Disclaimer: I don't own anything OC related.
AN: One Shot. Hope it doesn't suck as much as I think it does. I shouldn't listen to Aaron Lewis in the morning. First quote by Staind and last quote by Lisa Loeb.
"…And it's been awhile
since I've seen the way the candle lights your face
and it's been awhile
but I can still remember just the way you taste…"
She loved candles. He'd always come home and find the lights turned down and candles burning. He'd say it was a fire hazard. She'd say it was relaxing.
He really didn't mind. After the harsh fluorescents of work and the hot sun on his walk home, the candles were relaxing.She made it work for him.
She made everything work for him.
Candlelight in the afternoon. Living in Chino. The baby. Their love. She made it all work for him.
He'd close the front door to their apartment gently, knowing that the breeze from slamming it too hard would put out the candles closest to the door.
The house smelled like Sandalwood. Like blueberries. Like vanilla. Every candle had a different scent. Not the smoke from his forbidden Camels. Not the charred remains of their burned dinner. Not the smog from the nearby freeway. The house smelled like home.
He'd buy her candles from the grocery store and she'd smile and give him a hug. He loved her hugs. Her smooth arms winding around his waist. Her soft face nestling against his neck. Her warm lips pressing against his flesh.
He loved making her happy. Big gestures meant nothing to her. But if he bought her candles home, she'd smile and hug him and tell him that she loved him.
He said it, too.
He meant it this time.
He wouldn't lie to her. Anyone but her.
She loved him.
She didn't want to hurt him. She'd asked him to come with her because she was scared.
He'd never seen her scared before. But she was petrified. She had a living thing inside her, a baby, a child and she was scared.
She'd always been there for him when he was scared. He could make her better and she knew it. That's why she asked.
And because she loved him.
She loved candles.
She'd be waiting sometimes in the bedroom. He'd follow the candles, blowing each one out as he walked toward their bedroom.
The Cohens thought they slept separately. Her mom thought they slept separately.
But they only had one bed. And they already had a child.
He'd push open the door, gently, in case she was sleeping, and step inside.
She'd smile at him from the covers.
The candles would be burning around the bed. The bed was bathed in the soft light and he'd always remember how she was glowing with the pregnancy and it was magnified by the candlelight. She was beautiful.
Hey. Come to bed?
He didn't have to tell her that he was tired. He didn't have to tell her that he was hungry and had a headache.
She knew all that.
She also knew that the only thing she could sometimes was to hold him.
So he'd take off his clothes by the door and climb into bed.
She'd kiss him.
She had the softest kisses.
The candles would burn and she'd kiss him.
He'd kiss her, too. He'd kiss her and taste her and tell her that he loved her. He never was good with words, but she knew that he loved her because of the way that he kissed her.
The candles would burn and they wouldn't need to eat, they wouldn't need to worry about the families they left behind, they wouldn't need to worry about the rent or their unborn child.
They had each other.
He never let her run out of candles.
He'd find dead matches everywhere. The window sill. The toilet seat. The pantry. She'd light a candle, blow out the match and drop it where she stood.
He didn't mind. He cleaned up.
Sometimes he'd take the handful of matches back to her and she'd laugh and say she was sorry. And he'd kiss her because she was just so beautiful.
She didn't yell at him. They didn't fight. They really didn't even talk to each other that much. They just understood each other.
She knew that he couldn't talk about the stuff that really mattered. Seth missing. Eddie's hatred. The baby's paternity.
He knew that she couldn't talk about the stuff that really hurt. Her mother's disappointment. Eddie's love. The baby's paternity.
They didn't need to talk. Not in the candlelight.
In the candlelight, they were all that mattered. It was their world without all that.
He'd never needed to touch anyone before.
He'd always hated physical contact. The hugs and shoulder pats. He tended to keep his arms close to himself so he didn't brush up against anyone.
But in their house, he had to be close to her. She'd drape her arm around his shoulders when he was cooking. He'd put his hand on the small of her back, under her shirt, against her flesh when she was washing the dishes.
They'd hold hands when they were sitting on the sofa.
They were each other's strength.
Kirsten had asked him what was happening between him and Teresa. I thought you were with Marissa, are you sure this is what you want?
He had simply nodded because he knew that Marissa wasn't real.
Teresa was real. She'd lived and she knew about life. She knew that choices had to be made, priorities had to be assigned. She was pregnant and she knew that her dreams were moot now that she had a child to think of. She was doing what was right.
Marissa wasn't real. She was a child. Even when her father had lost all his money, she was still in designer clothes and had a credit card. She didn't know about life. She didn't make choices; she escaped with her drugs and her drinking. Marissa didn't know about priorities because she was her only priority.
He'd made his choice.
Teresa.
When he'd come home that day and saw the lights on in the house, he knew something was wrong. She hadn't lit the candles.
She hadn't lit the candles because she hadn't come home.
Eddie was waiting for him. He was standing in the kitchen with a cigarette in his hand.
You need to come with me, Ryan.
And Ryan had gone. He'd gone with Eddie and he'd never come back.
Because Teresa was gone.
He hadn't been able to process what the doctors were trying to tell him. He'd walked out of the hospital with the pamphlets clenched in his hand.
He needed to go home.
He lit every candle he could find.
"…Your hand, so hot, burns a hole in my hand
I wanted to show you…"
He didn't want to answer the door when they came for him.
They wouldn't understand.
And he couldn't explain it.
The one person that understood was gone. He didn't think he'd be able to talk again. He hadn't needed words to communicate in a long time.
But they kept knocking. Yelling. Pleading with him to open the door.
But he couldn't.
If he opened the door, the candles would go out. The sunlight would come in and his home would be tainted.
He would be quiet. He would let the candles burn.
He wouldn't listen to their pleas.
When Sandy and Eddie broke the door down, he didn't get up. He didn't tell them that he'd just put that door on a week before after they'd been robbed. He didn't tell them to leave him alone.
But when Kirsten tried to blow out the candles, he'd spoken.
Let it burn.
She didn't understand. She tried to hold him, she'd tried to let him cry but he couldn't.
It didn't change anything. Crying, sobbing, praying, nothing would bring her home to him.
All he wanted to do was sit and let the candles burn.