strange dream .

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Unburdened from his fear of preying upon a vulnerable woman, it was easier now to think of Freya as the resilient girl she was, which made it infinitely easier to make fun of her. Grin widening as she dropped her hand from his shoulder in irritation, he turned round properly on the bed, just in time to duck away from the pillow she's chucked his way. Laughing, he points at her accusingly. "I was right! Admit it. Just admit it," he repeats, wanting to go back to the usual lighthearted relationship they shared. But there's an edge to her response and he's aware he's overstepped a mark, going from all too serious to much too jovial in a heartbeat.  "No, usually I've proposed by now," he says, though his grin has waned. He leans back on the bed, resting on his elbows as he surveys her fixing her hair. What did she want from him? At first she had seemed to want to ignore it, now it seemed like she thought he was being too glib. "That's not fair," he says to her last remark. "Do you want August and I to compare notes? Did you come onto him too, is that just how you get when you're drunk?" he says, and it's horrendously bitter coming from Nick. The words themselves taste acrid in his mouth, he regrets them as soon as he's said them. Sighing with frustration, he holds a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

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She's hungover, embarrassed and now annoyed. She frowns at him and tightens her jaw. Why is he behaving like this? Is it her? Is she taking it more seriously than she should? The night before is such a fog, she doesn't even remember the complete chain of events. There was a bicker, a mutual make out session and then clothes were off. She recalls laughing a lot with him, she even remember falling asleep curled up with him. Maybe she was too drunk or maybe the alcohol gave her a push to do something that she was too shy to act on sober. It still hurts though. Too drunk or not, those are cutting words coming from the person she trusts the most. She folds her arms and stares him down, wanting to make him feel small. "Yea, put a little vodka in me and I'll spread my fucking legs," she doesn't know what do say. She feels like crying and slamming doors, but she does neither. Instead she leans down to zip up her luggage, as if to say she's leaving but she never bothers to pull it out when she exits. She never really bothers to exit either, she just starts but spins back around to face Nick. "Why did you?"

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He's at a loss for what to do. It's a novel experience. Usually Nick excelled the morning after a hook up, his openness and friendliness could ease even the most awkward of encounters. He made breakfast and he cracked jokes, but he usually made sure that the girl in question knew he was grateful, that every sexual encounter he had meant something to him and he wasn't the kind of guy who played nice until he got what he wanted, only to then turn cold. He could masterfully tread the line between treating the experience with respect and keeping communication clear and open, always keen to make sure that they were both on the same page and that she didn't feel a) used or b) overwhelmed by him. And yet here he was, fucking it up when it really mattered. It's difficult to make a man of Nick's stature feel small but Freya makes it look easy. Her words make him feel sick with guilt and he can't look at her. He doesn't try to discourage her from leaving, not wanting to seem like he was trying to plaster over his guilty conscience. He doesn't say anything until she does, when he looks up at her, confusion written on his tired face. Why did he what? Sleep with her, come onto her, insult her? He doesn't know why he did any of those things, but especially not all of them. "I don't know," he says honestly. He sighs again, heaving himself up so he's stood, though he doesn't move any closer. "If I tell you the truth it'll sound cheap, since I know what you think of me. The truth is that I like you and I want to be close to you all the time. But that's just so me, right? Rebranding sex addiction as a craving for emotional intimacy?"

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Nick stands tall and she takes a step back, preparing to become distant and defensive. He starts speaking and she can't help rolling her eyes, truly annoyed by him. It sounds like nonsense. It literally sounds like nonsense, like it makes no sense. She doesn't even think about the words 'I like you' because in her heard it's platonic. It's him treating her like glass and it's total bullshit. Unfortunately Nick is the boy who cried wolf. She's heard him say so many times this past year that he's in love with the girl on the subway, the coffee shop or the girl at VICE. His words fall on deaf ears. "That's not a reason," She's frustrated with him. "Its not a good one anyway. I did it because I wanted to, that's why," her reason was definitely not a reason. They're not drunk though, they're hungover and impatient, so it's not going to cut it. "I did it because I was always going to. I would have exploded if I never did... not because I'm dying for sex, you fucking moron. Not because I was drunk either, because I probably would have ended up with you sober. And not because I'm desperate or sad or broken. Whatever your idiot brain thinks, you should switch it off because it's usually wrong."

