So I've had this on the backburner for quite some time now, and since I'm done all of my big stories, I figured why not work on this? Most of the requests I got for the sequel were for it to be from Ryan's POV, so here it is. Although it does bother my OCD a little that Ryan has nothing to do with therapy, and therefore doesn't fit the title, but whatever.
By the way, this wasn't written to 'Cheaper Than Therapy'. It was written to 'Tongue' by Bell X1 off the album 'Music in Mouth'.
Enjoy!
What had he done?
It was the worst thing he could've done; he was such an ass. Seriously, what had he done? He thought he had better restraint than that, better control over his emotions, better control over his body. But something had gone off in his head, some little switch that let his brain continue to function, but cut off all the signals it sent to the rest of him.
Because it was her.
She'd always done that to him; made him lose control, made his body go into overdrive. He thought he had gotten it under control, these two years she'd been away. He thought he had regained his emotionless, brooding self – the person he had always been before her. He thought he was back to normal, but then he'd seen her and all his hard work had flown right out the window. She'd just been standing there, leaning into his door and looking like she was about to cry. His first reaction had been shock and confusion, because why wasn't she in Paris? Then had come relief, rushing up through his chest, nearly choking him in its unfiltered strength. But as with all things in his life, the good part didn't last long, because doubt and fear were right behind; why was she here? Was something wrong? Then she'd started making excuses – something about seeing her mother, like he bought that – and he'd realized she wasn't here for any reason other than because she was insane. That's when the anger started. Why was she fucking here? Why was she doing this? Making him feel this rush of emotions he had kept at bay for two years, making his heart clutch painfully in his chest.
That's when the lust kicked in.
He was such an ass. His mind had told him – over and over again, running on repeat in his head – that it was bad. But he'd done it anyway – the sadistic streak in him teasing the hell out of her for confusing him so much. That was until that hot little mouth had opened, and he'd totally lost it. He'd told her afterwards to go to sleep, because even though he was worn out, he couldn't exactly fall asleep with her tossing and turning and muttering things to herself. So she'd buried herself into his chest, and he'd woken up three hours and one missed physics class later.
He was such an ass.
Because he'd done that – slept with her even though he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do with her now. But more than that, he was an ass because he was here. He wasn't in his bed, watching her sleep. He wasn't in his room, pacing back and forth.
He was in a diner.
He swallowed thickly around the burger in his mouth, unable to taste it. He put the rim of the cup to his lips, letting the cold liquid fill his throat, but it did nothing to quench the dryness in his mouth. He was such an ass, because he'd left her. He hadn't even woken her up when he'd gone. His eyes had opened, and he'd panicked. Luckily, she was a heavy sleeper, and he'd been able to slip out of bed, get dressed, and leave the room. He'd wandered around campus for a while, finally ending up here, where he'd ordered his regular. But even the familiarity of the act didn't help his mood, because guilt was making everything taste dry and ashen.
He should go back.
But he couldn't. He couldn't make himself get out of the booth and go back, because what if she was awake? He could just picture the uncensored hurt on her face – that he'd left, that he'd left her alone, in his dorm, after he'd pretty much suggested that everything would be ok. And he couldn't make himself go back, because what if she was still asleep? Then she would wake up with him next to her, and she would look at him hopefully, those eyes going wide, shining at him with that openly honest way she had. That might even be worse. At least if she was already awake, he wouldn't have to watch the understanding take over her face – the knowledge creep up on her that, no, he wasn't taking her back.
Because he wasn't.
How could he? Nothing had changed. She was still going to school over there, and he was here. They were still six thousand miles apart, and he was still an emotionally unavailable loner. She deserved someone better than him – someone who could tell her how he felt, who could be there for her. All he could do was take his clothes off and push her down onto the mattress.
She hadn't been with anyone since him.
He could see it in the way she looked at him nervously, the way she held her breath as he looked her over. He could tell because she was so tight. It gave him a thrill, to know no other guy had been with her, but it also made it worse. Much, much worse, because she'd been so unsure of herself. If she'd gone at it full force like he remembered, he wouldn't feel half as guilty.
He should go back.
So he motioned at the waitress, ordering a chicken sandwich and a diet Coke to go, because he remembered – somewhat inanely – that she was fond of chicken. He paid for the food and left the diner, his feet heavy and dragging as he forced his way back to his dorm. The wait on the ride up was unbearable, guilt and panic rising as the elevator did. Then there was a ding, which made his heart jump wildly, and the metal doors opened into the familiar sight of his hallway. It seemed to stretch on forever as he walked to his door, sliding the key inside the lock and twisting – the loud click making him wince.
