writethis

Falling Out

James 'Vidicon' Cosby

The wind was so strong it was impossible to hear what she was saying. In all honesty I was glad about this because she had been a bit shrill for some time. It was nice that she appeared to be done with the screaming.

I was certain I was hurting her by how tightly I was holding her. Hell, I was hurting myself -- and she had left a few bruises and scratches of her own on /my/ hide. We both put up with it for the same reasons, I guess.

The wind tore the tears from our eyes and the hair from our heads. She bit her lip and tried to choke back the hysteria. The wind interfered with taking deep breaths, which did not help.

I crushed her face to my chest, which possibly /did/ help. I couldn't tell.

I was tired and wrung out. Pissed off and exhausted. I squeezed my eyes closed and concentrated on the scent of her hair. Soon I'd have no further chance to do so. Somehow I could still smell it past the wind and the streaming mucus.

"Why is this happening to us?" she (merely) shouted, in order to be heard over the fluttering roar.

"Why did you do this?"

Suddenly, it was all my fault, apparently. Like so many other things. It was so ridiculous I didn't even consider answering. The trip was completely her idea -- "positive action to save our relationship," in her words. It was just my money. Typical.

I suddenly realized how sweet her body felt, pressed so firmly against mine. She was trembling with fear and rage and the inescapable chill. I wished, even though I knew I was an idiot for it, that we could have sex one last time before it was over. Stupid, stupid, impossible, stupid. But despite the ridiculous

freezing cold and the unholy stress of the situation, I was getting a boner. Fucking pathetic.

My fault, my /entire/ ass. This trip killed our last remaining chance to fix things. Her trip.

But it didn't seem to kill my boner. Not yet, anyway.

Denim was definitely not the right choice to be wearing outside at this altitude. Soon to be irrelevant.

We hit the rocky ground, the wreckage of the flaming airplane raining all around us.