Title: The Last Beautiful Girl
Author: Kaitlyn
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Burning lungs, dirty dancing, nightswimming and second chances...Loud music, tainted smoke, fiery kisses and racing hearts. Everyone remembers what it was like to be 18. Established R/R and eventual C/M.
Thanks a lot to everyone who's stuck with the story thus far. I'm only anticipating 4 more chapters, but this story has kind of written itself along the way with very little consideration for my initial plans. So, who knows? I am foreseeing one more conflict, but those of you who have read any of my previous stories should know that I like happy endings. :-)
Also, the same person who mentioned being "disgusted" at the Ross of Chapter 12 reviewed again to comment that Monica was the only one even approaching correct characterization. I would like to respond to this by asking that person to please read all previous prefaces to the chapters. I have explained an innumerous number of times that this story is not MEANT to be in character. If reading out-of-character portrayals isn't your thing, then I would have to wonder how you've made it thus far in my story. No, "Friends" would not ever deal with subject matter as macabre or serious as this. I understand that. No one is forcing anyone to read this story.
You needed me to call you if I ever
couldn't keep it all together-
you'd comfort me...
Ross hummed along to the tune emitting itself from the clock-radio on his bedside table. Sprawled across the bed in front of him were dozens of manila folders and packets of lineless white paper. With pen in hand, he took a deep breath and prepared himself to make possibly one of the most momentous, fated moments of his entire life. "Pick a college, son," they demanded of him. "Pick a future".
Letters headed with "New York University", juxtaposed with others labeled "Cornell" and "Princeton", made his head spin. How, with everything else that was cluttering up his thoughts and mind at the moment, would he ever be able to make a decision as weighty and significant as this one? Turns out, he wouldn't have to make the choice right that moment. Before he knew what was going on, he had looked up and spanned his eyes out across the floor of his room to see Rachel standing at the top of his stairs.
His heart stopped.
"Hi," she whispered, her voice just barely making it across the room to meet his ear. When it did, though, it was the most sweet, angelic resonance he could ever remember hearing. He was so enamored by it that it took him a few delayed moments to even realize that her clothes were soaked through and her hair was damp and wavy, dripping with water.
"Hi," he answered, the word coming out breathy with disbelief. He was frozen on his bed, his left arm holding up his weight and his eyes fixated on her. His whole body went so stiff and tense that he could feel the muscles in his back begin to spasm. He didn't care.
"Can I, um...Can I get you anything?" he asked. He didn't know why. He'd really wanted to ask what was wrong, but he didn't want to assume anything. He probably could have assumed, though. There she was, mute and disheveled at his door, her mouth turned downward and her clothes plastered with rainwater to her skin. In response, she simply shook her head.
"Well then, uh..." His sentence trailed off and he finally gained enough control over his muscles so he could shift his weight and sit upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He braced his arms at his sides. "Then, what are you doing here, Rachel?" he sighed, his voice soft and low and unthreatening, but still edgy with a hint of both frustration and caution. She shrugged her shoulders, darting her eyes up at the ceiling and letting out a small chuckle.
"I don't know," she finally admitted. She looked at him now, shrugging again. "I don't know," she repeated, shaking her head this time.
Her eyes locked with his and he found that he actually had to detach himself from the moment in order to coexist with her inside it. He closed his eyes, knowing perhaps too well just how blue and deep her eyes were and how soft and tan her skin was and how cool her breath but fiery her touch and he could not think of it for much longer or his heart would surely beat it's way from his chest. He could not think of her. He could not think of this. The mere suggestion of the infinite possibilities of this encounter- the insinuation of them into his mind- was too much, and if it were to fall through now, he knew that would be it for them and he could not go forward a second time on a whim or hunch that she might return to him again. This was it, and this particular "it" was far too ineffable and poignant to even allow his mind to rest and ponder it for any real length of time. So, he did not. He forgot she was even in the room, and would respond only by impulse. He had to. It was the only way to maintain his sanity.
"What made you come here?" he asked impetuously. There could be no cognitive tonight- not rationality and no rhyme or rhythm. He would ask simply what came into his mind and, therefore, what he must secretly feel to be important. Still, she shook her head, but did so while drawing herself into the room and sitting on the end of the bed.
"I don't know. I just felt like I had to." That was hair enough, he supposed. After all, tonight was a night of not-knowings. It had to be that way. Too much was riding on it. This was it- he somehow inextricably knew that this was the pinnacle that they'd finally had to arrive at, and if either one of them left there that night with a broken heart or with questions unanswered, there could never be anymore Ross and Rachel. They had to be impulsive and they had to be irrational and they had to not know anything.
