“grayson,” alma admonished, hushed and urgent. her grip on the man’s waist tightened and she caught him before he could trip and fall over nothing as he stumbled around in a drunken stupor. “quiet, you’ll wake logan.” the halls of the zaharov house were completely dark except for the light coming in from the street, and in that moment alma had never been more thankful for her enhanced vision. she steered grayson around the open door of the bathroom as they headed for his bedroom, and the hand that was clutching his squeezed tighter. she finally shouldered her way into his room and deposited him on his bed with a sigh. “stay there,” she ordered firmly.
she’d found him at the dusty crow, drunker than she’d ever seen him, nearly passed out on a stool, so she settled his tab and took him home. alma frowned; she’d never seen him this bad. each time worried her, but this one felt different, worse. after getting him a glass of water from the kitchen, she headed back upstairs and put it down on his nightstand. after a moment of hesitation, she reached out and caressed his jaw gently, shaking her head before she looked down at him. she asked quietly, mostly to herself because she didn’t know how much he’d be able to comprehend at the moment, “what’s gotten into you, gray ?”
grayson’s brain was hazy. he was pretty sure he was supposed to be at the bar, but when he opened his eyes, the man was laying on his back in what was clearly his bedroom. he wasn’t sure how he had gotten there, but on his brain there was something about logan and maybe alma ? he couldn’t be sure, but whatever reason he was alone in his bedroom. it wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be; there were so many memories there, in that house. memories of the day he and laura moved in, with a toddler logan and a promise of a future. memories of every single fight, of love-making and of laying in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company. there was also the memory of their final interactions, of grayson waking up with his clothes torn in the middle of the bedroom and the only woman he ever loved laying unmoving next to him.
gray pushed himself up wobbly, staring at the large rug by the end of the bed, knowing there were stains under it he never quite managed to clean. his arms trembled and the man fell backwards onto the bed, hazel eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling. how many nights had he laid there, in a much similar position, with laura’s head on his chest ? he took a sharp breath when alma touched him, not even noticing her enter the room; grayson felt like he was submersed in jell-o, the entire world moving slowly and feeling like a dream. ❝ t’was our anniversary. ❞ he replied-- or, at least, that was what he tried to say. to grayson it sounded perfectly clear, but with how drunk he was, the phrase was more likely a slurred mess. ❝ today. twenty-seven years together. but not, because she’s dead. ❞
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