Nobody else is in your room. - Still Want You, Brandon Flowers

May 2017, Philadelphia
Week 34

It's May, but warm as in July. The apartment isn't exactly state of the art, and they rely on open windows and fans to make summer bearable. She's in the kitchen with her laptop because that particular room isn't exposed to the sun this time of day. Beside her is the new chapters she's written for the book, with Jess's edits in the margins. On her screen, her manuscript, and she is slowly working herself through it, changing and correcting things as she goes. Her belly lurches occasionally, the baby is very awake.

She's in a dress she should have thrown out years ago, but at least it's covering her body without suffocating her. She's grown distinctly this last month. Before the progression has been slow, so, she was caught by surprise. She wandered around in her underwear for days when the heat hit, unaware. Then, one day, she walked past a mirror.

There she was. So much bigger than last week, so much bigger without clothes. It's what she'd expected in the beginning, what Lane and Lorelai described, but time went on and it never happened. She started thinking it might never happen. Both her friend and mom have a flare for the dramatic, after all. But there it was. Extra-terrestrial – or the opposite, whatever that'd be... endo-terrestrial? So very terrestrial. Practically a planet. Primitive divinity, like Venus of Willendorf. She never saw herself as a woman who cared that much about her exterior, there was even a sense of pride at the fact that she rarely judged her own appearance, her body was just a vessel for her brilliant mind. Until then. At that moment it seemed that was all she was; body. She caught sight of Jess in the mirror, in the corner getting dressed, and stared with unveiled jealousy at him who, of course, had remained unchanged. When she looked at his face she found his eyes already on her, expression unreadable, but he quickly averted his eyes. Since then she's taken the trouble of covering up.

She can't be sure what he was thinking though, she rarely is. They like the same things, and when they don't they enjoy the discrepancies. They respect each other, but not too much, he sighs when she puts on certain music, and she teases him when he reads authors she dislikes. They spend almost all their time together. But they are not the same.

There are some things that are ever elusive about him, some part that is exclusively, reclusively, his own. He loves her, that much is clear – she knows this. Not always instinctively, but logically; It makes sense, anyone willing to be back for more after what they've put each other through in the past, would have to love.

She thrives on reason, the spoken, outspoken, clarity, instructions, she loves schooling, teaching herself things, or being taught. He doesn't. It's strange to think about somehow because he works with words, but it's like he doesn't always need them. It's pure intuition with him sometimes. She expects he'd have made an excellent dancing partner had he been born a woman. They don't dance much, but when they do he is surprisingly gentle. Other partners would lead her firmly, forcibly sometimes. They would talk, without being asked to. Now, she sometimes doesn't even know when to ask for it.

They have a lot in common but they are not the same, as people. So, she can't be sure what he was thinking at that moment, but she sure knows what she felt.

It's early in the day, but she's already too warm in her skin, too big, too crowded, too stressed. It's getting hard to concentrate but she soldiers on. Her goal all along has been to be done with the manuscript before the baby arrives, and time is running away from her. To add insult to injury this heatwave decimates her efficiency. She's tried drinking coffee, but it's too hot for it. That's another thing she's envies him right now: the freedom to ingest whatever amount of coffee he fancies. The pregnancy has limited her to three cups daily and she has to pace her intake.

Jess is in the other room, working with great concentration despite the heat, doesn't seem as bothered by it as she is, but her body temperature is higher since the pregnancy. He too is working harder to get as much done as possible before the birth, taking on projects from Matt and Chris as soon as he finishes his own, taking meetings, running to the printers and setting up transports, all while editing – she thinks it might be three books right now, excluding hers. He makes time for that too, but not so much for her lately, it seems.

Seems. She's not too sure about herself at the moment, about what experiences are... well, real. She doesn't feel like herself, inside, outside, and blames the baby. She and Jess have gotten rather good at talking to each other, about things bothering them, still not comfortably all the time, but they both know that, meaning every awkward conversation is at least equally awkward. The last week though, she's been feeling like they should talk, but met more resistance than usual. In herself, but his activity level hasn't opened up many spots for her to push through a conversation either. He's busy, distant.

