˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

joost understands what it’s like to grieve; to have your whole world view ripped out from right underneath your feet. he’s spent almost half of his life trying to live with it — the cold, dead weight that sits heavy on his chest. fourteen years spent struggling to cope, to breathe, when everyday he chokes on the grief that clings to him. it’s something he wouldn’t wish upon the worst of the worst because truly, no one deserves to feel like this, like he always does. 

so when it happens to you, he doesn’t really know what to do.

he knew that your father was sick, and that he had been for quite some time. by your third date you had shared with him all of the gruesome truths of your childhood. like his own, it was lonely. like him, you also couldn’t accept the loss of a parent. except for you, your mother had chosen to leave you behind; she was alive and well, she just didn’t want you. no matter how much it hurt, you were always okay, though. since you were six, you’d grown to be ‘fine’ with it because you still always had your dad, after all. the man was your best friend. you didn’t need anyone else.

so joost already knew as well that you’d be reluctant to move in with him for no other reason other than your father. when he first fell ill, you sacrificed almost everything for him. years of your life were spent stuck inside different hospital rooms, holding onto his hand each time he had to hear that yet another new drug hadn’t worked for him. you were still willing to spend the rest of your life by his side; if it wasn’t for joost, you certainly would have. 

and then when your lives had turned upside down overnight, joost knew that it was taking a toll on you, too. by the time that the last of your things had made it to his home in amsterdam, you had to leave again for sweden. the both of you found yourselves swept up in the whirlwind that was eurovision and with it, the rest of the world began to slip away. for the first time in your life you went a day, then a week, and then two, without speaking to your father. the guilt of it weighed you down, but you hid behind a brave face that no one else but joost had the eyes to see through.

it meant that it just made sense to send you home, at least for a little while.

except you still insisted on coming with him to canada though, didn’t you? despite how he tried not to let it show around you, his disqualification crushed him, and suddenly the idea of getting back on stage made him feel heavy, almost nauseous. whether he could admit it or not, joost needed you too. staying meant pushing back your trip home by a couple days but you didn’t hesitate to do so; you couldn’t just leave him. not like that, not now.

when he struggled to sleep the night before his show, you stayed up with him until he drifted off on his own. when he tried to drink himself stupid during soundcheck, you cut him off before he could take it too far. and when his hands began to shake just moments before having to run on stage, you held them steady as you helped him breathe through his nerves. you were there for him in the same way that he’s always been there for you, whenever you needed him to be. 

and you had still been there with him backstage, the small group you were with still riding high on the post-show adrenaline. you listened to them make plans of going clubbing and watched as pre-drinks started to fly around the room, already knowing that you wouldn’t be joining them. your flight was early the next morning and the idea of going through airport security hungover was enough to deter you from celebrating too. 

no one had questioned you on your decision, either. your friends didn’t know much, only that you had something going on back home, so they gave you no trouble at all. but whilst they offered you soft smiles and a few different versions of “but you’re definitely coming with us next time!”, joost’s gentle grip on your thigh only tightened. every so often he’d glance your way, occasionally mouthing a silent “you ok?” and only relaxing again once you reassured him with a nod that you were.

he never liked it when you were quiet like that. he knew you well enough to know that it meant you were stuck inside your own head, overthinking too much. it worried him, made him wonder if going out later without you was a good idea or not. when your phone began to ring, he almost went to step out of the room with you, and only stopped himself when aspon lured him back into their conversation with a shot or two of don julio. 

as far as distractions went, it was a good one. despite his worry, joost still found himself wrapped up in one of stunt’s many elaborate stories. it led to a third round of badly poured shots, turning the small, wooden coffee table sticky with the white liquor. for just a second, he began to feel at ease again, and then with a half-burnt cigarette in his hand he reached in for another drink.

he only froze once he heard you screaming from the hallway. it was almost nauseating just how quickly the rest of the room fell silent with him. 

joost called out for you, his voice unsteady and desperate, though he waited not even a full second for an answer before he rushed to the door. a few of the others also jumped to their feet, appie and stuntje being only a few steps behind him as they ordered the rest to stay back, just in case.

it didn’t take them very long to find you collapsed on your knees with your arms wrapped around yourself, your whole body convulsing from just how hard you were crying. somewhere beside you on the ground laid your phone with your aunt still on the line, muttering pointless words of comfort in a language only you could understand. there wasn’t a single thing that she could have said to make it all better again, to make it all go away — your father had passed only a few hours ago, alone.

another scream clawed its way out of you, leaving your throat all scratched up and sore. you couldn’t do it; you couldn’t go the rest of your life feeling like this even though you already knew that you would. there would be no recovering from it, no ‘healing’. already there were parts of you starting to decay as you struggled to breathe through your cries; parts of you that you would surely have to learn to mourn as well. 

“baby? fuck, hey, talk to me. what happened?”

his question was a wasted one, because joost already knew the answer to it, didn’t he? there was only ever one reason for someone to cry like that, as though they were being torn apart from the inside out;  he knew that better than anyone. he still found himself asking it, though, because he just didn’t know what else to say. 

he had to settle for holding your face in his hands as he crouched down in front of you, waiting for your reply, and he got to work wiping away each of your tears even though his own were threatening to fall. “hey, honey, look at me. what’s going on?”

“he’s…he’s gone, joost. i…”  your words trailed off, the lump in your throat becoming too much to try and talk through. you had finally met joost’s eyes, and the way he was looking back at you had your heart pounding from inside your chest. he was terrified; you could feel it in the shaking of his hands as he cradled your face. “i don’t…i can’t, he’s-”

“-sh, sh, sh, it’s okay. just breathe for me, liefje.”

in broken movements you crawled into his arms, the tips of your fingers clutching onto the shoulders of joost’s jacket. he moved along with you, sitting with you on the floor as he helped you onto his lap and let your legs wrap around his middle. it was like that, that the two of you stayed for a minute, warm hands tracing circles onto your back as you wept into the crook of his neck. 

you thought you had one more day. you were supposed to have one more day. you weren’t naive, you knew that your father didn’t have much time left with how much pain he was in, but that didn’t mean he was meant to go so soon. every text, every phone call, came with the same promise that he was alright and just missing you; that he couldn’t wait to see you again. and just like him, every time, you would promise that you’d visit as soon as you could. 

the idea of that, of your dad alone and waiting for you, oblivious to the fact that you would never show, was what truly devastated you. after everything that man did for you, gave up for you — you still left him. you would never forgive yourself for it; already you knew it would be a burden you’d have to carry for as long as you were to keep breathing. no matter how much it hurt, you deserved it. all the grief, the ache; the agony of knowing you have to live the rest of your life now, without him. 

you had no one but yourself to blame. 

it only made you cry harder, somehow, and joost finally found himself giving in. tears of his own began to fall as he held you to his chest that much tighter, his forehead resting on the top of your head. he didn’t know what else to do, if there was anything else he could do. seeing you like this, so irrevocably heartsick, without the power to help was the closest to hell that he had ever been. for the first time in fourteen years, joost found himself praying to any god listening that they would save you from this, even if it meant he would have to carry your pain on his own back. 

he could only carry you back to your hotel instead.

you couldn't remember much from the night before, only the feeling of being suffocated by your own skin; everything too much but then not enough, and no matter what you did, it just wouldn’t stop. you remembered that look on joost’s face when he’d first found you, and how his hands had trembled as they’d held your face so delicately. 

but other parts of the night remained completely blank for you, didn’t they? like how you couldn’t quite recall why your arms were suddenly so decorated with soft spots of black and blue. the bruises dark and sore, and shaped like fingerprints that had been printed carefully into the skin of your forearms. 

if you’d had the strength to speak, you would have asked about them. if you’d had the energy to care, then there were actually a dozen different questions that you needed answering. ones that you knew joost would know the answer to, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to talk, no matter what you did or how hard you tried. you doubted whether or not you’d be able to do much else other than sink deeper into the mattress, the weight of your father’s absence more than enough to leave you paralysed. 

with your back to him, you had been ignorant to the way that joost was watching you from his side of the bed. unlike you, he was still yet to fall asleep and had long ago given up on doing so, because unlike you, he could remember everything from last night. From the moment you passed out, leaving him stuck and alone inside his own head, every second of it played on repeat each time that he closed his eyes. 

getting you back to the hotel had been easy. stuntje had taken the hint and booked the two of you an uber, whilst appie broke the news that he wouldn’t be clubbing with the rest of them either. you hadn’t moved from your place in his arms, your legs still locked around his waist and your face buried into his neck. he hadn’t minded — joost would’ve carried you to the moon and back if only you’d asked him to. 

but he had been stupid, though. painfully, naively, and unbelievably, he’d taken your silence as exhaustion; that you were just in shock and had merely worn yourself out. it was why he thought he could leave you alone for just a minute, excusing himself to go refill your water bottle in the bathroom. he’d only disappeared for a moment, if that, and had left you sitting on the edge of the bed closest to where he was, where he thought you’d be okay.

