I Would've Loved You Anyway
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine, in any way, shape or form. The storyline isn't even mine, I stole it from James *G* Not implying anything about either character, this is a complete work of fiction, as in, not true, never happened. Song lyrics used without permission, they belong to Trisha Yearwood *G*
Pairing: Niklas Sundstrom, Scott Thornton
Notes: In response to the Remix Fic Challenge. Niklas Sundstrom's POV, from James' fic "The Long Goodbye." (found at: https://www.angelfire.com/mi3/TripleX/hockeyfic/tlg.html) You'll probably...okay, you will need to read that fic first, definitely, if not to understand this, because its a wonderful, wonderful fic, and everyone should read it. *G* And then you can read THIS to get the other side of the story. Enjoy :)
__________
If I'd have known the way that this would end
If I'd have read the last page first
If I'd have had the strength to walk away
If I'd have known how this would hurt...
I would've loved you anyway
I'd do it all the same
Not a second I would change
Not a touch that I would trade
Had I known my heart would break
I'd have loved you anyway.
It's bittersweet to look back now
The memories withered on the vine
Just to hold you close to me
For a moment in time...
I would've loved you anyway
I'd do it all the same
Not a second I would change
Not a touch that I would trade
Had I known my heart would break
I'd have loved you anyway.
And even if I'd seen it coming
You'd still have seen me running
Straight into your arms.
-Trisha Yearwood, "I Would've Loved You Anyway"
I've never figured out what went wrong. To this day I don't know what changed, what made him stop loving me. I can't tell you how many times I've gone through the entire relationship in my mind, from our first kiss to the day I walked away from him, and I still don't know. We went through hell together, and survived all of it. But when things got easy, when it looked like we'd finally made our way out of the darkest part of the journey...he wanted out.
Leaving him was the hardest thing I have ever, ever had to do. But I couldn't stay. I couldn't force him to love me. God knows I wanted to. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg him to try, to give me one more chance. Although even if he had, I don't know what I could've done differently. I know there's nothing about our time together that I would change, except for the end.
Even the beginning, all of the hard times...I wouldn't trade them. They only served to make me love him more. All of the bad days, the fighting, the breakdowns...he was mine, and I loved him regardless. No matter what he did, I loved him. When we finally made it through the dark, I thought we were unstoppable. I believed that nothing could take away what we had.
But even the strongest love can't stop bridges from burning.
~~~
December 26, 2002
I pick up the vaguely familiar black leather wallet from Scott's lawn, shaking my head. It's empty, aside from his driver's license, but I expected as much. I knew from Recch that he'd gone home with at least one girl...it could have been more, but I stopped him before I got too many details. I didn't really want to know, I never do; too much information makes it hard for me to get up the nerve to go over and make sure he's okay. I'm hoping the empty wallet is an indication that he's inside there alone. I figured he'd react poorly to Joelle leaving. I just didn't realize it would involve so much sex. But that's Scott for you. He can't face his problems, he hides them with passion and alcohol.
I take the steps two at a time, shaking my head at the pair of dark gray slacks tossed haphazardly over one of the chairs on the porch, wondering how they got there--but not really wanting an answer. Knowing the answer would make this harder. I already hate knowing that he's doing all of this to himself, to have to face it all head-on would be too much for me to take.
His front door is slightly open, and for a moment I worry that this is the time it will be really bad. I get that same thought every single time I do this. Every time I worry that it'll be the bad one. The one where he doesn't wake up. Or I'll find him in a puddle of his own blood. There are more worst case scenarios than I care to think of, but each time I come to help him, a new one forms in my mind. And every time he wakes up, bitches at me, and I promise myself it's the last time I try to fix things. But that never lasts.
When I find him, sprawled on his back, completely naked, on the middle of the living room floor, beer cans and condom wrappers littering the ground around his body, I tell myself yet again--I will not do this again. I will not go out of my way to make sure he's okay.
