Cíl
By: Tammy
Disclaimer: Yeah, I own Petr, Jason, and Patty. I bought them at a swap meet. I think I came out with the better end of the deal, don't you? *g*
Summary: Back story ficlet to Lives of Silent Desperation. Patty ponders the implications and repercussions of the three's one night stand.
AN: Hola. I'm a wanna be author. This is my note.
Rating: Uh..S..for slashy.
It’s ending. I can feel it. It’s almost over.
And surprisingly, I’m not sad or angry. Or any number of the other emotions you normally go through when a relationship is ending.
I suppose it’s because we’re not ending it for the usual reasons. He didn’t cheat on me; I didn’t cheat on him. We don’t argue excessively. He isn’t abusive. He isn’t leaving me for some other man. We just fell out of love with each other.
It just sort of happened.
It was wild and passionate and then… I don’t know. It almost seems like I just woke up this morning and it hit me all at once.
He moves in his sleep and I readjust the sheets. He’s always been a blanket hog. Oh yes, did I mention I’m currently staring up at a ceiling fan, pondering said ending relationship next to soon to be ex-boyfriend.
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Back to my original thought. Looking back on it, I suppose it was a gradual thing. You let one thing slide, and then the next, and pretty soon you find yourself not caring either way. Apathy doesn’t really make a relationship work.
But it’s not as if I don’t care about him. I do. I always will. It’s just…
It goes back to that whole love part. The cliché, I love you, but I’m not in love with you. I love him, but—it sounds shallow—I miss the magic. I want those tingles down my spine; I want my hands to sweat when I think about holding his hand. Is it the ‘chase’ I’m after? I’m not tired of the comfort, though. I don’t mind routines, and I know love is more about compromise than passion.
I still want that feeling though. I want to want. I want to look up and see his face and be delighted. I don’t want to look up and know his face was already there. Again, it’s not the routine; it’s not that this isn’t a new relationship anymore. Really. Because I want that too. I want that comfort and security. The old doesn’t scare me, it’s the tiredness that comes with it.
I catch him staring at me sometimes, and he just looks tired. And there’s no reason for that.
I don’t want this to be a big thing. I don’t want a big blow out. I don’t want tearful apologies. Or stupid promises and trite sayings.
Just a nod and maybe a smile.
The light from the window hits him in just the right spot, and God, he’s so beautiful.
Why am I ending this? Who cares if we’re just going through the motions, right? I—what if I never find anyone as good as him? Do I want to lose this security? It’s not so bad. Maybe we don’t love each other as much as we once did, but it’s not as if I hate him. I-I…
As my mind stutters, I rub my eyes with the pad of my hand.
I just don’t want to be that guy who rubs a dandelion under his chin and comes up short.
I don’t want to be alone.
And I’m such a bad liar.
Because he is in love with someone else. And there is another guy.
And maybe there’s no passion, but I so desperately want to hold onto what we have. We both bounced back and forth from minors to the NHL together. And we’re closer than close. How else do you explain the way our line clicks?
But like I said before, the end is inevitable. One of these days—soon—he’s going to look at me with those big brown puppy dogs eyes and… I don’t want to be the one to cry. I don’t want to break down. I don’t want to be the one making the big scene.
I don’t want to hear, “Patty, we need to talk.”
Or worse, “Patrik, we need to talk.”
You always know it’s worse when they use your full name.
So I’ll bite the bullet. I’ll turn the tables.
I kiss him one last time while he’s still sleeping and blissfully ignorant. His stubble scratches across mine and it feels like someone’s trying to light a match. His eyes flutter open and he smiles. “Morning.”
A million images go racing through my mind. Every kiss, every brush of his hand, Friday night take-out, midnight runs to the 7-11, the fumbling hands our first time, feet rubbing against calves—oh god, his calf is rubbing up against my leg. Am I ready to give this up? Am I ready to say goodbye?
Can I afford not to? Don’t I want to end this relationship on a high note? Do I want to suck the marrow out of it until nothing’s left and we’re bitter and empty and angry—I smile at my foolishness. Petr and I will always be friends.
“Morning,” I reply. He rolls over and leans his head in the crook between my neck and shoulder. His hand traces the light hair across my chest.
“Did you sleep well?” I murmur a ‘yes.’ “What were you thinking about? Your forehead was all wrinkly.”
I nearly laugh. “You.” Me. This relationship. The end.
I can feel him smile. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He kisses my chest and then my cheek. “Might as well get up. Do we still have Lucky Charms?”
“I think so.” He leaves for the kitchen and I find myself staring at his side of the bed. I run my hand over the slight indentation and feel his warmth. Fifteen minutes of thinking and I’m still staring up at my ceiling wondering what I’m going to do. I pull the sheets over my head and pull his pillow close. His scent is comforting and the white sheets, illuminated by the sun just rising, are serene and soothing.
And I’m still at a loss. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s okay that I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe it means—
The sheets are ripped away and a second later Petr is straddling me, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of my thighs. He kisses me and grins. “Wake up and brush your teeth. Take a shower and go to the store.” He shakes the box in his hand. “We’re out of cereal.”
Maybe I’m not ready for this to end yet.
Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe this really is--
Èlen urèitý Cíl