“I never once considered our hesitation to make love or say the word a matter of our feelings a mistake,” he replies, a little rumble of disagreement on his voice, but there’s no lack of concern there, either. “I thought we were doing the best we could.”
He’d been grateful for every moment with her. Grateful that he’d been an inch short with his blade, grateful that he could look at her across a campfire. He still is. Had she seen that as inadequate, some extended deprivation? Had he always failed her as a partner?
There’s a growing pit in his stomach, and for a moment he looks at her, on the cusp of saying something else. But the questions continue: Is he worthless to her if he isn’t her lover? Better off dead to her than not with her? Was that why she was fine with him leaving the first time?
"Then are we talking about this now, somewhere else?"
She's quietly irritated enough, and Torgal's ears flick downwards in response. Jill doesn't want to go anywhere with Clive. She doesn't want to talk to him. And yet here she is, not walking away when she should.
"And you seem to think we do. Perhaps this time you simply run your blade through me and save me the agony," she spits out, and it's so ugly she momentarily looks unsure, surprised she let the words out.
"No," he says. It doesn't feel less venomous, but maybe that's the sting continuing. "I knew you'd be hurt. I knew you'd be angry. I never took that lightly."
Torgal whines.
Defensively:
"I did not imagine you'd hate me for it, or that living like a common man and his wife mattered more to you than being in each other's lives."
This isn't her hating him. Not at all. It's hurt, by him, and she stares at him in disbelief. He always finds things to say that dig the knife deeper.
"I love you more than anything. I wanted to fall to my knees and beg you to not go to Origin, but how could I put that burden on you? That guilt? And now, I only see my love is a burden still."
"You were never a burden to me because I love you!" he shoots back, struggling to keep the tone of his voice under control. He finds himself taking a half-step towards her, as if proximity could convince her of his sincerity. "Every day I wish we could have all died together, if the world was to be lost no matter what I did!"
The tone as her standing straighter, but the words shatter her heart. Torgal's cries are leagues away as she stares at Clive, the image of him blurring.
How easily the anger washes away under sorrow for him. As much as she wants to take him in her arms and give him comfort, she can't.
"Clive..." What can she say? She doesn't know. She doesn't know what he wants to hear--or that he even knows himself.
Her eyes well with tears and he thinks he can't bear to watch her cry and not be able to do anything about it. She won't want him to because he's the cause of it all. They're his failures. It's his inability to shoulder the burdens.
He shakes his head, almost like a shudder, and he looks away.
"I'm sorry. I don't want to upset you, I'll take my leave."
It's an out she should take, but foolishly, she doesn't.
"You had asked me once where I saw us, once it was all over. Really, I didn't have an answer for you. I just knew that... if you were there, and I was free to love you--maybe as a wife, one day--it would be enough. I had thought that here, we... we could have a taste of that. How am I supposed to be here with you and not want such a thing? How am I meant to watch you..."
She trails off. She saw him at the ball. Saw enough.
He knows. The shame swells up again, threatens to drown him. Everything tells him to walk away. But she wants an answer, so he gives her one.
"In another lifetime, after I vanquished Ultima, you'd be my wife," he says, daring to look at her for the last word only. "But even though this place is the only place left to us... I cannot live happily after dooming us all."
He lets out a long exhale. He doesn't want to cry here, but the weight in his chest persists.
He nods, and he reaches to her suddenly like he might want her hand, and then withdraws again, ashamed to feel any relief at all, ashamed for what he's done to her. He takes a step back.
"And I hope for yours," he says, voice thick, but he swallows it down. "Well. I'll see you when it's time to pick up Torgal."
"Thank you," he says, and he takes Torgal's leash with a deep, steadying breath. He gives her one last look, long and lingering. "Tomorrow. Come on, Torgal."
By sunrise of the next day, Jill has barely slept. So much for handing Torgal off to grant her some peace. She spends the night with aching knees and stinging palms, tossing and turning, unable to stop thinking of Clive in the silence of her apartment. She thinks of the pain in his voice. The hurt in his eyes.
In her weakest moments, she almost messages him.
Come back to the apartment. I miss you. We need one another. Please, come back to me.
As she heads to their agreed meeting spot with puffy eyes and dark circles under them, she's glad she never hit send.
Sleep doesn't find Clive either, even after a few hours hunting. Sleep also doesn't find Torgal; even the meaty femur of some fucked up looking monster doesn't completely distract him from pacing on and off, and whining at the door while blood seeps into the corner of Clive's mattress, as there is not enough space on the floor. Clive spends three hours slouched where the mattress bends up against the wall, surrounded by the wreckage of his former loft bed. Thinking.
They are unpleasant thoughts.
When he finally arrives at the park, the grooves under his eyes are deeper than usual, and his sweater hangs open to reveal a t-shirt that is most definitely inside out. Torgal is not on a leash. He is thrilled by this.
"Good morning," he says, joining her, shoulder to shoulder, a foot between them, to watch Torgal take off across the park after some bird.
Jill, at least, has all of her clothing on right. She can tell that t-shirt is not the right way on, but doesn't say anything. She's too tired to comment on how he's a mess, because that will open a can of worms she rather not so soon after yesterday.
