#datlene

Baby fusses in the crib, her tiny hands messing the blanket that affectionately was put over her hours earlier. Her small face crunched in discomfort and upset. Quiet wailing calls out for the parents. A night lamp on a dresser dimly lit the nursery, guarding the little girl from the horrors of the darkness. And yet something put her in babyish melancholy.

You toss and turn, but exhaustion forces you, pins to bed, no matter how baby’s sobs call out for your attention and care. Rustle of the sheets beside you, make your bleary with sleep eyes to open — you guess the vague silhouette in the blankets of gloominess is Alex, letting him to handle the situation you peacefully shut eyelids again, disappearing into beauty sleep with his departing steps and weeps somewhere far away behind.

A minute after you sit up as if hit with a thunder — it’s unusually silent. Anxiously silent. You look around, but Alex isn’t here. That stirs your concerns even more. Just one indulgence guilt trips you about not getting up yourself to check on Karen. You trust Alex. Absolutely. Yet it’s better to do everything with your own hands. That’s how you lived all your life — by yourself. Waning through the tiredness that sticks to you like one of these unpleasant thoughts in the back of the mind, you pull on your cardigan. The stinging feeling in the eyes hardly gives you the ability to part your eyelids. You meander in the dark room, trying not to bump into a dresser on your way to find your family.

Peeking into the room, you crack the door open, it creaks and stands near crib Alex, holding a baby, startlingly jumps. His frame turns to you with wide eyes, caught off guard, exhausted and yet with a pinch of annoyance. No one likes to be caught off guard, and he never exactly liked to be seen in his vulnerable gentle state.

“Bloody hell, love,” he murmurs, letting his gaze lovingly come back to the baby, rocking her ever so slightly, initially begging for her not to wake up. You are much better with her — little one rarely dozes off quickly with him. Alex conceives about it without a break, not even noticing that those thoughts take him down like a swamp. The possible reasons pop out in his head constantly becoming his migraines.

He still holds her very carefully as back then in the hospital when you just gave a birth to her, “Karen lost her bunny in the crib. Started cryin’.” Not even a year old, she is already attached to the stuffed creature as much as to parents. Getting older, she probably will get a name for this one bunny. Being very honest, he might have a few name variants for that poor stuffed animal covered in baby saliva and showered in innocent child love.

“Yeah, I heard… Couldn’t force myself to get up. Sorry, babe.” You nestle against his side, cradling the vulnerable head of your daughter. Hints of hair are smooth and soft against your palm, “Thanks for… y’know.” Your eyes close for a second in helplessness, knowing he understands you without words. You lean your head on his shoulder.

“It’s ‘kay.” His eyes stay on the little frame clenching bunny as if it’s the dearest thing in the world, “You’re knackered.”

You are knackered. Karen can be quite a handful. She drops plastic plates spilling all food on the floor, wants to be on the arms all the time and when you or Alex put her down, she throws an immediate tantrum. A loud one. At a very young age she already decided both of you have at her hand. Alex said to you a couple of days ago: “I have no idea how we are gonna survive later when she starts walkin’.” Neither do you.

But now she is silent. Karen’s breath is stable, full baby cheeks are pinkish, looking very squeezable as her whole. She is peaceful in her own dimension, not quite here, body curled in the blanket. Alex held her head, so it didn’t fall — the essential support. You and he look at her, still with curious expressions as if she’s a peculiar little creature. Someone who is from a different planet. A few months after her birth, Karen still didn’t become something “common”. Every day, she has the ability to bring small things that she never misses to surprise with. First smile, first laugh, first “peace” sign with fingers. You are terrified of her growing so fast, and you know he is too. Time slips through your fingers and now a wish of ABBA to freeze the picture to save it from the funny tricks of time feels familiar. It’s selfish, probably.

Never being against having a child, you still find yourself surprised by the amount of boundless love your heart can create. Alex changed too, when the prepared crib finally found a small habitant to it, he became calmer, at least that’s what he shows. You see the ocean anxiousness waves over him from time to time, especially if Karen goes out of control, but you always have his back. Some things that are natural to you, don’t sit right with him. You had a couple of skirmishes about it, and yet united exhaustion never made these arguments too long. After all, neither of you want to pout on different sides of the couch, or moreover in the bed.

A cold crawls on your skin, a sheer of early spring chillily runs over the floor. Looking up you see a cracked window — letting in fresh air in the nursery before putting Karen to sleep, someone of you forgot to close it. The lost sleep steps away, not wishing it, you feel more awake, having a baby ruined your sleep schedule fully and undoubtedly. You wrap your arms around yourself, the thin strap top underneath the cardigan doesn’t hide the sensitive nipples. Alex notices. Details became crucial to ignore these days. He puts a small frame back in the crib delicately — Karen has a sound sleep — gets sure she is wrapped in blankets and her bunny securely clenched in tiny hands.

“Forgot to close it…” He scratches his neck with a yawn, the necklace clinks faintly against his old to-sleep-in t-shirt. His eyes follow your movements as you stride to close the window, too intensely for that late hour – he just wants to catch a glimpse of your chest again. To see it. Alex feels guilty, ashamed. Conscience tells him to leave any impure thoughts. At least keep them for later. At least not in the nursery. The starvation forms in him as a disease, it drives him crazy, urges him to want the closeness he never had to you before — closer than pregnancy. He doesn’t know what it is, how that closeness looks like or what sensations should give, and yet he desires it undeniably and deeply.

You close the window, capturing the family aura away from the other world. A warm island of chaos and love. Street sounds disappear, replaced with a monotony sound of ticking clocks and steady breaths, only flows of a wind still trying to break inside. Turning to him, you see his lost-in-himself gaze, the usual one when he is reluctant to ache in the bones.

“I don’t think she's gonna get a cold,” you reassure him, knowing his tendency for overthinking, but he shakes his head.

“Not that. I…” His eyes look over your body expectantly.

Your body still hasn’t changed to the form it has been in before, swollen and not entirely healed, but he doesn’t mind. Opposite. You shy away from his touch, scarcely but do, but he just wishes to feel you the way you are now, to know what your body became, to find out what he had done to you. It shouldn’t be perfect. Alex imagined his palms sink in your body, in your skin. Caressing it, examining it with new fondness, adoring it with acquired passion. Making love can’t bring the point of proximity he so violently wants, he needs it much tighter, much nearer. To cry with you, squeeze your body in a hug until you whimper in shock of your ribs being crushed.

“Jus’…” Alex sighs heavily, with his full lungs, “I feel like we aren’t the same.” He brushes back his tousled strands, then runs down his stubble with his palm, an anxious demeanor rests beneath the gestures. Gifting a glance to the crib, he mumbles, “Guess we shouldn’t discuss it ‘ere.”

You follow him out of the room, wondering, yet having guesses, what does he mean. The night lamp is left to defend Karen from dark monsters as you quietly close the door. Rooms ring with silence, you can hear his, with a tinge of heaviness, breath, fatigue slip out in between his exhales. You sit on messed up bedsheets, he lands on the bed beside you.

“Al… We can’t be the same now when… Karen is here,” you softly explain, fully knowing it’s tough to change the way they were living — in a windless atmosphere, that subsided away with the child. Playing a fool you now, too nervous to address the elephant in the room you speak only vaguely.

“It’s… I know,” Alex grumbles at your stubborn attempt to not hear him, his palms curl into tight fists. “It’s not that. I feel like I haven’t touched you for an insanely long time. Too long a time for me to bear, being completely honest, love.” His voice is raw and attacking, words come out without any hesitation nor stutter.

Your eyes follow his movements and behavior, brows furrowed, his body is tense and clearly the topic is hot, even burning — he was waiting to finally say things out loud, to speak out. The night, the lateness, the dark bedroom, such an inconvenient moment — you both want to sleep to death, and yet it feels like the right time to finally explain ourselves. In cold shades of the night. Your delicate fingers entwined with his rough, making him look up at you. Alex’s eyes pierce you; his expression is written with disappointment about how much he probably pressures you right now, and hopefulness to feel you.

Alex bumps his forehead against your neck like a baby deer and you can’t hold back a chuckle. You love his little habits — this one might be your favorite. Nuzzling into your neck, breath lashes over your skin with a warm wave, his lips start peppering you with faint careful kisses, letting you pull away anytime. You close your eyes to let him take what he wants, your fingers find his hair, silky strands melt in between them leaving you in desire to never stop touching his hair. The softest hair you have ever touched. Uncoupling hands, his palm eagerly runs down your thigh to the knee, giving it a light squeeze. The fabric of your pajama pants is tepid, but the body underneath is characteristically hot.

The affection he gives you is silent with words but loud in caresses, you don’t have to question it. Alex is needy, he’s not the type to be loud about feelings — the words he said a minute ago probably gathered in him for a long time like rainwater in the bucket, until it started to pour out of the rims. His nose huffs over your collarbone, giving a nip to the skin here as a kitten that just endeavors to learn how to bite. Your hand languidly slips from hair to the neck, and the little hunch on his back — his posture far from the best — you massage it, and he immediately straightens a bit. That makes you smile. Trailing your fingers to the nape of his neck once again, you play with short strands of his hair here, you twirl them around your finger, tug it, holding a tuft of hair in between fingertips. He isn’t greedy about reaction, pleasant shiver runs down the back and arms, a small twitch from bliss skips here and there. The moment could be ephemeral, except it feels like a step that should be taken after a newfound life, after pregnancy and with Karen now. There are still plenty of steps to take for both of you, and you are willing to do it as long as Alex is taking them with you.

His face playfully nuzzles into your cleavage clearly knowing you will start giggling. He grins but doesn’t stop just yet, his nose slides away the clinging fabric of your strap too. You feel the satisfaction of the familiar scratching of his unkept stubble. Alex could blame everything on exhaustion, but age brings indifference to these things.

 “Alex…” you mutter through the quiet laughter.

He leaves one final kiss on your cheek, now looking at you, “Couldn’t help meself.” Just a second touch of his lips on your skin flourishes with the tingling joy inside. Alex’s smile is tired, with remnants of sleep that already feels far away, his expression is warm to the pain in the chest, skin around eyes is creased in wrinkles but makes him more adorable. His voice is rough, just how you like it, and yet still there’s the tenderness glimmers through the intonation. You can’t hold back yourself from a peck on his lips — a quick one, but both of you close eyes to not waste even that little kiss.

“You want to do it now?” you whisper against his dry lips, you could feel the dry parts he usually bites away.

Alex swallows, “Yes.” His head dips back to your cleavage, his finger hooks another strap of your top to lower it down your delicate shoulder.

You let him have his way.

His body lashes over you like a wave, an intense one, you wrap arms round his neck as you lie down on the bed. The vein on his neck thrums with silent excitement keeping it at bay, as if emotions could wake the little one in the next room. Alex caresses you gingerly for the first time, as if you are the first flower that sees the light after the long chilly winter. He palms your waist under the top, it doesn’t feel the same — something is different, and he feels the urge to get used to the new you. He lifts it glancing at you as a scared animal, in case you want to stop. His lips never cease the kisses, he licks his lips to make kisses softer for you. You softly run over and through his hair, closing eyes you let yourself sail away and only soft sighs indicate your presence here.

Alex leaves a loving kiss on the rear, then makes his way to your sternum and kisses it with a special sense. Fatigue crawls into eyelids and he decides to not stretch the moment because you are clearly tired too — to his desire to savor and go slowly he feels a tad of burning disappointment. There’s only a wish to catch up on intimacy in the morning. He lifts the top higher, the breasts are perked up just for him and not because of the cold, his lips wrap around the nipple, his eyes closing and he feels buzzing contentment throughout his body. With teeth he teases it and nips — your fingers tighten in his hair, means he does right. It awakens the tremble in his body, and you never could feel more loved than with him.

His face now finds yours again, leaving a fervent peck on your lips, and then another. Alex grinds his lower body against yours, arching into you with a groan as close as possible, his hardness in a satisfying bulge rubs against your pubic bone. You feel the rushed pulse strikes down to your lower body; the whimpering neediness appears right in your center.

“Bloody…” he mumbles out, with tightly shut eyes. He finally feels the closeness that was lacking between you and him all that time, “Fuck.”

The familiar feeling of your pajama trousers being moved down and thighs being spread, you lift on your elbows to watch him. Alex is between your legs, looking up at you as his fingers part your folds teasingly. His eyes are dark, deep, absorbing the wildness of an animal gradually appearing. Following the reaction and how your face sculpts by pleasure he gives you, his mouth dives forward to partake you.

You lift your hips with a quiet whimper asking for more, your head bends down not being able to hold your neck for longer, “Please...” you beg shamelessly.

Alex’s other hand finds his cock, keeping his head where it should be, he squeezes himself through the fabric, it sends sparkles to his head — he feels dizzy. Lifting his ass, his hand finds a way inside of the sweatpants. Closing his eyes, he touches himself, so openly in front of you, finally not lurking in the shower as previous times. Alex knows it wasn’t right. He should have told you, come to you. That felt dirty back then, treacherously, but when you watch him moving his palm up and down his shaft, relief splashes through his body to the shiver. He adores being watched, he adores your sultry gaze at him while he reaches the bottom in front of you. Focusing on the tip of his cock, his mouth sucks at your clit, then burrows deeper inside as his curled fingers slide down close to the balls. Your noiseless gasps sound like you are about to lose breath, change with soft, almost innocent sighs in the process.

“Fuck…” he curses one more time. Sensations are overwhelming, a long break made both of you sensitive to ridiculousness.

His arms find the way under your body, sprawling on your lower back. Holding, gripping you tightly, that his wrists start to hurt with tension in them, his nose nudges against your pubic bone as his tongue licks stripes through your core. Your toes curling with a deep moan — never it felt so good like now. He grips your thigh, letting you throw it over his shoulder to let his tongue get deeper into you. Alex’s mouth slurps at you as the sweetest nectar alive, as the cat licks at the milk. Your back arches and lifts from the bed. That will be a vivid memory for you just as for him.

“Al…” you mumble out, losing yourself. Everything around fades away. Just the sensations he gives you. You are sure he knows what you mean again — you are about to finish with fireworks.

“Mhm.” Suddenly his finger pumps into you, giving a break to the mouth, as his cheek is leaned against your thigh watching you closing to the edge, “Let it go. Come, love.” His voice is loving, soaked with longing.

Alex doesn’t waste time, stretching you more when he adds the second finger. He curls them inside with a winning smirk.

The sharp gasp sticks to the back of your throat when you are going through the climax. His mouth finds the way between your folds again, enveloping your clit with his lips completely, while you tug his hair to the pain in his scalp. Your legs tremble as Alex’s tongue flicks over you riding out your orgasm. He hums teasingly as if munching the cake.

Alex falls with his head on your stomach, his cock still demands for attention, but he barely can be up anymore. Not tonight, not now. Emotions and sensations take too much energy to bear, he clearly missed out that part. You gasp for breath, railing a hand through his hair, feeling how sweat strips down his forehead.

“Let me help you out too…” you murmur fervently, trying to force yourself to move not minding the pleasing after sex exhaustion.

Alex shakes his head, “In the mornin’, darlin’. Can’t move.” His eyes are already drooping. He is so quick with drifting away to a somnolent condition, usually there is not enough time to snap your fingers as you hear stable sleeping huffs.

You groan, “Alex.” That feels incredibly unfair not to give the passion back.

“Jus’ gimme a sec,” he mumbles with his rough voice that blurs with nearing sleep.

