I wanted to write some fluffy Fiyeraba, don't ask how I managed to get angsty Flinda. Written at midnight last night.
It is practically dawn when he enters their room, dirty and wet, for the umpteenth night in a row.
Normally she pretends to be asleep; then at least she can pretend that he's only ignoring her out of consideration for her beauty sleep, that he still loves – well at least cares – for her enough to give her that. But tonight she can't face it, her whole life is a pretence, she needs to do something real – no matter how much it will hurt her later.
"Fiyero," she whispers.
He turns to her. Those eyes, once so full of life, are practically hollow, "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," his tone is bland, nor are his words accurate – she cannot remember the last time she hasn't been woken up by nightmares – but at least they are kind, nothing like the things he's said to her in their fights recently.
"Don't worry about it dearest," her practiced smile working even when she's half asleep, "any luck?"
"Would I still be here if I had?" He answers, turning away from her and getting out of his wet clothes, maybe once that action would be an invitation to flirt shamelessly, now she knows it's just because he's tired of talking to her and wants to get some sleep. However, his words disturb her slightly; she tells herself he means he would still be out ensuring her safety if he had found her – because that is the meaning that hurts the least.
She looks at him as he joins her in the bed and wonders what happened to them. Not so long ago she had believed them perfect together, and he had agreed, once upon a time they had been happy. Then she had left and it had all fallen apart – as if she had been the only one sticking them together – or was it her who had caused them to break in the first place? She does not know. She's not sure it matters anymore.
He slips his arm around her, more out of instinct than any affection. Still, she relishes the dead weight, at least it's him.
Finally, she builds up the courage to ask the question which has been bugging her for weeks, ""Why Fiyero?"
"Why what?" he groans, clearly not appreciating the interruption while he is trying to get to sleep.
"Why do you spend so long searching for her?"
He looks at her as if she is mad.
"It's a reasonable question," she says defensively, "you two were never close, you only hung round her because of me and you spent most of that time trading insults and occasionally throwing books and," she sniffs "my shoes at each other. So why spend every day until dawn looking for her?"
It is his turn to pretend to sleep, perhaps because he doesn't want to admit why, perhaps because he doesn't know the answer, but it doesn't matter, because she already does.
