Sorrows And Partings

Sorrows and Partings

TW: A bit of suicide ideation, like a tad bit but is not expressed further than one statement

Word Count: 3.6K

A/N: this is part of the cut up chapter posted previously!!

Twisting the doorknob, the soft glow of your lamp fills the room, and you sit in bed, curled up against the bed frame. He hadn’t noticed it before, but your room is a mess, clothes strewn about, knickknacks and figures collecting dust, and books layered above each other in a tower of spines.

“You stayed,” you say in a soft voice that if not for the night, he would have never heard your words.

“Of course, I did.”

You smile sadly as the confession. Scooting over on the bed, you pat the space beside you.

Even with the mess, your bedroom is as he still remembers it. It’s cluttered with your things, pictures are placed on the wall- pictures for your friends and family, posters of your favorite films, candles stacked and strewn on flat surfaces. And on your nightstand, is a picture of him and you, pressed close together as his arm is stretched out, and he remembers the day. He remembers the warmth of the sun, the soft press of your lips against him, the way that you had sugar on your tongue and the way that he became addicted to it in a matter of seconds.

He steps on the soft rug on the floor, and taking your invitation, he sits on the bed. It’s soft, and the blanket that touches his thigh, still tickles the way it used to. Your hands flutter over his, and they grasp onto his wrist. You tell him to make himself comfortable, and as if it were like the first time that he was in your room, you stay still, trying not to think about how you tug on him, how your hands are much softer now, how he can recall what it was like to lay on your bed.

He turns and twists, and he lays on your bed, and you’ve let go of his wrist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to just grab you. But you just sitting there seemed like an uncomfortable way to have a conversation.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He’ll take a chance, just to have you touch him again, to feel your touch, to know that you’re real and he’s in your room and not shivering in his bed, thinking of what ifs. “You can touch me if you’d like.”

As if he were made of porcelain, you grab his hand in both of yours, lifting the mass and watching as his fingers tremble from being touched. Holding his hand in yours, you turn it around, examining it as if it were anything more than a hand. You circle your thumb and index over his wrist, trying to pinch your fingers close together but giving up quickly. You turn his hand over, palm face upwards and you trace over nothing, your index curving around a spot. There is nothing to trace, and yet, you continue to ghost your finger over his hand in a touch so soft that if he weren’t paying attention, he wouldn’t have noticed it.

“Your skin feels different,” you mumble.

“What does it feel like?” You press your thumb over the swell of his palm, right under the ends of his fingers.

Humming, you massage and pinch at his skin. “Rubber, I think? Wait, no.” Your mouth pulls into a thin line. Your eyes drag down, heavy with sleep, but you stay determined to stay awake. “Latex?” Turning to him, you give an apologetic smile. “I’m bad at recalling textures.”

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“I miss your freckles.” You ignore his question.

If he could frown, he would. Actually, he’s sure that the spot on his face emotes; maybe it could emote frustration. “I still have my freckles. Technically.” With his free hand, he points to a small cluster of spots that float near his collarbone, right under where the bone would protrude. “Some of the spots move, but there are some that usually remain stationary.”

Nodding, you keep your focus on his hand. “You said it's- your white- that it’s all skin?” He makes a noise of confirmation. “So you’re like naked, right now?” His spots pulse in a moment of surprise, and you drop his hand. “Oh! Sorry.” You look at him sheepishly, and he hopes that you grab his hand again. “I just- You’re like gallivanting all over New York- naked.” There’s a smile teasing its way, and he straightens him, trying to keep what little resolve he has left.

“I wear clothes!” He says defensively.

“Like what?” You lean back against the bed frame, and give him a teasing smile.

“Like jackets and- and hats.” You roll your eyes, and pull the blanket closer to you. Your hands have found their new home in a blanket. “I don’t have a lot of options now- things stretched out.”

He’s gained your attention again. “No pants?”

“Well- it’s not like I have to,” he says in an almost squeaking voice. You crane your head, and he’s covering his crotch with both hands. Your name is yelped, and there’s a phantom of what the two of you used to be laced into your name.

“What?” You say through a laugh. “I’ve seen you before, remember? Plus, you're literally like you know-” you skirt around saying the word, and he can’t stop looking at you- “on my bed. And-” your hands pat on the blanket and they flat- “you walk around without pants!”

“It’s different! That’s different!”

“I’d argue that it isn’t.” Your legs shirt under the blanket. You take another glance. “Not even boxers?”

