Summary: Two lost lovers finding their way back to each other—but, knowing Eli and Clare, it's never that simple.
You'd think by the way he was curled up in bed, chest to his knees, that Eli Goldsworthy had been crying for hours. His voice deep and low, sore from the sobs, and his chest aching from the lack of oxygen. God, he was a mess. God, he was such a fucking mess.
Never ever had any of her other boyfriends thought, Clare Edwards, she's the one. But he had. Eli Goldsworthy fucking had, and he still did. So he cried. And cried. And cried. But she would never take him back.
His pills were hidden somewhere in his room, somewhere he couldn't find them. And truth to be told, he didn't want to find them. He liked feeling things, no matter how sick that may sound. He hadn't been this torn up in awhile, and a weird part of it felt like home. The emotion, the agony—none of it was new to him. He'd been living in his personal hellhole for quite some time, with no one, no escape. But Clare Edwards, she was the one. She was the one to save him.
Eli's phone buzzed, bringing him out of his thoughts momentarily. His fingers crumpled into a fist, anger pulsing through each limb, and his blood boiled. His dancing fingers picked his phone up from the bedside table and threw it, threw it out of sight. He didn't want to see anything, or hear anything, or be apart of anything. Now was too soon. Eli Goldsworthy was not over Clare Edwards yet. But, God, he wanted to be. So fucking badly.
So he stood, and made his way to the porch. He waved goodbye to his father, Bullfrog, who spared him a nervous look. He'd heard Eli's sobs, but he knew he'd be okay—fatherly instinct, he always said—he just knew it. He walked, his heavy weight shoes clunking onto the floor with each step. The rhythmic sound of his walk beat from the sidewalk and into his ear drums. But then it stopped. He was here. He was at Clare's.
The sound of his knock was not nearly as comforting as his walk had been—in fact, he felt as if he were going to be sick. Soft steps were heard from the inside, and he was greeted with a friendly face, none other than Jake Martin. Jake smiled, but did not offer him a spot inside. He knew all about the breakup, and knew how Eli broke Clare's heart. It was all Clare talked about, for Christ's sake! He couldn't take it anymore! But alas, he smiled, offering him a wave, and Eli simply smiled in return.
"Is Clare around?" he finally asked. Jake knew this was coming, but still faced him with the same look, as if he were taken off guard. Conflict overtook him, and his openness to Eli, knowing damn well that if he told him where she was, he'd never hear the end of it. But, taking another look at him, he knew it was the right thing to do. The both of them needed closure, and they needed it badly.
"Come on in," Jake said, sliding the door open just a tad more. "Seat yourself, and I'll grab the demon child." Eli's wide eyes adverted to him quickly. "Oh—I mean, Clare." The two let out similar snorts as Jake walked up the stairs and down the hall to fetch his sister.
Sister. Was it ever weird for Jake to refer to her as that? I mean, they'd dated for awhile, and—as Eli recently found out—they almost had sex. Wouldn't that've been... weird? He didn't know. And truth to be told, he didn't want to. Some things were better left unsaid.
Or unseen.
Cam came to mind. His bloodied body came to mind, and he shut down momentarily. His hands were engulfed in his sea of hair, and he hissed at the memory. "No," he said. "No, no, no, no." Not here, not now. But Eli didn't realize he was speaking aloud. He also didn't realize Clare was sitting next to him.
Her hand was on his back, and she was moving it up and down slowly in attempt of comforting him. She hushed him, her voice only a whisper. This wasn't a new thing. She'd seen him like this before. Whether it was with Julia, or the hoarding, or with Cam, this wasn't new, and she knew exactly what to do.
"Eli," she said, "look at me." He didn't.
Was he crying again? His cheeks were warm. They were wet, too. He probably was, but he didn't care. Usually he would, but this was only Clare. No one had seen him the way she'd seen him. And even if this was under terrible circumstances, he was glad she was the one to just... be there. He wouldn't have asked for anyone else. Just Clare—that was all he wanted. That was all he needed, now and—if they lasted—forever. But, God, Eli's relationships never lasted. Or ended well, to say the least. Not with Clare, not with Imogen, and certainly not with Julia. It just seemed like the universe wanted Eli to be unhappy—that everyone did.
