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So me and [livejournal.com profile] suerm did this thing where we traded word prompts for a 50-sentences type thing, and then we decided to expand on that: we picked two sentences that the other had wrote and wrote 1 drabble, and 1 story based on them. Here was my drabble. This is pretty old, I’m trying to post stuff so I can move on.


Radiant
Fandom: General Hospital
Pairing: Spinelli/Maxie




“Listen.” Spinelli finds himself saying one day, too serious and too solemn to be himself, and is relieved when Maxie doesn’t, when she breezes on in that way she does. Relieved, because he doesn’t have a follow up, isn’t sure what he meant to say if she’d fixed her gaze on him, attentive. That he loves her? That she’s more than a friend? That just being near her is the highlight of his day, his week, his month?

He can compare her to the night sky, so vast and beautiful, to the stars, the glittering objects of a million wishes—but what sort of comparison is it if he already knows which he prefers, knows how much grander she is then all of that?

The world falls away and reforms beneath her feet. As her hips sway, the seasons change. Maxie Jones turns the earth when she walks, fuels the sun when she smiles. Love me, her eyes plead, so he does.

And people think he’s just saying these words because he knows them, because he can, that he’s waxing lyrical but they’re true, all of them. Maxie had somehow become the still point of his turning world, the true north of his compass, his raison d’être, and he knows, more than he’s ever known anything in his life, that she is going to stay the radiant center of his sky for the rest of his existence.

They think he’s exaggerating, but he’s not, he’s not—sometimes he looks at her and he can’t even see through the supernova snapping off behind his eyes.

Maxie Jones isn’t just a girl—she could easily be his everything.

She teases him with false starts, letting him take handfuls before slipping through his grasp like water, like sand, a million little pieces that he can’t possibly hope to ever understand. Except no, no, she didn’t-couldn’t, because she had no idea, did she? Just how much he adored her.

So if he wants more- wants her to gaze at him in that same adoration, wants to touch her like lovers touch—what should he do? Could he tell her? Could he? Could he find the meaning in simple vowels and consonants that would inspire in her the kind of feeling he has for her? Could he show her, perhaps? Could he kiss her lips so softy, so gently, so hungry, so desperate, so very, very truthful that she would feel his caress and know, just know, how dear she is to him?

So many things Spinelli wants, so many. Her heart, for one. Her heart, so worn and weary, so wounded; the heart that loves so much, has loved so much in the past *oh, the things he knew that heart ached for). He wants that heart to love him, he wants to fill the empty spaces with his admiration, his reverence, his utter fondness. More than anything he wants her to be happy, wants to be happy with her.

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October 2009

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