Chapter Text
“Please leave, Arthur. I can’t do this with you right now.”
Private whispers; the quiet of her voice blanketed further underneath the heavy tolling of the longcase clock indicating the far too late hour for dinner. Theo’s strides dwindle to a near halt at the threshold to the kitchens to hear those words.
A furtive glance into the kitchen reveals the couple’s backs; the sight of Arthur sending a nervous frisson through him: the dark signs of exhaustion, tell-tale, beneath his eyes fixated on her back, the man eases a slow hand through his hair as if in consternation — an anxious force of habit.
“Come now luv. Let’s not dawdle over trivial matters anymore and spend our days fighting… please? It’s tiring… for the both of us.” Quiet words; they lack their usual vigor as if their current argument is a drill he’s been over countless times.
“…You’re right, let’s stop.” A part within berates Theo, merciless, to leave the two to handle their own affairs — the gentle frisson that takes her shoulders, as if she would fragment into dust were she left alone stifles his sense of reason. Theo steals closer to the entrance to hear the sanguine rise of Arthur’s voice. “So then…”
A dreaded feeling tides slow, all wrong — scotching low within Theo’s belly, churning over with her next sentence. “I… I’m exhausted too, Arthur. I can’t do this anymore. We—” Her voice; splintering at the seams. “We need a break.”
Silence descends; a suffocating cloak drawn over festering wounds — almost deafening in intensity before Arthur rasps out a poor imitation of laughter; grating and torment to hear. Restless fingers his friend moves to scrub across his face as if in preparation, calling out her name. “Please… don’t do this— I need you.” Extending hesitant arms towards her before embracing her, Arthur secures blanched grips against her arms, pulling her back against his chest. Imploring her to reconsider.
“I….” Her voice tapers… then rupture as if she’s on the cusp of tears herself. “It’s probably for the best. We’re… hurting each other, the way—the way we are.” At that she turns in Theo’s direction; it’s almost too late for him to retrace his steps. He chooses to step into the sweltering kitchen. The two exchange swift looks of misery before turning away; the sight has him raising a careful brow in feigned ignorance at her before her gaze steers away from Theo’s.
“…I won’t be needing dinner tonight,” Arthur hastens out of the kitchen; signaling the end of their quarrel.
Cautiously watching her, Theo ambles closer; slipping hands into his pockets to conceal the fists wanting to unfurl towards her in comfort. He exhales a quick, quiet breath through his nose, leaning his weight against the counter in casual concern. “Everything alright with you two?”
“Yes.” Her reply is quick, without thought; the response of a liar. Theo’s brows furrow at the sight of her hand quivering around the handle of a knife poised to chop a half-sliced onion. Trying her best to imitate an air of normalcy but as long as Theo has known this woman — she has never been one to be able to mask her emotions, her thoughts flitting across her face: readable as a clear, cloudless sky. As much as he found that naiveté in the past, in this moment it brings him nothing but contemptible respite to know he sees through those clocked motions of hers. The glazed stare she tries and focuses hard enough on her task in an effort to distract herself.
Theo drops the façade of keeping his distance, capturing her shivering hands within the palm of his own, halting her progress on the diced vegetable. Alternate tremors traverse up her arms as she supports herself against the cutting board, stifling tears pooling within wide, unblinking eyes.
Rapid flutter of damp lashes she tries to get rid of them with but fails. “I’m sorry Theo… it’s… it’s just the onions. I’ll be okay. It only stings a… a bit.” Her voice breaks away into muted sobs and Theo slips a hand onto the crown of her head, letting the stilted petting motions of it smooth across her hair.
“…Don’t apologize over foolish matters.” A nod is all she offers and he continues the foreign actions for a long, long time; as much as it takes for her to settle. And when she does—
“…Dinner’s late tonight, huh? I’ll have it out soon.”
She doesn’t speak of their disagreement. Not a word. Perhaps he should’ve pushed it even if he came across an importunate idiot. For the next time he finds her at his door: breathless and close to collapsing under the weight of her distress — knuckles blanched, the skin stretched taut from how tight she’s balling her hands into fists, her one sole query spilling from her lips, “Do you know of Arthur’s whereabouts? He hasn’t been home in two days.”