One could argue about at what point my gradual descent from leading a reasonably respectable life, to the very gutter of society – literally – went from bad to worse. Frankly, I’m not so sure myself. All I can say for certain is that it was at Relena’s annual New Years’ party, exactly a year after the embarrassing end to my friendship with Trowa, that my walls crumbled and my state of being became official. If I ever thought I had made a spectacle of myself the year before, that incident was quite forgivable compared to this display.
By the time I arrived, I was already drunk. The hotel room, you see, had a generously equipped mini bar. I was nervous, of course, at the prospect of meeting all my old acquaintances. Things were tense in some areas, to say the least. They rum tasted foul, but could be suffered as the taste was mostly deadened by liberal amounts of some overly sweet, reddish soda. When I greeted the guests, my expensive suit was impeccable, my hair done stylishly and the mandatory polite smile hardly even felt forced after all those drinks. I managed to hold up my end of the nonsensical chatter all through the main course, I think, without anyone the wiser as to exactly how many drinks I’d had.
The dam was bound to burst sooner or later, sure, but if it weren’t for Dorothy making a snarky remark about the suspicious absence of a certain Chinese young man, it is quite likely that it would have waited until another evening. I was already starting to get fed up with the insistent attempts of my dinner partner to set me up with any and all of her daughters at the time and considering the additional wine that came with the food, I was more than prepared to swallow the cleverly placed bait all the way. I had done my very best not to notice Heero a few tables away, looking somber, but very much alone. I had even managed to loftily greet Trowa without openly displaying any discomfort. The implication that it was my fault that Wufei had chosen not to show up this year didn’t sit well with me. I suppose you could say I lost my temper. Unfortunately, I was not yet drunk enough not to be able to talk back. That would have been a blessing at the time.
I cannot recollect the entirety of the speech I gave then, but I think I began by insinuating that Dorothy was a trophy hunting opportunist who should only be grateful that I had freed up an attractive bachelor for her, although perhaps Wufei might be a bit too much of a traditionalist to agree to a threesome with Relena. I then proceeded to elaborate on that the hostess of the evening, in turn, could also send me thanks by the mail for giving her the best shot at Heero she was ever likely to get, although I didn’t want any of that cheap jelly candy she enjoyed, that everyone pretended to like because they were boot-licking, sycophantic, political turn-coats who had been sucking Treize’s cock not so long ago. The guests were already gasping at that point, but that didn’t do much to put a stop to my tirade of obscene offences. There was some speculation during which I implied that the politicians in the room, rather than doing their job, preferred going on so-called business trips where they spent tax money on under-age hookers and expensive champagne, before getting to the culmination. The thing that really invoked my immediate removal, was when I went as far as suggesting that this little get-together was perhaps the biggest fake in modern history, a pathetic attempt at pretending that we were all any different than we had been a few years ago; power-hungry aristocrats, conceited misguided idealists and scavenger mercenary trash who would sell their soul for half a credit. I had more to say at that point, I am sure, but someone grabbed me from behind, locking my hands behind my back in a painful, relentless grip and simply dragged me away.
I have a vague memory of howling with laughter while stumbling out of there. Someone was giving me helpful shoves. The last thing I saw before I passed out on a carpet worth more than me, was the cold, merciless anger in blue eyes, and the tip of a braid sweeping briefly over my forehead as I was lowered onto the floor.
To most people, the scene I had caused at the New Years party would have been a critical problem that needed to be dealt with as soon as possible, not only because of the political implications of the Winner heir making such statements in public, but because of the friends I had gravely insulted. To me, at the time, it was a way out. It was the excuse I had been looking for to abandon all semblance of control and care, hypocrisy disposed of along with dignity and self-preservation. It speaks of my mental health at the time, I think, that I considered it liberation. At this point, pretending to be holding it together would be altogether useless. The number one rule I had been taught as a child, to always keep up the appearance of calm and control for the sake of the masses had been smashed into a million pieces. I was a failure and now everyone knew. Nothing left to do but to sink into blissful oblivion. It didn’t even occur to me at the time to find out how the people I had hurt with my drunken rant were doing. I was no good to them anyway, better if they forgot me and I forgot them.
