Itchin' On A Photograph

This isn't how he imagined his life would be four years ago. A girlfriend in the hospital, because she's a danger to herself; a child of his out in the world somewhere, being raised by strangers and never knowing who her real father is; a lonely loft apartment, without so much as a dog to keep him company. He can't help but think that he had promise and potential, but he threw it away on Missy, because she seemed so perfect. Perfection, he supposes, - like beauty - is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps she is still perfect, but his perspective on her has simply been rearranged, because he's seen more of her than in the beginning.

"Donnie, who's that blonde girl over there talking to Whit?" he asks, leaning over to his friend as he gazes at the girl near Whitney. She looks positively angelic, a white lace shirt over a floral bandeau, dark wash jeans and a pair of plain black heels. Her blonde curls cascade over her shoulders and he watches, enraptured, as she laughs at something that Whitney is saying. Her oceanic eyes are glowing as the move around the room, finally catching his gaze and giving him a small smile, which he returns almost too eagerly.

"Who, that girl?" Donnie wonders, motioning to the girl with a nod as she goes back to conversing with Whitney, "That's Missy. She's in Whit's psychology class. She's way out of your league, man. You couldn't handle her." He listens to Donnie, but ignores the last two sentences.

"I'm gonna go talk to her," he tells Donnie, who simply chuckles and takes a large gulp of beer, clapping him on the shoulder as he begins walking toward Whitney and the mystery girl.

"Hey!" Whitney greets him with a smile. She has a bit of a party-girl persona, so she's always loud and peppy, twenty-four seven. "Have you met Missy?"

"Hey," he gives her a smile and introduces himself. Whitney slowly sneaks away, watching the two with a knowing expression as Missy greets him in return.

"So...how do you know Whitney?" Missy asks, taking a drink of the beer in her hand.

"Oh, we go way back. To high school, actually," he explains, not being able to help himself as his eyes wander over her body appreciatively. She's beautiful; it's difficult for him not to notice.

"Do you often prey on unsuspecting girls at parties?" she asks him teasingly, watching with a smile as a blush colors his cheeks and he takes a swig of his beer to take the edge off.

"Of course not," he shakes his head, "Only the exceptionally pretty ones."

"Oh, well I'm flattered," she grins. He can already tell that this girl is going to be trouble, because she's the sort of girl whom everyone falls head over heels for. The competition alone to win her over will be more than he can handle.

But he accepts that challenge and continues with their banter, falling in love with her more and more every second that they speak with each other.

Because this girl is absolutely perfect.

How did they fall so far?

+

"There's no right way to say this."

"Well then don't say it."

It's a heavy sigh, the breath such a burden on his lungs. It's a weak stare, apologetic ebony eyes not meeting the sad ones, the sick ones. It's the steady beat of the heart monitor, ensuring the security of the sick girl in bed.

"We can't be together."

"Leave it to you to wait until I'm dying."

He can't bear to look at her, because she's going to make him change his mind.

"I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to make me feel guilty," he accuses, his head in his hands and his eyes staring straight down into his lap.

"So what if I am?" she asks, her voice on the verge of sobbing. She tries her hardest not to allow the tears to fall, though, because for once, she doesn't want to be weak.

"I'm not going to change my mind," he informs her, though it's only a half-truth because he knows that there are ways that she could change his mind. She has a way with him, but he hates admitting it.

There are a few deafening moments of silence, before she takes a deep breath to ask him a question that he really would rather she didn't ask.

"Can I...Can I ask why?" she wonders, in her most timid of voices.

"I just can't deal with your constant mood swings and your depression and you doing impulsive, selfish things all of the time. I'm sick of being the only one in this relationship who cares. I can't...I can't see a future for us," he tells her, his voice quiet and somber. She recoils from hurt when he mentions being the only one who cares.

"I care," she whispers brokenly, "I've always cared. I love you, Jess." The sentiment is like music to his ears, but it's a sad song that he doesn't want to listen to. It only serves to make tears well up for the first time in what feels like centuries. Why did he have to rediscover the ability to cry now? He just wanted this to be quick and easy, though he supposes that that was an irrational notion.

"Why now?" she asks, "Is it because I'm in the hospital? Is that it?"

"No. Well...kind of."

"Kind of?"

"The loft is lonely without you and I...I don't want to deal with it anymore," he explains.

"And you're always accusing me of being selfish?" she raises her eyebrows incredulously at him, though he can't see because he still refuses to look up at her.

"Missy, I just...please. Let me go," he begs, finally looking up at her with tears in his eyes. Her heart nearly shatters as she sees the tears in his eyes and a realization hits her: she is the cause of those tears. She can't recall ever seeing him cry in their four years. He was always the strong one who took care of her. Maybe he needed to be taken care of, as well.

