Work Text:
… my brain had blocked it as it searched desperately for the sound of your voice.
“Em?”
Which never came.
***
“Hey, so… Have you thought about tomorrow?” I remember the question slipping from your mouth while we were having dinner. Well– I was having dinner. Don’t think I was stupid enough not to notice how you shuffled the food around your plate endlessly without taking a single bite. You always did that.
I stopped eating at that, the spoon half way through my mouth. I didn’t even know what you meant by that. I wish I did, though. I wish I knew the depth of your questioning. I wish I had read between the lines. I wish I hadn’t been so blind.
You pushed the food with your fork a little more, making piles that were meant to disguise the fact that your plate was still full and your stomach remained empty. I looked at you, dead in the eye, waiting for a clarification so I could give you a proper answer. You smiled at that. That precious shy smile of yours that melted my heart every single time. I would’ve gone to war willingly just to protect that smile. I… would give my life just to see you smile again.
“Don’t look at me like that, silly. You look dumb.” You let out a chortle—which was your way of telling the world you were far too superior to laugh. You were too important, too serious to waste your time with something as childish as an innocent chuckle. You planned to be the next Miranda Priestly and that came with the sacrifice of any possible fun you could be granted. A sacrifice you were ready to make if it signified you’d be given a fraction of the respect they failed to give you growing up. “Tomorrow. You know, the future, if you will.” The blue of your irises disappeared momentarily in that annoyed way you rolled them.
The future.
You seemed obsessed with it considering how many times it scurried its way into our late night conversations.
“The future? If I think about it?” I chewed on that overheated pasta that had spent almost a week in our fridge. How had it not? If I was the only one eating it and taking it to lunch. Your excuse was always something along the lines of ‘I didn’t have time’ or ‘I wasn’t hungry’ or you would right up lie to my face and say ‘I ate something from the cafeteria with Serena’. Did you know I used to call her just to prove my suspicions? Every time, I was right.
“Mm… I don't really think about it that much anymore.” I think I answered something like that. I can't recall it clearly, though. “I like my present with you, so I no longer need to anticipate my future. As long as you stick around, I'll be fine.”
A deafening silence flooded the small dining area we improvised when moving in together. I went back to eating as if nothing had happened. Could you blame me when I had to learn to act like it with you? For your sake, I'd give little importance to the biggest deals. For your sake, I had learnt to downplay the worst of my emotions because I wanted to impress you. I wanted to be what I thought you wanted of me.
God, was I foolish.
From under my eyelashes, I caught a glimpse of the saddened expression on your face. Your eyes dropped back onto the movements of your hand. The same path traced over and over again as if you were marking the way to your home back in London onto the ceramic.
“And what if one day we're no longer together..?” You had whispered after what seemed like an eternity. The tone you took was clearly hesitant, barely audible even. You feared my reaction, and for the millionth time—but then the only crucial time— I wondered how badly I had screwed up.
“You… You think we won't be together in the future?” I remember feeling sick to my bones muttering those words. My appetite had vanished, immediately replaced by the sudden urge to vomit. “Did I do something wrong?” I had asked with tears in my eyes. Tears I failed to shed because by your side, I learnt that there wasn't anything worse than letting others see one's disgusting vulnerability.
Your panicked gaze shot up and met mine with a desperate need to explain. We were face to face, but for some reason, I was convinced you were trapped in a world you didn't want me to visit.
Today, I know that that world was more of a cage. A cage you, yourself, didn't know how to open.
“No! That's not what I meant! God, Andy. Don't put words in my mouth.” Your thick British accent painted your words, emphasizing the growing terror of your voice. It was a sign that you were so frightened by my confusion and delusion that you couldn't even focus on watering it down as per usual. “I– I meant more as in– What if one of us has to leave for work? Or what if one of us gets into a terrible accident? Or just falls out of love altogether?” I frowned, feeling obviously offended because how dared you even consider something so atrocious?
How dared you think we'd be separated by the diminishful hands of fate?
