Chapter Text
I’m not going to lie, life’s been treating me well. It feels good to be back home after months of working myself to the bone and uselessly fighting heartbreak after Al kicked me out of his house. Not to mention my impromptu visit to Europe to support that very same, albeit very depressed Al during the last few gigs of the Monkeys tour. It’s just good to be back, is what I’m trying to say. Even more so because it’s not just me living there this time.
He’s here with me, Al is. I’m still getting used to it, as I never expected him to say yes when I invited him to move in with me for the time being, let alone to go through with it. I’m not just surprised because I half expect him to end our relationship for a second time, but also because I know how much he likes his own place. It’s nothing like mine. Every detail there has a thought behind it, every piece of art, every chair even. Mine’s different. I like to think it’s somewhat modern and well put together, but first and foremost, it’s home. The chairs in the living room don’t match, there’s always a stack of DVDs lying around somewhere, and there are framed poster on the walls. It’s comfortable, and I like it here. I just wasn’t sure that he would, too.
I invited him because I figured it would be for the best for him to not be alone for a while, but having him around is having its effects on me, too. I’m calmer than before, when I lived here on me own, which, quite frankly, I simply wasn’t made for. I enjoy getting to wake up next to Al and coming home to him. Lately I’ve been working long, productive hours that don’t exhaust me half as much as those same long hours I worked right after Alex and I went separate ways. I’ve been writing a lot, gladly spending full days in the studio. I go for runs when I can, stop by the gym when I have the time, and I can feel myself getting stronger and healthier after months of running myself ragged. Life’s treating me pretty damn well. I have him back – I have Al back –, I’m making music again, I’m calm again. Things seem to just be falling into place.
The situation is far from ideal, of course. There’s a reason why he’s here with me in the first place. He’s still completely out of it, by lack of a better term. His movements are slow and his eyes dull. I’ve never had to deal with depression meself, but it looks pretty fucked up to me. I’m not sure how he gets through his days. He mostly just sits in his favourite chair in the living room and sleeps more than is probably good for him. To see him sit in that chair all day every day, no matter when I come home from the studio, tugs at me heart. I should be taking better care of him, but there’s only so much you can do, especially because he won’t let me do anything.
That doesn’t mean I’m not trying my best. I may leave the house and come back home at different times every day, but I try to stick to a routine for his benefit. I make it a habit to wake him up and make us breakfast before I leave, whilst he makes us coffee. After I come home, I wake him up with a kiss, change into my tracksuit and start getting dinner ready. In the beginning, I have to keep asking him for help, until he just starts trailing after me into the kitchen after I come home. It’s like living with a very tactile ghost, and as much as I hate that that’s the only way I can think of to describe him, it is what it is. He’s quiet, seemingly glad to have something to do when I return with the groceries, and always very glad to kiss me hello. His lips always linger, and so do his hands on me hips or shoulders. Touch is important to him, always has been. It helps him calm down, too, but I never really get to reassure him like that when it’s necessary, his pride pulling him back and away from me. He’s still the Al I know, but he’s an even quieter version of him. A version that won’t let me in and spends time in his head rather than at home. It’s as if a dark cloud has settled permanently above the house. It’s an eerie thing to witness. I like to think that it doesn’t really affect me own mood too much, as I’m honestly just comfortable being back home and having him here with me, but it’s always there, always noticeable. It worries me. Neither of us seems to know what to do to make things easier on him. We don’t get to simply hug and kiss everything better. I have no doubt whatsoever that he’s still Alex behind those empty eyes, but he’s always in that chair and when he’s not he walks around looking like he’s completely lost in his head. It’s no good. It’s not healthy. I slowly start to question his doctor and therapist, as if were their fault that he’s not improving. I start to question myself, and Al. The tour has been over for a while now. He’s in a stress-free environment with someone who adores him and with plenty of guitars, records and movies around, but not much changes. He simply doesn’t seem to want to feel better anymore. Then again, he doesn’t seem to want anything anymore, except to sleep and to curl up on the sofa with me after dinner. I can’t just fix him and clearly neither can he at the moment, but I’m seriously starting to wonder what will.