Giving up, you sigh. You untangle his hair, playing with it carelessly waiting a minute for him to reload and be able to function. First time during the intimacy you listen attentively — Karen sleeps. You breathe out, relieved. A small detail caught your attention. Being near Alex always meant enjoying, or not really, the smell of cigarettes on him. The scent gone — almost gone. The thought makes a tiny smile raise on your lips; he became very attentive about his smoking addiction since you became pregnant, and he still is. Never smoke around the baby. It’s a rule.

A quiet snore comes out from Alex. Your eyes go to him with raised brows. He dozed off, sprawled on your warm body using it like a pillow and heater at the same time.

“Al,” you whisper.

No reaction.

“Alex,” you say in the full voice.

“Wha’?” He shuddered at the loudness. What a silly innocent man. You like having him that way, just as only you can have. Tomorrow, he will be grumbling about the coffee machine and complaining about the weather. You call it the oldie pattern – every day the same, but no way you would replace him with someone else. Once, you were told that every person contains something unreplaceable when they leave, you considered it with skepticism but if Alex would leave, you know for sure there is no other human being that could match you better. It hurts.

“Baby let’s move to the pillows,” you say. Both of your bodies lose their hotness, and you have a strong desire to slip under a blanket like a cat looking for a place to hide.

He grunts lifting on his elbows to look at you, hair falls on his eyes barricading the view. Barely he can form a thought nor some answer. Alex obediently climbs on pillows after all. God, he only hopes for at least four hours, it will be enough to survive the day. Maybe a nap after lunch. If Karen will be willing, of course.

“Want to sleep for years. Like a bloody volcano,” he murmurs.

You quietly giggle, snuggling close to him. You want absolutely and entirely the same.

Lying with him in bed always makes special sense, you could feel the weight of his body near and that always brings you peace — he is there with you and safe. His arms encircle you in a loose hug, curtains are drawn letting in just a straw of light. You tuck your face into his neck sneakily breathing in the familiarity of him — his smell is your favorite, much better than vanilla or gasoline.

Alex started to snore again. He fell asleep, and this time you won’t bother him. You listen to his stable breath, look at his features, still mildly tight but soon he will look relaxed and younger. His back faces you. Your fingers feel his spine, every bone, you trace it up and down and hear a relieved sigh. Wrapping arm around him he unconsciously locks his fingers with yours, and then you let yourself sleep too.

a/n: it's not really good, i guess. i really didn't want to write smut, but thought it might have a place in the end. i write a fic that is much more important for me than this one. yeah. have no clue when i will post it but who cares anyway. bye bye.

Alex regrets about coming to Paris — it’s one of the usual visits to the woman he’s with. He doesn’t exactly regret about the city but about the company that insistently goes together with it. Evening ended sorely. Well, of course, holding back his usual snarl he ended up spilling it, not being able to wait an hour until both of them went to bed. He couldn’t care less that a spot in her bed his body doesn’t warm now.

Night flows of the wind, playing underneath his slightly unbuttoned disheveled shirt. It could be warm, but the wind insists on accompanying him. His boots echo clink bluntly at paving stones. Alex doesn’t really look in front of him or gets mesmerized with architecture — the Paris’ allure is attractive to him and yet it got dull with years of forced relationships or too familiar, actually not so exotically special views. Probably both. London was no better like a jammed record but jammed on his favorite part. A lovely pair of French passes him at this late hour — he pecked out a few words only, not learning the French to the “parfait” level of speaking nor understanding after all these years of attempts, that he forced himself to do. Now it makes even less sense than it was in the beginning, when he finally realizes his previous shallowness and the disappointing reality of a rut he is in. Made a bed lie in it, they say. He could use a cigarette right now, but only a key from her apartment jingles in the pocket of his trousers. There’s a lonesome no-one on the streets and he gets a feeling of being possible on the most stupid thing ever, whatever it is.

Brushing his hair away from the forehead. He stops to look around. A drop of water falls onto his cheek making him look up as if he could find where it was from. Alex assumes it’s going to rain, clouds look baleful, he sighs. Some man leaves a building — it’s a church — the man is old and slowly makes his way down the street opposite from him. The sight strangely tingles in the chest. Alex looks at the facade. “Saint Antoine” is right above the arc of the doors. Trees hum with a rustle of the leaves, and a few buildings away he could almost hear the Seine singing along with the current moment of solitude to Paris, enjoying the quietness that gives the night, while tourists are sleeping. He steps and leans on the massive door of a church to open it. Some places call for him and he follows willingly.

Architectural glory makes the breath catch in his throat — with powerful walls of God placed around him Alex feels like a child, small and timid, unimportant. Stained glass windows, sprinkled with abundance of colors — figures on them give a shiver on the spine and strangely he feels watched. An organ that towers over him as a threatening animal. The building is empty, deafeningly silent in comparison to the streets that never have a rest. A dim light envelops the atmosphere. He wants to see the place in the morning, during the day. How is it? Alex doesn’t think he ever saw that place or even so gave a drop of attention to it.

Leaving was pointless. She probably fell asleep and if not, Alex prefers not to go back. His steps careful — not to bother anyone, but there a woman only and an usher, he places himself down on a bench, it characteristically creaked, making him wince initially. The fatigue suddenly feels like he has weight on his shoulders. He glances at you, that appears to be a young girl, he wouldn’t give you more than twenty years old. Your eyes closed, and you don’t even seem to acknowledge him – just a bench separates him and you. Alex thinks it’s a rare sight for young people to visit church nowadays, but he doesn’t exactly believe in God. The thought visited him once in a while — God existence — in what people believe and in what he believes. Giving away the soul to God feels like coming to terms, he thinks, as if letting go, closing eyes and going only with religion and faith in charge of you. There’s still time for him to find himself trusting God. After all you open your eyes, piercing them exactly in him, Alex for a second catches himself thinking that she heard his thoughts. The habit of staring again, isn’t it? Awkwardness washes over him.

“Pardon me…” he mumbles out in English not really thinking at the moment.

“You aren’t a believer.”

Straight to the point. He can’t help but slightly raise his brows.

“Oh? Aye, I don’t.” He chuckles.

“And English.”

His mouth opens to give the answer, but you clearly don’t need it.

“I’m not French either. To my unfortunate, probably, French has a charm to them,” you trail off waving with a hand at him, “I ramble. Don’t listen to me.” Your gaze faces a central strained glass window of the church.

Alex raises his brow. What a strange persona.

“Do churches calm you?” You turn your eyes on him again. Slumped shoulders in a crumpled costume, he feels out of place here, as if he is out of place completely everywhere, but strangely you want to ask him more. An exhaustion under his eyes urges you to talk him out.

Alex stumbles over the words, never he was the one who sits in churches to experience the windless mood, “I… Well, no. Honestly, no.”

You slowly nod.

“I jus’ walked and…”

“It’s right. Was the same for me for the first time.” You nod once again. The dark sundress with flowers looks on you, especially innocent that doesn’t go with a collected voice.

Both of you fall silent.

The settled earlier numbness of tiredness in his bones dissolved as curiosity appeared. His heart beats with nervousness and hope for anything but just for more. This is interesting. It’s entertaining.

“My family. They are loud,” you sigh, smiling with twinkling love in the eyes when you mention your family, “very annoying. But here. Here, it is so quiet. Heaven on Earth.” Your sincere tone doesn’t let his eyes leave your face, the eyelashes in the dim light and a curve of the nose. Your hand is on your small cheap-looking leather purse, he notices, but you cling to it as if to something insanely worth cherishing.

Alex couldn’t say the same. He felt eerie when he just walked in, now though with you it feels different. Not that threatening as if you are the mysterious light in the darkness, unknown but safe.

“Is it the same in the daylight?” He tries to let the talk flow.

“Still peaceful.”

Alex thoughtfully nods.

The usher calls out for them, saying that the church is closing. You walk in front of him, letting his eyes follow the hem of your dress waving around your thighs. The talk, the moment — they were fleeting, and yet Alex now leaves with a sense of completeness. Talking to strangers always feels a bit special in a way. He wants you to stay in his mind for a longer time after he leaves.

The night air makes him squint at first, freshness fills lungs. Rain didn’t start after all. And still, he couldn’t find the same tranquility as you in that church. Your words urge him to give the place another chance, though — something in them or you charmed him to the foolishness — Alex wants to believe he can see it differently. You don’t rush to leave or say goodbye, you seem to let him take the first breaths as if after being reborn and then only talk.

“Would you like to have a cup of coffee?” Your arms tighten around your own frame, wind cradles you in a bad, violent way. Alex stops himself from taking off the jacket immediately — the gentleman nature speaks volumes in his head.

“Sure.” He didn't hesitate, it was said out loud impetuously.

“A cig?” You fish out a pack of Philip Morris.

“A cig.” He pulls out a thin cigarette out of the pack that you nicely proposed to him, he raises his brow slightly. Very ladylike. That’s what he says.

“Very ladylike,” he jokes with an awkward grin, “I mean… thin cigarettes.” Alex reaches for the pocket of trousers and remembers not having the usual set of things with him. “No lighter with me, love. S’rry.”

You smile, and courteously light his cig first, examining closely his stubble and dry lips that hug the cigarette tightly. The cute petite mole under his lower lip. Then you light yours. A simple share yet feels so lived in as if it’s not the first smoke both of you share. It may be one of the instances when people hit it off, but the point is not in the interests or hobbies but in the same place of the mind, when it’s just comfortable without any fizzy meanings.

A relieving drag of the cigarette fills his body. That one strikes just a tad better than others. Alex glanced at you as if just accidentally. You kind of move and sway back and forth to scare away the cold, but the shiver you have is clear.

“Are ya cold? I could, y’know…” He points to his jacket.

“No, I’m good!” You chuckle, but teeth give a bit of chatter.

Your independence humors him. Alex smiles with a nod, “Bet you are.”

Of course, you aren’t cold. He believes for sure, and yet he takes off his jacket, leaning closer to you he catches a few notes of your smell mixed with perfume as his hand, securely with too much care that can have an unknown man, places his jacket on your shoulders. Alex would like to get to know it more. His smell intrudes into your nose too, and you without a doubt want to sense it just a second longer, but he pulls away, to your unfortunate.

A café is the last place where he should be now, especially not with a girl much younger than him if presumably his woman waits for him at home. Everything got out of hand at the moment when he started to speak with you in the first place. Alex could imagine you being a nymph with how easily you made him behave unusually to himself. Alex likes you — likes you in a way of liking passing strangers that he meets eyes with, in a crowded train car. Just a glance but he gets interested. He rumbles with strangers in pubs but never has the same tricky tension of the minefield that could blow him with thousands of emotions like with you. Oh, he waits for the situation to escalate. Alex feels vague but at the same time the future seems to be clear as his actions.

You sip your coffee, still in his costume jacket -– it doesn’t suit your sundress, absolutely ridiculous but cute in a way. You ordered a cappuccino, no sugar and he ordered himself an espresso, no sugar as well. The coffee foam clings to your lips, before you lick it away, the gesture oddly makes him regret ordering just a black coffee. Having a coffee foam to lick you could stare at his lips too. None of you are saying anything, you don’t seem to want to fill the silence neither does he. For his own pleasure he has no desire to rush to prevent this comfortable quietness. Rare people pass the storefront of the café glancing at you and him and other people that found haven in this island soaked in the smell of coffee and pastries. Not just that – he can feel your perfume also. Importunate, deep and sugary notes. The scent trifles with his mind and his olfactory, it embraces him. A glass of whiskey turned into syrup — your sundress is misleading. Minutes run fast, Alex lost the track of time, but it barely bothers him — it’s one of the situations when time is out of his concerns.

“So...” you begin.

Adjusting his frame in the chair, Alex is ready to listen.

“…You don’t believe in God.”

He gives you a smile, scratches the back of his neck, “Not really.”

“Not really, you say. Does it mean there might be a place for God in your heart and soul?”

“I might save a bit of a space for him jus’ in case,” he chuckles with raspiness to it.

Now you give him a smile, “What if it’s her?”

“Then be it.” He shrugs and sips his coffee, feeling how bitter liquid splashes with the warmth down his throat. Alex doesn’t mind it, he believes that whatever religion it is, it shapes with a tinge of difference for every person – the spine is one, but traits are different. He might be mistaken. It appears he makes mistakes quite frequently. And strongly.

You drum your fingers against the flat plastic of the table.

“Where are you from?”

“Far away from ‘ere.” He sighs, “Much farther away than I’d like.” Alex sorely smiles, with a shake of his head regretting every skeleton that hides in closets of his mind, his Sheffield tattoo throbs with mental ache. The High Green he so hard tried to escape during his earlier years now calls for him in small daily reminders as smells and sounds, bringing the sense of familiarity for a second tricking him into happiness only to remind him of his miserable state with aftertaste.

Your eyes don’t miss the look on his face.

“Seems like Paris after all doesn’t make happy as everyone wants to think,” you joke. Neither does it make you happy. Being attached to the family at an earlier age you ended up in a place that you never supposed to end up in. Coming to terms with whatever it is takes years sometimes, you feel the tightness of the cage around you. The responsibilities, the suffocating city, the need to live with whispering want to disappear, the uncertainty, the sudden obscure tears. If a painless death would open arms for you, you without a second thought hug it back tightly. Every second person lives this way, so you don’t complain.

A hint of a smile appears on his lips, “Circumstances.” Unpleasantly Alex thinks of things, he so attempted to escape this night cowardly. Maybe he doesn’t deserve a way out, at the end of the day.

You hum. Something in him gives out that he is an often guest here in Paris, not an unwelcome one but the one that always wants to leave as soon as possible. You observe the way his fingertip traces the handle of the cap, then the saucer. His eyes looking down in thoughts — he is a person with secrets. Wanting to unwrap him like one of those lollipop candies, mull him in the mouth until he melts away, to your unfortunate, the wrapper seems to be hard to rip.

“You never bring stuff with you? No phone, no anything.”

“Accident.” Alex innocently smiles, “Pure accident.”

The look of innocuous control of situation and answer, the look of knowing-all, all of it calls out to you to spill your coffee all over him to see a reaction that isn’t indifference or prepared face, emotions and politeness. You want to tear into him, ravish, hideously eat and swallow.

You roll your eyes; he raises his brow.

“Strange man.”

“I hear it from time to time.” A sip of coffee. He really does hear it from different mouths occasionally. Every time he explains the simplest common things for him people look at him with wide eyes and, he believes, a hint of nuisance. Alex isn’t a fan of talking about himself, he never knows where the people’s ability to accept ends.

“Are you interested in organ music?” You contemplate his possible answer in your head as you pick up a paper napkin starting to fold it in different ways to entertain yourself.

“I’m into music,” he mumbles following how carefully your fingers move. So delicate.

“Saint Antoine will have an organ music concert the day after tomorrow. I was about to go alone, but if you are interested…” you sheepishly trail off as if leaving him more air for an answer. You never liked to be alone, but got used to it, yet crowds of people still make you feel wrong even just for being in them. Sort of an addiction — to have someone near to function properly.

Alex smiles. The way you call the church by its name indicates as if you are friends with it. Probably more friends with anyone else. Places are much more stable than people, he thinks, probably for the best. The thought of a place that always could be nice for him seems a nice thing to have. Alex doesn’t have one. He would prefer anything but people, and he has a sense that you would do the same. Never would he choose voluntarily to spend all his time with a person beside him. It is sad in a way, but Alex guards his peace, very likely too protectively.

