Title/Rating: Good Times, Bad Times
Series: Zeppelin
Pairing: James Storm/Matt Hardy
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; I make no claims on the personal lives of the people mentioned within. I don't own anyone, they belong to themselves and/or WWE/TNA.
Content: angst, violence, alcohol abuse, swearing, mentions of m/m sexual activities
Dedication: This fic is dedicated with much love to my pals Debs and Em who have been an invaluable source of help, friendship and support. A special thanks to Debs for her diligent and wonderful beta work! :)

Just an added note: this is the first fic in an estimated thirteen part series entitled Zeppelin. I hope you like it! :)

The fresh air feels refreshing as I fling open the door, leaning against the doorframe as the familiar car drives up towards my house. Lucas immediately begins to bark, and I only just catch him around the collar before he manages to get out of the house. Awkwardly, I pull him back inside, juggling the squirming dog and the bottle in my other hand as I try to keep an eye on my visitor. I can’t help but smile at the first sight of him, my eyes taking in every inch of him as he steps out of the car. My shout of greeting turns to a curse as Lucas manages to wriggle out of my grasp, evading me long enough to scoot out the front door. I straighten up slowly and watch with amusement as my dog and my lover meet halfway between the house and his car, Lucas barking up a storm until he realizes who it is. I laugh aloud as he suddenly starts jumping up on James’ legs, pawing at him until the big man relents and picks him up.

I have to look away from the picture that they make, the pang in my heart returning with a vengeance all over again. I quickly take a sip from the bottle in my hand, grimacing as the amber liquid burns my throat. I give a little shiver and then turn my attention back to my visitor, somehow managing to smile as he jogs up the porch steps. I close my eyes briefly as he comes to a stop in front of me, catching the scent of him on the air. He smells like pine and well-worn leather, a scent I’ve quickly come to adore. As I open my eyes, a small smile curves my lips as I anticipate what he’ll smell like when I’m through with him. The smell of sweat and sex on him is like an aphrodisiac. The first few times we got together my response to it simply astounded me. More than once I’ve found myself still with him as the sun was just peeking through the curtains in my bedroom.

“Hey Matt,” he drawls, his blue eyes sweeping over me until they finally come to a rest on the bottle in my hand. I smile fully now, my body buzzing with a mixture of expectation and the effects of the alcohol I’ve been drinking since noon. He sets Lucas down who trots into the house with the air of someone who has accomplished something great. I chuckle as I watch him, twisting my body around until I almost fall. James is there to catch me, and as I turn towards him I’m laughing again. To my surprise, he doesn’t laugh, or even smile, with me. In fact, he looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him. Usually he comes into the house full of life and exuberance, sometimes without even knocking.

“What’s wrong?” I ask bluntly, shifting in his arms to bring the bottle to my lips again. He quickly stops my movement by putting a hand on my arm, making me look at him, perplexed. He gives a little cough, looking more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him, and then softly asks me, “Can I come in?” I give a snort and pull away from him, making a dramatic sweeping gesture with my arm as I tease, “Since when have you needed permission?” He finally smiles at this, and as he walks in he seems to shed some of his discomfort. He toes off his boots and tosses his hat onto the table in the front foyer before heading straight for the living room. He’s confident that I’ll follow, and I don’t let him down. I trail after him unsteadily, having to blink a few times to clear my vision.

By the time I make it into the living room he’s already made himself comfortable on the couch. I frown lightly when I see that he’s propped his feet up on my coffee table, but I don’t comment on it. I’m too far gone to care too much, in fact, I’m pretty sure that I’m only reacting this way out of habit than actual concern. I sink down onto the couch next to him, and then give him an expectant look. I’m itching to get this over with; to move onto more important things. I swear, he’s more addictive than the booze I’m holding in my hand right now.

It feels unnatural, sitting here on the couch with him. With the exception of our first meeting, when Jeff introduced us and we actually had a conversation, we haven’t done much talking. I don’t know when his birthday is, or what his favourite colour happens to be. Right now, I could care less. He leans forward, taking his feet off the table and propping up his elbows on his thighs. His shoulder length hair falls forward, obscuring his face, and I can’t help myself. I reach out and tuck it behind his ear, making him look at me with surprise. I myself am caught up in the softness of his hair, something I’ve never really noticed before. I smile at him encouragingly, trying to hide my impatience. Somehow I know that pushing him will only make this, whatever ‘this’ is, take longer.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask and it seems as though the gentler approach has the desired affect. He relaxes a little and without taking his eyes off me he softly says, “I wanted to talk to you.”

I giggle, unable to help myself, and he instantly colours at my reaction. I place a hand on his arm, still laughing a bit as I explain, “It’s the booze.”

He nods firmly, surprising me, and almost sternly says, “Exactly. It’s the booze.”

“I don’t get it,” I say, sitting back, wishing he’d hurry up and spit out whatever he’s trying to tell me. He sighs harshly and presses, “It’s always the booze, Matt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stone-sober.”

I raise my eyebrows and calmly ask, “So? Who cares?”

He reaches out to touch me, resting his hand on my knee, and gently says, “I care.” Our eyes meet, and I begin to fidget as he seems to be looking straight through me. I bite my lip for a moment, breaking the gaze as I flippantly say, “Well… that’s nice, I suppose.” The grip on my knee tightens briefly before releasing it entirely.

I begin to panic, sensing that this talk is not going to end up where I want it to. He’s becoming more emotional, and the more emotional he gets, the less likely it is that we’re going to end up in bed. It isn’t without some frustration that I realize why I’ve never bothered to talk to him that much. I let out a nervous laugh and abruptly say, “Its fine.” There’s a finality in my tone that I fervently pray he picks up on. I see him preparing himself to say something further and I quickly cut in, saying, “You want something to drink?” It sounds strange, just another bit of proof that I don’t know him as well as I should.

