Notes: I’m still amazed at the fact that I’m writing a straight story. Please do point out any errors you find, because writing present tense is enjoyable, but hard for me. Again, lyrics belong to Billy Joel.

Dedications: To Armith-Greenleaf (you know why), to lostlette and CartoonMotion.

Chapter two- Sundays+monster movies= Us

And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinking alone

-Pianoman

At eight o’clock that Sunday morning Emma is awake simply from the force of habit, and she puts up the wet laundry for drying in the living room while listening to the radio. The little machine is playing a mellow, but sweet tune that she knows she’s heard somewhere before, but can’t quite pinpoint. But she hums along to it, and once there are no more clothes, she puts the empty basket back under the kitchen sink and puts on a kettle of water.

She is at ease today, much more so than she has been for a week, and she waits patiently for the water to boil while thinking of the boy sleeping in her bathroom. A little smile grazes her lips, despite the stiffness of her neck and back after spending the night in the bathtub. It is probably the most peculiar place in her apartment to turn into a bed, but she never questions anything that Tale wants or needs. Emma knows that last night had less to do with wanting, and much, much more with needing.

The hot water is coloured by the teabag when she pours it in, and she watches the swirls in the water silently and adds three spoons of sugar. She likes her tea sweet and hot, the exact opposite of what Tale prefers.

Outside it is raining, and Emma can’t quite decide whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. It’s good because she won’t have to go outside, but she also knows that she won’t be alone today. It all depends on whether Tale feels better when he wakes up. But she decides not to worry too much and sinks into the couch with the cup of tea in her hands. It smells wonderful, and it makes her drowsy. Last night was pretty much sleepless, but today is a Sunday, and Sundays are meant to be lazy and unproductive. She ponders whether she should spend the day watching old movies again, or if she should finish the book she is reading or perhaps reread one? She knows that whichever she picks, Tale will sit cramped up next to her with his knees touching hers.

The sound of the rain splashing against the window makes her drift away into daydreams, and she is too far gone to notice it when Tale emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a pair of loose, baby blue PJ bottoms and one of Emma’s big t-shirts. It looks much smaller on his long, thin frame than hers.

He sees her sitting there, and his dark eyebrows draw down and knot themselves together in a frown. He purses his lips and walks over to the couch. His arms and legs are too long for him, and he moves awkwardly, as if he has stolen someone else’s body and can’t get used to it.

“Em,” he says hesitantly, and his eyes flicker nervously around the room. She remains unresponsive, and Tale’s face takes on an upset look as he walks over and puts a hand on her shoulder to shake it.

A surprised squeak comes from her and soon after, her cup of tea falls to the floor and spills everything onto the carpet. Wide eyed she stares up at him, and his brown eyes have darkened now, darkened enough that she can tell that something is wrong. Then she looks at the mess on the carpet, and she takes his hand and offers him a little smile to lessen his anxiety.

“It’s okay, I’ll clean it up,” she assures him, but his expression doesn’t change, and she has to tug him down onto the couch beside her to make him move. “I’ll just go get something to clean it up, okay?” Her voice is soft and warm, and she sees him shuddering at the sound of it. His teeth are nibbling on his already chapped and sore bottom lip, and she wishes that she could make him stop.

“Em…,” he says in a thin voice, and his eyes are pleading, the eyes of a little puppy that has been kicked and beaten with a stick.

“Don’t worry about it, I said it’s okay.”

Tale’s body is cold and shivering when she puts her arms around him and draws him near. His cheek rests against the hollow of her throat, and his warm breath tickles her whenever he exhales. He is so much taller than her, as he has been since they were twelve, but like this he feels younger and smaller. More fragile. Emma sometimes wonders if Tale really will break if she doesn’t touch him carefully.

“It broke,” he whispers. “It broke.”

Emma rocks him in her arms while he squeezes his eyes shut and tries his best not to cry. She doesn’t talk to calm him down, she doesn’t whisper to ease his feelings. No words can help Tale when he curls up like this, and there is nothing she can do but ride it through with him, because that is how it always has been, and people like Tale do not change. You can’t fix what was once broken a little too badly. You can patch it up, put on band aids to lessen the damage, but the cracks are still there, years and years later.

