projectroxas | (no subject)

Life had never been fair, but Tony didn’t mind.

He never really knew what was “unfair” to begin with, really. His whole life up until high school surrounded two people that he had been with for as long as he could remember (for as long as he wanted to remember)—that was fine enough for him. What did anything else matter, anyway? Just because he hadn’t been wanted for six years of his life wasn’t a big deal, it just intensified the love he had for the two who welcomed him with open arms.

(It happened ‘cause it happened.)

Tony didn’t mind because he couldn’t mind, wouldn’t be bothered with things that were irrelevant to daily life, such as his friends and family and certain other people that weren’t family but were family all the same.

(Didn’t matter because… it didn’t matter.)

He was never really organized in his thoughts, everyone knew this. Tony always left things open yet closed shut, unable to allow anyone to wiggle between those small crevices that were so distinctly placed in the middle of ‘open’ and ‘closed.’

It was a mystery as to why, if someone so happened to decide to question it. At this point, it was a futile attempt to try and understand anything that Tony said or did. It was just part of his charm, or so some would argue.

(He liked people because they were human and liked animals because they were animals. They were both the same yet different in his mind, categorized in colorful boxes and set askew someplace in his mind, just like those multicolored blocks that used to litter the floor of the living room in the first house he lived in.)

---

This won’t take long, it isn’t a very difficult story to tell.

(That’s the problem, Tony thinks, because he knows he’s not the only one to experience what happened to him. It’s just a matter of circumstances, the unlucky hand of cards he was dealt with from the moment he was born.)

Some babies get love and other don’t. Since Tony can’t remember how everything was like when he was an infant, he’ll just go straight back to when he was three years old, the earliest memory he has. It has something to do with a stack of blocks with letters on them and him crying in frustration over how they wouldn’t work the way he wanted them to. Then there with this person who picked him up—a female, but not his mom. She didn’t have the same smell as she did.

“You need to take better care of him!”

She smelled nice, though. Tony felt happy but confused since the adult was scolding someone that wasn’t him—

“Whatever. He’s not dead, is he?”

Oh! It’s mama. He can tell by her voice since she was too far away to smell; reaches out to try and touch her, but isn’t able to when the woman turns to walk away. At least whoever is holding him is following. This is a very good thing!

They start talking again and Tony is too focused on his task to properly pay attention, though they’re yelling back and forth and it’s kind of annoying. And just when Tony thinks he’s got her (his mommy, ‘cause she’s so close but his tiny hands can’t make it all the way towards her) he hears another voice, deeper in sound and tone as hard as a rock.

His father was a man of many words. Most of those words consisted of spewing out his dislike for many things, his anger manifesting and growing throughout several years. He was not a very physical person, though—no, his words did more damage than his hands could, despite being tall and broad and looking as if he had been in the army sometime prior to the life he was living at current. Tony had always wanted to hug him, wasn’t really afraid to initiate it, but something always held him back. Perhaps it was because his father was too busy yelling at his mom, and vice versa, for them to even notice that he wanted (needed) the attention.

(A more aware Tony realized that this is probably why he loved attention so much. His aunt and uncle and friends and teachers gave him more than enough nowadays, but he didn’t realize that he actually needed it until he slowly started to accept certain aspects of his life that he never wanted to focus on. Such a typical reason that any of the psychiatrists he had been to would’ve told him if he had been able to explain himself properly. At least his aunt and uncle tried, even if they floundered with the decision for many years.)

More often than not he would be sitting at the dinner table with them and all they’d do is argue back and forth, right and left—Tony enjoyed just being with them, but whenever he wanted to tell them what happened at school that day, they either told him to be quiet and eat his dinner or completely overlook what he had been trying to say.

But they weren’t at the dinner table at the moment, and he was still three years old in this setting.

Tony was instead placed into the arms of someone else, another face that was familiar but not; down on the couch they went, the male that was currently holding him made silly faces that got the little boy to laugh. He liked him!

“It’s not okay to be acting this way!”

“Who are you, my mother?”

“No, but I might as well be with the way I have to scold you. You’re a grown woman, for god’s sake!”

“You’re my younger sister, stop telling me what to do!”

“Then act like the older sister!”

—oh, them? Just the adults talking again. The meaning was lost on him, after all, and he was too busy playing a game with whoever it was that was balancing him on his lap to notice.

