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loverandawriter101 · 3 days ago

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When the fuck is the next chapter coming out, i need something to cry about that isnt my parents for once....smh

(No real rush tho Darlin, just felt like being silly)

CRUSH | ACT THREE: SAFE FROM HEARTBREAK (IF YOU NEVER FALL IN LOVE)

pairing: natalie scatorccio/fem!reader

summary: Lack of proper communication, emotional rifts, avoidance like it's a job, and homoerotic gym classes! The true high school experience.

wc: 7300

warnings: homoerotic activities, avoidable pain and suffering, high school gym class, stereotyping, smut but only if you squint, delusional behaviour on your part

a/n: my bad for going mia everywhere lmao i was. like. i got really depressed while writing this and vanished off socials for a more than a few days aiugaiugha. anyways! hopefully more writing soon idk

ao3 / masterlist

PREVIOUS - NATALIE'S INTERLUDE TWO

NEXT - ACT THREE: SOMEBODY ELSE [WIP]

You wake up to the steady stream of sunlight pouring through cracks in the blinds and the unfamiliar feeling of a warm body pressed against yours.

It takes your brain a solid minute to catch up with everything. The scent of cheap citrus-scented shampoo and stale cigarette smoke clouds your nostrils, a combination you never thought you'd be happy to smell, but here you are, grateful to still be smelling it come morning. The soft puff of her breath against your collarbone is steady and warm, and an idle hand traces small circles into your hip.

God, you can't even fight the smile that creeps its way onto your lips, or the way your entire body seems to tingle at the fact that the exact girl you didn't expect to spend the night with anyone spent it with you.

Nat's head is tucked delicately under your chin, just like it was last night. You trace your hand up her spine, feeling the distinct bumps of her vertebrae underneath the pads of your fingertips, her skin prickling with goosebumps in her sleep.

Having a sleeping body next to yours all night is a strange feeling. It's not unwelcome—far from it—but strange nonetheless. You're used to quiet mornings and cold sheets with solitude being the default state, not something broken by soft exhales and the slow rise and fall of someone else's chest. For a fraction of a moment, you let yourself believe that this could be your new normal.

You don't realise how tightly you're holding onto the moment until Nat stirs. It's subtle at first—a soft inhale, the slight flex of her fingers against your hip. Then she shifts, just enough for her nose to nudge against your collarbone, and you hear the smallest, sleep-heavy hum. You'd say you're pretty sure Natalie Scatorccio just purred, but you're worried you'd be shot on sight.

"Hey," you whisper, a little too eagerly.

Her initial response is a soft huff against your neck that quickly turns into a long, slow exhale. It's the type of sound someone who's exhausted would make, or someone who's trying to make a choice they really don't want to.

You try not to think about that.

She doesn't verbally respond right away, but she does press a lazy kiss to your shoulder before placing her head back down.

The peacefulness lasts for another five or so minutes, then Nat grumbles something akin to "too fuckin' early for this shit…"

"I think it's, like, ten in the morning, actually." You chuckle to yourself as she slowly stirs, still grumbling complaints that you can only assume are about the time of day.

A sharp pinch is delivered to your side before Nat speaks again. "Yeah, like I said. Too fuckin' early."

"Oh, sorry," you say with a roll of your eyes. "I forgot you skipped every class before noon."

"'cept on Tuesdays," Nat murmurs quietly, gradually waking herself up. "If Martinez catches me skipping gym, he makes me pay for it at practice later."

You run your fingers through matted strands of hair at the base of her neck, gently untangling them as you go along. "It's not even soccer season right now."

"Nah, but he does 'regular check-ins' to make sure we're still up to his standards." She huffs, moving her hand from your hip to start tracing invisible lines on your abdomen. "Weekly practice sessions. 's why you never see me after school on Thursdays."

"Got it. Tuesdays and Thursdays are days I should never plan anything with you."

It's intended to be a joke, but the way Nat stiffens tells you it fell flat.

Shit.

Before you can backtrack, she's pulling back to sit up and stretch, extending her arms over her head and cracking her neck. You aren't quite sure when she put a shirt on, but a part of you wishes she didn't have it on so you could see the curve of her spine and the dusting of freckles you're sure dot her back.

"You wanna stay for breakfast?" you ask tentatively, placing your hand on the jut of her hip. "I make a mean pancake."

