The Worst and the Best

by FrancesBertram

Sometimes with love, you have to wait. MarkxJuliet. Oneshot.

Love Actually is not mine. Only this story is. Yay! Mark's POV.

Sometimes with love, you have to wait.

I learned that the hard way.

I found the perfect girl. She was everything I ever wanted. I had to wait. I had to heal. But once the wait was over, we got married. Everything, everything she wanted I wanted to give to her. I tried, I loved, I gave, she cheated.

Once.

Then twice.

Then again.

Then one more time.

I stayed by her side until the fourth time. I had had enough. She was never going stay with me, love me the way I loved her.

How did I love her? Maybe that was my fault. Maybe I didn't love her completely, in the right way, like I thought I did. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe I wasn't complete, because she wasn't My Juliet.

Her name was Allyson. Perfect Ally, sweet Ally, my Ally. Nine years after New Year's Eve 2003, I married her. Not on the dot, but you understand. Truly, I did love her. Juliet was in my past. There was nothing I could do, nothing I should do. I had healed from my heartbreak over her, or so I thought. I could have made my move, for years, but never, not once. Everything that happened was my fault. I devoted myself to Ally.

I never did ask if it was me. Could she tell that something was missing? It was years ago, so many years ago. She is long gone now. She married three more times. The last was her happiest. Genuinely, I am glad for her. I was glad for her. She is now gone, as I said. But that is not relevant.

Something must be understood. About myself and Juliet. Enough of Ally; this story is about Juliet. Juliet and myself. My Juliet.

Before Peter and Juliet's wedding, I knew I loved Juliet. For years I knew. I knew the first moment I met her. No, let me correct myself. I am not a flaming romantic, so let me say I knew the first week I met her, not the first moment. That first day, though, was truly the best day of my life. But not also the worst, surprisingly. It was the best, and only that.

Peter spoke about Juliet constantly, and I would always roll my eyes and laugh, in my sardonic way. No one could be that amazing.

And then I met her, and my breath was taken away. Not only for her beauty, which was shocking, but for her. Everything about her—what can I say? It was instantaneous. It was miraculous. It was love.

It was Peter's girl. Peter, my best friend. Who had been with me since college, had stayed with me through many a drunk night, had (literally) held my hand as I waited for the results of the pregnancy test when I thought my sophomore year girlfriend was pregnant.

I knew nothing could ever come of this.

We sat, we ate, she talked, I swooned.

I am being literal here. I actually swooned. Peter eyed me warily; Juliet was oblivious, wrapped up in Peter, only glancing at me as she talked to be polite. I am proud to say that I didn't have the balls to be jealous. How could I be jealous? I was in no way hers; she was not mine. She had met me an hour previously. I spoke when she talked to me directly, struggling past the lump in my throat. Eventually, I either relaxed or Peter decided to ignore me, since he stopped eyeing me and everything was normal.

The next few months after that was agony. After my first embarrassing encounter with Juliet, I decided the only option was to, well, be a total dick to her. It was the only way to save myself. If I was kind, I knew my feelings would pour forth eventually, and I couldn't have that. Not for Peter. Not for myself. Not for Juliet.

At all costs I avoided her, was rude to her, was short, evasive, and even hostile at times. Once, Peter asked me to ride the bus with her to her doctor's examination, since he was at a baseball game. Lord knows why he didn't go with her. I would have gone with her anywhere. My heart leapt (not literally) at being with her, even though the alone time was theoretically what I tried to avoid.

As we were on the bus, Juliet either brought up or accidentally let slip that she was actually going to get a pregnancy test. Peter and she might be having a baby! Her smile was radiant, my departure was speedy. I got off on the next stop and didn't look back. I didn't ask if he knew, I didn't ask anything. My departure was abrupt and rude and psychotic. I left her potentially pregnant self alone on a bus in the middle of London! That was one of my hostile moments.

Neither Peter nor Juliet spoke to me for more than a month after that. I completely understood.