But he gives himself a slip once in a while.

“Sure, why not?”

Alex doesn’t think of the answer just as he wasn’t thinking about the coffee question. He lets you lead him wherever you go.

Exchanging the names both of you let go of each other.

Next day, coming back late, he woke up closer to the midday, only to find out the capricious woman with clear intention to torture him with silence that clearly should conjure guilt on him. Alex couldn’t blame her and yet decided to leave it the way it is. He had thoughts to think and dreams to dream. At some point, crypt silence was a blessing — Alex had enough of trying for something he barely needs. Well, needs, of course, the breakup would whine somewhere in the back of the heart but soon would change with freedom of the choice where to be and what to say. In general, freedom in everything. Not for long anyway, it’s the want to have someone just in case that locks him in unwished connections. His comfort zone is always to suffer in some kind of way.

His body spreads in the hot water, it creates gentle ripples, and the bathtub cradles him like a crib. Alex feels almost mindless, letting the thoughts wander away in different directions. She has a disgustingly intrusive habit of walking in the middle of him showering or taking a bath, as if to appear as the main character of a chic movie and join him, mistaking his annoyance as playfulness. Except, he never really liked it, and confronting became arduous these days. The only moment when he could be not bothered by people around, and the most important, by himself, often goes to waste. Today, he locked the door, knowing she wouldn’t visit him here anyway, but to cut off the space completely between them.

Relieved, he sighs, every piece of the body dissolves, water washes away any worry that could cling to him. The gloomy day meets him in the window. His legs spread in the bathtub, every move urges water to slightly splash. A towel just beside him, to dry hands and pick up a cigarette again or a book. Alex would play that moment on a loop, wouldn’t leave the bathroom at all, knowing what expected him on the other side of the door. He feels complete with a mix of the hot, kind of stinging to pleasure water, grey skies and dim light in the bathroom. The book keeps his head occupied, but rare harmless thoughts sneak in between sentences anyway. Alex is honest now, the book means nothing, a way to pass time not uselessly, but the sense of every word read by him doesn’t hold in mind for too long.

The cigarette smell is probably palpable outside of the room, carried into the apartment. He breathes with it, inhales it, closes his eyes, and enjoys it. He dissolves, melts, close to losing his physical form. Alex grabs his practically weightless cigarette from the ashtray, takes a drag, groans with relief. Not minding everything, the day doesn’t seem too bad. Water slides against his body, in the most intimate way, caresses him with burning gentleness. From the crack of the opened window, he hears bustling French people, blabbering, clicking with their heels and rushing. Cars take most of the sound in his ears, in comparison to quiet night, he could barely accept Paris in the daylight that way. To his own annoyance it bothered him, the silence of yesterday and you, today appears in his mind as a distant dream, not real experience. His wet hand brushed through the dump strands, tugging them. Reality check-out.

The smell of coffee intrudes into his nostrils, he thinks about you, the way you licked away the foam from your plump lips. A delicious sight. Subconsciously his hand reaches for his cock, Alex closes his eyes, the back of his head meets the cold hard surface of the bathtub still holding the cigarette. Curled palm languidly moves up and down, not to bring the release, naturally without the back thought. Without the point. Without the purpose. Just the pleasure and him together. Water laps him, a few droplets escaped to the floor, a gruff hiss escaped his mouth. He mumbles out a quiet curse. The quick ripped memories of his jacket on you, of how your thighs moved under the sundress on the way out of the church are filling him through the veins straight to the brain. Dirty images flicker but don’t raise in him the same longing as the moments when he was observing you. The first thing he will do after coming out of the bathroom is sniff his jacket. Alex wants to feel your perfume.

Tiles are cold against his feet, a towel hangs on his hips. Rooms are lifeless. He searches for the jacket. A mess took over him lately, his desk became a seedling of random papers and rubbish. Alex glanced at this, shook his head. No need for saying “Later”, he won’t do it. He doesn’t want to. What’s the point? Lately, he asks himself that far more often than before, he asks with a glass-is-empty view of that question. None of it has sense or had or will. To find life’s point is the funniest thing he heard from people. That hide and seek game is never going to be won by him or whoever else. Jacket, right. His thoughts scatter irritatingly. Alex feels old. He could pass for seventeen if he just gets a shave and catches some Z’s, but sleep settles in his eyes uncomfortably nowadays. Every night dozing off comes only in hand with complete exhaustion, that feels like slow dying and nausea at the same time. And yet even in that state thoughts cradle in his head violently, every time urging him to get up and write whatever it is down. One time, second time, third time… Until he finally drops fatally head on the pillow not having energy to continue this fight.

He picks up the jacket you wore the previous night. It has the pleasant feeling of not being fully clean already, of being worn but not dirty. His nose presses to the collar of it — a ghost of your perfume, weak but making want for more. Alex buries his face in the fabric, breaths out the smell searching for notes of you. I must look perverted, he thinks. But it is out of his care. Alex likes to be strange and not seen. To be alone. To have something that even the frankest person wouldn’t share with others.

Thankfully, she has plans to meet her friends. Good for her, because Alex is going to meet… who, exactly? An acquaintance, a friend, possibly a mistress? Not a mistress, Jesus, he is too tired, old, for that affair amplua but subconsciously he does exactly that. An affair. He wants you, wants the unexplored, wants to feel a bit of the past, doesn’t he? When he was rocking the life, use you as rejuvenation potion, use you as women, use injections for a young look. Alex wants to enjoy. Simply enjoy. Enjoy as in roots of the purest bare sense of that word.

Walking out of the building, that calluses the eye more than other buildings here Alex takes a stroll again. Saint Antoine waits for him, and he hopes you do too. He feels like that night back then; his feet lead him by themselves as if he doesn’t specifically walk to that mysterious church. Mysterious? Yes, he would say so. You aren't the opposite of that definition too. After all, he knows the way he describes all of it — mysterious, unknown — it’s only his bored-out mind that tries to sell him life as one of the TV advertisements. An idea-fix. An idea-fix that will magically cure and, not so strangely, fix everything that asks for the repair.

Alex forgot how nice it is to walk alone by himself. The anxiety is here, but maybe he just needs practice. He tends to lock away from the information, people, sounds and sunlight. Not facing the world for two days at least brings out the most outrageous fears. Honestly, that’s not what he wanted. There’s a part that rots in him and slowly spreads all over his mind and body. He feels it distinctly. It turns inside of his stomach as a fetus of slow extinction. It’s there but the evening feels nice. Alex’s worst enemy is himself, the mirror’s reflection. Except on this day, he won’t let it get ruined by the darkest of his reflections.

He came first, five minutes earlier. People already started to walk inside of the church — with heavy doors opened it looks more inviting than it was before, but a trace of unattractiveness stays in his heart about that place. Naturally, he wonders if you are going to come or not. Perhaps your plans changed as the night changed the day. Alex would honestly be disappointed. Waste of time and emotions, and emotions is the last thing he would want to waste. Those feel much sacred now, the very bits that have left in him he likes to keep on a leash. Just in case they decide to run away.

To his luck you appear, just the same as yesterday. And foolishly, he feels giddy.

Saint Antoine, filled with people, oddly intimidates him even more, like all these people, young and old, you and he are here to follow sectarian chants. Alex can’t stop himself from looking around as a curious kid, hearing the irritated huffs of others about him doing so. It’s too much of an unusual atmosphere for him. His glance fleets to you - your eyes boring into facade walls blinking very rarely. He feels as if everyone is trance except him. Out of place. Alex tries to concentrate on the deep menacing sound of the organ.

“Half people here truly enjoy music, and half of them try to appear cultural,” you whisper in his ear, awaking every tiny hair on his arms and legs. “When we're gonna leave, you see those posh faces that “figured” these things from head to toes and up and down.”

Your face glimmers with mischief that knowing a secret brings. Alex mildly smiles. Not his cultural depth stopped worrying him about some years ago. That is simply out of his business.

“And who are we then, eh?” He muses what you are going to answer.

“I enjoy the feeling of belonging, that crowd and music, and Saint Antoine, of course, gives me all of this.” You pause, “What about you?”

What about me?

The first words that want to leave his mouth are “I don’t know”. Alex could be ostentatiously romantic and say it’s because of you – it would come out as incredibly idiotic his young self-like and you would probably laugh, which wouldn’t be that bad. The thing is he doesn’t really want you or the woman that isn’t currently here. With an apathy settling at his roots deeply, disliking and annoyed, he searches for a weird kind of solidarity in you.

“Solidarity.”

You smiled but not with full understanding in your eyes.

And after, none of you had said the word. The answer didn’t say a lot to you, and this kept your mind occupied for a good part of the concert. Meanwhile, Alex stayed satisfied with making a successful impression of a “strange man” as you called him, which covered his ego with honey of strange self-esteem.

Alex invited you to the hotel. It came out naturally without a word that could glimmer with hesitation. That is what was expected. He wouldn’t call you a chatterbox, but no witty remark left your mouth during a stroll to the future bond of solaces. The silence felt uncomfortable this time, palpable, and involuntarily Alex started thinking he had done something wrong. The café silence was much more pleasurable. Maybe he is the one who expected this turn? “Maybes” fills his head as frequently as possible, and this one is not an exception. His mind is boiling while outside crisps with a pacifying lack of people and bits of chirping cicadas. He is afraid of letting some thoughtful “hm” or a deep sigh — it was out of his plans to be that bothered, but Alex knows, the attempts of changing the nature he has, always backfires. Even being all this thing is an affair, Alex can’t let it be carelessly simple.

Leaving you sitting on one of the couches in the lobby, Alex went to ask for a free room, really hoping he wouldn’t have to take you to another hotel. That appears to him really awkward even though it doesn’t depend on him. You were looking around, hesitating. That isn’t an everyday thing to hang out with a man that is double your age. Considering that he invited you to the hotel, the thought suggested you being a sidepiece. You keep it to yourself. Yet. Ignorance is bliss, right?  

Thankfully there is a free room. Not because he is eager, but you know how it is.

You follow him down the hallway, holding on the strap of your bag — it brings strange comfort to you.

“I ordered us wine. Hope you drink wine,” he mutters with a reassuring sheepish smile. A common look for him, you noticed. The politest possible, for now you call it “affair”, you could have. Alex stops at the window, his back is slightly bent but still looks amazingly attractive to you, his palms rest on his own sides. He is thoughtful.

“I do…” You sit down on the bed. The blanket is nice against your palm. Velvet.

“Are ya hungry maybe? Didn’t think of…” The last part he mumbles too quietly, under his nose.

“It’s okay. I’m good.” The talk is forced just as your smile.

He looks around as if contemplating is it good enough for you or not. That would be a shame to scare you away. Should he first ask if you want wine? It probably looks too pushy. Alex rubs the back of his neck, heavily sighs. Out of shape. He shouldn’t have gotten into it.

You look at him, watching the features and wrinkles. This man is incredibly pretty, your eyes could tear up, “You are taken, right?” The words jump out of you like a sparrow, completely subconsciously and unplanned.

Breath stuck in his throat. For a second, he can’t take a full inhale at all. The guilt is written on his face. At that moment, you feel to the bones naive. It was obvious from the very beginning.

Alex shortly nods, looking up to the ceiling, “Guess, I am.” Heavy exhale leaves his tightly squeezed throat from the inside by the laces of the cursed commitment he started.

Not meaning to hide anything, Alex just decided not to tell. As if it was an illusion of being free for himself in the first place, a perfect image he could carry right to your feet. He believes you are about to walk away. Then he will drink the whole bottle alone and feel the long-forgotten sensation of liquor and drunk warmness in his body.

“I should have told, shouldn’t I?” Again, this sheepish look. And the thing is he doesn’t try to tug some sort of forgiveness from you.

You slowly nod. Even with the secret being revealed, to your probably rotten morality you don’t want to get up and leave. Which would only mean you have no right for women's solidarity in the future. If the world revolved only around being appropriate, life could be much easier, but with feelings being involved, the only desire to do the right thing is barely enough. The truth he said to you, settles down in your chest like some kind of dusty sediment, but disappear without a blink when Alex as if man that came from old times gently grabs your hand to place a kiss on it and after drops on the bed next to you with an arduous sigh.

“I would prefer to have it a different way, believe me, darlin’.” His calloused, to your eyes, hand, dry but veiny, brushes through his, you think, soft hair. It looks like one of those silk fabrics you could see in the sewing shops. The ones so beautiful to look at and so nice to touch.

“You can leave if ya want. It’s ‘kay,” This stupid smile again, shy like first rays of sunshine. He looks away to his own feet, “but if ya wanna stay, then…”

You lie your head on his shoulder preferring not to answer. Words are out of your competency.

That gesture is enough for him. Now his perfume is much brighter, something sustainable and strong, something that suits him. And the cigarette smell is here. It’s a part of him that sticks to his clothes as it’s stuck in his lungs. You sniff carefully, not wanting to give out yourself, as a wild cat getting used.

He breathes with you synchronously. You feel his mind is empty just like yours. Until the wine is brought into the room. Alex picks up the bottle to fill two crispy glasses. Fingers wrap around the bottle leaving you wishing to be it. You talk, and he does too. None of you touch the touchy topics, because surely neither of you want to discuss it.

The wine was left unfinished.

His palms started lapping your sides shamelessly, like you never imagined he could do due to his humble behavior. It came out nowhere, you were caught off guard honestly. Alex gripped your skin through the thin fabric of that appetizing sundress you wear. Forcing you on the bed, he crawls over you. You coquettishly chuckle, looking away, but he grabs your cheeks. Harshly and undoubtedly, meaning it, a gesture that is hard to describe as a mistake. His eyes lacked the sort of sheep naivety that peeked out of him sometimes. The liquor made him rough, intense and taut like a guitar string. His eyes deep, enveloping and threateningly dark, don’t remind you of him.

“Look at me,” he mutters. Your eyes are filled with doubt, and the room suddenly feels unsafe. The bones under the skin of your face start to moan with ache being clenched by his hand. Your fear makes you grip the blanket until your knuckles white.

Your face is soft, but slightly blurry. Wine always makes his vision blurry. The alcohol has a hold over him that is stronger than a hold over an alcoholic. Alex is afraid of it — the effect it causes, the things he can say, the things he might do. It’s a poison of omnipotence. The one that gave him powers years ago, the one that showed how miserable he is without it. One glass becomes the second, the second becomes the third, until all the liquor starts turning in his stomach, moved by his own disgust to himself. It’s the race he wants to win. The race that gives a prize, which is rare to behold, and hard to acquire. The confidence. The unfair prize, he never won and will never win.

Alex eases his hold; his eyes follow the way a light trace of his grip appears on your cheeks. Red and invoking. Your eyes wide with the feeling of not being in control.

“Open your mouth.” He sees that you are hesitating, scared away by his behavior, “Open mouth, love. I won’t do ya any harm.” His voice softened, and you can’t help but listen. Isn’t it a bit manipulative?

You follow his command when his palm lets you open your plump lips. Alex looks at your wet tongue, the way it faintly moves, the row of your teeth.

“Mhm…” His finger slips into your mouth, purposefully, and rubbing against the texture of your pink tongue, “And the second.” He sounds serious to the point where you are afraid to place the word in. Not like you can anyway. You suck on his fingers, looking at him as if you are programmed to do it. Alex watches without blinking, stares.

When he makes you get on your fours, you finally break the radio silence. The bedding bends under your weight, especially around your hands and knees. The sight of it arouses him just a tad more than the position your body is in.