The faithful mermaid was the name of the worst kind of opium den. You had to stray well into the slums of Cairo to find it. That was part of why I liked it there; so little chance that anyone I knew would find me there. The place had probably gotten its name from the bronze statue of a mermaid that resided in the middle of the common room. She was a wide-hipped, busty woman, water pouring in narrow rivulets from her nipples. Many a customer had taken a drink from her, so many that the poor mermaid’s breasts were surely a focus of disease for herpes and some even less savoury afflictions. It was laughable to think how these things would have made me gasp and blush in horror a few years ago. I was reared by gentle, respectable people. It’s funny how just this one mercenary could drain me of the innocence fighting a war couldn’t entirely purge me of.
It was another one of those nights when I had dissolved all coherent thinking with a pipe or two of the finest blend The faithful mermaid could offer – you have to give them that they didn’t dilute their opium with common spices the way some places did. I had been around. I was one of the wealthier customers, which meant that they had reserved a special fouton just for me. I was sprawled on it, staring dreamily at the ceiling. I didn’t bother with business suits anymore; they were far too uncomfortable. I had abandoned them in favour of the wide linen pants and vests commonly worn in the area. Of course, it was customary to wear a tunic underneath your vest, but it was a particularly hot night and I cared little that my hairless chest was displayed for everyone to see, so they could all tell how young I was. The owners didn’t care. I paid them well not to bother me. What was it to them if I wanted to ruin body and mind in the haze of an especially lovely flower, before I was even fully grown? People must have talked, I’m sure – but the beauty of opium is that you neither notice nor care. I would most likely not even have noticed the new customer, had it not been because after a few hours of contentedly watching the horses in the painting on the ceiling chasing each other around, nature’s calling became more pressing and I was forced to temporarily abandon my comfortable retreat at the back of the room.
As I was making my way to the pearl-laden green drapery separating the men’s room from the main area, my wandering gaze fell upon a handsome man sitting by himself at a table, crouched over an arrangement of a small glass and a carafe with a tube leading down into the glass, very slowly dripping down water into the substance I knew to be absinth. It might have interested me more, had not the hangovers been so gruesome. It took my muddled brain quite some time to recognize him. At first I just stopped to stare at the masses of silvery hair, the colour of the moon, hanging down to conceal most of his face. It seemed to me the hair was made out of snakes, many slim snakes writhing, entwining to form mesmerizing patterns... It was a fascinating sight. Eventually he must have noticed that he was being watched, because he slowly lifted his chin, warily glancing around. Given a better look at his face, recognition dawned on me. What do you know. Zechs Merquise, in a place like this.
I might have been able to make my escape before he managed to catch sight of me. It would have been the wise thing to do. But relieved of all such burdens, the only remaining sentiment, the one that drove me to stroll over rather than away from him, was curiosity - the curse and blessing of mankind.
My first thought was that it was too much of a coincidence, that someone had to have sent him here after me. Only I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who would send him of all people, a man I had never even met outside of formal occasions. Then there was the fact that at a closer look, as I edged closer to the table, hips swaying this way and that to manoeuver around people and chairs, there was no mistaking that the man was well and properly sloshed. Even a beginner could have recognized his hunched position and slow, reluctant motions as the result of alcohol and to me, the size of his pupils and the vacant expression was as condemning evidence of the hallucinogen as a suspect’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.
Zechs was wearing a white, snug t-shirt and green pants that I knew went with the Preventer uniform, although he had at least had enough presence of mind to leave the give away jacket with the symbol on it at home. It made me wonder if perhaps he was on a mission. On second thought, probably not. From what little I had been able to deduce about the man, Zechs Merquise was one man who took his job very seriously. Drinking on the job just wouldn’t do. As I discounted the possibilities, my curiosity grew.
