Silence

They're in the middle of a fight. When aren't they?

This one is more insidious though, it's been days in the making and it doesn't involve as much shouting as it usually does. There's silence instead. Heavy, bitter silence that poisons everything.

Effie hates silence.

Silence is how her parents fight – if it can be called fighting at all, she doesn't think there is enough interest for each other left in them to even consider that a worthy activity. Silence reminds her of boring lonely afternoons spent doing nothing but sipping tea with her mother and sister, her only preoccupation holding the cup just right. Silence, to her, means dismissal, disappointment and disinterest. Silence, to her, is rejection. Silence, to her, is the worst thing that can happen between two people.

There is a reason she fills it with chatter, laughter and questions.

And yet this time she cannot find the right words. The mindless gossip dies on her lips, the fake laugh refuses to leave her throat and she's too afraid of what sort of questions she would ask.

Because a few nights ago, she saw him bent over the pink ribbon clutched in his fist and she was fairly certain his eyes were bright with tears. Because a few nights ago, she made the mistake of thinking he would be too drunk to remember and inspected his old token after having helped him to bed. Because a few nights ago, he thought she touched the thing he holds most scared: a frayed and tattered piece of ribbon that once belonged to a girl from the Seam with dark hair and grey eyes he used to love.

The things that poured out of his mouth, that night… Not so drunk anymore. Not so incoherent. Not so…

There has been no lie. She has no business touching his stuff. She is nothing – means nothing to him. She is just the escort he fucks until he gets a brand new model. They're not friends. They're not anything but anger and hatred colliding in a tangle of flesh.

It hurt. So much.

She can't barely look at him now, can barely bear the weight of his gaze on her nape as she whirls around the penthouse' living-room, straightening a frame here and re-arranging a pile of magazines there to keep up the pretence. As long as she's moving, she can pretend.

She gasps when fingers close around her wrist as she hurries past the couch where he's sitting to see to the vase full of flowers on the dresser. She gasps and the sound seems to fill the room. She freezes but she doesn't dare look at him. She doesn't dare say anything. She's too afraid of her own emotions. She's too afraid she will shatter.

She is nothing to him. She means nothing.

But somehow, somewhere… He started being something, meaning something.

She will never let him know, of course, her pride is in the way of that. But she's scared of betraying herself. He has a knack for seeing under the mask.

His thumb strokes the inside of her wrist and it's almost too tender for them. They're never like that. They're teeth and claws, not…

"Take off your clothes."

It's not quite the demand it usually is. More like a question, an invitation.

Her fake eyelashes flutter hard when she finally looks down at him. His face is guarded like almost always but she can glimpse uncertainty in his gaze, regret.

Maybe he doesn't like silence anymore than she does.

Maybe he knows this went too far.

Maybe…

He lets her straddle him and it's such a rare treat she knows it's his apology. She accepts it and forgives but she doesn't think she can really forget.

They make up the only way they know how: with skin sliding against skin and the sound of slapping flesh, moans and groans chasing silence away.