Until the Last Falling Star
"Life is beautiful, but it's complicated ... Life is beautiful, our hearts they beat and break."
- 'Life is Beautiful' by Vega 4
...
The hot, salty tears are falling freely down your pale, porcelain cheeks, yet no sobs escape your lips. No whimpering or wailing, just silent tears.
It's the pain. It aches and throbs in every cell of your small body to the point where it's nearly unbearable.
Fatigue threatens to overwhelm you. You want to sleep and sleep until reality becomes a nightmare, a nightmare which you can wake up from and forget all about. But there's no waking up from this.
The steady thumping of your heart seems odd considering how it's just been completely shattered in two.
The person who committed this terrible act of breaking your heart? Harry Cunningham. And how did he break it? He kissed you.
Heartbroken; you've never really liked that term. It's a cliché, invented for corny literature and melancholic women everywhere. The heart is a bodily organ; a muscle, made of nothing but tissue. It can't be broken and the owner still alive. At least, that's what you've always told yourself.
Until now.
Now, you completely and unequivocally understand why the word 'heartbroken' was coined. Because it's exactly how you feel.
Heartbroken and confused.
Confused because you don't understand how you came to be heartbroken. How you came to be where you are now, curled up on the sofa in your dark living room silently crying. You've always been such a strong woman; you've never let a man get to you like this before. Except he's not just a man.
He's Harry.
So maybe in the physical sense he is 'just a man', but to you he represents everything that's good in your life. He's your rock, your strength, your shoulder to cry on.
But then there's the suffocating, all-consuming grief that reverberates around your body every time you remember almost losing him in Hungary. And it's the worst kind of grief. The kind that makes you want to stop living yourself. And you wonder how you came to rely on his presence in your life so badly that nearly losing him can cause you that kind of pain.
Then again, the memory of the grief is often swallowed by the recollection of the enormous relief you felt when you got him back - despite being certain that you were never going to see him again. It was like the universe had played a cruel trick on you, reminding you that life is short and telling you not to take him for granted.
And yes, he's all of the usual clichés; intelligent, handsome, charming, funny... But beneath the surface of the brilliant, cerebral, pathologist exterior, he's just as vulnerable and lonely as you are.
Your confusion and heartbreak stems from the moment when, mid-kiss, he had stopped kissing you and pulled away. He hadn't even offered an explanation, he had just looked at you for a couple of seconds and then disappeared from the bar. Leaving you alone.
That's when the silent crying had started, you remember now. When you had been standing outside in the cold November air which was threatening rain, waiting for a taxi to take you home.
It's two hours later now, and the tears haven't stopped falling since.
For the briefest of moments back in that bar, you'd been happy. Really, properly, completely happy. It had been a beautiful kiss – although you may have been a little less surprised had you seen it coming.
What stings the most is that he didn't even apologise or, in fact, say anything before he fled the bar. He just left you feeling humiliated and confused.
Even now, having had time to reflect upon it, you can't work out what it meant or why he kissed you.
You don't know what you want anymore. Until now the answer would have been easy. But after tonight...
Perhaps you should just move away. Get some space, clear your head. Give yourself some time to revaluate things, decide what it is you want to do.
Except leaving would be the hardest thing in the world. You love your job and the people you work with. Saying goodbye to Leo would be painfully difficult; and as for Harry, that would be downright impossible.
Sometimes, usually either when drunk or in a particularly self-pitying frame of mind, you lie awake at night and wonder just what it is that you feel for him. Is it just the desperate longing to not feel alone?
No, it's more than that. You couldn't live without him, that's for sure. He makes you feel completely safe when you're with him. If you've had a bad day, he'll offer you his arm as you walk to the pub. When he catches you crying he won't push you to tell him why, he'll just hold you until you've stopped. He'll crack a bad joke to lighten the atmosphere of a tough post-mortem and take your hand when you're scared.
It's more than lust, too. Yes, occasionally a lascivious thought may cross your mind - but more often than not it's simply his company that you desire.
The answer to what it is that you feel for him is staring you in the face, and yet you push it away. You hide it in a corner of your mind where you can forget it exists.
But you can't forget, not really. You never have been able to. It permeates every waking moment, and many sleeping moments too.
Just as you're considering whether to start drinking, there's a soft knock at your front door.
It's late, and you've been in your fair share of dangerous situations in the past, so it's with great apprehension that you cautiously approach the hallway.
