4. Fidelity

Issa and Tryx's odd friendship becomes something more; dangerous waters ahead. Wedding day and night.

ISSA

Tryxtan’s lips are chapped, his cheek is soft under my fingertips, and he smells so, so good. I don’t know what’s come over me, but all I can do is give in to it, let the wave take me. I’ve never kissed anyone before, not of my own free will, and Tryxtan is probably the worst person I could be doing this with right now. 

I don’t care. 

In this moment, I’m not the girl who is going to marry the President, I’m not the caged exotic bird everyone sees me as. In this moment, Tryxtan is not the President’s right-hand; he’s a boy and I’m a girl and we’re kissing in his apartment after spending the day together. 

But as quickly as it comes, it goes. 

Tryxtan pushes me away, his eyes full of something I can’t name. 

“What the f**k are you doing?” he asks in a voice gone deep and ragged. For a moment I’m afraid he might hit me.

“I--I don’t know.” I squeak. I didn’t think ahead of the initial kiss, didn’t care to imagine the possible outcomes. Clearly, I should have. Oh well, hindsight, right?

Tryxtan springs up from the couch and starts pacing furiously, running his hands through his hair and looking more than slightly crazy. His voice raises several decibels in his rant at me.

“Markus has been tracking you, Issa! He knew we were at the Arbordome that first time without either of us telling him, and you know what that means? It means that he has you followed! You’re his property and he wants to make sure you know it.”

“I am NOBODY’S property!” I scream, and in the silence that follows I can feel my heart pumping hard. Tryxtan’s cheeks are flushed and he stands still for what seems like ages. 

I am trying with herculean effort not to cry. 

“Look, what I’m saying is, that he thinks you’re his property. And if he thinks you are...well, Markus isn’t used to anyone disputing what he thinks. You should know by now that his word is God around here.”

The tears that I’m holding back start to fall, my nose stuffs up and I feel the heat rise in my face. 

I know that he’s right, of course. 

All I am in Cityland is a pretty bag of skin and bones, a flesh tube with holes on either end, a slave glorified by the title “wife”. 

My tears seem to make the soft Tryxtan, my Tryxtan come back. He sits back down on the threadbare couch beside me, puts his arms around me like that first day. I despise myself for my weakness in all of this, for needing anyone’s arms, for being too slow and being caught by the scientists. I haven’t cried like this since my breakdown in the party planner’s office, choking gasps and sobs, snot running down my face. 

“Hey. Hey, don’t cry. I hate to see you cry.” he says softly, pulling me a little closer to him so that when I breathe his scent fills my nose. I feel like nothing will ever be alright again. 

Huge gulps of air and sniffling pitifully, I jam my balled fists into my eyes, wipe away the salty evidence. 

“Why?” I ask him, meaning, why does he hate seeing me cry? Why does he feel the need to comfort me with his words and with his arms? If everything is as hopeless and wrong as it seems, why does he care?

Tryxtan sighs, makes a puffing sound with his lips; it’s even harder for him to say things than it is for me. He takes his arms away, and I am momentarily overcome with the chill in the air that hits my skin. I almost reach out for him, but I don’t.

“I...there’s something about you that--never mind. Wait. No, what I mean is...ah, s**t.” to hear and watch him stumble over words is almost amusing, almost sweet. I smile a little, though my face is still sticky with tears. He exhales deeply again, sits up a little straighter. “The first time you smiled it felt like I was seeing the sun after living underground for a lifetime. Does--does that make any sense?” he looks anxious, those worried eyebrows resting above troubled eyes. 

I nod, which seems to encourage him to continue. 

“It’s just that this is all so...so surreal. You, I mean. How you came here, how I met you, how we just...”

“...seem to match?” I offer, afraid that if I say too much he won’t keep going. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, nods once. 

“Right. I’ve never felt like I really fit in here, in Cityland, but the way we’re taught...it’s as if any other way of life just couldn’t possibly exist. But then you were here, and suddenly there was.”

“Sometimes I wonder if it was fate, that I got caught.” I murmur, thinking aloud what’s been buzzing around in my head for weeks. Tryxtan traces the back of my hand with the tip of his index finger, looping and scrolling invisible letters maybe. 

“Then...then I guess you understand what I can’t make myself say. I just hope you know how stupid it is, what we’re about to do. Deadly, even.” he locks eyes with me, he looks serious, but how can I help the smile that tugs at my lips? In-between the lines of what he’s just said lies the assent I crave. 

“Then I’d rather die with at least one good memory of this place.” I say, running my fingers along his jawline, waiting for him to react. 

Then comes the smile, reluctant at first, then the embrace. 

Then the kisses, more urgent and driven than the ones before. 

If Markus can see me, I don’t care. If I die tomorrow, I don’t care. 

My brain is too full of fire; smoke blurs the consequences, leaves them charred and singed. 

