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She’s leaving him. Anne’s had enough, enough of Sasha’s lies, enough of her controlling tendencies and manipulation. Enough of Sasha. It’s not a surprise, as much as she wants it to be. This is, after all, one of Sasha’s worst fears. To be alone. To be unimportant. Uncared for. It’s why she does the things she does, why he holds on for as long as possible. Why, instead of letting go, he sinks his teeth in like a rabid dog.
If Anne is the house, beautiful and steady and home, Sasha is the fire that ravages it – everything she touches burns and burns and burns until there is nothing left but ash. Sasha was bound to make her want to leave in the end. It was fate.
So Sasha bows her head when Anne walks out the door for the last time. He doesn’t beg her to stop, as much as she desperately wants to. Doesn’t grovel.
He just closes his eyes, and tries not to cry.
.
Sasha rouses quietly. He doesn’t jolt awake. Doesn’t scream and thrash. It’s not that kind of dream. Not the kind that leaves her spooked and afraid. No, this is a different kind of desperation. The kind that leaves him numb and desolate and empty.
She looks over at them. Anne is fast asleep, still and calm, lying on her back. Marcy is curled up in one corner of the bed, hugging their pillow as they sleep. They are peaceful, or at least as peaceful as people like them can be during the night. Sasha doesn’t want to ruin it, doesn’t want to ruin them like she has time and time again.
So instead of waking either of them up to ask for reassurance, he gets out of bed, quiet as a mouse, and makes her way into the bathroom. The lock clicks to let him know that he is secure, the silver door handle cold against his trembling fingers. Once the deed is done, he slides against the bathroom floor and onto the icy tile, putting her face in his hands. The crying is silent, at least at first. But the more he thinks about the dream, about what he’s done, about who he became in a useless effort to keep everything under his control, the faster the tears come. Soon his shoulders are rattling with shaking, quaking, all consuming sobs that she can’t seem to reel in no matter how hard he tries to.
Eventually, he puts her hand into his mouth and bites down with the effort to silence the little whimpers building in his throat. But it must not work, because even in his sorry state he can hear the sleepy murmurs coming from the bedroom he shares with her partners.
A knocking on the door. “Sasha?” Anne’s sleepy voice calls, “Sasha, are you okay?”
Sasha lets out a loud sob in response, taking his hand out of her mouth so he can bury her face in his hands.
“Sash, can you open the door?” Anne asks, worry coloring her tone.
Sasha doesn’t respond. She’s done so many horrible things, and here Anne is, still trying to provide comfort. Shame’s cold fingers have their grip on him, slowly pulling her underwater.
And he lets it.
It happens quickly. One moment she is sobbing hysterically, and the next he is feeling nothing at all. She’s utterly empty, a husk. Time may pass, but for a few minutes she is unaware of it. He doesn’t even notice when Anne unlocks the door, though she does startle a bit when her girlfriend puts her weight against, forcing it open. Resigned, he scoots over until she’s leaning against the bathtub.
A soft yet worn and callused hand finds its way into his own. The other cups the mostly undamaged side of her face, pulling his chin so that Anne is eye level with her. Sasha shudders, stubbornly avoiding eye contact, afraid of what he might see in her kind, brown irises.
“Hey, Sasha,” Anne whispers gently, “Can you look at me?”
He shrugs before looking up. Anne smiles at her, a sweet and dimpled thing. Her hands are so warm against his frozen cheek.
“There you are,” she croons. Sasha doesn’t respond. The shame still sits in her chest, cold and heavy.
“Wanna tell me what’s up?” Anne asks.
Sasha shrugs. Things are still a bit foggy, even with the grounding quality of skin-on-skin contact. That, plus trying to put the reason why she’s crying his eyes out at God-knows-what-time-it-is o’clock to words, makes explaining… hard.
But she’ll try anyway. Anne deserves that much.
“Had a bad dream,” he says, voice hoarse. The lump still sits in her throat, impossible to swallow past.
“Can you tell me what it was about?”
Sasha doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t.
“Everything okay in there?” Marcy calls from their bedroom.
“Sasha had a nightmare.” Anne calls back, a small frown on her face. Sasha shrinks into herself. He doesn’t want all this attention right now, and he especially doesn’t deserve it.
“Let’s make some tea,” Anne says, “C’mon.”
It’s not a question. When Anne wants to have a Talk, it usually happens whether Sasha likes it or not. Anne stands up slowly, reaching a hand out to him and sighing when Sasha refuses to take it. Normally, they would both know that she’s not actually angry. But Sasha is extra sensitive right now, an exposed nerve. So it still stings a bit when Anne goes to the kitchen without her.
