Tonight he’s been here since exactly twelve o’clock, the moons long since crawled up in the sky, red analog reads three oh nine AM. For whatever reason, he’s decided to stay tonight. Is that a good thing? 

You can’t tell if it’s a good thing or not and your heart rate spikes up with each sound. You stare holes into dry-wall if only to avoid staring at him. 

The guest room really has become your home, courtesy of Nico, who’d brought your things up and made a big deal of decorating for you, muttering something about Fortunan hospitality and ‘this is what friends are for.’ — turns out she took over your lease and through grumbled complaints, has apparently waged a war against ‘Shadow’.

Posters are plastered up showcasing various bands and artists (hers, you realize, it’s the thought that counts.), your clothes are hung in the closet, sparse and muted pieces, just the essentials really. What little trinkets ‘livened up the place’ watch over you from shelves. 

It isn’t much. But it’s home. For now, at least.

When Nero initially wrangled you into Devil May Cry, you didn’t intend to stay long but a month turned into two and so on and so forth. Now with it nearing the middle of June, you’ve settled in with no choice but to grow used to forced interaction. 

You’ve even managed to come out more since then, though you can’t say much has really changed. 

The room is deathly silent and frigidly still. Your hand remains tucked under your pillow, the other rests besides your cheek. The bed feels impossibly large and sadly empty, your side tingles a bit, as though sensing his proximity. It clearly misses the man in the chair. 

You’d turn and ask him to join you if he’d listen, and if he didn’t still scare you. When nights are long like these, you can’t help but wonder if maybe there’s something wrong with you. 

How is it possible love found you in the strangest of places? In the oddest of bodies? 

Your list of lovers is embarrassingly small for twenty four, men stayed away from you and you from them. The one that finally slipped through and left his mark in your psyche, disastrous V. 

For some reason, you have always been labeled as ‘other’ in the eyes of suitors, only the strangest dared to tread into No Man’s Land. Was there something wrong with you?  Some small little flaw you’re unaware of, a grating laugh? A little too much where there should be little, less where there should be more?

Why couldn’t you attract a good, normal man? Why’d it have to be V?

You peel away at these thoughts little by little. It’s all you could really do so late at night. They pile up at your feet, reminiscent of a pathetic pile of petals and murmurs of; ‘he loves me, he loves me not’.

Love has always been your choice of drug, you’d scrabble for bits of it from the orphanages Matron and Mother Superior when she’d come by, you’d stuff your nose and search for it in letters and sentences if only to lap at a drop of it, but with all drugs there’s warnings; ‘Danger; Keep away’. 

Abuse them too much and you get addicted, too little and you’re left wondering if you should’ve done more, if one more hit would keep that itch away. You consider yourself trapped in vicious withdrawals, alone and shivering, burning from the inside out and sweating through your skin.

You’ve only garnered enough experience in the romance department to ascertain you are very, very prone to falling into delusion and not at all qualified for the job of lover. It makes sense why you were ignored and passed over the more you think of it, there is something wrong with you. Has to be. Who else would cling this hard to the first olive branch extended? 

The realization is corrosive and it’s not a new one. It’ll be forgotten by tomorrow. A hole punched in the wall and patched over with spackle. Good as new.

Blame Sanctus for preaching purity and chastity, blame the Order for forcing you into sisterhood, blame Nero, even, for keeping boys away simply because you were friends with the island's ‘weirdo’ and just as orphaned. 

That brings you to a new question, you've long accepted there’s no sleeping now nor anytime soon, might as well continue to analyze your life in the confessional box of the night. 

All roads lead, inevitably, to Vergil. Proud, glacial, Vergil.

Conversation didn’t come easy with him, mundanity irked him — he’s not used to it, you realize. It was blunt, awkward and seemed more as though he was curious about jarring and pinning a particularly evasive bug than anything else. 

In his eyes, which one would you be? A hundred legged and ugly? Worthy of being crushed? Or gem-winged and worthy of preservation?

Why do you even care, actually?

Nero’s forced conversations gave you crumbs to work with, days he spent talking at you gave you some information, helped you come to the conclusion Vergil was like that with everyone. Where Dante was easy going and eager for conversation, Vergil shied away from it, slunk away to some corner to brood and observe a life that excluded him not from cruelty, but because of his own adolescent idiocies.

You still can’t help but wonder if he’d been waiting on you to address the elephant in the room further during your most recent ‘chat’ — it can’t be called that, really. All that had happened was you caught him, disheveled and half-asleep, rummaging through the fridge late at night. 

“…What’re you doing?” You’d stopped in the doorway, sleep shirt hanging off your shoulder.

He’d frozen solid, an opossum who’d been caught by a pack of dogs and decided to faint. Every muscle locked up, either voluntarily or not, and you’d seen it. God. You’d gotten an eyeful of it, watched them ripple under his skin in waves.

You had to ignore the fact that Vergil apparently sleeps half naked, plaid sweatpants, no doubt hand-me downs from Dante, hung low on his hips clinging to the V-line for dear life because he, apparently, doesn’t believe in using the strings to secure them properly. His coat had gaped and hung open, slipped off his trap just in time to give you a peek of his biceps. 

It had clearly just been thrown on hastily for the pretense of ‘modesty’. It hid nothing.

He’d recovered and rose to his full-imposing length with something in his hand. The silver light of the fridge illuminated his abdomen and the barely there trail of hair leading down his tummy, if your eyes drifted further up, you’d see how toned his chest was, would’ve made your stomach churn if you stole a real glance. 

V was a flat board, every inch as smooth as polished marble, Vergil wasn’t. You should’ve looked away, you’d wanted to, instead you’d found yourself staring at something else other than the dips in his abdomen. 

The incisions on Vergil’s stomach stared back at you, raised skin side by side, aggressive and Yamato-shaped or maybe Rebellion-caused. 

Your face had twisted before you’d schooled your expression. What was that? Was he…? No. It didn’t make sense. Vergil wasn’t…Vergil was the type to throw himself into battle to deal with his feelings. No, no, it didn’t matter. Not right now at least. It was late and all you’d wanted was a snack. You filed them away, whatever Vergil had gone through in life to have a line of faded lines scored beneath his navel was not your concern at that moment. 

“I am…hungry.” Oh. You were too. The granola bar in his hand was comical. Vergil eats like a bird. 

“Oh.”

“Life is treating you better?” He’d asked, though he knew the answer. “You are faring well?”

“No.” 

Vergil let no indication on whether he cared or not seep through. He’d simply nodded and sidestepped, holding the fridge door open for you, a gentleman before all else that night. Apparently. 

Really though. How were you even supposed to bring that up to him? To anyone? You’ve revisited that scenario over and over in your head, striking up a conversation with Vergil that is. Or even simply how to keep one going? You turn the question here and there, searching for any hint to solve the puzzle. 

Were you supposed to talk to him about his son? 

You can’t imagine talking to him about Nero, the boy whose life he missed out on. 

Was there anything you could say that wouldn’t remind him he’s a (unintentional) deadbeat? Without making him feel a tinge of guilt? Or whatever he could consider to be guilt. If he feels it at all. (Vergil isn’t that heartless, you know, however resentment still sits at the bottom of the lake of your heart, it’s sediment stirred up when you sink too deep.) 

Were you supposed to talk to him about The Man™️ sitting in Nero’s spot who hasn’t moved a single inch? Yeah. Probably that. You momentarily forgot V was still there until now and like that he’s dragging you back down under. So much for distracting yourself. 

You would be shocked if you turned to find it was just his corpse sitting there and not the dust he was turning into towards the end. At the very least there’d be something of him left, something to return to the dirt, to give you some semblance of closure. 

Because that is what you want. Closure. If you can’t have the man himself.

It’s pathetic, it’s human, and a part of you understands that you need to love yourself a little more than this. However, the rest just desperately wants a part of V back and the ghost in the corner is of no help.

If there had been a body for a funeral, you’d be the first to throw the dirt, the last to leave, and the only one to visit when yet another year came and went. If there had been nothing but dust, you’d keep him in a little box, perched on your shelf besides the singular polaroid taken. 

You’ve ascertained there was nothing left but Vergil. A derisive scoff leaves your lips. Whatever. Whatever. You should be happy. Nero has his dad, has family, has Kyrie, is happy. That’s what matters most. 

Doesn’t it? Vergil’s trying, and your grief is dampening the mood. 

You swallow down shards of glass, close your eyes to count sheep. Sleep, sleep, sleep. No more thinking. One jumps over the imaginary hurdle, and the rest of the herd follows, one bleats and the rest do too. Mob mentality, if everyone else is happy, you could be too.

The room is still terribly silent save for the white noise of the air conditioning that’s guttered up and kicked on again. You clear your throat free of nothing, take in a deep breath and let out a slow stuttered sigh. It does nothing to wave away the jitters of knowing he is still there. 

