#also me: turns on wonderwall. sHAW BRAIN GO BRR

[infinites-chaser]

all the lights that lead us there (are blinding)

| mlqc | shaw |

vague spoilers for ch.20+ content

he can't stay still. not really. his mind's always crackling with something some staticky noise that won't ever go— he tries to ignore it, lose himself in his music, his graffiti, his boarding, the play of electricity across his fingers late at night.

It starts like this: he's on the 330 bus at a hellishly early hour, listening to oasis's wonderwall (though he'll never admit it), the volume on his mp3 player turned up as loud as it can possibly go. just him, liam gallagher crooning in his ears, skateboard under his arm, the bass and drums thrumming through his veins like thunder.

correction: it's just him, the quaking wheels of the bus, and the girl who just got on— she's petite, delicate-looking, the kind of person he guesses is into pastels and flowers and gives people like him judgemental stares when they don't think he's looking. but when he stares at her, she stares back and for a second, it almost looks like the world could begin or end in her wide brown eyes. and maybe he wants it to.

(somehow, she seems familiar.)

he looks away first. static crackles around maybe you're gonna be the one who saves me.

and it's stupid but— 

he's on the same bus every day. maybe he looks for her whenever he gets on. maybe he never sees her.

he cycles through the rest of what's the story morning glory. stops listening to oasis. vows to go back to something his bandmates wouldn't laugh at him for.

he's waiting for the bus again, same route, same time, same driver, blasting green day as loud as it'll go.

he closes his eyes. leans his head back against the sun-flecked window, cradles his skateboard close.

the bus rattles, coughs exhaust, then jerks to a stop. the doors woosh open, woosh shut.

footsteps tap light on the linoleum floor, come to a stop close to him. he doesn't move. then static fizzles and pops loud in his ears, billie joe armstrong's voice stutters, jarring, discordant, wrong

he opens his eyes, and it's her.

her and her wide eyes.

the bus jolts, his skateboard slides, and he catches it before too much damage can be done, but she levels that stare at him, bleeding-hearted dreamer's stare, looking like she wants to save the world, bring all the sinners to justice, his skateboard too, and for a moment he forgets himself.

he makes it rain for her.

gives her the umbrella on a whim.

maybe he wants her to save the world,

maybe he wants her she to save him,

he thinks she could. he thinks she will.

she does.

only, she's as self-sacrificing as he's selfish: didn't think you were a saint, he thinks to himself, the world ending, starting anew around him, time loops bending, universes shifting, floating in and out of focus.

he closes his eyes against every universe's, every timeline's final scene: her body limp as a rag doll's, her blood spreading dark and heavy across the war torn warehouse floor.

didn't think you were a hero, either.

the world's wrong, after. he thinks (stupidly, irrationally, immature, caring in a way he hasn't been in a long, long time) that he should've done more— all he's done is give her an umbrella. for rain and a storm he'd caused. it should've been him, at the end of it all.

though in a world where he's certain he's the only one who remembers her, he isn't really sure if she remembers him.

she doesn’t quite. then she does.

didn't think you looked a hero, he says, one late night over STF documents. her hands stiffen around her pen, her eyes narrow, glitter hard and bright to match it.

what do I look like, then, she asks, voice too-soft, too-calm

he falters. they have a balance, normally. he pushes. she pushes back. this time, he knows: he's gone too far.

what do I look like, she repeats, and her voice is still hard, her eyes still glittering, but there's an undercurrent to the ice, something thinning it, making her hardness fragile,

a savior, he says, near instinctively, and pretends not to notice when she nods, looks back down at her pen, and a tear slides down her cheek, splatters dark against the paper's white.

they come together, in fits and starts:

a warning text she ignores.

an insult. then another.

then, slowly, finally. an uneasy partnership.

it starts like this:

he takes her hand, pulls her onto the stage with him. it's hard to tell with the club's flickering lights. but he thinks she's blushing. it's cute. he's not afraid to admit it. he tries to tell her as much, but it's lost between the pounding of the speakers and the roar of the crowd. he settles for another devil-may-care smile.

what's your favorite song?

what?

I said, your favorite song!

you told me you'd tell me information. important information! that's why I came!

your favorite song, he repeats for a third time, even louder. maybe it'd be annoying if it were anyone else, but he'll say it again: she's cute with that pout. 

then, hastily, as her pout deepens:

it's important information! in exchange, you'll learn how good my band is.

she snorts.

play anything, she says, and he finds his fingers straying over the strings of his bass to pluck out the opening notes of wonderwall. he doesn't dare look up to watch her expression 'til the chorus hits.

she sings along.

she looks happy. wistful happy. and maybe her smile's a little sad, and there's a glisten in her eyes when they lift to meet his, but the smile's for him, the way her gaze lingers is proof, and he'll take any smile he can get from her, no matter how sad.

oasis, huh, he says after. I knew it. your taste in music sucks.

she scoffs and reaches a hand up to knuckle his sweaty forehead, hard. he lets her. he'll take this, too.

