.
-a question-
In the lowest point in the night, when the chill is at its peak, the brunette murmurs a couple words that she never thought she would ever muster together, "let's get married".
The man beside her stirs in his half-awake-half-asleep state. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't open his precious, endearing blue eyes. He just lays there, his head tilting and shifting gently against the pillow.
Her lips press against his bare shoulder, her fingertips brushing over his skin and guiding the sheet away. He stirs a little more, a pathetic attempt of a word slipping out of his mouth. It all just sounds like mumbles and moans to the woman. She continues to fan his chest with kisses. Her lips halt when she feels a beat beneath them—his heart. His most vital organ that pumps blood through his body, the organ that creates this very high temperature that lingers in his skin. The organ that is often associated with falling in love.
She presses a long, lingering kiss to this spot—this spot that thumps and vibrates against her lips. She lets herself stay there, lets herself stay above the place where his heart lies. "Marry me," she says again into his chest. She rests her cheek against his heartbeat. Her eyes go up to his drowsy, tired face. His eyes flicker open a couple times, before they are able to stay open. Through the darkness, she can still see the bright blue that lingers in them. A blue that has always been to bright for him.
"Are you high?" the words tumble out of his mouth lazily.
It is so mumbled, so small and mashed together that if she was anyone other Spencer Hastings, and he was anyone other than Toby Cavanaugh, she would have no idea what the words leaked from his mouth were. But she is Spencer Hastings, and he is Toby Cavanaugh. They know each other's language. They know how to communicate in ways she never thought was possible.
"Maybe," the word falls from her mouth carelessly.
"Marry me," she repeats, moving her face to his. She hovers inches above him, the darkness in between them, casting shadows everywhere.
He gives her a quizzical look, his bright eyes drowsy and still suffering from the effects of cocaine and alcohol. Not such a good mix, she admits, but neither of them really cared at that point in time. "I know you love me," her voice sounds smooth, smooth and silky, like an aged scotch. Her fingers trace the curves and bumps across his face, coming to a stop at the indent of his chin. "I'm the best damn thing in your horrible life," she goes on in a soft, purring voice.
"You don't believe in marriage," he states matter of factly, no emotion in the words.
"I believe in you and me," she counters in a voice that makes her seem fit for a noir film; elegant and smooth. "I believe in us," she presses her lip to his jaw, just grazing his lips. Her lips move to his earlobe. Her lips tug on it before she whispers, "make me your wife."
His head falls back, a long, heaving sigh passing through his lips. In the sigh, she faintly hears the drawn out, distorted version of her name. She smiles against his earlobe, her voice releasing a single word, "please."
In a whisk of a movement, she is pinned beneath him, his bright, too bright of eyes, hungry and lustful. She breathes heavily, a challenge in her own eyes. She caresses his cheek, stubble scratching against her fingertips. Her lips rise into a something resembling a grin—too dark to be a smile, too genuine to be a smirk.
He presses his lips to hers in an instant. She can still taste the whiskey. Maybe it is always there, she doesn't know. Whenever they kiss, some form of alcohol seems to greet her taste buds. She likes that he is like this. All broken and bent, too scattered to piece together. She is the same. It is almost peaceful to be tethered with someone who is too damaged and crooked to be placed place in normality. Knowing that she is not the only imperfect being to exist is somewhat comforting.
She often wonders if she loves Toby or just the drugs he provides her. He tends to question the same thing, only sometimes voicing the question aloud. In those times, Spencer just hushes him with her lips.
He is not the only drug dealer in the world. She could find someone else easily. She sticks with Toby because she chooses to do so. Because he brings her a sort of relaxing feeling all on his own. He is a drug dealer, but he does not know that the drug that she craves most from him is just he, in himself. No amounts of cocaine or acid, or whatever else, can bring her the high he gives her.
But he'll never know that. She'll never tell him the real reason she keeps him around. She'll never have enough time to do so—never have the chance.
She wants to marry him so she can keep him.
It will give him some reassurance. Something that will make him less worrisome about the idea of unrequited love. It will give him enough assurance that she has somewhat the same feelings, and she is not just using him for his career.
Maybe if she was anyone else, this wouldn't mean anything. This proposal. But she is not someone else, she is Spencer Hastings. Since the day they met she has bashed on marriage. Bashed on what it meant to vow yourself to someone for the rest of your miserable life. He listened to her in those times with a thoughtful expression, taking in her ideas and mushing them with his own. He always said he believed that it was good for the people who were happy in life, who wanted more out of it than just survival. He said he admired marriage—the idea of it brought warmth—hope— to him.
In another life, he would probably have gotten married, he told her once.
