it's the stars, the stars, that shine for you {au}

[EDGAR BROOKE]

stellar + like a little under ten years

He often woke up on the floor of the couch on days like these. For his lack of movement during the day, he made up for it at night, and wasn't exactly the best of sleepers, especially nowadays. But he didn't always sleep on the couch. There was a nice, soft mattress and downy pillows that made sleep easier. And the comforter - half a bright orange, half a cool navy blue - was warm, but only when it was shared.

In the early hours of the morning after nights like last night, she would quietly get out of bed and go jogging before the flow of traffic began in the streets. She didn't know that he woke up every time, but she didn't have to. She could peacefully go running like she always had to clear her head, and that was fine. He had no quarrel with that, at least. Quarrels... what did they even start arguing about yesterday? Something petty, he supposed, as usual. He always felt guilty about it afterwards and made up for it somehow, any way he could.

But that guilt still ate away at him, and he was an odd sort of being. That bed was not comfortable if it wasn't warmed by someone beside him, and in his mind, it made the pillows seem like rock, the mattress like lead. He would sit there and toss and turn and try to go back to sleep, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. Maybe it was the thought of sleeping there alone forever, because she very well could not come back through the squeaky front door ever again, but he wasn't certain and he didn't like to press the issue.

So he brought a pillow and a small blanket and went into the living room, turned on the TV, and fell asleep for a few more hours. And as if he knew in his soul, he would wake up about half an hour before she got back from her run and would have breakfast ready for when she walked through the door, with a smile that was a mix of apologetic and just plain silly. She would try to hide her smile and pretend to be mad while she ate her breakfast, but he knew that they would be okay. They always were, it seemed, as if the stars had something better planned out for them, as if some stellar intervention prevented them from ever separating after all those early years of wanting to be apart.

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[STELLA HINES]

Sometimes, she was sure she was tearing them apart. Normal couples didn’t fight as much as they did. And it wasn’t even that they fought often. It was that they argued over the stupidest little things. And if she wasn’t so incredibly stubborn, if she didn’t need to be right all the time, then she was sure they wouldn’t have those stupid disagreements. Or maybe she wasn’t sure. Maybe she wasn’t sure she was tearing them apart either. Maybe she was just wrong all the time.

And when she got like that, she was never happier to go on a morning run. They didn’t happen frequently, because she was the same as she’d always been, believing that being awake before nine should be illegal. But when she did get up earlier than he did, she did so quietly, always careful not to disturb his sleep. She even went so far as to make her side of the bed, neatly arranging the the comforter, perhaps the one thing they’d been able to agree on (it was her favorite thing in the house).

Running helped just as it always had, when she had nothing to accompany her but her thoughts and the occasional other runner. Mornings like this, after nights like yesterdays, her thoughts tended to be cluttered. What was it that had even set them off? Something trivial, probably. She always felt guilty afterwards. Maybe he felt guilty, too, because he was always making it up to her before she had a chance to do the same for him.

She worried sometimes, about him leaving. She’d never been good at expressing her emotions – not the positive ones, anyway. She was all noise and excitement or frustration, and she bottled things up and if she couldn’t properly express herself around him, around her soul mate, of all people, then why would he even bother with her? Sometimes she thought he might disappear during one of these morning runs. That she’d come in through that squeaky front door, and he’d be gone.

It weighed heavy on her mind when she stepped into their home, her breath shallow, her heart pounding. But she knew. She always knew, she could feel him there, and he was always in the kitchen, breakfast ready for her when she got back. And when she smiled at him, it was always half apologetic and half silly. No matter how hard she tried to fake being angry, she couldn’t keep at it, always feeling too relieved that he was sat across from her, and that they were okay.

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