Archive of Our Own

She has warm memories, like the summer. Memories that make her almost kick her blanket off in her too-cold room because they are full of a sunny heat that lingers on her skin. Her cheeks will heat and she curls into her blankets like a cocoon and feels cozy and content until she remembers that those moments are gone.

She remembers being sick with a summer fever. Remembers her temperature skyrocketing and the air conditioner sitting in a box in the garage during the heatwave - broken. She doesn't remember why. She remembers laying on the couch, whining and knowing she was being obnoxious, but not knowing what else to do.

She remembers - remembering. Watching television with her mother, skipping school with a cold. Cuddling and napping and watching Pokeathelons in a daze. Her mother kept a small tub of water on the coffee table and dampened a cloth for her forehead every so often. Finger-combed her hair, and massaged her scalp gently.

Silver did the same for her, and she had tried to express to him, "I have this really vivid memory of spending a day with my mom like this."

He had looked at her, as if genuinely curious. She hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but now she realizes. Silver does not know what a parent does. She wonders who cared for him when he was sick before she came along. She wonders who will care for him now.

She had smiled at him, feeling dizzy and nauseous, but content all the same. "Thank you. I love you."

They had only been dating a couple of months by then. He had flushed and huffed and stuttered, "Shut up, it's nothing."

Lyra used to think that was cute. Silver was rude and awkward, constantly snapping at people and rolling his eyes at them. But they never got to see him blush. They didn't get to see him stammer out denials with flushed cheeks and averted eyes.

She used to think such little things made up for everything.

Sometimes Silver would get so frustrated over nothing. He would overreact and berate her, make her feel so helpless and worthless and stupid.

Ethan once told her, carefully, "Well... Love is love," by way of supporting her decisions, but follow up with, "But he's a jerk and I hate him."

She had replied, "I know," and laughed. Had tried to explain the thought process Silver had explained to her a handful of times. It made so much sense to her - he had low tolerance for idiocy, that was all. And she couldn't deny his perspectives on others; she was just more tolerant than him. Ethan feigned understanding, until Lyra had tacked on, "Besides, he's got such a short temper 'cause he's always picking up after my mistakes."

He had given her an unreadable look. She hadn't understood at the time.

Now she does.

What a messed up mindset.

She remembers Silver yelling at her, over such small things. She had tried to help clean his apartment and thrown out a letter he still needed, thinking it was trash. She had left a bin of clean laundry in front of the washer, once, and forgotten to tell him. She had broken something of his by accident, a simple, clumsy mistake. She gave advice when he was training, gently and politely. She had asked him to stop giving her advice if he couldn't match that tone. She had talked to him about when he was younger a couple of times. Once, she had asked about his family.

She remembers crying as he stormed away. Heart aching with self-loathing and frustration, doubling over with a tight-chest in a dark room. Silver rarely apologized. Instead he would usually concede to a hug, and she would pretend it was enough, desperate for him to pay attention to her and love her again.

But she has warm memories.

She used to daydream about her mother and Silver getting along - he didn't have a family of his own, and she liked the idea of him bonding with her mom. But they didn't get along, and she had been alright with that. They could tolerate each other and not complain to her, so that was enough. Silver didn't get along with Ethan either, but she had laughed and said, it was fine. "He's my friend anyway, not yours." She had added, "Plus it's good for if we ever break up - no big social circle fall outs."

She had said it but never really believed it.

One time he got along with them, though. One time they went to the lake. The temperatures had skyrocketed again, and she thinks it was Ethan's idea. Her mother had packed them all lunches and taken them there; Lyra had sat in the backseat of the car, beside Silver, and half-listened to Ethan ramble the whole drive. She hadn't been able to hear him very well; he didn't turn in her direction and the radio was on playing whatever had been popular at the time.

Silver's hand had rested over hers, casually, and his hearing must have been better than hers, because he sometimes contributed to conversation.

