Author's Note: So this is my second fanfic ever. xD I published my first one on here somewhere, but it's horrid, so I like to disregard it. And I'll be honest, the only thing really pushing me to take another go at this fanfiction thing was a request from a friend. Enjoy. c:
That being said, this is a gift fic for my Stinkachu. (Her account's rulerofdestiny. You should check her out. xD -shameless plug- )
This is animeverse, set just before the movie, during the Royboy's recovery. So...
To See
Obsidian eyes shot open, vision cutting through the night's murkiness-- cutting through to make out the formation of the ceiling and its two-dimensional placidity. The open window's mild breeze cooled the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, and in spite of himself, he began to reclaim the serenity he'd taken at the start of his restless slumber. He lied there, silent and immobile, staring at that ceiling with unwavering concentration before he remembered who it belonged to and why everything seemed to have a different air to it. And the air was a fresh sort of air. Nothing he could obtain while resting alone in the isolated confinement that was his apartment. Any nightmarish visions that had plagued his mind had quite nearly been forgotten-- but with another sharp breath, he recalled a new one.
Frantic hands jolted upward to grope his face, to check for the dark patch that was supposed to conceal that sinful left eye. He felt the chill run down his spine when he found that it had been just slightly skewed to the left of the scarring image. He adjusted it, more than familiar to the routine in response to his petty complex... but he couldn't help it. What if he'd allowed it to inch just a space more? What if she had walked in to check on him?
He simply couldn't allow her to see it.
Her.
Chest heaving up and down, he tilted his head to rest just his left cheek against his pillow, but it was more an action of observation than relaxation. His door, slightly ajar, was just across the hall from her own door-- which was all the same, slightly ajar. He'd found that when he inched his body downward and craned his neck just slightly forward, he could faintly make out her own resting silhouette. Ever since he'd made this discovery, he'd managed to feel a subtle sort of complacence with his circumstances and his state of being. Little things like this-- as little as seeing just this woman's silhouette-- were the only things he could be even remotely optimistic toward. While he wouldn't say it, nor even dare to express it in front of her, everything else was disaster.
His wounds from Bradley and Archer were, for the most part, healed. They no longer bled under his nightly moments of intense stress. They were still bandaged, though, and he still found that he could barely stand without some form of assistance. It paved the way for a number of complications in his daily routine. He couldn't reach for any objects from a high shelf, couldn't bend down on the occasion that he dropped something, couldn't even stand for a period exceeding five minutes. He'd been bed-ridden, and it was driving him absolutely insane.
But in every instance, she was there.
She was there to pull whatever he wanted from any distanced shelf. She was there to pick up anything he dropped, no matter how many times he dropped it. When he needed a seat, she would pull up a chair for him... And when he was restless in bed, she was there to distract him with a light conversation, sitting there at his bedside while peeling the apple that he didn't even ask for. And though her actions were the only reason he was capable of pulling through each and every day, her obedience hoisted an unconceivable weight of guilt onto his back, onto his conscience.
She blamed herself, and he knew.
She blamed herself for his current state of being. She'd said that his plan had been full-proof, and that her timing had been his downfall. Despite the speech he gave her, her beliefs were persistent. She was entirely convinced that it had all been her fault.
He hated himself for that, and she knew.
So the subject had been untouched. They avoided talking about the mishap at Bradley's mansion, and they avoided any discussion regarding his eye. She blamed herself, and he hated himself-- that was what the grotesque display under that dark patch said about them. He was hypersensitive about it... the fact that any aspect of their relationship could be so fragile, so delicate. It was unnerving. In fact, the thought of it became downright unbearable. Before he knew what he was doing, his legs had been swung over the mattress, and his feet had made contact with the cold wooden floor.
He reached for his cane resting beside the night table, and once he grasped it with the weak strength that the night would limit him to, he hoisted himself upward, using the table to steady himself before he moved his feet forward. His slow pace only allowed time for his nightmares to continue and his thoughts to progress. Each negative idea seemed to hinder his movements, and he felt his energy falter at every small step. Nevertheless, he fought, because he was determined.
Because he knew he couldn't get through the night without seeing her.
Shallow breaths tormented his lungs' capacity by the time he stepped into the hall. Fingers trembled tightly over the ebony, T-shaped handle, and his free hand reached forward as he neared her door. He was careful, very careful to remain silent while he began to push her door open, yet he knew he would limit his entrance to the base of her room's threshold.
Unfortunately, his cane could not bear the amount of weight he unknowingly pressed onto it; the tip slipped haphazardly against the polished floor before tumbling to the ground and sliding across her room. His own body promptly hit the ground, his chin producing a violent thud as it hammered the surface. He didn't have to hear her gasp to know that she was now awake, and he didn't have to look up to know that she had made it to his side within ten seconds of the event. Eyes tightly wrenched shut, he attempted to lift himself from his pitiful state, rushing to find words, to find an excuse.
"I was..."
He was sleepwalking. He thought he heard something. He was going to the bathroom. Anything.
He forced himself to open his eyes, to stare up into her frightened amber optics. Warily, he opened his mouth to speak, to tell her that he just was going to get a glass of water... That he'd left something in the living room.
Anything.
"...I needed to see you."
He wasn't surprised that she responded with a narrow stare. In spite of it, he couldn't draw his eyes away, even as she silently wrapped an arm around his torso to lift him upward. Sitting upright, his hazardous breathing told her that he just needed to sit, so she knelt there on the ground with him, tired expression adorning a slow shake of her head.
"You stupid man..."
Jaw tightening, he suddenly found himself unable to look at her, and his tangoing emotions jabbed at his insides. For once, the silence between them grew uncomfortable, and he blamed himself entirely for that sensibility. He needed release, and for that reason, he found the moment opportune to address the matter that was harassing his mind the most.
His hand rose to brush against the dark material obscuring his face, and his fingertips began to tug at the strap securing it in place. Furrowed brows conveyed his hesitancy, but he didn't allow himself to stop. Rather, her own warm hand clasped over his, interrupting his gesture with a tender hold.
"I don't need to see it."
They had tried so intently to avoid the subject; he denied himself release from his self-loathing, and she denied herself release from her misplaced guilt. Even still, when he read her expression, he detected no pain or remorse or regret. No denial or avoidance.
He saw that she understood.
And suddenly, he did too.
It wasn't her fault that he'd been injured. It wasn't his responsibility to worry about her guilt.
A small exhale, and he found that he could breathe normally again.
She drew her hand away, bringing his down with it, and she smiled a smile so tender that it was sinful. He returned it, feeling the mutuality of everything in its being.
Once more, she supported his frame to help him to his feet, and he knew she was taking him back to his room. And he had no complaints... Because he'd gotten what he'd wanted.
He'd gotten the release, he'd gotten the assurance, he'd gotten the lift. He'd gotten everything he needed to sleep through this night and every other night to come.
And most of all...
He'd gotten to see her.