Love Your Way - Chapter 2c
Acepilot

AN - Right. Well, this is the beginning of the end of Love Your Way, pretty much. I hope you've all found Chapter 2 to be an experience. I sincerely apologize anyone offended by the Mutiny In Heaven scene in the previous chapter.

Disclaimer - The characters from AGU are property of KlaskyCsupo. The song Love Your Way is by Powderfinger.

The Doctor

I sigh with dread and look over at the young woman standing opposite me, watching the man in the hospital room breathing deeply, still unconscious. She's too young for this. He's far too young for this. It's all just wrong. I guess you can never be old enough. "I understand this is difficult, Kimmi -"

"It's fine. I just...need a minute."

"Take all the time you need."

"Okay. Okay."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes. I mean, I guess so."

"Okay. Can you tell me what happened on the night of the 25th of July?"

"I...I don't remember much. Just the colour. And the revulsion."

"Just tell me what you can remember."

"I got home at about nine p.m. I'd been out with my fiancée all day...and much of the day before. I hadn't been home, now that I think about it. Anyway, I got home, and went in. It was silent. Like, eerily silent. It's never silent. Phil's always playing records, or the piano, or something. It was silent. The TV was on mute, I remember. I found him in the lounge room."

"You found Mr. DeVille in the lounge room, with the muted TV?"

"Yes. That's where he was. He was lying on the floor. Sort of...doubled-over. Like, he was laying on his legs, folded under him?"

"Yes, I think I know what you mean."

"The knife was next to him. Like he'd just dropped it, really. And he was watching the ceiling and...smiling. And Mutiny was on the record player, I remember that. And...everything was so...red..."

I breathe deeply. This isn't the first time I've heard a description akin to this, and I know with a horrible feeling in my guts that it won't be the last.

"It was spread across the floor. His wrists were facing up and so it all kind of dribbled over his arms...he was covered in it...god, he was covered in blood! His blood!"

I nod slowly, reaching out and touching her shoulder. "Do you need a break?" I ask, aware that she's coming close to collapsing.

"No!" she cries. "If I stop now I'll never start again."

I can't say I'm entirely comfortable with the idea, but I nod slowly. "Okay. If you're sure."

She takes a shuddering breath and continues. "So I kind of just grabbed him by the wrists and kept pressure applied to the wounds. He was still bleeding, which I took as a good sign. But...there was so much, I couldn't stop it all...and I didn't want to move him...so I rushed to the linen closest and grabbed some teatowels and wrapped them around his wrists. He was starting to come to, and I wasn't sure what to do. He was still bleeding, no matter how tight I tied the knots. So I called an ambulance. God, it took me that long to call an ambulance."

I pat her on the shoulder. "It's okay. You did the right thing," I tell her. "You kept pressure on the wounds, you got help. You did the right thing." I exhale slowly, glad that the hard part is over. "Is there anyone you need to call? Any members of his family, or friends, that need to know?"

She nods slowly, but never tears her eyes away from the sheet-white man laying in the hospital bed on the other side of the window. "His sister, his parents. Uh...our friends, I guess, but...I don't know...if he'll want to -"

"That's fair enough," I tell her. "But...do call his family. There's a phone over there. Or if you like, I can do it - "

"No, I think I should," she admits. "I think it would be better coming from someone they know."

I nod along with her. "That's reasonable."

She walks away slowly, her head bowed. I gaze in at the young man one more time, and then turn away.

I'll never get used to this.

Kimmi

He's barely spoken a word since I brought him home.

Betty and Howard wanted to take him back to their place, but he did open his mouth enough to nix that idea. He wasn't keen on it at all.

That hasn't stopped them from visiting. Or an extremely tearful Lil, who was all but screaming for remorse. Or a slightly disjointed Chuckie, who didn't really say anything, just sat there with him for a while and discussed the most menial topics that came to mind. Or a confused Tommy who tried to talk but everything seemed to fail him.

He would speak to them all. But not more than he had to. And he barely speaks to me at all.

One time when I was evidently being overly intrusive, he screamed at me. The most noise I've heard him make since...that night. He screamed, "I can take care of myself!", and stormed off.

Maybe I was babying him a bit. But I can't get the sight of him, laying on the floor - the same floor that my feet rest on now - with blood dripping down his arms, and smiling at the ceiling.

And he won't talk about it. Not at all.

I mean, I know, I should respect that. He doesn't want to talk about what happened, then that's fine. But that just makes me more concerned. Why won't he talk about it? Is it something he doesn't want to tell me, specifically, or does he just not want to talk about the whole incident?

