"Weave Lace Out of Light, When I Dream With You"
by: singyourmelody
Disclaimer: Don't own Austin & Ally characters. Title is from Sleeping at Last's "Chandeliers." Don't own that either. This is a sequel to "Your Symphony Singing in All That I Am." Austin and Ally married at the end of that story and I thought it'd be interesting to see what married life might be like for them.
He shuts the door as quietly as he can and picks up his suitcase so that the wheels don't squeak on the hard wood floor.
Slipping his shoes off, he shuffles silently over to the couch where she is curled up with a blanket and a book, asleep.
He sits down at her feet and brushes some hair out of her eyes.
"Ally," he says softly.
She stirs a bit before sitting up. "You're back," she says, and he swears he can hear relief in her voice.
"Yeah, just got in."
"I tried to stay awake. What time is it?"
He looks at his watch. "A little after four."
She groans. "I am going to be so mad at you in the morning."
He flashes her his trademark grin, the one that has taken years to perfect. "But for now?"
"For now. . . I'm just glad you're back." She leans forward and rests her forehead on his, her hands reaching up to the ends of his messy hair.
"Me too. You have no idea how much I missed you."
She raises her eyebrow. "I think I have some idea." She nods her head towards the magazines sitting on the coffee table. He leans forward to read the headlines: 'Moon Moons Away' states the one, complete with a picture of him drinking alone. 'Heartbroken Heartbreaker?' reads the next, as he looks forlornly off into the distance. And finally, 'Austin's Wild Night Out!' the last one says, in bright pink capital letters, accompanied by a photo of him at a club surrounded by girls.
"One of these things is not like the other," he sighs.
"How was your crazy night of sex, drugs, and rock and roll anyway?" she asks, grinning.
He points to the first two covers. "This was me for almost the entire tour."
He picks up the third one. "And Kevin couldn't stand it anymore. 'You're ruining your image,' he said to me over and over again. So he picked me up after the last show and took me to this terrible little club that only played Swedish techno. It was horrible. He actually posed this picture. Made those girls dance around me and then he must have released it."
"Managers," she says, "It's almost like they want you to have fun or something."
He scoffs. "Yeah, a lot of fun that was."
"Let me guess, you went back to your hotel room every night and just sat there, pining," she teases.
"Um, you forgot about the hours and hours I spent listening to tragic 90s pop songs and drowning my sorrows in ice cream."
"Oh, my mistake," she says, moving a little closer to him.
He wraps his arm around her and kisses the top of her head. "I really did miss you, Alls. It felt like the longest month and a half of my life."
"That's what happens when you leave your wife at home," she states.
"Hey now. You couldn't come, you know that."
"I know," she concedes. "Curse this conscience of mine. I should have just left my students behind. Although did I tell you that Colin finally made it through an entire song in front of a crowd? I was so proud of him. His mom actually cried a little."
"That's awesome."
She nods. "Yeah." She picks up his hand and looks at his wristwatch, before sighing dramatically "Austin, you have been home for thirteen minutes now and you have yet to kiss me. Do I need to remind you that I have not been properly kissed in over a month? A month! That's like an eternity. Not that I haven't had the opportunity of course. I'm fairly certain that Huey the doorman would have been happy to oblige since he always winks at me and asks me if I have finally decided to upgrade to a real man, such as himself. I find it kind of adorable that he has this old-man crush and I know that if I was pushing seventy and still single, he would be quite the catch and—"
"Ally," he interrupts.
"Yeah?"
He lowers his head and kisses her then, a soft, short kiss.
"You do that just to shut me up, don't you?" she asks, smirking.
"Doesn't seem to be working, does it?" he replies.
"Nope. I am much harder to control."
"Hmm. I seem to remember that you like to be in control."
"I'm surprised you remember anything at all," she retorts.
His brow furrows a bit. "Guess I'll have to remind you of how much I know," he says, but before he can even move, she launches herself at him, her legs on either side of his, her arms wrapping around his neck and her mouth moving quickly over his. This was the kiss she was waiting for, he recognizes, as his fingers run over the exposed skin between her tank and her flannel pajama pants and her chest presses even farther into his. She sighs a little into his mouth and he almost completely loses control.
"Bed," she murmurs against his lips and even though it's almost four thirty in the morning, he is more than happy to oblige.
Their wedding went like this:
He was scheduled for a sold-out show in Honolulu and miraculously had two days off before his next show in southern California.
She meticulously examined his schedule before determining that Hawaii is beautiful in May and sure, they had only been together for a few weeks, but they decided before their second kiss that they were going to get married, so why wait?
Within a week she had a dress and a photographer and a minister and a beach. She managed to get the entire beach. He was in awe of her.
No one knew.
Not her dad or his parents or even Trish and Dez.
They were forced to tell Kevin, crazy ambitious Kevin, who had been furiously scheduling him to do signings and private concerts and special appearances on those days off. On their wedding day.
To say Kevin was shocked is an understatement, but he's really good at what he does and before they had even finished telling him their plan, he'd cancelled all of his appearances and drafted a press release to be sent at their discernment.
The Honolulu concert was one of the best he'd ever done and the next day, dressed in a white button down and light khaki pants, he went to wait for her at their beach just as the sun set over the water.
She walked down from their hotel, wearing the most beautiful dress she'd ever worn, all flowing fabric and ivory sheer, her hair pulled loosely back to the side, tied with a white orchid and he just stood there in amazement.
She moved to stand in front of him and leaned in close.