She just remembers being pleased that he didn't spark an argument. To be happy over such a small thing - others discussing a subject she found boring - was strange. But she had thought this is nice. Her mother and her best friend and her boyfriend were getting along, and the breeze toyed with her hair from the rolled down windows. This is nice. Silver's fingers were warm between hers. This is love.

When they got to the lake he had helped carry everyone's things down to the water. Ethan had jumped in immediately while Lyra's mother set up a nice reading spot in the shade. She remembers Silver chatting with her mother a little longer, but doesn't recall what about.

Just that they hadn't swam. She had gone through the trouble of trying on four different swimsuits and buying two, debated herself for hours which one to wear. But by the lake they had laid down in the grass. She hadn't even changed out of her dress and into her swimwear.

They had taken a nap in the sun, and she remembers so distinctly his warm skin as it tanned. Remembers burying her face in his shoulder and curling at his side, arm over his chest, one leg over his.

She remembers a lot of that. Remembers burying her face in the crook of his neck and breathing in his scent. Remembers him climbing into bed beside her, hours after she'd gone to bed, cuddling up to her and giving her midnight massages as apologies. Remembers his grateful expressions when she made him dinner, how pleased he looked to see her when she came by his place unannounced. That's the sort of thing anyone else who knew Silver wouldn't expect.

The problem is - those memories are all years old. Two, three years. Four years, on some - sitting on the couch looking through her photo albums together, discussing their journeys. Watching movies, playing board games, being domestic. So strange, from Silver. Christmas cuddles, new years kisses. Grocery shopping and Pokeathalon training.

Simple memories, but warm. Memories of love. Memories from the past eight years.

She tries, desperately, to think of something more recent. She knows these things have happened again, knows good things have gone on in the past year. But she just can't remember - nothing comes to mind. None of her memories sound like a stand-out story, but to her they were so clear.

Nothing comes to mind.

Just being yelled at. Being scolded, talked down to, ignored. Crying in her room and being fearful and alone. Asking him to come to bed with her, even if just to tuck her in and being shot down. Waking up by herself, and finding him passed out on the couch in another room. Long relationship talks that she hated just as much as him but had thought would be worth it. She was too clingy, he would say, then days later, Lyra already beating herself up for not changing a thing about her behavior to make him more comfortable, too distant. He was apologetic one moment, but defensive and offended the next.

"There was nothing I could have done," she tells Ethan.

"Yeah," he says, unsure of what else to offer.

Her voice cracks; "Break ups are hard."

He says, gently, "Yeah."

She manages to reign in the tears, but hears herself wavering. "I hadn't known. First one."

Ethan squeezes her hand twice, and looks away in case she needs to cry. Gratefully, she wipes her eyes.

She is probably being so annoying. She is a whiny mess who does not want to cry. She has already cried into her pillow for days. Ethan will receive her full honesty as always, but he doesn't need to see her break down.

"Sorry," she tells him.

He whirls back to look at her faster than she was expecting, and she's still blinking back tears. His free hand reaches out to cup her cheek, and even as he gently wipes at her eye with his thumb, he looks almost angry. "No, no," he tells her, "No apologizing, you're okay."

Her shoulders shake for a moment, because she isn't okay, not really. She is in love with Silver, and he doesn't love her back anymore. Her brain tells her that it's okay he fell out of love, maybe even still loves her as a friend, but asserts he should have broken up with her instead of dragging things out, treating her horribly and sabotaging the relationship so that she would be the one to end it. Her heart tells her nothing is okay.

Silver was her boyfriend. For years, he was the one who saw the absolute best in her, who cared for her more than anyone.

And now he didn't want her.

Ethan pinches her cheek and repeats, "You're okay."

***

She has to move her things from his apartment. It doesn't take more than a day; she doesn't own a lot. Ethan lets her stay with him, since his apartment has an extra room anyway. It's small, but honestly, Lyra likes such cozy living spaces.

