Disclaimer: Yeah I don't own anybody.
Author's Note: Uh, my other stories aren't up to much, I haven't updated them in an age, but I kinda have a little written for one of them. But I wrote this. I hope you enjoy.
Anything But Tranquil.
Even when he's gone, I can still see him.
Poets are always thriving about love and beauty, as though they were indistinguishable. Hear anything enough, see anything enough, and you'll begin to believe it. I did.
I can't say that I love him. That's something too distant for me to grasp, too large for my simple human mind to comprehend. Love, I think is too all-encompassing to ever really be understood, and at least of all by those who claim to be in it.
That's like, I don't know, trying to see your reflection from inside the mirror.
It just doesn't work.
But I do know this, together, we are nothing less than beautiful.
I don't ask how it happened, and I rarely think about it. When I do, I can't see all of it; instead of a neatly plotted memory, complete with explanation, character development, climax, and all the things that follow, I have only fragments of thought and touch and sensation and feeling, none of it quite matching up. Like pieces from a dozen different jigsaw puzzles all come together into one confused jumble.
When I think of how it began, I close my eyes and see him. I can always see him.
But there is no character development, not in our story. We are not characters, and we do not develop. If anything, I think I've regressed. I've become the child who spends her day waiting for one precious moment, the child who eats her dinner to get to dessert. I have, basically, effectively, become one-dimensional.
When I stood before Hunter that day in our dressing room and heard him say those words, the 'but you mean everything to me,' the line that would have had most girls melting and trembling. I wanted to laugh. Despite what I'd told him the night before, I was not in love. Least of all not with him. It was over.
I should have known better than to condemn him so quickly. The Fates, it would seem, like nothing better than to turn these things around on us, to make us exist in the same circle. I exist for him now, for the moment he slips in my hotel room, for the calm that settles over me the instant his hands touch my own.
I should have hated him. I should have hated him. Shouldn't I have hated him?
I think I could have been happy with Hunter, had he not entered the picture. Hunter loved me, he
idolized me, he most probably still does, I know he would do anything for me. How could I not be happy with that?
I wasn't, though. Happy, that is. But I was content, and for most people, that's as good as it gets.
And then he came.
I say this to Trish as we're leaving the arena one night, and she nods understandingly. "Everything was going so well," Trish says, "until he came, and everything,"
"Changed," I finish for her, my voice dreamy and distant.
"Yeah," she agrees, not noticing my tone. "Everything changed. And frankly, I hate it."
I don't.
If I told Trish the truth, the urge to laugh strikes again. Tell Trish? Trish is more enchanted with me and Hunter than I am. Hell, Trish is more enchanted with Hunter than I'll ever be. She might not know it, but Christian didn't miss her efforts to shape him into a Hunter-replica, and neither did I. Perhaps we'd all be better off, I think, if only Trish had been the one paired with Hunter all those days, weeks and months ago.
I don't say this to her, because she is still my friend even if she doesn't know a thing about the person I've become, but Christian's decision to leave her had nothing to do with Edge, or Lita, or any supposed Champion shot he wanted.
There are many things I don't say these days. I can't. Silence is my only defense.
It's easier to keep quiet than I thought it would be, and in some ways that's no surprise. I'm good at keeping things hidden, at keeping myself hidden.
I have to be. I've been doing it for years.
So I simply smile at Trish, a sweet innocent Stephanie McMahon smile of perfection, and nod my false agreement.
"It's probably for the best, though," I say, with the perfect Stephanie McMahon optimism. "I mean, we always knew it couldn't work." I pat her reassuringly on the back and tell her that I'll get my own ride to the hotel, because it's late and the time is near and I'm getting anxious and antsy and I don't want to see Trish right now. If she stays much longer, I'll start to resent her presence, I'll start to hate her hair because it's blonde like his but nothing like his, not even close to being like his, and the moment I lose that control, it's all over.
I'm sitting in on my bed in my hotel room when he arrives, and I'm reading a book, as though I haven't
been waiting. As though my body hasn't started shaking with anticipation, several times, forcing me to close my eyes and inhale deep lungfuls of stale summer air until I've regained control. I'm pretending for no one, because he knows as well as I do that I haven't been reading, that my mind has been wholly fixed on his arrival.
