#let's get sad let's get saaaaaadddd

[c-e-d-dreamer]

I would just like to formally apologize that this is what I’m posting for the last day of @nessianweek Sometimes my brain just produces really angsty ideas and I can’t stop it. TW for miscarriage. It’s all under the read more cut for this reason.

Nesta knew that fae pregnancies were rare, that they were precarious. That it was always seen as a great blessing from the Cauldron when a fae child was born. Even in the human world, it was one of those worst kept secrets. Common but taboo. Something that ladies and maids-in-wait whispered about. Everyone knew someone it had happened to. Everyone knew you waited to tell anyone. 

What Nesta didn't know is that there would be so much blood. Deep crimson pools that soak through her dress, darkening the navy blue fabric to a sickening shade. And it just keeps coming. Nesta is sure she's been in the bathroom for hours at this point. She doesn't look. She'd made the mistake of looking when she'd first locked herself in here, and the sight had her stomach tumbling, bile creeping up her throat and coating the back of her tongue with that acidic taste. So she just squeezes her eyes shut as another shudder rakes through her body. 

The pain is the other thing she didn't know. Her periods since becoming fae had been bad, but this is excruciating. It's like twin fists buried into her lower abdomen, twisting and squeezing in their iron grip, the pain radiating all the way down the backs of her thighs. She wraps her arms more tightly around herself, folding in half and pressing her chest to her knees in a desperate attempt to ease the sharp pain. The choked sound that pushes past her lips as another round of cramping hits her sounds too loud in the quiet bathroom. 

She tries to breathe through it when a loud insistent knocking draws her attention, a frantic cry of her name through the wood. Nesta's eyes snap to the door. He's not supposed to be here. The one blessing of this whole ordeal was that he was in Illyria, that he was far away. He can't see her like this, and she can't see his face when he finds out what's happened, the way she knows it will fall. She knows he wants a big family. He always talks about it. Talks about wanting to give what he never got as a child. 

"Nesta!" 

His voice is booming, drenched in worry, in fear. But Nesta can't find it in herself to say anything. She stays silent even as the doorknob rattles, as he curses on the other side of the door. 

There's a grunt and the sound of splintering wood, and then Cassian is bursting into the bathroom, sword drawn and siphons flaring ruby red like he expects to find an unknown threat. His eyes dart around the room before settling on Nesta. In no time, he has his sword sheathed back along his spine and is at her side. 

He takes in the blood and starts checking her for injuries, gentle hands taking hold of her arms and sweeping along her legs. Nesta watches as his expression changes from pinched worry to confusion to grim realization. When his eyes finally meet hers, that warm hazel that's usually so bright marred instead by sadness and pain, Nesta shatters. 

A loud sobs tears its way through Nesta's throat, Cassian becoming a watery blur in her vision as tears flood past her eyes. Strong arms wrap around her, pulling her close. She can feel his hand in her hair, the other rubbing soothing patterns up and down her spine. Nesta lets it all out, crying against his chest until her lungs hurt, until her chest heaves with every breath. 

"I'm sorry," Nesta whispers, another shudder shaking through her. 

Cassian pulls back, running a thumb under each of her eyes. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a second, and Nesta closes her eyes as the sensation, letting out a shaky exhale. 

"Let's get you cleaned up," Cassian says, voice so quiet and gentle. 

Cassian stands up and starts to run a bath. The sweet scents of the oils he adds mix with the steam and waft toward Nesta, and she tries to take a deep breath in. When he's satisfied with the bath, Cassian helps Nesta to her feet, careful fingers helping to peel off her dress. With a guiding hand at the small of her back, Nesta climbs into the tub, sinking into the water and letting out a small sigh as the heat sloshes and licks at her limbs. Cassian stays close, kneeling beside the tub and resting his arms on the rim. 

"Do you want me to call for Madja?" 

