Chapter Text
“The air, at least, is still open. My path lies there…”
With your head resting on Andrew’s lap, his soft, warm voice echoing through the dark room, you could feel yourself drifting off already. It was nearing the time when he’d begin touring again, which meant he’d have much less time to spend visiting you, so you were both trying to make the best of it. Even though he had offered up and down to have you accompany him on the road, you had decided that it would be too big of a change on such short notice, and that you’d much rather stay home with your garden and your chickens—despite your distaste for the heavily approaching loneliness that would surely follow. You didn’t want to admit it, but you had grown used to having Andrew around. He seemed to leave pieces of himself around whenever he visited—your closet now drowning in his sweaters, his favorite mug having found its resting place next to the coffee pot. You liked having him around. The thought of being alone once more was almost drowning. So you chose not to think about it too much.
“Are you asleep?” Andrew had leaned down to whisper in your ear, his book of poetry set to the side, face down on the crumpled sheets. His hand snuck its way under your shirt, calloused fingertips dancing along your back, tracing their way up and down your spine. You were not, in fact, asleep, but you didn’t respond, trying to be as still as possible. You weren’t sure whether or not he believed your act, but nonetheless he pressed a kiss to your forehead and adjusted you to be laying properly on the pillows instead of in his lap. He pulled the blankets up to your chin, tucking them around you snugly before climbing out of bed. You heard him shuffle around for a few minutes, and when he returned you could tell he had gotten undressed, his legs tangling up with yours beneath the bedding.
Andrew fell asleep quickly. He always did. Whenever he was away, he’d call you in late hours of the night, complaining that he could never fall asleep anymore when he was so far away from you. You felt your chest tighten, and you tried not to move, not wanting to wake him and reveal the fact that you were still somehow resisting your drowsiness. You leaned back against him slightly, and eventually you were able to turn around in his arms, pressing your face against his chest. He was warm. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it made it harder for you to get comfortable. The temperature had been steadily rising, and you could swear it was at least seventy degrees at the moment. Having a heater of a man in bed next to you wasn’t helping your discomfort.
After a few minutes of enduring the heat, you pulled your face away from his chest and adjusted slightly, moving down the mattress to rest the side of your head against his stomach. You stared up at the ceiling, your eyes now well adjusted to the dark. You could just barely see the texture of the paint, illuminated by the moonlight peeking in through the curtains. You squinted your eyes, counting spots on the ceiling until you succumbed to sleep.
The next morning, Andrew woke up early, his alarm blaring on the bedside table. You jerked awake, sitting up, rubbing your eyes. At first, you were confused. Andrew grabbed for his phone, narrowing his eyes as he tapped at the screen, vision no doubt blurry from tiredness and his lack of glasses. After another moment of sightless aggressive tapping, he got the noise to stop, tossing his phone onto the mattress beside you and letting out a groan. You watched as he stretched his arms above his head, running one hand through his hair, the other moving to rub your back.
“How’d you sleep?” He mumbled, voice still hoarse and quiet. You just nodded, moving to lean back against him, closing your eyes again. He wrapped his arms around you, pressing his face into your hair, sighing heavily. A moment later, he pulled away, rubbing his eyes again. “I need to get ready to go.”
You felt the sadness creep in. Every part of you wanted to object, to keep him in bed like this forever, never having to say goodnight over the phone again. You knew it would be worse this time. It wasn’t just a pop back home to check on things—he’d be really gone. For months. The thought made you ill. You had been so against this at first, and this was why. You couldn’t cope with needing someone so badly and not having them.
“Come on, love. We can have breakfast first, at least.” He squeezed you slightly, rubbing his hands over your arms before stretching again and getting out of bed. He pulled a pair of pajama pants on—the ones he had discarded the night before—and neglected to put on a shirt as he left the room. You could hear his heavy footsteps down the hall as he walked to the kitchen. You wanted to follow him. You didn’t.
Eventually, the warm smell of pancakes and bacon wafted into the bedroom, where you laid still in bed, having migrated to his side of the mattress, your face buried in his pillow. The sizzling noises stopped, and you heard his footsteps again, softer this time as he came looking for you. You could sense him pause in the doorway before entering the bedroom.
“What’s wrong?” He asked softly, the mattress dipping beside you as he sat down. When you didn’t respond, he leaned down, almost laying on top of you. You ended up encased in his arms, pressed into the bed, completely at the mercy of his wandering lips. He nuzzled his way against your shoulder, pressing kisses to the back of your neck and the side of your face, not stopping until you started to laugh. You pulled away to look at him, a smile on your face, and he brought his hands up to hold your cheeks, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
“There’s my happy girl,” he mumbled against your skin. He rested there for a moment, holding you close, breathing deep. “Come on, you need to eat.”
