Niall>Life

The way you smile at him.

The way you always look slightly surprised when Joe even shows the slightest bit of affection towards you. The way you always seem happy to invite it in, never pulling away from his advances that always seem to leave you quite flustered.

He smiles to himself at the thought as he opens the door.

But then, he sees you, and his smile falters.

You’re mid-motion, leaning over the counter with a book open in front of you, chin propped on your palm, explaining something to a customer with that easy warmth that makes people trust you immediately. You’re smiling, but it’s… thinner. A little stretched. Like you’re actively holding it in place instead of letting it sit naturally.

Joe clocks it immediately.

You’re very clearly ill.

Joe sees the faint redness around your nose, the way your eyes blink just a fraction slower than usual. He notices he slight hitch in your breath when you laugh softly at something the customer says. Notices how you try to hold a cough back that then sneaks through anyway, quick and contained, like you don’t want to acknowledge it.

Joe’s plan dissolves.

It doesn’t completely disappear. He still wants what he wants but, his plan rearranges itself a little. The want changes from getting to kiss you for his own pleasure to making sure you’re okay and taken care of.

It’s busy enough for you to not have noticed Joe yet, so he makes himself at home the way he always does. Takes his coat off and hangs it over the back of one of the armchairs, then picks up a book from a nearby shelf and sits. The book stays closed in his lap as he watches you, but he’s holding it whilst he’s sat so he’s got an excuse to stay without feeling like he’s hovering.

Whereas you haven’t noticed your regular customer occupying one of the chairs yet, Anne has.

Joe doesn’t notice her until she comes up beside him under the guise of tidying a stack of books and mutters, barely moving her mouth, “She’s doing it again.”

Joe glances up, feels like he misheard a weird insult that he doesn’t understand, but then follows Anne’s eyes, and feels something uncomfortable twist low in his chest.

If Anne can talk to him like he’s a normal person, something’s very clearly wrong. And Anne’s used to a lot. She’s seen you work through a lot. If she’s concerned enough to rope Joe into her worries, the very least he can do is help out.

He’s just... he’s not quite sure how he can help.

He can’t exactly walk over to you when it’s as busy as it is and coax you to come sit in his lap for half an hour. Can’t exactly try to convince you to let him carry you up the stairs to take you to bed for the rest of the day.

You’d never let him.

You’d wave him off with a giggle and a lingering smile, tell him to go sit down if he’s been stood for too long before bringing him a drink he’s never asked for.

Joe watches on and sees how Anne keeps to herself whilst secretly keeping an eye on you as she does her work. He gets it. She’s not really in a position to stand up to you either. You’ve likely already told her a bunch of times that you feel fine.

But you’re darting now.

From one end of the shop to the other.

Up the ladder, back down again.

Ducking into the back room because you’re sure there’s a copy of something somewhere, even though Anne told you last week you reorganised that box already, so you come back out empty-handed.

You’re smiling still, apologising to the customer like it’s your fault, your personal mistake that’s inconveniencing them, and Joe hates that this is probably how you genuinely feel. 

Next, Joe watches you lift a box that’s too heavy for you on a good day, let alone right now, and he hears Anne swear under her breath before she rushes over to take it from you. She doesn’t say anything, though. Just grabs it, takes it to where it’s meant to be, and you move to do a different task. Anne learned a long time ago that telling you to slow down has the opposite effect. That if you hear even the slightest hint of concern, you’ll take it as a challenge.

Rest, to you, feels like failure.

It sucks that it shows up in the books like that as well, but it’s just how life works when you run a business.

Joe opens and closes his book loudly to catch Anne’s attention, and then silently mouths, “Has she eaten?” whilst he motions food getting shoved into his face with both his hands as his eyes dart from her to you and back. Anne shakes her head no, then thinks for a moment and mouths, “Not since Monday.”

Joe’s shoulder drop.

It’s Thursday.

The bakery flashes in his mind. He’ll easily go and buy you every pastry they’ve got if that would mean you’d have some, but then he watches Anne slide a wrapped sandwich across the counter and you don’t even glance at it.

There’s a chance that maybe you just don’t notice it. Joe doesn’t think you’ve even noticed him yet. It’s busy, so maybe that’s why.

Customers barely let the door close behind them before asking for help, and then more people follow. It’s the kind of busy that isn’t frantic, but definitely relentless. No real pauses, no clean breaks. You help someone find a book for their mum, then someone else wants something for a nephew whose interests they don’t fully understand, then a man asks for a specific edition of a book you know you don’t have, but you still go check, because your brain refuses to skip steps today.

You can’t slow down.

You know you’ll crash and collapse if you do.

In the quiet of the backroom though, with the pretence of looking for something you can’t find, Joe finds you leaning against a shelf with your eyes closed. You’re rubbing at your arms like you’re cold, and are thinking about maybe making yourself a warm drink, because wouldn’t that be nice? You then think of making Joe one too, if he would’ve been in, and then, as if by magic, he’s suddenly right in front of you.

“Hey.”

It startles you slightly, but everything’s muffled enough to feel eased into existence. Another person appearing right in front of you out of seemingly nowhere doesn’t make you jump, even though it definitely should.

But it’s just Joe.

Joe’s here.

“Hi.” You couldn’t sound more fond of having him in a space he’s technically not allowed to be if you wanted to. Your smile spreads at the sight of him, which is something Joe doesn’t copy.

“You cold?” Joe’s got concern written all over his face, and tries very hard to keep it soft and gentle as he asks, “Are you feeling okay?”

You’re very aware that your immune system is down at the moment. That your body wants all these things from you that you don’t want to give it. You feel like shit and could sleep for a week if you wanted to, would love nothing more but to hold a warm drink and to sit with your back against a radiator. But, there’s a store to run. Books to be sold. So you ignore the question Anne has already asked you a handful of times and instead say, “When did you get in?”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell you he’s been around for the past thirty minutes already.

“Just now.”

“Do you want a drink? I can make you a coffee?” in an attempt to divert and distract, you lift a heavy arm to point behind him at the kitchenette. “Or a cup of tea?”

Joe thinks for a moment. He’d rather have you turn the kettle on than carry a heavy box of books back out to the front, so he smiles, says, “That’d be lovely.” and lets himself get told go to back and have a seat, you’ll only be a minute.

You take longer than a minute, and when you make it back into the store, you realise that the customer who you’d gone into the back for is gone, and Joe is not in his seat.

You place the big mug of hot tea on the counter, and smile at a customer who immediately takes that as in invitation to ask a million questions, and work carries on.

The day feels like it hurdles ahead, and you’re a fair few jumps behind, but at least you are starting to vaguely see the finish line, and that’s what keeps you going.

You don’t notice that Joe hasn’t sat back down. Don’t notice that he’s stopped being decorative.

He’s asking Anne what he can do, silently so you don’t hear, and she gives him blank stares before she’ll point at a shelf that needs sorting. Joe starts taking care of little tasks before you’re even aware of them, quietly and casually. He intercepts boxes, takes stacks of books from your hands with an easy, “Got it,” like he just so happened to be there whilst he was looking for something for himself to read.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the heavy things stop being quite as heavy.

Stacks are already moved before you can get to them.

Paper bags restocked before they run out.

Ladders already put to the sides so they stop being a trip hazard.

At one point, suddenly, the floor’s empty. No customers. No more people that need to be helped. Silence takes over and you find Joe’s mug of tea, still full, but now cold, right where you left it. You half-expect him to materialise in front of you because he’s crossed your mind, just like he did before, but he doesn’t.

He’s not sat in one of the armchairs, not up on one of the ladders.

Did he leave?

Surely not.

He’d have at least said goodbye.

Has he wandered into the back room again… has he– the sound of soft whispers interrupts your train of thought. You step aside poke your head around the corner of a bookshelf to check. 

When you look, it’s just Anne who’s straightening a shelf, and Joe is crouched on his haunches, one book balanced on his leg of which he’s reading the back with intense focus like he’s on a very important mission.

Both Anne and Joe look up at you simultaneously.

“Oh sorry, you’re… sorry,” you quickly mutter, because you’d never want to disturb someone who’s reading. That’s against the rules.

“Hey. Everything okay?” Joe asks easily.

You hesitate. The pressure behind your ears pulses.

“Yea,” you say slowly. “I just thought I heard…”

“Radiator,” Anne says flatly. “It clicks.”

You nod, embarrassed with yourself, and you retreat. The mention of the radiator reminds you of the one underneath the windows in the store front. How nice it would be to feel the heat of it on your lower back. When Joe’s tea comes back into view, you decide you can refill it. Give him a nice fresh warm mug-full.

Behind your back, Joe waits until you’ve stepped back behind the counter and then looks at Anne, relieved you didn’t catch them huddled together and whispering about you.

Then, he mouths, “I’ve got an idea.”

Anne just stares at him, unimpressed.

“Do you think you could close early?”

Her mouth twists before she sarcastically hisses, “Sure, I have that kind of power.”

Joe squints at her, entirely unfazed by Anne’s tone. “I think you do. Don’t take no for an answer, and just… be Anne for a second.”

Before Anne can swear at him to his face, Joe’s already gone, so she ends up flipping him off behind his back instead.

Joe goes to sit in his armchair, the book he was reading the back off just now in his hands, and patiently waits.

His earlier plans might have dissolved somewhat, no kisses on the horizon, he thinks. But, his current plan of getting you to sit down for a short moment that maybe stretches into a long moment feels much more important. Kisses can wait.

What if you just sat down and relaxed for a second? And what if he got to make you a nice mug of tea? Give you the sandwich that Anne tried to slide your way earlier? What if you ate that, and then fell asleep for a second? Anne could lock up, and Joe could carry you to bed, no problem. A kiss to the forehead still counts as a kiss, doesn’t it?

When you step out about a minute later with a steaming mug that you’re carrying with both hands, Joe wants to wave you over, but then sees you’re already on the way.

“Lovely, thank you,” he smiles at you with a carefully innocent expression on his face when you place the mug down on the sidetable next to him. “Hey,” Joe stops you. “Whilst I have you here. Quick question.”

The door opens, the bell above it rings, and the customer that steps inside brings in a cold rush of air.

You hunch both shoulder up on reflex. “Um, can it wait?”

“Probably,” he says, smiling wider. “But it’s about this one.”

He holds the book out to you, thumb tucked into a page like he’s already halfway through. You recognise it instantly. It’s a book you remember recommending to him, but you can’t quite recall the conversation or the reasons you’d given.

You take the book from his hands without thinking.

Turn it in your hands.

Read a random sentence half way down the page.

And Joe, without missing a beat, turns toward the rest of the shop and shushes the general area. A customer halfway down an aisle actually pauses mid-step, but Anne quickly informs them not to pay the idiot out front any mind.