He comes into the kitchen, eyes intently fixed on a bundle of papers in his hand. He puts his pen between his teeth and reaches for a cup, pouring coffee into it. She stares openly at him to attract his attention, but he's continually lost in the text, squinting at it, lips vaguely moving with the words he's reading. He puts the stack on the counter, takes the pen from his mouth and leans over the paper, printing a comment or symbol at the edge of it, with some determination. Her chest aches a little. Wants him to look over, walk over, touch her. But he doesn't, and that, paired with the pride that won't let her ask for it, stings. He puts the pen back into his mouth and leaves the kitchen with the cup and the paper.

She sighs and looks back to her manuscript. It's her turn to squint at a note in the margin. The new chapters Diane has had her writing means an increased focus on her childhood and teen years in Stars Hollow, which means new parts about Jess. In a way she's glad that the process has been so quick. She hasn't had time to hesitate at the prospect of handing her boyfriend more pages on their first encounters way back when for him to edit. He's been all grace about of course, even if it has brought back old discussions on certain authors, he hasn't given her a hard time about her, sometimes, awkward descriptions of their relationship. Until now. She's on her achy feet before she can help it, marching out into the living room where he's perched on the armrest of the couch, papers strewn out all over the piece of furniture. She sticks the page in question on top of the stack in his hand.

"What's this edit supposed to mean?" She points at the paper. He looks at the note for a second before replying.

"I never said that."

"I can read the note on my own. I was questioning its existence."

"I didn't say that." He shakes his head firmly.

"Did too."

"No way."

"Yes, you did."

He raises an eyebrow.

"If I said that, why the hell did you ever hang out with me?"

"No idea." She says sharply.

"I sound like the biggest douche. You wouldn't have gone with a guy like that version of me. You had better taste than that."

A part of her is amused, but a much bigger one is in dire need to blow off steam.

"Don't try that tactic. If it would have been about Dean, or Logan for that matter, there's no way you'd go on about my great taste in guys. That is you." She pokes the sheet of paper firmly again. "You said that."

He has more fight in him, it's clear. But he gestures dismissively.

"Fine." He sighs. "You know what they say about the winners writing the history books." Apparently, he's taking a stab at folding while still staying in the game.

"I'm a winner? Of what exactly?"

"Forget it."

"No, tell me!" Now she's definitely angry. "'Cause I sure don't feel like one at the moment. Unless it's sumo wrestling, but I don't remember being that agile for the better part of a year."

"Rory-"

"Or maybe the criteria are measured in pure body-mass." Angry and ranting.

"It was just a stupid comment."

"Or maybe weight, or heat containment." Okay, maybe more like rambling.

He tries her name again, reaches for her, but she pulls away.

"Watch out, you might burn yourself. Also: Worst timing ever."

He leans back and crosses his arms, looking away. She goes on, figures the damage is already done, might as well get it off her chest.

"You haven't touched me for, like, weeks, but now you feel inclined."

He stands and starts gathering his pages off the couch.

"I'm not having this discussion."

"What? Why?"

"'Cause there's no way to win!" He exclaims.

"Oh, it's about winning again? Is that how I'm a winner? By walk-over?"

"I meant there's no way to get out of it without turning into an asshole, so I was hoping we could just skip it."

"Wow, real mature." She snorts. "So, tell me, if you're sure you're coming out of it looking bad, then what you have to say must be really bad."

"Oh, come on!"

"No, you come on!" She grabs the paper from his hand and holds it out of reach. "What's on your mind? Tell me."

He regards her darkly for a beat before answering, while reaching for the paper.

"I'm not touching you 'cause I don't wanna start something, or pressure you-"

"Pressure me?"

He grabs the sheet and straightens it while speaking.

"Look, you don't wanna sleep with me right now, and that's okay, I get it, I think, If I was housing an army in my body I'd-"

"Housing an army!?" She yells.

