#alsdkjflaskjdf

[acting-it-up]

I cannot wait until the rights are released for Spongebob and I get to see local productions of it and see how ridiculous they get

[pretty-perdita]

Cold War |*| [Fate]

In which Paul reveals a secret he’s been keeping...

@paul-patts

[tw--uhh talk of self-hate, thoughts of suicide, talk of thoughts of suicide, confrontation, thoughts of violence, etc etc nothing super triggering but just be cautious friends]

PAUL: Paul had a plan.

It was a good plan, a brilliant, foolproof plan, which was Roger-approved and guaranteed to get Paul what he wanted, i.e.-- Perdy-slash-his-kids meeting Attina and no big blow-up fight in the way of that goal. In retrospect, Paul would realize that it wouldn’t have mattered how he did it, that a big blow-up fight was gonna happen eventually. In retrospect, Paul would realize he was deluding himself.

Maybe that’s why he sabotaged himself before actually going through with said brilliant, foolproof, Roger-approved plan. Because he’d known deep down and he was a coward and he wanted the buffer time.

That’s why Attina had come up when Paul was on the phone with Perdy, discussing the schedule for the twins’ over the next week.

In Paul’s defense, the window appeared to open. It seemed like-- it made sense to say it then, on the phone, rather than to wait for later that afternoon when picking up the twins. He had his cell pinched between his ear and his shoulder as he and Perdy talked and Paul did some of his dishes after several days not doing them, and the conversation steered toward the weekend, and Paul reached forward and shut off the faucet.

“Oh, I was uh-- hoping I could take them for all Saturday for the carnival-”

And see, here it was. Here was the opportunity. It’d be weird not to say it.

“Because um. I was actually gonna…” he cleared his throat and grabbed at the phone with his free hand now, looking toward the balcony where he and Attina had had their dinner together a week ago. His other hand perched on the counter. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he said. “And I was hoping that she could meet them. The twins, I mean. If you’re comfortable with that. ‘Course you could meet her too, first, she’s uh-- she’s up for that, we talked about it and she’d like to meet you…” rambled Paul, then trailed off.  

PERDITA: This had become routine. At this point, it usually went rather smoothly. Perdita’s schedule was flexible, and if worse came to worse, Duchess didn’t mind if Perdita brought the babies with her to her house, so long as Perdita didn’t have a million errands to run that morning. Which was--well, honestly, Perdita didn’t know how she had lucked out with this whole gig. But, Duchess was a great boss (if not a little flighty, Perdita had insurance on that though, and she would take her to court if it happened again.)

It normally went: Paul told her his schedule for the Deer, Perdita checked that against her calendar of Duchess’ various events and they decided who had the twins on what night and what days. Sometimes, it would get awkward if things didn’t overlap properly, but there was always Anita and Roger and Stanley and the Grants to pick up the slack (and Sarabi, who was a very last resort if absolutely no one else was available.)

It worked for them and there had yet to be an argument about who got them when. (Though, with the holidays coming up...they were civil enough to...spend them together...weren’t they? With Roger and Anita as a buffer, perhaps.)

Anyways,

It was going perfectly fine, as usual, until Paul’s voice got nervous out of the blue. If he’d just said “I’d like to have the kids Saturday to take them to the Carnival” Perdita would’ve said “sure, fine, that sounds nice”. But, she got suspicious immediately, suspicions confirmed in the next second.

There was silence on the line. Perdita felt a storm brewing in her chest--it’s intensity terrifying, especially considering that her anti-depressants made her feel like there was a fog inside of her most days, dampening any emotion--sad, tired, hungry, happy, furious.

Her hand gripped the phone tight and the silence extended and extended--she almost wanted Paul to say something else, to continue to babble and just make all of this worse.

She didn’t know what to say.

Perdita hated that. She could say no or she could say fuck you or she could say fine, whatever or what the fuck?

But, she--couldn’t.

The phone line crackled in the silence.

PAUL: The line went dead and for a second, Paul really did think that Perdy had hung up. But he could hear what he thought was one exhaled breath-- a sign that she was alive, and yes, Paul had really said that, and maybe that made him an idiot and he should have waited to do all of this in person, because at least then Perdy couldn’t hang up on him. Was she going to hang up on him? 