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He gets the response he's expecting but that doesn't make it hurt any less. All his friends were tired of this particular facet of his personality, and it never seemed to matter to them how vehemently he felt his feelings to be true. She rolls her beautiful blue eyes and he wants to punch something, it's so infuriating never being believed. He forces himself not to lose his temper, giving up on the idea of fighting that particular battle. "Are you suggesting I didn't want to?" he asks dryly. "If you are, you should go turn yourself in to the cops. If you're lucky they'll agree with you that I'm a tease and probably had it coming."  His hangover is really starting to set in now that he's stood up. The room spins slightly and his stomach lurches. He opens his mouth to protest as she speaks, wanting to ask why she was so defensive about the idea of wanting sex, why him, why now. He opens and shuts his mouth a couple times before she finishes speaking, when he suppresses yet another sigh. It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts, he's taking care to choose his words and not let his frustration speak for him. "I never meant to imply you were desperate," he says first, wanting that clarified. He wants to ask if she thinks anyone who wants to sleep with him must be desperate, but he doesn't. "I don't think you're sad or broken, either. Not any more than the next person." So far he was doing well at saying what he didn't want to say, but what about what he did? He couldn't make sense of her argument, making it difficult to respond. Maybe he was a fucking moron after all. "I think it's stupid of you to make out like we were inevitably gonna fuck. What's inevitable about it? Just because of my stupid crush on you, it was inevitable that you'd eventually give in? You could have not."

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This is so unlike them. But then, half of this trip has been unlike them. What she liked most about her relationship with Nick was that they got along so well. They rarely fought but always forgave, they were open and loving towards each other. Their relationship required very little maintaining. Now seemed to be the time though. Now weeds were springing up and Freya couldn't pull them out fast enough. Her perfect little fake-couple was falling apart. She watched Nick as he becomes frustrated. He looks like he wants to shake words out of her and she wants to do the same to her. She tips her head back and runs her hand over her hot forehead. "Can't you see?" her voice is pleading. Of course he can't see. She's once again the girl in the playground who makes fun of the boy and expects him to know that she likes him. "If I say I like you it's going to fuck up everything. If I really put myself out there like that it's going to leave us with this giant thing. And the giant thing will follow us around. It'll get boring. Which will make if more giant, even though it's impossibly huge. Which is stupid, because now we have this giant thing anyway. Would it have been any different if I said I liked you more than a fake boyfriend?" She wipes her forehead again, "I hate feeling so much. I want to DIE."

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He feels stuck. If he says that he feels something and that was all he was acting on, she'll accuse him of being insincere or misled by his own faulty emotions. If he makes out like it was just a fuck, no big deal, something that could easily be swept under the carpet, then she'll rage at him for being a fuckboy. It's extremely frustrating not being able to articulate the way he feels. There's so much tension in the room, with each of them immensely frustrated with the other, both of them wanting to have it out but neither one seemingly able to make themselves understood. It was so alien to the way they usually were. Even way back when Rafi was still in the picture they had been able to communicate exactly what they were thinking to each other with just a look, and now it was like they were speaking two completely different languages. Nick took a deep breath. If they were going to come to any sort of compromise he would need to keep his cool. He tries his best to listen to what she's saying, finally putting himself in her shoes as she implores him to understand. Of course this was hard for her. Why should she believe him when he says he likes her? She's heard it said about everyone from Corinne to the woman who handed over the AirBnB keys. "You're overthinking it," he says, though he knows she's not. There's no easy answer. He manages a small smile at her dramatics. Pulling her in for a hug, he holds her against his chest, resting his cheek on the top of her head. Just for now, he decides to bench all the what ifs, instead focusing on what's already happened. "Shhh, one step at a time" he says, trying his best to soothe her. "Thanks for last night." He remembers it better now, remembers how soft her thighs were as he trailed kisses along them, how she tasted, her shallow breathing. Instead of feeling embarrassed he feels closer to her. "Honestly, you were great. It was great."

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As she's pulled in for a hug and cooed at, she can't help but think how dumb Nick is. She's literally just said she likes him and he's not catching on. She must have said it three times and she's getting no acknowledgement or response. This is frustrating. While Nick is too good at expressing how he feels, Freya is shit at being a romantic. Even with Rafi she was crap. She fears intimacy. But here she is, maybe rambling on a little bit definitely mirroring feelings. And Nick is not even responding. He's practically patting her on the head and saying, 'there there'. Freya stands like a rag doll and is non responsive to his hug. When he thanks her, she acts completely disgusted. She shoves his body off hers and raises her hands as if to say stop. "Don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't fucking anything me," She's wildly frustrated and it shows. Her head is pounding. She stomps dramatically out of the room and proceeds to pull things out of the cupboard looking for Advil. "This is not okay, okay? We are not okay," she fishes the Advil out and pops a couple onto her palm before whipping the package to Nick. From there she hangs her head under the kitchen faucet and washes the pills down. "For the record: you and my kid are okay. This does not effect your relationship with her. But I am mad about this."

