Work Text:
For Anthony, it starts like this:
Idle day; the human embodiment of ennui. Eyes almost always closing; he did not have the strength to keep them open, nor did he have the carelessness of shutting them so the hours would end, not when he still had responsibilities to attend. A call from Colin—always dangerous—and, afterwards, an invitation to have some drinks at his place; suspicion arose, naturally, When had his brother ever done such a thing? A reluctant yet fateful agreement and confirmation of his presence, Of course I will, Colin. Thank you for calling me; he said, voice too apathetic for it to be genuine. When arrived, a glass of wine was all but shoved into his hands and he, wrongly, took a sip—after all, wine was not allowed for Bridgertons, no, no. Their mother had managed to scar her children since their early days due to her antics; too touchy, too sentimental, too many hugs; impossibly tight, verging on breathtaking, hugs.
It is only one glass, he told himself.
It is only one more, he thought after filling another.
And in the third, he assured himself it was the last.
The same with the next.
And the next.
And the next.
And the next.
And the next.
And the next.
And—
Well. There was only one possible result from that.
For Kate, it comes very much like a comet; strong, fast, burning, tearing up the five layers of the atmosphere and landing in the most inconvenient spot ever imaginable.
Imagine a very, very, very tiring day at work. Add to that the most excruciating stomach cramps. Complete with an almost imperceptible but long lasting and utterly annoying pulsing headache; not enough for her to decide to take a pill but just the right amount to make her lose track of her thoughts.
Kate felt frustrated, angry, annoyed and with very little patience, as it happens.
Getting home, all she wanted was to get out of her work clothes, take a long, hot bath, put on some cozy pajamas and watch mindlessly whatever bad TV show that came up first.
A ping.
And the irritated groan that fell upon her lips did so naturally—she hadn't even given it a thought before it happened, swift as it was—while her face turned into a scrunch. An angered, exasperated, scrunched ball.
She could have ignored it. She could have turned off her phone entirely—or thrown it towards an isolated corner; which would bring the same result. She could have put her phone on silent; no noise to bother anymore.
She did not.
Despite her grievances—and what some would even go as far as to say it had been a blatant disrespect towards basic, common sense—Kate's duty spoke louder; her sacred responsibility as a sister and a daughter.
Eyes barely opening, hands heavy; ordinary movements suddenly too hard, too much effort.
A text. From whom? It does not matter. It's no one she deeply cares for anyhow—no one important.
She checks Thomas' text. She sends a dry response—perhaps an 'I will see this tomorrow' or an 'Alright' or a thumbs up emoji; she was too tired to remember which one—and intends to turn off her phone altogether and go to sleep already; if she kept up on the couch the darkness would eventually begin and she had no intention of having a sore back in the morning.
However, something else caught her eye.
One, two, three dots; appearing and vanishing in a troubled, almost drunken, rhythm.
She tried to make sense of it but there was no use—the blue turned to white with no warning, no pattern; she watched it’s non-synchronous dance almost at awe.
Sleep evaded her and unplanned energy took its place.
Four, five, six, ten minutes spent watching it disappear into the wind just to come alive again; a never ending cycle.
She could do something. Should she do something?, she questioned herself. Maybe it would be good to, to get this bubbling charade done once and for all. Yet maybe it would be horrible to—or the worst idea she has ever had in her twenty six’s years of life—do so. Maybe it was nothing and everything all at once; a Schrödinger’s box she had no strength to open.
A sigh.
She would not.
She would.
She would not.
She would.
She would not. She should not. She—
She did.
I:
'WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?'
What the fuck are you typing
That was it. No interrogation mark, no punctuation at all. Direct and succinct; that was Kate, all over.
He thought he was imagining it. Surely, that could be the only reason as to why this happened. Besides, he felt a bit dizzy and he could feel his pulse fighting with his head; there was a light pain beginning to forge its way into his spirit—yet he decided not to care for it at the moment.
He could not—not when he was delicious delirium about Kate. He would not waste his time worrying about a small sorrow; in his front, there laid Kate, awaiting his response—he considered placing his phone at the highest shelf and worship it on his knees, sending her prayers. He almost did it, until the flaky memory of the other people present downed on him.
