Status: Completed one shot
The End and the Beginning
The End and the Beginning
-^-
This isn't the way it's supposed to end. It's just not. It isn't supposed to end at all, let alone like this. She knows it. She knows it better than anything. She says it as well, out loud into the empty space around her, over and over again like they are the only words she knows, repeating them until they sound strange in her mouth.
They weren't supposed to end. Not now. Not ever. And especially not by a fight like this, over something so totally meaningless, in retrospect, something that's left them scattered around the floor in pieces.
Not literally, obviously.
She is sitting in her apartment, tucked up in the corner, sitting on the floor and looking at the pre-packed boxes that line the wall, boxes that were packed in hopes and faith of a new chapter, but now sit, mocking her.
And Adam is in his apartment, looking at the shelf he cleared in the bathroom for her, staring at the photo of them hanging on the wall, glaring at the free space in the closet for her things.
He knows it too. He knows that it wasn't meant to finish. To end. To break. Especially not like this.
But he doesn't call her. She doesn't call him. Nobody calls anybody, and everybody gets no sleep, staring at the ceiling all night, playing everything back over, wondering where it all went wrong, where things started to fall faster than they could grab them.
-^-
She doesn't unpack her boxes. She opens one, taking out some clothes and necessities, but she doesn't unpack them.
Not after she gets home from work, tired from a day of plastering on a happy face.
Not after dinner, which she cooks alone, half expecting him to crop up behind her and ask to taste it.
Not before she goes to bed, wriggling incessantly before electing to move to sleep on the couch, where it doesn't feel like there is so much extra space, where it doesn't feel like he's missing, like she's lost him.
She doesn't unpack them the next day either.
Not before her shower.
Not before breakfast.
Not before heading to work, pausing in the doorway to glance back at them, with a stuffy throat and a sinking feeling.
Unpacking them would feel like giving up, accepting things being like this now, accepting them not having a chance to fit back together again.
She doesn't have the heart for that.
-
Adam doesn't move his stuff back over in the closet.
He doesn't take the photo down.
He doesn't spread his things back out on the shelf, and he doesn't sleep, not with such an empty bed, not without the sound of her breathing softly next to him, not without her.
He goes to practice, he puts on his smile and he goes through the motions.
He goes through his workout, gritting his teeth and pushing through it.
He comes home and gets a drink from the fridge, sips from the bottle and lies out on the couch, finally ready to let the burn settle in, let it sting in his chest and churn in his stomach, let it remind him that she's gone.
-^-
Friday comes fast, or as fast as it can when the days cease to matter, when time is so irrelevant, when there is never anything else on the forefront of your mind besides the empty feeling in your chest, the sadness drowning in your eyes.
Her friends come over and take her out for dinner in the evening, try to make jokes and laugh, try to decode what's wrong. But she doesn't want to talk about it yet, doesn't want to discuss it, can't even form the words. So she forces a smile and tries hard to laugh at the right times, tries to look enthused.
And then she goes home, goes back to the spot on the floor, goes back to staring at the boxes, half wishing they would just miraculously unpack themselves while she's at work, have her come home to a full apartment again and take the choice from her.
Though, the other half of her holds out an unreasonable hope to watch Adam come through the door and pick up a box, lift it up on to his shoulder and hold his hand out to her and say, "Come on, come home," while grinning at her with that absolutely flooring grin, the one she hasn't seen in person in four days, but holds on to every time she closes her eyes and plays a moment back.
But the boxes don't unpack themselves, and Adam doesn't come, and he doesn't call either, neither does she, even though Adam sleeps with his phone on the night stand next to him, vibrate on and volume as loud as it can go.
-^-
Saturday is a game day, and Adam is grateful to be able to focus on that for a while, to think about plays instead of the strange way his apartment doesn't feel like his anymore, to focus on getting things right in the morning skate instead of missing her, to get his gear on and get his head ready for the game, rather than stare at his phone, torn between waiting for it to ring or working up the courage to dial the number himself.
She knows Saturday is game day, and she paces back and forth across the bare wooden floor in front of the large window, muttering about how awkward and possibly inappropriate it would be to attend, now, but unable to shut out the voice in the back of her mind that keeps whispering hauntingly, keeps constantly reminding her that she has never missed one of his home games, not in all the time they've been together.
It encourages her to go, to grab her jacket and head out, to maybe even fish the jersey of his out of one of the boxes and wear that instead.
In the end, after pacing for what feels like forever, she does grab the one out of the box, but wears a jacket on over the top. It's an away game jersey, but she can't wear the home one, the one she has been wearing to bed for the last few nights, the one with tear stains and sadness seeped into the stitches.
