Please

please 😭

Broken Chords: Slow dancing in a burning room

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: I don't even know what to say, I couldn't not write it.

Summary: the morning after their night together, Andrew and Y/n struggle to deal with the aftermath of their tattered relationship.

Warnings: Angst.

Read part one here.

She's up before he is. Y/n actually thinks she can remember every time he’s woken up before her; usually on her birthday or sometimes on their anniversary – when he remembers it – to make her breakfast and tea. Outside of those days though, she can count on Andrew waking up at around nine or ten in the morning – unless he’s going for a swim with his buddies.

And even then, when he gets back at seven, just because he knows it’ll annoy her, he’d strip down to his boxers and get back into bed next to her, smelling of the sea and pressing his salty body as close to hers as possible. He’ll stay there until he convinces her to get into the shower with him, which never really took that much effort at all.

Bringing herself back into the moment, Y/n carefully extracts herself from Andrew’s embrace and sits up against the headboard. Gathering the sheets over her chest, she watches him sleep; the even breaths keeping his lips parted ever so slightly, the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders and the hair strewn over his face. Because Andrew’s always been a fairly strong sleeper, she doesn’t think much of it when she reaches over to move a few messy strands away from his cheek, letting the back of her fingers linger near his jaw.

She misses that; being the only person he’d let get that close. Touch his face, hold his hand, taste the whiskey right off his lips.

Y/n used to think she'd do it forever. Or at least, for the rest of their lives. But she knows Andrew well enough to know that it probably isn’t in the cards for them. Every time they’re together, it takes everything in her being to remember that the pair of them aren’t exactly compatible – sometimes love isn’t enough.

Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much you feel, or how deeply you feel it, it just isn’t enough. The compromises start feeling like a chore and the sacrifices become another way to punish yourself.

After ghosting her thumb along the top of his cheek, Y/n finally pulls her hand away. A quick glance at the clock mounted to the wall proves that she’s long missed her flight, but of course, she doesn't mind if it means soaking up a couple more hours with him – and delaying the inevitable.

The hurt in his eyes. The promises that it won’t happen again. The way he doesn’t let her hand go, even as she’s walking away, so the very tips of their fingers are touching until they're literally out of each other’s reach.

That last kiss until the next one, the one that neither of them wants to break because in that moment, the just the thought of not doing it again is far too much.

The inevitable; getting on that plane and going home. Crying in the shower and then stripping the sheets off her bed because they make her think of him.

But in the essence of delaying the inevitable, she doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Shoving the blanket away, Y/n slips out of bed and snatches Andrew’s shirt from the night before off the floor. The fabric is silky and cool as it settles on her shoulders, and the hem falls past the middle of her thighs. She closes up a few buttons and then rolls up the sleeves so they aren’t swallowing her hands up before stealing away to the bathroom to quickly freshen up.

By the time she emerges from the small, adjoining bathroom, Andrew has turned onto his stomach and stretched an arm out to the vacant spot on the bed. The sheets are even more of a mess then before and she’s barely resisting the urge to get back in next to him; tuck herself under the weight of his arm and feel warmth rise up in her chest when he pulls her against his own.

Though, when another cautious step forward consequents her accidentally kicking his pants from the night before, Y/n stops to look at them on the floor. There’s something sticking out of the pocket, she can see enough of it to peak her interest but not enough to know what it is. So she picks it up.

A picture.

She sucks in a sharp breath upon seeing the image, immediately recalling exactly when it was taken. London; October 5th, 2019. Though, considering what they’d gotten up to that night, it could have very well been the earliest hours of October sixth.

Sinking to the floor, she presses her back to the side of the ottoman near the foot of the bed. Everything about that night is so clear to her; the energy radiating off him right before the show, the roughness of his denim jacket when he’d draped it over her shoulders as they walked back to the car that would take them to the hotel. The taste of his mouth; whiskey, and something sweet.

The sound of his voice every time he said, “tonight’s gonna be special.”

In retrospect, October fifth – or sixth – was really the night that changed everything. The beginning of the end.