"Okay," he submitted, nodding his head slightly. Even from across the bed and with as cold and stiff as she was, he could feel the heat radiating from her body. It sent shivers up his spine. Just because they didn't KNOW for tonight didn't mean they couldn't remember- remember how they'd made each other feel, once upon a time.
"I talked to Monica," she offered, hoping that the revelation would present some insight for both him and herself of how she was feeling and why.
"Is that why you're here? Because she told you to come?" He sounded hurt.
"Oh, Ross, no," she answered instantly. He closed his eyes at the sound of his name passing through her lips. His fingertips felt prickly, like someone was poking them with thin needles, and his stomach dropped with the force of a 200-foot change in altitude. "No one told me to come here," she continued. "I came because I wanted to. I needed to." With the last sentence, she reached the few feet across the navy comforter and found where his hand was resting on the mattress. She covered his with her own. She did not hold it or even stroke it, but simply placed it overtop. She caught him glancing down momentarily to watch the motion and she even thought she saw a weak smile emerge from his lips, but it was gone quickly and he pulled away after only a second. He rose to his feet nervously.
"What's wrong?" she asked innocently. He wanted to hate her for that- for being so goddamn irresistibly sweet and beautiful- but he could not once he realized that her naiveté was not being feigned. Not tonight. Tonight, for once, she was just as confused as him. He ran both hands though his hair.
"Nothing. I just, um..." He began to think but then stopped himself. No, Ross. Don't think. Don't search for the right words. Don't overanalyze. Just say it. Whatever comes out, just trust that it's what you mean.
"You what?" she provoked, her eyebrow furrowed and her face contorted in confusion.
"I can't, Rachel! I can't talk about this for one more goddamn second, okay?! I can't just have you COME IN HERE and start touching my hand and looking and me and making me remember all the things about you that break my heart, alright? I just..." He paused in his pacing and threw his hands up in the air. "I just CAN'T! So, if you just came here because you didn't know what else to do and you're only going to end up leaving and screwing this up forever, then let's cut through all the bullshit and just end it now." Detached. This wasn't Rachel he was talking to, now, and he had to remember that just to get through it and be able to say it. He wasn't yelling at her. He was yelling all of the things he felt for her at no one, or maybe at himself. The room had to be empty. It had to be.
"Ross, I didn't come here to break your heart," she whispered, looking down at her lap.
"Then why did you come here, huh, Rachel? I know, I know. 'You don't know', right? Well, you DO know! You're just too scared to say it and you're too scared to think it and you're scared of what I'LL think or say or do! Well, maybe I'll cry, Rachel, and maybe I'll hate you and maybe we'll be fucked for good but at least we'll be SOMETHING again! At least we'll both FEEL SOMETHING! So say it! Say whatever it is that you came here to say, and don't say you don't know because you DO!"
He was not crying. He was on the brink, in that place that is possibly even more emotionally draining and gut-wrenching than actual tears. He could feel his stomach twist and his words spit and spatter with wavering uncertainty, and his hands shook and his pours vomited up sweat but he felt alive and desirous and...in love. So help him, God, he could feel as powerful and in control as he wanted and make all of the most eloquent of speeches, but he was so still in love with her that couldn't see straight.
"I- I don't know, Ross. I don't know what to-"
"But you DO!" he insisted, pounding one foot against the wooden planks of the floor. A few tears sprang from his eyes, but he paid them no mind and did not even feel them. "You DO know! You knew before you even got here tonight, and maybe you've even changed your mind since then, but just SAY IT!" It was unclear as to whether or not HE knew exactly what it was that she was feeling.
"Okay!" she finally yelled back, her ferocity now matching his. She stood up, standing face-to-face with him and feelings his breath hot in her face and his heart beating through his chest and into hers and his muscles shaking. "Okay! You want to know why I came here tonight? It's because I knew, somehow, that I could never forgive myself if I let you leave this town with things between us still being the way they are now!"
"Okay, that's a good start! Keep going!" he yelled, tears now falling freely to match hers.
"And because I'm not my father and you're not my mother! Because you could have so easily hated me and resented me and pushed me away though all of this but you didn't! Because you came to visit me in the hospital and never left even AFTER I broke your heart! Because you jumped into the reservoir! Because you got jealous over Joey!" She was sobbing now, and while she did pause briefly, she extenuated her last point but poking him lightly in the chest as she said it.
