Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I wish we could feel this way forever.”

It was soft, murmured under the starlit sky, effortlessly flowing from your lips, as if the words were meant to be said. Really, they weren’t, and the subtle disruption of peace could’ve been held off, but you found yourself breaking the silence anyway. Frank, who sat next to you on the rusty playground swing only smiled gently, glancing towards the sky for answers. He didn’t quite understand what you meant, but he knew well enough not to question you.

“Me too,” he whispered back, slowly swaying while you gripped the chains of your swing until your palms stung.

The November chill was biting, and the metal froze your fingers, but you clung to it like a lifeline. The whole night lacked stability, and you craved balance as you drowned in nostalgia. It was the last day of Frank’s fall break, and he had scaled your house at ten o’clock to convince you to go out with him. Not in the traditional way, but in the way things always were. Shitty slurpees and sugar highs, swing sets and broken slides. It couldn’t have been one o’clock yet, but you vaguely remembered midnight ticking by on Frank’s watch. You weren’t sure when you’d be getting home, or if you’d return home at all. For now, you had Frank and your childhood in the same place, and you weren’t ready to let go just yet.

“Do you miss us?” you asked suddenly, kicking at the playground sand. “Like, the way things used to be?”

He thought for a moment, glancing towards you, and then back at the moon as he picked up momentum. “I don’t think we’ve changed. I miss you when I’m away, though, yeah.”

You chewed your lip in thought. He didn’t think you had changed, but you knew the truth. For starters, you were no longer his priority. The last few months had understandably been about his studies, but he had started talking about some girl in his class. It wasn’t about you anymore. It was about her. The same girl that you felt threatened by, even if Frank claimed that she would never change your relationship. You couldn’t bring yourself to hate her, not when Frank adored her so much, always wishing for the courage to ask her out. She was everything you weren’t—she was wanted.

“We have, Frank,” you mumbled, watching him swing while you sat placidly. “I’m not—You’re not mine anymore.”

The sentence made him still, his heels dragging in the sand as you spoke sorrow into the air. It created a suffocating tension in an instant, the park suddenly filled with trepidation as he slowed to a stop. “I never really was,” he said quietly, as if he were scared to speak.

Scared to break your heart, to shatter your hope as you learned that the dream you’d been living since the summer of seventh grade was a lie. That he was never yours, and that you never had a shot with him. Every kiss, touch, fuck had been for fun, not out of love and admiration. It left you desperate, grasping at straws as you strove for a pretty little lie. Something, anything to save you from the harsh reality he had served.

“Kiss me,” you requested softly, turning to face him. “Kiss me and tell me you feel nothing.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, and Frank looked at you with vulnerability swimming in his eyes. He couldn’t take back the past, the awful truth he had spilled a moment before. It was terrifying, the consequences and crescendos, and the shattering of a moment so fragile and fated to break. Frank would never deny you of something so important, but this was different. He couldn’t kiss you now, not after you’d essentially spilled a five-year-old secret.

Tell me you feel nothing.

You felt something for him. Every time he touched you, you were in love with him. You wanted him, and he fucked you with incredible nonchalance, finding nothing more than fun in late-night hookups. He’d seen your distance, and yet you submitted to him as if you weren’t broken down by every kiss. You fell apart in his hands, hoping to be fixed by requital, little white lies that would never come to be. He wasn’t yours, and he never would be.

“I can’t,” he breathed, horror shining in his eyes. “I can’t do that to you.“

With little more than desperation to your name, you tried again. “Frank, please.”

He had broken you, and four words were all it took. Four words that he had been hiding since middle school, fooling you into believing that maybe, deep down beneath quickies and meaningless kisses, he felt something. Almost to prove himself wrong, Frank cupped your cheek, tentative as he brushed away invisible tears. The whole scene bled adolescence, the two of you seated on the same playground swings you’d spent your childhoods on. Directly across from you was the slide he’d first kissed you under, and the monkey bars his friends had watched from. Memories lived in this park, and he had tainted them with nightmares and shattered dreams. Now, his lips were pressed against yours—not because he loved you, but to prove that he didn’t.

He kissed so easily, with foreign elegance that rivaled his usual playfulness. His lips moved leisurely, tossing out the concept of quick and painless. Slow and sensual seemed to be his route, moving his free hand to the small of your back to bring you closer. As much as Frank loved being right, he had never wanted to be so wrong. He wanted to know that he was in love with you, and be hit with cartoonish desire. He wanted it to be an epiphanic kiss, as if he would know in the moment that you were meant to be his. It was subtle, too subtle for him to notice, and he pulled away with a melancholic expression.

