Part 2 of Defilement. I wound up writing this part around the poem called "Déjeuner du matin" by Jacques Prévert. You'll find it in quotation marks, in italics. Just so nobody slaps a lawsuit on me—I did not write the poem. I do not claim creative ownership to the poem. It's a lovely poem, but I am not quite that talented in French. I don't own these characters either, but this demented little storyline is courtesy of me and my boredom-amplified imagination.
"Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Marth drinks coffee every morning from the same cup. Even today, he does so. It is not as if anything has changed, from the way he's acting… except that something's just a little out of place. I can't really put my finger on it, it's just that… it's a little too quiet. Then again, it is Sunday. Most of the Smashers are still asleep at this time—normally I would be among those still lying abed, but I woke up as my door was closing behind him. I guess he'd already eaten breakfast by the time I had dressed and walked down to the dining room, although one would never guess from the complete absence of anything resembling a breakfast dish anywhere in his vicinity.
"Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
I used to tease him for putting milk in his coffee (and his tea, for the matter), simultaneously admiring his hands pouring that same milk with steady precision. Today, though, his hand shakes and he uses both of his hands instead of just one. The precision is still there, but it is less fluid and more mechanical—as if he is not entirely there.
"Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
He used to good-naturedly smile at my teasing about his liking café au lait. Today I can't tease him—it doesn't seem right, and I have a feeling that he is not particularly inclined to be good-natured anyway. As much as I silently plead with the sugar bowl to sweeten his current disposition a little, I know my efforts are in vain. He seems fully absorbed in what he is doing, mechanically spooning two teaspoons of sugar into his cup.
"Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
The little silver spoon he stirred his coffee with, the one he thoughtfully brought to his lips to check the coffee's taste, has earned my wholehearted jealousy. But… did I not already mark him last night? Why should I be green with envy of a simple spoon? My toast grows cold on the plate in front of me—my appetite is no longer there.
"Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
The silence has begun to ring in my ears. Over the rush of blood near my eardrums I can hear the almost indiscernible slurp as he drinks his coffee, the faint clink as he sets his cup down on its saucer. He doesn't talk to me, doesn't seem to acknowledge (or want to acknowledge) that I'm sitting right across from him at a long table completely deserted except for the two of us. I know that I fucked up, badly… and now I know what was bothering me so much. I'd never gone so long without hearing his voice.
"Il a allumé
When had Marth ever smoked? I hadn't tasted it on his tongue when I took him, hadn't smelled smoke in his breathless exhalations. Yet here he was, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag as if he'd done it all his life. Peach would throw a fit if she could see him so nonchalantly lighting up at the table like that. For a moment all I could do was stare—it seems that I hadn't known him as well as I thought I did.
"Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Clearly it wasn't a new thing for him. The pack of Mild Sevens lying innocently on the table besides his half-empty cup of café au lait was rather crinkled, and when he blew out the smoke he could make smoke rings. I almost laughed, but when I realized that not even the smoke had been directed anywhere near me my good humor died in my throat.
"Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
He didn't cough as he tapped the ashes off the end of the cigarette into the decorative ash tray on the table, the one that Zelda had insisted we keep there for what she called "feng shui" related purposes. Nor did he offer an explanation for his apparent smoking habit. In fact—the truth of it hitting me like a barrage of Captain Falcon's punches—he wouldn't even look at me.
"Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Sur chapeau sur sa tête
Stubbing out his joint when it had only burned halfway, Marth got up and left the table—I knew he was heading for the coat closet. He hadn't bothered with his armor today, and he'd hung a cloak in that closet in lieu of his cape. In the soap operas that Samus watched every now and again (to make fun of them, she claimed, but once I had caught her actually crying during a particularly sappy scene) this was where Marth was supposed to put on his hat—if he wore hats, anyway. As it was, he merely scoffed at the hat rack (Ness' cap was probably the only thing that ever got hung there, and that was on "formal" days) and took the cloak off its hanger in one efficient motion. As he closed the door I could see he'd barely touched the hanger itself.
"Il a mis
Son manteau de pluie
Parce quil pleuvait
Outside, the rain beat an irregular rat-tat-tat on the roof and the ground wherever it was paved. He put on his cloak, because he had never really fancied raincoats, and strode purposefully to the door. I couldn't just sit there—I left the table and followed him into the entrance hall. He had his hand on the doorhandle, and he could hear my footsteps as I trotted into the room behind him. I thought maybe he'd change his mind, turn around… even just say good-bye—
"Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans un parole
Sans me regarder
—But he didn't. He turned the handle and pushed the heavy door open, and drawing the hood of his cloak over his head walked out into the rain. He hadn't said a word, hadn't spared me a glance. I could feel something in me suddenly break into a thousand pieces, as if I'd personally taken a mallet to it.
"Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré."
There wasn't much after that. The cup still sat on the table, the cigarette butt still smoking in the ashtray, my toast untouched and stone-cold. I didn't think about that, nor about how the other Smashers would wake up soon. I didn't really care that they'd see me like this, my tunic slightly askew and my headband in my pocket rather than on my head. I think my ability to care just walked out that door with the man who stole my heart. Dimly realizing that my legs had given out and that I was on my knees on the floor of the entrance hall, I did the only thing I could think of.
I put my head in my hands, and I cried.
When you told me why you tied me to the headboard and raped me, I could have screamed. That isn't any better than the reasons other people commit the same crime for, but it doesn't do me any good telling you this now.
I won't go into a debate with myself over whose fault it is, and I won't make excuses for you. I can, though, blame you for all the misery you caused me.
The thing is, Roy, I don't want to ever see you again. I shouldn't even be writing you this letter, but I need to make it clear—don't come looking for me.
There never was a wedding. When I walked into your room last night, it was to tell you that… and to confess that I liked you--no, that I loved you. Are you surprised? Perhaps not--but I never dreamed you had so little conscience…
I paid for my naïveté. Maybe some day, when my violation is not so fresh on my mind I will respond if you should write me. But until then… I do not wish to hear from you. Please tell the others that I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly.
A/N: Okay, since the rulers aren't really working... dashes. Lines of dashes to denote breaks. Anyway... if you're really, really pissed that the French is incomprehensible (I thought about adding the translation, but it seemed like it kinda just killed it...) drop me a line and I'll give you a rough translation of it. It's a pretty sad poem, actually... I found it in a French binder and remembered that we'd gone over it in class once, and then--BAM. Plotbunny. Anyway, that's it. This twisted plotbunny can finally be put to rest. And... my god, there's some semblance of plot! So... yes. Please--read, reply, scream at me if you hated the ending, cry on my shoulder if you have to, yell that I've totally fucked up the lovely twisted Roy we saw last chapter... heck, if you've got some good hard criticism, I'll take it! Just... nothing stupid like, "wtf, they're not gay you asshat" please.
P.S. Sorry to the anonymous people out there, I had the anonymous reviews disabled and didn't realize it. They've been enabled now, so... yeah. Feel free to tell me what you think too.