A/N: This is set during the NP era, before Lucas. No spoilers, unless you count the general angst of their relationship. This is my first foray into M-rated fanfiction, and it's not very explicit, but I felt uncomfortable rating this T. This is just an angsty – but beautiful – moment between Nathan and Peyton.
Thanks for reading and enjoy!
We are turning into dust
Playing house in the ruins of us
Running back through the fire
When there's nothing left to save
- Broken Strings by James Morrison
Peyton sits on the front steps of her house, just below the roof encasing her porch. It's raining – really raining, all thunder crackling through the air and lightning brightening the sky – and it's almost scary in its beauty. She's not entirely sure why she's trembling (she's safe here, and besides, she's never really been afraid of thunderstorms).
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she and Nathan broke up last night.
Truth be told, she and Nathan break up almost every night. But this feels different. Almost…final. She said a lot of things she really didn't mean, but how is he supposed to know that? He's not that perceptive. That's the way she likes him, but it sure makes conversations difficult.
She's almost forgotten why she's so mad at him. She thinks he slept with Theresa, one of the skank cheerleaders, but it's been hours since she last yelled at him and she can't remember why they started arguing. She also can't seem to remember why she cares anymore.
She's tired of this back-and-forth, she really is. She's tired of watching him hit on other girls. She's tired of breaking up and getting back together like it's some kind of broken record. But most of all, she's tired of the fighting. She gets that she's the cheerleader and he's the jock and that they should have the kind of relationship where it's passion and it's fire and it's anger all the time.
But all she can feel is the pain.
So maybe it's a good thing that she and Nathan are breaking up for real this time. He has a messed up family life and his father thrusts these ridiculously high expectations on him, but that doesn't excuse all the mistakes he makes. Peyton wants him to rise above everything that's hurt him, but all he can ever focus on is basketball. (And she really can't begrudge him that small release).
She wants to heal him. It's a crazily romantic notion, but there it is. It's always been there, always been her reasoning for staying with him despite all the times he's hurt her. No one else understands it. Of course. But the only thing that matters is that she understands it.
And sometimes, she does.
The sky is darkening slowly but surely now, and she wraps her arms around herself in a feeble attempt to stave off the rain. She could just go inside, but she's masochistic and so instead she hugs her knees to her chest and lets the tears fall.
It's almost eleven before she musters the courage to go up to her room and sulk a little. It's harder than she expects.
Maybe because she thought he'd have the decency to come by and apologize to her.
She stands up, brushing imaginary lint off her plaid button-up shirt, and casts one lingering glance towards the street. She thinks for a moment. This isn't the way this night should be going. Nathan should be standing at the end of her sidewalk, pleading with her to just forgive him already. He should be soaked from the rain, holding a boom box and serenading her like in that stupid John Cusack movie Say Anything.
But he's not, and she knows he won't be. He's just not that guy.
And that hurts much more than it should.
But then…
There he is.
She feels inexplicably tired when she catches sight of him. Her eyelids are heavy, and she resists the urge to yawn. Her weariness is the first sign that this last break-up won't end the way it always does.
"Nate," she calls out, the nickname slipping easily off her tongue. She sounds uncharacteristically affectionate, but she doesn't retract the word. He's finally doing something romantic, and she's not one to ask questions.
Even though she knows this gesture won't change anything.
"Hey, Peyton!" Nathan yelps over the screaming rain. His voice is blurred by the sound of two clouds bumping into each other – that's what Peyton's mom used to tell her when there was a thunderstorm – and Peyton sighs. She's not sure she has it in her to fight another fight. Especially because he looks damn hot standing out there in the rain and all she wants to do is kiss him.
She almost does that very thing – she wants to forget why they fought and the fact that they fight all the time and all the other white noise – but she stops herself. She's been down this road before. (Twenty-six times, actually, but who's counting?) Maybe it's time to stop trying to fix the broken boy standing on the sidewalk.
She shakes her head vehemently, tossing her curls over her shoulder. It's a dismissive gesture. But Nathan only demands, "You better get your skinny ass out here!"
She glares at him – even from this distance, he can tell that she's glaring – and in typical fashion he shoots her that signature Nathan Scott smirk. She shakes her head again, but the gesture is slow and hesitant this time, and he takes advantage of the break.
"I'm sorry!" His voice is loud, the words almost sarcastic. But it's an apology nonetheless, and she falters. He smirks to himself.
