A/N: written: March 5, 2011
edited: August 10, 2013
Don't own the characters, nor Self Esteem, which is by the Offspring. Reposted.
!
She's using him.
That's what he knows. That's what he tells himself. But that's what he can't bring himself to say out loud. If he ever told her this, she wouldn't come back. And he needed her like he needed oxygen.
She's using him.
He tells himself he can't deal with her anymore. How many times has he sat waiting for her to show up? Waiting for her to laugh and smile and make him do the same? Waiting for her to tell him she loves him, and mean it?
Too many times.
He squeezes his eyes shut once, tightly as though he could block out the world by doing so, then looks up at his reflection. He's a tall, lean young man of twenty-six with olive skin gone pale and dark hair to match his deep, coal-black eyes. He blinks, sighs, and repeats his planned words again.
"Thalia, I'm sorry, but we can't do this anymore, I-" He cuts himself off, draws in a shuddering breath, and hangs his head. Even when she's not here, he can't tell her. As much as he'd like her gone and forgotten from his life, he can't imagine what he'd do without her.
He practices his words again, standing in front of his apartment's bathroom mirror, and remains there late into the evening, staring at his sallow face and his empty eyes and wondering what little stroke of luck had brought her to him. It's eleven P.M. when he hears the doorbell from outside in the hall ring. It makes him jolt, and he opens his mouth and turns towards the door. "Coming!" he calls hoarsely, wondering who in the world could be at his doorstep at this time except for her.
The thought that she could be there waiting for him makes his heart tingle and pound and flutter all at the same time, and he accelerates through the kitchenette and practically throws open the door.
And there she is, in all her drunken glory: Her dark hair, cropped short and wild to flirt with the base of her neck; her smooth, alabaster skin; her eyes, those blue, blue eyes, striking him like lightning every time they met his.
Right now those eyes are bleary and unfocused as she stumbles forward in her heels and little black dress. As she lurches into his chest, he can smell the alcohol on her breath. Her hands reach for his belt, but he pushes her away, gently, and closes the door.
"Thalia, how much have you been drinking?" There are no introductions. He knows why she is here.
"A lot, babe, a lot." Her speech is slurred, and she staggers towards the bathroom he'd been in minutes before, hands over her mouth, as she kicks off her stilettos. He winces as he hears her retching into the toilet. He can't just not help her.
"Thalia. Thalia, come lie down," he coaxes her when she slumps out. "I'll make you some ice cream and ginger ale and make your stomach feel better."
She grunts in response and collapses on his couch without even a "thank you".
!
He drums his fingers nervously on the faux-marble countertop in his apartment's kitchen and glances at the clock again. It is a quarter till eight. Why wasn't she here yet? He'd invited her over for dinner at seven sharp.
He exhales, letting his cheeks balloon out, and wanders over to his mirror again to check his appearance. His hair, recently trimmed at the barber's earlier that day, is gelled to spike up near his forehead. He moistens his lips and adjusts his black dress shirt's collar so it's not popped up like some sort of douchebag's. He'd even ironed his nice khakis earlier that afternoon and had put on his dress shoes, which he was sure he'd taken out of their box only once before.
So why, oh why, was she not here?
He shuffles over to the kitchen table. Two white plates full of once-warm chicken, rice, and vegetables- all of which he'd cooked himself –sat on either side.
He slouches at his seat, staring across at the empty chair where she should've been. All he wants is a normal dinner. He knows she hates romance, but she owes him. Right?
He waits until two A.M., staggering around like the dead and keeping all the lights on, before abruptly standing and dumping both plates of food into the trash. He kicks off his shoes, lurches into his room, and collapses on top of his bed, flicking the lights off on the way.
He falls asleep wondering: Why am I not good enough? What can I do to be good enough for her?
He wonders how he can love her so much and she doesn't even care. If she keeps rejecting him like so, he might just tell her how much she hurts him.
That's what he says to make himself feel better, but he doesn't, and he knows he won't, because he'll never say so.
!
He remembers the first and only time he asked her.
They are in his bed, and she is furiously fumbling with the buttons on his shirt as she plants kisses down his neck. Her blouse is already open, and normally he'd reach enthusiastically for her, but he's had something on his mind and he has to ask her or it'll continue to eat away at him.
"Thalia." His voice is a throaty whisper.
"Hmm?" She starts to push the sleeves of his shirt off his arms, but he sits up and holds both of her own limbs, loosely closing his hands around her wrists. She goes still, eyes shining with that adventurous sparkle he loves so much. He looks her right in the eyes, searching, wondering what she feels when she looks at him.
Obviously she's sensed something is wrong. Her hands, which were still wandering moments before, have gone idle and tense. That little devilish smirk she always wore had darkened and transformed into a grim slash, and her eyebrows had drawn together. "What is it?" she complains.
Sensing her annoyance at not getting what she wants, he bites his lip once and looks down at her curled fists in his grasp. "Um-I-you-I wanted to know if-er-"
"Come on, di Angelo, spit it out." He hears the taunt and tease in her voice. He wishes she wouldn't, though. This is serious to him.
"Do you love me, Thalia?" As he speaks, he looks right up at her and scours her eyes with his own. There is no flood of emotion or light of realization in her gaze, only an empty, dead stare before she drops and shakes her head.
"Nico, how many times do I have to tell you that we are not emotionally involved? There are no strings attached, we are just-"
The nerve she has. Acting like she is the one who is constantly disappointed and deprived of love. Anger sparks in his chest and he cuts her off. "But do you love me?"
