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toomanytookas · 2 months ago

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They've grown up so much since we've met them, but gosh there are moments here where the enormity of their tragedy makes them feel and seem so young.

You've managed to so perfectly capture that eerie combination of comfort and and vulnerability that comes from being seen at your lowest by the people that love you and seeing someone you love so low. That way that Dieter is so lost and boyish and so ready to hear her anger kills me every time, this line: He taps a finger against his too prominent cheekbone, “Right here, angel. I can take it, I deserve it.” The way he is stuck with this horrible thing he couldn't get a handle on and yet at the same time is punishing himself, in part because of what he knows it does to her is 🥺

Her response, too, feels so driven by that feeling... it's achingly moving how she can't help but crawl onto that bed with him, to feel the comfort of his closeness, the tangibility of his body. I loved this: "he feeling of Dieter beneath your skin still so sacred." I always love how you borrow from worshipful and religious metaphor and I think it's particularly apt here when thinking about how raw and, in a sense (but not in others lol), pure their connection is, how deeply it reaches into them, how powerful it is to generate pockets in time that are just theirs...

Seeing her try and give him her protection and that sense of safety through her own touch has a bit of religiosity to it, too, in an interesting way. That kind of hope of a miracle, that she might be able to create her own divine intervention. It has such a softness and an almost-innocence to it, even as she is so aware of the realities of where they are and why. I think the fact that she does have that awareness makes it even more devastating that she has that urge to try and give him that comfort, to hope that this is a world where if she can give enough, at least some of his pain and troubles won't find him.

I think the line that probably haunts me the most is: He tastes bad, like regret and charcoal. The way kissing him is a mode of communication for them, a manifestation of the magnetism between them that they've never been able to shake, a form of her care and the way he reciprocates it, but now is disturbed by that clear reminder of why they are together... it's such a perfectly selected and communicated detail and it makes me weep for them, for everything about their situations that makes a them untenable outside of the Dieter parallel universe.

okay before i cry more i'm gonna go byeeeee 💕

I Think Of You All Of The Time - Part 3

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Series rating: Explicit - just angst this week (my whole blog is over 18’s only) Summary: Best friends to lovers, to worse. Word count: 1,465 Part 3 Content: Set in 2014 & Dieter and reader are around 29 here. Reader POV. Set mostly in a hospital - Dieter is recovering from an overdose, so references to drugs & alcohol. Reference to anxiety and feeling sick. Reader has a nickname (Angel). Emotional torment and longing. Reference to infidelity. There are Britishism in here but I kept them because I liked them, yeah? Fucking about with canon. Soulmates & Best friends to toxic lovers. Always Fleabag coded. Let me know if I missed anything. Listen to: Regina Spektor - That Time

A/N: This is a sad one, lads (gn). I kept it short because I didn't want to linger on it too much and truly, if you don't fancy it, you can skip this chapter and part 4 will still make sense. I'd love to know your thoughts if you do read. New chapter written and ready for next Thursday 🖤🖤🖤 As always, huge thanks to @toomanytookas for the beta read and helping me to create this world. So much love to @secretelephanttattoo @mothandpidgeon @whocaresstillthelouvre & @pascalssbabyy for being my cheerleaders.

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I Think Of You All Of The Time - 2014

There was a moment on the plane where you thought you were going to be sick. A swirling nausea that had you gulping for air, knuckles white as you gripped the seat, face forward so you didn’t catch the eye of the person next to you who you could feel staring. Just focused on getting air in and out of your lungs, ignoring the tears streaming down your face, crushing down the rising panic.

It was such an unpleasant, weird crash of feelings. Anger and fear and sadness all melding together, but something new this time had joined the melee; exhaustion. Dieter hadn't done anything this stupid since you left to live in London three years ago, yet it’s like you’ve been sat anxiously waiting for it to happen again. A constant worry, a hangnail that you picked until it bled. When you got the call, it was almost a relief. A collapse somewhere hidden within you, long-held unease giving way to a deep tiredness. Well, you reasoned, the bad thing has happened, you could almost relax for a second before the dread really set in.

Today the dread is fully in.

Dieter’s drug use has been spiralling for years. You’d watched with sharp eyes as he became more erratic, less fun. How it took longer for his Cheshire Cat grin to break through, harder to hear his real laugh and not the fake LA one he’d all but perfected. You were never around long enough to really question him on it. There was so much you both chose not to untangle before you even got to the drug paraphernalia that now littered his hotel rooms or how he often started the day with a drink. You slipped in and out of his life so quickly, a confusion of hook-ups and morning afters, and what did it all mean?

It’s as if you weren’t important enough to be able to pass judgment any longer. Once you left, once you clicked the door shut behind you, both of your lives continued on just the same. His current partner, his publicist, his manager, whoever was supposedly running his seemingly charmed, Hollywood life, they barely knew you existed. The childhood best friend who sometimes came to visit for a night to watch his new play or who he’d go for a drink with when he was in the same city for a premiere, that’s all. Certainly that was the story you told yourself. It’s like you became a different person for those few stolen hours together and it meant you could shake off the guilt for the boyfriend you would be cheating on and the lies you told so easily.

A different timeline, the Dieter parallel universe.

You’re sat in the waiting room of the hospital. Dieter’s assistant had been perfectly civil when you arrived, you’re sure she’s a little confused as to why she’d been made to call you, someone whose name barely appeared in her calendar at all. She’s a few seats over now, tapping on her phone constantly, shooting you the occasional side-eye but mouth thankfully shut, no barrage of questions hurtled at you. You’re grateful for that at least.

Lucky for you that Sexy Sadie is your boss in London now, didn’t hesitate in giving you the time off so you could run for the next available flight. You shake your head slowly at the memory, how you struggled to speak, tears choking you and hands trembling as Sadie calmly listened to your panic. By the time you’d got to the airport you’d become furious again, this tumultuous cycle of emotions careering through you as you attempted not to look at your phone and the dramatic headlines and horrendous pap shots of Dieter being rushed to hospital.

Last time it wasn’t this bad. Last time it hadn’t been quite the medical emergency. Last time it hadn’t been splashed all over the gossip blogs within minutes. Last time you’d lived a few hours away, not across an ocean.

You worry at your lip as you wait to be let in to see him. Take a sip of the too strong, now too cold coffee his assistant had kindly handed you when the doctors said Dieter was stable and resting, that you could see him in a few hours. Your head sinks into your hands, they’re cold but feel good against your face, hot from tears, puffy and exhausted. You must look a state.

