Under Control.

chapter forty three.

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In the midst of the hurricane that was touring, and the band, and everything and everyone who whirled dizzyingly along with it, there was peace still to be found. And for Julian, that peace came in the shape of Nora.

The idea of a morning on tour being anything other than a hellish, aching fuzz of hangover and anxiety seemed impossible to him. That's what had become his routine, and, he figured, might have formed half a reason as to why he'd become so miserable, of late — not only inside his own self, but to be around at times, as well. Julian was well aware that he was coping, and not particularly well, at that. But it was all he could do to get through a day at this point. Or, so he had thought. Until he had spent the better part of the last fortnight waking up before lunch, showering and getting dressed under a rain of giggles and kisses, and then having himself a breakfast that consisted of more food and less alcohol.

Nora wasn't an early riser, per-say. She woke when Julian did, and even if she was technically awake before him she was always content just to lie in and wait, warm in the circle of his arms, and to be there with him when he finally managed to finally emerge again into the daylight. Often they'd stay where they woke for a spell too long, talking or not, enjoying the peacefulness and each other, and then fingertips or lips would wander and ticklish giggles would ensue — those which almost always ended up echoing around the bathroom under a fog of steam and amongst a plethora of suds, a warm rush with which to welcome in the new day.

Julian didn't like washing his own hair, but he liked it when Nora washed it for him. So always he'd let her, her slippery front laid against his sudsy back, her fingertips skimming though his wild mane. And without fail, every morning he'd fall in love with her a little bit impossibly more when she'd carefully shield his eyes while she rinsed the citrusy scented bubbles from his hair before dropping a kiss onto his lips to let him know that she was done.

They'd chatter easily while they dressed, and Julian would do his very best to cause a delicious distraction while Nora attempted to find lost lingerie or anything clean that was left amongst her suitcase, the one that was left open on the floor next to his. Then, once she'd won the battle against his hungry hands and eyes and lips, they'd tumble from the room and downstairs — sometimes into the dining room, and other times out onto the street or into a cab — in search of something to eat.

Everyone had noticed that Julian looked slightly more alive than he had done in seemingly forever. He was less hungover and better nourished, having been eating at least two actual meals a day — breakfast, then dinner, with lunch usually had on the run). He was generally more pleasant to be around, and so even though it hadn't been spoken about — Nora's being around, what she and Julian were doing together, or what their plans for the future might have been — it was hard to argue that them, together, wasn't a good thing.

Not even Albert could deny it, anymore.

And so, they just were — they were together, and everyone knew it. Everyone, including the two of them.

Somewhere, amongst all of the late night whispers, early morning pillow-talk, and day-to-day sweet nothings, Nora and Julian had both settled into the idea that they were doing this — that they were together, dating and in a relationship. Quiet promises had been made in the dark and in the light now, too. They had been made fully clothed and absolutely bare, across table tops and under bed sheets. They had been made with wide-opened eyes, and blissfully shut ones. They had been made every which way they could be, and now, it was just a simple fact.

Nora and Julian were together.

And there was nothing they or anyone else could do about it.

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Their bags were packed, both of them, and sitting propped up by the door.

Julian was laid across the unmade bed, his face buried in the wilds of Nora's hair. Nora was draped across him, her leg tangled between his, her nose pressed against the jut of his tanned collarbone. It was the only part of him that ever smelled like sunshine. The rest of him was nighttime, and coolness, but the skin just below the hollow of his neck was always warm.

'Ryan gave you the thing?' Julian mumbled reluctantly, saying something, anything, just for the sake of it.

He already knew that, yes, Ryan had given to Nora a copy of their schedule. They both knew that he'd never be able to keep track of it himself, but Julian had wanted Nora to know where they where, and when. He wanted to be as honest as he could be about everything, because he wanted this to work. He wanted to be able to keep this feeling he had with Nora alive, even when he was states or oceans away and sorely out of reach. And he wanted to do it for her, but also for himself. Because he liked feeling this way — loved, and happy — and he wanted to protect it.

'Mmm-hmm, yep.'

Nora's voice was a vibrato hum against Julian's skin. She had it — the list, all the bits of paper that let her know how to find him, at what times and where. She figured that once she got home she'd put it on the fridge, or maybe she'd carry it around in her bag with her to have to all times. She wasn't sure when she might get the sudden urge to have him — to hear him or remind herself that he was real, and so was this, was them, together. But they were real, and their togetherness was actual.

They'd managed to get here this time. And that's why this part stung so much — the leaving.

It's why Julian's shirt held the whisper of a blotchy stain, all salt water and love. And it's why Julian's heart was rattling in his ribcage, and his hands were shaky where they held Nora's body to his.

It's why he ignores the knell on the door again, this time for the third time, just so he can kiss her again once more before they both have to leave.

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The postcards start turning up three days before Nora gets home.

They're scattered across the floor of her apartment along with bills and junk mail, bright little notes littered with colour and chicken-scratch scrawl waiting for her when she comes through the door. There's more than three, one for each day, and they're each a thought of their own, run-on and rambling but sweet and wanting.

They're dated and numbered so that she can put them all together into one, long, sequential letter when she's ready, And so she reads them in bed on the first night she's back, and back in her bed, alone for the first time in a long time, missing him, and waiting for the phone to ring out in the silvery darkness.

Julian loves her.

Nora knows that before she reads the postcards. But she knows it somehow more, after. Afterwards, she's sure.

The cards are each fragments of feelings and bits of songs, and things Julian has thought of while he was with her just before she'd left, and while he was without her, too. He has things to say about mistakes made, and how much he's missed her.

He wants her to know that he doesn't want to miss her anymore, and what he thinks are the differences between missing her being with him, and missing what he can't have.

He makes promises, and he wants to keep them. He promises to try as hard as he possibly can to be the kind of man who can keep his word, and be good.

He wants to be the kind of man he imagines she deserves, and he wants her to want him. And she does, and he knows that. But he still wants it, anyway.

He wants her to know what he thinks of her while he's with her, inside her, all around her. And, he wants her to know how he thinks about her while she's gone.

He wants her to know about the plans he has made for how they'll be together when he gets back — when he's home, back with her.

And so he tells her, and then he tells Nora what makes a home and how for him, right now, it's her.

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