❝I still haven't figured out how to sit across from you, and not be madly in love with everything you do.❞
—William Hannan
I think everyone disagrees with what I'm doing. Especially Reynolds. He asked me why the hell I'm not in New York like Alexander is. He asked me where I am and what I'm doing. He asked me about what happened with Alexander and James (he doesn't want the connection between James and me to fracture). Reynolds has warned me that my sudden public disappearance may have a negative impact on me down the road.
I had a long argument over the phone with him. I told him that I just need some time alone, away from the eyes of the public.
Alexander, as it turns out, got involved in the argument. It took a lot of convincing from Alexander, but Reynolds agreed to let me go for a while. He postponed all the work Alexander and I were going to do. Reynolds also said he'd talk to James about us. I don't know what he means by that, but something tells me I don't want to know.
Anyway, if I gave a shit about what they thought, then I wouldn't be here.
Point is, I'll be here in South Carolina with John for some time. I'm excited, to say the least.
July 7, 2059.
This morning, a package for John came in the mail — something he ordered a while ago. I don't know what I expected to be inside. Beer? Bombs? Something manly? I was both in awe and enamored when I saw it was a massive Lego set.
"I didn't know you like Legos," I chuckled.
"I don't like them that much. My brother does, though," he clicks his tongue. "I just bought this set because it's the Star Wars Death Star, and that's pretty epic to have."
John planned to set it aside and put it together some other time, but I insisted we try to put it together as a team.
I never had a Lego set in my life (surprise, toys weren't abundant in Rabynya, or most of Russia for that matter). So I was eager to put one together.
So here we are, sitting on the living room floor, sipping on Malbec wine and figuring out this Death Star set.
It's harder than it looks. There are so many pieces, and the instructions are anything but easy. But we've got about one-quarter of the way done so far.
John's telling me how he got into Star Wars, which I enjoy hearing.
"My dad was a big fan of all the older movies when he was a kid. He used to tell me stories about how bad he wanted to be a Jedi — how he'd dress up as Obi-Wan Kenobi for Haloween. When my siblin's and I got old enough to understand the movies, our dad would put on the movies over the weekend. We'd all sit on the couch, eatin' popcorn and drinkin' soda. Those are some great memories."
I give John a loving smile. "That's so sweet."
He twirls a grey lego piece in his hand, "My dad would explain the things we didn't understand with such enthusiasm, it made me adore the entire series really young. I still have a bunch of my action figures at my childhood home."
"I didn't know you were such a big fan."
"Well, I didn't know you were a fan at all," John grins.
"I'm a recent fan. My friend, Peggy, made me watch it." I laugh a little. "She assigned our friend group lightsaber colors."
"Oh, is that so?" he chuckles, attaching two Lego pieces meticulously. "What color are you?"
I take a sip from my wine glass. "Red. Apparently, because I'm a powerful baddie."
"That's fuckin' adorable. You? A baddie?"
I place my hand on my hip. "I can be a pretty bad baddie."
"You're 'bout as intimidatin' as a flower."
For another minute or so, John begins searching through the empty box for a missing Lego piece.
"It's not in there," I comment. "We would have seen it."
"We could've missed it."
"It's big and red. How would we miss it?"
"There are four thousand pieces in this box, (Y/N). We could've skimmed over it."
"That's like skimming over an elephant.
While he's doing that, I play with two Lego people, Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. Luke quickly became one of my favorite characters since his name is so similar to "Luka".
I make Luke and Vader smack their tiny lightsabers against one another while creating tiny sound effects.
"Shwum. Shwum. Ha! You'll never get me!"
Vader had never done such awesome flips before.
"Backflip!" I make Vader say.
"Wait!" Luke dramatically cries out. "That was a front flip-"
"I don't care!" Vader snaps back.
And all of it is me.
John stops his searching to watch me with a stupidly-cute smile on his face.
"And you think you're intimidain'," he chortles.
"Hey, I am! I have a red lightsaber, so I must be a bad guy." It feels right to say that out loud.
"Maybe your friend needs to hand you a green lightsaber instead."
I laugh and pull out my phone. "I'm going to find a personality quiz that gives me the color of my lightsaber, and you're going to feel very silly when it says I have a red lightsaber."
"Ah, yes," John scoots closer to me. "The most reputable source of any and all answers: online personality quizzes."
I give him a playful push. "Oh, hush. They're accurate as hell." I find a quiz on Google, and tap it. The quiz pops up, and I read the first question out loud. "Choose your favorite pizza topping."
"Oh, wow, I can tell this is a professional quiz."
I read through the options. "Jalapeno, mushroom, pepperoni, or pineapple."