She was awake.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed and eyes on the floor, she looked beautiful and innocent, and he couldn't help but remember that he had ruined her. He'd taken advantage of her, because she really was – despite all of her experience – an innocent little girl who let herself get swept up in anyone that showed any kindness to her. She looked up at him as he walked in, expression serenely mournful, eyes locking on his.
At least she wasn't crying.
He held up the plastic bag of food as an explanation for his absence, but she met his gaze squarely, letting him know that she didn't for a second believe his excuse. She knew that he'd panicked, that he'd left – because it was him.
How did she always know?
She was so good at reading him, and it wasn't fair, because he could never tell what she was thinking. But he was an ass, so instead of offering a better explanation – anything would have worked, really – he held out the bag to her, which she wearily accepted, opening it up and removing the contents. He watched her eat, silently, her eyes back on the floor because she couldn't stand to look at him.
He was such an ass.
He sat next to her on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as she finished her lunch – dinner? A glance at the clock showed him that yes, it was most likely dinner, and a glance out the window showed the fading sunlight. They sat in silence, each passing moment making the sky darker – making the prospect of talking more unbearable. He knew it would have to be him that spoke first, because she may be pushy and talkative, but not where it counted. So he swallowed the lump of fear in his throat, and opened his mouth.
"Look, Taylor…"
But he couldn't get the words out, because she was looking at him with guarded eyes and a resolute set to her mouth. She knew what was coming – his rejection – and she was ready to face it. Which should have made it easier, but somehow made it worse.
It was worse, because he wished she expected more of him.
She was so good at reading him; if she expected him to be a better person, then it would be because he was a better person. But the fact that she didn't expect it from him meant that he truly was awful.
"I'm sorry about… what happened, but nothing's changed…"
This wasn't a question of their relationship – the two of them together. Because he thought they were pretty damn good together. He calmed her down, and she made him feel. It was a question of the distance. He sucked at relationships in general, how was he supposed to manage one from six thousand miles away? His two best friends had barely survived a five-month separation – and they were on the same continent. It didn't matter that she made him feel. It didn't matter that he still loved her.
"This just isn't going to work out…"
She didn't cry, for which he was eternally thankful. He couldn't handle crying girls – it made him feel guilty, and he always gave in to whatever they wanted. She knew that, and he always loved that she never used it against him. She didn't cry, but she did look at him with disappointment – maybe she had expected more? Or maybe she had just been naively hopeful that he would've changed these past two years.
"No."
Her response took him by surprise, and he blinked at her. 'No'? What did she mean, 'no'? 'No', as in 'no, this isn't going to work', or 'no', as in 'no, I'm not letting this go that easily'? His logical mind hoped it was the first one, hoped for a clean break – like he could ever have one of those. But something in him clung desperately to the second, because he was sure that there was no one else in the world like her. So his heart leapt wildly when she leant forward, placing her palms on either side of his face and pressing her lips gently to his.
Bad idea.
Did she know what she did to him? What one little touch – one little kiss – could do? That thing in his head clicked, and his body switched to autopilot. So even though his head was screaming at him to break away, he couldn't make the rest of him respond.
It probably didn't help that she was getting on top of him.
How did she do that? Scramble his brain so much that he didn't even notice when she moved, straddling his waist, until it was too late to stop her? The rational part of his brain told him it wasn't too late to stop this. It wasn't too late to remove his lips from hers, to lift her off of him. But she was still giving him chaste kisses, running her hands gently down his chest, between their bodies to pull at his belt.
He missed those hands.
She pulled her mouth away from his and brushed her fingers down his jaw with a smile. When she was angry or upset or afraid, she would use her plastic smile – the one she had hidden behind all through high school. When she was feeling playful, teasing the hell out of him, she would give her sultry smile – the one she reserved especially for him. But right now her smile was warm – the one she used when she was calming him down, reassuring him.
"Ryan, I love you."
Well, shit. He wished she hadn't said that, and he told himself that if her hands weren't currently inside his pants, he'd put a stop to this. But they were – her tiny, magic hands – stroking him, rendering him completely incapable of speech. He swallowed hard, shaking his head slowly, trying to signal silently that they shouldn't be doing this. All of which she saw, but apparently she wasn't listening to him today.
She always was persistent.
