Saints & Sinners

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen:

The door swung open, and I cowered from looking at the flowers, they sickened me, I couldn't bare to be in a flower shop. My allergies flared.

"Granny? Where did you go?" a voice had asked. A voice that made me wince and shiver uncontrollably, made me want to turn away and run, but the old woman's clutch was deadly strong.

There he was. So close. So fucking close.

I tried to back away, to turn and leave, but her grip on me was too strong, she forced me in my place, to keep walking passed the counter and the vile flowers, down the old hallway and into the den with the disgusting orange sofas. Seeing them again only made me relive the memory the last time I was here.

"Sebastian?"

His voice was shocked. I imagined how shocked he must be, having me of all people in his home, I was practically invading. Standing there, empty, soaking wet with blood and rain dripping all over their nice clean floors, with puffy red eyes and a quaking, shivering body. I was an ugly mess and I deserved everything I got. No, I deserved worse. I didn't deserve their kindness.

"What happened to him? He's bleeding, did they get you again? I swear to god, I'll kill them!"

He didn't sound too shocked to see me, or shocked in a bad way at least. At least he'd fight for me. But fight what? The wall? The shadows? Obviously, he'd think I was beaten up again. At least this time, I had control over the pain. I liked the pain. I did this to myself, and that was the worst part of it all.

"Go clean up, sweet boy, the bathroom is just there." I followed her tubby arm to a door in the farthest corner of the cosy little room, closing the door behind me, but not all the way. I pressed my ear to the door, to hear them. "I found him outside, Trissy, alone and crying, I think he got into a fight. His knuckles, his fists, they're bleeding, he was shivering, I couldn't just leave him outside. And his face, his head, he might need medical attention."

"He's not a fighter, he's tiny, who would hurt him again? I thought those saints had left him alone! I thought they'd back off, that dick Medevik, he won't give up. I told him, I warned him!" I won't deny that my heart fluttered at the thought that he'd actually gone to such lengths for me. He'd gone out of his way to ensure that Medevik backed off. He was a good friend.

And only a friend

"You know this boy?" his grandmother asked.

"He's the... the boy from a few days ago, with the broken ankle," he mumbled. "His aunt is Agatha Angsbacka, she'll probably pour salt in his wounds if she finds out what happened, you know how she hates weaknesses."

"You mean that rude woman that prides herself on being above everyone else because she lives in that ghastly castle on the mountain? Never much liked her."

"Neither did I." I heard him pause a moment. I clutched out to hear him, my ear pressing firmer against the door of the bathroom, straining to hear. "Don't tell anyone, Granny, but I saw her there, in the village, the day he was attacked. She was there, his own aunt. And she just, she just stood there and watched them beat him. No. No, we have to... we have to clean him up, no hospitals, no doctors, okay?"

She hesitated to answer, but agreed, and then I heard a gentle knock on the door, so I pulled it open and turned away from the light of the den. The bathroom was dark and small, I stood over the sink, my hands on either side of the basin, staring blankly at the ugly wretched little thing that looked back at me.

"Here," Tristan said, running the taps and forcing my hands into the cold water. "They'll need to be covered up, you're head might need stitches."

I don't care.

"Tell me how this happened."

For the first time, I looked at his face, into those eyes. "I... I..." I was so close to tellin mg him. To telling him everything, breaking down on him and spilling all of my dark secrets. All about the depressions and the cutting and the shit I'd put myself through. An I wanted to tell him, too. I trusted him. But I knew I couldn't. He'd hate me. He'd kick me out. Because he'd know that I was nothing. That I was just a broken mess.

So instead of pouring out my heart to him, I'd mumbled, "Nothing." That was all I could manage, it was all I could tell him.

I felt his hands, they were warm and soft, grabbing my face and forcing me closer to him. He forced himself closer toward me, getting a closer look at my bruised and scraped forehead. Afterward, he bent my neck to check the back of my head. "No. They'll heal on they're own, just be considered lucky that you won't need stitches."

I still don't care.

"Are you ever going to tell me what the fuck happened to you tonight? I'm your friend, you can trust me." Always there to save me, isn't he? I hated that.

Staring at myself in the mirror, I pulled the tap to a stop. I frowned at myself, at letting him of all people see me in such a state. I had blood oozing down from my head, my forehead bruised lightly - they'd swell big before tomorrow. I'd cut my lip, probably from biting on it too hard. And the rain only made it worse, my hair was wet and almost white, blood smudged everywhere, there were clear trails of tears from my eyes.

The pain was there, but just barely, probably not as bad as I'd hoped it was. I found my eyes wandering back to him. He leaned to me, his eyes were full of concern. He would never like me back, my feelings were pathetic and fruitless, pointless and, needless to say, pestering as fuck. I just wanted them to go away. I wanted him to go away.

So I ran, I ran from the room, from the den, and from the shop. The rain hit me again, but I didn't care, I just kept running. I heard him calling behind me, but after it stopped, I assumed he did too.

Then I felt his hand on my arm, forcing me to stop, swinging me back around in one deft movement, and then I saw his eyes again, staring straight through me. He was as drenched as I was, the rain dripping down his face and wetting his hair, sticking it down his face, but he was still beautiful, gazing at me with those warm blue eyes, those full pink lips...

"I'm not that easy to get rid of," he'd mumbled, smiling sweetly, like the whole happiness of the world was cradled in his dimples, carved into that perfect face.

I don't care.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

Of course I fucking care, I care about him. More than I should. I cared about him so much it made me sick. I cared so much that it hurt. That I hurt myself.

It was the heat of the moment, I told myself, because I let go of the fear. I felt free, only for an instant, and I gave up holding back. I was sick of holding back. So I closed the gap between us, swiftly and quickly.

And I kissed him.