'So, Christmas was a hard time,' Ethan said, glancing towards the corner of the room where the tree used to go. 'It just felt like something was missing. Which of course it was.'
'I'm sorry I wasn't there.' She mumbled.
'No, don't apologise.' He sighed, weary. 'What have you to apologise for? Getting sick of putting all the work in? The heartbreak of your partner not loving you like they should?
She falls quiet, and Ethan kicks himself for being so insensitive. Love was definitely the wrong word to use. Bringing the simple, four lettered word into the mix always is a recipe for imminent disaster. Resurfacing the pain wasn't what he hoped to do. It is as if his words have no filter: his thoughts come out and he allows them to freely. Honest, but honest to a fault.
He had brought up his brother, whose death and its subsequent aftermath had driven them apart in the first instance. Though outwardly she didn't mind, he wishes he could rewind and start the conversation again. Bringing her back to the flat in itself is like treading on eggshells, except he is newly conscious of how sore it would feel to put a foot out of place. Instead of making things easier, the wine they had downed in the Hope and Anchor seems to make finding the right words even more difficult.
Yet, despite it all, there she is, there they both are, together, like some kind of strange miracle. The universe is giving them a second chance.
'I'm sorry.' He breaths, shaking his head a little. 'I never do say the right thing.'
'Sometimes I'm not completely sure there is a right thing to say.' Alicia replies lightly, her voice catching as it trails off.
He feels instantly grateful for this remark. Though not explicit, it is forgiveness and understanding in a sentence. It brings hope to the situation.
Both their glances wander to the fireplace, where reds and oranges and yellows leaped and curl and fall back against the coal, embers' glow fading until they blackened forever. Ethan thinks about this for a moment. One chemical reaction providing so much. So complex in its structure, yet its simplicity to observe managing to make its observers feel warmer than the heat it provides.
He is so distracted, so lost in thought, that he barely even recognises the touch foreign to his own. It is Alicia, fumbling with the ties of his dressing gown until she frees the plane of his chest. Being so exposed feels strange: with it comes a sense of vulnerability he hasn't let free in a while. She shuffles a little until she's close enough, then all is still once more.
If she was sober, he wonders if things would be different. If actions would be more restrained. If it were the alcohol speaking, did it even count? Did it even mean anything?
As if reading his mind, she speaks first, voice steady and hushed. 'If this feels wrong, just say the words.'
They both know he has no intention of saying anything to make her move.
'I hope we can pick up from where we left off, Ethan. I miss you. I miss moments like this, stupid stuff, like being defeated at monopoly, going out for dinner, staggering home drunk, wearing your tops, going for drives, those midnight indecent pillow fights, waking up and seeing you drinking milk from the carton like the man child you are, the arguments where we end up laughing, the singing contests, your attitude, our conversations, the glasses, the wine, being totally and utterly obsessed with—'
She stops abruptly, noticing his glasses cloud up a little. They are removed. They stare for a little too long.
'Most of all, I miss my best friend. I don't want to be without him again. It's horrible.'
'I miss mine too.'