Spoiler! :
It’s nearly noon when you walk back through the door, all disheveled and dripping wet, looking more like a lost puppy than the adult that you are. For all the world you feel like a puppy too, crawling back to lick your master’s toes, seeking forgiveness. Except that you’re the closest thing he has to an equal.
He’s asleep on the couch, all gangly limbs and softly snoring, looking far more peaceful than you left him. One hand rests over his chest while the other reaches the floor, long fingers gently brushing the carpet that you notice could use a good vacuuming. You file that away for later because right now you’re too busy smiling down at him to care about the state of your shared floor.
You don’t have the heart to wake him. So you retreat to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee to hopefully warm your bones because whether you like it or not, the cold and wet aren’t doing much to help their brittleness. Your knees ache and your shoulders are stiff and you’re left wondering where the time went.
You put out an extra mug. He’ll want some when he wakes.
Five minutes later sees you in your bedroom, peeling off the last layers of wet clothing, adding your shirt and socks to the pile of soggy fabric on the floor. Really you should take a shower – the hot water will do wonders for aching knees and stiff shoulders – but the coffee will be done soon.
So you slide on a pair of sweatpants and a loose shirt that could be yours or could be his. You’ve stopped paying attention and he’s stopped pointing it out. The smell of coffee wafts into the room. You inhale deeply.
He’s still asleep when you pass by the couch again, inky black curls splayed around his head messily. He murmurs something and twists onto his side, burying his face into the pillow you realize is yours from the bedroom. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. He sighs softly, and perhaps there is a ghost of a name on his lips, but you’re not such a romantic that you believe it’s your own.
You finish the trek to the kitchen and pour the coffee. Just one spoonful of sugar in your cup, but you’re careful to measure out three spoonfuls for him and a splash of milk because he likes his sweet.
You carry the two mugs into the living room and set his down on the table by the couch, knowing that the smell will wake him up soon enough. You settle yourself into an armchair, opening a book and scanning the pages. It isn’t until you realize you’ve read the same sentence nearly seven times in a row that you finally sigh and return it to the table, sipping your coffee slowly and watching him unashamedly as he begins to shake off the layers of sleep one by one.
Blue eyes, brighter than the sky on the clearest day, open slowly. He blinks a few times in quick succession before yawning and spotting the mug on the table. His gaze slides over until it finds your own, and there’s a tense silence for a moment as you both appraise each other.
“You came back,” he finally says. There isn’t a hint of surprise in his voice, just knowing and confirmation. His expression is closed off. Lips pressed in a firm line. Eyes narrowed just slightly.
“Of course I did,” you scoff, brushing off his words as though the notion in itself was preposterous. You don’t think about how you shouted at him before storming out of the flat only hours before, promising never to return. Or at least, you try not to think about that.
You can see in his eyes that he’s definitely not thinking of the same thing.
Supple fingers wrap around the warm mug, bringing it to his lips as he tastes the soft brown liquid experimentally. His eyes find yours again as he takes another sip, his body visibly relaxing.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure why you’re making excuses. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“Oh?” is the only response you get out of him from over the rim of his mug. He lowers it, blue eyes cold as ice, eyebrows raised in that and…? way that he must have invented for how well he’s managed to master it.
“I-” you start, but somewhere between your heart and your mouth the words get mixed up and stuck in your throat, so you pause and take another sip of coffee to clear up the mess.
“You,” he supplies.
You know that he knows what you’re about to say. The words are on the tip of your tongue. Two little words, the glue that binds the two of you together and will keep repairing the damage of your temper, of his brazen nature. Because you’ve come to accept that, despite all odds, you two are meant to be together.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
He smiles at that. His knowing smile, the one he gets when he’s had something figured out and you’ve only just caught up. The one that clearly says, Finally. I’ve been waiting for you.
“I know.”
A puff of air escapes your lips – a sigh you hadn’t realized had been building up since you’d shouted those words hours before. The oh-so-cliché weight lifts from your chest and you find yourself smiling at him. And he’s smiling back, the ice melted from his gaze.
He pulls his knees up to his chest and you plant yourself where his feet were moments before at the end of the couch. He steals a glance at the book on the table and chuckles a little, and he doesn’t even have to say anything for you to know exactly what he’s thinking.
Still, you know he can’t help rubbing it in your face. You feel yourself slipping back into normalcy as he slyly comments, “I thought you didn’t enjoy Shakespeare.”
“Normally I don’t,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug, even though you’re all too aware that the heat in your cheeks is likely giving you away at that very moment. “But it seemed oddly appropriate.”
“You do know everyone dies in the end, right?”
“But that’s the beauty of it,” you say, and you can tell you’ve caught him off guard. So you continue with a smile, “Everyone dies at the end.”
He seems to understand that you’re not just talking about fictional characters anymore. He nods slowly, his eyes raking your face like he’s trying to memorize you. Finally, he says, “That’s an odd thing to take comfort in.”
“It’s what we all owe,” you argue, tucking yourself against his side, inhaling the scent of coffee and familiarity. “Besides, we’ve got each other until the end of the world.”
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