Work Text:
There is an inkling feeling of uncertainty in the interaction that makes Belly uncomfortable.
They are all standing in the kitchen, between the isle and the table; Conrad seems to be avoiding any kind of confrontation, eyes flitting from the floor to the walls and back again, nervously shifting on his feet in a sudden display of teenage awkwardness that stopped being cute two years ago and she is trying to find the right words to diffuse the situation, to try and fix something that fell to pieces a long time ago.
“We can leave tomorrow,” it is Jeremiah the first one to speak, voice unsure in a way that makes something in Belly’s chest ache, something that makes her want to reach out and comfort in a half-aborted movement that halts when she notices the arm slowly snaking around the boy’s waist—the hand that settles on top his left hip, sure and possessive, like it belongs there.
“That won’t be necessary,” she answers, soft and placating, ignoring the way her own boyfriend freezes next to her because she is trying to figure the elephant in the room out, to piece together pieces of a life she had chosen to be absent from, “Conrad and I were not planning to be here for long, we are- revisiting all our options.”
It is difficult to word the last part of the sentence, to let it out into the space between them when that same room had been the witness of moments so intimate, so ruined now.
Redbird, Tom, or at least she thinks that is what his actual name is—all games, parties and beers when they first met, now stands tall, suddenly tense next to Jeremiah, pulling the boy closer to his body and tucking him into his side when his posture wanes, when he suddenly becomes very small. It is a protective gesture, a direct response to her words, to her mere presence, and it brings tears to her eyes, knowing that now she is someone Jeremiah needs support to face, to talk to.
“It’s fine Jere, really, you won’t even notice we’re here,” her fiancé finally stepping up and talking gives her a break, lets her sink a little bit into the ground, try to disappear, “we were planning to be here just for two days anyway.” That’s a lie.
Jeremiah sighs then, loud and sudden, exhausted, he seems to be done with the circus of the unexpected reunion. “I’m not made of glass, Conrad, you don’t have to lie to me” his blue eyes are half-lighted in frustration, “this house is mine as much as it is yours, so you can stop tiptoeing around as if I didn’t know you were planning a wedding.”
And he knows, of course he does, but it has been more than two years since the three of them dared to share the same oxygen inside this house and even though she is sure he has moved on, there is still that hurt—that acrid taste of betrayal surely on the tip of his tongue, and his flushed face and the eyes full of stubborn tears do nothing more than validate her thoughts, Jeremiah did always wear his emotions on his sleeves.
“We’ll be okay,” her attention is suddenly stolen, focused on the man next to Jeremiah—on Tom, on the way he seems to have aged, matured, blossomed into something worthy of holding her best friend between his arms, “we’ll be okay here. Belly, Conrad,” he says their names with a nod of his head for each, a half hearted goodbye as he pulls Jeremiah towards the stairs.
Hours later Conrad and Belly will come back to the house, bone-tired but sure of their decision, and they will be welcomed by the smell of dinner and a set up table, by Jeremiah’s apologetic smile and Tom’s unsettlingly sober stare, and then they will all crack open a bottle of wine and talk, truly talk for the first time in years.
Right now though, right now Belly lets herself be enveloped by Conrad’s arms in a desperate attempt to atone her guilt. It almost works.