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Oh, how painfully familiar that voice was.
The night was young back then, no less than you were, offering a beer to the stranger who punched your date when he started acting like a douche, the warm light of the pub making your mug shine like an imitation of the Sun, the yellow liquid inside swirling as you shook it, ocean blue eyes fixated on you as you explained to him why you ever thought giving that man a chance was a good decision.
You'd liked the intensity of his gaze, the sharpness of his wit and the depth of his character hidden in plain sight and he likely reciprocated the fascination, given that he had asked to see you again after such a peculiar meeting.
The heat around you, suffocating, of the current events only reminded you of that time you decided that camping could be a great change in your routine, and the stark contrast of the cold river water that awoke you the next morning as you found yourself floating along with your tent, both of you unaware that the dam gates were to be opened the same night you settled in your campsite.
What was the thing about him that struck you the most? Was it the way he always tried, even when bound to fail?
Was it the fact that he almost burned his kitchen in an attempt to woo you and that you had to order takeout after you used blankets to get rid of the flames, laughing as the blackened wall and portion of ceiling stuck out like a sore thumb against the stark white of his apartment walls?
Was his profoundness the reason? The side of him many often ignored due to his quick resorting to sarcasm to mask the uncomfortableness but always was so evident and bare-laid to you? Or the fact that he brought you flowers to work personally during your break whenever he could (seeing your asshole coworker quiver and squirm at the sight of him was a plus for you both)?
Or maybe, the fact that he was willing to let you go because he loved you so?
How he broke things off before you could even think of giving up your promotion and consequent relocation to a foreign country because he knew you would do it for him and he couldn't stand to be the reason why you threw away all your dreams and hard work?
He had said that if you were meant to be, then fate would bring you together again and you had scoffed, someone like him, who never truly believed in fate or gods or destiny, telling you such a thing? That drove you mad back then.
Now, though, it's not madness that makes your heart flip on itself and clench.
You hear some rustling behind the door you just knocked upon, but you don't truly register the voice of the homeowner, not when your mind is fixated on that other voice you just heard.
"Are you going to answer or do I have to come out and kick you off my porch?"
The harshness of his words have you come back to reality for an instant, enough to answer the homeowner's interrogation with enough persuasion to make him let you in.
"I'll take a spot on the couch in the living room, if you don't mind."
"As you wish. If you need anything let me know."
As the homeowner leaves to go back to the peephole, you open the living room's door, its hinges creaking and alerting what feels like the entire town, and its protective coat scraping off, leaving a mixed texture of polished smooth and sanded wood to slid under your fingers.
Are you paying attention to all these details just to avoid returning those ocean eyes's stare?
Lifitng your head, you see him for the first time in almost four years, and yet, your heart clenches as if you were still in his apartment, that night where he broke things off with you.
Is the room all around you gone? Is it just you and him, floating around in cold, endless space or is your vision blurring, as if you were a camera struggling to focus on the most important subject of the picture?
Does he feel it too? Please do.
Hesitantly, he opens his mouth to say something, but you notice the way words, his most polished weapon, for the first time since you've known him, fail.
You gulp the lump in your throat down as you carefully move towards the couch towards him.
The springs creak underneath your weight, the clothing that was used to make the couch well worn in some spots, the old cornucopia pattern smooth and glimmering under the faint light coming from the ceiling. Is the air stale because of the heat or because of your expired relationship?
"You're back." He says, matter-of-factly, confidently, but the rough edge in his voice gives him away. He's unsure, uncertain, just like you.
You breathe. One step at a time, you can clutch this without showing the wreckage that is your heart now.
"I am." Your eyes dart in all possible directions. His never leave your face.
Tentatively, you turn your head to face him.
"How's life been treating you in all those years?"
"How long has it been since you returned?"
Both questions linger in the air, uttered at the same time, and even if the situation is less than laughable, you can't help but smile, and you see how his eyes crinkle with that oh-so-familiar fondness.
"You go first."
"Nothing new, nothing different from what I did before" before you? before he shattered your heart in an attempt to avoid clipping your wings? "I'm sure you have much more interesting things to tell me."
You raise an eyebrow and you know he knows you saw right through his chipped manner of speaking, his attempt to frame his life as something completely uninteresting while it was a constant, haunting question in your mind.
"I came back around two weeks ago...I saw all I wanted to see in all these years and figured I wanted to finally come home."
His abyss irises bore into yours with laser like focus, and you know he's analyzing the way you speak, how your eyes wander away from his at any given chance or how your arm is sitting on the back of the couch, a futile attempt to convey an easiness that was never yours or at least, that was, with him, only back then.
The springs creak as his lanky, always too thin, too tall body moves to sit closer to you and delicately grasp your chin with his fingers.
You pretend that you're able to ignore his stare and don't give him the chance to feel his gaze returned, but of course, he decides to open his mouth.
