Title: Echo
Author: Angeleyez
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't own, don't own. I don't even own the title (it's a Trapt song). Methinks I lack creativity.
Summary: Rory says yes. The after effects three months down the line.
A/N: This is a multi-parter, although it won't be a long one. Dedicated to Marissa, because I feel bad that I couldn't deliver what she originally asked for. Also, huge thanks to Arianna, my helpful speed racer beta. You are simply marvelous.
The building was twenty-five stories, an average size, non-descript. It faded into the rest of the apartment complexes that lined the surrounding streets. It had its faults in the form of broken windows, cracked staircases, and an undependable elevator. But the cost was fair, or as fair as one could get in an overpriced city, and so far, no foul insects had been found skittering across the hardwood floors. The landlord was an inconsiderate asshole, but his son made sure the tenants received what they needed, and most of the time, there really wasn't a need to complain.
Apartment 705, seventh floor — third on the right if one were to enter from the east entrance — was the typical shoebox size, a long way from qualifying for a larger description. It had been put together with paper thin walls, and pale yellow paint, long since painted over again and again. Now the layers were slowly peeling off, revealing color after color. Currently, the bathroom wall was blue and an indescribable shade of emerald, a nice combination if looked at from the correct angle.
Outside of that lay the kitchen. Although it really had no right to call itself one, as it blurred right into the living room, disallowing either to exist as a separate entity. Rory liked to stand in the very center, her stance wide, cheerfully declaring she was in two places at once. She would then flounce over to the battered loveseat situated in front of the fourteen inch television that was turned on only in the morning, and then late at night.
The bedroom was off to the left, thankfully made up of four walls and a door, hiding the more intimate details of their life from view. A bed, a dresser, and a bookcase was all that fit inside, causing the two of them to share their chest of drawers, complete with certain rules to make it less chaotic. Sometimes Rory in a state of half-sleep would pull on one of Jess's shirts, and by the time she realized her error, she'd be too busy to bother to change. He thought it was sexy, but never told her so. He would only grumble and threaten to begin wearing her clothes. She didn't appreciate the thought.
Their single bookcase — bought from a flea market for half the market value, but twice its current worth judging from the way it leaned precariously to one side — took up most of the wall next to their bed. It was the reason nothing else could fit inside, but neither Rory nor Jess cared to get rid of it. They liked reading material within arms' reach, and besides, anything less in size would be unable to house the number of books their joint collection had accumulated.
Basically only the two of them were ever inside their apartment, give or take a few neighbors who took it upon themselves for an awkwardly polite social calling. If anyone were asked, they'd describe the couple as outrageously neat, not understanding that the pair simply did not own enough to clutter the place up. The one thing that could — their books — were kept in one spot, organized and alphabetized, a sort of pride attached that they had put this place together themselves, one piece at a time, and now they could keep it up. These two teenagers on the brink of becoming twenty something's, they could do this without help from any adult, any mother or grandparent who did not approve in the first place.
The neighbors were kind when they had to be, private when they ought to be, making the apartment a mostly enjoyable place to live. On one side lived two sisters and their parents, sometimes referred to as the Thénardiers thanks to the suspicious business dealings of the father. Jess liked to run his hands along the kitchen wall, looking for the hole that would let him spy on the family next door. He dreamed himself up as Marius, their foil. Sometimes he called Rory his Cosette, but she would only blush and turn away, back to doing the dishes.
On the other side, a man they had affectionately nicknamed Viola stayed, sleeping most of the day, waking up at night to moonlight as a woman, dressed in miniskirts and blouses that even Rory wouldn't mind borrowing. He always said hello on the staircase to whoever he passed, smiling and cheerful, happy with himself. Rory admired his self-confidence and assurance that his life was good and respectable, no matter who said what.
