They're fighting.
Again.
He shouldn't be surprised, he supposes. It's a common enough occurrence that wonder simply shouldn't come into the picture anymore. Surprise is for things you don't see coming - a car running over a seemingly mindless jaywalker, a lightning bolt striking a tree that's only barely a few yards away from you - but he can't help but feel some wisps of shock.
She's not here, and he is. After she swept the papers off of the kitchen table violently, she'd stormed out of the house, and slam! - she was out the door. And he was alone again. Stewing. He'd thrown some things of his own then, and now he's standing in the middle of it all, the wreckage of the storm they made together. And he's alone.
He wants to hurt her for that. Not physically, no. There's a small, dark part of him that wants her to feel broken, abandoned, empty - like he does after every one of their arguments. He's not sure they should be called arguments, though. It's too mild a word to describe what they do. When the two of them fight, it's like wind and rain and the house they've built is ripped to shreds around them, and when everything's over, they stand in the middle of the ruins, unsure what to do but get away. So then one of them leaves, and then they come back some time later, and they rebuild bits and pieces of what they've destroyed, because they realize for what feels like the hundredth time that they need each other.
Analogies don't do their relationship justice. There's no real two things they could be compared to without being inaccurate - by a fraction, by a landslide. One could say that she's the gasoline and he's the fire, because she fuels him to eat away at their livelihood, but it's not totally true. Because sometimes, he's fueling her, and then other times, they're like two massive bombs waiting for their fuse to be lit (because they share a fuse - if one goes off, both go off). One could say he's the waves and she's the seashore, because he rubs her the wrong way, but in such a subtle way that she doesn't notice until a huge chunk of her patience is suddenly missing. But that can't even begin to describe them, because they're so much more than the sea and the shore. More than the shared fuse, more than the fuel and the fire. Their shared friends have taken to avoiding the analogies, and all that can really be said about them is they're Roy-and Lucina, Lucina-and-Roy. There's nothing else that can do Roy and Lucina justice but that.
But sometimes, Roy wishes they could be just a bit less than that. Less than Lucina-and-Roy, because being Lucina-and-Roy can just be so hard.
His foot brushes forward, across cold tile floor. A paper shifts an inch, sliding away from him. He could clean. He could pick up the pieces of this latest catastrophe.
Or he could go for a walk.
Without much competition or fanfare, Roy chooses the latter.
Lucina chose the latter too, really. Because the latter almost always wins when it comes to her.
She could stay and try to have a civil conversation with him, try to work it out -
Or she could scream at him and run away.
Option two was the winner by a wide margin.
Option one was really the more mature option, though. It was the one her mother would tell her to choose, tell her to follow through on.
But Lucina isn't mature, when it comes time to get down to brass tacks. She's a more floaty personality, breezing through life and leaving nary a wisp of herself behind. At least, that's what she's like on her own. But when she's one-half of Roy-and-Lucina, she's different. Completely and utterly different. Of course it's because of him. Without him, she's a brush of wind slipping past, the eye of the storm when you have no idea there's even a storm outside your perfect little bubble of peace - and with him, she's the hurricane itself, tearing and screaming and destroying. And he's right there with her the entire time.
She remembers when they first met, introduced to each other by Marth, her cousin and Roy's best friend. The meeting itself was the practical antithesis of what they were to become. It was calm, and polite, and civil. He smiled, she smiled, he laughed, she laughed. Oddly enough, however, it wasn't that first day that Lucina felt the inexplicable pull to him that she feels now. She'd always thought when she met the man who was to become her husband, she'd immediately feel completely drawn to him - attracted, infatuated, head-over-heels. But she was proven wrong, because it took the eighth meeting exactly for her to realize there was something else about Roy that intrigued her. At first, she thought natural curiosity. Then it deepened, and she worried being labeled a stalker was in her not so distant future.
One night, when she was lonely, she had called him first. Not her mother, not her father, not her cousin, not her numerous other friends. She called Roy, and Roy picked up, and they talked on and on and on until Lucina had finally hung up hours later and realized the loneliness ebbed, jagged edges smooth and soft to the touch. She had played with the idea then, of there being no such thing as soul mates and love at first sight, and maybe she was to Roy what Roy was becoming to her.
And so it had went; phone calls, meetings, talking and getting to know one another in a way they knew no others. One night, in the cool of the late summer air that had breezed past them both and made a cocoon, Roy had suddenly grabbed her and pulled her close and she went with it and lips met lips. That was when Lucina knew.
