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You watched a lot of black and white films together.
It started in some shitty, poor excuse of a hotel about a million years ago. The walls were so thin you could hear Carra snoring hard enough to break the building’s shaky foundation and make Pepe swear in three languages, almost crying in frustration.
You started laughing. The fact that you had to be quiet somehow made everything very, very funny.
You fell on the bed, gasping for air between chuckles and you immediately started undressing Xabi. You never understood why he couldn’t just wear t-shirts like normal people (‘Jesus, so many buttons, you’re bloody killing me’, ‘Patience would do you good’ his voice hoarse but not even close to the kind of wrecked you’re aiming for ,’Patience eh? I know something else that could do me good but patience it is’, you grin at him and he smirks in some sort of challenge. It takes you an embarrassing amount of time (embarrassing for him) to make him writhe on the bed and beg into your mouth).
You drowned your laughs in Xabi’s body and enjoyed seeing how all his would be moans transformed into the fine lines on his forehead or the tired drop of his eyelids, the blunt pain of his fingernails across your back and his desperate pulse under your lips.
And while being fucked out of your minds usually helped for a good night’s sleep, Carra’s incessant snoring combined with Pepe’s threats to dislocate his head from the rest of his body if he didn’t stop (so help him Lev Yashin and all the heaven’s angels, fallen or not), made you realize you would get even less sleep than what was the norm when you and Xabi usually shared a bed.
You took the remote and flicked through the channels until you reached TCM and Xabi told you to stop. You fell asleep like that, black and white images flicking on the telly, Xabi’s voice dripping all sorts of background on the characters into your ear. (‘What.. she just leaves with the other guy? That’s bollocks, that is!’, ‘They’ll always have Paris’, ‘Fuck Paris!’)
It became some sort of routine. You never watched an entire film, turning on the telly after the initial situations was disrupted and falling asleep before the end credits. In a way, it seemed like it was all just one very long film, with different actors and storylines, running continuously just for the two of you. Of all the things you did, this was perhaps the one that made you the most vulnerable. Xabi drooling on his pillow, his hand resting on your collarbone, so lightly it felt like a question. The sudden and violent urge to barricade the door and let everyone and everything just go down in flames. His stifled laughter (Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room.) Cooling skin. Warm sheets. Jazzy music, tingled limbs. Black and white and a shit tone of grey. The domesticity of it.. Bloody hell.. That alone could have fucked up your mind. Not that you’d let yourself think in those terms.
Not that your mind isn’t already-
‘Daddy, you passed Nana’s house!’
‘Did not!’
‘Did too!’
‘Did not! I was just looking for a parking space, Miss Smarty Pants!’
Lily seems to accept this and stops scowling at you once you stop the car.
‘Daddy, when I grow up, can I have car?’
‘Sure, love.’
‘Can I have one bigger than yours?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bigger than mum’s?’
‘We’ll..uhm.. find something.’
She furrows her eyebrows for a second, deep in thought and then locks your fingers together.
‘Pinky swear!’
‘I promise, Lil, the biggest car in the world. It will be like a tank, a Hello Kitty Batmobile. Come on, let’s go now, Nana’s waiting.’
‘I can’t wait to be 10’, she muses stepping out of the car and into your mum’s arms.
You take Lexie out of her seat where she’d been dozing off. It still gets you, how tiny she is, how she cuddles into your shirt, how they both can make even the most miserable loss okay just by crawling into your lap and demanding a story.
You kiss her temple, lightly as to not wake her, tell Lily to take care of her sister, thank your mother and jump back in the car before she can comment on how tired you look.
Before she passes her hand through your hairline and lets it rest at the nape of your neck, pressing slightly and you spill your guts about how tired you are and how bad it hurts and how great it was and how you never thought it would end. Before you give up and just hide under her bed like you did when you were a child and had a nightmare.
But this is not a nightmare. This is yet another unfortunate consequence of being. And you will face it. Like an adult. Like you saw in all those black and white movies. Composed and civilised and well dressed. Smiling across the room, tilting your hat, smoking a cigar, telling him goodbye in an honest to God voice, wishing for a doomsday machine, having your heart broken, blaming the Russians..
You’ll wish him good luck because he’s your friend. You won’t fuck in the bathroom of whatever pub Carra picked because you are adults. You will rest your hand on the small of his back, almost in passing, because you’re only human.
You’ll keep yourself together. Like Humphrey Bogart, like Gary Grant, like William Holden, like a fucking black and white adult. Which you are. Regardless of the fact that you had a ‘did not, did too’ quarrel with your five year old daughter just moments ago.
You are a man with a plan.
A plan that, naturally, gets swallowed by a big black hole not 5 minutes into it.
Surprisingly enough, it’s Alex who first starts shredding away your attempts at composure.
When you get home you find her in the living room, eating triple chocolate cookies and wearing something so short and see-through you feel you’re in your right to raise your eyebrows without getting a crash course in what constitutes as fashion nowadays.
‘You’re wearing that?’
‘What are you talking about? This is a nightgown.’
‘Oh..’
