To Be Free

by Marie-Ange Langlois

  “To be honest with you, Seb, I've only been going to my own room because I figured that's what you wanted,” I admit, and he pauses in his movements at the affirmation. “I've gotten so used to having you beside me that the nights were long without you there. Don't think you're being selfish, alright? It's not called being selfish when both parties want the same thing.”

  He lifts his head from my shoulder, using his right elbow to prop himself up so we can lock eyes. The blanket slips down to his legs, and in the candlelight and brief flashes of lightning illuminating the room through the curtains he offers me a warm smile. I return it, my right hand rising from the blankets to push his hair from his eyes; he leans into the touch.

  “I hope you realize just how beautiful you are, love,” especially half-naked in the candlelight.

  “You're probably the only person in the world who would find a skeleton covered in skin attractive,” he muses lightly, an eyebrow arching. I cuff him lightly behind the ear, hand snaking to the back of his neck to lower him for a chaste kiss. When I pull back, I smile at him.

  “I see the testament of the life you've lived through,” I counter, and the German tilts his head slightly, auburn hair cascading around him. “It proves how strong you are, and that you can survive any trauma after the one you've gone through – and to me, that makes you the handsomest man on earth, love. They are proof that you're alive after everything you've seen.”

  He starts laughing lightly, head falling to my collarbone as he chuckles to himself. Shaking his head, he sobers up with his face pressed against the collar of my nightshirt.

  “I love you,” he whispers, his voice sounding a bit thicker than usual. As if it's the only response he can give to me after what I've said. Almost too low for my ears to catch them, he adds, “you're the first to ever see this and think I'm still something to love, not pity.”

  So I kiss his head and tell him I love him too. When he lifts his head, his eyes shine a bit too much with the hints of tears he's not allowing to fall down, and with a grateful smile he captures my lips.

  For a while we lazily familiarize ourselves once more with the touch of the others' lips on our own, and he shifts so that he's more or less kneeling, hovering over me slightly with one leg between my own, which is where it's been for quite some time. It's a lazy, unhurried dance of patience, as if time around us has been stalled, leaving us in the failing light of the candle as it burns down.

  I couldn't tell you who instigated it, but eventually he leans into it a little more, shifting angle, and I gladly follow his lead. My hand remains behind his head, keeping him pressed down, and the other at the small of his back; and then it changes again.

  It's as if someone threw a switch. When we pause for air and our eyes meet, there's some sort of unspoken phrase that passes between us, some question, asking if this is okay. Just for tonight. It seems to get green lights on both ends, as I sit up just as he captures my lips again, and gently shift our positions so I can press him down into the mattress instead. He doesn't offer a protest, not even when I straddle his waist, but simply pulls my face down and leaves me breathless again.

  The blankets have fallen away from us by now, and as I pull away to catch my breath I look down at him, face flushed and lips kiss-swollen, turned up at the corners as he watches me, and I get the sudden urge to draw the sight before me even though I'm a dreadful artist.

  “Do I have permission to be a bit selfish in turn?” I question, eyes roaming of their own accord down his neck. I see his lips twitch up a little more, and his hands still on my shoulders slip to the collar of my shirt, playing at the buttons lined down to the hem.

  “Stupid question,” he replies lightly, fingers carefully undoing the buttons, slowly. His eyes flicker between his work and my face, as if making sure this is okay, until he reaches the last and it slips free. Eyes never leaving mine, he pushes the garment off my shoulders, letting it fall by the bed and smiling at me. Then, he turns his head to the side and exposes the length of his neck. “It's not being selfish if both parties want the same thing.”

  Honestly, it's foolish to have expected anything else as an outcome. Seb and I, we're broken and fighting for the one piece of ourselves that actually means something and the world is trying to destroy. We've Run halfway across the country already, living through our nightmares that have haunted us and escaping our pasts and our presents.

