Le disclaimer: Don't own. Probably this is full of mistakes, feel free to correct me.

Rosario, Argentina

July, 2005

I see you across the street.

Um, I think I see you, I know better than rely on my eyes very much nowadays, for It wouldn't be the first time my mind played tricks on me, but your hair, that mop of blond, almost white hair is unmistakeable.

A car breezes by and when I look again, you're gone.

No.

He can't be gone just like that.

Not when fate put you in this particular forsaken street, a thousand miles away, a thousand years later.

I search up and down the street for your head frantically and also with the patience of someone who accepts might not found nothing, but I can't see past the sea of people, can't see past the swamp of emotions that suddenly cloud my vision, my brain, relentlessly, whitout mercy. Deep breaths and the constriction eases, somewhat, though it never dissapears, never after all the time gone by, never after the last nightmare, certainly not after seeing your mop of blond, almost white hair across the street.

The feeling of a warm, if a little damp hand enclosing my fingers and there you are, here we are, looking at each other, lost in each others gazes for a moment, a mere moment that encompases everything and nothing alltogether. It strikes me odd that I don't feel anything bad when your skin touches mine, no revulsion, no contempt, no past; the constriction eases a little more and I take a deep breath, the first one in days.

We don't say anything, just start walking again with no precise destination, with the easinesscof two people who by chance meet unexpectedly far away from home, trading a few childhood memories that are shared with fondness, we were so naïve, so inocent and I was a real git to you, wasn't I? you say and I smile at you, another first and yes, you were, but you didn't know how to be different, life didn't give you the chance to know me and treat me differently. You tighten your hold in my hand a second and let go, a silent acknowledgement and it means so much, it means everything that we don't say, cannot express to each other, all whitin the mere simplicity of a gesture.

We wander through the streets, ocassionaly entering some shops, bookstores, you arch one of your eyebrows and I snort, always the bookworm, I know. We wander, enjoying the warm breeze, all the green around us, so much green in this safe haven that's never going to be our home, not really; looking at the people passing by our table, when we tire of walking and settle for a cup of coffe, look at them, all content in their precious little worlds and here we are, what are the odds you say, with a hint of sadness in your eyes. I understand you completely, yes, what are the odds. I think I've spent so much time wishing not to be alone in this (my) little world, this tight, awful little place full of memories of our forbbiden country, our home; always battling remorse and sadness; enveloped in a such bone-chilling loneliness.

What are the odds of us being together, here of all places, indeed.

At the end of the day, when we run out of excuses to keep walking, to keep talking and perhaps because of that loneliness, perhaps because you are a conection to the past, that unavoidable past we share, I take your hand and lead you to the old blue building where I have a little room, a sordid space I share with a cat and a handful of second-hand furniture more old than comfortable.

You pause in the doorway, taking all in, It's bigger than mine, you say at last, a small smile on your lips. I've never seen you smile like that, with such warmth, not even when we were kids with no care for the world and it kind of surprises me when I smile back at you, a true, face-splitting smile, sharing silently our amusement on the inconveniencies of living in exile.

You take a couple of steps inside and I close the door behind me, leaning heavily on it. You eye the ratty orange couch, the mattress in the corner, the precarious library full of books, always full of books, the mass of fur that is my cat, the wrinkled poster of the Weird Sisters and you chuckle, looking in my direction, a silent question. I found it in the trash before I came here, I needed some link to our world, I whisper and you nod, saying nothing more.

You sit, ever so graceful, on the orange counch and I advance a few hesitant steps in your direction intent on sitting next yo tou, but my cowardice suddenly overides me, so I turn away to hide my blushed face. I head to the burner in the far corner of the room, desperately needing some tea, something warm to banish the biting cold that's engulfing me, that's freezing me from the inside. Since when I'm such a coward? Oh, yes, since I'm a thousand miles away from the only place that saw me being remotely brave, if it ever was bravery and not recklessness. Or cowardice masked behind a fate that was bigger than me, than us, leading our every step, our every breath.

