So.

He wants to leave.

He wants to leave you.

He wants to leave you for her.

It's not exactly unexpected though, is it? It's not like you haven't seen this coming. Doesn't stop it from fucking hurting when he says the words.

("So…")

Doesn't stop it from knocking the breath from your lungs, making you snap at the air, trying to fill your lungs and the empty hole his words leave behind.

Because he's leaving. And later, when he's gone (gone, goddamnit, and the word is bitter on your tongue) you double over, gasping for breath like you're drowning and maybe, maybe you are.

He doesn't—can't?—look at you when he says it, which is just fine because your trying to pretend here and it's fucking hard enough already, ok?

It's hard.

It's really fucking hard because he sees right through you and if he meets your eyes (and they're dry, completely dry) you might just break and let him see.

And later, when he's gone (and god, that fucking word) you realize.

Maybe he didn't want to see.

Because, who're you kidding? He could see right through everything, if he wanted to. But he doesn't want you, not like you want him (so badly, it hurts right fucking there).

He wants his Tess with her dark hair and her gentle curves and her vanilla kisses.

(He doesn't even like vanilla and it's just not fair.)

So he pretends he doesn't see the cracks in your mask and you tell him that you're happy for him.

And the best part? You are.

You genuinely fucking are.

Because he's happy. Happier than he's been in a long, long time.

And you, more than anything else, want him to be happy.

Doesn't mean it doesn't fucking hurt. Because he's happy without you. He's so happy that he's going to stop, suffocate that part of himself that was belonged to you, you and no one else. You always thought it was going to be DannyandRusty and the rest of the world.

You never though that a Tess was going to get in the way.

"So…"

(Rip put my heart and take it with you, please. Don't want it dripping on the carpet.)

Rusty doesn't believe in happy endings.

"It's not logical," he insisted, a little more then maybe, slightly, kind-of drunk as he slams his empty glass onto the table.

Definitely more then maybe, slightly, kind-of drunk enough not to care that Helen (or was that Hailey or Holly… possibly Harry?) is looking at him with something like pity, as he clumsily signals for a re-fill.

"Endings are the end of something. The end. As in no more. Finite. Basta. Aus. How is that happy?"

Another drink is placed on the table. He reaches for it slowly, his hand completely steady.

"Every ending is the beginning of something new. Something better."

Rusty sucks in a sharp breath. Ouch.

"He doesn't get to do that. He doesn't just get to decide that it's over."

(It's not fair.)

"He doesn't get to just stop."

Patricia (also possibly Patrick or Pandora?) carefully takes the glass from his hands. And yes, they're shaking. Congra-fucking-lations.

"He loved me."

The sympathetic smile across the table is in too many places at once and he decides he's now really, completely too drunk to care.

"What did I do wrong?"


Old stuff I found.