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You knew he was there. You always knew he was there, somewhere out of sight. Somewhere often out of mind. You didn’t mind—the ghost of his image haunted you when it was darkest and you had grown anxious, but more often than not, the slightest glimpse of his hooded face put you at ease.
You didn’t often see him. He probably was a busy man—he probably had much to do that you’d really rather not know about. The breeze that carried his smell often held blood and gunmetal. Once, so very long ago, the scent set your teeth on edge, forced you to walk faster and keep your head down. For now, it held your head high and gave you a stare that dared anyone to cross you. Often, they tried. Usually, they failed.
Your knuckles bit into the length of someone’s cheekbone. It was probably that last punch that had narrowed your vision, blurring faces and igniting the hidden rage that boiled in your blood. You didn’t often fight, but tonight the challenge had gotten the better of you. He had crossed the line, this man with cool, blue eyes that resisted the warmth of the orange streetlight. He had played you like a fiddle, pressed each and every button. Even though the bouncer had thrown you both out, threatened you with calling the cops, you remained tangled in each others’ limbs, redirecting the anger of your voices to the force behind your fists.
You felt him watching you again—his stare always raised the hair on the back of your neck. Your hearing always broadened, attuned to the soft brushing of his clothing against itself, his steps remaining silent. You knew he disapproved, and maybe that was why you continued to fight this stranger. You were having growing pains—his supervision chafed at you. You were no longer the frightened teen cornered in the alleyway. You had grown—
You had grown in all the worst ways, you thought dimly. You picked fights. You drank away the thoughts that tried to tie themselves around you like a noose. The only thing that seemed to spark your interest was the pain that followed each blow you took, and the satisfaction of each hit you landed. You’d win this, you thought. Then you would walk home on bruised, unsteady legs and refuse the silent shoulder you were offered. The look of those sad, softened eyes would break you. If you disappointed him, this silent guardian of yours, if he left—if he left you would have no one.
The punch to your nose broke your grasp on your unfortunate counterpart. “You’re fucking crazy—” someone shouted, probably your human punching bag. You spat out a mouthful of blood and wiped at what dripped from your split lip. Red smeared across your skin.
There was nothing left after the fight was done, it seemed. The adrenaline that had given you such strength, such overwhelming emotion, had faded. What had you been angry about anyway?
You shuffled back down the street in the direction of your apartment. It would be a long walk. A slow, painful one as each step brought attention to a fresh injury that would require attention. Still, you thought, he watched. Perhaps he wanted weakness. Perhaps now he would come down to reclaim what he had saved and you would finally, finally stop having to go through these terribly boring motions. Golden eyes must be glaring daggers into the back of your head. Your thoughts swirled.
He had saved your life then and haunted it ever since. You’d managed to hold down a job, but it was bland and left you drained. You’d gotten a place to sleep, but food could still be scarce. You’d managed to even pull together a life for yourself—one with friends, lovers, cheerful conversation—only for a past you had abandoned to return and rip it from your hands.
“This won’t make it any easier,” he said, falling into step beside your painful shuffling. The scar on his lip looked even paler in the unwelcoming streetlights. Your tongue darted out to lap at some of the blood collecting at the corner of your mouth.
“He’s gone now,” he continued, after several minutes. You sighed and leaned against the rough brick of the building beside you.
“They’re all gone, now,” you returned softly. The skin of your knuckles ached and protested the cool night air.
He called your name softly, a hand reaching out toward you. When you flinched away, he paused. “I’m still here,” he said. You wiped at your mouth once more, closing your eyes. If you looked at him it might be over. If you looked at him, you might end. “I cannot help you if you don’t tell me what you need.”
“I don’t want help,” you hissed suddenly, recoiling against the building behind you for strength. “I’m doing fine.”
“It’s not about what you want,” he replied. Perhaps you had forgotten yourself. Your back straightened, fists curling as your shoulders pushed your chest forward.
“I’m fine,” you said. “I can do this on my own.”
Once you had trembled when you’d seen his eyes. Blood had been splashed across his face. Later, you had loved them, loved the great potential for warmth and softness that they retained despite the horror they saw. Then you grew to despise their weight, their constant knowledge of what you felt and thought and did. Now—now you wished you hadn’t avoided them for so long.
His eyes were so horribly gentle, you thought. That warmth you’d once basked in remained, but it was muted by a ginger layer of sadness, of understanding, of yearning. He reached out to you once more, slowly, carefully, until his palms rested on your cheeks, thumbs tracing the shape of your jaw.
“I’m so tired,” you breathed, scowl crumbling.
“I know,” he whispered.
“It’s so hard,” you sighed, eyes closing.
“It is,” he acknowledged.
“I missed you,” you said, voice cracking.
“Tell me what you need,” he said softly. Your hands wrapped around his wrists loosely, seeking the warmth of his skin, the firmness of his form.
“Help me home, Altaïr.” His eyes had never seemed so impossibly soft.
“For you, anything.”