Inevitably. The question is posed; what exactly does Vergil know about your relationship with…himself? Mortification begins to flood your system, your fingers twitch and you’re painfully aware of figurative ice sliding down your spine. 

Does…he know about the nights spent indulging hedonistic urges? 

Embarrassing. Embarrassing if he does. Horrifying, actually. Does he also turn those memories over in his head? Inspect them from every angle? He has to. You’ve seen him half-naked and somewhere in the corners of his mind he’s seen you putting a contortionist to shame. 

You shove the thought away, you can barely look at Vergil now. How are you supposed to look at him if you run with the assumption that there’s a very real possibility he knows what you sound like in bed? 

Oh god. God no. No he doesn’t. He can’t remember that. V took those memories to the grave with him. He had to have, must’ve clutched at them the way he’d always cling to his book and cane and for your own sake Vergil doesn’t remember anything. 

The urge to curl up and tug at your hair is violently there again but— you can’t do that anymore. Instead your fingers curl and death grip the pillow. Kyrie’s orders, and as nice as she is, her mother-henning has only gotten more stricter, terrifying. 

“You have to eat, it’ll all go to waste if you don’t,” 

“C’mon, let’s go, up! up!” 

“I raise children that are more stubborn than you, I could raise you too.”

The lump beneath the blanket expands and falls erratically and at the very least, V knows you’re still alive. If he even cares. 

You’re convinced he really is just doing all this to take you down with him, if he could hold the blade, you’d let him. If only to escape the cycle of grief and the unshakable realization that Vergil, of all people, knows abstractly that you’re easy to please. 

And isn’t that a little romantic? In a morbid Shakespearean way, you suppose. Fitting for a man who was all prose and poetry. To take you with him to his grave. 

The darkness beneath your eyelids does nothing to make this better. It doesn’t make it go away, no, it only intensifies it. Realistically, you should’ve taken to drinking some sort of sleeping medicine. Dante has some down in the fridge, you last saw the blue bottle was only half empty. Sneaking down wouldn’t be an impossible task to do, you’ve come to learn which steps to avoid and what are the chances you run into Vergil again? 

You take another deep breath and shift beneath the covers, lips parting for a yawn. Maybe you don’t need it, actually. Any moment now and you’ll blessedly slip beneath—

“You’re ignoring me.” 

Or not. Or not. or not. or not.

The air in the room, already stale and freezing, seems to rival the arctic’s chill. Your heart sinks to your stomach, burns in the acids then skyrockets back home between your rib-cage, jack-hammers against bone. 

No. There is no way you heard that right. 

White stars explode behind your eyelids, the pressure making your brows twitch and tremble. Your throat constricts, phantom-fingers strangle, squeeze tighter and tighter. Or at least that’s what it feels like. 

That thing has his voice too. How is that possible? All these months he’s never spoken to you, never uttered a reply when you begged him to talk, never even let you see his face. So why now? Why now when you’re actually attempting to ignore him? To make him go away out of sheer boredom? 

Is he only speaking to lure you in? He has to be. 

“Beloved.” 

That playful lilt is in his voice again, the pet name that drops from his tongue, once sweet, now feels profaned. It’s taken that too. There’s a shift and creak of leather indicates he’s leaned forward. Intrigued, maybe. Intent on seeing how you react, as if he’s pinned you down to a corkboard and set a magnifying glass over you. 

If you were to peer over the blanket's edge, what would you see? Blankness where his face should be? 

You don’t want to open your eyes. You can’t. You rely on what you can hear. 

For a long while there’s nothing, just the sound of your blood rushing in your ears and the building settling, creaking and moaning from age. A single groan from old pipes is what you expected to hear from V if he ever actually spoke to you, instead you heard his voice. His. Impossibly soft and always amused. 

Are you asleep? You have to be. It’s the only time you ever heard his voice again. When did you fall asleep? Just now? Counting sheep actually worked? Then is this some dream? (Nightmare is more correct and apt. Dreams are pleasant, this is anything but. Your very own horror movie.) 

Then, you hear it. Leather creaks, either his pants or the seat again, however it's followed by a dreadful sound that makes you nauseous and want to scramble to the furthest corner and scream. A quiet shuffling you recognize as slow shambling footsteps.

He’s dragging this out. A small whimper catches in your throat, you could scream. You should scream. Nero would come in an instant, or Dante would. They’re only down the hall. Just one ear-piercing shriek and you wouldn’t be alone anymore. V would vanish.

…V would vanish. 

The realization stops you from screaming bloody murder until your throat goes raw. V would leave. He would. And whatever this is would slip through your fingers like sand. This, as horrifying as it may be, is progress. 

“You’re upset.” He’s pointing out the obvious, ignoring your distress, the way you’ve curled up into a tight little ball beneath the blanket, animal instinct. Protecting the softest parts of yourself in the midst of a predator. The belly, the chest, the heart.

“You’re scaring me.” You whisper weakly, small and wobbly. Hardly sounds like yourself. 

The closer he gets, the more you realize this is real and then there’s that damning scent again. Not coming from him, you know, but from the stupid shirt playing pillow case. Forced to breathe it in deeper with each inhale, self-inflicted, but what other choice do you have when you’re pressing your face against it to burrow away from him?

“You’re hurting yourself.” V’s hand gently rests on your shoulder, you flinch and fight the urge to shove yourself away, to put as much distance as you possibly could on a queen sized bed, uncaring if you’d eventually tumble off.

Unfortunately, it’s as if sleep-paralysis has settled over you, your brain screams for you to run yet your limbs are frozen. 

His hand moves down, the rings on his fingers steal the warmth from your skin, he peels the blanket away to invite his touch. Cold air kisses away at the lingering heat you used as a shield. You have no reply to that but a sob that escapes. You are hurting yourself. Deeply and gravely, but not mortally. 

Why is he doing this? 

“Stop,” A shudder leaves you as his fingers dance just above your elbow, they’re warm. So, very, warm. As his fingertips press in and trail up again, he maps skin intimately before dipping down and laying his palm flat against your shoulder blades.

Why is he so warm? 

You pray he stops but V was never one to listen to you, not when you’d tell him to take it easy and never did he listen in bed, never in grief and much less would he deign to listen to you now. They press against the tip top of your spine before they move again, upwards this time until they bury themselves in your hair, strands catch on his rings and he doesn’t have the decency to untangle them. 

The pull on your scalp screams ‘this is real.’ He gathers as much as he can and pulls your head back gently and insistently, paying no mind to the gasp and whimper you let out, part in protest and mostly in fear.

He maneuvers your head, forces you to turn and look at him. Really look at him. No hiding in the shadows anymore.

“Look at me,” V murmurs, his other hand cups the unearthed side of your face, he presses his thumb into the fat of your cheek urgently. “…please. Look.”

V’s plea gets you, he, in general, will always get you. Hook, line, and sinker. You force your eyes to open and in an instant you feel that sting.

It’s V standing over you, peering down at you, looking the same as he did the first day you’d seen him shambling into the van right behind Nero. 

You stare back up at him through rapidly watering eyes, tears blurring him into just a shape before clearing when they slip over your lash line and down your face. The sob you let out is guttural, frame-shaking and pathetic. His hand leaves your hair the instant he’s certain you won’t hide from him again, finds a new place on your body to call home. 

V sinks down to his knees and cradles the side of your face gently, his thumb strokes away your tears, not minding the fact you’re falling apart in front of him. He’s seen you like this for a year, after all. You’re sure he finds beauty in the morose. 

After staring at him and drinking in the sight of him, you find it in you to ask in between sniffles and sobs. “Why…why are you here?” 

Here encompasses the vast, the present and the past. 

V doesn’t bother to respond with anything of use. “Why do you think I'm here?” He tilts his head again and smirks, makes you feel dim, as if there’s something you’re not getting. 

“To torment me.” You blurt, leaning into his palm the instant he minutely pulls away. V seems to process your admission, that too, is no surprise. It does however bother him a bit.

“Is that what you believe I’m doing?” V shoots the question back. That’s one thing he was good at doing, circling and circling. 

“It’s what it feels like you’re doing.” You argue, your own fingers twitch where they’re curled tightly against your pillow. You correct yourself. “It is what you’re doing.” 

All these months of agony, of watching him and feeling him but never really having him…what else could that be? Torment in its purest form.

V clicks his tongue. His eyes drift down towards your hand, emerald green and so very lively. His hand leaves your face, fingers curl around your wrist. He finds some resistance, but not enough for it to truly mean anything, your palm cups his cheek, he holds your hand there and stares at you silently, black lashes drift shut and he sighs before nuzzling against your hand. 

Your eyes go wide. Your brain is still playing catch up with the fact that he’s real. You always thought that if you were to touch him, your fingers would phase right through him leaving you to feel stupid, that you’d feel nothing but ice if you could touch him. But no. He’s here again. Home again. Alive again. If only for a little while.

