Saudade

PART NINE

Jett heals.

It's a slow, arduous process and more than once he is reduced to practically begging whatever God might be listening for it to be over already so he can stop hurting—

—move forward—

—and start trying to forget.

But he's worn out—mind, body, everything—and he knows that he will heal as fast as he heals and there's not much he can do about it except bull through it on his own.

He's used to that, at least.

The weeks pass. The negotiations end. Everyone retreats to rest, reconnect, rebuild. Ben stays with Jett for a few weeks, but Jett finally—politely—sends him home when the doctor declares his arms healed enough to move around on his own.

He doesn't need to be coddled or looked after. He just needs normal—or as normal as he can get, confined to a wheelchair and the lower floor of his house.

He needs to be alone.

That may not be the best—

—but it's the only way he knows.

"Jett, you're sure you're alright over there?"

"Ben, for the last time, I'm fine. Ya helped me move everythin' around so I could get to it before you left, ya made me stock enough food to last an army a month, I've got plenty of paperwork to fill my time and believe me, it does. The normalcy of paperwork is actually…nice."

"…normally that alone would have me questioning your sanity, but I know what you mean."

"Normal all around is just really…nice. Though I do miss sleepin' in my own bed."

"I told you you shouldn't have bought that couch."

"Oi! Don't diss my couch!"

"Jett, it is a rock."

"I don't diss your furniture."

"Because my furniture is, unlike yours, actually fit for human habitation."

"…whatever, Benny."

"…do me a favor and hit yourself for that one."

"Will do. Not."

"…"

"I can hear that eyeroll, Ben."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just…you're sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, Christ. Doc says I can move to crutches in another week or two."

"…that's not what I meant."

"…I know."

"…you're not going to tell me, are you."

"Nope. There's nothin' to tell, anyhow. 'm fine."

"Sure. Just…take care of yourself, alright?"

"Will do."

Jett didn't lie. Not precisely. He's fine enough, or at least he considers himself fine enough for someone who was buried alive for a week.

A touch of claustrophobia—well, there aren't too many small spaces in his house, and he spends most of his time on the front porch, anyhow.

A couple of new nightmares to add to the regulars—well, at least they're quiet ones. For the most part. He can deal with it.

Finding it a little bit difficult to sleep at all when he's so painfully aware of the dark and the silence and the absolute emptiness around him—

—well, it's not so different from before, is it?

He keeps telling anyone who asks that he's fine, and he's sure if he says it enough—

—he might finally believe it too.

"…Arthur says he's been asking after you."

"…"

"You should talk to him, Jett."

"…"

"…are you going to say something or am I going to keep talking to myself?"

"I don't know what ya want me to say, Ben."

"…I want you to tell me that you're actually trying to move forward and aren't just holed up feeling sorry for yourself! The war is over, Jett! You're allowed to care about your own happiness!"

"I am happy!"

"You take a good, long, hard look at yourself and you tell me that's actually true."

"…I hate you."

"No, you love me. …and you still love him, Jett, don't try to tell me you don't."

"…"

"Jett, are you—"

"…no. 'm not."

"Jett…"

"Ben, please just…please just leave it alone."

"…you're hopeless."

"…I know."

It's 3:07 in the morning and Jett is wide awake. He tried to sleep, he really did, but four hours of sheep-counting and every other trick he can think of later, he's finally given up.

In his hands is his phone.

And on the screen is a number he can't remember the last time he called was.

It is dark.

It is quiet.

His hands are shaking.

He forces himself to press the button and holds the phone to his ear.

Ring. Ring. Ri—

"Hallo?"

Jett's heart seizes in his throat and before he can stop himself he hangs up, throws the phone to the end of the couch.

Oh, you are a coward.

The phone lights up. He doesn't look. He doesn't move.

The phone goes dark.

It doesn't light up again, and Jett doesn't sleep.

"Jett Kirkland, you fucking liar—"

"Ben—"

"Don't you 'Ben' me, Jesus fucking Christ, I knew I shouldn't have listened to you when you said you were fine—"

"I am fine—"

"No you are fucking not!"

