Leaving
Disclaimer: Should you happen to come across someone who claims I own Dragonball Z and you have trouble believing them, don't bother thinking too hard about it – sadly I don't and it's very unlikely I'll ever do.
Note: This story was heavily inspired by the song "Catch me while I'm sleeping" (#6 on the album "Try this" by Pink. Miss Moore – thanks bunches for that album!)
Warnings: Me as the author, implied sex, no names (but I think you're all smart enough to figure out who they are).
"I'm leaving," he said as he rose from the bed. He knew she was awake, for the wild pounding of her heart betrayed her even breathing. It was drumming in his ears. "I'm leaving," he repeated, louder and harsher. Would these words cut whatever ties he had with her?
She didn't reply, only slightly nodded her head, keeping her eyes closed. She could hear him move around, collecting the clothes he had discarded the night before when coming to her room to do what her parents had called "making love" when she had been a child. The door shut behind him with a soft click and she allowed herself the luxury of an audible sigh. A moment later she sat up in her bed, opened her eyes and looked around with a clear gaze that was untainted by emotions such as longing and sadness. It was like sobering up after a long night of uncounted beers, mixed drinks and tequila shots, the only difference being that her high was not caused by alcohol or any other substance but by something that was just as intoxicating: a man she just couldn't get enough of. The hangover, however, was far worse than anything a night of drinking could ever give her.
Her bed was a mess, her hair was even worse. Her whole body ached and she had difficulties finding purpose and raison d'être for some of the muscles she had been discovering since he had started coming to her. Her skin was clammy. Her senses weren't as elaborated as his, but still she believed that the scent of their sweaty bodies moving as one heavily perfumed the air. Slowly, she rose from her bed; a hand tangled in her hair to asses the "damage".
He had said "I'm leaving". He had told her he was going to leave since the first night they had joined. At first, she had thought he was going to leave immediately and had made an incredible fuss about it. He had told her to shut up and had collected his clothes, then left her in her room, alone. The same night, he returned. She had teased him that he hadn't left at all. As a reply he had started undressing her.
But in the morning, he had said it again. "I'm leaving." - She hadn't understood. She couldn't. How could he return to her, night for night, and inform her by day break, every morning harsher, that he was going to leave when apparently he wasn't? Supposedly, she was genius. Admittedly, she was that only when it came to science. When the problem was a man, she was a woman like any other. She hadn't taken him serious then. Because she hadn't understood. Now the matter was entirely different.
She liked to believe she knew him, knew what was going on his head and to a very small extent, she did. It wasn't enough to understand him entirely. He never revealed enough of himself to her to enable her to do so. She knew that he didn't want her to. He didn't want her to understand him. He didn't want her to get attached to him. Moreover, he didn't want to get attached to her. No, not at all. Whatever it was that drove him to her, it was inseparable from whatever drove him away. She had come to accept this fact. He'd never be hers. And whatever he was looking for in her, she knew she couldn't give it to him. It wasn't there.
The day passed by in a blur of triviality. Soon, she found herself in her bedroom again, undressing to take a shower and listening intently to every sound that might announce his presence. It wasn't long after that she felt his hands trail down her back. The dance began anew.
The curtains moved softly as a breeze swept into the room. He sat on the edge of her bed, staring at his hands. "Are you going to leave?" she asked softly and he nodded his head. "Yes," he replied calmly. For a moment, there was silence. She had understood, finally. "I'm pregnant," she said. He stood up and began collecting his clothes, then turned around to face her. "I'll return," he said, and left.
Disclaimer: Should you happen to come across someone who claims I own Dragonball Z and you have trouble believing them, don't bother thinking too hard about it – sadly I don't and it's very unlikely I'll ever do.
Note: This story was heavily inspired by the song "Catch me while I'm sleeping" (#6 on the album "Try this" by Pink. Miss Moore – thanks bunches for that album!)
Warnings: Me as the author, implied sex, no names (but I think you're all smart enough to figure out who they are).
"I'm leaving," he said as he rose from the bed. He knew she was awake, for the wild pounding of her heart betrayed her even breathing. It was drumming in his ears. "I'm leaving," he repeated, louder and harsher. Would these words cut whatever ties he had with her?
She didn't reply, only slightly nodded her head, keeping her eyes closed. She could hear him move around, collecting the clothes he had discarded the night before when coming to her room to do what her parents had called "making love" when she had been a child. The door shut behind him with a soft click and she allowed herself the luxury of an audible sigh. A moment later she sat up in her bed, opened her eyes and looked around with a clear gaze that was untainted by emotions such as longing and sadness. It was like sobering up after a long night of uncounted beers, mixed drinks and tequila shots, the only difference being that her high was not caused by alcohol or any other substance but by something that was just as intoxicating: a man she just couldn't get enough of. The hangover, however, was far worse than anything a night of drinking could ever give her.
Her bed was a mess, her hair was even worse. Her whole body ached and she had difficulties finding purpose and raison d'être for some of the muscles she had been discovering since he had started coming to her. Her skin was clammy. Her senses weren't as elaborated as his, but still she believed that the scent of their sweaty bodies moving as one heavily perfumed the air. Slowly, she rose from her bed; a hand tangled in her hair to asses the "damage".
He had said "I'm leaving". He had told her he was going to leave since the first night they had joined. At first, she had thought he was going to leave immediately and had made an incredible fuss about it. He had told her to shut up and had collected his clothes, then left her in her room, alone. The same night, he returned. She had teased him that he hadn't left at all. As a reply he had started undressing her.
But in the morning, he had said it again. "I'm leaving." - She hadn't understood. She couldn't. How could he return to her, night for night, and inform her by day break, every morning harsher, that he was going to leave when apparently he wasn't? Supposedly, she was genius. Admittedly, she was that only when it came to science. When the problem was a man, she was a woman like any other. She hadn't taken him serious then. Because she hadn't understood. Now the matter was entirely different.
She liked to believe she knew him, knew what was going on his head and to a very small extent, she did. It wasn't enough to understand him entirely. He never revealed enough of himself to her to enable her to do so. She knew that he didn't want her to. He didn't want her to understand him. He didn't want her to get attached to him. Moreover, he didn't want to get attached to her. No, not at all. Whatever it was that drove him to her, it was inseparable from whatever drove him away. She had come to accept this fact. He'd never be hers. And whatever he was looking for in her, she knew she couldn't give it to him. It wasn't there.
The day passed by in a blur of triviality. Soon, she found herself in her bedroom again, undressing to take a shower and listening intently to every sound that might announce his presence. It wasn't long after that she felt his hands trail down her back. The dance began anew.
The curtains moved softly as a breeze swept into the room. He sat on the edge of her bed, staring at his hands. "Are you going to leave?" she asked softly and he nodded his head. "Yes," he replied calmly. For a moment, there was silence. She had understood, finally. "I'm pregnant," she said. He stood up and began collecting his clothes, then turned around to face her. "I'll return," he said, and left.