Robert Smith Imagines (requests)

Two Flames

During the Pornography era.

I'd called Robert 24 minutes ago. Now 25. He's taking a maddeningly long time to do whatever he was doing. All I'm doing is coming over, is that really such a big deal? Suddenly, I'm shaken out of my fit by my house phone ringing. I dash and pick up the receiver.

"Rob?"

"Hey, sorry I took so long. It's... you can come over now. I can't drive you, sorry, love."

Despite us not being together, I've always adored it when he called me love. It made something hidden light for a few seconds every time I thought about it. It's a wonderful feeling I'm not very used to. 

"Sick. See you." I grinned through the phone. I think you could hear it in my voice.

"Right." He lingered. He never hangs up, I'm not fully sure. Maybe it's because it reminds him of loss. One time I wanted to see how long he'd stay on in complete silence, it was 2 minutes! Though I can't assume. I always assume the worst.

- car ride <3 - 

I lightly knocked on his door. He quickly opened it, almost like he was waiting behind the door. Odd, but in a good way, you know? I scanned the familiar room, taking in the familiar scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke. I can't judge him for smoking, everyone does it. Especially his buddy, Si- I shouldn't mention his name. Even while thinking to myself it pains me to think about how much hurt it causes Rob. The interior was mostly black disregarding the colorful band posters and white walls, including the navy blue carpet. We began to walk to his room.

"I'm sorry about the smell." He said with a tone of self-disgust and guilt.

"It's okay. I don't mind it, really" I reassured.

We walk into his room and he lazily sits down on his bed. His damaged, black, static hair looked amazing today. The way it feel screamed 'Rob'. He hasn't shaved in a few days, which left a dark stubble on his jawline and chin. He would look abnormal with a beard, I think. He wore a baggy white t-shirt with sleeves that reached his elbow and baggy jeans that were damaged at the end, probably from dragging on the floor wherever he went. Despite his unkempt look, I think he's gorgeous. Thoughts like this make me yearn for a feeling that I'm not sure is there. 

A guitar rests against his bed, and others against the wall. I slide down the wall and planked myself onto his soft, navy carpet. He looked around in silence, awkward. 

"How have you been feeling?" I know he hasn't been well. Despite his release of Pornography is one of the best albums I've ever heard, it's deeply concerning. Considering he was on LSD for the majority of its production. I hate when he does things like this so himself.

He seemed pressured by my question. "I've been like always. Gloomy, miserable." He mocked, though a boyish grin didn't form like it always does. 

"Rob, please!" My voice heightened, trying to be convincing but not manipulating. "Tell me. I'm worried about you, yeah, I do care about you." I pleaded.

He sat for a second before answering, "I really don't want to be a bore. Or bother you by telling you my feelings." To change the subject, he erratically picked up a guitar and rested it in his lap. He began to mindlessly strum random strings making erratic, but somehow beautiful noise. I'm convinced everything he does comes out perfect. "Do you mind..." He signaled to the guitar, meeting my gaze.

I shook my head, longing to hear his music. He began to play riffs of his, most of them from Pornography. Then, he played full songs. I found myself humming the lyrics, getting lost in their disgusting, brutal depth. After a while, I opened my eyes to see him playing Cold.