aacheinthejaw

[aacheinthejaw]

2010

beneath the boardwalk, part 8 (series masterlist)

glass in the park

warnings: the usual...angst, fluff, smut, etc.

word count: 13k

In late January, I bought a fur coat. I don't know if it's real or faux because I still haven't determined the difference in feeling between the authentic and the fake but I thrifted it so there's no guilt if it is made out of a poor chinchilla or something. It carried a dramatic feeling with it. I would wear it all the time. Sometimes, I would go out on walks just to wear it. I'd walk from my apartment to Grand Central and take the subway back just to make sure people saw it.

Alex returned to touring around the same time. While I was in a dirty slush-filled New York, Alex was travelling through the coastal cities of France. I knew it was cold there too but I'm sure it was much more conventionally beautiful and I envied him at times when I came home and my socks were soaked through.

We tried to talk on the phone daily, but time zones were difficult. We promised one another to always call on Saturday mornings for me so if we missed previous days in the week, I would always be able to tell him about my work week on Saturday.

Alex seemed to have everything and nothing going on. He'd play shows, get drunk or high, play ping-pong, take pictures of the Belem Tower, and watch Mighty Mouse.

I was busy. I liked it. My work would sometimes be straightforward office work, sometimes I'd visit places to review, sometimes they sent me home early to test products out, and sometimes they had me stay late to review products. I had a group of friends that I went out drinking with on Fridays and it was social drinking, not drinking to get drunk. One night, I ordered a Shirley Temple and laughed about it on the subway ride home at the thought of my younger self seeing me: a sober girl taking the subway home alone from the bar. It was nice to finally like myself. Or at least who I was becoming.

In my empty time, I wrote autobiographical things. I sometimes sent things to Alex but I found my writing became more introspective and it wasn't details I wanted to share with him. I was fearful of why I felt the need to hide it, but I didn't even feel much like reading it.

My friend, Fennel (he hates his name too), said it came from an overprotective biological need that all women must hide things from men, even if they are loving and trusting. I didn't think so. I told him I trusted Alex more than I trusted myself. He told me that was the issue.

Fennel cultivated weed on the balcony of his apartment in Murray Hill. He had a boyfriend named Kaka, who was a former Chippendales stripper and currently worked for Goldman Sachs. Sometimes, when he got drunk enough he'd reenact a routine. They were both in their early 40s, shared a dog named Rooster, and, still to this day, had the most luxurious apartment I have ever seen.

The building had a disheveled front but inside they had an open floor plan, a kitchen that was larger than my apartment, and the glorious aforementioned balcony. Fennel was a creative director at Condé Nast and had taken a liking to me because of my crooked teeth and what he called my "gemütlich" British accent.

I went over to their place nearly every week. They often had parties and I'd arrive in the early afternoon claiming to help them set up but I'd eat their fancy Bonilla a la Vista potato chips and play with Rooster. Their dinner parties were grandiloquent and their house parties were glamourously gauche.

One Sunday, I went over early through Fennel's insistence on dressing me. It was Pygmalion in a way or maybe I was the Edie Sedgwick to his Andy Warhol (I said this to him once and he took great offence because Warhol slept with Edie and he had no intention of taking advantage of me) but I quite liked it. I felt like a living doll and through his higher-up position and wealth, he was able to obtain fabulous pieces that he let me keep.

I walked around barefoot in their apartment wearing a Yohji Yamamoto (Fennel insulted me for not knowing who that was) white dress that flowed with every step I took while discussing Alex, who they had yet to meet.

"I can't believe you've been with him since you were 18." Kaka marvelled at this fact every time we talked about Alex.

"We had some brief pauses in there but yeah. You guys have been together for over a decade."

Fennel chuckled. "We were both in our 30s. It's quite the difference."

I sat on their black leather couch and leaned my head on the back of it. They were both setting the table. I was relaxing. "Yeah but isn't it hard at any age?"

"Sure but if I was still with the same person I was with at 18...well, that was a woman so it wouldn't count," Fennel laughed.

"Are you going to marry him?" Kaka asked. He was a complete romantic who would often say how much he loved love.

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't know if I ever want to get married."

"Independence?" Fennel questioned as he pulled out a wine bottle.

"Parents."

"Ah," he sighed.

"But I have a feeling they always hated each other. I've always loved Alex. Does that make me lovesick and annoying?" I turned my head to ask them.

"Yes, but it's admirable. You seemed to have picked the right one. Good looking, loyal, you talk about him so sweetly," Kaka praised.

"I sometimes wonder if he picked the right one." It wasn't a newfound concern. I always felt secure in my relationship with Alex, not so much in myself. Occasionally, the worry of whether he could do better than me peeked itself out, usually when he was away and I didn't have the physical reassurance.

"Hush!" Kaka told me. "Any woman is better than a man. Take it from me." He kissed me on my cheek and it was nice to feel so fabulous. Fennel let me keep the Yamamoto. I try it on whenever I feel insecure.

*

I got sick on Valentine's Day. I had been unscathed for too long and on the morning of Alex's return from Europe—Valencia, Spain to be specific—I woke up with the urge to vomit. So, I vomited. And when Alex arrived home, I was vomiting.

I heard his bag drop while I was keeling over the toilet. The clacking of his boots on our wood floors stopped at the tile of our bathroom as he said, "Jesus, are you okay?" He hesitated, surely disgusted, before kneeling on the floor beside me, rubbing my back.

I had emptied most of my stomach and was dry heaving mostly. I slumped against the wall, catching my breath. "Welcome home." I managed a faint smile and my sarcasm didn't cause any laughter from Alex.

His hand stroked my forearm. He still had his jacket on and I was in my pajamas. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I just woke up nauseated."

"Food poisoning?" He suggested as he stroked his thumb over my knee.

I shook my head. "No, no. I feel fine now."

I attempted to stand up but Alex held me down. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just need to lay down for a little." I slowly stood, reorienting myself.

Alex, still kneeling proposal-style, offered, "Alright. Do you want me to carry you?"

I laughed. "I can manage to walk five feet to the bedroom, Alex." I headed toward our unmade bed.

"I can manage to carry you five feet to the bedroom." He wanted to make sure I knew that.

I smiled and to placate his need to help I had him get me a glass of water. He returned, jacket- and shoeless, with my glass of water. I took a sip and placed it on the bedside table we found at the Grand Bazaar last December. Alex sat in front of me, taking my feet into his lap. "You think it's the flu?"

I shook my head and slumped back onto the pillows up against the headboard. "No, no. I feel fine and I don't have a fever."

"Hungover?" He smirked, poking fun.

"No," I mocked. "An upset stomach. I'm fine now. How have you been? How was the flight?"

"Fine," he quickly answered. "Did you eat anything this morning?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine," I insisted. "How are you?"

"Fine. Do you want me to get you something? Tea? Crackers?" He continued to pester.

"No. Can we talk about something else or else I might vomit on you?" I crossed my arms, frustrated with myself for ruining the morning, frustrated with him for continuing to ruin this reunion.

"I'm just concerned something might be wrong. Should we go to the doctor?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm fine. I know my own body. It was just a little morning bug."

His eyes shot up and wide looking straight at me as if he had just gotten an electric shock. "Do you think you could be...?"

I took my feet off his lap, criss-crossing them. "Oh, god, I'm not pregnant. Calm down."

"You sure? When was your last...you know?" He moved his hand up and down in front of his stomach.

I raised my eyebrows and laughed. "Period? What are you? A 12-year-old boy, you can't say the word?"

He sat awkwardly, a nervous look on his face. "No, it's just, you know..."

"I don't know and I don't know where this sudden weird behavior of yours is coming from." I sipped on the water and rolled my eyes behind my closed lids.

He reached out to rub my knee again. It was becoming rather annoying like a fly pestering you. "I'm concerned. That's all. So? When was it?"

I shrugged. "Like a month ago. I don't know."

He was bug-eyed and staring into my soul. "Well, are you late?"

"I don't keep track of that stuff." It was probably laziness or maybe because I was on birth control. Granted, I wasn’t very regular with that anymore. I never liked taking it and Alex hadn’t been there for a month.

"You don't keep track!" He stood up, pacing like it was the 1950s and he was stuck in the hallway while I was giving birth.

"You don't even have a period." I crossed my arms and leaned further back into bed. I was tired. He must have been jet lagged too. Why weren’t we sleeping?

"Yeah, but I am having sex with you."

"We last had sex a month ago. I'm not pregnant."

"And have you had a period since?"

I sighed. "No."

He exhaled and his head fell to his chest. He looked like my father. His head slumped after my mother disappointed him. It terrified me. Like I had done something wrong by not shedding my uterine lining. I didn't feel pregnant. Alex's concern made me concerned but I was more scared by the way his head sank.

"Should I go buy a test?" I asked. I didn't feel like fighting that I wasn't. I got an eerie feeling like I was overhearing my parents fight but I had suddenly body swapped with my mother. It felt like some trust had snapped in between Alex and me. For him, he'll say it wasn't and that it was based solely on concern. I thought otherwise. Like his paranoia had overtaken him.

"I'll go," he offered.

I shook my head and went to my dresser for a change of clothes. "No, it's fine." It's wicked that in my mind I held more worry over someone catching Alex Turner with a pregnancy test than actually being pregnant.

I threw the fur coat on and made my way to the nearby CVS. I had never bought one before. I don't know if I thought I ever would but I suppose I imagined it over different circumstances—a happy one, maybe with someone beside me with equal excitement. I bought a tube of toothpaste and a bag of Cheetos. I still had vomit on my breath.

Alex was sitting on the couch when I returned. His fingers were tapping the armrest and he had the TV on The View but he held a locked stare with the front door, meeting my eyes as I walked in.

I tossed the plastic bag on the coffee table and collapsed on the couch beside him. "I don't have to pee."

"Okay."

I grabbed the remote sitting between us and began to flip channels. Not much of anything good was on that early. I felt Alex staring at me but he didn't speak so I didn't speak. I landed on Notting Hill. "I hate this movie," I said just to have something to say.

He didn't say anything. Not even a Hugh Grant joke.

A half-hour passed in silence beside the movie before I stood up, dug the box out, and went to the bathroom. Not a word from Alex. I slammed the bathroom door shut.

I fumbled with the test for a while, struggling to open the box's lid. I wondered if Alex didn't join me in the bathroom because he thought I needed privacy or because he was upset. I think he was mostly just a scared little boy.

He felt so little to me in that moment and not in the way I loved. He was small and made my blood boil, even if I couldn't fully blame him for his concern. But his silence bugged me. His impassive form on the couch, a refusal to move or communicate. He had a habit of getting in his own head and barring entry. He'd say it was his personality. I'd say it was immaturity.

I took the test and waited for the results to appear alone in the bathroom. Negative, as expected. Still, I was left with uncertainty about what to do. I was mad at him but I didn't want to yell. I was relieved but I didn't want to celebrate. I was left where he was: silence.

Alex was still where I had left him. I put the test on the coffee table and sat down beside him, the last 10 minutes of Notting Hill playing. But he didn't move to look at it. His head turned to me instead. He was reading my face rather than the test. I stayed neutral and stared onward, refusing his enticing gaze.

"I'm sorry if I made you..." He hadn't fully grasped what I was thinking. I tend to think men and women are mostly the same but I find our biological difference is showcased in those times of stress. "It's negative. Right?"

I nodded, staring at Julia Roberts, arms crossed. "Mhmm."

He scooted closer to me. "Jane." His hand landed on my sweatpants-covered thigh and my eyes decided to finally snap over to him, small, tiny, scared little boy Alex. "I would've..."

"What?"

He looked at me as if he didn't expect a reaction from me. His expression was stunned and his hand stilled. "I don't know." You brought his hand up to his forehead, pushing his long strands back over his head. He took a deep breath. "This whole morning has felt like whiplash."

I scoffed, "Yeah." My head turned away from him. I was battered with the feeling of numbness. In the past, I think I would've cried. Or yelled. Now, I felt indifferent. I didn't know how to feel about that either.

"Have I ruined Valentine's Day?" He asked in an attempt to make me laugh.

I shut off the TV and stood up. "Yeah." I walked away to the bedroom. Alex stayed out in the living room.

When I went out to the kitchen, Alex was asleep on the couch. I made as much noise in the kitchen as possible to wake him up. I knew he was jet lagged and tired but I was a scorned woman.

I started the tea kettle and turned around to see a yawning Alex. "Do you want tea?" I offered.

He shook his head and placed his hands on the back of a chair. "I'm sorry for being an asshole." I turned away, not particularly interested in looking at him, instead I searched for a mug. "I suppose I have a habit of that. But I figured we could go out tonight. Go to a pub. Get some drinks."

Alex smiled, proud of himself for upholding a minimal tradition in my eyes. "I have plans tonight."

I didn't expect him to roll over and die. "Oh. Okay." He sat down on one of the stools and said nothing else.

There was no fight in him, meaning I had to be the one to fight. "Fennel and Kaka are having a party. I told them we'd go."

"That'll be fun.” He sent me a complacent smile. “I'll finally get to meet them."

I smiled back just as limitingly. "They've heard a lot."

He looked down at his hands. "Bad, I'm sure."

I exhaled. "I don't hate you, Alex."

"Feels like it." He was moody and refused eye contact, almost like he was me. We had been around each other for so long that we had become each other. People would say this to me but I rarely saw it.

"Call it PMSing. It just wasn't the best greeting."

He nodded, the understanding slowly seeping into him. "I know. I'm sorry for that."

"I woke up early to be awake when you got back and there I go getting sick."

He looked guilty. Solemn and culpable. "I should be making you tea."

I turned back with a smile. "Yeah. You should."

He walked closer and hugged my side. He placed a kiss on my temple and squeezed me close to him. "Go sit down. I'll bring this over to you."

I kissed his cheek. "Alright."

*

Fennel and Kaka's apartment was stuffed with everything. People, liquor, drugs, music, hearts. Alex wore a white shirt with a suit jacket over top. I wore a pink floral Roberto Cavalli cocktail dress, Fennel provided. Maybe it was because of our fight earlier or maybe I had just changed since I had seen Alex last, but I held a superiority complex over him. The silk of my dress wrapped me in elegance and the rough quality of his suit jacket. Oh, shit, I was becoming posh.

Looking back, I wasn't dignified or aware enough that my mother held these opinions of my father as well. However, I was also in a bitter state, and even Alex said I looked better than him so I wasn't really kidding myself.

People held cocktails and canapés were being moved throughout the room. Alex and I stood in the corner silently, I sipped the edge of my gimlet to keep it from spilling. Alex drank a whiskey. I kept thinking about it, in an ashamed way, but then I found humour in it and thought it best to break the ice and tell Alex what I was thinking. "We really are my mother and father."

He turned, originally with a neutral look on his face before spotting the crack of my smile. He breathed laughter out and lifted his glass, taking a slow sip from it. I imagine he was looking for something to say. We hadn't spoken for so long that his vocal chords must’ve needed a refresher course. He dropped the glass to his side. "I hope all the good parts."

I chuckled. "You say that like there are some."

He tossed his head side-to-side. "They've always had elegance to them. They intimidate me. The way the act is, you know..." He moved his hand like he was fishing for the word, trying to find it in the ocean of his mind.

"Posh?" I suggested.

His jaw dropped. "Now, Janie, I would never say that."

"Oy! Jane Cavendish!" It was Fennel, approaching us with Kaka following behind him. They were both dressed in matching maroon suits, each with a cocktail. "Beautiful. Always beautiful. And this must be Alex. Oh, how we've waited for this moment."

"Don't say that. You'll make him nervous," I told them. Alex didn't like it when I told people this. He found it to be invasive for other people—those not close to him—to know his emotions. I found Fennel and Kaka to be trustworthy of this information.

Alex peered over at me like I was his mother embarrassing him in front of his friends. "It's nice to finally meet you both." He shook their hands and they were both very impressed by this. I could tell.

"You both look lovely," I told them.

"Ralph Lauren," Fennel replied. He moved his hand down the fabric of his suit. "Red velvet. Feel." He reached out for my hand and rubbed it up against the velvet, the smoothness running under my fingers. "Now, you, Alex." He grabbed Alex's hand doing the same. It was awkward and made me giggle but Fennel always had a way of putting people at ease. At the sound of my enjoyment, Alex chuckled, nodding his head in approval of the fabric choice.

Kaka told Alex, "Has Jane told you how jealous we are of you two?"

Alex looked over at me at the knowledge of this news. "No, no. Why?" He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"The romance," Kaka swooned. "I wish I could have met Fennel sooner but we were a mess at your age. To find your love so early and keep it going and in the way you two are. If I was doing that at 23, I'd be a mess. Young love is just so lovely. Sorry, I'm a little inebriated."

Alex chuckled. "That's fine."

"You're a very beautiful couple," Fennel said. "I know a lot of ugly ones. Inside and out."

"Well, we had a fight before this so, if that brings us down from paradise for a bit." Alex seemed shocked I had said this. I thought I sounded like my 17-year-old self again. It was honest to me but it was also childish.

Fennel waved his hands. "Fights are great. You should have makeup sex in the bathroom."

I asked, "But where will everyone do coke?" We all laughed. Alex too, if not out of humour than of peer pressure.

Hours passed. We talked with some of my co-workers and Fennel's and Kaka's cultured friends. While Alex was in the bathroom, I talked with David Remnick and nearly fainted out of nervousness because I couldn't remember how to say Ibuprofen.

Alex and I went to the balcony to smoke. The city rushed by below and we each lit a cigarette up alone. I sighed and leaned on the railing, my head in my hand. It was so hot in the apartment but I felt so chilly outside as the wind rushed by. I felt Alex place his hand on my back. He was like a hot water bottle. He knocked against my spine like he was checking to make sure all my vertebrae were still in place. "You look like Juliet."

I turned my head to look at him but his head was off to the left, the smoke escaping out of the side of his mouth. He looked like he was stargazing, even though he couldn't have seen any in that light-polluted sky. His touch on me was this firm thing. I had never felt him so strongly like he wanted me to know he was still standing there beside me.

"The moon is so bright," he said. I looked into his eyes, searching for it in there. I followed his line of sight before my own landed on the glowing sphere hanging up in the sky. It stood bold against the black void surrounding it.

I looked at Alex, bold as ever. I couldn't manage anything with my tongue. I just stared at him while he stared at the moon. I don't know if he felt my eyes on him or if he was so enraptured with the moon that he couldn't handle looking anywhere else.

I sighed, standing up straight. I don't know what I was thinking by standing up so quickly. I don't know why I didn't just stay there and watch him for hours. "I've never understood the whole man-in-the-moon thing."

Alex shrugged, still staring above. "You can see anything if you look long enough."

I scuffed my cigarette out on the railing but kept the dog end in my hand. "Do you think if I stare at it long enough I'll see you?"

He hummed his response. I wasn't sure if we were speaking in some kind of code or just dancing around one another's words. Everything felt off, even if we looked so on track. I was uneasy in finding a response. He acted like he wanted to be alone but his hand persisted its touch on my back. His lips wrapped around his smoke and his eyes stared off into the lights of the city.

My arms crossed and I stood at what felt like such a distance. I stepped sideways, figuring Alex to be done with me and on to his stargazing. I'd have greater engagement talking to the walls inside and at least then I'd have a cocktail too. I turned away and his hand grazed across my back as I moved.

"I feel like I've done something wrong," Alex finally spoke. I had my back to him and it felt like I may never look at him again. Either he or my feet wouldn't allow me to turn around to see him. "I overstepped earlier."

My hand went to my forehead and it was like my brain was going to swell up and push itself out of my skull. I spun around on my heels. He was leaning back against the rail nonchalantly but held such caution in his bones. His eyes had a hard time staying on mine as he committed to the nervous habit of playing with his nails and tapping the end of his cigarette. "It's fine. I don't want to fight about it. I'm tired."

"Okay." He deflected his silence onto me, acting as if I was the one causing tension between us. Earlier that was the case but I dropped it in the kitchen and moved on with life. The whole day Alex held a wall around him. It wasn't a new thing for him to have his guard up, but I usually wasn’t the one blocked from entering.

I swore to myself long ago, after our break-up in '07 that I wouldn't be accusatory to Alex. Trust had always been strong but we always had a weak link. His stare now penetrated me and I felt like the nervous one. My arms stayed crossed but my hands began to squeeze the sides of me and I looked away, inside at the party, which had grown louder as the pretense of class had dropped with the amount of alcohol and drugs. "Did something happen on tour?"

My eyes moved back at his quietness. I had a sick feeling in my stomach but I didn't feel like I had a right to. I'm the one who fucked up before so I'd forgive him if he did now. Instead of guilt, he stared at me like he didn't know what language I was speaking. "No. Why?"

I don't know if he wanted me to feel sorry for him because I was accusing him of something that he didn't do or if he was as lost as I was when it came to this stalemate. "You just seem off. That's all."

He shrugged. "It's been a weird day." I was hit with a wave and I'm still figuring out whether it was from nostalgia or because I actually did see it but I swore he looked 17 again at that moment. I'll always see glimpses of that. The locked-in memory of his first impression. Through his long hair and whatever frustration he seemed to have, I smiled because we were standing in a garden. One that was on a balcony and was mainly weed other than one pot of zinnias.

I dropped my arms and plucked at the fabric of my dress. I didn't tell him what I thought. I thought myself to be a little childish in my reminiscing but it was Valentine's Day and I don't know why we went to this party because I always just wanted Alex to myself. I was a desperate woman with a sole propensity to be alone with Alex, especially when it was the day of his homecoming. I blamed it on my period, which I got the following day (not pregnant).

"You didn't want to come here tonight?" I said it as a question but it was a statement. I was already sure of Alex's stance. His inability to relax around strangers and his reluctance to engage in small talk. I knew he also had an inclination to be alone with me.

He played nice though. Always gave in to me easily on these kinds of dilemmas because it's what I wanted. He couldn't give me much in other areas (I had just finally won the whole location problem) so he found it expected to do what I wanted to do when he was around. But, sometimes (I use sometimes very loosely because I do in fact like getting my way), I liked doing what he wanted to do. Most of all, my favourite thing was talking to him. So, why would I spend a whole night chit-chatting with other people? (Besides, David Remnick because that really was a dream come true).

"I'm having fun." He wasn't very convincing. A tone of neutrality and a shrug of his shoulders that just looked like disinterest.

I chuckled to myself. "I'd like to give myself some credit. I know you better than anyone else so I know that you're full of shit."

He laughed and finally dropped his cigarette and his rough shoulders. "I'm just tired."

"Sure," I dragged out, unconvinced. "I'm kind of wishing we just went to a pub or something."

Alex looked down and rubbed his forehead. "Yeah. I'm wishing a lot of things right now."

My brows furrowed and I wanted to look closer at him but his hand and hair shielded his expression. "Like what?"

He put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the city. "I don't know. I think I'm just a little messed up right now."

I stepped forward, wanting to stand next to him, wanting to touch him. I moved close enough that he was forced to look at me. "What's going on?"

The browns of his eyes looked darker and shinier as if they had been glazed over. I wanted to touch his face and have him lean into my hand, but I wanted to hear what he had to say first. He fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket but I had him cornered. "Just in my head. The usual."

"About what? Me?" It might have been selfish to think so but he looked like he might cry while looking at me and I don't think I had felt that insecure in front of Alex in years.

He shook his head. "I don't even want to say it. It's so stupid."

"I don't want you to leave it in there."

His eyes darted in a million directions before landing on mine. "Just things are changing."

It took me a second to understand. It took me a gust of wind passing before I pointed to myself. "Me?"

He rattled his brain with the shake of his head. "I'm just in my head, Janie."

I grabbed his upper arm, forcing him to take notice of me. "Well, let me in. You know, I like when we talk." I smiled up at him and he released the hint of a smile, a sparkle behind his eyes. "I like knowing what's going on and what you have to say, what you're thinking. I don't get much of that while you're away and I think we both stew in our thoughts for so long that we're practically bored of it by the time we see the other and then we think we don't have to bother saying anything. But I've never heard about this and I want to know about this. I want to know about you if you let me."

