The Blind Artist (Frerard MCR Fanfic)

Chapter 14

*A/N: Sorry the chapters are not the best lately, I'm following a storyline I wrote ages ago and I dont want to change it... love you all but the next chapter will be posted in relation to response- so please do vote, comment and share- i love to know people enjoy reading as much as i do writing! xx

Chapter 14

He had tugged me downstairs after I had felt him up. Well, felt his face up. He sat me on the couch and claimed we would have a ‘movie marathon’, he seemed energetic and excited, and he was like a buzzy bee constantly hovering around me making sure everything was perfect for his viewing experience.

This included his tiny body cuddled up to me, his small warmth flowing through me from my side, I feel his breath against my still bare chest and every once and a while he shifts whilst he giggles at the movie. His giggle, sweet and light almost boyish, it made me smile to myself every time I left his lips and we innocently positioned ourselves so he was spread on the couch against me whilst I had my feet up on the coffee table in front. His head was falling slightly and I knew that soon it would be in my lap, I hoped it would but at the same time I didn’t- I didn’t want to feel this way about him; he would leave me once he knew the truth. How messed up I really am.

“Gee?” he says over the sound of Tears For Fears in Donnie Darko, I loved the song and let my foot tap it out on the table.

“Yes Frankie?” I reply lightly, my voice husky from misuse and dryness. Coffee. In need of coffee.

“How do you see?” he says after a moment and I feel him sit up more next to me, pulling away to look up at me.

I sigh and turn my head in his direction, the movement makes my head spin and feel my eyelids relax, I hadn’t even realized I had them clenched shut. “I guess I just know things. Like I don’t need to have audio description on these movies because I’ve already watched them, I can see it. Just like I know the house.” I explain and hope that’s all he wants to know, I didn’t want to explain why I couldn’t see, I didn’t want to explain that when I had the blood drained from my eyes there was always a moment where I had hope that maybe I would see again.

“Will you ever tell me what happened?” he whispers and I look away with no answer letting the background music and voices of the movie fill the room, I try not to think. To feel. But in the pregnant pause- I feel rough fingertips in the softest of touches running across my cheekbones they follow to my nose and down to my lips, my jaw and my hairline. I see myself now. Just like I saw him, I see myself, he makes every part of me withdrawn from my skin like I was looking in a mirror.

“When was the last time you saw yourself?” he asks me like he knew it was my main issue, like he knew how I had once been so vain- I wanted to be ‘perfect’, to be ‘handsome’ and ‘desired’ so much that I used to just stare at myself for ages, just watching and waiting to see if I would change, I wished all mirrors were magic. If only I had been happy about myself.

“When I was 18, that was when it happened.” My voice hitches at the feel of his hands in my hair, on my cheeks, on my heart. Since he walked through my door it was like he had his hands there constantly, like a caress or an imprint but waiting to squeeze and constrict. I could feel it already waiting to kill me.

He doesn’t say anything, he just hugs me, he’s practically in my lap making me adjust so we can fit together. I feel his heart beating so fast against my chest, his breathing shallow and a small wet droplet trickles down the sensitive sink of my neck.

“Don’t cry Frankie, please, I wouldn’t have met you if I wasn’t blind.” I tell him trying to comfort him, I pat his back and let my hand get lost in the mop of his hair that had grown over the weeks. “We can’t let our faults define us, for some people don’t see them as faults, they see them as what makes you unique.” I tell him, something a man had told me after the accident whilst I lay in an ICU hospital bed. I remember his voice, a soft Jersey twang with a hint of Italian, it was deep and burly but I could tell it was wise to follow his advice.

He pulls away and pulls my hand up to his face again. “What do you see?” he whispers with an unknown emotion in his voice.

“I see someone beautiful, I see the way your cheeks turn rosy, I see the detailed ink that runs across your skin and the way the lick your lips too much.” My thumb brushes his lip chapped and gnawed, I feel the heat in his cheeks and the way he’s breathing is labored. I move my fingers to the tattoo on his neck, I wondered what is was. Before I can stop myself I lean forward and kiss at the ink, tasting his skin and feeling his pulse jump under my lips. In small groan escaped his lips, it made my ears ring and burn, it made me want him now. I jumped off the couch. I had to break the contact, I had to have him away from me. There was too much tension in the air, too much need and wanting its uncomfortable, it’s like a need for release without any stimulation but yet you are right on the edge waiting to go tumbling and tumbling.