#madsweet

you roll your eyes, shifting your weight on one hip. your arms crossing unconsciously, a habit you’ve been trying to stop, and try to make conversation as he flips through the sheets,

“so, any big plans for the weekend?” 

tom pulls out a sheet, scans the title and then sits back in his chair with a slight scowl. he slouches,

“catch-up on sleep. shows, i dunno. might take tessa out to a dog park–– the usual.” his grin is relaxed, and he rubs the corner of his eye, “what about you?”

“uhhh, errands. dinner with friends, the usual for me too.”

tom’s eyebrows raise as he nods. you guys have had this conversation every week since you started here. he gets it, he’s your boss so–– what conversations do you make with someone who has a grip on your career? you only go deep enough to know the name of his dog, a few of his friends, and he with yours too. never scratched the surface of dating life though––

on more than one occasion, tom has found himself hanging around corners to hear you speak to your coworkers. trying, pathetically, to find out more about you. he doesn’t have enough pieces to make a picture, much less find out what any of it means to you. his eyes flicker towards your left hand more often than he’d like to admit.

doesn’t feel like a question he could just ask.

“well, that sounds fun,” he smiles genuinely. and it does. to spend more than 5 free minutes with you, laughing, joking, in clothes he couldn’t even imagine you in. he only knows you in blazers and slacks, personality only shown through your shoes. 

and he doesn’t even know anything about shoes–– but he could tell. from the shiny black patent leather, and the sometimes gaudy golden buckle–– he could tell there was a lot more to you than uptight shades of white and tan, and beige, and brown, and black.

it just didn’t seem right for him to ask. with him being your boss and all.

you blink, not sure of what to say back. the conversations always end like this–– teasing a “fun” weekend with no details involved. hardly any follow-up. you can’t even tell how old he is–– where he lives or where he comes from. sure those could be lots of talking points but :/// how?

“It will be,” you conclude, “if the weather stays agreeable.”

ugh.

and of course, the topic of the sun and the clouds and the rain always makes it’s way in somehow. you grimace to yourself–– blah blah blah, he’ll check the weather for you on his computer and offer you a profesh smile, talking about percentages and all that. and you’re happy you’re still talking with him, but it’s empty. 

an exact copy of last week.

one of you needs to take a risk–– show the other than it’s cool to joke and that you could skip the formalities.

you step closer to him as he pulls up the “weather” app on his computer. you lean a hand on his desk, pretending to look at his screen when you’re actually looking at his reflection through the unused black screen of another monitor.

“ohh, man,” tom says, off the usual script. he leans forward, rubbing his chin and looking at his screen. his brows are furrowed, but lips curled.

“what’s up?” you ask, tilted your head closer to him.

“looks like it’ll rain the whole way through. sorry tess.”

“aw, that’s too bad.”

“sounds like the perfect day for catching up over coffee, though.”

“it does, actually,” you nod, smiling with rosy lips as you think of a new shop nearby. and then you spare him a glance––

tom holland, your boss, a dreamy 20-something-year-old, charming, kind, punctual, and firm young man, gives you the sweetest, leading look. like he wants you to ask him something.

“you drink coffee on the weekend?” you muse, leaning back to stand in full again. “like, you actually go out and buy coffee?”

he leans forward, smoothing down his trousers and waving a hand, “uh, no, but you know, if i get invited out for coffee i’m not opposed.”

“i see.”

“and it looks like–– my plans have been cancelled so…”

you laugh, rubbing under your eye as you lean back, “poor tessa.”

tom smiles, happy when you move naturally like that. when he can hear your laughter up close, and no muffled through doors or in passing. maybe he will ask you––

rrrrrring! rrrrring! rrrrrrring! the phone on his desk disrupts his thoughts. 

you both jump back, and he scratches the back of his neck as he gestures towards the phone. you nod furiously,

“yeah! sorry, good talk–– uhm, yeah. i’ll be, here.” you stumble, “you know. ahhh.”

tom smiles, a little sullen that you didn’t take the hint. he watches you gather yourself as you make your way out of the room. he picks up the phone–– just a colleague looking to blow off some steam. 

he watches as you walk out of the room, not looking back, only hesitating when you put a hand on the doorframe. you pause. tom is already tuning out whatever the other guy has to say on the phone.

you shut your eyes tight, and step back in, almost huffy. you put a hand to you temple, looking down as you ad lib,

“Wanna, like-I mean, if you’re not busy. We could get lunch? Or even just coffee if you don’t have a lot of time? tomorrow?–– or whatever works.”

…

“tomorrow sounds great, actually,” he beams, putting the phone down on his desk.

“wait really?” you fumble, putting a finger to your lips as you blink deeply. “i mean, yeah, sounds good.”

you give him a dainty smile, and his eyes are glossy. you glance back at his phone and excuse yourself, “we’ll talk details later. sorry––”

“no, no, it’s okay,” tom comes out from around his desk now. walking towards you and pulls his phone out of his pocket, “wanna exchange numbers? i don’t know when you leave today so i wouldn’t want to miss you.”