And then one night after a month of dating Lucina had come to know something else - Roy-and-Lucina and Lucina-and-Roy were explosive. They were forces of nature, they were big, they were larger than life. He fed off her. She fed off him. Pride and similar hidden self-agonies grated against each other. His voice wore on her like a grater. Hers retaliated in kind.
She had thought it might get better, in time, but it never did. They were the power couple, but the power was in both of them and it didn't always match kind-to-kind. They got married anyway, magnets, pushing and pulling - Roy-and-Lucina, Lucina-and-Roy.
Sometimes, they need their space. Anger builds and stacks, kind upon kind, until they have no other recourse than to release it. They had done that. Then there had been nothing more to say. So leaving him for a time so they can both calm is actually good - it's mature. She's mature. Lucina is mature. And currently, Roy is not.
The thought does nothing for her.
She walks on in a volatile silence.
He sees her before she sees him. He's retreated back to the house, fresh air worming its way through his brain, trying to bring a little bit of clarity with it. And to an extent, it did. The fight was over nothing important. It never is. But the insignificant things, they wear. Somehow they chip away and nag until the both of them have no recourse but to release the insecurities inside. Because they're insecure, really. Or at least, Roy knows he is. Whether or not she is remains hidden away. Unhealthy, for sure. Somehow they still function. Somehow, they still move onward.
Roy moves up behind her. She's sitting at the kitchen table. The evidence of the regret she feels is obvious in a pile of papers sitting neatly on the table that had before been strewn about the room.
"I could've helped," he says.
Lucina sits up straighter, turns her head so they see eye-to-eye. Roy wishes the sentiment would apply to the rest of their lives.
"It wasn't hard," she replies. "But I appreciate it."
Roy nods, sits down at the table. The sun is setting in the sky, casting the kitchen in blues and reds and purples. He goes to open his mouth to apologize, but the words are stuck. Always. Always stuck. He lets his hand do the speaking instead, placing it on top of hers. It's his left, and her left, and the wedding bands rub against each other quietly.
"Can we keep on?" she asks. Roy looks at her. She looks different than usual - not in a glaring way, not in a way that anyone else would notice. The hints of desperation and pain and fear in her expression aren't more pronounced, necessarily, but they're heavier, they're weighing down on her more, and he can feel that more than he could ever see it.
The question itself throws him for a mild loop. "When have we not?"
Lucina's lips twitch, whether in preparation for a smile or scowl, he can't tell.
"Come on," he says, "let's make dinner."
He grasps her hand and pulls her to her feet. They move about the kitchen, and the air lightens, laughter and smiles working their way to the surface.
As they move, the sun goes down.
Roy-and-Lucina, Lucina-and-Roy.
For all the hate, for all the turmoil, for all the things they put up with and scream at, there are some things they don't mention. It's a matter of pride to them, really. They know it's there, people can see it, but they will never say it aloud. Like it's poisonous, and to admit it is to die of it.
Subtlety is the game, Roy and Lucina are the names. No one watches when they're home, hiding behind four solid walls, but they always tread lightly, like they are. The two content themselves with odd glances, vague comments that mean nothing but everything all at once (but to hear the everything is to be one of them, because the everything is so well-hidden that only they know how to dig it out). Daytime is a torment unto itself, but they bear it expertly, taught by years of living in the same building. There are expectations - people expect something from them, expect the picturesque. Lucina and Roy play it up in public, explode in private.
But nighttime - nighttime is a world all its own. Like there are no proper analogies to explain the tightrope the couple walks every single day, there are no analogies to explain the way nighttime allows them to simply step off the rope. Night is when the world sleeps, and invisible eyes that were never there in the first place close and give the two what they want.
Roy-and-Lucina and Lucina-and-Roy both go away when the sun goes down. And when the moon rises, the two are simply Roy and Lucina, two people who need each other and want each other like they are the only two people left in the whole world.
And, to Lucina and Roy in the quiet of night, being the only two people left in the world doesn't feel too far from the truth at all.
AN - Sort of experimental type oneshot that's been in the works for months now; maybe even over a whole year. I didn't work on it everyday or anything, but still, that feels like a long time. (And for something not even 2,000 words long.)
Anyway, take from this oneshot what you will. I'm not even entirely sure what this is, haha. If you have any constructive criticism, I'll take it gladly, though I'm pretty sure I'm not going to take that criticism and use it to specifically change this piece, instead using it for future writing pieces. (Unless it's a typo or something, then I'll probably change it.)
Thanks in advance to anyone who reads/reviews/favorites/follows! I appreciate it :)