Chapitre 34: Turn off the Light ch.34
They walk on eggshells. Sometimes literally (because Peter remembers to go grocery shopping and Leight excels at making messes), but always figuratively.
They've been stretched too far, and they haven't figured out quite how to snap back to what they were. It isn't that Peter hasn't decided to forgive Leight because he has, mentally, at least.
He's been through it a thousand times, and he knows he was right to stay. Emotionally, however, it's still complicated. Because as much love as he feels, he can't forget those other, darker emotions.
It comes on quickly, when he least expects it, when he cooks with exotic spices or Leight tidies the orange wool blanket. He remembers (so many images, a rickety motion picture, a fucking he knows to be false), he hurts all over again, and he can't forget.
There isn't anything Leight can do or say, and as much as he implies that he's here (or there or wherever Peter needs him to be), he has his own troubles. As much as he pretends that the Knightley case didn't touch him, it did.
He has nightmares. Each night, he wakes in a cold sweat, panting. He doesn't go back to sleep; he goes to work, and Peter just watches.
And as much as he knows he should, Peter can't bring himself to offer condolences for the fact that Leight had to kill Charlie because—because—they're both hopelessly alone in their little messed-up worlds.
This morning isn't any different—except that it is, of course, because today is the day of Raymond Fisher's funeral.
So Peter wakes, for at least the tenth time since he went to sleep last night, shakes the dreams (nightmares) from his mind, and sits up.
He glances casually at the clock (it's just before eight). He sighs.
The curtains are drawn, so the apartment is still dark. It takes a moment to locate Leight; he's sitting at the table, laptop open, typing furiously.
"Mal," Peter calls, his voice still rough from sleep, "are you ready?"
Leight turns toward him, cloaked in shadows, "For what?"
"The funeral," Peter frowns. "Raymond's funeral," he clarifies.
He can't really believe that Leight forgot, but then again, the man hasn't slept in a week. "It starts at ten, but we promised the Captain we'd get there early, remember?"
"Of course," Leight nods noncommittally.
Clearly, Peter thinks to himself, Leight doesn't remember anything at all, and he doesn't know what to do or what to say to make this go away.
"So," he says awkwardly, "we should get ready."
Leight nods. "Do you want the first shower?"
"I showered last night. It's all yours." Peter watches and waits as Leight closes his computer, stands up, and stumbles around their messier-than-ever apartment until he reaches the closet-sized bathroom.
When the door shuts, Peter sighs. He gets up. His muscles creak. He, too, needs more sleep. He goes to the window, pulls back the curtains. He's staring straight at the morning sun, yellow and bright.
It's beautiful as it casts its pale light on the city streets, which are humming, buzzing, flittering with life. Yellow jackets, yellow taxis, the yellow sun. Peter thinks back to the wedding, the dance, the song.
"Yellow" was their song; yellow has never looked so far away. It hurts to look at the light, and he has to remind himself that he'll go blind if he keeps this up.
He tears himself away from the window, goes to the cupboard-sized closet, opens the door, stares at the items inside. He pulls out the hanger with the gray pinstriped suit on it.
It's the suit he wore to the interview with Dr. Ye, to the wedding—it's the only suit he owns. Before he closes the door, he grabs another hanger, Leight's less-than-interesting plain black suit. He lays it on the bed.
He dresses quickly, deftly, efficiently, listening to the sound of water spewing from the rusted showerhead on the other side of that paper-thin wall.
He buttons up his white shirt, knots his jade green tie, polishes his glasses, runs a comb through his hair. He looks the part—the only trouble is that he doesn't have the faintest idea what part that is supposed to be.
The water stops, or the faucet switches off, but the water keeps on dripping.
Peter sits on his edge of the bed, pulling on his socks and then his shoes.
Leight comes out of the bathroom, clothed only in a towel.
Peter doesn't look. He doesn't feel he has the right anymore. He doesn't want to remember the memories he himself conjured. He doesn't know how to go back.
He coughs once, twice, thrice, to clear his throat, his head, his conscience. "I got your suit out."
"Thanks," Leight acknowledges him with a brusque nod. Then he goes to his side of the bed and sets about getting dressed.
Peter listens to the drip drip drip and stares at a wholly unrelated water spot on the wall across from him. He wonders if it isn't about time he called a plumber.
"Which one is today?" Leight asks, and then grunts as he steps into his pants.
Peter doesn't have to ask for clarification. "The informal one, just family and friends, at the graveyard." He looks over his shoulder. "The formal one's tomorrow."
"How did we get invited to the informal one? We weren't either."
"We were friends," Peter says, even though he knows it isn't true. "We're friends with the Captain."
That, he thinks, is a little closer to the truth.
"Of course," Leight nods, but it's clear from his tone that he's skeptical. He's fumbling with his tie.
"Here," Peter sighs, forcing himself to get up and move to Leight's side of the room, "let me help you with that."
He stands close (but no closer than necessary), takes the tie in his fingers, executes a perfect double Windsor. He can't help but notice that the tie is somewhere between seafoam green and robin's egg blue—the color of the walls of their apartment, the color of Charlie's shirt the day Leight killed him.
"Mal," Peter sighs again because Leight has told him a thousand times that coincidences don't exist.
His fingers have curled (entirely without his permission) around the bottom of the tie.
He looks up, meets Leight's too gray eyes. "It isn't your fault."
"Of course it is," Leight frowns. "Charlie blamed me for the fire. John blames me for Raymond. You blame me for Saffron. I blame myself for all of it—for having to—"
"For having to kill Charlie," Peter finishes.
"No," and suddenly Leight is caught somewhere between a deeper frown and an expression of surprise. "That isn't it at all."
"Then what is it?"
Leight sighs, raises his hand to Peter's cheek. "I haven't forgiven myself," he speaks slowly, "for what I did to you."
Something clenches painfully in Peters chest. "Mal—"
"No time now," Leight pulls back abruptly, putting on his best fake grin. "We wouldn't want to be late for the funeral."
.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone