Post by Johnny Bacchus on Jul 6, 2021 9:30:14 GMT -5
It was a cool morning, but that only meant Mae needed a sweater as she lay on the couch and worked through the paper’s crossword. Her mother and father had always left them for her to work on – it was a tradition that had started when she entered secondary school and had continued to this day. A cup of tea piped steam on the sitting room table, and a piece of toast dolloped with jam sat beside it, a few idle nibbles missing. She’d never been one for more than a light breakfast, and the few brunches she’s entertained overseas were for the sake of others.
But this morning, Mae’s morning ritual was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. Mom and Dad were bustling about in the kitchen – it seemed lazy of her to allow them to be distracted. So, though she felt a reflexive pant of anxiety, Mae rose from the couch and crossed the parlour to answer the door. And it was when she opened the door that Mae Ashby had her first face-to-face sight of Johnny Bacchus since she cleared TSA at the Oakland Airport.
He wore his usual floppy ushanka, and she could see the hair sticking out beneath it was singed in places. He also wore a loose flannel shirt that hung unbuttoned, and of his chest and neck she could see, he was wrapped in gauze or wore ugly pink burns. His forehead had a large bandage along the crown where a few stitches were vaguely visible, and one of his eyes had the greenish shadow of a healing bruise. He looked tired and beaten, but those bright hazel eyes of his lit with a quiet determination. Still, that unbreakable burn in his eyes paired poetically with the hell his body had been through.
Mae Ashby: You look like shit.
Johnny Bacchus: I know.
And then she collapsed into him, the same breaking as sobs heaved from her chest. He caught her easily, his arms looping around her shoulders as her hands grasped for the contours of his body beneath the loose flannel shirt that covered it. As her tears soaked into his shoulder, his hand came up to cradle the back of her head, gently scratching that soft spot behind her ear he’d seemed to have known instinctively. She tilted her head into the crook of his neck and felt his cheek and chin nuzzle against her crown – he smelled like mango Juul pods, airport bars, and the long stale sweat of international travel.
It was then that her arms snaked around him and her fingers dug into his back as she squeezed herself against him with everything she could muster. And then when she could calm her sobs enough, she spoke.
Mae Ashby: I missed you.
He squeezed her in response, as she pressed her face back into his neck and chest, not bothering to restrain to torrent of emotion. They stood there in the front doorway, holding each other, for no more than four or five minutes, but it could’ve been eternity for her as she melted into him. When at last she felt empty – and when that emptiness seemed to immediately fill back in with his presence – she drew away and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. Then she took his hand gently in hers and turned toward the inside of her home, leading him in.
Mae Ashby: Mom? Dad? I have someone I’d like you to meet.
It was hours later that Mae and Johnny could be alone again. They’d spent the morning out in the parlour, where her Mother and Father had eagerly greeted and welcomed the boy they’d heard so much about. It was in those hours that Mae was reminded of those first dates – the way he’d bashfully pull his hat down over his face while being teased, how easily he flushed, the harmony of their laughter. He’d been perfect – she practically had to drag him away from her parents’ adoration. But now they were alone, and as they sat together on her bed and she held his hand in hers, she couldn’t remember if she’d even let go once since taking it at the front door.
She stroked the cuts, scabs, and callouses on his palm and knuckles as if hoping to rub them away. With his free hand, he’d picked up the picture frame on her nightstand and silently contemplated their picture on that night at the karaoke bar. In this moment, the loudest mouth in AW was quiet, his eyes darting from the picture to the walls to the furniture, no doubt absorbing the moment in full. Nonetheless, they both knew there was a primary reason for the silence, and that reason was the inevitable conversation that was to accompany their reunion. When Johnny set the picture back down and moved free hand to join hers, Mae laid her head on his shoulder and sighed.
Mae Ashby: You’re hoping I’ll go back with you, aren’t you?
Johnny Bacchus: Hoping. But…
Mae Ashby: But you know I’m going to say no.
Johnny leaned his head against hers. The silence returned for a beat before it was cut with a sigh of his own.
Johnny Bacchus: Yeah.
