A/N: THANK YOU BEAUTIFUL GUEST. I'm glad that still after 31 (now 32!) Chapters, it's still interestin hope you enjoy what I have in store next!

Chapter Thirty-Two: Sweet Sorrow

And if you have a minute, why don't we go

Talk about it somewhere only we know?

This could be the end of everything

So why don't we go

Somewhere only we know?

We drive home in silence. The songs from the mixtape I made him creates a melancholy soundtrack to the images of Staten Island flying past my window. Monochromatic blurs against growling guitars. And when we pull up in front of my house, he puts the car in park. I don't move immediately; electing to enjoy the final moments of Somewhere Only We Know by Keane. Savor the sound of Reno's soft breaths as he consumes his second cigarette. Commit the smell of his cologne back to my memory.

I don't want to leave. For so many different reasons. I dare myself to look at him, leaning against his seat with the window open and his cigarette between his lips. His eyes glassy as they remain frozen at the road ahead- shrouded in darkness with only a single flickering street lamp offering light.

.

A gentle laugh tickles at the back of my curled lips. One of the movies we watched together during uneasy nights. Live or Die, make your choice.

The song ends and I dig my hand into my pocket, pulling out the straight razor. "Hey…"

He turns to look at me and eyes widen when he rests them on the object in my hand.

"It's Cid's," I say mournfully, "I should really give it back to him but...I don't know- I just don't think I should have this right now. Do you mind holding onto it until...I can talk to him?"

Reno doesn't hesitate and closes his hand around mine, "You got it."

I enjoy the moment skin brushes against skin. The tension palpable, I could almost taste it; salty sweet. And I know he has an army of words beating against his frown as he glides his hand from mine, taking the razor with him. Our shared gaze never breaks. I shouldn't hold on to him as support but I want to stay alive just to see you again sings along my torn mind. And I know from wet in his eyes he refuses to unleash, if anything were to happen it would break him. And I don't want to do that. Not ever.

"I'm sorry about Saturday," I apologize. And he's owed that, for sure. My reckless actions put him at risk. Almost exposed because I couldn't handle a rejection I manifested in my own mind. The fact he has shouldered all the blame concerns me; and I promise myself, when I fix the broken highways in my head, I'm coming back for him.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too," he swallows hard, "But, maybe you should reconsider some of those toxic coping mechanisms?"

My lips twitch into a regretful smile, "I'm going to get right on that."

"Good. And, you know, if you ever need help, I got your back." Then he rolls his eyes and allows a chilling chuckle to break through the air. "I mean, I know I don't got a good track record right now. But I still care about you…"

I nod, "Yeah. I-I know. And, uh, my offer still stands- if you ever need to run away, just come over. We would take you in without question so...now you have somewhere to go."

Shock is not a look I've seen on Reno. And it's as subtle as I expected. His mouth slightly drops open. Eyebrows raised. "You mean that?"

"Wouldn't say it if I didn't."

"...Heh. Will do, then…"

I know our time must come to an end; the desire to run my fingers against his face becomes unbearable and I want to give into hopeless romanticism I didn't believe in until I met him. But we're no good to each other like this. And that's the tragedy of having insight; knowing that I have to pull away from the person I love the most for our own good.

I break eye contact first; hate every second of it. "Thank you for getting me…"

"Always…" his voice trails off into a shudder.

So much more we want to say, shelved for another day. And maybe it's good to hold on to hope. "I'll...see you at school then." I reach to open the door-

"Wait!" He exclaims, tossing the cigarette out the window. "Yo, I straight up hate not being able to talk to you. This week has fucking sucked and all I wanted to do is see you. And I know you said don't talk to you again, but, could we maybe...reconsider that?"

My hand still on the handle, I look at him flushed with opposing forces. "I…" I want to say yes. "Don't know." But there's too much at stake. My stomach curves into knots because I'm going against my own selfish desires.

And his frown is devastating. "What do I have to do?"

"Uh-wha-"

"What do I have to do to get you back?"

