The blonde haired boy stood before him in the rain, looking down at Roswell where he knelt on the cobbled path. Strands of pale hair clung to his face, darkened by the rain as water streamed from the ends, partially veiling his eyes.
What little Roswell could see of them glinted faintly through the curtain of wet strands, but his expression remained impossible to read.
Whether he looked at Roswell with disappointment, pity or something colder, he couldn't tell. Yet the mere weight of that silent gaze pressed heavily on him, and a deep unbearable shame settled in his chest, forcing his head to dip lower as if he could no longer be seen.
He asked again, his voice nearly drowning in the rain,
"Why are you here..."
Drewey stood silently for a moment, rain running down his face. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet and simple.
"Clea cried."
It was just two simple words, and yet they struck him with more force than any should have. Something inside him fractured, and when he thought he hadn't been at his lowest, things seemed to get even worse.
"She told me about the state you were in.. what you did.. and that she couldn't stand seeing you this way anymore. She won't even leave her room, and she refuses to see me too."
The sorrow fell upon him all at once. His shoulders trembling beneath the falling rain, his head lowering even further down until his forehead pressed tightly against the cold floor.
He had tried his best to hide everything from her..
'She must've gone through my letters while I was gone. Why didn't I burn them??'
How ironic.
In his quest to try and make her happy, he only seemed to have ruined her. Whatever little joy she felt these days, had been utterly crushed.
'I've failed.'
He had one job, and but he couldn't even do that. He should've been angry, but he lacked the strength to even hate himself anymore. Who was there to even get angry at? The one person responsible for this had seemingly disappeared.
He had no clue as to what to do next.
Was there even anything he could do?
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to just lay down here.. and wait until he starved.
"Mr Roswell."
Drewey's voice cut through to him.
"I know you don't like me all that much.. but I can't just sit back and leave you in this state."
He exhaled, weak and bitter. His fingers tightening, he asked,
"Are you taking pity on me?"
The words came out sharper than he intended, the frustration and shame tangled together in his voice. He tried to get angry at him like he usually did.. but even that was difficult now.
"Well I'll tell you right now, your pity is wasted. There's nothing left for me after this, so just leave me be already—"
"Roswell!"
The sudden force in Drewey's voice cut through the rain like a crack of thunder, stopping his own words right where they were.
"I don't care if you think I'm taking pity on you, I don't care what you think of me!"
Lifting his gaze, Roswell could finally see the boys eyes. He could finally see the expression that Drewey making.
And it was something he wasn't anticipating at all.
His blue eyes shined clearly, and they weren't sharp with disappointment, nor cold with judgement. They were not angry, or even distant. Instead, they held something far heavier and unmistakable.
It was something that Roswell recognised all to well.
As Drewey looked upon Roswell, sorrow lingered openly in his gaze, as though seeing him like this hurt far more than anything Roswell had ever said.
'Why is he looking at me like that?'
He simply couldn't understand, atleast until Drewey spoke once more,
"I just want to know, have you truly given up on Clea? That's why you did all this, right? That's what all of this was for wasn't it?"
Roswell didn't answer immediately. And after a moment of drawing breath, Drewey reached back through memories he hadn't touched for a long time.
"When I first met Clea, I thought that she was just another bratty child of some noble rich guy."
The rain continued to pour down, now with lightning striking somewhere far away, yet somehow so close by.
"But then I saw how alone she truly was, painting alone in that garden. Every time I saw her, I didn't see the tiniest bit of joy in what she did. And yet, she kept doing it anyway."
He sighed, the sound of rain filling the silence.
"I was curious at first," he admitted.
"So I made it my goal to try to understand her."
As time passed, she gradually began to open up to him about alot of things. The reason why she painted, even if she didn't enjoy it anymore. As well as the source of her own sorrow.
The longer he spoke to her, the more he began to understand that she was still mourning. And that perhaps she would never feel the same way about what she did, ever again.
Regardless, she continued anyway. Because it was only when she was painting that she stil felt that person next to her, guiding every stroke of her brush like she used to. Even if she wasn't there anymore.
And so, Drewey expected Roswell to be just as unfeeling. He expected him to be suffering from that loss too, causing him to grow neglectful of his daughter.
However, he was completely mistaken.
"But then I saw you trying your best too. Every time I hung out with her, you'd always chase me away, thinking that I had bad intentions so as to protect her."
Rather than letting the loss of his wife push him down, he kept fighting his own far away battle to protect Clea. Giving her the space she needed, while also only acting when necessary.
"Which is why I can't believe that you've given up on her, I refuse to believe it! You were so hell bent on protecting her all this time, but then you've just went and ended up like this?!"
The Roswell he knew was unyeilding. He never gave up, despite how things may have been. Which is why he couldn't accept that person before him now was truly the same Roswell that he believed in before.
"To see her smile again, I'd do anything just for that! I'd even walk into hell with you! But you were always more determined than me.. so you should feel even more strongly then I do now!!"
And yet, he was kneeling on he ground before him. Filth clinging to him, a sign of his fall from grace.
"Is this how you want to die!? Leaving her alone all by herself? How could you possibly expect her to smile again that way?"
Those words.. those last words were more than enough for him. The promise he once held, the quiet desire to protect Clea that he had given up on resurfaced through the weight of his despair, refusing to be smothered any longer. And it wouldn't so easily be put out ever again.
He had believed that Drewey was just another hormone crazed teenager, but perhaps it was much deeper then that. His words and actions were so utterly filled with sincerity and passion, everything that he said, he truly meant without a hint of doubt.
His feelings for Clea were genuine, Roswell had no choice but to acknowledge them now.
And along with that, a new fire rekindled within him too.
With fresh hope burning in his eyes, he finally noticed the nar scrimped up sheet of paper that he held in his hands. The rain had soaked it thoroughly, but it was still readable.
When he picked it up didn't matter, and why didn't either. The same way that he couldn't understand how he got home, he didn't understand this too.
Finally unfurling it, he saw those familiar eerie words written in dark red ink. The same words that he had mocked so many years ago..
And as he read those words once more, an idea began to sprout.
A terrible, vile idea. One that betrayed all the morales he had ever built up till now, one that trampled on whatever scraps of stubborn pride he still had left, and one that without a doubt, 'She' would be ashamed of him of. Perhaps, she would even resent him.
'But I don't have any other choice, do I?'
Rising from the ground, he looked at Drewey now with renewed strength. He was almost unrecognisable from the man he was just a few moments ago.
"You say you'd walk into hell for her, right?"
Drewey nodded.
"Alright then. If you don't care about the consequences.. then follow me all you like. I won't stop you."
His voice was no longer desperate, but calm. Carrying a weight that made the air between them feel heavier.
"From now on, we will be traitors to our own kind."
The words settled with finality, leaving no room for doubt or retreat.
"We will become sinners."