Work Text:
He’d made a mistake.
That much was obvious, now.
Jeetu’s Panasosnic Tv blared in the background, lit up with false christmas cheer, typical from a sitcom about white people (Though, even Jeetu had to admit that reducing Ted Lasso to that was a bit of a disservice to both his taste in TV shows, and to the show itself). It did feel, however, quite out of place for three reasons- one, it was nowhere close to christmas, two, they didn’t celebrate christmas, not in the traditional sense of the word, and three, he did not feel a goddamn iota of the cheer being portrayed on his much-too bright screen.
Or, perhaps the screen was at its normal brightness, as it should be considering the fact that he had last messed with it a year ago when he bought it, and it just so happened that his headache was getting worse.
So. Yes. A mistake
Jeetu sighed sharply, head landing almost instinctively in his cold hands as the headache took over him, raging away at the back of his tired, sleep-heavy eyes, and backwards. It was always, always like this, every time things got a little hard to sit through- the headache itself was undoubtedly brought on by nights spent staring at his dull, white ceiling (he really ought to get that painted one of these days). Time spent asleep was little and far in between bouts of sleeplessness. And worry. Constant, ever-ceaseless worry.
( For... what?).
He didn’t want to think about it.
And he didn’t.
Until it was that scene again, that damn scene with the alcohol and the fucking movie and the sheer, agonising loneliness etched into Ted’s face, that had Jeetu almost instincteively spending the next few moments combating a sudden surge of worry, coming back with a vengeance, this time, and had him tapping his fingers restlessly into his couch like he intended to fully erode through to faux leather under his fingertips.
And then he found him putting the worry entirely out of his mind, the space it left behind taken up by his boyfriend’s ringtone as Jeetu had called him, rather impulsively, uinsure of why, exactly. Perhaps he’d just wanted to hear the other man’s voice.
Perhaps, his intense worry had a lot to do with the man he had been calling in the first place.
Who knew?
He held his head in his hands as the dial tone filled the hollows of his tired mind, eyes closed almost deliberately. And then the ringtone, and then-
“Hello,” came the tired voice at the other end.
Jeetu felt his body pretty much flood with relief.
“Ayan,” he started, almost immediately choking on his words.
Why?
There was shuffling on the other end. The sound of someone dumping themselves unceremoniously on a much too hard bed. One Ayan had probably specifically asked for- or been provided, he had no idea how his boyfriend’s (he still was, right?) line of work actually operated. All Jeetu knew that they had to compromise between a memory foam and “a literal table” when they’d moved in together.
That was followed by a low, distant rustling, like someone moving the sheets together. And it hurt. It hurt to have to hear them over the phone, it hurt to know that the man he loved was miles and miles away from him, it hurt to know that he was going to bed alone. Perhaps, more than it hurt to go to bed alone himself.
Jeetu steadied himself, then, realising with a little embarrassment that he might be starting to develop jealousy for a fucking pillow.
“Ayan? Are y-”
He heard a short yawn on the other end. It hurt.
He didn’t know why.
“Bol.”
“Yeah, I-”
Why had he called?
“Jeetu?” He could hear Ayan sitting up.
“Are you okay?”
Jeetu wanted to laugh.
There were so many things he wanted to ask this man. He opened his mouth yet again, not even realising he had done it the first time, but once again letting it slide helplessly shut when It all seemed to tumble out of him at once, in an avalanche of concern and fear and- and what? Panic? Pain? An inexplicable, deep seated sense of loneliness that he couldn’t quite put into fair words, without sounding far angrier than he was? Whatever it may be, it rendered him comically speechless, and Jeetu felt the trickle of misplaced anger drip slowly, maddeningly down his spine.
This was frustrating.
He didn’t know why he had thought it would be a good idea to rewatch the singular show that had made him cry a frankly embarrassing number of times, but he had, and billu was already curled up on his lap (he could’ve sworn the cat had some sort of sixth sense), and there was a half open bottle of Rose at his feet (one he was supposed to open with Ayan, before his stay in Lalgaon got extended- again), and his tv was all locked and loaded to send him down yet another emotional rollercoaster, in pretty much the exact same fashion as it had done twice before. He didn’t know why he was subjecting himself to watching a depressive episode (say it, suicidal ideation, say it) on his big screen in real time, when he was already worried out of his mind about how ayan was doing, and-
Oh.