“Morning.” Y/n jumps a little when Andrew’s voice startles her out of her little trip down memory late. She must’ve been lost in thought for a while, because when she glances up at him, the mess of his hair has been remedied by long, tired fingers and he’s pulled on his boxers.

“Morning,” she mumbles, looking down at the picture again, “I didn’t realize you still had this."

Andrew shrugs, sinking down onto the floor in front of her, “its been right where you left it.” I’ve been right where you left me, he wants to add, but holds his tongue. He watches intently as she traces the pad of her thumb over the image of them on a hotel room sofa, with plastic cups filled with booze in their hands and her half-sat on his lap. God, the weight of her in his arms; he’ll do anything to make that a staple of his life again.

“I thought you were gonna propose that night,” she elicits softly, head still bent.

“What?” He rasps, furrowing his brows.

Y/n shakes her head, feeling silly about it all these years later. “You kept saying that it was a special night.”

“I meant-”

“I know what you meant now,” she swallows harshly, “and I know you –I knew you. So I should've known better. But I was so…..caught up in wanting that with you, I guess I’d hoped you changed your mind.” He’d always been so clear that marriage, and maybe even kids, wasn’t something he was very interested in, and for years Y/n had convinced herself that she loved him more than she wanted either of those things.

But then her friends started getting married and having babies, and suddenly, and ache in her yawned open. Was she really going to miss out on half her life for a man who shied away from talking about her after they’d been together for almost three years.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Andrew slumps his shoulders, “we could’ve gotten through it, you didn’t have to leave–”

“Well I definitely couldn’t stay,” Y/n cuts him off, tone harsher than she intends, “it was never gonna work out, Andy. We were never getting past that.”

“It was just a misunderstanding,” he re-emphasizes.

“It was more than that,” when she looks up at him again, her eyes are shining and her lips are shaking ever so slightly, “I want something from you that I am never going to get.”

“Why isn't it enough to just be with me?” He asks, long fingers ghosting the side of her face in a touch so heavy it almost isn’t there.

A soft, almost silent scoff breaks her lips and Andrew notes the shine of fresh tears in her eyes. “Would it really be that bad?” Her gaze shifts as she searches his eyes, “Being married to me,” Y/n clarifies in a wounded, hushed tone, “Would it really be that bad?”

Pulling his hand away, Andrew scrubs it over his face, “its not like that,” he promises, “I just don’t get why its important to you.”

Okay, so maybe not anything.

“Why isn’t it important to you?” And just like that, they’re having the same fight they had two years ago, when she said she he couldn’t wait and he’d told her that it didn’t matter if she did. He’s never understood her obsession with marriage, the way Andew sees it, he’s committed to her in every way that matters, getting married will only make things difficult.

Scrubbing his hand over his mouth, Andrew leans back into his chair, “Because I know that I wanna be with you right now, and that’s enough for me. Look,” he suspires heavily, “marriage is tough. Besides people get married all the time and then just get divorced two years later-”

“And some people stay married for fifty years,” Y/n counters defiantly, “so what the fuck is your point?”

“I’m just saying; that might not be us,” he stands and takes a couple steps back to lean against the small round table near the window. When Y/n’s response isn't anything more than an irritated scoff and a glance towards her right, Andrew relents, “maybe I should go.”

“Yeah, you should,” she agrees with haste. She doesn’t look at him as he snatches his pants off the floor before disappearing into the bathroom. The minute shuts the door, though, a hitched sob leaks off her lips and Y/n has to press her hand to her mouth to quiet them. Trying –and failing– to contain her tears, she looks at the picture again and its hard to wrap her head around the fact that the man holding her there, whose arms she’d felt safest in, is the same one seemingly determined to break her heart.

God, she misses him.

Oddly enough, the only comfort she wants at the moment is his. It must be the most visions cycle to be caught in; have him inflict the pain and then seek him out to dress the wounds.

Y/n doesn't know how long she stays there, or how long Andrew lingers in the bathroom, but its long enough for her tears to slow and her legs to start feeling tingly.

At least he's here right now, something in the back of her mind urges. And she doesn't want to leave things the way they are.