I finally cross the threshold into the kitchen. He's standing at the sink, his hands inches away from the frothy water. I'm still nervous about trusting him around knives, but so far everything seems to be okay. Other than the not talking.

He doesn't lower his hands into the sink, however, and I notice that he's staring at the bandages on his wrists.

He's been getting some color back lately. He's been eating right. He still doesn't like going out, and I haven't been pushing him too much. That's the next phase.

"Hey," I say, stepping up next to him, leaning on the bench,.

He nods, but doesn't look away from his wrists. "Hey."

"Are you feeling okay?" I ask, and immediately kick myself at the stupidity of the question. Odds are he's not.

"I'm fine," he tells me, coldly.

"Have you taken your medication?" I ask, and brace myself for the inevitable anger.

But it doesn't come. He just mutters, "God no. Foul shit."

I nod slowly. "You know, you - "

"Should, yeah, I know. It's meant to help me." He turns and finally looks me in the eyes. "It doesn't. So just let me go without for the moment, please."

I back off. "Okay." I'm about to leave him to the dishes when I notice something.

I push past him, over to the other side of the bench, where I pick up an open bottle. "Have you been drinking!"

He huffs. "What do you care?"

I put the bottle down with so much force that scotch spurts out the top. "What do you mean, 'What do I care'!" I sneer at him. "I've just been sitting around the house, worrying sick about you for weeks - "

"Well, you shouldn't have been. I can take care of myself," he tells me.

I grow more and more frustrated. "Evidently, you can't, Phil. Because if you could, then those wouldn't be there."

I don't have to motion to his bandages for either of us to know what I'm talking about. "You know nothing about my life," he hisses. I've never realized how tall he'd gotten until now. But I'm suddenly horrifically aware that he's towering over me, a fire in his eyes that I don't think I've ever seen before.

"Only because you won't talk to me," I tell him, flinching internally at the fact that I have to look up to meet him eye-to-eye. Surely Lil isn't this tall.

"And that's not going to change," he informs me, turning away and storming into the lounge.

"Well, who will you talk to, Phil?" I ask, hot on his heels. "Everyone is worried sick about you and you're not doing anything to alleviate the worry."

He spins around and shrieks, "It's not my fucking problem!" I'm forced to take a physical step back. "It's not my problem," he repeats in a quieter, now somewhat raspy tone of voice. He's probably damaged his vocal chords with that scream.

"But it doesn't have to be a problem at all," I tell him. "We all care about you. You just have to let us." I reach out to take his hands.

He jerks them away. "Don't do that. You don't care. Not really."

"Phil, you're my best friend. My room-mate. Of course I care," I insist.

He shakes his head at me. His voice is still a rasp. "You never cared before."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, forcing myself to keep from exploding at him. "What do you mean, I never cared before?"

He pushes a finger into the centre of my chest. "You never cared when I was sliding away from sanity. You never cared when I started drinking, or smoking, or anything. Not once did you ask me if something was wrong, or if I needed - or wanted help."

"I assumed if you wanted help you'd ask," I said, realizing how lame that sounds. He's right. I saw the signs. I saw him sliding away from the world. I noticed the alcohol - the bottomless bottle of scotch in the cupboard. The smoking was impossible to miss. Some best friend.

"You never cared that I've been struggling to stay together for months now. It took me trying to commit suicide to get you to notice me, and I really wish you hadn't. I wish you'd just left me to die," he tells me. And the scariest thing is the dispassionate tone of his voice. Uncaring, and cold.

"I could never do that," I whisper to him, only because the energy to talk seems to have left me.

He pulls away slightly. "You never cared that I loved you. You never cared enough to let me try and make amends."

I take a deep, shuddering breath. This was what I was afraid of. That he would blame me. And that I wouldn't be able to find a way to defend myself. "That was a long time ago, Phil."

But he's right. I never let him explain. I never let him try to make things right. But six years have gone by. We've made things right. Surely he's gotten over me.

Surely.

"I loved you," he mutters. He looks ready to break down into tears. But he doesn't. He never does. The stubborn bastard. Never likes to let his emotions through. Not to me, anyway. That was why we broke up. That was why I couldn't be with him. That was why it all went wrong.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Phil," I offer lamely, realizing it's all I've got.

He's staring at his wrists again.

And I could swear I see a single tear escape his eye and roll down his cheek.

"I loved you," he repeats, stumbling vaguely and collapsing to his knees. I manage, barely to catch him, and he falls effortlessly into my arms as the floodgates open. I sink to the floor with him in my arms, as he cries into my shoulder, breathlessly whispering, "I loved you," through the tears.

I hold him, and comfort him. As best I can, anyway. But how do you comfort someone who is so hurt, so devastated, by your actions? By things you did?

Who loves you?

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