Requiem [COMPLETED]

People Never Change...Until They Start To

Chuck and Sven weren't talking again. I wasn't sure what had happened. Sven wasn't even sullen; he just seemed sad. "He said he doesn't want to talk to me. He just doesn't want to hang out at all lately and now... I dunno. I don't know what to do about it." I was shocked that he told me that much. He wasn't restless, he didn't pace like a caged tiger. He sat quietly and stared off at nothing, or read for hours, smoking through the open window adjacent to the couch. It didn't seem like any of their earlier fights, but neither Sven nor Chuck thought it was any of my business. It all seemed frustrating that they kept finding reasons to throw up roadblocks and bicker and make it so much more angst-filled than even their friends could tolerate anymore.

"I thought you guys were best friends," said Stan one day, when I was walking with him and Sven to class. "The last couple years all you do is fight. It doesn't seem like either of you even get anything out of it but being stressed out. Why can't you both just let each other go and accept that people change and grow apart sometimes?"

"I didn't ask for your advice; if I wanted to be convinced that surrender was the best option I'd go to talk to the Vichy government. Stop butting in."

"You know, you two both have a really bitchy attitude lately. You throw up all this drama in your friends' faces and then get snippy if we say we don't want to spend all our time together watching you two fight and bitch. Then don't be such fucking queens around each other!"

"You don't know anything about the situation; who are you to tell me how it is or isn't?"

"We only don't know because you two won't tell us anything! And you're both holding onto your friendship so tightly you can't see the ship's sinking. Forget it. Whatever," Stan snapped, marching off.

Sven caught me eyeing him. I just looked away. I didn't want to ask because I was afraid of the look on his face. Sven and Charlie were what my stability was structured on. I didn't want to think about losing one of them—or what it would do to other.

* * *

At the waning of summer my healing project had continued to morph and grow, taking over all the time that had been freed up by not working. The rush and power of knowing, of having facts at my disposal, of knowing irrefutable truths about us was addicting. Sven was alternately wary and eager to hear my old perspective versus the new data I'd uncovered. "I'm just happy you're sharing with me," he kept saying. "I always wanted it out in the open, the truth, but I didn't think you really wanted to know."

At times it was like we had been present at separate events. We sat up late arguing over what a punishment was on a particular 'sin'. It was like we were getting to know each other all over again. Some of the conversations ended with us feeling surprisingly close and mutually protective of each other. Just as often they morphed into arguments where Sven divulged something that repelled me and I'd reject it instinctively, sending him reeling away from me with a look of betrayal.

"Sigrid, you really had no idea what was going on."

"Well how is that my fault?" I said crossly. "I was four."

He turned and stared out the window at the rain. August was shaping up to be a very wet end to the summer. The windows had started to fog up and Sven wiped a circle like a port hole in a ship. I could see the muscles in his jaw flexing. Then his nostrils flared as he sighed, "Will you try to not be so defensive? I'm not accusing you."

"Well it's irritating to constantly be reminded that every memory I have is inaccurate and wrong, according to you."

"Sigrid," he said, his tone of voice suddenly different. "Social services didn't make grandpa give us up. He called them after the police started snooping around and looking into mom's death. He told them to take us, that he didn't want us, that it was too much for him without his daughter."