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In movies and shows, divorces usually start with arguments. Something big, blown out of proportion, with screaming and crying, and a door slamming. Zed only gets one of those things, and it's the last one.
Theirs is a small thing. It started with silence. It started with Zed waking up before Shen. It started with short showers. Fleeting kisses in the morning, and then no kisses at all. It started with Zed going to work early and coming home late. He doesn't even remember when he started dreading the idea of even going home.
So it didn't start with an argument. That's important, because Zed doesn't think their relationship was so unstable that one argument was the cause of its downfall. It was all the little things that piled up. The argument was the breaking point.
It starts like this:
Zed comes home late, later than usual, and the kids are asleep. Shen’s in the living room, eyes on his hands, TV not even on. He doesn't say hello to Zed, not when he passes him to reheat dinner, or when he settles down next to him to eat on the couch. Shen always ran cold. Cold hands, cold eyes, and cold lips that Zed, once upon a time, loved to warm up. Not anymore.
He thinks he’d still like to, but he hasn't touched Shen in a while. The last time they kissed was weeks ago. The last time they had sex was longer.
“I think,” Shen starts, and his voice is steady, the way it always is, “we should get a divorce.”
It's not like Zed wasn't thinking about it either. He just didn't expect Shen to say it so outright; usually he skirts around topics, tries his best to avoid these things because he's so passive. Saying it like this probably means he's made up his mind. Zed stops his chewing, swallows, and rice has never felt more dense.
Shen continues, “this isn't working.”
“It's been working for the past fourteen years,” Zed is quick to defend. He doesn't know why he's so angry. At Shen, for even bringing up the idea of a divorce– or at himself, for entertaining it. Shen’s not looking at him, still staring at his hands, rubbing his wedding ring. For some reason, that pisses Zed off.
“It's not working anymore.”
“We're not divorcing. We have kids.”
“Do you want our kids to have parents who don't love each other?”
That– that's low. Zed stands, hands about to slam the coffee table, but he stops because he remembers his kids are sleeping. They shouldn't even be talking about this right now. This conversation should be happening when the kids are away at school– but Zed’s never around when the kids are away at school. This is probably why Shen was awake at this time. Zed feels something ugly crawl into his stomach.
“Are you saying you don't love me?”
“I'm saying–” Zed hates how calm Shen sounds. He's not calm, not at all, because his hands are trembling where he’s rubbing his ring and he hadn't looked Zed in the eyes once “–maybe we don't love each other. Not the way we used to. Do you love me?”
Zed doesn't have a comeback for that. He gets angrier, because he should. “We’re not talking about this right now,” he says instead, “I'm tired.”
“So when are we going to talk about this? The next time I stay up until–” Shen checks the clock “– 1 A.M? Answer my question.”
“Never. We're not talking about this at all."
“Answer my question, Zed.”
So he's being difficult. Zed used to admire that about Shen; he's an immovable object, resolute and determined. Those traits aren't so likeable when he's talking about divorce.
“Would it make a difference?”
“Yes.” Shen’s looking at him, but now Zed wishes he wasn't. “If you– if you still love me, then we can fix this.”
When Zed doesn't answer, Shen’s whole expression cracks. It's not a good thing to see, because Shen has always been straight-faced. He only smiles when he's with the kids (Zed hasn't seen him smile in a while) and he only cries when he's reading something sad (Zed hasn't seen him do much of that, either). He's not crying now. This might be worse.
“Get out,” Shen says.
“Seriously? This is my house, too.” Zed hates how angry he sounds. He shouldn't be– he should be a good husband, he should hug Shen and tell him he loves him, but he hasn't been much of a good husband lately, and he doesn't deserve to touch Shen at all.
“Is it? I must have forgotten, since you're never here.”
Whatever crawled in Zed’s stomach has moved up to his chest. It feels tight, like someone took a hammer and smashed it in.
“If I leave, I'm not coming back.” The moment the words leave his mouth, Zed feels like an actual crack has opened up in the ground between them.
Shen's mouth goes tight. He opens it, takes a shaken breath, and– and looks away.
“Tell me to stay,” Zed is nearly pleading.
“Then tell me you love me.”
And that's how it ends. A door slamming– Zed hears Shen crying through the door, and he slums down against it.
So it didn't start with an argument. It ended with one. When they sign the divorce letters, Shen doesn't look at him. They split custody; Zed gets Kayn, and Shen gets Akali, and the two of them can decide who they want to stay with for the holidays.
All in all: it's a small thing.