--if not now, when; elliot

[Eiji Almasy.]

And the mindless comfort grows
When I'm alone with my 'great' plans

And this is what you said gets her through it
If I don't let myself be happy now then when?
If not now, when
The time we have now ends
And when the big hand goes round again...

Can you still feel the butterflies?
Can you still hear the last goodnight?


In the top drawer in his nightstand, beside his bed, there lay something he had bought a few months ago. At the time, he had carried it around with him often; idly or agitatedly brushing against it in his pocket, staring at it contemplatively in front of the Thames. He had used it as a reminder, a restraint and something else that he had been too afraid to name. That time seemed like forever ago, but not nearly long enough.

He was something of an idiot, and no amount of his better traits could ever actually redeem him from his stupidity. It stung, because he had thought that he was over it all already and now, there really wasn't any other choice but to continue on and not pretend as if he hadn't allowed a giant chasm to develop between him and Elliot. Apparently, she was back, but he couldn't trust the word on the street, not when it was from stupid, fifteen-year old skanks, and especially not when they'd mentioned seeing her with Nate; it didn't matter how much time had passed, or what had occurred in between, he still couldn't accept the prospect of them. He didn't believe in her return either, because he wanted to humor himself in thinking that she'd have come to visit him, or Draco at least; or that her friends, who were his friends, would have been nice enough to tell him the truth.

The front door was unlocked but he wasn't surprised, since they left it like that often; security and safety wasn't really an issue, not when they had surveillance and an epic, winding driveway. The door closed behind him and he removed his sunglasses, placing them on the table against the wall with his keys before continuing to the kitchen. There was an added weight inside his pocket and he removed his hand, suddenly feeling reluctant to feel the velvet against his skin. It was still early in the afternoon, but almost mechanically, he reached for the Patron he knew they kept in the freezer.

[Elliot is on the edge.]

When the time we have now ends
And when the big hand goes around, again
Can you still feel the butterflies?
Can you still hear the last goodnight?

The easiest person for Elliot to lie to was herself, and because of this, she had been telling herself all afternoon that she was here to see Draco, her friend Draco who she knew perfectly well was furious with her and therefore was avoiding her something fierce. He was obviously still peeved at her disappearing act, and rightfully so, but that wasn't going to stop the distraught blonde from trying to fix things with the one friend she might have left; if she had actually been here to see him at all of course.

In truth, which was always more or less such nasty business as far as she was concerned, Elliot could certainly have been at the house to run into the one person who had finally pushed her to leave in the first place, to maybe catch a glimpse or a fleeting word with him. Though she couldn't fathom why, because the blonde was quite sure that she had finally brought herself to hate the poor boy, even if she had to force herself into it.

Enigmas and reasoning aside, she was here, or rather, out there, standing by the pool and staring at it with a sort of deliberate absentmindedness. Dressed casually enough in a jacket that Jacob bought her in Venice and a little black skirt with boots to match, she still felt felt bare, and had to tug the collar of the plaid coat around her ears to keep them from the chilly November breeze. There was a drink in her hand, something that looked like a Grey Goose martini in one of the boy's own glasses. This place had been like a home once, and despite how the warmth and welcome had left her long ago, she was going to take the small liberty anyway.

As Eiji made his entrance, his footfalls still familiar to her for some reason, she turned slowly, gazing through the huge sliding glass door with fierce blue eyes. Outwardly, there was no change as her eyes found the boy as he reached for his own poison, save for the way her hand curled a bit tighter around the high-ball glass. But on the inside, things were churning in the pit of her stomach and instinctively she bit her lip, causing all the color to drain from her mouth.

She stepped closer against her better judgment, leaning on the frame of the open door with a stolen drink in her hand and a very fake, but very honest smile on her face.

"Isn't a little early in the day to be drinking?"
With a brand new accent and a soft grin that she couldn't erase but desperately wanted to, Elliot suddenly felt like someone else entirely.

[Eiji Almasy.]

His* breathing was shallow, so when she spoke up, a sort of choking sensation made him stop and try to swallow; the process of taking in air suddenly very difficult. This was reminiscent of all the dreams he made himself forget, but she was there, or rather here, and now, looking better than he could have imagined; which he had.

Shit; because he felt like something, and his fingers were numb against the bottle, the other hand suspended slightly when he'd been reaching for the cabinet next to the fridge for glasses, feet rooted, a small rush of adrenaline building and next, his heart jumped as he drew a breath. Fuck it if he didn't want to touch her right now, just to see if it was real because he'd honestly played out this meeting too many times in his head, when there wasn't enough brunette or best friend time to occupy him.

He shook his head, clearing the daze and pretended to ignore the several second pause.
"Not really," he answered, turning slowly to place the bottle on the counter, "you've started," he pointed out, and felt an immense amount of relief at the fact that his voice was level.

