bridges burn

It was always there. On the surface, coating his skin and under his nails, burning but never noticed.

"Abe..." Be honest, his eyes beg. "That night was a bad night. Before you proposed, that was a bad night. It was 3am, we'd just had a fight, I was drunk. You can't tell me you woke up that day wanting to do that — it wasn't intentional. You said 'marry me' like you had to get that step out of the way. Like after that, you could go to sleep because you had locked me in. And after that, you just..." He shrugs. "It was the first time when you didn't try, and I accepted it. I'd said 'yeah, this is enough' when it wasn't, and you got the message that 'not enough' was enough and that's what you continued to give me after that. So yeah, maybe it was my fault. I didn't say it. And I can't blame you for going with what I gave you."

Truth is, Rahi had been drowning for long before finally abandoning the ship. And you had no idea, Rahi thinks, looking at Abel across the small table now. How do you love someone, and have no idea?

Then, Rahi nods. Yes, he does. Easton does many wonderful things, without it reading as self-immolation.

"For some people, sacrifices are worth it." Even the word has a bad fame. What if, it's no sacrifice at all?

But what if it is? It creeps back in — that ugly certainty that Rahi is hard to love, that the very act of making him happy is a sacrifice — and therefore delusional to wish for someone who sees oceans as shallow and mountains not so steep.

"If to you they're not, that's fine." His eyes are bloodshot, but there are no tears. Maybe later, they'd come through. Maybe in the shower, when it's easy to blend with the environment, he'd allow himself to cry. "You just need someone who's less... complicated as I am. Someone who's easier. Who doesn't ask for so much."

Rahi looks forward to that shower. He needs to wash all of this off, forget this conversation ever happened. A wound that had taken months to heal, brought out in public to be ripped open at the seams.

Why? He wants to ask. What's the point? I understand everything, but I don't understand this. I'm bleeding now. Are you happy now?

"It's not about you. I know who you are. There's nothing wrong about who you are." "It's about who we were, and there's nothing you can do to change that — it happened, it's done. I was there, I lived it." Barely survived it. "...Just make it worth it. Go and win your elections, and change the world, or whatever you wanna do. And don't worry about me. I'm good. I'm happy now." Beat. "I'm happy, in every aspect I can think of. I really am."

That night, everything that lead up to it all, is etched into his memory. The hotel had been busy, chaotic. Several robberies, several victims of various crimes, and Abel had been one of them. He can still remember talking to the man, navigating a volatile situation while thinking of Rahi, waiting for him. More than enough incentive to cooperate, he'd explained when he got home in the wee hours of the morning. "I told you what happened. You comforted me when I felt powerless and inadequate. You made me feel safe and loved." Breathe. "I asked you to marry me."

Despite how horrible the night had been, by all counts, it had been a perfect night in Abel's book.

"You laughed at first. Mentioned you weren't wearing pants." There's a sad smile now. It doesn't last. "And then you said Yessir."

There's a quiet reckoning coming on for Abe as he sits there in a vivid memory, now made ugly and far from pleasant. It had been one of those things he'd thought were untouchable, that no one could take away from him. He can feel his eyes burn as yet another thing is taken from him, leaving him feeling just as powerless and inadequate as he had that night.

"For some people, sacrifices are worth it. Just not me." And that's the point he'd been trying to make—the thing he'd been getting to. He wasn't worth it. There's no sense in beating around the bush or mincing words at this table where only honesty sits between them now. "I'm not perfect. I never have been, and haven't claimed to be. But you are wildly unfair to me, Rahi. I loved you fiercely. I sacrificed happily, and was faithful. I ran every gauntlet your friends threw down without a single complaint. And all I wanted, all I needed, was you."

The cup is reclaimed, but he can't bring himself to sip the tea inside. Uses it as a prop, something to keep his hands busy. "And it's not just that. It's not just commuting. It made it worse, but it wasn't just that. Other things mattered. Matter."