His therapy sessions aren’t going anywhere, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. One time, a month in, he asks me to go with him, as it’s easier to talk to me than to her, he reasons. He arranges it with his therapist, I go with him, albeit a little reluctantly, and we spend the better part of his hour talking about the Puppets tour from two years ago. Alex’ eyes have been dull and dark lately, but they light up at the memories. He doesn’t speak a lot himself, just gently swoops in to add to my stories when I skip over something. During what’s left of his hour his therapist means business though, and I can see why going here makes him feel drained, as he’s asked again and again for reasons as to why he thinks he’s feeling this way. She’s careful about it, very calm, too, but I can see the trouble it takes him to reflect. I don’t exactly tend to reflect on my own behaviour meself and Alex may be someone who’s in his head a lot, but usually he’s kind of like me in that aspect. He’s someone who lives very in the moment and doesn’t question his own thoughts and actions too much. I can only imagine how hard it must be to dig for reasons as to why he’s feeling a certain way, when really, to him he just is. I can identify with that. Yesterday, for example, I woke up in a terrible mood for no reason at all. I proceeded to have a morning just as terrible as my mood, burnt our breakfast, almost drove my car into the ground on the way to the studio, and when I did finally arrive the song I’d been working on and had been looking forward to going back to felt completely wrong. All that despite the fact that I’d gone to bed feeling perfectly fine the night before, Alex had even been in the mood for some really good fun, and I’d slept really well. By the time I joined Al in bed that night I was perfectly fine again. As if nothing happened, and really, nothing had. I’d just felt like it was bad weather all day.
And really, that’s how I see it. It’s bad weather for me sometimes – that’s just how it is. No one can really avoid being in a bad mood every once in a while. But Al’s thing, that’s not about it being bad weather at all. It’s about climate rather than weather, and his climate has changed entirely. His days have gone darker and colder and generally, if you’ll pardon me French, shittier. You don’t really get to change the climate overnight, which in Al’s case makes things a lot more complicated.
I’m perfectly aware that I can’t improve Al’s climate, and clearly nor can he at the moment, but before I know it we’ve been living together at mine for a month, and I get tired of sitting around and hoping with all me heart that he’ll feel better soon. I’m not sure whether it’s a selfish decision or not, but at one point I decide that we’re not going to just sit around and wait anymore. Thus, I set out to change the weather; to make everything just a bit brighter, even if just for minutes at the time.
One night after dinner, when we’re putting away the dishes, I suggest we go for a motorcycle ride together. He’s hesitant, afraid the haze will cloud his judgment on the road. I know it’s not the safest thing to do, but I encourage him to go through with it nonetheless. We suit up, don our helmets, and I sit down behind him. He’s visibly unsure in the driver’s seat, much less steady than usually, and I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, both to keep him there as well as because really, I’m only human and I’d be a fool for not using the opportunity to be close to him. He straightens his back in front of me, and I’m aware that really, this is the least responsible idea I’ve had in a long time, but it’s also the best. We don’t go very fast, we don’t go very far, but Al regains some of his confidence along the way. When we stop at a red light, he reaches down to my arm around his waist, and squeezes gently. We go for another ride the day after and, when on the day after that, after a particularly bad night, he tells me it would be really irresponsible to go for a ride that day, we walk instead. Going for either a ride or a walk after dinner becomes part of the routine after a while, and rather than just complying and going through the motions, as is his custom with making coffee and cooking dinner, going outside always seems to wake him up a little. It makes me hopeful, I have to admit.
