Why doesn't it feel easier?
That was her question, an understandable one, and yet totally unanswerable. At least, he couldn't answer it. He didn't even want to try. It was the words, words shared between them and words unspoken, that formed and shaped their relationship; nuances of speech that kept them in this perpetual limbo of feelings; vocabulary of questionable intent that made their friendship the way it was. Words were who they were. He was unwilling to utilize those same building blocks to end it.
It should be easier this way.
And it should. He would leave, go to L.A., and get his career going like he had always planned to. She would continue training. Her ambition was a shot at the Olympics, and he had no doubts about her ability to reach her goal. That is, so long as nothing got in the way. No distractions, no rules being broken, and she had a chance. They had a chance- lead separate lives, pursue their dreams, be happy. It should be easy. And yet, it wasn't. It was tougher than anything he might have imagined. He couldn't even begin to explain it, to himself, to her, to an outsider looking in. It was a confliction of his loyalties, and yes, his heart. Not that he considered himself to be in love. They were both much too jaded for that this early. But his genuine affection for her balked at the idea of permanently leaving her life, fought it hard. He could stay. They could make it work.
But he couldn't. Even looking at her now, as she sat across from him silently pleading for him to change his mind, he knew irrevocably that he couldn't. He knew that she would only grow to resent him as time passed, as she was sucked further and further down a path that she had avoided for so long. She needed to trust, yes; but she needed to put her trust in stable individuals, ones who didn't demand or expect something in return. And he knew himself well enough to realize that he was not that man. Not right now, not yet.
And so he decided to go. Razor would be coming back soon. Maybe he would be able to provide the security she needed. He really didn't care to dwell on it- the thought of his best friend with the girl he had come to regard with a possessive air wasn't exactly pleasant. But if it made her happy, if it helped her to develop into the amazing person he knew she would be… it would be worth it. He wasn't that selfish.
He reached out hesitantly now. Placing his palm over hers, he gave her a sad smile. He could see how hard she was trying to remain strong, and it pained him. She shouldn't feel like she needed to hide from him. She could let go.
Grasping her hand, he gave it a gentle tug, and repositioned his chair. Slowly, like something from a movie, she came towards him, forsaking her seat to be nearer. She settled herself smoothly on his lap, straddling him, hand still clasped in his.
He reached up and tenderly stroked her cheek. Her searching gaze held his for what felt like a lifetime. Between them passed all of the unspoken, the goodbyes that would never leave their lips. She broke the eye contact to rest her forehead against his in an uncharacteristic display of affection. Her hands moved next, releasing her death hold to allow her arms freedom to snake around his neck. He eased his own around her waist, gently grasping her hips. As they sat, eyes closed and exhalations mingling, he couldn't help but be amazed once more. The position was intimate, yes, but not overly charged. It was reminisce of her hug immediately after her reinstatement at the Rock; warm and personal and companionable. It was the first time in a long time that he could appreciate and participate in such physical contact without the sexual tension. Yet she made it possible.
Then he sensed the change come over her. He heard the rhythm of her breathing alter, felt the pulse under his palms speed up. She shifted her position, scooting closer towards his torso, causing him to tighten his grip even as she released hers. Lifting her head, she stared. He could see the tears forming behind her eyelids. He didn't have time to dwell though, because suddenly she was kissing him, hard and fast and urgent. And even as he responded, he knew she was just escaping, avoiding the alternative emotions by covering it with desire. Her hands were intertwined in his hair, and she pressed herself closer, impossibly closer to his body. For someone who supposedly had never kissed, she sure knew the ins and outs of it! He felt the need growing with each passing second.
Finally, his conscious, intelligent mind resurfaced long enough to bring him back to reality. What were they doing? He was leaving. The whole point was to make the severance easier, not strengthen the attachment! He had to put an end to this; he refused to leave this girl, this wonderful beautiful special girl, with the memory of a last-minute encounter that would destroy her faith in people. He wouldn't take her here, not even close. She was better than that.
Removing one hand from its lock around her torso, he reached behind him to grip the back of his chair. She never broke the kisses as he heaved them up. She attempted to wrap her legs around his waist, evidently misconstruing his intent. However, he gently encouraged her feet to find the floor again, and pulled himself out of the embrace.
She whimpered softly at the loss of contact. Reaching for him, she tried to resume the activity at hand. He resisted though, holding on desperately to the idea that yes, this was the right thing, despite what he carnally wanted. She would thank him later.
For now, though, she was pissed. Once she realized that he had effectively ended the make-out session, she stiffened. He could literally see the mental walls as they reconstructed behind her eyes. Her gaze narrowed, and she turned as if to leave. Of course he grabbed her arm to stop her. And just as he suspected she would, she whirled back to face him.
"Get. The. Hell. Off. Me." Each word was accompanied by a forceful exhale, and he could see the depth of her anger.
He didn't release his grip, though he loosened it enough to make it comfortable. "I need to explain," he said lowly. She attempted to tug free. "Don't do this."
He could see the venom behind her stare. "Don't you dare tell me what to do. This isn't some damn game you can play with me! I am not like the other women in your life, Damon." The words were almost a hiss, and they stung. But he deserved them.
"I know, Em. Believe me, I know. It would be so much easier if you were," he confessed. "I don't want to play games with you. I want to do what's right." It was true, though he doubted she'd believe it.
If the bitter bark of laughter she gave was any indication, he was right. "Uh-huh. That's why we constantly alternate between friendship and fighting, kisses and abandonment, right?" The anger was gone now, replaced by the tears that had finally come. "That's why you're leaving."
He closed his eyes, searching for the right words to make her understand. Then he realized that there were no right words.
He pulled her close again. She resisted, predictably, but he was insistent. When he finally got his arms back around her, she was as stiff and unmoving as she had been lively and passionate before. He was patient though, and soon enough she began to relax into the hug, finally bringing her arms around to grip the back of his shirt fiercely. In that moment, he knew that she understood. He was leaving for her. They would use the time that they had left together to prepare for the indefinite separation. Together, they would heal the hurt.
Her tears began to soak through the fabric of his shirt, but that was OK. He murmured against her hair, a disjointed stream of nonsense that neither tried to register. It didn't really matter what the words were anymore.