The problem with love is that it comes with a certain amount of hate. And an even greater amount of hurt.
Like, a lot of hurt.
And it's not a hurt that can be categorized between the levels of a stubbed toe and an axe through the skull, oh no. It's not that kind of pain. The same goes with the hatred. You can't gauge this kind of loathing based on how cruel you'd wish for the other person.
Because there are no cruel wishes for the other person. That's why it hurts.
Love is beautiful. Unless it's ripped from you, torn away in a sudden motion that spins your world and leaves you reeling. And then the world is a blur. You can't see shit, because love is blindness, too. Especially when it walks away from you.
And then it's not love, or hate. It's just hurt.
.:.
"One, two, three, four..."
He can pinpoint four pivotal moments in his life that got him here. Four, gargantuan mistakes. Out of those four, he was so fortunate to have been witness to five.
He is in a bar, in New York, where it is a prerequisite to be emotionally empty and drained to be able to enjoy anything, most especially the vapid company of other, similarly-emptied strangers on their personal road to hell and other destinations. Sipping his beer dangerously slow, on the constant edge of falling into his dead self, he stands his ground. Or rather, his seat. He will not move. Not for the blond whose cleavage is practically being shoved into his face, or the tall, Greek model whose dark, dark eyes are beckoning him into them. No, he will not move.
Because, unlike some people, he knows where his heart lies.
He cannot think of a better place to be, being without her, not around her. He can't stand her. At the same time, it's deathly intoxicating to be with her, and it's not. fucking. healthy. Especially for a grown man his age, come on. He's an adult, for crying out loud.
He shouldn't be moping about some girl. He should be out, drowning his sorrows in the company of those who have similarly lost enough of themselves in so many other people that there is nothing left.
But he's not that kind of person. And he hates that he can't just be that kind of person.
He tried, though. Give him credit, at least, for dating that one reporter once and making it to their third movie together. But when she hadn't appreciated Guillaume Canet's performance, he had called it quits. Looking back now, his semi-healthy obsession with cinema, all kinds of cinema, has probably reached record heights after what happened.
Which is, what happened. Ugh. He finishes a good lug of his beer and orders another one.
So when Ed Sheeran's very old, very over-used, and very beautiful song comes on, he decides that today, the universe has left him a very important message about life, which is that it is a horrible, horrible bitch.
...
Beca doesn't try to justify the tight, incredibly annoying, white dress.
She hates this. Why can't they just sign the damned papers? Why does she have to celebrate another meaningless promise?
She takes a minute to look at herself, to see herself, in the tall, broad mirror in the shop. Something doesn't feel right. Then again, nothing has felt right in the longest time, so she lets the feeling slip just like she had, so many times before, over and over.
She shudders for the day that she would have to make the feeling permanent. And then she realizes, that day is impossibly close.
...
He hails cab, thinks about what it would mean if he just... gave the wrong address... or the right address. It's a constant internal debate that he keeps on losing... or winning... he doesn't really know anymore.
He's had an uncountable amount of beers. He doesn't know anything anymore.
...
She doesn't know how she got here, but she's here, and she can't do this.
"I can't do this... I'm sorry."
It was the final breath to a dying connection. Then again, she wonders if it had ever been alive. She takes her bags, leaving her bulky ring on the counter, the machine blinking with her pre-recorded message.
The absence of the band on her finger is strange, but it's something she is looking forward to getting used to. It hurts, sure. But everything does, at first. It's like ripping off a band-aid, or eating broccoli. Hurts the first time, but it gets better. God, she hopes so.
She calls Chloe. She can't deal with this alone.
...
It's late. He's late. He has been, for a while now.
He stumbles into his apartment building, wondering why the hell he can't just float up to his room, stupid stairs. Why doesn't he just... die? Right now?
Aw, shit. Depressing thoughts.
Struggling up the stairs, always fighting the urge to give up every three steps and fall, he manages to reach the third floor. A miracle. The first he's known. Since her. But that didn't turn out to be such a miracle after all, so maybe this one is no different.
...
She spends the rest of her afternoon walking aimlessly. Everywhere and nowhere. Sometime between yesterday and eternity, she feels her eyes moisten.
...
He can't find his damned keys.
Fuck, did he leave it in the cab? The bar? He can't remember shit. Fantastic timing, really. Everything is amazing.
...
Her eyes won't. stop. crying.