He, very discreetly, rushed to Colin's bedroom.
(He tripped on the way there.)
((He didn't take note of it.))
His brother's bed was very comfortable. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of the clean sheets. The surprising sudden knowledge that Colin washed his sheets was earthshaking to him. That did not make sense. A frown formed in his forehead.
His hand found its way to his phone. Oh, his phone. He had one, he supposed. He had forgotten about it.
The screen shined too much—the clarity almost blinded him. His eyes scrunched and he heard a grunt. Had it come from him?
He saw the text. The text! From Kate! Oh, wow, he should answer. He would answer.
What should he answer again?
Hello
She frowned.
Hello? That's all Anthony had to say? He had spent twelve minutes trying to type a five letter word?
That could not be. It didn't make sense.
He was playing daft, she concluded. He wished for her to beg for him to reveal what he truly intended to say.
Anger filled her chest, fingers tightening around her phone with far more pressure than it should.
He would not win. She would not let him get a taste of victory.
Hello
He grinned. Kate texted him back! And she said 'Hello' too! What a beautiful conversation they were having. Beautiful day. He blinked; it was night. Well then, what a beautiful night they were having!
He should ponder about what he would say next. His heart wrecked against his ribcage; anxious yet excited too. It would be important, he realized, this next text. It would settle the tone for the rest of this conversation—for the future of their relationship too.
It was a decision he could not take lightly.
A saying floated to his mind: "With great power comes great responsibility." He did not remember from where he had heard it.
He shrugged. His father must have said it once.
I like you
Now she was thoroughly confused. What did he mean by this? What were his intentions? Was it all part of his plan?
Despite everything, she felt herself burning a little as she read the message, over and over. Ridiculous; she was blushing. She was pathetic, she decided.
Had he noticed the times she unwisely gazed at him, tracing his every traits, and meant to do this only to embarrass her? Had he finally put two and two together and realized that she had suddenly changed to the same gym he frequented just to get a wider glimpse of his strong, sweaty muscles?
(Did he think she was insane? Did he laugh whenever he saw her there? Did he tell his friends about her?)
A part of her wished to forget about this and sleep. Attempt to sleep, at least; she doubted that she would be able to close her eyes without imagining Anthony mocking her.
But she could not let him win. If Anthony indeed wanted to humiliate her, she could not surrender and help him achieve an easy victory. She would put up a fight, as she always did.
A well written response was her answer then. Her words were her only weapons in this war; she would have to summon her most articulate self.
She put her hands together and cracked her knuckles.
This was a battle—and she was ready.
What
Kate was confused. It made complete sense, he reasoned; he had failed to express his feelings plainly.
She was always reasonable, his Kate, even in his dreams.
Should he vomit his emotions or take it slowly? Vomit it one word at a time, thoughtfully.
He was thinking too much about vomit. Did he want to vomit? No, Kate would not be pleased by that. And it was a dream—dreams were supposed to be a magical land of free imagination; the best place on earth. Or was this Disney? Anyhow, there was no space for vomits in his dreams. Everything is perfect in his dreams.
He straightened his posture as he continued to lay in his brother's bed.
Kate deserved that much.
I really like you
He was doing this on purpose.
She could not make sense of anything right now, thoughts all over the place.
Had she fallen sleep without noticing? Was this a nightmare?
She pinched herself and closed her eyes. Waited a full ten seconds before opening them, taking a glance at her phone. Nope. Still there.
She was paying for her sins then. Karma came to her at last; in the form of the infuriatingly handsome Anthony Bridgerton.
It was annoying her just the same as it was intriguing her—giving her hope. Foolish, pointless hope.
She had to put a stop to this madness. The consequences could be too shattering.
Why are you like this?
He didn't hold back his content laugh. He could even hear her voice as she said it; imagined her blushing as she avoided his attentive gaze.
His legs began to swing where they hanged off the bed and his teeth found their home against his lips.
They have finally reached flirting territory. How exciting! This was the most wonderful dream he had ever had! All of those sleepless nights he managed to live through, and the ones he was awoken by the memory of his mother's screams and his father's blue complexion finally paid off!
Now he must be witty; flirty while verging on embarrassing; something that would earn him a digital slap in his chest and Kate's giggles.