Nat grunts, very obviously feigning consideration for a question she already knows the answer to. "Nah. I can't. Sorry, Princess. I gotta get goin' 'fore my mom starts wondering where I am."

You know it's a lie as well as she does. She's never been a good liar.

You sit up a fraction as she turns to reach for her jacket, tugging the blanket up over your chest to hide yourself from the light of day. Nat's shirt rides up slightly in the process, and your gaze catches on the tattoos lining the length of her left arm—ink you hadn't fully seen last night under the chaotic haze of last night.

In the small handful of soccer games you'd watched her play before properly meeting her, you had seen the collection of patchwork tattoos grow over the course of high school. They all look like they were done on different days by different people, drunk at parties or in the school bathroom between classes.

There's (what you assume is) a turtle on a skateboard near her elbow, though the lines are crooked and faded. A beer bottle with a smeared label sits on her bicep, and right under it sits a fish you would see an elementary school student draw. There's a smiley face on her inner wrist, but it looks like she tried to scrub it off with something. It's scratched, faded, and half-erased, like she was embarrassed by it later. And, to top it all off, there's a random string of numbers on her inner forearm: 052996. A date? A code? A dare? You wonder if even she remembers who gave it to her.

Your fingers move before your brain does, reaching out from under the blanket to brush over the ink with gentle curiosity. "Any of these got a story?"

"Nah," she chuckles, grabbing her bra from the floor and putting it on without even removing her shirt. "At least, nothin' worth telling." She shrugs, looking down at her arm like it belongs to someone else. "Most of 'em are just… dumb shit. Placeholders for better ideas I never had."

You hum, reach back to resume tracing over the lines since she hasn't completely pulled away. "What about this one?" Your fingers brush one that looks relatively new—a particularly awful alien with Xs for eyes. "This guy your guardian angel?"

That earns you a soft scoff, but there's a flicker of something else in her expression. Fondness, maybe. "Guardian alien. Only shows up when I'm blackout drunk or about to make a huge mistake."

"So… last night, then?"

Nat actually laughs at that—real, brief, and genuine—and for a second, the air feels warm again.

But then she tugs on her jacket, expression shifting to something far more unreadable. "Seriously, though. I gotta bounce."

You nod slowly, even though you don't want to. Your hand stays ghosting near her arm for a moment longer before dropping back to the bed, watching her tug her jacket on over the same arm you had just been touching.

"Could you pass me a shirt?" you ask tentatively, suddenly feeling much more exposed and vulnerable than you had all night. "Just… anything from the laundry hamper over there. I gotta put the clothes away later, anyway."

She grunts at that, reaching down to grab her discarded jeans and tugging them up her toned, scarred legs that look like they'd run from—or into—trouble more than once. "You need anything else? Underwear, pants?"

You're momentarily caught off guard at her question, a part of you not expecting her to ask or even care all that much, and that same part smiles when it realises she cares—even if just a little bit.

"Uh, yeah. Both would be great. Maybe a pair of sweats? The black one on top of the pile is fine, thanks."

Another grunt in acknowledgement as she moves to dig through the pile of clean clothes, tossing you the requested attire.

Although you know she's leaving, you can't help but let yourself feel slightly delusional—absorbing the idea that she's doing this out of a natural feeling of domesticity, rather than any other reasoning behind her actions.

Nat hesitates before she moves any further away from you, shifting on the spot momentarily. "You, uh, y'think your parents are gonna give me shit? Ask me questions?"

You have to laugh at that, pulling your shirt over your head. "God, no. They probably won't even notice you're here, or that you're leaving. You'll be fine." It's not even a joke—just the truth.

"Cool, was worried I'd have to jump out the window." She pushes a hand through her tangled hair, fingers catching on knots. "I'm already fucked up." She gestures vaguely to her various bruises and cuts from last night, "last thing I need is broken knees."

You stand up once you get your pants on, trying to figure out how to break the tension. "Did you, uh…" Your eyes rake over your room, trying to find something you can use to keep her here longer, not wanting everything to end just yet. "Want… like… a toothbrush? Or, like, some clean clothes? Those ones still have blood on them, and—"

A dismissive hand is waved, cutting you off before she brushes imaginary dust off her jacket. "All good, Princess. 'preciate the offer, though."

"Yeah, yeah, of course, of course. No worries, no worries."

Clearly sensing the tension in the air, Nat clears her throat. "Well, uh, thanks. Y'know… for…" She brings her hands up—showing off the bandaging—then gestures to her face. "And last night, I guess. But, like I said… mom, and everything."

