Yo, so I'm in Seattle?? Pretty cool here if I may say so myself. Very artsy. Being in the city in which this story takes place, idk, it gives me a lot of late ideas haha. Plus, you know IMMA GO SEE Meredith Greys HOUSE tomorrow. HAR HAR HAR. Im so stoked! I'm looking out for Mcdreamy too, sooo shoutout to Der and CharBert because my brain works like that haha.
I fucked up a little and forgot to mention that this chapter and the last one used to to be just an 8K long chap now split in two. There is still one more chap plus an epilogue! I'm sorry for the confusion.
ONE MORE CHAPTER TILL THE EPILOGUE.
__________________________________________
Bit breathless by the roller coaster ride of her soliloquy that is now suddenly not a soliloquy, she finally casts a look at him; ruggedly left in this bitter expanding silence where he mutters out beginnings but never finds the purchase to continue speaking.
"Please say something, Robert." She breathes it out with her heart giving life to her words. "Stop being the good guy, and get angry with how I treated you, come on." All bloody and pleading and true. So fucking true. She sucks in air and he is rigidly still with black beady eyes with pupils that have blown to full attention. All that built up demeanour--alike an armour, it's blown down flat.
"I--" His facial features are twisting and forming with all the flying thoughts ripping through him. "You broke it off, Charlie," and for a moment, fleeting and grading, he looks like a young boy no longer trapped within the walled boundaries that cemented him in. Stuttering and soft and so so quiet, "W-What am I supposed say to that?"
"Just, just be how you're feeling." He looks so struck and stuck like a buck just barely standing, uncertain and disorientated--and Charlotte feels absolutely the fucking same. "I just, I don't know what, what, but I-I see Moll in this house, even though she's only been here a few times, I still see her. It's horrible. But it's you I see here, too. In this house. Don't you have something to say about that?"
"Something to say about you ending it right out there, in that room, on that bed?" He points, "I came to terms with it."
"I don't want you to come to terms with it, Robert--"
"Stop, please. Stop saying my name like, like... You have no idea, okay?" Heat radiating from her cheeks and ears, drowning in her twisted shame (she deserves it). "I can't think when you, when--fuck. Why would you say all that?"
"Because I wanted us to start over. Because I want us to be truthful and for you to stop being all perfect and everything--to just be human and get upset with me." She's spilling and vomiting words without grace or ease. Tumbling to ruin all inhabitants that manage to grasp the rushed concept she hurriedly tries to convey. "Make me feel like the bad guy I am and be honest with me like I'm trying to be with you."
He pulses forward with a surge of broken words that tear at his tongue and draw him in distress as he says with open palms, "I don't want to when you've just buried your sister."
Her jaw suddenly feels wired shut as he is there, breathing out fuming remorse. The red of his eyes standing out against the speckled colours that convey nothing but an emotion cousin to frustration and filtered in with his own mourning.
Though it's a second too late as the weighted steps of friends pile in with one trying to convince the other not to. "--Jay don't!" CJ stumbles after a stern eyed Jay, concerned and full of opinions as they all but barge into the conversation at the foot of the bathroom door.
He jabs a finger at Robert with power behind his words and an unhinged tone to his voice. "I think it's time for you to leave."
Some flaring annoyance lights like dry birch inside Charlotte, as she says, "Leave us be, Jay. Everything's fine, we're just talking."
Her friend seems to only topple on against her advises. "No, it's not fine. He came here to play games with your head and now he's cornering you in--"
Robert intervenes with a foot planted between Charlotte and the smaller man, his voice thick and conveying something he refuses to do with Charlotte. "J.R., you are pushing me beyond my limits and I am already cracking. Charlotte is more than capable of handling a conversation with me without your interventions."
"Jay, you're being an asshole. Come on!" CJ pulls at him and he stumbles back but doesn't retreat, still speaking vehemently, "Interventions, huh? You'd know about intervening or imposing on sensitive times, hey? Get a grip, Downey. It's already ended. Let her heal and move on to greener pastures, already."
