Rearrange the Stars
"I guess I still don't know what love is," he says, picking up his beer, taking a long swig, and setting it back down with a thud. "After all these years you'd think I'd have some idea."
I'm tight lipped, I don't quite know how to respond to that. It's funny, after all these years you'd think I would've taken the hint.
"Matt," I start feebly.
"Andrew."
I'd rearrange the stars to spell your name if I could.
That's what I'd like to say. Instead I take a mouthful of lager and shake my head.
"Forget about him, you two didn't work out and that's all there is to it."
We're sat opposite one another just outside the pub on a wooden table; it's near closing time. I look up and stare at the dots of light in the sky, trying to comprehend their mind-boggling distance and size. Such an unthinkably massive universe and here we are, two lonely souls, filled with the certainty that here and now one of the most important people in our lives, in the entirety of space and time, is right beside us. I'm his closest friend and today more than ever he needs me. As for what he is to me, well, I love him.
"Do you really think it's that simple?" He asks, his gaze joining mine in taking to the skies.
I shrug.
"I guess nothing's really that simple. But, all you can do is pick yourself up and try your best to move on, right?"
"Yeah. I suppose so."
His posture shifts and he turns to me face me, I turn to face him. His eyes find mine silently and we stare into one another. It goes on long enough that I start to wonder. The same hope I've snuffed out over and over attempts to reignite itself on the stray spark of the moment.
I want us to part our muzzles and lean in and make out and fall hopelessly in love with one another until time turns us to dust.
At some point his attention returns to his drink as he polishes it off with one last gulp.
"Hey, Matt," I say.
"Yeah, Andrew?"
"How would you describe your perfect lover? Doesn't have to be realistic, I'm just curious."
"Oh boy, I'll need another drink for that one."
He laughs, so I do too. Last orders will be called imminently, so he heads inside to get a drink while he still can.
Alone, I observe my surroundings. I see the universe broken down into its constituent parts: a countless number of interlocking systems and consciousnesses swirling around in aimless spirals, each life blinking in and out of existence in that pitifully finite measure of time we have available to us.
I watch nearby pub patrons and consider them. There are two drunk dogs, a man and woman both in late middle-age, they get up and stumble off home each with a paw on the other's arse. Maybe that's what real love is: wanting to fuck someone from now until eternity, whether drunk or sober, whether young and free or under the weight of your years.
I sigh, close my eyes and run a paw down my face. Why do I do this to myself? It hurts to be with him. Nothing's going to happen here. Who am I kidding?
Damn it. What am I doing?
Don't be like that Andrew. You're his closest friend and you're here because he needs you. That's all this is and all it has to be.
"Don't tell me you've fallen asleep."
My eyes flick open to find Matt sitting down across from me with a fresh pint.
"Well you can't blame me now can you? It's all so dull without you around." I say. My words manage to evoke a grin from him and that false hope flares up again. "So, did you think about my question?"
He winces. He's not in a good state. This break up has hit him far harder than any before it. The accumulation of years has done us no favours in that regard - we're older, yes, but not so much wiser. Seeing him like this, in such pain, is agony.
"My perfect lover? Yeah, you know what?" His manner changes abruptly. His paws wont rest, nor will his tail. It sways and twitches in erratic, unsure bursts. He laughs a dry, nervous laugh and when he speaks again his voice is quiet and raspy. "Honestly, I don't know."
He stares at his drink and laughs again, but nothing about this is funny. I hate this. I want to go to him and hold him in my arms. Badly I want to, but that's not how this works.
I'm unsure how to proceed. I close my eyes and clear my head then, after a moment, say the first thing that comes to mind.
"Hey, do you remember that summer we went to Portugal together?"
His ears perk up and he nods.
"Yeah, I remember. Why?"
Hell, why am I bringing this up now?
I try to pull back, to change course, but it's an internal chain reaction I've already set in motion. I can't stop this, the words just pour out of me one after another.
"We went to that beach party, right? We got a little high and, I mean, we were there for the girls, right?"
He nods, and laughs, some semblance of joy reanimating his features.