(lies. he knows when you clock out every day)

“sure,” you voice squeaks, taking his phone and sending a text to yourself. your phone rumbles in your back pocket. 

you hand his phone back to him, and his thumb presses atop of yours. you look at him straight, something you never did for more than a few seconds, and noticed freckles you’ve never seen before.

wow.

“I’ll catch you tomorrow then,” tom murmurs effortlessly.

“tomorrow,” you repeat, finally exiting his office. breathless, hot in the face, hair falling out of place, looking at his number saved in your phone….

thank god it’s friday….

instead, the “break up” was crisp and concise and in the bright light of day. you both knew it had to happen. it had been a slow crack that grew bigger and bigger. a fire you both had tried to water and fan, only to burn it all down.

you both had seen it coming.

and that’s not all bad; sometimes life just pulls you apart. you go one way, and they the other. and you don’t always have to hate someone for making that choice, it’s their life after all–– and there’s so much to live, and see, and feel and love

but it still made you hurt.

the silence after the fact is what pained you the most… knowing that you shouldn’t contact them, no matter how much it wanted to. you both had to move on from this point, you had to let go. you could still be friends, but not now. not when it was so fresh.

so in the early morning, only 9 AM, you call someone you know would be up. (or rather, would get up for you)

“of course, of course–– no, don’t explain. i’ll be there, don’t worry. no! no, i’ll come pick you up. i have time–– all day. i’m free, don’t worry. i’ll be right there. gimme a sec––” his voice is groggy with sleep but full of sympathy. a wonder he could conjure up so much emotion within moments of waking up.

most people would be pissed, but tom was not “most people.”

you were always fond of tom, he’s always so friendly and his smile puts you at ease. he’s quick to tease you, but incredibly trustworthy. he’ll stand up for you, but also tell you the brutal truth. he doesn’t cut corners, but he’d speed over to comfort you in your time of need.

tom is just that kind of person.

the kind that shows up after a surprise call at 9 AM to pick you up from your now ex’s place, spare hoodie and water bottle in hand. he comes up to your door, guiding your hollow spirit to his car, helping you into your seat.

it’s at that moment when you realize how weak you felt. your knees buckled and you fell back against the leather, your fingers fumbled with the seatbelt, but he helped you wordlessly. your knuckles turned white as your gripped the strap across your chest.

he doesn’t speak until he’s sped off in a random direction. you couldn’t tell where, because of the tears that blurred your vision.

“what happened?” the words ripped through your strained composure

your mouth opened to speak, desperate to sort your emotions, but only a weird squeaky sob made way. you have to breathe–– probably taking ten minutes just to say anything intelligible–– but he gets it.

“we,,––hhic–– they said,–– t-they–– we broke up––” you shut your eyes as you say it, the finality of hearing yourself say it out loud. 

“it’s over”

“oh, no,” he says quietly. he reaches over to rub your shoulder, sparing you a sorry glance that you don’t see. “i’m so sorry.”

you nod. those were the only words he could give you, there was nothing to be spiteful or angry about. this was what had to run course.

after another ten minutes of sharp hiccups and groaning, you started to let yourself settle. you lean your head back while tom just drives, and watch the bright blue, cloudless sky as your eyes start to swell. your face was warm, and shoulders tense.

“this sucks,” you say out loud, voice cracked.

tom laughs softly, reaching out to touch your shoulder again. it felt nice. he slowed to a stop light, and sat back to look at you fully. there you notice he was wearing some dodgy sweatpants, a dark hoodie with a white shirt pulled down under it. his hair was a tangled mess, eyes ringed with dark circles. but he was still smiling gently, 

“i know.”

it was nice that he didn’t comfort you right away, that he wouldn’t smother you with pretty-nothings. it would be hard to believe at this point. instead he drove far, far away from all things familiar, and let your ramble about things you would probably all take back in a few days time.

he pulls into a parking lot, excusing himself for a second, and then coming back with  your favorite coffee order. he watches you sip it and smile slyly, when you realize he remembered. you thank him.

“don’t worry about it,” he comforts, “your order is easy to remember.”

“how so?”

“it’s the opposite of mine.”

and that makes you laugh, falling into a special sort of ease. you push your sticky hair off your face, taking another sip. tom plays his spotify wrapped playlist, and you tease him about his artist of the decade. he defends himself and lists their bops.  you listen as he fills the silence.

it’s nice.

you don’t exactly want to address the fresh wound, not yet at least. and tom understood that. right now, he was a distraction, and he understood that.

but he’s a good friend, you hope he understands that.

when the conversation falls to a lull, and you’re starting at the shaking, barren trees, tom offers,

“wanna step out? take a walk?”

“sure.”

you both step out of the car, maybe immediately regretting it because of the sharp chill–– but warm drinks in hand, it was enough. you laughed as he pulled his hood up, and protested when he tossed you a spare jacket–– though you put it on.

you walk towards shop buildings that weren’t yet open–– quiet, cold streets. you look down at your feet, and then are pulled

tom hugs your shoulders, pulling you to meet his side. he rubs his hands up and down your arm and shakes back and forth with funny steps. you look at him and he’s smiling goofy and apologetic.

the sight of him feeling sorry for you, makes you feel sorry for yourself and you start to tear up. he gets flustered and you laugh,

“god, tom, don’t make me cry! my tears are going to fucking freeze!”