“That won't happen!” I laughed nervously just like I did when I tried to convince my parents to let me move to NYC years prior to this argument. I wanted to believe my own words, but the doubt in your nod had a bigger effect on my mind. “Em, look at me.” I begged as I reached for your shaky hand and intertwined our fingers. To this day, I'm convinced every part of our bodies fit like puzzle pieces. The crevices of our fingers when we held hands, the shape of our torsos when we hugged, and the efficient way our legs tangled beneath the covers were proof of it.
You did look at me.
You did.
But I know you weren't seeing me.
At least not me at that precise moment.
Your eyes were lost in mine, but despite my best efforts, I wasn't able to find yours.
“I promise you… I will never fall out of love with you… Heck! I'd marry you right now if I could. I want you to be my forever.” You squeezed my hand. You squeezed so tightly to the point that your nails were digging into my skin. “And– if one of us gets into an accident—again—then we'll do exactly what we did when the whole taxi incident happened. You know I'll be here even if you were to lose half of your body.”
In a second, your melancholic features left room for the loudest of laughs you ever let out in my presence. You squeezed my hand again, but this time, I couldn't feel a single sharpness. Just the softness of your fingertips leaving pale marks that soon turned red.
“You're right… You're right. I'll be here for you, as well. I mean, I'm already here, and you have lost three quarters of your brain cells, am I not?” We shared a moment full of lightness, full of bliss, full of the inferior Emily Charlton I so loved.
Don't be shocked, but despite your suspicions, I didn't fall for that idolized version you were trying to create for yourself. That Miranda Priestly you were becoming made me proud because I knew that's what you thought would get you on top. However, if I were to ever be honest with you—and at this point, that's the least I owe you—I despised that persona. There had always been a massive difference between your bratty, shitty self, and that clone you were trying to perfect.
“Yeah, you are. And you love me with all my remaining brain cells and all the lost ones.” I brought your hand to my lips. I kissed it gently with all the devotion I could convey in a kiss. Maybe it was the hot pasta and the temperature’s hard contrast, but your skin was so cold—chilly, icy, deathy. It felt like embracing a withering flower—worse—a dying corpse.
I wish I knew that you were withering before me. I wish I had figured it out the moment you gave me the faintest, lightest simper I had the misfortune of witnessing. It felt wrong, but I convinced myself hard and loudly in the void of my mind that it was right. I needed to convince myself that that was the girl I fell in love with. The snarky, snotty, non-chalant, easily irritated, and—for fuck’s sake—most lovable girl ever. I wish I knew back then that you were withering in my arms the moment you glided into my embrace and onto my lap—a place you had designated as yours. Which, without a doubt, it was.
In a way, my body had become yours. Over the past months—years—we had spent together, I learnt to be yours. I was yours. You taught me about looks. About the way the body would visibly be affected by certain carbs and which proteins would help my muscle gain. Your hands would often grip the skin on my sides you, yourself, didn’t have. It was more often than not a possessive grip. As if you were claiming every inch of tissue your touch could land on. At times, it was harsh-possessive—which meant you couldn’t be bothered an ounce of tenderness when it came to ravishing me. You would bury your face in my neck, just like that evening, and graze your teeth over the edge of my collarbone. Just above it so as not to make it sexual. And then… And then–
“Ow! Emily!”
You pulled away, your hair falling over your face like a curtain of sunset sunrays. I was used to that vision because it was the one I was blessed with every single morning when you’d wake up first and peck my nose. You laughed. You laughed with your eyes closed and until now, I never noticed the way you forced it. Were you scared of what you’d see?
“Sorry, Andy, sorry,” but there wasn’t a single bit of regret in your tone. It was even playful.
And enough to erase any other thought that wasn't you in my head.
You also taught me about perception. The good and the bad way people could look at you. The good and the bad way people could see you. And you praised me when you finally mustered up the courage to tell me I was dressing “decently”. You liked it. Said it was “so me, but in a good way”. Before Runway, I didn’t know there was a bad way to be me. After it, I had forgotten there was any good in being Andy Sachs. And when I met you—really met you— I finally understood there existed a gray area you worshipped. You perceived me as a whole—flaws, qualities, idiocies, and virtues included. You liked me whole. You loved me whole.
The moment ended when you fell into my arms again. Akin to a ragdoll, you wished to be held closely even though there wasn’t anything special about you. Even though you were made with used, dirty, old rags. And yet, like a child myself, I held you close, so close I wished our hearts would melt into one.
