Life Support #wattys2015

Chapter 10: Fai

A/N: Halfway there!

Fai could hardly breathe as they flew to his house. Mary smelled like death, vomit, and misconceptions. He was still flustered by her assumption that he wanted to date her; hadn’t she been the one to call him aromantic? Then she thought that he would court her? It was absurd; he could never be in a relationship with someone who moved so crazily through ideas.

But maybe they could become friends.

He never had any friends before.

People assumed they befriended him because he didn’t share their secrets. But they always went on and on about how much luck Fai possessed, as if luck were palpable.  No, they weren’t his friends. But Mary was never like that.

Still, Mary’s weakness dissuaded him. She could be pathetic. He would’ve sliced the child’s throat in an instant, then the mother’s. It made their lives better—couldn’t Mary see that? Perhaps she would become stronger, and then they could be friends. If she had half the bravery of the child—he pushed the thought out of the boy out of his mind, instead focusing on the prospect of he and Mary becoming friends. He didn’t even know what friends did, not really. He knew they talked and laughed, but that bored him. 

No, maybe they couldn’t become friends. But he would allow her to use his shower. Of all the people he knew, he hated her least. Even though she smelled like she crawled out of a toilet; at least she kept her distance from him.

He continued to hold his breath as they landed, but now for a different reason. He silently showed Mary one of the bathrooms, the one closest to the balcony. She only needed to go through his room and turn to the golden-colored wall on the right, then walk through an ornate wooden door. He left out some of his clothes for her—he didn’t want her to continue smelling awful after she bathed, after all—and went to the other bathroom. He tiptoed down the long hall, a towel and change of clothes in his arms, held away from his own stinking body.

He crossed the corridor silently, careful not to step on any creaking floorboards, and turned to the other bathroom. After undressing in one rapid motion—he didn’t want the stink to cling to him longer than necessary—he threw the clothes out of the bathroom window, watching as they fell to the island below theirs. He couldn’t have his parents finding those rotten rags, after all. Once undressed, he let the scalding water burn away all of his worries and the thought of the brave suicidal boy.

Why couldn’t he be that brave?

He focused on scrubbing himself raw. His parents’ glares would hold promises for future pain if he seemed “unfit” for their family. He must be cultured in every way; he could never do anything out of etiquette. If he did so, his parents could be thrown into prison for raising a defective child, or—worse—have their mansion and their fortunes taken away, and given to Fai for “compensation” because his parents raised him poorly. They could also be executed, but they didn’t seem too worried about that ultimatum.

So he scrubbed himself until his vanilla skin turned raspberry. He washed his hair until the blood turned the water pink and continued until it cleared. The steam dampened his lungs and made him feel like he was drowning; it was a relief when the shower was over.

He used less caution coming out of the bathroom, once he wore cologne and his fresh clothes were perfect. His hair dried from the walk across the hall, and his skin turned from blushing red to barely pink. Within five minutes, he modeled perfection. He left no trace of water on the hardwood floor. He left no trace of his stained clothes in the bathroom. He left no trace of having ever been anything but what he was in that moment: the perfect son.