That was a long ago—that convesation. He was drunk, or high, or possibly both, and she doubts he can remember the memory, but she can. She wants to bring him hope and warmth like idea of marriage does. She wants to make this the life where he does get to be married.
So that's why she asked. Because she wants to give him something. Something that will light up the darkness, if only for a little while. Something warm and hopeful.
"Do you love me?" he asks after he comes out of her, tumbling beside her and finding her burdened with insomnia, eyes.
Her palm once again settles on the sheet of tiny hairs that reside upon his cheek. She doesn't speak, she doesn't even try to distract him from the fact that she is flat-out ignoring the question. She just stares. Stares, and tries to understand how a person with such bright eyes could end up in a place like this.
He ditches the question, realizing, probably, that he will never get a definite answer. "All right," he finally breathes.
A smile slowly forms on her face, "All right," she mimics him in a small voice, only one Toby could pick up on.
"All right," he says again, almost too softly for her ears to pick up.
She closes her eyes, letting out a last, "all right," before giving into the sleep the summons her.
-an answer-
The morning comes late for the brunette. She isn't sure what time it is, but she knows the hours are no longer lingering in the depths of the AM. She can feel the heaviness in her mind, in her brain, in her whole body. It clings to her, seeps into her bones. It is a sort of heaviness that is draining. A heaviness that beckons her to return to the unconscience of her mind.
She wasn't that drunk last night. She was more high than drunk. She wonders if it is just a withdrawal. She forces herself to turn her body around to look at the man beside her. He is still sleeping—still dreaming of a better world, one that does not involve her, probably. Because how could someone as broken and dark as her, live among a perfect world—or even a better world, at that?
He looks peaceful. So peaceful it almost makes her smile. So still…so very still.
She gulps, suddenly feeling more alone than she has ever felt. She is staring at him, but it feels like no one else in the world exists. She feels she is the only one left, the only one who still can breathe. The only who has that organ that pumps blood, and gets associated with the idea of love.
Everything is in slow motion. Everything feels heavy, surreal. It feels like she is on something, but she cannot think of anything that is strong enough to bring these effects upon her.
A horrible, agonizing thought erupts in her mind. No, no. It can't. No. She won't accept the thought. It is just anxiety, anxiety mixed with the high that was really a low she was still on.
Her eyes find Toby—sound asleep, peaceful, still. That's all it is. That's all he is doing. Sleeping. Dreaming of a place where his bright eyes fit in, a place where melancholy and he do not coexist. A place, far, far, away. Another universe. A better universe.
That's all it is. That's all she will let herself believe. She falls back into her pillow, letting her heavy eyes take her away from the anxiety that implodes her.
But when she awakes, he is the same. Still, so very still.
Too still.
Too perfect.
Too gone.
She stares at him, breathing heavily. No, no, no.
Her shaky hand presses to the place where his heart is—the place where his heart should beat—should beat.
She shakes her head, "no…" the word leaves her lips, only audible for Toby Cavanaugh, no one else.
She lets out a shaky breath, "no!" her voice a little more vocalized.
She presses her face to his chest.
Nothing.
She shakes her head again his chest, refusing to believe—incapable of accepting that there is no beat. Not accepting the fate of the man; the fate of the bright-eyed man who is more than just another drug dealer.
Just yesterday—just last night, a few hours ago, there was a beat. There was a steady, beautiful, rhythm. A thump. A rising and falling. But now, now there is nothing. Nothing. Not a single thing left but the silence that succumbs her.
She stays there, buried in his chest, for a long time. She is paralyzed. The bodily functions she has to move have been taken away, replaced by nothing. She is left empty, just as the beat that no longer exists in his heart.
She begins to sob, pleading—begging, that he wake up. Wake up from this sleep he has fallen into; this sleep that stops the beat of his heart, and paralyzes his lungs. She sobs and sobs, until there is nothing left. Until all the tears have gone awry.
She doesn't know why she is so stunned. This was bound to happen eventually. They were careless. Careless with their lives; careless with the things they put into their bodies. They were druggies, wash outs, addicts. This is how it ends for them. This is the way they go.
But she always thought she would be the one to go first. Be the one to overestimate how much she can handle.
She always thought they would have more time together.
She never thought she would have to do this—deal with the terrible, awful, exhausting heart-break.
She doesn't understand.
She doesn't understand.
Why couldn't it have been her?
Why was it Toby? The man with the beautiful, bright, blue eyes that she will never see again.
Never see again.
Perhaps Toby was right. He was never meant to marry in this life.
Hopefully he would in the next.
a/n: yeah so i suck, lol.
um, i'm sorry. why do i kill Toby so much, idk? Well, that is why you don't do drugs kids.