Title: Medicine Pairing: Pablo x Reader Rating: PG-13 for language. A/N: There was no request for this one, but it was something I felt compelled to write given my current mood. I apologize in advance. Bring tissues. Triggers: Veiled mentions of sexual assault, miscarriage, anorexia, and severe depression. Word Count: 2411. Soundtrack: HERE
It had been nearly six months since he’d left the little enclave you and everyone you both knew called home. Text and IG kept the ties strong, but you hadn’t heard his voice truly speaking to you in what seemed like forever. It was probably for the best though, all things considered.
Laying in bed, you watched his latest escape on video, managing to smile as he made a goofy face at the camera. He was always smiling, always having a good time and you were truly happy for him; at least one of you deserved to be happy. Sighing, you rolled over, leaving the phone on the mattress to move on to the next IG story, a story you didn’t give two shits about. Come to think of it, there wasn’t a whole lot that you did care about lately. Sure, everyday things like cleaning and washing got done, and you weren’t yet at the point where it was okay to leave the house with a stained shirt and PJ bottoms on, but it was close. The fridge had been empty for god-knows how long with the exception of beer and the baking soda box to keep it from smelling like whatever refrigerant ran through the coils. Rarely there’d be a pizza box on the counter, but those were few and far between and tended to last longer than pizza really should.
You eyed the prescription bottle wearily, knowing you should, but needing at least five minutes to muster the energy. The weekend was coming which meant you had to be sharp lest he decide to fly home to spend time with family. So far, you’d managed to stay ‘busy’ for the last four months, always citing work (you’d been unemployed since May) or friends as the excuse for not actually being home for two days. The truth was that you took your car out and slept in it, unable to handle the potential outcomes of having to face him and drop the bomb with less than 48 hours for him to process it. No, if he flew back this weekend, you’d be busy again; it wasn’t like the park rangers didn’t know you by name now.
Reaching out, you took the bottle and poured out the prescribed dose, your stubborn sense of self-preservation keeping you from taking more than the recommended amount. Just because you felt like dying, didn’t mean you were actually going to go through with it. The pills went down dry and you sat up slowly, feeling the now-normal sense of dizziness and nausea overcome you momentarily. When it passed, you let your feet dangle off the edge of the California King and took in the silence that encompassed you. The house was empty except for you, and despite the sun blaring through the windows, you felt cold and isolated. In years past, it had been easier to deal with, as you were truly busy, with work, with friends, with outings of varying sorts. Now, you sat home, perused the job ads, and then spent the rest of the day either reading or watching whatever crap you could find on TV. More than anything, you spent your days ignoring the obvious.
The phone ringing startled you badly, and you had to take a few deep breaths before answering. It was the lawyer dealing with your case. The news set you shaking instantly, the cold creeping down your spine with even greater hurry than it had been when you sat up. Giving your thanks, you hung up and laid back down, unable to face the day.
You’d spent two consecutive weekends in Big Bear when the phone rang again. Seeing his name pop up, you let it go to voicemail, wincing as you thought about what the tone might be. Angry? No. Worried? Most likely. Sad? A strong possibility. Like you, he had a tender soul, one that found him crying on mountaintops out of sheer joy, or posting long eloquent essays on gratitude, family, and nature. You’d be remiss if you didn’t entertain the notion that he could be upset at not seeing you for six months. Your cynicism kicked in however, and you reminded yourself that there wouldn’t be much to see, much to get happy or turned on by. It would more than likely be the opposite.
Dialing your voicemail, you keyed in the password, then hit 1, holding your breath.
Hey, it’s me. Labor Day’s coming and I’m flying back just for you. Clear your schedule, and put a bottle of that red you like in the fridge. No excuses this time, beautiful. Love you. See you soon, babe.
Your hand shook so badly the phone fell to the floor, screen side down, the crack audible even before you managed to reach down and pick it up. Three days minus the eight-hour round trip wasn’t enough time. Not even close. He wasn’t giving you a choice though, and you knew that sooner or later, you’d have to face the music. The tears came fast and unimpeded, your mind already seeing the beginning of the end.
You’d lost track of the days after you’d been let go, and with no seasons to mark the passage of time, you’d completely forgotten about the long weekend. It wasn’t until the morning news reminded you to stay safe on the roads that it hit you; he was coming home. After a brief-yet-intense cry, you got dressed, pulled your hair into submission and made your way to the grocery store to pick up the bottle of red. You ignored the look of pity the cashier gave you and stared out the store’s front windows instead, feeling your ears burning and a million pairs of eyes on you, though rationally you knew that no one gave a fuck.
Putting your car in park and closing the gate, you scrambled back to sanctuary, dread filling your body like a bathtub slowly filling to overflow. You tried to meditate, tried to zone out, even tried to think of other plausible explanations, but nothing worked. By the time you heard the Uber pull up out front, you were an absolute mess.
Your eyes closed as you heard the key turning in the lock, one final deep breath helping you brace for the inevitable. His voice called out to you, warm and excited and it broke your heart to know what you were about to do to the one man you loved more than anything else in the world. Staying in your seat, you wrapped the couch throw a little closer around yourself, hoping the thick fabric would hide the more... visual evidence of what had happened.
“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re sick,” he said, his voice crestfallen but his gentle smile still in place as he dropped his bag by the doorframe. You shook your head, swallowing down the lump in your throat and trying to find your voice.
