Work Text:
a Nothing that means more than so many Somethings
They are nothing, absolutely nothing.
There is nothing going on, nothing to tell, nothing to see here, thank you.
They are colleagues, of course. Boss-employee, professionals, conscious and productive co-workers.
But they are also friends, great friends. The ones that could speak for hours about anything and everything before a drink, at dinner. The ones that could also go without speaking for days, weeks and still click.
When things start happening, she can't explain it.
It begins with laughing.
They start laughing at each other's jokes a little differently. Or better, they start laughing at each other's jokes. Or more precisely, he starts laughing at her jokes.
She has been scared of saying something too silly, something that will finally reveal how scared and deeply vulnerable she is. But one day the words slip out her lips and he laughs with her. Not a polite laugh. A real one. And she's baffled. Air knocked out of her chest. Blood rushing in her veins.
His dimples show, the skin around his eyes wrinkles and he hides his face behind his fist, like he is ashamed of his own reaction. Like he is the one who's usually filling the silence, saying a trillion things, funny or not.
So she does it again. She makes silly comments, googles dad jokes in her spare time and watches him laugh in a room full of people.
After a few weeks, he starts to relax. Stops hiding his face, faking a cough. She relaxes, too.
Their reactions start matching. Head thrown back, they laugh, open mouthed. His eyes sparkle, teeth biting down the lip and he stares at her in amusement, like she's a wonder to his eyes. He doesn't comment that she's too tall, too loud, too exaggerated, impulsive, messy. Her heart flutters.
It's nothing.
Too busy trying to make the other laugh, they forget about work, sometimes. It takes them long minutes to recover from a crack, something irrelevant nobody else seems to understand. She sees him squeeze his eyes every time time he has to really focus, really be serious. She knows all she needs is a word, sometimes even a raised eyebrow is enough for him to lose his concentration.
The power she holds over him drives her insane.
After that, it's the little touches.
Their hands meet while reaching for a post-it one day and it sends jolts of electricity down her spine.
It's unlike the other times they have touched: the rare hugging, hands shaking, shoulder patting. Nothing compares. She forgets where she is for a moment, forgets what she’s supposed to do. Stares into his dark brown eyes and can't read his expression.
He is such a mystery, a one-color white puzzle she can't complete. Somebody speaks in the room and she blinks rapidly, breathes a little more deeply and he notices. He grabs the post-it and taps on her finger, light as a feather. She avoids his eyes, this time.
Her fingers find a pen on the desk and she starts fiddling with it.
She is fine.
Until he touches her again.
He grabs her forearm during a meeting, presses his thumb on her shoulder while they lean on the same screen. She leans in for a moment before stepping away, her skin burning, her heart sprinting. Hidden in the loo, she studies the reflection on the mirror.
Who is this woman, what is happening to her? And who is this man she has never found attractive, and all of a sudden has her wrapped around his littlest finger with just a poke and a nudge?
She starts touching him, because two can play at this game.
Brushes his leg when they sit too close on the couch, guides his fork to her mouth when he offers her a taste of his lunch. He stares at her lips a little bit too long and she has to spell it out for herself: colleagues, friends. He doesn't touch her when she offers a bite back from her own plate. But before he takes the food in, the tip of his tongue slips out.
The knot in her stomach tightens as if he'd licked something straight out of her finger tips.
When she brings the fork back to her mouth and keeps eating, she can't help but think how she never liked using somebody else's cutlery. Gagged at the thought even. With him, instead, she hopes next time he'll order something she likes too so that she can steal a bite, steal a touch.
They start hugging a bit more often.
Goodbye, if the weekend is long. Good morning, if they need an extra shot of natural caffeine. Sometimes it's quick, barely there. Casual. He breathes regularly against her and she stands rigid, shoulders pulled back.
Sometimes, it's longer. He envelopes her in his arms and she has to inhale deeply. His fingers linger on her and she struggles to keep her balance. One arm comes around his shoulder while he squeezes her waist, keeps her steady. They stay like that, sometimes. She can almost hear their heartbeats sync.
The feeling doesn't change with time. She is better prepared, yes. When she sees his hands reach out for her, she trains her mind and body to be cool, it's just a hug. But sometimes, he exhales a hot breath against her shoulder. His body trembles and he takes a step back, puts some distance between them.
Then, one day, something wets her skin. She freezes on the spot, sure she must be dreaming. It’s impossible, why would his lips be kissing her shoulder. When he does it again, he bends his head and leaves a small peck on her skin, careful not to be seen. It's smaller than the first one, nonexistent. Except it does exist. Goosebumps rise up her arm and her knees go weak.
He moves away and they carry on with their days, casual, normal. As if the kiss didn't happen. As if they were nothing.
That small, insignificant kiss paves the way to frequent kisses on the cheek. After a hard day, after a challenging moment. It's rare, but it's there.
