[Orig] Wrong Number
Title: Wrong Number
Series: Original - Asperger Syndrome
Characters: Mikhail, implied Jeremy/Armand
A/N: Just an alternate version of What I've Done. It fits. Couldn't resist making it.
Wrong Number
"I'm sorry you got the wrong number, so don't call me; no more."
Broken ceramic were strewn all over the floor. Mikhail had heard the sound of glasses shattering and the slamming of doors along with the telltale signs of screaming and crying. Just as he was about to check on the room, hand inches away from the doorknob, when the door had suddenly flung itself outwards, pushing aside as someone strode away in hurried steps.
And now, he blinked at the terrible mess displayed in front of him. He couldn’t imagine his best friend, oh so famous for his ice-cold demeanor and calmness can do this much damage. He hadn’t known any better.
Picking up a ceramic piece, definitely from that vase Armand had bought from Paris, he scanned the general state of the room. Indeed, not a spot was spared from wreckage. The mere sight of scratches and dents on the walls and wooden floors held enough testament of what had happened. And when his eyes landed on a stray photograph, torn apart from its broken frame, edges charred black and brown, Mikhail allowed himself a deep frown.
He had never thought everything would lead to this.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he heard the other muttered. As his fingers tried to seek warmth from the teacup, Mikhail was sure his companion the peak of his limit. For the first time in his life, Mikhail couldn’t bring himself to answer back; he bit his tongue, willing himself not to say a word that would only worsen the situation. And when Armand continued speaking, Mikhail didn’t know such words, such emotions, actually existed in him.
Mikhail closed his eyes; then, he took a deep breath. It was not his place to judge, and definitely not his business to bother with. He wouldn’t dare to give any advices too, for he knew they would only fall upon deaf ears. But he couldn’t deny the fact that he actually felt pity for his dearest friend, despite how insulting it will be once the latter knew about it.
“It’s just so pointless,” Armand started to talk again, after an hour of staring blankly at his own cup. “He didn’t call, didn’t even bother to send a single letter. I know he’s busy with business, with all these problems nowadays but… it’s just so annoying it hurts.”
And he knew that the moment he heard that confession, everything became clear. The illusion was brought down as he finally took notice of his friend’s downcast eyes, the paler complexion, and that frown that seemed forever etched onto porcelain skin. Mikhail was sure that if the war didn’t kill him, depression would.
With a sigh, Mikhail left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft sound. It would probably be better now if he go for a walk and settle his own feelings. Now is not the time for him to be tempted to rage at Jeremy.
I am, after all, just an outsider to their quarrel.
Yet there remained the fact that he’s their friend, that he’s Armand’s best friend. My rights do stretch that far, doesn’t it?
“He told me, last time we saw each other,” he felt the sudden shift of weight on the couch, but Mikhail paid it no heed. “It didn’t last that long, but it was enough for him to admit how clueless he was. Then again, I doubted his words. His eyes spoke the opposite.”
He got a glare for that small piece of opinion (that must be why then, why I hardly bother to express myself), but it averted almost instantly to focus its smothering gaze instead at the marble table. Outside, snow as white as unstained innocence fell, sprinkling the century-old dirt covered street with its whiteness.
Ordering another cup of coffee, Mikhail guessed he would be needing more of this if he’s going to persevere and play the role of the therapist.
Striding calmly down the old street, Mikhail avoided looking at the setting sun for the many meanings it brings. Then he saw the old signboard of the café they frequent. He entered and sat on their usual seat-only for today, and probably the rest, it would forever be missing someone. Better start getting used to it.
“So, what’re you going to do now?” He asked Armand squarely, trying to stare the other man down. He almost regretted it when he spotted the dying life reflected in those eyes.
“I don’t know,” the other trailed off; the laced in sadness and guilt didn’t help in easing the heavy feeling in his chest. What is there to be guilty of? Surely enough it isn’t his fault. “If I had at least fought back, he wouldn’t be crawling back to that woman.”
Finally, Mikhail let out the sigh; he couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“But I wonder though.”
Their eyes met. Armand’s eyes were no longer glazed; instead, it’s burning, the same fire only present in a battle. “What I’ve done-this stupidity-shouldn’t be hurting this much.”
There were no tears shed, neither were there shreds of anger shown. There was remorse, yet, but Mikhail knew the pain would never forget a room for regret. And it would stay like that until time itself waste away.