"Sand is getting everywhere," she said, echoing some of her first memories of the beach that she shared with him. She picked up the bottom of her dress to reveal that she wasn't wearing any shoes. She wiggled her toes at him and he knew that he was making the best decision of his life.
"Guess we're gonna have to make some good memories of the beach."
"Guess so."
"You look so beautiful," he said.
"You're looking pretty good yourself," she replied.
The minister approached them then. "Are you both ready?" he asked.
He looked at her and she looked at him.
"Yeah," she said, softly, holding out her hand.
"Yeah," he repeated, taking it.
They said their own vows and the photographer signed the marriage certificate as a witness and the whole thing was just perfect.
Matt Lauer announced it to the world on The Today Show a week later and once she finished her freak out ("Matt Lauer said my name! Matt Lauer knows my name!"), they gave Kevin the go-ahead to release the statement to the press and suddenly the two of them were everywhere. They were all over magazines and entertainment shows and Saturday Night Live actually did a skit about how young and potentially stupid they were and she snuggled up next to him on their couch and tried to stifle her laughter at the comedians' impressions of his dance moves and her characterization as someone who sings everything and never speaks.
He shot her dirty looks between her fits of laughter.
She nudged his shoulder. "Come on. You know if we're being mocked on SNL, then we have arrived."
He looked at her, his wife, and realized she was right. "Heck yes, we have," he smirked and held up his palm, as she gave him a quick high five.
She wakes to the sound of the alarm clock blaring.
At first, she can't move and she's not sure why. But then she realizes it's because there's a one hundred and fifty pound person lying across her stomach. A person who knows her favorite movie and listens to her when she's had a terrible day and helps her write the most amazing songs.
She reaches down and runs her fingers through his hair. She has missed this, has missed him.
They've been apart for longer than they've been married. When his latest album dropped, it exploded. Within two days, his tour was completely sold out and more dates were added and the whole newlywed thing kind of went out the window.
She had spent her first week alone moving her things into his (now their) apartment and trying to cook in a kitchen that was unlike anything she had ever seen before. She had searched for a half an hour trying to find the colander, before giving up and eating the pasta straight from the saucepan, as reruns of Boy Meets World played in the background, mixing in with the voices of doubt and uncertainty echoing in her mind. Exhaling, she had tried to remember all the reasons she thought this was a good idea, but could really only come up with one.
Him.
For all the craziness in her life, she does know this. She loves him and she knows they belong together. And since that's true, all of the rest of it has to make sense.
But she's not used to sleeping next to him, she realizes as she tries to sneak out of bed without waking him. He's exhausted from hours and hours of traveling and their early morning activities did nothing to help that. He doesn't even move as she lifts his arm and then his leg.
There's a distinct moment where she realizes that he's her husband and she's his wife and this shouldn't be so strange, but she's always been slow to change, so of course she'd feel . . . whatever it is she's feeling about this situation. She cannot even name it.
She finally manages to wiggle out from underneath him and stands beside the bed. Her schedule for the day is full of lessons and meetings with their producer and record label executives and she knows he'll be at some of those things with her, but really all she wants to do is hit "pause" and stop time right where it is. She wants to wake him up and talk to him for hours. She wants him to play guitar for her and she wants to fight with him over who gets the last of the Honey Bunches of Oats and she wants to grow back into him. Wants to feel him grow back into her and wants to know that they are still intertwined. That this life they've created together is their normal now, with his toothbrush next to hers and marathon viewings of "Arrested Development" and nights where they stay up until two a.m. because the chorus to their newest song is this close and if they just push through they will get that perfect chord sequence and she will find the right words.
The right words.
She gets ready for her day and goes to leave, but not before leaving a note on the stand beside the bed.
I ate the last of the Honey Bunches of Oats. I am not sorry.
Okay, maybe a little . . . there's pancake batter waiting for you in the fridge.
(Also, I love you.)
"Another tour?" he asks, not even trying to mask his disbelief.
Her eyes meet his.
"Yes, another tour. We sold out every show of the last one and the label has started plans for a follow-up. This could make your album go triple-platinum," Kevin responds.
He rubs his hand over his face and closes his eyes, opens them again.
Kevin stares at him. "Well?"
"International?" he asks.
"Of course."
He looks at her but she only says, "Can you give us a minute?" her eyes trained on Kevin. He nods and leaves the two of them alone.
She turns to him and focuses on making her voice sound light. "Well, Mr. Moon. Ready to hit the road again?"
"No," he says, pointedly.
"It wouldn't be for a couple more weeks. You might be ready for it," she says, staring at the tiny glass squares embedded into the conference room table.
He moves closer to her and forces her to look at him. "Can I talk to my wife for a second? Not my songwriter or my singing partner or any of the other roles you fill in my life."
She stares at him.
"As my wife, what do you think I should do?"
"That's not fair," she says quietly.
"How is that not fair?"
"It's not fair because I am your songwriter and your singing partner and all of those other things. So of course I need to be understanding. I need to recognize what this tour could do for your career, for both of our careers really. But as your wife, I want to tell you to stay."
"So tell me to stay."
And it could all be that easy, she knows that. But she never wants to do anything that would make him resent her. She never wants to hold him back or prevent him from doing what he loves.
"I'm not going to do that," she says softly.
"Why not?" he asks, just as quietly.
"Because I'd never want you to have to choose between your music and me."
"What if I want to?" he says, touching her cheek.
She knows what he would pick, knows that he would choose her in a heartbeat. But if she lets him do that, then what happens to the thing they have been working towards almost their entire lives? What happens to the careers they've struggled to build and the hours they've logged at the piano and the music they were born to create?