His body was moving, completely ignoring his brain, lifting his arms above his head as she pulled his shirt up and off and tossing it to the floor. She planted soft kisses down his chest, making his heart leap around wildly and the muscles in his stomach flutter. His hands, moving of their own accord, ignoring his brain completely, slid her shirt up, keeping his hands fully on her skin, not wanting to waste a minute of touching her.
Because she was his.
The realization hit him, making him freeze, and she took no notice because she was pulling off her pants – which he just realized now were his pants that she'd borrowed. And then she settled back on him, taking him in her hand and lowering herself onto him, which made his breath catch in his throat. She was amazing, did she know that? He wrapped his arms around her, letting his head drop onto her shoulder, closing his eyes tightly to regain the control she seemed to take away.
"Ryan."
Her voice – shaky and afraid and whispered in his ear – made him pull back, and he felt his heart squeeze painfully. He was such an ass, because she was so afraid. Whatever confidence she'd had – kissing him, shutting down his brain – was gone, replaced by the little girl he'd seen just a few hours ago, which scared him. He wanted his girl back, the one who had been confident and in control. He wanted her back, because this one scared him, because he had made her like this.
Never again.
He kissed her, as slowly and confidently as he could, sliding his hands to her waist to lift her up, letting her settle back down on him with a gasp. The rhythm continued, up and down, slowly, until her body remembered the motions. He felt her movements grow more confident, more sure, rocking her hips slowly against his, making him tense, making him shake. Her hand on his jaw made him open his eyes, and she smiled – that same, reassuring smile – and she leaned forward to capture his lips again.
He didn't know how to handle this.
The first time had been slow because he'd wanted to punish her for coming here and then fast because she'd made him snap. But this was different, because she was silent, and he was silent, and he couldn't quite put into words the feeling in the air. It choked him – the feeling. It was thick and heavy and it settled in his lungs, making him gasp for breath as she rocked against him. He didn't know how to handle this, because he felt like he was going to explode.
And not in the good way.
Well, of course he was about to explode in that way, because she was so beautiful, and she was hot and tight and slick around him, and the way she was looking at him – eyes wide as she remembered what this was like – it all made him want to explode. But there was something else – the electricity rolling over his skin, the heaviness in his lungs that soaked through the rest of him, making him… making him what?
Making him feel.
Huh. Apart from the sudden rush when he'd found her outside his door and the guilt after their little tryst, he hadn't actually felt anything for two years. Which was normal, really, because he'd never been one to feel – at least not to the horrifying extent he had with her.
"Ryan."
His name on her lips – whispered desperately – her flushed face, the way she tightened around him, made him lose it. Although maybe that was bad wording, because she'd already made him lose it, but the wording didn't matter anymore, because he wrapped his arms around her lithe little body and let his head drop to her shoulder as he let go.
He let go.
For once in his life, he just let go. Let his body do whatever the hell it wanted, let his head wander wherever the hell it wanted, let his mouth say whatever the hell it wanted. For once in his life he didn't have complete control over the situation – over himself – and it terrified him.
Because it felt amazing.
She was kissing him and he wasn't stopping her. His brain wasn't even telling him to stop her, because why should he have to suffer? So what if it would be hard, so what if she deserved more? Obviously she wanted him – for whatever insane reason – and didn't he want her to be happy? He lifted his head from her shoulder to meet her gaze – to meet the glazed expression on her face.
"Are you happy? With me?"
Her eyes cleared of their haze, focusing on his face, and she stayed silent. He told himself not to get his hopes up. He told himself not to panic, but it was too late. She'd already broken him, she'd already made him feel again. So it was too late, because the panic and the fear and the overwhelming pain was already there, choking him, making his muscles go tight and his head start to pound. He felt his heart stop beating when she got off him, grabbing for his t-shirt and pulling it over her head.
Is this what dying felt like?
Why was she doing this? Why had she come here, come to see him, dangle the hope of them in his face, and then take it away? Had she come here to use him? To get off and then go home? He couldn't handle this. How could he have been so stupid? Why would she ever want to be with him? A thump and the weight of something on the bed next to him brought him out of his daze. It was a notebook, small and black and she looked half afraid, half determined.
"We're different people, Ryan."
Oh God. She was right, they were different, but it still hurt. She wasn't the same hopeful nineteen year old that had clung to him – he'd made sure of that. No, now she was nearing twenty-one and her dreams and her views on love had been broken. Because of him.
"I was happy with you before, but we've both changed."
This was punishment. He'd punished her physically – making her beg and plead. But she was punishing him emotionally, right? And she should. She was always the one in the relationship that ended up getting hurt. Chrismukkah, her birthday, their multiple breakups. Yes, it had hurt him too, but she always felt more than him.
