𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXXV

Janes pov
When I open my tightly shut eyes, it takes a few moments for me to register the blood. It takes me a minute to realize the blood spilling on the floors, the blood that will forever taint this place, forever taint my skin—isn't mine. But rather, the blood of Maxim Vitiello.

It takes me a while to hold my head up, to realize those last words weren't in my head. I look up at the face of the boy I love, watch him as he stares blankly at where his father once stood. His arm is still held up, still holding the gun in his shaking hands and I think I think I think he's going to turn it on himself I think he's about to shoot himself but I wonder if he's already dead because his chest doesn't rise or fall and, god, I don't think he's breathing. Not until I croak out, "Henry?"

It's as if a switch has gone off. He jumps, just slightly, dropping the gun. His head snaps to me, and the look on his face cripples every string in my heart because he looks lost–Henry, Henry Vitiello, my Henry—is terrified. But when he sees me, he's there and suddenly he's here he's here his cold hands shake as they cup my face, and he's saying something but I can't hear it, I can't focus I can't keep my eyes open because he's here. He's finally here.

One moment I'm sitting on the cold tiles and the next I'm in his arms and he just holds me—blood and all. I can't hear anything, not his words of comfort, not his orders to Xander, not the sirens—all I can think is that he's here he's here he's here he's finally here as he carries me away, his arms shielding me from the horrors of the world and for once, I don't protest. Not when I lay my head on his chest, not when I listen to the beat of his heart that goes boom, boom, boom. He's alive, it tells me. It almost breaks me completely. He's here. He's finally here.

"Is this real?" My voice cracks as I voice the question, because I have to I have to make sure. I can't do this again. I won't survive it. "Are you real? Am I dreaming again? Am I hallucinating?"

"This is real, love. I'm real."

"Are you sure?" I ask, and he holds onto me so tightly that I think I'm not the only one scared this is all a mirage, that the second he lets go one of us will turn into grains of sand that slip away no matter how hard you try to hold onto. "They've been drugging me," I tell him. "I can't tell anymore. I can't tell if you're real or not."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything for so long that I begin to open my eyes, and I watch his flushed skin, watch as his chest rises and falls repeatedly. But the look on his face is one I haven't seen on him before, though it's one I recognize, one I'm familiar with. He doesn't know. For once, Henry Vitiello doesn't know. He doesn't know if this is real or not. In this moment, the boy who wants to be like the superheroes in his comics, who wants to be the protagonist he reads about, who wants to save the day, who wants to fix everything—he doesn't know. He doesn't know how to play the hero, having played the villain for so long. "I'm sorry." I hear him say faintly, and I realize I do have a heart. Because it just broke.

He holds me tighter as he leans against the shadows for protection against the few guards that patrol the building. He's having trouble breathing, I think. I watch his side profile, taking in the architecture of Henry Vitiello. His buttoned nose, his long curly hair that hangs on his forehead. I watch his adam's apple bob and he stares blankly at the wall even after the guard's pass. "It's okay," I assure him. "It's okay, Henry."

"No, it's not." He says, his voice rasping. "Ce n'est pas bon, Jane." It's not okay, Jane. I'm about to argue, I'm about to tell him how wrong he is but he lets out a small laugh and I hear all the cracks in it. I can hear the pain. "You should hate me. I need you to hate me for your own good, love. It's my fault, it's all my fault and I'm sorry—I'm so sorry." He finally looks at me, and he swallows. "I broke your heart."