"Better Than None"
Tate knelt in front of her, rolling her underwear and tights down to her knees. Violet covered herself, but his hands tightened around her arms. He straightened them to her sides and held them there. The room was dark, save for the muddy patterns the streetlight cast on the bedroom floor. Half of his face was obscured in the shadows, but Violet could recognize the hint of a smirk on his mouth. His bottom lip was split and his chin was red from where she'd clocked him earlier. She hoped he bruised.
"Do you forgive me?" he said with just the right amount of huskiness.
"No," Violet moaned. She hadn't intended for it to come out that way. She was still pissed, even though her skin prickled in a delicious heat as he stared at her body. She squeezed her eyes shut, panting, waiting for him to kiss her. She had fantasized about this once upon a time, when she was young and stupid and alive. The first time had been nice, but quick. Tate certainly hadn't tried any of this. She remembered the purple walls, and her open closet filled with shit, the blank blackboard staring back at her. She was more grounded in her skin, hyper-aware of the cool sheet on her spine as he tugged up her shirt to better fondle her breasts and his slow exhales through his nose as her legs fell open for him. She remembered the flush on Tate's neck when he came and that brief moment of panic which followed as she realized they hadn't used protection.
This time was slower and she felt like floating. He wanted to draw a response from her. Tate's hands slipped from her forearms to grasp her bare hips as he kissed her left thigh. "Fuck," Violet said. He wasn't getting to her. No, not even when he drew the tip of his tongue across her legs to kiss the other thigh. His hair was damp and tangled around her fingers and Violet tugged his head up before he went further. Beneath the heavy lids, his eyes were black marbles. "This doesn't change how I feel."
"Don't worry." Tate's lips moved against her abdomen and she almost doubled over from the aching throb between her legs. "It will."
She couldn't remember exactly when she talked to him again. There was no such thing as time anymore, though she distinctly remembered Halloween, her birthday and deathday. Her birthday was sometime in spring, when everything was sunny and green. Death was in autumn, post-Halloween. These were the only days which reminded her of how much time had passed, how the world had gone on without her. Houses were torn apart, rebuilt, neighborhood kids grew up and returned with their own children. The memories of her old life usually manifested themselves as spasms in her chest and stomach, pulling Violet to the crawl space in the basement. The ritual was morbid but necessary.
Violet could've talked to Tate at any time. Maybe it was just last week. Maybe it was during winter, in the morning or evening or on a Monday afternoon. Whenever it happened, she remembered the cards laid out before her in a game of Solitaire, and him in her periphery. He'd been doing that for a while, lingering on the fringes of her vision, always vanishing when she looked in his direction. She learned to endure and ignore his presence for the most part. Not anymore. Violet was a Harmon after all, and her willpower only lasted so long before it went to shit.
"Tate?" she'd said slowly. She caught flashes of faded jeans and a bulky yellow sweater. Deja-vu. "Wanna play a hand?" Just like that, his beaten-up Converse shuffled into her line of vision as he took a seat across from her. She almost whined when she saw his shoulders slumped forward, his chin tilted up, Adam's apple bulging as he swallowed. The same as always. But she wouldn't let him see how much she'd missed him, not yet. So she gathered the cards and dealt.
He liked to touch her. First it was a simple brush on her palm as she handed him the cards. Then, after a few games, it was a stroke, his expression reverent as he pulled his fingers down her cheek or arm. Sometimes he used his mouth. Last it was the hot trail of his hands up and down her thighs as he spread her knees. Violet would return his black stare as his thumb ran down past her navel and into her tights, his mouth open on hers. "Did you touch her like this?" she asked.
"Who?" Tate said, but Violet did not mistake the tremble in his voice.
"You know who."
"N-no." Tate rocked back in his seat, his hand frozen on her skin. "I told your mother I was sorry. It's been forever since that happened." Violet wouldn't admit it to anyone, but she secretly thrilled at torturing him. Withholding what he most desired was the ultimate punishment.
"Forever is one long today," Violet whispered, echoing something Moira once said. Tate didn't touch her like that again unless she gave her permission.
She felt him open her with his mouth, the tortuous flick of his tongue up and down her folds as he searched for the sweet spot.
