Amnesia Says
i promised i wouldn't tell
It’s just another night on barstools, high-ranking officers no better than thecowards drunkards wasting away into hangovers with pulses.
She only takes bitter sips from her glass, while he downs shot after shot without hesitation, losing himself in the spikes of the liquid in his throat, the slick sweat of poison heat making his shirt stick to his skin.
His casual smirk transforms into a fumbling grin, awkward on cynical lips; from them slip things that shouldn’t ever be said aloud.
She only listens, struggling to keep a controlled façade as he crumbles before her, a portrait of the slowest decay. It happens, every other time like this, and she had almost become used to his deterioration. Almost.
At one point he tries to rise to collapse his mouth on top of hers, a gesture of idle lust or gentleclumsycare, or maybe nothing, just nothing-at-all. She realizes he’s had enough and helps him up, only for him to slump back down the counter.
We should head home, sir, she says briskly, as he cradled his forehead on shaky palms.
He groans in response, and she questions, What was that, sir? in a voice much too soft to have belonged to her.
I can’t leave, not yet, not like this, he mutters incomprehensibly. His damp charcoal locks framed his face like hanged men; when he talked his whispers were wet with tears.
He’s dead, he’s dead, and I couldn’t stop it; silent sobs terrorizing his frame, the grief so darkuglyencompassing. I couldn’t save him.
I know they hate me for it, he continues miserably. They look at me… they ask me why I couldn’t… didn’t do it. They all hate me… I’m not a hero, I don’t deserve it. How can I save the world when I couldn’t even save him?
I know they hate me, he slurs, as he fixes glistening black eyes on her. You hate me too, don’t you?
No! was the instant reply on her tongue, but she’s mute as he rambles on.
It’s okay; don’t worry—I’ll never get angry with you, even if you hate me, he reassures. So trustingpatheticvulnerable at that moment, that she could not restrain herself from letting concern cloud her tone as she grasps one of his hands, squeezing tightly—a measly promise of forever.
I don’t hate you, she trembles with a sigh, I don’t hate you at all.
A beat.
As a matter of fact, I love you.
She blurts out, her fearindecisionheart spat out into her half-filled glass, and it’s far too late to take them back.
The smile that sparks in his suddenly somber eyes reaches his lips, and he speaks with a frightening clarity.
You’re only telling me this because you think I’ll forget about it tomorrow.
She gapes.
He laughs, a tease.
I probably will, anyway, he shrugs, and she just cannot believe him for what he says next.
(So it won’t make much of a difference if you throw in a kiss too).
She only takes bitter sips from her glass, while he downs shot after shot without hesitation, losing himself in the spikes of the liquid in his throat, the slick sweat of poison heat making his shirt stick to his skin.
His casual smirk transforms into a fumbling grin, awkward on cynical lips; from them slip things that shouldn’t ever be said aloud.
She only listens, struggling to keep a controlled façade as he crumbles before her, a portrait of the slowest decay. It happens, every other time like this, and she had almost become used to his deterioration. Almost.
At one point he tries to rise to collapse his mouth on top of hers, a gesture of idle lust or gentleclumsycare, or maybe nothing, just nothing-at-all. She realizes he’s had enough and helps him up, only for him to slump back down the counter.
We should head home, sir, she says briskly, as he cradled his forehead on shaky palms.
He groans in response, and she questions, What was that, sir? in a voice much too soft to have belonged to her.
I can’t leave, not yet, not like this, he mutters incomprehensibly. His damp charcoal locks framed his face like hanged men; when he talked his whispers were wet with tears.
He’s dead, he’s dead, and I couldn’t stop it; silent sobs terrorizing his frame, the grief so darkuglyencompassing. I couldn’t save him.
I know they hate me for it, he continues miserably. They look at me… they ask me why I couldn’t… didn’t do it. They all hate me… I’m not a hero, I don’t deserve it. How can I save the world when I couldn’t even save him?
I know they hate me, he slurs, as he fixes glistening black eyes on her. You hate me too, don’t you?
No! was the instant reply on her tongue, but she’s mute as he rambles on.
It’s okay; don’t worry—I’ll never get angry with you, even if you hate me, he reassures. So trustingpatheticvulnerable at that moment, that she could not restrain herself from letting concern cloud her tone as she grasps one of his hands, squeezing tightly—a measly promise of forever.
I don’t hate you, she trembles with a sigh, I don’t hate you at all.
A beat.
As a matter of fact, I love you.
She blurts out, her fearindecisionheart spat out into her half-filled glass, and it’s far too late to take them back.
The smile that sparks in his suddenly somber eyes reaches his lips, and he speaks with a frightening clarity.
You’re only telling me this because you think I’ll forget about it tomorrow.
She gapes.
He laughs, a tease.
I probably will, anyway, he shrugs, and she just cannot believe him for what he says next.
(So it won’t make much of a difference if you throw in a kiss too).
♠ ♠ ♠
Roy Mustang is a tool.Please review :)