‘I’m not going tonight. I have a headache and I think I’m coming down with something.’
A flicker of hope.
‘Maybe I should stay with you.’
The look she gives you is enough to make you realize there’s no way out.
‘You don’t have to. I’ll be fine’, her tone is light but you feel something beneath it, dangerous enough to make you accept going to the party alone with no further probing.
You still feel like banging your head against the table. Fuck’s sake! Doesn’t she realize you need her there? Not to parade her in front of Xabi.. God no! Never. You love both of them too much for something that cheap, but you wanted her there to ground you, to keep you sane, to keep you safe, to blunt the edge, to get smashed drunk so you’d have an excuse to leave early.
‘Could you maybe sleep in the guestroom tonight? I don’t want you catching anything.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
You feel defeated. You steal one of her biscuits and eat in silence. She puts her hand on your back, rubbing lazy circle as if you were some animal that needs to be comforted before being shot between the eyes.
‘Go get dressed, Stevie.’
You walk into the bedroom and stare at your shirts for about ten minutes. God, you’re tired. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You don’t know exactly what the hell was supposed to happen but this is certainly not it. Maybe win that fucking League, go so back in time you could hold hands, run on the pitch until your feet would give out.
You slip on a shirt, press the palms of your hands over your eyes, try to breath and head for the door.
‘Stevie?’
You turn around, hoping she changed her mind, but no, still in the same nightgown.
‘Could you give this to Xabi? As a going-away gift?’
She hands you a book and you glance at the title.
John O'Brien, Leaving Las Vegas.
Something akin to anger swells in your chest. What? Another joke? Is the one you’re living not funny enough?
You grunt, take the book and kiss her cheek.
God, if Xabi and your wife could accept they have a shit sense of humour your life would be so much easier. You start the ignition and throw the book on the passenger’s seat. No more knock-knock jokes, no more ‘it was funnier in Spanish’, no more ‘a Scouser, a Scotsman and a priest walk into a bar’. No more ‘Alonso passes to Gerrard, Gerrard make a sprint and..’, no more hopefully inconspicuous touches, no more car rides in that particular kind of contented silence, no more making fun of how disgruntled he is in the mornings, no more ‘How would you like to be/ A Scouser in Gay Paree/ Strolling along by the banks of the Seine/ Winning the European Cup once again’ because this time.. this time it’s fucking Real Madrid who won.
The pub is loud with combinations of words that could make a 17th century sailor blush. People pat you on the back and hand you a pint; Carra’s already improvising a karaoke machine (‘They say it’s not over till the fat lady sings.’, ‘Who you calling fat you little piece of shit’), some light banter about how he’s leaving them to go play for the pansy boys in white (Fucking idiots, it’s not you he’s leaving); you slipping into your part. Captain Steven George Gerrard. Making people drink some water since 2003, ordering them cabs before they puke their brains out, calling next day to rub it in, just enough so they realize it happens to everybody.
You’ll do all that.
But not tonight. Tonight you have to resort to hard liquor just to keep up with them. Just to shut down your brain. Just to ignore the talks about how close it all was, about those fucking draws. Just to ignore the way he’s looking at you across the bar.
Because fucking hell..
You can tell there’s no way out. When you’ll be old and grey in some nursing home, ninety years old and limping, he’ll still be able to twist you round and round until there’ll be nothing left.
Because he’ll still have you wrapped.
He’ll say ‘Why didn’t you ask me to stay?’ and you’ll tell him to repeat because you didn’t have your hearing aid on. ‘Would it have made a difference?’, he’ll look at you (or where he assumes your head is because he won’t have his glasses with him) and crook something like ‘You’ll never know, now will you?’. And by then all your pretences will have long disappeared and fucking hell will you punch him, artificial lung or not. You’ll punch that bloody bastard right in the face. He’ll then take his walking cane and lunge for your weak knee.
It will be glorious.
People will try to separate you to no avail, doctors and nurses will look down in horror, family members will blame old age.
‘What are you thinking about?’
His words tease the small hairs on the nape of your neck. You have no idea how he appeared behind you. You could swear he was across the table just a moment ago.
Maybe you’re drunker than you thought. Or maybe he just has a way of getting under your skin, of appearing next to you and falling so easily into step you’d call a madmen anyone who dared say he hadn’t been there all along.
‘You beating me with a cane.’
He tilts his head, his tongue between his teeth for just a second, eyes shining with amusement and Gentleman’s Jack.
‘Kinky.. Guess what they say about English boys and boarding schools is not so far off.’
‘I never went to boarding school.’
‘Do you want to?’
You don’t even blink.
‘My safeword is Carra.’
You start laughing. He stills his fingers on the inside of your elbow.
And that is it.
You’ll make your excuses and play it by the book. This is not your first time (Carra’s slight shake of the head reminds you of that). You’ll leave, feign a headache, a meeting early the next morning, a broken limb, whatever. He’ll join you outside after some heartfelt goodbyes. You’ll take his car back to his place. You will not ask ‘are you sure?’. You will not play dumb as to why you are there.
This is not your first time.
And, waiting for him in the soft, summer rain, you realize this won’t be your last either.
