6. Our muses are destined to be each other’s eternal rebounds

oh god. *dies of giggle*

It was a stupid argument. It was /always/ a stupid argument, and it never mattered, because it would happen over and over. And every time, she would end up at Percival’s door, mead in hand, eyes red.

He never really asked what happened. She didn’t think it was because he didn’t care, but, well, he didn’t care about that. It didn’t matter; what mattered was her. She never asked him, when he showed up on her doorstep in the same manner.

They would sit together, and drink, and talk about anything other than what had brought them together. Most times, it ended up with the two of them in bed together, and in the morning they would look at each other, and away, and not say anything.

What was there to say? They weren’t ‘in love’, the way they both kept looking to be. It was more than that. And less than that. It was a home, a safe place, where the expectations were different and nobody needed to impress anyone else.