Predator (DWT x OC)

87

I don't speak to him for the rest of the day, walled up in our shared bedroom, hugging my knees to my chest and glaring at the wall. I can hear him walking around in the kitchen, the squeak of the hinges of the front door and the way it slams against the doorframe when he leaves, but I don't come out. 

The bright sun fades away too dusk, the grainy kind of grey that replaces golden steaks in the air, like static muted down to something barely there. The shadows grow darker, swelling from tiny crevices to black pools that engulf half the things they nestled under, a rising sea of black darkness. 

I go to sleep in my clothes, before he gets back, not even bothering to pull the heavy covers over, just curled into a ball on top of the sheets. A part of me doesn't want to fall asleep, because then tomorrow will be closer, when I have to pick myself up and put it all back together and pretend I love him, make him feel like I'm worth saving L'manburg for. 

Make myself valuable to powerful men because I'm not strong enough to do it myself. 

I wish it wasn't this way, but it is, and there's nothing I can do to change it, allow myself moments of bitterness to hold onto before I keep moving on. 

The morning brings a heaviness, the sinking realisation that Ixia is dead, that I'm here and the real, tangible weight of Dream's arm slung over my waist.

I grimace, sliding out from underneath him and and rubbing my eyes. He lets out a snore, scrunching up his face before collapsing back into stillness.

I twist my hair into a bun on top of my head, grabbing a new change of clothes from our chest and tip-toeing out of the door, careful not to wake him up. I still hold onto the freedom I have left, even though I know I shouldn't think this way, should just keep moving, stop looking back. 

Everything has changed now, and the more I cling onto what it could be, the more I condemn myself to a lifetime of misery and emptiness, a continual let down of disappointment and want for things I cannot have. 

I throw my old clothes into a hamper on the bathroom floor, bare feet padding on the freezing tiles, the frostiness burning the tips of my toes. I spit out the foaming toothpaste into the sink, looking at at the mirror over the cabinet, the girl that looks back, wide-eyed and lost. 

We don't know where to start, how to cope, how to live like this. Committing to this was only one tiny part of the journey, as it turns out, I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. I clutch the edges of the porcelain sink, knuckles glowing an opaque white. 

When I walk back out to the kitchen, the sun is completely up, beaming over the snow-capped mountain-tops, streaming into the living room. I open up the fridge, and slam a tub of vanilla yogurt onto the bench, searching through kitchen until I find a couple of ripe peaches and the knife block. 

Regardless of my breakfast, that's always handy to keep track of. 

Dream stumbles out while I'm midway through slicing up my second peach, rubbing the back of his head, wearing a pair of boxers and no shirt, eyes narrowed blearily. 

"When did you get the knives?" He groans, squinting against the bright sunlight. 

I hold up a slice of peach. "Breakfast, you want some?"

"Yeah, thanks." He says, a little taken aback, sitting on a wooden stool in front of the bench. I divide the peach slices into two bowls and heap a spoonful of yoghurt over them, sliding one over to him with a fork.

"I'm meeting with Wilbur today." He says, in between mouthfuls of yoghurt and fruit. "Joint with the resistance."

"I'm sure they're thrilled about that." I reply dryly, not even looking up at from my bowl.