Jett sighs long-sufferingly. He knew it was a bad idea to let Ben visit the day he got out of his wheelchair. Because of course he would insist on staying the night, and of course Jett would have one of the worst nightmares he's had in weeks, and of course it would scare the bejeezus out of Ben, and of course he would blow everything entirely out of proportion.

"Look, it was just a nightmare—"

"Just a nightmare, just a nightmare—Jett, I thought you were dying or some shit, that's how loud you were being, that is not just a nightmare—"

"It's not like this happens often, not anymore—"

"That means it used to be worse, and you're the one that told me you were fine! When was the last time you slept?"

Jett glares at him balefully. "Last night!"

Ben sighs. "Let me rephrase. When was the last time you slept properly?"

Jett falters.

Looks away.

A sigh.

"…you're going to drive me to an early grave, Jett."

"Not my fault you're such a hover mother."

"I am not."

Jett laughs. "Face it bro, ya are. Now are ya goin' to let me get the water I was after before ya oh-so-nicely nearly bowled me over, or…?"

Ben sighs again. "You go back to bed. I'll get it."

"Ben—"

"Jett."

"…fine."

Jett turns around and begins to slowly work his way back towards his room, wincing as the crutches dig into the underside of his arms. He's going to have to pad them tomorrow, especially since the doctor says he'll be on them for another couple of weeks.

"Jett…do you even know what you were yelling?"

He freezes.

Oh, he knows what he yells, in the worst nightmares, in those between moments where he's almost awake but still trapped in the memory.

He knows all too well.

"Are you ever going to—"

"If I do, it'll be in my own damn time. Leave me the fuck alone, Ben."

"You and I both know that's the last thing you want. It's fucking obvious to anyone who looks at you, no matter how much you try to deny it."

"Since when are ya my psychologist?"

"Since you won't let anyone in. Why are you so fucking stubborn—"

"Excuse me for not bein' all fuckin' sunshine and rainbows out my ass. Whatever. I'm goin' back to bed."

"Jett—"

"Drop it, Ben!"

Jett doesn't wait to hear his reply. He makes his way into his room as fast as the crutches will allow and almost—but not quite—slams the door behind him.

Ben glares at said door. "Oh fuck this."

When Jett wakes up in the morning, Ben is gone.

He can't help the unease that turns into full blown foreboding when Ben refuses to return any of his calls.

Dark.

No light.

Dark.

No sound.

Dark.

It's suffocating.

He can't move.

He can't breathe.

His own heartbeat is deafening.

Everything's breaking.

"Mathias, run—!"

It's the first world meeting after the war.

Jett considers not going, then realizes if he wants normal, wants to forget, the insanity of a world meeting is about as close as he's going to get.

He curses under his breath as just outside the meeting room, he gets his crutches and his legs confused and ends up in an undignified heap on the floor.

One more week. One more week until he's healed and off these blasted crutches and can finally set about forgetting all of this.

—oh, you wish you could forget it all—

"Need a hand?"

Jett freezes halfway off the floor, in the middle of being thankful that he's carrying a zipped bag instead of his briefcase, which would have burst all over the floor.

He looks up.

Mathias is standing there, looking about as surprised at his offer as Jett is that he offered it, one hand outstretched just slightly.

It is a long moment of thick silence before Jett can bring himself to move, to awkwardly clear his throat and say, "I've got it—"

—no, his voice is not shaking—

He stands, slowly, settles the crutches beneath his arms, ignores the hand until it finally, awkwardly, retracts.

"Thanks, though."

"…not a problem."

There's a strange catch in Mathias's voice, so unlike him that Jett can't help but look up again, just in time to catch a flash of—

—pain, sadness, regret, guilt—

—something.

But then it's gone and Mathias's eyes are flat and Jett looks away because—

—it hurts—

"Meetin's about t'start," Mathias says, softly, and Jett nods.

"Would ya mind—"

He gestures at the door with one crutch.

"Huh? Oh, not at all—"

Jett limps his way through the door, turns his head. "Thanks."

