Just Let Me Hold You

Everything is quiet and peaceful. The blankets you ordered from some fancy catalogue are wrapped around me and the thick curtains you picked out are blocking out the sun. It's warm and relaxed and lazy and the blankets smell like your shampoo. The clock on the bedside table shows that I've got some more time to sleep, so I close my eyes and inhale your scent. I'm tired. I'm always tired. You always tease me about how many naps I can take in a day.

When the alarm goes off, I let it buzz for a few moments, until I feel you stir beside me. You reach over me and press the button, letting your lips brush against my cheek before you sit up and stretch. For a few moments, there is a cold draft of air hitting my legs until you tuck the blankets back around me and I hear your feet sliding against the carpet. You drive me nuts when you drag your feet.

The room is quiet and I'm alone for about ten minutes while you make tea in the kitchen. I don't know why you bother with the tea, you come back into the bedroom and place the cup on the bathroom counter, and then you forget about it. Until you return, I relax further into the center of the bed. I don't have to be cautious of hitting you in the face with my bony elbows or accidentally kicking you. I've got the whole entire bed to sprawl out on.

You return, dragging your feet sleepily along the carpet. I listen for the sound of the mug being set onto the counter, followed by the cracking of your toes, fingers, and back as you stand in front of the mirror. You know I hate that. It's gross. You turn on the water and I listen as you brush your teeth. I've always wondered why you brush your teeth before you eat breakfast. You always come back upstairs before you leave and brush them again. It's silly, just wait until you've eaten breakfast.

You pop open the bottle of the soapy stuff you wash your face with and turn the water back on to rinse it off. I always laugh at you when I see your makeup caked around your eyes, you look ridiculous. You toss my t-shirt onto the floor and turn on the shower. You always slam the shower door behind you, and I wish you didn't. It's loud and it's much too early for that. I like that you shower with the bathroom door open. I lay in bed and inhale deeply through my nose, the scent of your shampoo, your body wash. Fruity and girly. You take really long showers. Do you just stand there under the water? Or are you that meticulous when you shave your legs?

When you get out of the shower, you slam the door again. You groan because you've forgotten to replace the dirty towel on the hook with a clean one, but you've got no choice but to use it. You start going through the drawers next, looking for all the stuff you put into your hair, your brush. Your blow drier is so loud. You should look into getting one that doesn't sound like the devil screaming.

Once your hair is dry and styled how you want it, you come back into the bedroom, no longer dragging your feet, and head for your side of the closet. You spend forever going through your clothes, dragging the hangers against the bar until you finally find something to wear. You always look nice. I always really like the outfits you put together. You throw the wet towel onto the carpet, where you will leave it. I'll pick it up later, don't worry.

You go back to the bathroom and jump up onto the counter to do your makeup. You dump out your huge bag of products onto the counter and finger through it until you've found what you're looking for. I think this is your favorite part about getting ready. You take your time and perfect all of the imperfections I love you for. I just wish you'd accept that you're beautiful. Stop trying to cover that freckle on your jaw, the one by your ear. It's my favorite freckle to kiss, don't hide it from me. The pink lipstick you always wear is nice, too. Very pretty. You never pick your makeup up off of the counter, you just leave it. That's okay, I'll throw it back into your bag later.

This is my favorite part of the morning. After you're happy with the way you look in the mirror, you turn off the bathroom light and come back into the bedroom. You crawl up the blankets and drape your body over mine, softly saying my name. You dust kisses across my face and wake me gently because you know I'm not a morning person. You run your fingers through my mussed hair and whisper in my ear, telling me that it's time to wake up. I ignore you, because my alarm hasn't gone off yet. I've still got a few minutes. Once I've heard enough of your pleading, I crack open one eye and take in your pretty face. You straightened your hair today and you used a different lipstick than usual. You smile at me and lean in for a kiss, despite my morning breath, which I'm sure is horrible. Just as your lips are a whisper away, I jolt up from the blankets.

I am warm, but your expensive sheets and thick comforter don't surround me. The air isn't scented with your favorite shampoo, instead it smells like a cheap air freshener. It's dark, but not because of the thick curtains you've hung on the windows. There are no wet towels thrown onto the carpet, no makeup littering my bathroom counter. I'm in a hotel room. I'm in a hotel room, alone, and you're four thousand miles away. And I miss you like hell.

I have this dream every night, we start our day together. It's so real, I can feel your skin against my own, I can feel your breath against my ear. Every time I wake up and find myself staring at the inside of a hotel room, I can feel my heart sink a little lower into my chest. I haven't tasted your lips in weeks, I haven't swallowed one of your child-like giggles as I push you back onto our bed. I haven't buried my face into your neck and inhaled your scent, haven't whispered your name into the darkness, pressing my body closer to yours.