-^-
It's not going well. The scoreboard isn't making it any easier either, constantly flashing that they're down, down by one, down by two, then three. Adam tries not to look at it. His chest is laboring and his eyes are scanning up and down the ice, his hand aiming the drink bottle for his mouth blindly.
The goal horn sounds again. Adam keeps his eyes on the ice. He can't look at the scoreboard. He's lost enough already this week.
She's nervous, standing in the crowd, yelling and cheering just like everybody else. Her eyes watch him, able to spot him by his build and how he skates, before seeing the confirmation of his name and number on the back of the jersey.
He gets hit, hard, against the glass and she holds a sharp breath, feeling the world slow to a stop around her until he shakes it off and moves off, down the ice and after the puck again.
He scores a goal and she yells her head off, grinning a grin too big for her face, so wide and happy that it almost hurts.
He goes down the tunnel after the first period and she wants to wave at him, to give him a thumbs up, to give some show of support.
Sitting in her seat during the second intermission, she can't quite believe how normal and familiar everything feels.
-^-
He doesn't mean to see her. He really doesn't. One minute he's celebrating his second goal of the night, standing there with his arms open wide for his team-mates to join him, and he looks up into the crowd, scans for her face, without even meaning too, it's just habit now. A subconscious act.
There is a lump in his throat when he can't see her, a sick feeling swelling in his gut.
Then, his team-mates slam in to his side, cheering and yelling and patting his head, his back, wherever, and he doesn't even really feel it, really notice, because there she is, in the crowd, her eyes sparkling back at him, here, even when she's not quite his anymore, cheering him on.
She cheers and claps loudly when he buries his third one, so loudly that her voice fades a little and her hands hurt, bright red and stinging, but it doesn't matter. It's easy to get lost in the familiarity of it all, the checks and the hits, the shots, the blocks and the excitement, the held breaths until Brodeur holds up the puck in his glove, the sheer relief and ecstatic shouts of joy as someone else fires one at the other net and it goes through.
Then the final buzzer sounds, and the game is over, and she has to make a decision.
-^-
The media wants to talk to him, he got a hat trick. They want comment, reaction, they want to congratulate him. He stands and listens, smiles and answers, thanks them and breathes a sigh of relief when they move on to someone else, all the while wanting to be elsewhere.
He showers and dresses, quick and fast, not bothering to tie his shoes or finish buttoning his shirt before he gets out of there.
He's not entirely sure whether he expects her to be there or not. He tries to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping his heart from leaping through his chest, on not getting his hopes up.
She is starting down at her shoes when he sees her and increases his speed.
She grinds the toe of her sneaker in to the ground, her cheeks hot and burning, not knowing whether to feel hopeful or stupid, not knowing whether this is a bad mistake or a good decision. Either way, she can't will herself to walk away, and when he's just about reached her, when he calls out her name, soft and almost quiet, like he's afraid of startling her scaring her off, she is so glad that she came, that she waited, and that he's here, standing right in front of her, grinning that grin that she's missed so much, the grin that she wants to feel on her skin, that she wants to kiss right off his face.
"I'm sorry," he tells her, unable to read her mind, just watching the frozen expression on her face, looking at the thick winter jacket she's wearing.
He doesn't even remember why they fought, who started it, what fueled it or who said what, and he doesn't care. ‘ I've missed you’ is written so clearly across both of their faces and he can't wait any longer, can't stand her so close to her and keep his hands to himself, can't even fathom going back to his cold apartment without her.
As his hands touch her arms, she pulls away, and he chokes on air, or rather, lack there of.
She unzips the jacket and shrugs it off, his number flashing at him from the sleeves.
"I'm sorry too," she smiles up at him timidly.
He wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close against him, tight and strong like he's half afraid she will fall through the ground or something and he will lose her all over again.
She buries her face into a spot on his chest, treating herself to a breath of him, his smell and his warmth, holding on just as tight.
-^-
They go back to her apartment, and while she hangs up her jacket, he bends over a box, folding the flaps right, before lifting it up on to his shoulder.
Her eyes are wide and trepid, the green in them echoing at him, her mouth in a small, perfect circle.
He smiles and holds out his hand to her for her to entwine with his. "Come on," he says, "Come home."
-^-
She unpacks the boxes, putting her products on the shelf, hanging her things in the wardrobe, and then they both stand and look at the photo, hand in hand, holding on tight.
"I love you," she says, her lips at his neck, brushing across his skin.
"I love you too," he replies, feeling the aching evaporate, replaced with certainty and comfort.