Leaning my hip against one of the wooden pillars that supported the roof, I slanted my head in an insolent angle. I didn’t say anything right away, instead just watching the other man for a few moments and see what he would make of it. While I was hardly in possession of my full wits, neither was I completely robbed of the skill of judging people’s reactions. But he just blinked owlishly at me, as if I had awoken him from his slumber. In a sense, he was right.
“Enjoying your drink, Merquise?”
I smiled smoothly – or so I thought at the time. In hindsight, I doubt I had completely managed to hide the smugness.
He looked down at the glass as if surprised to find it was still there, once I called attention to it.
“So it would seem,” Zechs responded pensively.
I couldn’t tell if he was trying to get rid of me, or was just pretty out of it. Either way, I wasn’t so easily deterred.
“A lot of things aren’t what they seem,” I contradicted easily.
Leaning forward to place a hand on the table for support, I caught one of the lingering water droplets that had been about to descent into his glass, bringing the fingertip to my mouth to lick at the fluorescent crystal bead.
“These are a lot of tears.” My gaze trailed the new droplet that was just coming into existence, only to soon descent into the green sea of forgetfulness. “Who are they for?”
Zechs raised a hand, long fingers caressing the side of the glass as his expression grew dark; ominous even. He didn’t respond right away.
“It’s of no consequence any more.”
We were strangers to each other and even from what I know now, we had little in common. It may have been pure coincidence that we met that night in the shadow of the known world. But just then, we understood each other perfectly. His reasons for being here were his own, as were mine. They didn’t matter much in the end. I had no desire to knead my past mistakes and neither did he. People didn’t come to dwell on the past, but to forget all about it.
I pondered the wisdom of his words for a few moments, constantly distracted from reality by the endless chain of association that arose in my head, leading me further and further away from the here and now if I didn’t watch it. But I wasn’t new to this drug, I could keep it together enough not to get lost altogether in the haze of imaginations and mirages, if I wanted to. Right now I did. Sometimes a blend of reality and fantasy could be just the thing, and my imagination was doing naughty things to Zechs already.
I folded my arms, regarding the other man with half-lidded eyes, not even bothering to disguise my intent. To make it out to be something else, something prettier, would be a pathetic travesty in a place like this.
“Have you seen the men’s room out back yet? I could give you the guided tour.”
Zechs smiled ironically, credit to him for not giving me a once over with his gaze even at my rather blatant suggestion. He still had enough grace about him, even now.
“Since you’re offering…”
He lifted his glass and tossed back what was left of the absinth before standing up, surprisingly steadily, something that must have required quite a bit of focus on his part.
“Lead the way.”
The men’s room was situated in a shed out in the back yard, presumably to keep any unpleasant scent experiences out of the main area. It consisted of a rusty urinal drain on one side of the wall and a ceramic basin filled with water on a small table. People who desired privacy were directed towards suitable back alleys. Privacy wasn’t something that concerned me a lot at this point.
I was hardly allowed to finish relieving myself before something hard was pressed up against my ass and I was shoved forwards at the urinal, fingernails scraping in vain for support at the tiled wall I had the side of my face pressed flat against. The pain, however, was as distant as if it was happening to someone else. So was the draught when my pants were unbuttoned and fell down to pool around my feet. This wasn’t the way I had planned it, but I found it worked just as well with me. I’m quite sure he would have stopped had I given him any indication that I wanted him to. My indifference just wasn’t enough to do it. He was too wrapped up in his own pain, I suppose, to have it in him to care.
I was fascinated by how Zechs’s hands seemed to be glowing, and the way they left glowing marks on me whereever he touched me. It burned a bit, but not too much, more a pleasant tingling feeling. The marks on my thighs and my glans, fingerprints forming a psychadelic pattern on my skin. I tried to tell him about it, but I don’t know if my lips were really moving, or if it was all in my head.
