Work Text:
House By The Lake
(photo by Tony Armstrong)
“You shouldn’t…”
“I shouldn’t what?” He turns around to look at me, his eyes like slits, observing me suspiciously.
“You shouldn’t send her this email. She fucked it up again, not you. You shouldn’t run after her and apologise for nothing, for being you,” I state matter-of-factly. Ever since they met two years ago, he had fulfilled her every wish, forgave her every tantrum, apologised for every made-up accusation she’d thrown into his face. He was like a puppy returning to its owner hoping to be loved even though he is being kicked away over and over again.
She is beautiful, no doubt, probably even smart given that she made it so far up in the company. But she is also ruthless and selfish and arrogant. Blinded by her looks, he doesn’t see beneath the shell, he ignores her flaws and instead praises her good fashion taste and her excellent taste in wine and cars. He is simply in love...and ignorant of reality. Or so I think.
“I think I can make that decision for myself, thank you very much.” He turns back around, fingers vigorously typing away on the keyboard, probably adding more and more apologies and ‘I’ll make it up to you’-promises to those already written down.
With a defeated sigh, I leave the room, grab my book and lukewarm coffee from the kitchen counter next door and head out onto the wooden balcony overlooking the clear, smooth, blue lake surrounding the house. The sun is slowly rising over the water, bathing everything in a pale yellow light while birds are singing happily in the trees around me and I smile to myself as I settle down on the lounger and take a sip of the dark brown liquid.
After a while, the frantic typing dies down and I hear him rummaging around the kitchen. Mugs clatter, water flows, the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the air before the quiet patter of his naked feet on the wooden floor announces his arrival on the balcony. “Do you really have to pollute this clear, fresh morning air with this stinky cigarette smoke?,” I mumble and close my book after making a dog ear in the top right corner. He sighs annoyed and puts his cigarette out in the little ashtray on the windowsill, going back inside soon after. Letting my hand run over my face, I close my eyes and try to focus on the peaceful tranquility around me to calm me down. I place my book on the floor ere I get up, half-empty coffee mug in hand. Slowly, I shuffle inside into the open-plan kitchen.
“Is there some coffee left by any chance?,” I ask quietly. “Mine’s gone cold.” He looks up from his phone, his turquoise eyes boring into me while he obviously contemplates whether or not he should say yes. “Sure,” he simply replies, his dark, gravelly voice seeped in indifference. Silence settles between and around us, uncomfortable silence, heavy with unsaid words, with all this emotional baggage we both brought with us from London, from our lives. This had been meant to be a relaxing holiday for us, a holiday to renew our friendship which had suffered in the last months. Dates had been cancelled because ‘something else came up’ and telephone calls had been scarcer and scarcer with every new project, every new film.
“Benedict, can we not do this?,” I sigh. Again, he looks up, his eyebrows shooting up as he eyes me questioningly. “Do...what exactly?” “This,” I point in the blank space between us. “Pretending that we don’t care, that there’s nothing left to say. Because there’s plenty to say,” I answer agitatedly, feeling tears of anger, frustration and helplessness well up in my eyes. He doesn’t reply and for a moment I close my eyes to regain my composure. When I open them again, he’s still looking at me though a little less dismissive and more...sad. “I miss you,” I manage to whisper, dropping my gaze to the worn kitchen counter, my fingertips tracing the endless cuts and shakes left by knives and time. “I miss you, too.” His reply is quiet, almost inaudible but I can hear it well enough. Looking back up, I can see him biting his lip.
“Do you think we can fix this? Fix us?,” I ask, a little scared of the answer if I’m honest. He nods without hesitation. “Yes, I think we can. I hope we can. I really do hope we can,” he nods again, emphasising his last words. “Okay...because I need you. I need you in my life as my best friend, the one I can call in the middle of the night, the one I can send silly postcards to, the one I can ask to go and see the latest play or film,” I mumble, gripping the countertop with my heartbeat increasing ever so slightly. “I feel as if I lost you in those last months. I know you were busy and I’m so happy for you. But...you changed and...and she changed you. You’re not my best friend anymore and I hate her for taking you away. She doesn’t deserve you. She doesn’t deserve your apologies and your never ending love and your never ending patience. You’re too good for her, Benedict. I’m not saying that I deserve you more but...I guess I at least worked hard enough for it in the last years.”
A little embarrassed after my outburst, I look down again, my cheeks flushed and hot as I can feel his gaze on me. My heartbeat echoes loudly in my ears, mixing with the sound of his feet as he walks towards me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand softly taking mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t spend more time with you and that I always cancelled our dates and that I made you feel as if you didn’t matter. Because you do. You really do.” Slowly, his other hand glides to my back, pulling me gently closer to him and I comply, snuggling up to his naked chest, breathing in his scent, a mixture of cigarettes and his shampoo. “That email I just sent...it was my last to her. You might hate her but she still deserves an explanation, a goodbye, from me after all this time.”
Surprised, I raise my head to look up into his eyes, hoping to find the truth in them and I do. He means it. “Why?,” I breathe, thoughts spinning in my head, my fingertips, touching his muscular back, tingling with anticipation. “Because I don’t love her. Maybe I never did. Maybe I just loved the idea of her...and me. But it’s never going to be the way I want it to be. It’s never going to be the same as...as with you.” I swallow slightly at his words, averting my gaze to his collarbone and the tiny mole at the crook of his neck. “What do you mean by that?,” I stammer almost inaudibly but he can hear me well enough.
“What do you think I mean?,” he answers, a small smile playing around his lips now. Feeling the blush creep up my cheeks again, I shrug my shoulders, still avoiding his speckled eyes which are so deep and enchanting, just like the endless blue lake outside. Slowly, his fingertips glide across my cheek, tracing the freckles under my eyes and the little scar next to my ear, until he buries them in my dark brown, thick hair while gently lifting my head to look at him. “I’m not sure why it took me so long to realise that. I don’t love her because...because I already love you,” he whispers, his breath tickling my lips while his eyes are locked on mine, drawing me in as my body melts further into his. “And maybe I always have,” he adds quietly, covering the remaining millimetres between us and pressing his lips gently onto mine.