You can taste the cold air as soon as the door swings open. It’s biting, like the tequila you’ve been drinking, and burns your throat in the same delicious way. Your mind is blurry, and the lights of the city on the horizon fracture the inky blackness of the sky and the water, the only hint that there’s more than dark surrounding you. You lean heavily on the railing, thinking maybe you want to throw up, and whether it’s the alcohol or the motion of the water or her that’s making you feel this way is anyone’s guess.
It shouldn’t have shocked you, really. There was no reason for the sharp pain that seemed to slap you across the face when Roy had drunkenly grabbed the microphone, no reason for the numbness that now surges through you at her reaction. She’s always been engaged, you tell yourself bitterly as you stare down into the swirling lake. Nothing’s changed.
And yet somehow, everything has. Because suddenly, it’s definite. That nameless date off in the distance was comfortably vague. But now, June 10th seems to loom towards you, no longer vague, but opressing, coming closer at a dizzying speed. You lean farther over the edge of the rail and vomit.
There’s a hand on your back, comforting, and you know who it is and for some reason, you reel backwards and away from her. Her pink coat billows in the wind, and her cheeks are rosy, though whether it’s from the cold out here or the warmth and excitement inside, you can’t really tell. She looks startled and worried at the same time and it makes your chest ache, so you look away and wipe your mouth with your sleeve.
“Are you okay?” she asks quietly. You don’t know whether she means physically or emotionally, but you go with the physical because it’s so much easier for you to lie about it.
“I think so. Too much to drink.” Your smile is forced and fake and you know she can tell, because she’s approaching you cautiously.
“Are you sure?”
You sort of want to yell at her, and you feel that pressure deep inside you, building up and trying to press its way out. But you won’t, because she looks so beautiful with her hair whipping in her face and the soft light making her glow in a clichéd kind of way.
Instead, you turn and stare out at the twinkling lights that feel so far away. She’s silent for a moment, coming to stand beside you, and you hate that she’s the only thing that makes you warm because now you know you can’t have her.
“I’m sorry,” she says after a moment. You turn to look at her, and she’s crying.
“Why?” you ask, watching as she fiddles with her necklace.
She looks up at you, her mouth set in a thin line. “I don’t know,” she finally breathes. “I just know that I am.”
There’s a brief instant where you almost tell her. That she’s your world and you want to be hers and will she please just.
But there’s an eruption of sound from inside that forces you to look upwards and away from her. And you’re walking briskly in the opposite direction before you really realize it.
She calls your name softly, pleadingly, but you really need to just get away, and you’re on a fucking boat so you can’t go far. Your stride is swift, and soon you’re standing at the stern, watching the churning water as it froths in the wake, disappearing into the night. You feel like you’re falling backwards so you turn around and stare at the deck, and it ripples and swims away from your vision as your eyes fill with tears.
You curse quietly, “Fuck,” and swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, suddenly and irrationally angry that she’s gotten to you. You jam your hands in your pockets and swear again, letting the word hover in the air with your breath, “Fuck.”
And then you’re walking, and in no time, you’re back to where you started, just outside the doorway that leads back into the party, back into reality. She’s not there, but you know she’s not far because you always seem to know where she is no matter what. You climb the slippery stairs to the viewing deck, and the wind picks up as you reach the top.
She’s leaning, almost wilted, over the edge of the railing at the bow, eyes turned sightlessly to the sky. You want to shout, to argue, because it would make you feel something, something more than pain and sadness and that helplessness that’s so similar to drowning.
Instead, you’re behind her, too close, against her. Your arm is around her waist and the other grasps her hand on the railing and your lips find the side of her neck and she whimpers.
“I’d save you,” you whisper, your hips pushing against the back of her thigh and you know you’ve lost control. “If the ship were sinking, I’d save you.”
She lets you thread your fingers through hers, the cold steel of the rail mixing with the warmth of her palm, and she’s leaning back, gasping when she places your hand on her jacket-covered breast and God. You stop thinking because she’s rotating her hips against yours and her other hand quickly unzips her jacket before placing your hand on the patch of skin between her shirt and skirt.
“Jim,” she gasps, and you don’t know if she’s pleading for you to stop or for you to continue, so you press your fingers against her stomach before sliding them under the waistband of her skirt. Her head falls back against your shoulder and she moans when your hand finds where she wants it and she’s so wet and warm and you groan her name into her shoulder, like a prayer.
You’re frantic, and she’s almost begging by the time you’ve hiked her skirt up around her waist and fumbled with your fly. And you know this is crazy, and it’s freezing out, and her fiancé is downstairs and June 10th is only a few months away, but it just doesn’t matter because you’re hunched over her back, gripping her hand and the railing and you push forward.
She cries out, and she’s so hot that, for a second, you can’t breathe. But then she arches her back and you gasp and the world is suddenly too bright. Your breath joins hers in a foggy cloud, carrying out over the water towards the beacon of light on the horizon, and she’s whispering over and over, “Please, please, please.”
You feel brazen and out of control, and your hands grip her hips tight as you bite and suck at her neck, wanting to pretend that she’s yours, that you are allowed to be doing this. And all too soon, she’s shuddering beneath and around you, and you can’t help but give in, because she always makes you give her everything.
You wonder, briefly, as she leans her head against the rail in front of her and you thrust one last time, if she ever comes with Roy, and suddenly she’s just not yours anymore. She slips from beneath you with apologies in her eyes, and the bitter cold hits you like a slap in the face without her warmth surrounding you.
She doesn’t speak as she pulls her scarf back around her neck, to hide the marks you’ve made on her skin. She catches your eye and lets her gaze fall to your lips, and there’s still a hunger there that makes your insides twist in a pleasantly unpleasant way. Then she’s kissing you, hands in your hair, and it’s agony when she pulls away to go back, back to the party, back to him. But right before she turns down the stairs, she gazes at you, and the smallest of smiles flashes across her face as her fingers trace her bottom lip.
You don’t know how long you stand against the railing, feeling the steel solid against your back, grounding you. The boat turns back towards the dock, and soon you’re right back where you started. Only this time, you can taste her on your tongue, and the lights on the horizon seem just a little bit brighter.
Story Notes:
I love angst. And I love smut. And I love angsty smut. And that's pretty much what this is. Takes place during Booze Cruise. This is also what happens when i listen to Damien Rice's Accidental Babies. If you haven't heard it, download it!
I own no one, but if I did, John Krasinski wouldn't be allowed to leave my bedroom.
Chapter End Notes:
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falldownmore is the author of 11 other stories.
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