Pushing off the floor, Y/n discards the picture on the unmade bed and pads over the bathroom door. “Andy?” Her knuckles hit the cool wood without much force, and after three brief taps, she pressed her cheek to it. “Can I come in?”

She hears the tap turn on and then off again, followed by a brief rustling and then; “yeah.”

He's at the sink, and despite the white hand towel strewn on the counter, his face is still damp and his eyes are red rimmed. His slacks are on the counter too, and it takes a minute before he looks away from his reflection in the wide mirror to regard her. “I thought you might want your shirt back,” she shrugs, fingers fiddling with the top button.

“Yeah, you can just….” He trails off when she starts undoing the buttons, and upon realizing that she isn't wearing anything underneath, he sucks in a sharp breath.

“I'm gonna take a shower,” she hums, as his shirt slides off her shoulders and billows to the tiled floor. Briefly tipping her chin to meet his gaze, Y/n moves past him, her shoulder brushing his arm.

She slides the door closed, but it doesn't make much of a difference considering it's made of totally transparent glass.

“Fuck,” Andrew drags his lower lip through his teeth. Part of him wants to pick up his clothes and leave; if going back to her after the reception was bad, then this is just down right toxic. But she’s upset, and so is he, and she’s usually the only person he wants to be around when he feels like that.

He thinks there’s a physical pull as he approaches the glass door. Ridding himself of his boxers, he steps into the shower and outstretches his arm to invite her against his chest, and Y/n steps into his embrace. Her arms go around his middle and she presses her cheek to the center of his chest and Andrew smoothens his hand over her wet hair. “I was supposed to be made for you,” Y/n professes softly, “I could’ve sworn it.” Andrew can feel the difference between her tears and the water raining down on them. They’re warmer, they feel like acid on his skin.

Besides, it doesn’t seem right to leave things on a sour note.

What if it really is the last time? It probably won't be, but he doesn't want to leave it to chance.

He doesn't want to leave at all.

He doesn’t know what to say to her; sometimes it feels like she is made for him. The shape of her body is practically molded to fit his, but it's so much more than that. Its the way she laughs at his worst jokes, the way it feels when she runs her fingers through his hair. He’s written songs for her – no other woman has ever been as much of a muse as Y/n has. Its in the small things; like how her laugh is one of his favorite sounds and they like the same kind of wine.

Its in the biggest things; like how he can only stand to have her around when it feels like everything is falling apart around him – or coming together.

Bending his head, Andrew kisses her hair. “I’m sorry,” he utters, realizing, for the first time, that she’s just as caught up in that tangled mess as he is;

they’ll always go back to each other, because there’s nowhere else to go.

Small thing that breaks my heart:

When I was in third grade, I told this boy that it would be my birthday in four days, and he said, “okay, then I’ll buy you flowers.” Four days later he comes up to me and says, “my mom wouldn’t let me get flowers but I found you this violet in the grass.” That in and of itself was iconic and so so sweet, but it gets better.

A month later, I had to move, and because it was third grade, the teacher made everyone write me letters to say goodbye. His said, “I hope you have so much fun in your new house that you forget about me. I hope that you’re always happy and you never miss us. I’m sorry I never gave you flowers, but I can give you some now.” And he fucking. Drew me flowers.

No, Joey, I never forgot you. You are the reason I have standards in this life, and I’m so grateful to have known you. I hope you’re happy, wherever you are, and I hope that the rest of your days are filled with as much joy as you gave to me. I spilled water on the card about five years ago, and half of it is a a jumbled mess now, but I still have it. It’s the only card I still have.

The funny thing is this dude and I hardly ever interacted. I knew he played football because he was on the town’s kids’ team and my brother was on the middle school team, and I knew he was one of, like, three Joeys in our year. I had a crush on him but obviously never communicated that because it was fucking third grade, but somehow those three interactions imprinted on who I am as a person. I am forever changed by Joey from third grade.

If you have Spotify reblog this and tag what your number one song on your “on repeat” playlist is.

My emotional support Some Fuckin Guy™ save meeee