Read my mind | Van McCann

1

Van has always been good at sex. Ever since Nancy from the record store (no last name, just "my parents won't be home this weekend") took him to her apartment to show him a thing or two.

He's always been a quick study and practice makes perfect.

When most kids were getting first kisses and hoping to cop a feel, Van was already way ahead of the class.

"You were made for this, Van," he was told once. Years later he still doesn't know what to do with that.

He only tried for a relationship once and, ironically, no sex was had. Good, virginal, Y/N, who would kiss and kiss and, sometimes, she allowed his fingers, giving in to the tension that was a constant blanket around them. But with her there was always more than sex. There was music and books and genuine discussion. His mind craved her as much as, perhaps more than, his body did.

His first love... his only love.

Although that's not saying much at this point in his life. Van has always been at his most self-destructive while attempting to maintain an active social life. He no longer needs that. Van has always enjoyed his solitude, just himself and the words he reads or writes down, the beginnings of another album. He sees the band outside of work occasionally, sometimes their friends will join them, but generally his life is quiet. Simple.

And while Van is good at sex, he's found he doesn't need to seek it out the way he used to. He's no longer searching for intimacy, affection, to feel something as he once was. He's no longer looking for a distraction. Occasionally someone will spend the night, but they're generally friends who also want to fuck.

Van never thought Y/N would be one of them.

He remembers the moment, back when he was a stupid eighteen-year-old, just kicked out of high school, that he knew he'd messed things up with Y/N. That moment when she'd wanted to comfort him, not knowing why he was hurting; when he knew he was so wrong for her, that he would ruin her... When the only thing he could think of was making her feel good by sharing the one thing he was good at.

He feels like that eighteen-year-old now.

Van has seen her at a holiday or two. They discussed her work, his band, but were generally there for family gatherings. He did his best to tell her that it was okay without saying it, that he wouldn't hold her leaving, in love with another man, against her. She seemed to get the idea, and they were something approaching friends again. When her travels brought her through London, they would meet up for lunch or dinner, Larry or another of his friends joining them occasionally.

He wanted her in his life however he could have her. That's not to say he's still hoping for a romantic relationship; that ship has sailed. He'd jumped the gun one too many times and then ran instead of sticking around to witness the aftermath.

As melodramatic as it sounds, the last time they kissed it seemed to him that he would always be the other guy in her eyes - the one to flirt with, the one to kiss, the one she ran to when the boyfriend wasn't who she wanted him to be.

So he opens his door wide for her when she appears, looking for a friend. He gets them takeout, puts on a bad movie. He listens as she tells him how lonely she is, how hard it is to keep relationships.

She won't say it, won't ask. She may not even know it, but he does. He knows exactly what she needs.

She needs someone who will be there when she wants it. Someone to scratch an itch.

Someone to give her intimacy, affection, to help her feel something. She doesn't need strings right now, but Y/N is not a woman who has one night stands, who will throw herself into sex with a stranger. She needs a friend she can trust.