A grin covered his face, so wide his teeth peeked through to wave to me. "What?" I asked. His smile just seemed to grow bigger and his eyes cast down on me. I thought he might kiss me but I'm glad he didn't, I didn't want to get distracted. "What?" I insisted, punching his leaning figure.

"Nothing," he said so cheerfully. I thought he might have taken something to cause this sudden change. He put his hand on my shoulder like he wanted to touch me but wanted to make sure we kept our distance. "I just love the way you talk. I don't know. Like the way you know how my brain works and you feel everything I'm feeling. I just...I love talking to you too. It's what I've always loved about you. I feel like I can't do this with anyone else. Just lay myself out and never have to worry. I think I forgot the feeling."

I wrapped my arm around his neck, closing the distance, and having us stand chest-to-chest. "We'll blame the jetlag."

"Sorry for being moody. I think it's an after-effect of prolonged homesickness."

"It's fine. I suffer from it too." It made me smile that we both considered each other home. It was cheesy and cliche but that didn’t make it untrue.

"Do you think there's a cure?" He moved closer and it took me that long to realize we hadn't kissed all day between the vomit and the fighting and the party. I should be put in jail for this.

I didn't kiss him right away. I hugged him first just to feel him, make sure he was there, all of him. "I might start with getting out of here."

Alex insisted, "Don't make me force you to leave."

"I wouldn't if I didn't want to. I'm craving shitty fries and chairs that squeak." And him. I really craved him.

"You love it when we play poor together."

"I love when we're together." We finally kissed at that point, waiting any longer felt like too much. He was right with me and I never wanted him to leave. If we kissed any longer we might have fallen off the side of the balcony. Together.

I dragged him through the apartment with me, trailing like my puppy but he was my loyal dog. His hand was clasped in mine and I kissed both Kaka's and Fennel's cheeks and promised to have dinner sometime soon for a more proper introduction to Alex. "Enjoy your Valentine's, love," Kaka said in his drunken impersonation of a British accent.

"You too," Alex said for both of us.

He put my fur coat on me and we left onto the sidewalk of the loved-up city. We decided to walk back in the direction of our apartment and land at a shitty bar along the way. We walked side-by-side like we were two anxious teenagers again. I suppose we had regressed in the absence of one another and the readjustment was more structurally unsound than usual.

"So, uh," I started, "you think I've changed too much?"

He threw his head back. "Don't listen to me."

I grabbed his arm, tugging on it. "No, I want you to be honest with me. None of this evasiveness."

Alex put his arm around my shoulder, pushing me into him. "I'm just catching up a little. You've been busy while I've been gone and I like that."

"But too much too quick?" Fennel and Kaka and the load of other people they had in their apartment could be too much. It overwhelmed me at times and I knew most of the people in the room.

We stopped at a corner, waiting for a light. He turned his head to look directly at me. "Just give me a bit of a grace period." He smiled so carefully. Not in a calculated way but to reaffirm his statement.

I smiled back. "I'd give you anything you want." It was probably too much to give a person, something I wasn't even willing to give to myself, but we were sharing a desperate kind of love. It wasn't the healthiest but he was the only person I knew would love me no matter what.

He seemed struck by this statement, unable to tear his eyes away to spot the green light in front of us. I pointed ahead at it but he didn't move his feet. He bent down and kissed my cheek firmly. I think he would have stayed there forever if I hadn't pushed him and insisted we cross the street before the light turned red again. He leaned down and whispered, "Ditto."

We stopped at The Scratcher in the East Village. It was Irish but akin to English by nature. It had exposed brick and when I asked the bartender for a Guinness (me) and lager shandy (Alex) he talked with me about England long after he had given me our drinks. The lighting was low and it was late but the bar was still full with mostly lonely hearts, save us and a few other couples.

Alex found us a table in the back corner by a group of rowdy men and for a bit it did feel like we were back home. "That's what I love about New York," I mused to him. "I find pieces of home here. I never found that in Los Angeles. Too deserty."

Alex leaned his cheek on his fist. His eyes looked tired but his smile stayed exercising. "You seem really happy here."

I shrugged. It was hard to admit these things. Like if I spoke it out loud it would cease to be true. "I guess, in a way, it feels like it’s something I did on my own. I know I'm not alone but...you know what I mean."

His eyes flashed down at the table and he sat up straight, leaning back against his chair. "Yeah. I know what you mean." He sipped his drink and I could tell he was going to say something once he washed his words down. "I really like it here too." The infliction in his voice was distracted as if he was thinking about 10 other things. I didn't know which one to ask about.

"Tour's almost over." I was ashamed that it flew by for me. Maybe because I was more occupied. I thought it should have felt like it dragged on forever. The way I used to feel about it. Granted it was shorter than the previous tours but I had never been this involved with Alex. We shared a home now, yet, his things—his clothes next to mine and the record collection collecting dust—didn't make me long for him, yearn for him. Perhaps, it was growing up. Perhaps, it was growing apart.

I circled my finger around my glass's edge. "I don't know if I'll be able to get off for the London shows."

"That's fine." He has always been so accepting. Like most things, it was a blessing and curse. Sometimes, I hated that he didn't put up a fight. He never told me what he desired, even with things like LA. It was a work obligation, not something he wished for. Maybe it's because I always wanted too much and Alex balanced it out by wanting too little.

"I got off work tomorrow. If you want to do anything."

He smirked. "I have one idea." Alex did desire some things.

*

I cut Alex's hair a week later. He complained of it being too long and I suggested he go to the barber and then he said I should do it. It was late but we were very happy.

We shared a glass of wine. I had Alex sit in the bathtub and I kneeled on the tile floor. We washed it first and then emptied the bathtub before I began to cut it. "What if you end up not liking it?" I questioned. I wasn't nervous. If anything I was power-hungry holding the kitchen scissors.

"I'll like it. It'll grow back either way. How bad could you fuck it up?” He chuckled before saying, “Last time you did this we broke up. Can't fuck up more than that."

His laughter induced me to join him. I sipped the wine before passing it to him. It felt very adult and I told him that. He said, "I could do this forever."

*

Alex experienced his first nor'easter blizzard at the end of February. I had experienced my first at the beginning of the month. He was quite excited for it. It was childish excitement like he was going to receive a snow day. I suppose his snow day was the fact that I didn’t have to go to work. I ended up getting Thursday and Friday off, which, well, did feel like a snow day.

However, it was cold. Like really cold. We ventured outside at the start of the storm to collect groceries and experience the snowfall. We got into a snowball outside our building’s front door before the snow turned to slush. Alex accidentally ended up hitting Russ Tillerson, who lived on the floor below us. He had a good spirit and laughed before shoving snow down Alex’s back, smushed in between his skin and his coat.

It took me a good few minutes to recover from laughter over Alex’s shivers. “It’s not fun,” he insisted, still patting snow out.

I hit his thick jacket with my gloved hand. “You’re not a good sport.”

He pouted and whined, “I don’t want to be a good sport. I want to be warm.”

I stroked his cheek, rubbing the icicle crystals stuck on my glove onto his skin making him wince. “Awwww. Poor baby. I’ll run you a bath when we get back.” He quite enjoyed that bath.

The days were fun but long. We watched TV and had sex for most of it. We ate sloppy like we were at a slumber party. We got high Friday night while watching Goodfellas. I ate a bag of salt & vinegar chips and half a pack of Chips Ahoy! Alex ate a whole pack of Oreos and drank enough Coke to shut down your organs.

“I’m sorry I’m so high,” I apologized.

He waved me off and sunk deeper into the couch pillows. “It’s fine. I wish we had more Coke.”

“We could do coke coke.”

“You have coke coke?”

“No. But we could get some?” It was candy in my new circle. Easy to obtain, sweet to do, horrible for you.

“Nah,” he rejected. “You’ve done it?”

“Yeah. I used to do it with…what’s his name…Robert.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry I’m so quiet,” I apologized again.

“You’re good.”

“Ray Liotta is so hot.”

“You’re so hot.”

“Mhmm.” My eyes moved away from blue eyes to Alex’s brown. He had sat up from his slump and was leaning on the armrest, observationally. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” He smirked, all-knowing.

“You know…how horny I get…” His smirk grew. “Don’t look at me like that!”

He curled his fingers, beckoning me to him. “Come here. Let me do you.”

I laughed and closed my eyes, prepared to succumb to sleep. His foot knocked mine. “What?”

“C’mon.”

He came to me. And, well, in me.

*

Alex left halfway through March, narrowly missing another nor’easter, but this time less severe. Opal came a few days later for work. She stayed at the Bowery Hotel, a few blocks east of me. I had walked by it a million times and always longed to go in. It was my second most desired hotel after the Plaza. 

She was there for work but apparently now had a boyfriend there too but that was all supposed to be obvious. Opal talked about things like you already knew everything about it. She told outlandish stories where she'd say, "You know how Charlie is" when I had never heard of Charlie before. Nonetheless, she was exciting and good company.

Alex was in Baltimore by the time I called him while drunk. Opal and I had gone to House of Yes and said yes to every drink along the way. Opal left with some guy who wasn't her boyfriend but it's okay because they had an open relationship, I think. Therefore, I was left outside House of Yes going home alone. I don't blame Opal for ditching me; the guy was hot and I insisted she go by saying I wasn't drunk, just tipsy.

I called Alex and lit up a cigarette at the same time. He picked up after 2 rings while I was still muffled by the cigarette in between my teeth. "Hiya, honey," I mumbled.

I heard laughing, either from him or the drunkards around him. He had been drinking too but not heavily. "Hey, sweetie." He moved away from the sound. I imagined him tucking himself away in the back end of the tour bus.

"I'm needy and I miss you," I whined.

His soft chuckling rang through the phone. "What's that mean?"

"It means I'm walking to the subway in Brooklyn." I scraped my heels against the cement.

"Ah. You and Opal have fun?"

"Yeah, but I'm drunk and alone. She's probably having sex right now. Everyone is having sex right now." House of Yes was a very sexual place in 2010.

"I'm not."

"Yeah,” I giggled. “I figured that one out. Could you imagine? You're on the phone with me having sex."

"What? Like phone sex?" He teased me.

I scolded him, "I'm not having phone sex in public. I meant like you were fucking someone else and on the phone with me."

"Why would I fuck someone else?" His tone was puzzled and I think he was drunker than I thought he was at the time.

"I don't know. I'm drunk. There's no logic to my thinking."

"I don't think I'll ever have sex with someone else. It'd be weird."

"I'd have sex with other people."

"Really?" He didn’t sound worried. Just curious.

"Yeah. Like George Clooney or something."

"I'll let you have Clooney. I’d fuck Clooney."

"Nah. He wouldn't settle down with me anyway."

There was a pause of silence before he expressed, "Miss you."

"Yeah. Me too."

He buzzed as if the words were sinking in. "End of the month and then I'm all yours."

"I like that idea. I've been hanging out with Opal so much I think she's starting to hate me."

"No. She just needs hot ass like the rest of us." It had been a very lonely month in the sex department.

"I'm not hot ass?"

"You're the hottest ass."

"Subway's here."

"Okay. Let me know when you're home."

"Yeah. Love you."

He hummed in agreement.

*

Alex returned at the end of April. We relaxed back into domestic obliviousness. That weekend, we went over for dinner at Fennel and Kaka's. We drank wine, ate fancy chicken, and played with Rooster. 

We sat at one end of their dining room table. Alex's nervousness had faded but he remained stiff, the obvious odd man out. We were laughing about work and Sally Condalteen's explosible haircut, all out of Alex's frame of reference. 

Fennel, observing this, gasped and said, "I just realized I haven't even heard the story of how you two met."

I turned to Alex, who was looking at me. I was like a mother training a child to speak for themselves. "You tell it. I've never heard your side of things."

"Okay. Uh, well, Jane had a class with Matt, who is the drummer of, you know, the band, and he invited her to our first gig. We sort of knew each other—small college and that kind of thing—but never talked. So, at the venue, I went up to her and called her the wrong name. The whole night I figured I screwed things up and made a fool of myself. Then, I'm outside smoking and she comes out and I thought maybe I wouldn't say anything but then I realized I'd probably never get another chance, so..."

"You went for it?" Kaka, a big woosy romantic, grinned.

"Obviously," I answered.

"What about you? What did you think when he came up to you?" Fennel asked me.

I shrugged. "Nervous. I think. After, terrified."

"Why?" He was like a psychologist desperate to get to the bottom of things.

I shrugged. I didn't want to reveal my whole emotional state to them but their eyes stared at me. "He knew me better in one conversation than anyone in my life. It's stupid."

"No!" Fennel insisted. "It makes me believe in soulmates."

"Oh, god," I exhaled exasperatedly, rolling my eyes.

Kaka swatted at me. "Don't be so pessimistic."

"I have to be. I'm a realistic woman." Or a doubtful one. I was a recovering romantic at best.

Fennel turned his bark onto Alex. "You think you'll marry her, Alex?"

"Don't answer that,” I quickly insisted. “They're wanting to cause trouble. They did the same thing with me."

Alex looked tempted but listened to my instructions. He turned to the two men. "How'd you two meet?"

When we left there was a drizzle of rain. Not enough to wet your clothes, but enough to huddle close to one another as we walked to the subway. Alex squeezed my hip, playing with the sculpture of the bone. "Do you want to get married?"

"We've talked about this." The whole subject made me feel awkward. I felt too young for the subject.

But then Alex said, "No. I mean, do you want to get married tonight?"

"It's midnight!" Deflection.

"Then, in the morning."

I shook my head. "No."

Alex looked like the air had been taken out of him. He readjusted and continued walking. "Okay."

"Maybe in like two years." Or two decades. The whole thing gave me body sweats.

"What's the difference between now and 2 years?" He didn’t ask it accusatorially. He was inquisitive.

"We're 24!” Frontal lobe and all that. “I can't tell if you're being serious now or not?"

He lightly shook his hair around. "Maybe a little. If you wanted to, I would. I'd do whatever for you. If I can give it to you, I will."

"Are you sure?" He worried me too much when he talked about giving things to me. He had always stretched himself and I was sure one day he would break.

He squeezed my hand. "What's going on?"

"What's going on with you? This overcompensation or whatever. I don't want you to give me everything. Keep some for yourself."

He looked at me for a moment, thinking it over. Then, he said, "Fine. Half to you then."

"40%."

"45%."

*

We went to Coney Island because I really wanted to ride the Cyclone. It was the first really hot day of the year. Unknown to us, it was also Memorial Day Weekend, which meant the beaches were open, which meant everyone, their mother, and their grandmother were at Coney Island.

Alex could wait in lines. I could whine to Alex while we waited in lines. He bought us enough tickets to ride the Cyclone and then go home because I was miserable in the heat and in line. But the line to get on the Cyclone was long and we had been standing there for what felt like hours.

"It's been 5 minutes," he noted. "We can come back another day."

"No," I moaned. "I want to do it today. I had it all planned out. I had planned to ride a rollercoaster today."

He laughed. "How do you plan to ride a rollercoaster?"

"You eat light so you don't throw up."

Alex tossed his head back in laughter. Suddenly, he snapped his head down with a concerned look on his face. "Have you not eaten anything today?"

"Well, yeah, I didn't want to throw up."

"God,” he scoffed, “no wonder you're in a horrible mood."

"I'm not in a horrible mood."

He gave me a look. He grabbed my hand and yanked us out of line. "Where are we going?"

"To eat. The Cyclone will still be there next weekend."

When we went next weekend, I loved the Cyclone and wanted to ride every ride there. I then threw up after the tilt-a-whirl.

*

I wrote a piece for The Paris Review in June. Alex sent it to what felt like everyone we knew. He attached it with a note that The Paris Review was located in New York and not Paris. He was very fascinated by that.

He had flown to London for the theatrical release of Submarine when the piece was published. It felt like a mighty contrast. The songs Alex had written for Submarine were what I would describe as the last box that had yet to be unpacked in our apartment. They were vulnerable but covered in metaphors I'm not sure anyone understood other than me. 

He had played them for me, asked for my opinion, revised, and played again. It was the first time Alex workshopped music with me since "Bigger Boys and Stolen Sweethearts." I always thought it was because he didn't have the band to work with. He has denied this and said that the songs were meant for me first, the movie was inconsequential. I'm not sure how true that is and how much Alex just wants to take credit for being a romantic or something. 

Either way, he wrote me a note before he left. He tucked it in my journal to make sure I wouldn't find it until he left. It read, There’s a piece of you in this, and in me.

My piece was fictional. It was about a girl who drinks too much coffee. It's hard to explain without it sounding stupid. 

I didn't write about Alex much. Opal found this weird when I had shown her my work last year. She said he was such a big part of me that it seemed bizarre I didn't write about him. My explanation, mostly, was the protective quality I held over Alex. His songs were shielded in forty different metaphors before you got to me. In my work, as evidence here, I name names, especially in these years when my name was so attachable to Alex’s.

I had shifted back to writing fiction because that's what most literary magazines like The Paris Review accepted. Of course, I'm not a girl who drinks too much coffee at all.

I liked the stability of the Condé Nast job but I had been indulging myself in fantasies of writing a book again. When Alex returned to New York, I told him this over lunch. We went to Lexington Candy Shop, which is a diner, not a candy shop. Another thing Alex wouldn’t shut up about.

I drank a malt shake (coffee-flavoured) and Alex had a Coke (the old-fashioned way where the syrup and soda water is stirred together, not the really old-fashioned way with coke like Alex wouldn't stop joking about) while we waited for our food. "I think I want to go for it."

Alex was contagious. You could believe you could do anything with that smile. "You should. You have one guaranteed customer."

"Well, you'd read anything I'd write."

"'Cause it's good."

"Don't butter me up."

"Come on, you know you're a great writer, Janie. You don't get into The Paris Review as a shite writer."

"Shut up about The Paris Review," I laughed.

I reached across and squeezed my hand. It made me squirmish. "I'm never shutting up about The Paris Review and that's because I read this really good piece about coffee in it and—"

"Stop talking about coffee too. You're making me stressed."

"Ease up. You'll be a New York Times bestseller by this time next year."

I stood up, running away from his stress-inducing words. "I'm going to the bathroom."

He crossed his arms. "That won't change anything."

We returned home. Alex put on a record and I decided to act like I was reading a book until Alex sat beside me. Then, I decided to makeout with him. Hormones. I'm not sure what his excuse was since he wouldn't stop grabbing my ass. "Are we about to have sex to The Beatles?" I asked as "All My Loving" sounded out through our apartment.

"Yeah. It's what John Lennon would have wanted." He pushed me down into the couch cushions. I was the meat in a sandwich between the two.

"I love this song," I mused against his lips.

"Good,” he huffed. “Let's fuck to it."

"Stop," I shrieked, laughing too hard to focus on his penis. I pushed him up off of me and sat up, collecting the trash that had accumulated on the coffee table.

Like any typical guy, he said, "Come on, Janie, I had to take care of this myself all week."

I knocked, "You masturbated all week?"

"I did other things too," he joked.

I was slightly fishing for a compliment but I was genuinely curious too when I asked, "What do you do it too?"

He laughed at my question. He scruffed my hair up. "You, you fucking idiot. What else? What do you think about?"

I shrugged. "I don't masturbate."

"Liar."

"I don't," I insisted.

"You told me you used to have a vibrator."

"Not anymore." I hadn’t thought to bring it through customs. It was tossed around the London to LA move.

"You don't masturbate? Why?" Alex was still stuck in that heightened sexual teenage boy phase. It made it so sex seemed like the only answer. He eventually grew out of this but it was an enduring fixture of his personality for a while.

I shrugged. "I don't like it."

"How can you not like it?”

"I get all sad after. I don't really do it anymore." It made me depressed for the whole day after. I would think about growing up too quickly and dying alone. Maybe that’s just how I was in the aughts. I didn’t give it up completely. Things would change soon after this conversation. I also got on anti-depressants. 

"Why?"

"Is it shocking that someone isn't thinking about sex 24/7?"

"Well, yeah.” I did think about it often but not like Alex, still-not-fully-matured did. “I'm not good enough to masturbate to." Now, he was fishing for compliments.

I stood up from the couch and walked to the garbage bin. "No, it's more like...the other way."

He turned to me with an open jaw. "I'm that good in bed?"

"Don't get an inflated ego on me. I'll refuse to have sex with you if you start boasting."

"I won't boast. I'll just show off." He pulled me down, stuffing me between him and the couch. He made a great effort into "proving it." In a way, it kind of ruined it. I mean, he had this smug look on his face the whole time and he was so into the thought that he was good at it that he started to not be good at it.

"When you get off your pedestal, sir, can you actually fuck me?" I asked.

He seemed to snap out of it and realized he was inside me and not himself. "Fuck. Sorry."

Later, around "Devil in Her Heart," Alex laid his head on my stomach. He'd move around and kiss around my stomach, sometimes rising up to my breasts, but mainly hanging out around my belly button. 

I sighed from exhaustion, lust, and resignation. "I have to get glasses."

Alex laughed against my liver. "You can see fine. I think you've got a couple decades before you have to worry about glaucoma."

"No. The doctor told me I have to get glasses."

Alex seemed to find this really funny. "Are you serious? You're gonna look so geeky."

"Gee, thanks."

He kissed my diaphragm repeatedly. "I like nerds. Are you going to have to wear them all the time?"

"No, just at night. I've been struggling in the dark."

"You're gonna get night vision. Like Batman."

I got the glasses about a week later and I walked back into the apartment wearing them. Alex looked up from the couch, placed his hand over his heart, and said, "Everyone must hate you."

I tossed my keys in the little dish by the door that Alex had made it at a ceramics session that we did together about a month prior. "Enlighten me," I said with a laugh.

"You're just fucking gorgeous, Janie," Alex decided. He looked back down at his book like I burned his eyes.

I kicked my shoes off. "Careful. I'll get a complex."

"What? Like you'll finally believe me."

"I believe you," I promised. I had grown confident in myself or at least confident enough in Alex to believe he wasn't lying to me. "Or I'll try to."

I sat down beside him on the couch and wrapped my arms around his neck. "Here," he pointed his finger to the middle of the page, "read this sentence."

I rolled my eyes but obliged. "'So they went on for a good while, talking now of their cards and now about me, as though I were not in the room'—how long do I have to do this for?"

He smashed his lips against my cheek. "That's all." He returned to his book and I ordered us dinner.

A few days later, we were trapped inside due to the pouring rain. I was working on a review for work and Alex was reading. He had a cigarette in his mouth but it was unlit. I think he was going through the motions but couldn't go outside to smoke it and I refused to let him smoke indoors. 

My feet poked at the side of his body. Every five minutes or so, I'd poke my toes into him. He'd laugh, whether provoked or ticklish, it was an acknowledgment of our presence with one another. 

Thunder pounded through and Alex squeezed my foot to get my attention. I looked up at him through my lenses. He smirked, which I knew meant he was thinking something foul. "Can I fuck you with your glasses on?"

I don't mean for this year to seem particularly nasty but we did...you know...do it all the time. There wasn't much else to do. We were together all the time, we would talk over dinner, share this alone time together, and then I or Alex (usually Alex) would hit a point in the evening where we might as well just get on with it. Besides, this instant was pretty important. You know, with the thunderstorms. And my glasses. Alex really likes that part.

*

Alex and I went to an antique store in Dobbs Ferry because Fennel, who had been vacationing in Mykonos for the last month, needed me to pick up a statuaries from this rare antiques store. We decided to make a day trip out of it. Not there was much to do in Dobbs Ferry.

We shared headphones on the way up. Our moods were transactional through the iPod. Alex had this habit of scrolling his finger back and forth on the dial. It would make this scrolling noise, but I kind of liked that noise so I never stopped him. 

We walked the town's aqueduct for a bit. It had felt like the city was on fire but just a little north felt cooler. Maybe it was the fresh rain with that dewy smell. Alex's jeans ended up getting grass stains on the butt of them because he sat down in the wet field.

At lunch, we shared a stack of pancakes and Alex let me eat all the bacon. "I can't remember the last time I had a proper breakfast," I said as I chewed into the syrup-soaked fried batter.

Alex chuckled. "It's noon. I think it's more like lunch."