She's lying again. You know that as well as she does. Neither of you comments on it.

Your hands rest uselessly by your sides. A part of you is tempted to reach out and say goodbye with touch, but you're unable to bring yourself to follow through on the action.

When you don't do or say anything more, Nat grabs the door handle and unceremoniously shows herself out of your room, closing the door far more gently than you thought she would have. You don't follow her down—as much as you want to—and listen closely to the sounds that come from downstairs.

Stairs creak under her weight, thirteen steps in total, then silence follows as she presumably walks to the front door to grab her boots and lace them up. The sound that comes after about a minute is the thump of the heel of her boot against the floor, followed by the low groan of the front door hinges and the soft click of it shutting behind her.

You let yourself exhale slowly as sputtering sounds from the cold start of her diesel engine spill through the cracked window, and—

You could have sworn your window was closed last night when you went to bed. Strange. It's a bit finicky to close, and maybe the fact it's slightly ajar has something to do with the small collection of ashes on the sill. Her calling card, apparently.

You don't brush them off as you latch the window shut.

When the Ranger finally stops sounding like it's barely holding onto life, you look out the window in time to see her pulling away from your house and off to—well, wherever she goes when she doesn't want to be found. You know she said 'her mom,' but you also know she doesn't have any intention of going straight home.

You linger for a beat longer than necessary, watching the truck disappear past the end of the street, the pavement now visible from the plowing efforts that took place last night. The quiet that follows her departure feels almost lonely, like she left with something fragile you hadn't meant to hand over.

Eventually, the creak of floorboards beneath your feet reminds you that time is moving, and so should you.

You shuffle downstairs, still barefoot, and halfway to the kitchen when your mom's voice drifts in from the living room.

"Was that a girl I just saw leaving? She looked…" She pauses, trying to find the right words to describe Natalie's rough appearance. "Unpleasant, for lack of a better word."

Your dad grunts from the armchair, not bothering to look up from his book—Patriot Games by Tom Clancy—when he speaks. "Rough crowd you're running with now?"

"She's not… she just… she just had a bad night. That's all. Needed a place to crash."

"Well, as long as she isn't stealing anything," your mom sighs, sparing you a brief glance. "Or getting blood on my carpets. It's a pain to remove." Her brief glance turns into a long one as she assesses you for what feels like the first time in forever, her brow knitting in contemplation. "You look…"

Your dad finally looks up from his book to see why your mom is still talking to you, his eyes narrowing as he finally looks over you. "Look like you had an interesting night," he finishes on her behalf.

Feeling far too seen, you turn on your heel and head into the kitchen, although it doesn't do much to shield yourself from their gazes.

Stupid open floor plans.

"I patched her up and she stayed the night. Wasn't really that interesting."

A laugh spills from your mom, and you already know she's about to judge you for something. "Well, sure sounds interesting to me. Sounds like something your dad would read about in his books. Patching someone up in the dead of night."

Your dad gives his reply, but it starts to drown out as you grab a bowl from the cupboard and a box of… whatever cereal you grab first from the pantry. You pour it more out of habit than hunger, not even bothering to add some milk to the mix.

You zone out at the counter, not even realising you're popping piece after piece of dry cereal into your mouth.

There aren't any thoughts in particular that pass through your mind, but the one that makes its way through the noise is: What even just happened?

Last night plays behind your eyes like a film reel—a phone call, trudging through deep snow, patching up Nat in the passenger seat of her truck, spending hours learning about her and her life, taking her back home, kissing her in the dark of your room, exploring each other's bodies under no obligation to do so, falling asleep together…

Fuck.

You toss your empty bowl in the sink and trudge back up to your room, parents still talking about… something in the living room, making no effort to hide how little they actually care.

When you shut your door and fall face-first onto your bed with an oof, the first thing you do is randomly pat your comforter in an attempt to find your phone.

It takes… more than a few tries, but you eventually smack your phone and pull it to your face. And, before giving yourself time to think about it, you open Nat's contact and immediately text her.

[you]

you left cigarette ashes on my windowsill 🙄 rude

You don't expect her to respond anytime soon, and toss your phone onto the opposite end of your bed as you press your face into your pillows. Specifically, the one that still kinda smells like her.

