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This is not love. Let alone obsession.
He knows obsession– he used to wear it like a second skin, wrapping himself in its sweet-smelling scent, and tasted its poisoned honey.
This isn’t that.
This wasn’t going to be another obsession that rots away at his perfect second fresh start, gnawing and turning his life into inevitable misery in the way that Love did. In the way that Marianne did. He is not that man any more. He has rules now. Boundaries. Control.
See, what he has with Rhys Montrose, or what he doesn’t have, is great. He would never approach Rhys, let alone get in ten feet of him, no matter how much he wanted to.
This is simply observational. Temporary. A good way to keep his mind off between grading papers. That’s all.
And, it just so happens his distraction is actually in front of him. Accident. He’s not being a creep. It is, objectively, a real coincidence that Rhys’ cafe is also Joe’s favorite place to grade papers when he needs the occasional break from the library. This wasn’t a deliberate and calculated break of the ten feet rule.
Joe pulls out his laptop and mindlessly types in his password. The screen flashes on but his focus doesn’t follow. Rather, his eyes drift past the illuminated screen and, traitorously, towards the man at the counter.
To be fair to himself , who wouldn’t be a little curious to watch London’s golden boy in such a perfectly mundane scenario as ordering a coffee.
As he steps to the counter, Joe notices how the other carries himself differently from the rest of the world. There’s an ease to him, a quiet gravity that puts others' nerves both on fire and at ease. When he smiles, properly smiles, delicate lines etch near his eyes and the world lightens. It is that particular smile he’s noticed quite frequently from his late night post-grading Youtube rabbit holes.
Seeing it– him in person is something else entirely
“Hello,” Rhys greets the barista. The cafe’s noisy and crammed buzz seems to slowly mute as Joe listens to Rhys’ gravely yet velvety lilt.
The barista visibly flusters immediately, fingers tightening as she grips the counter. Rhys’ smile remains steady as amusement and a touch of awkwardness colors it, like he’s not fully used to the effect he has.
He knows he’s charming. Joe thinks to himself, neglecting his student’s papers. He’s borderline starring now. But he’s humble about it. Or at least trying to be.
“I’ll just get a regular chai latte.” Rhys says as he tips over to the side to glance at the warm glass cabinet displaying a plethora of warm pastries. “And a chocolate croissant, if you don’t mind.”
He has a sweet tooth. Joe notes automatically, filing it beside the rest of the little details he pretends he hasn't collected.
She nods, saying something Joe doesn’t really care to make out. He’s too focused on the little things– the loose curl freeing itself from the constraints of his hair product, the way his shoulder tense as he looks around his shoulder to briefly survey if any member of the paparazzi tailed him, the way he drums an uneven rhythm on the counter.
Rhys unsheathes his wallet from his pocket, pays with card, and says a quick yet earnest thank you as he moves to the other side of the counter to wait for his order.
Joe has to force himself to look down and open the first paper. He underlines something without really reading it, sorry Nadia, as he steals another and another and another glance at the man waiting for his drink.
Rhys calmly collects his order when his name is called and slinks off to find a table promptly after. And, because the universe decides when to love Joe but also has a warped sense of humor, Rhys pulls the chair of the table right directly beside him.
Not across the cafe. Not by the windows. But by him.
Joe’s stomach curls into tight bundles while his heart beats like a feral animal against the constraints of his ribs.
The first thing Joe does is that he casually, casually, reaches down to nudge his leather satcher further to his chair. His heart hammers harder against his ribs as he checks that the flap is securely fastened. If it gapes open even an inch, the edge of the paperback inside will be visible. The unmistakable navy color. The name of the author brandished in gold.
A Good Man In A Cruel World.
He needs to leave. Immediately. This is too close. This violates multiple of his self-given policies.
The chair legs scrape softly against the floor as Rhys settles in. Joe stares at his screen with medical focus, though everything in his vision is blending into meaningless and abstract shapes.
