Of course, knowing his luck, Marley didn't get the chance that following afternoon. He sat in his feelings for about four hours, preparing himself for Emrys to get home, only to receive a text about Emrys' plans for the evening. And so, Emrys went out with James and Flor, while Marley—who might have had a good chance to confess while out with them—opted not to join. Barhopping wasn't really his thing, so, against his better judgement, he stayed home.
He didn't get a chance the next morning either, despite his efforts.
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He wasn't determined, per se, in the morning. But he had plenty of time the night before to think, and think, and think, about what he wanted to say to Emrys.
He'd even let himself take time to himself, not rushing straight to work like he tended to.
Nothing too complicated, they both had work that dat–afterall, but enough to let Emrys know, enough to get that heavy weight that had building on top of weak joints and decaying cartilage off of his chest and shoulders.
Just a few minutes. Plant the seed.
Easy, yeah?
The kettle whistled on the stove, steam rising into the cool morning air and fogging up the glass of the kitchen window. His heart was in knots, nerves tying up in his stomach and making ropes not asimilar to the ones in his chest. He poured himself a cup of the hot water, letting it soak the tea bag resting over the side of the mug.
...
Emrys sure was taking his time. What time was it anyways?
The clattering of footsteps echoed through the hallway along with a shaky door slamming into the wall and the hanger that hung on the back of it jittered against the hardwood. Marley shot his head up just in time to watch Emrys emerge from the hallway and walk into the kitchen, hair an absolute mess and shirt half tucked. More frantic than usual– even on days where he was late.
Marley's eyes flickered over Emrys's face. "Morning," he greeted, forcing a casual tone as his grip tightened around his mug.
"Hey—morning," Emrys replied, barely glancing up. His frantic but warm smile was quick, and he fumbled with his jacket zipper. "I am so late right now. I didn't even hear my alarm."
Marley frowned, stepping to the side to glance at the living room clock. 8:42. Yeah, that was late.
He didn't want to let the chance slip, though.
"Do you have a second?" Marley asked, trying to sound light, though he felt like an ass for even bringing it up. Maybe he should've checked on Emrys earlier when he noticed the delay.
Emrys finally zipped his jacket all the way and rushed to slip on his shoes. Marley watched, his expression pinched. "I—uh, can we talk later? I don't have a class first thing, but I've got a meeting in..." Emrys checked his watch, "fifteen minutes?"
His smile was sheepish, apologetic. Despite the disappointment pooling in his chest, Marley couldn't bring himself to be upset.
"Yeah, later," Marley said, deflating as he watched Emrys sling his bag over his shoulder. "Maybe take the flyway instead of the train? You'll get there faster."
Emrys pursed his lips, nodding quickly. "That's actually a way better idea—thanks," he laughed, stepping closer to give Marley's shoulder a quick squeeze. "We'll talk later, I promise."
He flashed a hurried smile over his shoulder before disappearing out the door with a soft click.
Marley stood there for a long moment, staring at the now-empty space where Emrys had just been. The mug in his hands was warm, but it did little to soothe the cold disappointment settling over him. It wasn't exactly a rejection, but the feeling gnawed at him all the same.
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His shift was set to start till 9:00, like it always was, but since a deep unsettled feeling had made a place in Marley's stomach along with the anxiety and tension, he went to work early anyways. A distraction of any kind was far more welcome than the silence that came with Emrys' departure.
He entered his workspace and was greeted– and subsequently calmed– by the familiar scent of dried herbs from the last time he'd been in there.
He paused, grimacing. Ah, shit. He hadn't cleaned the mortar and pestle.
After spending more time than he cared to admit scrubbing the dried remnants from his tools, Marley finally slipped into his routine. He used his work—and the dull throb of his pain—as a distraction from the unpleasant thoughts that threatened to spiral out of control.
The next few hours passed like that, his hands constantly busy as he moved between tasks of varying importance. His primary responsibility for the day was to review patient reports and reply to the letter that had come in for one of his patients.
When he finally wiped his hands clean of herbs and dust, he reached for the letter sitting atop his stack of papers. As he flipped it in his hands, his chest tightened slightly. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter and began reading.
The handwriting, though still neat, seemed shakier than usual. The parents wrote about Cerys's current condition, her mood, and how she'd been adjusting at her new school. There was good news—she was doing better with the help of the medications she'd been prescribed.
It was nice to hear, even if a small part of Marley still held onto the worry that progress could slip away as quickly as it came.
The letter went on, comparing which medications and potions had worked best for her, and it ended with a brief mention of the cost of one particular treatment—the one that had been the most effective. That comment gnawed at him. Progress, yes, but at a price.
Marley knew there wasn't much else he could do until their next scheduled check-up in a few months, but he could at least respond to their concerns and note their successes.
He picked up his quill and began to write. His words were careful, yet hopeful, offering a few alternatives for potions if things worsened, along with detailed instructions on how to administer them.
Once he'd finished, he sealed the letter with a soft press of wax and leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
At least for now, he had done something. It was the only thing keeping him from being overwhelmed by the weight of everything he couldn't fix.
And, you know, speaking of things he couldn't fix.
Marley set the sealed letter aside and leaned his elbows on the table, pressing his fingers against his temples. His eyes drifted to a sticky note left by Emrys, still clinging to the edge of Marley's desk—a small reminder of the man who occupied more than just the physical space in his life.
The quiet hum of his workspace surrounded him, but his mind refused to settle. His thoughts kept circling back to Emrys, replaying the fleeting moment that morning when he'd tried to say something, only to watch the chance slip away as Emrys rushed out the door—taking with him the heart Marley could never quite seem to hold on to.
His chest tightened again, a familiar mix of frustration and longing creeping in. How many times had he almost said it? Too many for the amount of times he's tried. The words always seemed to stick in his throat, tangled up in fear and doubt.
Every time he thought he'd found the right moment, something got in the way—Emrys running late, an interruption, or worse, Marley's own nerves betraying him at the last second.
Annoying, annoying, annoying. Why couldn't his personal life be as organised as his work life? Why was it so easy to manage his potions, his schedules, yet so impossible to sort out his own feelings?
It's not rejection, he reminded himself. It's just bad timing. Just... bad luck.
Emrys was always just out of reach in this one crucial way, and Marley couldn't stand living in the space between almost and never for much longer.
He exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into fists against the table.
Why, now that he wasn't running from his feelings anymore, did it feel like his chance was running from him?
YOU ARE READING
Hey, Blue
RomantikPreviously Titled -- The Head In My Hands. Frankly, Marley was tired of being sick. It had become part of his everyday life, sure, but gods- did it ruin everything. He never expected to be spending his late twenties working from home in quiet isolat...