“no, no, no, hey! baby, stop!”

you were still there having not moved an inch, but were now sat with two thin clumps of hair in your lap as you continued to pull out strand after strand. the first time had truly been an accident; you were crying again and went to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear with a little too much force than necessary. but it had caught you off guard, the way that the quick, sharp, pinch you’d felt somehow made you feel a little better. it had provided you with such a fleeting moment of relief that once you’d started, you had found it too hard to stop.

for all you knew, you had been sitting there for hours and you could have kept on going for at least a few more. you hadn’t heard joost call out to you, pleading for you to stop hurting yourself. it had been a strange trance to be in, one that you had just never found yourself stuck in before, but you were in the rhythm of it all nonetheless. even as the shame had begun to sink in, a small part of you already knowing that you’d regret it by morning, you hadn’t stopped. you hadn’t wanted to. your scalp stung and your fingertips ached but you liked it. 

you hadn’t snapped out of it until joost had taken hold of your arms, keeping them secure in a tight grip. 

“hey!”  you did your best to fight against him, twisting and turning your arms in ways that hurt just to try and get him off you. “honey, stop! stop!”  

there was a bitter irony in how his attempts to stop you from harming yourself had only made him the new cause of your pain. as he’d fought with you, begged with you, he had hoped that by the end of it, you would understand how he couldn’t have just stood by and watched. he could live with you hating him for it, if he had to, if it meant that you would be safe. 

“get the fuck off me! you don’t get it!”

for just a moment his grip on you had softened. he gazed down at you with furrowed eyebrows, the sudden change in his demeanour forcing you to meet such worried eyes. 

“i do, schat — you know i do.”

it made him feel uneasy, the way you had frozen up at his words. although reluctant to do so, he let you go, but still kept his fingers laced through yours and gave both your hands a gentle squeeze. the action had made you blink, sending another round tears streaming down your face. he could almost see the cogs turning in your head, the sudden, brutal realisation of just how wrong you had been. if anyone could understand what you were feeling, it was him.

you should have known better.

“i’m sorry…i’m so, so, sorry -”

“- shh, it’s okay, you’re alright.”

just as quickly as they had fallen, your tears seemed to vanish. with gentle swipes, joost had wiped them away, letting his hands linger on the sides of your face. everything had just hurt for you then, and he could see it. he saw you grimace at the migraine that was brewing inside your head, felt the way you leaned into his touch as though you needed him to hold your head up for you.

so it really hadn’t taken much to convince you that you needed to at least try and get some rest.

you’d crashed as soon as your head had hit the pillows, leaving joost to get you all ready for bed after you had already fallen asleep. it was a routine he was more than familiar with, having done it several times before on the nights where you had gotten a little too cocky, convinced that you’d be able to keep up with him, and consequently then gotten a little too drunk. it kept his mind busy and away from everything else — allowed him to focus on getting each and every last bit of mascara off your eyelashes instead of the half a dozen bruises that were starting to darken on your arms. 

four hours had passed just like that, with joost watching over you — how you tossed and turned instead of getting any sleep himself. he’d tried to, of course, having spent the first hour or two underneath the covers with you, with an arm curled around your waist and legs tangled up with your own. but as he’d drifted off, he was reminded all over again that he still had wounds that time was yet to heal. joost wasn’t a stranger to nightmares, but that never made them any easier. 

it just wasn’t worth it in his eyes. he could survive forgoing a couple hours of sleep if it meant not having to relive the very worst days of his life. he needed to have a clear head, he couldn’t let himself get stuck on his own problems when he had you to take care of. 

even with your back to him, he could tell that you weren’t asleep anymore; it was the ever so slightly faster rise and fall of your chest that gave you away. your left ankle had also stopped twitching, which was something he knew only ever happened when you slept. though the closer that joost had looked, the more he took notice of how it wasn’t only your breathing that had changed, but your shoulders were beginning to shake as well. 

instead of saying anything, he simply wrapped his arms around you again, pulling you from the edge of bed closer to his chest. in the process you rolled over, surrendering to his hold and letting him engulf you completely as you found yourself smooshed up against his front. his heartbeat was steady despite his worry, unlike yours that painfully thumped against your ribcage the harder that you wept. 

it was a horrible feeling, knowing that your father wasn’t out there somewhere, basking in the warm, european, sun and wanting nothing more than to rub it in your face as you suffered the harsh, canadian cold. you had been relatively okay since you woke up, more numb than anything, until you’d heard the rain that pelted against the room’s large windows. on a day like today, the first thing you would have done was call your dad, ready to hear him boast about how nice it was back home, how he had already planned your next day out together for whenever it was that you were coming back home to visit again. except now you couldn’t, and the thought had hit you a lot harder than you were ready for. 

“shh, it’s okay, schatje. I've got you.” you’d felt a hand get lost in your hair, gently scratching the back of your head as another dipped underneath your shirt to stroke the soft skin of your spine.“you’re okay, baby. Just…just focus on me, ja? i’m right here.” 

except it just wasn’t fair, was it? that joost had-had to hold you in his arms like that, just to keep you from falling apart on him that day.

you were never meant to know hurt like it. he’d made a promise, to both you and himself, that he would keep you safe from grief; protect you from it. it hadn’t mattered to him that it was terribly idealistic; an impossible promise to keep and therefore a silly one to make in the first place. he still tried. without hesitation, joost would have killed himself twice over if it would have guaranteed you to never  go through what he did. 

yet here you are, almost two weeks later, scrambling for breath as you sob into his chest. he settles for helping you calm down in the only way that he knows how to, but unable to shake the feeling that he still isn’t doing enough. even now, as he helps you to sit up and wipes away the long, dark, streaks of mascara that stain your face, he feels useless. the thought was selfish, he knows that and he hates it, but it still lingers in the back of his mind. 

as joost carefully stands and starts to move around your old bedroom, you watch him quietly, with your hands shaking in your lap. your little black shoulder bag hangs over his shoulder haphazardly as he races to grab anything and everything that you might need; he doesn’t stop to untangle its thin strap from where it had gotten all caught up in his tie. packets of tissues, lip glosses, multiple pairs of earphones, sunglasses, tampons, — all of it he tosses inside your bag. not that you’d be carrying it, of course, that was going to be one of his many self-assigned jobs for the day. 

you blink, and suddenly he’s crouched down in front of you with his hands out, waiting for you to take a bottle of water and what was barely a decent breakfast from him. for a moment, you wonder where he’d found it, the small, unbranded, granola bar looking more and more unfamiliar to you the longer that you look at it. 

“for you, schat. you need to eat something.”

you consider being honest with him, tempted to admit that the thought of ingesting anything has you fighting the urge to gag. but the longer that you stare back at him, seeing nothing but pure adoration in his gaze, you feel all the worry that’s been sitting like a stone in the pit of your stomach slowly become obsolete. all of the trouble that he’s been going to for you without any hesitation or complaint, holding you every time you cry, and helping you catch your breath when it all gets too much, too real. it’s the least that you can do for him in return, eating a fucking energy bar. 

