Unintentional Faust

Removed for submission to magazines

Lying in a Hungry Bed

Lying in a Hungry Bed

How did we get here, Peeta wants to ask her but doesn’t. Instead he turns the light off and rolls over in the bed. It may be a cold night tonight but he will not reach for her. He could, but doesn’t. Because he already knows she’ll just shrug him off again. So, he lies there alone and stares at the ceiling and counts the passing lights that flash through the blinds and paints lines across their still bodies.

Katniss wishes he would ask her how they’d gotten there. But she doesn’t tell him that. Because he gives up so easily. She could lie there on her cold side of the bed for night after night and wonder if he’ll reach for her arm again, if he’ll still love her enough to push her to talk to him and open up. But he doesn’t. He just accepts her refusal, not seeing the actual need in it. So, she’ll pull the blanket tighter and closer her eyes and listen to his breathing, unsteady and unsure.

It wasn’t always like this, was it, Peeta wants to ask, but doesn’t. He tries to think back to brighter nights when lights were peach tinted and the world was lost in a soft honeygold glow. But he’s not sure if he’s ever taste that light. Maybe only seen it in movies. And for some reason that makes him want to cry. But he won’t. Because she won’t ask him what’s wrong. And what he does recall is his promise never to cry by himself with her next to him again.

Katniss hears him hold his breath. Hold his tears back. And she wishes he would just let them flow. Show in some way that she is still worth his tears to him. But he doesn’t and they just stay lying there in the cold of the dark. She wonders if she has ever cried with him, but that’s a silly thought because she knows she hasn’t. She wishes she could. Some part of her wishes she could force them, even fake tears would do, a way to show him it’s okay. But she doesn’t. She sighs instead, rolling on her side away from him.

Peeta wants to ask her why she’s sighing. He wants to ask her what’s the matter. He wants to know if she’s ever been to Disneyland and if she’s afraid of the dark too and if she’s ever really been in love. He’s been to Disneyland but only once on the train. And it’s not the dark he’s afraid of but the thought of lying next to her in it. And in the same way he’s been in love with her all this time. In the same round about way. But he has no idea how to say that, or where even to start.

Where did all this begin, Katniss tries to remember. She tries to remember because maybe she can fix it if she’d known where they’d gone wrong. She could ask him. But she doesn’t. He’d just take it personally or start to cry again or worse of all answer her honestly and she’s not sure she could take any of those options. So, she thinks back and realizes that there was a time when he’d reach around and pull her close. And she’d push away and he’d pull her back in. And she’d ask him what was wrong and he’d kiss her on her shoulder and tell her what was wrong. Or maybe she just wishes there was a time like that. It all feels like a lifetime ago.

Peeta turns so slowly and with so much creaking that she almost feels her own bones moaning in response. But like her, they give none. He moves as slowly as he can because he’s afraid to accidentally touch her. And tempted too. And he fights with that temptation to brush her arm and pretend that he hadn’t. But he doesn’t. He simply turns in place and looks towards her. He wishes that she’d look back, and dreads it at the same time and hopes against hope that she doesn’t. Because he has no idea what he’d say or do then. What do you say when you’ve run out of questions and words? How can you start over with something that never really felt like it began.

Katniss turns too, as if finally responding, and dreading it herself as she does. She faces across the cold expanse, a demarcated landscape of tear stained bedsheet and a broken and tomorrowless hope. She doesn’t want to meet his eyes so she does, and she feels a quiver of hope that maybe he’ll say something. But he doesn’t. He’s just looking back at her. As if he feels just as dry and as dead as she does.

Peeta knows he should say something, anything at all. But his heart’s been hollowed out and he can already taste the formahalyde on his tongue. He knows already. And the sad truth is final and reassuring. He knows that they won’t speak tonight. As they didn’t the night before. Or the night after. They will keep on like this. Lying cold and lonely and counting the cars and hoping against the hope that something might change and dreading it all at the same time.

And Katniss knows that he won’t say anything. And she knows neither will she. She let’s out another sigh. And she knows that one day they’ll lie like they lie right now, cold and stiff and wordless next to each other in the hard, clay ground. And even then when they’ve been freed from all this fleshy heat and moisture. Even then she’ll gaze over at him and he’ll gaze right back. And neither will speak with their mute, tongueless mouths. Neither will ask the other what is the matter. Neither will share the blanket or any warmth. He will still hold back his tears while she will still try to figure out how to cry.  

A Hunger Games Fanfic, Inspired by "The Bed Song" by Amanda Palmer and the Grand Theft Orchestra on their album Theatre is Evil. Thanks to IHEARTTHISPAGE for image found on Favim.

Notes & Notice

Notes & Notice

There is something quite satisfying in the crunch of his black boots on the hardened snow. It litters the field in heaps and clumps, brown earth and green grass visible here and there in the white landscape. But to his eyes it is a carpet of white extending–– unbroken save for his solitary trail of lonely footprints–– all the way to the edge of the park where the rows of silver beech tree trunks stand like a field of pillars, enclosing him in his white world.

He reaches the spot where the old fountain used to be. There’s still the containing cement wall and the dias that the bronze mermaid had stood on, spouting her slimy water into the algae ridden pond. But then some parent groups had complained that the mermaid, though appropriate by the standards of 1910, was completely inappropriate for children–– especially her small, round breast that trickled into the pool–– and so the statue was removed and the pool was drained and the concrete containing wall soon sprouted into obscenities and pictures both colorful in meaning and shape.