Eager fingers spread my buttocks, fingertips slick with spittle probing inside of me. It hurt a bit at first, but not as much as it had with Trowa. I could tell Zechs had done this before, but probably not in a while, if his fumbling, lust-driven caresses were anything to go by. I found support against the wall with both palms, head lolled to one side. Another finger inside of me, but who was counting? I was already distracted by a small spider on the wall to my left, wondering if it was poisonous.
Another hand reached around me to fondle my balls sloppily before grasping my shaft to pump at it. I was marginally interested in these doings, my body slowed down by the opium, but after some insistent ministrations, my cock was half-hard and drooping like a wilted flower in his hand, anyway.
It probably wasn’t supposed to hurt when he entered me in many, small thrusts, but of course it did anyway. And it’s a good thing it did, because by then I was already losing interest and I needed something to wake me up. I lifted my chin, staring up at the ceiling. It was closing in on us, but somehow it never quite reached us. The room was morphing. Meanwhile, Zechs slowly pushed inside me, his loud groans filling the entire room, bouncing off the walls, distorted echoes creating an absurd music. I sighed.
“Fuck me like you mean it, Merquise.”
He huffed, placing hands on my hip to get better leverage.
“What does it take… to get on a first-name basis with you?” Zechs inquired, voice amused behind all the panting.
“Why would you want to be?” I countered.
He didn’t have an answer to that. But he did what he was told, like a good boy. He pounded into me with abandon, sending strange jolts through my body. It was neither pleasant nor painful, but I found the feeling curious. I felt more like an observer than a participant, noting absently how the edge of the urinal drain chafed against the front of my thighs.
At some point during the act, someone came in, gave us a quick glance, before deciding that it wasn’t any of his business, instead doing what he came to do. Zechs tensed a bit, but was too worked up to be able to stop and I didn’t care one way or another. I had lost my sense of time around then, but it seems fair to assume that it didn’t take too long altogether before he spent himself inside of me with a groan worthy an porno movie star, his whole body shuddering.
He was actually conscientious enough to finish me off too, although it took some rather insistent jerking off. I was still only half-hard when my semen splattered down in the urinal drain in half-hearted spurts. I hardly noticed. I just wanted to lean back against Zechs for support as the walls around us vibrated. I wondered vaguely about if a sound only existed in your head, did it then truly exist? The question had me truly confused and I was sure at the time that the meaning of existence hinged upon it somehow.
It was not our only encounter at The Faithful Mermaid. We would meet like that, several times at week sometimes, heavily intoxicated by our drug of choice, attempting to erase the past in vain, not understanding that what we were really doing was recreating it, staging that old tragedy again and again. Zechs bestowed upon me the passion I had longed to find in Trowa, who had been untouchable, unreachable to me. It mattered not that Zechs’ desperate whispers and touches were not truly meant for me, because he too was only an extra in my own personal hell. I never found out the story behind his misery, but some of it I could guess, from the name he would sometimes whisper in my ear when the absinth had gotten to him really badly and he no longer knew where he was, or with whom: Treize.
I don’t think either of us considered the terms of our silent agreement, or how long it would last. For as long as we both still came to the designated meeting spot, I always assumed. I have no clear memory of this period of my life, for obvious reasons. Therefore, I cannot tell for sure for how long a period of time we were lovers, if that is truly the appropriate term for it. Sometimes, I was so out of it when we met that he could just as well have been fucking a corpse. It was always that way; him fucking me, because I could never muster the energy to take the initiative. We were like sinking rocks clinging to each other, hoping to stay afloat, but instead dragging each other deeper, darker.
I have no idea how long I had been lying there. The only thing I remember clearly about waking up, is the military boot that rested just in front of my face as someone rolled me over on my back. That and that I would much rather go back to sleep. I probably mumbled something incoherent, intending to chase away whoever was disturbing my rest. Couldn’t a guy take a nap around here without someone interrupting? The person went away after a few moments of attempting to shake me into wakefulness and I gratefully sank back into the abyss I so longed for.