But he wanted to say Hello, and he wanted her to greet him with a little bit more warmth. He wanted to close the distance between them, so much, and he just wanted a lot from her, for them; for himself. He leant against the counter instead, pushing into the bench top with a little bit more force than necessary, because he couldn't allow his feet to take him where he wanted to go.

"Where were you?" he asked her, after a lull, and he was quiet; the closest admission he'd ever make as to just how much he missed her.
"I missed you;" or he could just tell her, he supposed. He quirked her the small smile that couldn't be helped and something in his expression shifted and he looked away.

_*>.<

[Elliot is on the edge.]

"That's different." But she didn't bother to explain why or how that could possibly be the case. Mostly because it wasn't relevant and it didn't matter at all. Suddenly nothing really mattered because she was actually standing here, just a few feet from him and she was almost totally sure that he could see her heart slamming brutally against her ribcage.

As he spoke, words escaped her and the whole world felt quiet and soft and sweet for just one goddamn bittersweet second. The weight in her chest lifted and for an instant she had to press against the doorway with a bit of force to keep from falling. Maybe leaving everything she knew and being absolutely lost and terrified for four months had actually been vindicated because he had missed her. He missed her.

"I missed you too," her voice felt small, buried in her throat.
She felt like things were suddenly very simple and maybe this mess she had created was actually nothing at all. Though somewhere off in the back of her mind, sirens were screaming and she felt reality seeping through. This was complicated, it was messy and painful and altogether horrid business but she was braving it anyway.

She missed his smile more than ever now.
"I went to Venice, actually. Well, and Barcelona," His eyes had definitely gotten brighter, "and Amsterdam," She really just wanted to touch him "and Prague for a week," just to be near him. It hurt, but she could risk it anyway. "Dublin too."

Shifting her weight absentmindedly, the ice cubes in her glass made an earth shattering noise - though only Elliot would think it so - and she was brought back to reality again. In stark contrast to the second before, everything in that moment seemed heavy and disconcerting.

Taking a deep breath, the blonde stepped over the threshold and into the house, where she lingered for a second before finally crossing the room and heading for the bar. She paused on the other side of the counter, a touch of hesitancy to her usually brilliant smile. Something welled up in her chest and with a sharp stab of grief she realized that she hadn't been this near to Eiji since Draco's party. Since that haphazard kiss and Teagan, since Dorian and Kara and all the empty bottles of Patron and Bombay Sapphire. They hadn't been this close to each other since the warm nights in June when things made a little more sense and when Elliot still recognized her own reflection.

"Hey stranger." Her lips curled upward in the corners and stupidly enough, there was a flicker of something like hope in that smile.

[Eiji Almasy.]

There was a small snort of laughter at her response, and then he gave in to drawing his eyes to her again. There was a certain level of fondness he let her see; the way he wasn't masked, the way the edges of his features softened and the way his lips couldn't stop curving at the thought of her. It'd been easier when she'd been gone, but now that she was back, he felt almost overwhelmed, almost consumed by her presence. He tried not to see every nuance in her steps, in the way she held herself or the way she looked at him and the things she kept from him; he didn't have a right to read her anymore, and really, he wasn't even sure if he was reading her right. They weren't Eiji and Elliot anymore, or so he liked to think; he wasn't just a boy, and she wasn't just a girl, except he hadn't anticipated them to be better.

The distance left him cold and it took him a tremendous amount of effort to remain as he was. Her reply was heartbreaking and relieving. He reminded himself that there was a reason why she was at one end of the room while he was at the other. It was a broken record; they were just friends, and he found that he hadn't ever wanted less to be friends with someone than he had with Elliot.

He couldn't watch her, not when she began to walk closer to him. There was a hitch in his breath and he looked down almost instantly, boring holes into the tiles as he tried desperately to sift through the mess inside his head. Months of deprivation and moving on, of endless wandering and finally, she was here, but he couldn't move past the other girl, the other culprit for his thoughts; but he wanted to look at her so bad, and so he did.

Eiji shifted, turning to face her across the counter and he caught the uncertainty she wore but tried to hide. June had been on the other side of the year and something inside of him wanted to try and reach for it. He tried for her a small grin, and he acquiesced.
"You didn't go to Rome?" he questioned, not really curious but it wasn't because he didn't care. He knew of what the place meant to her; how many times had she told him in the past, how she wanted to go there?

"We should go," he said, and really, he had always suspected it; "to Rome, I mean. Together."
He stopped after, and in his secretly horrified silence, he took the moment to study her. He realized he actually didn't know what he was talking about; he only had to look at her to see clarity. He was still only a boy.
"If you want to, that is," he corrected, almost affably, paying no attention to the haste that had built up, the one that made him say and do stupid shit; because she was still only a girl, and there wasn't a single part of him that could go on ignoring that fact.