“How dare you talk to me like that when you don’t know anything about having a child!”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure you know everything, seeing as how you’re doing such a great job with the kid you have right now.”

Silence, then a short sound that’s somewhere between a huff and a snort.

“Get out of here. Take your sorry excuse for a husband, too.”

The nice man looks up on cue and Tony pouts when the game ceases. He was really getting into it… But the kiss deposited onto his nose makes him smile and giggle, arms curling themselves as best as they could around the man’s neck in a hug.

End scene, go to black.

(It was all Tony could remember of that time, unable to form much else up until another point in his life, that point he wanted to push aside so that he could live life and not drown in some hole that would set his destination on autopilot to depression. He wondered if he should be sad about it or not, because he knew he wasn’t the only one who had problems and issues and things in their childhood that helped stunt the growth of an adult version of one’s self. It was confusing but not, just like him.)

---

“I seriously can’t do this anymore.”

“Mama?”

No response. The woman is muttering things to herself as she finishes putting on her layers of clothing, not bothering to look at the child who keeps on staring up at her.

“… mommy?”

Still nothing.

The last thing she does after she grabs the two bag at her side is glance at him, that little boy who looks at his mother as if she were a god that he needed so desperately to respond.
And then she walks away and towards the door, opening it just like she would any other day, but the click the lock makes when it brushes up against its counterpart seems so loud and final in the ears of a child.

(Oh.)

Tony looks at his shoes and scuffles them a little bit on the floor, head hung as he makes his way back towards the kitchen table; hops up into the chair and shifts around a bit until he’s comfortable, picking up the fork before continuing to eat his macaroni and cheese.

---

Two days pass by. No word.

Five days. No word. Kind of running out of food.

Seven days. No word. Doesn’t know how to make anything other than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Eleven days. No word. Can’t clean up after himself because he doesn’t know how to. The house is messy.

Fifteen days. No word. Likes to curl up by the door because maybe today will be the day. Is very hungry but doesn’t mind munching on crackers.

December 24th. Christmas is tomorrow. Still no word. Will eat the small bags of candy he got from school that he was going to give to his parents as a Christmas gift. It’s cold and snowing and he doesn’t know how to work the heater, but he has lots of blankets, so he makes himself a fort and places his toys around him.

Pops out a Christmas book his teacher gave him, reads it to whoever will listen. Still no word from anyone.

December 25th. The phone rings while he sleeps.

He’s in a deep sleep, dreaming about something nice and warm and cozy. He dreams about everything his classmates said they’d be doing for Christmas, only it’s him in their place and his parents are by his side. Santa is there too, giving him gifts and telling him that he was a good boy and giving him lots of hugs that feel snug and comforting. They praise him, make him feel loved and cared for— smiles at the mere thought of it, snuggling into the pile of pillows and blankets that he surrounded himself with.

No. Wait. There’s someone talking and the feeling of being picked up. That smell is familiar, too.

“Mommy?” he whispers, still half-asleep. The person his eyes focus on isn’t his mother, but the smile is kind and loving, the lips on his forehead making him feel a happiness that seeps through him and thaws out the raw hope that was almost lost.

The adult says something. Tony isn’t sure what it is but he’s still smiling, pressing his face into the woman’s chest so that he could hear her heartbeat. It goes in a rhythm that is familiar but not at the same time—thump thump— a soothing noise that rocks him back into a dreamless sleep.

---

Tony wakes suddenly with a jerk, a startled jolt that nearly knocks the one snuggled up against him off the bed. Good thing they’re a deep sleeper (he knows by experience, this isn’t the first time he’s had her over), which is the only reason why he can settle back in again without apologizing.

A few fingers shift back messy locks of blonde hair that belongs to his guest, the hand moving backward to cradle the base of his skull as he stares up at the ceiling. The eyes that were once heavy with sleep are now alert and informed of his current predicament, though all Tony is able to do is blow out an annoyed puff of air, wondering if he should be thinking on the memories-gone-dreams (or nightmares, who knew) or getting up to get something to drink.

Such a tough decision. A drink it is.

Slipping out of bed carefully, an act done out of habit more than anything else, he makes his way on towards the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. After a short snap it’s open, the young man chugging down half of it to soothe that stale taste that slumber left in the back of his throat.

Well that sucked, he muses to himself silently, his free hand running its fingers through his hair. It had been a while since he had dreamt of something so awful (and what he had hoped was pure fiction, a wish gone sour after so many years) and he would’ve preferred that he had not, but oh well, can’t choose your own dreams, unfortunately.