She fought back a tear, squeezing his hands in hers as she snuggled against him. When she spoke, her voice was low.
Mae Ashby: You were right about them.
Johnny Bacchus: We don’t have to talk about it.
One of his hands came from hers, and his arm looped around her shoulder. She turned her body in toward his.
Mae Ashby: But you can’t stay here.
Johnny Bacchus: I mean, I could. If you wanted me to.
Mae Ashby: I do, but I won’t let you.
She sat up, bringing her legs up onto the bed and crossed them in front of her. His arm fell from his shoulders and back to hers folded in her lap as their eyes met.
Mae Ashby: You have so much going for you. That match – that moment when through everything you were able to give that thumbs-up on the stretcher – Johnny, people believe in you. They can’t afford to have Johnny Bacchus leave. Not now.
Johnny Bacchus: And what about you? What about us?
Mae’s hands left his to loop around the back of his head and pull him in. Their lips met for the first time in months, a long and held kiss on her childhood bed in a quaint little cottage eleven thousand miles from Oakland. When they parted, she kept his face cupped in her hands.
Mae Ashby: I never stopped being "us".
He raised a hand of his own, brushing her hair back as he cupped the back of her neck. Those hazel eyes of his held hers.
Johnny Bacchus: I’ll burn ‘em down for you. Whatever it takes, as long as you’ll be waiting.
Mae Ashby: I’ll be waiting.
Their lips came together again, this time more forceful and frenetic. Her hands left his face to grip the lapels of his shirt, each kiss moving as if making up for the lost time. When they broke again, she fell into his chest, and his arms looped around her. She closed her eyes and nestled against him, her hands taking hold of a fold of the flannel and her breathing drawing him in. Her voice was low and murmured.
Mae Ashby: Stay a few days before you have to go back?
His mouth against the crown of her head, his response was muffled by her hair.
Johnny Bacchus: I was hoping you’d ask.
She giggled, and he joined her. A playful thump bounced off his chest. And then they fell silent once again until Johnny pressed his lips to her crown and let out of a near whisper.
The words stirred her. She pushed off his chest to face him once more. A tear ran down her cheek, but her lips were pulled up in a tender smile. Mae eye make-up was ruined; Johnny didn’t notice this, as he was too held by her reply.
But this morning, Mae’s morning ritual was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. Mom and Dad were bustling about in the kitchen – it seemed lazy of her to allow them to be distracted. So, though she felt a reflexive pant of anxiety, Mae rose from the couch and crossed the parlour to answer the door. And it was when she opened the door that Mae Ashby had her first face-to-face sight of Johnny Bacchus since she cleared TSA at the Oakland Airport.
He wore his usual floppy ushanka, and she could see the hair sticking out beneath it was singed in places. He also wore a loose flannel shirt that hung unbuttoned, and of his chest and neck she could see, he was wrapped in gauze or wore ugly pink burns. His forehead had a large bandage along the crown where a few stitches were vaguely visible, and one of his eyes had the greenish shadow of a healing bruise. He looked tired and beaten, but those bright hazel eyes of his lit with a quiet determination. Still, that unbreakable burn in his eyes paired poetically with the hell his body had been through.
Mae Ashby: You look like shit.
Johnny Bacchus: I know.
And then she collapsed into him, the same breaking as sobs heaved from her chest. He caught her easily, his arms looping around her shoulders as her hands grasped for the contours of his body beneath the loose flannel shirt that covered it. As her tears soaked into his shoulder, his hand came up to cradle the back of her head, gently scratching that soft spot behind her ear he’d seemed to have known instinctively. She tilted her head into the crook of his neck and felt his cheek and chin nuzzle against her crown – he smelled like mango Juul pods, airport bars, and the long stale sweat of international travel.
It was then that her arms snaked around him and her fingers dug into his back as she squeezed herself against him with everything she could muster. And then when she could calm her sobs enough, she spoke.
Mae Ashby: I missed you.
