paint my broken glass
AU
andrétori
:::
It is raining and thundering outside when his doorbell rings. In the dim glow of backup lights, he sees her, beautiful even though there are bags under her eyes.
"Can I come in, please?" she asks, begging. ( pleasepleaseplease i'll go if you say so )
"Come on in," he answers. Though he hasn't seen her since they last worked together - three years ago - he still has a soft spot for her.
"Thank you."
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He doesn't notice her nose until the third day. It's runny, so he blames the flu, rain, and the cold. In the back of his mind, he knows; has seen the signs. He says nothing. ( i hate you i hate you cant you see im calling out? )
"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asks. She knows answers are the only form of payment she can provide him with.
She just walks away.
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On the sixth night, he opens a bottle of vodka, knowing it's not the smartest thing. But they are not children anymore. ( but they're not adults, either )
"If you won't talk to me," he tells her, "then at least drink with me." He holds the bottle out to her, and she takes it with shaky hands. He has found her weakness - or one of many.
She takes big gulps that are meant to burn. She slides lazily onto his lap, as though she has no care in the world. She calls him the wrong name - andrewandrewandrew not andré - but he doesn't care.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," he says back, though there is no one left to here it.
He hasn't even touched his glass.
.
.
.
She wakes with the worst hangover she has ever had, and that in itself is saying something.
She finds herself curled around a body; a body too warm and soft and not at all what she's used to. ( oh thankyouthankyouthankyou )
She finds herself getting up slowly, trying not to wake him. She is cold and stony and will not let herself corrupt him.
She leaves him a note anyways.
.
.
.
( andrew,
thanks for taking me in. last night was a mistake. dont know what i said or did.
tori )
She scribbles out the iloveyou's before her name.
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A month and a half later, they rinse, wash and repeat.
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She sleeps with him one night - not like that; never like that - because she's cold and he's warms. Their hearts have been broken and stitched back together so many times that he lets her.
( ive written a thousand songs about you, dont you know that? )
They kiss once, clumsily, and she thinks it tastes like broken hearts ( tootoo sweet and sour and bitter ), while he finds it tart and full of grief.
She leans back in an awkward post-kiss motion - and he lets her.
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She's never offered him any ( crackcrankglassmeth ), but he knows she does it and if he asked she would provide in an instant. He doesn't tell anyone, because if he loves anyone on earth it's her. That doesn't mean he approves, though.
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He doesn't like her smoking in his house, either, although he lets her. He likes her smell without the smoke: peaches and glitter and soap, fancy hollywood soap.
"You want some?" she asks as she takes a drag, not wanting to be rude. He stares at her and she repeats herself.
"Nah," he says, all nonchalant and carefree, though he is tense. "I'd rather not die too quick."
It is meant to be a joke, but she scowls. He wishes he could have a conversation that lasts more than three minutes.
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.
.
"Tell me you love me," she demands, her voice hoarse. He can tell she is on her high again, for her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and under her nose is the tiniest of white.
So he does. After a long moment, he speaks, "Why?"
"I just . . . needed to hear it," she whispers, almost broken, so low he almost hadn't heard it - he notices her voice had cracked.
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She parties. He picks her up at three a.m. drunk.
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.
"You're really fucked up, you know that?" His voice rings, loud and clear, in the silence. It makes her flinch.
"Yeah." Her voice sounds broken, even to her own ears.
He leaves. She doesn't want him to. And this time he doesn't come back.