“Can you stay?”

V’s eyes open slowly. They meet and hold your gaze, undecipherable. V was always hard to read when he wanted to be, which was often, but they shut again and words murmured against your inner wrist nearly make you sob. 

“Of course.” 

And your intended isn’t exactly showing any signs of changing courses anytime soon, when Vergil gets that furrowed brow, you know he’s enthralled. 

You sigh, a long drawn out thing that screams ‘pay attention to me’, the only complaint you have is when Vergil reads anything other than poetry, he gets lost in it. For the past hour there’s been no; 

‘This section, would you like to hear me recite it?’ 

‘Would you be willing to indulge me? I believe…’ 

‘Have you ever read anything like this? No? You’ve missed out then, if you would allow me to—’ 

And very rarely; 

‘…Do you believe we’re like the lovers in this passage?’ 

Instead all he’s been doing is ignoring your slighted glare. His only response, the rustle of a page turning and a slight shift to accommodate you further. You hate him. You adore him. Obsession is too light a word to describe what you feel for Vergil.

“Vergil.” 

Nothing. You still stare up at him, plastered on your face is an expression that might rival that of a fat pudgy cat expecting another treat from its owner. However, even the most subservient of owners must put their foot down eventually, Vergil is still deciding if today is that day. 

You’re confident it isn’t. You can wear his walls down. 

You try again. “Vergil.” 

Blank. But his lips twitched. That’s one stone tumbling off the ramparts. 

“Verge.” 

That gets him. It annoys him. But it gets him to react and that’s a win in your book.

You suck your lips in as if it doesn’t further enunciate your smile when you see one pale blue eye slide down to meet yours, what little he has of a brow dips down to furrow.

You’re beaming at him, and if he’s as smart of a man as he claims to be, then he knows what you’re thinking of doing.

“What.” He says it flatly and you wonder what it is you even see in him. Your lover is frigid.

You’re silent for a moment, cataloguing your beloved's face as if it’s the first time you’re seeing him and not the thousandths. 

Vergil’s eyes are deep-setted and gorgeous, his brows are thin and as previously stated, all but nonexistent unless the light shines on them just so, his lips are plush and kissable, pouty when he sleeps, thin and tucked away when his brother annoys him or his son says something particularly Dante-like. 

But, his pupils dilate just so when he stares down at you and you wonder if Vergil does the same thing you do when he looks down at you like this, if he adores your dopey smile as much as you adore his cold stare. 

Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, and you confirm your theory to be true when he presses it further against your palm. He’s cold to the touch, yet late at night you know him to be a pillar of warmth, when the sun's up and you're away from the privacy of your shared bedroom with it's blankets and pillows and lockable doors; you just have to coax it out of him. 

“I love you.” You murmur, low and honeyed. Vergil exhales as if you’ve annoyed him, but his own fingers betray him. They rub back and forth through your hair and against your scalp, his glare doesn’t soften, but the set of his jaw does.

“You’re peculiar.” Vergil isn’t one to talk.

“How?” You know what he’ll say, and you regret giving him the opening. 

“You are well aware of who I am, what I've done,” Vergil starts and you nearly roll your eyes.

Here he goes again, droning on about how you deserve better, someone normal. A man who could age with you and die with you. Someone who hasn’t tried to end humanity twice. Someone you can bring home to your parents. 

You’d love to mimic his droll flat tone and spout the words you’ve come to memorize, intone them just so ; ‘I cannot give you the softness you deserve, I can only give you myself as I am—’, but last time you did so, he all but mauled you in bed as pay back, sunk his teeth deep until his canines met, pinched muscle between them rather ruthlessly and left marks you swore you saw Dante laughing at and Nero cringing at-- 

Wait. 

Your mind snags on that particular memory, you claw for it to come back as it fades. Vergil’s lips closed around your shoulder, his teeth drawing blood, his grunts bordering into growls, his hips smacking against yours…

A repeat isn’t such a bad idea, actually. A refresher. 

It’s actually probably really needed just so you never think of doing it again, actually. 

But. 

Vergil pulls you from your thoughts before the idea could fully take root. He knows that distant scheming look, a nudge brings you back to the surface.

“…and yet you’re still here expectant.” 

You snort. Of course you’re still here. You know Vergil’s game by now. He’ll point out his flaws like an insecure teenager fishing for compliments, and when he gets said compliments (in this case, reassurance) he’ll go quiet and silently preen. 

He’s predictable here only because this is the only battleground where you have the upper hand. What Vergil lacks in experience when it comes to navigating romance, you have in spades. He probably thinks he's being subtle using this tactic, he's as loud as a siren.

You shrug. “I’m here because I love you.”

Vergil’s eyes narrow. Everything fell on deaf ears again, but those three little words get a ‘hmmph’ from him. Satisfactory. You hadn’t said it much all morning and he was beginning to worry. 

Love is, again, a light word to use. It didn’t matter if you didn’t hear his whole spiel, surely he’s found some new flaw to tack on, not that it would matter. 

Sparda himself couldn’t pry you away from his son. 

Truth be told, Vergil doesn’t understand what exactly it is you see in him, he’s waiting every single day for the other shoe to drop, after life like he’s had, nothing could be this easy without it being a set up. But that day has yet to come, and you’re keen to keep it like that. 

That settles that. Vergil’s content to set his book aside and pay you the attention you’re due. It closes with a loud thump and once it's on the end table, his arms wrap around your upper half gently. His chin rests atop your head, you smell nice. Like him, as you should, given he’d washed your hair with his soap earlier.

Vergil tucks your face further against him. If you keep peering up like that at him, he might fold and give in to whatever wicked whim you’re wishing for. (There isn’t much resistance to begin with, Devil May Cry is blessedly empty, the fact you left the shower at all and unscathed is a miracle.)

For now, however, you’re both more than happy to soak in each other’s presence, content to be within the others arms. The sun streams in from the window, melts away your worries on mornings like these, warms your back just enough to coax a very long sigh from you and everything falls into place. 

No stress, no noise, just you and Vergil. 

At least until Dante comes barreling in.

The killer of all things good, sunk its teeth right through Leon’s carotid and dragged him off some years ago, it seems. You lean against the kitchen island and silently take in how barren your home suddenly is now. 

The pictures were the first things that went. Not that there were many of them to begin with, only a select few handpicked by Leon himself because he always looked like he was constipated in any you took — fishing trips with Chris, one trip to Italy Spring of 08’, a few from D.S.O. holiday parties, and some from end of year ceremonies when he was in between having too dark hair to be considered blonde and hair too light for it to be brown.

It’s surreal coming to terms that in a week this place’ll be someone else's problem. A new family will settle in and all traces of your marriage will be completely overwritten. They’ll argue over what color to paint everything over and start fresh. The sage green you’d painstakingly picked out with Leon would get replaced with something beige, or worse. Grey. 

God, isn’t that a dreadful thought. 

But, that’s the point of all this, you suppose. A full, fresh reset. If they want to paint over the ghosts of your marriage and turn over a new leaf, they can, they paid for the place after all. Hopefully they get around to fixing the creaks in the staircase or the leaky sink. Lord knows Leon was never going to get around to it.

You open your mouth to speak. "You talked to the realtor? Everything's squared away?" 

Despite being in the email thread, you still ask. The answer is a confident 'yes', it's just hard to fill in the blanks where laughter and easy breezy conversation is supposed to be. 

How do you even make conversation in this sort of scenario? Are you supposed to throw a blanket over the elephant in the room and ask him how’s it going? Pretend it isn’t there and talk about work? (Last you knew he was griping about having to take a rookie under his wing again. How long ago was that?) 

Ah. It’s a little too late anyways, the boxes are piled high beside the door, tomorrow they’ll come get the last of it and it’ll be on its way to storage til’ you both get your own places and move forward. Leon hasn’t gotten his own apartment yet, neither have you. Chris’s bachelor pad has gotten a little more sadder. 

“I don’t know, she didn’t call to confirm.” Leon starts, then grumbles beneath his breath. “Let me check...” 

He pops his hip against the island and reaches into his pocket. You frown. Didn’t he reply first? You could’ve sworn he had. You don’t call him out on his ‘bad memory’. Instead you settle in and watch his fingertips dance across the screen, let him pretend neither of you are on edge and painfully aware of the other.

You can't help but notice the pattern is the same. It’s those little things that become engrained enough for you to realize he hasn't changed his password yet, a string of numericals spell out your anniversary. 

You’d click your tongue and tease him for still having it set to something so sappy, something holds your tongue, dries it up and scatters the ashes elsewhere, the words ‘Seriously? You’re so corny,’ unwilling to form. 