Dieter looks worse.

He’s awake, propped up on the crisp white pillow behind him, a halo of wild hair around his head, eyes dark and sunken. It’s your Dieter but not, a distant figure from the mischievous, playful boy you grew up with.

He croaks, “You came.”

“Of course I came, you almost fucking died.” It’s the anger that swirls up first, so you let it out, biting and scratching inside your throat, “What the fuck were you thinking Dieter? What the fuck is wrong with you? Again? I’m so angry at you! I want to fucking punch you in the face right now.”

It’s a defeated boy that stares back at you. Eyes too big for his stupid, beautiful face, mouth drawn into a hard line, all his usual softness gone. He taps a finger against his too prominent cheekbone, “Right here, angel. I can take it, I deserve it.”

You try to laugh, but a sort of guttural choke comes out instead and you’re just stood there crying ugly tears. Your arms hang by your side, useless, awkward. You had so many things you wanted to say to him, weeping whilst Dieter looked at you like a kicked puppy wasn’t in the plan.

“I didn’t mean to do it, I promise.”

This just makes you sob even harder. How close you’d come to losing him, it pierces your skin and makes all reason disappear. You wish you could be strong, put on a brave face or at least a stern one, but instead you don’t think, you let yourself crawl up onto the tiny bed, kicking your shoes off as you go, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You sigh at the contact, at how the feeling of Dieter beneath your skin still so sacred.

“I was going to shout at you until you promise to get clean, but I feel like that’s not going to work, is it?”

“I’m sorry angel, I’m so sorry. I can’t… I can’t explain it. It’s like… there’s something missing and I’m trying to find it, but I’ve forgotten what I was even searching for.” You hold him tighter, head tucked into his broad shoulder, as he continues, “I’m sorry I scared you. Scared the crap out of myself to be honest.”

You gaze into his eyes, won’t let him look away as you search for some truth in them, “Is it me? Do I make it worse? Am I fucking you up?”

“No, my god, no! You make life bearable. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’ll always be my soulmate.” He sounds horrified, his whole face falling, “You push me to want to be a better man. I feel like I’m always letting you down.”

“I just want you to be happy, D.”

You instinctively tip your chin up, meet his lips with your own. A kiss that feels like so many things at once; a sorry, a forgiveness, a kind of acceptance. He tastes bad, like regret and charcoal. You draw back, return your head to his shoulder, hand now at his ear, playing with the velvet softness next to the gold hoop that still sits there.

He kisses at your crown, “How long do I have you?”

“Two days, then I have to fly back to London,” you pause, “I called your mom. She’s coming the day I go.”

You hear the breath go out of him, your body rising and falling with his chest, “Fuck.”

You kiss him again, almost to make sure he’s still there, that he hasn’t fallen from your grip, “Yeah, you’re in big trouble, D.”

He cries then, silent tears against your neck, you can feel them hot on your pulse. You caress your fingers through the almost curls that sit at his nape, hope you can infuse some comfort into his skin, that somehow he will feel all the love you have for him through your soft touch and it will stay bound to him like a protection spell. Maybe you can make him safe in your arms for at least a couple more minutes. Perhaps next time, before he does something stupid, he’ll remember this moment and it will still his hand or warm his heart and he won’t go searching in the darkness for whatever it is that he thinks he is lacking.

Your sweet, broken boy, both forever yours and forever lost.

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All images Pinterest & dividers from @saradika-graphics

Tagging in some pals & Dieter fans, let me know if you'd prefer to be taken off (or would like to be added).

@sawymredfox @arcanefox207 @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape @sin-djarin

@burntheedges @sp00kymulderr @katareyoudrilling @wannab-urs @guiltyasdave

@yxtkiwiyxt @ghotifishreads @jessthebaker @magpiepills @devineconjuring

@readingiskeepingmegoing @moonlitbirdie @maggiemayhemnj @ozarkthedog @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain

@oliveksmoked @thelightsandtheroses @baronessvonglitter @itsokbbygrlbutworsethistime @yopossum

@almostfoxglove @ishabull @kedsandtubesocks @itwasntimethatdidit40 @604to647

@evolnoomym @thundermartini @beefrobeefcal @megangovier @lorettafudge

@imdrinkingpedro @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @80ssong @eff4freddie @tammythr

@lu62 @bitchesuntitled @puddles221b @here-briefly @jennaispunk

@copperhalfcent @sunnytuliptime @noisynightmarepoetry @daydream-believer19 @stylesispunk

@katw474 @radiowallet @anoverwhelmingdin

#the bubble #chaptered #ongoing #read #author: schnarfer

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toomanytookas · 2 months ago

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Oh this feels like the ultimate “honey, no.” Poor Marcus, what a heart that boy has.

Such an interesting exploration of his character and how he so very much wants to love. It’s such a stubborn hope for it to marry his yearning heart with his analytical mind in a way that defies thinking badly of her, that always flips to the positive. You can see why he gets his heart broken so often yet lives to give puppy dog eyes another day.

The twisty logic of this:

At first he thinks that she must know that he knows where she is. Maybe she wants him to find her?

It’s very fun to see him try to give everything to such a sharp, untameable gal, although I must admit I cringed quite hard at that “I can fix her” attitude 😂. Loved seeing how you tied it all together with what we know of Al’s thief and that i this was set so close to the events of that story! That aversion to cowboys… 😭😭😭

Adored the potato claw!

Road Trip Blues

Marcus Pike masterlist l masterlist l 800 words l M 18+

Summary: Marcus should have listened to his instincts.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x thief!reader

Warnings: Alcohol. Angst. Being ditched by a woman in hot pants. Theft of fries.

A/N: I wrote this for the Magic Number Writing Challenge hosted by @schnarfer @whocaresstillthelouvre and @mothandpidgeon . Lovely Al span for the wheel for me, and my three prompts were Marcus Pike, Jack Daniels & Reader. She was then kind enough to lend me her thief reader from her fic The Cowboy & The Thief and we asked ourselves "What if she's left a guy behind, and what if that guy was Marcus?" This was meant to be just a moodboard, but I accidentally wrote a few words to go with it.

“I’m trying to be good.” She says as she orders a side salad instead of a plate of fries. When their food arrives, she steals three fries of his off his plate and dips them into his strawberry milkshake, curling them into her mouth like a potato claw. “Can’t stop being bad, though.”

“I don’t mind you bad, if this is bad.” Marcus smiles at her. She is a little wilder than anyone he’s dated before, untamed in a way that scares and excites him.

