Would I die for you?
Surely the answer would be easy to come by.
Despite the fact that it has been years since they last shared confidence with one another, despite the fact that they are so far removed from the two pitifully lost boys who were hurled headfirst into the city of perpetual rain and darkness, he still holds on to that final shred of hope, nursing it like a trembling flame in the cavernous emptiness of his chest.
Hope, Saïx would sneer with mocking amber eyes, lips curled into a thinly mocking smile, voice heavy with mocking contempt. What a foolishly juvenile notion.
And yet, and yet, he cannot help but cling on to the final fragment of optimism, as a drowning man would cling to a rotting chunk of mournfully-bobbing driftwood, as a forlorn desert traveller would savour that tiny drop of water left in his emptily-rattling canteen.
By right, he should not even be allowed to grasp desperately at these fraying threads of the past. Not when he is a fallacy, a travesty of nature, an abomination. Not when he is not allowed to exist. Not when he shouldn't exist.
He remembers with bittersweet clarity the night of their arrival in the shadowed realm of the Nobodies, breaking into an unoccupied tavern. He remembers the humming electric lights which glimmer like fireflies over their rain-drenched heads, remembers huddling together for warmth, all natural adolescent disdain for close physical contact forgotten. He remembers Isa bleeding a scarlet trail behind him as he is half-dragged towards the interior of the uninhabited establishment, remembers gazing with morbid curiosity at the ragged red slashes which crisscross his bloody face. He remembers wordlessly ripping apart his favourite jacket to stem the tide of crimson, remembers ignoring the slaps directed at his head every time he yanks too hard on makeshift bandages or inadvertently jostles a mangled, dislocated ankle.
Most of all, though, he remembers when they are found by the two familiar-yet-unfamiliar black-clad men, and the promise he and Isa make the night they are brought to the Castle.
He remembers Isa producing a jagged splinter of glass from a pocket and cutting without preamble through badly-wrapped bandages, though badly-healed skin. He remembers watching the line of white fire slice across his own forearm until the blood comes, remembers pressing his wrist against Isa's in some barbaric ritual when they swear to escape this madness and regain their hearts. He remembers that harsh metallic tang, remembers the warmth which trickles uncomfortably down his elbow, remembers wondering what delirious lunacy has struck Isa this time.
We're blood brothers, you and I, Isa tells him quietly, eyes glazed with the morphine which he is given to dull the pain of his injuries. Do you know what that means?
Sure I do. Don't be stupid.
And almost ten years later, where are they now? No closer to their goals than they were on that night. They've changed, have seemingly gone their separate paths without once looking back. There's nothing left of Lea or Isa, nothing save for two twisted scars across two black-covered wrists, a constant reminder of their failures, their shames, their betrayals.
Would I die for you?
He rubs absently at the smarting ridge of healed tissue, and finds that he cannot answer.
- - x x x x x - -
epilogue. Standard disclaimers apply. Written and submitted for kh_drabble's challenge on Livejournal.