But God knows I'll be back. God knows I can't give up. Because, God help me, I love him. I have no idea why, but I do.
"Scott?" I say softly, still standing a few feet away. "Scott?" I repeat, a little louder, when he doesn't respond. This time his facial features twitch some, and I know he's still alive. It's stupid to be worried, but a wave of relief washes over me anyway. "Scott, I know you can hear me, get up."
But he's still ignoring me, trying to get me to go away. And that isn't going to happen, it never does. He should be used to it by now. I call his name again, almost shouting, and he continues to stay silent. "Fine," I mutter, "you want to be that way?"
I take a step closer, kneeling down next to him, and slap him hard across the face, nearly falling backwards when he sits up, cursing. "What the fuck, Nik?" he asks, angrily, as he rubs his now reddened cheek. He glares at me, his eyes still a bit glazed over; he's obviously still feeling the effects of the alcohol.
"I thought you were dead, be glad I didn't poke you with a sharp stick," I say, a bit frustrated. I've done this countless times, tried to help him, and he never shows an ounce of appreciation. I nudge him in the leg with my foot, forcing myself to not look below his waist. "Get up, I'll make you some coffee," and as an afterthought, I add, "And please, put some pants on, I'm seeing things I really don't want to."
At least...not that I want to see like this, knowing where they've been in the last 12 hours. I turn and walk into the kitchen, turning on the coffee maker, the same way I've done a million times before. He's talking to himself in the other room, though I don't know if he realizes it. I hear my name a few times, usually followed or preceded with an expletive, and then he finally turns his rambling to the location of his missing pants.
"Your pants are on the porch," I inform him as I walk back into the living room, leaving the coffee to brew, taking a seat in his recliner, one of the few items of furniture left. "I don't suppose you remember how they got there?" I ask, and instantly curse myself. If he does recall...I really don't want to hear about it.
He's silent for a long moment, seemingly contemplating the question. His eyes dart a few times, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head. Finally he gives up, presumably, because he lays back down and throws his arm over his eyes. "What are you doing here, Nik?" he mutters, sounding tortured.
No thank you. No appreciation for the fact that I came all the way over here. Just annoyance that I interrupted his hangover. Yet again I wonder why on earth I do this time and time again. "Does it matter why? I came here to make sure you didn't kill yourself, that should be all that matters."
He sits up, fixing a glare on me, and snaps, "I don't need you to take care of me. I can take care of myself."
I take a quick glance around the room, then at him, hair disheveled, still naked, eyes reddened from his excesses the night before, and I snort. "You've done a bang-up job of that so far. It's four o'clock on the day after Christmas, you are sitting naked on your living room floor, surrounded by beer cans and used condoms. Not to mention your pants are on the porch, and I found your wallet laying empty in the grass. This is taking care of yourself? You're lucky to be alive."
His eyes narrow, and he slowly starts pushing himself up from the ground. Once on two feet, he stumbles, falling back against the entertainment center. He can't take care of himself...hell, right now he can barely walk on his own. I sigh, shaking my head, partially angry, partially disappointed. I shouldn't keep doing this. I should just leave him alone, if that's what he wants so badly.
"Shake your fucking head all you want," he says, his voice low, angry. "My life is fucking fine, and I don't need you, or anyone trying to change it."
I stand up quickly, growing more livid with each word he says. "Is that right? You don't need anyone?" I ask, not giving time for an answer, just wanting to make him think for a change. "You can do it all on your own, Mr. Big Shot Scott Thornton?" I mutter the last phrase, mockingly, and hesitate for a moment. I want to piss him off. I want to hurt him. I want him to feel the pain I am right now. "That must be why Joelle left," I add, staring him down.
"Fuck you!" he shouts, his hands clenching into fists.
