But Too Well

XXXIII : Confess

If I had any delusion that I could stay strong, it all vanishes the moment I meet his eyes. They are the same eyes that haunt my dreams; today they are bright and dark and so, incredibly soft.

There is no single word to describe the look on my face, what I'm feeling. Vulnerable, betrayed, lost, needy, tired, angry, pissed, hurt...

But his face is as brilliant, as perfect as always. Sharp cheekbones, golden skin, that same rough dust of stubble.

Except, he looks different. It takes me a second but it's just because there isn't any hardness in his expression, any anger or irritation.

He looks so... innocent.

There is no malice, nothing even remotely unkind.

He looks like he's lost something that he can never get back, and I know the feeling.

I watch as he steps nearer; I keep leaning against the wall until he's just a couple feet in front of me, and I'd be lying if I said my body doesn't want to feel him closer. But hell if I tell him that.

I keep my eyes set angrily at some spot on a far wall, refusing to look at him. Even then, I can feel the steadiness of his gaze on my face, on the tightness of my lips, on the frown that has captured my forehead.

"Dolcezza."

Just a small, rough breath, but it's enough to send heat down my spine. I have to close my eyes to stop myself from looking at him.

I can hear as he brings his hand up, close to my face, but I still have a little self-respect. "Don't touch me, Nero." It comes out shakier than I wanted, but just firm enough.

His arm pauses, eventually dropping to his side. He sighs, resigned to the fact that I am going to make this spectacularly difficult.

After what seems like forever, I convince myself that it's safe to look at him.

As soon as my eyes meet his, I realize that I was so wrong, because the sight of him, close enough to touch, melts the anger right from my face.

All that's left behind is pain, and he sees it, and he actually looks like he feels something.

"What do I have to do to make you believe that I'm sorry?"

Oh Nero.

He waits for me to say something, anything, but I have nothing to tell him.

"I don't know if there is anything you can do."

It's the truth, plain and clear, but he doesn't seem ready to accept it. Running a hand through his hair, he watches me. He doesn't speak for a long time, and the silence between us is so heavy I can barely breathe.

"Just tell me that you're okay."

Crossing my arms, I raise a tired eyebrow. "Do I look okay?" I wish my voice was stronger than a strangled whisper, but it isn't.

He studies my face, lets out a huff of breath, exhausted. He steps closer so I have to look up to find his eyes, and I can feel the heat coming from him, and it makes me dizzy. There is no part of me that tries to push him away. "I'm sorry," he whispers, barely audible.

And the worst part is that he looks sorry, he looks so full of concern and remorse that I want to believe him. I even want to forgive him, but then I would lose a part of myself that I cannot afford to live without.

His eyes are so, so dark, and they hold me captive, and I don't look away, I can't.  I have never see him like this. Similar, maybe, but never like this.