You’re okay with that.
Resigned to whatever you’ll get.
Resigned to random hotel rooms and late night phone calls. Resigned with sleepless nights and that feeling of missing a step. Resigned with this weight on your shoulders. Resigned to the lust and the anger, the bitter frustration, the feeling of him under you, the feeling of your heart in your throat. Resigned to missing. Resigned to Alex making you tea without asking anything and chasing you around with a lint roller, resigned to the rush of affection whenever you see your girls. Resigned to feeling his touch even when he’s a thousand miles away.
You’re resigned to whatever will happen.
You’ll take anything.
You make a pretty well behaved addict.
It is what it is. A shrug of the shoulder.
A shrug of a broken, beaten down, out of its socket and mending between matches shoulder.
You are resigned to him.
He comes out of the pub, biting his lip between his teeth and it’s cheap as fuck but your first thought is ‘Can I do that for you? ’.
You get in the car.
A song starts playing and washes over you; some indie rock band Xabi loves. You used to tease him about it, of course he’d take a fancy to something that sounds like whiskey and misery. But now the lyrics are so fitting you wonder if there is such a thing as God and if He shares Alex’s sense of humour.
Every time, you get a drink
And every time, you go to sleep
‘It’s not because of the weather is it?’
‘No.’ He smiles but keeps his eyes on the road.
Way outside your safety zone
Wherever you will ever be
You're never getting rid of me
Maybe it’s the alcohol acting but you refuse to be the one to change the station. You’re not even trying to avert your gaze, like he is. You know that’s not exactly fair since he’s driving and all that but still.. if the chorus is the way you remember it, you want to look him straight in the eye for it.
There's nothing you can do
Xabi stops the car and kills the ignition. It doesn’t matter though, the song stays in your head.
He turns to you and his eyes are as wet as the weather outside.
You run through the rain to his building. You crash against him in the elevator, your soaked hearts beating against each other. (You think they’re synchronizing and.. fuck it.. you’re drunk, you’ll let yourself think that. Just for now.)
You stumble into the apartment.
You could've made a safer bet
But what you break is what you get
You wake up in the bed, you make
I think you made a big mistake
You wouldn’t call it a mistake, exactly.
You don’t call it anything actually. You never talked about it; he tried but you didn’t want to hear anything about his career or his family or his delusional attempts at doing the right thing.
Anyway, trailing kisses all over his neck while his fingers are working on your shirt is so much better than talking.
Because, really now, what are two people to do in an apartment where the only furniture left is the bed?
You wake up later and you're still warm, still the good kind of tired (the kind you haven’t been in so long).
He’s looking out the window as the docks are being drenched in sunrise, slipping on a shirt.
You clean yourself to meet
The man who isn't me
You're putting on a shirt
‘Xabi.. Let me.’
Your voice is hoarse with sleep.
He looks startled for a moment and then comes to where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. You start buttoning his shirt, from the last button up, and you smirk because you remember some instances in which you were in the same position but it was far more pleasurable.
You trace his muscles slowly, dreamlike; you drown into his intake of breath. You move your fingertips up his chest and let your palm lay against his heart. You mark every done button with a kiss on the closest patch of uncovered skin. He starts shivering in your arms but you’re too far gone.
You stand up and slip your hand under the shirt, touching his collarbone, feeling all those angles you’ve learnt so well, bending down to lick a scar, resting your forehead against his chest.You come back up, turn your head to breath into his ear, as if meaning to say something, and then bite into the lobe just to hear him gasp.
He’s good at keeping his composure, at building walls, at saying the right thing. He’s smart. Smarter than you, better than you; better at saying the right thing, at lying through his teeth, at believing his lies.
His mind is made up.
There's letters in your coat
But no one's in your head
Cause you're too smart to remember
You're too smart
You do the last button.
You speak but you don’t even recognize the voice coming out of your throat.
‘That’s it. Don’t you look dapper now.’
He turns his head to you; he had been purposefully looking out the window the whole time.
He turns his head and just looks at you straight, unyielding.
Like a knife to the heart.
His eyes.. fuck.. you knew he was just as wrecked but.. fucking hell.. it hurts so much more to see it.
It just hurts.. and fuck it.. just fuck it.
Buttons fly everywhere.
He’s still in your arms, after, and it aches. It aches everywhere. You look at the angry marks you left on his body as if you wanted to make him red all over, to keep him red, to just keep him.
You don’t want to let go and the words are on your lips. (pleaseGodanythingiswearjustdon’t.please)
You swallow them but something else comes through.
‘Go home, Xabs.’
Silence.
You expect him to flinch. The way you said those words.. fuck.. it must be one of the cruellest things you’ve ever done. And you’ve done enough things to keep you awake at night.
You expect him to flinch, to make you let him go, to go cold in your arms.
He just turns around and starts biting hard kisses along your jaw.
‘It’s not home I’m going to.’
You will yourself to fall asleep knowing he won’t be there when you wake up.
You close your eyes with your car in the parking lot of some pub you can’t even remember and your heart all over the place.
Lucky you.