Good afternoon! Or morning, depending on where you are. Or night, depending on when you're reading this. Whatever. Helloooo!
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The next morning, I opened my eyes slowly. I felt like crap.
I was sat on the floor, my back leaning against the sofa. The huge skirt of my dress had poofed up in a meringue around me, my hair was tangled and falling around my shoulders, and I could see from my reflection in the glass-topped coffee table that my make-up was smudged around my eyes.
I heard a yawn above me, and twisted to see Nate stretching his arms out on the sofa. Grinning tiredly, he said, "You really work the hungover princess look."
I scowled, but quickly relaxed my face muscles when it hurt my head. "Shut up," I mumbled, rubbing at my temples.
Last night, we'd ditched the party to sit on the grubby floor of Nate's grubby apartment, drink too much beer - very classy, I know - and listen to almost every single vinyl he owned, singing loudly and off-key and kissing whenever the music got too good to bear. I didn't regret it, just wished I'd managed to snag the sofa first. My shoulders and back ached.
"I'm being serious," He yawned. "You look like one of those tragic, vintage portraits. Beautiful." He rolled onto his side and stroked my hair.
"You're still drunk," I said, feeling somewhat flattered.
He shook his head, wincing. "Nope. Wish I was. Best cure for a hangover is to just stay intoxicated."
Wearily, I stood up, shifting the huge skirt. "I don't know why I bothered with a dress like this," I sniped, grumpily. "Too hard to sit down in. I should have gone for something short and tight. Much easier to move around in."
"Trust me baby, you wouldn't have lasted long in a short and tight dress." Nate murmured, intertwining his fingers through mine and kissing my palm. I looked down at him, smiling easily. I pulled him up, but he slumped back down again. "Come on, its our last day before the tour. Stay." He pulled me down on top of him. My skirt reacted by poofing up with air right in our faces. As the air in the skirt deflated, I felt myself sinking down onto him.
He laughed, louder than I'd ever heard, lifting his hands to push the skirt back down where it should be. "Perfect dress for keeping away unwanted attention." He said, kissing my neck.
"You're not unwanted." I mumbled, kissing his stubble cheek. "But we can't stay here all day. We need to pack, to go to Springbreak. We leave from there at five this evening for New Jersey."
He nodded, releasing me. "At least stay for the morning. Last time we spent the night together... I was basically forced out of your door. I want one morning with you."
I bit my lip, remembering that day. "There's no one to interrupt this time," I reminded him. "But OK," I relented. "I'll stay for the morning. But not in this dress." I pulled at the huge skirt.
He grinned, jumping up. "I'll find you something to wear." He said, dashing through to his room.
I sighed, wishing I could spend every morning with him in such a good mood. Carefully, I set the needle on my favourite of his vinyl's - A Night At The Opera - and closed my eyes at the sound of raw, real music.
"Here," His voice returned, and I turned around and took the clothes he was offering from him. "They'll be big on you, but you'll have to deal with it."
"Nate, you're so romantic," I said sarcastically, quickly kissing him before going into his bedroom and closing the door.
I loved his room - there were posters covering almost every inch of the walls, the carpet was thicker than my duvet at home and there was evidence of his music everywhere. There were CDs and vinyls piled haphazardly along the sides of the room, his song book was sat on his unmade bed, lyric sheets and notes papering every surface. His bass was stood against his desk.
I quickly unfastened the corset hooks and let the dress sit around my feet. It seemed incredibly personal, changing clothes - into his clothes - in his room. I had never dared to think such a thing a few months ago. Quickly, I pulled the baggy black shirt over my head, and slid the sweatpants over my legs. They were huge, so I rolled over the waistband and hem a few times.
I then skipped into his bathroom. Figuring it was no different to kissing him, I used his toothbrush to clean my teeth, then used his hairbrush to untangle my knotted hair. Getting rid of all the smudged make-up was a little more difficult, but eventually my face felt lighter. Feeling at least ten times cleaner, I folded my dress and left it on his bed, before going back out to the living room.
