Love Story Series - M/M ADULT [COMPLETE]

Finished Canon/Conventional Couple Fics. These stories pick up from events in the show. All complete stories from the main Canon/CC board will eventually be moved here.

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shelbecat
Enthusiastic Roswellian
Posts: 10
Joined: Sat May 25, 2002 9:28 am
Location: Toronto, ON, Canada
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Love Story Series - M/M ADULT [COMPLETE]

Post by shelbecat »

This is Not a Love Story

Rating: ADULT
Summary: Michael reacts to Maria breaking up with him.
Author's Notes: This takes place immediately following Behind the Music. It was inspired by Pink's Just Like a Pill.
Disclaimer: The author of this fan fiction does not own any aspect of Roswell. Those rights belong to Melinda Metz, Jason Katims, WB, UPN, 20th Century Fox, etc. Disclaimer added by moderator.

Image


After she left, I sat there for a long time, numbed by her words, unable to formulate a coherent thought let alone a plan for escape. It wasn't until the first drops of rain hit my cheeks that I looked up at the sky expectantly, wondering what God I had angered to cause this torment on top of such misery. It was with no small amount of shock that I realized that it wasn't raining at all, that the wetness on my face did not come from the heavens above but from my own small waterfalls, originating from presumed to be dry riverbeds hiding unused behind my eyelids for years.

She had left me. She had told me that it was over between us and walked away resolutely into the chilly autumn air.

That b-itch.

It was only when I finally muttered the words that I started running. I leapt from the picnic table I sat upon, tearing through the darkened park like an escaped maniac, searching for a salve for my wounds, or better yet, a target to vent my anger towards. I found it in the form of a concrete statue, standing innocently in the middle of the children's playground, beckoning to me menacingly with its granite smile.

One short blast and it was dust.

I stared at the rubble, the satisfaction I craved remaining out of reach. My need for vengeance was far from satiated. I turned to the swing set, the metal bars crumpling like tinfoil within my fervent grip. The seesaw was next, opposing ends of the steel bar implanting themselves in the muddy ground thanks only to the power behind my eyes. Monkey bars—rubble, sand box—dust, slippery slides—straight silver streaks along the ground.

The bile churning in my stomach as I watched the destruction befall the scene before me was surprising. Beating things up had always brought a certain comfort in the past, therapy that no amount of talking to Maria could match—talking to Maria, something I wouldn't get to do again thanks to her selfish request for self-sanity… b-itch.

I wasn't sure if I was angry at her brush-off itself or at how repulsed I felt by my reaction to it. I didn't need her in my life, I'd never needed anyone so her leaving wasn't really a big deal, it was just… it was just that I'd come to depend on her being there, on the comfortable knowledge that somebody shared your life, your hopes, your dreams, your fears…

My fears… the sickening truth of the situation hit me hard in the stomach, my body doubling over as the realization of the true source of my anger rang clear through my mind. It was 1st grade all over again. As I stood in the middle of the war-torn battlefield, the scene before my eyes was replaced with the playground at West Roswell Elementary, the children screaming as they ran to the safety of the school building, the rain falling from my eyes then just as it did now. The dust rose from the ruins of the pitiful excuse for play toys as my eyes blazed with angry flames and the teachers rushed to explain away the obvious lightening strike that must have caused the damage.

Must have been a freak of nature, they said afterwards, but I knew different, I knew the truth. It wasn't a freak of nature, it was a freak of outer space, sent to this earth for a then unknown reason to live out a solitary but suffering existence. In all those years nothing had changed—I was still that freak, that alien, that being that didn't belong in either race, didn't fit with any group, wasn't loved by any person.