"Choose pineapple and you'll defini'ely get red."
"I am not choosing that," I chuckle. "I'll take mushroom."
"Alrigh', I can respect that choice."
"Next question: what's your favorite holiday. The options are Thanksgiving, Christmas, Haloween, and Star Wars Day. Huh, I didn't know Star Wars had a day. When is it."
"May fourth. It's, uh, a pun. 'May the fourth be with you'."
I laugh heartily. "Okay, that's perfect."
We go through the rest of the questions, John making his comments as we go. Lo and behold, when we get to the end, the result gives me the answer I want.
"Ha! Red."
"That test is bullshit."
"Feels pretty legit," I wink. "Guess you have to admit I'm pretty intimidating."
"You're still adorable."
"Adorably intimidating?"
John laughs, pulling out his phone. "I'm just gonna order us mushroom pizza."
"Can't admit I'm right?"
"If you call being validated by an online test made by a random person as bein' right, then fine, I ain't gonna admit that."
I scoff and smile. "Maybe I am to other people."
"Not to me, sunshine."
That's good. That's exactly what I wanted from him.
I pop out lip balm from my back pocket. "I'm a lot tougher than you think." I remove the cap and graze the blam over my lips.
"I think you're tough, but I'm not exactly scared of you." He looks up from his phone and at me.
I smile and hold up my lip blam. "Vanilla flavor."
John pulls a smile. "Is that so?"
I click my tongue. "Yup."
Without warning, John leans in and captures my lips with his, the deep kiss setting swarms of butterflies free in my stomach. I'm quite sad when he breaks the kiss a second later.
"Hmm," he licks his lips lewdly. "Yeah, I can taste the vanilla."
♙♟♙♟♙
July 9, 2059.
John has a whole room dedicated to his art, and upon my request, he let me into the room.
I don't know what I expected since I've never seen an art room. Because of my lack of expectations, I was really impressed with what I saw.
The walls are grey with black and brown accents; most of the present furniture (which consists of a desk, a couch, and drawers, are colored in these accents. It's aesthetically calming. Against the far wall is a massive collection of an assortment of paints, inks, pens, brushes, and pencils, all neatly organized. Along the other walls are several paint canvases, some used and some not. Some look fairly new and still wet. And spread throughout the room are canvases on stands.
The present art, even the unfinished pieces, are magnificent. The splendid paintings have splashes of every color: red, green, purple, black, gold. It's like candy to the retina. The images displayed have no theme: flowers, people, scenery, and overall meaningful depictions. I'm drawn to each piece, gazing at them with immense interest.
"Wow... you made all of this?"
John closes the door behind us. "Yeah. Well, except for that." He points to a picture hung on the wall in a beautiful frame. It's far from a professional drawing — it's made in crayon — and appears to be a picture of a cat and dog. "My youngest sister made this and sent it to me."
I place my hand over my chest. "That's so sweet."
I inch towards the closest canvas on a stand, gingerly stroking the edge of the bunny portrait. It looks so real, like it might pop out of the canvas and start hopping around the room.
"I made that 'bout a week ago," John comments, following behind me as I explore the room.
"It looks really good!" I stride over to another canvas, this one being a beautiful flower, half colored in red and purple. "This is so pretty."
John emits a soft laugh. "I started that, but I never finished."
"I can't tell," I smile. "It looks really good." I walk over to the next canvas. It's a beautiful scenery of a lavender field. It's created with an interesting brushing style; short, defined strokes that perfectly mesh into one another. All colors are soft on the eyes, almost dulled to a warming degree.
"I've been tappin' into the impressionist style," John says, noticing my intrigue. "I ain't as good as Pierre-Auguste Renoir or Claude Monet, but I'm gettin' there."
I pretend to know what an "impressionist style" is as I speak. "Pssh, you don't need to be like them. You deserve recognition for what you can do." I turn back to him, tugging the sleeve of the shirt I'm wearing; it happens to be John's shirt, and it's the only thing I'm wearing, but that's beside the point. "What's the most recent thing you've been working on?"
John smiles and leads me to the desk against the wall. Laid upon the desk is a large sketchbook. He flips through it — I catch glimpses of other sketches, all of which look done with amazing skill.
"That's a lot of sketching," I giggle.
"You think?" he laughs. "I have 'bout ten other sketchbooks I filled up in this house. I have a couple back in my childhood home... Ah, here it is."
John stops on a page of the sketchbook, and I lean closer to him to see what the sketch is. I'm quite surprised when I see it.
"A unicorn?"
