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atinylittlepain · 9 months

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Born in the USA - Part One of Hungry Hearts

no outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader

Hungry Hearts masterlist

warnings | 18+ cursing, eventual smut, young joel is a goddamn menace

a/n | hellooooo, folks, and welcome to the first installation of my Hungry Hearts series! i'm so stoked to share this one with y'all, as always let me know what you think!

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The radio DJ called for record-breaking heat simmering the streets of Austin this week, and he certainly delivered. Too hot to think, too hot work, too hot to do much of anything until the sun starts to melt down in the late afternoons. She swears that she can feel the rubber soles of her sneakers sticking to the sidewalk with each step, the heat pressing humid hands to the back of her neck, sweat pooling in all the soft dips of her body. And it’s not like she wants to be out here in the first place. In fact, she would much rather be sitting in front of the box fan in her room right now, calculating how many days, hours, and minutes until she’ll be leaving again for school. It can’t come soon enough.

Nothing much has changed around her neighborhood since she was home in December for her holiday break. Same houses with the sleepy looking windows and basketball hoops in the driveways, same families with the nosey wives and oblivious husbands, same kids getting older and taller and more socially awkward. And the same empty lot at the end of the cul-de-sac that had been turned into patchy baseball field when she was in the first grade.

“Outfield, bring it in a little for this next one!”

“Fuck you, Miller! You’re gonna be eating those words!”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that, kid. Show us what you got, why don’t you?” And that’s the same too, unfortunately.

“That’s a strike, wouldn’t you say, Tommy?”

“Sure looked like a strike to me, Joel.” All a bit juvenile, though she would expect nothing less from the Miller brothers. They’re in fine form this afternoon, she thinks, and it seems that all the other girls home from college think the same thing as well, hanging off the chain-link fence and tittering to each other about every ball Joel fields or every fifteen-year-old Tommy stamps out on first. Joel’s idea, no doubt, his eighteen-year-old brother always too happy to hang onto his shirttails and terrorize the pubescent neighborhood kids.

And for his part, Joel seems to know he’s garnered a small audience, just a touch too much flare when the teams switch out and he steps up to bat. He’s dressed in an obscenely short pair of cut-offs, frayed hems grazing along the tan, corded muscles of his thighs. Hi-tops and tube socks, and what once could have been called a shirt, now cropped and unbuttoned so it doesn’t do much but blow in the breeze and expose the lean tautness of his torso. Stance wide, leaning down low in his hips, he winds up the bat right behind his head and lets it rip entirely too hard on the lob he was pitched by that poor fifteen-year-old, sending the ball soaring right over the fence. She has to scoff when the girls she’s standing next to actually clap for him while he drinks it up as he takes a leisurely jog around the plates before jumping down on home with both his feet. And yeah, she thinks, not much has changed, at all.

“Will! Mom wants you home for dinner, let’s go!” Her baby brother, who has decided he is definitely not a baby anymore, does not like her shouting at him one bit, entirely ignoring her with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head from where he’s standing covering first base. Someone else, however, is more than happy to take notice of her.

“Is that? Oh shit! Cherry!” Long and drawn out, Cherryyyyyyyy, with a low whistle at the end. She hasn’t been called that since the last time she saw him, which was last summer in about this same position. Though if there’s one thing she’s gotten good at, it’s ignoring Joel Miller.

“Will, let’s go please!”

“Oh c’mon, Cherry! Why don’t you come over here and show these kids how it’s done? From what I remember you always had a mean little swing.” That gets most of the kids on the field laughing as Joel and Tommy snicker to each other in the makeshift dug out, more of a dirt ditch with a sheet of metal over top of it than anything else.

“Will, I’m not asking, I’m telling. Now.” Maybe she looks like a bitch stomping out onto the field to grab her brother by the arm. She doesn’t care. She’s hot and has sweat dripping in places that sweat should never drip and is coming dangerously close to throttling Joel in front of his little fan club if he doesn’t shut his smug mouth real soon.

“Stop, you’re embarrassing me.” Will doesn’t budge from first when she hooks her hand around his bicep, brooding at her from beneath his bowl cut.

“Do you think I want to be taking you home? Just do me a favor and stop trying to act all tough in front of your little friends so I can go home and get mom off my ass.”

“Hey, Cherry, he’s already got one mom. He doesn’t need you nagging him too!” Joel’s dig drums up another round of laughs from the whole field, and suddenly she’s reconsidering that whole throttling thing. Fine, she thinks, she can do nagging, just wait and see how good she can do nagging. She shifts her tactic, grabbing her brother by the back of his neck instead and starting to haul him along beside her, not giving him time to do anything but trip over his feet in a stilted shuffle to keep up. And of course, it is at that moment that Joel gets the whole crowd of kids started in a chorus of boos.

“Damn, Cherry, when did you become such a tight-ass?” Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the girls still standing along the fence shooting her daggers, maybe it’s just a little bit of all of it that makes her stop dead in her tracks when Joel says that. But before she really knows what she’s doing, she has let go of her brother to march right over to home plate. Seeming a bit surprised that she did, Joel scrambles out of the dug out still too smug for her taste when he comes chest to chest with her.

“Well are you going to give me a bat or what?” His smirk slips into a full grin at that, and for a moment she remembers how pretty she always thought he was. Strong jaw, dark eyes, and that shock of thick, brown hair of his. Such a shame that he’s an enormous tool, really.

“I tell you what, Cherry, what time does your mom want Will home every night?” She knows that look he has in his eyes, all squinted up with his mouth screwed to one side. Always a sucker for a challenge, and she’s all too happy to play along.

“Seven o’clock, why?” He leans in a little closer, ducking his head down like he has the most delicious secret to tell her. She can see the sweat beading and pooling in the hollow of his throat he’s so close.

“Seven o’clock, alright, Cherry. If you can hit a homerun, I will personally see to it that Will is home at seven o’clock on the dot every night for the rest of the summer. How’s that sound?” She tilts her head, hands on her hips like she’s giving it a good think before finally answering him.

“Does he really hang out with you every night?” Joel snorts, his smile going slanted at her.

“Well, someone’s got to keep the kid entertained since you got all boring, miss college.”

“Fine, give me a bat.” That gets her a big grin from him as he backpedals to the dug out to grab a bat for her.

“Let’s switch out who’s fielding. I wanna be on short stop for this hit.” Of course he does. But she thinks to herself that that’s just fine, she’s going to give him a hit to remember.

Tommy was always the nicer of the pair, and as he walks out of the dugout to cover first, he offers her a smile and a shrug as if to apologize for his brother’s dramatics. She always liked Tommy better, even as kids.

She hasn’t done this in a long time. Not since before puberty, probably. She used to play every summer with the Millers and all the other neighborhood kids in this exact lot, and it starts to come back to her as she toes the rubber of her sneakers against home plate. Her palms twist up on the bat, hips shimmying down and back a little to get into the stance, trying her best to focus on the pitcher and not the drawling heckling going on between second and third. He’s doing a warbling rendition of that old Four Seasons song, and she’s pretty sure that the name in the lyrics is Sherry, not Cherry. But he has made it fit with his own demented drone, crooning as he sways a little side to side.

Cherryyyyy, Cherry, baby, Cherryyyyy, can you come out tonight

Youuuuu better ask your mama, Cherry baby

Deep breath in, deep breath out, she has her eyes focused on the ball leaving the soft cradle of the pitcher’s fingers. Like riding a bike, really, the quick swing in her hips and the satisfying crack of the ball hitting the middle of her bat, and, oh. Oh.

“Motherfucker!” It’s not like she meant to, but it’s also not like she’s mad that she did. It was a nice hit, strong and straight, right between second and third. And, well, straight into Joel’s groin.

“What are you doing? Get up, man!” Tommy is all but shrieking at his brother. Joel, however, is still crumpled on the ground and groaning, his hands clenched between his thighs from what she can tell with her quick glances as she jogs from first to second. But she quickly realizes that it’s not just his hands clutched between his legs, but the ball too. And, well, it doesn’t look like he’ll be getting up anytime soon to field that one.

“If you could have him home more around ten till that’d be great, thanks.” If he hears her talking over his curled up body, he makes no show of it, still groaning and writhing around in the dirt with his eyes scrunched shut. She steps over him and continues a much more leisurely pace through third and home.

“Will, let’s go.” Her brother, slack-jawed with his eyes practically popping out of his head, finally listens to her, falling into step alongside her as she can’t help a smirk sliding over her lips. She has to roll her eyes when several of the girls rush out onto the field to fawn over Joel who still seems to be incapacitated and on his knees.

“I can’t believe you just did that.” She tries not to laugh at Will’s exclamation, bumping his shoulder with her own as they start to head home.

“He’ll live.”

…

Sure, he’s always had a competitive streak, he’s not about to deny that. But that competitive streak may, emphasis on may, have gotten a little out of hand now that it’s his baby girl that’s in the competition and not him. Sarah has a talk with him before every game about it. About not yelling at the umpire, about not constantly asking her if she’s staying hydrated in the dugout, and, what she calls the most important point, about not trying to heckle the other team. And everytime, Joel promises her that, yes, he’s going to keep his cool and stay on the bleachers like every other normal and sane parent. And he tries, he really does. But, well, try is the operative word.

“Alright, babygirl, just like we practiced. Keep your eye on the ball and let your hips lead.” It’s the middle of June, the sun bright and beating down hard on the local ball fields where Joel spends most of his weekends cheering Sarah on in her softball matches. He is not sitting on the bleachers like every other normal and sane parent. He is hovering at the side of the dug-out with his head stuck out just enough that the umpire won’t yell at him to get back while he coaches Sarah on her swing. Sarah, however, does not seem particularly grateful for his pointers, glaring at him from beneath her helmet as she steps up to the plate.

“Strike!” Swing and a miss. Joel has to remind himself that no, it is not appropriate to swear at a little league softball game, settling instead for a quick clap of his hands.

“That’s alright, baby, that’s alright. Shake it off, baby, focus.”

“Dad, please.” She says it with a dejected tap of her bat against the plate, the universal sign for back off, now. And sure, he thinks, he can back off, a few feet back toward the bleachers so his girl can focus on her swing, sure.

“Strike two!”

“Goddamnit.” He says it quietly enough that he’s pretty sure no one else hears it before stepping back closer to the plate, because obviously Sarah needs a little help here.

“C’mon, baby, you got this. Shake it off. Don’t choke up on the bat like that, baby, nice and easy.”

“Strike three, you’re–”

“Hey, that wasn’t a strike!” Sarah is going to be so mad at him on the drive home, but he’s too busy stepping over to the umpire to yell at him to be worried about that right now.

“Sir, please go sit down on the bleachers.”

“That pitch was way to the right, I saw it, that wasn’t a strike.”

“Dad, it’s fine, I’m out. Just go sit down, please.” Sarah has already taken her helmet off, nudging her bat into the toe of his boot like, hello, you’re embarrassing me here. But Joel knows what he saw, and what he saw was a way to the right pitch that most certainly was not a strike.

“Baby, you are not out, okay? Put your helmet back on.”

“Sir, your daughter is out, now please go sit–”

“Just give her one more shot, man. C’mon.”

“Hey! Three strikes and you’re out, buddy.” It’s a woman’s voice, coming from somewhere behind him, a parent from the other team most likely, though he doesn’t turn around to see who it is, still staring down the umpire.

“That wasn’t a strike!” He tosses the exclamation over his shoulder, but the woman doesn’t seem ready to back down either.

“Are you saying my daughter doesn’t know how to pitch?” Alright, lady, if you want in on the action, be his guest. He turns around slowly, ready to deliver some sort of clever reply that he hasn’t quite worked out in his mind when–

“Oh shit. Cherry?”

“Wow, I haven’t been called that in nearly two decades.” So it is her. And of course it’s her. He’d recognize her anywhere, even seventeen years later. Still that little jut of her hip when she’s pissed, still that little crook of her chin like a challenge, even seventeen years later.

“So you’re still a competitive bastard then?” Yeah, and still that too, seventeen years later.

“I– you– that wasn’t a strike.”

“Oh, yes it was.”

“It was not.”

“My daughter doesn’t pitch balls on two strikes, okay? That was a strike.” With that, she leans to the side to talk to Sarah standing behind him.

“My condolences to you for having to deal with him, kid.”

“Thanks, you’re catching him on a good day, actually.”

“Hey.” He whips around to scold Sarah, but she’s still focused on Cherry.

“How do you know my dad?”

“Oh, me and him go way back. Don’t we, Joel?” He finds himself opening and closing his mouth a few times, looking between Sarah and a woman he thought he would never see again, though before he can get a reply out, the umpire mercifully cuts off their little reunion.

“Folks, there is still an active game going on here. Sir, your daughter is out, so if you could all please get off of home plate so we can keep this game going that’d be great.” Sarah has to tug him back to her team’s dugout, promptly pushing him over and onto the bleachers while he continues to stare at Cherry like she might disappear. She has walked back to the bleachers for her daughter’s team, though she stands on the sideline with her hands on her hips now.

“You’re all good, Els. Just keep them coming, babe.” His attention draws over to the pitcher to whom Cherry is talking to because, right, she’s Cherry’s daughter. Cherry has a daughter, holy shit. Well, so does he. He has to laugh to himself, a little shake to his head.

A lot can certainly happen in seventeen years.

…

The thing that she hadn’t considered in agreeing to Joel Miller’s little deal was that it would still mean seeing a good amount of Joel Miller. Seven o’clock every night to be exact. Actually, ten till, so he did listen, at least. And of course he’s all smiles and charm, and of course her mother invites him in for dinner every night, and of course he says yes, and of course she has to sit across from him, kicking away his foot every time it encroaches on her space.

“So, Joel, are you still over at Thatcher’s full time?” She tries not to scoff at her mother’s question, the subtle turn of her nose and the slight tinge of judgment quirking up the end of her words. Her mother and her penchant for pedigree, something that the Miller family definitively does not have. If it bothers him, however, Joel doesn’t show it, smiling and thumbing the corner of his mouth as he finishes chewing.

“Yes, ma’am, seven days a week.”

“And does that pay well, son?” Ah yes, the one-two tag team of her mother and father both jumping in now, her father doing that thing where he pretends not to know, his eyebrows falling in mock curiosity. When, really, she’s nearly certain he has already calculated in his head exactly how much Joel makes in a week, month, and year busting his ass in that mechanic shop.

“Well, sir, I’ve got no complaints. Roof over my head and food on my table. And, uh, the tips are pretty good.” That one flies right over both her parents’ heads, but he says it looking directly at her, his eyes crinkling up with a smile that only tugs one corner of his mouth, sleaze and smarm. She is well aware of the tips he pulls in from all the bored little housewives and their daughters, something that always seems to be the topic of conversation on the loungers at the community pool.

If he’s trying to get a rise out of her right now, she’s going to make sure he fails at it, giving him a tight-lipped smile and kicking his shin hard under the table where his foot has started to nudge against hers again. Joel lets out a hard cough, the table shaking a bit when his knee jumps up in reaction.

“Alright, son?”

“Yessir, I think all this heat is finally getting to me is all. I better head on home, but thank y’all for the meal, it’s very kind of you.” Her mother frets and fusses over him, insisting he take a tupperware of meatloaf and salad home and telling him to bring Tommy along next time. Great, she thinks, frick and frack both coming for dinner will be double the fun. Though she’s quickly distracted from that thought when her father lets out a long sigh from the head of the table.

“Such a shame that young man is working like that. It’s a waste of potential, honestly.”

“Oh, honey, don’t.”

“I’m serious, Carol. He was always a smart kid, probably could have gone to college, but instead he’s working in that car shop with seemingly no drive for anything more for himself. I just can’t believe Deedee and Hank are letting him carry on like that.” She knows this spiel well. Next her father will angle his chair toward Will and level his finger at him and–

“Will, you know what I was doing when I was Joel’s age?” Will huffs and rolls his eyes, slumping back in his chair like this is the hundredth time he has heard this, probably because it is.

“Getting ready for law school, dad.”

“I was getting ready for– yes, son, that’s right. And now look at me. Beautiful home, beautiful family, and a good job. Do you know what Joel Miller is going to have to show for himself at my age if he keeps going the way he is now?”

“A whole lot of nothing, dad.”

“A whole lot of– yes, son, that’s right. At this rate, he’s probably still going to be living in that shoebox apartment above Thatcher’s when he’s forty.”

“Can I be excused please?” She tries to hold back the contempt snapping through her words, already getting out of her seat before her mother can ask her what’s wrong. For as much as Joel Miller gets on her nerves, she hates this more, this faux pity her father so easily slips into, turning him into a lesson. And not a very good one at that, because while Joel may not be in college or raking in money, he at least seems happy, and she thinks that’s more than her father can say. She knows it’s more than she can say, staring up at the ceiling in her bedroom, this time trying to calculate the minutes until she gets to go back to school. She only makes it through tallying up the rest of June though before something tapping on her window distracts her.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Hey, Cherry.” He’s lucky her room is on the first floor, or else she would have already shut her window. Though she can’t really do that when he’s standing right there in her mother’s shrubs with a wide grin that glints in the hazy dusk.

“What do you want, Joel?”

“Mikey Donahue is having a party at his house. You wanna come? Have a little fun?”

“Uh, no, thanks.” She goes to shut her window again, but Joel holds it in place, not letting it budge no matter how hard she pushes down on it.

“Oh, c’mon. You used to be fun, what happened to that girl, huh?”

“I grew up, which seems to be more than you can say.”

“Oh, how you wound me, Cherry baby.”

“When are you going to stop calling me that? Nobody else calls me that these days except for you.”

“When you do something funnier than snorting cherry cola out of your nose.” At this point, she has given up on trying to close the window, resting her palms along the sill to lean out so she can whisper yell right into his entirely too smug face.

“I was nine, Joel. And it was your fault for making me laugh that hard.”

“So you admit that I make you laugh?”

“You’re impossible.”

“That wasn’t a no, Cher.” All she can do is huff at him and his relentless grin, taking a moment to look him over. A little more dressed than usual, still in those cut-offs of his, but with an actual flannel shirt on top, sleeves rucked up to his elbows and with a few more buttons undone than what had been during dinner, slipping open even more when he leans down with his hands spread wide on the sill.

“Come on, it’s summer, and I know you’re not having any fun up in Chicago–”

“I have plenty of fun in Chicago.” His eyebrows shoot up his forehead when she interrupts him so quick, the snap of her words telling him just how untrue that statement actually is.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say. Just do an old friend a favor, Cherry, and come out with me tonight, huh? Really, it’s the least you can do after you almost busted my balls.”

“I was doing a public good by lessening the chances of little Joel Millers running around here in the future.” He lets out a long laugh at that, tossing his head back, the long line of his neck bobbing with the sound.

“Touché, but fine, if you don’t wanna come I guess I could always go knock on Lisa-Anne’s window. She got home last week.” He knows exactly what he’s doing by saying that, already pushing off the window and starting to walk away. Fine, she thinks, he can go have fun with stupid fucking Lisa-Anne from down the block. It’ll probably make her whole summer considering that she’s had a crush on him since his front teeth came in in the second grade.

“Joel, wait!” He stops dead in his tracks, one foot still stuck in the shrubs outside her window as he turns around, his lips pursed to stave off what she’s sure would be a shit-eating grin. She’s already swinging one leg out of her window, trying to do so with as much grace as she can, though she still stumbles a bit in the shrubs,grabbing onto Joel’s arm to steady herself before quickly letting go with a huff.

“Just for a little while, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Cherry baby.”

…

He’s not sure what the appropriate thing to do is in this situation. Not really any rules of etiquette for seeing a woman you didn’t think you’d ever see again, seventeen years later, and with a kid no less. All he knows is that he can’t let her drive off without saying something, so even as Sarah is calling his name like a question, he’s walking through the ballfield parking lot toward where she’s helping her daughter pack her bags into the trunk of their minivan.

“Uh, hey.” Great start, man, Jesus Christ. She turns around and smiles, smiles, and suddenly it’s summer of ‘86 all over again.

“Woah, old man, back off a little.” And suddenly it is most definitely not summer of ‘86, her kid stepping between the two of them and giving him a look that could kill.

“Ellie, manners please. Why don’t you wait in the car?”

“But, mom–”

“No buts, it’s fine, alright? I’ll just be a minute.” Her daughter, Ellie, huffs, giving him one more squinted look before she shuffles over to the side of the car, getting in with a hard slam of her door.

“So, mom, huh?” She tilts her head at him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans and her shoulders shrugging up.

“It looks that way. And dad?” She jerks her chin over his shoulder and he turns around to see Sarah standing by their car with one hand held over her eyes for shade as she squints at them. She’s never going to let him live this down.

“Looks that way, yeah. Are you– I didn’t– you’re back in town?” He’s trying to subtly look for a ring on her left hand, though her knuckles are still tucked into her jean pockets, and he’s pretty sure squinting at her pelvis is not a good way to make an impression in this unexpected reunion.

“Yeah, we moved back at the start of June.”

“And when you say we, that’s– that’s you and–”

“Just Ellie and I, yep.” He has to try really hard not to smile at that, dragging a palm down his scruff to keep it at bay.

“So you never left, huh?”

“Uh, no, nope. Hopped a few neighborhoods over though. I don’t know if you heard, but the old block got torn down.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was, they put in a bunch of condos over it.”

