eyes that see (part twenty)
ETS Summary: Your life has consisted of caring for others. This is a story of you learning to care for yourself.
ETS Part 20 Summary: After spending the morning at the Christmas tree farm with Sy, you share a domestic afternoon together before going to Johnny and Amelia’s Ugly Christmas Sweater party. With your relationship with Sy being official, you start having flashbacks of the last time you were somebody’s girlfriend. [previous parts here] Words: 14k Warnings: previous emotional abuse, undiagnosed CPTSD A/N: Um…hi? Hi! Hello! I'm feeling like this chapter is repetitive and sucky but also that's probably because it's been forever to write and is generally plotless but still important! So hopefully it was worth the wait to get the story ready for the next big chapters which include the USP (ugly sweater party), BTWJ (big talk with Justine), and the GTTV (groundbreaking trip to Virginia) Also: There are flashbacks between Y/N and her most recent ex in this part that are all italicized, so I just wanted to share that bit of information since otherwise they may make little sense out of context. Taglist: I will reblog to tag people. Thanks to everyone for being so supportive and nice during the long hiatus!!
When you and Sy both stand up from the floor in the spare bedroom, you’re able to tell that his knee hurts. Like always, he’s purposefully trying to not give anything away–even noncommittally brushes off your questioning expression–but you know. You're better at that now.
There's the regular standing-up-with-a-grunt thing that gives it away, yeah, but Sy's also walking like his knee’s entirely buckled, like he can’t bend his leg whatsoever. There's also the fact that he's clenching his jaw so tightly that instead of just finishing an emotional conversation with you, you'd think he’d just been arguing with your old manager, Cole. He’d obviously done too much walking at the Christmas tree farm this morning.
Likewise, you're worried.
Despite his unspoken discomfort, Sy wordlessly leaves the room with two boxes at once in his arms–one of the ornaments he'd come up here for in the first place, and one of the photographs he just found and briefly got sentimental over.
“Oh, no, you don't,” you simply tell him, blocking his way at the top of the staircase. “That's too much. Let me help.”
Even with grumpy-brows, he surprisingly concedes.
Unsurprisingly, however, he gives you the lighter box consisting of delicate ornaments before walking around you with the heavier one jam-packed with photographs. Sighing, you follow him down the stairs.
You hold back the urgent impulse you're feeling to apologize to him a million times for being the cause of his knee pain. Instead, you carefully glance down at him around the box in your arms to see how he's faring, quickly enough for you to not lose your balance or fall.
That'd be pretty horrible–falling. You'd end up trampling over him and actually breaking his legs, you bet. You guess with all things considered, a sore knee isn't so bad, actually…And surely you can’t be the sole cause of his knee pain. It's cold outside which affects it. And he’d chosen to walk around the farm with you. He wanted to. He took you there.
Your intrusive thoughts need to go somewhere else.
“So what’re you gonna wear to the party later on, anyway?” you ask Sy as you step down into the foyer.
“Eh, some sweater Sam got me," he dismissively answers, and by your side, he looks over at you.
You remain in place and absently glance at his leg after hefting up the box in your arms one last time. At his continued expectant expression, however, you look back up.
“Oh, me?” you ask.
He hums.
"What,” you tease, finally choosing to just secure the box at just one of your hips like you're carrying a baby, “you wanna see if we're gonna match?"
Again, not offering an actual answer, Sy just levels you with a look.
“I don’t really own anything I could wear,” you tell him while slowly walking down the hall and now imagining you're a peasant from long ago, carrying a basket of fresh-picked root vegetables on your hip because the winter will be long and there's still so much work to do, “so Amelia just loaned me somethin’ at work yesterday."
While Sy makes another small noise behind you, you enter the kitchen and set down the box you've been hauling onto the first surface you see. Despite worrying about the state of Sy's knee–and having a million simultaneous and uncontrollable other random thoughts–your attention is quickly consumed by another object on the kitchen counter: the Charlie Brown tree you'd picked from the tree lot.
You can’t help but longingly stare at the tree in all its small and pathetic and perfect glory, and you think to yourself for the millionth time–you're just so happy. You got the tree you wanted.
Sy mirrors your actions by placing his box of photos directly beside the box of ornaments, and by your side, he stands there simply watching you. It’s a calm look of interest, but interest for what, you don’t know. Figuring he just wants to hear you talk, you continue with the last topic you’d just brought up–the sweater Amy loaned you.
“Uh, yeah. It’s just a dark green sweatshirt with, like, red trim at the bottom and top,” you explain while using one of your hands to describe, and even though you feel like the topic is boring, Sy puts his hand on the small of your back and continues providing full attention to you.
“And in the middle,” you go on, now realizing you're chewing the nails of your free hand, “it’s, uh. It's got a bunch of random off-center things. Like a snowman and a Christmas tree and a star. I think there’s a reindeer or somethin’ on it, too.”
Sy slides his hand lower down your back. “Sexy.”
Chuckling, you drop both your hands and push his hand off your ass. “Yeah, and I’m gonna have to wear a turtleneck underneath it, too,” you gesture to your neck and tell him playfully, “so thank you very much for that.”
“Anytime,” he answers conversationally as he touches your ass one last time, ultimately moving his hand to rest on your hip. When he glances at you again and badly winks, you roll your eyes playfully.
Stiffly, Sy tilts his head towards the counter. "You wanna do this now or what?"
You look over at what he’s gesturing to. “Decorate?”
Sy's face curiously tightens while he nods.
"Sure,” you carefully agree. That's why you'd brought down the ornaments in the first place, you remind yourself. “You got some lights we can put on first, right?"
Sy looks up at the ceiling, most likely imagining what's in the storage room you'd both just exited. "Well, hell.”
Softly, you chuckle. “Guess not.”
“I do–Just–Big." He clears his throat. "The ones that're up there are gonna be too long."
Your apology for getting a tree so small that a regular string of lights won't even fit on it is right on your lips. It's right there. You want to say sorry.
Instead, you take a deep breath. You don’t need to have weird continued anxiety over this too-small Christmas tree right now. You like it, Sy likes it–it’s done. What’s more concerning is that he’s so silently uncomfortable right now. Even the way he’s currently touching your hip is telling. As if he's actively trying not to use you as an outlet for the pain, he's purposefully not squeezing too hard. Still, you can somehow feel the restraint.
"I've actually got some lights in my room that'll work," you suggest, sympathetically touching his chest. "No problem."
Slowly, you disengage from Sy and walk to the little cabinet by the refrigerator where he keeps his stash of vitamins and protein powder. You dig around until finding some extra-strength Tylenol, and after shaking out three capsules into your palm, you open another cabinet to find a cup.
"They're the lights around my bookshelf," you tell him while reaching above your head and pulling down a glass. "I'll just bring ‘em by next time.”
You fill the glass with water from the fridge and walk back to Sy, wordlessly placing the pills in one of his hands and then holding out the cup to him in offering. He stares down at his own palm for a moment before ultimately tossing all three capsules into his mouth, accepting the glass from you, and then washing them down with two long gulps.
His face is still pinched when he wipes residual water off his mustache. He nods at you. "Thanks."
After nodding back, you pull your mouth downwards. “Do you think you might need somethin’ stronger?” you quietly ask. “Like, do you have an actual prescription for when your knee gets really bad?”
Sy shakes his head and deeply answers, “I don't fuck with that shit.”
You just nod again. You figured.
After mulling over his pain and then ultimately sighing, you finally just take his glass from him and set it on the counter.
“Don'tchu be worryin’,” he quietly tells you.
“Tryin’ not to.” You shrug. “I just don't want it to hurt.”
“It's gonna,” he bluntly answers. “I'll live.”
He stares at you for such a long time that you end up pushing yourself up onto your tip-toes to casually kiss him, partially in apology that he has to go through this knee shit alone, and partially just because he's who he is. You use the subsequent heavy silence to pick up the Christmas tree and admire it some more. You know that discussing his injury is the last thing Sy wants to do right now.
Imagining where you’re going to display the tree–the first tree Sy's put up since moving into this house, you remind yourself–you slowly carry it into the living room.
Passing the mantle of the fireplace where you imagine some Syerson family photos being displayed soon, you approach the thin table in front of the room's double-paned window. You place the tree there in suggestion and you glance back at Sy who's by the fireplace with his hands in his pockets. After you two make eye contact, he nods just once.
You look at the tree again and then back to Sy. "You sure you’d like it here?"
"Looks good," he affirms.