The music was still playing, and I hummed along as I followed the smell of bacon cooking to the kitchen. He had his back to me, but turned when he heard me humming.
Smirking at how big his clothes were on me, he said, "You look even better in my clothes than you did in that dress."
I laughed, sitting on one of the barstools at the counter-top. "You have a way with words, Nathaniel."
"Oh, I know," He winked. "Part of my charm. Here - grease is the best cure for a hangover." He slid across a plate of bacon sandwiches to me.
I grinned. "I hope you don't think I'm too shy to eat fatty food in front of you."
"Wouldn't dream of it," He said around his own mouthful of bacon.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, and with each bite I felt better and better. His kitchen was cleaner than the rest of the apartment - probably because we didn't have time for cooked meals at home. The only things out of place were about five boxes of tablets.
I frowned. "I thought you weren't supposed to drink alcohol when taking daily painkillers?"
He sprung up from his chair, dumping his plate loudly in the sink. "Have you finished eating? Or I can make some more if you're still-"
"Whoa, hold on." I said, reeling from the sudden subject change. "What?"
"Do you want more bacon?" He asked, his back to me.
"I want to know why you're suddenly avoiding answering a simple question." I said. "Wait, that sounded way too middle-aged, disapproving house-wife. Why have you gone all jumpy?"
Slowly, he sighed and turned back around to face me. "OK, OK."
Bewildered, I frowned at him. "Nate, what-"
"I've not been taking my meds." He said, staring intently at a dishtowel next to the sink.
I let that sink in. I wouldn't explode at him, I wouldn't yell. "Alright," I said slowly. "Why not?"
He glanced up at me. "The pain's not too bad."
"That's bull. Remember I spend every single day with you. Try again." I said, folding my arms.
He took my hand carefully, looking at it rather than my face. There was something in his eyes, something hurt and guilty. "Don't." He said, simply.
I sighed, squeezing his hand. "I'm not going to argue with you. I'm done with that. I just... I want to understand. And I want to be able to help."
He glanced up at me again. "I don't want to forget what happened to me. I don't ever want to forget the pain I went through, and if that means suffering through it, so be it. I nearly died, and I don't want to just go back to how I used be, because then it was all for nothing. If I forgot, I'd take for granted everything that I've learnt is special." He finished with a deep breath.
My mouth twitched. "You know I think you're an amazing person? But... you're putting yourself at risk because of this philosophy you've forced on yourself. I won't let you forget - I'm too worried about you to let that happen."
He shook his head. "Can we just forget about it? I just wanted one morning. One morning to not think about the tour, the coma, David or William or Robyn... Just one morning."
I sighed. "You know you're gonna have to face up to this eventually, right?"
He nodded silently.
"OK then." I said, quickly kissing his cheek. "You know, if Elliot knew I was here, we'd both be kicked out of the band."
"No. He is on the list of things that don't matter yet." Nate snapped.
I raised my eyebrows. "OK then."
He ducked down and kissed me softly. "I love you."
I smiled. "I wish we were safe."
"Safe. We're both too screwed up for that to be possible." He murmured.
After I dumped my plate in the sink, we went back to the living room. I removed the vinyl from the record player, ignoring his, "what are you doing?"
I then went back into his room and retrieved his songbook. I shoved it into his hands, before sitting on the edge of the coffee table. "Sing."
"Sing what?" He frowned, flicking the pages absent-mindly.
I rolled my eyes. "I'm not going to be big-headed and say I know you more than anyone else, but I do know you very well. The book was on your bed. That means you've been working on something. So sing it for me."
He smirked at my deduction. "Its not finished yet."
I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. If you can sing it, I can listen."
He sighed, grabbing a pencil from the shelf and making a note on a certain page. "I can't. I don't know the rhythm yet."
I raised my eyebrows. "But you have the lyrics?"
He nodded. "This one... Its like a story. No chorus or specific verses. It doesn't even rhyme. I thought I'd shake things up a bit. And also... Its just me. Not a duet."
