Work Text:
you ask
if we can still be friends
i explain how a honeybee
does not dream of kissing
the mouth of a flower
and then settle for its leaves
i don't need more friends | rupi kaur
You didn’t think it would feel like this.
Ma never said it would be this bad. Like, sure, sweethearts have broken up with you before, but it was mostly because there was something missing. You never got invested in them, and they never had a chance to get invested in you. You went on a couple dates, had a real blast, and then: well, you shipped off to war.
“Fuckin’ Christ, you gotta stop thinking about it,” Bill says to you when he returns from the bar to shove another frothy glass of beer in front of you. “If he ain’t writin’, he ain’t writin’, Babe, and you just gotta accept that.”
He says it, because he doesn’t really wanna talk about it. Like he’s had enough of your whining about it, and you need to move on.
And fuck, he’s been supportive, so he should be allowed some peace.
You bite the inside of your cheek, and then you do what you’ve always done, and plaster on a goofy smile and start telling a joke that has him groan in distaste. The wheel keeps turning.
“How’d you know that Dad was the one , Ma?” You ask her once, when you’re feeling melancholic, months later. It’s October, on the cusp of Fall. It’s rained the last three days, and you’re all mired down in the slog.
There’s a fire going, the only source of light other than the soft blue gray light through the clouds.
There are no animated voices in the Heffron household today, everyone’s out runnin errands or some bullshit. It’s just you, and ma, and the sound of rain pattering against the glass windows. You’re off from work, and Ma is knitting. It’s cute. It's something she always scoffed at when she was younger, because she had real work to do, but now she finds it calming.
She glances up at you, her brows furrowed, and your heart aches because as far as she knows, well, you haven’t been seeing anyone.
You don’t know how she’d react.
She chooses her words carefully.
“Your Dad, rest his heart, he looked at me like I was his North Star, before I knew he was mine.”
She threads the yarn over the needle, and starts the new row.
You realize how willing she’d be to talk about this with you.
You change the subject.
You get a job.
You quit your job.
You get another job.
You quit your job.
Nothing fucking feels right.
There’s this restless energy inside of you that doesn’t settle, there’s this itch there that you can’t figure out, no matter how hard you try.
The chicken your ma roasted for dinner is heavy in the air, undercut with the distinct pine scent from the garlands hung throughout the house. You purposely lose the rock, paper, scissors for the leg of chicken cause you know it’s Elizabeth’s favorite, and she always chooses paper, then scissors, then paper again. She hasn’t figured it out.
The holidays are approaching, making you think of life and rebirth and how goddamn lucky you are to be here, even if it’s not with everything you wanted.
You almost died.
You almost died several times, fuck, you’re still not sure how you scraped by ‘by the skin of my damn teeth’ and then you open your mouth to show where your front right tooth chipped when you were overseas. Ma scolds you, when you pull back with a cackle, because there’s potato skin in your teeth, and she says something that goes in one ear and out the other, about swearing at the dinner table and having your sister’s new fiance realize —
Well, the truth, that your family is a buncha weirdos.
You wonder what he’d think.
A knock at the door interrupts dinner.
“Oh, it’s probably Jo-Anne,” your ma says, once she’s done scolding you. “I told her to stop by after work, I made a pie for her and her boy, you know, John,” and she keeps rambling on, though you’ve already tuned her out.
You shove a spoonful of mashed potatoes in your mouth, and when you realize nobody else is gonna get up to answer the door, you sigh and roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I go– it,” you mumble, words muffled with mash.
You wipe your mouth off on the skin of your arm, and head to the door.
“Hey,” it’s Eugene Roe, because of course it is. He’s standing there in front of you, in nicely tailored slacks and a vest. His white shirt is crisp but worn, weathered with use. He holds a felt hat to his chest.
You nearly fucking slam the door shut.
“Wait – wait , Babe,” the way his tongue curls over your name has your heart hammering in your chest, caught in your throat, and this can’t fucking be real. His hand catches the door frame, and for a moment, you wonder, eyes narrowed, how it’d feel to close the door regardless - hurt Gene like he hurt you after all these months.
“ Hey ?” You can’t help but snap incredulously, and the warmth from the after-dinner wine that was simply in your belly, skyrockets to your cheeks and y’know what, apparently, you’re doing this. “All you got for me is a hey ? Get fucked , Eugene.”
“Hear me out — ”
“ Why should I?” You step outside and shut the door, so fucking careful not to slam it behind you, and take a step off the porch, down past the creaky step, a sick curl of pleasure in your gut as Gene takes a step back.
Gene’s face shifts, becomes blank, and you’re not sure what he’s thinking – you always struggle with it when he shuts himself off, and the only tell is the furrow in his eyebrows.
“Yeah, Gene, tell me why the fuck should I? You,” it’d been months of trying to push these feelings down, and they’re all there, inescapable. You’d been feeling better, truly, and now – now he has the audacity to show up like this. “You left me, 'n I swear–”
Gene crosses the distance between you, and in a split second, he cups the back of your neck with his hand, and he pulls you in for a kiss.
Christ, it’s like fuckin’ fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. It’s just as cheesy and it’s just as pathetic as you’ve always expected it to be, but Christ if it’s not everything you wanted it to be.
All of the anger that you held inside of you, bottled up, disappears in one moment.
It’s like the first time you kissed.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, before surging forward again.
“Let me make it better,” he murmurs, soft voice even softer against your lips. His thumb strokes the hair at the nape of your neck and you can’t help but shiver. “I know I screwed up, Babe, but I’m here, hat in hand, offerin’ you all I got in this world to give, beggin’ for just one more chance.”
You hear the door open behind you, and you jolt, panic shooting electric through your spine, and take a step back away from Gene, praying that—
“Who’s your friend, dear?” It’s Ma. You glance over your shoulder at her, trying to pretend like your hands aren’t sweaty as you rub them against your once-neat slacks, and there isn’t a scarlet blush turning your cheeks embarrassingly red.
“...Uh, this is,” you clam up. Words that you normally wield so well, fall clumsy off your tongue. “This is Eugene, Ma. We fought together.”
“Ah,” she pauses to look between the two of you, and you feel your whole body tense up. “Invite him in, honey. Don’t you see that it just started to snow, Edward? He’ll catch a cold.”
Eugene seems startled by the invitation, and looks at you for approval. It throws you, how easily you are willing to fit in his arms again, to allow yourself into the space between. You quickly nod your head and hope that your cousin doesn’t embarrass you and start yammering on about fucking Pomeranians again.
Ma didn’t know that Dad and her were perfect for each other, it took her months to come around. Maybe, just maybe, Gene could be his North Star too.