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warnings » yeah you guessed it: angst ; but things end well
~ ⛳️ ~
"I don't think you understood what I was trying to say— Hmm, no."
"I think you didn't understand— Nope."
"I'm not sure you— Ugh, no, asshole, don't make this about you."
"Are you sure you underst— Can't make him sound illiterate either, fuck."
You're practicing what to tell Tom after the one-sided conversation you just had with him in the kitchen. You want to make sure he heard exactly what you were trying to say and not some twisted version of it, so you cross the living room carefully and stand in front of the bathroom door.
It's silent on the other side. Tom has been in there less than three minutes, you've counted on your phone, and it's starting to pick at your nerves. The damn digit won't change to the next minute on your lock screen when you hit the side button, so you stay there staring at it reluctantly. Behind it, a picture of your old dog Max gazes back at you.
It was the day of your reunion after the first time you had been away from home for more than two weeks in a row. You agreed to meet with your dog sitter at the park and when he saw you from a relative distance, Max just took off running towards you so you pulled out your phone and hit record. In the end, you chose a frame from that video as your lock screen and haven't changed it since. Even after Max's death of old age, you couldn't part with it.
When the digit finally changes from 6 to 7, you look up with a deep breath, but when you raise your hand to knock on the door, hesitation hits. You can't just barge in on his personal moment like this. Tom came all the way over here after you started talking to him for some reason. It's not your place to interrupt him even if you're slowly driving yourself mad from overthinking what he could be doing in the bathroom. Alone. After so much urgency, one would think something drastic was about to happen.
"Ugh!" you groan out of patience, turning around and leaning your head backwards. It thumps on the door harder than you wanted it to.
"I'll be right out," his muffled voice says.
"Sorry," you apologize, turning back around and pressing your temple against the door. Breathing heavily over your hand where it rests on the wood. You don't want to press, but you have to ask, "Can you tell me if you're okay?"
Before you get a proper answer, the door unlocks and Tom's face appears as soon as it's opened ajar. He doesn't look out of place, doesn't seem to be transmitting any kind of particular emotion to you, and you take a step back when he moves forward.
"Yeah, I'm all right," he says with a sniff.
"Are you sure?" you blurt out unexpectedly, rubbing the side of your neck at the same time. "Because I, uh—"
"You weren't finished?"
"It's not that," you reply, turning to him to see him step across the hallway. "Wanted to make sure you knew exactly what I was trying to say."
"Uh, yeah, I think I got it." Tom chuckles. He sounds nervous, or close.
"Please let me say it," you insist, not wanting any sort of misunderstanding between the two of you. You've been sharing your own intimate space for too long to leave anything unsaid right now.
"No," Tom is quick to curb your thoughts. He stands in the archway that goes into the living room, facing you, shoulders held high but tense. "We'll be all right... but I don't want to hear you say it."
"But you said—" you try, recalling how he had said that whoever it was that you had feelings for would be delighted to have you in their life as more than a friend. You were trying to ensure that, but he keeps blocking you.
"Please," he nearly begs, eyes wide and deep. "It would hurt too much."
You're not sure what would hurt too much. Him hearing that you love him? Or him not wanting to say it back? That's the only explanation you can find. If he saw through your strange metaphor and realized you were talking about him, given that you were talking to him and pretty much describing everything you've done together since you moved in, that would be the only problem. Him not liking you back the same way. Not wanting you to expose yourself like that because he doesn't want to leave you hanging. Because he doesn't want to hurt you. Or simply because he didn't think whatever you had could develop to this stage.
Whatever it is, your train of thought is interrupted by the door opening and closing with a slight bang. With your eyes on Tom, you can't read past the awkwardness of his pose. There are no clues whatsoever in his gaze, nor in his stance between the wooden frames, nor even in the position of his hands since they're shoved into his pockets. You can't read him, and that's probably what aches even more.
"Harrison's here anyway," he says in a low voice, taking off into the living room in the next second. He leaves, and you're left with an open chest and an empty heart.
∗
The next days are absolute hell.
Tom has disappeared off the face of the earth and Harrison spends so little time at home between work and his never-ending project with Harry that you're basically left alone with your own thoughts. And since those are a mess, from arguing with yourself about what this means to your own feelings, to trying to understand what Tom meant when he said he didn't want to hear what you had to tell him, the best decision you can make is to spend a lot more time working. At least you're focused on your earnings and not on anything insubstantial.
You're basically at a dead end with no prospect of finding a solution. And what do you do? You work some more.
"Hey, do you mind?"
That's Beth, asking if she can slide into the empty seat in front of you. She's carrying two cups of tea that exude a lovely aroma of cinnamon and cardamom.
"Not at all," you smile at her, hitting the keyboard shortcut to save your project.
You've spent pretty much the whole of yesterday and today at the Toasty Den, either behind the counter or sitting at the furthermost corner booth with your laptop, editing a simple video to post on your channel two weeks from now. An empty tea cocktail glass and the two smoking mugs on the table.
Watching her get comfortable in the seat, you can't help but wonder what she saw in you that made her come to keep you company on her break. There's still a couple of hours left of her shift, a few more before your eyes start going all droopy and you'll decide to leave, yet you do welcome her presence. Especially her 'smize' as he sips her tea.
"So how you doin'?" she asks, the cup on its way down to the table, her fingers through the handle holding it steady.
"Been better. Trying to keep focused." You shrug. If you mindlessly hit the save shortcut again, you don't even try to explain it.
Beth hums and stares at you, her gaze gentle and friendly. "What's goin' on then? You've been here for the past two days. Working mornings, sitting in this corner the whole afternoon shift. Sarrah told me you left late last night. What's the matter?"
"I dunno, Beth." You sigh and drag the cursor to the Save button. Just in case. Then you rub your eyes and they feel all puffy and ugly under your fingers. "Can't stay in that flat right now. It's too empty."
"Roommate trouble?"
You give her a bleak nod. "Yeah, sort of. They're both gone, and since everyone else I know works full time, I'm here. Editing a dumb video, trying to make myself laugh with it."
"Is it workin'?"
You pause, murmuring a thanks as you take the first tip of your tea she so kindly brought over.
"Nope."
Both of you laugh sadly at your reply.