"But most importantly, Ross? Most importantly, because you're Ross and I'm Rachel and that's the only thing that will ever make any sense," she finally finished.
When she was done, she collapsed against his chest. He had somehow subconsciously anticipated it and immediately encircled her with his arms. He buried his face into her hair and inhaled deeply, getting drunk on the familiar yet achingly remote scent. He nodded.
"Good," he whispered, kissing her hair and forehead and cheeks. "That's all you had to say."
This time was different from the previous night they'd spent wrapped up in each other. This time did not feel so cumbersome and rigid. There was a distinct comforting familiarity about his arms and her smell and the way their bodies fit together so perfectly in a limp surrender. They did not sway or even dare to breath deeply. They were both content to stand there silently and allow the enormity of what had so nearly been lost stretch out before them and sink into them. Slowly but surely, he began to reattach himself. The distance he had needed just to get through that seeped back into him and he clung to it, hoping that it would allow him transference of himself more deeply into her.
"Shh," he cooed, rocking her in his arms. "It's over now." Even as he said the words, he smiled, knowing that they were true. Even if they had to start all over again, he knew that the worst had passed. This was someplace to build from. They had come together again, somehow.
In that coming together, though, he saw it necessary for her to come apart and he was happy to aid in her undoing. She needed to rebuild herself after such a violent purging of emotion. He moved his hands down her body and stripped her slowly of her clothes, allowing them to drop heavily into a damp pile on the floor. Once she was disrobed down to her bra and underwear, he took a few selfish moments for himself to remember with his eyes and fingers just how she had been. How she had looked and what she'd made him feel and how alive she'd made him become- the experience of her allowing him to see her this way.
He crawled with her beneath the covers after stripping down to his boxers and drew her near to his body. She wrapped her arms around his middle and he felt her fingers press into the flesh of his back. He couldn't stop running his hands over her body, even when the drowsy, incessant pressure of fatigue began to weigh him down. His hands still continued to move in circular motions along her back and waist, and an occasional hand would find it's way to her stomach just to rub it and press against it.
"I'm so sorry," is all that she would say and "I know" is all that he could respond with.
But it was good and it was real and it was them. Again. Finally.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
End Chapter 15. Continued in Chapter 16.
Author: Kaitlyn
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Burning lungs, dirty dancing, nightswimming and second chances...Loud music, tainted smoke, fiery kisses and racing hearts. Everyone remembers what it was like to be 18. Established R/R and eventual C/M.
Thanks a lot to everyone who's stuck with the story thus far. I'm only anticipating 4 more chapters, but this story has kind of written itself along the way with very little consideration for my initial plans. So, who knows? I am foreseeing one more conflict, but those of you who have read any of my previous stories should know that I like happy endings. :-)
Also, the same person who mentioned being "disgusted" at the Ross of Chapter 12 reviewed again to comment that Monica was the only one even approaching correct characterization. I would like to respond to this by asking that person to please read all previous prefaces to the chapters. I have explained an innumerous number of times that this story is not MEANT to be in character. If reading out-of-character portrayals isn't your thing, then I would have to wonder how you've made it thus far in my story. No, "Friends" would not ever deal with subject matter as macabre or serious as this. I understand that. No one is forcing anyone to read this story.
You needed me to call you if I ever
couldn't keep it all together-
you'd comfort me...
Ross hummed along to the tune emitting itself from the clock-radio on his bedside table. Sprawled across the bed in front of him were dozens of manila folders and packets of lineless white paper. With pen in hand, he took a deep breath and prepared himself to make possibly one of the most momentous, fated moments of his entire life. "Pick a college, son," they demanded of him. "Pick a future".
Letters headed with "New York University", juxtaposed with others labeled "Cornell" and "Princeton", made his head spin. How, with everything else that was cluttering up his thoughts and mind at the moment, would he ever be able to make a decision as weighty and significant as this one? Turns out, he wouldn't have to make the choice right that moment. Before he knew what was going on, he had looked up and spanned his eyes out across the floor of his room to see Rachel standing at the top of his stairs.
His heart stopped.
"Hi," she whispered, her voice just barely making it across the room to meet his ear. When it did, though, it was the most sweet, angelic resonance he could ever remember hearing. He was so enamored by it that it took him a few delayed moments to even realize that her clothes were soaked through and her hair was damp and wavy, dripping with water.