I snap. I can't take this again. I can't do it anymore. This is the last fucking time. "No Scott, fuck you," I growl, stepping a bit closer, keeping my eyes level with his. "You are such a stupid asshole. You take for granted everything you have in life, until it finally up and leaves. Then when you notice it's gone, you drink and fuck yourself silly to accommodate the loss. One day, you dumbass, you're going to wake up from one of your little stupors, and nothing is going to be there. Or worse yet, you just won't wake up. I for one don't want to see that. So maybe I should just leave, like everyone else." As soon as I finish the diatribe, I turn on my heel and storm into the kitchen, hoping to God that something I said got through the fog of his hangover to his brain.
I sit at the table, hands shaking, lungs heaving, and lay my head against the wooden surface. I never lose my temper. I don't shout. But I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to say something to get through to him. He's muttering to himself again, and after a few moments he walks into the kitchen, stopping at the doorway, leaning against it.
"Why do you care, Nik?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, "Why does what I do, or what happens to me, matter to you?"
I don't know if its the alcohol or if he's just the dumbest, least observant man on the planet. Any moron would've figured me out by now. I slowly lift my eyes to meet his, speaking softly. "If you even have to ask, you'll obviously never understand."
His brows knot up and he stares blankly at me, "What is that supposed to mean?"
I sigh, raking a hand through my hair, and I push myself up from the table. This isn't getting me anywhere. Staying longer is just going to annoy him further and hurt me even more. It's better to just walk away. Maybe this time for good. I walk through the living room, muttering a curse in my own language, kicking an empty beer can out of my way. Then I pull the door open, fully prepared to walk out.
But he stops me. "What are you doing?"
I turn, raising my eyes to look at him, looking angry and lost and still a bit dazed, and shake my head. I just can't do this anymore. I can't. "I'm leaving. I'm sick of seeing you like this. Maybe if you weren't such a fucking drunk, you would see the shit you have, or had right in front of you."
I try to leave, but his voice stops me again, this time angry, a growl. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
I lock my eyes with his, staring intently, and I decide I might as well spell it out for him. I don't have much else to lose. "It means that I love you, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. But I'm not going to let myself, not when you're like this. I felt sorry for you when I found out Joelle left. I just wanted to take care of you, to make sure you were alright. But now, I see you like this..." I look at him, at the room around him, disgusted. "And now I sympathize with her for having to put up with you. I love you, Scott. God fucking help me, but I do. But I'm not going to watch you kill yourself." I pause, wondering if any of this is sinking in. I turn on my heel, glancing over my shoulder as I push the door open. "If anything I said even matters to you, let me know, you know where I live."
I storm out of his house, fighting back angry tears, wanting to just get to my car before I broke down. I speed down the road, cursing--at myself for telling him so much, at him for being such an asshole--and choking down sobs. If this is really it...if this is the last time I go after him...who the hell is going to save him the next time?
"Dammit," I mutter to myself, swinging into my parking space at my apartment complex. "He isn't your concern. He doesn't want your help. Get over it."
Easier said than done. I climb the steps two at a time, wiping tears from my cheeks. I have to calm down. I need to forget about this. I need something mindless. I strip my shirt off, my pants, tugging on a pair of shorts. Thank God December in California is warm, I think to myself, making my way out to the balcony. I lay back, staring at the blue sky, squinting from the bright sunlight. Maybe if I can just get a nap, maybe the warmth and the breeze and the rest will do me good. Maybe I'll feel better when I wake up.
I let my eyes drift shut, hoping for sleep, but that is shattered when I hear my name being called. Especially since its a voice I'd recognize anywhere.
I stand slowly, walking to the rail, and look down at Scott. He looks a mess, wearing a ratty t-shirt and worn sweatpants, but he also looks...desperate. I can't quite make out what he's saying, but I get the impression it's important. "Can I come up?" he finally shouts, looking a bit defeated.
I nod, shrugging a shoulder. "I guess," I yell back, and then let him in. It only takes an instant before he's at the door, catching his breath from running up the stairs. I've never had him in my apartment before. I'm not sure its a great idea now, but I let him in anyway.