"Please, just look at me. I'm in agony and you know it. I know you are too, I know I hurt you, you never deserved to leave with a broken heart, I just couldn't-"
Rage, longing, angst, whatever this barbed wire that's gripping your heart is made of surge and you grab the collar of his white linen shirt yanking his face closer to yours.
"Couldn't what, Yesenin? Huh? You couldn't afford to come with me, you couldn't afford to let me leave but damn if you didn't do your best to wreck me. You know how long has it been? How I couldn't let you go, no matter how hard I tried because all I could see when I looked at another man were your god-damned eyes? And you say you're sorry?"
"It's been three years, seven months and thirteen days, do you also want me to tell you the fucking hours? What do you think my life has been like after you left? You were the only warm light that lit up this cramped and godforsaken world, you think I was able to move on? That I had it better than you because I was the one who left you?"
You see the signs of the passage of time on his face, the deepened hollows of his cheeks and the lines under his eyes that you loved to trace, the face of a model, you'd always say, and he'd always laugh it off, saying that the only person he'd model for was you.
The hurt is clear, with his jaw tight, the shadows on his face darker and the way his eyes plead, beg and grovel you to given him a tiny fraction of your kindness.
You're wasting your time. You already wasted enough.
With no rhyme or reason, perhaps too fast or without closure, but driven by the overwhelming sense of withering ruling over your heart, you grip the back of his head and crash your lips against his.
His eyes close and for a brief moment you're almost four years younger, on your old bed, making out after a night of fun under the warm light of your bedside lamps.
But you aren't.
The flourescent hospital white of this foreign house's lightbulbs assault your eyes and what yells in your heart isn't the placid tranquility of a lover's happiness, but the desperation and craving of a starving man, empty and all consuming.
You don't pull apart and he doesn't either, too busy in yanking you close to his body to preoccupy himself with breathing, but you've always been his oxygen and after four years of suffocating, he feels the right to finally indulge in his fantasy of still being your lover.
You don't know who does what, was it you that unclasped his buttons or himself? Was he the one who lifted your shirt off?
His long hands map out the softness of your body like a familiar path, as he keeps pressing bruising kisses to your mouth, not giving you the chance to pull away, still afraid of you vanishing from under his fingers if you do.
He sucks marks on your neck possessively once he gets the chance to be able to finally worship your body the way it deserves, and your legs lock around his waist to keep him in place.
Your hands slide down to rub at his still clothed erection, and you feel his sharp inhale against the skin of your neck, along with the faint quiver of his lips.
His fingers creep under the waistband of your pants and underwear, touching the juncture between pelvis and tight deliberately slowly and delicately, making your leg jerk up.
He tuts against your lips as his index finger starts caressing your fluttering hole, in time with the pace of your hand around his cock, which you've just freed from its restraints.
He sighs and his warm breath against your skin has you shiver in pleasure, along with his ministrations.
He probs at your entrance to prepare you for what's going to come, his dick pulsing and twitching in anticipation already.
He removes his fingers briefly from your needy core to spit on them for lubrication, before reprising his work.
As your hands glide up and down his cock you take a chance to sneak a peek of his face.
He's always been breathtakingly beautiful to you, and seeing the way his eyes flutter shut, his chest heavily rises and falls, light casting a shadow over his sharp features, you clench around his fingers.
He appears to deem you ready enough when he sits down on the couch, legs spread apart as he pats his thigh, signaling you to come over to him.
Back against his chest, knees held up by his arms, he sinks you down on him, the familiar intrusion welcomed by your body, even after such a long time.
Your head rests on the crook between his neck and shoulder as his hips snap up against your tights, doing his best to push every single inch of him inside your body, the dull sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.
Clamping a hand over your mouth you writhe against him, lost in pleasure as much as he is. He murmurs sweet things against your skin, pleads of forgiveness, promises to never let you go again, how much he missed you, the very air that filled his lungs every day and how tight and warm you are, just as if those four years of distance had never happened.
You try to look down to the point where your body ends and his begins and the sight of his dick splitting you in half has you spasmodically clench all around him, triggering his orgasm.
Loads of cum fill you up, cock twitching in you as his lips find yours to drown out both your moans and his, the haze of the afterglow already beginning to set in.
Panting and breathless, the anger has left you all of a sudden, erased by the closeness you've just shared, as your fingertips trace every mole and beauty mark that adorns his body he turns his head to press his forehead to yours.
How quiet and still is the peace that surrounds you both, just like the one that envelops a wheat field on a sunny, summer afternoon, with its golden rays and gentle, warm wind swaying its produce left and right, stems lightly dancing altogether, just like you, two wheat ears dancing in the breeze, as if nothing else mattered anymore, not the fights, not the distanc
e, not the chaos beyond the safe door of the living room, but just the fact that you are, for real this time, finally back home.