Chapter Text
Joe has never been one for the spotlight. He prefers to sit in the proverbial back of society’s crowd, unseen and unacknowledged unless he wants to be. It had been years since he’s last been able to be himself without a least one watchful eye keeping him on edge.
That was why Joe Goldberg had jumped at the chance to become Jonathan Moore: the unassuming Literature Professor who moved to London from across the pond to educate London’s youth. Jonathan Moore was boring, forgettable, and absolutely perfect.
Jonathan Moore was the blank canvas Joe had been dreaming of. A fresh start without all of the complexities of his life in America. As long as Joe could keep himself out of love and in line, everything would be fine.
And then he had to go all white knight and save Kate Galvin from a mugger. I, Joe Goldberg, vow to never again do a good deed on a whim.
Because nothing, even saving a woman from being assaulted, ever goes without punishment for Joe. This time, he was being forced by her embarrassing excuse for a boyfriend to go drinking with him as a ‘thank you.’
That is what leads to Joe walking into an exclusive club called the ‘Sundry House,’ bracing himself for the endless chatter he knows he will have to endure. God, I hope they get drunk quick enough for me to just slip out soon.
Malcolm is dragging him around the cushy club, introducing him to the handful of snotty socialite ‘friends’ within. Joe barely listens, having already raked the internet for every single drop of information about each of them. He gives practiced smiles, and greets each one with the polite kindness of a stranger. They are all fine. Lady Phoebe seems to be the least grating out of all of them, or perhaps she’s just the best at hiding her snobbery.
Joe thinks that maybe he’ll just cling to Malcom’s sweater for the rest of the night, when an unintroduced figure catches his eye.
A man is sitting at the bar, leaning up against the counter and facing out for Joe to see him take a small sip of golden liquor. His dark blonde hair has been swept across the top of his head with care and sports a clean-shaven face, a square jaw, and clear water-blue eyes.
He’s good-looking, as all the rich smucks in here seem to be, but his handsome face is not what catches Joe’s eye. It’s the book in his hands, a little paperback he probably snuck in his back pocket. In the hand unoccupied by his glass he holds it open, upturned eyes flitting over the pages and the pink stroke of his mouth murmuring the words to himself. He looks swept away by the story in his hands, like nothing could disturb him from the adventures he reads. Unlike the other chaotic guests of Sundry House, the man appears to be peace itself; an oasis in a sandstorm.
Well, hello Yo— no. No, for fucks sake Joe. Joe fixes his eyes back on Malcolm, desperate for some sort of distraction from his brain’s attempt to drag him yet again onto another path of pain. I’m starting over, and You are going to ruin it for me if we even make eye contact.
Thankfully, Malcolm is dragging him over to meet more obnoxious socialites– the Soo Siblings this time– and Joe’s mind relinquishes it’s hold on the picture of the beautiful stranger for the time being. When Malcolm walks him back over to the bar, the man from before is gone. It’s a good thing You left, and yet I’m almost disappointed I wasn’t forced to meet You. What is your name? What book are You reading? Who are You? Better question: what is wrong with me? You’re driving me crazy and we’ve never even spoken.
Malcolm abandons him to go fetch some ‘treats’ for them. Most likely some expensive party drug that will have me seeing God. Phoebe finds him while Malcolm is gone, and thrusts her American boy toy Adam upon him. Joe finds he hates him instantly, but can’t help but think that he and the man from before have the same honey-colored hair.
Yet again, Joe is saved and then promptly abandoned by Malcolm. Who promised to take him home in ‘five’ before depositing a little baggie of power in his hands and running off. When Joe was sure no one was looking, he tosses the bag into a nearby plant and hurries over to a cozy-looking pair of armchairs tucked in a dark corner.
There he sits, beginning to realize that when Malcolm said ‘five’ he clearly couldn’t have meant five minutes; Joe knew this because he has been sitting in the same chair for nearly an hour now waiting for fucking Malcolm. Joe glares holes into the back of Malcolm's head in protest, not noticing someone approaching him until they speak
“What could possibly be that funny?” Joe looks up just in time to see exactly the last person he expects to be sitting down beside him. Those pretty blue eyes are following Joe’s gaze over to the table of Malcolm’s friends. The book is gone, leaving a broad hand to run across the red velvet of the armchair. You. It’s You. Out of all the people in the bar You could have sat down beside and spoken to, You chose me. I really can’t figure out why. Either Lady Luck has smiled down on me, or You have pissed her off severely.
