it is easy to recall the moment our friendship fractured. it is still readily available to relive in my mind, just as technicolour and bursting and tragic as any other momentous wound.
thinking back, i am just surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. we were awful for each other from the very beginning, i now understand. but stitched through the awfulness, we really were sometimes beautiful.
like the time we sat under his family’s blossoming peach trees in the backyard and philosophised with the melting sun. his voice, i remember, was so soft and candy-sweet that the quiet animals of the outdoors tentatively approached to listen, too.
he’d always had that welcoming miraculousness, that inviting aura, which seemingly took effect on every earthly creature. myself included, which is why at the time, i didn’t think to bring up my mild peach allergy. i didn’t want to ruin the idyllic scene—wanted even less to interrupt his careful, dulcet musings—and when he handed me a freshly-plucked peach to eat, i pretended the buzzing against my lips was a kind of secret, tormented kiss.
maybe telling him back then would have spared me the future implosive grief of our knowing-eachother, but i’m doubtful. anyway.
one night, years after that blissful lounging moment and far too deep into my peach-secret to come clean, we two and some of his other friends decided to saturate our brains with alcohol to celebrate the end of his rigorous month-long rehearsal.
he chose the bar, guided us through the cobblestone streets smartly, greeted the bartender with familiarity. before i could say anything, he plucked the menu from out of my hands.
“i’ll take care of you,” he said with a conspiring wink. “peach schnapps, yeah?”
and my stomach flopped like it always did when i was reminded of how much i’d willingly suffer under his spell for no discernible, sane reason. “yeah,” i croaked. it wasn’t the second, third, or even the tenth time something like this had happened between us.
it would have been the easiest thing in the world to ask for something else. no explanation needed. but i felt compelled to hurt myself, if only for proof of being alive.
he remarked, through an amused chuckle, that i’d always been so easy to please. i thought the word eager would have been more accurate. and when all our drinks came, he held my chilled glass and pushed the lip up to my mouth borderline paternalistically. without speaking, i acquiesced, despite my tingling throat and tongue. it was easy to hurt myself for him. i felt inordinately smug to be given the opportunity.
for the most part, it was a beautiful night, burgeoning anaphylaxis aside. it was so beautiful, actually, that the imminent decimation of our friendship seemed to be a two-party blindside, neither one of us expecting it.
my curious, conversation-making “where is Hina?” is what had apparently lit the fuse, though i didn’t fully realise it at the time.
he shrugged and rolled his eyes in a big, exaggerated circle, as if suddenly faced with a terrible imposition. “how should i know?”
i frowned. “you’re her boyfriend,” i said, as he released my drink and allowed me to hold it for myself. he was drinking something very dark and viscous, and—judging by the tenseness of his expression—something bitter or cloying or an unfortunate combination of the two.
“you keep reminding me.”
for a second, i didn’t know what to say. his strange, heavy mood was exactly unlike him, a rare and unsettling event. “oh. um, i’m sorry, i just thought she’d meet us here, is all,” i began, floundering, “she normally joins us for drinks, so, i—i wasn’t trying to pry, really, i’m sorry if it came across like that—”
he was unrelenting. “you know you do that a lot, Ada? you say sorry a lot. and yes, you pry.”
“i’m sor—” i watched him cringe, stopped myself. i cleared my throat. “did i do something to upset you?”
“your mouth is going all pink,” he murmured. his half-lidded eyes were as dark and viscous as his drink. “your lips are going so, so pink, Ada.”
i touched my mouth self-consciously and felt my quickening heartbeat as it thumped, insistent and hot, against my fingertips. “the alcohol,” i replied, dismissive, by way of a half-believable explanation.
“how’s your drink?” he asked, leaning lopsidedly against the bar. i still had to look up to meet his gaze.
“it’s, um, good. fizzy.” i licked my lips. they felt swollen, increasingly so.
“i bet.”
“it’s good, though,” i repeated. “uh, thank you. good choice.”
his jaw ticked, and then he sighed. he ran his fingers through his hair, as if trying to comb out his frustrations, but it didn’t seem to work. finally, he said, lowly, “were you ever gonna tell me that you’re allergic to peaches?”
as if choking wasn’t already a hazard for me to be wary of. “i—what?”
“we’ve known each other for, like, over ten years, now. why didn’t you say anything? what’s wrong with you?”
i wasn’t sure if i should credit my reddening face to the allergic reaction or my burning humiliation. “Odin, i don’t—i’m not—”
“why do you let me hurt you?” he sounded confused, distressed, annoyed, and something else i couldn’t decipher. “why do you let me do whatever i want to you? it’s almost perverted, what you let me get away with. the way you let me treat you.”
i didn’t ask how long he’d known for. “it’s not fatal,” i responded, weakly. “the allergy, i mean.”
he let out an exasperated huff of air, an almost-laugh, shaking his head.
“you’re unbelievable, sometimes.” he grabbed my face with one of his large hands, keeping me still by the jaw. “you’re… too much, you know? ugh, you’re too much. no, don’t say sorry, and don’t… don’t put your glass down. i said i’d take care of you, yeah? and i bought that drink for you, so be polite. just keep drinking, easy-to-please Ada; maddening, prying, temptation-turned-girl Ada; swallow, swallow, and don’t ask me about Hina again, christ, why the hell do people keep asking about her?”