(Or maybe you could, Tony thought to himself in a brief pause of contemplation; some class that he can’t remember for the moment said something about your subconscious clinging on to certain bits of information throughout the day to form something bizarre and unfathomable to those that were sane, even if Tony himself questioned his own sanity from time to time, a feat he was sure a certain fair-haired male would raise an eyebrow at if he knew. But maybe a sequence of events throughout the day caused it—what did he do today, other than invite some lovely lady over after that party at some hour of the night—which made him really wish that he could remember, ‘cause it would be a hell of a lot easier to just avoid whatever path he had decided to take that day for like, he doesn’t know, maybe forever?)

Okay, water wasn’t cutting it, but he empties the rest into his mouth before tossing the empty bottle into the trash (wait, pick it back up, it didn’t go into the recycling bin—that’s better) and rummage around for something else.

Soda? Naw, too sugary. Beer? No way, why in the world was that there in the first place, he’s only a social drinker.

Juice? Yeah, juice sounded nice.

The motions are quick and mechanical, swift yet sluggish at the same time; a sip is taken from it at first, getting used to the way that it’s thicker than the water he had moments before. Grape always left a bittersweet taste at the rim of his tongue, but he liked it, just like how he still enjoys peanut butter and (grape) jelly sandwiches.

Makes him briefly miss attacking Ralph for a sandwich, but pushes it away as he follows the trail back to his bedroom. He doesn’t jump between the sheets and snuggle on up against the woman in his bed, however, taking to leaning against the doorframe and watching her sleep.

White and crisp sheets (the ones that were cleaned by Alyssa that morning, demanding that she do his laundry or else it would be piled up to the top of the ceiling by the time she came back after a weekend with her family) barely cover smooth, pale skin, the curve of her back being traced by amber eyes that seem less interested and more thoughtful than anything else.

It takes him back to the summer he spent in France. The blonde hair and perfect (nude) body sets it off even further, slipping him onto a journey that he hadn’t been through for quite some time.

After all, it was probably her that started this transition.

---

France was really nice and full of good food and amusing people. They cursed like sailors and kicked him out of restaurants when he asked for ketchup to go with his steak, ate snails in the afternoon like it was some kind of amazing feat that nobody else could accomplish (Tony thought that he could do it! It was just snails, how hard could it be to cook them?)—Tony had decided that he liked France, that maybe it wasn’t so bad to forget why they had come there in the first place, to relish in the fact that it was a good event in place of a terrible one.

(Or something like that, anyway.)

He learned many things from many people as he traveled around with his aunt and uncle. Most people approached Tony before he would even be able to open his mouth, impressed with whatever it was that made people be so drawn to him. The guys his age would invite him to play with them, teaching him a little French here and there on their adventures, making sure he saw what they got to see on a daily basis; it was like a completely different world to Tony, and he soon stood firm in his decision that it really was a great place to be.

A month had passed by and Tony felt right at home in his surroundings. His aunt had relatives in France, which was mainly where they stayed on their duration of their vacation (the houses of the relatives, that is; they were always so nice and friendly and welcomed them with joy, even if Tony himself should have left a bitter impression on them from the get-go, considering whose child he really was, but nobody looked at him any differently)—they had decided to go there to make sure that she got to see the rest of the family that she was on even ground with for one last time, even if she did not tell them the real truth on why they were visiting.

“We’re vacationing for the summer,” his aunt would say, smiling politely when they questioned them. “We wanted to show Tony the origin of some of his heritage.”

(Tony had never had to deal with death. Death was a foreign concept to him, something that just didn’t exist in his world at the time of the news. Something inside of him shifted when his uncle explained everything, reassuring his son-but-not that it would be okay despite the bad news.

To be honest, Tony himself didn’t recall what happened after that, only knew that he was currently in France and they were having a great time as a family. If he could recall his childhood, it would have reminded him of his large chunks of blanks in his memories. Not that he minded, after all—everything was hunky dory in his mind, not having a reason to question on why he constantly focused on the here and now, and never recalled anything past that.)

So to Tony, this really was a vacation and nothing more, nothing less. He ate all of his food and posed in touristy photos with his two most favorite people in the world, jumped on their bed and asked where they were going tomorrow, then poked around on his cell phone to try and type a message to his friends back at home when he couldn’t find a mailbox to shove his postcards into. Everything was pretty cool.

