Author's Notes

This chapter practically wrote itself, even if it took a little longer than expected. It got a little delicate towards the end, there.

Warnings: vomit, emo!Naomi, Fight Club reference, the return of Emily

Abnormally Attracted to Sin

Chapter 15: Strong Black Vine

By Persephone's Nautical Nun

I don't put any thought into the direction I take to leave. I just go, needing to get out of the atmosphere and back on solid ground. I feel myself descending back into myself the farther I walk, and the dark doesn't bother me. It's actually kind of nice, and I'll take any comfort I can get right now.

I can't seem to figure out where I am inside my head. I can't seem to come to an actual conclusion about anything. I miss Emily, but not the one I just left. I think I'd be okay if I never run into her ever again, but I know that's ridiculous. Anger is a natural occurrence for anybody alive, it's just that I had never seen it on Emily, and she just looked so ugly with it.

I shiver at my own thoughts as I approach a ladder, and I realize that it didn't take nearly as long as the trip to the party did. It was probably the exact same distance, though, and merely felt shorter due to being familiar with the route. The human mind's a tricksty bastard, and enjoys toying with us.

I lean my head back, and my eyes skim up the ladder, following it into the darkness. It seems like such a very long way up, and I'm already drunk, but not so far gone to think this situation isn't dangerous. If I attempt to climb up now, I'll almost surely fall to my death. But if I stay here, stay still, I'm afraid I might break forever.

I clearly did not think this situation out thoroughly enough, because if I had, I wouldn't have been so eager to get this fucked up.

I grasp one of the rungs and lean my body against the ladder, and the metal is cold against my cheek, the chill grounding me somehow. I sigh deeply, a last ditch effort to steady myself, but it just causes a wave of nausea to wash over me.

Someone's coming. It's so quiet and still down here that the echo of movement against the walls is unmistakable, and I can see the faint glow of a cell phone as it's being used as a flashlight. I stand straight and try to appear calm and fine, but I guess I must have moved too fast, because I can feel the bile begin its rise up my esophagus.

I manage to make it a few steps before my legs give out from under me and my stomach heaves. I expect a rush of all of my insides to splatter against the ground, but I find my muscles having to work against a string of goo, and help it on its way, and it feels as though something important is slowly being pulled from my center.

It hurts. It hurts so badly that my eyes water as I heave and heave and watch as this thing creeps out of my mouth.

I begin to sob, because there's no other reaction for me to have.

The footsteps come fast, and then there are arms around me, and a hand smoothing my hair away from my face. "It's alright, love, let it out," Cook coaxes into my ear, and it only makes my sobbing harder, and he holds me a little tighter.

"Oh, Cook," I say, looking up at him when I'm finally empty, and wrap my arms around his neck.

"It's alright, Naomikins," he says, and I can tell that even he thinks he's lying, but I guess it's nice that he's trying. "Can you hold onto me?" he asks, shifting so that his back is to me, and pulls my arms around his shoulders and across his chest, and I nod against his shoulder blade as he stands up, carrying me piggy-back.

There's something calming about the repetitive movement of his muscles as he starts the climb back up to the earth's surface. I press my face against his back, soaking up the clammy warmth from his exertions, and I feel myself begin to drift off to sleep.

I fade in and out of consciousness, hovering somewhere above my body, and I'm vaguely aware of a change of direction from skywards, to forwards, and I wonder why Cook doesn't try to get me to walk on my own. Not that I'm complaining, really, because we've come out in the hospital, and it makes it easier to deal with if I don't have to look at it.

Though, I still get the feeling that something's going to pounce on me from the ceiling.

I refuse to open my eyes until we get out of the emergency room, knowing that in my inebriated state I'll just freak myself out, and possibly hurt both myself and Cook in the process, but when I do finally crack my eyes open, I wish I had kept them shut just a little longer. There's one other spot aside from the emergency room that I've always found unsettling, and we're currently traveling over it.

On one end of the hallway, there's a dried pool of something dark, and it looks like whatever it was trickled its way down the hall. The only problem is that the floor slopes upwards in that direction.

So, you know, that should be physically impossible, and seeing it causes me to hold on tighter to Cook, and bury my face in his back again.

"Sorry, but you've got to do this part yourself," he says, jostling me awake. God, I'm fucked up, and the realization of just how much dawns on me as he crouches down, and my feet hit the ground, and the world spins for just a minute.

We're at that one knocked out window on the end of a wing that's hidden by the shadows of a nearby tree, and he wants me to climb out by myself, which I guess makes sense, since I'd probably get torn to shit on broken glass if he tried to get out with me on his back. I position myself next to the window and brace my hands on either side of it, propping my feet up on the sill. "Alright, on three," he says, putting his hands on my waist so he can help me on my journey, but I surprise him and myself by pulling myself up and through the window before he even starts counting. I suppose muscle memory is not to be underestimated.

