Snippets of an affair ~ First Admission

[zahraowens]

Title: Snippets of an affair (7/?) ~ First Admission Author: zahra_owens Beta: iona_lewis Rating: PG Word Count: 3216 Warnings: Beware of boy-loving, guy on guy, and what's more, they're cheating on their boyfriends. Also I'm not a fan of smoking, but these guys smoke. Too bad. Disclaimer: Persons and events described here may, on the surface, seem familiar, but I don't have a clue what I'm talking about. Author's note 1: The POV may change throughout the story, so the 'I' from this chapter may not be the 'I' from the previous chapter

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Okay, that was weird.

It usually doesn’t bother me to meet the boyfriend. It’s a bit of a rush to find out I'm shagging a guy in a committed relationship and since I don’t have a death wish, I’m good at not letting on when I get to meet the other half.

Meeting your significant other was strange though. He’s a good looking man, but can I just say, a little intense? I could tell you were nervous and you wanted to get out as soon as possible, so I was a little surprised when you shook my hand and there was a piece of paper in it. I didn’t look at it until I was sure you’d both left and now I’m staring at your cell phone number. You want me to call you? And just how much time am I required to wait after sex before I call?

A week later, I decide I’ve given you enough time to fret about whether I’m going to call or not. I’m not playing hard to get and I’m very well aware of the fact that the ball is in my court, but I’ve been counting the hours until my lover leaves again, so I can get in touch to ask you to meet me somewhere. You don’t pick up your phone and I get your voicemail. I don’t leave a message.

Instead I wash the bed sheets and clean up the apartment, stopping a few times to dial your number. Still no answer and although I should leave you a message, I chicken out every time I hear the beep.

After another week, I still haven’t talked to you and I finally succumb and say something lame on your voicemail, explaining that I’m the guy stalking you on your mobile. You don’t return my call even though I’ve left you my number.

I stop calling your cell phone.

During the next three months I have to go to two more weddings and when you don’t show up for either, I start thinking you’re avoiding me, which is weird of course. Maybe you weren’t even invited to those? Maybe I’m the weird one, pining for you the way I’ve never pined for anyone. So what if I fucked you twice? You’ve clearly moved on and so should I. I haven’t slept with anyone else all this time though. Anyone but Mr. I-think-I’m-a-hotshot-pilot of course. I still don’t have the bollocks to can’t say no to him, even though my stomach turns every time he touches me.

Then my downstairs neighbour dies and I go to her funeral only to see you standing with her family, accepting condolences. As I shake your hand and tell you I’m sorry, you look at me and although you don’t smile I think I see gratitude in your eyes.

As I walk outside, you follow me. "Stay for some refreshments. Please?" I had no intention of doing so. I'm only her neighbour and although I always thought of her as a was warm and kind woman, I don't know her family or her circle of friends and only came to show my respect. You give me a card with the directions to the hall where everyone is expected to convene later and throw me a pleading look, which I can't possibly resist, so I nod and watch you go inside again. I slowly walk down the street wondering why I agreed to this.

Later on, after the sandwiches and coffee, as I’m standing outside having a smoke you join me.

“Do you have a light?”

I light your cigarette and watch you inhale the smoke deeply as you point to a bench in the garden adjacent to the reception hall.

“So you knew her?” you ask as we sit down.

I nod. “I live upstairs from her.”

“Small world,” you state.

“You?” I ask.

“She’s my mother-in-law.” Before I get the chance to let my jaw drop you correct yourself. “Well, not exactly my mother-in-law, since we didn’t get around to doing the civil ceremony thing, but she’s...she was my partner’s mother and she always told me that she saw me as her son-in-law.”

“I didn’t see him here.”

You shake your head, slowly exhaling the smoke as if you need time to think of an answer. “He’s ehm... He’s not well, he couldn’t make it.”

“Not that I have the best relationship with my mother, but even so, I’d have to be pretty much dead myself to miss her funeral!” As soon as the words leave my mouth I want to take them back. Who am I to judge this? I don’t know you, let alone your lover and if I want to win you back...

“Well, it’s a long story,” you say, stopping my train of thought and telling me with those words to let it lie.

I expect you to get up and leave but you don’t. Instead we sit there and smoke in silence as people walk outside and greet you and sometimes me as they leave. Eventually you get up and stub out your third cigarette on the pavement after which you pick up the stubs and drop them in the litter box just inside the entrance. A women walks up to you and you exchange muted, but clearly emotional words with her. I can't hear what the conversation is about, but both your faces look tense and there's clearly something she disapproves of. I can just catch "Fine, I'll leave and save you further embarrassment," as you walk away from her and she returns inside.

“Want to share a cab home?” you ask me, not looking directly at me and clearly still upset.

