Date: March 18, 2020
Location: Kiara’s Apartment
Status: Closed (@spitethestrong)
Abigail has only felt like twice before in her life. The first was when she came out to her family; the second was the night she left her childhood home for good. Heart in her throat, torn between the exhilaration of everything changing and the terror of nothing ever being the same. The whole world open for her to take, hers to harness or to be consumed by whole. She thinks it might be the best feeling in the world.
A man is dead, she reminds herself, her hands shaking as she tries to fit her key in the lock to Kiara’s apartment. Out of the dozens of feelings crowding her heart, one or two of them must be mourning-adjacent, but they’re not the ones currently taking her attention. She’ll have time for that later, reflection on why she doesn’t feel worse, if she should feel guilty for not feeling worse. Guilt isn’t something she’s all that familiar with, but Benjamin was good to her, apart from the knife he’d left in her back. Still, as the key slides home and Kiara’s door clicks open, dead Kings are the last thing on her mind.
“Kiara,” she whispers in the dark hallway, voice child-giddy even to her own voice. She stumbles getting her coat off, throwing her boots carelessly behind her. Then, singsong, as she heads towards the bedroom door, half-closed: “Kiaraaa!”
This is what she expects: Kiara waiting for her with her phone in her hands, maybe more upset than Abigail, maybe disapproving that Abigail isn’t more upset, but willing to be brought to Abigail’s side after a few minutes in her giddy presence. Abi draping herself over Kiara’s bed, chattering about plans and dreams and next steps, half-covered by a throw blanket, eyes practically sparkling. Kiara looking half-smiling and indulgent, shooting down the ideas that are plainly absurd. Abi’s enthusiasm finally waning as she throws herself on her back, sighing and resting her head in Kiara’s lap, looking up at her face as she lets a crack of doubt show through her own. Kiara’s hands combing through her hair. “What do you think, my dear? Would you be up for all that?” And the unspoken question, And do you think I could pull it off?
Instead what she gets is... a scene it takes her a moment to comprehend. Disarray and suitcases, the frenzied evidence of something her brain can’t quite piece together. Or doesn’t want to believe. “Ah, Kiara?” she says, trying to sound casual but unable to keep the strain out of her voice. “What-- what are you doing? Are you--” He heart stutters, starts again, not daring to hope but having no other choice. “It’s a bit of a strange time to be going on vacation, isn’t it? Or-- did you not hear?” Abigail holds her breath. As horrible as it would be to have to break the news to Kiara, she can’t imagine the alternative. Doesn’t want to imagine it. She stares at the other woman as she waits for her response, face too open, heart in her throat.