UnFurled Love //Zanvis// And OneShots

Rejoining//Gim//

Its beautiful.

Seated snugly in a navy blue, velvet cushion, it doesnt quite twinkle up at her, but it does look brilliant caught in the rays of August sunlight streaming through his window.

Its blinding, though not because of its size, which is perfectly balanced for a hand and finger like hers. All she can think is whos it for? She hadnt heard a whisper about anyone from anybody, but she knows that might mean nothing with him.

Shes being absurd, because the hops, skips, and jumps her mind are making are closer to leaps and bounds, but in her minds eye, she has a vision of someone like her lying in a bed somewhere else — across the state or up the street, she cant be sure — waiting for him. Missing him the way she used to. Resigning herself to the fact that this is his life, and wondering if theyre cut out to be in step with him, and walking away when he makes the decision for them.

"Put that away."

She jumps, and when she looks over her shoulder, box still clutched in her hands, shes more surprised his disposition is calm where his order should be steely. Hes not asking where she found it, why she was snooping through his things.

Mind, she wasnt — at least, not uninvited. In the quest for something to wear in lieu of her own shirt thatd earned an unfortunate splash of blueberry syrup over the breakfast she shouldve never stayed over for but that, for the past month and a half, shes had more than once, shed found the box tucked underneath a stack of neatly folded shirts in his drawer while digging for the specific one she remembered liking.

(The fact that she shouldnt even have been searching for a shirt she liked is another matter entirely for her to consider.)

He pries it from her hands without a word, and the snap when it closes is explosive before he replaces it deep under the pile of shirts.

"Got what you need?" he asks, nodding to the shirt thats slung over her arm. He nods again, but whether hes taking her lack of response as confirmation or hes avoiding the discovery she cant tell.

All the times he never says anything, and all the times he should.

She follows him on his path back to the living room, noting the slight, defensive hunt in his broad shoulders just before he drops onto the sofa.

"Are you seeing someone?"

Its the most polite, least accusatory way she can come up with her inquiry, but he still looks downright annoyed.

"No," he says. "I'm not."

The image of someone, somewhere, curled up waiting for him vanishes, and the pressure thats been sitting on her chest lifts some.

"When did you get it?"

Did you get it for her? She wants to ask, but even the idea.

Theres a tick in his jaw when he clamps it in refusal to answer, and her fingertips tingle.

"Fine," she says, balling the shirt in her hands up and tossing it forcefully onto the couch beside him. "I'm leaving."

"Youve got syrup on you," he says with a sort of self-assurance that makes her boil. When she jams one of her feet into her sneakers and yanks it up the back of her heel, he leans forward.

"Stop that," he says. "Jesus Christ, it's just a ring — it doesn't mean anything!"

Is that supposed to make her feel better? That whoever it's for, it means nothing? Though the knowledge that nothing's sacred to him answers the question thats been weighing on her mind for months, more spring up like Hydras heads.