“okay…but we’re getting you something to eat before we leave too.”

you speak with a mouth full of granola, the half chewed oats and raisins masking the sound of your voice cracking. it feels as though your throat is burning, the more you talk, and no amount of breakfast food can hide the way you wince at the pain. you don’t want to think about how if your father had seen it, he wouldn’t have thought twice about offering you one of the many cough sweets he always managed to carry in his wallet. 

“that’s a fair trade i think, ja.”

as he squeezes your knee, joost pretends to think over your proposed deal with a lot of theatrics. at heart he’s naturally dramatic, but you’ve known him for long enough to know that the added flare is mostly for your own benefit. like you, he too was putting on a brave face; you can see it clear as day in those big blue eyes of his. 

it makes your smile falter a little bit, seeing his own twitch ever so slightly at the corners. even as he gets up again to gather the last of your things, grabbing the leather jacket that you already had laid out for yourself, you study the way his own hands seem to shake as he moves. not once have you stopped to consider the collateral damage in all of this.

“i’m sorry.”

joost freezes in his tracks. of all things he’s been expecting to hear you say today, an apology has never been one of them.

“for what?”

“this. literally all of this, joost. all i’ve done for the past week is just cry a-and talk about my dad without even thinking what this must be like for you.”  as you speak in a low voice, your lip begins to wobble and each word seems to fight back against being spoken. “i mean, you’ve put your entire life on hold for me and for what? just so you can spend all day, everyday, trying to get me to stop crying? that’s not…that’s not fair.”

that one, singular, word is enough to make joost’s head spin, because you truly have no idea just how unfair all this is, do you? 

he wishes he knew how to explain it. he longs to find the right words to help you understand that yeah, he doesn’t think any of this is at all fair either. since the moment he’d first heard of your father’s condition, he’s feared the day that he would inevitably learn that seeing the people you love hurt, was infinitely worse than feeling the hurt yourself. 

“honey, i need you to hear me when i say this.” as he stops in front of you, leaving your jacket to lay beside you, he hunches over just enough to catch your gaze and takes your hands in his. “there is not one thing that i wouldn’t do for you, okay? you are what matters the most to me. you know that right?”

you want to say yes. you want to say that at no point in your relationship have you ever questioned what you mean to him, because really there wasn’t a single thing that joost has ever done to make you doubt it. and it’s not his fault that you’re hesitating, that you’re unable to lie but are too scared to tell him the truth. it’s just you, as it often is. you and your silly little brain that causes more problems than it has ever solved. 

“i do.”  — liar.

he shakes his head; it’s a soft contrast to the small smile that he wears. “no you don’t.”

it’s automatic the way that you quickly find yourself apologising to him again, despite how his eyebrows furrow from behind his glasses, and carve little creases into his forehead. maybe there’s a part of you that hopes that if you just keep on saying you’re sorry, it’ll ease some of the guilt that you’ve been carrying on your shoulders. the guilt that only ever seems to multiply each time that he so much as even looks at you, because it’s never just a ‘look’ anymore, is it?

it’s pain, and it’s worry, and it’s enough to convince you that it’ll all be too much for him sooner or later. that the day will come where joost realises that this just isn’t his burden to bear anymore, and just like that, he’ll go. 

as the hearse outside beckons you to hurry up, he raises your knuckles to his lips, and kisses. “i love you — whether you can believe it or not. you have my heart, schatje. always.”

“joost…”  the way that your voice carries his name makes it sound more like a beg than anything else, but it still carries the weight that you needed it to. “i don’t know if i can do this. i…” 

“sh sh sh, hey, cmon, look at me.”  it’s not until you do that he leans forward and cups either side of your jaw in his palms, leaving your hands to fall and rest gently in your lap. “you’ve already done the hard part, okay? today is just one last thing to get through, and you will because you’re strong enough to have gotten through everything else.”

“i don’t want to say goodbye to him, joost.”

he doesn’t hesitate, though the slight wobble of his lip betrays the soft strength of his words. “you don’t have to. it doesn’t have to be an end if you don’t want it to be. we can go to say hi instead if that feels better, or you don’t have to say anything at all. he’ll still be there with you either way.”

you’re not given the grace of letting the fresh tears fall before the car-horn of the hearse beeps again, and you’re flinching at the sharp, sudden sound of it. you can’t hold back the bile that then hits the back of your throat either, because you almost choke on it. 

“let’s a take a breath, ja? follow me.” 

you really were such a marvel, weren’t you? a force to truly be reckoned with.

as sweat had started to cling to his skin, turning the palms of his hands clammy, and as the ends of his hair stuck themselves to the nape of his neck, joost had found himself stuck. not even the end of the world could have moved him from his spot amongst the crowd. in a single breath, almost, you had him hooked, didn't you? obsessed with you.

though honestly, it shouldn't have taken them so long to realise. the clues had all been there, right underneath their noses – stuntje, bram, teun, lyon. how they’d each had to queue to get in and then pay in cash on the door, despite it only, at least seeming to be a regular, old run-of-the-mill bar on the city outskirts. how it was wall-to-wall heaving with people all clad in heavy, dark leather and silver chains, leaving them with hardly enough room to stand on their own.

but the countless shots of tequila from the last three bars had still coursed heavily through their veins, clouding their judgements and skewing their eyesights. none of them had taken any notice of all the posters stuck up around the room, but even if they had, they wouldn't have thought to google translate them. priority one had been figuring out who’s round it was then, and priority two was trying to spot a bottle of don julio behind the bar. 

it took the sudden, deafening strum of an electric guitar to make them all jump enough to spill a few drops of their drinks. as lyon had glanced up from his phone, already in search of the next bar to crawl to, joost was turning on his heel to follow the sound across the room, around a corner, leaving the rest of them to all trail behind him. seeing the make-shift stage set up right against the far back wall; all the mic stands, guitar peddles, and miscellaneous cables that drowned it — the penny had finally dropped. 

aimlessly, they had wandered into your show without even realising it. an exclusive, ‘one night only’  intimate show in one of the last few countries in europe that your band hadn’t played in yet. and bram had been the first one to say it – a little in awe but also ever so slightly, harmlessly mocking the situation, asking if they’d all somehow stumbled into a ‘my chemical romance concert circa 2006’. it was only because of that, that joost had taken another sip of his double-tequila, eager to settle the disappoint in his chest as he readied himself to leave after only the first song or two. the whole ‘goth’ thing wasn't exactly to everyone’s tastes; joost had already accepted that he was bound to be outnumbered in wanting to stay.

except then, you had sauntered on stage, hadn’t you? with your band-mates all following in tow. you, in all of your delicate, black lace; your sweet, saccharine smile, and a voice so heavenly that he could only stand there and watch you sing with parted lips, hypnotised. by the third song in he was already looking you up on every platform that he could think of. on instagram, some part of him stopped working properly when he’d seen that ‘follow back’ button staring right back at him.

it had flustered him terribly. had him clicking on it and following you back without any hesitation or regard of the potential ramifications. as stuntje had begun to tease, yelling something about ‘goth mommies’ right into his ear, he’d only shaken his head and tried to swat him away, unable to hide the soft rosiness of his cheeks. 

so the end of your show had come as quite a relief, actually. it gave him the chance to eventually step outside for a moment, to shake all the sweat from his hair with the tips of his fingers and take a heavy, big deep breath in. as the others all lost themselves in the debate of ‘bar number five vs mcdonald’s’, joost was busy chain-smoking through his pack of cigarettes and trying to brainstorm different ways he could possibly collaborate with you somehow.

maybe he could teach you how to rap or something; maybe you could be the one to finally teach him how to sing.

because he just couldn’t get you out of his head. over the sound of a dozen other conversations all happening around him, he could still hear the sound of your voice in his ears, see the sight of you glowing on stage every time that he so much as blinked. 