He sighes as he glances over the carnage of the fountain–– as he likes to think of it. But today is not a day for sighs–– he recalls–– and places the small black case down on the containing cement wall blooming in graffiti and abstract art. The silver latches, as polished and immaculate as the day they were formed, open with a satisfying snap-crack against the hard exterior. He opens the case and undoes the knots, taking out the violin and the bow.

The violin is black, as somber as his attitude and his vest and his long black coat. He’s dressed that way to make a point–– a visual statement to go with how he feels. He slips out of his normal gloves and pulls his special pair from the interior of the case. As his hands slide through the wool, his fingers–– already pink in the freezing air–– furrow out of the holes cut in the finger portions, ready to move and flex and play. And freeze if he doesn’t hurry and start playing.

He hops the low cement containing wall and crunches over the fallen snow to the dias. There are still the green remains of what was once brass pipes sticking out of it, but by carefully placing his feet on either side, he has taken the mermaid’s place. He has become the new statue. He brings his violin to his chin, already tuned before he left the apartment. He places his fingers on the board. And the first note sings out over the snowy landscape of the park.

He plays like this every Tuesday and every Thursday. It’s a tradition by now that’s caused enough interest that he sees his regulars–– who in turn invite friends to sit on the benches and listen to him play. None of them stay for long. None of them knows what his art really means to him. They think its just some cute song, some nice notes, with a warbly bit thrown in near the middle that they don’t particularly care for. And then some leave money. He had been excited when he saw the first few notes and had immediately hated himself for feeling excited. He wasn’t out there to make money. He was out there to make a point about loneliness and inevitability. And about love.

Love. That was why he started playing every Tuesday at 1:15 and every Thursday at 3:02. Love. He would play and the joggers would jog by with their headphones in. And the children would run by, making obscene gestures and jokes he was certain he hadn’t known at their age. And then would come the lovers. Oh the poor, stupid, unfortunate lovers. They’d stroll by, arm in arm or hand in hand and think to themselves what a lovely tune and isn’t this so romantic. Having no idea that the song he plays is no more than a swan song for his own love, a song of pain, a song of anguish, a song of the millions wrongs that love commits daily against the hearts of man.

But they just sit and smile and kiss and walk on and he stays on his dias and plays. At least most days he does. And most days he makes a fair bit of change. In fact, he won’t admit it to anyone, especially not himself, but he’s pulling enough right now to only have to work part time at the coffee shop. Which is not bad at all. At least. That is most days. And though today seemed like most days seemed with the crunching snow and the children and the joggers and the park, he has no idea how different today would be.

The sound of his song is struck mid chord by the punctuation of her voice.

“Oh, a violinist! I love violin music!”

He holds his breath and then wills himself to keep playing. And not to turn. He’s thought about it. Fantasized a million times. Dreamt that this day may come. He had seen it. She’d be walking in the park and he’d be there, standing on the dias cold and lonely in the snow with the saddest music the world had ever conceived on the muses and she would feel her heart break in anguish and remorse and guilt. And regret. That was important. She would miss him and realize what she’d lost. But then she’d be filled with the longing to have him back. She’d want to run to him. To embrace him. To kiss him and hold him and make love to him. But she wouldn’t. She would stand there and feel all the guilt and remorse and regret and emotion and longing wash over her until she could barely contain it and then, she would walk away. And maybe he’d make eye contact with her right then. At that moment. A field of broken snow between them. Yes. That was how he’d imagine it would happen.

Except, he’d never imagine the man’s voice that follows.

“Would you believe if I told you I’d hired him to play for us today?”

And she giggles.

“Gary! You liar! I know you didn’t! You had no idea I’d bring you to the park!”

And he laughs in return.

“Alright, fine. You got me.” And at this point the voices have reached him and are stopping, “Want to sit for a while?”

And he does stop playing. And stops breathing too. But doesn’t turn yet. He simply lowers his instrument and waits to hear. Can she honestly not remember that this was the spot. Here by the dried up and forgotten fountain she’s brought her new.... lover.... the very spot that he had first kissed her. On that Tuesday. At 1:15. The very spot she had broken up with him on that Thursday at 3:02. He feels lancing heat ride up his neck.

“No, it’s getting cold.”

And she giggles as they finally come into view of him and he hears the man’s response.

“I can fix that when we get back to the room.”

And as they pass around the fountain towards the path that leads out of the park with his lonely set of footprints in the snow, the man stops and untangles his arm from her. He reaches inside his Armani coat and pulls out a wad of money. And drops it in the small casket.

“Hey, can you play us something up-beat, buddy?” And he grins a grin that says he knows exactly whose standing on the forgotten fountain’s dias.

And as much as he wants to punch the Armani coat right off of the bastard, his arms seems to rebel and raise and start to play an Irish jig. His heart hates him for it. But his arms and fingers will not let him stop. They play and his eyes begin to tear up as he watches the two dark figures walk out of the park.