“No Matt, I want you to sit down,” he says sharply, so sharply that I find myself whirling around to look at him, stunned. I sink back down into my seat, my head spinning at the sudden change in his character. I’ve never heard him shout like that before. He’s almost frightening when he’s like this, and it’s a side of him I wish I never had to see.

“You’re going to listen to what I have to say,” he says, lowering his voice a little, “Just listen.” I nod, still stunned into silence, and I grow even more flabbergasted as he quietly continues, “I’m worried about you Matt. This isn’t good for you… or anyone else around you. Haven’t you noticed that Jeff’s worried too? He told me that even he hasn’t seen you sober in a long time, and I know you guys hang out a lot.” He pauses for a moment, and then sighs. I watch him as though I’m looking at him from far away. Everything he’s saying sounds so surreal, almost to the point of being ridiculous.

“Look Matt,” he forges on, “I know that getting fired was hard for you….” I flinch at the reference to my current state and the flash of pain I feel is enough to break me out of my stupor. I leap up before I know what I’m doing and holler at him, “Shut up! Just stop talking.”

He blinks in surprise, and before he can react any further I yell, “How dare you sit there and lecture me? It’s my life and I can live it however I want to.” I snort, rolling my eyes, and sneer at him, “I can’t believe you have the balls to sit there and lecture me on my drinking. You drink as much as I do, maybe even more!”

“Don’t even pull that shit,” he growls warningly, getting to his feet. I look up at him, hating being put at a disadvantage like this. I curl my hand into a fist as he snaps, “I don’t drink nearly as much as you do. At least I can get through a day without raiding my liquor cabinet.”

I glare at him, fully prepared to demand that he leave, but once again he startles me into immobility. Without a word, and without any warning whatsoever, he plucks the bottle of liquor out of my hand and sets it down on the coffee table. I watch the liquid inside sway from side to side at the motion, almost mesmerized by it. It’s while I’m watching it that he gently takes my arms and pulls me towards him. He has to say my name twice before capturing my attention again, and when he starts speaking I still feel slightly removed from it all.

“I know it was hard for you, but you can’t keep doing this,” he says, his voice much calmer now, “It’s hurting you.”

I give a wet laugh and counter, “No it’s not. Your bringing this bullshit up is what’s hurting me right now.” I soften a bit, leaning into him, and softly ask, “Let’s just forget it, okay?” I shake off his hand to touch his face, tracing his jaw line as I purr, “There are much better things we could be doing right now, you know.” He leans into my touch like a cat, and I have a sense of power wash over me as his eyes darken a bit.

“Let’s go upstairs instead,” I murmur silkily as he presses his lips to the palm of my hand before looking back at me. His eyes burn into me again, this time in a way that is entirely welcome. I capture his chin in my hand and lean forward, planting a light, lingering kiss on his mouth. He groans against my lips, and when I pull back just enough to let him speak he whispers my name. I can hear the struggle in his voice, and I know he’s fighting his desire right now. Considering that he’s never once refused me before, I feel confident that he’ll give in sooner rather than later. I press myself against him, barely able to suppress my grin of triumph as he responds instantly, wrapping his hands around me, his left hand cupping my ass.

“You want me, don’t you,” I say, more a statement than a question. Our next kiss is a bit more passionate, a bit more frantic as arousal grows between us. I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling a bit, knowing he likes it. His hips jerk a little as I tug, making me chuckle low in my throat. I nibble on his bottom lip before murmuring, “Let’s go upstairs… come on James… don’t make me wait.” He squeezes my ass in response, and I bring my hands to his front, fumbling with the buttons to his shirt as he kisses the breath from me.

But in the next instant his warmth is taken away from me, making my eyes fly open in surprise. I feel as though I’ve been kicked in the stomach, and I’m sure my face must reflect that as I stare at him. He doesn’t notice; he’s far too busy trying to get a hold of himself. I watch as he takes a deep breath, savagely kicking at the leg of my coffee table as if it had offended him in some way. I’m not sure if it’s his rejection or the alcohol, but I suddenly begin to feel very nauseous as he hisses out a curse.

When he finally catches a glimpse of me, he stops all movement completely. He straightens up and swallows hard before saying, “Matt… I-”

“Don’t,” I cut him off, my voice strangled, “Just… just go. Get out.” I spin away from him, almost falling over in the process, and grab the bottle of liquor that had almost been forgotten on the table. In my need to get away from him, I spill some of the liquid on my hand. I feel as though an empty pit has opened up inside of me, like something has clawed through my stomach and left nothing behind. I take a swig of my drink, focusing on the burn rather than the emptiness. I hear him following me close behind and it sickens me even more. Why can’t he just leave me alone?

“Matt, I can’t leave you like this,” he says urgently, jogging to catch up with me. I don’t pause for a minute, even though I have no idea where I’m running to. I press my lips tightly together to prevent myself from blurting out something I don’t want him to hear. My head pounds, feeling like it’s about to explode. I almost feel claustrophobic; I need to get out, I need to get away.

“Matt, stop… come on, don’t be angry,” he says, his voice becoming plaintive now as he chases me into the kitchen. Finding myself at a dead end, I square my shoulders and face him, practically spitting at him as I repeat, “Don’t be angry?!”