He smirked. He knew exactly what would get him just that.
II:
'HOW MUCH DID YOU DRINK?'
Because I haven't kissed you yet.
She held back the squeal she wished to let out because it would be absolutely insane to do that and she would not let herself be taken by Anthony's mental breakdown stream.
Her suspicions dimmed by that point, though she was still left to be completely confused. Anthony was being too blunt for him to be lying or having ulterior motives, but she could not let herself believe he was being completely honest either.
Sure, they had traded looks; heavy, appraising looks. Yes, sometimes she did felt the weight of his gaze upon her, and it always disappeared after she turned to watch him.
But they argued constantly. They were incapable of having an exchange without shouting to one another—usually with fingers being pointed and insults involved.
She always left these discussions panting, her attraction to him somehow even more deepened; her need stronger. She couldn't affirm the same about him, though.
It made no sense to raise hope for something she simply knew it wouldn't happen. It was like going to war without guns, or riding a bike without a helmet.
It was a waste of time for the both of them.
And yet.
Bullshit
He made a pause. Was Kate testing him? It did seem like something Kate would do.
It constantly surprised him how realistic this dream was. If he weren't so sure he was imagining it all he would believe it to be true—then again, he did not have the courage to do this; confess his feelings, in real life. It must be a dream.
No matter; now it was time to convince her. He had not expected for Kate to believe him outright—it would be out of character to do so and even though this is a dream, his mind memorized every aspect of her to an perhaps unhealthy point—yet he would be lying if he said that he was expecting such refusal.
She was protecting herself, he reasoned, creating ways to ignore what was clearly being said to her. She has suffered through so much; Kate cannot bear to be hurt again. And he would not live with himself if he was the reason of her pain.
There was no alternative—he will explain how much he needs her, so Kate can finally understand.
I want to kiss you ever since we first met. I almost kissed you then, actually, but I managed to make you hate me almost immediately. I want to believe that you have changed your mind about me but I'm not sure
He could not be serious. How could Anthony think that she hates him? They have disagreements but they never truly fought. This information almost blinded her from reading his other confession.
Almost.
She remembers that day as if it was yesterday. Her first day at her new job and she was twitching from excitement and nerves. She kept checking her phone to make sure she was at the right place at the correct time with the appropriate clothes.
And soon comes Anthony. He crashes into her, spilling his coffee on her outfit in the process; the entire office is now watching them in an awkward silence. She is mad—furious—and she gets even more angry when she gets sight of him because he is gorgeous.
He was obviously embarrassed, ears turning pink as he glanced at her now ruined form with wide eyes; at disbelief with his own actions. His eyes are beautiful and his hair seems silky and his arms are large and muscled and his fingers were too thick around the coffee cup.
She was frustrated with herself with how quickly she got attracted with this handsome, clumsy coworker of hers.
And so she picked up a fight; yelled at him. And watched how his face was worn with surprise and how his nostrils flared and how his eyes shined. For a quick second she really thought he had enjoyed it.
That first meeting truly settled the dynamics of their relationship for the years that followed. Amidst the ups and downs of her life, she had almost forgot about that day.
That is, until Anthony texted her about it.
His words didn't frighten her because of what he meant—although it did made her feel overwhelmed for some seconds. No, what truly unsettled her was that she too had wanted to kiss him that day.
Even though he stained her clothes. Even though he infuriated her to no end.
At the back of her thoughts, the wish to touch her lips with his lingered—and only grew over the years.
She was about to say—or tell him she never hated him or not even acknowledge the subject at all—that to him before another ping filled the air.
Huh. Two texts in a row. He never done that with her before.
I dream of you. I am dreaming of you. Your perfume drives me crazy and going to the gym just to see you all wet is a torture I would never miss. I want to lick the sweat off you
The heat that swarmed her body got more and more intense, reaching her ears—she was sure she was red all over.
His words were too much. Too sudden, too vivid, too real. Did he really think that way? Did he truly felt what she did?
She did not know what to say; what to type. What should she do in this situation, How should she approach this?
And why did he decide to do this today of all days?
Is this really Anthony?
Sweet, beautiful Kate. She wanted proof of life—and he would send it to her.
