Tit for tad Reader is referred to with they/them but comes off on the masc side, mentions of war and the horrors of such, toxic relationship, ANGST.
Thick as thieves was you and her before the war. She nearly lit the home you shared ablaze with you inside when you told her the news. When you had a one way ticket to the war front, she had one to the big house. You always knew she had criminal habits, it's what kept you both fed when you were young in the great depression after all. But bad? No never. Her embrace is warm like no other, and like the golden sun when you're in her orbit it's as though your flowers have bloomed.
The two of you had resigned yourselves to just being the best of friends. But still, It felt like the two of you were one in the same you know, one confined to an endless warfront across the sea and the other confined behind bars. One soul branded in camo, the other in stripes. You knew her heart had strayed from yours while you were gone, and yet it was still her face you clutched in your palm as you clung to hope at nightfall. When she told you about her new fancy government job, you prayed at night she wouldn't be anywhere near the horrors you dodged everyday. This hell was no place for someone you loved so.
When she wrote, which she often forgot to, she'd double side pages and cram them all into an envelope busting at the seams. Words written in a rush, she always is in one, which make your face flush. In turn you'd write no matter if you got responses or not, hope is funny like that. Hope is what got you though the war, hope that she'd be there when you came marching home.
When you did come marching home, the pride and hopefulness was emanating off of you. The country won the war, and you hoped to win her. She had written that she'd started anew, that she'd found love, friendship, stability, in the years since your parting. She agreed to wait for you inside the two bedroom home you once shared, and yet nothing. Greeted by dust on the frames featuring the two of you, you waited by the phone, sitting on the sofa head in your hands. You had no evidence to confirm your theory, but you knew in your bones she had gone back to her old ways.
The next day you wore the same strong expression you wore when one of your dearest friends deserted their post, stoic and distant. You searched the streets, asking old vagabond friends if they'd seen her at her old haunts. Most said no, but you couldn't find yourself believing them. Their eyes held too much guilt. It wasn't until you looked in a trash can did you find her face, well lower half, crumpled on the front page of a paper from two weeks ago. Something along the lines of 'Blazestone sentenced, NSA ashamed.' With that, you knew exactly where she was.
Clouds loomed over the women's correctional hall, fitting for a day like today. Nostalgia clung to the air. It was probably hours that had gone to waste as you pleaded with the staff to allow you to see her. It was only until you implied common law marriage that they let you in. She looked as beautiful as the day you left her, strawberry blonde hair tied up, pouting cherry lips, and a grim look in her eyes. She perked up at the sight of you. There's that warmth like the end of a cigarette you'd been craving. Hand on the chicken wire dividing the two of you, you hold your own up to meet hers.
"Y/n, you know me, you know my temper," she began, but you couldn't bring yourself to listen. This is what she always says. Talking about her temper, and seeming grateful for help then succumbing to it time and time again. "I know," you replied plainly. "I really wish I could've been there to welcome you home." Her eyes are glossy, you almost feel bad for her. "But, you chose to do what you did, why?" your voice trembles with edge. "If you saw how they treated me, always walking around as if on eggshells, you'd understand." Her hands fidget as she talks, a tell tale sign she wasn't enjoying this conversation. "How they treated you like what? Someone who could singe their skin if they get too close?" "That was an accident and you know it!" Silence fills the visiting hall as you stare blankly at one another like chickens in a betting ring waiting for the other to peck.
"You said you'd love me even at my darkest," her voice is low and glare sharp. "And I do, but I can't live with you." The air is dry, you know exactly what's coming next, so before she can you get up and leave. "Not when you're gonna be like this," you mutter. A member of staff stops you on your exit, asking if you'll schedule a return visit, you respond simply with the truth, "I don't know." You have orbited too close to the sun, your flowers nothing more than ash, maybe in another time or place it would've worked.