“Well I guess the times really have changed.” He should probably say something else, should probably get back to Sarah, but he can’t stop looking at her, and it seems like she can’t stop looking at him. Both of them studying all the places that time and life has settled. Her hair is shorter, he likes it, though he probably should keep that to himself. Before he can say anything, however, the blare of a car horn startles them both out of each other’s gaze.

“Mom, let’s go.” Ellie has stuck her head out of the driver side window, the source of their interruption, already tucking back inside the car with another groan. Cherry just shakes her head.

“That’s my cue. I guess we’ll see each other around then, since our daughters are playing in the same league and all.” It still gives him pause, our daughters, and he has to clear his throat before responding.

“I guess so, reckon we’re gonna give the umps a summer to remember.” She laughs, and he remembers that sound, still the same. He didn’t think he’d ever get to hear it again, but now he’s glad that he does.

“For the record, that was a strike.”

“Whatever you say, Cherry.”

“Can’t believe you’re still calling me that.”

“Can’t believe you never did anything funnier than snorting cherry coke out of your nose.” All he gets from her at that is another shake of her head before she turns around to get in her car. Luckily, she doesn’t see the way he runs right into the open trunk of someone else’s car because of the way he’s slowly shuffling backward to get one more look at those jeans of hers from behind. He only realizes that he’s smiling like a fool when he gets into the car and Sarah shoots him a look from the passenger seat.

“Okay, you’re acting weird. Who was that?”

“Just a very old friend.”

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tags for the moots and folks i think are interested - lmk if you want added or dropped : @casa-boiardi @tieronecrush @swiftispunk @beskarandblasters @trulybetty @amanitacowboy @pr0ximamidnight

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou #joel miller angst #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller story #joel miller series #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #hungry hearts

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adamdforever · 8 months

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Adam Driver at the Venice Film Festival through the years

#adam driver #actors #venice #venice film festival #hungry hearts #marriage story #white noise #ferrari

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clqoo · 4 months

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HIM.

#watching #hungry hearts #while on the verge of tears #ik this movie is like wild but #adam driver #SINGING????#IM CRYING??#im yet to watch marriage story so

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sanzu-sanzu-sanzu · 9 months

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Hungry Hearts 6

Itoshi Sae X F!Reader

You are Itoshi Sae’s Manager. Fielder of dumb reporter questions and keeper of his schedule. Among many others.

Timeskip. Sae is 24 and is officially a representative of Japan.

slowburn + idiots in love + romance + friendship/gen

MASTERLIST

<< prev

Chapter 6: Real Talk

Sae keeps his head settled back against the couch, lifting his phone screen, once again, to his eyes. 09:59 PM, it says, and zero new messages. Not that he’s been expecting anything of the sort, in fact, he’s the one who’s left you on read for about twenty minutes now.

He hovers a thumb over your message before clicking it open for the third time since.

> i know it’s late, and you’ll probably see this in the morning, but thank you again for the tickets. my friend says thank you too, though she watches tomorrow. (9:35 PM)

A message you’ve sent in quiet mode expecting he’d be asleep by now, because you know, of course, that he’ll have an early start in the morning. Not a white lie this time.

> it was a wonderful performance. (9:37 PM)

The sudden beeping noise of the tabletop clock awakens him anew, and when it does, he finally pushes himself off the chair, his awareness re-emerging with that same, steady sense of certainty, a clarity that resonates with the dull current he feels under his skin, the tingling at the tips of his fingers.

How unamusing this helpless sensation is, how discomforting the feel of all this empty space all of a sudden—

He wants to see you.

—how pleasant.

About an hour ago, there was a different woman seated at the other end of this couch. A friend, an acquaintance who happened to be in town. A nice dinner, she’d said, for old time’s sake? And if Sae had said yes, it was out of the implicit agreement that it was not going to be anything more.

What they had, before then, were the occasional hook-ups. A couple of times; it’s not important, you wouldn’t have known because they were never in his calendar. Besides, it had been way before he’d met you. What mattered was that neither had felt the need to ask too many questions and there was no making a big deal out of who he was and what they had going on. It was convenient and it was fleeting, and the both of them got what they signed up for to get.

It had been over a year since they’d last seen each other like this. There’d been a dinner, too, much like tonight, but unlike tonight, there was no coming back to his place because he’d lied that he needed to be up early the next day or else his manager was gonna kill him. Tonight, she’d asked this time, will the manager be around to scold him if he got in any trouble? A question that was said with a twinkle in her eye he imagined saw more than she was letting on. A question he’d let hang, he had let stick in his mind even as the conversation had dulled into something more pleasant—the same stories that were safe to share, safe to explore, safe to navigate.

Even, and especially, when his mind kept telling him maybe he’d messed up somewhere because, at every turn, he’d find you—in the quiet lull of the classic Yoko Kanno blues that permeated the restaurant air; in the soft chimes of laughter from someone at the next table; in the passenger seat of the woman’s car, sleek and cramped and not made for him. There was, in every space that was occupied and every doorway he crossed, the ever-present reminder that you were somewhere else and not here.

It’s becoming pathetic.

It’s a Saturday, she’d pointed out, at one point, when the matter of the unusual volume of traffic was brought up. It’s a Saturday night and everyone’s out with there friends—or out at their friend’s—just like she and him.

Yeah, but there’s that Tokyo Ballet event, too. Right around Meguro, that’s why, Sae supplied from his kitchen as he poured them both a drink.

Oh, is there? Didn’t realize you’re into ballet now.

Not at all. But my manager is, he said before he caught himself. That’s where she’s at right now.

Her champagne was handed without meeting each other’s gazes, good enough segue towards a stretch of light conversation that no longer mentioned you.

“You good, Sae?” None of the few women he’d ever slept with had to bother with courtesy, and yet he still blinked, as if roused from a light stupor, upon the sound of his name. Too personal and too familiar; an intimacy that felt misplaced, despite the casualness of the hour, despite the lack of inhibition in bare feet folded up on the couch.

Sae looked up to her rose-lacquered smile, an all-seeing pair of eyes. Eyes that, despite how opaque, held understanding and friendship.

“Good.” He did something between a sigh and a grunt, stretching an arm over the back of the couch as his gaze landed on the clock on the side table. “Didn’t realize how late it’s gotten.”

She held his eyes for only a moment, fully understanding what that meant. What it entailed for the both of them. “Indeed,” she murmured, carefully placing her champagne glass on the center table, as carefully as she stretched the moment out in forming her words. “I do need to get home, too, though. Early trip tomorrow.”

But Sae didn’t mind. If this was the end of something, the both of them could take their time.

“Let me drive you.”

“There’s no need,” she smiled at the offer, getting up. “I’d like a long drive myself. And besides, I barely drank.”

It was at right by his doorstep wherein she finally turned to ask, and before she’d even opened her mouth, Sae somehow knew what it was going to be about.

“Can I take a guess who she is?”

“Guess who?”

“I hope you don’t actually play me for a fool, Itoshi Sae,” she leveled him with a coy stare. “You never had that look when we were ever together, you know that?”

Maybe it’s the bit of alcohol, maybe it’s the light prodding at the remotest idea of you, but something in him felt like protecting this part of him. “No idea what you’re trying to say.”

She barked out a laugh, folding her arms as she rested a shoulder against the doorframe, temporarily halting her exit. “You know, and I’ve told you this before, you may be a genius but you’re the dumbest in at least one of these two things: outright lying or handling your feelings.”

“Have you?”

“If not both.”

To that, Sae offered no real response; he simply closes his eyes, tilting his head away, seemingly conceding this one. Not as much as she might like, but conceding, nonetheless. “Don’t have much use for either on the field.”

One could only roll their eyes at Sae’s stubbornness. But, then again, if this were the end of something, should he be able to get away so easily? “So, may I? I think I might have a good idea on who she is.”

“I think you’ve had more than a bit of a drink. You sure you could get yourself home just fine?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll shut up. You don’t need me to tell you anyway.”

“What look?” He did, however, stop her just before the door completely closed between them.

“I don’t know.” She had to laugh at the suspicious, attentive look his expression morphs into. But then maybe that’s also part of his charm: chronically indifferent to the world and everyone else, except for the things he truly, strongly cared for—football; his brother; a girl he suddenly didn’t know what to do with because if there was one thing Sae knew what to do best, it’s to win.

“I don’t know, Itoshi, but something tells me that you already know that this isn’t a game you get to play, that she isn’t a prize you get to win.”

Maybe this was the part of Sae she chose to speak to, in the end.

“Make of that what you will. You don’t get that look in your eyes for someone so often.”

He stares back at his own gaze on the dark glass window, illuminated by the sparkle of city lights, alive and noiseless from this side of the glass. He wonders if you’d still reply back after how long.

> Great to know. (Sent)

He waits a minute, and then two, before his fingers are typing again.

> You ate yet? (Sent)

Your reply comes sooner than he might’ve expected.

> hahahaha

He blinks at his phone screen once because even though you’re not above jokes and offbeat banter in person, your written communication, however, has always been very dry. As dry and as utilitarian as his, which works just fine, but which could also very well be the reason for your near-insistence, whenever allowed, on voice and/or cam-on calls. A principle that was easy to grasp right from the start, but, he feels, is just now only being further unravelled in his mind, a truth that is being magnified as if for the first time—all from a single line of ‘hahahaha.’

How mundane, how illuminating, the way Sae can already picture you shaking your head at his constant pestering—has it gotten so constant now?—to never forget to eat, prompting him to roll his eyes.

It’s easy to forget that that’s another person at the other end of the line, he remembers overhearing your words to a sponsor rep once, that one time you had to make an emergency call while in Spain and you ended up having to do it in his Madrid living room. An issue that could’ve gotten bigger but was eventually smoothed out by you and your diplomatic in-person talking it out with the right people. That you’re a person, too.

He wishes he’s seeing you now.

> i will be eating, i promise. just trying to catch a cab at the moment.

He realizes that you must’ve been waiting for a ride for over twenty minutes already, a thought that makes him frown.

> Stranded? Where are you? (Sent)

When you reply, your words are back to sounding matter-of-fact and reassuring:

> kind of. long queue at cab booth, but it’ll pass. meguro persimmon hall, exit 2.

10:10, his phone says, but then he decides not to think it through.

> Let’s get something to eat. (Sent)

He stays standing in front of his glass window across his crossed-armed reflection, waiting for your reply. After a significant amount of time of no word from you (roughly five minutes), he realizes one important thing and flicks his phone open to send you another quick message.

If you like, of course. I know it’s late. It’s a Saturday, after all. He cannot be subjecting his manager to his whims on a Saturday night and on your day off, much less. Why did he not think this through?

But then,

i’d love to, goes your reply. it’s just cab is difficult right now. will you have time to wait for me?