“You're just so irresistible. Can you blame me?” Your hands slid under my shirt. They brought irreproachable shivers to my spine as they always did. And God, I can still feel the ghost of their handprints lingering—hovering—on me.
“Is that so?” I had answered, but my words were muffled by your hair over my mouth. That had given me the brilliant idea to kiss the crown of your head. You smelled just like pomegranate, which came from the cheapest shampoo brand you would ever allow yourself to buy: Dove. In your humblest opinion—which I say very lightly, since I knew far too well you would’ve never liked to be associated with such an adjective, it didn’t matter how true it was—it was the best of the worst you could afford. Without sacrificing the roof over your head. Or my weekly bouquet of flowers.
Every week, a new one.
Every week, a new meaning.
The first one you got me were peonies.
Some evenings it was Pink Bluebells. Which you said represented our everlasting love in a small note I found on our kitchen counter. I remember you hiding your matching pinkish face behind the flowers and refusing my immediate gratitude only to demand it at the most "inconvenient" moments. For instance, when I’d shower. Now that I think about it, it was a well-crafted plan for sure. You weren’t subtle at all unless you wanted to be.
Like on that day.
Some others, I’d find Red Chrysanthemum on our bed on Fridays because it was your most respectful way of being passionate. And goodness! I always found it adorable. You were the embodiment of egocentric confidence, and yet for the longest time, it was so hard for you to voice your needs directly. Moreover, to say I was pleasantly impressed the night I was granted your devotion in the shape of your tongue fighting mine and your body begging for my touch would be an understatement. At least twice a month, on Friday nights, after an entire week of work, when we were the drainest, when we barely had any energy or patience left; we spoke our love with touches as the scent of light spice and crimson petals mixed with our primal hunger.
“Andy.” You muttered after a while. “Andy.” You repeated when I didn’t answer.
“Yes?”
“... If anything ever happens to me, would you let me be selfish and ask you to only ever love me?” It was a reflex, an automatism, the hopeless way I tighten my grip on you. Why would anything happen to you? Why would you need me to be exclusive to your love if you were to… leave? The question felt dumb coming out of your month. Emily Charlton asking for permission to be loved forever was perhaps the only thing I never understood. Not a single book, not a single study, not a single article anywhere would ever have the answer. Not today, not tomorrow, and not then.
“Why on Earth would you ask me that?” You didn’t pull away from my fearful embrace, and I didn’t push you away to express my offense. “Emily, what is going on? Why do you keep making these types of questions?”
I ran my hands over your back, feeling every crevice left by your skin sticking to your bones and muscles. When had they gotten more prominent? Your lungs extended your ribcage against mine as you exhaled profoundly. Your tongue clicked against your lips as if you were tasting the bittersweetness of my question, and then you swallowed, ready for another bite of that odd discussion. Albeit, nothing could have prepared me for the answer, nor was I ready for its sour taste.
“I’m tired, Andy…” You whined with prostration straining your voice. You sounded breathless and on the verge of tears, almost like an enormous weight had collapsed on your shoulders, and you were lost as to what to do with it. You weren’t in control anymore. Not of your thoughts. Not of your feelings. Not of your past. Not of your future. And certainly not of the way you'd free yourself of that cage.
In that instant, all I could see was the way you had accepted your fate.
I frowned and kissed your forehead. “... I know, baby. I know…” But I didn’t know. I didn’t know shit. I didn’t know how many sleepless nights you spent thinking about this before making your decision. I didn’t know how you had been trying to distance yourself from me in order to get me accustomed to your loss. I didn’t know that all those times you called my name and failed to fill in the silence that followed; it was always meant to be a cry for help. I didn’t know how badly you were suffering, and for the longest time, for what felt like forever, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything at all. I was an idiot who claimed to love you despite not doing anything to help you. “… Let’s go to bed.”
That night, my partially finished pasta plate rested silently in the company of your untouched one. To me, they served as a visual of what our relationship transformed into once it bloomed : You gave, and I took. I gave, and you watched.
That night, your last night, our last night together, my last night; was the best night we could've ever shared.