The reawakening was brutal. A bucket of cold water was mercilessly tossed at me, making me choke and hiss like a cat. It did what it was supposed to do though, the haze of opium, alcohol and whatever other drug I had managed to come across was somewhat dispersed. I managed to halfway sit up, trying to wipe the excess water out of my eyes with the back of a dirty hand.
“What the fuck d’ y’ do that for?” I complained.
I didn’t even get a response. Supposedly, my assailant – or saviour if you will, depending on which way you look at it – didn’t think there was much point in reasoning with me when I was in that state. Instead, I was easily slung across one shoulder like a ragdoll and carried off. I protested a bit at first, but even as some sense of connection to reality returned, I was unable to physically contend with the person carrying me. My muscles had withered away during my period of debauchery. Settling down, accepting defeat, I slowly came to recognize a bit of my surroundings. There was something very familiar about the way this person smelled...
He dumped me on a bed in a hotel room of some sort – I had managed to catch a glimpse of the neon sign of the way in. I wanted to ask what we were doing here, if he wanted a go at me or what. But forming words was such a big effort that it took me a while to manage to collect my thoughts enough to put together a comprehensible sentence in my head. I had just about managed when he returned to my side and grabbed hold of one of my arms. My lower arms were covered with a patchwork of festering wounds. I had torn them open with my nails a few days ago on a flaring up when I had been convinced that roaches were crawling around just underneath my skin, trying to get them out. The gashes were no longer red, but had turned into a greyish shade from the dirt that had crept into them and the yellow pus that resided together with the filth in little pockets underneath the skin.
I was still too out of it to make the connection when I recognized the bottle of vodka just above my bare arm. As the burning fluid hit my wounded flesh, I screamed, my voice hollow and broken. I didn’t think anything could hurt me any more, but no one was immune to undiluted booze in open wounds. I think I needed that as well, like I did the bucket of water, even though I hated him for it at that time.
I tried to grasp at my arm, but was held back, pressed down on the bed, hands clawing uselessly in the air. It was only then that I saw his face for the first time, the long brown bangs falling to one side to reveal it to me.
Wheezing, I glanced back up at him with tormented, misty eyes.
“Trowa... Have you come to finally put an end to my misery?” My laughter soon turned into a fit of coughing. “It would be fitting... since you started it.”
He gave me a quick look that I could have sworn was guilt-ridden, except Trowa didn’t feel guilt. It must have been the drugs deluding me. Then he started bathing my wounds with a rag soaked in alcohol. I groaned in complaint and reached out, trying to take the bottle from him, thinking it fair that I could at least take a swig while he was doing something this painful to me. He snatched it away from me.
“You’ve had enough.” He snapped.
“Are you moralizing me?” I taunted. “‘Cause I abandoned hypocrite oaths a while ago.”
If there’s one thing I’ve always admired about Trowa, it’s how he never loses his temper. I did my damn best to provoke him, but he didn’t take the bait.
“Look at it this way then: it’s my vodka and I’ll do what I like with it.” He responded evenly.
I rolled my eyes, clenching my teeth to keep it together. I was too weak to struggle, but I didn’t have the strength of will to take it like a man either. I couldn’t think of anything at the time to fight his unbendable logic with, so I just sulked for a while and let him clean my wounds. I’m still not sure if he only used what was availible, or if he deliberately chose the most painful way to do it to sober me up, but at the time, I was convinced it was because he was a sadist.
After a while of strained silence, I finally decided to voice the question that was on my mind.
“What are you doing here, Trowa?”
A moment of pause; perhaps he was considering what to tell me, or if to respond at all – the common decency of responding when someone is talking to you, Trowa treats with the same disregard he does many other of society’s rules.
“Getting you out of here.”
My face was turned towards the wall and I shook it faintly, smiling to myself. “Sorry, not coming with you. I like it here.”