Sae’s response comes easy, intuitive, almost unconscious. Except as he types his message out, he becomes very much conscious of the constraints and the limits of a medium devoid of a physical you, confines through which the words he intend to say but which no one can hear almost bleed out, like he’s saying them out loud in the moment. And taste them in his mouth. An honesty, a sense of earnestness in words that almost reach over your tiny screens.

Stay where you are. I’ll pick you up.

In his car, he catches the very simple fact that you no longer adjust his passenger’s seat because he never really has to accommodate anyone else but you, a small thing you also notice because the cute bear patterned headrest pillow that you’d once dug out from the backseat—a random purchase of his—that looks very much out of place in his car’s slick black refinement, and yet, somehow, has always stayed there, is still attached at just the right height and position as you’ve left it last time. The last time, and the many other times he’s driven you in his car.

It had been a sort of predicament, the first time, his driver being unavailable so Sae had to be the one to drive the both of you around the city, and you hesitating to get in the backseat like he’s your own personal driver…as opposed to the more personal, reserved-for-the-more-important front passenger seat. Sae had seen through your quiet dilemma though, had watched you deliberate silently for a few seconds before himself speaking up with a quick nod to the seat beside him:

Up front with me. I’ll be your driver, either way.

This time, there’s no more hesitating as you fasten your seatbelt; “You don’t get a lot of passengers in here, huh.”

He confirms with a reply, more to himself, as he reverses the car with one hand, but with him twisting his body and placing his other arm over the back of your seat to look behind, his words come out a little quiet—a little strained—but very clear near your ear.

“No—just you.”

You spend a good thirty minutes deciding on where to eat because, as it turns out, you’ve been hard-pressed on finding a place that caters to his current training diet. When Sae realizes this, you’re both standing at the receiving area of what looks to be an authentic Thai restaurant, you with your nose pressed on a hand-held board menu, forehead scrunched in focus at the rows of items of foreign cuisine.

He ignores the ogling—both blatant and not—of passersby and the handful of servers maintaining their best not to crowd at reception; the uninvited eyes are the least of his concern at the moment.

“Whole steamed fish sounds good…”

“Let’s eat where you’d like to eat,” he says as he carefully lowers the board out of your face with two fingers. “No diet; I’m on my day-off.”

“You sure?”

He shrugs. “And I’m the one who asked you out, so pick wherever you want.”

You do not question anymore the logic behind his reasoning, nor dwell too much on the sentiment behind the gesture; you only look up for a brief moment at the whole place, past the staring eyes and the extent of the interior you could manage from the outside. Place looks pleasant and airy enough, not too noisy, not too many people—just enough you know he’d be able to manage (like he’s always able to). He would like it here.

“How about here?”

Sae’s gaze follows yours, narrowing in thought, before he fully lifts the menu board out of your hand. He takes a second to scan through the items himself, eyes diligently noting the spiciness level of each dish and, not to mention, the ever-present Authentic Thai spices and seasoning! tagline. Great place, great food, but considering how this place obviously does not play around with their spices, he spares a moment to recall, very quickly, the few instances he’s ever seen you with spicy food, and the most striking instance that comes to mind was that one time after a joint training in Barcha a couple of months back, when someone had brought in a spicy dish for sharing, and there was Meguru Bachira holding his full plate that was good enough for two as far away from you as possible, a look of warning on his face and a very pointed, ‘This paella is Level 12 spicy, ma’am! So you better watch out.”

Bachira was eating what was supposed to be your share, was also the point, but which you supported no problem.

“You think you can handle their spicy level?”

Your eyes flicker a few times before lighting up with recognition, and then you’re breaking into a shy, contained smile, red freckling your cheeks, not expecting him to catch on to the fact that you have extremely low tolerance to spiciness. “You’re right. Not for me.”

Sae wills his eyes away, clearing his throat.

“Let’s go where you wanna go,” he says, stepping aside so you may lead the way.

“Actually, I know a good burger stall around—over there.”

Right around the street food stalls is a park that he’s never been to before. He’s a little surprised by the amount of people and life still up this late keeping the place awake, a little grateful when you lead him to a row of benches on the quieter side of the area. You don’t know what time it closes, you tell him, but it doesn’t matter, it’s not like you need the place open ‘till 5 AM anyway.

Seated on the bench, you finally get to ask him.

“So, how was your day?”

He flicks his diet soda open before answering, his other hand inching the large fries he didn’t ask for closer to you. He was doubting earlier whether to get them or not, but then he remembered that you’re not as averse to potato fries as he is.

“Uneventful.”

You follow with a quiet nod before he realizes you must be quickly running his schedule over in your head, schedule you always have mentally penned no matter the day. “That’s fair. Today was rest day for you.”

“Yours, as well,” he reminds you. “Suppose this should count as overtime, shouldn’t it?”

Light laughter spills through your half-opened mouth, interrupting what is supposed to be your first bite. “Well, since it’s technically outside of both our work hours, then I guess I’m not required to play manager, am I? So then, there’s no need.”

He gives his double cheeseburger a very brief inspection—“Then I’m just your regular guy—“ satisfied upon seeing that nobody forgot to put in the spicy sauce and pickles.

“How does it feel to be ordinary, Itoshi Sae?” Finally, you both get your first bites at the same time.

“Lib’rating,” he says through a stuffed mouth, pausing before he takes his next one. “You shouldn’t be letting any random guy buy you food, though.”

“Except you’re not just any random guy,” you say, smiling. “You’re a friend, of course.”

A friend. It’s a Saturday night and everyone’s out with their friends. Before he can fully process your words, though—and the burger is good—he sees you turning to him with a slightly wary look on your face.

“We could move your early morning run, too, you know. Coach wouldn’t mind, since you’re out so late tonight…”

“It’s your call. Coach wouldn’t object to you.”

“Oh, so you’re making me work.”

“No.” He quietly groans at the sight of your goofy grin. “Well, what ever’s your friendly counsel?”

You shake your head as if you’ve already told him so. “My friendly advice would always be to clear off your Sunday schedule because Sundays should be for sleeping in.”

“Alright, don’t push it. My manager’s gonna kill you and then me if I skip on my workout altogether.”

“Hey—!”

“She’s way too crazy with this Spartan training.” In spite of the empty look he schools his face into, there’s humor that softens the corners of his eyes at the sound of your fruitless protest.

Across the park and in front of you, there’s a group of children running about, being kids, doing cartwheels in the grass. There’s at least five of them kicking a football around and Sae idly wonders if any of them are, by now, as big a dreamer as he had been at that age. Wonders whether that’s a good thing or not; wonders, too, if that should be relevant. Even at this hour, the park stays bright and alive, even though the spot you’ve picked seems to be pretty divorced from much of the loudness and attention.

He catches you smiling at one or two things from the scenery across, if not because of the burger you look to be happily devouring. As if the taste is somehow attached to a memory he’s unable to gleam out of your eyes. Maybe he should ask you; maybe he shouldn’t. Does this make you happy?

“Well,” he considers for just a moment, “as your friend, I suppose I could tell you that I was out with a girl tonight. Are you proud?”

“‘Fat’s good!” You slowly nod as you place a hand over your mouth, courtesy in the middle of your chewing. “I am pwoud!”

He snorts, waits for you to finish your food, noticing the way you pat the paper bags on your left and right, searching for something.

“So, how was it? And how was she?” Your face suddenly freezes, your hands pause over your mouth. “I hope you did not ditch anyone on account of me, Sae-kun.”

“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” he says, shaking his head as he places his clean stack of paper napkins beside your lap for you. “Silly woman.”

“I did not think so,” and, for a brief, scary moment, Sae entertains the idea that maybe it’s not a question of whether he would or would not ditch anything on account of you, but it’s what could he possibly not ditch on account of you. “Thank you.”

There’s a period of comfortable silence for some time and the both of you let it stretch on for a bit, the varied, lively view in front providing enough distraction along with the food you’re both happily, quietly devouring. He does, however, feel that looming sense of question in the air, the way he’s somehow always able to tell whenever you’re deep in thought. Like the precursor to a piece of music he’ll always recognize. Always, always, in his head.

Why did he even think of telling you this, again? He suddenly doesn’t know, and he hears you sigh before you speak.

“You don’t have to tell me if you choose not to, but I am curious about this girl, though.” He cannot help but be amused at your careful wording. “So, how was it, how was she like?”

Sae squints over his burger before he takes another bite. “There’s nothing much to say. It’s over.”

“No way…that can’t be real.”

He shrugs. “Real. It simply won’t work out. We might’ve already known for a while.”

You gasp softly at this and Sae realizes that he likes it. Taking you by surprise. “Elaborate…”

“So interested, aren’t you.” He finally places his food down, crosses his legs and sits a little more comfortably with one arm over the back of the bench. “I could tell you. We’ve known each other for a while now, have gone out together a few times, too. But I enjoyed the company more than anything else; more than what it could’ve been, or even just the prospect of it, if that makes sense.” He folds his arm, bringing his knuckle to his cheek, angling just right so he could see your reaction. “You could say it was over before it even began,” which is, in a way, not false.

“Oh,” you begin to say, cradling your drink with both hands as you look on straight ahead. “That’s too bad.” But even as you don’t say anything else for a few good seconds, Sae’s staring does not waver, stays waiting for when you do look back with your question. “You think she felt the same way?”

“You think she might’ve?”

“I don’t know.” Your smile is honest, more open now. “I don’t know enough about this girl, as you see.”

He hums in thought as he closes his eyes, the wind blowing softly on his face. “She works in a magazine, big fan of football since she was a kid. We’ve met at a media event in Madrid a couple of years ago. She’s got some interesting views about football in Japan; some I agree with, some I don’t. She moves around a lot because of work, Tokyo, Madrid, Paris…you’ve probably even seen her in one of our events, I don’t know. Or maybe not.”

Sae thinks he’s memorized your expressions by now, your gestures, but nothing of the unreadable eyes you point straight ahead help him anticipate the way you adjust your seating so now you’re propping your head against your hand, too, crossing your legs, close to mirroring his posture. “But those are just things. You could say that about anyone and still don’t know them.” Your other hand absently moves to the base of your throat, fingers lithe over the band of your swan necklace that peeks out of your neckline. Facing him, but also not. “The same way…you might tell someone that I’m your manager, and you’re a football player. Or just a regular guy.”

He gives it a moment of thought. “I guess I don’t remember. Not sure if I even knew her at all.” To which you let out another quiet gasp.

“No, you can’t not remember…That’s a little sad.”

He mentally files your unexpected response, before closing his eyes once again. “Then, I don’t remember anything important, anything of value. We were cool, but I bored her to death, she bored me to death.” He steals a glance through a cracked eye, however, searching for your expression. “I’m not such a good talker, as you know.”

