A/N: Firstly guys your reviews for 7 Minutes were AMAZING. I was reduced to mush from all the nice things said. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. Anyways yes this was something that was floating around my head. A lil bit of credit goes to Champagne Scene (Kaya) because of something she said to me about not seeing Sam going to college in the future. It was my inspiration for this fic :) I hope she doesn't mind me incorporating it in. Let me know what you think, again typo's may be an issue, but what I'll do is re-read when it's uploaded and then replace when appropriate. xxx
1. Take out all of your so called problems/better put them in quotation/say what you need to say
College is different than how he expected it to be. Different in a good way.
His roommates, though complete dorks (yes, he was accusing other people of being dorks) were pretty cool. They never had any wild parties, they kept it down when he had a test or an assignment due the next day, and he never had to worry about walking in on anything compromising.
To top it off he was pretty good at what he did too. It never felt like work.
And then there was the female population on campus. Contrary to earlier notions they did not run away screaming when they saw Freddie. Quite the opposite. College had turned him into, dare he say it, a little bit of womanizer. He goes for the Carly types mostly. Brunettes, tall, slim, attractive and smart. He chastises himself for such predictability. He once broke the mould.
Her name was Taylor. A pretty blonde from Colorado. She was vivacious, sexy, spontaneous. His complete opposite. He remembers how he met her, in the cafeteria at 5:30 am just as it opened. He liked to get there when the scrambled eggs were still warm, she liked to get there to buy out their entire supply of rashers. Anyway there they were, sitting on the floor outside the cafeteria, she mentioned she was hungry and he pulled out a fat cake from his coat pocket.
He was rewarded with a kiss.
It lasted his entire freshman year, his longest relationship since leaving Seattle. Her exit was just as abrupt as her entrance into his life, but he wasn't bitter. She made him happy and for that all he could do was love her.
All in all, the whole college experience for Fredward Benson was turning out pretty good.
2. Start to feel the emptiness and everything I'm going to miss/I know that I can't hide/all this time is passing by/I think it's time to just move on
He speaks to Carly most days, be it via text, phone or IM. He makes sure that he doesn't lose contact. He had this fear that when he moved away he'd grow apart from her, they'd lose that closeness he worked so hard to maintain. Oddly their relationship only transcended into something he never thought they could be.
Platonic best friends.
He never thought it would be possible. He tells her everything, from school trouble to relationship advice, she is his confidante. There's no awkwardness, no hesitation. If he needs her he picks up the phone, if he wants a hug she is on the first train from Berkley. She understands him, she's sweet, kind and gentle.
He still does not discount his attraction to her. It's still there, still bubbling under the surface. She's an attractive girl, he'd have to be dead inside not to feel something. He is a hot blooded, 20 year old after all.
Spencer is a regular visitor to campus too. He says something about reclaiming lost youth and "partying baby". They never do much of either and usually end up having man talks while watching A Streetcar Named Desire for the fifteenth time that month.
There's only one person he doesn't hear from.
A certain dirty blonde who ran off before the holidays ended.
Who left without one word to Carly, Spencer, her Mum.
Not a phone call, not a note. Nothing. One night just upped and left, leaving behind everything. Everything and anything.
It was no secret Sam didn't make it into college. In all reality none of them expected a miracle.
But still the repercussions of her sudden departure rippled through their small and fragile universe like an earthquake, shattering her best friend into a million pieces. For months he received tearful phone calls from Carly on important anniversaries, birthdays and holidays. Still no word, still no sign that the blonde was even still alive.
Of course he reassured her that all was fine, that Sam was probably having the time of her life in Europe, backpacking and meeting random strangers.
He didn't really believe it but the lie seemed to calm Carly. Eventually he stopped receiving the phone calls. Not that he thinks she stopped caring, but he thinks she reached a point where she finally let her best friend go.
Freddie still tries to ring Sam's old number every night.
He still gets the answering machine.
3. Waiting for nothing to stay/it's getting late/why don't we call it a day/this isn't easy to say/but I'd like to get over you
Freddie walks through the brisk New York night, the snow chilling him underneath his long black coat. He snuggles in further, wiggling his now red nose in the sharp air. New York weather is something he struggles with. There's never really a happy medium, it's either very very hot, or very very cold. He walks quickly in an attempt to escape the night, slipping on the black ice every fifth step. He reaches his building, darting in the open door and into the warmly lit hallway. He thinks how quintessentially college this place is – it looks like everything he'd seen in the movies growing up, everything he expected. But nothing quite like he had imagined.
He takes the stairs three at a time until he reaches the second floor and his dorm room. He unlocks the door, slipping into the darkness. His roommates have already left for Christmas, Freddie being Freddie is the only one who took on extra modules for extra credit. Therefore he's also the only one left still sitting exams. And possibly the only person still in the building.
