This is a bit awkwardly written, but hopefully it works. And this is set right after 'It Should've Been Me'.
V.One Week
Mu sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. The news was on, and he was forcing himself to watch, hoping that something—anything could be on that he could care about. But there was no war, no deaths, nothing close enough to him to take the pain he was already feeling away.
He glanced up at the clock, thinking it must be some late hour, but his body was deceived. It had only been twenty minutes since he turned on the news. Not late at all.
But . . . He was so tired.
Giving into his body's demands, Mu pushed himself to his feet and stretched.
"C'mon, Matt, Evi," he mumbled without looking at them. "Time for bed." He had been waiting for some sort of retort, some huff of annoyance, some cry of 'not being tired', but when none came, an unreasonable terror shot through his heart, gone in the same instant. Blinking sleep and confusion from his eyes, Mu turned around.
"Evi? . . . Ma—" Mu stopped mid-thought, the truth being known to him.
His children hadn't answered him, but it was okay. The two young kids were sprawled out on the couch—each sleeping so soundly, Mu thought he himself was the one dreaming.
"Ah, you're tired too?" He muttered softly, bending down to them. He ran his thick fingers lightly through their thin hair, trying hard not to wake either of them. He couldn't waste it.
With a fatherly smile he couldn't hide if he wanted to, Mu quietly walked off in search of the folded blankets. The trouble was that wherever he looked, he couldn't find them.
"Aw, come on," he spat to himself, glancing around the room. "I know Murrue kept them around here somewhere . . . See, the problem is, she's always putting things away and I don't know where . . .—Oh! Here they are." Mu couldn't resist a sheepish grin when he opened the linen closet door to see the multicolored towels, sheets and blankets awaiting him. "Always the last place someone looks. . . ." Mu gritted his teeth before pulling out two thick blankets—one a rich red, one a deep blue. He triumphantly carried the sheets back to couch where Evi and Matt were silently sleeping.
After covering each child with separate blankets and tucking each one in, Mu pulled back to survey his handiwork. The two seemed so innocent curling up on the couch.
Mu smiled again, crystal blue eyes slowly dancing as he leant forward and whispered sweet good-nights to his children's ears and gave them each a soft kiss. He struggled to not wake them. But one did stir.
Evi . . . Should've known. . . .
Evi clutched at the red blanket around her and pulled it closer, snuggling into its warmth. Mu smiled warmly and let his fingers dash across Evi's face, pulling some soft hair away.
"Mmm," she stirred. "Night, Mama," she muttered, lost in her dreams. But Mu had pulled away, and was staring down at her. His blue eyes were ice and his chest was so tight, breathing seemed impossible. But Mu didn't notice.
"Good-night, Evi," Mu uttered quietly as he walked away. He never saw how his hands were shaking.
He kept walking like that, unaware of everything until he finally came to his own bedroom door. But the sigh of relief that quickly escaped him then . . . surprised him.
Why did he feel so . . . happy? Was 'happy' even the right word?
Mu yawned again, and began to numbly fiddle with the doorknob—he didn't know why he didn't just walk in. The door wasn't locked or anything.
He ran fingers through his thick hair, unbeknownst to how he was stalling. Mu glanced about the open kitchen and he easily could see routine shining through. A hollow smile played with his features. Dinner was cleaned away—only a few things left to be cleaned—there was a ceramic jar of old hard cookies in the corner, the morning's paper set in a stack beside it, and Evi and Matt's latest creations were hanging up somewhere.
The only difference was how empty it seemed, everything cast in shadow by faint moonlight.—With Evi and Matt asleep, usually he and Murrue would hang out a bit in the kitchen before going off to bed.
But Murrue wasn't there. She was gone.
It had been a week since then. Murrue's funeral. "Only one week"—"Just one week"—they both meant the same thing in his mind. Seven days of struggle, seven days of running, seven days of saving, seven days of never moving. But for this one day, to all of them, it didn't matter if they just stopped. It didn't matter if he failed in trying to get life itself back on track. Nobody would mind if he took the day off from trying to put some semblance of order back into everything. Nobody would notice if he gave up trying for one day. . . . if, for one day, he let it all go.
Tomorrow would be different. He'd be the pinnacle of "getting over and moving on", the pinnacle of strength.
But that was tomorrow and this was today. His day. His day to do absolutely nothing. His day to set back everything he'd accomplished in those seven days, crashing it all down just for him. Never had he ever thought he could be so weak.—but that was Murrue for him. He may have been strong, but she was the pillar beneath him too. And now she was gone. Her funeral was exactly a week before. But today . . . it was her day too. Her Birthday.
And that was exactly why it was so hard to stand.
A bouquet of twelve perfect red roses rested in a crystal vase on the kitchen table. He'd put them there. No matter how much it hurt to do it, Mu got up early and bought them—just like he would have done if Murrue was still alive. Mu also knew of the jeweled bracelet and earrings that were wrapped-up nicely resting in the bedroom's drawers. He'd bought them a few weeks ago, certain she'd absolutely love it. He was waiting for her birthday to see her eyes light up at the sight. Her birthday had come though, and it still sat there, wrapped, and there was no amber left to ever gaze down upon the gifts.