She always seems to have one eye on the exit wherever they are. Always glances up at security cameras and clocks the cars in the parking lot on date night, or keeps her shoes on if they are just hanging out at his place. Her strangest tell, one he should be brave and ask her about, is how much she hates cowboys and bristles if she even hears country music. He’d once seen her freeze on the spot when a man in a Stetson walked into a bar they were in.

He tries to be her anchor, tries to ground her or maybe even save her as best he can. He hopes that maybe this time he can love someone enough for both of them.

The road trip had been her idea. Three weeks, the two of them, and one beaten up old map. She’s sold him a cosy vision of quirky motels and gas station breakfasts at sunrise all leading up to a weekend at a rock festival. The tickets had sold out months ago but somehow she’s got two, and backstage passes. Marcus just said yes to the trip, blinded by the thrill of her planning something with him more than three days in advance.

He sits on the end of her bed as she packs her overnight bag and lets out a low whistle as she tosses a tiny pair of denim shorts and a black vintage looking waistcoat into her case.

“Why have I never seen you in these before?” He smirks.

“They’re my bad girl clothes, and I’m being good now.” She steps into the gap between his legs and lifts his chin so that he’s looking up at her. “At least until the festival, when I plan to let my hair down a little.”

---

Marcus wakes late in a motel he can’t entirely remember checking in to. He screws up his eyes against the mid-morning sun that is already blazing through the thin red and orange floral curtains. His mouth feels cottony, and he blindly pats the bedside table for a glass of water he’s sure he put there before he'd fallen asleep, but feels nothing but the concertinaed shade of a knocked over lamp.

The dull throb of a hangover beats in his temples, and he tries to remember what the hell he was thinking last night, why he’d let her keep filling his glass with whiskey but not her own. A double, then a second glass, then a third. He rolls over, causing the polyester bedding to crackle against his skin, and his palm smooths over a side of the bed that is oddly cold. He mumbles her name into the pillow, a question, and then hauls himself up to sit with his back against the wicker headboard.

It’s another hour before he admits to himself that she’s gone. She’s left all her clothes except for one outfit, his stomach twists when he realises which one, and taken off with the car and his wallet.

It’s another three weeks before he finally cancels his stolen credit card.

He watches her travel further and further away from him with every new town she stops in for groceries or gas. At first he thinks that she must know that he knows where she is. Maybe she wants him to find her? She left her phone charger behind in the motel, perhaps that’s why her phone doesn’t ring anymore?

It’s another month until a file lands on his desk with a question mark hanging in the air above it. An intriguing theft, not his usual area of work, but could he help just this once? A stack of photos still warm from the printer depicting a Burst — his band days were long behind him but he still knew his guitars — some grainy CCTV footage from a music festival depicting a slightly bow legged cowboy, a roadie’s van, and her.

There’s that little voice in his head again, the one that whispers about hope and paints pictures of his future in all the brightest colours. Maybe he can find her, maybe he can save her.

---

#the mentalist #oneshot #read #author: secretelephanttattoo

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toomanytookas · 2 months ago

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Oh, the things we swallow because of how deeply we might believe we must sacrifice when it comes to those we love. 🥺

As always, Al, you have worked your magic to show us the hurt on both sides, the parallel journeys of ache and yearning and not getting to truly have that sparkly love they both had in their hearts for so long…

It really does make me weepy to think about this sense that each of them has swallowed something so painful as part of staying in orbit.

This line in particular was sooo achy and communicated so much of the way she has been swallowing that bitter pill of her disappointment and loss of him since prom, no matter how successful and strong and independent she’s come to be:

The tales you tell are designed to paint a picture that doesn’t truly reflect reality, allowing him the luxury of never having to worry about you

I think it’s so interesting how she sheds some of that protective, almost coddling behaviour when they are reunited in the flesh and she’s confronted with the ways in which he, too, has become his own person, and yet also has chosen not to really grow up at all. The almost childlike purity of the way he believes everything will change for them and his conviction of their soulmatehood (soulmatery? soulmatitude?) felt so soft and to see it crushed hurt me because I wanted to believe even as it felt like such naïveté… I think it’s also so interesting to place into context with the choice he made all those years ago? Kind of that question of whether we carve our own fate to make those connections real vs do we just let the wind take us and believe things will happen eventually? And what does it mean when one believes one and the other the other?

Anyway, I’m rambling, but just one little spotlight more on this:

Dieter recognises it as one he bought you many years ago, found at a thrift store and he knew you’d love it. Strangely it doesn’t make him feel sentimental, instead it’s like he’s just another thing from your past tucked away in your handbag and only used when you need it.

My chest hurts every time I read it and I think it’s such a fascinating glimpse of that like… waiting for her to come home and pick him up to play with him again feeling that it can be so easy to get trapped submitting to when you have fallen in love with someone who isn’t available to you in the same way? Still almost passively hopeful about their dynamic, but now because she’s almost forced him to be. Swallowing, swallowing and not voicing the pain of it… until they just can’t do anything but explode.

And then THEN you leave us with that ache of seeing how they still couldn’t let go of each other even after that fight… couldn’t help but be drawn together and yet… to what end? That sort of cosmic magnetic draw that is an all consuming black hole that doesn’t give back anything of what you give, so unsatisfying and yet impossible to ignore.

I probably have stopped making sense, so I’ll end it here. My heart hurts for both of them. I’ve cried soooo many tears for both of them. You are a magician. An evil evil magician. Forever in awe. 🖤

I Think Of You All Of The Time - Part 2

Young Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Series rating: Explicit - here be smut (my whole blog is over 18’s only please) Summary: Best friends to lovers, to worse. Wordcount: 7,049 Part 2 Content: Set in 2008 & Dieter and reader are around 24 here. Switches between reader and Dieter POV. References to drugs & alcohol. Dieter is bi. Reader has a nickname (Angel). Emotional torment and longing. Infidelity and smut (big snogs, pussy eating, fingering, p in v). There are Britishism in here but I kept them because I liked them, yeah? Fucking about with canon. Soulmates & Best friends to toxic lovers. Always Fleabag coded. Let me know if I missed anything. Listen to: The Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Maps

A/N: I adore these two and I loved writing this part, emotional torment and all. I hope you enjoy this whirlwind too, please do let me know what you think! As always, huge thanks to @toomanytookas for the beta read and helping me to create this world. So much love to @secretelephanttattoo @mothandpidgeon @whocaresstillthelouvre & @pascalssbabyy for being my cheerleaders. 🖤

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I Think Of You All Of The Time - 2008

It’s not like you to fret over what to wear. You’re normally pretty decisive and you don’t exactly have a mountain of clothes to choose from. You have very specific taste, so you’d rather go without than have something you only vaguely like. Your wardrobe is carefully curated with vintage pieces, thrift store finds, sample sale bargains and essentials from American Apparel. You’re the classic New York scenester, right down to your second-hand cowboy boots and heavily winged eyeliner. Looking like you’ve fallen into your wardrobe and right back out again is an art you’ve perfected.

