The Whys of Us

28

communication is important, folks! :D 

*

Rhysand doesn't talk about it, so Andy doesn't, either.

It gets swept under the rug.

But Andy knows he's still torn up about it, still disappointed she didn't tell him to stop, pained he didn't notice.

And Andy is—she's heartbroken. She should've...she should've said something, she shouldn't have forced herself, and now—now, she doesn't know what to do. He said he doesn't trust what she says anymore, and it's fair. She promised him. They agreed on it. Andy didn't mean to break it, and she had good intentions, but look where they are now. Tiptoeing around each other. Hesitant touches and kisses. Ignoring the elephant in the room and biting their tongues.

Andy's roommates know nothing happened. As soon as they got home, they drank their wine, watched a movie, kissed a little, fell asleep. "That's okay," MJ assured her with a bright smile. "Don't rush it. You can wait 'til you're ready, bub."

Ready. Rhysand said she wasn't ready.

She glances at him from beneath her lashes, gripping her pen. Her notes, books, and laptop are spread out all over the coffee table in his studio, and he's leaning back against his chair with his head hanged, eyes closed, wearing the headphones she got him. His hair falls across his forehead, earrings shining in the light, and he looks peaceful but also concentrated, listening intently to the track playing in his ears.

Andy doesn't know what to do to make him trust her again. She's going insane.

"I'm not studying anymore, stress is bad for the baby," Andy says, dropping her pen and closing her notebook.

Rhysand hears her. "What baby?" he mutters, keeping his eyes closed.

"Me, I'm the baby."

His mouth curls at the corner. "You have finals in a few weeks."

She stands up and walks towards him. "And I'm going to prepare for it, like always," Andy mutters, biting her lip. "And I've been preparing myself for this, too. We haven't talked about what happened in weeks."

Rhysand doesn't open his eyes. "I'm working," he says flatly, pressing his lips to a thin line.

Andy can't do this anymore. She slides her hands around his neck slowly, gently, fingers tracing his collarbone, until they come to a stop at his nape. She plays with his hair there, and Rhysand opens his legs a little—it's such a subtle gesture, a little difference from the way he's currently seated, but Andy catches it and almost sobs in relief, climbing to his lap.

She leans forward to tug his hoodie out of the way and brushes her lips across his racing pulse point. "Can you tell me what you feel?" she asks softly, inhaling his freshly-showered scent. "I can't read you. You've been so closed-off ever since that night and I'm worried about coming here. I'm never worried when I come here, but I just feel like you don't want me around anymore. And you barely reply to my texts, and when you do, they're short and dry and painful to read and I don't know, are you breaking up with me?" Her voice goes small at her last question, and she shuts her eyes at the thought.

Rhysand takes off his headphones and tosses them on the table. His hands stay on the chair's armrests. "I don't know how to talk to you after what I've done."

Andy gulps at his cold tone. "After what you've done?"

"You say you trust me," Rhysand continues, and his voice is firm and stable and thick. "But you didn't say red. Or even yellow."