END
Series: Original - Asperger Syndrome
Characters: Mikhail, implied Jeremy/Armand
A/N: Just an alternate version of What I've Done. It fits. Couldn't resist making it.
Wrong Number
"I'm sorry you got the wrong number, so don't call me; no more."
Broken ceramic were strewn all over the floor. Mikhail had heard the sound of glasses shattering and the slamming of doors along with the telltale signs of screaming and crying. Just as he was about to check on the room, hand inches away from the doorknob, when the door had suddenly flung itself outwards, pushing aside as someone strode away in hurried steps.
And now, he blinked at the terrible mess displayed in front of him. He couldn’t imagine his best friend, oh so famous for his ice-cold demeanor and calmness can do this much damage. He hadn’t known any better.
Picking up a ceramic piece, definitely from that vase Armand had bought from Paris, he scanned the general state of the room. Indeed, not a spot was spared from wreckage. The mere sight of scratches and dents on the walls and wooden floors held enough testament of what had happened. And when his eyes landed on a stray photograph, torn apart from its broken frame, edges charred black and brown, Mikhail allowed himself a deep frown.
He had never thought everything would lead to this.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he heard the other muttered. As his fingers tried to seek warmth from the teacup, Mikhail was sure his companion the peak of his limit. For the first time in his life, Mikhail couldn’t bring himself to answer back; he bit his tongue, willing himself not to say a word that would only worsen the situation. And when Armand continued speaking, Mikhail didn’t know such words, such emotions, actually existed in him.
Mikhail closed his eyes; then, he took a deep breath. It was not his place to judge, and definitely not his business to bother with. He wouldn’t dare to give any advices too, for he knew they would only fall upon deaf ears. But he couldn’t deny the fact that he actually felt pity for his dearest friend, despite how insulting it will be once the latter knew about it.
“It’s just so pointless,” Armand started to talk again, after an hour of staring blankly at his own cup. “He didn’t call, didn’t even bother to send a single letter. I know he’s busy with business, with all these problems nowadays but… it’s just so annoying it hurts.”
And he knew that the moment he heard that confession, everything became clear. The illusion was brought down as he finally took notice of his friend’s downcast eyes, the paler complexion, and that frown that seemed forever etched onto porcelain skin. Mikhail was sure that if the war didn’t kill him, depression would.
With a sigh, Mikhail left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft sound. It would probably be better now if he go for a walk and settle his own feelings. Now is not the time for him to be tempted to rage at Jeremy.
I am, after all, just an outsider to their quarrel.
Yet there remained the fact that he’s their friend, that he’s Armand’s best friend. My rights do stretch that far, doesn’t it?
“He told me, last time we saw each other,” he felt the sudden shift of weight on the couch, but Mikhail paid it no heed. “It didn’t last that long, but it was enough for him to admit how clueless he was. Then again, I doubted his words. His eyes spoke the opposite.”
He got a glare for that small piece of opinion (that must be why then, why I hardly bother to express myself), but it averted almost instantly to focus its smothering gaze instead at the marble table. Outside, snow as white as unstained innocence fell, sprinkling the century-old dirt covered street with its whiteness.
Ordering another cup of coffee, Mikhail guessed he would be needing more of this if he’s going to persevere and play the role of the therapist.
Striding calmly down the old street, Mikhail avoided looking at the setting sun for the many meanings it brings. Then he saw the old signboard of the café they frequent. He entered and sat on their usual seat-only for today, and probably the rest, it would forever be missing someone. Better start getting used to it.
“So, what’re you going to do now?” He asked Armand squarely, trying to stare the other man down. He almost regretted it when he spotted the dying life reflected in those eyes.
“I don’t know,” the other trailed off; the laced in sadness and guilt didn’t help in easing the heavy feeling in his chest. What is there to be guilty of? Surely enough it isn’t his fault. “If I had at least fought back, he wouldn’t be crawling back to that woman.”
Finally, Mikhail let out the sigh; he couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“But I wonder though.”
Their eyes met. Armand’s eyes were no longer glazed; instead, it’s burning, the same fire only present in a battle. “What I’ve done-this stupidity-shouldn’t be hurting this much.”
There were no tears shed, neither were there shreds of anger shown. There was remorse, yet, but Mikhail knew the pain would never forget a room for regret. And it would stay like that until time itself waste away.
END