Chapter Text
The chill in the air is foreign to my skin. Thick, low-hanging clouds slurp at the goings-on below, turning the greenery of the park more verdant and dappling the brick shops and townhomes with dark spots.
I love it. My bones love it. Even my hair loves it – she curls happily around my face, grateful for the change in atmosphere. Back home, summer is already in full swing, brutal and unyielding and sticky.
My phone pings from my bag and I fish it out.
Noah: Are you here yet?
I snap a photo of some bright yellow daffodils and send it.
N: We’re officially on the same continent. Thought I was going to have to avenge your death when you stopped responding.
My heart flutters at the thought of our closeness. After more than three years of being separated by the Atlantic, we’ve never been so close. I wonder where he is, what he's doing – whether he's a mirror of myself in this moment, grinning idiotically down at his phone.
M: Ahhh, sorry! I got turned around on the train. Not sure if I’m in the right place, but I wouldn’t be mad about it. It’s beautiful here.
N: Where are you staying?
I send a screenshot of my hotel’s booking confirmation email.
N: Yes, you’re in the right place. I’m proud of you.
M: I might just sleep here. I could make a bed out of the daffodils.
N: I wouldn’t.
M: Why not?
N: Don’t let the daffodils fool you. That park sees loads of nefarious activity after sundown.
M: Ooooo, spooky!
N: Let me know when you’re safe inside.
The park path winds like a river through patches of daffodils – butter yellow and white with deep orange centers. Two cherry blossom trees in full bloom flank the exit, blush blossoms dipping low to the ground. It smells like heaven. The hotel is in a faded Georgian townhouse, nearly identical to the others in its row bordering the park. It’s nothing fancy, but it's cute – quaint and cozy and unpretentious.
After checking in at the front desk and hauling my bags up three flights, I drop my things and scream into a pillow, both panic and excitement fizzing in my chest. The panic is unwarranted. Without a doubt, Noah knows me better than I know myself. There hasn’t been a day since we first met – not a single one, and I’ve kept count – that we haven’t spoken.
Warmth creeps up my neck when the memory of the first time I heard his voice pops into my head. It was late for him – 6 hours ahead of my own time zone – and his voice was raspy with sleep. We talked for nearly twelve hours, until the sun rose on his side of the world and I slipped unknowingly into sleep.
I pull my phone back out and snap a selfie. It’s blurry and not attractive at all, but I send it anyway.
M: I’m here. I’m alive. No avenging needed.
A few minutes go by and he replies: Hi.
M: Hi.
N: Are you hungry?
M: Always.
N: What are you in the mood for?
M: Everything.
I can almost hear him laughing.
N: Want to grab dinner with me?
My heart lurches and my fingers freeze over the keyboard. Before I can reply, typing bubbles appear on the screen.
N: We don’t have to if you’re not ready. I don’t want you to feel pressured.
M: No, no, believe me, I am VERY ready. For both you and food. Mostly you, though.
He sends me a link to a pub called The Emerald Mare. My stomach growls pointedly within seconds of opening the menu.
N: Does this sound okay?
M: Yes, yes, and yes. It may take me some time to navigate the public transportation, but I will be there.
N: Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll come get you.
M: My hero!
I send a gif of a swooning cartoon woman, which seems much more devil-may-care than the butterflies rioting in my stomach.
N: I can be there as soon as you’d like. What’s a good time?
M: Give me one hour. I need to scour the airport off my skin before I re-enter the public sphere.
N: Take as long as you need. I’ll meet you in the park around 5. Try not to injure yourself.
M: Yeesh, go easy on me. It was one time!
He sends an eye-rolling emoji and I plug my phone in, remembering when he'd kept me company on the phone during a manic cleaning spree last year. I'd been distracted, replying animatedly to something he said, when I lost my footing and busted a knee open. One trip to the ER, seven stitches, and a likely permanent twinge would keep him from ever letting me forget it.
N: I'll see you soon.