That seems to prick at something inside Robert and it shows. "And I suppose you think that's you, right? Mr.Opportunist?" Advancing a few steps in Jay's direction.
Jay squares up, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what I'm saying."
"You know you sound like you're fifteen, right? Aside from what, you're really fifty or something? Grow up, Professor. Acting like this day is about you."
And Charlotte just has had enough. After today and her own drama and everything. She just wants to talk to Robert, without anyone else budging in or having opinions about it. She's tired, emotional and at her raw end of letting Jay, for whatever reason after numerous attempts to have him stop, bully Robert. "Jay, stop!" Voice lashing like a whip-crack through tense air. A beat, and then she calmly states with silent attention on her that burns her cheeks. "I can speak for myself and say that Robert hasn't done a thing wrong. Not now, not then." He has stopped, straight in his tracks with an agape mouth and momentarily grits his teeth when his eyes slide to Robert, but he does. He stops. "Now, please. Leave us be."
Casey, with her gliding stance and smooth hands, tugs at Jay again, speaking to both of them as she gets them moving. "Sorry, guys. No excuse for it, but I'll keep your space clear of anymore visitors."
"It happens, CJ. Thank you." Charlotte presses forward reluctantly, pushing away from the countertop and following the two out of the bathroom to the exit of the bedroom (avoiding Robert's gaze that screams embarrassment as she walks past).
"I'm protective," Jay says, twisting back to look at Charlotte earnestly as he rests at the opposing side of the door. "I just wanted to help--as your--"
"I know." She says, as he apologizes, "I know, I know." And softly clicks the door shut, locking the world out, head heavy against the thin wood as she sighs out all the remaining energy she had had stored off for later that night. Suppose her plan to sleeplessly search out booze and cry some more will have to be rescheduled for another gloomy time.
She's pretty certain she hears Casey call Jay an idiot as they move on in bickering rhythms away from the space they'd invaded. Can hear her berating him like the sister she seemingly is to him. She also hears Casey mention Molly. How life's too short, and it's not worth wasting time on problems that don't need to be problems.
And Molly's dead. She... She really died. She's really not ever coming back.... How is Charlotte ever supposed to get passed that?
She wants to cry.
She hates it.
Hanging head swivelling to Robert, his chin is propped up by his palms, elbows weighted on his knees as he looks so defiantly at Charlottes slouched stature. Thinking something dismal, something suffering. The bed unmade and the sheet strained by his weight seated on the end of the queen sized mattress. Curved lashes that highlight the sprinkles of brown and ebbed in gold that watch her moving so subtly. Studying and listening and unresponsive to her fidgety fleeing wishes. "Do you love him?"
She straightens with curved confused brows, almost shakes her head, as if she had misheard Robert's words. As if, as if he had said something of mistake, but his expression, his fatigued posture and round eyes--she can't help but question for clarity. "What?"
"Never mind." He waves it off, avoiding her gaze and looking rather embarrassed for saying it. As if he really did just say Do you love him, as if they're condemned words that slipped through his reverie. "That's, uh. Sorry. Fuck, I really am cracking here. That wasn't appropriate of me."
"Jay?--Jay and I," Stumbling through her stuttering sentences at the assumption of, of her and Jay, of them. Together. And Robert's quick back peddling. "We aren't, he's not--he's not."
"I shouldn't have brought it up. It's none of my business. Obviously you can do whatever you want, Charlotte."
"We aren't together."
"I know that."
"No, Jay and me." She clarifies. "He's just my friend, he's not..." Her voice going softer, like she's whispering out a secret. "He's not you."
Though Robert only looks dejected by her words. "That's the point, he shouldn't be like me." Repeating those words and scrubbing at his face tiredly with the backs of his hands.
"Robert." Because he is everything but what he thinks he is. Every wonderfully romantic stereotype that still breaks her heart to think about. He is that personified. "You honestly think I'd do that to you? After everything?"
Dropping palms away from his face leaves him bent over with folded hands pointed towards her and looking positively resigned. "It wouldn't be the first time."
"Come on, that's not fair. I am not Lacey and would never treat you like she did--is. Not intentionally, anyways." Cheeks reddening, because, you know, yeah. She has hurt him like Lacey has, just in Charlottes own way.
