Can you make a Imagine (with A. Grizmann)? Thanks babie
i’m so sorry??? this is not what i had in mind when i started writing but apparently i am too dramatic to write simple fluff?? anyway i hope u like this nonetheless 😳💜
It’s been a year since you’d last seen him. You remember it being October; the autumn leaves had adorned more ground than they had treetops at the time, going out of the house without a warm enough jacket had become impossible, but the sun had still found its way through heavy grey clouds, embracing the world in a golden haze. It had been a nice October. Until that day Antoine had sat on the soft cushions of your couch, a dark blue sweater hugging his torso, speaking softly but clearly, telling you that he couldn’t do it anymore.
You hadn’t understood at first — hadn’t wanted to. Seeing him close the front door behind him had ripped your heart in two. The memory still does.
It’s October again, now. It’s raining (has been for a while) and you sit on your couch, watching the raindrops fall.
“Babe, I can’t find my car keys. Have you seen them?”
You look up to see Chase standing in the doorframe that leads to your living room. He looks a bit lost as he rifles through his brown leathern bag that’s filled with books. He’s a teacher and sometimes he forgets to stop teaching. For some reason, you used to find his know-it-all personality quite adorable at first; he had that way of making even the most annoying comments funny. Now it’s become nettlesome.
You shrug. “Have you checked the kitchen counter?”
A second after saying this, you want to smack yourself. Chase has never left anything lying on the kitchen counter — he’s tidy to the point where it’s bordering on OCD. Antoine, on the other hand, has. All the time.
“Shoes?” you asked, staring at the pair of Nikes on the kitchen counter. Then at Antoine who stood next to you, biting the inside of his cheek in a painfully obvious attempt to suppress a grin. “Seriously? Shoes in the kitchen?”
“Sorry. In my defense, I was in a hurry.” He picked the shoes up and tossed them in the hall, aiming at the coat rack situated there.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” you said with a shake of your head.
Antoine seemed to get you wrong because as soon as the sentence had left your mouth, he smiled. A second later, he had his arms wrapped around you from behind and his lips pressed to your neck, then pressed to your ear as he whispered, “I’ve never met anyone like you neither.”
You laughed. “Not the way I meant it, but I’ll take it.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you were talking about. I know you.”
“Hmm,” you hummed, “You do.”
His hands moved to your stomach, his long fingers intertwining, trapping you against his firm body. Your heart hammered against your ribcage in response. He was warm and soft, his nearness clouding your brain and sharpening your senses. “I’m glad I do.”
“You’re getting corny again.”
“Well, I am French.” You felt him shrug behind you, and laughed.
“Oh, yeah? What happened to ‘I’m French, but more Spanish’?”
“I’m French when it comes to food and kissing.”
You made a face. “You’re not that good of a kisser, to be honest.”
Antoine grinned — you could feel his cheek move against yours when he did. “Really? Let me prove you wrong.”
Everything went pink, azure, red, white, when he did.
“Y/N?” Chase’s deep voice jolts you out of your thoughts. Guilt craws up your neck, making your cheeks burn. “Did you hear me?”
You shoot him a small, apologetic smile. “No, sorry. What did you say?”
“I said I’m off to work. Enjoy your free day.” With that, he presses a kiss to your forehead and walks out of the door. When you look out of the window again, it is still raining.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, feeling your heart sink, your chest squeeze and your eyes prickle. You walked out of the bathroom and into the living room slowly. Antoine was sitting on the couch, his torso propped up on pillows and his iPad in his hands. His teeth were digging into his bottom lip, his thick eyebrows furrowed, and one of his legs shaking. He looked up at you when he heard you coming, pressing the iPad’s lock button.
There was a lump in your throat, making you feel like you might suffocate. So all you could do was nod.
Antoine did, too, as he sat up straight and stared at the wall for a few moments. You kept standing a few meters away from him, your lips pressed together.
Somewhen (after what seemed like an eternity), he spoke up again, “Okay.”
“That’s it?” you asked, your voice small, “That’s all you have to say?”
Antoine shrugged. “You’re pregnant, not dying. We can do this.”
“I’m twenty-two!” you yelled, pressing your palms to your cheeks and blinking rapidly, desperately trying to stop the tears from falling. “I— I— god, no.”
He was quiet for a while after that again but his sky-blue eyes stayed focused on you, watching you cry. Usually he’d comfort you, you knew that, but he seemed paralyzed. Shocked. Afraid. Just like you.
“We can take care of this, if you want to,” he mumbled that night as he dropped his pillow and blanket onto the couch. You stood at the staircase with your arms folded and tears still streaming down your cheeks. “We don’t have to have this baby if you don’t want to.”
When you realized what he was talking about, you wanted to throw up.
“I’m not going to make this decision on my own just so you won’t be the asshole,” you hissed before you stomped up the stairs.
“That’s not what I meant!” Antoine shouted after you.
You lost the baby three months later.
He is everywhere. After the EURO, he is everywhere. In the papers, on the TV, even on Beats by Dr. Dre’s playlist on Apple Music. Well, his face is on the cover at least, but still.
You sigh as you watch the water boil in the pot, the pasta in it floating around and dancing between the rising bubbles.
Antoine was smiling more on all of those candid pictures you see of him on a daily basis than you had seen him smile at home. Which makes sense seeing as he seemed to be out and about more often than not these days. He said it’s because of football. Maybe it was, or maybe it wasn’t.
Exhaling audibly, you walked into your bedroom. Antoine was there, too, stuffing clothes into a suitcase which has the Atlético emblem stitched on to it. He didn’t bother folding any of them. No surprise there. It was a bit of a surprise, though, to see the lack of football kits.
“Where are you going?” you asked. He didn’t look up.
“Away game in Italy.”
“And you don’t need kits for that?”
Antoine paused. “Oh, almost forgot. Good thing I have you.”
“Yeah.” You watched him as he took sport clothing out of the closet and ignored the uneasy feeling spreading in the pit of your stomach.
You spend the next couple of hours crying.
When Chase comes home from work in the evening, you sit him down on the couch. He looks lost again in his beige pullover, his dark hair dry for once — it’s stopped raining in the afternoon, even if the clouds haven’t disappeared.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.”
Chase doesn’t look like he understands, but your words fall surprisingly easily.