Checkmate.
Peyton sighs again, crossing her arms over her barely-there chest (sometime she laments her lack of boobage, but not today; it's much easier to cross her arms effectively). She won't put up with this crap. She just won't. Not today.
"No!" she yells out, stamping her foot. Nathan chuckles. He thought girls only did that in movies.
"Come out here," he repeats insistently. He's still yelling, but he's not willing to walk up the pathway. He won't be the one who gives in first. (That's not who he is). Then again, he knows that she won't be, either.
She shakes her head again, letting her hands rest on her waist. It's a defiant pose, one she often takes when confronting Nathan. She's in charge here, and she wants him to know that.
"Babe!" he yells out, coaxing, hoping. There's raw need in his voice, a vulnerability he's not quite sure how to conceal, and Peyton feels a tear tremble on her eyelid. She aches for this boy. She always has.
He takes a step towards her, one foot curling on the cement sidewalk, and she holds up a shaking hand.
"Wait."
He nods.
She shakes her head yet again, bewilderment alighting in those green eyes. She's all curls and venom, and he smiles to himself. She looks so beautiful standing there, her blond locks disheveled and chest heaving with barely suppressed anger. All he wants to do is fuck her right then and there.
He takes another step, ignoring her plea for patience, and stops in front of her. There's about fifteen yards of sidewalk between them, and he wants to close the distance. But he knows he'll scare her if he comes any closer. He'll have to take this slow. (Besides, he knows the stance he's taken reveals quite a bit of skin. She's always been a sucker for his arms).
Peyton rolls her eyes. She knows what Nathan's doing. He's trying to entice her, trying to break her down by flaunting his rain-darkened hair and glistening, strong arms and grey shirt that highlights his chiseled abs…but no. She's stronger than that.
She has to be.
She doesn't want to sleep with him tonight, that's for sure. She usually does after they fight, but this feels different. Too much has changed and broken between them, and she's done. With him, with their relationship, with this life.
"Go home, Nathan," she mutters disdainfully, the words quick and weary. She hangs her head, suddenly feeling heavy and exhausted, and turns lightly away. Her hands tug on the hem of her shirt, her fingers grasping for some semblance of order. She's flailing now, hoping she'll find her way back to what used to be good. To what used to make sense.
Nathan grunts in frustration. He loves this girl, he does. (He's never told her). But she can be god damn infuriating. So…irresistible. He just wants to make her see that he can be good enough for her, if given the chance.
"Why, Peyton?" He counters. He's snarling now, and he's taken yet another step forward. Still she stands, back turned to him, hands clenching her shirt. Shoulders stiff.
She looks so broken that he closes his eyes and shakes his head, wondering why they can't just make this work. Is it their personalities, so similar, so entwined? Is it because his mom is an alcoholic and his dad is a bastard (and fathered one too) and her mom is dead and her dad is an absentee? Or is it just because he's Nathan and she's Peyton and they're not meant to be together?
"Because I said so," she grits out, clenching her fists. She doesn't really have a reason not to talk to him, but she's stubborn. It's one of her many delightful attributes.
"I'm not leaving." He stands his ground. His resistance is firm, and it's real. And she just wants him to go away.
"No," she says again, this time turning around to face him. She's ready to push him away, physically if she must. But she reels backward; he's so close now. He's taken maybe five steps since she lost sight of him, and if she reaches out she can almost touch him. But she doesn't want to touch him. She wants to cross her arms and shield herself from that patented smirk of his.
And so she does.
He grins at her, a cocky, lopsided grin that sends a shiver down her spine. He knows he's winning this battle. But he won't look at her; he wants to make her ache for him. So he looks up at the sky, marveling at the continuous fall of rain. He's soaked now – shivering, too – and she's mercilessly dry. He wants to smother her, suffocate her, make her as wet as he is right now. He just wants her.
"Don't push me away, Peyt," he says easily, his tone belying his pain. He wants her back, wants her in his arms, but he's not willing to beg.
"Why not?" she asks defiantly, taking a step forward. She's angry still, but she's moving closer to him (she's not really sure why), and he can't deny the thrill that her proximity gives him.
"God, you're hot," he murmurs under his breath, not caring if she hears his involuntary admission. She's at her hottest when she's pissed off, and right now she's definitely PMS (Peyton Marie Sawyer, despite the fact that her middle name is Elizabeth). Her curls are tinged with drops of moisture, her emerald eyes are blazing with fury and lust – yes, uncharacteristic lust – and her fingers are gripping her sides so tightly that her knuckles are white. She's definitely annoyed. And horny.
