Title: Last Call For Love
Summary: "It is never too late to be who you might have been." - George Eliot
AN: Hey there. Don't know why this idea popped into my head, but it demanded it be written, I really hope everyone likes it. This is going to be a three-shot.
1) Sam-centric
2) Freddie-centric
3) Both.
Each part will be exactly a thousand words, and the last 2,000.
She never liked to look into her past. It was too painful. Why should she bother herself by thinking about him and the life she left behind? She had left for a reason. The whole damn thing was too hard.
But tonight? Tonight an old picture and more than her fair share of a bottle of wine had her spiraling backward, playing a very dangerous game of 'what if?' She wondered why they had broken up. It made no sense, they loved each other. So why had she agreed and walked out of that elevator? What if she hadn't? What if she had refused the break up, said she didn't want to because dammit, she loved him and couldn't stand the thought of being without him?
She supposed they would have stayed together. Maybe gotten married, had children. Maybe she wouldn't be sitting on the floor of an apartment she couldn't afford that she knew she'd have to leave next month when her check bounced. Maybe she wouldn't be drowning her sorrows in a cheap bottle of wine. Maybe she wouldn't have to speculate.
Maybe she'd be happy.
She closed her eyes. Why was she doing this? Nostalgia wasn't her friend. Memories in general had always let her down. She wondered if he ever thought of her. She was sure he did. Although, she didn't think it was the same way she thought of him.
She thought of their good moments. Ones where they got along, laughed together. Where they were happy. At least, she did when she allowed herself to think of those things. When her heart took over, did what it wanted, that's when she thought of all the pain, all the stupid fights. The elevator. That's when she sometimes did stupid things.
Usually they involved calling Carly, or paying a visit to his SplashFace page, or sometimes (when she had been good for at least a few months), she hacked his email.
However, the picture had done more damage than anything else had. Ever. In it, they were seventeen, hanging out at the mall. They were sitting in front of the water fountain, holding hands, something rare for them to do in public. She had her head on his shoulder, which only made it more cutesy. Carly, being the girl she was, thought it was the most adorable thing ever, and took a picture, despite their protests. But they were still grinning ear to ear, unable to be angry when hanging all over the person they loved. Carly had given it to her best friend, telling her that someday, when they're all old and married, they'd look back on that picture with the same smiles.
But it had been a decade. They were older, not married, and she wasn't smiling.
The picture had sparked the drinking, which opened the floodgates to memories, which only made her drink more. Before she knew it, she had her phone in her hand, and was dialing the still familiar number she had deleted so long again. She still knew it by heart. It rang twice, and then picked up.
"H-hello?" his voice was unsure, confused. Did he know it was her? Was her number still in his phone? Is that what confused him? After a decade of not speaking to him, ignoring his calls, texts, and, in the very beginning, a few knocks on her door, why would she call?
She had no idea. She couldn't think, not really. The small part of her brain not intoxicated by the alcohol in her system had gone drunk at the sound of his voice. A few decibels deeper than last time, still smooth, still the only thing that could stop her in her tracks. Just hearing him… it brought back even more memories, good ones, ones a tad more x-rated. She remembered how when he whispered, his voice hardly changed, and when that whisper touched her skin, she could never fight back shivers. How when he laughed, a deep throaty chuckle, everything went right with the world, no matter wrong things had been. How everyone said he couldn't sing, but when he sang to her, at night while they were drifting off to sleep, she never thought she had heard a more beautiful sound.
"S-Sam? Is that you?" her heart, not to mention her stomach, flipped once, halted, then kept a steadily increasing rhythm.
"Hello?"
She stayed silent, afraid. This was not funny drunk Sam he was trying to get to talk. No, this was vulnerable, broken Sam, and he knew it. Her silence spoke volumes.
"I know you're there. You might as well talk to me."
She still couldn't speak. Why the hell had she called him? She knew there was a reason, there had to be.
"Sam." his voice changed, he was being more stern than sexy, but it still made her wish she could go back into the past and shove herself back in that elevator.
"I miss you." the words came out a strangled whisper, and she wiped away tears harshly.
"Sam…" softer now, but thicker.
"What did we do?" she cried, but she wasn't speaking to him, more to herself.
"Screwed up." he answered darkly, and her tears became sobs.
That tiny portion suddenly recovered, and seemed horrified at what she was doing. Calling him. The worst thing she could possibly do. Angrily, the tiny portion took over, chucked her phone against the wall.
"Sam?" she could still hear him. She clapped her hands over her ears, trying to block him out.
But still his voice made it through. "Are you ok?"
No, no she wasn't. She was falling apart, and he was to blame. But she couldn't say that. So she just laid in the fetal position until sweet, blissful sleep took his voice and real life away.
She dreamed of him. That voice, telling her he loved her just one more time.
But when she woke, the memory- of the entire screwed up night- was gone.