He takes his time getting up, limbs numb from her time spent on the bathroom floor. It’s a testament to how slow he’s going that Marcy is already situated on the couch when he gets there, forearm crutches leaning against the couch’s leather arm. They make grabby hands when they see Sasha, clearly asking to cuddle. Instead of complying, Sasha sits down on the other end of the couch, curling up into a ball and ignoring Marcy’s pout.
“Sash? Are you okay?” Marcy asks an indeterminate amount of time later. Sasha blinks. She isn’t sure how long he’s been staring off into space, but it may have been longer than expected judging by how worried Marcy seems. Their hands are twisting against each other the way they tend to when Marcy’s anxious.
“Here we go,” Anne says with false cheer, carrying three steaming hot cups of tea on a tray with one hand supporting it and the other keeping it from tipping over – a feat that she is quite proud of, most days, considering how weak her dominant arm is now.
Time is moving weirdly. Before she realizes it, a hot cup is shoved into his hands. The steam wafts up to his nose. Peppermint, with a hint of chamomile.
“Careful, it’s hot.” Anne advises. It isn’t Sasha’s first rodeo. The first few times after a breakdown, back when they’d been in high school, she’d been too spaced out to realize that the tea was hot before he took a sip. Burning your tongue is one way to quickly ground yourself, he finds. The tea is just how he likes it – full to the brim with milk, five teaspoons of sugar. Anne always likes to make fun of Sasha’s sweet tooth, but Marcy’s even worse so they get the brunt of the teasing. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Anne and Marcy kindly giving Sasha some space to settle back into her body. The cold numbness in Sasha’s appendages is slowly beginning to be replaced by the heat of the drink in his hands. Gone are the tingling arms and lips, instead replaced by something a bit less out of control.
“So,” Anne finally says, sensing that Sasha is more aware now, “You feeling better? Wanna tell us what that was all about?”
Sasha stares down at her half empty tea cup, still avoiding eye contact. It’s a very intimate thing, he finds. Didn’t someone say that the eyes are the window to the soul? Marcy would know, but now’s not the right time to ask.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sasha mutters, “I’m fine now.”
“Anything that upsets you this much matters. Right, Marcy?” says Anne, looking towards her girlfriend. Marcy nods vigorously.
“Yeah, Sasha. I know it’s hard to open up sometimes, but you’re not alone. We love you so much!”
Sasha feels his cheeks heat up a little. No matter how many times they say it, it’s still hard to believe. She wanted it so badly, so desperately, for so long. But even after years of them being together, it still doesn’t feel real sometimes. Like it’s the best dream he’s ever had and one day she’s going to wake up to an empty bed.
“Please talk to us,” Anne pleads.
Sasha takes a second to think. If she tells Anne the specifics of his dream, she might feel guilty. And if anyone should feel bad about themself right now, it’s Sasha. But if he doesn’t tell them, both Anne and Marcy will probably be disappointed. Either way, Sasha loses. And she hates it.
“Anne, do you hate me?” Sasha asks instead. It’s a stupid question. It makes her feel vulnerable. Logically, he knows that Anne must not hate him. They live together and sleep in the same bed after all. But it’s hard, sometimes. Marcy struggles with it, too, after everything.
Eight years later, and they’re still hurting. Fucking unfair, if you ask Sasha.
“Of course I don’t hate you, Sasha.” Anne says gently. Her voice is soft and sad in that way it gets when one of them asks something stupid, “Is that why you were upset? Did you have a dream about me?”
Sasha doesn’t say anything. That seems to be enough of an answer for Anne, who scoots closer to Sasha, giving her a half hug.
“I love you,” she says leaning close to Sasha, Marcy’s hand held gently in her own, “We both do.”
“You do?” Sasha murmurs, looking Anne in the eye willingly for the first time that night. He sees nothing but love there.
It’s comforting.
“I do,” Anne says, a fond smile on her face.
She feels a bit more like himself now, a bit safer. But the seriousness of the entire exchange is getting tiresome. Vulnerability is weird and uncomfortable.
“That’s soooooo embarrassing for you!” Sasha teases. Anne gives her an unimpressed glare.
“If you feel good enough to joke now, it’s bedtime.” she says, standing up. Slowly, she helps Marcy get back on their feet – it takes a few hours for their legs to wake up enough for them to walk short distances unassisted.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sasha concedes, stretching. He is pretty tired after all of that. He rubs her good eye before getting up to join them.
They all sleep until early afternoon, but neither Anne nor Marcy seem to mind. Thinking about that makes Sasha feel warm. It burns not like an untamed house fire, but like coming home and turning the heat on after being stuck in a blizzard for hours. And despite all the bad luck that’s followed them, sometimes Sasha thinks that they’re actually blessed in some ways. They have each other, after all.
Take that, cynicism.