Not today though. Today you’re seeing Dieter fucking Bravo for the first time, in real life, in four years. Not since your twentieth birthday have your paths managed to cross in the actual flesh. He’s been busy living his dream in LA and you have a new life you’ve been building in New York. Your friendship has survived through detailed missives via email; reporting on each new adventure, turning disasters into funny stories, hooting with laughter at the newest, stupidest misdeed from Dieter on set. Your confessions only involve other people’s feelings now, never your own. Long paragraphs from Dieter about the co-star who has a crush on him and he keeps snogging because he’s bored, or your own laments about the tedious guy you keep seeing because his Daddy helpfully owns a load of restaurants that you could now eat at for free.

You’re careful not to speak into existence the nights you’ve cried yourself to sleep because you skipped lunch again to afford your travel to work, or that you’ve missed Dieter so much you keep thinking you catch sight of him on the subway. The tales you tell are designed to paint a picture that doesn’t truly reflect reality, allowing him the luxury of never having to worry about you. Disguise the fact that the thought of seeing him again is making your eyes go too bright and your skin hot and uncomfortable.

You finally pick out one of your favourite dresses, a midnight number that’s so dark it’s almost black. Delicate lace stretches over your chest and skin tight velvet hugs your curves. Obscenely short. Paired with thick black opaque tights and well worn, Cuban-heeled boots with a heavy tassel. A slick of Chanel Red to complete the look. Nonchalant in the most fuckable sense. You swallow thickly at the thought he’ll be coming back here, to your little apartment, to stay. A whole season of Dieter whilst he rehearses and then performs in a new play. A whole season of you continuing to watch his star ascend.

You yank the hemline of your dress down a touch, try to crush the fizzing in your chest at the prospect of seeing those dark brown eyes once again, seeing how LA has changed him, watch him take in how New York has changed you. Are you tougher now perhaps, more resilient, do you walk with a purpose you didn’t have before? Being alone, truly, for the first time since you were six, not having Dieter’s hands to pull you through the crowd, no safety net of his teasing, playful words to bolster you, prop you up when you’re not sure. Maybe it’s a positive thing. It doesn’t do any good to be soft here, gentleness is not rewarded; strength and determination are how you survive. That and pointy elbows.

You brace yourself for the cold evening air, shrugging on your giant Afghan coat and holding it tight against you.

You see him before he sees you, hoodie up, but even then the shape of him is distinctive against the crowd. Too skinny really, lots of angles, jeans too low on that tiny waist and the curve of his broad shoulders pulling tight across his beaten up leather jacket. There’s a sliver of skin exposed to the elements where his top doesn’t meet the band of his boxers and you involuntarily shiver at the idea of the cold air hitting his body. Dieter never was any good at keeping still. He’s pacing the street where you said you’d meet, a rollie between those plush lips. You feel a smile pulling at your mouth. You couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, especially now his eyes have met yours. His whole face lights up instantly and he’s running, running, towards you at full speed.

“Angel!” It’s an excited yelp that reaches you just as he knocks the air right out of you, sweeps you up off the ground and into an embrace, holding you so tight. The grip of his arms feels like home. He smells the same, familiar and comforting, so you breathe him in, your head staying nestled against his shoulder, the leather of his jacket soft against your face. It’s a long time before he puts you back down on the ground. When you take a step back to look at that beautiful face, his deep, dark brown eyes are glistening

“D, are you crying?”

He makes a show of swiping a finger under each eye, “I am not… it’s the wind, it’s fucking cold here.” He breaks into a grin, those perfect pearly whites shining against the golden hue of his skin, “OK fine, maybe a little. I’m an actor, angel. I have a lot of emotions, yeah?”

“Yeah and don’t I know it.” Your head tilts as you gently mock him, the affection you feel swelling in your chest means you simply have to reach out your hands and hold onto his, make that physical connection again.

Dieter squeezes you right back, as if to reassure himself you’re real, “Hey, hey, none of that, don’t be mean to me. I know you’re a big corporate girl now, probably don’t have emotions any more. Probably made a PowerPoint to take me through your dating history so I’m all caught up?”

You snort a reply, “What do you know about PowerPoint?”

“Absolutely fuck all, angel, and I intend to keep it that way.” He leans towards you and sweeps the hair out of your eyes before cupping your cheeks in those big hands, takes a moment to study your face, “I’ve missed this, I’ve missed us.”

“Yeah, me too, D.”

There’s a pause, a silence that’s filled with so much, too much. Dieter twists so his arm is around you now so you’re hip to hip and your arm can snake around that stupidly tiny waist. Tucked up against him in a way that feels just right.

“Right. Let’s go get really fucked up. Lead the way, angel.”

You’ve seen Dieter in probably 30 different plays since your childhood, and now you make sure to record all of his TV appearances, may or may not have a little scrapbook where you stick pictures of him when he pops up in the gossip mags. It’s not like a dedicated one or anything, just if you see something, you tend to rip it out and it was easier to keep it all in one place. You haven’t glued them down, just slid them into the pages. It’s where you put the birthday cards his mom sends. Tucked in a kitchen drawer in your minuscule galley kitchen of your New York apartment. Safe, but out of sight. The only visible sign that you used to be best friends with Dieter fucking Bravo is a single black and white strip of photobooth pictures of the two of you when you were 17 hanging on your ancient fridge.

It’s the press night of Dieter’s new show in New York and you’re sat almost front row, a few seats back from a host of critics, clutching your cup of warm white wine to your chest nervously. He’s got something of a cult following these days, there’s a bunch of Bravette’s patiently waiting by the stage door to try and get his autograph.

You worry at your lip, you feel like you’re always more nervous than him before these things, the anxiety churns around in your stomach until he’s said his first lines, when you’re sure he’s going to be as brilliant as he inevitably is. He’s been rehearsing for weeks, you’re pretty sure you know his lines as well as he does now.

