Finding the Pure Note

You Severed the Ties

I suppose it depends on your friendship, but when you have someone stay over, it says a lot where they sleep. So a guest gets the spare bed, a friend gets the couch or sleeping bag or whatever. With Fletcher, he shared my bed—a double bed, so we weren't exactly pressed together. To some, it might seem too personal, and one might assume many things, but in reality, he had his side and I had mine.

Ignoring what my heart wants, we can look at this objectively. Do I recommend the Fletcher bed-time experience? No. Not unless you are willing to get past all the territorial matters, which I was. 

Did I want more than that? Yes. Yes, I did. God, I was fighting every urge and want, fighting lust because he is my friend, and I could destroy so much if I gave into temptation and... I mean, would he hate me? Probably not. But there would always be this underlying tension, the knowledge that I am attracted to him, and if he doesn't feel the same way, there will forever be this sore point, an uneasiness that wasn't there before. Our friendship will be marked, and I don't want him to fear, to despise me any more than he does.

We fight over the blanket, and when Fletcher's snoring kicks in, I stay awake a long while, watching his silhouette, until the features become more defined in the moonlight. The rise and fall of his chest. I want to put my hand there, to feel him breathe, to know he wants my hand there and...

Shit. I want you so much, Fletcher. But I don't know if you'd ever want me the same way, and that uncertainty kills me. I'm sorry if I sound like a broken record. That's how love feels, I guess. You love what you can't have, and maybe that's the greatest curse of all.

******

Best thing about waking up at 6:30 every morning? Well, actually, nothing really. But if there is one positive, then it comes from waking up to Fletcher in your bed, like old times. Except where there were only fleeting urges before, now that craving is overbearing. Dangerous. I hate that he doesn't know how I feel about him, hate that if he found out, would I have betrayed his trust? Would he have wanted to share the same bed as someone who is crushing hard on him? Can't say, but it sucks.

If there's any small pleasure, watching Fletcher's lips on a Tuesday morning—you know, apart from that simple detail—it's my keen awareness that Fletcher Maddox is not a morning person. It took years for me to make it habit. Mum started me early with this er, let's call it training. Lots of slurred swearing and smashing my alarm clock onto the floor, ripping the plug out, mum pinching my arm... I shudder just thinking about it. Fletcher's only had a wakeup call from mum twice before. And they were years apart each time. There's a reason sleepovers happen on the weekend. Sleeping in is a luxury for me. He's gonna freaking hate me in just a couple of minutes.

I can stare at a sleeping Fletch all morning, really I could. But it's torturous, and I want today to start off realistically. Optimistically. A lot of ly's there. I climb out of bed without a fuss, trained pro I am, and slip away to the shower. I return to slide my undies on, but I'm not furiously ripping each item on. Fletcher and I have seen our naked bodies for years. Uh, let me clarify, with underwear still attached. I don't feel self-conscious about my body around him, and I love that.

I can't handle staring at his cute face, all cosy and at peace. I must destroy!

I sit on the edge of my bed, poking his face. Then I push. Nothing. I stand up and put my foot on his stomach and shove. I try and spread these out, but it gets to the fifth kick in two minutes, and I'm done playing nice. This next one has a little oomph in it, and Fletcher flops over like a fish, his arms extending out in impossible angles as he tries to take hold of the bed.

"Fucking fuck!" he roars.

"Come on," I huff, taking hold of his leg. I wait a few seconds, a warning period, and then I pull. As he slides out, I watch as the rest of his body carries over, and he slumps to the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.