Lutteoficweek

Nothing to be sorry for

Lutteoficweek Bonus Day: Fix it fic day

„Why did you do this?"

„What, the photos?"

„That's not what I mean, I'm talking about the kiss!"

"Oh, that. Well, to win the competition of course. It was part of the choreography. Or do you think I kissed you for another reason?"

"What? You know very well that it was never part of the choreography!"

"I added it, I think it improved the ending."

"Of course, congratulations, the snob had the idea for an ending like in the movies! Next time, remember this is a rink, not a movie theatre!"

"Calm down, delivery girl, or did the kiss mess that much with your head?"

"Yeah, surely not, I know exactly what I feel. And what I... don't feel."

"Me too. Very well."

///

19, 20, 21. 21 clips holding the curtains in their place. 21 clips he counted, again and again while the guitarist wasted minute after minute away under the shower.

Matteo understood he was the only one to blame for Simón's misery, that he was the only one to blame for Luna's angry outburst and the look of regret in her eyes back on the rink. He was the only one to blame and yet, here he laid, not sorry at all. Could it be considered a sin to not regret screwing up?

He started counting again. Still 21 clips.

The blood continued to rush through his veins, continued to burn him from inside out. The cocktail of emotions refused to leave him just like Simón refused to get out of the bathroom. Counting the clips made no difference, why did he even bother?

Matteo switched his attention to the drapes. Two, four, six, eight. Eight. Eight, like a sequence in a choreography, like in the choreography with Luna. Luna. Kissing Luna.

With a grunt Matteo threw himself on the other side of the bed, away from the stupid curtains and the stupid drapes that inevitably led him to the moon no matter where his eyes turned to. However, it was too late, the memory flooded his brain once more.

///

The next time he checked his phone in search of a distraction, a message waited for him, sent by his best friend. It simply read: What happened?

He attempted to answer. Put his phone down, thinking. Picked it up again. No matter how many times he repeated this process, his words always ran out. How could he possibly begin to explain something he barely understood himself? The only thoughts he was able to draw were too private, too delicate to taint them by releasing them into the world.

He rested his head on the pillow. His gaze fixed the ceiling, yet he only pictured Luna in his arms. Her hand wrapped around his neck, the green sea of her eyes focused on him, lost in him like he got lost in hers. He pictured that look she wore around him so often, full of astonishment, full of something he never quite managed to catch. It made him shiver nonetheless.

A knock on the door pulled him back to reality. For a second he considered ignoring whoever stood outside and hoping for Simón to open the door. Then again it didn't sound like the guitarist would leave the shower soon. So, Matteo eventually dragged himself out of bed.

Of all things, it was Luna.

His heart somersaulted.

As soon as their eyes met and she recognized him, she took a step back, clearly avoiding to look at him. "Where is Simón?"