Fresh Out The Slammer: Part One
circa 2019. ross is 29, its the notes era. imagine graham norton ross. there's a lot of waffling because I feel like I need to get back into the swing of writing, and also set the scene because this is going to be three parts! so apologies for that. i've missed you all so much and i'm just glad to be posting something for the first time in ages. i hope you're all okay i would love to hear what you've been up to in the, like, five months i've disappeared into the abyss for. I'M WAFFLING AGAIN. sorry. okay. fresh out the slammer! enjoy. i'm nervous. okay.
Word Count: 2,848
Part One: 'Now pretty baby, I'm running back home to you.'
Who were you supposed to call on nights like this? The question seemed to be the only thing your brain circled back to as tears streamed down your face, a sob caught in your throat, heels harsh and loud on the pavement, even over the chaos of muffled bars. Your 28th birthday, stood outside a club that you were probably too old to be at in the first place, phone vibrating with 'where r u???' - who were you supposed to call?
Your birthday didn't feel very worth celebrating when you looked back on the year you'd had, your freshly shattered heart stinging as a very raw memory of being walked out on a week earlier seared itself through your memory. He'd always been a dickhead, the kind of boyfriend who'd told you that he was the best thing to ever happen to you, or that the whole writing thing wouldn't work out, but what did you have if you didn't have him? He'd been a pillar in your life since, well, forever. He'd shown you your favourite holiday destination, your favourite wine, your favourite book - were you just a product of him? The thought panicked you. No, you were cool. You had loads of interests, and friends, and hobbies.
The one thing he'd not shown you was something you'd kept a secret from him.
Your favourite band.
Even now, your stomach twisted as you recalled him and your youth, nights tangled up in bed sheets and clumsy hands on sticky dance floors, the mere thought of his recurring aftershave sending a wave of nostalgia over you as you perched on the ledge, lighting up a cigarette. It'd been years since you'd spoken to Ross. Now that you thought about it, it was probably around the same time Charlie had come on the scene, private-schooled, 5'9, biology-studying Charlie. You'd ignored Ross' messages inviting you to their gigs out of guilt for Charlie (his ego would have been well and truly tarnished), reluctantly un-followed him on Instagram when there'd been questions asked about him, tried to pretend that there wasn't an invisible tattoo of his hand prints at your waist, the memory of his fingertips forever stained in your hair, remnants of his kisses on your starving lips. Nothing has ever come close to Ross, and you'd be lying if you said that when Charlie had been away for work, you'd replayed the reels of your nights together in your mind.
You looked at the time - 3:17.
His number probably wasn't even the same as the one you had in your phone.
You leaned your head back, looked up at the sky, squeezed your eyes shut. There's no way you were about to do this. He probably thinks you're a weirdo anyway, cutting contact like he'd been a random one-time snog in a club. He might not even be in the country, for all you knew, with his world-famous band and world-famous records and most likely world-famous girlfriend. You'd not thought about that up until now - his girlfriend. Perhaps non-existent, probably existent. Jealous curled up your spine, a sick feeling settling in your stomach.
It was like your hands weren't your own as you scrolled through your contacts, brain on auto-pilot and suddenly feeling 20 again, stood outside a bar at university, ringing him to come and get you. The picture you'd set all those years ago was still the same somehow, and it made you swallow heavily - his head pressed next to yours, hair swooped to one side and probably wearing a Hollister polo. You both looked so young. It stopped you in your tracks, almost. You thought of how different things could have been if you hadn't ran away from everything, panicked and settled down like you thought you'd wanted, let him go on tour with the band and forever have the 'what if' hanging in the windows of your newly-purchased house with Charlie. What a success that was.
You pressed it and waited. It rang. And it rang.
As if you'd thought he'd pick up. It probably came up as an unknown number. You felt daft as you held the phone to your ear, tears stinging at your eyes again. The only person you'd thought to call.
Your stomach dropped when the ringing came to a halt and you could hear crackling.
And then his voice. Sleepy, low, tired.
Familiar. Warm.
"Y/n? Can you hear me?" he repeated as you stood in silence, lips pressed together at the sound of his name down the line.
"Ross," you managed to choke out, running a hand through your hair.
"Is everything okay?" he sounded concerned and you could hear his footsteps across what sounded like a hardwood floor, pacing.
"I just..." You looked up again, swallowing. "I'm so sorry."
"Y/n/n? What's going on?" Coming to a halt, his voice softened.
"I'm in Manchester, and I guess I'm kind of lost? I don't know, it looks different than it used to, and I'm on my own. I don't know why I called, you're probably not even here, are you?"
