He doesn’t look over at him, his eyes glued squarely to the scratched wood of the table in front of him. He doesn’t want to look him in the eye.
His throat feels sore. Every time he breathes, it’s like he’s pulling in glass and that’s almost enough to make his eyes well up from the pain, but that’s not what’s most pressing on his mind right now. If he really wanted to, he could open his mouth and speak through the pain. He could reassure him, or himself, or the both of them, but he makes the conscious choice not to. He’s not sure what to say anymore. He wonders if that hurts him more than it hurts Oliver. He doubts it. He’s always shouldered both of their pains together.
He’s observant. He can pick up on the fact that the other’s breath has hitched, because the air around them feels so much more still than it had a few seconds ago. It makes him feel guilty, but not guilty enough. There’s too much, no room for more. But his brows still furrow and his façade still cracks, because he doesn’t want to hurt him. He never wants to hurt him, but what can he do when they’re both in pain. At some point, he has to admit that he has a limit. Maybe he’s well past his own. He can’t shoulder their pain anymore. He wants to, but he can’t.
Finally, he moves, seeming to start out of his daze, but it’s so subtle that it’s possible to miss it. It feels disgusting to move his body, but he brings his elbows onto the table, purposefully avoiding looking at the dark, angry bruises that cover his arms as he does so. They cross in front of him and he wants to put his head down, but he waits. He’s exhausted, but he isn’t dead. A voice in the back of his head says he should be. It sounds like Oleander. His eyes start to tear up, for real this time.
He’s not sure he can imagine life without him, but it’s the first time he’s ever tried. He thinks of Hebenaid’s purgatory, where a piece of Ollie had come to him, taken his hand in his own, comforted him. The same presence he’d felt all those years ago facing his vice had now come to protect him against his own. It had been dark until he’d come. In middle school, he hadn’t spoken. In high school, the only reason he’d felt purpose was because he’d come to him, then, too. There’s no Dmitry without Oliver. In the end, maybe there’s no Dmitry.
He begins to show signs of life, blinking even as he still continues to stare below him. He doesn’t need to glance over to know that his fiancé has probably started crying. Even with the world seeming mute around him, he knows him better than anyone. Sometimes, he thinks he knows him better than himself. Without him, who is Ollie? Do either of them exist?
He was right, he’s not strong enough to do this. For once, he sees the clarity in his soulmate’s past arguments. If he were dead, he wouldn’t have to make these choices. If he fell asleep and never woke up, he wouldn’t have to worry about Ollie’s suffering or his own or the scars that the Ventriloquist had left behind. If Oleander were here, he’d urge him, he thinks. He still isn’t sure if Ollie himself is here and if he is, he doesn’t know what he’d ask of him anymore. He’d ask, but he wouldn’t listen.
What does this mean? He repeats to himself, trying not to think too hard on the missing gem in the ring, the scorched surface, the way he’d laid it back in his open palm without a word. Do you want to call off the engagement…? No, never. But he still hasn’t said it, has he? For the first time in their relationship, he considers the possibility of saying yes.
He’s the one crying now. He tries to close his eyes against it, because he’d known it was coming in full force, but he can’t do anything except remove his glasses, set them aside and let it happen. His arms fold flat on the surface of the table, his chest aching in a way he could never put into words. He can’t exist without him. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. But he doesn’t think that Ollie has to die in order for him to feel half alive. He’s been alone all along. And, really, it’s his own fault.
“I…" He can’t. He shakes his head no in lieu of answering him verbally, because he can barely swallow right now and it’ll kill him if he tries to say anything. He doesn’t want to break it off. He doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t want to lose him. He can’t. Oliver could destroy every part of him and he would let him. He would have drowned alongside Oleander back then, if that had been his only choice to be with him. He’ll let himself die for this man before he ever turns away from him. It doesn’t change how much it hurts and there’s nothing he can do anymore to stop it from showing. He lowers his head to rest on his arms, trying to muffle the sound as his sobs become more prominent and it’s the first time in his life he thinks he’s never reached out for Ollie, the thought buried in the back of his mind that he knows he won’t reach back for him.
It was only ten seconds. Ten seconds of silence. Ten seconds in waiting of an answer that had never been so uncertain. It’s somehow simultaneously too much and yet no time at all, but the weight behind them makes him feel as if Dmitry might have waited hours between. For the first time in what felt like forever, their future together lacked the surety he’d come to rely on. The certainty that consoled him and inspired him all the same; but this wouldn’t have been the first time their relationship felt so fragile. Ten seconds--and it all comes rushing back. With every second that passes, another piece falls into place.
ten. He’d felt like this before. Years ago, right when he buckled under the weight of his own burdens. Maybe neither of them had moved on. (Of course they hadn’t, he thinks--he’s seen Dmitry cry before, stayed up on his restless nights, holding his hand and reminding him over and over again that the worst was over; though in hindsight, the worst had only just begun.) When Oleander first manifested, he was the cause. Oliver, himself, his doubts, his fears, and what he thought he wanted most converging into one, Oleander taking what he saw as a final solution to everything that weighed so heavy on his shoulders. Selfish, stupid, he didn’t think of it then, not a single thought spared to what Dmitry must have felt. He didn’t think of his love; how he held him whenever he cried, how he sat with him when panic ran its course, he didn’t think of him at all. And maybe that’s one thing that eats at him the most, how little he ever gave in return.