"And the guys." He adds, wagging a finger at my inaccuracy.
"And the guys, yeah, but we both know what we were more likely to find at that venue." He nods, wearing a knowing grin. I wonder suddenly whether he even remembers the whole story. It all happened so long ago after all. To me it meant everything, but to him? I have no idea. "So, we were fairly decent looking Brits on the prowl in a foreign country. I seem to remember you kept telling people you were a famous footballer, or soccer player to the Americans."
He laughs again, I can't help but join in.
"Who did I say I was?"
"You said you were Frank Leopard."
"Oh yeah. Hey, do you think that's his real na-"
I raise a paw.
"We've had that conversation too many times."
"You're right." Another laugh. "And yeah, that does sound like something I'd do. God, we were so stupid."
He doesn't remember that night at all. Fuck.
I pause a second too long with my muzzle hanging open and he tilts his head, confused.
He really doesn't remember.
I suppose it doesn't matter. I've started now.
I pick the story back up without further delay, my stomach aflutter with nervous energy.
"We were stupid," I agree finally. Does he really not remember? "So, you were telling anyone who would listen that you were Frank Leopard and, somehow, that lie went down pretty well. I mean you had a passing resemblance to him at the time, but it's a miracle you got away with it. Regardless, you impressed some people. In the end we got a couple of girls to come back to the hotel with us, right? We were taking them back, all of us were a bit buzzed, we were chatting, and then who do you think we see walking down the road?"
He narrows his eyes, and then they go as wide as I've ever seen them. "Fuck, it's coming back to me. How did I forget?" He remembers. It's okay, he remembers. "One of the girls points at this guy and says: that's Frank Leopard. The other girl looks at me and says: no, that's Frank Leopard. Then Frank, the real Frank, overhears. He takes one look at me and cracks up." Matt laughs his most raucous laugh of the evening. "The two of them latch on to him immediately, and I'm so out of it, I'm not thinking straight, I go right up to him and say: mate, you've just ruined my evening. He flips me off and walks away. Cunt that I am, I didn't let it go. Full of a certain drunk bravado I go after him and pull on his sleeve."
"Next thing you know you're on the floor screeching about how he punched you in the eye."
"Yeah. What a dick," he swigs his drink. "Plays good footy though."
"Played good footy, don't you mean?"
He nods stoically and keeps drinking.
"How did I forget all that?"
"It's been a while," I say, shrugging.
What I don't mention is that we've never talked about it. I thought it was because of what happened next, but perhaps I had misjudged things completely. Was he too drunk to remember? Could he seriously not recall a moment of that night until now?
"You're not wrong."
"The years go by fast don't they?"
"That they do." His eyes wander over the night sky. "To be fair to Frank, I probably deserved the punch. I mean we were dicks back then. Lying to hook up with drunken girls? I mean, that's not exactly a good look."
"Well yeah, we were idiots - bladdered, horny idiots, granted, but idiots nonetheless."
His gaze flick back to me. We share another laugh, and another moment of eye contact that rattles another doomed spark off inside of me.
"Thanks for reminding me about that night, there's a memory I haven't dusted off in a long while. What brought it to mind now anyway?" Before I can muster a response he clicks his fingers and perks up. "I think I might have it actually. Is the moral of the story: if you're looking for love don't bother because a celebrity will punch you in the eye?"
There it is, the penny drops.
"Matt."
"Andrew?"
He thinks that was all there was to it.
"You know there's more to that story, right?"
He shakes his head slowly.
"Oh, uh well, no. I honestly don't remember another thing about that night. I thought we just staggered back and blacked out or something."
I nod repeatedly, thinking.
He really doesn't remember.
What does that mean for me?
If he doesn't remember then... then what?
My heart flutters, then pounds.
What does that mean for us?
"Well, we staggered back, yeah. To be more accurate, I had to half drag you back after you took that punch. You were delirious for a few minutes there. But no, that's not the whole story. Do you really, seriously not remember?"
He holds up both paws in surrender.
"Honestly, I don't, not a thing. But, hey, now you've got me intrigued."
