Rainwater
Chapter 18: Losing
Rating: R for sexual situations and suggestions, adult topics and language.
WitchyPrincess
Losing
What if something wholly important to you just separated and severed itself from your soul? How do you realize how incomplete you are until that something's gone? How do you wake up and know–just know–that you'll never be the same again, without falling apart in some way?
I don't think you can. I think a part of you has to break up and be swallowed whole by heartache and anger. I think a part of you just can't escape the repercussions. Because, deep down, you know it's your fault that this something has gone away. You didn't realize what you had until it was gone. Until you wanted it back more than life.
Until you knew that it wasn't a possibility.
–Marron Chestnut
#######
It was cold, slightly dreary, and she had a blanket wrapped around herself to keep warm. Hugging herself to keep the empty feeling at bay. She was crying silently, not acknowledging the tears as they trickled slowly past her cheeks and then scurried past her neck, disappearing somewhere in the midst of her sorrow. A small sob escaped every now and then but there was nothing she could do about that.
She had messed up. And in more ways than one, too. She had messed up big time there would be no repairing the damages with a smile or a soft apology. She had done something incredibly stupid; well, more than one incredibly stupid something but there was nothing she could do now to change it.
She was screwed.
Literally, figuratively, mentally, emotionally. Every aspect of the word. She was screwed. And she had asked for it.
Somehow, she wished she could blame Pan. Or Bra because Bra had suggested that they go out to that stupid lunch together. And then, talking with Pan, seeing a side that Marron hadn't seen before, made her want to kindle a friendship with the girl. It made her want to rekindle the friendship that she'd lost, as well.
It was then that she'd decided that she'd do anything to save her friendship with Ubuu. It was because of then, that she had gone out and ruined her entire life last night.
She hadn't known.
She hadn't thought about it. She'd just...done it. She had thought that was the only way to get him to talk to her again. And, of course, there was something more. She couldn't deny that. No one did that sober, with one of their best friends, without their being something more behind it. But he hadn't seen it that way, had he?
No, he hadn't. He'd thought she was playing with him. If only she hadn't told him that she was making up for what happened at the hotel and her lack of memory on the situation. Then he wouldn't have had to tell her that nothing happened at the hotel. Then he never would have turned those cold, dark eyes on her and asked if that was they only reason she'd done it.
If she only slept with him because she thought she already had once, while drunk. And that was why he wasn't talking to her.
If he hadn't asked, she wouldn't have had to tell him. He wouldn't have felt the need to leave.
She wouldn't be so cold, and hurt, and lonely. But that wasn't the worst of it: she was in love with her best friend. And she wouldn't be if she hadn't done what she'd done.
How does someone sleep with someone else to make them feel better and end up with everyone feeling worse? Just ask Marron, she was a master at it.
She wiped her eyes and lay back on the couch, feeling more incomplete than she ever had in her entire life. She needed to tell him how she felt. But in order to hear something like that, he had to listen first. It wasn't the saying it that would be hard, it was the actually getting it all out before he stormed away that would be the tricky part. She couldn't ruin things with him again or there would be no glue to shove it back together.
Why hadn't she thought about all this before she made such a stupid mistake?
#######
He had felt her ki the second she entered his house and was wondering what was taking her so long. She'd been here for a quite a while and hadn't made it up to his room yet. Maybe she was having second thoughts? After all, he hadn't expressed his desire to see her tonight, this morning when she left his house.
In fact, he didn't want to see her tonight. Not at all.
Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. It was just that, since he saw her wearing his shirt two days ago, he hadn't been right in the head when it concerned her. His emotions had been hitting him like a tidal wave these past two days since, rushing and corrupting each piece of his mind. He couldn't control any of it.
He couldn't sneer at her when he was supposed to anymore. He couldn't get that evil glint in his eyes when he looked at her. In fact, the glint that he did get in his eyes was nothing comparable to evil. It was more akin to adoration or admiration or–he dreaded thinking it–affection.
