Author's Note: Partially inspired by my current state of depression and the fact that FX has been playing the last few episodes of season eight these past few days. (The last one was yesterday). Also inspired by watching the DVDs of a happier season with my mother and her comment that the writers insulted the intelligence of their audience by having all that stuff happen to Eric and Donna, and making him so in love with her, then breaking them up. I had to agree. (I'll get around to updating DS, I swear. Soon.) Enjoy.
Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age. -John Dryden
If she closes her eyes and concentrates, she can feel his arms around her. They're warm and soft, and they hold her with such tenderness, she feels like crying. His legs would be entangled with hers, and she would feel his breath against her ear.
If he were holding her tonight.
If he was here, she would be sleeping deeply, tucked away in a cocoon of love. He's her safe haven, her sanctuary from the rest of the world. With him, she's happy and alive.
But he's not holding her tonight. He's thousands of miles and several time zones away while she's crying herself to sleep from the misery.
She thinks that she could sleep anywhere as long as he's holding her because the bed that she's slept in for so long is no longer comfortable. The blanket's too heavy, the sheets are too thick. The pillow wavers between too hard and too soft. She's tossing and turning, unable to find an adequate position to sleep in.
It looks like there won't be any rest for her tonight.
-:-:-
The first night in Africa is hell. The cot he sleeps in his uncomfortable, and the sheets are thin. The air is dry, and the tent wall is hitting him, and the fabric is scratchy.
It's just for the night, he tells himself, and tries to sleep. He wishes he was back in her bed, feeling her soft skin underneath his fingertips, being lulled to sleep by the sound of her steady breaths. The sheets there are plush and soft, the blanket just warm enough. She'd be snuggled against him, her hair tickling him as she slept, and he'd stroke it gently for a few moments, enjoying the feel of it. Then he'd close his eyes and rest his head just behind her ear, and he'd give her a kiss before drifting off to sleep.
He remembers vividly every detail of her body, and he calls them all to the forefront of his mind. But no matter how much he thinks of them, they're not there. The threadbare sheets are not as soft as her skin or her hair or even her sheets, and the deep breaths he's thinking of are broken by his bunkmate's snoring.
It looks like there won't be any rest for him tonight.
-::-::-
She thinks that after a week she would be able to sleep. But the week has passed, and she still cannot sleep without imagining him there.
Tonight, she even tricks herself into believing he's there. She sees him when she steps out of the shower, having hoped a hot bath would soothe her. He's naked and waiting for her, laying on her bed as if he's posing for a portrait. His eyes are sparkling, and his mouth is curved into his adorable smile. She drops the towel...
The image fades. Reality strikes with crushing force. She sinks to the floor, tears streaming down her face. She manages to stumble into bed but the image lingers in her mind, and she gets up, throws some clothes on, goes next door. She sneaks into the house through the basement and goes to straight to his room. No one hears her, or if they do they don't bother her.
His mother still hasn't taken his sheets off. They smell like him still, him and that spicy cologne he wears sometimes, and she's grateful. She climbs into the bed, hoping that would ease the pain some.
It doesn't, but she still sleeps better than she has all week.
-:-:-
The bed at the school is more comfy, but it still lacks something. The sheets are thicker, softer, and the bed was an actual mattress. A blanket is there, but it isn't necessary—the nights aren't particularly cold here.
He wonders why sleep doesn't come easy. The time change, perhaps? The foreign land, the still desert, the different atmosphere? He doesn't know, doesn't understand. Sleep is a natural function, one that should just come. But it doesn't, no matter how exhausted he is.
He gives up on sleep after an hour or so. There's a small kitchen stocked with some snacks for the teachers at the end of the hall. It doesn't have much of anything in it, just some crackers and fruit. He rifles through the not-quite-fresh fruit and comes up with an orange.
She smells like oranges. Her favourite perfume is citrus-like with a little sweetness added in. It lingers in his nose, and he can remember it from when she buried her face in his neck as they said goodbye. He remembers kissing her neck, her lips, her cheeks, desperate to stay if it would stop her tears. She'd pulled herself together but he left with a guilty conscience and a heavy heart.
Was she the reason he couldn't sleep?
-::-::-
She clutches his letter in her hand as she sobs uncontrollably. Her chest is tightening, her throat is sore, her eyes probably puffy and red. Her cheeks are stiff and her pillow wet.
He's broken up with her.
She doesn't know how to feel. Upset, dismayed, shocked. Betrayed, angry. Worthless.
Does he know how much it hurts her? The words were like a punch in the gut. She read them over and over, thinking it was just an illusion. Thinking she was going crazy, that the sleep deprivation had caught up with her. But no, the words were there, marching neatly across the page.