  During that, we've found someone else who knows of the pain, understands what we've been through and still finds something worth fighting for inside the jumbled mess. That's why, as I kiss down his neck and the candle threatens to flicker out, I can't feel anything other than the feeling that this is right, that this is what the world wanted for us. Neither of us expected to fall for one-another; when we started out, I could barely stand his attitude and he hated my ceaseless questions.

  Yet we did anyways. We fell in love, despite the pain and hatred and hopelessness.

  And that's something I never want to give up.

  Don’t Forget, You’ll Never Be Free

  SEBASTIAN

  The following morning, I wake up wrapped in a cocoon of warmth given to me by the blanket and, more than that, Quinn holding me against him. The sun's filtering in through a crack in the curtains, hitting the bed just shy of my face, and with a lazy smile I snuggle back against his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist and holding my back against him. His breath ghosts my head, moving my hair with every puff as he silently sleeps on, the smallest hints of a snore enough to let me know he's still fast asleep.

  As my mind wanders, I laugh lightly, closing my eyes and placing my hands over his clasped on my stomach. The sound seems to reel him in from his sleep, as he groggily slips his right arm away to rub his eyes before he snakes it back around me, holding me close.

  Quinn mutters something, a question, I think, and I quietly ask him to repeat it. Clearing his throat, he tries again.

  “Something I should know?” he asks, and with a laugh I shake my head.

  “I was just thinking about yesterday,” I admit, and he hums in understanding. I feel him press his lips to the back of my neck, a smile in the gesture. “You kept your promise, at least.” When he makes a confused sound at the back of his throat, I clarify. “I'd asked you to make the last night we shared together something to remember.”

  “I don't have any plans to disappear once we cross the border,” he protests, and I nod.

  “This was the last night on American grounds, if all goes well,” I counter. “I'm glad, though, that we're still going to wait a bit. I don't think I'm ready quite yet for that.”

  “Neither am I, to be honest,” he admits, and I pull the blanket up to my shoulder when the chill of the morning threatens to break the peace. “I mean, when we make love together for the first time, I'd like it to really mean something. For it to be something special.”

  “What do you call last night?” I ask, and he scoffs dryly, laughing.

  “Love, mutual jacking off isn't very romantic.”

  I press my elbow to his stomach, earning a breathless curse as I wiggle out of his hold. Sitting up so I can look at him, I arch an eyebrow and he returns the gesture in like, waiting expectantly.

  “You make it sound so dirty,” I complain, and he laughs as he turns over onto his back, rolling his eyes. “Anyways, I'm starving. You're making something.”

  He holds his hands up in defeat, laughing as he swings his feet over the edge of the bed and fishes for his clothes strewn on the ground there. Throwing me my sweats so that it hits my face, Quinn laughs at me again as I toss them back, protesting do you seriously think I'm going to wear those now, Quinn?

  He simply let’s the pants fall back on the ground, kissing me lightly on my cheek before he walks out, calling over his shoulder that he'll whip up something while I make myself decent. I spit a swear that has no venom to his retreating back, and when he's gone I can't help but press my face to the pillows, laughing.

  Sobering
up, I get to my feet and fish out a fresh pair of pyjama pants and some boxers, carefully padding my way over to the bathroom after making sure he's not lurking around to scare me half to death. Safely behind the door I take a quick shower, dressing again and finally making my way to the kitchen – following the smell of baking food.

  Quinn looks over his shoulder as I walk in, stirring the hot cocoa he's making over the stove top, and I walk over to him so I can plant a kiss to his lips, smiling. He happily returns the gesture, the sound of sizzling batter filling the silence for a minute or so until we part, little smiles planted on our lips.

  “Did you sleep well?” he questions, asking me to continue stirring the milky concoction while he continues baking the chocolate chip and blueberry pancakes. I do so, gently whisking the liquid that smells like Christmas – the little sneak added a pinch of nutmeg.

  “I did,” I reply, biting the inside of my cheek to try and fight my smile. Of course, it doesn't work, and my mind plays back the one night in the last week and a half where I've slept peacefully, not a nightmare gracing my dreams. All night, he held me in his arms – and I felt so safe. “You?”