“Shit.” Rhys mutters to himself as a small spill of hot coffee splatters onto his neatly pressed shirt. Joe’s eyes snap sideways before he can stop himself.
But then again, technically it's not his fault the ten feet rule is being broken. Rhys chose this table. Joe did not purposely sit next to him. Actually, he’s the victim of proximity.
And because this isn’t an obsession, this is fine. Entirely fine. Some may argue, completely normal. Two strangers existing in a public space. People sit next to each other all the time without talking, let alone interacting–
“Do you have some tissues, mate?” Rhys says to him, leaning over as he lifts the edge of his sleeve to show Joe the dark, seeping stain. Up close, his cologne is faint but clean– understated but undoubtedly luxurious.
Joe’s throat goes desert dry. Shit.
There’s tissue in his bag but there’s no way he’s flashing the contents under the other man’s direct gaze. He then remembers the unused napkin he had tucked under his laptop from his earlier Americano.
“Here,” Joe says casually as he tugs it free from his laptop.
For half a second, Rhys’ attention drifts to him and him alone. It’s both thrilling and terrifying–
Fresh start. Fresh start. Fresh start. Joe reminds himself like a mantra. A shitty, failing mantra.
Their fingers graze as the napkin is passed. Accidental. Joe bets Rhys didn’t even notice but he does. The contact is warm and startling and it takes every muscle in his body to not crack an off-putting smile.
“Thanks.” Rhys says with an easy smile, before leaning away and shifting back comfortably in his seat to grimace back down at the stain.
Up close, it’s different. It was already a close call when he entered the same cafe, even more so when he took the table beside Joe, so what was this?
He takes a glance to the side again despite better judgement. He can see the way his lashes lower and eyebrow crinkle as he assesses the damage. He can hear the frustrated mutters and rustle of cotton underneath his fingers as he tries to scrub out the stain. He can smell the chai latte mingling with the sweetness of the croissant.
Joe has to force himself to focus on anything but Rhys.
Perhaps this is really too close. But Joe is starting to doubt if that’s a bad thing.
***
Would it be an obsession if it wasn’t romantic?
Joe doesn’t think so. From Cadence to Marianne, Joe has been devoted in the way cheesy songs and metaphor-packed poems insist true love to be like: Fine fingers laced together, breathe share in the cold, that dizzy bloom of butterflies. He has loved with the full choreography.
Rhys doesn’t fit that definition. It was strictly platonic. Simple. Innocent, maybe.
Joe takes a moment as he slips his warm chai latte. Is it so bad to want to befriend someone? I mean, it’s normal for people to want to meet and befriend their favorite celebrities. They wait at stage doors. They line up at book signing. They comment hearts under posts. It’s completely normal and even expected to yearn to be closed to brilliance and warmth, particularly Rhys Montrose.
So maybe it isn’t that much of a coincidence that Joe’s outside a raunchy, elite club called Sundry House. It’s the climax of extravagance and the 1%, where only the elite of London even get an invite inside.
Joe stands relatively near the entrance, slouched calmly against a wall where security cameras barely don’t reach. He’s completely shrouded in shadow, disappearing into the black of the night. He’s wearing his signature cap that cuts a dark shadow across his eyes to counter the harsh streetlight. His boringness that permits him to fade away is supported by the most nondescript coat, shirt, and pair of pants he could grab out of his closet.
Based on Rhys’ Instagram story, he’ll be arriving here soon for a party. The photo had been casual for his standards, a chandelier illuminating a dark but decorated room and captioned ‘celebrating something scandalous’. It didn’t take a genius to guess where he would go given his circle.
He checks his phone, watching the clock expectantly. He doesn't pace, because pacing draws attention. He pauses in the street like someone waiting for someone or a bus to pick them up.
On queue, a stream of black, shiny, and overtly expensive cars pull into the street.
Bodyguards from the front and back cars exit in perfect order, polished movements like androids. One of the bulky men moves to the center car and yanks the door open.
