To Be Free Page 13

  After locking the door behind her, I gratefully strip off the suit that's been burned to halfway up my biceps, the charred remains crackling dangerously with every movement. Once out of the confines, I slip off my boxers and slip into the near-scalding water, lowering myself in gently with the smallest hiss of pain to show for it. When I recline against the tub I let out a sigh of relief, tipping my head back and closing my eyes.

  My arms are still blackened, red with the lingering burns from my first use of my gift. I shudder at the memory of the power I felt, as if I held the world in my hands and could save or destroy this world with a single sweep of my hand. They throb in pain in the water, but I take the pain and roll with it. I lick my dry lips and clear my mind as much as I can, willing my body to relax and melt into the warm embrace of the liquid.

  It's maybe ten minutes later I hear a small Quinn?

  The sound brings me from my languid stupor, straightening slightly and straining my ear for the sound. A minute later it comes again, a little more panicked, and I call to my companion and melt back into the blissfully warm liquid I've submerged myself into. Small, uneven footsteps make their way over to the door leading to his room, and cautiously open, allowing some of the steam to escape.

  The man that walks in already looks a little rested, eyes no longer unfocused, just cloudy with the lingering effects of the drugs and his abilities. He shuts the door quietly behind him, looking at me and blinking tiredly. His dark hair is dishevelled and practically unsalvageable, but he still smiles a small smile at me, his witch eyes mirroring the emotion.

  “Where are we?” he asks quietly, his voice hoarse. Walking quietly, he reaches the edge of the tub and sits on the tiled ground, resting his forearms against the lip of the ceramic tub and looking quizzically at me. I don't think the idea even occurred to him that I'm completely naked here.

  He's that tired... that's kind of cute.

  I get him caught up, informing him about the women living here and what he's missed. He listens attentively, his eyes no longer glazed over with that red haze and showing hints of normalcy. Once I finish, we sit in amicable silence, he with his eyes closed and I looking to the ceiling.

  “Are you feeling better?” I question, and he nods, smiling against his arms as he cracks an eye open to look at me.

  “All thanks to you,” he replies, laughing lightly. His cheeks are flushed with the lingering clutches of his fever, and I lift a hand from the water to push his hair from his face, a trail of water my legacy. Seb leans into the touch, humming contentedly. “Um, not to break the moment or anything, Quinn, but shouldn't it bother you that I'm sitting beside you while you're technically in the nude?”

  Okay, maybe not as fever-delirious as I originally thought. After all, he's got a good head on his shoulders.

  “I figure you're feeling shitty enough as it is, so you won't try anything,” I shoot back casually, and he snorts in disbelief, punctuating his sentiment with a yawn before kissing my wrist lightly, smile on his lips.

  “I'm sorry,” I blurt, and the smile melts right off. It's amazing how quickly a person can go from point A to point B, really. “I made you do all those things, and look where that got us – you're half-dead on your feet and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to hold on to my consciousness. I can't even begin to imagine how much harder it is for you to control time than it is for me to manipulate the elements that make up storms; and I've been really, really selfish-”

  It's at this point that he scoffs loudly, effectively cutting me off and rolling his eyes. Resting his cheek on his forearms and giving me a Look, Seb stops me from rambling any more.

  “I've already figured out that I don't like hearing you talk badly about yourself,” he states bluntly, “and I don't need the reminder.”

  He then sits up on his knees, catching my gaze fully and refusing to allow me the chance to escape his next words that cut through me and bleed me dry.

  “I'm the one who dragged you into this mess; I prolonged your death sentence by forcing you to stand at my side even though I was a fucking dickhead and practically insufferable. You stood by my side even though I treated you like shit,” he presses, emphasizing those last words by pressing his index finger to my breastbone when each leaves his lips, “and you've never complained other than that one time, but I understand why you did it. My point, Quinn, is that we're in this together, come hell or high water, and you've seen me at my worst and still chose to stay by my side.”

  One of his hands has risen to my face, and with a smile he pushes my drying fringe from my eyes.

  “You're not selfish,” Seb whispers, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to my cheek. “Trust me; between the two of us I've been far more selfish than you. I still love you, you know, and I'm grateful to you. I doubt I'll ever be able to make it up to you.”

  I close my eyes, leaning the side of my head against his and finding his free hand with my right one, lacing our fingers together. The movement is painful, the abused skin of my hand protesting greatly, but I bear the pain for the sake of contact with him. To his credit, he doesn't apply pressure, but instead rubs small circles on my hand with his fingers.

  “You don't have to,” I tell him, and he nods. “This is enough.”

  For yet another while we remain this way, until I break the silence with a small laugh that makes him pull his head away just enough for us to lock eyes.

  “They think we're lovers, by the way,” I inform him, and his face takes on comical attributes – his pupils become practically nonexistent, his mouth opens in a silent protest and his face flushes a curious shade of red. “You're not helping our case, what with you being completely at ease around me when I'm, in every sense of the word, stark naked.”