Sure, her departure was a little… strange, but it wouldn't be Nat if it weren't a little odd, so you try not to think too hard on it. All that matters is that it was a damn good night.

Returning to school suddenly doesn't seem like it'll be as big of a chore when compared to yesterday.

The first text goes unanswered.

Which, sure. Nat has a terrible tendency to only check her texts once a day—a product of always having to hide her phone from her dad, you've learned—and then reply with the flattest texts possible. But you find yourself surprised when the text doesn't even get an acknowledgement by the following day. Not even a drunk text at 2 AM with a hitty meme from some obscure subreddit.

So, you try again the next day before you head to school. Something casual. Something safe.

Still nothing.

You expect to bump into her in the hallways that day, so you try not to think too hard about her not responding to your texts.

However, when you finally enter the halls, your first encounter with Nat is her turning around—as if she forgot something in the opposite direction of you—and immediately walking away.

The following week passes in a daze.

You tell yourself not to care. You try.

But every time your phone buzzes, a part of you still hopes it's her. Every time someone whispers her name in class, your stomach twists. And whenever you see the back of a blonde head with brown roots peaking out in the hallway, your heart stutters before your brain catches up.

You stop texting after the fourth message goes ignored.

At some point, it starts to feel less like rejection and more like erasure.

She hasn't unfollowed you on Instagram—although you'd be surprised if she even remembers she has one, being that she seldom uses it—and it's impossible to tell if she even got your messages, being that she has a Samsung that never updated past Android 10, so you can't even get receipts that tell you it was even delivered.

When you bump into Lottie Matthews in the hallway—the same person who gave you that cryptic information about Nat at that party all those months ago—you cautiously ask her how Nat's doing. If she's okay, or something along those lines. You feel like you fumble the words out more than ask them.

Seemingly caught off guard, Lottie hesitates before speaking. "I mean… she's around," she says slowly, adjusting the strap of her bag. "She disappears sometimes. Doesn't mean she's gone for good."

A beat. Then, softer:

"Don't take it personally. She does that with everyone."

Easier said than done.

By the time you have gym with her again, her bruises are starting to fade. She's taken off the wrapping—that she obviously wasn't maintaining—from around her knuckles, and the scrapes don't look nearly as bad as they did that night.

You wonder if someone else has been checking in on her. Maybe Van or Kevyn. You hope someone else has been, even if just for her sake. Although, selfishly, you almost hope no one has even bothered to ask her how she's doing, because maybe then… maybe she'll come back to you.

Even if it's just to use and discard.

But maybe she's already done that.

You end up against her in dodgeball that day. Nat's always had a killer aim, so you aren't exactly looking forward to being on opposite sides of the gym, but maybe this gives you a way to work out some of your frustrations. Even if it's just throwing balls in her general direction.

When Coach blows the whistle, you aren't one of those people who run to the center line in an attempt to grab a ball. No, you strategically linger near the rear wall and keep your eyes on the students fighting over the balls in the center, breaking off once they get a firm grip and run back to where you stand to 'tag' the ball into play by hitting the wall.

Six players per team. Coach Scott and Coach Martinez stand on either side of the gym, playing referee. Your team—comprised of four kids you never cared enough to learn the names of, you, and Taissa Turner—manage to grab four balls in total, leaving the other team—which includes Nat, the captain of the men's varsity baseball team, Randy Walsh, and three other classmates—with the remaining two.

So, despite your team's apparent lack of athleticism, you'd like to think Taissa makes up for most of that.

She certainly plays like a force to be reckoned with, anyway.

You try to keep your eyes on the game, but it's hard not to notice how Nat moves—quick, practiced, precise. She's always been good at sports, which is especially funny considering the fact that she's never been assed even to try. You've never been told exactly where her athletic ability came from, and it could very well just be natural, but you get a feeling there's more to the story than that.

Something inside you twists whenever she lunges, ducks, or pivots. She looks better—healthier, maybe—which should be a relief, but instead it just makes you feel more left behind.

You try to tell yourself it's just a game. That she's just a (former) burnout with a decent throwing arm and a chip on her shoulder. But when she grabs a ball and immediately clocks some poor kid in the thigh after tagging it in, you realize you're lying. She's good, and you're not as over this as you pretend to be.

So, when your team goes down four people, and her team goes down three, you realise you're gonna have to step it up, if the way Taissa is yelling in your direction is any indication.

You dodge the first ball that Nat throws in your direction, just missing your right ear.