"...He treats me so well, he takes care of me, he's never taken me to an event and forgotten that I'm there. He's more than nice. We want all the same things. We have plans." Just that single word, is music to his ears. "He listens to me when I'm anxious, he changed around all the furniture in his apartment so no matter where we were, I could always see the sky. I haven't opened a door in months — he probably wants me to go to Mars more than I do. He got me bespoke jewelry just to ask me to be his boyfriend, and you—"

Rahi swallows, hard. Hurt from years ago comes bubbling back up. "...When you proposed, you didn't even get me a ring." It's not about the object, or its hypothetical worth in gold. It's clear in the way Rahi's voice had shifted into softest its ever been. All of this, it isn't hostile — it's confessional. "You didn't even get on your knee." Beat. "...You didn't even get on your knee, Abe. Did you ever notice that?"

Abel stares at him, waiting, a shake of his head his only sign of dissent. He'd never forgotten Rahi; the claim is enough to put him right into the courtroom of their life together, a closing statement already building up in his mind. "Please stop saying that," is his only quiet request. That's not the right word. And then, Rahi lands that sucker punch right to his chest. "Wow," he's quiet, a pained smile touching his features before he sits back once more, leaning away from the things being said.

That had been special - a good memory. "Why did you wait until now, to tell me that it wasn't enough?"

He finds his sights traveling toward the barista who had congratulated Rahi, studying them for a moment before returning to the conversation. Just a moment - he needed just a second to recover. "He makes a lot of sacrifices for you." Behind it all, there's something left unsaid; a theme that Abel has identified. He can only hope it becomes a broken cycle.

"Rahi, I loved you." He sighs. "Love you."

He can't bring himself to lean back into this conversation, all but embracing the small space he's created.

He lets Abel talk, but faintly shakes his head over any part that's untrue. Again, and again, and again. Finally, "Yeah, sounds like you missed me a lot."

"I did offer a solution, you just didn't like it." Rahi abandons the cup entirely now, setting it down near the window. "You're kidding, right? Yeah, I moved on. Or was I supposed to just never date anyone again after you?"

He lets out a breath, focusing to keep his voice even. "The problem with the way you trusted me, Abel, is that you trusted that you could give me the bare minimum and still have me stay. It's really not asking too much to live in the same city as my partner, and to have basic — basic — needs met. You stopped trying to see me happy, so then when I wasn't happy anymore, you acted like I blindsided you."

At the very least, in all of this, they are capable of talking. Taking turns. Listening, hearing, speaking. "The way you talk, you make it sound like I lost your number. It was fine for you to be busy and work long days when you were training, and I was happy to be there for you at the end of the day, every day, in Houston. I regret none of that. But you couldn't be there for me in the city we both lived in." His cup has joined the graveyard, forgotten.

"You've got to be kidding me," he exclaims, not before trying to open every door by harshly pulling at the handles. There's protestors pressing against the glass panes of the doors, pushing in the opposite direction as him, and eventually he gives up trying. You're going to have to wait for them to break up the protest a security guard offers. "Great, yeah, I can see that," he points outside to the various struggling pairs of civilians and law officers and everything in between.

One turn proves it can and will get worse. "Abe," he acknowledges with a sigh and a nod of his head. "Thought you'd left earlier." Pause. "Think they'll let us smoke in here?"

His name is uttered on a sigh, and Abel lets out one of his own. Don't worry, Alan, he wants to say. This isn't my dream scenario, either. "Bob's fault."

Then, the wave hits. Rahi had expected it to — just maybe not this soon.

Across the small table, Rahi's eyes meet his with a look that pleas, Abe.

Come on.

"A dinner sounds like a date," he says. "And I probably shouldn't be going on things that sound like a date when I have a boyfriend at home. Maybe you wouldn't care about that, but most guys do." As history has it, Abel's trust in him could easily override this logic. "He does, and he's not wrong for that."

Beat.

"I asked you to dinner because I missed you, wanted to see you. Talk with you." A small shake of his head. He leans forward, conversational. "You wanted to solve a problem. You rejected a commute, you rejected taking it a day at a time - but you offered no solutions. You wanted time and space, I gave you that. I was faithful to you during that time, and you were not to me. You broke up with me, and I spent months working on myself. You took no time in moving on. I've happily absorbed every bit of negative press, and you've let it happen. You keep pushing that I didn't and don't care, which you know isn't true, while suggesting through your actions that you didn't care."