"Shush," I forced him out. I looked around and observed the tiny diner we were in. It's exactly what you'd imagine for a small town with men having coffee at the counter and mother and child having lunch. "I like it here."

Alex nodded with a smile. "You like a small town."

I shook my head. "Just for a bit. Not forever."

*

At the start of August, Matt visited us for a week. He slept on the couch and ate all our food but we all had a great time. Not since Barnsley had just the three of us hung out, especially for an extended period of time. Matt and I—just the two of us—hadn't hung out in close to eight years. Not that we ever were best of friends but it's weird how he had adapted more into Alex's friend than my friend. Nonetheless, he still felt like a brother to me. Or maybe brother-in-law.

Alex went out to the store one evening, leaving just Matt and I and whatever movie we were semi-watching. Matt sat up from his slumped back state, placing his beer on the coffee table. "I'm gonna have a smoke. You gonna join me?"

I giggled. "Oh, Matt, you know just the way to my heart."

We travelled up to the apartment building's rooftop. It was sparse besides a picnic table and a grill. The Fourth of July party had been held up there. Alex and I went for the free food but had to endure several Revolutionary War jokes. Matt sat on one side of the table and I sat on the other, an ashtray between us.

"I can't remember the last time we smoked together," I commented.

Matt lit his up before handing me the lighter. "At least not cigarettes," he laughed. "It's funny. This is all we used to do."

"Used to? Speak for yourself." I knew Matt didn't smoke that much anymore. Not like Alex and I who upheld equality with one another on who was going to get lung cancer first. We smoked enough to decide we'd both probably get it under the same time. Depressing romanticism.

"It's weird to think of a time before you and Alex got together," he said, flicking the ash.

I fanned the smoke away from my eyes. "Yeah. It's hard for me to imagine."

"And you guys are good and all that?" His tone was traced with suspicion or maybe I was just misplacing it there.

"Yeah." He nodded but stayed silent and I grew worried that I was being left out on something but I didn't want to touch it. "And you? Are you good?"

He chuckled. "Yeah. I'm good, Jane."

I joined him in laughter. "Good."

The roof door opened and Alex walked through. "Thought you two ran off."

"We kind of did. We made it as far as the roof," I told him as he walked over to us.

He sat next to Alex and grabbed a cigarette from himself. "Am I joining one of those fabled smokes?" He asked.

"What?" Matt questioned.

I explained, "When we were younger, and used to sit out on the kerb with one another. I call them Fireside Chats like FDR."

Matt laughed. "I was drunk for most of those. Memory is a little fuzzy."

"You're not alone in that." I stubbed at the cigarette and rested my head on my palm. "I don't want to drink tonight though."

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Pregnant?"

"Shut up." I rolled my eyes and wondered if Alex had told Matt about the scare back in winter. "I have work tomorrow."

"Oh," Matt uttered, "little Janie's all professional now."

Alex nodded. "Yeah. What losers the rest of us are."

"Yeah. If Jane of all people can settle down—"

I interjected, ready to fight, "I was not that horrible." Alex and Matt only met me with a stare causing another eye roll from me. "I'm going to bed."

Alex and Matt stayed put and I assumed they were going to have one of their own Fireside Chats. "We'll try and be quiet," Alex told me before I pecked his lips.

I walked over and placed a kiss on Matt's cheek. He slapped his hand over the cheek, wiping it down. "Ew. You slobber like my mum."

"God. What a baby you are." With that, I went downstairs. I'm not sure what time they went to bed but when I left for work the next morning, they were both dead asleep. Not even the sound of me dropping my coffee arose them.

*

Alex was writing something. I woke up and the red light of the clock blared out, the time reading 4:34 AM. I rubbed my eye, scrubbing the dream out of me. His pen moved across the page and he was propped up against the headboard with his notebook tilted under the soft light coming from his small bedside lamp. 

He felt my movement and turned to me as I flipped onto my side to look up at him, his eyebrows knitted. "Did I wake you?"

I shook my head against the pillow. "I don't think so. Why are you still up?" I held the tip of his elbow to keep in touch with him.

"Woke up about an hour ago. Couldn't fall back to sleep." He was scratching his pen up and down across his page, just making lines. 

I flipped onto my back, roughing my hands through my hair. "Probably because it's so fucking hot in here." Our landlord had turned the AC off a week ago when it seemed like it was finally getting cold until the temperatures started shooting back up this week. "I might take a shower. I feel so sweaty." I sat up, throwing my legs off the bed. 

I could hear the smirk in his voice. A light chuckle as he said, "Let me know if you do."

My phone rang. "I bet it's Stacey," I told Alex. "She still doesn't understand the whole timezone thing."

"She's 18 and she still doesn't know about timezones?" Alex questioned.

I sighed as I tied my hair up. "Let me rephrase. She doesn't care about the whole timezone thing."

"Ah," Alex said as I picked up the phone.

I moved into the bathroom, preparing to start the shower as I talked to Stacey. I sat in the bathroom, on the toilet seat, for about 10 minutes before I moved back into the bedroom. "Shower time?" He asked him with a grin that could kill.

"No." I shook my head walking back over to my side of the bed. I threw my phone down on the bed and picked at my fingernails. "My dad had a heart attack."

I could hear Alex closing his notebook but didn't look up. I wasn't sure how to deliver news and make eye contact at the same time. "Is he okay? Are you okay?" He crawled across the bed and stood up beside me.

I dropped my hands and moved past him going to our dresser. "Yeah. No. He's fine for a guy who just had a heart attack. I mean, he'll live and all that." I hadn't realized that I started pacing back and forth across our bedroom. I would stop at our dresser but then I would keep moving.

"Good. Now. Jane. Sit," Alex instructed me.

I listened. He was my guide. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to figure out what I was doing. "I should go back home."

"Okay. I'll look for flights." He moved for my laptop, sat in my backpack on the floor. 

I stayed on the bed. "Should you?"

He looked up at me. I was looking at his eyes but I didn't even realize what was going on. I hadn't processed anything. I was busy facing the fact my parents could in fact die and that I also was not immortal. Alex wasn't sure what to do or what I wanted him to do. "Do you want me not to go?"

I shook my head. "I'm not sure if I should go."

Alex moved toward me on his knees. He stopped in front of me and leaned over my knees. "I think you should. At least for Stacey."

"Right." I’m not sure if I went for Stacey. She would have Greg and Harper, even my mother, for comfort. I’m not sure if I felt an obligation to go too. It seemed cruel not to show up after a medical emergency but since the move to America, I hadn’t seen them other than during Christmas. They had never visited me. They rarely called me. It made me think that if I didn’t show up they wouldn’t be that shocked. But I knew I wasn’t held to the same standard as them and having a heart attack is much more serious than anything I had going on.

We got into a taxi at some point but I think I was still trying to figure out if I was still in a dream or if we were in fact going to JFK Airport. Alex must have packed the suitcase because I don’t remember doing anything. I became a functioning human being around when we sat at our gate for about 15 minutes. The flight wasn't boarding for another hour. Alex had gotten me a coffee and a glazed donut for Dunkin' Donuts. He got a Boston Kreme and coffee for himself.

He sat with his hand on my knee as I scarfed down my donut as a form of something to do. I wiped my fingers on the napkin and leaned back in my chair with the warm coffee in my hand. "I broke my wrist when I was 10," I told Alex. I could tell he wasn't expecting me to speak. "I sat waiting for my mum to pick me up for over an hour. They finally decided to call my dad and he showed up in 15 minutes. Five minutes less than his drive from work to my school."

"I honestly wasn't expecting the story to go that way," Alex confessed. There’s a million untold stories from my childhood that Alex had never heard. They were tricky for me to go about.

I breathed a laugh, relieving the tension from both of us. "Neither was I. It was right after Tommy and I guess a broken wrist was one step away from being dead." Alex squeezed my thigh and I thought about Tommy. I hadn't thought about him in a while.

We sat together for a moment before Alex bit into his Boston Kreme. The cream smeared over his nose. I laughed, which pleased him even if I was mocking him. “It’s all over your face. You look like you can’t properly feed yourself.”

We boarded the flight and arrived in London a little after 6 PM. I fell asleep after take-off and didn't wake up until the jolt from landing. Alex stayed awake the whole time.

We took the train out to Bath and Greg would pick us up at the train station. Halfway through the train ride, I said to Alex, "Thanks."

He pushed my hair back and stroked my cheek. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "I've never been to Bath."

I laughed into the palm of his hand. "I'm glad this is working out for someone."

Visiting hours had ended about an hour before we arrived. The family report was that he was fine and Greg drove Alex and me back to the family home. We had dinner together where we mainly talked about my father. Alex and I went to bed after in a stripped-down guest room.

*

We had been in Bath for two days when Alex finally asked the question what I knew he had been thinking since we arrived. "Can we go on a drive?" My car had sat in my parents' garage since I drove it down when they moved. I'm sure they hated it being stuffed in their driveway but Alex was insistent on keeping it so I insisted to my parents to not get rid of it. For some reason, they didn't.

I didn't know much of Bath. Stacey told me she sometimes went to Henrietta Park with her friends so I decided we would drive there. Alex fiddled with things. The radio, the window, the glove compartment. He was trying to check if everything still worked. He missed this car more than I did. I rarely thought about it other than the remarks my mother would make over the rare phone calls that it was still sitting in the garage. 

Alex sighed and leaned back in the passenger seat. "I love you."

I chuckled at the affection but replied, "Love you too."

He looked over at me. I could feel the stare but my eyes remained on the road. "Just getting to do this with you. I love it. I love that we've been in each other's lives for so long."

"Me too."

"We've been together long enough that when I sit here now I'm reminded of how much I loved you then. And, you know, how much I still love you now. More now."

My eyes hurt. I don't think I had cried since we'd been there. I felt overwhelmed by it all. But always him. I couldn't look at him for safety and emotional purposes. I loved him for being there and for being there for such a long time. He had always been my best friend. Even when I had just met him. Like fate. Soulmates or something. "Alex. I have to drive."

He chuckled. "Don't wreck the car now." He kissed my cheek.

*

a/n: well, there we go. i'm very into writing this right now so hopefully have another part soon. i'll probably do a one-off piece before. we shall see...

[aacheinthejaw]

alex turner's ass appreciation post because he has a better ass than mine

[aacheinthejaw]

They’re whispering his name across this disappearing land, but hidden in his coat is a red right hand.

[aacheinthejaw]

he looks so tiny here, i love you mr turner

via atraceofbodypaint on ig

[aacheinthejaw]

[aacheinthejaw]

[aacheinthejaw]

If That’s What It Takes

then that’s what it takes

warnings: angst, smut (piv, handjob, i think that’s all), love and death

word count: 15.2k

Your first encounter with him felt like a fever dream – the kind where you remember every sound, every scent, and every sensation like fragments from a half-finished poem. You hadn’t even laid eyes on him yet, but the air around him already vibrated with something strangely familiar, a warmth, a resonance. The afternoon sun was relentless, casting golden light that somehow only served to make the air colder, and it fought its way through your lashes as you squinted, struggling across the blue bridge in Little Venice, hands straining with the weight of too many bags. Your fingers ached, raw against the rough fabric of the straps, but there was something else pulling at you, something insistent beneath the smell of river water and a distant, mouth-watering hint of fresh pretzels.

And then, you heard him. Just a voice at first, floating over the lazy hum of passing boats and the laughter of strangers. Somehow, his voice cut through it all, as if amplified by the quiet insistence of the day itself. Deep, steady, a touch raw at the edges. You could almost feel it as much as hear it. It was a voice that hinted at stories you didn’t know but already wanted to hear. A voice of a beautiful man, and of a good one, too. You were certain of it before you even saw his face, your heart reaching out ahead of you, ignoring the chorus of cautionary thoughts crowding in: You cannot fall in love with a busker. Can’t you see he’s surrounded by girls? You’re the one thing missing from there. You’re crazy. You’re crazy. You’re crazy.

But you couldn’t help it. You drifted closer, pulled along almost against your will. The voices in your head grew softer as you drew near, and then the girls who had been clustering around him began to drift away. And there he was, finally in view.

Tall, fit, and self-assured in a way that felt like a quiet, inner strength rather than the brash posturing you’d seen so often. He stood there on the street corner like he belonged, yet felt strangely out of place – a dark trench coat that looked like it had been tailor-made for him, setting him apart from the plastic, polyester crowd in puffer jackets and track pants. His shirt was crisp, his trousers pressed, his shoes polished. There was something heartbreakingly sincere in the way he looked, as if he’d been dropped into this scene from another era, embodying a kind of integrity and modesty that seemed almost otherworldly in the middle of a park.

You felt a pang in your chest. A yearning so sharp it almost ached. There was no need to see his face. The sense of him alone was enough. But still, you found yourself rummaging in your pocket, your fingers brushing over the rough edges of a five-pound note. It was a small gesture, almost embarrassingly small, yet you wanted to give him something. Anything. Everything. You let the bill flutter down into his guitar case, your thanks too tangled in your chest to be spoken aloud.

His day had begun beautifully – crisp and cold, the kind of cold that makes everything sharp-edged and vivid. The early morning sun was all silver and shimmer, cutting through the chill, its rays bouncing off the water and casting rippling reflections that moved with the rhythm of the wind. It was a day that felt brimming with possibility, the sort of morning that made him grateful just to be outside, guitar in hand, weaving notes through the air.

He’d been lost in his music, playing to no one in particular, when you appeared. At first, he barely noticed – just another passerby on the canal bridge, a figure among many. But something about you pulled him from his trance, drawing his eyes up just as you reached the edge of his circle of sound. There was a quietness about you, something unassuming and soft, yet strangely arresting. It wasn’t innocence exactly, not quite, but something close, something gentle, maybe, but layered with a subtle edge. Like you weren’t quite the good girl you looked like you could be.

He kept playing, stealing glances from beneath his lashes as you neared. The closer you came, the more he felt this flickering awareness, a little spark of something indefinable lighting up within him. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, you reached into your pocket and tossed a five-pound note into his case. You didn’t linger. There was no shy smile, no lingering gaze – just a gesture as brief and quiet as you were, and then you turned to leave.

But he wasn’t ready to let you go, not yet. Without thinking, the words escaped his mouth, the question sounding almost as if someone else had asked it for him. “What’s your name?”

You froze for half a second, then slowly turned back, your expression startled, as if you’d just remembered to actually look at him. As your gaze took him in, he felt almost disoriented, like your eyes had switched on something inside him that had been dim up until that moment. He could feel the faint blush on his cheeks, though he didn’t look away, his heart beating faster than he’d like to admit. Your eyes swept over him, the scrutiny sending a thrill through him as if you were peeling back a layer he didn’t even know he was wearing.

He fumbled in his pocket, almost embarrassed at his own spontaneity, but he managed to slip out a small, slightly battered business card. He held it out to you, trying not to notice how old-fashioned it felt, how ridiculous it might seem in this day and age. A little smirk crept into his expression, the irony of it not lost on him: Really? Who even uses business cards anymore?

He did. He was…classic.

Alex.

You took it with a small nod, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. And then you were gone, disappearing into the crowd as if you’d only been a trick of the light. But he felt changed, like someone had turned a dial and brought him into sharper focus. 

Alex saw you before you saw him, drawn by something in the rhythm of your steps. Even after all these years, he could recognize you from the way you walked – purposeful, each step placed with a kind of unselfconscious grace, like you were moving through your own private world. It had been four years, and time had somehow skipped right past you, preserving that same quiet intensity he remembered. The same head held high, eyes fixed forward, a quiet focus that concealed a barely-there wildness, something he’d always sensed smouldering beneath your calm.

You didn’t notice him. You drifted right past, headphones slipped over your ears, lost in whatever song played in your mind, oblivious to everything around you. It was that very self-containment, that tranquility, that he’d found so magnetic. There was something fragile within you, hidden under the confidence you wore like armour, and he wanted to touch that fragility again. His hands twitched with the urge to reach out, to trace the curve of your waist with a force that might startle you, to press his lips against yours, to feel the bite of your mouth and the warmth of your skin.

It was madness, he knew that. 

You could practically hear the warning bells. He was trouble – anyone could see it from a mile away. There was something in his gaze, a sly flicker that held a mischievous edge, almost taunting, inviting. His smile wasn’t shy or timid. It carried a hint of danger, a subtle sharpness that drew people in even as it whispered that they should keep their distance. Even the way he looked at you now, with his gaze sweeping over you, wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t the kind you brought home to your parents.

But you, wrapped up in your music and your thoughts, had looked at him once and dismissed him almost unconsciously. You barely glanced in his direction, your eyes slipping past him without the slightest hesitation. He didn’t fall into the spectrum of things you’d find interesting – not ugly, but not striking either, at least not in the way that might make you do a double take. He wasn’t a DiCaprio in his prime, nor a lean shadow with that haunted look some men wore like an accessory. He was more ambiguous, his charm lying somewhere in the in-between, the way he carried himself and the spark of charisma that seemed to live in his voice, nasal and smokey from years of cigarettes.

To you, he was just a specimen, an object of detached curiosity at best, and that intrigued him even more. He watched you, his gaze lingering, almost hungry, as you moved past, oblivious to the effect you’d had on him all those years ago and apparently still had now.

The party was a blur of faces and names, the kind of crowd where you barely recognized anyone, yet everyone acted like old friends. It was one of those gatherings held by distant relatives – people you only heard about in stories, if that. The house was overflowing with guests, each seeming to want to outdo the other in appearances, in tastes, trying to fit an image that felt more borrowed than owned. The hosts had a film projected onto the wall of the neighbouring house, a black-and-white masterpiece flickering in silence, perhaps to add an air of sophistication. But as the night deepened, sophistication melted into a drunken haze.

You’d been standing off to the side, eyes drifting to the screen, transfixed by the film’s haunting beauty and the unguarded expressions of the actors. Even without sound, the images pulled you in, letting you hide in the shadows of the characters’ lives, as if they knew secrets you’d never dare to admit to yourself.

Meanwhile, across the city, he’d just left some art gallery, a sleek and pretentious affair, every guest wrapped in clothes too tight and manners too polished. This wasn’t his scene, really, but he had a promise to keep, an old friend’s invitation to this party. He hadn’t been to this house in years, and though its outside was barely changed, inside, everything was bathed in that sterile fluorescent glow. Jazz hummed over the guests’ laughter. It was everything he’d come to expect from people who hung modern art on their walls and poured drinks from crystal decanters without knowing the difference between gin and vodka.

He hadn’t even noticed you when he entered. Instead, he found himself enveloped in a warm, unexpected hug – a familiar face from long ago, with legs for days and curls spilling down her back. Her laugh was effortless, her warmth as intoxicating as the wine she’d been drinking. It was a party, after all, so why not let himself enjoy the moment? She clung to him, laughing at old jokes that neither of them remembered fully. He lifted her off her feet with ease, holding her waist in a gesture of casual affection, his smile reflecting in the eyes of those watching them with a mix of envy and curiosity.

But you, still watching the flickering images on the wall, caught the change in the room before you saw him. You first noticed Rebecca’s reaction, her uncharacteristic warmth for usually such a shy girl as she greeted him with a giggle and familiarity you’d never seen in her before. It was strange, unexpected, to see this side of her. From over her shoulder, you noticed the tilt of a beret, the strength in his arms as he picked her up with minimal effort. You turned back to the film, trying to lose yourself in the characters, who glowed with a beauty that felt out of reach, impossible and yet completely mesmerising.

Inside, he grew tired of the chatter and the crowd pressing in. The energy had drained between him and Rebecca, fading into a polite distance that made both of them painfully aware of it despite the obvious physical attraction. He drifted away from her and found himself near the entrance, where he caught sight of the projection on the wall, pausing for a moment to watch, his attention snagged by the shadows and lights playing across your face as you gazed up at it. 

“What film is this?” Alex asked, his voice low and curious.

You didn’t even turn, responding softly as if to the night itself, “The Other Side of the Wind. Orson Welles’ last film.” You heard the shuffle as he shifted closer, intrigued by your voice as much as your words. You added, almost to yourself, “Look how beautiful they were. The actors. Back then…”

“They were…” he agreed quietly, his gaze flicking back to the screen, but you felt his attention settle on you.

“They shot it in the ’70s,” you continued, still without looking at him, “but it wasn’t released until 2018. Can you imagine? Filming something at 20, then waiting forty years for it to be seen.”

You could feel his gaze resting on you, his curiosity palpable, as though he were trying to fit together all the pieces of you in that single moment. And then, almost sensing that weight, you finally turned, letting his stare settle on your face. You were dressed in a man’s suit that fit just a little too well, your shoulders draped in an oversized blazer. Your hair was pulled back, revealing the line of your neck, soft and bare. You could feel his eyes linger there, a flicker of heat sparking between you.

For a beat, you simply stared at each other. You were aware of Rebecca still hovering somewhere nearby, yet she seemed to fade into the background, the crowded room becoming a blur. There were no introductions from either of them, marking them as each other’s. There was no introduction between you either, no need to define what this moment was, as if some quiet fate had drawn you together without preamble.

“So…Orson Welles?” he asked, his voice low, his lips twisting into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and charm.

You held his gaze, something playful in your expression, letting your smile widen just a bit, daring him to step into the mystery you held in your eyes. And he did, his own smile breaking as he found himself caught, unable to look away.

“Orson Welles.” you repeated, as if that were all he needed to know.

In your dreams, Alex was a contradiction, a mystery that pulsed between your sleeping and waking mind. Yet, in these dreams, you knew him deeply, knew the angles and shadows of his face better than you ever could in real life – the curve of his lips, the subtle auburn flecks of hair on his chin that caught the light, the sharp cut of his jawline. In these shadowy places, you had already kissed him a hundred times before the two of you ever brushed lips. And each time, he seemed vaguely dissatisfied, as though he were waiting for something more from you, something he couldn’t name.

He was always moving in these dreams, always on his way somewhere, and you – compelled by something you couldn’t explain – followed him without knowing why. You both kept up this unspoken game, him catching glimpses of you out of the corner of his eye and you pretending not to notice. It was all so strangely familiar, like something you might have once lived or would someday live. In the way that only dreams can blur realities, he ended up with a broken leg – the tibia, you were certain, though you couldn’t say how you knew. You went with him to the hospital, but it wasn’t a hospital at all – it was a dimly lit room full of people who looked both like doctors and strangers, and no one seemed capable of healing him. The walls faded into wooden cabins, warm and rustic, the kind of space where fires crackled and time slowed down.

In one of these cabins, you found yourselves side by side on a bed, the mattress firm and the blankets thick and rough. He lay beside you, his leg healing slowly, and you drifted off, wrapped in one another. When you woke up, you were surprised to find yourself stripped of your clothes, your skin brushing his in the dim light, though you felt sure nothing had happened. You felt the weight of his eyes, amused yet tender, as though this vulnerability you’d unknowingly shared was a secret he found endearing. He had to leave then, as he always did, a quiet departure that left a lingering ache. You wanted to follow him, to find the words to ask him to stay, but as in waking life, your courage faltered in your throat.

Later, on your first dates, he started noticing how your hands spoke when your words fell silent. There was a grace to your gestures, an expressiveness that enchanted him, a delicate strength as they fluttered in the air or fell, thoughtlessly, to brush against the fragile spot between your collarbone and neck. He was mesmerised, reminded of Mademoiselle Pogany, the sculpture’s hands resting against the delicate arch of her neck. Your hands became a secret language to him, signalling the things you never said aloud. He knew your mood by the way you’d push your fingers through your hair, or how they lingered absentmindedly at the nape of your neck when you drifted into thought. When you needed to recall something important, you’d flick your fingers in small, thoughtful bursts, as if you were brushing sparks from the air.

In those early moments, before you fully belonged to each other, something between you simmered with a restless intensity. He couldn’t keep his hands from you, not quite yet. Instead, he held you close, as though proximity alone could draw you deeper into his orbit. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you as if the sheer force of his touch might be enough to pull him under your skin, where he longed to exist. He’d press his lips softly to your cheek, to the edges of your eyes, breathing you in as if memorising the scent of your skin. And in each embrace, he left a small part of himself behind, entwined with you like a secret that only you two would ever understand.

