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He never intended to happen to you.
But it was past eleven and the lounge had to close at one point or another, as the last two patrons taking your forced leave side by side, awkward first impressions while stepping on and off the curb. You lied that company stood you up, but it’s okay; he came alone, too.
He’s cute though perhaps nothing to write home about, but then he smiles with his entire face and no, nevermind, he’s handsome and there’s warm acuity in his eyes that speak volumes; not even acquainted for double-digit minutes and his charm had you smitten.
Idle chatter about regular things, safe things, nothing to spark intrigue until whoops, you did, and then it was I’ve loved photography since before I could pronounce the word, and did you catch that exhibit in the upper west end? They did a featurette on this local artist, last week around the 5th? Wait, you were there? Hah, that’s insane! Must have missed you…
And when an hour passed and brought with it later night and brisk chill, when stars might have been visible if not for the light pollution, it was you offering him your jacket; poking fun at his choice to go sleeveless this early into spring, snickering when his biceps bulged around the smaller sleeves, telling him you break it, you buy it, laughter echoing down the empty streets. Noting it was late, that you should go. That he agreed.
The sharing of a cab, allowing him first to provide a destination; Bravely repeating his address when asked for yours. Why did he have to wink? Why was it your kryptonite?
You never fathomed ever making out with someone in the back of a taxi, let alone go home with a stranger, but there you were, and there he was.
How he’d dropped the keys through a crack in the landing, the awkward request for your cellphone’s torch when he couldn’t find them in the darkness.
How very un-awkward it was when he stopped at the landing to help you out of your zipped-up boots, how he maintained eye contact and offered the gentlest of touches. How it’s perfect. How he’s radiant in moonlight, platinum bangs falling in his eyes.
You had to remind yourself he’s still a stranger even as he held both your hands leading to the bedroom, grabbing for them again after he undressed you, threatened to break his fingers as he ate you out, intertwining digits like your legs as you fucked. But could it be called fucking, after all? Every motion organic and fluid and soft, Gods was he infinitely soft with you, bodies rolling together, the sheets splayed and tucked in crevices and pulled up from the mattress at the corner.
He embraced you afterwards, legs pretzeled, panting. Should you leave? Was this how it was done? But then “W-will you stay, a bit longer?” and his voice cracked just a touch and it was enough to melt diamonds.
It’d been ages since you last stayed up all night talking with someone about everything and anything, absentminded stroking of their skin, unable to fall asleep because the talk is good, and he’s infinitely interesting and kind; what luck you’d struck happening upon him that night.
And when your stomach growled at three am he laughed, a lilting melodical laugh that made your chest flutter, tugging you out of bed half-dressing yourselves, throwing on whatever shirt he tossed towards you (that happened to be his) scrambling to tug on your underwear and going into the kitchen to find a nighttime snack. Sitting side-by-side on the counter top passing a tub of rocky road back and forth. For some reason he found it hilarious and then a fit of giggles happened and you nearly fell off, but he held your waist tight and then giggles turned into the softest kiss you’d ever received.
The ice cream melted into soup as he told you more about himself; his love for animals, how he needed stitches when he was eleven from a falling tree branch, how he can’t stand the taste of coffee but drinks it to stay awake, how the last time he saw his parents there was snow on the ground.
To call him a stranger anymore seemed unfair.
You shared stories of your youth, your fears, the time you triumphed over the monster beneath your bed and even the story behind the scar on your elbow and he listened. He listened and wanted to know it all, everything, Six above he cared like few ever had about your seemingly unexciting life.
You told him of your first kiss and he tried to mimic it, replicating the bumping foreheads and the nose to the cheek and like that you were doubled over again, face pained from smiles and laughter. He whispered “I don’t want this night to end.”
Neither did you.
And so the one night stand became a weekend spent together, confining yourselves in his home or exploring the city of Insomnia, hand in hand and barely out of eachother’s sight for two days straight. A drive around the city perimeter, music blaring on the stereo as he tried to sing over you and vice-versa, and oh, the candid photos he took. He captured your quiet moments, as you woke, mid-laugh and no, please delete that! I had my mouth wide open!
The sweet moments, a silhouette of sharing a kiss with the sun spilling into the living room. How he then put on the radio and asked you to dance, not having it when you said you couldn’t, how you swayed with him though the music wasn’t quite slow enough but then he was tucking hair behind your ear, “you’re stunning in sunlight,” kissing your temple, unaware how it made you tear up.
He told you of a trip he was leaving on, on Monday in fact. How he was so happy to have spent his last few days of rest with someone as wonderful as you. That he’d keep in touch, because he couldn’t imagine not. That he was already texting you on the subway ride home.
That he’d miss you. That he already did.
He could fall for you.
You could fall for him.
Could have, if not for Insomnia’s fall.
Four rings, your voicemail. Hangup and redial for the tenth, twentieth time. But that stuff never happens to the people you know. She’s okay, she’s probably busy with the aftermath.
You weren’t.
Texts were sent, messages that he was thinking of you, hoping you were safe, fun stuff from his day like pictures of fish the Prince had caught, a delicious meal his friend had cooked for their group, and many, many photos of the sunset, of the sunrise…they remind me of you, he’d write.
That he thought you were the start of something great in his life for a change. Texts to go forever unread.
When you never responded he’d been doubtful, that perhaps he was coming on too strong. Perhaps you were one to keep to yourself, maybe he’d wait for you to make the next move.
But you didn’t.
Eventually he’d lost a little faith, and sure it stung but he’d pick himself up, he could overcome this, right?
He thought that, until he read the paper in Lestallum.
Your name, among thousands, sticking out like a sordidly painful beacon.
He fell apart in front of everyone without moving a muscle, without shedding a tear, waiting until he was alone and behind closed doors to hit, kick, punch the wall, to let the pain spill out like tapping a vat of acid. But of course, he’d surmised, why think for a moment that he deserved happiness? Why offer himself the greatest feeling, greatest human feeling, when he was a poor excuse for one himself?
He still had your photos on his camera. He flicked through them until the battery drained, until he’d fallen asleep with it laying on the pillow next to his…
Waking at the sunlight peeking through the curtains, seeing you in every ray that glinted the windowpane.
Wiping swollen rims of his eyes, he smiled. Though it wouldn’t be easy for him to accept your fate, that the what if’s would always be what if’s, that you wouldn’t spend another all-nighter with him, slurping ice cream soup on his kitchen counters, dancing in the living room to the radio…
He leaned over and picked up his camera, powering it up though knowing it would die seconds after turning on due to the dead battery. He saw the last photo he’d ever taken of you; backlit by sunlight and smiling at him.
He kissed the screen until it went black.