July 23, 1943.
Paris, France.
Rain fell in torrents, strewn up by the wind into a violent hurricane of bitter cold; emotions alight on the night air in waves as passionate and as brutal as the war itself. What was it that had been said, that had left the night so broken? So unequivocally, irreversibly painful, that it had made him cry like that? Tears that ran like rivers across ivory skin, beckoning that cursed rain with rolling thunder that seemed to bend to his will; his fragile, undeniable, broken will. Beautifully broken, in fact, like the night itself has become.
"I hate you."
Oh, that was right. The words had cut through the evening like a hot knife. Where did they come from? Had he said that? He couldn't have, because he could never have made him cry like that; so unrestrained, so regretful, so…sorrowful.
"I've always hated you."
The clouds rolled in, smothering the pristine French sky in sick green grays. The streetlights flickered in mismatched yellows and oranges, their unnatural hues mimicking those slit eyes that narrowed without remorse. Oh, such remorselessness, indeed. Where had such cold feelings come from? Surely not from him; he had loved that pale beauty so much that it hurt to look at him. Hurt so much, that he could barely stomach it some days, the very sensation of his calm, gentle touch enough to bring tears to his eyes.
"I don't love you."
He was lying. Why? The venom dripped from his forked tongue like the bite of a viper, and he couldn't stop it. What wrongs had ever befell him, at the hands of his beloved, his moon, his stars, his entire world, his tristeza querida, that he would do this? Who was he trying to protect? The way those tears ran down his face in their bitter rivulets, it couldn't have been him that he was protecting. Was he protecting himself? From what?
"I've never loved you."
He couldn't see his face for the shadow of the hood, or the reflection from the lenses of those peculiar glasses that he had always seemed to so desperately need. And yet, though he could not read his broken expression, he could feel his broken heart, the very sensation alive in it's own misery, lashing out along the cobblestone road like tendrils, as the rain began to fall, driving back the fires of passion. He was scaring himself. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe. All he wanted to do was close that gap, and brush away those tears before the levy broke for good.
"I wish I had never met you."
Too late.