“oh shit, wait, isn’t that…?”  he ignored the slight nudge to his ribs, his head still down, gaze still fixed on his shoes. “fuck, okay, she’s coming right for you, man. wake up.”

and you were, weren’t you? making a straight fucking beeline for him, with the brightest fucking grin tugging at your lips. 

the dark blouse and long, awkward skirt that you’d been wearing on stage still cling to your skin, blowing in the wind that would have sent a chill straight down your spine if it wasn’t for the heavy coat that you now wear. your shoulders carry most of the weight of the denim that almost swallows you whole, threatening to fall down past your hands and hanging around your ankles. though somehow in spite of the weather, you still radiate warmth.

and it throws joost right off his axis. not at your lips or around your eyes, there’s not a single smudge of anything anywhere. there’s no pinkness to your face, or droplets of sweat settling along your hairline. it’s all too good to be true — you’re standing right in front of him now, close enough for him to see the faint smile lines that frame your mouth, and it’s just perfect. 

“of all people i thought i’d see here, you really weren’t one of them.”  he only manages a nervous, half-smile before you’re continuing with an inked hand splayed out across your heart. “i have to admit that it’s been a while, but i used to watch you on youtube all the time; do you still go by unicorn-joost?” 

his friends all cough simultaneously, their shoulders jolting, each and every one of them failing at trying to hide their sudden cackles. they’re a little too amused by the simple, almost innocent translation of his old social media name, laughing in a way that has no malice behind it at all, but holds just enough of something that joost refuses to entertain it. he can tell that you’re trying — hear how there’s a rich softness to your accent that’s indicative of some place else. english isn’t your first language either; to join in would feel almost cruel to him.

he only smiles at you sweetly as he shakes his head, endeared by just how equally giddy you seem to be. “just joost now… i’ve grown up.”

and your voice wavers just enough for him to hear it when you finally return the favour and introduce yourself, speaking your name and giggling when he tries to repeat it back to you in your accent.

“did you enjoy the show, joost?”  

you really don’t expect him to say ‘yes!’ as feverishly as he does. 

maybe it’s not fair of you to judge him or any of his friends as so, but it feels too safe to have assumed that none of them were exactly your intended demographic. they stick out like sore thumbs amongst the rest of your fans; the only ones adorning any sort of colour in their outfits, one of which in a minecraft t-shirt, and a severe lack of any type of leather. you can see it on their faces, feel it in their body language, that they’re just not used to being around so many people that all look like you. it’s cute.

but it means that you’re left speechless when joost veers away from the script that you’d had ready in your head. you were prepared for a cordial ‘yeah, it wasn’t bad!’ and nothing more; something a little obvious in its lack of sincerity. you’re not quite sure what to do with it when he just starts rambling instead, apologising for not having heard of you before, but promising that it was one of the best performances that he’s ever seen. how his friends are all nodding behind him whilst he’s waving his hands around, taking drags of his cigarette in between breaths, calling you captivating and ‘unlike anything that he’s ever seen’. 

a blush of your own starts to creep it’s way up the back of your neck as you finally find the right words to say, clutching onto your own hands just to stop them from shaking. “thank you, you don’t…you have no idea how much that means to me, wow.”

“how do you do that, by the way?”  he waggles a finger in front of his eyes, head tilting to the side. “i wear the eyeliner for my own shows sometimes, but it never stays right.”

you try to answer without stumbling over any syllables, gazing into the blue of his eyes and already trying to picture how they’d look with a thick streak of black along their waterlines. but then you stop, flinching, taking a step or two closer to him at the sound of yelling from behind you. it’s only a group of guys taking turns downing their drinks and competing to see who can do it the fastest, but they’re loud enough for you to lose all train of thought. 

it’s instinctive the way that joost then brings his arm up high around your shoulders, keeping his hand balled up into a loose fist as he guides you to stand even further into his side. 

“yeah, i’m not a big fan of loud noises either.”  he pauses only to curl his spine, bending down until he’s level with your ear. “do you want to move somewhere quieter? would that be better?”

when you nod, he readjusts, the warmth of his palm finding your lower back as he starts to lead the way. 

at the very far end of the smoking area, hidden ever so slightly around another corner, is a picnic bench that you’re surprised to see no one else has found yet. it’s old wood is a little green, a little rotted, but it’s dry enough for you to sit down without the damp soaking through your clothes. you’re lighting up a cigarette of your own as soon as you’re settled, cocking an eyebrow at the look on joost’s face as he sits down across from you.

“surprised that i smoke too?”

he grins at you again, shrugging. “with a voice like that, a little. you’re not so…’rahrahrah’ with it.”

immediately you choke on that first heavy inhale of smoke, your head hanging, coughing hard enough for your throat to burn as you laugh. it’s through watery eyes that you watch him start to crack too, giggling as he squints behind the thick, dark frames of his glasses. he’s only laughing because you are, and you’re only still laughing because he is.

“what was that?!”

“i was trying to do the smokers voice thing!”

“you sounded like that skeleton with the…the, fuck, i don’t know what the  word for it is in english.”

except joost already knows exactly what you’re trying to say because then his eyes are lighting up, and he’s nodding at you again as he starts to act it out, almost, hitting an imaginary bin-lid with an invisible bat of some kind. 

“ja ja ja ja, the one with the stick!” 

“yes!”

a subtle aching starts to seep into your cheeks, pulling uncomfortably at your lips — it’s just becoming so easy with him, isn’t it? you’re smiling so much that it’s starting to hurt now, and it means that you don’t even think to check your phone that’s slowly buzzing itself to death inside your pocket. in no more than an hour somehow, joost already has you wrapped irrevocably around his finger, hanging off his every word.

your elbows resting on the table, hands cupped underneath and propping up your chin, but still clutching onto the cigarette that’s long since burnt itself out all the way down to the filter. you’re watching him throw his hands around again because he’s lost himself inside a story about one of his nephews dressing up as a skeleton for halloween one year. you’re smiling so much that it hurts. 

it does nothing but feed right into his ego. it’s rare that he’s so extroverted with someone like this, someone like you, someone that could easily make his knees buckle with a single glance. he’s the type to quickly blush at mere eye-contact, unable to do much other than simply nod politely when spoken to. you’re bringing out something new in him, aren’t you? a confidence that he’s just not used to yet.

it means that neither of you realise it when the time starts to slip away right through your fingers. it’s just too hard of a thing to help — the way that the conversation flows from one topic to the next as though you’re more old friends catching up than anything else. 

suddenly joost knows each of your bandmates by name, mannerism, and most embarrassing moment of the tour so far. you learn of his friends beyond their art and online personas, from each of the little vlogs and tiktoks that he has saved of them on his phone. you tell him a little too much about your new ‘resident evil’ obsession; he returns the favour by admitting his recent mexican wrestling one. 

the only thing that you both dare to leave unsaid is any mention of your families. it’s only because you remember enough from watching him back on youtube that you know better than to ask; you’re not exactly in a rush to explain your own situation, either. 

and it’s not until you’re half way through trying to list each of your favourite films without laughing, because somehow you have just a few too many in common with him to wrap your head around, that you’re interrupted. someone in a t-shirt bearing the bar’s logo stands beside you with an almost blank expression, speaking a language neither of you can understand. after a moment of awkward silence, she finally clears her throat and sighs, rolling her eyes slightly.

“we close in thirty minutes so we’re asking for last drinks. can i get you anything?” 

joost answers hesitantly on your behalf, shaking his head ‘no’ with a hint of a smile on his face as he reassures whoever it is that you’ll be leaving in just a minute. when you don’t dispute it, disappointment starts to lower itself onto his chest, the weight of it crushing, but it’s subtle enough that it only brings a slight furrow to his eyebrows. 

you just can’t believe what time it is.

for seemingly the first time all night, it occurs to you to finally dig your phone out of your coat pocket and dismiss the low battery warning. the time that you’re confronted with, ‘00:53am’ sends a small shock to your system, only because it means that you’ve been out here with him for almost three hours now. several texts from your bandmates clutter your lockscreen, and they all read relatively the same.