On the beginning of the second month he was even more accustomed to his summer life. He had grown both physically and mentally, made friends in every department he had been to, and learned so much in such a short amount of time. After a while they settled into a small town called Cordes-sur-Ciel ; the town sat on a hilltop and was home to many artisans, the people residing in the area becoming fascinating to Tony after being there for just a day.

“I think we’ll stay here for a while,” his uncle said when he noticed Tony’s excitement, putting a hand on the boy’s head as he bounced a little on his feet.

It was no surprise that Tony became increasingly popular to the townsfolk. When Tony went to get food from their market, they’d give him free stuff and comment on how handsome he was, and then ask what he was doing for the day. It was usually the same: help his uncle fix breakfast for his aunt, walk around and see the architecture, talk to whoever he hadn’t spoken to before—things that became routine after a few days, and it was a nice change of pace.

(His aunt was slowly getting too tired and sick to travel for long periods of time. At first they were able to do so much more, but they knew time was finally running out, even if Tony himself thought that maybe it would be different, that maybe today would be the day that everything would turn out okay.)

Between the morning and afternoon was when he met her. Tony was wandering back from buying some bread, eggs and cheese from the local shops, not stopping to look around so that he could go back and fix a meal before his aunt woke up from her short nap. He was focused intently on the road ahead of him that he almost didn’t see her, but for some reason he paused in his steps and glanced at one of the stone ledges when he heard humming.

The girl looked to be about his age, give or take a year or two. Her hair was long and dirty blonde, bundled up into a bun that was slowly falling out of its hold. In front of her was an easel and some paints, her thin fingers gripping onto a brush that was being tapped on the edge of her chin. It looked as if she were thinking on something, head tilted to the side once to observe what she had done—a landscape, Tony deducted once he moved a little closer, his curiosity getting the best of him.

“That’s a nice painting,” he finally said when he got close enough.

She didn’t jump in surprise or turn to look at him, merely humming in reply and shifting back a bit to take a better look at it before speaking in a thick accent, “Yoo zink so?”

“Uh-huh.” Two hands moved the bag of items in his arms so that he could cradle them a bit more carefully, cocking his head to the side to observe the painting. “It could use more blue, though.”

“Ah-hah!” Her reply was sudden and loud, finally turning to look at Tony with a wide, excited smile. “Zat is what it was mizzing. I ‘new it was someting.”

With a wide grin of his own he sat down on the ground next to her, looking up at both the girl and the painting before pointing at an area of the canvas. “Yeah! See, like, it could totally use blue right here… and maybe over here, too.”

“Oui, absolument.”

There was a pause when she turned to look at him, smiling kindly while a hand pushed back some fallen strands of hair. Something akin to thoughtful danced in her green eyes when she reached out to extend a hand. “I am Clara.”

For a second there Tony blinked in surprise, returning the smile and shaking her hand with a grin of his own. “Tony!”

“Ah, Toh-nee?”

“Toe-nee!”

Clara chuckled and shook her head. “I am sohree, I will never understand ze Ahmericahn language.”

“S’okay! I even get some stuff wrong every now and then.”

“Oh, do you, now?”

“Yep!”

“Well, tell me more about your poor Engleesh.”

Before Tony could stop, he was telling her everything about himself.

---

A week went by and he found himself spending most of his time with Clara. Her stories were fascinating to him and he had so many questions about her art and what her life was like on a daily basis, enjoying just simply listening to her talk and correct him whenever he’d make a mistake when speaking in French. She showed him the things that he wouldn’t have noticed had she not pointed it out to him, secret spots where she went when she wanted to paint something from her imagination and not the area around her.

Despite how small the town really was, Tony got to see something new every day, proud that he could come back and tell his aunt and uncle everything that had happened throughout the afternoon. They teased him and asked if he had found a girlfriend, though his only response was a hearty laugh that ended the conversation.

Unfortunately, Tony did start to have feelings for her.

It was the first time in his life that he had experienced such a sensation. After all that had happened at the end of his high school life (graduation in general, the unfortunate news of the limited amount of time his aunt had on her life, some memories that brought around the change in Tony that just formed into something bigger than he was used to), he didn’t really expect this to happen.

(And he did tell her one night when he was sitting on the floor of her room. Didn’t hesitate as he watched her paint a portrait of him, feeling like it was the right time and the right thing to do despite everything that said that he shouldn’t.