Photo
Ah. Now she knows.
A giggle escaped her in spite of herself; she should not be giggling, especially when the cause of it was a certain Bridgerton—she was aware of it, subconsciously.
Yet the sight of him was all too particular for her not to savor it somehow.
Flushed cheeks, disheveled hair and the widest grin she has ever seen from him; a dimple is visible now, one she did not even know it existed. His eyes; shining yet half lidded. The wrinkles she was so used to seeing were now gone; his skin was glowing.
Anthony was wholeheartedly drunk.
She found it sweet.
Everything made sense now: the typing and deleting of unsent texts, the suddenness of his confessions, how at ease he sounded through his words—alcohol now fed the only brain cell he has ever had.
As he gulped glasses, Anthony thought about her—she imagines, even if for a minute, the sight of it; nervous, anxiously attempting to forge a string of words together, trying to woo her.
To know that he had meant the things he had said—or tried to say—cooled the turmoils of her mind. Anthony was in no condition to lie to her about such subject—about any subject, really—nor did he have any reason to.
He meant all of them. Just as she did.
And that was terrifying just as much as it wasn't—she was starting to get tired of the constant paradoxical nature of her feelings towards Anthony; couldn't it be as simple as only one thing? Good or bad?
She bit her nail, legs tapping against one another without permission. She stared, still, and stared.
Stared.
Thumbs hovered over the screen; wondering and wondering and wondering and—
Anthony what happened to you?
You, he thought, though it does not truly cover the extensiveness of it all. Colin, perhaps, he was the one to make me come here. Benedict, for offering me a glass of wine—had it been him? He does not recall the face or the hand or anything, really. Only her.
Life is also a factor. So is death. Ironic, if not tragic.
He shook his head. Never mind that. This was a good moment, a special and unique one, at that. A moment with Kate; an honest moment with Kate.
This was a dream—he wouldn't ruin it with his own wrecked mind.
He focused on memories and images of Kate. Kate: dressed in a tight, long dress. Kate: wearing a short skirt and a simple shirt; no bra. Kate: showing miles of soft skin while dressed in a small, vibrant bikini. Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate.
These glimpses; flashes, became so vivid that he could've sworn he had traveled back in time, fueled only by his need for her. He didn't fight against them—in fact, he embraced it; a big, soft smile on his face as he mentally went through these images, wishing to swim in them.
Were his eyes closed or open? Did that matter?
This was the best part of this dream, he decided. Surrounded by thoughts, smell and visions of her; world starting and ending with Kathani. He was breathing her in, in a way, he was sure—or wished or hoped.
He wants to tell her so, so many things—When he fell in love with her, When they first met; When he realized he loved her, When she was stung by a bee and thought she was dying; When he decided he wasn't good enough for her, Also when they first met—but the words can't seem to be emitted by the taps against his screen; his feelings never do turn real.
He goes back to those texts, then: the ones that made her suspect it was real. A part of him wants to engrave them or frame them, at the very least.
An idea comes to him. He could do the next best thing, couldn't he? And he still had her text to answer.
His dream hadn't ended yet—he would enjoy it while it lasted.
Rough day
They were in agreement in that, it seemed. Or they were. The weariness she had felt but minutes ago disappeared; vaporizing into the air. She felt adrenaline pumping through her; keeping her more awake than she has ever felt for the last couple of years.
She supposed she should feel glad that Anthony had taken an obviously high amount of alcohol; he would never had been honest otherwise. Is it a good thing? Or was he as afraid as she was; of getting hurt, of never recovering from their imminent loss.
The air around her was heavier than before. Had her worries evaporated too?
No, she shook her head, she shouldn't feel this nervous over a text. It was a text. A string of words; meaningless or not, they were simply words—made of tiny letters that together made specific sounds, sometimes not. They shouldn't affect her that much; they shouldn't affect her at all.
She twitched her lips together. If she paid attention—if she really paid attention; spent her entire focus on it—she could hear the structure of her old building creaking, moaning; alive. She thought about how people lied to themselves, everyday, when they say they aren't living things.
Just as she was lying to herself.
Words, words, his words reached deep within her before she could even try to defend herself. Anthony always did. It's what scared her the most.
