#woke up at 6am because the birds were being loud as shit outside my window that i’d forgotten to close

[fingertipsmp3]

Literally lying in bed like a Victorian child about to perish from the consumption

[electric-mindfulness-blog]

Seb and Ed

This is a continuation of a story I found a while ago, it’s a story that really resonated with me, I’ll post the links at the end.

It’s been two years. I hadn’t thought about Ed for all that time until today. A letter arrived in my flat, a week after I moved in, I had just finished uni and had a decent job, and was planning on having a housewarming party. I had been out to collect supplies at around midday, and when I arrived a letter had been posted through, or rather slipped under, my door. It had three words in a familiar, unjoined chicken-scratch style writing.

To Seb.

Then underneath, slightly smaller, as if the writer had been hesitant,

Ed.

It took me several moments to realise I had been standing in the doorway of my flat, staring at the letter for at least a minute; I had dropped my bags, cans, bottles and tubes of snacks and junk food falling across the floor. It was only when the woman from the opposite flat came out and asked me if everything was ok, that I snapped out of my reverie. It hadn’t registered that I had simply dropped two large bags of shopping: she looked distinctly concerned.

“Yeah.. I’m fine, just had a moment” I grinned, unconvincingly, but she seemed placated. She nodded with a frown and retreated back into her flat.

Shoving the letter into my back pocket, I scrabbled across the floor to pick up the detritus that had spilled from my bags, moving unnervingly fast, as if cleaning a crime scene.

Later that day, sat in my room I glared at the letter, unopened, on my windowsill in front of my desk. I willed it to open itself, to save me the task. Needless to say it didn’t. Eventually after trying to distract myself from it for two hours I couldn’t resist it any longer. I ripped it open on one end and tore the letter out, my eyes absorbing every word on the page one letter at a time, savouring the familiar scratchy writing.

Seb,

It’s been a while, I’ve never known what to say to you, and I’ve never been brave enough to call or text. I’m so sorry for how I treated you, I was in a bad place. Luring you into a setup like that was a shitty thing to do, and I really wish I hadn’t done it.

Truth is, things got worse after you left Birmingham. Me and my flatmates fell out, they left and I eventually had to leave as well, I’ve been living with Catherine for a while. Like you said, she is a good friend but.. she isn’t you.

I saw the post you put up about a housewarming party, and I’m sorry to say that I asked one of your friends for your address, I couldn’t help myself. If you want me to come then I will, if not... I understand.

Ed.

I read it and reread it several times. Several thoughts raced through my head, the first of which being how pissed off I was that he had effectively stalked me to get my address, and actually come here, second I was more enraged that I hadn’t been in when he had delivered it. I don’t know what I would’ve done so perhaps it’s best I wasn’t. And finally, a deep pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach for how I had walked out all that time ago, and the empty space in my life that had appeared since I had pushed him away.

He had been my friend since primary school, we had done everything- literally everything- together, we always sat next to eachother on the bus, we would walk to and from school with eachother, we fancied the same people and fought over the same stupid shit, but we were thick as thieves. But what he did had hurt me, not physically, but it hurt me in a dark and unspeakable way, unspeakable because I hadn’t thought about or revisited what happened with him two years previously; I’d also not met with any other men or women since.

The letter had thrown me. Throwing it down on my bed, I picked up my phone, and flicked through my contacts. I thumbed to “E”, and scrolled down until I saw his name. It seemed to stand out like a beacon .

Eddie.

My thumb hovered over his name for a second. Do I call? What would I say after two years of radio silence? “Hi Ed you fucked me over and lured me into a two hour fuck sesh that I thought was a trick to help you break up with your girlfriend”?

No.. I should text. I thought, less awkward that way. I hope. I tapped the little message bubble next to his name, and tapped out a brief message.

Got your letter. Come down a day before the party, 3:30pm Saturday.

Again, my thumb hovered. Before I could second-guess myself, I tapped send. Part of me hoped it would flash and say “message send failure” but no such luck. It sent through instantly, and no less than two seconds flat after it had arrived, the little “sent” became “read”. My breath faltered, it was strange being this close to him but so many miles away at the same time. The thought the we were almost staring at eachother through our words gave me an uneasy shiver.

See you soon.

I clicked my phone off, it’s Wednesday. I thought two days. Shit.

I busied myself by cleaning the flat, moving furniture, rearranging shelves and crockery, anything to distract me from the thoughts whizzing through my head. The following two days passed in a blur.