She doesn't have time to answer him, because Kevin comes back, phone in hand, and says, "We just got Hong Kong. Hong Kong, Austin! This is going to be amazing." And then he's gone just as quickly as he appeared.
"Hong Kong," he echoes. "Okay, so I go on tour. And you come with me this time."
She smiles a sad, half smile.
"Oh. Right. Songwriting with Kelly," he remembers.
"I'm not sure how long it's going to take. She said only a few songs, but her new album is due in less than three months so we'll probably be working on a compressed timeline and . . ."
"Ally, it's okay. I understand. I know how much you've been wanting to work with her."
"So what are we going to do?" she asks.
He sighs. "I'll go to Hong Kong and God knows where else Kevin has booked me and you'll stay here and it'll suck."
He looks so earnest that she actually laughs a little. "Yeah, it will suck. All that traveling and getting to see the world and fancy hotel rooms and food from different cultures and fans screaming your name. You poor thing."
"And you not next to me for any of it," he says, his voice serious.
She stops laughing then. "You don't think this is hard for me? I miss you every second of every minute you are gone. And that's a lot of minutes, Austin."
"You seem pretty well adjusted," he mutters.
"One of us has to be the strong one here," she retorts. "And I don't see you stepping up to take that role."
"What do you want me to say, Ally?" he asks.
"I don't know. That you understand that I am trying here. I am trying to keep us together even as we're apart," she says.
He nods. "I understand, I do. But I need you to know how much I want to not be apart."
"I know that, but I don't know what our options are here, Austin."
They sit in silence for a moment, then two.
"Do you trust me?" she says finally.
"Yes."
"I trust you, too. And I know that this," she gestures to the two of them, "this is it for me. This is true and real and forever. So because of that, we can be apart for two months. We can do it and we can survive it, because we have the whole rest of our lives together. And when we're eighty and I'm rolling you around in a wheelchair, we'll look back on this tiny little period of our lives and laugh at how worried we were."
He sighs. "I suppose you're right. This is it for me too, you know," he says, taking her hand.
"I know."
"But you're wrong about one thing."
"What's that?" she asks.
"I will be the one pushing you around in a wheelchair."
"Are you kidding? The way you dance around? Your knees are gonna be goners by the time we're fifty," she insists.
"I'm not sure how you're gonna push me around. With the amount of time you spend playing the piano, your hands are done for," he responds.
"Well, we'll make quite the pair then," she says.
"Yes, we will."
He stares at her for a moment and she sees everything she ever wanted in front of her. But then Kevin comes back and snaps her out of her reverie.
"Got that all worked out?" Kevin asks.
"Eavesdropping again? Not cool," he says.
"Hey, I am as invested in this marriage as both of you. I've been there from the start, you know," Kevin insists.
She shakes her head a little, before laughing. "It's a good thing that I like you, Kevin. I'm not sure I could entrust Austin to anyone else."
"Believe me, I know," Kevin says, turning to him. "You are a lucky man, my friend. Wives are my least favorite part of this job, but yours makes it easy."
He looks at Kevin and then at her. "What day are we leaving?" he asks.
Kevin checks at the calendar on his phone. "A little less than two weeks from now. Maria's working on booking flights. And—oh, looks like we've got one. United 5972, 10:40 a.m. from LAX."
He stands up, pulling her with him. "Don't call me till then." He turns and walks out of the conference room and she follows, their hands firmly interlocked.
"Love you, too," Kevin calls behind them.
They have eleven days.
She reschedules as many of her appointments as she can and he refuses Kevin's attempts to get him to do signings and public appearances at clubs. Instead they decide to turn off their phones and stay in. They cook (well, she cooks, he tries really hard) and play Scrabble (she wins every time) and watch movies ("Dude, Where's My Car?" he insists, "It Happened One Night," she protests—they watch both) and try to beat the latest geniuses on Jeopardy (he's surprisingly good at categories like "Geography" and "Dance Trends from the 1950s").
She sits down at the piano on their last morning, but he pulls her away.
"No music," he says.
She tilts her head in confusion.
"But that's what we do."
"It is what we do . . . sometimes."
"What do you propose we do then?" she asks, raising her right eyebrow.
He doesn't respond, but starts hurrying through their apartment gathering all of the pillows, cushions, and blankets he sees.
Ten minutes later, there's an impressive supply of materials piled on their living room floor.
"Pillow fight?" she asks, but he shakes his head.
"Fort."
They spend the morning propping up cushioned walls and constructing blanket ceilings and when it's finished, they climb inside and sit.
"This is pretty awesome," she says, looking around at their creation.
"We need snacks."
"And flashlights. Why did I even bother getting dressed this morning? I'm putting my pajamas back on," she states, hurrying to their bedroom. Once they are properly attired and have acquired the necessary supplies, they camp out with his laptop, watching old Nick-at-Night shows.
She falls asleep somewhere around the third episode of "The Secret World of Alex Mack," and only wakes when the sun has gone down.
He's dozed off too and on an ordinary night (whatever that may look like, she hopes to someday know), she would nudge him awake and help him to bed. But this is no ordinary night. This is their last night before the tour so she decides to wake him up. She kisses him softly but he doesn't wake, doesn't even stir. So she kisses him again, a little more forcefully and for a little longer and he still doesn't move. She tries a third time and he finally sits up coughing and sputtering.
"Ally, what," he says between coughs, "are you," he coughs again, "trying to do? Cut off my air supply?"
