Can't Remember What I Used to Fight For

willow

"I should probably go."

Her tone is nonchalant. "If you think you should."

"It's---" he shakes his head, pulling the blanket that they're enveloped by more snugly around them. "I don't want to hurt her."

It's a common theme. He'd come over, stay for hours and they'd lose themselves; he would play guitar, handing it off to her, they'd talk and then sit silently in front of the fire. It was comfortable and if she had wanted to, she could have easily played it off as something good friends did.

But there was a need for constant, intermittent, touch. She would usually end up in his lap, her arms looped around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder, cheek bumping up against the soft cotton of whatever t-shirt he happened to be wearing. His hand would land on her knee, fingers grazing the cap, skirting against bare skin. The other hand would drape possessively over her hip; the kind of silent ownership that made her weak.

Being unfaithful without actually taking the steps to do so...it should have made her feel terrible and she could argue that she was lonely and that his relationship was hanging on by a tethered cord and it had been, way before Lea's birth. If anyone had bothered to ask, she could have made a solid case for why it was innocent.

Except for the fact, it wasn't.

He makes no move to go. Contrarily, he allows his body to sink further into the mattress, tugging her closer, though she's already wrapped around him, limbs brushing limbs, her head firmly planted on his chest.

The room is engulfed in darkness and it's better that way, seeing only the silhouette of his features, the outline of his mouth. Makes things a little more obtuse, somehow.

"Are we horrible people?"

His question doesn't catch her off guard the way it should. It makes sense he should worry about morality; they cornered the market on being honorable.

"We're human."

It's not a real answer, not by any means, but he seems to accept it, kissing her head softly.

It isn't as though she's not invested in honor. It was years of resistance, on both of their parts, years of doing the right thing, years of ignoring what was behind his eyes whenever he looked at her, what she felt when their fingers intertwined.

Honor was the only thing that kept them intact.

Integrity and loyalty, while nice in conception, aren't a magical anecdote for feelings. She's tired of pretending it's easy to sleep at night without being enveloped in his arms, she's tired of doing what's expected and what's right and she's so fucking tired of turning a blind eye to how deeply she wants him. It's exhausting and it's grossly unfair.

"So, you staying?"

In the complete darkness, she tries hard to sound as though his potential response isn't a beacon, that the kind of sound sleep she got didn't hinge upon it. Desperation wasn't what she wanted to convey.

You know that I can't, she half expects to hear and she braces herself for it, the inevitability of what they were just prolonging ringing loudly in her ears.

"I don't want to leave you."

She'd always loved him for his honesty, his candor, and now is no different. Pushing closer, she eliminates any space between them, his fingers threading through her hair. Her relief goes unvoiced but he knows, all the same.

It's the middle of the night when she feels herself jolt awake and panicked, she rolls over, her hand reaching out, eyes flying open to search for him in the dark.