Title: Complicated
Author's Note: I'm thinking of making this into a longer M/A story, but I'm not sure yet. Have fun reading, and don't forget to review!!!
Disclaimer: Um, yeah.
~*~
It's raining. Lightning rips through the sky beyond the broken window of this broken down building. Thunder soon follows, and the structure trembles, small pieces of rubble shaking loose from the disintegrating frame. The moisture drips down the remaining shards of glass in the windows, like little rivers floating atop ice. Some of it rolls right on by, while the rest of it pools in a small puddle beneath the sill. The paint peels, bubbling away from the walls and leaving ancient, rotting boards exposed for all to see. There's no TV, not for lack of wanting, but lack of electricity.
So you want to know what I'm doing right now? I'm sitting in my living room, in the dark, watching the rain on the fifth floor of an abandoned apartment building in TC. TC, Terminal City, home for freaks and freaks alike. That's me, resident freak. I know I could have one of my guys hook up a generator for me, but why should I have such a luxury others may really need. Hell, I'm one of the lucky ones. I got my own place, even if it is falling down around my ears.
God help me, if there is a God, but I don't even hate this place. Every day that passes it feels more like home. Home. Huh, never thought I'd say that without laughing. Even this couch feels right, like home. Never mind the mildew or the dust that springs forth whenever I sit down, or even the busted spring ready to nail anyone unsuspecting in the back. Nope, I actually kind of like this rag tag, shredded, weathered couch, placed squarely in the middle of this bare room, with its bare walls, facing the small fireplace.
Shadows flicker off the walls, cast off by both the lightning and the bonfires on the streets below. There's a soft knock at my door. Completely unnecessary mind you, as I had heard her coming up the stairs long beforehand. Besides, I had seen them today, pensive and quiet. I don't even know why she bothers, since she never waits long enough for me to answer it. She just comes in. The rusted out hinges creak as the door swings inward, and then she's framed in the doorway for a brief second remaining gloriously still as I drink her in out of the corner of my eye. She's standing, one leg ramrod straight, the other bent, hip cocked out.
Then she moves, casting dark gloves upon my table, kicking the door shut behind her. She moves in my direction. Well, slides really, hips swaying back and forth in some hypnotic rhythm and I never look up, because if I do I just may say "no" for the first time.
The rational half of my brain tells me "no" would be a damned smart thing to say, far smarter than this uncharacteristic silence thus consuming me. But I never look up, because the rational half of my head can never scream loud enough to be heard. Maybe if I didn't see her silhouetted in the doorway, maybe if I weren't such a fucking fool I could say that stupid word. She strides behind the couch, running her fingers over the along the fabric, then over my neck, my barcode and now I couldn't say no even if I actually still wanted to.
It's a sick, twisted little game we play and I can't even lay it all on her since I am a willing participant. This much I do realize. I'm a sucker for this game. She knows she can always find me here at night, whenever her strange on-again, off-again, we're-not-like-that relationship goes south for a few days. I guess this is one of those off again times.
These are the moments I wait for, the ones where she comes and we head back into my bedroom. Of course in my dreams I'm not the second choice, the replacement for what she can't have. These moments are precious, fleeting, because after tonight, or possibly tomorrow night she'll go back, and then they'll be on again, and I'll be alone, waiting. And if I were as smart as everyone seems to think then I could say that this is the "last time" and actually mean it. But it's not true, they're just words. Because these are the moments I can fool myself into believing that she wants me like I want her.
I could make it easier, I suppose. I could just leave and never look back. Things unfortunately are never that simple and I'm not quite that deluded. I can't leave, because she feels like home too. I think maybe I'm just a little masochistic.
And now I'm kissing her, tasting her, running my fingers through the tendrils of her hair and tugging at her jacket. Her hair is wet from the rain, and beads run down her throat. She tastes like vanilla. "Max," I breathe. It's the only word I ever speak, as she silences me with a deep, insistent kiss. I try to make myself believe that it doesn't matter that she never utters my name, the name she gave me, like it's something silly, like I don't care.
Her hands are at my chest, pushing me back toward the bed and we haven't spoken once since she came. I know she always comes here looking for something, some answer to an unasked question that has nothing to do with sex, but she can never seem to actually form the words. So she settles for being touched, for feeling, and I am more than willing to oblige and make her happy for a time. But it's just for a time, because I can see the pain and guilt in her eyes when she's near him the next day. I see the way she actively avoids me, I feel that void. And it's because she can't apologize for things she shouldn't have done. She can't apologize to him for me. And I watch, hurt, and wait for the next night, the next off-again. We both know she'll come too, and feel the same guilt all over again. Okay, so maybe we're both a little masochistic.
