soft man soft body soft hands soft hearts SOFT JOEY <3
Wordcount: 2.1K
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Soft Hands, Softer Hearts
“Am I needed?”
It’s a weird text to get. Makes you smile through confusion a little as you text back a couple of question marks.
“??”
As a reply you receive a photograph of Joe’s clothed shoulder that he’s clearly taken on selfie mode whilst he’s out walking. You can recognise where he is from what’s visible of the street.
If what he means is, ‘do you need a shoulder to cry on’, the answer is no, you don’t. Your interview went shit, but you are very capable of shrugging off what isn’t meant for you. Something else will come along that will fit you better, you believe.
But…
If he’s offering…
“Not sure” you text back, which is technically true. Who knows, maybe they will call you back and offer you a job, even though you stuttered through some non-answers that made one of the men on the other side of the table take a deep breath as he took notes.
It’s not really looking the best... but, the universe could still surprise you.
Joe reads the message right as you send it, ticks immediately blue.
You receive a photograph not unlike the previous one, his shoulder, covered by a jacket, but this time, in the corner of the frame his index finger is visible, pointing at that same shoulder. For emphasis, you’re sure.
There’s something inside of you that doesn’t want to lie or take advantage of a situation.
“Nw I’m fine, just unsure! Could’ve gone better, but we’ll see, I guess.”
When another photograph of his shoulder follows, this time with half the jacket held open for you to see inside, you know it’s not as much a question as it’s just a weak excuse to see you.
It looks like he’s already on his way, too.
“my fridge is empty” you text, giving in, knowing exactly what the rest of the day is going to look like. Joe’s going to come over and take over for a minute. He’s not above folding a bit of laundry as you tidy up your bedroom, or throwing a quick meal together as you empty out the dishwasher. He knows what it’ll get him in return.
“empty empty or just nothing you fancy”
“if you want to eat pickles with mayo or soy sauce be my guest”
Joe reads it, goes offline, and you know he’s already putting together a mental shopping list for when he stops at sainbury’s ‘round the corner from where you live.
You’re not entirely sure which steps had lead to where you were now with Joe.
What had changed, exactly.
The starting point was very different and feels like it’s miles removed from this current way of being. Not that that’s a problem. But you worried for a little while that this pattern that you’d developed was purely transactional.
It wasn’t.
You were friends.
Friends do things for each other, don’t they? Help each other out. Are kind and friendly and do favours and give compliments, and if that results in scratching along Joe’s back whilst he sinks into your side on the sofa, than that’s fine, isn’t it?
It still felt a little weird, though.
This hadn’t ever been what you’d planned for, but maybe that’s exactly where the beauty of all of it was kept.
It takes about another thirty minutes for Joe to show up, orange plastic shopping back in hand.
“All right. Talk to me.” he says as he whizzes past you, into your kitchen. “What happened? How did it go?”
You close the door behind him, shrugging as you follow him in. He’s already got the fridge door open, bag on the counter, and is putting away an assortment of meats and cheeses.
“Fine, I guess.”
“Yea?” he asks, giving you a glance over his shoulder. “Fine is good!”
“Hmm,” you don’t agree or disagree, but the hum that leaves you makes Joe turn around fully to give you a proper look.
“Not good?”
“I just don’t know, I never know what people want, what they’re after. ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’ I don’t fucking know, do I? So I lie and answer what google tells me is a clever way of answering that question because I want to impress them, but then they can obviously tell I’m lying, that I’ve googled that question before and…” you sigh, shoulders dropping. “I don’t know.”
Joe closes the fridge, all picky bits inside for later.
“Not even sure I want the job.”
“Yea, that’s a good way to–”
“No it’s not.” you interrupt, frustration leaking from your features. “Because then if I don’t get it, then what? I’m such a fucking loser, can’t even get a job I don’t want, I’m just–…”
You get shut up by two hands that grab you by the face and force eye-contact.
“Hi.” Joe smiles. “Do you want some French cheese?” he tightens his grip when you try to pull away. “No. No, no. Do you–”
“Yes.”
“All right. We’ll have some French cheese then.”
A kiss gets pressed to your forehead that could mean nothing or could mean everything. You’re too scared to make that choice for yourself, so you just let it exist as what it is: a kiss to your forehead by a friend.
A friend that will come over just so you can exist in each other’s space for a while.
A friend who will put on a film and ask you to put your feet in his lap so he can squeeze and knead and rub until you’ve fallen asleep.
A friend that will put together a whole charcuterie board whilst you tidy away whatever mess you left from breakfast that morning, reassuring you that it'll all be fine in the end, no worries.
A tightness inside of your chest that you didn’t even realise was there slowly eases up. It releases a weird threat of tears that doesn’t manage to push through entirely because Joe is there, and there’s cheese, and bread, and he’s already looking through your collection of supermarket wine as he tells you to get two glasses out.