I grinned. "Good. Gives me a chance to just listen for a while."
He let me see the lyrics, and it was then that I realised how talented he was. This song was more like a poem, or a story. His thin, scruffy handwriting told a tale of a man, and I knew exactly who that man was. The vivid imagination etched into every line, every word, was evident.. It made me wonder why he hadn't become an author.
The King followed his hopes wherever they went,
Into a net of safety or tumbling from a cliff of confusion.
But one day, this King discovered a map, and this map was in his heart.
It was a map of time and trust and true love.
His whole life, the King had disappointed,
His mother, father, sister and brothers.
The map was his escape, but the escape was in his head.
It wasn't until he found his feet that he could truly run.
His feet were not beneath him, but rather high above,
Waiting for him atop a silver cloud of rain and sun,
But they took him along a path of red, red sand where rain was too heavy to matter.
Eventually red turned to blue and then to green and then to gold.
When the path became too bright for his eyes, he walked away,
As he had done all his life, away from what he wanted most.
His new route took him to the sea,
Where he waved goodbye and took a slow dive.
At the bottom of this sea was a castle,
And the castle had been waiting for him amidst the purple waves.
This castle was crumbling away, reduced to little more than dust.
But it was just right for the King to release his dreams in.
His dreams disturbed the motion of the sea, and yet he watched.
Undisturbed, and yet restless, he built his world from the bottom of the ocean.
When I'd finished reading, I closed the book and looked up at him. "You're not planning on releasing this, are you?"
He shook his head. "The way its going, its not a Kick the Crown song."
"No. Its a Nathaniel song." I said, half-smiling. "I love it, but it doesn't belong on our album. It belongs with you."
He shrugged. "Its just a song."
I scowled. "Its more than that. Its you - its your story. I'm not an idiot."
His jaw clenched, but he didn't seem to be mad. "I'll sing it for you when I've finally finished it." He said. "Promise." He took the songbook back, throwing it down on the armchair. Then he sank next to me on the sofa. "What are you good at?" He asked.
I frowned at him. "What?"
"I know you're a singer, but I want to know what else you can do." He said, kissing my shoulder where the too big t-shirt had slipped down.
I thought about it. "Um, I'm a fair artist. I mean, I can draw."
He raised his eyebrows. "Draw me something." He commanded, tearing a page from his songbook and snatching up the pencil.
I took the paper and pencil. "Its been a while since I've drawn anything, so don't laugh." I said, leaning forward and resting the paper on the coffee table.
It took me forty-five minutes to perfect the drawing, which was longer than I'd intended. I'm sure he had just meant a quick sketch or something, but I wanted to impress him. I wanted to show him that I had more to me than a strong voice. I sketched and shaded for ages, my fingers becoming smudged with pencil.
He stayed sat next to me, sunk deep into the sofa while I leaned forward, hunched over the paper. Occasionally, he ran his fingers up my back, making me squirm. Or he'd lean up and press his lips against the side of my neck, my cheek, my shoulder. I didn't ignore him, more than once I leaned back down to kiss him. It felt like we were some artsy couple, who belonged in an airy loft in London, making pots and trading at markets.
Finally, I finished and I said, "OK. I'm done."
Immediately, he sat up straight and rested his chin on my left shoulder to see. "Wow." He said.
I scowled. "Wow? Come on, give me something!"
"Well... Its not Van Gogh.." He teased, laughing into my neck. I rolled my eyes, and pushed him away. His hands locked around my waist, pulling me into his lap. "But it is incredible." He murmured, taking the drawing from my hand.
I'd drawn him, the very first time I'd seen him singing in person. He was in the booth, eyes screwed closed and mouth close to the mic. I remembered that first day as though it were a few days ago and not a whole year. He'd sung Still Haven't Found, and I'd felt my heart become somebody else's.
He stood up, and pinned the drawing to the wall. I laughed, "You're not serious?"
"Deadly," He replied. "I like it, so its going on the wall."