A perky woman with large, blonde hair emerges with a peppy smile.
Lady Phoebe Borehall-Blaxworth, Joe instantly recognizes. He’s seen her on the news often, draped in controversies yet somehow completely beloved by the scathing British public. The second person who comes out isn’t as beloved.
Adam Pratt. American entrepreneur, if one could even call him that. Joe theorizes that the only reason he hasn’t been eaten alive by the press is because of his relationship with the-too-good-for-him Lady Phoebe.
“–Babe,” Adam says, slinging an arm around her small frame. Phoebe’s grin wavers at the contact. “Surely Rhys won’t mind?”
Joe perks at the name. He tracks the two with his eyes as they move down the street.
“Won’t mind what, dear?” The lady asks, concern twisting her polite smile.
Adam’s footsteps slow as his sly grin spreads. In turn, Phoebe’s manicured hands softly clasp together as she glances at him, obviously nervous but he doesn’t pick it up or care to. As the couple comes to a stop, he flashes the inside of his tuxedo jacket. In the streetlight, Joe manages to catch a glance of small plastic bags stuffed with something he’s not sure of.
“It’s not that strong.” Adam says cheekily, grin beaming. Phoebe's face falls completely as she realizes what he has. “Plus it’s my party, so he has to try even just a little–”
“Adam.” Phoebe says, tone suddenly firm and catching him off guard. “Please.”
With one last exasperated sound, she storms off to enter the club without him, filling the street with the sound of her heels clacking on the pavement.
“Come on, babe!” Adam says, chasing after her and almost being hit by the door in his rush. “I was just kidding!”
Joe can’t hear the rest of the conversation as both are inside the trenches of alcohol and money but he doesn’t need to. Their sour faces say more than words can.
Besides, his attention fractures as a second car pulls into the street soon after.
A car he knows all too well. Shit.
Malcom. Another professor but perhaps the word ‘professor’ is too kind a word for the stupid slacker. Of course, Malcolm exits first. He pollutes the street with his far too strong cologne, filling the calm London night air with artificial musk he doesn’t know is artificial.
Joe angles his head lower in hopes that Malcom won’t recognize him, the shadow cast by his hat sinking farther past his nose. But knowing Malcom, who walks through life as if he constantly wears horseblinders, he knows he won’t see him.
Then comes a slender woman with a sharp bob, who Joe identifies to be Kate. She remains as mysterious and elegant as Joe has seen her before.
Unexpectedly, a third figure comes out and closes the car door. Rhys. The sight of him lands somewhere below Joe’s rib. Not quite butterflies, nor nerves. But something steadier like an anchor. That, against the kooky cast of elite, he’s here like a grounding force.
“So,” Malcolm begins, patting Rhys on the shoulder. He’s met with a raised eyebrow from the other. “How about after this we have an after party?"
“Really?” Rhys laughs, throwing his head forward. It’s a sweet sound. Maybe the sweetest sound he’s heard all night– all his time in London. “An after party for a Sundry House party?”
“I’m sure that’s a direct insult to Phoebe." Kate cuts in drily.
“And need I remind you of the last time we went to one of these parties? When you stuck your head out of my car window while I was driving down the motorway projectile vomiting?” Rhys adds, jabbing Malcom on the side.
Malcolm counters with his own laugh. It’s noticeably more smug. Thicker. Auditory equivalent of poison. “I was thinking about the casino nearby.”
Joe sees the shift that the other two don’t. Rhys' eyes falter for half a beat. “Malcom, you know I don’t–”
“Rhys, please, learn to live a little!” Malcolm rolls his shoulders, as if rolling off responsibility.
As the two go back and forth, Kate seems to be taken with something else as she remains silent. Or she's simply too indifferent to cut in again.
“–You knew I quit.” Rhys adds tentatively, voice softer now. Oddly, he doesn’t have the cutting and stern tone he uses in interviews.
Malcolm waves his hand. “A little bit won’t hurt. Boys night out, like the good old days, eh?”