“It’s not necessary,” he mumbles, and he can’t stop looking at you. He won’t stop. “Most people think I’m wearing something anyways,” he confesses in a quiet voice. “Most of my clothes don’t fit now. The sleeves bunch up-” he stretches an arm and his hand circles around his forearm where the jackets usually begin to bunch- “and really, if I just hide my face, most people think I’m some eccentrically dressed man.”

“You always did wear bright clothing.” You lay on your side, your arms bent to cushion your head more than the pillow ever could.

“I did not,” he pouts.

“Yeah, you did.” You try to sink yourself deeper into the bed. “You had that one button-up. It was um, it was bright blue with like white shapes all over it. Or- Or your orange one! With the design on it.” Your grin is growing, and he can’t help but be captivated by you. You laugh, and it’s the sweetest sound that he’s ever heard in his life, sweeter than honey, sweeter than anything he’s ever had. “I’m sure the pants are something close to what you owned,” you say in a whisper. “Somehow, you always did make those clothes work.” You look to where his eyes should be and as if you could, he feels himself being peeled away, layers taken apart until you stare at him- just at him.

A part of him wished he left your apartment when he had the chance.

“Why did you want me to stay?” He asks, voice tight and full of want.

“I already told you.” You look ashamed. “I miss you.”

He should have left. He should have closed this chapter in his life. “I miss you too.” He can’t stand it. He hates how you look at him. Look away. Look away from him. He wants you to look away from him.

As if hearing his prayer, your gaze shifts elsewhere and he needs it back. “I’m sorry Johnathan,” you say his name with tenderness that he hasn’t heard in a long time. Your words kiss his skin and leave him aflame. “What I did to you, you didn't deserve that. I wish I could tell you that I was young and dumb, but we both know that would be a lie.” You don’t look at him again. “I asked you to stay for my own selfish desire. I thought that if I could give you a meal and let you lie on my bed, that it would somehow make up for all the bad that I’ve done to you.” You look at him, and he can’t look at you when you’ve said something so true. “A cold sandwich and a cold bed would never repair what I’ve done to you.”

He should tell you something mean- something sharp and unforgiving, something that would make you feel the way that he had that night and all the nights and days that followed. When he looks at you, and sees the bags under your eyes and the way that you look so small lying down- he can’t say anything of the sort. His words don’t form, and they aren’t tangible thoughts that he could at least grasp and stutter out, they’re simply gone. Malice and greed is absent, and he wants to cling to you. He wants to hide himself in your arms and in the soft spot where your neck and shoulder meet.

“You really miss me?” He asks in a scared voice, one that cracks and exposes all of his hopes and fears.

“Every day,” you reply earnestly, finally looking at him again. “I know I shouldn’t. But I do.”

Unbeknownst to him, he’s found his hand in yours. “How can you stand to look at me?”

“Exposure therapy. I thought that if I could stand spots and holes-” you pull a grimace as if even the word is too much and if the word is too much, then he must be plentiful and he must be cast away and you must be thinking of someone else. “Small clusters kinda fuck me over, but bigger ones don’t as much anymore.”

“I shouldn’t have dropped by that night.” He wishes he hadn’t, that way, maybe in death you could still care for him and mourn him. “I knew about your phobia and I still came by.”

“You wanted comfort.” Your voice cracks and the tips of your cheeks flush. “You needed me. That isn’t something you have to apologize for Johnathan.” Tears water at your eyes and you cling to his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I meant what I said.” You knit your brows. “I meant it when I said that if you took me back, we could forget about all that was said. We could start fresh.”

By the look in your eyes, he knows he said the wrong thing. “That wouldn’t be fair to you Johnathan.” Your words are muffled by the skin on your arm, and he can hear it clearly, every word is drenched in pity.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t care. Not when I’d have you.”

“You could do so much better.”

“No,” he corrects. “No, I couldn’t.”

“I don’t deserve that type of grace, Johnny.” Your arms tense, and he wonders if you really do miss him. “If we went back to how it was before, I’d still know. I’d still hate myself, and I wouldn’t see you, I’d see me.” Your eyes shine with tears.

“I could never hate you,” he tells you with sincerity dripped onto his words. “I tried-” you blink and a tear tracks down- “but I couldn’t. I had so many things that I wanted to tell you- that I hoped I could tell you, but I could never even form the sentence.”

“Can you try?”

“What?”