"Hi," he answered, the word coming out breathy with disbelief. He was frozen on his bed, his left arm holding up his weight and his eyes fixated on her. His whole body went so stiff and tense that he could feel the muscles in his back begin to spasm. He didn't care.
"Can I, um...Can I get you anything?" he asked. He didn't know why. He'd really wanted to ask what was wrong, but he didn't want to assume anything. He probably could have assumed, though. There she was, mute and disheveled at his door, her mouth turned downward and her clothes plastered with rainwater to her skin. In response, she simply shook her head.
"Well then, uh..." His sentence trailed off and he finally gained enough control over his muscles so he could shift his weight and sit upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He braced his arms at his sides. "Then, what are you doing here, Rachel?" he sighed, his voice soft and low and unthreatening, but still edgy with a hint of both frustration and caution. She shrugged her shoulders, darting her eyes up at the ceiling and letting out a small chuckle.
"I don't know," she finally admitted. She looked at him now, shrugging again. "I don't know," she repeated, shaking her head this time.
Her eyes locked with his and he found that he actually had to detach himself from the moment in order to coexist with her inside it. He closed his eyes, knowing perhaps too well just how blue and deep her eyes were and how soft and tan her skin was and how cool her breath but fiery her touch and he could not think of it for much longer or his heart would surely beat it's way from his chest. He could not think of her. He could not think of this. The mere suggestion of the infinite possibilities of this encounter- the insinuation of them into his mind- was too much, and if it were to fall through now, he knew that would be it for them and he could not go forward a second time on a whim or hunch that she might return to him again. This was it, and this particular "it" was far too ineffable and poignant to even allow his mind to rest and ponder it for any real length of time. So, he did not. He forgot she was even in the room, and would respond only by impulse. He had to. It was the only way to maintain his sanity.
"What made you come here?" he asked impetuously. There could be no cognitive tonight- not rationality and no rhyme or rhythm. He would ask simply what came into his mind and, therefore, what he must secretly feel to be important. Still, she shook her head, but did so while drawing herself into the room and sitting on the end of the bed.
"I don't know. I just felt like I had to." That was hair enough, he supposed. After all, tonight was a night of not-knowings. It had to be that way. Too much was riding on it. This was it- he somehow inextricably knew that this was the pinnacle that they'd finally had to arrive at, and if either one of them left there that night with a broken heart or with questions unanswered, there could never be anymore Ross and Rachel. They had to be impulsive and they had to be irrational and they had to not know anything.
"Okay," he submitted, nodding his head slightly. Even from across the bed and with as cold and stiff as she was, he could feel the heat radiating from her body. It sent shivers up his spine. Just because they didn't KNOW for tonight didn't mean they couldn't remember- remember how they'd made each other feel, once upon a time.
"I talked to Monica," she offered, hoping that the revelation would present some insight for both him and herself of how she was feeling and why.
"Is that why you're here? Because she told you to come?" He sounded hurt.
"Oh, Ross, no," she answered instantly. He closed his eyes at the sound of his name passing through her lips. His fingertips felt prickly, like someone was poking them with thin needles, and his stomach dropped with the force of a 200-foot change in altitude. "No one told me to come here," she continued. "I came because I wanted to. I needed to." With the last sentence, she reached the few feet across the navy comforter and found where his hand was resting on the mattress. She covered his with her own. She did not hold it or even stroke it, but simply placed it overtop. She caught him glancing down momentarily to watch the motion and she even thought she saw a weak smile emerge from his lips, but it was gone quickly and he pulled away after only a second. He rose to his feet nervously.
"What's wrong?" she asked innocently. He wanted to hate her for that- for being so goddamn irresistibly sweet and beautiful- but he could not once he realized that her naiveté was not being feigned. Not tonight. Tonight, for once, she was just as confused as him. He ran both hands though his hair.
"Nothing. I just, um..." He began to think but then stopped himself. No, Ross. Don't think. Don't search for the right words. Don't overanalyze. Just say it. Whatever comes out, just trust that it's what you mean.
"You what?" she provoked, her eyebrow furrowed and her face contorted in confusion.
"I can't, Rachel! I can't talk about this for one more goddamn second, okay?! I can't just have you COME IN HERE and start touching my hand and looking and me and making me remember all the things about you that break my heart, alright? I just..." He paused in his pacing and threw his hands up in the air. "I just CAN'T! So, if you just came here because you didn't know what else to do and you're only going to end up leaving and screwing this up forever, then let's cut through all the bullshit and just end it now." Detached. This wasn't Rachel he was talking to, now, and he had to remember that just to get through it and be able to say it. He wasn't yelling at her. He was yelling all of the things he felt for her at no one, or maybe at himself. The room had to be empty. It had to be.
