ballad of two utterly normal people

“We’re, uh.. We’re official now, if you wanted to know.”

That’s not what people usually say after treating a “good friend” to dinner—but that dramatizes it, implying things they’d rather leave ambiguous; he’d offer to pay for their entire friend group, not just them. It was dinner for all of them, for they decided to celebrate their anniversary (...of knowing all of each other) going out till the night grew old. He’s the glue keeping them all together, they believe, being the person who even brought up this idea after endless discussion. And endless amounts of quips, as far too many of them seem to think insult to injury turns two negatives into a positive.

    (They joke, only to him and their own head, that he—no, Pravin; his name deserves to be known—that he was born a leader. That he enchants everyone who talks to him into being more agreeable, more patient—to recognize they all have a common goal and unite—and how it’s utter chaos when he takes a step out of the room. Pressure, perhaps you can call it, but he laughs along with them, “have you been ‘enchanted’ too?” He’d ask them, to which they respond: We’ll see.)

But they have no right to think about him in such way: his girlfriend (they assume that’s the term he’d use) had been there too. No need for any names, they can pick a person who matches the word instantly; even if Pravin hadn’t gone to them before about his lovelife, if they weren’t thicker than thieves, any person on the street would assume they were together.

Everyone knows they’re together. Even before it was official, those two were a package duo; the chaff and the rice, the root and the stem, the swan and the frog…they’ll stop there. Those two have had so much adoration for each other, they don’t know how it took so long for Pravin to realize it was mutual. They knew how to stand next to each other with affection—to pass gardening tools from hand to hand with adoration in every touch.

(It’s simply ignorant for them to pretend it could ever be them, and not him and her.)

They’re throwing out pointed phrases for nothing, swallowing nothing but words they wanted to say—any remnant of the drinks they had last night gone in both their throats.

(Everyone else had left already, whether it be their ride had picked them up at the end or had duty called for them to rise early the next morning. From seven, slowly declining till two, they were the only ones left.)

 He didn’t need to stay behind, they believed, which fueled that internal voice of theirs they desperately tried to shut off. It wasn’t coordinated for them to be together at the witching hours—they could have left any time before, being their own ride, but maybe they knew he’d be here too. There was nothing stopping them from leaving early, but nothing stopped them now from staying late.

This wasn’t the case for Pravin, they could tell. It was a necessity for him to speak to them now, and maybe this second was the only time he had that night.

(The voice in their head goes wild from the possibilities—their heart, they might as well call it as it practically is—did they know, subconsciously, he wanted them afterwards? Oh, the proper term would have been their presence but that misstep in words set them off further. Their arrangement must have muddled their ideas.)

But that’s where they were wrong, of course. It was about his girlfriend, and they needed to respond to him. As much as it would be helpful in trying times, not even the most communicative man could read someone’s mind.

“Congrats,” they pick their words carefully, it’s best to be clear with their thoughts. “I’m the last of us you’ve told, right?”

Pravin sputtered, maybe taken aback by their response. “I—well, I wish I could—um…” The way he stumbles over his words is so characteristically him, they wouldn’t have his voice any different. “I wanted to save the best for last?” He believes in his words as much as the next person. Pravin was one to joke, to keep the mood light, but never with his voice almost sickly like it was here.

(As often as he held toasts—to almost any celebration their group has—the rest of them hadn’t yet coordinated enough to raise their glasses at the same time. The order they do may just be it’s own pattern, as they’ve picked up how some will always follow others, some alongside others, and how they (as in them, the specific person) will always come last, but no part of that delay is based on reluctance for his message.

He is someone who doesn’t deserve his face blocked by their hand, as they always sit opposing each other. He is someone who never skips words, to pronounce specific syllables in ways that keep it true to its origin without being rid his accent. To drown out his final words with cheers is simply a waste, is it not? Pravin’s words are built in confidence, but they are stronger than ever when he is listened to.)

“You could have said this earlier. Shown it, even. You two weren’t any more touchy-feely than you’d usually be…could have done something more than usual and I’d have the right mind already.” They drew further away from him, leaning up against a pillar and stared in the direction opposite from his eyes.

He didn’t respond for a hard, long second. They’d either said something completely stupid or entirely correct. “You know I’d still need to talk with you afterwards.”

“So let’s get on with it: what are your intentions with me?”

(It was a casual thing at first.)

“The same as yours are.” He said firmly, like how a celebrity answers an uncomfortable-but-not-overstepping interview.

(They were sad, single people. Sad single people who knew each other like that. Who thought to help each other out.)

“As mine were, not are, because before that—Did you tell her already? I can’t be an adulterer, especially not within—”

Pravin doesn’t take a second to think: “Yes. She knows.. I, uh. She seemed fine with it, for the most part.”

(Each other is what they’ve been telling their brain, and hopefully what he had been thinking as well. They haven’t figured out if they did it for him or for themself.)

“I’ve told her some other stuff, too.” He continued with more confidence in his voice, which he rejects, immediately slapping both palms over his mouth.

(They don’t know what to do with this information.)

“What?” One word meant a million different questions for them. There’s no choice but to just stare, to take in the sight of him fully, despite(or more so because of) the tension.

Not that kind.

(What have you told her? If what you meant is what I think it is, why? Don’t you know basic human privacy? Did she take it well?—and, most importantly, what?)

“Not like that!” He shrieks out upon their reaction, not yet fully put his hands off of his face “You… uh. I wish it wasn’t like this.”

He adjusts his clothes as the midnight chill begins to set in further, now being the one avoiding their direct gaze. His breath quickens and that’s when life springs to both of them, where it’s no longer an idyllic night but just another day they’ve had together. They approached hastily, no matter how dense the emotions are they needed to tend to him.

(They wanted to treasure him like he does to his collection of plants.)

One piece of the puzzle connected to another one with every step they took; by the time they got to him, they had the full picture. Their hands find their way on his shoulders, then stare at him in a specific tone, with the street lamps glinting in their eyes. It told him something without needing any language.

“I think I love you too, Akko.”