Touching the tree carefully while you prop it up against the wall to keep it upright, you wonder what you’ll need to use as a tree-stand. You wonder what it’ll look like once it's lit up with fairy lights and adorned with five or six well-chosen ornaments. You wonder how it’d look with strands of tinsel hanging off its too-long branches.
You’re broken away from your daydreams by Sy audibly stretching. “We waitin’ on those lights, then?”
“I guess.” You shrug. “It'd be easier. Plus we need some sorta stand before we put ornaments on here…the tree'll just tip over.”
"Ten-four. I'm gonna go do some chores 'fore we gotta get goin’, then," he tells you, and you turn to him.
“You’re serious?”
Wordlessly nodding, he pulls his chest out while clasping both hands behind him in another long stretch.
“The instant that tree-decoratin’ is off the schedule, you’re already on to the next thing, huh?”
“Gotta feed the chickens, fetch some wood…”
It’s pointless to comment about how he should probably rest his knee. "You go fetch that wood," you absentmindedly murmur as you make your way to the couch and plop down, and Sy stares at you with his expression unmoving until it finally breaks.
Smiling at your hilarity, he steps closer to the couch and taps your nose with his index finger, right above your sudden matching grin. The lingering touch serves as a kiss until he steps away again, heading out of the room. Looking at you one last time with a small smirk on his face, he opens the back door and then walks outside. You lift your hand and wiggle your fingers at him before he kicks the door shut with his boot.
With a smile of your own still on your face, you lay back and stretch out the full length of the couch, and that’s when thoughts of last night re-enter your head. Thoughts of last night on this exact same spot.
While your cheeks heat up, you wonder if Sy was thinking of the same thing while he was looking at you just now, if that’s truly why he was smirking and not from your dry wit he’s totally jealous of.
He was probably thinking of last night, too. Obviously, that’s where his mind would’ve gone…He's cocky that way. But cocky or not, though, he’s still so fucking sweet. For someone so big and so tall and so…large–and honestly quite intimidating-looking with his perpetual resting-scowl-face, too–he’s honestly just so fucking sweet. He really is. As you stare at the Christmas tree for the thousandth time today, you’re reminded that he really would do just about anything for you.
You continue mulling over the insane state of your life–you’re in a relationship, a real one–while grabbing the remote and switching on the television. After changing the channel a few times, you settle on a show about jade-miners in Alaska and hug a pillow to yourself.
It’s still a strange concept–both asking for things from Sy and accepting things from Sy–but you’re really getting better at it. You are. You genuinely are. You’re struggling, but you’re getting there. You’re at that point now where you aren’t so afraid, at least. Things are still just so new and everything is so massively different compared to the men you’ve been with in the past, is all.
Because Sy actually communicates with you and welcomes you to honestly communicate back, you’re always sure where you stand with him. And, more than that, you’re happy. You’re happy for yourself. To be involved in a relationship that’s actually healthy for once, it’s…huge. Despite your anxiety causing you to worry about just about every single thing ever in existence, you don’t have to add your relationship to that list.
You don’t have to worry about picking out a less-than-desirable Christmas tree–he honestly does not give a shit. You don’t have to worry about him being somehow mad at you because he’s being quieter than normal–it’s because his knee hurts. And you definitely don’t have to fret about going to a party with him–you know from experience that it won’t end badly.
If you were going to this party tonight with anyone but Sy, you’d already be anxious. You would’ve been anxious all week, honestly. There’d be entirely too much to consider, too many factors involved, too many option-lines where things could go all wrong. Any discrete miscalculation on your part could open up five or more scenarios that an average person would never typically dwell on.
But, if it were anybody but Sy, you’d have no choice but to dwell.
First, you’d have to plan out who would be driving. It’d almost always be you, but there would always be the chance that could change…maybe you could catch a ride with someone else who was going, too. You’d have to text around to find out who else was invited so you’d know how to plan out all the travel options. At the same time, you’d have to prepare yourself for the socialization, for all the factors at play with everyone’s individual relationship histories.
Then you’d have to think ahead about what clothes you’d wear. (Themed parties would always be hard.) You couldn’t be down-dressed for the occasion or else your partner would feel embarrassed, but you also couldn’t dress in anything considered suggestive because then he’d assume you were trying to purposefully get attention from other men. Then that would start accusations. Then that would start an argument.
Next, you’d have to consider if you’d be able to even drink. That would mean you’d have to know in advance how long you’d be staying and how many drinks you’d be able to metabolize in that amount of time and still be legally good to operate a vehicle–assuming correctly that you’d be driving back home that night, that is. You’d leave the option open of possibly sleeping there, but that would mean imposing and potentially being seen as annoying and needy guests, so that’d be the first obstacle to cross.
If you even got past that hurdle by speaking with the hosts to see if it would even be okay, then you’d have to strategically ask him prior to the party if he’d be willing to stay the night. Almost always the answer would be no, so you’d have to be really careful about your wording so you could at least try to be persuasive when you asked. You’d have to practice what you were going to say a few times, then you’d also have to make sure there was a good-mood-window for you to even take your chance to ask at all, because if he was already in a bad mood, you’d just make things worse by bringing it up. And even if he was in a good mood, you’d still have to fully expect the answer to be no because high expectations only breed disappointment. After all, why would y'all need to stay somewhere else when he’s got a bed of his own and someone to drive him back home to it?
So then you’d have to drink slowly and only socially once you arrived at the party because of you being the designated driver. The medicine you take would also be a factor, of course, but mainly, you wouldn’t want to let your guard down and do or say something stupid with him and other people around to witness. You'd have to be careful. Exacting. You’d have to make sure you weren’t talking with any men for too long. You’d always feel the constant weight of being watched and perceived.
You’d have to secretly monitor his own drinking. You'd have to step in to carefully steer all his later conversations to a happier place, a livelier place, all-the-while stewing in second-hand awkwardness over his loudening and ever-growing embarrassing behavior. Then you'd have to make sure none of it could be seen on your face or else the drive home would be ruined, subsequently the entire night.
You’d have to plan every single thing out.
But you don’t need to anymore. You don’t need to do any of that.
Tonight, all that you’re honestly worrying about is the headache you might have tomorrow from having too much fun. That's it.
You physically shake your head to clear it once you realize that you’ve been thinking so intently about past scenarios that the show on TV is almost done and another episode is about to start up. Christ.
You wish you could get to a point where they’d just not enter at all, anymore–these intrusive thoughts–but you’re just not there yet. They still somehow force their way inside.
But it's okay. The difference you’re seeing is in how quickly the thoughts are beginning to leave. They aren’t sticking around for so long anymore. You credit Sy with a majority of that.
And you also credit him for your sudden interest in Alaskan-fucking-jade-mining, of all things.
Ahead on the television, a giant pick-up truck is driving directly through a large river to get to a bypass road on the other side, and you’re so excited to get to zone out and watch these people arrive at their worksite that it takes several moments for you to notice your phone vibrating from your jeans.
After digging into your back pocket and turning down the volume on the television, you sit up and bring your phone to your ear. "Hey, Momma."
"Hey, Y/N/N," she greets you, and you realize that it’s been forever since you’ve actually heard her voice. “Just wanted to check in.”
"Yeah, I know it's been a while, sorry," you say. "Every time I think I get the chance to call, somethin’ seems to come up. Sorry. Busy time of year. Work and school...Same old stuff.”
She makes a sympathetic noise. "How's everything been goin'?" she asks.
Since she's asking about you instead of immediately venting about something going on in her own life, you give her an honest answer. You talk about work, about how you're down to just one job now. You talk about school and how you're down to just one more semester now, too.
And you talk a little about Sy.
You're cryptic to a degree, still downplaying your relationship, but you mention that she may be meeting him soon. Maybe.
“And you’re comin’ up when, again?” your mom clarifies. “Christmas Eve?”
“Oh, I’m gonna stay here for Christmas,” you mutter, “but I’ll be visitin’ probably the week after. Before New Year’s.”
“Alright,” she simply says, and you pick up a tiny sliver of guilt-tripping she wants to offer from that one word alone, but you close your eyes and count to three, letting the guilt you want to sit with escape. It’s your last Christmas holiday with Justine’s kids, and that’s sort of a big deal for you.
They’re the children here, not you. There’s no honest reason to visit your family on Christmas Day itself. Not when you can get together afterwards and have it still be entirely the same. There aren't any children up there to visit, anyway. They're all adults. They can get over it.
You dwell on your selfishness a little bit while your mother picks up the conversation and starts updating you on things going on with people you don’t really know. Are you being selfish? Or do you just feel like doing anything for yourself whatsoever automatically puts that label on you?