‘we got the hint ;) and went to go get food. we’ll probs be back at the hotel by the time ur done. plz be safe we have no room for a baby on the bus. see u tomo’ 

a slow heat rises to your cheeks, staining them a soft pink despite the cooler breeze that still whips around you every now and then. you don’t look up until joost starts to stand, a blush that matches your own creeping its way up the sides of his neck. and then you don’t stop to ask why he seems to be almost just as flustered as you know that you are, as you copy his movements, rising to your feet with a shy reluctance.

you’re still trying to grasp the certain implications of what your friends had said. it makes you a little dizzy actually, imagining it, and realising just how much you want it.

“my uh, my hotel’s not that far…would you want to come back with me?”  

and the offer almost knocks joost right off his feet, doesn’t it? he finds himself needing to lean back against the bench just to try and stay upright.

the way that you’re smiling up at him with those big doe eyes of yours, tucking strands of fallen hair behind your ears and blushing more out of nervousness than anything else. it’s the first time that he’s truly seeing the effect that he has on you, and it’s killing him. 

he nods softly, grinning without his teeth as he pulls the hood of his jacket up and over his head. “yeah! i’d really like that.” 

he curves an arm around your shoulders again, and you assume that it’s only to keep you close whilst you make your way out, but once you’re out onto the street he doesn’t move, and neither do you. it’s like that, that you both walk the ten minutes back to your hotel, with you tucked gently into his side and listening quietly as he rambles about how beautiful this city is. you ask him about where else he’s been, on tour or otherwise, and he tells you sparing little to no detail. 

but it’s really not too long before you start to lose track of it all, of the finer, almost intimate details of his stories, because it’s the mere sound of joost’s voice that you find yourself so stuck on. the sheer softness of it. how it’s so much deeper than you remember, with just enough gravel to it to make your head spin. 

it feels a little…wrong, despite all things considered, but you just can’t help it. the old leather of your boots hit a puddle, you hear muffled live music spilling out from a lounge as you pass it by, but all you can focus on is the heat pooling beneath you. you think of his voice in your ear, deeper, breathier, groaning. you can’t appreciate where you are, all of the light, and art, and life that surrounds you, because you’re just too caught up in the thought of whatever this is leading to.

you don’t slip out from underneath his hold until you’re faced with the heavy glass doors of your hotel, and you can’t hide the way that your hands shake when you unlock them with your keycard. it’s dawning on you now that you haven’t exactly clarified what you’ve invited him back with you for, and you’re still waiting for him to ask. you want to hope that it’s obvious when you both step into the lift to head up to your floor, and you immediately take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together. 

but you’ve just never done this before, have you? and joost, you know enough about him by now to gather that he’s something of a gentleman, maybe even a little unassuming. you can’t imagine him ever putting an expectation like that on you; if all you wanted was someone to talk to until you fell asleep, you’re almost certain that he really wouldn’t mind that. 

it doesn’t phase you that neither of you have spoken in a while until you’re wandering down a corridor and he’s asking you which room is yours, and you realise that you’re just about to miss it. 

you pull him to a sudden stop alongside you, the momentum of it swinging him around, and now you’re not quite sure what to say with him gazing down at you like this. 

“you okay?”

“are we on the same page about this?”

you meet his eyes and see the ease in them; how his slight frown melts into something so much sweeter as he shrugs. “we don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to; trust me, i’m on board no matter what.”

for just a moment you let the words sit, hanging in the air that thickens around you, before you nod, a faint smile tugging at your lips. and it says exactly what you need it to, because then joost is reaching forward to cradle your jaw; your blush deepens at the feeling of his thumbs smoothing along the skin of your cheeks.

“in my country, we would say ‘zo mooi’.” at the tilting of your head, he continues in something akin to a whisper, leaning into you a little closer. “so beautiful.”

you just about manage to breathe out his name in a sigh before he’s kissing you, clutching your face in the palms of his hands so delicately as your noses bump. the subtle taste of tobacco and sugary soda hit your tongue; the coarser hairs of his moustache tickle the very corners of your mouth. when you hook your fingers through the holes of his belt loops, pulling him flush against you, it’s only to anchor yourself down, really. suddenly your knees feel all funny.

and it’s absolutely ruining you, isn’t it? how perfect it all feels. how you just can’t seem to hold back the way that you whine into his mouth when he moves to step back, leaving you to wobble on uneven feet. not even a full second passes before you’re mourning the loss of him sucking on your bottom lip, but it’s enough to remind you of where you still are, standing on the wrong side of your hotel room’s door. 

with your keycard still balanced between your fingers, you unlock it with a single beep. 

“i’m…gonna go freshen up. wait up for me?”

he nods, leaning down to peck your lips again. “i’ll be here.”

the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the sound of the shower turning on quickly following. now that he’s on his own for a minute, joost can’t contain his excitement anymore. he’s pumping his fist in the air, doing a little shuffle-dance, and taking fit-pics in the mirror before stopping to fix his hair. 

it almost doesn’t feel real. he doesn’t do this. he can count on one hand the amount of one night stands he’s ever had — if that’s all that this is going to be in the end. something not too dissimilar to disappointment starts to settle beneath his skin as he slips off his jacket and shoes, and perches patiently on the edge of your bed. maybe he already likes you a little bit more than he probably should. 

he sends another selfie to his groupchat; the friends of his that are still awake each reply with a combination of emojis that make his stomach twist as he laughs.

“hey…”

joost glances up at the soft sound of your voice, locking his phone and leaving it somewhere on the bedside table. 

you’re standing at the foot of the bed dressed in nothing but a ‘sisters of mercy’ t-shirt that’s several sizes too big for you. the ends of your hair that poke out from the bun sitting on top of your head hang heavy with drops of water, your face fresh and bare of any makeup. it’s looking like this, so disarmed and almost shy, that he really starts to swoon for you, isn’t it?

a hot breath catches in his throat, his voice threatening to crack. “hi.”

you don’t think too much about it as you cross the room, only stopping once you’re in between his spread-apart legs, with your hands smoothing along the short stubble of his cheeks. you feel him melt into the touch, see how the sharp cerulean of his eyes sparkle in the warm lights around him. the subtle curve of his cupids bow, and the beauty mark that sits just above his chin. it’s only now that you’re noticing the ombré of his eyebrows, too. 

“i think you’re beautiful, too.”

and then before he can blush, you’re kissing him again, and it’s his own hands finding the backs of your thighs and squeezing that keeps you steady this time. you also find yourself becoming pliable in his palms, because when he tugs you in closer, you move without any resistance. when he slips his tongue into your mouth and lets his grip wander up onto your hips, you let him, you encourage it. 

in fact, you only stay like for another moment or two before you’re climbing onto his lap, aren’t you? knees falling either side of his own two hips, fingertips dropping from his face down to the hem of his t-shirt to pull on the dark cotton of it until he finally takes the hint, and throws it off and over his head.

he just can’t help but to giggle when you mutter out a string of what he can only guess are swear-words in your first language, your eyes carefully drifting along his pale, bare chest. “good things i hope?”

with your hands resting on his tummy, you nod with parted lips. “very good.”

he’s about to make a joke when you then start to shift, crawling back off him and onto the floor at his feet. you make a strong reach for his belt-buckle as you do so, fighting with the silver heart and feeling how his muscles jump underneath the touch. you only stop because suddenly his hand comes down to clutch yours, making you glance up with a pout.

“hey — only if you want to, okay? i don’t want you thinking that you have to; you don’t.”  despite the way that his cock strains against his jeans at the mere thought, he really does mean it. 

