Too Much

They say relationships go through the honeymoon phase, and then reality sets in. Partners start hating each other and all. The cute things that they once adored are now the bane of their existence. They do nothing but fight like it’s their second job, and communication is through out the window. They swear on their lives that they’ll never be like that; that love will be just a fiery as it was when they first started out together. But soon that all is lost. Somehow, promises of “together forever” are thrown away like last night’s trash. Every grand idea of lives together, lost. Every love-struck heart, torn to shreds.

But somehow, after six years of being married, there was nothing else we wanted. Except each other. We couldn’t get enough of the cuddling, and the kissing, and making love, and just being happy. We couldn’t get enough of the other. No matter how many relationships we saw stumble and finally break, we still found comfort in each other’s arms. You and I, we belonged together like soulmates. Huh, soulmates. You and I. I suppose I never really believed in that Hocus Pocus until I decided to spill hot coffee all over you, and you still wanted to get to know me. That’s the only way this made any sense. That’s why we came home every night, happier then just to see each other and embracing like lovers lost of long spells of time. That was why the “I love yous” made us tear up every time it was shared.

Oh God, everything was just... perfect; the day you proposed, our wedding, every day in between. When I came home that day, after a tiring day of sitting in a bloody cubicle for eight-plus hours with nothing but the ringing of phone for friends, I found you on the couch. You were tossing popcorn into your mouth lazily, getting ninety percent in between the couch cushions. I smiled at how adorable you were, with you frazzled popcorn hair. You knew, even without words, how to make me feel better. Just a smile and popcorn hair had me feeling happier, so much more at-home.

I excused myself to the kitchen, to retrieve a bottle of water. But the stack of dishes sitting in the sink called my attention. I smiled at them. I was home. It was amazing how a pile of your dishes reminded me that I was home, finally. I abandoned the thought of returning to you with a bottle of water, so I started filling the empty sink with soapy water. You never understood why I like doing the dishes by hand. It was much more intimate than throwing them into the dishwasher and pressing “start”. I was able to see how you never quite got all the food particle off the plates when you ran water over them.

I felt the subtleness of your soft lips on the back of my neck, your hands caressing my hips, the warmth of your chest pressed to my back. I felt your relaxed breathing against my hairline as you turned your attention to the opposite side of my neck. I tilted my head to assist in easier access. Your long arms snaked around my waist as you kissed my shoulder blade. Then you rested your forehead against my spine. We stayed like that for a while, me leaning back into your gentle embrace.

Suddenly, you untangled yourself from me, the pressure of your body gone. I immediately whimpered. It was such a foreign feeling, not having your warm body against mine. It was like a new mattress that didn’t quite give under weight. It was just so odd, and I didn’t like it. I turned around, expecting to see you standing at the island smirking. But instead, you were on one knee in front of me. My breath hitched in my throat as your hand reached out to me.

“Alex,” you breathed, taking my damp hand in yours, your voice wispy and nervous. “You’ll have to excuse any idiocy I am bound to commit. It isn’t everyday that this happens to me.” You laughed off the awkwardness lingering in your words. “Now Alex, baby, the last year or so together has been the best. My life with you has been something close to hectic; but I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my time. I mean every ‘I love you’ and ‘together forever’. And I think now is better than ever to make this indefinite. Because, fuck, I love you so much. I want to wake up to you every morning and be there as you fall asleep. I can’t promise that this makes any sense, Hell if it does. But I can promise you my heart and soul. Alex Gaskarth, will you marry me?”

In the moments after you proposed, three things were running through my head. The first was the obvious. Of course I would marry you. It was something of a fantasy, but all of a sudden it was becoming my reality. The man of my dreams, my one true love, my soulmate, was on one knee, asking for me to marry him. The second thing, which was similar to the first was, Oh my God, is this really happening? I must be dreaming. What is going on? (And somewhere in here, I managed to tell you that I would be more than ecstatic to marry you.) As you pulled me into your arms, I pinched myself, just in case. Nope I was awake. And thank God I was. The final thing that ran through my mind was, Gaskarth. Is that really how it sounds? That’s such a weird last name. Don’t ask me why I couldn’t stop thinking about how to pronounce my last name. I don’t have a fucking clue why. But finally, I managed to participate in the hug and tears and soft kisses to lips. I pulled myself back to this moment of, Yes, I’m going to marry you Jack Barakat, and was able to celebrate with you.

