Bittersweet

Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own Victorious, nor any manifestation of it.

Her lips ghost my neck, fluttering, a mixture of breath and touch and teeth. She's in my house. A first. She's in my room.

She's in my bed.

It's dark but it doesn't make a difference. There were times before when closing my eyes could keep me from knowing it's her, but my fingertips have learned her form too well. She's her in every curve, every muscle and bone and goosebump. She's braille I've learnt to read, and she says Tori in stuttering script. Tori in everything she is.

Beck was quiet when I told him, shoulders hunched together. He'd stared at his tapping shoe, fingers tented in his lap. Maybe it's for the best. He said I was never really there, never really with him. That while my arms held him close and my lips moved on his, my eyes were always far away, my eyebrows always drawn down. That all he was left with was my body, a house with no one in it. He said he was tired of squatting in my heart, just waiting for its true owner to move in and kick him out. And she'd finally arrived, bags packed. He didn't seem angry. Emotion isn't Beck's style, and it's something that drew me to him at first. He promised serenity, and it's what he gave. I left him just as quietly.

All those memories. The bathroom. The car. Her room, lights off. The park. All the memories that seemed so hard, and jagged and painful, are nothing compared to now. I don't know what I thought'd happen. Like it'd suddenly be easy to be with her. Like everything would just click, and instead of loving Beck, I'd be loving her. A simple little switch. It's not easy though. It's not what I thought it'd be. All the romantic comedies... they don't have anything like this. It's all misunderstandings and hurt feelings and confusion, but it always ends neatly, wrapped up with a little bow, a kiss pressed against it. Not that I ever believed any of that romantic junk anyway. Being with Tori is messy, and sometimes it's like I'm still not even with her. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm not fighting her anymore, that I don't have to kill that urge to kiss her, to brush her hair away from her cheek when it spills over. I have to remind myself that who we are isn't what keeps us apart anymore. It's what lets us be together.

Tori presses a soft kiss along my jaw, followed by a quick, bright smile, a fingertip running down my cheek. The TV chatters in the background, a dry British voice narrating as a bunch of hyenas take down an antelope. The pack tears it apart, blood coating their muzzles, yelping and squealing as Tori's lips trace my neck again, her breath soft and warm. My fingertips slip under her short sleeves, skin warm and taut as an unidentifiable organ is dragged free from the carcass onscreen, purple and red and yellow.

She feels so soft and tastes so sweet. So why do I feel like that antelope? Like she's tearing me apart.

I don't think it's easy for her either. Tori's used to sweetness, to boys telling her how pretty she is, how nice she is, how wonderful she is. She might be all those things, but she's seldom heard me say them. I think she thought being with me would... I don't know, open up some touchy-feely side of me. But the only touching and feeling we're doing is on the outside. Neither of us has ever really fought for someone. We're so accustomed to people fighting for us. Of course we are, we're actresses. We expect it. Tori has my heart in her jaws, and her teeth are none too gentle.

"Can I...?" A whispered question, Tori's hand hovering over my stomach, fingertips just brushing the top of my jeans. I nod, tongue running out over my lips as she unfastens the button, and I swear for just a moment I taste blood. She's gentle. She's so gentle.