You like to think he’ll change it after you’re gone, replace it with some other important date or nonsense and let the wound heal over. Yeah right. You roll your eyes at that. If you know anything about Leon, it’s that even if something wasn’t to have been his fault; he’d still lose sleep over it regardless. You must’ve exacerbated it by insisting it wasn’t. 

Is there even a chance he’d change that after you’re gone? 

You really can’t imagine a world where Leon would ever be the type to turn a new leaf and let the wound scab over, he’s always been the sort to pick and prod and keep it fresh and raw. Pour salt and a splash of lemon juice in it every once in a while wondering about the what could’ve beens and the what ifs. 

“You find it yet?” You prod, his finger gets to swiping again. 

“Still looking.” Leon grunts. You have half a mind to pull your own phone out and call his bluff, you’d find it in mere seconds. Leon’s got his lip jutting out and his brow pulled tighter than usual. He’s thinking. 

About what? 

Is he just trying to come up with something to talk about too before parting ways? That’s sweet, in a real sad, prolonging-the-inevitable way. 

And also probably just you projecting. 

Whatever, you’ll play along for now, let him have this. You’ll find something else to do while he turns questions over in his head and no doubt, handpicks the best joke to lighten the mood. 

Inevitably, your eyes wander. You can’t help but note Leon looks as if he’s aged another decade this past year, oddly enough. You don’t mean it in a bad way, he looks good. More than good. 

It’d be silly to say he looked anything less because of his age; you aren’t young either anymore, your roots show just as much as his do. Greys pop in faster year after year, but that doesn’t make you any less attractive. No, a mature woman is a well seasoned one, there’s an appeal to that.

The same applies to a mature man. 

Leon’s greys stand out like little grains of rye amidst wheat. You remember when he’d first noticed them, they looked like platinum highlights then, not so much now. He’d freaked out, ran his hands through his hair and sat on the couch for a good long while, worried himself to death that he’d be slowing down soon. He’d been thirty seven then. 

What did it matter if he wasn’t that young agent anymore? An older man is still a functional one, for the most part. If you ignore the wrinkles and looked shoulders down, you’d almost forget a man like him has real bad back problems.

Leon’s always managed to look leagues better than most men his age, he still has a waist anyone would understandably envy. His biceps have real muscle coiled through them, earned through hearty meals and rigorous exercise — no steroids or supplements here. 

Your eyes dip from his pinched brow, down the slope of his nose and towards the main attraction. His sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms, veins pressing firmly against skin, no extra skin to sag and leave him soft. 

Leon’s handsome, always has been. Makes you wonder what he saw in you to stay all these years.

 There isn’t necessarily anything special about you, as lame as it is to accept and admit. Back then you'd felt like you’d been shoved into the deep end of the pool and left to drown when you’d stumbled onto the dating scene, a doe caught in sights. 

Leon had to have had other options, anyone with eyes could come to that conclusion. It always gnawed on your nerves, that thought; he could’ve had anyone else, someone with more experience, more confidence, more everything in whatever department you lacked in. 

But he stayed with you. Through all the bumps, Leon patiently held your hand, kissed your worries away, and promised he’d be there tomorrow. You guessed it was easy for him to be there when your flaws were considerably smaller in comparison to his.

Your eyes flit up to his face again, they trace the moles and beauty marks, one hidden against his adam's apple, another beside his nose, the rest are scattered across his body. Your eyes linger on his jaw. It’s hard to ignore he’s let his stubble get a bit scruffy, salt and pepper dotting above his lips and below. 

Leon never let it stay for that long because it never came in evenly. It was his biggest gripe. He’d run his hand along his chin and complain underneath his breath every other morning. If you could chalk it up to a change in style, that he’d suddenly decided to let it go rogue, you would. 

But you know he’s the type to stick with what works. 

He cared more about maintaining it with you around, it seems. You look away before he could notice you’re staring, focus all your attention on the marble counter top. 

God you hate yourself. You hate him, you hate this house, you hate everything that has to do with the ugly thoughts that led you to settle on divorce. 

If you could disappear into the walls, tuck yourself behind drywall and become some ghost story, — ‘…didn’t Leon used to have a wife…?’ ‘Yeah, but they got her.’ sort of deal — you would. He’s used to loss and grief, it would’ve been a much easier pill to swallow if you’d been lost. It would’ve been better for your love story to end with an em dash. 

But you’re alive, and you’re here, and the papers will be signed come Monday.

Your cheek finds its place against the palm of your hand. You’re certain Leon’s bullshitting you about looking for that confirmation email. It’s been three minutes of this tense god forsaken silence. 

The grey clouds outside are suddenly more interesting than thinking about or looking at Leon, Leon, Leon.

Outside, summer rain showers bring the promise of thunderstorms, muddy roads, petrichor and puddles. There was a time where you loved the rain, before Leon. (There he is again, he waltzes around in your head and you wish he’d trip.)

You’d open your windows and let the sound lull you to sleep, then get annoyed when a puddle would form on the floor or on the window sill. A few drops splatter against the window pane, the first to trail down like tears. 

After Leon, you couldn’t find too much beauty in it, not when you’d wake and find him wide eyed, staring at the ceiling. He never did like stormy nights, you always found him staring up at nothing in the middle of the night, stuck in some trancelike state you had to navigate carefully lest you step on a landmine. 

You find yourself hoping Leon’ll be alright tonight. He never did tell you why he was so clammy, always had something to do with work and you got it, you did. You just hope he doesn’t take to the bottle again.

On the other hand, you still find it difficult to sleep without having him next to you. A mountain of pillows makes for a poor substitute, can’t replicate his warmth or the sound of his breathing whenever he would manage to fall asleep before you did. 

You shift and let hands your clasp together against marble, forehead pressed against them in mock prayer. What does he really think about all this? Like really think. Not the stuff he’d said to try and make this seem amicable and mutual. 

Is he as nervous as you are? Does he even want to make small talk? Is he just waiting for you to bring the axe down again? 

‘Hey, I gotta go, actually. Thanks for the years and whatever, bye.’ You’d love to kiss the barrel right about now if he really is just waiting for you to initiate the goodbye sequence and you’ve just been standing here waiting this whole time, deluding yourself.

You want to laugh. Small talk. That’s what you’ve both been reduced to. The last hour you had both been so focused on clearing out what was left of the place there was no real time to try and play house again. He’d give you that awkward stare if you tried to ask him what he thought about the weather lately.

God, what if he hated you?

"Mhm." Leon finally grunts and breaks you out of your reverie, pulls you out the downward spiral before it can drag you under. "Everything’s good. The attorneys are settling the split." He slips his phone back into his pocket and turns, taps his fingers idly against the marble.

You lift your head up, your smile tight and out of place. “That’s good,” You sigh and rest your chin in the palm of your hand again as you settle into a ‘relaxed’ posture. “I’m glad it sold for more. Would’ve been a scam if it didn’t.”

Leon opens his mouth to say something, all that comes out is a quiet ‘amused’ scoff before his eyes go downcast in thought. Conversation was never this hard to make with you. Its weird how suddenly you two became estranged. You shared meals, a bed, a home and last names for years, yet somehow it feels like he doesn't know you at all anymore.

It feels wrong. 

Ending things was never his forte, should he just say goodbye, shake your hand and call it a day? Things would be easier that way, it'd be a cleaner, neater, less awkward cut than whatever this was quickly becoming.

And there it is again. The silence. You run your tongue across your teeth and bite back your sigh. God you hate him.

It's funny to think there was a time where you could just skip town, stop answering calls and travel around. Just drift from coastal city to coastal city, wind in your hair, sun on your skin. But you can’t really ghost your ex-husband now can you? Not when you’re this close to the finish line. 

Maybe in the future you’ll consider it, punishment for some guy who won’t understand signals of disinterest, if you even decide to date after Leon. 

Leon opens the door for escape, "You need a ride or..." 

“No!” You scramble to pull your own phone out, “No, I got um. I got one…I’m staying with Val, she actually dropped me off so…I’ll just call…” You trail off and start typing out your; ‘Hey girl! Everything’s packed up :) Save me from this please?’ message. 

“Val?” Leon drawls the name out like it’s unfamiliar, your friend group is a variable he never considered much, a bunch of girls he’d heard about a handful of times and saw very little of towards the end. 

Your friends never really came around to begin with, living cities apart tends to put that sort of strain when it comes to keeping close. And if they did come around he was always off somewhere else, saving the world and wondering if you’d had dinner midway through. 

“Yeah, Val. You met her.” You clarify, brows drawing together in confusion. “At our wedding, she was a bridesmaid? The red head?”

Leon contemplates this. It’s not that he didn’t remember your wedding and who all was there, it’s that all he really remembers from that day is you, you can’t fault him for that. 2007 was a long, long time ago and the world nearly ended a handful of times in between the years. 

…Lanshiang, New York, Alcatraz — to name a few. Forgive him for not memorizing the bridal party. 

