Out of Time
This is a Heya future fic inspired by Adele's "Someone Like You."
Pairing: Heather Morris/Naya Rivera RPF
I heard that you're settled down.
You really shouldn't be this surprised; you always knew she would be a beautiful bride. After all, even on her worst days (most of which you'd seen and some of which you'd caused), she could still manage to be more attractive than any woman had a right to be when she'd spent so many hours crying. Even so, today, in her simple, elegant gown, her long, dark hair curled and loose on her shoulders, she eclipses everyone in the room, and probably even everyone you've ever known. She takes your breath away today, though you can vividly recall when she was the only person you could breathe freely around, the only person who let you live and be yourself without expectations or preconditions. She's still the only person you let see who you were as you were who did not then ask you to change any of it.
There was so little, in the end, that she asked you for. Most of your needs and wants around each other were automatic, given and taken without the need for words or even gestures. Phone numbers? Given day one. Keys to your houses? Given. Friendship? Given. Love? Given. Taken; taken for granted, as well. Time? Given. Secrets? Given up. You gave, and she gave, and mostly you both gave in when one of you ran into a wall that was too tall to climb alone. That is, until she asked you to be as honest with the other important people in your life as you were with her.
You wanted to give in to her then, but you couldn't. There was a great chance that what she was asking for would take more than you had to give, more than you could lose without giving up altogether. So you asked her for more time, and she gave it to you until giving you what you wanted took more than she had to give, more than she could lose without giving up altogether.
I guess she gave you things I didn't give to you.
It's not like you haven't seen each other since she left. For all the prestige of its global spotlight, Hollywood remains a very small town, and you frequently find yourselves at the same events, including those that she once brought you to. You continue to support the causes and groups she introduced you to over the years, even when most things stop being automatic between you. It might be automatic to reach out toward the people and things she believed in, and it might not, but you've never been good at being able to discern the difference between conscious and subconscious acts when it came to her. All the times you were awake and asleep together still feel like dreams to you, and it is only without her that reality becomes something you retreat from. It is only because the bed is cold, the kitchen table and passenger seat empty, that you understand that this is real.
The dreams you've been having since she left are so close to the life you are living that you can't tell them apart. The same things happen: you spot her further down the red carpet at an event, and feverishly maneuver your way through the rest of the night trying to create an opportunity to talk to her again. The closer you get, the harder you try to reach her, the further away she gets. Then the moment comes: she looks at you like she did when she loved you, and the speech you have been working on every day since you were invited to the event slips from your mind and paralyzes your tongue. You reach out to touch her arm, to ask, again, for more time, but she has disappeared and you grasp nothing but empty air.
Lately, though, this dream/reality has changed. She doesn't accept your offers to talk. She stops looking at you altogether, and soon the arms—your arms—that still long to hold her give up and stay at your sides. Your head no longer turns automatically when your ears hear the distinctive clicking of her heels against the pavement. Your hands no longer sweat at the mention of her name. Her name becomes tearless to say, becomes almost easy ... like it's anybody's name but hers.
She starts making appearances with another woman by her side, the woman in the other white dress she's dancing with now. By then, you've made such a strong effort for so long to keep yourself from seeking her out, from reacting to her presence, that her being where you are with someone else doesn't scourge your heart like you thought it would. You're figuring out how to live without her, and you guess you can forgive her for needing to do the same, even if she didn't want to at first. But you still change the station when one of her songs is played on the radio; you've made progress, but her music was always the most personal part of your relationship, and you aren't sure there will ever be a day when you will be able to listen to the songs she wrote when you were together, and not relive every word.
I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited. I couldn't stay away. I couldn't fight it.
Standing in the shadow cast by a pillar in the reception hall, you realize what makes her seem so much more beautiful today than other days—she's happy. The woman in the other white dress has found out how to make her happy. She gave her the one thing for which you were once asked, and she gave it to her automatically.
It's hard to stand still while music is playing and the dance floor is mostly empty. You used to tell her that one of the saddest things you'd ever seen was an empty dance floor, because it meant that too many people were giving in to fear and embarrassment and were missing out on joy and unexpected moments of grace as a result. It meant that no one wanted to take a risk until they'd weighed it and determined it worthy only if they came out ahead at the end. You used to insist on dancing on every floor you saw, and you used to insist that she join you. Which she did. Automatically. But you won't dance today, even though decades of training make it almost impossible to stay still when you hear a beat.
This isn't your dance. This isn't your floor, and it isn't your wedding reception. And even though part of you still can't believe she could do anything without you by her side (you can't, even now, imagine her wedding ceremony without you standing beside her where you still feel you belong)-because you were always better at doing things when you did them together-you can't dance on her wedding day. You can't dance because you're out of time to ask her to join you.
You can't dance today, too, because you finally realize that you are just like all those people who refused to step on the dance floor. You never had a problem dancing with her, but you used to worry afterward what people would say about it. Eventually you stopped dancing with her, because your worries consumed you and you were too big a coward to risk the words for a chance to make her happy, and to be happy yourself. And even though you've repaired some of the broken things in you, you are still the same coward, because there is something you want to tell her, and you can't make your legs move.
You want to tell her that you were oblivious, until recently, to the fact that she walked away because you wanted the wrong thing from her. You asked for more time, and you realize now that that isn't what you wanted. You want less. Less time alone, less time wondering what she's telling the woman in the other white dress, less time wondering when she'll tell her things she used to only tell you. You want less time feeling sorry for yourself, feeling like you are marking time in your life since she left you, less time worrying about your career and more time caring for the people you love. You want fewer days, fewer years being ashamed of yourself and more years being proud of the people in your life. You want fewer arguments and cold, one-sided conversations with your mother, and you want fewer tears. You want people in your life who want less from you, too.
You asked her for more, and you want to tell her you've reconsidered what that means, but your legs won't move because your body is reminding you that you can't ask her for more or less than you already have.
Who would have known how bittersweet this could taste?
You are out of time.
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