A/N
Remember, fanfiction is free ... you don't need to continue reading if you're not enjoying the journey.
As always, thanks to my girls; Jemster23 for pre-reading and the girls on Facebook for making me laugh.
I own nothing. Nada. Zilch.
—-
Turning back slowly, I watch him silently for a moment.
His eyes are still closed, his body relaxed, lying on his back facing the ceiling; his hair is everywhere, long legs straight and on full display.
He really is perfect -aesthetically.
Making my way back into the room, I sit on the floor in front of the sofa, bringing my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. Keeping my distance. Chin on my knees, I look at him, just as his head lolls to face me.
"Are you going to tell me what tonight was about?" I purposely keep my voice calm and quiet, the air cracking around us like little sparks of electricity that linger and threaten.
He clears his throat, looking back up towards the ceiling; heavy arms lifting to grab at his hair. "I can't get you out of my head." His voice is pained, eyes squeezed shut. "It's like ... I hate you ... but I can't. I don't want to want you ... but I do." His arms fall back to his side, a deep huff leaving his mouth.
I don't know what to think. His words hurt, but I also understand —it's exactly how I feel about him.
"Why don't you want to want me?" I ask, eyebrows drawn together.
He thinks hard, rolling his lips into his mouth, brows almost meeting in the middle. He doesn't look at me when he speaks, staring at the wall over my shoulder, his words meant not only for me, but for him too.
"Because you'll leave me eventually … break me more." He sighs, his quiet words lingering, shaking his head back and forth, still refusing to look at me. "Little tiny pieces that people take and take. But never keep." Closing his eyes, his words linger. "You'll leave me. I'm too much."
I don't know what to say, what to make of what he's telling me. "How do you know that?"
"Because they always do." His voice is barely a whisper, but I hear his words as though he shouted them. "If they can't break me, they throw me away ... and then I break anyway."
I get that too. Feeling that way, it's one of my deepest insecurities. "Not everyone will leave you, Edward."
I'm such a fucking hypocrite.
"You're taking advantage," he smirks after a beat of silence, his eyes meeting mine briefly. Lifting his arm into the air, he waves his hand back and forth, studying the way it limply falls from side to side. I watch. "Touché."
I smile a little, because yeah, I am. He's being forthcoming and I'm making the most of it.
"I'll stop if you go to sleep."
His head falls to the side again, eyes narrowed playfully in my direction. "You're not the boss of me."
I laugh. I don't think he's ever made me laugh before. "Oh, I know. No one is the boss of Edward Cullen."
"Correct," he nods, smiling. It's a genuine smile and it takes my breath away. "Those pills are shit," he groans, adjusting himself on the sofa, huffing like a child.
"You won't be saying that in the morning." I smirk.
"I won't remember taking them in the morning."
"That's probably true." Part of me is sad he may not remember this moment tomorrow. We're on borrowed time -it's a dream. We'll wake up and it will be as though this conversation never happened. I'm worried about that. We can't keep going on like this.
"I lied." Titling my head, I question him silently. "I'll remember it. I always do, sadly."
His eyes start to drift closed, but he fights it, which makes my smile reappear. I watch as his chest rises and falls steadily, his skin clammy, warm -flushed. His aggression, the dilated pupils, his high body temperature and the sudden exhaustion —it's all glaring signs of cocaine use. The thought lies heavy in my chest, suffocating me.
I don't hold back this time; reaching forward, I sweep his hair back from his forehead, the skin under my fingers too warm. He smiles softly, allowing me this moment of affection.
"You're too good," he whispers, his eyes remaining closed.
I shake my head, arguing. "I'm not."
His head nods exuberantly. "You are. I mean, you're a bitch too." He laughs under his breath, I roll my eyes. "But you're a good person, deep down, and I'll ... ruin you."
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the edge of the edge of the sofa. "Not if you stop playing games."
His eyes open, meeting mine —mostly green now. "We both play games."
I nod. True. "What if we both stop?"
"I can't stop." He sighs, tucking his face into the arm of the sofa. "If I stop, I can't push you away anymore." His voice is muffled by leather. I hear him loud and clear.
"Why do you think you need to push me away?"
For a while, he's so quiet I think he's asleep; until he lifts my wrist and places it back on his hair. "If I push you away first, I don't get hurt," he answers, his voice slow, tired.
"You don't?" I question, scratching his scalp with my fingernails.
"I didn't," he elaborates quietly. "Until you ..."
And then his body relaxes fully and I know he's finally asleep.
I sit, my hand continuing to stroke his hair as I watch him closely. My legs ache, the floor uncomfortable, but I can't move, I don't want to. I want him to wake up again and continue talking, but as I start to stretch out my tired limbs, I realise he's out cold, dead to the world.
Standing slowly, I find the discarded comforter and lay it over the back of the sofa, covering his legs. He won't be warm forever, not in this house.
He clenches his jaw, even in sleep; never truly relaxed. Standing in the doorway, I can't seem to look away, to walk away.
He makes me feel. I realise —as I watch him sleep— that though he hurts me, enrages me, makes my heart beat faster … he makes me feel.
Not much makes me feel.
Eventually, my own exhaustion takes over, and I make my way upstairs.
—
A/N
Thank you for reading!