This makes you laugh. “That’s not true.” Sae was right, you do not mind eating up his fries, as well. Something about this strikes him as endearing, you sharing his food, whether you’re aware of it or not, but he gets no time to ponder it over. “We’ve had plenty of fun and worthwhile conversations as far as I’m concerned. About football, or otherwise.”

“No, I get what you mean.” And he does. And he hopes he’s saying enough to help you see that he really does understand. “I don’t forget people so easily.”

There’s another stretch of silence, of zero words filling the air between you, and in this short moment, he decides whether to let you in on one more thing. One last bit of truth, because it’s late and inside him is a strange sense of lack of inhibition. A sense of wonder as to how much he could push this little space further.

Maybe it’s the lateness of the hour. Or maybe it’s you. And is it enough? The glances he gets to steal as he sits on the other end of this tiny bench, good enough for two? The vague sentiments he gets to put out there in the world?

“I suppose, I meant to say,” he tilts his head just slightly, just enough so he’s able to make out your face out of the corner of his line of sight, “that I was more preoccupied than interested. Because I might like someone else.”

You don’t answer back right away, not fast enough, leaving just the tiniest room for an invisible thought behind your eyes. When you open your mouth to speak, it’s with a smile, but this one without meeting his gaze.

“Well. Then, that’s great—“

He can’t help but wonder what he’d see if he sees your eyes this time.

“—that you like someone. And I am happy for you.”

And that, if you ask him, right now, who this person is—the way a friend might—would he tell you the truth?

Somewhere, he hears the distant chiming of a clock tower eleven, twelve times, he does not count, nor bothers to find out. In the playing field across, one of the children tries to make a serious attempt to goal but then he sends the ball flying way past the post and fails. He rolls to the ground in despair while the other kids run to him in easy laughter. It’s all good fun.

Despite the hour, there does not seem to be any plans on any of the people leaving.

Sae takes a beat before clearing his throat. “That’s enough about me,” he begins, absently picking from the fries—his fries—you left between the two of you. “How was your day?”

You catch him frowning at the taste of french fries and you almost laugh because Sae, as far as you’re concerned, has no business eating french fries.

“Apart from tonight’s ballet, nothing much happened.” He squints at you in disbelief. “Well, things did happen, but nothing as colorful as yours.”

“Like I said: it was pretty much uneventful.”

“You should’ve watched with me.”

Sae’s smirk comes unbidden. “And watch you sparkly-eyed over dancing I wouldn’t understand while I do my best not to sleep.”

You look aghast. “Oh, but it’s different when you do get to watch it. There’s a lot more similarities between ballet and football than you might think, you know?”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. And you’d be amazed by how effortless it all looks, how easy they make them all look.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“It might be hard to imagine the impressive power and strength behind their action because a ballet dancer jumps with a lot of grace. And beauty, of course.” Your gaze turns soft. “All that mental focus, the core and abdominal muscle strength, the footwork—“ you suddenly clasp your hands close, just now realizing the unwieldy gestures you start making with your hands, and you purse your lips into an awkward smile. “—You know all those things, too, of course.”

But Sae does not want you to stop, does not ever want you to curb the love you wish for him to see, as he realizes, with startling clarity, that he might and he would give anything a chance just because it has you. Just because it is you.

“Not in the same way that you do.” He shifts in his seat to face you more fully now, his undivided attention tinged with the amusement at your unusual excitement and wordy enthusiasm. “Well, so, mind sparing me some ballet wisdom that I could use out there on the field?”

And he listens, watches, as you slowly unravel this thing that you love with so much heart, his attention held captive, his eyes drawn by the delicate gestures you once again start to unthinkingly make with your hands, like you’re forming words you can hold along with the movement of your lips, the curl of the corners of your mouth, the clasping and unclasping of your fingers, in harmony with the flutter of your eyes, the softening of your gaze, the rise and fall of your voice. Romance, you’re explaining now—ballet, by the very nature of the dance, is very romantic.

And, like a stray eyelash on your cheek, he plucks out the delicate word with careful fingers—

“Romance—” holds it at the tip of his tongue. “You think that I…could benefit with a little romance—is your ballet expert’s advice on how to be No. 1 on the field.”

He catches the humor in your eyes. “Yes, I suppose you could be a little more romantic.”

“Elaborate on what this ‘romantic’ means.”

“It’s like…it’s like when you bring someone to the ocean to see the sunset, and the sunset stops being the point.”

He narrows his eyes at your analogy, but then amusement tugs at the corners of his lips. “That sounds like a random string of words, but…weirdly enough, I get what you mean.”

“Oh, I just thought…well, I know you enjoy the ocean a whole lot so I thought of explaining in terms you might appreciate more.” At his expression of wonder, you chuckle. “I’m the one who books your vacations so I know where you like to go, okay.”

He shakes his head at the triumphant expression your face melts into. “Romance, I get that. I hope as my manager you’re taking this down—“ a faux incredulity at your glee,“—but tell me: you think if I gave you a pass you could score a goal for me?”

This one, you take a serious moment to give some real thought, like you’re asked a critical question you’ve never asked yourself before. And then you’re smiling, pursing your lips.

“I doubt that,” in your brief laughter he’s able to catch that hesitant gleam in your eyes—“I don’t have that killer instinct—“ the sheepish, almost self-conscious contact of your hand to your face, a gesture he’s come to know means you’re embarrassed, and Sae no longer resists the laughter that rises out of him. He used to spend a good amount of time wondering what you could be thinking, in whatever situation the two of you are thrown into, in the rare times that he allows his thoughts to stray to where they rarely go—in the quiet of the car; in the chaos of the dugout in the middle of an important match and he catches your eye by sheer coincidence; in the silence with which you mask the unease behind your eyes in certain moments he’s yet to figure out the reason behind of. If he no longer loses as much sleep over the rationality that is you as he had had before, it is less out of disinterest but more because two years worth of constantly being in each other’s orbits have given your relationship—this Player/Manager partnership/friendship, or whatever you’d like to call it—a certain fundamental reliability; your self a level of predictability, for lack of a better term. Like how he’s learned to avoid saying or doing certain things out of a nagging itch, that is, knowing how they might make you feel. So much of you might require a little more stretching of the imagination still for him to understand, but it’s maybe that same fundamental knowing, as well, that has earned Sae this unwarranted and, admittedly, mind-boggling predisposition to keep learning. To keep learning more.

(Of you.)

Because a part of him knows, in the same vein as having learned to know you, that you’ll always be able to surpass his imagination. A realization he has no idea what to do with.

And now you’re smiling to yourself and he doesn’t even completely know why, and the pleasant stirrings of warmth he feels from his stomach to his chest and up his neck to his face tells him he’s fine with this puzzlement.

Because you’re not a prize or a ‘trophy’ to be won, and this isn’t a game he gets to play. There are games he gets to crush, outcomes he gets to control to the utmost perfection, and then there is you—

You give a little laugh when you catch his eyes.

—this is where his rationality stops, where his head empties of all the cold calculation and certainties he arms himself with against the world—

“What?”

“You aren’t such a bad talker as you say you are—see?”

—and be left with nothing more than the simple truth of who and what he wants, along with the clarity of your image:

You, sparkly-eyed, beside him in a park one night, telling him who you are.

MASTERLIST

taglist: @kunikame @ac-koryu-13 @dioscuridios @kiyohdasimp @ririgards @saeitoshithoughts @simpx123 @silly-ez @jwhwbwhwh @yoimyas @imhererighthererightnoe @luvjiro @wifeofgeto @nxxagent @xoyumiqls @oosden @shiinobu-x @francinethings23 @beabeemu @ashen-sky @arminseas @lostinbeidou @bluerskiees @sagejin @whotaooo @nanami230 @li28zi @gemoyo @ari-maccha @kiopanxp @exatse @tears-dnt-fall @saenora

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR EVERYONE’S PATIENCE 🥲

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burningblake · 11 months

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ADAM DRIVER in Hungry Hearts (2014)

#driverdaily #adriveredit #adam driver #hungry hearts #quick edit I did on my phone because excuse me what the fuck is this?#how can he be this beautiful #look at them beauty marks I'm going insane #this might look like just a picture but it's actually colored and sharpened I swear #anywya yeah I'm normal about him #on second thought I'm adding this to the reylo tag cuz that's kylo with their baby obvs #reylo

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napiersmirk · 4 months

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Ever since I edited the colours of this picture I have been so obsessed with it. All these soft blues/greens and tale colours are my favs.

#adam driver #hungry hearts

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loveofaddy · 1 year

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At the beach with Jude 🥹

#jude #hungry hearts #adam driver #photo edit #moodboard

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justagirlwholikesadam · 1 year

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Tenant

Summary: Moving into New York is never easy especially with rent. You see an ad for a studio. You meet Jude who’s renting it out. Money is short, Jude has an idea how you can make it up.

Jude x Chubby! Reader

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You knew living in New York would be hard. Especially with rent so when you found an ad in the newspaper for a small studio near where you worked you were all for it. However, when you saw the price of the rent; you felt your heart fall out of your ass. You didn't care though, it would be a dollar slice of pizza and ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You just hoped the owner would be nice enough to give you a better deal.

"Hello, I'm Jude." You met a tall guy in front of an apartment complex. You had called him about the studio, and he agreed to meet you on the same day.

"Y/n. Nice to meet you." You said with a smile shaking his hand. You blushed under his gaze.

He opened the door for you and let you walk inside first into the lobby. He told you it was on the third floor as he shut the door. You walked up the stairs not noticing Jude staring at your behind. He bit his bottom lip as he looked at you. He quickly ran his hand through his hair as he followed behind you. It's been a while since he's been with Mina and with everything going on with the baby. He was on edge. He watched as you looked around in the studio, your round cheeks glowed in excitement as you opened the door to the closet to see how much space it was. He stood by the entrance.

You wore a pair of black leggings showing your ass, he gripped the doorframe when you leaned down to open the kitchen cabinet under the sink. Your cleavage showed as well. You are a pretty thing, he had to admit. He almost moans at the sight of your camel toe when you walk across the room. The leggings hugged your mound. You were nice and plump. So full in all the places he liked. His eyes went up to your face again to look at those round cute cheeks. His fingers were aching to pinch them.

"I do have one problem, though." You told Jude nervously. You stood across the room and looked at him. He quickly stuffed his hands into his pocket. Hoping you wouldn't see his half-hardened cock through his jeans.

"The rent. I just got here and I'm kind of new to this part of the city. It's a bit out of my budget for the moment." You told him.

"I will be looking for another job though. If I can get this place and pay the rest later." Jude just looked at you but didn't say anything. Something stirred deep inside of Jude that moment. Something very mischievous. His hands were already sweaty at the thought of it. His cock twitched under his jeans. He has seen it done once in a porn video before. He would jack off in the bathroom at 3 in the morning while Mina was sleeping.

