Yo La Luna Y Tu Mi Sol / I The Moon And You, My Sun

What a Sick, Sick Feeling

More angst!

God, I loved writing this chapter so much. I think I have the most fun writing out the consequences after You (our protagonist) make impulsive decisions >:3

Hope you enjoy!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You felt as though his eyes had pierced daggers into your heart from all angles. You wanted to reach out a hand to grab him – you wanted to seek comfort in the harsh angles of his body and comfort him alike. But what you had with Miguel was not comfort- it was not soft. It was not nice. It was a sick feeling– a dizzy ache that filled your stomach and threatened to rise up at the smallest provocation.

Miguel made you feel like you were rotting from the inside out. His touch consumed you so wholly that when he left, nothing but ashes were left in the wake. Tears pricked your eyes and blurred your vision. But you wanted to run after him.

You wanted to run after him.

The finality of the thought settled into your bones and you felt as if you were punched in the gut– This feeling made you sick inside and you wanted to fucking chase it. You dropped your head into your hands and cried.

—

Miguel didn't know where he was going. All he knew was needed a fucking drink. He had never abandoned work in the middle of the work day– had never even called off work once. He had hundreds of hours of sick time and paid time off accrued- never once touched. But today...

He needed something. Anything to fill this gnawing hole in his belly. He clenched his fist and in a bout of frustration and yanked his tie so hard he was sure his neck would have friction burns. He walked over to his car, opened it, and leaned in to reach the glove compartment. There, he found his secret stash of cigarettes- the one he only used for emergencies, and lit one up. He would smoke the whole pack today.

Miguel took a deep, deep drag of the cigarette. The acrid smoke burned his lungs, and he held it there. Held it there for the same amount of time that he had held your gaze. A sick part of him wanted to replay that moment over and over; he wanted to feel the breaking of his heart as he saw the intense regret and horror in your eyes at what you'd allowed him to do. He wanted to worry at the cracks in his soul, pour salt into it, and allow the darkness to consume him.

Later, in the night, when he hated himself the most, he would replay this moment with a twisted relish; a dark satisfaction would hit him as you rejected him, over and over again.

He carried that pain as if it was a precious memory. He turned it this way and that, examined it from all angles, always finding new details in its crevices. The flush of your cheeks post-climax, the soft parting of your lips, your clothes askew– the indentation marks on your hands from the desk.

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, taking another long drag from his cigarette. He leaned his head back against his seat- not caring that he was getting the heavy smell of cigarette smoke embedded in his upholstery; something he had meticulously and carefully avoided until now.

Miguel closed his eyes for a moment. He contemplated texting Peter B, that he was leaving for the day- but he just couldn't bring himself to do anything other than sit there in his car. He couldn't even bring himself to move. His limbs felt like lead and crushing weight had settled in his stomach. Tears pricked the edges of his eyes and he clenched his jaw.

Your face swam through his mind. Had he ruined things completely between you two? Had he crossed a line he could never uncross now? He was the one who said he wanted to keep things professional so why did he do that?