I adore the conviction in his tone. The way his eyes burn like twin blue flames. How ridiculous and young and stupid he's being. And how I want a dose of his naivety. I shake my head scornfully, "It's not you. It's the world against us and it's impossible to hide now that there's a spotlight on me. You can't be serious thinking we have a shot?"

"Why not?" He questions, but his tone sounds accusatory.

I slouch in my seat, staring off into the vacant distance. Sometimes he is so selfish while being selfless. Gripping onto control. I shake my head, "You have a girlfriend."

"I'll break up with her," he scoffs with a distressing whisper, "I don't even like her…"

"God, you're such an asshole," I laugh but note to everyone else but me. I dare myself to look; he's rubbing his forehead and a jaw clenched so tight I can imagine his teeth breaking against his frustrations. He hides his eyes. To push back any evidence of tears. Reno cried once in front of me, I mean really cried. When he curled into my arms after he revealed some of his own torn thoughts about his parents. And I had run my hands over the bruises scattered over his skin. The ones he made me promise never to ask about but I deduced the owner behind those scars. And how stupid and seflish could I have been to just forget?

"I'm tired of losing," he murmurs.

"You always win," I argue.

"Nah," a bitter smirk upon his face, "I lost everything."

The next song shifts the tone. Mayonnaise by The Smashing Pumpkins fills the car. I scold myself for putting so many painful reminders on this mix CD.

"I want to tell you everything...but it's like…"

He trips over his words and I fill in the blank. "Like your lungs fill up with water and you can't catch your breath? Or your mouth is filled with sand and hurts your throat?"

"Yeah, something like that," he grumbles. He turns in his seat to look at me; eyes rushing onto me like a cyclone. "I miss you. I miss being with you. Even before this all happened. I don't want to go to these parties with these fuckin' people. I don't want to hang out with Rufus Fucking Shinra. He's a little bitch. Everyone here is so fucking fake. I dealt with fake people back in Cookeville. Been there done that. You're the most real person I've met. You know who you are."

This time when my laugh bounces off the window of the luxury vehicle, it's genuine. Not flushed with pain from too much sadness. Or deranged from adrenaline. It sputters unattractively like a truck burning rubber down the Staten Island expressway. Reno doesn't share my amusement. Continues to look at me through hooded eyes with his eyebrows curved in tensed anger. He leans in closer, his tone as strained as a thread about to snap in half. "I'm being serious."

I don't think he enjoys being laughed at. But I don't enjoy his characterization. Know who I am? I've been a puppet my entire life, living under the boot of a drugged up loser with a credit card. Know who I am? "I'm depressed and anxious," I sneer, "That's all I got."

"At least you know that," And I feel another statement meant to come forward. Instead of locking up, I try to kick my way into his thought process. Recall the conversation at the beach; how his parents found out and sent him away, to a place that forced him to take everything...that made him...him. I lean back, crush my laughter with a snap.

He didn't say where they sent him.

But it isn't like on nights where I felt particularly shameful, did I not research certain therapies?

Meant to cure.

As if we're something that needs to be eradicated.

"I know I love you," he continues, "Every part you've shown me. The good, the bad, the parts I don't understand. It's probably the only thing I know."

"I love you, too." And I can't understand why a sentiment so beautiful feels so tragic.

And he must feel the same pain laced in those words, because he doesn't look hopeful at my admission. This is already covered territory. How could we not be in love? But love without logic is a dangerous place to exist. Even worse, when that shared love is viewed as toxic to the sensibilities of terrible people. People who hide behind ancient morality as justification for sinful threats.

Our carelessness has been fun. And how I have enjoyed kissing him under the warmth of a cooling sun, as the leaves changed and fell, in the backyard of my house. As the windows of his place glare above. Dancing our calloused fingers across our cold cheeks. And whispered predictions of our joined future. The dreams that seemed more lucid than static. And wouldn't it be nice-

Just so nice-

To set fire to this island just to be together.

"So that's it, huh?" Reno slumps in his seat, against the driver's door, with a destroyed smile on his face.

"As long as you need to stay in the closet, we can't do this. These were your rules, right? No one can find out I'm gay? They did."

He looks away again, curling his lips inward like he's holding back his fury. "Fucking bullshit," he laments, coughing back the crack in his voice. "Can't believe I screwed this up this badly. I'm smarter than this, shit."

I can't deny the truth, that I've missed him more than I care to admit. And if the world wasn't a whirlpool of shit, and if his parents weren't two vile creatures holding him hostage, I would grip onto him- never let him go. Put all my adolescence hope in him. Believe in happy endings for once. Pave a path there myself, and hold his hand through the rest of our lives. And maybe one day-maybe I'll live for that day. But right now there's too many foes to fight off. And sometimes we need to know when to lay down our swords and rest. Rest to battle another day. Why does the right decision feel so foolish?

"I'm sorry," I mumble and refuse to give him another look unless I want to crumble to his advances. No. I can't. Right?

I open the door and exit into the frigid night. The fierce wind kissed by the arctic as it grazes against my wounded face. Momentarily bringing relief to the cuts and bruises that burn as salt water tears spring from my eyes. Because, this just simply sucks. I've been acting like a dumbass this whole week, and now I decide to make coherent decisions. I slow my advancement to my house. The light from the living room spills onto the freshly mowed lawn. And I'm not sure if I'm ready to face the people lurking inside, waiting for me to own up to their allegations. I stop by the first step leading towards the double wooden doors with stained glass windows- the Engel family crest. Blues and Yellows. Sad and sick- and that's one way to describe the maternal side of the family.

Maybe it's time to change the narrative. Faith and Hope.

I realize, there's still the soft rumble from the BMW . I turn to see Reno slam the door as he exits the car. We stare at each other. Going through a silent argument about how illogical we're being. That being young and in love got us into this mess in the first place, because we never once took into consideration the consequences of being so reckless. But, fuck, why does the rest of the school get to act stupid and get away with it? How many fights have lesser couples devolved into at parties? Cheating scandals. Three week love affairs that turn volatile.

And my heart slams against my ribcage begging me to move. As Reno walks around his car, I am pulled towards him like a magnet. And all I want to do fall into him like a planet hurtling towards the sun.

Because just fuck logic.

He grabs my waist as I throw my hands against his face like I've wanted all night, and there's not even a breath of a pause before our lips crash together like an explosion. And I don't even wait to deepen the kiss; and he matches my movements. Our mouths open, tongues meet, and he steals all the oxygen from my lungs. And I welcome the breathless desperation. The harsh taste of reds. Like the color that bursts through my chest. Warm like Christmas morning.

I forgot how he makes me feel like I'm on drugs.

Head in the clouds, refusing to come down.

I count all the seconds I'm alive in his embrace; and how I enjoy every single one.

Arms still locked around me, he pulls away just an inch to run his eyes over my features. "It's appropriate to say thank you when someone drives you home, asshole."

I grin with a slight chuckle. "Thanks for the ride, jackass."

He unhooks one arm to glides his fingers along the side of my face, where the fresh bruises from my altercation with Sephiroth throb; but he's not looking at the splatter of purples and reds. Instead he curves his mouth upward. "I love it when you smile."

And this time he doesn't wait for a snarky answer and returns his lips on mine; and they vibrate with all his desires. And I have to pull away this time because I'm too overwhelmed with grey; like the color of fog and ash. The stifling hold of the unknown. We hold on to each other, knowing, despite our futile fight against the fact, this could be the last time for a long time. He runs his nails up my spine like he's done when I'm in my darkest places.

"We can make this work," he whispers against my ear, "I can fix everything."

"Reno," I plead, yet unable to stop the smile when his name touches my lips. "There's too much going on." I push myself back so I can look into his eyes. Like two sad dying stars.

He clicks his tongue as his patience starts to thin."I can figure it out," he argues.

"This isn't a math problem you can solve. And this ain't Romeo and Juliet; I'm not going to let you die for this relationship."

He grunts with an eye-roll. "Fuck Romeo and Juliet. That's straight people garbage."