Then something unxpected happened. I saw him stiffen out of the corner of my eye, one of those rare moments of anger I’ve ever seen him display and then he grabbed me harshly by the collar of my torn shirt and dragged me off the bed. He held me up, which was a good thing as I was not quite ready to stand up on my own yet, especially after being dragged across the floor. And then he pressed my face against the wall mirror.
“Fucking look at yourself! If I had taken a few more weeks to find you, I’d probably have had to haul home a corpse!”
And I looked. I suppose I could have blamed it on unfavourable lighting had I really wanted to, but the truth was that the few lamps in the hotel room only gave off a mild, yellow light, intended to inspire people to take off their clothes together. My hair could barely be called blonde any more; lank, matted strands clogged together by the waste I’d been lying in when I’d literally been sleeping in the gutter lately; the stench giving me hints that I didn’t care much to consider about the waste’s origin. My eyes looked vacant and too large for the emaciated face. My lips were cracked, the skin an unhealthy, pallid nuance, showing patches with the occasional bruise I found that I could not account for. I looked much the way I felt: like a wraith. It had been months since I had last seen myself in a mirror and I hardly recognized myself. It was a wonder, I thought, that Trowa had. I winced, and tore my gaze away from the repulsive image.
It was in a small voice, littered with shame to be seen like this, that I asked him: “How did you find me?”
Trowa’s iron grip on me relented a bit and he sighed faintly.
“I tried asking everyone who knew you where they’d last seen you, but it lead me nowhere. No one’s seen you in half a year. Eventually, I convinced Une to check your bank accounts, see where you’d last made withdrawals. But even after I’d managed to narrow the search area down to Cairo, it took me two weeks of asking around before I found you a bit away from the place were they reported that you were a regular. They hadn’t see you there either in days.”
I dared a quick glance in his direction. “You had Une check my bank accounts for a non-Preventer related issue? Wow, that’s pretty illegal. What did you have to do to make her do that?”
He didn’t respond, but just gave me a crooked smile. I decided not to press the issue.
Then I made the mistake of glancing down at my arms, raw and aching from the ungentle disinfection treatment. They were swollen to a grotesque shape and with the dirt washed away, the open wounds were even clearer than before, gaping pink flesh and pockets of red and yellow fluids underneath the skins where my nails had been digging after the roaches. My head started spinning, as I succumbed to an attack of queasiness. I managed to mutter under my breath.
“Bathroom...”
Trowa half dragged, half carried me there. I gratefully sank down on my knees before the toilet. I hadn’t eaten in a few days, so I all managed to get up was some especilly foul-tasting bile that corroded my raw throat. I dryheaved for a while, until my stomach muscles cramped and I curled up like a fetus on the bathroom floor, clutching at my belly. It hurt, my arms hurt, my eyes hurt, everything hurt. I needed some opium really badly, to ease my pain...
I cannot say that I was entirely coherent for the next few minutes, so I don’t recall exactly what I said to him, but I remember crying and begging varyingly, begging him to give me something for the pain. I may have even threatened him as well, although however I was to carry out any threats in the shape I was in, I have no idea. In any case, Trowa resisted any attempt to convince him either to get me any drugs, or to let me go and get them myself. At some point, my energy finally waned and I fell asleep from pure exhaustion.
I woke up lying in a bed this time, heavily disoriented at first. I fought to open my eyes, eyelashes gritted together. I was still hurting pretty much everywhere, but my head was a bit cleared, which was no blessing, I can assure you. Every fibre of my body was aching for a good fix. I wasn’t picky, I’d take whatever was availible.
Without even getting up from the bed, I started fumbling for the pocket of my pants to see if I had anything left. Except I wasn’t wearing my pants any more. It was at this point that things started coming back to me. I was wearing only a pair of clean briefs – not my own, of that I was sure – and a tank top. Someone had tucked me in properly. But even with the hot climate and the sheets, I was shivering cold.
“You’re awake.”
I squinted against the unforgiving light. The hazy figure slowly materialized into the shape of that person whom I dreamt of in my most intense wet dreams and my worst nightmares. Not seldom, those two combined into one.