-^-
And it's not the end after all. It's just the beginning.
This isn't the way it's supposed to end. It's just not. It isn't supposed to end at all, let alone like this. She knows it. She knows it better than anything. She says it as well, out loud into the empty space around her, over and over again like they are the only words she knows, repeating them until they sound strange in her mouth.
They weren't supposed to end. Not now. Not ever. And especially not by a fight like this, over something so totally meaningless, in retrospect, something that's left them scattered around the floor in pieces.
Not literally, obviously.
She is sitting in her apartment, tucked up in the corner, sitting on the floor and looking at the pre-packed boxes that line the wall, boxes that were packed in hopes and faith of a new chapter, but now sit, mocking her.
And Adam is in his apartment, looking at the shelf he cleared in the bathroom for her, staring at the photo of them hanging on the wall, glaring at the free space in the closet for her things.
He knows it too. He knows that it wasn't meant to finish. To end. To break. Especially not like this.
But he doesn't call her. She doesn't call him. Nobody calls anybody, and everybody gets no sleep, staring at the ceiling all night, playing everything back over, wondering where it all went wrong, where things started to fall faster than they could grab them.
-^-
She doesn't unpack her boxes. She opens one, taking out some clothes and necessities, but she doesn't unpack them.
Not after she gets home from work, tired from a day of plastering on a happy face.
Not after dinner, which she cooks alone, half expecting him to crop up behind her and ask to taste it.
Not before she goes to bed, wriggling incessantly before electing to move to sleep on the couch, where it doesn't feel like there is so much extra space, where it doesn't feel like he's missing, like she's lost him.
She doesn't unpack them the next day either.
Not before her shower.
Not before breakfast.
Not before heading to work, pausing in the doorway to glance back at them, with a stuffy throat and a sinking feeling.
Unpacking them would feel like giving up, accepting things being like this now, accepting them not having a chance to fit back together again.
She doesn't have the heart for that.
-
Adam doesn't move his stuff back over in the closet.
He doesn't take the photo down.
He doesn't spread his things back out on the shelf, and he doesn't sleep, not with such an empty bed, not without the sound of her breathing softly next to him, not without her.
He goes to practice, he puts on his smile and he goes through the motions.
He goes through his workout, gritting his teeth and pushing through it.
He comes home and gets a drink from the fridge, sips from the bottle and lies out on the couch, finally ready to let the burn settle in, let it sting in his chest and churn in his stomach, let it remind him that she's gone.
-^-
Friday comes fast, or as fast as it can when the days cease to matter, when time is so irrelevant, when there is never anything else on the forefront of your mind besides the empty feeling in your chest, the sadness drowning in your eyes.
Her friends come over and take her out for dinner in the evening, try to make jokes and laugh, try to decode what's wrong. But she doesn't want to talk about it yet, doesn't want to discuss it, can't even form the words. So she forces a smile and tries hard to laugh at the right times, tries to look enthused.
And then she goes home, goes back to the spot on the floor, goes back to staring at the boxes, half wishing they would just miraculously unpack themselves while she's at work, have her come home to a full apartment again and take the choice from her.
Though, the other half of her holds out an unreasonable hope to watch Adam come through the door and pick up a box, lift it up on to his shoulder and hold his hand out to her and say, "Come on, come home," while grinning at her with that absolutely flooring grin, the one she hasn't seen in person in four days, but holds on to every time she closes her eyes and plays a moment back.
But the boxes don't unpack themselves, and Adam doesn't come, and he doesn't call either, neither does she, even though Adam sleeps with his phone on the night stand next to him, vibrate on and volume as loud as it can go.
-^-
Saturday is a game day, and Adam is grateful to be able to focus on that for a while, to think about plays instead of the strange way his apartment doesn't feel like his anymore, to focus on getting things right in the morning skate instead of missing her, to get his gear on and get his head ready for the game, rather than stare at his phone, torn between waiting for it to ring or working up the courage to dial the number himself.
She knows Saturday is game day, and she paces back and forth across the bare wooden floor in front of the large window, muttering about how awkward and possibly inappropriate it would be to attend, now, but unable to shut out the voice in the back of her mind that keeps whispering hauntingly, keeps constantly reminding her that she has never missed one of his home games, not in all the time they've been together.
It encourages her to go, to grab her jacket and head out, to maybe even fish the jersey of his out of one of the boxes and wear that instead.
In the end, after pacing for what feels like forever, she does grab the one out of the box, but wears a jacket on over the top. It's an away game jersey, but she can't wear the home one, the one she has been wearing to bed for the last few nights, the one with tear stains and sadness seeped into the stitches.
