. modern flame

[aaron eklund]

It’s still a habit of his, sinking into the past. Often when his eyes glazed over that’s where his thoughts receded for better or worse, calling back to a fantasy or a trauma. It’s a habit he knows he’s supposed to challenge and resist, but that feels impossible with twenty years of history staring back at him. Sometimes Aaron wondered what they’d be had they only met as adults, if they were two strangers in a bar with a few hours to occupy. It rubs him raw, a vulnerability to ask if Samira would still love him, understand him, accept him, with all else removed. “I know, I know. I’m a broken record,” he teases breathily, like it’s a tired complaint. A fierce sentimentality borne from chaos, hanging onto everything because so much had been taken away. It’s a feat turning himself inside out to look at the emotions, finally feel other things. His hands have settled on her hips again, enjoying the barely-there weight of hers resting on his shoulders so for a moment he can forget her jewelry. Neither needed to lead, simply swaying to the slow jam. The spotlight of her gaze could burn a hole right through him, arrested by the quiet intensity still very much here. “I just wanted to be able to look at ya.”

[samira deol]

There should be so much wrong with this scenario. Their proximity for one, a glaring dismissal of any of their previous boundaries. Even in their quieter moments together they'd maintained a healthy distance, as if silently predetermined and dutifully acknowledged. But tonight it seemed like very little was a barrier, words shallow but honest even in their veiled humor. Samira notices, though, when it shifts. Even in the rush of her dwindling sobriety something splashes over her, a snatch of clarity as the words traveled through her. "I just wanted to be able to look at ya." The honest drawl of his accent, the softening of his eyes in sincerity. She's hit poignantly by the memory that for years, years, she never knew if she'd look at him again. If she'd be able to watch the tick of his jaw, or see him seated at the round table in her family home, or hear the surprising cadence of his laugh. It's suddenly an impossible task to swallow back the lump in her throat, arms drifting to loop around his waist and tuck her head into his chest. Listening for that beating heart, the solid proof that he was still alive and she had him. Could have him, another thread of convicting weaving its way through her web. Samira lets out a shuttering sigh, eyes cast low and distant. "I'm ruining prom night."

[aaron eklund]

Though he had already waited years, Aaron knew he must remain patient. Of course there was the flickering flame of instant gratification, if he were to press forward and finally capture her in a kiss. But it was impossible not to think about an hour from now, the next morning, the next day, rippling consequences to stealing a single moment. Crossing that threshold would assign labels to a place where there was not yet one, shifting this irrevocably into something more, the pressure he had promised against applying. There’s temptation, yes, but unlike his teenaged self, he now had the mental fortitude to see beyond the next second. “Why do you say that?” he wondered out loud, feeling the heat of her sigh through his shirt. Her arms were welcomed around him, his hands clasped together against her lower back to accommodate the embrace. A woman’s hold should feel more dangerous for that reason, her effortless access to his softish parts, but instead it feels like she's holding him all together, briefly made whole.

[samira deol]

The tears on her lashes sit on a razor's edge, Samira willing them away with as much force as she wished they'd fall. Drip hot against the planes of his t-shirt, alert him to what she maybe couldn't say. Or couldn't stop saying, part of his past she hasn't found a date of reconciliation for yet. Balancing on the fear of mourning family and something more, deciding instead to pull back and allow him to witness the momentary falter. For better or for worse, archaic vows echoing acridly in her head. "I'm just happy you're here," Samira adds quickly, knowing he'd see right past its surface. Steady, always steady with her; in a world that barely gave him grace, it was all he'd ever afforded her. Grace, and time, and the capacity to chart her own course through a steady unravelling, hand in hers for every step. She pulls back into him then, unsure if the heat of her skin is alcohol or their natural, stirring proximity. "How do you make someone feel so safe when it feels like you've barely even felt that way yourself?"

[aaron eklund]

From anyone else it would an unwelcomed remark, something that made him steel and step away. The urge to disconnect or run or fight, switches of which Aaron was now exploring the mechanisms, buttons pressed in therapy to be gradually rewired. But with Samira he never pulls away, reaching for her even with blood and needles and broken bones between them, pleasure after the pain. Just as she cannot hide from him, Aaron sought shelter and solace under the gaze she braves. “I am,” he breathed in confirmation, a shock rolling through his system at the sight of her tears. Happy, complicated tears that were more commonplace as he got older. “Always promised I would be.” Even in foreign soil with weapons drawn, in a hospital bed wheeled to the operating room; never in control of his fate, still persisting with her on his mind. Lifting a hand to her cheek he thumbed at a fallen tear, pulling her against him again, heartbeat wild as his arms fastened around her shoulders. “Because of you,” he admitted easily, nose in her hair. “You showed me what it was like. That I could.” If he could repay a sliver of the same kindness, holding her welfare above his own. If he could be safe to others—friends, pets, foster kids—then the cycle would be broken. Tears on the dancefloor, flirtation turning into confessions, the heavy realization that their minutes were dwindling. “I should take you home.”

[samira deol]

She was always delicate when it came to praise. Craving the recognition, desperate for it in school, the collection of accolades and letters of glowing recommendation. Competitive to her core, but yet always feeling so raw when the compliments turn personal. When they were murmured, or said with so much conviction she had to turn away. It's what's happening now, the honestly like honey in his voice as she held tighter and tighter and tighter. Never wanting to let go, an ache these days that only grew the further they reconnected. Like rewiring tissue and bone and arteries, something forming so visible and whole. "I love you," is the only thing she can think to say, that he deserved, another unwavering commitment that she was in this too. Unsure of when, but the eventually was solid in its foundation. Aaron's gentle direction pulls her back out of her head, shifting away to wipe at what remained of her tears. "Can we get pizza first?"