Joe’s heart nearly stops when the man turns his head, locks eyes with him, and sends him spiraling with a little upcurl of one corner of his lips. Joe was glad to be sitting because he was quite sure that smile would have had him passing out like a cartoon character if he wasn’t. Heart eyes and all.
When Joe manages to pull his head back onto his shoulders, he realizes he actually recognizes the man now that he’s up close. Rhys Montrose, author of ‘A Good Man in a Cruel World;’ Joe’s student, Nadia, had lent him a copy of the book with Rhys’ face plastered on the back. You look just like your photo Rhys, smile just like You do in your picture. It’s dazzling– don’t get me wrong– but is that your true smile? Or is that the practiced one You show to every pitiful guy you comfort at the bar?
“Good book.” Joe forces himself to say when he realizes he’s just staring. Oh no, I sound drunk. Rhys raises his brows and his smile becomes amused as he brings his glass up to motion to him.
“So you’re the new one.” Joe must look as confused as he feels because Rhys begins to explain immediately.
“Ah, Mal unfailingly adopts you lads, back since the dormitory at Oxford.” Oxford, right. So that’s why you’re here. It seemed that Rhys was among the crowd of friends he had procured during college.
Now let’s review: you run with Malcolm and his pack of gilded wolves, so you should be just as intolerable and yet… there’s a collected, calmness about you. That explains why you’re running for mayor, You fit the picture of ‘Man of The People' perfectly and You know it. You’re an odd creature Rhys, how exactly did You become who You are now? Perhaps all of the answers to my questions lie in your past.
Your memoir talks about your rough childhood raised by an unstable single mother– which is uncomfortably relatable– and how it made You a mess… until You found out You were the son of a duke and cleaned up. It seems that an impoverished upbringing has made You more grateful to have than to not. You aren’t like these people Rhys, You know what it’s like to struggle.
Speaking of your memoir, it’s honestly one of the best memoirs I have ever read. You are certainly the wordsmith, a bonafide artist, a writer. I’ve always liked writers. Actually, I think you’re not actually the first writer I’ve fallen for like this. What happened to her–
It’s like cold water is thrown over his head as images of Beck’s lifeless eyes flash across Joe’s mind. He’s sure he obviously flinched, but Rhys does not comment on it. Probably because he had been talking the entire time Joe was drooling over him.
“-Quite a thing that. Tell no one your sordid life story for thirty years, then write it down, and suddenly millions know your every shame.” Joe has no idea what had exactly led them to this point in the conversation, but he grasps onto anything he can in an attempt to seem like he was listening.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t find your book sordid.” Rhys cocks his head slightly, smile becoming playful as he says–
“Oh… fellow man with a shit childhood, then?” You have no idea, Joe thinks as more unwanted memories of his past come back up to the surface. At Joe’s pause Rhys nods knowingly, his face becoming understanding. “I see. A true shit childhood.” Rhys raises his glass in a mini toast, nodding to him.
“Pleasure to meet you, brother in arms.” He smiles again, and Joe can’t stop himself from smiling back. Rhys looks to the little huddle of drunk rich fucks in front of them, all laughing like hyenas at something Genna has said.
“Thing about getting money when you had none, you sort of never really feel you have it. And all the people that always did–”
“Another species.” Joe offers. Rhys looks over at him with a mix of shock and camaraderie written all over his face.
“Exactly! They’re dancing while the world burns, barely notice it’s even burning. Why would they? Their weather’s just right.” Joe realizes this is the first real conversation he’s had all night, and perhaps the first he’s enjoyed since the beginning of his little European holiday. Alas, as all good things, it seems it was not built to last.
“And with that, I’m off to Berlin to go on a morning show to be very coy about whether I run for mayor.” Rhys gets up, and Joe immediately misses him sitting at his side.
“You’ve got my vote.” He can’t help but say. Rhys turns back to him, looks him up and down, and gives him one more of those breath-stealing smiles.
“See you around, Jonathan.” For your sake, Rhys, You better hope this is the last time we meet. Joe cranes his head to watch Rhys walk away and out of the club, nearly falling out of his chair as he does.
Joe should have ignored him, he really should have– but he just couldn’t help himself. How bad can some friendly conversation be? Now he’s off the Berlin, never to be seen again hopefully.
