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It didn't always use to be like this. There was a time when you would embrace when you got home after work, and that embrace would turn into a heated kiss that spoke of all the things you couldn't tell each other but knew from sideward glances and misplaced touches. When he would fall asleep watching tv late at night you wouldn't be able to bear waking him, so you'd cover him up with an extra blanket and sleep in the arm chair across from him so he wouldn't wake up alone in the middle of the night. There was a time, when you think really hard about it, that the constant optimism in his voice didn't make you want to gouge out your ear drums with the nearest sharp object to spare your brain from the deadly sound waves. In fact, if you think about it, you had once thought it endearing. It comes to you when you are driving around aimlessly in your car one night after work, not really caring where you are going but not wanting to go home, because he was there, most likely waiting for you by the door, ready and willing to give you that meaningful embrace, wondering if you will accept it like you used to or shrug away with a grunt and head towards the kitchen where he has prepared a nice dinner for the both of you, like he always does, like you have done for the past few months. You usually take your plate from the table and bring it down to the basement where you have spent most of your time while you're at home. You're surprised yourself, and you know he is too, that you even bother sleeping in the same bed with him, because, face it, you've come to loathe his touch. Well, maybe not all of the time. You don't loathe it when you wake him up in the middle of the night with a sloppy kiss and a tug at his boxers, and he doesn't mind it either when he kisses you back as best he can while you remove them and try to feel the way you once felt for him but end up hating him and yourself more with each hard thrust. You know it hurts him, both mentally and physically, because he whimpers in pain most of the time, but you just can't bring yourself to care while the anger rushes the adrenaline through your bloodstream. And he never once tells you to stop. He's broken now. It's not like he tells you this, because it's not like you speak. But you know from sideward glances and the fact that he jerks from your touch yet craves it at the same time. All he does is wait for you, wait for you to show him some sort of affection, to show him that there is still some hope left. But you gave up on hope a long time ago, and you hate the fact that he still believes there is some. You think that maybe you should finally let him know that he's wasting his time with you. Because, fuck, you just don't love him anymore. As you suspected he's waiting up for you tonight. You usually don't come home until two in the morning, and the fact that it is only ten startles him when you shut the door behind you and lock it. He's sitting on the couch staring at the black tv screen, but jumps and turns his dim eyes on you when you walk in. He wasn't expecting you home for at least another four hours. You give a quick glance to the kitchen where the table is set with the dinner he has prepared for you and him, both untouched. He doesn't eat much anymore. And you're surprised you actually noticed. Fuck, you only know because the last time you fucked him it didn't seem quite the same as it used to, he was more bony and you weren't sure if his jagged edges had cut deep into your palms and finger tips when you touched him or if it was just your imagination. He's staring at you now, eyes glazed over with something akin to apathy but you suspect its more like tears. He opens his mouth as if he's going to speak, but nothing comes out. Maybe its because he hasn't used his vocal cords in a while because you hadn't liked the sound of his voice. Your brain thanks him for this but you almost wish that he would just say something, anything, because the silence is pressing in on you and sucking the air out of your lungs, so you settle for a weak "hey" as you avert your eyes from his. He doesn't respond, but you think you see him flinch out of the corner of your eye like your word was a physical blow that hit him upon utterance. You move slowly to sit next to him on the couch, but when he scoots farther away from you as you approach, you take the arm chair across from him where you used to sit and watch him sleep. You're not quite sure why these memories are all rushing back to you now, maybe because of what you have to say, but it makes you a little uneasy none-the-less. He looks at you expectantly, like a puppy who's waiting for a command. You clear your throat because all of a sudden you are completely parched and in terrible need of some water, and you know that if you get some you'll be able to speak these words better, but you also know that if you get some you'll be more likely to just take him to his room, your room and fuck him into the headboard once more, and that just wouldn't be right. What freaks you out even more is that for the first time in months you are actually thinking about his feelings. So you clear your throat once more and open your mouth, praying that the words come out right. "Tristan," and he leans forward because you didn't realize you were whispering and he's trying to hear every morpheme that comes out of your lips. He scrunches his eyebrows together because it helps him to concentrate, and you almost let a giggle escape because it's just so damn cute no matter how much you hate him, but you push the thought aside because there's something you need to say. Because, fuck, I just don't love you anymore. You didn't realize you had said it out loud until you see the look of shock on his face, but there it is, and now he finally understands, and those tears that had glazed his eyes, because, yes, you were right, they were tears, became a waterfall down his cheeks like someone had just opened the flood gates, but he's not looking at you because for the first time in months you are actually looking at him. Not just looking through him, but inside him, and it makes him uncomfortable after what you just said, and as he gets up to leave you grab his wrist and for the first time in months he doesn't flinch, he just looks at you, still not speaking, he just looks. You can't stand the way his eyes are yelling at you and for the the first time in months it is you who is flinching and letting go of his wrist so you can back away. You're not quite sure why you follow him up the stairs and wait in the doorway as he grabs a bag and throws some clothes in it. You step closer to tell him to wait, just wait, but he turns those eyes on you again and you stop in your tracks and watch as he finishes and walks out of the room and back downstairs. You don't know why your vision is blurry as you follow him back, but you slip down a few stairs and you glance up and see him watching you by the front door, concern knitted into his features, because, fuck, you're actually crying, and it's the first time in months that you have shown any sort of emotion. You can almost feel the hope returning in your bones as you see it disappear from his eyes, but you give it one last try and make it to the door in two big strides and then, finally, you are holding him with all of the strength you can muster, and you're following him as he falls to the ground, sobbing into your chest as you sob into his hair. And you hate yourself for what you have done to him, and you don't know what will happen in a few hours when both of you have calmed down and he remembers the hell you put him throught, because, really, you wouldn't blame him if he walked out on you the minute he stopped crying, but when he turns his eyes on you you can see forgiveness and hope and love in them and it doesn't surprise you how fucking elated that makes you. Because, fuck, you still love him. |