Title: Free Fall

Summary: Sequel to Haiku for the Weary (Impropriety) – It has been 7 years. Warren and Layla still feel the yearning in their bones. One of them is married, but it's the other one who, ultimately, leaves.

AN: For those who have not read The Possession Dilemma, Mint-Perfumed Death and/or Haiku for the Weary (Impropriety), I would recommend you do so. It's not strictly necessary, but certain subtle references tie them all together, and it just flows better.

I'm working on the next chapter, which will probably be the end of my Sky High WarrenxLayla Saga. So sad to finish this, but it was a good run :)

Disclaimer: I don't own. Otherwise Sky High would have ended VERY differently.

(…)

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,

Come now, and let me dream it truth.

And part my hair, and kiss my brow,

And say My love! why sufferest thou?

(…)

Extract from Longing, by Matthew Arnold

i.

She knows they've been over for a while now.

It's easy to fake the smiles and laugh at his stupid jokes, because she'd been doing it all her life and wasn't that what friends were there for? To accept the bad jokes and cheer up the angst-riddled teen who felt he had the whole world on his shoulders.

Not that he wasn't justified. He was part of the Stronghold Trio, after all.

No, Layla can deal with his temper tantrums and his obliviousness because that's what Will does. It's his constant, just like Layla is bossy and demanding to the point of dictatorial. She is comfortable with this, because she has known this Will since kindergarten.

It is when he puts his arms around her and she feels anything but safe that she starts worrying.

The hug is uncomfortable and forced. Putting on a show for their friends because they both know this is over (she feels it in her bones even though she tries so hard to deny it and she thinks that maybe he feels it in her less than responsive touches and her avoidance to his kisses) but neither of them wants to admit it. Will, because he deserves this, dammit, and what were they supposed to be if not meant for each other?

(Layla, because she's worked so hard to get to where she is and she loves him, she really does, since first grade when he said that her red hair was so pretty and that she was really cool with the whole flower power thing.)

But now she thinks that maybe, the wind has blown her pollen to the wrong sort of flower because each time she sees him in his red, blue and white undies (part of the uniform, he said, years ago, blushing) she does not feel even an inkling of attraction.

So it is all very uncomfortable when they arrive at Magenta's house for lunch, feeling what they do and knowing that all eyes are on his arm around her waist and his breath disgustingly salty on her ear.

(He had French fries on the way over. Honestly, the boy cares very little for his own health. He's lucky she's there to care for it in his place.

And it shouldn't feel like such an obligation, but it does. She feels the tug of anxious loyalty in her veins like she was born to help him, to care for him. Like she has, for most of her life, like it's her job-

Like she's his mother. And the thought makes her sick to the stomach.)

Layla moves to the kitchen to help Magenta with the cooking, knowing full well she will avoid all meat and stick to fixing the salads. She does it mostly because she can't take it anymore: the feel of his arm around her shoulders.

Her left hand catches the light coming in through the window.

(The rings are heavy – the plain, fat, golden one and the silver band encrusted with diamonds and a blue gem in the center. "Will's eye-color", Mrs Stronghold had said, after he'd proposed during dinner, "Oh! Don't you think it's romantic, Layla?"

That she wanted to puke at that moment should have been a heads-up of where their relationship was really going, but she blamed it on the nerves at that time.)

Her thoughts consume her, so it takes her by surprise when another arm folds around her, curbing with powerful muscles and a heat that should scorch her.

(It did, once. She remembers it like yesterday's dinner – stir-fry vegetables with Brie and a light dressing of sweet vinegar –, so much that she clenches her right hand to make sure the skin isn't tender anymore.

He notices, and instead of letting go he tightens his arm and increases his body temperature to the brink of burning but never trespassing the limit he knows her body will tolerate. It is his way of saying relax, I control the flames: they will never hurt you.

I will never hurt you.

And she trusts him. Always.)

She breaks the comfortable silence first.

"How have you been?"