Then, it clicks. He remembers a Valerie, though he’s not sure if it’s this Val. How could he get it wrong? How many red heads go by Val anyways?

He nods and snaps his fingers, stuttering on a hum. “She uh, she’s the girl who fell during...” He trails off and scratches the nape of his neck. 

You finish the sentence for him. “Her heel snapped before the photos.” You snort. There we go, it did ring a bell.

“Right. Her.” He leans against the island too, mirrors you and glances towards the front door as if she’d walk right in and haul you away by your forearm, save you from this situation and that’ll be that.  

“Is she on her way?”

You glance down at your phone and feel your heart sink. “She’s forty something out…” You mutter and offer him a small awkward smile. Leon’s brows furrow again. “She lives on the other side of town.” You tack on and wave your own set of keys at him. 

“You can go, I know you have that thing with Chris, right? I can lock up.”

The thing with Chris. You say it as if it’s a super important event and not the two of them drinking themselves numb in the corner of some poorly lit dingy sports bar. He loved that about you, always managing to find some way to make things sound better than what they were. 

He’ll miss that. He’ll miss a lot of things, actually.

“I can wait.” He shrugs. “Chris isn’t doing much today. He’s..”

“…still on bed rest.”

“…still healing from his last mission?

You both finish the sentence at the same time. Different variations but the same conclusion at the end of the day; Chris’s arm is fucked.

Leon snorts, a small smile makes its way onto his face. “How’d you know?”

“Claire.” You smile back.

That’s another thing. Your lives were so intertwined it’s gonna be hard to ignore you’re gone next time they all go out for drinks. It already is.

“So forty minutes?”

“I guess.”

— x-x-x-x-x-x —

Somehow, you both end up in the garden. It’s easier to sit in silence when you’ve got the rumbling of thunder and the chirping of frantic birds to fill it for you. The only place where you can comfortably sit on is the bench bolted down to the gazebo in the backyard anyways. 

The movers took the couch weeks ago, the staircase grew to be bad for Leon’s back after five minutes. At any rate, you’re sure a nail would come through if you sat on it for long.

There’s a respectable distance between you two where you’re perched, not enough room for Jesus, but it’s certainly there. Soft purple passionflower, fruity and fragrant, trails down the column beside you, its vines searching blindly for something to cling to. 

You steal a glance at Leon. He’s sat with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head tipped back, adam’s apple protruding like he’s got something stuck in his throat, his eyes are closed, seemingly content to take a load off and soak in the sounds. 

You settle in too, not as comfortably as he has, but enough to let out whatever tensions left over. You’ll miss this place. 

The garden always was your favorite, Leon had the gazebo installed year five as an anniversary gift, one peek at the board of magazine clippings you kept was all it took for him to hire contractors and plan it out. You’d bought flower bulbs in bulk just so you had something to do while he painted it white. 

Come spring it always brought in all sorts of bugs and pollinators — mourning cloaks, and sootywings on overcast days, monarchs and swallowtails if the sun was bright enough. You wonder if the next family will tear it down in favor of a pool or something. A playground for the children you and Leon never got around to having or if they’d install one of those little playgrounds like the neighbors had. 

Absent-mindedly, you bring up a random memory that pops up in your head. “You remember when the neighbors built that privacy fence and put that big ass camera up?”

Leon snorts, he pries his eyes open and stares at nothing in particular. “That guy was a nut job.” Leon mutters.

You laugh and shift in your seat, conversation rumbles to life, purring contentedly. “We always had shitty neighbors.” You hum, dipping further in. It’s easy to talk about the past. “Remember back when we lived in those shady apartments?” 

It takes Leon a while, but it dawns on him eventually. He only lived in two apartment complexes with you, the last one was nice and isolated, notably. The unit across was empty the two years you both stayed there — something about it being the landlord's show unit. 

That leaves the other option, and those apartments make way more sense. The apartments he used to live in near the DSO, back when he actually valued being on time and you two had just started dating. Living there was fine for him; it wasn't until you moved in that he realized he had to get you both out of there. Being near a government building doesn’t necessarily guarantee the people’ll be model citizens.

“Yeah. Yeah I do.” He grunts. “The guy who always thought we were stealing his packages. Asshole tried breaking in didn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” It sounds ugly when he puts it like that. “He was just…on something.”

Leon rolls his eyes and stares at you deadpan. ‘On something.’ It doesn’t exactly give a man permission to bust down a door over what ended up being a package that got held by customs. That’s another thing, you always downplayed things. It’s a huge part of why he can’t believe you when you say it’s not his fault. 

He’s known you for years and still can’t find a real deal-breaking fault, but he can pinpoint all of his. So how is he supposed to think that somehow you’re the reason this didn’t work? 

“Right.” he drags it out, making it clear he doesn’t believe you. He wasn’t home for it, so all he ever had to go off of was the frantic phone call you’d made. That guy was on something, though. Had to be. “I should’ve just moved into your place.” 

You quirk a brow. Your place? 

Your apartment before him was less of a home and more of a shoebox, it had the basics but that was it. One bedroom that instantly transitioned into kitchen, dining room and entryway. If the neighbors smoked, you smelled it.

You huff. “My place wasn’t any better.” 

At least Leon’s had a hallway. And it was near a park you’d both frequented when he wasn’t too tired after work. Dumbarton Oaks with its fields of peonies, tulips and draping wisteria. 

You don’t think you can ever go back to it without thinking about Leon, he’s cursed to haunt the grounds with you forever, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

Your lips curl slightly at the edges. He loved that place in the spring too. You turn your head to face him a little better. “Do you remember—“

“Sorry I never got you that dog.” Leon says out of the blue. 

Whatever you’d wanted to drudge up slinks back into sludge. It gets a little reaction out of you though, the words die in your throat. Your expression is a mix of bewilderment and amusement - brows twitching, lips pursing. Why does that matter now? 

It’s a cliche, the pet every couple gets and then has to coparent. You forgot all about that, he’s dusted those memories off and buffed them out. The late night conversations that came whenever you’d bring it up come roaring to the forefront, the ones that always ended up turning into plans for the future. 

At the time, you’d shown him some big, dumb looking chocolate lab with its tongue lolled out and its head cocked to the side, of course he said no. It was too big a dog.

‘We should get a dog, there’s this shelter nearby that...’ 

‘…No, we don’t even have room for a dog that big…‘ 

‘…we can only get a dog if our kid asks for one? That’s not fair, that’s so far away!’

‘Sounds fair to me, princess. A dogs a big responsibility…’

‘Yeah, I know. I had three, but what if…’

But that was then. This is now. A dog really would’ve been nice, it would’ve made the house feel a little less lonely, Leon wouldn’t have had to install so many cameras if you had gotten a big dog like you wanted but…

“Sorry, what were you gonna say?”

You wave the memories away, tuck them back into whatever box they tumbled out of. “No it’s fine,” You tuck one leg up onto the bench and wrap your arms around it. 

“I know you were like, scared of them.” 

Leon scoffs,  “I wasn’t scared of dogs.” It sounds absurd. It sounds weak when you put it like that out loud. Leon. The D.S.O. 's legendary and longest standing agent. Leon.

Leon S. Kennedy. Afraid of dogs. 

“You’re not?”

“No, it’s just,” he pauses, and you wish you’d just let it go. 

There’s a story there he never told you. You wish you couldn’t read him so well either, but his eyes tighten around the corners and give him away, he never could look you straight in the eye when he was hiding something or lying. 

“Does it really matter now?” He settles for that, doesn’t mean to sound so bitter, but he does. 

There’s a lot of things Leon never told you about nor explained; the keychain, the nightmares, why he’d been so exhausted as of late, and why he’d pulled away and why he’d been disappearing, — another thing you had to forgive, your lawyer would’ve hounded him in court if you hadn’t. — everything is on a need to know basis, and you technically, don’t need to know. 

There’s no point in badgering him in attempts to get him to spill his guts. These things really do just…not matter anymore, if you couldn’t get him to be honest while married or at least extend a sliver of an olive branch, then what’s the point in trying to do it now? 

They can remain as he’d like them; mystery’s, left abandoned to collect dust alongside the memories. 

You try for something light hearted, your smile is soft at the edges, understanding as much as it could be. “It’s fine to be afraid of dogs.” You tease and roll your eyes, nudge his shoulder with yours. “I would’ve been fine with a cat. Or a little dachshund, we didn’t have to get a lab.”

Leon rolls his eyes and leans away from you, slumps into his corner of the bench. It isn’t odd for him to do this, now that he’s got a grip on himself he does this when he’s found himself needled. Instead of reaching for the bottle, he shuts the doors and searches for some sort of reprieve, walks circles in that head of his and still lets the concept of ‘talking things out’ go forgotten.