"T-Tate," Violet huffed. Her muscles bunched in a sudden spasm and she fisted his hair, looking up at the ceiling. She willed herself not to react; she would not, under any circumstances, give him the satisfaction. But the rumble of his groan against her clit reverberated so violently through her limbs that she couldn't hold it together. It was her birthday today. Yes, she remembered.
Violet knew it by the turn in her stomach when she woke up that morning. Birdcalls and warmth shifted in through her bedroom window as she shot up from the left-behind mattress of the previous owner. She'd hauled it from the curb last Halloween. Her throat burned like she'd been gagging up pills and her hair swathed her cheeks and forehead. Violet willed herself into the basement's crawl space, relieved to feel the pain abating as she peered down at her final resting place.
The void was consuming. She wasn't there.
Violet stared at the hole and the dust specks curling above it. This wasn't right. Panic forced her into a crouch at the edge. What had happened to her body? Where had she gone? She raked through her hair, sucking in mouthfuls of air. Seeing the remnant of herself twice a year, the part who used to live and breathe, had become tradition. She'd spent countless years visiting, watched as time took its toll on her corporeal self.
"Violet?" she heard from behind. Tate's arms went around her, hugging her back to his chest. He touched his mouth to the back of her neck. Déjà vu. "Ssh, it's all right." She hadn't realized she was crying.
"What happened? Where is it?" Violet said. Her chest heaved with broken sobs.
"I've got a surprise for you," he said. "Come on." He led her up from the basement, down the hall, and out the back entrance. "Close your eyes," Tate whispered. Violet hesitated and shook her head. "Please?" He cocked his head at her like a curious puppy, but Violet didn't relent. She wasn't in the mood for surprises, let alone the ones that required temporary blindness. "All right then." They strolled under the porte-cochere of the backyard and turned the corner towards the small garden. It looked like Violet's mother had taken to gardening, as there was an abundance of flowers and vines hanging from the brick wall. In the center of the garden, the soil was upturned in a half-flattened mound and encircled by violets. Violet looked up at Tate, who squinted expectantly at her in the brightness, his mouth quirked into an odd smile.
"What is this?" she said, though she already had a pretty good idea.
"Do you like it?"
"What did you do?" Violet said, staring at the garden. She stepped through the grass and knelt at the foot of the dirt pile. No hole to look down into. Just the ground and flowers and bees popping out of the petals. Was her body really buried here?
"You didn't deserve to be in the basement," Tate said, his voice soft, like a kid confessing a lie. "I wanted you to be someplace beautiful, in the sunshine." Then, an octave deeper: "With the flowers."
"How poetic," she murmured, expecting nothing less from the boy who idolized Romanticism. "So you buried me in the backyard, like everyone else." Violet spread a hand over the purple flowers, grimacing. "Like a dead pet."
"No," Tate said, "not like a dead pet." He sounded offended.
"What about what I wanted?" Maybe if she stared hard enough, she'd see her body. Had he just dumped her in, like he did in the basement?
Tate paused. "I thought this is what you wanted."
"It's not," Violet said, rising to her feet and wiping off her tights.
"I don't understand. You always looked so miserable inside."
"Maybe I prefer being miserable. Isn't everyone else here?"
"I'm not," Tate said. He reached out to stroke the ends of her hair. "Not anymore, at least." Violet flinched at his tenderness.
"I used to like seeing myself – I liked remembering – "
"But there was nothing left of you to see!" Tate said. "Who wants to look at that? You're dead." Violet winced. All that was really left were bones and frayed pieces of clothing, but they were still her.
"You don't get it," she said, crossing her arms.
"Then explain it to me."
"I don't feel like it."
"That's not an excuse."
It was Violet's turn to take offense. "I'm not trying to make excuses. I'm just unhappy."
"Why?"
"Because!" Violet tore at her shoulders, her nails sinking into flesh. "I miss her – the live me. I think about what I would have done, who I would've become." She fantasized about college, somewhere cold and far away from L.A., what classes she would take, what friends she'd have. She thought she'd do better in college if she was still alive. She envisioned being holed up in a café filled with people like her, enjoying a smoke in a corner and scrawling random lines of poetry or a novel fueled by Morrissey on the back pages of her notebook. Maybe one day she'd be published.
"Listen to me, Vi," Tate said. His hands held her face steady. "It's dangerous to obsess over things like that. It's not worth it. Half of the people here do and look what's happened to them. You'll go crazy."