Further down the hall, Miss Havisham lived alone and mostly kept to herself, but always made sure to make an appearance when Jess arrived home from work. An unnatural and unexplained animosity existed between the two, although Rory had no idea who had started the chain of dislike. She never investigated too far into it. After all, the elderly woman adored her.
Two blocks away was the laundromat that Rory visited on select weekdays, a twisted sense of accomplishment that she traveled there herself, worked the machines herself, changed the dollars to quarters herself. In theory it was ridiculous that she enjoyed the mediocre task so much, especially since the year before, she had done the same thing, only in a basement at Yale, back in Connecticut. But without the sense of self-worth that Yale had helped create, an assurance that she was working toward something bigger and better than herself, she had to cling to these small acts of independence.
She would be lying though if she said that her life was suddenly without purpose. She wasn't foolish enough to define her life by her education, despite its unmistakable importance. She had simply found something new to concentrate on, this life with Jess that he promised her that night in her dorm, the life that he had delivered. There was a certain kind of excitement waking up next to him each morning, eating breakfast with him, yelling at him to let her get in the shower. He worked to support them, earning just enough to scrape by. It was new, and different, dripping with the spontaneity she had never used to her advantage before.
However, there was always that underlying fear that they tried to avoid thinking about: the shine would wear off, leaving behind the dull redundancy of everyday life that was not supposed to come until much later. Jess knew that she had had some kind of crazy moment the night she agreed to run away with him, never defining how long this would last, never assuring him that she wouldn't just get up and leave one day.
Sometimes when he kissed her, he tasted her regret, bitter and metallic on his tongue, burning as it slithered down his throat. Sometimes he heard her pacing at night, and sometimes he found lists she had made, pros and cons of her decision. It unnerved him that his name always fell on both sides, but he never brought it up, instead counting himself lucky that she had made it this far with him.
They had only been together for three months, their relationship spanning the summer, days of heat, days spent in bed, days of wandering around Central Park just because they could. But August was half gone, and the impending end was approaching much faster than he would have liked. A new year at Yale lurked around the corner, but she said nothing about it, continuing her time with him as if it would go on forever. Back in May, when he told her they would start new, implying an infinite span of time, the words had tripped over his tongue, stumbled out of his mouth. Even then, he had known them to be false.
Her silence only seemed to confirm it.
----
Jess heard the door creak open, and the soft padding of her feet as she walked across the kitchen. He didn't look up from table, as he was still in the middle of figuring out how much money he would shortly have to say goodbye to, and how he was going to start saving more. However, once she slid her arms over his shoulders and down his chest, he paused in his work. The pen dropped from his hand with a muffled thud, rolling close to the edge. He tilted his head in her direction.
"Hey," she mumbled, leaning closer. "What are you doing?"
"Bills."
"That word makes you sound old," she laughed, surprisingly cheerful for a person who had just woken up. At two in the morning.
"You still like water, right?" He asked. "The shower thing… you still do that?"
"Yeah," she sighed, trying to sound shameful. "That is one of my needs."
"Okay, how about electricity? Haven't you always wanted to live like the Amish? A new experience could be fun."
"How would we read?"
"Candlelight," he answered.
She rested her chin on the top of his head, frowning at the papers spread out before him, numbers on each, climbing steadily higher and higher.
"But that would make us strain our eyes, until eventually our eyesight would be so poor, we'd have to get glasses. Those cost even more money."
"Screw the glasses, we'll make a preemptory strike and eat more carrots."
"Carrots cost money," she reminded him.
"Right, so I guess that means the electricity stays."
"I thought we were going to make it this month."
"We are, I think. This is for next month," he explained. Next month. September. The thought got under his skin, implanting a thousand doubts and fears. If she was gone, there would be less expense; he would no longer have to worry. He had become accustomed to the worry, however. He wouldn't be whole without it. "We need to give something up, or else we're gonna have trouble buying food."
"No food?" She dropped her head to his shoulder, trying to meet his eyes. "I like food."
"I'm kind of a fan myself."