He had affection for this girl. And it didn't stop there. He really cared about her. He was starting to adore her. He was beginning to think that he didn't want to be a minute without her.
So, what they really needed at this point and time was peace from each other. Space and lots of it. Starting immediately.
Then, why was she here? What would she say if he told her to go home? Would she ever come back? He didn't know and he wasn't willing to risk it.
As much as he wanted space to clear his head and force his emotions back in control, he also wanted her to still be loyal to him and come crawling at his every beck and call. She was his, he hadn't been kidding when he proclaimed that one. In every aspect of the word, she belonged to him and he wasn't going to risk that for anything. Even his confusing, completely out-of-bounds emotions.
He was going to keep her and that was all there was to it.
Finally, after what must have been at least half an hour, he felt her ki approaching his door as she quietly swung it opened then swiftly pushed it shut. One look up from his position sprawled on his bed, into her eyes, told him that not only was she angry, the entire world should feel the fury coursing through her veins. She was livid. Completely, utterly furious.
And, for once in his life, he could honestly say that he was not the reason for it. No, not at all. He could read her like a book and he knew. She was mad at herself and that was the worst kind of angry to be. You had no one to punish for it.
With a shiver, Trunks realized that he was about to take her punishment himself. She had to release her frustration somewhere and, somehow, he had pulled the lucky number. Well, whoop-di-do, he thought wryly as she glared and stepped farther into the room.
No hello, she just ripped her shirt off and pulled him up to a standing position. Hm, this should be interesting.
#######
What on earth was he doing here? Of all places, why here? He mentally chastised himself, running his hands over his face in frustration. But he knew why. He knew why here and why now.
He hadn't thought about anything else since he saw the sunken look on her face when he turned away. Even if he and Paris hadn't gotten into a clawing fight just two days before and he hadn't seen her since, he would still be standing outside of this place, pacing and thinking about this girl. She was all he ever thought about.
He hadn't been sure at first. He had thought himself an ass for taking advantage of the situation with Bra. Thought that he shouldn't have encouraged her and thought, more than that, that he shouldn't have enjoyed it when she kissed him. He knew he shouldn't have considered doing more of it. But then, it had been because he thought he wanted Paris.
He didn't.
The question wasn't what he was going to do about it, but more along the lines of where did that leave him? If he didn't want Paris, what did he want? Did he want to be alone for a while to gather his wits about him or did he want to be with Bra? Or did he want to just forget about the whole, entire thing? He could. It would be easy.
All he'd have to do would be to show up again and start hanging around as if nothing had changed. Just casually mention that he was planning on calling the wedding off and never even give Bra a second glance when he said it. That way she'd know where they stood. And it wouldn't be because he wanted to be single, but because he didn't want to be with her.
But that wasn't entirely true. If it was he wouldn't have been thinking about her so much. Dreaming about being with her–and not just physically. He wasn't exactly sure what it meant, just that it scared him.
And he wasn't ready for that. Wasn't ready for that at all.
He'd just spent most of his life chasing after one woman. Now was he supposed to admit that he wanted another and not even be startled by it? He couldn't do that. He couldn't get himself to consider Bra that way, no matter how much he wanted to. Just the whole idea of being with her gave him unidentifiable shivers. He wasn't sure if they were shivers of disgust or anticipation. Hence the being frightened bit. Who confused disgust with anticipation?
A really confused person that didn't know what in the world they wanted, that was who. And he couldn't do that to Bra. If he had just given up on Paris without much of a second thought to it, then surely he could give up on Bra that same way when someone else took interest in him. Wouldn't it all happen again? And then he would have hurt someone very important to him for no other reason than he couldn't control his hormones.
He had to be a bigger person here. He couldn't do that to Bra. Anyone else and, with the way that girl kissed, he wouldn't have hesitated a minute. But she wasn't just anyone and that thought was very persistent in his brain.