He tries to smile. He really does. All he manages is a quirk of the lips that's closer to a grimace than anything else.

Mathias only gazes at him with that unfathomable look in his eyes. Jett's chest is uncomfortably tight.

"Jett!"

And there's Ben, Jett's savior, and he spares only one more quick nod at Mathias before turning in that direction. "Ben, ya dick, why haven't ya called me back—"

"I've been busy—"

He focuses on Ben and tries to ignore the devious glint in the shorter man's eyes, the look that says he's not telling the whole truth, that he's planning something and Jett might not like what it is.

He tries to ignore the eyes on the back of his head.

He tries to ignore the ache in his heart, something that feels strangely like…warmth.

Jett is going to smack Ben across the head with both his crutches when he finds the bugger.

They finally break for lunch after three hours of tedious speeches and debates, and Jett is fully prepared to nab a sandwich and some soda from the café before finding a nice secluded corner to eat and maybe catch a catnap in—he barely slept the night before—but no.

Instead Ben decides to latch onto him the moment the break is announced and drag him at top speed across the entire fucking convention center, insisting that he has to see this so-called "Flag Room."

And then the brat realizes he left his bag back in the meeting room and abandons Jett there, with no idea how to get back and no food.

Scratch that, he's getting smacked twice with both crutches.

Jett has to admit, the room is pretty nice. The flags of every nation, tapestry sized, cover the walls from ceiling to floor, and he smiles when he finds Australia's in the top of one of the corners. There are benches, and he sits with a sigh, actually enjoying the relative peace and quiet.

He closes his eyes.

S'nice…

Footsteps. Jett jerks, startled, immediately checks his watch—thank God, it's only been a few minutes—and then turns, exasperated indignation flaring—

"Ben, ya ass, I'm goin' to smack ya a new one for takin' off on me like that—"

He stops.

It's not Ben.

It's Mathias.

—And suddenly that devious glint, the lack of probing questions, oh it all makes sense, he is going to kill Ben—

Mathias, to his credit, looks just as shocked to see Jett there. "I'm going t'kill Erik…" he mutters, before looking up and taking a hesitant step towards Jett. "Hey…looks like both of our families fucked us over…" he says, making his way over to sit next to him on the bench.

Jett barely manages not to back away. "…seems so," he replies, and hopes his voice doesn't sound as strangled as he feels. "Ya fall for the bag trick too?"

Mathias laughs. "Briefcase."

"Ah."

They lapse into silence, Jett awkwardly staring at the floor, Mathias awkwardly staring at the ceiling. "S'a nice room," Mathias says finally, quietly. "…course, it loses a bit of its meanin', with what we've been through…"

Jett snorts wryly. "Just a little."

Mathias turns, raises an appraising eyebrow at him. Jett refuses to look up from the floor.

"…s'been a…while since we talked."

No, really.

"How are you?"

Jett shrugs. "Alright, I guess," he replies. "Finally get off the crutches next week."

"…that's good t'hear."

Jett puts the sadness in that to his imagination. "How are you?" he asks back, because he supposes he should.

"Alright too, I suppose…jus' tryin' to get used to everythin' again…"

Mathias sighs, long and deep and heavy, and Jett finally looks up at him, taking in the slump to his shoulders and the bruises under his eyes. There are lines and shadows that weren't there before.

To say he looks tired is an understatement.

Jett wonders if that's what he's looked like to Ben all these weeks.

He wonders if that's what he looks like to Mathias.

"Know how that feels," he says, softly. "Though at least y'don' have to deal with this…"

He gestures at his half useless legs, watches Mathias glance at them and smile wryly. "No, guess not," he says. "Devil's luck, I suppose, that the rocks fell odd and made me a little cave…"

Jett chuckles a little, without humor. "I'd say I envy you, but that would mean I wish our positions were reversed, an' believe me, I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

The other things he means by this go unspoken.