The shower isn’t nearly hot or strong enough, but I savor every second of it. Reality sits on the surface of my skin, refusing to fully sink in. I’m not nervous to see him… In fact, I’m the opposite. I’m elated - I feel like I'm glowing. What I am nervous about is that he’s going to see me. Years of self criticism creep out of cobwebbed corners, where I've worked so hard to lock them away, but I shove away the doubts one by one. I can hear Noah's incredulity in my head as if he’s in there himself, calling me a muppet in his gentle, loving way.
I've never been more careful stepping out of the shower. When I make it out unharmed, I send a silent prayer into the cosmos.
It’s chilly outside, but I’m burning up and can’t stand the idea of wearing layers. A compromise is struck by pairing a t-shirt with jeans and thick boots, yanking my favorite green sweater out of my bag for when I regret my choices later. I managed to keep most of my hair dry in the shower, but the edges around my face curl wildly where I failed to dodge the spray, so I pile as much of it as I can on top of my head. A quick glance in the mirror confirms my suspicions - wide-eyed, pink-faced, disheveled - but I count each determined step out of the room until the door is locked behind me.
The walk downstairs and across the street is both too long and too short. Everything stands out in stark relief against the steely sky. The rumble of the train echoes out of the Underground station a couple of blocks away and a police siren wails in the distance, thin and watery and alien to my American ears. There are a few people in the park – a mother and child holding hands, an old man reading on a bench, a woman on a bicycle.
And then I see him.
Although I’ve never seen him in person, countless hours of video chatting make it obvious. Noah is tall and wiry and broad-shouldered, facing away from me, hands clasped behind his back. He glances over his shoulder, eyebrows pinched in concern, but the moment we lock eyes, his face shifts into a heart-melting, knee-weakening smile.
“I must’ve sensed your presence,” he says, turning to face me.
I think I’m blacking out. It feels like I’m floating closer to him, paralyzed. His eyes are the most verdant shade of green - rich, dark green like the sweater slung over my bag - deep set and framed by thick, dark lashes.
“It’s you,” I say, breathless. I’m an idiot.
“You are not an idiot,” he laughs as we stop in front of one another.
“Oops. Did I say that out loud?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head and holding back another laugh. “But the look on your face gave it away.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
We both grin at the repeat of our earlier text exchange. It’s our thing, our schtick. And saying it to one another now – in person, only feet apart – is surreal. I’m afraid if I touch him, this whole illusion will be shattered, because it surely can't be real. The thought of leaving this moment actually elicits a jolt of pain.
“Can I hold you?” His voice is soft and tentative. He studies my face with apprehension, gaze flicking down to my hands, my mouth, then back to my eyes.
“I was just thinking that I have to be dreaming. I'm afraid if I touch you, I'll wake up.”
His lips quirk up to one side. “Well, we'll never know if we don't try."
“Good point."
Noah moves slowly, cautiously. One hand slips into mine and he pulls me into his chest. He smells like… home. If you’d asked me a half hour earlier, I would’ve bet big money that my heart would be going haywire – but here we stand, and I’m calm as can be. He seems to be, too. With my ear pressed just above his heart, I can hear it thumping a steady rhythm.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” he whispers, lips moving against my hair.
“Ditto.” I let loose a long breath, squeezing tighter.
“Shall we?” Noah asks, pulling back just far enough to look down at me. I tighten my grip, which makes it difficult to tilt my head back, and I’m staring at his throat instead of his face.
“We can't separate now or I'll wake up from this really, really good dream,” I chide, clicking my tongue. “I tried to warn you.”
“You also warned me that you were hungry.”
“Yes, but this is more important.” With theatrical timing, my stomach growls and Noah explodes into laughter. I want to eat the sound of it. Without loosening his grip, he walks backward and I stumble along to keep up.
“If you starve, we won’t get any quality time together. Mourning is not a pleasant look on me.”
“Are you kidding?” I frown. “You’d look great in mourning. All black is the best look.”
“You’re just saying that because you have a kink for men in black.”
The old man reading on the bench smiles at us as we waddle awkwardly past.
“That’s not fair. I like Sleep Token for their music. The aesthetics are an entertaining bonus.”
Noah maneuvers us so that we’re pressed side to side, sliding an arm around me as if he’s done it a thousand times.