It was all or nothing with this girl and he knew that he wasn't ready for it to be all. So, again, what was he doing here?
He was turning around, just going to walk away, because it was late and surely no one was up, when the door opened and she walked out onto the front lawn. He felt her before he saw her and turned around slowly to meet his eyes with hers in the dark.
She was beautiful. Even dimly lit by the moon, standing feet away from him, hand on hip in a confused and slightly defeated manner. He wondered why she was up, briefly running through the possibilities, as he walked up to the door. There was no escaping it now. No getting away from it. She'd seen him.
When he approached, she didn't open her mouth to speak, just gathered in his countenance and sighed. She pushed the door open and stepped back, silently inviting him in.
He did an automatic mental scan of ki without really thinking about it and frowned. That couldn't be right.
He turned to her when she shut the door and leaned against it, raising a curious eyebrow. For a brief second, he forgot his concern as he looked at her creamy legs, uncovered by the long t-shirt she was wearing as a nightgown. He hadn't expected her to be a long t-shirt type of girl. He liked that.
Shaking that thought away, he curled his lips up in confusion.
"Why's Pan here?"
"She sleeping over." There was a condescending tone to her voice that let him know Pan wasn't 'sleeping' with her. Goten shivered, clenching his jaw and turning around quickly, fully intendant on kicking someone's ass. Bra's hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"It won't matter what you say. It's been happening for a while and she won't listen to anyone who tells her not to, so don't bother. It'll be ugly, loud, and unnecessary. Besides, everyone but you already knows, so just get over it."
He sighed, practically tasting the anger in his blood, as he spun around on her. "Why didn't I know?" He asked through clenched teeth.
She shrugged, and it was the pain in her eyes that calmed his anger and ignited his shame. "Too busy wrapped in your own world. I guess."
"Bra, that's not fair. I,"
"Goten, what do you want?"
"How can you ignore the fact that your brother is sleeping with my niece?" He questioned, obviously unnerved.
"I've done everything I can. In fact, we just had it out a few minutes ago, so you'll excuse me if I'm not in the best of moods concerning that subject." She paused, giving him a considerate look and then taking on the tone of a teacher trying to school a four-year-old. "They-won't-listen-to-reason. There's nothing you can do."
"I could beat the shit out of him."
"And what? Have her be pissed at you? She loves him. She'd do," here, her lips upturned and her eyes glistened with more pain then he ever wanted to watch glitter across her face. "Anything for him. That's what love is all about, right? Taking someone else's shit and cleaning it up."
He swallowed–hard–and shook his head. "No, Bra, that's not,"
"I'm only going to ask you one more time and then I'm kicking your ass out of my house. What do you want?"
"You." It was out before he could bite it back and shove it down his throat. Past his lips, into the air, straight to her ears. Her eyes widened, nostrils flared, hands clenched all one after the other. She leaned all her weight on the door and sighed heavily, looking up into his eyes questioningly.
"You didn't mean to say that."
"No," He agreed, knowing not to lie to her now. She was close to the edge, he could feel it. "But that doesn't mean I didn't mean it."
"What–" But if there was more, he didn't hear it. There was urgent knocking on the door that drug off the rest of her sentence and forever robbed him of the rest of her question.
She jumped, then turned quickly and yanked the door open, now appearing more upset than before. "Who else?" He heard her mutter before a very light, very angry, "Shit."
She literally yanked the door forward, almost knocking it off the hinges, as she allowed the brown-haired goddess access to the entry-hall as well.
"I saw your car," The new woman addressed Goten. "I checked, I mean, I figured you'd be here." Her voice was catty when she said that part, olive eyes gathering Bra distastefully.
"This is my fucking house," Bra told her lightly, tone lethal. "Look at me like that again and I'm going to kick both of you out. Do you know how late it is?" She sounded distressed and it made Goten feel worse than before for coming.
"Does he?" Paris accused, turning her angry eyes on him.