“Can you try to tell me what you would have wanted to tell me?” You lift yourself up by your forearms, and push yourself close to him, He can smell the cream on you- something sweet and soft. “You can think of it like payback,” you mutter, your hand reaching to grab his.

“I can’t.” he shakes his head, and closes his hand around yours. “I could never tell you what I felt or what I thought. It wasn’t anything bad- it was just-” he sighs and keeps his gaze on your hands- “disappointment? Shock?”

“Why did you stay Johnathan?” He doesn’t answer you, nor does he even make a noise to show that he heard you. “Johnathan?” He squeezes your hand in response. “You asked why I had asked you to stay. Why did you?” Your head tilts and you lower yourself to come into his view, and he can’t look away- not this time. “How can you still hold my hand after what I’ve done to you?”

“Because I wanted to,” he tells you with his words wavering as if they’re about to crash. “I knew that you were the one that I wanted. That hasn’t changed at all.” Tears curve down the side of your face, and drip down your chin. “I’ll always want you.” He lifts his head upwards, and you sit with him, your hand gripping onto him as if the slightest tremble would make him vanish. “Do you need a hug?”

Nodding your head, all he has to do is lift his arms and you’re clinging to him, body above his with your face hidden into the crook of his neck. With tightly wrapped arms, you cling to him like a child that clings to a stuffed animal after a bad dream, and he wonders just how much of this is a bad dream. Hearing you cry is certainly something that makes him want to hold onto you even tighter, to press you against his body despite the spots and holes that litter him. However, in the same shaky breaths that you take, you call his name, hushed and full of grief, the same grief that holds warmth and familiarity.

He hopes that you don’t slip into one of his spots. “I would think about you at work,” he starts. “A lot. I’d have your picture set as my lock screen.” He wraps his arms, and you get comfortable above him, shifting and nuzzling onto his shoulder. “Sometimes, I couldn’t focus on work because I’d be too busy thinking about you. And I’d wonder if you missed me as much as I missed you.” Your hands lay flat against his back, and he wonders if by chance, you missed his spots. He runs his hand up and down your spine, making sure that he remembers how warm you are, and how your heart beats against his chest. “My coworkers always wanted to meet you, but I couldn’t let them. I couldn’t let you get near them. I was scared that maybe, you’d realize that I wasn’t all that you made me out to be, and that you’d leave me.”

Tears wet his skin, and the way that the droplet runs over the rim of a spot, has him unable to breathe. He dips his head, wanting to press a kiss against your crown. He’s forgotten that he no longer has lips, that any gentleness that he could have given you has been torn away.

“I wanted you. I thought- I would think about how when the project was over, I’d leave. I’d give Fisk and Dr. Octavius my research and notes and I’d leave. And in a good life, in a happy ending, I would be able to. We’d move elsewhere, get a cat or maybe a snake. I’d get to sleep beside you every night and and I’d get to wake up to you every morning.”

“Your co-workers called me- one of them. They asked if I had seen anything strange.” You sniffle, and you pull away, and your hands only move to clasp onto his biceps.

“What did you tell them?”

“That I wasn’t sure what they meant.” A heavy hand of white contrasts against your skin, and he wipes away the tear that has fallen. “I asked what happened to you- played dumb and they bought it.”

“What did they say?”

You lean into his touch. “They hung up on me and they haven’t called again.”

“Has my family contacted you?” You shake your head. “Good. I never wanted you to meet them.” At your frown, he continues. “You deserve to be surrounded by good people. Not them.” Your nails dig into his back, and the same hands that traced over his veins and cradled him, are the same that drag down and make him bleed. “I knew about your phobia, and I still came to you. I thought to myself that out of everyone, you wouldn’t turn me away. It was silly, I know.”

“I’m sorry,” you croak out. “I’m so sorry.” All that you can do is repeat your apologies, whispered and broken, repeated like a prayer, and in every word, in every syllable, there is grief and regret, and it tastes bitter. You cling to him, and you apologize, like a child crying to their mother, apologetic over a broken vase, begging their mother to still love them even after all the wrongs that have been committed, and at the end of the day, the love is still there, but the vase is broken. “I wish that you met someone better than me.”

He’s silent, and he looks at his hands, the same ones that run up and down your spine, and he wonders if you would hold his hand again.

“Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think about how you looked at me that night. And sometimes I wish that I had died that night. That I wasn’t-” his voice wavers and in a hushed whisper he continues- “this.” His hands clench over your shirt, balling up the fabric. “Then maybe you’d have a nice last image of me. And then maybe you’d still want me. I wonder what would have happened to me. If they would give me a funeral, or if they’d rip my body apart and never lay me to rest.” You only cling tighter to him. “When I can’t sleep, I think about what I would tell you. I would tell you that you were mean, and I would never have done that to you. And that as awful as you were that night-” he lets out a shaky breath- “I never stopped thinking about you. I wanted to stay right by your side. I would have done whatever it is that you had wanted me to- I would have hidden myself and only came out when you asked me to.” He hopes that you’ll cling to him just a bit longer, that you won’t pull away. “When I came by that night and found you crying in the living room, I wanted to hold you again; make whatever bad happened, disappear. But it was me. I was the bad thing that happened,” he whispers.

“It wasn’t you. Not entirely. It was me” His spots jolt. “It- It was the way that I treated you. How I still missed you, but that I didn’t have to because it wasn’t like you were gone.”

“Just my good looks.” There’s a hint of sarcasm buried into his words.

You laugh, and the hands lay flat on his back, cradling over his shoulder blades. “You’re still tall- I’d count that as a win.” Your breath is warm against him, and when you pull away, looking at him, there are tears in your eyes. “I wish that I told you that night to stay. I really wanted to, but it felt selfish to ask that of you. I couldn’t do that.”

“I wish you did,” he says without hesitation.

“I wish I did too.”

“When I grabbed my clothes, I uh- I took a shirt of yours. It’s creepy-” he turns his head and even if he is unsure if blood still runs through him and makes him human, he feels warm- “but I wasn’t thinking. I just- I’m sorry.” He bows his head and your hands slip away from his back, to cradle at his head.

“Johnathan,” you say quietly, “I’m literally sleeping in one of your shirts.”

“That’s different. That’s cute. You’re cute. I’m- Look at me. I stole something of yours. I just- I had to be reminded of something of yours. I needed you to keep me warm at night.”

“Can you stay tonight?” He leans closer, your hand cradling his face, moves to hold the back of his head. “I don’t think I can handle watching you leave right now.” He’s silent, unsure if he heard you correctly. “Please, Johnathan.”

“Ask me that again.”

You comply. “Can you stay the night, Johnathan.”

If he could, he’d kiss you. He’d carve himself a mouth, give himself jaws and teeth and lips, pick apart at his flesh and fashion his bones into canines and molars, just to give you one last kiss- tender and parting, just to show you that he really did care for you. He’d bleed himself out, let himself get torn apart if only he could kiss you. Even now, without lips and a tongue, the sugar still rests heavy, and the blood that you’ve spilled is overpowering and makes him unable to speak without threatening to give you his all, to have you look at him, and to forever look at him.

Your eyes stare into a black hole that will never stop looking at you, that will continue to take in all the light and capture it for itself. He’s selfish in staying, and you are terrible for asking him to stay. And in this room where the lamp casts a golden glow, and he holds you in his body, limbs entangle, words that tore apart skin and hands that rubbed over the wounds, there is no safer place that he would rather be. He’d stare at you every day, swallow you whole and take the poison that runs through your body and is seeped into your blood.

He holds you in the orange glow, lets you hide yourself in his chest, and lets your body twist to not enter him. And he holds all of you, hoping that in the morning, he’ll remember the smell of your lotion, and the soft thumping of your heart under his thumb.

Spots and Stops

Continuation to Cookies and Cream this isn't really a fix-it fic, cause like i got like a request to do so and i'll defs try to, but also i got like two people who wanted a part 2 so here it is

Word Count: 3.6K

A/N: People wanted a part two and i want to please the masses, and i have ideas so like here you go

Regret is all that you know. It consumes you, starting at your chest, making it ache the entire day, and settles in your stomach to the point that you can’t consume anything without it tasting bitter. You should have reacted better. You should have held him and told him that him being spotted wasn’t a dealbreaker.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you did everything wrong. He needed you. He needed someone, and he came to you. Somewhere, he thought to himself, that you would have accepted him, past your fear, past your hesitations and desires. He thought that you would want him.

In your entire relationship, you never thought that he would have ever been wrong. But he was, and in the worst way imaginable.

You have to force yourself to hide what belonged to him. You can’t bear to look at it- at him, at what used to be his. You hold his nightshirts in your hand, staring at them for far too long, lost in thought of what could have been. You really did think that you two would be together for a long time.