"That was a lot more romantic in my head," she concedes.
He finally catches his breath and smiles. "What time is it?"
"Almost eight."
"At night?" He sits back and groans. "Tour tomorrow."
"I know. That's why I woke you up."
"Okay. . ."
"We're not sleeping tonight," she says.
"We're not?"
"Well, you got to pick the last thing we did," she says, gesturing to the slightly toppled fort they are sitting in, "so I get to pick the next thing."
"And you are choosing not sleeping."
"Right."
"Okay, Ms. Planner, what do you want to do?" he asks, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.
"Um, that's Mrs. Planner to you and I can't tell you, I need to show you."
He opens one eye and looks at her suspiciously.
She ignores him however, and crawls out of their fort, him close behind.
She walks to their room and turns to face him at the end of their bed.
"So, what's the grand plan?" he asks, looking around.
With one fluid motion, she spins him around and pushes him onto his back on the bed.
"I thought I said no telling; only showing," she says.
She places one leg on either side of his and leans down to kiss him, her hair falling down around his face.
He kisses her back fervently, his hands reaching up to her hipbones.
"You do realize that you're making it practically impossible for me to leave tomorrow, right?" he asks, as her lips move down his neck.
She pulls back. "I figured we should have one really amazing night before you go. You know, to tide us over."
He looks away, sadness in his eyes, but when he looks back at her, she can tell he's trying to be okay with everything. He smiles. "You're right. One night, all amazing and mind-blowing and scorched-into-my-memory and I'll be good to go."
She smiles and kisses him again. "I have to make sure you come back to me, you know."
"Ally," he says, fingers running through her hair, "I'll always come back to you."
He sits them both up, her straddling his lap and kisses her again, but it's not the fiery, passionate kiss of before. This kiss is long and luxurious, his lips moving slowly over hers, his tongue dancing with hers. She begins to kiss him more quickly, but he stops her. "Hey," he says softly, "we have all night," he whispers and she pushes him back into the sheets as they try to forget about the minutes ticking away.
The show in Taipei may be his favorite of this tour. The people are so generous and so genuinely excited to see him that it's contagious. He cannot help but be excited to sing for them and hearing them sing back his lyrics reminds him how lucky he is to be doing this. To be living the life he dreamed about for so long.
He signs autographs for an hour after the show and takes so many photos his cheeks hurt from smiling. When he gets back to his hotel, he opens his email and sees one from her. "Thoughts?" the subject line reads. He opens it to find a music file, one of the songs she and Kelly had been working on. He double clicks and music fills the hotel suite.
It's still strange for him to hear one of her songs and realize it wasn't written for him to sing. But he knows that she can write so much more than pop music and that she shouldn't be limited to just one artist. She's too good for that. Kelly can hit the incredibly high notes that he can't and has a style so different from his own and is another female. There's something to be said for her being able to write music from her own point of view for once. He knows she's loving it, and he's glad that she has the opportunity to further show the world how amazing she is.
He jots down a few notes about the song and sends them back to her. It's a good song, just a little heartbreaking.
Her reply arrives in his inbox while he's in the shower.
"Of course it's sad," she writes. "I can't seem to write anything happy right now. And no that is not a comment on how distraught and morose I am without you here (stop smirking, I know you're smirking!). Because I am doing just fine, you know. I have been really busy writing and giving lessons and single handedly keeping Mr. Won's Golden Palace in business, because when I cook it seems like I always make way too much food for just one person and the take-out menu is just so easy to memorize. I joined a new Yoga class with Marcie and Trish is coming to visit me next week and really, I have been too busy to even notice that you're not here. Instead, I am filling up the entire DVR with every episode of 'Scandal' ever and there's nothing you can do about it. So there."
He grins and writes back, "Love you too."
She quickly responds. "Quit reading between the lines."
"Never," he emails back.
She doesn't write back for a few minutes and when she does, there's only a number and a small heart.
47.
At first he's confused, but then he realizes that she's counting down the days until he's home. He sighs and flips on the television, gradually falling asleep.
Sometimes she wonders, over late night bowls of vegetable lo mien, if they are actually moving in opposite directions. If they are set on different trajectories, parallel tracks starting from the same place, so close together, but chasing dreams that are pulling them farther and farther away from each other the longer they go along. She sets her bowl down and twirls the ring on her finger.
She doesn't often think this way. Just sometimes, when he's been gone for so long that she has a hard time remembering what the apartment feels like with another person in it. Just sometimes, when she can't remember the words she had said to him that day in the conference room.
She walks over to the piano and sits down. Slowly she starts to play the first song they ever wrote together, the one about taking chances and removing obstacles and making things happen. Her fingers play the wrong chord and the jolting sound echoes through the room. She pulls her hands away from the keys. It seems like a long time ago now.
I want you to be my partner, he had said.
Spend more time with you? she had asked.
You're a songwriter with stage fright; I'm a singer who loves being on stage. We're a perfect match. What'd ya say?
She had said yes. To that question and to countless others, including the all-important one that led her here.
But now she is here. In this apartment, that is starting to feel a little more like theirs and not just his. That is until she can't find the lighter to light her pumpkin spice candle and she searches and searches before giving up, frustrated and vowing to just buy a new one the next time she's at the store. She's on the other side of all the "beginnings" now, she realizes. The first real kiss, the beginning of the engagement, the start of the marriage, the opening page of their story. It all happened so fast, all smashed together in a matter of weeks that she almost feels like she needs to catch her breath, but she also feels so far removed from it all. All of the starts? They're over.