[Elliot is on the edge.]

He was killing her, she was so sure of it now. Her heart felt tight and her breathing was shallow and there was no way he couldn't be aware of what he was doing to her. Her fingers felt numb and she started chewing on the inside of her lip in that decidedly Elliotsort of way. She was nervous. Afraid to admit something she simply couldn't, or that she would do something stupid, she was afraid that she was going to slip and ruin everything for good, and most of all, she was nervous and she knew that he had to be able to see it too.

"No, didn't go to Rome." That had been a trip she simply hadn't been able to take alone, and the week after such a revelation had been one of the longest of her life. Things hadn't gotten much better since then. Fragility seemed to haunt Elliot these days, and she had grown far too tired to try and hide it from her eyes.

At Eiji's next thought, the blonde felt a little faint, and almost instantly, she hated him. Four months away had done little to dull the ache that Eiji Almasy produced in her, and when he was saying things like that, it was hard to remember for a second, why she had left at all. And now, she felt stuck, stranded and completely blanking on her lines. The young and honest part of Elliot wanted to suggest that they left right then and there, preferably without planning a return trip. But the worn out and wounded part of Elliot knew better, and with a tiny hitch in her throat, she chided him.

"I'd love that."
Or she had meant to, but something else entirely slipped out, and for the thousandth time that afternoon, she could practically feel her heart stop out of humiliation; she was such an idiot. Taking a long sip from her drink, the blonde frowned as she set it down empty, completely lacking a distraction now. Pushing the vacant glass off to the side of the bar, she looked up to catch Eiji's eyes and right away she was aware of how they seemed to be such an unearthly hue, how his eyes had always been the brightest of all the colors to her and there had never been a moment when she had forgotten that.

"So," the air seemed to heavy, and she was at a loss. "how have you been?" She really did cared, more than anything at this point, and dispelling the part of her that was too nervous to hear his reply, Elliot leaned onto the counter a bit, looking little and breakable and trying desperate to ignore how good he smelt.

[Eiji Almasy.]

Eiji remembered the end days. He had spent more time with her than he did with anyone else, even including Kaylen. Watching her leaning on the counter reminded him of hushed nights in the kitchen, of meals for two and of a large off-white room that was big enough to drown out their laughter and unchecked talk. Her smile reminded him of when she used to sit beside him in the antechamber during meals, when it had been okay to look at each other for longer than necessary, when brushes weren't brushes and they lied to other people more than they lied to each other.

He managed a smile, and stewed in the silence following her acceptance. He almost expected more and he found that he was waiting for her to continue; when, he wanted to know, but more than anything, he wanted to know if she was being sincere. Making promises for the future, between them of all people, hadn't been the smartest thing to do, and he could already see the failure that awaited them; they'd already broken so many promises and he couldn't actually expect for them to keep true to one more.

Later, he would lie awake in his bed, early into the next morning, and he would try and understand why he hadn't mentioned Kara.
"Better," he answered honestly, and the quietness in his smile seemed to be reserved for her. He was clean shaven and he'd suffered another one of his haircuts again, five-hundred pounds just so he could resemble a ten-year old with tufts in his hair. The skin underneath his eyes were smooth and level, the dark rings banished; he slept more these nights, except for the times when he felt exceptionally bereft.

"I've deferred," he told her, "so I'm just, trying to find an anchor, I suppose;" a reason for him to stay, because nothing was really left, and the weight he held inside his pocket thrummed. His facts were useless and intentionally uninteresting. He couldn't tell her of the nights he spent trying to replace her and he definitely couldn't tell her of why he ended up stopping; of the following days he spent with one girl and how it was easier to forget her that way, when he couldn't possibly mistaken the brunette for blonde. He couldn't, because the way she leaned forward made him want to take her hands in his, and how could he even consider telling her and hurting her, when he knew it would hurt him to lose her again.

"So," he began, teasing now, cajoling, "tell me about Europe," even if he'd been born there, but he was fishing; he wanted to know if she'd met anyone.

[Elliot is on the edge.]

Another language had existed here between them once. One made up entirely of subtle gestures and silent smiles that kept them wholly distracted in each other even when they were surrounded by others; but now Elliot found that a conversation like that was so out of reach and everything about them had become a past life. While they had been so busying trying to push each other away, Elliot had lost her footing somewhere along the way, and instead of everyone else being an other, she felt like she had become a stranger to Eiji, as well as herself.

