Heaven isn´t quite what it seems

Ok hear me out. I am daring to post the first fic I have written in about, dunno, 5 years... It took ages and several complete rewrites, me thinking, "OK, I am never ever going to dare to post this anywhere." Thank you, @runningincircl3s, for encouraging me and reading it first. And just FYI, English is not my first language. So typos, spelling... Sorry if you find something. About 1,9 k words Heartbreak, some alcohol and fluff, if you want to call it fluff. ****************************************************************

The party has long passed its peak, and even the last stragglers are slowly beginning to leave the house. Here and there, someone has fallen asleep on the floor. A few final couples, at least for this slowly fading night, disappear into the dawn of a new day, and the soundscape that helped you keep the dark thoughts at bay all night grows thinner. Everywhere, the red cups known from movies and TV stand around, empty beer cans, and the occasional bottle of something stronger, empty or almost empty, lies scattered across the floor.

Your truly and definitively last day, or rather morning, in the City of Angels has begun, and more than anything, you wish you could stop time. It’s not that you aren’t looking forward to going home, but everything you have gotten to know, and above all, grown to love, in these twelve months tears at that anticipation. Only a few people remain in the house, and you can hear voices in the kitchen while you, tired, physically and mentally, hug one last friend goodbye. You promise to stay in touch at least through email or social media. Whether it will work out, time will tell, but you hope so. Sasha, the friend who has helped you through the evening, has become dear to your heart.

“Talk to him,” Sasha says before finally leaving the house. A crooked smile flickers across your face before you turn and let your friend disappear into the early morning light.

Sasha is right. You’ve had the whole evening to talk to him. But you can’t shake the feeling that he has been avoiding exactly that by dodging you. As good as the party has been, thrown for you on your last night, you haven’t been able to shake the sense that the one person who means the most to you, the one you’re closest to, has deliberately kept his distance.

Wherever and whenever you saw him that night, he was louder and more hyper than usual. Strange as it sounds, it was as if he were putting on a show. Extra loud. Extra over-the-top. And the longer the party went on, the drunker he got. Sure, the two of you have spent plenty of evenings together with your friends, but you’ve never felt like he intentionally got completely wasted, like he seems to be tonight. It feels entirely uncharacteristic, nothing like the person you’ve spent so much time with in recent months.

The contrast to your usual evenings, those where he sat with headphones on, lost in his music at his computer while you worked on assignments, is like night and day. This isn’t him. It doesn’t match the man you sat with on the couch, wrapped up in hoodies, watching movies, or talking half the night away. None of it fits the friend who has slipped under your skin.

As much as you want to avoid it, it’s time to say goodbye to the last people still in the kitchen who don’t seem to be getting tired at all. The time that felt frozen all night is now running away from you. In five hours, your plane will take off, and you have no choice; you have to be on it. Your suitcases, much fuller than before your year abroad, were luckily picked up before the party, and so you only have your backpack and small handbag left, which you left in his room.

It was his idea to throw the farewell party in the house he shares with his friends. A lovely idea, really, you could see everyone one last time. But the vibe, that feeling that something is wrong, has shaped the entire evening for you. And now you have to enter what feels like the lion’s den and say goodbye.

A sad smile creeps onto your face as you step into the kitchen. The three who are still there turn to look at you. No words are needed. You all know the moment has come.

Nick and Jolly, the two friends who have grown close to your heart, hug you tightly and promise to stay in touch. Tears well in your eyes, and you try not to break down. These two guys have become almost like brothers. Only he is left.

He looks at you through half-open eyes and gives you a crooked smile. Everything you want to tell him, everything weighing on your heart, everything that brings tears to your eyes, sticks in your throat. In his warm and loving brown eyes, you see pain. Deep pain, even though his gaze is unfocused from alcohol.

He doesn’t need to say anything. The silence between you says more than a thousand words.

He takes a step toward you and sways dangerously. Without thinking, you grab his arm to steady him, and he gives you that crooked grin again before clumsily pulling his arm free. Swaying, taking steps that look as if his shoes are filled with lead, he tries to move along the counter toward the doorway. He’s too drunk to avoid bumping into every corner, having to catch himself, or at least try.

The way he frees himself from your help hurts. And watching him almost flee from you in that state leaves no doubt: he has really avoided you all evening, at the party he planned, in his own home. The realisation punches you in the gut and confuses you more than you care to admit.