I envy that assurance.
I know he wants me, or he wouldn't be here. That much is blindingly obvious. But how we feel about each other, that isn't something we talk about. We don't have the luxury of forcing answers from each other, not when those answers will most likely be things neither one of us wants to hear.
Despite that, I can't help but feel that the balance in our relationship (if it can even be called that, perhaps torrid, scandalous, disreputable affair would be a better choice of nouns and adjectives, though it all depends on how you look at it) is decidedly tilted in his direction.
He sits at the foot of my bed, his hand resting lightly on my quilt-covered leg.
"Hey," he says, while giving me a smile. I feel my heartbeat pick up, just a little, and then a little more when his hand slides even higher.
"I missed you," he says, and I momentarily forget my inner turmoil. We don't say things like that, and it isn't that I don't want to, or that I don't think them. But putting the thoughts to real, spoken words, that's a boundary I've never dared cross.
I never expected him to cross it. Not first.
"Oh," I say, intelligently, because those four little words have rendered me virtually speechless.
And then he's sidling up the bed towards me, and his words aren't the only things leaving me speechless.
Before him, I'd kissed only two people, well, three really, but the one time with Kurt was a mere transgression, a slip due to curiosity and sexual tension. It never happened again; I made sure of that.
Kurt's unusual blend of arrogance and wounded-puppy charm made him the best of the three; Hunter''s kisses were constantly interrupted with declarations of my perfection and don't ever leave me's, while Andrew's, rather startlingly, tended to prefer hugs and cuddling to making out. But even Kurt, for all his puppy dog charm, has nothing, absolutely nothing, on Chris's. His touch, the sureness of his hands, the way his mouth feels on my lips, my skin. Nothing can compare to it. I suspect, that nothing ever will.
His lips leave mine to travel to my neck, and I close my eyes, gasping slightly.
My hands reach out to cup his face, and he raises his eyes to look at me. He smiles again, and I smile back this time, fighting the rising waves of emotion and desire. It's tempting, and alluring, to give in and float with the tide, but I know the smallest shift of the wind could make me drown. "Chris..."
Chris, Chris, Chris; I could whisper his name a thousand times and never tire of it; I love the way it sounds falling from my tongue. I love the way he says my name, the way he whispers it into my ear and then my mou-
He kills my train of thought by pulling back the quilt. When he sees that I'm not wearing much of anything, he raises a eyebrow, a light smirk touching his lips. "Well," he starts. "This certainly makes my job easier."
I nod, the nervousness waning as the hormones take control. "I guess I missed you too," I tell him, reaching out to lightly touch the edges of his shirt. He takes the hint and pulls it off, then slides under the quilt next to me. I reach for him, but he stops me, catching my hand in his and regarding me with a wondrous look.
This is different. We don't do this, we don't stare into each other's eyes or cuddle or whisper words of affection; we might hold each other, but only after.
For it's just sex with us, plain and simple, and neither of us tries to pretty it up and say we're making love. I despise that term. It drips of romance and flowers and high school poetry. I don't know what's different about tonight, what lies behind the look or the way his hands are gently stroking my arms. I don't know and I don't want it. I'm too close to the edge already; the moment this becomes something more than sex, at least, on the surface, I'll fall. And he won't be there to catch me.
And I realize I don't care.
I roll over until we're facing each other, shoulder to shoulder, and he's smiling again, like he can see what I'm thinking, and maybe he can. The skin of his stomach is warm against the palm of my hand; I trace a few light circles and then slide my hand up. His eyes are closed now. I've never done this before, I've never made the first move, I always leave that up to him. I feel too much and worry too much to be the aggressor. I find that I like it. It feels, intense.
I'm still awake when the first weak grey lights of morning streak their way feebly through the sky; Chris is against me, cat-like, around my body. He always sleeps after, though I rarely do.
Soon, I know, he'll wake. He'll smile at me, his usually sharp eyes softened at the edges. He'll kiss me before leaving, and I'll watch him go. How could I sleep? How could I miss that moment? For the rest of the day, it's all I'll have.
