Archive of Our Own

It was a loud and hellacious day at Aelin’s apartment. Rowan had woken there after spending the previous night in her bed, doing the kind of unspeakable things to her, that he liked to speak to her about. In public, mainly. Often with their friends around, in hearing range.

The day had begun gorgeously, he’d woken up his girlfriend with another welcomed orgasm (the seventh in a span of roughly twelve hours), and then had got to putting the coffee on, and starting breakfast, whilst she had hopped into the shower, washing off their debauchery.

Nine months into their relationship, he knew the layout of her kitchen perfectly, reaching into cupboards and drawers like it was second nature. Which maybe it was, given that first nature would have been reaching into his apartment’s cupboards and drawers.

His girlfriend had emerged from the bathroom, in a cloud of lemony steam, her hair damp and dripping on the floor, even when swept up into a braid. He had to hold himself still, so as to not run to her and just breathe her in. Keep her in his lungs and breath out, get high off her. she had wrapped herself tightly in a dressing gown, and made her way to the breakfast bar, sat and drank coffee with him, sat and ate a breakfast of thick, American-style pancakes with him, had them broached the subject of Christmas with him.

That was when the morning turned loud and hellacious. Because Rowan assumed they would be spending the Christmas season with his parents, because they lived on the other side of the ocean, and Aelin had yet to meet them. Because he saw Rhoe and Evalin every time he went to the corner shop for a late-night condom run—so he saw them enough, and they saw him enough—he didn’t need to see them anymore.

It had seemed logical to him, that it was what they would do. Rowan loved Christmas with his parents because it wasn’t just his parents and his family—it was the House of Whitethorn family Christmas. It was extravagant and it was perfect, and he could not wait to show his girlfriend the traditions of Doranelle.

She had thought they would go to her parents because they were closer, and Aelin knew them better, and Rhoe and Evalin didn’t have a big, happy family to surround themselves with so they needed their daughter to be with them for the holiday season.

And now here they were, cold coffee mugs on the island, slowly making their way through the apartment, voices raising and lowering, fury in their eyes but love in their hearts. Rowan knew that it all came from a place of love, Aelin’s need to be with her parents, but he couldn’t help but feel like an afterthought when it all came down to it, couldn’t help but feel that his girlfriend—the woman he loved—had forgotten about him, and his wants and needs and preferences.

And he hated that feeling. It sank like lead in his stomach and refused to move.

“You had better be high to even suggest something like that to me—”

“—how dare you accuse me of something like that, you know I don’t do drugs, Aelin. Well… not anymore but that is bes—”

“—stop interrupting me, Rowan Whitethorn. The disrespect, honestly. And what is the good gods’ does ‘well… not anymore’ mean?” her tone was shrill, and it was enough to signal to Rowan that he needed to stop doing, whatever it was he was doing. Undermining her? Ruining her image of Christmas?

Distracting her as he pulled the bottom of his shirt up to wipe at his forehead? For no other reason than to prove to himself (and hopefully his girlfriend) that he could still be attractive to her when they were arguing. Instead of persisting on his quest, he turned his attention back to their argument and rebutted against Aelin’s statement—patronisingly and horribly.

“Nothing untoward, dear, it’s just been since college since I’ve dabbled in that particular area. But again, I am not high. It is perfectly reasonable to suggest that we spend Christmas at my parent's.” Y’know, he wanted to add, the ones I haven’t seen in nearly two years, the parents who raised me and loved and turned me into the man you love. Those parents, Aelin.

“Have you never spoken to anyone with two brain cells to rub together, everyone knows that you spend Christmas with the mum’s parents. Certainly not the dad’s parents, no siree.” Her voice, again, was this over-the-top, theatre-like voice. It was cruel and callous, and he could not stand it.

This wasn’t Aelin, this was an amalgamation of all her fears and traumas and doubts about their relationship wound into one, big ball of angst. He wanted to help her unravel it, sit by her side and talk things out, and he did. He really, truly did.

But he couldn’t, not when she was being ridiculous, they’d been together nine months and she was thinking about five years into the future—at least—and trying to reason it like that. And on top of that, her argument had no relevance to their current position, where neither was a parent, but they both had parents.

“The fuck are you talking about, mum’s and dad’s parents, we’ve barely been together nine months, and we’re nowhere near thinking about kids.” Now Rowan was lying, but he could hardly confess in the middle of the argument that he’d been having dreams about blonde babies with green eyes, looking up at him from his arms.

