Glass Miles

PART FOUR: BACK THE HANDS

The sound echoes harshly in the silent hallway and even before the silence falls again the emotions go crashing through him like a crushing wave.

Shock—at what he has done.

Regret—for what he has done.

Anger—at what he has done.

Guilt—for what he has done.

His hands rise, trembling, to cover his mouth—the image of the one suspended in the air, as it was moments before, burns into his mind and oh he feels sick, so sick, sick of himself and at himself and—

—what has he done?

He cannot see his eyes; they are hidden in the shadow of ice-pale bangs, by the unnatural twist his head has taken to the side that he has yet to turn from.

He cannot see his eyes and he does not know whether to feel relieved or afraid—afraid of what he might see there.

He lifts one hand—reaching, grasping, pleading—

"Halle..."

—and drops that hand as though burned when the other shies away, flinching, curling into himself and he still can't see his eyes—

"Don't," they whisper, voice hoarse and ragged, and he steps back.

"You promised."

Those words, breathed into the silence as soft as the silence itself, break him to pieces—tiny pieces of guilt and shame and anger and regret and memory because he remembers, oh he remembers what he promised—

'Never again. I will never hurt you ever again. So please...stay...'

He can see his eyes now. Pale, steady, broken in their reproach, and that promise is destroying him because he's broken it a thousand times over now, hasn't he?

He wants to run. Away from those eyes, the guilt, that promise, these hands that broke that promise—

He turns to flee, but even as he does hands snatch him back, turn him to face eyes now glaring with a deep, unfathomable anger.

"Don't you dare," the other bites out. "Turn your back. No matter what you've done...don't you dare turn your back on me."

He stares, frozen to the spot. Then slowly, so slowly, his hand lifts again, reaches out to hover just inches from one pale, damaged cheek.

The other looks him right in the eyes as he tilts his head to let trembling fingertips brush against that cheek, and he sees forgiveness there.

He sweeps him close and doesn't let go, won't let go, can't let go—even thought he struggles briefly, he goes limp eventually and lets him be.

He needs this. They need this.

He can pray a thousand times to undo what has been done. Promise that promise a thousand times over again—if only he'll stay.

But here, in this moment, with pieces of their hearts scattered across the floor, all he can do is whisper to the silence, "I'm sorry," a thousand times over, and pray that it will be enough.

- fin -