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“yeah, it was good.”
you flipped your collar back up and tugged your shirt down, tucking the hem down into your pants. he watched you belt up, a perfectly shaped eyebrow raising in slight confusion at your steady voice.
“if it was good, you wouldn’t be walking this easily.”
you hummed noncommittally, tugging at your cuffs.
“you wouldn’t even be on two legs, let alone awake.”
“it was good. not… yeah. it was just fine. don’t beat yourself up over it or whatever.” bag slung over your shoulder with a quiet jingle, you walked away. you could hear his bed creak as he sat up, and a quiet “wait—“ that was cut off by the front door clicking shut.
the frigid mondstadt evening air rushed around you, bringing you back into a stilted state of sobriety. your head dropped against a lone pine tree, the rough bark scratching at your forehead.
“shit.”
you groaned wetly, before hitting it with your fist once, twice, and eventually slamming your forehead into it with a resounding thunk.
“shit!”
what had possessed you to say yes? to agree? was it that you had been alone for so long, so eager for any intimacy, that you would pick him? was that gentle smile flirting about his lips enough to sway you? when he leaned down and said something that sounded vaguely like a proposition, was that enough to charm you into a night with him? and now, walking home alone, half-drunk and half-dead, did you think the feeling of a lacklustre orgasm was really going to be enough to quell the growing turmoil inside you?
you felt your insides turn to static and your brain try to make sense of it all as you hunched over, spilling out bitter alcohol and syrup, leaving just the saccharine taste of whatever cocktail brought him to you or you to him, whichever made you more comfortable.
you stayed like that for a while, slightly disoriented and coughing up the dregs of whatever was left in your stomach, eventually burning the back of your throat with bile.
when you grew tired of leaning against a tree that dropped needles on you, you continued your trek home. surely, tomorrow morning, you would remember what you did and try your hardest to scrub his touch from your skin. you would find blue hair woven into your shirt somewhere, a piece of paper crumpled in your pocket, a mild ache in your head, and rinse it all off with ignorance and bleach. he was the half-baked replacement for him, you knew and he knew, not that it was ever his concern. he wouldn’t ever care how he got you in his bed, as it was all just a means to an end to him.
your apartment hung over you before you realised, walking in some sort of fugue, and you fumbled for your keys. in you pocket, or in your bag, or—
“you dropped these.”
alabaster, warm hands pressed cold metal into yours, and you mumbled out a thank you, feigning disinterest.
“it’s cold out, and you’re in a bad state. ensure you have plenty of water before you go to sleep.”
you watched that shock of red hair get further away from you, as though it was the only thing you could do. it was impossible to say his name, hold out a hand, go down the steps and pull him close, so you could only watch him go. you shoved the key in the lock, slipping in with little to no resistance, and twisting it open.
your door closed behind you, and you closed your eyes shut, before sinking down and screaming into your legs. you always let him go. you were always too afraid to talk more, hiding it behind nonchalance or whatever convenient facade could explain your pulling away from him. maybe one day, you would learn how to speak to him. just not any of the ones in the foreseeable future.