“Never look at me that way again…” you murmur, hoping to receive a tender response.

Alex signs. The desire splashes out of him as excess water out of rims, “I won’t. Me mistake.” He lifts the skirt of your sundress revealing your underwear, lacy at the edges. That position hides nothing of your sensations. His finger traces the wet folds that hide under the damp fabric yet with an entranced face, losing the reality contact for a second. You involuntarily shudder, “May I assume you secretly liked it?”

 You glance at him with a huff, not being able to quite see him in your compromising position, “Rid me of “trembling legs” kind of jokes.” This little flare of his impertinence did both - scared and turned you on, but you won’t give him the satisfaction to hear it. Being too honest in an affair is too much of a bore.

Alex genuinely laughs, tracing the wetness with his thumb, “Whatever ya say. Girls nowadays don’t like cocky?”

“Cocky might be different.”

“Me cocky isn’t good enough?” He chuckles, not waiting for an answer, his nose tucks into your center making you yelp with surprise. His fingers hook and move away the drenched underwear, letting his tongue make a long strap over the whole you, savoring you on a tip of his tongue, which evokes crazy whimpers out of you. That, you did not expect. Indeed cocky.

Alex unbuckles his belt, quick and easy, while you take the breaths that need to be taken before the main action starts. His own breath is rugged but mild. Patience mixed with adrenaline trembles your body as leaves on the trees during windy weather. His hand goes over the shaft; a hiss slips out of his mouth. Pressing his palm against your spine, he gently pushes you down, “Bend more. On your elbows.” When you do obey, he nods, “Good.”

He sinks into you. First thrust calls out in the room with a slap of the bodies and your muffled moan. Alex moves steadily but with a harsh end to it, that strikes you with a dizzying haze of sensations. Every time he goes in and out you clench velvet with your fingers harder than before. The shame of being that open in front of a man you know only superficially becomes a strange, perverted pleasure. Every piece of you he has at his palm, every part of you devoured by him — from gripping your hips, only spreading them more, to the thrusts that flourish in your lower stomach. His curses arouse you to the peak of release. The politeness that took a backseat let the wild desire take the lead for both of you.

This was something you might call experience. Satisfaction in the barest concept. Literally too. You stayed with him just as he stayed with you. Anxiety looms in you, because it’s hard not to think that he should be in a completely different bed. You wonder what he had said to her, what is between him and her. Devilishly you think about Alex being yours more than anyone’s, when he is on the brink of falling asleep with his head on your chest, that replaces the pillow. His body is warm and heavy; you can see his eyes slowly blinking but stubbornly facing the direction of the window. Probably knowing just like you, that he should have left, for the sake of the simplicity in his life, that could have lacked any problem on the frontline of his personal life. But… Choosing any way, Alex assumes everything would wilt, it’s just the question when.

“Are you thinking?” you mutter.

“When ya ask now, I already don’t.”

You weren’t sure if he was annoyed by your interruption, but something made you not ask any more. And he didn’t ask either which only confirmed his want to have no chitchat right now. You didn’t cut yourself on his sudden change of mood, but neither was it pleasant.

In the morning, only an empty space met you. Strangely there is not a drop of disappointment — you expected it. The note on the bedside table, quick explanation and his phone number. “Call me after tomorrow.” Be that way.

The day “off” was spent sordidly. All day Alex had the feeling of not belonging to anything since doing nothing. He talked with her, only superficially, saw the spying gleam in her eyes. She probably has a few guesses.

Your question about his native places back in the cafe stirred the attentiveness, rubbed the wound. Outside having another stroll in the park, that he considered making a habit, he smelled the freshly cut grass, that was so vivid in his nostrils, Alex as if almost woke up and could clearly see the backyard of the house he grew up in. Worn out walls of his room, the kitchen that always was rich with scents, familiar voices that reassure just with the fact of being here. Memories sting his eyes. Nostalgia is always a bad feeling, he decided. The start fills him with lost warmth of the past but at the end it’s always the chagrin that gobbles him. Alex is the man of the past. Always the man of the past.

Wandering in his head, Alex found himself thinking about Los Angeles. That place was his home as well, he remembers, coming back was always an exultation and relief for him. Then he found a woman he loved. She made Los Angeles sound like The Stone Roses record. Alex remembers the “naked nights”, when it was too sultry even at night and then there’s nothing left but to sleep vulnerable and skin to skin. The swimming pool that always sounded in the air and made him unused to the silence. The salt wind that ruffled his hair, and not being the water enjoyer, the shore soothed him in the best way possible. The tall palm trees that waved in the hippie dances were careless all the time making him just as unbothered. Alex let all of it to elude being charmed by quick fun. Los Angeles was a snap of the fingers, the best song in the album and an Aperol Spritz made with a happy medium of sweetness and sourness.

The next evening, he met you once again. The same hotel. The day escorted him with the lack of any warmth, only with irritating tiny droplets in the air that no one could ever call a proper rain.

Alex had you just as before but different this time. His thrusts were slower, but still as deep. He was much more vocal. His arms were caging you in a hug as a snake, tightly and meaningfully, during making love. Yes, perhaps, you could call it that way. When you met him outside of the hotel, he grumbled a bit about you standing outside in the first place, even though you could wait for him to be surrounded with warmth. For a second during that moment, you felt like a normal woman could feel in a normal couple — cared for. Actually, you simply felt awkward waiting for him inside, paranoia couldn’t let you in without thoughts that some faces might recall that you already have been there. Thoughts of others shouldn’t concern you, but they do, because the thoughts that might appear in their heads are quite obvious. Or maybe you just overthink, hotel employees see such an extravagant number of people every hour after all.

“So…” Alex begins, his gracious yet the most ordinary fingers of the most, hold a cigarette tightly between them, “You live ‘ere with a family, eh?” Tonight, he is in the mood for a talk, and you can’t really refuse him being in the mood for the same. His frame nestled into a bathrobe just like yours as both of you stand on the balcony of the hotel room. Pile is cold under your feet and after finishing a smoke break you will quickly sneak under the blanket and, you hope, he will too. Paris brightened with the night coming. The sky is clear and stars out and about, glimmering and slowly popping in with every minute.

“I do.” You nod.

He hums, “What do you do?” His voice sounds strangely confident. That one confidence that appears in the moment and is absolutely unexplainable. The sudden wave. An electric shock.

“I study art here. Some work here and there but not enough for my own place.” You follow the way his dry lips curl around the cigarette, almost in a slow motion. He is good to watch, nice to observe and delicious to taste. You can’t stop. That’s what it was at the very beginning, right?

“Art…”  His expression is thoughtful. Light teasing rises on his face, giving him the mischief of the youth that had passed him already, “Study how to be one or what?”

You break into a quiet laugh. What an idiotic joke it is.

“Wow. Spectacular. You could be a comedian.” You nudge him and accept a cigarette that he passes to you. You take a deep drag feeling his eyes contemplate every move with mild curiosity and deliberation. Alex breaks in the small smile, that is quite his usual that you, for that short-spent time together, had grown to like. He glanced back to the room, to the bed. The messed blankets of it have the remnants of you and his scents and sweat in the most vicious way.

Not being sentimental, tonight he feels different. He feels right to the tears in your eyes. You look away to contain every salt tear that might drop on your cheeks.

Then both of you settled down in bed. His kisses are sweet and slow when he traces with his lips a path between your breasts . Alex could almost believe this — this affair — being love. As if God created you just for him and his eyes, hands only. Your body is warm, and nothing else about it could make him feel that much. The darkness of the room, the rustle of bed sheets, distant sounds of other visitors. You and he are intimate in a way he never was with any woman or man. This secret intimacy of both people that are in need and ready to seek shelter in strangers.

After the day when he said that silly joke passed one day and you met with him once more, and then after the day once again. A schedule that could never bring oversaturation for both of you to face.

She understood. Alex could tell. Her eyes looked at him differently, not when she’s angry or sad. Now she always looks at him with confusion as if he is completely unfamiliar to her man, and with every time he walks out of the door, less of her Alex will come back to her. Her face shows the fear for the ruined system her and Alex had, the one that was built scrupulously and worked till now. The disappointment hangs in the air of the apartment just as the hopelessness of a woman that can’t leave.

The clearness of Paris was only momentary. The thunderstorm came to the city when you met him again.

When he called you, his voice sounded much gloomier than usual almost the same night when you interrupted his thoughts. The words “We should meet” with a heavy sight wiped away the first happiness of being called. The weather is the one to lock in at home and that’s what you told him. Alex only answered short “At Saint Antoine”. This disarmed you. Alex could be mysterious; you give him that. With one of the excuses, you thought up since starting to see him, you left the cozy apartment cheating on it with the unpredictable thunder outside.

You found him sitting inside of the church on one of the cold wooden benches. The place is without a soul inside. You sit on the bench behind him, and Alex is thankful for that. His shoulders are bent just on the day you decide to talk to him. Vociferous thunder outside shakes the whole church and every brick of it. You have a bad feeling about this.

“Alex,” you mumble to point out your presence.

He gives you an almost unnoticeable nod. His soft brown hair twine into loose curls on the back of his head. You want to lean in and wrap your arm around him from behind and kiss the nape of his neck, to place a tiny teasing peck.

“Why…” You trail off, not being sure yourself why, “why did you decide to meet here?” Rapidly in a second you try to lighten the mood with a chuckle, “I hope we don’t plan to do it here.”

You could feel him smiling but he still didn’t turn to you.

“That would be a nice fantasy to recreate, darlin’, but…” This accent of his sounds painful right now without a reason, like a knife cutting into the skin with a hard push to it. I have a bad feeling about this. This one thought rings in the mind making you focus only on his voice. You were supposed to be untouchable and immune, so why do you worry now in the most bothered way?

“It’s time for me to leave, love.” Alex straightens and faces the big round colorful window, “I’m going back to London.”

Your heart sinks down into the toes and the first thing you say to yourself is that you expected it. I expected it. Way of coping. No, you didn’t expect it. To begin with, you didn’t want to expect it at all.

Alex doesn’t say anything, and with your breath stuck in your throat, you can neither say anything. He brushes his falling on the forehead hair; a heavy sight escapes his mouth meaning his struggle, but that doesn’t help you not to struggle.

“I should have told, shouldn’t I?”

You think about the first night back then in the hotel.

“Yes, you should have.” Your voice sounds cold, that could sound illogical, dramatic, but you didn’t want to lose him now when you just had found him. You really want to believe that you found him, that he must be yours.

It’s about the way he tells it to you. He is going to leave and after he said that to you from his mouth went only silence. You know, today is the last day you see him, or he would already say about the possibility of keeping each other’s phone numbers and calling in the near future.

Alex hoped this would go easier.

“Don’t even tell me about not wanting it to be that way.” You quietly scoff, glancing back to the massive church doors when someone walks inside.

Alex hates apologies that are truly meaningful because these are the hardest ones. His palms have gotten sweaty.

“I’m sorry for beginning this.”

You feel fooled.

You chuckle but there’s nothing happy about it, “Alex, you won’t even face me?”

You sound pleading, but he doesn’t give you a glance. You can’t hear his breath either — he stiffened as a statue. For the first time you see not the alluring secretive stranger that could cure your life but a haggard man that cowardly hides his face after every loving touch he has given you and every gentle smile he offered.

His head is fragile, bent down facing his own palms folded on his lap restlessly. Guilt sips through his veins only more rapidly after this. Alex knows that attaching strings to the person that is out of reach is his and only his mistake. Beginning this was the mistake in the first place, because no matter how he escapes it or tries to sink it somewhere down — he is a coward. Alex can’t leave and he can’t stay. The idea of breaking free makes him tremble with stinging tears of fear deep in the heart yet being his most craving desire. The rare rise of alacrity is short to accept or recognize it — it’s fleeting. You were his rise of alacrity, the change, the emotion. The barren dearth in his head clears in the moment when he hears you getting up and the bench is creaking. The sound of your footsteps becomes a foggy mirage.

You did exactly what you should have done back then on the first night in the hotel.

You left. 

a/n: finally! well, that was unjustifiably long.

okay, first of all, i just didn't really want to write the exact name for she because... we all know. no offense. just didn't want to.

second of all, the book i'm currently reading inspired me this time. there was that moment where the main character went to the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. and then boom. an idea appeared in my head.

i hope all of it is readable. yep. who even will read all this after fic thing? i have no clue. 

You are sprawled on bed after intense lovemaking, sheets rustling soothingly in the silence of a room as he shifts his body full of pleasant tiredness. Alex seems to be already half-asleep, usually dozing off quickly after sex. You run your fingers over his spine tenderly and slowly. Up and down. Shiver crawls on his skin making him lift his head from your bare chest and open hooded sleepy eyes and look straight at you.

“What?” You question quietly, raising your brows slightly, still maintaining your caresses over his back gently, a tiny smile appears on your lips.

He simply drops his head back nuzzling into your chest planting a lazy kiss on your smooth skin, leaving you without an answer. Alex mumbles something incoherent.

“Babe don’t hear you…” you say softly, your hand is running into his tousled hair. It has a lulling effect on him, making him even more drowsy. It’s a bit greasy near the roots, he probably will wash them tomorrow. He always washes them on Thursday. You like his hair in any state, in every haircut. Even when he didn’t have hair at all. Yes, that’s how love changed you.

A quiet groan with a tinge of grumpiness can be heard from him. “Tellin’ it’s warm… Nice.” He mutters, satisfied despite his grouchy attitude, leaving a light kiss on your shoulder blade, running his nose over it slothfully.

A little smile develops on your lips, you blink slowly being on a verge of sleeping yourself, feeling content with a state of things. You glance outside the window seeing slow snowflakes adorn the night sky and streets. It’s winter already, seasons seem to change every time you blink, and you involuntarily mull over with him about how time passes quickly. Both of you are old souls with deep attraction for the past and nostalgia.

“That bloody weather…” Alex grumbles out of nowhere, his voice is thick, slightly raspy, because of how near he is to fall asleep. His muttering makes you grin. He just made love to you a minute ago, but something little as the weather in the background makes him whisper quiet curses. Such a grumpy he is. It’s cute.

His smile is on a different level though. Every time when his eyes crinkle adorably, and he reveals a young boy from the depths of the ocean inside of him, you can't look away. All his smiles are saved in your heart.

You chuckle quietly, ruffling his hair lightly, placing a small kiss on his hairline. Quietness lands in the room; your two light breathing is the only sound in the bedroom, it’s too late for people or cars outside.

Fresh chilly air is flowing from the tiny gap of the opened window. Mild coldness settles on your shoulders that aren’t hidden with a blanket. His hair is melting between your fingers, and body is like a velvet against your own. Grey sheets that you both bought two years ago when moved in that current apartment are warmed against your bodies.

You feel his steady breathing on your collarbones. He doesn’t sleep but doesn’t talk either, looks on a wall of a room in front of him, zoned out, as it often happens to him.

Sometimes you like lying together after lovemaking, more than lovemaking itself. He is here, where he should be, where he wants to be, relaxed and comfortable. Often you just talk about some trivial things that don't matter after sex. Alex can grumble about weather with anyone, but now it feels very cozy. You feel like he is yours in these moments, in some strange way.

“The rice that ya made was amazin’…” He mumbles still with a zoned out face and distracted deep voice, staring at a wall with chocolate eyes of his, “Can’t help but still thinkin’ ‘bout it.” you smile, stroking his hair delicately, he emits a long humming of satisfaction closing his eyes as if soaking in touch.