"But, you know, it's good, I guess. It makes sense, I mean, he's young--age appropriate, and now offers you a do over. Isn't that what you said you wanted?"
"I wanted a fresh start with you. Is that why things got weird so suddenly between us, you thought Jay and I were dating?"
"You aren't?"
"No." Watching the disparity bloom across his features. Tangled with stress and a low self esteem, as if he hasn't given her everything but the kitchen sink in his life. Given up his job--his family and reputation--for her. Charlotte. A walking, talking, ticking time bomb that's a hair trigger away from expelling her prolonged pain to the man who sits with a bent back, bruised knuckles that are scabbed and scraped and raw: matching his red rimmed eyes. His hair falling on his forehead, in need of a hand to stroke it back, and the loose collar of his shirt open and those sharp bones and firm shoulders and breathing breath. This man, once her man, doesn't believe her when she says he was everything when she had nothing.
She wants to change that, and there's no stopping the unfiltered words that split between her tight closed lips. "You were like coming up for fresh air." Watching him, facing him, telling him. "You think I'd be ready for anybody after you? After my expectations of men had been smashed by Him and then to meet you, a man all soft sweetness and oozing comforting warmth, that I'd break up with that and be able to look at another man again?"
It's a moment before he responds, but his entire demeanour changes (she wonders if it has to do with Jay's verbal jabs ((but doesn't ask))). Looking at her softly--softer, warm and nostalgic all in one go. "You should, Charlie. In your own time, at your own pace, you should. You deserve to. Dream of something wonderful--someone wonderful, and you'll get it. You've had a shit start at life, and trust me no ones going to take away your right to a happy ending, okay? Not even me."
He thinks he's the one cracking, well. She can feel herself about to burst. Bunches of pressured anxieties, mournings, self-hatred and conjuring concerns whistling in distress as she stands here rigidly breaking. She can't compute this manipulated view he has, why he's being so kind like he's always been in the face of her fucking falsehoods and disputes that do nothing but add to her shame, shame, shame. To her guilt, guilt, guilt, and regret, regret, regret. Mourning a life she only barely got the chance to taste--and missing it like she lived it forever.
He wipes soft palms against his pressed pants, still sitting on the bed, looking at her exactly as she is, nothing more, nothing less. Unperturbed by her bits of unarticulated mumblings and wishing for a change of pace and path. Saying like he's tired of the whirl wind of words and feelings that's been straining them all day, tossing them back and fourth, as he continues, "The truth is that we're both emotional, obviously, it's been a horrible day, but I came here because I wanted to. Because I wanted to end this relationship in a way that gave you and I both voices, trying to leave this on a good note and make sure you were okay. That's it. I'm not playing a game or trying to impose, I just worried. A lot. Maybe too much. Now, you asked for us to start over, and I haven't been the most accommodating. So lets. Okay? Help me understand, make me. I'm listening now."
Well... that was a turn she wasn't expecting. To this click and twist in behaviour--its very him, but, it feels unfair, somehow. To him. Whatever the reason, she finds her palms sweaty and sticky, teeth pulling at her lip trying to figure out how to let him understand, how to tell him when all that's getting caught in her gutter for a brain is death death death. "I don't want to confuse you."
"No, don't worry. Before I just wasn't expecting for you to feel, I don't know, how you do. The mixture of stuff, it through me off a bit, that's all. Now, though, I'm good."
"You'll let me know if its too much?"
"Yep."
She starts with a hum, thinking, wrapping her arms around herself against the draft of ice working its way within her. "It's just, it's just I'm confused, right? And tired and I don't know. Everything. All I want is to make sure that no ends are left untied, if that makes sense."
"Sure it does. I feel the same." No smile pulls at his lips, nothing falters his attentive attention so tentatively listening. Leaning with elbows still on his knees, the nights billowing wind breeze whisking in and ever so gently swooshing in like an oceans tide against their prickling skin. "Go on, Char."
