He didn't use to dream. Not in his adult life anyway.
It was probably a consequence of military school, where sleep would be far fetched and easily disturbed. When sleep would be shallow, missing peace. When falling asleep would be impregnated with the anxiety of waking up to the morning call, that would signal the start of the mindless routine that guided his life back then from minute to minute of every day.
That's why it had been a shock to welcome back dreams into his life, into his sleep, way back in college. They would be short and nearly impossible to recall, but he was sure he had them. They would be lingering in his mind all morning, setting the mood as he would perform his early morning jog. Because he would still get up at an ungodly hour despite being his own master. Those couple of years of getting up early set his internal alarm clock irrevocably.
With Rory, the dreams got more intense. As did his life. For the first time he felt challenged, influenced, motivated by another human being. And her spontaneity, her inscrutability would amaze him constantly, bathing his dreams with memories of her. He remembered those summer nights the most, when perhaps because of the slow heat settling in over the city he would have vivid dreams of how it felt to walk next to her, to be with her, her scent and movements playing in his mind. When waking up would be a long intertwining of dreams and reality, her body heat slowly soaking his consciousness as she would melt into his form.
When she left, the dreams got unbearable.
For they were still there, still haunting, but resulted in the over sensing of the lack of her presence. He would wake, slowly, and torturously, the images, the wanting playing in his mind and his first conscious thoughts would be akin to the first successful breaths of those who'd just nearly escaped drowning, when the air that actually promises you life still only stings your lungs as it fills them after the overwhelming feeling of burning water.
That's what it would feel like to awake. That's what it still felt like to this day.
And then there was the desire.
So real, so intense, it would numb him. When the nearness of her in his dreams would take over his senses, awakening his desire for her, despite him not wanting to want her anymore. If it would have been a conscious decision, not wanting her anymore, he was sure he could have managed to lock her out of her life sooner. But it wasn't. Wanting her was the strongest command his body ever encountered. Wanting her was a given, was inevitable. Wanting her was torture.
That had been a shock at first. Realizing the power she had over his body. Realizing the knowledge she possessed. Who would have thought. Sure, she was a teenage object of desire, deflowering the Mary haunting his fantasies for a long long time. And they do say the quiet ones are always the wildest, but honestly, he never would have thought.
The way she made love, the way she participated in anything intimate, was such a stark contrast to how she lived her life, guided by lists written and imaginary. The way she made love was pure poetry, erratic and unpredictable, overwhelming and maddening. The way she made love made him realize he never had before meeting her.
Sure, he'd had sex. He'd fucked and had been given head and had performed most of the poses known to men in one drunken stupor or another. But he had never made love, where the nearness and lightness of contentment was so bruising, so liberating it would annihilate his mind. Where his body seemed to dissolve and escape his own well secured customs. When conscious control of any kind simply stopped existing.
Being vocal was just part of it. A surprising part nevertheless. Sure he used words and sounds to drive a lover to the edge before, always leading, always being in full control even if he was succumbing to the most burning of arousals. Being vocal with her wasn't a choice. It was inevitable, it was a mirror of how lost and uncontrolled she made him feel. He would whisper, curse, swear, moan and beg, chanting her name or groaning his indescribable pleasure in her ear, not worrying about who else would hear. He was sure someone did. Even luxury apartments had limited wall thickness.
He smirked realizing his mind once again found its way back into the gutter, like so many times when he stood in his darkened office at the end of the day.
It was Friday and he should have been at the party for 20 minutes already.
He'd pulled a long day in his office and the last thing he wanted right now was a loud Halloween party, but honestly he could take the party. The party wasn't his concern.
It was her.
They hadn't talked since that heated confrontation on the street but she'd been haunting his mind and his dreams all week long.
Starting with the minute he got back to
his apartment that night, with images of her silver dress and her
black stilettos playing vividly in his mind. He wanted to be angry at
her, to yell at her, to punish her, but mostly he wanted to fuck her
senseless. It had been too long.
He remembered that as he got home
that night, swearing loudly and kicking things in his way to release
some pent up aggression, a massive erection between his legs. He sat
down in front of his penthouse view hoping the quiet skyline would
calm his raging thoughts and body, but he eventually gave up, jerking
off violently to the memory of her.
He couldn't remember the last time he felt so guilty, so weak. He hated himself and hated her, for banishing him back to the helpless land of unsatisfiable childhood wants.
Not calling her all week was atonement and punishment and revenge all in one. But mainly torture for himself, he realized now standing in his office window still not quite sure what the hell he was going to do.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Wow, DuGray. Really. All that effort you put in, it warms my heart" the blond deadpanned as she opened the door to find Tristan in his black suit he wore for work that day.
Tristan let his eyes travel down her body dressed in a Dorothy costume that was not quite as innocent as Judy Garland would have remembered it.
"I'm dressed as a poor lawyer worked to the bone, you like it?" he smirked leaning in to kiss Paris on the cheek.
"So original" she rolled her eyes as she let him enter.