Well. You are inconveniencing people, which you absolutely hate. Your family wants to see you. Your grandma’s recently been hospitalized, and you hadn't visited for Thanksgiving like they wanted.
But then again, it’s your last Christmas with Justine’s kids. Your very last one. (And your first one with Sy, too…Not that it’s some huge thing for you two, but still…)
Okay, you’re overthinking again. You’re obviously overthinking. You’ve made your decision already. You’re going to Virginia after Christmas. It’s settled.
Now onto the next thing: Would Sy even want to come with you?
You don't think he'd mind. You think he'd actually like it, honestly. You'll ask him soon, feel him out. He'll either say yes or he'll say no. No big deal either way.
Your mom talks non-stop after that since you have nothing else to really discuss, but your mind wanders the entire time, anyway, imagining Sy being up in Virginia with you. You don't realize how long your mom has even been talking when the ongoing occupant of your thoughts loudly enters the house from the back door.
“Sonuva fuckin' bitch,” Sy's grumbling underneath his breath while heavily taking a seat at the kitchen table, and you sit up and come to alert with a gasp. His face is pinched and tight.
Fuck. His knee. Fuck, you knew it.
Worried, you quickly interrupt whatever your mom’s saying. "Hey, sorry, Momma, it was great talkin’ to you, but I gotta–I gotta go.”
You've just caught her in the middle of a sentence. "Oh–Okay. Is everything alright?"
"Yeah, it's all good," you stand up and say, but by the look on Sy's face, it's probably not. "I'll call you back later, okay? And I'll see you real soon. Love you."
"Love you!" you hear before you disconnect the call and toss your phone onto the couch.
You squint your eyes and take in the scene in the kitchen. While your mind has automatically gone towards Sy's knee, that's apparently not what's wrong at all. He's got his left hand laid out face-up on the table, and he’s actively digging what appears to be a pocket-knife into the center of his palm. As he groans and loudly drops the knife onto the table, you go to him.
“Oh, no, what’d you do?” you ask. “What’s wrong?”
He grumbles something while picking up the knife again, and his words are so low and jumbled together that you don't at first understand. It's not until you walk closer to him that his heavily accented sentence makes sense: He's got a thick, dark splinter in the middle of his left hand.
“Oh, shit,” you swear. “What happened?”
"Was messin’ with the brooder box without gloves on," he says from between his teeth.
You drop your mouth at the size and depth of the splinter, and you watch Sy sternly steel his jaw and cut around it precisely enough to have the end of the piece of wood stick out. When he starts actually pulling at it, your mouth drops even more as the sliver seems to never end.
“Je-sus,” you murmur, holding your stomach and grimacing along with Sy. “That thing’s freakin' huge!”
“Thank you,” he mutters, not seeming to be fazed by the size of the splinter nor at the small wound it’s left behind. If anything, pure relief covers his face once it's gone.
While you roll your eyes at him, he simply licks the end of his right thumb and slides it around his left palm where it's cut. Your grimace continues.
“Here…I–Lemme go get some peroxide or somethin’," you decide, and you quickly walk to the bathroom down by the laundry room.
"Don't know if I got any," Sy hollers out, and as you're already crouching to look underneath the bathroom sink, you figure he's right. The spot is bare, only one singular roll of toilet paper taking up any space at all.
You sigh. You seriously can't wait to eventually freshen things up in here a little bit. Put a little femininity in the house. An actual towel to dry your hands off with instead of paper towels—something.
You stand upright again, and in front of the mirror, you pause and then shake your head at yourself. What the fuck kind of a thought is that.
A thought that Sy should probably keep basic first aid items in his home, that's all. And items for guests. You swing open the closet door that’s behind the hallway door and find a few thin towels, some random tools, Aika’s old dog bowls, and a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol on a sticky-paper-lined shelf. Behind it is a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
"A-ha!" you let out, but when you grab the peroxide, you discover it's so nearly empty that it weighs next-to-nothing, though. You deflate. "Dammit, Sy…"
Regardless of its contents, you take the bottle into the kitchen, this time walking a little slower. There’s nothing upfrontly urgent about his hand, you remind yourself—or his knee. He’s fine.
Some weird déjà vu passes through you as you stand in front of the sink, and memories of another scene enters your mind. A kitchen that looks very similar to this one…a sink with a window above it facing the back yard…a door off to the left… Johnny’s farmhouse.
“Ah. Where it all began,” Sy murmurs, showing you he’s instantly matching your wavelength. “Peroxide at the sink.”
You pretend to sigh while you set the bottle of peroxide down and turn to the side to face Sy. “Could be a song title.”
"...Peroxide At The Sink?"
You nod and start singing twangy-sounding, fast-paced lyrics. "Where it all began…Peroxide at the sink…From a man who ran…into me after too much drink."
Sy gives your lyrics a thumbs-down gesture while you grin.
"Whatever. Song wouldn't work anyway," you say. “Everything began before the peroxide at the sink."
"How's that?"
You lean your hip against the counter. "You said you recognized me before that night and just didn’t tell me."
Sy nods once. He'd already admitted that to you in the shower. "I did," he affirms again.
"Watchin' me from across the road like a creeper," you continue to tease while turning to face the sink again, just waiting for him to get up and come to you, just beckoning him almost. You turn on the faucet and begin rinsing off the dishes inside.
You see Sy kick off his boots and lift his eyebrows from your peripheral vision. "I wasn’t creepin’.”
"Mmhm."
You think back to that night at Johnny’s bonfire. Where it all truly did begin. Where you and Sy had talked about Led Zeppelin for all of four minutes after you’d embarrassed yourself to hell by falling almost flat on your face. Now look at you. Here. In Sy's house. In Sy’s house, about to do the dishes like it’s your own space. With him. Really with him.
Your mind has been on overdrive literally all day, starting from the Christmas tree farm and lasting all the way through your recent conversation with your mom, but now it’s starting to slow down a little bit. Even if you weren’t actively flirting with Sy, you’d still feel at ease. He has a way of projecting this strange happiness onto you just by being in the room…some sort of all-over calmness that makes you feel comfortable in your own skin in a way you’re not used to…a goofiness, almost.
"Every breath you take," you quietly start to sing. You grab the dish soap and the brush and start scrubbing while going on, “Every move you make…”
Watching you from the kitchen chair, Sy leans back and widens his legs. "You been drinkin'?"
You laugh and look over at him. “No, why? Should I get a head-start?”
He smirks while sticking his tongue against the inside of his mouth, making his cheek stick out. “Go for it.”
Your happy face falls just a bit. You aren't going to start drinking this early or anything, but you still want to know: “You gonna drive tonight?”
“You know I’m gonna drive tonight,” Sy answers while finally standing, and you look down at your sudsy hands and smile. You knew it.
"And we're stayin' the night, right?"
"Mm. Johnny said we could crash there.” Sy approaches you from behind and puts his hands around your waist. “'Less you just wanna come on back home afterwards."
The word “home” does something to your insides, making them flutter, but so does the fact that Sy’s holding onto your hips while obviously smelling your hair. You currently don’t know how you’re feeling so many–things–while doing something as mundane as washing cups, but then again, yes you do. His body’s matched up to yours and he smells like the outdoors and he’s touching you without reservation. Even though he should honestly have no reason to really want to. Not after everything last night and this morning.
"Honestly, I think I'd like to just stay,” you let Sy know, naturally tilting your head to the side when he puts his chin on your shoulder. “But it's up to you."
His beard scratches your still-sore neck before you feel a more softer sensation from his mouth, right over the slightly sore area he’d given this same type of attention to last night. He pulls a patch of skin between his lips and gently sucks before releasing and asking in a low voice, “Stay where?”
"Uh." You take a second to think. “Stay…there. At their house.”
“Whatever you want,” he murmurs offhandedly.
You have to stop washing the dishes for a moment while Sy continues kissing your neck. Feeling totally enveloped, you grab the edge of the countertop and squeeze onto it while wasted water continues falling down from the faucet.
Your eyes slip shut. "We can–” You clear your throat. “We could stand by their sink and reminisce.”
Sy grunts, but it’s flirtatiously, and you bite your lip through a smile because–how have you come to recognize what a flirtatious grunt even sounds like?
Apparently you chuckle; a second later, Sy makes a questioning sound against your throat.
You let your head fall back onto his chest. “Of the time you spent stalkin’ me from your grandma’s house,” you whisper.
