The Flames In Mind 6 Ketchup “Catch Up?” || Part 2

I've always hated that room.

I made the turn down that hallway and saw Bee squatting down with her a.s.s in full display; face scrunched up as she peaks through the slightly cracked door. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she's taking a good s.h.i.+t while standing in five-inch heels.

Nearing, the sound creek of the floor becomes apparent - loud enough for my presence to be graced to Bee. Before I could shoot a remark about her position, she puts a single finger above her lips.

"I think she's sleeping," she whispers. "The lights aren't even on." I take a glance into the room and notice the lights are off. Due to the full moon, it's lowly lights illuminate the room with a soft glow. Bright enough to see a body above the sheets.

A body with sharply defined porcelain legs that has my tongue feeling a little heavy. I try not to show the struggling feeling by my slightly furrowed brows.

"She could've at least put on some pants." I mumble distantly. I see Bee smirking from the corner of my eye.

The next thing I feel is two hands pus.h.i.+ng me roughly on my back into the room, causing me to trip hard onto the floor, smas.h.i.+ng my face in the process. Again.

Loudly, I groan while pus.h.i.+ng myself off the floor and then turn my head to glare into Bee's devil brown eyes.

Teeth clench, I growl murderously, "I'm going to kill you."

Bee giggle loudly then slams the door shut before I had time to react. It was so sudden that the raven-haired beauty shoots up from the bed with a frightened terror in her alluring green eyes. Just the sight of them brought that strange constriction in my chest again.

I ignore it.

It takes a moment until her hasty eyes finally realize I am in the room. Or maybe she doesn't? She closes her eyes tightly, opens them again, and then blinks multiple times. Might I add she's rubbing them viciously?

She barely utters a sound other than a lowly groan with her rosy and chapped upper lip arching as if she's in pain. She lethargically scoots to the edge of the bed, swings her – despite incredulous shortness – long porcelain legs off until her seemingly black manicured toes thump on the floor. Her posture does slight wobble, probably from being suddenly woken up. Her black hair sports a cute tangling mess of bed hair, gleaming gray strands not going unnoticed.

My eyes graze the s.h.i.+ning metal resting upon both of her milky collarbones, looping from her neck, that disappears into her s.h.i.+rt. Green eyes darken as they continue to be harshly rubbed. Eventually, she reaches to the restroom, mumbling "bathroom" and just barely shuts the door.

I swallow from the softness and grittiness of her voice recalling to her ridden up and heavily wrinkled music tee; the only thing she wore other than her – scratch that I don't wish to remember. I adjust my stance, my arms that were once lamely hanging on my sides acting like wet noodles, now crossed on my chest. My feet that were once monotone statue, all weight s.h.i.+fts on the right, the heel of the left boot resting comfortably.

Instead of dumbly acting like I can give more thought to the girl, my eyes graze what the guest room now embodies. I hate this room. Despite it now looking like her abode with her cute alphabetical (mostly black colored) books on the bookstand, gray anesthetic looking posters and old navy comforter with a silver outline of a rose, I still hate this room.

Of course, there are still a bunch of boxes around; a few of them not opened. I was about to approach the one with words written in small cursive that said Máthair. But the sound of the running water's eerily loud buzzing made me jump. It also made it noticeably visible by how tranquil the room was. It's a small form of music to calm myself down from after seeing herself covered, barely.

Half covered, imploring that fact to my brain on why I shouldn't be giving a f.u.c.k.

In due to the treasure hunt my blue eyes search, they land on the lonely pair of pajama shorts that are teetering on the edge of the bed. They have a black background filled with multiple watermelon prints. A smiley face plastered in the middle of each one.

I just grab them without acknowledging the lingering thought that she might be cold without them on.

My combat boots softly thud, trekking towards the bathroom on the opposite side of the room with my spine stiff of nervousness.

Reaching the bathroom, I lean against the door frame c.o.c.king my head to the side, taking notice of the black-rimmed frames through the rectangular mirror that is in front of the short-stacked girl.

That explains why she barely reacted to the sight of me.

