Ebony & Ivory [H.S]

Two

I check the time on the alarm clock.

1:46am

Where is he?

That's the funny thing about having a boyfriend who is in a successful band. He's off touring the world for the better part of the year, and when he's home, he never really is home. Well, I wouldn't necessarily think that's funny, but more along the lines of cruel irony. I miss him for so long, and when I finally have him back, he isn't truly present.

It seems to be one thing after another with him. Charity appearances, meet and greets, recordings at the studio and business drinks. I hope for his sake that he isn't making any serious deals over these drinks, because most of the time now he comes back well and truly legless, and I'm usually the one helping him undress to get into bed. It's a never-ending cycle. He goes out, comes home drunk out of his mind, I help him into bed, and give him the silent treatment in the morning until he begs for my forgiveness. Annoying and unorthodox, but it somehow it's turned into the norm.

Finding it impossible to sleep, I turn on my bedside lamp and go through some of the pages I had dog-eared on this month's issue of Vogue magazine. I tear out items that are severely out of my price range, but also something that I can potentially use for this month's upcoming spread in Bullett magazine. As an editorial stylist, I've been asked to find some must have accessories for our upcoming shoot for summer. I jot down the details of a few of the items that have caught my eye, and turn on my side to at least attempt to get my four hours.

My ears prick up as I hear fumbling of keys at the front door. I hear the sound of failed attempts at his set of keys aiming for the keyhole before he drops them to the floor and swears out of frustration. Eventually he gets it right and I hear him move towards my bedroom. My back is turned to him as I lay on my side, and I feel him standing in the doorway for what feels like minutes. Tip toeing his way into the room; I feel the bed shift under his weight as he sleeps on the side of my bed he has claimed. He tries his hardest to take his boots off, all the while thinking I am asleep. Once he removes them, fully clothed he slowly brings the duvet to cover himself.

"Where were you?" I ask, still on my side.

"You're up," he states, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I was already up," I reply coldly. "Where were you?" I repeat more firmly.

"I don't know. Out with friends."

Are you fücking kidding me?

"How can you not know where you went?" I ask, becoming more frustrated.

"To a bar with friends," he finally relents.

"Who was there?"

"I was with Nick, and Kelly was there... I think Jamie. I don't know, does it matter?"

"Yes it matters Harry."

"Why does it matter? I was with friends. Who cares?"

"Me. Because I want to know who it is that you were with, and who you would rather spend time with more than your own girlfriend."

My voice breaks, though I refuse to cry. I won't let him have the satisfaction of letting him think he has the ability to do so. I've cried enough tears over him to last a lifetime.

"You know it's not like that," he offers, moving to the centre of the bed, wrapping his arm around me. I remain rigid against his touch.

"I won't let it be how it was before," I tell him, hinting at a darker time in our relationship.

"It won't babe," he says softly, now stroking the side of my hair. He kisses into the crook of my neck, and slowly starts to use his tongue. I feel him fumbling at the button of his jeans.