"I don't know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– but I think of you always in those intervals." -Salvador Plascencia, The People of Paper
Aftermath
She wondered sometimes, early in the morning when the daylight was still a dream and night held fast to its temporary reign over the world, how did she end up here? How did things ever get this bad? She ran a hand, creased with age, over her face. It fell to the side where the slight depression in the mattress gave the only evidence that someone had shared her bed last night. Proof that she hadn't just dreamed it. That she remained stuck in a world that was more enduring than living. More suffering than happiness. More dread than hope. The threads of memory stitched together and she allowed herself the exquisite sadness of remembering.
Like a wraith, emerging from the shadows he came. She didn't know how she knew when he'd be there, but somehow, she always did. Fixing the loose strands of hair that had fallen free from her pony-tail, she hurried to the dilapidated doorway. He stood at the threshold, wearing his black trench coat, with its frayed hem, hands buried deep in the pockets, shoulders hunched and face lowered; the dark glasses obscuring his damaged eyes. If she hadn't needed him as badly as she did, she would have found his humility and this appearance of shame as an insult. But April shook the thoughts away. None of that mattered now.
What was morality now? Where were the lines of virtue to be drawn here in this place? This nightmare world devoid of anything resembling decency, or right and wrong; this existence brimming with violence, shocking betrayal and the crushing grief of loss as a constant hammer upon one's soul. Aside from the thirst of vengeance and the primal drive to survive day to day, there was little else. Very little. But there was this. He had come back. He needed her. And more than anything, she needed him.
She held out her hand and he took it. Tenderly at first, then gripping it harder, as if he were dangling from some unseen precipice and she was his only lifeline. He entered and his arms immediately went around her. Their mouths met and pressed roughly against each other even as he pulled at her clothes, popping buttons from the front of her thin flannel as gently, she removed his glasses and set them to one side. They moved to the stairs and the fallen debris became an intolerable obstacle to their escape from this hideous world. Without a word, he reached down and swept her up into his arms, leaping lightly over the support beam as he carried her up to their destination. She buried her face into the side of his neck.
"Leo," she murmured and he shook his head. No words. No speaking. No acknowledgement of who they were outside of this, this desperate moment, this panic, this race to flee from the pain. April pressed her lips to his pulse and closed her eyes, drinking in the scent of him and trying her best not to think of someone else. Someone long lost but not forgotten. Never forgotten.
They were neither proud nor happy. But they were both in pain. Both had been betrayed one way or another. She'd lost her love before she could ever tell him her feelings for him and then lost the man who protected her with his life. Leonardo lost his honor the day the woman he'd loved beyond all reason betrayed him. And that betrayal led to a deeper cut: the loss of his father. They were drifting in a sea of regret. Lonely isles brought into contact with one another by the immense power of the tides of fate.
And in the darkness of shared grief, the only light that seemed to pierce it was the rare moments when he held her. When she surrendered to his silent strength and desperate passion. When his breath came in heavy gasps as he ground into her, driving out the sadness, expunging her of any coherent thought or emotion except need. Raw and real. Something to grasp on to and hold for dear life as she did to the ridge of his shell behind his broad, scarred shoulders.
And sometimes, it was as if he were here with her. The one she'd lost. Those times the power of her climax rocked her and it took everything ounce of control not to cry out his name.
Leonardo was silent besides his breathing. Rarely did he make a sound. Once, though, the second time they'd done this, she thought she heard the other woman's name slip from between his gritted teeth, covered quickly by a deep growl. Since then, he hadn't made a groan, a moan or any noise at all. Maybe he was holding back as well. It didn't matter.
It was wrong. All of it. But it was all she had.
April sat up and glanced out into the gray morning, if there were stars to be seen, the dark clouds of pollution and smoke blotted them from sight. She crept from her bedroom and down the stairwell, taking care to climb over the fallen beams at the base of the stairs. This shelter was one of the few that remained in the old neighborhood. Not too far from the rebel base, but far enough to secure some privacy.
Michelangelo had been asking uncomfortable questions lately. The last thing she needed was for him to discover this. He would not understand. He had someone to love but chose to ignore her, fearing involvement. Doing his best to keep his heart from taking any more damage than was necessary. No doubt thinking he was protecting Angel as well. Foolish boy. April smiled sadly and shook her head. She'd need to talk to him soon about it. Talk some sense into his head. He needed to take what he could get while he was still breathing. Even if it was only a day. One day of happiness weighed against the pain and suffering of years. Sometimes, one day makes all the difference in the end.
There was a chill in the air and she shuddered. She folded her arms and leaned against the doorway that led out to what was once a small garden. He was there, kneeling in the dust and gravel. Head low between his shoulders. She didn't want to disturb him if he was meditating, but curiosity got the best of her. She moved quietly to stand just behind him and caught him as he quickly closed his hand over something and tucked it into his pocket. She could've been wrong, but it looked like a necklace, a locket. She didn't have to guess whose picture was secured within.
She closed her eyes and reached to touch his shoulder. She opened her mouth to say something about it being okay. That she didn't care whether he loved someone still; that she understood. His face rose up in her mind then, as it had been all those years ago. So young and sweet. The innocent yearning in his warm brown eyes highlighted by the purple color of his mask. The crooked smile he gave her whenever he laid eyes on her. It warmed her now, but had irritated her then. He'd wanted to be a part of her life so badly, he loved her so sincerely that she could not accept it. Not then. It only served to make her distance herself from him. Why would he like her? She was no one special. She couldn't accept it. And she wasted what time she could have had with him before . . . before he disappeared from all their lives. Leaving her with the emptiness of feelings unspoken. Of love's chance missed.
Tears stung her eyes and she took in a shuddering breath. They all had secrets to guard. Some older than even this war. But before she could touch Leonardo, he rose and moved out of her reach.
"I should go," he said in his low gruff voice and stepped around her.
"Leo," she started and he stopped. He glanced over his shoulder, not looking at her and from his profile she could make out the cloudy blue of his once clear eye. He waited. "Thank you. For coming back . . . to me."
He shifted and dropped his head. Again she felt a wave of shame from him hit her and more than anything she wanted to shout at him that it didn't matter. To stop being foolish and stubborn. That the people they loved were gone or had betrayed them beyond forgiveness. That they deserved a moment of peace from time to time. They'd been friends, close as family at one point. She cared about him and he did for her, she knew this. And wasn't what they were doing just further proof of that bond? That they both wanted to rescue one another from the pain? After all they'd been through, why was this wrong? Why was it wrong to be happy for just a few hours? And even if it was purely selfishness, if there was nothing more here than lust in a time of fear, then so be it. But she didn't want him to feel shame for this. She didn't want to be the source of more pain.
She crossed her arms and turned away. She wanted to say all this to him and more. To ease his guilt, to take away his suffering, but also to chase away her doubts and with no small amount of selfishness, to secure his return. Because she could not go on this way with nothing left but violence and fighting. With nothing else to look forward to but the possibility that she would lose more people she cared about. But the words died in her throat. When she looked up, he was gone. With the break of dawn, he vanished. As he always did.
She sniffed and wiped her cheek with the back of one hand. Her face turned to one side and there, where he'd been kneeling was the straggly remains of a rose bush. The branches were twisted and covered in cruel looking thorns. She stared at it and it left her feeling exposed and angry. She kicked a pile of gravel at it before moving back into the house.
She stopped with a gasp. On the counter, just inside the doorway, lay a small white rose. Her fingertips brushed the petals and several fell free. Still, she picked it up and pressed it to her cheek and she knew he'd be back. There were far too few precious things in the world remaining. You had to take what you could get.