“Shh.” Joe frowns at Anne, and she’d have taken massive offence had she not understood what he was doing.

Confused, you turn around to see why Anne is uncharacteristically quiet.

“No, don’t worry, look, it’s um…” Joe sits up a little and redirects your attention to the book in your hands. “Halfway down the page… did you– have you read this yet?”

You have, but it’s been a while.

You should move. You should shut the book and go back to the counter. You should remind him that you don’t have time for this, that you skipped lunch, and there are still boxes half-unpacked, and customers to help, and…

Your eyes snag on a sentence.

Then another.

You glance over the page at Joe who sits patiently, waiting for you to keep reading, and your mouth opens to protest, but then your body betrays you.

You’ve stopped moving, and now suddenly, everything catches up.

Your legs ache. Your shoulders sag. The cold seeps in properly now that adrenaline isn’t holding it back. All of the sudden you become acutely aware of the tightness behind your eyes, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your spine.

Joe sees it happen.

He holds a hand out, lowers his voice, and gently says, “Come sit.”

“I can’t,” you murmur automatically, but then Anne is there, pushing the other chair into place with her knee.

“Do I need to tell this annoying customer to leave, or…” she pauses, eyes darting between you and Joe, and it takes a second before you realise that you are helping a customer right now. Joe, technically, is just another customer in the store front with a question about a book.

What happens next is a weird blur.

Joe takes his book from your hands, and Anne replaces it with Joe’s tea. You let yourself be guided down, but you only sit in the chair for a second before you’re moving yourself onto the floor. Your back settles against the radiator beneath the window, right between the two armchairs, and the heat seeps into your bones immediately.

“Here,” you see how Anne passes a paperback to Joe to give to you. “She was killing herself over not finishing this yesterday.”

You’re already holding a hand up to take it from him when something else happens. Joe uses the backs of his legs to push his chair back a little as he stands up, and then he moves to sit beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What, no. We can’t both sit on the floor…”

“Oh this is nice. Toasty.”

“There’s two empty chairs now,” you mumble weakly, nodding at them.

Joe just grins, moves your tea closer, leaves a book in your lap and then gets back into his own. “Shh. I’m reading.”

He leans in close enough that his shoulder presses into yours, solid and warm, his book open on a whole different page. It might as well be upside down, this idiot isn’t reading at all. You want to say something, but then one of his hands slides over your knee, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles through the fabric of your trousers, and your eyes fall to your lap.

You were reading this yesterday.

Wanted to finish it so badly, but the words had started swimming until the pages looked like they’d been misprinted.

You give Anne a last glance, just to check if she’s getting on okay. She’s behind the register and seems absolutely fine, and so… fine.

Okay.

You can sit and read for a second.

Even if you couldn’t, it’d be really difficult to get up now.

You open your book, find the right page, and try to focus. You manage to read about half a paragraph before the words start dancing and same thing happens again. It’s so annoying. It’s unfair that your favourite thing to do becomes impossible when you’re feeling poorly.

An annoyed huff escapes you.

When you focus your eyes on the shelves on the other side of the room, you’re fine. But when you direct your vision back into the book in your lap, it goes all funny. Maybe it’s just that your eyes feel too heavy. When you look down, they’re not far removed from closing entirely.

Joe notices, but only because he’s pretend-reading and not so secretly watching you. He wants to ask you what the issue is. If he can help. If it’s okay for him to grab your arm and press kisses from your wrist all the way up to your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything though.

You’re trying to read, and Joe knows the rules.

He reaches over, gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles brushing your cheek in the process and he watches you close to eyes to the sensation. He does it again just because it looks like you liked it, and God, you feel so warm.

“Have you been like this all day?” he asks softly, words only meant for your ears and no one else’s.

“All week,” you confess, smiling a little guiltily.

“Oh now that’s not good, is it?”

 “Yea well,” you shrug, and shift a little so there’s enough layers between your back and the heat of the radiator, making sure it doesn’t burn your skin.

“Here,” Joe shuffles with you, pulls your jumper down at the small of your back and then moves his arm up so it lays across your shoulders.

You’ve never sat like this before with him.

Most of the time, you’re just sort of… staring at him from the other side of the room. Sometimes you’ll get closer and you’ll sit in the armchair opposite him, knees touching and eyes sparkling with joy. Other times he’ll get closer and you’ll bump hips behind the counter. Being closer to Joe was always nice and exciting, but you hadn’t quite understood how much your body had craved to be pulled into his side like this.

It’s nice.

It’s a little weird, you’re on the floor of your store and there’s other people present, but you feel hidden away enough for it to be so, so nice.

Just when you think you can either try reading again or give up entirely and just… stare at words, Joe moves his other hand to turn the book in your lap his way a little. You turn your head to look at him, realising how close you are, noses nearly touching, and then he starts reading out loud from the top of the page.

His voice is low, and you think that even if people sat down in the chairs right in front of you, they wouldn’t be able to hear him.

“Oh, you don’t have to…” you start, but Joe raises his voice a little, just enough to drown you out and shut you up. The hand that curls around your shoulders moves to push your head into his shoulder until it rests there, and then it moves to pull you closer so your side fits perfectly against his. He lets his thumb trace absent shapes along your forearm, all whilst he very steadily keeps reading.

“Joe,” you whisper again. “There’s people.”

“Anne doesn’t count as people.” Joe only barely keeps his chuckles inside of his throat. They almost escape, but he presses a kiss into your hair to hide it.

“Heard that,” Anne says blunty from where she’s stood behind the desk, and all you can do is smile. Let your eyes drift shut. Sag into Joe who just moves so he can support you more.

You could fall asleep here.

You could actually very easily fall asleep right this very second, you think, but then you suddenly jolt as the door pushes open and the bell rings again.

“Don’t,” Anne snaps, already moving. “If you get up, I swear to God– hi, afternoon! How can I help you?”

You sink back instantly, chastened.

The woman who has just wandered in takes in the scene, smiles, and then says she just wants to browse. You watch how Anne nods and steps aside before she gives you a curt nod and gets back into position behind the register.

Joe leans in closer, lips brushing your ear. “She’s been trying to make you sit all day,” he whispers. “You’ve been skipping lunch.”

Your throat tightens. The last thing you’d ever want to do is worry Anne.

“Yea, sorry,” you murmur, not entirely sure who you’re apologising to. You look at the teenager at work in your store for a moment and decide she’s a super star who deserves a raise.

“She does.” Joe says, and you turn your head to face him, confused because you hadn’t realised you’d said that out loud.

You’re close enough to feel Joe’s breath on your lip, and after looking at you for a moment, Joe chances it. Can’t help himself. He leans in just a little and kisses you square on the mouth. It’s only a little peck, his mouth gone before you’ve even properly registered him there. You frown a little at his absence, let your throat release a small little whine, and it’s enough encouragement for Joe to kiss you again, but properly this time. One of his hands disappears into your hair, holds you by the base of your skull, and the other finds your face to touch.

You barely kiss him back.

With your eyes closed and your movement controlled by Joe’s fingers, you’re letting yourself be kissed at most.

It’s lovely.

It’s soft, and gentle, and sweet, and it’s the only thing that’s happening right now on planet earth, you’re sure of it, nothing else going on, just you and Joe on the floor of your bookstore, slowly kissing by the radiator.

When Joe pulls back again, you move with him until you can’t anymore. Your head tips forward, and your forehead touches his chin.

“You’re falling asleep,” Joe laughs through his whisper.

“No ‘m not.”

“Mm. Okay. Let’s read then.” Joe taps the paper gently. “Page eighty-nine.”

You don’t read.

You just listen.

Curl up into Joe’s side, head on his shoulder, his arms around you, and lightly doze to the baritone of his voice. At some point, Joe pulls your legs so they sit over his lap and you’re not sure if you’ve ever felt more comfortable in your life.

Joe keeps reading. Doesn’t pause, doesn’t falter, doesn’t lower his voice when your breathing evens out and your body finally gives in to the weight of the day.

He keeps going while Anne closes up early without comment, she knows the rules, while the lights dim one by one, while the shop settles into that particular hush it only ever reaches after hours.

He keeps reading as you sag further into him, all warmth and trust, your head heavy against his chest. Keeps reading long after your eyes have slipped shut. Long after Anne’s clocked out and gone home.

He’ll read until the radiator’s burned his back pink and his legs have gone numb beneath you. Why wouldn’t he?

He’s got you asleep in his arms.

The shop is quiet.

Everything else can wait.

Joe thinks about the kiss he came in for. About how he got his wish. But then he looks down at you, and realises this is it.

This is why he loves this place so much.

Kisses are merely a bonus.

This is why he keeps coming back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

---

The Taglisted

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You heard his key in the lock, then the door open and shut, followed by his shoes being kicked off with too much enthusiasm.

Fuck.

This guy had had a good day.

“Babe?” he called, voice bright and echoing down the hallway.

You contemplated keeping quiet. Maybe, if you stayed perfectly still, he wouldn’t pick up on you. He would maybe think you were in the bathroom, or the bedroom, or that maybe you’d fled the country. Would it be too late to flee the country?

“Babe?” Joe called again, closer now, footsteps carrying him into the living area where you turned your head and pressed your cheek harder into the sofa cushion to try your best and hide inside of it.

He stepped into the doorway and stopped. There you were. Sat on the floor by the sofa, head turned away from him, phone in your lap.

“Oh,” Joe said, but soft this time. Not alarmed, but just adjusting his tone slightly. “Hey. How we doing? How was your day?”

You made a vague noise that was meant to serve as a nice greeting as well as a warning regarding how you were currently feeling.

Joe took a couple of steps into the room and stepped around the coffee table. You could see his socks out of the corner of your eye now.

“Why are we on the floor?” he observed. “Sofa not good enough?”

“Mm,” you hummed, voice flattened into an annoyed groan.

Joe chuckled softly as he pulled at the fabric of his trousers on his thighs before raising a leg to step over you. You ducked into your shoulders slightly as Joe sat down, right by your face, and his thigh became your new view for just a second before you turned to look down at the phone in your lap again.

“It’s very comfortable up here, you know,” Joe said casually, shifting to settle in, one leg either side of you. His weight dipped the cushion under your forehead, making you sink a little further into it.

“I know,” you muttered dryly. “My face agrees.”

“Then your bum would too.”

The lack of argument or playful offense made Joe frown slightly as he leant forward a little. He was fully expecting to at least have gotten a head raise so you could show him an eye-roll, but all he got was meek agreement and an unusual lack of energy.

“You all right?”

“Mm.”

Joe shifted in his seat and you could feel the movement through how the cushion dipped beneath your face. Then, warm careful fingers slid gently into your hair right at the crown of your head.

Your throat tightened instantly, and you couldn’t help the slight flinch away.