~~~
He was so weak. So broken. But he finally, finally asked for help. My help. That, in and of itself, seemed like a miracle at the time. He cried to me, clung to me, and I just held him as tightly as I could, promising him I would make it okay. There was no other way--I was going to help him. Even if it killed me, I was going to save him. Because I loved him. And I showed him how much that night. I kissed his tears away, cradled him in my arms while he cried, and claimed him, making love to him in the slowest, most intense, most careful way I could.
Our relationship was never easy. Happy moments were far and few between among the breakdowns, the withdrawl, the recovery. He'd been dependent on alcohol for so long, it was nearly impossible for him to give it up. He screamed at me, he cursed at me, said things specifically to hurt me. I never walked away. It wasn't him, it was the cravings, the addiction. He loved me, underneath everything else. I forced a hopeful, supportive smile through it all, even though I wanted to lock myself in our bedroom and cry most of the time. I was strong for him through it all, until finally the withdrawl lessened, the breakdowns ceased, the anger faded.
We'd reached the light at the end of the tunnel. The darkness and pain were behind us, or so I thought. I expected it to be our happily ever after. I suppose I should've learned to be satisfied. Because he loved me. Scott Thornton loved me, at least for a little while.
~~~
January 19, 2003
Scott's been quiet all day, which is unusual for him, as he's typically rambling constantly, sometimes to me, sometimes to himself. I glance up from the cutting board, meeting his eyes, and my heart lurches a bit. I'd been talking to him, but he apparently hadn't heard a thing. His eyes are dark, intent on me, the color of the summer sky before a tornado rips through.
"Scott?" I ask softly, setting the knife down. He smiles weakly, seemingly noticing my presence for the first time, even though he'd been staring at me. "Are you okay?"
He hesitates, bites his lip, and runs a hand through his hair, "No..." he says quietly, sighing. "I've got something I need to tell you."
My heart stops for a moment, and I ask him to look at me. I let him know he can tell me anything. But I keep working, getting out the olive oil, hoping that if I just keep moving, somehow I can stop this from happening. I'm not even sure what it is, but its bad. I can feel the dark, foreboding cloud settling over the room, the silence deafening as he pauses, shifting in his seat, staring away from me.
He takes a deep breath, then softly, calmly, matter of fact--"We're over, Nik."
No, I think to myself, dropping the bottle of oil on the counter. "What?" I whisper hoarsely, hoping to God I heard him wrong.
"We're done," he replies, his breathing rough. "I'm breaking up with you."
No, my mind screams, and I fight for composure. "Why?" I demand, my voice breaking over a sob, "What did I do?"
He shakes his head, sighs, still refusing to look at me, "You didn't do anything. It just wasn't meant to be." He walks from the room, leaving me dazed, tears rolling down my cheeks, my heart feeling like I'd been chopping it on that cutting board. He mutters to himself in the living room, and I follow him. This can't be it. It can't be. We were finally past all the bad stuff.
"...just one of those things that had to be done," I hear him say as I step behind him.
No! I want to yell, but I shove him, screaming a curse instead, "Bullshit!"
He steadies himself against the wall, and when he turns, he finally looks at me. His eyes soften for a moment, and hope springs up out of the pain, but then he shuts his eyes, clenching his fists, breaking my heart all over again. It's over. It's really over.
"Nik...please don't..." he pleads.
"Don't what?" I cry, angry, shoving him again, "Don't be upset because you're ending this for no reason?"
"I have a reason," he says softly, and the anger cools a bit. I want to know the reason...but hearing the reason makes this real. I let my arms fall to my sides, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands.
"And what is that?" I ask reluctantly, sniffling.
I dread the answer, and as if to taunt me, he pauses. For several long, agonizing moments, he stares at the ground, taking shaking, ragged breaths. And then he speaks, barely more than a whisper. "I don't love you anymore."