That night, you laid your red head on my shoulder, and watched as your fingers made senseless drawings on my skin. Your index trailed over my collarbone with such gentleness, such daintiness, such care—one might’ve thought you were memorizing the shape, the length, the sharpness and softness. Your leg over mine, shuffling from time to time to make sure I was still as close as we could physically be; you breathed slowly and exhaustedly akin to a pet in their last moments. We shared silence like old lovers shared peace. Skin to skin, we could almost merge into the other. I didn’t budge once, and compared recent context, one could’ve believed I was the withered flower. The week had taken from me all sort of energy I could’ve stored and despite myself, I knew that I would be the first to fall asleep. Which, at the time, before that day, wouldn’t be far from our routine. You noticed it too, and I knew so because you looked up—your pretty, melancholic eyes meeting mine midway in our awkward position—and granted me half a smile. A tender one. The type of smile you allowed only me to see. I was lucky enough to get those while you were still able to give them. And then, you snuggled closer. Almost like a clingy, wet puppy who had finally landed a home after weeks wandering the streets. Your right hand reached up and cupped the side of my face, your thumb rubbed circles on my cheek with great fragility, and you hummed contently. To this day, I ask myself if you were mocking me for being a slave to slumber or truly just… happy.
“Em..?” You lowered your head into the crook of my neck as you had done at the dining table.
“Hm?” It was practically imperceptible, a sound so soft it evaporated in the air.
“You know I love you, right?” You squeezed me tighter against you but didn’t answer. At that point, I am convinced I was delirious, lost in my own fatigue. Under those covers chosen by you on a Saturday afternoon of December; on that mattress which we collectively decided had to be the best purchase we had ever made; in that room in which we had seen the best, the worst, the ugliest, the prettiest, the highest, and the lowest of each other; in that apartment we had searched for for months and were still trying to make our home; there, I professed my devotion to the most lovely girl I would get the chance to call mine. “You want to know something..? I… I’m so glad you love me too… I don’t think I'd have gotten over you if you had rejected me…” You let out a chortle. “Mnm… I’m serious, Em…” Frustrated you didn’t seem to be taking it with the same amount of profoundness my words were meant to portray, I rolled over and flung an arm over your small frame, wrapping it around your waist and pulling you impossibly close. “I hope one day we get to marry one another… Even if it has to be in secret and against the law, you know..?”
“You’d want to marry me?”
What stupid question.
All I could do was force a laugh out of my mouth. “If I’m not mistaken, I answered that not more than two hours ago… I’d marry you right now if I could… I’d take a plane right now with you and fly us all the way to the Netherlands so we can make it legal…” I said, though my words had gotten mumbled. “Wait! I think it is legal in Canada, is it not..?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then, I’d get us train tickets and we could make it a vacation…” You giggled, which you barely ever did. “That way, it’d be cheaper and we could put all our money into our honeymoon…” I remember kissing your temple sloppily before continuing. “I’d buy you a big diamond ring—somehow—so you could show it off all you would want… Mhm… I’d get a sapphire on mine, so that way I’d have a piece of your beautiful eyes with me at all times… And we wouldn’t need to invite anyone… Nobody would need to know… Nobody would make our life harder… Nobody would be able to object and you’d be mine forever and I’d be yours for even longer…”
Like cold water to the unconscious, your muffled sobs felt like a wet slap on my placid mind. Lightly, I pulled away, placing a few inches of space between us so I could read the antecedent of your tears. Unfortunately, you refused and blocked my way to your soul by hauling me towards you. Both physically and emotionally, you denied my affinity all while trapping me between the remorse of your thoughts. Thoughts I wasn’t entitled to decipher.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I whispered with as little compassion as I could emit because, with you, I learnt that the worst one could be shown was pity. “We can always get married in the Netherlands if that’s what you really want. We just might have to cave into a much much smaller honeymoon.”
“Andy, I’d marry you anywhere, don’t be stupid.” I frowned at the way your voice seemed strained with sorrow, stained with pain, hoarse and broken. Yet, I grinned like a child in a toystore. Perhaps the conversation wasn’t legitimate or completely momentous but to me, that was a crucial turning point. I lacked the ring, the candlelight dinner, the rose petals spread all over the bed, the dropping on one knee—I lacked everything that established a proper, traditional proposal. However, you and I, Emily, we were far from being traditional. We were far from being proper.