Warm air hits your skin after Sy chuckles. “I didn’t stalk you,” he maintains. As you turn off the faucet and turn around, he’s sure to clarify, “I watched.”
You give him a look. Without looking behind you, you reach backwards for the bottle of peroxide.
“Respectfully."
“You respectfully watched,” you repeat, flicking open the bottle’s cap with your thumb. With your other hand, you find Sy’s left hand and flip it palm-up.
“Yes.”
You mockingly nod and pour the few drops of peroxide left inside the bottle out onto Sy’s hand. The liquid barely bubbles. "With total respect."
"I did," he maintains.
You lift Sy’s hand to gently blow on the skin. "I'm sure."
In the stillness that follows, Sy gets serious. “You know I did,” he touches your forearm with his fingertips and says.
You find yourself suddenly staring up at him in some sort of suspension, eyes glued to his. “Did you, though?”
He closes his eyes briefly, and you watch him in curiosity. He’s usually forthcoming. “Did I what?”
“Watch respectfully,” you give. “You’re sayin’ there wasn’t any sort of disrespectful watchin’ happening?”
Briefly, Sy looks away with his head tilted to the side, and that gives you your answer. In victory, you point your finger into his chest.
“You so did not watch respectfully,” you state, almost in glee, but he just crosses his arms and moves to lean against the side of the counter.
“Ain’t my fault you kept wearin’ those damn short shorts all the time,” he gives.
“Ain’t my fault it was a hot summer,” you reply with a smirk and a shrug, still staring at Sy and waiting for him to look back at you.
But he doesn't, so you move to stand in front of him again.
“Daww, why’re you lookin’ away?” you tease, not used to being in this position. Not used to him being in this position. “‘Fraid your nobility’s finally in question?”
Sy gently grabs your elbow and pulls your entire body towards his. “Get in here and shutch’yer mouth,” he says.
You pretend to look intense while squinting your eyes. “Make me.”
As you continue to look up at him, still on a slight high from whatever this is you’re doing, your mouth slightly parts, and your excited face somewhat falls. What did you even say that for?
“I…don’t know why I said that,” you utter, trying to step back.
He holds onto you. “You sure about that?”
A heaviness sits in the air while you stare up at him and he stares down at you, and you’re careful with the breaths you take until you ultimately have to look away, not sure if you’re imagining this tension or if it’s real. Surely after last night and this morning, he wouldn’t…
When Sy presses his fingers into the sensitive spot by your stomach and hip, you instantly gasp and jerk away with a smile, the thick moment dissipating.
“I didn’t mean it, I didn't mean it,” you laugh while he tickles you again, and you simultaneously lean into his body while trying to break away from his touch.
"I didn't mean it," he copies you.
“Jerk,” you say just as he’s hooking his arm around you to pull you closer against his body again. “I really didn’t mean it.”
Sy moves hair away from your face to see you better, and after staring up at him again and offering him another grin, you nuzzle against his chest.
Even though you're entirely comfortable right now, a memory flashes into your mind–a scene from your old apartment in Virginia. The kitchen. A moment like this where you and your ex were playing around, happy. A pinch at the kitchen sink–too hard. Not welcome. It hurt.
In what you could only assume to be playful, Michael reached out and pinched the exposed skin of your arm as you were preparing to wash the pile of dishes in the kitchen sink. Instead of playfully pinching you, though, he ended up forcefully pulling your skin before quickly and tightly pressing down in a way that honestly burned.
Gasping in pain, you pulled back your arm while your knees slightly buckled. “Ow! Fuck, Michael!”
“Oh, that didn’t hurt,” Michael brushed off, almost chuckling, already on the other side of the kitchen.
“Yes, it did,” you rubbed your arm and sulked, honestly offended that he’d hurt you like that. It was totally unnecessary to be that rough.
“You’re fine,” he repeated with a smile in his voice.
“Because you have the same pain sensors as I do,” you muttered, and then Michael’s playful demeanor left.
He yanked a cabinet open. “God, you can be such a bitch sometimes, you know that?” he asked, and inwardly, you began retreating.
Raising his voice, he went on, “It was just a damn joke. I’m just tryin’ to have a little fun for once, and you’re here bein’ fuckin’ Debbie Downer. Like always.” He loudly shut the cabinet after pulling out a jar of peanut butter. "Because you have the same pain sensors as I do," he mocked you in a high-pitched voice, and all you could do was stare down into the kitchen sink, looking at all the dishes needing to be done.
God, you never made the right choice in things. Not ever. You never said the right thing, you never reacted in the right way. Everything always ended up to shit, all because you ruined them.
Maybe you could’ve pinched him back or something. Turned it into a pinching war. It could’ve been fun. You could’ve flirted or something. You could've been…better.
After carefully walking across the kitchen floor, you opened the refrigerator for two slices of bread, and quietly, without speaking whatsoever, you took the jar of peanut butter Michael had gotten out for himself and began to take over making his sandwich for him.
Back in the present, the feeling of ice water trickling from the stem of your brain and down your spine rushes through you quickly and all at once. Almost lost inside the memory and frozen in another time, you look up at Sy's face to ground you again.
The adoration you find there brings you to reality again. It actually takes you aback for a second, his unfiltered happiness at being close to you like this, verging on devotion, so you have to briefly look away. By the time you look back, his expression is unchanged, and you're finding yourself matching it once more.
You stay as you are for long moments that pass in silence, hugging Sy and letting the world go on around you. You don't know how you’re both able to say so much to one another without actually speaking, but you're grateful for it. You love him.
“You're sweet,” he eventually murmurs.
Your mouth moves against his shirt. “Sometimes.”
“Mm. All the time.”
The corner of your lip twitches. “Just to you.”
“Well, I’d hope just to me.”
Gradually, your smile grows. After finding his hands and squeezing them gently at the fingers, you take a tiny step back. You stand there playing with his calloused hands until finally getting the nerve to bring up a new topic.
"I was on the phone with my mom a few minutes ago," you carefully bring up while playing with Sy’s fingertips. “Before you gave birth to that splinter outta your palm.”
He makes a strange face at your choice of words which makes you laugh, but, knowing there's more you want to say, he raises his eyebrows.
“I’m gonna go visit sorta soon."
"Oh, yeah?"
You look to the side. “Mmhmm."
A few seconds pass. "When?"
"Oh. After Christmas."
He glances at you, still sensing you need time to say something more.
You do, and you still don't know if it's awesome or just plain sad that he's grown to understand that it takes time for you to word things.
"I…You totally don’t have to say yes," you quickly forewarn, "but if you wanna come with me when I go, you’re welcome to.”
With the smallest of smiles, Sy cocks his head to the side. “Is this you askin’?”
You shrug. You nod.
"Then count me in."
In relief, you smile. It slowly fades. “It’s nothin’ fancy where I’m from…I can’t really promise a whole lot of excitement or anything.”
Sy pauses and looks around the kitchen. Pointedly, he looks around, settling his gaze where there aren't cabinet doors at all underneath his sink. "And this is fancy?"
You nod. "It's bigger than any house I've ever lived in. It's nice."
He's quiet for a moment. "Glad you think so."
After a few more silent seconds pass, you force a chuckle. "Okay. You really don't have to tag along, though," you make sure to tell him. "I'll be goin' again in the spring if that's a better time."
Sy blankly stares at you, and you blink.
“...What?”
He tilts his head to the side and continues looking at you. Meaningfully. Speaking to you with the turn of his eyes, with the set of his lips.
"Oh." You swallow. "Am I…Am I doin' the thing?"
"If I say yes, I mean yes," he tells you, and you nod, letting go of his hands.
"Okay," you breathe out, then you clear your throat. “Okay. Got it. Cool.”
He gives you a minute and then asks, “You good?”
“Yep.” You nod, trying to stay casual, but there’s a weird excitement inside that you can’t help letting out by briefly grinning. “So, uh. I guess we probably oughta start gettin’ ready for tonight, huh?”
Sy pauses. “We gettin’ there early?”
You look at the clock on the stove. “No…I mean…I still gotta bake cookies and stuff, and I just…don’t wanna rush.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“What? I don’t like feeling rushed,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “Just 'cause it takes you, like, five minutes to get ready doesn’t mean it’s like that for everyone else,” you comment before walking through the kitchen. You hear Sy chuckle from behind as you approach the stairs.