That was hardly the kind of thing you told your girlfriend when you were having a fight. It wouldn’t be right. No, it wouldn’t.

“Nowhere near thing about kids, the fuck do you mean? You had better be joking this time around, Rowan Whitethorn. Have you not even thought about our future as a couple.” Of course, he had, of course! How could he not think about being down on one knee, waiting at the end of the aisle, sat in a hospital chair holding her hand as she pushed, welcoming their first child into their home?

“Not to the extent of kids, no,” yes to the extent of kids, obviously to the extent of kids—Rowan could kick himself for the way he was acting, “I kind of figured we’d sit down and have that chat at a later date. Start considering larger things, when this relationship is a little larger than nine months of good times.” Fuck, that did not come out the way he wanted it to.

He hadn’t meant good times, as in hey, you were a great lay, but I won’t cry in bed when we break up. He had meant good times, as in you have been the greatest thing to ever happen to me, these have been the best nine months of my life, and you are a great lay, but I definitely will cry in bed when we break up.

“Nine months of good times! Nine months of fucking good times! Are you fucking kidding me? I know you weren’t raised in a cattle shed, nor born in one, so don’t act so fucking idiotic. I know you’ve got brain cells, use them during this discussion.”

With that closing statement, Rowan watched as his girlfriend stormed away from him, flinging the cushion she’d been kneading—during their ‘discussion’ as she had called it—at his head, and finally slammed the door to her bedroom closed.

The cushion hit, not two seconds later, and landed then on the floor with a sad deflated thwump. He felt the same way, like he’d been trampled on, but either way, Aelin seemed to be taking this the hardest out of the both of them. So, he began work on his apology, and thought a little deeper as to where he went wrong in that discussion.

He had gone wrong everywhere except for asking to spend Christmas in Doranelle, because that was fair of him. It was perfectly fucking fair of him, to want to see two of the most important people in his life, at Christmas, when he hadn’t seen them in nearly two years. He wouldn’t apologise for that. No way.

With the chocolate hazelnut cake Aelin had eaten half of last night under one arm, and the bottle of vodka they’d half drunk last night under the other, and his lips prepared to apologise like no one had ever apologised before, he made his way to the door his girlfriend had slammed. He knocked awkwardly with the base of the glass bottle and waited for Aelin to emerge—or even invite him.

The door opened a crack, and Rowan found himself looking down on half of her face, and even just half was enough to make him shove the door slightly so he could make his way in. In the—maximum five minutes, minimum 2 minutes—time it had taken him to collect his thoughts and his apology food, his girlfriend had cried so hard her eyes were swollen, her cheeks were wet—as were her jaw, chin, neck—and the neckline of his shirt (he had to restrain the urge to smile) was covered in darker green splotches.

Letting the door fall ajar behind him, he herded her up, and onto her bed. She swathed herself in the thick bedding, covering herself with the duvet and blankets before holding up an arm and creating a space. For him, he realised. With harried movements, he set the bottle and the plate on the nightstand he had claimed and snuggled under the covers with a certain eagerness.

Her blonde hair was quickly lain over her shoulders, as she dug herself a hole next to him, and moved his arms around her like he was her lifeline. Like, even though they were fighting she couldn’t stand to be away from him—she had to be as close as possible. At all times.

“Ro, I am so sorry. I should never, ever, ever speak to you like that. That was so rude of me, I’m—I’m honestly so ashamed of myself. I know that’s how Remelle treated you, and I can’t—” she choked on a sob, and Rowan rubbed a soothing hand down her back, letting her speak, because Rowan knew how much she hated to be interrupted, “I can’t believe I would treat you like that!”

Rowan’s heart gave out, in the warmth of the duvet, and with Aelin in his arms. His eyes stung as tears threatened to fall—but didn’t. “Aelin, don’t apologise. Please don’t. I shouldn’t have egged you on, I knew I was being ridiculous about some of the shit I was saying. It was rude of me, and I shouldn’t have made half of the comments I did.”

“Don’t say that Rowan—I was so horrible. And for what, because of some stupid trend, or stereotype? I mean, we see my parents every weekend, and you, you haven’t seen yours in two fucking years!” she turns to a wail, her eyes leaking tears, staining his t-shirt further.

“Aelin, love, it’s alright. Take a second, and we’ll chat later. Here, have a bite of the cake, and a drink of this, and then we’ll talk this through. Drunk, and even more full than we were after breakfast.”

And they spent all day chatting, laughing their heads off in bed, getting drunk off the good vodka Aelin saved for New Year’s.