He wakes to the sound of crying.
For a second, he forgets where he is. A dream? Hallucination? It seems like a more plausible explanation than the reality of someone crying in his room. He rubs his eyes and looks to the other side of the bed. Peko isn't lying beside him. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at a letter clutched tightly in her hand. Her knuckles are pressed over her mouth to muffle her sobs.
Peko never, ever cries.
He shifts to half-sitting, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Hey," he calls softly.
Her back goes ramrod straight. In one fluid motion, she wipes her eyes with the heel of one hand and stuffs the letter beneath her pillow with the other.
"Go back to sleep," she says, turning to face him. She sounds remarkably composed, despite the circumstances he's caught her in, but even in the dim lamplight, he can see the telltale redness rimming her eyes.
His gaze flickers to the pillow. "What's the matter?" he tries.
"Nothing," she says, too quick.
He doesn't want to push it, push her. She'll come to him when she's ready. That doesn't mean he still can't worry. Not when she was crying. So when he asks slowly, "You sure?" he at least hopes it sounds comforting.
"It's nothing," she repeats. "Sorry for waking you. Go back to bed." Before he can push it any further, she shuts off the lamp and lies back down, facing the wall. The letter beneath her pillow crinkles conspicuously.
Fuyuhiko stares at her back in the darkness. The lines of her shoulders are still tense. She'll wake up sore if she keeps that up. He sighs and lies back down beside her, throwing one arm over her waist; he fits himself close enough to tickle the back of her neck with his breath. With thoughts of Peko muffling her sobs flitting around his brain, he closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.
A minute later, Peko reaches over and turns the lamp back on.
"You won't tell a soul?" she asks.
"Yeah, 'course. Cross my heart," he answers.
She shifts back to sitting on the edge of the bed. She's focused on a dusty spot on the floor while she searches for the words. She looks tired, like when she spends hours staying up late to finish a report her colleagues have thrown into her lap.
She rubs restless circles into her elbows. She won't look at him, and that makes him more anxious than he can say.
"Do you remember a few weeks ago, when that man sent me that letter?"
"Yeah?"
It had come as a surprise to them both. A letter, seemingly out of nowhere, from one of the most successful magnates in America. She'd been flustered, almost shy when she'd shown it to him. He'd been suspicious, at first; he'd never heard of this Ryan guy before, but if he were smart enough to recognize Peko for her talents, then he couldn't be a bad guy.
"He's been writing me more letters since then." She pulls the letter out from beneath her pillow and spares him a small glance over her shoulder. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know how you'd react."
"React to what?"
His heart rate spikes. Peko always gets to the heart of the matter. She only dances around the subject when she's feeling guilty. A million different scenarios pop into his head—she's leaving you, she's finally realized how pathetic you are, she's found someone better, someone who can take care of her—all of them ending with his heart bleeding on the floor.
She blows out frustrated air through her nose. "I don't know how else to word, so I'll just say it." (I'm leaving you I'm leaving you I'mleavingyouI'm—) "Mr. Ryan has managed to build a city at the bottom of the sea."
He laughs before he can stop himself, a breathy, disbelieving sound. Of all terrible possibilities, that was the last thing he'd expected to hear. She must be joking, to soften the blow perhaps, but her eyes are hard and her expression is stony. His smile dissolves. And truly he should have known better, because Peko doesn't joke like that during times like these.
"No shit?" he breathes.
She nods. "He calls it Rapture. A gathering of the greatest minds in the world. He's told me many things about it. He built it as a paradise to allow artists and scientists to thrive without… oppression." Her words pick up, eager and restless. "It wouldn't be like it is here. It's different… It would be— no more waiting around for government funding. No more work colleagues leaving my name out of the reports." The corners of her mouth lift, but she sobers up quickly. "The letter I received from him today was an invitation to his city. He's invited me to live there."
"Fuck," he says, out of habit.