"Yeah," he drops the sketchbook onto the desk. "It's not for me, though. My youngest sister is goin' through an obsession with princesses and fairies and stuff like that. And since her room is bein' redecorated, she asked me if I could paint her somethin' for the walls. This is just a sketch to get the idea of what I'm goin' to make, then I'll paint it on a canvas."
I place my hand over his. "That's really sweet, John."
"I hope she likes it."
I nearly say something along the lines of Alexander would never do that for me, but then I remember I don't need to pretend that Alexander is my sibling anymore. How peachy.
"So... why are you such a big art fanatic?" I smirk. "What's your big origin story?"
"My origin story?" he chuckles, leaning against the desk.
"Mhm. When did you decide that you were going to be the amazing artist you are?"
He smiles affectionately. "I mean, I don't think there was a certain point where I sat down and decided I'm an artist; and there are other things I think I am other than an artist. Art is more of a hobby."
"Well, you're very good at your hobby."
John smiles wider, gazing back down at the unicorn sketch once more. "When I was younger, my mom would take me and my sister to art museums. My favorite was the Gibbes Museum of Art, with some of the most magnificent pieces I've seen; historic, deep-rooted art. And I was content with lookin' for a while. Then I went to a modern art museum, and I quickly realized that modern art is utterly meanin'less."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. Mindless shapes and colors combined to make somethin' that means nothin'. Not to me, at least. And much of art now is still meanin'less. So I wanted to make my own art — somethin' that I can find meanin' in. Or at least somethin' nice to look at."
"I think you have," I smirk. "I don't think I could ever be so artistically gifted."
John offers me a considerate expression. "I wasn't good immediately. If you look at my oldest sketchbooks, all my work was mediocre at best."
"You're so humble," I scoff.
"I ain't bein' humble. I'm bein' truthful. My old art was shit. But I got good eventually. Just took a whole shit ton of practice. I'd draw in the back of the class durin' school. Especially durin' my English class."
"That must have been great; to see your growth from beginner to master."
"I wouldn't say I'm a master," John humbly chuckles. "But yeah, it felt satisfyin' to see my improvement. Kind of wish I could go through the process again."
I walk over to a wall where, upon it, a painting of a peacock hangs, the vibrant blue and green colors catching my attention. It temporarily reminds me of Alexander; when we first moved into our apartment in Manhattan, I decorated his room with a peacock picture because I thought it matched his personality.
I probably shouldn't be thinking about Alexander. I really shouldn't be.
"This is really pretty," I softly say.
John strides next to me. "You really think so?"
I offer him a kind smile. "Definitely. Everything in is really good. I'm so glad you've taken time to hone your craft and do what you enjoy."
John gives a shy grin, leaning against the wall. "I, uh... I don't really show anyone my art. I feel like it's nothin' important — not worth sharin' or seein'. Or I'd just think my art is just objectively bad. It's... It's nice to know you like my art. I really value your opinion, (Y/N)."
My heart skips a beat to hear this. I don't think he should doubt his ability or skills, but I know it takes a lot more than a single person's reassurance to build confidence. Nevertheless, to know he holds what I think to a higher value... It touches me.
To play off my emotions more lightly, I lean over and give him a light punch on the shoulder.
"Guess I'm a professional art critic now, huh?" I joke. "I rate this presentation a nine out of ten stars."
"Well, shit," John laughs. "I just missed the perfect score."
"Yup," I wink. "I've noticed a couple of empty canvases. Fill them up and I'll give you that final star."
John pulls a smirk. "Oh, is that so?"
I lean closer, batting my lashes. "Mhm."
"Any suggestions of what to fill them with?"
I giggle. "Well, if I remember correctly, I did agree to model for you, John Laurens."
"Oh, I definitely remember that."
"And I believe there was a certain scene from a certain movie that we intended to mimic... Titanic, I believe."
John flashes a dubious leer. "If you're insinuatin' what I think you are..."
"I am."
We did a lot more than talk about art. We made art.
♙♟♙♟♙
"Why did it take you so long to say something, John?"
"I don't know," he whispers. "There were so many times I wanted to make a move."
"And you never did."
"Well, neither did you."
"Hey!" I giggle. "I was hoping you would."
"I admit that I should've." John nods. "I never fell so hard for anyone else as I did with you. I should've known that was a sign."
I flush just thinking of John's unfaltering love. I don't deserve it, and yet, I have it. "I can't believe I was the one who had to make the first move."
"You did not," John huffs.
"Yes, I did!" I declare. "I gave you my number, remember?"
John opens his mouth to respond wittily, but he can't debunk facts. "Alrigh', I guess you did make the first move... And you were smooth as hell."
