A/N: Thanks for the feedback. It's always a delight. Things should become clearer as the story goes on.
Chapter Two: And if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again
She hums a tune she doesn't recognize. It reminds her of Jess, and she has no idea why. It's not much of a surprise though, because recently it seems as if everything is an extension of him. He's been on her mind so much lately, and try as she might, he won't go away. He's like a parasite, gnawing inside her, and damn it, there's no cure. But he's the best kind of plague; it's one of the reasons she called him, gave in so fast. She can't have him angry with her, and the sooner they put that fight behind them, the sooner they can return to their usual heated normalcy.
Her eyes flicker across each page, but the words have all blurred together, one giant black swirl of information she needs in order to write her paper tomorrow. Perhaps if she allows herself to pitch forward, landing on the textbook, she can learn through osmosis. With an exasperated sigh, she gives up and drops the book onto her desk. She figures she can either go to bed and hope for some kind of divine intervention regarding her reading, or simply not worry about it, allowing herself to slack off just this once. It's a shame Paris isn't there, because she'd twist her arm into finishing, threatening and glaring until Rory did so. But she's off studying, most likely won't be back to their room until one or two, and that's a few hours from now. Rory hopes to be in dreamland by then.
So she paces around her room, restless. The room seems too small for her, and for a moment, she seriously considers going out. Where, is the million dollar question. The interior of his apartment flies through her mind, and if it were any other night, she'd go. Show up outside his door, textbook in hand, and he'd let her spread herself out on the couch, stretching her tired bones. Two pages in, she'd be asleep, and he'd set the alarm early for the next morning.
However, she fears he's still mad. A seething anger that he won't mention, but she'd see it in his eyes. An unsettling gaze that would make her feel as if he could see her inside out, and sometimes, she thinks he can. Better to stay here tonight, better to wait out the passing of the storm, better not to think about her hurtful words colliding with his…
There's a knock at the door.
It's an earth tone, beige, and it reminds her of the walls in old, rundown office buildings. Cracked and peeling paint, and an overweight, frumpy woman sitting behind the desk. She's overworked, underpaid, and her kindness was used up hours ago with the first three phone calls. She's Rory's worst nightmare; stuck in a dead end job, no hope of ever becoming something more, and each passing day is another shovel full of dirt dumped on her grave.
Jess's opinion is that she's over thinking this, as usual. It's only the color of his bedroom, and he thinks it's the least important room in his apartment in reference to choosing paint colors. As much time that's spent in there, the lights are always off, so what's the big deal? She shrugs, staring out the window, eyeing the familiar scenery. He saw apartments in Woodbridge, Orange, Hamden, and even Stars Hollow, although that was only to humor his uncle. But somehow, he ended up in New Haven, and each step of the way, he insisted that it was the best of the bunch. She wonders if he moved there for her; he knows he did.
She wants to stencil ivy green vines along the tops of his walls, because she's never tried stenciling before, and it seems interesting. College is all about trying new things, right? He reminds her that this isn't college, but his 'bachelor pad' (her words, actually, not his), and he will not have flowers all over his bedroom. When she reminds him that the lights are always off anyway, he rolls his eyes and flicks paint at her. This move is, naturally, followed by her retaliation, which leads to an all out paint war between the two of them. The drop cloth, thoughtfully laid down beforehand, is the only thing keeping his recently redone hardwood floors from ruin.
Suddenly, she's lying on the plastic, looking up at him, because he, not so gracefully, has tackled her to the ground. They're both covered in paint, playfully touching, but then there's the awkwardness: not because of now but because of before. Friendship works alright for them, now that she's forgiven him, but this kind of close proximity only stirs up faded memories. It's an old wound ripped open again, bleeding. But then he's smirking, a familiar glint of mischief shining in his eyes, and a second later, her hair is covered in paint, and tangled, and he's relentless.
She laughs, wriggles, and the moment is forgotten as the day drags on, melting into afternoon, and then, evening. By the time they're finished, she thinks that the floor is more covered with paint than the walls.
He's standing in front of her now, and she feels shy and self-conscious, a giggly teenage girl with a crush. It's strange how he isn't saying anything. A nod was his form of greeting for the night, and it seems as if it's up to her to get the ball rolling. Then, she remembers: she slips the novel out from underneath her textbook, and presents him with it. A peace offering. She offers a half smile, and tells him how she saw the book, and it screamed him.
"Literature and Evil?" He asks. He wants to laugh at the humor in this. She read the title and thought of him. What did that imply?
"It's by Georges Bataille," she explains, even though he already knows this. The author's name is printed on the front cover, his name bigger than the words in the title. "He uses other authors' work to prove that 'Literature is not innocent'. Um, Emily Bronte's in there, and Proust, Blake, Baudelaire —"
He cuts her off, "Didn't Baudelaire write Flowers of Evil?" She nods. "Am I sensing a pattern?"
This time her smile is wider, and laced with secrecy, and he has to turn away, choosing to sit on the bed. She moves closer and flops down next to him, causing a mini earth quake that shakes them both. The tips of her toes barely brush the floor, and she puts her left hand underneath her head. Lazy, relaxed, she doesn't even seem to notice that her shirt has ridden up just enough for him to see skin. Suppressing a sigh, he copies her actions, landing softly, however, and tucking both arms beneath his head. The book has been discarded off to the side, and this time, she waits for him. The silence is less charged, and he is hesitant to break it, but knows that he should.
"I got your message," he begins. "You lied."
"I really am sorry," she says. She is.
"Not about that."