A girl you vaguely know of as Sexy Sadie, her real name is Claire but you can see how she’s earned the moniker from Dieter, makes her way over to the empty seat next to you. She gives you a broad smile, recognising you from your brief introductions over drinks recently and leans in to whisper to you before the show begins. You’re surprised she’s British, a soft, posh accent coming through as she shifts closer to you.

“So you’re the best friend? Can’t tell you how much Dieter has told me about you. You’re in PR, yah?”

“Yes, I’m at Rubenstein, beauty stuff mainly at the moment. Not sure how I ended up specialising in that, but it’s fun. Like, really hard work, but it’s fun.”

“Well weirdly enough, so do I. I’m at Ketchum. Transferred from my agency’s London office for a three year project. Still can’t get over living in New-bloody-York. It’s even more frantic than London.”

You feel your eyes go bright, “I’ve always wanted to go to London. We should have a cocktail some time, I’d love to hear more about living there.”

Sadie gives you a warm, conspiratorial smile, “Darling I’d love that. I can grill you all about Dieter as well. I demand embarrassing teenage photos and a rundown of all the times you’ve snogged, please.”

“Oh, there was no kissing, I promise,” your laugh is real, even if the tug at your chest doesn’t feel good. A sore spot that’s never quite healed, easily nicked and reopened when you try so hard to ignore it.

She looks utterly perplexed, “No snogging with Dieter Bravo, the man who literally snogs anyone? He’s such a slut, I don’t believe it! I’ve snogged him at least twice and I’m a lesbian.”

You roar with laughter, you like this girl very much already, “He is, he is such a slut. Always has been. But I promise, we’re just friends.”

You’re saved from any more probing questions by curtain up. You take a big swig of your horribly warm wine, grimace as you swallow it down. You don’t normally let yourself revisit the last time ‘just friends’ almost became a lie. Prom night was such a disaster, you and Dieter never spoke of it again. You’re fairly sure he pretended not to remember and you chose not to bring it up, continuing your friendship over thousands of miles and a mountain of unsaid feelings. Easier that way.

It’s like you silently called a truce, one that means you can continue with the charade, both live the lie. The ‘friends who don’t think about each other naked’, lie. The ‘you’ve never ever, ever, waited until he left the apartment for rehearsals so you could finger fuck yourself to the thought of him, skin soaking wet, hard, playing with himself in your shower’ lie. Those ones.

It’s as if you keep Dieter locked in a separate part of your heart, shut tight against the real world. As long as you keep telling yourself these stories, you can make-believe you don’t notice how he watches you get ready for your dates with boring Randy. Pretend that Dieter’s eyes absolutely do not rake up and down your body slowly, greedily, eyebrows raised appreciatively. What he does to himself once you’ve gone is none of your business. Certainly doesn’t haunt you as you try to feign interest in your tedious boyfriend. When, on your most recent date, you tried not to feel the disappointment at how Randy’s eyes didn’t sparkle with mischief when he got a glance of your arse as you leaned down to pick something up.

The way you know you can turn Dieter on, it’s dangerous; so easy, so tempting. For such a good actor he was always fucking easy to read, you practically watch the filthy thoughts flicker across his mind, the naughty smile that creeps up onto his face, lopsided grin just begging to be kissed off.

The shared domesticity of living together hasn’t dampened this down as you’d expected. You’d thought perhaps it would become overfamiliar, the want that you nursed becoming numbed by dirty dishes and not enough space. Instead it’s only grown in the rhythms of your shared existence. Like the years between seeing each other had been but a needle jump on the record and you’ve gone right back to playing the same tune again. Teasing, playful, easily lost in each other's eyes as you bend over the tiny bathroom sink to brush your teeth together in the mornings. How easy it would have been to lean back against him this morning, feel the hardness you knew was there, just waiting for you. It made you dizzy, looking at his beautiful face, the patchy beard that now adorns it, the mismatched tattoos decorating his golden skin. You’d like to trace your tongue over every one, count his freckles with your teeth, lick his fingers whilst he watched you under darkening eyes. What would he taste like? Minty from the toothpaste, but warm, you guessed, an undercurrent of cigarettes and sweetness. You know exactly what it would be really; love. With all its confusion and desire, tangled up in the words that sat on both your tongues.

Fuck.

Dieter is stoned in your living room again. You smell him before you see him. You’re rushing to get changed before you have to go out to a press event, practically tripping over him as you try and find your one sensible pair of work heels.

“Jesus, D, have you done anything with your day at all? You’re still gonna be high when you get to the theatre?”

“Mmmmm….” his hand wraps around your ankle, warm, tender in his dope filled haze, “Doesn’t matter, I could do it in my sleep now.”

You crouch down, try and gently untangle his hand from around you, “That’s because you choose plays that are too easy for you, D. You’re bored.”

He makes a noncommittal noise but his fingers grip tighter, a sloppy grin spreading across his face as you watch him gradually realise he just has to give you one hard yank to make you fall on top of him. He moves in slow motion but you let him, a pleasure in letting him think that he’s won the game when you’ve been fully in control the whole time. Still, a jolt of excitement runs up your spine as he does it, bringing you down onto his chest, your hands falling around his broad shoulders, bright eyes meeting his red rimmed ones. He’s so soft like this, it makes your heart ache, makes you melt a little into the cosy warmth of him.

His words are slow, but considered, “You think I’m dumb.”

“No, I think you’re better than this.” You know he’s not listening, watch his eyes travel down to your lips, trying to focus as you run your tongue against the seam, your own little game, “And that you smoke too much skunk. I’ll make you a coffee before I go, yeah?”

You roll off him, give the clock a quick glance and leap up when you realise you’ve only got twenty minutes to finish getting ready.

Dieter calls after you lazily, “I didn’t just get stoned. I did you a picture, angel. I put it on the fridge.”

You spot it under a Hello Kitty magnet, next to the photobooth strip of you both at seventeen. A ballpoint pen sketch of you asleep on the sofa. Totally idealised, you reason, a softness to you that you don’t think is there in real life, but a glimpse into the girl that Dieter sees. You sigh, let it sit with you for a second, as if you can feel the warmth of his gaze, the beauty he finds in you that you can’t see yourself.

You hurriedly start making a coffee for him.

The theatre is dark tonight and Dieter is delighted that it means he gets to enjoy a rare moment of quiet with you. For once you’re not rushing out the door to a work event, instead you’re sat on the floor, knees drawn up tight to your chest, arms bare and twisted unnaturally as you smoke your way through a packet of Dieter’s cigarettes. Half eaten Chinese takeout boxes sit discarded by the TV,as it burbles in the background unwatched, an uneven soundtrack to this haunted dusk. The ghosts move effortlessly between the stillness, hundreds of evenings just like this flicker between you, a slideshow of laughter and tears and companionable silence. Of scraped knees and bruised hearts, late homework and surreptitious glances, of hands that never quite reached for each other in the way they longed to.

