SAVEGUARD ⟼ leon s. kennedy

xlv. past relics

ｃｌｅｍｅｎｔｉｎｅ
８ａｍ

By the time I get in the cab I'm practically shaking.

From anger or sadness, I don't know. Maybe it's both. It probably is both.

I feel so ridiculous, so stupid and pathetic.

Falling for Leon fucking Kennedy like I didn't know there was virtually zero chance of us ever working out.

And then I had the audacity to try and put the blame on him.

When I finally get home, to my sad little apartment, my cheeks are already wet. As I tear my clothes off me, I catch a whiff of Leon's smell on me, and it makes me want to burn them.

The only thing to do would be to pretend like nothing ever happened. Like the last month didn't completely unravel me and sew me back up as a whole new person.

I know he's right about everything he said; I'd be terrified out of my mind each time he leaves to go on a mission.

Being with him means making myself a target.

But, fuck, I don't care.

It's eight in the morning but I pour myself a drink anyway. Cheap fucking vodka that makes my throat burn.

Day one of getting over Leon.

Day one of trying to get over what happened.

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ｌｅｏｎ
８ａｍ

Damn, why does the penthouse feel so empty? Has it always been this big? This quiet?

Surely it has nothing to do with you leaving. You were only here for three days. But when was the last time anyone stayed with him for that long?

The best three days of his recent memory. It was fun playing house, pretending like everything's okay, everything's normal. Pretending like his life isn't a shit-show.

Leon stares at himself in his bathroom mirror. Sometimes he doesn't even recognise his own reflection. His hair catches the light penetrating through the window, and it looks like a golden halo is sitting on top of his head. The bruises on his face have faded, but their memories are still there, both raw and permanent.

He groans as he takes off his top, his ribs are still tender, and the stitches on the bullet wound in his chest still painful. He traces his finger on the old bullet wound on his shoulder, the one Annette had marked him with. The rest of his torso is filled with cuts and old stitch scars, knife scars, and God knows what else.

He's so completely fed up of his life. He can't even look at himself anymore, feeling a sudden urge to punch the mirror.

Fuck this.

He hops in the shower and turns the water on, freezing cold. His anger is so demanding that it feels like a red-hot thorn, digging into his chest. He doesn't even feel the cold water, so he just stands there, his palms pressed against the wall, for God knows how long, trying to feel something.

It takes a long time for his mind to clear, for his body temperature to even out.

He's already drying his hair as he steps out, and it's only when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror that he realises how tightly clenched his jaw is. Nothing feels the same after you, not even something so completely menial as drying his hair.