When Violet wakes up the next morning, he's already watching her. She mumbles awake, face in her pillow, and he tucks back a thick lock of hair to find her eye open.
"Morning," he smiles sleepily, twisting an arm around her back to tip her closer.
It smells like sex and sweat inside her room, and for a blissful moment, she doesn't know why. She doesn't understand him being there either, with her in bed, but just brushes it off as a dream and lets herself take stock of his fingers drawing designs up her spine. His eyes are soft for once, looking more like soil than obsidian, and she considers reaching up to trace his eyelashes, but curls her fingers around the corner of the pillow instead.
She had dreams like this often, where she'd just wake up or turn into a room and he'd be there. But never before had she remembered him so well. He looked perfect, right down to the shape of his teeth peeking out from behind bowed lips.
This time she doesn't stifle the urge to touch him, plucks drowsily at the chapped flesh and lets her fingertips skitter over his stubble.
"I didn't know you had to shave," she exhales curiously, and it sounds like a smile. He keeps still for her timid exploration. Brushing her knuckles up the cut of his cheek, she tacks on an absent comment about how he feels like sandpaper which evokes a low chuckle from Tate, who in turn catches her wrist and presses his lips to the center of her palm.
"How's your head?" His voice is strangely rough, like he's been crying, but in dreams like this - the good ones - there were never tears, perhaps the only time they were spared from such quiet torment.
Considering his question, rolling her eyes like she might look back into her own skull and deduce what's wrong, her fingers walk down his throat and shoulder.
"Mm, fuzzy," she decides after a moment, squinting each eye in turn, shying away from the glare pouring in her windows. Through each view, she notes his expression, one of apprehension veiled by a smile, and wonders why this dream feels different. But rather than dissect the niggling feeling, she snuggles up into her ghost boy's chest and presses a kiss to his adam's apple.
Tate draws the blankets up over her shoulders and sifts through her hair with long fingers. It's nice.
"Looks like rain, little love," he hums, chin propped against her crown, peering up through her sheer curtains at the sky; the sun's been smothered by clouds that seem to grow darker with every passing minute. She makes a noise that she's heard him, but doesn't have words right now to respond, doesn't need them. Not here.
In her dreams of Tate there are no 'I'm Sorry's or even any 'I Love You's. It's just him and her spending time together without the weight of their past, or his. They read books and have picnics and love on each other, but they don't have words.
That's when the spell breaks, when she remembers. All at once, while she's leaning into the rasp of his jaw against her cheekbone and he's mapping out the shell of her ear, the events of the previous night wash over her in freezing clarity.
A still of Tate, mouth open and eyes closed, panting over her shoulder flashes through her consciousness.
No. No no no no.
She chokes in a gasp and stiffens in his arms, doe eyes wide with the realization of what they'd done, but before she can pull out of his embrace, he's gripping her shoulders and trapping her with him in the bed.
"Don't. Please, Violet, don't." His eyes read terrified and for a beat all she can do is gape at him, fighting against the pounding headache that's just made itself known before she's overwhelmed by her own fear.
She'd promised herself that this would never happen again. That she would never fold into his arms again, that she wouldn't let herself re-break their hearts again. Because despite the way his tangible love soothes her soul, the fact still remains that he's dead and she's not. He'll never be eighteen. He'll never meet her at the bar for a beer or be her date to a wedding. She'll never get to introduce him to her friends and he'll never take her on a date. A night of coming together won't change all that.
"Tate, let me go," she mouths, her voice little more than a silent grimace, but he doesn't, only holds her more firmly and scrambles for words.
But nothing will make her stay, and he submits to this learned truth after a few more whimpers of his name that grow in volume and urgency.
"Alright, fne," he snaps, releasing her, pushing at her shoulders with his palms when she doesn't clamber out of bed the second he unshackles her. He reels in his fresh anguish and smothers it with irritation. "Go."
She's taken back by his shift in composure, having expected hot tears rather than a sharp tongue. His cold expression cuts her deep, has her feeling crushed by the weight of her guilt for hurting him again.
"I'm..." She opens her mouth to finish his favorite phrase, has a vicious urge to crawl back to him and burrow under his skin, but concludes that the damage is done and slips out of bed without feeding him another futile word.
She feels his eyes on her as she quickly walks over to a crumpled towel on the floor and wraps herself up to save him from the sight of her without clothes. It's unbearable.
Her guilt is crippling. Her bones are made of lead. She thinks she might sink into the floorboards before she makes it across the rest of her bedroom and out the door. Maybe the house should just swallow her up now. She deserves it. And with the way things are going, with how fucking weak she's been lately, it's really only a matter of time anyway.
He won't follow. She knows that much. She'll be able to shower in peace, to wash away the ghosts of his fingers without wondering if he's watching. And when she comes back to her room he'll be gone. The bed will be made and the window will be open, but he won't be reading in her chair or flipping through her iPod. She'll be alone.
She falters at the closed door with one hand clutching the handle. Holding her towel up, she bows her forehead against the smooth wood and feels tears drop down onto her bare feet.
"Dammit, Tate," she breathes out hopelessly, her eyes fisted shut so tight it feels like there are needles in her temples. But she doesn't mind. She wants to hurt. She deserves to.
He's silent behind her. It makes her feel foolish. She can imagine him sitting up in her bed, the sheets pooled at his waist and his hair a mess; her broken boy.
"I fucked up. I'm sorry." Her apology is tiny.
The staggered intake of breath is unmistakable and now she can imagine his tears too. Will she ever stop hurting him?
Before either of them break down into debilitating sobs, Violet steps back from the door then and wretches it open. It takes what little strength she's got left to keep from stealing one last glance of her Tate, but she manages and, not daring to even breathe lest she give in, Violet darts out into the hallway and towards the bathroom.
Throwing closed the door to spare her any final glimpse of him, she sheds her towel and has just enough time to drop down onto her knees and flip open the toilet lid before she's hunched over retching up bile.
What haunts her worse than having him between her legs last night is the fact that, even now, in the aftermath, she wants for him so badly. For just the feel of him under her hands, or even of just his breath warm against her cheek.
It's always like this afterwards, like he's dipped both hands inside her rib cage and pried it wide open, leaving an expansive gape she's hopeless to fill again. The pain fades with time though, from an unbearable whinging to a dull ache that never really disappears.
Panting into the bowl between fits, Violet vows that she will swear off drugs and alcohol, at least until her birthday next month. It's when she's under the influence that she's able to forget, but it's also then that she slips up and finds him.
The shower water heats up fast and as soon as she dares, she steps under the scalding spray. It eats at her scalp and sears down her spine, but she's happy for the burn. It takes her mind off the fact that he'd saved her life under this spray years ago. That his love had consumed her in a different way once. That he wasn't her damnation only.
A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for reading. Had another off day and put it into this. Just FYI, there may never be resolution in this fic. I just really like writing the soft sadness of this Violate. Next chapter will be at her birthday party. xx