“Nothing?” you asked, voice teetering on the edge of breakage.

Frank could tell, and he let his eyes fall shut in thought, searching for the same feeling he got around Jamia. But his heart didn’t stop, and you didn’t take his breath away. He didn’t get clammy and stutter around you, awkwardly trying to tell you how pretty you were while simultaneously holding himself together. You were his best friend, and he could say and do whatever he wanted around you. He didn’t feel his stomach drop when you walked by, and praise rolled easily off his tongue in the most risqué scenarios. You weren’t her.

“Can I–” he began, reaching for you, and then pulling away. “Let’s just go back to my car, okay?”

You obliged, nodding as he took your hand in his, hopping off the swings to follow him to the street. It wasn’t like a few months ago, when he kissed you beneath the streetlight, and you laughed the whole way home. There was no resemblance to any time before this, times when you had hope in your heart that maybe he felt the same. Instead, he helped you into the backseat, sliding in next to you before locking the doors. Part of Frank still wanted to preserve the playground’s innocence, and having sex or arguing weren’t really ways to make that happen.

You sat back against the door, watching him with vague curiosity as he shuffled around in the seat. He was tempted to make a move on you, but shame ran through his veins at the idea. It wasn’t to hurt you further, but rather the opposite–Frank himself was praying that something stronger would make the flame burn brighter.

It was hidden behind oblivion though, and even if you let him have you, he’d never be able to see the truth. He’d never be able to tell you how much he loved you, not if he was blind to it. At the moment, he believed that he was in love with another girl, the same kind that he’d told you not to worry about. Those girls “meant nothing to him,” and you would “always be his number one.” That was the ironic part–you were always going to be his, but he would never be yours.

He looked at you with needy eyes, and you hesitated as he reached for you. It was obvious, and he spoke something so soft and jarring that you nearly fell apart all over again. “I love you.”

“No, Frank, c’mon,” you said, sighing as tears welled in your eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

He almost grew defensive, but he reached out to you instead, holding your hand soothingly. It didn’t stop the tears from falling, but it kept you anchored, and that was all you could really ask for.

“I’m not lying,” he said earnestly, caressing the back of your hand. “I love you, just… not the way you love me.”

You knew he loved you as a friend. After five years together, how could he not? But, the idea of sleeping with you after breaking your heart told a different story, and it crushed you further as you dwelled on it. Did Frank love you as a friend, or did he love you for your body?

“Why do you love me, then?” you asked, your voice clear and cutting despite the tears that spilled over.

Frank was quick to wipe them away, his thumb curving down to sweep across your bottom lip. They didn’t part for him, not this time, and he answered your question with mild reluctance. “I love you because you’re my best friend. You’re so goddamn special, and I want you to know that every time I look at you.”

Every lie read like the truth, and you gave into him so fucking easily. Now was no different, and you gave a sniffle and a nod before holding his face in your hands. Twisted relief washed over him at your touch, and he knew he didn’t deserve it as your lips slotted against his. He was a puzzle, moving with passion and audacity as if he hadn’t cut you open a minute before. God, how could he break you with such grace just to turn around and kiss away the pain?

Each kiss felt like the first, and you melted against him as his tongue swept across your lower lip. You threw caution to the wind, shoving your feelings aside as he pulled you closer, needing to feel your skin against his. It was moments like these that tricked you–his sense of longing, his ache to be touched and loved by someone like you. He had grown dependent on your treatment, pressing himself against you as he leaned back against the car door. His arms hooked around your waist, lips moving quicker as his tongue glided against yours, hardly having the strength to pull away.

It was all filled with desperation and passion, a mutual need for something greater. The two of you battled for something real, only to come clean with hidden truths and adolescent lies. Frank could see it now, the way you’d looked at him your whole friendship–that longing gaze, as though you were begging him to notice it. He understood how it felt to be hopelessly in love with someone, hoping that for a moment they would see it and say something. Yet here he was, wrapped up in your arms, kissing you into oblivion to bury his feelings for another girl.

His tactics worked for a little while, and you found yourself caught up in him. He tasted like cherry slush but he smelled like fucking spearmint, as Frank was ever the epitome of contradiction. His hands were soft and warm against your skin, creeping beneath your shirt while you shifted in his lap. He always touched you with fragility, but you wouldn’t mind if he kicked it up a notch tonight. Frank had hurt you enough as it was, so what was a little more?