The butterflies in my stomach multiply. Oh god, is this really happening?
"Uh, s-so," I stutter and stumble on my words.
Should I go on? How is he going to react to this?
Why did I start telling this stupid story in the first place?
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." It's too late to stop now. "I'm just surprised you don't remember."
I tuck my tail under the seat and between my legs. I grip my pint hard and polish the rest of it off in one long gulp.
"Wow, damn, what kind of story is this?"
I can't answer that question, it's too much. I simply carry on.
"By the time we got back to the hotel you were feeling like yourself again, I mean you were still pretty boozed up, but apart from that. It was getting late and you were pretty pissed off about the whole encounter, and about missing out on a night of fun."
"Understandably."
"Understandably, at least for a younger, brasher you. So, we were back in our room and, like I said, it was late, but we were restless and bored and didn't want to be cooped up inside all night so we went out to the hotel pool. It was dark and cold so nobody else was out. We each lay on a lounger, stared up at this clear and beautiful starry night and just sort of took it all in. It was one of those moments where nature comes right at you, socks you with a sucker punch and leaves you there, stunned and breathless, reeling at the majesty of creation itself." I shake my head and chuckle at my own overly poetic language, waving a paw dismissively. "I don't know, it was nice,"
Matt's gaze shifts skyward again, mirroring his past self. I follow his lead, staring up at the inky black and its infinite perforations of distant light. I allow myself a moment before continuing; this story isn't an easy one for me to tell.
I could lie, change the ending, cut it short. There are a million ways I could get out of this. But what would be the point? I'm slightly drunk and I'm lonely; so is he and he can't even remember that damned night. Maybe now I can finally get an answer out of him.
Imagine that. After all these years I could get an answer.
For so long I've wanted closure, I've wanted to erase the dying embers of hope, or to kindle a fire. Maybe by telling this story and getting an answer out of him I can move on once and for all. Fuck, nothing else has worked, it has to be worth a try.
Only when Matt speaks do I notice quite how quiet the venue has grown. There are only two other people sat outside besides us and they're engaged in some muted, civil discussion between themselves. All else there is to hear is soft wind and the occasional car.
"So, the real moral of the story is that whatever shit has got you down, there's always more out there? That the universe is unlimited in it's breadth and beauty and that we shouldn't allow ourselves to lose perspective on that? Yeah, you know what? That is a good story, if a little hokey."
I could leave it there so easily. I could let him be happy. I could leave myself in stasis.
It would be so easy.
"Matt..."
We're both still staring into the sky.
"Yes Andrew?"
"That's not the end of the story either."
There's a moment of pause and then he nods. After another moment or two he finds words.
"Somehow I thought you'd say that."
"Do you remember now?"
He shakes his head.
"No, not really. But I had the feeling there was more to it," my turn to nod. "So, what happened next?"
"We started talking as we lay there. You had calmed a bit, but you were still in a mood. We talked about the party, the girls, Frank. You started talking about your ex."
"Ugh, Lisa. It was Lisa at the time, right?"
"Yeah, it was Lisa. Soon enough we got all conceptual, you know how drunken conversations can go, we started talking about love. I mean, the whole idea of love. And by 'we started talking', I mean, you started ranting." This time when he laughs it's hollow and humourless. I don't laugh along. "You said: real love is a lie. You said: finding love is an endless search for the answer to a question that we don't even understand in the first place."
"I guess I knew more about love back then than I do now."
The last two pub dwellers besides us stand and take their leave, side by side, walking off the premises at a steady gait. I don't even think they're drunk. I wonder what kept them talking so long.
"You said: when you try to love somebody it will inevitably end in pain, no matter what. Either you fall out of love, or you stay in love long enough to see your partner wither away and die, or die yourself and leave them to live on alone. There is no happy ending." Matt's gaze falls to the table, then he scrunches his eyes shut. My voice wavers but doesn't break. "After that you turned to me and, even with all that had happened that night, you had this completely clear, sober tone. You said: everything would be so much easier if people just fucked their best friends and never started with any of that 'love' bullshit in the first place."
