It Never Gets Easier [9/13]
Title: It Never Gets Easier [9/13]
Author: likeanaccidentx
Pairing: Adam Lazzara/John Nolan.
Rating: Story, right now, stands at R overall.
Summary: And it's so typical of you to be constantly torn between your options; but you figure it's because there's never a good one to begin with. Each option always has a drawn out and painful end, and you're sick of it.
Why can't you just be happy?
You're sick of being the poster-boy for the broken hearted.
Word count: 2,235.
Disclaimer: Not real. Don’t know, don’t own.
Notes: Aaaargh. Typically, I dislike this chapter even more. Oh well. Now it seems pretty likely that there are going to be thirteen parts to this story - but don't hold me to it. That might change. We'll see. Either way, when this is done, expect more weird writing from me, if you like. I've got a few ideas to write. Comments and concrit are love, as usual. <3.
Dedication: Everyone reading and commenting this weird disjointed story. Thank you. ♥ You're all awesome.
Previous parts: one // two // three // four // five // six // seven // eight
You hardly sleep at all that night; you just lie awake with aching eyes, unable to determine whether it's the tears or the lack of sleep causing the ache. It's probably a mixture of the two, but whatever the cause, you know exactly who to blame for it.
It's around eight in the morning when you finally decide to move; you can't lie awake with those thoughts anymore, it's killing you, because once again, in your head a war is raging. Part of you wishes you hadn't stopped John, because even if it had been a last time, at least you would have known it was the last time. The stronger side of you assures you that what you did was best; if you had let it go further, you'd have only fallen further for him again, and you wouldn't be able to let him go, and that would hurt more in the long run, especially as he's due to marry Camille. You've been cut off from John for years now, and you figure it's best to just see these few days as nothing more than a blip in your newer routine. Anything that could have happened with John would only have made getting over these days so much harder.
So you decide that it's a good thing that you didn't let anything happen. You figure it's an even better thing that you have a lot more strength now than you did all those years ago. Although you're still fighting your weaker thoughts that are telling you to drop this proud act you've got going on and make your way down the hallway to John's bedroom right now, crawl into bed with him, let whatever would happen happen, because really, it's not like it could hurt much more than this.
And it's so typical of you to be constantly torn between your options; but you figure it's because there's never a good one to begin with. Each option always has a drawn out and painful end, and you're sick of it.
Why can't you just be happy?
You're sick of being the poster-boy for the broken hearted.
You head into the bathroom and begin to gather your things; your razor, your toothbrush, your toothpaste; then you head back into your own room and begin to gather the clothes that you have pulled out and left strewn over an arm chair in corner over the past few days, packing them away into your travel bag. Your head aches, but you can't think of a part of you that doesn't right now. It's then that you hear a knock at the door, and look up to see John standing in the doorway; the shadows under his eyes tell you that he hasn't slept either. You don't say a word, instead you just return to your packing, almost as though you're pretending that he's not present.
"I'm sorry." He finally says.
"Don't be," You say as you zip up your travel bag. You turn to face him, arms folded across your chest. "At least I'm seeing sense now. It took me long enough, huh?"
"I really do love you, Adam." He whispers softly.
"Unfortunately for me, that doesn't make a difference now, does it?" You mutter. John's eyes, usually a warm brown, are jaded and sad. He shakes his head slowly.
"No," He says. "No, it doesn't."
You shake your head at him, pick up that old shirt you carried around for years from the bed and hold it up. He looks at you, confused, and you throw it in his direction. He catches it with the tips of his long fingers.
"You left it with me three years ago," You tell him. "I never got the chance to return it."
He nods.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." You say. You're attempting to keep all emotion from your voice and its making you sound simply tired and worn, and maybe that's a good thing, because maybe you don't want him to know just how much damage he's done to you.
You look him up and down; he's so pale he resembles an apparition as he stands in the doorway, and the shadows under his eyes don't make him look any more alive. You on the other hand have never felt so alive, with the emotions and pain pulsing through your veins. In a way, it seems harder than before; you had come to terms with him leaving, but he had come back and thrown your new life out the window, re-established the hurt. You weren't sure you could ever forgive him.
Regardless, you would forever care for him.
"John, you look like hell. Go back to bed, okay? Get some sleep. I'm going to take care of some errands. I'll wake you later."
"Errands?" He questions. You nod.
"I'm taking my rental car back, and we're going to drive up to New York in your rental car. You can take it back to the company there." You explain.
"...Drive? New York?" He asks, and there's a hint of panic in his voice. "You're coming with me?"
"No, of course not. I wouldn't want to impose my company on you or Camille." You mutter bitterly. "No, I'm staying with Matt for a while."
"You're not going back to Texas?" There's a shaky curiosity in his voice. It's almost hopeful. You shake your head.
"Not for a few days. And even then, it'll only be to say goodbye."
"...Say goodbye...?"
And really, it's like you're playing twenty questions. It's eight-fifteen in the goddamn morning and you're really not in the mood for games.
"Go to bed, John." You say firmly. "No kidding, you really look like hell. I'll wake you up when I get back. We'll have hours to talk about this in the car."
"...And you are coming back, right?" He looks suspicious. You roll your eyes.
"Yes," You say. "I'm coming back."