Your hands raked through his hair, tugging him closer as he moaned against your lips. The confinement was uncomfortable, and Frank slowly tried to sit in the seat while avoiding the buckles. He pulled away, and you were left to kneel above him, listening to him groan softly as you shifted out of his lap. He always looked so pretty like that, eyes fluttered shut and lips parted, and you felt a pang in your gut as you remembered that this was the last time. 

The last time he’d kiss you like this, and touch you as if you were his. The last time you’d see his guard down as he came, vulnerability crossing his softened features after they went lax. At the internalization, more tears pricked your eyes, but Frank was too busy in his own head to notice. For his sake, you blamed it on the dimly-lit car and pressed another saltwater kiss to his lips.

“Hey,” he whispered in the dark of the night, stilling you for a moment. “Please don’t cry.”

His utter negligence was astounding, but his ability to deny your feelings was even greater. Like always, you let it slide, allowing him to rub circles on your skin while you hiked his shirt up. You gave a small smile, wiping away the fallen tears the minute your hands were free. There were so many things you wanted to respond with, starting with the millions of middle school love letters that you never had the guts to give to him. You wanted to tell him how angry you were at him for treating you like a toy, or how suffocating his empathy was. But as you sat in his lap with tear-stained cheeks, you couldn’t find the courage to stand up for yourself, leaving the speech to rot in the back of your mind.

This time, as your shirt landed on the seat next to him, he didn’t tell you how pretty you looked. He didn’t say how special he was to have you, or how much he loved your body. He only left kisses on your collarbones, filled with guilt and sympathy, because he was too much of a coward to talk. A simple misstep could worsen the situation, so he kept his lips sealed and his feelings to himself.

With every touch, you prayed he’d wake up. That he’d come to his senses and realize that it’s always been you and that he didn’t need some girl from Rutgers to feel loved. That maybe, deep down, beneath layers of negligence and oblivion, he needed you. But he felt none of that. He didn’t look at you lovingly as you stripped off his jeans, and he didn’t give you kisses and gratitude as you took the condom from his wallet. The most he did was touch you with grace, letting his hands dance across your skin as he unbuttoned your pants and helped you out of them.

Once you were seated in his lap again, in nothing but panties, he seemed to regain his zeal from earlier. He shushed you gently as his fingers stroked you through the fabric, brushing against your clit and causing you to shiver. The friction was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but buck against him for more. He smiled softly as you ground against his hand, proud and pretty with the knowledge that he still had this effect on you. Even after months apart, he could still degrade you into nothing, sitting there effortlessly as you strived for his touch.

“C’mon, pretty,” he said quietly, still nervous to speak. “Are you just gonna grind against me, or can I touch you?”

You whined softly, embarrassment creeping up on you as you nodded. You didn’t want to be weak in front of him, and you didn’t want to beg for him like you always did. If anything, you wanted to leave this car and cry, but you couldn’t. Frank wanted you right now, and you were nothing if not his.

“Touch me, please,” you pleaded, letting his hands hook around your waistband.

He didn’t tease you for being aroused, and he didn’t grin when your hips jerked. He was textbook with it, collecting wetness on his fingers before circling your clit, easy and slow before they dipped inside of you. It was a feeling you would miss the minute it was gone, but one you had always taken for granted. Would you still touch yourself the way he did? Or would you find someone else to fall in love with, mimicking them until an inevitable heartbreak?

The curling of his fingers pulled you from your thoughts, and you buried your face in his neck. Soft moans spilled from your lips, and Frank shifted gently as they floated through the car. “You sound so pretty, baby,” he whispered, though it sounded sympathetic compared to the past.

Talking seemed obligatory now, as if the space would shatter if it wasn’t filled with something. Apologies, admission, anything to cure the conversation left hanging. Surely, it would be picked up again afterward, but you needed to hear something. For now, it was tender praise, at least until he could bring himself to shred your hope again.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, sounding hurt as tears streamed down your cheeks. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby.”

It was as if you weren’t naked in the back of his sedan, showcasing heartache and vulnerability as he cradled you in his arms. His hand still rested on your back, rubbing slow circles while his fingers crooked at a similar pace. Frank never wanted to hurt you, but here he was, holding you while you cried over the truth. Your situation was painfully similar—you didn’t want to cry, nor did you want to hurt Frank, but you failed to beat your only requests.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked, pausing as you lifted your head.

You sniffled softly, “No. God, Frank, just fuck me, please.”

He hesitated at first, sitting still as his fingers slipped out of you. “Are you sure?”

This time, you didn’t answer. Not with broken begging, or a buck of your hips. Instead, you leaned in again, cupping his cheek and kissing him gently. You treated him with care, almost worried that too much passion would throw him off guard, so you stuck to reassurance and light touches.