"I'd be uncomfortable too." He finally looks her properly in the eyes, and it's clear that the comment is supposed to offer some form of solace, but it's too late for that.

Her arms drop to her sides and she backs over to the edge of the room. She glares at him.

"You don't know how I feel. You'll never know. At least I'll get to keep that to myself."

She turns and heads to the door. Sticks her bare feet into her sneakers, can't bring herself to wear flip-flops, she almost grabs her jacket out of habit but stops herself at the last second. Takes her bag instead and heads out.

As soon as the door slams behind her she's all regret. Unfortunately, her feelings are too hurt for her to turn around and reverse this whole thing. She's not proud of herself, but not ready to apologize either. And the mere thought of walking back into the warm apartment makes her claustrophobic. She drags her feet downstairs and out into the street instead. The trees along the sidewalk provide some shade and she remains standing in it for a while. There's a light breeze carrying the smell of the blooming of May and fuel exhaust. Her chest hurts, and she feels sorry for herself. She rummages through her bag and is relieved to find her phone there. She calls her mother. Lorelai picks up after the first ring and she has to swallow hard to not start bawling the moment she hears her voice. Of course, that doesn't stop Lorelai from detecting something's up.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know." No way she's telling her mother that this kind of, sort of, boils down to not getting laid. It's more complicated than that but she knows that's not how Lorelai will read it, and she's embarrassed enough as it is. "It's too warm. I'm not getting enough coffee."

"Right."

"And I'm worried about giving birth."

"Oh honey." Pause. "Seems pretty fruitless to backpedal after years of that birthday-story of yours, huh?"

Rory sighs. Lorelai goes on.

"But you know I was just being dramatic. It's what I do."

"Mom-"

"Okay, so maybe giving birth is worth getting a bit dramatic over, and it was no picnic, but your body knows stuff you're not even aware of, and it does pass, like, quickly, when you compare it to nine months, or the lifetime that your baby is starting then, that's what you focus on." Without changing her tone, she carries on. "That and swearing as much as possible. You know you don't have to stick to 'shoot' when you're in labor, right?"

"And I got into a fight with Jess." Rory blurts. She is worried about giving birth but is already processing, practicing channeling Paris, and is more anxious to ventilate now than to be on the receiving end of a pep talk.

"What!? Tell him to pick on someone his own size!"

"Ha-ha."

"I'm sorry. What was the fight about?"

"It's not even relevant and not why I called." She realizes she makes little sense. "Just... how did you get through this?"

"This part of the pregnancy?"

"Yeah."

"Uhm," Lorelai starts, tone even, "I watched a lot of soaps, ate a lot of garbage and yelled at your grandma, mostly."

"Of course."

"If it's any comfort I'm sure I'd have yelled at your father if we'd still been together at that time."

Rory's silent. Lorelai continues after a pause.

"Hey, you're free to use me accordingly. Pass it forward and all that. The next time you get an impulse to rip someone a new one, pick up the phone. It's only fair since you wouldn't be in this mess if I hadn't given birth to you in the first place."

Rory chuckles and feels a bit better.

"Did you make up?" Lorelai asks.

"No. I walked out."

"Honey-"

"I know. But the place was driving me crazy."

"Okay." Lorelai sighs. "Well, you might as well make the best of it. You got your wallet?"

Rory glances into her bag and finds it.

"Yeah."

"And a book?"

"Obviously."

"Good. Now go sit down at a café and get a coffee. A big one. With ice. And a little, tiny bit of vanilla syrup. Trust me."

Rory's chest aches a little again.

"I don't really feel I deserve a treat, right now." She manages.

"And you wouldn't, but that, my friend, is not the point, or exactly the point depending on how you look at it. You don't have to earn everything. If you're not partial to yourself, who's gonna be?"

"I was kind of hoping you would be." Rory pouts.

"What do you think I'm going for here?" Rory can see Lorelai's familiar gestures in her mind's eye. "Look, it's too hot for Mac 'n Cheese, but it's the three b's that's the important thing."

"The three b's?"

"Beverage, book, and brawl."

"You just made that up." Rory laughs.

