Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls; I'm just an extremely bored little girl. All chapter titles are by Dashboard Confessional.
Pt. 2—He had a habit of dying...
The room is smoke filled, but he doesn't care. The girl is faceless, but he doesn't care.
That's been the epitome of his existence, it seems. He doesn't care. And that makes all the difference.
He has learned that caring only hurts, and when it hurts, it hurts damn bad.
He's so tired of being hurt. But he doesn't have to be anymore, because he doesn't care, and he's numb, so numb. The world is a blur, and he can't feel a thing, but for now, it's so much better than feeling.
He's half living, but it's better than letting her kill him slowly.
He's still drowning, but he doesn't have to feel. He can pretend it's okay, move on with his life (half life). She's still pulling him under, but he can forget about it, because the alcohol blurs all his thoughts, if only temporarily. And when it fades, the hangover's there, and that in itself can keep his thoughts cleared.
So he's here, with a random girl. He's not sure he remembers her name, but that's okay, because he doesn't think he told her his.
He buries his head into her neck, kissing it passionately, because it's the only way he knows how. She pulls his lips back towards her, and he's slipping his hand underneath her shirt. The shirt is too thin, too low cut, just too much. But it doesn't matter, because it elicits a small moan in the back of her throat.
This he can do. The physical part. He's no good with emotions, they just tangle in on themselves, and then he never knows what to do. No, best to stick with being physical. It doesn't have to mean anything, and it doesn't make him feel like he's dying slowly.
He does the only he knows how. Gets drunk, sleeps with the random girl. He doesn't feel a thing though, and he's so damn glad, because frankly, feeling is overrated.
But if he drops the act for one second, he falls down so damn fast, and he remembers why he decided to stop feeling in the first.
In those moments, he wonders how it would have been if he hadn't been so bad at emotions. And it kills him, it kills him because he already knows he's wrong, and he's so tired of being wrong, it makes him sick.
And he's picturing her. Her making him feel, and want, need, desire. Telling him that he's worth something.
But that's such bull. She would never say that, because it's not true. He's worth shit, it seems like she's noticed that too, because she's not here right now, is she?
He's supposed to be okay, moving on. He told Luke he was going to be okay, that he was okay. And he is, he supposes, because he's numb, and nothing matters. He's floating through the days, but it's okay, because he's making it through, and he's alive.
He thinks everyday he gets through is a day he didn't let her win. He likes to think it makes him stronger, but it doesn't. He weakens and weakens. Everyday, he fades a bit. He's not himself anymore; he doesn't know who he was in the first place. As far as he can remember, everything's always been an act, except with Rory, and he's not even sure if he was real there, either.
Real implies a feeling of some sort. (Love, that's what they call it.) He thinks he may have loved her, he says he did. He says, therefore, he must. No, that's thinking. He doesn't know what he thinks anymore, mainly because he tries not to.
He's touching now. It isn't a gentle, tender motion; it is what it is, and it is purely physical. Skin upon skin; don't try to make it complicated. He doesn't want it to be anything more, because this is one thing he can actually comprehend.
Everyone's always thought of him as a physical person, only after one thing. He's proved them right about everything else, why stop now?
It's easy to get lost in skin, because you don't have to make anything of it. They only thing you can feel is flesh, nothing to it.
This girl's skin is soft. It's too soft for him, if you want to know the truth. His own hands are chapped, the skin even broken a bit, calloused, feels like sandpaper. But her hands are baby ass soft, softer. He feels velvet when he touches her, and he's almost afraid it'll melt beneath his fingers, it's so damn soft. Who has hands that soft? Nobody. It's not right, not right.
He's crazy, he knows he is.
He's a crazy, sick bastard. Can't even face his own thoughts.
He kisses her neck anyways, even though it's too damn soft to be right, and buries his head into her shoulder. He moans a name, and he knows it can't be this girl's, so it must be hers. He can't really make out his own voice, he's so damn detached, but it has to have been hers. He hopes it's not, because he's sworn he's over it, but he knows he's not, even though he's sure he knows nothing.
He doesn't know what to think anymore, and it's killing him. She's killing him, but he won't admit it because she doesn't exist, he won't admit that either.
If she existed, he'd be pining, and he's Jess –freaking- Mariano. He doesn't pine, doesn't know how.
There's that word again, know. That's what it all came down to, knowing. Well, he doesn't know, and he likes to think he doesn't care, but the whole damn concept is driving him crazy, and he just can't stand it anymore.
So he leaves, gets out.
He leaves this faceless girl, lying down on some random mattress. Her bleached blonde hair is tangled, and her bra's half undone, but he doesn't care. Her face is bewildered, and he can't find his belt, but he has to get out of here.
So he does.
He walks around a bit, gets to breathe. But he's not really breathing. This air is stale, smoky. He's grown up with it, so he should be used to it, but something, somewhere inside him thinks that maybe he doesn't have to settle.
He wanders aimlessly (truly aimlessly, because you can't have an aim if you don't have a direction) and his head begins to pound more and more with each step.
He wanted to get out, but he can't. He's trapped here, and he'd give anything to get out, but he doesn't have a damn thing. He didn't choose this, or maybe he did, but he didn't mean to! That's the thing about downward spirals, they don't end, you just go further and further down until nobody can see you, or cares to see you.
He glances at his watch, realizing he's got to go to work. It's part of the monotony he lives in.
He enters the restaurant, and it's smoky to. All this smoke, he just wants to get away from it, but he can't.
He busses the tables, going back and forth between the kitchen and the main room. Everything is blissfully normal and mind numbing.
Of course, she walks in. Of course it would happen when he's found contentment in fading away, being barely alive, if it meant not having to think of her.
She walks in, and he's crashing back to reality so fast, and hurts so damn hard to land. He's fully alive now, or maybe dead, he can't tell because she's here, and nothing, everything matters now.
He wants to ignore her. He wants to sting her hard, make her hurt. Have her spend weeks trying to live a half –life.
Instead, he's making eye contact, silently telling her to follow him outside.
So damn stupid, but you can't blame him. He's suffering from a blast of reality, and nothing ever seems real then.
She's lost her mind, she must have. She mumbles a greeting (he can't make out words, his mind is swimming now, after so much time of neglecting thoughts) and suddenly, she's kissing him, and he tries to push her away, because he doesn't want to, really.
He remembers the last time she kissed him spontaneously like this, their first kiss. She missed him, she said. Welcome back, she had said.
He knows this can't mean the same, but he needs to think it does.
They finally break the kiss, and he pulls her close. She's sobbing now, and he makes out an 'I'm sorry'. He rubs circles on her back, telling her its okay, even though it's not. It's what she needs to hear, and what he needs to say.
He holds her tighter (he's not sure why she's here, but she is, and he's going to make the best of the time he has before she comes to her senses). He's leading her down the street, to his apartment.
They've got so much to sort out, but he knows they won't. He knows this won't last. They've had their chances, but he's so damn low right now, he'll take what he can get.
Her skin is soft, but not too soft, he can feel dry patches underneath his fingertips. He touches her, and it tingles. It's skin upon skin, but there's something else there (and he knows it's his imagination, that skin doesn't evoke feelings like that, but he doesn't care).
He's got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this won't end well at all, but she's kissing him again, the tears are still coming down her cheeks, and he thinks he doesn't care, because she's here, with him, and this moment is worth it.
He hopes it's worth it, and he's not one for hoping.