I've heard it can feel good. I hope it can. With you, I know it. I've dreamt of it, of you, and it's difficult to dream of something that is so hard to imagine. There's been nothing, no one, with me except Charlie and I know it doesn't have to be like that. Show me. Please?
This is begging, I think. Something I could never do out loud. But I don't know of any other way to tell you just what I want, because it takes so much for me to even put two words together. Saying 'I love you', that was difficult, and a few months ago, I would have thought it impossible, for me. Because it sets you up for rejection. But I do, I love you, Seaton, and I have, since…well, I can't pinpoint the exact moment, just that somewhere in there I realized it.
It wasn't from the moment I saw you, I know that much. Because the first time I saw you, I was terrified. I still am, to a degree. Of the power you have over me, the way your opinion of me matters like no one else's ever has. If you hate me, I hate me, and if you love me…maybe there's a chance…that I could see something else besides Him in the mirror. What's more. I think you're scared too. Of hurting me.
Don't be. There's too much fear between us, too much hesitation on both our parts…okay, mostly mine. But I could never see you as a Charlie. You can't see him in the mirror, not like I see Alfred. It's not fair to you. And it sure as hell isn't fair to me. Don't be scared of this.
I've heard it can feel good. Make me feel good. I think you're the only one that can.
I'm not even sure if it happened.
It's the day after, the murky paleness that comes just after a storm, only there was nothing. Or perhaps they're was. I'm not even sure anymore. God. He confuses me so much.
I…don't know what to do.
I don't know what I did. If I did it. Because he said…nothing. He just held me like he'd been doing because those words and put me to bed, telling not even saying a word.
His arms were warm.
That's all I really know for sure.
I wrote him a letter. In Chemistry class. Just to pass the time, because I didn't want to think about chemistry or senior year or college or…anything. I was thinking about him, about what I said and what he said and what I want and what he wants.
What I think he wants.
The letter is folded and slightly crumbled now, that was almost a week ago. It's worse than awkwardness, because at least when there's uneasiness it's an admittance that something happened. Something significant actually happened, damn it, and that's why you're acting strange. But he isn't acting strange, and it scares me because I was never good at reading him and I…I can't breath sometimes, when I try to figure it out too much.
Sometimes I think he might love me too. And sometimes I'm convinced he hates me.
I don't know what to do. Is it that what I said wasn't significant, or that it didn't even happen at all? Surely it must be one of the two, but I can't even…Fuck. This isn't fair. At all.
I still can't find that fucking painting and I've been sitting here all night.
Sighing, I lay down on the floor and taking each painting again and again…he's working on another one, right now. It's of the ocean. Only the water's black. That one's not about me. It's…fuck, I hate this, what am I supposed to do?
It's like everything that isn't him his time away from him, and everything I say that isn't 'I love you' is a distraction, because it's not the truth if he doesn't know it. Nothing is, and I can't even breath when he looks at me like everything's okay. Because it's not, it never is, and why doesn't he get it?
I was raped, almost six years ago now. I was touched, I was used, I almost fell for it again, and would have if it wasn't for him. If he hadn't of been there, I would still be with Alfred, he'd still be beating the crap out of me and letting Charlie have me. And me, I'd be eating it up, because it's contact, it's a form of love, almost, at least it seemed so at the time.
But only because I knew nothing else.
Now I do. And I'm stronger for it, just because he's alive, just because I love him, I'm better than I ever was, could be without him. His existence defines who I am now, and I'm not ashamed of it, because…I'm weak, without him. I still am, in fact, but not as much as I could be without him. I want…fuck.
I just want him to love me back. There are so many books about unrequited love it's ridiculous, and there wouldn't be that man books if it didn't happen twice that many times in real life. Those books are frauds, because words are cages meant to trap the beasts that are out emotions, but it never does, not really. It's impossible, to capture something that strong in a cage and keep it alive. Impossible. By doing so it tastes away the very life of the horrible, beautiful emotion it started out to be. Books aren't real, and even if it makes you feel a sliver of the pain loving someone that doesn't love you back give you, it wouldn't be able to scar you. It doesn't linger.
You'd turn the last page, say 'that was sad' and be done with it. It's the opposite with feeling it. There is no last page, it stays forever, for as long as you love that person and-after.
Books are sappy, they have happy endings-life doesn't.