They have lived together before without anymore conflict than is ordinary for good roommates. There are small annoyances with Ethan, like him borrowing her things and not putting them back. She doesn't mind if he uses them, just that she can never find them after and he always swears up and down that he set them back where they had been. He tends to load the dishwasher but not run it, folds and sets aside anything made of fabric that is ever in the living room, which makes her think it is clean when often it is something of hers she tossed aside because it needed to be washed.

But they do not have misunderstandings, do not resent each other over the petty details, and she enjoys having his company at arms reach. She is tolerant of him the same way he is tolerant of her.

Truth be told, she finds these things endearing, and cannot even complain about them without laughing.

Living with Silver had been much the same. Different in every way - but she had loved living with him, had felt comfortable and at home.

Silver has had one beer a night since the day he turned 18 - legal drinking age in both Johto and Kanto. He leaves the cans and bottles on the counter top and never remembers to empty them himself. Every couple of weeks she would dedicate an evening to rinsing them all out and carrying them downstairs to the recycling bins.

Silver never folds and puts away his limited wardrobe after washing it. Lyra does not fill in for him, as she has the same habit. They live their lives out of the clean-laundry bins.

Silver can cook, but dislikes it. He can never answer, "What do you want for dinner?" But to make up for the indecisiveness, will eat anything she makes him and look pleased as can be.

Silver knows the schedules Lyra keeps, and will always make himself free at the time she will arrive home.

Silver knew. Silver would. Silver had.

Past tense.

Lyra reminds herself, past tense, past tense, and packs the last of her things.

Their apartment - his apartment - looks empty without her things. The couch had been given to them by a mutual friend, but she will let him keep it. The friend had gotten along with Silver more than her, and she doesn't have any need for this. He had bought their bed himself, so that is his. The electronics are all his.

He owns everything that was theirs.

She is really not taking so much away, but her bags are full of clothes that would usually be strewn across the furniture. She has trinkets and decorations that had made the room look a little less sterile.

Now, with nothing but his basic furniture, tidied up in her wake, it is empty and sad. She wonders if this will still feel like a home to him. Wonders how long he will live in this apartment they chose together, now that he is alone. To her, this apartment has not been home for months. Months of the hurt and alone, though they had still been together. Then after that, months of lingering. Figuring out where she could go and assuring him, with a false bright smile, "I won't move out on short notice and leave you with higher rent than you'd expected. But I put in my notice at the office, and I do intend to leave as soon as I can."

He had nodded, looking frustrated. "Right."

Lyra had winced despite herself. She was trying to feign normalcy, but for him it was no act. This was an annoyance to him, not a heart break.

She had always known she would live with Ethan. When she'd voiced her worries, before they had broken up, he had assured her she always had a place with him. She had even moved some of her things in advance.

But she had hoped... That Silver might stop her. That he might not let her go.

But he hadn't. And now she was leaving his apartment cleaner than it would probably ever be again without her to tidy up after him.

Whatever.

Good riddance.

***

There are some shirts of Silver's that were a bit too small. Lyra had claimed them as pajamas, and naturally, brought them with her to Ethan's when she moved. She receives indignant texts from Silver barely three weeks later. Their text message argument is brutal. She tears into him for what he has done to her self esteem, he kicks her down lower about how high maintenance she is. They sink their claws into every one of the other's insecurities, and Lyra holds her cell phone to her chest, knuckles white with her grip, and cries as she waits for it to vibrate with his next message.

She doesn't know why she keeps reading. They just hurt, and she responds, trying to hurt him back.

She is resentful. Wants him to want her, to miss her, to realize he needs her like she needs him. She doesn't want to need him, and doesn't want to want him. But she does, and so for as much as she wants to hurt him, the part of her that is stupid and in love doesn't really want him to suffer.

She could stop replying.

Break ups are messy, and she's heard enough about it. She's always thought she would handle this with more dignity. Her messages are composed thoughtfully, but the mature thing to do would be to step away from it all. There is a show she likes coming on in under an hour, and she could distract herself soon. Could let this go. Go talk to Ethan and have him make her popcorn.