"Paris," He interrupted aggravated with the whole situation. "What do you want?"
"We need to talk." She stated sternly, crossing her arms and then casting a nervous glance at Bra. He caught it and smirked, knowing his next suggestion would be slightly cruel. But he couldn't help it, for some reason he wanted Bra to see this, to know. She had to know he and Paris were over.
"So talk." He urged softly, quietly amused.
"Not," Paris staggered, catching her breath nervously. "Here. In front of her." She stated calmly.
"Why not? I'm going to have to tell her about it later, anyway." He told Paris, a bit cruelly he was aware. But Paris had to know. Bra was where his interest was.
Then he caught a glance of her neckline and noticed the red that was peaking past the collar. It looked like a rough mat of scars, like she... He sighed, stepping up to her and moving the collar aside. It was.
It was a tattoo.
"Where the hell have you been these last two days?"
Paris groaned, pushing him away before he could get a good look at it, covering her face with her hands after he moved. This was so embarrassing to explain.
#######
Her kisses were swift and rough and they took him by surprise the first couple of times. Her body was shivering with her anger, hands clenching his shirt in a tight fist as she pulled him back with her, against a wall in his room.
She pushed him back a little, breaking their contact and immediately reaching for his shirt. He could tell she was avoiding eye contact, the question was, should he let her do it? He didn't think angry sex was such a good idea. Not that it didn't hold it's own appeals, just, he didn't want to do that to her. She was upset and vulnerable and just couldn't take advantage of that.
And then, as he realized what he'd just thought, he was angry too. When did he start to feel compassion for this girl? What should he care if she was angry–she was throwing herself at him and that was all that mattered. She was grown and she knew what she was doing. Besides, it wasn't like she hadn't ever slept with anyone before.
They'd done it plenty of times before.
But this was different. And not just because she was pissed off. This was different because he didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want her to be hurt or angry because of herself or anyone else. It was almost a tangible kind of pain that slivered through his chest and rested in the pit of his stomach as he thought about how horrible she must be feeling at the moment.
The thought of her pain was hurting him. What the hell was wrong with him?
He sighed and pushed her back, making her back bump against the wall as he shook his head. "Pan, stop, we need to,"
"Just shut-up." She commanded, unbuttoning her pants and then reaching to undo the zip. He shook his head, stepped up to her, and pressed his hands gently on hers. He wasn't going to do this to her. He wouldn't be the one to add pain to her already breaking heart. Not anymore.
"Please?" She begged him softly, staring up into his eyes and letting him see right into her soul. She needed him, he could hear it, feel it, without her having to say the words. And he didn't know what to do.
They needed to talk about this, she looked on the verge of tears. But he had the feeling that if he opened his mouth to hold a conversation with her, no good would come of it. He needed to calm her down first. He needed to at least get her to relax.
Well, he wasn't going to have angry sex with her to do that. He resolved determinedly, shaking his head and taking another step back from her.
"Talk to me, Pan, or go home." He admonished, looking down at her seriously so that she could see how much it was hurting him to say this. He didn't want to send her home, not like this.
"Fine." She retorted, re-buttoning her pants and then leaning down to scoop up her shirt. "Have it your way, you always do." He could nearly taste the bitter tone to her voice as she said it, and it made his back straighten as he watched her throw the shirt back over her head.
Well, shit, what was he supposed to say to that?
While he stood there, gaping, she glared one last time and turned to walk towards the door. He put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her, before he had the chance to think about it. He couldn't just send her away like this. He could at least try and comfort her.
He placed his hands delicately on her hips, after she'd turned all the way back around to face him, and slowly led her back to the wall. He was setting the pace. He was calling the shots. He always did and that was the way he liked it.
He slipped his hands under her shirt, rubbing the sides of the skin there with practiced ease, in a way that he knew from experience she enjoyed. Leaning over, he kissed her cheek, then moved gracefully down her face, curving around her chin and then down her neck. Her eyes were closed in satisfaction when he lifted his head back up to see her face.