"Ross, I didn't come here to break your heart," she whispered, looking down at her lap.
"Then why did you come here, huh, Rachel? I know, I know. 'You don't know', right? Well, you DO know! You're just too scared to say it and you're too scared to think it and you're scared of what I'LL think or say or do! Well, maybe I'll cry, Rachel, and maybe I'll hate you and maybe we'll be fucked for good but at least we'll be SOMETHING again! At least we'll both FEEL SOMETHING! So say it! Say whatever it is that you came here to say, and don't say you don't know because you DO!"
He was not crying. He was on the brink, in that place that is possibly even more emotionally draining and gut-wrenching than actual tears. He could feel his stomach twist and his words spit and spatter with wavering uncertainty, and his hands shook and his pours vomited up sweat but he felt alive and desirous and...in love. So help him, God, he could feel as powerful and in control as he wanted and make all of the most eloquent of speeches, but he was so still in love with her that couldn't see straight.
"I- I don't know, Ross. I don't know what to-"
"But you DO!" he insisted, pounding one foot against the wooden planks of the floor. A few tears sprang from his eyes, but he paid them no mind and did not even feel them. "You DO know! You knew before you even got here tonight, and maybe you've even changed your mind since then, but just SAY IT!" It was unclear as to whether or not HE knew exactly what it was that she was feeling.
"Okay!" she finally yelled back, her ferocity now matching his. She stood up, standing face-to-face with him and feelings his breath hot in her face and his heart beating through his chest and into hers and his muscles shaking. "Okay! You want to know why I came here tonight? It's because I knew, somehow, that I could never forgive myself if I let you leave this town with things between us still being the way they are now!"
"Okay, that's a good start! Keep going!" he yelled, tears now falling freely to match hers.
"And because I'm not my father and you're not my mother! Because you could have so easily hated me and resented me and pushed me away though all of this but you didn't! Because you came to visit me in the hospital and never left even AFTER I broke your heart! Because you jumped into the reservoir! Because you got jealous over Joey!" She was sobbing now, and while she did pause briefly, she extenuated her last point but poking him lightly in the chest as she said it.
"But most importantly, Ross? Most importantly, because you're Ross and I'm Rachel and that's the only thing that will ever make any sense," she finally finished.
When she was done, she collapsed against his chest. He had somehow subconsciously anticipated it and immediately encircled her with his arms. He buried his face into her hair and inhaled deeply, getting drunk on the familiar yet achingly remote scent. He nodded.
"Good," he whispered, kissing her hair and forehead and cheeks. "That's all you had to say."
This time was different from the previous night they'd spent wrapped up in each other. This time did not feel so cumbersome and rigid. There was a distinct comforting familiarity about his arms and her smell and the way their bodies fit together so perfectly in a limp surrender. They did not sway or even dare to breath deeply. They were both content to stand there silently and allow the enormity of what had so nearly been lost stretch out before them and sink into them. Slowly but surely, he began to reattach himself. The distance he had needed just to get through that seeped back into him and he clung to it, hoping that it would allow him transference of himself more deeply into her.
"Shh," he cooed, rocking her in his arms. "It's over now." Even as he said the words, he smiled, knowing that they were true. Even if they had to start all over again, he knew that the worst had passed. This was someplace to build from. They had come together again, somehow.
In that coming together, though, he saw it necessary for her to come apart and he was happy to aid in her undoing. She needed to rebuild herself after such a violent purging of emotion. He moved his hands down her body and stripped her slowly of her clothes, allowing them to drop heavily into a damp pile on the floor. Once she was disrobed down to her bra and underwear, he took a few selfish moments for himself to remember with his eyes and fingers just how she had been. How she had looked and what she'd made him feel and how alive she'd made him become- the experience of her allowing him to see her this way.
He crawled with her beneath the covers after stripping down to his boxers and drew her near to his body. She wrapped her arms around his middle and he felt her fingers press into the flesh of his back. He couldn't stop running his hands over her body, even when the drowsy, incessant pressure of fatigue began to weigh him down. His hands still continued to move in circular motions along her back and waist, and an occasional hand would find it's way to her stomach just to rub it and press against it.
"I'm so sorry," is all that she would say and "I know" is all that he could respond with.
But it was good and it was real and it was them. Again. Finally.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
End Chapter 15. Continued in Chapter 16.
