Work Text:
Yesterday
It had felt like the world was ending. The usual argument, but more vehement this time. A new sliver of malice behind the words. He didn’t understand how she could be so callous, so paranoid; she didn’t understand why he couldn’t just let her handle things on her own terms.
You’re always playing these fucking games, he’d said. With me. With Joe. With your fans.
It’s not a game, was her argument. It’s my life. This is how it works.
Your life doesn’t take precedent over everyone else’s feelings. We’re people too. When are you going to learn that?
Never had she hated the misfiring synapses between her brain and her mouth so much.
Pause and take a look outside yourself for just one second, love. He practically spat the word. Then maybe we can talk.
She was all too familiar with slammed doors, but none of them had ever felt so hollow. Maybe this was it. The beginning of the end. She’d done this enough times to know that the point of no return wasn’t just a cliché; sometimes there are things you can’t undo, things you can’t unsay. Once the resentment gets out, you can’t wrestle it back in. Once the foundation is cracked, it’s only a matter of time before the castle comes crumbling down.
Today
He sends her the world’s shortest apology text the next morning, before she’s even finished her coffee.
i’m sorry.
Then, a minute later:
can i come over?
She thinks about making him wait before she responds, pretending she has a brunch date or meetings or a very important workout that would all take priority over him. But despite her patience when it comes to work, laying plans and seeing them through over months or years, she’s never really had much self-control when it comes to her emotions.
Text me when you’re outside, she sends back.
He falls through the door as soon as she opens it, the air around him vibrating with mania. His hair is wild and he smells like cigarettes. He looks about as disheveled and sleepless as she feels, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that.
“Look, I just want to talk about it,” he says, no introduction. “See if it’s even possible.”
“Of course it’s possible.” Her hackles are still up at the lack of niceties. Not even a hi or an in-person sorry. But he’s been a freight train in her life for nine years now, barreling through her neatly ordered roadmaps, so what else should she expect?
He takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. Runs a hand through his curls as he goes to his favorite window, the one overlooking the piers, so he doesn’t have to meet her eyes. He had called her calculated yesterday, but he’s got a game plan too. Everything they do is strategy. Moves and countermoves.
“I’m tired of hiding. Of pretending we’re just friends, just collaborators.” His posture softens—only a little, but she notices. She always notices the minutiae of his body. “I want to be able to touch you. Like normal. Not have my guard up when we’re just getting out of the car or whatever.”
She sighs. “I want that too. But it’s not that simple.”
“Because of Joe.”
“Because of everyone else.”
He looks like he’s about to say something sardonic but holds himself back. That’s how she knows he’s trying. The holding back isn’t easy for him. “Just promise me we’ll get there someday,” he says instead.
“Someday,” she agrees. “We just have to take it one step at a time.”
Finally, he turns and moves toward her, a concession. The apology is in his eyes, and the way he tucks her head under his chin, the tight wrap of his arms around her back.
She buries her face in his chest, her mind already whirring.
Tomorrow
The party will be a small celebration—his band, obviously, and a few other close friends crowded into the living room of their hotel suite. Phoebe, Jack, et cetera.
They’ll be gathered on the couch, drinks and birthday cake in hand, watching the second episode of A Theatrical Performance, and George will call Matty a pretentious twat while he grins.
The story will break at 7 p.m. sharp, just as planned. (Tree truly is the queen of a quick turnaround.)
She’ll feel her chest constrict when she opens the article on her phone. Seeing the words on the tiny screen—Taylor Swift and Joe Alwyn Break Up After 6 Years Together—finalizes it in a way that she hasn’t felt yet. Even though it’s been over for a while, there had been something about secreting away the ending that made it feel more like theirs—the last remnant of what they had together, sacred and untouchable. And maybe keeping it hidden had made it feel more significant, like the six years had meant something; meant more than it actually did, perhaps. Like it had been a story worth telling, a fairytale with a bittersweet ending, if not a happy one. She had loved Joe once, and deeply. A part of her will always hold onto that.
But that’s not Matty’s fault, and there’s no going back now.
She will wait until he gestures out toward the balcony with his Camels, then follow him out into the evening air. He’s as expert a smoker as she’s ever met, but when she shows him the headline, he’ll nearly choke.
“Christ.” But the smile in his cheeks will be warm and pleased when he says, “I didn’t think someday meant today.”
“One step at a time,” she’ll say, pressing a kiss to his hand, out here on the balcony, where anyone might see.