LPfiction

Category Linkin Park

In The Morning by starscream

but then last night was so much fun and now your sheets are dirty

beta'd by shinobi :]



In The Morning



“I wasn’t drunk last night,” he says.




And you cry.




You don’t know for sure what you were expecting him to say but it certainly was not that. That, which in your mind translates to ‘I was fully aware of my actions.’




You stayed up half the night and watched him sleep beside you, allowing yourself to thread your fingers through his hair over and over again, nervous, but secure in the knowledge that in the morning, you knew he wouldn’t remember a thing.




But now he’s sober, apparently he was last night as well, and he’s reaching for a hug as you tremble, your body racked with sobs of whatever emotion it is that his words have set afire within you.




You’re tired, you think, and that’s the only reason you accept his embrace against your better judgment. Just because he wasn’t drunk it doesn’t mean he enjoyed it; doesn’t mean things won’t change; doesn’t mean he isn’t upset.




He let’s you cry into his thin shirt, which you appreciate, and you wonder if he would mind you sucking your thumb and falling asleep in his arms.




He murmurs your name and with balled up fists you smudge the tears out of your sore eyes, grateful you hadn’t been coordinated enough to put in your contacts yet. It’s probably the early evening but you only crawled away from him a few hours ago to shower. The red sun filtering through the opaque hotel room curtains suggest you’re right; it looks much different than the four am black that you saw when he was pulling your legs around his hips.




You can still feel your warm thighs clenched around his waist, skin slick with a hot sweat from the humid summer night and the way your heart thundered against your rib cage.




“Mike?”




He’s repeating your name but you don’t want him to see the flush that’s risen to your cheeks. It’s ironic then as you realize you’ve got nothing left to hide; he’s seen everything. He knew you well enough before but last night it seemed as if he made a point of memorizing every inch of your flesh.




Every. Inch.



He tips your chin up, giving you no where to look but directly into his eyes. You inhale sharply, nearly choking on your breath as you make eye contact with him for the first time since just before he pressed his moist lips against yours; since just before he pulled out of you with a soft groan; since just before he collapsed against you and fell asleep with his arms extended around your neck.




“Will you tell me what you’re thinking?” He murmurs with a knitted brow and a frown.




His hands on your shoulders, one of them traveling to your cheek where his fingers brush away the messy paths of tears, they feel warm. He seems caring. He is the last person in the world who would ever hurt you, or so you’ve decided, and so he’s said. But if it comes down to last night he’ll be honest, even if that could hurt you.




The knock at the door hurts your head and you suppress the urge to cling to his hip as he goes to answer it reluctantly. You hope it’s the tea he ordered twenty minutes ago when he woke up and saw you staring blankly out the floor-to-ceiling window. Looking, but not really seeing much of anything.




He returns and sits gingerly beside you, extending one of his hands that are holding a cup and saucer. You take the proffered tea with shaking hands, watching as the steaming auburn liquid trembles in the cup and wincing at the sound the clattering china makes in response to your inability to control your tremors. This is ridiculous, you think.




You sip your tea, careful to not burn your tongue, and nearly moan in delight as it slips down your throat. Your eyelids flutter briefly before you chance a look at him. You want to say thank you but he’s smiling from behind his cup and it lodges your breath in your throat. He looks very much the way he did the night before, gazing at you over a mug of beer, eyes shining from the alcohol and dim light of the restaurant.




“What?” You whisper.




Your voice is hoarse and that in addition to his look flushes your cheeks again. You overused your vocal chords the night before; muffled groans, choking cries, and uninhibited screams as he pummeled every last breath from your body.




His smile widens as he lowers his cup from his face.




“You look grateful,” he breezes before lifting his cup to his lips again, taking a sip of the steaming liquid.




“I am,” you manage in the same tired voice. You’re thankful that he’s not pressing last night in this moment. You’ve almost forgotten how difficult it seemed to answer his question because this feels normal again.




You watch him set his cup and saucer on the coffee table and you take one more sip before allowing him to set yours there as well. You meet his eyes head on with apprehension when he extends a hand to brush the stray, matted hair of your Mohawk away from your eyes.




“Mike,” he begins a bit uncertainly and you savor the way he says your name, the hitch of his breath, and the feel of his palm going to cup your cheek. Your facial hair tickles under his touch and it makes your eye twitch. “Can I tell you what I’m thinking?”




He’s searching your eyes calmly; you wonder how much is exposed in your look. You’ve never been too good with hiding the truth and definitely not lying; still, you managed to stifle this thing between the two of you for some time. But as he’s looking at you now, you wonder if maybe he’s been doing the same; maybe he’s known all along.