[aaron eklund]

It could bring him to his knees, her confession. A string of words complicated over the years, shifting from friendly and familial to romantic and devastating. Rendered a plea, sometimes a threat, many times a lifeline. Almost losing its potency after so many iterations and intentions, then strictly rationed for the last six years, habitually scrawled on cards or obliged only during holidays. “Fuck, Sami,” he snorts quietly, eyes searching overhead for his last bit of good sense. Everything in him feeling like he’d just landed a backflip, squeezing her into his frame, kissing the top of her raven hair. “I love you too” is the easiest truth for Aaron Eklund to claim. A lifetime objective to prove it and live up to her deserving, something that felt more in reach now than it did back then; not because of her, but because of his own mechanisms. “Yeah, let’s go.” He guided her outside, offering over his long-sleeve for their brief foray into the cooler night, pizza slices rotating in the window of the store they ducked into. After eating it’s a walk to his car, greasy fingertips slipping as they held hands and heard their chatter echo back to them in the emptying streets. Alcohol had steadily dwindled in his blood, feeling the plateau under him long ago when he slowed down noticing her speed up. “Sorry it’s late,” he said when he noticed the time, pulled up to the front of her house, relieved that Ravi’s car was absent. “We don’t get to do that often. I had fun, hope Ish’s girlfriend sticks around.”

[samira deol]

The evening feels like a sudden bout of emotional whiplash, scattering from inquisitive and muted, silly and sweet, to the rawness that lingered on the edges of their confessions. As if they were sharp, as if they had edges, quick to slice but even quicker to soothe. Samira almost felt exhausted after he echoed it back, unsure if it was the weight of the alcohol or the thick truth that laced through his words. So settled in them that it grounded her alongside him, hand held tightly through the weaving of the bar, only slipping when she gripped the thick cotton of his over shirt. The familiar scent only calmed her further, smile gently blooming back to life as they ordered and paid, burning the roof of her mouth on the first bite with a strange, giddy glee. Samira could be as much of her younger self as her older one with Aaron because he'd seen ever facet of it, brief sadness brimming when they pulled up to her house. She'd have to be the latter, after she walked in - resume the life she'd pressed pause on for a few moments in time, say hello to her dog and sort the mail and know in a few hours she'd hear the key click gently in the lock. "Don't be sorry," she eventually hushes, studying the familiar outline of her building before she turned to rest her back against the door. A more welcome view stared back at her, words warm and hesitant, but sweet, nodding along to delay the unfortunate inevitable. "I had fun too. I hope-" she hesitates, reframing it with further clarity in her mind before she spoke again. "I know we'll figure out another one sometime soon. Thanks again for...everything." Her blood surges as she unbuckles her seatbelt, leaning over to press a kiss against his cheek. "You're a great prom date."

[aaron eklund]

Another time, when they were younger and freer, this could have been different. A slow walk to her door and a parting kiss, or an unending conversation and a nightcap. Nervous dates, bouquets of flowers, chaste firsts to daring seconds and steady thirds; settling on a label, family introductions, three words and eight letters. Caught in that static between teenaged attempts and thirty-something hopes, trying to look forward instead of back. Forgiving, forgetting, relearning. Aaron could feel slighted, mad at the world that they were robbed of so much, the creeping guilt that it was his fault in the first place. But the longer it steeped, he repurposed it as a second chance. That’s the point of this now, isn’t it? Not scorning the past or stealing time but making up for it, trying again, this time with the clarity of age and bone-deep knowing that this was meant to be. Framed against the window Samira fills his view, backlit like an angel. The silence is bittersweet, comforting in its ease but signaling an impending end, literally returning her to her life after borrowing her precious night. He wants to wave off her thanks but he knows this is part of the shuffle, the age-old script to prolong the inevitable, words and hopes and vague plans for more, too focused on the depth of her gaze to really register any of it until she’s impossibly close, cheek warmed by her lips, heat arcing to his ears. “Night, Sami,” he bids, lungs catching air as soon as the car door shuts, tracking her across the pavement. Watching her figure illuminate beneath the light of the doorstep, a doorbell camera flashing its acknowledgement of her shadow. Knowing he could not see her to safety, that he could not come inside with her, that this was not their home together. Knowing that he would have to sit back and wait.

[samira deol]

It doesn't feel right, to step out of the car. What once rushed contentment suddenly felt hollow in front of her, eyes studying the shadows of the shallow grasses plunged into mulch, the dark outline of the awning lanterns and the stark brightness of the keypad. She knew the way Echoes paws would echo on the kitchen tiles, the click of her door opening and the rattle of her keys in the bowl they kept for such things. Mundane sounds of monotony, almost forgotten as they occurred so frequently; Samira's heart flutters nervously in her chest, peering over her shoulder to wave at the car that had stalled to watch her in. Remembering his face in crisp clarity, one of the few things she felt she truly knew, clinging to that truth as she wandered inside. Resolute in the wild notion that one day, somehow, that could be her reality. Maybe not now, but it existed for them one day, the thought alone enough to send her peacefully to sleep when it finally came.