—the pain and the fear and the demons and the pain—

Mathias has that unfathomable look again, and then Jett's heart stops because there is a hand—

—on his cheek—

—and it's warm and calloused but oh-so-achingly gentle, so familiar that he could cry—

Whatever Mathias intended, he suddenly seems to realize that Jett has all but stopped breathing and he snatches his hand back as though it's been burned, his face sad and apologetic and just a little bit broken all at once—

"I—I'm sorry—"

Jett shakes his head, blinking furiously to get rid of the sudden burning feeling in his eyes. "S'fine," he says, cursing his voice and it's shaking—

"No s'not, I shouldn'tve—"

"Mathias," Jett interjects, forcing his voice to be stable. "Stop."

Mathias goes quiet, looking sad and guilty beyond belief. "…ya look exhausted." he says, quiet. "And sadder than I've ever seen ya."

Jett laughs.

Mathias jerks.

"Pot callin' the kettle black, Mathias?"

Mathias frowns. "Don't do that," he snaps.

"Do what?"

"Laugh it off. Pretend it doesn't matter."

"Like it does."

"Clearly it does, since both our families saw fit t'trick us into this!"

Jett goes quiet. "What, exactly, do ya think this is, Mathias?" he asks, impossibly soft.

Mathias falters.

Jett snorts. "Exactly," he murmurs.

There is a long, tense silence.

"…I meant it, ya know."

Jett looks up. "Meant what?" he asks.

"Back when…it started…I told ya I was sorry."

Jett's breathing hitches.

He remembers.

For what it's worth, I'm sorry.

"I…I meant that. Because…I've had centuries upon centuries t'get used t'this. T'the heartbreak. But ya haven't, and I threw ya into that with barely an apology an' without a goodbye…and there's not been a day I haven't regretted that, even though I know there's nothin' we could've done about it."

Jett's finding it hard to breathe again, even as he shakes his head.

"Ya talk like I ever blamed ya for any of it," he says, softly, and can't help a small, almost hysterical chuckle at the look of astonishment on Mathias's face.

"We always knew we might end up like that," he continues, still quiet. "Torn apart by duty…on opposite ends of a battlefield…and yeah, it hurt like hell—"

—hurts like hell—

"…but ya don' need to blame yourself for...my inability to hold myself together."

Mathias is quiet for a long moment. "…but what if I do, anyway?" he asks, finally.

Jett just looks at him. "Then you're a fool," he replies, even quieter than before.

The silence is tense and thick again.

"…ya told that man t'tell me ya didn't think ya loved a coward."

Jett goes still, even as Mathias looks up at him with more vulnerability than he's ever seen in him.

"Loved?" he asks, barely audible.

Jett looks down, suddenly unable to meet those eyes that are pinning so much on him.

His heart aches and he doesn't understand exactly why.

"Jett, I…ya wouldn't remember, ya were unconscious at the time an' even if ya heard me…that's beside the point. After they found us…an' I woke up…I visited you."

Jett is still.

"An' I…I talked, because I didn't know what else t'do. It had been weeks an' ya weren't wakin' up an'…they were startin' t'say that maybe ya just didn't want to…"

—because some part of him didn't—

Mathias pauses, just looking at him. "…I asked if ya would give me one more chance t'do right by you," he whispers.

The silence is deafening.

Jett doesn't look up.

And then, just as Mathias is about to give up, apologize, say his goodbyes, something shifts, and—

—there are fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt—

—arms around his neck—

—a face against his shoulder—

—something warm and damp against said shoulder—

—and a shaky, broken voice whispering, "As if I ever couldn't, you idiot—"

Jett can't seem to stop the tears that he realizes now have been building for months, nor can he stop clinging like a child, but he can't bring himself to care, because sitting there, with Mathias's arms around him and his voice going 'sssh, sssh' in his ear—even though he sounds to be on the verge of tears himself—

—everything finally goes

blessedly

peacefully

silent.

Original note: 13 pages, 3,098 words, dear god I am going to bed. HAVE YOUR SORT OF FLUFF.

Which really about sums it up. Only one more chapter to go! ...again sorry for any discrepancies in accents, I may go back and fix that later, but for now, eh.