I know that. I've known that since the day I was left bleeding in the back of his fucking car, for god's sake, but knowing doesn't make it easier to accept.
I just want him to love me, and it's selfish, and it makes me despise myself, to want something that he doesn't want so much. Or maybe he does. I don't know, and not knowing doesn't make it easier to accept either.
It just makes it easier to brood about for hours at a time.
The door opens, the light from the hallway spilling in and whispering across my face, and I was half asleep, but now that he's hear I'm away. I love you.
"Brat…" he mutters groggily, running a hand through his mussed black hair, and I can see the shine in his eyes but nothing more.
I sit up, and look at him and for a moment I see anger in his eyes. Maybe. I don't know, I never know what he's thinking.
"Get to bed, brat, it's three in the morning," He says and I swallow and look at the ground and I hear him sigh. "You're going to school tomorrow, you know."
"Good. Go to bed."
I still don't move to stand and I see a flash of white teeth-he's gritting them, and then he turns away and I look to the ground. I don't know what to do. I love you. I don't know what to do, because he's not acting differently, he's not sad or angry or confused or…anything.
Did I even tell him? And then he turns again, slightly, so that I can only see the profile of his face.
"The painting of the girl. Looking into the mirror. It's you," He muttered, looking straight down at me with those hard dark eyes of his, "You…fuck. You…wouldn't figure out by yourself."
I swallow hard, my eyes immediately going to that painting, I know where it is exactly and it's….just so…God. It's me?
The beautiful girl looking into the mirror and seeing a grotesque form of something that she isn't. That….Fuck, it can't be-why-how could he know…
It's Friday. It's been a little over two weeks since I told him. I love you, and I think…I did. I think, maybe, and if he doesn't know, he'll know soon enough.
I left the letter on the table for him, before I went to school this morning. It…wasn't there when I got back. It was opened, flat, crumpled but readable, in my box-like handwriting. It wasn't there when I got back, and he hasn't said anything.
He's been painting in the back room for most of the day though, just greeted me, and ordered pizza, and then took it back into the room with him to work. With the black ocean. I swallow and lay down in my bed, although it's a little earlier than I usually go to sleep. I don't know what to do. My homework is done, I've showered, avoided a long phone conversation with Linda about how I should go to the beach with them soon.
It's only March. It's too fucking cold for the beach and I…have scars. Corin seemed to be the only one that got that little part of my 'Um…no, thanks' but his only help was to tell me to buy a swim shirt. He offered to get it for me, and just…no.
The beach. The black ocean. The painting. Seaton's painting.
And then the door opens again, and I look up, and he comes in and closes the door behind him and for a long moment, Seaton just stares. He just looks at me with his eyes, narrow and cool, as dark as the ocean he's painting in the other room.
Is he finished? Is that why he's here? I say nothing, because he says nothing, and I'm not sure what I'm even supposed to do about this, about him, about anything. I just look back and lick my lips nervously.
And then he starts to pace.
He goes to my window and then to the door and then back, and after a few times of watching this, I get a bit dizzy, but I don't stop looking at him. He looks at me, stopping by the door and parts his lips like he's going to say something…and then starts pacing again. I don't know how long it takes, how long he's just walking and I'm just watching him walk, because he's so perfect and I can't believe I've actually been kissed by this man before.
Then he stops, facing away, looking out the window through the slits in my blinds.
"You have some nerve giving me this letter, brat."
He speaks, that voice like warm silk wafting through my ears. I shiver, and then respond in turn.
"You're a fucking idiot for giving me this letter, brat."
"What if-" He cuts himself off, turning to be finally, and takes a long, deep, shaky breath, "How could you write this? Just…Hell, you can just say things like this to people."
"I know…I didn't mean-"
Then he's walking forward, toward me, his bare feet not making a sound on the hardwood at all, and he's like a ghost sometimes. I'm glad he's not, because I want him totouch me, I want him to be with me and beside me and within me. My thoughts are constant, and the more time I live here with him, the more time I spend thinking about him. My dreams become more vivid every night, and I swallow as he approaches, at the food of my bed and towering over me.
And his and comes out, and Seaton won't hit me and I know it, so I don't flinch.
