Work Text:
They fall together like displaced sheets of paper.
The binding that held them together is gone, left a path of destruction like a twisting wind, left them to fall and flutter to the ground, all out of order. Shuffle them long enough, and they’ll show a semblance of correctness, of organization. Except no one’s taken the time to do so, probably never will.
Surprisingly (or not so), she takes the first steps. Her authority weighs her down, just on the edges of her shoulders, and he recognizes the posture. Knows very well the look in her eyes– a tired but sad acceptance of facts. He’s carried that pressure before, is as familiar with it as he is his own limbs. So when she reaches out to him one night, takes his hand in hers (timidly, unsurely, afraid) he can’t help but understand. She doesn't make a sound as she weeps, face tucked into his shoulder, and he lets her. No words of comfort because there are none that can soothe how much it stings.
An hour passes before they disentangle, a wordless understanding communicated in the small nuances of expression. She leaves him be, silently thanking him and apologizing all in one. The door shuts and he stares at the ceiling for hours afterwards– he’s cried his share over years.
It happens again, a week later. And then again, a few days after that. Before they know it, the outbursts become routine.
--
She takes up burning cigarettes (his brand, he knows without asking, the smell is mapped in on his mind). The sticks sit upwards on the edge of a plain ashtray; he thinks they resemble the incense placed by gravestones. Prudently, he doesn’t mention it, she has enough to think of as it is. Idly, he wonders if he should remind her of second hand smoke but dismisses it. They’re both so used to the scent by now that he almost never notices when the sticks are burning low to the filters.
Sometimes, that’s all they do– watch the cigarettes burn down to the orange tinged paper, shoulders touching, hands closed over each other’s. Every so often, she’ll rest her cheek on his shoulder (that becomes more frequent, and eventually, she’ll use his lap as a pillow). Neither of them talk about him by name. Most of time, not at all.
--
Just once, he kisses her on the forehead. It’s hesitant but comforting. The next few times, she kisses him on the cheek as she leaves. That turns into a greeting and a goodbye soon after. And that tumbles into them holding each other for grounding, kisses lonely and borderline desperate. Those hours they’d spent watching their own personal memorial incense burn away becomes less and less. Cigarettes are still lit habitually, but they’re a background piece, no longer a completely centered fixture.
They both still miss him fiercely, but he knows (and she’s learned) that clinging onto someone who’s disappeared does neither of them good.
Now, they curl against each other, her back to his chest, legs fitted like puzzle pieces that are slightly off. He’s looped an arm around her waist, loose limbed and unrestrictive. She’s awake (they both are), eyes downcast in the dark. It’s comfortable, neither of them need to fill the silence, they know each other too well for that. Her head tilts up and a small hand matches up with his mechanical one, fingers splayed as far as they can go. His own curl in between hers and soon she follows suit, hands clasped together as an assurance neither is going anywhere.
“Do you miss them?” Her voice is low, filled with sleep and emotion. He doesn’t have to consider his answer, because he’s thought about it every day for a year. It isn’t how he wants to answer, he thought he was done with holding onto people. Thought he’d passed that point in his life where he’d recognized it as futile–
“Yes.”
–he hasn’t.