"Natalie!" Coach Scott calls from the sidelines, but doesn't stop the game. "Below the neck! We've been over this."

You watch her jaw tick, but she doesn't argue with him.

Surprising everyone—but especially yourself—you manage to catch a ball that's aimed directly at your chest, successfully calling a teammate back into the fold. You watch Nat's footwork for a little while, trying to claw through the haze of annoyance that clouds your mind, and throw the ball you had caught directly at Nat.

Well, at least, you had planned to throw it directly at her.

Whether she dodges it skillfully at the last second, or your aim is so off that it completely veers from its intended path, it misses her and hits the kid standing to her left on his bicep. He hisses in pain, immediately dropping the ball he was carrying, and presses his arm over the rapidly reddening skin. The five seconds it takes him to walk to the sidelines feels like a lifetime as your eyes meet Nat's, and the two of you have a mid-game staredown that feels like a standoff straight from an old west film.

For a second, you're not in a high school gym anymore. You're standing in some dusty one-horse town, sun in your eyes, fingers twitching at your sides like you're about to draw a revolver instead of throw a dodgeball. She stands across from you, the sheriff's badge she'd probably hate glinting in the light. No words. Just you, her, and the unbearable tension of who's gonna move first.

In the end, it's you when Taissa yells, "Get your head in the game!" after a few seconds too long. Unlike Nat, her athletic ability comes from the need to be the best and outperform her peers—both a blessing and a curse.

And just like that, the saloon doors slam shut, and you're back in the gym, clutching a red rubber ball and a bruised ego.

You're momentarily flustered as you're called out of your daydream just as it had started getting good. You throw your ball too early and miss an easy catch that would have given you a huge advantage you so desperately need to finish this game once and for all.

Nat's body language shifts as your third missed shot whiffs past her. She looks at you like you're the unlucky rabbit, and she's the coyote who's already sunk her teeth in. Her eyes lock onto you with a predator's accuracy, a sharp contrast to the girl who'd barely been trying moments prior. She grabs a ball that rolls idly across the ground between the two of you, and whips it in your direction like she plays softball instead of soccer. She barely misses your shin with a throw that must reach fifty miles an hour, curving only at the last second to miss. It's a good thing, too—you wouldn't have dodged that in time.

The following five minutes are a combination of barely missed throws, people getting tagged out and back in, and a level of exertion you aren't used to in a grade school dodgeball game. And, through it all, neither you nor Nat gets tagged out.

You're both panting, sweating something fierce, and maintaining some fucked up eye contact far too sensual for a gymnasium. This encounter feels like something out of an erotic sports novel, and the cherry on the cake is the way her hands run through her sweaty hair, pushing it from her face and—

This isn't a gym or the wild west—this is your bedroom. Nat's panting from an entirely different type of exhaustion, and your face isn't slick from sweat alone. She's looking at you like you might mean something, and you're looking at her like she's the only thing you want to see.

You dodge another ball. So does Nat. Your tongue presses into her. Her head falls back as a gasp rips from her chest. You fall asleep with her head on your shoulder. She smokes a cigarette out your window. You jump over a ball that Nat throws. She ducks under a ball you throw. You offer to cook her breakfast. She leaves without a goodbye.

Past and present blur, and you hardly notice the rapid transition between the two until a whistle is called.

"Shirts win!" Coach Martinez calls from the sidelines, giving you and Taissa an approving nod. "Good work, ladies. Some real skill you portrayed there."

Taissa claps your shoulder and grins victoriously, acting as though she just won a championship cup. "We just gotta work on your timing. With a little effort, we could…"

Her voice drones into the equivalent of the adult voice from the old Charlie Brown shows, effectively becoming the backdrop to Nat stomping out of the gym and slamming open the door to the changing room.

You shrug Taissa's hand off your shoulder and murmur something akin to 'maybe next time,' and quickly follow after Nat, determined to get a brief second alone with her to ask her what the fuck is going on.

The door swings open to the sound of running shower water, shoes squeaking on the tile floor, lockers slamming, and the rest of the class filing in after you.

It takes a moment to locate Nat between the bleached blonde hair of cheerleader-types and the ruggedness of those who've spent too long on the wrong side of the tracks, but you do spot her, albeit closing her locker and making her quick break.

"Nat, woah, wait—" but she's slithering out of the room before you can catch up to her, and you get cut off on your way to the other exit by a group of girls walking in your path.

