Disclaimers:
Firstly, there might be triggers here and what sounds like self-harm (though the intention was to paint a more visceral experience) so if this is going to be a problem, apologies (and proceed at your own risk?)
This is my first go at this fandom (not the first thing I tried to write but the first to be published) so comments and reviews are welcome J This is also unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine. (I am merely giving in to a weird calling to post this untamed – and apparently untamable? – beast haha :P )
Also, I tried to write this without using any names (or too many specifics at that) to make this a sort of free for all (the more interpretations, the better). Although probably unnecessary, the main "he" was written with Bellamy in mind, hence the tag (so if any other character fits, yay!).
Obviously, the 100 characters are not mine. Nor do I financially profit from this (maybe - hopefully - the nagging in my head will finally stop though)
He was a dream of a wish (that she prayed for everyday) come true. She was an answered prayer he didn't even dare dream of.
He's constantly worked to strengthen his body, fueled by his passion, but, man, she can make his head spin and his mind work. He'd never felt this hesitant, this excited, just this much about figuring someone out. It's confusing, challenging, exhilarating. He never knew getting into girl's pants could take so much thinking and planning and yet, here he was, wanting to plot and scheme (and charm - guy's gotta know when to use his strengths, duh) his way through her labyrinthine layers. Maybe amidst the creases and folds and twists and turns of her mind is a way to her heart.
She's always thought herself as mostly brain and logic but boy oh boy can he make her heart (oh hello there) race and set her nerves on fire. She never thought she'd feel so much it's terrifyingly [deliciously so] overwhelming. She wonders what goes on underneath those rippling muscles (and what they feel like under her fingertips), what intrigue lie behind that incorrigibly flirty smirk (and what those lips feel like on her skin and lips), what wisdom can be teased out of that wicked tongue (and know if wisdom really does taste as sweet as honey like the Bible claims it to be). Illogically, she wonders if and how meeting someone could taste sweet like apple pie.
Of course, sparks would fly when they first meet. He was a hot asshole. She was a cold bitch. They were a match made in heaven. Or hell. (They would have ruled either or both had the fancy struck them.) It seemed inevitable that their coming together would be explosive (and loud – boy, were they LOUD). Their end, if there ever came to be one, would be cataclysmic.
It wasn't.
Didn't mean it was less than devastating.
The cut was sudden (though not entirely unexpected) and deep. Vaguely, she considered watching it scab over or bleed dry. There was throbbing somewhere (everywhere?) but she's too busy finding a way for the air to get through whatever's crushing her chest. She wasn't crying. One needed to be alive to cry and her body is barely managing, scrabbling to survive. Her brain probably couldn't decide how to carry on; whether to hold on or to let go. She's probably still reeling from it all but her brain is too starved of blood and oxygen to figure that out. So she doesn't cry. She doesn't ask how (She knows. Her friend's birthday party. Alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Her friend was a lightweight. He was a heavy partyer). She doesn't even ask why (She knows. She knows their appeal all too [intimately] well. Her friend is beautiful inside – she's been her friend for years dammit - and out. He is downright delicious and irresistible – he's her boyfriend for fuck's sake. She doesn't even blame them. She also knows they've never been ones to deny themselves.) So, really, there's only one thing left to ask…
Was it a mistake… or were we the mistake?
The question barely makes it through the screams surrounding, permeating, coming from his heart (holdherholdherholdher), his mind (leaveherleaveherleaveher), his soul (herherher), her eyes. There's something in her eyes that is screaming. And dying.
He's a selfish man but he can't be the one that destroys her. He's a selfish man. He needs her strength, her wit, her, too damn much. So he can't be the one that destroys her. So he closes his eyes, turns around and walks away without a word.}
Okay.
Infinite, torturous visions and dreams of her in That Moment later, he realizes what her eyes were screaming, dying from.
Agony.
And he adds yet another thing to the long list of ways he has failed her, yet another reason to hate himself even more.
Two years.
Her moans and gasps and groans had been his bedtime story. Her even breathing and steady, rhythmic heartbeat his lullaby. Her arms and legs and warmth his blanket. How ever did he sleep before? How ever would he sleep now? How ever could he choose his own adventure of torment tonight? Through ruins of dreams or fragmented memories of eyes that scream? Dare he (even) dream? Or revisit the ruins of what had been? What difference would it make?
Sometimes he briefly forgets and starts to trace the curve of her spine only to wonder why he feels linen instead of silk. Skin. Other times he jolts awake with echoes of her cries (or his own) still ringing in his ears. There are times when he knows though. He knows from the chill on his clammy sheets that he won't be waking up to silken hair and velvet lips. He knows by the taste of salty tears and bitter regret that he won't be greeted by salty-sweet skin and licorice tongue. He knows by the bleak early morning light that he barely slept (again) and there won't be bleary eyes and bright smiles beside him. He knows by how he is assaulted by the smell of stale, cold sweat that there won't be the faint scent of lavender and mint to invigorate and ease him into wakefulness. No. Sleeping (or trying to) and waking are just varying degrees and forms of torment, offering no reprieve.