'Girl pays rent with her pussy.'

The images flooded his mind of the girl in the porno riding her landlord's cock. The landlord pulling the girl's hair as he fucked her from behind.

"You're going to live here alone? You're single or..." Jude asked. You shook your head.

"I'm single. It'll just be me, here alone."

Good, Jude thought to himself.

"We can work out a deal perhaps." He said as he walked inside then shut the door behind him.

"A deal?" You questioned.

"Yes." Jude said, walking towards you. He stopped a few inches in front of you. You just stood still as you looked up at him. You got a good look at him now. He was towering over you. He was handsome, with a pair of nice lips, head full of dark locks. Beauty marks were scattered over his face. His eyes were light hazel. You saw him tuck a stand of hair behind his ear and you noticed a wedding ring.

"You're a pretty girl. Beautiful, to be honest." You blushed at his words.

"How about you pay half of the rent for the studio?" He said making your eyes widen at his words.

"You're serious?" He nodded at you, loving how your eyes lit up.

"What do you want in return?" You asked him.

Now Jude was a sweet guy before he met his wife. He loved his wife, and he loved his child even more but with everything going on with Mina. His wife was horribly irritating and had completely gone mad. Jude hasn't touched his wife in a year, no kisses, no hugs, no sex. He stayed with Mina for his child's sake. He even picked up more hours at his job to stay away from Mina.

He had this small studio to get away from Mina. He just used it in the weekdays whenever he got out early from work. He even snuck in food so he can eat since Mina didn't allow meat or any kind of food that was up to her standards. He thought he can get some extra cash by renting it but today when he saw you walking towards him with a bright smile, you looked so cute. You looked alive, your eyes and skin practically glowing. He couldn't help but think of you as the girl in the porno. You would be on your knees sucking his cock, batting your pretty little eyes at him as your mouth is full of cock.

Your cheeks would be full of cum just to pay the other half of the rent. Jude never told anyone, but he liked a girl with meat on her bones. Since he was tall and bigger he liked a girl who could handle him. When he met Mina, she was on the skinner side and he didn't mind it until now.

"I want to fuck you." Jude told you. You raised your eyebrows at him. He froze when you started to laugh.

"Yeah, right." You said between laughs, but he stood silently making you stop when he gave you no reaction.

"Oh shit. You're serious?" You asked as Jude looked up and down at your body.

"You're married." You said pointing the ring on his finger.

"I haven't touched my wife in over a year. It's complicated but the offer stands. I find you so attractive, Y/n. The moment I saw you. I couldn't help myself to think of you under me. Or you on top of me." Jude said as his eyes roamed over you once more.

You gave it some thought. You weren't a homewrecker, but fuck half of the rent is the only thing you will have to pay. It would help you a lot. You haven't slept with a guy in so long, you were getting tired of using your hands. You thought it was a joke, you weren't a skinny person. You were chubby. Bigger and fuller than most girls but the look he gave you made you pussy clench.

"Ok." You told him, making him grin.

"When?" You asked him.

"Possibly once or twice every month. Maybe when you pay me the rent. I'll come and pick it up and I'll fuck you." Jude said, making you look around the studio then at him.

"Deal." You said holding your hand out to him to shake on it. He shook your hand. You noticed his hands were much larger than yours. So warm and big. Fingers longer than yours.

You saw him lean down to your face. His nose touched your cheek. "You're so pretty." You heard him mumble as he gently pressed a kiss on your cheek. You turned to meet his lips. You whined in his mouth as he cupped your face with his hands as he continued to kiss you.

He quickly pulled away, making you frown. "I have to stop before I take you here on the wooden floor." You chuckled at him.

"Don't hesitate to call me if you need help bringing your stuff in." He whispers to you then gently pinches one of your chubby cheeks.

He gives you a pair of keys. "Until next time." He said then started to walk away. You quickly followed him to the staircase. He looked over his shoulder around in mid step when you called out to him.

"No deposit? No credit check?" You asked him. Jude shook his head. "I'm getting something much better in return. I don't need to check that."

You smiled as he told you goodbye and continued walking down the stairs. You walked back inside of the studio and looked around as you shut the door behind you. You let out a sigh and leaned back against the front door.

It took you almost a week to finally bring your stuff into the studio. You didn't text Jude to help you out, you didn't want to bother him especially after him giving you an amazing deal. You were a bit nervous as well. You were cooking when you looked over at the calendar you hung on the kitchen wall.

It was rent day.

You spend the whole morning cleaning the studio trying to make it look presentable. You even shaved and did your hair. You picked out some comfy clothes to wear. You were thinking about sending him a text to ask what time he was coming but didn't go through it.

You looked back at the steak you were cooking. It was evening already. A part of you was happy he hadn't come.

Maybe he has forgotten, you thought to yourself when you checked on the potatoes that were roasting in the oven. You shut the oven door closed when you heard knocking on the door.

Fuck. You cried out mentally.

"Coming." You yelled then lowered the heat on the stove to not burn the steak.

You quickly fixed your hair as you walked to the front door. There he was. Jude stood in front of you. He had a black peacoat on, a book bag over his shoulder. He wore a gray sweater with dark pants along with a pair of crew dress shoes. He looked very handsome.

"Hi." You said letting him inside.

"Hey." Jude told you as he walked inside. He saw you close the door and lock it. He saw you had little pjs shorts on. You were showing your bare legs, the shorts barely covering your ass.

You had little ankle socks on your feet. You had a sweater on with a design of a cat. He looked away when you turned to him and told him you had the rent money. He saw you walk over to the living/kitchen room and grab your purse. He blushed when he saw your shorts riding up. The back of your plushy thighs was on full display. He was hit by the smell of your cooking. It's been a while since he smelt meat.

"Here. That's half of it." You told him handing a white envelope. Jude didn't bother checking, he put it in his backpack

"Did you just got out of work?" You asked, trying to make small talk to ease your nervous mind.

"Yeah. The office was a bit busy today." He said. You were about to ask him something when you heard his stomach rumble loudly.

You let out a small laugh as he placed a hand on his stomach and blushed. "I'm sorry about that." He told you.

"I was making dinner. If you like, I can make you a plate." You said pointing at the kitchen. "I don't mind. Maybe we can talk more about our arrangement."

Jude nodded. "Sure." He placed his book bag on the small futon you had in the living/kitchen room and walked behind you to the kitchen. "Please sit." You said pointing at chair near the table. He sat and watched as you gather plates and sliver ware from the drawers. He liked watching you walk around the kitchen to serving him.

Your cheeks were pink from the heat of the cooking you did. He watched as you brought a plate. He thanked you profusely. He waited for you to sit across from him with your own plate. He looked down at his plate. Steak, roasted red potatoes and cheesy asparagus. It's been a while since he had a decent meal.

You thought dinner was going to be a shit show but Jude seemed content. He looked happy as he ate his steak. You had a few conversations about work and he told you he had a son. You noticed how much he loved his son by the way he talked about him. You smiled at him when Jude looked up from his plate at you.

Six months later.

"Fuck..fuck." Jude cried out as he rammed inside of you over and over again. You were on your back with your legs spread out. Jude likes to watch how his cock splits your pussy. He has to stops himself from cumming at the sight of his shaft disappearing in your puffy folds. Your walls feel so warm around him, he had a hand resting on your pudgy stomach as he rubbed your throbbing clit with the other hand.

You looked up at him as you played with your breasts. Squeezing them and pulling your nipples.

"Perfect pussy." Jude moans as he leaves from your clit to grab your plump mound, making you moan when he gives it a good shake.

"Mine pussy. It's fucking mine, right?" He moans, making you nod as he uses it to move your lower half up and down on his cock.

"Jude!" You cried out as he rammed deep inside of you. He stood still for a moment enjoying the feeling of the head of his cock kissing your cervix. He leaned over to kiss your breasts. Drooling over them, nipping on them. Your hands gripping on his hair as he feasts on your breasts. Shoving his face between them. The first time you slept with Jude you were nervous. He made you feel comfortable throughout the months. He would lick and kiss every stretch mark and cellulite on your skin. He would moan when he grabbed your tummy, your rolls and thick thighs. He would praise your body; each word would make your pussy drip wet for him.

"You're so pretty, bunny." He would say as he fucked you.

He started calling you bunny as well after the second month. "You're my cute little bunny. My god. Look at bunny's plump little pussy." He would moan as he fucked you.

He would fuck you from behind to see your ass bounce up and down on his cock. Loving the harsh smacks your ass would take when it hits his hips as he thrust into you. He loved the fact he would go hard, and you could endure it. You were the only one who took his entire cock.

You have lost count how many times you came. Your legs were becoming numb as you held them open for him.

Jude groans as he kisses your chest then brings his lips to yours. His hands went under you, holding you close as he began to fuck you in harsh and short thrusts making cry out.

"Juddeee.. please. It's too deep." You cry to him as he gently nip on your chubby cheeks on your face. You were feeling tears in your eyes by how much pleasure he was giving you.

"I know..I know...I know bunny. Take this fat cock." He pants against your cheeks. Your hands wrapped around him as he fucked hard you down on the mattress. You can hear the springs of the mattress starting to squeak again at his harsh thrusts.

"This pussy so fuckin' good. I swear. You were made just for me." He tells you, making you clench around his cock as you hear his praise. Jude's cock hit your cervix repeatedly. You felt so full of the cum from his previous orgasms and his cock ramming into you.

"Look at me, bunny." He moans, you obey and turn your face towards his. He gives you a sloppy kiss making you cry as you cum over his cock again.

Jude let out a heartily moan as he felt you cum on him. Lewd sounds of his balls slapping against your ass echoed in the bedroom. The air was beginning to feel hot and heavy. Cum dripping down to your ass to the bed sheets. You could feel the sweat rolling down his back. You were so sweaty; your bodies were sticking together. Jude had you in his favorite position, the mating position.

"Oh fuck.. bunny.." gasped Jude. He released a grunt as his thrusts became harsher and deeper. His face tucked in the crook of neck as he spilled inside of you. He held his hips up for a minute enjoying the feeling of cumming deep inside of you. You had one hand in his hair as the other was on his back. You couldn't feel your legs anymore, you didn't care at this point . You enjoyed the feeling of his body on top of you. His full weight on you felt so good. The feeling of your pussy being filled and the burning sensation of your pussy being stretched from his cock made your mind go blank for a second.

Jude hummed as he enjoyed his orgasm and the feeling of you under him. His eyes closed at the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair.

"Oh my god." He says softly pushing himself up to kiss your neck then at your face to your lips again.

With a wince he got up and sat on his legs looking down to see his mess. Your poor pussy was battered with cum. He looked at you to see you breathing heavily as you bit your bottom lip. He looked over your body, chest going up and down. Love marks covered your body, your pudge tummy looked so good on top of your mound. You let out a whine when you felt him pull out.