Never mind that. It's a problem for her future self.
How much did you drink?
Ha. She had managed to see through him anyhow. It made sense, he guessed, it was a dream, and he hadn't had that many glasses of wine. He thinks.
Clouds interrupted his thoughts constantly. The sky was clear, not a cotton ball in sight and suddenly they simply were. They were multiple, too; existing and then not—fast; disappearing. He could never catch them.
For a moment he could've sworn one of them had Hyacinth's name attached on it.
A beautiful and most odd dream he's ever had. He appreciates it, just the same as he dreads the opening of eyes; if he could, he would live on it.
It would win the title of best dream of his life if he had the privilege of feeling Kate's lips against his own; breath mingling with his, their tongues touching, feeling her warmth spread through him.
Well. He could only dream.
Just enough to make my dreams come true
There was no need to feign the scoff for it came easily, nor to pretend to roll her eyes as it was her natural reaction. The smile though, that—
That had not been what she expected. A dangerous reaction, if she's ever seen one.
She sighed. Perhaps she should have ignored that first message; she would be sleeping now, wrapped around her duvet, hopefully snoring.
And because she did not, due to her being filled with immense, non-ending worries, there she was: anxiously reading Anthony's—Anthony's out of all people—drunk texts—words and words and words and words—over and over and over again; trying to search for the unsaid, the implications between the lines and absolutely panicking over the fact that there are no implications; he's being thoroughly sincere all the time. What unsaid?, a voice whispered on her ear. She almost wishes there was one. Perhaps then she would have real, valid reasons to fret.
And now she has to cope with the fact that in truth the only thing she wishes the wrap herself around his Anthony's arms. Anthony's toned, strong arms. Arms she's spent too long pretending not to be watching.
It suddenly came to her the possibility of Anthony not even remembering this in the morning. The idea wrecked her more than anything. To go back to her life, working by his side, knowing he—in some level—wants her back yet does not have the strength to say it outright is too much. How would she ever be able to look him in the eye after this? How will she go back to not knowing, to pretend?
A pause. Maybe if—
III:
'YOU ARE AN IDIOT.'
How can I be sure you'll remember this tomorrow?
A thoughtless question. He wouldn't have expected such of Kate, yet then again she does have the tendency to be unaware of the extent of her affects on him.
He would not—that he was absolutely sure—be able to forget Kate nor his feelings for her or this dream for the rest of his life. Even in his hopeless nights; the ones where he felt the most lonely and weak and broken; the ones where the thought of never having a chance to be with her made him want to weep, did he wish to forgo her altogether. Kate, as it turns out, is a part of himself now—probably has been ever since they met. To have no Kate would mean to have no him at all; and even when sometimes he does want that, he remembers what that decision truly entails and he would never willingly not have Kate. And thus he Is.
It is something of the most obvious to him and it's somewhat baffling that Dream Kate does not know it. She should have access to his subconscious, should she not? If this was indeed a dream? Silly of him to question; yes it is a dream, he could not afford it not to be.
And yet the seed of doubt lingers and lingers at his mind; far but there. Very there.
I could never forget anything about you Kate. Not even if I wanted to
Drunk Anthony shouldn't have such a way with words. Drunk Anthony shouldn't be so gallant. Drunk Anthony shouldn't be able to type perfectly normal texts.
How can you be texting so well?? Aren't you shit faced
Dream Kate is sounding very much alike His Kate; and the dream in itself is taking turns he would have never expected.
For starters, he started to hear voices. At least two of them, if not more, yelling from a distance. What are they yelling? His name. Anthony! one screams, Anthony! the other follows. Two very distinct voices—familiar in some way too—searching for him. He looks around, tries to search Faces for those Voices but there's no one else there but him. He accepts the Faceless Voices and continues to hear them, never once occurring to actually answer them.
The clouds come back as well. They are even more than before, he noticed, as if two times a hundred times the multiple number of before; too many, for him. And this time they come in different names and colors; Daphne, one says, Eloise, the other mentions, Edwina, a pinkish funny looking cloud shows. The clouds seem to love him.
The seed grows very much into a small tree and he wonders. Wonders, wonders, wonders.