Somehow, (leave it to you to be able to do this), we were prancing down the sidewalks of New York, hand-in-hand. You were screaming at the top of you lungs that we were going to get married and all this other beautiful stuff. You received dirty looks from a lot of people, and some stuck in traffic yell back to you things like, “If you’re getting married to a dude, then I’m Frank Sinatra!” or “Yeah? And I was abducted by aliens!”, etc. But you weren’t phased by it. You just turned to me and kissed me hard every time. Not that I was complaining.

After our little excursion to tell the world of our engagement, another brilliant idea of yours was to get drunk off our asses. Again, I wasn’t complaining (except for the hangover the next morning, but that’s later). I just adored how much energy you had. It was thoroughly amazing. Even as our words became incoherent and we resolved to giggling, immature mass, you still had plenty of things that you want to accomplish before we passed out.

One such misadventure was dancing on the bar. I don’t know, alcohol really fucks you up. The keep glared at you until you did the most cliché thing ever; you decided to sing “Bennie and the Jets” over the blaring music. The man smirked after that, obviously getting your reference; I, however, couldn’t believe that even I understood it. But you, oh you sang at the top of your lungs until your voice gave out. You looked... ridiculous, to say the least. Apparently, that didn’t stop me from joining you a few minutes later. But it turned into a grind-fest after a minute, you were pressed against me so perfectly.

After the keep kicked us out, we managed to stumble back through confusing streets to our apartment. We were still giggling like madmen who got away with murder. The door slammed behind you, causing immature giggles to erupt between us. You turned to the door. “Shh.” Snickering ensued. I took your hand in mine, pressing my lips to your palm. You smiled lazily. Then, I heaved you onto my shoulder, causing you to squeak in panic. “Lexy!” I ended up carrying you down the hall to our room. Your legs hit practically every picture that hung on the walls of the hall. Finally, I got you to our room and tossed you onto the bed. I kneeled between your legs and leaned down to kiss you. My cold hands slid under your shirt removing it with a cheeky, “This will not do.” I don’t know why, but you giggled at my stupid remark. Either way, I was way too drunk to care, really. All I knew was that you were wearing far too much clothing for my liking.



“Look into my eyes, you will see what you mean to me. Search your heart, search your soul; and when you find me there you’ll search no more.

Don’t tell me it’s not worth trying for. You can’t tell me it’s not worth dying for. You know it’s true; everything I do, I do it for you.

Look into your heart, you will find there’s nothing there to hide. Take me as I am; take my life. I would give it all, I would sacrifice.

Don’t tell me it’s not worth fighting for. I can’t help it, there’s nothing I want more. You know it’s true; everything I do, I do it for you. Oh yeah.

There’s no love, like your love. And no other could give more love. There’s nowhere unless you’re there. All the time; all the way, yeah.

Look into your heart baby; oh yeah.”

Your voice was soft in my ears as you sang perhaps the cheesiest wedding song ever. But it didn’t bother me as much as it seems. It was amazing, nonetheless. I love the sound of your voice as you continued through the last verse or so. You squeezed me closer to your chest. You looked down at me and smiled widely. I love how, amidst a hundred or so pairs of eyes, it was just Jack and Alex, Alex and Jack. There was nowhere else to look.

“Oh you can’t tell me it’s not worth trying for. I can’t help it, there’s nothing I want more.

Yeah, I would fight for you; I’d lie for you; walk the wire for you; yeah I’d die for you. You know it’s true; everything I do, oh, I do it for you.”

You leaned down, pressing your lips oh so softly to mine. “I love you, Alex.” Our noses delicately rubbed against each others’ as you stared back at me.

“I love you too, Jack.”

A grin erupted onto your lips before you kissed me again. Everything was finally falling into place for us and I wouldn’t have changed anything... except for the part where I spilled coffee on you two days in a row. A much calmer first meeting would have sufficed. Nonetheless, we were here now, “dancing” to “Everything I Do, I Do It For You” by Bryan Adams. We were here, married and happy finally. This part, I wouldn’t change it for the world. I kissed you back just as eagerly because this, this I would die for. I never wanted this to end. Nothing should’ve changed. When you pulled back, we couldn’t stop smiling at each other.