Stumbling, cursing, and without turning back to you, he tries to climb the stairs to the upper floor. You follow a few steps behind, not that you could do much if he fell, considering his height, but you can’t leave him alone, not like this. If he fell, you would never forgive yourself for not at least trying to help.

It takes a while, but he makes it up the stairs and into his room, where he lets himself fall onto his bed without a word. The moment his head touches the pillow, his eyes close. You stand in the doorway for a moment, watching him.

His long dark hair, escaping from beneath his beanie, is messy on the pillow. His breathing slows, and you watch his body gradually relax. His feet, still in his shoes, hang off the edge of the bed. Sadly, you smile. He looks so peaceful in his sleep, drunk as he is, drifting quickly into dreamland.

Gently, you take off his shoes, grab the blanket he keeps on his chair, the same one he’s draped around your shoulders many times, and cover him. Then you tiptoe downstairs, grab a bucket from under the sink, two small bottles of water from the fridge, and return to the now deeply sleeping man. You place the bucket beside the bed, the water within reach, and dig two painkillers from the little pouch you always carry when travelling. You set those within reach as well, then sit down briefly on the edge of the bed.

A strand of hair has fallen across his face, making his nose twitch slightly. Carefully, hoping not to wake him, you brush the hair aside, your eyes lingering on the lines of his face. The corners of his mouth twitch a little, he sighs softly, and licks his lips before they part slightly. A shadow of stubble is visible in the dawn light creeping through the windows, signalling it’s time.

A tired glance at your phone confirms it. The taxi you ordered will arrive in minutes. And you truly have to leave. Everything.

When you left your home twelve months ago for this year in the City of Angels, it was hard, leaving friends and family behind. You could never have imagined that returning would be so much harder than leaving. But this man lying before you, sleeping off his drunkenness, has, without knowing, slipped under your skin with his deep voice and into your heart with his quiet way of being. You didn’t even realise it until it was too late, until the butterflies grew stronger each time you met. You fell in love with him and never found the courage to tell him, afraid of losing him as a friend.

So you stayed silent, savouring every minute with him, absorbing everything, knowing the end would inevitably come.

One last time, you gently stroke his cheek with your fingertips, close your eyes, then lean in to place a soft kiss on his cheek. A faint smile appears on his peaceful face, and he murmurs something. Your breath catches. Please don’t wake up. Leaving is already nearly impossible; if he looked at you with those warm brown eyes, you would crumble.

But he stays asleep. You feel relieved and unbearably heavy at the same time.

You force yourself to stand, grab your backpack and handbag, and look back one last time. Just as you reach the door, ready to pull it closed, he moves on the bed, only to roll onto his side and sigh.

One last look. One last deep breath. And as you turn away, you hear his voice, faint, mumbled in a drunken sigh:

“I love you, Y/N… never dared to say it.”

The words hit you like lightning. You freeze, hand on the doorknob, standing in the dim hallway with a backpack that suddenly feels like it weighs a ton. Tears fill your eyes as you look back one final time.

“I love you too, Noah…” you whisper as you make your way downstairs, through the chaotic living room, and to the front door.

The cool morning air hits your face, and the tears you held back until now finally find their silent path down your cheeks. The taxi waits with the engine running. The driver, an older man, glances at you but says nothing when he sees the crying woman slide into the back seat. He’s seen this kind of thing before; small talk wouldn’t help.

When he asks which terminal you need, you only give a short answer.

You are lost in your own world. As the driver heads toward the airport, you can’t stop crying. Everything hits you at once: the party, the sleepless night, the final moments with Noah. A tsunami of feelings you can’t control, and don’t want to, because the chaos inside you is too big.

Only when the car nears the airport, the lights already visible, do the tears finally calm a little. With blurry eyes, you search your backpack for tissues so you can at least appear somewhat normal at check-in. Only now do you notice the backpack feels fuller than you remember.

Your fingers touch soft fabric. Carefully, you pull out whatever is hidden there.

The moment you hold the hoodie in your hands, the floodgates break again.

It’s one of the few hoodies from Noah’s band—the first merch they ever printed when they were still just starting out. His hoodie. He must have put it in your backpack. It’s the one you borrowed more than once when you were cold in the evenings at his place.

The sweater smells like him, that unmistakable mix of shower gel, aftershave, and Noah.

The tears come uncontrollably. You press the fabric to your chest and bury your face in the dark cotton.

BAD OMENS