Every time Jude would leave you breathing heavily. With hickeys and drool all over your body. Leaves your pussy sore and dripping with his cum.

Over the few months that had passed, he asked you if he could come over to your place more times. You didn't deny his request. You liked having him around. He would wake you up with his head between your thick thighs. He would drown himself in your pussy. Morning would start with rough sex, headboard banging against the wall. Sweaty sex after dinner. He would eat you out on the dinner table. Bend you over the kitchen counter, and table.

He started to spend nights with you after sex, he liked cuddling with you. Jude would mindlessly knead at the fat of your thighs or your rolls, other times he'll squeeze your tummy when cuddling or when he's just standing behind you as you cooked dinner or breakfast. He liked when you sat on his lap. Your back against his chest as his hand goes between your legs. He would always let out a moan as he feels cups your plump mound and plays with your clit through your pants.

"You're so bad, Jude." You tell him as you drop your mouth open when you feel his tongue lick your dripping slit.

You don't know how he gets so much energy half of the time. You noticed Jude had a breeding kink. A very big one. You didn't mind it since you took care of yourself but the things, he tells you while fucking your pussy raw always made you go crazy.

"Imma cum in you, bunny. Gonna give me a baby. Right?" He would ask you while fucking you from behind. His hand pressing your head down on the mattress as you drool at his words.

"I'm gonna put a baby in this tummy." He would tell you as he grabs your stomach, squeezing your fat. You would just nod with an empty mind because all you could think about is his cock sliding in and out of you.

You cry out when you feel Jude push the cum back into your gaping hole with his fingers.

"Jude!" You whined out making him chuckle as he gave a gentle slap on your cunt. Loving the way your puffy pussy bounces back after his slap. Satisfy with what he has done. He lets your pussy rest for now.

"I had to taste you." He tells you laying next to you as you stared up at the ceiling trying to catch your breath. You feel him get closer to you after a while. Kissing your bare shoulder and arm.

"Y/n, can we cuddle?" He asked you after a moment of silence. You look over at him and nod. "I'm sweaty though." You commented to him. He shook his head.

"Don't care." He mumbled as he made his way to lay against your chest. He laid his head on top of your breasts with an arm over your stomach. You wrapped your arms around him then shut your eyes. You didn't mind it one bit of Jude being in you or over you. It was a small price to pay to only pay half of the rent.

#jude x reader #jude hungry hearts #hungry hearts #hungry hearts smut #hungry hearts 2014 #jude x reader smut #chubby reader #cheating #smut #sex for money #sex for rent

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bisonteinvencible · 11 months

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Hungry hearts, Saverio Constanzo, 2014

#Hungry hearts #Saverio Constanzo #Adam Driver

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cndcrd · 2 years

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Adam Driver Characters - Part 3

14. Maurizio Gucci - House of Gucci

15. Jude - Hungry Hearts

16. Francisco Garupe - Silence

17. Paul Sevier - Midnight Special

18. Jamie Massey - While We’re Young

19. Allan - What If

20. Al Cody - Inside Llewyn Davis

21. Lev Shapiro - Frances Ha

Part 1

Part 2

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kwistowee · 1 month

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Adam Driver and Alba Rohrwacher HUNGRY HEARTS (2014) Dir. Saverio Costanzo

276 notes · View notes

atinylittlepain · 8 months

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Independence Day

no outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader

Hungry Hearts masterlist

warnings | 18+ this one is pure angst, sorry about it

wordcount | 4K

a/n | she is short, because she is pain. just remember, a happy ending I promised, and a happy ending I shall deliver. but this isn't it. as always, tell me what you think, and thank you for reading.

gif by @pascalisthepunkest

................................................

She’s humming along to the radio in her car, and she can’t help it. Something giddy and bright beating beneath her ribs. She could barely hold back her laugh when her mother waved her out of the driveway, some admonition about bringing a boyfriend home for Christmas. But she can laugh about it now, driving out of her neighborhood and toward Thatcher’s.

Everything she wanted to bring is packed in the trunk. Not much if she’s being honest, mostly books and the clothes she came home with. She muses to herself that after a few years, her mother will probably put a treadmill in her old bedroom. A much better use of the space, she thinks, than to let it sit vacant forever.

Her smile splits and stretches when she sees him as she pulls into the auto shop’s parking lot, though it tempers and turns sideways when she gets a better look at him. Confusion that he’s in his coveralls, she certainly didn’t think those would be making the trip. Confusion too that there’s no sign of a suitcase, not even a backpack. But he probably just has to get it from the apartment, that’s all. That’s all, she tells herself, as she gets out of her car to walk over to him on knees that are quickly weakening because whatever that look is on his face, no amount of rationalizing can convince her that it’s anything good.

“Joel? What– are you– are you ready?” She feels stupid and small asking it, especially when Joel’s eyes stay glued to his shoes. He’s holding something, down by his side, half pressed into his pant leg. A bouquet, she realizes, and her stomach turns into a tight fist.

“Cherry–” Long and low like a sigh, like a sorry, and she’s not going to allow the rest to come out, stepping forward and taking his face in her hands, finally focusing his gaze on hers.

“No, no, no– Joel, baby, don’t– let’s just– we’ll go get your things, okay? We don’t even have to pack them, we can just shove them in the backseat and–” She clasps his wrist, trying to tug him toward the office, toward the stairs up to his apartment, but he’s not moving.

“Cher, just–”

“Baby, c’mon, we need to get on the road soon if we wanna make it to–”

“Cherry, stop.” She can already feel the tears thickening up her throat, going limp as Joel tugs her back to stand in front of her. A sharp gasp breaking in her chest, when he swipes his thumb along her cheek, collecting the salt already starting to pool.

“Don’t do this, Joel. Please, please. Just tell me what happened and I— I can fix it, we can fix it.” His face crumples, a broken sound in the back of his throat that only makes her cry harder, pressing her forehead against his and letting everything swim in the periphery.

“I can’t. I just can’t. This is– this is gonna be better for you, easier. You gotta go, you understand? You don’t need me getting in the way of all your plans, your future.”

“Of course I need you. Baby, it’s– it’s you and me, remember? Just get in the car, please– just get in the car–” He shakes his head, slow and stilted, a fresh wave of tears that breaks first in his chest, his shoulders shaking with it.

“I can’t do that, Cher.” It’s like a real, yawning ache in her chest, something splitting open and bleeding out, and all she can do is ball her fists into the front of his coveralls and tamp down her shuddering tears enough that she can look him in the eye.

“I love you, Joel. I love you so fucking much it’s stupid. And I know you love me too. A-and that’s all that matters, okay? So please don’t do this.” He doesn’t say anything, his damp lashes dropping down to the tops of his cheeks as he steps back out of her grasp. It’s almost robotic, the way he holds out the bouquet to her, still not looking at her.

“You’re gonna do something amazing, Cherry.” She finds herself taking the bouquet from him, feeling like a fool even as she does it. Chrysanthemums, the fleeting thought, who the hell buys a bouquet of chrysanthemums? And then that perfect pang of despair turns into something else, something more bearable, something she can let get big and bright until it feels righteous, like anger.

“Oh, fuck you.” It seems to startle him, his eyes hiccuping up onto her face, and all she wants to do is chase after that shock, to dig her fingers into the wound and make it hurt as bad as it’s hurting her right now.

“You got what you wanted, Joel. That’s it, right? Someone to keep your bed warm all summer, so easy to keep them coming back. Just gotta tell them what they want to hear, huh?”

“It wasn’t like that, Cherry.” He says it so small, so broken that for a moment her anger falters, though she stokes it back to life with a bitter laugh.

“You promised me, you asshole. You fucking promised me.” She does it before she can really think about it, shoving her hands into his chest, only making him take a single staggered step back, but it feels good. Good like she should do it again.

“This was all just some fucking game to you, wasn’t it? I bet you didn’t mean a single thing you said to me.” Another shove, and then another, the bouquet in her hand going limp, petals falling all around them, only stopping when Joel barks out a sharp enough.

“I meant all of it, Cher. And now I’m trying to do right by you. You need to go, and I’m not coming with you because it’s the right thing for you.” It’s silent for a moment, both of them breathing hard, watery eyes wide and unblinking.

“Fuck you, Joel Miller.” Maybe it’s a bit childish, but it certainly feels good to throw the bouquet down and smash what’s left of the blooms with the sole of her sneaker, a smear of sorry on the curb before she gets back in her car with a hard slam of the door.

She holds it in like a breath until she crosses state lines. But when she does, it’s all she can do to pull over onto the shoulder of the road and let this reality sink in with a sob.

…

“You’re being good, brother. Finally learned not to harass the ump, huh?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Tommy is right. For once, Joel is staying on the bleachers, staying silent except to clap with the other parents when a run is scored or a play is made. But it has nothing to do with the ump, and everything to do with Cherry sitting on the other set of bleachers, their daughter’s teams playing each other again in the final tournament of the summer. He only steals sparing glances her way, trying to keep his focus straight ahead on the field between quick sweeps of his eyes. Her sunglasses are down, and much like him, she’s staying seated and uncharacteristically silent.

It’s been two weeks since she swept out of his house, and not a word passed between them since. He asked Tommy to take over the work on her porch, figuring that as much distance as he could manage between them would be best. It is a herculean labor on his part to not ask his brother how she’s doing, if she’s still taking damn phone calls every ten minutes, if she’s mentioned anything about him. But he doesn’t. Keeps his mouth shut and stays busy with that new build on Cypress. And no, he definitely doesn’t look at his phone at night, willing something, anything to come pinging through from her. Definitely not.

“You gonna talk to Cher today? Or are you gonna keep making those weird eyes at her for the whole game and then go home and pout?” He doesn’t reward Tommy’s quip with a response, settling for a cursory glance before trying to refocus on the game.

“Joel.”

“Tommy, enough.”

“What the fuck happened, man? You two seemed good one minute, and then the next she’s stomping out of your house without another look your way.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Well excuse me for trying to look out for you, brother. The girl you had a crush on since we were fucking kids comes back and somehow you’ve already managed to screw things up. A second time, I might add.”

“Are you done talking now?” Tommy’s face pinches up at Joel’s gruff question, an indignant sound in the back of his throat as he shakes his head.

“Fuck’s sake, Joel, I’m trying to help you out here. It was nice, you know? Seeing you two together again. I just don’t get why you’re both being so goddamn weird now.”

“It’s a complicated thing. And before you ask, no, I ain’t gonna try to explain it to you.”

“Well how fucking complicated can it be? What? Is there some estranged husband in the picture?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend then?”

“No.”

“Is she in a cult or something?”

