Wings

26: Please Don't Say You Love Me

WPOV

Track: First Love/Late Spring, Mitski

I collect food that I know he likes, and I give him a larger portion. At first, he seems hesitant to eat it, but he must be hungry, because eventually he sighs, looking so exhausted, and reaches for some of the tubers I found.

He's different since before we were each captured, which I should expect—he went through something so incredibly traumatic, I have no idea where to even start to help him. But he's also different in that he does not trust me at all anymore, and I know it's because he keeps running that betrayal through his head, not knowing that he was standing on the precipice of death, ready to be shoved over if I didn't comply.

But he won't let me talk, and I don't know how to bring up the conversation so that he'll finally listen.

The silence between us stretches taut, like a wire pulled to its breaking point. At some point, I know it's going to snap, and all the words that we're avoiding are going to come spilling out like an avalanche between us. The longer he forces silence, the worse it's going to get—but every time I try to bridge the gap, Nico shuts me down, his eyes filled with a wariness that slices through me more deeply than any physical wound, and his words always sharp and demanding.

I watch him nibble at the food I've gathered, the hesitation in his movements a constant reminder of the ways things have changed. Maybe irreversibly.

He's leery of me. I see it in the way he avoids my gaze, the way he positions himself always slightly turned away, as if ready to bolt at any moment. I see it in the way his back and neck muscles are tensed—if he still had his full wings, they would be pulled in tightly around his body, keeping them safe from any potential attacks from me.

I know I need to tell him the truth about what happened the night I said those things about him, but every time I open my mouth, he interrupts me or glares at me, a dark and heavy warning that he does not want to relive that night.

Maybe he'll talk after he's had some sleep—he looks so incredibly exhausted. I managed to watch him for a little while as he tried to relearn how to walk, and it's like every muscle in his body is working against him. I've never seen him so hurt, so vulnerable. I'm sure he hates it. Sleep would make him feel better.

"Nico," I try, my voice only just above a whisper, not wanting to provoke him. "You need to rest. Let your injuries heal."

He shakes his head, refusing to meet my eyes. "I can't," he says, his voice flat. "I have to stay awake."

"I'll keep watch, Nico."

"It's not safe." He rubs his eyes and continues avoiding my gaze. "I have to protect myself."

I swallow hard, the words catching in my throat. "From me?" I ask, though I already know the answer. His silence is confirmation enough. The accusation burns, more painful than any physical blow.

"Yes," he finally admits, and the single word shatters something inside me—I think for a horrible moment, my heart actually stops beating. "I know you did it for your family, but you can't be mad that I've learned my lesson. It's fine. I stayed awake the first few nights we knew each other—it's not different. I'll survive."

No. No this isn't fine. It's not fine because someone who I'm starting to think is the love of my life is exhausted and scared and hurting, and the stupid goddamn king won't leave him alone. It's not fine because we were both tortured for who-knows-how-many days, torn apart again and again for things outside of our control. And it's not okay because those sick fucks used Nico's life against me, to make me condemn him and myself at the same time—they used my fucking words in his trial, apparently, and it was all lies because I was trying to save his life, and he won't fucking let me talk about it.