The ache in my gut grew until it was all-encompassing and I fell to my knees, the violent sounds of my retching the only puncture in the still desolation of night in Roswell, New Mexico. The city that should have been a home to me was as foreign today as it had been 12 years ago and the only thought in my mind was how quickly I could get away.

~~~~~

"You did it, didn't you?"

"Well hello to you to," I mumble, not turning my head from the television as the sound of her foot tapping furiously on the floor grated on my last nerve and I had to clench my fist to stop myself from amputating the appendage with the tiniest wave of my finger.

"It's all over town, some vandals destroyed the whole park. Why?" she asks dumbly.

"Why not?" I reply.

"Michael," she sighed.

Here it comes, I think to myself, the Maria lesson-of-the-day, custom designed for her loser boyfriend who can never get his act together.

Wait… I am not her loser boyfriend any longer. I might still be the loser in her eyes, but her eyes don't matter to me anymore, not even if they are sparkling in that brilliant green that always brings a vague memory of a emerald Antarian sky to my mind.

'You can't do that. People will see. They'll find out. You have to be more careful. How can you be so stupid?'

I shake my head resolutely, standing from the couch to move across the room. Her words have no effect on me, they bounce off my hardened exterior, reflecting back onto her like poison-tipped darts, stored in the aching quiver slung across my heart.

"Are you finished?" I ask as she stops for a breath, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and downing half of it one breath-stealing gulp.

"No, I am not finished," she says quickly, her anger growing with each second that I refuse to jump in the game, enter the dance of destruction that she insists we perform at every juncture. "You have to get over this. You have to move on, be happy."

"Move on," I repeat monotonously. "That's what I should do?"

"Yes, it'll be good for you."

Her face that once held such beauty suddenly reveals itself to be the mask of evil that I always suspected lived there and my stomach churns at the thought that I ever found it pleasing.

"Good for me? You know what would have been good for me, Maria?" I ask bitterly, my voice fighting to increase its volume, every fiber in my being consumed with suppressing it, holding it in until I can get the full message out. "Going home would have been good for me, my dear. Going back to the freak-zone that I came from would have been good for me, but you didn't want that did you? No, you wanted me to stay here with you, wanted me to forsake my heritage for a little roll in the hay whenever you felt like it and I was stupid enough to listen to you, to listen to the words you stamped on my brain with every connection we made, the mantra that if I just gave you my heart you would take care of it, make a home for it. What a pile of rotten bullsh!t."

"You think going back to Antar would have been better than staying here? Back there with the b-itch Queen and her bastard son?" Her mouth falls open at my declaration and I want to cram my emotions into the gaping hole, desperate to end the judgment shining on her face.

"At least Tess was honest about her deception," I snarl, unable to stop myself from reaching behind the wall of ribs to wrench her heart from its resting place. "I stayed here Maria. I stayed on this planet for one reason, for you and how do you repay me? By breaking up with me? Nice, real mature."

"I didn't realize your 'sacrifice' came with a price," she spat, her cheeks reddening as she realized the truth in my words. "You expect me to stay with you just because you stayed here for me?"

"Yeah I do."

"Well love doesn't work that way Guerin. It's a two way street and I've been fighting my way up your alleys for far too long to even care anymore. I can't do this any longer, I can't be responsible for your happiness."

"You think you are responsible for me being happy? What pedestal did you crawl up on to proclaim yourself Queen of me? You are nothing to me, just something to pass the time until I can get out of this god damned sh!thole." I knew the words were false even as they formed in my brain, but I wanted to see her reaction and tossed them at her with such force that she physically stumbled backwards.

Recovering quickly, she stared up at me defiantly, "I am not even going to dignify that with a response."

"Good comeback," I snarl.

"You just admitted that you stayed in this 'sh!thole' for me, Michael," she yelled, losing all control as she threw whatever insult she could conjure across the room at me.

It was almost comical, watching her struggle to react to me fighting with her when I actually had a solid foundation for my argument. I don't think she had the slightest clue how to handle it.

Her lips trembled as adrenaline coursed through her veins, her eyes blinking furiously to stem the tears that threatened them. She had never looked more beautiful and I knew in that instant that I was dead in the water.

Crossing the space separating us, I grab her hips roughly, crushing her lips with such force that a strangled cry seeps into my mouth, reverberating off the soft walls as she leans into me, returning the gesture with matched fury. I don't give her time to object, grabbing her off the floor to toss her rag doll body onto the couch. She is panting, looking up at me with hatred-fueled passion in her eyes and I want to tear them from their sockets, dispose of the judging glares they are capable of.

My shirt leaves my chest at the volition of my tumultuous mind. Hers is next, my brain as yet unaware that I am unconsciously removing the articles, too consumed with the rage boiling within my chest. I worry that I will crush her, not out of fear of killing her, a desire that is not far from the truth at the moment, but from the idea that she will die before I am satiated, before I can release the locomotive of anguish steaming through my veins.

Her blossoming buds beckon to my waiting hands and I assault them viciously, my mouth tearing a path of bruises across her abdomen as I wrestle with the urge to rip the remaining garments from her body, knowing they will be destroyed in the process and caring none about the damage. A quick glance at her eyes reveal them to be begging me to progress, push the process further before her mind caves as mine threatens to do and I back away from the imminent interaction we border.

Without thought, I allow my mind to tear the button on her jeans, detaching myself from her chest long enough to pull the garment down just enough to allow entry. She is pinned, her upper body trapped beneath my towering presence, her lower encased in the cage of material—she is just as I want her, helpless. I tear my own jeans from my throbbing body, pushing them clear of my already swollen member pulsing for entry. I push myself onto her again, my hand tangling with her center roughly. She whimpers as I cover her body with mine once more, unable to escape the attack I mount, wanting it just as much as she hates it.

Her eyes shine with contempt for me as her mouth drips sounds of agonizingly torturous pleasure. I know exactly what it takes to build her to the frenzy I desire and I do so, forcing my fingers inside her as her breath falls from her lips in a desperate gasp for mercy. She rises up to meet the force I offer, grinding herself against me until I can stand the pressure no longer and yank my hand from her warmth, replacing it with the tool of my own satisfaction.

Thrust after thrust I drive into her, the vision of her before me blurring as ecstasy clouds my vision and I fall away from the reality of my existence, believing for just a moment that I am not replacing my need for love with meaningless sex, that I would not need gratification so badly that I would stoop to scraping it from the very ground we walk upon.

Crying out in pain at the realization of the true nature of my actions, I push harder, intent on completing the offensive act as quickly as possible and detaching myself from her body, the scent of her perfume mingled with our sweat clogging my brain from all coherent thought.

Her fragile frame tremors beneath me, her walls clamping down firmly as she creates her own trap, locking me within her as she rises rapidly to her peak, hauling me up with her even as my body objects to the action, incapable of stopping and unwanting to finish. We climax, pausing for just a moment on the cusp of the wave, hovering suicidally in the air above the ground before gravity takes over and we plunge to our deaths, the reality of earth rushing up to meet us with full force as my last strains of strength dissolve and I collapse onto her heaving chest. My heart matches hers beat for beat and for yet another moment I am fooled into believing this is just like all the other times. But this is not like the other times. This is the last time. The end of our time together, a final act to signify all that our relationship ever was—lustful wanting of acceptance, a desire to be loved so strong within us both that we created the image of it in each other, believing so desperately that without the other's support we were nothing.

We are not nothing. I am not nothing.

I am Michael Guerin, freak of nature, and I do not need the love of any woman to fulfill me.

The thought drills itself into my brain with such intensity that I jerk away from her, clasping a hand to my forehead as I withdraw from her cavity, retreating back to the end of the couch as I let her curl her body in upon itself. She is crying, I note with detachment, standing to pull my jeans back into their proper position. She cannot look at me and I shake my head, my eyes filled with empathy as I watch her struggle with the truth I have just owned as mine. We are no longer, we do not need each other to complete the fragments of ourselves that exist in this world. Tattered fragments unloved for so long always appear to need that matching piece, so desperate that they will force themselves into any position just to feel wanted, loved. I know now that a seamstress could not force my tattered pieces into a pattern with Maria's, we love each other, but sometimes, love is just not enough. Until we can complete ourselves individually, we can never complete each other.

"Don't cry," I whisper softly, standing awkwardly before her as her tiny body shakes with sobs.

"I thought… I thought we were going to be together forever," she gasps.

These words coming from the mouth of the one who brought us to this place in the first place almost make me laugh until I remember that it was not her alone who brought us here. She was just the one brave enough to recognize a tear in the patched together fabric of our relationship. That she pointed it out did not relieve me of the guilt of ripping it wide open.

"Maybe we will," I say softly, already doubting the truth of the words as I stare at the one person I have ever loved completely, the one person who I know will always have a stamp on my heart even if she no longer owns it for herself.

"Maybe," she echoes, a flash of the brilliance I love shimmering from beneath her shuttered eyes.

"You don't need me to be happy," I offer gently, hoping that she will accept my peace offering as I no longer possess hatred for the angel before me, only love, the caring love that will build the perfect friendship.

"But I still… I still love you," she mumbles.

"This is not a love story," I murmur softly, the words imprinting themselves on my soul as I release her from the confines of my heart, the newly vacant space filling with a peace I have never known in my short lifetime. It isn't always about the love you have for another, sometimes it's about finding the love you have for yourself, a lesson too long in coming that I cherish even more for its delay in arrival.

Maybe it was a love story after all.
Last edited by shelbecat on Tue Feb 25, 2003 9:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
shelbecat
Enthusiastic Roswellian
Posts: 10
Joined: Sat May 25, 2002 9:28 am
Location: Toronto, ON, Canada
Contact:

This is STILL Not a Love Story

Post by shelbecat »

This is STILL Not a Love Story

Rating: MATURE
Summary: One year later we take a peek inside the world that is Maria.




The last note reverberates off the guitar string longingly, almost as if it doesn't want to leave. My eyes remain closed, the anticipatory silence glorious to my wanting ears—I love this part. Too soon it is shattered, the cacophony of their applause rushing towards me unrelentingly. It washes over my tired body, the wave clogging my mouth with its power, its force drowning the air from my lungs.

They are happy.

They are always happy when I do this. Sit here, on this stage, with this guitar, in front of this crowd. It is different every night and yet pitifully the same. The same voice, the same words, the same music, the same song… the same marionette performing the same dance uncontrollably as if someone stands above me holding the strings.

I am not happy.

It has been so long since happiness grazed my existence that I am no longer sure I remember what it feels like. When the painted smile masks my face for the yearning crowd, I can imagine that this must be what a happy person looks like, the grin spreading from ear to ear a symbol of the obvious happiness beneath. But this is not a happy grin, this is a profitable grin, a grin that sells records, a grin that sells songs, a grin that sells me.

I am Maria Deluca, superstar.

I hate the word superstar.

I moved to New York in December, 2001. Signing a record deal was a dream of mine since I was old enough to sing along with the Solid Gold dancers. When the contract was placed before me, the fact that it said I was signing my soul over to the devil was the least of my worries. I was going to be famous—bring on the heat!

And I was famous… am famous. For whatever reason, the songs that took ten people six months of steady composing in a dark, windowless room to write were instant hits. Shocker! The fact that I am 'permitted' to play my guitar onstage is only for the lucky break that the lead writer was a tab fanatic and wouldn't dream of composing any other way. Otherwise, it would be just me and a microphone up there before the masses, exposed for the world to judge. My guitar saves me, the only thing left on the stage that is still mine, they raped me of everything else, my spirit along with my soul, a long time ago.

I suppose I have to give credit where credit is due; they are not entirely to blame for the place I find myself in today—I deserve at least some of the recognition. When the offer came over a year ago, I was so ready to run from that sleepy little town that I nearly hitched a ride to New York on the back of the agent trying to sign me. I told myself then that it was because Roswell had nothing left to offer me. Truth be told, I had nothing left to offer Roswell. Whatever part of me once held a fondness for the place and its inhabitants had died on a chilly day in November when every fear I had ever coddled was spread out before me like a five-star buffet.

I still hated him for that.

The worst part about it was that he wasn't even trying to hurt me, he was just trying to help himself. How could I deny him that? The solace he needed to save his soul from the crushing agony of being defeated by love. He needed me to understand that he didn't depend on me for his happiness, that he couldn't if he were to ever truly find it, and I agreed with him. Stupidly, foolishly, ashamedly I agreed, partly just to get him to stop looking at me like that, those brown crystals boring holes into my psyche as they examined, questioned and found the answers they sought, but didn't judge, never judged.

How I wished that he would judge.

I didn't deserve to be in his presence, wasn't worthy of the grace he had always so elegantly hid from humanity. I knew he was better that he had ever let himself be with me and the fact that I realized it long before he did on that day, only served to drive me closer to the edge of madness. I used him, I led him around for my own pleasure and drained him of what little spirit he had to call his own. Oh, I loved him, don't get me wrong. God, how much I loved him… I was just never capable of loving him in the way that he truly needed. The kind of love that comes from a place full of assurance and knowing, the kind of love that only a person at peace with their own demons could provide. Trying to fight my demons while helping ward off his was a losing battle from the start. When he so delicately pointed it out to me, my world crumbled like a rotting foundation beneath my feet. I hadn't so much as attempted to look for the scattered pieces when the saving grace of music dropped into my lap and I snatched it, holding on tightly as I let it carry me to the heights of fame and fortune… and isolation.

Have you ever felt completely alone yet were surrounded by teeming hoards of people?

I feel completely alone. Here—on this stage, in this bar, in this city, in this life—I am alone, and I am sad.

~~~~~

The biting wind attacks my body without warning, a squall sending my skirt swirling around my legs. A nor'easter they call it—whatever that's supposed to mean. I guess that since I am in the north east I best get used to the idea that things will attack me from that direction. They seem to attack from every other these days, why not north east.

The few steps from the limousine to my hotel are short, the only time I have felt the wind on my face today, the only time I have felt any shred of real emotion course through my anesthetized body. I hurry through the ornate lobby, jamming my finger on the up arrow repeatedly until the elevator mercifully arrives. The couple waiting next to me toss me a condescending glare, perfected from years of practice, and I snarl, "What, didn't you know it takes 13 presses to make it come?"

They pass on riding up with me and I smile; the image of me doing so in the mirrored interior of the moving metal beast foreign and I raise my hand to my mouth to determine if it is actually real. Before I can touch the intrusive upturn of my lips, the chime signals that we have arrived at the top, literally. The doors open into a hallway with one door, my 'suite'. Dominique says I was lucky to get it, I think I'll be lucky if the place burns down.

Bursting inside, I hesitate only long enough to tear my coat from my body before striding across the cool marble. The balcony doors beckon to me enticingly and I shiver from the memory of the gnawing gale awaiting my sensitive flesh. Gripping the handle tightly, I tug against the force of the wind, pulling back the glass barrier to let its might inside… magnificent.

Stepping out onto the exposed rooftop, I hug my arms tight to my chest as the icy tentacles grip my tender skin. Soon enough I am immune to their attack, what feeling I can muster in my body numbed from the freezing temperature—I feel dead and I am happy. This place, this act, this drama—I have only recently discovered it, the suffering heat of the city replaced by a chill the desert has never known with the coming of winter.

Out here, atop the city that has wrapped my name in lights, is the only place I can find refuge from the ache that has taken up residence where my heart used to live. Out here is the only place where I can imagine that I have escaped the brat that does not appreciate the tremendous gift she has been given and would sooner throw it in the face of her benefactor. Out here is the only place where I can feel anything now, even if it is nothingness.

Nothingness is a valid emotion, right?

The wind works its wonders on the pain scouring my body, but I have not yet found a salve for the taunting echoes resounding throughout my head. Perhaps it is because they are the real truth of this existence I call a life, the real reason I ran so quickly from that place I once called a home. They are the words imprinted on my brain perpetually, the words spoken with such softness that I will never forget the pure sound of peace floating beneath them, the words he spoke to me in that tiny room in what seems like a lifetime ago.

This is not a love story.

Indeed.

My cheeks are wet with tears before I ever realize that I have cried, cracks in the icy glaze coating my skin the warning sign that I must retreat into the warmth of my prison once again. I do so, drawing the door shut behind me as I stare forlornly around the sterile set of rooms that I am supposed to call a home. Another cursed tear drips from my crystallized eyes, coming to rest in an opulent teardrop on my frozen cheek. My hand, trancelike, moves up to detach the foreign object from my skin, staring in bewilderment as the miniature mound of moisture returns to liquid form against the relative warmth of my finger.

