45 for Wesley dearest, please?
Wesley - 45. comparing hand sizes, then linking fingers together
You didn't expect to hear that.
You expected to hear that five months ago, waiting for a call that never came. You expected to hear that when you met again for the first time in a while, waiting for the explanation that never came. You expected to hear that every chance they had, every encounter you've had. Every time your eyes had met.
You didn't expect to hear that tonight.
"You deserved better."
Wesley leans back in the driver's seat, their shaking hands flying up to cover their face with a frustrated force behind them. It feels so strange, hearing those words, after all this time, after all the silence, after all the running away. It's so strange that one failure—a huge understatement—is what pushes them to finally give you what you've always wanted.
"I'm so sorry."
An apology. A real apology.
But why do you feel like this isn't right?
That they don’t have to do this anymore?
That you understand?
And that's the thing. You're pretty sure you don't. You don't have the slightest idea why they betrayed you, why they hurt you. Why they left you to suffer. Alone. So why do you feel like you do understand? Why does it hurt to see them acting this way?
There was a time when you forgot how to feel that—that sort of connection between the two of you. Understanding each other without necessitating words. Believing in each other without needing any sort of confirmation. There was a time when you thought everything they claimed to feel for you was all a ruse. There was a time you trusted Roy more than you should have, and the cunning words that left his mouth. The words that broke you, over and over again. A cycle that never stopped.
Wesley never cared for you.
There was a time.
Wesley used you.
There was a time.
Wesley will be the death of you.
You shift on your seat to face them, and as you let a flicker of hesitation pass by, as you let the memories of your time together replace all the anger you've been holding onto the past few weeks—memories of running from a mob; memories of sitting on your asses and falling asleep while on surveillance; memories of ditching a party together just because you can—you breathe. You breathe deeply, and you find yourself grabbing for their hand. Slowly. Carefully. As if you're about to caress something delicate. Irreplaceable.
Wet streaks flow through your fingers as you remove it from their face, and then they stop. They stop rambling their apologies and instead look at you, eyes wide in fear and lips remaining parted. They're still shaking, tears still flowing in silence, even as you run your thumb over their fingers as gentle as you could. Your touch may have made it worse, you realize, as a newfound guilt appears in the way they stare.
"I tried. I really tried." You feel their hand move, and you begin to think they're about to pull away and move to their own space, maybe even forget that this moment ever happened, like they do most of the time. That is, until they turn their palm up, entwining their fingers with yours in one swift move. Clutching hard. Never letting go. Wesley's hand isn't that huge, nor is it hard, but you can feel the desperation in its grip, enveloping you not with warmth, but with an uncertain tension. You can feel the same yearning you've had for them for years as their hand links into yours completely, holding on like you'd let go otherwise. "I tried so hard."
“It’s not okay,” they say through gritted teeth, voice cracking. “This will never be okay. I...I...”
"It's okay. Take your time," you say slowly to let them know it really is okay. You may not know the whole story, but it's okay. You went through a lot of things, and you will go through worse, but for now, this will be okay.
You lean against their shoulder, letting the silence surround the both of you. It's going to be fine. They'll tell you when they're ready. You have to give them space. You have to make sure they don't get overwhelmed—otherwise, they'll close off again.
And when they're ready to tell you, when they’re ready to spill the whole truth, you will still be there beside them—your hand in theirs; their hand in yours.
As it should be.
I know I promised this will be softer, and I mean I think it is...in some parts....oh well...I hope you enjoyed!
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Shoving a hand through his damp hair to put it into at least some semblance of control, Inuyasha cleared the irritated expression off his face and opened the door to their shared room in the barracks. Out of all the people he expected to see standing on the other side, it was not the sandy-haired soldier pushing around a cart full of packages to be delivered.
Private First Class Houjo Ueda smiled brightly at him. “Good evening, sir. I have a package delivery for Corporal Inuyasha Taisho.”
Inuyasha stared at him. “What.”
“I have a package for Corporal Inuyasha Taisho.”
The hanyou frowned. “No you don’t.”
The smile dropped from Private Ueda’s face. “Uh…Yes I…do?”
His frown deepened and Inuyasha shook his head. “I don’t even get mail, let alone any packages. Are you sure it’s not for Corporal Tsujitani?”
Houjo blinked and looked down at his clipboard. “Uh…it says here there are special instructions to deliver the large package from Lewisburg, West Virginia to one Corporal Inuyasha Taisho, Rose Barracks, room 304.” Brown eyes looked back up at him then to the room number on the door, clearly perplexed at the hanyou’s denial.
Inuyasha’s confusion strengthened and he reached for the clipboard in the private’s hand. “Gimme that.”
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