Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. Song lyrics - not mine, either.
A/N: I'm trying this micro approach to the narrative, where most of the story happens in the characters' heads, and the plot moves slowly and context is everything, but then the story takes a huge leap forward because something of greater importance happens. I encountered this approach a couple of times and ... absolutely no idea if it works with this particular story, but it was fun to try. Maybe the end seems a little vague, as I tend to leave it on many occasions. I'd be glad to hear a word of what you thought:) Also, thanks to those who requested this sequel :)
... Found myself at your door,
Just like all those times before,
I'm not sure how I got there,
All roads they lead me here...
He throws the cigarette butt to the side and, with a last look towards the still lit window, leaves his hiding place at the corner of the opposite building. If he had any real criminal mind tendencies, he could make an excellent creep, he thinks. However, his criminal tendencies have gone as far as stealing garden gnomes. Oh well.
He walks the way back to his apartment absently. His mind roams the streets as his feet take lazy steps, kicking abandoned pieces of trash here and there. One step after the other, leading him away from her place. It feels strangely relieving.
Back at his apartment, he changes into a pair of sweats and tee, takes a beer out of the fridge and opens his laptop. He's gonna type all night if inspiration strikes, so he can spend the next day in bed. An hour and a half later, he closes the laptop and lets out a dissatisfied sigh. Words don't come, and all scenarios seem way too dumb to be given a chance.
I imagine you are home,
In your room, all alone,
And you open your eyes into mine,
And everything feels better.
He's lying in his bed, slowly drifting off to sleep after staring at a particular crack in his ceiling for a ridiculous amount of time, when he feels rather than hears his mobile beep. He ignores the irritating buzz and turns to the side, dragging the bed cover up over his head. He falls asleep with a determination to not think about what she has to say to him. Because that's her. Calling. Pulling. Because she's always pulling. The few friends he has made in New York won't call him in the dead of night. He falls asleep, images of slender fingers dialing a number then running across his face dissolving in his head. He falls asleep.
Larson's cafe, they don't turn off the coffee maker until four. Let's meet up right now.
Let's not.
Why do your stories never end happily?
He sighs, rubbing his eyes with point and middle finger.
They do. Sometimes.
Because ever afters are such a boast.
He can see her rolling her eyes and lets out an involuntary smirk.
Indeed.
I like that.
His brows fly up.
You would.
No, I mean it. You have the guts to write about mess. No Pixie Hollow stuff, just rough, honest material. Pure imperfection. Few authors do.
Great. How about we get on to why you're calling?
Do you feel drawn to your editor?
What?.
She's pretty.
Jeez. Rory, it's two in the morning.
You must've noticed.
I'm hanging up now.
Yeah, maybe it's better if you do. Bye, Jess.
He pauses for a moment, words fighting behind his teeth. Before he can form a reply, she's hung up. That's good, because otherwise he would agree to meet up at Larson's. Just like all those countless times before. And look at where all those times got them.
Jess opens his eyes. He's awake.
He can travel in time, he thinks. His mind is always shuffling between memories and reality these days.
Won't you congratulate me?
I make it he finally proposed.
I just graduated, silly.
Then do accept my congrats, Rory.
He half mocks it. Ivy League. Chilton. Yale. He's always despised this kind of snobbery. The other half of him is proud of her though. That's why he came.
No, he corrects himself. He came, expecting the end of this fragile friendship they have eased themselves into. Because it's about to end the moment she says yes.
I couldn't say yes, she says then and the air freezes.
She can hear him catch a breath.
He stood there and it was all or nothing and I just couldn't say yes.
Jess doesn't make a sound. It's okay because, right now, silence is louder.
Won't you ask me why? she asks, raising her eyebrows.
Jess wants to break their eye-lock, wants to turn his back to her and go somewhere, anywhere else. Everywhere she's not. He can't though. There's a glitter in her eyes and he just stares, waiting for her reply. Because she wouldn't have shot out the question if she wasn't ready to deliver the answer herself.
I couldn't imagine you not being around.
She stands before him, clad in her toga, cap and diploma in hand. Ready for a snapshot.
Are you gonna kiss me?
He remembers what she used to taste like, four years ago. Narcotic. Everything turns and turns and fades, until there's only her and the welcoming response of her mouth. And lips. And tilted head. Her throat vibrating with the him of unconcealed pleasure. Then, some time later (days? weeks? - it all dissolves when it came to those times) come parts of her he can't remember because he never got to know before. And it numbs his brain, dulling any pain there could be. Narcotic.