He winces and says, “I didn’t mean it like that-”

“James, I’m serious. Leave me alone,” I say as calmly as I can manage, trying to show him that I’m strong, that I don’t need his pity fucks or his lame excuses. He shakes his head though, dashing the last of my hopes that I can get him out of my house without it turning violent. He reaches out for me, frowning when I evade his touch, and softly says, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I bark out a laugh and shout in his face, “Hurt me? That’s a laugh. I’d have to care about you for that to happen. You don’t mean shit to me.” I see a flash of something cross his face, but it passes too quickly for me to really tell what he’s feeling. Of course, I don’t know if I could either way. I shake my head to clear it and continue, “I don’t even know you.”

“You could,” he says softly, reaching out to brush a strand of my hair away from my face.

I knock his hand aside and coldly say, “Don’t do me any favours.” He sighs, looking upwards as if for some kind of guidance, and I hear myself almost shrieking, “Get out. Get out of my house!” He doesn’t even flinch this time, and I realize that no matter how loudly I yell at him he’s not going to go. He confirms this by looking at me, his eyes full of determination, and his body steeled as if prepared for a battle. I sneer at him and bring the bottle up to my lips, giving him a mocking toast before beginning to drink. Though it’s probably the last thing I should be doing right now, I force myself not to stop after that first swallow.

“Matt,” he says warningly, and I ignore him completely despite the fact that I feel like I’m going to pass out any second now. He says my name again, this time with more than a little alarm, but I just keep on drinking, wanting to prod him and goad him out of my house. It doesn’t make sense, but nothing seems to right now. I feel so hot and confused. I reach out blindly and lean on the kitchen table for support, determined to keep going even as my entire body cries out.

The next thing I’m aware of, the bottle is no longer in my hands. I draw in a huge gulp of air, almost gagging on it, and then lower my face to see what happened. It takes a long while for me to put the pieces together, and when I do, all I’m aware of is complete and utter rage. The bottle is lying at my bare feet, smashed to pieces on the cold linoleum. The liquid seeps in between the tiles almost like blood, spreading slowly until it touches my toes. I look in his direction to find him staring at the mess as well, his blue eyes wide with surprise. He looks at me as I turn towards him, and he doesn’t have time to do anything but stand there as I ball up a fist and let it fly.

It should be considered a miracle that I manage to get anywhere near him at all, let alone getting him in the mouth. I had been aiming higher than that, but I won’t complain. There is an instant rush of satisfaction as he crumples under my fist, and I feel like screaming in joy. I’ve taken him down with one punch; taken down a man who is bigger than me and supposedly in good condition. I watch with contentment as he falls onto the ground with a grunt, splattering the tiles with his blood. It mixes with the liquor that’s already there, making a strange brown-red colour.

I’m not sure how much time passes before we move again. I feel like I’m stuck in some kind of warped tableau. The only sound in the room is the rhythmic noise of his breathing. My vision seems to turn red along with the blood, and despite everything I somehow manage to feel ashamed. I take a step backwards, breaking the trance, and as he looks up our eyes meet. His bottom lip is split open, blood running down his chin. Bile tickles the back of my throat, but I somehow manage to swallow it back. His face is utterly blank, but his eyes speak volumes. It’s like they’re doing the talking for him, and every second I’m captivated by them is like a dagger in my heart.

‘Go!’ my brain screams at me, and my body slowly attempts to comply. As I stagger away from the scene I shout something at him. My words are completely lost over the roar in my head, but I’m sure whatever I said will keep him away. If it doesn’t, my actions should. I shudder as I wobble my way up the stairs, cursing myself for buying a house with so many of them. The tight grip I have on the railing does little to help, and it seems like forever before I’m half-stumbling, half-falling into my room. With the last bit of strength I have left in my body, I manage to kick the door shut behind me, finally putting a barrier between me and him. It’s all I was asking for.

I lay on the carpet for awhile, trying to cling to the only solid thing in my world. I feel like I’m in hell; it’s definitely hot enough. Time passes and things seem to deteriorate into complete madness. Thoughts float through my head, none of them making any sense, none of them anywhere near tangible. It’s almost like I cease to exist for a period of time. I feel nothing except this overwhelming confusion. I’m sure it would be frightening if I could feel fear right now. The emptiness that I feel in the pit of my stomach seems to have materialized all around me, and all I can manage is a pitiful moan as it swallows me whole, devouring me completely.

An irritating, sharp noise is what finally shatters the darkness. At first, I’m not entirely sure I want to be rid of it. The more aware I am, the more I feel what I’ve done to myself. There are hardly words to describe how I feel; this is beyond any hangover I’ve ever experienced before. I hurt everywhere, but the pain in my head is unbearable. I curl up into a ball as the last of the darkness fades away, and for a moment I can only whimper pathetically as every sensation I experience threatens to push me over the edge.

By the time I manage to open my eyes, it’s some time later. My mind slowly begins to shake off the cobwebs, and as I blearily take in my surroundings I begin to put together the little things. For a minute, I feel almost retarded. My mind is so slow that I can only identify objects and colours. After a few minutes of figuring out that my room is painted white and that I have ten fingers and ten toes, I begin to process bigger things. The sound that roused me was my dog. I passed out on the floor of my bedroom. I’ve been drinking.

The floodgates open and suddenly I’m awash with memories. Some are a bit fuzzy, others painstakingly clear. I remember feeling down, so down that I couldn’t stand myself. I remember opening that bottle and pouring myself a few glasses before abandoning the ritual and taking the stuff straight from the source. I remember having a visitor… I remember James.

My eyes widen at the thought of him, making them sting and water in protest. I hold stock still as my mind conjures him up, making my stomach clench almost painfully. The argument we had is right on the heels of the last memory, and I can’t stop the strangled noise that escapes me. If I thought I felt bad before, it’s nothing compared to now. I draw in a shaky breath as an image of me hitting him comes to mind, taunting me and jabbing me where it hurts the most. Blood mixed with alcohol on the floor… I can’t seem to shake this particular image off, and as if protesting it all, my stomach lurches violently. I bring a hand to my mouth, gagging, trying to stop the inevitable with all the strength I have. Considering my state, I don’t find it much of a surprise when I find myself bent over the toilet bowl only seconds later.

