Colorless - Part 4, Late

Part 4 - Late

"As strong as you are, tender you go,
I'm watching you breathing for the last time....
A song for your heart, but when it is quiet,
I'll know what it means, and I'll carry you home....
I'll carry you home...." -- "Carry You Home," James Blunt

He had fallen asleep with his head on the desk...the room was dark, the candle burned out, and Grell had no idea how long he had been sitting there. The ghost of the kiss from his dream still lingered upon his lips, his cheeks still flushed - but still he tried to reclaim some sort of dignity, straightening his glasses with an apologetic smile.

"...Er...I...I must have fallen asleep after my last class," he started to explain, stumbling over his words. The custodian only laughed, his eyes sympathetic as he idly tugged at his mustache.

"I believe it. You've looked awful tired lately." A pause - his smile turned wry as he leaned forward, speaking in a good-natured, sly tone of voice. "You're quite red in the face...did I just interrupt an interlude with a beautiful woman?"

As he thought about his dream, Grell's throat turned dry...shyly, his blush deepening, he tugged at the ends of his hair. The feminine habit that his mother so discouraged. "...Uh, yeah...beautiful...." He meant to leave the conversation at that, but the older man chuckled boyishly, leaning forward on the desk.

"Yeah? What did this dream woman look like?" The question made the teacher wince slightly, unable to look the other man in the eye - he pretended to put his sheet music in order, mumbling anxiously in response.

"...Black hair...brown eyes...dressed all in black...." Tall. Handsome. Charming. A tight knot was forming in his abdomen, and he stopped speaking, confused by his thoughts. Fortunately, the custodian took it as shyness, slapping him lightly on the shoulder.

"Sounds like a real catch. Bet she was...ah...talented, too, if you catch my meaning." Laughing again, he took up the wastebasket he had come in for, moving towards the door. "Lighten up, Mister Sutcliff. You've got a right to do whatever you've a mind to in your dreams. You ARE a man, after all."

With that, he was gone, and Grell was left staring after him, mumbling only when he was certain he would not be heard -

"...But...so was he." Thoroughly confused, he ran a hand back over his head to smooth his hair down, biting down on his tongue as he felt himself reeling. What a strange dream...why had he been in a dress and makeup? Why a ball? No...that wasn't what bothered him. What bothered him was the gentleman who had approached...that kiss that he could almost still feel. A kiss with another man...a handsome, polite -

Groaning in confusion, white-gloved hands twined into his hair, pulling a few strands free of his ponytail so they hung in wisps about his head. It was just a dream, wasn't it? Why did it matter? Why should it bother him?

...But why did it feel so right? Why did he wish he hadn't woken up? Why did he feel so breathless and warm just thinking about it?

His parents had tried to bring him into society, of course, and he had attended parties...he had been introduced to women, who tittered behind their fans at his clumsiness and difficulty finding appropriate conversation. Not once did Grell feel as comfortable at one of these gatherings as he did in the dream he had just had...but then...he had always been trying to present himself as a gentleman. In that dream...he was presenting himself as....

All at once, the darkness registered in his mind, scattering the baffling series of thoughts and making his heart leap into his throat. Turning his eyes to the clock, he cringed when he saw that it was past ten in the evening - hours later than he was meant to come home. Not bothering to gather his papers, he stumbled out of his seat and rushed out the door, worry knitting his brows together.

His parents were home waiting - and here he was coming home late. Guilt gripped his heart as he ran down the streets, the same exhaustion that had lulled him into that fitful sleep weighting his limbs and making him trip every few steps. Rain was pouring down upon the pavement, but Grell hardly noticed...his disheveled hair clung in wisps to his face, his wool overcoat saturating and becoming heavy. How could he be so careless? Here he was, the only one in his family who wasn't ill...and here he was doing something so SELFISH as to come home this late?

Scolding himself, he wished he had, perhaps, taken a bit more time to rest the night before. He had been sleeping for days now in an armchair he had moved against the wall in the hallway, at a midpoint where he could hear either of his parents...but last night, he had taken a bit of time before sleeping to read. Now he felt that it had been stupidity - now he was paying the price.

Arriving at his home, he threw the door open, glasses falling askew on his worn face - and immediately, he noticed something that turned his blood cold.

The record he had left on had long since stopped playing - in the silence, he could now hear only one person struggling to breathe...and a low, steady, feminine sob.

Frightened now, Grell rushed headlong into his mother's room, hazel eyes struggling in the dark to focus on the bed...but it was empty, and the sounds he heard were coming from another room. Voice shaking, he called out, stumbling back out into the hallway in his wet shoes - "Mother!? Where are you!?"

