I got two requests for this song, so this is for the Anon and Misstresseoftheblack.
It's been a long day. Too long. Too many times she thought of him, too many times she wanted to touch him, too many times she caught herself just looking at him – all blue eyes and a wide smile, idealism and charm, brilliant mind and a healing heart. Too many minutes apart; too many minutes of hiding in plain sight; too many minutes of wanting him and hating herself for it. It's too much; it's too exhausting. The yearning that paralyzes her; that defines her mood, that clouds her mind and breaks her heart; all at the same time. The pretending, that there is a future for them, that they're not spiraling down to their death; the pretending and the suffocating fear that one day she'll wake up and believe it, that she'll wake up and think that they're real. It's too much. It's overwhelming.
As she drags her feet along the flush carpet that muffles the clink of her heels, after all hotels are built for secrecy, for disappearing in dreams; clutching the keycard in her hand; she fantasizes of the hot shower she'll have, the water that burns the sins away; the warm bed, the soft covers to disappear under. She fantasizes of feeling new. Clean. Of shedding her own skin – it smells like him; it feels like a heavy burden of undreamt dreams and broken promises. The green light flashes and she hears the click; she leans on the door, pushing in.
"What are you doing here?" She's standing in the doorway, unable to move, unable to come in, her feet suddenly too heavy. The room is illuminated by candles, the flames dancing, the shadows moving across the walls, like unholy ghosts. He's sitting on the floor, food and wine arranged on a small blanket. A picnic in a bubble. Just them.
He smiles, before he speaks; his eyes pleading, "Have a date with me, Livvy."
"Fitz…" She should say no, she should send him out, send him on his way; this – it's too perfect. It's too easy to pretend it's real; too easy to pretend he is. She should build up her fences and hide behind her walls; pull off the routine practiced to perfection; she should push him, and push until he leaves – protect herself; save him – her deity. But she's too tired, too weak; she spent the whole day missing him; whole day wanting him; her whole life needing him. So she steps in and closes the door behind her as she kicks off her heels. She walks over to him and lays a soft kiss on his lips as she kneels. He pulls her in, between his legs; her back against his chest. She feels his heartbeat; a sigh of relief; a breath he's been holding. He inhales her: her scent, her presence, her being – his whole life waiting, inhaling, remembering. He kisses her neck, and whispers in her ear; his breath a warm tickle against her skin – "So tell me about your day."
It's so simple. So tempting. A perfect impossibility. But for a moment, they pretend.
They pretend she's not a mistress and he's not running for president; they pretend the hotel room is more than that; it's a home – for them. Their presence is all it takes; their presence builds a home for them.
He hands her a glass of wine and his hand lingers for a moment; because they have time, time to touch, to linger, to pretend. To draw lines against skin, and to kiss softly with their lips barely touching, to whisper little nothings.
"So what's your favorite memory from high school?" He asks as he nuzzles his head into the crook of her neck; tightening his arms around her.
"Why high school?" She turns around and smiles, kissing him quickly, before she brushes her knuckles against his cheek.
"It's a date thing. We're on a date. And on a date you ask about things like that. The little things, inconsequential memories; small pieces, specs of life; because there's time, time to find the rest of it out; time to discover the hopes and the dreams, the scars that are buried deep. So on a date, you start off with the little things."
She just looks at him; her throat tightening. They'll never get to share the big things. They'll never get to share the hopes, to tell the dreams – because they know what they are, and they bury them deep. They'll never get to share the burdens, to heal the scars. They'll never get to the big things. Because this, this is ending; crashing, really. They'll never get to have the big things. So, she closes her eyes and gives him this.
"It was when we won the championship. Swimming. I was the captain of the swim team. And I remember the last lap. When I'd come up, there'd be noise, chaos; but then it would be so perfectly quiet in the water – just the sound of my body, moving. I've never felt more at peace than then. I just-" But suddenly she feels nauseous and she's getting up, running towards the bathroom. She stumbles on her knees, hugging the toilet bowl tightly. She can feel her stomach muscles clench, the acid traveling up, until it's burning her mouth, she's coughing it out; her lungs on fire, the bitter aftertaste eating away at her palate. She hears his footsteps on the tiles, but she doesn't look up. She just leans her head on her forearm, and closes her eyes. And again, the clenching of the stomach and the flame that travels up.
Karma. Karma is all she can think. She's sleeping with him, and that's why she got food poisoning. She's sleeping with him; she's screwing him in hotels, in restaurant bathrooms, in unmarked cars. She's whispering his name, like a prayer – a name that's not hers to whisper. She's watching, waiting, for a man that's not hers to have. Karma. And she collapses on the cool floor, the bitterness no longer burning her throat, it's burning her soul instead.
He sits down, his back against the cool wall, his legs stretched out and he pulls her head on his lap. "Are you-" He can't say it; he can't even think it. It's a slippery slope from thinking to dreaming, to believing – to wanting. And he can't want this. He can't want their baby. He can't. So he doesn't finish the sentence; it just hangs in the air, filling the space between them; the undreamt dreams, the pretending torched to the ground by a simple impossibility.
"No."But the truth is, even if she was; she wouldn't tell him. And that, that realization lets her build her walls up slowly. Their home, crumbling. She spends the whole night vomiting; spitting up her soul; and he holds her hand through it; he holds her hair and he massages her back. He follows her to the hell and back; but even with him – it's still a tortuous ordeal. The moon sets and the darkness wanes, the sun rising at too quick a pace.
"You have to go." She says as she gets up, laying her palms flat against the polished sink.
"I'm staying."
"Don't be silly." Because him, taking care of her – it's just that, it's silly; it's pretend.
"I'll come up for lunch."
"Don't. I'll be fine." She won't. She can feel her stomach clenching again; but she defies her instincts, for him – to save him.
He leaves.
She crumbles to the floor again, crawls into a ball.
He's gone. The candles burnt out. The hotel room, it no longer feels like home – it feels like prison. A prison of broken reflections.