(Short story/prose) Always Be My Baby
written: 5:11 p.m. on Wednesday, Apr. 23, 2008

Notes: Yes, I probably listened to David's "Always Be My Baby" way too much. This story/prose/whatever was inspired by the song and another David song, "Fall Back Into Me". Despite its sources of inspiration though, it's not fanfic - at all.

I think I set out to write something heartbreaking but sweet, but it somehow turned out like...that.

It's actually not that complete, or complete at all. The general idea is there but I'm not sure if it makes any sense outside of the confinements of my head, so I'm posting it here in the hopes that outside opinion/s can help me figure out if more needs to be done, and if so, what; or conversely, if less should have been done, etc.

I should probably add a mini-warning: There is sex involved. Shocker. But come on, we're all adults, and it's really just sex.

Needless to say, I would greatly appreciate feedback. <3

* * *

It was always the same calm before the storm. First a tangled mess of arms and legs and articles of clothing carelessly strewn onto the floor, the bedsheets rumpling beneath them; then serenity under his covers as she leaned into him, his protective arm around her shoulders, their legs entwined and fingers interlaced. He would watch her face as she closed her eyes and sighed against his chest, the corners of her mouth curled up ever so slightly but not enough to betray a smile, and how peaceful she looked drifting in and out of sleep.

It would be thirty minutes before her phone rang. The obnoxious shrill of her ringtone cut through the tranquility of the silence that enveloped them in his room, and she pushed his arm away and wrapped the blanket covering them both around her naked body as she made mad dash for her phone. He always knew who it was before she answered; this much she knew, too. He could tell by the way she didn't try to hide it, the way she so freely cooed "baby" and "darling" into the phone, her syrupy sweet "I love you" before she hung up. He used to watch her at first, wondering at the back of his mind who she was acting for, but after a while he learned to tune out her lines and focus his gaze on the white of his ceiling.

When the storm hit he was usually the one who ignored the weather forecast and stayed exactly where he was. Even when she showed no signs of wanting to commit suicide he'd drag her with him into the eye of the storm, silently reveling in the pain etched clearly on her face with every word he laced with venom before calmly offering it to her. A poisoned apple for Snow White, and she couldn't decide who was her prince.

"You know, I'm not surprised we broke up," he said as she sorted out her clothes on the floor and put them on. "I've never liked cheaters."

She froze, staring at him, and in that split second the look on her face conveyed more than she'd ever tell him. Too much of an open book, the ink bleeding off its pages, she accepted the apple and devoured it. There was a time when she would have stuck a finger down her throat and spat the whole thing back out, but all she did now was to swallow it whole.

She regained her composure and went on the defensive. "Go fuck yourself," she said, her voice cracking just a little on the last syllable. She straightened her blouse, ran her fingers a couple of times through her hair, grabbed her shoulder bag from the floor, and he was up on his feet with her pushed against the wall. He blocked her escape with every inch of his body, trapping her between him and the wall, his mouth barely a few inches away from hers. He felt her sharp intake of breath and she would not let it out until he grazed his lips against hers and whispered into her mouth, "You know you can't escape me."

It always subsided quickly, but the sting from her slaps would never truly leave him. After the sound of her slamming his front door shut had faded into a dull echo in his mind, he wrapped the blanket tightly around his body and curled up into a fetal position, facing the wall, and he squeezed his eyes tight and remained like that for the next couple of hours.

Then things went back to normal. He went out, saw his friends, and started counting down the hours and minutes and seconds before she called again. She had always been bad at lying; even her slaps lacked conviction.

Two days later she was back at his front door, and this time she hadn't bothered calling first. Without a word she ripped off his shirt and they collapsed into an incoherent heap of oddly-bent limbs on his couch, her fingers knotted in his hair, her ecstasy matching his note for note. They were never once a step out of sync, and seconds after he came he stared straight into her eyes and said, "I love you."