“no, i want to.”  you gulp down the thick saliva that fills your mouth, eyes flickering between his face and his bulge. “please, but i can’t….get this fucking…”

it’s not mocking how joost laughs at you again, almost painfully endeared by just how desperate you are to get to him. a jagged crease cuts right through your eyebrows, a thicker pout pulling on your full, wet lips, and it’s all because you’re still struggling with his buckle, your patience starting to wear a little thin. 

he doesn’t say anything as he takes over, lifting his hips up off the bed as he guides the cracked, black leather back through the old clasp. he just makes it look so easy, doesn’t he? because you blink and suddenly he’s holding it free in his hands, dropping the belt to the floor and letting his jeans sit loose around his thighs.

it gives you such a perfect view of him, of the boxers printed with his own name — how the cotton stretches around his erection, and he just can’t seem to stop twitching underneath your gaze. gently, you curl your fingers beneath the waistband and pull down, your mouth watering again as your hands start to shake. you’re not even sure what you were expecting, but he’s still somehow bigger. 

“keep looking at me like that, and this might be over before we’ve even started.” 

you only grin before you reach forward and hold him throbbing in your hands, hearing how he sucks in a sharp breath at the soft touch. you don’t grant him a moment to catch his breath either, before you’re licking a smooth stripe up from the base to the pink of his tip, swirling your tongue and sucking, watching how his pretty eyes screw shut. 

and it’s all the encouragement you need to keep going, taking more and more of him into your mouth until he hits the very back of your throat. you’re not even halfway.

“f-fuck, schatje.” 

you’re not sure what it means, but you love the way that it falls from his lips.

joost digs his nails into the mattress behind him, needing to lean back and brace himself on his hands just to feel as though he’s still in control of himself. short, strangled huffs fly from his noise, his tummy all tense and cramping, as small beads of sweat start to gather along his hairline. 

maybe there’s a joke to be made about a singer being so good with their mouth, but he doesn’t know, he can’t seem to think with your lips wrapped around him like this. maybe you’re too good at this, bobbing your head as you try to take as much of his as you possibly can, gagging, and using your hands to reach what you can’t fit. 

he reaches forward to cup your face, the pad of his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away some of the spit from your chin before carefully pulling your hair free from the bun that it’s in. he wouldn’t even know where to begin if you were to have asked him why, so he’s glad that you don’t. he just needs to hold you in any way that he can. 

you feel him lace his fingers through your hair, scratching at your scalp and tugging on your roots every time that you try to push yourself a little further down onto him. it’s really not too hard to tell that he’s holding himself back every time that he does, because his hands are trembling, and as soon as he’s caught his breath, he’s smoothing the messed-up strands back down. 

his head tips forward as his spine slowly curls in; he’s almost hugging your head to him as he whimpers out your name as though it’s some kind of  prayer. 

“fuck, wait wait wait, schat, wait.”  

you let him go with a little ‘pop!’. there’s just a few too many tears welled up behind your waterlines to fully see the fucked-out look on his face, and your throat’s too spent to then speak without your voice cracking. “everything okay?”

joost can only laugh, can’t he? as he pulls you up into another kiss by the hold that he still has on your face. “yeah…i just…i was getting really close.” and then his hands move up to catch the last of the tears in your eyes. “are you?” 

you merely shrug, trying to stifle a small cough. “my throat hurts a little.”

and it’s only because of that, that he finally pulls back, turning around and stretching to reach the bottle of water that he remembers seeing laying on a pillow behind him. it’s open but hardly touched, and something that he insists on holding for you as you take a few sips. 

“better?”  he doesn’t put it down until you nod, and then he’s taking your hands in his to help you stand. a small part of his heart starts to sink at the sight of the sore, red scuff marks on each of your knees. “swap with me, it’s your turn.”

you don’t hesitate. 

as joost moves in turn with you, rising to his feet just to give you the room that you need to take his seat, you lay yourself down across the bed, propping yourself up and resting on your elbows. you watch him stumble trying to kick off his boxers and jeans before settling in between your legs, and you don’t mean to hold your breath for as long as you do when he gently pushes your t-shirt up. you hadn’t bothered to put on any underwear; there’s already a faint coating of your slick stuck to the very inside of your thighs.

it’s the accumulation of the effect that he’s had on you all night, and it renders him fucking speechless. because even as he’s taking you in his grasp and hooking each of your legs over his shoulders, he’s silent, simply staring, losing all of the colour in his eyes to just how wide his pupils dilate. as he flattens his tongue against you and licks a solid stripe up your centre, you hear him take a big deep breath in, taking in your scent. 

“zo lekker…” 

and you don’t get to ask him what it means before you’re suddenly squirming as he grins into you. his hands move to press down against your stomach when your hips buck up from off the bed, forcing you to still despite how he’s sucking on your clit as though it’s some sort of lifeline, and he’ll die if he doesn’t. between that and how he keeps pulling away every few minutes only to blow his cold breath along you, through your folds and laughing at how it makes you shiver, you really don’t stand a chance, do you?

fresh tears spring to your eyes again. with every sharp breath, your tummy caves in on itself a little more. you almost wish that he’d stop moaning at the sheer, sweet taste of you on his tongue, bumping his nose against you as he delves in a little deeper and laps you up, because it’s too much. every vibration sends another jolt up the length of your spine, and your thighs press together around his head. 

“jesus….fuck, joost.”  the words come out all strained and fragmented. you’re very quickly forgetting how to breathe. 

“fuck, i like that.”  he lifts his head up to wipe the wetness from his chin and see for himself the utter state that he’d gotten you in. how your chest is heaving, your face all wrinkly and screwed up with your cheeks just a tad tear-stained. “you should say my name again.”

you all but scream it when his lips wrap around your clit again and refuses to let go. 

clammy hands knot themselves in his hair and pull, and unlike him, you wouldn’t have been able to hold yourself back even if you wanted to. every muscle that lies underneath your skin starts to lock up, cramping, almost turning to stone as you writhe against his mouth. his hands on you aren’t enough to keep you steady anymore; your back is arching up off the bed as he moves his grip down to hold your hips instead. 

you try to push off the mattress — feet digging into the fabric. joost is relentless as he eats you alive, and it’s only by instinct that you’re trying to crawl away. there’s a feeling bubbling up that you just don’t know what to do with, one that’s making you clench around his tongue as you watch him through wet lashes, all starrey-eyed.

“j-joost, fuck, i don’t….i, i fucking, i can’t. oh my god.”

his hold you grows a little stiffer, and he yanks you back down onto his mouth when you manage to wiggle away just a bit. 

“i got you, baby. it’s okay. gonna make you feel so good.”

“joost!”

its when he sucks on your clit again that you cum for the first time, isn’t it? something inside of you snaps, your whole body contorting as you shake, and it well and truly wrecks you beyond all recognition. because as joost sits back on his knees and you drip from his nose all the way down to his chest, you’re curling in on yourself as you struggle to gasp for air. 

piece by piece it feels as though you’re dissolving right into the mattress beneath you, your eyelids heavy and starting to droop. it means that it hardly registers when joost crawls his way up to you and sits just beside your head, brushing the sweat-soaked strands of your hair away and out of your face.

“still with me, schatje?”  his voice isn’t much higher than a whisper.

“mmhm.”  you hum as you slowly roll over onto your back, gazing up at him half-lidded and leaning into the soft touch of his hand still stroking through your hair. “just a little…gone. that was…wow.”

if you could see the look in his eyes, you’d surely blush under the weight of it. “we don’t have to keep going. if you’re too tired, we can sleep. it’s okay.”

“no, no i’m fine i just…can i get some more water please?”

its only after helping you to sit up with him that he holds the bottle to your lips again, with a large, warm palm still cradling your face. and when a dribble of it starts to fall from your bottom lip, he wipes it away on the tip of his thumb, before taking a small gulp himself.  