Even if Joe knows it’s a good thing that this was their last meeting, he can’t help but feel somber about it. No. More. Love. Joe kicked himself mentally, letting the bloody memories of what happened when he allowed his heart to take control come to the front of his mind.
Another uproar from the party in front of Joe startles him, causing him to splash a bit of the drink he’s been nursing into his lap.
And back to being alone in a den of douchebags.
— — —
Joe’s new company becomes the bottle after Rhys leaves him, said bottle coming in the form of one too many shots of a green liquor called ‘absinthe.’ It makes the room spin and turns what is probably hours of time passing into a blurry montage of confusing clips of his reality.
At some point he’s sitting on the couch beside Phoebe and Kate, draped in a fuzzy rainbow coat as Phoebe’s sobs echo through his liquor-muddled mind. Did I make her cry? What did I do? I’m in hell— where’s my phone, fuck—
“Time to get this one home.” Malcolm says from somewhere behind Joe. Or maybe in front of him? Who fucking knows, the room is still spinning.
Joe closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he’s being held up by the armpits by Malcolm.
“Couch, couch, couch,” He chants before he’s tossing Joe towards his own sofa like a sack of potatoes.
Before he even hits the pillows, Joe is out cold.
— — —
After the absinthe-induced nightmare he’s just endured, Joe is relieved to find himself floating in a dream. He lays heavy on the sofa in his loft, his head being readjusted as something fuzzy is being draped across his chest.
He attempts to rise, only to be gently guided back to the pillow.
“None of that anymore Jonathan, you need to rest.” Joe almost can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“Rhys?”
“Hello,” Dream-Rhys confirms, fingers gently stroking his hair in a far too soothing way.
“What are you doing here?” You’re in my dreams? Already? That’s a new record.
“Just wanted to check on the newest addition to our little group.” Joe feels him gently take him by the chin and turn him to meet his eyes, “I’m glad we have you John, glad I have you.” I can’t see the blue of your eyes in the dark of my home, and yet, I can’t help but think this is the best you’ve ever looked. In my apartment, just us, you smiling at me like that. If only you knew who you were dealing with Rhys… how would you look at me then?
“Why are you being so nice to me? You barely know me.”
“On the contrary,” Rhys chuckles, leaning in to whisper in the shell of Joe’s ear, “I think I know you very well, John. I can feel it, we’re kindred spirits you and I. I think we were meant to meet, meant to know each other.” Meant to be. The little lovesick part of Joe’s brain can’t help but add, and his traitorous heart flutters. Joe shakes his head as if to clear it.
No. This can’t happen. I’m not ready for You, Rhys. Love makes me stupid, and I can’t be taking stupid risks anymore.
“Stop talking like that.” Even if I want to know You, I can’t. I have to nip this in the bud before You get close enough to ruin me. Time to scare this dream version of You away with a little bit of honesty.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll hurt you.” Yikes, maybe not that honest. Then again, where else can one be completely truthful other than in his own mind?
Dream-Rhys chuckles, dimples deepening as he smiles wolfishly.
“That so?”
“It happens every time.” Candace, Beck, Love, Marienne— are You next?
“What’s the matter, Jonathan?” Dream-Rhys runs a warm thumb against Joe’s temple, “Think you’ll break my heart?” Joe laughs in spite of himself.
“No, you’ll probably break mine.” Rhys cocks his head.
“And how exactly does that get me hurt?”
“I don’t do well with rejection.” He could blame the ends of all his relationships on all sorts of things but, at the end of the day, it was a rejection that led to the demise of love for Joe Goldberg. Everyone likes him until they get too close, until they see him for who he really is. Joe swallows a lump in his throat as he speaks his next words, eyes stinging at the admittance.
“I don’t want to hurt you Rhys, but I’m… I’m dangerous.” That’s right. I’m dangerous, unforgivable… unlovable.
“What if that’s exactly what I liked about you? What then?” Joe tries to laugh again, but it comes out as more of an exasperated noise.
“I wouldn’t believe you.” Joe can feel the moisture that gathers in his eyes running down his face. “You’re just another person who thinks they want me until they change their mind.”
Was that all there was to the life of Joe Goldberg? A purgatory of love gained and then lost? Joe wouldn’t have ever considered the possibility at one point, but now? After time and time again of thinking he found The One, only to lose them in the most final way possible? One can’t help but wonder what the point is anymore.
