I think that my heart is built to last more than a night

1

Heavy breaths, skin against skin, his warm and soft lips, his harsh hands, teeth leaving marks, whispers in the dark that don't mean anything in the daylight, sweat and all the mess, fingers in tangled knots of wet hair, nails digging half moons on the flesh.

"Shubman... Shubman!"

Shubman turns to his right with a blank expression on his face.

"Are you there?"

Shubman gulps, he clears his throat, "Ye... Yes. Sorry," he says, looking away for a second, "Got a lot on my mind right now. Can we talk about this later?" he asks his manager, which doesn't elicit a very fond expression out of him.

"I am here for that reason only. Manage your things so you don't have a lot on your mind."

Shubman frowns. That's so dumb. He doesn't want to explain or listen. He gets up from the chair.

"Ping me later. I'll let you know if I'm free," Shubman says, "By later I mean obviously not today," he adds.

"Don't do anything stupid."

"Can't promise."

Shubman can hear the tired sigh and irritated closing of the laptop behind him as he walks out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Manage your things... bullshit! As if someone else could manage his thoughts and emotions. He takes the elevator to the lobby and asks the valet to get his car.

Shubman gets inside his apartment, throws the keys on the coffee table as he slumps down on his couch. The magazines and newspapers are scattered on the rug on the floor. There's a three-fourth empty bottle of whiskey by his feet. Shubman picks it up and the two empty glasses and puts it on the table. He lies down with his head on the armrest.

"You need to get that shower fixed."

Ishan stood before him, buttoning up his shirt after he had just showered, while Shubman was still in bed, half-asleep. Shubman squinted up at him and rolled over on his back. Ishan kept looking at him, and his eyes almost had the same tenderness they used to have before...

Shubman should have been the last person to expect it, but it hurt when he walked away. Good morning kisses... they don't do that here.

Shubman holds his head and runs a palm over his face as he breathes out. He's not sure where Ishan is now. They'll be meeting in the evening with some friends. Shubman crosses his arms around himself and turns to his side, hiding his face into the crease of the couch. He's exhausted.

***

Ishan stares as his phone rings. It's one of his friends. He doesn't want to go, but he gets up from the bed, texting him that he'll be there. Ishan knows where he is ending up tonight anyway, no matter if he decides to stay in or go out. It won't change, he can't change.

As he reaches for his shirt hanging, there's a tinging pain in his right shoulder. He takes off his shirt and stands in front of the mirror with his back to it and tries to get a look at it. There seems to be a faint bruise. He tries to remember if he hit himself somewhere last night but he can't tell one thing from another about last night. All he remembers is how it felt, every second of it, from pleasure to panic. The usual routine.

He picks up his white linen shirt and blue jeans. He keeps staring at the shirt. White looks good on you. Ishan gulps, recalling the words. Everything was so different back then. Ishan never wishes for things to have not happened, he knows it would have happened eventually, no matter what, but things could have been different. He always believed there would be two options to deal with it when it came to this.