“then let’s go a little slower, ok? and to be honest, i really don’t think i’m gonna last that long, anyway.”

you simply nod, smiling at him just enough for it to reach your tired eyes. “yeah, that sounds nice. i don’t even…”  and then you lay back down amongst the pillows, beckoning him over with just a small wave of your hand. “i don’t want anything crazy, i just…i want to feel you for a while.”

as soon as joost’s on you, your legs are wrapping around his waist and pulling him down, fingers stretching into the white-blond of his hair as you latch onto him by the nape of his neck. his inked arms are holding himself up by his hands pinned on either side of your head. they start to shake as soon as you start to grind against his cock, whining into his mouth. you can still taste yourself on his tongue — feel that he’s still twitching. 

“you’re really gonna kill me, schat.”

joost shifts slightly; he reaches down and lines himself up, collapsing a little into the curve of your neck as he hisses. because you’re just so warm, aren’t you? and moulding to his shape with every inch that he eases in, fluttering around his length and squeezing.

it’s just that you can feel him everywhere. every time you think that he’s finally bottomed out, he keeps on pushing until he settles into a gentle rocking of his hips. beside you, his knuckles turn a faint shade of white, and you can hear the low baritone of his breathy little groans inside your ear. it doesn’t even compare to what you were imagining earlier. 

the feeling of him on top of you, weighing you down as he pecks, kissing along the dip of your shoulder. the way that he’s being so ridiculously gentle as he fucks you exactly how you asked him to, his strokes slow yet still deep enough to leave you reeling. at first it has you gasping, mewling, as your nails carve neat lines down the pale skin of his back, but then your jaw goes all slack and you can only babble out soft prayers in your own language. 

“how do you feel, baby? you feeling good?”  he lifts his head to look at you, beaming at the teary, cock-drunk look in your eyes. 

you really are just so pretty like this, aren’t you? hair sprawled out across the pillows, nose all scrunched, and your shirt bunched up around your midriff high enough to expose the bulging of your tummy with each one of his slow thrusts. maybe you weren’t just a marvel, maybe you’re actually a lot more than that to him now — maybe you’re greatest thing that he’s ever fucking seen.

“so, so good, joost….fuck.”  the praise came out as more of a cry than anything else, catching in your throat. 

and it feels a little different than before when you feel that knot inside of you start to twist again. it’s tender, quieter, still enough to have you quivering beneath him because you’re still just so sensitive from the last one. goosebumps prick up along the skin of your arms as your sight turns a little blurry around the edges; the only thing strong enough to keep you anchored to the room is the hand on your hip, kneading the soft flesh. 

he knows that you’re close, doesn’t he?

 he knows that he is, too.

“think you can give me one more?”

you can’t even nod before it happens, stealing your voice, turning you limp as your eyes roll far back inside your head. it’s delirium. your whole body convulses for a moment; your nails dig crescent shapes into the muscle of his biceps as your ears ring too loud for you to really hear his own whimpering of your name. 

he tips his head forward as he cums, resting his forehead against yours, taking in and memorising every soft little detail of your face. there’s a faint voice in the back of his head telling him that he might not ever see it again, at least not like this. it really scares him, doesn’t it?

and it’s only because he knows that he has to, that joost then finds the strength to pull out once you’ve had a minute or two to ground yourself. you both can’t help but hiss at the feeling of it, even such a brief touch now far too much for either of you to bear anymore. 

you’re scooped up into his arms before he rolls, tugging you up to lay flat across his chest as he settles to rest on his back. with your cheek pressed firmly against him, you can hear his heartbeat, a little elevated but steady, threatening to lull you to sleep as his palms caress up and down your spine. it’s all too warm, too safe; you lose the fight of trying to keep your eyes open for another moment longer. 

“you don’t have to stay, you know. it’s okay.”

the way that joost frowns at that is immediate, and he brings a hand up to gently tuck a few strands of fallen hair back behind your ear. “why wouldn’t i want to stay?”

you just shrug against him, nuzzling yourself further into his chest. “i don’t know, they normally don’t.” 

he’s quick to rebuttal. “well what if i wanted to?”

and it's almost lazy how you then drag your head up to face him, resting your chin on his sternum. for as sweet as his smile is, you can see that it doesn’t really reach his eyes fully — there’s something a little sad in the way that he gazes at you, hugging you to him a little tighter as he does.

“even in all the mess?” 

there’s a puddle of something, of one of you or maybe a mixture of the two seeping into the sheets beside him. you’re both still painfully sticky, still covered in a thick layer of sweat that the stuffy air around you is only exacerbating, and laying on top of the covers instead of underneath them. 

the thought of his clean, untouched bed back at his own hotel doesn’t even cross his mind. only a quick, cold shower with you does, if either of you can find the willpower for that. 

you hadn’t even seen him there before you sat down, curling yourself up, pulling at the damp fur of your coat a little tighter around your middle. 

the snow was faint; enough to cling to the wet of your eyelashes as you cried with shaking shoulders, but not so much that it was starting to settle on the concrete beneath your feet. wind still nipped at your nose, making it run and turn a little numb, pink and almost sore to the touch. as for your fingers — you’d lost all feeling in them a while ago. the half-lit cigarette that you balanced between them threatened to fall from your grasp with every slight movement.

still, nothing could have convinced you to turn around; to falter, and reconsider whether or not this was actually the right thing to do. you just didn't know leeuwarden well enough to be running out into the darkness of it all on your own, a little tipsy and with only a dwindling phone battery to save you if you needed it. but no worst-case scenario would have ever been enough to stop you, or even slow you down for that matter. you always were just so good at this, weren’t you? running. 

it’s just that you’ve done it your whole life. when you were a kid, you hadn’t known any better or what else you could have possibly done; you were young enough to believe that you could run from something like this. that if you just kept moving, kept avoiding what lurks in every corner of your mind, it really would just go away. you’d been naive enough not to realise that it would forever be there now, just past your shoulder, waiting until your legs inevitably give out because they always do eventually. 

maybe you should be past it by now, finally old enough to know. maybe when your aunt had brought out the home-videos and suddenly he was sitting right there again, cradling you gently in his arms, you shouldn’t have left without even shutting the front door behind you. 

but after ten minutes of walking with your head down low, shivering from the cold and sodden from the falling snow, you found a park, and then a park bench. somehow you hadn’t seen the guy sat down at the other end as you’d taken your seat, his dark hood pulled all the way up and hiding his face. you hadn’t noticed him tense up a little, glancing towards you as you sniffed and choked out another cry, reaching into your pocket for your pack of cigarettes. 

you just wanted to lose yourself in the smoke of it, wanted to drift along with the wind to some place else, just wanted to see him again. the old home-video was still playing on repeat in your mind; you don’t know whether or not it was that or the cold that was making it so hard for you to breathe. 

you took another drag of your cig, flicking the ash before wiping more snot onto the back of your hand. 

“hey, sorry, pardon me -”  

at the sound of the deep voice speaking beside you, you jolted, and snow began to melt at your feet from where it made you drop your last cigarette.

“- i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to scare you.”  it still took you a moment to try and gather yourself before turning to face him, blinking back the tears from your eyes and clearing your throat. “i just wanted to ask if you’re okay?”

old, wired earphones dangle from the collar of his coat; the same kind you used to get in the box of a new iphone, or at the supermarket for cheap when you were a kid and couldn’t afford any better. dark, thick frames try to hide the blue of his eyes completely, but the warm glow of the streetlights make them shine just enough for you to see. there’s a dusting of stubble across his cheeks that connect to a neat moustache resting just above his lip; a warmer, almost golden colour that doesn’t quite seem to match the messy, platinum hair that almost touches his shoulders. 

between all of that and the soft, somehow knowing smile that pulls easily at the corners of his lips, you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed that he’s seeing you in such a state. 

“fuck, yeah, no, it’s fine. i’m just…i’m having one of those nights, you know?”  the words tumble out in a faux laugh towards the end, as you glance away just to swipe more salt away from underneath your eyes. 

before you can continue, he’s nodding, humming at you as he starts to dig through the pockets of his coat. “yeah, i know…having ‘one of those nights’ myself, i think.”  and then he pauses only to pass you a pack of partially squished cigarettes of his own. “take one; for the one i made you drop.”

