Galaxies in his eyes
By:isa_belle
Our hands meet between us and I think time stops.
We’re sprawled out on the ground at the quarry, limbs carelessly spread out, nearly empty bottle of vodka between us. Faces flush and eyes dilated, giggling and warm with drunken bliss. It was his idea. Get hammered and look at the stars. (“C’mon Eddie Spaghetti,“ he tilts his head, dark curls falling in his eyes, smiling and biting his lip the way he does when he wants something. “It’ll be fun, and god knows you need to have some fun, nerd.” I roll my eyes and tell him not to call me Eddie Spaghetti. He pinches my cheeks and says, “but Eds! You’re so cute when your all flustered!) I swat his hands away but now he’s smiling for real and I know in an instant there’s no way I can say no, not really.) We’ve been passing the bottle back and fourth for a short while now, stumbling around in the grass and gravel and giggling and shushing each other in the streets, fingers grazing lips, knees knocking, elbows bumping, and noses falling too close for my comfort. Without the buzz of alcohol up to my ears I would’ve lost my nerve by now, but laying beside Richie, I thank god for vodka. My fingers are warm where they touch his and the overlap of our hands feels like a question. I think it might be one of those decisive moments in my life. One that sets me on a certain path, that’s important without being loud and in my face about it. That doesn’t matter until it matters so much. (And I think we’ve been building towards it for a while. Or maybe just I have.) I could take his hand or leave it to be a “what if” for the rest of my life. There’s frightening potential in moments like this, and blame it on the exhaustion, or the vodka, or the way Richie’s hand almost curls around mine, as if it’s looking for an answer, but I’m high off it.
I tear my gaze from the glittering black-blue above us and turn my eyes to Richie, hair spread in a mess of tangled strands, curving around his neck and framing his face on the ground, glasses pushing against his eye lashes. The dusting of freckles on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose better than any constellations in the sky. His lips are upturned in an easy smile and his eyes shine, big and brown and reflecting light. His eyes are full of galaxies, I think they’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And maybe that’s stupid. (Or maybe it's bad and there's something wrong with me.) But his eyes are are enchanting and intoxicating in a wonderful way that makes me feel more giddy than the alcohol. (And feeling like this couldn't really be wrong, could it?) Sometimes I think I’m the only one who sees the beauty in him, and that’s not fair. His beauty is raw and chaotic and emotional in a way that feels tangible and real to me. He’s something solid to hold onto. Everything else is delicate and soft and pretty and misty, slipping through my fingers when I try to grasp it, but where they’re gentle curves and pink lips and perfect lines, he’s all sharp angles and crude jokes and smirks and looking at him makes my stomach squeeze up and my heart flutter in a way that’s painful but warm and real.
He stares at the stars in the sky, wide eyed and dazzled, and I stare at him like he’s the one who hung them there.
He’s speaking now, rambling on, probably obnoxiously, holding up his hand (the one not lying with mine) above us, spreading his fingers so the constellations sit between them. I can’t hear what he’s saying, he sounds like he’s underwater. I want to blame it on the alcohol but I know that’s not true. I just see his lips move, and his eyelashes flutter, and I fight the urge to tuck back the strand of hair that falls in his eyes. A little laugh escapes his mouth and his eyes scrunch up and I suddenly feel so lucky to know him. So I take his hand.
I lace our fingers, soft but deliberate, and my face is probably pale with nerves and my palm’s a little sweaty and I don’t think I blink as a look at him with a sort of anticipation, expecting him to pull away or yell at me, because what the hell, Eddie, who do you think you are? But he just turns his head and faces me with a funny look, (and our faces are so close I can feel his breath on the tip of my nose, it smells like vodka and the strawberry chap-stick he probably stole from Bev) wearing a familiar smirk that carries an unfamiliar air of unfiltered happiness. He squeezes my hand, tracing patterns on it with his thumb, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks, coloring my face with an embarrassingly ruddy tinge and making Richie smile a little wider, eyes dancing over my face with the same look he gave the sky. He drops his other hand (the one pointing at the stars) and uses it to brush my hair behind my ear, sort of cupping my face in the process, calloused thumb running back and fourth over my cheek, impossibly soft and sending my stomach swimming. My eyes droop a little, vodka making me loopy with weird courage. His thumb continues down my face, following my jawline to my chin and settling on my lips so gently I can barely feel it. I lean into the touch almost against my will. We stay like this for a moment, a tense warmness to the air, laying adjacent, holding hands, dizzy from alcohol, and so soclose. And I don’t think I can just lay here motionless anymore. Something needs to happen, I need it to happen. He opens his mouth to say something (per usual). I grab the sides of his face and kiss him.
And it’s fast and rough and I bury my fingers in his hair and his hand holds my chin while the other wraps my waist. And I don’t quite know what I’m doing but he’s solid and real and his lips are touching mine and they’re warm and my stomach is leaping and my brain is buzzing with drunk-ness and unrivaled feeling.
And then I realize what we’re doing. What I’m doing. And I kick myself and jerk back, fast, a frantic apology already forming in my mouth. But before I can pull away fully (our noses are still brushing and every accidental touch sends chills down my spine and guilt to the pit of my stomach) he exhales roughly (face flushed, eyes wild, glasses askew), mutters something like my name, and tugs me back in, my breath hitching as his lips catch mine again.
I kiss him and it feels like time stops. And I think it might’ve. And I hope it’s one of those life changing moments. I hope that no matter what, I’ll still be able to do this, because he’s everything. He’s the warm and the cold, he’s east and west and north and south, he’s black and white and gray and red and blue and orange, he’s here, he’s solid, he’s everything. And as time remains frozen to us (though I'm sure life goes on through the rest of Derry, maybe my Mom's curled up in the chair and Ben's turning pages in a book and Bev's searching for some chap-stick she swears she misplaced, and Stan and Bill are reading comic books and Mike is peeking out his window to look at the same stars me and Richie so suddenly decided we were marginally less interested in looking at than each other) and we roll on the gravel, hands dancing, hearts beating in sync, I’m happy that for a moment, everything is mine.