It's nothing.
His hand reaches to cup her other cheek one day, and her hand lays on top of his. He does not pull back, does not move a single muscle. Her cheek burns and it would be so easy to turn around, finally discover what his lips taste like. The thought shocks her and she has to bite her tongue strongly.
She turns her head away and they don't talk for four days. That is, they don't talk privately. Because, while on some dark, mysterious, exciting levels they still are nothing, on others they still are something. Friends, colleagues.
The fifth day of not talking they are both invited to an event. Although they know they both will attend, they hope for a miracle something will happen causing the other to not show up.
They both show up.
She picks a long dress, he wears a suit.
She looks gorgeous - he tells her. He looks handsome and she doesn't tell him. Her voice dies down her throat and her tongue lays still, tied. He smiles back at her, knowingly.
It makes her ignore him the rest of the night.
But the place is buzzing with alcohol, their friends are buzzing with alcohol and despite their best efforts, they end up on the dancefloor right before midnight.
He shrugs, she laughs. She sighs, he stares. Their bodies meet in the middle, their intertwined hands land on his chest.
He blushes, she chuckles. She rests her head on his shoulder, he squeezes her waist.
They rock gently and when she excuses herself, he jokes some nonsense about Cinderella. She is no princess and he is no prince, but he follows her outside and they kiss, right before the imaginary clock announces the new day.
She doesn't leave, does not run. He licks the roof of her mouth and she sighs, happily. Allows him to be close to her, just for a moment, for a breath. Before they have to go back to reality, to the roles they are playing in the game of life.
He captures her lip between his teeth and her brain acts without her consent. “Come to mine?” Wishing to stretch the moment, make it last forever. He nods, releases her lips and moves his hands to her back.
That night, their kisses turn into something more for the first time. They undress in silence, scared that words will break whatever spell has fallen upon them. Slipping under the covers together feels surreal.
He holds her thighs, pushes inside of her slowly. She kisses his nose, squeezes his glutes. When he makes her come, quickly, thumb pressed against her clit, she is speechless. When he makes her come again, a few minutes later, buried deep between her legs, she bites his shoulder. Can't believe his talent, his passion, his dedication.
He comes inside of her, spasm shaking his body and hands gripping her skin painfully. She doesn't mind. She will trace the marks for weeks, the music of his broken moans replaying in her head like a mantra, a prayer she doesn't want to forget, but maybe should.
She wakes up at the crack of dawn and he is gathering his clothes, the bed cold without him. She stares at him questioningly, sleepy but he doesn't speak, doesn't explain. Presses a kiss to her temple, to her lips and leaves.
They don't speak about it.
The next Monday they sit next to each other at the nine-thirty catch up and she makes a joke, he laughs. They reach for a paper, their hands brush. Their eyes meet, but they don't speak.
Her hands start trembling at the mere thought of seeing him. She dreams of seeing his dimples, hearing his accent, smelling his cologne, replying to the light flirty banter, tasting his mouth.
Her senses are overwhelmed and she needs to remind herself they are nothing. Of course they are nothing, why would he leave her in the middle of the night if they were something?
Their daily meetings and business engagements are a constant reminder of how unprofessional, how inappropriate.
Then, he starts texting her.
Not that they haven't done it before. They've known each other for years now, they each have a carefully selected photo of the other right next to their contact information.
They start texting more frequently, more daringly.
If she's in public, she hides her phone, sometimes. Keeps it to herself, keeps him to herself, a floating thought impossible to grasp.
Sometimes it's just words. Sometimes it's pictures. Sometimes, her personal favorite, an audio message.
The conversation is archived after every exchange, she hides him away. Hides herself away.
During the day, it's easy. She walks into a room, waves at him, receives a wink back. They don’t talk. They study each other from a distance, like they would normally do. They exchange looks, steal smiles.
Until later at night her phone pings and they become two different people. Hungry for each other, eager to make the other lose control.
From a distance. Because in the same room, they are still nothing. They will never be more than nothing.
But behind their phones, it’s like slipping in somebody else’s shoes, easier shoes.
He guides her over the edge easily, some nights. Her fingers feel wrong inside her own body, especially after she has experienced his talented, long ones.
Other times, he whispers gentle words until she falls asleep. He doesn’t sing, but the dragged thick accent when he’s sleepy sounds like a sweet lullaby.
Sometimes she wonders if lines are supposed to be this blurred, if her feelings are real or planned by a room of writers, getting a laugh out of her life.
One day, he invites her to dinner with his pals.
Come to dinner tomorrow?
I thought it was boys only?
I want to see you.
She doesn’t reply. It's safer not to. But deep down, she wonders how did they get stuck in the dangerous game of being attracted to each other and not speaking a word about it.