God, he's doing this again, isn't he? Reminiscing. Jeez.
He steps barefoot into his kitchen, intending to boil some water for tea. He could use a cup of tea, right? That's what normality should feel like. Waking up and making tea. Coffee. Love. Whatever.
He pours the hot water over the tea-bag and watches as it starts to steam and color. He feels reality slowly seep back through the walls of his apartment and drinks and melts back into his own form. He's not in that room right now, the one they shared that first and second night and many nights after. He's in his shabby apartment, patting the kitchen tiles barefoot. That's where he is.
Do you feel like ending this?
Ending what?
The wonder. I feel like we're at the final credits of a movie and we never even slept together.
He coughs, spilling some of his tea out of the styrofoam cup.
What?.
Don't tell me you never thought about this.
He gains some of his attitude back.
I have. Alone in my bed.
You're gross.
I'm honest, he challenges. The blush that creeps up her cheeks is precious.
Still gross.
Still needy.
So?
He arches an eyebrow, not sure where she's getting with this.
So... what? he asks, as uninterestedly as he can manage.
So, are you just gonna stand there while I'm taking my shirt off?
Wha... Holy shit.
She can't hold still. He prays that she'll hold still but she won't. She's all over him. Touching. Exploring. He can't think straight when she's like this. If she could just hold still and let him kiss his way over her skin. He needs to. It's not a matter of choice really. But if he could choose, he would like her hands still instead of roaming his chest. Grazing his back. Marking him. Deep.
Deeper.
Fuck patience, fuck self-control.
Fuck.
Fuck censorship, too.
It's like walking on a cold winter night, snow screeching under his feet, and all he can hear is pure silence, and then having a brass band playing Jingle Bells an inch from his ear. God, suddenly less is not enough. He's not okay with any less anymore.
Buzz.
Again.
Buzzzz.
The doorbell. Right.
He opens the door, taking a step back as she storms in, passing him by.
You wrote me? she asks without turning to look at him. There's accusation soaking through her tone, he can read it running through her whole body.
He watches her curiously, drinking from his tea as she throws her purse on the sofa and turns around furiously.
You tell me you cut things off and then you write me down in your story?
You gonna have some tea? he asks calmly, seemingly unimpressed by her spectacular entrance. Coffee's out, he adds, as if that's the explanation she's come to seek.
I can't believe it. That's low, even for you, she shakes her head.
She pauses and breathes and looks at him, and some of the determination to be mad at him seems to melt in her eyes.
I called you.
I know.
You didn't pick up.
Accusation. Again. Time after time, he's always to blame about something, always a disappointment.
Yeah.
She crosses her arms before her chest.
Any particular reason? she asks.
Besides you calling in the dead of night?
I spent the night pacing the kitchen. I ate about two pounds of ice-cream.
And I'm still patiently waiting for your point.
She pauses, taking in his lazy posture, the trademark physical comfort he likes to hide his insecurity behind. Then sighs, tired. She needs sleep.
I came here thinking maybe we could end up having a decent conversation. I don't know what I thought.
Ah, he shakes his head knowingly. But you didn't come here to talk, he says from his place by the counter. You came here to make sure that it was really you. That it wasn't someone else I wrote about.
Trying to make me jealous? Real smooth, Jess.
I'm stealth, he says evenly, his eyes boring into hers.
Why didn't you pick up? she insists.
He can tell she came to search for her answers. She just can't bring herself to ask the right questions.
Why did you come? he challenges.
Why did you write this? she asks and he narrows his eyes at the desperation in her voice.
Why did you come here, Rory?
She stops and it looks like she's about to start yelling at him, but then her face falls down and her lower lip starts to tremble.
You're an ass, she whispers and takes something out of her purse to leave on the table before she walks out.
He stands rooted to the spot as he watches her leave. He didn't expect her to break. He expected her to make a scene. Yell. Slap. Yeah, his cheek is still hot with the expectation for that slap. It never comes though. He's been expecting her to start hating him, but it never happens. For years.
She's already left when he moves to look at the thin piece of plastic she left on the table. The two lines sting his eyes. He drops his cup, the sound of broken porcelain barely registering on his ears as he runs down the stairs to catch up with her.
And all the times I let you in,
Just for you to go again,
Disappear when you come back,
Everything is better.