Even before you were truly his, you had a sense of how you’d be, the kind of girlfriend you’d become if he ever let you in. You could already imagine yourself claiming bits and pieces of him in small, quiet rebellions – a borrowed shirt here, a t-shirt there, and every hat he’d carelessly leave behind. You weren’t one to wear hats, but his, with that faint smell of smoke and his cologne, you’d wear like a crown. His shirts would drape over you, swallowing you up in the best way, and you imagined the fabric carrying some part of him that would linger on your skin long after you’d taken it off.

It wasn’t about possession. It was about immersion. You wanted to carry little pieces of him with you, as if, by layering yourself in his belongings, you were wrapping yourself in the fresh, intoxicating feeling of being in love. You wanted your presence to say, without saying it at all: Look! I’m his. Can you see?

And the irony, of course, was that you’d never been one for labels. You always felt them stifling, little markers that forced you into an identity you might outgrow in a heartbeat. Tattoos were too permanent, words on a page could never capture the wholeness of your spirituality, and you kept most of what you believed locked quietly within, letting it change and deepen with each year, each second. But the thought of his things, of being subtly marked by them, was different. You would drown yourself in his cologne, revel in the way it left an invisible trace on you like a ghost of his presence. You’d wear his sunglasses, see the world refracted through the same lenses, let his favourite music fill your mind as if it were the only soundtrack you’d ever need.

When he left pieces of his writing lying around, fragments of poetry or prose scribbled in the margins of his notebooks, you’d study them like a map to his mind, curious to see if his thoughts danced with the same fire as yours. You wondered how he thought of love, if it filled him with the same wild, buzzing intensity, if his mind was caught up in the same whirlwind as yours, or if his was a softer hum, a quieter warmth. You wanted to slip into his world, to let it overlap with yours, like ink spreading across a page.

Most of all, you craved to lose yourself in some sliver of time with him. You wanted to dissolve into those hidden moments, fall further, let yourself be swept up in the rhythm of his thoughts and the pull of his presence. You knew that if you could, you’d fall in love deeper than you ever thought possible, sinking into him as if he were the only thing existing.

“I don’t do hookups.” you told him, drawing the line in words that felt as fragile as the moment. “Even a kiss is incredibly intimate.”

“Even two hands touching.” he murmured, picking up on the heartbeat of your thought. His voice was so soft, like he already understood where you were coming from. “We have a long way to go.”

That night, though, when it finally happened, it wasn’t what you had expected or planned or even dreamed of in your most vulnerable moments. The first time you made love wasn’t slow or tender or anything like you’d envisioned or dreamed of.

It was rushed, messy, edged with too much wine and hands that trembled with something like urgency. Clothes slipped off in a clumsy trail on the floor of your apartment, an apartment that would soon become your apartment, with traces of him scattered throughout. It felt both ordinary and monumental, like you were stepping across some invisible threshold.

He tried, at first, to follow the choreography of care, reaching for a condom with that awkward courtesy that made you almost laugh. The first one tore in his hands, too fast, and in his eagerness, his hands fumbled the second and third. You reached out, touched his wrist to stop him, because all that hesitation and worry felt like too much. You were eager too, feeling him, feeling how close he was, and the idea of any barrier – be it latex or caution or waiting – faded until it was nothing more than a thought you’d leave behind.

When he finally entered you, it was raw, imperfect, everything that love sometimes was. He moved faster than you’d expected, each thrust carrying a need that seemed to pull the air from your lungs, and you clung to him, fingers digging far too deep into his back, your nails leaving crescents of possession in his skin. The pain, the bruises you’d mark into each other, went unnoticed, as though the sensation of his cock inside you, filling every part of you, outshone any small ache he might be feeling.

It wasn’t gentle. But it was real, and honest, and everything you’d both been holding back slipped away. There, in the dim light of your bedroom, you let go, sinking into him and into yourself, in this messy, hurried, imperfect beauty.

Your moans mingled with his breath as he pressed his mouth against yours, his spit-slicked fingers slipping between your bodies, finding you, rubbing, pressing with a skillful intensity. His rhythm was steady, relentless, each movement deliberate and filled with a heat that sent tremors through your entire body. 

“Don’t stop.” you gasped against his lips, voice barely a whisper, and he gave you a slow, wicked smile that told you he had no intention of stopping.

“I wasn’t planning to.” he murmured, his voice rough, nearly a growl as he tilted his forehead against yours. His fingers worked their magic with a confidence that made your whole body tense in anticipation. “Tell me how it feels.” he breathed, as if his own satisfaction depended on it.

You bit back a moan, closing your eyes, feeling his movements bring you closer to the edge. “Perfect. Alex- you…feel perfect.” you managed to whisper, your hand clutching the back of his neck, needing the anchoring sensation of his skin.

His eyes held yours, and he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his gaze never wavering. “Look at me.” he murmured, his fingers still working in rhythm, his hips moving in sync. “I want to see you come.” Your breathing grew uneven, his words weaving into your senses, each touch and movement bringing you closer. “Don’t hold back.” he whispered, his voice a low command. “Let me feel it. Every bit.”

And in that moment, with his eyes locked on yours, his touch drawing out every shudder, every gasp, you felt yourself let go, feeling as if you were falling into him completely.

With a need almost raw in its intensity, you whispered to him, asking for what you craved, to know him entirely. “I need to taste you.” You looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. There was an urgency in your voice, a need so primal it surprised you, but it felt right – natural, as though nothing else would be enough until you’d tasted every part of him.

His eyes darkened, a shiver running through him as he nodded. You pulled him toward you, your hands firm on his hips, your mouth ready, needing more on your tongue than just his lips or the salt of his sweat that had prickled on his shoulder and you’d licked off. His breathing ragged as you wrapped your lips around him, taking him fully, letting the heat build between you both until he groaned, fingers tangling in your hair, his body tensing. 

And when he finally came, you savoured every bit of it, feeling the depth of intimacy in a way that left you nearly breathless. As he released into you, it was like an unspoken bond, something deeper, something that had already begun to root itself between you. The taste, the warmth – it was an unexpected connection, something that somehow made you fall for him all over again. 

It felt almost perverse, how much you loved the taste, you couldn’t deny how much you loved it, how much you loved him – this part of him, too – how real it made everything, and before you could even hold back, you said it aloud, the words slipping out in a breathless confession, without a second thought to how he might take it.

“God…I love the taste of you.” you murmured, so raw and honest that it felt like you’d bared your soul. You glanced up at him, not caring that he’d heard, because it was true, every word.

A small smile flickered across his lips, a glint of surprise mixed with pride in his eyes. “Is that so?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and edged with something just as raw as your own feelings. He leaned in, pressing his mouth against yours, his tongue sweeping against yours, tasting himself on your lips. It was messy, unrestrained, the two of you moving together in a rhythm that had abandoned all sense of restraint.

The sheets were tangled, damp, and the room held the heat and scent of your love, but none of it mattered. In that moment, you felt as if there were no boundaries left between you, no part of him left unknown, no part of yourself left unspoken. The intimacy of it was overwhelming, electric, leaving you wrapped up in each other in a way that felt achingly real. 

You were so in love, and in that space, with him, it felt like you were exactly where you belonged.

He had a quiet fascination with the way you found wonder in the everyday. Each time you noticed the clock flashing 11:11 or 12:12, you’d close your eyes for a second, lips parting in a whispered wish as if these brief moments could carry your desires into the world. And whenever a plane’s smoky trail lingered in the sky, you’d pause, looking up with a kind of reverence, lost in thoughts you never fully shared but he could sense were more ritual than whim.

The first time you’d passed the old gas lamps along Carting Lane, you stopped mid-stride, a strange glow in your eyes as you admired the flickering light, something timeless in the warmth of its glow. “They give me…anemoia.” you murmured, almost to yourself.

He glanced at you, intrigued. “Anemoia?”

“Yeah.” you said, turning to meet his gaze, as if that single word could convey everything you felt. “The nostalgia for times I’ve never lived but feel strangely familiar. Like there’s something of myself in them, somehow.”

He nodded, understanding instinctively. “Exactly.” he murmured. And though it was just a flicker, he felt it too, something old and unnamable stirring, seeing those lamps through your eyes.

He’d noticed other things, too – like how you grew peaceful near any body of water, as if the sight of waves lapping the shore or ripples dancing across a lake could calm even the stormiest parts of you. Sometimes he’d take you to the coast just to watch your tension unwind. He’d stay close, and you could tell he was watching, but with a gentleness, a reverence that let you drift off and lose yourself in the water’s rhythm.

There was something different in his eyes at those moments – bright and warm when he laughed, deep and intense when he sank into thought, and sparking with a fierce fire when he was angry, though anger didn’t visit him often. His steadiness grounded you, quieted the anxious parts of you. With him beside you, the world somehow seemed gentler, more secure.

One evening, curled up by the window together, you shared a cigarette in comfortable silence, the world hushed around you. You glanced at him, feeling the familiar warmth and the quiet strength he carried with him everywhere. “In moments like this, I feel like if the world fell apart, we’d be alright.” you murmured, exhaling smoke out the window.

He turned to you, catching the glint in your eye, and his hand found yours, lacing your fingers together. He rested his head on your shoulder as the cigarette burned down between you. “Most of the time, it’s enough just to pause,” he continued, “to breathe, to take in what’s around us and realise…we’re blessed. So blessed.”

His arm slipped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt a weightlessness, an ease, as if the whole world had fallen away and left only the two of you. He studied you quietly, his eyes taking in every detail, understanding parts of you that not even you had learned to name.

And then, late one night by the fire, he turned to you with a soft, earnest smile. “I love sitting here with you.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes catching the glow of the flames. “Especially in the summer.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your smile widening as you curled closer to him. “It’s when you tell the best stories.” you teased.

He grinned, pulling you in tighter, and in that warmth, in the glow of the fire and the shared quiet, you realised how deeply his presence had woven itself into the fabric of your life.

“Is it bad?” you asked quietly, the question hanging in the air as you both sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by books and the scattered remnants of dinner.

He looked up, brow slightly raised. “What?”

You took a breath, trying to shape your thoughts into words. “There’s something about love stories that end prematurely…they always seem to move us the most. As if a regular, lasting relationship is somehow doomed to routine and fading colours.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I would choose routine any day. I’d colour it in.” he replied, voice warm. “Purple in the spring.”

“Cinnamon and pepper in the winter.” you added, smiling at the images it brought to mind.

He nodded, eyes meeting yours. “Why would you want to escape that? Why would anyone want to run away from it?”

“It’s like-” you started, but he interrupted with a snap of his fingers, eyes lit with a sudden insight. 

“It’s like if you had a child and blamed it for the family holidays not being the same as they used to be.” You laughed softly, a knowing smile shared between you. He leaned back, stretching his arms. “I claim my time on this earth.” he said firmly. “I refuse to be some tragic story just to prove love has to be either passionate or predictable.”

“Is it too much effort?” you asked, only half-joking.

He laughed, a rich, full sound that seemed to spill into every corner of the room. “Yes. Yes, it is. But I’d rather live in that effort, colouring it in…than live a story that ends simply because people think love has to be fleeting to be profound.”

For you, any meaningful thing on this earth seemed to demand effort. That was just how you understood it, how you’d come to feel about everything you loved. There was an art to choosing each day, to stoking the fire and keeping it warm.

“Nothing happens from inertia.” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, but he heard it all the same. And he nodded, agreeing in that silent way he had.

Someone once told you that an accumulation of I thought that’s became a web of certainties faster than you could blink. It wasn’t an exercise in self-gaslighting but simply an observation that had always intrigued you. And with him, those I thought that’s felt real, like little roots that wrapped around both of you, keeping you steady even as you grew.

The washing machine had broken down. Again. As soon as the thought settled, that thick, wet heat descended, like the whole room was locked inside an oven. It drained the air of any trace of coolness, sticking to your skin, filling your throat with a faint, metallic bitterness. Breathing felt like a task in itself, every inhale laden with the weight of that oppressive humidity.

Still, you both looked at the growing pile of laundry and resigned yourselves to the inevitable.

“We have to wash our clothes.” you murmured.

In the centre of the living room, two large plastic bowls big enough to bathe a baby in sat like makeshift washbasins – one for colours, one for blacks. A tub of soap powder lay open nearby, its sharp smell mingling with the summer air. With elbows deep in suds, you both worked in sync, imaginary sleeves rolled up.

You’d wrapped a bandana tightly around your head, a vain attempt to keep the sweat from rolling into your eyes. In nothing but a pair of his old, worn boxers that slouched low on your hips, you leaned over the basin, shoulders damp from exertion. He mirrored you almost identically, his boxers sitting snugger on him but with the same resigned look in his eye.

“It’s too hot for formalities.” he muttered, flicking a drop of sudsy water your way, breaking the quiet monotony.

Eventually, you moved to the bathroom to start rinsing, but you couldn’t help it – the coolness of the tiles was too tempting. After a few minutes of rinsing clothes in the tub, you laid down on the floor, letting the chilled tiles press against every inch of bare skin until your arse melted into the shape of the lines of grout, willing the cold to seep in and douse the heat that seemed to cling to you.

When too many minutes passed without you returning, Alex wandered over, peeking in with a bemused expression. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice hovering between amusement and a little worry.

You raised your head just slightly, lips curving in a lazy smile. “Join me.” you whispered, letting your head drop back down.

There was a pause, and then he glanced down at your hips, realising you’d abandoned the boxers somewhere along the way. His eyes moved back to your face, his lips pulling into an amused smirk. “Do I have to get naked too?”

“Yes.” you murmured, voice soft and inviting. “But keep the bandana.”

He laughed, the sound low and rough from the heat, but within moments he was sliding down beside you, leaving the boxers with the pile of half-washed clothes. The tiles pressed cool relief into his skin as he stretched out next to you, his fingers trailing over your wrist and up your arm, settling on your shoulder. Neither of you spoke, only letting the quiet and the tile’s chill replace the words. His breathing was slow beside you, matching yours, as if you were tethered in that exact moment – no need to move, no need to speak, just the quiet and the feeling of each other’s skin against the floor.

After a long, silent minute, he shifted closer, lifting his hand to rest on your cheek, brushing his thumb over your jawline. “I’m starting to like the broken washing machine.”

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Same.”

“Can you be the new washing machine?” he asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he nudged your foot with his little toe, his head tilted lazily in your direction.

You squinted, feigning indignation. “That’s very misogynistic, Alex.”

He gave a soft chuckle, unbothered. “What if I said I wanted to fuck the washing machine?”

“That would be even worse.” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Would it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, his voice low and teasing. He edged a little closer, his bare arm pressing against yours on the cool tile floor.

“Yes, it definitely would.” you replied, trying to keep a straight face as you watched his gaze shift from playful to something far softer. His fingers traced light, lazy circles against your collarbone, just barely touching, yet enough to make your heart flutter in a way you didn’t care to resist. “But…” you added slowly, your own fingers drifting over his arm. “I might make an exception. Just this once.” 

“Just once?” he whispered, voice deepening as he leaned in closer, lips brushing the curve of your jaw. 

“We’ll see.” you breathed, closing your eyes as his hand slipped to your waist, pulling you a fraction closer. 

The air around you was still stifling, still thick with heat, and even thicker with the scent of soap and sweat. He was pressed against you, sticky. His dick was pressed against you, just as sticky but in a way that was both unbearable and somehow electric, his mouth tracing slow, damp lines along the curve of your neck.

“I wish we could fuck without touching.” you whispered, your voice breathy as he nibbled at the spot below your ear.

“That’s impossible.” he murmured, lips curling into a grin against your skin. His hand slid down between you, taking hold of himself and rubbing the length of him teasingly against your thigh. “Besides, I like touching you.”

The words sent a shiver through you, and he felt it, responding with a slow, deliberate grind against you, punctuating each of his words with the lazy rhythm he’d started. His breath ghosted along your neck as his free hand skimmed down your waist, fingertips tracing the curve of your hip, anchoring you firmly against him.

“Is that so?” you asked, voice trailing off as his hands tightened around you.

“Very much so.” he replied, dipping his head lower, lips brushing along the centre of your collarbone. “The more, the better.”

He pressed against you, moving in a way that was torturously unhurried, drawing out each sensation until the sticky heat felt less like a burden and more like a tether, keeping you wrapped up together. He slid a hand to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him and flipping you over.

You couldn’t help but smile, the intensity in his eyes dissolving the unbearable heat into something heady, something shared, something that for once, you didn’t want to escape.

Your hips rolled over him in a steady rhythm, each movement coaxing a soft gasp from both of you, the tension between you thick as the humid air surrounding you. The edge of the tub dug mercilessly into his back every time he tried to lift his hips, and his head hit the rim one too many times to keep track of a possible concussion. As he watched you move above him, hair damp and skin glistening, any discomfort became irrelevant, lost in the sheer, all-consuming pleasure of watching you.

“You’re letting me do all the work.” you managed to tease, voice hitching as you continued to move, each roll of your hips met with his hands firmly guiding you along. You were breathless, a fine sheen of sweat glistening along your shoulders and collarbone as you bounced up and down, fully aware of his appreciative gaze, the way his mouth parted with a low groan every time you sank down onto him.

A slow, lazy grin spread across his face, utterly content and just slightly devilish. He kept one hand braced against the side of the tub to steady himself while the other pressed into your lower back, letting his fingers trail up along the curve of your spine. He watched every flicker of pleasure play across your face, his eyes dark, intent, as if committing each detail to memory.

“I’ll pay you back…” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin. “I’ll wash the rest of the clothes. Every last sock.”

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning forward as you did so, bringing your faces inches apart. “Is that so?” you asked, biting back a grin. You could feel him deep within, and every word he whispered sent shivers through you just as his cock did, heightening the sensation of his warmth, the way he fit perfectly against you.

“I’ll wash, I’ll fold, I’ll press and iron, too.” he murmured, his hands roaming up your sides as he spoke, thumbs brushing over your skin. “Consider it a down payment.”

Your laughter melted into a sigh as his hands slid up to cup your face, guiding you down so he could press his mouth against yours. The kiss was slow and lingering, a stark contrast to the urgency in the rest of your movements, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in it, tasting the warmth of his breath, the salt of his skin. He deepened the kiss, his mouth soft and demanding, until you could feel yourself unravelling beneath his touch.

Breaking away only briefly, he watched you with an intense gaze, alive with an affection that felt too much sometimes. “You’re perfect.” he whispered, more to himself than to you, and you felt a thrill shoot through you even as you felt like you were dissolving, like you could come undone with just one more look from him.

With his hands on your hips, he guided you in a slower, deeper rhythm, drawing it out. His head tilted back, hitting the tub again, but he was too far gone to care. The sight of him beneath you, head tipped back, lips parted, his expression softening, only intensified your movements. You felt your pulse quicken, the heat between you building into something that made the world around you blur, as if it was only him and the feel of his skin against yours.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear, voice soft and almost pleading. “I love this.” you murmured. “I love this…and I love you.” 

He closed his eyes at your words, breathing heavily, his hand slipping around to hold the back of your neck, pulling you close. He tilted his face to meet yours, kissing you once more with an unhurried passion that was almost too much to bear. You could taste him, could feel him smiling against your mouth, and the quiet intimacy of it all was enough to set your heart racing even faster. 

Your mother’s words lingered with you, their meanings twisting like knots you couldn't quite untangle. Her lessons were wrapped in layers of her own experiences, filtered through a language of restraint and ambiguity. You remembered how, when your father was around, she’d talk about marriage as if it were a balanced scale, both partners bearing the weight equally. But when it was just the two of you, her tone would shift. She’d remind you to “get used” to the idea that you’d be the one carrying the heavy load, that men needed patience, praise, and an approach that felt to you like walking on eggshells. Babying. 

It was an exhausting dance. Even as you tried to absorb her lessons, there was a part of you that resisted, that balked at the thought of playing a role just to keep peace, to maintain harmony. The idea of feeding someone’s ego before daring to speak your mind felt insincere, like an act you couldn’t fully commit to. Why couldn’t you say things as they were? The simplicity of honesty seemed so obvious to you, so necessary. But your mother would just shake her head, a hint of sadness in her eyes, as if she knew you’d come to understand eventually — whether you wanted to or not.

Sometimes, you’d catch glimpses of her strength. She carried an air of quiet resolve, a kind of independence that came from years of managing things alone. She rarely asked for help, not because she didn’t need it, but because she’d grown accustomed to relying on herself. That self-sufficiency brought her a peace you didn’t quite understand, an acceptance of things you felt were unfair. She’d given up on asking, on pressing for equality. Maybe, you thought, she’d found her own kind of liberation in it.

And there you were, left to sift through her words, unsure of where you fit into them. Maybe it was a lesson in understanding and forgiveness, like she’d said. Or maybe it was simply resignation. A ‘trendy’-enough person might suggest therapy, might say that unpacking all this with someone would bring clarity, help you break any patterns you didn’t want to repeat. But you couldn't imagine opening up, letting someone rearrange your insides, as if your thoughts and feelings were some kind of puzzle that needed to be solved by a stranger.

Still, her lessons tugged at you. They were woven with truths she’d learned the hard way, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken pain, an inheritance of resilience she seemed determined to pass down. And while a part of you bristled against it, there was also a part that wondered if she was right. If maybe, by embracing the patience she spoke of, the subtlety and the self-reliance, you’d find a kind of strength you hadn’t understood before.

But then again, you thought, as her words drifted through your mind, maybe you’d find a way of your own. One that wasn’t defined by quiet suffering, by unspoken sacrifices and hidden disappointments. Perhaps you could build something new, something that was as honest as you’d always believed love and partnership should be. A path that was your own, even if it meant setting aside the lessons she’d handed down and forging your own way.

And so the conversation was thick in the heat, with the open windows doing little to ease the warmth suffocating the room. You stood there, chest bare and slick with sweat, the words spilling out as if you could no longer hold them in.

“You really hurt me when you didn’t come.” you said, voice cracking against the tension that had been quietly building for days. You were referring to your birthday, the night you’d spent surrounded by friends but feeling a hollow space where he should have been. You remembered checking your phone, hoping each vibration was him, and the guilt that settled in as you felt your attention drift from the people who’d shown up for you.

Alex looked at you, expression unreadable, as if he couldn’t understand why it was such a big deal. “I don’t like to formalise myself with complacent interactions.” he said, his voice steady, maybe even a little detached. “I just…I don’t feel the need for it. I stayed back, waiting for you, to celebrate alone together. Isn’t that enough?”

It was more than his absence that hurt. “You never put effort into getting to know my friends.” you replied, softer now but no less hurt. You wanted him to understand that it wasn’t just about that one night. It was about the feeling of having to split yourself, to choose between him and the people who filled other parts of your life, people who’d been there before him and would be there after, if they still could.

He sighed, his tone growing defensive. “Why should I have to? What does that have to do with us, with our relationship?” He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a finality in the way he spoke, as if this part of him was not negotiable.

His words stung because they pointed to that exact divide you’d been feeling — a divide that made you feel torn, like you were the one letting both sides down. And it made you feel more isolated, like the relationship, as beautiful as it was, had somehow put walls up between you and everyone else.

“Because on days that mean something to me, it feels like I have to choose.” Your voice was soft, vulnerable. “It feels like I’m stuck between you and them, and it’s pulling me apart.”

He shook his head, exasperated. “I trust that what we have is strong enough on its own. I shouldn’t have to tie friendships with people I wouldn’t interact with otherwise.”

You took a shaky breath, feeling raw, the words you hadn’t spoken until now finally surfacing. “I just want to spend my time with all the people I love.” you said, almost pleading. “Isn’t that worth something?”

“It doesn’t mean I love you any less.” he shot back, his voice laced with frustration. “But I don’t have to love them, too.”

You stood there, feeling the heat, feeling the weight of every unspoken word, every boundary neither of you knew how to cross. It was as if you were seeing the limitations of your relationship in stark relief, the edges where your worlds didn’t quite fit together. And in that sweltering room, the reality of it all settled heavily between you — both of you longing to bridge the gap, yet feeling it widen with every exchange.

