I know I'm not the first person to observe this, but banishment is a hell of a funny punishment. I now sentence you to fuck off. I don't care where, just get out of my sight. Go on. Git.
That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.
It happened on a night that didn’t feel like it was meant to matter, a typical Friday. Friends gathered in a pub after the work week, pound coins on pool tables and mottled mint at the bottom of glasses. Soggy beer mats. Too many drinks, the pavements slick with rain, laughter spilling out of us like a tapped beer bottle. We weren’t being careful anymore.
The walk home was euphoric. Grey drizzle, concrete, ash. Damp cigarettes and splashing in puddles as we stumbled. The alcohol-steeped laughter swirling around us with cigarette smoke in tandem. The flick of your lighter, the wool of your coat, the light coating of misty rain on your forehead, the crinkles near your eyes as you laughed, pupils wide under the influence.
One minute we were sitting too close on the sofa, knees touching, soft leather groaning, damp air and a discarded cigarette burning in the ash tray. The next minute your mouth was on mine and your hands were dancing to the beat of an old song down my spine.
After, you stayed.
You snored. You took ownership of the duvet. Our scents mingled and yours lingered. Melted its way into my furniture like a greasy mark.
After, you made me a cup of tea like it meant something. Like the alcohol and smog had faded and you could see.
And then; nothing.
No conversation. No aftermath. No agreement on what that night turned us into. No acknowledgement. No white flag. Just, nothing.
We still see each other. Still text. Still share space like we didn’t cross a line that shifted things. We share friends, we share drinks, we share smiles. You sit beside me on trains, legs angled away just enough to feel deliberate, like mine weren’t wrapped around your hips. I catch you watching my hands when I talk, then looking away like you’ve been caught. Shameful. Longing. Like you were missing them tangled in your hair, or running down your back.
Every interaction between us feels rehearsed. Careful. Brittle. Regimented.
I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask for.
Sometimes I want to reach for you, to trace the art on your arm, to nudge your knee, to feel the place on your back I already marked. But I don’t. I’m terrified of finding out that night meant more to me than it did to you. That I’ve been carrying something you’ve already thrown away. A shrug of the shoulders and a flick of the ash.
You’re no better.
You go oddly formal with me, like you’re afraid one wrong word will expose you. A slip of the mask. You ask if I’m “alright” in that distant, almost professional way, like you’re checking in on a colleague instead of the person you undressed weeks ago. A nod, a gesture of a cigarette. Leaning against the doorway of the local, hand in the pocket of that stupid wool coat. It’s raining again. For fuck’s sake.
But then you do things that undo me.
You still walk me to the station, shoulders brushing. You still remember how I have my coffee. You still look relieved when I show up, like something in you settles without permission. A drink already on the table for me, a pound on the pool table. Old friends. Is that allowed?
Once, when someone flirted with me at the bar, your jaw tightened so hard I thought it might crack. Like a loaded rifle. Things unsaid ricocheting around like ammunition breaking glass.
We never mention it.
So the silence grows teeth.
I lie awake at night replaying it. Like a rat on a wheel. Letting it fall about my mind, like ripped up paper. Not the sex, not really, but the moments after. The way you went quiet, thoughtful. The way you brushed your thumb over my knuckles like you were grounding yourself. The way it felt like we’d grasped something we didn’t know how to hold. The way you brushed my hair out of my face and kissed me, the taste of beer between us. Your Fred Perry on the floor, sacrilege. That fucking wool coat, hanging on my wardrobe door.
I want to ask you what we are.
I want to ask if you felt it too.
I want to ask if this limbo is temporary or if this is all I get. The routine of pubs, pool, pints. Rain, awkward laughter and shared glances. Cabs being called instead of walking me home.
But every time I open my mouth, the words don’t come out. Like I take a drag of the cigarette you give me and the smoke never shows.
Because what if I ruin it?
What if naming it ends it?
You seem stuck in the same place. I can see it in how you hesitate before replying, how you pull back just as things get warm. A pair of boots I can’t wear in. Like you’re hovering over a line you’re afraid to cross again, not because you didn’t like it, but because you liked it too much.
We’re both pretending it’s normal.
It’s not.
It’s killing me in small, respectable ways. In the way I stare at my phone after every message. In the way my chest tightens when you take too long to reply. In the way I feel ridiculous for missing something that never officially existed. Overthinking our routine, like you buying me a beer when you’ve done it every Friday for years. Every joke, every touch.
It’s killing you too; I see it when you go quiet mid-conversation, like you’re arguing with yourself. Very Jekyll and Hyde of you. When you almost say something and swallow it back down, like bile. Would it really be that bad? When you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether the risk is worth it.
Neither of us make the first move. Stuck on the platform, not getting on or off the train. Stood in the pouring rain.
So we stay here, suspended between before and after, pretending the ground isn’t giving way beneath us. I can’t call you a friend. It tastes bad in my mouth, like the beer can you ashed in. Like a thorn in my side.
Some nights, when we part ways outside my building or yours, there’s a moment where it feels like we might finally talk. The cats out of the bag. Finally admit that this limbo is unbearable. That not knowing is worse than rejection.