later, he stretches a hand out, catches a raindrop, surveys it, then shrugs, half to himself. sure, it's cool to roll up to people like yeah I can cause storms (not to mention it's a hell of a handy evol in a fight) but maybe he's being stupid because when he sees her sad smile he wishes his evol could clear the clouds and bring her sunshine back instead.

he does the next best thing: he teases her. and maybe it makes her huff and pout more times than not, but it makes him happier which is really half the battle. and he's sure that behind some of those scoffs are smiles.

between their trading of barbs (always dry, quippy, light, never meant to hurt) she just goes quiet. he doesn't like quiet. he's not used to it, and from the look in her eyes when she gets that way, he can tell she doesn't like it either.

you can talk about it, you know, he says one time, and she freezes, blank stare instantly shifting to a deer-in-headlights look, then annoyance. 

talk about what?

(atta girl, he thinks. sure it's defensive, but nothing scares him more than when she's just— nothing. lifeless. trapped in the past of a time worlds away.)

he scoffs. 

your terrible taste in music? i meant— before

(and they both know what 'before' is without him having to say it aloud, saying it feels like it'd make it all the more real, it'd be wrong)

her eyes are wide again.

before? she says, and he feels it stretching between them, that distance, the void, the reminder that she and him, they don't have a before, only a now, maybe an after.

we need to talk about your taste in music, too, though. urgently, he adds quickly, musters a grin. waits for the scoff, the eye roll to come.

it doesn't. instead, she reaches up to ruffle his hair with a cheeky smile before he can react.

you're a good boy, after all, aren't you, hm?

he scowls. he goes to grab her hand, wind her fingers through his, but realizes what he's about to do seconds before his fingers brush hers— he changes trajectory, attends to his mussed hair. (there's an art to the rebel hairdo. clearly she doesn't know it.)

and he would retort, but she's still looking at him, and her smile's gone all soft, not in a sad way, but in a way that just. does things to his heart,

so when she says 'thank you,' all he can say back is 'you're welcome,' and if he sounds more sincere than he's ever before, she doesn't notice, but he is.

he's not sure when their relationship—  reluctant alliance, friendship, more shifts, but it does, it evolves, it jumps— two steps forward, sparks fly, and they're back in the same place as before. same, he says, as if lightning could ever strike the same spot twice (he knows it does, he's not stupid, not like she is, eyes so bleeding heart wide they could swallow the world in her idealism, her kindness, they could and they will, after all, they've already swallowed him, remade him whole).

his days are filled with her, his nights, too. all the restless hours the clock strikes and neither of them wants to be alone,

bus rides at strange hours and electric eye contact across a crowded club after dark (he's tuning his guitar, about to take the stage, she's sitting alone at the end of the bar, two shots away from drunk) neon lights and drive-throughs before the dawn for hangover fast food, a tired employee's voice crackling through the speaker as he tries to give the order of the whole minivan— most nights it's him and the rest of his band, but once it's just him and her, sunrise after a sleepless night at the top of an empty parking garage, he gives her a can of spray paint and pretends to drive away while she runs after the banged-up van and tries to tag him, the studio and snacks and out-of-character honesty after waking up from nightmares

(it catches him by surprise, even as her brows curve up in surprise, too. the you can stay as long as you want, even though what he means is you can stay forever.)

she's sprawled clumsy across the faded cushions of his couch, halfway to dreamland, when he catches himself reaching to brush the hair from her eyes, thumb tracing tender over the edge of her cheek.

she murmurs something under his touch, soft, indistinct, and his heart's responding murmurs give his voice to a near-unconscious reply,

maybe, he whispers, you're gonna be the one who saves me,

he's about to leave her be when her finger catches round his pinky, holds his hand close,

save me? you already have, she says, 

shut up, he says back, you're drunk.

her eyes blink open, spark bright when they lift to meet his and he's falling, he's already gone, about to make another mistake to add to the many or the one right choice in his life

not drunk, she mutters, and her eyes shutter closed.

he swallows.

I know, he replies. her brow furrows.

he waits a second, a second longer, but her eyes stay closed this time. her breathing evens in the silence. the worry smooths out from between her eyes. she looks peaceful for once,

for once, he could almost imagine her happy. imagine them happy. the thought gives him courage again, to linger at her side. to lean in. to press his lips to the back of her hand.

makes it a promise, an oath sworn by someone who'd never once wanted to be loyal to anyone but himself,

someone who'd decided that there's someone he's willing to follow.

someone he wants to have. to hold.

(all the world's adventures and he wants to be hers.)

#me: i am takinf a break from mlqc #also me: turns on wonderwall. sHAW BRAIN GO BRR #mlqc #mlqc shaw #val writes #this is so non linear and i have graduated to the postmodern school of no quotation marks we die in italics #the truth is it's like this. bc i started last summer and gave up but. today was a shaw day and i said screw it ITS getting. finished. #bUT IT IS intended to be. VIBES. and vibes only #the vibe here is. shaw being a soft bastard who listens to wonderwall that's it #this is not coherent and neither am i but. #here we are anyway