His laugh is no longer hollow, it's pained.
"I actually said that?"
"Yeah."
"Well, did you fall for it? I know we slept together a few times back then."
"Oh, I fell for it. Hook, line and sinker. You got up out your lounger and straddled me. You probably thought you were being so suave at the time, but you were drunk and clumsy. Truthfully it was a bit awkward at first. You took my shirt off and ran your paws up my chest. We kissed but, instead of taking things further, you hugged me. With some manoeuvring we ended up squeezed beside each other, just about fitting the two of us on that one lounger. Then you said - and, I swear, this is word for word - the sweetest thing anybody had ever said to me." He finishes his drink as he listens, totally engrossed but obviously a little uncomfortable, nervous, scared perhaps, to learn what happened next. I can't blame him for his fear, it's terrifying just telling him. "You pointed up at the sky and said: Andrew, you're the most important person in the world to me, I'd rearrange the stars to spell your name if I could."
We're silent for a while.
He places a paw, palm up, in the centre of the table. I take hold of it. His fingers fasten around my paw as mine do around his.
"I can't believe I forgot all of that." He's so full of emotion that his voice threatens to crack and let it all out at any moment. "Thank you, Andrew, for reminding me."
I shake my head and his expression morphs from deep thought to confusion.
"Matt."
"That's still not the end of the story?"
I shake my head again.
My breathing quickens. I'm nervous but I know I have to see this through to the end. I need him to know. I need my answer.
"When you said that, it sent me wild. I was all over you. We got dangerously close to fucking right there, by the pool. Somehow you_were the one talking sense into _me. We made it back to our room before you rode me. I don't know, maybe it was the buzz of the alcohol, or the beauty of the night, or maybe it was the company, but that was some of the best sex I've ever had.
You were passionate, relentless, fierce. That night you were everything I ever could've asked for and more, I swear. It was incredible. We had made a mess of the whole room by the time we were done and I was feeling the best kind of sore for a good long while after." He catches my eyes again and this time he doesn't look away. We just stare at one another on and on into eternity. "After we fucked ourselves dry," I take a deep breath. "We lay there together, panting, in this glorious post-coital haze and I said-" My throat clogs up. It's a struggle to speak. "And I said-"
His eyes grow wide in sudden realisation. His muzzle opens wordlessly. Then:
"You said: I love you. Fuck. Andrew, I, oh fuck, I remember." I can't contain myself. I begin to cry. "You told me that you love me and I just, I just looked at you, this blank expression on my face and I said: that's the alcohol talking. You told me that it wasn't. You said: I've felt this way for years. You asked me if I loved you too." His pace of speech is fast, fevered. "And I-" Then, all of a sudden, he stops. He can't speak. He's choking up. Then he's crying too. "I didn't say a damn thing."
"I held you in my arms, in silence, until we both fell asleep. Morning came, and I woke first. I didn't want to disturb you so I left you to your slumber and got ready for the day. How did you forget all of that until now?"
With our paws still tightly clasped I can feel him trembling.
"I don't know. I guess- I guess I must have blocked it out. Or with the partying, and getting hit, maybe I blacked out. I didn't even wake to you in bed with me - you were up and ready, as you said - so it's not like I had a strong reminder in the morning. Or maybe, in time, I just forgot. I mean, it's been over a decade, I- I don't know. I really don't know."
"I was scared that night might have destroyed our friendship, but instead it seemed like you wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened. You never talked about it, or answered my question, so I took that as a sign to drop it, in fear that our friendship would crumble if I didn't. I never spoke about any of it again."
"Until now." He says.
"Until now." I confirm.
"You know, I'd been wondering when or why we stopped sleeping together. Now I remember: it was after that holiday."
Fuck.
He blacked out, or blocked it out. That's all it ever was. All these wasted years treading on eggshells. I should have brought it up, I could have. Fuck.
I could have had my closure, my answer, years ago.
What the hell have I done?
"You're right. I never made a move after that, and nor did you."