Joe’s throughs are interrupted by a giggle, and his attention is drawn back onto Rhys’ face. Rhys is smiling fully at him but, instead of making his heart flutter like before, Joe finds his stomach curdling with rage. He doesn’t understand why it bothers him so much, but it does. In fact, Joe finds himself so mad that he says–
“I’m a murderer Rhys. I’ve killed people.”
The amused look on Rhys’ face drops into something more pensive, and Joe thinks he’s finally made him see. Until Rhys leans in and, for some reason, kisses his forehead. It’s quick and barely there, but it is a kiss nonetheless. It hits Joe like a freight train, the dam in his eyes breaking as more tears come down his face.
“Oh John… this world has made you afraid of you are. Who you were meant to be.” Rhys pets his head as if he was comforting a child. “Don’t worry, I’m here to help you.” Why aren’t You running away? Marienne ran, why aren’t You?
“Please. Please.” Joe isn’t sure what he’s begging him for, but he begs all the same. Rhys shushes him, running a gentle hand through his hair as he squeezes beside him on the sofa. The hand that isn’t on his head is rubbing Joe’s back, gently holding him. You hold me like something breakable, like something precious. You hold me like you’ve done it for years. Has anyone ever touched me like this?
“Just sleep John, close your eyes and rest. You’re going to hate yourself even more tomorrow if you’re both hungover and tired.” Even if it’s a dream, Joe feels pathetic; he’s curled and drunkenly crying into Rhy’s chest, feeling all out of sorts at playing the comfortee for once. Under the weakness though, Joe finds he feels an unfamiliar amount of peace. There was something cathartic about being able to crumble in front of someone instead of putting on an unbothered facade.
Part of Joe wants to confess all of his crimes right then and there– turning Rhys’ shirt into a snot rag and a confessional booth– but Rhys has told him to sleep, and Joe is nothing if not obedient. Only for You.
— — —
As far as Joe remembers, he has yet another dreamless sleep, but he would gladly take the void of nothing over the current pounding of his head. Well, made it home at least.
Joe groans as he lifts himself up into a sitting position, the fuzzy blanket that had been placed over him slipping away. Wait, no. Not blanket… Joe blinks down at the gaudy hairball of rainbow in his lap, A coat– who’s coat is this?
Joe furrows his brows, his mind summoning the image of Adam flounching around in the very same item of clothing, and along with it came the image of Malcolm helping him into his flat. Malcolm got me home. Do I need to thank him?
Joe ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair as he rose to his feet. No. If I’m rude, maybe the misogynist with the drug problem will leave me alone.
Joe pours himself a cup of coffee, hoping the bitterness will help to clear his senses enough to he can get a headstart on his upcoming lecture. New day, he promises himself, no more craziness. Back to the quiet.
That’s when the familiar scent of blood hits his nose as he enters the dining room.
Joe turns to the source of the smell, immediately greeted with a gruesome scene: Malcolm splayed across his dining table with a knife buried deep into his heart. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse...
Joe sighs, turning to look out the window and attempt to enjoy his coffee before he deals with the mess he’d left behind the prior night. I did do this… didn’t I?
His mind churns feverishly, searching for the memory of Malcolm’s final moments as Joe’s own hand shoved a blade into his chest– only to turn up empty-handed. Joe does faintly recall some nasty things Malcolm had said about Marienne though:
‘Some stupid whore’ he had called you, Marienne. He was saying horrible things about you. I was angry for you. That’s why I did this.
Feeling like he’s solved the mystery, Joe puts his empty mug down and ducks back into the kitchen to retrieve something to cover his clothes and dishwashing gloves.
The blade doesn’t slip out as easily as it usually does, confirming Drunk-Joe had most likely killed him just as they had gotten into his flat. It’s not that suspicious, two buddies out clubbing all night long deciding to just crash at the same place. No one’s looking for him yet, I’ve still got time.
Joe pulls the table away from the carpet beneath, shoving the body onto the floor. After pushing the table against the far wall, Joe goes back over to Malcolm and begins to rifle through his pockets. He can’t help but grimace as he pulls out a shattered phone. So much for Malcolm tweeting that he’s gone to Bermuda.
He tosses the phone to the side and is about to rise, but then he notices the fingers on Malcolm’s left hand. Or, rather, the finger that he is missing. What the?
Lifting up the hand, Joe examines the place where Malcolm’s ring-adorned pinkie used to be. It looks to have been brutally sawed off, probably also by the knife. The details of the killing don’t really matter to Joe, though. The only thing Joe wonders is where would I put a finger?
