He’d managed to put his trousers back on, fumbling shakily with the buttons. He couldn’t remember where he’d left his shirt. He could sense Ben’s movements of attempting to get dressed beside him and had heard Ben say his name, but somehow Ari couldn’t look at him anymore. Last time they had been in this together. This time they weren’t.
So he could only look numbly at Dionisia, his wife, taking measure of every shift in her expression as if she would tell him how to answer for this. When the tears began to stream, he shifted a step or two nearer before he could help himself, out of some ingrained instinct to comfort her – but this time he didn’t dare approach her, not when he was the whole cause of her distress.
“Dio, I’m sorry – I’m so sorry –” Ari blurted out desperately, but couldn’t help but shake his head at the sheer deficiency of an apology like that, after everything he’d done. Oh god, he’d been lying to her for so long, long enough that it had become second nature, long enough that somehow he had stopped feeling bad about it at all. He’d been so happy, and he’d let her be so undeservedly miserable, and she – she – she was never going to trust him again.
If the old guilt had been in him all along, he’d managed to bury it, reason it away with it’s alright, it’s for the best, I’m not hurting anyone. Buried no more: it rose in him with a vengeance, guilt wracking its way through his gut into his ribcage and the set of his shoulders and spilling into his throat. He pressed his hand firmly against his mouth, hating himself more than he ever had. How could you? Dionisia was right. How could he?
“I didn’t – want to make you feel any worse,” he tried, and winced in immediate regret. He wasn’t sure he could envision any worse than this.
So he could only look numbly at Dionisia, his wife, taking measure of every shift in her expression as if she would tell him how to answer for this. When the tears began to stream, he shifted a step or two nearer before he could help himself, out of some ingrained instinct to comfort her – but this time he didn’t dare approach her, not when he was the whole cause of her distress.
“Dio, I’m sorry – I’m so sorry –” Ari blurted out desperately, but couldn’t help but shake his head at the sheer deficiency of an apology like that, after everything he’d done. Oh god, he’d been lying to her for so long, long enough that it had become second nature, long enough that somehow he had stopped feeling bad about it at all. He’d been so happy, and he’d let her be so undeservedly miserable, and she – she – she was never going to trust him again.
If the old guilt had been in him all along, he’d managed to bury it, reason it away with it’s alright, it’s for the best, I’m not hurting anyone. Buried no more: it rose in him with a vengeance, guilt wracking its way through his gut into his ribcage and the set of his shoulders and spilling into his throat. He pressed his hand firmly against his mouth, hating himself more than he ever had. How could you? Dionisia was right. How could he?
“I didn’t – want to make you feel any worse,” he tried, and winced in immediate regret. He wasn’t sure he could envision any worse than this.