"Maybe, subconsciously, some part of me remembered. Maybe I was embarrassed about what I said and did that night, for giving you cold silence when what you needed was warmth and honesty. I'm so sorry."
I want to do something, to comfort him or scold him or hug him or... but the pub staff have begun clearing the outdoor furniture. One of them informs us that the pub has closed, tells us it's time to go home.
We get up and walk off premises without another word, masking our heightened emotional state with silence.
When we're far enough away I find language again.
Regret gets the better of me.
"Matt, you don't need to be sorry. I shouldn't have even told this damned story. Maybe it would be better off left buried."
"No, Andrew, I'm glad you told me. I can't believe you stayed such an incredible friend after how badly I treated you back then." The word 'friend' drives a spike of ice through my chest, one that I am long accustomed to bearing. A friend is all I've ever been to him. Maybe I was hoping that revisiting that night might change him, that it might change us. Fool. "Can I ask what made you finally bring that story up tonight?"
I laugh the sad, empty outline of a laugh.
"I'm not exactly sure. You're in pain now, like you were back then. I guess that sparked the memory." In my mind I'm back in time. His cemented features stare at me from across the bed, his eyes are dark and narrow as he comprehends my words. There's a real pain to them. He doesn't respond. This isn't the reaction I was hoping for when I asked him if he loves me. "And with all that talk about the meaning of love... I don't know, that night just came to mind, and when I started talking about it I didn't want to stop."
He nods. He understands.
"So, was there a moral to that story in the end?"
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I can't say it. I can't admit it.
"Honestly? I don't think so."
There's a moment of silence, then Matt grabs my arm with sudden urgency. We stop walking.
Before I can react further he pulls me into a hug and squeezes me tight against his soft, furry body. It feels amazing, like a waking dream.
"Thank you for being here, with me, right now."
His warmth and closeness knocks a flurry of doomed sparks loose inside me.
I point into the starry mess of sky above us.
"What do you think about when you look up there?" I ask.
"Right now? I think about how badly I fucked things up for us all those years ago. We're close now, but we could have been so much closer." The sparks light a flame. "I'm so sorry."
The tale has been told, but it's only a fragment of the larger story of my life, and of his. Our stories aren't over yet.
I still don't know how he feels about me, or about what I told him tonight, or back than. I don't know what he meant with all that talk of love, or what exactly he was trying to tell me when he said something so fucking romantic as 'I'd rearrange the stars to spell your name'. Is that something a friend would say to another friend? What if they were drunk?
Oh god.
"Matt."
Do it.
"Andrew?"
Say it.
"Come home with me tonight."
The silence is excruciating. He's staring at me again. In the darkness I can't read his face.
"I think that's the alcohol talking, Andrew."
"It's not." I assure him. "Matt, you need to listen to me."
I'm so nervous I'm shaking. My voice wobbles. This is it. This is fucking_it_.
"Okay. I'm listening."
"I love you every bit as much now as I did back then. I've never once stopped loving you, not for a single moment."
My world breaks in two. The universe collapses in on itself. Every microsecond of silence is torture.
Then I hear him sob. It sets me off too. I pull him close, so close. I cry into his shoulder, he cries into mine.
We stay like that for a while.
"I guess I haven't improved much after all." He says. "I wish I could just fall asleep in your arms this time too."
It's painful to hear.
What does it mean?
All these years and I'm left with the same damn non-answer?
I won't let that happen again. I won't let him go home and forget, or pretend to forget, to blame the alcohol. I can't let that happen.
"Matt."
"Andrew?"
"I mean it. Come home with me tonight. I love you. You feel something for me too, I know it, or at least you did once. You told me you would rearrange the stars to spell my name if you could. Tell me that doesn't mean anything Matt. Tell me that I'm nothing more than a friend to you and I will go home and never mention this again. I promise. Just don't leave me hanging. I can't take it. I can't live like that."
In each other's arms, our faces so close they're almost touching, our heads twist to properly regard one another and we stare into the galaxies that exist behind our eyes. There are stars in those too.
He opens his muzzle, and says: