AN: So sorry this took so long, I had a poll in another fic, and apparently that's not allowed. So I couldn't post anything for a few days, but I got it back about a half an hour ago. I want to thank all of my reviewers; I can't believe how many reviews I keep getting! You're the best ever, another thanks to those who review multiple times. Hope you like it!
The taste of toothpaste burns his mouth as he sits stiff and nervous on the couch, his closed door staring back at him. There's a tense knot in his stomach and he wonders if she ever planned on showing up to begin with. He pulls out the Tic-Tacs from his pocket and pops one in his mouth with another sullen glance at the door. He's grown to like them, or obsess over them really, for a few years now. The tingling sensation, the fresh taste, the smooth curve of the pill-shaped capsule, all remind him of Cameron.
And suddenly there's a knock at the door and his knot's exploded into a million parasites gnawing at his insides. Before he knows it, she's standing inches away with a slightly forced look of excitement splashed on her face. He wants to tell her that she's beautiful, that he's never seen anything more beautiful, and he never will; that she's perfect.
But she underestimates herself and would never take it for what it's worth, even though it's so true that it hurts. The flavor of those words burn his tongue like hot sauce so strong that water alone can't wash away, and he needs to spit them out, but all that comes is a "Hey. You look nice."
The ride to the restaurant is awkward, but he'd expected it to be. He's trying to get rid of the sharp taste left on his tongue of what he wishes he could cry out to her, she's trying to get rid of the savory taste left on her tongue from the time he was last there.
He drives a little too quickly. The air is drizzled with unspoken words that can only be guessed at. Plus he figures he's already crashed and the sole thing different about this time is that she'd crash with him. Only, through his sense of logic that's failed him many times before, at least then she'd notice his corpse spilling itself everywhere. Maybe his blood would fill her mouth, her veins, and pump through her heart, making him impossible to forget.
They sit at a restaurant too fancy for either of them, but neither feels comfortable saying it. The conversation is forced, and he can tell she's uncomfortable. Her face changes; her eyes squint, her lips thin, her nose wrinkles. He knows this look too well; she uses it often, usually on Tuesdays.
The steak is dry and he longs for something to quench his thirst more than the deep red wine can. If he spills it, will he bleed? If he breaks the glass, will he die?
It's too stiff and tight, they can only fake normalcy for so long. He tastes the sickening sweetness of what he wants to tell her but knows he can't. He tastes the now-forbidden seduction of her kisses. He tastes her; his tongue's already been tempted, tainted, with her taste, and now it won't, can't, stop searching for more.
He wonders if she tastes him now, too.
He finally cracks. He wants her to be his; he's imagined them together: old and domestic. But friendship comes first. It has to be clear. Plus he's run out of things to say, his mouth now tastes like mud and the only way to get rid of it is to spit it out.
"Cameron, can we just call this off?"
She looks stunned, and a bit hurt. Her mouth gapes open but she's at a loss for what to say. He watches her tongue quiver, remembers the taste and flavor of that quiver, that tongue. Her jerks himself out of his trance. He wants to grab her face and kiss her until the mud is gone, until her tongue swells, until it's permanently embedded with his taste like his is with hers.
"I mean…not exactly a date. We're just out to dinner. As friends."
A smile spreads across her soft rose lips. "I'd like that," she says softly.
And the mud disappears and the air is lighter. He cracks a joke about how people like them belong in a pub; they aren't this snobbish type. She smiles genuinely, and his eyes, his heart, his tongue all freeze up. But as the mood grows friendlier his mouth gets drier. He's thirsty, and he needs something, someone, more.
It's acceptable to talk about work now. He allows himself to fall into the easy conversation and half listen as his mind wanders. He remembers her taste, so tangy and salty and warm. He remembers her strong strawberry lip gloss smearing across his tongue as hands would roam, and he felt like these were the only times that God noticed him anymore.
She's a great kisser, he can't forget that. The way she made it sincere, the way she made nothing else matter, the way she left her mark, her taste, in his mouth that's impossible to get rid of. Tongue in tongue, she gave it all she had and just the kissing left him breathless. He didn't even need the sex at those points; he got enough pleasure out of her addictive fruity taste. He recalls how real it was, kissing her. How they'd seal the deal and it felt like the only real part of them.
And he's still dying. She's not helping; she's not coming back. He'll be crying and bleeding and thirsty forever. He needs help. He needs her. He feels time melt through his fingers and he's not sure if he even wants to hang on anymore.
They leave without dessert, and Chase pays because he's always been a gentleman and friendship doesn't stop that. Friendship. He remembers eating dark chocolate for the first time, long ago. How something that's supposed to be so sweet and soft is bitter and sharp. Friendship with Cameron. He's still dying. It's not enough.
He drives her to a small ice cream shop, because that's what friends do. They lick each other's cones and walk through parks and fulfill every cliché before the sun falls.
But it's already night, and he's hardly surprised when she orders one scoop of dark chocolate.
They sit on a bench and catch the drips of their ice creams before it's too late. And he buys strawberry, because if he can't have her anymore, then maybe this will satisfy the craving. Only now he's thirstier than before, and the oasis is so close.
But sometimes, it's only a mirage.
They return back to his place, and the drive is a little less awkward, only he still tastes the dry, unspoken feelings threatening to come spilling out at any instant. Strawberry. Water. Blood.
He invites her in and she accepts, because that's what friends do. He offers her a drink, because ice cream's always made him thirsty and maybe it does the same for her. He downs a tall glass of water quickly, except he's thirstier than before. The rusty flavor of blood fills his mouth and trickles slowly down his throat, into his lungs. Friends should notice friends dying, shouldn't they? He'd sure as hell notice if she was, but maybe he's a little past the stinging, abrupt line of friendship that's been drawn cleanly in front of them.
Maybe they'll watch TV, because friends do that. Or they could talk or stroll or hold each other for the pure element of companionship, of need. Friends do that, too. Sometimes friends even get married and never leave each other. But sometimes friends fall apart, because they were never strong enough to begin with and their intentions were always impure.
Can't a friend save a friend? He's dying. Soon. It's near, he can taste it; it's blood and strawberries and dark chocolate running through his fingers leaving a dark, bitter trail behind.
AN: Love it or hate it, let me know. Don't ruin your reputation as the best reviewers ever! Last chapter coming soon!