The fabric is wrinkled, the tag of the shirt curled in on itself and frayed at the edges. His toothbrush is still next to the faucet, and his face wash remains untouched. You can’t bring yourself to throw it away.

He won’t return. You won’t see him again, and as selfish and awful it is of you to keep something of the man that you rejected- you need to keep his things. You need to keep his shirts, and pants. You need to keep his skincare products. You need to keep his toothbrush. You need to keep some part of him with you.

A part of you wants him to return. You want him to come back; you want to take him up on that deal of starting fresh, of how he won’t hold what you said against you. How he was so willing to hide himself, just to stay with you. At some point, you expected to come into your home and find his stuff gone- the final sign that he has left your life- that he took what was his when you weren’t home. But he hadn’t. And he won’t. He would always listen to you. Always respected your wishes, and the final one was for him to leave.

You’re an awful person. You’re sickening. Tears dot on his shirt, and you place it beside you on the edge of the bed. Your knuckle wipes harshly at your eyes.

Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to think of something happy. You don’t deserve to grieve the loss of the relationship. Not when you still have a home. A job. Loved ones. You have it all. He doesn’t. If anyone deserves to cry, it’s Jonathan.

You think of kittens and puppies.

You think of how his voice broke when he called your name.

You think of a memory with a friend where you had a picnic.

You think of how you couldn’t handle his touch.

You think of how he would hold your hand, and act as if it were the greatest honor to do so.

You think of him crying without a face.

You think of him lonely, and cold out in the night.

You bite your lips harshly, desperate to bring yourself back to your senses.

The sound of the city is alive outside your window. Lights flash, colors change, and you stand in the middle of your room, willing yourself not to cry.

You unlock the door, and throw your jacket on the couch. It slips and you pull a face at the audacity of having to pick it up. In your hand, you clutch the phone and listen to your friend talk.You shake the jacket, ridding it of any dirt that could have attached itself from the floor.

“Mhm,” you hum, kicking off your shoes and turning on the standing lamp, turning the knob to let a warm glow illuminate the room. You think you hear something somewhere, but you reason to yourself that it must be a pipe. “No, no. I get it. I mean, if it were me, I think I would have liked died.” Your grin is sharp when you hear your friend laugh.

“Exactly. So, that’s why I can never return to that specific bubble tea shop. Honestly, I just- it was so embarrassing,” they whine. You hear them sigh over the phone, and you stretch yourself over the couch, letting your head fall back. “Anyways, how was the date?” Your mouth pulls into a frown. “It’s been a good minute since-” they trail off, not wanting to mention his name, and you whisper a silent “thank you” at the courtesy. “Did you have fun?”

You straighten yourself back on the couch, pulling yourself close to yourself. “It was okay,” you mumble. “I don’t- I mean, he was nice and stuff, but I don’t know. I don’t really see it going anywhere.” You ate across from your date, and you wished that it was Jonathan.

“It doesn’t have to go anywhere,” the counter. “You can just have fun. You’re allowed to have fun after your last relationship.” You clench your jaw. “I know you really liked him, but he’s- you know.” You’re trying to find your words, but none come to mind. “You’re a catch- honest. You’re allowed to go on dates and enjoy yourself.”

Tears sting in your eyes, and you swallow the lump that’s made itself into your throat. “Yeah, you’re right,” you agree, without even trying to add faux emotion into your words.

“You uh-” they clear their throat- “Have you heard from him? Or about him? It’s kinda hard for a guy covered in-”

“I gotta go,” you mumble, not waiting for a response before you end the call. You toss the phone to the other end of the couch. You close your eyes, trying to steady your thoughts, and on the other end of the couch, you hear your phone buzz.

There’s another sound in your apartment, and you hope that it’s an intruder. You hope that they rob you blind and leave no witnesses. You hope- selfishly hope- that you can be put out of your misery without having to do anything. Then maybe, you wouldn’t have to feel guilt and regret eat away at you. You wouldn’t have to go on anymore dates or live in an apartment with items that don’t belong to you.

The room spins and closes in on itself and it’s difficult to breathe. Your chest feels as if it’s being crushed, held tightly with the palms of guilt and regret, squeezed until your ribs would splinter and heart would burst. Your breaths are quick and uneven. A hand clutches at your chest, and the other muffles any cries with the palm. You haven’t grieved, and the date that you went on, only confirmed that you shouldn’t. You tossed out your previous partner when he needed you the most. He cried in front of you, begged for you to accept him and you couldn’t. You’re able to continue your life as if nothing happened, he doesn’t have that same luxury. Even if you weren’t the one to cause the incident, you’re positive that you caused something worse to happen to him.