"How have you been? I haven't heard from you since..." Paris asked and Tristan couldn't help but smirk, more than surprised to hear actual concern in her voice.
"I've been fine, Paris. How is residency?" he said, changing the subject as he looked around the crowded room, unconsciously scanning the crowd.
"It's great. 36 hour shifts, 120 hour weeks. Gotta love it" she replied.
"You getting good?" he smirked still scanning the crowd.
"Yeah, got any spare parts you would like me to operate on?" Paris replied arching an eyebrow as she watched Tristan survey the room.
"Hey, hotshot" she said, finally getting his attention "she is in the next room getting some drinks" she said "why don't you go find her, she's been doing the staring at the door routine all evening" she finished, smirking as she moved to greet some others.
Tristan smiled, then made his way towards the room Paris was talking about.
He stood in the doorway and scanned the darkly lit room full of people all dancing around and chattering.
His eyes came to rest on a figure and he almost choked.
Rory turned around from the bar, dressed in her Chilton uniform. Her plaid skirt, now ending dangerously high on her thighs, swayed as she turned, the knee high socks making her legs seem even longer than they were. A tight white shirt showing quite a bit of cleavage and her hair done up in two ponytails, she looked like every sexual predators' wildest dream.
Tristan felt his mouth go dry and he couldn't stop staring.
It was a weird mix of fantasy and memories, seeing her like that. Not quite the way she used to be, but definitely the way she used to occupy his mind. He suddenly remembered what it felt like to be a horny teenager staring at the girl he so wanted, watching her concentrate in class, or dance with someone other than him at the winter formal, how it felt to clumsily kiss her on a piano bench.
God he hadn't thought of the piano bench in such a long time.
His hungry eyes took in every inch of her body as she stood there sipping a drink unknowingly. Her eyes finally met his and he still stood dumbfounded, not able to move or talk.
She smiled a shy smile and walked up to him slowly, obviously knowing full well the effect she had on him.
"Wow" he hissed and she arched an eyebrow daringly.
He was sure he could have found some more words to formulate had he not been preoccupied with trying to reverse the massive erection he was developing, but this way, he just had to stick with staring and blinking occasionally.
"Love the costume, very original" she smirked, her voice not at all surprised at his lack of an effort.
"This" he gestured towards her getup "are you trying to torture me?" he asked her flat out and smirked as he saw another innocent smile plastered on her face.
"What are you talking about?" she asked in an angelic voice, feigning innocence as she waltzed past him towards the other room, leaving him to try to compose himself.
She was so trying to torture him, he thought to himself.
He took a deep breath bracing himself for what would be a long evening and headed for the bar, hoping a couple of rounds of something strong and Scottish would help him break his spell.
He signaled to the bartender and ordered his whiskey on the rocks trying to concentrate on baseball, his latest case, cold showers, anything...
"Hey Tristan, my friend, how are things?" he heard as someone patted him on the back.
"Mission achieved" he murmured smirking as he turned around to face Doyle, clad in a scarecrow outfit.
"I'm alright Doyle, how are you?" he asked, his voice tired, weary.
"Fine, things are good. This costume is killing me though" the shorter guy sighed and Tristan chuckled at his discomfort.
"What are you dressed as anyways?" Doyle asked, looking Tristan up and down.
"James Bond" he replied smoothly as he downed his first drink, the fiery liquid stinging the back of his throat.
"See, that's cool" Doyle whined "and so much more comfortable than hay" he sighed.
Tristan signaled to the bartender for another round as he stood next to Doyle, barely acknowledging his discomfort.
"So... Rory" the guy started, his voice cautious "did she use to dress like that back in Chilton?"
Tristan chuckled again as he turned around, leaning against the bar next to Doyle.
"No man, not quite" he said with a smile.
"I tell you, that uniform... I don't know what the hell private schools are thinking" Doyle went on "All I have to say is, every time me and Paris have a little rut in our sex life... all she has to do is find that old uniform..."
Tristan cringed at the words, closing his eyes, damning Doyle for putting images in his head.
"Too much information, man" he chuckled.
"Right, sorry" Doyle apologized.
"So how are things with you two?" Doyle asked turning towards Tristan as the blond knocked back his second glass of whiskey. Sans rocks this time.
He took his time swallowing, hoping something would distract Doyle in the meantime, but he had no such luck.
"Things are... I don't know Doyle" he said, honestly.
"Well, that uniform is a message my friend" Doyle said turning back towards the other room, where he could make out Rory's form in the eye catching uniform.
Tristan avoided having to stare at her and turned back towards the bar again, wondering if he would raise suspicion in the bartender, ordering his third whiskey in under 5 minutes.
"My advice would be to go and give her what she is asking for" Doyle went on, inducing another cringe from Tristan.
The shorter guy patted Tristan in the back as he moved on to greet others, leaving him standing at the bar.
"Another round, please" he said to the bartender, who was eyeing him a bit worried.
"My ex-girlfriend is the one in the uniform" he offered as an explanation.