We spent the rest of the morning kissing and watching crappy TV and singing and laughing and eating brownies that I attempted to make in his oven. It was like we were some high-school couple, on a regularday together.
When noon rolled around, he pulled me from the record player to his room, saying, "I need you to help me pack."
"You can't pack your own suitcase?" I raised an eyebrow as he lugged me into the room.
"Of course. I just can't prioritise well." He stuck his tongue out at me. I laughed, before pulling his guitar case from under his bed.
"I'll sort out this. You get the basic stuff you need and put it in the case," I said.
We packed quickly, since he didn't need much to keep himself occupied. Just three suitcases, a guitar and amp. "Are you sure this'll last the majority of six months?" I asked.
He nodded, pulling the cases out to the living room. "If I need anything else, I'll buy it on the road." He said.
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We then took a taxi to my flat. It wasn't until I walked in the flat that I remembered that I was still wearing his clothes. Panicked, but glad that my Dad wasn't in the room, I turned to Nate. "I'm still wearing your clothes!" I whispered, dumping my folded dress onto the sofa.
He laughed. "So? Just say you spilt your beer down your dress."
"I can't tell him I was drinking-"
"Lyra Jayne!" My Dad suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway. "What happened to you last night?"
I sighed. "I got bored. Me and Nate decided to ditch the party and listen to music at his place." This was mostly true, anyway. Just over-simplified.
"Right. And you're wearing his clothes because...?"
I gulped. "I couldn't sleep in that huge dress, could I?"
"Sleep?" He asked archly.
"Sleep." I confirmed.
"Well, Elliot didn't look too pleased when he realised you'd gone." He said, smirking. "Have fun explaining where you were to him."
I rolled my eyes. "We're going to go pack for the tour, OK?"
He nodded. "Alright."
I dragged Nate to my room before anything else could be said.
Sprawling across my bed, he said, "He's not that bad."
I nodded. "He's mellowed considerably in the past year." I said, tugging down my suitcase from the top of my wardrobe. Throwing it on the bed beside Nate, I unzipped the top and began to cram in all the necessities.
Nate helped, fetching things for me and sitting on the top so that I could zip it up. He jumped down afterwards and kissed me, saying, "Today has been one of the best ever."
"I wouldn't be surprised if we made it into a song." I joked.
"Maybe. Maybe." He smirked.
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At five o' clock, we jumped out of a taxi outside Springbreak. Nate carried my suitcases, bag and keyboard case to the tourbus, which was already idling on the kerb. A real gentlemen.
Freddie raised an eyebrow at me when I joined him on the pavement. "And what have the two of you been up to all day?"
"Secret," I told him, knowing that he would read it the wrong way. "I'd have to kill you if I told you."
He nodded. "Ah, the best kind of days. You ready for this tour?"
I nodded. "Think so. I mean, its got to go better than the last one, right?"
Chris snorted as he walked up to us. "Lets hope so."
We watched as Nate transferred every case and bag and instrument that was waiting on the pavement to the tourbus. Chris and Freddie kept wondering why he was being so nice, and what had put him in such a good mood with sly glances at me. I kept a neutral face, execept for when Nate caught my eye and gave me a heart-melting smile. I couldn't help but smile back, just as brightly.
Finally, we were ready to go. We clambered on to the bus, which was set out almost exactly the same as the last one. Nate and I were the last to get on board, but before he could go all the way in, I grabbed his arm and held him back.
"Promise me something," I asked.
"Anything," He said, looking confused.
"This tour. Whatever happens on it, we won't explode like last time. We'll carry on until the end, and we'll figure out what to do about Elliot and us along the way." I said.
He nodded. "We'll definitely explode a few times. That's just who we are. But this time, we'll explode together at the rest of the world."
"We're a team, right?" I grinned.
He looked around quickly, before ducking down to kiss me. "Obviously."
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If you didn't read Nate's song, please do. It explains a lot about him.
As always, thank you for reading!
Sorry it was kind of late, I've been kinda tied up with watching Supernatural from the very beginning. Can someone say, emotional??
Love you!
XMX