Oh, that was it.
Damn this show and its ability to make him confront things he didn’t even know he was feeling.
Dam it straight to hell.
Jeetu sighed. Then chuckled, mirthlessly.
If he were being honest… it was probably what he was hoping for. Maybe he was hoping to relive things, maybe he was looking for a certain midwestern football coach to crack open his veritable pandora’s box of repressed emotion from the sordid past. Anything to distract him from the very real demon eating away at him, from the inside out. Clawing at his heart, demanding that he address the fact that his very worst fears may well be coming true.
He didn’t know where the line between self sabotage and self respect lay. He had no idea how to find out. He didn't know if he deserved to ask questions he hadn’t once asked before (“Do you still love me like you did before?”) or if that was pretty much relationship suicide. What he had with Ayan was unlike anything that Jeetu had ever had with anyone before, and in denial as he was about it, this was all uncharted territory for him. All brand new. And scary.
So, so fucking scary.
“I miss you,” Jeetu said suddenly.
That was all that came out.
An entire storm of emotions inside his head, and that was all that came out.
And then there was silence. Just… silence on the other line. Punctuated by… nothing, actually, it would seem that Ayan had stopped breathing entirely. Jeetu hadn’t said a word, but he still found himself worrying that he’d said too much. Maybe he’d scared Ayan off with his need to be reassured, maybe Ayan actually had moved on, maybe- God, he didn’t know. He hated it. He could feel his heart sinking with every second that passed them by.
What Jeetu actually didn’t know, however, was that Ayan was weathering a storm of his own.
Ayan didn’t know what to say. Or… perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t know how to word it right, without feeling horribly accusatory and downright pathetic.
Because, as luck would have it (amusingly enough), Ayan found himself in pretty much the exact same situation as his boyfriend back home did. Alright, perhaps not the exact same, but not all too different either. Whatever existed between the two men was new to Ayan too- or, at least, not familiar. Sure, of course he had watched friends fade away in his childhood. Perhaps, even as a teenager. Perhaps, that was what lead to him pushing everyone aw- no no, not the point, not the time to think about that either. Point was, He hadn’t felt like this before.
He hadn’t felt crippled by the thought of losing anyone. It had been a goddamn long time since he’d ever felt… replaceable.
And with that, of course, came the implication that Jeetu would replace him.
He trusted Jeetu. Of Course he did. More than he had anyone else. They’d made it over two years, hadn’t they? What was a few more months?
...well.
What was a few more months, actually?
He didn’t trust himself to be worth those few months. He hadn’t trusted himself to be worth these many, either. Maybe the distance was too much. Maybe there were other, closer, less difficult options within a walk’s reach.
He didn’t trust himself to not… grow boring, after a while, what with his tendency to shut off to people.
He didn’t trust their relationship to not simply fade away, after all this time apart. Ayan hated to admit it, but he’d begun dreading phonecalls and texts and anything, anything at all from Jeetu’s side, out of sheer fear that one day he’d wake up and see a “we’re over,” or something.
Would he blame Jeetu for it?
He didn’t want to think about the answer to that.
So he asked for one, instead.
“Jeetu… are we going to be okay?”
There it was. The admission. The final nail in the coffin, the one both of them had been dancing around. Ayan, by throwing himself into his work, and, Jeetu, by throwing himself into TV shows about midwestern soccer coaches with a sunshiny attitude and a deep darkness on the inside. Ayan had too, of course, but his workaholic demeanour demanded no suspicion that he spent his days thinking about a comedy from the US. Plus, he had a general disdain for American sitcoms. Amongst other things, perhaps.
But there it was. In a moment of… weakness? No, he didn’t want to call it that. In a moment of truth, maybe. It was out there. They weren’t okay. It was clear in the way he’d phrased the question- are we going to be okay, implying that they weren’t in that moment.
“Yeah, we’re- we’re gonna be okay,” Jeetu said, though he couldn’t bring his heart to believe.
“We are.”
Ironic, he thought, smiling an empty to himself as he glanced at the screen.
Ayan wanted to ask why. He wanted to ask how Jeetu was so sure. Ayan wanted to ask him how he could possibly know, when there were so many things hanging in the balance, so many new variables, so much uncharted territory that they were both, somehow, being forced to venture into alone. Together, but alone.
