Title: Hard to Be Faithful
Author: BehrBeMine
Disclaimer: I'm not quite delusional enough to believe I own them yet.
Pairing: Rory and Marty
Rating: PG-13
Summary: My girl's in the next room. Sometimes I wish she was you. Rory/Martyness
Spoilers: 'Knit, People, Knit!' Takes place during Lucy's birthday party.
Feedback: Please?

"My girl's in the next room,
Sometimes I wish she was you."
-- Hinder, 'Lips of an Angel'

You know that what you feel for Lucy is real, and that hurting her is something that's never been on your agenda. You've never wanted to hurt anyone, not even when they were rubbing your nose in the fact that they have things you'll never own, never deserve, never covet like a jewel.

You used to think jewels were all those kinds of people had.

Until "those people" grabbed ahold of Rory.

"I like you," you'd confessed.

"I... like Logan." You watched the blue-green mass of her eyes swarm in something like hesitation, as she was standing in unfamiliar territory -- turning someone down, being cruel that way. You never thought she could be a person to grow cruelty inside her, the mass of it swarming up her throat to her voice and bubbling in the too-dry vision of her eyes. The honesty was what wanted to kill you. Her honest admittance that you weren't the one, and that she wouldn't even give you the chance to try to be.

Lucy clings to you, steadying her 21 year-old self against your body, her usually graceful feet stepping upon yours here and there to squish your toes in your shoes. You don't mind much, as the alcohol has numbed most of your body, and you remember being as drunk as her, back when things made more sense than now. Back before Rory was sitting over there on a couch, her eyes uncomfortable whenever they sweep near your gaze. You try to lock contact with her through your stare that no longer pleads for what she won't give you, but will always long for what she pushed away.

And you think to yourself that Rory would never step on your feet in a drunken stupor as the two of you performed moves to music, the sway and the ease not quite there enough to declare it dancing. Only with Rory could you dance. You may not be the one for her.


You sweep back short hair from Lucy's neck gone sweaty, and kiss the skin you've exposed. When she giggles and calls you that eternal pet name, "Boyfriend", you close your eyes, and start to sway off balance.

The arms that catch you in their embrace are ones you imagine to not be so familiar. You keep your eyes closed, and trace a finger along the delicate skin of an arm, pulling close the one that you long to be there, the one that you've longed for all this time. You no longer care to engage in snark, that pitiful way of getting back at her for the way she stuck your heart in a blender and set it to maximum speed.

You inhale her scent, and it's vanilla, just what you always knew it would be. Like icing on cookies, she was the "extra added something" to turn the norm into a treat worth recording and remembering. Vanilla, in her soft hair that you touch, that gives way in its straight strands for your hands that pet it like a long searched for thing. A treasure taken out of the box, and loved until it was mussed and stained, and yet somehow still beautiful.

Lips meet yours, moist and soft, tugging at you gently and coaxing you into the oblivion of being attached to someone else. The thought of those lips being hers almost makes your knees buckle, and you've never felt more drunk or lost to the cosmos than when a tongue slides into your mouth and meets your own. You whimper against those lips, wanting more of her, wanting all of her. Here, now, and without the prissy rich boyfriend to stand in the way, knowing that he's better just because he says so. You want her, despite the fact that Lucy brings light to your life where otherwise it was left moody and dim. You want her more than what you have now, not just because she's unattainable, but because you've always wanted her, from that very first day, when you were naked and hurried to cover parts of you that swelled at the sight of her concern and embarrassment.

Music from the room outside of your brain space makes your body hum, the blood in your veins responding to the noise without and the calm within. You are completely unaware of what surrounds you, other than her, who you picture to be in your arms. And you don't want to open your eyes. You don't want to step out of this daydream, not now that she's been brought back into your life and you're dangerously close to hitting the "just friends" zone again, perhaps for the rest of time.

You'd rather live in this haze, with the multi-colored dots that appear randomly from behind your closed eyelids, as you dance, chest pressed to the shoulders of a girl you imagine to be the one you want with you always.

You can see Rory behind those lids, in her casual spring dresses, and bundled all cozy in her fashionable winter scarves. You see her with short hair and long hair, and bangs that appear out of nowhere. She changes with the seasons; every color lights her face in a different way; but she's always on a stage in front of you, being the Rory rainbow without the invitation for you to be a part of it. And so you encapsulate her in the rainbow you don't see, for you see nothing now, and your feet move lazily across the dorm room carpet, with no movements planned, as you can hardly feel your toes.

And you'd like to see her toes, peeking out from under your deep purple comforter as the two of you would settle in your bed, your bodies wrapped only in underwear, tousled hair accompanying lazy smiles. You want to see how her toes would wriggle when the heat was stolen from them, until you were the hero, and reached down to pull the comforter over them once more. You wonder if her toenails would be painted in different shades every week, to match the mood ring that hung about the rest of Rory's body, being affected by silly kinds of things, like the weather, or a term paper grade. Pink toenails could mean she did well on her biggest midterm; blue could mean that it rained that day.

You want to see her in the rain, barefoot and squealing as the two of you would run amuck in some abandoned park, with swings to sway in the slight breeze that sent the raindrops pouring down at a sideways angle, pelting your body and hers with soft wetness that penetrated every pore. You can almost feel the wet grass sneaking up between your toes as you would chase her, and she would run, and she would laugh, knowing you would catch her. You want to be the one who catches her, hugging her tightly to your chest, as the force of your gathered speed knocks you both to the ground.

You want to be there any time she falls, to catch her with arms and words that reassure, the way that you've never been able to, for anyone. You believe it, deep inside, that she would be the one to listen, where others only nod dumbly and pretend to understand. She would hear you, and she would feel better, knowing that you understood her, and that your arms could withstand the slight bit of her weight for as long as she needed to lean on you in those shaky, infrequent moments when her strength alone is not enough.

You want to be strong, and show her that it's an emotion you can embody. You want to be loyal, and show her that your love is always true and steady, like only a soulmate's can be. You want her to believe that you're a good person -- that you're good enough to be accepted the way you'll never stop needing to be.

It is these mumblings of the inner mind that cause you to open your eyes, and find Lucy there in your arms, her smile radiant and drunk. You try to smile back, but your thoughts betray you, placing their storm of indecision in the color of your eyes. You realize things with your eyes open, things like those traits you want to be known for should be known no matter what girl leans against you in your arms. You don't want to hurt Lucy, and you know that she would never hurt you.

This time when the two of you meet lips, you know that they're Lucy's, and you have no delusion of whose lips you'd rather they be. When you gently pull away, you set your chin on Lucy's shoulder to overlook her body and see into the rest of the room. Your eyes find other drunk dancers, struggling to match a beat that they're not fully hearing, that's reverberating in their skulls. Your eyes look past them to find Rory, sitting unsure and alone by herself on the couch. She's looking all around the party, squeaking out small smiles to those whose behavior requests one.

As her eyes meet yours and then hurriedly scamper away, you realize that none of these smiles she's giving are reaching anywhere near her eyes. And you realize that since she left your life, none of yours do these days, either.

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