Chapter Text
“Please understand and love me."
—Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden
**
You're slip up had happened a couple months ago. The days and weeks after had been some of the most terrifying of your life. You kept expecting him to bring it up. To confront you about being drunk, but he never did.
Not really, except for a slight hiccup in your plan. When you caught him staring at you too long. You had been drawing mindlessly. Absently listening to Riley, and Farkle's quiet chatter. As you ignored the way, Smackle talked to Zay with a sort of, soft frustration. Her expression filled more with a gentle amusement, than any irritation she might've felt.
It wasn't any of your business what went on when you weren't there, of what had yet too happen. You no longer cared for the timid roles that the rest of the group played. Hiding desires that they pretended didn't exist.
You couldn't do it anymore...So, of course you didn't stay too long, not when you couldn't handle the long stares, and silent conversations that went on between Riley, and Farkle, or Zay, and Smackle, when they thought no one was watching.
It always faltered something inside you. Made you think too much about the past, made you analyze every word ever said between the group, and question its importance.
You couldn't handle it. You refused to second guess yourself, or any decisions that you might've unconsciously made in the past or present. So, you spent a lot of the time in the art room painting away your (unacknowledged) problems. Forgetting that they existed.
It wasn't their fault. They weren't even aware of what they were doing. It was just a deep instinct by now, to look at the person they loved, and hold conversations without uttering a word.
Needless to say, you looked at Lucas and quietly reminded him; he loved Riley, he was always going to love Riley. And that happily ever after, had always been there's for the taking. That there wasn't room for anyone else in their fairy tale.
After that, he never brought it up again.
And you let yourself believe that maybe he forgot. Or that maybe he thought it just some weird vision his imagination created, where you haunted him in his dreams. (You convinced yourself) it wasn’t important. (You convinced yourself) that you were relieved.
You swore to yourself, that you wouldn't slip up again.
Not for your father. Not for things beyond your control.
He left you, first. You couldn't destroy yourself over someone who turned his back on you, and abandoned your family to start anew. Without your mother. Without you. It didn't matter that your mother found happiness again. It didn't matter that Shawn was as good a father anyone could ever ask for. That solace could not be found within the swirl of liquor at the tip of your tongue.
But this legacy ran through your veins. This searching for answers to questions you did not know how to ask (were not allowed to ask) at the bottom of a bottle, was a part of you. A part of you that had come from him.
What it boiled down to, was that he was the first person that did not want you. And you've been trying to understand why ever since. You pour yourself a small glass of the amber liquid. Toss it back like an alcoholic's daughter.
Ignore the burn, as if you had grown used to it.
**
You look up as the shower pipes turn off with a loud drawn out squeak.
The camera slips from your fingers and onto the bed.
Sam emerges from your bathroom. A cloud of steam left in his wake. Droplets of water clinging to his brown locks. His olive skin flushed, and his chest bare. Your eyes are drawn to the water droplets slow descent along his sinewy frame, focused on their path of travel as they disappeared beneath the towel wrapped around his waist.
You hold out the glass in your hand in silent offering. Sam smirks at you, before taking it, and knocking it back like it's water. He doesn't even wince.
You chuckle, a slight addictive rush running along your spine. The thought that no one else was in your tiny apartment except for him and you, not far from your mind.
He catches your gaze, seems to recognize the look in them as his cheeks colored shyly. "Don't go getting any naughty ideas."
You smirk. "They're not ideas."
You are on your feet in moments, smiling so mischievously, he takes a step back. You roll your eyes. He's a nineteen year old, freshmen in college. And you are a seventeen-almost eighteen year old in your senior year of highschool. You would think he would've gotten over the innocent shyness by now.
"They're going to be fact."
You've been dating him for two months. And other than smoking, and being the occasional drinker, he is a total cheese ball. So tender, and gentle it's almost frustrating. He doesn't want to hurt you. Or himself. He hadn't dated much before you. But his first girlfriend broke his heart, and it was an experience he never wanted to repeat again.
So he wanted to take things slow.
And you understand. You really do. You know how badly the first heartbreak fucks you up for anybody who comes after. But you're tired of hanging on to someone so tightly. To a relationship, that was over before it ever began.
You want to forget his fingertips cradling your face. And the feel of his warm hand squeezing your shoulder. Or the way his hand cradling your own, sort of eclipsed your whole world.
You want to be ready, though you (knew very well that you) might never be. You grab his hand, and shush all his nervous stuttering with just the slightest movement of your lips against his.
After that, all responses are quite enthusiastic.
**
It figures. Fucking shit.
You two are so close.
The towel falls away, and he is gripping your hips as he nips at your bare shoulder.
But, then you blink and the weight above you is gone. Accompanied by the sound of a crashing thump. You groan, your frustration evident as you look over the edge of your bed, and see Sam sprawled awkwardly in a dark corner of your room. You turn on the lamp at your bedside, and nearly jump out of your skin.
"Lucas?" You try not to sound too surprised, but well as to be expected, you fail miserably. His chest is heaving, and his fist are balled so tightly you think the impression of his finger nails in his palms won't disappear until morning.
You are a bit slow on the uptake due to the fact that whatever mood you were previously in, has crashed and burned. And since you're just the slightest bit tipsy. You don't quite know how he got in.
When you look around, you realize that the window to your fire escape is open.
Great, I forgot to lock it.
