Cowboys and Angels

moment thirty-seven: rewriting [the rules V] (late August 1995.)

There was the sound of parchment scraping against itself as it unfolded, and the silence was broken by the sound of someone clearing his throat. In the stillness near the grave, Percy spoke in measured, precise tones.

"Percy,

You hate me and I hate you. Now that the pleasantries are over and done with, I'll get to the point. I need you to take care of Oliver for me. I know, you're busy having the time of your life filling forms out in triplicate, and I'd normally hate to disturb, but I'm not going to be able take care of him in a little while. And he needs someone to be there for him.

When I'm about to do, I'm doing for good reasons. I can't tell you what they are, but trust me on this. Or not. Look, I never treated you very well, and well, I think you deserved everything you got, you stuck up little prick, but we're both in love with Oliver and neither of us can say it, so I feel a little sympathy.

Look after him. You know him as well as I do.

Flint."

He chuckled slightly, and folded the letter back away in his robes, lowering his head to look at the small headstone. Percy could smell the scent of freshly grown grass in the air; the caretakers of the graveyard had obviously given it a once over that morning. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, slightly more giving than before. "Oliver doesn't know I'm here, of course. He wouldn't understand. I don't entirely know that I understand."

Taking off his glasses, he wiped them absently on his robes, then held them up to the sun checking for smears, before placing them back on his nose. "You broke him, you fucking bastard. I don't especially care about what you did to me, not anymore, but you broke him and left me to pick up the pieces. Half the time I have no idea if he's just going to collapse and the other half I wonder if I'm just going to collapse. I wasn't made to offer support and affection, Flint. I don't know what I'm doing."

Percy sighed and ran fingers through thick red hair, absently noting he needed a haircut. "And you don't have to come home and see him shattered, and watch as he doesn't cry the moment he thinks of you. He's better than he used to be, but he's still not normal. Puddlemere's thinking of terminating his contract; they say he's lost his edge. He does what he's told, but that's just it. He can barely think for himself, he just wants to please people. I hate you for doing that to him. I hate you."

He sniffed, brushing his nose on his sleeve. "I hate you for fucking me up so badly I don't know how to deal with people. I'm expected to be his saviour? I can't even save myself, and you knew that better than anyone. Was this your idea of a fucking cruel joke, Flint? Watch as the two broken idiots try and look after one another?"

"I hate you because he loved you, and not me." In a fit of pique Percy yanked out the letter and tore it up, scattered the pieces of parchment to the wind. "And I hate you for knowing I loved him, for knowing I'd do your blasted dirty work. I hate you because he still idolises you, you know. He can't bring himself to hate you, to blame you for leaving. So he worships your memory and blames himself. He'll never see me, not in a million years, no matter how much I take care of him."

His voice faltered, one final time. "I hate you because you were there for him when I couldn't be, and because of that, I find I can't find you completely abhorrent. Because you cared for him, I can't blame you."

Percy spat on the grave, and turned away. "And for that I hate you most of all."