You throw your hands up in frustration, and the girls give you weird glances, but no one says anything about your sudden outburst.

You sit down on a bench between rows of lockers, placing your head in your hands as you stare at the floor. Confusion runs through your mind, and you find yourself even more baffled now than you were before gym today. Because… well, you're almost positive Nat is trying to tell herself that what happened between you means nothing, but you wouldn't have had a homoerotic staredown with someone whom you didn't have some sort of… something with.

You aren't quite sure what that something is, but it's definitely there.

"Dude," a voice from behind you draws you out of your spiralling thoughts. "Did you fucking see the way Nat was playing? You'd think she had something to prove."

Your ears burn as though the voice is talking about you, but you don't turn around to see who's speaking, instead opting to act like you aren't actively eavesdropping.

"Maybe she is," another voice chimes in with a laugh. "You've seen how fucking rough she's looked since school opened back up. Maybe she's trying to get an athletic scholarship to some D3 college, everyone knows she couldn't get out of this town otherwise."

"Seriously. She'll probably die the same way her fucking dad did."

You grip your locker until your knuckles turn white. You're usually calm, but this?

This might make you swing. There isn't much more that pisses you off than people talking shit about someone they don't know, let alone even begin to understand.

Top 40's pop music annoyingly plays from someone's phone as you change into clean clothes without really thinking about it, moving on autopilot like you had done after so many gym classes before.

Nat's focused face and wicked aim haunt the rest of your day and half the night, and you start to wonder if that encounter with Denny way-back-when was actually just a precursor for all the events that followed. Like the universe was trying to scare you off before you got too close.

You wonder what would have happened if you'd listened.

A month passes.

Not that you're counting the days, or anything.

But each day that passes makes you wonder more and more if you had given yourself to a succubus that night, with the way that every day feels like the gradual siphoning of your life energy. You stop putting effort into your outfits around the same time you stop eating on a regular basis. You still interact with your friends and do your schoolwork, but time quickly turns into a soup—dates and times intertwined and events overlapping.

It's somewhere between mid-January and early February when you see Nat in the hall, not running in your opposite direction for the first time in… well, since that titular night. You see her laughing against the lockers, speaking with someone you can't quite visualise through the dense crowd. Regardless of who she's talking to or why, it makes you feel a simmering rage through your lower gut and up your throat.

An anger that you try very quickly to smother.

It's not like you need Nat, anyway. You had friends before her, you'll have friends after her.

You decide you can take a different path to your class, and turn on your heel to head down a different hallway in favour of entirely ignoring her existence today.

You type out a long-winded draft to her number in algebra class, asking her… well, a large number of things, with a significant portion being attributed to her ghosting you directly after you fucked, which sounds suspicously like all the rumours of her screwing people then immediately cutting them loose. For someone who was so firm on not believing all the rumours that were thrown around about her, you find yourself wondering…

No.

You delete the draft without sending it.

Class resumes like nothing ever happened.

It's two days later, when you're sitting at lunch with a small group of your friends, that someone makes a teasing comment about how you seem 'extra depressed' recently, asking you if it has something to do with that showdown that happened in the gym some weeks back. It's something that's meant to be no more than a nudge between friends, but it hits like a punch.

"Fuck off, Alexis. You're the last person I need getting in my business. Don't you need to get back with Peter for the third time this year?"

Everyone at the table goes quiet. Smiles freeze and fall, and awkward glances are exchanged.

It's a solid thirty seconds of you staring down at your food in tense silence before someone else at the table—Ellie—speaks softly. "That's… not like you."

You feel bad immediately. Of course you do. The worst thing Alexis ever did to you was steal your Go-Gurt in third grade. And she gave you two the next day to make up for it. So, really, she hasn't done anything at all to you but be your friend.

"I'm fine," you murmur, standing up far too quickly from the table and leaving the cafeteria before you can further embarrass yourself in front of all your friends.

You almost have a panic attack in the same janitor's closet where you spoke to Nat around homecoming.

When the hell did you become someone who lashes out at friends?

Lecture hall on Friday is when you hear someone whisper Nat's name between the sound of shuffling papers and flickering lights. You aren't sure what they say—you aren't sure it even matters—but it hits you all the same. Whether it's in a positive view or a negative one, you still feel like a bucket of cold water is dumped over your head immediately.

