Sorry for the slow updates. I ended up breaking three of my fingers and can barely type right now.
On top of that, the medical bills have been pretty overwhelming. If you're able to support me, I'd really appreciate it. My Patreon is $10/month, and you'll get access to 20 chapters ahead.
https://www.patreon.com/cw/Thanarit
"Is this your idea of a date?"
Rhea looked up at him from his lap. The cigarette was in the corner of her mouth. The television across the room was playing something that looked like it had been filmed forty years ago, the colors faded and slightly washed out, the dialogue coming through the small speakers at a volume that said background noise, not watching.
"Of course," she said. "Lying in my room watching movies. It's the best date ever."
Ren looked around the room. Beer bottle in his hand. A cigarette she had put in his mouth before he could argue about it. Rhea's head on his lap, her hair loose, watching the ceiling more than the screen.
He took a drag. He took a sip.
What am I doing with my life, he thought.
The thought was not rhetorical. He sat with it for a moment, feeling the weight of the beer bottle and the warmth of her head on his lap and the old movie moving through its plot without urgency.
Can I afford to have this?
He had enemies who were not looking for him yet but would be. He had identities that were temporary and purposes that were not. He had built himself into something that moved alone, that operated best without attachments, that had learned a long time ago that the people near you became the things that could be used against you. The path he was on was a path walked without company.
He had opened a door without meaning to.
Ekkh.
He startled. His hand went to his head.
"What happened? Are you okay?"
He did not answer. He could not, exactly. It was not pain. It was a memory arriving without permission, the kind that came from somewhere below conscious reach, pulled up by something in the present he could not name.
The face was blurred. It was always blurred, at the edges, the center just clear enough to know there was a face without being able to hold it. A woman. She was looking at him like she wanted to memorize him before something ended.
She raised her hand.
She touched his face. Slow, deliberate, the kind of touch that is memorizing.
Don't be too sad, okay?
Her voice was clear even if her face wasn't.
But please keep a little sadness in your heart for me.
A pause. Long enough to feel.
Pain is the price we pay for love.
She did not pull her hand away.
So please be sad for a while.
And after that, let it go.
One more beat of silence.
Please don't forget me.
The memory ended.
He was back in Rhea's room. The television was still going. The beer was still in his hand. Everything was exactly where he had left it.
"Mister. Are you okay?"
He heard her move before he registered what was happening, and then her arms were around him, quick, no hesitation.
"I'm fine," he said. "Just a headache."
She let go.
Then she reached up and took his face in both hands and pulled it down to her chest and held it there.
"You're crying, mister."
He started to pull back. "What are you talking about, I'm not—"
He felt it. Something warm on his cheek. He reached up and his fingers came back wet.
He looked at his hand.
Rhea kept his head against her chest. Her hand moved into his hair, not combing it, not doing anything, just there.
"I don't know what you've been through," she said. Her voice was quiet. No preamble, no performance. "I don't know most of it. But you saved my life, and I don't know how to pay that back."
She held him a little tighter.
"If you're sad, cry. If you're lonely, tell me, and I'll hold you until you're okay. Just stay like this for a while. Is that okay?"
Ren did not answer.
He did not know where the sadness was coming from or what exact shape it had or what it was connected to. He had carried things for long enough that he had stopped noticing the weight. But something about the old movie and the beer and the cigarette and a person lying in his lap without wanting anything from him had loosened something he had not known was there to be loosened.
He did not stop crying for a while.
He was not sure he wanted to.
. . .
The ceiling was unfamiliar.
He looked at it for a moment, placing himself in it, and then memory assembled the evening in order.
He turned his head.
Rhea was asleep beside him, facing him, one arm around his waist. Her hair was spread out on the pillow and her breathing was slow and even, entirely at peace.
Fuck, Ren thought.
So it wasn't a dream.
He looked at the ceiling again.
She stirred. He heard her breathing change and then she opened her eyes slowly, properly rested, and her gaze found him. She was fully awake in an instant, present without effort.
She reached out and touched his face.
"My little sleeping beauty finally woke up," she said, her voice a bit rough from sleep.
Ren stared at her.
"Isn't that the man's line?"
"I just wanted to say it." She moved closer and pressed her face against his chest. He felt her exhale. "Good morning, mister."
He looked at the ceiling.
Haaa, he thought. Fuck me.
He lay there for a moment. The morning light was coming through the curtains at the angle that said early but not unreasonably so. The room smelled like cigarettes and beer from the night before and something else that was simply the room of a person who lived in it.
He looked down at her, the top of her head, the arm around him.
He reached over to the side table. The wrapper was still there.
At least I wore a condom, he thought.
Small mercies.
She shifted against him.
"Don't think too loud," she said, muffled against his chest. "It's still morning."
He put his hand in her hair, once, briefly, and then put it back at his side.
Outside, the city was already going.