Authors note - Everlark drabble.
Hey there! Both… things were partially/bought so it counts.
I'm tagging it as complete because it is a drabble but maybe one day a new prompt will make me continue this? Who knows. it wasn't supposed to be this dark. Who am I kidding - reading over the ending I'm laughing because when I want something dramatic it just sounds weird.
Either way if I do write more remember - everlark is always endgame. That's to everyone who thinks they know the ending. :) I appreciate favourites/follows/comments! Happy reading!
"A little cold out here" he says shaking. His hair is plastered to his head as he stands panting on our doorstep. "But I did it".
I nod, silent.
The anxiety is clear in his eyes. "C-Can I come in?" he stutters.
The door creaks as I open it further - just enough so he can step inside. Droplets of rain soak into my skin, splat against my leather shoes, as it wets the floor of our entranceway.
"I thought you had an interview" I state, my voice hollow. The paper feels like its burning my hand.
"It was cancelled" he calls out. The sound echo's as Peeta walks down the hallway. I shut the door and turn to watch him stop at the staircase. His body tenses, and I know.
He walks into the living room as I follow. China crunches under his polished shoes and his grey blazer makes a splat as it hits the wooden floorboards.
The furniture has claws marks from the cat. Shattered plates litter the floor. It started well. It was great actually.
At eleven we got each other the same gift for the first time. We laughed. Then it happened the next year and the next. Now I'm thirty. Over nineteen years. Every birthday, every anniversary, a wedding, a funeral gift. It was always the same. We were too much alike. Too similar. Just too much…
His satchel makes a thud as it hits the floor. Peeta turns around to face me, waiting for me to approach. But I don't; because I'm too stubborn.
With a huff, he steps towards me. His hands ghost across my skin, from my elbows to my shoulders where they stay. He rests his forehead on mine - whispers my name in a hiss. "Katniss".
His nose nudges mine and I tilt my head automatically.
He kisses me. Slowly. Once. Twice.
Peeta nods as he pulls away. Eyes closed, sucking on his bottom lip. I tamper down the urge to pull him closer.
Then he says the dreaded words. "I got you a gift".
"So did I".
"Yeah but mine's better". Of course. He always tries to have one up on me. It never works though. Each surprise is laced with disappointment. He steps back and kneels down to search through his satchel. From the window in the background, I can see the last dying rays of sunlight as they become enveloped by clouds.
"Look" he murmurs, standing up. The toy clutched in his hand isn't common. I know that, because it was mine. I'd made my sister sell the baby doll when I was eleven. She had to pry it from my fingers while I slept so that I'd be too tired to fight her. I cried for weeks. My father said his final goodbye, and my mother isolated herself - but we had food. A week's worth. It was enough. The small plaid dress on her is worn and ragged as if a real child tried to wear it. I wouldn't be surprised.
He's still lost though.
"It's a baby" I state. He waits quietly, probably expecting me to jump in glee. I don't. With each second he seems to become more worried. I continue. "Well I've already got one of those".
"Yeah but this one isn't like the other toys I got you. This one doesn't have to hide in the cupboard".
I huff refusing to accept it."Well its not my fault. They used to sit with me on my bed but then you took up half of it".
"Yeah but I'm the cuddliest". The toy falls to his side. "What's the matter now? When did you get my gift?". I reach into my pocket.
"A month ago, on a Tuesday".
"No!" he says loudly, as if scolding me. "I had you occupied that day. I know I did. You never left" he says smugly. "Either you're lying or you're gift might be faulty. It can't be the same as mine".
I nod avoiding his gaze. Tuck the small pink stick with a plus back into my pocket. It doesn't matter. Maybe my gift's too cheap. "Guess you're right then".
"Finally" he says, with a breathy laugh. "Anything else?". He moves close again to claim my lips. and I give in this time. Each kiss is torture.
Each Birthday.
Each wedding.
Each anniversary.
I close my eyes and after the third kiss I pull back slightly. I can still taste the faint chocolate from his morning drink. Almost imagine it soothing my throat for the pain that will come. I nod my assent as his lips trail down my neck, sampling the skin every so often.
I close my eyes tighter, scrunch the paper up and let the words rush out. His pained gasp is non-existent to me.
"Happy divorce day".