He received a phone call from Carly the previous evening chastising his notable absence from Seattle. He reassured her he would be home in time for Santa's arrival.
He shivers again, shrugging off his coat, heavy from the damp cold and tosses it onto the floor with his hat and scarf. He fumbles in the dark for the light switch on his wall, eventually slamming it on with the palm of his hand.
Turning, he gasps softly as his eyes fall on his bed.
A certain blonde sits propped up on his pillows, a lop sided grin gracing her features. It's been a while since he has seen that smile.
"Fredward," she breathes, her smile tightening.
4. All of a sudden it's cold and we're falling apart/and I guess we're really over/but come over/I'm not over it/lately you make me feel like I'm desperate/I'm not desperate/a little bit possessive/little miss obsessive/can't get over it
He can't believe she's back sitting on his bed. He examines her, legs outstretched, one over the other, arms resting behind her head. She's wearing jeans and – his – NYC hoodie.
"Still suffering from kleptomania I see," is all he can manage gesturing towards his red jumper. She eyes him lazily, her pink tongue darting out over her lips, dry from the cold.
"Ignoring the breaking and entering part Benson?"
"No. I just figure why bother asking."
He does his best to seem nonchalant as his heart pounds within the confines of his ribcage, and vomit threatens in the back of his throat. He moves to his closet, busying himself with hanging up his jacket. Her gaze follows him across the room, but she doesn't move.
"Your window, you left it open," she informs him.
"Well I figured what with being on the second floor nobody would be crazy enough in this weather to climb up a drain pipe, break into my room for what would be their reward of two dollars and a few fat cakes."
She chuckles dryly. "This is New York. People here are crazy enough to try anything."
His head is swimming. Why is she back now? What could she possibly want? She ignored them for so long, forgot them, moved on with her life. What has brought her here? It's been two years. Two fucking years and not a word. And she has the fucking audacity to turn up three days before Christmas on his dorm room bed. Not a word, not a warning. Just shows up and expects him to accept it. No fucking way.
"Two years," he mumbles suddenly. Quietly. She catches it, but her expression doesn't change.
"What?" She knows what he said, but she's bating him.
"Two fucking years Sam," he seethes, his head bowed, his hand resting on his closet door, "What could you possibly want?"
She shrugs, examining her fingernails on her lap.
"I don't want anything."
"Then why are you here?"
"I was in town. Needed a place to crash."
"So you do want something," he snaps, slamming his closet door closed. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink.
She shrugs again. "I need a place to crash. I don't want one."
"That makes no sense."
"So does your face," she grins, batting her eyes. No, she will not do this to him. He's way too fucking angry at her. She cannot wiggle her way out just by flashing her big blue eyes and trying to slip back into their usual rapport. It will not work.
He strides over to his front door and flings it open.
"Get the hell out Puckett," he orders. He's not yelling but damn near to it.
She stares at him, chin jutted outward, defiant. But he's not going to cave either. He instead glares back, his hand shaking with anger against the doorframe. He's more than surprised when she bows her head, pursing her lips together as she gathers her things from beside the bed.
She begins the trek to the door, her bag bundled up in her arms as she pushes past. He doesn't know why but he reaches out, his hand clasping around her arm. She stumbles backwards, but keeps her gaze firmly fixed on a spot outside. He examines her profile, her chin trembling.
"We missed you, you stupid cow," he whispers, "Not one phone call to let us know you were ok. Not one. Like we meant nothing. I thought you were fucking dead."
He watches for a reaction and he gets it. Her eyelids flutter as she struggles with some unknown internal battle.
"What can I say? I lost your number," she states, toneless. Anger rises in the pit of his stomach, his whole body shaking as his grip tightens. He can see her wince and she is hurting. Good. He's glad. Abhorrently glad. She deserves it. He lets out a growl as he pulls her back inside and turns her to face him.
She's expressionless, holding his gaze as he leans in roughly and captures her lips with his. They meet in a fury of passion and anger, both struggling for dominance, fighting for the upper hand. He kicks the door shut behind them and pushes her up against it. His hands grappling with his own sweater, he begins to wonder why he's doing this. Why exactly he is kissing the very girl that for six months made his heart feel like it was breaking because of some unknown occurrence. Something happened, she went missing but he didn't know why. He didn't know where. And he didn't know if she was coming back. He swore if she did that if he could make her feel just one ounce of the pain and emptiness he and Carly felt during her magical disappearing act then he would die happy.