Nesta shakes her head. She presses her hands to her stomach, where the smallest of bumps had just started showing, but it makes her chest ache, deep and painful, so she pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs. They stay like that for a while, the only sound in the bathroom the quiet lapping of the water. After a while, Cassian stands, pressing a kiss into her hair before vanishing through the bathroom door. When he returns, it's with a cup of tea that he presses gently into Nesta's hands. Her fingers squeeze around the heated ceramic, the slight burn against her skin a welcome reprieve. 

Nesta's not sure how long she sits there for, but soon gentle hands are coaxing her out of the tub. She lets Cassian dry her off and lead her into their bedroom. He pulls a shirt over her head, and she blinks down at it, surprised to find it's one of his rather than her usual nightgowns. He guides her over to their bed, and when they're both under the blankets, Cassian pulls her close, his wings curling securely around her. 

Nesta tries to focus on the weight of his arms around her, on the warmth and safety she usually feels wrapped up like this, but all she can feel is the guilt. It scrapes its talons along her bones and sinks its poison into her mind and heart. Nesta can once again feel that familiar pressure behind her eyes, fresh tears prickling against her lashes. 

"I'm so sorry," Nesta whispers, biting back a sob. 

Cassian pulls back slightly so he can see her face, his expression a mask of confusion. "What are you apologizing for?"

"You were so happy."

"Nesta—"

"And I know you want a big family." 

"Sweetheart," Cassian implores, reaching between them to cup Nesta's face, tears lining his own eyes. "I don't care about that. I care about you."

Nesta's own hand reaches up, gripping Cassian's where it rests on her cheek like a lifeline. His thumbs sweep under her eyes, catching the tears that have escaped. 

"We'll try again," Nesta promises. 

Cassian's eyes cloud over at that, his whole expression pained. Nesta hates it. 

"We don't have to," he tells her. 

"We'll try again," Nesta says again, more firmly. 

Cassian looks like he wants to argue more, but instead he sighs softly. "When you're ready. And only then." 

Cassian tugs her close again, tucking her head under his chin. Nesta goes easily, folding into him and breathing in his scent until her nerves finally settle. She lets out one last, shaky exhale and closes her eyes, ready for sleep to take her away.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

This is so long and so angsty, and I am so sorry! Also, I took the “Music” prompt a bit loosely and based this off music lyrics? Hope that counts. Song is I Do by Wild Rivers :) @nessianweek

My sweater on your bedroom floor, you can take that // You don’t want my love no more, honey I can shake that

Cassian swallows down a sigh as he opens up the trash bag in his hands. The crinkle of it as he shakes it out is especially loud in the quiet of his bedroom, like a crack of thunder ringing in his ears. Leave it to Mor to demand that he “spring clean” and “finally get rid of that shit you hoard” only to bustle out of his apartment without even an offer to help. 

The living room had been an easy place to start. The photos had been one of the first things he had removed post-breakup, so there wasn’t much left out there anyways. But his bedroom. Well, he isn’t sure the last time he'd really gone through his closet. 

He opens the doors to find various clothing and items strewn about haphazardly. Some are on hangers, some are stuffed onto the shelf above, and a good chunk litter the floor. He tries to organize as he goes, pulling out and sorting through the different items to decide which to keep and which to donate. He’s sifting through the pile on the floor when his hand brushes against something soft and somehow familiar. With a tug, he comes face to face with a small cream colored sweater. The sight of it has him falling back onto his ass, his breath hitching as he runs his thumb along the cable knit pattern. 

If he closes his eyes, he can see them here, see her in this very sweater. He can feel the sweater under his palms as he slides his hands over her waist, feel the delicious warmth of her skin as slips his fingers under the hem. He can hear her laughter in his ear, like a favorite song he wants to bottle up and play on loop, as he presses kisses to her neck and behind her ear. 

Cassian digs the palms of his hands into his eyes like he can scrub the image from behind them, but all it does it make his chest ache. Like a damn full of splintering cracks, barely held together with tape. He can feel that familiar thickness clawing its way into his throat, and he can’t take it. He tosses the sweater into the trash bag and heads for the kitchen, desperate for a beer. 