But what were the chances that he'd come tonight? He never came over. You two, weren't close. Never had been. Never could be. He could barely look at you, these day without frowning with that Holier-than-thou expression. It was just your luck that he would show up at the worst possible time.
It seemed you and life had to have another conversation.
"What the hell?"
Lucas pointedly ignores you. Rather, he directs all his attention to the man at his feet.
"Just what were you doing?"
You sigh, as you slide your shirt back on, unembarrassed. Modesty had never been one of you strong suits, anyway.
Lucas is looking at Sam with this deadly look in his eyes. You almost lose your false calm, because this macho protective crap was not okay. He didn't get to pull that shit with you. He could do that with everyone else. Anyone else, really. But you, you didn't need it. You knew how to take care of yourself. You didn't play fair. You played for survival, if need be.
"Well, what did it look like, Jackass?' The unattended to sexual frustration, is evident. It's in your damn voice.
His head snapped up. His anger and disgust, apparent in the flare behind his green eyes. It almost knocked the breath out of you. Almost.
But, you had been going to war against Lucas since you were in middle school. The rules just changed as you two got older. And they were never as unspoken as they were now.
When you were in seventh grade it was a war of wits. Whichever of the two of you annoyed the other more, was the victor. Then eighth grade was the year of pulling, tugging the other as close as possible without it being too noticeable. Without it seeming more than friendly. Ninth grade was the last clash, before you both turned tail, and retreated. Before, you both let it go and walked away.
"It looked like he was going to take advantage of you," he murmured lowly, dangerously. Which only seemed to remind him of his anger. He made to grab Sam to his feet, but you jumped in front of him, punched Lucas as hard as you could in his side. He lost his balance and fell onto your bed.
"I would never," Sam's voice, rumbled frustratedly as he made his way slowly to his feet. Rubbing the back of his head, with a wince. You grimaced, at the cut on his forehead. You looked down.
Oh, fucking hell!
He was naked. You quickly handed him the towel that had slipped from his waist, before you were so annoyingly interrupted. You plotted to repay, Lucas Friar, for his kindness.
Sam looked very lost. Like he was missing a very vital piece of the puzzle that he needed in order to complete it. "Maya, what's going on?"
"I wis-"
Lucas is leaning back on his elbows. Raising -what you imagine is a pretty good intimidating- eyebrow. "Well, you creepy old perv, I was going to take care of yo-"
"I'm nineteen."
"Maya's seventeen. That's illeg-"
You raise your own eyebrow in Lucas's direction. If he didn't let you get a word out, you might strangle him. Or try to, at least. He went quiet so quick, you think he might've read your mind.
You turned to Sam. "Just go put on some clothes. I'll explain later."
He frowned, looking ready to object. But he didn't. Instead he gave a resigned sigh.
"Okay."
You gave him a soft kiss on his cheek, a small peace offering. "I'll call you."
He nodded, offered you a half smile with a lovely dimple in his cheek. "I'll be waiting."
**
After your boyfriend had left. You returned to your bedroom to find Lucas sitting on your bed, leaning over, his head cradled in one hand. While the other hung past his knees. He released a shaky breath as he looked at whatever was in his hand.
You stood at the threshold of your bedroom. Unwilling to step foot in what you felt was dangerous territory. The last time you and him were in a room alone together it shattered everything you (wanted to) believe was true.
You don't want anymore revelations. You like how things are.
After a long time, he looked at you. He held up his hand, and in his grasp was the scotch. His eyes were cold. And his fist gripped the bottle so tightly you thought it would shatter in his hand. Imagined how a mixture of his blood, and liquor would stain your carpet.
As soon as your mother saw it, she would suspect.
But Shawn, he would know on sight.
"Why?" Lucas's voice shook, with the sort of distraught anger that should've surprised you. But you knew. Had always known he cared too much. Once he got close, he could never step away, that was always up to you.
He'd always had a knack for making you feel cornered, had a way of making you speak too honestly. When he really tried, he had all the power. It was like you couldn't lie to him. Like you weren't good at it. Which you were, your mother was an actress after all.
You thanked whatever celestial being was out there, that he probably didn't know he had it, or didn't know what to do with it. Either way, you were a master of avoiding anything you didn't want to think about.
"why, what?"
He was in front of you in seconds. Leaning his shoulder into the wall next to the doorway. His forehead almost brushing your's as he leaned down to meet your gaze. His gaze, distant, like he was far away. Seeing something from another time.
"This!" He shoved the bottle into your hands, roughly. His eyes, a furious shade of sea green.
"Tell me why?" He demanded.
You were trying, and failing not to lose your cool. He had no business, coming and judging you. He didn't know what had happened. He hadn't been there.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Anything!" Lucas exploded, his voice cutting. "Say anything. Tell me this isn't a problem, and I'll believe you."
You tossed the bottle gingerly onto your bed. “It isn’t a problem.”
You meant it. You might sometimes seek refuge, seek a haven, in the way liquor warmed your chest, and sloshed gently inside your belly. Offered a place where the answers were crystal, and you didn't have to feel guilty because you knew the truth. But alcohol wasn't the issue. It never had been.
His gaze softened. "Then, what is?"
You bite your lip, struggling to find the words. Wanting to tell him. But not knowing if you were allowed to. If that was okay. If it was okay, to want to have the right to tell him. But you don't. You can't.
You love Riley, too.
And that's really all there is too it.