Til Kingdom Come
Neither of them is sleeping, you know? They’re just that good at pretending. The connection that they shared is no longer physical but it still seems to be there, since they both now that if they open their eyes, it’ll be time to say goodbye.
Pretending is easy, especially when your eyes are closed. Ophel’s… Samariel’s… the teenager’s eyes are closed and he’s lying on his stomach, arms working as a pillow, face turned from Bastian’s… Christopher’s… from the man’s face.
He has his eyes closed but that doesn’t stop the tears.
He hates to cry. He hates it because at times it seemed as if all the Colonel had wanted was to break him and make him cry, so little by little he stopped crying, only so he’d be able to achieve a small victory against him. Sometimes he could. Sometimes the Colonel just hurt him just so he’d break down sobbing. He hates to cry but it seems as if the other man is the only one who can make him do so. Not only make him, but want to… and yet he cries in silence, breath not betraying him.
It’s funny how you can cry even when you’re happy because you’re also sad.
The man doesn’t bother closing his eyes. He’d do it, if the boy would curl around him like he used to do when he still thought he was Ophel. He spent many nights with his eyes closed, trying to remember that it was a small girl in his arms and that he didn’t think like that, that he shouldn’t think like that. He’d do it because it comes as natural as breathing, even more, this holding and rubbing a small back, trying to keep nightmares away. Now he’s on his side, on arm resting on the small of the teenager’s back, rubbing the scar as if he could erase it.
He wants to. Erase any mark, take away any nightmare, any hate… even if he said ‘I love you’, it wasn’t said back and it’s okay. He doesn’t need that if the teenager would be there. He finds it strange how he didn’t believe in soulmates and now, however, he’s almost certain of calling the boy that. He wishes to erase any chain that hurts the boy, even if it’d mean erasing himself.
He doesn’t cry: there’s no need. He doesn’t think he can when there are so many shards of heart and soul clawing inside him. He wonders if his fingers are going to bleed and then he moves to draw the boy closer to him, face hiding in crimson tresses and feeling small white hands covering his.
Neither of them is sleeping, you know? And neither of them is really trying to pretend they’re sleeping. But then again, neither of them really wants to say goodbye
In your tears and in your blood, in your fire and in your flood I hear you laugh, I heard you say, "I wouldn't change a single thing."
Before electricity became scarce and all, Arion had loved to watch movies. Especially if they were horror movies. He liked the adrenaline, and he liked to use the fear as an excuse to cuddle near Zack. Of course, then electricity had been scarce and all in all, he hadn’t seen an horror movie in more than ten years.
Still, he knew that the monsters-killers-aliens usually took the innocent bystander to their lair so they could eat him slowly and keep him juicy. Or at least so they’d put their eggs on him and without a doubt, the poor innocent soon-to-be-victim felt how the sweat of fear soaked his clothes and then the breath of the soon-to-be-murderer would…
“Would you like some more, Arion?” asked Emma, a pretty eighteen-or-so years old girl with a round face, brown eyes and a five-months bump curving her figure on the middle. The singer refrained from jumping, both out of scare and because he suspected that that would wake up the toddler that had fallen asleep on his lap.
“No, thank you.” He said as calmly as possible, trying not to flinch at the smile the teenage-woman gave him, and trying to ignore the way Jensen, Emma’s partner, was looking at him. No, it wasn’t rude or dangerous or anything like that, it just was so… deep. Almost without blinking.
“It’s okay if you want more.” Jensen said then. At least Arion thought it was okay to be afraid of him, since it was a tall twenty something man with arms that could probably snap his neck in two if Jensen as much as wanted. “I know the town looks bad, but our cultures are okay, so are our animals.”
“No, no, seriously, I’m full. Er… don’t you think I should perhaps go…?”
Then, at the same time, Emma and two other women stopped cleaning the dishes and raised their heads towards the right, tilting their head. Jensen and a boy that was probably around Ophel-Samariel’s age closed their eyes in the same way and Arion was once again freaked out.
Emma put a cup of tea in front of him, making him jump.
“They’re still dealing with some troubles, perhaps in a couple of minutes?” she said with a half smile, moving to pet her daughter’s head a moment before going back to cleaning. It was some kind of communal kitchen for what he had gathered, when he had arrived – surrounded by what he was certain were teenage mutant killers or something – they had been finishing with dinner and the boys and teens had stared at him as if he had had two heads, all of them sharing something that made them familiar. It wasn’t the face or the ethnics so he’d think they were family; it had more to do with the way they moved, the way they looked and that damn way they had of being silent. It almost seemed as if the only reason they were talking right now was because he was there.
He wanted to know just how the hell had they known that Bastian and Ophel-Samariel-Whatever were busy, but he wasn’t desperate enough to ask, thank you so very much.
“I love you.”
Bastian’s fingers are still rubbing over the scars of his back, threading through red hair, moving up and down as if that could erase them, cure the pain that Samariel doesn’t remember anymore. Somehow, Bastian’s scarred fingers hurt more, so much more. He’s not looking at him, laying over his stomach on the small bed while his… (what? Lover? Friend? Was-Going-To-Be-Brother-In-Law-But-Since-M
on’t-Think-It-Still-Fits was simply too long to use it)… whatever was on his side.
“… don’t say that.” He says finally, moving to use his arms as a pillow, eyes closed, willing himself to pretend he’s asleep so that Bastian can go to sleep. Bastian’s hand moves his hair away from his shoulders and kisses one softly, leaving his hand between his shoulder blades in the way he always has and they’re back, the damn tears. Seven, almost eight years of dressing like one and now he is a girl. He draws another breath, trying to control himself because if he cries, if he’s held like that again, he might not go.
“It’s the truth. I think… I think I’ve always loved you like this.” Bastian murmurs against his ear, drawing him close until he’s against Bastian’s chest and that’s familiar, so familiar. He smiles, eyes closed. He’s so tired of crying and breaking up. The shards don’t fit anymore, everything’s too mixed and with every breath he draws, he feels them tearing himself more and more.
Bastian’s chuckle vibrates in his chest and through his ear and is almost like an earthquake. It’s the first time that Samariel thinks that maybe, maybe he is a little bit crazy, or perhaps a lot. He can’t make himself belief that he really followed Bastian for revenge because now, now he almost remembers that at that time he had been so, so happy to realize that he was alive, that he was fine, that just like he had done when he had been little, he was back to save him from the dark and the monsters.
“Don’t go.” He opens his eyes against Bastian’s chest, taking in a sharp breath that almost tastes feels is a sob, arms going around Bastian’s waist, holding tightly unto sanity and unto reality, shaking his head. “We can stay together. I’ll be whoever you want me to be. Let me stay with you.” Bastian whispers again, softly, carefully, and his breath is shaky now because he wants-cant’s-wants-cant’s-cant’s-cant’s-w
ants so, so, so much.You can go together. Both of you. Just go.
… I can’t.
… I can’t…
“… I love you…” and Bastian’s lips are again on his, taking his words and breathe and tears and blood away with the desperation that brings the goodbye.
Arion was debating between going back and probably see something that was a TMI situation between the guitar player and the small wanna-be-girl-boy or accepting Emma’s offer that he could crash at their place. Jensen and Emma’s daughter had pretty much decided that he was to carry her and was clinging to her with all the might of a two years old – which, just for the record, happens to be a whole damn lot – and he was starting to forget his previous jitters around a couple of teenagers, humming softly, when suddenly, the two weird young adults stopped.
Arion blinked, moving a little bit towards them, watching how all their smiles and gentle behavior changed into that same blank stare that still sent shivers down his back.
And, in the same voice. “He’s here.”