Maybe I already have," she shot back.
"No, you haven't," Tate said. "You're perfectly normal."
"Normal," Violet said. "If that's not the understatement of eternity." If she was normal, she wouldn't be with him, right?
Tate sighed and dropped his hands. "Maybe I did you a favor," he said to the ground.
"What?"
"So you can let go of the past, move on."
Violet furrowed her brow. "If I could move on." She looked towards the front of the house, at the barrier of the gates which imprisoned them.
"You can," Tate said. "We can be happy, Violet, like we used to be." He caressed her cheek with his open palm and pressed a kiss into her forehead.
"You don't seem like you're in a rush to forget."
"That's not the same thing." Yes, it was.
"What's the point of giving advice if you're not going to follow it?" The rage was bubbling up from Violet's gut, driving her speech. She didn't know how long it'd be before she hit him.
"This is not about me."
"See? The past hasn't passed. It's how we function. We can't forget what we did." Tate dropped his hand from her face again, but his gaze didn't falter. He knew some things were unforgivable. It was like they were back in their room again, revealing themselves, breaking apart.
"Seems like your burial's not the only thing you're hung up about," he said impassively. And that's when she smacked him. She got him in the chest. Violet threw another aimlessly, without thought, and hit his jaw. Her fists ached when she made contact with his body, but she wouldn't stop until she felt better. And she didn't feel better. If they were alive, the police would've been called for a domestic disturbance – the neighbors would have seen, would have heard her cursing. Eventually, she left him, sent herself away and into her bedroom for an extended time-out, taking the anger over past betrayals out on the pillows and walls. She didn't see him again until hours later, when he came to apologize. He was on his knees before she could order him out.
"Tell me what you want, Violet," he panted through slow licks. But she couldn't articulate her need, knew only that he was the one who could satisfy it. He hadn't asked for her permission to bury her body, but he was making up for it now. His arms were wrapped around the back of her thighs and her clothes were still bunched at her knees. "Is this what you want?" Violet nodded and swayed as he pushed his tongue into her, her thin grasp on balance obliterated completely. Tate rose to his feet, and Violet spun for a wild second before she realized she was sitting slumped on the edge of her bed. He tugged the rest of her clothes off so he could spread her knees. When he'd taken off his jeans, he knelt in between her legs and kissed her hard, one hand clawing at her breast and the other cupping the side of her neck.
Violet's legs clamped around his waist instinctively, her fingernails etched into his biceps. She watched Tate watching her, his eyes widening as she shoved against his erection. The feel of him was intoxicating, like that first, wonderful drag from a cigarette. How had she gone decades without this? "I missed this," he gasped. "I missed all of you." Her hands found their way into his hair again and she urged him forward, closing the gap between them. Violet surged into him, the friction of her breasts against his hard chest, sending shockwaves into her groin as they kissed and nipped and explored.
"I'm sorry," he said as she leaned back into bed, bringing him with her. Anticipation squirmed in her belly like he'd already entered her. She felt him nestled at her opening, the pulse of him heightening the sensitivity of her skin. "For everything." Warm tears dripped down his cheeks and onto her collarbone. Tate propped himself up on one elbow, smoothing out her hair.
"I know," Violet said. She wouldn't apologize for hitting him. The drumming in her abdomen grew stronger when he laced his fingers through hers.
"I'll dig up the grave – I'll –"
"I don't want you to do that," she said as she craned to lick his jaw. She was tired of talking.
"I just wanted to make you happy. I always want to make you happy." Violet probed his eyes, their intensity revealing the truth of his words. She wouldn't forget what Tate had done. And she didn't know if she'd ever completely forgive him. But if she looked at this as a beginning rather than a continuation, maybe she could. Besides, they had eternity. At her silence, Tate drew back a little, adoration melting into uncertainty.
"What," Violet teased, "are you done apologizing?"
"Depends," Tate said, grinning again, though it was tentative. "Do you forgive me yet?"
"I thought that much was obvious," she managed to say, reaching for him. No more talk of bodies in the gardens, repeated apologies, or unfinished business. After that, they didn't speak. There was no need to.
Author's Note: Ahh, my first M-rated fic for the AHS fandom. Hope you enjoyed it! Thank you, ScarlettWoman710, for the AHS Exchange prompt, and jandjsalmon, for making the Exchange possible! :-)