Asunder (Use Somebody)
Summary: You wonder, fleetingly, if he thinks that you're trying to take advantage of him. (He'd probably be right.)
Setting: Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For; AU, in most respects. (Craig/Ellie vs. Jimmy/Ellie)
Disclaimer: characters aren't mine, lyrics are N.E.R.D.'s
A/N: this kind of strayed from what I'd originally intended, but I guess it works as is.
Didn't you know I could help or hurt you?
You're convinced that our experience rearranged you
Well maybe you should reexamine
How you tried.
This won't last.
His room is cold and as you pull his blanket up to cover your chest, you wonder if Manny or Ashley has ever had the privilege of lounging in his bed, or if they've always been constricted and confined to the garage. It does you no good to think of these things, doesn't change anything about the situation, but you can't seem to help yourself.
He kisses your shoulder. His lips are chapped, but oddly enough, you don't mind. You close your eyes for just a moment.
This won't last, you remind yourself. So you'd better enjoy every minute of it.
The phone rings and he has some non-committal conversation that only lasts for about five seconds. "I'll meet you outside," he mutters. Craig hangs up, turns to you with what looks like the beginnings of regret in his features. But he's already reaching for his shirt, already got his back turned to you.
"That was—"
"Yeah, I get it," you cut him off, always the one to beat him to the punch. He doesn't need to tell you who it was. You slide out from under him (your evil side hopes that he freezes without you) and try not to dwell on the idea that the look on his face might possibly be disappointment.
It's not an idea that you can afford to get used to.
"I'm sorry," he says at the same time that you are mumbling some apologetic obscenity. The words are unclear, don't want to sink in, and it hasn't really registered in your mind that he's trying to talk to you. (You really wish that he wouldn't.)
His hands have tangled in your hair and you've moved so your chest presses flush against his, your fingers gripping the armrests of his wheelchair. You wonder, fleetingly, if he thinks that you're trying to take advantage of him. (He'd probably be right.)
You've noticed how he looks at you, how his sentences pause and he never seems to say what he means; you wanted to know if it implies all the things you think it does.
"I shouldn't have—" But the words are barely out of his mouth when you start kissing him again, trying to determine what it is that you taste on his tongue.
Vindication, maybe. Redemption, possibly. A chance. (For what, you haven't quite figured out yet.)
You don't know if it'd be fair to say that you are using him (never thought you'd be that kind of person) but this doesn't feel like a partnership, doesn't have the taste of reciprocation (like you would know).
"Ellie—"
Stop talking, please.
Hard to tell if you're saying this out loud, but you think he senses your urgency by the way his hands fall to your waist when your tongue pushes back against his and you tilt your head so that the kiss can continue. (No words necessary.)
You aren't surprised when Craig finds out, and his reaction of unjust indignation both annoys and excites you. (Weren't you waiting for this?)
"You and Jimmy? Since when?" His voice has increased an entire octave (which you find amusing) his eyes are wide and furious as he sets his guitar to the side.
Craig is angry, which he has no right to be; you are thrilled, which makes your stomach a little sick from the guilt; Jimmy is hurt, which you knew he would be. (This is what you wanted.)
"He has a girlfriend."
"Oh, suddenly you're the advocate for stable relationships?" You're trying for nonchalant, but it's hard to pull off when you're faced with what you've been wanting for almost a year.
"I don't want you to get hurt-"
You laugh harshly, and the bitterness of your tone surprises you as much as it does him. "That's just-oh, that's funny. Since when have you cared if I got hurt?"
"I've always cared, Elle."
Don't call me that, you want to say. Don't make this harder for me than it needs to be. But that is his skill and he's grown accustomed to complication. (Craves it, you think.)
"I can't do this right now." Let it go. You try to push by him, but he snags your wrist, unwilling to let this go. Not even for you.
"What about this?" He kisses you, hard, and you recognize instantly that the taste in his mouth is bittersweet.
You shouldn't be doing this.
You have been drifting towards him in the hopes of finding a distraction, a Plan B (or, in your case, C). Befriending him is your poor attempt to convince yourself that you don't need Craig Manning in order to feel something that matters, an emotion that's significant. You want to think that you can matter to someone who isn't the Lonely Rebel, the Embittered Outcast.
This shouldn't be about proving something, but you are trying so hard to prove to someone that you do come first. You are pushing hard for validation and can't ignore that small twinge of guilt at the fact this is now how you view him. (Hypocrisy, thy name is Ellie Nash.)
"God, Ellie..."
"Shh. You talk too much."
You tug his mouth to yours, thankful that the janitor's closet at the art exhibit is not a place that Jimmy's girlfriend frequents.
"How's Manny?"
It's the first thing you ask when you open the door, once you get over your surprise at seeing him here. He's never been to your house before, and you'd rather he not start showing up now. Not like this.
He shrugs. "I…wouldn't know."
You're curious, but still you wait for confirmation. You lean against the door frame, blocking him, trying to be clear about the fact that you don't want him here. (Except that you do. Kind of.)
"We broke up," he says. And it should be simple.
It shouldn't hurt when his hands grip your waist, his fingertips dancing along your bellybutton as you pull him inside, up the stairs and into your room. (You're glad your mother's out.) You shouldn't feel like crying as you tug on his jeans, watching as his eyes flit over your scars with understanding.
It should be easier to believe him.
You see them huddled together at a table (their table) in the cafeteria and she's clinging to his hand, fingers wrapped tightly around his knuckles. Her other hand toys with the necklace around her neck, the one you know he gave her. You pity her.
"You don't understand."
He shakes his head, your eyes meet over the top of Hazel's head and, for a moment, it seems like he's going to tell her. You hope he doesn't. That's not what you want. (You think, but what would you know? You couldn't even begin to describe what you want.)
"Then explain it to me." She personifies and embodies your desperation. It makes you cringe to hear how much this is hurting her, to see on her face all the emotions you're trying to avoid, ignore. When all this started, you never really considered how she'd be affected. You never really considered anyone else.
"…I still see the same old Jimmy." She's pleading with him and it physically pains you to see her cling so fruitlessly to the past, try so hard to skirt around and dismiss the inevitable. It's almost like looking into a mirror.
(You look away.)