“Sorry, I can stop?” he replied, fingers stilling.

You paused.

“No, keep doing that, actually,” you corrected quietly, shoulders sagging somewhat. Joe’s fingers resumed, and the soft scratching at your scalp made you shiver.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“All right… what kind of nothing was it?”

You frowned into the sofa where Joe couldn’t see it as he waited for your answer in silence.

“Just, regular nothing.”

“Was it I-spilled-coffee-on-my-white-shirt nothing, or my-entire-nervous-system-is-crumbling-under-unmet-childhood-needs nothing?”

You inhaled the deepest breath you’d ever inhaled and held it for a moment before letting it out in a huge sigh. You didn’t really want to talk about it.

“I’m just trying to get an accurate reading on what I’m looking at here,” Joe said softly, moving your hair all to one side of your head with both his hands as fingers raked through.

“The second one.” you admitted in a mumble.

“Ah, the premium nothing.”

You bit your lip and thought of not saying anything else, but then before your brain could really catch up, your mouth had already said the words, “Dad called.”

You kind of thought the world would stop for a second. That Joe would freeze, and that his tone would shift and that everything that already felt terrible would go to absolute shit.

Except… nothing changed.

Joe’s hands kept doing what they were doing at the exact same pace. The rug underneath you still felt just as soft, and the sofa you were resting your head on still felt comfortable enough for you to not want to move much.

“Mm,” Joe hummed, and then maddeningly gently repeated himself. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Even if your father had just called to ask how you were doing, the fact that he called at all was enough to have ruined your day. The week, even. You hadn’t been able to shake the absolute dread you’d felt when his full government name popped up on your phone screen as the call had come in.

“I think it does,” Joe countered as his fingertips now started moving your hair over to the other side, causing tingles all the way down your spine. “You don’t usually deem yourself unworthy of comfort like this.”

You didn’t answer, simply because you didn’t have any words to share. Instead your just focused on breathing for a second, lungs a little shuddery, but not enough to for you to cry.

Joe nudged your shoulder with the inside of his knee.

“Hey. Look at me?”

You shook your head the smallest amount, forehead rolling along the fabric.

“No.”

“Why not?” His fingers slid slowly from your scalp towards the nape of your neck, scraping lightly with his nails.

“Because.”

The harshness of sweet friendly eyes that belonged to someone who supported you only existed because you’d grown up with a pair of eyes which had done the exact opposite. That contrast was a lot and even though it wasn’t Joe’s fault, the reminder that laid within that difference was really difficult to bear sometimes.

You felt how two careful hands moved your hair aside before fingers found the neckline of your top and Joe let a hand sneak into your shirt to rub down the warm skin of your back.

“Mmokay. We can do it like this, too.”

You grumbled a little.

“Yea, yea, I heard you,” Joe smiled. “I’m just not going to let you sit like this for the rest of the night. Sorry.”

Your chest did a weird traitorous thing where it relaxed and tensed up at the same time. Joe’d inflicted a small wave of panic by ignoring your perfectly clear instructions to abandon you. How dare he.

“My batteries are empty,” you told your jeans.

“You know what I’m going to say,” Joe leant forward a little more to get his palm all the way down your back before it rubbed back up to the nape of your neck where he let his fingers disappear into your hair again. “I’ll recharge them.”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to.”

“You’re sat on the floor, darling.”

You scooted a little closer to the sofa, attempting to burry your face even deeper into the cushion and make yourself even smaller.

“So what? Let me sit. I’m allowed, there’s no rules against this. It’s none of your business.”

“Hey.” Joe raised his voice a little, not having what you were dishing out. “I feel like it’s at least a little my business. Can you tell me what happened? Why did he call?”

“He just…” you started, but then stopped. Your brain hit a wall it didn’t know how to climb over. “I don’t know. I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Joe then said on an exhale, no skepticism or challenge, just soft acceptance. He flattened his palm against the side of your head before giving it a little push to tip it to the side. “So you’ll just be sad and tired on the floor tonight?”

“Mhm.”

“All right.”

You blinked into the cushion, confused by how quickly that knot in your chest loosened a bit at his permission. You didn’t actually want to be sad on the floor all night, but the lack of expectation to be anything else felt like a relief.

The sofa dipped a little to the side, and when you looked up, you saw it was because Joe was trying to make eye contact. You granted him some for just a second.

“Hey,” Joe said softly, eyebrows knitted up with pure sympathy at the look of you. “I’m going to ask you some other annoying questions, okay?”

“Okay.”

Joe’s hands kept moving steadily through your hair, sometimes tracing the line of your skull, sometimes scratching lightly at the base of it. It felt disgustingly good, soothing in a way that made your eyes sting.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Yes.”

“Coffee doesn’t count.”

“It’s bean soup.”

“Doesn’t make it count.”

You swallowed and shifted slightly, your bum started going pins-and-needles.

“Then no.”

“And like, water? Did we have any? Have we hydrated at all today?”

The mug you’d left on the coffee table was still full, Joe’d seen.

“Mmno.”

Joe’s thumb dragged a slow line along your temple through your hair.

“Do we think sorting that might change your mood, a little?”

You knew he was right. Dealing with childhood trauma as well as adult disappointment was logically going to be easier without the brain fog and the slight headache you’d given yourself by not looking after yourself properly. You gave Joe the tiniest of nods, followed by, “And a shower.” in your smallest voice possible.

“And a shower, or... a bath?” Joe suggested, and yes, actually, you would fucking love a bath.

“A bath.” you exhaled, that knot loosening half a millimeter more.

“And then, maybe–” Joe lowered his voice, like he was sharing a secret. “Have a think about this, because if you don’t want to, you genuinely don’t have to, but if you asked me, I think it would actually really help and make you feel better… maybe, after, like eventually, you can tell me about what happened? Perhaps? No pressure, but, you know…” Joe tried making light where you only felt darkness, and you couldn’t help but let a humourless chuckle escape you.

“I don’t want to make it… a thing, though,” you mumbled. “It’ll become a whole thing if I talk about it. I’d rather it stayed nothing.”

“Things are fine. I can deal with things.” Joe’s hand never left your hair. “You’re a thing, and look at how I’m dealing with you. Nothing I can’t deal with.”

“I’m not a thing.”

“You’re my thing.”

You tried to smile, eyes flicking up to see Joe with your cheek still squished against the cushion.

“Look,” Joe started gently, but you could tell you were in for something that he called ‘tough love’ which was actually the exact opposite. It just so happened to be that Joe giving you the softest love ever imaginable made you react in a way that made Joe feel like he was being a bit harsh. “You’re allowed to be a bit of mess– a thing, sorry, a thing, without wanting it to be a massive crisis, but… you also don’t have to pretend it’s nothing just so I don’t worry. I’m already worrying, anyway.”

You let out a noise of protest that absolutely wasn’t a whimper as his knuckles brushed your ear, tucking a stray piece of hair away unsuccessfully.

“I’d actually love it if you shared, because then at least I’d know how much to worry.”

You wanted to be annoyed, but unfortunately his fingers had found that perfect spot at the base of your skull and were making little slow circles there.

“You gonna let me worry the wrong amount?”

“I just… I don’t even know what to say. How to explain it.”

“You can start from the beginning? If that would make you stop freaking out…”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“No?” he asked gently. “What does it feel like inside of your head right now?”

You hesitated for a moment, and then finally lifted up your head to look Joe in the eye. You could see how Joe had to try his very hardest not to say anything for fear of reacting wrong and sending you right back, face down, into the sofa.

“Loud.” You admitted. “Like, static.”

Both of Joe’s hands found your cheeks to cup as he ignored the way his heart splintered from the look of you, and instead focused on solutions.

“So food, hot drink, bath? Or hot drink, bath, food?”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat.

“Or, at the risk of a meal tasting of soap, all at once?”

You let out a wet little laugh that surprised you.

“Yea? All together at the same time?”

You let your eyes close as you nodded, and Joe took the opportunity to lean down and press some soft kisses to your cheek, right under your eye.

“Can you stand up?”

“Mm,” you groaned, not because you didn’t want to, because Joe’s quick fixes did actually sound great, but the effort that was going to be needed to get your up onto your feet felt like a mountain you weren’t equipped to climb. The rug had moulded to your hip, and sitting upright already felt like a lot of change for a brain that didn’t want any, let alone standing up completely.

“Need a hand?” Joe moved to get up from the sofa, but then paused in case he was going to have to take you with him on the journey to being vertical.

“No, I–”

His hands had already found yours to pull at as he stood, and through grunts and reluctant laughter, some kisses and a tight embrace, Joe got you onto your feet right in the spot where you’d been sat. He took a moment to hold there you as you stood together, two strong arms around your frame, before he squeezed your sides and blew a raspberry into your neck.

“Okay, you, get naked and find the words to tell me about your nothing, and I’ll sort everything else.”

Joe hadn’t fixed anything big or profound. The world outside was still the same. The phonecall that your dad had surprised you with had still happened. All the noise was still there, still loud, but… it felt a little less spiky.

On a scale of I-might-talk-later to the-vault-is-closed, you fell somewhere in the middle. Door cracked, but the lights still off. You knew Joe was going to sit by the door until you’d turn the lights on. He’d wait until your brain would come back to you a bit more.

This was nothing he couldn’t handle, and just that thought alone was enough to make you smile.

You hadn’t planned to have your evening turned around like this by Joe.

It’d just sort of… happened on its own.

Fortunately.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan

Both Mark and Joe had offered to be the one to help you shower, but were both quickly ushered out of the bathroom by Poppy. Whilst you were in there, Mark fiddled with the thermostat twice, straightened the lampshade, ignored Joe as best he could, checked his text thread with your mum four times even though there were no new messages coming in… And now he’s standing at the foot of the bed, looking around to see if he’s missed anything and chews the inside of his cheek.

You don’t know why there’s tension.

Why it feels a little awkward.

“You comfortable? Do you need anything else?” Mark asks for what must be the fifth time.

You can’t help the long and theatrical sigh that leaves you. “Yea, actually. I need you to sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet.”

His face drops slightly, guilty, and then he drags a chair closer to the bed before he sits down. He doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, so he clasps them tight, both his elbows balanced on his knees.

For a second, it’s just the quiet hum of the radiator, the muffled sounds coming from Poppy rummaging next door and the beating of your own pulse in your ears.

You move to sit up a little more and push the duvet down, hoping it’ll cool you off a little. You’re halted when Mark suddenly blurts the words that have been on his mind since the hospital.

“I didn’t like that. Today.”

You blink at him. “Yea no shit, today was awful. Skiing isn’t for me, like I always said it wasn’t.”

“No, I–” he stops, swallows, and tries again. “I didn’t like the way that I might as well not have been there.”

You frown slightly, a little of it confusion, a little of it discomfort. This feels like it’s going to be a heavy chat.

“Wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d gone straight back to the hotel.” 

You understand what he means, but… it feels a little childish to bring it up like this, all accusatory. Mark didn’t feel like he was needed, and now he feels excluded… and, well, you just had a shower sat on a stool with his wife in the room, helping you rinse the shampoo from your hair. There’s bigger things to care about at the moment, you know?

But you know he’s right.

The instinctive grab for Joe’s sleeve when you laid on your back in the snow was something new. It repeated itself in the hospital and, it’s only now that Mark is bringing it up that you realise he’s right. The way your body overrode your brain and found him, Joe, instead of Mark… you’re caught in the echo of it now, guilty and defensive and tired all at once.

“Mark…” you start, sighing.

“I know. I know.” Mark runs a hand through his hair as he leans back into the chair. “I sound like a jealous boyfriend. I’m not. It’s not that, you know it’s not like that. It’s just…” he surprises you as he lets out a ragged laugh, seemingly frustrated with himself. “It’s always been me, hasn’t it? That’s what I do. Have done. Since school…”

You want to argue, but you can’t. It has always been him. That perfectly summarises the entire foundation of your friendship. It was always Mark who held your hair back when you got too drunk. Always Mark who scanned the rooms you were in, just to check if he needed to stay close.

And today, it hadn’t been him.

His presence at the hospital made you feel better, absolutely… but today, it wasn’t Mark.

It was Joe.

You’re not sure what that means. This is new territory and you understand why Mark’s decided to mention it, no matter how silly or awkward it might feel.

Mark stares into space for a moment, then shakes his head. “Today sucked.”

That gets a smile out of you.

“Yea, it did.”

You kind of hope that the conversation is done now. Mark’s voiced what was on his mind, you awkwardly listened, and now, you can move on. But then his eyes flick to yours, and something changes in his face.

“I remember when Poppy and I became more serious.” His voice has dropped a bit, steadier now. “It was weird. And brilliant. It’s… it’s kind of like that, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“You and Joe.”

“Well, I don’t–…” you’re absolutely not going to compare whatever you and Joe have to your best friend’s marriage.

“It is. It’s like that.” Mark determines. “God. Did you feel like this, then?” Mark asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I hated it. For a second, I really hated it.”

You don’t know what to say. For whatever reason, Mark’s words sting a little, though not in the way you’d expect. It’s not like a knife, but more like a pinch to the chest. Sharp enough to notice, but not deadly in the slightest.

“I’m sorry.” Mark apologises.

“No, don’t be.”

“No,” Mark laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “I am sorry and I should be. I can’t believe I’m just realising now that I replaced you without even thinking what that would do– how that might’ve been for you…”

“Mark…” you whisper, but you don’t know what to tack onto it. You’ve never felt replaced. You were just… you were given some breathing room you hadn’t asked for, and, sure, maybe it didn’t really help that Poppy was and still is the most stunning girl you have ever seen, but replaced isn’t the right word.

“It’s funny, I talked to Joe about this when Poppy had weird emotional moments about… well, you know how we used to have fights about how close we were–”

“Are.” You correct.

“She was never jealous, is what she always said, but… God I sound pathetic. I’m jealous of my best friend’s boyfriend.” 

“Gross, don’t say it like that,” you say automatically. “He’ll always be Poppy’s best friend before he’s anything else.”

Mark lifts his eyes to yours, and for the first time all evening, a slow genuine smile appears on his face.

“Yea… I don’t think he is anymore.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself, though your face feels hot. “You’re insufferable.”

“I know,” Mark slaps both his legs, then gets up. “And you’re… moving on. Growing up.” Mark wildly gestures around, humour in the lilt of his voice as he steps around and pushes the chair back in its place. “You’ve found a person. Someone who isn’t me, I can hardly stand it.”

He turns to look at you and sighs like it hurts him. “I should be happy. And I am. I just… need a minute to catch up.”

You’ve had boyfriends before, yet Mark has never been this dramatically sentimental about any of your previous relationships.

It’s because he knows there’s something different about this one. It’s cringey and embarrassing and you want this conversation to be done now, but there’s a part of you that truly appreciates that he initiated it.

You reach out, clumsy over the brace and blankets, and he meets you halfway, gripping your hand tight. It’s the same grip he’s always given you, sturdy and loyal, unflinching and terribly platonic. It’s exactly how you like it, but it’s not the same anymore, and you both feel it.

“You know that I’ve been with Joe for months already, right?” you joke and look at him like he’s got the intelligence of a wet toastie.

“You know how I always say that the men you date aren’t good enough for you?”

“Oh God,” you’re already groaning. “And Joe is?”

“No. Joe’s maybe the worst one.” Mark says, catching you off guard. “But I guess I can sort of stand him, so… hey, are you okay? You’re… you’re sweating.”

“Yea it’s fucking boiling in here, this bed feels like the sun.”

Mark laughs, and his laughter kick-starts your own.

Just like that, it all feels normal again, and through giggles Mark helps you get more comfortable.

It all feels normal as the duvet gets removed and the window opened, just for a little bit.

It all feels normal when Mark smiles as you push his head away before you pull him close again to hug as you tell him to come lay with you a second, because listen, no one will ever replace him, is he joking, because, and this is so annoying, sometimes you look at Joe and he’ll look all dopey and he’ll ask what? instead of just knowing what you mean, isn’t that so fucking stupid?

Mark gets comfortable in the spot next to you and laughs harder than he’s done all day.

It’s normal and like it has been but slightly different.

Better maybe.

Different and better, but definitely normal.

Downstairs, the lounge bar smells like woodsmoke and mulled wine. Every chair has been upholstered in burgundy, and the scattered lamps cast the room in soft golden light. Poppy sprawls in an armchair, like she owns the place, hair still wet from helping you wash yours.

Joe walks over with two drinks from the bar, and before he’s even looked at a chair to sit in, Poppy orders him to take a seat.

“Sit. We need to have a chat.”

Joe halts entirely to give the space in front of him a deadpan stare, then sighs and obeys, but puts a drink down in front of Poppy before he does.

His best friend watches how his knee restlessly bounces, giving away how his body’s holding onto nerves he won’t admit to feeling out loud.

Poppy lets the silence hang just long enough to annoy him, and then says, “You know there’s no going back now, right?”

Joe’s head jerks up. “What?”

“After today. The hospital. I know Mark’s already had his whole that’s my best friend talk with you ages ago, but, I’m not sure if you realise what you’ve got coming still…” Poppy grins, sort of glad she’s about to share a version of her husband with Joe that he’s not gotten to experience yet. “You’ll be fine, but… be prepared is all I’m saying.”

“I think…” Joe starts, going for the slowest sip of his drink he’s ever taken before in his life. “That you’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?” She cocks a brow. “Because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like Mark felt his best friend duties kick in and then got side swept by the boyfriend.” She shrugs, smug. “That’s you, in case that wasn’t clear.”

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Christ, Poppy.”

“What? You think I’m wrong?”

Joe doesn’t answer. Which is answer enough.

Poppy softens, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. “Look, I obviously know you better than you know yourself. I’ve seen you mess around, flirt your way around the world, breaking hearts you didn’t even mean to touch. But this? This isn’t you messing around, is it?”

Joe’s knee stops bouncing and he gives her a look. His voice is low when he says, “Was I not clear when I said I wanted to kiss her eyelids?”

Joe thinks he’s been very clear and open and honest ever since Poppy dragged it out of him, the big secret he’d been keeping for years.

“Oh, crystal clear,” Poppy smiles.

Poppy remembers how nervous and fidgety he’d been after having avoided her for a few days. Remembers exactly how he looked terrified as he rambled through how everything suddenly had gotten all complicated and he never wanted anything to get complicated ever because Poppy was his best friend and he didn’t want to fuck up the one thing that meant the absolute most to him.

Poppy knew he meant her then. Joe had said, “I don’t want to screw it up.” and he’d meant with Poppy.

She also knows that, if he was to say the same thing to her now, he’d be talking about you.

“I just think that Mark finally caught up today.”

Joe realises then that this is the first time others have gotten to see it. You showed them something today that they hadn’t yet seen before.

Joe’s eyes flick up from his glass to look at his best friend. “Do I–… should I go and talk to him?” he thinks it over, then makes a face. “What would I even say? Hey, I love your mate, I kind of thought you were aware? Apparently not though? Haven’t exactly been hiding that little factoid, I–”

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up. No. Don’t do that.” Poppy waves it off. “Just, let him corner you if he must.”

“Corner me?” 

Poppy laughs loudly at Joe’s bulging eyes, “He’s just seen how she trusts you more than anyone else now, and I know he’s going to want to tell you to not give her a reason not to… that’s all.”

Joe huffs a laugh, but it comes out softer than he means it to.

“God… what a day,” he looks around the lounge, sits up a bit. “The trip’s fucked, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Poppy grins, raising her drink. “But the price we paid is knowing that you’re her idiot now. Congratulations.”

“Does that mean that Mark is now fully your idiot?”

“No, his idiot parts are hers still.”

“Oof, tough deal.”

“I get all the good bits.”

There’s a moment where the two of them look at each other.

“Like his di–”

Joe cuts her off, “All right, thanks Pop. Thanks.”

By the time Poppy and Joe come back up, you’re half-asleep against the pillows, eyelids heavy, head fuzzy with exhaustion. Mark’s heard them come in, and is fussing with the window and the curtains when Poppy shakes the room up a bit, dumping an armful of snacks on the foot of the bed.

“Stole these from downstairs for you. How’s your leg?”

“Still attached.” You manage through a yawn. “Thanks.”

Poppy begins a whole conversation with you, but whilst she’s talking she lets herself get hugged and pulled from the room by Mark. She quickly rambles through wishing you good luck getting some real sleep with that stupid brace, and to treat Joe as your personal butler, and that he’s brought drinks up from downstairs for you, and that she loves you, and– the door closes.

Poppy’s the best.

So is Mark.

Jesus Christ, and Joe too.

How did you get so lucky?

You stare at your leg for a moment.

Funny. You’ve thrown yourself down a slope today and consider yourself lucky.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the softest knock on the door. You don’t answer it, but the door creaks open anyway. Joe slips inside, carrying two mugs, steam coming from the tops.

“Hot chocolate,” he smiles.

You smile, sleepy and faint. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He jokes, setting one mug down and handing you the other before he perches on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, his knee close enough to brush yours.

The chocolate scalds your tongue, but it’s kind of nice. Grounding.

You see how Joe’s studying your leg for a moment, eyes going from one strap to the next one, his index finger playing with the black velco a little before he lets his eyes trail up to meet yours.

“Poppy ambushed me.”

You snort, because, of course she did.

“Said I’m your person now.”

Your heart skips.