Beth sends you an understanding look, head tipped to the side. "All right, look, I dunno about you, but I don't like when I'm feeling sorry for myself. Even though I get it. Trust me, I get it. Been there more times than I've worked nights at this pub, I swear. So anyway, I'm goin' out with my girls tonight, you wanna come? Drinks, comfort food, a movie at this, uh — fuck, what's it called—"
You shrug and twist your mouth as though she was asking you and you don't know the answer.
"Right, at this drive-in out of town. Five ladies, six if you come, in my bestie's 90s van. It'll be fun," Beth adds with a big, hopeful smile, tapping your hand in comfort. "Filthy, but fun."
"Filthy but fun..." you parrot her with a meaningless laugh.
"Listen, that van has seen a lot of shit."
You laugh even harder at her comment. "Can't wait to hear those stories. But I dunno if I should, I mean, it's your free time with your friends, I—"
"That's exactly why I'm inviting you."
"I don't want to be a bother, Beth."
"You won't!" Beth insists. "If you don't want to go, that's fine, but I'd love to have you around. Just girl talk. No thinking about work..." she says, leaning into your side to brush your shoulder with hers. "Or romance."
You sigh. "Okay. I'll come."
"Good." Beth leans in further to rest a hand on your shoulder. Squeezing once, her eyes hawked on yours. "But first I need you to go home, chill in your tub for a little while, use some beauty tips from a nasty YouTube video, and get all dolled up for me, 'kay? And for you."
"Okay."
"Awesome. Also want those beautiful legs on display, all right? Your shortest dress ever 'cause we're goin' to Skimpy Town."
"Damn," you joke and check the time on your laptop. "Too late to go shopping, Beth."
She gives you a look. "Please, girl, I've seen you around, 'kay? I know you dress up nice."
"Sure." You grin, shoulders shaking with the beginning of a laugh.
"Now that's a beautiful smile." Beth grins back. "Go home, y/n. I'll text you later."
After her break's over and you finish your tea, you follow Beth's every instruction to the T and, truth is, you feel a lot more relaxed in your own skin after a short bath. It's not common that you lie in your own filth like that, but a little pampering never hurt anyone, and it does boost your mood after sinking in the water with no worries except what song would play next from the playlist you had on shuffle.
Getting dressed is a whole different story. You want to take Beth's advice on this as well, but every dress you put on doesn't seem right. It's not that they don't fit the occasion, but your reflection doesn't hit that nerve in your brain that lights up the satisfaction checkmark, so you keep trying. Sorting through different items, combining several shorts and blouses until the mirror agrees with you.
"You look good, girl," you try to compliment yourself, Beth-style, but it only makes you laugh.
When Beth and her friends pick you up from the bus station you agreed on as a meeting point, they all yell and 'yass bitch' you first, even before you learn their names.
You have a generous amount of fun that night. The movie is hilarious, the drive-in is lit up beautifully, and the park where Beth's friends stop the van to spend the rest of the evening is spacious and incredible. There's fun and drinks and food that does comfort you amidst tons of casual conversation and gossip. You even open your heart to practical strangers that somehow welcomed you into their group like a sister, and they give you the hope you've been trying to scavenge for in the thought shambles that's been collecting in your mind for so long.
Then when you get home nursing your shoes into your chest, one of them with a broken heel, the flat is alive with low volume conversation. You hold your breath for a second, locking the door behind you and perking your ears, but you can only distinguish two voices. And after stepping into the living room, you find none other than Harrison and Tuwaine hanging out on the couch.
"Hey, look who's back."
"Looks like someone had a lot of fun," Tuwaine says, words and a finger pointed at the items in your hands.
Your heel has been broken for the majority of the night. There was a stubborn incident with a sidewalk pattern and a grate, and your feet are stupidly hot right now. Hot from walking on bare soles and from dirt.
"Sidewalks hold grudges," you say regretfully before you explain everything that had happened. Harrison is opening a new beer too, so you pluck it from his hand as soon as the cap pops off. "Thanks, roomie."
"Sure, you can have my beer if you want," he quips with a funny look, getting up to grab another bottle from the kitchen.
"Thanks!" you tease with your mouth around the bottle.
"So how was your night, miss girl?" Tuwaine asks. "Aside from Revenge of The Sidewalks, of course."
"It was good," you start, swallowing a big gulp of beer. "Watched a classic film, made new friends, broke a heel, ripped my shorts right in the crotch, had some drinks, laughed a lot. It was really good, Big T. Van girls know how to have Fun™, dammit. That's capital F, trademark symbol, by the way."
"The heel and your shorts?" Harrison laughs, back from his quest to the kitchen.
"Yeah! Right here," you try to show him, but you're sort of sitting on the ripped hole and you can't bother to bend that way at the moment. "Someone didn't want me to have a good time tonight, but I'll be damned if I didn't show them where they can shove that fucking energy."
"That's my girl," Tuwaine says with a strong side hug.
"Thanks, T, tried my best. Been a little miserable lately, and I didn't realize that until these girls dragged me into a metaphorical booth, bent me over and spanked me to confession."
"Not literally, I hope..."
You start cackling at the look of confusion on Tuwaine's face.
"I love seeing that smile on your face," Harrison adds in a gentle voice. "Haven't seen you around at all, so I was a little, ehhhhh, worried about you, if you wanna call it that. So happy to see you've been able to keep the mood up."
"Thanks."
You shrug. It doesn't hit you just yet that you truly haven't seen these two in a little while. All your mind has been focused on is one thing, and you can't believe you let it keep you at bay from two friendships you value so much.
"Boys," you start, feeling the boost of mood from their positive energy. You hold your beer between your knees and with one sandal in each hand hanging by one of its red straps, you stretch both arms to drape them over the back of the couch behind their heads.
"We should pull an all night marathon, if you can," you suggest, only half joking. "I dunno, let's watch something on that bigass tv that none of us paid for. Something to laugh. To celebrate life. Something about friends and the greatest shenanigans of all time."
You blink at them, flicking your head to each side, one at a time.
"What do you say?"
"I think you need to sleep," Harrison laughs, poking your side. You move too fast to gape your mouth at him and spill some beer onto your legs. Pointing at the liquid on your skin, he adds, "See what I mean?"
"I'm not drunk."
"I didn't say that," he excuses himself, "but if you spend any more time awake, I'm afraid you'll end up creating a mass accidental event, so big that you won't be able to stop the jokes about it for many, many years to come."