She glances back, and she’s frowning. He’s not sure. But she seems to look at him a bit too long. As if she’s buried his memory so deep that she can’t even recall it when she’s looking him straight in the eyes. But then, he’s changed since then. He probably wouldn’t recognize himself either. And so she turns away, not even a look of recognition. And as they walk out of the snow veiled park he hears her last words.

“Did I ever tell you–– I once dated a violinist...”

And he finally regains control of his fingers. And he drops the violin and the bow. And he more falls than jumps from the dias and half walks-half stumbles to the edge of the concrete containment barrier. And he places the violin into the case, its small casket home, and places the bow in its place, and closed the latches with snaps that are less satisfying now. He doesn’t even pull his normal gloves back on. He just needs to get out of there. He just needs to get back home.

Home. It’s an apartment in the city. It looks like brick but its just cleverly disguised concrete. There’s snow in small heaps here and there. But for the most part the sidewalk is bare and gravely with the last traces of the salt tossed earlier in the morning. He takes the stairs. He doesn’t want to have to talk to anyone about how unseasonally cold it’s been. He reaches his door, unlocks and wants to slam it except that Mrs. Jenkins always calls and complains when he does. He closes it resolutely instead–– he tells himself. He walks into the small apartment and flicks on some lights and then turns them off instead and opens the wide bay window. Let the dull grey light that seeps through the clouds wash his room in tones of white and grey and shadow. Let it reflect his mind and his heart and his soul. He places the case on the kitchen counter and then proceeds to fall on the couch.

The television sits invitingly in front of him, calling him to watch. But he doesn’t feel like watching anything right now. The book his friend leant him is on the coffee table. He’s at  really good part. He could pick it up. He doesn’t. He could make food. Except he’s not hungry. He gets up anyway and starts boiling some water. That’s a start. He leans against the kitchen counter and opens the cupboard. Pasta. Fine, his mind says, whatever is easiest.

As he slides the pasta into the warm water, somewhere in his mind he recalls the way she had said that he spoiled it when he did that. That he should wait until the water boils. He didn’t do it on purpose today, but some part of him is glad he did. He watches the water and waits for it to boil. And waits. And waits.

While he waits, he picks up the violin case, the jangle of change reminding him of his money he’d earned today. And the wad of bills from the man. He opens the case and takes out his pull. A hand-full of coins, a guitar pick, a cigarette, a fake million dollar bill that has the message of hope on the back, an unopened condom, and the wad of money. He hesitates to pick it up, feeling dirty, and then not caring. It’s all 20s and it’s all real currency and the first thing he thinks is that he’s never held so much money in his hands in his life. And probably never in his bank account either. The next thing he wonders is just exactly what kind of man walks around a snowy park with this much amount of cash in his pocket. And then just gives it away. Probably the kind that wears an Armani suit into the snow too. He hopes that it’s drug money or mob money or something that makes the man just a bit more real and a bit less.... dare he think it... better than him.

He drops the fake bill and the cigarette into the trash. He keeps the condom–– even if he doesn’t have a use for it right now–– and the change. And that only leaves the wad of cash. Then he throws it away too. He won’t take it. He leaves it. He doesn’t want anything to do with the man. Or with her for that matter. He had fantasized about her coming to the park but deep down he hadn’t really ever wanted her to come. It was like a messy divorce. She had gotten his heart and dreams. But the park had been his. Tuesday at 1:15 and Thursdays at 3:02 had been his.

And he feels the resignation that simply wants to hand over custody to her and be done with it all. Maybe it won’t be as bad. Maybe he doesn’t have to go out there and play his heart break out anymore. But he knows he can’t. He can’t because it has become so much more than just his heart or his pain. It has become his art. It has become his place. Those ignorant joggers and obscene children are his people. Those misunderstanding listeners, they are his audience. And the money’s not bad too. Maybe if he got a bit better he could end up making even more. Enough to quit the coffee shop all together. And besides he knows that he can’t let her chase him away.

But his thoughts are interrupted by the sizzle of the boiling, starchy water overflowing the pot and hitting the warm element beneath. He hadn’t even noticed that the water had started boiling and he begins to frantically look for his oven mitts. A few slammed cabinet and cupboard doors later and he still can’t find them when he recalls that he’s already wearing gloves. He picks the steaming pot up and carries it to the colander in sink and tosses the pasta and the water in together. He hangs his head over the sink as it is enveloped by the reaching clouds of sticky steam.

In the morning he rolls off of the futon. He stumbled to the kitchen in his boxers. The open violin is still on the counter top. The remains of the pasta and the butter and the garlic and the cheese from last night are still out, along with the empty bottles of wine. He begins to clean the kitchen and run water for the dishes and put things back where they belong. And he picks up the phone. And he calls his boss at the coffee shop. His voice sounds stronger than he’s expecting, given how he feels.

“Hey, yeah, I was wondering.”

And he opens the trashcan and pulls out the wad of money and places it on the counter and wipes the coffee grounds and pieces of garlic peel off of it as he keeps talking.

“Would I be able to go from part time to full time?”

He fishes for his wallet inside his coat. And places the bills inside his wallet.

“No, the violin thing just isn’t working out anymore.”

And places the wallet back into his coat pocket. And goes back to doing the dishes in the sink as he cradles the phone next to his ear.

“I’m not really sure why. It’s just a feeling, that’s all.”