There’s no real issues and everything’s okay. The job you still have fucking sucks but you still have a job, and you have time to find something else, something new.
You don’t need comforting.
But still.
Still, Joe being there and taking over for a second is nice enough for you to not even care if he’s just doing it in return for some slow tickling fingers in his hair.
“Come sit.” Joe places the last things down on your coffee table.
When you don’t immediately drop whatever you’re doing, Joe comes over and grabs hold of you by your shoulders.
“All of this will be there to tidy up later, come on.”
You get turned around, and then a warm palm on your lower back guides you over to your sofa.
Joe pours you a glass, hands it to you, then cuts some cheese and offers you a cracker. Sat on the edge of your sofa, cheese knife still in hand, he turns to watch you until you’ve taken a bite, eyebrows raised and waiting until you audibly let him know through hums that whatever cheese you’ve just been fed tastes good.
You see the slightest of little smiles before he turns back and makes himself a little bite.
Is it a crime to let your eyes wander across his back and focus on the bit of cotton between his shoulder blades that pulls taut? You don’t think so. Moving your hand to touch him there and swipe your finger across might be, though.
Through chews Joe smiles at your touch as he slides back onto the sofa, wine glass in hand.
“You’ll get the job.” He says, mouth full of soft cheese, glass held out for you to cheers him.
You retreat yours though, smiling, raising a hand up to cover your mouth when you say, “I won’t get the job.”
Joe shrugs, smiles wider, and goes to clink your glass as he almost celebratorily says, “You won’t get the job! Cheers!”
And it’s not like this is exactly what you need, but everything about all of this is comforting as fuck. You cheers to you not getting the job which eases your worries and slight frustration at life and then you wash all of it down with French cheese and nice wine.
With nice ham and a couple of stuffed olives.
With a friend who likes to fidget with the arm of your sofa as he slowly loses himself in the foreign film that he put on.
With a friend who every couple of minutes will sit up to grab himself a little bite to eat, and before he sits back, will put a little bite together to give to you before he settles into the sofa again.
Who are you to deny any of this, you know? Even though, actually… the wine isn’t really your fave, and French cheese doesn’t exactly sit the nicest in your stomach, and also, you’re watching a foreign film that you need to read subtitles for but you can’t keep up, which is slightly annoying, but Joe is really into it, so you try your best, and, yea sure, if you actually just watch what’s going on it’s easy to kind of context-clue yourself into the plot just enough to not ask Joe “what’s happening” every two minutes.
After a little while, you slump far enough for your head to find his shoulder, you can feel how Joe turns his head to look down at you.
A silent laugh escapes him.
“Yea, that’s right. I told you.” Joe says, referencing his shoulder that he sent you three photos of. Three.
“Shut up.”
“Shut up.” Joe mimics in a whiny voice, but then shoots into action to keep you in place when you pretend to want to move away from him.
The rest of the film you spend in Joe’s embrace.
In big arms that feel heavy where they rest across your frame.
Warm, comfortable.
It doesn’t take long for Joe’s head to find a nice place to rest on top of yours, his cheek pressing into your hair, and naturally, your arm moves over his front as you slowly slump into each other more and more.
The soft cheese on your coffee table, whatever’s left of it, slowly flattens out, and by the end of the film, you’re struggling to keep your eyes open.
Credits eventually roll and you expect movement from Joe. Expect him to reach for the remote, to sit up and stretch his spine. However, when you move, Joe falls forward a little as a frustrated whine leaves his throat.
“Did you fall asleep?” you whisper, moving to lay down on the sofa, to get more comfortable in a horizonal position.
“Am still asleep.” Joe murmurs softly and chases the warmth of your body, easily accepts the legs that swing over his lap and then lets himself slump over your hip.
In a weird tangle of bodies, you smile at Joe’s face that presses and rubs into your stomach. You ignore whatever else his nuzzling makes you feel.
You let your head fall back and softly pat his head as you sigh, feeling the most comfortable you think you might have ever felt.
Joe sighs too, deep slow breath in, deep slow breath out, but then you still your hand and he let’s a little frustrated huff leave him.
It’s clear what he wants. What he’s after.
You’re surprised he hadn't moved your hand into his hair sooner, if you’re honest.
Your fingers slide into his hair and scratch over his scalp. You can see how Joe’s lips part slightly as his face relaxes and you silently wonder if you would do this with any of your other friends. If Joe would.
It takes literal seconds for Joe to fall back asleep, and the last thing you see is your TV, asking if you’re still watching.
You told Joe earlier that you never know what people want, that you’re never sure about what they’re after.
It’s all lies.
You know what you want, and you think you have a fairly good idea about what Joe’s after as well.
Right now that’s soft warm wonderful sleep whilst slow fingers lovingly stroke gently across his scalp. It’s having comfort food and a nice drink that warms you from the inside out. It’s watching a film on a snug sofa that holds just enough space for two bodies to fall asleep on. It’s to forget about anything else for a moment.
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