"Oh." She pauses, thinking. Finally, it clicks, and she feels a small pang. They were hasty words, but unfortunately, she thinks they were true. "I don't hate you all the time. It's just that sometimes you make it really hard to love you."
He is suddenly a hundred times more alert, the word 'love' sending invisible tremors throughout his body. She's always been so careful about using words like that, ones that carry so much weight, and he's not sure if it's more for his benefit or hers. She has never uttered it in his presence before, at least, not meaning it this way. He knows she'll ignore it now, and leave him floundering in this sea of confusion. It's easier.
"Did you go out last night?" She asks.
Out of the corner of her eye, she studies him. He looks rather beaten down today. His hair, always sticking this way and that, looks even more tousled than usual. There is the vague appearance of dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, and a patch of stubble on his chin, as if he hasn't shaved in a few days. She wonders how much sleep he's had lately, and what's he's been up to since their argument, in general. Sometimes he scares her with his rash actions. It's all too easy for him to throw caution to the wind.
"Yup."
"Did you drink?"
"Yup."
"And… did you…" She trails off, feeling awkward.
"Sleep with anyone?" He knows it makes her jealous just as he knows that she won't say anything. That would make her hypocritical, not to mention weak. "Yeah," he admits.
The affirmation hangs around them, becoming almost tangible. She would like nothing more to pluck it from the air, and break it apart, have it disintegrate in her hands. Now images of him and another girl, faceless and nimble, tangled in sheets, dance in her head. She says nothing, falls into this too realistic fantasy, and not even the knowledge that he was drunk at the time can cushion the blow. She sucks in a breath, and hopes for a change of subject.
"So, Rory," — sometimes she's sure he can read her mind — "Graduation is less than three months away…"
"I'm patiently waiting for your point."
He turns, a teasing smile fixed on his face, "Soon enough you'll be on your own. So… what do you want to be when you grow up?"
It's an excellent alternative to speak about. The future gives her tingles of excitement. He knows her well. "An astronaut."
"Brilliant choice."
"I want to be a journalist. I always have." Ever since she was a little girl, it's been the career she's coveted. Sometimes she regrets not fantasizing about jobs she could never have. She was never one to waste time on pipe dreams of glamorous movie stars or willowy ballerinas, spinning and twirling along Swan Lake. "What about you?"
"I have no idea," he admits. "I don't want to grow up."
"Because I'm a Toys R Us kid," she sings.
"When I was a kid, I wanted to be a firefighter."
"Because they bravely face fires and rescue kitties and save lives?"
"No, because they get to slide down those poles."
"I should have guessed. But really, if it was only for the pole, why not dream of becoming Batman or something? A pole and a Bat cave," she points out, her tone as logical as she can make it.
"I may have been eight, but I knew superheroes didn't exist."
"A realist, I like that."
She turns and smiles at him, and there is the faintest hint of a grin on his face. The fight is officially over now, almost forgotten. There is no reason to think about his eyes giving her a longing look, asking for more than she can offer. No need to remember her words, yelling out her hate for him, because sometimes she's so damn confused: hate or love? Where's the line? He'll back off now, she thinks; he'll accept what he has. He has her, or at least, as much as she can give.
"I should go, it's getting late," he suggests, eyeing the clock.
He sits up, and she follows suit, watching him walk to the door. She turns and untucks her blanket, preparing to go to sleep. Fatigue is beginning to overpower her, and she stifles a yawn. She turns to wish him a goodbye, but then he's beside her bed again, reaching down to take his forgotten book.
"Jess?" He looks up. "Do you want to stay here tonight?" Her words startle even herself, as she was not planning on asking him this. But now that it's out there, she's happy her mouth often moves faster than her mind. She'd like to sleep next to him tonight. "I don't hate you right now," she teases.
He can only stare, stunned into silence. He figured they'd speak — which they did — make up indirectly, laugh over random things — check, check — and then he'd leave. That was the plan. Why can't she ever follow it? He's so tired of her games. She's making up the rules as she goes along.
It's funny. She may not hate him now, but he's not so sure he doesn't hate her. She thinks she can only feel that way, unsure of her feelings towards him. But often he questions just what he's thinking, and it's definitely moments like these. She's easy to love, and even easier to hate, because she doesn't seem to realize how she's always messing with him, confusing him. Here she is now, however, sitting on her bed in a tank and shorts, inviting him closer. He sits back down, mutters some sort of a positive answer to her question, and slips off his shoes, and then his shirt. She gives him an approving smile, and crawls beneath the covers.
"Paris won't be back for another few hours, and by that point, we'll be asleep, so she won't dare to venture over here. Something about her fear of finding us naked in bed. Not that we'll actually be naked but —"
"I'm going to sleep now," he says, sliding in next to her. "All your rambling has tired me out."
"Funny," she doesn't laugh. She reaches over him, turns off the tableside lamp, and the room is cast into darkness.
He's turned away from her, toward the edge, not out of spite, and she knows that. He prefers almost hanging off the bed, but she's right there, nearly curled into him, her legs bumping his every time she moves.
"Do you remember her name?" Her voice is timid in his ear, unsure.
"No."
There's a pause. "Good."
It's times like these, her warm skin against his, that he forgets the emotion of hate entirely. He won't recall how she's one of his biggest problems, how the reason he went out drinking in the first place was her. What would she think of that? She drives him crazy, out of his mind, but he comes back, she needs him, and sometimes, he's sure he needs her as well. Why else would he be here now? These thoughts are quick, already floating away as another takes its place. He does his best to clear his mind, wishing for peace. Finally, he begins to drift off to sleep as he feels butterfly wings brush his back, her fingertips tracing the day old scratches that mar him.
*