Ah, you’ve walked yourself into a trap. Your smile falters, and just like that, the easy going atmosphere dissipates like a drop of water in a hot pan. 

Was it something you said? (Of course it was.) Or was it something you hadn’t? Did he want an apology? Some sort of understanding? Maybe you should’ve brushed it off, said ‘No, I really really didn’t want a dog anyways, let’s talk about the park please.’ and steered the course back to safer waters. 

It doesn’t matter, you repeat. It really doesn’t. You’re stuck in a loop of apathy, dancing to a tune you don’t quite recognize and can’t turn off. The pitter patter of rain softens its sharp edges, though it doesn’t completely erase the need to fill it with something light hearted. 

You glance down at the tan line on your ring finger. It’ll take a while to go away, a lighter shade to remind you of what once was until you slip on another. Though you doubt you’ll remarry. Your eyes find Leon again, you wish it was easy to get lost in your thoughts and forget he’s here, let the minutes pass in relative peace; it’s harder to ignore the fact he’s still got his ring on.

You curl your fist and pray he hasn’t noticed yours is missing, it’s tucked away in velvet, left on your vanity to lose its sparkle. The guilt settles heavy in your heart, a snake creeping through the grass that makes you think twice; why does he still have it on? Was it too early to take it off? 

There must be some sort of guideline to divorce etiquette you’re missing. 

Was there a vital bullet point tucked in one of the blog posts you skimmed through that you actually needed to read? ‘The Do’s and Dont’s of divorce; don’t take your ring off until months after your divorce is settled, it looks bad if you do.’ or some other quirky point written by some ‘journalist’. 

The answer to why he has his on is simple, why kid yourself? Leon didn’t want this, there’s no room for miscommunication there. No oh, well, maybe he knew it was dead and didn’t want to pull the plug first, no chance of saying it was mutual even if it might be amicable. 

He took so long to sign the papers, dragged his feet and had his lawyer plead for separation first instead under the guise of managing assets and other legal jargon neither of you ever thought you'd have to care for. 

You know he was hoping you’d change your mind, that therapy would’ve made you have a come to Jesus moment and rescind your demand. Unfortunately for him, it hadn’t. And at the altar when he’d said forever and always; he’d meant it, every single word. 

Then, his hair had been shades brighter and a little shorter, his eyes less crinkled at the edges, his suit and tie impossibly starched and a cold sweat had settled at the nape of his neck, he’d stopped wiping it away lest other people notice. 

It was funny to look back on, Mr. Suave rendered down to a fidgeting groom the second the organ began. Every nerve had lit itself on fire the moment you’d walked down the aisle to meet him at the finish line. 

At what moment in time had the spark fizzled? What had he missed? (Besides birthdays, trips you’d started to organize alone - no longer clinging to hoping he’d get the days off, and date nights.)

Suddenly the world’s been turned over on its head and he’s meant to forget all about you and all the things you like. Life is supposed to go on and he’s supposed to let the feeling of your hand in his become a distant memory; you’ll be preserved in an imperfect film, the exact moment you fell out of love burned away in the negatives.

One thing resurfaces, however, was this why?

“You think we waited too long to have kids?” Leon asks with the subtlety of breaking glass. Was it then? Had he waited too long? You never gave him a clear answer the night you’d asked for divorce, he can’t help but want to peel it all back and get some clarity. 

Would you have stayed if he had gotten you pregnant? The question buzzes around in Leon’s head violently, he’s poked a hornets nest, the poison sinks into his system because the answers yes, isn’t it? 

You stiffen visibly, the spotlight is rather harsh. Your heart stutters and comes to a stop in your chest. You hate this line of questioning, everything in your body’s gotten the jitters. So it seems he remembers those conversations too. The topic always came up, in conversation with friends, after grocery trips, in the comfortable silence that followed after dinner. 

The house always felt like something was missing. A dog, a cat, a damned parrot. Something that made noise. Something that breathed life into this house. Anything so long as it wasn’t just you and the late night news. 

Those two little babies always manifest and never go away when you think about them too hard. The pitter patter of little feet running up the stairs. A boy with that cute little dimple in his chin. A girl with moles scattered around like ink droplets. 

What traits or physical attributes would they have gotten from you? Would they have been all Leon in the face or would hints of you be there too? You would’ve torn the gazebo out for them too if they wanted a pool. But, you have to let them go. 

You know now the solution would’ve never been children, they would’ve simply been just that; another thing that would’ve filled the silence that came after he was gone.

The only semi-truthful answer you can find comes out naturally. “I…I don’t know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye. Leon’s jaw is shut tight, molars working against themselves to death.

You’ve come to terms with that, it’s too late to have any of your own either way. No choice but to march on with time. You don’t resent him for wasting your youth, Leon couldn’t ever change the fact he was a man who would’ve never really been home, you knew that when you married him. 

You just thought that something would’ve changed down the time. Maybe things would've been different. 

That’s on you isn’t it? 

“Did you really want kids?” You don’t shy away from asking. Dreaming out loud with Leon was your favorite pastime.

Leon rubs his hand against the scruff on his chin, manages to grit out, “Always wanted a girl.” He risks it, meets your gaze head on. “Would’ve looked like you.” 

Your eyes widened slightly, thrown off guard. “Still?”

You figured he would’ve changed his mind and wanted a boy like every other guy seemed to want, could’ve raised him up to be like himself. Named him Leon Jr or something dorky. Just not Scott. You wouldn’t have let him name your son something that dorky. Leon can let that die with him.

“Yeah.” Leon smiles, it brightens the storm clouds around him, it's infectious, you feel your own lips itching to match his mood. He’d have been a good girl dad, he’s got some experience, after all. 

“Yeah?” You reach out and shove him lightly, a real smile tugging on your lips. “You would’ve annoyed the hell out of her.” For the first time since you’ve started this whole process, Leon chuckles. The sound is low and rich though carrying a weight he lets out in the sigh that follows. 

“You annoyed the hell out of me.” You murmur in jest, it’s lighthearted, he knows. “But she would’ve loved you for it, I loved you for it.” You rest your cheek against the top of your knee and trace the lines on his face, he’s still as handsome as the day you met him, you don’t even notice what you’re starting to say. 

“Still do.”

Leon stares back, his eyes have widened a bit but that all doesn’t matter much now. He’s still your tired Leon with his sad blue eyes, worry lines etched in his forehead. With his greys poking out through the blonde — if it could even be considered that anymore, it’s as brown as ale now, aged just like that. — that frames his face. He barely even has smile lines but he musters another big one up for you, accentuates them. 

“Yeah?” He rumbles lowly.

You don’t retract it. “Yeah.” 

Time itself seems to come at a standstill, everything else blurs. And suddenly, it’s the first summer you both spent out in the countryside after he came back from Spain, and it’s beginning to feel like you never uttered ‘I think this just isn’t working anymore.’ to him.

It rained then too. You could almost pretend that’s where you’re at again, out in the middle of nowhere skinny dipping like brain dead teens in horror flicks, he’d questioned how smart the idea was yet still followed you into the lake muttering warnings to ward off ‘big ass fishes’.

Leon shifts in his seat, turns his body towards you subtly. This is a bad idea. You swallow the thought, Don’t, don’t.. your heart races in your ears and drowns out any reason.

You shouldn’t play with his feelings. Your gaze is pulled downward to settle on his lips, dusky pink and still plush. Don’t. You remember when he’d stopped shaving, somewhere in between 2014 and 2015, you used to hate the beard burn then, you wouldn’t mind feeling it again now.

“I’m sorry, I…” You mutter, “I..I shouldn’t have…”

Leon’s eyes flick down just a fraction too. He always did like the slow burn, you’d play coy and dance around what you wanted, and it’s killing him to know all he’ll have after this is memories that’ll slip through his hands like sand. 

The fractures start to show, eyes lingering a second too long for people who are supposed to be moving on after this. The distance between you two became negligible somewhere along the lines enough for them to have long dissolved. 

You both move at the same time, all coordination goes forgotten when you come to connect, his nose knocks against yours before your lips finally meet again after having spent half a year apart. Your other hand latches onto the front of his shirt, his finds the curve of your cheek, the jigsaws always fall into place.

Your tongue rolls over and against his, the scant space when lips part is filled with shared breaths and desperate pants, the rains pouring down eagerly now, splashing off the gazebos railing and splattering against the stone, but none of that matters now, not when he’s hauling you onto his lap by your hips like old times. 

Your hand reaches out to tangle in his hair as you shift  and crowd him against the benches corner, Leon’s hand grips your waist, adjusting your thighs to bracket his. 

“Right here?” He cracks one eye open. Yours are screwed shut.

“Mhm.” You pant, your breath is hot against his lips, his teeth clack against yours. “Please.”