The heat pressed in around you, thick and stifling, making it harder to breathe, harder to keep your emotions in check. You’d peeled away the layers of pretence, down to the raw truth: the loneliness that settled in your bones when he wasn’t there by your side, not just physically but fully present, engaged with the people and moments that meant something to you. It was a rift you hadn’t expected, a division that grew each time he shrugged off an invitation or brushed aside your need to have him close in all parts of your life.

“It’s not about loving them.” you whispered, searching his face for a flicker of understanding. “It’s about being there for me. My friends are part of me. They’re part of my life, and when you’re not there — especially on a day that’s important to me — it feels like you’re…choosing not to be a part of me.”

He looked away, fingers running through his hair in frustration, as though he wanted to find the right words but couldn’t. “I’m not choosing against you. I was here, waiting for you, thinking it’d be…special. Just us. Do you know how many times I’ve sat in places I didn’t want to be, making small talk with people I don’t relate to, because it’s ‘expected’? I thought…you’d understand I wanted it to be something meaningful.”

You swallowed, the ache of disappointment settling somewhere between your chest and throat. “I get that it was special for you. But sometimes it’s not about making it special, it’s just about showing up. Even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s not ideal.”

A heavy silence settled, the heat thickening the air further. You were both struggling, trying to find your way back to something solid. He moved closer, his hand resting on the side of your face, and you could feel the warmth of his palm, the pulse of his heartbeat in his fingers. “I love you. That’s why I wanted it to be…us, without distractions. It’s not about isolating you…I just- I want you for myself sometimes, in ways that don’t need everyone else.”

You nodded, though it didn’t erase the lingering sadness. “I understand that. But maybe, sometimes, you could try to see things through my eyes too. Just a little effort, to make me feel like I don’t have to choose.”

He sighed, his thumb brushing your cheek as his gaze softened. 

You’d grown used to it. Yet again, tension hung heavy in the room. Alex slouched back in the chair, his spoon clinking against the ice cream bowl. His playful, dismissive attitude was the last thing you wanted right now. He met your frustration with a quirked eyebrow and another teasing grin. 

“Hey, aren’t you hot? Maybe you could cool off with some ice cream…or, you know, I’m more than willing to help.” He wiggled his eyebrows, clearly thinking his charm could ease your mood.

But something snapped. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

His face dropped, just slightly, before he muttered, “Why do you have to be so emotional?” His voice was sharper than you’d heard in a while. “Why do you cry over nothing? Why can’t we just have a conversation without you blowing up?”

The words stung, piercing through the irritation, leaving only raw hurt in their wake. “You do things that hurt me, and then you laugh at me.” You hated how small and humiliated you felt. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t just wound you and then expect you to swallow it down without a reaction.

“Everything would be fine if we didn’t waste all this energy on this…this.” he said, gesturing between you, frustration clear in his voice. “Why was it all easier before?”

The exhaustion in his tone almost cut deeper than his words. “Because I filtered myself, Alex.” you said, voice steady. “I bit my tongue, for your sake. And what about you? Did you ever think of doing something for me?”

He shot up from his chair, heading toward the door. “You’re dragging us right into the place I swore I’d never end up in a relationship again.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” you demanded, stepping forward. “You’re not walking away. Not this time. You’re going to sit here and listen, even if every part of you wants to run.”

“So, what, I’m a terrible man who tortures his girlfriend?” His words, defensive and full of sarcasm, ricocheted off the walls. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“That’s not what this is about…”

“Then what is it about?” he shot back.

“It’s about the fact that you refuse to face anything even remotely uncomfortable. You dodge every emotion-”

“Oh, yeah? And you have abandonment issues.” he spat, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Happy now?”

You took a shaky breath, your voice softening. “Okay…okay.”

A silence followed. You covered your mouth with your hands instinctively, feeling the words slip away. You’d fallen into this habit, as if hiding behind your hands could keep the vulnerability in.

Later, you found another way. You began writing him letters. When words faltered in person, you put them on paper, asking him to notice. You’d even asked him once to stop you when he caught you writing, to sit with you, for you to read them and him to listen, and to let those words mean something. You wanted him to understand: if you were writing around him, that meant something significant. It was your way of saying: Look, I trust you.

A few days later, a letter came addressed to you, delivered to the post office even though you both lived together. He’d written to you too. Somewhere between arguments and apologies, a quiet truce had formed — a tender gesture to remind each other that even in the mess, there was love. 

Two hopeless romantics.

One evening, he stood in the doorway, voice low and almost tentative. “I’m sorry…will you forgive me?”

You nodded, hiding a small smile. “Yeah. I was wrong too.” You laughed a little, barely audible. “Maybe just a little bit. Forgive me?”

He stepped forward, pulling you close, his voice softening. “Yeah.” 

The room hummed. Your senses felt softened. Somewhere amidst the softness of it all, in the haze of warmth and laughter, you heard his quiet “Hey.” almost as if it had come from inside your mind rather than from across the room. You weren’t even sure if he was close by, but his voice felt like it vibrated right through you. He said it again, clearer, “Hey…you want some?” He was holding a plate with a slice pound cake or banana bread or something adjacent, just slightly crumbling at the edges. It smelled sweet.

You blinked slowly, barely registering. “Mmm…no.” you murmured, glancing down. But then you caught the way he watched you. 

“No?” He arched an eyebrow, leaning in closer, voice softer. “You want a kiss?”

“No.” You let the silence stretch a beat too long, feeling his closeness, the warmth of his hand as he hovered, waiting. “Yeah.” you murmured finally.

He chuckled, inching closer. He was right there, the corner of his mouth tugging up as he leaned in to kiss you. But just as he was about to reach you, you turned your head slightly, your eyes flicking to the cake. “Cake…want some cake.” you insisted. He obliged, breaking off a piece and pressing it gently to your lips. The taste hit your tongue, rich and buttery, and you moaned, practically melting as if you’d been fed something so much more than cake, almost as if he’d fed his cock to your cunt, not like he shoved a mushed piece of cake into your mouth. The thought was perverse but so was that sound.

“You’re too good at that.” he teased, his head dropping to the arm of the sofa. 

“It’s good.” you murmured, swallowing. “I missed eating junk like this.”

He grinned, stretching his legs over yours as he relaxed further into the couch. “You should try my mum’s flan sometime.” he said, his voice low and comfortable, almost drifting.

You looked over, half-lidded. “Flan?”

“Crème caramel. Flan’s more satisfying on the tongue to say…you know, with the burnt sugar on top. You’d like it.” He closed his eyes, letting the silence linger, his breath evening out. 

You smiled, more at his nostalgia than anything. “Did your mother make this?” you asked, glancing at the cake again. 

“Yeah.” He watched you, eyes tracing your face, catching the way your gaze kept flickering back to him, your pupils blowing and retracting every time you blinked and laid eyes on him again. 

“Alex?” you started, almost forgetting the question the second it left your mouth, not sure why you’d said his name out loud in the first place. It was just something to say. 

He nodded, the faintest smirk playing at his lips as he watched your eyes drift over him. “You’re really high.” he said, a trace of amusement colouring his voice as he took in your expression. He gave a lazy grin, one corner of his mouth twitching up as he looked at you, eyelids fluttering half-closed. His fingers brushed over your wrist and sent shivers up your spine.

“So are you.” Your voice was soft as your gaze lingered on him, your attention sliding over the shape of his shoulders, the stretch of his legs, the way his head tilted back, exposing the line of his throat. His eyes had closed again, his mouth barely parted, looking both relaxed and inviting, and you let your gaze wander slowly down to his lap, taking in the slight twitch of his fingers as he watched you watch him. Your gaze, naturally, rested on the soft fabric over his crotch, where he hadn’t bothered to fully straighten himself.

Without opening his eyes, he shifted, widening his legs a little, and his hand found your wrist, pulling you gently to the floor beside him. You knelt, the carpet pressing against your bare knees, your hand resting on his thigh. You took in the curve of his mouth, the flutter of his lashes against his cheek, as if he were half-asleep. He watched you through those heavy-lidded eyes, breathing out a soft laugh. He sat up slowly, a glimmer of anticipation in his gaze as your hands reached for his waistband, fingers deftly undoing his belt and pulling his pants down just enough.

Your fingers trailed lower, grazing over him. This part was all effortless between you — this silent, knowing exchange, like slipping into familiar waters.

The softness of the moment stretched as you held him in your hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against your palm, and for a brief second, your thoughts drifted, settling on small details around the room — the warm light from the lamp, the half-eaten cake on the coffee table, the quiet hum of the city outside the window, anything but the very obvious penis in your hand. But then he shifted beneath you, his breath catching, and you refocused. 

You could feel him start to harden in your grip, a slow stirring, a growing weight in your palm and his mouth opened slightly as he let out a soft exhale, the sound low and intimate, reaching right through you. It was almost as if he was half-asleep, but the subtle shifts told you he was aware of everything. You let your fingers graze him, feeling him respond as the minutes stretched and blurred together, his body gradually rousing. 

It took him a while to get hard. His cock stirred under your touch, but it wasn’t with the urgency you might have expected. The usual rush wasn’t quite there yet. Maybe it was the haze of the drugs, the sleepy comfort of the room, or maybe it was just how men seemed to have a way of wanting even when they didn’t fully need, driven by the pull of desire that lingered regardless of mood or reason. He was greedy like that, always lingering in that space between need and want, and you could feel it in the way he softened under you and then tensed, even as he struggled to stay focused.

Quiet sounds escaped him, low, murmured noises that seemed to fill the space, not quite moans, more like sighs, laced with contentment. His hands, lazy and drifting, traced a path down your arms, fingers brushing your skin as he settled deeper, responding to the warmth of your hand around him.

Then, there was a slight tremor in his thighs, a subtle twitch, and he swelled in your palm, filling out, his breath catching as he surged, finally hard and full against you. His eyes opened, just barely, catching yours with a sleepy intensity, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he took in the look on your face, the focus in your gaze, as if he knew that right here, right now, he had all of you.

I love you. I love your courage, your unflinching aplomb, the sharp edges of your humour that are sometimes a bit too pointed, a bit too harsh, but are always undeniably yours. I love the way you hold fierce loyalties to beings and ideas, and the way you wear your passions like armour. And yet, sometimes, I’ve wished I didn’t love you so hard. I have been hurt by your distance, the condescension that slips into your words over things you do not yet understand. I’ve felt bruised by the way you dismiss an idea before it’s had the chance to breathe, the vehemence with which you sweep aside what you’ve deemed unworthy. I’ve been pained by the way you settle, conform, content, and I have found myself needing to take you in doses, in the measured moments I knew I could carry without unravelling. 

But I love you, and perhaps, that’s where the difficulty blooms. I love that you make me grow, that the ache of our challenges together has shaped me. And yet, it hurts that I often need to reduce my own thoughts, to distil my voice so you’ll hear it without defences. What I love the most, what I cling to, is that every moment with you feels like a kind of adventure—each day with you a journey, brimming with the quiet, reckless potential of what might come next. I love that we have our stories, that I can look back on something you did or said, something ridiculous or clever, and laugh so hard it feels as though I’m reliving it each time. I miss the early days, when you didn’t ask me ‘Why?’ for everything. When you would simply be there beside me, steady and sure, no need to question or challenge. 

I know that’s a part of me — this need to believe, to take things as they come, to not prod or test. I wanted to believe that I could give you enough warmth to make up for all the layers you wrap yourself in, the shields you raise, even against me. I wanted to believe that if I touched each layer with enough gentleness, enough patience, they’d fall away like autumn leaves. If you could only see the strength in you as I do, you wouldn’t need those layers. No doubts, no fears — they would stand no chance against you.

I wronged you, I think, in small ways I never spoke of, in ways I didn’t know how to share. But if I’ve held these thoughts, let them sink deep, it’s only because I love you.

— Alex

You pressed the letter to your lips, feeling the warmth of his words mix with the soft heat of your own breath. The tear on your cheek slipped quietly onto the page, bleeding into the ink, warping the corner of the paper as it softened beneath your touch. The numbers danced in your mind like a mosaic, fragmented but strangely satisfying, giving structure to something as uncontainable as love. 

Ten years. 

You’d spent 3,650 days in each other’s orbits, and in those days, there were pockets of friction, 600 days of raised voices, misunderstandings, and unmet expectations. It was part of the mathematics of a relationship, wasn’t it? Part of the balancing act. Those 600 days felt weighty, but they were dwarfed by the days where you’d found your way to one another, where you’d fought through the fog of your differences to find warmth on the other side. The 83.6% — you’d done the math on that too — where harmony held you close.

But was harmony the same as happiness? You weren’t always sure. And yet, even in those 600 days of friction, there were lessons, bridges you built, however rickety, so you could find each other in the midst of it all. That was love too, wasn’t it? In its own messy, bruised way. 

Maybe the arguments had softened over time, not because you had solved everything, but because you’d learned to navigate the contours of each other's flaws. There was a rhythm to it, a set of silent compromises that built a life.

And that left you time for happiness. Harmony. Love. Sex. About 3 times a week. 1500 days. The 43% — the hours, the minutes, the moments you spent tangled in bed, feeling his breath on your skin, his body moving in sync with yours — those were memories that breathed life back into the days worn down by arguments and exhaustion. It was a frequency you both understood without words, a physical language that cut through the silence, through the numbers, bringing you back to each other.

You wanted, so desperately, for him to see himself the way you did. To look in the mirror without flinching, to carry his strengths with the quiet confidence they deserved. If he could do that, you thought, maybe he would hold you differently, see you with a tenderness unfiltered by self-doubt. You wanted him to love himself so that he could love you more deeply, fully, without the weight of his insecurities pulling him back. Was that too much to ask?

You wondered if love was ever balanced, if anyone came out of it untouched, without wounds. Did it have to be so strategic, so calculated? Or was that a symptom of your own self-protection, of all the ways you’d learned to shield yourself? You questioned if this was love — this ledger of hopes and missteps, dreams and half-kept promises, measured and weighed and divided. Or was love supposed to be the opposite — jumping without looking, diving head first into the unknown with a reckless abandon that defied analysis?

Yet here you were, tallying up your days, marking the good and the bad, trying to make sense of a decade in numbers. You weren’t sure if it was pragmatic or tragic, but it was real, and sometimes that was the best you could ask for.

You scrubbed the plate absentmindedly, the rhythm of your hands trailing off as your mind raced with scenarios, each one building on the tension you felt radiating from Alex behind you. You hadn’t even looked back at him yet, but you could feel his nervous movements, the constant shifting of his leg, first one knee to his chest, then the other, the same pattern repeated over and over. It was a nervous tic, a sign you knew so well, and yet it was throwing you off, pushing your thoughts in a dozen directions. For ten minutes now, you’d been washing the same plate, lost in thought, imagining realities, guessing at his silence, each possibility feeling as real as the last. Your patience was wearing thin, the silence turning sour in your mouth as your mind painted scenario after scenario.

Finally, the words came out, exasperated and almost pleading, “Did something happen?” It was like breaking a dam, a question you’d repeated internally over and over but hadn’t dared to say out loud until now. The quiet in the room grew thick, settling between you, and then, from the corner of your eye, you noticed his movements still, his body relaxing just a bit. You saw his knees slowly drift down, revealing a folded letter in his lap. 

A letter. The ritual began to unfold again, one you both honoured when words got stuck in the air. Over the years, you'd sent each other countless letters, a way of saying the things that mattered most. Sometimes you’d drop them in the mailbox, even though you lived under the same roof, a whimsical habit that held meaning in each carefully crafted line. 

But this one was different. This one he held out for you to read then and there, no delay, no time to rehearse or retreat, the words waiting there just for you.

For eight hours every night, our bodies have spoken together. In the space between sleep and waking, when there are no words, no walls – only quiet breaths shared in darkness – we talk. I think that’s where we find our common revelations, those strange, quiet coincidences that only we understand. Somehow, in sleep, our bodies have always found one another. Maybe that’s where our closeness begins and where it deepens. Maybe that’s where everything we’ve never said has been shared all along.

When we’re unconscious, my love, our bodies don’t hold anything back. They fight, they make up, they find each other again. It’s in that hidden language, beyond words and second guesses, where they tell the truest stories. I wonder what tale they’ll tell tonight. Last night, for example, we moved together, curling into each other, your warmth against my back, and I felt you so completely. Maybe we talked, I don’t know about what – about you, about me, about everything we’re too afraid to say when the sun’s up. But when I woke up, I felt as if I knew you better, as if I’d spent hours listening to something only my soul could translate.

And now I find myself wondering, do you really have no idea what I have to tell you now? Maybe you’ve already felt it, sensed it in the brush of my hand or the way I look at you. What wasn’t spoken or enunciated has already been felt. You know it better than anyone – you, with your gift for reading the unspoken, in dreams, in the numbers on the clock when they align, in the quiet dance our bodies share at night, in the constellations you trace across my back. 

Tell me you already know, even if we’ve never said it out loud, even if it’s only whispered between us in the language only you and I understand.

— Alex

You let the piece of paper rest in your hands, its words settling into you with an intimacy that felt like both a confession and a plea. Your fingers shook, unwilling or unable to break free. Outside, the sun dipped low, casting a sombre light across the kitchen that seemed to cling to every word unspoken, every plea unheard. You glanced over, watching Alex watch you, the line of his mouth set in a way you hadn’t seen before, a quiet acceptance that felt like it was teetering on the edge of resignation.

“If we’d been born a hundred years ago,” you said, “maybe it would have been different. Maybe there would have been rules, expectations, some walls to keep us in place. Some force greater than either of us, something that didn’t require us to choose every day, over and over.” You felt the words trail off as if they knew better than you did where they were going. “But today, there’s only us, Alex. It’s only us who build, only us who tear down, only us who decide. And yet…” You hesitated, a bitterness creeping in. “And yet it feels like there’s something else still taking, doesn’t it? Some weight neither of us asked for.”

His eyes, dark and steady, seemed to absorb each word, and for once, he didn’t interrupt, didn’t soften the impact with a joke or a shrug. He just let them land, and you could feel them settling into that hollow, heavy place between you.

You continued, the words rising from somewhere deep and restless. “Shouldn’t this be symbiosis?” you whispered, almost to yourself, but loud enough for him to hear. “But what are we supposed to call it when the thing that’s supposed to sustain us is also what takes everything away?”

He offered you a sad smile, the kind of half-smile that aches more than it soothes, and gave a faint, humourless laugh that quickly faded. “I don’t know. Maybe the clichés got it right after all.” he murmured. “Maybe we’re just…feeding each other, feeding on each other. Until there’s nothing left.”

You felt a surge rise in your chest, a swell of sorrow and anger tangled together, a need to say something real, something more than the vague ache you’d been wrestling with. “How do I put this into words?” you asked, voice breaking. “How am I supposed to explain this, this…void that keeps growing? Who’s going to fill this crater, Alex? When you’re gone, when I’m left here without…without anything?”

The plate you’d set on the counter slipped suddenly, crashing onto the floor, shattering into sharp fragments that scattered around your feet. Neither of you flinched, too numb to feel it, too wrapped up in each other to care about any other broken pieces around you.

“It’s just going to keep growing, isn’t it?” you whispered, almost as if speaking to yourself. “This emptiness, this…hunger that doesn’t go away. It’ll still be there, long after the words are gone, after I don’t have the strength to scream or the tears to cry. It’s never going to stop taking, is it?”

He looked at you with a sadness that mirrored your own, something raw and vulnerable that you rarely saw, and for a moment, you thought he might reach out, might try to bridge the gap. But he didn’t. He just stayed in his chair, his hands gripping the arms, grounding himself as if he, too, was afraid of what might happen if he moved.

“I’m here now.” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, but it trembled with conviction. “I’m here now…even if it’s not enough.” 

The silence fell heavy between you again, and this time, it felt like it had weight, like it carried every unsaid thing, every fear and hope, every wound too deep to heal. The broken plate lay scattered at your feet, a perfect reflection of everything hanging in the air, of the fragile, delicate pieces you both kept holding onto, trying so desperately not to let them fall apart.

And yet, as you stood there amid the shattered pieces, a truth settled over you both, a finality you couldn’t ignore.

Death remains the Supreme Court, the silent judge with the final say, taking what it will, whether you call upon it or not, without a right or reason. It takes the thing two people have, without asking, first unexplainable, then deliberately, then completely.

Alex’s tear had traced a slow, glistening path down his cheek, catching in the faint morning light that filtered through the window, and then another one followed, trembling as it clung to his jaw before dripping onto his shirt. He let his head drop, and his shoulders shook, his breaths catching. You lowered yourself to the cold tile, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud, as if grounding yourself would stop the ache, the helplessness. You buried your head into his lap, and his hands found their way to your hair, brushing through the strands gently, carefully, as if he were soothing both of you.

“Strangely…I- I didn’t cry when I wrote that.” he murmured. You looked up, eyes meeting his as he tried to smile through the tears, his fingers still combing through your hair. “Not for myself, but for you.” His face crumpled then, any trace of composure shattering, and he cried with abandon, tears mingling with the streaks of snot, his cheeks damp and reddened, his lips trembling. 

You both let the grief spill over, holding each other on the cold, hard floor of the kitchen until exhaustion stole you away, pulling you into a dreamless sleep, tangled in each other’s arms.

A faint, persistent knock from the door woke you, and you blinked awake, the weight of his arm draped over you, his fingers still entwined in your hair. Alex stirred, a haze of sleep in his eyes as he rubbed them, glancing at the door and then back at you with a soft, almost embarrassed smile. “A neighbour.” he muttered, his voice groggy. He pushed himself up slowly, joints creaking from the unforgiving tiles, and helped you to your feet, brushing his thumb across your cheek as he did. “You okay?”

“It’s Saturday.” you said softly, glancing toward the door. The neighbour’s voice was muffled but unmistakable. “Commemoration of the dead.” you whispered, a strange kind of feeling settling over you both.

“How ironic.” Alex said, chuckling in a way that was more wistful than amused. The edges of his eyes were red, the lashes still damp, and his hair fell in messy strands across his forehead. His hand found yours, squeezing it. 

“It’s beautiful out, isn’t it?” you murmured, glancing toward the window.

He looked outside, letting his fingers brush the back of your hand as if he needed the contact to steady himself. “Two hours until sunset.” he said softly, his gaze thoughtful. The light hit his eyes, a warm amber hue that caught the depth and sadness there, a quiet strength that seemed to rise to the surface. He looked back at you, his thumb grazing the inside of your wrist. “We should go for a walk.”

“By the river.” you replied, letting your hand rest on his shoulder as he turned back to you. 

“Yeah.” he nodded, and as he reached up, his fingers traced your jaw, lingering at the corner of your mouth. He tilted his head slightly, brushing his thumb over your cheek in that familiar, comforting way. There was something so gentle in the way he looked at you just then, because each second mattered infinitely, and he wanted to memorise every line, every shadow on your face.

“We still have six months.” you whispered. “I don’t want to miss a single second of it. Not one sunrise. Not one sunset.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath warm on your skin. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer as he closed his eyes. “Not one.” he whispered, his voice a soft, sacred vow. 

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and you could feel his heartbeat, steady and sure, beneath his ribs, beneath your touch. You already started missing it. The quietness lingered, filled with a love that defied words, a bond that felt woven into the very air around you in that fragile space.

Lying back on the grass, Alex looked up at you, his eyes warm and unguarded, the glint of the sun catching the faintest shine in them. “I’m glad we’ve got this summer together.” he said, his voice soft, like he was trying to tuck the words right between you so they’d never fade. “There are so many things left for us to do.”

You smiled, the warmth of the afternoon sinking into your bones. That night by the river, you’d decided together. You’d asked him, casually but with all the weight in the world, if he’d make you tea when you got back home. He’d laughed, his smile crooked, and promised he’d make you tea every single day. Then you’d asked if he’d take you on a walk, through the city, all night long. And he said he’d walk you anywhere, even to the sea, even if it took until sunrise. And it was right then that you decided, without a word, that you’d let sleep go. It didn’t matter anymore. You’d spoil him every single day to get your fix of him, storing up love for the cold winter ahead.

He watched you now, lying with his head propped in his hand, his body so still, afraid that any sudden movement might make the moment dissolve. “I don’t want you to cry someday, thinking there was something we didn’t get to live together.” he said, reaching up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “I’d rather you cry because you miss me.”