Why would she hang up with him? What was there to be angry about, really? That he-- that he hadn’t told her at the beginning? Was that it is? And Paul got battered over the head with guilt, the feeling twisting his stomach and ducking his head there in the kitchen as though he could feel Perdy’s eyes from here.

But why did he feel guilty? He did nothing wrong. He swallowed roughly on the phone, trying to remember that his crime wasn’t a crime at all.

He and Perdy-- they weren’t a thing. He wasn’t cheating. He’d just found someone who made him, god forbid, happy, or happy-ish at least, and if that wasn’t a goddamn miracle after everything in his goddamn life, then--

But if he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, he could imagine Perdy on the other side of the counter, staring at him, just staring at him. 

The line was still eerily silent. He knew it was a battle tactic. To force him to speak. 

So fine, he’d speak, and he’d try even if Perdy didn’t because unlike her, Paul didn’t want to go to battle today. 

“Perdy,” said Paul. “I know-- look. The only reason I didn’t tell you before this was I-- I didn’t even know if it was gonna turn into anything. I was gonna mention it this afternoon when I came to pick up the kids, but it just seemed-- better to do it now, I mean-- we can, we can talk, if you want.”  Still nothing on the other line. The guilt rankled and crawled up his spine-- he blurted, “Perdy, jesus christ, say something.”

PERDITA: I didn’t even know if it was gonna turn into anything.

He said this like somehow that made it better. It didn’t. If anything—it made it worse, because all the opportunities flashed before her eyes. All the opportunities for them. Times that they could’ve clung to each other and apologized or screamed at each other until they were hoarse (which yes, was a good thing, which meant all the ugly was out in the open), flitted behind her eyelids as she closed them for a beat. For one, steady breath. The anger was pushed back then, for just a moment, as the guilt and the sadness swelled.

Perdy, Jesus Christ, say something.

And just like that, that moment of—regret?—swept out again and the anger replaced it.

How dare he try to tell her what to do.

She didn’t even think, just removed the phone from her and clicked it off. The line went dead and she threw it in her purse, grabbing her sunglasses off the counter.

“Anita? Anita, dear? Will you watch the babies? Something has come up and I need to go take care of it. I’ll be back in an hour.” Her voice was a bit shriller than normal, but as she peeked out of her room where Anita was already sitting with the babies taking their afternoon nap in the pack-n-play, she smiled. Once she got confirmation, she zipped out the door without another word.

She was in a pair of sneakers, which she was grateful for. As excellent as she was maneuvering in heels, even she couldn’t walk with the proper fury and urgency in every step that she needed to. Part of her was hoping that she would walk all that energy off, so by the time she got to Paul’s door, it would be gone and she’d stare at the golden number on his apartment and then turn and leave and he’d have no idea she was even there.

That didn’t work.

When she arrived at Paul’s door, she didn’t even hesitate, her fist raising to pound on the door. She pictured that it was Paul’s chest, her lips twisted in a snarl.

“Paul! Open the door. I know you’re in there.”

PAUL: She hung up on him. Soon as Paul said what he said, there was a split second, and then a tiny click, and the line went dead. Paul pulled the phone from his ear at once and he stared down at it, at Perdita’s name looking right back at him and he thought--

For a second, he thought of calling back, starting over. He could say he was sorry. 

But what the fuck would he be apologizing for? 

What the fuck did he need to apologize for? For holding her hand in the hospital, for showing up, for staying beside her? For taking the babies for weeks while Perdita started therapy and got a handle on her medication for her post-partum? For waiting, for being patient, until she was ready again? For-- jumping through hoops for her schedule, for accommodating her new job? For telling the bloody truth?! For going out of his way-- AGAIN-- to be honest and fair and to give Perdita a chance-- 

A chance. Always another chance. Oh, she thought he was some cad for finding someone who actually made him happy for once, she probably thought he had gone behind her back or something. She was going to snark about him to Anita and this afternoon, when he saw her, she’d look at Paul with her cold eyes and try to make him feel small and insignificant. Like he had never mattered. Like he never would.