"And you somehow didn't get the hint that I was interested in you."
"Hey," John chuckles, "men are very dumb when it comes to this stuff."
"Damn right," I laugh. "But to be fair, plenty of your subtle flirts flew over my head. Like... calling me gorgeous, or trying to move in for a kiss. And you stood up for me more times than I can count."
"I don't like seein' you get pushed 'round."
I hum in delight as John's hand begins to wander across my bare body. "There was a point when you had eyes for someone else," I accuse.
"I don't remember-"
"Hmm, what was this girl's name? Oh, Susannah Hopkins."
John's hand pauses. "Oh, her."
"Her," I huff.
"The only reason I ever felt interested was that I was sure she was interested in me. It doesn't matter. I blocked her out from my memory."
I don't plan to interrogate him or hold that over his head, because John already proved that he'd choose me over her in a heartbeat. And besides, she's dead.
"Do you know what happened to her?" I ask, figuring John would know the answer.
Lo and behold, he does. "Yes, I know." While he answers, his fingers continue to skim across my skin.
"What happened?"
"It's probably best if you don't know."
I bite my lip and nod; I assume that there was a blatant cover-up of her death to prevent internal tensions — I want to drop the conversation at that.
"Y'know, one of my friends totally ships us."
John smirks. "Oh really?"
"I'd ask her for advice about you," I admit. "How to talk to you... how to make you like me."
"So it's not just a stereotype that girls constan'ly talk about guys?"
"Hey, we hardly talk about guys! We only talk about guys we like. Why? What do guys talk about?"
"Not girls, that's for sure."
"Whatever," I mumble. "I'm just saying that my friend thinks we would be cute together."
"And we are."
"We definitely are," I nod. "I'm really hopeful to see where this goes."
"Me too," John whispers into my ear, his presence hovers over me. "I know you're the one, (Y/N). I've never been more sure of anythin'."
My lips part to suck in a sweet breath when John presses an opened-mouth kiss upon a particularly sensitive spot on my neck. As John kisses down my form at his leisurely pace, I run my hand through his hair, tugging gently and savoring the euphoric sensation prickling throughout my body, quivering and quaking in anticipation.
♙♟♙♟♙
There are days where I'm really low. Days where all my burdens come crashing down on me. Memories I try to block out for my own sanity. But iron doors can be worn down. And there's nothing I can do when those thoughts come barging in but take the beating, letting my psyche be fucked with until they've had enough of me.
Tonight is one of those days.
July 11, 2059.
It's late at night. The world is silent outside, but loud in my mind. I couldn't sleep, even with the comfort of John next to me. So I slipped out of bed and paced around the house, trying to clear my head and fight the thoughts invading my fragile mind.
I'm losing the fight.
Is it possible to hate everything about yourself? I'm beginning to think so. Was any of this worth it? Is the situation I found myself in — with the public's perception, with John, with Alexander — worth my end goal?
I keep telling myself that the pain and guilt will fade away when I see the war end — when I end the war on my terms. But at this point, I'm not only questioning the terms by which I want them to end but whether or not I'm going to end it or not.
Things are only getting more and more complicated. I don't know which angle to attack my goal. Each path becomes more convoluted the longer I look at it. There might as well be no path.
I needed to distract myself, so I picked up my phone and looked through the news. It only worsened my anxieties.
That movie being made about me and Alexander? Yeah, auditioning has been going on for the past few weeks for other roles, and most roles are filled. However, two roles (those for Alexander and me) weren't filled until today. Turns out (and this is fucking rich), James will be playing Alexander, and Eliza will be playing me.
That's utter fucking bullshit. There's no way in hell that wasn't planned by someone. And it's clear as hell as to why: what better way to make a movie blow up with fame than have the most famous actor and famous actress co-star one another. I would rather not be involved in the filming of the movie and only make an appearance at the (no doubt explosive) premier. But knowing Reynolds, he's going to make sure I have some part in the production.
You'd think that would be the end of the news, but there's more. Alexander has been getting very friendly with key politicians. People are going wild about it on social media in particular. Pictures of Alexander hanging out with these politicians are circling around, with people making speculations as to why the hell Alexander is getting all buddy-buddy with them.
I was wondering what Alexander would be doing on his own. Lo and behold, he's been making massive strides in the political realm. Of course...
I look through these pictures with a heavy heart. Alexander has been spending quite some time with Maximilian Lakes, as well as the famous duo of James Madison and Thomas Jefferson. I'm unsurprised, however, to see that Alexander has also been speaking to Philip Schuyler. No doubt Eliza had some part in their interaction.