And damn does she look beautiful.
"Don't you dare," she warns, but the words are softer than she expects. She can't protest as much as she wants to, and he doesn't hesitate to take advantage of that. He holds her gaze, expecting her to look away, if only to avoid the pain of another disappointment.
But she doesn't look away.
"Peyton…" He's uncertain now, wondering what that hard glint in her eyes means. (He thinks it's lust, but he knows better than to assume anything with her).
"Get over here," she demands. He's almost certain she wants to kiss him, but he doesn't know how to respond to that. She doesn't sound playful or sad or angry or any of the emotions he's come to expect from her.
She just sounds tired.
He doesn't want to have his way with her when she's so exhausted; as much as he likes to pretend he's just a crass jerk, he's a bit of a gentleman, too. But he won't refuse her this. They've had so many heated, passionate moments, but it's never quite right. He finds himself always hoping that the next time will be different, that this rendezvous in a random hotel room will be "making love," that this time in Brooke's upstairs bedroom won't be just a quick fuck. He's always disappointed, but he never shows it, and he just keeps trying, knocking down all her walls while faking nonchalance. He can't let her know that he actually cares about her.
So he takes those few last steps towards her and crushes his lips to hers, eliciting a moan from her eager throat.
She wants to push him backwards, wants to tell him that he misread her desire, wants to prove that he doesn't have any power over her. But she's shaking with need, and so she only twines her arms around his neck and lets her body mold to his defined shape.
She's just so angry, he marvels. He doesn't think he's ever seen her so passionate, and he can't wait any longer. He has to have her now. He takes a step backwards, pulling her with him, exposing them both to the furious rain. He wants her to feel the bite of the storm.
It's fitting, he thinks, this rain, and she doesn't protest at the sudden touch of moisture curling in her hair. She shakes her head from side to side, relishing the way the fabric clings to his body, and grinds her hips into his. He lets out a strangled gasp; he is defenseless.
They break apart for a moment, and she begins to walk backwards, up the stairs again, cocking her head to one side. There's a devilish glint in those eyes, and he shudders. He knows this won't result in anything good.
"Make love to me," she breathes, suddenly brazen and unafraid. He only nods.
But what happens next is not love. Far from it, in fact. She thinks this may very well be the angriest fuck they've ever had. But it's what she wants, she decides. Love has nothing to do with them.
He wrenches her body to his, taking a few steps forward, and slams her front door behind him. He tugs her plaid shirt off her shoulders with a feral growl and pauses to drink in the sight of her. She's wearing only a thin tank top, and her nipples are round and hard through the damp fabric, evidence of her growing arousal. He suppresses a moan and wraps her legs around him without so much as a glance at her trembling bottom lip.
He really doesn't care if she's nervous.
She doesn't protest. Instead, she locks her ankles against his back and grunts, "Upstairs." It's not ladylike, not elaborate. It's rough. And so very Peyton.
He nods, ascending the stairs while she tears at the shirt covering his body. Her lips leave his for a moment as she pulls the fabric over his head and runs her hands across the planes of his chest, marveling at the defined lines and crevices. He's so hot, and she wants him. Now.
"Take me," she murmurs, this in his ear as she nibbles on the delicate skin below the lobe, and he shivers.
He pauses right outside her bedroom, hoisting her up against the wall. He doesn't have the time – or the patience, really – to take off her shirt, so he merely unbuttons her jeans and drags them down her hips. His eyes linger on the length of her legs, and she smiles unconsciously. She doesn't want to enjoy his appreciative gaze, but she can't help herself.
He doesn't say anything, and neither does she; he gasps and she moans. She tugs on his basketball shorts, pulling them down and off his body. He crushes his lips to hers angrily. He wants to make her feel, wants to make her see that no one else could ever do this to her. He wants to make her his.
"Bedroom," she manages to grit out, legs shaking with desire, eyes clouded. He nods and fairly bursts through the door, letting her fall backward on the bed with him hovering over her. He doesn't wait for her to prompt him.
He's tugged off her underwear before she's fully cognizant of what is happening. She's aware that maybe he's taking advantage of her. She gulps at her sudden nakedness, but suppresses the more prudish side of her (the more overwhelming side of her) and frees him of his boxers with one quick flick of her wrist.