"My man is right," Tuwaine agrees. You try to get up in protest, but the beer topples to the floor, miraculously landing on its bottom, and you nearly land on your butt again.
You seek support on Harrison's leg and say, "Okay, maybe you're right."
And then the giggles start pouring out of you, honest mixed with nervous mixed with anything you've been disguising under the booze tonight. Before you know it, you're sitting on the floor with your legs all entangled around and under you, fat tears running down your cheeks for no reason other than this moment right now.
"Nooo, y/n, it's okay, you're okay," one of them says. Their voices and faces are all indistinguishable by now, mostly because you're trying your best to not face them. They both help you back onto the couch, beer bottle safely on the coffee table.
"Hey, look at me." He waits, voice sounding too much like Tom's when he'd be whispering sweet nothings in your ear. You recoil at the memory.
"I wasn't mocking you, okay? It doesn't matter how much you drank or what you've been up to. You're home, you're safe. It's just us."
You agree and nod in silence at his words as you process them.
"Look, it's late, but we can put on something to watch. Like you said. Something to laugh."
"Maybe not The Hangover," the other of them suggests, Tuwaine, you're almost sure. Always on point with his humor. Never failing to make you at least chuckle.
"All right, she's laughing through the tears. I think we're okay," Harrison says, and now his face is all clear again. All soft, caring eyes. You give him a tight hug.
"Thank you," you say honestly, sniffing and swallowing away the moment. After, you turn to Tuwaine and reel him into the hug, adding, "I needed that. And whatever you choose is fine, even The Hangover."
And by the time it hits you that you've done a full 180 in front of your friends, you're falling fast asleep on one of their shoulders.
∗
The light filtering into the room is the first thing you see upon waking up. It looks like you slept with the blinds all the way up, only the curtains covering the open window, but you have yet to place the reason why. Your alarm clock goes off a few seconds after you decide to shut your eyes just a little more.
Right. You have to work today.
When you try to move a few more moments later, you realize someone's in bed with you. Looking behind you, Harrison is sleeping there, fully dressed in his fancy shirt and a pair of sweats, lying over the covers. That's odd, you think with your mouth frowning downwards, but you get up nonetheless. You notice you're wearing this week's sleeping attire, pajama shorts and a loose t-shirt, and at the sight of them last night starts flooding back into your mind.
You remember so much of it in a rush of seconds as you make your way to the bathroom to wash up. Beth and the van girls. Ripping your shorts at the children's playground at that park where they stopped the van. Tripping on that damn sidewalk the first time. Laughing with your new friends as you all strolled around a late night street market, the colorful lights dancing with grace on your faces. Breaking your heel on the way back to the van after getting it stuck on that stupid sidewalk. Oh boy, getting home and embarrassing yourself on the couch in front of Harrison and Tuwaine.
Finally looking into the mirror, your eyes are unfocused as the memories roll, but everything else seems okay. Your face is make-up free and your hair is arranged the way you do every night, so that means your mind is correct when it shows you getting ready for bed right here, on this same spot. The only difference being Harrison's watchpoint by the door, which is now unoccupied.
You let every one of those images fade eventually when you realize that nothing really happened. It's foggy in your mind from the few drinks you had with the girls, but not exaggeratedly so.
You're fine. And if you don't hurry up, you'll be late for work.
Back in the room, already dressed and ready to go, you leave Harrison still on your bed, tugging on the duvet from the side where you'd been lying before and pulling it over him. Just in case. He looks cozy and warm, so you let him rest here all he wants.
Work is a little slow, which is a blessing for your slurred mind, and David makes you feel very comfortable about whatever your eyes tell him about last night's antics. You sort of can't believe how fast you made friends with him, even before starting to work here, and how much you trust him now. Especially how much he knows about you, things that some of your longer-time friends have no idea about. Then again, all the hours you spend together every morning helped bring out this sense of closeness to him rather than to anybody else you only hang out with sporadically.
After work, you get home a bit after noon, stomach roaring loudly as soon as you walk through the door. The walk to the kitchen is riddled with you murmuring back at your own belly for giving you such a hard time now that you're so damn close to food.
Closer than you imagined, you realize, walking into the kitchen and finding Harrison there turned to the counter, his back to where you come in.
"Hey! Fooood!" you exclaim immediately, tapping your tummy because it's growling again. It has been a few hours since you've had anything sustainable to eat. You only drank a big cup of tea during your break, so it's not surprising that you're this hungry.
"Hello, hello— ah!" Harrison chastises you and smacks a finger on the back of your hand when you're about to steal a piece of carrot from his salad. "It's not ready yet."
You pout at him. "I just came from work! And like, very, very, very arduous work."
"I know and that's exactly why I decided to make a nice, invigorating salad around the time you usually get back from the Den, but you're going to wait just a little bit longer," he explains, chopping a few pieces of radish masterfully on the yellow cutting board.
"Anything I can do to help, my pretend chef?"
"You can choose if you want scrambled eggs or tofu, but I think that's pretty much it," he says, and after you tell him your choice, he sends you to the table, sits you on your usual chair and places a big glass of orange juice with a funny cocktail umbrella on it for no reason other than to be quirky.
"I like the umbrella touch," you compliment within a laugh. "What are we celebrating?"
Harrison seems to think about it, mouth scrunched to the side as he walks back towards the counter. "Ermm, that you survived work?"
You make a noncommittal noise. "Sounds good to me."
Back to sipping your orange juice, fingers spinning the umbrella since that's its only purpose, you watch Harrison as he proceeds to cook your choice of protein for the salad. It reminds you too much of when Tom would cook for you, but you poke that memory aside with a metaphorical stick and keep it buried in the sand. Yet the thought of him doesn't really leave you —when has it ever really left you anyway— so you decide to make conversation instead.
"Thank you for staying the night in my room. You didn't have to."
"I know," he smiles over his shoulder. "I wanted to, though. Not that you can't take care of yourself, but I figured it would be for the best. You dressed yourself, by the way," he rushes to add, but you already remember what happened last night, so you only smile and nod at him in response. He adds, "I only went there after Tuwaine left."
"Yeah, I remember," you say, letting the glass fall onto the table. Your hand keeps a hold of it, the other still on the umbrella, just to keep them busy. "I wasn't that drunk. Just, y'know, sad, I guess."