I come, you go, back around back around // I see your ghost on a train downtown

Downtown is a mess as always. All Nesta can think about is a glass of wine, the chocolate cake in her fridge that she picked up from Trader Joe’s, and the next chapter of her book waiting for her on her nightstand. But instead, she’s weaving her way through busybodies and tourists who don’t know how to stand on the right and walk on the left. 

Once she gets through the crowds, she walks with practiced ease to the platform she needs, scrolling aimlessly through the array of texts from her sisters and friends from earlier today. She sends off a quick reply to Gwyn and Emerie before sliding her phone back into her bag. She turns to look at the board above the platform to check the wait time of the next train when her eyes catch on something else. Someone else. 

The sight of broad shoulders and a tangle of curls corralled into a top bun has Nesta’s heart stuttering to a painful stop and clenching hard deep between her ribs. She can already feel that all too familiar prick pressing in behind her eyes, threatening release. She can practically hear his laughter from here, loud and booming and so full of life, as he throws his head back.  

All it takes is one thought to send her spiraling back. Back to a calloused hand sliding against her own, fingers curled firmly around hers. Warm. Safe. It takes her back to a nose brushing against her hair at her temple, that laughter in her ear, a promise that screaming at passing trains is the best form of therapy. 

Nesta has to turn away and press a hand over her mouth to keep in the choked sound trying to spill forth. When she looks back down the platform, he’s gone, and all Nesta feels is the hollowness pressing in on all sides. 

It’s just a baseball cap, I ain’t even missing // And a Springsteen track, I don’t listen 

Cassian’s late. He knows it. Azriel is going to kill him if he’s not out the door soon. He does another quick check around his room, pulling out drawers in his dresser and even checking under his bed. And then it hits him, a flash behind his eyes harder than a slap across the face. 

It’s the hat being placed on a head of golden brown waves. It’s a soft press of lips against his own and lithe arms winding around his neck. It’s a mumble of “it looks better on me anyways” and clear eyes piercing into his own, deep and smokey blue and glinting like the roiling ocean under a setting sun. 

Cassian has to clench and unclench his fists a few times to get his head right, but then he’s pulling open his closet doors and digging out a different hat to throw over his mess of hair. He snags his keys and sails out the door to his car. When he turns the key in the ignition, the radio hums to life, the familiar lyrics of Springsteen flooding out of the speakers. Cassian almost wants to laugh at his luck. It would be this song. 

Even with Springsteen’s vocals blaring, all Cassian can hear is his own voice singing along, purposefully off-key, her laughter-filled pleas for him to stop as she reaches across and tries to stifle the sounds with her hand over his mouth. With a hard jam of his finger, the radio cuts out. Cassian takes a deep breath, throws the car in reverse, and drives in silence the rest of the way. 

It's just an old habit, I don't gotta kick // Or your best friends' pictures, I don't check 'em

The pile of blankets atop Nesta is the only armor she needs. She curls her body and burrows deeper into them as she opens Instagram on her phone, the small rectangle the only light in her otherwise dark bedroom. She takes a few moments to scroll through the posts on her feed and click through some Stories, but there’s no beating around the bush. She knows why she’s here. 

Her finger hesitates for only a moment over the search button at the bottom of her screen, but then she’s selecting it. It only takes her typing in the “A” before the page comes up, and Nesta refuses to let the shame threatening to heat her skin win at what that means. She clicks on the first picture, taking in the wide smiles, the arms slung casually over shoulders. Nesta bites her lip so hard, that tangy metallic taste floods her tongue. 

She shuts her phone off abruptly, tossing it onto her nightstand before rolling over. She curls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms tightly around herself, focusing on the phantom feel of different arms holding her close and warm breath ghosting across her shoulder. If she closes her eyes tight enough, she can feel the press against her back with each breath he took, feel the words “I love you” whispered against her spine. 

Now I'm driving by the place we met // Could you go there?