“Idiot, actually.” Joe correct himself. “She said I’m your idiot now.”

You can envision exactly how she would’ve said it. Her intonation, facial expression. It’s similar to what Mark said to you, but the message probably a little less emotional.

“Mark said the same thing earlier. Not really. But, the message was similar enough.”

Joe tilts his head, curious. “And?”

You’re not sure if he’s asking you if they’re right, or if he’s asking about how your chat with Mark went.

“He’s going to need a second I think,” you admit, going with the latter option. “Said he hated it. Not you, obviously. He had nothing but kind things to say about you.”

That makes him raise an eyebrow.

“Said he can sort of stand you.”

“Wow.” Joe presses a hand to his chest and acts like he’s won the lottery, “A compliment from Mark.”

You laugh, fragile but genuine.

A silence follows. Your thoughts circle the thing you almost said in a panic, the words Joe had stopped you from spilling out that the wrong moment, at the wrong time. They’d gotten stuck in in your throat like glass, and if you focus on it, you can still kind of feel them there. You ache to try again, but fear clamps your jaw shut.

So you tease instead, because that feels safer, “So. You survived Poppy’s interrogation?”

“Barely.” His smirk returns as he looks you in the eye and shifts closer, careful of your brace, to brush a strand of hair back from your face. The touch is so soft and caring, it nearly undoes you entirely.

“You seem really tired,” he murmurs.

You want to protest, to stretch this moment longer, but your eyelids are heavy.

“I am.”

“Let’s go to sleep then.”

Just like Mark had done before, Joe helps you get comfortable, tucks you in before he goes and lies down next to you on the other side of the bed.

Before you allow sleep to claim you, you whisper the softest, “I’m really glad you were there today.”

You feel the ghost of his lips press against your temple, soft and fleeting, but impossible to mistake.

He’s your person now.

“Yea. Me too.”

And Joe couldn’t be happier for it.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee, @ferfan14, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx

“All for you, sweet thing,” Eddie says, because it’s true. He sets the box on the kitchen counter and holds himself back from touching your face like he wants- there’s mystery oil caked between his rings. 

This smile is for him, coy and wanting as you say, “Why don’t you go shower and I’ll rinse off these plums? We can have a treat before dinner.”

Thirty minutes later Eddie’s all clean, dressed for lounging around the trailer, and sat on the outdoor couch of the front porch. Your feet are crossed at the ankle in his lap, back against the arm of the couch while you hold an old paperback in one hand and a plum in the other.

You’re working through the recently released syllabus material, even though your classes at the community college don’t start for another month. Eddie didn’t even pretend like he had another activity planned other than watching you eat. 

Your eyes are glued to the page as you bring the fruit to your mouth, canines the first to pierce the flesh, lips closing to make a seal around the juice that threatens to spill over.

There’s a drip that escapes down your chin, glowing and translucent in the low-hung sunlight; you make a vaguely displeased sound in the back of your throat, and Eddie’s reaching out to wipe the juice away with his thumb in an instant.

He sucks the remnants from his finger, letting the flavor sit in his mouth before swallowing. Under your feet, his thigh jiggles with energy.

When the plum comes away to rest in your hand at the back of the couch, Eddie sees the imprints of your teeth in the bite. The pulpy, deep red of peeled-away flesh exposed.

It’s what his heart feels like when he’s near you. He knows the feeling well, can sympathize with the plum in totality. What a terrifying, wonderful place to be.

The fruit lifts closer to his face as your gaze shifts, an offering- “Wanna try?”

Eddie’s mouth closes around the same spot yours did, feels the skin push then give underneath his own teeth; a bright, slightly sour taste of the outside, then the lush, floral-sweet innards. 

He nods, pulling back, swiping the back of his hand against his lips. “Damn good plum.”

In his lap, brushing against his stomach, your toes wiggle with pleasure. “Mhm!”

You take another bite for yourself. Eddie has to look away so he doesn’t black out; casts his eyes to the gently-lit windows of the Mayfields across the street, then the rustling tree line of the forest beyond.

“Been thinking about what you asked me,” you say, talking around a mouthful, picking up a thread from days or weeks ago that Eddie trips over himself to try and remember.

“…’bout if me or a giant housecat would win in a fight?”

“No.” The arch of your foot thunks into his ribs, and Eddie wraps his hand around it, pushing his thumb into the muscle as you remind him- “The one about us and different lives.”

“Oh, right.” He recalls it now, sweaty and sticking to each other after sex, mumbling in the afterglow- do you think we’ve known each other in every lifetime?

You didn’t have an answer for him then- it’s something Eddie loves most about you. However quiet you are, he knows it’s loud in your mind, answers and questions rotating constantly like a dryer stuck in its tumbling cycle. 

He loves when you share even a little bit of the noise with him. Eddie sits up straighter, waiting for your answer., and then it comes-

“I’m not sure how I feel about reincarnation. But I do know you were a prince, at one point.”

Eddie’s heart lurches in his chest and he looks at your face- calm, with a slight smile- to confirm you’re not making a joke. “Oh, really.”

“Yeah.” You take another bite- devastating- and explain- “I think I was a cook, or maybe a lady’s maid, something lower in status- but we found each other even so.”

Eddie’s thumb presses harder into the arch of your foot, smoothing up and down with his breathing- you’re painting quite the picture. Although, in all his personal medieval fantasies, you’re always the royalty, and he’s the chamber pot cleaner that lives his life for a mere glance from you. 

He doesn’t let his own perverted personal dreams get in the way of yours, though, resting and rolling his head on the back wall, looking down his nose at you with a grin- “What else?”

“Mmm. I was definitely a painter at some point. Got obsessed with you as my muse, hung a bunch of paintings up around the town of your face until I got kicked out for being a loon.”

You chase another drip of juice down your forearm with your tongue as Eddie laughs, and then you say- “I think we go back to the dawn of time, actually. Like, cave people. You made me a flower crown out of some weird thistles or some shit and I fell in love immediately.”

“God, you’re easy,” Eddie teases, his heart soaring when you do nothing but smile dreamily up at him. 

“Couldn’t help it. Grug didn’t even know how to smash two rocks together. You blew all those other cavemen out of the water.”

Eddie thinks it’s probably a bit lame, the amount of pride he feels over this statement, but smothers that thought with leaning forward to kiss you, instead.

You taste like plum, as he knew you would. In every life, he hopes he gets to know the way your lips curve perfect around his, the feeling of your fingers twisting in his shirt, the intake of your breath against his skin.

“Yea, fine.”

It’s fine.

You’re really fine.

The sour chemical burn of bleach in your lungs is proof you’re still the one in control here.

Joe finds you there, on the floor, scrubbing away at groutlines that have started to blur slightly. It’s takes you a second to be pulled from the task at hand. He asks if you’re feeling okay, though it sounds rhetorical, and you answer with a shrug. His voice doesn’t even try to hide the disbelief when he loudly exclaims, “Are you being serious?”

You glance up at him, watery-eyed, wet rag in hand. From the way Joe’s looking at you, it’s almost like he’s caught you doing something scandalously illegal instead of hunched over tiles that suddenly dance and swim in front of you.

You wave him off.

“Did you see how fucking rank the floor was?”

“You’re sweating like you’re in a sauna.”

He steps closer, crouches, presses the back of his hand to your forehead before you can stop him. His palm feels cool against your clammy skin, and you flinch away, scowling.

“Don’t start. I’m fine.”

The last thing you want is to be babied when you’re a whole adult who’s just doing a job she shouldn’t have left for weeks. Joe can either get down onto his knees and help you out, or he can leave.

Your deep frown changes something within him, though.

“You are absolutely not fine.” Joe’s voice is soft, not mocking but heavy with patience that’s already thinning. “You’re on your knees bleaching grout at midnight.”

Oh.

It’s midnight?

You hadn’t actually realised it was so late already. You’ll give him that. And sure, yea, all right, you do feel a little shaky, but it’s just that you’ve been scrubbing away for a while, and inhaling chemical fumes for a while probably isn’t doing you any favours either.

You sit up, still on your knees, resting back a little as you look up at your boyfriend who’s looking at you like you’ve genuinely lost the plot.

Huffed laughter escapes you as you move to stand, rag slipping from your hand, but your knees don’t cooperate. The tiles tilt dangerously, and you lose your balance even though you’re not even on both your feet yet.

“Hey– careful, careful.”

Joe quickly bends and catches you before you can topple sideways, arms steady around your waist. The smell of bleach mingles with the salt of your sweat, and the embarrassment of being hauled up like you’re fragile cargo makes your stomach twist.

“Joe–” you start, but get interrupted immediately.  

“Come on. Bed.”

“No I was nearly done, I–”

“Bed.” he repeats, firmer this time, like he’s bargaining with a toddler. Which checks out. You feel like throwing a tantrum like one, and do your best to wiggle free. It’s useless. Joe doesn’t let you go until he’s marched you down the hall and has deposited you onto your own sheets that suddenly feel like surrender.

You fucking hate it.

“There.” Joe says, pulling the duvet over your frame before he stands over you for a moment to admire his work: you, in bed. Where he wants you. Then, he turns and leaves, probably to go turn of the lights, or whatever.

The moment he’s out of the room, you peel the blanket off and stagger back to the bathroom. You can at least finish the last corner of the floor, just so you’ll have done it. To tick it off your mental list.

Joe’s busy in the living room, you can hear him shake out the throw blanket which he’ll take about a minute to fold in the way he thinks you want him to do it – he does it wrong every time, but it’s cute that he tries. It ensures you get enough time to get back onto your knees and quickly scrub at the last couple of grout lines that you haven’t touched yet.

You manage about three of them before Joe walks in and stares at you like you’ve grown another head.

“Oh yea?” he says, almost threateningly. “Is this how it’s going to go?”

“The place is a mess.”

“You’re literally fucking wheezing with the effort to–”

“I’m fine.” you bite. “Just… give me a minute.”

Joe just looks at you a moment, then nods. “All right. If you say so.”  

And it’s precisely that moment in which you realise that fighting back and winning was never the goal here. Joe leaves you there, on the floor in the bathroom, to stubbornly do what you set out to do. Regret sits heavy in your gut, but you’re not one to admit that to Joe, or to yourself.

This battle repeats itself in smaller ways the next morning.

You’re wiping the counters whilst swaying like a drunk, and Joe swiftly confiscates the spray bottle. When you glare at him, you get a kiss on the cheek, then the tip of your nose.

You strip the bed – you sweat through the sheets in the night – and Joe has to physically remove the duvet from your hands. When you tell him the sheets needs washing, he says, “You need washing.” before you get pushed into the shower.

You sort through the recycling until your vision goes spotty, black dots floating across the air, and Joe takes the cardboard box from your hands. Says he’ll finish the job for you as he presses a palm over your forehead that you briefly lean into.