"Right."
"You also didn't have to sleep over the duvet, Harry," you tell him gently, bumping your fist against his elbow where he has them poking behind him. "We're friends. And I'm cool with you sleeping in my bed when necessary. If you're not comfortable with that, you don't have to stay over."
"Thanks. I just didn't know whether you'd think that was okay or not, so I played it safe. Now I know." He's now bringing the complete salad to the table, placing the bowl in the middle of both your plates.
"Got ya." You wink. Harrison grins and squeezes your elbow, his hand softly grazing your arm up and down. His touch comforts you. Knowing you have a friend this considerate by your side is always reassuring.
"You all right? How was work?" he asks when you start serving him first. "You're not there anymore, y'know?"
You laugh, but don't stop until the two of you have decent portions. "I'm good. Work was fine. Lots of toast and tea, some cocktails, some little bastards who keep coming in wanting to meet..." you hesitate, swallowing down his name. "You know who."
"Those blokes still going there?"
"Yep. Today of all days," you roll your eyes. "But we can't throw them out or anything like that because they don't make a fuss. They don't really harass anyone because they only ask once and politely, blergh. For once, I kinda wish they weren't so decent about it."
"I get it."
"By the way," you say, grabbing a forkful of food, but waiting before you eat it. "You've heard from Tom?"
Harrison nods and drinks some water first, then says, "Of course. He doesn't text you?"
"Nope." You smack the 'p' with your lips. "After he said that thing about work in the group chat, I tried the first day. Sent him a text and a voice message, then a stupid golf joke and all, waiting for at least an emoji in return, but nothing. He didn't reply. I'm not even sure if he's read them."
"That's odd," he trails off, chewing on his food, face turned to the window and his eyes staring at something outside. "Well. I suppose he's doing his own thing—"
"Maybe he's busy..."
"—with what, cuddling his dog," he mutters.
"What?"
Harrison blinks at you, still silent.
"His dog?!" you ask.
As far as you were aware, Tom said he had a 'last minute affair' at work. If you remember correctly, those were the exact words he used in his half-hearted message to the group chat, sent merely a couple of hours after he rushed out on you with the excuse that Harrison was back home. So you thought he was out of the country, or at least the city, doing whatever it is that he does for work when he can't talk about it.
Apparently not.
"Tom took Tessa to work?" you ask, but then you realize how dumb that question really is. Namely considering the look of guilt in Harrison's face. "Tom's at his parents' house, isn't he?"
"Fuck," Harrison says, putting down his fork. His eyes are as apologetic as you've never seen them. "You weren't supposed to know that."
"Oh, that makes me feel so much better."
"Please. I promised him I wouldn't tell," Harrison explains. His hand comes up to tap against yours, splaying over the back of it and squeezing the best he can. His thumb ends up lodged between two of your fingers. You squeeze back.
You get it. They were friends long before you came round, and their loyalty lies with each other. You can totally understand and forgive that.
"It's okay, that's not what I meant to say, uh," you add with an apology, too. "It's not your place to tell me these things after all. I'm just surprised he would say he had to work —where I usually can't reach him— but after all he's staying right in town. Where I very much can reach him."
"I don't know if you should," Harrison rushes to say, stopping you from bolting off your chair.
"And why not?"
"Because whatever it is that he didn't want to do that day, I think he still doesn't want to now," he says with half a grimace, hand still holding yours. It grounds you a little, you realize when you stare at it and feel the comfort of a friendly touch.
Nevertheless, you tug it back from under his palm and rub your eyes with two fingertips. This is so frustrating. Tom is so close to you and your mind was perfectly convinced that he was somewhere out there in this world, working his butt off so he wouldn't have to think about you. Which, yes, that's what you did, obviously. However, it's the fact that he was so quick to lie about his location that you can't help but scratch at the existential tug inside your chest.
"Why did he lie to me like that?" you ask, a half exasperated, half rhetorical question. "I mean." You sigh. "Maybe I sort of get it, but at the same time I don't?"
"Look, he just wanted to do things his own way."
"As if I wouldn't respect him if he said 'I'll be in town but don't get in touch with me'," you scoff.
"You probably would, and I think he knows that, but—"
"But nothing. It's more likely that I'd try to talk to him if I think he's working and avoiding me rather than if I knew for sure that he's just trying to, I don't even know, uh, take a break or whatever."
Harrison hums to himself. "I see your point. I think."
You sigh.
"He's trying to process... something, he didn't really tell me what—"
"He didn't tell you?" you question, surprised that Tom didn't tell his best friend. Perhaps he told his mother or one of his brothers since they aren't as close to you as Harrison. Or maybe he did that dumb thing he does sometimes where he doesn't tell anyone, and tries to figure it out himself, and totally misses the point of the issue in the first place.
"Not in detail, no," Harrison clarifies. You nod and hum once, letting him continue. "He may have thought we would talk about it, I dunno."
"He trusts you that much, huh?" you joke, making him laugh through a mouthful of salad.
"You'll be alright, right?" he asks a few moments later, eyes boring into yours.
"Of course." You grin. "When have I not been alright?"
Harrison pokes the tip of your foot with his. You poke back. And maybe you will be alright after all. You've still got good friends, and that's all you could ask for.
That statement is so true that you forget about everything else until the next day. The boys are all meeting tonight for Tuwaine's premiere later, and the celebrations start in your shared flat with snacks — diligently prepared by yours truly and your new cook, Harrison.
Music from a 2000s playlist he chose filters through the speakers of his phone, setting the rhythm to your loud, unsynced dance moves. You keep bumping into him at accidental beats of each song, but he bumps right back with his shoulder until you laugh and yell, "Get off of me!"
"How come we don't do this more often?" he asks, flicking his locks away from his eyes. "Oh wait, I know," he pauses to bang the wooden spoons in his hand in front of your face, "because you're always getting—"
"Don't say it."
Harrison grins. "But seriously, we should do this more often. I really like your vibe."
"Oh good, it only took a year of roommating to hear that," you jest.
"It did take you a few months to stop putting empty containers back in the fridge though," he teases right back.
It's true. You used to be so focused on your duties that it took a while to get rid of an old habit of putting empty containers back in the fridge so they wouldn't pile up in the sink since at the time you didn't have the privilege of a dishwasher.
