The Ghost of Him |WWII Frerard AU|

-39-

The luxuriant canopy of leaves in the trees above lessens the downpour of rain, leaving only the soothing sound of raindrops splashing off the foliage.  Even the thunder rumbling in the sky seems muted, far off into the distance.  The indistinct sounds of the storm is almost like a quiet lullaby to me, and I fear that if I sit still for too long, I might finally pass out.

Well, not that that would necessarily be a bad thing.  I'm surprised I haven't fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion already.

A faint clap of thunder booms up above as I step further into the forest, my heart pounding against my ribs and my head swarming with rampant thoughts.  I don't know why I'm getting so worked up about this.  I just want to have a simple conversation with someone I care about.  That isn't too much to ask, is it?

My blood turns to ice when I see the back of his head, motionless as he sits in a small ditch; it's in this moment when every emotion I've ever felt comes crashing down inside of me.  I'm not sure what to say.  What can you even say in a situation like this?  We used to be so close, and now I'm struggling to find the right words.

How do I ask him what I did wrong to make him seem so detached?

It's now or never, though.  If I stand back here any longer, I might as well classify myself as a stalker.

So with a deep, trembling breath, I meander over to the ditch and sit down beside him, trying my best to ignore the rapid beating of my own heart.

He doesn't even flinch as I make myself comfortable on the mushy ground.  His jaw is clenched, his expressionless eyes fixed on the gleaming knife in his hands as he absentmindedly twirls the blade around his finger.  I hope he isn't plotting to kill me.  There's something about the glint in his gaze that's sending an uneasy shiver down my spine.

The silence is painful.  There's so much I want to say, yet I can't quite figure out how to say it.  He's one of my best friends, for God's sake, and now here I am, sitting beside him without a clue as to how to speak up.  It's agonizing, completely and utterly heartbreaking, and I want nothing more than for things to go back to the way they were, before we jumped out of that godforsaken plane.

But I know I can't change anything between us until I swallow the lump in my throat and talk to him.  It's up to me to fix whatever's wrong, and I'll be damned if I let our relationship slip from my fingertips.

I decide to be straightforward and jump right into the thick of it, just like ripping off a Band-Aid.  Beating around the bush will only cause more unnecessary pain.  "Did I do something wrong?"

Thunder rumbles in the inky black sky as he stops fidgeting with the knife, but even so, he doesn't spare me a single glance.  "Of course not,"  he replies.  His tone is unusually aloof, and every word he says only hurts me more and more.  "Why would you think that?"

"You've been treating me like a stranger all day."  It takes every bit of strength I have left in me to keep my voice from breaking.  "Ever since last night, you've been acting like I'm a nuisance, or just someone you don't want anything to do with.  I don't get it.  What did I do?"

I see his shoulders heave with a small, silent sigh.  It's a subtle movement, barely noticeable, but anything is enough to catch my attention when my senses are on overdrive.  "You didn't do anything,"  he says, his voice lowering.  "You've never done anything to piss me off, or upset me, or anything else like that.  Trust me."

"Then why have you been acting like I don't exist?"

The aching pain closing around my heart grows even tighter when he swallows and finally turns to look at me.  The clever glint that always shines in his hazel eyes has vanished without a trace, instead leaving a melancholic glow in its wake.  He doesn't look the same.  His skin is paler, much more lifeless and dull.  His dark hair is dripping with rainwater, hanging over his forehead in thin strands.  Even his demeanor is different, less lively and more cautious.  Afraid.  This isn't the Frank who helped me take on Crawford and his goons, or who picked me up like a sack of potatoes during the obstacle course, as if it was a daily occurrence for him.  This isn't the same person at all, and seeing him act so differently pains me to the core.