Alone in Sy’s bedroom a few moments later, you get changed into a pair of black jeans, a thin turtleneck shirt, and your truthfully-very-ugly sweater that Amy loaned you. Sy begins to slowly come up the stairs right as you’re stepping into the bathroom, and after he goes into his bedroom, you hear him opening his dresser drawers through the bathroom wall. When you’re in the same position as you were this morning–barefoot in front of the mirror putting in a decent effort in making your face and hair look presentable--Sy's large presence suddenly takes up the entire doorway of the bathroom.
He actually casts a shadow in the bathroom from the way he suddenly blocks the hallway light, and while applying mascara, you continue looking straight ahead into the mirror, not able to stop yourself from smirking at how quickly he’s changed his clothes.
“Okay, so…In actuality, guess it only took you three minutes to get ready,” you say.
"I look alright?" he asks, and you chuckle without looking at him. The silence that ensues after that has you curiously turning your head, though, and you realize from his face he’s being serious. Showing a little vulnerability, he’s essentially asking you to give your opinion.
You put down your makeup, turn to the side, and check out his outfit. Despite it being December, he’s in a pair of khaki shorts, and you see he’s put on a knee-brace. He’s paired the chunky shorts with a forest green sweater depicting Santa Claus inside a large tank. As you examine it, he pulls at the bottom of it to show it off better.
“Merry Tankmas?” you ask while making a funny face, and almost with pride, Sy taps to the giant tank in the middle of his shirt.
“We used these in my unit.”
"Ah," you say in interest.
He lets go of his sweater. "Nice, huh?”
“It’s…Yeah,” you agree. “It looks…comfortable.”
He looks down at himself. “You callin’ it ugly?”
You let out a large laugh, bringing your thumb and your index finger close together by your face. “That’s the point, though,” you tell him, “so you did good.”
Even if it weren’t an Ugly Sweater party, though, Sy could somehow make the outfit look good. Even down to the matching green socks. His easy smile matches your own as he steps into the room and gets closer to you, naturally wrapping his arms around you and hooking them together at the curve of your lower back.
He slouches his shoulders in order to lean down and place his forehead against yours. “Can’t all be as good-lookin’ as you,” he says, and you half-groan.
“Oh, my God, stop.” So not true. You're literally wearing the tackiest sweater imaginable right now.
“What?” he seductively lowers his voice. “I can’t call my girl good-lookin’?”
You don't get how he can still look at you after last night and this morning and still feel like saying shit like this, and maybe you never will, but maybe that's okay–as long as you can try to keep reminding yourself that he does mean what he says. Sy means what he says, and he sees what he sees, and whatever he sees, he likes.
Slowly and with purpose, Sy kisses you. Not so slowly, he then hefts you onto the bathroom counter like you weigh nothing. You lower your hands to the countertop so you don’t fall, and he puts his hands on your knees to widen them a little. After extendedly hugging one another downstairs just literal minutes ago, this sort of extended close-contact is unexpected, but you still smile at him when he breaks away.
Instead of leaning back in to kiss you, Sy digs a hand into his front pocket. His forearm brushes your inner thigh as he clears his throat and says, “Gotchu somethin’.”
When he pulls out a small square box from his shorts, you just look down at it.
“It ain't what it looks like,” he says with a chuckle.
You just keep staring, and Sy shakes the box a little to signal you to accept it. “Oh,” you stutter, reaching out.
Slowly, you crack open the box, and whatever’s inside instantly shines. When two little stud earrings come into view, you don’t dare to even touch them. They’re small yet not too tiny, but they’re clearly diamonds, and…you’re hardwired to decline gifts like this. You set the box on your lap.
“Oh, wow…”
Sy remains silent, and so do you.
“These look really nice, Sy,” you eventually murmur.
After a long pause, Sy finally chuckles. “They’d look nicer if you put ‘em on.”
Almost shyly, you smile. “Oh.”
Feeling awkwardly watched for a moment, you finally reach out for the little diamonds and place them in your earlobes, then you twist around to look in the mirror again. The earrings are pretty but modest like you prefer, twinkling in the light from above the mirror. Even though you feel undeserving of the jewelry for some reason, your eyes give away your appreciation at the unexpected gift.
You move your hair from your face and give yourself one final look. “Well, thanks, Sy,” you softly murmur, actually feeling kind of pretty.
Behind his thick beard, you see the hint of a satisfied smile.
“And here I didn’t get you anything,” you say with a small pout. “I…didn’t know you were gonna…”
“My ears ain’t even pierced.” He shrugs.
You roll your eyes. “You’re so freakin’ corny.”
“Butchu love me.”
You reach out and wrap your index fingers into the belt loops of his khakis. Looking up at him, you murmur, “I do.”
Sy smiles. “Say the whole thing.”
“Huh?”
“Say you love me.”
You grin. “I love you,” you say, and though you’re totally happy, there’s another memory-flash from your ex that enters your head like static–“Tell me you love me,” he had once said, and it sounded like an order. Unpleasant. Threatening. You didn’t like it, so you’d paused, and your heart had sped up, and you put on a fake smile. And you said it.
This is different. This is different. Sy is completely different. Your smile is genuine now, and it only grows when witnessing Sy’s face in reaction to your words.
Still hating how you can't stop the intrusive thoughts occurring this afternoon, you push the old memory out of your head as quickly as possible. Maybe this is just your brain rewiring itself or something. Because what the fuck.
“Well, I love you, too, darlin’,” Sy says, and with a final long, drawn-out kiss, he steps aside so you can slide off the counter. He leans against the wall and casually crosses his arms, calmly watching you. You clear your throat.
It doesn’t take much longer for you to finish up. “Well, the hair is as good as it’s gonna get, I guess,” you eventually murmur into the mirror.
From the side of your eye, you watch Sy begin to rub his head. “You think I should do somethin’ with mine?”
“Oh, good Lord. Are you gonna do the dad jokes this entire night?” you ask, unable to stop yourself from laughing. “Should I prepare myself now?”
“Long as you keep laughin’, I will.”
Just looking over and seeing the mischievousness in his eyes has you laughing all over again.
“Good to know,” you say, but even just responding with those three words has you giggling even more. Just–Sy’s in a good mood.
You bet it was the Tylenol and singular drop of hydrogen peroxide you helped him out with. Look at you, mending his ailments left and right. Excellent girlfriend material.
…Are you, though? You’ve literally never thought of yourself like that before. But now…Now you feel like you may be. Now you feel important. You feel special. You were given casual diamond earrings–just because. And you accepted them without fussing that you don’t deserve them. You…You sort of feel like you do deserve them. That you deserve nice things. And it’s enough to make your eyes start to sting from the sheer expansiveness of the happiness taking up your body. The past twenty-four hours have been…a lot. In a good way.
“I think I–” You clear your throat. “I’m all done gettin’ ready now. I’m gonna–I’m gonna go bake the cookies now and then we’ll have time to chill a little.”
With a casual touch on your hip, Sy steps aside to let you walk past him. You’re able to collect yourself to a more appropriately-calm state of mind by the time you enter the kitchen again, and when Sy steps into the room a few moments after you do, he smells like cologne he didn’t smell like before.
The next half hour is spent listening to Christmas music and sharing more stupid banter–you making fun of Sy’s loud kitchen mixer and old half-peeling oven trays and him, in turn, making fun of how sloppy your cookie batter ends up. Through your laughter, you manipulate the sticky balls of dough as best as you can to try to make shapes that are somewhat circular, and in the end, you chalk it up to a success.
“I’m a better cook than I am a baker, alright?” you tell him while he stares at what you’re doing with an eyebrow raised.
“Babe, you ain't even got to the bakin’ part yet.”
You push at the brick-wall of Sy’s arm before placing the baking sheet into the oven. “Shut up.”
While staring into the oven, another memory hits your face along with the heat of the coils inside.
You walked into the apartment to discover the scent of food already being cooked, and in pleasant confusion, you stepped into the kitchen with your plastic grocery bags of taco fixings.
“Hey,” you greeted him, and–
“Hey,” he greeted you back.
“I thought you said you wanted tacos,” you pondered in slight confusion.
He'd shaken his head. “The chicken's gonna go bad.”
You blinked a few times at your bad memory. You could’ve sworn asking him last night what he wanted for dinner and him suggesting you get “taco stuff” from the store–which always meant actual ground beef for him since you couldn’t eat it and never had it on hand. You could’ve sworn that he had even said something about it being Taco Tuesday.
“Oh, okay. So we’re gonna do chicken tacos instead?” you asked, now a bit more excited than confused.
“I got all these leftovers at this work luncheon today,” he answered while shaking his head. “Let’s just eat that. Already heatin’ it up.”