But as it happens he doesn't want to cause her pain. No. He wants to feel her. He wants to make sure she is real, that she is flesh and blood. So he invades her, his tongue probing every crevasse and curve of her mouth, his hands fumbling, desperate to feel her all at once. And shockingly she seems to return this need. He groans as her hands fall impatiently to his belt, but he won't let her in. He grabs her wrists, pinning them above her head and he hears her whimper. He wonders briefly if she's frightened. If she's as scared as he was every night when he thought of her alone. When he thought of what might be done to her. Or more worryingly, what she'd do to herself.
He pushes against her, urgent and wanting.
He takes her right there against his dorm room door, pounds into her relentlessly listening to the sound of her cries and feeling her nails claw down his arms. The feeling is something he will never forget. Something he'll never understand. He had only ever kissed this girl once.
When they were fifteen for Gods sake.
And now he's fucking her up against a door after not seeing her for two years.
He wonders what the hell goes on in his own head never mind hers.
Everything is dispelled as she arches against him, screaming his name.
The last thing he thinks before his mind blanks is how she's still in his sweater.
5. You know that I could use somebody/someone like you
Freddie took up track halfway through his first year. He'd already started jogging every evening anyway, he may as well do it competitively. Running helped him forget. The concern he carried for Sam was there every day. It didn't fade with time, not like everyone said he would.
Not like his counsellor said it would.
So he runs it out. His feet pound against the ground, his body humming pleasantly as he pushes himself even closer to his limit. He runs and runs and runs, thinking about the feeling in his limbs and nothing else. Thinking about the release when he's finally able to collapse. The increasing muscle mass is just an added bonus.
Samanatha Puckett is the furthest thing from his mind.
Freddie loves to run.
6. No it's never the same if you don't feel it too. If you meet me halfway/it could be the same for you/If you just realised what I realised then we'd be perfect for each other/ we'd never have to wonder if missed out on each other
Sam listens to the hail stones fall against the window. She hasn't heard the rain in so long she had forgotten what any precipitation sounded like. She focuses on Freddie's breathing, steady and gentle beneath her ear. His chest rises and falls and she splays a hand over his heart. She has gotten used to lying naked next to a different boy every night but this wasn't the same. She actually just lay there. There was no grappling for her things, or swift exit with the contents of his wallet.
She just let him hold her.
"When did you get muscles Fredweird?" she asks, her voice a breathy whisper.
"Track team," he says. There's no tone or substance to his voice. Nothing to decipher. He's bland. So she runs her hand lower, across the hard muscle of his abdomen. He gasps and she grins into his chest.
"Where were you Samantha?"
Her name sounds harsh on his tongue and she winces inwardly.
"Here and there."
"I deserve better than that," he says, "Me and Carly both deserve better."
She sighs, a heavy sound but still doesn't move. She wants to, more than anything. She doesn't owe anyone anything, and them guilting her about every moment of her existence was not going to work. She did what she did for her. But for the first time in two years she feels safe and secure. She feels cared for.
"How is Carly?"
"You have no right to ask."
"Stop treating me like a leper Benson, I did nothing wrong." She forces herself up on one elbow, looking down at his face. He's staring up at the ceiling, one hand propping behind his head.
"Whatever," he sighs. He won't look at her. And instead of being angry that he's treating her worse than any boy before him, she feels guilty. Guilty that she left. Guilty she didn't ring. Guilty that she slept with him.
"I live in LA," she blurts out suddenly. He shifts, peering down at her in the darkness. Her chin now rests on his chest, her hair flared out around her bare shoulders. He thinks in that moment how much she reminds him of Taylor. Or how much Taylor reminded him of her, but he doesn't dwell on this too much.
"LA? This whole time?"
"But...that's not far."
"Well observed Benson."
"Well...what were you doing there?"
She shrugs. "This and that."
"This and that?"
"No I won't."
She closes her eyes, drawing a dramatic breath. "I'm an actress. Or well I want to be one. So far it isn't working out so good."
"What have you gone deaf in two years? Yes. An actress."
She feels him squeeze her tighter and he chuckles his gaze returning to the ceiling. "You have no idea what's been going through my head these past two years."
She gulps. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. I had these images of....well never mind. I can't believe you're trying to be an actress."
She pushes the feeling of bile rising up her throat down and away, instead sitting up and pulling the sheets with her. "I had this one audition last week. It was for a kids infomercial, they remembered me from ICarly!"
He smiles up at her, sitting cross legged beside him, the sheet pulled tightly around her chest.
"How did it go?"
"They're going to call me this week," she grins, biting down on her lower lip. His hand betrays him, toying with the ends of her hair hanging down her shoulders.
"If things are going so good in LA, why you here?"
Honestly, she couldn't even answer that question for herself let alone the naked boy in the bed. There were a lot of things Samantha Puckett was grappling with since arriving in New York.