He’s talking about the rice with vegetables you made for dinner. Alex couldn’t shut up earlier how delicious it is, and that you should cook that one more often. It was hours ago, and the sophisticated head of his is still thinking about rice. That thought makes you chuckle again.

Silence again. It’s comfortable. It’s always comfortable with him. You and Alex could be in one room and don’t talk with each other and for both of you it would be nice. You can read a book, and he can deliberately write something in his notebook, but each of you will look up from time to time to see how another is doing.

No rush, no worries and no need to survive in that crazy world. Tomorrow will be tough again, but for now it’s a bubble of love and peace on earth, and both of you try not to fall into slumber as long as possible to be in that little bubble of yours.

Your tender gaze falls upon his eased face. Alex dozed off, not able to be awake any longer, and you couldn’t blame him. Every day in the studio was taking a toll on him, and all your words about taking it easy were skipped or brushed off with quick reassuring positive answers. Hair fell on his forehead, a few wrinkles that he had due age straightened up in a problem-free sleep. His breathing is steady and calm, eyes are closed giving him a peaceful look. He lets out a quiet snore.

You can’t stop yourself from a giggle, covering your mouth with a palm trying to muffle the sound and not wake the sleeping beauty. Though a little laugh makes Alex flinch anyway and lift head from your chest, opening his eyes with a frown breaking his face, his dishevelled hair all over on different sides.

Alex’s face is showing the full extent of not grasping what is happening right now. “The laugh... What ‘s funny?” His hand finds your waist under a blanket brushing over it with a thumb.

“Sleep, honey.” You encourage him, still playing with his strands of silky hair. “It’s nothing.”

“What’s the laugh ‘bout?” He pressed stubbornly with a sleepy kitten-like face, hand securely on the curve of your side. You shake your head amused with a tiny smile, your hand comes to his cheek, feeling his prickly stubble with fingertips.

“Tell you in the morning. Just sleep” You gently nudge his head on your chest, and he doesn’t protest.

He closes his eyes again, exhaling and giving up. Alex is clearly too tired out to care about that small giggle now. He will ask you about it tomorrow when they both will have morning coffee in the kitchen. You won’t leave, and it’s one of the thoughts that keeps him sane.

a/n: that one is short and kinda silly and makes no sense, but that’s the exact point, i think. simple fluff. it was first thing i posted here, but deleted the day after because back then it looked much much worse… decided to edit it a bit and post it.

merry christmas! 🩶

His shades cover most of the expression, revealing only tightly pressed lips. Even in the nighttime he hides from someone — now, from you. You are leaning on the doorway, feigning casualness as Alex stands on your porch. Wanting to believe in his unreal toughness, you look, search for anything on his face, at least a tad of emotion that reveals that not-so-tough self. Of course, he is silent, urges you to say the first word. Drizzling rain douses you with an uncomfortable cold — you cross your arms over your chest to gain warmth. Not a nice night to meet guests, but you always keep your door open for him.

“Walk in.” Sounds not really welcoming, but he doesn’t judge. It’s raining and he is at your threshold with a preposition to grab back his Leonard Cohen t-shirt. Songs Of Love and Hate. Hilarious it is and yet you agreed to meet him, and Alex can read between lines. After all, he walks in.

His leather jacket is slightly crumpled, thousands of raindrops adorn it and few of them scroll down making others do the same like dominos. You let him close the door himself — no need to be courteous with him — while walking away to your dresser. You search for his shirt and have an initial talk with yourself. You are sure he left it to come back, which is brazenly already, considering that both of you have “no strings attached” thing, a very common one. You got caught, foolishly but intendedly, Alex knew you would find the shirt and call, and he also knew he wanted to come back and be called. Waiting for him to call, you wanted to check if he’s going to do it first, you gave up and did it yourself — there’s no use trying to be that prideful and foxy as him.

Both of you are just people that end up having bodies against each other from time to time, but the way he tricked you stung — you are not a fan of losing, especially to him. You don’t like to need him, nor like to let him feel that you need him. The thing is if he left it accidentally, you are sure then he would call as soon as possible. He would come as soon as possible. Being “insanely busy” he found time only today, only now. Being a detective that’s how you feel now, but maybe you search for hints where there is no place for them. Instead of having sex once in a while Alex preferred to go the hard way and start to develop the feelings, or something similar to them, because it’s obviously more cinematic for his dreamy drown mind than just fuck. And you let the fire escalate. It might be one of the subconscious things, but even here you aren’t sure.

You huff and his eyes that wander around the familiar to him view of your apartment, now pierce you. You pull out the shirt. No, it didn’t keep you up at night, but theories haunted you, in the sudden moments jumping on you.

His Mr. Nonchalance doesn’t care to take off sunglasses to at least give a glance at you. It’s so fucking irritating, you think. In moments like this you want to slap him, wrap fingers around his neck and squeeze it, making him defend himself. Hurt him that much to regret after, hurt him that badly to cure him yourself after. You extend his shirt to him, it’s clean but crumpled, enough to annoy him. You could do it specifically. Alex grabs it and fastidiously folds it. What a neat idiot, with such not a neat life.

“Cheers.” His voice is thick and faintly raspy, just a tinge of annoyance about you not being careful enough with his t-shirt. He doesn’t rush to leave, and you hate it. You hate it can’t be simple, hate that this starts to acquire concern and interest.

You aren’t the type to get into these messy situationships, you thought, but it appeared to be exactly what you needed. What your troubled mind needs. No questions, no explanations, not too close. Alex gets the eyes you give him, the sighs you let out, the arch of your body. When you feel down, you call him to ask how he has been, he, of course, answers, but already knows why you call. After all, not accepting it, you need him — people ask whys and whats, the natural curiosity, but you never had the innate desire to share. There are times when Alex doesn’t wear these damn aviators and you see, he wants to question you and everything that you both have. You want to think it’s not what he actually wants — this mess. Except he keeps silent. Is it his attempt to keep you interested or does he want to keep it — you and him — together, even at this state? You have no clue. And maybe you’d like to have one.

You feel safe when you are in control, not having feelings for him would make you a step higher, and he thinks the same to himself. Safety in control. Keeping him at arm length knowing that he wants to be closer is satisfying in a sadistic way, yet the melodramatic part of you wants to have him on a different level, on a level of normality and equal love. His breakup last but not least, that’s what changed him. Changed, but you prefer — made him hide in the shades, metaphorically and literally. Alex hides, and the person you see in front of you, one of the shields.

His eyes glued to the shirt in his palms. Now the reason to come specifically for it seems to be even more idiotic. There’s nothing he actually wants from you today, but leaving isn’t what he needs too. It’s hard to be uncertain, it drives him to the wall to be confused. Alex feels like a clown in a cheap circus made by his hands that didn’t come out quite well.

“Not going to leave?” You ask.

“I wouldn’t make all me way jus’ for a shirt,” he bristles with sarcasm, lifting his face to you. You just wish to see these eyes. The mirror of the soul, aren’t they?

You nod, “I’m not in a mood.” Meaning not in the mood for sex, you stare at him trying to look through the impenetrable dark plastic of his shades. A destructive thought urges you to grab them, throw them away and kiss him till he loses breath allowing it to escalate. The room around both of you is eerily still and silent.

He hums and voice slips with unsteadiness, “We can, er, just spend time together. Dunno.” Alex doesn’t quite believe what he is saying, sounds too risky and incredibly foolish. He lets himself get loose, lower the guard but a fleeting thought tells him, you and him might end up having sex anyway or sort of. It might be true — both of you can’t think of something to do with each other except fucking. Just watching movies or just talking feels odd if it wasn’t after the deed. That is not what he wants now, though.

You watch him, trying to understand if he’s serious or it’s another act of his sarcasm.

He lets out a low unhappy chuckle with an aftertaste of disappointment, “Stupid. Got it.” Alex backs away not even really letting himself to start, he sounds wounded and also, you assume, tipsy, “Jus’ thought it would be appropriate.” In his head, fuzzy mind, Alex winces, he sounds lame and to hell disarrayed. That’s where he always ends up, playing a tough guy look and in the sunset of the day he begs for anyone to spend time with him, since he barely can exist on his own. He remembers being a little boy that was scared by monsters in the darkest corner of the room but being a grown man, he is terrified by ringing silence and his own thinking.

Would be appropriate. Strangely you share your body and mind with him, but he shares just a body only and never a mind — you can’t imagine a woman who would sneak into his mind. Neither can you imagine it being you. There are the pieces but not the whole puzzle you have. None of your thoughts seem to make sense, unfortunate assumptions that lead to nothing, rage you and your mundane days, because not liking to share you crave to know his thoughts as he craves to know yours. You would want to be a scientist to his experiment.

You step to him and let your fingers cautiously take off his aviators. His gaze is drunk, lost in a way of hopelessness and raw vulnerability that is useless to lurk. Alex looks at you, stares but you know he wants to look away — your cheeks subconsciously blossom with pink, and heart takes a flip. These eyes seem to melt everyone and, sadly, you are everyone. There’s no trace of sweet careless youth, High Green views and rush of music, only bluish bags under his eyes and a hint of stubble you became familiar with. You noticed he never shaved smoothly with you, that means you are not that important or he tries not to be perfect as in front of these people. Again, you assume too much, but can it be different with him?

He doesn’t fight for sunglasses as you try to ease the killing atmosphere, hook them on your fitting to the curves of your body tank top — he follows the movement automatically coming back to your face.

“You look very tired,” you mumble out without any snicker but with actual care.

Alex lowers his eyes to the grimy noses of his boots, he doesn’t say an intricate satiric phrase which in his style, he only runs his hand over tousled wetted by rain slicked back hair. Every time he gets to touch them, an initiate strike to wash himself hits through his body — they feel disgustingly dirty, even though being clean and nice in the morning. The jacket’s leather squeaks, and it irritates him to tears. Alex wishes he could scream, hit the floor, grip it until nails hurt, cry in such a hysterical way that Matt and others would start to look at him with concerned expressions for once.

A strand of gelled hair falls on his forehead and you stretch your hand to place it back, you barely touch his brow when he stops your hand, sharply — he got too sensitive with you.

“It’s ‘kay.”

“Let me.” You sound too delicate, too gentle, enough to cause some to throw up. You never sounded that way with any man. No one deserved that side of yours but him. No one was at the verge as him for you, no one needed you like him, and you never needed anyone like him.

Alex sighs, fights it, but you have already taken off his shades. It’s useless and you aren’t the worst person to peel off the fake skin with. After all, you and him will mean nothing, just a little later.

The rain keeps knocking on the windows, weather leaves no positive thinking, but it would be hard anyway considering how things are going. Tonight, he looks especially ragged, it wakes the want to care about him — cup his cheeks, caresses them, strokes his back and let him sleep. Maybe force him to stay, say it’s for his own good but actually desiring him to stay.

“Let’s go to sleep, Al. It’s over for now.” You caress his cheek; his skin is velvety but cold, his beautiful brown but empty eyes glued down, and you wish not to be the thing that breaks the dam. Your smaller hand slips into his bigger one, palms are raw and familiar with creases, awakening the memories of his calloused fingers running down your legs once.

All of it he partially began himself, involuntarily, not really knowing. You aren’t there to pity him, but to calm, just help to hang on the thread. Alex gasps but somehow still alive as a caught fish on the hook, that trembles in agony.

Bringing him to the bedroom, Alex is introduced to the place, he doesn’t need to be shown around. It’s always yours or his, but in your bed, he belongs more naturally than to his own. Are those the mattress or the warmth that gives your body he isn’t sure. He carefully puts the Cohen t-shirt on your bed, and you put his aviators on the bedside table — on one that is yours, you plan to fidget with them in the morning, against his will. Without words he starts undressing, always with his back to you, his waist is good for hands to run down the sides, back isn’t broad, and frame is petite. His body is screaming to be touched, but not in a sexual way, to be perceived but in a porcelain manner. Light from the streetlight map at his toned arms, muscles are defined and moderate, taking off his shirt shoulder blades move under the skin almost in a repulsing way as proof that he still tries.

Your fingers ran over the fabric of the shirt; quite a few times you saw him wearing it. Alex has a bunch of these band shirts, you can’t hold back from stealing, wearing, it gives you some initial thrill. Someday both of your paths go separately, he finds a proper relationship, but you are sure it’s not going to be for long. The point is you are ready not to keep him. Might keep one of these band t-shirts though.

“Want me to put it on?” You wriggle the shirt holding it with a print to him so he could see it, waiting for him when he will turn to you. You want to put it on.

Alex turns to you with a slightly raised brow, “What’s wrong with that one attire?” He asks and sounds quite his usual self now as if he wasn’t dog-tired from a whole living experience a while ago, circling with his finger your silhouette in the pajama shorts and tank top.

“Nothing is wrong.” You laugh quietly which lifts his corners of mouth in a light grin stupidly you have the virus laugh. His face doesn’t seem to be strained with trying-to-look-happy effort, and you wish it to be that way, “I was trying to flirt.”

“Flirt, eh?” Alex nods, unbuckling his jeans. Every time he clinks with his belt you get a shiver down your spine. He unzips them, a line of his boxers peeks out, teasingly almost says “tug me”. Sliding his jeans down you can see the form of his cock hiding underneath the tight grey fabric — you feel the down of your stomach squeezing astutely and desperately. You get the effect he has on other women, but for you it’s not just appearance. The memories arouse you — the size, the shape, the attitude and sounds.

“Put it on then.” He grumbles as if not interested, his eyes observe the room demonstratively. His body sinks on bed with the elegance of Renaissance painting but with the fatigue of a usual human, bedsheets rumble under him, goosebumps run over his arms as it touches the fabric.

You don’t play around. The light is dim and barely you don’t feel shyness, slipping out of your faintly loose tank top, not wearing any bra you reveal delicate breasts, your nipples semi hard — you can’t say is it his look that made them like this or cold air in your apartment, but they are this way. Alex is watching, he tries to keep the quickened breath at bay, but his own heart thumps strongly to the pain in the head and all over the body. He follows how your fingers bend to pick up his t-shirt, then how the black fabric slides against your shoulders and your head slips out of the shirt. Your breasts disappear and he almost feels like he is missing it already.

“Alright, the show ‘s over. Get your bum ‘ere.” His arms encircled your hips letting you fall right against him. Right where he wants you. Alex’s voice is somewhere on a verge of enjoyment, with a nonchalant snarl that presumably should cover this exact enjoyment. His face shows faint ease as you search for a comfortable position. You toss and turn, and he mumbles under his nose about you being “a bloody storm” but with not even a bit of irritation. Stretching his hand to turn off the light, he groans flopping on a pillow that feels like it envelopes his head into sweet dreams. The miracle it is, Alex knows — a few minutes and he’s going to sleep like a baby.

Leaning your head on his shoulder, you know he will complain about arm being numb, but you have the constant desire to see his mad face. You expect him to move you away obnoxiously but his hand slides over your hip and fingers making dance moves against your hipbone. You feel sleepiness cradle into your eyelids, and tiredness that wasn’t here now caught up with you enough to doze off as soon as you untangle the blanket that gathered in your and his legs and lay it over both of your bodies. You hide your face into his neck tracing the nose over his pulse point, it pleasingly thrums, and you catch yourself smiling against his soft sensitive skin — you could swear his neck is probably flushed now. You sense the light smell of his cologne that stayed over the day and something that is specifically only his. Alex’s body is warm like a fireplace or a heater, often in the middle of the night you roll away from him, but his arms have a tendency to find you every time, sooner or later. Clingy, but cute.