Jeetu answered him anyway.
“Rom communism and all, y’know?”
Ayan smiled.
(“If all those attractive people- in romcoms- with their amazing apartments and interesting jobs—usually in some creative field—can go through some lighthearted struggles and still end up happy, then so can we.” Ayan recollected, the words bright as day. That was what it was, rom communism. And what a wonderful idea at that).
Of course.
Rom communism, all the way.
That was it. There it was. The very thing they’d been struggling to say to each other, put so simply into words that made literally no sense at all out of context. But they had context, and it made all the sense in the world to them. Of course it had come through the one shared interest they’d maintained through this hellish period. Of course their comfort came through the show ayan had been bullied (By jeetu, of course) into watching, and then ended up loving more than the other man anyway.
Of course they found their solace in something Ayan had done for Jeetu, purely out of love.
It was nauseating, if Ayan thought about it, but since it involved him he decided to maintain that it was adorable.
Jeetu heard a soft chuckle on the other end of the line, a sudden wave of aching fondness prompting his own. God, he’d missed that sound. Missed the man it came from. Missed hearing it under his lips as he kissed him, warm hands firmly, protectively on either side of that handsome face.
“Mm," Ayan spoke up again, breaking through Jeetu's reverie, "Rom communism,” he echoed, his vocabulary failing him beyond that.
Jeetu smiled. Message sent.
And message received too, he thought, judging by the palpable release of tension in the air around him. Even the sleepy cat still on his lap stretched contentedly, exposing his soft belly to Jeetu, who naturally took the invitation to run his fingers through the soft fur. Part of him would’ve enjoyed it more had it been Ayan’s hair, but most of him was grateful to have a warm body around in these trying times. He did love the silly little cat.
Billu purred in his sleep, and that was when Jeetu got the courage to ask his own question.
“Ayan?”
He breathed in deep, steeling himself to actually ask it.
“Haan?”
Here it goes.
“If you were-” Christ, how does one even phrase this?
“If you were in a dark place… or, something-” He finished, admittedly lamely.
“You’d tell me, right?”
Ayan stilled. Jeetu couldn’t see it, but the sudden silence was almost tangible, making him wince a tiny bit. He didn’t know why he felt so… vulnerable, even exposed, now having asked that, but he did. But he wasn’t going to take it back, either. He had to know.
“Where is this coming from?” Ayan asked, voice a touch less drowsy than it had been moments ago. Ah, good, not only had Jeetu raised his own heart rate, he’d raised Ayan’s as well. Brilliant. Outstanding move, really.
“Um...”
Ted Lasso. It’s coming from Ted Lasso. I turned on the one show that hurts the most to feel something other than anxiety and I drank a little too much wine to numb myself but clearly that didn’t work because now I’m just worried about how lonely you are. And if you’re in a dark place too. And I miss your fucking mustache, by the way, rewatching the christmas episode really isn’t helping with that. I wish I could open my window right now and see you down there, waving at me. Also, too many attractive people on screen is doing things to me that you’re too sleepy to talk about over the bloody phone so, yet again, I wish you were here. How’s that for an answer?
“...No reason.”
The silence that stretched on between them only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to the man who’d posed the question.
He winced again.
Ayan had stopped to consider.
“No, yeah, I-”
There was nothing to consider.
“Of course.”
Jeetu relaxed.
“Of course,” he repeated, the answer feeling more right on his tongue the second time round, hearing a sigh in response.
Ayan smiled. Leave it to his boyfriend to find a way to turn a comfort show into a cause for worry. ( Worry for you, a tiny voice in his head said, and Ayan couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, and feel his heart melt, all at once).
“I love you,” Ayan said suddenly, feeling a rather alarming spring of tears to his eyes and nearly missing the three words that Jeetu said back to him. It was weird, how much this one phonecall had said, so effortlessly, too. There had been times they actually did call with the intention of sorting things out, but this- this was more progress than they’d made in a long, long time. And if Jeetu was put at ease, he didn’t quite say it out loud, but Ayan could tell, anyway. He always could.
“And, uh, Jeetu?”
If Jeetu didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought his stoic, stable Ayan was choking up.
“Hm?” He replied simply, newly full glass raised to his lips.
“I miss you too.”