Each time you insist that you’re fine, and each time his exasperation grows a little sharper around the edges.

The afternoon blurs.

You nap so hard you wake up disoriented as fuck, not sure if it’s dawn or dusk or neither. You ache all over and there’s a cool dampness on your forehead – you find a washcloth Joe must’ve put there.

Everything about how you feel says it’s the flu. A seasonal chill that’s taken your whole system hostage.

It fucking sucks.

You can hear Joe moving around in the kitchen. Drawers opening, cupboards closing, the muffled scrape of a chair against the floor… The sounds are steady and reassuring, and your body is heavier than stone. You close your eyes again, and let yourself melt into the mattress until you can’t tell where you end and the sheets begin.

When you wake again, the smell has changed.

Vegetables. Garlic. Onions softening in a pan.

You push yourself upright and get up onto your feet, throat sore, blanket dragging along the floor behind you as you wander out, half-floating.

In the kitchen Joe is squinting into a bit pot before he turns, wooden spoon in hand, hair messily pushed back by his glasses which he seems to have forgotten are still there.

“Hey. You’re supposed to be resting.”

“You’re making soup.” You say it like you’re surprised. You are always the one making soup. Joe’s never made soup before, you don’t think.

“Correct. I’m making soup. Go be horizontal.”

“When did you go shopping? I was meant to go and get–”

“You’re not going anywhere. Sit.” He tries to sound stern as he gestures toward the table like you’re unsure of where to find a chair to sit on. It’s just that your hair sticks up funny on the side and he has to try really hard not to smile at how adorable you look. Especially when you sit, stubbornly upright, watching the pot steam with a vacant look in your eyes.

If you would just fucking let Joe take care of you, your life would be so much easier, Joe thinks. His life would be so much easier.

But you were meant to go out and buy yoghurt, because you’d ran out, and tomatoes – had Joe thought to buy tomatoes? Cheese? You’d also ran out of coffee, and Joe always got the wrong kind for the machine, did he even… had he…

Your head drops to the table before you can stop it, cheek pressing against the cool wood, ear filling with the thump of your own pulse.

How long had you slept for?

And why were you still so tired?

You don’t even remember him setting a bowl of soup down in front of you, but there it is, broth gleaming, steam clouding your vision a little. His hand brushes your hair back from your damp forehead, and you don’t have the strength to argue anymore.

“Thanks.”

“Please have more than you think you need.”

“I’ll try.”

The next morning you try to put on your coat. Joe comes back from the bathroom to find you sitting on the floor, one boot half-laced, scarf knotted haphazardly around your neck. Your eyes are glassy, and your breath whistles in your chest.

“Where are you going?”

“Store. You didn’t get any cheese.”

His mouth drops open. “Cheese?”

“Or coffee. And you always get the wrong kind, so.”

“You’re not–” He cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is there a list?”

“No, it’s just that. And tomatoes, actually. Did you also pick up some–”

“List.”

You sulk but go to find some paper to scribble all of it down, hand shaking. He snatches the paper, jams his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, and kneels where you’re standing to untie the boot you’ve managed to half-mangle around your foot.

“Stay. In. Bed.” Each word is punctuated by a tug of laces.

He’s got a point, you think, sort of dizzy even when you’re stood completely still. Joe leaves, door clicking shut, and the silence in the flat presses down on you. For whatever reason, breathing doesn’t feel like it comes naturally anymore, but is more of an active task that takes real effort, and when you lie back down in your bed, the ceiling swims.

You drift in and out of uneasy sleep, fever dragging you under and away from everything that aches. You think you can hear him come back a few times, but each time it’s your ears playing tricks on you. When eventually he really does come back, bag rustling and feet stomping, you’re not convinced it’s actually him.

Joe doesn’t mind that you don’t come to check on him.

He prefers that you don’t, actually.

He thinks you’re not even close to the hump of it, of this bug, and he desperately wants you to stay in bed and rest. Get through the worst of it sooner rather than later. You’re just stretching it out by not giving into it.

It’s unfortunate that Joe’s right.

Your fever climbs higher that evening, and time all but collapses.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you wake up periodically anyway.

With sheets sticking to your back, fabric damp and cold, you wake up convinced it’s the morning. It’s not. It’s the middle of the night when Joe gently lifts you just enough to slide a clean shirt over your head, muttering soft apologies to your groans.

A little later you wake again, and you’re sure he’s right beside you, brushing hair from your face, but when you open your eyes there’s only the dark blur of clean laundry in the corner of the room that you still haven’t put away yet.

It’s early morning when you wake with the sense of falling, limbs jerking. Joe’s hands catch you, and his voice is soothing in the dark as he whispers, “You’re okay, I’ve got you. You’re fine. Go back to sleep, I’ll be here.”

Dreams spill into reality, and it’s all nonsense images: soup bubbling over like a volcano and flooding the flat, Joe’s arms too long, cartoonish, but always steady and reaching out to hold you. It’s shadows moving wrong, stretching too far, somehow too dark yet not dark enough.

Joe’s voice anchors you.

It’s nice.

Low and insistent, cutting through the haze.

It’s the second morning of not feeling great, but you’re sure you’re better now.

You feel better.

Fine, like you said you were before, but for real this time. Definitely well enough to stand, to move, and to reclaim some dignity.

You fold the laundry you abandoned a couple of days ago, stack the piles with meticulous care, and ignore the way your arms tremble after five minutes. Dishwasher’s next. After that, the pile of paperwork you left on the table. You’re halfway through reorganising a bookshelf when Joe’s voice cuts through, sharp this time.

“Are you fucking joking?”

You freeze, a paperback in one hand. He’s standing in the doorway, arms down by his sides, shoulders dropped and his face tight. Not amused, not indulgent, but scared. That’s what it looks like, you realise, beneath the irritation.

“You’ve been flat-out feverish for days. And now you’re… alphabetising?”

“I feel a bit better.” You try your best to sound optimistic, but even to your own ears you don’t really sound like yourself.

“You don’t look better,” Joe steps closer and takes the book from your hand. You don’t even try to stop him. “You look like you’re about to collapse. I can’t–” Joe’s voice breaks, softer now. “I can’t keep watching you run yourself into the ground because you’re too fucking stubborn to give into it.”

“But I feel–”

Joe grabs hold of you by your face and forces eye-contact. “Give into it.” Joe bites through his teeth. “Please.”  

Something in you folds then.

Not because the fever has finally wrung you out, though it has, don’t be mistaken. But because of the crack in his voice as he’s fucking pleading with you to let your fever win.

“You’re not letting me help and… please. Please let me help.”

Your eyes betray you, filling with tears despite yourself.

“Yea.” You croak, nodding slightly so Joe can feel it. “Yea, okay.”

You give into it.

Let Joe hug you, one hand around your neck to check your temperature, the other around your middle to hold you up as your knees wobble.

Let him guide you back to bed, not fighting him when he tucks you in, when firm kisses get pressed to your damp temple like he’s sealing a bargain.

You stay here.

And, yea, okay. Maybe Joe’s right. It’s nice in bed. It’s nice to relax and to give into this weird tired feeling that doesn’t seem to want to budge.

“All you need to do is rest. That’s your job right now, understood?”

His hand is steady on your back until you’ve drifted off again.

The hours smear together after that. Heat, cool cloth, broth spooned against your lips, the sound of his footsteps creaking from one room to another, his soapy hands on you as you take a careful shower, the faint smell of lemon-scented cleaner where he’s been chasing after all the things you left undone…

Sometimes you wake to him asleep in bed next to you, sat up with his back against the headboard, head tipped back at an uncomfortable angle, mouth slack and one arm thrown over your chest to keep you in place, even in his sleep.

Slowly, the fever breaks.

The world eventually sharpens at the edges again.

You wake up two days later without your shirt plastered to your frame. Without your lungs rasping quite as raw.

Your limbs feel like they’re yours again.

You pad out to the kitchen, hair sticking every which way, and he’s there at the stove again, making tea this time. He turns, catches sight of you upright and steady, eyes more in focus than he’s seen them all week.

Joe smiles, his expression nothing but sheer relief.

“Look who’s finally human again.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you grumble, walking up and hugging him from behind, your cheek pressing into his back.

You feel guilty, suddenly, about how hard you fought him. About the way you made him drag you back to bed countless times. You press a couple of kisses into his shoulder blades, deserves so many more kisses all over.

When you’re about to mumble to saddest excuse of an apology, he sneezes.

Once.

Twice.

He blinks, sniffs, rubs the back of his hand against his nose, and you hug him tighter.

“Oh no,” you say.

“What?”

“You’ve got it.”

“I don’t–” Another sneeze cuts him off, violent enough to nearly bend him double. He groans.

Your guilt evaporates into something smug.

“Bed,” you announce, pointing him in the direction.

“Wait, no–”

“Bed.” You mimic his tone from days before, marching him down the hall while he sputters protests.

“This is ridiculous, I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” You say, sarcasm dripping from the words.

“I genuinely am, though,” he mutters, collapsing onto the mattress with all the grace of a felled tree.

You tuck the blanket around him, maybe a little too tightly, and he shoots you a baleful look that instantly makes you laugh.

“Give into it.” You repeat Joe’s earlier words. “Please?”

Joe accepts his fate a lot easier than you had done.

For the next day and a half he’s your prisoner. He moans dramatically into pillows, claims he’s dying, and refuses the soup you make until you feed him yourself like a child. You catch him sneaking to the fridge once, hair frizzy and wild, eyes dulled by his fever, muttering something about needing real food before biting into a block of cheddar.

You drag him back to bed by his sleeve, triumphant.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

“You just ingested a massive mouthful of cheese.”

“I might be dying.”

“Sure you are,” you say, smirking as you shove him back into bed. “Stay.”

He groans, but easily lets himself be babied back into the sheets. He lies down, flat on his back, arm thrown over his face, and sighs so loudly it rattles the walls. You crawl in beside him and plan to play with his hair until he’s drifted off again.

“You’re really terrible at being sick,” you whisper, fully aware of how ironic that sounds coming from you.

His reply is muffled in his elbow, thick with sleep and stubbornness both.

“Still better than you.”

Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn’t, but you laugh anyway and let the room go quiet but for the sound of both your breathing, uneven but together.

“All you need to do is rest.” you whisper.

Joe hums in reply.

“That’s your only job right now.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson

@dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia

@mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles

@overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf

@royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @xxladymjxx

You’re drunk enough that you’re overly aware of every movement you make. Of how long your coat takes to shrug off. Of the sound of the clunk of your boots by the door. The way Joe pretends to be casual about kicking his trainers into the corner, but you catch the flick of his eyes to check where they’ve landed.

He’s nervous, you can tell.

That’s okay.

You’re nervous.

Neither of you say it.