Once the realization of their existence is upon me, others follow furiously, swarming over each other in an effort to be the first to reach the dripping faucet resting on the edge of my chin. I fall to the floor where I stand, my designer skirt stained with expanding pools of my anguish. The comfortable lie I formulate in my brain to tell myself that I do not know where the tears come from is weak, cast aside as quickly as it takes shape to be replaced with the razor-edged truth.

I know exactly where the tears come from. It is the same place they always come from.

The admission does little to calm me, if anything it flames me into a higher panic, my mouth releasing great wrenching sobs as I urge the lingering agony of my love for him out of my being. My love… it is always my love, his love, that threatens to stamp out the very light within my eyes… on times I have even begged it to do so. Even a year apart has not lessened my need to have him in my life and I sit here now, so pathetically predictable on the floor, crying for a love I no longer own.

The fact that ending it was the right thing to do only serves to cause me further grief, rubbing coarse salt into the weeping wound I have ripped open again this night. I agreed that I could not give him what he needed in his life at that time, that fighting off my own evils left little to support him through his struggles, but the truth is that I did not believe him when he said we must both find happiness before we can love another. I do not subscribe to the belief that all relationships are built on the solid foundation of self-assuredness by each partner. In fact I know that some of the greatest ones are formed when one member is so lost in a sea of despair that it takes the capable arms of the other to pull them to safety. It is this relationship that I now need in my life. I am too lost in my own self-loathing to swim back to the safety of the shore by myself.

Crawling slowly to the pearl-plated phone resting in its protective cradle, I let my hand rest softly on the intricately designed numbers. The pattern is simple, memorized, forever marked on my brain as the digits to dial when I reached the end of my rope and had no other choice but to jump.

I am so afraid to jump.

It would be so simple to just pretend that the number didn't exist, that the soothing tones of the heart lying on the other end were not available to my damned soul. I have never connected from this hotel, from this city, never once called back to see how the life I abandoned continued without me. I couldn't, knowing that everyone was happy would have only served to make me more miserable, the irony bundled with that admission is that I am miserable anyway, perhaps more so for my refusal to cave to the need I crave so desperately.

My fingers inch closer towards the receiver, actually going as far as to clutch it tightly in my grasp for a moment. The cooling feel of the perfectly curved arch is welcoming to my touch, stilling the tremors vibrating throughout my body. I stare at the line snaking away from the device towards the hidden connections within the wall. Closing my eyes, I can imagine that I already hear the voice awaiting me on the other end, its softness hidden beneath years of displaying the rough exterior.

How I would love to see that rough exterior now.

Without further hesitation, I grab the phone from its cradle, jabbing my fingers against the keypad methodically as I pound out the first 9 digits that bring me ever closer to the salvation I seek. 9… 9 is all I can manage before slamming the tool of communication back against it's stand, cursing as I fling my body away from the cruel device.

I cannot call, I cannot admit defeat, I cannot need what he has to offer, I cannot…

A strangled cry escapes my lips as I dig my perfectly manicured nails into the soft flesh of my inner arm, the raised crescents standing out in stark contrast to the milky smoothness of my bleached skin. I have denied myself the one pleasure I know I need for so long that the pain of this physical injury is almost complacent, stirring me into a calm as I debate whether to continue my fight to find emotional happiness or replace the pain with something of my own design.

I relent almost immediately, too weak-minded to ever attempt erasing one pain with another I must cause myself. I know that the only thing that can save me from the devastation that has become my life is resting on the other end of that phone line, stretching out into the darkness of the New York night, across the great country to the sleepy desert town I had forsaken so long ago.

I walk calmly to the phone this time, picking it up almost reverently as I purposely press each remembered number firmly. The 10 digits dialed, the connection made, I hold my breath, listening to the rings echo shrilly through the emptiness that is my mind.

Ring.

I know this is the right thing to do.

Ring.

I know I will hear the voice and feel better for making the call.

Ring.

I know I will not regret this action.

Ring.

I know this is a sign of weakness and the wrong thing to do.

Ring.

The final thought pierces my mind like an arrow and I move the receiver away from my ear, unable to stand the crushing feel of my own defeat weighing down upon me.

"Hello?"

I freeze. The sound of the voice blares from the phone held just inches away from my head. It is his voice. I can hang up or speak, deny my want or fulfill my desire. I lower the phone even more, pushing it towards the table as my self-doubt seeps back in to fill the space I have created for him once more. It stings, cutting into the tender walls of my heart as it settles back into place, sure that I will never garner the strength to push it aside again. I must choose, let this fear carry me into oblivion with its power or dispel it from my depths once and for all in this moment.

I decide.

"Hey," I murmur softly into the phone, not knowing if he will curse me for this call or rejoice that I have chosen to return. His life may be on a varied path light-years away from mine by now but I take refuge in the knowledge that just making this gesture is the first step towards finding a path of my own. The courage to reach out, even if it is to beg for forgiveness, is strength I have not known since my time with him and I hope that just by making the effort I can achieve the tangible threads of confidence that I once feigned so brilliantly.

"Hey," he returns softly and my face breaks into a blistering smile. I sink into the cushions of my overstuffed couch, my body immediately out of place in this expensive land as I am transported back to the dingy apartment where I found, and lost, my first love. Perhaps, in time, I can find that love again.

Maybe, just maybe, this will be a love story after all.
shelbecat
Enthusiastic Roswellian
Posts: 10
Joined: Sat May 25, 2002 9:28 am
Location: Toronto, ON, Canada
Contact:

This Could Be a Love Story

Post by shelbecat »

This Could be a Love Story

Summary: Michael reflects on the past year and wonders if there is room in his new life for Maria.

Image


The light flickers from the muted television, casting revolving tones of blue and white against my skin as I sit solitary in the cramped living room of my small apartment. It is the same four walls that surrounded us on that day over a year ago, the same couch that we committed our last act of repressed need upon, the same exact place that has always existed here—except for one thing… except for the boy.

Make that man.

In the year since I decided to take back ownership of my own life, I have changed dramatically on the hidden, vulnerable inside, yet only marginally on the exposed, hardened outside. Now, I sit alone in the silence of my uncluttered life and stare at the comedic wrestlers throwing their bodies against one another in a pathetic display of machismo and steroid-built strength, pondering the unexpected insertion of an all-too-familiar wedge into my carefully rebuilt life. I remember clearly what it felt like to have that piece attached to my existence, the unhealthy relationship that we both tried to nourish, it draining the life from both of ours in the process. The question now is if there is room in the new world for it to survive, for it to receive the nurturing it needs to not send us both crashing back into the pits of despair that I have only just managed to crawl out of.

I have rebuilt my life into something resembling a self-sustaining existence through a series of changes over the past year, some planned, some not, each embraced as the right move to take at that time, each leaving me better off than I was before. Change number one occurred the day after we broke up, the same day I said goodbye to her for good in this room. I quit working at the Crashdown and got myself a new, second job. The pay had never been that enticing anyway, I really only worked there to create the illusion that a shared shift constituted quality time together, a lie which never worked on either of us. Now, without the appeal of watching her swirl through the crowds of customers on a busy Saturday night, six bucks an hour just wasn't worth it. My new job was driving a delivery truck back and forth from the tiny Roswell airport for a local delivery company. The pay was good and I got to keep whatever tips I happened to get.

That brought on change number two.

It was only a month after I'd started working there, and a new Independent Artists gallery had just opened in town. I delivered most of their artwork in the first week of business and one day the owner asked if I'd like to make a little extra cash hanging some of the pieces for him. I figured any idiot would be crazy to turn down $50 to yield a hammer for a few hours and quickly said yes. Two hours later, I was late for my shift at MetaChem and had the owner seriously reconsidering the quality of pieces he chose for his opening show.

Hence, change number three.

My paintings were displayed in a back, poorly lit corner on opening night, only three pieces, the entire body of my work. Isabel didn't leave my side the entire night, something I was both grateful for and resentful of at the same time. Three drop-dead gorgeous women that I could only dream of getting in bed, lingered a little too long in an area with only three pictures to look at, but she kindly engaged each of them in lively conversation about the depth of character portrayed and succeeded in selling all three paintings—even if I didn't come away with either of their numbers.

That night directly effected change number four.

I kicked Max out of my apartment, it was time for him to suck it up and make it on his own anyway, and moved a mini-studio into my bedroom. Max set up residence in an apartment just down the hall, typical since he never could leave me to my own supervision for long, and I donated all of my bedroom furniture to him and Liz, who practically lived there anyway. I don't think he ever told her that she was sleeping on the mattress christened by her best friend, but I was glad to have the reminder out of my place, even if I did have to sleep on the couch stuffed with its own demons.

I spent more than a few nights on the floor.

My work started improving, some of it selling, some of it not, all of it gradually moving forward in the gallery until I was one of several 'featured local artists'. It wasn't a big-time, here's a record contract, sign on the dotted line kind of deal, but for now, for life in Roswell, it was enough. I was still finding my way back into a life where I supported myself completely, both financially and emotionally, and was actually happy, and wasn't ready for another big change… at least not right now.

Her phone call threw a wrench in those plans. The first sound of her voice had been surprising but I knew that I could count on my initial reaction as the true emotion of the moment… I was happy. Elated actually. I never thought I would be anxious to hear the sound of her voice again, yet when I did, it was as if a melodic tone that I had forgotten suddenly rang throughout my head and sent a smile to my anxious face. I wanted to know what was happening with her, I needed to know how she was, if she was happy… I needed her to know that I was.

The obvious sadness masked by her chipper words lasted for ten minutes before her voice cracked and she spilled the melancholy that was her life. I listened intently, offering what advice I could in my limited experience with listening to someone else's problems, and never did tell her of the changes in my own life, to her everything was as it always was. Oh, she'd asked me, that wasn't the problem. It was through no fault of her own that she remained unaware of the developments in the life of Michael Guerin. In fact, she'd practically begged me to tell her everything about myself these days… I just couldn't. She'd wanted to end it between us to find happiness for herself, that it was I who found peace instead may have been called poetic justice by some. Hell, even I called it poetic justice a little, but the bigger part of me, the part that knew I would always care about her happiness, called it a cruel twist of fate. She deserved to be happy as much as I did, and I wouldn't deny her the tiny bit of joy that crept into her voice by the end of our two-hour conversation.