You miss him, but you shouldn’t be allowed to miss him.

Loneliness covers you in a warm blanket. It’s suffocating, and burning, holding you down as you wrap your arms around yourself. There is no comfort that you bring to yourself. There is no one that you can call. You wheeze and hold yourself. Tears burn themselves onto your face, and drip down your chin. You close your eyes tightly, biting on the bottom of your lip. You can’t cry. You won’t cry. You won’t allow yourself to feel bad about the ending of a relationship that you brought upon yourself.

Nearby, you hear a door click open, and footfalls thump softly against your floor. There’s a knock somewhere- too rhythmic to be a pipe or anything of the sort. You cry more, hiding your face in your palms, hoping that whoever is there will take pity. There’s another knock, and you shrink in on yourself. You can’t mumble anything other than a plea for nothing and anything. Finally, the other person speaks.

Your name is said softly, and you don’t respond. “I- I know you don’t want to see me, but are you okay?” Your chest shakes and heaves. You’re being tortured, you have to be. You’ve thought about him for far too long that you’ve begun to hallucinate his voice. “Do you need anything? I can um- I can get you a drink?” You take in a wheezing breath, one that hurts your lungs and chest. You hear rushed steps that echo away and come back in a flurry, and something blue is placed in front of you. You peek through the gaps between your fingers, and grab at a tissue.

Time seemingly doesn’t pass for as long as you cry. You sit there, whimpering and sniffling. You must look pathetic to him. And even then, he stands there. The thought of his previous form is what you picture. Picturing him as who he is now, only makes you cry harder.

You tried to get over your silly fear. You forced yourself to look at spots and holes in clusters. You forced yourself to eat cookies and cream flavored snacks. Even after all that exposure therapy, it still made you sick to look at spots.

This isn’t fair. None of this is. You wish that he had met someone better before he became what he is.

You bite the inside of your cheeks and look at him through wet lashes. You can’t even tell if he’s thin or not. His body is too off- too stretched at the limbs and compressed at the torso. You can’t remember if he looked like this all those nights ago.

“I know you told me to get out but I needed some stuff.” His voice rushes at the end, and he shifts his weight, tightening his hands around the clothes and pulling it close to his body. You watch as their clothes and other items fall into a hole, and fall in a crumpled pile near the door. You turn back to look at him. “I meant to do that,” he says weakly. He clears his throat, and stands taller. “I’m allowed to come in here and get my stuff. Okay? That’s fair.” The holes swirl around, thin black lines that wrap around the edge of the circle, smaller, black dots that linger around the bigger holes. You turn your head, tears still making their way down over the curve of your face. “But um, are you okay?” He connects his hands, and fiddles with his fingers, and you can picture who he was before.

Even after everything, he still asks if you’re okay. He does the one thing that you didn’t do for him.

You should tell him no. You should be honest. It’s not as if lying will do any good, especially at this state. Your face is wet, and you’ve cried. In the corner of your eye, you see your former partner stand and tilt their head, trying to get a better look at you.

Looking at him hurts in a way that it hadn’t before. “I’m sorry,” you say in a quiet voice. He doesn’t respond. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat, lowering your head. “I’m really sorry.” You cry, hiding your face in your hands once more. “I’m so sorry,” you wail, gasping for breath. Your shoulders shake, and your chest hurts. “I’m sorry, Jonathan,” you say as you gasp for breaths.

He stays silent, and you hope that for his sake, he left you. You hope that he’s the one who gets to leave.

Only quivering breaths that are coupled with a flushed face and teary eyes are the remnants that you mourned. Faintly, you remember a time where he held you, where he came home to find you crying, and how he raised over still in his work attire to hold you and rock you to sleep. You blink rapidly to rid yourself of that memory.

He sits beside you, and he’s made sure to keep his distance, perched on the other side of the couch. He turns to you, and your tissues crumble and drop to the carpet. “You look nice,” he compliments. “I always liked that color on you,” he mumbles, looking away.

You nod. “I went on a date.” Bile burns your throat at the admission.

“Oh.” Jonathan pats his thighs, and his nails claw, the spots seemingly swimming away from his touch. “Lucky guy.” He pauses, and clearing his throat, he turns to you. “How did it go?” He asks slowly.