And he dries his hands and hangs up and holds the receiver in his hand. And he walks across the room to the phone’s cradle on the glass side table next to the couch. The light from outside is still diffused by the clouds, though it is the light of the early morning and the new day and it seems to have just a bit more white to it. Fresh like fallen snow across his couch and coffee table and side table and phone cradle. And there is something quite satisfying in the finality in the click of the phone as it slides back where it belongs.

Metamorphoses

The elevator doors open with a forceful ding announcing to the lone man inside that he has reached the 216th floor. He swallows nervously and steps out into the hallway, his shoes clacking and echoing noisily on the italian marble, reverberating up into the mahogany and ivory lined rafters far above him. The heavy bronze doors shut behind him as if reminding him that he has an appointment and that he better not be late.

He clacks down the hallway and swallows nervously, straightening his tie and brushing the raindrops off of his jacket. As far as he knows the 216th floor should be the same size as all the rest of the floors. But it doesn’t feel that way. The hallway stretched on long and dark and smelling of amber and musk. When he finally reaches the door at the end he knocks gently on the redwood paneling.

“Yes, yes, the door is open!”

He pulls down the heavy bronze latch and walks inside.

The office is like a cathedral. Columns wrapped in carvings of vines and snakes and half naked woman run the length of the office toward the wide lancet windows looking out over the city. A thick carpet depicting some ancient Indian epic flows down towards the massive desk, an edifice of marble and granite like some primeval benben stone that the city is built on. And in many ways, the city is built on it. Blueprints are approved on that desk for new neighborhoods and skyscrapers. New laws are signed with that heavy, black fountain pen and sent to the mayor’s office.

“Rodney.” The disembodied voice comes from the high backed alligator skin chair that is facing out towards the windows, overlooking the city. “You’re late, boy.”

And the chair turns and there sits the man. The man who may very well be the most powerful man in the city. Possibly even the whole west coast. After all, he controls the main port points for all the bootlegging coming down from Canada through Seattle and from Mexico up through San Francisco. They call him Old Bailey, though Rodney may be the only one who catches the irony of the name itself.

“Why don’t you take a seat.” And even though there is not the slightest hint of a hard edge to his voice there is also no denying that it is an order, not a suggestion, and Rodney obeys as quickly as he can.

“You’re probably wondering why I callled you here today.” Old Bailey says and Rodney is about to actually answer the man but Old Bailey just keeps pushing on as if he doesn’t hear Rodney’s mumbled start of an answer. “Seems to me that you’re making some of the boys... uneasy.”

And Rodney waits a bit to make sure Old Bailey is done. The old man raises an eyebrow at him as if waiting for him to respond and so finally he does, “Oh, er, right. Sorry. I, uh, didn’t mean to, that is, er, I’m not sure...”

“Relax, kid.” He rings a bell on his desk. “What’ll you have? Coffee? Tea? Cognac?”

“Er, a bit of water perhaps?” Rodney sits at the very edge of his seat.

“Cognac it is.” And a side panel opens and a woman with dark skin and an ivory white suit steps in.

“We’ll be taking two cognacs, Jane. Thank you.” And as she steps back and the panel closes he turns and winks to Rodney, “Jane’s the best.”

“Ah, yes.” Rodney smiles apologetically, “Er, good servants can be hard to find.”

“Ha! Servant nothing!” And Old Bailey laughs as he lights the end of his cigar. “Jane’s my accountant and body guard. Only reason she’s acting as teaboy today is cause Trevor’s been out the last week with a cold.”

“Oh, er, good.” Rodney fails to hide his shock, “Er, excuse me for asking sir, but a woman for a body guard. I mean, that is. Is it entirely safe?”

“The safest.” Jane says as she’s appears behind Rodney and places the two glasses of Cognac on the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important call to place to the mayor’s office.”

And Jane disappears just like that as Old Bailey whistles through his teeth, “She’s a keeper that one. Now, Rodney, I have to tell you. This is my third meeting with you this week and it’s not often I meet with people over and over like this. I feel like I’m starten to get to know you.”

And he pauses and Rodney decides this must be the place where he says something and so he says, “Sure” only to get the dirtiest look from Old Bailey.

“The problem is I don’t get you son. Why do you make everyone so uncomfortable?” He turns and lights a cigar, “I mean, I really don’t get it. I mean sure, you’ve got a couple of nervous ticks but who doesn’t in our line of work.”

And Rodney squirms in his seat like an eight year old in sunday school. He’s not sure but he doesn’t like the way the conversation is turning. Rodney places his hands on the edge of the desk. The look he gets from Old Bailey sends them right back to his lap. Then the sides of his chair. Then resting on his legs. He even starts to try and put them into his pockets but gives up and drops them back into his lap and his thumbs start the fidgeting again.


“Rodeny.” Old Bailey sighes, smoke seething through his teeth. “I’ve decided that maybe you should take some time off from family work.”

“W-what?” Rodney stammers, “But, but I can’t. I mean, why?”

“Because I told you, that’s why! Don’t make this about you Rodeny.” He puts the cigar down where it curls a viny tendril of smoke up to the dark vaults of the office. “The fact is, we’re getting too loud again. Cops can be bought, no mistake about that. But they can only turn their eyes so much before people will start fussing.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t follow.” Rodney looks down as if not following is his fault.