"Tell me what's wrong." He commanded softly, running his hands further up her shirt and moving closer to her in order to distract her mind from the fact that his question was supposed to make her angry. He nibbled her ear as he waited for her to respond, feeling the tenseness of her body ease up the slightest bit with his every touch.
"I don't want to." She whispered after a moment, as he pushed the groan back that wanted to spill when she ran her hands up his chest and encircled his neck. "I don't want to talk. Please, let's not."
Her eyes were closed again, he noticed as he nodded, which meant that he'd have to respond to her audibly. He opened his mouth to agree, loving the sensation that stirred within him when her fingers started to play with the hairs on the nape of his neck, but decided against talking all together. She was right.
They could say everything they needed to say with their body movements and mannerisms. And he was not going to let her shake him from his original intentions. Which were to comfort her, not jump her against this wall so that they could both get it out of their systems.
He stepped back a little, placed his hand on her chin, and lifted her face up so that she'd have to open his eyes to see what he wanted. When she opened them, he leaned down and placed a feather light kiss on her lips. She closed them, attempting to deepen the kiss, and he pulled away. They repeated this process a few more times before she got the hint and kept her eyes opened.
Satisfied, he moved to other parts of her body, taking the edges of her shirt in his hands and pulling it over her head swiftly. The bra came next, without any hesitation, and he smirked when he saw the shock flit through her expression. Her eyes remained open, except when she blinked.
His kisses were soft, light, exploratory and curious, as if he had never even been to second base before, much less with her. He started at her collarbone, nibbling gently then kissing so softly that she squirmed where she was standing and a little moan fell from her lips every time she realized he wasn't going to move on just yet.
As his lips descended, his hands ascended, until his lips were right above her breasts and his hands were right below. Then he just stopped moving. His breath fell like sweet caresses against her skin, melting into the center of her body and making her shiver from the core. He had never touched her like this before.
He fought the urge to smirk as he felt how anxious she was for him to move, simply by the way she shifted the weight in her feet. She didn't say anything, though her breathing did escalade and every now and then she let out a soft, whimpering, moan. Ah, how he loved that sounds she made when he pleased her in any way.
Finally, his lips landed on her left breast and she let out a heavy sigh that was very clearly heard as, "Trunks."
Dende he loved the way she said his name. It sent a sense of pride and excitement through him that made him groan as he lightly licked the center of her breast. One of his hands took up the task of caressing the other while his other hand moved to hover over the button on her jeans.
She arched into him, curving her body against his, as his hand slipped the button loose and his mouth caressed her breast tenderly.
She slipped her hands around his face and pulled it away from her chest, breathing heavy and eyes dark with the overwhelming passion of the moment. He sighed when he looked into her eyes, his stomach filling with something that wasn't lust. It wasn't lust at all, he realized as she pulled his face towards hers, his lips softly making contact with her own.
It was butterflies. She'd just given him butterflies with a simple look into his eyes.
When their lips touched, it was like they had never kissed before. Like they hadn't done this a million times. Her lips against his were gentle, pliable, and very willing for whatever he wanted from her. He groaned, unable to fully express how he felt, and pressed his body fully against hers. He was aroused for no other reason than her kisses were like heaven against his lips.
She gasped when he moved against her and his tongue swept into her mouth. Slowly, gently, leading her into the most intense kiss she had ever experienced in her life.
Her stomach knotted as she bent her head to him, giving him complete access to her mouth. Her heart, she realized, he had access to her heart. When he was touching her, kissing her, like this she felt like a virgin. Untouched, unexplored, untaught in the ways of making love. Like she had never been with him, or anyone, before. Blissfully, she joined her tongue with his and they stayed that way for quite some time.
Then his hands slid down her sides again, brushing against her breasts, and as they pulled apart for air she curled her leg around his own and forced a closer intimacy between them because his body was drawn into hers.