"I'm sorry," she tells him softly, her hand reaching out to tangle her fingers in his shaggy hair. He can't help but feel comforted by her touch, as the first tear finally falls from his ebony eyes.

"Is this...Is this really happening?" she wonders, her hand stroking the side of his face lovingly; slowly, he nods his head. She can feel tears of her own coming on now, but she does her best to hold them back as they sit in the hospital room for a few minutes without speaking.

"I should go," he announces suddenly, standing up rather abruptly. He has to get away from her, before he changes his mind. He knows that he's on the very brink of doing exactly that.

"Wait," she stops him, grabbing his wrist to pull him back. He doesn't turn around, but he pauses in his steps, a deep sigh wracking his body like a tremor.

"Could you kiss me once more?" she pleads, simply wanting the feeling of his lips against hers. They haven't kissed in so long, because she's always sad and he's always tired.

"I-I don't think I can do that," he stammers, still not turning to face her.

"Please? Just one kiss."

"No, Missy."

"Why not?" she wants to know, the tears threatening to spill over now.

"Because."

"That's not a good enough answer," she tells him.

"Because," he sighs again, "Because then...I won't be able to say goodbye." He's giving into her once again, just like all of those other times, and he hates himself for it. His mind keeps imagining her and all of their good times, as well as their bad times. Her deep sea eyes, her soft pink lips, her beautiful golden waves of hair.

She's always been so perfect.

"Why do you love me?" she wants to know, staring up at him with a gleam in her beautiful, blue eyes. They're lying in bed, because it's a lazy Sunday and they've decided to spend the day in bed together. It's something they do quite often, because they can never seem to get enough of each other.

"Why do you think I love you?" he counters, smothering her with kisses as she smiles against his lips, her thin arms draped around his neck.

"Jess, that's a loaded question and you know it," she rolls her eyes at him, "You're basically asking me to brag about myself."

"And that's so much better than asking me to shower you with compliments?" he teases, his lips ghosting over her chest, causing her to shiver with delight.

"Mm," she smiles as he moves downward to kiss at her bare stomach, "Fine. Then I'll tell you why I love you." He grins against her stomach, before she flips them both over so that she's on top of him instead of vice versa. She pins his arms against the bed with her hands, a silly smile slapped across her face.

"Because you take care of me," she begins, kissing him after each reason, "Because you watch out for me and protect me. Because you clean my wounds after I've hurt myself. Because you're the most beautiful man I've ever known. Because you make me breakfast in bed for no reason at all. Because you dress up with me on Halloween. Because you think there are more important things in this world than impressing people who don't matter in the slightest. Because you don't care that I curse like a fucking sailor. Because you think I'm beautiful. Because you love me, despite how much of a fuck-up I am."

"Because you're perfect," she finishes, planting the last kiss on his lips with a smile. He's entirely breathless, because such an exquisite creature thinks that he's perfect one, when he knows all too well that it's the other way around.

And because of that, he can't help but let all of his emotions run wild.

"I love you because you're hilarious. And because you're beautiful. And because you're selfish by nature, but you go out of your way to be sweet to me. Because I love hearing your swear in the mornings when you accidentally stub your toe, because I can't help but think that I love waking up to that. I love waking up to you. I love the way you can think I'm so perfect, when I know that you're the perfect one. Because even though you're batshit crazy sometimes, I love being around you. Because you complete me."

There are tears in her eyes when he's done talking, and he looks at her with concern.

"Baby, did I say something wrong?" he asks, knowing that he shouldn't have called her selfish or batshit crazy.

"I've just never loved someone so much, that's all," she tells him, crying tears of happiness as she begins to cover him with kisses.

And even though there are tears mixed in with the kisses, he really can't complain.

Suddenly, he remembers exactly why he stuck around for so long, even through all of the shit that she's put him through. He feels her wrist on his arm, but her grip seems weaker than before. Without warning, he turns around to face her, trying not to smile, because he can tell that she's about to cry.

He sits on the bed and leans in close, pressing his lips to hers, softly at first and then more ferociously. He can feel her salty tears roll out of her eyes and onto his face, but both try not to notice as she wraps her arms around him entirely. When they break apart, he presses his forehead against hers and stares deeply into her teary eyes.

"I'm g-going to m-miss you," she says between heaving sobs. She's always cried so easily, but it's just another part that makes up the woman that he loves.

"No, you won't," he insists, drying her tears with his thumbs.

"W-Why do you s-say that?" she asks, only crying harder, "I'm n-not as heartless a-as you think I -"

"Baby," he interrupts her.

"I'm not going anywhere."