All around the flat he searches, and finds nothing. Nothing, of course, apart from the little spectacle going on in Malcolm’s apartment across from his own.
Inside is Kate, pacing the floor in front of two police officers.
She reported him missing already? No, no they must be here to take her statement about the mugging… and she’s probably telling them all about how I saved her. Any sec, they’ll knock on my door and find a suspicious human-sized rug.
As anxiety begins to seep into Joe’s heart, another thought comes to him. Or I could run into them on their way out, carrying a human sized rug– okay, new plan. Forget the finger for now.
Joe dashes back over to where Malcolm rests upon the carpet, taking Malcolm’s keys from his pocket and rolling the body up as quickly as he can. With hasty slashes of packing tape, Joe secures the human burrito on the floor. He would like to secure the body better, but Joe doesn’t exactly have time for perfection. He has to get down to Malcolm’s car and out of the complex before the police have finished their questioning of Kate.
As he drags the body down the emergency stairs like his life depends on it– because it does – Joe curses everything he can think of. He curses God, he curses Malcolm for being so damn heavy, he even curses the stupid carpet he has the body wrapped up in.
His mind only quiets as he slugs the body into the trunk of Malcolm’s little black work car, the same car Malcolm told him he could use in emergencies. Joe doubts he ever planned on that emergency being the disposal of his body.
Finally, Joe slumps into the front seat, trying to hype himself up for the major clean-up duty ahead of him.
It’s about… 12, 13 o’clock? That leaves about 11 hours for me to figure out what the hell to do with him. Time to see if my corpse-disposal methods are British proof.
— — —
A quick google search leads Joe into the English countryside, where he pulls up to ‘A.W. Sawmill & Carpentry Workshop.’ Here’s hoping it’s closed.
Because of Joe’s shit luck, it’s not; he’s nearly caught by a man leaving the front of the workshop, claiming he’s going to sneak out to a local pub to watch the second half of that night’s soccer game.
Joe can work with that.
And work he did: with a soccer game mixing with the sounds of Joe cutting up his co-worker into little pieces. After only vomiting once, Joe scrubs the entire workshop with bleach and tosses Malcolm’s bits into separate bags. There are still twenty minutes of the game left as Joe loads the final bag back into the trunk.
A drive around the Greater London area to dump body parts into sewage pipes and the River Thames is not how I planned to sightsee. So much for Jonathan doing better.
— — —
His arms are sore from having cut up meat and bones and then chuck them all across London the following morning, but Joe trudges on. Have to pretend like nothing’s happened, Jonathan is innocent and knows nothing about nothing. Jonathan isn’t going back to Sundry House to see if he can’t uncover anything that might incriminate him from last night, he’s going there to return Adam Pratt’s certainly not tacky coat.
He hands it off to one of the workers and is about to see if he can’t dislodge any more memories… when he notices a figure at the bar.
His back is turned to Joe, but Joe doesn’t need to see his face to recognize him. Rhys Montrose sips on his liquor, a journal now in hand instead of a book; Joe can’t help but float over to him, despite his promises to himself the previous night that he’d steer clear of Rhys altogether. If Jonathan is going to start racking up a body count, surely a little conversation couldn’t hurt anyone. I have discipline. I have control. If things go too far, I can stop it.
“Hey! Hi. Uh,” Intelligent thoughts die in Joe's brain the moment Rhys settles his eyes on him, “you’re back from Berlin already.” No shit, Sherlock.
“You’re in Europe now Jonathan,” Rhys responds with a chuckle, “you can get anywhere you want in three hours.” He leans forward conspiratorially, that beautiful smile turning mischievous.
“How’d the night turn out?” I murdered my neighbor and completely thrashed my new life within six months of having it. So, probably about as well as anyone expected it to go.
The look on Joe’s face must be truly pathetic, because Rhys gives him a knowing grin and reaches over the bar to fetch another glass. Without a single word, Rhys pours half of his drink into it and offers it up.
“They’re party animals, things tend to get out of hand.” Joe sits beside him as Rhys continues, sipping on his drink and wondering if Rhys’ spit is what makes it taste so good. “I wouldn’t beat yourself up if you made some sort of cock-up.” ‘ Cock-up’ doesn’t even begin to describe the type of decision I made. I still don’t fully understand why I killed Malcolm. He was a dick for sure, but did he deserve to die? I really thought I had more control than that…
In his frustration, Joe finds himself speaking.
