Loose Lips Sink Ships {Anzie}

“We can do a bit better than that, Finnegan Hood.”

(Maybe you can, Leon Krigel, but I simply cannot.)

Better insinuates a realm of uncertainty I’m not willing to face, a blurred zone that trespasses into an emotion I do not care to experience. It wasn’t terror, sorrow, or adrenaline, yet it struck more fear into my heart than any mix of the three. I’d said it before, to my mother, to my father, to those who wouldn’t remember it in the morning, but I hadn’t really felt what you were supposed to. I saw it in my mother’s eyes, in my father’s hand placed upon my shoulder, but I never saw it within myself. There was a gap within my heart, a chasm that couldn’t be filled with temporary pleasure, though I had spent my whole life trying.

Every business meeting and crisp, white shirt; every handshake and nodded agreement. It was each another coin in the jar, another step towards a supremacy I would never be ready to handle. I would never accomplish it, and somewhere in the back of my mind I realized this, and somewhere between eight and eighteen my goals had shifted.

I no longer wanted a kingdom of my own; no longer was a throne the pinnacle of my aspirations.

But it had been the goal up until the moment Leon Krigel struck down Siren Baitwell. For until that point, every promise I had made had been followed through to the point of total completion, but he had toppled it all with a single blow. He had taken down every single bit of credibility I had left, and that’s the reason I was staring Leon Krigel in the eyes once again. It was a situation that should have never came to be, yet here we were.

The clock had seemed to stop ticking, each passing second now taking an eternity or longer to pass, each muscle in my body frozen besides the slight trembling of my outstretched hand, and even though I devoted every ounce of my will to stop the tremors, it quaked on, and I fretted over it constantly until I realized his attention was not drawn to my hand, but my own line of sight.

I had stared many a man in the eyes; I had stood against anger, depression, and the deadliest combination of the two, but I had never felt more uncomfortable than I did there in the presence of Leon Krigel.

His previous words are proceeded by such a strange succession of actions that I’m not even aloud the privilege of time to think about them, for the seconds following his few words and empty smirk are proceeded by his own body coming to fall against my own. Though he’s smaller than I, both in height and mass (I could trace his ribs if he’d give me access), the impact of his body against my own catches me off guard, and though there is nothing I want more than to remove myself from the awkwardness that surrounds the situation, my arms instinctively wrap around his torso, lifting him as much as my arms can manage before dragging myself and his added weight to the couch on which I spent the longest sixty minutes of my life.

We collapse upon it—or I do rather, for he’s already given up all use of his own strength and instead relied upon me to keep us from falling to the floor, which seemed a feasible option at some point between the two points of time.

But we made it to some place of security, though he’s sprawled awkwardly on top of me, his breaths coming in short gasps, as if he’s drowning and no amount of air he inhales is enough to keep him alive. So I shift him to the best of my ability, laying him onto his back and pulling my arm from underneath him in order to loop it instead under the crook of his knees. Maybe it’s instinct or trying to make myself comfortable, but my actions end up pulling him closer to my body, and between his chest pressed against my own or my other hand crossing his back and resting on his shoulder, I feel the same uncomfortable presence that made itself known whenever anyone expresses sentiment and aims it in my direction.

I draw my hand across his back in as much of a constant tempo as I can manage, though I’m sure it’s off, at least by a little, for my mother always told me I never had much sense of rhythm. It’s then that I feel the glares of his family upon us, and a flush of embarrassment rushes to my cheeks as I bite my bottom lip. This is not how businessmen act, but then again, they wouldn’t understand that. For even if there was no one of prominence around to see, the internal composition of my integrity seemed to crumble with each gasp that racked his body.

It was a different kind of breakdown compared to the one that took place in the justice building only weeks ago, but the common denominator was Leon Krigel falling apart, and I just so happened to be left with the task of picking up the pieces.

Leon Krigel had told me I could do better, and indeed I would try, not for his sake, but my own.

I can feel my breath catching in my throat as his comes in gasps, and it seems if I pull him closer maybe I can calm them, like the smaller the space between us the less of a struggle comfort will be. However, he finishes the job despite my instigating it, and before I know I’m sharing more than just space with Leon Krigel. It’s nothing we haven’t done before, but this time there’s something different. There’s desperation tinged with a lingering forgetfulness that sits deftly between us, even as his fingers tangle in my hair and we pull apart, and it’s not until he speaks that I realize where it’s stemmed from.

“Owen. Owen, you’re home.”

I had not made myself oblivious to the affairs of Leon Krigel during his time away. For like the rest of the world I had watched as he held the boy from eight to his chest, both falling apart yet trying to hold the other together, but in the end, one had come out a winner, and let me tell you, it was not Leon Krigel.

Owen Bowers-Fox had found some sort of closure in his death, for he wouldn’t have to see a world in which the other did not exist, and in my heart there hid some kind of pity that I won’t admit to experiencing when I saw the sorrowful hope that laid in Leon Krigel’s eyes. I would give anything to let him hold Owen Bowers-Fox in his arms again (he could do a better job than me, anyhow), and I suppose he believes I could carry that out if I tried hard enough.

I weigh the options of response, though both are equally unappetizing and destructive. I could let him carry on in his ignorant bliss and let him pretend that I held the true love of another when the reality was that I was empty. I could give Leon Krigel nothing that the boy from eight had, for it wouldn’t be genuine. I didn’t love Leon Krigel, not like Owen Bowers-Fox had.

The other option was one I dreaded even more, but I knew I would lean towards it in the end, for I had always been one for harsh realities, and this was no exception.

I remove my arm from under his knees and wince as they go limp, but press on and lift his face from the crook of my neck until his gaze meets mine, and I do my best to focus in as his seems to waver as seconds tick by. “Leon, I’m not—I’m not Owen. Owen’s gone,” But it feels wrong, and for once I wish not to be the bearer of bad news, and I quickly stumble to speak again before he can change sorrow into anger, “But I’m here, okay? I’m not going to leave, I promise.”

(I promise.)

I hadn’t ever promised anything to anyone in my eighteen years of existence, and it does not feel as if it’s the right thing to do. I had made deals that end with the statement that all noted terms would be carried out to the best of their ability, and I suppose that could be counted as so, but there wasn’t any strings of guilt attached if it fell through.

This was something different in its entirety.

This is an accountability I cannot hold myself to, and though the words have already been spoken I want nothing more than to take them back, for I realize that I’ve dug myself a grave too deep and Leon Krigel’s standing at the top burying me alive. It’s like drowning, but with no way to break the surface; like climbing a mountain, but never being able to reach the peak.

I’ve promised the world to a boy whose universe has already been ripped in two, and he knows as well as I that every word I’ve spoken is nothing short of a lie, even if my intentions were good.

My thumb is still resting gently underneath his chin, and I rest my forehead against his as I let my hand fall. “I can't give you much, but I can promise you this, Leon Krigel.”