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Outside of the inn, it's raining. Part of Zolf, the romantic part of him that gets invested in Harrison Cambell novels and the idea of a happy ending, wonders if the weather is reflecting his mood. Wonders if standing in the downpour and shouting at the sky will provide some sort of catharsis, provide him with any kind of feeling other than the sad-tinged numbness that's settled over him in a nigh unbearable shroud.
A larger part of Zolf, the part he would like to call logic, knows that it's raining because it's never not raining on this island and his emotional state holds no control over the weather. Knows that standing in the rain won't do anything but soak him to the bone, and then he'd still be the same as he is now, just wetter.
He stands under the awning, listening to the constant drum of the rain, and watches it fall in a thick, continuous sheet in front of him. Behind him, the idea of light creeps out through cracks in the shuttered windows, but it isn’t enough to illuminate the darkness, and the world remains a flat black and white.
Today had been a good day. Or, today was supposed to be a good day, and had been for everyone else, and Zolf thought it was a good day for him, but clearly not because here he is, standing outside, in the dark and the rain, while the others sit inside the warm light of the inn. They probably hadn't even noticed him leaving, or if they had, they hadn't cared, or maybe they do care, but hadn't noticed him leave, or maybe they're glad he's gone, or maybe they're feeling something else entirely that Zolf cannot fathom is this state, and he doesn't know what option is the worst. He wants someone to come after him, but he wants to be left alone, but he doesn't want to feel like this, but he thinks he deserves to, but he doesn't care how he's feeling. The thoughts circle in and around on themselves, twisting into an ouroboros of overwhelming unfeeling. What do you call an emotion that you know you should feel but don't?
Hamid would have come after him, and sat with him, even if — when — Zolf yelled at him. Sasha wouldn't have sat with him, but she would've been there, tucked up into the rafters above him. Out of sight, but still there. Always there.
And that's the issue, isn't it? They aren't there. They won't ever be there again. Zolf is alone.
Today was supposed to be a good day. Barnes and Carter were out of quarantine after their latest mission, allowing Wilde to finally relax for the first time in a week, and Zolf had made them all dinner. They had sat around the table, arguing for the sake of arguing. Carter, casually playing with one of his daggers, made a particularly neat throw. Zolf had idly thought that he should tell Sasha about Carter's knife work — and all at once, it wasn't a good day anymore.
Is he allowed to miss people when it’s his fault he won’t see them again? Zolf knows that he didn't kill them; he didn't send them to Rome, and he probably wouldn't have been able to stop them going. But he could have been there for them. He had been so afraid that he would get them killed, so he left, and then they went and got themselves killed anyways and he wasn't even there for them.
He should have been there.
The door creaks open behind him, the light from indoors pooling out just shy of where he stands. Zolf knows he should probably acknowledge the person, but the thought of turning his head, or even opening his mouth in greeting, feels too heavy to bear, so he keeps looking forward. The rain continues to fall, endless and ever-lasting.
“Have you really been standing out here for the past twenty minutes?” Wilde asks from beside him, raising his voice to be heard over the din. Zolf doesn’t think it’s been that long, but it’s not like time has any meaning right now. Wilde continues on, not waiting for an answer, “It’s not exactly a thrilling view, but I suppose it isn’t pour either.”
“Piss off, Wilde,” Zolf grunts after a few moments of gathering the energy to speak. “I’m not in the mood.”
“You and I both know you’re never in the mood,” Wilde says, almost off handedly. Six months ago, Zolf would’ve punched him in the gut for a comment like that. These days, Zolf would usually just roll his eyes and move on, knowing the joke comes from a love of wordplay rather than any malicious intent. Now, he can’t bring himself to react, so he just stays silent. Wilde shifts his weight, clears his throat. “Was there any… particular reason you left?” The question is awkward and stilted, lacking any of Wilde’s usual ease.
Zolf doesn’t bother answering. He’s been trying to get better about talking about his emotions, and he’s been dragging Wilde along with him much to the frustration of both of them, but right now he would rather lie face down in a puddle and drown than explain his mental state. Wilde can keep making clumsy attempts at emotional intimacy until he gets bored and leaves, or Zolf gets angry and shouts at him.
“I know — ” Wilde starts, but cuts himself off quickly, then tries again, “I realize — It isn’t — ”
Zolf waits for him to continue, but instead he hears a frustrated sigh that Zolf’s come to learn means Wilde has lost his words again. The triggers for it still aren’t a hundred percent clear to Zolf, but emotional vulnerability has about a one in three chance of silencing Wilde, so he isn’t really surprised. Getting stonewalled doesn’t help, either.
It would be easy to make a cruel comment right now. Wilde values his voice and his words above everything else, and Zolf is well aware of the shame and anger that losing them brings. Driving the bard away would be easy, and Zolf would be left alone again, which is what he wants—deserves— right now. He doesn’t say anything, though.
A notebook appears under his nose, the one Wilde had taken to carrying when his voice first started going; Wilde may not be able to speak, but gods forbid he ever stops talking. Zolf considers ignoring it, but his eyes flick over the page before he can follow through on the thought.
I miss them, too.
A breathy, punched out noise, the combination of wanting to scream, or cry, or implode in on himself and stop existing, tumbles from him before he can stop it. If he had the energy, Zolf would be ashamed of it.
That’s the worst part about opening up to someone: they understand the kinds of things that send you spiraling without you having to explain. Of course Wilde knows that Zolf is thinking about Hamid and Sasha; he may not know the cause this time, but he recognizes the symptoms. Zolf can no more keep this hidden than Wilde can hide his exhaustion.
A hand falls on Zolf’s shoulder. It is warm, solid, and real. Zolf looks up at Wilde for the first time. He is haloed by lamplight spilling out into the dark. The days of dressing in bright flamboyance are long gone, but he is colorful nonetheless. He offers up a tired smile. It can no longer be called handsome, but it is kind. Zolf thinks that’s probably more important.
The rain continues to drum down. Zolf looks back to it. Wilde doesn’t move his hand. Zolf doesn’t feel better. He doesn’t think he’s in a place where he can feel better just yet, but he feels seen. Recognized. He doesn’t feel better, but right now, he isn’t alone, either. And for now, that’s enough.