Attina made him feel the opposite of that and she wondered why he would want to keep that-- her-- all to himself? 

Paul clicked off his phone and tossed the fucking sponge back in the fucking sink. His phone clattered onto the counter too. He turned to the fridge and yanked it open, snagging one of his beers out. He got the top off and paced all the way cross his flat, all the way to the balcony, flinging the doors open and letting in all that September air. He slumped over the railing and took a swig of his drink. And oh yes, this was familiar. Last September was just like this, wasn’t it? Paul calling Perdita, rambling to Perdita, waiting, desperately, for something in return. And time and time again, the line would go dead. And Paul would get himself a drink. 

He should probably go back inside and text Roger, tell him to get his arse down to the Deer. Or maybe see where Stan was, or ask Jim if he was available or -- no, he couldn’t text Attina. He wanted to. He wanted her to be here so she could smile at him. Listen to him. But it wasn’t fair. 

Paul was nearly done with his entire drink when the pounding started, making Paul jump outta his skin. He turned around, brow furrowed, and heard Perdita barking at him. A scoff left his lips. Now this was new. 

He stalked back the other way, leaving his bottle on his kitchen counter and yanking open the door. 

“Forget how to use a phone, Perdita?” he sneered at her.

PERDITA: There was Paul looking as angry as she felt and Perdita’s heart twisted in her chest. Which only served to make her angrier. How dare he look at her like that? Talk to her like that? She was the mother of his children. Where did he get off thinking that he could—he could—

Move on.

Didn’t their talk in the hospital mean anything? Didn’t all those practice kisses for Romeo and Juliet mean anything? He must’ve felt what she felt. When their lips touched their circuitry had jumped back into place. They made sense again. Everything made sense again. Because the world didn’t make sense without Paul. Perdita had always found the world a big, terrifying place. Which was why she did her best to be bigger and more terrifying than it. That was her only defense. But with Paul, the world got softer and smaller.

Until it was just them.

It was just them now. It was just them and this girl that Paul had been seeing, right under Perdita’s nose. The thought spiked sharp in her brain, stabbed at her heart and her lip curled up as she pushed at Paul’s chest.

“How dare you tell me over the phone!” she snapped at him. “When did you turn into such a coward?”

PAUL: “Me?! A coward-- me?!” snapped Paul at once, though he actually moved out of the way so Perdy could storm in-- though why, he didn’t know--

Well, he wasn’t thinking, honestly. He wasn’t thinking and this felt familiar. Like just another blow-up argument from a long time ago, when there had been a them. A reason to argue.

There was no reason to argue now. It was simple: he was dating Attina. Perdita had to get over herself.   

“You’re a bloody hypocrite, Perdita, calling me a coward when you’re the one who picked up everything and took our kids and ran away! And noooooooooow you’re mad at me because I was trying to be honest with you?” He said, whirling on her as he slammed the door shut. “And that makes me a coward?” 

PERDITA: Perdita stormed in without even thinking as soon as Paul took one step to the side. She’d never actually spent an extended amount of time in Paul’s apartment. Usually she just handed the babies over, turned on her heel, and left. And this was because looking around—all she could think of was their apartment. Their home.

Which she ruined.

Which Paul was bringing up now. That made the fire inside her chest roar brighter, and she had to let it out, or it’d burn her alive.

“That wasn’t my fault! How could you throw that in my face?!” she barked at him, her arms crossed over her chest, her face slowly growing redder.

“I’m not mad at you for being honest—which by the way, how long has this been going on for? How long have you be lying for about it? Keeping this bitch from me because you were scared? I’m mad at you for—that. For doing it in the first place. You don’t see me dating anyone!”

PAUL: Ah yes, that was right. Wasn’t Perdita’s fault. How could anything be Perdita’s fault?

It was Paul’s fault. It was Paul’s fault for probably forcing her to have their kids in the first place, it was Paul’s fault for getting a different job to try to make more money and therefore not being around enough, it was his fault for not realizing that something was wrong, and then it was his fault, his fault, that when Perdy ran away--

He hadn’t figured out the right string of words to convince her to come back.