When I am returned to my prison, lips swollen and eyes glinting, the name on my tongue before I fall asleep is not hard to guess. 

The morning of my wedding comes and goes so quickly it’s as if I’m watching it happen to someone else on a wall-screen. I am dressed and painted, whisked away to the Sanctitorium where the ceremony is held. Tryxtan is there, dressed in a jacket and tie, and for a moment my heart leaps to see him. That is, until I realize that he is the one to walk me down the aisle. Markus doesn’t even realize how cruel this is, to have to see the look on Tryxtan’s face as I pledge myself to another man. 

His arm is firm and steadies me, though, and his eyes betray nothing. Just the slight furrow of worry between his eyebrows, that doleful slope of theirs lets me know what he’s feeling. 

The packed and gleaming pews are adorned with flowers, and the impossibly long center aisle that I walk seems to take mere seconds to finish. Markus is looking at me with those eyes, like I’m something to eat. I can’t look him in the face. 

He expects too much, wants too much. My lips begin to tremble as the presiding official drones the words that precede our union, and my knuckles go white from my death-grip on the bouquet. I am holding it in, I am holding it in. 

He forgoes the traditional vows, opting to go straight for the “Do you take this man/woman...” which isn’t surprising seeing as how I couldn’t have come up with a sentence’s worth of vows for Markus, let alone some long-winded soliloquy. 

When it is time for Markus to slide the ostentatious wedding band on my finger, a tiny sob escapes my throat and echoes through the vaulted ceilings. The guests (of whom I know none, not really) all sigh and some dab at the corners of their eyes with handkerchiefs; how can I fault them? They’re seeing what Markus wants them to see, a beautiful ceremony between two seemingly consenting parties. A May-December storybook romance. 

When the officiator says that the bride may be kissed, he might as well have signed my death sentence. Markus’s lips, slimy and wormlike, descend upon mine and it’s all I can do not to gag. With a kiss, the deal has been made. 

I am his prisoner for life. 

“I can’t do this,” Tryxtan says quietly as guests dance and socialize in the reception hall around us. Markus is making small-talk with some obviously wealthy people, Tryx and I are sitting in a secluded spot near a burbling fountain. 

“Do what?” I ask, though I already know what he means. He’s watched me dance with my new husband, watched him lovingly caress my cheek, watched him lean in to kiss me while we ate dinner. And I hope, fervently, that he also saw the way I pulled away from Markus, the way I tried to conceal the shivers of repulsion at his touch. 

“I thought I would be okay, but I’m not. I...I don’t want him touching you.” he says, looking so frustrated and resigned that it makes me want to cry. 

“That can’t really be helped, Tryxtan, you know it can’t.” I say. “Markus is my--my husband now and I’m guessing that means he can touch me whenever he damn well pleases.” 

“Then let me...let me be first.” he says, placing his large hand over mine and giving me that brave, wounded look he wears so well. I understand what he means, and almost immediately I can think of a hundred reasons why it’s insane. 

Still, I will never have the first time that anyone dreams of, and I’d rather choose the lesser of two evils (or whatever it is.) 

I hardly have to think about my next word. 

“Where?”

In an abandoned closet, hallways away from the dazzling festivities from my wedding party, I stumble headlong into womanhood. 

It is not magical, nor is it without pain. It’s awkward and it stings at first, and my pouffy-skirted gown is hardly practical in such a tight space. The closet smells of sharp lemon-scented cleaning solvent, and slightly of mold. 

Still, it is better than the alternative. Tryxtan speaks softly to me in his gentle voice, asking me how it feels, mumbling my name over and over like a prayer. I try to etch into my brain the way he looks in the private moments we share, I want to remember it forever. How his cheeks are flushed, his brows knit in concentration and his forehead damp with sweat. How he catches my lips in breathy kisses, strokes my hair. 

When he reaches that moment, he presses his forehead to mine and gives one shuddering sigh before going limp. 

We don’t say much out loud, just try to straighten our clothes and wipe away the evidence. I didn’t bleed, and for that I’m thankful. Imagine trying to explain away those stains on my white dress. 

When we sneak back to the party, I’m amazed to find that we’ve only been gone for a half-hour. Markus kisses my cheek and introduces me to more people than I’ve ever met in my life, and Tryxtan never leaves his side. Or perhaps my side?

Nevertheless, parties end, and the crowds disperse little by little until it becomes painfully obvious that I am going to have to be alone with Markus soon. 

Tryxtan’s face as we take our leave is heart-wrenching. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. 

I hope that what I’ve given him is enough, that he will think on it tonight instead of wondering what Markus is doing to me. I hope he knows that I’ll be doing the same thing. 

When we shake hands goodbye, I give his hand a quick squeeze which he returns with so much power I’m surprised my fingers aren’t broken. 

Deep breaths all the way “home” and into the bedroom, deep breaths and mental escape in the dark as I try to tune out what will most likely be my nightly routine from now on. 

I try not to cry, but fail.