He shrugs, and she feels it. He's so close that they could hold a golf ball between them and never let it fall. She notices Magenta has left the kitchen, and really she should have guessed so. He would never dare be as affectionate as he is right now with anyone around. She also notices that most of the cooking has been done.

"Do you want to help me with the cleaning?"

He shrugs again but pulls away from her to start collecting the pans and bowls, setting them apart for washing. Meanwhile, she moves around the kitchen to put the ingredients away.

(It should bother her that he doesn't ask how she's doing, but it doesn't. She's known him long enough to know he enjoys the quiet, comfortable silence that surrounds them.

He knows her well enough to know she'll tell him anyway.)

"Will and I will get divorced."

Dishes clattering. Silence.

"…Does he know this?" There's amusement in his voice, and something else she's too distracted to acknowledge.

"Yes. No. Maybe?" She's tugging at her lip when he turns around to face her, his eyes flashing to her mouth before concentrating on her eyes.

"…?" The question is in his eyes, the way he leans towards her slightly, the care to explain? she knows is reverberating in his skull. At least she thinks it is. He's always been the one harder to read of the two. She's an open book.

"It's just not working anymore." Deep breathe. Let everything out. "I feel like he's trying to make this work, like we are trying to make this work, even though it so obviously doesn't and the tension is overwhelming my senses!"

She's almost yelling and so, so, so happy the rest are all outside in the garden.

"Hey, Layla, calm down-"

"I can't breathe when I'm around him, Warren!"

Shocked silence.

"And not in the good way." Pause. "I'm suffocating."

ii.

Warren can't bear to look at her.

(She is tiny, curled up inside her own arms, like they are the outermost walls of a fortress she's built around herself. They shake and tremble like an unrelenting force is pushing against them, like a piston held by a hundred great men is pounding with a strength big enough to shatter a hole through the walls and invade into the city that is her heart.

The men have entered. They've killed her worshippers, raped the women and enslaved the men of her kingdom. They have stolen her riches and left her with naught but the memories of her people, buried in the ruins.

The fortress has crumbled, and he can't bear to look at her.)

She is too much of a live wire, but he tries his best to calm her as he pulls her up into his arms, tucks her face into the curve of his neck so she does not see what remains of her city.

After a while, after he has stroked her hair enough for her to adjust better into his arms, find the best position for them to fit like puzzle pieces around her, he sends out a joke into no man's land.

"I've told him his aftershave smells like piss; no wonder you're holding your breath."

(And yes. It is a stupid joke. He knows this and she knows it too, and they both relish in the fact that between them, there is no obligation to laugh. It is liberating, the honesty between them.

And he cringes. Because there is always a limit to his honesty.)

She snorts, a bit dryly, but acknowledging the purpose of the joke. She cuddles closer into him.

"Thank you, Warren."

iii.

"No problem, hippie."

He smells of cinnamon and musk, this man of hers. Because he is hers, and she would be stupid to deny it, like thinking the sun won't come out tomorrow, or that this wretched winter will not come to an end someday.

She has grown weary of this chain he holds to his chest, linked to his neck and left in her hands. She is not used to being given the leash – she has always followed, always lifted her head to look at Will and fix her actions to his.

This… this power she has over him, feels like a heavy weight on her shoulders that she cannot possibly carry. It is not always there – sometimes, she will forget, like she forgets to wash her car after a roadtrip or to phone her mother every couple of weeks. Then, he'll do something like this – hold her in his arms, tuck her into himself and she'll feel his heart beating, pounding, next to hers. She'll listen to it slow down, slowly; … slowly… until it matches her own steady beating chest.

Times like these make her remember that his flame burns for her, and she is so scared.

He deserves better. Better than the mess she has become.

Layla drags away the tears that have collected in the corner of her left eye; feels his thumb swipe away the track marks on her right cheek. She tells herself not to look at him.

She fails.

"Fuck him." It's the first thing that comes out of his mouth after she looks into his eyes. There's a bit of mirth there, but also a lot of compassion and a murky concern that she knows will now make him watch her that much more attentively during the day. She needs to show him she is okay.