“Please,” you begged him, sounding so much different from past hookups.

You weren’t pleading because you wanted him, but because you needed him. You needed him to fill you up, grounding you in a situation out of your control. You couldn’t make him love you, but you could feel like he did for a moment more. Thankfully, he gave in, squirming out of his boxers while you hovered above him.

One of his hands traced your figure, the other stroking himself to hardness, and the moment almost felt tender. There wasn’t a single sound until you tore open the condom wrapper, and even then, the two of you stayed quiet. The lack of praise was almost haunting, and the absence of teasing was even worse. It didn’t feel like you were having sex with Frank, but rather the shell of him, sorrow building a wall between the two of you.

When you sunk down on him, there was no smile and heated kiss. You bit your lip and held back tears, the fullness almost painful tonight. He didn’t belong inside of you, nor did he belong to you, but he lifted your hips like he did. In turn, you ground against him like you were his, as if it were still August, and he had a few weeks left before college; before everything changed.

By this point, the praise had to come out, as Frank was unable to keep quiet when you were treating him so well. He didn’t think he deserved it, to be touched like this, and yet you were outpouring love as always. The least he could do was tell you how good you were doing, but it only drove the knife further.

“God, baby, you look so pretty,” he said, a sliver of orange light illuminating you. “I don’t deserve you.”

Even when he was buried inside of you, he was still so sweet. His sympathy stung though, and you couldn’t help but swallow your tears as you ground your hips against his. He moaned, light and pretty, floating through the silent car.

“You do,” you assured him, voice still broken from shedding tears. “Please don’t say that.”

He bit his tongue, not wanting to lead you on further. “You’re being so good to me–I don’t think I deserve that.”

Through watery eyes, you choked out a laugh. It was soft and shattered, Frank looking at you curiously as he controlled your hips. “Fuck, can we have this conversation when your dick isn’t inside of me?”

“Of course,” he smiled, kissing you gently.

For the first time all night, you couldn’t hear your heart break. You could barely remember the events of the past hour, bitter truths and a blurry trip to 7-Eleven. All that mattered at the moment was you and Frank, and the way things felt now. God, you could feel him, filling you up with each eager thrust. He always got so desperate to feel you, for wet warmth and desire meant solely for him. It swirled in your stomach and pulled your muscles taut, each bout of friction giving you a euphoric buzz.

You compromised on a pace, quick and needy, his hips rolling up to meet yours as you ground against him. While you didn’t want to rush things, you feared that the peace would collapse if you waited any longer, so the faster the better. In the meantime, you focused on the way he sounded–whining and moaning, pulling you in for kisses while your hands carded through his hair. You gave a tug, and he nearly whimpered, his eyes screwing shut as you nipped at his neck.

“Careful,” he said softly, regretting the words as they rolled off his tongue. “I don’t want her to think–”

But he stopped before he could finish his sentence. You pulled away and the lump in your throat formed again, your focus recentering on finishing. Frank was miraculous when it came to killing the moment, and you wished you could give him a fucking medal for it. An apology and a “never mind” threatened to pour out, but you sped up to prevent it.

Despite the burn in your thighs and the general discomfort of his backseat, you continued to grind in his lap until he was coming with your name on his lips. It flowed out so pretty, as if he were meant to be saying it, but Frank would never let himself believe that. He wouldn’t know he was in love with you if he was beaten over the head with it, regardless of your efforts. You came after him, clinging to him with your arms splayed across his shoulders for stability.

In your melancholic haze, you pressed kisses to his neck, pausing to ask a simple question. “Nothing?”

Frank was quiet, only shaking his head in response. He didn’t have the strength to shoot you down again, not after he’d torn you open several times before. Carefully, you lifted yourself from his lap, curling up in the other seat while Frank cleaned himself up. Afterward, he had laid down with you, pulling you into his arms in consolation.

“I can’t lose you,” you said quietly, afraid that anything louder would lead to more tears.

Frank merely pulled you closer, your back flush against his chest as he buried his head in your neck. In five words, he tore you apart, pressing his lips to your skin as he mumbled, “I think you already have.”

Bordering on desperation, you gave a soft, “What do you mean?”

“I just–I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

There was nothing you could’ve said to stop it, not that you could bring yourself to speak, anyway. Not now, and maybe not ever. Not when he was holding you in his arms, threatening you to break once more, just for good measure. All you could do was glance out the window, catching a glimpse of the same slide he’d first kissed you under. And beneath all of your hurt lived a lingering hope that he’d remember you someday, and long to be loved by you once more.