I've never stopped him, never asked him to stay. It's another of those silent rules, another sticky thread
in the tangled web we've woven around us.
And that's why I do nothing, why I only watch him go. If I could stir from this bed, if I simply reached out my hand to stop him. I don't know what he'd do.
There's always the chance that he'd stay. That he'd smile and tell me between breathless kisses that yes, this is what he wants, this is what he's wanted all along.
That is, of course, the lovely romance-novel version.
Regardless, it is a possibility.
There's also a chance that he'd do nothing, only gently disentangle his arm from my grip and leave as he always does, perhaps giving me a pitying look on the way out.
I could handle that. It's not what I want, but I could take it.
And then there's the chance that I'll go too far, and he won't come back.
I'm sitting with a magazine in front of me, pretending to read it, but I'm thinking of him, when I see Hunter striding towards me with a purposeful air. But then, Hunter always looks purposeful, and earnest. It would be part of his charm, if he had any.
"Hunter," I say, continuing to read the magazine in front of me. "What's up?" I fervently hope that he's not here to beg and grovel; I honestly don't know what I'll do if he is.
"I was wondering if we could talk?," he says almost hopefully. "Later? This afternoon?"
"Hunter," I tell him. "We've talk so many times. Once more won't change things. We. Are. Over." I finish and look back down to my magazine. I flip to another page, hoping he'll take the hint and leave. He doesn't, but then, he never was good at subtlety.
"Stephanie."
"I'm kinda busy, Hunter," I tell him, standing up and dropping the magazine, and then sweeping past him into the many halls of the arena.
I can feel his eyes follow me, and I know he's still looking long after I've disappeared from view.
Chris enters my room and sits down, wordlessly, on my bed.
"You're late," I say, finally looking up. He's regarding me solemnly, his eyes glittering in the dim light from the lamp by my bed.
"I was waiting for Hunter to leave," he says, and I tense. "He came to see me. He was very," he pauses. "Upset."
Upset. I try not to smile, imagining Hunter.
"So you know, then," I say.
"Of course I know," He says, looking back up at me. "How was it?"
"It was the same as it has been all the other times," I say, smiling softly, looking away for a moment. When I look back at her he's unconsciously tracing circles on my bed spread. The same circles.
"Are you upset?" He asks me.
"Upset?" His hand stills. "Why would I be upset?" I ask in confusion, my forehead scrunched up in thought.
"I thought,"
I take his hand. "Don't think, Chris."
"But you wanted Hunter," he whisper. "That's why we kept this a secret, why you were with him so long,"
"Was it?" I ask, his thumb is stroking my hand. Again unconsciously.
Tracing circles.
"That's not what I wanted," I whisper, smiling. "That's what I though you wanted."
He doesn't know how to respond to that. That wasn't what I wanted. He didn't know I wanted to be
with him.
"I'm glad you told him," he tells me, and I realize that he's serious. "I was wondering if you would. I knew you were different, you know." His hand slides from own hand, up my arm, leaving a trail of electric warmth.
"Don't worry," I says softly, smiling. "He'll get over it. He'll be fine. It had to happen, it was going to happen either way. I did what, I had to. Now he can move on." I tell him. "But what happens to us?"
He smiles. He looks so happy, and I realise that I'm happy too.
"Whatever we want," he says, leaning in to kiss me. He pulls back again, and we're both breathless, and he touches my cheek. I'm reminded of last night, and this morning, of those softer, sentimental moments that we'd shared. They make sense to me now. This was meant to happen, I needed to fall.
Hunter had broken me, you see. But in the process, Chris had made me strong, and I've been able to put myself back together.
"I'm glad," he whispers. He's waiting, I realize, for me. I have to tell him, to accept this, to admit that I want it. To complete the circle.
"I'm glad, too," I tell him. And then I'm kissing him, pushing him back against the bed, pinning him down.
Hunter had broken me, and I think Chris could break me too, if he wanted to. I'll never leave him. I'm sure of it. There's just something about him.
But I think maybe I could break him, too.
The End