“oh you don’t have to, it’s okay -”

you watch him shake his head, the very ends of his bleached hair falling a little into his eyes. “- stop it, i insist. you look like you need it.”

you’re not sure if you want to know what that means exactly, even though you already know that he’s probably right. “thank you.” 

it’s barely between your lips by the time that he’s sparking a small, bright pink bic lighter and beckoning you closer, wanting to light it for you before he lights his own. he says it’s because your hands are so cold they’re shaking, and that it’s the least he can do anyway. 

“are you normally this nice to everyone?”

he simply shrugs as you shift awkwardly on the damp wood beneath you, slipping a hand underneath the hood of his jacket and running his fingers through his hair. it’s despite the warmth of his smile and the eye contact he refuses to break that you think he seems almost nervous, if anything, unable to sit still any longer than a few mere seconds. 

“i try to be.”

“so you’re not just trying to pity me?”  there’s still a small part of you that just doesn’t quite believe him.

but he just shakes his head at you again with furrowed eyebrows; his glasses slip a little further down the bridge of his nose. “no, i’ve never seen the point in that. i’d always rather someone try to understand than just feel sorry for me, even if they can’t.”

then you both stop for a moment to take near-simultaneous drags of your dying cigarettes, the white paper of them becoming all blotchy and soaked through from the snow. you’re the first one to finally look away, your eyeline straying away from his and onto the skyline instead, searching for the stars that you know are still there, you just can’t see them through all the clouds.

he doesn’t copy you, simply because he can’t bring himself to. you don’t see it but his eyes never leave your face, darting across your features, taking in all of the little details he shouldn’t be noticing. the faint beauty spot on your chin, the chapped skin of your lips, and the heavy, mulberry bags that sit just underneath your eyes. there’s still a few tears that linger in them; something about it makes his heart start to sink.

“but you don’t have to talk -”

“- my dad died.”  you try not to think too much about the short breath you hear him suck in. “it was a long time ago; i was young, i don’t even remember it happening, actually, but it still…it’s still hard. it won’t go away.”

“does it have to?”  and he’s quieter now, his voice low and somewhat muffled by the cig still balanced in between his lips. “i lost both my parents when i was a kid too, and the older i get the more i think that maybe it’s good it still hurts so much…means they’re still here.”

“i’m so sorry.”

you don’t know how to swallow down the small lump in your throat. you feel awful. his whole demeanour had changed now, becoming more sullen; his head hangs a little low as he drops your gaze and sighs, scratching his cheek. he won’t meet your eyes anymore.

“it’s not your fault. i’m sorry about your dad; i hope you and your family’s alright.”

it’s not from a lack of appreciation that you don’t acknowledge his apology, but more so because you simply don’t know what to say. even objectively speaking, you should be grateful that you at least still had someone, regardless of just how dysfunctional your relationship with your mother truly is. it’s still something — you have the choice not to speak to her, and that’s something you’ve never considered a privilege until now. 

“how did you…”  you try to clear your throat again but fall back into a slight laugh when all that comes out is a small, choked cry. “how did you learn to cope with it? because i don’t…i don’t think i can. i don’t know how.”

you half expect him to walk away when the tears then start to fall a little faster, and you can’t quite seem to stop them. your eyes begin to burn as the cold air hits your lungs, making you gasp and cough out a few shallow, stuttering breaths. you only think to hide your face in your hands because the thought of this stranger leaving you right now hurts too much to bear. it’s not like you’d ever blame him for it, not really, but that doesn’t mean you necessarily have the heart to see it. 

so if anything, it only surprises you when he doesn’t. instead he just shifts close enough to you for your knees to now touch, bumping ever so slightly against each other. and it’s with such gentle, easy movements that he pries a single hand away from your face and laces your fingers between his own, squeezing your palm, keeping his hold on you light enough for you to pull yourself away if you really wanted to. 

him holding your hand like this, if you were to consider it ‘too much’ for two strangers, because he knows that’s exactly what you are, he’d understand it. 

“i still struggle with it every day — i’m not…i’m no expert, i promise. but therapy helps a lot…and music. it’s what i do, actually. i make music and write a lot of stuff, and a lot of the grief goes into that too.”

except you don’t shy away from the touch, do you? you lean into it, resting your head against his shoulder as snow keeps tickling your nose.

“i’m not very good at talking about it. i can’t even watch an old video of him without running from it.”

he lets his burnt-out cigarette fall to the ground before stubbing it out underneath the sole of his shoe.“it gets easier… just takes some time.”

and then yours follows suit once you take a last, heavy drag. “don’t think i have that much time left.”

the brief silence that follows isn’t bitter like the wind, but it’s sharp. it almost cuts you, actually. you feel his grip on your hand tighten ever so slightly, just enough for you to realise that he knows exactly what you mean, what you’re trying to imply right now. and you just can’t help but feel a little bad about the way that it makes his shoulders slump and his breathing hitch; you’re not even sure if you actually meant to say it or not.

there’s just this thing about him, this guy who’s name you still don’t even know, that you trust so deeply. it’s almost infectious, a danger. because he’s just so nice and just seems to care so much, that a nauseating guilt starts to twist somewhere deep inside your stomach. you don’t think that you meant to let slip what you did, and now you’re afraid of how it’ll sit. 

“that’s not true; you always have time.”  he carried on when you refused to answer him any more than a weak scoff. “look, i’ve been there before and it’s never worth it, okay? there’s always another way.”

“you don’t even know me.”

“i know that you’re strong enough to keep going.”

you sniff again, wiping your nose on the hand that he’s not clutching. 

the growing hole inside your chest, it’s too heavy, too stale for you to cry anymore. your eyes are too red and too sore; you’re too tired to reassure him that you’re fine, and there’s no reason for him to care like this. because with the snow still falling all around you, settling in your hair, and the light of the moon starting to peak out through the clouds, you know that you’ve accepted it now — maybe he should too. 

it just doesn’t feel so terrible anymore, does it? if anything, the thought only eases the aching of your heart, the lethargy of your limbs. you don't want to do this anymore, don’t want to spend the rest of your life missing him and constantly wondering ‘what if?’; you’ve realised now that you don’t actually have to.  

“i don’t know, i just don’t think it would be the end of the world if i -”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “- it would.”  and the deeper, more emotional tone of his voice throws you right off your axis. he’s almost on the verge of tears, and it’s wrecking you. “it would be the worst thing to ever happen.”

“you’re just being too nice again.”

but he doubles down, squeezing your hand again. “i’m just telling you what you need to hear. trying is the only thing we have to do in this life and it’ll always be better than simply just doing what’s easy. the world can’t ever lose you too, not yet.” 

even if you had known what to say or had a breath of fight still left in you, the words still could’ve gotten caught on the very tip of your tongue. your lips still would have merely parted, wobbling, utterly speechless as you try to hold in another cry that surely you’re too tired for by now. it almost hurts when another shine glosses over your eyes, stinging your waterline.

but he doesn’t give you a chance to try and answer before he’s shifting and standing up, gently pulling you up alongside him. it’s the first chance you get to see all the wet still in his eyes, no matter how hard he’s trying to blink it away. he looks so much more tired than he did when you first sat down; it makes you nauseous all over again.

“it’s late; let me walk you home.”  

you only nod because you’re just not ready to say goodbye to him yet. when he starts to walk in the direction you pointed in without stopping to drop your hand first, you don’t think to let his go, either. you just feel warmer with him, don’t you? calmer. maybe you’re a little more attached to this stranger than you should be. 

together you turn a corner, into a flurry of snow-thick wind that makes you both shiver, and he uses it as an excuse to tug you a little closer into his side. in face you’re close enough for your arms to link, and you cling to him as though you’d slip right through his fingers if you didn’t. 

“thank you, by the way. for everything.”  you pause to hide your face is his jacket when another harsh gust almost cuts right through you. “what’s your name?”