And while I wished there was a better comparison. But I can't help the disruptive worry that starts to weasel it's way into front of my mind. That if his parents find out about us, and threaten to send him back to that horrible place, he might do something to himself. I close my eyes tight to shed the image from my thoughts.

"Eleven months," I find myself saying. "You said you can leave in eleven months?"

"Yes," he enunciates the single syllable word, letting the s slide through his teeth with emphasis. "I promise."

I open my eyes, clench my teeth to stop this next wave of grief from showing on my face. But it's for nothing. He shakes his head as if anticipating my next words. "Then...we'll revisit this in eleven months."

"No, it doesn't have to be like that."

"Reno, I need you to let me go." And I mean that most literally and figuratively. And his inhale is sharp like a sword like he's preparing for the fight. "I'm not strong enough to do it. So I need you to be the one."

He grips my hoodie, shaking his head. "Don't-."

"Dammit, Re…" I bite the inside of my lip, take a breath, and give it one final try. "I love you, more than I care about myself. I really do. But you gotta trust me this is for the best right now." I trap him in my gaze; and he bubbles with frustration. He's never lost an argument with me before- never met a problem he couldn't solve. He could probably even win this one. So close to giving up my resolve. But I need him to let me win. One time. Even if it hurts. "Please, baby, let me go."

Three beats of our heart. And he drops his arms to his side, takes two steps back- my hands sliding down his chest. He runs his tongue over his lips, giving me one more look as if waiting for me to change my mind. Then turns away with a distressing shake of his head. Screaming "fuck" into the empty suburban street; and it echoes over the entire fourteen miles. I start back for my house, my whole body trembling- and I can't look at him get in the car and speed away with the screech of his tires adding insult to injury.

None of this is fair.

When I burst through the door, the tears I resent start. And I know my parents are waiting for me, but I can't even think about looking at them. Like earlier today, I try to disappear up the stairs. And like earlier today, I run into my mother instead-

And she emerges from the living room. Almost stumbling over her feet.

Her storm clouds for eyes wide like the center of a tornado.

I'm pretty sure she said my name, but I hear nothing but wind between my ears. We stare at each other like two deers in headlights. Panic again. I know my hands are shaking. I feel the sweat wet my hair. And I read her face like she reads mine; rewatch the scene she bore witness two in the blackness of her eyes. And I gasp when the realization slams into me like a train.

"Oh," she relaxes first, and a small daring smile crawls along features. "Oh it's okay, honey."

I don't know what it is about her voice at the moment, but she disarms me. I let her approach and I try to find the thread of judgement laced within her smooth features. She climbs onto the first step so she can meet my eyes, all while whispering that everything is going to be okay. Everything. She takes her nails, and I finally notice the pink acrylic, and runs them over my battered cheeks stained with tears so our eyes meet. And I can see her say without words: I know, honey, I know. And I still love you. And I try to catch the rumble of a sob that cracks along my chest. She pulls me into a hug, I bury my face into her shoulder, and hold onto her as tight as I could. The tears freely falling onto her pale blue shirt.

She continues to rub my back, and plants tiny accepting kisses on my head. And I feel like I'm five again. As she continues to offer supportive words I still don't deserve. "Oh my little storm Cloud," she whispers; bringing back an old nickname she hasn't uttered in years. And I squeeze her tighter like she's going to leave me again. "My boy. I'm so sorry I didn't realize it sooner. Shh...It's going to be okay."

I want to tell her everything but I can't form the words as the syllables gather in the back of my throat. I just let her speak. Calm my quivering body. And this is the first time I've let myself cry without a mental lecture about my gender and how we are supposed to suppress our tears until we explode into violent fury. I give myself permission to break down. And it feels like coming up for air after I've held my breath underwater for too long.

The sound of my father's heavy footsteps nearly sends me up the stairs, but my mother holds on to me.

"Wha-" he stutters, but my mother hushes him.

"Go away," she whispers, waving him off.

"Bu-"

"Just go wait for me in the kitchen."