  For a moment Seb splutters, unable to voice his thoughts coherently and making me laugh. The water's a bit too cool for my liking by now, but it's worth it to see the look on his face when he decides he's had enough, releasing my hand and flicking me off without another word. The only thing he shoots at me as he shakily walks back to the bedroom is for me to hurry my ass up so he can clean up too, almost slamming the door behind him.

  Sobering up, I finish washing up in the lukewarm water and step out, draining it as I towel myself dry. Once I tie it around my waist I walk over to the folded clothes sitting innocently on the white marble counter top, lifting the grey short-sleeved shirt to the soft lighting offered by the bulbs hanging over my head. The large mirror over the white porcelain sink spits my travel-weary face back at me, and I ignore my double in favour of pulling the shirt over my head and pressing down the creases. Once that's done I don the boxers and loose-fitting pants, and the dark brown knitwear button-up following suit. Leaving the buttons alone, I make good use of the toothbrush set out for me and slip into the bedroom.

  Seb's leaning by the window, arms crossed as he glances out beyond the frosted glass with a wistful expression over his features. He doesn't acknowledge my presence any more than that, and I pause just by the doorway, hesitating.

  “Do you want me to draw the bath for you?” I question softly, as if anything other than a whisper in this room will turn around and attack me. For a moment it's just silence that answers my inquiry, the light blue walls painted with evening shadows that darkens the room only slightly.

  Then, it's a small nod that informs me of his wishes, so once I let the water run and the steam starts rising again, I linger at the doorway again and regard him curiously.

  He still hasn't moved, arms crossed over his chest as he stares beyond what I can see, towards something that only his mind can make sense of. When I walk carefully towards him and place a hesitant hand on his shoulder, Nine doesn't offer any physical reaction.

  “What's on your mind, love?” I ask, and I see his lips twitch into a small smile for a moment, his semi-tense posture relaxing. I take it as a good sign, and continue. “Did what I said earlier bother you that much?”

  “No, it's nothing like that.” Sighing, he shifts
his uncanny gaze onto me and offers me a small smile. “I'm just thinking of the future, is all.”

  “Like what?”

  Shrugging a shoulder, he looks to the ground between us as he slips my hand from his shoulder and holds it in both of his, playing with the digits.

  “What's going to happen if we make it across the border,” he admits, turning my palm up and drawing small circles and lines along my palm. “If we'll make it across in the first place, or if one of us will die along the way – or both, who knows? If we'll stay together, or drift apart... I've a slight fear that the only thing keeping us together is the journey, and once we reach our destination we'll just go our own ways.”

  I sigh in turn, the distant sound of water running lost to me as I look down to the weak man in front of me. He won't meet my gaze, and is acting as a scolded child, as if he's done me wrong.

  “...sure, there's a lot of shit I need to sort through in my head,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck with my free hand and looking away. He looks up at me, concern written on his face. “My misgivings about Kenny's death and my involvement in his capture; how I used my ex-wife to survive, and played with her heart as if it was nothing; the fact that I've got blood on my hands I'll never rid myself of, and seen things I'll always have nightmares of; and of course, the elephant in the room: the depths of what I feel for you, and to what extent.”

  Cupping the side of his face with my hand, I lock eyes with him.

  Nodding, the man leans into the touch of comfort, and I kiss his forehead.

  “In truth, I don't know if we'll stay together or drift apart,” I admit, and he takes a shaky breath, nodding as he closes his eyes. “Just remember that, at this moment in time, I love you.”

  “Just promise me something,” he starts, eyes fluttering open so our gazes lock again. They look unnaturally wet, but he doesn't waver or show any more distress than that. “If we do drift apart, let me know you're never coming back if you don't plan on it, and please let those last moments we share mean something. Don't let it mean nothing.”

  Kissing the lip he's biting, I nod my assent.

  “Don't let what we had mean nothing at all in the end,” he repeats, a whisper this time, and I briefly kiss him again, silently agreeing to his requests.

  Hands fall from bodies and lips drift apart, and with a parting smile the broken man I've known perhaps a little over two weeks walks into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaving me to sigh heavily and lean against the wall a moment before I slide to the floor, lean my head back against the wall, and retreat to a world in my mind where everything is the way I'd want it to be and things weren't complicated.

  Don’t Go Spoiling the Ending, Now

  SEBASTIAN

  I have a dream that night, curled up in a bed with the lingering fingers of my fever clutching stubbornly to my being. It's raining heavily, a real downpour that's soaking everything in its path as it follows the will of gravity, and I stand within the rainfall beside a nameless man who's staring up at the sky as if it holds all the answers. His blond hair is darkened with the liquid trailing down, and his eyes have slipped shut, his expression the epitome of pain.

  The expression of a man who's faced death and has had to let go of the one thing he held dearest, and could never even hope to recover.

  Somehow I know his eyes are the warmest of olive hues, and the complexion of his skin hints at a European descent. He's wearing a simple hooded sleeveless he's kept unzipped, a green gem hanging around his neck over the beige turtleneck beneath his sleeveless. His hands rest limply by his sides, fingers curling on the rim of his shorts, and he smiles into the darkness of the downpour.