"Let's get rid of the TV. It's ridiculous that we even have one."
"Yeah, and deprive you of your news? You threw a tantrum when I told you we didn't get CNN."
"I did not throw a tantrum."
"TV stays," he muttered, dragging his gaze across the table. A calculator lay nearby, the total unnerving him. "We have the most basic package, it's not that big of a deal."
"Phone?" She offered helpfully.
"Huh. Phone. My boss might put up a fight."
"You can tell him you have ESP, and if he thinks really hard, you'll hear him, and materialize right in front of him."
He turned his head fully now, and she eyed him coyly, surprised at the smirk present on his face.
"Phone?"
"Phone," she repeated, agreeing. "We don't need one."
He reached behind her, his hand landing on the back of her neck, gently prodding her closer. She kissed him quickly, a playful mood settling over the both of them. She kissed him three more times, continuously pulling away between each, until finally, he half-lifted, half-pulled her into his lap. She landed haphazardly, almost taking a dive onto the floor. Neither dwelled on it though as she pressed against him, her fingertips on his jaw guiding him back to her. Without breaking contact, she managed to readjust herself so that she was straddling him. He let out a small moan of appreciation, and she smiled into his mouth.
He stood suddenly, bringing her with him, handling her carefully so she wouldn't drop from his arms. He sat her on the table in front of him, a burgeoning desire within him, needing this. Slowly, he began to push her backwards. Halfway down, she shifted against him, pulling away slightly to speak. He simply moved further forward to catch her words, not wanting to lose the taste.
"Jess," she breathed, "the papers."
His hand slipped from her back to just above her ass, and he pulled her against him, hard, their hips interlocking. He quickly brushed the bills away, sending them scattering all over the kitchen. He didn't care enough to be more efficient; he was concentrating too intently on the gasp that had escaped from the back of her throat. She tugged at his shirt, and both hit the table with too much force, her head saved from injury only by his hand.
He felt the pain however, thrumming in the center in his palm, shooting up his arm. On instinct, he broke the kiss, and looked down at her face, her flushed cheeks and swollen lips. God, he loved that he did that to her, that he was the one to get her blood pumping, her heart smashing against her ribcage.
For the first time, he noticed that she was clad in only a shirt, his shirt, one that barely skimmed her thighs. He crushed his mouth back to hers, running his fingers down her body, landing on her leg. He was about three seconds from climbing completely on top of her; his feet kept shifting, ready to lift in the air.
Her hand on his chest stopped him.
"This table…" She took in a short breath, "It's too much weight."
"Are you kidding? This table is like steel." His voice was low, unnaturally quiet, "It's fine."
He dipped back down and bit her bottom lip, but immediately drew away when a loud creak interrupted the moment. He stood up straight, lifting her up at the same time, and he fell back into his chair, landing in their previous position, her on his lap.
She buried her face into his neck, trying to muffle her laughter.
"We need a new table," Jess decided, annoyed.
"We should get one," she agreed. "Cancel the TV, it'll save you money."
His thoughts of intimacy took a backseat to the train that slammed to the front of his mind. His eyes clouded over, a mix of uncertainty and imminent resignation, but she didn't seem to notice. The only reason he had had the television set up was for her. She liked to watch the news in the morning sometimes, and she always tuned in late at night, catching sight of the job she coveted. He couldn't give her Yale; he could only give her a glimpse.
"I don't have to —"
"Don't worry about it," she assured him, standing up.
She kissed him on the bridge of his nose before heading off to the bedroom. She left the door open, a request for him to come to bed soon. The charged atmosphere dissipated quickly with her retreating back, leaving him sullen and very much alone in their kitchen. He began to pick up the bills from the floor, setting them on the table, throwing them into a disorderly pile. He sat back down in front of them, and shot them a wary look, suddenly not caring about whether or not he could make rent next month.
His mind returned to her words, still unable to decipher them. He had no idea what she wanted anymore.