“No, not sick. Just cold.” The lie sounds hollow, even to your own ears. The truth is you’ve been sick, both physically and mentally, for months, hiding it from everyone you knew. He’d be the first to find out. While on the one hand, it was only right, considering he was your closest confidant, knowing how much was about to be dropped on him made your stomach turn.
“Ah, well, if it’s just cold, I can warm you up. C’mere, babe,” he coaxed, arms open for a hug you knew would be your total undoing. Standing up would be the real shock for him though, one you wished you didn’t have to give him.
Even before the two of you were serious, your IG rarely saw much action. You used it mainly to look at other people’s accounts, and to keep in touch with friends and family who were always on plane to some far-off location. The most recent picture was from before, and you knew the moment you stood, he’d notice the difference immediately, baggy clothes or not.
Taking a moment to hope for a miracle, you slowly let the throw slip back down to the couch and with every joint and fiber of muscle protesting the movement, you stood, your eyes immediately snapping to the floor when the look of shock crossed his face.
“Babe…” The word was said on an exhale, his voice failing him as he took in your emaciated frame. You weren’t ready for him to move so quickly, and with your head still swimming from your own sudden movement, you didn’t have time to react and keep a distance.
He was so warm. You were cocooned immediately and admittedly melted a bit into the embrace. Through it all, you hadn’t stopped loving or missing him, but you’d lost yourself. You knew full well he was holding a shell of the woman he knew, and though you stiffened when he began to shake in the tell-tale was that preceded sobs, you weren’t surprised by the depth of his reaction.
You held him as much as you could given the stars still floating in your line of sight, understanding his need to release the shock and sadness that had hit him full force like a wrecking ball. Your fingers combed through the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck and you found yourself even whispering shh’s into the crown of his head as he began to sway the two of you back and forth. When he finally managed to take a full, albeit shuddering, breath and pull away, the pain and despair in his eyes made you want to slit your own throat. Death would have been far more welcome.
“H-how long d-do we h-have?” He stammered out, the words thick in his throat, his anguish radiating off him like rough surf in the fall. It took a moment, but you realized that he still thought the best of you, still thought that some cruel deity had taken your health and left you wasting away. It broke you even more, knowing that it was far, far worse than that.
“I’m not sick. Not like that, at least.” You offered, finding that the truth simply didn’t want to come out. His relief was palpable, and you continued to rub his back until he stepped away, confused.
“This isn’t making sense. If you’re not sick, then why do you look like you’ve been through the wars?” He asked, and you were grateful he hadn’t referred to a particular historical event, unlike the one friend you’d run into a month ago at the corner store.
Turning away, you headed to the kitchen, leaving him standing in the living room, dumbstruck and wiping the tears away. “Let’s have some wine first.” You’d become a pro at running interference, and even though you were face-to-face now, it was still second-nature.
You managed not to break the bottle as you opened it, and despite a small spill, poured two perfectly decent glasses, offering one to him. You watched as he downed half of it almost immediately. Knowing it wouldn’t do shit considering his height, you took your seat again, sipping at your own glass, reminding yourself to be careful.
He sat next to you like a weight dropped from a height and you could feel the mental exhaustion that just being near you for a few minutes had caused. The apology left your lips before you could stop it, your eyes still focused on the hardwood.
“I’m sorry. I just...I didn’t want you to worry.” The words were crepey and disintegrated the moment they left your lips. He swiped a hand over his hair, resting it on the back of his neck, his stress not easing despite the wine and confirmation that you didn’t have a terminal illness.
“Consider me worried. Consider me really fucking worried. What is going on?”
You felt the bile rise up in your throat, and tried to drink it down with the wine, knowing you couldn’t put off the truth any longer.
“A week after you left to go shoot, I was…” You’re forced to put your glass on the coffee table before you dropped it, your hand shaking far too much to keep anything in your grip. Daring to look over, you saw him staring at you intently, his face a mask of torment.
“I was attacked on my way home from dinner with Rachel and Desiree. He, um…” You paused, vision blurred, as you tried to expel the last bit of truth, knowing it would crush his heart into a million pieces.
“It ended up in a p-pregnancy and f-four m-months later, I m-miscarried in the bath--” You couldn’t finish, the bile and tears both bubbling up to the surface too quickly, only giving you enough time to run to the bathroom in question and throw up nothing but stomach acid. Muscles lurching, you heard him get up and move to the kitchen, small noises of distress making it clear the truth had taken its toll.
His sob ricocheted off the walls and you felt your own lungs begin to heave out air, your mind convinced that the truth had ended every chance for joy you’d had at his side. Closing the door to the powder room, you curled up next to the toilet, waiting to die.
You didn’t hear the door open, nor did you hear his bare feet on the tile. Instead, you felt yourself seeming to float off the ground, the warmth returning to your destroyed corpse one final time. It wasn’t until you opened your eyes and found him weeping over you that you realized you were still living, still being loved by the one man who mattered more than any other.
He held you close, a buttress against the demons that had plagued you since that night, his heart taking the brunt of the pain you’d carried for so long. When he spoke, it was in a pleading wail, the like of which you were certain you never wanted to hear come from him for the rest of his life.
“I l-love you! P-please d-don’t go! N-need you h-here!”
You weren’t sure how long the two of you sat there weeping, but when you next opened your eyes, you could see real stars, and the bone-deep cold was gone, replaced by the warmth you’d tried to keep at arm’s length for far too long. His warmth. His love. Your medicine.