"I did no such thing! The elements of power are constant; food, fiction, and fury – sustenance, soaps, and scuffle – edibles, escapism... and...-"

"Enemies?"

"Close enough. Trust me, you'll be a kitten afterwards. And don't worry about him. He's a toughie. You can hit the eject button for a couple of hours. If he's anything like his uncle he'll get it."

"Thanks mom."

"You are welcome."

After the door closes he remains standing, staring at it for a little while.

"Shit."

The lonely word wanders the apartment uselessly. He's not surprised, or sad at her outburst, or, he might be, but it's all covered up with anger. At her for walking out. He doesn't follow. Once you start doing that you spend all your time chasing trouble instead of dealing with it. It's one thing knocking on a closed door, and another running around the city streets looking for her aimlessly. Well, not completely, he has a few ideas, but still. And at himself. For all his acumen he can get narrow-minded while he's on a mission.

He gathers up all the sheets of paper spread around the living room, works quickly even if he knows he'll pay for the speed later when he can't find which parts belong to which. He does the dishes. No music on, which is rare for him particularly when he's home alone. Music is a treat though, you can use it to steer and control your emotions and thoughts, you can use it to escape, he doesn't deserve that at the moment.

He sorts the laundry and even starts reading the impossible instruction manual to assemble the crib that's been sitting in the corner of their bedroom for a couple of weeks but tosses it in a corner after the first page. He sits down at the computer instead opening the document.

What he told her a month ago was true. He has not touched his own writing in a while. Bad idea, obviously. Apparently, it's impossible taking your own clever advice. He hasn't stopped writing since he started twelve years ago even if he has abandoned projects before. This feels more significant though, like he's at a crossroads. It's because of Will. There's a mincing question regarding if it's defendable spending time on anything other than making a living now. So, he's struggling with motivation, his own as well as his characters. They don't interest him anymore, they seem self-indulgent and like they should be able to work out their own damn problems without his help. He thinks about these things while dibbling with the text, changing bits of the dialogue, moving a few paragraphs and correcting some typo's.

He glances back at the crib. He wants to start working on it but has trouble calculating when she'll be back. If she'll be back. He remembers that his phone is turned off and curses to himself as he picks it out and turns it on. No messages of any kind. He considers calling her but doesn't feel any one of them deserves that either, yet. He looks at the clock on the wall. It's been an hour.

He's a hypocrite. Wasn't walking away his signature move? At least she hasn't run off to California. It's highly unlikely, anyway. He can't blame her. He should've seen it coming. Now there's just frustration with himself. Lately he's incapable of anything but work. It needs to get done but he has to do the human thing too. He doesn't need people, not unless he wants to. It's easy for him to turn it off after years of training. She can't do that.

He closes the document, picks out the tools from the wardrobe and places the parts and pieces of the crib on the floor and starts assembling it, muttering swearwords through his teeth. After a while he picks up his pace and even turns on High Visibility.

Once he's put together the side boards of the bed, everything seems so real. It's the head rest that does it; It's decorated with a relief of an anthropomorphic crescent moon gazing lovingly at a star, who in turn smiles back. Sometimes he thinks he remembers his crib, he has a vague vista of a pattern of race cars along an edge with chipped blue paint. And he's not sure he's simply seen it elsewhere or if it's a real memory, but it makes him feel uneasy.

There's a knock through the music and his body jerks at the sound. Rory's in the doorway, knuckles against the frame. His heartbeat is fast at the surprise but he's instantly relieved at the same time. He stands up and turns down the music.

She walks into the room, slowly, obviously calmer, sets down a plastic cup with the remnants of ice-coffee at the bottom. He can't help a smile.

"I'm a klutz." He admits.

"I picked a fight." She responds. "And a stupid one too."

"Not stupid." He shakes his head.

"What made you think I don't want sex?"

He shrugs, wants to dismiss it, but she did ask, and words are important sometimes.

"Irritability. Discomfort. Don't object, it's obvious. And there was this moment… last weekend-"

"Before Chris'." She fills in.