I'm curious about the woman who's invoked such emotion in you, but I don't dare to ask. Instead I wonder whether this invitation is your way of trying to pick me up or just concern for the means by which I get home. I want to keep my options open though and try to lighten the mood. “Who says we’re going in the same direction?”

You smile for the first time, kicking the dirt with your immaculate shoe. “You live upstairs from my mother-in-law remember?”

“Right.” I smile too as we continue playing the game of not looking at each other.

“We’re going in the same direction,” you state as you take my arm and gently direct me towards the street.

Ten minutes later we’re in a cab and you’ve given the cabbie my address. As we sit in silence, you suddenly turn to me. “I don’t want to be forward or anything, but do you want to come over to my place for a drink?” I hesitate and you interpret that as a no. “Or if you prefer we can have a coffee in your neighbourhood.”

“No, that’s okay, whatever you prefer is fine with me,” I say, putting my hand on your arm. “I’ll come with you,” I add, just so there’s no misunderstanding.

For the first time, you look me in the eye with that half-smile of yours, before moving forward and asking the cabbie to divert to another address.

Your house is one of those older houses that looks tiny and terribly impractical, but once you let me in I can tell a lot of work’s been done on the inside.

“Sorry about the mess,” you apologise. “The kitchen’s through there.”

There are boxes everywhere, in various stages of fullness and something tells me you’ve either just moved house or are about to and it makes my heart race. Is there no longer a lover? Is that why you avoided answering my question earlier?

“Coffee or tea?” you ask, opening cupboards to gather cups and spoons and sugar.

I don’t answer, instead I put my hand on the small of your back and you stop what you’re doing. I don’t pull away. Instead I wait for your reaction as you slowly turn around, your eyes squeezed shut as if you’re fighting back tears. Before I know what’s happening you’ve grabbed me and pushed me against the fridge, your body against mine and you’re kissing me thoroughly. I’m not surprised to feel my body reacting. Your kisses have always had that effect on me and I kiss you back equally passionately.

“Fuck I missed you, “ you pant against my temple as we eventually break for air.

“I called,” I answer, equally breathless.

“I know, I...” you don’t finish, instead you take my hand and drag me with you to another room. “I don’t have a bed yet,” you say by way of apology as you point at a mattress on the floor.

Part of me feels humiliated to be treated as just a piece of meat, but the reaction of my body doesn’t lie and I know it’s crying out for you, so if a quick fuck is all I’m getting right now, then that is fine by me.

You don’t give me time to take my clothes off as you wrap your arms around me and pull me into another kiss, this time coaxing me towards the bed and helping me lie down on my back. We’re still kissing as you hover over me, clearly a little apprehensive about letting me feel your full weight, so I pull you closer, grab your arse so I can grind us together. There’s no doubt in my mind that your body’s reacting too, but then you pull away, even pushing me away from you as you get up from the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” you apologise half-heartedly.

“That’s okay,” I answer automatically, because that’s how you’re supposed to react to apologies.

“No it’s not.”

I’m still sitting on the mattress, a little unsure what to do. Do you want me to leave? I wish you’d tell me, because I don’t want to. Even if there’s no chance of sex, I know I like you enough to want to stay, but I don’t want to push you in any sort of direction.

Your body language confuses me. You stand with your back to me, your shoulders hunched, shutting me out, but your voice as you apologised was almost a cry for help.

I decide to wing it and I get up as well, pulling my shirt straight again. I’m afraid to touch you, afraid you might lash out and strike me if I come too close so I step away from you.

“Don’t leave,” you say. “Please, just stay a little while longer.”

“Okay,” I answer softly, moving a little closer.

“It’s okay if you want to leave. I just can’t... And I know you came for sex...”

I want to say ‘No’, but I know you’re right. I came here after an unspoken promise of sex, because that’s what we do. We shag and don’t talk about it. As if that’s all we have in common. So why can’t I leave then? Why do I want to stay here even though there’s nothing keeping me here but your presence?

“I have nowhere else to go right now,” I hear myself say and I immediately realise that’s not what I meant to say. It sounds like I’m here by default, but that’s not true, so I add, “I want to be here.”

You cock your head as if you doubt my statement, but then you look at me with a look so soft I want to take you in my arms and give you a hug. I don’t though. I may have fucked you twice, but I don’t know you well enough to gauge how you’ll react to an overture like that.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit.

“Depends on what you want to do,” I reply too quickly again. I chuckle to hide my unease and see you tentatively move closer. We’re both unsure but eventually we manage to move in each other’s direction.

“I don’t want...I can’t right now.”