A small laugh pushes past my tears, because these two morons think they're whispering. He begrudgingly walks back and I know he's mumbling curses, but I am too relaxed in my mother's embrace to really care right now. We remain like this, two frozen statues, for a few minutes until my sobs become more manageable and I can feel my mouth again. She pulls back to get a good look at me. Her only son. Faded bruises. Fresh cuts. Red from crying. And I feel both pathetic for displaying such raw emotion and maybe twenty-five percent better letting some of the pent up sadness run down my cheeks and disappear into the wood on the floor. She takes her hand and wipes away what remains, her smile never falters.

"Okay?" She asks. And I shrug, because that's the most honest answer I can give, "Okay. Go upstairs, clean yourself up, and we'll talk tomorrow. Right? Get some sleep, honey. You need it."

There's no edge. No silent threat lurking behind the softness in her voice. I acknowledge with a strained nod. She gets on her tippy toes and plants a kiss on the top of my head. Giving me one more warm look before gently pushing me to go upstairs.

All the ice that rooted in my chest melts like Winter giving way to Spring.

And maybe it's time to stop being afraid of the changing seasons.

I follow my mom's advice to a point. I go to my room, feeling guilty when I see she cleaned up the books and papers I had laid scattered on the floor before my meltdown. And I know it was her, because I could just see her pacing around, filled with anxiety over not knowing what happened to her son, and needing to occupy herself with a task. Because that's something I would do-if drowning myself in toxic substances wasn't an option. I shake away that feeling, though. No time to dwell on past mistakes. I showered away the sweat and blood that made my skin feel like slime. And once I put on clothes that didn't smell like all my tragedies, I felt slightly more human.

I want to lay down and give my muscles a rest. Let my brain shut off for the moment before I start my apology tour tomorrow. But curiosity gets the better of me. I creep down the stairs, as the kettle in the kitchen screamed, and take a seat where I could just make out the conversation between my parents. Shock, that for once, I have to strain my ears to hear them; the echoing slurred yells a thing of the past.

"I should cancel my trip," my dad starts. "Doug will understand-"

"Bass, you can't. Your flight is at eight a.m tomorrow." He grumbles as a response, but she continues, "It's going to be okay. Cloud and I are due for some mother-son bonding."

"I don't know, Claudia. There's too much going on now. We haven't even discussed the whole stealing drugs-"

"We don't know that was him, okay?" she interrupts, and it is painful hearing the doubt creep into her tone, "and even if it was him, you can't just rush in guns blazing like that. We have to find common ground with him."

"He needs consequences for his behavior."

"And we need to know why he's engaging in the behavior….We can't give him a punishment if we don't know the whole story. If he's stealing prescriptions, is it because he's taking them? Is he selling them?" She pondered, "The problem isn't that he is stealing them in the first place-"

"I mean, that's a problem-"

" it's why he's doing it." I can hear the eye roll from where I am sitting. "Is it the money? We give him money every week. Is it the attention?" A longer pause. "We haven't really been there for him, you know?"

A regretful, "I know." Fell from my father's lips and a new feeling captures me; remorse? "You think he's acting out to get our attention?"

I rollmy eyes- fuck no.

But my stomach pulls as if arguing with me.

"I don't know. But he's got it…"

"So...do we punish him now?"

My mother and I groan in unison at my dad's lack of tack. And I slap my hand over my mouth hoping I didn't give myself away. I don't think she heard, because she continued. "No. Bastian, he has depression and anxiety- at least that's what the last doctor said. And just because he stopped going to her and stopped taking his medication doesn't mean it suddenly went away. We dropped the ball here, really bad. We can't just blame him for everything. He needs help. He needs understanding."

The silence on my dad's side is deafening. And I became fearful we were able to backtrack on the small steps of progress we made…

"Okay," he sighed, "so...what do we do now?"

A loaded question. And one neither of them have the answer to. All I hear from the kitchen were mugs scraping against the wood of the table. And I wonder if there were conversations like this before; nights sitting next to one another trying to solve the puzzle of their only son. And getting stuck at the same part. The frustration they must feel. They don't want to push me away- and they don't have the full story. I think of the missing pieces during my own blackouts. How difficult it is to solve a problem when you're missing the formula. I bite my lip.