Now, though, I had a decision to make. Had I really grown into a strong enough person to interject a little saving grace into her life? Were my freshly planted roots firmly entrenched in the soil of my new life to withstand the force of reaching out to save her drowning soul? The answer was simple… I didn't know.

With a sweeping wave towards the television to send it into darkness, I strode towards my bedroom/studio and flung open the door. I normally had a rule that I wouldn't paint after sunset, the light never bright enough to highlight the effects I strove to achieve in my creations. More often than not though, I found myself painting into the wee hours of the morning, straining to see the minute details I ensconced on the canvas, working tirelessly until the sun came up, at which point I would turn the easel to face the window and begin the arduous task of picking apart my fervent strokes by the light of day.

I could tell immediately that tonight would be another of those endless ventures into darkness, the urge to paint until I exhausted my supply of both colored liquids and inspiration overpowering. I attacked the blank easel before me, feeling blindly on the table by its side for a tool through which I could funnel the vibrations coursing within my body. I struck upon charcoal, so the first sketch was in black, white, and muted tones of gray. My fingers worked of their own mind, caressing the paper behind the trail of dusty blackness as I drew lines in random directions. Her face emerged from within the strokes, peering out at me in surprise at being portrayed in this room from which I had all but banished her. The finished product was frightening, the lines stiff and rigid, revealing a hardened exterior that I had never witnessed with my own eyes. I tore the page from the pad, unable to believe that she had spiraled into the severity I depicted.

The second began with softer strokes, the lines curving around the tiny cleft in her chin until I recalled watching her lips tear my heart from my chest on our last night together and scrambled to manifest the lingering memory of that emotion onto the surface before me. The contrasting result was piercing eyes glaring back from a kindly face, the opposition between the two disturbing as I fought with the idea that this was how I had really seen her.

That page found itself next to the first on the carpeted floor and I panted heavily as I leaned against the third blank page, pressing my hand firmly against the surface to prevent another hasty idea from escaping my tortured mind. My head tilted to the side just slightly as I struggled to even my breathing, calling upon the fonder memories of our time together to create the muse for my next portrayal. The only memory that emerged was of our very last moment together, the utter devastation on her face at realizing that the words I spoke to her were true—what we had… it wasn't a love story.

I released my protective hold on the paper, stepping back to close my eyes for just a moment as I took a snapshot of her face in that instant. I felt like I had the real image of her prepared to create, and assaulted the paper before me without care or caution as to what showing her like that would do. All the softness was back in her features, her straight locks that I always told her I liked, replaced with the long curls that would always be my favorite. Her lips were pouty, inflamed, partly from the look she had perfected to throw at me, and partly because of the intense sobbing that had just deflated her. Her cheeks reflected that crying as well, blushed just slightly with the faintest swipe of red chalk, also applied to her perfectly formed lips, one of only two colors I permitted in this final drawing.

The other was in the obvious place, the one place in which color had always meant comfort to me. Whenever I felt lost, whenever the world pressed down on me just a little too hard, it was always in her eyes that I found my solace. I drew them now, taking care to still my shaking hand as I created the arch of her brow just perfectly, the line falling to the corner of the slight wrinkle emanating from her eye, the one that she despised and I loved, always showing itself whenever she was happy… or sad. The green I chose could never capture the true brilliance of the emerald jewels that actually lay behind her gaze, but I focused on them intently, carving arcs of shimmering gold around the centers to showcase the magnitude of their radiance.

I stepped back to examine the piece I had created, frowning when I took in the finished product. It was her, so clearly her, captured in all her agony, the spirit that so longed to be happy trapped behind the mask of sadness that she wore on her face. Getting her expression just right wasn't the problem—it was the added effect that I had unknowingly added to the sketch that changed it. My hand, dusty from its trip through the maze of lines forming the first two attempts, had left a clear outline on the picture before me now; my handprint, plainly visible across the expanse of her face, as if my personal stamp was marked on her very existence.

