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I'm so proud of you, sweetie. Why don't we-
I'm so proud of you, sweetie. Why don't-
I'm so proud of you, sweetie.
You rewind the message over and over. Your chin quivers. Eyes burn. Tears run in thin streaks down to your pillow. You sniffle, rewind the message, and hold your phone to your ear again.
I'm so proud of you, sweetie.
You don't remember the last time somebody said that to you. Can't remember a time when they actually meant it when they did. And even though it's just a voice message, you can tell Sylus means it. There's an earnest note to his tone. The weight of real pride in his words. You bite back a sob and rewind it once more.
I'm so proud of you, sweetie. Why don't we celebrate tonight? My treat. Anything you want, name it and it's yours.
The message ends. You cling to your phone by your ear, face crumpling as you finally give in to the emotions you drown in. Broken sobs and endless tears and heaving breaths. You don't expect it to vibrate, or play that familiar ringtone.
You hurriedly try to wipe your face and calm your breathing down. Sniffle, sigh, and finally hit the accept call button.
"Any thoughts on how you want to celebrate?" Sylus asks. You can hear the grin in his voice.
You try to subtly clear the lump from your throat. "Ah, no, I haven't really thought about it yet."
You can also hear it disappear when he speaks next. "What's wrong, sweetie? What happened?"
"Nothing! I'm fine, Sy, really." You cough again. "Just got a tickle in my throat, that's all."
You can almost feel his stare through the phone. That look he gives, with a raised eyebrow and a frown, to show how little he believes your weak lies. Before he can say anything about it, you press on.
"You said you made wine on Moments yesterday. What do you think would pair well with that?"
He's quiet for a second. You think he might not humor your delusions. But he sighs and speaks softly, "How does pizza sound?"
You chuckle. "Is this a new, trendy dinner idea I haven't heard about?"
"Let's find out, shall we? I'll order your usual."
"You don't know my usual."
His smile returns as he says, "Would you like to put a bet on that, sweetie?"
"Absolutely not," you answer quickly. "You sound way too confident."
He chuckles fondly. "I'll be there in an hour."
He hangs up without ceremony, as usual. You're left alone once more with your drying tears and the audio message on your phone. You take a deep breath, release it slowly. It's tempting to replay it again. To let that tightness in your chest build until you crumble once more. To imagine what his face looked like when he recorded it for you.
But, you know better.
You're a goddamn mess, and in no shape to celebrate with your perfect boyfriend. You only have an hour to make yourself look presentable. You have to make the most of it, for Sylus's sake.
-
You double and triple check yourself in the mirror. Your cheeks are clean and dry. Your eyes look mostly normal, if not a bit tired. Your clothes are nice, but plenty comfortable. For a moment, you can believe he won't notice anything amiss.
But that moment ends when you open the door to let him in, and his eyes flicker down to look at you. Really look at you. It's quick, but he takes in how you stand, what your hands are doing, the tremble at the corner of your lips when you smile, the bags under your eyes. There's no point trying to hide from someone who knows everything about you, from your usual pizza order to the slightest tells of when something is wrong.
Still, he's nice enough to smile and bend down to kiss your cheek, holding up the pizza box out of the way. "Last chance to place a bet," he teases.
You roll your eyes as you pull him inside, locking the door behind him. He beelines for the kitchen with a chuckle. While he grabs plates down, you pick up the wine to look at the label. It's simple but elegant, with a script font and a crow silhouette. Professionally bottled, of course. And you have no doubt the label itself was designed by a professional, if you know anything about Sylus. "When did you make this?"
"About ten months ago." He grins down at you. In the light of your kitchen, he looks soft and boyish, bright-eyed and warm. It's hard to picture this as the infamous Onychinus leader, dividing slices of pizza onto two mismatched plates. "Now that it's aged long enough, I wanted you to be the first to try it."
You smirk playfully up at him. "What if it's no good?"
He leans down, frowning just as playfully down at you. "What if it's the best wine you've ever had?"
You squint up at him. "You're deflecting."
He quirks a brow up at you. "So are you."
You both hold each other's stares for a moment. Then you crack, chuckling. He follows suit, standing back up and nodding his head to the living room where you already set out two glasses. He carries the plates with him. You almost laugh again at the sight of four slices precariously stacked on his plate.
You sit side by side as he uncorks the bottle and pours the rich red liquid into the two glasses. He passes one over to you.
You glance away nervously, bringing the wine to your nose to smell it. You smile bashfully at him. "I don't really know how to do this," you admit.
"Drink?"
You smack his arm. "No! All the, like, swirling and smelling and tasting all the notes and things."
"I didn't take you for a sommelier," he teases, but he brings the glass to his nose, too. "I'm not expecting a professional opinion, sweetie. I'm expecting your opinion."
Anxiety flutters in your chest; the desire to please him, to say and do everything just right, to provide the correct response.
To make him proud.
It mixes with the knowledge that no matter how you react, he won't be offended. Even if you spat it out across the living room, he would only worry about how he could improve the recipe for your tastes.
He watches you as you smell it again. It's fruity and floral, warm but not spiced. With a tentative sip, flavor bursts on your tongue. It's beautiful. Delicious. Smooth as it goes down your throat. You can feel the delight rolling off of him in waves before you see it as you take another sip. "This is really good, Sy! You try it."
He nods obediently as he takes a long, slow sip from his glass. Your eyes flicker to the motion of his Adam's apple bobbing around the swallow. "It's nice," he agrees. He holds the glass between you in a toast. You feel your throat go dry. "To my darling partner, who has achieved incredible things. I'm so very proud of you, and I can't wait to see what you set your sights on next."
You feel tears welling in your eyes again. The building heat that betrays their presence. You swallow thickly, try not to let your hands shake as you lightly clink your glass to his. He pulls his glass away, but his other hand supports yours, long fingers curling around yours and holding your glass steady. "What's wrong?" he asks, and, gods, he looks so concerned. Eyes sharp, brow tight. Determined to do anything to cheer you up, so long as he knows the source of your upset.
You sniffle and shake your head. You look away to wipe at your lower lids, unable to look him in the eye. "N-Nothing, I'm okay."
"Sweetie..." he warns.
Tears begin escaping down your cheeks before you can stop them. The words in your throat hurt to say. It's a painful admittance of the life you've lived. An agonizing truth that shouldn't tear you up as much as it does. It hurts to try speaking them. But it hurts worse to feel his eyes on you, his hand holding yours to ground you, the worry bleeding off of him. You inhale shakily, hoping to dislodge the stone that keeps you silent.
"Nobody has ever told me that before," you nearly whisper. You scrub at your cheek with your hand, trying to hide the evidence of your emotions again. "That they're proud of me. Or if they did, th-they never meant it."
His face softens. Sharp eyes become rounder, brow relaxes, lips curve back to neutral. He gently pries your glass from your hand and sets them both on the coffee table. Then his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest. One hand rubs your back reassuringly as the other pets your head. Your face finds a home in his neck, cheek pressed to his collarbones and rampant tears staining the collar of his shirt. He kisses your head. "I mean it. I know how hard you work. You never stop pushing yourself, always doing your damndest to reach your goals." His voice is a pleasant rumble in your ear. He speaks gently, taking his time with each word so they sink in deep. "I am so proud of you. I will always be proud of you. And if you ever need a reminder, I would be happy to say it over and over again, as many times as you need me to."