You stuffed all the groceries into the refrigerator while hiding the disappointment on your face. “So did you wanna eat tacos tomorrow for dinner since I bought all the stuff?”
“I don’t know, damn,” he said, his voice getting a weird, irritated edge to it. “We can make it literally any other night this week. Just chill.”
“I was just…asking,” you mumbled in confusion again, and because your comment meant that you were now perceived to be In A Mood, you tried your hardest to make nice conversation while watching television on the couch, a plate of leftovers on your lap.
“It’d be fun to cook for more people every now and then,” you tried making conversation. “Don’t you think?”
Sitting on the chair next to the couch, he asked with his mouth full of food, “Whatchu mean?”
“Like, maybe have friends over one night or somethin’. For dinner.”
“What, you tryin’ to get with my friends?” he joked, and you paused and looked at him strangely. What a weird thing to ask.
“No,” you slowly answered. “Just to, like, get to know people more. Other couples. Or some people in my classes or whatever. Socialize. I don’t–”
“Don’t what?”
You shrugged. Saying “I don’t have that many friends” would just sound pathetic, so you stuck with just telling him, “I don’t ever cook for anyone besides just us. Thought it’d…be fun.”
“What, me alone ain’t good enough for you anymore?”
You smiled a little to hopefully express you weren’t being anything but light and conversational, but inside you were jittering. “Oh, shut up," you joked. "I didn’t say that. It’d just be nice.”
“Okay…”
He was treating you like it was such a weird suggestion. You guessed it really was, because the topic never came up again.
You have to loudly remind yourself internally–That's the past, and this is the present. That was then, this is now. You’re having a great day, it’s been a great day, and your brain needs to stop with this weird flashback shit.
Sy helps. He hugs you from behind for a little while with his hands on your hips, and a few Christmas-songs-on-the-radio later, the cookies are finished. They end up…edible-looking. Even though you’ve turned the entire baking sheet into a glob of dough so giant that the shape of individual cookies is barely discernible.
“These can just be the back-of-the-table cookies,” you decide after using a spatula to separate the cookies into something resembling circles. Sighing in defeat, you're surprised when Sy picks one up after it cools and takes a giant bite. He shows you he obviously likes it by immediately finishing it instead of spitting it out.
“...Verdict?”
“They might look like shit, but they taste great,” he says with his mouth full.
You drop your mouth at his bluntness, causing him to just smirk until he finishes chewing.
You stick out your tongue. “Well, thanks for your honesty.”
“Wouldn’t ever lie to you,” he says, reiterating what he’d finally gotten you to understand this morning.
Still– “Not even about hatin’ the tree I chose today?” you tease.
He snaps his fingers. “Oh, shit, that reminds me,” he mutters, and then he begins walking to the back door. Over his shoulder, he goes on, “Got somethin’ I wanted to show you,” and then, after opening the door, he’s gone.
You slowly walk to the door and curiously wait for him to come back, and when he does, he’s got a small tree-stump in his hand. It’s about three inches tall and probably about the same width. In the very middle of it is a small section where he’d apparently drilled into. You stare at it for a few seconds, not putting together what exactly he’s trying to show you.
“Sorry, but…What is this?”
He looks down at the stump then back up at you. “Somethin’ to put the Christmas tree in.”
You look back at the stump and gasp. “That's perfect!”
Without asking, you take the little piece of wood from Sy and hurry into the living room with it. The stump is entirely level at the bottom, so when you place the small Christmas tree in the middle of it, it doesn’t tilt. And it matches. Almost like a continual tree.
“I can’t believe you just–did this so quickly,” you look back at Sy and enthuse.
He shrugs. “Ain’t nothin’ but a tree stump I drilled a hole into.”
You look down in curiosity. “Yeah, but there’s, like, somethin’ else in the hole, too.”
“PVC pipe. To keep it from rottin’ after water’s in there,” Sy explains.
“Where’d you even get that from?”
“Out in the garage.”
“...And you cut it to fit into this hole you drilled?”
Sy nods.
“Damn, Sy.”
“Ain't really that biguva–”
“Jeez, just accept the praise,” you interrupt playfully. “So–we've got to decorate now.”
“Oh, we got to?” he mocks.
You nod your head. “’Cause this just looks awesome,” you say again, unable to stop staring at the tree. “This is, like, some Pinterest-level shit.”
He laughs. “Didn't know it’d impress you so much.”
You pause. With a soft voice, you murmur, “You always do.”
Sy reaches out with his thumb and slides it across your cheekbone. You duck your head.
In the end, the little tree holds a total of seven carefully-selected ornaments. Lightweight enough that the branches don’t break, the lucky selections include an Army logo, a handmade snowman with one of Sy’s nephew’s handprints on it, and a tiny circular picture of Sy’s parents.
The next time you come over, you’ll still bring lights. Then you’ll bring a tablecloth to bunch up underneath the tree. You’ll tie a ribbon around the top. You’ll get gaudy tinsel. You’ll do all of it. And it’ll look so freaking cute.
“Y/N,” Sy says from your side, and you jerk your head at him. That tone of voice means he’s probably already been trying to get your attention but you’ve been zoning out.
“Sorry,” you apologize, lifting your eyebrows. “What?”
Sy chuckles at you. “All day…You keep starin’ at this damn tree like you’re lookin’ at–”
You pause. “Like what?”
“The look in your eye…. It’s like you’re lookin’ at a–baby or somethin’.”
“Well.” You smile and turn back to the tree. “It looks nice. And I like it.”
Sy stands by your side staring at the tree for a while, too. You’re expecting some cheesy comment like he’s been doing all afternoon– “Not as nice as you” –but he remains silent. In the dim sound of the radio playing Nat King Cole from the kitchen, it’s comfortable.
It’s the first tree in this place in two years.
As you slowly stretch, Sy bends over to pick up the box of unused ornaments. “I can do that,” you stop him.
Sy pauses and stands upright. “My knee’s fine,” he points out.
“Yeah, ‘cause you put a brace on,” you challenge him, picking up the box and going to the staircase before he can interject. “You need to rest it.”
In less than a minute, you take the box to the spare room upstairs and then rush back down to join Sy on the couch. Naturally, he’s on the left side of the sofa leaning back with his legs spread, and naturally, you fit into the spot directly next to him. After squirming around to find your phone that’s been neglected all afternoon and checking any notifications you may have missed–none–you eventually decide to put your head on one of Sy’s giant legs, staring out at the show on the History Channel he’s just turned on.
Immediately, his calloused right hand finds its way onto the back of your head. After touching your ear and feeling the new jewelry there, he lowers his fingers and begins to gently and absentmindedly rub your shoulder. At that, you let out a long groan.
Sy pauses. “You sore?”
You nod against his khakis. “After last night, I’m literally sore all over,” you admit.
“From what?”
“What d’you mean ‘from what’?” you close your eyes and mutter, and he chuckles.
“Ah, c’mon now. I gotta getchu in better shape then,” he jokes, and you open your eyes again just to narrow them even though he can’t see.
“You shut up.”
He pinches your shoulder before going back to kneading your muscle. “Y’know, I do need me a workout partner,” he says seriously. “You should consider it.”
After a few minutes of indulging in Sy rubbing your shoulder and the show on television, you eventually sit up and tilt your head in consideration. Sy’s hand naturally slips off your arm to rest down by your hip. “One of my resolutions for the new year was gonna be to start exercising more,” you say. “Healthy living and all that…”
All he does is look at you, and you’re already pointing your finger at him. “But nothin’ crazy. I’m not gonna be, like, flippin’ tires through the woods with you and shit.”
He winks with both eyes. “Ah, too bad, darlin’. That’s my favorite workout.”
“You got jokes and jokes today.” An exasperated look spreads over your face while you settle backwards against the cushions. When you look at Sy from the side of your eye, you find his own eyes bright. It’s enough to have you smiling despite trying to keep yourself from doing so.
You settle against Sy’s side after he lifts his arm a bit and casually places it around your shoulder. “This guy’s voice on TV is gonna make me wanna take a nap,” you murmur, closing your eyes while the British narrator relays information about different military uniforms through the centuries.
“So take a nap.”
You fake-whine. “But then I’m not gonna wanna wake up.”
Sy grunts. “I’ll find one’a them true crime documentaries you’re always watchin’ to keep you alert, then.”
You open your eyes again. “Ha, ha.”
“Well, we could always do somethin’ else that would keep ya awake.”