  He nods, flipping the pancake in the pan as he cooks it a delicious golden brown.

  A shiver races up my spine, and I sigh as my smile fades, my eyes glancing to the cell phone still sitting on the counter where I left it last night.

  The knowledge of what's going to happen in the next few hours isn't pleasant.

  I don't know how he'll take it.

  The silver object buzzes, vibrating on the counter, and I leave the concoction I'm stirring behind so I can pick it up, flip it open and press it to my ear. The smile that'd been gracing Quinn's face has disappeared, and he looks down at what he's doing as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.

  “Hello?” I question, leaning against the counter and trying to bite back my sigh. I manage, somehow, and the disappointment I feel doesn't leak into my voice.

  “He'll be there in about three hours,” I hear Melissa inform me over the phone, and I nod even though she can't see me. “How are you two holding up? You're doing well, I hope?”

  “We're fine, thanks for asking,” I reply, looking to the focus of my affections from the corner of my eyes. He turns off the element, having finished making the batch, and stirs the hot cocoa a few more times before pouring it into two separate mugs. “Thank you, both of you... for everything.”

  “Anytime, Sebastian. Don't forget to drop us a line when you make it across. Take care, okay – and be careful.”

  After hanging up, I break the object as per my instructions and toss it into the trash, looking to Quinn still standing by the counter, biting his lower lip. Sighing, I walk up to him and turn him around, offering him a smile that he returns reluctantly, before hugging him.

  For a while we stand there, holding each other and listening to each other's breathing and heartbeats. When we pull back we sit down to eat, clearing the mess afterwards and slipping upstairs to change. We don the Bio suits beneath our clothes, and after I zip up my slightly-large beige shirt I wrap a scarf loosely around my neck, knocking lightly on Quinn's closed door before I slip inside.

  He's in the middle of slipping on a knitwear jacket over his grey shirt, and I walk over to him to help him button it up, for no other reason than the one being that I want to be close to him. He allows me to do this, and doesn't complain when I fix the scarf he's wrapped loosely around his neck, my hands shaking.

  Once I'm done, Eleven takes my hands and holds them, as if his touch alone will make them stop shaking. Our eyes meet, layers and layers of upset etched into each other's features and eyes, and I pull my shaking hands from his so I can hold his head and press our lips together, unable to voice the regret I feel at knowing what he's about to go through. Unable to tell him who their master forger is.

  Instead, I let my kiss speak those words for me – the desperation and helplessness I feel, the self-hatred at being too weak to tell him this, and the love I hope he knows will never abate, never leave me no matter what he does. If he leaves me, I'll wait a thousand years if I have to before I give it up, if it takes him a thousand years to come back to me.

  I'm whispering all of this against his mouth, I realize: a constant string of affirmation of my feelings for him, that I'll always love him and that nothing could ever hope to rip that away from me. Quinn gently leads me to the wall, pressing me against it and letting me whisper these words into his mouth, taking them all without a single protest. His hair's still a little wet in my grip from the shower he took five minutes ago, and when we finally pull back for air my hands slip down his neck, falling limply to his shoulders where I grip the fabric of his shirt and pull him back one more time, the last time.

  I can't help but cry into this one, my closed eyes showing me the sight that chills my blood: a man, our age, stepping out of a sleek black car with tinted black windows, looking up to the very place we stand in. The dark hair framing his face, chopped short, and bright blue eyes staring impassively.

  I pull away from the kiss just as the doorbell rings, swallowing thickly. Quinn glances up and towards the sound, confused, and I slip away from his embrace completely as I rub my eyes, wiping all traces of my sadness away.

  “I'll get it,” I offer softly, hesitating at the doorway and clinging to the frame tightly. I don't look over my shoulder to the man, swallowing thickly. “Take... take your time coming down, love,” and for the love of God, please don't hold this against me. Please don't hate me for this.

  Every step I take down the staircase is harder than the last, and when I open the door and meet him for the first time, I offer a smile that feels genuine – I've had lots of practice pretending to be okay – but isn't in the slightest. The man standing there offers me a smile in turn, bowing his head slightly.