"I know the feeling." The escape had been a gift to Elliot, and everyday abroad had made her a little stronger, and a little more whole. But being back in these familiar places had easily broken down her defenses and quite suddenly, she had begun to felt weak again. Loneliness was debilitating, and tragedy suited Elliot so well, or maybe it was just where she felt most comfortable. Regardless, little had changed when she stood in the same place she had been trying so hard to run away from in the first place. Nothing had changed except that everything that had once been standard, was now taboo.

"Europe was amazing." Everything Elliot had practiced in her head was gone once again. Everything she had meant to say was lost and she felt a little like all those times she had spent thinking about these moments were wasted because goddammit, nothing was going according to plan. She faltered, but in another second of silence, a smile as born because the girl had to force herself to remember that reckless, at least to some degree, is just how things went with Eiji, no matter how hard she tried to stay on course. In the wake of his eyes, she found herself struggling to stay mad.

"Parts of it were really strange, and some were sad, but it was all really beautiful."
She made no mention of the beautiful shape shifting boy she had met up with in Italy, or the nights in Paris. No tell of the tears in Ireland or the bender in Amsterdam. Maybe later, in a scene unlike this one, she would be tempted to tell him about getting robbed, or the waiting tables in Spain, or her tattoo. The one thing she was so dead sure she couldn't possibly tell him about was about the ring. Her spontaneous mistake, more for her than him, it was something that she was determined to keep to herself. At least for now while they stood on such shaky ground.

Europe had been change and growth and escape and a little freedom from everything for Elliot, not to mention her dream since she had been little enough to still think she wouldn't take the trip alone, and in tradition of those fresh memories, she grinned.
"I'm glad I went."

"Milan reminded me of you." she let a little light into her smile, wondering if she dared to tease him. "Must have been something about all the pretty boys in million-dollar suits with matching hankies." For a half second, Elliot's expression touched her eyes, those baby blues flickering with life.

[Eiji Almasy.]

It was her last line that did him; Milan reminded me of you, and he grinned, even laughing a little at the small snub. Honestly, Milan reminded him of himself too, and the tiny, insignificant fact that they still had something in common delighted him, even if just a little bit, though still big enough that he had to repress it. His smile was slight, because he didn't dare let it grow any bigger; afraid of what it could mean and what it could do to him if he allowed her to see how this was all affecting him. Despite all his effort and restraint, he didn't have it in him to screen his eyes, which shone like all the lights she'd undoubtedly seen in Europe. God, how she tore at him, just when he thought he'd had her out, that he was clean of her.

"Pocket square," he corrected, half-heartedly and not at all upset, mouth remaining quirked; he remembered the last time he'd wore a pocket square around her. The event had been a catastrophe but before they'd left each other, because that day had been the beginning of their true separation, it had been fun and nostalgic; pretending and doing a good job of it. His amusement drifted away and he looked down again. He wasn't sure if he could meet her eyes; the blues a different shade to what he had become used to, but they were exactly the same as he remembered and often guilty of dreaming. There was a silence and he found it oddly to be freeing, not stifling as he would have imagined it. When he looked at her again, Eiji wished that the counter wasn't so large between them.

"You thought of me," he said, not a question and not really an observation either. She had thought of him, even with thousands of miles between them, the minutes lost and the days stretched to break. His hands found the edges of the bench, and he gripped them tightly. He wasn't afraid of much, just the usual fear of winding up alone, so it was unusual to realize that he didn't know what to do; he couldn't move anymore without it becoming awkward or wrong, even if he wanted to, even if he was brimming with agitation to just move.

"I hate this place," he told her, his words tumbling and he followed not soon after, "I miss England. I miss home. Nothing here is the same."
And yet, he couldn't even leave the safety of the House without being reminded of her. The most derelict of streets spoke her name, and when he walked through the towns, he thought he could see her on in the reflections from the large display windows. Months of going without and rebuilding himself fell away and it became clear that he could never be rid of her; she was agonizing.

"When you left-," but he couldn't finish the sentence, trailing because he was trying to decide how much he should reveal to her. Eiji stared at her, detached from the sparkling of her eyes, from the nature of the mad blue she wore; but he could see himself in them, and he could see how he cared.
"You took something;" of him, like she always did, every time she left. He thought of all the days after, where he tried to fill in the blank, and how he thought he had been successful.

"Elliot," he began, and his hands were white while his eyes were a blazing shade of harlequin; he looked like he did those nights, when it was so hard to contain everything, with the only difference between now and then was that he had to, otherwise it would all fall apart.
"We should- let's go to Rome. We should just go, somewhere, away from here. We should talk."
He didn't try to smile, only smirked slightly because anything else would have been betraying; but he did look at her, that imploring sense in his expression. He was insane, or he was still running; chasing something impossible.

[Elliot is on the edge.]