She picks a black dress and the moment he sees her, his eyes widen, jumping directly to the exposed thigh peaking through the fabric. She knows she's a tease, but she can't help it.
He waves at her with a look and she almost loses her balance.
He sits next to her. It’s a coincidence, but he’s grinning at her when he drops on the chair.
She's one glass in when he leans in.
“You're unbelievable.”
A shiver runs down her spine and his hand slides up the slit of her dress, directly on her skin. Her breath hitches, her beat fastens.
His hand is moving further and further up her leg and she turns her head away, trying to focus on the conversation at the table. She desperately needs to get a grip, has to stop this.
He keeps his hand on her thigh, fingers caressing the warm skin and she almost loses her mind.
Nobody has noticed what he’s doing, nobody comments on her presence at the dinner.
It's normal. It's fine. They are nothing.
She ends up at his flat, legs wrapped against his waist and heels digging into his skin. His moans fill her ears and she feels right. Right place, right time. He demands she let go and she does, she’d do anything he asks. Staring into his dark brown eyes, she wonders what she must look like.
Desperate, vulnerable, weak.
Her stomach aches but he catches her. Flips them so that she’s on top, palms her breasts and sucks his thumb before brushing it against her. Her head rolls back and he’s pushing frantically, incoherent words leaving his pretty lips.
She kisses him. And doesn’t stop. She kisses his nose when they come - together, kisses his lips when he pulls out of her - leaving her empty. She kisses his arm when he spoons her, silently begging for her to stay - just this time.
His breath evens behind her and she stares out of one small window and everything she sees for a long time is the tip of a pine covered in snow.
The morning after, he offers to cook breakfast before work, and it’s enough to send her spiraling again. She declines, rushes out.
It's easier to slip into the public façade and pretend everything is okay. So they do.
After all, they are nothing.
People don’t notice.
It comes as a shock and maybe she’s better at hiding her feelings than she thought.
Some days, when the tension between them is high and the air is thick with the unsaid, she wonders how it is possible that nobody sees it.
She sees it so clearly, how can the world be so oblivious?
His eyes twinkle in a totally new, exciting way, his smile is a long beautiful line on his lips. She blesses her luck: maybe nobody will ever know. Maybe she will be safe.
But she’s wrong.
One afternoon, one of her friends casually approaches her.
“What’s up with you?”
And she plays dumb, cracks her neck to one side, then the other. Pretends she doesn't understand.
“Hey, I know you. You’re not okay.”
“I’m just tired.” She tries to brush it off, shrugging her shoulders.
Her friend nods, eyebrow raised. “I mean, you were weird with him today.” And she hates she is such an open book.
“We’re fine.” She's short, not wanting to be pressed further.
“Is it because you’re fucking him?”
She splutters in indignation. “Are you fucking stupid?”
“Fuck I’m right. You and him? You’re-?”
“No, we’re not.” Her answer is quiet as she downs the rest of her tea. “Not anymore, look it’s complicated.”
“It doesn’t always have to be, you know.”
“It can never not be complicated.” And she is done talking about it.
“Well whatever it is, it’s making you both miserable. Just talk it through. Think it over.”
They don’t talk it through.
They don’t think it over.
She goes back to his flat and fucks him, marks his neck, his collarbone, his chest. He’s hers, whole heartedly so. Only, just within his walls, only inside their phones.
After a while, they start dating.
Not each other, what the hell. They are nothing, right?
They start dating other people. His friends push him, her friends push her. It's good, it's casual. It's not them, but it's something that makes their nights feel less lonely, their beds less empty.
And then the press gets involved. Because that's the world they live in. And because thousands of people enjoy escaping the misery of their lives by focusing on juicy gossip and news about football.
Pictures are leaked, paps are spotted and they have to be even more careful. They text less, talk less.
One night, she flicks the channels on her TV and his face appears, smiley and confident.
The interviewer asks the usual question and then they mention some pictures taken of him and this other woman. His woman. He doesn't say anything. No comment, no correction, no addition. With a simple nod, he looks distressed.
Obviously, she knows there’s not much he could have said, really. No, she isn’t. He wouldn’t say that. It’s complicated. Is really an overstatement. She’s a friend. Would be a lie. I’m not sure she’s what I really want. Is something he made her promise to keep secret. I’d rather you be my girl. Is definitely something he shouldn’t be telling the press.
She turns off the TV, throws the remote control on the table. Tries to focus on something else. She wants to reach out, make him laugh, remind him with little touches and light kisses that she’s there, she can be his girl, if he wants.
But it’s much more complicated than that.
Her eyes linger on his number for a moment, then she locks her phone. She doesn't text him. She forgets, lets it go.
She focuses on herself. Focuses on someone else.
Until she does send a message.
I ducked somebodh and it wasnt you
He calls her back immediately and it's New Years Eve and they are on two different sides of the ocean. She misses him.