As if he hasn’t got it difficult enough, Alex tries his best to make everything just a little harder on himself. He asks me to just kick him out of my house already time and again, tells me to shut him up if I ever feel like he’s becoming reliant on me. I’m going to be honest here, it frustrates me to no end. Perhaps I’m just too simple a guy, but I don’t see the need for all the unnecessary drama that he adds to the already sufficiently unhealthy cocktail of depression, sleep and low self-esteem. If we’re being completely honest, I’m really not the only one who wasn’t made for being alone. Al definitely wasn’t made for it either, but he’s scared of not being alone, too. Of allowing me in, even though we’ve known each other for years. It’s beyond me why he’s so terrified of commitment when he’s been in his fair share of long-term relationships already and his attempts to create more space between us – his attempts to make me believe he’s bothering me by being here – anger me and frustrate me and nag at me, until I explode and start yelling at him. He watches me with those dark, passive eyes as I raise my voice and gesture wildly around me. He seems incredibly unimpressed, but when I finally run out of breath, he nods once and murmurs: “I know I ‘aven’t been great company lately, and being here with you, in this state, means I’m sorta testing your boundaries, right? It’s like I’m testing you to find out how much more of this you’ll put up with.”
He tells me all of that like he’s reciting the bloody dictionary. I can’t stand it, and I rub my forehead, closing my eyes for a moment. “You don’t ever stop, do you,” I murmur. “What’s that even mean, Alex? I invited you here. You’re not testing anything except my patience right now, trust me on that one.”
He shrugs, still giving me that passive, dead look that makes my skin crawl. “I’m afraid that you'll leave,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I’m always going to be worried that you of all people will end up seeing right through me. Hell, you already do.”
“So what’s the problem exactly?” I blurt out. “If I already see right through you, anyway? Clearly whatever you’re so ashamed of isn’t an issue for me. And this? This is just you being ill. You’ll get past that. I’ve known you for years, Aly. I like to think that I know you pretty well by now, and I’m very sure about my decision to invite you here.” I look past his shoulder as I speak, more than ready to end this conversation, but also very much not done yet. I simply can’t seem to get through to him. “I like that you’re mine,” I sigh, staring at the wall. “Always have.”
“Always have, huh?” Alex mutters, but really, neither of us is about to pretend that things didn’t start happening between us almost as soon as we met, years before we got together that first time, so I ignore him.
“I can’t keep telling you that I’d like you to stay,” I tell him instead, making a vague gesture with my hand. “Has it crossed your mind at all that it might not just be comfortable for you to be here? It makes things a hell of a lot better for me, too, and quite frankly, I’m sick of worrying that you’ll make an attempt to cut me out of your life again sooner rather than later. Every single morning I half expect to just wake up to an empty bed and all your stuff gone, Al, alright?” When I finish speaking I realise there’s something else I want to say, something on a deeper level that scares me much, much more than Al simply leaving me house. I shake my head, push the thought away, not giving it any time to hook its claws into me brain, and sit down next to him, stretching my legs out in front of me. He doesn’t move, just watches me, his eyes expressionless as I turn to him. He doesn’t meet me eye.
“If you’re comfortable here, I’d like you to stay,” I say, lowering my voice back to a normal level. “If not, I’ll drive you back to yours in a heartbeat. Not because I want to, okay? I wish you’d realise how lucky I am to have you back. I’m just saying that I’d drive you to yours if it would make you feel better. But if you feel better here, you’re staying here, end of story.”
And really, when you think about it, I’m not too simple a guy at all. Things really are that simple. I just seem to be the only one who sees it, because Al isn’t done. He never is.
“And me going home wouldn’t make you feel better?” he asks, and I want to grab him by his shoulders and shake, but I somehow manage to keep my cool and laugh humourlessly instead.
“I’m terrible at dealing with heartbreak, Al," I say. "You know me.”
He snorts, makes eye-contact with me for a brief moment. “You are terrible at dealing with heartbreak,” he mutters. But he doesn’t react to any of the other things I’ve told him. I mumble an apology for losing it like I did and leave the room to get myself a drink. If I had a say in it, he’d stay at mine for the time being, where it’s warm and friendly and comfortable, and where he’s not alone all the damn time. Sometimes I simply don’t understand him. Just like he doesn’t seem to understand that I love him to pieces.