“Yes,” you gasp as the tips of his fingers trail down your chin, through the hair, down the hollow beneath your Adam’s apple before dropping to your lap to cover your hand that’s clutching the denim of your jeans.




His face is so bright when you speak.




“I love the way you sound this morning,” he murmurs with a shy smile. You swallow thickly and feel yourself beginning to sweat beneath his gaze, beneath his hand, beneath the words he’s just said.




“What?” You mutter, confused.




“Your voice is hoarse,” he continues and your breath quickens as he scoots closer to you on the couch, knees grazing yours. “I like that.” He finishes shyly, fingers fidgeting with yours, nervous and entangling.




You think about what that means as he squeezes your hand in his. You want to believe he appreciates the reality of last night; the idea that you panted and moaned and shouted his name so many times at the top of your lungs that you can’t find your voice this morning. The idea that he loved fucking you.




But experience tells you that, despite you wanting to believe he’s coming onto you in this moment, you’re nothing. Inexperience bred uncertainty, uncertainty created failure, and failure led to divorce. What could you offer anyone now, when you couldn’t offer her anything before?




“Mike?” He’s repeating your name again, and you mutter an apology as you pull your hands from the tangled mess of fingers he’s created in your lap, and you push yourself up off the couch. You don’t look at him as you walk away but you’d like to think he’s wearing a hurt expression. Not because you want him to be upset, but because if he truly enjoyed last night, if he’s wanting to tell you that, then he should be sad for you walking away.




“Mike-” Avoiding his face doesn’t mean anything when you hear your name cut off with muted agony.




“What do you want me to say, Chester?” You push out. Your throat aches worse as tears well back up in your eyes and you try to keep the lump at bay; it’s sitting in the back of your throat, scratching at the red walls of your esophagus, threatening to send you into another childish fit of sobs.




He doesn’t care if you don’t want to look at him when he meets you at the window and squeezes between you and the glass, forcing you to either step back or be pressed against him. But he doesn’t let you step back as you’d like; he slides his arms around your waist and holds you there, chests crushed against one another, hearts hammering in time.




Aside from last night you think this is the first time in a while that you were held by anyone, or held someone. And it feels so good.




“I want you to be honest even if it’s not what I want to hear,” he says quietly. He stands at your same height so when you lift your gaze you’re staring straight into his eyes; they’re that soft, delicate brown you’ve never been able to forget and they’re bottomless. He looks hurt, sure, but nothing can overpower the desperate hope.




He wants this; it’s plain as day.




“I can’t,” you utter helplessly, blinking and sending your brimming tears spilling down your cheeks silently. You lift your arms to place your hands on his biceps, wanting to pull away and stay right where you are all at the same time. Your fingers dig into his muscles, crinkling his white shirt and prompting him to tighten his hold on you as you try half-heartedly to squirm away.




You think about how you’re thirty-one years old and still acting thirteen. You’re unsure of everything albeit curious. You’re desperate for affection, even if you may find it in the wrong place, but you wouldn’t know what to do with love if it hit you between the eyes. You don’t know what love is.




“Why not?” He asks with a bite and digs his fingers into the back of your ribs, making you wince and try harder to push away. You shove your hands against his chest and when you wrench out of his grasp you’re trying not to think about how nice it feels when his muscles are beneath your flat palms; trying not to remember feeling the muscles ripple beneath the colored skin of his back when you held on so tightly the night before.




“Why not, Mike?” He yells and scrambles after you as you stalk to the bathroom. You try to slam the door shut in his face because you’re still crying but without your glasses and the added hindrance of tears, not to mention the fact that you nearly can’t breathe and your legs threaten to give out, you can’t hold him off and he shoves his whole body against the door and follows you into the bathroom.




“I’m ready to get this all out on the table,” he says with urgency as he presses a palm firmly against your chest while you lean back against the sink, hands resting on the basin. Your chest is heaving with your effort to breathe, to calm yourself before you have a full blown panic attack. You could do without looking more pathetic than you already feel. “I’m ready to be honest with you if you’ll do the same for me,” he finishes calmly.




You feel your heart raging beneath his palm and you wonder how that feels; your arm raises of it’s own accord, or maybe you just don’t care enough to stop it, and you place your own hand over his heart. You can’t feel anything and you grow frantic, spreading your fingers, moving your hand about in search of a beat but you don’t find it. You’re wide eyed, you know, but you bring your index and middle finger to his neck and exhale deeply when you find the pulse there.