  “You must be Sebastian,” the man states idly, and I step aside to let him in. The twenty-two year old I stare at has unforgettable features: a strong jaw, clear blue eyes and messy black hair. His skin is fair and he's built strong, and a recent-looking scar runs along his jaw to his collarbone. When the man steps inside, shrugging off his leather jacket and draping it over his elbow, I close the door behind him and lead him towards the dining room. “I was told there's another man here, as well?”

  “He'll be down shortly,” I inform him as he follows me, pressing my hands into the pockets of my cowl-less pullover so that my shaking, fisted hands are hidden from the world. He takes a seat near the head of the rectangular table, and I sit at the head of that very table, biting the inside of my cheek and scratching my arm.

  While we wait, the man takes a thick legal envelope from his jacket and unfolds it, the yellow material offering no protest. He opens it, slipping a few papers out as well as a handful of cards, and sets them into two distinct piles. During this time, I avoid looking at the man while I also keep an eye on him as much as I can, the contacts in my eyes annoying me a bit.

  Seven years is a long time, but it doesn't mean jack shit to the human mind.

  Quinn walks in, scratching the back of his head and offering a greeting to both me and the man, who nods, his hands pausing as they sort through the papers. The temporarily green-eyed man comes to a halt to my right, looking at the man sitting to my left curiously.

  “...have we met before?” the Californian asks, tilting his head enough for his temporarily blond hair to cascade around his face. Our guest looks up, and you can see it cross Quinn's features – instant recognition. His lips part in a breathless realization, shaking slightly as he forces the word out. “K-Kenny?”

  The longing in his voice makes my chest ache and I look down to my hands pressed tightly in my lap, forcing my hands not to shake as I press them between my thighs. Our guest laughs lightly.

  “It's been a while, Quinn,” the dark-haired man affirms, and I hear my friend choke on his words, and I know he turns to look at me indignantly.

  I know, because I've seen this very scene
play out countless times in my dreams and during the light of day. I also know what follows.

  “Did... did you know about this, Seb?” he questions, and I nod once as I swallow thickly, refusing to meet his eyes.

  I've also seen countless results of this meeting, more than half of them so painful to watch I'd get up in the middle of the night to throw up, long after Quinn's asleep. I'd sit on the bathroom floor, sobbing silently at the thought of the man I love leaving me so easily for the one sitting to my left. At the thought that I'm so selfish that I'd hoped this day never came, that Recon One would've found us first.

  Seeing it is more painful, though.

  I'd give anything to no longer see the future. This isn’t a gift in my eyes; it’s a curse.

  “...why?” he chokes, and I shake my head, unable to voice these thoughts to him. My fears and the things I've seen since I've started controlling my ability.

  I also keep my head down so I can hide the fact that the tears I've been fighting back in front of him have fallen, have broken my will.

  “If you saw the things I saw, Quinn...” I whisper, unable to say any more. I snap my eyes shut, hunching my shoulders and wishing that I could disappear, that I had that ability. Instead, I have a skill that is useless when I need it to work the most. I love you; please, don't ever forget that. Don't ever forget that you're the only one I could ever pledge my heart to anymore.

  “I see,” he mutters, and my eyes betray me once more: they show me this scene through his eyes, and I see him look away, turn his gaze away from me and let me taste the emotions clawing through his body. The tone alone, chilling and detached, is enough indication.

  Please don't hate me.

  Just as Quinn sits down, I force myself to stand, muttering something that even my ears don't catch before I turn on my heel and walk through into the kitchen, and even further than that into the backyard, shutting the door and blocking me from the pain trying to follow me, pounding at my chest and threatening to pull my heart out. I walk through the grassy field, skirting by flowers and trees until I can crouch beneath a willow tree, its sweeping branches cascading behind me and screening me from the sight of the places we've made memories. The water of the Sound bubbles gently in front of me, and I sit with my knees to my chest, shivering.