Rahi discards the spoon and presses the lid back on. "I mean, I saw it. I think everyone did." And all he can really think, is, Good for him.

Chai ready, he sinks back in his seat a little, taking the cup with him. It looks tiny in his hand. They're sat by a window, and Rahi looks out for prolonged moment — the busy New York City street, that gloomy haze that drapes over it in the winter. His gaze trails the fashionistas, and he smiles at the toddlers that pass by, bundled up in their parents' arms.

It feels unique to New York City. Not the same in Houston, or the ISS.

He looks back to Abe, "...Is this your first time back since New Years?"

"Superbowl must've been really special. We went from dinner to coffee." He's seen enough, heard enough, been subjected to enough. There's no use in beating around the bush or pretending the sudden change in tone hadn't been noticed - he sees more than he's given credit for. "He seems nice."

"I doubt you'd enjoy any of my recommendations, and perhaps my largest one is already quite happily married to his husband." It could be any number of people, but she allows his imagination to run with that one.

It's their specialty, after all.

"Sounds like a scandal." They both know he'd never touch that with a ten foot pole. "What's his name? I'd love to get some pointers from him." Weddings are good for elections, Bob had said.

(Because they're not funny, but that's a rant for a different day.)

"But then again, I suppose we're all hit with it at some point or another." Rumors. "Even you, Senator." Now he's smiling, resting a hand on Abel's shoulder, and mostly joking. Birds had chirped into his ear, but he's not pointing fingers — merely making conversation. "The sudden move to DC? It got people talking."

Then, a low laugh - the kind that one lets out when they're caught in a shit storm and trying to stay afloat. "I honored our engagement, though I suppose some would argue that taking a break nullifies that." He's teetering on an imaginary line, but all he can do is shrug. "The move was for me. It was time."

❛ ah, give it a moment. it's only a matter of time before all the booze sets in. ❜ he's seen more than enough people there drowning their issues in alcohol, as well as various other substances, some of which he even helped procure. something is sure to erupt before the evening is over.

❛ this could be your moment. the chance to speak your mind... ❜

If a man speaks his mind but it falls on deaf ears, did he ever speak at all?

Julian huffs a laugh, and it melts right into his wine. It's the decision every politician has to make, at some point or another: if one's soul bears a price, and just how high or low it will turn out to be.

"Not worth it," Julian chimes in. "If not her, then it will be another. The awful thing about democracy, is that we have to give the other side a fighting chance. And the great thing about us," his smile doubles as punctuation, "is that we're willing to uphold that promise." Then, comes the joke: "Though if I've ever considered a dictatorship, is when I shook hands with her. God, what a piece of work."

"I'm sorry to inform, Senator," — Julian starts as he approaches, ready with one glass of Bonarda for each — "but RuPaul isn't gonna be able to make it."

He offers one of the glasses, whilst keeping the other close to his chest. Can't help but study him, gaze lingering longer than just about every time prior; but there had hardly been a reason for it, back then.

A quiet thank you is offered as he accepts the glass, a silent toast to Julian before a sip is taken.

"Waiting for the highest bidder." A joke, though they both know that eventually, the day always comes in politics. "I might sell my soul to keep her off the ballot, though. Stay tuned."

There was a part of her that had hoped Abel would have stayed in DC instead of coming to this event, but no such luck indeed. Though they shared a state, it was hard enough being across the aisle from him. He was tough, and pretty much had a guaranteed spot for re-election ( or rather, stepping up from interim. )

Opponents and partners, in a way. Joyce tried to smile, bright and wide like every other greeting she'd sent to everyone else, but this would came out more tight, more tired. "Senator Rousseau, how lucky we are to have you here." With a tilt of her head, she glances around, "No date on your arm, I'm assuming?"

His brows quirk in confusion, and that smile widens. There are two choices in this moment, read between a million lines, or lean into it. "Why? You trying to set me up?"