catfish and the bottlemen imagines for rainy days + mondays

Losing My Religion // Bondy

It was one of those cold, winter mornings when you wake up in the middle of a nice dream to the depths of night about to roll over and snuggle a little further into your covers only to realise that your alarm is flashing 5:30am and another tedious day is calling you.

You pushed yourself up reluctantly, running your hands through your hair only to realise that in some kind of drunken attempt to salvage it you had thrown it up into a bun and now your fingers were entangled in a mess of lugs and curls.

You let out a soft sigh, looking at your reflection in the mirror. With only the bedside lamp on it was easy to pretend that you didn't look so bad but you knew that under the washed out watery lights at work you would look at best underslept and at worse on the verge of a breakdown.

It had been getting worse recently, your sleepless nights and your tearful days.

He'd been gone too long.

It wasn't Johns fault and when they'd first started touring you'd been nothing but thrilled for him every time. Every time the venues got a little bit bigger, every time their successes seemed to treble. And you still were, thrilled for him. Proud too.
Proud that when people you both used to know asked after him you got to tell them about how well he was doing, you got to share one of his crazy stories from America or Russia.

But with every leg of the tour you missed him more. The longer your love stretched out the harder it got to be apart. The harder it got to push yourself up out of bed every day and drag yourself to work, to a job you hated, which wore you down perhaps even more than missing John.

You flicked the kettle on in the dark. Once you turned a light on that was it, you were accepting your fate, you were admitting you only had half an hour left before you had to leave the comfort of your house and venture out into harsh novembers chill.

You shuddered at the thought and tried to remember how it had felt this time last year when the lads had been on a break and Johnny had been home. How every morning when you'd woken up, rolled over and tried to slip from your bed without waking him, he'd rolled over to and trapped you with his arm around your waste. Left kisses on your skin and mumbled stupid things into your hair.

"Fuck your job, call in sick," he'd have tried to tempt you, tried to coax you back into bed with him as he watched you slip out of your tshirt and into your uniform.

"I can't call in sick theyll fire me..." you would long to give into him, long to slink back into bed, nestle into him and waste the morning lethargic and in love wrapped up in his embrace, but you never would.

You weren't lying when you said they'd fire you but Johnny never really seemed to mind the thought of that.

"Even better," he'd grin at you, chuckle at your eye rolling and reach out to grab at your legs as you tried to shimmie into your jeans. "Quit," he'd say and you would smile and shake your head. You hated your job almost as much as you hated it when he was away but you couldn't just quit. Then what would you do to occupy yourself for the long months that he was on tour. How would ypu afford to live? Work made you miserable but you couldn't just quit.

"Thats not how life works love," you'd sigh pulling your top over your head, letting him win but only for a moment or two, letting him pull you back down onto the bed for a goodbye kiss and one final plea.

"Quit your job babydoll!" he call after you, using one of those silly nicknames he knew would embarrass you as you opened to front door. Leave you blushing as you started the car engine and wished you could do as he said.
Quit your job and spend every moment you possibly could with him.

Over the last year he'd hardly been home, it felt like between your shit job and his amazing one you barely saw one another, especially not alone, and though you felt selfish for thinking it you weren't sure how much more you could take.