Silver's next message comes. Back and forth they have sent walls of text to each other, bringing up every little inconvenience the other has ever caused them, but this time his is short and simple. "Whatever. Never mind, some stupid clothes are worth this."

It takes her a moment to remember that's what they had been talking about. She gives her own short reply back. "Never said I wouldn't bring them back if you need them that desperately. When should I bring them by?"

He tells her "I don't care."

She tells him "I'll be there in thirty," and her heart races.

She takes deep breaths and reminds herself that he will be absent. She knows where he keeps the hidden key to the apartment. He will disappear. They will not see each other.

That shouldn't be disappointing.

It is short notice, but not so short that he can't flee from her presence the way he had when she moved out.

She arrives later than scheduled. She is nervous of seeing him, and tells herself she is just being polite, giving him more time to run. Lyra digs out the spare key and lets herself in without knocking. She steps inside and feels as though she is stepping into an alternate universe. There is a new entertainment center around the TV. She takes vindictive pride in seeing the disgusting amount of bottles across the counter. He is helpless without her, she assures herself, but is struck with an equal amount of worry when she realizes that is far, far more than one beer a night.

Maybe he has just had friends over.

Maybe he has been drinking too much, like he does when he is feeling moody.

She gets as far as setting down the bag of carefully-folded T-shirts on the coffee table before noticing Silver, sprawled across the couch. The back of it had blocked him from view. She blinks down at him, while he seems to be avoiding her gaze, staring at his open pokegear.

"They're clean," she tells him, not sure what to say.

"Thanks," he replies, as if they have not been trying to destroy each other for the past few hours. She is suddenly self conscious of the soreness around her eyes.

Then he pulls his legs in, leaving space for her on the couch. He flicks on the TV, and smoothly changes to the channel that airs her favorite show.

This is how Silver is, Lyra thinks. She knows him better than anyone, knows that this is his apology. And if she knows and he knows, what difference does it make if he can't say it like other people? As long as meaning is conveyed, it's communication. She takes the offered seat and smiles, though he only sees it with a passing glance.

Halfway through the episode his legs are across her lap. Another couple minutes and she's more engrossed in rubbing them than the TV. She runs her hands across his calves, but keeps her eyes trained on the screen to keep an air of normalcy up. Is this strange? Is it bad?

It's familiar. She knows he likes leg rubs, knows he is prone to muscle cramps from dehydration because he drinks more soda than water. Sometimes Ethan gives her back rubs, and once or twice has extended the rubs down her arms, down her legs, down to her feet as she lay in his bed in her underwear. Nothing questionable had happened, and she's sure the same scenario could repeat a thousand times just as innocently.

Silver had been jealous when it eventually came to his attention. They had to have a boring relationship talk that boiled down to Silver not wanting other people to see her in her underwear, even if he did trust her and Ethan both. She had agreed, and been a little bit pleased that he was possessive without being overbearing. It was not so unreasonable of him - rather, it had been unreasonable of her. Most people are not so obscenely close yet entirely platonic with someone of the opposite sex.

She steals a glance in his direction. He seems absorbed in the show he has never cared for, but listened to her ramble about countless times. Even without seeing a single episode all the way through until today, she is certain he must understand what's happening through the sheer amount of time she has spent explaining.

Against her better judgement, her hand runs higher, up to his thigh.

He doesn't so much as look at her. "Stop."

She stops. She would rest her hands on her lap, but his legs are in the way, so she lays her arms on top, this time sans the massage. "Sorry. I..."

She feels pathetic.

She misses sex, misses sex with Silver. Misses everything about his body; knowing all its quirks and him knowing her's. She wonders if he has slept with anyone else, yet. Wonders how long until he does.

It's the first time the thought has occured to her.

Someone else will eventually want him, and he will want them back. They will be better than her. Prettier, more mature, confident, quiet. More his type. In line with what he wants and needs. There will be no contest, and she no longer has claim.

"Habit," she tells him, quietly.

He doesn't reply, but slides down the couch a bit, nudging her until she is laying down with him. It's cramped, but a familiar position. She lays on her side between the back of the couch and him as he lays on his back, one arm under her. Her arm rests on his chest and her cheek on his shoulder so she can still see the screen.