"All I know is I'm not happy now."
He waited for the inevitable, but it never came. She motioned at the book, and he picked it up, feeling the worn cover, seeing the beat up pages. It wasn't like her to have something this… used. Everything she had was pristine, and if it wasn't she replaced it. So why this little book? What could possibly be in here that made her ignore her compulsive need for perfection? He opened the notebook.
Him.
She was putting her clothes on rapidly, but he couldn't look away from the thing in his hands. Page one, his name. Page two, his school schedule. And not just the current one – he could see the faded marks of his previous schedules behind the writing. Where he ate lunch, what he ate, who his friends were, girls he'd dated, his dorm building, his classroom building, his dorm room number, the classroom numbers, the teachers. Books he'd read, CD's he'd bought, movies he'd liked – some with little checks next to them, as if to say checked it out. She was gathering her shoes and trying to put them on, but he couldn't stop his hand from shakily turning the pages.
Pictures.
Dozens of them, some from two years ago, some more recent, all of him. How long had she been stalking him? There was no way she could've taken these pictures, because there was no way she could've been there for some of them.
His brother.
His brother had been sending her pictures, updating her on everything he did. Had she asked him to, or was it an unconscious thing? Did his brother want them to get back together? He looked up at her, standing near the door, keeping her eyes firmly focused on the wood. When he called her name she looked at him, face red but jaw clenched. She was embarrassed, but not ashamed. She knew what she'd been doing; she'd made the decision to do this, even if she knew it was crazy.
This was his girl.
This was the girl who'd stalked him in a groundhog costume, who made him scrapbooks for no reason, who took his picture with her cell phone when he wasn't paying attention, who'd talked her way into his life. Even his brother didn't have that honor – they'd been forced on each other the day he moved in. She was the only one who he'd tried to push away. She was the only one to force her way through just because she was damn stubborn.
And he loved her for it.
Because he'd never felt so wanted as he did with her. No one in his life had ever made such an effort to be with him. No one had ever fought so hard for him. Even his family – who'd taken him in and saved him – hadn't put themselves out there like she did. It made him feel wanted and desired and valid. Because it wasn't just circumstances throwing them together, it was her persistence and her absolute certainty that they belonged together. Hell, she'd flown six thousand miles just to see him.
"So what do we do now?"
She seemed startled at his words, like she hadn't been expecting them. Like she'd been expecting him to call her insane, to call the police and turn her in. Which, logically, he probably should, because this little thing she had for him was kind of scary. She shouldn't be this attached – it wasn't healthy. He chose to ignore the fact that he was just as obsessed, just not in such an obvious way.
He was obsessed because she haunted him.
She was there when he woke up, guiding him through his day. She was there when he was bored, making him smile with her rambling comments and brilliant smile. She was there when he closed his eyes, becoming more solid as he concentrated, stepping into his arms. She was there when he went out with other girls, sitting next to them and quirking her eyebrow at him as if to say 'really'?
He always broke it off with those girls, because really?
He knew none of those girls would compare to her. Usually it was the girl that asked him out, but sometimes he would initiate it. And it was always because of something small, like the girl would sweep her bangs aside in just the right way, or she would clap her hands when she was happy, or she would raise her hand in class at every question. He would ask girls out based on what qualities they had in common with her.
"France is cold."
What? France is cold? So what if France is cold, how does that solve their problem? But when he looked up at her, he saw it in her eyes. Maybe he could read her, because right now he knew exactly what she was thinking. France is cold. California is hot. And it was nearing the end of the semester, only two months away. They'd lasted two years, would two more months hurt? She would come home for the summer.
And then she would transfer here.
There it was again – the desperately rising hope that made his chest tighten painfully and his throat close up. He couldn't say anything, but she was waiting – with eyes wide and fingers picking at her nails. She was waiting for him to say something – anything – and he couldn't even manage that.
He wasn't a talker.
He surged off the bed - only vaguely aware that he was naked – and caught her up in his arms. She let out a surprised gasp, and he felt her relax, slowly, into him. He'd never really felt like this before – this absolute, uncertain, wildly hopeful future. Before, back when they first got together, their relationship always had an expiration date. But now? If she was coming here, there'd be no end to rely on. He'd have to commit, because he couldn't ask her to change schools, to pack up and trek back here, just to realize he didn't want her. So did he want her? She pulled back – maybe she sensed something wrong? – and he saw the question in her eyes. Did he want her?
He smiled.
End.
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