I hope we both die

Acceptance (Part One)

Foeslayer

I slip out the door in the early light. I have a few minutes before I need to leave for work, and the sky is beautiful; purple-blue and speckled with stars in the aftermath of sunset.

I meet my eyes in the little creek out back, watching my reflection blur and change.

If I tell him, he's going to leave, I just know it.

I look back at Arctic inside, frowning at the fireplace like it's personally done something to offend him.

"Are you going to hunt, or do I have to?" he calls from inside, already sounding impatient.

I'm so tired, and I know he knows it. I work all day, and then I come home to find he hasn't eaten a thing. So then I go hunting, shopping at the market if I'm really out of time. And then I cook, and then I clean, and I let him tell me how he hates my cooking and how the house looks awful, and how my wages are useless, and then I crash into deep, dreamless sleep. And I do it all over again. Seven days a week.

I try to get him to help. He just looks at me, and he doesn't need to say it aloud for me to know what he's thinking: I have better things to do with my time. On the rare occasion he does something useful around the house, it's like he expects a medal. For doing the exact same thing that I do every day; only half as well.

I know what he's doing. Making it so damn hard to ask for his help, it's easier just to do it myself. And I hate that I let him get away with it.

"Foeslayer! Do I have to hunt?!" he shouts.

And soon, we'll have a dragonet. And I'll be all alone in that, too.

He doesn't know about that yet, though.

I close my eyes, letting out a breath. "It's fine," I shout back. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry, love."

***

I sit beside Braveheart on top of a hill, overlooking the fog and the trees. A soft mist falls into my shoulders, and I watch the tiny raindrops roll off my spear. I can hear birds calling, and the distant sound of ocean waves, but I can't actually see the water.

"Okay–you're acting super weird," Braveheart says after a long silence.  It's not exactly the  most riveting job; so I'm grateful to have someone to talk to all day. "Are you and your dreamboat fighting again?" He groans. "Please, please don't tell me you're having another fight. Don't tell me about it, it stresses me out."

"No, I mean–" nothing major. Nothing he wouldn't already know about. "Arctic is kind of... difficult, sometimes, but–"

"He is the most entitled, arrogant dragon I have literally ever met," Braveheart says scathingly. "And I lived with my mother for six years. I mean, I get it–wow, so handsome! But if this is the dragon you're gonna spend your life with, how long is it gonna take for the pretty factor to wear off? You could really do better."

With who? You're the only one of my friends who even talks to me anymore.

"You don't know him like I do," I say fiercely. "He's–he's really sweet, once you get to know him. He's funny, and he loves me too–you just have to look for it."

Braveheart snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure. If you really just look for it–by all the moons, Foeslayer, do you want to be looking for his redeeming qualities for the rest of your life? I mean, if that's your thing, go for it, I guess. But I sure wouldn't."