By now she's lost track of the plot, but pretends to be enthralled. Wandering hands because her mind on the show. Right.

Did he hate it so much? That he demanded she stop?

Hypocrite, she thinks, because his hand against her back rubs small circles between her shoulder blades. She hears herself whimper and her face flushes with shame. Should she be acting like she's a free woman now, should she be sleeping with other people because she is not tied down? Let him know what he's missing? Or should she be waiting, wanting no one but him? Which is more appealing?

Neither. She knows, neither appeals to him, because both would still be her. Someone he does not want to date.

Lyra arches into his touch, overly conscious of herself. She buries her red face into his neck, feels her heated breath bounce back to her. Her chest pushes against his side, and the leg of hers that was curled around his raises higher. His leg, between hers, pushes just slightly.

His fingers are rough as always, and he knows exactly where she likes her rubs. Knows where her knots are, knows just how much she likes for it to hurt and which gasps mean what. He has to shift to give her a proper back rub, and they tangle together as easy as reflex.

It is reflex.

She doesn't entirely realize what's happening until she's gasping into his neck, pinned beneath him with his hand down her shorts, finger gently teasing at her through her panties. Her leg is raised up and she feels his erection against it, strained by his pants.

Rubbed her back, rubbed her lower back, hands on her ass, hands on her thighs. Inner thighs, squeezing and kneading, other hand in her hair, gentle tugs and scalp rubs. Hands on her hips, sliding in the space between hip bone and shorts. Unbuttoning them with two fingers, skillful and easy.

Fingers rubbing up and down, pressing against the cotton of her underwear.

She tries to say wait, but isn't sure what for. She isn't sure she wants him to.

Silver's finger tugs her panties to the side just enough to touch her directly. She arches into the touch despite herself; hears her own needy whine as if it came from someone else. She feels his cock twitch against her leg.

His finger slips inside her, and he mumbles, "Jesus, you're wet," before sliding in another.

Lyra manages another sound, somewhere between a huff and a whimper at the comment, but raises her hips into his touch. Her arms are around his neck, and she buries fingers in his hair, tugging gently in time with her own bucking. She wants him to move faster, wants the thrusting of his fingers to be - more.

He stills for a moment, and lets out an amused hum. It's a familiar sound, and she has to bite back a moan at everything she knows will come, a Pavlovian response to his voice. This is where she shows what she wants; where she rides against his fingers in desparation, and she does. The angles she moves her hips are different from the straightforward motions he makes, and it feels good, so good, but not enough.

She hates to speak during sex, thinks it is embarrassing and awkward, and so like always, she stills, pressed as close to him as she can, and pulls him in for a demanding kiss. They don't break away from each other fully, twisting around and with each other to pull off his pants and her shorts. It isn't a smooth dance, but it's one they are used to, so it does not feel strange, even at the pauses, the distracted kisses where lips barely brush, minds and hands preoccupied with undressing.

Silver is hot and hard against her, and slides in easily; Lyra's arms are around his neck again, and she tugs him down on top of her, shivering. He kisses the side of her mouth, then along her jaw as he slowly pulls out. On the thrust back in, he nips her neck, then down to her collarbone. She squeezes around him, pulling him in and pushing back when he draws away.

Their rhythm comes easily. Silver is slow at first, relishing the feeling. He withdraws so far that the head of his cock teases her entrance until she feels so crazed that she squeezes at his hands that pin hers down and demands, "Please."

"Please what?" He asks, pushing inside with a slow, deliberate thrust.

She shudders, too shy to answer properly but still aroused by the question, by his voice and heavy breath. She pushes against him in answer, and wraps her legs around him as he quickens the pace. It is erratic as it usually gets when he is close, though he is careful as always to pay attention to the want behind her thrusts back against him. He knows how she feels around him when she needs to come, knows the exact arch of her back. He knows to return to slow motions so she can ride him how she needs to; knows to let go of her hands so she can grip at his hips and guide him how she wants him.