Something Tony learned over time was that Clara did not get surprised often. It was as if she had experienced everything in life already, so there was nothing to be surprised about. So when she turned to look at him after adjusting a few things here and there with the painting, all she did was smile and put down her paint brush, walking over to him easily before sitting in his lap, arms wrapping themselves around his neck before giving him what he would always consider the best—and first—kiss of his life.

It was all motion from there, the feeling of skin upon skin; there were a lot of people who loved him and showed him affection in different ways, but this was new, something that he would soon become addicted to in a very short amount of time. But he savored the moment and didn’t want to let it go, didn’t want to let her go, even when she was only mere inches away from him.

That was the first time he talked about why he was in France in the first place.

“She’s got cancer,” he spoke lowly as she propped her head up with a hand, watching him with some intensity that was softer in flavor. “Wanted to say goodbye to people without them knowing.”

“Je suis désolée,” Clara murmured, craning her neck over a bit to press a kiss on his forehead.

Tony smiled up at her and moved some hair away from her face, letting the digits linger there for a moment longer before sighing and closing his eyes with a short shakes of his head.

“I really don’t know what we’ll do—me and my uncle, I mean.”

“Avec le temps, ça s'arrangera, Tony.”

A tiny smile touched his lips at that, laughing at himself briefly. “I only caught half of that.”

Clara chuckled as well. “’Zings will work out in time.’”

“Damn, I was so close.”

Moving in closer to put her head on his shoulder, the young woman closed her eyes and curled into him for warmth. “Yoo have friends zat can help you through it, non?”

Tony didn’t answer right away, his amber eyes staring up at the ceiling. Half of him knew that this was true; Anthony and Alyssa would listen and give comfort without second thought, not minding that he might need a shoulder or two to lean on. The other half, however, made him want to hold back, to leave it be and let it go as if nothing had changed whenever she passed away. There was also something else inside of him also said “no”, that he couldn’t tell them even if he wanted to, so he held back his tongue and decided what he would do when the time eventually came.

After a minute passed by and only silence followed, Clara glanced up at him curiously, though he spoke just as she was about to ask again: “Maybe.”

His companion wondered if she should press on with the topic but decided not to, in the end. Somehow she already knew what his real answer would be, so she simply went back to her previous position, taking one of his hands into her own to press a soundless kiss atop his knuckles.)

---

The happiness Tony felt wouldn’t last for very long.

On the afternoon of his third week there, one of the local nurses sought Tony out. He had gone with Clara earlier that morning to the outskirts of the town, though they were unable to see everything she had wanted to show him due to the news of his aunt’s wavering health.

“I’ve got to go,” he said quickly when he heard the news, hesitating only briefly to stare at Clara (and she, him) before letting go of her hand, turning to run back to the inn they had been living in.

---

A day later she passed away in her sleep.

(Now Tony remembers why he didn’t like the feeling of feeling. At a very young age he knew that life wasn’t fair, that sometimes there would be good things that happen and other times there would be bad. Life wasn’t always about having fun, but he made it fun, suppressing the knowledge of how to experience anything but that for as long as he could remember.

It sucked, feeling this overwhelming wave of sadness and hurt over so many things at once. He didn’t know how anyone could go through it, didn’t want to know, really, because it made it all the more real and made that stab of pain twist deeper inside of his chest.)

“I want to go home,” Tony said to his uncle at night as he pressed his forehead into the crook of his shoulder, closing his eyes in some form of exhaustion and sadness at the same time.

So Tony left alone, leaving his uncle to tie up unfinished business for the remainder of the summer.

---

Coming back and seeing his friends (those two friends who would always be there with him, the ones he could always count on; it was they whom he wanted to protect the most, even if it meant not saying anything that held some form of emotional importance, because he ‘didn’t do’ emotions like the rest of them) was an adventure (was hard for so many unexplainable reasons) in itself.

But he could tell that there was a slight shift in things on their end (noticed that a certain boy looked at him a bit differently, though he didn’t question it—he had changed a lot, after all, and even Alyssa herself looked a little bit awed at his new appearance) yet their arms were still wide open, nonetheless.

Tony was glad to go into those arms, but had to bend a little this time after his body went through a pubescent form of metamorphosis, and was glad to see that he had not been replaced—

(Abandonment was his greatest fear, after all. Maybe. He wasn’t quite sure of that any longer.)

