He knew he’ll end up like this one day.
He was lying in cold pouring rain, staring at black sky, but seeing nothing in particular. He knew he’ll end up with broken heart or dying. Or both. Today, it was both.
There were things in this world he knew he deserved. Dying alone was one of them for sure. He had hope that maybe he can deceive the universe one more time.
He began to realise that this was truly his end.
It had started in Rome and in Rome it’ll finish.
Days were harder for him lately. Harder to focus, harder to keep his hands to himself, harder to breath. His traitorous heart was beating faster and his equally traitorous lips were curling up in soft smile meant for one eyes only. He had been flirting, had been charming with his marks, but it usually made him think like something was missing, like his attention should be somewhere else.
He knew where. And he ignored it.
That’s what he had done for years. It worked, only none of his previous…. distractions have been Illya. They haven’t got his deep voice, murmuring something in soft Russian when thought nobody is paying attention to them. They haven’t got his long fingers, wrapped around incredibly small chess pieces. They haven’t got his piercing blue eyes, they haven’t, they… they weren’t him.
It scared him. It scared him, because he had buried this part of himself and he didn’t know what to do with it.
He coughed, tasting blood on his tongue. He recalled how blood had mixed with salt water in the back of his throat, a lifetime ago. He remembered kids that once were his friends, they had been drowning, panicking, dying and he couldn’t save them. He knew he almost had drowned himself, back then, even though he used to swim a lot - afterwards he looked at sea only with regret, feeling uneasy and unsure. Just like he had been supposed to die that day. Like gods made a gamble and lost, because the number on the dice wasn’t what they had expected.
There was one day when Illya had asked him why he never went to the beach with Gaby and him. Why he had been looking at vast blue ocean with caution and suspicion reserved only for their enemies. He said to him, as seriously as he possibly could, one thing: I don’t play with forces of nature, Peril. I just don’t.
The point is: he always considered Illya as a force of nature, just as strong as earthquakes and tornadoes. He had swept him off his feet several times already, like waves once did. He found himself pulled down below the surface once again, helpless and afraid. Not strong enough. A toy in hands of destiny.
The point is: he wasn’t lying to Illya when he said that he doesn’t play with nature. He knew that Illya wouldn’t get the second meaning, because why would he, but it didn’t make his statement any less adequate. Even if Illya had reciprocated his feelings, he wouldn’t dare to play with this beautiful, strong, soft man, to behave like he wasn’t taking it seriously. Yes, he would be down to be played with, mostly in sexual manner, but he was afraid that Illya would look at him and see a womanizer he’s supposed to be, because that’s what CIA had written in his file. He wanted to be in his centre of his attention, to be devoured, to get to the edge and fall in without fear and pain.
He’s never going to admit that he simply wanted to be loved.
They fought. He couldn’t remember what had made Illya to be this angry, in a way he wasn’t for a very long time. I didn’t matter now. Nothing matters now.
The pain was getting stronger and his mind couldn’t resist this inky blackness that was coming for him in waves. Cold water was pouring relentlessly into his mouth, but he was too tired to try to either swallow it or spit it out, so it was mostly choking him, only adding to his suffering.
The war had been awful, but in some way, this was much worse.
He remembered one day, it was in June so everything was mostly over in Europe, but they’ve met a group of young boys, even younger than him, holding guns they barely knew how to use them. They were terrified and from that fear, one of them, shot. He remembered his dirty blonde hair, wide eyes, pale skin and how tired he seemed to be. Like a tiny animal, he couldn’t run anymore, so he shot American soldiers, blinded by panic and desperate need to be free. Later, when he was thinking of this German boy, he was wondering if boy had been counting on defeating enemy forces or maybe he just craved death. Devoted adults made them what they were and now they weren’t there to take responsibility, like they should.
They were only kids. He was a kid too.
Said bullet grazed him and he bled like a fucking stuck pig, but he was mostly fine. It was raining back then, and he remembered how cold the water felt against his skin.
At least he could feel it then.
The darkness was slowly swallowing him, the world was ringing in his ears, mocking and teasing.
All his life, he walked the line. The thrill, the excitement and the adrenaline were too taunting to him, even if he knew that one day he’ll pay the price. And the higher the line is, the longer way down you have. And falling is the only option.
Huh. He couldn’t feel his feet now. His fingers were numb either, he shouldn’t be that surprised. Everything comes to an end anyway.
That's what his mother always said to him. She was a strong, beautiful woman and he always had admired her. And he loved her even if most of the time he was fairly sure that she didn't love him back. She was his mother. And he had never said goodbye to her.
He always thought that goodbyes are overrated. They never did you any good, because if you were the one who's staying then you were stuck in that place with your heart broken. And if you were the one who's leaving then you couldn't shake yourself out of tremendous guilt. Goodbyes will only haunt you and you'll never escape from the voices in your head, he knew it.
The voices were screaming now. White noise made of awful, truly awful sounds. And they screamed at him "you're going to die" as if he wasn't aware of this.
It's the end. And he knew he'll end up like this because that was exactly what was meant for him, nothing more and nothing less. With dying alone in cold, his life made an ironic circle. He wasn’t ready for it, but universe didn’t give a shit about him. Too bad, because he really wanted to feel Illya’s lips on his own once more.
I don't want to be stranded again
On my own
When the tide comes in
And pulls me below