This past that constantly bleeds into your present is shifting, realigning with the reality of two people that hold each other so close that they’re touching without even being conscious they’re seeking the other. A new tension has been hanging in the air since Dieter’s arrival, from the moment his haphazardly tattooed arms had wrapped around your frame in a hello. He’d held on too long and he loved that he didn’t feel you pull back, just rocking back and forth in each other’s arms until he physically couldn’t hold you up any longer. There was always a comfort in each other’s presence, but now there’s an edge of awkwardness, a tingle of anticipation that something is about to change.

Dieter is stretched out on his back on the floor, gazing up at you as the evening sunset pours through the window, rays of orange cutting through the dust and smoke, soaking you in. He can’t help but think how beautiful you are.

“You’re so fucking hot, angel.”

You shake your head slowly, take a swift drag on the cigarette, “Don’t.”

Dieter props himself up on his elbows, brow creased in confusion, “What? Can’t I tell my best friend how insanely beautiful she is? You know it, right? You’ve always known it, surely?”

Your head is still shaking, as if batting away the compliment.

“This is the longest time we’ve spent together in years, D. Can we really still call each other best friends?”

He’s sincere, eyes wide, “Of course? You’ll always be my best friend, even… even if…” He wants to say even if everything changes, even if you become more, even if you break his heart or turn him down or whatever thousand ways it could all go dreadfully wrong, “Just, I don’t know how to say it right, angel, but I think we’re soulmates.”

Dieter feels a bit shocked that he’s said it so casually. This truth has been sitting on the tip of his tongue since he was old enough to know what the word even meant, and now he’s just thrown it out there on a random Tuesday evening. He waits for it to hit, eyes never leaving your face, taking in each microexpression, the way the corners of your brows move up almost imperceptibly, a tightening of your jaw. It’s such a familiar feeling, trying to read your thoughts, the same ache in his chest where he frets that he’s fucked everything up again.

You sigh a little as you begin to speak, your voice strangely flat, “I keep reading all these self-help books and fucking, like, inspirational quotes that tell me that there are people in your life who are like the seasons, they come and go and it’s special and magical and you learn some shit about yourself, but then you move on.” You take a deep drag of your cigarette, eyes not meeting his, “But I can’t… I can’t seem to move on, it’s like somehow my world stopped spinning and the seasons stopped changing and it’s only ever you, forever, just like, ingrained in my life. I keep waiting to wake up and not think of you, for it to finally be a new spring day where I’m free of this tug at my sleeve and the itch at my skin that something’s wrong, something is missing because you’re not fucking here with me.”

You can’t look at him, eyes glassy, mouth held tight again, a hard line where softness should sit, as if you’re holding more truths in. The cigarette burns, smoke swirling around you and ash piling up but not flicked away, as if you can’t bear to move your wrist even slightly to tap it. That in this moment, keeping entirely still is what’s holding you together.

Dieter struggles to think of how to reply to this outpouring of a grief that he too feels. That you’re etched in permanent ink above his heart, that every other fuck and suck and kiss means so little to him because he knows, deep down, that you’re his story. You’re the one he’s supposed to reach for in the night and pull close. And being near to you again, being under the same roof and sharing the same polluted New York air and wet bathroom floor, it somehow made the distance seem greater. It hurts even more than when he was thousands of miles away, to know you’re in the bedroom across from the sofa he sleeps on, body curled up into a ball, sleeping like you’ve always slept, scrunched up to try and protect yourself from the unknown horrors of the night. He dreams of folding himself into you, becoming part of that little fortress of tangled limbs. All these missed moments of quiet joy you could have had and now it’s like you’re both furious with each other, angry that you never took the opportunity to be so much more but with no idea what to do with it.

Wanting you, dreaming of you, fantasising about you, it’s almost like a habit, like bedtime prayers and biting his nails, part of who Dieter is. What happens if it becomes reality, what will it be like if he reaches out and actually touches you with intent? Years of longing and denial all wrapped up in how he moves through each day. His mind is racing, trying to find words that might convey even the tiniest morsel of how he feels about you, “I’m… I’m here now. I want to be here now, with you. I always wanted, angel… I think you know what I’ve always wanted?” His words feel clumsy after your beautiful ones, “Please, please can you let me love you?”

Dieter knows, truly, in his stupid, feckless soul, that there is no going back now. So he leans a tentative hand out towards you, thumb against your chin, waits to see if you’ll lean into him or flinch away. He feels you soften beneath his touch now, yielding to his warmth, your eyes linger on his lips and Dieter decides to stop thinking. That the only way to quiet this assault of his doubts and fears is to cross that forbidden boundary, see if the dream can survive in your living, breathing world.

The first touch of his lips to yours is a taste of heaven. The second is even better, like coming home.

He can barely breathe, every ounce of his being tuned into the next press of your mouth, following your tongue with his own, teasing and tasting, lost in the dance you’ve been scared to try for so, so long. For once, he can’t remember a single reason why.

You stiffen ever so slightly, but he feels it instantly, pulls back to look into your eyes, the ones he swears he knows as well as his own. You stub out your cigarette, take a deep inhale of air.

“D… you know I’ve got a boyfriend.”

He pauses for only a heartbeat, murmurs, “Technically so do I.” His mouth finds yours again, soft but sure, “Do you want me to stop?”

You shake your head, already moving back into a kiss, “No, no I don’t want you to stop, D.”

Kisses on kisses. Dieter wants to savour every second, be soaked in your spit and dizzy with it before he can bear to let his tongue leave your pretty mouth. He feels like his heart might beat right out of his chest, his hips grinding against you to the rhythm of this frantic pulse, his whole body covering yours and pushing you against the hardwood floor as your lips melt together. Fuck, it feels good, to have you keen beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, tilting your pelvis so he can rub himself against you as the kisses soften and deepen, warm and wet, opening up for each other, finally, finally.

You let out a little whimper from your throat and Dieter finds he has to chase it, has to have his tongue against your neck and make you whine again, feel the heat of you under his touch. Suddenly there are too many clothes in the way. It’s as if you realise at the same time, disentangling yourselves with a giggle, eyes bright and hungry for each other’s exposed flesh as you both shuck off your clothes as fast as possible. Just in your bra and panties now, Dieter holds onto your hands to stop you yanking the black lace down, shakes his head at you.