Having time to catch up was short and sweet at best. College was merely a weekend away by the time Tony returned, and the boy—no, the young man was busy getting ready for it at the last minute.

His schedule seemed to fill up quickly within just a handful of days of being on campus. More often than not he was running from place to place, fulfilling the needs of several duties that he had committed himself to through unwritten contracts etched into the walls of people’s minds. Being busy was always a good thing for him, keeping his mind occupied and body tired so that at the end of the day he could rest, basking in the feeling of accomplishing at least something throughout the span of 24 hours.

The biggest change was probably his shift in company he had often been seen with on a daily basis. Half of him wished it were his friends (the two friends who would always be there with him, the ones he could always count on) yet the other half wasn’t foolish enough to deny that it wasn’t them. Instead his company consisted of the females who flocked to his side with ease (he didn’t even have to look at them first, a feat he would never really question, because he didn’t know that there was something to question in the first place), not hesitating in leaning down to brush his nose against the shell of an ear and grin when she (whoever it was) giggled and flinched away playfully.

(Sometimes he did this in the presence of said best friends, though they didn’t look like they minded all that much. He would’ve stopped if they said something, but one just watched quietly and the other either looked elated at the sight, or was too busy texting with her sparkly pink phone she had gotten as a birthday gift just a few months prior.)

They had no real special meaning, these girls. While Tony was searching for something (someone? someplace?) he congruently was searching for nothing at all. Most of the time they—the girls, that is—had the same notion, that this was all for fun and nothing to be taken seriously.

(He both liked and disliked the way he understood this from the get-go, a clever sixth sense that anyone could have if they read deeper than just the surface area on people. And maybe it was him who trained him for that without Tony realizing it; he never had to strain to do it because he felt it right off the bat, especially when he wasn’t as overly expressive as Tony himself always had been.)

Maybe he could chalk it up to being just the normal stuff that college kids did; go to parties, have a few drinks, make out with no-named people, wake up in the morning and think “What the hell did I just do?” (only Tony didn’t— forget, that is, because he would always remember every single face of every person that he had been with, tucking it away for reference later on)—but it wasn’t just “being a typical college student” that made him act the way he had been since day one.

(What was it, then?)

He did not abandon his friends, though. On the contrary, it was mostly them that he hung out with in their own little world, yet this time it was done indoors, lacking the flaunting and a certain type of shine that others were now not allowed to see.

Tony was content with staying inside and chatting up a storm with them, absently reaching out to touch a patch of soft hair or play with a few of his favorite princess’s fingers. It was mainly her and her not-boyfriend (a knight in shining armor, perhaps) that were seen with one another on campus, several stories of a certain somebody punching the faces of men who took one step out of line circling the school like a out of control fire, ones that Tony liked to smile at and privately relish in amusement while keeping silent.

(He kept things from them, though, kept them hidden and locked away from sight. It was no sense to open up that box for them to see, not when he was partially ashamed and half unable to bring himself to do it out of the blue.)

So he supposed he could blame it on college, when in the end he should be blaming that hurricane of events and feelings that wound something up inside of him, unable to do much except close his eyes and inhale, exhale—

(How could his parents abandon him when he was so young? How could they just walk away and not even think about the consequences resulting in their selfish actions? Those questions were still unanswered, forever lost in the abyss of confusion. )

—and say that he was sorry that he couldn’t talk about it, but maybe someday.

(It hurt too much to bring it up, because telling someone else made it all the more real to him. Maybe Tony just wanted to keep it as unreal as possible, to pretend that it just didn’t exist at all in not just his mind, but the very few people who did know about it.)

A nudge to his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts, turning to look down at the one who shared his name and smile at the worried look he gave him. It was always so mild, those concerned glances, yet Tony could tell what he was saying without it having to be said aloud.

“I’m cool,” he said with a grin, reaching over to gently ruffle his hair. When his companion looked satisfied enough and went back to his ice cream, Tony craned his neck up to the sky and closed his eyes.

Maybe someday he’d be able to answer all their silent questions, to tell them why he never talked about his childhood or what he didn’t write in those postcards when he was in France. He doubted that it would ever happen, so for now he’d soak in the weight of Alyssa’s body leaning against his own and the feeling of Tony’s fair hair against his hand, deciding that he would continue to pretend that everything was right in the world, and to simply go on with the pattern of life that he had built for himself ever since he had stepped back into familiar ground.

Life had never been fair, but Tony couldn’t find it in himself to care any longer.