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You can see the hurt in his eyes even as he frowns at you, but it excites you in a way that you don’t always fully comprehend.
His reaction elicits both pity and enmity.
When he yells at you—tells you that you’re inconsiderate and cruel—you want to yell back, louder, and then throw him against the wall and press your lips to his until you draw blood.
When you hear his voice crack and quaver, you want to pull him into your arms and pat his head and destroy the source of his pain, even if the source of his pain is you. And it almost always is these days.
“I know that I annoy you. I would be lying if I said you didn’t annoy me too. Your callous disregard for my beliefs can be very frustrating.”
The anger and sadness are mostly gone, replaced by his usual self-righteous tone.
It infuriates you, but not for the same reasons that it bothers everyone else. It’s not the endless speeches that bother you. Those you’ve dealt with before, and gladly. You’d give almost anything just to hear them again and sometimes, when you ignore the actual things he’s saying and just listen to his tone and the way that words just flow effortlessly from his mouth, you feel that you’re alive again, listening to him.
It’s not fair of you to compare them, nor is it fair to pursue him because of how you felt about his alternate self, but you tell yourself that it’s okay—after all your years of suffering, you deserve to be a little bit selfish.
Yes, the endless talking you can take. It’s the way he hides behind those words that drives you mad. You want to know the real him, but every time you think you’re getting close, he shuts you out. His never-ending speeches distract you from the subject at hand. The way he reproaches you for your choice of words every time you’re getting in too deep never fails to make you too angry to focus.
You open your mouth to speak—to provoke him to anger again so that he can’t run away from you.
He holds up his hand to stop you, and years of near-mindless obedience kick in. Your words catch in your throat and you just stare down at him, your expression frozen in place.
“Please, for once, let me finish. Your tendency to interrupt me is rather rude. I know you see me as inexperienced and self-righteous and I know you’ve suffered a great deal—I am not trying to belittle that—but it would be nice if you would, on occasion, allow me to complete a thought.” He pauses for a moment, seemingly lost somewhere between his smug sense of superiority and genuine frustration. “I could go on about this, but I’ll get back to the point before you feel compelled to compare me unfavorably to my post-scratch self again or otherwise demean me and everything I stand for.”
You can’t help the smile forming at the corners of your lips when you hear the bitterness in his voice. You bother him enough to break his cool, even when he’s in the middle of one of his speeches—even when you haven’t said a word.
He frowns at you when he sees your expression, and you smile wider, daring him to do something about it. For a moment he looks legitimately angry, his hands balled into fists by his sides as he glares up at you, and you desperately want him to wipe the smug expression off your face.
The longer he stares at you, the more the excitement builds. You can feel electricity coursing through you, and you want this more than you’ve wanted anything in a long time. His fists are shaking and his jaw is clenched tightly, but you know he won’t fight you. Not with anything but his words.
You begin to feel the fire go out of you. Your muscles relax and you slouch a bit, folding your arms across your chest. The smile is gone now and he’s won without raising a hand or speaking a word.
Letting out a long sigh, you stare at him through half-lidded eyes. “Well, go on.”
He pauses for a moment to regain his composure. You can almost see his mind working, trying to remember what he was saying and where he was going with it. This time you suppress your smile, doing your best to look serious and unimpressed.
“Stop doing that!”
It’s even harder to keep from grinning this time, but you give it your best. “Doing what?”
“I have something important to say and I’d appreciate if you’d just listen for a few moments instead of trying to distract me.”
You can hear the frustration in his voice, but he does his best to mask it. Part of you wants to hear what he has to say, but another part of you is sick of carefully formulated speeches. You don’t want him to hide—not from you. Staring down at him with as much condescension as you can muster, you shrug your shoulders. “Don’t be stupid. It’s just a little harmless flirting.”
“You should consider your wording more carefully. That is an—”
“An ableist slur?” You finish for him. This time you’re legitimately angry and it takes all of your self control not to reach out and grab him by the oversized neck of his sweater. “Don’t lecture me about ableist slurs, you little shit! Tell me, which of your ‘friends’ do you treat the worst?! The one that that word would probably apply to! The pre-scratch iteration of me!”
He’s perfectly still, wide-eyed and silent as he stares up at you, and you can see the guilt and denial fighting for dominance over him. Every second you remain silent is another second he has to formulate a response, but you let him find the words because you know this time he’ll say what he really feels.
“I’m trying…” he says, so quietly that you can barely hear him. “You act like I’ve somehow wronged you by not being more like him, but you sought me out. You hate everything about me, yet you stick around because I look like him. And as much as you bother me, I find myself wanting you to like me!”
He speaks slowly and tries to keep his tone even, but his voice quavers on every note. His sadness breaks something in you, like it always does, and your anger is lost beneath the crashing tide of his words.
“I know I’m flawed. I’m trying to be better. But I can’t change everything about myself to suit you, and I shouldn’t have to. I can never live up to your expectations, so I think we should just accept that and go our separate ways.”
You feel a strange sense of desperation rise within you. You don’t want to be alone—not again. With all of your being, you want to beg him to reconsider, but you force yourself to remain visibly calm. You won’t beg. You won’t be that person again.
“Can I say something now?” The bitterness and anger you feel are evident in your voice, but you do your best to act like you really don’t care one way or the other.. “Or have you already decided that you’re done with me?”
He looks at you uncertainly as he crosses his arms. “Go ahead.”
You hold back the sigh of relief that threatens to betray you. It’s all you can do just to speak.
“I’m not asking you to stop caring about what matters to you,” you begin, hating yourself just a little for how nervous you sound. “Yes, you sometimes annoy and infuriate me, but you also put up with me and make me feel like I’m real again.”
His expression softens slightly, renewing your confidence. He hasn’t ruled out the possibility of reconciliation.
“I’ve been a slave, a revolutionary, a pilot, and a legend, but you don’t revere or denigrate me. Around you, I don’t have to be the Helmsman or the Psiioniic or live up to anyone’s expectations. I don’t expect you to be the Sufferer. I know I can be harsh—I spent what felt like an eternity being at someone else’s mercy, completely powerless, and it has made me more than a little aggressive about speaking my mind. But you’re the only one who tries to rein me in. The others respond in kind or they let it slide out of pity or reverence. You bring out the best in me. What’s left of it.”
You hold his gaze and you hope that he can see your sincerity and your vulnerability. As you speak your last words, you let him hear it in your voice. “Please don’t shut me out. Not now.”