The bright red numbers on the clock next to the bed harshly tell me that my plane doesn't leave for another six hours, but waking up alone makes it hard to go back to sleep. You're fast asleep across the world, wrapped up in our expensive sheets, using my side of the bed. I'm sure you've left wet towels on the carpet and you probably didn't pick them up. Your makeup has probably been thrown across the countertop since I left. I'm sure you've left countless cups of unfinished tea on the counter. You were telling me yesterday about a new, fancy face cream you bought. You probably thought I wasn't listening, but I hang onto every word you say. This new miracle cream fights off wrinkles as you sleep, or so you insist. The longer it sits on your skin, the better it works.

I think of that as I unplug my phone from the charger. I know the second I wake you up you will set the phone on the bathroom counter and put me on speakerphone so you can remove the lotion from your skin. I know you hate the feel of it, you like your skin clean and fresh. I know you're trying to fight away old age before you get there, so your sleep is important. Sorry, love, but you're going to have to wake up.

You don't answer the first time I call, but that's okay, I'll call again. You're a heavy sleeper. You answer on the third ring, your voice carrying a tone of worry. Everyone does that. When the phone rings early in the morning, it's never a good call. Not this time, though. Everything is fine.

“Hi.” I say, my heart fluttering in my chest at your voice. “Good morning.”

You ask me what's wrong, and I say nothing. I just missed you. You lay in bed for a few minutes and talk to me, but soon enough I hear water running from the faucet. You're washing your face. You curse as you knock over a tube of lipstick, and I smile because you always look so funny when you swear. You have such a pretty mouth, soft rosy lips, straight white teeth. A mouth like that shouldn't say those words, but you do. And it's funny. You finish washing your face and your voice comes closer. You've taken me off speakerphone and I instinctively smell the air around me, hoping for a memory of your scent. I listen as you drag your feet across the carpet and down the stairs. You chat sleepily as you make a cup of tea, telling me your plans for the day.

You're going to clean the house up. You promise to pick up the wet towels from the floor, to put all your makeup where it belongs. You say you're going to wash the sheets and vaccuum the carpets. You talk about how much you dread cleaning the kitchen because the floors need to be mopped and the refrigerator has a sticky, gooey mess covering the inside of the drawer. The cabinets are empty, so you have to go shopping, and you're down to your last cup of tea.

I tell you that it's not important, but you insist. “You shouldn't have to come home to a mess.”

Home. I'm coming home.

We wrapped the tour up last night, a sold out crowd that screamed every minute we were on stage. It was loud and the air buzzed and my ears were ringing and my skin was tingling and I had a blast. It took me hours to calm down afterwards, I paced the floors and repacked my suitcase and kept myself busy for hours, knowing I should sleep. The longer I thought about going to sleep, the more exicited I got.

“What's wrong with you?” Harry asked as he stood up to return to his hotel room. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, ran a hand through his hair. He needs a haircut. “Calm down and go to bed.”

I just shrugged, refolding a pair of underwear before cramming it into my bag. “I'm going home.”

You're awake now, your voice is no longer hushed with sleep. You chatter on and on as you change into a pair of jeans and one of my flannel shirts. Your voice is distant as you put me on speakerphone again, pulling your hair into a ponytail. You're going to go grocery shopping first, you tell me, to get it over with. You talk and talk and I pull out my laptop, scanning the list for an earlier flight out of here, to surprise you. A seat has opened on a flight that leaves in two hours. I'll have to ride coach, which sucks, but now I'll be home in time for dinner instead of in the middle of the night. I book the flight and quickly get dressed. I tell you a little white lie about having a photoshoot, but I make sure to take a few extra seconds to tell you I love you before I hang up.

I say my goodbyes to the boys and they roll their eyes and tell me I'm crazy for riding coach on an eight hour flight. I don't care, though, I can't stand to be away from you anymore. I want to go home. The driver takes me to the airport and I slowly make my way through security, pulling the hood of my jacket down lower over my eyes as I pass a group of teenaged girls. I get past them without them recognizing me and I almost throw my passport at the man guarding the gate.

“Go ahead, Mr. Horan, enjoy your flight.” He seems like a nice guy.

I got lucky and landed a window seat. The air hostess brings around a bottle of water and I take a sleeping pill, to calm my nerves and to pass the time. I twist in the chair and face the wall, my back supported by the arm rest, my head resting against the wall. Once the plane is floating peacefully through the air and the people around me have hushed to a quiet murmer, I can feel the Ambien beginning to work. My eyelids grow heavy, my breathing slows, and an image of your face comes into focus...