And he’d tried. Phone call after phone call, he’d tried. He yelled at her, he begged her, he cried on the phone to her. He bargained, he bribed, he threatened-- he called at least once a day for over a month and sent her texts and didn’t go to the police because, stupid Paul Patts, he thought there was no way that Perdita wasn’t gonna come back to him. She deserved a chance.

So yeah, it was his fault, it was Paul’s fault for not going straight to the station and getting the police to drag her home.

And it was Paul’s fault now for trying to be happy while the mother of his kids struggled with her mental health, yeah, he knew what it looked like and he was tired of hating himself for his mistakes-- or his not-mistakes! Because Attina wasn’t one of them.

“I’m allowed to date whoever the fuck I want and I don’t have to tell you about it, and you wanna know why-- YOU LEFT ME!” The words thundered from the chest and he jabbed his finger in the air at her, taking a threatening step forward. “YOU. LEFT ME. I-- “ and the anger broke into some mad half-laugh as he ran his hand through his hair. “I have been so careful not to piss you off, Perdita, I’ve done everything you asked me to. I didn’t push you with the kids, I gave you time, I gave you space, but no, Perdy, I’m-- you don’t get final say over my love life anymore because YOU TOOK YOURSELF OUT OF IT.”

PERDITA: Perdita jumped.

It was just the volume of his voice more than anything, because Perdita wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid of Paul, especially. Well, none of that was true. There were a great many things that Perdita was afraid of. Paul was one of the biggest. But, not in this way. Not in a way where she was afraid he’d—hit her or anything like that. She was afraid of him because of what he could do to her heart. Around Paul it was a fragile, vulnerable thing. Paul was the only person who could do any real damage to it.

Her mother had done enough already. When it came to her mother, Perdita’s heart was as tough as scar tissue. And Perdita’s siblings would never hurt her. Anita would never hurt her. Her father would never hurt her.

But, Paul—Paul was the only one.

She hated him for it and she loved him for it. She wanted to spill her heart back into his hands. It was all she wanted since he’d shown up at her doorstep. Take it! she wanted to say. But Paul was right, she was a coward.

So, she flinched from the words, her eyes darting about the room before she looked back at Paul’s laugh. Her brow furrowed as she looked at him and—

She felt the dissonance. They’d always been on the same page, her and Paul. From that first moment when she’d whistled at him and he’d snapped his head up like a hunting dog waiting for a command. Now—they weren’t because didn’t he—didn’t he realize?

Perdita let out a huffy-laugh herself, in disbelief, shaking her head. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes but she didn’t let them fall as she looked back at him.

“I left for YOU, Paul. Don’t you—don’t you get it? I-I left because I was—I was broken. And I was broke. My mother drained all of my accounts. I had NOTHING. I had NOTHING to give you. I-I had the babies, I went through ALL OF THIS because I-I wanted to, but also because we could. With my money, w-we could. But it was GONE and I wasn’t going to do that to you. Don’t you—didn’t you—it was for you,” she told him, taking a step forward, her hand reaching out for just a moment before she dropped it down to her side.

She was wasn’t angry anymore. She was—confused and—desperate for him to understand. For so long, Perdita hadn’t even understood herself. That time was like—some kind of fog. But at least she knew that that was true, in her sick, twisted, fucked up head, she’d been trying to help him.

PAUL: Paul laughed. It was a higher pitch than normal-- just one laugh, like the air was exploding from his chest, like it had to get out. And oh, it was hilarious, what Perdy was saying. It was hilarious and just so like Perdita Faye, who could never be in the wrong, who knew how to twist things up so she could get off scot-free. That was her superpower. Patch must get it from her, that shield of his-- everything always bouncing off. 

Hitting Paul though. It always hit Paul. 

He had tears in his eyes too, and his whole chest was burning hot and he wanted to just take a seat and let out a giant sob. Because he’d wanted an explanation for months and months. That was part of the phone calls and the texts: the unknowable why. Why would she leave him? Why wouldn’t she just tell him?

After a while, those answerless questions, they destroy you. You have to move on. 

But Paul was pretty bad at moving on. And now he was finally getting his answers.