"Right. You were looking at me, obviously not pleased, and then you caught me staring back… you seemed so appalled. I figured it's because-"

"Yeah." She cuts him off, nodding quickly.

"But you weren't-"

"No." She frowns, shakes her head with sustained fervor, then pauses before speaking again. "D'you think that part of why I'm uncomfortable is because you haven't-"

"No. Because I'm an idiot. Guess the reason I came out of that discussion like an asshole is because I was one."

"It's okay. You were right too. I don't really like myself at the moment, it's probably what you're picking up on." She falls quiet and smiles disarmingly at him, eyes vulnerable.

He wants to hug her, isn't sure they're there yet though.

"For what it's worth; I really like you."

"Why?" The word is helpless, needy, and she's obviously aware of it.

He looks at her, allows himself to, hasn't done that for a while. He's restrained himself, even though he knows it's potentially a bad idea. He has always had, since childhood, an ability to shape his reality into what he wants, or at least needs it to be. So, when he started avoiding situations he thought would make her uncomfortable he got used to it way too fast. He's strong like that, but there's a danger to it. He forgets that he's doing it. Now the seconds pass the deadlines for how long he gets to look at her. She's in a flowery, worn sundress, the coloring, the shape of her, makes her look vaguely like a peony. She's in it for lack of other clothes appropriate for the heat and the state of her body, definitely not her first choice, but it still becomes her. Her hair is down, not brushed today. the warm weather is visible at her temples, where strands of hair are moist, and her blushing skin. There's a tug in his abdomen at observing her.

"You sure you wanna go down that road? It's really sappy."

She cocks her head to the side.

"Yeah, 'cause if there's one thing us girl types dislike, it's sappy confessions of love. Yuck."

He smiles, feeling his heart pick up its pace while he takes a step towards her.

"You're just-" he actually has to swallow before trying again. "You're lovely. Have you seen you?"

She smiles a little, cheeks seemingly pinker, looks down and gestures helplessly.

"There's nothing but me in my field of vision."

He's about an inch from her now, and reaches out to drag his fingers down her arm, heartbeat ringing in his ears at the touch.

"I don't see the problem. It's just your perspective that's off."

He closes the distance between them, leaning against her. Her mouth is slightly open, breath rapid. He leans in and brushes his lips against hers, and on a sudden instinct, grabs her hand and puts it to his crotch. She yelps a little, surprised laugh, and opens her mouth to kiss him back, mouth cold and sweet from the coffee. Ripples of pleasure climb his spine to his neck. She's so good at it. Or, maybe it's not like an objective truth, more that she's good at kissing him. She should be, they've spent a lot of time doing it. As kids, granted, but they haven't forgotten, might not have been conscious, even if he's spend a fair share of time reminiscing. He remembers being frustrated, constantly torn between needing her words and her mouth; while kissing he'd long for her to speak, and when she spoke he'd battle himself to not seize her lips with his. Sometimes it would exhaust him, and he'd need time away from her, but then that would become unbearable too.

"You're so beautiful," he mumbles in breaths between kisses.

Everything's better now. He's better, more comfortable in his skin, stronger. They have the time to be silent together and the space to move the kisses in any direction. But it's still there, what they've learned, and he's acutely aware of the privilege of being able to use it as adults.

He has a real hard time pacing himself, another side-effect of opening the floodgates. She doesn't seem concerned about it however, wraps her arms around him like a vine, wobbling a bit at his words, and letting out a little moany sigh. She's heavy and he's a tad weak at the knees himself. He acts on it and leans them against the wall before dropping to his knees in front of her. He strokes her legs up under her skirt, closing his eyes.

"Ror... I always wanna sleep with you."

He feels her hand in his hair, hears her breath.

"I'd question that if I didn't like the sound of that so much right now." She mumbles, something similar to song in her voice.

"That's how you do it. You get 'em when they're weak." He leans his head on her thigh, slowly inching her panties off her.

"Well, I'm pretty sure this weak person is capable of crushing you to death."

"We'll work around it."