Joe’s nervousness shows in the way he offers you sparkling water he doesn’t have, checking the fridge and laughing too loudly when he realises there’s nothing but beer and half a bottle of orange juice.

Your nervousness shows in the way you perch on the edge of his sofa as if you’re not both entirely sure that you’re here for one reason, and one reason only.

It doesn’t take long.

You’ve barely settled before his hand is on your knee, the other on the small of your back, his body turned completely into yours. He’s tentative at first, then surer when you don’t move away.

The kiss comes quickly after that, all warm and messy, the taste of his last drink still on his tongue. It’s familiar and new at the same time, like you’ve both been circling around this moment for longer than either of you is willing to admit.

“You’re never going to believe his,” Joe mutters in between kisses. “But my bedroom is even lovelier than this,” Joe gets his mouth onto your neck, and yes. Yes, please.

“Show me.”

Bedroom it is.

Clothes shed in jerky bursts by the side of his bed. You position yourself so Joe can push you onto his bed, and it doesn’t take him more than a second to do so, crashing over you just as fast to keep the kissing going.

It’s sloppy, and he’s bumped into your nose more than once, but it’s sort of cute. Like he can’t help how much he wants to get his face stuck to yours.

Your bra disappears across the room, landing with a crash on something breakable, and Joe pulls back for just long enough to glance over his shoulder.

You prop yourself on your elbows, about to look too, but he’s already back on you, half-laughing into your mouth.

“I didn’t like that anyway.”

You don’t even know what it was that you just broke.

You’ll worry about it later, you’re currently stuck in the fumble of getting out of your last pieces of clothing whilst also not wanting to break from each other.

His jeans catch at one ankle and he kicks his leg like an idiot to try and get them off.

“Yea this is hot, isn’t it?” Joe whispers sarcastically, and you laugh against his throat, nails dragging down his back too sharp to be sexy but too urgent to care. When Joe’s foot is finally free, he drops himself back onto you, kisses clashing, fingers fumbling.

There’s a second where all of it feels exactly right. His hands sliding under, dragging your underwear to the side. The scrape of his teeth against your jaw, making you feel the huff of his breath, strong through his nose as he kisses you there.

All of it makes you think nothing else but, yes, this, finally.

“You gotta tell me what you like, okay?” Joe says, moving your underwear more to the side, fabric getting in the way.

This, you think. I like exactly this.

“Yea, okay,” you say breathily.

“Take these off,” Joe whispers, already helping to slide your last piece of clothing down your thighs.

It’s then that everything goes to shit.

You sit up too fast.

Jerky.

Too sudden.

Your nose collides hard with his chin.

The crack is immediate.

A bloom of pain that makes your eyes water before you even register the heat, and then it’s trickling.

Down your lips.

Down your chin.

Little droplet of blood on your chest.

“Ow–” You’ve got your hand clamped over your face before you’ve even finished the word.

Joe reels back, eyes wide, lips parted.

“Oh my God. Are you okay? I’m so sorry. Oh my God–”

It’s dark in the room, but the light from the hallway illuminates you enough for him to see the carnage when you sit up more and switch hands.

You both look at your bloody hand.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Joe’s panicking now.

You’re in pain.

It’s not the worst, but also, you’re getting blood onto his white sheets and you fear this clash will leave you with bruises that’ll stretch to your under-eyes.

You watch Joe spin on the spot, naked, like he might find an answer on the walls of his own bedroom.

“What do I do? I–… here.” He bends to snatch the T-shirt he discarded earlier, thrusting it toward you with both hands. It gives you a lovely view of the full stretch of his body from the side, which you try not to smile at.

You press Joe’s T-shirt to your nose, and can’t help the muffled laugh that’s already bubbling through.

It hurts, and you’re crying. Blood smears warm and slick between your fingers, and his sheets are ruined. You’re naked, tits out, and Joe is pale as a ghost as he stands next to the bed, still very much hard, holding himself like he’s not sure if moving closer will make things worse.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, hair sticking up from where you had your hands in it, his chest flushed with panic. “Are you okay? Let me–” He reaches to move your hand, sees the blood stain that’s soaking through his T-shirt, and recoils. “Fuck.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say, voice nasally through the cloth. Joe wishes he could believe it, but your eyes have become twice their size since you’ve began crying and it looks very, very bad.

“It’s… there’s blood everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” you repeat, dry. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

You can’t help laughing, not sure if it’s to make Joe feel better, or yourself. It escapes in a wet, shaky puff that sends more blood dripping down your chin. Joe looks on in absolute horror.

“Don’t laugh, oh my God, don’t laugh.”

“It’s a little funny.” you shrug. “Can you…” you signal to Joe that you want to get your shirt back on, arm sticking out towards where you see it in his doorway. You feel weirdly exposed and wish to change it, even though Joe’s definitely more naked than you are.

“It’s not–” He cuts himself off, already bolting for your top. He doesn’t give it to you immediately though, but disappears into his ensuite bathroom instead.

You sit there, cross-legged on his bed, underwear still around your ankles, doing your best to breathe shallowly through the clotting mess. The sheets are spotted crimson like some horror movie, and it really isn’t that bad, you’ve had far worse nosebleeds before, but the fact that it’s happening like this, now, when you haven’t even come close to actually having sex, is so ridiculous that another laugh bubbles up.

The alcohol has thinned your blood enough for it to need an extra minute to stop, you realise.

“It’s not that funny.”

Joe comes skidding back into the room with a roll of toilet paper unravelling as he moves. His dick is still standing at attention, bobbing with every step, and he doesn’t even notice.

You actually very much do think this is funny, but you understand why Joe wouldn’t agree.

He kneels by the side of his bed, hands trembling as he rips off far too many squares. “Here. Press harder. Tilt your head– no, don’t tilt back, forward, forward.”

“Joe.” You swap his bloodied T-shirt for the tissue, catching his frantic hands in yours. “I’m fine, don’t worry. It’s just a nosebleed.”

“Are you really?” His voice is high, soft, but definitely a little desperate. “You’re– you’re literally bleeding. I did that.” Joe’s holding your top in front of you, unsure of how to help you get dressed without getting blood all over it.

“It was an accident.” You don’t blame Joe at all.

Carefully, and very slowly, Joe helps you dress your top half.

“I headbutted you.” he says whilst he helps by holding the tissue paper to your nose as you get your arms in. It’s a weird but sweet dance to do with someone you were just about to sleep with, but are now… very much not going to be sleeping with.

Not now, anyway.

The mood has definitely shifted enough, and you don’t think either of you is going to be able to bring it back to where it was before.

You squeeze his fingers when you switch hands.

“Technically, I headbutted you,” you counter, lips quirking behind the tissue paper. “Equal blame.”

Joe doesn’t smile. His chest is heaving like he’s just run a marathon, and his eyes keep flicking between your face and the bloodstains on his sheets. He looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

“Hey, um... can you…” you tug him up beside you, pulling him down onto the bed. “Come here, I want to...”

You awkwardly move around each other a moment. Joe resists for half a second, stiff and guilty, all skin on show, but when he sits down next to you, you lean into his shoulder, and his arm automatically circles you.

The tension in him is tight, coiled, like he’s afraid to move.

“It’s just a nosebleed,” you murmur once more. “It doesn’t take much but a little bump in the exact wrong spot for me to get one.”

“That wasn’t a little bump,” he says darkly. “We crashed hard.” Joe rubs his chin. “Am I bleeding?” he then jokes, speaking as though he’s the one who’s crying. The little shake of your giggle breaks the tension he was holding onto within his own body.

You tilt your head back enough to meet his eyes. They’re wide, still frantic, like he can’t believe you’re not screaming at him to take you to A&E.

“Sorry for hurting your chin. That was kind of hard crash, you’re right…” you concede softly.

Joe breathes out, shaky. His hand tightens on your side whilst his other unfolds the bloody T-shirt that’s in your lap. “Having five pints before… this. Before coming back here maybe wasn’t the best move.”

“Maybe not,” you agree, lips twitching. “So how about we try this again another time. No pints. No nosebleeds.”

That finally earns a faint huff of laughter, his lips quirking despite himself.

“You’re being way too nice about this,” Joe mutters. “I wouldn’t blame you if you accidentally lose my number after tonight. If you block me. Pretend you never even met me. I basically gave you a Glasgow kiss.”

You smile, soft, reassuring, leaning your temple against his jaw. “Still a kiss.”

Joe groans, hides his burning face in your shoulder where he rubs his forehead into your skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

You laugh again, gentler this time, your hand finding his at your waist, lacing your fingers together.

The blood slows.

The panic ebbs.

He holds you like he’s scared to let go, and you let him, because sex can wait.

Although...

“Hey, do you um... do you think you can kiss it better?”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson

@dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia

@mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles

@overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf

@royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @xxladymjxx

After he explains how he heard ‘this was the hottest party in town,’ they always end up respecting his audacity and telling him the open bar runs until late.

At your wedding, he’s only got one must-have song on the list. And that’s December 1963 (Oh What A Night!) by The Four Seasons. That’s his favorite wedding song. It’s a little unconventional given his typical taste, but it almost perfectly encapsulates his history and his feelings for you.

The second he hears that opening drum beat, he pulls you away from your conversation, calling out a half-hearted apology to your grandma. “Sorry, nana! Need’ta dance with my wife for this one!”

You laugh as he drags you onto the tiled floor, his shoulders shimmying to the rhythm. In perfect sync, he sings along to the lyrics, serenading you with boundless enthusiasm. 

“Oh, I,” he whines the high notes, bobbing his head as he twirls you around, “I got a funny feelin’ when she waaaalked in the roommmm. And my, as I recall, it ended much too soon!”

Your laugh turns into a scoff of shock when he leans over to a man you don’t recognize—probably a plus-one—dancing near by, yelling, “I came in like thirty seconds the first time! You get it!”

“Eddie!” 

Pulling you in until his arms lock around your waist, he grins wildly. “What? Look at him, he gets it!”

He continues on, wholly unbothered and with hearts in his eyes. “Hypnotizin’, mesmerizin’ me! She was everything I dreamed she’d be!”

Struggling to temper your amusement, you shift your gaze to the mortified, red-faced man trying to dance away from your husband. “I’m so sorry! He’s a bit drunk!”

“Drunk on you,” Eddie excitedly purrs, dipping you low. 

Once you’re upright again, you lean in to kiss him, but he spins you out before twirling you back in. The moment you fall against his chest, he picks up your fist and uses it as a makeshift microphone.

“Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right! What a lady, what a night—ooo, pretty ring!”

You throw your head back, giggling until your eyes squint and your cheeks hurt. “Thanks, my husband got it for me,” you say, biting your lip, attempting in vain to stop smiling long enough to tease him. 