They took him right back to day zero, and he felt doused in gasoline, Perdy holding the match that threatened to ignite. Her words didn’t do much to comfort him because he couldn’t believe them. Perdy might mean it. She could have convinced herself of that. But that didn’t make it true. All it did was make Paul feel like a fool who was still not good enough. If he’d had the money, if he’d had a better job, if she’d trusted him-- 

So not the point. 

“No, you don’t get it, you can’t genuinely believe that you leaving and taking our babies away from me was something I was supposed to THANK YOU for--” his voice was twisted and hoarse now, tears blurring in his eyes.

“Because if you really believed that Perdy, that means you didn’t hear alllll those phone calls where I was begging you, so drunk I could barely walk, to come back to me. You would have called me back or left a fucking note or broken up with me like a normal person, instead of leaving me to ROT. That means when I showed up here, you would have told me the goddamn truth and apologized, but it took you-- it took you four months and a nervous breakdown to say those words and oh I know, I’m the asshole here for throwing that in your face, I’m the asshole who is pissed at my ex-girlfriend with post-partum, and you’re-- you’re right, it’s not your fault--!” he said, laughing again. “How could anything be your fault when you were just doing it all for me!”

PERDITA: Perdita hadn’t listened to a single one of Paul’s voicemails. She saw each and every one of them pop up on her phone screen and she’d deleted them all. She knew it was the only way to stay strong enough. To keep Paul away, so he could move on with his life—do something better than be a factory worker from the East End, from the “bad” part of London. He deserved so much more than that. Perdita had just been trying to give him a chance.

That’s what she’d told herself as her thumb had pressed delete, delete, delete, over and over, until she was numb from it, until it didn’t hunt anymore. Until it just—felt like a routine. Change the babies’ diapers. Cry. Feed them. Cry. Delete Paul’s voicemails from the night before. Cry.

And honestly, she hadn’t thought about what she might’ve done to him. Oh, yeah, sure—that sounded selfish, it did. But, her alternative was better. The one where Paul was sad for a while but then he pulled himself up by the bootstraps and made something of himself, just to spite her.

That was what her broken brain had wanted. So that was what it saw.

And she knew—part of it was her. Though, if she hadn’t been sick, Perdita would have let all the money drain, watching every dime slip away, in secret, before she told Paul. Because she was a coward.

Either way, it would have ended like this.

For a moment, there was silence. Both of them were breathing harshly and part of Perdita wanted to claw at Paul’s face, rip him open like he’d just ripped her open, because she hated the way he was making her feel. Like she was—like she was—

“What? What did you want to hear from me? Sorry? Was SORRY going to fix any of this? It wasn’t. It’s not like you would’ve believed me. I didn’t know what was WRONG WITH ME. My whole brain was a—a FUCKING MESS, Paul. I wanted to die. You know how many times—”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I knew the second I walked out that door sorry wasn’t going to do anything, no matter how sorry I was—how sorry I am. But it was my only option. It was the only thing I could see. I-I’d rather you hate me than take you down with me.”

She sucked in another breath and two tears fell from her eyes. She gritted her jaw hard so her teeth ground together and wiped the tears away.

“I’d rather I love you all alone than condemn you to a life you hated.”

PAUL: There was an alternate version of this story. Paul could see it like one of those choose-an-adventure books he so loved as a little boy. He poured over those books, navigating his way through ending after ending, trying to find the best one where he was the hero with all the chips, all the glory.

He could see that ending now. He could see himself closing the divide between he and Perdita like it had never cracked open. Taking her hands, touching her cheek. 

In that ending, he wasn’t angry or out-of-control. He told Perdita that she should have just told him. That she was so, so wrong in so many ways--

That yes, an apology would have meant something to Paul because he loved her. And he knew her-- he knew Perdita would never actually say those words unless she meant it. 

And yes, if she’d just come back-- if she’d come back, that would have meant everything. 

Paul was not like Perdy. He didn’t have ice in his soul, he had fire. It could burn and bite, yeah, but it melted him quick when it came to the people he loved. Paul wished, right now, that he could lean into it and be melted down into that kind, soft, forgiving version of himself, that he’d be all polished and handsome and brave and true. He wanted to choose that ending. 

But this fire was just gonna burn him to ash. Perdita hadn’t apologized. Perdita would never have come back. 