Why. Why can't she stop crying? She doesn't even cry, godssakes. But the toil, the idea that it's over, that it's done, that she did it. It's joy and pain and a bunch of other, useless emotions crowding her lung capacity and she can't get a thought in sideways between all her sobs.
Up, up the stairs she goes, random tear stains from her hand traveling back and forth, between her black, melting eyes and the solid of the railing. She needs Chloe. Where is that damned redhead? She needs Chloe. And Ben. And Jerry. And Häag. And Dazs.
She reaches the third floor, sees him, fumbling for his keys, diagonally inclined against the wall, slumping, dejected. Drunk.
She fights a sniffle. She doesn't want him to see her like this.
But she can't see him like that, either. So she wipes her tears away, her mascara leaving trails on the back of her hand.
...
Why did he have to have so many damned keys? What the hell are these keys for, anyway? It's not like he has a car, a garage, a fucking cabinet with a working lock. He fans out his options, picking out whichever sensible one he thinks will fit the keyhole to his apartment, when he feels small arms around him. He feels the jolt of his realization feed his blood with enough adrenaline to sober him up for a word, a name.
...
"Bec?"
He's fucking heavy, but not as heavy as she expected. Did he lose weight?
"Dude, come on..."
She's tiny, and this tiny-ness doesn't help her as she tries to straighten him up, facing him to her, looking at him...
...
He is so drunk, he's fucking hallucinating.
But when her hands take his face and she searches his eyes, he swears he would give up real life for this freeze-frame.
...
"Are you drunk?"
"Mebe."
She breaths a brief oh my god before wrapping his arm around her shoulder, taking his keys and opening the door to his humble abode.
On his tattered couch, she half lays, half drops him. She goes to his kitchen, gets water, bathroom, aspirin (that's what they give to drunk people, right?) but she can't find any, so water will have to do.
She returns to an empty couch.
...
"Dude, don't stand."
He hears her words. Definitely, her words. She's here.
He turns around and nearly loses his balance, before she's right beside him again, a balancing act between his intoxicated body and the glass of water in her hand.
Is he dead? Is this... death?
...
She ushers him, again, to the couch. Where he plops, his body limp of anything holding him together. She's breathing heavily. He's like weights. This definitely counts as cardio.
Hands on her hips, mind far away from today's problems, she looks at her poor friend. What could have possibly caused this?
...
Her.
She's in front of him. Beca. What?
"What are you doing here?"
His eyes when he looks up at her, are bloodshot, red, tired. She can't help but feel for him. Sitting beside him, she gives him the glass, helping him drink.
What has he gotten himself into?
Jesse isn't like this. He's not a drinker, and he's certainly not a drunk. She's never seen him like this, and it's not good. Today's frustrations are redirected towards caring for him tonight. She makes him lie down, gets him a blanket, props him up. This is good. She needs this. She needs to forget. She needs to redirect the negative energy into something positive, or some such shit that Aubrey would tell her.
...
He wakes up at three in the morning with a hopeful dream.
But it wasn't a dream. He's on his couch. Under a blanket he doesn't use. In last night's clothes, with the first three buttons undone. And he's not wearing shoes.
Beca.
...
She tosses and turns. She can barely make out the "3" on the wall clock.
Lying on Chloe's couch, she had finally succumbed. Thirty minutes ago. But she can't sleep for more than thirty minutes at a time before the hurt assaults her and she's crying again. So she sits up, this time, buries her face in her hands. She fucking sobs because she can.
...
Jesse stares at the black shade of ceiling.
He cant sleep. Hasn't been able to, for a while now. It takes a strange amount of time before the hurt assaults him, and he can feel that familiar hollowness in his chest. Being in love with his neighbor's best friend/ex-roommate has complications attached. Especially when she's about to get married.
.:.
Author's Note:
I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.
Starting a new story is not in my morning list, what with two works in progress, but I couldnt stop listening to Ed and thinking angsty thoughts, so this was born. And it's been sitting in my writing for a while now, so what the hey. I don't where it's going. I don't know what it is yet. I don't even know if I like it. I'm sorry, it's just... eh. Needed to get some drama out of my system. If ever, this will be short. Like, a three-shot. (emphases on if)
For the guest reviewer on Inked, who told me to keep writing. So there.
Also, if I'm not mistaken, this has been done before? A Jesse/Beca story based on this song, I think. Just so y'all know.
MUSIC: Kiss Me - Ed Sheeran