"Of course."
The words left her before she could even think about censoring them, and with a bittersweet smile, Elliot wondered if she would, or even could, have kept the thought from reaching her lips. There were some things that they had never said, and still, they lingered between them because they had the curse of being able to read between the lines so well, and Elliot found that it was a habit that was harder to ignore than she had planned, and even now, she was searching between the steady sea-green and gold of his eyes* for answers. He was revealing enough, and part of her felt that things should stay even.

The things they had kept from each other were always there, and perhaps they hadn't been as good of liars as they had percieved themselves to be. When he looked at her like that she felt bare, more naked now then she been on those night hidden away in his dorm in a past life, nights that went before they had some somehow become more than hormones and roaming hands.

"I think this might be the worst place." She was agreeing with him, which she always seemed to do, and with a flicker of something in the depths of her blue eyes, it wasn't absolutely clear if she meant this town, this spot on the Atlas, or something more; something deeper entirely. She was curling her toes inside her boots to stay grounded even though the one thing that would truly anchor her was just within reach, and for a moment her smile weakened. Affairs of the heart were messy business, and Elliot was starting to feel dizzy, lost in the abyss of his endless eyes. His mouth was moving, and a part of her had already fallen deaf, self-defense against the way he pierced her. Her name, or maybe the way he said it, caused her eyes to fall to the counter and she found herself glad for the space it forced between them. Biting her lip, the blonde forced herself to look up once more, and the brilliance that had gathered in his eyes caught her breath in her throat; all of a sudden, she had to remind her self to just breathe.

For a moment at his proposal, Eiji was everything that made sense - as he had always been in some way. There was no part of her, no sliver of the little wounded Elliot Davis that didn't want to say yes to him; yes, yes of course, let's go right now. To leave the world behind again, and this time with him in tow, even if only for just a while, was everything she needed, perhaps all she had ever needed. But her lips parted and her nails curled around the edge of the bar as she swallowed back her acceptance only a second later.

"I -" The wonder was beginning to fade as her gaze fell, and underneath was simply exasperation. " - goddamnit Eiji. Don't do that to me."
Her hand fell from the counter top, and Elliot took a step back, her eyes meeting his with the same fire as she retreated further. A few more steps and she collapsed into an armchair, slumping down in the massive seat with an air of general defeat as she trying to ignore how her heard was pounding against her bones again. There was a lump building in the back of her throat, and she curled her nails against the palm of her hand, almost terrified at the very minute possibility of actually breaking down in front of him.

"You're infuriating." Though it hardly sounded like she meant it.

[Eiji Almasy.]

It wasn't exactly a 'No,' and he could live with that. If she had said to him otherwise, he would have been crushed. She was disheartening all the same and the distance she put between them was cruel; it reminded him of how she liked him a little less after every encounter. And God, there was a rushing inside his head and he could hear traffic; he could hear the quiet plea, don't do this. But he wanted to; he wanted to be her hard place, he wanted to be her rock and wall to pin against. It felt to him like the only time he could be close to her again, if not physically then in every other way, which wasn't nearly enough like he needed it to be.

Don't do this, because she didn't have a right to walk back into his life like that, to make him feel tumultuous and stupid; beside himself with uncertainty. How he wanted to say that he hated her, and mean it. He wanted to tell her that when she left, she'd lost every hold she had over him and that by coming back, and looking as good as she did and as just as he remembered her, it didn't give her any sort of permission to set him at where they left each other. If he was merely infuriating, then she was every single vice he could possibly think of, and be susceptible to. She was a terror and a sin, cardinal and deeply disillusioning. In spite of it all, his thoughts swam in circles; could he touch her? He could, because if he didn't now, then he would either crumble or he wouldn't ever bring himself to do it.

"Yeah?" he asked, as if for confirmation, as if he could sense that there was no real infliction behind her words. His fingers removed themselves gingerly from around the counter edge and he stepped away, heels teetering and rocking; his gait swaggering and there was a thud somewhere inside of him. They couldn't last as friends but he was willing to try.

"Elliot-," but he couldn't say anything more than her name, didn't need to say more when just his voice in the one quiet exclamation said everything. He was ten paces from her, eyes alight; you left. He couldn't remember a single time in the past few months when he had been this vibrant and mutedly violent, explosively repressed and just coming apart at the seams.

He sat himself on the edge of the armchair nearest to her, knees so close that he could have brushed them against her if he had wanted to too; nails scraping against his own skin because he couldn't bring himself to touch her just yet, not when she was still trying to run away from him, again.

"Say yes," he said, so naively bare and sincere; he needed her to be in a place untouched by either of them. He needed something more than a brief house visit where he wasn't even sure if she had intended to see him. And Eiji was aware of how he wanted a million and one things, most of which began and ended with her. He wanted her to stop hurting, to stop thinking, to stop weighing the consequences that seemed to follow them. He wanted her to say yes, like he had always wanted, ever since the beginning.