Juliet was an angel about it. She was the one, at least according to Peter, that got us on speaking terms again. She convinced him to forgive my sorry ass. Also, to not punch me when he saw me for the first time after five weeks. It was a happy reunion, but I was in agony once again over Juliet's kindness. I was nothing but a prick to her, and yet she still tried to get in my good graces. It was always obvious that she was trying to ingratiate herself to me, to find some kind of common ground. I wouldn't give.

So many times I wanted to tell her that she never need try. I was already done for; she was permanently sealed on my heart, never to be removed. Yet no matter how badly I ached to relieve her stress over my coldness, I couldn't tell her what the issue was. Obviously, that would make the whole charade moot.

When I first saw Juliet after five weeks, Peter left us alone for a few minutes so I could deliver my much warranted apology. I looked at her beautiful, expectant, and cautious face and then glanced at her belly, immediately feeling like a pervert as I did so.

"So...the results. Is it a boy?" I didn't know what kind of question that was, so I added by way of apology for such forwardness, "Or, may I ask?" I looked at her with my best indifferent look.

Juliet looked faintly surprised, but answered with a perfect smile, "I'm not pregnant. It wouldn't have mattered if I was, Peter would have been chuffed anyhow. But look!" She held out her hand. "Peter proposed!"

I strangled a gasp, and without thought grabbed her proffered hand to look at the ring. My face must have shown something I didn't want it to, because when I looked back at Juliet's face she looked genuinely concerned. Before she could open her mouth to ask the inevitable, "What's wrong?" I unconsciously squeezed her hand harder and then dropped it as if it was leprous.

My face went cold, my eyes dead. Preserve, I must preserve. "That's great," I choked out. Something flickered in Juliet's eyes, but it wasn't anger at my false congratulations. It was a realization. I couldn't even contemplate her knowing how I felt, because the horror of that thought was too much for me to bear. It had to be something else. She never mentioned it.

And then the video. Oh, god, the video. Why did I ever film her at the wedding? What kind of moron was I? My secret would have been safe forever, I'm sure of it, if I hadn't been a complete and utter moron. Also, somewhat of a pervert. She was so beautiful. So beautiful. I had to film her; it was compulsory. Everything she was, she was perfect. Even on her wedding day to another man.

I loved Peter, of course. But what I did at the wedding, the surprise Beatles serenade, was for her. Mostly. It was also for Peter, because he was my best friend, but also, in a way, it was for her through him, since she was now joined with him. Something that made him happy surely would make her happy. And I wanted to make Peter happy and I also wanted to make her happy. Of course. It was a win situation all around.

Then the reception. Shit, I thought I was caught when Sarah came up to me and asked. But my laugh was one of relief when I realized she thought it was about Peter. It was also one of embarrassment that she would think that, but I somewhat understood. It did seem that way if you didn't know the truth. Which no one did. Only I knew that I jacked off to the thought of Juliet.

Which brings me to the video. The day Juliet saw that I thought my life was over. I thought that was the worst day of my life. It wasn't, but I'll get to that. Humiliation burned through me. Her obliviousness was in for a real shock. Would she laugh? Would she shout and throw things, calling me a pervert? I had watched this video countless times, and not all of them didn't include masturbation. Along with my burning, passionate, all-consuming love for Juliet also came, well, lust. Let's not beat around it. I wanted her bad, as much as I tried to deny it.

I thought none of this as I watched the video at that moment, though. At that moment, I was lost in her again. It wasn't about her body, or even solely about her unbelievable, ethereal beauty. It was about her, as she was. Her person, the very essence of her, what I loved her for. Captured in this perfect video.

And then she didn't shout, or throw things, or say anything, at first. She was just calm. I should have known. She was excitable and enthusiastic, but at moments like this she was calm. I loved her for that. I spluttered out incoherent words. To this day I can't remember what I said. Once I walked across the room, I was relieved to know that I could actually think, and I uttered the clearest sentence I'd said to her throughout the entire visit. "It's a...self-preservation thing, you see." Then, in a classic moment of me-ness, I left abruptly.