His fingers bend and his palm trailing up from the cleft in my chin and up around my jaw, to settle warmly on my cheek. His hands are warm, and I want them on more than just my cheek. But he's afraid he'll hurt me, hinder the healing process….but it won't. It wont and I want him so badly. He makes my chest ache and my lower stomach tremble and my hands clench. The hand cupping my cheek is so very warm, and I love it when he touches me…
"Why the hell couldn't you be afraid of my touch?"
"No you're not. You lean into like a fucking cat, Jayden, and it makes me…"
I blink and look up at him and I feel him shudder, "Makes you…what?"
"Makes me want to touch you more."
Oh. That's heat rising into my face, blood in my cheeks, and all I can do and press deeper to that rough hand that is treating me so gently. Has…always treated me so fucking gently, even if his words had not met the same standard.
"Makes me want to touch you more than I have the right to. Fuck, Jayden, don't look at me like that, you're eyes…"
"Just looking at them makes me want to see them."
"That…doesn't makes sense."
"Then you don't understand what I mean by it, brat, because it does make sense."
"Th-then tell me."
"Please? I….I can never tell what you're thinking…"
"That's the way I like to keep it, Jayden, I do it on purpose, you know."
"But I….then how do I know if you don't h-hate me then, and are just…acting this way…"
"I don't hate you. You know that." He pauses, and his breath is on my cheek, it's so close, Gods, please just… "Right?"
"I…I think so."
"You think you know?"
There's a long moment of silence, and that hand is still on my face and I can't help it, he's too perfect, too stern and handsome looking and-now he's sitting there on my bed in only his boxers and a thin cotton t-shirt. He's so fucking perfect, too fucking perfect for me, and I want him to hold me again. Hug me, touch me, kiss me, because I want to leave behind this stupid world just be with him…with his kisses and touches, and…
It lean over, wrapping my arms around his neck and burying my face in his shoulder, because he's warm and I'm cold and that's just an excuse because I need it. I sigh slightly, and then-
Suddenly I'm on my back and I can't move because there's a weight on my, and my wrists a by either side of my head, trapped there, by his hands. My eyes open, wide, and he's above me, on top of me, I'm on my back and I…is he going to…oh god please yes-
"Fine," He murmurs, and his voice is deeper than before, and he's straddling my waist and I want to arch, I want to get closer, but his hands squeeze briefly, and he speaks again. "Don't move. Fuck. Don't move."
"In fact, don't use that tone of voice. Fuck, don't speak at all, or else…just don't, got it, brat?"
So I don't. I flush slightly still, because he's on top of me and I…oh Gods, I think I might die like this, not able to move or speak and he's…he's on top of me…I'm no my back and he's…It's good.
I'm not scared. I'm not because it's Seaton and comparing him to Charlie would be an insult to him and me and just…no. It's good and I'm warm and…Gods, what's he doing to me? What is he planning to do if I can't move and he's….he's on top of me…
"I'm going to tell you what I'm thinking, brat. What I have been thinking, because you…deserve to know how fucking awful my mind is." He takes a breath and mutters, "When I first met you, I thought 'that's the kind of kid Damien would have liked'. You know who Damien is, right? My father told you."
Oh. The …old boyfriend. Right. Wait, what?
"He liked the pretty ones. The wide-eyed ones. The needy ones. Like you. Like me, five years ago," He looks at me seriously, "When I first saw you I thought that."
It's okay- I start to say, but he cuts me off with another 'don't say anything'.
"Every time I saw you sitting out there in the cold, because of your ass of a father, I wanted to invite you in, so I could warm you up," His voice was almost a growl when he spoke, and I shuddered, and his grip tightens and he hisses, "Fuck, don't move."
I bite my tongue, literally, because when he's saying these things, in that voice, so close to my lips…how can I not move? How can I not speak when all I want to do is to ask him to kiss me, because he right there, and he's telling me he wants me.
"I wanted to see your eyes-when you shattered under my hand, brat. Do you understand? I wanted to see your pretty eyes wide open when you crashed into oblivion, I wanted to see that composed, lying face of yours contort. I wondered would they cross, would they roll, would you be able to do it at all? Do you know how hard it is to keep you're eyes open you're your coming, brat?" He asks, and by this point, my mouth is dry at his words. G-Gods… "Because I do, and I wanted to see you try."
He takes a deep breath, and I want to tell him that it's okay, it's okay because if he wanted that I would do it, anything, fuck, anything to feel those hands on me.