She wouldn't feel like this if he was here. If she could only be reminded of what they have and how much more her life is now. But it's hard to think of that when she hasn't spoken to anyone for six hours straight and the soft ringing in her ears from the constant silence that seems to surround her now is becoming louder and louder.
So tell me stay, he had insisted.
"No," she says aloud, to no one, because no one is there.
She shakes her head and walks back to the living room. Grabbing the remote, she turns up the television so that the laugh track of some comedy on ABC comes through loud and clear.
The actor on the screen stumbles over a pile of boxes at a grocery store and lands in a display of watermelons. The audience howls louder. She stares at the flat screen for a moment before starting to laugh herself. It's absurd really. Some actor, some famous person, just fell into a vat of watermelons to amuse thousands of people. And those same people are amused. The world is still spinning on and she is a songwriter, what she always wanted to be and sure, her other true love is halfway around the world and she is here, watching some guy pull watermelon chunks out of his hair but, this? This is her life.
She thinks about that for a moment. This life? This crazyabsurdbeautifulamazing life, it is hers.
She hits mute and sits back down at the piano. One love may be far away but the other is right below her fingertips, so she sits down and plays.
The notes form chords which melt into melodies which transform into songs and before she knows it, it's three in the morning and she's written four songs and somewhere along the way, she remembered to hit "record" on the computer and she doesn't play anything back, but instead hits "send."
She scans the "Departures and Arrivals" board until she finds his flight number.
Tucking her stray curls up under her knit cap, she adjusts her fake glasses and picks a spot that gives her a full view of the arrival gate.
His hair is hidden under a baseball cap and he's wearing his sunglasses even though he's indoors and as soon as she catches a glimpse of him, she's on her feet. She can't help herself as she speeds towards him. He finally sees her and his face breaks into a wide smile.
She throws her arms around his neck and holds on as tightly as she possibly can. His arms wrap around her as she murmurs "Austin."
She feels his chest reverberating as he laughs. "Hi Alls."
He kisses her head and says, "I didn't know you were meeting me here."
She doesn't say anything, doesn't even let go.
He takes off his sunglasses and his eyes are twinkling. "You missed me."
She takes a step back. "What? Nah."
"You didn't miss me," he says, clearly amused.
"Not at all."
"Not even a tiny, little bit of missing?" he asks.
"Nope," she insists, stepping closer and staring at his mouth.
"Not even the smallest particle of-mmph." He finally stops talking when she kisses him soundly. His lips move quickly over hers as he instantly deepens the kiss and she's vaguely aware of the noise around them becoming louder and louder and suddenly Kevin is next to them.
"Ahem," he says. "Lovebirds, we need to move this to a new location."
She pulls back and sees a crowd forming around them. He hurriedly puts his sunglasses back on and she grabs his rolling suitcase and his hand and they head for the revolving doors and into the large SUV waiting for them.
Kevin follows them inside and says, "Ally, glad you're here. Got a call from a scout early this morning. He asked me if I was representing you."
"Representing me?" she asks.
"Yeah, something about the songs you sent to Dave in the new talent department."
She looks quickly at him. He looks confused.
"Oh, that was just early morning silliness. I was up late writing and I recorded some stuff and I just randomly sent it in." She's speaking too fast and laughing nervously and he's staring at her with his eyes narrowed and he's seeing right through all of it, she knows.
"Silly or not, he loved all four of them and has artists at the label in mind for each of them, so we should definitely talk about what you want to do. And," Kevin clears his throat, "who you want to represent you of course." He sticks out his hand for her to shake and puts on his best game show host voice. "Hi, I'm Kevin Kinderson and I represent the biggest acts in this town. Let me be your manager."
She awkwardly shakes his hand, her eyes not leaving his.
"So, you sent songs to the label?" he asks, as soon as they are through their front door.
She turns to look at him. "I don't even know why I did it. I was just writing and writing and I hadn't written anything for you in so long. We hadn't written anything together in so long that it just didn't seem like these songs were meant for you."
He visibly recoils at her words and she instantly regrets them as soon as they are out of her mouth. She, more than anyone, knows the power of words. And she is letting this happen.
"Austin, I. . ."
"No, I get it, Ally. It's not fair for me to always ask you to write for me."
"I love writing for you!"
"Then why does it seem like you're writing for everyone but me?" he asks.
And she doesn't have an answer. Because he's right. Kelly helped her line up two more songwriting partnerships with some up-and-coming female artists. And now four of her songs are going to other artists. And really, her career is exploding, just like his did.
"I'm not trying to hurt you, Austin, really I'm not. I am just finding I can write lots of different types of music. And I want to do more of that. Test my boundaries, see what else I can do. But that doesn't mean. . ."
"Doesn't mean what, Ally?"
"It doesn't mean that I don't want to write for you, too. Or that I love you any less," she says.
He sits down and rubs his hands over his face. "I know that. It's just. . ."
She moves to sit down next to him, removing her glasses and knit cap.
"Just?" she prompts.
"It's just that this marriage and partners and working together thing is all wrapped up together and it's kind of hard to separate it out. Part of me wants to keep you all to myself."
She moves closer to him.
"You don't think I know how that feels? I'm married to one of the most desirable guys on the planet. I never want to let you out of our apartment!" she states.
He lets out a small chuckle.
"Are you okay with this?" she asks after a beat.
"I wish you would have told me. Finding out from Kevin kind of sucked."
"I know. I just didn't think any of this would go anywhere. I mean, I wrote those songs when I was half asleep and I wasn't really thinking about anything besides how alone I was in this huge apartment," she says.
