The Saint Jones [Completed]

chapter 62: The Bathtub

"What are you doing here?"

I gulp and place his pillow back where I got it and stand up from the bed, my legs are foolishly shaking.

"You should have asked how I got here first, do not you think?" I try to make a joke but it seems like the worse joke I have ever tried to make, it does not affect him anyway.

"I already know how you got here and I'll deal with it later. Now tell me what you're doing here, in my room."

He looks once again, emotionless, like a rock or worse, a status. A beautiful status wearing black sweatpants with a black t-shirt that is practically stuck to his skin. I want to move forward and touch him, to feel him and to make him understand that I am here for peace only.

"I came because... because I wanted to see you, to talk to you," I say through my despair.

He nods faintly and with tight jaw, he walks in, his shoulder merely touching mine, leaving a blast of his scent next to me as he makes his way towards his nightstand, where he delicately places his sunglasses, on the same spot he put them yesterday, between his lamp and some porcelain decorations.

"What you wanna talk about?" He says as he turns to me.

"About what happened yesterday," I say quickly and he sighs and bites his lip.

"You wanna–..."

"I am not mad at you!" I say quickly, scared that he would have said something I would not have wanted to hear.

He looks sharply at me. These eyes are showing me different things, each one have a dissimilar emotions. It looks like he feels relieved but on the other side, as if he is fighting against his sadness and tears.

"H–how? You should. I mean, I've told you to get out when I brought you here, it was stupid."

"Yes, it was stupid," I chortle.

"But, I understand you, I should not have make you met him, maybe it would have been better if it never happened. I saw the hurt in your movements yesterday, I knew you were uncomfortable, yet I did not make a move to get you out of there. I am sorry," I look at him in his two coloured eyes, battling with myself that I am not going to let my sensitive part take the lead. Not today, please.

"You don't have to be sorry, I'm sorry for my behaviour," he says, pointing a finger at himself.

"I was the cause of it."

"You weren't," he jolts his head and looks away.

He sits on his bed and runs his fingers in his hair vigorously. I breath deeply and walk to him, then I take a seat not so far from him. His hand on his thigh is tempting me, I so want to entwine our fingers together, to hold his warm palm against mine, to feel his pulse against mine, to just hold him without any meaning. But I hold in my needs.

"Are we okay now?" I ask with anticipation, not knowing what to expect.

He lifts his head and looks at me in the eyes, once again he is showing no emotions, which really scares me.

"It's up to you. I'm the one who fucked up," he tells me, still fixing me in my eyes.

"I am not mad at you, I promise. What happened is comprehensive, you were on the defensive, there were things that were boring you and this I understand. What I would have liked though, is that you talked to me, instead of pushing me away."

He nods like a little boy and looks back down, "next time, instead of pushing you like the asshole that I am, I'll talk to you like a man should."

He says and a small smile forms on my face, a discrete one. It makes me feel happy, but I truly hope he will hold on his words, because a relationship cannot work if both parties split at each problems. We are supposed to make this together. As one.