"Good morning," she echoes, lacking warmth. Torgal does not catch the bird, but he does find a tree to lift his leg up beside and let out a torrent of piss.
And while it's cold, Clive steps a little too close, and Jill takes another step just to have that much more space between them.
"How was he?" She asks, though she can already tell another night back at Clive's hasn't done much to help.
He notes her coolness, her distance, and this time it does not surprise him, no matter how much it needles at him. He just nods.
"Noisy, unsettled, dissatisfied," he lists off, but there's no heat there. Annoying as it is, this is his best friend. "How long has it been? Three weeks?"
"A lifetime," she says quietly, answering a different question. She's lost all track of time since that night he told her he couldn't be with her. The ball hasn't helped matters.
"It'll be my turn again, tonight." Keeping Torgal is no punishment, but she's already exhausted. Tomorrow is going to be horrible.
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He’d been grateful for every moment with her. Grateful that he’d been an inch short with his blade, grateful that he could look at her across a campfire. He still is. Had she seen that as inadequate, some extended deprivation? Had he always failed her as a partner?
There’s a growing pit in his stomach, and for a moment he looks at her, on the cusp of saying something else. But the questions continue: Is he worthless to her if he isn’t her lover? Better off dead to her than not with her? Was that why she was fine with him leaving the first time?
Clive finally just says:
“I don’t want to talk about this here.”
Did you despise me after I left for Origin, too?
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She's quietly irritated enough, and Torgal's ears flick downwards in response. Jill doesn't want to go anywhere with Clive. She doesn't want to talk to him. And yet here she is, not walking away when she should.
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She's already upset.
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"How could you say that?"
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But she can't stop. The venom at least lessens in her tone.
"You really don't understand what you've done, do you?"
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Torgal whines.
Defensively:
"I did not imagine you'd hate me for it, or that living like a common man and his wife mattered more to you than being in each other's lives."
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"I love you more than anything. I wanted to fall to my knees and beg you to not go to Origin, but how could I put that burden on you? That guilt? And now, I only see my love is a burden still."
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How easily the anger washes away under sorrow for him. As much as she wants to take him in her arms and give him comfort, she can't.
"Clive..." What can she say? She doesn't know. She doesn't know what he wants to hear--or that he even knows himself.
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He shakes his head, almost like a shudder, and he looks away.
"I'm sorry. I don't want to upset you, I'll take my leave."
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"You had asked me once where I saw us, once it was all over. Really, I didn't have an answer for you. I just knew that... if you were there, and I was free to love you--maybe as a wife, one day--it would be enough. I had thought that here, we... we could have a taste of that. How am I supposed to be here with you and not want such a thing? How am I meant to watch you..."
She trails off. She saw him at the ball. Saw enough.
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"In another lifetime, after I vanquished Ultima, you'd be my wife," he says, daring to look at her for the last word only. "But even though this place is the only place left to us... I cannot live happily after dooming us all."
He lets out a long exhale. He doesn't want to cry here, but the weight in his chest persists.
"You must know that I tried."
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"Of course I do," she says, and that makes it all the more tragic. Her breath hitches.
"I pray you find your happiness, Clive. Truly, I do."
She means the words, but she can't look at him when she says them.
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"And I hope for yours," he says, voice thick, but he swallows it down. "Well. I'll see you when it's time to pick up Torgal."
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"Do you--perhaps you take him for tonight," she says. "Bring him to the park tomorrow and I'll start fresh."
With Torgal. And it'll give her some time alone to sort through the swirl of emotions in her chest.
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"Alright," he says. He does not even care that he is about to have the worst sleep of his life. "You'll get some rest this way, too."
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"Then I'll see you tomorrow," she says, and then leans down to scratch Torgal's ears, the poor wolf confused as ever. "Tomorrow, boy. Be good."
She would prefer to be alone tonight.
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In her weakest moments, she almost messages him.
Come back to the apartment.
I miss you. We need one another.
Please, come back to me.
As she heads to their agreed meeting spot with puffy eyes and dark circles under them, she's glad she never hit send.
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They are unpleasant thoughts.
When he finally arrives at the park, the grooves under his eyes are deeper than usual, and his sweater hangs open to reveal a t-shirt that is most definitely inside out. Torgal is not on a leash. He is thrilled by this.
"Good morning," he says, joining her, shoulder to shoulder, a foot between them, to watch Torgal take off across the park after some bird.
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"Good morning," she echoes, lacking warmth. Torgal does not catch the bird, but he does find a tree to lift his leg up beside and let out a torrent of piss.
And while it's cold, Clive steps a little too close, and Jill takes another step just to have that much more space between them.
"How was he?" She asks, though she can already tell another night back at Clive's hasn't done much to help.
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"Noisy, unsettled, dissatisfied," he lists off, but there's no heat there. Annoying as it is, this is his best friend. "How long has it been? Three weeks?"
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"It'll be my turn again, tonight." Keeping Torgal is no punishment, but she's already exhausted. Tomorrow is going to be horrible.
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"How long do you think he'll do this?"
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