“See, people will let us get away with a certain amount of racketereering and bootlegging as long as it doesn’t affect them.” He draws from the cigar again making the end glow cherry red. “And cops will let us get away with as much as we want long as people don’t know that they are doing it. Or so long as people don’t care. It’s when people don’t feel safe enough with complacency that they start to demand civil reform and federal investigative committees and stuff like that. Trust me, kid. I’ve seen it all.”

“But what does this have to do with me.” Rodney looks down at his fingers as he asks.

“You’re not the only one I want to lie low for a while. I’m shutting down half of the San Francisco racket next week. Yellow Jack aint gonna be happy about it but that moonshine can sit in chinatown for a while without going bad. And we’ll buy it from him when we have some breathing room again.” And then as if catching himself he plucks the cigar from his mouth, “I shouldn’t even be telling you any of that. Maybe that’s it.”

“What is, sir?” Rodney looks up expectantly.

“Maybe that’s why no one likes to be around you. You’ve got one of em faces.” And he sticks the cigar back in drawing it till its nearly catching fire on the tip, “Those faces people just wanna tell stuff to. Hmmm, do you think that’s it?”

“Er, maybe.” Rodney hopes the uncertainty doesn’t carry through too much.

“Maybe.” And Old Bailey rolls the cigar around in his mouth as if testing the idea on his tongue. “Well, anyway, whatever the reason. Your thing, it’s what’s made you number two on my list of people who need to take a break. Go back to your day job. Maybe get a girl.”

“Sure.” And this time the uncertainty can’t be held back. “Um, is it alright if I ask a question?”

“Ask away!” Old Bailey says sucking at the cigar and blowing smoke rings.

“When will I come back?” Rodney tries not to sound too eager.

“Oh, the cops probably just need a couple of weeks for this new detective to wear himself out.” Old Bailey finishes the cigar and roughly grinds the stub into an elaborate crystal ash tray with a picture of a woman on it, “You like that? It’s the Greek goddess Pomona. Goddess of plenty.”

Rodney glances over at the naked image of the woman surrounded by apple branches and wheat fields.

“Yip, now they knew how to live, the Greeks!” Old Bailey cackles as he pours himself another drink, “They didn’t care about no excess or things like that. They drank and sang and danced naked around bonfires under the stars. And did other things out there too.”

“Oh?” Rodney has stopped paying attention again, his mind caught up by a whole other train of thought, “Like what?”

“Well, what do you think!” Old Bailey slams the glass down, “Women! Naked women! What else would they be doing! Anyway, unless you have some other questions you can go. I have another appointment.”

Rodney stands up as if in a trance, his mind still piecing things together. He walks hesitantly toward the door and pulls open the redwood with the heavy bronze handle and then stops. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows he should just keep walking. He knows he shouldn’t turn around and say it but he does anyway.

“Roman.” And Old Bailey scowls up at him with a questioning look. “Pomona. She was a Roman goddess.”

“Out!” Old Bailey barks and the door shuts just in time before the glass breaks on the redwood paneling.

Outside in the hallway that leads back to the elevator, Rodney is unsure of what he should do next. He hesitates in the dark. He knows he should walk down the hallway to the elevator and go back downstairs. But something keeps him.

“I knew you were stupid but I didn’t figure you had a death wish.” He turns and sees Jane standing in the dark of the hallway, a cigarette in her mouth.

“Oh, I, er, yeah, that was probably stupid.” He says looking down.

“What’s the matter? Never talked with a black woman before?” She asks, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raising as she blows a smoke ring to the ceiling.

“What, er, no, I mean, that is.” And he stammers backing up slightly as Jane places one ivory stiletto in front of the other advancing towards him, and he falls backward as he trips over the thick carpet.

Jane scowls as she stands over him, hands on her hips, shaking her head, “I don’t understand why you’re still working for the family, Rodney. You’ve got no spine. You’re completely incompetent with any kind of weapon. And yet you’re sulking about having to leave.”

“I wasn’t sulking.” Rodney swallows as he gets back up. “I was thinking.”

“About what?” Jane puts the cigarette out and crosses her arms.

“About what I should do next.” Rodney looks down at his hands as if the answer will be there, “He said to go back to my job. But I’ve never really had a job before working for the family.”

“The poor troubles and trevails of the entitled, advantaged, and high born.” She sighs, “Listen. Rodney. You can go and be and do whatever the hell you want now. You’re completely free! So, go! Do! Live! Dream something and then do it! I mean, when you were a kid what did you always want to be when you grew up?”

“A fireman.” Rodney mumbled and then looks up, “Or maybe a journalist I suppose.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way but I’m not sure if you’ve got the spine to run into burning buildings.” Jane shakes her head.

“I know.” Rodeny sighs into the darkened silence.

“But journalist. Now, there’s something. All you need is paper and a typewriter.” Jane steps forward and places a cool hand against Rodney’s cheek. “You have a chance, Rodney. A chance to leave all this behind and make something decent and good of yourself. A chance many people would kill to have.”

And then she proceeds to slap him hard through the face, “So don’t fuck it up!”

“Ow! Okay.” Rodney holds his burning cheek as he walks to the heavy doors and pushes the elevator button.