“Whatever you say,” he replies with a grin. I’m struck by it. I’m struck by his smile, by the warmth of his arm around my shoulder - by the way it feels both hallucinatory and fundamentally familiar.
“Are you excited to see them on Friday?”
“I don’t know if ‘excited’ cuts it.” It’s been years of waiting to see Sleep Token perform. Flying to London solo for a single concert elicited mixed reaction from friends and family, but it was a minimal sacrifice for a monumental experience.
“Exhilarated?”
“Not quite.”
“Hmm… Rapturous?”
“Close, but nope.”
He laughs and squeezes me.
“I feel like I’m on fire… but in a good way. Does that help? Is there a good word for that?”
“Aflame,” he says.
“Eh,” I reply, shrugging. “It’ll do.”
“Shall I buy an emergency extinguisher?”
I sigh, disappointed. “You won’t even be there to extinguish me in case of emergency. What am I going to do if I go up in flames?”
He looks down at me, green eyes sparking, and my heart does a somersault.
“Then again, death by fire isn’t the worst option,” I mumble.
“I have an in with security at that venue. I’ll have them on the lookout.”
We reach the Emerald Mare a minute or an hour or a hundred years later. It’s small and cozy and tucked away from the busy street, around the corner of an alley. Given we’re in one of the world’s most populated cities, the relatively quiet walk was a nice surprise. There’s a rugby game on and a group of balding middle-aged friends gather around the TV behind the bar to spectate. Other than the rugby group, a couple sitting at the bar, and the bartender himself, we’re the only people here.
Noah waves at the bartender, who waves back, before leading me to a booth along the row of stained glass windows. Silvery afternoon light filters in through the colored panes, casting our section of the pub in whirling technicolor patterns. I scoot in on one side, curling onto my knees, while he hesitates. When I frown and pat the seat next to me, his face splits into a mischievous grin before he slides into the seat opposite me.
“I want to be able to look at you properly,” he replies when I pout, reaching across the table to take my hands. His long fingers are strikingly graceful, thumbs tracing soothing circles on the insides of my wrists.
“Hi,” I say, breathless.
He smiles lopsidedly and my heart breaks. “Hi.”
“Is this real?”
Noah looks around in faux horror and removes his hands from my grip to test the reality of our situation – knocking on the gnarled wood tabletop, pinching himself, and then gently pinching my arm. Impatiently, I pull his hands back across the table.
“Listen,” I tell him sternly, “I’ve had dreams eerily similar to this before. You can’t blame me for requiring some insurance.”
His amusement fades for a moment and he stares at me, into me, as if he needs the same insurance. There must be molten lava in my veins, not something so boring as blood.
“I am afraid that you might blackout if we don’t feed you soon, though.”
"Oh, yeah." I forgot – I’m fucking starving. I must have made a face, because he presses his lips into a tight line, eyes glittering with humor.
Before he can stand to grab menus, the bartender comes around, greeting Noah with familiarity. It strikes me how warm Noah is in conversation – a piece of him I already knew about, but it’s something else entirely to see it in action. My heart's going berserk. He introduces me and the bartender makes a sly face.
“So this is her, eh?”
"This is her.”
Under other circumstances, I may have been shy, shrinking back into the booth – but today, I feel like the most fearless, authentic version of myself. I feign discomfort and shoot him an accusatory look.
“What have you been telling this poor man?”
“Oh, just the basics – beautiful, brown-eyed, homicidal…”
"Darling," I scold, "You forgot to mention the toe fetish.
The bartender – I find out that his name is Pete – takes our order, winking as he leaves. Time passes strangely in our little booth. What seems like seconds later, Pete returns with two frothy beers, then a piping hot plate of fish and chips for me and a shepherd's pie for Noah. The fish is fried to golden perfection, buttery and melty and, best of all, served with a side of crispy fries.
"Chips," Noah corrects me with a scornful shake of his head.
By the time we finish our food, the pallid afternoon light has shifted into warm sunset hues, saturating the stained glass so that it casts multicolored patches across our booth. Noah's face is half orange and half blue, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see a patch of green washing over my own face. The rugby crowd is still bantering amongst themselves, but the sound of their jeers is diluted by the bubble we're solidly inside of.