Emma knows this better than anyone, and she just holds him tighter when she feels his chewed down nails along her spine.

It feels like the whole morning has passed by when the two of them untangle and separate. She is smiling softly, no longer concerned, and Tale brushes his fingertips over her hands before turning them so the palms are facing up.

“They’re the same,” she tells him and makes him turn his hands too, and her fingers ghost over the lines in his palms. He makes a little sound, because it tickles, and for the first time that morning he smiles at her; a hesitant, but warm smile that is meant just for her.

“Just the love lines,” he protests, and it’s true.

The lines that indicate love in his palms are long and crooked, but almost identical to hers. Emma laughs at this, and she notices how the sound of her laughter draws out more of the true Tale, Tale as he was when they first met at the age of five(and secretly she wonders if it means that they are both cursed with bad luck when it comes to love).

Emma does not usually laugh so freely, but Tale likes the sound of it, and she likes to see him at ease and happy. It is a mutual exchange, and she has nothing to lose. With a smile she lets herself fall forward over his lap, and Tale squeaks cutely in surprise and feigns annoyance.

“Want to watch Jurassic Park?” She peers up at him, and the look on his face says ‘yes’ even before he opens his mouth.

Sundays are meant to be lazy and unproductive, and there is no better way to do just that than to watch monster movies together on a pile of pillows before the television.

-

The weather makes a turn on Monday, and even as Emma heads for work at six in the afternoon the air is warm and comfortable. The sun is slowly creeping down behind the tall clock towers and tree houses, but Emma keeps her sunglasses on all the way to the music store. They’re big and perfectly ugly, which is probably the main reason why she likes them so much. Charles likes to tease her when she wears them, but she has no intention of letting him get away with it tonight.

The store is unusually busy when she arrives, and Emma hurries past the customers and disappears into the back with only a short, mumbled greeting to Charles. In the back she nearly runs right into Patrischia, the third and last staff member, and the woman’s eyes open wide in surprise.

“Sorry about that.”

Patrischia brushes off her apology and puts a hand on her shoulder with a smile. “Honey, haven’t I told you to stop saying sorry for everything? I’m not hurt or anything.” Her full, ruby red lips curl into a sweet smile.

Emma almost apologizes again, but catches herself just in time and half shrugs instead. “I know, I know. Bad habit, is all.” She takes off her jacket and puts it on the knob that has her name tag on it. “How are you holding up? Looks like it’s pretty busy.”

Patrischia lets out a big, dramatic sigh and makes a sharp gesture with her hand. Emma’s eyes are drawn to the manicured nails that have been painted a bright green. The older woman’s fondness for contrasts makes her stick out like a sore thumb. Lately she has been into green and red, and there are times when Emma has to fight the urge to wear her sunglasses indoors. Well, tonight she is wearing them anyway.

“You need to put those dreadful glasses away, honey,” Patrischia complains. “You need to show off those pretty eyes!”

“No, I don’t, Patty,” Emma protests and frowns a bit. “I’ve got no one to impress.”

Patrischia makes an exasperated sound, and Emma knows a pep talk is coming up. “Shouldn’t you be helping Charles?”

“Hmmm, I suppose I should,” she agrees and clicks her tongue thoughtfully. “But you know the boys adore those eyes of yours.” She takes her place at Charles’ side to help the next customer. “Don’t you agree, Charles?”

“Huh?”

“That Emma’s got nice peepers.”

He looks over his shoulder, as if he hasn’t seen Emma’s eyes a million times before, and for a moment she forgets that she is wearing sunglasses because he is staring at her so hard. She sends him an annoyed look, then remembers to pull up her sunglasses and stick them at the top of her head. Charles makes a non-committing sound, but grins, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Yeah, they are.”

Emma feels the blush rise in her cheeks, but she shakes it off and turns her back to the two of them to pour herself a cup of juice from the mini fridge they keep. Her face feels hot, but she has no idea why that comment made her flustered. She drinks her juice slowly while thinking, and Charles has his back turned to her when she glances at him.

It’s a little unusual for Charles to make any kind of comment about her looks. Or anyone’s looks, really.