You wait for his suggestion, but it doesn’t come. While he trails two of his fingers across your shoulder, you look over at him to find a certain look on his face, almost like he could wag his eyebrows any second, and you simply blink. You’d just told him you’re sore, but it’s more than just your muscles that are sore. Like, everything is sore. And after last night and this morning… You’re still having a hard time wrapping your head around the fact that Sy could still be–that he could still possibly want–
“Um. I'm–” You look down. “I mean, you're–”
He nudges you with his knee. “That was supposed to be a joke.”
“Oh.” Of course it was. Now you feel stupid.
In the silence that ensues, you’re awkward and you know you’re awkward, so Sy nudges you again with the arm wrapped around you. “Y/N,” he says. “Look at me.”
You reluctantly look up. When you do, Sy’s face is strangely serious.
“I know I’ve been teasin’ today, but I wouldn’t ever make fun of you in a mean way. I ain’t tryin’ to embarrass you here.”
You shake your head. “Oh, it’s totally–That's not–You didn't. You weren’t.”
He watches your face for a minute, and then ultimately, he frowns. “Your face changed. I crossed a line somehow.”
Quickly, you shake your head again. “You really didn’t. I promise. It’s really not you, it’s me.”
Sy scratches his beard while watching you curiously. You can tell he wants to speak, but you go first.
“You didn’t do anything–seriously. I’m so sorry. I know we’ve already talked about this already–like, a little bit just as recently as this morning–and it's not that I don't believe you, I promise, but it's harder than I thought it'd be for me to, like, re-learn certain things. So the things that you say…it takes time for everything to actually stick. In my brain. It’s not that I don’t believe you, though. That’s not…That’s not the problem.”
“Okay,” he answers slowly. “...But what is it you’re actually talkin’ about?”
“That–” Ugh, it’s so hard to talk about sex out loud. Openly. “You just suggested…you know. And I…I keep thinking that if I say no that you'll be mad at me or something,” you admit.
Sy inhales roughly, and you look down at your lap.
Man. You really didn't want to ruin the day. For the second time. It’d been going so nice.
Sy pulls you into his side more closely. “I told you. Only thing I'm ever mad at when it comes to you are the people who've made you think that way in the first place.”
Slowly, you nod. “Yeah.” He’d said that before. He says the same things a lot.
You say the same things a lot. It must be exhausting being with you.
“So if I'm ever comin’ on too strong–”
“You're not,” you interrupt. “You weren't.”
Gently, Sy smiles. “But if I ever am,” he goes on, “you just tell me to lay off.”
With a stupidly-small sounding voice, you answer, “Okay.”
It takes a few moments, but after too much silence goes on, Sy finally asks, “What’re you thinkin’?”
“That you’re still somehow gonna get offended or mad if I do that,” you answer straight-away, wincing and squeezing your eyes shut.
“We’re shuttin’ that down,” Sy says. “It won’t happen. It won’t ever happen.”
“Okay.”
“Got it?”
You clear your throat awkwardly and give a tight nod. You blankly stare ahead at the television while lost in thought, and you feel the power of Sy’s attention on you almost the entire time. When you finally turn your face to look at him again, he’s got his eyes on yours already.
“Um,” you begin.
Sy patiently lifts his eyebrows.
“Let’s just say I–Let’s just say you weren’t kidding,” you mutter. “And that–” You start picking at the skin around your thumbnail.
“Just me here,” he reminds you.
“Right, sorry,” you say. “I mean–No, I’m not. I’m not sorry.” You smile. “Okay, let me try this again. Let’s just say that you weren’t actually kidding…” You trail off, trying to put words to your thoughts.
“...I didn’t have to be just kidding,” Sy eventually says, a bit confused.
Your face twists in its own confusion. “See, that’s the thing. If I had said ‘sure’ just now, you’d really…Like, you’d really actually want to?”
Sy looks to the side. “...Yeah?”
“Like, you’d really sincerely want to?”
“Baby, yeah,” he says again, this time with a mix of confusion and emphasis lacing his deep voice. “I mean, it’s you we’re talkin’ ‘bout…”
Sitting entirely still, you just blink while taking in that statement.
“I can usually…” Sy sighs. “I can usually get where you’re goin’ with stuff, Y/N, but I gotta admit…I’m havin’ a hard time understandin’ what the problem is.”
“There isn’t a problem,” you shake your head and genuinely tell him.
“Okay,” Sy slowly says. But he’s still confused. And you don’t blame him. “So you know that you can always say no to me,” he summarizes.
“Right.” You nod. You do know that. And you will eventually get yourself to the point where you intrinsically believe it without doubt.
“And now you know that…you can also say yes to me,” he goes on, “and that I’d be entirely fine with that, too.”
There’s a joke he’s trying to make with that, his voice a little lighter, and you understand how stupid it all seems, but something about it just isn’t–you just can’t comprehend it.
“What am I missin’, Y/N?” Sy asks.
You take a deep breath. “After last night, and then this morning…And you–And you’ve kissed and hugged me a lot today, too…” You finish with a shrug.
His eyes turn hawk-like. “You’re thinkin’ I’m some kinda nympho or somethin’, ain’tchu?”
You could almost laugh. “That’s not at all what I was thinkin’.”
“Then what?”
Again, you shrug. “That, like…I just don’t get it. I don’t see how you could still have any sort of desire after…” You clear your throat. Fuck, you’re weird. “How you could even still want to…touch me or kiss me so much or to do…anything.”
Sy’s eyebrows meet. He hears what you say, and he listens, and he must replay it in his head, because then he’s taking a sharp inhale, and then he’s removing his arm from your shoulder, and then he’s lifting both his hands to his face, and then he’s dragging them down his cheeks.
You close your eyes. You make yourself open them. “Did that make you mad?”
Sy wraps his arm around your shoulder again. “You haven’t made me mad,” he says. “I want you to–” He sighs. “I'm glad when you communicate.”
You nod. “...So that was okay? That I said that?”
“All you did was speak your mind. Which I always wantchu to do.”
You hate that you need so much reassurance, but– “Even if it makes you mad?”
“I’m not try’na make this about me,” he quietly says. “It ain’t about me.”
You don’t know what that means. “Oh,” you utter.
“No–Not like that. You just don’t need to be worryin’ about my reaction when–” Sy takes a deep breath, and a long, controlled exhale. “You don’t make me mad when you say things. It’s the things you actually say that…I just…I’ve gotta learn to get ahold of my temper. Which I will.”
“But…What are you mad at if you’re not mad at me?” you slowly ask.
Sy removes his arm from your shoulder in favor of placing both of his elbows on his knees. “You don’t even see–It doesn’t even occur to you, does it?”
You swallow. You feel dumb. “I’m sorry, but I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve spent so much time with–” He sighs, sits upright again, and fixes his knee-brace where he’d messed it up. “How many relationships were you actually in again?”
You look down. “Officially? Two.”
“That's what I thought,” Sy mutters. “Okay.”
You hesitate. “Why?” you ask. “What’s on your mind?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“I do,” you answer.
Sy side-eyes you. “You seriously don’t.”
“Why did you ask that?” you try again. “About my exes.”
“Because they’re human pieces of shit,” Sy seethes, “and I get that you’re still not ready to talk about everything, but the intel I’ve gathered from what you have already let out…” His nostrils flare.
“I…”
Slowly, you shake your head. Earlier today, you’d already had a conversation about your previous relationships in the spare bedroom upstairs with Sy. Well, as much as you were able to. Ever since Sy had said you’ve been brainwashed, you’ve literally been oscillating between past and present non-stop, old memories popping up like sharp, unpleasant zaps in your mind.
But–“That wasn’t about–I was just making a general statement.”
Sy tilts his head to the side. “What was your general statement?”
“That, like…That it’s just hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that you’d want to keep kissing me and…that you’d maybe even want other stuff.” You shrug. “After what we’ve already done. Recently.”
“Because it doesn’t make sense to kiss my girlfriend so soon after already taking what I really want from her,” he replies.
“Right,” you answer, and then you whip your head over to look at his face. Those words don’t sound right coming out of his mouth. “Wait.”
Sy's face almost looks sick. “Are you hearin’ how that sounds?”
“But–” Your mouth parts. “That’s not what I meant, though.”
He lifts an eyebrow, and suddenly, your eyes can’t focus. “I…”
Another sharp, zapping memory assaults you.
“Headache?” Michael asked with his hand under your shirt, and you paused, opening your eyes. They instantly furrowed into a slight scowl as you stared at the wall, hidden from your boyfriend as he lay behind you in bed plastered like a barnacle to your back.
You were grouchy. It was your birthday, but you were grouchy as hell.
