iv. Omnia vincit amor
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: All future chapters in italics are flashbacks.
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That day, Irvine woke to a dusty morning and the gentle green of the radio alarm.
Propping himself up by the elbows, he sighed heavily and touched his red eyes and scratchy jaw gingerly. The whole room pulsed in the quiet; the time on the clock fluttered its eyelashes like a beautiful woman and waited as Irvine tumbled out of the limbo of sleep, holding his head in his hands.
A drowsy arm slid off his chest. Her long shape curls and stretches like a contented cat before she turns her back to him.
He looked up and watched it for a moment, the gentle up and down motion of her breathing, before crawling out of his bed.
The traffic rumbled outside like the daily morning deadlock is taking place right in the room. It was in the midst of that, and the gray-yellow of the suppressed sunlight outside he got dressed as silently as possible. The faucet of the adjacent bathroom squeaked with rust, and Irvine struggled with the wrapping of the small hotel soap, cursing as it fell into the sink. Wiping his face, he knotted his tie and emerged, coat already flung over his arm.
He crept past the bed with the rumpled sheets, picked up his briefcase, and opened the door.
"Where are you going?"
Irvine turned and took in the sight of her sitting up, with her long sculpted legs and eyes limpid with sleep. He gave her a small smile, but didn't take his hand off the doorknob. "I've got a funeral to go to this afternoon. I told you last night, remember?"
She giggled, and sauntered over to give him a peck on the cheek. "Of the things that happened last night, you really think I would've remembered something like that?" She caressed his cheek fondly. "See you next week?"
He caught her long fingers just as she was about to retract them, and kissed them. "Of course. Until then."
Deling City blared past him as he left the motel and turned onto the main city street – past the ornate hotel that reeked of wine, red velvet and sensuality. The street vendors hawking magazines and dreams of adventure ("Safari into the depths of mystery! Fight foes and fiends never before seen! Save the world!"). A tall teen read the latest copy of Weapons Monthly as a girl hung off his arm, exclaiming about nunchaku and trains (It must've been his imagination – even still, Irvine's tie suddenly becomes uncomfortably tight. He pulls at it agitatedly).
He stuck an arm out, waiting to be noticed in the clamouring sea of people – when his jacket pocket began to vibrate. Irvine took it out, checked the name on the caller ID, and answered it.
"Hey you."
"Hey yourself." He could hear her smile. "Meeting go alright, I take it?"
He didn't pause, and it had stopped bothering him how smoothly he slips into the lie. Even though something inside him is suffocating, and always gasps a little whenever he speaks to her. "Really well. I'm on my way to the train station already, so I shouldn't be late."
"Okay. I'll see you soon."
"Right." A taxi stopped in front of him. "I love you, Selphie."
"Love you Irvy."
He watched Deling City slip by his window. Past that arch, past that clock tower, past the tall boy and yellow-wearing girl ("We're not the same people anymore") and the Caraway Mansion, falling into disrepair.
And his reflection. An Irvine, breathless.