Mu shook at his aching head—he was letting his mind run away with his heart again. No, with his aching heart. If his mind had run away with just his heart, the thoughts that would consume him would be dreams—not truthful nightmares.
"That's it," he muttered, thick hand wrenching the bedroom door open.
His room—their room.
He could see the large bed across from him, the vainity, dresser, nightstands—everything. Nothing had been changed since then. Some moon splashed through the window creating an array across the carpet that added a soft glow to the entire room.
It was somehow . . . peaceful.
And then he realized.
He was alone. Purely alone.
Mu couldn't hold back the way his body sagged in relief and a small smile danced across his tight lips. His mind started hating how uncontrollably happy he was at the thought. How he'd subconsciously wished for it:
A night alone.
Mu couldn't believe how much he wanted "alone", for he was sure that he'd been alone all that time, hating every second of it.
It had been a week since the funeral and everyday was another they were struggling to get through. The hidden quiet was both hated and welcomed as it snuck beneath the forced laughs and fake smiles and sympathetic phone calls that never seemed to end. . . . Those ruled the days.—And they were all used to it by now.
But the night connecting those days were different. Mu couldn't remember the last time he'd had a nice restful sleep.
Mu hadn't had a single night where Evi wasn't kicking him in her sleep or where he wasn't afraid of crushing Matt if he somehow turned the wrong way. The two kids had taken up refuge in his huge bed since that night. He'd let them after the nights of crying he heard coming from their room after another day of trying to make everything alright.
Part of him was grateful for the company, but, as he was now, he was grateful for being alone.
Mu looked into the mirror as he changed for bed, the silence quickly getting to him as he could see lines on his face he hadn't noticed before. His face was flat, almost empty, and a true grin would look too out of place. When did that change?
It was the face of lost love. But the face in the photographs he'd salvaged: the laughing, jovial features, eyes always dancing . . . That was the face of a man in love—the happiest in the world.
Happy just to be with her.
Mu shook at his head as it began to hurt once more. He leaned forward, head in hands, trying to steady the spinning world around him.
"I need sleep," he grumbled. It was too tiring of a day—no, of a week to keep up in. Without even bothering to continue changing clothes, Mu let his heavy body just curl onto the bed in what he had on, grateful for the easing comfort. He felt himself quickly slipping into the drugging world of sleep, he, sprawled across the bed he'd shared.
But as he lay there, the release he needed, the slumber he craved and was so close to, it danced just out of reach.
Mu shifted.
Nothing felt right.
Though his body wanted desperately to fall asleep—to wake up and have it be a new day—his arms ached, restlessly keeping him away. They itched with the urge for something to do.
As Mu lay there, spread out in his empty bed, the familiar scent that lingered there overcame him again. It made him finally he realize . . .
His arms weren't aching for something to do, but for something to hold. Over the past years, he'd gone to sleep with her curled up in his arms. Now, with nothing there . . . what was he to hold?
Weary and aggravated, Mu tossed himself around till he came to lie on his stomach, face buried in his pillow. He wrapped his arms around it, but that only made it uncomfortable. With a huff, Mu moved again, him getting increasingly annoyed at his inability to sleep. He found himself on his side once more, arms now aching, throbbing in restlessness. He collapsed deeper into the bed in weak defeat. No problem had been solved.
But as Mu lay there, that familiar scent reached him again—the one he'd noticed only faintly before. But now it was stronger. Mu knew that scent. He'd reveled in it's sweet blossoming honey too many times to count. If he ever forgot it, he'd absolutely hate himself.
For it was hers.
Confused and curious, he pushed himself up and suddenly stared at the empty place beside him, dark eyes bright in awe. The solution to his sleep problem came to him then and Mu let himself fall once again into the mattress.
Sleep came easy. He could feel it take him away.
Mu nuzzled his face closer, arms' ache subsided. Murrue's pillow had been taken into his hold, his arms lightly wrapping around.—a perfect fit.
Familiarity took embrace of him, her scent and giving support as reassurance.
But even with his eyes closed, even though he could see her there curled beside him, Mu knew it wasn't true. Imagination couldn't take reality away.
But he could dream—if only for one night. And he smiled at the thought.
"Happy birthday," he whispered quietly, finally being pulled away into what he needed.
In the darkness of sleep, a tear slid from his eyes, finally resting, soaking into her pillow. In his sleep, his hold clamped tighter.
Hoping never to let go.
...
This was supposed to have one of those happy / "things are looking up" kind of endings, but I didn't put it in for some reason. I might put it up as sorta an 'epilogue' to this chapter (can I even do that?—if you don't mind a bit of 'randomness' then, yeah maybe)
Oh, and this was kind of influenced by my habit of 'snuggling' up to my pillow when I sleep. . . . Yeah . . .