Her shoulders sag and she looks at him darkly. "Yes, Nico, of course I love you. I have so much love for you bursting from my heart." Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and ignorance. Does she not get how much this means to him? He wants to snap and rage and yell and let her know just how much it frustrates him that he feels crappy because of her.
But no. Instead he fixes a smirk on his face, taunting her like she taunts him. "Well, good," he says, leaning forward to nibble playfully on her ear. "Because I hate you."
He won't tell her he means it.
He feels her smirking against his skin as she pushes him back onto to bed.
!
Just once, he wants to surprise her and be the one who puts light into her eyes. He has this twisted, demented idea that if he tries to please her, maybe she'll want to return the favor. Then she'd fall in love with him, and his confidence, his energy, his enthusiasm about life, would return.
He's excited. He's been excited about this plan ever since it first hit him the previous night after she'd left. Even though she'd called him earlier that day, saying she'd come down with a cold and couldn't come over that night, he isn't disheartened. His fantasy of her face lighting up in a radiant smile is oh-so-crystal-clear in his mind's eye.
So he shows up on her apartment's doorstep and knocks once, twice, three times in succession before rocking back on his heels. He holds a lovely bouquet of lush, sweet-smelling red roses in one hand and a warm Tupperware full of chicken noodle soup- just heated from his microwave before he'd left his own home –in the other.
"Thalia, it's me!" he calls, holding the Tupperware in the crook of his arm and lifting his free limb to knock again.
"Coming!" Her voice is thick. God, he hopes she feels better soon.
She opens the door, clad in only her underwear and a tight camisole. Her shoulders are sagged and she coughs meekly into her fist, but her eyes sparkle brightly. She looks . . . interrupted. Wild. Nonchalant.
"Hey," he stammers. "I brought you soup, and roses, 'cause I know they're your favorite, and-"
"Thalia?" Another voice. A male voice. "Thalia, tell him to go away; you're contagious, remember?"
Another man saunters into the foyer, wearing only boxers and a complacent smile. She glances downward for a moment. The man in the foyer's expression changes from a devilish grin to one of shock and humiliation, but why should he be embarrassed? He's not the one standing on her doorstep with roses and soup.
What sucks even worse is that he, standing in cold numbness, recognizes this man.
"Percy?" The name leaves his lips in a light whisper. He sees Percy every day at work. He has the same dumbfounded look in his green eyes now as he does when he takes orders from the customers.
"Ow, wow. Nico. Shit," Percy says. "I-"
"Shut up," she commands from the threshold, not taking her eyes off the man standing across from her in the hallway with a bouquet and soup that is quickly losing its heat.
"You're not sick," he says quietly, feeling his insides freeze and crumble and plummet within him.
"No shit, Sherlock," she mumbles, folding her arms over her chest and pouting as she averts her gaze from him. She's acting like a teenager caught sneaking out, and it infuriates him that this is such a small mistake to her when he is shattering inside.
"How could you do this to me?" he shouts, his hand clenching around the bouquet. When he glances at the roses, it is like he can see them dying along with him, soft petals hardening and darkening to black before slowly falling to pieces on the carpet. "You said you only wanted me."
"Oh, Nico, quit with the drama!" She shakes her head in annoyance. "You're like some disease, I swear, infecting me with all your dumb gifts and romantic bullshit!" Her eyes are deep and dark blue like storm clouds, and he can see the lightning flashing through them.
"I-"
"Are you really so stupid to think that we are together? I'm not tied down by anyone, especially not someone as ignorant and clingy as you!" The tempest rages in her eyes. Percy stands in the foyer, wide green eyes watching the verbal battle play out.
He drops his chin to his chest, somehow wishing he could curl up into a ball and disappear into thin air. The bouquet lies forgotten by his feet, and he is tempted to drop the Tupperware of soup beside it so it can ruin her carpet like she's ruined him.
Then the anger hits him. The fury, the rage, the utter disdain he's been hiding from her because she's perfectly good, but so, so bad. He raises his eyes back to her, a glare preying on his countenance, and lets it all out of his corrupted system.
"Well, you know what I think of you? You're a sex-addicted bitch!" He hurls the insult with all he has. "All you do is put me down, and put everyone down, and then show up drunk, apologizing, thinking sex will fix all the shit you do! But you know what, it doesn't fix anything. And I hate you!"
With that, he heaves the Tupperware down. The lid springs off and the cold chicken noodle soup spills out. The look on her face is absolutely priceless, and he commits it to memory as he storms away from her door, his heart finally singing with triumph.
But that night he cries harder than he's ever cried before.
!
The next night he is sitting upright in his rumpled bed, back ramrod stiff, as he watches her redress. She slips on her white camisole and flashes him a wink as she does so. His heart trembles.
"Come over tomorrow," he says automatically. He doesn't even think about what he says; he just wants to see her again. But why?
The devilish grin that is all too familiar to him crosses her face. Her eyes sparkle with something he doesn't want to see as she straightens her shirt over her skintight jeans. Something he shouldn't see if they were really, truly, in love. But they're not.
She says, "Maybe," and is out the door, leaving only the scent of her perfume.
He waits. Then he wanders into the bathroom in his boxers and throws cold water on his face. He misses the rare glint of zest in his eyes that he'd had before she'd come back over, drunk and ready to go. Before he'd apologized for speaking that way to her. Before he'd let her take control of his self-esteem again.
He figures he should stick up for himself, but somehow, he really thinks it's better this way. The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care, right?