"I'm sorry you felt that way."
She doesn't tell him about any of her other thoughts. Because now that he's here, sitting next to her, her hand on his knee, she realizes that her life is crazy and absurd and beautiful and amazing. And she wouldn't want to trade it for anything.
They talk for the next hour before exhaustion overcomes them and the sound of his voice washing over her, ebbing and flowing as he recounts his travels in Asia, seems to carry away all of her unspoken doubts.
The jet lag is looming and he wakes up around three a.m.
He stares at her sleeping form. In the dim light streaming through the window he can see that her hair is a little lighter than before and he wonders what else has changed since he's been gone. She's writing differently and better and seems to be more at home in their apartment now.
But it's not like her to keep things from him; it's just not in her nature. Or at least it wasn't.
He thinks back to the moment he realized he loved her. He had told her right away. Twenty-four and proposing marriage and jumping in with both feet, not even thinking to look where he was going to land. He was so stupid and yet managed to do the smartest thing he had ever done. Getting married so quickly, he somehow thought everything would change and nothing would change, but those two things can't both be possible, so which is it?
Everything, he thinks to himself.
So of course, she would be changing too. He's different, isn't he? He has different thoughts now. When he wakes up and is still halfway in dreamland, he thinks of her. When he's traveling the world and she's not there, he thinks of her. When he and Dez video chat from whatever country Dez is photographing, they talk and laugh and he thinks of her. She's changed everything.
And maybe he's done the same for her.
He hadn't really thought of it that way before, hadn't considered that maybe he has the same effect on her that she has on him.
He always makes sure the toilet seat is down now. And that the toothpaste cap is screwed on tight. And he doesn't drink from the carton or leave his video game equipment everywhere anymore and he can sort of do his own laundry now. He's evolving.
And she has rearranged her life to make it fit with his. She has to weather all the criticism from his fans, which she says she doesn't care about, but he knows better. She puts up with Kevin, which is no small feat for anyone. And she willingly lets him go. She encourages him to keep pursuing his dreams, even as it leaves her with an empty apartment and Mr. Won's cuisine.
He needs to not be upset about the songs she sent to the label; he knows this. But he pretty much wears his heart on his sleeve with her, he has since they were fifteen, and he's realized for the very first time, that maybe she doesn't do the same.
He gets up and quietly walks to the living room, before booting up their Mac. After a few moments, he clicks on the folder she'd saved on the desktop, the one where she leaves traces of songs, lines of lyrics and, he thinks as he clicks on her latest creations, the four songs that might change everything again.
The quiet melodies she wrote fill the air around him and he listens to the songs several times through. They are sad and thoughtful, emotional and intoxicating. They are the songs he always knew she could write.
"Hey, you're up," she says from behind him. He turns and looks at her, just as she recognizes her own voice pouring through the speakers. "What are you doing?"
"I wanted to hear your songs."
"I wasn't ready for you to hear them," she says.
He shakes his head. "Why not?"
"I don't know," she whispers. "They were mine."
"They still are yours, Ally."
"But if they're just mine, then what about the songs that are ours?" she asks.
He closes the window on the computer and brushes past her. "It's late. Let's just talk about this in the morning."
"No," she states. "I want to talk about this now." He turns back to face her.
He knows what he is about to do. Knows what this will mean for them, knows what it will mean for her. She has changed him, all right.
"I don't think we should write together anymore," he says.
"What?"
"I think you need to do your own thing," he says.
"Austin, no. I don't-"
"Ally. This is what's best for both of us."
"How is this what's best for you? Or for us together?" she asks, as tears begin to form in her eyes.
He walks towards her and rubs her arms. He can feel the goosebumps on her skin. "It's best for me because it's what's best for you."
She reaches up and wipes a tear that is threatening to slip out. "I don't know. . ."
He tries to give her a smile, but all that comes out is the grin, the one that she knows means he's trying really hard to be happy. He is trying. "I want you to be happy. Writing these songs makes you happy."
"Writing with you makes me happy, too," she says.
"I know. And you don't have to choose between me and this music. You will write and you will still have me."
"But you and music, it's all wrapped up together. You said that yourself," she claims.
"Maybe it's time we got to know each other in a different way, without music," he says. He has to look away from her now, because the color drains out of her face and she looks like she might break down.
"How does that even work?" she whispers.
"We'll figure it out," he says.
"So you just let her go?" Kevin asks him.
"She needs this and I need her to do what she needs to do," he insists.
"So she's just going to write songs for every Kelly, Taylor, Maria and Natalie who walks by and we're just gonna sit back and kick our feet up?" Kevin asks.
He fiddles with the buttons on the sound board and sighs. "How'd my last album do, Kevin?"
"Triple platinum, just like we wanted."
"I think I deserve to sit back and kick my feet up."
"And I think we need to be thinking ahead. What if you two don't ever get back together?" Kevin questions.
"We are married, Kevin."
"You know what I mean. What if you don't write together anymore?"
He shrugs. "Then I write on my own. Or we hire songwriters."
Kevin shushes him then. "No, no, no. We didn't get this far by hiring second rate songwriters and really, Austin, when was the last time you wrote a song on your own?"
"It's been a while, but we'll make it work. And you should be thrilled that you get another new artist to represent," he says.
"Don't get me wrong. You know how much I love Ally. But I just don't understand how this is going to happen. Married but not working together?"
"Kevin, trust me."
A knock of the door ends their conversation.
