psych! ; tom riddle

03;

"A CAR?"

"Yes, what else?"

The air hung with a nightfall chill as the wind spirits pressed against her on all sides. She felt eminently small in that moment, curling into her coat as the collar stretched up past her cheeks, the tip of her nose growing numb as tempest dared to caress her guise. And he—with eyes ever-so prepossessing—held a peculiar gaze as they locked on hers.

But she mustered up her words with little confidence as it rolled in an odd melody to the rolling lines of car rumbling, the party-goers hum of chatter was the melody to the worlds harmony and her heartbeat felt erratic like an off-beat mooncalf. "Well for starters, you're drunk."

He smiled at her as though expecting such protests. And as he dug into his pocket, the pale valleys of his fingers drowning in the textile of his winter attire, he articulated with such pertinacious persuasion,  "Then—"  he fishes out glistening silver keys, jingling in perfect matrimony to his voice,"—you drive!"

He grinned wickedly as the silver curves and edges flew swiftly, slicing the air with its grooves until Amora clumsily waved her digits to catch it. But there was a sudden distemper that poisoned its way along her features, one that he would and could not overlook. Brows knitting, throe ridden, compeer to needles pricking at her skin, while her lips turned down and her face slanted into a pitiful flush of melancholy and apprehension.

"You're crazy." Her voice shaking as it slipped through her teeth.

"I thought I was drunk?" His smile frivolous, "Is this a psychologist diagnosis? Do I need a shrink?" Humorous inquiries tumbled dangerously past his ethanol stained lips. The valleys of pretty rose tinctures curled into a smile when he caught her own twitching up into a grin, but it was timid, unsure, as if she had willed the expression as comfort to him rather than herself.

But he did not desist from his avocations as he slide ribaldly over the bend of the cars hood, arms crossed, defined chin nuzzling into the skin of his arms and he reasoned to place the most iniquitous crow-like smile to his lips. One that Amora could not repudiate as it looked recherché with the fashionability of the flushed, chilled landscapes of his cheeks. "You can be my shrink..."

He winks and she melts.

But she convokes a riposte quicker than he had provisioned; and perhaps that's why he preferred her so.  She transposed slyly and almost unrecognizably in her slur, "I think you're a lost cause, Riddle—" his surname sharp while she mimics his posture. Swaying just across from him, the metal was cold against her insulated skin while she rested upon it and unanticipatedly, the distance— albeit only feet away,  felt no more than an inch. "—hate to break it to you." Her air, no more than a whisper collided in a waltz through the tensioned void and her breath hitched as a silence fell, his own once buoyant face was now staid; but she galvanically descried his jaw, clenching and relaxing as if he were stilted or vexed. But she refused to recant.

It impressed the senses of permanence, she was sure of it. And she failed to blame the little tinge of alcohol in her system for it— she was sure it was simply him, for time seemed to slow every moment she looked into his pooling irises, like the universe, like celestial bodies reflecting over night blanked sea water.

She could drown in him she concluded, she could drown in him like cheap wine in the studio of a friends apartment, like summer ocean waves and the choking of sand and seashells that cloud her vision as she tumbles. She could drown in him until she was drunk and addicted and desired nothing more than to awaken and drown in him all over again.

"Are you going to drive or am I going to have to?"

His voice, suddenly far more serious broke through the tensioned ropes of her subconscious. Frightening even as her thoughts snapped back into her like an elastic band and she suddenly felt far too warm in comparison to the shifting of season bitter, snapping winter climates.