That sweet little ‘please’ does all the work for you, his blood rushes southbound all in one millisecond, they left one blood cell in charge upstairs and that one too is screaming ‘go! go! go!’. 

Leon keeps you firmly on his lap, one hand rests against the small of your back while the other scrambles down south, working his fly open just enough for future ease. Your lips meet his time and time again, it’s nice to kiss him when he doesn’t taste like whiskey, even better after being deprived of him for so long, you’ll ignore that it’s self inflicted. 

His tongue licks into your mouth softly, swipes against yours with a sigh of relief. How long has he been thinking of doing this again? Too long. It’s hard to kill his attraction for you, it isn’t some switch he can just turn off. 

You’re it for him, you always were and always will be. It doesn’t matter if he’s gotta sit parallel to you and sign his name on a line come Monday, if it makes you happy. He’ll do it. But right now he can be a little selfish, can’t he?

“This is a bad idea.” You hiss, a reminder to you both, his hand still works its way up your ass, hiking your pencil skirt up enough to expose a whisper of lace. 

“I know.” Leon murmurs against your lips, swallows down whimpers and gasps alike. “Just once. ‘s all it has to be.”

Liar, liar, liar, liar— 

You cling onto that just once and guide his hands. He’s right. It’s all it has to be. Just one teensy mistake.

You nod dumbly, helping him shove your panties aside, his fingers prod along your slit clumsily, that sharp intake when he dips them between flesh makes you feel slightly self conscious, you’re wet, unmistakably so. He parts your folds with a quiet click and all your worries melt away the second he finds your clit, rubs it softly with his index and makes you stutter out a sweet little moan.

“You needed this, huh?” Leon huffs, it’s easy to fall into line, he hasn’t forgotten this dance just yet, his fingers circle and your clit, “Didn’t mean to let it get this bad.” 

Your eyes flutter shut before opening again to watch his face. Leon presses his forehead against yours and closes his own. Two slip in down to the knuckle and out to the tip, rhythmically pumping into your entrance playfully, enough to stimulate, not enough to please. 

He did let it get this bad, what with him being gone all the time and leaving you with nothing but a bunch of plastic to fill in the gaps, how gracious of him to finally make it up to you. But you won’t leave him hanging, even if you should.

“Let me help,” You sighed, “please?” 

There it is again, that magic word. He never could say no to you, didn’t help he never wanted to in the first place. Leon shifts slightly, tips his hips up and lets you do all the work, it’s hard to focus on anything else but the warmth radiating from between your legs. 

Your hand slipped in between you both to find his length, through the fabric of his briefs he’s warm but noticeably, soft. Half-hard, if you were generous, nearly flaccid if you weren’t, it would’ve been a bit of a blow to your ego if the problem was you there. But it wasn’t. Your hand still slips into that weird little gap in his briefs, it was for easy access you assumed.

It was him, age does these things after all, nothing to be ashamed about, though you know he is, in fact, ashamed. You can count on your hands how many times you’ve seen him get pouty when you’d recommend that little blue pill.

“Still having problems?” You murmur against his lips, languidly stroking him to life, thumb rubbing the vein along the side, slipping up to tug the skin encasing his frenulum down, worrying the edge of his cock head til it starts to weep pearly beads of pre-cum.

“Don’t put it like that.” Leon groaned, pushing his cock further into the cradle of your hand, rubbing his fingers through your folds a little harder before lightly smacking them against your pussy for punishment, you jolt and squeeze a little too hard. “Still working, isn't it?”

Now it is. You rut against his fingertips for more, press a kiss to the tip of his nose and smoosh your forehead against his. “Yeah.” You glance down in between you both, watching your hands work in tandem, his stuffed between your thighs, yours working over his lap. 

Leon’s cock stiffens up to attention, all his blood going right where it needs to be, thickened up and engorged as much as it could possibly go, your thumb drags a few more beads down to slicken him up, palm twisting to work him not over, but nearly. 

Your eyes squeeze shut, your strokes lose their rhythm, blurring faster than you intended, you could never lie that when it comes to this, Leon knows you as well as you know him, maybe even more so, he’d turned you into his own pull apart - put back together attraction over the span of a decade or two and somehow never managed to get bored. 

Always found something new to fixate over, a new place to bite, another to nip and suckle at. If you were in your bedroom, he’d have you belly down, ass up for the next hour or with his arm coiled around your neck, but, alas. From here on out, you could only dream. 

A choked whine leaves your lips, the slick that’s collected on his fingers makes for easy traction, his fingers work in earnest, two spread your entrance open, scissoring before twisting in deeper. Leon feels the exact moment the pads of his digits start to bully your sweet spot, your cunt clings to him and your whimpers scream: Right there, there, there, there— 

But, he stops and pulls out abruptly. Your pussy clenches strongly around nothing, a protest of its own that leaves you chasing the feeling you’re being suddenly denied of, humping the air and wondering where his fingers went. It isn’t long until you figure it out. 

You let go of his cock when you feel him take over for you, gripping at the base and effectively relieving you of duty.

“You ready?” His other hand cups the bottom of your ass cheek and tugs it aside, spreading you open and lining himself up clumsily. The tip of his cock nudges against your opening and notches itself to land. You bite the tip of your tongue and fight the urge to impale yourself with him.

“C’mon, yes or no.” Your eyes flick up to Leon’s face. He’s so smug. Staring up at you with that little gleam in his eyes and an easy grin. He sinks you down just an inch more, watches you gasp before tugging you back up. Bastard.

“Yes, please.” You nod dumbly and wrap your arms around him like he’s come home from a particularly long mission, let your body cover his and spread your legs as much as you can without making it hard on him.

The ruddy tip of his cock kisses your folds again, he misses once before he finally notches himself in, parts them with relative ease, sinking in deeper inch by inch and ignoring how his cock kicks and throbs with each warm sigh you let out against him. Your pussy is mind-meltingly warm, slick and viselike, if he weren’t careful he would’ve shoved himself into you instantaneously. 

Leon was big, there’s no room for arguing there, he’s always had a cock that makes you think twice before going in with little to no preamble like this, if it hadn’t been for his hands holding you steady you would’ve squirmed away, begged him to kiss it better and really work you open with his fingers, not whatever he was doing before. 

It felt like he was splitting you open in the best and worst ways possible, each whimper and whine soothed away bit by bit by him shushing you and rubbing little circles into the divots of your hips to distract you.

One thought makes its way through the haze. You aren’t going to last, your thighs squeeze shut as best as they can, granting your poor clit the friction it’s still begging for, though in a small amount. It’s hard for Leon to focus on lasting in the first place too when your pussy hugs him so tightly, it misses him, that much is clear. 

Maybe that’s the part of you that misses him more than your heart does. 

His fingers dimple the fat of your hips, squeezing and kneading, savoring the way flesh gives beneath the pads of his fingertips, if he holds on hard enough he won’t let himself get carried away by the wave. 

“You okay?” Leon pants. He presses kisses where your cleavage is pressed against his face. Suffocate him, why don’t you? 

You peer down and catch his gaze. Leon’s pupils are blown, black swallows up blue until it’s a thin line just around, eyes half-lidded like he’s on downers and ready to nod off. You like Leon most when he’s just as lost as you are, makes you wonder why you stopped having sex in the first place.

“Uh-huh,” You cradle the back of his head and press him closer against you. “C’mon, kiss ‘em for me.” Your other hand tugs the cups of your breast down just a bit, enough to pop a tit out and offer it up for his pleasure. 

You don’t have to tell Leon twice, he takes one into his mouth and teases your nipple between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make you shudder out a moan and shut your eyes. The pleasure-pain has your pussy clenching around him tighter than it has before.

“Fuck,” Leon hisses in between kisses, his hips jolt forward to chase his own pleasure now that your body’s reminded him exactly where his dicks at. Leon starts to steadily rut up into you like it’s your last day on earth. 

And in a way he isn’t wrong, it surely feels like it is. 

Any moment now a big rock will come flying down and wipe out humanity and you’ll die in his arms like you’re meant to. Vows always speak of for better or for worse, until death do us part. So what is he to do after this?

His palm slides down to grip onto the soft flesh of your ass, uses it as leverage and holds you just where he wants you. He’d take you hostage if he didn’t have morals. 

You tip your head back and let out a low throaty moan, arch closer and plaster your tits further against his mouth. “Shit—” You whine, your hands plant themselves firmly against his shoulders, “Leon,”

Your mouth hangs open, half choked moans and words tumbling out in between gasps. Leon’s constantly adjusting his hold on you, starting to become uncertain with where to put his hands. Too pussy drunk to really care, each thrust sends a wave of heat through your core.

Your nails dug in as much as they could, praying they’ll rip through fabric and make contact with skin, score him to make certain he’s real and this isn’t some dream you’ll wake up from to find yourself sweat slicked and embarrassed to see you’ve rutted yourself against a pillow.