I freeze. All at once I want to run from him, I want to hit him, I want to cry, I want to beg him to give me another chance. But I don't do anything. I just stare at him, paralyzed, unable to react. He doesn't love me. After all this time. After everything we've been through. He just stopped loving me.
My heart could've stopped then. I wouldn't have known the difference. But it apparently kept beating, because it gave me strength. Barely. Just enough to push past him and run for the door. The tears come fast, hard, sobs wracking through my body painfully. I will him to come after me, to tell me he made a mistake, to tell me he really does love me.
But he doesn't come after me. Not this time.
~~~
I never spoke to him after I ran away. I never set foot in his place after that; I sent Hannan to get my things, because I couldn't bear to see him again. It was a blessing that the trade to Montreal happened so soon afterwards. It hurt to think, to eat, to breathe. And being in San Jose, forced to look at reminders of Scott every day, just made the pain more intense.
Distance didn't make it any better, I soon realized. All those little reminders followed me all the way to Montreal. He was a continent away, but he haunted my dreams. I saw him when I closed my eyes. My shirts smelled like him. I had countless pictures of us together. Ticket stubs from things we'd done on dates. A Christmas card. A Valentine's Day gift. Every single day there was something that made me think of him, reopening the wound, pouring lemon juice in it.
I can't take it anymore. The constant reminders. I finally walked away from him; I finally gave up on him, on any chance we had. I need to get rid of the reminders. I buy myself a bottle of wine, the first alcohol I've touched since that first night with Scott. As I go through the memories, tossing photographs into the fireplace, memories flooding over me, my heart breaks all over again.
With the good memories come the bad, especially that last day. His words rush back to me, as if it were happening in front of me.
"It's over."
"We're done. I'm breaking up with you."
"You didn't do anything. It just wasn't meant to be."
With each word I grew angrier, until finally the last words came back. "I don't love you anymore."
"No!" I shout, this time giving in and screaming the way I wanted to do then. I toss a few more photographs into the fire, cursing in Swedish and English, throwing anything in my reach. I finally grab my bank, the ceramic raccoon bank that my grandmother gave me, the one he teased me about, and as hard as I can, I hurl it against the wall, sobbing. A moment later I crawl over to where the shattered remains lay, sniffling, biting my lip.
I wonder if I can glue it back together.
I pick up the pieces, careful not to cut myself, and I notice a small, folded piece of notebook paper. My breath catches in my throat and I pick it up, completely forgetting the bank. I slowly unfold it, chewing on the inside of my cheek. I recognize the handwriting immediately.
Dearest Nik,
Throughout our entire relationship, I always had some stupid thought, telling me it was just a long goodbye, just something killing time before the eventual end. I realize now that that wasn't true. It was a long goodbye, but not because it was killing time between beginning and end. But because there was no way you could ever leave my heart, making what we had the longest goodbye there could ever be. I love you, Niklas. I always will. I'll never say goodbye, and I hope you won't either. Thank you for saving my life.
Eternal love,
Scott
The tears come again, pouring down my cheeks as I read and re-read the note, over and over, unable to believe what I'm reading. He loved me. He loves me. I fold the paper carefully, clutching it tightly in my hand, crying, slumping in on myself.
Scott Thornton loves me. No matter where it went wrong, he loves me.
It doesn't matter that he hurt me. It doesn't matter that he shattered my heart. It doesn't matter that he's thousands of miles away from me. He loves me. All the pain is secondary, the heartache an afterthought.
Even if we never have anything else, and that last day, that screaming argument, is the last memory we have...I wouldn't change it. Despite the outcome, despite the pain, if I could do it over again, I wouldn't change it. Even if I knew what the end would be, it would still have happened, I still would have fallen in love with him.
Because when all is said and done, everything else is unimportant when put up against the knowledge that he didn't stop loving me--that he still does, and always will. The nights I've cried myself to sleep, the way my heart still feels like a heavy, broken weight in my chest--it doesn't matter in the end. Because he loves me.
And that's enough to make everything else okay.
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