Rhys presses his lips flat. “They weren’t good days, Malcolm.”
“I’ll ask you when you're a few shots of absinthe in.” Malcolm adds, laughing at the tortuous inevitability.
Waves of disgust and hatred fill Joe’s body as he listens in, tightly coiled fists needing to be shoved into his pockets else they would be thrown.
Like earlier, Joe can’t hear the rest of the conversation but he can infer the rest as they step inside.
Joe knows something now.
I don’t like his friends. Actually, I hate his friends. All but maybe Phoebe. Maybe. But if she puts up with Adam enough to date him, I don’t like her all that much too. All of them are terrible. Making him relapse into the addictions that crushed his life– Fucking awful assholes.
They stand in designer outfits, smiling as they press bruises they pretend not to see.
Joe drops his hands from his pockets as his fists curl at his sides. He begins to stalk down the street, needing some way to burn off bitterness festering inside of his gut.
I remember how he described it in his book. Chapter two of his book, he described his drug addiction as ‘being able to see your clock dramatically shorten’. Later, in chapter eight or twelve, he described his gambling addiction as ‘going into debt to buy a coffin early.’
His fists ball so tight his knuckles turn a pale white.
Sundry House looms behind him, music cutting through the night through sealed doors and decadent walls, bass like a pulse. Joe observes it's a place that feeds on excess and indulgence. The kind where nobody cares or notes if someone slips, but instead hands them another vice.
He needs someone to help him, not another yes-man with another line that says it won’t hurt. Without anyone to get him to escape this hellhole of the 1%, relapsing turns into a when and not if. I can be that for Rhys.
This is Joe being necessary, not obsessive. Who wouldn’t be concerned?
It would be weird if you weren’t concerned for a man about to tear down his life that’s already been stitched back together multiple times.
And Joe is very good at helping.
***
Maybe, this is, in fact, romantic.
The thought comes unwelcome and stays like a permanent tenant.
Joe turns it over carefully, like something fragile. Romantic implies softness. It implies longing, not control. He stands firm in his belief that this it’s different from before. He won’t go killing people willy-nilly in the dead of night. He won’t stalk. He won’t steal keepsakes and build his own little treasure box.
He’s evolved. His European holiday has done him well.
To be fair, it's hard not to find someone deeply attractive when they are a clever writer that arranges the hundreds of thousands of words in the English dictionary into perfect paragraphs, kind in a way that isn’t for a headline, and interesting in so many layers. That combination does things.
He realizes this romantic nature on another one of their ‘coincidental’ meetings.
And so, again, maybe it wasn’t so much of a coincidence that Joe catches Rhys outside of an Indian restaurant he frequents. Joe reasons it’s fate. Fate absolves.
From across the street, Joe stands with his hands in his pockets, pretending to check his phone as his eyeline drifts higher to the restaurant in front. He rocks back and forth on his heels, appearing busy and another part of London’s mass.
Joe sees two fans turn the corner eagerly. Joe can see the obvious nervousness and giddiness practically written on their faces. One of them clutches a dog-eared copy of his book, while the other one is already fumbling for their phone.
Rhys startles at first when they approach him. The plastic bag swings disorderly as he halts in mid step. A quick widening of the eyes. A blink.
Then he smiles.
Not one for his press photos, nor the one he gave Malcom. But something else. That earnestly that Joe identifies quickly.
He can’t make out the conversation from across the street but he wishes he could from the way the three light up. Rhys listens, really listens, as the fans speak. He nods along intently and even laughs at a joke. He seems to be in no rush for them.
He grins as they snap a photo, even cracking a stupid pose upon request. Then he signs their book with a lengthy dedication, no quick scrawl. All through the interaction, the fans can’t help giggling and grinning. Joe can’t blame them.
Rhys is kind. Joe can’t help but smile faintly. Good, even. I can say that without doubt.