Saturday morning came, I woke up at 4am, and sat in my bedroom on the bay window, panes wide open, leg dangling out five storeys over the main road. There was no traffic, save for the odd early morning worker, and some cyclists. I picked up a pack of cigarettes: empty. I swore and threw the pack out the window. I slid back inside, throwing on some joggers and a baggy old T-shirt from the bottom of my draw, threw on some trainers and headed down the stairs- the elevator was yet again out of action- and out the door of the flat. I jogged to the local offlicense, and grabbed a six pack of some imported beer, and a few packs of Marlborough superkings. I ambled slowly back home, my head alive with every possible outcome of the day. This could be the total end or the new beginning of us I thought. I sat on the bench outside the flat building for a half hour, listening to the sounds of the early morning, birds, distant car engines, late night party-goers straggling home, laughter and tears. It reminded me of the morning after the night before with Ed. I cursed out loud. Violently, scaring several small animals nearby.

Back inside my flat, still groggy from sleep, I checked the clock, the red digits flashed 4:30am in its repetitive rhythm. How had it only been a half hour? I slipped out of my shoes and joggers, and threw on a long, dark green dressing gown. I wondered into the kitchen, put the beer in the fridge, and opened one of the packs of cigarettes. I sat back on the windowsill and lit it. I hadn’t smoked in a long time, and I savoured the first breath, holding the flame at the end and inhaling deeply. My breathing slowed. How long have I been hyperventilating for? And why?

But I knew why. I was seeing him for the first time in what seemed like forever, though it had only been two years. I had so many questions, so much anger and sadness and feelings that I hadn’t dealt with since I had left. And it scared me. I sat on the windowsill for a long while, reminiscing, and half dozing, all the while chaining the twenty pack, leaving a gap of barely five minutes between the last and next.

It was only when my alarm went off, signalling 6am, that I snapped back into reality, the city was alive now, traffic bustling below me, shops opening, rubbish trucks and postmen. I slipped inside and got changed. I looked into my mirror and froze. The T shirt I had grabbed from the bottom of my draw was his. Ed’s. It was a baggy old concert tee, scribbled on and doctored, ripped and safety-pinned and stitched and patched. Everything about it screamed Ed. I was torn between throwing it out of the window and crying at this point. Instead, I had a roiling wave of rage wash over me, and I slammed my fist into the mirror: I instantly regretted it. The weak frame buckled from the force of impact and my hand went straight through; shards of glass rained down onto the floor, and I gained a Large ugly slash and several stinging cuts across the back of my hand. I yanked off the shirt and wrapped my hand up, heading to the kitchen to clean it up.

After finding a dated first aid kit buried under the sink, I managed to properly bandage my hand and forearm with sturdy, albeit old, medical wraps and adhesive tape. I glanced at the microwave, the shining green numbers emblazoned 7:45, it was still dark outside, the sky was gloomy, as it had been all autumn, making it seem a lot darker than it should have been. I threw the bloodied shirt down on the counter by the sink, I’d come back to that later. I went and lay down on my bed for a while, finishing off the first pack of cigarettes, and rattling off some essays and letters on my laptop. A few hours later, my room stank, even though the window was open, the cigarettes had carved their odour into the walls, and the old porcelain ashtray was full to overflowing with ash and dogends, and there was a strong smell of my own B.O, and of stale tea and incense. It all mingled together to form a not entirely unpleasant but strong smell that strongly resembled the inside of a youth club. Or a brothel.

It was now 1:30 and the sounds of the city had dulled to a hum that I only just registered. I made myself some food, sat down and waited. Having moved all the furniture around, I was sat on a large, blue, five-person sofa in the far corner of the room, the door directly in front of me. My phone buzzed.

On the train now, eta one hour twenty minutes

Nothing I can do now. I stared at the text. It’s really happening I thought. I had secretly been hoping to myself that I would wake up suddenly, but the dull throbbing ache of my pulse across the back of my hand reminded me, all too painfully, that it was happening, however much I wished otherwise. I lit another cigarette, and as I did, I heard a familiar, slightly high pitched voice drift up through the open window, swearing at someone. He’s here. No backing out now. Steeling myself, I went to the door, the phone on the wall rang. I lifted it up, pressed the button marked with an old cinema ticket with “admit one” on its front and put the phone down. I wonder how he got in the other day. Another question to add to the list. I unlocked the front door, and sharpied an arrow on the front. Below I scribbled

This way for the party>>

And I went back inside, leaving the door slightly ajar, to my room, again leaving that door open too. I still had the cigarette in my hand, but it had burnt out. The smell of stale tobacco hit my nostrils and I threw it out the window, taking a fresh one from the pack and lighting it. No sooner than I’d taken the first drag, I heard a voice behind me.

“So you still do lucky lasts then?” He was nervous. His voice was a little pitchy, but it was him. His delicate southwestern accent pulling his A’s out. Laasts.

I inhaled sharply, and turned slowly. He looked.. stunning. He didn’t appear to have aged, his thick black hair was a little longer, and had a deep green streak through it, he was wearing fur lined denim jacket and black jeans, with a red scarf and fingerless gloves to guard against the cold. He seemed skinnier, his eyes were gaunt and his jaw was more prominent than I remembered. But it was ed. I ran forward.

Fin.

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/college/straight-guys-messing-around/ these are the original stories