The juice tastes fresh and nice on her tongue, and Emma begins to brood deeply while taking tiny mouthfuls. There are little wrinkles over the bridge of her nose, and she stares at the coffee maker without really focusing. When she zones out like this it’s hard to bring her back, but the sound of Charles’ voice, rough and with a hint of anger layered into it, makes her blink and lose her trail of thought.

“You should leave,” Charles says, and Emma thinks his shoulders look tense, but she can’t understand what for until the other person speaks up.

“She’s here, isn’t she?”

Little shivers take hold of her when she hears Joe’s voice, and her hand is not quite steady when she puts down her half empty glass and backs up against the counter. Joe can’t see her now from where he is standing, and she can’t see him, but she hears his voice perfectly.

“I need to talk to her, Charles. Just for a minute, alright? I’m not going to shout or anything like that.” There is a strain in Joe’s voice- he sounds tired and irritated- and Emma doesn’t like it at all when he sounds like that. Has he too been sleeping poorly after their break up? She wants to ask him this and a million other questions, but her feet won’t move. If she sees him she knows she will want to touch his face and run her fingers through his hair, like she used to.

“Just give it up. You hurt her, Joe. I warned you already, didn’t I?”

Emma swallows. Charles sounds so angry that it frightens her a little. She can’t see his face, but she can imagine what it looks like, and it is not pleasant. He has never been angry with her, and she is glad now that it’s so.

“Damnit, Charles! I want to patch things up, okay?” Joe bursts out angrily, and Emma cringes at the harsh tone of his voice.

Charles is unyielding.

“You had your chance,” he says curtly.

No more words are exchanged, and Emma waits for a long time before she dares to stick out her head. Joe is gone, and she isn’t sure whether she feels relieved or sad that Charles chased him off. Her heart is pounding like a little bird inside her ribcage, and she notices that she has been chewing on her bottom lip the entire time. She releases it and glides her tongue over it, feeling the crack her teeth made and the blood that trickles forth and tastes so like metal.

“I’ll be back in a moment, Pratt,” Charles tells Patrischia, whom nods and faces the next customer with a dashing smile.

He slips into the back, and Emma is listening so closely that she can hear his socks dragging against the carpet when he comes to her. Her eyes are cast to the floor, and she just can’t look at him when he stops there, right in front of her. He is inches away, a barrier that she won’t be able to get past, and she flinches when she feels his large hand giving her shoulder a light squeeze. It’s warm, so warm compared to her own hands. And this time, when his arm slips around her and nudges her forward, Emma doesn’t want to be left alone anymore, and she leans into his chest and buries her face in his black wife beater. It smells strange, but it’s a good kind of strange, and she shivers against him while his hand rubs circles on her back.

“Don’t worry, Sharpy, I’ll look out for you,” he says quietly, and his voice rumbles in his chest. She likes it when his chest reverberates, and he’s warm and pleasant to lean on.

This is not the first time Charles comforts her, but it has been a long time since it last happened, and Emma had forgotten how nice it feels to be the one embraced for once. She thinks of Tale, and how it’s always her holding and rocking him when he needs it, even though she too needs that from time to time. His heartbeats are steady and loud- she can feel her head moving a bit every time the organ pumps blood through his much larger body. It’s a nice sound, one that she closes her eyes to listen to, and when she does she is almost able to forget that only two weeks ago it was a different heartbeat she was listening to just like this.

She swallows again and wishes that the lump in her throat will go away so she can talk without sounding on the verge of tears. But Charles is in no hurry- his arm stays loosely wrapped around her, and his hand keeps rubbing those soothing circles.

It’s okay, she thinks, to let herself be weak and needy for a moment, because Charles will never mention this once they separate. He has never spoken a word of the previous times she has been wrapped in his arms, and Emma is grateful for that.

Emma has stopped shivering when Charles removes his arm and takes a step back. When she looks up she finds him smiling an odd sort of smile that she can’t place, and he pats her head twice before sticking his hands into his pockets.

“Better now?”

She nods, and Charles looks relieved when she returns his smile.

“Good. Now get your ass out there and sell some music!”

Emma chuckles, but she makes sure to poke him in the ribs on her way past him, and Charles makes a surprised, but not unpleasant, sound.