"I don't want to lose you," She says. "In a Molly kind of way." Nipping at her tongue, playing a tug of war with herself. Contemplating the trajectory in which she should try to help alleviate this burning itch inside of her.
Robert doesn't flinch, doesn't smile or attempt to provide any words, only listening. Waiting. Patiently. Not wanting to interrupt her flowing explanation. So she continues.
"What I mean is I don't want to lose you and for you to not know how much you meant to me. I've already made that mistake once, I don't wanna do it again." (Molly Monster). "I want to tell you how much I miss you and how sorry I am for all the fuck ups I've made and ways I've hurt you."
"Relationships are messy, Char--don't look at me like that, they are. It's two people becoming a third thing, that's not easy."
"It felt easy. It felt good. Aside from, you know, the end part."
"Yeah, well. Things end. You learn from those experiences and hope to not make the same errors the next time around."
"I still don't get why you're not mad with me about it all."
"You know, I remember feeling a lot, all the time. I still do. But just because our relationship has ended, doesn't mean I hate you, or something."
"Why not?"
He smiles, then. Small and sparkling, "You're still very young, Char. Sometimes I would forget that--I still do. You make mistakes when you're young, and you handle things differently when you're older. That's fine. I mean, yes I was upset about some stuff, but I'm not angry about the breakup or any of that crap, okay?"
"What's the difference."
"A big one." He gestures to beside him on the bed, inviting her over. "Sit down, take a breather. What were you talking about before I jumped into conversation?"
She considers it for a moment, chewing at her lip before moving in jittering steps. "I don't even know what I was saying. I think I was just rambling on." Wary eye on him as she plants one foot after the other, his own gaze forwards to not pressure her, maybe. The carpet tickling under her toes as she comes to the beds edge and sits measuredly.
She recalls that day when she had first rubbed shoulders with him. Sitting close, nervous, trying to keep the blood from leaching into her burning cheeks as she could feel his vibrating warmth seeping into her aura. Like now, but stressed. Tension that's filled with, well, uncertainty, a lot of ache, and maybe a bit of longing (maybe a lot)--though she can't speak for Robert.
It's funny now, thinking back to times where she had thought she was so impervious to her growing love for him. And had been so against simply saying the word until that night she had shared a bed with Robert. God, it still gave her shivers. A magical weekend it had been--their last moment of purity.
She wishes it could have stayed like that.
After that day they were traveling headlong into losing Ava, then Molly, then each other and followed by sanity itself.
How now she would savour every waking moment of peace and civility she had shared with Robert, then.
"Did you know I didn't get to say goodbye?" She doesn't know why she says it, but she has and it claws up her throat as a new wave hits, this need to tell someone and get it out. "I didn't make it there, I was making dinner. Spaghetti and the noodles, they were sticking together, green spinach ones. Thick and they just they cooked weird, though I was dazed. Humming that Charlie Chaplin song. Humming and happy, but off." Fidgeting, rolling her shoulders to settle the need to pick at the hem of her sweater where the threads come loose. Knee jumping as she remembers that day. Remembers driving, remembers screaming and crying and waking to a cold dead body beside her.
Brown follows her dodgy blue, readjusting beside her like he's sidling up to ease her down from a rocky edge she's teetering on. "You don't have to talk about this."
But Charlottes already gone, gaze finding images far beyond her current surroundings. "I told her she would be fine, that she'd just be in the hospital for a few nights but she got worse and worse and she died with foam in her mouth wondering why I wasn't there. She died thinking I-I didn't care, that I couldn't be bothered, and I love her, and, and you, and life sucks and you have cancer, you have cancer and you could--I can't imagine, I can't, I don't want to. I care about you and I'm sorry. To lose Molly and then, you could, you could...."
She's fine, she's fine. She's just getting overwhelmed, anxious, maybe, too. She's gripping the sheets of the bed with iron fists--she doesn't want to cry. She hates it, she's done. There's nothing left of her, but she's deteriorating further anyways.
"Breathe. Easy. I hear you. I hear what you're saying, I'm here, okay? I'm okay." Worry, concern and round eyes watery on their own accord.