"Yes, but unlike someone, I grew out of it after a few warnings, hm?"
"I need to bang the door, okay?" Harrison rolls his eyes exasperatedly. "Otherwise I'll walk into my own flat and it's hairy bums all over the place."
"Hey! My butt isn't hairy..."
"I wanted my statement to have a bigger impact."
Before you can reply, however, the bell rings twice.
"That's the brothers," he says.
You pause for a second, listening to a third bell ring for no reason other than being annoying dumbasses.
"Are they all coming?"
"Of course..." Harrison starts, turning to face you as he steps out of the kitchen. He stops immediately under the door frame. "Oh right. Is that okay?"
"It's his flat, Harry," you struggle to smile.
The idea of seeing Tom again after the past days is a bit overwhelming. He's been in your mind this whole time, to a certain extent, the questions of right and wrong, and all the things you would have said differently that morning, not to mention all the hours in bed rubbing your ice cold feet together to pretend it was his right there with yours.
"I'll be fine, I can be cordial," you say more assertively, straightening up your shoulders for effect. "We're doing this for Big T anyway."
Despite what you say, you don't leave the kitchen just yet, instead pretending you're busy with anything as you listen to them make their way across the flat. Their shadows trek by the doorway without stopping, and a sigh of relief slices through the quietness around you.
At some point, you look around and realize that there's no reason to stay in this room anymore, so you stand there on the outer sides of your feet, hands on the kitchen counter, contemplating what you should do. It should be easy to step outside and greet everyone in the living room, they are your friends after all. Their boyish bickering that echoes through the walls makes you want to join them so bad, but you can't move at all.
You have to be honest with yourself. You don't really want to do this. There's no way to know how things are going to go, if it'll be awkward, if it'll be fine, if you'll be able to pretend you haven't been feeling half-broken and lonely the last few days.
The questions are interrupted only by the squeaky sound of shoes on floor.
"Oh."
That's Tom's unmistakable voice.
With a sucked-in breath, you turn around and gaze at him for the first time in three days. Somehow you'd forgotten how good he looks in casual attire, black t-shirt tucked into his plaid trousers, something so simple yet refined about the way he stands there by the kitchen door, both hands frozen in front of him as though he can't decide what to do with them.
"Hey," you break the silence, quietly still, throat trembling around the word.
"Uh, hey," he sort of stutters, immediately shielding himself by stuffing his left hand into his pocket. The other, he points at the fridge. "Harrison asked me to—"
"Of course." You step to the side even though you weren't even in his way.
Pretending to keep busy is the only way out, your brain tells you. You sweep around on your feet, rotating away from where Tom is standing, and start wiping the counter with a wet hand towel despite having done that just before he came in.
The silence as he mutters to himself is killing you, but you also don't want to make small talk and pretend nothing happened. So it really rattles you off that Tom asks, "How've you been?"
You stop wiping and give it a few seconds before you speak. To be fair, this break that you take only happens because your chest is constricting your breath and thoughts and composure.
Through the corner of your eye, you perceive Tom turning around with an armful of something while the fridge door closes behind him with a muffled noise.
"Fine, I think," you finally reply, once more turning around in an angle that makes you step further away from him. You practically have the kitchen table between the two of you, something that's rarely ever happened when it's just you and Tom.
His eyes, though— his eyes are low and beguiling, shifting in between you and the floor, making you miss the way they would inspect you with hunger instead of unease. It reminds you of everything that happened the last time you saw him. The way he stormed out of this very same room, how he lingered and hesitated behind you at an angle where you couldn't see him, and especially the way he refused to listen to what you had to say to him.
It might be for the best that you give in to small talk than to give way to discuss those events. The tension in your legs is hard enough to handle right now.
"How was... work," you decide to ask against your previous disposition. After all, that is still the 'official' version of the facts.
Tom's shoulders tense up visibly. Even his arms squeeze into his torso from his stance.
"T'was all right," he says, foot kicking the fridge door as though he'd failed to hear it closing before. Both his hands carry five beer bottles, but then you notice him trying to hold them all by the neck using only one of them.
"Listen, I—"
The moment he reaches in with the other one, instinct kicks in and you step back. He isn't a threat, but perhaps your mind is secretly seeing him in a different light.
A bottle slips through his fingers.
Five bottles, five friends in the flat, one shattered on the floor with a loud crash. Coincidences be damned. If this isn't the world symbolizing that you may be done with him, any other meaning goes way over your head. After all, you can't imagine what or who would have enough pull to separate Tom from his mates.
"Shit," he curses out loud.
You try to step aside, but Tom shoves a hand against your chest and you knock right against it.
"Stop," he says in a hardened tone, leaving his palm between your collarbones. Looking up, his eyes are wide and slightly terrified, but you can't react before he pulls away. "Sorry, force of habit," he adds, pointing downward with a finger as he once again distributes all the bottles across both hands. "There's a piece of glass on your foot."
"Oh?" You look down and yeah. You're still barefoot in the kitchen, the beer almost reaching your toes and a dark shard perched right on your foot. Shaking it off, you say, "I'll grab the mop."
And then finally you step to the side. Away from the puddle and from him, too.
On your way to the door, you nearly bump into Harrison, who stops in his quick tracks and asks, "Everything okay in here?"
"Yes, just an accident," Tom replies in a stressed tone.
You almost roll your eyes at the understatement and mumble a blunt no towards Harrison. He gives you a peeved albeit curious frown. Then you enter the broom cupboard to the left of the door, looking for that much needed mop.
The mutters from both Tom and Harrison are pretty clear across the distance, but you can't make out any of the words. That might be for the better, actually. Knowing Harrison and the twins, they probably tried to set you up by forcing Tom into the kitchen to speak to you.
When you come out of the cupboard with a mop, a bucket and an empty dustpan, Harrison is already on his way out with his hands full of beer and he whisper-shouts to you, "Talk to him."
That, you absolutely cannot do. Not now anyway. The friendship is already broken as per the beer bottle prophecy. You shrug Harrison off and grab his forearm though, silently begging him to stay but still keeping your cool when you say, "Wanna give us a hand, Harry?"
"I'll be right back," he says in his normal voice, but you can see so clearly through his bullshit. You release a relaxed sigh slash annoyed huff in response.
