→ but those nights when we were drinking, no they never got us anywhere
He says I don't understand. That he can't tell me why it happened or why he let it happen, or, he mutters angrily, avoiding my eyes, why he would even think about it in the first place. I sit at the edge of my bed while he shoves clothes for the morning into a bag that was mine years ago, ink-stained and worn.
Take mine, that one might fall apart, I tell him nervously.
Doesn't matter, he says. I'm just going downstairs.
Gracia won't question him. She'll set out a pillow and some blankets on her couch for him, offer him some tea before she goes to bed, because that's the sort of woman she is. She won't ask, Did you have a falling-out? What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?
He doesn't bother to say goodbye as he leaves my - our - bedroom. Not even a wave of his hand.
I'm sorry, I whisper, but he doesn't hear.
I don't think it's such a good idea-
One more glass. Come on. He's laughing, pushing it along the table towards me. He's smiling. He knows I've always been helpless when he does that.
One more, I agree, raising the beer to my lips and taking a sip. The room's been spinning slightly for fifteen minutes now. This is a bad idea. But Edward's smiling.
Hey, Alfons, did I ever tell you about the time-
He has. I let him tell the story anyway.
If I fall over and break something it's your fault, Edward slurs, leaning on my shoulder.
How is it my fault?
He grins. Well, you paid for them, didn't you? I can't argue with that.
It's a longer walk to our apartment building than I remember it being before. That might just be because I can feel his breath against my neck, his arm around my shoulders trying to keep himself steady. Every bit of my body is hyper-aware, and it's not an entirely pleasant feeling.
Oh, fuck it, he says to himself under his breath as we pass a shadowed alleyway. I turn to look at him, as best I can with him leaning on me at any rate, and-
I'm not sure what happens in the next few milliseconds but I can feel a brick wall against my back and Edward's hands on my shoulders and - yes, good job, idiot, he's kissing you, it only took you an entire minute to figure that out -
I don't remember how we get home but it involves a lot of dragging each other into dark corners every few minutes.
We manage to make it to the apartment eventually, and when we step into the dim lamp-light as I clumsily unlock the door, I sneak a glance at him and his cheeks are flushed and he looks more alive than I've ever seen him before. He all but runs up the stairs and it's as much as I can do to follow him, trying not to stumble over every step and by the time we reach my - our - bedroom his shirt is off and my belt is half-undone and he's whispering to me in between kisses i'm sorry waited so long missed you so much and-
And then he pushes me away and he looks like he's going to be sick.
I'm sorry, he says. You don't... you don't understand.
I can't sleep once he's gone. I used to only sleep in absolute silence. Now the absence of his slow, steady breathing in his sleep falls like a smothering blanket over the room. After an hour of this torture I give up, pulling the blanket off my bed and wrapping it around myself. I go to the kitchen, fill the teakettle with water, but I don't want it anymore.
I sit down at the table. Waiting. For what I don't know.
Half an hour later the door opens. He walks in and I can barely breathe, my lungs suddenly frozen. There are dark circles forming under his eyes already, lines on his forehead that shouldn't be there for years now, but maybe my sleep-deprived brain is just seeing things.
I couldn't sleep, I say.
Neither could I. He sits down across from me. I'm sorry, Alfons.
Don't be. I can't stop my voice from shaking a little. I d-didn't mind.
He sighs. That's why I'm sorry.
Neither of us says anything for what must be a few minutes, but feels like a lifetime.
You should get some sleep, he says. You've got work tomorrow.
Says the man who decided we should go out drinking on a weeknight, I say, trying to make light of the situation. He doesn't laugh.
It's only when I'm about to drift off to sleep when I wonder who those words were meant for.
You can't miss someone you've lived with for the past six months.