Title: one moment i have you, the next you are gone (rehearsed steps on an empty stage, that boy's got my heart in a silver cage)
WC: 1,3k.
Pairing: Phoebe Buffay/David
Contains: Non-Explicit Sex. Set during 1x10.
"I'm going to miss you, you scientist guy."
Phoebe shuts her eyes, forehead pressed to David's where they stand in Rachel's room, the party outside a muted backdrop, their friends' excited chatter an unwanted reminder of the world around them, of the reality of their situation. She knows she has to move but doesn't want to. Would rather stay where she is, wrapped in David's arms, the two of them so close they breathe the same air.
She keeps her hands on his biceps, knowing he has to go but not wanting to watch him leave. If she had known beforehand that this would be their last night together, she thinks she might've chosen something different. She feels the regret cementing itself in her chest already: the knowledge that they could have had one night together—just one, just the two of them—but blew it. There's a hungry desire that sits shadowed in her soul, a cavernous longing, something that makes her want to keep David to herself, to learn everything about him so she can love every part of him and be loved in return, but she can't stomach the thought of what having that would mean. His lifelong career isn't worth their week-long romance, Phoebe tells herself, and she doesn't want to be that girl. Won't be, she thinks, as she pulls away from him.
Or, tries to.
David's arms lock. Phoebe stills, expression questioning. She doesn't think about the way her heart flutters with hope.
David doesn't quite meet her eye. "It—uh. Well. It's not technically midnight."
It's little more than a whisper. There's a nervous excitement to it, a hesitancy; Phoebe feels the proposition run down her spine like a gush of warm water and tightens her grip on instinct. She doesn't say anything, just leans in to kiss David again, her fingertips digging against his tweed jacket as she tries to tamper the white-hot want that burns through every one of her veins. They've been waiting to cross this boundary, have thus far stuck to long, languid make-out sessions, neither of them seeing a need to rush things when what they were doing was phenomenal in its own right. Phoebe had planned to broach the topic later this week—had even gone and made reservations at David's favourite restaurant—but no, she thinks now. That's no longer going to happen, and if this is her only shot…
There is a distant voice is her head, logic calling that maybe things will be easier if they don't, but she doesn't have it in her to say no, not now, not when it's the last thing she wants to do. So she ignores logic. Chooses instead to give David everything she's got, this kiss longer, harsher, desperate. David matches her fervour; his hands run up and down her waist like they don't know what to do, how far they can go, his fingers cold where they brush the exposed span of her back. Phoebe nudges him toward Rachel's bed with an excited sort of smile, and David follows easily, happy to be pulled any which way so long as it's toward her.
He resists only when his leg hits the mattress, stopping for a second to utter a quiet, "A—are—are you sure?" His hands never leave her waist, his lips still pressed to corner of her mouth. His own assurance is obvious.
Phoebe doesn't miss a beat. "Uh-uh, yeah," she says, almost impatient. She pushes David's jacket from his shoulders and pulls his tie loose, and David smiles against her skin, the huff of air that escapes his mouth sounding suspiciously like a laugh.
They fall to Rachel's bed in a tangle of limbs, and later, Phoebe will think that she definitely owes Rachel one, but for now, she can't think past the man in her arms. Here, shadowed in the half-dark, there is only the two of them. Nothing else matters: not the party, not their friends, not Minsk or their relationship's impending end. Here, there's only her and David and the way he makes her feel. The way she makes him feel.
David touches her like he's memorised an instruction guide, every kiss—every brush of fingertips—is placed with methodical precision. It's endearing in the way Phoebe finds everything about him endearing, in the way it encapsulates so much of what draws her to him, but it's also frustrating, just a little. She wants. Wants in a way that's foreign to her, the feeling so strong it's almost scary. She doesn't know what she's going to do once this is over, can't quite imagine how she's ever going to get over this, over David, over the boundless capacity for love that he's awakened in her. She tries not to think about it too much. Tries to push it aside for Future Phoebe. She doesn't want it to ruin the moment.
"Here," she says, taking hold of David's hands and directing them beneath her dress, "why don't we just—"
David follows her lead, focused more on her than on himself. He looks at her like she's something from the Gods. His eyes are wide, bright, expression filled with an overflowing fondness, the emotion so strong Phoebe feels it. He pulls her toward him and her breath catches, mouth seeking his, her chest tight as she allows the sensation of his touch to drown everything else out.
After, when they're sticky and sweaty and sated, lying tangled in Rachel's sheets, David looks at her with that familiar enamoured expression, the tenderness that graces his features unlike anything she's ever been subjected to, and Phoebe is reminded of what he'd told her the first time they'd met. …most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life, she recalls. …luminous with a kind of a delicate grace. She'd known then that this could be something special, and she knows now that not achieving that potential will be one of the greatest regrets of her life.
In the quiet, David reaches for her once more, his hand cupping her cheek; Phoebe leans into it, her lips twitching with a smile. She knows they don't have long left. Midnight is approaching, and she'd meant what she'd said: She doesn't want to start the New Year with David if she can't finish it with him, too.
David's voice cuts through the sound of their breathing. "I…" he starts, and Phoebe holds her breath, almost certain on what he's going to say next. "I love you, Phoebe."
He strokes her cheek with his thumb, the pressure feather-light. A smile flickers across his face, small and sad, and it's a little bit ridiculous, part of Phoebe thinks, that they're both this crazy for each other when they've only been together for a few weeks, but it's also not. She can't imagine it being any other way, can't imagine feeling any different.
Phoebe opens her mouth to respond, the same sentiment sitting on her tongue, but has to close it again when the words catch in her throat. There's a lump there, thick and painful. She swallows around it and shifts as close to David as she can get, her head buried against his chest in lieu of an answer. She kisses his collar, the press of her lips soft and damp, and shuts her eyes with a sigh as David runs his fingers through her hair.
In the distance, someone lets out an excited scream. Phoebe's heart sinks at the muffled words; beneath her cheek, David's does the same.
The ball is dropping.
David leaves his tie behind, the strip of fabric placed into Phoebe's palm just before he disappears. He doesn't say anything, but the apology hangs heavy in the air, the kiss he places to her forehead filled with grief.
Phoebe closes her eyes so she doesn't have to watch him leave.