Somewhere in the middle of me stepping on your beautiful dress shoes (one or so dozen times too many), and us sitting down to relax and eat, Rian (I don’t know, a close friend of yours?) got up to talk about us. “You know, something about these two is purely amazing. The way that they adore each other fully - the way they’re completely able to ignore me toasting their happiness and make creepy faces at each other-” Which we were, let’s be honest “-the way they are.... It’s pure love and it’s the best thing for anyone to experience. I’m just happy that they get to experience it with each other. So, here’s to.”

We were still making weird faces at each other like it was no one’s business. I don’t know, you’d think we were two love drink teenagers who couldn’t dream up anything better than this moment. And I don’t think we could. We were that obnoxiously cliché couple that you only see in movies. Except for the fact that this was real. There was no acting out of scripts here. There was no cliché breaking of hearts. And there was no mending of a broken heart by getting back together. This... this was all we would ever know. Happiness was all we’d know. Yeah, this might have been too perfect for anyone to believe. Sorry to disappoint. But, you know, we all need that fairytale ending. You and I, we were part of that lucky few. But I wouldn’t have changed a thing because this was me and you, you and me, making a life together.

Nonetheless, that didn’t stop us from being childish. That would’ve killed the mood! No, but, oh darling, it was perfect. The traditional cutting of the cake, for us, was anything but. Normally, one would have serenely fed their spouse a piece of cake and then the evening would continue without a hitch. But, my dearest Jack, normal was not a word we understood. As I went to feed you the cake, I noticed that glint of trouble behind your eyes. You ducked just in time to have the slice of hyperactivity smear into your beautiful skunk hair. I legitimately died (because... your hair!!) in that quick moment after. But that was not to stop you in getting back at me. You grabbed the back of my neck, pressing your cake-covered hand into my face.

“Jack!” I gasped.

To which the best response was uttered: “Shut up and kiss me now.”

Our professional photographer hated us. (Again, we apparently didn’t believe in the socially accepted term “normal”). Every time she went to take a picture of us doing something couple-like, you decided to stick your tongue in my ear. Or better yet, you’d stick your fingertips under the belt of my pants, pretending you wanted to start undressing me in front of everyone at our wedding. (At least I hope and pray that you didn’t really want to do that...).

Aside from one time during the course of the evening, we were constantly on our feet. The one moment not on my feet, I was sitting on your lap. You were talking about my friend Zack and how he should hook up with your friend Rian. I was half-listening to your reasoning, moreover thinking about your nails that were gently raking over my spine. It may or may not have been soothing, something you soon learned I liked after sex. But the rest of the night consisted of being on my already-sore feet. You, however, seemed more than ecstatic to be standing, dancing, or throwing me onto your shoulder like a caveman. Although you contested that they didn’t actually do that, that we just think they did. To win our little menial tiff, you licked my face. Just because you could.

As the evening progress and your words (mine too, supposedly) got more incoherent, the things that were said and done got a bit racier. Like when we were on opposite sides of the reception hall and I heard something comparative to a Native American war call. It was followed by a sexual comment and you jumping onto my back. Or when you insisted on crawling into my arms, wrapping your legs tight around my waist, and hiding in my shoulder because “drunk asswipes scare me and I have a raging boner”, or something along those lines. The thought was reoccurring that maybe the open bar was a bad idea with you. But, “no Lexy, that’s the best thing since sliced bread.... Or your dick.” Alas, discretion was never a word in your vocabulary.

As the night dwindled, you were more than excited, in many uses of the term. Your tolerance for people “other than Lexy’s dick” was short coming and soon all you talk about was when we got home: “insert seductive voice here,” you chuckled, feeling to make sure your fingers were still attached before sticking them in my ear. You had a fixation with my ear, apparently. You tiredly slid your fingers through my hair and a lazy smirk crawled across your lips. You looked... beyond gorgeous at this point.

Finally, I only say finally because that’s the exact word you used as well, we were stumbling toward a bed that looked too tempting. We were locked in a fervent kiss, lightly cursing our damned clothing that didn’t seem to want to allow us to do anything aside from kiss and palm each other through far too many layers of cloth. We blamed our hazy thoughts and the clothes themselves, but not the real reason we were having issues. We were fucking nervous. Imagine that; consummating your marriage with your one and only and being nervous as fuck. And why? Lord knows! But when the jitters did pass, we didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it in full force. Clothes quickly assembled at the end of the bed, a quiet pile only hinting at our bedroom misadventures.