She holds his jaw between her hands, too tight. Her own expression flickers as his goes soft. Aisha doesn't know if she's ever seen him look like this. Talk like this. She's shaking, a faint tremor in her hands, her neck, her lip.
"Who gives a shit about the straw?"
She gives a shit about the straw.
"You were real the whole time," she says, and her hands are pushing his hair back like it's going to help him hear her better, retain the fucking point. Everything he says makes it worse. She feels like she's choking. Her voice is ground glass.
She yanks him forward until their foreheads knock together, hard enough to smart. She wants to blow him up again herself. She wants to —
"Fuck you. Fuck you, Alec, what the hell was I supposed to do?"
Her mouth crashes into his so hard it hurts, teeth knocking, messy and angry, everything boiling in her chest coming out all at once, but she doesn't care — his pulse is thrumming against her fingertips.
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"Who gives a shit about the straw?"
She gives a shit about the straw.
"You were real the whole time," she says, and her hands are pushing his hair back like it's going to help him hear her better, retain the fucking point. Everything he says makes it worse. She feels like she's choking. Her voice is ground glass.
She yanks him forward until their foreheads knock together, hard enough to smart. She wants to blow him up again herself. She wants to —
"Fuck you. Fuck you, Alec, what the hell was I supposed to do?"
Her mouth crashes into his so hard it hurts, teeth knocking, messy and angry, everything boiling in her chest coming out all at once, but she doesn't care — his pulse is thrumming against her fingertips.