"I didn't even like you, Jayden. I just wanted you, and then when you're dad…that first night you stayed over. That's when I realized it. Fuck, I didn't sleep at all that night because you were in the next room, and you were injured too, it would have been easy to…" he trailed off, shutting his eyes briefly. "Did you want me then, brat? Did youlove me back then?"
No…yes. Maybe. I don't know. I hadn't admitted it yet, that was for sure, I…Fuck. This is…not what I expected. He wanted me then? He wanted me…Gods. Back then. When I was still terrified of him, but that doesn't matter, because he didn't, did he? He cared, he cared enough to not…
God, he wanted me, and his words are more arousing than scary, and I don't think that's his intention.
"And then when that sicko said that about you…I got…so fucking mad. I think it was then that it really fucking hit me. That I didn't just want you, that I…fuck, Jayden, I wanted to murder him, beat him until he was bloody, and that was before I even knew," he opens his eyes again and looks down at me. "That's why I'm not a cop anymore. Kept beating up bastards like that. Not very cop-like…I didn't care."
I swallow and look up at him, biting my lip, because…oh. I suppose that's Seaton for you. He looks away briefly and then looks back at me, those dark eyes piercing me, keeping me in place.
"You just have no idea…the things I want to do to you, Jayden, and fucking hell the more you ask me for it…say things like you…like you love me." He swallows, and I open my mouth to say 'I do!' but he cuts me off with a sharp look.
"But you were wrong about one thing, brat." And he pauses for a long moment, and I risk talking again.
He looks at me for a moment, although not chastising me, leaning in, his voice a throaty whisper. "You can beg out loud."
And…just…what? Oh fuck, how can he subject me to such words and expect me not to-
" I could show you, fuck, I want to show you. I know so many ways to have you begging, Jayden, I've thought it through, fucking planned it out in my mind," He lets go of my left wrist, but I don't move it. He brings it over my face, murmuring, "I've though of everything that could spill out of your mouth, Jayden. I've wondered if you're the type to scream 'Don't stop' because you want more, or 'Stop' because it's too much."
Oh God. My heart his pounding and I can't breath, his words are making me-
"Or would you scream at all? I've always imagined so, but I could be wrong. Maybe you're quiet, maybe you chant the same thing over and over again because you can't think, maybe you just moan, maybe you're a talker, like me, maybe…Fuck. You don't even know, Jayden, what this body had been wanting to do, what this mind has been planning to do, but I…can't…"
You can, you can, I want to say, but he told me not to talk and God, God, God, my hips are getting hot and if he doesn't stop saying such things in my ear, in that silky, deep voice I might buck. Oh God.
I manage, shakily, to nod.
"Are you scared?"
I move my head from side to side curtly, clenching my eyes shut and biting my lip.
"Just the way you look, now, Jayden, makes me want to do the most wicked things to you. You're so pretty when you blush, when you bite you're lip I'm jealous because I want it to be me instead. When you hide, Gods, I want to expose you."
I want to be exposed. I want to be opened, I need it, I'm so alone without it, don't you see?
"Don't you see, Jayden? Do you understand, now?" He swallows this time, I can hear it, and his hand returns to my wrist but doesn't grab it, "I want to take you, Jayden, I want to….Fuck. Fuck, look at me and tell me you can still love a man that can see what you've gone through and still want to touch every inch of you until you're useless."
He's asking me to speak now, and my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth and I'm trembling and I can't breath and I'm hot, down there, because he wants to…and I want him to…
"I still love you, Seaton," The words spill forth, because the truth comes so easy when you've got nothing to lose, and he curses again before he's kissing me. God it's deep and hot and perfect and so warm and he doesn't even use his tongue this time. Then he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine
"I love you too, brat." Oh fuck. Oh god. Oh god. He said it, and I'm hyperventilating in my mind, and then he's shifting to lay next to me, wrapping his arms around me and holding me close until I can smell his scent perfectly. Seaton. Oh fuck, he wants me, he loves me too, and I've never been so happy, like this is what my life has been leadingup to. Like this is the climax of …everything. And that's probably not true. There's more after this, but if I died now I could feel accomplished- "I'll stay with you, until you want me to leave."
That will never happen, I will always want him here, to hold me like this…for as long as he'll have me.
"Go to sleep, brat."
So I do, because it's not so empty anymore, and if feels like tomorrow will never come.
I'm more than content with that.