“Would you really..?” I breathed against your lips as I brought your face upward by your tear-stained cheeks and you brought mine downward, your nails already digging into my scalp.
We woke up to tangled limbs, the evidence of our sinful actions all over our ravished bodies. The essence of your love for me clouded my brain into oblivion. While escaping your tight embrace, your clinginess, I had long forgotten we left uneaten pasta on the table. Now I know that by the way you were sitting on the edge, slumped shoulders, head hung low and spirited eaten by the wolves of misery, you hadn’t forgotten a thing. You were unable to forget. You had always been obsessed with the past. Obsessed with the concept of memories. The overlooked, forgotten child grew to the curse of remembering.
And so, as I kissed your lips again, watching you grab your keys, the armor of an unbreakable character serving as protection against those who meant well fell upon you, fitting like a glove. Monday morning, same routine—different outcome. Like every morning, I had made breakfast for the both of us, but only that day had you chosen to eat it. Pride filled my heart, and fear, the result of an unshakable feeling, tugged at the ends of it. I told myself that you were making progress, even if it felt hard to assimilate. I swallowed my own lie because I couldn’t think of another excuse for your strange behaviour.
So, I chose the easy route.
Shut my mouth, ignored my thoughts, grabbed my own keys and left for the same 9 hours I spent every day, every week, every month. Those endless hours went as usual, the familiarity felt rarely out of place, nevertheless, I had to admit, those added minutes of ring research brought some ecstasy to the unfamiliarity. When my shift came to an end, I expected the remaining 4 hours of my day to go just the same. I expected to come home, and for you to not be there. I expected to get some work done while I waited for your arrival. I expected to wrap my arms around your waist and kiss the stress of work off your face. I expected to hear your complaints while I made useless dinner. I expected to sit on the couch next to you, to massage your tired legs, to wait for you to ask about my day, to get an invitation to a shared shower, to be enveloped in your warmth and fall asleep in another conversation about an impossible wedding. I expected what I considered ordinary, what I deserved, what I had gained… instead–
“Emily? Are you home already?”
Instead, I got home to a deafening silence that melted perfectly in the interruption of overflowing water.
“Did Miranda move her flight again?”
And soon, I could no longer hear the soft splashes of liquid against the floor because my brain had blocked it as it searched desperately for the sound of your voice.
“Em?”
Which never came.
“Emily, are you in the bathroom?”
And once I had pushed that goddamm door open, the soul-crushing realization that it’d never come hit me.
“Fuck… Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
“E–Emily! Emily! Emily, please! Please, don't do this, please!” My knees collided with the ceramics of the floor as I rushed to your side, disregarding the way my jeans soaked in the reddish puddle beneath me. I grabbed your face, pressed a trembling hand to your cheek, your forehead, your neck; and overlooked the lack of palpitations. With a tight throat, I called your name again, or so I thought I did, as I pressed my ear against your chest clad with your favourite button-up. Expensive Valentino from the 2006 spring collection found itself ruined with your blood. “C’mon, Em! Wake up! C’mon, baby. Please. Please, Emily…” I begged like a poor soldier wishing to be freed from his duties after the most horrific war. Except I was no soldier—I was but a young woman who had just lost her freedom. And you… You were free. Free in the loss of your own war.
Your skin was cold, clearly the warm water still drowning our bathroom was purposeless. By the bathtub in which you slept for eternity, a single cigarette floated like a strayed boat in a bloody ocean. Your slashed wrists were painted with profound strikes of red chrysanthemum. The face of an angel—my angel—now showed peace. You were free. I wondered if you could still hear my cries, my pleads; if you were considering coming back to me by some sort of miracle. How long had you been there, all alone and suffering? My poor girl, if only I had known. If only I had noticed. If only I had opened your cage.
Now, here you were : no ring on your finger, no smile on your lips, no sparkle in your eyes; hanging in my arms. My poor girl, I would’ve given you the world, if only you had waited a little longer. Now, I had to beg the world to bring you back. Both would never become a reality.
My Emily, I would’ve given you a million tomorrows worth living.