your princess

“why?”

“art. come here,” you say. a little harsher now. he obliges, and you take his hand and help him sit down next to you. you guide him down, helping him to rest his head in your lap.

he feels vulnerable like this. it feels.. familiar to be here. to be below someone. despite how much it hurts his ego to feel less than someone, he does find comfort in familiarity.

“you shouldn’t have had to go through all of that,” you murmur to him. he frowns. he doesn’t like where this talking point is going, but you continue, “you shouldn’t have had to throw your life away to pursue a dream that wasn’t yours. to win all of these trophies that mattered to someone else but not to you.”

he doesn’t speak. he’s almost angry that you’re bringing this all up. he doesn’t want to think about his ex-wife. he doesn’t want to think about his life, how he only finally retired this year because she left him, and he has been searching in vain for something that eases the heartache in his bones. he feels ill, sick to his stomach at the prospect of facing those feelings.

“you didn’t always do the right thing, but no one does. you deserve forgiveness for what happened 12 years ago.”

you’re an assistant. you planned his schedule each day for years, scheduling him interviews and practice matches, coordinated with the other staff. he saw you every day. he likes you. maybe not more than that. or maybe. he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know what it’s like. his wife had ruined that perspective for him, and now romance, in his head, is foggy and confusing.

but it doesn’t bother you. he’s grateful that you’re being patient with him, that you understand him and meet him where he’s at. he has no need for your job anymore, but you still come by to check on him. he supposes crying with his head in your lap once a week is not an awful arrangement.

god, he is already crying.

“you shouldn’t have had to keep doing something that was slowly killing you for the sake of someone else’s dream. you should have spent your days with someone who loved you. i’m sorry she never gave you the love you needed. i’m sorry you felt used. i’m sorry you lost your passion for what once made you happy… oh, god, art..” you murmur in his ear, god, you’re so soothing, “you’re allowed to cry. you know that, right? no one’s gonna think you’re weak if you cry.”

he is weak. he knows he is. he’s just waiting for you to admit it.

but you don’t. you let him cry, let him. collect himself, let him piece himself back together for the moment, and you smile when he finally looks back up at you.