Your mind is freed from thoughts for the first time since recently . It’s nice not to worry, just be where you are and your head is nicely empty, but the feeling never stays with you for long. You trace his face — he seems conflicted like he has something to say. You don’t want to encourage him, and you don’t need to. It’s one of the moments when he decides to speak up and not bury the words under layers of nonchalance.

Alex mutters, “Thanks for y’know...” His voice is more reserved than usual, sheepish, and his arm shoots clumsily to scratch his neck.

“My door is always open for you,” you say.

And Alex wonders if someone ever did the same for him or will do.

“Right. And mine ‘s open for ya.” He sounds embarrassed to say it out loud, both of you hear it.

“Sleep well, Al.”

And he does. With you he always does.

a\n: i have no idea what it is, none of it makes sense really. i just randomly wrote it and here we are. it is a second attempt to write am al and i have a feeling i might delete this one like previous am al fic.

His fingers tremble but he can’t do the first cut. It’s always the first that he struggles to do. Tears embarrassingly sting on his dry skin, feels like it tightens around the skull — a common feeling. Alex holds a stationary knife, very tight, he hesitates — it’s unnatural for a human being hurt by themselves. The sharp tip is against the soft sensitive skin, scars on him are always very noticeable and the choice to deal with difficulties this way is not the best. It’s not the best anyway, no matter the skin sensitivity, that’s what people say – Alex doesn’t care as long it helps. It’s going to heal anyway. He isn’t a fool — there should be an end to it. They, the cuts, were growing with him, from light ones they became violent ones, merciless. An addiction.

Faint scars hide underneath the plain jumpers or Adidas windbreakers as everything stays unsaid, a pocketful of secrets and regrets. His friends are amusing, they don’t talk about those kinds of things, it’s a shame for a man to be a crybaby like him. But Alex sobs, very quietly lets out only not loud sounds — to free emotions but don’t wake anyone.

The things he said, or didn’t say, the stupid joke of a friend about him, the way no one sees. Never sees. The things he could do better, the things he messed up, the things he can’t do, the things others can do but not him. He wonders what he could’ve done wrong in that life or previous. Sometimes he looks up to the ceiling, whispering and asking “God, why?” There’s no God but Alex wants to reach out for anyone. There’s no one. It’s only him. No one else.

The blade goes into skin, hesitantly but harsh and quick — Alex doesn’t pity himself, that pain is well-deserved. He takes a breath, a shuddering one, wipes the single salt tear on the cheek. His disheveled hair from hours of mourning starts to stick to the forehead, and the blanket pulled around the legs starts feeling hot and annoying, the t-shirt clings to the body and the room narrows on him, the borders of things around him get blurry.

Taking a leap, it dissolves all emotions. Alex feels like an empty package from some toy. The hatred and torture leaked into cut on the wrist not leaving for him anything but blank mind. Voices are silent in his head, cuts euthanize them, they go to the void. There’s no “Want to drink water” or “I’m tired.” The moment is quick, could have no sense or any importance, like a chore, but cuts will remind him of themselves for a few days, giving him the thoughts to think in the middle of the day or after classes on the bus.

His arm is trembling, and blood starts to slowly appear in the place where skin was damaged with his own hands, but it’s not the end. He goes underwater, goes deeper, presses the blade with loathing. Alex cuts again. And again. And again, until the stationery knife doesn’t fall on the bedsheets naturally. He shivers as if being splashed into cold water, but it’s only common aftershocks. Alex wants to cry out from pain, physical and emotional.

Night light falls onto his act, looking almost cinematic. Blood appears on every of the cuts, gradually, but then it will look like water droplets on the spiderweb, until they get dry, and he wipes them — it will look wretched. The morning will start with disgust to himself and exhaustion from waking up again, the haunting disappointment when cuts will rub against the fabric during the day. The shame of not having other ways to have emotional release, the shame for being himself and not someone who is much easier. This time is going to be the last one, he says to himself after every time to end up doing the same.

Alex leans on the wall, breaths, and closes eyes as if to get back on the course. It’s stuffy and late, he feels fatigue crashes over him, the cuts sting and he knows they will until he gets used to it as always. His shaky hand puts the stationery knife back on its place — bedside table drawer, always at hand, but hidden under the book. Just in case.

“Should put on me hoodie…” Alex mumbles to himself to awake after a kind of trance, to understand that life is going to continue, and he should do something about it. Now, put his hoodie on. His voice sounds fervent and raspy as if he was having a high temperature. Carefulness is important – he doesn’t want to know how his friends might react when one of them wakes him up, because he oversleeps as always. More importantly, he doesn’t want any of them to see nor react. Alex doesn’t know how he would react if he saw the cuts on the wrist of a friend. Probably, he would feel guilty for not noticing. The thought of someone going through the same as him made his heart squeeze sufferingly, it doesn’t feel right. They aren’t him to deserve it.

Getting up, he feels weak, but it’s only a lack of sleep, it’s really time to rest. Limbs have a numbing feeling in them, as do have legs. Alex slips into an old hoodie, warmth spreads over body, giving a sense of comfort and safety. He stops to look outside the window – usual way of things. Not really winter but not exactly spring, he only hopes for a warming sun tomorrow and a coffee with sugar. After wintertime makes him feel almost human and reminds him that things weren’t or won’t be that way constantly. It might get better, Alex wants to believe. The night sky is deep, and he wishes to find the star he always searches for between buildings when he looks out of the window at nights — it doesn’t seem to be here — it’s okay.  He heavily sighs.

When a blanket envelops him, for a second, he feels like a child back in careless time. No thoughts, the head is pleasingly quiet but somewhere in the back Alex knows it’s not as good as he thinks it is. People should have emotions and should feel lamentable as it is. He drifts off, and next day he will wake up to the cruel sensation of cuts, need to get up and a necessity he can’t escape to face his own dramatization. Eyelids get shut and eyelashes innocently rest down, they are slightly wet. Curling around himself, his body disappears into desirable dreamless slumber, his previous rugged breath is finally peacefully calm. Sleep well, Alex.

a/n: not a proper fic... more of a personal thing that i wrote at night. decided not to choose a second picture ugh yeah.

Alex isn’t sure which day he spends with Miles already. Alex is easily convinced — this, Miles understood when after every Turner’s phrase “Nah, I’m goin’ home today” he could bend him over into saying “Ah, whatever”.

He leans on the wall, counts the days, counts how many times he was fooled into staying for more. Well, not fooled, not negatively at least.

With Miles it clicks. Clicked in the sincerest way of that phrase. They hit it off immediately after the first second the conversation began. Despite Alex’s aloofness with Miles, he wants to stay, go to another stuffy pissed pub and yet another day watch him skillfully making every girl and boy swoon in the radius of meter.

The fifth can of beer sits in the palm nicer than the first one — to be completely honest, Alex wasn’t in a mood for drinking tonight but it was one of the countless moments when Miles persuaded him to change his mind. He brings the can to his dried out lips, feeling the cold brim of it. Beer in the can is cold and streams pleasingly down his throat. Alex feels himself falling over to the side out of blue, occasionally losing a hold of his drunken body, not caring if someone will notice and crack a laugh pointing at him.

Miles is the type of a friend who says, “Wait a minute…” and disappears. Not dumps you but dives into the crowd with practical ease not intentionally forgetting about planning to come back. Miles feels the crowd, likes the crowd. He is pleased with the crowd. And the crowd is pleased with him. He likes accident touches, likes the brush of the clothes, likes to bump into someone and smile innocently because it didn’t annoy him for even one fucking second. He might have bumped into you intentionally to make out of it a conversation, pull out a common starter phrase and anyone would listen to him.

There is no offence, Alex muses, standing alone and watching him from the side. Miles touches the arm of some blonde with natural seduction to it. During sometime that Alex was learning Miles, he never saw him hesitate. His mind never has a thought of a negative thought or outcome. Every word that is pronounced by his lips flows with energy. Alex isn’t sure what it is. Probably something you get born with. Miles just has it. Has this magnetism. The spark that lights Alex as well. The fire that jumps from him to Alex, making him ignite the second it touches him.

Miles is a friend with whom you can yell on the street in the middle of the night, get scolded with and not feel a pang of regret.

Alex isn’t sure he ever felt that with anyone. It’s weird.

He can’t help but wonder if being with a girl will ever get that comfortable. Does it only work with people of the same sex? How do people stay in relationships for long then? Even marry each other. Alex feels erroneous and improper. Questions on which no one can give answers flood his head. Does everyone feel what he feels? Does it get that comfortable after all? With a girl it never was like that. There is that boundary that you can’t cross — some words that you can’t say, some thoughts that you should lock. But it’s a girl, so it makes sense. How can any guy get fully comfortable with a girl? Or a girl with a guy?

Miles could be a nice girl, Alex thinks. And he is fashionable. Every girl is into fashion, right? Sounds stupid. Miles is attractive. If he was a girl Alex would fall head over heels. Any man would fall in love with Miles. With that kind of girl any man would get comfortable.

He recalls when once he saw Miles with painted nails. These male hands for a moment seemed like female ones. Elegant, thin fingers with convex pinkish knuckles and delicate nails adorned with black polish. That caught him off guard. Not that Alex was against it. Many rock musicians painted their nails black. Alex would never do something like that, this he knows. People might mistake it for something else. Not that he cares, right? Not that Miles is like that. Not that it would be a problem, he is still a great musician. Not just a musician. Miles is, well, great. In general. In everything?

Alex imagines him being a girl — tries to imagine Miles in drag — in a skirt and with long hair. The image comes up and something doesn’t let it complete the image. It’s still Miles and still a man. Alex concludes that would like Miles to stay just like this and be a man. At the end of this thought, the real Miles is a man.

Alex can’t help but feels befogged by his own thoughts. This has gotten too far. His free hand subconsciously finds his head in distress, threading fingers through slightly tangled hazel-brown locks. Alex squeezes his eyelids together for a second to reconnect to the surroundings.

His eyes lost the sight of Miles completely. He observes the bar, searching for a familiar back of Miles’ neck and head of these tousled hair. The crowd turns into pure mush and every sound into cacophony. This place is like a furnace and people are logs tightly pressed to each other. When searching gets completely useless because a tall guy gets into the view, Alex lets his thoughts envelope him once again. Alex heavily sighs, lowering his eyes to his own hands, finding that one hand is picking at the skin near his nail on another hand. A quiet motion of calming himself.

It’s this bizarre pull, he ponders to himself. A desire to brush against his arm, to stand close, to grab his arm and do something with it. Just lean into it, nuzzle into it. Or not do anything with it at all. Just stupidly hold onto Miles’ arm because Alex knows, he will never tug Alex’s arm away from the grip.

Alex likes to touch and be touched but it takes time to develop his first caress. Miles is one of the examples that is cuddly with everyone he sees on his way. Again, never hesitates. Alex would never think of leaning into him until Miles didn’t do it first. Miles often grabs Alex’s hand in overjoyed moments, giving it a "squeeze with emotion” as Alex calls it inside his brain, but Miles also never holds it for long. Probably, just overwhelmed with everything at once when he is happy, Alex discusses with himself sipping beer once again.

Miles has lots of friends and lots of acquaintances. Something deep and selfish wanted to be that one friend of his. That one friend that is allowed to eat the last yogurt in the fridge or that friend with whom you aren’t shy to sleep in the same bed because there’s no other options but floor even if you are two guys and it might seem faggot. Alex furrows his brows to himself, licking his lips - it unpleasantly stings like when your lips are too dry and damaged. Where are his thoughts desperately running away from him? He lifts his eyes and looks around just for the sake of it. Alex wants to be on Miles' lips all the time. Wants this wanker to rumble everyone’s ears about him. And wants to be that one friend.

These… How many days? Four? Alex assumes it’s four days. These four days he was sleeping with Miles in the same bed. He liked finding out Miles’ sleeping “habits”, despite others obvious ones that anyone could notice — Alex likes to know something that others don’t. He always drifts off quite quickly and Alex is always the one who listens to the soft stable breathing and quiet snuffle in a room full of darkness, where only the luminosity of the nearby streetlight sneaks inside through the window. Miles’ arm would always subconsciously find Alex’s frame eventually, wrapping around him lightly and almost casually (as it’s usual for Miles) but in a secure way — that became a surprise during the first night. On the second night he was expecting it and on the third Alex was already awaiting it. He isn’t sure if it’s some kind of instinct or a natural reaction — to put an arm around something or someone that is near. Miles always tosses in his sleep like a frantic shackled bird. Sometimes he mumbles during his slumber, but it’s never distinguishable enough — Alex really strained his ears, but nothing.

Alex likes to be cognizant of details. He believes without details anything wouldn’t make any sense. With Miles it’s the same. Alex likes the details of Miles. The taps of his legs when he is happy, the slight crookedness of his teeth when Miles smiles so widely that Turner can’t help but crack a smile too. The intrigue that first detail brought to him was bright enough to look into Miles more, to look into him all the time.

Often he sticks to something completely random. Something that allures only to him. These weird feelings and sensations that it gives. This striped shirt that Miles has, with black and dark grey stripes. Oh, this fits him well. Alex can’t quite explain but how the length of the sleeves hides his pulse points on wrists covering just a tiny of the begging of his hands or the way cotton fabric folds on his lean body awakens every impulse of pleasure inside of him. It’s like a perfect untouched new package of meds, a contrast between green bright grass and stormy sky on a spring rainy day or a neon acid purple sign that hypnotises you as if you are a moth somewhere on the very central streets around dull ordinary signboards.

Alex likes to observe him. At times, he likes it even more than engaging in a conversation with him, no matter how unusual it might seem.

It feels like falling in love. But more meaningful than when you get a crush on a girl.

Alex is often occupied with mulling over what Miles might be doing or thinking. Is he cooking? Flips pages of a magazine? Or Alex wonders if Miles catches in the crowd a pair of familiar eyes, during the gig only to feel the pang of disappointment and catch a thought that runs through his head as the subway display board with the station that says: “Nah, it ain’t Al.” Because Alex does — Alex mistakes people for Miles, every time not being able to stop his heart from making a somersault.

The sudden touch on his shoulder makes him almost jump like he is a teenage girl who watches porn, hiding under a blanket. It’s only Miles. Alex dived too deep into himself that lost track of reality around him. The crowd got lighter around him and he didn’t notice. No wonder.

Miles’ palm is warm. He stands so close that Alex can smell his cologne — vivid and drunkenly sweet. He notices the mole under his right eye — Alex’s eyes always find it for some reason — he quite likes it too. Just like his striped shirt.

“Al, mate, let’s get out of ‘ere.” Miles tugs him to the exit, completely trouble-free and full of mischievousness. He seems to have enough, Alex thinks. Fulfilled with attention and alcohol, Miles is ready to leave.

For Alex it’s too much to process as it often happens. He questions, “What ‘bout the lass?” The lass doesn’t mean a thing honestly.

“Lass was a moment.” Miles brushes off. “Need ta buy some beer, eh? For later.”

They walk out of the stuffy pub. The night November air hits Alex in the face, urging him to squint for a second and wrap more into his coat. A freeze goes down his body from ears to toes — his teeth almost start to shatter. He feels pulled out of his world which for some reasons makes him feel even colder. His thoughts feel distant and tiny in that whole day, but not as tiny as some other of his thoughts.