He doesn't know how to react; his body tries to guess. Something like a half-smile pulls at his cheeks; it feels misplaced upon his face. What is this feeling? Relief? Anxiety? Whatever it is, it makes his blood buzz with unfamiliarity.
"That's… that's good, right? It fucking sounds good. I— Fuck, I dunno, I guess I never really thought about living in a city at the bottom of the sea before. Is it— I mean— What do we have to do? Do we write him back or—"
"Fuyuhiko," she says slowly, eyes still turned to the floor. "It would be only me."
His smile evaporates. "… Oh."
She doesn't need to say more. The choice is fucking obvious. He's not sure why he's so surprised. He'd been bracing himself for something like this for months, probably. All her complaints, her hard work, her sacrifices have been culminating to this singular moment. A chance to come out on top. Who the hell is he to deny her that?
She's leaving you.
Cold air hits his cheek. They'd left the window open, just a sliver. She had complained about it getting too stuffy at night. It was a small, tangible comfort he could give her, because he could.
Her voice is a meek, trembling sound in the silence.
"What should I do?" she asks.
His gut twists. "What?"
"I want to know what you think I should do."
The knot in his stomach tangles further until he thinks he might throw up. "Don't do this, Peko, c'mon. Don't put this all on me, it's not—"
"—I didn't mean it like that. I just want to know what you think."
He stares at her incredulously. He's never understood it, how she can act as though she has no opinions of her own during times it matters the most. "What do you want me to say, huh?" He shuffles out from under the sheets and swings his legs over the side of the bed. It's suddenly unbearable to look at the pale yellow glow of the bedside lamp. "This is about you. It's your choice."
"This is about both of us. We're— We've built something together. You have as much say in this as I do."
Bullshit.
"Well, you seemed happy enough to hide it from me before."
"I—" Her face contorts, taut and unhappy; it's a look she rarely ever wears. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do. I have no excuse— I'm sorry—"
He doesn't answer, partly because he doesn't know how, and that hurts her even more.
He should apologize. Tell her he didn't mean for his emotions to get the better of him, once again, but the words refuse to surface, clogged up like glue on his tongue. So when he reaches for something to say, what comes out barely scratches the surface of his feelings.
"You should go," he says.
He hears the sickly way her breath hitches. "You want me to leave?"
"That's not what I said," he stresses. "All I'm saying is you've worked too damn hard to let one guy get in the way of your dreams—"
"I never thought you were in the way at all. I just—"
"—Bullshit. You hid this from me for a reason, and it wasn't just because they told you to."
"—I'm sorry. It was wrong of me not to tell you. I'll write back right away and tell Mr. Ryan I'm not interested, if that's what you want, then—"
"Forget about me! Give a shit about yourself for once, Peko!—"
"Fuyuhiko—"
"—You can't just do that, okay? You can't just forget about your dreams outta nowhere because you think that's what I want or—"
"—It might have been my dream before, but that was before I met you—"
"—Oh, come on. We both know I'm not important enough to warrant that kind of change."
Peko grows quiet. His chest is heaving; his nerves feel strained, pulled tight like a wire. (He thinks somebody may have thumped a fist against the adjoining wall to get them to shut up.)
Her eyes pierce through him so hard, he has to look away. She says softly, "Are we still talking about the letter?"
Peko always gets to the heart of the matter.
"Fuyuhiko, please," she sighs, pulling her knees onto the bed. "We've talked about this. I love you for you."
In paradise, love would do all the bullshit nonsense everyone says it does, but it doesn't. It's not. Love gets her a tiny-ass apartment in the slummiest neighborhood of the Bronx with rent he can barely afford. Love gets her strange stares from people they don't even know. She's never complained. She's never asked for more. That doesn't stop the inadequacy feeling like a ten-ton brick in the pit of his stomach.
Maybe that's why paradise seems so tempting.
He blames himself most of all. He'd tried to be patient with himself. He thought they had time. He'd yearned for the days when whispers of I love you weren't immediately followed by thoughts of But I don't deserve you.