"It's fine, mate," you hear Tom as you watch Harrison's shoulders vanish when he turns the corner to the hallway. As you turn around reluctantly, Tom can be found picking up piece by piece of glass from the floor into a used hand towel.
Against all odds, you move forward to help, hands tight around the handle of the bucket. After setting down what you're holding and kneeling down on the floor, making sure you pick up the shards that are the furthest away from his hands, it's inevitable not to take notice of every direction Tom moves so as to avoid the proximity of his touch.
He stops at some point, sitting on his heels you think, with several smaller pieces still in between both your knees, and you feel his eyes on you. They're warm but uncomfortable, impossible to miss no matter which shard you focus on.
"I know Harrison told you," he says out of nowhere.
Every bit of instinct is warning you to stop and get out of here, but you struggle against that thought. You're not that weak. You can take him, you can handle it, and you surely can answer his question to test his reaction.
"About what?"
"About why I wasn't around."
"Right..." you trail off, throwing a piece of glass harder into the pile you've been making on the dustpan. It makes a lot more noise than you'd imagined and echoes in the silent kitchen. "He also told me you didn't want me to know."
"Y/n, I—"
You get up all of a sudden, blood rushing to your head in a frenzy to keep up with the motion.
"I don't wanna talk about it, mate."
Tom gets up as well, jeans rustling loudly with how fast he moves. "Wait, I thought—"
"You made it very clear the other day that you didn't want me to talk about it, so I won't."
"We can't just ignore this massive—"
"We can, actually," you interrupt him yet again. Then you turn around to empty the dustpan in the bin and add, "The boys are waiting for the snacks anyway."
He keeps calling your name as you wash your hands in the sink in a rush, growing more persistent each time. "Please, look at me, we can't—"
"I can," you say even though you have no idea what point he was about to make. It doesn't matter anyway, you're not going to listen to it right now.
Instead you grab a couple of bowls from the table and rush out of the room, seeking comfort in the rest of the group. Clearing your head of this problem, of this massive elephant like Tom implied, would be the best option right now. This is a night for celebration, friends —or acquaintances, now that the bottle has dropped— getting together for dinner before heading to the theater to watch one of your own's new play. There's no point in ruining it with your personal issues with a lover.
Former. Former lover.
The rest of the night is awkward and tense, but you try your best to disguise it by keeping the Harries company instead. Of course you can't ignore that Tom exists, trying your best to make it seem like your chest isn't tight with emotion and wreckage and fear every time he makes a joke, but your effort is tainted by the beguiling hope you keep finding in Tom's eyes.
It doesn't get any better in the car ride to the big plans of the night. In a single second, Harrison tosses Tom the keys with a gaudy trick of his hand and Harry courteously holds the passenger door open for you, which of course would be rude to refuse. To hell with those two and their synchronicity.
This means you spend the next twenty minutes sitting there in the car, holding your dress over your right thigh with a hand, feigning interest and amusement at Tom's quips and questions. Heart hammering away in your chest at a be-cool be-cool be-cool panging rhythm.
Luckily, once inside the theater, you see a way out by asking Harrison a question about the history of the intricately decorated building you're in. He gets distracted enough to miss you sneaking past him before he steps forward to his seat.
Harry studies you intensively from under his messy curls, watching you sit next to him where he figured his best mate Harrison would be. Right now, it's the twins Sam and Harry, yourself, Harrison and Tom occupying half of a row.
"Everything okay?" Harry asks slowly, almost dragging each syllable.
"Yeah all good," you say chirpily, taking a peek at Harrison's confused look when he sees you occupying his place. "Why, am I breaking something up here?"
"No, no, you, uh," Harry puts in, curiously gazing behind you. Harrison must say something to him silently judging by the expression on his face when you inspect it closer. "Usually don't sit next to me, that's all."
"Exactly," you say with a click of your tongue as though this had been the plan all along. With a haphazard shrug, you add, "I figured, y'know, since it's the theater and it'll be mostly quiet, I thought it wouldn't make a difference."
"Sure." Harry smiles, but you're positive he's forcing it out.
"Cool."
Nevertheless, no matter how Harry might feel about this rush decision, you look ahead at the stage and the closed curtain, noting how the room is alive with the murmurs of the gathering crowd. You're all seated towards the back, in a sort of secluded area of the room. It's darker here given the position of the lights, and it's easy to guess that it was chosen on purpose by Tom's team to keep him guarded from the majority of the crowd. The boys don't seem bothered by it despite the distance from the stage, or perhaps they're so used to it by now that they don't even notice all these details anymore.
"Hey," you hear to your left. Harrison. His eyes are curious but tender. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah all good," you reply automatically, just as chirpily as before. "You?"
"Same."
You smile in response, tugging the edge of your skirt in a sort of regretful way, wishing you hadn't put on a dress so you could hide your mood under less revealing clothes. It's not the boys' presence that bothers you, you never wear anything you don't like, but your mind seems all over the place tonight.
An elbow smacks against yours to your right. Not brutally, but enough to spark a shocking wave from your elbow down your forearm. It's Harry, who says, "You know, if you ever need someone you're less attached to, I've been told I'm a decent listener."
He pauses with a soft look, making you swallow in dryly at his offer. It can only mean it's obvious that you're not at ease tonight, and you despise that fact. Being noticed can be the worst sometimes.
"I mean, I give terrible advice," he continues, making you chuckle more at his self-condescending tone than at his comment, "but I can listen. Sometimes that helps people think, so..."
You swallow everything that you feel, every bit of awkwardness, hoping it stays put in your stomach and away from your mind and your face. With a more persuasive smile, you say, "Thanks. I appreciate that."
Harry gives you a nod, hand hovering over your knee as though he's going to smack it gently, but retreats it right after.
You can't help but grin goofily at him, to which he responds with a cryptic smile, then smacks your knee lightly anyway. When he pulls away again, it's almost like he's embarrassed.
"You're a good dude, Harry," you tell him, seeking his gaze.
"Thanks," he says with a scoff, "I try." He leans in closer to your side like he's going to add something, and you instinctively perk your ears and lean over to him to listen. "I'm no Tom Holland, though."
You give him a look, peeved at his comment. He chuckles in his careless way and turns to his twin at the same time Harrison calls your name to offer you the play's info leaflet.