The words held so much meaning that you felt a tear threaten, but instead, you climbed over him, swinging one leg over his hips, leaning in close until your hands framed his head, feeling the beat of his pulse under your palm. “I don’t even know what to say to you.” you murmured, lowering yourself so that your head rested against his chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat, steady and reassuring. You should’ve been crying, should’ve been mourning the cruel reality of it all, but instead, a quiet, profound gratitude flooded you. Grateful for every single second, every breath you heard him take and every thump of his heart inside of him. “Do you think it’s possible…to live and memorise at the same time?” you asked him, half to yourself, wondering if you could hold on to every piece of him while still living in the present.

But you didn’t wait for him to answer, because his lips were there, inches from yours, and you couldn’t hold back. You kissed him hard, pressing him back down into the grass, feeling his breath catch as your mouths met, his hands coming up to your waist, fingers slipping under the thin fabric of your dress to hold you. His mouth opened to you, and the taste of him flooded you, sweet and warm. Your fingers moved instinctively to the belt at his waist, fumbling as he chuckled, that soft, warm laugh that you felt against your lips.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble.” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he tried to keep a straight face, though his voice was already low with want.

You let your lips travel to the corner of his mouth, then across his cheek, your breath warm against his skin as you whispered, “No one’s here…and I don’t care.” You kissed the corner of his eye, feeling the smallest hitch in his breath.

He let out a shaky exhale, biting back a smile. “Arrested, even…for indecent exposure.” he muttered, but his words were swallowed by the soft groan that escaped him as your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, fingers curling around him. You felt him harden, his mouth parting as his eyes shut for a brief second, then opened again, watching you. 

You held his gaze as you shifted, letting your dress slide up your thighs, positioning yourself over him. His hands came up to grip your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you closer, guiding you down. And then, as you slowly sank onto him, a quiet moan escaped both of you, a mix of pleasure and pain in the knowledge of all the time that was slipping through your fingers, that this could be the last to the numbered days where you shared your bodies. You moved together, his hips rising to meet yours, his hands tightening as he thrust deeper. His hands roamed your back, sliding up to cradle your face as he brought your mouth to his, his kiss deep and consuming, holding on like he’d never let you go.

You felt memories flood you — the first time you’d met, the ridiculous first phone call, the way you’d both laughed until your sides hurt. And then the first night you’d spent together, the first fight, all those things that felt so big once but now, in the grand scheme of things, seemed small.

A tear slipped down your cheek, falling onto his as you leaned close to whisper, “I’ll miss having fights with you.” voice thick with the bittersweet ache. “But I won’t live these last few months in fear or selfishness.”

“Don’t stop.” he groaned, his voice breaking as he thrust harder, his hands desperate, pressing you closer. His breath was ragged as he buried his face against your shoulder, clutching you tight as if he could pull you into himself.

“I don’t want to think about what life will be like…after.” you murmured, fighting the tremor in your voice, closing your eyes against the thought. “I don’t know if I should think about that now.”

“Just be…here. Now.” he leaned back to look up at you, his hand wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Just be with me.”

The grass felt cool beneath his back. You felt him everywhere, pressing against your walls, each thrust igniting a fire that spread from your core out to your fingertips, your toes. His hands stayed glued to your hips as you looked down at him, at the way his brow furrowed as he focused on you, every push and pull of his body an unspoken promise. He was beautiful, all sweat and want, cheeks flushed, the way his hair fell across his forehead, damp and tousled, a wild halo that only added to the urgency of the moment.

You felt every part of him, the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles flexed beneath you, powerful and alive. He was both your comfort and your chaos. 

“It’s so good.” you breathed, your words barely audible, lost in the heat of the moment, and he responded with a low groan that echoed.

“I need to stay alive.” he gasped, his voice thick and raw as he thrust deeper. A bittersweet reminder of everything you were fighting against. The ache in your chest grew as you felt the way his hips moved, desperate and yearning. 

“It’s leading me on,” he murmured, voice cracking as he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin, every word a confession, each thrust punctuated with the weight of your reality. “Every time we touch…it hurts.” 

It was suffocating and freeing all at once, and you knew that this connection was something deeper than physical pleasure — it was a bond forged in love and pain.

“Every single time it hurts…” he breathed, thrusting harder now, desperation flooding his movements. You felt yourself tightening around him, the build of pleasure pushing you closer to that edge, the world outside forgotten. “‘Cause it’s not enough…” he moaned, 

You let go, crying out his name, and in that moment, you could see it all in his eyes. The love, the longing, the desperation. He surged beneath you, his own release coming hard and deep, filling you completely, and you knew, in that instant, that you were both lost and found, forever bound. 

“You look beautiful.” he whispered, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb. “You look so beautiful.” And then, as the last of your breaths mingled, he leaned up, pressing his lips to your forehead, his voice a raw, broken whisper. “I love you.” 

a/n: it's a bit all over the place, practically stolen from the play I saw a couple weeks ago (it's not in English so I think it would be pretty useless to share what it was anyway), well, except the smut scenes cause of course I have to make everything about that...if you got here I hope you didn't feel like I just wasted your time :)

[aacheinthejaw]

x

[aacheinthejaw]

[aacheinthejaw]

He looks so small here and it’s giving me brain worms….

[aacheinthejaw]

The Last Shadow Puppets Cleveland | July 24, 2016

[aacheinthejaw]

i am absolutely incapable of being normal about this photo. just for the record

[aacheinthejaw]

andy_willsher: An early shot of Alex from the Arctic Monkeys, photographed in Sheffield back in 2005. @arcticmonkeys (Posted on 01/11/2024)

[aacheinthejaw]

[aacheinthejaw]

alex turner acting out the words to star treatment

+ BONUS

[aacheinthejaw]

Come Undone

a love letter (to his D)

warnings: sub!alex (kinda), smut, handjob & blowjob (kinda, more just teasing), softie, pretty sweet

word count: 4.5k

“Wake up.” he whispered in your dream, his voice threading softly through the haze of sleep. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was something more gentle, a lull where you felt weightless. You couldn’t remember what it had been about, only that you didn’t want to leave it, not just yet. But he was calling you out of it, pulling you closer to reality in a way that felt both tender and insistent, like he knew you’d want to stay with him if you opened your eyes.

“Wake up.” The sound came again, but this time it was different. In your dream, it was distant, a gentle murmur from across a room. Now, though, it was close — right at your ear, warm and soft as the edges began to blur. You felt a gentle brush against your face, like the tickle of hair moving close by. “Baby.” he whispered, pulling you further from the dream and closer to him.

“Mmm…so it was the real Alex.” you muttered, letting the words slip out as you lingered between dreams and waking. You hadn’t opened your eyes yet, hadn’t fully let go of sleep, but you knew he was there, something solid and warm in the softness of the moment.

“Is there another Alex?” he asked, and you felt the warmth of his breath, his face pressed close to your ear. He stayed hidden in the curve of your neck, out of sight but filling your senses. His leg moved gently over your hip, draping softly over you as his thigh settled in a light press against yours, anchoring you to the bed, to him.

“Now I can’t get up.” you murmured, smiling just barely, feeling the weight of him keeping you in place in the kind of closeness that made the world outside seem unnecessary.

“You can’t.” he agreed, his voice laced with a smile you could feel more than see. He tucked himself closer, his face half-buried in the pillow, half-lost in the mess of your hair, letting out an involuntary hum, low and pleased. You could feel him breathing you in, the way he’d always say he loved the scent of your hair, the quiet hum of comfort that slipped from him as he settled. “Who’s the other one?” he asked again. 

“The Alex of my dreams…” you whispered, moving your free hand — the one that wasn’t pinned beneath him — to find his back. Your fingertips moved lightly over his spine, tracing the line of each vertebra through his thin t-shirt. He stayed so still under your touch that you could almost think he was the one just waking up, as though he’d been waiting here, half-asleep, until you joined him in this quiet reality.

“Am I not the Alex of your dreams?” he asked. 

You paused, letting your fingers trace down to the small of his back. “Only one of you will never be enough.” you whispered back, smiling as you felt him melt a little further, a silent agreement you both shared in the unspoken language of touch and warmth. 

He didn’t answer, not with words, only pressed his face deeper into your shoulder, breathing in, as if he could stay here, keep this moment, for as long as the morning allowed.

Alex stayed close, his face half-hidden in the pillow and half-nuzzled into your hair, taking in every inch of the moment before he began to shift, pressing his lips just above your ear. His mouth was warm and barely there, his lips brushing so lightly it almost felt like a dream in itself. You felt the slight graze of his stubble against your skin, a contrast to the softness of his lips as he left a trail of gentle, lingering kisses down your temple, pausing to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

He stayed quiet for a beat, his fingers tracing a soft path along your arm as he kissed his way down to the corner of your jaw, where he stopped to murmur, “Were you really dreaming about me?”

You smiled, eyes still closed, sinking into the warmth of his voice and the gentle weight of his touch. “Maybe.” you said, as his lips curved into a smile you could feel against your skin.

“Only maybe?” he teased, shifting to brush another kiss across your cheekbone, lingering there as if he wanted to memorise every little detail of your face. “I don’t know how I feel about ‘maybe’.”

You laughed softly, finally opening your eyes to find him there, his gaze soft and hazy. He tilted his head, catching your eye as his thumb swept absently across your shoulder. “You’re always in my dreams, you know that.” you whispered.

“Good.” he murmured, as though that was the answer he’d been waiting for. His lips brushed down to the tip of your nose. “What did I do in this one?”

“Not much, really. Just…existed.” Your hand found its way to the back of his neck, fingers playing with the soft curls there as he hummed a gentle laugh against your skin.

“I like that.” he said, his voice a quiet rasp. He dropped another kiss on your cheek, then trailed down to your jaw again, stopping to speak between kisses. “Existing…might be my favourite thing to do, actually.”

“You? Just existing?” you teased, grinning. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Oh, it is.” he whispered, his mouth hovering just over your cheek. “I do it all the time…especially here, with you.”

The words made your chest tighten, a quiet confession that somehow felt both simple and profound. He kept close, his lips pressing gently along your cheek. He pulled back just enough to look at you. “What should we do today?” he asked, his voice low as he pressed another kiss just beside your eye. 

“Stay here.” you replied without hesitation, your fingers tracing the back of his neck in a soothing rhythm. “Just like this. Maybe make some tea eventually.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he kissed the edge of your eyebrow. “That’s ambitious for me. Getting up, making tea…might have to work up to it.”

“We could take our time, you know.” you murmured. “Or I could bring the tea here.”

“Now we’re talking.” he said with a smile. “You always know what to say.” He paused, shifting closer to plant another gentle kiss on your forehead. 

“Don’t get too used to it.” you joked, closing your eyes as he pressed his forehead to yours. 

He shook his head slightly, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he smiled. “I think it’s too late for that, love.”

The plan was in motion now, the quiet luxury of tea in bed. He sat up, crossing his legs at the ankles and leaning back against the headboard, looking cosy but still half-drifted away, as though he hadn’t quite let go of the warmth of sleep’s hold. He’d slipped on a t-shirt somewhere between waking up and waking you up, you’re sure, because you remembered feeling his skin as you fell asleep. But the chill of the morning still clung to him, making him look somehow softer in the pale light filtering through the window.

“’S dangerous.” he murmured as you handed him his cup, a teasing glint in his eyes, though he held it carefully, fingers curving around the ceramic to soak in the heat.

“Just don’t spill it. It’s hot.” you warned, settling back beside him and taking a sip from your own cup.

“I know.” he replied, his tone equal parts reassurance and playfulness. He took a cautious sip, eyes closing briefly as he felt the warmth on his tongue, then opened them again with a quiet smile, the steam curling in gentle wisps around his face. 

You glanced down, taking him in — the t-shirt loose against his shoulders, the hem just brushing the waistband of his briefs, his legs bare against the cool sheets. His feet poked out from beneath the blanket, his toes curling slightly. You could feel the slight draft coming in from the hallway, the house always seeming to hold onto the early cold until the sun had fully risen. You tugged a pair of socks over your own feet, sighing with relief at the warmth.

“You want socks?” you asked, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

He raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking into a small smile as he eyed you pulling your socks on. “Only if you’ve got a pair in my size. Don’t think I could squeeze into those.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging his leg with your foot. “I’ll find you some.” You stood up, feeling the cool air brush against your bare legs and the hem of his boxers, which sat lower on your hips, more of a cover than his briefs offered him. He didn’t seem to mind, though. 

“Here.” you said, handing him a warm, thick pair, and he slid them on, giving you a contented look as he wiggled his toes in the added warmth.

“Perfect.” he murmured, pulling the blanket over his lap again and patting the space beside him. You curled up next to him, settling in close, your legs pressed together under the covers, the warmth from the tea and his body filling the little chill that remained in the room.

As he took another sip, he looked over at you. “You know, I think tea in bed was the best idea you’ve ever had.” he whispered, as if letting you in on a shared secret, a small indulgence that only the two of you would ever understand. 

The tea cups eventually found their way back to the bedside table, abandoned with the faint traces of steam still curling. You shifted closer, pressing against him until your shoulders touched, your breath mingling with his as you both settled into the warmth you’d made in this small, quiet world together.

He was looking at you now, that soft, half-lidded gaze that made you feel as if you were the only person in the room, the only person in his orbit. His face was inches away, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips, an invitation without a single word. And then he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, gentle at first, the warmth of his mouth tasting faintly of tea and that earthy, familiar sweetness that lingered on his skin.

He hummed softly against your lips, his hand finding the small of your back as he pulled you closer. His fingertips traced slow circles through the fabric of the boxers you’d borrowed, a shiver moving through you at the warmth of his touch.

You moved into his lap, straddling him, the blanket slipping down around his hips as he shifted to meet you, his hands gentle and steady on your waist. His skin was warm under your touch, the faintest hint of morning chill lingering where his shirt rode up slightly, exposing the soft, pale skin of his lower abdomen.

His lips found your neck, trailing the lightest kisses down to your collarbone, and you tilted your head, breathing in the scent of his hair, that comforting mix of shampoo and something purely him. 

You shifted again, sliding down until you were nestled just beneath his chest, your head settling somewhere between his stomach and the waistband of his briefs. It was an awkward spot — he was propped up against the headboard, not fully lying down, and you were tucked against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, your cheek pressed against the warm stretch of skin just above his hip.

His hand slipped into your hair, a gentle, absent-minded stroke as you nuzzled closer, finding comfort in the warmth radiating from him. And as you pressed your ear to his abdomen, you could hear it: the soft, internal sounds of his body, the hum of life inside him, that quiet, mysterious rhythm that felt like a secret only you were privy to.

“What are you doing down there?” he asked softly, his voice laced with amusement as his hand rested on your shoulder.

“Listening.” you murmured, your eyes closed as you let the sound of him fill you, the quiet beating of his heart, the small shifts in his breathing.

“To what?” he asked, curiosity soft in his voice.

“To you. Inside.” you whispered, fingers tracing a gentle line along his upper thigh, your touch brushing lightly over the fine hairs that covered his skin. You felt him shiver slightly under your hand, his breath catching for just a moment.

“You can hear me?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Yeah.” you replied, smiling softly. “Feels like…I don’t know, like I’m listening to the ocean. Like there’s something so alive in there.” Your hand continued its path along his thigh, moving in slow, soothing strokes, feeling the warmth and the faint tremor of his muscles beneath your touch. Each time your fingers brushed against him, he exhaled a little sharper, a small shiver running through him.

“You’re going to be the death of me.” he murmured, his hand sliding down to gently rest on your shoulder, his thumb brushing along your collarbone. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing steady but deeper. 

“You don’t mind, though, do you?” you asked, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze, your hand still tracing soft lines over his thigh.

“Not even a little.” he whispered, his voice warm and low, a quiet confession just for you. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and you sank into the warmth of him. 

Your fingers trailed slowly, almost absently, from his thigh toward his centre, brushing lightly over the soft fabric that covered him. He tensed, just slightly — a subtle shift that you felt under your hand, as though each touch sent a new current through him, as if every time you touched him was the first time, unexpected and gentle, catching him off-guard in the best way. Through the thin cotton, you could almost feel the texture of him, the warmth radiating through, and a softness that felt both comforting and electric beneath your touch.

He breathed in a little deeper as your fingers traced gentle shapes over him, small circles that seemed to melt into heart shapes, drawn there almost without you realising. He stayed still, his hand resting on your shoulder, fingers brushing the side of your neck. Then, in a voice so quiet, he murmured, “I’m not really…”

You paused, lifting your head slightly to look up at him, your hand slowing but keeping its rhythm in those tender shapes. “What?” you asked, voice soft, careful not to break the quiet intimacy surrounding you both.

“In the mood.” he whispered, his words a little hesitant, almost apologetic, his gaze meeting yours with a vulnerability that made you feel even closer to him. His hand drifted to your hair, fingers moving through the strands in a gentle, absent rhythm.

You smiled, feeling a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with being here, with him. “I just wanna feel you.” you replied, your voice just as soft, the words a reassurance, an offering.

He held your gaze for a moment, his expression softening as he let out a quiet breath, his shoulders relaxing as if he’d been waiting for exactly that. “Okay.” he whispered, his hand resting on the back of your head, thumb brushing a soft line across your temple.

“Okay.” you echoed, letting the word settle between you, feeling the quiet trust, the understanding that nothing needed to be more than what it was right now. 

You settled back against him, your fingers resuming their slow, gentle path, tracing over him in soft patterns, feeling the warmth and steady pulse beneath your touch. You slipped your fingers beneath the elastic band of his briefs, soft against your skin but taut against the gentle curve of his hips. The moment your fingers made contact, he reacted, a tiny sound escaping his lips — soft and barely there, but it didn’t go unnoticed. 

But as your fingers brushed against him, the elastic dug into your hand uncomfortably, a reminder of the boundaries still present in this intimate moment. Before you could adjust, he shifted slightly, his eyes flitting to yours with a hint of uncertainty. 

“Wait.” he murmured, and with a gentle push, he lowered the waistband just enough to free himself, exposing his softness to your touch. “I don’t mind.” he said, his voice low, a slight tremor threading through the words. “But I don’t think I’ll get…you know…anytime soon.” 

“Why?” you asked, your tone curious, not condescending or disappointed. Your fingers ghosted over the soft skin of his cock, warm and inviting, while your gaze remained steady on his face. 

He hesitated for a moment, his cheeks flushing a soft shade of pink. “I had a nightmare.” he confessed, and you could see the weight of it lingering in his eyes, a shadow of something deeper just below the surface.

“That’s why you were already up?” you asked gently.

“Yeah.” he admitted, and you watched as he almost squirmed away at the sensation of your fingers pulling the skin down from his tip, his body responding to the tenderness of your touch. 

“You can’t get hard because of a nightmare?” you probed softly, wanting to understand the softness — both literally and figuratively — of his current state, his vulnerability laid bare before you.

“Mhm.” he murmured, his gaze flickering away, as if he were embarrassed by the admission. He was so exquisitely delicate, needy in a way that felt instinctual. 

The embarrassment coloured his cheeks, a warm blush spreading across his skin as he struggled with the sensations coursing through him, the conflicting feelings of vulnerability and desire weaving together in a sweet tapestry of intimacy. Yet, as your fingers continued their gentle exploration, he slowly began to forget. 

“God, you feel so soft.” you whispered, your voice barely above a murmur, and his expression shifted, scrunching up for just a moment before relaxing into something more blissful, his mouth parting slightly as if he were trying to catch his breath.

His eyes fluttered closed, a soft whimper escaping his lips as he leaned into your touch, a quiet surrender to the sensations enveloping him. “Don’t…don’t say that.” he breathed, trying to sound dismissive but failing miserably as he revelled in the gentle affection.

“I can’t help it.” you teased softly, feeling the warmth of him beneath your fingers, the way his body reacted to your touch, instinctively leaning into you. You could see the way he wanted to squirm away from the attention, yet at the same time, he craved more — more of you, more of this.

His mouth left slightly open without realising it, his breath coming in soft, shallow puffs as he pushed a hand through his hair, tousling it in an almost nervous gesture. “It’s embarrassing.” he murmured, a hint of a whine lacing his words, but there was something sweet in his eyes. 

“It’s not.” you replied, brushing your thumb along his skin. “It’s just…you.”

He scrunched his face again, a delightful mixture of shyness and desire, before melting back into the moment, those flushes of pink on his cheeks only adding to the glow he exuded. “More…” he whispered, as if the word were both a plea and a request, longing and sweetness tangled together.

His breath quickened as you continued. Your fingers traced gentle patterns, and he let out a soft, trembling sigh. “It feels good.” he murmured, voice thick with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. “Even if I’m not…you know.” 

“You’re still beautiful.” you reassured him. 

Your hand found its way to his leg, fingers curling around the soft flesh of his inner thigh, holding him steady. The warmth of his skin against your palm was delicate, a tender vulnerability that made your own heart skip. Slowly, you leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the outer part of his thigh, feeling the muscles tense and soften under your touch. His skin there was impossibly soft and felt as though it belonged solely to you in that moment and hopefully not only then, but always. 

He let out a soft, unsteady breath, each kiss sending a shiver up his spine as he fought to stay still. “That…that feels…so nice.” he murmured, but the sentiment carried a weight of longing. He shifted slightly, as if trying to stay composed, but his body betrayed him, leaning into your touch.

Your thumb traced slow circles on his inner thigh, almost feeling the pulse of his heartbeat beneath the surface, steady but quickened. “You’re so sensitive.” you whispered. 

He looked down, a shy smile gracing his lips, his cheeks still tinged with that familiar blush. “I…I don’t know why.” he admitted softly, his hand reaching for yours. “I just…I can’t help it.” He swallowed hard, his eyes darting from your hand to your face, and then back to the delicate caress you were giving him. “I can’t believe I’m like this with you.” he whispered. “It’s just so…intimate.” 

You nodded, your gaze unwavering, letting him know that you understood. “It is,” you agreed, “but it’s okay. It’s just us here.” The moment felt almost sacred as you focused entirely on him.

With a soft smile, you leaned closer and pressed a tender kiss to the tip of his cock. He gasped, a sharp intake of breath. You could see him react, his body responding instinctively to the sensation, a shiver running through him as you pressed your lips against him again, sucking gently on the skin covering the head, your fingers still stroking him softly.

“God.” he breathed, his voice wavering. “That feels incredible. I’m not even- I mean…”

“Just relax.” you murmured, glancing up at him. “Let go. Just enjoy it.”

As you continued your gentle ministrations, you could feel his body responding, each touch eliciting soft gasps that slipped past his lips. His sensitivity seemed to amplify with every movement, and he fought to contain his reactions, but the pleasure overwhelmed him. With a quick, desperate motion, he turned his face into the pillow, burying himself into its softness as if trying to hide from the sensations.

“Fuck-” he whimpered, muffled against the fabric. “I think I’m close…” The words were barely audible, but the urgency in his tone was unmistakable. His eyes were glassy when they weren’t closed, and you could see the conflict in his expression as he fought against the rising tide of pleasure. “You’re going to make me-” he started, but the words broke off into another whimper, his body arching slightly in response to your touch.

“Just let it out when you’re ready. I promise I’ll be right here.”

He whimpered again. “I’m really close.” he breathed, almost as if confessing a secret.

You continued, your lips wrapping around him, savoring the taste of him as you took him deeper, still cradling him gently with your fingers. He gasped again, a small, broken sound, and you felt it in him, unmistakable, even if he remained soft.

Without further warning, he tensed completely. “Oh, I-” he started, but the words dissolved into a quiet moan that echoed in the room. In that instant, he came onto your lips, the warmth spilling forth messily, dripping around your mouth as you instinctively took him in for those last few moments.

You could taste the saltiness, the evidence of his release mingling with the sweetness of the moment. His eyes widened in surprise, a mixture of shock and pleasure written across his face as you pulled back slightly, the corners of your mouth tinged with his warmth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” he began, embarrassment flooding his features again, but you silenced him with a gentle smile.

