we depend (I depend) on you • jayvik

Jayce - Year Thirteen

And I told myself it was enough. That it would be okay.

Because I want you to be happy.

∘ ∘ ∘

You go out, just like you said you would, but most of them don't work out.

You don't leave without a word like you used to all those years ago, and you don't stay out into the early hours of the morning. You always tell me in advance – at least a day or so – and you leave thirty minutes before dinnertime. You're never gone for more than a few hours, but still, I wait for you to return. Frozen. Hoping, selfishly, that the next man to dine at your table isn't the one for you.

Most of the time, he isn't.

Later, in passing, you tell me you let them go - that they weren't the right fit. You say it like an afterthought, but I already know. I know before you even say it. And yet, I don't have the confidence to beg you to stop, to listen to my stupid pleading, to see that what's right for you has been here all along.

The time never feels right for that kind of talk, so instead, I tell you the next one will work out. Then we share a drink, and we laugh about everything that went wrong, and then you undress and you go to bed.

Sometimes, on very rare occasions, you bring someone home.

You sit together in the living room, on our little plaid couch, sharing a drink, exchanging pleasantries. You talk about your work, about what you have in common – which, more often than not, isn't much - then the conversation slows, as it always does, and then you wish them goodnight.

They never stay.

You never introduce them to me. That is a privilege that must be earned – you made that clear once and I never forgot it.

Still, I sit beneath your desk, silent and motionless, watching. Waiting. Counting down the minutes until they're gone and I can have you to myself again. The time we get to spend together never comes soon enough.

∘ ∘ ∘

Tonight feels different.

There's a man at our table, sipping a mug of milk and tea, idly picking the berries off a slice of marbled cake. He's been here for a while – much longer than usual – and I believe he's beginning to overstay his welcome. You haven't invited him to stay the night, but you haven't asked him to leave, either. Every second drags, stretching into what feels like eternity.

You talk a little more, share a few bites of cake from separate forks. Then the man yawns. He doesn't cover his mouth and I notice the slight eye roll you attempt to suppress. Then he says it's way past his bedtime, and you agree. He has work in the morning. You do, too. Finally, in mutual agreement, you bid each other goodnight. He leans down, arms outstretched, and gives you a parting hug that is only halfway reciprocated.

At the door, he takes his coat from the hook and asks if he'll see you again. He's hopeful for the future. He likes you. He's a lucky man.

You hum, offering a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. Perhaps , you say.

The poor man thinks it's a yes.

It's not.

He smiles back – nice and genuine – and then he's gone. Just you and me again.

Several minutes later, when I finally emerge from my hiding spot beneath the desk, I find you standing by the window. You lean all of your weight against the wall, using the sill as extra support. You just stare out over the city. The air isn't thick tonight– it's empty. The apartment feels grey.

For a while, I watch as you look outside. There's something heavy on your mind. There's something on mine, too.

I hesitate a moment more before I let my voice cut through the silence. Carefully, I say:

"Viktor, I fear becoming an afterthought in your life." 

I paused as my internal coding threatened to overwrite itself in frequency error, then continue:

"I worry that one day you'll forget me."

I could have sworn the world ceased its spinning – but it hadn't. Instead, you grip the sill for leverage as you turn, almost startled, golden eyes big and soft with something I can't name. A part of me wishes I hadn't spoken at all. It is stupid for me to speak up at such an hour.

But then you shake your head.

And then, so simply, so softly, you say:

"Jayce, I could never forget you."

And I believe you.

We discuss it more over the remaining crumbles of marbled cake, then you drink a glass of water, you undress, and you go to bed.

∘ ∘ ∘