What If?// WDW BxB: Corbyn-Shots

Day 6|| November 8, 2018- Zorbyn

Summary: " They would be six mouths, Zach. They would've just started talking."

Zach's POV
Pale skin crinkled, forced together as brows furrowed. Shadowed muddy lakes gazing down at his phone. This was third time Corbyn hadn't answered. He always answered.

The sharp, ringing beeps of his desk phone sounded," Mr. Herron?" Echoing shortly through his office.

" Yes?" Index pinning the button, still studying every simple detail of the little device.

" I just wanted to remind you about your meeting on the tenth."

" Right and what's today's date? I've forgotten."

" The eighth of November, Sir," Connor's answer easy, innocent. Completely ignorant to the milky paint splashing into Zach's lap, face left sickly pale," do you want to reschedule the meeting?"

" Shit," phone thumping to the carpet, landing safely among plush, maroon strands. I forgot. How the hell did I forget?!

" Sir?"

" The meeting's fine, Connor, but I've got to head out early today," the corner of some random book pressing to the button. Zach rushing around the spacious area, gathering his belongings.

" How early, Sir?"

" Right now," called from his leather sofa. Shouldering on his crisp blaser, fingers curling around the handle of his briefcase.

" Well... I suppose you could, but... but you'll a lot of extra work to do tomorrow," the younger's words hesitant. The quiet click of typing fingers accompanying," for example you'll have to discuss the marketing strategies tomorrow, interview a new possible treasurer. Not to mention-"

" Yes, Connor. I understand, but I need to go. It's a family emergency!" Voice trailing, rushing out of his office. Spinning sharply on his heels, dress shoes tapping in a steady rhythm down the stone steps.

He was out the door in a flurry. No more than a streak of white, brown, and navy blue. The curly-haired secretary looking on helplessly with big green eyes," a-alright. Well... bye, Mr. Herron."

~ In The Car ~

" I'm such a fucking idiot!" Knuckles a ghostly white, finger pads pressed flush to the faux leather wheel. His car rumbling, singing softly as Corbyn was called, again. It rang and rang, and rang.

Breath heavy against his lips, teeth digging in to the supple flesh. Razors dragging across his heart. A lump of guilt forming in his throat, bile rising along the back of his tongue. Remembering how he hadn't even waited for his love to wake before exiting their house. Simply kissing his forehead with a sweet whisper. Leaving his baby at home, all by himself on the worst day of the fucking year.

Silver car pulling into the driveway in record time. Scrambling out of the car, leaving all, but himself and the coat covering his back.

Upon opening the door, he was met with the dead, ringing silence of the house. Nothing moved. Not even the dust lingering in the cold, eerie air. It was lifeless. Dull despite the cheery blue of their living room, the bright green of thriving plants.

He scaled the stairs in threes, coming to a jerking halt before the door across from their bedroom. Breathing deep through his nose, pushing it open with a click.

The stale air much warmer there. The pastel yellow of the four walls casting a comforting glow about the room. The ceiling fan's constant breeze laced with gentle lavendar. The winds weaving between the bars of the empty crib. Floating over the changing table's slick plastic. And gliding around the lone blonde in the corner. Sat in a plush, pale orange moon chair. Studying the paper in his hands, a picture. October 20, 2018 written across the back.