With her lean back towards me, my fingers unnoticeably twitch. I end up subconsciously admire her pet.i.te figure. Long inky black hair swaying, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with elegance. Milky skin seemingly so smooth; it puts the inside of coconut to shame. Or the creaminess of vanil –

—Screech –

I halt my mind before it could go any further than that. What the f.u.c.k am I thinking? It's bad enough I already get strange familiar feelings from her. Now my eyes are drooling over just the pure sight of her body in front of me?

f.u.c.k no.

Taking a shaky breath from my intoxicated head, upon getting my thoughts in order, a glance towards the mirror might not have been the smartest route in the book. Blue ones connect with astonis.h.i.+ng green while ignoring the egotistical smirk on my lips.

The new girl whips around, keeping our eyes locked on mine as she grips the dark marble countertop causing her knuckles to fade a pearly white. A visible swallow takes a joyride from her well-polished neck.

The longer our gazes hold the more it irks my skin and the hair stand on the back of my neck. I can not shake this strange feeling of familiarity from her; green bearing eyes are not making it simpler. I'm struggling with the fact alone they could easily unravel me.

I'm about to comment that her small hands can break from gripping too hard when I notice her eyes s.h.i.+ft downwards.

I squint.

What is she looking at?

It takes me a moment to check out her line of sight, and that's when I remember the watermelon pajama shorts in my hand.

My smirk grows as her eyes connect with mine again – her hands removing from the countertop to slightly tugging on the hem of her music tee; to cover up that particular area of her embarra.s.sment. The one bringing red up to her cheeks as her black hair provides a curtain to s.h.i.+eld her face.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say the sight is cute. But I do and choose to repress the idea.

"Took you long enough to notice," my voice felt strained, wasn't apparent, thankfully since she seemed to take it differently by her face reddening even further.

In comparison to her alabaster skin, someone might as well have put ketchup on her face.

I get a feeling she's not very used to human interaction despite ou- her predicament. I can somewhat relate since Bee loves to present my flaws on a silver platter proudly. That girl never ceases to shut her mouth, but I know she means well; one of the reasons why we mesh just fine other than our silly bickering.

Her sharp green eyes are illuminated from the bathroom lights, creating them to be brighter than the crispy meadows. They stare into mine a little longer before quickly s.h.i.+fting down, avoiding all contact.

I see her red lips lightly tremble, a little rough from being chapped. They part slightly p.r.o.nouncing her words in a mumble that is barely a whisper in my ears.

"You know, if you spoke louder," I pause for a moment, seeing her upper body jump. "I can hear you," I add, the snark in my tone is proudly confident.

"S-shorts," scarcely croaking the six-letter clothing all battered up in my fist on top of my crossed arms. I'd be lying if the sound of her voice didn't make the hairs on the back of my neck, crawl.

s.h.i.+fting my posture from leaning on the wall to hide my disturbance, I did the one thing without thinking and threw her shorts in her face.

The new girl's shock was evident has her little fingers hastily ripped them off her head. Heedlessly green circles search mine in question before looking at her shorts again.

Then the door.

I didn't register what happened next.

My a.s.s kissed the floor as a hard grunt escaped my lips. I'm starting to think the floor wants me begging on my knees, or my a.s.s; to match the situation.

That little s.h.i.+t!

Before she had the chance to pull a Bee, I scooted off towards the door and forcefully nudged my boot in between the remaining s.p.a.ce.

Cringing from the pain, I growled, "What the f.u.c.k?"

Who does this girl think she is?

Her small figure was barely noticeable through the crack my boot maintained but it'd sure to leave a mark contrasting from the cream-colored door. The black-haired girl kept her face low as a bare whimper escaped her lips. At this point, only two judgments lashed onto my brain.

Either she's extremely anti-social, using any tactic to escape the clutches of a simple conversation; like I what do.

Or.

She's just shy and doesn't know how to speak.

My bet is the latter from her stuttering earlier. Unless I'm wrong, then I have no clue what else to think that isn't gruesome. A question in her personality nearly slipped on my tongue and past my lips when I heard her stutter again.