You can't focus for the rest of the period, the biology textbook you were flipping through stopping on the page about human reproduction, which feels more like a slap in the face than something to laugh about.

At some point, the music you've been vaguely listening to just starts to bleed into music Nat would listen to, and you rip out your earbuds with an emotional tug, sending them sprawling across the desk and pulling your phone into your line of view. As you shakily unlock the phone, you open up Instagram before you can stop yourself. Your fingers move on autopilot, navigating to your following list and clicking on Nat's username.

Unsurprisingly, her last post is still from a year and a half ago—a photo of her posted up alongside a pillar outside of school, smoking a cigarette in her leather jacket with a partial smile.

It almost feels like nothing's changed for her. That you were no more than a way to pass the time. And maybe that's all you were—a warm body with a pair of ears that were willing to listen.

Time moves on.

Monday, you see her in the quad, standing between Van and Lottie. She's smiling—genuinely, it seems. Lottie and Nat are smoking cigarettes while Van stands with their arms crossed, rolling their eyes after whatever Nat says.

The next time Nat ashes her cigarette, her eyes drift across the melting snow and meet yours. It's a fleeting moment that feels like it lasts for five lifetimes rather than just five seconds, and has you stopping dead in your tracks.

Then she looks away. She says something to Van. They both laugh.

You feel bitter resentment claw into your throat in the form of stomach bile, threatening to spill in a half-empty garbage can or backpack. You drink some water from the bottle you forgot was in your hand as you head back into the school, not bothering to stop and acknowledge Ms. Wheeler when she scolds you for running in the halls.

The bathroom stall in the west-wing women's bathroom becomes your temporary reprieve, slamming the door shut and collapsing on the toilet as you break into silent sobs.

You decide that today is the day you say something. You don't even know if you want closure or answers, and you're not sure which would make you feel better—or worse.

You follow after Nat before she can slip away once more, catching up to her in the parking lot and grabbing the sleeve of her leather jacket.

"Are you seriously just gonna pretend none of it happened?" you ask as you spin her around, your grip firm. "Why won't you just talk to me, Nat?" Your voice cracks out a little more desperately than you intend it to, and you already know you look like a puppy left out in the rain too long.

"I'm not…" she scoffs, although it sounds more like a half-hearted exhale than anything else. "You're making this a bigger deal than it is. I've just been busy."

"Busy? For over a month?" You push back, your grip tightening to the point you swear it'll leave permanent indents in her leather jacket. "We slept together, Nat. You cried in my bed. You spent the night with me."

Nat pulls back from your grip, stumbling slightly as she does so. "I was fucking drunk, alright? People say shit when they've had a few to drink."

"Bullshit, you were drunk. You were stone-cold sober, Nat. Are you forgetting I was there, too? Or do you think that you were the one who patched yourself up that night?"

"It was just sex, alright!" she almost yells, then quickly glances around to make sure no one heard her. "That's all it fucking was. Stop making this into something it isn't, okay?"

"This isn't lust, Natalie. I… I know the difference. You can't keep telling me that you don't—!"

"Don't what?" Nat snaps, "Feel something?" She scoffs—like the very idea offends her. "I don't. I told you that. That was just a little bit of fun! Some fucking… stress relief after an intense night, okay?!"

"So, what then? Do you fuck everyone you tell your life story to? Then take your time in bed with them? Letting them… letting them learn your body? You learning theirs? Being slow and gentle and—"

"Oh my God!" she laughs incredulously. "So what, I told you some shit about me? Huh? Think that makes you special or something?"

You stumble over your words, attempting to regroup after her sharp response. "I thought… I don't know. I guess I thought we meant something," you whisper—not even sure she hears you over the ringing in your ears that no one else seems to hear.

Nat hesitates slightly, something like regret flashing behind her eyes before she speaks, her voice coming out oddly cold and monotone. "As cute as this little obsession with me is, I'm growing tired of the whole puppy-dog act. It's pathetic."

The rational part of your brain tells you that this is a defensive mechanism. Putting walls up ensures she can't get her heart broken, even if that means breaking her own heart. As long as someone else can't do it.

The irrational part of your brain screams at you. And, unfortunately, the irrational part has always been a little louder. When you feel your eyes start to water, you're hardly surprised. Always been an emotional crier, haven't you?

"You don't mean that," you murmur, swallowing down the lump in your throat. "You told me yourself that all you do is put up walls—"

"You don't know me." Nat immediately sneers. "So what? I told you some shit? Big fucking deal."

