Work Text:
A car honking at you from behind. Lights beamed past your figure as you cycle home. Pedals on your rental bike are weak, forcing your knees to work overtime yet you give it your all regardless. Knowing who is waiting for you at home, an indescribable feeling stirs from within you.
(It’s dread. That feeling was dread. Yet you dared to push it down at times when your knees gave in and demanded a break. You dared to ignore the dread as you attempted to spot the neighbourhood kitten nearby, opting to give him a pet before you continued home.)
Soon enough, you park the bike, cursing at its flimsy state, and fumble for your keys at the door. The metallic creak of its hinges sounds awful, but somehow lesser than this morning. You’re not sure how that happened, but you have a good idea of the real reason.
A voice calls for you. By your name. It’s masculine, yet with a soft lilt, like a butterfly landing on its desired flower and praising it for existing at all. You raise your head and see him standing there, bright smiles, brighter than the sunset itself.
(“We already started eating. Hurry up.” comes the scathing remark instead. You shuffle your feet through the door, chuck your shoes to the side with the soon-to-be forgotten remark of tidying it up later. Before you is a sour expression, a foul look. It’s not what you wanted to see. But you can’t do anything about it.)
“You’re home!” He says with a wide grin, still adorned in that silly apron you bought for him. For how much he refused to wear it, it was slowly turning into a happy habit he shared with you. Who would have thought that an artist of such renown, known for his utter mastery and globally adorned skills in the arts, would willingly wear an apron with the cheesy line ‘kiss the cook’ just so he could see you smile.
“Hey, if it makes you laugh, it’s worth it.” Rafayel had said once. He had the warmest expression then. Wanting nothing more than seeing you return it to him.
Back in the present, he rushes to you after putting the dishes on the dining table, the aroma of delicious food floating through the air like an invisible invitation. If it weren’t for how inviting his open arms were, how he was practically aching for a hug from you, you probably would have dove into the food immediately.
You don’t, though, because you know Rafayel knows you. Transforming immediately into an usher, he guides you to your seat, mumbling something about tonight’s dinner, and pulling the chair back to ‘grant you your throne’. You almost giggled at how he said it, as if you were a princess. “Because you are my princess, love.” He responded simply, even adding a kiss to the back of your hand like a lovestruck pageboy would.
(You begrudgingly take your seat at the table, surrounded by people you grew up with yet you don’t know. With nothing to say, you scoop the contents of dinner into your plate, make no comment as everyone else spoke and chatted. Nothing escaped your lips, and in that notion, nothing that left their lips was for you.)
“You doing alright? Did you get caught in traffic somewhere?”
“Here, have some more fish, it’s really good today.”
“Wanna take a bath later after dinner?”
The boon of having a talker as a boyfriend meant dinners were never dull. Despite the abundance of questions, you’d never be bored. For every question you answered, a conversation would blossom. He’d talk about his day too, about the paintbrushes he almost lost, the paint colors he attempted to recreate, maybe even just how the tides were ebb and flowing with the fishes of the sea close to home and you would still love it. You just love hearing his voice, really, the comfort it brings, the joy that fills your chest. Like a jar filled with love and care and attention, you would have a constant smile across your face. He simply had that effect on you.
(“Are they working you overtime or something?” You had answered a curt no to that question.
“Are they holding you back for something?” You answered no again to that question.
“Why were you so late today?” It was periodic. Irregular. Interspersed with dialogue about mundane things that you didn’t need to talk about and yet, here you were. Still answering the same stupid answers that you had said before. Why would they never listen to you? Why would they just … hear you, and move on as if you were not important?
And maybe more importantly, why would they never realise they were wrong?)
Dinner goes by so quickly. You don’t even realise hours passing by until your plates are empty and your bellies are full. Yet you were smiling all the same, even leaning against your taller boyfriend on the chairs, musing about the silly things that happened at work. How you were held back for some insignificant reason, one that you cursed about on the way home so much that you almost invaded an opposing lane while biking. He had pulled you before him then, face-to-face, cerulean and scarlet hued eyes darting all over and wondering if you had been hurt. It took a few tries before he could tell you that you were fine.
“But I wanna be sure.” He had reasoned, cradling your cheek with his calloused yet gentle hands. Hands that you were so familiar with, felt surges of love from, and you still habitually leaned against his touch. Soft like a pillow, warm like a blanket. Maybe you could fall asleep like this, in his care and embrace, and you would love it all the same.
(“I’m just tired.” was what you said. Ending the conversation. Hoping it would also end dinner. Your plate wasn’t empty, so they attempted to dump more food onto you. Twice. Never listening to you for the first time. Typical.
You reject them twice. They make snide comments about you to their guest. Not your guest, mind you, just their guest. You can’t be bothered to care. They won’t live forever to continue painting this picture of a perfect family anyway.)
(The dinner ends. You carry your plate to the kitchen. You leave the room, dragging your bag with you.)
(In the solace of your room, you pull out your phone. Sitting at the study table, you smile.)
(“Hi, Rafayel. You wouldn’t believe what happened today…”)
Immersed into your fantasy, a dream becoming real if only for a moment.