She wants to say she's good, she's fine. She's just over thinking, resurfacing with the memories washing upon her conscious. Seeing it, reliving--the cold of those tiny bloodless hands. Stiff and, and--
"I want to help you." Saying it like it pains him to not be--Like he's asking to.
She's trying to swallow the rush of feelings, but, but, "Molly died. You can't die, Robert. You can't." And she can't stop and she feels her chest tightening and Robert looks like he's stitched to his spot reluctantly remaining there, close to her with an outstretched palm that barely wavers.
"Can I have your hand?" His tone rolling in gentle rhythms to match his body language that's not imposing or trying to corner her or play games with her head. "Trust me." He says and thats it. She's done thinking. She's done analyzing. She's done avoiding him.
Uncurling her right white tight fist from being wired into the twisted sheets, she looks to that hand of his. Palm open, the pointed jut of his wrist moving as he gently asks, and those veins that crawl up his arm beneath his shirt where he's rolled the sleeves up, and she knows exactly what each bump and bone feels like. She knows from experience, misses it. But it's awkward after all they've done and seen and been, to somehow end up here. Nervous to the others touch.
But he's still asking.
Watching him watching her, she moves in fluid rhythms that only barely hiccups--and the feeling of his skin to hers, it's electric and safe and real--as she gingerly glides her palm to his and presses with enclosing fingers that interlace like they've never done otherwise. His thumb caresses her skin, his gaze peering to hers as she finds herself leaning into him, lost to his warmth, this safety and revelation of old reservations in front of him and slightly shivering. Basking in it, in awe of it. She doesn't know what he's to do, doesn't care--when he takes her trembling hand gripping at his and presses it very firmly to the centre of his very alive, much beating chest.
Air vanishes from her lungs for an all too different reason now. Awe and comfort and the feeling that he is okay. He is alive and good and here.
His heart a steady rhythm just under her fingertips. The dint in the centre perfectly sized for her hand to feel--encumbered by it and enamoured with it--with him, to feel these rising emotions that sway her unsteady, yet ease her panic and calm her breathing.
Robert's voice breaking through her reverie, catching her attention to his ever perceptive features. "You feel it?" He asks, his eyes shining and mouth parted.
Tears fall to track her cheeks in which she hurriedly brushes away with her free hand, responding to him with a soft and shaky, "I really did miss you." Fingers ebbing at the thumping feeling so prominently pumping blood to his warm body. Gripping, wanting. Her shoulder falling to his--his eyes casting to it and the warmth. Feeling being side by side with him and it is so incredibly grounding that when his eyes meet hers again, she's not surprised to see the resolve crumbling across him.
A split in her heart, heat in her being as he leans back into her. His head tilting as he watches her hoping for the same words to come out of his mouth that are pestering her mind. "What do you need?" Quiet, somber and shyly opening himself to her.
Squeezing his hand, looking into his azure eyes with a watery tone of her own. "You--just for now, please."
Silence.
His heart pitter-pattering to a slow beat that releases her from this icy world where he might not be in it. Settles this feverish fear that not only will Moll have been taken, but him too.
Almond ringed eyes shining, ticking between hers, with curved concerned brows that wrinkle between them in worry. Thick lashes that blink slowly, considering much like his parted lips that glisten in the navy nights light. He swallows thickly as the breeze sweeps in and untucks hair from curling behind his ears, as he grasps back on her lithe hands, enveloped by his and he says, so gently, "I missed you too, Charlie."
And she's brought into his chest, a pained expression colouring her face as she finally rests into him. Arms repositioning to cling tight around him, clutching and nestling her nose into the crook of his warm neck. Lips brush just above the medical bandage peeled across her forehead when she hears him mutter lowly, "It's gonna be okay."
________________________________________________
ONE MORE CHAPTER TILL THE EPILOGUE.
Random Question: What would be the perfect ending for this story?
(Though it's already planned out, I'm just curious).
VOTE. COMMENT. TELL ME HOW YOU FEEL THAT THERE'S ONLY ONE CHAPTER LEFT OF SMN. Follow me on Instagram for updates on new SAY MY NAME chapters!