But it's obvious whose silhouette it is through the frosted glass.
"Dammit," you mutter under your breath, greatly regretting your decision to give him the code to the building. You're surprised he hasn't used his key and just let himself in.
"Nikki?" he says quietly.
You'd like to pretend you're out, except it's not only the middle of the night but you have lights on. Hardly the behaviour of someone who isn't in.
Slowly, you edge towards the door. He must have seen your shadow, because he repeats your name.
You don't know what to do. Part of you wants to shout at him for what he did earlier. The other part of you wants to hear what he has to say for himself.
Or do you? Because surely whatever he has to say can't end well. It will either be a gentle let-down followed by an 'I value our friendship too much', or, and least likely, some huge declaration of feelings. And that thought scares you to death.
Through the glass, Harry's outline presses its forearm to the window above his head and you hear his sigh. "Nikki, open the door," he says quietly.
Taking three steps closer, so that you're now directly on the other side of the door, you mumble, "I can't."
"Come on, Nikki," he says, and you can hear the trace of desperation.
He doesn't seem to realise just how hard this is for you. "Go away," you tell him, blinking away tears.
There's a pause, and then, "No. I'll stay here all night if I have to."
Sighing yourself, you press your palms to the frosted glass.
"Just let me explain," he begs.
"Harry..." you breathe, just as the tears begin to fall again. On the other side of the door, Harry moves his arm and places his hand in the mirror position to yours.
An almost overwhelming sense of forgiveness threatens to take hold, but then you remember what happened and the moment's gone.
"Please, just leave me alone," you plead, but you're unable to move your hand from its position against his, with nothing but the pane of glass standing between you.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I should never have run."
"Then why did you?" You didn't mean to sound that angry, yet you hurled the accusation at him.
He sighs again, then turns around and slides down the door so that he's sitting on the floor with his back against the wood.
"I was scared," he says, his voice more muffled than before.
You copy him and sit on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest. You're talking with your backs to each other, your voices drifting through the narrow gap under the door.
"Of what?"
"I don't really know what," he mutters, somewhat thoughtfully.
There's silence for a moment, and everything that you were feeling earlier, all the heartbreak and confusion, is more pronounced than ever.
"Why are you doing this?" you ask, brushing away the tears from your cheeks.
"Because I want to explain."
You shake your head, willing him to understand. "No. I don't mean this moment right now. I mean all of this. Why?"
"I don't know," he murmurs again, and you can almost sense the hand that he's running through his short hair.
The fact that he doesn't know, or won't tell you, just fuels your yearning for an answer.
"We've been so happy lately. Since last year you and I have been closer than ever. You're my best friend, Harry. Why are you ruining that?"
You wonder if you even believe your own words, if he really is 'ruining' anything.
You hear him rest his head against the door with a gentle thump. "Maybe that's not enough anymore," he says quietly.
It's everything you want to hear, and yet at the same time it tears you apart to know that you can never have what he's implying. It's always been that way; why should anything change now?
Screwing your eyes up against the tears, you desperately shake your head. "I can't do this, Harry," you murmur, tugging your sleeves over your hands to wipe your cheeks.
"Yes, you can," he tells you, more certain than he's sounded about anything all evening. "You're just afraid to."
It's almost unbearable. You climb to your feet, just wanting to run and hide from it all. But, of its own volition you're sure, your body turns to face the door again.
Clearly sensing movement, Harry's also on his feet. "Please, Nikki, let me in."
You rest your forehead on the glass, your breath creating a small foggy patch. "Why did you stop kissing me? Was it because you didn't like kissing me?"
"God, no!" he exclaims, his palms pressed to the window pane again. "Of course I like ... kissing you."
Part of you refuses to believe what he's saying, and you're not oblivious as to why. The memories are sharp in your mind.
"We've been here before, Harry," you tell him, pleading with his sense of reason. "We kissed five years ago, and went on a date that neither of us would admit was a date, and look how that turned out."
"That was different," he says, "I don't want to do that again."
His off-hand comment stings like someone has thrown gravel in your face.
"Oh well, if you won't even consider dating me then I don't know why we're having this conversation," you snap, stepping back from the door, "you might as well leave."
"No!" he protests quickly, "That's not what I - hang on, do you want me to date you?"
It's all proving too much. Your anger dissipates and your forehead finds the glass again, if only to keep you standing. "Harry," you sob. The tears are no longer silent.