[Elliot is on the edge.]

"Yes." There was a touch of finality to the way she answered him. How she had responded to a question that wasn't really a question at all at all, and she had answered just because she absolutely needed him to know how much she hated him for trying to do this, for trying to trick her into thinking that it was okay to do and say and feel exactly how she wanted to around him, when nothing was farther from the truth. Elliot had left Eiji behind because she had grown so inverted, constantly putting a cap on anything genuine or real that she wanted to be when she was around him. He was not hers, nor would he ever be she was sure, and because of that, because he was too good and pure and holy, because she was trash, because somewhere along the line she had become his dirty laundry and his mistake; she had left because she had, almost overnight, been reduced to existing as 'the other woman'. Once he had started hiding that spark in his eyes, the one that had once upon a time been meant only for her, she knew things would only turn to ruin from there.

The way her said her name made her breath hitch in her throat once more, and her eyes fell to floor because she was too afraid to look him in the eye and see that he was mocking her; or worse, realize that he was being honest. Pretending, forcing everyone into the role of the bad guy was never easy for Elliot, but it was simpler than the truth, and she had always been a coward.

He was so close to her, and without the counter between them, it was harder for her to make up an excuse to keep herself from reaching out and just touching him. She wanted to see if her hand still fit in his, or if they had somehow managed to outgrow each other in her absence. She wanted to know if he still tasted the same, like semi-sweet chocolate; divine and delicious, but somehow always bitter, or if it was all malice and top-quality Tequila now.

She would not look at him. Elliot knew that if her eyes fell upon his, it would all be over, and she would surely fall apart. He was conniving, and brutal, to do this to her, and she wished now more than ever that she could bring herself to hate him, or even dislike him in the slightest bit; she suspected that she must have been some sort of masochist, to have let herself fall for him like this.

"I can't," but she was unable to bring any sort of real gravity to her words, incapable of making them at all believable. Lying was dreadful buisness and Elliot wished that she knew how to live her life some other sort of way. Slowly, she stood up from the armchair, though this seemed to take an enormous amount of effort. Her body felt weighed down, nearly as strained as her heart did these days. Finally, she brought herself to look at him, to catch his eye so that he could see the way she ached, and so that he would know that her next words were honest ones.

"This is all your fault, Eiji. You, did this to us."
She had hesitated toward the end, tempted to use a word that was a little more appropriate, and a little less fitting. But in the end she found no way more suitable to put it, and had to bite her lip to keep from saying anymore. In her eyes, this entire mess that they had gotten into and she bad been trying so hard to get out of, was his mistake; perhaps it was the truth, or maybe she just desperately needed to blame someone. Eiji had been the one to press upon her how important it was that she never fell for him, and then, once, despite everything, she began to feel a need for him, and more than just his touch, he had been the one to sever them. He had begun to avoid her first, to hide off in his room whenever she came near, except for when his redhead was over. The way that he started to look at her after those first few weeks, as if he was lost, like she could help him but he would never let her, as if he actually wanted to live like that, it had killed her; and things had only gotten worse from there.

Eiji had somehow managed to shake her core, her substance and the ground she walked on, and the process of rebuilding herself without him had been painful and drawn out, not to mention entirely unsuccessful. Still, she couldn't give in because she was sure that he only wanted to wreck her one more, to open up her chest and mess everything up again, just to leave her crying in the dark.

"It's your fault that I have to say no to you and you can't just look at me like that and expect everything to change all of a sudden." She turned her back to him, blue eyes watching her reflection in the floor to ceiling glass windows, and Elliot found quite abruptly that she had never, in her entire life, wanted to smash something as mush as she wanted to shatter those bay windows.
"You can't except me to just give in like that." But still she sounded suspect, completely unconvincing.

[Eiji Almasy.]

He sat there for the briefest of moments as she moved away from him, and far from dying, his expression glittered. He could spend his time thinking about useless things, like Dorian. Eiji often attributed his misery to the other boy; all those months ago, very stupidly, he had developed the thought that Elliot deserved better. Fortunately, at the time, Dorian had not been the one sleeping with her, rather, he wanted to sleep with her, and that had made quite the difference as well as a lot of sense that he actually couldn't make out right then. He could think about Kara too, but for the first time since he met her, he found that he didn't want to think about her. He didn't want to think about how he would be hurting her, and he didn't want to think about what he would be ruining between them. If he let himself think of these things, he knew that he would never dare to even aspire to let himself be happy.

