quiet thunder | addison & pyrite

"Hey," she growls downward. "Stop fighting in there, assholes."

She's spent most of her time since coming home on the couch, on account of walking up the stairs is only something she can manage once a day. And she hates this feeling, so out of control of herself and her body and her capabilities. There is nothing she can do, so she does nothing at all. Tries to be kinder to her husband. Cries for no reason at all, and then sobs when she confesses how terrified she is. How she doesn't know how to be in this house without arguing.

Kellan holds her, tells her it's going to be okay. Confesses that he's scared, too. And that makes her feel better. It does, she tells him that, communication is something new but she's trying. The conversation she leaves out is about how when their kids are born she has another fight entirely -- stubborn, she tells herself they'll get to that when it comes to.

Two months, three weeks, four days away.

Her parents try and visit and Kellan politely but sternly turns them away, citing sleep or doctor's recommendations not to face triggers right now. They leave baskets of gifts, mostly supplements - messages disguised as presents. She had already screamed at her in-laws for the mere suggestion that the children live somewhere else for the first while, "so you can get better without distraction".

Everything is always poison underneath a pretty little bow. They stopped knocking on the door when Pyrite had pulled a knife out from the chopping block in the kitchen and Kellan near threw himself onto the blade just to stop her from throwing it at his mother.

And she hates that too. This overwhelming sense of love she's still not sure how to handle, even after months of therapy and letter-writing and tears. To love is to hate, but it's not, she unraveled that on another couch. So she catches herself, turning instinct in on itself. Instead of attack, she defends, locking herself up at home and watching re-runs of the games, talking to her kids as they kick and thrash against her insides like they're no happier than she is with this entire situation.

Her children would try and kill each-other in utero, she thinks with a scoff.

But as awful as being pregnant has makes her feel, she does love them. And they protect her, a tangible reason she cannot drink. Six months three days sober, nine days since she came home, everything hurts but she loves them, so she doesn't drink, and she loves them even more for that reason.

It's why she picked up the knife, told her mother in law that she would never see the day her grandchildren were born if she didn't get the fuck out -- and that's where Kellan stepped in, taking the knife and dragging his wife into the living room and ordering his parents to leave.

So rehab wasn't a cure-all. Go figure. It never had been, this one had just been the best so far. Pyrite had shit to work through. Her parents hadn't bothered to show up at family meetings. It was just her and Kellan and her therapist and a lot of tears, hardly any words, she had to write them down instead and have them mailed to her home.

She had wanted Addison to visit. Everyone else thought that wasn't a good idea. The flare of rage, but her therapist had told her that when you damage someone you need to give them time to forgive you. And that might take days or weeks or months or years, depending on the damage.

Nine days wasn't what she was expecting, but fuck. She'll take it. Wrapped up in a blanket, she'd recognise that voice anywhere.

"Shit," she whispers, suddenly panicked. All the letters left undelivered, no idea where Kellan kept them, girl on the train tracks with the warning bells tolling and the clouds of steam fast approaching. "What am I supposed to do, kids?"

She wants to hide. To stay in this house forever, hiding from facing the hard truths her addiction had caused. But one of the babies kicks her in the gut, hard, "Ow!" she mutters. "Alright, alright, I get it. I'll talk to her. Fuck!"

I hate these damn kids, she thinks. No you don't, she thinks again, reflex.

But what she does hate is what she has to face. Not who. She could never, ever hate Addison Devereaux. She slinks into view and her heart hurts - she wants to beam. She wants to sob. She wants to hug her best friend tight and remembers she can't wrap her arms around anyone at the moment, fucking kids. So she curls into herself, ashamed of her warped abdomen and unkempt self - Addison looks good. Great, actually. Like she has a life, a purpose, a whole world outside of Pyrite.

And that is another kick to the gut, realising that Addison's world now orbited outside of Pyrite's. Another still when she's reminded that she has no idea what exists in that space. For so long they were all each-other had. Two bedroom windows looking across the way, two girls sitting next to each-other in class, two pinky fingers clasped together swearing on secrets and stars. And now they were worlds apart. And it was all her fault.

Addison is crying and she can't help but cry herself for a myriad of reasons, though seeing her best friend in pain is what pushes her over the edge. The corner of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders dabs at her tears but she doesn't say anything. She learned in rehab how important it was for the other person to have a fighting chance to be heard.

So she hears her, wanting so desperately to get on her hands and knees and beg for forgiveness again and knowing damn well this isn't going to be fixed with an apology. It's not about how she feels. It's about how Addison feels. Taking accountability was foreign and Py hates it, hates the way it makes her feel small. Hates the way it makes her feel like a failure. Hates the way it reminds her of her youth, her marriage, her entire adult life. But she listens, even though it hurts, because Addison is so damn important.

She's right, Py thinks as she wipes her tears away and chokes back a laugh. She's right. She should kick my fucking ass.

They let the words hang between them for a moment, the gravity of it all heavy and raw and demanding to be understood.

"It's both," Pyrite finally replies. "A girl and a boy. Little assholes have been beating me up just fine in here, if it makes you feel any better."

And she smiles again, because even though all of that was awful she hadn't once thought about having a drink to wipe it all away in blacked-out memory.

"Um--" nobody's ever been proud of her. That's new. The doctors said they were on the day she left and Pyrite hadn't known how to process the concept so she'd simply nodded and let Kellan take her home.

"Thank you," that sounds about right. And,

I'm sorry.

But she doesn't say that anymore. It never works, a band-aid to fix a bullet wound. Instead she just gestures with her shoulder for her friend to come closer.

"Could really use a hug right now, if you're up for it. I get if you're, y'know. Not."

And,

I miss you.