But then you say something. The casual chit chat.
And I let you.
We walk away carrying the same unspoken question, lodged in both our throats:
What are we doing?
Bravery has never lived comfortably between us.
So instead, we linger.
And it hurts.
And we call it nothing.
You’re still stuck in my teeth.
Big up my favourite song from Kid Kapichi’s latest album for tickling the writers block.
He stood there in the mirror, pulling at his waistline. He'd look, then turn, silently staring at his stomach before turning again, trying to suck it in this time.
Simon had been worried something like this would happen.
"Si, where are you baby?" He heard his wife call, hearing her feet padding down the hallway.
He scrambled to pull his shirt back on over his head, wedging it on and around his shoulders, only able to get it halfway before Y/N pushed open the door to their bedroom.
"There you are." She hummed, walking over to him.
When she reached him she leaned on his chest, pressing her stomach to his and wrapping her arms around his waist, melting into him. This was one of her favorite things, just standing with him.
And normally it was his too.
But this time he went ridged underneath her hands, spine ramrod straight. He tried to pull in his stomach, praying that she wouldn't notice his odd behavior. Praying that she wouldn't notice anything.
Unfortunately for him, his wife noticed everything about him.
"Simon," she pulled back slowly, just enough that she could see his face but still held him in her arms. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, dove." He cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes. "Why do you ask?"
She eyed him suspiciously, then sank back into the hug, watching him in the mirror. "Okay."
He exhaled, glad that she was gonna drop it. At least, that's what he thought.
She slowly unwrapped her arms, sliding her hands to meet his soft sides. Simon tensed back up, reaching to grab her hands and gently put them back around him.
"What're you doing baby?" She asked, closely observing his expression.
"Just really love hugging you, 'sall." He murmured into her hair, still avoiding her eyes.
Y/N pulled away again, cradling his face in one hand and running her fingers through his hair with the other. Simon sighed, closing his eyes and sinking into her touch.
"Well I'm flattered Si," she whispered, "But I know that's not quite the whole reason."
He froze, still not opening his eyes.
"Talk to me," she pressed a kiss to his cheek, "Let me carry this with you."
Simon could feel his resolve melting away with every time her hands ran through his hair. Maybe he would share this with her, as embarrassing as it may be. His sweet wife had never been the type to make fun of him.
He opened his eyes and stood up straight, keeping his arms wrapped around her but watching himself closely in the mirror.
"Do you, uh-" he cleared his throat. "Do you think I've gotten too soft since retiring?"
She tilted her head up at him, "What do you mean?"
Simon pulled away from her fully and gestured to his gut.
"Look at me, when we got together I was damn near bloody chiselled, and now," he took to squishing his stomach, then turning to look at her.
"Look how tight my pants are now." He pulled at the waistband. "I can barely get 'em zipped anymore."
Simon plopped himself onto the edge of the bed, putting his elbows on his knees and staring at her feet.
"Guess I'm just worried I'm not quite the man you fell in love with anymore."
It was silent in the room for a few moments, the only reason he knew she hadn't left was because he'd been watching her feet. He could feel something welling up in his chest, fear, sadness, and resignation.
An ugly combination.
But slowly, her feet started moving. And soon enough, his wife was standing right in front of him.
"You're right Simon, you aren't quite the same man I fell in love with."
His head snapped up, the same time he felt a crack in his chest, but before he could get a word out she had his face cradled in her palms.
"And I'm not quite the same woman you fell in love with. That's what happens when you spend years of your life with someone." Y/N gazed down at him with such adoration that he could feel her love radiating into his chest.
"And yes love, you are much softer than you were at first, and I'm mighty proud of that."
His head tilted in confusion.
"I've worked real hard at getting you nice and plump." She squeezed his side. "Now that you're able to relax, I wanted to make sure that you were eating enough. Have to keep my husband nice and full."
Simon blinked at her. "Dove, are you telling me that you've been fattening me up on purpose?"
She blushes violently, glancing away from him as her ears burned. "That's not the point, Simon."
He stood up in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I think that's very much the point, sweet wife." He chuckled to himself. "Here I was worried you wouldn't be attracted to me anymore, when this had been your sneaky little scheme all along."
She shook her head, burying her face into his chest. "I can't help that I like you soft." She murmured. "Means that you finally feel safe. And besides," she pulled back and looked at him directly.
"You don't mind that I'm soft, do you?"
Simon scoffed immediately, like the very notion was preposterous. "Absolutely not." He grasped her waist, squeezing appreciatively. "I love my wife with some softness on her. Just gives me more to love."
Y/N hummed with a smile, burying her face back into his chest. "And I love you Simon, no matter how soft you are."
a/n
As a plus size girly who loves a soft man, this is definitely a very niche oneshot
Stephen King writing, "Just keep dancing with me like this, Garraty, and I'll never tire. We'll scrape our shoes on the stars and hang upside down from the moon" at the goddamn age of 18-19 between two boys is actually INSANE.
What do you MEAN he wrote such a beautifully complex and painful queer love story as a TEENAGER???
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