Not that he deserves any.
Doesn't mean it's not something he desperately needs.
Craves.
He whispers and asks deaf deities and cruel powers that be: Do the ghosts of his touch and kisses haunt her skin and lips too? Do specters of smiles echoes of laughs and promises linger in the air?
Two fucking years.
He loves her still. Does she?
Two years.
She moves on. Of course she moves on. That's just how she works. How she's built.
An old crush comes up to her and reveals that the crush wasn't really one-sided. Her old crush was nice, gentle, sweet, patient. Everything she needed him to be. Everything her skittish (and if she were honest, fragile) self needed.
Okay.
So Old Crush moves up to Suitor to Boyfriend to Fiancé. She decides to take a walk in the park before the frenzy of wedding planning descends upon her.
She stops.
Dark, soft curls, pink, chubby cheeks splattered with freckles… the boy was absolutely cherubic. Especially with those big, blue eyes that were shining… with tears.
Oh, you poor darling.
She scoops up the little angel in her arms before a thought even crosses her mind.
Oh.
He found her.
(Well, more like she found him.)
He must be dead.
Yep. That must be it. He's probably dying in a ditch where he must have fallen into in his frantic search for his son and this is a glimpse (or a delusion) of heaven.
Or he died of heartbreak That Night and this is hell (and has been there since).
Either way, the universe is one twisted fuck (for sure). How else could he explain this vision of her smiling softly at his son as she brushed his hair away from his tear-stained face like it's the only thing she should be doing right this moment?
Come on, my little darling, let's go look for daddy.
He stills at that and welcomes how his brain, his whole being short-circuits at the surreality of it all. He's too afraid, too unworthy to even consider…
She turns and sees him right away. Her eyebrows rise but the rest of her face, her smile falls. They both freeze, tense. As if to answer the question they both dare not address, the boy reaches out for him and she hands him over wordlessly. Electricity zips through them as their arms brush but they stubbornly remain stoic. Too shocked, too afraid, too busy holding all the thoughts and emotions and reasons and consequences at bay to do or say or even think of anything else.
As she was about to walk away, she sees the boy reach out for her this time.
Oh no. Please don't do this.
Several strained smiles and waves goodbye later, she surrenders. Surely, nobody can be cruel enough to turn away from a gap-toothed angel (the little devil) expectantly reaching out for you. So she chases him around the park to his little heart's content.
Someone is sleepy.
She observes the little darling drowsily rubbing his eyes.
I got him.
He makes to scoop the little boy in his arms but the little devil (still an angel really) turns his adorably sleepy charm on her.
She had no chance. Really.
He stares at her cradling and rocking his son to sleep and, dammit, if it doesn't look so natural, so goddamn right.
Here.
The sleeping boy is then situated in his father's arms. She brushes back the messy mop of curls and thinks better of kissing the boy's forehead (even though she inexplicably, desperately wants to) knowing the gesture to be too motherly, too invasive, too intimate for what should be a stranger's child.
Will he be okay?
What?
Will he be okay when he wakes up?
Maybe… I'll figure something out.
His mom?
Not in the picture. Never was.
He wasn't sure if that last part was said out loud.
She exhales loudly.
How long?
He pauses and the question stretches into an eternity. Is she asking how long had he been cheating on her? How long had he been lying to her? How long had he been lying to himself that he hadn't been wishing for her the moment he found the basket with the baby and a note with the words 'he's yours' and 'one night stand'?
He unraveled. He knows it's not an excuse for what he did.
He shouldn't get to do this.
He shouldn't get to do this.
He shouldn't get to do this.
How long 'til he wakes up?
Two hours, maybe?
Okay.
He sighs. There it is again. That word. Oh how he loathes that word. That generic, all-encompassing, infuriating vague word. He realizes he's been simultaneously running on and running from vague hopes since That Night but dammit it's been two fucking years.
He's yanked out of his thoughts as she hands him a piece of paper.
Tell me where you'll be when he wakes up.
Then she walks away. Maybe for the last time.
He simply watches her disappear from view and refuses to think or feel anything. For all he knew, the last few minutes, hours, lifetimes had not been real. Just brief tastes of heaven. Enough to give you something to long for as you suffer through hell. Can't miss, can't crave what you never had and what you still have. Only what you could have.
She meets her fiancé. She tries not to mince words. She tries to explain everything and leave out unnecessary, hurtful details. She has no bloody idea if she managed that.
I'm saying this in the hopes that you don't doubt yourself and that you'll see this situation for what it really is: me being an idiotic bitch for letting go of a wonderful, amazing, sweet guy like you.
She stands up after she and her fiancé come to an understanding.
She returns the ring.
Then she receives a message.
Still here.
Okay.
A/N
A tip of the hat to viansian for inspiring the 'selfish Bellamy' bit. God can that author DESTROY me utterly (and be loved by me even more for it).
I have bits of a 'sequel' which I don't know where to put or use.
Bonus points to those who can spot the song reference :P