“It’s okay.” you reassured him, licking your lips slowly, tongue wiping the remnants of him. “You tasted amazing.” 

He looked at you, unrequited disbelief and some admiration mingling in his gaze. “You really don’t mind?” 

Instead of answering, you simply looked at him for a quiet moment, then gently reached down, your fingers grazing his hips as you carefully tucked him back into his briefs, adjusting the waistband. The cotton was soft, marked by a few faint traces of him. But that was something to worry about later. For now, it felt like a quiet secret shared between you.

You brushed a thumb over the edge to smooth it down, and alas, leaned forward to press a kiss to his flushed cheek before wrapping an arm beneath his back, pulling him closer. Your other arm draped over his stomach, your fingers resting just at the side of his waist, a protective grip encircling him. You could feel the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, still a little unsteady, and the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“No.” you murmured at last, breaking the silence. “I don’t mind at all. I love you, you know?”

He paused, taking in the words with an unreadable expression, then his face softened, and he sank a little further against you. “I…yeah.” he replied, like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. He turned his face toward the curve of your shoulder, the tension easing from his body as he rested there. “I love you, too.”

He nestled himself closer, where he let out a small sigh. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.” he admitted. “To deserve you.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you replied softly, brushing your fingers up and down his side. “Just be here with me. That’s all I want.”

He closed his eyes, letting your words wash over him, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “It’s strange.” he murmured after a moment. “I’ve always felt like I needed to…I don’t know, prove something, or be something more.” He looked up at you, a hint of shyness still lingering. “But with you, I just…I don’t feel that way. I feel like…being me is enough.”

“It is enough.” you whispered, tightening your hold on him. “I wouldn’t want you any other way.” you whispered back, brushing a hand through his hair, feeling the strands slip between your fingers.

He let out a hum, sinking further into your embrace. “Then I think…I think I’ll just stay like this for a while.” he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “If that’s okay.”

“Yeah…more than okay.” you replied, pressing another soft kiss to his forehead, and in that quiet, shared space, you both let yourselves simply be, wrapped in the warmth of each other.

a/n: inspired by these requests x & x. I do not want to hear it if you're gonna say this isn't how dicks work or anything like that I don't care let him be soft and pathetic (love him).

[aacheinthejaw]

2009

beneath the boardwalk, part 7 (series masterlist)

secret door

warnings: a tad angsty, a tad fluffy, a tad smutty, a sweet tooth, etc.

word count: 10.5k

Alex and I shared his childhood bed. I spent Christmas and New Year's with my family in Bath, but I made the trip up to Sheffield on the 4th of January for Alex's birthday on the 6th. It was a rather unremarkable birthday but it remains one of the coziest. Alex and I thought about going out to drink but his mum made him a cake. After we ate the cake, we were too tired so we played a game of Cluedo with his parents and went to bed.

After this birthday, I realized I enjoyed Alex's birthday more than my own. My birthdays have had the long tradition of ending in dramatics or sadness or just plain boring. The simplicity of Alex's birthdays has always brought me comfort, maybe because he doesn't want a party. He doesn't want to do anything. He just wants to relax and play Cluedo.

When we went to bed that night, we were practically stacked on top of each other. He offered to sleep on the floor because, although we had done the twin bed shuffle before, it never equalled the best sleep. I denied him and said I would. He denied me so I laid half my body on top of him to not fall off the bed.

I combed his hair back. It had grown out in the desert but was softer than ever. His mum made him get a trim, which tamed up the hair, making it fall perfectly as opposed to his faux sideburn days. "How's 23 feel?"

He shrugged and reached a hand up to push my curtain-like hair behind my ear. My hair was getting long too, which I was thankful for because I didn't want to resemble Alex too much. I had grown my fringe out in the desert. My hair looked shaggier than ever but I kind of liked the roughness of it. Maybe that was the part that resembled Alex's hair. "No different than 22," he said.

"I guess we've passed all the fun ages," I sighed. "We're truly adults now."

Alex smiled softly. "That feels weird. I know we've done all these adult things, but actually being referred to as one is still weird."

"I can always account for you being older than me. That's all that matters."

He shook his head, amused by me. "Those 3 months mean a lot to you."

"Yeah, they must have been the worst 3 months of your life."

"Why?"

"'Cause you were living in a world without me."

He kissed me and then said, "That would truly be." A kiss to the cheek. "Hell." A kiss to the neck. "On." A kiss to the right collarbone. "Earth." A kiss to the right breast.

*

In the latter half of January, the band went on a small Australian & New Zealandian tour. I went because what else would I do? The majority of the tour was for the Big Day Out Festival which was hosted in Sydney, Melbourne, Gold Coast, Adelaide, Perth, and Auckland.

Their first show back in Wellington came with the debut of some Humbug songs, which I had already known of through recording and rehearsals. But seeing "Pretty Visitors" live for the first time ever was life-changing, even if Alex did stand awkwardly with his hands in his jacket's pockets. Like Pinocchio came to life, still not adapted to his new body.

I used the label-comped airfare travel to explore rather than attend most of their concerts. The dates were compacted close together so I was the only one out of our crew that got to defrost from the British winter in the Australian sun.

In February, the band was due to return to California to finish the album. Late one night in Perth, Alex asked me, "Are you coming back?"

It had been a deflected point like most things. Pushed off until someone or something made the decision for me. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to go back to London alone. I didn't want to be in California alone. Ultimately, the business card from Opal stuck in my wallet tipped the scale.

"I think I want to finish it out," I told him.

Excitement flashed in his eyes but he stayed still. "Are you sure? I'll be back before you know it. Everything will be fast. You won't even miss me."

I tugged at him. "Of course, I'll miss you. And you'll be off on tour soon and I like the idea of going with you but you know I can't do a whole tour with you. I have to be independent."

The greatest accomplishment in my life might be Alex's pride in me. I don't know how I earned his belief in me. It was there right from the moment we met and it never dissipated, even when we broke up. His smile flashed with pride then, small, but always proud in the stances I made for myself.

"I know," he said. "And I love being with you but I like hearing what you get up to when I'm away. And it'll be more flexible this time since you're out of school."

"And, maybe, I could get some work out in LA. Just freelance or something. I feel like I just gave up last time and didn't bother with a job. You know, me and complaining."

"Shush, you're opinionated. It's how I like my women."

"Women?"

He corrected, "Woman."

I chuckled and slotted my head on his shoulder. "I think maybe I'll get in touch with Opal. Maybe one day write for the LA Times. Would that make me a traitor?"

"No," he laughed, "just maybe a red coat." The skin near his eyes crinkled up, pleased with his joke. I prayed to make those wrinkles become permanent, for him to live in a lifetime of laughter, specifically from my jokes but I do get a special funny feeling when he's laughing at his own humor. It's like he's patting himself on the back, something he does physically do.

There was a question of giving in too much to Alex. I was chasing a boyfriend through the world, which was okay because I was traveling and exploring too and I wanted to be with him but I always worried about my association with him—clinging too tightly, representing an image of somebody who lived off of him. At times (and eventually), it consumed me.

*

In our rented LA home there was a bay window, which didn't look out on much other than the road and the opposing house. While Alex was at the studio, I sat there and wrote. By that point, I had compiled my essays in a file I called "LA Times." My intention wasn't to submit the works to the LA Times—I had yet to hear back from Opal on any openings—but it was simply something in the works—a digital diary of those past few Californian months.

I had begun submitting work and didn't hear back. I thought of getting a part-time job or babysitting gig, but it felt like a waste of my degree, and Alex had plenty of funds to go around.

Opal and I went out for drinks and it was the first time I went out in LA, independent from Alex. It was fast fun. Opal talked in excessive sweetness but was snarky in response to any disparity toward her.

She seemed so worldly but had never lived anywhere outside of LA. She wasn't any form of a writer but she worked with writers all day and asked if she could look at my work. I was shyly reluctant but she tugged it out of me. Some small 500-word piece I liked.

She gushed about it (and still does) insisting on me giving her more of my writing. I slowly trickled more pieces to her before she accumulated enough to give to her friend, Jackson Ferrera.

Opal began coming over to our house. If Alex was out late, we'd have dinner together. We drink together most Friday nights. We smoked a joint together once and she laughed so much she peed herself.

Opal and Alex had an interesting relationship. Opal paid compliments to his appearance like she did with everyone but it never verged on sexual or romantic. She was an observer like all of us, but she didn't write about it.

She'd also mock him as most girls do together behind their boyfriend's back. All remaining affectionate and loving. The kind of way I talked about Stacey. She was my pestering little sister who was also my youthful partner-in-crime.

"I love your hair, hon!" She said once to Al after he returned home to us watching Glee on the couch.

"Oh." He patted down the sides of his hair as if he forgot it was on his head. "I guess."

He left the room and Opal turned to me and said, "That man can not take a compliment."

I laughed and shrugged. "I've tried my best. I think he thinks you're lying to him."

"Why?!" Opal's mouth lay agape. "I'm not a liar."

I stared at her speculatively. "Everyone's a liar."

"I'm not." She placed her hand on her chest, insisting to me, "My mom told me to never lie."

I don't know if Opal has ever lied, not expansively. Not even little white lies. If you asked her how her day was, she'd tell you honestly. Maybe she fibbed and told half-truths, but she'd never fake compliment you.

She was judgy. On the other side of her kindness was someone who would honestly tell you that you look ugly in that dress. Her job seemed like her destiny, paid to have an opinion because she wasn't designed for fake niceties. I appreciated and needed the quality. It was a confidence boost and a humbling force.

*

For my birthday, Alex took me to Big Sur. We flew up to San Jose and Alex drove us down to our lodge where I fell asleep and woke up 23.

In the early morning, we walked along Pfeiffer Beach where the water was too cold and dangerous to swim in and the wind blew so hard it blinded us. We abandoned the beach, had lunch, and walked Point Lobos, which felt like we'd walked into a dream. The water waved its blues and the wind waved through the trees just right to create the perfect breeze.

"You know," I said, "this is the first trip we've ever been on. Just you and me."

Alex bowed his head and said, "Suppose that's my fault. At least we've done Wicklow."

"I know, but it doesn't really count. We probably wouldn't have gone if we weren't in Dublin." We both walked with our hands in our pockets and it was easy to think of all those talks we'd had before with our hands stuffed into our jeans pockets.

Alex smiled, his eyes covered with sunglasses, and his hair framing his face. "I'm making up for it now. Best I can." He placed one of his hands on the small of my back; a reassuring touch. Alex often felt insufficient and I wasn't the best at combating that doubt. I know he's carried guilt for self-claimed selfishness. If we were both older I wouldn't have tolerated this in the manner I did at that age. I never cared that he wanted things because he wanted me to be a part of them. However, there was always a sense that Alex had to "make up" for what he had done. I don't know if that hurt me or pleased me.

When we finished the trail we had to go back to our lodge because Alex had slipped down a hill and cut a hole into his jeans. Believe me, very funny, I wish I had it to submit to Funniest Home Videos but alas...

Alex drove for the majority of the trip. I wasn't very good at driving in America. It confused my brain. I reached over, brushing a chunk of his hair behind his ear like he had done for me countless times. "You think you're going to keep it long?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Do you think I should?"

"If you like it," I permitted.

He glanced over and gave me a look. "Does that mean you don't like it?"

I hummed. I had never really thought about it. "No. I like it," I decided. "It makes you look older. I think if you had the same cut as college you'd still look like you were 17."

"You don't think I've aged at all?"

"It's hard to tell. I've never been away long enough to notice a difference. What about me? Do I look older?" I batted my eyelashes.

He chuckled at my brazen show. "You look 23 to me."

*

I got a call from Jackson Ferrera a week after my birthday. I didn't know who he was and almost didn't answer the call when it rang at 10:30 AM, still in bed. Alex had left an hour or two earlier, kissing my forehead and unintentionally waking me up. We mumbled, "Bye, baby" to one another before he left and I drifted back to sleep.

I was in the shower when Alex returned home. It was somewhere around 5 PM and a Wednesday and I hadn't left the house once. I was in the middle of washing my hair when I heard the bathroom door open and my worries about this becoming a scene from Psycho dissipated when Alex said, "Hey, honey." Isn't it cute? We call each other honey now. It originated from Opal. We imitated her calling everyone "honey" with one another until we actually just ended up calling each other "honey" all the time.

"Hey," I called out over the shower. Alex discarded his clothes and joined me in the shower. We had started doing that more often too. We didn't often have sex in the shower either. I mean, it did happen, but we decided to shower together more in a chaste quality. Alex has the ability to wash your hair in the same way it feels at a salon. It's complete bliss. "How was your day?"

He was my little dog with his long hair getting wet in the shower and sticking to his face. He let the water run over it completely before pushing it back and out of his face. "Good. Fine," he answered. "I feel like I've been hunched over all day." He pecked my lips, a domestic greeting.

I reached down for my conditioner and told him, "I'll rub your back before bed." We might as well be the old married couple with aching backs and a stay-at-home woman willing to soothe them. I don't like to view us as old-fashioned. We were unconventional. British desert Californians, who were a musician and a pretend writer.

Alex took the bottle out of my hand, taking the conditioner into his hands, acting his role of hair masseuse. "You're my savior. I'd have a humpback if it weren't for you."

I shrugged as I turned for him to rub the product in my hair. "I like taking care of you. Shall I have dinner on the table too?"

He scoffed, "God, no. I'd be dead of food poisoning if you did that."

I laughed because I wasn't offended by not having any cooking skills. Alex understood that and has never forced a change on that. "You can't blame me. My parents don't know how to cook either."

"Your parents don't know how to do a lot of things you can do. Excuses, excuses." He clicked his tongue and I giggled as he squeezed one of my butt cheeks. "What did you get up to while I was gone?"

I sighed, turning back around to face him, a big smile plastered on my face. "Okay, well, don't freak out because I don't know anything yet."

Alex immediately grabbed my hands, nearing a panic. "What?"

I pushed his hands down. "Calm down," I instructed. "It's not that big of a deal." He relaxed and awaited an answer. "So, I got this call from someone Opal knows. A guy named Jackson Ferrera—"

"Oh, god, Janie, you're leaving me, aren't you?" Alex joked, turning his head away in dramatics, pushing me away, unable to bear the sight of me. "I always knew it."

I slapped his arms away. "Will you shut up? Listen." He looked at me normally and nodded his head. "Opal gave him some of my writing and he's this literary agent and he wants to talk about maybe him representing me—"

I was interrupted by Alex's excitement. "Are you serious? Like a book or something?"

I was reluctant to say anything, not wanting to get his hopes up, my hopes up like speaking it aloud would cancel out any possibilities. "I don't know yet. I haven't even met the guy yet."

"But you're going to?" Alex clutched my waist, his grip filled with giddiness.

I nodded, trying to fight this big smile. "This Friday at noon. And I don't know what it would be yet. He could just recommend me for some stupid literary agent job."

Alex quickly shook his head. "No way, Janie. You're going to make a book."

"I'm not going to make a book," I insisted.

But he fought back, confident as always, "You're going to make a book."

"Don't jinx anything. He might just help me submit some of my pieces to some higher-up magazines. Who knows, by the end of the year, I could be in the New Yorker?"

He scoffed, "You're better than the New Yorker. They'll be begging for your work."

I bumped into him. "Don't say that. I'd love to write for the New Yorker. I'd be happy writing for Playboy at this point."

Alex wiggled his eyebrows. "They do have some really good articles."

I pinched his side and told him to shut it. He wrapped me up in a hug and a dramatic rain—well, shower—kiss. Everything felt like it was landing in place and California did really seem to be a place where dreams came true and all that nonsense that I'll make fun of for the rest of this book but for this one moment, I'll believe to be true. Then, Alex got shampoo in his eye.

"Ow! Fuck, fuck, fuck." He clutched his left eye and doubled over. The water and shampoo suds still pouring down his face.

I grabbed his shoulder and asked if he was okay. He insisted on being fine but his hand remained on his eye and he grinded his teeth down before I managed to pull him out of the shower without tripping.

I sat him on the toilet seat, dripping wet, and shampoo still a mess in his hair. "Let me see," I said, drying his face off.

He waved me off. "No, no, I'm fine." His hand remained on his eye with a refusal to remove it.

"Al," I said and tugged at his wrist. He dropped his hand and slowly opened his eye, bloodshot and pink. "Oh, Jesus."

"What? Did it fall out?" He joked.

I snorted a laugh and began searching for eye drops. "It's dried up, that's all."

Then came the struggle of actually getting the eye drops into Alex's eye because he refused to keep his eye open. He kept muttering, "Ow, ow, ow" as each eye drop flooded his eyeball.

Later that night, after I fell asleep in front of American Idol, Alex must have moved me to our bedroom or I slept-walked there. Alex said I did that a few times. When I woke, the red digital clock on my bedside read 2:32 AM. I dug my face into the pillow, pissed I had woken up in the middle of the night. I turned my head and came to the realization Alex was missing if he was ever in bed, to begin with.

I padded across our cold wooden floors barefoot in the dark before I saw the back patio light on and the faint shadow of Alex. I stepped one foot out and saw him, notebook in lap, cigarette in hand, gazing out onto the dark backyard, deep in thought.

"You shouldn't be smoking with your eye," I said hoarsely.

His head tilted back to look at me and he had a soft smirk on his face. "I'll live. Just needed something to relax."

"Take an edible then."

He vibrated off laughter and tapped the ash off his cigarette. "I'll find a different excuse."

I kept one foot outside and one inside, asking, "Do you want some company?"

He shook his head, insisting, "No, no. You sleep."

I was hesitant to move. "You sure?"

Alex nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Just finishing up some writing. I'll be in soon."

"Okay."

I returned to bed and fell asleep before Alex came back but when I woke up in the late morning he was asleep beside me. I wondered what Alex wrote. The beginning verses to "Stuck on the Puzzle" or if he never picked up his pen to begin with? Maybe I read too much into it but Alex never had qualms about me keeping him company while he wrote and our late-night smokes were ritualistic at that point. I believed he thought about something else. Me. Something too personal to share.

With both of us, those secrets that we kept from one another were exclusively worries. I can't help but think Alex knew what was eventually to come from my contact with Jackson. I can't help but think he worried. He always worried, suffering in silence. I screamed about everything and he sat with it, let it stir and brew for days, months, years. It was a habit of our 20s. But Alex always seemed to know, a habitual psychic and I was the palm in his hand.

*

It didn't end up being a book, not at first, but we did a trial period in which I submitted to Jackson who began shopping my pieces around to publishers. I was terrified and didn't tell anyone other than Alex and Opal for fear it would fall through and fail. Jackson felt confident and I supposed that helped, although I couldn't comprehend a world where I wrote a book, even though, for years, I had already written books in my notebook.

I tried not to think about it much. We were coming up on Alex going back on tour again and the question of whether to stay in LA rose, which was really just whether I would. I didn't like the thought of being in LA without Alex. I found the city rather unappealing but I didn't know where I'd return to. London was an option but I don't know how at home I would've felt there. It's cheesy to say Alex is my home because he's a person and I found that statement to be rather exaggerated. In those days, I just felt more comfortable wherever he was, maybe because I was so aimless myself, but I knew that I finally found a direction to go in.

One of my pieces did end up in The Village Voice. Alex paid to have a print copy sent, and he framed it. It embarrassed me so much that I stuffed it into drawers when we had guests over.

One night, we went to a party on some random Monday and sat on the uncomfortable fancy chairs, drinking cocktails. Alex had an Old Fashioned, I had a Cosmopolitan. It was an affair with some elegance, though I can't remember what it was actually for. We both vowed not to get drunk because we couldn't be hungover on a Tuesday.

I had my hand on Alex's knee and he had his arm around the back of my chair. I think the dinner they served was chicken but I don't remember. It wasn't very good either way.

"Do you think I should get my Master's?" I asked Alex.

He sipped his drink with his left hand and lightly tapped my shoulder with his right. "Why would you do that?"

I shrugged and picked up my Cosmo, trying to be Carrie Bradshaw in hopes it would get me a job as luxurious as hers. Or maybe just the clothes and the apartment. "Something to do. I like the idea of going to school here."

Alex's brows furrowed as he looked over at me. "But you hated school."

"That's not true."

He chuckled. "J, you complained about it all the time."

Maybe I did. I don't remember. It's like when people have babies and they forget how hard labour was so their bodies trick them into having more kids. "I liked the structure of it. Plus, a Master's would allow a more flexible schedule and you'll be away on tour soon so it'd be something to do."

Alex shook his head. "I don't think you'd like it."

I frowned. "Maybe I would."

"I mean..." Alex searched for what to say. "I just think you're getting somewhere with your writing and you're running away from it."

I rested my head on my hand. "Maybe."

Alex reached out and pushed my hair out of my face. "Whatever you do you'll be great at. Just do what you love, okay?"

His smirk put me on edge and I raised my eyebrow. "What? Like you?"

"Huh?" His face looked puzzled, worried that he had offended me somehow.

"I love you so you want me to do you?"

He threw his head back in laughter. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Janie."

*

The whole Master's idea felt foolish. So, I decided to do it, except it was March and way past the time for applications. In the meantime, I tried to figure out what I would do while Alex was away. I felt I should have wanted to leave Los Angeles after all my bitching and moaning, but something drew me to stay. There was a new friend in Opal but I didn't have any job prospects through her or Jackson. Freelance could fit but I didn't want it to fit. The idea of me writing a book burrowed more inwardly to my mind as Jackson stopped mentioning book deals and directed me more toward staff writing jobs to get my name out there.

But I felt that LA had wrapped its warmth around me and suffocated me long enough to want to stay. I liked America and I liked the city, but I also had a visa to worry about. I was over on a tourist Visa and since all work I had done was freelance, I was paid as if I was located in England still. I could fly back and stay for another 180 days or I could get a work visa, which meant getting a job.

That's when Condé Nast appeared. Jackson had unofficially become my unpaid job seeker, doing it solely for me as a favour. I suspected he felt bad for not achieving a book deal and decided to help me out. The Condé Nast position was for a product writer and reviewer. The issue was I had no history with a full-time writing job, but either Jackson had connections or they felt pity for me, too, so I got the job.

So, it wasn't LA, it would be New York.

Alex loved the idea and boasted about it to everyone, kissing my cheek after each statement, and squeezing me to his side. As for New York, he simply said, "It's your turn."

He would be away on tour anyway, so it didn't matter much other than that he would crash at whatever housing I picked in New York. We flew to New York in June. I had never been to New York in the summer. I had never been with Alex in New York.

Usually on our excursions, I dragged Alex around the town and up the hills. In New York, Alex dragged me to the Strand, Chelsea Hotel, the Mudd Club, the Transit Museum, and, most importantly, the turtle pond in Central Park.

Beside the box turtles and red-eared sliders, Alex and I rested against a rock as they padded their way shoreside. He wore a baby blue shirt and picked at his jeans, his mannerisms the same as when I spotted him across the room. "Do you remember when you used to have writing on your jeans?"

He looked up at me, smiling, pushing his hair behind his ears, pounds of fluff. "Yeah."

"What was written on them?" Those blurs of red markings and my wish to know those depths of his soul as if what he was really thinking was written on the knees of his jeans.

He shrugged and almost shamefully said, "Just song lyrics. Strokes and stuff."

"You wrote on them?"

"Yeah."

"I always figured that your mates had written on them. My Converses used to be covered in Joanie's handwriting and hearts." I hadn't thought of her for a long time. Nothing in America reminded me of Wakefield and so Joanie never came to mind.

Alex broke me out of my thoughts, asking, "Can I write on your trainers?"

I raised my eyebrows. "On my new shoes? Can I write on your jeans?"

"Sure." He pulled a pen from his pocket and handed it to me. His quickness made me hesitate but I pulled the pen from his fingers and thought of what to write. I could've drawn a penis but I wasn't that cruel. The black pen was faint against the dark blue denim but I repeated my sketching until the letter was clear enough. I wrote my name because I couldn't think of anything else. What's more beautiful than a person's name? Gross.

Alex seemed to like it, a grin upturning on his face, and an eyebrow raised against me. "Why don't you draw a heart around it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Do you want me to put an arrow through it too?"

