I don't know the rules for this world.
It strikes me the first time that waif of a woman brings him lunch at work, and it's my own fault, I suppose, for being somewhere I shouldn't--for not leaving this ghost of my past alone long enough to finish his paperwork, for not hiding among the ranks of navy blue suits where I belong.
She's delicate and small, even with her tanned over skin, the well-worked hands of a Junon girl, and I concede that she's pretty enough. I understand why he's chosen her. I can comprehend how that little boy is hanging on her hip.
I am surprised to find myself jealous.
The worst of it is, I can't figure out if I'm jealous of him or her. Looping in the pit of my stomach, my mind cannot reason that I've always kind of hated Yuuta; I've always thought he was a jerk. Somehow, I convince myself it's normal to be angry at him for choosing her--that this is just some womanly instinct of territory and claim. I cannot be upset with him because I am happy on his behalf. I am happy he has broken the cycle and I have not. I am glad he has a wife, and children, and a cushy job and office. I am relieved his hands are clean, when really I can still see the stained blood from mere hours before on the cuff of my white shirt.
Perhaps I am jealous of their son, born into this world with standing and choices. I am angry at this boy who cannot speak because he will be taught the protocol I never was.
Because the truth is, I've never understood this new world.
I remember the last one, school, school, career, marriage, children, retirement, death.
But there is no combination for this one, and perhaps this is the real reason why I've retreated back to Shinra after all of these years. Because I don't know how to grow old or cope. I cannot imagine life beyond teenaged boys with guns, and though we've dressed ourselves up in pretty suits and have sprouted the decency to put silencers on our handguns, has anything ever really changed.
I excuse myself from Yuuta's office, his cufflinks, and his paperwork, his wife and his child, because I never really had an excuse to be there in the first place.
It should end here.
But the normal elevator is full up with faceless grey suits, and my mind is too busy to recall the glass one terrifies me. Poor Rude is unfortunate enough to be occupying it, when I sidle through the doors.
The city below does not calm me, more ants building a hill of concrete, and I can't have a place amongst them. I am rejected because I don't remember the protocol.
"You ever think of getting married, Rude?" I ask, so suddenly, I'm not aware I've thought of this question yet.
And he doubles over coughing so instinctively I'm sure he hasn't had time to think about this question either, the sunglasses almost fall off the end of his nose. They're still crooked when he returns to his full and upright position, hand still clamped over his mouth. He is drowning in the nervous silence that has filled this tiny elevator and I am floating up top.
The door chimes, and I have to step forward.
I have to admit, his reaction is slightly relieving, because if Rude is the epitome of secret agent and Turk, if he's faceless enough to be manufactured, and this is his response, then at least I'm in the right place. Perhaps, nobody pinned in a black tie and blue suit knows this protocol.
It's nice, not to be alone. Maybe that's just the goal, in and of itself. Maybe we've all already won this game.
With a hand on either side of his face, I straighten his shades. I'm sure I am mistaking that pink blooming just beneath the dark glass. This has just become ten times more intimate, ten times more awkward.
I smile anyway.
"It's okay," I tell him. "I wasn't offering."