But that wasn't true. Because, if it was, Clare wouldn't be here right now. She wouldn't be hugging him, touching him, kissing him—even when they were already broken up.
"Clare," he mumbled, glancing up at her. Tears rolled down his cheeks slowly, and black makeup was smudged on the sides of his eyes. "Clare, I need you to read this." She raised an eyebrow, questioning his next move. He handed her an envelope. He gave her no explanation. He just told her to read it. That was the only thing that'd make him happy.
Clare—was she already crying?—I need you to know that I'm sorry. That I'm sorry—she bit her quivering lip—for everything. I don't expect you to forgive me so easily, and, frankly, I don't expect you to forgive me at all. And I don't want you to. Because, if you forgave me, that'd be giving me what I want. And I sure as hell don't deserve that.
Clare licked her lips, flipping through the pages of the letter. "Eli," she began tenderly, "do you really want me to read this?" Her eyes widened a little. He became captivated, once again, in their blue. "All of this?"
He nodded. He did. He really did. He watched her blue eyes jump from side to side, reading and rereading, to make sure she'd read the words correctly. Was she dreaming? This was all she'd ever wanted from him. A simple apology. But she'd never gotten one—not until now.
I know I'm in the wrong a lot—hell, I'm always wrong—but I just want you to give me this chance to explain myself. Why I did the things I did, and said the things I said. I said them because I'm scared to really express how I feel—and that's exactly what you wanted me to do. I'm not afraid to say what I'm thinking with you, but sometimes I still get a little scared that... you'll leave me. And if you leave me, I don't know what I'd do. But I'm kind of getting a little taste of how that feels—Clare looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for something, anything—right now. We're not together, and it's killing me, and I know that's not healthy. That's why I need you to read this letter, to know how I really feel. Because if you at least know how I feel, and know that I didn't mean to hurt you, then I'll be okay. Or something near that.
Seeing Cam so lifeless on the garden floor made me realize what I'd been doing my whole stay at Degrassi—trying to run away from Julia. Like you said, everything in our relationship was about her. Getting over her, moving on. It was all about her. I wanted to forget her; all the moments we had; everything. And you helped me do that. You made me better. So when we broke up for the first time, it crushed me. Where would I be without my muse, Clare Edwards? I'd be nowhere near okay, I thought. Nowhere near it.
To keep it short, they put me on drugs, and I took them. But I didn't feel a thing—Clare swore she spotted a tear on the wrinkled paper—and that astonished me. Eli Goldsworthy, numb? Oh, that wasn't a possibility. So I kept taking the pills, and I noticed it was. I was nothing. I'm still nothing. I don't feel a thing.
That wasn't true. A person who doesn't feel things doesn't show up at their ex's door, crying. They just don't. Clare's hand found its way to Eli's shoulder again. He stiffened, but then relaxed. Her touch was working.
So I stopped. I stopped taking the pills every morning. How, you ask? I slipped them under my tongue, smiled, and pretended like I was okay. And Bullfrog bought it. He smiled back, dropped me off at school, and I placed the hidden pill into my bag of even more hidden pills. And no one but Imogen knew. And then you knew, and you were worried. But I didn't listen, and you thought I was crazy. That fucking killed me. It killed me, but I didn't have the heart to say it, because I knew you wouldn't care or listen. I was too much for you. We were broken up! It wasn't your business, anyway!
But I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know I was "over you" when I wasn't. My play was doomed from the start. When I broke down on stage, I swear I saw you crying. My play was a bust—I thought it'd make you happy! But you weren't. You cried. And I swore from then on I was going to be okay. Because when, or if, you cried, I knew I wasn't alone. I knew, despite how much you hated me, that you still cared about me. And that mattered. That meant the whole world to me.
Eventually, my party—my life, Jesus Christ—had to come crashing down on me. And it did, all at once. I was taken out of school, thrust into therapy, and I was on new meds. And, suddenly, I was bipolar. I never knew, but all the signs were there. Even you saw them. You'd have to know there was something wrong with me. I was too fucked up to even function without the stability of meds! How crazy was I!?