You step closer to her, on the brink of full-blown tears streaming down your cheeks, trying to catch her eye as she grabs a cigarette from a crumpled pack in her pocket. "I know you're not heartless, Nat. You don't get to act like that night didn't mean anything."

She freezes for a moment between inhales of tobacco smoke, the sudden sentiment of your statement causing a series of emotions to cross her face in the timespan of only a few seconds. You choose to believe it's because she's starting to give herself some kindness for once, that she's—

"God, not everything is fucking about you!" She laughs sardonically, the slight wave in her voice the only thing betraying her. "You're not some… fucking exception just because our encounter had some…" She actively gestures at nothing, speaking with her hands like she always does when emotions start running high. "Just because our encounter had some bullshit fucking… weight to it, alright?"

The tears start falling.

Nat's hand shakes as she taps the cigarette far too many times against her finger.

"We aren't even friends," she continues. "We have nothing in common. I only spent time with you because it was convenient and easy for me. What we had? What we did?" she scoffs, "It meant nothing. It was just convenient."

Your jaw hangs slack as her harsh words dig through your bones, and you try to come up with a response, but your brain is seemingly frozen in shock at how the girl who told you you made her happy ended up talking about you like this.

"Maybe that's my bad, for letting you think it meant something." A shrug. She says it so flippantly you could scream. "But come on." Her arms cross, the smirk she throws your way all teeth. "You really thought you were the one who would change me, Princess?" She says Princess like a punchline now, not a nickname. The word formerly made something warm curl in your stomach. Now it curdles.

"You've heard what everyone says. People like me don't do the whole 'feelings' thing. That's on you."

"I told you!" You shove her chest as tears hiccup down your cheeks. "I didn't listen to the fucking rumours!" Another shove, and this time she stumbles back at the action. "I've heard all of them, Natalie! Not for-for-for a second did I ever believe them! You've been called…" You frantically wipe at the tears on your face, "Fuck! What haven't you been called? Because I've heard murderer, thief, slut, cheater, arsonist, maniac, junkie, drunk—" With every word, you take another jab at her chest, to which Nat feebly tries to swat your hand away each time. "But rumours are just rumours! I knew they were all exaggerated, Natalie! And I asked you before assuming!"

The second Nat's back hits the wall, she's shoving you back—much harder than you shoved her—causing you to almost fall on your ass. "I didn't ask you to!" she yells. "You could have just assumed, like everyone else does!"

"That's not who I am, and you know that, you fucking asshole!" You step up in her space again, but don't put your hands on her this time. "You know now, better than a lot of people, that I actually want to get to know people!"

"Maybe that was your first fucking mistake." Nat's voice drops to a low murmur. "Don't know why you ever thought this would end up being anything more than casual, babe." The pet name feels mocking, and you absolutely hate how all the names she used to make you feel good are now being used to make you feel… well… the complete opposite.

You sniffle a few times as you take a step back, the hostility becoming slightly overwhelming at this point. That rational part of your brain tells you she's just doing whatever she can to push you back, prevent you from getting too close. The irrational remains louder.

Nat doesn't stop. All or nothing, it seems. "I don't get attached to people, in case you haven't picked up on that yet."

A watery scoff escapes your throat, "Right." You shake your head as your lower lip trembles, "Let me guess, safe from heartbreak if you never fall in love?"

"Yeah." Nat crosses her arms as she looks you over, "Something like that, Princess."

You don't know what to say after that.

You want to scream.

Or cry.

Or slam your fist into the hood of her car just to feel the noise cut through the aching silence she's left in your chest.

But all you manage is standing there, frozen in place as she turns on her heel.

"I bet it wouldn't kill you, you know," you spit as she walks off. "Bending your own rules. Seeing how far you fall. If only you could look beyond the walls you fucking built."

Nat stops briefly, and although she doesn't face you, she does turn her head slightly. "You don't know shit. Stop acting like you do." And she continues walking to her truck, leaving you to stand in the cold winter air, alone.

a/n: I'd like to think of act three as "the arc of pain and suffering". will there be pain? yes! will there be sex? yes! will there be misery? yes! will there be emotionally fueled interactions? yes! will there be moments of tenderness mixed in-between? yes!

woooo!!! pain and suffering!!!

#ao3 fanfic #CRUSH #27spoons #love her works #me being a fangirl lowkey

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