It must, he thinks. It has to be, he assures himself. Surely it's not, he reassures.
He hopes the ever-present clouds can stop the tree from growing but it seems that they only make it even more stronger somehow, defying biology.
Who told you I'm drunk I am Not.
Also I'm drunk not illiterate
It is as ridiculous as it is adorable. She cannot seem to stop to imagine his face as he typed it: a frown in the middle of his brows and a pout, resembling an immature baby. He does seem like one sometimes.
A content sigh leaves her as she snuggles more into her couch. Yes, she had not imagined for her night to go as it is, that much is true, and although she is terrified of the uncertain future to come, the good news is beginning to look brighter to her now.
It did took Anthony a couple of drinks for him to be honest about his feelings but he did anyway. She never dreamed of this; scared of raising hopes up just to be shattered completely, and so she did not entertain the idea of him feeling the same for her. She had thought that he was attracted to her, yes, and that she was a good coworker but that's was all and that would always be all.
To learn that she was wrong was unsettling and yet exciting.
Anthony is in love with me, she repeated over and over, trying to make it as much of a truth as the sky is blue and the grass is green.
Anthony is in love with me. Anthony is in love with me. Anthony is in love with me.
Anthony is in love with you, her phone screamed at her with a thousand of exclamation marks, Edwina's name sitting atop of it.
It had taken her so aback that she gave a quick glance around her living room, only to make sure her sister wasn't in fact there. Only when checked did she question it further, What and Where did you get that from.
What followed wasn't anything she had thought—though she hadn't really thought on much alternatives—and it made her even more at loss at how to deal with the situation.
Anthony had posted a screenshot of their messages. Screenshots, in fact. Particularly the ones where he very much declares himself to her, letting all the world to see that he wished to lick her sweat off her skin.
Her cheeks had never burned so much.
She wondered if he had even realized what he had done. What did he think he was doing instead when he posted it on his very public stories? And how drunk was he exactly? The man even managed to tag her, for fuck’s sake; she didn’t think he even knew how to do it before this.
It amazed her, truly it did, that he hadn’t gotten into an alcoholic coma yet. His commitment to keep talking to her was truly fascinating.
(She wished she didn’t find it charming.)
And now she felt that it was her duty to warn him somehow. To imagine how he'll be in the morning—
Well. Best not to think about that. Problem for her future self.
You are an idiot
He nodded slowly. He was told that many times, yes, especially by her; he could almost hear her voice saying it, husky tone warming around the syllables as she gazed at him pointedly.
God he wished he could see her right now.
I know
She arched her eyebrow, surprised. He really was drunk, wasn't he?
Anthony did you mean to post our messages?
It took him a few long seconds to understand what she meant.
This dream was really realistic—and creative. He didn't know he was creative like that.
Post?
Yes. You posted them on your stories
I did?
Yes
Oh
Typing.
Stopped.
Typing again.
It's alright, it's just a dream
Kate blinked very slowly.
Was he insane? Was she in love with a crazy man? Was he in a coma already and she was in it too, somehow?
Anthony, darling, did you think this was a dream all this time?
He felt a part of him very much die at that moment. The bottom of his stomach fell, somehow, and he did not even know this was a possible thing to happen.
..yes
She didn't know if she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all or hug him. Maybe both.
She would definitely call Benedict first, though.
I want you to read this very carefully and don't panic. This is not a dream. Everything that's happened has actually happened.
He was pretty sure he felt the blood running from his face. Suddenly it all made too much sense. The clouds, the Faceless Voices, Dream Kate being too much His Kate. Why hadn't he realized when it mattered? And— oh.
Oh.
Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.
Anthony? Are you okay?
He was not. He was absolutely not. He has just told the woman he loved he loved her; he is not fine! That had been a bad choice, a very bad, horrible choice.
How would he see her again? Work with her again? He would be mortified, he is mortified.
This is the last the world has ever heard from him, that's the only reasonable thing to do. He would live a life in solitude, a hermit from society, to never show face again.
And the screenshots.
Were they still up? And how did he even post them? Could he even delete them? And—
"Anthony!" Benedict called, just before the room turned entirely into black.
IV:
'I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING.'
