Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Though I wish Tristan was.
Author's notes: Grab your coats, cos Hell might just be freezing over. My first piece of writing in almost a year. Aaah. Who knows? Eventually I might work my way up to updating fics that need updating. Heh. For now, this will have to do. It's short, but after so long, I'm glad to be writing anything at all.
Vanilla
by inmyeyes
i.
The call comes as it always does. Five p.m. on the dot, his cellphone will ring, he will pick it up and see her name flashing on his caller I.D. He always lets it ring five times, half-convincing himself not to answer, but just before it rings for the sixth time, he'll give in.
He'll give in like he always does.
Her voice is soft, slightly pleading. I miss you, she says. I'd like to see you, she begs. Sometimes, he tells her he is busy (and he really is; he's not just saying it to prove that he can turn her down). Other times, more times than not, he'll merely think about saying "no", but it's "yes" that leaves his lips.
Yes, I miss you too. Yes, I'll be there at 6.
He can hear her breath hitch over the static and when she says goodbye, he can hear the smile in her voice.
ii.
She's sitting at the table for two at the far corner as she always does. He skirts his way through the group of teenaged girls waiting in line, but as sudden unease cramps his stomach, he stops mid-stride. Thankful for the mass of bodies that hide him from her view, he takes a quick breath and, not for the first time, he wishes he could walk away.
But the crowd parts, her eyes lift and their gazes meet. She smiles, she beckons, and he's lost.
She bought him a drink, a Venti vanilla latte, and he sips it, for lack of anything else to do or say. The smooth coffee feels like acid in his throat, and for the first time, he feels like telling her that he hates lattes.
But he just takes another sip.
iii.
He kisses her like it's the last time, because he always tries to convince himself that it will be. Maybe this time will be the last. Maybe the next time she calls, he won't answer.
It's easy to fool himself when he's caught up in her.
Her mouth is pliant under his, her arms tight around his neck. She's moaning and the soft, breathy cries are his undoing. Her fingernails scrap the back of his neck, and the pain reminds him…
Reminds him that he shouldn't be doing this.
Reminds him that she's not his.
Tristan. Her hands slip through his hair, holding his mouth to hers, as she presses closer to him.
He cannot resist. He never could.
The fire consumes them both; hands leaving a trail of sensation, lips and mouths laving every available inch of skin, and heartbeats careening out of control. It is always like this, but never the same.
Today, it's her who gives and gives and he relentlessly accepts.
He'll take whatever she's willing to give.
iv.
When he wakes up, she's gone, leaving just the scent of her perfume of his sheets. Vanilla. She smells like vanilla. He's tempted to bury his face in the pillow and take in the scraps she'd left him.
He doesn't always give in to temptation.
His eyes are grimy with sleep, his body boneless and replete with satisfaction but he ruthlessly sweeps away the cobwebs. Sitting up in his unmade bed in his dark room, he wonders at himself and how weak he is.
He doesn't like to think about it, so he doesn't. Instead, he lies down and closes his eyes, willing sleep to come.
He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't breathe in deeply, letting the faint smell of vanilla waft over him.
And the next time she calls…