After a few walks and motorcycle rides, I manage to convince him to go for a run with me. He complains the entire time, which honestly just gives me hope. His cheeks are red, both from the crisp evening air as well as the effort it takes him to keep up, but he powers through, despite his pace getting slower every single minute. I know how exhausted he’s been and I should have expected him to have to take it easy, but I’ve never known Alex to say no to sports or trail after me like that. For a second I’m worried, but when I slow down and turn to him, it takes him only a second or two to quicken his pace and overtake me. I’m impressed and, quite honestly, relieved for no reason at all. It starts pouring rain once we’re only halfway and by the time we reach the house, we’re both soaked to the bone. Alex’ shirt clings to his body, see-through rather than white at this point, and when I look up to meet his eye, there’s a spark there that I haven’t seen in a while. He kisses me hard, his hands grabbing my shoulders as he deepens the kiss. As suddenly as it starts, before I even get the time to react, he pulls back, and before I know it, he’s off again, moving through the hallway and disappearing out of sight. I take off my trainers, then follow a trail of soaking wet clothes to the bathroom. I'm greeted with the sound of the shower already running and the sight of a very naked Alex running his fingers through his hair, his head tipped back slightly and his eyes closed as he stands under the spray. The sight is stunning, but I don’t waste any time. He lets out a offended huff as I press my now freezing body against his, and I mumble something ridiculous about sharing body heat. For some reason, that earns me another kiss, and another. His hands roam over my chest enthusiastically as he presses in close. You’d almost think I haven’t touched him in ages by how much he’s trying to rush things. I lean in for another kiss, one that’s much slower and gentler this time, and I feel him relax into it. He makes a surprised little noise when I sink to me knees, and what happens next makes his movements a lot less rushed and frantic. I may or may not take some pride in that. I don’t know how long we spend in the shower, but we’re both very much warmed up again by the time we get out.
No matter how we spend our evenings, I still find him in that chair after I come home, day in day out. I feel guilty sometimes, as I’m really doing quite alright for meself at the moment and I can’t exactly help that I’m feeling quite good about it all. My studio work’s progressing steadily and my home life has improved significantly now that I have Al here with me again. I can feel myself getting used to it. Apart from the situation where he’s too proud for a hug when I’m trying to console him he’s very affectionate, quite vocal about how he feels about me, and I learn to trust him; I believe him, despite my fear that he might leave. I can’t deny that it relaxes me to have him here. As for Al, I can actually see him relax when I run my fingers through his hair or over his cheek. Some of the tension in his shoulder releases when I kiss him and he lets out a breath the both of us didn’t know he’d been holding when I wrap my arms around him. They’re little things, comforting gestures he could ask for from anyone, but he chooses to ask me for them. I’m not a fool; I can see that they don’t magically cure him, but I’d be out of me mind to withhold even the briefest of touches from him simply because he got it into his mind that he might become reliant on me – that he might be bothering me – when really, being close simply helps him feel better. It’s not a crime and it still frustrates me to no end that he thinks it is.
Still, we could be doing worse. Each evening we spend together is ridiculously domestic, as we eat, go for our walk or ride, and listen to records together. I an never really seem to stop talking, either. I tell Al about me writing, about the songs, about the weather, about whatever comes to mind really. He simply puts up with it at first, smiling and nodding mechanically, but after a while, he starts going along with it, joining in on the conversation and even asking me about my day when I get home. In the end, I’m really not sure if any of our nightly walks, rides, runs or other activities are changing his climate around for the better, but at least his weather seems to be a bit lighter from time to time, an that’s all I mean to achieve.
Overall, however, he still spends most of his days in that chair. It pains me, and I'm sure he's not all too happy about it himself, but perhaps we both get used to the idea that we shouldn’t expect there to be much improvement in his situation. Al starts to sort of give into it, which makes him strangely calm and even seems to enable him to do a thing or two around the house when I’m not at home. He’s still exhausted, there are always dark rings under his eyes, but he starts simply riding the waves, busying himself with tasks about the house when his energy levels allow him to, and drawing out our bike rides on days that he’s confident enough. The idea that he seems to simply be waiting it out reassures me somehow. If he expects it to end, I can believe it, too.