Staring at it, I knew that the proposal she had made to me on the phone needed to happen, her timid request for my presence in her life was more than required, it was essential. I made the phone call, not noticing that the 2:34 AM harshly displayed on my watch meant two hours later in another city.

~~~~~

My eyes scan the crowd once more for her familiar face. I am worried that she will have changed so much that I will not recognize her, needless as I know that one look at her face even 50 years from now will reveal her to be the same person she always was to me—my first love.

My heart squeezes a little tighter in my chest, attempting to end this meeting before it ever begins by killing me on the spot. I thump my fist against my chest roughly, encouraging another beat out of the fearful organ to get me through the next few minutes. I am about to see her again—after 13 months with no contact, we are about to dive back into each other's lives… my only hope is that at least one of us remembers how to swim.

I know that this meeting is supposed to be more for her than me, organized upon her request, but truthfully I think that I may need it even more than she does. My life has been nothing short of satisfying since our coupling ended, it has even welcomed its share of wondrous moments over the past year, but today, as I wait impatiently for her to arrive, I know that the silent whisper tickling my mind on long nights when sleep evaded me and inspiration refused to visit is due to the person I am about to lay my eyes upon once more. The one person who I have secretly longed to try and fit back into the new life I have constructed, the piece that is not missing from my world as it is, rather the one that would make a welcome addition.

My brain screams at me for even formulating such thoughts as I wipe my sweating palms nervously on my jeans one more time. I have refused to allow myself to dwell on thoughts of her in our time apart, knowing that when I said I needed time alone to find myself I had hit upon a previously undiscovered truth. I did need that time, and I had it, lots of it, too much of it perhaps. It had been a long time since I let anyone inside my heart, and now that I was about to show the renewed model to someone for the first time I was petrified.

I look up to see her face swirling amongst the crowd before me. She hasn't seen me yet and I savor the moment to examine the changed appearance of Maria Deluca, household name. Her hair is blonde again, lighter than I remember, but still the color I always preferred and long, streaming down her back; the locks are straight but I'm sure I can convince her to curl them at least once. She is balanced on boots with pointed heels that resemble something close to stilts, a pair of low-slung, wide-cut jeans enhancing the slight curves in her lower body. A tight-fitting white dress shirt displays what needs to be seen of the upper portion and I have to shift my weight to reverse the effect she is having on certain parts of my body.

My movement must catch her eye because she turns towards me and stops in her place, her hand brushing a stray hair from her face as her gaze settles upon mine… finally. My brain is unable to process what is about to take place as she crosses the crowded airport towards me, only that I am pathetically unprepared for it. What do I say to her? How do I react to the lost love that has suddenly provided me the opportunity to know her again? My stomach clenches as she approaches, knowing that the only way to be sure of my words in the next few moments are to let my heart rule my mouth, something that has only brought me trouble in the past, and yet the only action I can rely on now.

"Hi," she says softly, staring at me with questioning eyes as she struggles to read the expression on my face. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," I reply, knowing that had she asked me to come 10 months ago I probably would have also said yes.

The break in the silence between us is brief and we immediately fall into an entranced stare, our eyes locked on the others as we seek out guidance for what the next move should be.

"You look good," she offers timidly, shaking her head slightly at the banality of her words. Her eyes remain trained on mine as she blinks back sudden, unexpected tears that threaten to mar her vision. "I missed you."

Her mouth quivers just slightly and I watch as she takes a long, slow breath, fighting to piece together the composure crumbling around her. I want to repeat the words to her but know that volume would escape my voice at this moment. Instead I do the only thing I am still capable of… lean in and kiss her.

Our lips meet tentatively, her mouth still surprised at the sudden impact of mine against hers. She recovers quickly, encouraging my movements hesitantly as we tangle in the embrace that had once been so familiar. It is comforting, like I have slipped back into a familiar scene that I didn't know I had forgotten. All sense of the people surrounding us vanish and we are left alone in the teeming terminal, two reunited lovers attempting a test of the lingering passion they once had for each other.

I lean further into the embrace, my mind fighting to ward off any strains of conscious thought from interrupting this moment. Somehow this feels good, right, like there is still room for her in my life along with the happiness I have built on my own. I cannot help the small smile that graces the nonexistent space between us, forcing my lips hungrily against hers. I want this, in fact, there was never a question of wanting it or not, only of when I could handle it. I know I can now—I am strong enough to withstand the tumultuous effects of her trembling existence as we attempt a reconstruction of what we once had.

Actually wait… not a reconstruction; not a rebuilding of the relationship that once nearly destroyed us both. A new example, a new, carefully constructed foundation built out of caring and respect for the other that will support a solid home for both our hearts to reside in. I make these decisions quickly, not yet knowing if she wants any of my caring, support, or love, just recognizing that I have it to provide, and trusting that I can now turn the tables and give her what she needs for a change.

I pull back, my eyes remaining closed as I lean over her trembling form. I can hear the smile breaking across her face as she sighs contentedly and I venture a glance to examine her face. She looks up at me with such innocence, a lost child swimming in the devastation of her own creation, without a single idea of how to guide herself back to safety. I raise my hand to run it along her cheek gently, smiling as I feel her lean into the gesture.

"It's okay," I murmur. "I'm here now."

She nods, the tears she fought to suppress springing to the surface again quickly. She turns away, glancing at the bag at my feet in a wordless gesture that we should leave. I follow soundlessly, gripping the small hand she offers tightly as we weave our way through the crowded New York airport, headed for the first example of what her life has become without me.

I am apprehensive, scared, tense, and excited. Maybe, I think to myself, maybe this could be a love story.
shelbecat
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This is Almost a Love Story

Post by shelbecat »

This is Almost a Love Story

Summary: Maria examines the devastation of her life during Michael's visit to New York.
Author's Notes: The fourth installment in the Love Story series.

Thanks again to Gimpy for making me yet another amazing banner. And she did it in like 30 minutes!!! Love you!

Sherry

Image


I pull my legs tighter to my chest as I retreat further into the uncomfortable wing chair adorning the corner of my expansive bedroom. For all its discomfort, it doubtlessly costs more than the entire contents of the dingy apartment back in Roswell that plagues my thoughts, the occupant of said apartment the only focus of my tortured mind at the moment.

He came to me—I only had to make the barest suggestion and he dropped everything to fly across the country for me. As much as I wanted him here, his selfless act despises me, knowing that if it had been him who called for me, I would have been incapable of making the return trip to the tiny town I had fled from a year before. The self-loathing I feel doesn't allow me to search within myself for the shred of goodwill that must still lie there somewhere; the tiny piece of myself that may have actually been able to reach out to him if asked. Instead, I sit shivering in the corner of my bedroom, watching him sleep on the bed we have never shared; the one person that I know can save me from my worst enemy—myself.

The moonlight streaming in through the lone window softly illuminates his figure. He is lying on his left side facing me, his arms curled tight to his chest, the thin blanket he covered himself with having fallen to the floor nearly an hour ago. My brain continuously tells me to place it back on his body but I cannot bring myself to do so; the sight of his bare torso bathed in silvery streaks from the night sky is too glorious to hide beneath a covering. Cursing my selfish actions, I rise from my chair to adjust the heat another notch, fooling myself into believing that if I make it warm enough he will think that he is back in the sweltering desert, not here in the icy city where I have summoned him.

I return to the stiff chair of my self-punishment. Instead of lying beside him on the bed where we started the night, I have departed the comforting lie of that depiction for the harsh truth of my situation—I am alone. We were not together tonight, it was just his kindness that permitted me to believe that, for a moment, the sight of us sharing the same mattress was a return to our former ways. It was not… he did not come to this city to fall back into a relationship with me; he came only because I begged him to do so, even if my words said "Would you?" the message beneath was "You have to" and he knew it.

I called for his saving graces because I was lost in the world I so readily created for myself after our parting. It may have been my words that started our ending, but it was his that sent me running from the world we inhabited together. His true-to-the-core message that we were draining the life from each other as we struggled to make our broken relationship work, opened my eyes to the agony residing in his. Suddenly, I was aware that instead of easing his pain like I thought I had been doing for years, I was actually adding to it by pouring my heartache on top of his. That realization left me reeling, the anguish of my newfound knowledge leaving me unable to remain in a place where I was responsible for his unhappiness.

My journey away from Roswell had taken me directly to New York where I set out on the proven path to success as Maria Deluca, pop princess. At first, the music had been a means of drowning out the voices in my head that condemned my every action; the part of me that scolded my childishness at running away from the love I knew I still needed, kidding myself into believing that if he needed distance then so did I. I was able to play the part of the uncaring robot as they molded and shaped the lyrics of another person to the tones of my voice, melding both together into an album fit to release for public consumption. It was never the music I wanted to create; the words and notes they placed before me pouring from my lips without any conscious thought on my part. My passage towards happiness, following my dream of finding fame and fortune on the strength of what musical talent I possessed, took place without me being present at all—I was just an unwilling participant in my life as my body ventured forth to the heights of popularity and my mind stayed behind, wondering what had happened to cause me such torment in the circle of happiness that was supposedly my existence.

The very cause that lay on the bed before me now.

A snaking tear wound its way down my cheek as I stared at his sleeping form lost in the blessed fragments of a dream. He was kind enough to recognize my need for him in our one phone call and caring enough to make the trip across the physical distance that separated us to be by my side. Now that he was here in my life, I supposed that I was expected to find some form of peace in his presence… the truth being that his arrival had only served to send me spiraling further into the confusion I inhabited. While the physical separation was no longer a factor, the emotional still existed and it was this crevasse that threatened me menacingly now—I did not know how to find happiness for myself through the memory of my relationship with Michael, was not even sure if I deserved to; I only hoped that if I was destined to live out the misery I had created for myself, he at least could be happy in his new life.

His suddenly restless body on the bed stirs me from my self-deprecating musings and I look up at his blinking eyes.

"Hey sleepy," I murmur.

His hand tiredly rubs his eyes, staring at me without focus in the darkness emcompassing the room. "What time is it?" he mumbles.

"Five," I answer.

"And you are up already because…"

'I am up already because sharing a bed with you where I lie beneath the covers while you sleep on top is torture,' I want to respond but don't.

"Couldn't sleep," I say softly, shrugging my suddenly chilled shoulders in the overheated room.

He yawns, stretching to his full length on the bed before repositioning himself on his left side, his body raised on one elbow as he directs his gaze towards me. "It's hot," he says simply, his eyes surely boring holes into the secrets of my soul as I hurriedly escape the prison of my chair to adjust the thermostat.

I am returning to the stuffed velvet sanctuary when the sound of his voice stops me.

"Here," he says, the simple suggestion loaded with unspoken undertones as I turn to see that 'here' means the bed beside him.

I cross the room slowly, unsteadily making my way around the king-sized bed to perch on the side I had been sleeping on. My legs immediately find their way to my chest again, my arms snaking around to pull them as tight to my body as possible, my bones a pitiful barrier between myself and him. My chin sinks into the curve between my knees, my eyes timidly seeking out his across the moon-tinged darkness separating us. I hold my breath as he shifts his weight, turning towards me to lean on his right arm, his head supported in his hand. The silence is heavy between us, the anticipatory pause before the inevitable sharing of information oppressing.

I have so many things I want to ask him, this trip was supposed to be for me, to help me, but right now I cannot even think about cheering myself into a state of normalcy until I uncover the reality that is his life now. He craved happiness more than I ever did; he deserved to have found it by now, but did he? And if he did, would I be able to make peace with the truth that he was happy while I was not?

"Tell me about your life," I whisper softly, my voice barely disturbing the still air of the room.

"My life?"

I nod, my eyes focusing in on his for a moment before retreating to stare at the mindless pattern of my duvet.

"You know about my life," he counters.

"Not anymore."

My words obviously strike a chord of truth within him as his own gaze drops to the bed, his left hand tracing a mindless pattern on the 400-count overpriced material.

"Well, there's not much to tell. I'm still in the apartment, I kicked Max out—him and Liz live just down the hall, well she technically lives in residence at university but for all the time she spends there you'd say they were roommates. She's studying…"

"Michael," I interrupt gently. "If I wanted to know about Max and Liz I'd call my mother."

"Or you could call Liz."

His words are a sliver of ice piercing my heart cleanly; I have not spoken to Liz since I left the western state so long ago, not returned one of her calls or responded to any of her countless e-mails. "Michael," I sigh breathily, willing him not to push this point with me.

"I'm just saying. You can't expect to run away from home and not have people wonder if you are okay. Every few months she breaks down and calls your mother to see if you're still alive. I always find out the updates from Max or Isabel whether I ask for them or not. Hell, most of the news she gets is from Teen People®!"

"That's not fair," I mumble.

"It's the truth," he counters evenly.

"It's not easy being out here," I retort sharply, my eyes hardening as I stare not at him but at the suddenly fascinating print on the wall above the bed. "Things are different now."

"They're only different if you want them to be Maria."

"Why are you being so mean?" I cry, fighting not to flee from the close quarters we occupy on my bed. It is only the large mattress size, the space separating us being over three feet, that keeps me in place, safely out of reach of any physical contact with him.

"I'm not being mean," he says softly but firmly. "You asked me out here to help you find yourself again. At least that's the message I got through your sobbing on the phone. I'm just saying that I don't think you can find yourself if you haven't got any roots to start from."

"Those roots were never solid anyway," I mutter defensively.

"Maybe, maybe not, but they were yours, the only ones you've got. Denying them doesn't make finding a future any easier."

"Oh right. This from the boy who would forsake every human he'd ever met for a chance to return to his home planet."

His eyes gloss over with a steely coldness as he pauses our conversation with his refusal to fight back at me. "That is not fair and you know it," he finally says quietly. "Going back to Antar now would be one of the hardest decisions I would ever have to make, but you are right; I probably would 'forsake every human I ever met' for a chance to go back… if only to see what I'm not missing. My life is on this planet now, I made my peace with that a long time ago."

"Last time I checked you were still angry with me for making you stay," I continue, his words penetrating my anger but not far enough to make me quiet my defense. He can't be this nice to me while I am trying to fight with him; it is not possible that it is Michael who is taking the high road. Without warning, the long repressed memory of his calmness on the last day we spoke floats to the surface of my mind and I recall how he proudly strode upon the higher path on that day as well. I am instantly shamed as I listen to him continue his gentle, if effective, counter to my argument.

"If that's the message you got from the last time we talked, then you are sorely mistaken. My roots may be in another universe but my feet are firmly planted on this ground now. And a lot of time has passed since you 'last checked' anything with me."

His words settle over me like a wet blanket, their weight pressing against my skin as I struggle to shrug off their implication. He is right, of course he is right, I do not know where his life sits today, where his loyalties lie, or if he would run off to Antar to escape the town I so readily shunned in my leaving. The truth of the matter is that a small part of me already recognizes that I do not know his intentions, the fundamental point behind his words being that I do not know who Michael Guerin is today; I do not know… but I want to.

"Tell me?" I ask timidly.

His queried gaze is enough to indicate that he doesn't know what I mean as I swallow heavily and fight for the words to ask him to share his new life with me. "I want… I want to know about your life… your life now," I stammer, my eyes locked on the bedspread between my toes, their tight grip on the material evident in the strained muscles of my feet as I fight to remain within reach of his acerbic rebuke, the inclination to bolt from the room nearly overwhelming.

My request goes unanswered for a long moment and I am sure that he deems me unworthy of knowing the life he has structured for himself without my presence. Finally, after an indeterminable amount of time has passed and I am beginning to doubt that I ever should have asked him here in the first place, he asks quietly, "What do you want to know?"

I sigh audibly, meeting his gaze again, just briefly, to check that he is not baiting me, that he really is ready to share the details of his new world in the pathetic excuse of one that I have created. "Everything," I gush, immediately regretting my enthusiastic approach to learning information he may still be reluctant to share.

