𝑻𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬 𝑶𝑭 𝑯𝑶𝑵𝑬𝒀, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔

✵ 𝑨 𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑴𝑨𝑵 / 𝑷𝑨𝑼𝑳 + 𝑻𝑨𝑮

requested by sillyl0ves0ngs
a good man
༊
'65

it started off as a normal night. well, as normal as eight months of tension could yield between two people. to quote dickens, your relationship was dead. dead as a door nail and paul knew it as much as you did. there were times when you swore you could see it twitching lifelessly at your feet; a lazy black mass croaking and straining for you to grab hold of it. it chilled you to witness such a thing personified like that. and to be so helpless. not knowing if it was worth your savior.

paul stabbed at his birthday cake slowly, forking the sponge until the prongs scraped the surface of your mother's china. he spent the night doing heaven knows what with john, much to your dismay, and slept on the couch. you hadn't caught him bumbling in, but he was awake by the time you got back from work and the array of blankets he stashed was still hanging about the floor. you told him through gritted teeth that his cake was in the fridge. cold. you could warm it up for him if he wanted. with a sigh he took it cold and picked at it as if you could've poisoned it.

the grip on your napkin tightened as you wiped the warmed milk from your mouth and heard that gentle twang as he disregarded you once again from across the table. you were through with it. he must've been, too, you thought, because he huffed and puffed his way through the house every minute of the week.

you closed your eyes and cleared your throat calmly, "i told you i would warm it up for you."

for a moment you thought the words didn't quite reach him, but then he showed a sign of life and shrugged, like he normally did.

"i'm not that hungry, i guess."

"if you're not that hungry, then why did you bother with the cake?" you said with a half smile that he instantly felt patronized by. "why did you ask me for a cake in the first place?"

"i didn't ask you for a fucking cake," he snapped, his dark eyes brutal as they flared maliciously calculated daggers that sliced through the loving cadence that still caressed your face. a noise got caught in your throat and you threw yourself out of the dining chair, flinging your arms up and stalking to the kitchen while the silverware buzzed on the table as it laid traumatized by the impact.

paul made his second appearance moments later when his footsteps warped behind you and the plate was slid next to your arm on the counter. you glanced at it— cake half-eaten. crumbling. droopy.

"i just wanted to do something nice," you seethed, swiping the plate away and moving to the trash can where you began to scrape the rest of the dessert into the gaping black bag. his eyes were watching you. you could hear the spit as it ran down his throat when he gulped. there was something on his mind.

"i know," he said, "you didn't have to..."

"fine. i won't next time."

he slipped his hands in his pockets when you turned to face him. you couldn't read any signs of guilt or remorse. there were times like these where you just wished he would say something. even if it was only a whisper of what you once had: that kiddish banter all couples envied. the kind you especially envied now as you paraded coffee shops and shopping malls and your sister's house. where you got to play with her children...

"what do you want me to say?" he asked and you jumped out of your thoughts, your fingers flying to your lips to mask a quiet gasp. he peered at you, befuddlement creasing his arched brow.