his dark clothing and broody expressions as armor in the same way I use memories to keep the nightmares of my past at bay. It's obvious to everyone, including ourselves, that it's all for show. Fuck if you'll find us openly admitting it, though.
My eyes find his staring back at me, probably waiting for me to respond. When it becomes obvious that I'm not going to, he brings a knee up to rest his arm over, veins running along his thick forearm earning most of my attention as his eyes flicker toward the darkening sky. "Your roots are showing."
My fingernails tap along my empty cup, head leaning against the tombstone like before as I raise a brow at his profile. Although rude, he's not wrong. I do need to redo my hair. My black roots stick out like a sore thumb against the bright platinum strands that hang to just above my shoulders. It used to be shiny and long; so long, I would accidentally sit on it and shut it in doors. It was strong and healthy, would shine in the light, and slide through my fingers without ever having a single tangle. But it's not long anymore, nor is it shiny. A three AM mental breakdown, a pair of kitchen scissors, and two boxes of drugstore bleach is to thank for my hair transformation. I’ve never been attached to my hair, though. Hair is hair. It grows back, so who cares.
"You always know exactly what to say to make a girl swoon, Rhys Elliot." I see the slight twitch of his lips before he catches it, his face turning my way. Long fingers push away the white blond hair that falls over his brow before reaching out to grip the short, chopped ends of mine. He tugs hard enough my head slides on the stone it's resting against, roots burning as my face falls closer to his. His hand retreats, pulling strands out with it that hang from his fingers before slipping into the dirt between us.
"You should change it. Dye it purple or something cool." My teeth scrape along my bottom lip as he gives me his profile, eyes watching me from the corner. "And stop copying me; it makes you look pathetic."
I've learned to look past his insults and rude remarks. I know they're only an attempt to keep people away. Of the few things I've learned about Rhys, I know he wasn't loved properly. He follows almost every compliment with an insult, hides any vulnerability behind bitter words and facial expressions. A product of a broken home and an abusive daddy, Rhys only sees sweet words and soft touches as an act of war. When kindness is only ever given to you as a way to manipulate, you learn to resent it; something I understand all too well, unfortunately. In the same way that I seek out attention, sweet or painful, Rhys avoids it. After spending time with him, I don't think it's because he doesn't actually want it, but because he's scared. Scared to let people get close to him, to trust that he won't be used in the long run.
"It's tragic, really." His eyes narrow, but he doesn't look directly at me. "Your hair choice, that is. You have so much potential with the whole dark and broody bit you got going on, but that hair? Blond boys just don't do it for me."
I bite the inside of my cheek with his small huff of a laugh, setting my cup off to the side without looking. Rhys tilts his face toward mine once more, the smirk on his lips daring me not to smile with him. I don't. "It's funny you mention it because I was just thinking the same thing about you." His fingers find their way back to my hair, scraping along the side of my head as he fists it in his palm. His touch is always rough with me; bruising and harsh. "Good thing neither one of us are natural blondes, huh?"
For a fleeting moment, I almost think he's going to kiss me. His lips are hovering so near to mine, his grip burning against my scalp. The pain he inflicts is nothing but foreplay for my twisted little mind, and I shamelessly lust for it. When he's close like this, I can see those demons he tries to hide, their inky fingers coaxing my own to the surface. Instead, Rhys releases me, pushing away from me like he can't stand touching me even a moment longer. Like he doesn't know if he wants me or wants me dead.
We could be destructive, him and I.
Two beautifully tarnished souls making all the wrong, icky parts of the world just a tiny bit darker with our hearts of tar. The world is a cruel, nasty game of poker, and we were given the shittiest of hands. Tragedies you can't look away from, it's no question we were molded by the devil himself to be the broken, bitter carcasses we've become. And like the tragedies we are, we continue to walk our paths of sorrow, live in our misery over and over again, unable to break the cycle of hurt. Like puppies that have been kicked one too many times, we've grown untrusting and wary, even from the things we know could save us.
And I'd like to think I could save Rhys; that I could be his dark knight on my skeleton steed. As much as I love his shadows, I wonder what it would be like to be the one he falls into the dark with. What it would be like for him to be the one I fall into.
Sometimes, I think he wonders the same thing.
Arm snapping across my body, I grip the front of his hoodie, one of my fingers unintentionally looping into one of the chains hanging around his neck. It cuts into my skin as I squeeze my fist, and I use the slight bite of pain to spur my bravery. His eyes narrow on my face, hand wrapping around my wrist like he's going to throw my touch away. He sees something in my expression that makes him pause, and I rush his lips, sinking my teeth into his lower lip and jaw. He hisses into my mouth, the grip on my wrist becoming painful. My tongue swipes out to lap at the sting, sucking in the exhale he blows from his lungs.
My lips close around his for just a whisper of something sweeter, kinder, before I pull back. I know I've already pushed my limits by lingering as long as I have. Wicked little stolen kisses are all he ever lets me get away with. Cruel, angry kisses that spur my heart into a frenzy and coaxes my blood to rush below my skin.
His lips brush along mine when he speaks, my hand painfully shaking against his chest as his fingers squeeze even tighter. "I doubt your Nana would approve of you looking for handouts over her grave."
"You don't know anything about my Nana." My skin pebbles as his tongue runs over the divot in his lip that my teeth created. Even if Nana did care, it's not like it would matter. She's dead. His hand throws my wrist away as he stands, my body falling forward, so that I have to catch myself with a forearm in the dirt. I look up to find his cruel gaze scorching holes into my flesh. "And you don't know anything about me."
Like always, he leaves me with just a taste, then promptly pushes me away, guarding that black heart of his. He is a tease without even intending to be; it does nothing but make me want him more. Despite how much I want to, I won't allow myself to beg him to stay. I'd rather die than let him see that kind of weakness from me. Something tells me that he'd hate that even more, though.
Sitting up under his gaze, I grab my thermos and take a drink. Putting the lid back on, I see the dark blotches covering my wrist, Rhys's fingers branded into my pale skin. When I look at him, he's looking at my wrist too, lips parting at the sight. Before I can comment, he's spinning away from me. The heat burning behind his blues engraved into my memory as I watch his back disappear from me. My fingers dig into the dirt where he was sitting, eyes falling to his discarded cup.
"Guess it's just you and me now, Nana."
She's drunk. And not the cute, giggly kind that I'm usually drawn to, but the sloppy, fall on your face type. To say that puts a dent in my night is a wild understatement. Tonight was supposed to be about us, me and my Callophrys rubi. She's been a hard one to snag, but even with this latest hindrance, she's worth it. I watch as she comes stumbling over to where I'm sitting, practically falling into my lap as she comes to a stop. She ditched her heels an hour ago, her feet now dirty from stomping around without them. My hands gripping her upper arms is the only reason she doesn't fall onto the floor. She's a fucking mess.
"Just... just one more dance. And then we can go to my place." She grins up at me, the minty sage hue of her eyes settling the annoyance tightening my limbs. She has the most beautiful eyes, my butterfly. I knew she would make such a stunning addition to my collection the moment I saw them.
Taking a hand from her arm, I use my fingertips to push some hair away that has fallen into her face. The soft brown is so lackluster compared to those eyes of hers. Shame. "One dance." I return her goofy little smile with one a little less ridiculous, keeping her in place while I swipe my glass of water from the table. "Drink this first."