As my body lurches and expels all the contents of my stomach, I feel sick in a way that has nothing to do with the physical. James’ voice is in my head the entire time, adding to my misery, adding to the tears of pain slipping down my cheeks. It hurts, oh God it hurts. I feel like I can’t breathe, like I’ll never feel good again. The rational part of me, the part that knows this will eventually pass, is so far buried under pain and raw anguish that it might as well not be there.

I fade in and out as I hang over the edge of the toilet, something I choose to see as a blessing considering the way I feel. Every time I lapse into consciousness there are hideous reminders of what happened, and I begin to actually wish that I’d had more to drink, or at least that my memory didn’t work so well. By the time my stomach is empty, and I’m coughing up bile, I begin to wonder if death wouldn’t have been better than this.

Finally, blessedly, my stomach calms down enough for me to stagger weakly into my bedroom. I have the presence of mind to bring a garbage pail with me, but that’s about it. I flop down onto the bed, not caring that I’m still fully dressed, and drift off into an uneasy and fitful sleep. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of the fact that it’s pitch dark in my room. It doesn’t occur to me that I should care.

Awareness returns to me late in the afternoon the day following the mess with James. I still feel like hell, but at least it’s a bearable hell. I drag myself out of bed and make it downstairs only to find that Lucas has made quite a mess sometime during my blackout. I clean it up without complaint, knowing it’s my own fault for neglecting him. Feeling guilty over it, I give him extra food which he wolfs down, his tail wagging the entire time. As he eats I clean up the other mess, picking up the shards of the liquor bottle almost reverently before tossing them into the garbage. With every piece I pick up, James’ words come to me unbidden. The shards of the bottle cut, but the wounds are less painful than the ones I feel inside.

I let Lucas out into the backyard and then slump into one of the kitchen chairs, resting my aching head on the table top as my mind races. Wrestling with my emotions is far more taxing than any match I’ve been in, and I find myself going in frustrating circles. Every move I make is almost automatic; my body going through the motions of living while my mind is questioning that very existence. The day passes into night, and as I settle in to bed again I find I’m more uncertain than ever.

The next morning, when I’m feeling only a little more human than yesterday, I take a shower in a sad attempt to scrub away the troubles that are weighing on my mind. I let the hot water hit me full in the face, squeezing my eyes shut as it scalds my skin, before forcing myself to move again. I begin to soap up my arms and chest when my traitorous mind recalls a time when James had touched me almost the same way. My eyes flutter open, but it isn’t the tiled walls of the shower that I’m seeing, it’s him standing in front of me, smiling that cheesy grin of his as he pulls me into a wet embrace. My hands still, but the phantom ones don’t. For the first time in days I find myself smiling as I remember how I buried my face in the crook of his neck as his hands teased down to my backside.

I shake my head violently, chasing away the pleasant thoughts. As I set about taming the tangles in my hair, a realization swoops down on me, more startling than a kick to the gut. I continue to mechanically comb through my hair as I let out a shaky breath, whispering to myself in an almost awed tone, “I miss him.”

Admitting it to myself is harder than I thought it would be. It opens up something in me that I had thought I had buried long ago. Acknowledging it after so long is both exhilarating and scary. I’m suddenly itching to move; to throw myself into action and face whatever consequences those actions produce. But then, once again, I’m faced with a harsh dose of reality.

No matter how much I want to pretend that it didn’t happen, there is no escaping the fact that James’ visit fucked up an already pretty bizarre situation. What I said to him; what I did to him… the likelihood of him even wanting to see me again is less than zero. The shame I feel over hitting him is probably nothing compared to what he’s feeling now. I rinse out the product in my hair and step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel. For a moment, I just stand and pretend that the warm embrace I’m in isn’t just fabric, but a pair of arms. I indulge myself in the flimsy fantasy until a chill creeps into my bones, forcing me back to reality.

I try my best to stop thinking about it, about him, but it’s impossible. I shut myself away, not answering the phone or checking my computer, wanting to push away all reminders of life outside my house. I know my brother is probably wondering what’s up with me, but I simply can’t face the thought of explaining to him. All I have to do is picture the look on his face and it’s enough to squash the idea totally.

The most ironic thing about this entire catastrophe is that I’ve never wanted a drink so badly in my life. I thought I had been feeling low before, but it’s nothing compared to now. This self-imposed exile, what happened with James… it piles on top of all the other crap going on in my life and makes me feel desperate for an escape. But every time I find myself looking at the liquor cabinet, I remember the look in James’ eyes after I hit him and I feel physically ill. Often I find myself wondering if he’s thinking about me; one of the most ridiculous things my brain has ever conjured up. Of course he’s thinking about me. Every time he looks in the mirror and sees his split lip, I’m sure he thinks about me. I wish his thoughts about me could have been more positive.

I’m finally roused from my cocoon of self-pity almost six days after the incident. I hadn’t planned on it, that’s a definite fact, but when the phone rings yet again, I find myself answering it. When Jeff’s voice screams into my ear, I wish I’d just left it be. If anything, hearing his voice simply adds to the guilt I’m feeling, adding weight to my already taxed shoulders. I actually find myself wincing as he hollers, “Jesus Matt, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling and calling!” A snide response leaps to my lips, but I somehow manage to swallow it back, instead replying, “You could have come by.”