You were forced out of bed to enjoy the meal he had prepared. And enjoy it you did—though you were more focused on studying his face from across the table to eat very much of it. He noticed this after a while, and having finished his own breakfast, asked you to eat a little more while he cleaned up. Without him as a distraction, you gave in, picking away at your food while he did the dishes and put things away. You couldn’t help the way you tried to stall for time. You almost wished he would lose track of time and miss his flight and end up forced to spend another day or two with you.
But, alas, after you had finally finished eating, he started to gather his things. You stood silently in the living room and watched as he darted back and forth down the halls, trying to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. You watched him take his sweaters off the hangers in your closet, folding them haphazardly and tossing them in his suitcase. You watched him check the dryer for any socks he may have missed. You watched him grab his things from his drawer in the bathroom and tuck them away in his bag. There was a sense of finality to it, and even though you knew that eventually his things would make their way back into your home, it felt too far away for you to look forward to. He seemed too preoccupied with the stress of packing to notice how upset you were, which you couldn’t really blame him for. He was always preoccupied with something. He tried his best, but he was always preoccupied with something. That fact had become apparent in recent months, with the way he would be so enthralled in his books when you got home from work that he’d neglect to greet you with a kiss, or how he’d sometimes forget that he had promised you he’d cook dinner that night and request takeout instead.
Once he was sure he had his things together, he zipped up his suitcase, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and finally sparing you a glance. He furrowed his brow, stepping a little closer, reaching out to brush his knuckles against your cheek. “What’s wrong?”
You shook your head, biting back tears, pulling him into a hug in hopes that you could hide from the way you felt—at least until he was gone. He wrapped one arm around you, the other holding his suitcase, awkwardly holding you until you pulled away. “Just sad you’re leaving.” You forced the words out.
Andrew nodded, kissing the top of your head. “It’s not forever, lovey. I’ll be back. I’ll call every night, I promise.” You nodded, knowing that his ‘I promise’ was more of an ‘I’ll try my best to remember.’ He brought his hand back up to your face, running his thumb over your lips before pulling away. “Do you want to come to the airport with me?”
You shook your head, trying not to look at him too hard. “No, uhm, that’s okay. You’ll be checking in and everything. It’ll be easier if I just stay here.” Part of you was wishing that he would sense your upset and press further, demanding to know why you seemed so heartbroken that he was leaving, but he didn’t. He nodded, respecting your decision a little too easily for your liking.
“Alright. I love you.” He leaned down to press a quick kiss to your lips, not noticing when you tried to lean in and keep him close for a little longer. He ran a hand through his hair, nodding again. “I’ll let you know when I land, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. I love you too.”
And with that, he left, carrying his bags out the door without another word. You watched as he loaded his things into his rented SUV and got in. You waved goodbye as he drove away, but he didn’t return the gesture, leaving the ache in your chest to only worsen.
You busied yourself with chores for the first few hours, finally having the chance to deep clean without Andrew around to tempt you with offering to read to you while you rested. It seemed as though he hated seeing you do any kind of work at all, which was entirely ridiculous seeing as you didn’t work nearly as much as he did. You thought so, at least. You scrubbed floors and baseboards and windows, but no matter how sore your arms got you couldn’t stop thinking about Andrew. Curse him and how easily he had burrowed his way into your heart. It seemed like you couldn’t do anything without considering him as well.
You washed your sheets—intentionally forgetting to grab his pillowcase when you carried the bedding to the washer—and finished tidying up the mess he had left while he was packing. As you were organizing the closet, you noticed something folded neatly and placed on the top shelf. You had to get a step stool to reach it, just barely able to pull the garment down. It was one of his sweaters—your favorite one, to be exact. Taped to the front of it was a small piece of paper, his messy handwriting scribbled over the face of it.
I miss you already.
There were several hearts haphazardly drawn around the phrase. He had clearly been in a rush when he wrote it. You suck in a sigh, gently tucking the note into the drawer in your nightstand and taking your shirt off before pulling the sweater over your head. It was much too big. It still smelled like him.
You gave up on cleaning after that, burrowing under your now clean bedding, pressing your face against his pillow, hoping the scent wouldn’t fade too quickly. You fell asleep watching some rom-com on your laptop, too tired to hear when your phone buzzed beside you, your eyes already drifting closed when the message came through.
just landed. love you ♥️