"I just… I think I just need to talk to him. Explain." She shrugs. "Get some closure, then go away for a little while, before…" the divorce papers. She bites her lip.

He nods, looking over her shoulder, lost in thought. He begins rubbing her shoulders with his thumbs and Layla thinks it is an unconscious reaction.

"How long is a little while?"

She purses her lips, takes a step back to get away from his fingers. She can't think clearly with his hands on her.

"A couple of months?" She does a few calculations in her head, searching for the calendar on the far left of the widest wall, next to the only clock in the kitchen. It is exactly 1:04pm. The table must already be served, and the rest of the gang will be searching for them soon. Maybe she can talk to Will before that, get away with some sort of excuse-

"I'll go with you."

Then there is a moment's silence and, "What?"

iv.

To be honest, Warren has no idea of what he is doing.

He is 30 years old. He works as a voluntary fireman during the day and to earn cash he consults on big cases in which the usual superheroes need a little help. His skills are expensive – there are few mutants in the world that have elemental abilities and even fewer with acceptable control over their powers. It is only because of the excessive strain he placed on himself, training to be the best and to erase his father's mistakes, as well as his day-to-day experiences as a firefighter, that he has reached the level of excellence he has.

(Warren Peace is one of the most notorious mutants the world had seen.

If he had a clean rep-sheet and not a villain for a father, he would probably be one of the most notorious superheroes, but the government will pay him to do a job he would gladly do for free if it means they feel safer thinking he does it for the money. After all, had he no sort of gain, why in the world would a "reformed" criminal, son of a monster, fight for peace?

So Warren accepts the money; it pays the bills and keeps the NSA happy.)

Other than that, he does not have much. He spends most of his time with his coworkers at the station, visits his mother every month, goes to the bar with Will every Friday night and sometimes finds a girl there that looks pretty and stupid and vain, usually interested in his looks and money, and she'll take him to her apartment and he'll fuck her. He'll leave the next morning and he won't leave a number behind.

But Warren Peace received a letter, yesterday. One of his classmates back in Sky High was getting married: an idiot by the name of Steven Reid-something-or-other. It was an invitation and, beside the envelope in which he needed to send the RSVP, a "Save the Date" magnet to put on the fridge.

Feeling masochistic, Warren stuck it on his freezer.

(He burned the invitation for her wedding, five years ago.

It was the first and last accidental pyrotechnic outburst he's had in seven years.

When she arrived at his apartment, he was cleaning up the ashes on the sofa.)

Now, watching the only woman he could envision himself getting old with look at him with terrified eyes, he frankly has no fucking clue what he's doing. It just feels like it is… time, now.

(He feels young, dammit, when he's with her; feels the hair on his arms stand on end and tingle with unused energy and passion; feels the bah-dump bah-dump bah-dump of his heart next to hers.

And hers; beating just as fast.)

"I… want… to go… with you," he says, as if explaining to a child, "…hippie."

She shakes her head furiously. "No. Wha- No. That's a bad idea."

"Why?" He grins when she catches herself replying.

"…!" She glares at him, but says nothing.

"Cat got your tongue? Come on," And suddenly he's serious. "Tell me why."

She's trembling when he comes closer, and she shifts back two steps. "Don't do this, Warren. Not now."

"I'd think now is the perfect time, really." Warren knows he's furious, he knows it is illogical to ask this of her but there's too much red on his ledger and not enough on hers. "C'mon, princess, you just have to say the words, or are you scared?"

(Because they both know that this, right now, is to be dancing through grey areas.

Because they both know, the moment the illusion breaks, the moment she decides to acknowledge or deny it…)

…v.

Layla breaks, looking away from him. "No. You're right. You're my friend: I'm being silly." She turns back towards him and says. "You can come with me."

But Warren is no longer there.

Layla hears the front door slam as she sinks down to her knees, crying.

(…There is only free falling.)

.

.

.

.

to be continued.

AN: GAAAAAH! THE FEELS!

Please don't hate me! I'll make it up to you I promise!

Review and follow if you liked it (or… hated it, I guess…)!

Love,

Crys