They both gasped when they realized, each of them struggling to control their bodies as the sensations overwhelmed them.
Trunks moved slowly, sliding his hands in-between their bodies and carefully tugging her pants down. She stepped out of them, pushing his wife-beater up and off of his body before he slid his own pants off. They continued undressing each other, in a silent dance that only they knew the steps to, as she pushed him back towards the bed. He twisted so that she landed before him, and he hovered over her.
He moved slowly, gently, sweetly, over her, his hands running over her body in arousing coercion of unnecessary play before he slid into her just as slowly, lacing his fingers through hers and looking down into her face–her eyes–while he moved inside her.
The message, as he held her hands above her head, laced in his own, was painfully clear: they weren't having sex anymore. This wasn't sex.
That's when he saw them, the gleaming, clear tears sliding out of her eyes in a steady rhythm. And he honestly considered pulling out, just holding her, but it was too late. It hurt him, more than anything–even his own pain–had ever hurt him before. Sighing inwardly, he decided to do something he had never done in his life before.
He shifted on her body, unhooking his fingers from hers and dropping all of his weight on her, letting her feel him in every way possible as he moved their bodies, flipping so that she was on top of him. He moved his hands to her hips and squeezed the sides lightly, knowing that she didn't want words but gathering, from the stilled motions their bodies had taken on, that she didn't know what he thought he was doing. Momentarily shocked, she still didn't move.
He had never given her–or anyone else–total control before. He had just never been a man to be ridden, it wasn't something he did. But today, this time, for her he would make that exception. He started to trace patterns on her hip bones, smirking lightly at her miffed expression, then he moved up her torso, gliding his fingers playfully across her stomach, past the sides of her breasts, up her neck.
He wiped away the tears on her cheek and caressed her face before moving his hands back to her neck.
Finally, she smiled, looked him right in the eyes, and began to move. The pace was slow, very slow, and it created a nearly unbearable pressure inside him as he resisted the urge to rush her. His hands did, however, move back down to her hips and apply a little more force as she pulled up and froze then inched back down at a snail's pace.
She knew what she was doing and it was driving him mad with impatience. Deciding that two could play that same game, he let his fingers dance back up her body and land on her breasts, massaging them until her pace kicked up considerably. Her breathing, his breathing, and their cries all matched in intensity and synchronized with one another as she rode him to climax. For the first time in his life, Trunks wasn't a person inside of another person, he was one with that person.
There was no definite difference between them. He didn't end, she didn't begin, they just... were. They were one.
But the look on her face, in her eyes, as they descended from their high, told him that this was one moment that had to be frozen in time. A one in a million and never again. When her sweat slicked body slid away from his, when she separated herself from him and threw her eyes back in his direction, his heart caught. He saw the pain, clearly saw the heartache, and he knew.
And there was nothing he could say to stop it, change it, or defend himself.
Everything he'd done to her slid back into his mind. Every single time he'd used her, hurt her, said something intentionally cruel, flit through his head and made his eyes water. When she drew in a shuddering breath of air, so did he, and when she stood up and moved away from him, he stood and countered the distance.
Her eyes told him just how horribly she felt. And he had never felt so close to someone and so far away from them at the same time. He had never been that apart of someone and that apart from them simultaneously. Today, he had achieved the impossible.
And today, she wasn't going to let him get away with it again.
Maybe it was because this time was different, or maybe it was because she had just reached the end of her patience. But, whatever the reason, when she gathered her clothes and began to dress silently, eyes distantly hurt and cold, he knew.
This was the last time.
He had waited one time too long to love her and she didn't want it anymore. And there was nothing he could say. He had never been this powerless before.
Keeping true to her want of silence, she left his room–his life–without a word of closure or solace or goodbye. And, partly because he wanted to honor her request, mainly because he knew nothing he said would matter, he didn't call out her name to stop her.