Even now-- she was more concerned with defending herself. She cared more about her pride than him, than-- than just--

He had tears in his eyes, thinking of that big, incomprehensible just and what came after it. All the things he wanted and couldn’t want, even now. 

His whole chest was so heavy, his stomach felt mangled, he stared at Perdita through a veil of his tears, hot in his eyes,  and he wanted to hurt her all over again. His brow creased as he struggled to hold them back, even though she had been the first-- for once-- to cry. 

“Then you-- you should be happy,” he forced the words out of his throat. “You should be happy because I hate you. I do, Perdy, I hate you. You broke me, and I hate you--” 

And then before he could stop himself, he reached out to her, pulled her toward him, and kissed her on the mouth.

PERDITA: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

Perdita prided herself on being someone who didn’t care when someone said they hated them. She kept her head up and she iced her heart over so she could chip the part of it that housed her affection for that person out. Crack, it was gone and she didn’t think twice about it. It was what she’d done with so many people in the past. It was what she’d done with her own mother in a lot of ways. Her mother—who she blamed for all of this.

But, Paul. He was her whole heart. If she tried to cut it out of her chest, she’d stop breathing. Instead, the words just cut through the ice, chipped it away until the red muscle beneath was exposed, and then it pierced there too.

If Paul thought Perdita used love as a weapon, she had nothing on Paul. Paul who loved with his whole soul, who hated with it too. It always astounded her how warm he was. How he could smile and charm even with everything he’d been through. If Perdita was Paul, if their fortunes had been reversed, she couldn’t imagine how twisted she’d be, if having a relatively cushy and happy life had made her the way that she was now. But Paul—he stayed warm, he stayed good. And most importantly, he loved with everything and wasn’t afraid of it when it happened to him. Not like Perdita. Not like Perdita who acted like it was a plague infecting her body that she had to get rid of.

And here Paul was, infecting her with it again as he grabbed her bicep and jerked her towards him.

Their lips, teeth, collided sharply, Perdita sucking in a breath of surprise through her nose. She stood for just a moment, shocked but then—

Her nails were raking through his hair and she’d pressed her body right up against his, mouth hungry, body quaking with anger. She bit his lip. He bit hers. The whole time, she wanted to hit him. Slap him. Bang on his chest like a drum. She wanted to wiggle away from him, because he was dangerous. He was a pyre she was going to burn herself up on. But, she also didn’t care, because she was kissing Paul and he was kissing her and both of their mouths tasted like tears, but she could taste him too.

They weren’t Romeo and Juliet. They were just Paul and Perdita. Except Paul and Perdita were so much more than just Paul and Perdita, weren’t they?

PAUL: His lips moved roughly over hers, even while she stayed still. And Paul could taste her shock and feel it in the way Perdy swayed, like a tree bending in the wind. And Perdy, she didn’t bend. She snapped. Like him, she snapped, she broke, and then with her edges sharp, she cut whoever broke her in the first place.

Paul knew that was coming, but for a moment, he held her and she was soft for him and it was all he wanted.

For a moment, she didn’t fight, snarl, bite, claw, or hurt him. For a moment, he moved his lips over her own, his eyes squeezed shut so he could pretend. Smell her hair and realize it was the same shampoo as before. Taste her, and it was the same too. For a moment, time twisted back on itself like Paul was opening a rift and stepping back before all this bullshit had started. It was a long and beautiful and wretched moment, in which Paul was selfish and he loved her again. He kissed her like he loved her.

He never stopped-- he didn’t know how.

Then time snapped back into place like a rubber band, and Perdy’s hands raked in his hair. Her lips opened, and he could taste her breath, right before she bit down into his lip. It was all electricity and dynamite, both at once-- an explosion in his gut, a shockwave down his spine. Paul moved back, shoving Perdy against the door. Hard. It rattled in its frame and Paul bit down on her bottom lip too, hard enough to make her gasp for him. His own body shuddered, remembering all the time she’d made those noises before. He knew each one intimately. He knew Perdita.

Through the kiss, he could taste salt-- and he didn’t know which one of them was crying. Did it matter? No.