It was a school night. You’d already been in class all day long, trying to stay as alert as possible so you could succeed in meeting your goal of finally increasing your GPA a little. You then worked a half-shift at the grocery store where you handled dirty cans of vegetables and wet produce items and heavy cases of beer and laundry detergent and dog food for five hours straight. You then made it home in the rain where, upon entering the apartment, you had to instantly muster up energy that didn’t exist in order to cook for yourself and Michael. You were tired.
And tomorrow, you just had to do everything all over again.
“‘M just tired,” you honestly whispered, already close to drifting off with your head on the pillow, and then you felt Michael’s hand under your shirt grab one of your boobs and shake there, almost like he was attempting to wake you up.
“C’mon, Y/N,” he said into your ear. “It’s your birthday.”
You yawned. “Yeah, but we were gonna do somethin’ this weekend,” you reminded him in a drowsy mumble. “I got class and work all week.”
“But it’s your birthday,” Michael repeated, and silently, so that he couldn’t hear it or even feel it with how his hand was so close to your chest, you inhaled.
You knew what he meant now.
You knew what he meant now, and you’d be letting him down if you shook him off and denied him. Not when he’d gotten you birthday flowers.
Wrapped in cellophane on the kitchen table when you came home, they were kind of ugly, like the petals had already wilted or something, but it was still a nice gesture for him to’ve done. Especially because he didn’t have a lot of money. Of course, he probably spent the money on them in the first place to get you to have sex with him, honestly, but–
But, no. That’s a weird thought to have. He was your boyfriend. That’s what couples do together–they…Birthday sex. There’s even a song out there about it.
If you said no, then that would cause him to pester you about it, and then that would either lead to you getting pissed off that he won’t drop it when you were clearly tired and not into it right now, which would cause a big argument, or it’d lead to you just giving in to his persistence and conceding in order to save all the energy that arguing would inevitably expend.
You took another deep breath and then rolled over in bed.
Without preamble, you’re being shaken from your thoughts and immediately pulled into the warmth of Sy’s side again. “C’mere.”
The sheer number of groundbreaking conversations with this man over the past twenty-four hours…Even the past four hours…You’re reeling.
You–You guess you really have been brainwashed.
After continuously being subjected to unpredictable behavior for so long–by so many different people in your life–you’ve had to protect yourself by constantly reading the play ahead of time. By over-thinking and over-analyzing and over-compensating and over-apologizing. And just not doing those things or thinking those things anymore takes time. It takes rewiring.
It really does feel like your head is full of a million crossed wires, and as you’re slowly learning normality with Sy, one individual wire breaks and makes an attachment somewhere else, a joining that only fuses after weeks and weeks of reassurance and witnessing consistent patterns. And then another wire breaks and meshes somewhere else after a few more weeks. And then another. And another.
But where does that leave you? Forever a work in progress?
“None of it was your fault, you know,” Sy’s chest reverberates against your cheek while he speaks, and there’s a confidence and finality to his words despite them still sounding so illicit to your ears.
“I…” Your fingers twitch against the fibers of his sweater. You can’t. You can’t talk about this.
Not just because it’s talking about sex out loud, but it’s because it’s talking about your fucked up past and how Sy should never have to deal with the repercussions of choosing you to date but how you’re so, so happy that he sees something in you worth staying for despite it all.
Sy doesn't speak after that, just puts a hand over your hair and holds you, and you let him. “Thank you,” you finally whisper. Because that’s all you know how to respond with.
Eventually, you sit up and dab the side of your right eye with the pad of your finger.
“We can prob'ly make it through one more show before we gotta leave,” you suggest, picking up the conversation from earlier about how the current show on the History Channel is going to put you to sleep.
After you steal the remote from the side of Sy’s leg, he mumbles, “Woman,” and you just smile at him–a little to thank him for consoling you just now, a little to convey to him that you’re fine.
He relaxes once you settle on an episode of Alaskan Jade Mining instead of The First 48.
“The plant's in jeopardy of shuttin’ down,” you catch him up while leaning against his side again and staring ahead at the TV.
“What'd that dumbass do now?” Sy mutters.
“The land he threw all that money into is yielding, like, no results. The entire crew’s overworked and fed up. Then they hired some new chick that doesn’t have any experience and it’s taking extra time to train her.”
Sy grunts, and that leads into the two of you mindlessly binging the show.
“I'm lookin’ forward to meetin’ some more of your friends tonight,” you say during a commercial, then you instantly think that's so stupid to just mindlessly say like that–he's going to think you're interested in them or something…
No, he won’t.
“Lookin’ forward to it, too,” he just replies.
You exhale. “Who’s comin’ tonight, anyway?” you ask. “Did you ever figure out if Johnny got in touch with anyone from the Army like you said he was tryin’ to do?”
“Nah,” he answers. “We’ll just find out when we get there. Johnny’s been more concerned with–”
You raise your eyebrows.
“Everything in general, I guess,” Sy finishes. “Food and drinks, shit like that. Said they're doin’ some drink station in the kitchen or somethin’.”
You turn to look straight ahead again. “Ooh, that'll be fun.”
“Mm.”
After the TV show is over, ending with drama from an impending storm on the horizon, you gently slap your legs with your hands. “You wanna go ahead and leave?”
Sy looks at his watch. “Sure,” he shrugs. “Or we could stay here for another episode.”
You grin. “I knew you’d get hooked if I put it on.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Easily, Sy smiles, and you briefly glance at his teeth before looking back up at his eyes. “We could be a little late to the party. Ain’t like they’re gonna be missin’ us none.”
“Maybe they won’t miss you, but they’ll miss me,” you stand up and say, and it takes Sy a second, but he finally smiles at your delivery, standing up with a grunt and a playful ass-pinch.
Sy clicks off the television and starts following you into the kitchen. “‘Course they will,” he agrees.
While you pack up your ugly Christmas cookies to match your ugly Christmas sweater, you watch Sy step his feet into his old discarded boots by the kitchen table and then open the refrigerator. He pulls out two cases of alcohol–Bud Light beer for himself and Bud Light seltzers for you.
Quietly, you assess him. He's always just so good at reading you, and reassuring you, and complimenting you, and making you laugh, and making you happy. He’s also so handsome you can’t stand it.
“Hey,” you quietly say, and he closes the fridge and looks over at you.
“Hey, yourself.”
“I never told you…” You look at him head-to-toe. “You look nice tonight.”
Sy smiles. “You admittin’ you like the sweater?”
“I like all of it,” you say–which is true. The sweater, the socks, even the khaki shorts in December. “You look good.”
Sy holds your gaze for one long, charged minute. “So do you.”
You hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. “But I’m talking about you,” you say. “You look nice.”
The satisfaction in his eyes is evident even though he doesn’t respond. After pushing yourself up on your tip-toes to kiss his scruffy cheek, you take your case of seltzer out of his grip, put your container of cookies on top of it, and then begin walking down the hall to put your shoes on by the front door. By the time Sy meets you there, he’s not only carrying his case of beer anymore: he’s got a broom, too.
There’s some shuffling around while you two put your jackets on, and then Sy locks the front door and holds the broom out like a metal-detector on the way to his truck. Immediately, his rooster comes from out of literally nowhere, going from zero speed to full force with one singular goal in mind, but Sy sweeps the broom at him before he can bite at his calves.
By the time you make it into the cab of his truck, you don’t think you’ll ever stop laughing.
"God, he's such a fuckin' dick," Sy just grumbles next to you a few minutes later, and then he sticks his keys in the ignition and revs his engine.
Exactly like you’d done earlier this morning, you place your hands out to the air vents to warm them up before reaching out to change the radio station. When a very country version of Two-Step ‘Round the Christmas Tree begins playing, you turn it up and start tapping your legs playfully.
Sy gives you a look. "Abso-fuckin'-lutely not."
You let out a loud laugh that has Sy scrunching his eyebrows funnily, and you have to clear your throat. "Sorry," you say while changing the radio station. "I'm good."
"Are you, now?"
For no reason, you laugh again, ending it with a nod. "That rooster, Sy...I can’t."
“Glad I can offer you some entertainment,” he mutters, which may have sounded passive-aggressive coming from anybody else’s mouth but his, but from him, there’s no bite to his words.
Sy lets out a small head-shake and smile that’s honestly adorable before he drops his right hand from the steering wheel to rest in the middle seat. Naturally, you reach your own hand out to meet his, and then he begins driving down the lane.
So happy and excited for this update!! 😆🥰❤️ can’t wait to read more!