“Lucky guy,” he responds, backing away from you to do a two-step to the horn solo. With a flourishing spin, he grabs you once more, winding you around the room. “Just between you and I… you deserve a bigger ring.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah, well, this was all he could afford.”

“Maybe… But I heard through the grapevine there’s a nice, shiny tennis bracelet in your future. Somethin’  about pickin’ up extra shifts and sellin’ his body—I don’t know! Only heard from a friend of a friend.”

Before you get the chance to tell him he doesn’t need to do all that just for some measly diamonds, he’s shrugging his shoulders to the beat, gearing up for the big finale. 

“Oh, I felt the rush like a rolling bolt of thunder! Spinnin’ my head around and takin’ my body under! Oh, what a night!”

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Masterlist

So you offer it up to him. Your warmth, your presence, your willingness to sit in silence if that’s what he needs… You don’t always have words for the way his jaw clenches when he’s frustrated or how his shoulders ride up when he’s overworked, but you know how to draw a bath and sit on the floor beside it while he soaks, cracking jokes that make him laugh without quite meaning to. You know how to stay up late with him on the bad nights, how to touch the inside of his wrist with your thumb and say nothing until the storm passes.

And he lets you. He lets you be that for him.

So it’s jarring, honestly, when the ground shifts.

When you turn into the person that doesn’t want do the hugging, but wants to be the one that gets hugged.

Held.

You’re no good at it though. Haven’t had the practice.

Joe, however, is fucking fantastic at being hugged.

Joe knows how to let himself lean.

A true talent.

Joe is the one who lets you take off his coat and hold his bad days gently between your palms. He’s the one who drops his head to your shoulder at the end of a long shift and breathes you in like you’re peace and sleep and everything he didn’t know he needed until you gave it to him without being asked.

You never mind it.

Never question it.

You like being that person. Like knowing he can come home to you and let the weight go.

But tonight, it’s you who’s unraveling.

It’s a Tuesday. You haven’t cried in months, not properly. You don’t really cry in front of people.

Not even him.

Maybe especially not him.

But something small and stupid snags at you midday, something barely-there that shouldn’t matter, and then something else follows, and then another thing, and another, and by the time he walks in, keys jingling and shoulders tired and expression already softening because you’re here, the pressure behind your eyes is like a balloon about to pop.

It’s fine, though.

Joe looks like he needs a hug.

You’ll deal with whatever is making you ache behind your ribs later, in secret. For now you can pretend it doesn’t exist. You ignore the voice in your head, that sharp familiar one, that whispers that you’re only lovable when you’re useful. That says if you stopped being someone else’s gravity, you’d just silently float away without anyone noticing.

Joe gets his hug.

“Oh my God, I’ve wanted this all day.”

Your arms are strong behind his back, and he lets the whole day slide off of his shoulders. He groans into your neck a little when you tighten your grip on him even more – you’re a really good hugger.

Had lots of practice, you see.

“Can we just stand here for the rest of the evening?”

It’s a joke you would’ve laughed at had you been in a different mood. Would have maybe even seen it as a compliment, but today you press your lips into a line and duck into the kitchen with some half-baked excuse about dinner.

That feeling, that gnawing, stupid, shapeless feeling is expanding behind your ribs.

It’s only been a minute when Joe finds you sitting on the kitchen floor with your back against the cabinets, staring at your knees like they might offer answers. He doesn’t speak right away, just crouches beside you, something slow and deliberate in the way he folds himself down to your level.

“Hey,” he says softly, like the gentlest knock at the door.

You shake your head without looking at him.

“Don’t,” your voice cracks right on the edge. “Please. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

His tone isn’t accusing. Just quiet. Open.

You suck in a breath that doesn’t help.

“Just tired.”

He hesitates, then reaches out, tentative and unassuming, and offers you his hand.

It’s nothing, really. Just a simple gesture. But your chest tightens like it might crack open, and you can’t take it. You can’t. So you tuck your hands between your knees and look away, and after a beat, he lets his fall.

You hate that.

Hate how his hand looks empty now. You did that. He was just being kind, and look how fucking quickly you folded in on yourself.

You’re being too dramatic.

God, get over yourself already.

You try to.

Your thoughts are racing and none of it is kind towards yourself, but you think that if you make your way through all of it you’ll somehow come out on the other side and will be able to just get up and get started on dinner, like you said you were going to do.

Joe moves to fully sit down next to you now. Back against the cabinets, just like you.

He doesn’t push.

Doesn’t say anything.

He just… sits with you.

You’re unsure how long you’ve been staring at your knees, jaw tight and brow furrowed, when you decide Joe deserves a least a little more of an explanation. It comes out in a rush, “I just… I feel like I’m barely holding it together.”

You leave a pause for a reaction, but you don’t get one.

Joe’s quiet.

Listening.

“And I hate that you have to see it,” you add.

He mirrors your frown and asks, “Why?”

And that’s too much.

“I’m sorry, I’m being dramatic, I’ll–”

Joe stops you, “I asked why.”  

“Because I’m supposed to be–… I don’t know.” The strong one. “And you just, you must have had a long day at work, how was… are you tired? You must be tired. Hungry?” You try your best to switch gears. You’re supposed to be his person. You don’t know how to be the one who needs.

You can feel how the skin on the inside of your cheek has broken from biting on it too much.

“We’ll have dinner.” You say, moving to stand up. It’s silly that Joe found you sitting on the kitchen floor and joined you there, you suddenly realise, and you chuckle humourlessly. “Come on.”

Before you can get even close to getting up onto your feet, Joe grabs hold of your sleeve and keeps you there, sat on the tiles right next to him.

“What?” you ask, and you can hear how thin your voice sounds.

Joe’s eyes are soft when he looks at you.

“I lean on you all the time, don’t I?” he says gently, completely ignoring your questions about how his day was, or about dinner. “That’s never made me weak. Why would it make you?”

You don’t answer.

You didn’t even say any of that.

He shifts a little closer. “If you need to lean on me for a second, I’ve got a shoulder right here, ready and waiting.”

You try to brush it off, to laugh like it’s no big deal, but your voice catches in your throat unexpectedly.

Joe sees right through it. “Hey… talk to me. What’s going on?”

You shake your head. “It’s not one thing. It’s just… I keep trying to be okay. And I am, you know, I’m fine. But, like… I don’t know, I guess there’s a part of me that will always feels like… if I stop being… if I don’t… I don’t know…”

“You can say it.”

You’ve never been hugged.

“If I’m not the strong one,” God, that sounds so fucking cliché, doesn’t it? “I’ll disappear.”

You can see how that touches something within Joe that you didn’t mean to touch, and you’ve not even said the worst thing yet.

“You will disappear.”

Joe’s face drops.

Gut punch.

A moment of quiet.

You said the quiet part out loud and now, it’ll probably actually happen, won’t it?

Joe will realise that you’re right and he’ll get up and walk out of your life.

That’s it.

You’ve just gone and completely ruined your own life for yourself.

Well done.

Joe breathes out slowly, then asks, “Where did you learn that?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Everywhere.”

His hand, the one you didn’t take before, finds yours again. More gentle this time, if that’s even possible, but it doesn’t wait for you to grab hold of it. Instead, it does all the holding for the both of you.

“Silly. You don’t have to earn being cared for…”

Oh.

“That’s not how this works. I don’t love you because you’re really good at holding it together– at holding me together. Baby, I love you because you’re you. All the messy, tired, brilliant parts.”

You look down at your joined hands.

You want to believe him.

God, you really fucking want to.

But it’s hard to unlearn a lifetime of bracing for impact.

“You don’t know what you’re saying. If I really let myself break, I’ll become someone even I can’t stand.”

Joe doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t correct you. Just thumbs slow circles against your knuckles.

“Well… you’ve held me through my worst days,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I’ve never once resented you for it. Or myself, for that matter. You think I wouldn’t want the chance to do the same for you?”

You blink. Hard. Tears threaten at the corners of your eyes, but this time you don’t swallow them.

“I’m… I’m just tired,” you admit, voice trembling.

“I know.”

You look at him, finally, really look, and there’s no hesitation in his gaze. No frustration. No waiting for you to pull it together. Just quiet, steady presence.

“Just need carbs and… hibernation.” It’s not a joke, but you both laugh anyway.

“Come on,” Joe uses your hand that he’s still holding to pull you up as he stands. When you’re up, his other hand finds your face, fingers warm against your cheek.

For a moment, you think he’s going to pull you into a hug that you don’t want to give him. It’ll be a hug that he’ll want to give you because he’ll feel like you need it, and the hug you’ll give him will just feel like you’re doing him a favour by reciprocating.

You’ll be hugging him.

Not the other way around.

“Come sit with me.”

And you want to tell him that, actually, you need to get started on dinner. Like you said you were going to do. Joe must have had a long day, his call time was so early this morning.

You’re tired, but surely, so is he.

However, to your own surprise, you let yourself be guided to the sofa by Joe’s hand that pulls you right along.

You let Joe move some cushions before he makes you sit.

Let him disappear for a moment and return with phone in hand.

Let him sit beside you with his left knee tucked under your right knee, close but not crowding, his body language as open as the night sky whilst he orders food to be delivered in thirty minutes.

When that’s done, Joe looks at you and waits for you to look at him when he tells you, “I’m not going to force you to say anything. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just be here. With me.”

You let the silence stretch between you, your eyes burning. There’s a part of you that wants to argue. That wants to reject this kindness before it can disappoint you later. But you’re tired. And he’s here.

You’ve never been hugged.

Not really.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He’s right.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Then we won’t.” he simply says, and drapes an arm along the back of the sofa, not quite touching you, but just there. A quiet offer. Just like his hand earlier.

You’ve never been hugged.

You lean in.

Hesitantly at first, and then with a bit more weight.

Joe’s hand finds your shoulder, then your hair.

He presses a soft kiss to your temple, and you close your eyes.

The tightness in your chest doesn’t vanish, but it eases just slightly.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” he murmurs. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

You breathe in, long and slow, with his scent, his steadiness, his heartbeat against your arm.

You think of all the times you’ve been the one to catch him, and now, here he is, catching you.

Joe kisses you again, warm lips to your cheek, and uses his other arm to cross over your front. Wraps you up.

You’re no good at this.

Haven’t had the practice.

Yet.

“Here, lean back a little. No, into me.” Joe shuffles you into place. Makes sure the two of you fit together comfortably. “There you go.”

Held.

Just like that.

You’re being hugged.

You’re letting yourself be hugged.

“If it helps, I think you’re fucking tough as nails letting me do this.” Joe whispers right by the shell of your ear, and to your own surprise, a soft giggle bubbles up your throat.

“Not going anywhere, you hear me?”

You’re being hugged.

This hug’s for you and for you only.

Fucking wild.

“Staying right here.”

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