He only smiles at my energy; I catch the sight of his lips upturning into his trademark, almost hidden grin out of the corner of my eye and I nod imperceptibly at his lingering ability to still appreciate some of my lesser qualities, not turned off by them as most people would be. At times, even I am turned off by the very traits that he always said he loved in me and I can't help but let my mind wonder now if he would still find all of them attractive in a newly-forged relationship.

The clearing of his throat brings my eyes back to his and I watch the obvious internal struggle play out on his face as he attempts to formulate his thoughts into a presentable order.

"Well, there's not that much to tell really," he begins and I can't stop the frown that falls across my features as I think that this is all of the information I will garner from him. He must notice, because he hurriedly continues, assuaging my fears with, "I got another job, nothing special, hard work, but honest. It wasn't something I took just so I could watch my girlfriend parade around in a skimpy uniform and that was all I was looking for at the time."

I smile at the thought that I was the reason he took his first job at the Crashdown when I know for a fact that he was beyond broke at the time and Max asked Liz if she thought her father would need another cook. I don't think he ever knew that it was his friends that made that job happen behind the scenes, and hearing now that in his mind he did it for me, brings happy memories of the Saturday nights we spent there together—cleaning up and then promptly disturbing the order with our heated make-out sessions.

"What's your job?" I ask.

"Driving a delivery truck."

"Oh Michael," I breathe quickly, the opposition leaving my mouth before I can stop myself.

"What?" he says without malice. "You were going to say I'm better than driving a delivery truck?"

"Something like that," I confirm quietly.

"I know I'm better than that," he says, again with a smile on his lips instead of the scolding I deserve. "And I am doing something better than that. Driving just guarantees that the bills get paid every month. Every spare moment I get I'm painting."

My eyes widen as I listen to the sudden rush of information from his mouth as he explains his rediscovered passion to me excitedly. I can barely remember seeing him get excited about anything when we were together except possibly finding out information about his home. To see him describe the way that painting makes him feel, the rush he derives from creating a piece of art from nothing more than an idea and paper is beyond satisfying—it is crushing.

I sit in silence on the bed as he continues his depiction of the wonder that is his new life. He is not bragging, just explaining, highlighting the aspects of the world he now loves to be a part of. And I can see that he is happy, I knew it the moment I looked into his eyes in the airport, I just waited to hear him speak the actual words to let myself believe it for sure. That happiness should spread to me, I should smile for my friend's good fortune, but I cannot. Beneath the empty smile that masks my features, an emotion that I am overwhelmingly ashamed of rolls through my body—jealousy. The initial stimulus to our breaking up was me wanting to find some happiness for myself, by myself; watching him achieve what I could not is devastating and while it may make me a small person, I can accept that as long as I do not have to compare my sorry life to his—I have all of the material possessions I could have ever asked for and the one missing piece to my jumbled puzzle of emotional happiness is sitting mere feet away from me now, his own life falling into place without me in it.

I am unable to remain on the bed, forcing an interesting look on my face when my heart is crying out for him to not be happy and still need something in me to complete his world. The emotion is belittling and it is that feeling more than the effort it takes to show interest in his story that sends me running from him now. I turn to slide my feet to the floor, my head tilting towards him just slightly as he looks up at me expectantly.

"I need a drink," I offer pathetically, leaning on my arms as I push my shaking body into a standing position.

Without warning, his hand breaks the invisible barrier that kept me so close to him for this long, and reaches out across the bed to grasp my arm. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Sure," I mumble, unable to meet the gaze that I know will be piercing as I continue moving away from him, tugging lightly against the grip he holds on me. "Just thirsty," I explain.

"Maria," he cautions.

"Really," I mumble, freeing my arm from his hold as I make it to a standing position and begin the slow trek across the suddenly too large room to the doorway and relative safety. Mercifully, he lets me go without another word, watching I am sure as I stumble once on my escape route away from him, gripping the door handle tightly in both hands as I fight for the strength to open it. It gives way, falling aside to reveal the hotel suite beckoning to me. My eyes fall on the glass doors of the balcony I have sought respite from on so many nights in recent weeks and I can barely formulate the command necessary to drive my feet in that direction, staggering against the antique furniture pieces as I make my way to the only salvation I can find in this world crafted not for the real Maria Deluca but for the girl that she once thought she wanted to be.

The glass gives way easier than the bedroom door, slipping away to let in a sharp blast of frigid air against my scantily clothed body. It is still early, pre-dawn, and the air retains the deep freeze of a subzero night in the winterized city. I take an eager step onto the ice-hard concrete, my body shivering without my permission as the cold sets into my muscles, seeping up through the soles of my feet, turning blood and sinew to icy replications as it makes its way steadily through my once living body. Slowly, deliberately, the cold hand of unfeeling takes over my desperate form, turning throbbing veins and pulsing muscles to ice sculptures of their former selves, all feeling ceasing to exist in the vessel that houses my spirit—the body that keeps just a vague memory of the girl that once lived here alive in the alien shell that now resides in her place.

Alien… I have never felt further removed from the love I once cherished and yet this is the first time that I have ever used that term to describe myself, comparing myself to him so perfectly, the word that depicted the way he had to feel through all of the years he fought to find a semblance of his true self in this foreign universe now applying itself to me without mercy, settling over my body as my new definition.

I am an alien in this world—I do not belong in the life I grew up in, I do not belong in the life I now own. I am not Maria Deluca, child of Roswell, New Mexico; I am not Maria Deluca, superstar of New York City, New York; I am Maria Deluca, nobody—unloved, unnoticed, unaccompanied… alone.

The freezing process is nearly complete when I sense rather than hear a presence behind me. Warm arms, burning my frosted skin with the sharp spike in temperature, wrap around me, the shivers beginning again as the thawing process starts immediately. No words are exchanged as I am lifted into the security of his embrace, my body moving unwillingly as I am transported back inside the heated apartment. His touch is delicate, tender, almost reverent as he positions me on the couch, not leaving even to retrieve a blanket to warm me, instead lifting the tank top covering my ice-chilled back and pulling me to his bare chest for defrosting.

"You should… you shouldn't stay here," I chatter between trembling lips, my brain as frozen as my lips as it struggles to formulate the proper words to say to my savior.

"Be quiet," he admonishes without the added effect of guilt.

I allow his pull to deepen against me, leaning back to almost enjoy the tingling in my skin as it meets and melts against his. Opposing hands grip my arms, rubbing them briskly as he fights to force circulation in the blue-tinged limbs. My eyes close as I relish the feel of his saving graces blessing the girl who does not deserve it, so removed from the situation that I barely recognize her as me.

"I forgot your nails turned blue," he remarks and I crash back into the land of reality, focusing my blurred gaze on his hand holding my own. Sure enough, my fingers are on display before us, the nail beds revealing their so far unrivaled ability to turn blue at the slightest sign of a chill. Exposing them to the frigid winds whipping across the balcony resulted in far more than a slight tinge, the delicate cuticles turning a deep shape of indigo at the penetrating freeze settling within them.

"They always did," I manage to stammer out, my body unable to remain upright as I lean heavily back against him again, sighing as I await the judgment that will now befall me as I hear about the stupidity of my actions. "Go ahead," I murmur, sleep clawing at my exhausted body as I steel myself for his scolding. "Yell at me or something, just make it quick."

"You want me to yell at you?" he asks, a note of surprising tickling his voice.

"I deserve it, don't I?"

"Well I'm not the judge of that," he says calmly. "If you need yelling, why don't you give it a go?"

I twist in his arms slightly to cast my eyes back at his. Narrowing them at the cryptic words falling from his lips, I mumble, "You want me to yell at myself?"

He smiles, the gesture so out of place in the situation that I almost catch myself doing the same. "You are weird," I mutter, turning around to cuddle back into his amazingly still warm chest again.

"And you are stupid," he counters. "But, I didn't know this was about trading insults."

At his statement, I leap into the escape act I have planned for when he would doubtlessly start in on me, pushing myself away from him rapidly, or rather trying, stopping as he grabs one arm in each of his hands firmly. He flips me over expertly as he tosses me flat on my back against the couch, vaulting through the air towards me. He stops, his body mere inches from mine as he balances above me, the look in his eyes luring me into a reaction, any reaction.

I open my mouth to speak but he stops me with a finger across my lips. Cautioning me with his eyes to remain quiet, he removes his hand, propping it back on the cushions to support his weight as he obviously prepares for the assault I have expected.

"You asked me out here because you said you were losing yourself, had already lost yourself in this crazy life. And I came, without question, not because I thought you needed finding, but because I thought you could use a friend, something you seem to be in short-supply of lately, all through your own doing I might add."

"Mic…"

"Shh," he silences me, the look in his eyes warning me that he will not tolerate another interruption. "This thing is that I've only been here for like 12 hours, and already I can see that you aren't lost at all—you're hiding. For whatever reason, you took off from Roswell on this mission to find fame and fortune, and instead of embracing what you've got, you are still living a lie somewhere 2000 miles west of here in your mind."

"I know that you were the one that wanted to end things between us, but I also think that you would have been ready to give it another try if I waited long enough. When I said I wouldn't… couldn't… I don't know for sure if you ever really thought we'd get back together, but I know it had to sting to hear me say the words. And the last thing that ending it was supposed to do was hurt you; in my mind you were already gone before you ever said you were leaving."

"That's not true," I hurriedly blurt out, shrinking away from him as his obvious displeasure at my speaking shows itself.

"Whether you realize it or not, you were ready to leave Roswell long before it was ready to let you go. All you needed was a ticket out of there and that's what I tried to give you." He stops as he sits back on his heels, freeing me from the cage that I didn't mind being trapped in. "I know it seemed like I was doing it for myself, and I was sort of… but I thought you needed to take some time to sort out what you really wanted too, find out who Maria Deluca really was. I never thought you'd forget the part you already had."

His statements weigh heavily on my still shivering body. He notices and moves to pull me to him again but I wave him away. I need to digest what he has just said, understand the implication of his words and attempt to formulate some response. I can't do that if he touches me… I fear I will lose the slight grip I still hold on reality if he touches me.

"So you… you think I need to be the girl I was with you?"

He sighs, and I know I've gotten it wrong already. "No, not be, just remember. You had all these fantastic dreams, and they're basically coming true, but you're still not happy. I think you need to remember why you wanted them in the first place to enjoy what you've got now."

"And what about you… did you remember who you were when you tried to be happy?"

"I did, and then I forgot all about him again. He didn’t have happy elements Maria, now I do. You… you're different. You always had all the pieces, you just need to figure out how to put them together."

I stare at his face for what seems like an eternity. I am not sure if I am trying to discern some trace of insincerity there, or if I am just committing it to memory for the long days ahead when I mount this battle he thinks I should and he is no longer here to support me. I close my eyes as my mind takes a snapshot of his features. I know that his words carry a great truth, but I am petrified at the thought of acting on a single suggestion. It all seems so simple when he lays it out before me, but in two days he is scheduled to get on a plane headed back to Roswell and then I will be alone again… any plan I start now obliterated when my once again solitary psyche is able to seize upon it.

"I can stay," comes the slight offer from the other end of the couch and I blink my eyes open slowly as I try to comprehend the words he has just produced.

"I can stay," he repeats, locking his gaze with mine as realization dawns on me that he really is an angel. "Not forever, not… not yet," he adds and I frown.

"Not yet?" I question, my breath catching in my throat as I decipher the hidden meaning behind his words.

"I want to help you," he rushes to explain. "But, I can't just give up the life I've got to save yours. I'll be the rock you need to hold on to while you do this, but after… if I give up what I've built I'll be right back where I started. You've got to get your own feet on solid ground before we can think about after."

"I don’t want you to give up anything for me," I say cautiously, my body beginning a slow retreat away from him as my legs curl towards my torso.

"Don't do that," he warns, placing a firm but gentle hand on my knee. "Don't hide… not from me."

"I'm not…" I start, stopping as I realize that I am doing just what he says, I am hiding—from him, from my memories, from my life. "I'm sorry," I mumble, my eyes tearing as I stare up at his nonjudgmental gaze. "Now you are being too nice to me," I moan softly, smiling slightly as I see him relax his too tense muscles, sinking back into the couch slowly.

"It's just the truth," he says simply.

"The truth," I echo, turning my head away from him as I stare out across the elegant hotel suite. This world, this life, has always been what I wanted, yet it never quite fit the way I thought it would. Now Michael suddenly reenters my life, and comes equipped with all this insight about why I feel the way I feel and act the way I act, you'd swear…

"How did you get so smart anyway?" I ask suddenly.

The blush creeping across his cheeks gives me my answer before he ever opens his mouth. "I have a lot of free TV time on my hands," he explains.

"And…" I prompt.

"And I watch Dr. Phil," he confirms.

"I knew it!" I exclaim, scrambling to sit up in front of him as my eyes light with the knowledge that I have learned another of his well-kept secrets. "You are a talk-show junkie, Mr. Guerin," I threaten.

"Oh yeah, and what are you going to do about it," he teases back.

My response to his taunting is instinctive; my body positioned so close to his that it would take just a small shift to see me tangled in his arms. I lick my lips slowly as a confident smile breaks across them. "Desensitize you," I snarl, leaning forward to close the remaining space between us.

He meets me in the sacred separation, his mouth seeking mine hungrily as we pour our pent-up sexual tension into each other. He was able to find his strength on his own but I know now that not everyone is capable of doing that. Needing him to lean on while I regain my footing isn't a weakness, it's just a support; his love required to see me through the approaching storm. I still have challenges to overcome, obstacles to climb, barriers to break as I uncover the lost Maria hiding somewhere beneath the rubble I have piled atop her memory. And I know I can do it now, with his love to guide me, I can do anything.

I smile as I break away from his kiss, gazing into the eyes that have always been my rock, just positioned a little more solidly now. "It's almost," I whisper.

"Almost what?" he asks softly.

"Nothing," I murmur in reply, unable to say the words aloud that now run through my head. It's almost a love story, I think, smiling as I bury my face in his chest, knowing that soon, very soon, it will be.
shelbecat
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This is a Love Story

Post by shelbecat »

This is a Love Story

Summary: Maria and Michael's journeys of self-discovery end in the same place as they find happiness with each other once again.
Author's Notes: The fifth and final installment in the Love Story Series. We have chased the spectrum from "This is Not…" to "This is…" with all the stops in between. It's been a great ride for a fic that was supposed to end with part 1. In this part I used a song by a Newfoundland band, the Ennis Sisters called Without You.

I've had a great time writing this series, getting to explore a slightly darker side of the characters, and writing from their perspective. The ending may get a little confusing, but it was a trick I wanted to try, and I think it turned out okay. I could never thank Gimpy enough for making me yet another banner for this series, but I'll try... thanks!

Sherry

Image

I lean against the ornate railing adorning the wrap-around balcony of the hotel suite, the penetrating December wind billowing my jacket into a bubble behind my back. I squint at the harsh sunshine lighting the city street far below, its strength surprising in the world of gray I examine. How could anyone find happiness here, I wonder. The ant hill of a subway stop releases another hoard onto the already crowded streets, the people swarming like the tiny critters as they move en masse into the narrow corridors separating the buildings. It is a universe of unfeeling, the steely concrete of the office towers matching perfectly with the muted tones of black and gray worn by all but the most daring person traversing the street.

Cold. It is all cold.

My mind cannot help but compare the frigid color scheme in this world she had chosen to the relative heat apparent in every aspect of the desert scene we grew up in. Sandy brown land accented by ochre cliffs and the scarce splash of a faded green from a lone cactus—the land is warmth personified, not always bringing happiness but never baring discomfort.

I clasp my arms to my chest as I take a final look towards the street, frowning as I wonder if she will decide that she needs this to make her happy—this world of faceless strangers, a single person just a nameless ant in the hill of desperate dreams.

"Which?" she asks, interrupting my thoughts as I turn around to see her standing just inside the balcony doors.

I step towards her, my mind immediately made up as I compare the two outfits she holds in her hands—a simple black skirt with a tight-fitting black sweater that I'm sure would blow any strand of self-restraint I still hold, and a knee-length red dress that looks thin enough to save only for summer but would look equally fabulous on her.

"The red."

She smiles, turning away to pad across the thick carpeting to her bedroom, preparing herself for what she has decided must be the first battle in her fight to regain control of the spiraling descent of her life. I cast my eyes back out over the teeming city once more as I step inside and pull the door shut behind me.

Gray—everything is gray; and she will wear red.

