the fight (part two)
Click for Part 1 & the ask that started this mess.
Disclaimer: I didn’t really expect this to turn out so long, but I will be honest, I got in my feelings with this one. These two just continue to kind of fuck me up, especially with all the prompts and feedback you guys send in. Today was so long for me, hope it was better for everyone else, and I just escaped into this little piece. You guys can expect a part three, I think, (if you’d like) where I hopefully conclude this bit, so let me know what you guys think and all that good stuff, lovelies. Hope everyone has a good night x
(Location: Sweden, Alex’s humble abode)
He didn’t come home until the morning. It was almost 3:38 am, to be exact, she remembered because she was in the kitchen at the exact moment he stepped inside, steeping a Chamomile tea bag in her rusty sherbet colored ceramic mug. For someone who was so jet lagged, sleep would not come to her after their falling out. Immediately after he left, she attempted to lay back down, but to no avail. Twists and turns in the sheets, ripping the duvet off her body and throwing it onto the ground. She went like this until couldn’t take it anymore. Her body was so uncomfortable, miserable even.She felt like she was over heating, like her blood was still hot. Was it a fever? Was she burning up? Or was it just the unprocessed rage still muddled in her chest from earlier?
Processing was, well....a process for her. She was a champ at blocking out any wink of trauma until she was ready to dissect it, a personal defense mechanism she had picked up since adolescence. She had wrapped her mind around the fact that he had called her crazy, twice. She didn’t care for pity, but coming from Alex, it hurt more than she expected it to. He wanted her to just roll over and do whatever the fuck he said with beaming doe-eyes. Unfortunately, she was too strong for that shit. Plus, affection was never her thing before meeting Alex. She had to adjust to his doting nature early on, and it took time, but she liked to think she had gotten there. He liked her on his arm, by his side, at his leisure. He liked feeling...dominant, sometimes, and she was figuring out how to give that to him, without loosing herself entirely in the process.
But tonight, she felt back at square one. Utterly alone, and misunderstood was the best way she could rationalize it. Being so many miles away from her own bed wasn’t helping, and she craved her East Village apartment and having a cigarette on her terrace. After she gave up on the idea of sleeping, she sat for a while, in the darkness. It was so silent without him, and empty. She was grateful for the solitude. She found herself eventually making her way around his room. Her fingers leafed through a hefty script on his night stand, her eyes skimmed the titles of the novels he had stacked on a thin, wooden shelf. She took a walk, to the bathroom, and back. She tugged open the sliding doors in the bedroom, which led to a small, private patio. Indoor outdoor living, is what the realtor told him. Her migraine persisted, and she closed her eyes from discomfort every now and again, massaging at her temple.
When he stumbled in, smelling like a mixture of whiskey and vodka, she had already rolled her suitcase and stacked it neatly next to her carry on by the front door. He nearly tripped on it as he walked in, and looked down at it like he wanted to fight, before realizing what the hell it even was. Drunk or not, he knew, so he very quickly and silently made his way to the kitchen, where she stood, steeping her tea in silence.
She listened to the sound of his footsteps approaching the large kitchen, her body rigid, stoic even. The footsteps ceased, and she could see his figure in her peripheral, her eyes glued to her cup still, hands outstretched to reach for the the honey on the counter. He broke the silence, his voice was raspy, like he had been talking too loud and too fast all night. ”Just not going to say anything, then?” he pressed, his voice cracking slightly.
“What’s there to say?” she mused with toxic nonchalance. She was good, had collected herself well. She was dangerous when she was like this, untouchable. He was gone long enough for her to get an angry cry out, and scream into his pillow. Now, she felt like she was floating on a cloud, with no real fucks left to give. She was even dressed- socks on and all, ready to head back to the comforting bustle of the city that kept her safe.
The last thing he expected was to see her packed, though. Surely, she wouldn’t leave Sweden, not so soon? She had only just arrived, and in his drunk state, he wanted to believe that. But he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in his heart, that signaled something else. He was well aware that she was entirely capable of hopping a flight, and leaving just as fast as she came. But, he didn’t want to believe that, or acknowledge it, just yet. “You’re leaving?” he demanded, blue eyes narrowed, glued to her side profile. “Could you look at me, at least?” His voice was laced with neediness, and just edged on pleading.
She wasn’t one to deny him, even now, and she turned, looking at him with a solemn blink, her face still stone cold. You’re fucking crazy, was all she could think about as her gaze finally reached his, and she glared back at him. Her eyes scanned over his face, that familiar glaze in his eye that only happened when he was well past tipsy. Those same eyes looked darker, cloudy, even. And she noticed, but did her best to ignore, the slight look of worry that was casted over the top portion of his face, while the bottom did its best to maintain a stern composure.
“Thank you.” his voice was much softer this time, he had notably dropped it a few notches.
He tried again, that voice still soft, even remorseful. “So...you’re leaving?”
She blinked again, cocking her head to the side, wetting her lips and taking her sweet time before opening her mouth to speak again. “Yeah...I am.”
Silence swallowed them up whole, the only audible thing was the hum of the refrigerator, which made everything feel...eerie, if that was possible. And they were having another one of their famous stare offs, like two wild animals, unsure of who would strike first, who would make the next move.