There was silence from across the line for a second and you squeezed your eyes shut. If he didn't think you were crazy before, he definitely did now.
"No, I'm here. I'm in my flat." He said softly.
"Oh, right," Your head was spinning. "I'm sorry for bothering you, I just-"
"Whereabouts are you?"
You breathed in sharply.
"I'm not sure, it used to be that bar we went to every week, but it's changed now, it's a kebab shop, I think." You glance at the neon sign, voice shaky.
"Are you staying in a hotel or anything? I can order you an Uber, or-"
His voice crackled down the line.
"I was, but I've lost my friends, and I've had a drink and I can't call Charlie and I don't know what to do." Your throat feels tighter when you say it all out loud. "I don't know, I called you because it was the only thing I could think of, but it's fine, I can-"
"Stay there," you can hear him moving around, "I'm leaving now."
It felt like an eternity between him hanging up the phone and arriving, perhaps because all you could do was think about how you've ended up here.
The car pulled up slowly and your stomach dropped, the window rolling down and his smile visible as he ducked his head.
It was like your feet were frozen to the ground for a second. His lips curved at the sides, hair messy and just as dark as you remembered it, but his eyes were older. They creased at the corners a little, slightly darker, a bit more tired. It wasn't just you who'd been trying to figure things out since you graduated, exhausted by the demands of post-graduate existence.
"Just move that, sorry." he mumbled as you opened the car door, throwing an empty water bottle onto the backseats. His eyes seemed immovable for a second, like he was having the same thought process as you. You felt intensely vulnerable for a second, and suddenly remembered the ladder in your tights and the mascara stained cheeks that faced him.
"God, it's been so-"
"I've missed you-"
You both started at the same time, an airy laugh escaping as you let the silence consume you.
He started the car without another word. It took everything in you not to stare, or cry, or say how much you'd missed him and how sorry you were that you'd abandoned it all. Instead, you kept your gaze forward, drinking in the streets you'd traipsed as a student.
"We're here." he glanced at you, pulling up outside an apartment block.
"Oh, you didn't need to bring me here, it's okay, I think there's a Premier Inn up the road." You furrowed your brows at him, shaking your head and starting to rifle through your bag. "I've got my card, it's fine, I-"
"It's fine." He said with a slight smile, shaking his head. "You can stay at mine. 'Will be nice to have the company."
You smiled at him softly, in the way you might smile at a cashier or your boss. It felt strange, transactional, like maybe there was a void between the two of you. You'd put it there.
"Thank you." You said quietly, following him out of the car and up the steps.
The lift was creaky and you closed your eyes for a second, the tiredness hitting you. The past two weeks had been a lot, and you'd thought a night out might fix everything.
His flat was just as you'd expected it to be. Records and CDs and books on every available surface, a scattering of guitar picks, some empty mugs, a weeks' worth of unopened post.
"Is it just you that lives here?" You asked as you stood awkwardly in the kitchen, watching him as he put the kettle on and grabbed two mugs. A Macclesfield FC one, and a souvenir one from Germany, it seemed.
He nodded with a hum, glancing at you. "You can get comfy, it's fine."
The fluorescent kitchen light felt exposing as you slid your heels off, placing them neatly by the door with your bag. He handed you the cup of tea promptly after and you followed him into the living room. It was spacious, yet the sheer amount of stuff everywhere made it feel lived in.
"Why couldn't you ring Charlie?" he asked after at least five minutes of the two of you pretending to watch whatever random Top of the Pops repeat that BBC 2 had shoved on for the 4am slot. He looked at you intently, but his tone was calm, simply wondering.
"We've split up." You looked down at the mug, mouth drying out. "About a week ago."
"I'm sorry to hear it." He said after a beat, looking back to the TV.
"Don't be." I shook my head, lips pursed. "Wasn't as good as it seemed, all that house-owner, engaged shit."
His gaze softened, but you could sense his sadness for you.
It's strange, to sit in a room with someone you once slept with on the regular, thought you were going to marry, like people do when they're 19, and feel like you know nothing about them. You could mentally draw him, the identical placement of the birthmark on his right hip, the exact colour of his eyes, yet you couldn't identify which bedroom was his in this flat, or what he'd had for tea the night before.
"I'm sorry for calling you at this time." You said meekly, looking back at the TV.
"I was awake anyway, it's okay." He glanced at you. "It was nice to see your name on my phone."
"I'm sorry for not calling sooner, then." You corrected your earlier statement, watching as his lips tilted into the oh-so-familiar smile your fingers had traced over countless times.
"I missed hearing from you."
"I missed hearing from you, too."