A celebrity of his pedigree is, presumably, busy. Stressed out their mind. And gained an inflated ego along the way too, maybe. But Rhys is anything but, making sure that he shows his appreciation for the people that built his career beyond his “friends” at Sundry house.
Joe feels his chest tighten.
It’s not hunger or possession. This is love. You don’t feel this steady pull unless it’s love.
***
Obsession is such an ugly word. Maybe it’s not completely wrong either, though.
He can’t stop thinking of Rhys. He polluted his mind, morphing the disciplined shelves of his head into a landscape of half-formed fantastises and compulsions. Were it not for the lectures he had to create and give, he’d be a simple hermit just by watching his Youtube videos 24/7– which is a depressing confession but honestly matters.
The world's obsessed with him too. Which, in turn, makes it harder for Joe to deny his. He’s maddeningly everywhere. ‘Rhys Montrose’ is a name plastered on every headline, post, and book in a people’s’ hands.
Joe’s students are no exceptions. He thanks Nadia for reminding him of the fact the man jogs through a particular park without a shirt. He did know already, of course, from a Youtube video he saw the hour it released but the reminder was certainly something to be grateful for in the end.
The thought lingers. If the world can be obsessed with Rhys, then Joe isn’t entirely alone in noticing him. Not entirely crazy. Not entirely guilty.
So he’s here, jogging through a crisp London park, breath fogging in the fair in controlled puffs before he has to scamper off to his early morning classes. There’s no way to call this coincidence so he won’t even try.
His form is as steady as his breathing, delicate beads of his sweat traveling down his cheek. He had managed to find his pace quickly, maintaining it with only minor difficulties. Thank you Peach. Thank you Milo. Thank you Cary.
It only took a bit of time lurking in each respective area with a cap and low eyes to know what time he’ll be in which.
He takes a break to sip from the small water bottle he’s carrying on his waist that makes him look like a soccer mom. He also takes a break and appreciates aesthetics.
He can acknowledge beauty without being enraptured by it. He watches Rhys from a respectful distance jogging, shirtless and completely unbothered by the crisp morning air. Each stride highlights how his muscles flex in a uniform, comfortable rhythm. Sweat gathers slowly, a sheen that the sun and highlights his built frame.
Joe appreciates the sheen.
He appreciates the symmetry, the disciplined lines of his body.
He appreciates pale skin, slightly flushed pink as heat blooms.
He appreciates way Rhys’ arms flex as he–
Falls?
Joe straightens.
He pauses in his tracks as he watches Rhys fall over in the middle of the path. His foot had caught on a backpack left in the middle, carelessly left by a teenage student some feet away, allegedly studying by a tree and who couldn’t care less about what's happening. Who the hell does that?
Rhys goes down hard. Maybe a little too hard for Joe’s comfort.
Joe’s breath catches as Rhys lands dangerously close to a tree, momentum carrying him far enough that Joe morbidly imagines the clean sound of bones breaking, head busting like a watermelon. He thankfully is just short of it.
He collapses on his hands, palms biting into dirt and grass as he hisses through clenched teeth. Rhys stays there for a moment, shoulders rising and falling.
Concern is normal. It’s human. Anyone would notice and care as someone hisses on the ground, hands digging into dirt. But he doesn’t approach him. It’s too close. And Rhys appears fine, albeit a little shocked as he glares accusatorily at the backpacks. Alive.
Joes is prepared to move on, as much as Rhys is to simply continue his run.
But then he checks his watch. His class starts in an hour. Goddamnit. He needs to get back already.
He quickly overtakes Rhys, following the grassy trail to leave the dense park. Panic blooms in his chest, strap and urgent. He won’t let this fresh start and new found stability go to waste. He knows Rhys will be jogging here again tomorrow at the same time.
His legs pump faster, heart hammering, adrenaline crawling up his limbs. For a second, it feels like the trees and path stretch endlessly. Then a voice cuts through the rhythm, slicing the panic in two clean halves.
“Mate!”
Rhys.