He huffs, irritated, and I know he’s annoyed because I’ve pointed out the logical solution that he’s completely missed. Jeff operates in his own way, his brain works on a level that I don’t think anyone else could share. Only Jeff wouldn’t have thought to stop by to make sure I’m still alive. I’d be hurt by it, but I know Jeff far too well for that. I know my brother, and I know he didn’t do it to spite me.

“Yeah well,” he begins lamely, some of the wind having been taken out of his sails by my answer, “If you’d answer your goddamned phone I wouldn’t have to, would I?” I shake my head, amused by his logic. Jeff-logic always ends up with him in the right, no matter how insane the explanation is. Most of the time, when faced with Jeff-logic, people simply drop whatever argument they happen to be having, more out of confusion than an actual understanding. I let out a sigh and then say, “What’s up?” Usually a question like that would send Jeff off on a tirade, a huge outline of everything he’s done since the last time I saw him without sparing any detail. Today, however, it seems that my little brother is bent on surprising me.

“What’s up with you?” He questions pointedly, turning the conversation back on me. I hold stock still, biting my bottom lip hard. Part of me wants to break down and tell him everything, to get it all off of my chest and relieve some of the burden. The other part of me, the stubborn part, holds back. Jeff’s voice is a little less harsh as he adds, “Truth, Matt.” I sigh heavily, pushing my hair away from my face as something inside of me gives way.

“I did something really stupid Jeff,” I tell him, my voice betraying my grief. Before he can press any further I have the presence of mind to quickly add, “I don’t want to get into too much detail but… I hurt someone.”

“What like… you got into a fight?” Jeff questions, sounding incredibly curious, and I hesitate before plunging into an explanation. Somehow I manage to keep James’ name out of it, reducing the story to the bare bones. Jeff is unusually quiet as I talk, and by the time I’m finished I wonder what’s going on with him. I wait anxiously for his response, and during that moment’s silence between the two of us I feel like there’s a small rodent in my stomach trying to claw its way out. Knowing my luck, I’m probably developing an ulcer because of all of this.

“Matt, you’re kind of a dick, you know?” he finally says, and his answer actually makes my mouth drop open. Stunned, I can only sputter for a moment before hissing, “What?” I finally work up the courage to tell someone about what happened, and that’s the response I get? He chuckles a bit and says, “Wait, let me explain.”

“You better before I come over there and punch your lights out,” I growl back, annoyed when he laughs again. I can hear the grin in his voice as he begins, “You always take things out on people around you. I know you, so I’m used to it. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t explode on me. If you’d just talk about things more, shit like that wouldn’t happen.”

I know he’s right, but I’ll be damned if I let him know that. Jeff has a way of reading people that’s almost uncanny, and he’s right more often than not. I just wish he could discover the wonders of tact. I rub my face with my free hand, trying to figure out how to respond without biting his head off and finding myself at a complete loss. I’m not used to this in any way, and I don’t know how to handle it. Flustered, I do the only thing I can think of to do, and that’s change the subject.

I’m not very subtle about it, but luckily for me Jeff is more than willing to play along. He pushes my buttons sometimes, but usually he knows when to back off. I slowly unwind as we turn the conversation to safer things, and before long I’m actually laughing a bit as he relates some strange anecdote that I’m halfway sure he’s embellished quite a bit. I’m actually starting to feel a bit better when he somehow manages to chase it all away with one single statement.

“Hey, you hear that some of the TNA guys are in town?”

Instantly, I’m thrown into a inner chaos, thinking that Jeff somehow knows about James and I, about what happened. I let out a choked noise, but thankfully Jeff doesn’t hear it. He’s completely unaware that he’s said anything out of the ordinary, and he continues speaking in a normal tone, calming me down some. I somehow manage to respond, and I pray that my own voice sounds just as normal as his as I offhandedly comment, “I didn’t know there was a show here.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been hanging out with some of them, it’s been pretty cool,” he says, and I grab at the opportunity even as he remains completely unaware of what’s happening. I clear my throat and cautiously question, “So who’s here?” My heart is pounding in my chest so hard that it feels like it’s rattling around in my ribcage. I’m afraid to find out anything about James even while I need to know. The conflict raging inside of me is almost too much to bear, even though I’m sure the man never wants to see me again, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to hear about him. Its torture of the worst kind, but I can’t help myself.

“Let’s see….” Jeff muses, making me want to reach through the phone and beat the information out of him. “Well Chris Harris is here. Joe too, but I think he’s leaving soon. Um… oh, James Storm is here. You remember him.” My voice is soft as I reply, “Yeah… I remember him.”

“Anyway, they’re all staying at the hotel on main. You should go and say hi to Jay, he mentioned something about wanting to see you,” he continues cheerily, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming at him that I don’t give a fuck about Jay. Instead, as if from far away, I hear myself saying, “Maybe I will. I haven’t seen him in ages.” I pause, and then throwing all logic aside, all my doubts and fears, I quickly ask, “Do you know which room Storm is at?” The second the question is out there, my entire being cries out in protest. Why am I doing this to myself?

“Why?” Jeff asks innocently, and yet again I have to struggle to rein myself in. I wish I could just tell him outright, but my battered pride simply won’t let me. My mind races for an explanation, and when I find one I quickly latch onto it. Forcing a bit of cheer into my voice I answer, “Don’t you remember, he and I hung out that one time? He’s a cool guy.” I feel like I’m going to implode with the sheer stupidity of it all. The lies are just too ridiculous for words, and I half expect Jeff to call me on it. Luckily for me, Jeff remains oblivious.

“Oh right, I remember. Yeah, I think he’s staying in room 506.”