I was in agony. Have I mentioned agony yet? Love is agony, just lettin' you know. But when I say agony, this time, I mean it. It was the most tortured I've ever been, which is saying something because that still wasn't the worst day of my life. I almost went back to do—god knows what. So I just left and screamed and cried a little. I didn't come back to my apartment for hours. 'Tortured' is not the right adjective for how I felt. There isn't an adjective invented, not even now, in my old age. It was the worst, because now she knew the truth, and I still couldn't have her.

After much debate and avoidance of Juliet (and Peter), I formed a plan. This was the only right way to go about things, and the only way to finalize everything. Now that I look back, I realize what a fucking crazy and risky plan that was. But at the time it seemed reasonable. In fact, if I had to do it over, I would. I was just so happy that Juliet answered the door, and not Peter.

I'm not a man for expressing my emotions in big ways, or, even, at all. But this was it. This was the big moment, the only way I could show her that I truly loved her. I expected nothing in return, not even her secrecy. This was the end of my longing for Juliet.

But it wasn't. And it had nothing to do with the kiss. Her soft, angel, comforting kiss. The kiss that I definitely haven't ever thought about or tried to remember the feel of, faint as it was. In honor of Peter and my commitment to our friendship, I have honestly tried not to think of it. Okay, so the occasional thought snuck in, and then I would lie in bed remembering, my lips tingling. Once or twice (okay, three times, if I remember correctly) I even reached for myself and satisfied the ache that built in my groin as I thought of how it could have gone. If I had no self-control or loyalty to my friend, I would have dropped everything and really planted one on her, made her feel all my love and longing, with my hands on her face, my tongue and teeth and lips put to good use. But besides this occasional fantasy, I was controlled. As always.

My love for her, My Juliet, as I still always called her, was still there. Unbidden, irrepressible. I couldn't help myself. Can anyone who is in love?

And yet, with all my self-denial, I still slipped up.

It was three years after Peter and Juliet's wedding. Juliet and I had developed a tentative friendship. We seemed, on the surface, to be quite good chums. Yet, there was still that knowing, of what I had confessed, and our secret kiss. She hadn't told Peter, as far as I knew. I didn't know her reasons, but it was probably because there was nothing to tell. Besides, we weren't close to each other, so I never had the right to ask if she had told him. Even though the romance was one sided, an affair could still happen, we both knew. And I had said that moment was enough, that Christmas Eve night.

But then Juliet called me crying, one winter night. She said she needed someone to talk to, and I knew Peter best, and would I please come over? No funny business, just some advice, please. And of course I couldn't deny her. As much as I still avoided one-on-one time with Juliet, although now for different reasons, she sounded as if she was in agony, and agony was something I could understand. I left for her place immediately.

Upon arrival, her words started pouring out right as I entered the door. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside, raining down apologies for the inconvenience and thanks so much and I'm so sorry for bothering you and how is the weather out?—I haven't been out since dark. Her nose was red and her face was tear streaked, but she was still so beautiful. I had never seen her so worked up and out of control. It was clear she was distressed. I wanted to hug her tightly to tell her it was all right, but instead I held her at arms' length, gripped her arms and asked soothingly, "What's wrong, Juliet? Come on—" and nodded in the direction of the couch upstairs; we were still in the hall.

Up the stairs Juliet was quiet and seemed to be breathing evenly, which was good. Once we sat on the couch, she started talking again, and it was a bit more paced.

"Mark, I'm worried about Peter." She took a breath. "Actually, I'm worried about our marriage." Tears started leaking out again as she continued. I watched her with a stoic expression, hoping my calm would calm her and please, god, make her stop crying. Anything to make her stop crying.

She looked me right in the eye, intent and worried. "He's never home anymore and he always has some excuse for going somewhere. He looks so—well, he looks guilty when he comes home sometimes—maybe I'm just imagining things. I could be paranoid—but I—it's only been three years! I thought we were happy. But I've been noticing this for the past few months now, he just seems off, and tonight—we were supposed to go out for dinner, and then he said he had to work late and I'm just really worried and—" Juliet started crying for real now. She wiped her tears away and then, to my surprise, took my hand, which rested on my thigh. "I've been so happy and I thought we were so happy, but I can't ignore the evidence anymore. And I love him so much. I don't understand."