Coming down is a little bit trickier, and I think I trip over my own feet as I set them down. I think I would have gone toppling to the ground, but I still had a hand against the wall, and I wrap my fingers around the edge of the window, and instead swing around to collide with the wall.

As if I needed any more hurt tonight.

Cook sticks his head out of the window for a second before pulling it back inside and climbing out himself. "Are you alright?" he asks, coming over to me and putting his hand on my shoulder, and his concern, and the situation, and the night in general amuse me to the point that I actually start to laugh.

He doesn't look at me like I'm crazy. He doesn't try to get me to stop. Instead, he joins me, and it feels like we're sharing in some inappropriate joke, and I think I might cry.

He smiles at me when we both calm down, and puts his arm around my shoulders, guiding me to the street. When we're about a block away from the hospital, he releases his hold on me and pulls out his cell phone, saying, "Let's call a taxi, yeah?" and I have to agree that it's a good idea, since I live all the way across town.

We wait in silence, and Cook chain smokes, and then there's still more silence during the ride, and when the driver stops, we're outside of Emily's apartment. I try to explain to Cook that I don't want to be here, that I'm afraid of her presence, but because of the silence, I appear to have forgotten how to speak, and I certainly don't have the strength to resist him in any way as he practically carries me up the stairs.

I would have been fine on my own from there, but Cook goes so far as to help me out of my shoes after helping me into bed. I grasp the covers in my fists and wrap them around my body. I'm overwhelmed by my own scent, and this time I do start to cry, because this can only mean that she's gone to me forever, and nothing is going to bring her back.

My hand reaches out to Cook, not being able to handle my surroundings and myself, and he sighs sadly before sliding into bed with me and wrapping his arms around my shoulders, and it's only then that I can drift off to a dreamless sleep.

*****

I had been expecting Emily to come and reclaim her apartment, but she didn't. Part of me thought that since we had been to the same party a week ago, that meant that she'd be coming back, not just to me, but to Katie and everyone. Except then I remembered that this was one of those Lost Boys events, and had nothing to do with our little group, and the only reason I was there was because Shane wanted me to be.

I feel like the main character in Fight Club, with his insomnia that makes him feel isolated from the rest of the world. It's like I'm technically functioning; I'm eating, I'm bathing, I'm going to class, but I don't really know exactly why anymore.

I don't know what it is I'm working for, and I wonder what kind of havoc I might be wreaking in those hours where I simply space.

I'm circling through the apartment, packing my things, and whatever pieces of Emily I can't bear to part with, because the end of the month is two days away, and I figure it's easier to be gone than try and deal with an angry landlord.

I'm contemplating the picture of me when I hear the door open, and I poke my head out of the bedroom to investigate the intrusion, and I have to concentrate in order to keep my knees from buckling underneath me.

Emily's coming through the door with her guitar positioned under her arm, and I watch as she tosses a big black duffel bag into the living room. She hasn't noticed me, yet, and leans her guitar against the wall and steps back outside for a second, returning with a small amp, and I wonder for a moment where she got it.

By now, I've stepped out into the living room, nervously playing with my own hands. She sees me as she steps back inside, but doesn't appear surprised. She simply slows her movements as she sets the amp down, and won't take her eyes off me. She stands up straight and crosses her arms over her chest, and tilts her head ever so slightly. "Yeah, I heard you were staying here," she says at last, before moving to close the door, and I sigh in relief, because she doesn't sound angry.

She doesn't sound happy either, but baby steps are fine.

I open my mouth to speak, but there are so many things that want to come rushing at her that they all get wedged in my throat. I want to apologize again, in case she didn't understand the first time. I want to ask her where she was. I want to explain why I'm here, but I can't seem to do any of these things, and I actually grunt in frustration.

"Careful, you might hurt yourself," she deadpans as she crouches in front of her duffel bag and unzips it, rifling around in its contents, and while I know she wasn't trying to make me laugh, I do anyway. I've taken so much to laughing at inappropriate moments that I might laugh at my own mother's funeral.

She looks up at me with an arched eyebrow, producing the random coffee can Bryan had taken and makes her way into the kitchen with it. "I'm sorry," I say between chuckles. "It's not funny," I continue, my voice returning to normal. "None of it is." She sighs and slides the coffee can into a cabinet, and we're silent for a few minutes before I have to break it. "What are you doing here?"

She furrows her brow and turns her head. "Isn't this conversation backwards?" she asks, gesturing. "I do pay rent, after all," she snarks, shrugging her shoulder, and it freaks me out how much she looks like Katie.

"I thought you were gone," I say, and even I know how lame I sound. I just don't know how to explain further, because I'm not sure I even know how I wound up here. "It just… happened."

She nods, like she's taking in the information and deconstructing it, but it's too deliberate, and I brace myself for the sarcasm. "So, you thought you'd just settle in?" she asks, and she sounds like she could throw in a scoff and an eye roll, and I'm glad she doesn't.