~~~~~

My hand glides over the guitar strings slowly. I play the intro three times through before I drum up the courage to utter the first words of the song. I wrote it this morning in under two hours while he was absorbed in the myriad of sports programs available via the satellite dish I have never used and I feigned tiredness to hide in the bedroom. The lyrics have been rattling around inside my head for a week, ever since the fated phone call to him that sent my undirected life turning towards its first sure heading in a year.

I take a deep breath as the beginning notes approach again and chicken out once more, glancing up with a sheepish smile on my face to wordlessly apologize to Dominique and my producer staring somewhat impatiently at me from beyond the glass-enclosed booth. Behind them, leaning against the wall casually, almost with indifference, Michael stares through the transparent barrier separating us, his eyes boring into mine without judgment. He provided no actual encouragement to come here today, just a gentle smile when I told him that it was on my schedule, almost as if he would have chosen the same task for me to begin with. Last night, or rather this morning, he showed me that I have been letting the decisions of others rule my life for far too long. I haven't had a clear idea of what my life needed in it, only that everything I used to know was over and believing that I didn't need it anyway.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

I always needed Michael, probably more than he needed me. When we ended I resolved to be as strong as he was obviously capable and find some happiness for myself all alone. That I failed miserably was something that I didn't even realize I was ashamed of until I broke down and opened a door to invite him back into my life. Seeing him possess such strength was at first intimidating, my instinct that I would never be able to achieve the same. After spending less than a day in his presence, the soothing calm that surprisingly was the theme of his life now, spread to me, his most precious gift the clarity he was able to apply to my life, the answers he provided without ever emitting a judging word.

I locked my gaze on his now, letting my hand fall off the guitar strings as I entered a universe were there were only two. Swallowing thickly, I felt the small seed of courage that he had unknowingly planted inside me bud into a newly blossoming flower of self-assuredness. I tore my eyes from his forcefully, staring at Dominique's now thoroughly pissed-off gaze as I raised my hand to the strings again, stopping her rising objection before it could leave her lips.

I began the song anew, playing the intro only once this time as I took a deep breath in preparation of my first performance of the song that suddenly felt like it could mean the difference between the tortuous life I inhabited or the happiness that awaited me outside the booth.

Without roots to set me on the ground
Without words to tell you what I've found
Without hope that I could see this through
I can't live baby without you


"Enough."

Dominique's shrill voice breaks into the headphones resting on my ears, luring me out of the trance I was quickly falling into.

"Maria," she continues impatiently. "I thought we agreed we'd do pop-py for your next single. This is the same sh… stuff you tried on us the first time."

"Well, I…" I begin slowly. "I just thought… I mean, now that they sort of know me."

"Sweetie," she crows, her obvious irritation at having to explain why she is right and I am wrong yet again nearly cracking the glass between us. "These ballads can't sell albums. We need a jazzy number to break on to the charts. Maybe as the B side."

"Well, I'd just really like…"

She shuts off the connection between the rooms, the heavy silence roaring in my ears the sign that she has stopped listening to me; she stopped listening the day I signed on the dotted line. I look up to see Michael shift almost imperceptibly against the wall, his eyes threatening to shoot death rays through her turned back as he glances once at her and then focuses on me again.

All strength I could ever want rushes at me through the space distancing us, my hand reaching out to snap on the speaker button before I ever formulate what words I am going to say to her.

"Dominique," I say sweetly, sugar dripping from my tongue as she casts a disinterested glance in my direction. "I'd just really like you to hear this through, kay? Five minutes of your life won't kill you."

Without waiting for her response, I close the connection and begin the intro anew. A small satisfaction seeps into me as I catch the surprised look on her face at hearing any opposition leave my mouth, the uncharacteristic opinionated version of me that was once ever-present shocking her into silence.

Without joy that makes me wanna sing
Without pride I can't do anything
Without truth to make me black and blue
I can't live baby without you

You could turn your back you could set me free
But you can't stop being what you are to me
And I love the fact that you love me too
And that I can't live...


"Maria please," she interrupts again, her voice assaulting my ears with its shrillness.