The first step is admitting the problem has become unmanageable.

And maybe it's time to break the code. Snitches get stitches, Cloud.

I nearly lose my resolve. I close my eyes and Reno's words tumble through my head.

Your parents care about you...they love you…

He's right, again. And that love may not always come through in the best ways. Maybe I need to help them out-

I make myself known.

Emerge into the kitchen with my hands shoved in the pocket of my hoodie. They both jump when their eyes fall on me; as if not expecting me to be wandering around the house. I didn't exactly have a speech planned. I realize in that moment I never told them anything about what I was going through. Ever. Part of me screeches doubt-but I swallow it, crashing my eyes to the floor.

"Did you get hit in the face again?" My dad breaks the silence, and when I cautiously look at him, he has a half smile.

"Wow, only took you four hours to notice," I smirk, "new record."

"Improvement…" he brings his arms up in a defense stance, "I think I should teach you how to block?"

I nod with a small laugh, some of the tension in my shoulders slowly evaporating, "You should see the other guy, though." I can tell from my mother's strained glare at my father, she doesn't respect his humor. But it helped alleviate the pressure at the center of my chest. I run my tongue along my teeth. Looked between my parents one last time before their perception of me changed forever. Both still in their work clothes. Dad's eyes already narrowed, mom's creased with the same concern from earlier. Unwavering. I crash my gaze to the floor.

"Um, I...just think you guys should know-I didn't take your xanax, mom," my voice cracks, "Sephiroth did, to sell it, but I didn't stop him."

I hadn't realized how much it hurt to say that out loud. And I hoped that once I started it would get easier, but my hands cooked in my pockets as my nerves inflamed. I should have written them a note because all my words sounded weak. I took another deep breath, looking anywhere else but them. "I sold my own stuff a while ago. I felt like I was a freak because I needed to take shit to keep me from...hurting myself...and Seph had connections. It was so stupid but people thought I was...cool for a second. Normal, like everyone else-

"And I thought I could be normal…but I haven't felt normal in months. My head just swims with so many thoughts and I can't make sense of any of it. Like I go from one thing to another thing to another thing. Until I can't bear to think anymore. Fuck, I haven't been happy in forever. And the last time I was-" I swallowed the next sentence. One thing at a time. "I'm sad all the time. Not just a regular sad. It fucking hurts so much and I really want to tell you how all I think about is making it go away forever, but I don't want you to send me back to the hospital. I don't want to go away,

"But I'm afraid I'm going to do something again if I don't get help."

The rest of the words died on my lips- there's nothing more to say. And my mother didn't waste a moment, leaving her seat to throw her arms around me for the second time tonight- I forgot how much I missed feeling safe. She is holding me up, preventing me from collapsing. I didn't have any liquid left in me to cry, but I returned the hug. And she made promises in my ear that took residence in my head- promises that I knew she would keep this time.

"We aren't going to send you away," she assures me, "we'll get you help. You're going to be okay. We're going to take care of you."

A relief. That I wouldn't have to do this alone anymore.

And before I had the idea of removing myself from her embrace, my dad's arms came around the both of us. Enveloped in a new layer that continued to bury the self-doubt. I don't remember the last time my dad showed this level of affection.

Then my mother's soft crying jarrs my thoughts for the moment as my dad sniffles; drawing back his own tears.

Their rush of emotion gripped with confusion until... And I squeezed my mom when I realized.

The last time the three of us hugged like this was the evening of July 5th, 2002.

The day I died.

And we stand there, in our kitchen, holding onto each other for a while; maybe going through the events from our own perspective. But I acknowledged that maybe we've never really moved on from that night. The same song on repeat. And I'm tired of living in the past continuing the same mistakes we keep on making. The rest of the boulders on the small of my back began to crack.

Three years ago, I presented myself with a choice: live or die. And three years ago, alone in my room, I chose the latter.

Tonight...I chose to live.