The rays of sunshine that escaped between the blinds stabbed his eyes with their brightness, each searing into his soul; the pain was what startled him from his slumber and yet was quickly very much forgotten. The light, as it turns out, was the least of his concerns; his entire body felt sore and tired; his stomach churned, the sounds coming out of it being too loud to his ears; he felt his eardrums hammering, echoing, inside his skull—his body was fighting against himself.
And indeed, the agonizing torture of his cells turning his insides into a battlefield were not enough for him to forget about the events from last night; in fact, they only seemed to make it stronger.
Hangover and humiliation do make an excruciating combination—an excruciatingly mortifying combination.
He did not need to open his eyes—nor did he have the ability, in quite honesty—to know where he was: the mix of soft mattress with over-washed sheets reeked Benedict. And so did his bedroom; there was a lingering scent of marijuana that was starting to become nauseating.
Still, it was best to focus on the ailments occurring in him then to dwell on what he done last night—it was less painful; and shameful.
The images; blurs, in truth, reeled on his mind without his permission. The messages exchanged—he groaned at the memory of it and the motion only made his head hurt more—the photo of himself, the story. Lord, how would he ever explain that to his company's HR?
And Kate.
He winced—and then groaned from pain.
He had embarrassed himself entirely. Confessed when he should not.
What was she thinking right now?, he wondered, What did she think of him? Did she hate him now? Could he ever blame her if she did? Certainly not. He has done too much.
A sigh. He would never see her again, would he?
His phone, the treacherous thing, buzzed somewhere in the bedroom. He had no wish to touch that cursed object until he had complete need to.
Ignoring it, he rolled over the bed, smashing his face into his brother's pillow.
Another buzz; ignored again.
Another. And another, and another, and another, and—
He had enough. Who could even be this desperate to speak to him?, the doubt was stained with bitterness as he searched the phone across the bed; eyes still closed.
The fingers danced naturally all around the screen; half-seeing, half-searching, attempting to find the culprit to his interruption.
Must be mother, he thought. Or one of his siblings, laughing at his expense. Or his head of HR, Alice, scheduling an emergency meeting with him.
It didn't matter—none of them were who he wanted to hear from.
He gave a quick glance to his phone and looked away.
And then immediately looked back.
Another close look, for good measure.
Hey you. How are you? (sent: 09:16)
You must be going through the worst hangover imaginable (sent: 09:16)
I mean, 10 glasses of wine, Anthony? Are you a teenager? Control yourself (sent: 09:20)
Text me when you wake up. Please (sent: 10:43)
Anthony? Are you still sleeping? (sent: 12:37)
I can't believe this you are absolutely ridiculous (sent: 14:39)
Don't argue with me when I get there (sent: 14:39)
His widened eyes only seemed to bulge even more out of his head as he noted the notifications of several missed calls. Including one from just one minute ago.
Kathani: Missed Call (15:21)
His entire body was frozen—he could barely make sense of it.
And there was no time to; not when a knock came through the other side of the door.
"Anthony?," Kate's voice called, bringing goosebumps at its wake, "I know you are awake. I heard you throwing a tantrum in your bed."
Why are you here?, he wanted to say.
"It was not a tantrum," he managed to get out of his throat with a hoarse; gruff, voice.
And despite the mess he did last night, despite his state, despite everything, Kate chuckled from the other side of the door.
The hope that was non-existent in his heart sparkled at the sound.
And so Kate's intromission was expected by him—to a point.
She walked in, plastic bags in hand, a small smile and a gleam in her eyes he had never seen her wear; gorgeous. Utterly gorgeous. She shined so bright his migraines worsened by each passing moment he continued to gaze at her.
Kate seemed to be aware of this too, arranging the blinds so they blocked the light completely.
"I brought you something."
He knew he should be paying attention to the multiple tablets of pills Kate was displaying over the bed; his saving grace, and yet he simply couldn't. Not when her very presence in this room was a miracle in itself.
Clearing his throat, Anthony straightened his posture, avoiding Kate's attentive gaze, "I don't think I can take those right now."
There was a scrunch of plastic and a weak hum coming from her. A beat of silence after that. And then steps, one by one, walking closer and closer to his side.