He didn’t care. His hand moved down her body, grasping at her waist. He gripped her like he wanted to press his thumbprints into her as he kissed her hard and sloppy, wanty and needy and dirty and angry. All those things, one kiss. Their other ones really had been make-believe-- two people following a script. But this was real.

PERDITA: Paul pushed Perdita against the door and she felt the explosion in her gut, it spread through all her limbs with an intense heat that made her toes curl and her heart skip a beat. He bit her lip, hard enough to make her suck in a breath and her fingers tangled tighter in his hair in response. Her leg came up, pressing her heel into his calf, trapping his hip with her thigh. She didn’t want him to go anywhere, she wanted to stay right here.

He grabbed her hard, Perdita felt her flesh press against her hipbones and she just moved her pelvis forwards, wanting him to press harder—to mark her up, so she’d feel it afterwards. She’d feel his hands on her no matter what, but she wanted the marks too. She wanted to see it—so that she would know that she wasn’t just making this up, which there was a danger of.

Perdita did this thing, apparently, called “disassociating” and she needed these details to ground her. To remind her that her body existed in this place. In this time. With Paul. And later, she’d be able to prove to herself that it happened, that it wasn’t just in her head. Because Perdita had thought about this exact scenario so many times. Every time she had looked at Paul. She’d thought about it every day that they’d been apart. She’d thought about Paul, angry, punishing her, but loving her, in the messy way they’d always loved each other.

Her heart was pounding hard and she had to break the kiss to draw in a sharp breath. Her lips were trembling from the emotion. She loved him, she loved him, she missed him. Her hand stroked once through his hair and she kissed him again—softer this time, but still pushing her lips rough against his, the kiss mostly breath, mostly lips, her tongue brushing his lightly.

“I-I’m sorry,” she said against his lips, like she could push the words into his lungs. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.” She kissed him again and again, her leg notching higher on his hip, drawing him closer to her, like she could press him right against her heart and he would know just how sorry she really was.

PAUL: First, there was only the frenzied heat between their bodies. He felt it in the points where they met, where they smashed into each other: the weight of Perdy’s heel on his calf, the soft curve of her thigh, her hip bone jutting against his own. It had been so long since he was this close to her, so close he felt like he could melt into her. And he did want to melt into her-- to be inside her. His body burned for it, from his fevered lips as they sucked on her own to the heat boiling in his stomach and in all the places where she touched.

He wanted to fuck her. Hard. Maybe against this door, with his fingers between her own, hand pressed up against the wood. He’d sink into her and make this whole place rattle. He’d make her shout, he’d pull her hair, he’d bite her neck and suck bruises into her skin.

He wanted to make love to her.

He knew it was less than a minute between himself and his bedroom and he could pull Perdita in there and have her on his bed in seconds. He had the comforter from their old room together, the sheets, too. She’d picked out those stupid sheets. He should have burned them, but he brought them here to Swynlake, almost like he craved this--

Like he wanted the ellipsis of their relationship to end and a new sentence to begin and he wanted it to be like she never left and she’d hold him with her legs and arms and sigh tenderly…

He wanted to do a lot of things, but it didn’t matter what he thought, not at first, because at first, it was just about that heat.

That heat ballooned around them when the kiss broke, like it was released from Paul’s lungs. He felt his body more concretely-- his tight jeans,his hand bunching up Perdy’s shirt. Perdita kissed him again, and again, and again, and now Paul was thinking about those two very different scenarios. He wanted both and couldn’t have either. His desire felt like it was going to bury him. His broken, bleeding heart in his chest was the heaviest thing of all.  He felt the urge to break down-- to slip onto his knees and press his face against Perdita’s stomach, and hold her, and cry.

He still had tears on his cheeks.

Perdita was kissing him, did she even notice? Did she notice that he’d stopped kissing her back?

And then there was Attina-- she slipped in through the pain. Really, it was the pain in his chest that had stopped Paul first, see, but it also opened the door that let her back in. Attina kissed differently than Perdy. She was all soft, she liked to wrap her arms around his neck and giggled when he dipped her, like they was movie stars on a poster. He liked that about her, you know, he really did.

Paul panted and his hand moved from Perdita’s waist up to grasp at her shoulder and Paul pulled away.

