Waking up to start a fight
You promised we'd be alright
I don't know which way we gotta turn
Surrounded when you close your eyes
You'll never get the chance to cry
Never get the chance to even cry
- I Feel It Too // The Academic
It's too quiet now.
Jens is used to bustling crowds, people pushing and shoving as they dance, flashing lights, loud music with pulsing bass, plastic cups full of alcohol and soda. He's used to being around people, feeling as people bump into him, as drinks are spilt, trying to listen to what people say or shout over the music, only half understanding what they say, laughing and nodding and hoping it wasn't a question. He's used to taking breaks in the bathroom, standing over the sink and listening to the music, loud enough to sing along with even through the shut door, feeling like the neon lights that are on the dance floor are running through his veins, feeling electrified and exhausted.
He's used to hanging out with his friends every day, seeing them every day, hearing them every day. He's used to being able to read their faces, being able to know exactly when they're joking and when they're serious, knowing exactly what he should say and what he shouldn't say. He's used to feeling their hands and shoulders against his, letting people hug him and kiss his cheeks in greetings, used to laughing and hearing other people's laughter ring in his ears.
He's used to hearing people talk, hearing people's footsteps on concrete and gravel, hearing keys and coins rattle in people's pockets, hearing long nails tapping phone screens and tables and mugs in coffee shops, hearing music coming from other people's headphones and seeing them mouth the words to themselves, in their own little world. He's used to hearing dogs barking and birds singing and cars and trucks and bicycles and skateboards rolling across pavement loudly.
But now it's quiet.
When he sits on the edge of his bed, unsure of how to cure his boredom, he hears almost nothing. He can hear himself breathe, can hear his own heartbeat. He can hear the leaking faucet in the kitchen, can hear Lotte roll over in bed, can hear a door from the flat under them shut. He can hear his throat move as he tries to swallow the silence, tries to absorb it, let it happen, but it surrounds him like a towel soaked in chloroform, like the dark itself is silence.
And it's too much.
So he copes with headphones.
His music is always too loud, some music that's harsh, waves crashing into rocky shores, some music that's slow and chill, that he listens to as he smokes, sitting on his windowsill, the window open so the smoke drifts out in the wind as he watches it. Some music that's just noise, just something to listen to even if he can't understand the words, even if he can't even hum along. Some music that he listened to when he was younger, music that reminds of when he was naive and when the biggest worry in his life was whether he'd be invited to a birthday party, whether he'd finish a science project on time. There are times where he just sits, on his windowsill, on his bed, his desk chair, on the floor, and he just listens.
He supposes one of the reasons he needs noise loud is because when it's quiet he hears everything, from the faucet to the family downstairs to the plastic bag in his bin shifting under the weight of a dead pen. Everything is so loud. So it's easier to just drown it all out.
He'd like to sleep through it all, to sleep until he could see his friends and go out and be around people safely. He'd like to go to sleep and wake up to a regular, normal, ordinary world, where he doesn't have to cover his face when he gets groceries, where Lotte can go to her friend's house without Jens having to explain why she can't, why she can't even go a few blocks to see their dad. Why he hasn't left the house at all, except to get a few bags of groceries, why their mom stays out so late, every night.
"She's working, Lotte," he'd said.
"But Sophie's mom isn't going to work." Lotte had pouted and Jens sighed.
"We don't have as much money as Sophie. Mom has to work so we can have food and stuff."
"But she didn't say good night."
Lotte is sad about this every night, that their mom leaves early in the morning, usually before Lotte is awake, and comes home late at night after Lotte is in bed. The only thing that really appeases her is Jens letting her help him make dinner. It also makes him happy, playing music and listening to her try to sing along, holding her hands and standing behind her as he shows her how to chop vegetables. Listening to pots clang together as they're moved around in the cabinet of the small kitchen, hitting a spoon on the side of a pan before tossing it onto a cutting board, letting it clatter. At some point, Lotte would give up on the vegetables and watch Jens cook, maybe colouring or playing a game at the table as they talk.
Jens is in control in the kitchen. He knows what noises are going to be made, knows how loud they'll be, how long they'll last.
Maybe that's why he likes it there.
---
It's gotten harder to sleep.
He stays up late, even later than he usually would, with his headphones on as he plays flashy, vibrant video games, as he listens to music and watches lights turn off in windows he can see from his room, as he looks at the sky. His head bobs as he listens to the music, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he watches the stars, as they fade from his vision until his eyes move.
He's sitting on his windowsill, a leg bent in front of him, with his hood up, his headphones over it. His eyes catch on a person on a bike, crossing the empty street outside his building, a light at the front of the bike glowing like the street lamps and the reflections of them on the wet pavement. He watches the person until they've disappeared from his view, and then he drops his head, feeling it thump against the worn wood of the windowsill. He hasn't gone biking in weeks, hasn't felt the wind in his face, running through his hair. He wishes he could do it, but can't leave Lotte home alone.
When he can go out again, he'll go biking. Or skateboarding. By himself. He'll go all through the city, won't stop until he's breathless and worn out, until he can finally lay in bed and just fall asleep.
He lifts his head when he sees the hallway light come on through the crack under his door, and takes his headphones off, letting them hang around his neck. He can still hear the music blasting from them, and he waits, sitting there at his open window until he hears a shower turn on, and then takes them off completely, grabbing his phone and pausing his music. He steps down the hall quietly, sneaking past Lotte's room so he doesn't wake her up, and leaves the kitchen door open behind himself. He opens the fridge and pulls out a bowl covered in saran wrap, pasta that he made with Lotte's minimal help, and microwaves it, wincing at the loud beeping and realising maybe he should have shut the door. So he does before he stirs the pasta and microwaves it again.