  “So that's what that is,” he muses, tacking a dry laugh to the statement afterwards. He has an accent I can't exactly pinpoint, and as he speaks the wind shifts around us uneasily, bringing with it the smell of leaves and damp earth. “If only I'd known before, maybe I could've saved him...”

  With that small train of thought the man's gone, hands tightening into fists and his lower lip being trapped between a set of slightly crooked teeth. A name leaves those lips, the whisper of a prayer that, without a doubt, has tumbled past them on many occasions, the same way Quinn's left mine. I know that expression, the emotion of being so utterly and helplessly alone in the world and feeling yourself come apart at the seams for it – the name of your beloved being the only thing somehow keeping you together, stumbling past your defenses and reminding you that you have to keep fighting, and keep hoping.

  Then, the unspoken apology, louder than the highest shout yet as soundless as the night.

  I'm sorry I couldn't save you; I'm sorry I was weak and I couldn't admit to the truths I know now, that I've learned too late to love you wholly and not take for granted what we shared. I'm sorry I was never the man you wanted me to be. I'm sorry for being this flawed, the way any human is supposed to be, and I'm sorry for not being able to forget you.

  Even so, there's a difference between he and I.

  Quinn's still alive. His beloved, the one he came to love and cherish... isn't.

  I say Quinn's alive, but to be honest I don't know – and that scares me.

  I look out to the spring leaves dancing in the trees, dripping with the rain pelting down from the heavens. Some of the liquid's trailing down into my nightshirt, running icy fingers down my back, but I still don't offer for us to migrate inside. Somehow, that doesn't seem right.

  “What... do you plan on doing now?” I question, gripping the guardrail to the porch of the house I've made my home – well, that's not exactly correct. My home is somewhere else, somewhere I can't reach.

  “I want them to pay for what they've done to him,” he hisses, his voice catching and breaking and effectively making him sound as if he's a prepubescent boy again – even though this man is twenty-five years old, the same as I am now.

  God, has it already been three years?

  “Those goddamn bastards think they can get away with spitting on his memory.” The man at my left spits into the dirt, and the liquid's quickly washed away and leaves him gripping the guardrail with white knuckles, shaking with anger. The red armband on his wrist, his only physical reminder that his lover did exist, was real, catches the light filtering in behind us from the living room window, painting things in a pool of orange light. “He didn't... he didn't deserve that kind of life. That kind of death.”

  I look to my friend, and my heart honestly goes out to him. I've known him for little over a year now, after he stumbled in through the next city over, half-dead, and I offered to shelter him until he got back on his feet. His constant company, however, has helped me feel less alone in this enormous world, and he hasn't given any indication that he plans on leaving anytime soon.

  “How did he...?” I'm unable to finish my inquiry, and I look away again, hoping I didn't tread that fine line. We've had a silent agreement not to delve too deeply into the lives of the other, but over the months I've told him about my journey with Quinn, and a little about what Sarah's done to me. In turn, he's told me a lot about what his life's been like, especially during his later years in Africa – and a little about the man still on his heart.

  He's never told me how he died, though, or the circumstances leading up to it.

  The blond takes a shaky breath, and I actually hear him swallow thickly before he whispers his next set of words, every syllable threatening to shatter him, unstable and thick.

  The best way to tell when you've held something in for too long is when your voice can no longer speak the words.

  “He killed himself,” he whispers, and now he leans forward so that his elbows rest on the guardrail, and he holds his head in his hands, gripping his hair. I respectfully avert my gaze. “People like us... we were lead to believe that it was our fault our family paid the price, died so we could keep living, and it shattered him more than it did me. He loved his family. He had so much blood on his hands, so many sins that haunted him until that final breath. He w
as broken, plain and simple, and on that day it was raining like this, you know.

  “I got to spend one night with him before I watched him jump.”

  When I look at him, I find those olive-toned eyes locked onto me, the defeated and defiant expression hinting at the resolve of steel within him.

  “If your man is alive, if Quinn makes it back to you and you meet him again,” he starts roughly, the rawest pain etched onto his face, “do me a favour and never take him for granted.”

  I wake up feeling parched, as if I ran a marathon through the Sahara. There's a pounding headache at the back of my skull and right behind my eyes, and when I swing myself up to my feet I sway slightly, my vision tilting and staining red a moment. Quinn, ever the heavy sleeper, snores on obliviously as he lies within the mess of blankets.

  Shaking my head at the sight of the grown man drooling onto his pillow, I stagger over to the bathroom to the sink and turn on the tap, cupping water into my palms and splashing my face with the icy liquid. Biting back a curse, I lean against the ceramic counter with my hands holding my weight and breathe carefully through my nose, my wet fringe dripping into the sink.

  I haven't had a vision filter into my dreams in a while – over a month, actually – and I can't say I've missed it. It's never pleasant, and it leaves a bad taste at the back of my throat and makes my stomach roll unpleasantly.

  Who are you? I ask, looking up to the reflection in the ornate mirror that spits my underfed reflection back at me. Skin stretching too-tight over bones, prominent cheekbones and piercing witch eyes that have made me see the darker sides of mankind during my childhood, and messy dark brown hair that can't be tamed. Why did you infiltrate my dreams, and what significance will you have?