People are questioning Alexander's intentions; why would he affiliate with members of both political parties. They aren't trying to turn him into a political pundit or mouthpiece, are they? Frankly, I'm more curious about why he decided to go to Washington DC instead of New York, and I wonder how long he'll be there.
Is Alexander doing okay? Is he fine? God, I doubt he is. And it's my fault. But he's pushing on because he has to.
I should talk to him. But I'm scared to. Some part of me thinks I don't deserve to talk to him. I'll just hurt him even more, and that's the last thing I want to do.
What should I do? Hell, if I knew what to do, I wouldn't be in this situation.
God, I'm going to go insane if I keep torturing myself with these thoughts. It's not worth it. I'll figure this all out in time. When I leave here — when I go back to New York, which is inevitable — I'll make a game plan. Alexander will help me... He will, won't he?
As for now, I should try to sleep. The sun will be rising in a couple of hours,
I found myself pacing around the living room, but now it's time to go back into the bedroom. But as I turn around, I see John emerge into the room. I jump back, my hand over my heart.
"Shit," I gasp. "You scared me."
"Sorry," John says sleepily. "I, uh... I noticed you were up."
"Oh, yeah," I rub my arm. "I was just... I just couldn't sleep. Too busy thinking of things."
"Ah," John nods, striding closer to me. "Are you okay?"
I nonchalantly run my hand through my hair. "Mhm. I'm good."
Feeling a little awkward, I sit down on the couch, my legs crossed and arms pressed to my chest. Silence lingers in the air, and I watch from the corner of my eye as John casually strides around the couch. He sits next to me and clears his throat.
"What were you thinkin' 'bout?"
I figured he'd ask that. I open my mouth to respond, but I emit a soft and sad chuckle instead.
"God, this is why I love you," I whisper, turning my head to John, lifting my hand to his cheek.
John is confused. "What?"
"Believe it or not, it's really rare for people to ask me how I feel." I lower my gaze. "It feels really nice to know you care."
John scoots closer, holding my hand with his. "'Course I care 'bout you," he breathes. "I care a lot, (Y/N)."
I blush a little, my mind a little at ease with this in mind. Still, I need to answer what I was thinking about. What to say? The truth is confusing, but a lie is straightforward. Lying is so much easier on the mind.
"I was just... thinking about what is demanded of me."
John gives my hand a squeeze. "And what is that?"
I sigh slowly, bringing my eyes back up to his. "I mean... it sucks but, eventually, I'll have to go back to New York."
John takes this in, then nods. "Yeah, you will."
"And when I do go back, I'll have to start associating with the same people I've been associating with before."
John nods again. "Okay."
I force a sad smile. "And with that comes the expectation that I put on a show."
John and I have already discussed the whole "James situation". He had to ask about it when he saw the video of James and Alexander going at it. John was already aware that I was affiliated with him, but I assured him it was merely an act for prestige. And yet, here I am, bringing it up again.
"A show," John repeats my words.
"I'll still have to interact with James. Probably a lot more now than before." John seems to understand, but he waits for me to elaborate nonetheless. "No doubt, the media being the shit storm it is, there's going to be a lot of speculation about what is going on between James and me. There's also going to be a lot of pressure for there to be 'something' between us."
John looks down. "Yeah, I figured that much as well."
"I don't know what I'm going to do," I admit. "I know I want nothing to do with him — he gives me bad vibes. But it isn't as easy as that. It's a difficult process with several ramifications and consequences, especially right now, and I-"
"Hey," John quickly interrupts me. "I don't want you to worry 'bout that."
I blink, then shake my head. "I can't help it. It's probably going to hurt like hell to see bullshit rumors about me and some pompous asshole 'getting close' when all we do is attend a business meeting or some shit like that. And... And what if you believe the things people will say? Then you're going to doubt me, and then I'll lose you, and then-"
"I trust you, (Y/N)," John interrupts me again. "I'm not worried 'bout that because I know you'll do the right thing. People have already said a lot of shit 'bout you, but I never bought any of it because I know the real you. And the (Y/N) I know is loyal."
Yeah, she's loyal, alright. Loyal enough to lie. But I don't dare say this. Instead, I try to suppress my concerns, hiding it behind a grateful smile.
"I just want you to know that... you have my whole heart, John," I say softly, batting my lashes. "Even if we're apart."
A smile tugs at John's lips before he stands up, pulling me up to my feet as well. We stand there for a moment, pressed against the other in a blissful moment of delight.
Then, perhaps from mutual urge, we slow dance to the pretend music in our head, spinning in circles as our hearts beat in sync. Until we eventually fell asleep on the couch.