But it'd be a lie to say I never thought about you. I did, all the time. I just wasn't pawning after you. I just wasn't making a fool of myself to be with you. I was being me again. That sarcastic, manipulative—or maybe not-so-manipulative—freak that you fell for. And I was dating Imogen who—hallelujah!—forgave me. But she couldn't date me, either. Not for long. I was just too much, even for her. I thought she could handle me. But no one could. So I ran. And I ran, and I ran, until I found it. The exact place where Julia died. There were flowers there; everything. It was all set up so nicely, and it was so surreal. I started crying. I was in the middle of a busy road and I was crying. Horns honked, people yelled, but I still cried. God, I'd been crying all the fucking time. I was all by myself. But then I realized I had Fiona, and Imogen, still. Even you came back into my life eventually. But I was still so scared. And I'm scared now, too. That's why I ran. That's why I said you were the problem. Because I didn't want to face what was staring me in the face—myself, Julia, everything. I attract death, Clare. You can't be with me. It'll kill you—whether it's emotionally, or physically, it will. I'm too much. I'm too much for a girl like you.
"But you're not," Clare said. A sick part of her wanted to keep reading, but, at the same time, she was beginning to feel nauseous. This letter—everything—it hit her all at once.
"Just read," he said. Still, no explanation. She was growing agitated, but she let her emotions subside. She proceeded.
That's when I realized, our whole relationship... wasn't about her. It wasn't about her at all. Sure, you helped me get over my loss, but does that really matter in the grand scheme of things? The answer is yes. The answer is yes, because that's why I love you today. Because you were always there, when Julia wasn't. Who could blame her, though? She's dead. But, for a long time, I did blame her. I hated her so much—especially after we broke up; took our break, whatever—that I shot her picture. I was so angry. The anger... I'd never felt that way before.
"This is all YOUR fault!" I yelled. And, for the first time in a long time, I'd wished she'd yelled back. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted her to confirm it for me. But she didn't. And deep down, I knew it was my own fault. It was all because I was scared of losing you, the way I lost her. So I began to blame you, too. I blamed all three of us. It was a twisted, and admittedly sick, love triangle. One of us was dead, the other one couldn't get over her, and you were sucked into it all. I'm telling you now that you were NOT to blame. Not now, not ever. You were never to blame to for helping me. You were never to blame for making me a better person. You were never to blame for wondering what's on my mind. I just didn't know how to respond.
And I'm telling you now, Clare Edwards, that loving me was never your fault. I would say I regret loving you, but I don't. And I'm not one to tell lies.
If you're reading this now, and I'm still there, I want to kiss you.
Clare looked up at him.
I want to kiss you, but I won't.
She shot him a confused look, as if asking, "why?"
But if you want me to, I will.
Her eyes were desperate now. She nodded, tears threatening to spill, and she threw her arms around him. His hands dug into her back, gripping onto her for dear life, and she let out a dry sob. "I want you to," she whispered into his ear.
Because, no matter how hard I try, I know I'll come crawling back to you, anyway.
Her hands gripped onto his hair. "I want you to," she said again. "I do," she said louder.
Clare Edwards, you are the one.
With a nod, his lips crashed against hers, and his feelings hit her all at once. Love, lust, loss, despair; they hit her like a title wave, and she was drowning within him. She could feel him, every inch of him on her. He pulled her closer, and she obliged. And, soon, their tongue-tied kisses turned to chaste pecks from their necks, to their jawlines, and back up to where it all began. A simple, but loving, lock of their lips.
That's why I'm okay.
A/N: I got the idea of the "tear-stained letter" from some post on Tumblr—which I would link you to, but I haven't been able to find the particular one. The idea wasn't mine, but the writing is. This piece isn't that great, and, unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to read it through much, seeing as it's a lot longer than my other work. Please excuse any mistakes. This is my first Eclare piece on this account, so enjoy. Woo-hoo. Rate and review, and do all that stuff fangirls do! Thanks, you guys.