“I didn’t like the guy.” Your shoulders slump, and tears prick your eyes once more. “Um-” your voice cracks, and in the corner of your eye, you see his hand jump, reaching over to comfort you, before having to pull himself back. “He was nice. But I wasn’t-” You stop yourself. You weren’t what? You weren’t ready? After all this time, after the break-up that you initiated, you weren’t ready to put yourself back out there. You weren’t feeling the date because it wasn’t what you wanted? You didn’t want him. You wanted- You clear your throat. “I don’t think I’m going to see him again,” you mumble. You cast a glance over to where he watches you, the hole where his face should be, spiraling and growing smaller under your gaze. “Have you been seeing anyone?”

He snorts despite the lack of features. “People aren’t really fond of my new look.” You wince and turn back to look at the floor. “But it’s fine.”

“How have you been?” You grab at another tissue, folding it into little squares.

“Well you know me, I’ve just been here and there. Messing with my holes and stuff.” You give a small smile, turning your head to look at him. “Money’s been a bit tight, but-” he lifts his hand in the air, doing a see-saw motion with it- “Eh. What can you do, ya know?” You force yourself to look at a small cluster of spots that have congregated at his shoulder. He turns to look at you, and when noticing where your eyes have landed, he covers the spot almost self-consciously. “And you? How have you been?”

You give a shrug. “My boss has been a bit of a dick as of late,” you mutter.

“The one with the mole?”

Your smile brightens up a bit. “Yeah, that one.” You look to the side, and back to him. “Cut my hours after I asked for a day off.” The tissue in your hand tears. “I probably should quit.” You tear the tissues into strips, letting them fall to the floor. You’ll worry about the mess later. “But after the lack of hours and the rent, I really can’t afford that.”

Jonathan stays silent for a moment. “You think you’ll be okay?” You give another shrug as your answer, and when you don’t elaborate, he presses on. “I have some money saved up. I wouldn’t mind- it’s you, you know. I know-” His offer only makes the tears start up once again, and he stops.

You take in a quivering breath, and rub at your eyes. “You shouldn’t,” you mumble. “I’ll figure it out.” You look away from him. “Plus, I’m sure you got your own things going on. Um-” you turn back to him- “where are you living?” You hope he gives you an address. You hope he has an address to give.

“Turns out, when you work for seedy people, they know even seedier people.” He doesn’t offer anything more than that.

Silence befalls the both of you. You should say something. You should close the gap between you. You should do anything.

Your hand slides beside you, reaching out, and you see his spot, lower itself, acting as his eyes, lowering his gaze to watch you. Sucking in your bottom lip, you turn your head. Your nails claw at the couch.

This is wrong. You shouldn’t do this to him. He deserves better than what you can give him. You haven’t even gotten over your trypophobia. But you still want to kiss him. You want to reach over and hold him, and beg to be forgiven. You want to cling to him like you used to after a long day. You want to kiss him, and hold his hand.

To whoever is listening to you, you plead for him to reach over. You want him to take another leap of faith and beg for you. You want him to need you as bad as you need him. The box of tissues becomes blurred, and your cheeks are wet.

“I should go.” The silence is broken, and you watch as he stands. His spots seem to drag, weighted at the bottom and stretching as he walks further away from you. “I think I got most of my stuff.”

The hole is his stomach bubbles around the rim, the circle wavy and imperfect. You rise with him, and he stands so much taller than he did before. “Do you want to borrow a tote bag or something?” He tilts his head at the offer. “It’s just that when you hold onto things, it um- it looks like they fall into you. I thought a tote bag would make it easier to carry,” your words trail off, softer and softer by the syllable.

“I’d appreciate that,” he replies.

You nod your head and rush to your room, grabbing at a tote bag from the closet, holding and running your thumb over the stitched handles. He’s going to borrow it. You bring the handle close to you, and press your lips softly against it.

When you walk back to the living, he stands at the end table, holding a photo frame of the two of you on an early date from what seems like a lifetime ago. You let your gaze linger on him, and when he turns, you scurry to the door, grabbing at his clothes and items, placing them delicately in the bag. You take your time to make sure everything is neat.

He meets you halfway across the room, and when you hand the bag over, he makes sure to hold the bag above your hands. His pinky touches briefly against your index. You clench your jaw, and try not to look at him.

“Thank you.” He pulls the bag close to him, and you give a curt nod.

