The Art of Gravity

NOAH ANDREWS

He came home drunk tonight.

I stare out my window, watching as he stumbles out of his car and onto the ground.

My fingers tighten on the window frame when he didn't get back up.

Why'd I have to care so much?

I saw him twitch on the ground, and bit my lip, thinking. Do I go out to get him?

I square my shoulders, and take a deep breath, seeming to have reached a conclusion.

The soft padding of my feet on the wooden stairs seems to echo throughout the house, and I hope that my parents were fast asleep.

Reaching the door, I extend my hand and grab the handle, unprepared for the blast of coldness that rushed through my body.

I shiver, only in a pair of boxers and an oversized sweater.

I seem to forget my mind whenever it comes to Toby. And, even without shoes, as I had forgotten those also, I walk across my yard towards where Toby lay, still unmoving on the lawn. The wetness of the grass chilled my feet, but at the moment, I didn't care, my sole focus was to get Toby up, warm and safe.

There was something terribly wrong with me.

I was shit scared of him yesterday, but now I somehow have the courage to go over there and help him.

Did he do something to affect me? Am I changing now?

I push my thoughts away, and just tell myself it's what anyone with a heart would do. Even if it wasn't completely true, it pushed me to continue forward.

I finally reach him, and squat down, taking a look at his face. He seems to have passed out, and I watched with a little bit of concern as he lay there, worry lines still etched onto his face, unlike most people who would appear peaceful.

Tobias Mitchell was anything but peaceful. He was a tornado of anger, he stood in the middle of where storms clashed with hurricanes. He was a beautiful kind of violent.

Despite my conscious telling me not to, I reach out a hand anyway, and I brush my hand against the lines on his face, letting my palm rest a bit on the smooth, tan skin of his cheek.

He mumbles something, and I snatch my hand back in surprise, my eyes zeroing in on his lips that were still moving, projecting words that I could not understand.

I take another deep breath, and hook my hands under Tobias's arms, attempting to lift him up, and carry him on my back.

However, I failed to realize that I have no upper body strength at all, and grunted at the strain of lifting him off the ground.

After a few moments of agony, and whispered curses, I finally managed to lift Toby onto my back in what must of have been an uncomfortable position.

Tingles shoot through my body at the warmth of his skin on my mine, and I blush at the thoughts clouding my mind.

I shake my head, as if that would rid of them. Where did those come from?

I yawned, today's events finally dawning on me, and started to make the painful journey towards my house, having no key to Toby's place.

By the time I reached the stairs, my leg muscles were aching. I wish I wasn't so weak sometimes.

I continue up the stairs, that having to be the hardest part, and when I made it towards my room, I gently lay Toby down on the bed, and fell against the sheets, my body in need of sleep.

I don't know how my parents didn't wake hearing all that noise.

Turning over to my side, I stare at Toby, like always.

His breathing was easy, seemingly peaceful, though there was those stubborn lines that were still etched on his face.

My eyes fly to the tiny mole on his cheek, and back to those long lashes. They flutter a bit, and I feel an unsettling feeling in my stomach.

How would he react when he wakes up?

He might think I'm crazy, or that I've kidnapped him.

But most likely, he'd kick my scrawny ass.

My eyes continue downwards, stopping at his lips. They were a cool, peach looking color, just a bit darker than his skin.

Toby's forehead seemed to frown harder, making me wonder what was going on in his mind.

What battles was he fighting, if any?

Again, I stretched out my hand, brushing against the lines, and this time, they went away.

I watched in awe as Toby seemed to lean into my hand, his face seemingly clear of worry now.

And then, I slipped into my bed covers, and turned on my side to sleep, gasping out quite loudly as I was pulled into a hard, strong chest.

Did drunk people usually do this?

I was starting to question if he was totally unconscious.

But, I couldn't deny that I liked the way it felt in his arms.

He was warm, protecting.

I told myself that anyone in my situation would feel the exact same way.

I just wasn't sure whether I was lying to myself or not.