They turn to see her head peeking in the doorway. "Ready for lunch?" she asks.
"I've got plans, but thanks," Kevin says, curtly.
"Oh, um. . ."she looks to him for help. She hadn't really been inviting Kevin.
"I'm ready," he says, hurrying past Kevin and ushering her out the door.
"What was that all about?" she asks.
"Just filling Kevin in on how things were going to be now."
"I'm guessing he didn't take it too well."
"Not so much," he says. "Where to?"
"Sammy's?" she suggests.
"Sounds good."
Over Sammy's famous paninis, she says, "What do you want to do this weekend?" It's a normal question. Very normal. So much so that it almost sounds humorous to both of them.
"Well, I had an idea."
"Okay."
"How does Santa Barbara sound? There's a vineyard there that I always wanted to check out."
The way her face lights up at the prospect of a weekend away from it all makes his heart feel like it might burst out of his chest.
It's three days of wine tasting and fresh air and bright sunshine and all of their senses stimulated (except one important one- the one that pulled them together in the first place. She has to wonder at this new world they are discovering). They take the convertible and the wind blowing through her hair and his fingers interlocked with hers make her believe that he was right. They need this.
They shop around downtown and go to a restored theater and watch an old Charlie Chaplin film. She hogs the popcorn and he steals her Twizzlers when she isn't looking and no one seems to recognize them. It's refreshing.
She sleeps exceptionally well at the small bed-and-breakfast they've rented. His arm is securely around her waist, holding her close to him and she only wakes up once to jot some lyrics on the notepad she keeps with her almost always.
You're right next to me
Asleep on this four poster bed
And I have to believe
That nothing so perfect could ever be ahead
Night, don't disappear
I don't want to be anywhere but here
She doesn't tell him she's still writing about him, doesn't let him know that he won't ever truly be able to separate himself from her music. He's both right and wrong. She does need to write on her own a bit. Their time apart has shown her that. But she can't write love songs without him; he's too engrained in her system to ever be fully extracted. So he can assume whatever he likes, because she knows that he is the song she will forever write.
They have their first fight, the one that explodes, leaving the ceiling caved in and the crown moldings smashed onto the floor and ever-widening cracks running down the walls.
The sky is exposed above them and suddenly, it's very, very cold.
"I'm just asking what you think," she says, her throat raw from all of the yelling.
"And I told you that it doesn't matter."
"It does matter to me."
"It can't. You have to do this by yourself," he counters.
"I know you're trying to give me my space to try this on my own. . ."
"Because you told me that's what you wanted. . ."
"But I can still value your opinion, Austin."
"And I appreciate that, but I can't give you my opinion, Ally."
"Why are you doing this?" she asks, impatiently.
"Because this is hard for me, Ally! I can't help you, because I'm still trying to figure out how we fit now."
"What is that supposed to mean? How we fit now?" she questions.
"I mean, I am trying to figure out what to do with myself, now that you've moved on," he states.
"Moved on? Are you kidding me? Where are you getting this?"
"You're doing other things. I need to do that, too. But falling right back into our old patterns isn't going to allow either of us to do what we need to do," he states.
"What other things?" she says, narrowing her eyes.
"I talked to Kevin about getting more into producing."
"Producing."
"Yeah."
"But you love performing," she insists.
"I do. And I'm not giving it up. But I thought I would take a little break and try something different."
"Why didn't you talk to me about it first?" she asks.
"Oh, do we do that? Talk to each other before we make decisions?" he asks, and he knows it's a low blow.
She steps back and shakes her head. "I apologized for not talking to you about those songs. But you . . . you purposefully didn't tell me."
"That's not true, Ally. I haven't seen you for more than five minutes at a time in the past week and a half. When was I supposed to talk to you about this?"
"I don't know. You make the time."
"When? When were we supposed to have this big, important conversation?" he asks, but she doesn't respond.
"This isn't working," he says after a minute of silence.
"What isn't?" she half whispers. "Music or. . ."
"No, no, not that. I meant music. Or lack of music, or something. I'm finally back from tour and I thought we were finally going to be able to start our real lives together, but. . ."
"But we're still just living moment to moment," she finishes for him.
"Yeah."
"So how do we stop doing that?" she asks.
"I don't know. Maybe by actually talking to each other? I miss the girl who could quote my favorite movie even though she doesn't actually like it."
"And I miss the guy who takes all the onions off of my salad before the waiter gives it to me because he knows how much I hate them to even touch a small part of my food."
"I know. 'It makes everything taste like onions!'" he says, quoting her.
"It really does." She sighs. "Why are we doing this?" she says, gesturing to the space between them.
"I don't know."
"I don't either. I know I want to be with you. I know that out of everything, music and writing and traveling and singing, all of it, I choose you. And if I need to stop writing with other people, I will," she says.
"I would never ask you to do that."
"I know, and that's why I can tell you that I would give it up for us. Because I know you would never make me or even want me to. The world opened up for me when I met you," she says.
And he realizes that he has changed her as much as she's changed him.
"So now what?" he asks.
"Now we keep going," she says. It's the only answer she can give him.
He exhales. "We keep going and it'll all be okay."
"I guess so."
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about producing."
She nods. "Let's just talk, okay? I hate that I haven't been around much lately. Tell me what I've missed." She sits down on the couch and motions for him to sit next to her.
"Well, you were right about Mr. Won's Palace. That takeout menu is awesome," he says.
"Sometimes I wonder if it actually takes three people to make our marriage work. You, me and Mr. Won," she replies.