“And I’ll be watching you, Rodney.” She calls from the dark hallway behind him as he gets into the lift. “With a smile. And a gun in my hands. Remember that.”

“I will.” Rodney mumbles as he gets inside and then turns suddenly as he hears Jane’s sure steady voice.

“This when the various God had urg'd in vain,
He straight assum'd his native form again;
Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears,
As when thro' clouds th' emerging sun appears,
And thence exerting his refulgent ray,
Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day.”

And as Rodney hears Jane’s last words he mumbles to himself, “Ovid. The Metamorphoses. Book fourteen.”

And then the heavy bronze doors of the elevator rattle shut and Rodney is trapped inside the gilded mahogany and velvet box as it rattles and shakes its way down from the 216th floor down to the lobby and the cab waiting in the rain to take him to the Weekly’s headquarters and to turn in his first piece of his new life as a journalist. Or so Rodney thought. What happened instead was that as he stepped out of the elevator a car proceeded to smash through the glass front doors and skid across the lobby, knocking over plants and urns and doormen in the process.

While You Were Gone

The rain falls off his jacket and pools beside his boots on the linoleum floor. As the doors close behind him, he is greeted by the wash of warm air and the smell of onion and spices rising from the cafeteria. His boots squeak uncomfortably as he walks towards the rows and rows of tables and chair, his eyes searching. It’s been a long day. He could really do with some cheering up right now.

“What’ll you be having, hon?” The greasy cook asks from the other side of the glass.

“A hotdog, please.” He says, still scanning the faces, many he knows, but still not the two he’s looking for.

He takes his hotdog on his small grey tray and begins to walks along the rows of tables and chairs, the same plastic red over and over again. And then he seems them. The shock of blond hair and the curving wave of brunette. They’re not sitting in the normal spot today. He walks over to the table around the corner, surrounded by the potted plants.

They are both quiet. They look at each other. His best friend and his girlfriend. It’s that awkward pause when you walk into a conversation that suddenly stops. Usually because it was about you. But he doesn’t think too much about it.

“Hey guys, what’s going on? Why aren’t we at the usual spot today?” Squall asks as he looks from one to the other.

“Oh, er, well, there was someone sitting there.” Rinoa says glancing towards the blond boy again.

“And they left but we didn’t wanna move since we already had our food and stuff.” Zell says looking down at his plate. “How was the mission?”

“Oh, you know, same old same old.” Squall takes a large bite out of his hotdog, “I’m glad I’m back though. I can’t believe they’re sending us out with this hurricane basically on top of us!”

“Yeah, you were gone for awhile.” Zell glances quickly at Rinoa, before Squall can notice.

“I missed you, baby.” She says, throwing her arms around his shoulders and kissing his neck, his jawline.

“Babe, I’m eating,” Squall smiles around his mouth full of hotdog as she kisses him anyway. “I missed you too.”

Zell’s hotdog is left untouched. He’s looking down in his lap. Chewing on the corner of his lip. Tapping his finger on the table. Something is bothering him, and Squall makes a mental note to ask him about it later during practice.

“Alright, enough, babe.” Squall has to forcefully remove Rinoa from his lap, “What’s gotten into you? You’re awefully frisky tonight.”

“I just missed you.” She hugs herself as she says it, “Didn’t you miss me?”

“Course I did.” Squall says, pulling her closer until their noses are touching. “But I think we’re making Zell uncomfortable.”

“No, not at all.” Zell says, standing up and picking his plastic tray with his uneaten hotdog up, “But I just remembered that I have training with Quistis tonight so I really ought to get going. Catch you two later.”

“What’s up with him?” Squall barely has time to ask the question before Rinoa captures his mouth again with a fervor bordering on desperation. “Hmmm, wow, if this is the welcome home I get” Squall says through his teeth, “I can’t wait to see what I get after my next mission.”

Rinoa pulls back, “You’re leaving again? When?”

“Next Monday.” Squall says, reaching up and running his hand through her hair and letting it rest on the base of her neck, “It’ll be a bit longer. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course I can.” She pulls her head to the side and kisses the back of his hand as he let’s it trace to her cheek. “You have to do what you have to do. Pull your points up. I get it.”

“And you’re not mad that I have to leave so soon again after just coming back?” He looks up in her eyes and he hopes to see some sadness or hidden struggle, but no, she just takes it all in stride it seems.

“Of course I’m not mad. Zell and I will be fine without you here. Hurry back though.” And she leans forward to capture his mouth again before breaking the kiss with a nibble on his lips, “Because when you get back I’m gonna––”

* * *

Squall watches the clock on the wall as it ticks by the seconds. He can’t wait until the last class of the day is over. He waits for the moment when Quistis looks away and makes a face at Zell two chairs away. Over the last few years they’ve developed a whole code of faces behind Quistis’ back. But Zell isn’t watching. He’s doodling. In his notebook. Which is odd because Zell hasn’t opened his notebook once since they’ve started classes together. Ever.

The bell rings and it’s a scattering of bodies and textbooks and papers and backpacks as Quistis tries to throw in a few last words on assignments due next week. But no one is listening because it’s the start of the weekend. Squalls last few days before he leaves on his next mission. He catches Zell in the hallway as the blond haired boy is making a beeline between the students.