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She's stiff in his arms and he wishes she wouldn't be. Freya is one of the most stubborn people he's ever met, and whilst it was usually something he found endearing and even occasionally inspiring, right now it was the last thing he wanted her to be. What was her problem? He knew he could sometimes come across as unintentionally condescending, but he thought she knew him well enough to know that he was being sincere. Clearly not. He's pushed away and he can't help but hold his arms open in surrender, giving up. "What do you want?!" he asks finally, frustration lacing every syllable.  He follows her into the other room, his blood creeping up to boiling point. "This is fucking insane. What do you want me to say? You were shit? You weren't, I enjoyed myself. Sorry if you didn't?" It would really help if they could hire an interpreter. "I don't want any fucking Advil, I want you to tell me what the fuck it is you want from me. Jesus, are you like this every time you have sex with someone? You should consider a vow of abstinence." He can't make sense of her behaviour. His frustration has reached such a point that he isn't even reassured by her comment about Naila, only picking up on the fact she chose to refer to her as her kid (it felt irrelevant that this was true, also that she often referred to her this way). "Oh, you're mad? I couldn't tell," he says with pantomime levels of sarcasm. "What have you got to be mad about? You came onto me, apparently, clearly I didn't turn you down, I apologized for being crass, I told you I didn't mean to imply you were desperate. What the fuck have I done to you?"

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As a child she bore constant witness to her parent's arguments over nothing. They were the best couple she knew of, but they loved to bicker about shit all. It would start with a small comment and end in a screaming match. Actually, the grand finale would be her father slamming the front door and returning hours later with a bouquet of flowers. Her and Nick weren't exactly fighting about nothing, but both their arguments (if you could call them that) were nothing. Freya fought like her mother. Yelling about crap, yelling louder when the crap wasn't understood. Most of all, Freya mocked with her hands. As Nick speaks, Freya mocks. It's immature and if you were to mute the conversation, it would look more like a comedy than a drama. Midway through his speech, Freya reaches for the mug of leftover stinky espresso alcohol and as she's storming past him back into the bedroom, flings the liquid at his face. "Blah blah blah fucking blah blah," she says as she whooshes past and proceeds to walk in angry circles. "Open your ears, dumbass. Let's repeat the conversation. You: I like you. Me: I like you. You: there, there, little Freya. Everything will be alright," she raises both middle fingers, "fuck you, asshole."

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Nick cannot comprehend how they wound up here. He regrets not following her lead and pretending nothing had happened, he now feels confident that he could have gone to his grave without ever having had this conversation. Pure disbelief is etched on his face as she visibly disregards everything he says, he wants to throw something against the wall but is also distantly aware that this is not his property. No part of him understands what her problem is and the more she flares up the more he flares up to meet her, his confusion turning to frustration since his patience has been worn down by failed attempts at reconciliation and one hell of a  hangover. She picks up the cup and despite anticipating it, he makes no attempt to move, not quite believing that she'd actually do it. But sure enough, he's soon covered in sticky, coffee scented muck, the smell of alcohol making him want to wretch. Never one to miss an opportunity to take his shirt off, he peels the stained white tee off and wipes his face with it, though he can't wipe away the incredulous smile on his face. "I cannot believe you just did that. I cannot fucking believe you just did that," he says, laughing though it's without much amusement. She finally "clarifies" and he's astounded by what she's saying, so thoroughly incapable of understanding this uniquely female type of logic. "You're mad at me because we like each other?!" he yells, shaking his head in disbelief. "What the fuck is wrong with you!" He's pulling things out of his case, dumping clothes on the floor until he finds another shirt. "Sorry I like you? Sorry you like me back? If it helps I really don't fucking like you right now. Does that solve the problem?"

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This fight has gotten ridiculously out of hand and she can't even keep track of what is being said. Her head feels a million pounds and she seriously feels like being put out of her misery. As she paces, her hands draw over her eyes and she almost thinks about pulling her hair out. She was an instigator of arguments. With Rafi it would always start with her calling him on shit, but it would quickly become one sided. This sort of argument was almost jolly compared to ones she had in the past. In truth, she hated this. Diving under the covers of the bed and ignoring it till it shut up seemed pleasant. But when Nick joins her in the room, it's like the pressure has been lifted out of her. Seeing him angry, shirtless and covered in brown sludge brings a grin out of her. When he lays out the argument and makes it idiot proof, it even draws a laugh out of her. "It does," she laughs again, her ghostly hungover face lightening up a touch. "Here," she kneels next to him, inspecting the sludge and seeing that a good portion of that has landed in his hair. "Mmm, no. That won't do. I'm really sorry, Nick,, you're going to have to shower," she looks at his angry face and holds in a laugh, "I'm reaaaaally sorry."