"Yeah," he says, "and maybe that was a mistake."
He's glad he can't see her face now, can't see the fractures he's chipped into her countenance. He hunches forward, elbows balanced on his knees and forehead pressed into his palm.
(Sometimes he wishes they'd met later: a time in his life where he'd be free and well-adjusted and something. Maybe they would've met in paradise, in a place like Rapture. Maybe paradise would've been more than just a thing.)
The mattress creaks. He feels her fingertips, ghosting along the ridge of his shoulder blade. When he doesn't move, she presses closer, wrapping her arms around his chest. Her cheek feels hot against his spine, a sharp and lingering contrast against the cool night breeze blowing in from the open window. Either she's shaking, or he is, but they share the tremors, joined together as one.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, dragging his palm over his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," she says, so close the words vibrate against his back. "Just tell me what you want me to do."
"No. Listen to me, Peko." He twists around and takes one of her hands in his. "This is about you. Okay? It's your invitation, so what do you want? And be honest. Please."
He's brave enough to take a good look at Peko's face now, a really good look. Her eyes aren't as dewy anymore, but she still looks just as tired. Her brow and her nose and her mouth are creased in all the wrong places. The lamplight accentuates the lines around her eyes. It makes her look older than she actually is.
"I don't want this to be the end," she says, all in one breath, and it sounds like the words have been pulled out of her belly.
It's not a proper answer to his question, he realizes, but it says enough.
They've always been this way, at odds with the world around them. Under no circumstances should a self-made biochemist have ever ended up with a down-on-his-luck street urchin like him, but here they are. Inconceivable, unimaginable, but here nonetheless. It feels like they could last a hundred more years, if something like this weren't swinging over their heads like a pendulum.
But even at her most vulnerable, Peko's strong as hell. He's known that from the day he met her, so if she's still hanging on, then he'll hang on too. (They'll drown together, if they have to.)
He decides.
"Then I'll just have to meet you there."
Her head snaps up. "What?"
"You'll go to Rapture. And I'll meet you there."
Her eyes are big; not like she's surprised, but like she's heard a very special secret. "How?"
He honestly doesn't know. He's never thought that far ahead, for any of his plans. But he can't stop now, not when she's looking at him like he's responsible for the stars in the sky. "I'm not always gonna be on time," he says carefully. It sounds right, so far. He pushes on. "Hell, I'm late for a lot of things. But if it's for you, I'm sure I can do anything."
Peko drops her head. The light is angled in such a way that it leaves her eyes in shadow. For a second, he panics, fearing he may have severed the last cord keeping them together. But then, she reaches over, and tugs him closer, fingers grazing against his hipbone.
"Will you promise you'll come for me?" she asks. Her head dips low enough to brush the curve of his cheek with her eyelashes.
"Cross my heart." He traces an X across his chest, right where his heart is; her eyes follow the motion.
(It's not a lie if he's unsure. It's not the same weight in the pit of his belly as when he says it doesn't bother him that all her colleagues think they're an odd pair. He could promise her love. He could promise her effort. But promises that hinge on results still make him skirt backwards with his back against the wall.)
He cups her cheeks with both hands and tilts her chin up until she's meeting his gaze again. "Hey. You believe in me?" (And out of everything they've discussed tonight, strangely this is the question that makes him feel the most vulnerable, stripped of all his defenses.)
"Yes," she answers, so plain and sure his breath catches in his throat. How did he ever live without her, he wonders. With Peko in his corner, he doesn't think he'll ever need anything else in his life. That's always been the foundation of their bond: belief, and reassurance.
His chest burns with the stinging blend of fear and determination. It's not enough anymore just to want. He has to change, rise, like an unshakable mountain against a relentless gale. He can be that for her. He has to be that for her.
"Let's get back to sleep," he offers.
She nods. They shuffle back under the covers, tucked against each other. The letter is a pale spot in the darkness, lying upon the bedside table.