Joe immediately stops and turns around, skidding to an end. His chest heaves. There he is. Sunlight catches him at just the right angles.
Hello, you.
“You dropped this.” Rhys holds up his soccer mom tiny water jug. A mundane object turned to Midas’ treasure in his hands.
Joe pats down his side. Somehow, it did slip. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
It’s so hard not to be obsessed with you when you’re kind. The fact you noticed it falling and went your way to chase me down. So many other celebrities, far less significant than you, would have ignored it.
“Yeah, no worries.” Rhys begins to turn away after handing it over but halts in his place. “Wait, do I know you?”
Joe feels the weight of the moment. He’s careful to control his face, all while his heartbeat thrums in his ears. He’s a damn good liar when he needs to be.
“I think we met once?” Joe says tentatively but perfectly smooth. He says it as if he doesn’t hold the memory of the cafe near and dear in his heart.
Rhys takes a moment to squint at him, scanning through his memory. Suddenly, his face lights up. “Yes, at the cafe!” Rhys exclaims.
Joe fakes a moment’s pause as if he needed to recall too before beaming as well. “Did you ever get the stain out?”
“Unforuntely not, a literal stain on my life.” Rhys grimaces, wrinkling his nose.
“Jonathan.” Joe says after a moment, offering his hand.
“Rhys.” Rhys responds, taking it and shaking it briefly.
The sensation is everything. It feels unreal but right. Everything about seems right, like puzzle pieces finally clicking together.
As they pull away, Rhys pauses for a moment, an unreadable expression Joe can’t pin point. He scans Joe like a line of prose written just for him– teasing, deliberate, careful. “Maybe we should go to a cafe together again.” Rhys says at least, easy and smooth.
Are you flirting with me?
The thought hits him like a jolt of electricity. He doesn’t know how to respond, he’s only been in this scenario in his dreams and fantasies. His heartbeat climbs and climbs but not from running anymore.
“That actually doesn’t sound half bad.” Joe chuffs, with as much as a charming smile as he can muster.
“Half-bad?” Rhys snipes back with an eyebrow, accusatory and amused all at once.
“I mean the cafe, not you.” Joe jokingly clarifying, to which he’s met with an affectionate chuff.
“Are you free today?” Rhys asks boldly, leaning a touch closer. Joe feels the pressure of being studied under a microscope, every heartbeat measured.
“Yeah, just not right now.” This is the worst timing. I hate my job. “I have work.” Joe adds with a pained sigh.
“Ah, no worries then, mate.” Rhys nods, but Joe can hear a slight slip of quiet disappointment. “What do you do?”
“I teach at Darcy College. Literature.”
“Wait,” Rhys' smile sharpens, eyes twinkling slightly. “Do you know Malcom Harding?”
“Yeah, I’ve met the professor. He actually recommended my flat and we’re practically neighbors.”
“Oh fantastic, I’m a friend of his. I’ll be sure to ask him of every terribly scandalous thing you’ve done, professor.” Rhys muses.
“You’ll find my record to be spotless.” Joe replies coyly with a smile. Nine murders but you, or anybody for that matter, will never know that.
“Sure, sure.” Rhys says with a lax tone. Comfortable. “I’m a writer.”
It’s cute how you think people don’t know you. “I know, I’ve seen your book being read by practically all my students.”
“I hope my story can help them.” Rhys says, grin softening slightly.
The conversation dies down for a second, the quiet rustle of the breeze filling the space between the pair comfortably. “I don’t want to keep you too long. Give me your phone so I can type down my number and we can text about this soon, yeah?”
Joe hands him the phone as sleekly as he can. Rhys takes it from him carefully, tapping in his number as Joe patiently watches.
The phone buzzes softly as the contact is saved and Rhys slides it back.
It’s just a number. Joe thinks as his hand closes over his phone, barely remembering how to breathe. And yet somehow, it feels like the key to the world. You are the key to the world. To a brighter future for the both of us.