But you couldn't help yourself, couldn't not do it. When you were young and idealistic, he was everything you were ever supposed to be. He was what you were supposed to aspire to, they told you, because he was and always will be the oldest. He was supposed to be your role model, your older brother, always something unattainable.
Somewhere, wires crossed, and you didn't interpret that the way they wanted. You interpreted it that he was something to be desired, something for you to want. Not want to be, just want. For yourself.
You'd never been able to rationalize that to yourself. At fifteen, instead of smiling and flirting with the girls, you were thinking you were in love with your best friend, who only happened to be ten years your senior. And a man.
You probably should have felt guiltier about that than you did.
And as you got older, you kept thinking you were in love. You kept thinking that heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach and the fleeting wrenching of your heart and the invicibility when he was around were love. What you were more sure of was that he loved you back.
After you turned eighteen, you let him fuck you. You would have done it before, but he refused, said you were too young. You don't know how many nights you cried yourself to sleep, hating yourself for not being older, not being perfect, not being him. But then, suddenly, you were old enough, and after the fashionably late party the guys threw for you, promising your mom it was dry when they knew damn well it wouldn't be, he pulled you aside and kissed you.
Your heart rose to your throat and your mouth went dry, and you didn't know what to do with your hands or your mouth, though it wasn't even your first kiss. But you knew, knew as you knew yourself, that it was all you'd ever been waiting for, all you'd ever expected it to be.
When he fucked you, it was like heaven opening up. It was slow and leisurely and loving, but he kissed dirtily and he wasn't innocent. You imagined that was what everyone's first time should be, and it felt like your heart was going to explode. When you came, you saw gold flitting through your vision, blurring his face, and your lungs burned. You were overcome, and when he slid out, wrapping his arms around you, you cried. He was too much to take. Your mind screamed at you that this was the closest to perfection you'd ever get.
He brushed his fingers through your curls, kissed you sweetly, told you he loved you. The tears only came harder, then, and when you looked at him, his eyes were dark and unrecognizable. You didn't know that you wanted him to love you.
You scrambled out of bed, grabbing your clothes on the way out. You didn't even wait for him to fall asleep; you didn't care. You spent the night on his couch, downstairs, shaking and sobbing and wishing he would come down and say something, anything.
He didn't.
That was the first night you didn't spend with him.
When he woke you up in the morning, he handed you a cup of coffee and held you, and didn't expect you to say anything. He pressed his lips to your forehead, and you regretted it. Regretted not staying, because he didn't change, you must have just panicked. You knew, then.
The next time, it was your fault. You knocked on his hotel door after an appearance, and pinned him to the wall when he opened the door. You kicked the door closed and kissed him, and you had to. You were desperate, needy, because it had been too many weeks since the first. His hands went to your waist, and your skin tingled where his fingers skated down your sides. Somewhere, beyond thinking about his tongue against yours, you managed to mumble, "Chris, need," and he understood.
You don't remember the specifics, just the need, the fumbling with his zipper, his cock in your mouth, his palm cupping the back of your head. You remember your hand on his ass, and thinking how perfect it was, and you remember sucking hard, crudely, and you weren't even good, couldn't be expected to be. But he came easily, hard, and your eyes stung, but you swallowed because that was what you were supposed to do. You sat back on your heels, and he grabbed your wrists, pulled you up.
He kissed you, even though you knew you still had his flavor on your lips and in your mouth. His hand came up to press against the small of your back, under your t-shirt, and you knew he could feel your heart beating. You were so close, and it was beating just too hard, too fast.
You jerked away, and looked at him. He was breathing hard and flushed and his pupils were dilated, drowning out his irises. He's gorgeous is what you thought, but he's not right is what you knew, and you fled.
That was the second night you didn't spend with him.
You had time to think about it, after that. Life went on like you knew it would, because you'd been in love with him for years, and you could deal with time away. It wasn't even like time away, though, because you still saw him every day, and things were always the same. The only difference was that the feeling in your stomach was a dead-weight, not merely heavy, and the wrenching of your heart actually hurt. It wasn't pleasant, but you dealt.