I snap my head up to stare her down across the barrier, immediately seeing that she knows she has pushed the limits of her star too far on this day. "Dominique please," I echo, my voice dripping with honey while the tones of acid beneath bubble to the surface. "I wrote this song for a friend and I am going to sing it for him. Now if you don't mind, kindly @#%$ off."

Without a second thought to what her response will be, I pick up where the song ended, my eyes no longer having to focus on the chords I play, rising instead to meet his surely. Michael hasn't moved in all this time, just solidly supporting me from beyond my glass prison, his soundless presence enough to give me the strength I need to stand up to problem number one in my troubled little life.

Without you to need with all my might
Without me to make it work out right
Without us nothing else will do
I can't live baby without you

You could turn your back you could set me free
But you can't stop being what you are to me
And I love the fact that you love me too
And that I can't live, without you


The last note fades into silence as I await his response to my not-so-hidden message. From the corner of my eye I see Dominique reach to turn on the switch open the speaker between our rooms and raise my hand to stop her. Reaching up, I remove the headphones from their resting place, rising from my stool to cross the thick carpeted sound room. My eyes never leave his as he pushes off from the wall, closing toward me steadily. The door separating us is the final barrier between the lie of a life I am living now and the fragment of the former pleasure I yearn to know again. The glass panel hides none of his intensity as I rest my hand gently on the knob, having only to turn the handle to be back in the world I once knew.

I hesitate for just a moment, needing to be sure that I am not aching for a life that I alone want. He smiles at me, that grin that I have always cherished, reserved for times when he is truly feeling grace. Without conscious thought, I pull back the door and step into his waiting arms. He grabs me to him as I wrap my arms around his neck tightly. My lips meet his in the non-existent space separating us and pour whatever lingering effects of anguish I possess into his healing mouth. I am back in his arms, a place I feared I would never know again after the destruction that befell us back in the tiny town we once both called home. Roswell is not my home any longer, here is—not New York, Michael's arms—the only home I have ever truly known.

~~~~~

I stare into her heated gaze, seeking out permission to exist in the glistening emerald pools. My instinct is to rush ahead without waiting for her acceptance of me but I cannot; I cannot push this reunion that I now know I desire as much as she does. It is too precious to risk structuring weakly, the necessary care begging to be taken in the reconstruction of our love.

I gaze up into his face hovering over mine, swallowing thickly with anxiety as I await the requisite permission from him to proceed. I am struck by the similarity to the last time we were in each other's presence, and at the same time, felled by the stark contrast between then and this occasion. I lie beneath him now as I did on that day, the difference being that this time there is no argument between the wants of my heart and needs of my mind, both eagerly awaiting the beginning of the intimate act that will seal our union.

Lowering my body slowly over hers, I allow her hands to caress my bare chest for a tender moment, enjoying the feel of her skin against mine as my torso melds with hers, the heat from our anticipatory bodies instantly slicking the surfaces with a slippery sweat. My mouth finds hers within the beauty that is her face, hungrily attacking her lips with my own as I pour my desire into her without relent. Her body is exquisite, perfection, just as I remember and never more beautiful.

I run my hands through the waves of his hair that have not changed in our time apart, the locks tickling my forehead teasingly as I await the move for them to tickle the lower reaches of my body. My fingers move down to explore the expanse of his face, his chiseled jaw pulsing beneath my fingers as I return his attack with equal ferocity. It feels so right, this… act, this joining. It is as if we were never apart and yet like we are meeting for the first time.

My hand slips onto her chest, massaging her breast tenderly as I allow my mind to fall back to memories of the last time we were together. It was a fusion of two aching souls, both needing the release of saying goodbye to their love for the last time, both crying out for the love they thrived on not to be leaving them. I know now, after a year of much-needed distance from the heady pull of her presence in my life, that I was angry at her on that day, and it showed in my actions towards her. Truthfully, I was angry at her for a long time before she ended it, some small part of me already knowing that being with her was relying on an unhealthy support to run my life, that I needed to escape her caring ways if I was to ever stand tall on my own.

And she matched my fury beat for beat.

The imprint of her nails in my back were tiny reminders of our anguished passion that I wouldn't dream of letting anyone heal; in fact, I even tried deepening the wounds after she was gone to New York, succeeding in creating a scarring flesh wound that never completely disappeared—fitting I thought as she had never disappeared from my mind, not completely. Although I had moved on and rebuilt a life for myself, I always kept a tiny part of her close to my heart, cherishing the memory of the love she showed me when I was a danger to everyone around me, even more so to myself. Looking into her glazed eyes now, I am ever thankful that I had the time to teach myself what it was to know happiness without her, for now I can return the favor she bestowed on me and help her find peace in the maelstrom of her own life.

His hand slides over my chest, molding my breasts to his touch as I feel the fire within start its slow ascent into a blazing inferno. I pull on his lower lip with my teeth, fighting for deeper entry into his mouth as I wriggle beneath him, vainly attempting to cover every piece of my naked skin with the touch of his. There is a light shining in his eyes as he stops for just a second to stare down at me, panting slightly as he readies himself to mount a fresh attack. I am lost in the exquisite bliss of his gentleness, my mind still unable to comprehend that he is actually lying atop me again.

I reached out to him across the miles and months separating us, a cry for help that I never allowed myself to believe he would answer. But he did, deeming me worthy of his saving graces as he dropped back into my life, bringing with him all the wisdom of one who has fought his own battle with inner demons and emerged the other side a victor. I break away from his lips for a brief moment, running my tongue along their edges as I pull back from him just slightly, teasing him by withholding the prize he yearns for—me.

He yearns for me… I fear I will die of delight before I can award him.


Shakily, I chase after her wandering mouth, cursing lightly as she keeps her distance, pressed back into the pillow so that her hair frames her face like a halo—my angel. I cannot bear to take the time to enjoy the image of her mere inches away from me, needing to feel my body inside her now. I grasp her mouth in mine once more, lowering my fingers to her center as I roughly search for the precious spot of elation. She is already wet, dripping over my fingers as I massage the source of her whimpers forcefully. Speed—I remember that she likes speed, and I increase my pace, the light fluttering serving its purpose as she arches off the bed beneath me, rising to meet my chest with hers before falling back against the pillow again.

I continue my attack, plunging my fingers inside of her as she shudders lightly and I watch her prepare for the mounting assault that approaches. She seems lost, wading far off in a land only she can know, when suddenly her eyes blink open and she dazzles me with a smile like only she can—she is ready to play.

Sliding my hand along his torso, I entwine my arm with his as he continues his gentle ministrations and I seek the object of my own desire. Wrapping my hand firmly about its length, I begin slow, deliberate movements to entice him to follow on the journey I have embarked on, increasing steadily to a fervent pace matched only by his fingers plunging in and out of me rapidly.

I cannot restrain myself as he rips his hand from within me suddenly and attacks me with the flurry of his fingers yet again, the sudden contrast sending me soaring to new heights as I feel myself approach my own apex before him. I fight to remain in the realm of this reality as I tease the tip of his bulging member with my free hand, increasing my speed another notch as I feel him quiver above me and know that he is ready.


The combined effect of her lithe body squirming under me, the moans from her mouth echoing around me, and both of her hands attacking me deliciously at once drives me into a frenzy as I catch myself about to lose control before she does. Pulling back from her, I pause for just a second as she glances up at me, her eyes filled with such adoration that I am stirred into a rapt silence as she makes me forget that we are not the only two people in the world. Watching her ruby-red lips rise towards mine in yet another display of zealous passion, I fumble to detach my hand from her while she caresses my face, positioning myself at her entrance just as she pulls away sharply.

"Michael," I gasp. "Condoms."

My face contorts in confusion as I forget why we never had to use them before, only that we didn't.

"I didn't see the point in staying on the pill," I mumble, wriggling free from his body to slide across the bed. I fumble in my bedside table, retrieving the box I stashed there when I knew he was arriving. I knew it was slightly rash to do so, but I also knew that, having never needed them before, my former boyfriend probably wouldn't have them if the need suddenly presented itself—something I was not prepared to risk.

"A little presumptuous, aren't we?" I smirk at her, smiling as she blushes while opening the packet, slithering back into position to place it on me securely.

"You never complained when I had them before," I tease, and watch as his own cheeks flush as red as mine.

"That I didn't," I murmur, lowering myself to meet her waiting mouth.

I moan into him, my body already mourning the absence of his intricate attention as I await the act we have committed ourselves to without question. I tense as he repositions himself and slides into me, pushing against my objective muscles for a moment until they recognize the familiar body and relax just slightly.

I drive into her slowly at first, steadily increasing the effort until she is shuddering beneath me, sliding up and down the satin sheets with every force. I stare down into her eyes, peering up at me with such glaring clarity that I am unable to focus for a moment, lost in the endless depths of emeralds as I say a silent thank you that she was brave enough to ask me back into her world.

My body shudders around him, my walls threatening to clamp down as I lose myself in the gaze he holds only for me. Coming here, coming back to him took strength I didn't know I possessed until he so easily pointed out where it lay hidden—deep within the memory of our love. I welcome that love back into my existence now as his thrusts strike home within me, my breath leaving my body in a rapturous gasp.

Her nails find their place along the scars of my shoulders, digging into the healed wounds sharply as I smile inwardly and cross the final distance separating us from glory. I pull her crying body to mine as the last steps towards our joining fall away behind us, the rise to the pinnacle of our love complete in one pure instant of cataclysmic ecstasy.

I deflate back onto the bed, pulling him down atop me as all conscious thought leaves my body and I am left with only the realization that we have made it back to each other. "This is it, isn't it?" I gasp.

"What?" I mumble, exhausted from the blissful effort.

"A love story."

I slide onto the bed, pulling her body securely to mine as I gaze into her questioning eyes. 'This is not a love story'—the words echo shrilly in my head as I recall the division of one into two on that day over a year ago. It wasn't a love story; not then. It was lust, it was passion, it was needing and wanting, but it wasn't love—not fully. Now, both of us taking the time to search out a place for ourselves alone, I truly felt like I was ready to look for the one missing piece in my life—love.

"Yes," I whisper, catching her lips with mine as I smile. "This is a love story."
<center>Wanna read more fiction by me?<br>Image</center>
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