⠀⠀⠀The bathroom is dimly lit, and the washing machine is cluttered with old bandages brown with dried up blood and ruined pieces of cloth, stained red. Solitaire cranes her neck to look up, nervous and with a stuttering heart. Mirage is close, so close. His body radiates warmth, and it draws her in. The alcohol that's still in her blood makes her sway, and he, the gentleman he is, catches her before she stumbles to the side.

⠀⠀⠀— Mirage, — Solitaire starts, unsure. — I...

⠀⠀⠀— What about him? — there's sadness in Mirage's eyes, a guilt so intense it's sobering. She blinks once, twice. — What would he think?

⠀⠀⠀— Who?

⠀⠀⠀— Shiv, Vac, — he says it as if it's obvious, as if they're still together, as if...

⠀⠀⠀Solitaire freezes, limbs too heavy to move, her ribcage gripping her lungs so tight she can barely breathe. Shiv. The scent of oud that clings to Mirage's body suddenly feels foreign, wrong, and her mind recalls the familiar smell of cologne, sweat and motor oil. She takes a step back.

⠀⠀⠀Fuck.

⠀⠀⠀She thought she could move on. She thought the feelings finally passed, leaving her for good, but screw her, right? Fuck Solitaire, and fuck her chance of getting something right.

⠀⠀⠀— Right, — she smiles, but the smile never reaches her eyes. A tight, fake grin. Solitaire takes a step back, still unsteady, but more sober than ever. — You should rest. Take the bed, please.

⠀⠀⠀Mirage doesn't lose his composure as he lets her go, but his eyes are as miserable as she is. Include this picture on the long list of her sins, go ahead, what's one more to atone for?

⠀⠀⠀— I should go, — he says instead.

⠀⠀⠀She likes him. A lot. But it feels like a replacement. A piece that doesn't fill the hole that's too vast for anything to patch it up besides the one person that left it there. It's unfair.

⠀⠀⠀— Are you sure?

⠀⠀⠀— Yes, — he nods. — Thank you. For everything.

⠀⠀⠀There's finality in his words that doesn't compare to anything but the blade that cuts the rotten limb off. Nothing to gain, nothing to save but yourself, but it's a loss. Something to mourn in the middle of the night. Solitaire can't do anything but watch him leave her small apartment in silence before saying her goodbyes.

⠀⠀⠀The soft click of the door is deafening.

⠀⠀⠀A knock on her front door snaps Solitaire out of her stupor.

⠀⠀⠀— It's open.

⠀⠀⠀A raspy voice jumpstarts her heart.

⠀⠀⠀— You called?

⠀⠀⠀— Yeah.

⠀⠀⠀— Fuck, you look like shit, — his voice is close, but Solitaire can't force herself to take her hands away from her face. Calling him after all of this was a bad idea. — What happened?

⠀⠀⠀Solitaire shakes her head.

⠀⠀⠀— Come on, doll, come here.

⠀⠀⠀Shiv's arms circle around her, pressing her covered face into the crook of his neck, and the damned smell is there. Cologne, sweat, motor oil, a hint of copper — someone else's blood — that clings to his skin. A wild aroma. A familiar one. The one she's used to.

⠀⠀⠀It's hard not to sob. Pathetic.

⠀⠀⠀— Vac, who did this?

⠀⠀⠀— Me, — she tells him, and it's the truth, really. — I did this to myself.

⠀⠀⠀— I thought it was working out, — of course Shiv gets her meaning without any explanation. — Did he turn you down?

⠀⠀⠀Rip the bandage off, she tells herself. Tell him the truth. Make it hurt even more, maybe then you'll finally, finally move on, make him say that there's nothing left. No way back, no hope, no nothing. A friendship that is forever tainted with a complicated, heated past. A shoulder to cry on, but never to fall asleep on in the bed anymore.

⠀⠀⠀Solitaire slides off the couch to the floor, hands now tangled into the fabric of Shiv's shirt, and presses her wet cheek to his neck. His skin is hot. Always so goddamn hot.

⠀⠀⠀— I did.

⠀⠀⠀Shiv's silent, and his good hand slides higher, to her hair.

⠀⠀⠀— Why?

⠀⠀⠀His voice is soft, softer than ever, and it's laced with hope so open it breaks her.

⠀⠀⠀— Because of you, — she says, and it's as easy as it was years ago. Natural.

⠀⠀⠀— Doll, you should've just told me, — Shiv laughs and his arms tighten around her. — I'm all yours, you know that.

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