Elliot didn't exactly equate happiness, but to be truthful, Eiji didn't know much about being happy. He knew contentment and settling, something resembling normalcy and amusement. He knew regret best though, and how it sat at the bottom of his stomach; he knew of how it weighed him down, and he knew of nights spent wondering what could have been. He knew that when he looked at Elliot, he couldn't feel anything stronger than what she inspired. She was a mixture of something molten, something resembling rage and insanity; she made him want to tear, but she made him want to rebuild too. She was the scream in his throat that kept on choking, she was the razor inside his chest; she was everything intense and tangible, and never had he felt so much as he did when she was involved. It scared him and maybe that was why he had pushed her away, gotten it inside his head that there was someone else for her when he knew that there couldn't possibly be anybody other for himself.

It was ironic too, how everything was familiar; the avoiding, the pretending and the dancing; and yet, it was all so different. He felt like he was part of something he didn't know the lines too. She was every bit as he remembered, just as much as she was unfamiliar. It wracked at him dreadfully to have to wonder when they fell apart, when exactly it had been, that they had stopped being each other's center. What happened to us, he wanted to know, and something stricken passed over his face; she hurt him, and he wasn't even sure she was trying. His heart thudded; wounds against his chest at every beat, and the pain made him swallow and think that she was something magnificent all together, to make him feel this way.

"No," he agreed, realizing that she used to be who he held on to in moments like this, and he stood up too, a little nostalgic, a little suicidal. He was behind her, eyes desperately closed because he needed to go through with this, and it would be impossible if he saw her as close as he was.
"But I want you to," he told her, voice so quiet and honest. His fingers barely touched her, ghosting over her skin until he curled them around her arms and held tight. This wasn't about Rome, or anywhere else really. It hadn't ever been about Rome, or talking, or pretending to be just friends; they weren't made for subtlety, not so much as subterfuge anyway. He let her go to step around her, unable to check his expression, so every bit of misery he had felt since the days after her, was visible.

"I feel sick for having sex with you pretty much everyday, for almost five months, Elliot," he said to her, repulsion for himself written all over him.
"I feel disgusting for wanting you, even knowing how wrong it is. You want to know why?" But he didn't give her an opportunity to speak, only stepping closer.
"Because you were my friend, you were just a girl, and I used you, and I said that it was easy, what we could have. I was selfish and I made you promise not to feel anything. I'm no better than the others;" and Dorian, God, fuck Dorian, he didn't want to think about him.

He made to touch her, but he couldn't, because if he looked hard enough, he could still see the marks he left, the ones she wore like chains.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, something near wrecked, "about what I did, to you. But," and he hesitated, for the first time since that very first night. He looked away and his agitation was apparent; his hands trembled and he shoved them quickly inside his pocket, gaze fixated somewhere at the base of the staircase. There was a shuddered breath, and he continued, blinking furiously at the painting on the wall.
"I'm sorry I didn't know enough to try," he said, tone softening in almost resignation when he took the easy way out; and then he looked at her. His eyes felt like they were burning and his fingers itched, the velvet in the right pocket a sordid reminder of everything.

[Elliot is on the edge.]

Elliot felt wrecked as he spoke into her ear, torn in every direction as his fingers brushed over her arms, as he dared to be so haphazard with her. She felt suddenly, as if she was at the very end of things, or perhaps at the very beginning of them, simply because she was so very lost. This was wholly discomforting for poor Elliot, to feel so anguished, or really to be feeling anything at all - never mind how every thought and feeling was suddenly overwhelming her in waves - considering that she was a creature that spent so much time forcing herself into a great, deep sort of numbness. Her heart wrenched as he stepped around her and she felt dizzy, disproportionate and frantic. His words challenged her resolve, dared her to reopen an old wound and to revisit a place, and a past, that she had worked so hard to get away from. She fought to remind herself that it wasn’t as easy as he made it sound, to let things go, that this moment would end with time, that eventually her heartbeat would slow to normal and she would be able to breathe again. The persistent fluttering at the pit of her stomach would fade and she would most certainly be left hating herself before long.

She was trying to put away all the memories and moments from what went before, and to force herself to focus on the here, and more importantly, the now. This was so unhealthy, she realized quite abruptly, the way she was still addicted to him after all this time.

“Don‘t-” She was choking on her own words, completely incapable of putting the mess of emotion that was swirling around behind her eyes into words. “Don’t say that.” She couldn’t listen to him talk like that, to say the things that he was, no matter how far his intent may have been from her interpretation. She raised her eyes to meet his, trying to quell the way her hands shook.