He laughed but said, "Sure." I didn't add the heart or arrow. It would be too cheesy and ruin my beautiful cursive name. I returned the pen to him and he tapped his hand over the writing. "With me every step of the way."

I giggled, both embarrassed and charmed. "You gonna get it tattooed?"

I joked but he took it shockingly seriously. "Do you want me to?"

I bolded my eyes and tilted my head. "Stop," I chastised him. "I'm not trying to brand you. I won't even let you write on my shoes and you're willing to get me permanently on your body?"

"Those are nice shoes," he countered.

"You've got a nice body," I argued.

"It'll add to it."

Whether it was sweetness or idiocy, it did feel like love. I raised my legs and plopped my feet in his lap. "Alright. Write away on them then." They were just trainers anyway and his name in a heart with an arrow through it was worth much more.

Afterwards, we toured an apartment. Previous apartments we had toured had been far above my expected salary. Alex had this need to contribute to the apartment's rent despite not getting a break from touring until late October. I had a need to pay rent for myself. I never lived on my own and I felt this apartment should be my apartment, even though Alex's stuff would be there. 

Alex understood all of this, although still pushed to contribute some to the rent and, well, I'm never one to deny financial assistance so we made a deal that he would pay me for storing his stuff while he was gone and I would pay for the rest. This all meant those apartments next to Central Park were out of the question. So, we headed downtown, Petula Clark style. 

"You know, this area is called SoHo too?" I asked him as we walked down Thompson Street. He shook his head and I explained, "It's because it's south of Houston Street. So. Ho."

He chuckled and nodded. "It'll be like a little piece of home with you."

It turned out to be. I found a place on Prince Street for a reasonable amount. 1 bed. 1 bath. Windows that drenched the floors in sunlight, a big closet, and—the thing I was most excited for—a bathtub.

On our first night there, Alex and I attempted to do the romantic having-a-bath-together thing. I purchased a bubble bath solution from Target and Alex got a bottle of wine from Wine and Spirits. We felt very American in both stores. 

"I can't remember the last time I took a bath," Alex said as he sank into the warm oasis.

"They used to just spray you down with a hose, right?" I joked as I sipped on my wine.

Alex cupped his hand in the water and sent a splash my way. "Hey! You got water on the floor. And in my wine." I frowned at the bubbles resting on the surface of the wine.

"I'll get you another glass," he said as he stood.

I reached out and grabbed his leg. "Don't leave."

At my request, he sank back into the water. "Here. You can have mine." He stuck out his half-full glass. I leaned forward and kissed the back of the hand that was holding it. My version of thank you as I took the glass from his hand. 

He stretched his legs out and we kept poking each other until I took Alex's feet into my lap. I lightly rubbed on the left one, his big toe sticking out above the water. I felt sinking in myself and refused to look at him. I was becoming too soft. "I'm gonna miss you."

Alex sighed. I knew he hurt more than me. I missed him and we loved each other the same but I knew he had to deal with two kinds of pain. His and mine. We had to deal with missing each other and he had to deal with the guilt. I always told him it was ridiculous to feel guilty because I never held any resentment toward him for going away. But I guess we never properly addressed all that ugly stuff from the past, only in fights, and we never concluded properly, just in exhaustion.

But I think we both knew that communication would be the difference this time. The band was more established. I was more established. I think I would have hated being alone in our LA house without Alex but something about New York, feeling it was mine, made me feel a little freer.

"I'm sorry," he said.

I shook my head. "Don't apologize. I'm proud of you."

"Proud of you too." I looked up to see the big smile on his face. You know, it heals anything.

I slide deeper into the tub, the water covering my neck. I was bare-skinned and my insides were beginning to feel the same. "I'm nervous."

"We'll be fine," he assured.

I shook my head. "I know. I'm nervous for me. Being alone and the new job."

His hand found my leg in the water, stroking it. "You'll make friends in no time and you're a whiz."

"But what if I hate it?" I sounded wobbly like I was about to tip off the edge.

Alex, the calm force dragging me through life, said, "Then, on to the next thing."

I held a smile to him. One he returned. "My mother would say I'm being picky."

"Your mother who drinks for a living?"

I held offence when Alex spoke of my mother. The things he said were true but my whole life I’ll feel the need to protect her. At that age, I still felt destined to unknowingly become her. In that way, Alex was insulting future me. "Hey! She does other things. Probably."

Alex laughed and pulled his feet from me, curling his legs. "Alright. I'm cramping here." He rose from the tub, swishing the water around, peeking at the edges.

I gasped. "Even if the foot rub I gave you?"

We moved out of LA pretty quickly but yet again transporting all your belongings from one side of the country to another was a pain. We enlisted the help of friends but in New York, we were on our own for the most part, other than some hired movers. We weren't getting that couch up the stairs.

The band did a few festivals in Europe in July before returning for a New York show at the beginning of August. I was only a few weeks into my job and it was the fulfillment and structure I needed, although I wasn't doing much writing. I was fine with working my way up, setting an achievement, and moving forward. It was a mostly new idea for me.

After their concert, we did the ritual of bar hopping. I invited my new friend, Tasha, and her boyfriend to join us, however, her boyfriend ditched her after the show, which led her to get very drunk and weepy and therefore pulled me away from any time of catching up with the group. Although, they seemed very consumed by the drama.

"I don't mean to put this all on you," she cried to me. "But he said he was gonna buy me a drink tonight and I—" she was taking away into sobs.

"I'll buy you a drink," Matt offered.

"Really?" It was in fact her fifth drink. She had quickly consumed the first 2 from the rounds and pulled the other 2 from me. "I really liked him, you know. I love him, I think."

"We know, sweetie." I felt bad for her but all the crying was becoming quite tiresome, especially with a girl you had only known 2 weeks in the setting of an office space.

She sat up straight, wiping away that wetness on her face when Matt arrived back with a drink. For the time being, she calmed her waterworks with a gulp of liquor. "You wouldn't do this to Jane, would you Alex? Why can't I find a guy like that?"

I chuckled, "Alex ditches me all the time."

To the side of me, Alex's head snapped to me. "What?" His face was etched with a furrowed brow and a frown.

I turned to him wide-eyed and confused. "What?"

"I don't ditch you."

My mouth created a slight opening in bafflement. "Yeah, you do. Or did." I turned back to Tasha. "Either way, they're all assholes, you just have to find the asshole that fights you."

"Ha. Asshole." Jamie laughed.

While Jamie found humour in the situation and Tasha found slight comfort, Alex found offense. "You think I'm an asshole?"

I turned back to him. "Yeah. Don't you think I'm a bitch?"

His eyes were wide at the word like we were kids taught to put coins in the swear job. His response was quick. "No."

I tried my best to give it to him in an explanation that would placate him. "Okay. Well, I get on your nerves or whatever. Either way, you just have to find the guy that fits you. Now, I think we should get you a cab." Tasha nodded with a sniffle. 

After I stuck Tasha in a cab, I stayed outside to have a cigarette. I had a weird feeling in my stomach that I wasn't sure if it was from the alcohol or something emotional. I had a rash on my left leg that I labelled as being from stress but I wasn't sure what it was stress from. I felt a pressure on my chest and the perfect solution was a cigarette.

It wasn't a smoke signal for Alex to join me although I should have thought that considering our history and the perfect view from our table out the window to the street. He came out halfway through the ash and walked with hair in his face and hands in his pockets.

When he stepped in front of me, I reached out and brushed his hair out of his face and wondered if he felt this way—this feeling of caring, uncovering someone for your gaze—every time he did it for me. I tucked it behind his ear and peeked the small smile underneath that shaggy head. It tickled me, exposing a silent laugh from my lips. 

"You really think I'm an asshole?" He asked. His tone was playful but I knew he was worried I considered him to be one of them. That breed of man who brushed women off after they got their goods as if he hadn't loved and cared for me since the moment we met.

I held my palm over his cheek, holding my hand over his fire, rubbing the lobe of his ear. I just wanted to hold him forever and I felt like crying at the thought I couldn't. I don't know where the sudden emotion came from but I suppose by this point it isn't shocking to find myself crying, especially after 3 drinks outside a bar. I couldn't speak so I shook my head and kept the overwhelming pathos at bay by the rhythmic stroking of his ear. 

"I missed you," he said.

I cut any further words he had off with a shake of my head, a dismissiveness I needed. "I don't want to talk about missing each other anymore." The gates fell and I dropped my arm away from his shoulder, picking at my nails as my voice quivered. "All I talk about is missing you."

"Jane."

Exasperated with myself, I shook my head and looked away not to cry. "I just want to enjoy the night." I looked at him, listening attentively, eyes trained on me. "I don't want to think about you leaving tomorrow night and I'm fine, trust me, but I feel this ache all the time and I don't want to feel this ache while you're here and I don't want to talk about this ache because I know it's mutual so let's stop talking about it and pretend that this is just any other night in our lives and we're in Sheffield, grabbing a pint with our mates or something." 

I laughed wetly. He reached out to me and brushed my hair behind my ear and it made everything feel alright. "This feels pretty Sheffield, doesn't it?"

"What?"

He shrugged and took out his pack of cigarettes, plucking one, and placing it in between his lips. "Light me up, Janie, would ya?"

A smile tugged my lips and I dug into my purse one-handed for my lighter. He leaned forward, the end of it so close to me I could take a bite of it. I lit the flame between us and then to his cigarette. He took a puff before stepping back to exhale, his eyes stuck with mine. 

"I love you. I feel like we don't say that enough," I told him. He stood away from me but I felt so close to him like we had wrapped ourselves up in a fort of blankets, not standing in the humid August streets. 

"You don't have to say it for me to know it. Hasn't that always been our MO?" In wordless whispers and those longing stares, we had always spoken with some underlying language that didn't even make perfect sense to us, it was just there. 

"Yeah. Still, I want to remind you."

He chuckled and stepped closer, hooking his arm around my neck, and pulled me beneath his chin with a long gaze down at me. "I love you too, Janie. And all the rest."

"The rest?" I questioned.

His Adam's apple bopped and he looked up at the sky for a moment as if God was giving him the all-clear. His eyes reintroduced themselves to me. "There's this weight of love inside me that I'll never be able to express to you. It's just there, a consuming being that flares up whenever you're near me or I think about you. It's this constant. I've had it since I thought your name was Jeanie and I still don't know how to talk about it or what to call it—all this unexpressed love."

"It seems like you did." I tried not to sob. I thought of Tasha, likely crying in a cab, and I know I've always been a fortunate girl and I've been called lucky since birth, but I never felt like I truly won anything other than meaningless games until I was brought to Alex. I thought of all those missteps I could have taken to have never met Alex about how many things had to go a certain way for me to be at that first gig. How—I guess—I have to thank Matt, although that part is reluctant for me to say (a fear it will go to his head). But I kept it all inside and didn't tell Alex this because I think this is part of that weight of love I still can't fully express. "Are you sure it's not a tumor?"

He laughed at me and kissed the top of my head. My cigarette had been scuffed out against his jeans so we shared the rest of his before Alex suggested, "I think we should head home." I had never confessed how romantic I thought the idea of going home with Alex was to me but I have a feeling he just knew because he always just knows.

He took me by the hand and took me back inside the bar where we said goodbye to our party of people and I smacked a kiss on the cheek to each of them. They've always felt like brothers-in-law to me but I found as we grew older and closer, they were my friends too.

We headed back to our apartment, taking the A train. Alex held my purse for me and we sat in a sweaty, non-air-conditioned subway car, and it felt as though we were in London on the tube, praying for a gust of wind to come in through the little window and provide momentary relief. 

It was too hot to touch each other's skin so we held a small space between us and knocked knees with one another. Alex sat hunched over, his hands sitting on the top knee of his crossed legs. I leaned back against the plastic orange chair. The train was mostly empty but we filled its quietness with laughter. Halfway through the ride, that sentimental fuzzy part of me took a picture of him. I still owned a flip phone for the sole purpose of having a slideout keyboard, not known for having a good camera, and the photo was mostly unrecognizable to anybody but me, which might be why I liked it so much. 

I’d take these photos often and flip through them occasionally when I was waiting for the subway. I printed some out and pinned them on the walls because I didn’t want to buy picture frames. I folded one up and put it in my wallet because I always loved that Alex had a photo of me in his wallet—a tiny crushed-up photo of my graduation portrait, ugly, but he had pride for it and me).

Without Alex, the apartment had succumbed to my mess. There were clothes tossed in the corner of the bedroom, the desk was covered in papers, books, and more clothes, and the kitchen was dealing with a major dishes problem.

The hour was late but we were both determined to soak up as much time with one another as possible. We undressed from the day and dressed for bed, but sat on the edge of our bed over the covers, talking, talking, talking. Two frogs croaking at one another from across the pond. All we needed was Charlton Brook and we'd be our old selves again. 

"I never thought I'd like work. I'm not in love with this job but I come home and my feet ache and I love it. I like feeling I worked for something," I told him. "I think I need firm direction in my life otherwise I turn into a mess."

Alex looked pleased but all-knowing. He knew all these parts of me before I did. "You were raised without it so you crave it in other aspects." He leaned back on the bed, putting his arms behind his head, so casual in every sense of the word.

"Who needs a therapist when I have you?" I asked. He laughed but I was serious (both good and bad). He's an observer, he just knows these things from one look at you. He reads you completely and then acts like it's nothing. I feel I know Alex well, better than anyone, but not like he knows me. I've always felt there was a piece of Alex that was off-limits to everyone, even himself sometimes. There's a corner of him I will never reach. For him, my thoughts have always been a nude model on full stark display.

Alex turned onto his side and reached a hand over to me, clasping it with a tight squeeze. "You happy?" It was a quick check-in, the reassurance he needed that he wouldn't leave me totally screwed up and alone. Alex often had the feeling of needing to "rescue me," which was partially true but he took too much on sometimes, bearing the weight of both our emotional states, an overwhelming thing that put so much consequence on the question he asked like I wasn't just answering for me, I was also answering for him.

I squeezed back to ease his anxieties. "Yeah. You?" He stayed silent and looked around the room once, startling my heart. He tugged on my arm once as a smirk spread on his face. "What?" 

He tugged again, this time harder. I stared at him quizzically until he pulled once again, yanking me down to lay on top of him. He communicated with his lips, both silent minus gasps. He turned us, hovering over me, flat on my back. We got under the covers.

*

The following night we stayed in and ordered a pizza before having sex on the couch. After, I laid on Alex's chest, our nude bodies up against each other and I do apologize to anybody who sat on the couch after, I swear it wasn't that dirty. His hands were solid on my back, studying the lower curve of my spine, hitting a spot that made me stretch like a cat after a nap.

I sighed as the tension released from my back and laid back down on his sternum. "We're awfully vanilla," I said.

Alex snorted this big ugly snort of laughter that I find so cute like a baby learning how to breathe. "What, like chains and whips?"

I laughed and raised my head up, my chin pressed on his skin, staring up at his tucked head, awkwardly propped up on the armrest. "No. Georgia just told me this story about doing it on the roof of her building."

An amused Alex asked, "You want to head up on our roof now?"

He motioned sitting up but I pushed him back down. "We have an exposed roof. I'm not getting the cops called on us."

"Where's the fun in that if there isn't a little risk of indecent exposure?" He joked.

I giggled and thought of making a joke about getting visas revoked for public nudity, instead, I told him, "We're hiding tonight. Besides, I don't need all that for sex to be fun with you."

He bucked his hips up against mine. "'Cause I'm so good in bed?" He raised an eyebrow and wore a taunting smirk that made me want to slap and kiss him. How infuriating to be so intoxicated by him.

"'Cause you love me," I teased, tapping his nose. I slobbered a kiss on his cheek, which made him groan in disgust like it was his mother doing it in front of all his friends. "And you're going to take me to get ice cream because I'm thinking about vanilla ice cream now."

"From Morgenstern's?" He asked me, even though he knew the answer.

I sat up from him, noting his eyes on my exposed breasts (sometimes, it's nice to know a man is still a boy), and hummed, "Yes, sir." Morgenstern's sat two blocks up on Houston and in the past few months, I had developed an addiction to their bourbon vanilla ice cream and considered it my special treat after a day of work. Alex was partial to salted chocolate, which I always thought was a good balance with mine, especially since he'd let me steal scoops off his cone and mix it with my cup of ice cream.

Alex went out in jeans, a T-shirt, and his Doctor Martens. I went out in sweatpants, a camisole, and my flip-flops. It was 11:40 and only 2 blocks away! 

I was charged up and kissed him behind his ear as he paid for the ice cream. We must have been foul to look at with our hair unbrushed and a careless woman hanging off her good-looking man. I often had little care about how I looked at night in New York. Everyone in New York, one way or another, was loathsome to watch at night so I had no problem with the idea the cashier might have hated us for coming in right before closing, dangling around as we waited. Besides, Alex left a tip.

My hands clawed around Alex's shoulders and I bounced on the balls of my feet as they scooped our ice cream. We ate our ice cream on the small bench they had outside the parlour. Alex ended up with smears of chocolate on the corners of his lips. It was pleasurable to see him so untidy, it would make you laugh and kiss his lips, transferring some of the residue onto you like lipstick.

Alex chased me up the stairs of our apartment building with the menace of pinching my ass to coerce squeals out of me. We caused a ruckus, loud off of our sugar high, but, at the very least, not stumbling drunk up the stairs like some of my other neighbors. Alex caught me at the apartment door. I had no escape, he had the keys. He cornered me and gave a hard pinch working his way up from my butt to my stomach where I was ticklish.

"Mercy! Mercy!" I surrendered. He called off his attack, ready to head inside for some explicitness. 

He put the key in, turned it, and then it snapped. He held the bow, the shaft lodged in the lock. "Fuck," he cursed.

Panic set in as Alex fiddled with the doorknob with no luck. "Fuck. Are we locked out?" I asked.

He picked at the lock, muttering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..." 

It soon became clear that we were stuck. It was nearing 1 AM, I desperately had to pee, and Alex had to leave in 6 hours. "Can we kick the door in?"

"Are you suggesting either of us is strong enough to break the deadbolt?" Alex stood up straight, tossing his head back in exhaustion.

I shrugged. "I don't know. You're pretty fit." He was proper chuffed by this, a slight puff in his chest. "I could try."

"With your flip-flops?" They were the cheap kind. I bought them at 5 Below. "If we break the door the whole building can walk in."

Not knowing the number of any emergency locksmiths, I called 911 and waited at the bottom two steps of the staircase facing the front door. "I guess this is what I get for eating too much ice cream," I quipped.

"No such thing," Alex excused. 

Shrouded in quietness and a reputation of lacking patience, I laid my head on Alex's shoulder and would have fallen asleep if my bladder wasn't prepared to burst. Alex tapped a beat on the denim-covered knee and we didn't talk, just stayed close, two beings huddled together for survival and companionship.

Firefighters came and had no luck removing the broken key so they busted into the apartment. We couldn't lock it but we could at least close it. I rushed in for the bathroom. I laid down on our bed and waited for Alex while he used the bathroom. I fell asleep before he returned.

In the morning, Alex nudged me awake. He was fully dressed and by the light stumbling in through the window, I knew what it meant. "I fell asleep. Why'd you let me?"

"Figured if you fell asleep while I was in the bathroom you were pretty tired." Over the covers, flip flops kicked off the edge of the bed, in the two minutes he was away.

"'Kay." I was still fiddling out of sleep when Alex tapped my arm, an insisting action to make me stay in bed. "Let me walk you out."

"No, stay in bed, it's fine." He kneeled beside the bed, forcing my hand.

"You sure?"

He nodded. "I'll see you in a little. Yeah?" He kept it short. It was the easier way.

I rubbed my eye, knowing I wouldn't be going back to sleep as much as Alex hoped I would. "Yeah. I'll try to get off sometime in September."

"Don't feel pressured. I'll see you in Philly, right?" That would be over a month away, 30th of September.

I nodded because it was easier than speaking. "Call me when you get to Boston."

He donned an assuring smile, leaned down, and kissed me. He left and I made myself a cup of coffee and drank it and sat with silence.

*

On a Wednesday, after a day of work, I took the train down to Philadelphia. I had never been before and part of me wanted to enjoy all the tourist things about it but I had limited time between 30th Street Station and heading to the Electric Factory. 

However, I made a pit stop along the way, getting off the subway, and meeting Alex at the Reading Terminal Market for a late lunch/early dinner. It wasn't the Art Museum or Independence Hall but it allowed a cultural indulgence of the city. 

Alex wore a jean jacket and didn't look like a man about to front a sold-out show. We bumped shoulders with passersby as we made our way through the narrow passageways. Alex got a cheesesteak, which I found disgusting. I ate a soft pretzel and assorted candy from a Pennsylvania Dutch candy shoppe.

We managed to find a table wedged between dad with his two kids and a group of high schoolers. Safe to say, we had trouble hearing each other over the chaos but we communicated through shared observations, reacting with a stare at one another as the father began to yell at his son or a laugh at the high schoolers mocking one of their teachers.

We hadn't really spoken until we left the building, stepping out into the beginnings of a crisp autumn evening. Alex bought me ice cream from Bassetts (as if I needed more sugar) and gave the change to a group of busking drummers by the door. 

I grabbed Alex's attention at a stoplight as I dragged out, "So..." 

He chuckled at my solicitation, dragging out his own, "So..."

The light turned green and we stayed in step with one another. I initiated the conversation but I had no follow-up for my So-ing. Sometimes, I just wanted to look at him but walking and staring is a difficult practice. "One of my pieces is going to be in this magazine n+1. Something I wrote back in LA, Jackson submitted forever ago."

"Is it going to be printed?" He asked.

"Yeah, but I think you can read it online."

Quickly, he shook his head. "I want the physical thing."

I laughed. "Always one for physical media, Al." It was clear with the record collection I was storing in a small New York apartment. You had transferred this habit onto me as I went out to purchase the New York Times from a street kiosk instead of reading it online.

"It'll be easier. I can read it on a plane, on the bus, on the toilet."

I hit his shoulder light-heartedly. "Alright, I'll get you the print."

*

At the end of October, Alex returned from Tokyo for a small tour break. We fell into a cycle similar to that of our London days. I went to work, Alex stayed home. We went out to dinner sometimes, and we occasionally went out for drinks with my work friends, but more often, we just stayed home. It was a cocoon and I think we both preferred to stay still with one another after distant months apart.

I drank coffee in bed one morning, a Saturday or Sunday with no rush for any obligations, fine with retiring to a day in our shoebox. We were both still in our pajamas. Alex sat on the edge of the bed, facing me, strumming his guitar. I was on my laptop, scrolling through someone's blog, but mostly watching him.

These unguarded moments with his head slumped over his guitar. His hair covered his face almost completely, only able to distinguish his nose from the rest of him. The ends of his hair held these perfect curls that I envied. He's been perceived to be a cool, uncaring person but I've found Alex, especially during these early years, held such a concern about coming off a certain way, whether considered cold or cool. A long-held hatred for unwanted watching, even from me.

His muscles had suspended into relaxation finally. I found he acquired this rest most often with a guitar. He held a light strum, sometimes humming along, sometimes writing a note in his little notebook.

I thought I was catching an unaware Alex working away, much like our first year of knowing each other. Then, he looked up and said, "If you're going to stare at me, you might as well help me." He tossed me his notebook with dashes and scratches that to the untrained eye looked like a chicken scratch of nothing.

I read it and this time I could feel him watching me. I poured over the words as he had done with his writing and when I finished I said, "I feel so inadequate next to you."

"Shut up," he insisted, both through his support of me and his own insecurity.

"It's a beautiful song." I handed the notebook back to him. "A very beautiful love song." I crossed my arms, smiling at him.

"Well, you know."

"Yeah." Because I always did. This loving, hideous, unspoken language of ours.

 "Good inspiration. You gave me the title." Alex took months of crafting before giving something exposure, like formulating a fine wine. 

"Well, you wrote the rest of it," I reasoned. "Is it for the new album?"

He shrugged and examined his own work. "I don't think so. Maybe just for you and me."

*

a/n: this is pretty much for goblinontour. the next parts will come much sooner, we're approaching the thick of it... oh, and if you see any mistakes, no you didn’t.