They don't get that far.

Lyra starts sobbing uncontrollably.

A part of her is terribly amused at the expression on Silver's face, but another part is equally guilty for the thought crossing her mind.

Both are pushed aside by the part of her that had silently answered, "Please what?" with "Please love me again."

Silver's expression goes from one of concentration, forcing himself not to come, flushed cheeks, eyebrows furrowed, head hung - Lyra shivers again - to a startled look. Eyes wide, he looks somewhere between horrified and worried.

He pulls away from her, hands lingering on hers as he slides down to the floor beside the couch. Lyra sits up weakly, trying to cover her eyes with her hands, not bothering to wipe the tears away. There's no hiding this. This is not the quiet crying she is used to. This is not sniveling into her pillow with tears occasionally running down her cheeks. This is loud, wailing sobs, body wracking shudders. Her tears are hot and roll down her cheeks continuously - she can't remember the last time she really sobbed.

She feels stupid, half naked on Silver's couch with him tentatively wrapping his arms around her. It's comforting she supposes distantly, but does nothing to quell the crying. If anything, it makes it worse. His chest is uncomfortable to cry into, the skin doing nothing to absorb tears like a shirt would.

Silver curses into her mussed hair, rubbing at her back. She bites back the cry she was about to let out, suddenly realizing how ridiculous she must sound. How obnoxious she is being and how much he must hate it. Must hate her.

Lyra tries to apologize, but her voice cracks and won't come back. Silver pulls away from her long enough to give her a pointedly incredulous look, then returns to the embrace.

She doesn't want to look desperate to him. Doesn't want to look pathetic. But it's too late, and her arms are wrapped around him tightly. Her body shudders, but she can at least keep back the sound, now.

"Sorry," Silver says, this time. "That was," he stammers for a moment, not sure what to say or how to say it. "That was bad. Of me." He curses again under his breath.

"It's okay," Lyra assures him, by reflex. Her voice is weak and croaky. It's not okay, clearly. She almost dissolves back into tears when he pulls away, and is pushed closer to it with the thought of how stupid she is being. But he is simply getting his clothes back on, and hands over her discarded undies and shorts. She mumbles, "Thanks," and wonders what it's supposed to mean that he looks away while she gets dressed.

The tears won't stop. She shakes, sitting on the couch now and staring dully at the TV that has been on the whole time. She cries gently, now, but can't stop. She tries to speak once or twice more, but doesn't know what to say. Silver sits beside her, shoulder to shoulder. She wishes he would hold her hand like Ethan does.

"How can you just get over me so easily?" Lyra finally asks, but is startled to hear herself say.

The apartment has changed. He has been eating properly, she can tell by the dishes he hasn't cleaned yet. Even those have not piled up terribly, so he is keeping up with all the chores save for those beer bottles. She sees traces of the few friends he has; they have been over.

She wonders what they think of the break up. Wonder if Silver has explained that she broke up with him, or if he tells people he ended it. Both are true.

She looks at Silver in time to catch another incredulous look. "Are you stupid?" He snaps.

She flinches despite herself. When they first began dating, when she would flinch at his shouting, he would fret. He would sometimes apologize in words, other times in his own small ways, but he would feel guilt for startling her. These days her flinching makes him angrier. She watches his face go from disbelief to straight irritation.

"I can hardly sleep," He tells her, managing to contain his frustration. "I can only get to bed by drinking too much, I fucking hate everyone around me that won't leave me alone lately, everything is going shitty without you."

She hates how accusing her tone is, but she sulks, "None of that is me!"

"It is, though!" He insists. His voice goes brittle. "I hate this."

She tells him, "Me too."

But they do not speak another word for half an hour, while she rinses the empty bottles on his counter top. She does not cry from the domestic familiarity, though she wants to. She rinses, sets aside, rinses, sets aside, and continues on until she has them all.

She takes them outside and downstairs to the recycling bin for him, and then she leaves.