“Being with you, no matter how incompletely, it was,” she hesitated, thinking that she had gone too far, that she was teetering on the edge of saying something that she wouldn’t be able to retract. She wanted to tell him that it was agonizingly painful to be with him sometimes, to be near him even. She wished she could say out loud the things she would always linger on after emptying too many wine bottles. Elliot wanted madly to tell him how he had broken a part of her once upon a time, and how torturous it had been for her to walk that line for him, to spend all day looking in the glass but never being able to take anything home. And most of all, she wanted to tell him how even though she was mournful and cracked now, how even though he had left her worse shape then when they had first met, she wanted to tell him how even thought she wanted to hate him, and more importantly, to forget him, it was only because she couldn’t, and because she had somehow found, tragically enough, that everything they had put each other through had been entirely worth it.

“Never mind,” because she wished desperately to be anywhere but here, pinned to the ground by his heated gaze and all the things that could have been hidden amongst his eyes. She felt like crying, that treacherous mass of all the things she couldn’t say building up in the back of her throat and her hands trembling in the depths of her pockets.
“Forget it.” She was shaking her head now, blonde curled falling over her face as her earrings rang like funeral bells. She wanted to tell him to stop hurting her, to leave her be by herself because she was so sure that nothing good could start here, in the rubble of a past failure. She had convinced herself almost completely that nothing could be born out of this wreckage and she couldn’t’ have him come along and spoils the delusion she had built solely to protect herself.

“It‘s too late,” it wasn’t a warning, not so much face, but more of just a stray thought. He was apologizing for all the wrong things and she couldn't hide it from her eyes. To hear him woe the time they had spent together made her nauseous. She needed him to, if anything, atone for the time they had spent apart, to beg pardon for the way her chest tightened whenever she thought of him, and how it always hurt more when they were separated. She needed him to gather her up in his arms and apologize for every night she had fallen asleep alone and broken, and to promise her that it would never happen again; she needed him to promise that he would make things right.

But she could never say such a thing, to betray the cynic that still lived as half of her whole couldn’t be done. Instead she would drop her gaze to the ground and bite her lip as she tried to find the courage to walk around him and leave because every time she looked back up and their eyes met, she was sure he could see the way she was breaking.

[Eiji Almasy.]

He couldn't understand how she didn't get it, that he still wanted her after all this time, and how it had been for quite a while that he'd needed her beyond the physical level. The apparent shallow nature of their past relationship didn't count for the way he'd been crippled for months without her, and how he had found it impossible to function because her absence had robbed him of all life. He couldn't understand why he couldn't have just told her this, or rather, this he understood best. He was a mosaic of things, and he remembered Kara's painting; if anything, he was something like broken pieces, glass, that someone had half-heartedly stuck together. He was an unintentional piece of art, hardly ever making sense, and in the myriad of all uncertainty, he knew that Elliot was it. But he was afraid of her abject rejection, because something else he knew for certain, was that he didn't deserve her.

Letting her go was quite possibly the second worst mistake of his life; the first being his absolutely depraved act against her, even with her apparent willingness. The hurt paralleled the fear, and he was still unable to discern between it all; being without her ruined him, and being with her was quite the same. He didn't know much of what was real, or what was right or what was fair, but it was unlike anything else, it stung, and it was the greatest pain he had ever felt; which was how he knew that it was her, it had always been her, and it wouldn't do him any good at all to let her go, again.

"Elliot;" oh God, how he could like her, all over again, and again, just by the sound of her name, "I'm not Dorian, and I don't want to be. I'm not going to like you unconditionally," he said to her, voice threatening to fail him, stance unsteady as he was so near to her and the desire to be closer proved to be overwhelming. His eyes were another promise all together; if only he knew that they were as fascinating as he found hers to be. It went unspoken that he would hurt her, eventually and again. It would often be accidental, and sometimes he would just want to, because he was as devastating as she was. No, he wasn't Dorian, he wasn't a slow ember that was safe; he would be all consuming, but more importantly, never ending because he honestly didn't know to be anything else with her.

"And I'm not Nate, I don't want to have whatever it is you have with him. I'm not going to hide, El," he told her, his awkward nervousness simmering below, but his sincerity was so real, and his intent unwavering; this was different, different from his declaration of her beauty inside their shower, different from speaking beneath her that first time, different from the promises he forced, made and never kept. One hand escaped a pocket and he tucked a lock behind her ear, fingers lingering and tracing the curve of a face he wouldn't ever forget.

"I'm crazy about you," he whispered, hardly believing it himself, and he broke then, smiling crookedly his unmistakable honesty and managed a short laugh; the most haggard he'd ever been, and he felt very nearly indestructible now, even as he quaked inside.
"I am so hopelessly, irrevocably in like with you," he confessed, and when she'd look at him, she'd see that he looked very much like a boy who was facing the last day of life as he knew it. He hunched his shoulders and clenched his hands inside his pockets, and willed himself to continue looking at her; if he looked away, it would all end, and that was something he was most afraid of, losing her.

"So stay, say something; tell me it's not too late. Please."
And he had never been above begging, not when he was with her.