The numbers are instantly emblazoned in my mind, and as the conversation with Jeff draws to a close, I’m completely distracted and anxious to hang up the phone. When I finally do, my entire body is abuzz. In my heart, I know what I want to do. But my head overrules my heart, pointing out the reasons why I should just forget it, why I should just stay put and leave it be. I wander around the house aimlessly, trying to expend the pent-up energy I suddenly have, and become painfully aware of how quiet my house has become.

I wrap my arms around myself in an effort to contain whatever rash action I might be tempted to do. I sit down on the couch, but after only a few seconds of staring blankly at the wall I leap back up, shaking my head hard and muttering to myself, “Stop it. Just stop. It’s not going to happen.”

I leave the living room, but there’s nowhere in the house I can go to escape my thoughts. The silence has become almost oppressive, closing in on me in a most claustrophobic way, and so I do the only thing I can think of to get rid of it. I crank up the stereo full blast, which sets Lucas barking like mad in the process. The silence eradicated, I breathe a sigh of relief which is completely lost in the noise.

Of course, my luck isn’t that great, and the distraction only lasts a few minutes because I quickly remember that this song is one of James’ favourites, and that leads to me remembering that time when we had sex to this song on the couch. I shut it off with a decisive motion of my hand and let out a loud growl of frustration. I’m pretty much pouting as I head back up to my room, feeling exhausted with all this stress, and the moment I reach my room I simply throw myself onto the bed.

I stare up at the ceiling for a long time, wishing things didn’t have to be like this. Though I know my situation could technically be worse, I can’t bring myself to imagine how. My life is in shambles, and for the first time I have no plans, no ideas on how to get myself out. I’ve always been one to pride myself on being together, on having goals and reaching them, and then bragging to everyone in earshot about how I did it. Now that everything I’ve worked so hard for is gone, it’s almost as if there’s been a death in the family. I’m grieving in my own way.

And though my head protests against it, my heart is aching for someone to help me through it. If I’m honest with myself, it isn’t just that either. I just don’t want to be alone. I want someone who is going to see past my walls, that exterior I have that tells people that I’m the strong one; the one who never needs any help. I want someone who will be there when I’m having bad times and good, and when the times are bad I want them to just hold me and tell me that it’s going to be alright.

But even as these things pass through my head, I’m telling myself I don’t need that. I’m telling myself that I’m strong and can do it by myself. I roll over and punch at my pillow, angry with myself and the world. I hate that I’m in this position, and more than that, I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it.

‘But you can,’ a little voice in the back of my mind whispers. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late. I’m already thinking of it, of what might happen if I did the very things I’ve been fighting so hard against these past few days. I gnaw on my bottom lip apprehensively, my heart beating just a bit faster as that little voice continues, ‘Maybe he’s waiting for you.’ But waiting for me to do what? Go to him and beg forgiveness? I wrinkle my nose at the prospect, but even I have to admit that it’s a real possibility. I’m in the wrong here, not him… in fact; he’s the one who tried to make things right in the first place.

Maybe if I went to his hotel room he’d let me explain; maybe he’d even forgive me. A little flicker of hope awakens in my chest, and all the hard work I’ve put into keeping myself grounded in reality crumbles. I picture the scene, imagining myself running up to his hotel room, knocking on the door, and seeing him for the first time since our fight. He’d be angry with me, but he wouldn’t refuse to see me, since we did have some wonderful times together. I’d explain to him why I did what I did, why I said what I said, and he’d stop being angry with me. My heart aches as I imagine him taking me into his arms, holding me close as if nothing had happened.

Unable to sleep now, I indulge myself in picturing him in all the detail I can remember. I can almost feel his soft hair between my fingers, his warm breath on my cheek. It’s torture of the best and worst kind, and as I picture his body I start to ache for him. But this time, it’s not only a sexual ache. I miss his lame jokes and the way he’d always cover me up after we’d fucked. I miss the way he’d put his hand in the small of my back, leading me wherever he wanted to go… and I was always willing. I miss the way he’d come into my house; how he’d walk in and instantly fill up the place with his personality. I even miss the way he’d put his feet on my coffee table, despite my telling him repeatedly not to. It’s not hard to see why I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.

“It’s too late,” I whisper to myself, trying to grasp at that last shred of reality even as that little voice in my head, the one I can’t seem to ignore, whispers back, ‘It’s never too late!’ I sit bolt upright at this, chewing on my bottom lip until I taste a bit of blood on my tongue. That antsy feeling returns full force and then some, I feel my skin crawling with the need to move, and this time I know walking around the house for awhile won’t cure it. I need some fresh air, maybe a quick drive. It doesn’t have to mean anything… it’s just a drive.

Of course, a quick drive doesn’t usually require a full change of clothing and a half hour fussing over hair, but then I’ve never really gone down the normal route in anything. I try to maintain my cool as I head down the stairs, but it’s hard to do in the dark. I trip down the last few steps, my cheeks flushing in embarrassment though I know nobody’s seen me. I feel extremely flustered now, and as I look for my keys I’m practically hissing curses at myself, my fingers shaking as I look all over for them before finally finding them sitting only a few feet away from me on the table. I scowl as I snatch them off the table, and as I head out I mutter to myself, “Oh yeah, this was a fantastic idea.”

I get into the car and attempt to put the key in the ignition, but my hands are shaking so much that I actually drop them twice before succeeding in starting the car. I pull out of the driveway a bit quickly, and it doesn’t take me long to realize that this drive isn’t doing anything to help. If anything, I’m more jumpy than before. If there were any cops around at this time of night I’m sure I’d be getting a few tickets right about now.

