(no subject)
Who:Anne Gardner (the White Queen)
What: Emotiems.
When: A couple of days after her and Toby's big fight. I am too lazy to link.
Status/Rating: PG for wangst? Idk.
She stood in his empty room like she had never been there before. All the things were still there, the bed was unmade, his note still tacked on the door. She had considered taking it down, but as he hadn't come back yet for his things, she couldn't remove the memo--otherwise he'd forget. The shoes were on the floor where he'd left them. Only the door was ajar now, which he had most decidedly left closed.
It was not Toby's room. Anne had been avoiding it since the fight. She'd known the fight was coming (and really, it ought to have been The Fight, which she had known was coming for years), and she'd done all the crying for that afternoon weeks ago. Toby hadn't asked why. She couldn't say she was surprised. The room was quiet now, quieter than it ought to have been. She leaned up against the wall by the door, as she had done one or two times before, when Toby wasn't quite paying attention and she slid into the room to talk. Once she had been crying. Twice, now, she supposed.
She hoped he was having fun, though. Toby was never happy unless he was having a good time, with people generally outside of her acquaintance. Anne habitually ruined things, she knew. It was the Queen's job, really. She struck out across the board, snatched up pawns and bishops and knights so the king might enjoy himself quietly at the other end of the game, blissfully unaware. The Queen did the legwork, and the King reaped the benefits. She had long gotten used to this, both before and the week after next. She wasn't sure what the difference was now, only that being forgotten seemed to hurt more. She didn't like it very much. But kings needed their space and their security. She couldn't give the rest. She didn't know how. Just as he didn't know how to remember her. Fitting, she thought.
Her skirt was tight against her hips and legs, awkwardly holding her up even as she slid down the wall, hunched up, knees to her pearled chest. Her hands wiped her face mechanically, as if at any moment someone would be coming into check on her, and she would have to be presentable. No one would, of course. Toby's key was on the countertop in the kitchen. At least he'd remembered that.
The crying hurt after a while. She made herself stop at some point, she was sure, get up, and begin putting things in boxes. There were matters to attend to.