He laughs and she laughs and everything isn't fixed, the house hasn't been fully restored, there are still holes and gaps and moonlight streaming in through the dilapidated ceiling, but somehow the room now feels a little like home.
A week later they're driving down Sunset Boulevard, squeaky wipers pushing away the constant stream of water raining from above, when her song comes on the radio.
She's telling him of Trish's new boyfriend who sounds suspiciously like a lanky ginger videographer they once spent long days in Miami with, when he suddenly shushes her and turns up the volume.
She looks mildly upset until she realizes what she's hearing. The singer's voice sounds perfect belting out her lyrics and the production is just right and she's so excited that he actually thinks she might jump right out of the car.
He pulls off onto a side street and she hops out, into the pouring rain. He kills the engine, but leaves the radio blaring and follows her into the open skies.
"That's my song," she says.
"I know. It's amazing, Ally. You did it."
She lets out a little screech and throws her arms around him and he picks her up and spins her around and there's water running down his nose and onto hers and it's a perfect moment.
He refuses to stop touching her as they stumble back into their apartment. They are soaking wet and he keeps kissing her and she finally breaks away, but only long enough for him to pull her clinging shirt over her head. She does the same for him and brushes some of his dripping hair out of his eyes.
"Do I get to come back home now?"she asks, and she looks up at him, waiting.
And he realizes that that is the thing about traveling, about exploring new lands and embarking on exciting journeys: after you've seen what you need to see and done what you need to do, you come back. And there's always some place you come back to. He just hadn't realized until now that he, that their music, was her place.
He reaches for her and pulls her close to him as the rain pounds on the roof and rushes down the windows, an easy rhythm found once again.
He shuts the door as quietly as he can and picks up the bags so as not to disturb her.
Shuffling silently towards the kitchen, he peeks his head around the corner.
She's wearing her frilly yellow apron and her eyes are closed as she sways back and forth to the Frank Sinatra song echoing from the record player.
A timer buzzes, snapping her out of her musical lull and she moves quickly to the stove, stirring the contents of one pot and then another.
Frank's voice gets louder and she begins to sing along, the spoon she had been stirring with standing in for a microphone.
"I only know what I know, the passing years will show, you've kept my love so young, so new. And time after time, you'll hear me say that I'm so lucky to be loving you."
She spins around, her arms wide and open and catches the sight of him watching her. She stops singing and lowers her spoon.
"Oh, hi," she says, blushing.
He smiles. "Nice performance."
"Thank you very much." She gives a little bow before posing with her spoon. "I know how jealous you are of these moves."
He laughs and sets the grocery bags down on the counter. "You'll have to teach me sometime."
"Okay," she teases, "but I'm not sure you'll be able to keep up."
He starts unpacking the bags and holds up the brown sugar.
"Thank you!" she says and takes it from him.
"I hope you know how hard it was for me to get this. I had to dodge these three old ladies. They were practically guarding the baking aisle. And once they recognized me, I swear they were going to marry me off to their granddaughters," he pouts.
She grins. "I hope you know how hard it would be for me to make your pie without brown sugar." She holds out her hand. "Are we even?" she asks.
He shakes it. "Even." He finishes putting away the strawberries and the chips and the napkins before asking, "When does your dad get in?"
She looks at the clock. "About two hours from now. And your mom and dad are an hour after that."
"Okay. Remind me again why we had to have everyone come here?"
"Because we haven't had everyone here since we got married and because it's New Year's Eve and because it'll be fun," she says.
"Fun. I'd rather have just you and me," he counters, standing behind her and wrapping his arms around hers.
"It's always you and me, no matter what. Besides, aren't you a little excited to see your parents?"
"Yeah it has been a while," he kisses her head and lets go. "What can I do to help?"
"Those bowls need to be washed and those carrots can be sliced and you can vacuum the guest bedroom, oh wait, I already did that. I didn't put out the towels yet, though and I was going to double check on pillows and-"
She's in full on attack mode and he kind of loves it. And he loves even more the fact that he knows how to handle it.
"Okay, slow down. I checked on the pillows and towels already and changed the filter in the Brita pitcher," he starts.
"You did? I forgot about the Brita pitcher," she says, and he can see her melting just a bit.
"Yeah, I got it. I remember what you forget and vice versa. That's how this works, right?"
She nods. "Right. Oh and there's one other thing."
"What's that?"
She turns to the cupboard and pulls out a plate with a large, perfectly frosted cupcake on it.
"I bake when I'm nervous and stressed," she explains to him, even though she really didn't need to. He already knew.
"Is this for me?" he asks.
Her eyes are mischievous as she pulls out a candle and quickly sticks it in the middle of the cupcake. She lights it.
"Happy Seven-Months-and-Six-Days Anniversary!" she says, excitedly.
"Seven months and six days?"
"Sure. I thought, why wait for a whole year to celebrate when we could just do it today?"
He takes her hand. "Happy seven months and six days, Ally."
They blow out the candle and split the cupcake and he manages to get frosting on her nose and she smears it on his face. She might have been singing of passing years and time, of love that deepens and grows and changes, but he knows that every moment that happens, every argument over who's supposed to unload the dishwasher and every song they write and every takeout dinner they order and every breath that they breathe together, every single moment means a little more than the one before.
Thanks for reading and reviewing. This was really different from anything I've written before. I've never written a story about a married couple whose main issue wasn't about breaking up. I wanted to show a marriage and how two people could work through their issues, even issues that were complicated because how quickly they got married. I like to think that in the future, this is how Austin and Ally could be. Love to all.