His tone softens. "What I meant was: we're way past dating. We already know everything about each other..." he pauses, and then adds, "You want to know why I kissed you?"
You nod, although you know that he can only see your silhouette.
You can practically hear his long exhalation through the door. Eventually he murmurs, "Because ... because it's you. It's always been you."
Despite the ambiguity of his words, you understand them perfectly. And it takes your breath away a little bit.
Nervously, your shaking hand reaches up and slides the chain from the door with a small clatter. Next, you gently wrap your fingers around the handle, as if afraid it might burn you, and then step back and let the door swing open.
And then there he is. Standing forlornly in your hallway with his hands hanging limply by his side, and, if you didn't know him better, you'd say that his eyes looked a little red. God knows what you must look like.
In two steps he's across the threshold and directly in front of you. Silence descends quickly, but it's not awkward or uncomfortable. It merely holds the promise of change, a change that you're both a little afraid of embracing.
You're comforted to see that his own hand is also shaking as he raises it to your cheek. His fingers dance lightly across your tear-stained skin, wiping away any evidence of your earlier woes.
You lean into his touch, just as he brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face, sending a shiver up your spine.
He steps closer still until your bodies are pressed together, and those fingers continue their journey across your jaw and down your neck.
Still no words are spoken; the only sounds in the room are your small sighs of pleasure. That is, until he lightly runs a finger along your collarbone and across your shoulder to the back of your neck, which causes you to gasp at the tickle of electricity running through your body.
He knows full well what he's doing to you, you consider, as he plays with the hair on the nape of your neck. It's almost torture, but it's worth it.
Finally, his head begins to draw closer. You wrap your arms, which have turned to jelly like the rest of your limbs, around his shoulders and neck.
Your eyes flutter shut when his face becomes so close that it's blurry. Your lips are parted slightly and you can smell that wonderful smell that's so distinctly him.
But rather than kiss you, his lips lightly brush the skin just beneath your earlobe instead. It's so light that you barely feel it, yet no one's ever done that to you before and you're amazed at the sensation. His lips gently touch your jaw next, then your cheek.
You can hardly bear the anticipation; it takes all your willpower not to moan, but you don't want to break the perfect silence.
Finally, his mouth finds yours. He's teasing, initially, barely applying pressure. But it's not long before you both become too lost in the kiss to play games.
Before you know it, you've kicked the front door shut and he's got you pinned against the wall, kissing you furiously. The tantalising torment of just a minute previously has been lost in the passion; the result of seven years worth of built-up tension. There isn't any silence anymore either; instead, the room is filled with the sound of the groans and gasps emitted from the two of you.
Still he takes it slowly. You progress to the lounge and there is lot of kissing which precedes the eventual removal of clothing, as you both get to know each others' bodies. Impatience growing, you practically drag him into your bedroom.
Just as you expected, your first time together is drawn out and slow, yet sensual and exciting and your whole body feels like it's on fire. It's the sweetest torture you've ever known, something Harry seems to be an expert at administering, you've noticed. Part of you wants it to last forever, yet you don't possess the self-restraint at that moment in time. You marvel at how well your bodies fit together, how every inch of his torso has become imprinted on your memory from merely tracing the lines of his body with your fingertips.
You're so responsive to him, more so than you ever have been with anyone else. You're certain that part of the reason why is down to how comfortable you feel around him, like you don't have to fear any judgement - and, probably most importantly of all, your trust in him. You trust him so explicitly and so completely, that any worries you may have had before have been long forgotten.
Later, when you're finally still and exhausted and your breathing has returned to normal, it's as if neither of you are willing to lose the physical contact between you. You're wrapped up in each other's arms, the sheets tangled around your waists. His fingers are lost in your hair and yours are tracing swirls and patterns on his chest.
And that trust you hold in him - that heart-wrenching trust where you're willing to let yourself be completely vulnerable in his presence because you know that he would never let anything happen to you - allows you to let down those defences. So when he whispers into the darkness that he loves you, you don't permit the fear and insecurity to take hold. Instead, you simply smile and mutter that you love him too.
Just a one-shot for you to apologise for my absence over the past couple of weeks. My laptop completely crashed and it had to go to the laptop hospital to be fixed. I wrote this on old fashioned pen and paper. ;)
Expect another chapter of Hickory Dickory Dock over the next couple of days as well. :)
Charlotte xxx