Chapter Twelve
It was his wedding day. Rolling onto his side, he groggily focused on the alarm clock, the red digits reading an accusing 5:04 AM. The chapel wedding had been fixed with the pastor for eleven that morning, and he was supposed to be up and ready by eight.
Figures…the one day I don't oversleep, I wake up too early…
He pulled the black satin sheets aside and swung his legs over, setting his feet on the carpeted floor and propping himself up with his arms. Getting up, he stretched, walking to the window and parting the deep violet curtains. It was still dark outside, no noise, nothing. Ah well…I'm already awake…
Letting go, he turned and shuffled to the bathroom. Moments later, the sounds of the shower hit the cool tiles.
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She had tossed and turned all night. Somehow, the impending feeling of insecurity hadn't left her, despite her reassurances to herself. Opening her eyes to the weak rays of moonlight that peeked through the cracks in the blinds, she lifted her arms above her head and stretched, slightly.
It was the morning of her wedding day.
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The door to the apartment opened slightly, then further, and the bare feet padded silently past the threshold and into the studio. Walking quietly, the figure moved to the middle of the room, where on the crumpled white sheets lay the sleeping form of another man, his body curled into a tight ball and his face turned slightly away from the window, the long lashes resting, damply, on white cheeks. Hands that had obviously been clenching the small cushions were relaxed now, gripping the pillows loosely. The pale skin glimmered with the traces of dried tears.
He had spent the night outside, alone, thinking. And through all the different feelings that ranged from love to self-pity, and rage to intense hurt, there had only been one conclusion. He stepped closer to the sleeping man on the bed, and then softly sat down on the corner, leaning forward to brush the matted black curls off the other's brow and pull the sheets tighter around the slim form. Moving closer, he bent down and gazed at the familiar face, his eyes softening. Bending down, he planted a chaste kiss on the pale forehead, and then pulled back to see light blue eyes flicker open and then slowly, disbelieving, focus on him.
"Akira?"
That one word, hearing him call his name in a voice that trembled and held the remnants of regret and fear, affirmed his own personal decision as he smiled down at the younger boy, tenderly, softly.
Every way I look at it, there is no difference.
"I'm so sorry," the hoarse apology was choked, and in it he could hear the faint hope that echoed in his heart and was brought forth, more alive in its response as he darted forward and kissed the other full on the lips, cutting off the words that were bound to be coming, the words that could explain nothing. At least, nothing of that which was surrounding them now, cloaking them in that point of existence.
I forgive you.
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He walked out of the shower, randomly grabbing one of the pale towels that decked the bathroom rail and drying himself as he walked to the closet. Tossing the towel in the general direction of the laundry bin, he flicked on the light and walked into the separate room, pulling a pair of loose black pants off the rack and then pausing.
There, laid out of the low table, was his wedding tuxedo. He had bought one, not bothering to rent.
*Flashback
The manager of the store came over, a box in his hands. He lifted the cover to present the suit inside with a beaming flourish. "This is our latest, sir."
He looked closely at the fine stitches, the rich deep lavender silk, the mother-of-pearl buttons.
"A one-of-a-kind suit for a memorable wedding, sir!" the manager lifted the double-breasted jacket out and straightened the starched lapels, holding it out. He reached forward and touched the cloth, marveling at its quality.
"I'll take this."
*End of Flashback