Suki ja nai

See disclaimer in 01

04: namida

Roswell was usually the kind of person to wake abruptly, usually with a pause of disorientation or not knowing precisely where he was or what had happened right before he'd fallen asleep. That type of almost guilty awakening tended to become ingrained in anyone with the rather unfortunate habit of staying up doing research at odd hours, and dozing off at his desk, and then waking up stiff and ashamed at some obscene time of morning by the bustle of his attendants. He was unfamiliar with the kind of slow, lazy awakening that others could enjoy.

Perhaps that was why it seemed so strange, so like struggling through a waist-deep pit of molasses while wearing heavy robes to get to the surface, where the waking world awaited. It made Roswell tired, and he half-wanted to just surrender and go right back to sleep, but something deep within him was telling him he had to open his eyes now. Something important was waiting for him in the waking world.

And through all his experiences both as a scholar and as a soldier, Roswell's intuition had rarely steered him wrong, so he wasn't about to disregard what it was telling him now.

So he struggled for the surface of consciousness. Besides, even if he wanted to go back to sleep, something wet was dripping against his face like warm rain, and that was rather too distracting.

"…Unnh…"

Slowly, Roswell opened his eyes.

The world was out of focus for a moment, which gave him the time to realize that even though he was wrapped in soft sheets, his entire body was saturated in a bone-deep ache. He felt vaguely as though he'd let someone pound every inch of him viciously from the inside out. Everything hurt.

If Roswell had been just a little sleepier, he probably would have termed the pain with one of the many colorful, inventive phrases he'd heard his uncultured comrade Milanor utter over the course of the war. As it was, he kept his mouth shut. If anyone was around, it wouldn't do to break his composure so badly, not in this already compromising position.

He blinked, and the images around him cleared somewhat.

Someone was sitting next to him. And by the quiet but harsh edge to their breathing, Roswell guessed that they were the source of the little wet droplets that still beaded against his cheek.

He blinked again, and frowned a little.

"…Rosary…?"

She jerked, looking startled. "Roswell?! You're awake!"

"What…" She looked awful. Her face was all red and covered in tearstains, and her eyes looked as puffy as if she'd been sitting up for a week or more without rest. Her meticulously tailored silk regalia was askew, her hat looked as though she'd been twisting it as she did when she was fretting about something, and strands of her hair flew in wild directions as though she hadn't been washing it lately. That was… strange, to say the least. Rosary was very self-conscious of her appearance and always strove to look her best, no matter what.

To Roswell's surprise, Rosary started laughing, painful relief crossing her face as she reached out and seized his shoulders, shaking him gently. "Thank God! We all thought—why'd you do it, huh?! Why'd you risk yourself like that? You're so stupid! You could've died!"

"…………" Roswell looked up at her for a moment, confused, until the memories started to filter back in—the battle for Heaven's Gate, when the angel on guard there had seen Yggdra's sword, declared them a danger to the sacred realm of the gods, and attacked them viciously. He'd tried to diffuse the power of some of the spells she'd thrown their way. She'd broken straight through his guard and hit him with a judgment bolt.

He'd—he'd actually felt something deep within his body shatter, and then he hadn't been able to stand, collapsing to the ground in worlds of agony. He wasn't sure whether or not he'd screamed aloud. Most of the battle from then on was nothing but an awful tangle of blurred memories. He'd heard familiar voices calling his name, and sensed Yggdra and Rosary near him. One thing he did remember with stark, terrible clarity was that he'd been absolutely certain he was dying.

Somehow or other, the clamor of battle had ended—an interruption by someone? Roswell wasn't sure; he'd have to sort it out to himself later, and ask the others what had happened. He'd heard Yggdra and Gulcasa talking to someone whose voice he didn't know, and the only thing he remembered clearly after that was the mint-saturated taste of cold made liquid. After that, the terrible agony that wracked his body and soul had been replaced by painless, healing oblivion. He hadn't known whether it was death or salvation, but he'd decided he didn't give a damn and embraced it.

"You've been unconscious for a whole week," Rosary half-sobbed, still giving him that watery, relieved smile. "Even with that angel's potion, I was sure you weren't going to make it."

"…………" So that was it… Roswell had been subjected to a sleep of healing so intense that he must have been next to comatose. Now that it had worn off, he could wake up and appreciate the relief from most of his pain even though the remnants still drove him crazy.

Still, there was one thing that didn't quite make sense, something that bothered him badly, something that made him want to hope even though there was no hope for him there.

Knowing that he was doing something incredibly stupid and that he would regret it later, Roswell steeled himself, then slowly raised his leaden right arm with an effort, resting his bare palm on Rosary's cheek and softly stroking his curled fingers beneath her eye, wiping fresh tears away.

"…Why… are you crying…?" he asked with an effort.

Instantly, Rosary jerked where she sat, her shoulders coming up defensively and blood rushing into her cheeks. "Wh… wha… I… I am not crying! I…! I was out in the rain a while ago and I didn't dry off all the way!"

It was an obvious lie. Roswell couldn't help himself, and smiled, giving a weak laugh.

Rosary puffed her cheek out sulkily, glowering at him. "You—ggh, stupid Roswell!"

"…I'm sorry," he said softly, feeling too insubstantial—too vulnerable—to pursue the matter and start an argument. They both knew, no matter how much she tried to deny it: Those were genuine tears, and they had been shed for him.

Rosary smiled regretfully and covered his hand with her own, curling her fingers around his palm, her flushed skin a sharp contrast to his paleness. "…You really are such an idiot…" she said, squeezing out another tear as she looked down at him.

His energy spent, Roswell closed his eyes and let the soothing stroke of Rosary's fingers against his skin lull him back to sleep.

Owari.