Juliet ducked her head it seemed, to me, in shame, and before I knew it she had rested her head against my shoulder. I took a breath and then, to keep myself in check, I started asking her questions. What had she seen to make her think Peter was cheating? Anything she overheard? She told me what she knew and then said, "I'm asking you, Mark, as Peter's friend. You know him even better than I do. Have you seen anything? Has he said anything?" I told her what I knew, but it wasn't much. We had gone out a few times so maybe that could be some of the times she was thinking of that were suspicious to her. But she said Peter had mentioned when he went out with me.

I had nothing to say. I didn't know what was going on either. I told Juliet so. Her tears started leaking out again and I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't take this. She was so close and she was crying. Could I not just reach out and touch her? To hold her as a friend surely wouldn't be bad. My arm twitched but before I could move Juliet shifted close to me and put her arm across my chest and around my neck in a sort of half hug. With her forehead against my shoulder she continued to cry. I was going to break. I put my arms around her. It was awkward at first, shifting positions then holding her, but after a few seconds she, at least, relaxed.

Was it wrong that I was thinking about how warm she was, how good she smelled, how nice she felt in my arms? Here she was, crying over her husband and my best friend, and I was letting my hormones come to the surface.

To me, you are perfect. To me, you are perfect. To me, you are perfect. I tried to think of the phrase I had told her, to think of her in aesthetic terms instead of physical. But it wasn't only physically that I thought of her right now. It was lust but also longing and love and comfort all rolled up into one that I was feeling. Damn me.

"Mark." I heard Juliet's voice and felt her struggle to get out of my arms, making me realize how much my arms had tightened around her.

"You okay? Sorry," I said mechanically.

She looked at me and gave a small smile, and she still looked perfect, even through her tears. She shifted as if to move away, I don't even know, because she thoughtlessly placed her hand on my thigh and I felt her breath on my neck and a grunt of frustrated desire escaped me. That did it. I completely lost all the self-control I had built up. My lips were on her mouth before I could think, and this time, the kiss wasn't innocent. My tongue was in her mouth and even though I couldn't remember how they got there my hands were on either side of her face. My kiss was rough, urgent, intense, thorough and I didn't even think about what she was feeling until she let out a little scared mewl and then I noticed how tense she was and I realized Oh, my god I'm mouth-raping her. I had to let go of her but my brain had fucking shut down so before I did I stroked my tongue inside her mouth and gave her mouth a long, hard suck before breaking apart from her.

The look on her face. Oh, My Juliet. Shit fucking shit. Shit. Her mouth was open and her eyes were wide and scared and dark. Her breathing was uneven again, and her cheeks were pink, but not from crying. There was something flickering in her eyes, a war, it seemed. She looked horrified, and something else. Somewhere, my brain started to catch up.

Then I felt the aching in my cock and I knew that if I didn't leave right then something far worse would happen. If one kiss from Juliet could make me rock hard, any other interaction would make me lose all my will. A thought crossed her eyes; Juliet had seen something, perhaps my thoughts crossing my face, or my arousal. She said, "I've never thought of you as a man before. I mean," she laughed her delightful laugh, somewhat nervous, "I just thought of you as Peter's best friend. Never a man, though, like—" She stopped, seeming to think she might have blundered. As if. I understood what she meant. If she had ever thought of me as a man, there might have actually been a moment when she was interested in me. But she hadn't. I was always Sexless Mark, Peter's Best Friend.

But I knew how to finish her thought. Yes, I was a man. And right now, that was very obvious. And the first thing on my mind. I shouldn't have, I should have got up and left, but I moaned,"Juliet."

Technically speaking, I knew the reasons for what was happening. Juliet was feeling vulnerable; she needed some comfort; I was desperately in love and completely taken over by my baser urges. But none of this crossed my mind as our lips met; I didn't even immediately register that Juliet was now participating as my tongue laved her mouth. Her tongue touched mine and she gave a familiar mewl, and I my mind finally caught up to realize that her earlier mewl hadn't been completely of terror. I kissed her lips, putting them between mine, pulling, sucking, anything to make her feel good. Wet and sloppy and completely impassioned I kissed her face open-mouthed. Her neck was warm, blushing where I kissed her. I heard her breathing in my ear as I moved to kiss her ears and I was so turned on I moaned into her hair.

