Wanderlust - A Felinette Fanfic

Now

Marinette, ever since that night Félix came back drunk, knows he never actually came home. She's refusing to acknowledge it, of course, she hates that it seems like now, even he isn't trying anymore. Like they've both given up on each other. But has she given up on him? She hasn't, right? She was doing all of this for him. To keep him with her. To keep him loving her. To be who he married her for. The mother to his children. The wife to his being a husband. She wonders if she's doing that second bit properly though. Maybe she should have sex with him. Maybe it'll make things better. She looks up from the breakfast she was eating. "What time will you be home tonight?" She asks.

He looks up, finishing his eggs and setting down his fork neatly. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and shrugs. "I'm working late tonight. Asked me to stay to finish a presentation. I should be home by 10:30," he said, standing up and taking his dishes to the sink. Ever since that night a week ago, he'd put equal distance between them. Which separated them even more. He didn't try anymore. He kissed her cheek before work in the morning, held her hand in public sometimes, made her breakfasts on Friday, the one day he went in late to work, took care of the baby on Wednesday when she went out with Alya, and that was about it.

"Oh," she says with a little bit of disappointment. More time to herself. More time to figure out where things went wrong. How things went wrong. That doesn't sound as appealing as it used to. "Okay," she says again, and this time, with a little more edge. Something is amiss, but she can't figure out what. She should figure out what. Her food unfinished, she stands up and discards the rest in the trash. "Well, since you'll be so late, I'm taking Camille for a walk and then we'll stay at Alya's. Might not come home until tomorrow afternoon."

He nods, washing both their dishes and setting them in the dishwasher before picking up his briefcase. "Alright. I'll be here," he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and kissing her cheek like every morning. He kisses Camille's forehead from the high chair. "Have fun with Mama," he whispers, and then leaves. And for an uncountable time, that noise rings through his ear.

Click.

Fuck the doors. He should take them all off. It's not like they use them anymore. They've seen each other naked so many times, it doesn't bother them. And lately, it doesn't even spark his libido. If someone told him this was what marriage does to love, he would have thrown that ring in the lake and never looked back. Ever.

Marinette sighs as the doors click, entirety deflating as Félix leaves. Before she can kiss him back. Before she can try to fix things and maybe do better. Then again, regret always stood at the end of the hall. It's never there at the entrance, labelled on the doors in huge signs, because apparently, regret has to be encountered first hand and never prepared for. Or maybe Marinette is just too blind to read. She doesn't quite know. She doesn't know anymore. After fixing up Camille's things, she leaves the house too. Doesn't take a second look at it. It isn't the same, she thinks, not the same house Félix moved into a month after she did. Lifeless. Dreary. Bleak. She's thankful that Alya's house was only a block away because by the time she knocks at their doorstep, she's already crying buckets. Trembling. Breaking apart.

When Alya opens the door, her face falls as she sees Marinette. Cheeks swollen, eyes red and puffy, lips chapped, last night's mascara running down her face, she hugs her tightly, stroking her hair. "Hey, hey, girl, what's wrong?" she whispers, ushering her inside. She's known  something's been wrong between her and Félix, from what Nino told her, but she didn't understand it. They were so in love. How could something like that break like this?

Nino takes Camille and her items from Marinette, and the moment that the only thing keeping her anchored all this time was taken away from her, she just... breaks. Tears don't stop falling, even when she feels like all water in her has been wrought out already. "I messed up," she whispers. "I'm messing up." She clutches the chest hem of her shirt. "And I don't know how to fix it anymore, Alya." She hiccups, and she can't breathe, can't see anything else but the floor as she looks down, trying to wipe away the tears, let them fall, let them dry out.