As it turns out, you do have a wonderful time in the theater. There's a comforting sense of pride in seeing a close friend make so many people laugh and react to his work on stage, and the play is highly entertaining from beginning to end.
It is true that the Harries keep talking to each other despite you being in the middle, blocking your view more often than not, but not even that bothers you tonight. It would have been the same if you'd sat in between the twins, and you wouldn't feel as comfortable if it was only Sam keeping you company only because you're not as close to him as to the others. And there is definitely no way that you'd have sat next to Tom in any capacity. Not with the way things are at the moment. You'll handle any teasing over it, but not his company. Not yet.
His absence from your side isn't even on your mind the whole evening. Instead you focus on having a good time, on enjoying the short after-party to celebrate a sold out premiere, on the full group of friends that accompanied you tonight and on their funny anecdotes, be it about theater or school or group travel shenanigans.
It isn't until you make it back to the flat that you get a moment of quiet with the star of the night. Tuwaine settles beside you in the lift, pulling you under his big arm and squeezing you against him. He says, "Thank you for coming tonight, by the way. I know we're not, y'know, super close, but it means a lot."
"You are very welcome, Big T," you tell him, squeezing him back the best you can. The automatic doors open right after. With a pat on the back of his hand where it's hanging off your shoulder, you add, "And thank you for making my first experience at the theater so fun. That play was hilarious and—"
"Wait, hold on," he interrupts you, grabbing your shoulder and keeping you at an arm's length. The sound of keys jingling and being slid into a lock fill the short silence that follows. "You'd never been to the theater before?"
"Not really, no."
"Woaaaaah." All the other boys are blinking at you when you look up.
"Never?!"
"No, why?" You question their silence with a shake of your head. "Why is it such a big deal? First time for everything, right? And I'm glad it was tonight, it was fun. Like proper fun. I loved it."
While a still quiet Tom opens the door, you hang back to avoid walking past him even though the rest of the boys seem to have been drilled to the floor.
"Please tell me you've been to the cinema before..." Harry teases, followed by Harrison.
"And a concert..."
Just to mess with them, you joke, "A what?? Wh-what do people do at a concert, smoke stuff?"
All of them exhale in relief at the obvious sarcasm in your response, then proceed to interrogate you regarding the lack of theater in your life. And you proceed to open up to them, at the expense that they keep bringing your drinks while you explain that not everyone has access to certain entertainment events.
The night progresses from there, and it's a good one in general. At one point, you take a quick bathroom break to relieve your body of the extra booze and, when you come out, Harrison is leaning against the door frame to your room, waiting for you.
"Fuck, Harry, you wanna give me my first heart attack or something?" you say with a hand over your chest.
"I surely hope not," he says rather coldly. You look at him and find him with his arms crossed now, inquisitive eyes staring right into yours.
"Bathroom's free now," you retort, pushing the door further open for him.
"That's not why I'm here," he points out. His tone sounds very mysterious. With a single look at his face, you can pretty much guess what's going to come out of his mouth next.
Something about Tom.
"I take it the conversation in the kitchen didn't go well..."
Bingo.
Still you pretend you have no idea what he's talking about because that's the best option right now. "What conversation in the kitchen?" you ask, giving him the best side look you can muster. "Oh, you mean the one you tried to force out of me and your best mate by sending him in there without warning?"
"In my defense," Harrison leans forward as though he's about to tell you a secret, "We really needed those beers."
"Fuck off, okay?"
He moves fast when you try to walk away and blocks your step, grabbing your forearm softly next. His eyes look just as soft and understanding. "You guys have to talk it out, though, c'mon."
"No, we don't," you reply immediately and step to the side. Harrison drops your arm right after.
"What, so you just won't talk to him ever again?" he asks, voice riddled with a thin layer of worry.
"All right, maybe not 'never again', but y'know," you shrug. "Not tonight at least."
"You were laughing at his jokes in the car..." he trails off, eyebrow fish-hooked on his face, head tilt timed perfectly with his words.
"Yeah, I was, and you have no idea how much it pained me, bitch," you antagonize him, half as a joke. He seems to understand it if the scoff he emits is anything to go by.
"Y/n. C'mon." He straightens up again, shoulders high and tense. "You're his friend and his roommate, and there's a lot more in between that you can't just ignore."
"That... doesn't matter..." You trail off with a shrug. "Not anymore."
Whatever happened is clearly in the past, and most likely over judging from the last time you actively attempted to even talk to Tom. Besides, he made his point that he didn't want to hear it, so why should you bother?
"And how do you figure this is gonna end?" he asks. You can tell Harrison is genuinely concerned about this, the good friend of both of you that he is, but there's so much he probably doesn't even know. So many underlying emotions and struggles and questions. And you can't really put those on his mind, can you? It's bad enough how much they weigh on yours.
"I don't know, mate. And I don't wanna think about it. Can I just enjoy my evening in peace? Please?"
Harrison shrugs with both hands in the air in surrender. "All right, if that's what you want. "
"That's what I want," you assert, wishing for a beer in your hand so you could take an aggressive sip and bury this interrogation beneath it. Nevertheless, seeing the tenderness in his eyes, you sigh and look away. "Okay, no, that's not what I want, but it's what I have anyway."
"You know that's not true."
"Do I?"
With a shrug, you mumble an apology and flee out of there looking for a drink. You enter the living room where the twins are setting up pairs for a Wii game, so you immediately say, "I'm with Tuwaine!" hoping Tom doesn't have the brilliant idea to question your choice.
(He doesn't.)
The rest of the night goes much more smoothly than whatever that was by the bathroom door. Harrison doesn't try to meddle, the group teases him and Harry about their secret project for the umpteenth time, the boys bicker with each other about the game. It's just another night in with a good bunch of mates, and for once your mind doesn't wander from the several tennis matches you play against each other.
The countless beers you drink might have something to do with it, but you couldn't care less about it. Fun first, regrets later.
A couple of hours later, when the usual hassle has quieted down and is replaced by calm chatter in front of the low volume tv, you come back from the bathroom to find an empty couch. That's odd, but you can hear the boys' voices and laughter in the kitchen. Probably getting more beer or choosing yet another bottle of wine to drink through.
You settle in the middle of the couch with a loud exhale, sitting there with your hands pressed on the seat under you and your legs spread open. The second you hear movement in the room, you shut them closed and look to the side, finding Tom making his way towards you.