He just curled back on his bed and, like he was sure she had done many nights after being silently forced by him to leave, cried himself into the most fitful sleep of his life.
#######
The moment after she said it seemed to last forever. It just...didn't end. He wasn't sure if he was still breathing or if he even remembered how to breathe. He wasn't sure if his heart was beating or if there was a mallet pounding in his ears. Nothing else existed but her words, hovering over him like the plague, shocking him and making him forget all else.
Had she said what he'd heard? Because, if she had, how did she expect him to react to it? What was he supposed to do, laugh it off? Not very likely. Not likely at all.
He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach and all the air had swooped right out of his body. It was over. It was really over. Not just the temporary, see you in a couple of months, kind-of over. But the permanent, I've really screwed up and we'll never meet again, kind-of over. There was no forgiveness for this.
And there wasn't enough alcohol in all of America to get her that damn drunk. Not drunk enough that she hadn't known what she was doing. None.
"You got married?" He finally heard a raspy voice ask and discovered that it was his own. He sounded wounded and he winced, hating that his own voice had betrayed his emotions and came out like that. He wasn't supposed to care, he chided himself. But at that moment, he couldn't list one reason why he shouldn't be upset, hurt, and down-right outraged.
He couldn't have picked Bra out of a line-up.
"Paris, what the.." His sentence trailed off as the reality hit him. "You got married. To someone else!" He would have shouted this part if his voice hadn't cracked and come out in a dry whisper. "You got someone else's name tattooed on your body."
"You're one to talk." She challenged smugly, shifting her green eyes over to Bra's shocked face and then back to him. "Look at where you are at this unholy late hour in the night. Why are you here?"
"Why the hell are you here? You're someone else's wife." He spat back, still not remembering the fact that he had wanted him and Paris to be over. That he had wanted someone else.
"I told you I was drunk, Goten. I told you that I thought it was a great joke and I wasn't aware of what I was doing. We're not going to stay married, gah, I don't even know where this guy lives."
"Well, that's great Paris, that makes you sound real good." He supplied sarcastically, the anger dancing around his face and emanating from his body.
"Okay," That wasn't Paris' voice that came out annoyed and... hurt, it was someone else's. His body and mind snapped to attention when he realized it was Bra's, that he was at Bra's house and he wasn't just here on a casual social call. He had forgotten her and she seemed to have noticed.
"If you're going to have a lover's spat, do it some-fucking-where else. I don't want to hear it, know about it, or even pretend like I care. Goten, kindly take your stray and chastise her in the wilderness or something. I'm not in the mood."
"Bra, I wanted," He started, turning to her with a pleading look before he even realized he was talking. When his eyes landed on hers and he caught fire there that he had never seen before, he stopped. There was something different about this Bra. Something he hadn't ever known her to be.
And she was really angry with him. He couldn't remember a time where Bra had been angry with him. Never. She always smiled and supported him in everything he did. Couldn't she see that, right now, he had a crisis on his hands and it needed to be dealt with? Couldn't she have patience and understand that this was slightly more important that any conversation they were about to have?
This was immediately urgent; his fiancé just gotten married to another man. And now—now—she wanted to assert her authority? Well that was just great. Sighing, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and nodded his head. Yes, if she wanted him out, he would leave. Clearly, she was stressed as it was. And, apparently, he had plenty on his plate as well.
He had a niece who was sleeping with his used-to-be best friend, who was fourteen years older than her, a woman that he was supposed to marry already married to someone else, and an unfinished break-up with that same woman to handle. This was more than enough to deal with for one night. He sighed and ushered Paris out, giving Bra one last, sincerely stressed look before he did.
He had a feeling that he had just lost all chances of ever being more than friends with her. He wasn't quite clear on why, but the cold, distant look on her face as she shut the door in his face was enough to make him understand that much.
Bra glowered at his retreating back, she was through waiting patiently while he put other people before her feelings. She wasn't going to play second-best anymore.
To be contined...