I shake my head, trying to wipe everything away; this situation, my own insanity, but I'm still here when the motion stops. I sigh, screw up my courage, and walk past her, pausing just slightly next to her, and move to the door. "Wait," she says, turning around, and when I face her she looks more like the Emily I remember, and my heart flutters. She sighs and flops an arm against her side, looking a little unsure, and I wish I knew where it came from. "Sorry about the party."

"I wish you'd stop apologizing to me," I mumble, and I think she's as surprised as I am that I said it. I honestly have no idea where it came from, but that doesn't make it any less true. It's interesting, what you know without being aware of it. "You and I both know I don't deserve them."

She shrugs and shoves her hands in her pockets, and I release an internal sigh of relief, because I know by now that means she's nervously hopeful, so maybe something's salvageable here, eventually. I have to tread lightly and carefully, though, because it can all go to shit very quickly. "Habit," she says, "I apologize a lot."

I take two steps towards her, not daring to try to move any closer, and I can tell she notices, even if she doesn't say anything. "I wish you wouldn't," I repeat, not quite being able to meet her gaze, and the mood starts to feel familiar. There's tension, and it's uncomfortable, but it's familiar, and I don't feel so scared.

She chuckles, and the ghost of a smile graces her lips. "It kept the peace growing up with Katie," she explains with a wave of her hand, and I think we may have gotten over the biggest hump, even though she's obviously still guarded.

We're quiet for a minute, and I decide that now is as good a time as any to tell her that I'm not going to run away anymore, that I'm ready to explore whatever it is that's always been between us, and possibly throw myself at her feet and beg for forgiveness for wasting so much time, but by the time I open my mouth, she's dragging her duffel bag across the living room floor and into the bedroom.

She laughs, and I can't help the smile that spreads across my face, because it sounds real and natural, and it's been way too long since I've heard it. "Were you going to make off with my things?" she calls, still laughing.

I make my way over to her bedroom and lean against the wall, crossing my arms across my chest, and trying not to blush. "I didn't know you were coming back," I say, fighting the urge to hide my face in my hands, finally losing said battle when she throws a knowing smirk my way.

I straighten my face and look up at her, and the mood has shifted, become serious again, and tense. I set my mouth in a line and push off from the wall, making my way over to stand next to her, and peer into my own open bag. She's talking about a tiny brown stuffed bear, and I reach in and pick it up by one of its tiny little feet. Its nose is crooked, and the cloth's nearly threadbare, and it looks like something she's had since birth, and I wondered many times why she hadn't asked Katie to get it for her. "AJ gave that to me," she explains, watching me muse about the stupid thing. "I think he found it somewhere."

I raise my eyebrows and toss it on the end of her mattress. She bends down to grab it, but she's got to lean over my bag and across me in order to get to it, and I wonder if maybe it wasn't deliberate. I can't seem to know anymore. "You can have it if you want," she says, spinning the bear by his stubby arms between her hands.

"No, thanks," I say, waving her off and smiling, and trying to ignore how close we've gotten. If I look closely enough, I can just make out her pulse under the skin of her neck.

There doesn't seem to be a point in holding onto something she doesn't care about.

I sigh and move around her and lower myself to the edge of the mattress and look up at her. "I mean it, you know," I say quietly. "I really am sorry."

She shakes her head and looks like she's going to protest, but I hold up a hand and she falls silent. "Stop trying to make everything I do okay. It's not okay, and I need to live with that," I explain, and watch as she bites her lip and nods. "I was scared, Emily," I say, looking down at my hands in my lap. "I guess I still am."

"Naomi…" she starts, but I shut my eyes and shake my head, so she doesn't continue. I can't handle her comforting me right now.

"But I'm miserable," I confess, and it shocks her so much that she sits where she stands, so now she's sitting on the floor across from me, and being level with her makes this conversation harder. "I'm miserable, and I don't know how to make it stop."

"I'm miserable, too," she says, and it's the first time I've actually seen her sad. I would always catch flashes, but she'd never let them linger. "You know you've pulled some shit, right?" she asks, and her voice is stronger, more normal and stable, and I look away from her and nod before she continues. "I mean, you string me along for years, which I guess is just as much my fault as it is yours, but just when I think you've finally let me in, you close right off again, only to come back and suggest nothing more than adolescent experimentation, knowing full well how I feel about you," she says calmly, and I can't help but notice the lack of past tense. "I just... needed to get away from everything, from you."

"Do you feel better, now that you have?" I ask, quietly.

She runs her fingers through her hair and sighs. "I'm better now that you've apologized," she explains slowly. "And I'm better now that I've gotten to tell you why I'm upset in the first place."

I nod, because it's only fair, but now I don't know what to do. "Where does that leave us, then?" I ask, catching her eye.

"I don't know," she admits with a small shrug. "Where do you want us to be?"

I don't know. That's the whole point I'm trying to get across here, but I'm somehow not surprised when I open my mouth, and say with all seriousness, "Kiss me. Please."