Just as he's setting the now steaming bowl on the table, the door opens and his mother walks in, her hair dripping onto her pyjamas, and she pauses in the doorway, looking at him. She looks tired, more tired than Jens feels, and his heart hurts for her.
She looks from him to the pasta and smiles, the lines around her eyes deepening. He steps back as she shuts the door behind herself, pulling himself up to sit on the counter.
"Lotte is in bed?" she asks as she sits, picking up the fork and stirring.
"Yeah," Jens says quietly, his voice almost broken from disuse. "She made me swear to tell you to wake her up to hug and kiss her, though."
She smiles before taking a bite and nodding. Her mouth opens and she exhales and inhales quickly, trying to cool the pasta down while wincing and chewing, and Jens huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.
"I'll do that," she says when she finally swallows.
He can hear her chew, and cringes and grimaces when she isn't looking, dropping the faces and smiling softly when she looks up at him. He holds himself up on the counter, his hands gripping the end of it at his sides, and his ankles are crossed and his legs hand down, one foot bouncing back and forth anxiously like he's anticipating something. He doesn't know what.
"How was work?" he asks after a few silent minutes and she sighs.
"It was work." She swallows and looks at him, her face pained. "I have to take an extra shift this weekend."
"What? Why?"
His foot stops moving and his brow furrows. It feels like every shift she takes is extra these days. She's hardly home, and he can tell how tired she is, how exhausted she is. And Lotte misses her.
"Emma has to get tested. She has to stay home, it's—" She drops her head into her hands and sighs before rubbing her face and looking at him. "It's fine. It'll be fine."
Jens nods, taking a deep breath.
"It'll be fine," he repeats.
That's all they can say, to deal with their inability to change anything, anything at all, to deal with their inability to make things easier or less complicated. It'll be fine.
He stays in the kitchen when she finishes eating, washes the bowl and fork, listening to the sponge scrub against the glass, to the soap suds wash down the drain. After the bowl and fork are on the drying rack, he leaves the water running, listening, letting it run over his hands. It's too hot, but he doesn't change the temperature, letting it sting his hands as he drops his head and closes his eyes. His head hurts. He's been awake for too long, even longer than his mom, but he doesn't mention it when she comes back in. He hasn't been working or dealing with other people the way she has.
"I think she was still asleep when she hugged me." He shuts the water off when she comes back in and turns around, grabbing a towel from the counter. His hands are slightly red, and it hurts to rub them with the rough towel, but when he tosses the towel aside and waves them in the air to dry them, it soothes them. "She barely even opened her eyes." She sits back down on the chair, sideways, and looks at him. "Just wrapped her arms around me and laid on my lap."
Jens smiles, leaning the small of his back on the counter, looking at her. Her hair is still wet, but not dripping anymore. There are still dark marks under her eyes from makeup that didn't wash off properly in her shower, and her red nail polish is chipped and neglected.
"We're going to draw together tomorrow," he says lightly.
"You're going to draw?" she says incredulously, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm going to try. Probably won't be as good at Lotte's."
"Definitely won't."
Jens scoffs, grinning as she smiles. It's good to see her smile.
"You're so mean to me," he says, trying to keep the smile there, but before she can retort a response, she yawns, covering her mouth. She sighs when her hand drops and looks at Jens, her shoulders dropping, and shakes her head.
"It's late."
"It is."
"You need to be in bed."
"You need to be in bed," he says, stepping over and waving his hand for her to stand. She does, looking like her head and shoulders are heavy, her shoulders sagging as she looks at him. He wraps his arms around her and she hugs him back, sighing as he buries his face in her neck. He listens to her breathe, inhales the scent of her soap, feels her wet hair on his forehead, and holds her tight for a few seconds. It's only a few seconds he allows himself.
"Go to bed," he says, letting go and stepping back, placing his hands on her shoulder and gently turns her so she's headed to the door. "I'll get your breakfast ready and everything."
She sends him a grateful look over her shoulder, reaching up and squeezing his hand as she steps out into the hall.
"I love you," she says, leaning back through the door again as Jens pushes her out.
"I know, I love you too."
When she's gone to bed, he lets himself collapse. He falls into the chair she sat on, lets his head fall to his hands, taking a deep, shaky breath. He feels his eyes sting and burn, but he doesn't know why, and presses the heel of his eyes, pushing down until colours shoot between his eyes and his eyelids, like faint fireworks or blossoms. When he opens his eyes it's a second before he can see anything, and he just sits there. Waiting. Like always. Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.
He doesn't know how long he sits there, not moving, his eyes unfocused on the tap. Or maybe it's the sink. It's in that general direction. Maybe it's a few seconds, or a few minutes, or just one, or an hour, or maybe four. When he finally stands, he does so heavily, startled back into his body by a sound that doesn't exist in the real world, and he preps the coffee, gets out the container of pancakes he and Lotte made that morning, setting a few into a smaller container before putting them both in the fridge. He rubs his face when it shuts, standing and facing it without moving.
He knows he should go to sleep.
But somehow the idea of it, of lying in bed in silence is scary.
So he puts his headphones back on before he lays down in the dark, curling onto his side with the blankets pulled tightly around him, clutched the end of them in his fists under his chin as he shuts his eyes. He doesn't know how long it is before he's asleep. The music blurs and fades in and out, and he misses entire songs, just catching the very end, mouthing words to himself until he can't make his lips move anymore.
Waiting.