He squeezed her in response, as she pressed her face back into his neck and chest, not bothering to restrain to torrent of emotion. They stood there in the front doorway, holding each other, for no more than four or five minutes, but it could’ve been eternity for her as she melted into him. When at last she felt empty – and when that emptiness seemed to immediately fill back in with his presence – she drew away and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. Then she took his hand gently in hers and turned toward the inside of her home, leading him in.
Mae Ashby: Mom? Dad? I have someone I’d like you to meet.
It was hours later that Mae and Johnny could be alone again. They’d spent the morning out in the parlour, where her Mother and Father had eagerly greeted and welcomed the boy they’d heard so much about. It was in those hours that Mae was reminded of those first dates – the way he’d bashfully pull his hat down over his face while being teased, how easily he flushed, the harmony of their laughter. He’d been perfect – she practically had to drag him away from her parents’ adoration. But now they were alone, and as they sat together on her bed and she held his hand in hers, she couldn’t remember if she’d even let go once since taking it at the front door.
She stroked the cuts, scabs, and callouses on his palm and knuckles as if hoping to rub them away. With his free hand, he’d picked up the picture frame on her nightstand and silently contemplated their picture on that night at the karaoke bar. In this moment, the loudest mouth in AW was quiet, his eyes darting from the picture to the walls to the furniture, no doubt absorbing the moment in full. Nonetheless, they both knew there was a primary reason for the silence, and that reason was the inevitable conversation that was to accompany their reunion. When Johnny set the picture back down and moved free hand to join hers, Mae laid her head on his shoulder and sighed.
Mae Ashby: You’re hoping I’ll go back with you, aren’t you?
Johnny Bacchus: Hoping. But…
Mae Ashby: But you know I’m going to say no.
Johnny leaned his head against hers. The silence returned for a beat before it was cut with a sigh of his own.
Johnny Bacchus: Yeah.
She fought back a tear, squeezing his hands in hers as she snuggled against him. When she spoke, her voice was low.
Mae Ashby: You were right about them.
Johnny Bacchus: We don’t have to talk about it.
One of his hands came from hers, and his arm looped around her shoulder. She turned her body in toward his.
Mae Ashby: But you can’t stay here.
Johnny Bacchus: I mean, I could. If you wanted me to.
Mae Ashby: I do, but I won’t let you.
She sat up, bringing her legs up onto the bed and crossed them in front of her. His arm fell from his shoulders and back to hers folded in her lap as their eyes met.
Mae Ashby: You have so much going for you. That match – that moment when through everything you were able to give that thumbs-up on the stretcher – Johnny, people believe in you. They can’t afford to have Johnny Bacchus leave. Not now.
Johnny Bacchus: And what about you? What about us?
Mae’s hands left his to loop around the back of his head and pull him in. Their lips met for the first time in months, a long and held kiss on her childhood bed in a quaint little cottage eleven thousand miles from Oakland. When they parted, she kept his face cupped in her hands.
Mae Ashby: I never stopped being "us".
He raised a hand of his own, brushing her hair back as he cupped the back of her neck. Those hazel eyes of his held hers.
Johnny Bacchus: I’ll burn ‘em down for you. Whatever it takes, as long as you’ll be waiting.
Mae Ashby: I’ll be waiting.
Their lips came together again, this time more forceful and frenetic. Her hands left his face to grip the lapels of his shirt, each kiss moving as if making up for the lost time. When they broke again, she fell into his chest, and his arms looped around her. She closed her eyes and nestled against him, her hands taking hold of a fold of the flannel and her breathing drawing him in. Her voice was low and murmured.
Mae Ashby: Stay a few days before you have to go back?
His mouth against the crown of her head, his response was muffled by her hair.
Johnny Bacchus: I was hoping you’d ask.
She giggled, and he joined her. A playful thump bounced off his chest. And then they fell silent once again until Johnny pressed his lips to her crown and let out of a near whisper.
"I love you."
The words stirred her. She pushed off his chest to face him once more. A tear ran down her cheek, but her lips were pulled up in a tender smile. Mae eye make-up was ruined; Johnny didn’t notice this, as he was too held by her reply.
"I love you, too."