“Let me, angel, I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamed of doing this.”

You give your shoulders a little shake, mischievous grin lighting up your eyes as you let him gaze at your body.

“You like what you see, D? Am I how you thought?”

“Better. I didn’t think it would be possible, but, fuck, you’re perfect.” He takes a bite, mouth around your hip, sucking at the flesh there and leaving indents of his teeth, as if he really means to eat you. You laugh, not soft, but loud, rounded, happy.

“D… I…” you stop speaking as he traces his tongue and his fingertips down your belly, tasting the salt of your skin before he reaches the sodden material that is barely keeping you decent. His head dips down and he runs his tongue against the black lace. He feels like his eyes are going to roll into the back of his head with the ecstasy of it all, fuck, the divine smell of your excitement, how wet he can feel you already are, how hot and sticky. Dripping for him, ready for him, he thinks he might just pass out from the longing, from the pulsing of his cock in heady anticipation of what you’ll taste like, what it’ll feel like to press his face into your heat and devour you.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, angel, every filthy thought I’ve ever had about you, I’m going to write it on your cunt with my tongue. Do you know how many times I’ve fucked my fist thinking of this, of what you’d feel like?”

You gasp an urgent, “D, please, please.”

“I know angel, I know.” He hooks a finger each side of the flimsy material of your panties and drags them down, “Fuck, fuck, look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Dieter doesn’t pause, instinctively licks a stripe across your pussy, groaning at the pleasure he wants to give, wants to feel you wriggling and bucking from the sheer joy of it. He can feel your hands raking through his hair, urging him on, hard tugs at his almost curls as he licks and sucks, circles his tongue firmly against your clit so that you cry his name.

He drags his nose against you, feels you shiver, looks up and sees your eyes blurry with pleasure, watching him, “Does it feel good, angel, do you like it?”

“Fuck yes, D, is feels so, so good. I need, I need your fingers, I need you in me.”

He likes that, likes you telling him what to do. He kisses his way back up your body, nuzzles at your breasts, before he’s looking into your eyes again. One hand lazily curled around your throat, he pushes his thumb into your mouth, your eyes dark and filled with sex, his chest tightening as you bite down on his thumb, sucking and then soaking it with your spit.

Dieter whines, “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna make me fucking come if you do that again.”

You laugh, but you’re more gentle with the next finger, just trace your tongue along it, wetting it delicately, tiny flick of your pink tongue along his thick digit, before you take his middle finger into your mouth. Dieter watches you under his lashes, his cheeks flushed with happiness, a guttural moan leaving his chest as your hand snakes down his chest and holds him tight around his throbbing cock.

You release his finger with a pop, “You’re so big, D, I always thought maybe… but… so big and so pretty. I want you to fuck me.”

Dieter shakes his head, a hiss escaping as you gently pump him, “No. I want to make you come first, angel, then I want you to fuck me, yeah? I want you to ride me, use me, please? I want to watch your tits bounce.”

He sits up slightly, slips one, then two fingers into you, sliding easily into your wetness and warmth, curling his fingers to seek out where makes your eyes crease tightly shut, “want to watch you come apart on my cock, like you were made for me.” His thumb starts circling your clit, finding the right pressure to make you moan, “Please, angel, will you do that for me?”

He watches as you fall off the cliff edge, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, your mouth crashing against his urgently, messily, as he feels you tightening around his fingers and a wave of euphoria hits his chest. That he could make you shake like that, that it was him that had you holding on so tight, tongue sloppy and eager, chasing him with your high. Fuck, it’s everything he’s ever dreamed of. He’s drunk on the lust that fills the air, on the scent of sex and want that’s filling his heart and lungs. It’s never felt like this before, never felt like this with anyone, this heady mix of desire and safety. That he can give himself entirely to you and be consumed, it’s all he’s ever wanted.

An urgency spirals down his spine as you wiggle out from underneath him and push him to the floor, your shaky legs wrapping around him as you lower your still throbbing cunt onto his achingly hard cock.

“I love you,” he stutters, words escaping as your warmth envelopes him.

You place one hand flat on his chest, angel tattoo beneath your hot palm, and wrap the other hand around his neck.

“I know, D, I know.” You lift yourself slowly, so slowly, every inch of him soaked in your wetness, teeth biting at your lips as you get used to the sensation.

His hands grip around your arse, helping to lift you and drag you back down, a steady rhythm of want, “And you love me, don’t you?” He knows his voice is edged with pleading, that there’s a desperation in his words, but he can’t pretend any more, can’t play this game while he’s in you and can feel your pulse beating in time with his own.

You lean down, cupping his face in both your hands, rubbing at the scuff you find there, looking into his begging eyes, and he swallows thickly, the tightening in his belly making him dizzy as you continue the steady punch of your hips, “I’ve always loved you, D.”

Everything sort of disappears around him, all he can do is feel, as if a white light blinds him to the world and it’s just you; his heartbeat, his twin soul, entwined in your joint bliss. It’s messy and hot and fucking perfect. You come again with a ‘fuck’ breathed heavy into his mouth and he follows shortly after, his own ‘angel’ whispered onto your shoulder as you collapse together onto the hard floor. Breathless, no more words left.

You nestle into the crook of his neck, your face pressed up against the furiously beating vein in his throat, crushed up against him in soft devotion. Your fingers play with the ring in his ear and Dieter truly believes he’s never been happier.

When Dieter wakes, you’re already up. He can hear you bashing around the kitchen and he tries to stifle his disappointment that you’re not tucked up next to him still. He allows himself a moment to take a deep sniff of your pillow, it smells of you; your fabric softener, your perfume, the sweat of both your skin after sex. It’s so intoxicating, he practically falls out of bed in his urgency to reach you, to press his mouth against yours again, make sure this is real, that he didn’t imagine the magic of last night. He wraps himself in your dressing gown, practically skips into the tiny galley kitchen.

“Morning, my angel,” he goes to slip his hands around your waist, pull you up close to him, nestle his head against your shoulder. It’s all he’s ever wanted.

Except, you flinch away from him, move quickly out of his path, removing yourself from his outstretched arms. He feels like you’ve thrown a glass of cold water in his face, he’s so confused his mouth actually falls open, the hurt washing over him and dripping down into his stomach.

“Wh..”