“Hey, man, hold up!” He grabs his arm to stop him, “Carefully, you almost ran over like five people back there. What’s the hurry?”

“Oh, nothing.” Zell shifts his bag to his other shoulder. “Just a lot to do. Wanna get to the Training Center before anyone else can reserve the afternoon slot.”

“Cool, I was gonna hit it up today too.” Squall stretched his arms behind his back, “Gotta stay limber and on point if I’m gonna get decent points this time. Last mission sucked. Mind if I join you?”

“No, not at all.” Zell looks miserable as they walk down the hallway.

They’re in the Training Center, standing on either end of the sparring mat. Overhead the bright white lights make every bead of sweat visible. They’d been going at it for hours and they’re both soaked. But neither of them has managed to land a blow yet. So they’re not going anywhere yet.

“So, you gonna tell me why you’ve been acting so weird and avoiding me since I got back?” Squall throws another kick and Zell quickly sidesteps it.

“I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy.” Zell leaps forward and Squall dives out of the way.

“Busy with what?” Squall goes for Zell’s chest, an Zell blocks him, tries to throw him, but Squall lands on his feet.

“Just stuff, okay. You’re not the only one in the program with missions to do.” Zell is panting hard, quickly wipes the sweat from his eye.

“Wait, you got a mission?” And Zell uses the moment of astonishment to kick at Squall’s legs, almost throwing him off his feet.

Squall flips backward and manages to catch himself on a hand, landing crouched and ready to spring out of the way of the kick Zell launches at him next, “No. But I’m close. I’ve been training one on one with Quistis.”

“Oh,” Squall winks devilishly, “So that’s what’s been going on! Zell, you perv!”

“It’s nothing like that!” Zell blushes and sends another kick at Squall, who catches his foot and throws him across the room.

“Well, do I have to ask Rinoa what have you been getting up to while I’ve been gone?” And he takes the moment of shock registering on Zell’s face to land a pretty decent kick that ends the fight.

“Good match.” Squall says helping Zell up, “Let’s hit the showers.”

“I’ll just shower back at the dorm. I gotta run. I forgot to hand in my keycard to Quistis from the last test!” Zell grabs his bag and his lucky sweatshirt and runs out of the training area.

* * *

The beams of blue and white light from the patrols outside move the shadows of the blinds across the messy and rumpled bed in horizontal lines that rise and fall with their bodies. He kisses her and brushes a brunette strand out of her face. She leans up and kisses him again, hungerly, devouring his mouth.

“Hold on.” He smiles white teeth against her pecking lips. “We gotta slow down. I’m gonna need a break or something first.”

“Sure.” She kisses him again. And then another peck.

His hands run through her hair as she snuggles against his chest. Her breathing is still coming fast, her fingers play across his chest. She seems uneasy. He sits up agains the pillows and reaches past her to flick the light on. Her room is messy and covered in their discarded clothing. He smiles as she looks at his shirt lying in the corner. He’ll have to sew new buttons on. But he’s not complaining.

“What?” She looks up into his face. “What are you thinking?”

“That maybe I should go away more often.” He kisses her again, “I mean, since I’ve been back. Every night. I can barely keep my eyes open during my morning classes now.”

“That shouldn’t be too bad. You never did anyway.” She smiles as she leans back against him.

“I guess you’re right. But I better watch out otherwise my grades will start to look like Zell’s.”

His comment is met with cold, uncomfortable silence. Normally she’d laugh at something like that. Or at the very least have some kind of witty remark to make. But she just stays quiet and keeps playing with his chest. He doesn’t know why but suddenly he feels warm. Too warm.

“We were sparring yesterday.” He says to fill the space as he shifts his weight, realizing that the heat isn’t coming from him but from Rinoa next to him. “He seemed distracted.”

“Oh, really?” She still doesn’t say more. She still just keeps playing her fingers over his chest.

“Yeah, I think he’s seeing someone.” And her fingers stop playing and she’s holding her breath.

“Really? Who?” She is trembling as she says it.

“Quistis.” But he’s turning on his side and placing a hand on her forehead, “Are you feeling alright? You’re warm and you’re shaking.”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” She says leaning forward for a kiss.

“Hey, now.” He stops her with a finger on her lips, “If you’re getting sick we can wait until tomorrow before I leave. We don’t have to do it again tonight. Besides, you want me to be able to do my best when I’m on my mission right? Can’t risk my health.”

“Right.” She says, biting her lip as he stands up and finds his clothes again, rummaging around her floor.

She catches her breath as he picks up the sweatshirt. Zell’s lucky sweat shirt. He looks at it and frowns for a second, already knowing exactly what it is but not understanding why it would be in Rinoa’s bedroom.

“Is this Zell’s sweatshirt?” Squall puts in on the bed as he pulls on his pants and boots.

“Yeah.” She says softly, “He, uh, dropped by the morning to cheat on my answer keycard. He must have forgotten it.”

“Man, that guy.” Squall smiles at her that smile that’s all dimples and white teeth, “Sometimes I think he’d forget his own head if it weren’t attached to his body.”

“Yeah.” She whispers.

“Hey, get some sleep tonight.” He leans over and kisses her forehead. “I’ll get this back to Zell. You just focus on getting better before I leave, okay?”