-^-
It's not going well. The scoreboard isn't making it any easier either, constantly flashing that they're down, down by one, down by two, then three. Adam tries not to look at it. His chest is laboring and his eyes are scanning up and down the ice, his hand aiming the drink bottle for his mouth blindly.
The goal horn sounds again. Adam keeps his eyes on the ice. He can't look at the scoreboard. He's lost enough already this week.
She's nervous, standing in the crowd, yelling and cheering just like everybody else. Her eyes watch him, able to spot him by his build and how he skates, before seeing the confirmation of his name and number on the back of the jersey.
He gets hit, hard, against the glass and she holds a sharp breath, feeling the world slow to a stop around her until he shakes it off and moves off, down the ice and after the puck again.
He scores a goal and she yells her head off, grinning a grin too big for her face, so wide and happy that it almost hurts.
He goes down the tunnel after the first period and she wants to wave at him, to give him a thumbs up, to give some show of support.
Sitting in her seat during the second intermission, she can't quite believe how normal and familiar everything feels.
-^-
He doesn't mean to see her. He really doesn't. One minute he's celebrating his second goal of the night, standing there with his arms open wide for his team-mates to join him, and he looks up into the crowd, scans for her face, without even meaning too, it's just habit now. A subconscious act.
There is a lump in his throat when he can't see her, a sick feeling swelling in his gut.
Then, his team-mates slam in to his side, cheering and yelling and patting his head, his back, wherever, and he doesn't even really feel it, really notice, because there she is, in the crowd, her eyes sparkling back at him, here, even when she's not quite his anymore, cheering him on.
She cheers and claps loudly when he buries his third one, so loudly that her voice fades a little and her hands hurt, bright red and stinging, but it doesn't matter. It's easy to get lost in the familiarity of it all, the checks and the hits, the shots, the blocks and the excitement, the held breaths until Brodeur holds up the puck in his glove, the sheer relief and ecstatic shouts of joy as someone else fires one at the other net and it goes through.
Then the final buzzer sounds, and the game is over, and she has to make a decision.
-^-
The media wants to talk to him, he got a hat trick. They want comment, reaction, they want to congratulate him. He stands and listens, smiles and answers, thanks them and breathes a sigh of relief when they move on to someone else, all the while wanting to be elsewhere.
He showers and dresses, quick and fast, not bothering to tie his shoes or finish buttoning his shirt before he gets out of there.
He's not entirely sure whether he expects her to be there or not. He tries to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping his heart from leaping through his chest, on not getting his hopes up.
She is starting down at her shoes when he sees her and increases his speed.
She grinds the toe of her sneaker in to the ground, her cheeks hot and burning, not knowing whether to feel hopeful or stupid, not knowing whether this is a bad mistake or a good decision. Either way, she can't will herself to walk away, and when he's just about reached her, when he calls out her name, soft and almost quiet, like he's afraid of startling her scaring her off, she is so glad that she came, that she waited, and that he's here, standing right in front of her, grinning that grin that she's missed so much, the grin that she wants to feel on her skin, that she wants to kiss right off his face.
"I'm sorry," he tells her, unable to read her mind, just watching the frozen expression on her face, looking at the thick winter jacket she's wearing.
He doesn't even remember why they fought, who started it, what fueled it or who said what, and he doesn't care. ‘ I've missed you’ is written so clearly across both of their faces and he can't wait any longer, can't stand her so close to her and keep his hands to himself, can't even fathom going back to his cold apartment without her.
As his hands touch her arms, she pulls away, and he chokes on air, or rather, lack there of.
She unzips the jacket and shrugs it off, his number flashing at him from the sleeves.
"I'm sorry too," she smiles up at him timidly.
He wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close against him, tight and strong like he's half afraid she will fall through the ground or something and he will lose her all over again.
She buries her face into a spot on his chest, treating herself to a breath of him, his smell and his warmth, holding on just as tight.
-^-
They go back to her apartment, and while she hangs up her jacket, he bends over a box, folding the flaps right, before lifting it up on to his shoulder.
Her eyes are wide and trepid, the green in them echoing at him, her mouth in a small, perfect circle.
He smiles and holds out his hand to her for her to entwine with his. "Come on," he says, "Come home."
-^-
She unpacks the boxes, putting her products on the shelf, hanging her things in the wardrobe, and then they both stand and look at the photo, hand in hand, holding on tight.
"I love you," she says, her lips at his neck, brushing across his skin.
"I love you too," he replies, feeling the aching evaporate, replaced with certainty and comfort.
-^-
And it's not the end after all. It's just the beginning.