A/N: That's right folks, a double posting just special for you! Mostly as an apology for not keeping up with this the way that I wanted to. D: As per usual, life got in the way, and I just couldn't keep the pace. But I won't be leaving this by the wayside anytime soon, so don't worry! Things are about to get cray.
Derek
"I know you."
He whispers it softly, like a condemnation, and it's the worst thing he could say. He's not mad. He's not confused. He's not even particularly sad. He's…. resigned. And it makes you sick. He closes his eyes, tries to breathe, hiccups and whimpers instead, turns and turns in place. He breezes straight past you, goes to the kitchen sink, and vomits.
He doesn't raise his head from the porcelain, doesn't make any more sounds, just slumps, like he's lost the will. You close your eyes, swallow hard, and close the door. You search for a shirt, find one between the couch cushions, and shrug it on before padding over to the kitchen space. You pull up a stool, pull at your sleeves, wait.
Outside the mail truck stops and starts as it goes down the street—a constant whir and creak—dogs bark, and your screen door bounces on its hinge with the wind. Every time you shift your weight, the wood groans, you wince, he flinches. You wonder how he found out, if he always knew, why he decided to come, if Jackson knows. You feel…. relieved more than anything. You still feel like shit, still want to throw yourself down the crooked stairs fifteen feet away, but it's better than what you had been holding in.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you fight to find it in the loose fabric, struggling to find the pocket in the billowy folds, before you wrench it free. Cora's name and face blink back at you and though you wish, more than anything else, that you could use this as an out call, you hit ignore, and set the device down with a grimace. He's looking at you now, eyes rimmed red, nose pink, skin pale.
"I can wait." He croaks, throat protesting at the sound. You look down at your lap and then back up, shaking your head. Honestly you should save everyone the time and just get 'Fuck Up' tattooed in block letters across your brow. He snorts, meanly, and walks over to the couch, sitting on the arm before falling back and staying again.
You stand, rinse the vomit out of the sink, get a glass of water, and hand it to him. For a long while he just stares at it, but you keep your arm outstretched, and just as it's starting to get tired, he takes it from you, and gulps the whole thing down. He scrubs at his head, his face—so hard it leaves ugly, raw marks. "I wanted to tell you." It's the wrong thing to say. Hell, anything is probably the wrong thing to say, but you can't keep it from spilling out your mouth. "That day at the gallery, I meant to tell you, but…" You wring your hands, look away.
"I knew." He's quitter still, looking at you through the empty glass in his hands, feet fidgeting. "I didn't know it was you… but I knew there was someone." He sits it down on the coffee table, seems to take a minute to consider, and then stares you straight in the eye "You're not his first. I was hoping…. I was hoping this time it was more than just a fuck." A few tears roll free and he blinks them away, wiping at his nose. "I was hoping that it meant something. Does it? Do you love him? Am I—are you worth it?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn't how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to storm in, supposed to punch you out, supposed to try and make you feel like shit and fail. He was supposed to find you heartless and cold. It was supposed to be easy. A good lay. No feelings. No attachment. You played your cards wrong again and ended up on the losing end. Because you wish you could tell him that you and Jackson are soul mates, that all this pain was for something, some great, cosmic cause, not a quick cum. You desperately wish to alleviate him of this burden, and yet, as the silence stretched, you know that he's got it all figured out.
"Right, right." He nods, harsh, and sits up. "Take him." He claps his hands together and laughs, cold and empty. "I'll be at the gallery at four. Tell him to come and get his fucking things. I don't care if he stays here or stays on the streets, but he will not sleep in my house." He stands and smiles at you—lips quivering, but a determined grit to his jaw. "Burn my art, lose my number, forget my face." It's not forceful, it's not heated, and it's not to be questioned. He turns on his heel and heads for the exit.
"I can't." He stops in the doorway, looks back at you, and leaves.