You cut him off immediately, eyes anywhere but his face, “I told you I have a boyfriend, Dieter. This,” you wave your arms around theatrically, halfway to the door already, “This can’t be a thing. I’ve got to go, I’ve got a breakfast meeting. Try and do something with your day that isn’t sitting around getting stoned until you have to go to the theatre, yeah?”

“But, I love you.”

You stop in front of the door, one hand on the handle, turn slowly to look at his devastated face, “I know. And I love you too, D. But it doesn’t change anything.”

You slip out of the door quickly, pulling it tight behind you with a firm click.

You’re wrong, of course. It changes everything.

You try to fight it, to ignore that pull in your gut towards him, but now the fuse has been lit and you can’t seem to stub it out. It happens again a few nights later. Your eyes keep meeting, knees bumping together under the table at dinner after his show with some mutual friends where you drink too much wine and spend too much time talking about old times. Then that stupid, infuriating half smile playing on Dieter’s lips as he lets a finger trace up your back while you walk to the club. That no one knows, that these friends are so used to your closeness they don’t suspect that there’s been a monumental shift in the timeline, it adds an element that you weren’t expecting at all. That secrecy makes this even more exciting. There’s a promise of sex now in your shared glances, a fizz in the air that is making you feel stupid, making you feel dizzy and, most of all, reckless.

It’s why you drag him into a toilet cubicle at the club, fingers desperate for his skin, lips locked onto his without a second thought. You feel no hesitation from Dieter, as if he’s been waiting all evening to devour you, tongue licking into your mouth as if it was written. You’re drunk and messy and it feels fucking incredible as he pushes your soaking panties to one side and fucks into you. Teeth at your throat, fingers both rough and playful as he seeks out your orgasm, making you come before he’ll let himself give in to the heat of you, spilling himself with a joyful ‘fuck’ moaned into your skin. You’re both laughing as you try to slink away, but he grabs hold of you, pushes you up against the wall and kisses you so hard it knocks the breath right out of you.

“Just wait until I get you home.”

That was you, you said that, the one who keeps telling Dieter this isn’t a thing. You, who is cold and aloof with him, who tries to push him away at every opportunity during the daylight but loses all sense of reason once the sun sets.

You find yourself counting down the seconds until you can leave work, or tapping your foot impatiently on dates with Randy. A little timer ticking in your head that runs down until you can have Dieter’s fluffy, wild hair in your hands, his mouth toying with yours, bodies fused together in a hot, slippery mess of want. It’s like you’re addicted to him. Any sense of what might be wrong with your behaviour, how confusing it is for Dieter, how unfair it is on your boyfriend let alone the boyfriend waiting for Dieter back in LA, you don’t waste a moment thinking about it. Squish down the moral part of you that used to guide your actions, instead just gorge yourself on the love and infatuation that pulses between you and Dieter.

Gradually it doesn’t have to be dark for you to hide this obsession you have with each other. It creeps into the mornings, makes you late for meetings and has you daydreaming at your desk, all bitten lips and last night’s eyeliner. You shower together before work, enjoy lazy breakfasts at the weekends before you push him out the door to make the matinee, only emerging otherwise to get groceries and more condoms.

It’s so heady and exciting and, somehow, not entirely real.

Dieter has tried to stop himself being jealous, to pretend like he’s cool with this loose arrangement you have together. Which is apparently; fucking at every opportunity and never, ever discussing your feelings. Or your boyfriends. But tonight he can’t help it, he’s been hanging around at a bar with some friends from the play and he’s keyed up. There were shots and lines, so he’s jumpy as hell, feeling worse and worse about himself as he waits for you to finish your fancy dinner date with Randy and come find him.

You slide into the bar without a backwards glance, reapplying your Chanel lipstick with the aid of a delicate gold mirror you keep stashed in your handbag. It’s in the shape of a shell, Dieter recognises it as one he bought you many years ago, found at a thrift store and he knew you’d love it. Strangely it doesn’t make him feel sentimental, instead it’s like he’s just another thing from your past tucked away in your handbag and only used when you need it.

Dieter downs his drink, fingers itchy and uncomfortable. He knows he’s the wrong side of the booze, sneaks off to the gents for another line to straighten himself out. His jaw is grinding by the time you leave the bar together. You’re dancing down the street as if you don’t have a care in the world, fingers tugging at his, playful, hungry eyes shooting in his direction. You look fucking gorgeous and for a moment Dieter hates you for it.

He can’t stop his mouth, “Do you even like him?”

You laugh, amused still, seemingly unaware of the storm that’s brewing under Dieter’s skin, “Randy? Of course I fucking like him, fuck off.”

He spits out the name, “Fucking Randy. I can’t get over that you’re going to ditch me for some guy called Randy.”

You’re trying to keep it light, link your arm through his, voice teasing, “Alright Dieter fucking Bravo. And I’m not ditching you, I never had you. We’ve got a couple of weeks before you’re going to leave me again and I will still be here… I have a proper life in New York, Dieter, and I have some kind of future with Randy, I’ve worked hard at that relationship.”

Dieter can’t match your tone, bitterness edging each word, “Worked hard? Jesus Christ, so sexy, so romantic.”

You don’t like that. Drop his arm, step away from him as you keep walking, “Jesus, you’re such a child still! Relationships take work, Dieter, just because you’re pissing about like you’re 17 doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

His voice is raised now, “Oh yeah, worked hard at being taken out for nice dinners and being brought fancy handbags have you? Worked hard at not falling asleep whilst he explains another thing you know far more about than him?”

You’re shouting right back, “Oh, right, of course. Because I’m not allowed nice things, I’m not supposed to have someone who adores me and wants to buy expensive things for me. I should be suffering and miserable, should I? Does that fit with your idealised version of me? Suffering demurely whilst I sit pretty and wait for you to fucking grow up?”

Suddenly, somehow, you’ve become a couple that fights in the street. People are crossing the road to avoid you. Both of you have a flair for the dramatic, arms flailing, no attempt to quiet how loud you’ve become.

Dieter yells, anger right at the surface, even when what he’s saying is a kindness, “I know you. You’re not like that. You always wanted a big love, a big romance. This guy isn’t that, you’d be fucking settling!”

You’re quieter when you reply, sullen almost.

“Yeah, well maybe the big love wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

You still sleep together that night, angry and brittle as you are, more of a continuation of the fight than the delicate or lust filled sex you’ve been having. It’s sort of empty, the afterglow a strangely silent affair, wrapped in each other's arms but not speaking, limbs heavy with sex but instead of softness and warmth, a burden hangs in the air.

Dieter checks into a shitty hotel for his last weeks in New York.