An Encounter, Daveed Diggs x Reader
Prompt: You see your ex-boyfriend at a hotel, and now you can’t feel your chest.
Warnings: None apart from like, sADNESS.
Note: Hello there.
So. Um. Yeah. Angst once again. Ha ha. SOMEBODY NEEDS TO STOP ME.
First time I’m posting something with Daveed, although this is far from the first time I’ve wrote for the man. It’s not angst, really. Well, it is. I guess, angst with an ambiguously happy ending?? Does that work???
Speaking of angst, Circumstance part two will be coming up in the following days, and the last Perks and the sequel to Chase next week.
Anyway, I love you all, enjoy.
Much, much love. xx
You know how these things go.
There will be quiet moment that lasts for maybe a second, and then the tide rushes in.
You feel a tug right behind her chest, and it seems to break you open until the hook catches onto one of your ribs. Your heart stays, though, and it remains, beating traitorously fast against the heel of your palm, which you have pressed to your sternum in an effort to somehow stop your pulse from rising any further through external force. It isn’t working.
All he’s doing is standing there, nothing more. He’s there, just there. His there-ness shouldn’t be affecting you the way that it did.
You should have moved on by now, leaving him in the dust and effectively cutting him away like a stubborn weed.
You realize somewhat belatedly how you must look, standing there with such a wretched expression on your face, glasses askew, your heart in the soles of your shoes. Pathetic.
God, what is he doing here? Why is he here? How is he here?
“Miss?” someone asks and the dam breaks and you are out of the mystic realm. You stutter a response and turn away, half-dumb. It’s fine, you try to tell yourself, mostly failing. “Your room key,” the poor receptionist says, looking at you with obvious concern. You take the room key, hands numb and trembling. You’re praying that he doesn’t see you.You’re praying that he passes by without so much as a glance in your direction. You’re praying—
Damn it. Damn it all to hell.
The key is a sharp sting in your hand as you face him, and the twist in your stomach nearly makes you bowl over.
He’s still beautiful. As stunning and as unreachable as you remembered.
“Hi,” you say, and you inwardly curses at the crack of emotion so obvious so noticeable so very much there—
“It’s been a while,” he says with a breeze of a laugh. He smiles and you know that if you were standing any closer, that smile could easily kill you. You want to scream, or yell, or screech. All three.
“It has,” you say instead, managing a smile of your own. “How are you?” You hate this. Hate this. Absolutely. He shouldn’t be standing there all beautiful and put-together while you’re a crumbling disaster.
“I’m doing great, yeah,” he says, scratches the back of his neck, the gesture so routine and so familiar that it sends you back, forcing a finger down your memory’s throat.
You’re back to two years ago, and he’s standing next to you on this small little hill in your small little hometown, holding your hand, and the weather was so humid you could feel it in the back of your throat. He’s saying something to you, you can’t quite remember anymore.
You’re back to one year ago, and you’ve been yelling for hours now, fighting for what seems like years. You’re tired and sorry and angry and you just want to get this over with. You both do.
“Why do we keep doing this?” you can’t help but ask into the silence of your dimly lit den. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him turn and look at you.
“What?” he says. “Keep doing what?”
You don’t speak, because for all this show of confusion, you know he knows what you’re talking about.
He moves out of the house within the next month.
It wasn’t the most painful breakup of your memory (heaven knows you’ve had worse), and if you were being entirely honest, the split was entirely peaceful. But they always said that it was often the little things that kept haunting you. (Your breakup wasn’t a little thing. God no. But it was a lot less than the others. Less shouting. Less fuss. Less. And yet here you were, torn completely asunder with barely five sentences.)
“Anyway,” he says, and it breaks you out of your stupor. “How have you been?” Belatedly, you realize that you’ve been quiet for some time, only staring at him like some depressing fool.
“Oh, you know,” shriveled up, scattered, scrambled, et cetera, “the usual.”
“That’s great.” He sounds so sincere. It makes you want to hate him, but it only makes you love him more. “It’s been such a long time…”
There is a moment of silence that you mourn and revel in. You’re too emotionally confused to take in anything else. If you had your head on straight, you’d feel awkward. You don’t, but that was neither here nor there.
“Have you been seeing someone else?”
The question was so sudden, so out of bounds that it renders you mute for a solid second.
He’s sheepish now, embarrassed by his own bald honesty. “You heard me,” he says at last. It was somehow comforting to know that he was still himself after all this time, still too confident for his own good.
“No,” you say after forever. “N-No. I’m not—seeing anyone at the moment.”
He lights up, and then maybe realizes that he should not be, dimming. “Sorry,” he says. “That was terrible of me.”
You don’t know what to say, so you keep silent. You just now notice that you’ve moved. You’re near the lobby now, instead of the receptionist desk. There is traction on your feet now as you drag it, the floor going from tile to carpet.
“Why’d you ask?” you say, feeling something burning in your body, just below your trachea. Your stomach’s twisting so badly it’s a miracle you haven’t vomited yet. Your heart was a battering ram against your uvula.
“Look,” he says, breathes, “I know that it’s crappy of me to bring this up now, and here of all places,”
“Daveed, we’re in a hotel,”
“Exactly. Like, what kind of guy talks up to his ex-girlfriend in a hotel? But it’s been a year since I last saw you and you were there and prettier than I remembered and—“
“Let me finish, please.” He inhales through his nose, lets the air out sharply. “Y/N, I miss you.” And then your world stops, and you’re struck dumb in the wake of whatever this is. “I miss you. Present tense. I don’t even know what happened to us, Y/N. We were so good and then we weren’t and I can’t wrap my head around it.”
You want to walk away. You want to scream ‘No’ until you’re hoarse. But you couldn’t be yourself unless you were an idiot. So you stay.
“I want you back, Y/N. I want us back. And it is a one heck of an assumption, because who knows, you might have some other guy there in your heart, but I’m not leaving here not knowing. I’m not walking away from this place knowing I could have had a chance with you and not taken it. Please, just let me know.”
He turns and starts to walk away, and you’re struck by how unfair it all is. You’re the one who’s supposed to be walking away. Not him.
“I don’t,” you say, louder than you would have usually. He stops in his tracks. “I don’t have anyone else in my heart.” You hate how truthful you’re being.
He faces you, smile so wide and so bright that it makes your eyes hurt. He looks like he wants to reach out to you but thinks better of it, which was all the best. You couldn’t take it if he held you now. Instead he opts for the next best thing; he cocks his head to the side and gestures for you to follow him. You do.
You’re swerving back into his lane now, and you could only hope that the collision doesn’t hurt too much this time around.
Crash. Bang. Smoke.