I think it would be best if we move on.
It kills her. After all he's done and said, after all the worry about their relationship, after the proposal and the college thing and the love they shared, he ended it so suddenly, leaving her in broken pieces.
How was she supposed to sleep now?
-:-:-
She doesn't respond to his breakup letter.
He waits for the mail everyday, not knowing why he expects anything. There's really no mail for him anymore. His parents send him letters every week, but that's it.
He doesn't know what he's looking for. A plea for him to take it back? (Oh, God, he wishes he could). An angry tirade? (He deserves it, he knows he does). Maybe even the letter back, tear-stained? (He couldn't handle that).
Nothing ever comes. He stops expecting it. He doesn't deserve an answer, but he needs one. He needs to know she's not hurting like he is. He wants to know that she's not crying herself to sleep over him. He's not worth it.
But deep down, he knows she is weeping, because she loves him the same way he loves her. And it's agonising, doing this to her, to them, but he wants her to be happy, and he can't make her happy on a different continent.
I know it hurts now, but I think in the long run, we'd be better off.
He can remember writing the words, trying to rationalise them in his head, even now, but they just couldn't be rationalised. There's nothing reasonable about breaking both their hearts after everything they'd been through.
Still, he wrote them, and by now, she's probably read them. There's nothing he can do, he tells himself.
But he still clasps his hands together and prays that someday they'll find each other again and live happily ever after.
---:---
No words are spoken. Both of them have a million things to say, and neither of them know where to start. They just give each other tight smiles and clink champagne glasses. It's a few minutes past midnight, and everyone else is partying, drinking and laughing. Except for them.
Another hour passes and people begin to head off. They're the last ones in the living room, the most sober, and that's only because they're afraid of what they'll admit if the alcohol loosens their tongues. They quietly put the bottles away, and she shrugs into her jacket. They stand there, awkward and confused, still reeling from the first kiss they'd shared in over six months. Finally, he takes a step forward and presses a tender kiss to her lips.
She smiles quickly at him and leaves.
-:-:-
Even back in his own bed, sleep doesn't come. He thinks of her, about to leave and start her life. It's what he wanted for her, but it doesn't feel the way he thought it would. He thought he'd be happy for her, and on some level he is, but he's still miserable.
He's not getting what he wants. She's leaving, like he did, only not as far. She's starting a new life, with new friends and new scenery and...
A new boyfriend. Maybe someone with sculpted features, masculine and strong, like a Greek statue.
The door creaks open as the implication begins to settle in his mind. It's her, in her trusty green flannel, feet in thin slippers. She takes two steps to him and shuts it behind her.
He reaches for the lamp and sits up. Bathed in the soft glow of the light, she usually looked radiant, but she doesn't now. She's just as beautiful, but her skin is pale and her hair dull and her eyes hollow.
She gives him a sad smile and slips her shoes off. She steps up to the side of the bed and reaches for the covers, eyes meeting his for approval. He nods quickly, eagerly, and wraps the blanket around her as she climbs in next to him.
Acting on instinct, he strips them both. She doesn't stop him. He wraps one arm around her waist and puts the other beneath her head. She lays her head on his shoulder slowly and throws one arm across his stomach.
He kisses the top of her head and turns the light off. He can still see her white skin twinkling in the moonlight, a sight for sore eyes.
He wonders who else will see her like this.
-:-:-
Does he know she still loves him? She wants to say something, but her throat is choked up with worry. Did he breakup with her because he didn't love her anymore? It hadn't crossed her mind before, but it was a perfectly plausible explanation. Then again, he might have been thinking of her when he wrote the letter but...what if he's over her already? She's confused and she's scared and she wants everything back to the way it used to be.
The silence is suffocating, but neither of them breaks it. A good hour passes and still she doesn't sleep, mind forming terrible scenarios. Finally, she looks at him, wondering if he's asleep, but he looks back at her.
They hold the gaze for a few moments before his lips curve into a sweet, sentimental smile. His eyes soften and turn into pools of jade.
She recognises that look. It's the one he used to give her to tell her he loved her when they were with their friends. He'd do it so no one made fun of them or called them out on it, and no one ever did.
She instantly knows what he means, and for the first time in six months, she's almost happy. There's hope for them after all, for her.
She responds with her own loving smile. His eyes grow wide, questioning, and she nods in response. He grins in that silly cute way she loves and gives her a series of small, passionate kisses.
She settles into his chest with a contented smile of her face. After waiting too many days, she sleeps for he is holding her tonight.