"Nuff said" the bartender replied, his eyes showing compassion as he poured Tristan another drink.
xxxxxxxx
He was the solemn kind of drunk, not the loud, obnoxious one. He noticed that back in military school, where their rare outings into the town's pub would end with him sitting in the corner watching amused as the other guys would create a riot. The light buzz in his head would paint everything a bit distant and amusing at the same time, leaving him to wonder about whatever came to his mind.
Which is exactly what he was doing now, standing with his back against the wall, watching the happily smashed couples dance and laugh in the living room of Paris and Doyle's huge apartment.
He felt warm, but comfortable, the countless whiskeys he consumed not really making him stone drunk, but rather tipsy, his mood considerably lighter than when he had first gotten here. He also noticed that about alcohol. It did diffuse pain and angst and worries and feelings and whatever you wanted it to diffuse really.
That was probably the basis of alcoholism, he thought to himself, chuckling lightly.
Alcohol also did slow down his senses somewhat, which is how he only recognized Rory when she was standing straight in front of him.
She slid up next to him, resting her back against the wall, looking out over the scene.
"So..." she started and he looked at her, noticing the mischief in her eyes.
"Mr. Remmy told me I should borrow someone's notes for the test, would you be willing?" she said, her voice playful.
He chuckled, remembering the very first conversation they had more than ten years ago.
She was wearing the very same outfit, but she was nowhere near as sexy back then as she looked now. She was shy back then, and naive. Quiet and held back. It intrigued him.
She was confident now, elegant and breathtaking. Even dressed like this. And it still intrigued him.
"Yeah" he replied, his voice a bit husky as he stared at her "I could even help you study if you want" he played along.
Her face lit up, happy to be reciting their lines once again.
"Um, I kind of view studying as a solitary activity, but thanks" she replied, her smile full fledged...
"That's because you've never done it with me before... Mary" he replied, smiling to himself about how easy it was to improvise the kind of comebacks he used to back when he was a teenager. He watched her reaction, turning towards her but still leaning against the wall.
She chuckled, raising an eyebrow, not turning towards him, but letting him stare at her profile.
He watched her, drinking in her sight hungrily. She was beautiful. Simply and annoyingly gorgeous. Her blue eyes shined and sparkled under the flashing lights, her dark chocolate locks cascading down, framing her face, her pale skin giving her an angelic air about her.
He wanted her so bad, it hurt.
He was suddenly reminded of the time he fell off of a stand while doing a drill. He suffered two fractured ribs and had pneumothorax. The doctors ended up putting in a chest drain which was basically a stab to the chest. But that wasn't the worst pain. The drain let the air down, expanding his lungs. That was the worst, the constant pain he felt, seemingly coming from deep inside his chest, making it impossible for him to breathe.
That's the kind of pain it felt to look at Rory and not to be able to touch her, to kiss her, to pull her close and breathe in her scent that he could distinctly make out right now.
He stared at her through his alcohol induced haze, and suddenly none of his previous resolutions, determined decisions seemed quite important.
He wondered if this was her plan, really. To tease him mercilessly with this getup, to make him want her this bad, make him abandon his plan of playing hard to get. It wouldn't be surprising. She knew how to get what she wanted. And when she had a plan, she certainly stuck to it.
He saw a random guy approach Rory asking her to dance and she said yes, glancing momentarily at him as she followed the dude towards the makeshift dance floor.
Tristan watched as she started to dance to the upbeat song blasting from the stereos, her movements graceful but still modest.
It might have been the alcohol, or just the thought, or running out of strength and determination, but at that point breathing was a true and utter effort. Nevermind the pneumothorax, watching some guy dance with her when she looked the way she looked now was the worst a man could ever feel.
He felt like he was standing at the winter formal again and he contemplated for a second whether Paris would be mad at him if he caused a similar scene than the one back then. He chuckled again knowing full well that Paris didn't quite appreciate irony the way he did.
He pushed himself off the wall and walked towards her, keeping her in his sight, his movements slow, but confident.
She noticed him straight away and looked at him smiling confused as he reached her, ignoring the protest of the guy she was dancing with.
He reached out to touch her, to finally touch her, pulling her body close to his as he started swaying to the music. She smiled, her surprise fading, replaced instead by the confidence he'd seen in her all night.
"Poor Paul seems disappointed" she remarked cheekily, referring to the guy he was dancing with before Tristan cut in.
"Paul can go screw himself" he replied, his voice coming out husky as he stared at those intensely blue eyes.
She took a sharp intake of breath as he pulled her even closer, their bodies molding together as they danced. He lent in closer finally able to inhale her scent and she closed her eyes, seemingly affected by his proximity, her body becoming weaker in his hands. His hand travelled up her back and up to her hair, feeling the silky locks between his fingers. He closed his eyes, his face touching hers, her smooth skin warming his own.
It felt intense, it felt familiar and so very foreign at the same time, having her in his arms again in actuality. Dreams could never feel this real, this painfully true. He knew that even as his mind shut down completely to all rational thought, and everything seemed to dissolve around them.