Sleep doesn't come easy for either of them.
Peko sends her response. Within a few days she receives another letter detailing the time and place for her departure, just at the end of autumn.
And that's that.
Peko's plans are far more meticulous than his will ever be. She transfers funds from her bank account bit by bit. She puts less effort into her workload at the institute, but not so much that her colleagues or students grow suspicious. She takes home the research folios they've compiled over the years with the excuse that she's putting in extra hours of work, but really, she plans to take them with her.
She doesn't sleep at her apartment at all in the days leading up to her departure. She comes and goes, mostly to grab a few things, but she chooses to spend every night at his apartment instead. It's far more intimate than they'd normally allow themselves, but he doesn't complain. By the third day, she leaves her key behind.
She tries to make the most of her remaining time with him. He argues that this won't be the last time they'll see each other, so there's no need to act like it is, but she counters that she's leaving New York behind nonetheless. (He has no defense for that, and he doesn't bother fighting it; he could never deny her any happiness she could want.) They watch movies, and have dinner, and make love. It's bliss, and for a moment, he can almost forget that the love of his life will be leaving him indefinitely.
She decides not to take much with her. Just a few books and small personal effects. All the clothes she packs fit in one suitcase. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she were leaving on a short vacation.
He hovers by her side while she double-checks and triple-checks she has everything she needs. He'd asked to see her off at the dock, but she'd said it'd be too risky. She couldn't predict what would happen if she let others see him with her, and she doesn't want him to be a target for the consequences.
She reaches for him; he takes her hand wordlessly.
"Don't forget: no one must know," she says, tapping one finger to her lips. "It's like I was never here."
"Too late for that," he jokes, to mask the pang in his chest.
In all honesty, it's the perfect plan. She has every opportunity to disappear from the world as she knows it. No one would miss her. Not her colleagues at the research institute, or her students, and she has no parents nor family to speak of.
Just him.
He leans up and kisses her soundly. It's nothing like the hurried, open-mouthed kisses they've exchanged in abundance over the weeks. It's slow, and lingering, a simple press of the lips against hers. (It's not goodbye, he reminds himself. It's not. It's not.) Her grip briefly tightens around his fingers. When they part, her eyes are bright and her smile is content.
Don't go.
If he asked, she would stay. She wouldn't even hesitate. She'd drop her bags and unpack her things and never speak of the idea ever again, and he can't do that to her. He wants her to be free, to grow however the hell she wants. He doesn't want to be the chain that keeps her potential tethered. He couldn't bear that.
Slowly, he untangles his fingers from hers.
He's not starting this with one foot out the door. He has to hold onto hope, wherever it is, so when he says, "I'll see you soon," it feels like the closest thing to the truth he can get.
She nods, and smiles in a way that makes her face look masterfully crafted. With one last look at the ratty old apartment they sometimes shared, she takes a deep breath, picks up her bags, and leaves, shutting the door behind her.
The click of her heels echoes down the stairwell, growing fainter and fainter.
He counts backwards, from ten to one. Eight… Seven… Six…
The mask of his composure cracks. His blood thrums in his ears, unbearably loud. His heart beats erratically, the rhythm of Peko, Peko, Peko tattooed against his chest. It feels like he's forgetting something important, like a part of him can't be considered complete unless he finds it. He wants to throw open the door and fly down the stairs and scream, Wait! But he doesn't know what he's forgetting, or what to do, or what to say, and it's almost certainly too late for him to run after her.
By the time he reaches one, he crumples to his knees, right there in front of the door. His breath stutters out in pants, too short, and too quick. It makes his lungs feel too small for his body. He reaches out blindly, fingers finding purchase in the grooves of the doorframe. Peeling paint chips under his fingernails as he claws uselessly at the old wood. He stays there, kneeling where she left him, until the heaving, shuddering gasps leave his throat aching and raw.
Much too late for that.