He nods quietly, begins to back out of the room but he pauses for a moment. You’re staring at the ground, waiting for him to leave, but you can feel his presence and it worries you that he’s still here. You glance up at him, and he bites down on his lip before cautiously moving over to you, and you tense up until he takes you in his arms and just hugs you for a moment; then you melt. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting him hold you close, because God knows it might even be the last time you’re ever this close to him. After a few minutes, he pulls back from you, hands still grasping your arms and you look at him; he has a hopeful gleam in his eyes as he searches yours before asking:
“Do you still love me?”
And you think it over for a moment; really think it over. Because really, that’s not a question, of course you love him; you live and breathe him, he occupies your thoughts and dreams every second of the day. But that’s not the point, and that’s not what’s important here. John looks worried that you’re taking so much time over your answer, he’s holding his breath waiting for your response, and despite all the pain he’s caused you, you’re basing your answer on what’s best for him.
“No.” You lie. “No, I don’t.”
And you know that’s a lie and you know that deep down he knows it, too; but right now, with everything he has ahead of him, it’s what he needs to hear. He wants reassurance that he is loved, but you know that what he needs is to know he’s not, if he’s got any chance of making his marriage with her work. And you don’t feel bad about lying to him. Not in the slightest. Because in the long run, everything will be okay for John, which is a lot more than you’re expecting for yourself.
John looks like he’s been shattered into a million pieces when he pulls away from you. He swallows tears and nods his head, avoiding your eyes, and for a brief moment, you feel awful, but you keep telling yourself it’s for the best.
“Oh.” He whispers. “Right. Yeah, I see…”
“She does, John.” You say softly. “And I just hope for her sake you love her, too.”
John nods, and you can see in his eyes that she doesn’t mean a thing to him, and you feel sorry for him. You feel really damn sorry for him, because you know that John will only ever live to make others happy, and not himself, and that will always be his greatest flaw.
As you pull on your jacket and pick up the keys to the rental car from your bedside, John whispers a goodnight and heads for his room, and you swear, after all the times you’ve watched him walk away…
This time has been the hardest.
“Of course I love you.” You whisper, when he’s too far to hear it, when he’s shutting his bedroom door behind him. “Of course I do.”
And with those words, you head for the door of the apartment, stalk down the pathway to your rental car without looking back.
* * *
You can still remember the night that those drunken accidents in the back rooms of the bars and venues you played, in the van, even in your own apartment, became something more meaningful. The night when the kisses became softer, the touches were more delicate, and your heart was constantly in your throat.
It was a rainy December night after a local show, and the two of you had walked home together in the rain, leaving the boys at the bar. You and John shared a two bed roomed apartment near Long Beach, had done for over a year at the time; you were completely used to each other’s company, almost inseparable. And although Jesse still often visited - sometimes stayed as you’d discovered once or twice when you wandered into the kitchen in the morning to find Jesse eating your Lucky Charms with that Goddamn smirk plastered on his face - you occasionally had John to yourself.
And if you thought John was beautiful when you’d first met him, it was nothing compared to how you felt about him those years later.
You weren’t drunk that night, which was surprising for both of you back when you were kids on the Long Island scene; you’d spent the majority of your nights in the back of vans or empty parking lots drinking in large groups. But no, not that night. That night, you and John were walking back to your apartment at ten o’clock; neither of you had a reason, but you’d both agreed it was a good idea.
And you remember almost wishing you had been drunk, because you completely adored John, and the only time he really noticed you as something more than his close friend Adam with the Southern drawl and odd taste in music, was when he was completely intoxicated.
The walk had been slow despite the rain, almost in complete silence, but it was a comfortable one. When you climbed the stairs to your apartment, you pulled out your key, went to open the door, but he stopped you by reaching out and gently touching your arm. You looked at him; his hair was soaked and sticking to his forehead and he was shivering from the rain. He’d only worn a t-shirt to the gig, no coat; he must have been freezing. With this in mind, you’d frowned.
“What?” You’d asked him, shaking dripping strands of your own long hair out of your eyes. “Come on, John, we really should get inside - you’re going to freeze. Let’s just-”
John had shaken his head; put a finger to your lips before stepping forward and tilting his head ever so slightly to kiss you. You’d kissed him back, of course, stunned by the lack of the taste of alcohol, stunned that this could really be happening. John reached up and put his arms around your neck, and you’d grinned, put your hands on his waist. When you finally parted, John took a step back, watching you for your reaction.
“I have a confession to make,” He’d told you. You nodded, bit down on your lip.
“W-what?” You’d stuttered.
“I’m really falling for you, ‘dam.” He’d said. You blinked your eyes and unable to believe what was happening, looked away from him. “Look, I don’t want to freak you out. It’s cool if you don’t feel the same way - really, it is. I just can’t do the drunken slip ups anymore, because everything’s starting to mean too much and it’s scaring me, and I-”
You’d cut John off by pressing your lips to his once again, and he’d made a soft noise of surprise but kissed back. When you pulled away, there was confusion etched all over his face, and he swallowed hard.
“…Okay.” He said.
You chuckled to yourself.
“I love you, John.” You whispered. John’s confused expression broke into a smile that made his eyes light up.
“I love you, too.”
And at that moment in time, you could never have imagined that a few years from then, that boy who’d kissed you in the rain would be the very man you’d try so desperately to escape the memory of.