And suddenly she wants to cry. He's so big and this is so scary and it's not like they haven't done this before but this just feels so different, so much angrier…but he doesn't wait to see if she's okay. He merely positions himself at her entrance and whispers, "I'm going to fuck you long and hard, Peyton."
His voice is raw fire, and she gulps. She wants to protest. But before she can voice her descent, he plunges deep inside her.
She lets out a strangled, broken cry at the feeling of him. She's not ready for this, and she just wants him out, away, off. Gone. But he's thrusting into her again, and it's so painful that she bites her lip, holding back the agony that threatens to consume her.
She's stronger than this, right? Maybe she should enjoy this. Because he's so passionate and this is so exhilarating and she's not entirely sure she wants him to stop.
But he's not as careful as he usually is, and that scares her. He penetrates her with a single-minded determination, pushing past her defenses and their mutual pain and his own shortcomings. He thinks he's hurting her, and he almost regrets this familiar ending to their bittersweet story. But he doesn't. Because she's his and he needs her to know that. And he needs to feel something more than the numbness his life usually inspires.
"Mine," he suddenly grunts out, only to reassure himself. He rips her tank top down the middle and throws it to the side of the bed in a fluid movement that leaves her breathless. He's still inside her, and he moves deeper just for a moment.
She cries out.
He lowers his mouth to one breast and swirls his tongue around the nipple, listening to her groans and gasps, the noises she tries not to emit. She doesn't want to be aroused, doesn't want to almost enjoy the savagery of him inside her. But she's a glutton for punishment, and so she rolls her hips and allows him even more access.
After that, after her acceptance of his penetration, he takes full control. And then there are only stars, only a haze of white, cloudy and unforgiving. She's at the edge several times, as is he, but he pulls her back, pulls himself back. Because he's not sure either of them deserves gratification from this cruelest of acts.
They come together when they come at last.
The rain is still pounding on her thin windows when he rolls off of her. She coughs, because she can finally breathe without him on top of her. Without him inside her.
And yet…she almost misses him there.
The silence between them is angry, unsatisfied. Sure, it was hot, raunchy sex. But they're both beginning to realize that that isn't enough anymore.
She rolls over so he's facing her back, because she doesn't think she can stand the sight of his face right now. He's so devastatingly beautiful. It's all the worse because he isn't really hers, and he never has been.
She feels sore, spongy, as if her body isn't hers. She feels violated. Used. Broken. She resents what has just happened. But she doesn't hate him for it; he just did what any teenage boy in his right mind would do in the situation. No, she doesn't hate him for it.
She hates herself.
"Peyton," he whispers, reaching out a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, to trace soothing circles on her shoulder, to wipe the sole tear from her eye. Anything. But he lets his hand fall. He just can't do it today. He can't pretend that everything will be all right. He knows it won't.
"Don't," she mutters, a catch lingering in the rough tones of her voice. He nods to himself, lost in pain and regret, and she brings her knees to her chest on top of the familiar, stained covers. This moment feels like repetition. She's tried to protect herself from him for as long as she can remember.
"This is wrong," she murmurs at last, tears leaking from her normally vibrant eyes.
He shakes his head vehemently, though he knows she can't see. He has no idea what to say to her. He has taken everything from her, taken her spirit and her fire and the passion that makes her who she is. He owes her nothing. He can't ask her to be his when he is incapable of being hers.
She doesn't know what he's thinking. She never knows. And so she disregards the possibilities. She moves her head from side to side nervously, gnawing on her bottom lip. Debating, hoping. "We're over," she finally voices. The words are soft, sincere. Almost devoid of emotion.
He doesn't bother protesting. They've been over since the moment she stood on that porch while he stood in the rain. The distance between them was too great then, and it still is now. He knows they can't fix it.
They're pulled apart by their family lives. They're pushed together by their popularity. They contradict each other. They're too alike. They combust when together. They cower when forced apart.
They're an anomaly.
There are so many reasons why they cannot survive. He wishes they could, if only because she is so alive. And most days, he feels less than alive. He feels like a shadow of himself. It is only with her that he breathes, breaks, remembers.
Lives.
But he knows he can't make her happy, even if he tries. (And he doesn't want to try). So he lets her go, as he always does. He realizes he doesn't care whether she comes back this time.
"Okay," he shrugs.
She cries at his easy acceptance.
fin