"Are you still up for company on your half of the booth?"
"I don't know if there's enough room for you over here. You missed out on a great opportunity earlier."
"Oh?" Noah asks, raising his eyebrows.
Just to prove a point, I stretch my body out dramatically so there's no room left left. Undeterred, Noah grips my ankles under the table and shoves my legs aside, taking his place.
"Seems to me that there's plenty of room."
When I readjust to face Noah, cross-legged with my back to the window, my head swims with intoxication - from being near him, or from the beer and a half I've neatly put away, I'm not sure. He twists to face me with an arm slung over the back of the booth. I could spend the rest of my life frozen in this moment and be totally fine with it. His dark hair is longer than it's been in a while – almost long enough to tuck behind an ear – and I want to touch it so badly my fingers are tingling.
Maybe it's the alcohol or maybe I've just lost control of my impulses, but I reach out and slip my fingers into his hair, marveling at how silky it is. If I hadn't been watching his eyes, I might've thought he hadn't reacted to my touch – but something in them sparks and then I'm tracing his jaw, the long line of his nose, the arch of his brow.
"You're really here," I breathe. "I still can't believe you're real."
He's quiet for a moment, watching me closely, then mutters something so low I can barely hear it. "It feels... unquenchable. I'll never get enough of you."
Tears well before I can even begin to reason myself out of crying. When I swipe at them, Noah gently pulls my hand away from my face and thumbs the tears away with the most aching tenderness.
"Kiss me, please."
"You want our first official kiss to be in a pub?"
"I don't care where it is," I reply too quickly, voice inching toward pleading.
The way his expression shifts – playful smile fading into total focus – has desire detonating in my chest. The hand curved around my face slips around to cup the back of my neck, fingers sliding up into my hair. He doesn't break eye contact as he leans in and even if I wanted to, I couldn't, either.
When our lips are near enough to share breath, he pauses to reach around my back with his free hand and scoot me closer.
"Hurry up," I whisper.
Just to be contrary, Noah ever-so-softly grazes his mouth against mine. I'm rocked with a surprisingly violet, involuntary shiver and he finally – thank fuck – gives in.
Nothing could've prepared me for such an immeasurable, wrecking sort of bliss. His lips are soft and warm and I can feel the tension evaporate from his body when we come together. My mouth parts as I try to soak up every molecule of this moment. When his tongue slides along the curve of my bottom lip, my self-control takes a determined leap into the abyss and I crawl into his lap, nearly knocking him backwards out of the booth. He doesn't shy away, though, and gathers me even closer. The arm wrapped around my waist crushes me into his chest, but I'm still overcome with the feeling that it's not tight enough - that no amount of contact will ever be enough.
I think I let out a whimper, but I can't tell if I'm hallucinating, if it's part of my own internal monologue... or if I actually made a noise. Across the bar, there’s a round of raucous applause and hearty cheers from the rugby pals, but my brain barely registers it.
"Ready for the bill, then?" the bartender interrupts cheekily, standing with his back to us in a mock gesture of privacy. Noah kisses me quickly once, twice, then presses one lingering kiss to my mouth before prying me away to reach for his wallet.
When I fuss about him paying for my meal, he studiously ignores me, leaving a stack of bills before sliding out of the booth and holding a hand out for me.
"I think I need a minute." I am dazed and entirely unsure whether my legs are going to function.
"Should I get you some water?" he asks, only half-concerned.
"More like a fire extinguisher."
I haul myself out of the booth and catch my balance by using Noah's body, for the excuse to touch him again as much as for the convenience.
"Fuck's sake. You told me you were a lightweight, but I didn't know it'd only take one beer."
"It was a beer and a half. And I'm not intoxicated," I snap back. "Not because of the beer, anyway."
"Whatever you say, you bloody drunkard. Let's get you some fresh air."
I don't want to leave. I never want to leave. A cloak of anxiety drops heavily over me, and I halt in my tracks.
"I'm not ready to go home."
"I didn't say the night was over, love. We can do whatever you want."
"Oh. Whatever I want?" I grin impishly up at him and he laughs, ushering me outside with a hand on the small of my back.
"That depends. What did you have in mind?"