A thin, choked voice barely reached his ears in reply, coming from his father's room. "...Grell...?" Plowing down the hall, his foot hooked on the leg of the chair he had set out, sending him toppling over with a yelp and landing hard face-first against the wood floor. His arm connected hard with the ground when he fell, crushed beneath him, but he would worry about the bruises much later...instead, he struggled to get back up, rain-soaked gloves fumbling on the floorboards.

Finally entering his father's room, the sight that he was greeted with made his stomach lurch - his mother, helplessly sprawled on the floor, hair matted with blood from a wound on one side of her head...and his father, still and lifeless on his bed.

Skidding to his knees, Grell pulled his mother into his lap, carefully resting her head against him and uncaring of the blood that stained his clothing. "Mother? Mother, can you hear me?" Her ice-blue eyes fluttered, breathing heavy and staggered as she lazily turned to look at him. Through the crimson that stained her fair skin, tears had made winding tracks...she had been there for a long time, and that tightened the knots of guilt inside of him even further.

"...Grell...good...you're...home...." Her words were slurred and labored - it was clear that she was suffering from a concussion. A quick glance about and it was easy enough to figure out what had happened...the woman had fallen and struck her head against the now-crimson bedpost. Her voice was thick with tears...and Grell's eyes started to well up in fear and dread. "...I was wondering...it was getting late...the record stopped...and I couldn't hear...I couldn't hear Robert...."

"Mother, please. Shh...you...you shouldn't be talking." No matter how he fought, his voice shook, the tears starting to trickle down his pale cheeks to mingle with the rainwater. The smell of blood was sickening and heavy in the air, and he felt he was choking on the thickness of the atmosphere in the room. "You...you shouldn't have gotten up. You know you...you shouldn't be walking. You're not steady enough. I would have taken...care of everything. I...I fell asleep...I didn't mean to come home late...."

As a thin, trembling hand moved up to cup his cheek, he jumped, ceasing his nervous babble. Emily carefully ran her fingers along the contours of her son's face, as if the darkness of the room had rendered her blind - Grell didn't like the motion, stomach churning. It felt entirely too final for him...too much like a makeshift 'last look' for him to bear. He couldn't speak at all now, throat firmly knotted up.

"...Grell," she began, her voice sad and miles away, "You have grown up wonderfully so far, and...your Father and I...we love you, and we...only ever wanted the best...." Frightened now, the young man shook his head, trying in vain to interject, his voice breaking.

"No...no, Mother, please - don't talk like this...." But still his mother plowed on, either unable to hear the pleas or choosing to ignore them. Either was likely...she was a willful woman when she had something to say, and it was the importance in her tone that frightened her son at this moment.

"...You have a good heart...you have great talent...the potential to do great things. But you still have...growing up to do. It will take time, Grell...like anything...worthwhile...." Her eyelids were fluttering now, her focus wavering; the tears were falling unabated from the young man's eyes, trickling down through his mother's fingers where she was still tracing the lines of his tired face.

"...Mother...please...." The tone was weak, the protest without fire...the futility of the situation was rapidly sinking in, and he swallowed hard to try and lessen the painful constriction in his throat. Light blue eyes met hazel for what could have been an eternity as Emily reached up with her other hand, dark and sticky with her own blood, and held her son's head still, forcing him to look straight at her.

"...Grell...someday...you will make...a wonderful, caring husband. A gentleman...a well-known name...about the streets of London...." Her hands started to loosen their hold, sliding down his cheeks and leaving smears of deep crimson behind. All he could do was stare, unable to speak, jaw quivering with fear and sorrow. She smiled peacefully, her thin face full of love for her child.

"....A gentleman...just like...your...father...."

With a shuddering sigh, Emily's hands dropped lifelessly across her torso, her body slumping heavily against Grell's. His eyes widened, blurry with tears as he shook her...lightly at first, then with more force when she didn't wake.

"...Mother?" There was no response - panic began to set in as he struggled to lift her wasted frame, moving to set her in the bed beside his father. The record wasn't playing, but there was no sound now. No coughing. The only labored breathing was his own.

"Mother? Father?" Desperation filled his tone as he nearly began wailing, hands moving to twine and twist in the fabric of his shirt. "Please...please wake up...please...." The reality of the situation seemed to hit him all at once, physically knocking him down to kneel at the bedside.

The house was dark...silent. The stench of blood hung thick in the air, and Grell could feel it, still warm, seeping through his clothes and his gloves. He was crying, blubbering like a woman as he had been reminded many a time was undignified - but he didn't care, crawling like a child up onto the bed and curling up between the bodies. His father was already cold, like a wax statue, and almost felt fake enough that he didn't believe it was him...but the fading warmth of his mother confirmed the fact that turned his entire world upside-down -

Grell Sutcliff was all alone.

In the darkened brownstone house, all the candles un-lit or burned out, a broken, boyish voice repeated the same few words for hours into the night, over and over like a mantra:

"...I'm sorry, Mother...I'm sorry, Father...this is all my fault...a gentleman should never be late."