Vices were fickle things, and his own memory of it’s possession is hazy at its best. He remembers suffocating, the way his lungs burned, crying out for air they couldn’t find, and a lingering ache whenever he woke from it. He remembers crying afterwards, his chest burning every time a sob wracked his body, torn between choking on tears and trying to cough up water he swore still set itself behind his ribs. Maybe this isn’t much different. His eyes still sting, and his hands still shake. it’s hard to will them to stop, even with him wringing them in his lap. For once, Ollie finds it hard to look at him.
eight. There hadn’t been anything too out of place, so he thought. In hindsight, he should’ve pried a little more, not have given in so easily to complacency. It was normal for Dmitry to work himself to the bone, it wasn’t normal for him to come back to their apartment practically stumbling over himself. It strikes him how much he helped to build those habits, wonders why he didn’t reach out to him then. He can’t come up with an answer. Dmitry would come back with blood on his heels, and dark stains on the pointe shoes he otherwise took so much care of, and Oliver would maybe tend to his wounds, but more often than not, he had turned his back to him.
The date had started well enough, a glimpse of normalcy; of the love they had before--though the more he thinks now, the more he sees how unusual it was. Dmitry always did have a habit of overworking himself, didn’t he?--so when he worked himself even harder, Oliver had hardly thought to question it. That wasn’t his first mistake, but it was one of many. They’d caught a break, finally had the time to spend together, and it felt like everything would be okay.
They were sat one across from the other. Ollie had reached across to take hold of his hand, played with his fingers while they talked--looking back, he remembers how Dmitry couldn’t seem to meet his gaze, how he tensed up with every compliment spared. He didn’t say anything, then. Would it have changed things if he did? A part of him is scared to ask if anything would have changed at all. Maybe this was inevitable too. There’s warmth against his cheeks. His shoulders tense.
six. He’d walked into the final stage confidently. with the other Nyans at his side, a warmth built in his chest, swelling with pride, and it brought him more comfort than he thought possible when facing the biggest battle of their lives. For a moment, he felt anything was possible. And then it hit--all over again. Suffocating; drowning in a sea unseen, he’d clutch and claw at his throat the more the pressure pressed down on him, and he hardly had the chance to look and see how well the others were faring, let alone look at the enemy. It felt familiar. The warmth sunk with him, coiled in his stomach, and all he was left with was the same fear that nearly ate him alive all those years ago.
Tick, tick, tock. The stage wouldn’t wait for them. Hebenaid wouldn’t--couldn’t--either. Despite the way they’d seem to crumble in the final stretch, he’d move on with or without them. Oliver didn’t see what happened then, there was a flash of white, nothing, and it all began again; the pressure weighed down heavier--he could’ve sworn they were dying. One, and then another, and yet when he felt his weakest despite his best efforts he felt him : a distant sort of thing, but the warmth flared, enveloped every part of him, and with it light was brought to his fingertips. He gave him the will to carry on, to lead them through. Breaking through it all, his voice rang through: I’m with you.
four. His chest is burning. He’s always been a crybaby, above all else. His breath catches in his throat, and despite all his efforts he can still feel tears start streaming down his face. There’s barely been a word spared between them and yet he feels like his heart is breaking. Why hasn’t he said no? The thought occurs to him that if he feels this broken, Dmitry must be in pieces beside him. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he thinks he knows that much. When they first met, Dmitry hadn’t spoke, they communicated only in actions alone, yet he felt he understood him perfectly. Sitting there with him in silence, he had to learn to get closer to the man he loved. He doesn’t get it now. Where did he go wrong?
two. The ring is pocketed. He can't bear to look at it either, damage aside. He hates the fact his hands still tremble so, that it takes at least two tries before it's put away proper. He’ll figure out what to do with it later.
Now, an epiphany. How much had he missed? He hardly noticed how much he’s curled into himself; knee pulled against his chest and him hugging it tight, closing himself off. From what? Myself?
Slowly, he breathes in, lets himself sit upright with the breath out. He can’t relax, but he can try to steady himself for all that’s worth. For years, he’s left Dmitry alone in his own suffering while begging him to aid his own--it can’t continue like this. He doesn’t want it to. It’d be cruel to ask him to stay, after all he put him through, and yet where words fail he still shakes his head no, and he doesn’t understand. Was it love, or was it some kind of sick desperation keeping them holding on?
It’s harder than he thought it would be to swallow his fear, to try and look at him properly. He looks...miserable. The image of the Ventriloquist leading them both along with its tendrils around Dmitry’s neck haunt him the most, the bruises where they bound him are blossoming blue and purple against his skin. He takes a moment, wrings his hands together one last time, and reaches out to him; it’s nothing more than a light touch, carding his fingers through his hair. It’s rare he ever let him touch him that way, but he feels in some way, it’s one of the most comforting things he can do. It’s gentle, loving, familiar--he hopes he thinks so too, in some way. What he wants is to pull him in as abruptly as he could; unfurl him himself and squeeze his arms so tightly around him that he can hardly breathe, but doing even that much feels cruel in a way.
“I’m here for you.” He fears his voice shakes, betrays him and what confidence he tries to fake no matter how true the words might be. There’s no reason for Dmitry to believe him, and even if he did, Ollie would be confused why he did to begin with. He was never there for him before, but he wants to be. And the want runs so deep that it aches, an open wound in his heart that would never heal. “I’m here,” softer, now. As much pain as he feels, he’s certain Dmitry’s is worse. He pauses, presses his lips together, and slowly shifts closer, curling his arm around his shoulders. He doesn’t want to press too hard against him, doesn’t want to hurt him worse. “We’re here, together. It might not be much, but…” Reaching down to rest his hand over his fiance’s, he continues. “I’m here. You don’t have to carry everything anymore.”
There’s a pause, contemplative. He only tears his gaze away from him for a second, struggling to find the words, stares at their hands overlaid. “I’m sorry you ever had to.”
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