Author's Note: I'm thinking of making this into a longer M/A story, but I'm not sure yet. Have fun reading, and don't forget to review!!!
Disclaimer: Um, yeah.
~*~
It's raining. Lightning rips through the sky beyond the broken window of this broken down building. Thunder soon follows, and the structure trembles, small pieces of rubble shaking loose from the disintegrating frame. The moisture drips down the remaining shards of glass in the windows, like little rivers floating atop ice. Some of it rolls right on by, while the rest of it pools in a small puddle beneath the sill. The paint peels, bubbling away from the walls and leaving ancient, rotting boards exposed for all to see. There's no TV, not for lack of wanting, but lack of electricity.
So you want to know what I'm doing right now? I'm sitting in my living room, in the dark, watching the rain on the fifth floor of an abandoned apartment building in TC. TC, Terminal City, home for freaks and freaks alike. That's me, resident freak. I know I could have one of my guys hook up a generator for me, but why should I have such a luxury others may really need. Hell, I'm one of the lucky ones. I got my own place, even if it is falling down around my ears.
God help me, if there is a God, but I don't even hate this place. Every day that passes it feels more like home. Home. Huh, never thought I'd say that without laughing. Even this couch feels right, like home. Never mind the mildew or the dust that springs forth whenever I sit down, or even the busted spring ready to nail anyone unsuspecting in the back. Nope, I actually kind of like this rag tag, shredded, weathered couch, placed squarely in the middle of this bare room, with its bare walls, facing the small fireplace.
Shadows flicker off the walls, cast off by both the lightning and the bonfires on the streets below. There's a soft knock at my door. Completely unnecessary mind you, as I had heard her coming up the stairs long beforehand. Besides, I had seen them today, pensive and quiet. I don't even know why she bothers, since she never waits long enough for me to answer it. She just comes in. The rusted out hinges creak as the door swings inward, and then she's framed in the doorway for a brief second remaining gloriously still as I drink her in out of the corner of my eye. She's standing, one leg ramrod straight, the other bent, hip cocked out.
Then she moves, casting dark gloves upon my table, kicking the door shut behind her. She moves in my direction. Well, slides really, hips swaying back and forth in some hypnotic rhythm and I never look up, because if I do I just may say "no" for the first time.
The rational half of my brain tells me "no" would be a damned smart thing to say, far smarter than this uncharacteristic silence thus consuming me. But I never look up, because the rational half of my head can never scream loud enough to be heard. Maybe if I didn't see her silhouetted in the doorway, maybe if I weren't such a fucking fool I could say that stupid word. She strides behind the couch, running her fingers over the along the fabric, then over my neck, my barcode and now I couldn't say no even if I actually still wanted to.
It's a sick, twisted little game we play and I can't even lay it all on her since I am a willing participant. This much I do realize. I'm a sucker for this game. She knows she can always find me here at night, whenever her strange on-again, off-again, we're-not-like-that relationship goes south for a few days. I guess this is one of those off again times.
These are the moments I wait for, the ones where she comes and we head back into my bedroom. Of course in my dreams I'm not the second choice, the replacement for what she can't have. These moments are precious, fleeting, because after tonight, or possibly tomorrow night she'll go back, and then they'll be on again, and I'll be alone, waiting. And if I were as smart as everyone seems to think then I could say that this is the "last time" and actually mean it. But it's not true, they're just words. Because these are the moments I can fool myself into believing that she wants me like I want her.
I could make it easier, I suppose. I could just leave and never look back. Things unfortunately are never that simple and I'm not quite that deluded. I can't leave, because she feels like home too. I think maybe I'm just a little masochistic.
And now I'm kissing her, tasting her, running my fingers through the tendrils of her hair and tugging at her jacket. Her hair is wet from the rain, and beads run down her throat. She tastes like vanilla. "Max," I breathe. It's the only word I ever speak, as she silences me with a deep, insistent kiss. I try to make myself believe that it doesn't matter that she never utters my name, the name she gave me, like it's something silly, like I don't care.
Her hands are at my chest, pushing me back toward the bed and we haven't spoken once since she came. I know she always comes here looking for something, some answer to an unasked question that has nothing to do with sex, but she can never seem to actually form the words. So she settles for being touched, for feeling, and I am more than willing to oblige and make her happy for a time. But it's just for a time, because I can see the pain and guilt in her eyes when she's near him the next day. I see the way she actively avoids me, I feel that void. And it's because she can't apologize for things she shouldn't have done. She can't apologize to him for me. And I watch, hurt, and wait for the next night, the next off-again. We both know she'll come too, and feel the same guilt all over again. Okay, so maybe we're both a little masochistic.