maybe tomorrow i'll find my way home
disclaimer: not mine.
Elena used to hate being photographed. With a scrunched up face she'd complain, hating the image that it showed her – the replication of herself, except that the 'ugliness' stood out, something always wrong with her. He used to laugh, his mouth brushing her skin, whispering that there was no way that she was ugly, or that there was anything wrong with her – he liked what he saw, and what he saw was brilliance.
Not perfection, he stated, emphasising his point severely. She would never be perfection, for that in itself was stupid. Who needs perfection, if perfection was a dull thing? With imperfection came goals, passion, and a desire that helped people.
With imperfection came love, because it allowed people to see the flaws in their loved ones, and still allow them to love.
Perfection allowed no mistake, making them function as a robot. That's why Tseng could never love any one; because people weren't perfect, and therefore could not match up to his ideal of perfection. Perfectionists would be in love with the idea, never the actual matter. They would never truly love the object of their desire.
But Tseng was dead. It didn't matter any more.
She was so stupid.
Photographs would have allowed her to keep pictures of him, always reminding her that the playful smirk that she used to hate was something that she had come to love. Photographs would have allowed her to remember the brilliant shade of green and see the redness of his hair.
But, as he always said, teasing her, making her cheeks darken and blush, he'd only take photos that contained him and her. Because they were part of each other, and so, he would never be without her. He would never leave her side; always with her. And so, if either of them took a photo without the other one being there, the picture would be… incomplete.
And still, to her embarrassment, she refused.
He didn't mind, ruffling her silky hair, his eyes gleaming sneakily. After all, why need a photo to remember her by, if they were destined to be together? If he ever forgot her, he could always open his eyes and see her face. Her beautiful face that flushed and blushed and darkened and reddened so easily.
But what happened if one of them died? What happened to the survivor with no photos?
She hadn't thought of that. Neither did he, never wanting to think about that subject. When we get there, we'll get there, he said, kissing the corner of her mouth, and we'll make it. We'll carry on, with our memories sustaining us.
Time would heal everything. It would heal all the wounds; heal all sorrow and the pain that had ever happened to them.
But time would always take away the memories; youthful faces aging, before turning into dust, never to be remembered.
She didn't want to forget him; and she took up the addiction that she herself had hated. She began to smoke, filling her lungs up with tar, and making her breathe out smoke that made her cough and wheeze.
She lived in a dying city, burnt to ashes and destroyed by rebellion. He lived with her, along with his best friend, his greatest comrade, the silent ally. She hadn't minded, knowing that they shared a close bond. Besides, as she often recalled with a smile, Rude could always wipe the floor with Reno at card games. The stubborn git just refused to believe that.
They were the three outcasts, isolated by the rest of the world, and they were happy. As long as they had each other, as long as they could remain by each other's side, nothing else mattered.
A gun.
A fist.
And a zappy EMR.
They were together, and so they were complete.
Midgar had fallen, and Edge had risen.
It didn't matter as long as they had each other.
She blew out a haze of smoke, her mouth twisting in disgust.
"… Elena," her bald co-worker said, "you need to stop."
How long ago had it been since she'd been called 'Lena, 'Laney or just 'Rookie'?
How long ago had it been since she'd been reprimanding Reno for the same vice, hating the way his mouth tasted of burnt ash and gravel?
He would always laugh, his lips curving, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. For you, baby, he said, his thumb brushing her cheek, I will. Just not today. Maybe tomorrow. Someday.
"Stop what?" She drawled, no longer caring that her brown eyes had dulled, no longer caring that this 'addiction' of hers was going to be cause of her death.
She wouldn't stop today. Maybe tomorrow.
"Smoking. He's dead. Joined the Lifestream." Rude quietly said, edging closer to the ex-Turk. "… please, Elena."
"I can't." She said, listless, hazel eyes brimming with tears. "I just can't."
Not today. Maybe tomorrow.
"It's the only way," she murmured, "that I can remember him. Each time I inhale, I'm inhaling him. Each time, I cough; I remember the smirk of his. Each time, I kiss… I kiss him. I can remember the emotions so clearly, how much I hated them, how much I loved him…"
The silent man reached for her face, cupping it in his hands. "Elena…"
With his hands, he had sworn to protect her. It was the last thing his had promised Reno. With his heart, he had sworn he would love her. But her heart… her heart…
"Move on. Do you think he would like to see you like this?" Rude asked; his voice gentle but firm.
Elena stared at him, unblinking.
"I can't. It… it hurts too much." She whispered, the tears falling freely, the cigarette leaving her lips. "There's no one… I can love as much… no one I can trust as much… no one who will be like him… and love me."
"I could." Rude mumbled, his big hands seeking to protect her and wipe away the falling tears. "I would."
Her heart belonged to Reno.
The amount of tears that had fallen from her orbs; the manner in which she had changed; Rude had known that he would never completely be enough to mend the broken heart, he would never have enough time to ease the pain. He could recognise the pattern, memories of a distant co-worker, still here a week ago, beginning to repeat in her. It was like he was watching her turn back time.
But he didn't want her to become like Reno.
"But I…" She gulped; her voice barely above a whisper, "I don't love you."
"…"
Her eyes meekly lowered. "Not in the same way. I couldn't. And if I tried… it would be too cruel. I couldn't do that to you."
To him. She couldn't do it to the memories of teasing smirks and tickling hands and scars that marred his skinny body as he protected her.
"I'll take care of you." Rude promised, his eyes never leaving hers, his hands holding her cheeks more desperately. "Regardless of what you feel about me, regardless of what I…"
"I'm sorry. But I don't. And, I can't." Elena shook her head, her shaking hand touching his wrists. "I belong to him."
"… alright. But Elena, stop using the cigarettes. They'll kill you one day. Give them up." Rude let go of her, his hands falling.
But Elena smiled ruefully, and held onto him, her grip tighter than before, eyes empty. "I can't. They're the only thing that connects me to him now. And I…"
She licked her dry lips, not meeting his eyes, she said:
"You know as well as I do that the cigarettes won't kill me."
Rude said nothing as Elena sought for his support, trying to find comfort in his embrace, whispering apologetic mumbling of 'sorry' and 'I can't'. Instead, he held her, becoming the rock that Elena always saw him as.
He wonders if things would have turned out better if he was the one who died, instead of Reno. That way, Elena wouldn't have felt so guilty… and Reno would still be there, but… who would pick up the broken pieces, if not him?
A week ago… there were three, and they were a happy trio. But they can't protect themselves forever and sometimes the monsters wear you out, and someone who should have been somewhere else was in front of her, protecting her, with his dying breath. Better you than me, 'Laney. I couldn't bear to see you die. And she kisses him one last time, her tears falling on top of his scars, her mouth desperately kissing him. Look after her. He dies with a laugh, the smirk never completely leaving his face; and he dies in her arms, before the Lifestream takes its hold on him completely.
No matter what happens, Rude will protect Elena.
"… I know."
So Elena held on to him and pretended that he's Reno, if a tad bulkier and muscled that what she's used to. She pretended that she could smell the burnt ash and hear the amused smirk that curls smugly on his cherry red lips.
It's not perfect, but what was perfection except an abstract concept from a far away view point?
"He's the addiction."
"…"
Their life was far from perfect, but it was the imperfection that made them happy. As long as they had each other, life would go on. But they didn't and what was left were two broken people nearing the edge of despair.
With not even a photo to glance at.
And no matter what, they couldn't forget him.
But they couldn't remember him either.
"And he's the one who's killing me."
Maybe not today. But someday.