“Anytime,” you answer.

Turning on his heel, he walks further from you, and he stops. “I’m going to use the bathroom. I don’t want you to see what I’m going to do.” You want to see. You want to get desensitized. “It won’t be long, I promise. I’ll be out of your way soon.”

“Jonathan?” You ask, tears springing to your eyes once more.

“Yeah?”

“I-” You need to apologize to him. You need to tell him that you’re sorry. You need to tell him that you miss him. You need him. “You can- You can always drop by if you need something.”

He visibly deflates. “Oh. Yeah- cool. Um, Thanks.”

All he has to do is say that he wants you. He needs to just say it, to ask one more time- that’s all he has to do. You can’t do it. Not when you broke his heart, not when you’re unsure about where you stand in his life and his wants.

He just has to look back, and you’d tell him that you need him. You’d kiss him, again and again. You’d plead for him to stay. You’d get over your dumb fear, and you’d be happy with him. He takes another step away from you, and you need for him to hear your heart beat against your ribs in an attempt to bully itself out of you. You need for him to stand there for a second longer, to watch and look at the lines that wrap around his body, and the holes that sift and move. You’d get over it, all for him.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s walking further away from you. He grabs at his body and pulls out a spot. Your stomach churns at the thought. Over the sound of cars and life, he needs to hear your heart break. He needs to understand that you need him the way that you need air. You’d die without him. You’d let yourself suffer. You stand, and lift your hand up, wanting to reach out for him.

Turn around.

Please.

Turn around.

That’s all he has to do. Nothing more. He doesn’t have to be someone else. He’s yours. He’s already himself.

The door to your bathroom closes, and you suck in a breath, tears springing to flood. “Jonathan,” you croak out, finally, and you rush to open the door to the bathroom, and when you do, he isn’t there.

You rush to your bedroom, and move the pillows, and you cling to the one shirt that he missed. The one that you hide underneath your pillows. The one that no longer smells like him, but still belongs to him. With all your might, you wish that he would return, but your prayers remain unanswered. Instead, you sit alone in a bedroom, clutching a shirt that no longer belongs to you. A shirt that has no owner. A shirt that is all that remains of someone who you need.

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rosecymbelin

4 years ago

Ok so, I tend to indulge myself with some TMNT 2k12 to pass the time and I really enjoy rewatching the entire series because I like seeing characters mature from the starting point. But I also enjoy watching certain episodes, my particular favorite being episode 7 of season 2: Slash and Destroy. Something about Raph’s relationship with his brothers always made me smile because despite how rash he can be, he still loves them.

But in this particular rewatch of this episode, something caught my eye. Remember in the first part of the episode where Raph gets angry at Mikey for getting his limited edition magazines dirty and when he tries to clean them (lick them clean), Raph got pissed and whacked him on head and said “You mess up everything, Mikey!” and oh my god, the look on Mikey’s face broke my heart.

He looks shocked, scared even.

He just kept looking back between the floor and Raph with that stare and I just felt so bad. He kept that fucking stare the entire time until Raph walked away.

That sad, depressing and heartbroken look is going to haunt me for as long as I live.

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rosecymbelin

4 years ago

Touch [Rottmnt Donnie]

Now, we all know Donnie isn’t one that shows affection very much. He doesn’t do hugs or hand holding. He’s curled into himself. Very often will he be seen in big hugs or being touched. But what if that was different with you?

Warning! Some making out and touching

Rottmt! Donnie x Blind! Reader

~~~~

Being blind wasn’t as bad as you think. Growing up with it, you learn how to use your other senses to sense things around you. Smell, hearing and touch.

Touch was the the feeling you used more than anything. Using touch, you were able to fell what everything was. Your sense of touch, was your sight. Though, the one thing that does suck, is that you can’t watch movie. But you always ask yourself, would it be better to see, but not hear, then to hear and not see?

You always chose the latter.

Besides, you knew one person who liked it. Donnie. He’s been your friend for a few years now. You had met the turtle when he saved you from a sliding truck, which would have completely crushed you, had he not swooped down and grabbed you, rolling out of the way. When he had saved you, he thought you saw him, but when you reached out and grabbed his arm, eyes not even looking at him, he realized you were blind.

He doesn’t want to sound rude, but he laughed. he was, in a way grateful. Not everyone was like April, accepting and kind.

“You know, I could probably find a way for you to see.”

Seguir leyendo

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