Her palm creeped over the blanket, barging into his sight. Kate was making sure he would look at her, that much was clear.
"Anthony."
Her tone was gentle but firm. An order just as much as an acknowledgment.
He was burning from embarrassment—and shame and complete fear—when he lifted his eyes, meeting her stare.
What was he expecting? A thoughtful yet still hurtful rejection? A gentle reminder that they were only coworkers; friends at best?
It didn't go past Anthony to compare this moment to his 'dream'; even amidst his confusion, he was happy. He believed Kate felt something in return and that was enough. Now? Now the only thing awaiting him was pure pity.
When brown did meet brown, her eyes showed nothing but fondness. She looked at him as if she knew exactly what he was thinking—a part of him wanted to believe that she did—and the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth seemed to tell him that she didn't hold those thoughts against him; almost as if she understood them.
And that didn't make any sense, did it?
She tilted her head, slowly moving her hand towards his, each inch burning the air around them; to him it the atmosphere felt charged yet light, right. When their fingers were only a few inches apart, she parted her lips slightly.
Kate’s eyes fell to his lips before moving back to his; serious, demanding.
“Tell me what you wanted to say last night.”
Anthony felt breathless. He could hear a light buzzing in his ears. What did she want him to say? He had said so, so many things before; most of them he barely remembers, now lost to the wine haze.
And because he was very aware of Kate’s form or movements or everything when she was near—sometimes even far—he could feel her pinky circling; dancing in the air around his hand, without even looking down.
Never once during his silence did her gaze waver. Kate almost didn’t move, in fact; she stood there, tempting—prompting—him to repeat his words. To repeat the meaning of his words.
It was perhaps the scariest thing he had ever done. He could feel his heart pounding in his brain; the migraine now moving to his eyes as his sight turned a bit blurry and even then, none of this truly mattered. Not when she was near.
“I’m in love with you. And I want to be with you.”
Her smile; a big, gigantic grin that he was very glad she did not attempt to hide, was so beautiful that it made him smile too. It hurt to do it; the movement pressed the irritated nerves and it felt like the inside of his head was near to exploding.
But then her pinky found his and he could almost swear some part of his pain went away from her touch alone.
BONUS!
V:
'MAYBE YOU SHOULD LOVE ME LESS.'
His arms—as always—were wrapped around her waist, intent on bringing Kate near.
He knew—and smugly declared for anyone inclined (or not) to hear—that his girlfriend did love him and that she would not run away from him. He knew that. He also knew that his family enjoyed her company more than his—and he could understand their sentiment, of course, since he, too, prefers to be with her rather than with them.
What he did not appreciate was for them to steal her out of his arms, taking her for whatever reason the seven of them thought important enough. He could not understand why was it so important to take Kate alone; surely he could be standing silently by her side, no? He could behave if he wanted to.
And so in this gala; their first Bridgerton gala together, Anthony needed to have her near him—for the sake of his sanity more than anything else.
He felt lucky, then, that Kate seemed to be in agreement with him that night; her arm was also clutching him close, not one breath separating the two of them. For any outsiders they would indeed look like an abnormality, he thought, holding each other like anchors. Kate definitely was his.
She was jaw dropping that night. The shiny black dress simply fit her, hugging her curves and showing a glimpse of her long legs through an elegant slit. When she came out of his bedroom dressed in it, Anthony had half a mind to forgo the gala completely—a part of him still wishes he had.
But just as she had reminded him, it was an important event for them. It was their responsibility to go. Even if just for half an hour.
(He made her promise that they would follow those words.)
And sure, every small talk he made with possible donors included the famous text messages screenshots, which were very much shared with every single professional of their line of work. Some mentioned it as a joke, some clearly meant to embarrass him. Anthony didn't care.
They had worked, hadn't they? Kate was here, in his arms, after all.
"I hadn't stopped to think about every single person present here has read those texts," he once commented to her, meaning nothing by it.
His girlfriend studied his expression quietly; searching for any sign of being bothered. When she didn't, Kate smirked, throwing her arms around his neck.
"Maybe you should love me less," she teased.
By then he had a matching smirk on his own face, ignoring the crowd of people around them. His grip on her waist only grew tighter; certain.
"I can only love you more."