* * *

The mission took much longer than he had thought. Three weeks of tracking and infiltration across the mountains. Three weeks of extreme focus and concentration. Three weeks to put the puzzle pieces together. The gravel crunched under his boots as he walked back up the path. Back towards those same doors he had stepped through three weeks ago.

He wasn’t stupid. He could read into things just like anyone if he wanted to. But these were the two people he trusted the most in the world. He wasn’t even going to let himself go there. Not until the morning before he left for his mission. When he stopped by Zell’s to drop off the sweatshirt.

The doors opened and Zell was lying on his bed, talking on the phone. He stopped when he saw Squall. Then hung up. Which wasn’t too weird but then he sat upright. Like he had a pole in his back or something.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Zell looked down as he said it, not making eye contact with Squall.

“Everything okay? If now’s a bad time I can come back later.” Squall was concerned for his friend. Something had obviously been bothering Zell.

“Nah, it’s fine. Just talking to Quistis about the exam. What’s up?” Zell had tried to be his usual perky self but he failed miserably.

“I just wanted to drop this off.” Squall had tossed him his sweatshirt.

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” Zell flushed but kept talking. “I must have left it in the training center.”

“Actually it was at Rinoa’s.” Squall sat down next to him. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You’re my best friend and if something’s going on then you need to tell me. I’m here for you, man.”

“I’m fine. Really. Thanks man.” Zell had put the phone away, but not before Squall saw the name of the last call made. “Good luck on your mission.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Then Squall had gotten up and left.

The last call hadn’t been to Quistis. It had been to Rinoa. It starts raining as he stands before the doors and waits for the security clearance to let him in. He grinds his teeth together, feels the beating in his neck. They are keeping something from him. He doesn’t know what and he doesn’t want to let his imagination run away with itself. But he knows they are hiding something.

The rain falls off his jacket and pools beside his boots on the linoleum floor. As the doors close behind him, he is greeted by the wash of warm air and the smell of herbs and spices rising from the cafeteria. His boots squeak uncomfortably as he walks towards the rows and rows of tables and chair, his eyes searching. It’s been a long three weeks.

“Squall!” He hears them before he sees them. They’re at the usual spot this time. They’re waving at him, both beaming. It’s not as bad as last time but he still feels it. It’s too artificial. They’re both trying just a bit too hard.

“Hey, buddy! How was it!” Half of Zell’s face is just teeth as he smiles.

“Pretty sucky actually.” Squall pulls out the chair and sits down.

“Well, you’re back now and that’s all that matters.” Rinoa wraps her arms around his neck and leans in for a kiss, but he turns his face.

“I’m sorry. I just, I can’t. I’m sorry.” And she backs back into her chair.

“Well, umm, guess what!” Zell still hasn’t lost his stupid smile. “I got into A Class!”

Squall doesn’t say anything. He is just staring at the floor. Rinoa squirms in her seat.

“And this is the part where you say,” And Zell mimics his voice, “Congrats, pal! You did swell Zell!”

“Good job.” Squall still doesn’t meet their gaze.

“But there is one bad side to it.” Rinoa glances to Zell as she says it and he nods, “Zell will have to be transfered to Galbadia.”

“What?!” And Squall looks up and suddenly he doesn’t care anymore that they’re hiding something from him or about being mad at them, “No, Zell. You can’t. You’ve heard the rumors about what happens at Galbadia!”

“There he is!” Zell winks at Rinoa. “Finally he’s back!”

“I’m serious, Zell!” Squall feels his pulse jumping.

“Calm down, I’ll be fine. It’s for the better this way.” And he looks at Rinoa when he says the last part.

Squall feels like there is so much more to that statement. He feels like he’s intruding on some private moment. He feels like he wants to run away. He feels like he would rather say anything than what he says next.

“When do you leave?”

“Couple of weeks.” And the air is suddenly somber with the realization that their group is soon going to be breaking apart.

“For how long?” Squall tries not to let his voice beak and he sees Rinoa clutching the table till her knuckles turn white.

“No sayin. Could be a couple of months. But if the rumours of war are true then I might be deployed from Galbadia. Could be a couple of years even.” And the pressure in the room seems to find its way directly into Squalls eyes and try to push past in the form of tears.

“Zell.” Squall doesn’t know what to say. Rinoa’s eyes are dissolving into tears too.

“Hey, come on you two. If you start then I’m gonna start and you know how ugly I look when I cry.” Zell tries to make light of the situation and Squall can’t help but wonder what they’ll do without him there to lighten the two of them up.

“Come on you two.” Rinoa finally speaks and somehow manages to sound stronger than either of them, “We are not going to waste Zell’s last few weeks here sitting and moping in the cafeteria.”

“Right.” Squall draws from her strength.

And as the three walk out of the cafeteria their thoughts are all the same and also far removed from each other. The secrets they carry and the worries that threaten to overwhelm and drown them at any moment are a hair’s breadth away. And individually they each struggle with it and fight to stay above the crushing rush of emotion. They each steel themselves and force a smile and say that they will enjoy the last moments together. They practice their smiles because they know all too soon they’ll need them more than ever.

The door closes behind them. Behind them the secrets and the uneaten hotdogs. They walk out into the rain of the night. The gravel crunches underfoot. The rain hides the tears that run down their cheeks. They still have each other, for now.