“You know, the day that you decided to try to go to Oxford– you called it ‘becoming newborn.’” I thought Jonathan was that for me. That I was ‘becoming newborn’ too but… here I am again: back exactly where I was before.
Joe locks eyes with Rhys, tries to will himself to say all of this aloud, but finds he doesn’t need to. He can see it in the gentle look in Rhys’ eyes. Rhys understands, Rhys sees him. Has anyone ever seen me this well?
“Most people refer to that part of the book as when my mum died while I was in prison for a bar fight.”
“‘Heartbreak is always the catalyst for a new path,’ as you wrote.” Joe quotes. Rhys raises his brows.
“And this is yours?” Marienne’s disgusted face flashes across Joe’s mind, and so too does that small bit of him that was relieved to be free of Joe Goldberg when he was first offered the chance to disappear.
“It was supposed to be. Honestly, I really need it to be.”
“But you fucked up.” Rhys finishes.
“Very, very badly, yeah.” Joe admits in a hushed voice, taking another drink and blaming the sting in his eyes on the alcohol. Rhys turns in his seat to face Joe more, their feet just touching under the bar. The way he surveys Joe is almost uncomfortable, as Joe gets a sense Rhys is seeing him quite a bit better than Joe could even guess. He half expects Rhys to accuse him of murder when he starts speaking again.
“Would it help to know that that part of the book is a lie?” Rhys chuckles to himself, eyes crinkling as he recalls something. “I had that prison epiphany three separate times, but I kept turning around, getting trollied, and punching people again– in my defense, writing it that way would have been hopelessly redundant…” Joe hums, staring into the remaining contents of his drink. He looks up, however, when a hand finds his thigh.
Broad and made of golden skin– Joe remembers that same hand dragging across the velvet of an armchair not even a day ago.
“I get a sense about you.” Rhys says nonchalantly, like he isn’t making Joe’s pulse rise by the second.
“What’s that?” Joe mirrors his tone, ignoring the way his thigh is tingling.
“All jokes aside, my guess is that you have had a truly hellish life. The kind that not everyone survives.” Joe can’t hide his shock at hearing the words, his head whipping to stare Rhys in the eyes. Rhys cocks his head. “Am I close?” I think I’d like You closer.
“Yeah.” Joe winces at the way the word breaks in his throat.
“So you’re deeply damaged,” Rhys continues, “therefore you’re capable of doing real damage.” Joe’s mind helpfully brings up a picture of Malcolm’s disembodied head being tossed into a garbage bag; the image doesn’t make Joe wince this time, however. He is too overcome with awe at what Rhys has said to him to feel anything else. How do You see me so clearly, Rhys? How do You see me when no one else cares to look?
“I feel like I’m supposed to be defensive right now, but I’m… I’m not.” Joe laughs slightly, and Rhys’ laughs along.
“Who would I be to judge you?” Joe shifts to stare at Rhys full-on, noting the way Rhys continues to touch his thigh.
“O-okay so, what now?”
“Can’t erase any of it, so now I just try to do a bit of good moving forward– just something– which includes protecting the people I love, and getting some actual shit done for the city of London.”
“So you believe it’s possible? Redemption?” Rhys nods.
“I think yes, as long as they commit to never run from themselves. Face it all, no matter what. Easy right?” Joe gives him the most unimpressed look he can muster. Rhys leans ever closer, grinning.
“You think I’m full of it.”
“I think you’re a writer.” Rhys chuckles and pulls away, much to Joe’s chagrin.
“So I’m guessing you’re planning to sit here and perseverate on your cock-up?” Joe shrugs, which seems to be enough of an answer for Rhys. He finishes off his drink, gathers up his journal, and gives Joe’s leg a final squeeze before letting go as he stands.
“Embrace everything, Jonathan. The hangover’s easier.” Joe thinks Rhys is done with him then, but then Rhy is tearing out the corner of one of his journal pages to scribble upon it. “And when your done moping, let’s have a lighter chat, yeah? Preferably one over something more substantial than booze.” He then places the piece of paper down before Joe with a wink and saunters out of the Sundry House.
Joe had been planning to mope… until he sees what Rhys had scribbled down. You gave me your number. Could You have possibly felt the connection between us too? God, how are You even real, Rhys?
Joe instantly pulls out his phone, taps in the number, and sends Rhys the first thing that comes to mind:
[Hello, You.]