Hozier Imagines - V

Hungoverish

Hear me out, Andrew would never hurt us like this okay? But I had to get some shit off my chest. So this is for the people who have to deal with men and their confusing standards of life. Hope you're all doing well. Big thanks to the comments I have seen recently. Feel free to comment on any stories or prompts you'd like me to write. - V

Fuck. The window was open and the blaring sunlight burned your eyes. They felt heavy and fogged over as you blinked several times and then raised your head to examine the room.

As you scanned over you recognized the home, but it wasn't yours.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You scrambled out of the silk coffee-colored sheets and went on a scavenger hunt to find your clothes. Panties by the bed, bra thrown over a mirror on the vanity, shirt-

"Morning," the door creaked open.

Fuck.

You turned your head to the bedroom door and he stood there, hair in a bun, dark circles, YOUR shirt, and a steaming cup of tea in his hands.

You turned away and began looking for last night's attire. You felt his eyes follow your path of determination and he clicked his tongue.

You turned back, "Hi Andrew."

He chuckled, "In a rush to go somewhere? You seemed fairly eager to be here last night when you were shouting outside my gate at 1 am."

And this is why we don't drink at the bar close to his house, idiot.

"Ehm," you started, "Last night I wasn't myself, sorry I shouldn't have come over."

He sipped his tea and his eyes went a little dark. You remembered most of what happened. You grabbed at him as soon as he opened the door. He had carried you upstairs and you both made out the whole way to the bedroom a trail of clothes marking your path like some dumb romance film. And then you rode him for what felt like hours until the bed was nothing more than a pile of sheets and pillows some feral creatures nested in. He looked away as if he was recalling the same memory. You finally found most of your old clothes and began to strip from the t-shirt and boxers you currently wore when you coughed a bit, a silent request for him to leave.

He sighed still in the doorway, "How many times have I seen you naked, darling?"

You huffed, "Well it's different now."

He looked bored and rolled his eyes, "It doesn't have to be."

Anger started to burn in your stomach. You stalked towards him and pointed a finger on his chest.

"You left me, or wanted a break or whatever the fuck," you seethed, "You can't just expect things to be normal except now we don't have a title." You turned away and began to undress and change.

Andrew remained in the doorway for a moment, but then crossed over and began to fix the bed.

"You know why love, I am just not ready for that kind of commitment."
You turned and threw his shirt in his face.

"First of all, then why did you ask me out, second we are adults if you want to see other people just tell me."

"I don't," his sad eyes met yours.

"Then what is the problem?" Anything. That was all you wanted. Just a sliver of his thoughts to help you cope with the fact that the person you loved didn't want to commit to anything, but act as if everything was still normal. You had this talk before and he said you did nothing wrong and made him happy so what the fuck was his reason aside from "not being ready."

He said nothing and continued cleaning last night's mess.

"Andrew. I was there when you lived with your parents. I was there when you were at rock bottom during the pandemic and thought you would never write again. I never wanted your money or fame. I stayed through good and bad because I loved you. So I don't understand why with whatever this is you couldn't stay and communicate with me."

He raised his head, tears formed in his eyes. Your shoulders dropped and even if God threatened to smite you down you walked towards him.

You looked up at him, all of him, he stood there like a beat dog and you gave in. You wrapped your arms around him and breathed in his warmth. The smell of tea and morning air filling your lungs. You knew it wasn't healthy. To be holding him. To see him and touch him. To crave him when you lay alone in your bed. Even if you never saw or heard him speak, being here, in the place you called home for so long brought so much comfort. Your friends and therapist argued otherwise, but you felt selfish. Even as he hurt you, you didn't want to let go. Every knife in your back holding you together because if you pulled them out you were scared you might not survive the open wounds. One final breath and you pulled away.

"I hate seeing you sad," he said finally.

"Then don't be the one to make me feel such things," you said ice lining your veins, and walked out of the room.