This dream isn't like the one I usually have. We aren't starting our day, we're ending it. Judging by the dress that hugs your slender frame and the tie that is tied too tight on my neck, we've been to some sort of uptight event, the ones I hate. You slam the car door and hug your arms around yourself as you sort of frolick to the garage door. You can't run in heels, you look like a baby giraffe learning to walk. The second your black pumps hit the tile floors of the hallway, you pull off your jacket and I follow the sounds of your footsteps down the hall. In your usual messy fashion, you throw your jacket onto the couch, your hands flying to the zipper on the back of your dress. You stand in the living room and you twist and you stretch and you wiggle your fingers, but the zipper is just out of your reach. I take my time, emptying my pockets onto the table, loosening my tie, pulling off my shoes, watching your funny little dance as you fight the zipper.

You give up the battle long enough to crank up the heat, even though you know I'll come back by in a few minutes and turn it back down. Just put on your pajamas and grab a blanket, you'll be fine, I promise. You return to the fight with the zipper, sending me a pleading look. I smile and step to you, guiding your hands back down to your sides before dragging the zipper down, watching the fabric give way and reveal the planes of your back, long smooth muscle, a nice golden tan. I skim my fingertips down your spine as I tug the zipper down, watching a trail of goosebumps follow, seeing the involuntary shiver that starts at your toes and reaches the top of your head. You turn to me and wrap your arms around my neck, softly placing your lips against my cheek, just enough friction to make my skin burn, my breath catch in my lungs.

You don't give me a chance to pull you closer, you pull away and head for the stairs and I reach for you until your fingertips slip from my grasp. You give me a smile over your shoulder as you leave and I just shake my head, feeling my cheeks blush. I pick up your jacket from the couch and your shoes from where you kicked them off by the table. I turn out the lights and I'm halfway up the stairs when I remember that you cranked up the heat to a hot summers day. I'm rushing now, wanting to get back to you, so I run back down and return the heat to a liveable warmth. I can hear your footsteps above me, your feet dragging against the carpet. Pick up your feet, that's so annoying.

You've already wiggled out of your dress when I reach our bedroom. You stand in front of the dresser and remove your jewelry. You didn't turn on the bedroom light, only the closet light. It's dim and it illuminates your bare silhouette, cradling your curves. You've worn the white lace lingerie set that I like, the one that fits like a glove. You smile at me through the mirror as you take off your earrings. I step closer, placing the tips of my fingers at your thigh and softly running them up your hips, stopping just before the curve of your breast. You stare back at me through the mirror, watch as my lips softly kiss your shoulder blade. I reach out and pull the pins from your hair, watching as your long hair settles on your shoulders, bouncing along your collarbones.

You turn toward me, reaching for the tie around my neck, loosening it and pulling it over my head, placing it on the dresser. Your hands run up the length of my chest and over my shoulders, pulling my jacket down my arms. I catch the fabric as it slips past my hands and throw it in the direction of the chair. You undo my cufflinks and lay them next to your jewelry, the metal clinking as it bounces softly against the dressertop. I untuck my shirt from my pants as you begin unbuttoning, starting at my chest and making your way down. Your eyes burn into mine as you work the buttons, your fingers moving slow. My fingers shake as I reach out and trace your collarbones, dancing my skin against yours, trailing a path like fire down your arms. You finish the last button and I move to remove the shirt as your hands unbuckle my belt, pulling the leather from the loops around my waist, dropping it at our feet. Your manicured nails, bright red, dance down the places of my chest and you slide your index finger just past the fabric, giving a gentle tug. I drop my grip of your hips and, after you've undone the button, I drag the zipper down and pull the fabric past my hips, letting it gather at my feet before I kick it to the side.

You step closer when I reach around and place my hand at the curve of your back, willing you forward. I want your skin against mine, I want to feel the warmth of your chest against mine. I walk you backwards to the bed and you stop at the foot, glancing up at me. I nod once and you lean back, scooting along the fabric until your hair splays out along the pillows. I crawl over you, slowly, running my fingertips over your skin, cradling your face in my hands. You sigh as I lean into you, your eyes fluttering shut when you can feel my breath against your skin. Your lips part as I come nearer, your hands tugging my upper half down to you...

Just before my lips brush against yours, the air hostess' voice wakes me, announcing that the long flight will be coming to an end shortly. I've slept through it all. I dont feel refreshed, I feel disoriented, as I always do when I awaken from one of our dreams. I'm confused and the emptiness in my chest seems deeper than ever. I have enough sense to pull my hood up over my head and tug it down over my eyes as I gather my luggage from the baggage claim, but I'm still walking in a haze. My skin is tingling in anticipation of your touch, that dream was realistic, just like the rest of them. They never end in my favor, I never get to taste your lips or move my body against yours. They always end just before I can kiss you and I wake up lonely.