“Jesus Christ, no, stop asking stupid questions.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

“None of your business is what it is. A lot has changed in seventeen years, alright? We’re different people. It just– it’s complicated.” Tommy seems perfectly unsatisfied with that answer, taking off his cap to run a hand through his hair as he lets out a frustrated grumble. Though mercifully, he drops it, focusing back on the field.

“You better fix it, brother.”

“Tommy, you have no clue what you’re talking about. It’s not–”

“Here’s what I know. You two were a good thing, and then you fucked it up, and now you’re fucking it up all over again.”

“Thanks for that, I really needed to be reminded again of how I fucked up.”

“Damn it, I’m not kidding around here.” Something in Tommy’s voice changes, something serious, something with a sharp edge that makes Joel quiet, his brother looking at him with a hard and narrow squint.

“You’re not gonna get another chance, brother, you know that? This is it. And I just– I don’t like watching you make the same mistake twice.” Joel isn’t sure what to say to that, and Tommy doesn’t look interested in his response anyways, shaking his head with a sigh before setting his sights back on the game, clapping and whooping for the next kid up to bat, a rather firm conclusion to their conversation.

He lets himself take another look over at Cherry, still seated, still hiding behind her sunglasses, and still not looking anywhere near him. He wants to, more than anything. To say something, to walk over there and try to make all of this wrong right. And he knows where he would start, but he’s not sure how to, almost twenty years worth of not sure how to. But he doesn’t have much time to feel too pitiful about that because in that way that summer in Austin tends to do, an errant groan of thunder cracks and shakes in the sky, everything darkening and dampening all of a sudden. The ump is already calling the game with the first few fat drops of rain, a perfect slice of lightning punctuating his words.

…

She has only tried this one other time. A moment of weakness, really. She had just moved into her dorm. A single, how fitting. And the phone at the end of the hall taunted her everytime she left for class. When her car broke down back in June, she had torn the number for Thatcher’s auto out of the phonebook in a fit of absent-minded frustration, the slip of paper ending up tucked into her cupholders where it still was when she got back to Chicago. Before she knew what she was doing, she was dialing the number on that slip of paper, a small prayer that he would, and a small prayer that he wouldn’t.

It wasn’t Joel that picked up that time, one of the other guys that worked at the shop answering the phone. She hung up the instant that she heard the voice, not the one she wanted to hear, relieved that it wasn’t the one she wanted to hear.

This time, she isn’t even sure what spurs her on. Coming home from her evening class, something about how dark it gets, how close and quiet makes that want impossible to ignore. She doesn’t even need the slip of paper to dial the shop this time, the numbers running a deranged and endless path in her mind.

“Thatcher’s auto, how can I help you?”

“Joel?” She doesn’t have to ask that, not really. She knows it’s him, and judging by the way the phone line goes silent, he knows it’s her too. Though there is no click of the line hanging up, just both of them holding their breath, waiting and willing for the other one to break.

“It’s me, um, I don’t know why I called, I just– are you there?” Still nothing. She tries not to let anger creep in, remembering what it was she’s been wanting to say. Almost the instant she crossed state lines, a sick slosh of guilt settled in her stomach. The anger was still there too, but something sheepish started to sting around the edges for the way she had railed against him. And she’s not sure what she hates more, the fact of what he did, or the fact that she didn’t mean a single word she screamed at him that day, that she never could, even if she tried.

“You probably don’t want to speak to me, and that’s fine. I just– if you could just listen to what I have to say I won’t try bothering you again.” Perfect silence, but still no dial tone. Part of her wishes he would just hang up. It’d be easier than what she’s about to say.

“I wanted to apologize for the things I said to you. I don’t know why you did what you did, and, um–” The words start to crack and slant with the hot weight of tears rising up her throat, stopping herself for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose to try to stave off the flood.

“You really hurt me, Joel, and, um, I think it was easier for me to be angry than to be hurt. But the things I said to you– I didn’t mean any of it, you know?” No use in trying to bite back the tears, her words become punctuated and jagged with small sobs, everything she’s been holding in coming out all at once.

“And the funniest part is– well, not the funniest, it’s more like the worst– the worst part is, I think I still love you. Hell, I’ll probably still love you twenty years from now.” Her tears tangle up into a weak laugh, sniffling back snot as she catches a bloodshot glance of herself in the metal of the phone receiver.

“So I guess I just wanted to say I’m sorry. And, um, I hope you take care of yourself out there.” There’s more, words getting caught somewhere between her ribs, turning into fluttery panic that makes her slam the phone back into the receiver before any more can get out.

She doesn’t call again.

…

“Jesus Christ, this rain is fucking insane.”

“Language.” Though he scolds his brother in the passenger seat, Joel is inclined to agree. Before they had the car packed back up, what had been a few large drops of rain had turned into a steady downpour and a low rumble of thunder, leaving the field flooded and thick with mud. And now, as four softball teams worth of minivans and SUVs try to maneuver out of the parking lot, also flooded out and gummed up with mud, they’ve come to a complete standstill in the deluge.

“Hey, is that–” Tommy’s sentence trails off, his brow furrowed as he looks out the passenger side window. When he sees what his brother is squinting at, Joel can’t help the low curse that settles in the back of his throat. It’s Cherry, standing at the bumper of her car, soaked to the bone as she gesticulates up to Ellie, who he can now see sticking her head out of the driver side window. He can also see that their back tires look sunken into a few inches of mud, cars honking and creeping around them as Cherry tries to guide Ellie through rocking their car back into motion.

“You oughta go help them, brother.”

“Uh–”

“Uncle Tommy is right, dad. This is like, your chance at an apology.” Joel whips around to look at a very smug Sarah in the backseat, her arms crossed over her chest with a satisfied huff.

“What are you– what’s Tommy been telling you?”

“Nothing, I’m just not blind and know that you messed something up.” He looks between Sarah and Tommy, both of them so self-satisfied that it’s all he can do to get out of their car with a grumble. It’s not like they were moving anyways.

“Cher– Cherry! You want some help?” He hates the way she looks at him, all exasperation in the way her squint slackens in the rain.

“Nope, not from you I don’t. We’ve got this under control.” They both have to shout to be heard over the hard drive of the rain and the endless thunder, though Cherry’s words are undermined when Ellie suddenly gives the car some gas, mud spluttering up behind the wheels and all along Cherry’s bare legs.

“Just– just let me help you. We can rock it, get it–”

“I don’t want your help, Joel. I don’t need your help. Just get back in your car and leave us alone.”

“Mom, I don’t think we have this under control!” A very worried Ellie shouts out of the driver side window, her eyes darting between her mom and Joel, though he’s having a hard time seeing much of anything with the way the rain is streaming down his face. For a moment, Cherry looks lost, glancing between her kid and the back tires, a few choice curses leaving her mouth before she focuses back on Joel.

“Look, Cherry, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Goddamnit, for everything. I’m sorry for everything. For what I did to you. But you gotta know that I’d do it again.”

“Well that’s really nice, Joel, thanks for that backhanded apology.” Her words get stuck and stopped by a shiver, both of them completely soaked as cars continue to weave around hers, and the rain just keeps on coming down.

“I mean it, it was the right thing to do for you. I would have held you back, and you know it. Look at everything you’ve done since then.” At that, Cherry lets out a sharp bark of laughter, her palm coming up to swipe away the water dripping down her face, stepping closer to him so she doesn’t have to yell so loud.

“Everything I’ve done? Everything I’ve done? Do I look happy to you, Joel? Do I seem happy to you? Jesus Christ, why do you think I moved back here in the first place?” He has no answer for that, Cherry letting out another incredulous laugh as she shakes her head at him.

“You know what would have made me happy? If we stayed in that fucking shoebox apartment above Thatcher’s for the rest of our miserable lives. I would have said yes to that in a fucking heartbeat, Joel. If it meant that I got to keep you with me, I would have done it and I would have been the happiest fucking person in the world.” Too much, his chest tightening up with all the words threatening up his throat. He speaks before he can think.

“Well I didn’t want that for you! I wanted you to have something better. You deserved something better. Fuck, Cherry, I have loved you since the first time I saw you in church, fucking eight years old and completely gone for you. And I couldn’t let you throw everything away for me, for nothing.”

“You were everything, Joel, don’t you understand that? All I fucking wanted was you with me.” Nothing to say to that, at least nothing that he thinks would make any of this right. And not any time for it either, cars honking all around them, reminding them of their situation, Ellie sticking her head out the driver side window to shout back at them. This, at least, something he can fix.

“Kid, we’re gonna rock it, okay? And when I say, you’re gonna give it a little gas, just a little, light touch, you got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, old man, I got it.”

He and Cherry both brace at the bumper, Joel shouting up to Ellie to hit the gas at just the right time to get the car moving with a slick spray of mud. And yes, the car can drive now and no, that doesn’t really fix anything.

“Thank you, Joel, and goodbye.” Said with all the warmth of a business associate concluding a deal, she doesn’t spare him another glance as her sneakers squelch and stick through the mud toward the drivers side door of her car, Ellie quick to switch places with her, shooting Joel a death glare that’s enough to keep his mouth shut and his feet planted. And then it’s Cherry pulling away in her car before he can say what he really wants to, a sight he is all too familiar with.

“Wait, what– that’s it? Did y’all make up?” Joel takes a long, shuddering breath when he gets into his car again, swiping his palm down his face to slough off the rain before he answers Tommy’s question.

“No, Tommy, we didn’t. And I’m only gonna ask you one more time to drop it. It’s– we’re done. What’s done is done.”

…

It’s Thanksgiving break, and while everyone else is getting ready to go home, she is hunkering down in her dorm room and willing the week to pass by mercifully fast.

Her parents tried to call a few times, messages left at the front desk that she blankly received with no intention of returning. Part of her is surprised by how quickly their efforts have relented, like they were just waiting for her to give them a reason to shutter her out. Fine by her. On scholarship anyways, so even the economics of it all are clean and simple.

And when the residence halls get quiet and still, that want, that itch returns. But she knows she can’t sate it, can’t call him. She doesn’t think he’d give her his voice even if she tried, he certainly hadn’t the last time she called. So instead, she spends all day and most of the night in the basement of the library, away from the possibility of any phone calls. She’s working on something. Something big. Something that maybe, possibly, one day could be bought and published.

It’s tedious. She writes by hand, and then she pecks at the keys of one of the three behemoth computers the school keeps in the library, printing each new day’s worth of work, a satisfying stack building on her desk. It keeps her busy, it keeps her focused, a rhythm and routine of work. Whenever that want returns, whenever her mind starts to trail toward him, she opens her notebook and gets back to work, or goes to the library to transcribe what she has gotten down. Whenever Joel Miller threatens at the edges of her mind, she writes, and it keeps her from thinking about him any more than she already has.

..............................................

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