“I know,” I answer quietly, nodding reassuringly as I move close enough for our bodies to touch. I slowly wrap my arms around you, giving you plenty of time to pull away but you don’t. Instead you hug me back and squeeze me tight and I don’t even feel trapped as I usually would. We stand like that for a while, not moving. I have no idea what’s going through your mind, I just know that you need this right now and although I’m not entirely sure what’s going to happen next, I realise I have the patience to give this to you.

“I’d suggest we get more comfortable on the couch, but it's still wrapped in bubble plastic and sitting in the back yard,” you say suddenly, chuckling slightly. “There’s just the mattress.”

“We can get more comfortable there if you like,” I agree.

We move over, lying down on the king size mattress, you on the right side and on your back and me on the left, facing you. Our hands are touching, but no more than that and you start talking about the funeral and about the woman that meant so much to you. I ask very few questions, but instead let you tell me what you want to divulge.

Eventually you can’t talk around your lover any more. “He’s in hospital,” you say and I can tell from your face that it’s a difficult thing to admit to. “He was a danger to himself and to me, so I had to ask them to take him away.”

I squeeze your hand in support and contemplate asking for more information, but I wait, unsure whether to give you your privacy or push you to divulge more to satisfy my curiosity. I finally decide that there’s a reason for you asking me to stay so I take a deep breath in, but before I can say anything, you start talking again.

“He tried to kill me,” you say blankly and I try not to react. “Well, maybe not kill me, but he had a knife to my throat and his eyes were all wild and.... I got away somehow and realised we couldn’t go on like that.”

I move closer, hugging your arm and I even put my cheek on your shoulder. I want to hug you again and tell you everything will be all right but I know it will sound hollow, so I don’t say anything. What I really want to say is that the bastard doesn’t deserve you and you did well to get away. That you should just burn your bridges and start again, but the last thing you need is ill-conceived advice from someone who’s only ever been able to make a mess of his own life.

“What set him off?” I ask after a few moments of silence. I hope the question is neutral enough to help you along in telling the story and not painful enough to upset you.

“He thought I was trying to poison him.”

I give you a stunned look and you catch it and smile.

“Paranoid schizophrenia,” you state. “With a bipolar component, but that wasn’t apparent when they first diagnosed him at university.”

“Meaning?”

“If he doesn’t take his medication, he fluctuates between mania and deep depression. At the height of his mania the paranoia is at its worse. He sees things that aren’t there and hears voices and yes, thinks that I’m trying to poison him. Then he plummets into depression and just lies there, curled up in a ball, doesn’t eat or drink, doesn’t talk, doesn’t wash...” you shake your head and I feel your pain. I also realise how much you still love him.

I know I have a choice. Be here for you now or leave and cut my losses. With any other man I would have been out of here in the blink of an eye, but somehow for you I want to stay. The fact that I haven’t run yet seems to surprise you too as I realise you’re looking at me. You take my hand, the one that was in yours, with your other hand and lift the arm that’s nearest to me so you can turn towards me.

“Sob story isn’t it?” you ask with a certain sarcasm in your voice.

“It’s sad, yes, but I can only feel sad for you. The things you must have been through these last years, I can’t begin to imagine...”

“The last four or five were okay. He stayed on his medication and I thought he was finally understanding that he needed them to stay healthy. I guess I was wrong.”

When I look into your eyes, they’ve turned into the most mesmerizing blue and I can’t stop looking at them.

“Will you please stay with me tonight?”

As soon as you ask me, I see you avert your eyes again and I feel you withdraw. “Yes,” I answer quietly.

“I understand if you want to go home, or if you’d rather spend the evening with someone else. I can’t make you stay.”

I move my hand from your side to your cheek and as you look up at me I kiss you. It’s a tender kiss with just my lips, but I want to tell you that I don’t want to leave, that I have no place better to go because I want to be here with you. You kiss me back, just as softly. There’s no urgency to our kisses this time and again it strikes me that I’ve never done this, this just kissing, making out, simply exploring each other’s mouth. Like teenagers, fully clothed, there’s no groping, no grinding into each other. Instead there’s plenty of time to breathe, to look into each other’s eyes and it dawns on me that I’m the sad one here, because all I’ve done up to now was fuck. I fucked my boyfriends, or rather, was fucked by my boyfriends; I fucked my one night stands and I fucked you, twice and for some strange cosmic reason, the fact that I haven’t gone cruising for the past three months - in fact, since I met you – all served to bring me here today and give me the patience to work up to the one thing I want to do with you now and that isn’t fucking.

“I don’t have a lot here yet, but I can cook us some dinner if you like?” you suggest after we stop kissing.

“Okay,” I answer, smiling shyly. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages and anything you can whip up must be better than a curry from the corner shop.

You don’t move though, you just continue looking at me, as if I’d disappear if you looked the other way. I feel your hand play with my hair and it’s nice and warm in your arms, so I just smile at you and kiss you again.

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