He excuses your behavior; maybe it doesn’t bother him, maybe he doesn’t find it out of the ordinary. Maybe he understands that you really need to feel his heart beating; that you need to know there’s blood rushing through his veins, pumping to his heart, keeping him alive.




His hand withdraws from your chest and encircles yours at his neck before leading you back into the hotel room. You remember last night after the pair of you toasted to the end of his second divorce and your first; after you road the elevator from the hotel bar to one of the highest floors and he offered you his hand. You took it without hesitation and he pulled you into your shared room.




You sit on the couch again. The tea on the coffee table isn’t steaming anymore and the room is nearly dark again. A hot, red glow still filters through but it’s dim and you swallow thickly. Soon it will be dark; it won’t be four am but it will be dark like it. And you’ll want to wrap your thighs around him and beg him to do all the things he did the night before.




He keeps his distance this time. There’s a foot between the two of you but he keeps your hand laced with his and it rests on the couch between your bodies. You squeeze his fingers with yours and meet his look.




“I love you,” he says without hesitation upon catching your eyes. Your heart stops, you think, because even underneath all of your self-doubt, self-loathing, and insecurities you know it’s different this time. Or maybe this is how he meant it all along but you couldn’t see it because you couldn’t believe it.




You want to ask ‘Why?’ but you think he may rattle off a list of your supposed great qualities that make you worthy of being loved and you don’t want to hear a bunch of bullshit.




“I think you already knew that though,” he continues and nudges his pinky finger against yours. You look down and watch his finger’s small movements against yours. Your fingers are long, stretched, and harsh around protruding bones. His are smaller, perfectly proportioned, and fit compactly with yours.




“I hoped,” you say, finding your voice for the briefest of moments.




“Would you tell me you love me as well?” He asks and you shiver in your own skin at the childlike desperation in his voice. You know he needs to hear you say it. You hesitate, lips parted.




“In this moment, here and now?” He forges on, scooting nearer to you, obviously anxious for what you’re too afraid or unable to say. “I’ve told you hundreds of thousands of times that I love you; you’ve said it as well. But after last night, will you say it again?”




You nod your head. You know it’s not the answer he’s looking for but it’s all you manage in that moment. His fingers clench yours tightly.




“Then say it,” he urges, hip fusing against yours, hands crushed between the heat of your thighs and the jeans you both wear.




“I’m afraid,” you whisper, looking up to meet his eye. He’s a bit blurry, but you’re not on the verge of tears and can still make out his features well enough. He looks much like a child waiting for their dessert after having fed their vegetables to the dog under the table.




“Of what? I’ve said it, Mike; I’ve said I love you. And I mean it. I’ve meant it all along,” he rambles thickly, crawling onto his knees next to you, hand still clutching yours, unwilling to let go. “It’s not something I’m going to suddenly take back. I’ve loved you since I’ve known you, and I imagine I’ll love you as long as you’ll be here.”




You’re still hesitant.




“Don’t be afraid of me,” he murmurs, pulling your hand to his chest, pressing your palm over his heart. This time you feel it beating wildly in his chest, thumping against his rib cage, threatening to burst through flesh and cloth and straight into your hand.




You don’t know how you find your voice; it’s still rough, still abused from the night before, and you’re terrified that the moment the words slip from your lips he’ll vanish into thin air and this will all have been nothing but a dream. Maybe you’ll wake up in your bunk to the sound of your band mates snoring; maybe you’ll wake up with your face buried against his chest, much like you did this morning.




You open your mouth and hear an audible, sharp intake of breath as he anticipates. You want to hold off a moment longer just to make him sweat, but his hand is already warm over yours, his heart pounding away beneath your touch so violently that you cannot bring yourself to wait any longer.




“I do love you,” you finally murmur over the gravel in your throat and let him fall into your lap and slide his arms around your neck. His lips are hot and needy; his body is trembling and hard, his urgency is undeniable and you meet him with equal fervor.




“Tell me you loved me last night,” he hisses between gasps for air and crushing his lips to yours. His hands are everywhere, rubbing and tugging and scratching at you.




“I did,” you insist as he towers over you, propped up on his knees, and his hands yank impatiently at the hem of your shirt, drawing it hastily over your head when you extend your arms.




“And tell me you want to do it again,” he demands before removing his own shirt, before pressing your heaving chests together. The contact makes you gasp and you’re nearly breathless until you reply.




“I do,” you cry as his teeth sink into the soft spot at the base of your ear.




When you’re lying beneath him on the bed, naked and sweating and panting, and he’s drawing your legs up around his waist you feel the black of the night engulfing the room, see it through hazy vision before you scream his name.

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