“No,” he whispered it into the shared air between them. “No, Perdy--”

And he stepped away from her, stepped two, three, four steps back to return the safe distance. “No-- I shouldn’t have done that. You’re too late, you can’t-- you can’t wait until the second I dare to be happy again to decide you want me again. You had months. She’s my girlfriend, I asked her to be my girlfriend-- I can’t do this.”

And Paul had no idea if he was telling Perdita or telling himself.

PERDITA: Perdita knew. She knew that he’d stopped kissing. Perdita knew what Paul kisses felt like—how gentle and soft, how playful, how naughty, how hard. She knew all of them, in a way she didn’t know anyone else’s kisses. There was no one else she’d let kiss her as much and in all different ways. Only Paul. The language of his lips was the only one she allowed herself to learn.

She knew, but it didn’t stop her. It just made her more desperate. If she just kissed him enough, he wouldn’t pull away, even as she felt his muscles begin to tense. Her fingers curled, latching into his shoulder blade, but it was nothing in the end.

Paul stepped away from her as if it was easy. Stood there talking about his girlfriend and how she made Paul happy.

That was a load of shit and Perdita knew it. See, people like her and Paul—they used band-aids like they were prescription drugs. They popped kisses like Vicodin. They didn’t acknowledge pain, they covered it up with frivolous things. Perdita turned her words sharp and used the laughter at other people cowering around her. Paul used smiles—not his own, oh no. He collected them from others, like a sorcerer, he pocketed them for rainy days.

Someone like Attina, she was just like Vicodin—her sugar smiles numb Paul right up.

Perdita knew better, though. Because Perdita knew Paul. They were cut from the same cloth.

Does she know? Perdita wanted to say. Does she know about Lucas? About your mother? It’s not real, she doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know you like I know you.

She didn’t say that. Because Perdita and Paul were people who used band-aids. And Perdita’s shield was laughter.

With a scoff, she crossed her arms over her chest, pressing her back up against the door, staring hard at Paul. She’d just ripped herself open in front of him, but the second he’d stepped away, she’d stitched herself back up. Armor donned again.

“Well, you already did,” she reminded him, a wicked glint in her eye. This war wasn’t over. This had just been another battle. One which Perdita had won, and they both knew it.

“But, fine, play with your little chew toy.” She shrugged, flicking her hair over her shoulder. She sucked one of her plump, red lips into her mouth for a second. “We both know that you want this. And I do too, so—“ she shrugged again, smirking at him, feeling much better than when she’d first come by.

There was a beat and her face softened, just the smallest fraction.

“I do love you, Paul. And I am sorry.”

PAUL: The anger came back, though it was different this time, not a deep and twisted thing at all, but something bright and new. He’d carried all those other words he’d just shouted at Perdita-- tried to push into her skin and bite into her lips-- around inside him for a whole year. Those things had ripped out of his chest like some monster rising from the depths. Like-- like the bloody sarlacc from Return of the Jedi.

Yeah, Paul was comparing his year-long angst to a Star Wars monster. So?

Point was: this new anger was nothing like that. It didn’t make him want to break things with his hands. It made him want to pull on Perdita’s hair like a six-year-old. Push her down on the playground. Stick his tongue out at her. Call her a mean name.

That’s what Perdita was doing to him. They weren’t playing with fire, but with sticks and stones, Perdita sneering out insults like chewtoy at Attina. He should slap her for that. He wasn’t going to. No, he was keeping back. He was keeping back, and curling his fists and staring her down.

Perdita was going to be wrong about them. She was going to be wrong about him.

Paul decided, then and there, that he wasn’t going to love her again. Yeah, he was gonna make it that easy. All hot and angry like this, even with his blood still churning and his lips freshly bruised from Perdita’s kiss, it was easy to stare at her and hate her again. Even when Perdita’s face changed for that nanosecond. Even then, his heart was burning, and he knew it was all a trap that he wasn’t gonna fall into. 

“Well I don’t believe you. Someone who loved me, someone who was sorry-- they’d never act like you do,” he said in a cutting, cold tone (he learned that one from her). “So get out of my apartment. Attina and I will pick up the kids on Saturday.”