Because that was what you did, what you were always meant to do.
You didn't know what to think. At first, you thought it was panic, thought you weren't ready. But you brought it upon yourself the last time, asked for it, wanted it, needed it, and it still happened. You didn't understand. It's not like you stopped loving him. Each morning, you second-guess yourself, wonder if it's you or him or both, if you deserve it at all.
It wasn't until a few months later that you came to him again, crawling into his bed, wrapping yourself around him. You kissed his neck, inhaling his smell, and let your tears spill into his hair. You didn't understand why crying came so easily around him, like you were some kind of girl. He turned, put his arms around you, held you close while you cried soundlessly.
You had never felt quite so helpless or so hopeless.
He didn't fuck you. You let his hands roam over your body, under your shirt, sliding down your pyjama pants, up your thighs. You let his lips travel across your neck, your collar bone, your shoulders. You don't think he ever touched your dick, but you came anyway, blindingly, with your toes curled and your hands fisted in the sheets.
He didn't touch you, after that. You climbed out of bed with every intention of leaving, but couldn't, yet. You stripped off your pants and slipped back in between the sheets, curled an arm around his waist. Before he fell asleep, he let out a long, shuddering sigh, and shifted away from you.
That was the third night you didn't spend with him.
In the morning, he touched your hip, looking at you with wide eyes. "Are you okay?" he whispered, even though there was no need for quiet.
You swallowed thickly. And nodded. And cried. And this time, he didn't hold you.
But you came to him again, in the same week. You circled your fingers around his wrists, said brokenly, "I'm sorry, I can't, but. I love you, I have to," and he let you. He fucked you dry over the back of the couch, while you held his hands, pinned against the cushions. He licked your ear as he thrust, whispering words recklessly that you wanted to believe, and had no reason not to.
Coming left you empty, with a feeling of dread deep inside, like your heart was being pulled out with exquisite pain. You held him against yourself longer than necessary, long after he'd come, just wanting him inside even with the pain. His breath was hot on your neck, and the words, "love you," spilled out with a sigh, like he'd been holding his breath too long.
But when he drew himself away from you, skin whispering against yours, you knew he'd changed again. He steadied you with a hand on your waist, pulled you into his bed. This time, tears were welling in his eyes, and he threaded his arms around your neck while he cried.
He knew, and you knew it. He knew you'd just keep leaving, and he was right. His tears had barely subsided when you slipped away. You sat in the hallway, staring at the wall the entire night.
That was the fourth night you didn't spend with him.
It wasn't until early afternoon that he emerged, and you were still there. You scrambled up when the door opened, stumbled forward, reached. He pushed you away.
And you felt everything crumble, felt something shift, felt everything go cold. You felt your eyes widen, your face flush. And then you felt nothing but numbness, as everything fell apart and he walked away, eyes unforgiving.
You understood that he was right to do it. Right to walk away when you needed him, because you walked away when he needed you.
You didn't know what to expect the next time. You were scared to go, but you wanted it, wanted him so much that it made your heart hurt whenever he was around. So you had to.
It was late when you went, and you didn't need to say anything. He fucked you hard, slick and precise, not looking at you. He came before you did and jerked you off. You buried your face in the pillow with your orgasm, biting off words you knew he wouldn't want to hear. He flipped you over and twined his legs around yours, letting you rest your head in the crook of his neck. He kissed you goodnight chastely, and the silence spoke more loudly and more clearly than anything you could have said.
That was the first night you did spend with him.
You understand, now, why he still lets you slip in and out of his bed, while he remains solid in your heart. Because you don't understand the responsibility that comes with love, and maybe never will. You can walk away too easily, and that makes you think that the thing about you and love and him is that you were never in.
And the more you think about it, the stupider it seems. Because if there's someone for you to love, Chris would be the one. They even told you so.