Stop it.

While I wait for the water to boil, sitting with my back against the wall, I look at you across the room to distract my mind, noticing, not for the first time in the day, that you sometimes have this haunting air around you, more so now than ever, a sad, tortured expression that marres your otherwise handsome features, a burden so heavy that hunches your shoulders, makes you sink heavyly in the couch, makes you seem weak, defeated.

I don't like it. And it makes me angry.

Your face was made for aristocracy, for elegance, for beauty; here you are, this magnificent human who was made for greatness, for power. You are a wizard of the purest blood, damn it, you should be there, fighting, trying to change the world (whatever your convictions may be); but no, you were banished, I remember, He banished you for your failure.

This haunted man, should've never been you, but It is, this grey aura that surrounds you doesn't belong with you, but there it is.

With a force than nearly doubles me over, I'm overcome with a sudden need to confirm that despite everything, we are indeed the same. That us, the ones that ran, that wanted to survive, the ones that grew sick and tired of the fight, the death, the dead, shared, share, the same daunting, grey aura, the same overriding pain, the same nightmares. That in every point of our pasts, behind opposite lines, we were the same people, suffering, crying, screaming. That I am not alone, please, not in this fucking place where nothing makes sense, never made sense, never since then.

Water forgotten, I make my way to you, stoping in front of you. You part your legs, allowing me to stand between them and we look at each other for minutes, hours, an eternity. You don't touch me, don't even attempt to do so, but I feel it, I feel you reaching out to me, I feel you trying to do the very same thing I'm doing right now: searching for a reason. A single reason as to why we are even here, together, alone (always alone), with you looking at me like you've never seen me before, or not, perhaps like you've seen me always but now, now that we are in even ground, now that we're equals in the bottom of whatever pitch we threw ourselves in when we fled our home, our torn country so full of death, now you look at me with the same awe that I'm also feeling. This new realization that nothing separates us, not anymore.

You stand up, towering above me (you were always so tall) and take my hand. The skin of your palm is warm and I think you're even shaking a little, but don't worry, I'm shaking, too. So lost I am inside my thoughts that the gentle tug you give to my hand startles me and I whip my head around, searching you, only to find you a couple steps away, waiting for me to snap out of my reverie and get the gist of the situation: you're leading me to the matress in the corner.

I blush a little and I realize, a small smile on my lips, that I haven't blushed in a long time, I had almost forgotten how nice it feels.

We lay on our sides, our faces mere inches apart, looking at each other yet again, hands clasped and you ask me if I have done any magic lately. No, not in a long time, I whisper, I miss it, but the memories are more powerful, the pain still too recent. You tell me that you haven't either, not since the Astronomy Tower, not even when he killed your father in front of you and sent you away, banished from our world.

I'm so lonely all the time, I tell you and you lean in, brush your lips against mine, a comforting kiss with no agenda, no reason but to show me again that you're indeed here, that you're real, that we exist after all. My hand on your neck feels the warmth of your skin and I'm marvelled by it, in awe that I can feel, I can feel you. The hand on my waist tightens its hold and brings us closer still, closer until I can tuck my face in the crook of your neck and breath you in. I'm glad I found you, you whisper against the skin of my temple, like a caress. I'm glad you're alive, I retort and your chuckle rattles my frame, fills me up with a feeling of belonging in your arms.

We have sex that night. No, we make love that night. Because I can feel it when you press ever closer to me, particularly after your orgasm, I can see it in the way you never tear your eyes away from mine, I can taste it in your kisses, in your tongue, in the tears that we both shed, that we both kiss away; I can smell it in your skin, like home, like new parchment, like us. I can hear it in your laughter, the first honest laugh I hear from you.

And when I tell you this, that in this precise moment I love you, you understand perfectly because you press a kiss to my forehead, to my lips and say: I'll be here in the morning.

Nothing separates us anymore.

Thoughts?

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