A/N 1: Hi! So I'm back with another drabble! I actually have a few others on the back burner, but for some reason I really wanted to publish this idea first. I only really started on it today, so if you spot any grammatical errors, or if things don't flow as smoothly, please forgive me!

And now friends, we move onwards!

Disclaimer: ...I wish.

Sketch Three: Routine

What does it take to break a routine? A simple question.

They lay in bed every night with eyes wide open, absent-mindedly chasing moving shadows across the ceiling. Neither were sleeping; both knew it. But neither would admit it.

It was a routine. In the morning both would wake at the same time, and neither would acknowledge the dark shadows under each other's eyes. He would cook breakfast and she would set the table, and then they would both eat. He would go to work, and so would she. In the evening they would return to the house, eat, take turns in the shower and finally lie in the same bed, quiet.

Nothing but mechanical pleasantries will pass between them the entire time, the words hollow and echoing about the empty house. It was a routine.

That night, it was raining. Raindrops thrummed on their bedroom window like impatient fingers drumming on a tabletop. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. They ignored it. They ignored each other. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. This was also routine.

She wondered what had happened in between then and now. Like fireworks, their relationship had burst into life, blinding colors of passionate emotions mixing and blending into an exhilarating spectacle. Then time passed and the lights faded, and all that was left were the blurry afterimages burned onto the back of their eyelids.

That night, she spoke. It was not routine.

"Are you happy?"

Her whisper could have barely been heard over the insistent sound of raindrops on their window, but she knew that he had heard it. Because for the first time since she could remember, her words did not echo about the house but reverberated around the room, filling it.

She continued staring at the ceiling. He shifted, but did not say anything. They remained in silence the rest of the night. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. That was routine.

The next night she lay in bed, silent. Once again her eyes found the ceiling, tracing hairline cracks in the paint. She wondered how many cracks it would take for the paint to peel off entirely, revealing the ugly cold gray ceiling underneath. This was routine.

He, however, had turned to face her the minute she settled under the covers. That was not routine.

She felt his eyes study her, but did not turn around. What was the point when all that she would be met with were a pair of inscrutable eyes and an indecipherable expression? The mystery that shrouded his thoughts and motives had been alluring at first, in the way that puzzles were appealing. But now… Now it was just frustrating. So her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling while his remained fixed on her, and time passed in a hush that was almost undisturbed if not for the undercurrent of something that hung in the air, waiting. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. It had begun raining outside again.

It was not until her eyes had closed and mind had drifted into half-wakefulness that he spoke, two words ringing in the air that was no longer still. She would not have thought that he had spoken at all, as drowsy as she was, and would have chalked it all up to a dream if not for the sensation of his breath on her ear, gently stirring the hair at her temples. And the barely hidden emotion that throbbed underneath his words.

"Are you?"

That was not routine.

They woke when the sun rose the next day. The rain had stopped sometime during the night. Neither acknowledged the words spoken in the dark, leaving them there for the shadows to pick on. That was routine.

The third night they took turns in the shower. He went first. When she came out of the bathroom, toweling her hair dry, it had started raining again and he was already in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling but focused inwards. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. That was routine.

She climbed into the bed once her hair was dry, turning the lamp on the bedside table off as she did. The room plunged into semi-darkness, the only illumination coming from the street lamps outside, filtered through the raindrops on the window. But she did not lie down. Instead, she leaned her back against the headboard, eyes on the window as the rain landed on it, drop by drop. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. Her mind played his question from the previous night over and over again. Are you? Are you, are you, are you? Did it matter to him if she wasn't? Are you? Are you, are you, are you? Well, she wasn't. She wasn't happy, but she wasn't unhappy either. Just numb. And tired. Tired of the routine that strung them along like marionettes, turning them into nothing more than shells of their former selves.

And because she was numb, and frustrated, and just so damn tired, she broke the routine for the second time since it started and dropped her gaze down to him just as he turned to look at her.

"I want to be happy," she told him, her voice and eyes filled with a conviction that was as familiar and nostalgic as a reunion with an old friend.

He must have felt something then as well, because something in his eyes suddenly shifted. And before she knew it his thumb was stroking her cheek as his mouth covered hers, hot and slightly demanding, and her leg was thrown over his as she fisted her hand in his hair, nails lightly scraping against his scalp. It wasn't like fireworks – she didn't see sparks as their tongues tangled, didn't feel that electric thrill race down her spine as he slipped the oversized T-shirt over her head – but it was something. For the first time since the routine had started she felt something, something for this man who was rough with his mouth but gentle with his hands, whose eyes glowed with barely contained emotions that she still couldn't interpret, who was there with her and would always be there with her, in sickness and in health, through unhappiness and bone-deep weariness.

That night, they fell asleep facing each other. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. That was not routine.

The next morning she woke to a tangle of limbs. His hand was lightly stroking her hair and one of hers was thrown over his waist. Their legs were still entwined underneath the bed sheets. That was not routine.

Slowly, languorously, she lifted her eyes to meet his, half-afraid to find out what she would see there. But as their eyes locked fear gave way to surprise – she saw her own conviction and determination from the previous night mirrored back at her, his gaze hard and yet so unbearably gentle as he formed his next words –

"Let's try."

And for the first time in a very long time something akin to happiness and hope welled up from somewhere deep within her, blooming across her lips in a small, tremulous smile that was reflected in his suddenly clear and vulnerable eyes.

"Okay," she said, lacing her fingers through his. His hand tightened around hers in response. Okay. Okay, okay, okay.

It was not routine. And right then, it was enough for them.

A/N 2: Thank you for reading! I must admit, I particularly love this drabble because of the theme involved. If you haven't already figured it out, I have a fondness for writing about relationships that go awry simply due to a lack of communication. Not only do I find it realistic, it's also a simple problem – but one with very difficult solutions. And I guess it's also partly because I'm not very good at real life, authentic communication myself.

Anyway, thanks for all the reviews and favs and alerts so far! You guys are awesome and get virtual cookies, as promised! People who review this time get virtual Kenshin plushies! Yay! As you can tell, reviews are my motivation to continue uploading my drabbles. Yes, unfortunately, I am that sad and pathetic. Sigh.