Cassian’s so distracted, he doesn’t even realize he missed the turn for his apartment. He’s not even fully sure where he’s going until the familiarity starts to sink in. It’s too easy to pull up alongside and throw his car into park. At this hour, it’s all dark through the large windows, but there’s no mistaking the small wooden tables with the chairs stacked atop them. The register and the glass display case. The chalkboard declaring the seasonal drink specials in bright colors and swirling writing. 

Cassian can still taste the sweetness of her drink against his tongue. Can still see her pointedly raised eyebrow and unimpressed frown like it’s branded at the molecular level of his brain. Those eyes cutting through him from the minute they locked with his own. That lilting voice of hers still ringing in his ears and asking him what he thought he was doing with her drink.  

Cassian grips the steering wheel of his car until his knuckles turn white, letting his head drop until his forehead meets the leather. He takes a few deep breaths, then he’s throwing the car back into drive, letting the coffeeshop fade away in the rearview mirror. 

Now you wanna talk? // Babe I don't care

“Nesta.”

It’s a simple sound. Just her name. But in that soft timbre, in that voice that Nesta’s heard rumble through his chest, it makes her blood freeze over. She knew she never should have agreed to come to this garden party. As soon as the text came through from Feyre, she should have declined. But that voice in the back of her mind, it had niggled, it had gnawed, it had climbed to the forefront, and now she’s standing in Feyre’s backyard, a cup of some sort of punch clutched between her hands and Cassian approaching her.  

“You look good,” he says once in front of her. 

Nesta is sure that has to be a lie. All she feels is weighed down, like every second of every day is spent trudging through thick mud. Concealer can work wonders, but it’s no miracle worker. And with him standing this close, close enough for Nesta to feel the warmth that always seemed to radiate off his frame, to smell that combination of fabric softener, cologne, and just him. All she can think about is the air stuttering through her lungs. 

At her silence, Cassian clears his throat awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “So, how have you been?” 

It’s casual, and Cassian throws an easy grin her way as he says it. Nesta hates it. She hates the way that he does look good. Hates the happy ease he didn’t even have to try to muster or pretend when he arrived, hugging and laughing with their families. Hates that she can tell the laughter lines around his eyes have gotten deeper. 

“No,” Nesta says, turning on her heel abruptly and heading back toward the house. 

She hears Cassian call after her, but she doesn’t stop. She’s surprised the whole backyard doesn’t hear the crack resounding from her chest, leaving shards of glass embedded deep in the skin. 

I see you out in a bar downtown, but you look so different like you don't go thinking, but I do

Cassian watches the ice cubes bubble and clink in his glass of whiskey. He gives the glass another swirl before throwing the amber liquid back, reveling in the burn against his throat. He tosses a couple bills onto the bar-top and slides off the stool with a sigh. He turns toward the exit but his eyes catch on the other end of the bar. 

Nesta is there, and Cassian’s entire body feels like it’s been set on fire as he takes her in, the gentle waves tumbling over her shoulders, the small black dress clinging to her every curve. He recognizes Gwyn and Emerie standing with her. He sees her laugh at something one of them says. Over the music and the crowds of the bar, he can't hear it, but it still rips through his chest like an arrow. Before he can even make a conscious decision, his legs are carrying him toward her, always toward her, like a ship brought home to safety by a lighthouse. 

“Nesta,” Cassian says once he steps up behind her. 

She turns and looks up at him, and his breath hitches in his chest all over again. His fingers itch to brush the hair away from her face, tuck it behind her ear and run the pads of his fingers through the ends. Her eyes are guarded and it makes his gut twist, urging him to press his lips against her skin until that look melts away like it used to. Maybe if he’d had another glass of whiskey he’d be feeling more brave. But the alcohol thrumming in his veins gives him enough courage to ask the question that’s been burning a hole through his head and heart. 

“Do you ever think about us?” he asks, voice quiet and just for them. 

A silence settles between them, but it’s charged, like even in this crowded downtown bar, everyone is holding their breath, waiting with baited anticipation. As the seconds tick by, Cassian begins to wonder if she’ll even answer, if he’s made a mistake, but then her hand is reaching up, smoothing a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. 

“I do.”