I’m not sure where I’m going, not really. I don’t see street names, or even the buildings I’m passing. I’ve lived in this area my entire life, but for the first time I feel like a stranger in it. I feel as though some force has plucked me out of my comfort zone and forced me into some other place, a place where I feel bewildered and a little frightened. My mind and body buzz with emotion, so much so that I begin to wonder if I might go completely insane.

I shouldn’t be so surprised to find myself pulling into the hotel visitor’s parking lot, but logic has long since fled me. I stare up at the building through my windshield as if looking at a prison, my stomach so tied up in knots that it’s painful. But strangely, as I pull the keys from the ignition, I no longer feel so unsteady. My mind no longer races, and though my heart is still beating fast, I can no longer hear it in my ears. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly feeling incredibly dry, and slip out of the driver’s seat, slamming the car door shut behind me. It echoes loudly through the quiet night air, making me feel like some kind of inept criminal.

I hurry towards the door, blinking rapidly as I step into the quiet lobby. I’ve always hated the fact that hotels seem to think that they need to blind their customers the moment they step inside. I pause for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the extreme change in light, before heading straight to the elevators. I lift my hand hesitatingly, and in a moment of decisiveness I practically stab the button marked five, watching as the doors slip shut. I wring my hands together and murmur to myself, “506.”

All too soon the sound of the chime announces that I’ve reached my desired floor. I stare at the doors as they slide open, feeling as though I’m watching all this happen from a distance. They almost slide shut again before I move, managing to wedge myself between them before they close completely. The hallways of the hotel are like most others I’ve been in; row after row of doors that look exactly the same, with that same blinding light illuminating every nook and cranny. I’m not sure why, but some part of me expected this hotel to be different.

I check the numbers on the doors as I pass until I am standing in front of his. I stare at it for a few long moments, taking in the idea that he’s just a few feet away from me, on the other side of this door. I wipe my sweaty palms on the front of my shirt, wishing I’d picked out something better to wear, and finally knock, yanking my hand away the second I’m satisfied.

I wait with breathless anticipation, my hopes at their peak. I feel exhausted, but there is something else that is keeping me going, keeping me rooted to the spot. I shift from foot to foot, wondering what’s keeping him, and then give my watch a quick, uninterested glance. It takes a minute for it to sink in, and when it does my eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. I look at my watch again and give a low curse, the time glaring back at me almost accusingly.

It’s quarter after four in the morning.

I could just kick myself, and I’m so mortified that I could bolt right here and now. Oh God, don’t let him have heard me knocking. If he wasn’t that eager to see me before, he’s probably going to be murderous when he sees me now, at this ridiculous time. What the hell is wrong with me?

All my hopes are completely dashed when the door suddenly opens, revealing a disgruntled James. Stunned by his sudden appearance, coupled with the realization I’ve just had, I can only gape at him stupidly. He looks so good, and I drink in the sight of him greedily. He stares back at me, his face now carefully blank, and it’s a long time before either one of us speaks, or even moves. I wish I could read his mind, to know what he’s thinking about me right now. Does he want me to leave? Should I have even bothered?

The silence stretches on until I finally realize he’s waiting for me to say something. I open my mouth, but I seem to have been struck dumb. The words are lodged in my throat and I panic, wanting to run and forget this ever happened. I keep waiting for him to slam the door in my face, or yell at me, but instead he continues to stare with that blank expression on his face. In some ways, what he’s doing now is worse. Unable to take it anymore, I lower my head, fixing my gaze to his feet. It helps just enough for me to blurt out, “I-I wanted to talk to you,” I bite my lip, inwardly cringing at the pathetic tone to my voice, and then plunge on, “Is… is that okay?”

I’m afraid to look at him again, afraid to see what he’s going to say. I continue to gaze at his feet, waiting for the blow to come. The longer he stays silent, the surer I am that he’s going to make me leave, and the suspense is just killing what’s left of my courage. My entire body is so tensed up that I’m trembling with the effort, and I’m not sure how much longer I can take this. I hear him sigh, and then suddenly he’s reaching out. I tense up even further, sure that he’s about to hit me, but instead he grabs onto a handful of my shirt and pulls me forward.

I stumble into his room, my heart thudding when I hear him shut the door behind me. There’s a finality in that sound that scares the shit out of me. I half-wish that he’d leave the door open, so that if he does plan on killing me I’d have some chance at escape. I glance at the shut door nervously, fidgeting in place as he walks away from me. I draw in a deep breath and force myself to look up, immediately captured by his intense blue eyes. He’s sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, his face still expressionless. I want to scream at him to say something, but I keep that particular thought to myself, knowing it’d only make things worse.

Clearing my throat, shifting from one foot to the other, I somehow manage to tear my eyes away from his before tentatively saying, “I want to apologise for what happened… for hitting you.” As I speak the words, I relive the incident in my mind, making a lump form in my throat. I pause, struggling to keep it together, and hoarsely continue, “I wasn’t in my right mind that day… and it wasn’t really you I was trying to hurt, you know? I just… I was just so angry inside and I didn’t know what to do about it. You just happened to be on the receiving end of that, and you’ll never know how sorry I am for that. I really, really am.” It all sounds so feeble and judging by the lack of response from James, he must agree.

I can’t seem to stop the words though, and I hear myself continue, dangerously close to babbling. I scream at myself to stop, but the words continue to just pour out of me.

“You were only there to help, I realize that now, and I really appreciate that. At the time, I wasn’t really in my right mind… of course; I’m not trying to excuse what I did or anything. It’s just that I wasn’t ready. You were right though… are right… did I say that already? Well I mean it. And… I was thinking about what happened and everything, and I realized that I was taking out all my frustration on you, and that wasn’t fair, because you’re the only one who’s really tried to help.” I manage to stop myself there, and I wait for him to do something. I wait for him to get up off that fucking bed and do something, anything at all.