Stop, stop, stop, god damn you.

Then, Juliet: "Peter!" It stopped.

We pulled away at the same time and I saw what she saw: not Peter himself, but a picture of Peter and herself at their wedding.

It was over. We were both equally horrified, although perhaps for different reasons. We had both cheated on Peter. Juliet tried to speak, her huge brown eyes wide, her mouth open. I'm not proud to say that I only mumbled something and then left, much like when she saw the wedding video.

That was the worst day of my life. It could have been good, except for the circumstances. I had completely betrayed my friend, and myself. I had worked to preserve my integrity, and Juliet's, and then in one moment, it was gone.

It was five years, five years that I was gone. I went to America with my art, and stayed there. I never spoke to Juliet throughout my stay and to Peter only twice: the first when he called to tear me a new one when Juliet told him about our kiss. He said our friendship was over. I didn't argue.

The second call was three years later. I was pleased to find out that Juliet and Peter were still married. They were expecting a baby, a boy, and it seemed that Peter couldn't just not tell me. I never knew if he was subliminally trying to prove something or not.

I did, however, find out years later about what had happened after I left. Juliet told Peter what had happened almost immediately and had the good grace to do so before she questioned him about her own suspicions. It turned out that Peter had been seeing another woman. Not sexually, in any way, but he was interested in her and had gone out with her quite a few times. I thought he was crazy for ever considering anyone worthy of attention besides Juliet, but I didn't say so. I had no right, and no room to judge. Funnily enough, the other number of times Juliet had been worried about were actually Peter at work or at the gym.

So Peter and Juliet resolved their differences, both apologized, and they talked. That was the thing. No matter what, Peter was Juliet's. It was always him for her, and likewise. They could always make it work, and they did, for forty-two years. Did I stop loving her in that time? No. My passion cooled, it matured, I grew old, I got married, I got divorced, Juliet and Peter had three children together, and yet...it was always there. After I came back from America and reestablished my relationship with Peter, I rarely saw Juliet, and never spent alone time with her. Only if Peter was there.

And then Peter wasn't there. He died of heart disease; he had a long family history of it. I had known about it, but never thought it would catch up to him. Peter was a healthy guy. But in the end, his heart gave out, and he was gone. Juliet cried continuously for a month. I didn't come near her. She didn't call, I didn't try. We both knew that wouldn't help. She had her children, anyway. Her entire family, Peter's entire family. Everyone was there for Juliet, as everyone should have been. She deserved everything. I knew there was still no hope for us. I didn't want there to be. Her heart had died with Peter. It seemed wrong to ever have her, especially now.

But my love never died. Juliet grew old. She never looked like the picture I had put on the cardboard for her all those years ago. Even if she had, it wouldn't have mattered. She would never be ugly. Even with her gray hair, her age spots, she was still My Juliet. Nothing would change that.

But something did change. It wasn't her, or me, but us together. Six years after Peter's death, something in our relationship had changed. Juliet and I had slowly formed a mutual attachment. I hadn't even thought about it, never consciously changed anything. But there was a certain closeness, a bond that was different than my longing love for her. It was something that could work.

I would never be Juliet's Peter. Her heart was completely his, from their two year courtship into their marriage until his death and then long after. But our attachment was real, it was mutual, and it was love. I asked Juliet to marry me on Christmas Eve, forty-eight years after the first time I had told her I loved her.

And then my wait was over. I never knew that I had been waiting, never knew that I could be waiting. After all my denial and longing, my deceit and stupidity, I married My Juliet. She married me, despite our strange past and our mutual errors, all the coldness she had put up with from me and the perfection I had to endure from her (such hardship).

We talked and we laughed and I loved her thoroughly, finally able to do so, taking joy in her body even though it was no longer physically perfect. And now, here we are, together, loving each other, devoted and caring, through the worst and the best.