Hey, Blue

12 - We Don't Talk About It

They don't talk about it.

Not in the next ten minutes. Not at dinner. Not before work the next morning.

In fact, they sat in silence on the couch, the air between them heavy with the weight of unsaid things. Emrys practically radiated frustration—directed at Marley, though he didn't need to say it. His fingers drummed a restless beat against his thigh, jaw tight as if holding back words he couldn't—or wouldn't—let slip. Marley felt it all, the tension coiling between them, but neither made the first move to break it. Finally, the pressure became too much—whether it was Marley's quiet presence or the storm brewing in Emrys's head, he didn't know. Without warning, Emrys stood abruptly and walked out, the door closing behind him with a sharp finality, harder than it had to.

Again, in his many attempts to make things better– Marley had made things worse.

He told Marley he wasn't angry. But the lie hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

The two of them didn't really fight—never have. But this felt close. Too close.

This felt different—like something's fractured beneath the surface, a hairline crack threatening to widen. And neither of them ready to acknowledge it.

They didn't talk about it. Maybe that was the problem.

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The soft hum of the kettle on the gas stove felt oddly discomfiting as it merged with the early morning light. It wasn't out of the ordinary—just another day in his routine—but somehow, the warmth filtering through the windows did little to ease the cold shiver creeping down Marley's back. He moved around the counter island, drying a freshly washed mug with a dish rag, feeling the quiet more acutely than usual.

Unlike most mornings, Emrys wasn't home—not then, at least—so Marley didn't need to tiptoe around, mindful of every sound. Yet, as he poured tea into his mug, letting the warmth seep through the ceramic, he remained silent anyway. The scent of chamomile filled the air—too sweet this time, with no lingering traces from last night's potions to temper it. He took a sip of the tea and let it sit on his tongue, hoping it might calm him, though it didn't.

Marley shuffled into his small workroom, mug in hand—just as always—his footsteps softer than usual in the early morning stillness. Sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room, yet the space felt smaller, more confining than it should have. The walls pressed in on him, just a little, the air a bit heavier with each passing second.

It was fine. Really.

He placed the mug down on his desk, the soft clink of ceramic barely registering as his fingers trembled faintly. The warmth from the tea did little to soothe the cold knot of unease twisting in his stomach. A part of him wished he didn't have to work today—if only so he could mope around in his bedroom until he forced himself to get over it. But he knew distracting himself was for the best. Probably.

His thoughts kept circling back to the night before. He and Emrys didn't argue; they never did. But that felt like an argument, didn't it? The way Emrys had looked at him? The genuine frustration in his eyes? The way he backed Marley into a corner, only to storm out when their words devolved into silence?

The silence. That was worse than any anger—not that Emrys was angry.

Marley flipped through his files for the day and readied his to-do list. The familiar routine was supposed to calm him, but only in theory. He wrote about four lines, switched pens, and forced himself to focus. Each stroke was deliberate, too slow, yet harsh, as if pressing the letters into existence could somehow stop the flood of thoughts running through his head. But his mind refused to cooperate.