How long has it been since he’s last fucked you? A year? Two? Your cunt answers for you, too soaked for it to have been any less. No, it couldn’t have been that long. The last time you’re certain he had you like this was after he’d come back from the middle of nowhere, it doesn’t narrow it down but you know you’d been crying then too. 

You always do.

Wait.

You’re crying? 

You open your eyes and stare up at the roof, a snotty intake of air and a real sob is all Leon needs to hear to come to this realization too. Your chest expands and stutters half way. You’re crying?? The lump in your throat is confirmation.

“Why’re you crying?” Leon rasps out, your heart is being squeezed in a vice, he slows his thrust. His cock slides in and out in languid, syrupy strokes meant to let you get a grip, give him an answer that isn’t ’I don’t know.’ or a moan.

You force yourself to tilt your head down, sobbing softly against him. It’s not that you don’t know what you’re about to say, it’s that fucking Leon without saying it feels wrong. You love him. You do love him. Enough to let him go. Enough to not let your relationship deteriorate further. You still love him enough to be able to say it and mean it. 

“I love you,” You whisper hoarsely, “God, I love you.”  your own hips start to work themselves in tandem with his, taking him in deep and whimpering when the tip of his cock starts to shift from hammering against that little spot to grinding against it, wringing stars out from the sky’s above. 

Leon groans like you’ve punched him in the gut, in a way you did, his head tips back and rests against the bench’s back rest. His eyes screw shut. You don’t mean that. You couldn’t mean that. Not while you’re drunk off pleasure and high off the tension, it isn’t real this way. 

“I love you,” You repeat raggedly, dipping your head down to hide against the crook of his neck, your spines being lit ablaze, flames traveling up the base to melt your brain. You whine his name and curl further into him. He shifts just enough to press his forehead against yours again. His jaw clenches.

Your noses bump against each other unapologetically. 

“I know,” He grunts, “I got you, fuck, baby I got you. Always do.”

The truth is, he doesn’t. He hardly ever had time for you those last few months. And you can’t stand feeling so alone anymore, missed birthdays, holidays, anniversaries...it all piled up. You’d rather die than end up one of those bitter bored housewives who stayed for the money. 

You love Leon enough to know he deserves better. You know he feels guilty for not being home so often, it’s best to just rip the bandaid off now. 

At least for now you can believe it, pretend everything’s alright. It feels like it is. It feels like you’re twenty six again, giggling under his bedsheets and finding out what makes him tick all over again. Pressing kisses against his face and teasing him for going redder than he already was. 

You open your eyes to find he’s already staring at you. So close you can see the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and that his lashes have got greys too. 

He's close. You can recognize that expression anywhere. His lips are pulled up in a pained snarl. His grunts turning to groans, slipping past his lips and reminding you how pretty he sounds when he’s about to cum. 

“I love you too,” He parrots, catches your bottom lip between his teeth and presses his against yours again, swallows your words before either can dig the grave deeper. His arm bands around the small of your back, his fingers dig into the fat of your waist, hips smacking up against yours, that nasty squelch of slick flesh meeting again and again emanating louder between you two.

Your throat closes up, the knot that’s formed behind your navel starts to pull loose little by little, your half-bit keen comes in time with the pulsing of your inner muscle around him, if he’s delusional enough, he could believe you’re apologizing for breaking his heart in morse code. 

Your hips twitched and jerked as you squirm and pull off, crying out that it’s too much, what hasn’t been emptied inside you spurted out and trickled down the length of his cock, both of your chests heaved in similar cadences, body’s going tense to jelly like in a matter of seconds, boneless and gone to the word.

Only when you met his gaze again and the afterglow started to fade, did you realize what exactly happened.

— x-x-x-x-x-x —

You stuff your compact mirror back into your purse.

For the last five minutes you’ve been scrubbing away the evidence off your face. Mascara trails down beneath your eyes, bits flake off and coat your cheeks like soot. Tirelessly, you’ve tried wiping away the flushed color from your cheeks, ignoring the way they burn. 

While it’s easy to blame the rain for your dishevelment, it’s harder to ignore the jelly-like condition that’s suddenly rendered your legs useless.

Leon stands awkwardly behind you, he’s been adjusting his jacket for the past couple of minutes, tucking his collar up, slipping the extra in his waist band before pulling it back out, and sneaking glances he thinks you don’t notice.

God. The silence is worse this time around.

Your gut churns violently like waves crashing again and eroding a cliffslide. You’re stupid. You’re an idiot. An ingénue who let herself get carried away with the storm and scrabbled for land, solid and familiar. It’s still raining, it’s worse than before actually. You wonder if that’s the world trying to tell you something, maybe it’s berating you; for fucking him after divorcing him, for divorcing him in the first place, for telling him you loved him during, for not taking it back after. 

Where would you two be if Leon had just tried? Would you have managed to find happiness again? Would he have found the time to come back to you as he was? 

You didn’t mind having him jaded, drunk, mean, anything so long as he was there. You patched over those gaps, tucked them away out of sight, out of mind because at least he was there. Ugly and down in it, drowning in the currents right there with you. 

And you know to some extent that these shadows and breaks were necessary, that he had to keep you in the dark and away from him as much as possible, it isn’t his fault. Leon couldn’t have known you’d grow this tired, he suspected it was a possibility, but he never let himself really acknowledge it. You’d vowed to each other, hadn’t that meant something? 

Maybe it’s for the best things ended this way. There’s no real way to patch a fracture this wide, no way to bridge it when one party can’t compromise. Things are easier this way, they’ll have to be. What other choice do you have?

You already were indifferent to some degree towards the end, if you’d have ended up really hating him, wishing he’d just die in some corner of the world so you could collect…You scrub your hands against your face again. You’d rather this than that.

Your face is wet, breaths come out in puffs against your shaking hands and you wonder if it’s left over droplets from the rain or fresh tears. Does Leon regret this as much as you do? God, you could just take it all back, throw yourself at him and beg; ‘Please don’t let me divorce you, call the lawyers, it was a mistake, I'm so sorry hun’, i’m so stupid, I love you.’ 

You could try, you could get on your knees and grovel and Leon would hold you like he always did, he’d kiss the top of your head and cradle you like you’re something soft and small and in his arms you’d believe you were, he’d say you’re not stupid and he’d promise you things like he always has—

“That can’t happen again.” You blurt out. The rustle of fabric behind you stops. Your tongues gone numb between your teeth, bad habit. 

You don’t want to turn around, your bloods both frozen in your veins and boiling hot bubbling beneath skin, the silence behind you is deafening, until you hear Leon exhale through his teeth.

When he finally opens his mouth, he tries for a joke like always, “Was it that bad?” 

It doesn’t take a genius to hear it’s lacking his usual bravado. ‘No hard feelings’, you could hear it clear as day in his tone. 

“No, it’s just…” You keep your hands pressed against your face then they slap against your sides rather loudly. Don’t make me say it, you want to say. Won’t you please tell me? you could hear him say in return if he knew.

You force yourself to turn and take one look at him, a risk, and it tells you all you need to know. He came to the conclusion the moment you’d scrambled back inside, it’s in your eyes, in your pinched brows and pouted lips, in the tears you hide under the guise of rain droplets.

“No, I know. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.” Leon apologizes first and your heart splits in two to hear that dejected tone he’s trying to hide so hard beneath gruff timbre. Your Leon, always the one to take the blame. 

Your vision blurs again, tears stinging like nettles. ‘I’m sorry, Leon.’ is all you should say, all you could say. You’d repeat it over and over again until you both believed it. But it’s exactly what you won’t say. Leon’s zipped his jacket up and settled against the doorframe, you need to pull the plug, he needs to pull it. 

It’d be better if you took one for the team, let him be the one who leaves first for once. 

“My rides almost here." You swipe at your eye and mumble. You’ve no idea where your friend is, forty minutes have long since passed. “I’ll um…I’ll see you Monday.”

Leon stays silent, stares at the floor, then at you. You think he’ll say something, fight you about it, force you to shake off this weird mood so it can be like before again. Instead he just hesitates and nods, always too good at taking orders.

“Yeah.” He mutters, patting his pockets for his phone and his keys before he reaches for the door handle. “See you.”

The door closes with a click shut behind him, and maybe you preferred the silence from before. You don’t know what’s worse. That look on his face, the flat sound of his voice, or being left behind to wait alone in this big empty house. 

Watching Leon go still makes a lump form in your throat. Reminds you of the nights he’d wake you before he went off on some mission, leaving you behind with a soft kiss and a ‘Love you, be home soon.’ 

After a few minutes of mind numbing silence, you move towards the window on your own accord and lean against the window, just out of sight. Leon’s already sitting in his Porsche, head pressed against the steering wheel. 

The rain trickles down the pane and obscures your vision. You think after today, you’ll come to hate it too.