Blinking at him once, you look away and lean forward to the coffee table to grab the remote, pretending you want to raise the tv volume to listen to what's going on. In fact, what you need is to deafen the fast heartbeat in your chest and feet and ears. It's too loud, and that makes you more nervous, and that makes your blood pump even faster.
"Hey," he says softly, resting a hand on the back of the couch. "Can I sit here?"
You look up at him and study his expression, noting the dark shadow under his eyes and the slight smile twisting up the corners of his mouth. Not wanting to be rude, you say, "Sure."
It wasn't something you were looking for, being alone with him like this tonight, but you'll take it. You're a big girl and he's a big boy, so who's to say things won't go well between you two?
Thankfully, before either of you makes another sound, Harry and the rest of the boys come into the room discussing football of all things. You tune them out, the same way you tune Tom out and watch the blurry images on tv. There's a sitcom on right now, but you're also blocking out any of the words being said. All you can hear is your pulse and the crackle of anxious electricity on your skin.
Tom's silence isn't making it any better, though. You can see through the corner of an eye how he's twisting an unopened beer bottle between his hands, his eyes on you, a meek smile teasing his lips a little bit. It's when he looks down that the swirl in your belly grows tighter since there's no way to tell what he's going to say or if he's going to speak at all. You have a feeling he wants to, though.
"What?" you ask in a gentle tone. Hopefully he won't take it as an affront. You lean back and cross your legs so that you're slightly angled away from him, then meet his gaze when he looks up again.
"Uh," Tom seems to hesitate, perhaps trying to find the right words, but he speaks after a few seconds. "Well, the word going around the flat is that you're avoiding me."
"But I'm not," you retort immediately, the perfect excuse burning under your tongue. "It's Big T's night and I wanted to do right by him. Celebrate tonight's success, you know?"
"Oh for sure, I get that," he says. "But then how come you haven't said a word to me tonight?"
You sigh. "I don't know—"
"How can you not know—"
"It's not that, I don't—" You pause, looking down at your hands as they fidget with the edge of your dress. As the room fills with low white noise around his figure, the only right thing to do is tell him the truth. "I don't know what to say to you right now."
"Oh." Tom shuffles in his seat, sits sort of sideways, arm on the back of the couch, hand so dangerously close to your shoulder that it's nearly warm and crackling with proximity fire.
"Okay, that's a problem," he muses while crossing his legs too, leaving his left foot on top of his right knee.
"Yeah..."
"Listen, I, uh—" He gulps. "Unlike you, I do have something I want to tell you. Is that okay? Do you wanna hear it?"
You nod softly, gazing at him through your eyelashes but straightening up in your seat to not give him the wrong impression. Your skin and stomach are fizzing with emotion right now. You missed him, you can tell this much by the warm feeling of home that you get just from taking a sniff of his cologne.
"Okay," he sighs, "I am very sorry I lied about where I was."
You look away at first, unable to stare at his face and remember what happened these past few days, but then turn to him again when he takes a big intake of breath.
"Y'know, I had a few meetings that day, which worked well in my favor, but, like, y'know, afterwards I could've come home, but I, uh, I chickened out. And I have no excuse for that. So, uh, yeah..."
Tom takes a small pause for something you can't place, so you wait as he grabs the beer with his right hand and places the left one over the cushion of the couch. Dangerously close to your thigh, mere fractions of an inch from actual touch.
"I'm sorry," he says in a quieter whisper. His eyes go really wide and liquefied, honey brown filled with honesty, as he adds, "I really am."
You look down not having expected an apology like this and see his hand retreating back to his lap as though he's scared to touch you. You tremble all over, missing his warmth and his smell and the familiarity of his caresses.
Closing your eyes, you see his face really close, his torso leaning in, eyes focused on yours though yours move down to his mouth, but when you open them again, in real life Tom is still just sitting there, hands to himself, knee bouncing up and down like he's nervous.
"Thanks, um," you decide to speak up. Mostly to drown the recurring image replaying in your head. "I appreciate that. Nobody likes being lied to, but in a way I kinda understood why you did it."
"So we're okay?"
You inspect his features, soft and tender like nothing had ever happened three days ago. Not in a way where he seems to have forgotten it, but more so like he wants to learn this lesson and make amends. And to be fair, you can't really deny him that.
Not after everything there was between the two of you. It was a kind of connection that's hard to forget independently of how it may have already ended.
When you take notice, you realize Tom is still talking.
"I mean, I do still want to be your friend regardless of anything that might have happened. There's still so many jokes I have in reserve to tell you, and I miss sitting here and listening to you record something all the way over in your room, and c'mon we always had a lot of fun yelling at late night reality tv morons, didn't we?"
"Yeah," you laugh softly like a giggle, but less enamoredly. Or so you hope. "Yeah, we did."
"And I haven't been golfing in forever, dude, but I don't even want to do that anymore," he trails off. You frown at him and open your mouth to speak, but just as you're about to ask him if he's gone and gotten himself sick or something, he adds, "It won't be half as fun without your silly meta whatever."
You lean forward in laughter.
"Fores," you remind him. "They're called meta-fores."
"Right." He grins. "F-o-r-e, of course."
"Though if I remember correctly, you didn't seem to like them back then."
"Ah well," Tom clicks his tongue against his teeth, "Didn't appreciate them enough, I guess." You hum in response, truly not knowing what to say. There are so many words left unspoken yet none of them come to your brain at the moment.
"Look, my dad is a fine player, but he's just not so funny anymore. Not in—" he gestures with his hand, pointing it at you— "that area."
"That's quite the compliment, thank you very much," you smile genuinely.
"I'm glad you appreciate it."
Your shoulders have clearly relaxed and you did miss this friendly, easy aura between the two of you, so you drop your hand on the empty space between the two of you, palm up. His rests on top of yours, gently at first, then he grabs your hand and holds it there.
"We'll be okay, Tom."
He smiles beautifully, putting his eyes into it as well.
"Friends?" Tom pops open the bottle with a single thumb and offers it to you in one piece.
It seems as though your previous premonition was wrong. Either the beer bottles had nothing to do with the symbolism behind your friendship with him, or this truly was a moment of him and you working to repair the damage.
You choose to believe in the latter and grab the bottle by the neck.
"Friends."
~ ⛳ ~