"Wh-what..." she took a deep breath. "D-do you want?"

At this point, I couldn't hold myself back.

"Is stuttering a new language, wouldn't have known." I scoffed, clearly p.i.s.sed off at getting shoved into the floor a third time.

"S-sorry," she squeaks out nearly sounding like sc.r.a.pping a chalkboard with your nails. I'm watching her bite her lips, making them a little redder and plumper. The struggle to say something is visible in her face full of questions. Suddenly, with just enough force, she pushes my boot out and slams the door shut.

My ears never failing me, I hear her slide down the door and onto the floor with a plop as her skin lightly smacks the marble ground. Plus the mere shadows through the crack – separated between the floor and the door – was palpable.

I groan I'm getting sick and tired of this. I wanted out. Let's hope Bee never did anything to the doork.n.o.b.

After pus.h.i.+ng myself off the floor, I quickly trudge to the bedroom door just as I wrap my long blunt fingers around the cold metallic k.n.o.b.

A small sniffle engulfs my ears, my heart thumps.

f.u.c.k.

f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. Why the f.u.c.k? Please don't tell me I made her cry?

I know I'm rude, but enough to make one weep? That's never happened except blow fumes out of people's noses.

I'm starting to think there's more to her than just the fact she's shy; some are born but some have reasons. If there's a reason, I probably should have better tack for the lack of holding my tongue.
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Still debating – while standing like an idiot – on whether or not to walk out and leave her be. I half-a.s.s want to tell Bee to handle the situation, I get a feeling she'll just try to pry anything out of her in this state.

Yes Bee is much nicer than I am, I can tell you that. Although you put her in a room with someone crying, she becomes a shrink than an unreliable gossiper.

And if this girl has a reason – best to avoid that. Don't get me wrong, Bee can keep her secrets; her list of limits are absolute or burned. Long story short, she can be unpredictable.

Weighing the Pros and Cons if I were to not talk to her or if I do. If I don't, pros are less snot and no burden story to listen to. Might I add, it's less of a problem. I rather not hear a sob story or get caught in the crossfire of someone I barely know. Cons: my mom can grill me, Bee can grill her, or I can roast myself. Might I add an increase in tensions probably isn't a great atmosphere to deal with someone who will be living with you for some time.

But I said it myself, a period – meaning not indefinite.

Hopefully.

Still, she'd be left alone. Including the fact she can't be with her family right now so not a lot of company; wonder if she's the type who rather be alone? Maybe she misses them? Or isn't sure how to deal with the new setting.

I consider myself a recluse but not too much of it. I love my best friend's company, but even I get moments where I much rather be alone. I feel that every day.

Bee says I'm being brooding, despite putting the light in it, she knows full well of the reason why.

f.u.c.k it.

I'm going to talk to her and get it over with. Might make her feel a tad better. Plus I'm socially awkward enough. After earlier, I think any relax environment for her might be useful.

Let's hope she doesn't slap me again. I still feel the sting even though it's not physical.

I get to the door and push it open without hurting the girl, just to get it over with. The black-haired beauty leaning against the door, made opening it a little complicated.

"Hey, scoot up," I spoke against the door and softly nudged it open until the pressure was gone. She seemed hesitant, though, her soft cries were anything but jubilant.

"Come on," I urged, I sigh too loudly. She probably thinks I'll just leave. I'm going to prove her wrong. I pushed the door a bit more. "I just want to talk to you; a shoulder to cry your festive snot on. Might feel a little better to know you've destroyed my clothing like I did to you?"

I cringe. Okay probably shouldn't have said that. I talk too much when I get too anxious, my hands are trembling just a little already.

Ignoring my inner turmoil, I prod the door – the challenging weight has dispersed, making my reason for actually talking her, a little more fearful by the pa.s.sing seconds. Her small cries are still thrumming through the journey to my eardrums despite ignoring my surroundings.

Swallowing the frog in my throat, tuning out the slight hammer of my heart protruding against my chest – I slither through the door and maneuver myself to stand in front of the poor girl.

*