his brown eyes ➵ thomgelica

xi.

So she does legally move in with him, her name on the lease and everything.

Now there's more of her shoes in the closet and all her things in his place in boxes unpacked and fit randomly around the orderly chaos of his. Her toothbrush is next to his in a cute little pink ornate cup she brought, and there are dishes in the cabinets that don't really match, and their pillows are starting to smell more like her than just how intoxicating he smells with the floral aroma of Gain laundry detergent, and it's really nice. Perfect, even.

Peggy and Eliza both squeal about how perfect he is for her. They come over for dinner and eat Chinese take-out on their mismatched dishes often enough to drive Thomas a little crazy, but it's hilarious.

Except sometimes he forgets to call and some nights she wakes up to him just holding her so tight like he's worried she's going to leave.

They argue a lot, sure, about stupid stuff that doesn't mean anything until he funnels his anger into washing the dishes and leaves pink flowers on the nightstand for the days he's being particularly trying and wondering why she's still here, maybe. They're far from perfect, but it feels like they are and will be.

Tonight, though, he left in a dark red rage, slamming the door behind him with a force that shook the windowpanes, shattered her ribs.

She wasn't scared of him; it just hit her all at once that she was terrified of him storming out the door and never bothering to come back. The dish she was washing in the sink broke in her hands.

Eight minutes she stands lethargic in the open kitchen lights waiting for the slot of his key to sound his return, but each drawn out second of nothing makes this tiny apartment even smaller, even emptier. Her throat makes a cry when she sees his coat thrown over the chair in the living room where he left it with the magenta scarf Eliza knitted for him last Christmas, and because she's a woman, because she's independent, because she learned to quiet that hopeful part of her thirteen year old Angelica wondering if he was the one each time he smiled at her with his ridiculous grin, she pushes her arms into his coat's too long sleeves, hugs it around her and then.. well, it's sorta fabulous, and and it smells like him and she really likes the ways it goes to her knees. When she finds Thomas, she's gonna try to keep it.

She rushes down to the lobby, ready to search everywhere for him, but the second of her eyes adjusting to the one AM dark shows him sitting on the steps of the apartment building. His shoulders are straight and broad, and his bare arms look cold around his Oakland t shirt, and the red end of his cigarette is lighting a quarter of his face, catching in his dark eyes. She slowly plops herself next to him on the creaking wooden steps, hears him draw in a slow breath that warms her just a little.

"You didn't get too far," she says quiet, quieter since the sky is so still and silent and starry.

He shakes his head. "Nope."

She wants to ask if he's done running, if maybe he's just tired, if she's done anything to make him mad. She doesn't, just watches him toss his cigarette and turn to face her, their knees bumping.

"Kiss me," he tells her.

She shakes her head because she knows that tone of voice and the look in his eyes even if she can barely see them. He raises his hand to touch her cheek, so gentle still, so damn cold, and he's so ridiculous. They both are. "But I'm mad at you," she protests lightly, only half-meaning it. She tilts her cheek in his hand to kiss his rough palm, and it's so easy to lean into him when he opens his arms. "You can't just kiss my anger away."

"Then stop kissing mine," he huffs. As cold as his skin is, his mouth's so warm. He tastes like smoke and temperament and wholesomeness and the rest of her life.