The silence is oppressive, and once again I seek out his eyes. I know I probably have all my emotions written as plain as day on my face, but for once, I don’t care. If it prompts him to do something, it’s worth it. These emotionless stares that he keeps giving me are driving me insane. I need to know what he’s thinking; I need him to put me out of this misery. For almost a week now, he’s been everywhere for me; he’s taken over everything and I haven’t been able to get away from him. And I need to know, right here and now, if it’s been the same way for him. I need to know if I killed whatever it was between us.

I take a step backwards as if he’s hit me, understanding finally dawning on me. His stony silence must be because he doesn’t really want to bother with me. His lack of response this whole time must be fuelled by his contempt for me. Maybe he pulled me in here just to see me make an ass out of myself, so he could laugh about it later and think of how close he came to disaster in the form of Matt Hardy. This was a mistake, I see that now. I smooth a hand over my hair, trying to compose myself, and then softly say, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and that I didn’t mean the things I said,” I lift my eyes to his for the last time, and my voice becomes even softer as I honestly tell him, “I didn’t mean any of it.”

I turn away from him before I lose what little strength I have left. My feet feel like lead as I slowly make my way towards the door; this hurts a lot more than I thought it would. I thought knowing would be better, that no matter how things went tonight I’d be able to get through it easily. But now that I do know, now that I’ve faced him and understood that he simply doesn’t care, it hurts. It isn’t just my pride; it’s something more than that, and it’s something I can’t bear to put a name to just yet.

I reach the door, but my hand is so sweaty that it slips right off the doorknob on the first try. I give a curse and go to try again, hoping that he hasn’t noticed how flustered I am. I don’t want him knowing how much it hurts; I don’t want to give him that satisfaction. I grasp the knob more firmly this time, turning it slowly, opening the door.

I only have it opened a sliver before a large hand reaches over my shoulder and forces the door shut again. I gasp, my eyes flying open wide, and yet again I find myself immobile. I look up and see that his hand is still pressed to the door so hard that the tips of his fingers are actually turning white. I can feel how close he’s standing to me; his breath tickling the back of my neck, the warmth of his body passing to mine. I should turn around to see his face, to ask him what he’s doing, but I can’t bear the thought of it. Indecision takes me over, and so I simply stay where I am.

It doesn’t take long for him to make up my mind for me. He grabs my arm with his free hand and forces me to turn and face him. He uses the same amount of force that he’s used on the door. Now that he’s closer, I can see the faint mark of the cut on his bottom lip, a painful reminder of what I’ve done. I lift my eyes to his, only to find that he’s occupied by gazing at my mouth, his expression blatantly hungry. I feel a frisson of passion wash through me, and suddenly the only thing I care about is the fact that he’s not kissing me.

He leans forward ever so slightly, pausing before closing the gap, drawing me into a kiss that actually makes my toes curl. I feel dizzy in the most wonderful way and I lean into the kiss as best as I can in his grasp. There’s something different about this kiss; it’s not like the other times. Maybe because it means more, or maybe because our emotions are so high, I’m not entirely sure. Either way, I submit to it, responding eagerly when I feel his tongue flick against my bottom lip. I didn’t realize he was such a fantastic kisser.

It’s all too soon before he breaks the kiss, making me whimper raggedly in protest. My eyes flutter open, and my heart leaps when I see the look on his face. He’s as affected by my nearness as I am his, but I can tell he wants to say something. I reach up with my free hand and cup his face, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his mouth sweetly, silently telling him that he can say anything as best as I can. His lips part ever so slightly as I pull back, and the moment our eyes meet again he speaks, his voice low with emotion.

“I don’t just want another fuck from you,” he says, and then pauses, appearing to consider his words. He gives me that half-grin of his that never fails to melt my insides, and amends, “Don’t get me wrong though, I do want to pound you into the mattress.”

I can’t help but laugh, partly out of relief and partly out of the sheer inappropriateness of his comment. He’s still smiling as my laughter dies down, and for the first time since walking into this room I feel comfortable with him.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asks me now, his eyes still twinkling in merriment, though his expression is a bit more serious. I lean back against the door, my smile fading as I try to analyze what it is I’m feeling for him. I’ve almost completely zoned out before he says my name, dragging my attention back to the here and now. He looks so worried that it touches me, and in an instant I know what I want. I give him a sheepish look, and then lick my lips before saying, “I understand James… but there’s something I want to know first.”

“Shoot,” he says glibly, though I can easily tell he’s trying to cover up his nervousness. Feeling badly for keeping him in suspense, I reach out and take his hands in mine, softly asking him, “Can you forgive me?”

As if he didn’t know what I was talking about, I put a finger to the faded cut on his mouth. To my surprise, he actually laughs, cutting through the tension. I stare at him, bewildered, as he brings both my hands to his mouth and kisses my fingers before abruptly pulling me to him. Before I can demand to know what he thinks is so funny, he’s kissing me again, making me forget most of the contents of my brain.

I’m only half aware of his movements as he begins to back up, coaxing me along with him, and frankly I’m not about to stop him. His mouth and hands are doing some wonderful things to me right now, and I’ll follow him anywhere so long as he doesn’t quit. I’m so unaware of my surroundings that when I suddenly fall backwards I let out a cry, expecting to find myself on the floor. When I land on a soft mattress instead, I go to admonish him for doing that to me, but before I can utter a syllable he’s on me and my words come out as a soft moan instead. I cling to his shoulders as he nips and sucks his way along my jaw line to my earlobe, gasping when he captures it between his teeth.

Somehow, with a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I manage to gather up my thoughts long enough to pant, “I guess that’s a yes?”

Fin