“sorry, i’m sorry––” he whines, wiping your face roughly as you stop in the middle of the walkway. you duck away from him but he continues to rub your face, 

“–– these are gonna turn into fucking ice cubes––”

“tom!”

“ew, wait!–– don’t wipe your nose on that!”

“then, where the hell else–– you told me to wear this!”

you sniffle, your ribs aching with laughter. he holds your wrists lightly to stop you, but let go quickly. you hold your snotty sweater over your fingers and hold them against your face.

“thanks, tom. for coming out with me.”

he laughs, kicking his feet, “’didn’t really come out. kinda kidnapped you.”

you pull your hands down, crossing your arms and smiling the best you can, “well, thanks for being here with me.”

his head tilts, eyes crinkling genuinely, “don’t mention it.”

your lips press together, attempting to smile wider.

he nods, looking over you. he could see that you were going to be fine, that you were standing strong on your own two feet, your future clear and bright, your spirits ready to be lifted, you heart bruised, but intact–– he could see that it wouldn’t hurt for you to have someone to lean on.

tom approached you slowly, his arms held out. you didn’t move, not because you didn’t want to–– but it felt nice this way. 

he engulfs you in a hug, his arms going over your shoulders, his heads resting against yours, inviting you to lean against him. and you do. you smush your face against his shoulder.

his scent was unfamiliar, but incredibly warm.

he held you tight, rubbing your back and eventually swaying again. it was a way to say, “you can pull away at anytime, but i’m here for you.”

you don’t cry again, and instead hug him back with time. it was just a kind gesture you needed so badly. you didn’t want to feel like a burden, you didn’t want to be pitied, you didn’t want to be alone––

and tom gets that.

but sometimes you just gotta say it outright,

“thank you. you’re a really good friend, tom.” 

he pulls back, both your arms sliding off each other, his hands come to rest by holding your elbows. you lightly lay on his forearms. his smile is crooked, while his eyebrows twitch. he speaks more bluntly than he means,

“i’d do anything for you”

you crack a laugh, rubbing your nose,

“thanks? likewise.”

tom laughs gently alongside you, as you resume your walk. the wind is not quite as cold with tom beside you.

maybe it’s because he blocked it–– or because of the violent flush that ripped across him upon realizing that he confessed his buried feelings for you.

you miss the way he lovingly looks upon you, but that’s okay. he only wants you happy and warm–– no matter the means.

he’d do anything & everything.

Your friends say they love you, and you really love them. 

For now, that’s all you can ask for.

But as time passes you realize, you crave touch. You need to feel like they’re here with you, when they’re with you. Hands held, arms linked, feet touching–– it lets you feel at ease.

With Zendaya, you hold her hand in coffee shop lines, swaying softly between you. She’s the one you feel most comfortable with–– her personality easily adapts to yours. Contrary to what everyone thinks of her, she lets you pull her around, releasing control only around you. You choose the venue, sometimes the drinks and share cheery laughs as she tucks you hair behind your ear and forces you to let her cover the costs. (you let her, sometimes)

She’s soft.

With Jacob, you’re constantly hugging him, linking arms with him, holding hands with him–– and he always holds you back. Touch and time mean the most to him. So, you like watching movies with Jacob and trying out new places together, he’s just excited to just be with you and you with him. Though your movie and music tastes don’t always align, you always end up doubling over with laughter watching something with a 1 star rating that he claims is “a total cinematic masterpiece.”

He’s thoughtful.

With Harrison, you grab his ankles between yours, you lean your weight on him when you walk, you fix his hair when he takes off his hats–– and then he always says your name. Harrison will almost always notice when something is up with you, good or bad, and will always say something about it. If it’s good, he points it out in front of everyone to magnify your praise, and if it’s bad, he pulls you aside and gives you the biggest baby blues. A touch from him means a lot to you, and words of affirmation from you send him over the moon. “Did you make this? It’s amazing,” you say, and his neck grows pink. “I had a good time,” you always remind at the end of the night, to watch him regain all his energy and smile brightly. His sincere “thank you” that follows makes you flush.

He’s kind.

With Tom, you don’t know how to touch him–– but he knows how to touch you, without touching you. He offers to drive you home, he helps with move your furniture, he’s the first one you’d call if you needed something done. Your heart swells at the thought of his attention. And that means a lot to you without you understanding why. You want to reach out and hold him, to show your gratitude, but you second guess yourself. Would giving him a hug hello be too much? Is holding his hand too intimate? Is calling his name to make him turn around too needy? You brush against him when you walk, scratch at his jeans when you sit, and yearn to feel his skin uninterrupted–– but you can’t. instead you wait while sitting your hands. and in the moments in between, when he does holds you, you swim in his cologne and feel a little more whole.