It’s a matter of time, when Alex will come back to these thoughts. Probably when he will be staying for the night at Miles’ place and lie beside him in the darkness and wait for his arm to be wrapped around him or maybe in the meantime while Miles chooses a snack to eat later with beer because he is always meticulous. Miles rushes him to the nearest grocery store and for now Alex just chooses to follow and not think.

a/n: november has come, so did i. if you think that you’ve just read some piece of pure nonsense — probably, you are right.

“Oh, so, you came?” You turn to him with a wicked and playful smile, adorned with soft features, pleased that despite shyness he decided to join. Hot water runs over your body, making his breath hitch in the throat only because of the sight in front of him. You, standing under water with a turned face over your shoulder to him and a dazzling gaze. Water droplets run down your figure, down your legs to finally reach the bottom of the shower cabin; he can catch a glimpse of your chest.

Alex awkwardly but not lacking want, moves closer to you and delicately wraps his lean arms from behind you, not wanting to appear needy or too desperate. He glides his nose gradually over your wet shoulder gathering a few water drops with it. Tiny smile tugs on your lips and your hands cupping his, intertwining fingers together, leaning into him trusting completely.

“Thought that you don't want to skip the ability to make up for lost time…” He feathers short pecks on the same shoulder; thumb strokes your stomach, sternum, trying to learn by heart every little bend of your body.

You both dated for half a year already, but he still can be a bit too closed off, a bit too quiet and shy, you came to terms with that. He just needs some help, encouragement and soft-spoken words to make him reassured. Alex trusts you more after spending countless time together. He is more at ease with intimacy now, vocal and more open with his own needs. There he is. All over you. The idea of showering together sounded too appealing after the days when they both were too busy or tired for proper closeness.

He leaves a couple kisses over the beginning of your spine, shoulder blades, then yanks you closer savoring the moment. His chin is placed on her shoulder like it belongs there, the calm soft breath of his hits your ear making a shiver crawl over your body leaving goosebumps, corner of mouth raises for a second experiencing the pleasing impact he has on you. He is pretty much proud of himself being the reason of your reactions.

“Is water good? Suddenly questioning you, wanting him to keep his thoughts less at bay, “Tell me if something isn’t okay.” You remind him affectionately, turning your head trying to catch a small glimpse of his lovely face.

“The water's good.” His voice cracks from time to time but there is something strangely attractive in that, every time he sounds like a kitten, it meows for the first time. Alex’s flicks of tongue spill into a sloppy kiss where your neck meets shoulder. He thinks you worry too much about him, at times he is sincerely surprised by it. How can a person care so much? Guess it is what love does to people, he supposes, because he found himself doing the same after they found each other.

The morning sun outside is dimmed by the tulle on a window in the bathroom, a couple of persistent rays of the sun got through it and settled down on the milky beige tile of the room. Little birds already woke up singing soft ballads along with the rustle of leaves. It’s a day off for both of you, which is a rare thing, so now you have all the time in the world to relax, feel love and then have a quiet peaceful breakfast together. None of you were a fan of loudness or big occasions. You both will just make up something quickly and lazily eat it in front of the telly unbothered by life and obstacles it has.

You sense his hand creeping over your ribcage slowly as if testing waters. Carefulness of his actions makes you shiver with anticipation and awakens persistent need to bite him and hear cracked surprised yelp. It’s just what you fancy doing, bite him when he’s not prepared and watch the consequences of your actions. He always nearly jumps and lets out “Ouch!” and after “What’s that for?!”. Adorable.

Grabbing a bottle of shower gel, he spreads it carefully over your body and you inhale with a slight sharpness in your throat, as if it is the last breath before dipping into passion. Sensation of his fingertips against your warm and steamed skin. His hands tremble with excitement as if he is a boy who is about to have first sex with a girl.

A favorite feeling in the world is the distinct deliberateness of these moments. Time almost comes to a stop, and the house outside of the bathroom is gravelly silent. His hands slide over your sides to the curves of hips, appreciating and memorizing every piece of your body like a sculptor with their creation. His mind is at loss as fingers trailing over your frame drawing endless paths. Soft jets laving you, not leaving any bubbly foam after shower gel.

Alex treats you as if you are the most fragile picturesque porcelain he could afford. The gentleness of his touch can’t be spoiled by the callousness of his hands, only making it more familiar and desirable, with a peppering of roughness that finishes every touch as a cherry on top. He stopped scattering kisses on your neck and shoulder as if concentrating fully on the way his hand routes to your chest. You can’t really say if he is doing it with that dragging slowness because he doesn't want to rush or if there is any other reason. After all, he has a thing for surprising you.

His arousal starts prominently appearing against your bum and you can swear you have a sensation that his cheeks are filling with red strawberry color as he inhales shakingly. His hand running through his sticking to forehead tousled damp hair. He is so simple to agitate. The sight of you only already makes him hard. What to say of his reaction to your skin underneath his palms?

His hand finally reaches your chest, and he seems to stop breathing for a second, his thumb brushes over your faintly hardened nipple and the only thing that sobers him up is your voice. “Hey, baby, don’t forget to breathe.” you purr with playful undertone, and his grin, makes his eyes crinkle in the corners charmingly, and sheepishly hide his face in the back of your neck picking your scent.

Your breasts are something that just puts him in awe. The shape of it, the softness, the way it’s simply yours, and every time he melts like a teenage boy that never saw a woman before. He feels silly, somewhat embarrassed, everyone around seemed to treat their girlfriends with slight disregard, taking them for granted. He can’t behave this way. He wants to kiss the ground you walk on; he can’t let you be neglected. You are tangled at the roots of his soul. He simply can’t.

Alex is a sap. Trying to hide it so badly, it is even more noticeable to everyone, but he refuses to accept it. Especially, he attempts to be different in front of the band and his friends, but every time you both are alone, he can’t keep his hands to himself. He is very much about cuddles and touching. It’s just not shown for everyone. Even in front of the guys he can’t stop himself from holding your hand a bit too tight, but when there are only you two, he always leans in full hugs, tucking his head in your neck and wrapping arms around your torso entirely. His hugs never can be with one arm or not a bear hug, if they are then probably his love runs out for you. You don’t want to imagine it.

Alex gets bolder; both of his hands now cup swells of your breasts which forces your pulse quickening only for him. His fingers capture your nipples in between them, tugging a little. You hum thickly, desire pools in your stomach, and your patience wears thin.

It’s torture not to see his face, but for him it’s an advantage. He gets cocky, he has a free hand to do whatever he desires following every naughty thought he has in the deepest corner of his mind. His teeth nip at your smooth shoulder, leaving hardly noticeable traces of him, while he massages your chest getting more and more pent up. His half hard length is vigorous now and he unconsciously rubs himself faster against the inviting curve of your ass, which only makes you lean into his body more, exhaling with sweet escalating pleasure.

“So good…” He mutters under his nose with closed eyes, not noticing the way words slipped out of his mouth. Craving closer proximity, he tightens arms around you. He squeezes you closer and your skin rumples under his demanding palms.

You know it’s not enough for him. He needs it more deeply. He needs more. It’s a part when Alex feels it’s like a broken rollercoaster. Out of control and he has no ability to stop it.

Your favourite part. When he starts losing hold of himself.

The primal desire to become one person, one and the same, consumes both of you in moments like these.

In the next second, you turn to face him, he catches your lips instantly, not wasting a second. Alex rushes, it appears a tad clumsy, revealing the whole desperateness of his. The pattern of his tongue melts with the pattern of yours. It’s messy. It’s needy. Every swirl that twirls your tongues, caressing each other, fuels you two even more.

Every time it feels like nothing can fulfil the desire he has. His hand grips your back and another one cradles your head gently as he backs you against the wall of the shower accidentally brushing some shampoos and shower gel bottles dropping them, which compels him to shudder and pull away to catch a breath. He is shaking, his nose brushes over your, your foreheads touching, he barely can breathe, neither can you. Every stroke is screaming with urgent want, every place where their bodies are meeting is in flames. The small humid space of the shower cabin pushes them into each other, and no one is against it.

Alex isn’t a big guy, and it’s perfect, something intimate about it being small together. His little blemishes from acne that are still fading away can’t spoil his, it would seem, undistinguished, for others, but pretty for you, face. His frame isn’t buff and muscular, and, again, it only gives form to his real presence. Sometimes you forget he is yours and here. He is simple and immaculate. Alex thinks he has flaws, but you adore every little slice of him so deeply that it makes your heart squeeze and ache.

Tips of his short nails grip the skin on your hip leaving reddish half-moons, you hiss through the teeth quietly. Your hands grip his short and wet strands pulling them and he lets out a deep groan that forces his voice to break, his cheek is pressed to your cheek. Skin to skin. Alex’s teeth bite your lower lip, but very lightly. His cock desperately rubbing against your hip. Every part of him tries to press into you, soak into you.

Boiling water pours over your bodies making you both almost literally drown in each other. The glasses of the shower are fogged, sounds of intimacy are muffled.

Out of blue, he grabs your hand and guides it to his neck. His eyes are hooded, mind is dizzy. He lost any possible embarrassment or shyness. He is franked to you like he never was to a woman before.

“Grip it. Not hard. Jus’ so I could feel it,” he is breathless, “Please.” His voice is shattering, he can’t breathe, and accent gets more profound. His eyes are pleading and needing. Somewhere deep in his soul, there is a pang of fear. He just wishes you didn’t think he’s weird or disgusting. Alex just childishly and innocently hopes not to be judged.

Were you surprised? You still don’t know a lot about him. Were you bothered? Only wanted to satisfy his needs.

Your fingers on his throat, griping it. Delicately. If choking couldn’t be sweet, you definitely made it like that. You can feel him swallowing through the skin, can feel his fast-throbbing pulse, the curve of his neck fits in your palm like your hands were made for his neck. His eyes roll back before closing, his hard length twitches seeking attention. His bitten lips barely open as he attempts to mutter prayerfully. His hips can’t stop grinding against her thigh urgently, even while being choked. Alex thinks he could cum just from that. Too good. Too pleasurable and delightful. Every word in existence for pleasure meant nothing in comparison to what he is experiencing right now. Thoughts of hands on his neck lingered in his mind already long enough, and your hands suited effortlessly.

The view is a sin, beautifully inappropriate and erotic. He is about to fall apart and then you would pick up every little piece to get him together, glueing pieces with your kisses.

It would be a shame to accept it but having him like that was the best possession that people could have. Just the thought of seeing him to this point vulnerable made your heart overflow with hot darkest passion and devotion. You’d want to keep him in your palms forever and always.

Alex loses his breath slowly, his eyes on a verge of shutting, and eyelashes wet and parted. He looks even more vulnerable. When he clearly tries to step closer in an attempt to wrap limbs around you frantically, you let go of his neck and he grasps you closely, breathing heavily. His hips stopped rubbing for a second. Stroking his head, you feel him getting to the edge. He is close to tipping over it.

“I need,” he gulps, shaking off the lightheadedness, Alex hisses, sensation down there becomes too unbearable almost painful, “Fuck…” His voice cracks, becoming a high sound.

“I know.” You pick up instantly, your fingers tremble in await, running over his flat stomach, then over his little not immediately obvious trail of hair leading to his cock. Exhaling, he leans with his hand on the wall behind you.

Your palm stretches over his deprived cock. Movements are slow, deliberate and incredibly relieving for him. Curled hand moves over his shaft, making it redder and fuller with every second, his hips carving into your hand with longing. Your thumb teases his tip, which makes him let out the softest moan ever. He loves it. When you for the first time found this little movement that drove him this mad, Alex gathered courage back then and told you to do that one in future, and you memorized it, of course.

An aroused head of his length was throbbing with desire to spill over. A puppy-like whimper left his mouth, gripping your body closer with a blurry mind, the image of you seemed to float in his eyes like underwater. Your hand strokes and encourages the tip of a cock with urgent movements, precum gathers around and among your fingers.

“Let it go, baby.” A soft whisper tickles his ear, and he gulps as his arms wrap around you tighter. His knees buckle and he barely can’t hold his own body stable.

Lips both of you find each other, and you can feel him spilling onto your stomach with a muffled keening. You soothingly help to ride out his orgasm with slow loving movements, while you kiss him tenderly, giving him time to calm his rapid heart. His cum leaks over the curve of your stomach streaming down onto your thigh.

Softly backing away, you let him breathe, as a steam of shower surrounds you. It’s damp here and both of you are spent because of thousands of emotions. Alex breathes heavily, but in a way of finding air and relief. His palms slip over your sides appreciatingly and lovingly, contented with a moment of silence and only noises of water.

“A mess…” He mumbles under his nose as if only to himself, looking down on a splash of milky liquid on your stomach, wiping it with his rough thumb. You giggle quietly, melted by his behavior. There won’t be any other person who causes your heart to beat faster than Alex. Something about his every move and word that screams him. And you love it.

a/n: new recent picture of al did unholy things to me. anyway, i seem to like what i wrote this time, but i still think the way i write is vey lame, so i try my best every day to be better. now i write something that is bigger then i usually write, and i hope i'll manage to do it good. and also happy birthday alex! i'll keep all words of love and appreciation deep in my heart.

A notification with a message appears on his phone. Alex noticed it only because he was monitoring the phone all day. Usually, he doesn’t give a shit about the phone in general, it’s always somewhere and he doesn’t know where and he’s fine with it. But today she must have come back. Finally.

She is away in Paris with one of her colleagues. It is about work. Alex didn’t show it back then, when she said about that trip, but he wasn’t excited, considering that there’s some man colleague with her. He was respectful about it, and he had no choice anyway. His grouchiness became more evident though. He has that habit of mumbling something under his nose, that habit is a common thing for him like other ones — overthinking or trying to keep everything bottled up.

“They say it’s snowing hard in London. No way we fly today. Flight is delayed.”

The message made him groan quietly. He runs hand over his face, slightly shaking his head in disappointment. It is snowing hard. Alex glances at the window. He can see blurry buildings and streetlights, rushing people and lots of snow. He thought about it even in the morning while he had a cup of coffee. He wasn’t a fan of snow or rain. He was a simple man at this point. He liked the sun. It just shines and doesn’t try to make any trouble for you.

“Sorry, I won’t be able to come back today.” Another message.

He just puts the phone away. His tired sigh sounds all over the room. He gets up from the stool in the kitchen and moves to the bedroom with bitterness inside and a lump in the throat. The light is turned off everywhere. He climbed into bed, making the sheets rustle in the silence of a room. In the silence of the apartment. It drove him right to the edge slowly. Alex sighs deeply again and just places an arm over his face. Curtains don’t let in a lot of light in the bedroom and that puts pressure on him too.

He didn’t want to be clingy. Just a week has passed already. He really did miss her. And that man. He should have said about his concerns before, she would have listened to him, reassured him. She always does. Now he regrets it. It’s always so tough to let out the words when it’s not singing. His body needs the familiar warmth of her body. The soft affectionate tone she has. Who would have thought he got so anxious without her presence, even though it’s just one week? When did he miss the moment, he got so attached?

Next day he woke up in no mood as previous days exactly. The stress caused him to have some unpleasant and creepy glimpses of dreams that bothered his sleep and made him toss and turn. He didn’t go straight to the phone, making himself wait not desiring to see any other possible unpleasant news. He brushed his teeth, made the bed tidy as possible and then made coffee. The weather outside was peaceful compared to yesterday. No snow. And the sun is out. Alex couldn’t stop tiny smile from appearing.