“Happy New Year, sweetie.” And the pet name is something new, but also something old, something blue and she shivers.
“I’m so sorry.” She replies and he wants to tell her it’s okay, there’s nothing to be sorry about, he also has plans on his own in a few hours time. But she sounds drunk, teary. She sounds like they are something and she’s guilty. His stomach knots.
“Hey, breathe for me. It’s alright.”
A sob escapes her lips and this time, the ringing in his ears is accompanied by his heart sinking. Why are they doing this to each other? Why can’t they just be?
“H-he just- I-I-his cock kept pushing inside of me and- and- and it wasn’t you.” The last word is a wail and his heart can’t take this.
He can just picture her, long legs spread open just how she likes, eyes jumping between his eyes and his dick disappearing and reappearing regularly. Her lips parted, hair sticking to her forehead, beautiful green eyes focused on him, then where they are joined together, then him again. She does it every time and it never occurred to him she could be doing it with somebody else, too.
He ignores the hardness forming in his boxers, totally inappropriate, and listens to her broken breath, her little whimpers.
He tells her it’s okay, she’s fine. When eventually she calms down, he’s still on the phone with her.
“Are you home?” He doesn’t want to know really, has no right, but he asks anyway.
“Yeh.” She sounds tiny.
“Alone?”
She doesn’t reply and he shouldn’t care, he doesn’t.
“Go to sleep, I’ll call you in the morning.” He promises, filling the silence.
“Next year?” She jokes and he can’t help but laugh. She always makes him laugh.
“Yeah, that.”
He hears fabric shuffling in the background and imagination is free so he pictures a fancy long dress, high heels, red lipstick.
“Happy New Year.”
Time heals but sometimes, in some cases, time aches.
New Year New Me, but it’s the new year and they are their old fucked-up selves. Colleagues, lovers, friends. A secret. Nothing.
He invites her over and she declines. Ignores his messages. She really tries, tries to understand how they’ve ended up in this situation. What went wrong, what could have gone right.
If something could have gone right.
He doesn’t ask again and exactly one week later, she gives in.
She invites herself to his flat.
They order Indian food, talk about work, talk about the weather.
Then he stands up, looks her in the eyes. Earnest.
“Dance with me.”
She laughs in response, pushes his hand away.
“You don’t really- I’m too tall.” Her chin pressed back, she makes a face and he knows she means it.
“You’re not.” He argues, chasing her wrist.
“I am.” And he hates that she believes it.
Finally he manages to pull her body to him and he swings them back and forth, the room perfectly silent. The feeling of her chest raising regularly against his is known, but it makes him dizzy anyway.
“There’s no music.” She points out and her words are the only resistance. Her hands circle his waist lazily and she smiles softly.
“Sing for me then.” He really is pushing his luck tonight. But he can’t help it. The chuckle that escapes her lips is worth everything.
She shakes her head.
“No?” He asks her and she hides her face into his shoulder, shy. “Why not?”
She doesn’t reply and he sighs. That’s their real dance. Questions left unanswered, replies lost in the wind. A whole ocean between them. He keeps moving them around the kitchen in small circles.
After a while, she starts humming something in his ear, something he can’t recognize. He tightens his grip and presses himself to her, hands fiddling with the hem of her shirt.
She kicks her heels off then, one quick movement and she’s at the same height as him. Her cheek presses against the crook of his neck, she closes her eyes, lips brushing against the light stubble.
She keeps humming and he keeps swinging his hips left and right, holding her close.
Later that night, he hugs her to his chest, covers both with the sheet of his bed. It’s almost time for her to make her move, push his arm away, get out of bed and get going. But tonight she doesn’t want to.
She wants them to be something.
“What do we do?”
And then she's crying, never able to hide her feelings, her tears around anyone, especially him.
His hands are fidgeting nervously and he’s shaking his head, swallowing the pain rising from his chest.
“I-I’m not sure if y'know, what we have works anymore.”
But he squeezes her to him, heart and mind. Words and gestures.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have met up tonight.” He adds after a bit.
And it hurts, a knife sinking into her chest.
“Maybe.” She nods morosely, the both know well this is all a big mistake. Something they should forget about, let go.
Instead, it's easier to stop speaking, worrying. It’s easier to turn in his arms and just close the distance, allow herself to feel, too much maybe.
Her cheeks are still burning with tears when he cups her face, crushes his lips with hers. They are soft, drive her insane every fucking time.
She wishes she was stronger, could tell him no. Could tell herself no.
With an eager moan, she lets his eyes ground her, lets him lead her to a place where words don't count.
Only breaths, heartbeats, lips and dreams.
They are nothing.
Nothing, until they are something. Something secret, something unspeakable, something that lives off wordless instants until it is gone.