Chapter Text
The tiles are cold against his forehead, in contrast with the steaming hot water running over his back, but he feels neither of them, consumed as he is by a single stream of thought.
What should have I done.
What should have I said.
What could have been.
The road not taken and the damning consequences of his own pride.
He doesn't regret his actions of the night, and the ache he still feels beating inside this chest is all the justification he needs. And he didn't fight it. Will didn't fight him. He just stood there and faced the consequences of his actions. Will looked him in the eye, as the teacup he had just put together shattered into a thousand pieces, and welcomed the blade inside him. The same way Hannibal had let him in too, just to be ripped apart from inside.
No. He doesn't regret it. But he would have it better if he could.
There's a million things he could have done or said to make things different, but at the end of the day, none of his actions could change Will’s unpredictable nature.
Or the fact that he adores it. And him. Dearest Will, now bleeding in his kitchen next to the daughter he would never be allowed to keep.
In another version of last night, they beat the Greeks and not even divine intervention could bring them down. They would be far away in strange lands to do as they please, in front of a brave new world full of possibilities and no limits. Instead, here he is, a broken Achilles drowning in a hell by his own hand and far away from a Patroclus that didn't want to be saved.
Back to the present, he can feel his eyes burning from the tears he doesn't want to let go, but the moment he moves back inside the stream of water he can feel them running down his cheeks mixed with blood and rage and gathering together at his feet, before getting lost forever down the drain, along with the pieces of their broken teacup.
The moment is interrupted by a noise coming from the bedroom and he knows it then. He knows he has to face it all. Her, his broken heart and this unexpected version of the new world he has created. But he can give himself a few more minutes, close his eyes, put his head back and meet Will in the quiet of their stream...
[A few weeks after…]
This wasn’t the plan. None of this was. Having the incorrect company and a different accommodation aside, coming here was definitely not part of his plan and he could feel the tension concentrating inside his stomach the moment he put the key in the keyhole.
It's not as if he could stop himself, really, and there is still a tiny part of him that is naive enough to believe he would wake up from this nightmare the moment he entered the flat. He would be welcomed by the right people, in the right place, where they all are supposed to be. Instead, he finds himself surrounded by an enormous empty space waiting to be claimed and his own growing frustration as his only company.
He is not in the mood to be able to fool himself into finding a silver lining, so he goes straight into the living room where he knows he will find three passports, two of them with matching surnames. He picks them up and avoids opening them on purpose, not eager to have their faces staring at him. He ponders, though, if he is angry enough to risk his hiding place by sending them to the hospital in Baltimore. It would be absolutely worth it, if he just managed to make Will feel half of the anger that's been flowing through his veins since he arrived to Paris.
Even more since he ventured onto this road he never intended to walk on his own.
He puts the passports down with a sigh and moves to the kitchen, the only space he can imagine will be free of ghosts. He couldn’t have been more mistaken, and he curses his past self the moment his eyes catch the set of teacups he left on the kitchen island many months ago. Three delicate teacups waiting in line, untouched and ready to be fill with lazy mornings and a shared future.
When he leaves 15 minutes later, the remains of the passports are still smoking in the fireplace. He licks the tiny cut in his thumb, which is the only memory of the now shattered pale china, gleaming in contrast against the dark floor of the kitchen every time he closes his eyes, the image forever imprinted in his mind. Then, he locks the door behind him without looking back.