Hold Me Close

why the fuck is alba here?

Alexia has got to stop putting Catalan TV shows on and expecting me to sit there and watch them with her. Usually, I'll wait around five minutes before pushing her down on the sofa, sometimes to distract her, other times to fall asleep. It's unfair that today I can't afford to be groggy from a nap, and have been surviving on three coffees since training ended.

Bored out of my mind and with places to be, I make a move, unfurling my legs and planting my feet onto the floor. Stopped by a loud protest, I turn to Alexia with a frown. "I don't want to watch it," I say, tired of lying for her sake. Jaimie is already bullying me about turning from orange to red. (It's not true.)

"But it's so good!" She grabs my wrist, pulling me back down.

"I need to get ready."

"Get ready for what? To finish season three with me?" She scoffs, "amor, if anything, I'd want you to get undressed." She places a kiss on my knuckles with the intent of trailing up my forearm until she reaches my bicep, but I catch her chin with my free hand and shake my head.

"To go out with the team." Her confusion is evident, head tilted to the side, lips puckered but frozen in a pout. "Were you not invited, capi?" She mumbles something I don't hear, and I see the clock hands point dangerously close to the time Mapi said we'd leave by. "Ale, I promised, and I don't like being late."

"I thought we were going to stay in," she says quietly. "But you're... going out?"

"Well, yeah. Ingrid asked me to."

"So you're actually going to go?"

"Why do I get the sense that you turned down the invitation?"

The blankets on the sofa rustle against the cushions as she shifts her weight in a fidgeting guiltiness. "No." It's a lie. "No, no. I am coming too. Go, get ready. See you in..."

"An hour," I provide, saving her ego because I really do like her and one must sacrifice victories for those they–

"Yes! An hour, of course. Vístete, amor, y nos vemos prontito."

"And Ingrid and Mapi."

"And Ingrid and Mapi," she parrots. "Esmee, too."

I shake my head, amused by her failing attempt to cover up what she must have perceived to be a nice quiet night between the two of us; "no, she has university work to do. She's offered to pick me up if it's not too late, and then tomorrow she'd agreed to fetch breakfast."

There's a pause, and I hear Alexia's heart thump against her chest.

Then, curious and as cocky as she can make her recovery seem, "what are you going to wear?"

I smirk. "You'll see." With that, I escape her apartment as though it were filled with spiders and race downstairs to get myself sorted with as brilliant of an outfit as I've indirectly promised.

Esmee does not appreciate the sea of clothes I have drowned her bedroom in. She looks up from her laptop, typical unimpressed expression pencilled across her bored lips, eyes flickering down to the screen as she sees my face as if she has to force herself to care about my problems.

It is only when she takes in my wide eyes and pleading pout for help does she sigh – unnecessarily loudly, might I add – and point to a pile of one colour.

Right. One decision down.

"Do I wear a dress?" I then ask desperately, valuing her opinion because she will not lie to me if I choose something disastrous. "Is a skirt better, or, I don't know, trousers? And are you sure black is a good idea? Is it crossing a line if I get you to help me choose what goes underneath?"