He finally sat down sipping coffee not needing any more for breakfast, scratched his own side a bit and shirt lifted a bit revealing a hint of skin that has been untouched for long. He picked up the phone from exactly where he left it. Alex noticed a few messages from yesterday and a few texts from today thirty minutes ago.

“I had an awful night in the airport hotel.”

“But now we stand in the queue for boarding!”

“I’m really concerned that you didn’t answer yesterday…”

“Hope you just were sleeping already.”

That woman has a habit of texting a few messages instead of just big ones. Alex exhaled, scrolling down.

“Remember the plan! I will wait for you in the airport.” That last message has a kiss emoji in the end of it, and he grins stupidly.

They do have a plan. He will pick her up at the airport. Maybe, he will be polite enough and give that colleague guy a ride to the nearest tube station. Just maybe. But he would prefer not to.

Now Alex feels contented, a bit giddy. The woman he loves deeply is going home. He hopes the sky is clear and the flight is good. She gets nervous during take off and turbulence, when they fly together, he always holds her hand. That guy better not get touchy… As thought crosses his mind, he feels a twinge of distress but doesn’t let it escalate. He gets up and washes the cup after coffee.

The thoughts of possible ways of reuniting fill his mind. A dinner together finally, and then a film night, or maybe making love instead of a film. A little trace of smirk on his lips.

He looks around slightly. Alex has nothing to do in the apartment. It's clean, because he’s the most careful and neat man on the planet, probably, in comparison to her. She’s a certified mess. When they just started living, he thought it was hell. They had lots of arguments about it. Now they have both come to terms with that. She tries to be cleaner, and he tries to be calm about the way she makes a mess everywhere. Though it’s lonely without her chaos, he thinks.

The lingering smell of cigarettes is usual for their place. It’s the only thing that ruins the neatness of it. Alex smokes on the balcony but a strong and bitter smell always clings to his hair and clothes.

He starts to get ready, wanting to look a bit better than usual. Clothes, cologne. That one was her present on the previous Christmas for him. She said back then that she had no idea what to buy, but that one made her think of him, and he accepted the perfume with a sincere smile and grew quite fond of it. The cologne is dim with a woody undertone and doesn’t cause headaches for both of them. He hoped she would notice the perfume. Alex slips into his grey coat wrapping a scarf around his neck and fastening the buttons. Keys in his hands already. Glancing in the mirror and fixing hair he left the apartment.

When he leaves the building, the wind is enveloping him, it’s howling in his ears, and for a second he closes eyes feeling a shiver, trying to adjust to the freezing-ass weather. Alex gets in the car as soon as possible, rubbing his hands and starting the car.

The ride was calm, he had gotten into small traffic because of yesterday's snow, but it quickly dissolved. Near the airport he became nervous. Lots of people, lots of cabs.

“Bloody ‘ell.” He mumbles, running fingers through his tousled hair driving slowly parallelly to exits of the airport.

Alex scans the place to find some corner to park the car. He was going to park the car, and like a civilized person meet her inside of the airport. Exactly as they planned. Until he saw a familiar face with a wide grin. She knocks almost deafeningly on the window of his car. He chuckles and leans to open the passenger seat.

“Alex!” she exclaimed, slamming the door shut making Alex flinch slightly. She throws the bag on the backseat and then tugs his face closer to place an unexpected kiss right on his lips. He hummed surprised into her lips trying to back away gently.

“Love– “ a honk can be heard from the back as another driver waits for a way to drive. “Aye, I’m drivin’! For fuck’s sake...” he grumbles, starting to drive. “Hate airports. So hectic.” says Alex as they start to leave the airport behind.

She stares at him with a satisfied full smile. She’s finally home. Familiar London, familiar atmosphere, familiar grumpy Alex that hates bustle. She is clearly happy to see him after all that week. He wasn’t the one who was missing the closeness. It’s mutual. Snow is starting to fall outside again, but it’s a light one. It sparkles and makes her mesmerized a bit. She pats his knee lovingly.

“So… Christmas soon. Did you decorate our cozy little place?” She teases him slightly.

He glances at her, making out only the one sound, “Uh…”

Speaking of bustle and Alex. Christmas is a bustle. A fuss. Tiring and loud. He doesn’t like Christmas. But she likes only Christmas out of all holidays. So, anything for her. They always decorate their apartment and that makes her light up like one of the lights on the garland. She always tries everything to do herself and he always stands behind to catch or help her, because he is still having it bad for her. That’s why a week without her makes him ache and that’s why he will help her make their place shine like a goddamn Christmas tree.

“No comments. I got it.” she chuckles, shaking her head amused.

Silence settled in the car. Alex wanted to ask about Paris, about that guy. She mentioned the guy even before the trip; she thought he’s a good employee in their field, also that he was like a puppy around her and too friendly. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t against gentleman behaviour. It just doesn’t sit right with him. There’s no fear that she will cheat. But crossing thoughts in his mind about some subtle caresses that this guy could try on her, the gentler tone he might talk with her, just the possibility made him annoyed, and he couldn’t help himself.

“That colleague, the one ya had a trip with, where is he by the way?” He asks with slight grumpiness, throwing a glance at her.

“Got a cab for himself,” she says casually, shrugging, and he nods. Good, that he went his way, he thinks.

She looks at him, seeing the light frown hanging on his beautiful face, sensing something is up.

The ride is continuing, the hum of the car is stable. His one palm lying securely but relaxed and confident on a leathered wheel, while the other one placed on his thigh. Eyes passing over changing scenery concentratedly taking everything in. The palm on a wheel runs over it gracefully and effortlessly from time to time. She bets he has no idea that even the way he drives the car is an art.

Snow is still falling creating the festive atmosphere. People rushing outside nestled in lots of clothes. There are middle-aged women sitting on the bench and gossiping, some man is carrying a Christmas tree on his shoulder trying his best and a few girls with coffee cups laughing. Snow is crunching underfoot. Garlands are on windows in people’s apartments; storefronts are decorated already making it hard to skip them. Holiday is in the air.

When they get back into the apartment, she finally breaks the ice addressing the elephant in the room. “Al, is something wrong? You seem down.”

Alex sighs, brushing the snow off the coat. And kicking the boots off after placing them together neatly. He didn’t really want to discuss it. It wasn’t something that needed to be discussed, he thinks. It will pass soon because she’s here so why should he worry about anything? There’s absolutely no need to show how vulnerable he is without her. Everything is under control. Right?

“Okay, this sigh already means that something is wrong.” She is trying to prepare herself mentally for tough talk. Making a few strides towards him she puts her palms onto his slightly sagged shoulders.

“It’s ‘kay.” He mutters with a low voice of his, eyes running over everything in the apartment but not her face. Wall, door, own hands.

She sees him through. At least now. He is too sophisticated to see through him fully. It’s impossible to know him completely and that upsets her. The desire to know every corner of his mind, every little fast thought in his gorgeous mind, every favourite place on his body. Entirely. Mentally and physically.

His lovely eyes are lying now.

“Al, look at me.” She cups his cheeks feeling stubble with her palms.

She makes him look at her and sees the deepest vulnerability in them, then his silent apology for that vulnerability, barely noticeable shame that he tries to hide so hard. Her own eyes are filled with sorrow and pain for him.

She wraps her arms around his neck pulling him in the balmy embrace and Alex leans in without a second thought. His face finds the base of her neck sensing her scent and sugary perfume. His arm is wrapped around her waist, and other hand is cupping the back of her head, feeling her with all body as they stand close to each other after not seeing each other for a while. She runs her nose slowly and tenderly over his collar blade leaving a light kiss in the end. They don’t talk, just absorb each other’s warmth, sharing energy and love between each other.

She hums sniffing his neck. “The one I got for you on previous Christmas.” She affirmed and a little smile creeped on his face, pleased that she noticed the detail.

She backed away from him just a bit, keeping him close, finding his face with her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Her loving, yet firm and demanding answer gaze, made him run finger into his hair anxiously under the force of her stare.

“Jus’ missed ya. That colleague guy also didn’t do any good for me…” His voice deepens as he uses all willpower to talk, but falters at the end of the thought he wants to express. He breathes out heavily, shaking his head and his fingers in the hair again just trying to be composed now, messing them to the different sides. “I don’t know.” he lets out a quiet chuckle, as he is at a loss for words, he looks up at her. His hand, a bit rough and calloused, reaches for her chin making a few light caresses only to lower it down back on her waist again.

Her eyes darted over his face, over every wrinkle that formed on his face with age, contemplating his little awkward smile. No, that man for sure doesn’t know how cute he is. His barely noticeable smile made her smile too as reassuring him. She leans leaving a careful kiss in the corner of his dry lips after a chilly wind outside.

“So… My colleague.” She begins watching his reaction.

“Jus’ don’t like him.” He mutters a short answer with a loud exhale. “He seems… I don’t know… Have no explanation.” Alex would like to stop there and not escalate the talk, and she senses it, nodding. Her delicate hand strokes his shoulder, making him at peace. Tranquillity is settling in his body and soul, making anxiousness and frustration disappear. He feels better now. Messy thoughts left his mind. All that resides is coziness and intimacy.

She leans in to kiss him properly after all the days of forced separation, and he can’t turn down the kiss. At the beginning the kiss is sweet and silky. Further gripping the waist harder, he insists a bit more, closing the eyes falling further into the kiss. The intimate moment makes them melt into each other completely. Demanding a deeper kiss, he senses she opens her mouth for him so he could slip the tongue inside. The warmth of her mouth and sensation of her tongue against his is making him desperate and hungry for prolongation.

She can’t stop only on lips determined to continue. She carefully tilts his neck for better access and keeps the palm there keeping his head in one place, her thumb caresses slowly the length of his neck which makes Alex breath out shakingly.

“On the couch…” She throws softly, leading him to their living room. The scent of cigarettes is still there. The room has a dim light from the street, soon it gets dark. “Sit down, baby. Relax.”

He knows what is going to happen and he can say undoubtedly, there’s no better reunion than he could imagine. As Alex settles on the couch, she is on his lap, nipping his neck very lightly to tease him. His hand instinctively sneaks under her sweater lingering on her lower back knowing he will get an instant reaction – she arches gripping his shoulder firmly.

“Alex…” She clenches the shirt on his shoulder a bit harder, letting out half a hiss and half a whimper.

That’s what he thought, a ghost smirk on his lips. He doesn’t bother to answer, everything is clear for both of them. His breath is stuck in his throat as she slips down on the floor. What a sight. She’s on her knees fidgeting with the button and zipper on his jeans, quite persistent to take them off as quickly as possible. He shifts on a couch closer to her so she can do it faster.

“Yes, sit on the edge of the couch…” She mumbles, encouraging him.

Her fingers tremble a bit from excitement as she rushes to free him. She feels his obvious arousal that is begging to be out of imprisonment. Separation made him more sensitive, and his patience is wearing off.

She doesn’t stand on ceremony tugging his jeans down and off when she finally could concentrate and deal with the button and zipper. The view of a familiar pair of dark blue boxers makes her even more eager. She starts with peppering kisses on his thighs. Sensitively, slowly, to show how much she craves him, she knows he needs it. He lets out a groan and his hand grips the edge of the couch.

Her index finger hooks the elastic of his boxers only to snap it back. Alex huffs and his other hand is finding her head gripping hair a bit tugging her a bit closer to the prominent bulge.

“Don’t… Just, please…” His voice is husky and gruff, the need is obvious, and she can’t refuse.

She pulls out his strained cock, lowering boxers down. Making a ring of her fingers she moves it over his length, from the base to the tip and back, his hips meet her hand halfway letting out a curse. Her mouth is dealing with a wet tip already, leaving feather kisses with an attentive yet relaxed expression on her face, clearly enjoying it, licking off even the smallest amount of liquid.

“Fuck me.” he hisses through teeth clenching the handful of her hair, carrying away already. His head is tilting back on the back of the couch, as she changes the tactic now moving her full palm over his cock. Slowly at the beginning, and faster then. He lifts his head slightly to observe her. She looks up at him, only to see his flushed face and hooded dark eyes and heavy breath escaping his mouth.

She stretches her lips around his cock and starts taking him into the warmth of her mouth, starting to finally suck him. Rough and hoarse moans leave his lips, as his cock is burying deeper and deeper with each second. Only he thought he would reach the sweet back of her throat, when she pulled it out with wet pop making him groan and unconsciously gripping the hair harder in the process. She is taking long slow licks, lapping along all his shaft, torturing him and at the same time making his body shudder in delicious pleasure. The bend of her tongue is feeling every vein tracing the form swirling at the tip which brings him closer to the edge with every second.

With no words he nudged her head closer making her open mouth wide again and starting to thrust his hips into her throat taking the control. Letting out whispered curses under breath mixed with intense moans, Alex shakes his head, trying to get rid of dizziness. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to move them away from his sticky sweaty forehead. Muffled moans sneak out from her full mouth, spit from corners of mouth messing the couch and few droplets fell on the floor already. Her hands grip his tensed thighs feeling how heated his body had gotten.

Slight twitches of his cock inside her mouth are telling about how close he is. She feels her jaw is getting tighter and it’s hard to take the full length, but she knows there is no way out. She moves her head just further, shutting her eyes as he is stuffing her mouth fully with no more room inside left. He moans, gravelly shifting his hips, finally hitting the back of her throat. The room was filled with sloppy sounds, her dull moans, and his in contrast loud moans. It is already darker outside, so in the room. If a person would walk in, they would only make out two dark silhouettes in a moment of pure lust and the long-awaited connection.

“Open eyes.” He breathes heavily, overwhelmed with sensation. Alex makes a light tug of hair trying to get her attention. “Look at me, darlin’.” His thick voice is carrying desperation for release.

When she opens her glassy eyes, looking up he pushes a bit more, letting out an immediate moan, going senseless over how the tip of his shaft is feeling against her throat. Alex follows with his eyes her parted mouth and can’t hold back anymore. He can’t hold back anymore.

“Just a– “ Strained load moan interrupts his speaking; he is gasping for air as his hand grips her hair keeping head in the right place spilling into her, he moves his hips a couple more times to ride out the orgasm and then he stops. She shuts her eyes again, feeling tears in the corner of eyes. He pulls out his cock, licking his lips feeling they sting because of dryness and wipes forehead with the back of palm.

Swallowing him down, she blinks a few times trying to have a full breath after the whole experience, looking up at him she notices that he is already leaning to help her get on her feet.

“C’mon, love. Get up. Come here, floor ‘s cold.” Alex tugs her on his lap, his shoulders a bit drooped after release, but he still is making sure to take care of her.

The room is quiet now, harshly quiet in comparison how it was seconds ago. She climbs on his lap, sensing familiar close scent and tenderness, nestling her head against his chest she closes her eyes trying to gain energy for existing at least for a few minutes before she dozes off as always after intimacy. He leans on the couch feeling gratified, he wraps her arms around her securely.

“Okay?” he mumbles, not ruining the stillness of the moment.

She only hums, and her hand reassuringly strokes his chest.

“I got carried away…” Alex murmurs, a trace of guilt is clear in his deep honey-like voice. She shakes her head.

“I wanted to give you a release. And I don’t only mean the physical one.” She whispers drowsily. He sighs, just hugging her tighter.

She knew back then he didn’t tell her the entire truth. He did need a release, in both ways. And now he had it.

a/n: i finally got unshadowbanned thanks tumblr. i was changing plot during writing and i still have no clue if i like it.