The silence was deafening, almost claustrophobic as you inhaled deeply. His eye contact faltered, skitting back to the TV, blinking heavily. You wondered what he was thinking, whether memories of you under him were also still as fresh in his mind as if they'd happened yesterday.
He downed the last of his tea, sitting forward.
"There's a spare room across from mine, down the hallway. Feel free to get a shower, use some of the clothes in those drawers, whatever you need."
"Thanks." You placed the half empty mug next to his on the coffee table. "Do you have any paracetamol or anything? I can't really hack hangovers anymore, even if it is just a couple of cocktails."
"Could you ever hack hangovers?" He teased as he stood up, walking into the kitchen. You blushed - so he was thinking about those mornings, too.
He handed you the box to take to bed with you, showing you the bedroom.
"There's a clean towel in the bathroom," he pointed to the on-suite, "I'm just in here if you need anything." His neck craned to look into the bedroom behind you, pointing to the bathroom and drawers, but you could only look at him. His tan skin, his tousled hair, neat, tidy beard, the chest hair that poked from the top of his t shirt.
Standing across from each other in the hallway, you could see into his bedroom. Light green sheets, a book next to his bed, a pair of jeans thrown over the end of the bed-frame. You wanted to know him again. To know him, and his life, and his body. Charlie was superficial - his lavish proposals, extravagant holidays, Instagram posts declaring you as 'the love of his life' and lonely nights spent waiting for him to get back from a boys night out. Ross was everything. He was 'picking you up at 3am', remembering how you liked your tea after 7 years apart, dark eyes and curls and haphazardly strewn clothes and empty beer cans on bedsides and you.
"Thank you, again, for letting me stay over." you looked up at him, his gaze already fixed on you.
"It's not a problem."
A second passed before you turned on your heel, a shaky nervous hand reaching for the doorknob.
"Night," You said, with a small smile.
"Night."
You closed the door and watched his turn away, broad shoulders disappearing into the opposite room.
The shower was hot, steaming up the bathroom, as you turned it on. You'd dug out a stripy t-shirt and some joggers you could roll up from the back of the wardrobe.
You tipped your head back in the shower, letting the hot water run over you. The shower gel lathered against your skin, and it felt symbolic, to be washing away the day, the thoughts of Charlie, the fake smiles of your fake friends in fake, pose-y bars. Ross had always felt real to you, the realest thing in this city. He'd been brutally honest with you when you'd needed it, soft with you when he knew he had to be. The memory of your fight flashed into your mind - the last day before you went back home after graduation, tears in his eyes, down your cheeks, raised voices and a final, slammed door. Your eyes opened quickly as you remembered how you'd told him you wanted stability, not to follow his 'silly band around the world'. You hated yourself for it, even now. He's been hurt, like it had meant nothing to either of you, the way you'd got into your car and drove back to your parents with blurred vision, Car Seat Headrest blasting through the stereo as you fled the scene.
You thought about him laid across the hall. Was he wide awake? You tossed over onto your side, duvet pulled up to your neck. It must've been about 5am. You willed yourself to just fall asleep. The sound of floorboards creaking forced your eyes open, but they hushed as soon as they'd chorused through the flat.
The smell of coffee was the thing that roused you from your sleep. So I did sleep, you thought.
His back was to you as you entered the kitchen, the rustle of the TV and clanging of utensils echoing off the walls.
"Morning," You yawned, smiling as he jumped and turned to you. His gaze trailed up and then back down for a second, the sight of you in his clothes clearly taking him by surprise.
"Did you sleep okay?" He smiled. His hair was flat on one side, sleepy eyes, crinkled t-shirt. You nodded, heat rushing to your stomach at the sight of him. "Did you?". He just hummed in reply, pouring water in the mugs.
You sat and ate scrambled eggs on toast. You talked about work. You discussed the rugby, each other's siblings, old uni friends. It felt comfortable, and right, and you had to catch yourself when you stared at him for too long and began to picture doing this every morning.
"We leave soon, though."
"Leave?" You asked, sipping your orange juice.
"Yeah, for tour." He looked up at you from his plate. "Next Wednesday."
Next Wednesday, for tour.
You felt silly for thinking your lives would be sewn together seamlessly, that you would fit into his world like you'd never left.
There wasn't much conversation after that, and it was like you could read his mind for a second. He'd said that to warn you, to prepare you, because he too was imagining this as a constant. This wasn't going to work, and you both knew it. You wanted it to, desperately, and when you left his flat that morning, your eyes welled like they had that fateful day in 2011.
You'd hugged him tightly before you'd left, his arms around your waist firmly, yours around his neck. He was going away for a year, touring the world, and you were going back to your mum and dad's, because where else could you go?