Once and Always [1/4]
anonymous
August 4 2009, 23:27:15 UTC
She’s crying again. Silently, without a sob. Somehow, that seems eerier and more unsettling than if she were howling. He pulls out a handkerchief from his inside pocket and presses it into her hand. She stares down at the square of soft cotton, decorated in one corner with three childishly embroidered pink flowers.
He smiles a little sheepishly at her. “It was a present,” he says with a shrug.
She dabs at her eyes, which are already red-rimmed from lack of sleep. “Thank you,” she whispers to him hoarsely.
He lights a cigarette and goes over to the window of his small hotel room. She watches him from her seat on his bed.
“I’m sorry,” he tells her, not looking at her as he inhales the bitter smoke. Then he laughs but it is not a pleasant sound. “I’m helping them do to you what they did to me. I’m such a… a bastard,” he finishes suddenly, like a startled dancer landing heavily onto one foot. He exhales long plumes of smoke that vanish into the night.
She can’t say anything to that, because he’s right. He’s startlingly being honest, to himself and to her. “The world goes in cycles,” she replies diplomatically.
The other nation sighs and shakes his head in irritation or in resignation. “I’m sorry,” he says again and he looks at her this time. He looks so very tired, his skinny shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”
She finds herself smiling at him, just a little. “It isn’t your fault,” she tells him seriously, because that’s true.
“It doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head again and he huffs wordlessly, in mingled irritation (because he’s too tired for anger) and something like frustration.
Then he offers her a cigarette from the case he had only just fished out of his jacket and she accepts on a whim. His fingers light it for her with a match and hold the lit bit of wood for a little too long, until he hisses in pain and nearly drops it. He stares down at his burnt fingers as she takes a long drag and exhales without so much as a cough.
“It’s like… like being on some gameboard, isn’t it?” she asks after a moment. “Being shoved here and there. Being told what you are, what you can do, what you can’t do.” She continues to smoke the bitter cigarette without thinking and taking no pleasure from it.
He cracks a smile at her. “But we can try doing something else.”
“Before being punished for breaking out of our designated role,” she retorts waspishly.
“Sometimes it’s worth it,” he replies with a little shrug.
“That sounds childish.”
“It is. But children have to challenge their roles. Or they won’t grow up.”
“I wish I could see it that way.”
He sighs. “We aren’t too different, you and I,” he says after a moment. “Seemingly autonomous. Seemingly individual… but we aren’t. We weren’t. We always lived in someone else’s shadow, on someone else’s sufferance. And yet, we never fit in quite right, we never harmonized with anyone else, did we? We’re odd fish.” He grins wryly at her in midst of his ramble. “At least you’re pretty.”
“You’re not ugly,” she instantly replies and blushes because women just didn’t say things like that.
He smiles a little sheepishly at her. “It was a present,” he says with a shrug.
She dabs at her eyes, which are already red-rimmed from lack of sleep. “Thank you,” she whispers to him hoarsely.
He lights a cigarette and goes over to the window of his small hotel room. She watches him from her seat on his bed.
“I’m sorry,” he tells her, not looking at her as he inhales the bitter smoke. Then he laughs but it is not a pleasant sound. “I’m helping them do to you what they did to me. I’m such a… a bastard,” he finishes suddenly, like a startled dancer landing heavily onto one foot. He exhales long plumes of smoke that vanish into the night.
She can’t say anything to that, because he’s right. He’s startlingly being honest, to himself and to her. “The world goes in cycles,” she replies diplomatically.
The other nation sighs and shakes his head in irritation or in resignation. “I’m sorry,” he says again and he looks at her this time. He looks so very tired, his skinny shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”
She finds herself smiling at him, just a little. “It isn’t your fault,” she tells him seriously, because that’s true.
“It doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head again and he huffs wordlessly, in mingled irritation (because he’s too tired for anger) and something like frustration.
Then he offers her a cigarette from the case he had only just fished out of his jacket and she accepts on a whim. His fingers light it for her with a match and hold the lit bit of wood for a little too long, until he hisses in pain and nearly drops it. He stares down at his burnt fingers as she takes a long drag and exhales without so much as a cough.
“It’s like… like being on some gameboard, isn’t it?” she asks after a moment. “Being shoved here and there. Being told what you are, what you can do, what you can’t do.” She continues to smoke the bitter cigarette without thinking and taking no pleasure from it.
He cracks a smile at her. “But we can try doing something else.”
“Before being punished for breaking out of our designated role,” she retorts waspishly.
“Sometimes it’s worth it,” he replies with a little shrug.
“That sounds childish.”
“It is. But children have to challenge their roles. Or they won’t grow up.”
“I wish I could see it that way.”
He sighs. “We aren’t too different, you and I,” he says after a moment. “Seemingly autonomous. Seemingly individual… but we aren’t. We weren’t. We always lived in someone else’s shadow, on someone else’s sufferance. And yet, we never fit in quite right, we never harmonized with anyone else, did we? We’re odd fish.” He grins wryly at her in midst of his ramble. “At least you’re pretty.”
“You’re not ugly,” she instantly replies and blushes because women just didn’t say things like that.
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