Trowa was sitting in a chair only a step away from the bed. By the looks of it, he had been watching over me while I slept. And he must have carried me to the bed too, since I didn’t remember having gone there on my own accord. Nor undressing. My arms were wound tight in meticulous bandage that chafed uncomfortably against the wounds.
With considerable effort, I managed to crawl up to a sitting position, leaning forwards, arms slumped over my updrawn knees.
“You’re still here,” I commented.
“Yes.”
Trowa didn’t seem inclined to elaborate on that. He rose and walked over to the small table at the other end of the room, fetching something out of a rustling paper bag.
“I bought us some breakfast while you were asleep.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Too bad.”
I opened my mouth to stubbornly tell him that he couldn’t make me eat and then I realized that he could and probably would, too. My stomach was empty, but I still wasn’t in the mood to eat anything. I felt weak and queasy. Somehow, I didn’t think Trowa would consider that an acceptable excuse.
He handed me a sandwich wrapped in wax cloth. It contained sliced meat of some sort and fried vegetables. It looked utterly uneatable to me. I nibbled carefully at one corner anyway. It didn’t taste bad at all, but my stomach still lurched at the prospect of that much food.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, before I finally sighed and put down the sandwich.
“Why are you here, Trowa?” I asked wearily.
I had to give him credit for not willfully misinterpreting my meaning and telling me he was here because I needed to be saved, or whatever. I had figured out that part already. The question was why he would bother with such a thing. We weren’t even friends anymore, if we ever had been. I already knew that he had never loved me, so why all the effort?
For a few moments, the only sound was that of Trowa chewing on his own sandwich, before he finally spoke up slowly, phrasing each word with care.
“Most of my fuck-ups, I can’t do anything about. Things you say and do can never be undone. I’m not going to insult you by apologizing, as if what I did to you is forgivable. But if I could help you in any way at all to start dealing with your mistakes... That might help me deal with mine.”
He was looking down into his lap as he spoke, but his voice was clear and unwavering. I wanted to assault him with sarcasm, I wanted to tear down at everything he said. But the way he gave it to me straight, no attempts to claim altruistic motives, no excuses, made me pause. I guess there was enough left of me to somehow respect that.
I ran shaky fingers through my hair, mustering what strength of will I had left to keep it together.
“How though, Trowa?” My voice wasn’t as unwavering as his. “Just look at me. I can’t even deal with getting up in the morning. How am I to try to repair any of the damage I’ve done?”
“You accept that just because you’re not good at something, doesn’t mean you’re excused from trying.” He hesitated, and then added: “You can’t move on until you’ve made peace with the past.”
I didn’t notice that he had moved over to sit at the edge of the bed until I glanced up again to find him much closer. He looked like he was considering whether or not he should risk trying to hug me. Rage suddenly flared up inside me again.
“You had no right to abuse my feelings for you like that!” I yelled at him, my voice cracking.
I fruitlessly pounded my fists against his chest, hoping perhaps to drive him away. I don’t know where he found the courage to take me into his arms when I was behaving like that. I know I wouldn’t have. Really, who would think that a person trying to hit them wants to be hugged, even if it’s true? For all the empathy I may possess, this time, it was he who read my mind when I couldn’t myself. I put my hands on his shoulders, intending to push him away, but found out that I couldn’t bring myself do to it. It was too easy to lean into the embrace, eyes stinging from unshed tears.
“You had no right...”
An uncertain hand was stroking my filthy hair.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Trowa had been right in that no apologies could ever have made up for what he did. Words just weren’t enough. But I think that the fact that he was there right then, more than anything else, made the difference. I had forgiven him in the past for something unforgivable, and though I didn’t say so that night, I forgave him again. Perhaps it was because I hoped that if I could do that for him, then maybe, just maybe, those I wanted forgiveness from could find it in their hearts to do the same for me. It was the first tiny firefly of hope in a sea of darkness that I’d known for a long time.
THE END