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Exhaustion on a whole new level hits him and all he wants is to get back into bed. The whole point of coming to California had been to visit August, but now he had postponed that indefinitely, and for what? To have a non-argument with Freya about something that wasn't remotely a serious issue? Her pacing is making him dizzy and he has to look away, turning his attention to the floor and holding his breath, the combination of dizziness and the smell of a bad espresso martini enough to make him throw up. Her laughter stirs him from his misery. For a second he thinks she may genuinely be insane, going from attacking him about what he perceived to be nothing to laughing as if it's all a big joke. He's clutching a fresh shirt and staring at her, wide-eyed in disbelief. Then he laughs. He forces out another laugh, needing it to clear the residual resentment. Shaking his head, he leans away from her instinctively, though he's smiling. "You need help, you know that?" He gets up, heading into the bathroom and turning on the water, leaving the door open. He kicks the sweatpants off and holds his arm out under the jet of water, stepping under it as soon as it feels hot enough. It's the most therapeutic experience he's ever had. Standing under the scalding hot water gives him time to recollect his thoughts, and as he washes his hair understanding dawns on him. Of course liking her was no big deal to him, and of course liking him was a very big deal to her. He had a lot more practice at having crushes on people, and she was all too aware of this habit, making hers all the worse. Feeling like an idiot for not getting it sooner, he finished up as quickly as he could, wrapping a fluffy white towel around his waist. Remerging from the bathroom and bringing a ton of steam with him, he dried himself off, getting dressed and going to find Freya. "Hey," he said, the damp towel slung around his neck, his hair slicked back though a few unruly wet strands had broken free. "Still hate me?" he asked, making a show of picking up a mug and checking to see that it was empty.

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Things immediately slow down the moment Nick renters the room. She can smell the strench of coffee and liquor coming off of him, his hair is dripping mud. When he laughs she feels immensely better and she laughs with him. She begins to pick out the pieces of clothing he's dumped and refolding them. When he calls her nuts she looks up at him like a guilty dog, "reaaally sorry." Her eyes follow him to the bathroom and drop back to her task when she hears water running. She feels better, like a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She might even feel a little less hungover. But the night before catches up to her. The emotion of it has mostly passed, though she's still overwhelmed by what has been done and addressed. The physical side of her hangover is beating the shit out of her body. She thinks about making coffee, but that seems like a total nightmare. So instead she pours a couple of glasses of water and brings them to the sofa. She sips carefully, as to not shock her stomach and to keep the nausea at bay. She flicks on Mind Hunter and lies down on the sofa to watch it. A pillow is tucked over her small chest and the throw blanket cradles her body. Freya feels like a boulder on the sofa, her body is currently so heavy that she'll have a hard time getting up. Her icy eyes are staring at the television with a hollow look when Nick comes back. She hears his voice behind her and turns her head to see him, her voice cracks as she speaks, "hey." Her lips are swollen from all the kissing and when she smiles at his show of the mug she feels them pulse, "I don't think I  could carry through with hating you." The idea of hating Nick longer than twenty minutes sounds exhausting, she's still living in the shock of their recent blow up. "Come," she pulls her legs up to her chest to make room for him to sit, "I won't bite unless you want me to."

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Nick roughly rubs the towel against his hair, trying to get it to dry in the particular direction that he liked. He'd have to blast it with a hairdryer later or it would take forever, or at the very least, dry awkwardly. But for once this is not his most pressing concern, and he's a little shy as he reemerges. The reality of the situation is settling in as his hangover starts to wane. Despite what his sexual history might suggest to a casual onlooker, Nick didn't view sex all that casually and he had to admit that he felt differently about Freya now that they'd done the deed, it had reframed their relationship. Unsure whether this was for better or worse, he headed over to the couch and sat in the space she had made for him, pulling her feet back across his lap so she could lie down again. He felt guilty for inducing such a raging hangover in her. Above the blanket, he rubbed her legs. So far so normal. "How are you feeling?" he asked gently, leaning forward and picking up his glass of water to take a greedy sip. There's a temptation not to mention anything again and to try to let things return to normal, but there's a real undercurrent to their exchange and he can't stand it. "Is it because I made you watch Bob's Burgers?" he said finally, the memory coming back to him now that they were sitting there, a small smile on his face. He put his feet up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankle. "I know what you meant, by the way. Sorry for being dense."

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