Disclaimer: Don't own it. Dashboard Confessional owns the chapter titles.
AN: I'm not really good with these kind of scenes...sorry if it seems weird. And...'they have a past, who doesn't' belongs to Hellie, cause she said it first, lol.
For Meg, cause she's the birfday girl. And she rocks.
pt. 3--She gave him something to live for.
He didn't know what he was doing.
Not uncommon with him, but he was losing control. He always lost control, especially with her, she made his head spin, and his hands wander, but he wasn't supposed to lose control. Be gentle.
Gentle. What was gentle? Handling with care. Well, he certainly cared about her, that was the whole damn problem! He cared, and it hurt like hell, but at the same time, it didn't matter, because he likes it (he likes it!) and he's holding on to her for dear life, he doesn't want this feeling to go away. (But it hurts so damn much!) Maybe he's just a sick, sadistic bastard. Maybe he's in love.
Maybe? He knows he is. He also knows she probably doesn't give a damn about him, but she's here, whispering false promises in his ear. (Funny how the tables turn.) This love, it hurts like a bitch, and he thinks he may be sick, but that hardly matters, does it?
At least when he hurts, he knows he's living, which is so much better than being half dead. He makes a note to thank her for that later, and he mentally smirks, thinking of ways he could show her his gratitude. But this is not a laughing matter. He can't do...that with her. That's the forbidden, the uncharted territory (and he's no Columbus). She's Rory and he's Jess. Two different worlds, they weren't meant to collide. (But they did, and that's Liz's fault. As long as he has someone else to blame, he'll be fine.)
But they're in his apartment now, still kissing. (Her kisses are searching, wanting; his are desperate, needing.) He's so afraid he'll go to far, he's been walking on eggshells ever since he met her. He longed to tell her that those kisses were nothing, passion he could show her. He was so afraid it would be love that he couldn't give her.
But he loved, so hard it hurt, but it only hurts to fall, and with her, he was always falling.
He wasn't good enough. He knew that, she knew that, the whole damn world knew that. But he likes to think it doesn't matter, because he's getting lost in a sea of brown locks, and he lost himself somewhere between the sidewalk and his floor.
She's more mature now, he's noticed. She's a woman, and she knows what she's doing. She kisses him tenderly, intensifing the kiss as she goes along, trailing her fingers along his neck, and damn, it's sending chills down his spine. She's trying to be seductive, and she's kitting the nail on the head, because he can't breathe anymore, and if he had it his way, he wouldn't, because he thinks that maybe this is better.
They're lying on his mattress now, and he's relieved beyond belief that he got his own place, or for that matter, changed the sheets this morning. She wasn't a random girl. She may not be here in the morning, but she's not a random girl, and he's not going to screw up this chance. It might be the last one he gets. He knows he doesn't deserve it.
He thinks that maybe they should talk. They've got so much behind them (and so little ahead), so much of a past. It would be the right thing to do. But he's on top of her, and she's taking off his shirt, and he doesn't think that he could form the words.
So they have a past. Who doesn't?
Talking was so overrated anyways. They could never solve anything by it. No, better to feel this high now, and drop down low later.
She's gotten his shirt completely unbuttoned now, and he pulls his arms back, letting it fall onto the floor. He helps her get her own shirt off, but she's wearing layers, and it's getting tangled. She giggles slightly and snuggles her face into his neck as soon as the fabric slips over her head. He is slightly surprised, he thought that such a pause in the routine would have given her too much time to think, too much time to get out. He'd like to think she was sure about doing this with him, that she wanted him, it, but he mustn't get his hopes up, because that's just not what he does.
He undoes her bra, and she takes off his pants. Soon enough, they're naked. Naked. There's nothing here but skin and sheets, and he's gone completely under now. There's nothing but white, brown, and blue, and his head is spinning. These sheets, they're tangled, and she's tangled, he's tangled. It's all a mess, and he's head is pounding. He feels covered in sin (like he's never done this before), because this feels so wrong. He wasn't supposed to be with her (no matter what he says), and he certainly wasn't supposed to be with her. He's crossed a line here, and it's so damn dangerous on the other side.
But it can't be that wrong. It can't be right, but it can't be that wrong, because she came to him, and she hasn't run yet. (she will in the morning, no doubt, but he's okay with that; or he will be.) He loves her and she...loves him? She hasn't said it, and he doesn't expect her to, but he likes to imagine she has.
And he's so damn happy.
No, that's not the word. He can't be happy, because he knows this is temporary. But it's a temporary high, and even though he'll just fall hard, he likes being like this, with her. He likes it. Maybe that's why it's so wrong. He's taking pleasure in the forbidden.
He's loving her like he's never loved before (it's cliche, but true; he never has loved before). He's had sex, but he's never made love. And he's glad it's with her, because he can't imagine anyone else making him love them.
It's over, and she's retrieved the sheets, which had fallen to the side of the bed. She pulls them around her with a shy smile, and he gives her a smirk. She rests her head against his shoulder, and closes her eyes, letting out a sigh.. He kisses the top of her head gently. He doesn't know what to say, and doesn't really want to talk. He just wants to lie here, with her, trying to fathom that this really happened.
He looks at her, and she's so damn beautiful. Her hair falls in wisps around her face, and skin is so smooth and brilliantly pale. She looks almost innocent, even after what they just did.
His Rory.
She's not really his, but it feels like it. She was, once, and maybe that's all that matters.
She turns, opening her eyes to look at him. He's a bit surprised, he had thought she was asleep. Her eyes are searching him, and he sees she's lost. She looks broken, and he wonders what happened in the time they were spent apart, who had made her like this. Maybe it was him. No, probably was.
"What are you doing?" He whispers softly, like if he spoke too loudly something would be broken.
"Trying to see if I love you," she replies, honestly. The words cut him deep like a knife, and he knows they shouldn't, because he knows she doesn't love him, even if she doesn't know.
"You don't." His voice is hoarse, and it's cracking. The sound barely comes out. It's killing him to speak.
"You don't know me." He sighs, maybe she's right, but he doubts it. She's always right, but there's a first time for everything.
She turns away from him, and rolls out of his touch. He closes his eyes. Always a screw up. Gently, he moves towards her, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her tenderly on her jaw line. At first, she tenses up, as to get him to leave, but gradually relaxes, pressing herself against him.
He'd missed her so mush. It was so...up and down, but it was feeling, and that was a step up.