A driver is waiting for me outside and he helps me throw my luggage into the trunk. I'm amazed I've managed to get through two airports without a mob of fans, but they weren't expecting me so early. The other boys won't be so lucky. I relax into the seat, thankful the car is warmed up. The London chill always surprises me after I've been gone for awhile. The driver weaves through the traffic and we chat. He tells me he's taking his wife to Paris next week, for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Her name is Mary, he says, as he pulls his wallet from his pocket. His eyes never leave the road as he passes his wallet to me, opened to a photo of an attractive lady, holding a little boy in her arms. It's his grandson, he tells me, his name is Parker. He'll be two next month.

He pulls into our driveway and helps me drag my stuff out of the trunk. I shake his hand and he leaves, but I don't stand around to watch. My heart is racing because I know that through that front door is where you are. The lights are on, so you're home. I can hear music, so I imagine that you're throwing yourself a concert, maybe while you cook dinner, or maybe while you scrub out the fridge. I slip my key into the door and let myself in, dropping my luggage at the foot of the stairs. The music is coming from the sound system in the living room, blaring out the speakers. I haven't heard this song, it must be something new you've discovered. It has heavy guitar and a strong bass, the lead singers voice is melodic and and the lyrics are catchy, but I'm not listening. I'm listening for your harmony, because you can't sing lead. I'm listening for the sounds of you, the dragging of your bare feet against the carpet, the clatter of a fork hitting the sink, the spray of a bottle of disinfectant.

For a few seconds as the song ends and a new one begins, the house is silent. Silent except for the hum of the vacuum cleaner above me. I turn and run up the stairs, calling your name, blood pounding in my ears because I've found you. You're upstairs, one floor above me. You're so close, I can pull you into my chest and I can smell your hair and I can look into your eyes and I can reach out and hold your hand.

It takes a few calls, but you finally hear me. The vacuum cleaner turns off and it's quiet up here, the music just barely coming up the stairs. You're listening, doubting yourself, because I'm not supposed to be home until late, late tonight. I push open the bedroom door and...there you are.

It's not climactic, it's not a scene from a movie. You're vacuuming. The bed isn't made, the sheets are probably still in the dryer. The laundry hasn't been put away yet, it's all folded on the bare mattress. There aren't any wet towels on the floor and I can see the bathroom counter, you've put away all of your makeup, the counter is bare. You've changed out of your jeans and my flannel shirt, you're in a pair of comfortable sweats and a t-shirt. Your face is clean, hair pulled into a ponytail. Your eyes are wide as you stare back at me, fingertips white as they clutch tightly onto the handle of the vacuum.

I reach out and loosen your grip, letting the vacuum fall to the carpet. I bring your fingertips to my lips and kiss each one, my eyes never leaving yours. Your face is white, surprised, shocked. “You're early,” you whisper. You don't move, your bare feet remain planted in their spot in the carpet.

I nod, kissing your fingertips again. “I got an early flight.”

“Why?” you whisper, still not completely believing that I'm standing right in front of you.

I don't speak, I don't need to. Instead, I step closer and take a deep breath, the scent of you filling the air around me. I pull you into my chest and I can feel the warmth of your skin seeping through my t-shirt, sinking through my skin and thawing my bones. I press a hand to your lower back and tug you forward, roughly pressing my lips to yours. My knees give at the sound of your sigh, at the way your body relaxes into mine.

I haven't kissed you in weeks, but we don't fumble. There isn't an awakward clash of teeth, an uneasy breath. You mouth opens to greet me as I run the tip of my tongue slowly against your upper lip, my breath catching in my throat. Your fingers clutch harder onto the fabric of my jacket, and I imagine your knuckles are white. I kiss you until I'm breathless and dizzy. I pull my lips away and rest my forehead against yours. I smile softly and rub the tip of my nose against yours and you giggle, squeezing your eyes shut as you return the gesture.

I rest my chin on the top of your head and pull you close, my heart jumping to my throat as your arms wrap around my waist and hold me tight. We sway in silence, guided by the muffled music that blares from the living room downstairs. Later tonight, I will take my time with you. I'll undress you slowly and kiss every inch of your perfect skin. I'll swallow your sighs as my body melts into yours, I'll cherish every moan, every touch, every kiss. I'll watch as your back arches off the mattress and I'll hold tight to your hips as they shiver and quake beneath me. You always cry afterwards, pressing wet kisses to my skin, repeating over and over again that you missed me. I'll kiss away those happy tears and wrap you up in my arms and softly sing you to sleep. Once your breathing has slowed and evened out, I will close my eyes and thank God for bringing me home again, home to a girl who drags her feet against the carpet and leaves makeup all over my countertops.

But for now, I will hold you, because I missed you. For now, I will hold you, because you missed me. For now, I will hold you, because this is home, and this is the only place I want to be.

Just let me hold you.