After the sex, they became strangers again in the same way their conversations dwindled down to the mundane "how was your day" before sex became illegitimate for them. After the sex, they lost the only thing that they had left that still bound them to each other. After all this time he would've thought that they would have learned by now; but as they continued to pretend that they hadn't lost it all, her phone rang just in time to remind them that they were losing it all again.

The calm before the storm was his favourite part of this whole charade. Those elusive minutes during which he felt the warmth of her body and the smoothness of her skin against his, the honeydew bubblegum of her shampoo lingering in his nostrils, her hand enveloped in his, and his lips gently touching the top of her head - it was what got him through sleepless nights in a self-imposed solstice under a pitch-black night sky, the occasional star exploding over his head, then fading quickly into nothingness. He occupied the no man's land between dream and sleep, dreaming without sleeping and sleeping without dreams, dragging his feet around the hollow that had settled in his sub-consciousness. He'd never been the kind to let go, not like this, not when she was still the only thing he loved.

When she was done reassuring the voice on the other line that, yes, she was doing some shopping with her girlfriends in town instead of fucking her ex-boyfriend, he lifted the corner of his mouth into a half-smirk and drawled, "Didn't I tell you you'll come back to me when you got together with that guy? What's his name again? Harry or Herbert or something equally gay?"

She stopped buttoning her shirt and stared at him, her penetrating stare threatening to cut through the malicious wall he'd built around himself when it came to her. He averted his gaze.

"Don't do this," she said, her voice even.

"Do what? Do you? But I've already done that."

"God, remind me again why we broke up, why don't you?"

He snorted. "Remind me again why you're buttoning your shirt in my apartment. What, are you not getting any from your caring and gentle Harry or Herbert or whatever he's called?"

"You're such an asshole. I can't believe I ever dated you."

Before she could leave he'd caught her by the wrist and pulled her close to him, his arm firmly around her waist, locking her body to his. She didn't put up a fight; her body went limp, he felt the insane beating of her heart against his chest, and her heavy breathing drove him crazy. His lips lightly grazed the skin of her mouth, then her jawline, before hovering around her ear. "And yet you can't stop coming back."

"This won't happen again," she whispered, but her voice faltered.

He had to laugh. "Don't bother kidding yourself. Two days later you'll be back again and we'll be doing the same dance, the same thing we've been doing for the past six months. Don't act like you don't know this. You know it as well as I do."

"I love Henry."

He traced the contours of her face and smiled. "Sure you do."

She looked at him in silence, tears brimming in her eyes. When she broke herself away from him he made no attempt to stop her. He watched as she took a deep breath, tucked a piece of stray hair behind her ear, and gathered her belongings. Her eyes met his, and he saw clearly in them that she was, once again, rattled. She turned and walked out of his front door, letting it slam shut behind her.

Every time she came around he kissed her with the ferocity of a man who hadn't eaten in weeks, devouring every inch of her so as to wash any traces of the other man from her body, kissing her as if it was the last time he'd ever kiss her. But he didn't need to; he knew that she'd be back again. She always came back. She loved Henry, and she always came back. He counted down the hours and minutes and seconds until she was back again, and two days later she was standing at his front door, her conflicting emotions written all over her face, and when he slid inside her she knew that she'd always be his. All those times she walked out of that front door, convinced that she was never coming back again, hating herself for not being able to pull away, she'd tried to push to the background that hint of realisation of the truth. And the truth was this: she'd always known. Even at her most strong-willed, her most determined, she'd always known.

You'll always be mine, he whispered into her ear in that passively aggressive mocking tone, and the hotness of his breath against her ear sent her resolve shattering to bits and pieces. Even when you're with him. Especially when you're with him.

She was alone in her nakedness, shivering from the cold, and he had his arm around her. She was without defences, without sarcastic comebacks, and no one existed - not Henry, not the rest of the world, just him and her, and their carousel of destructive passion and blinding, scathing hope that would never stop turning.

before sunrise // before sunset


Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010