"No. FuCk ThInKiNG iS mOrE My SiBlInG. It'S kinDa HiShErItS ThInG. YoU KnOW? Oh. YeAh. YoU KnOW."
She smiles and crawls up the bed a little to peer at him, kinda like a little kid peering down at a sleeping parent. Or kinda like looking at a dog you know might bite you but you want to pet anyway.
Or both. Or neither.
"SoMeThInG lIkE thAt," she finishes, except she forgot to say any of it, cause she was doing it instead, and Delirium grins down at him.
"YoU NeVeR diD ViSiT EnOuGh. YoU ShOuLD hAvE." It's scolding, really.
She smiles down at him and her eyes that are the color of the sea on a clear day match perfectly.
But only long enough to say, "I'm sorry we didn't play more," and for the scent of flowers and champagne to wash over him, and then it's like a stained glass window being hit with a baseball and they
FrAcTuRE
and she giggles and it cuts into him like knives as she pats his forehead.
"We CaN nOW. FoR a LiTtLe WhIlE LoNgeR!"
It's a promise.
"SoMeTiMeS pRoMiSeS SuCk," she sighs and pats his head again.
"WaNt To HeaR a FuNnY StOrY?"
She may be asking him, or she may be asking the air. It's hard to tell.
Ennis ain't really sure he's got a choice (and maybe if he closes his eyes he'll sleep and when he wakes up, she'll be gone) so he nods, coughing again as he pulls his hand up to his mouth.
"MaYbE," she murmurs, and then says, "OnCe UpOn a TiMe, LoVe BoRn. It WaS mEsSy. I tHiNk. I tHiNk iT hAd To Be. It WaSn'T mInE, bUt I wAs TheRe. BeCaUsE I KnOW iT. I Do. BuT iT wAs MesSy AnD iT HuRt AnD LoVe. It'S noT aN EnDlesS. BuT I tHiNk iT'll OuTlAsT AlL SeVEn oF uS. I ThInK sO. IsN'T IT fUnNy? I ThInK it IS. I dOn'T kNoW. ThAt MigHt AlL," she adds, looking over at him, "bE A LiE. SoMeTiMeS I dO tHaT. LiE. LoVe MiGhT Be JuSt A MoMeNt, ToO, AnD thAt'S iTs LifEtImE. Or BoTH. I ThInK iT'S HiLaRioUs."
She pokes at his knee, absently.
"I hAVe A SiCk SeNSe Of HuMoR. BuT. Um. ThEy LiVed. For A WhiLe. ThEn ThEy DiEd. AnD SoMeTimEs THeRe WAs HaPpIly inBeTWeEn. AnD SoMetImEs TheRe WaSn'T. ThAt'S HoW thE StoriEs Go. MayBe. I ThInk."
"ReAlLy?" And there's something young in her eyes and delighted as she beams over at him.
"I'Ll TeLl YoU aNoTHer, ThEn!"
And she does. She tells him stories, as she sits by him, and the fog moves through, and if he can't remember them later except in fleeting moments it's really maybe for the best.
They're all true stories, except for the lies.
Time passes, and she's sitting with him on the bed as her dark hair
(it was red)
falls aroudn her shoulders and she finishes the last story.
The room doesn't smell quite so sour anymore. It's something fresh now, something like fresh grass and the sea and the mountains all at once, and if there's a scent for being where you have to be and it being okay--even if that place is here, even if that place is your deathbed--maybe that's the other part of the scent in the room, too, as she murmurs, "The end," and looks over at him.
"Except it never really is. That's one of the secrets I like to tell. Some I'm not supposed to just share, but. That one's okay."
Or maybe he means Milliways or maybe it don't matter much what he really means. And if it's easier, now, with her sittin' there -- if it's easier for him to talk, to breathe, well, maybe he don't notice so much.
"Then you're ahead of most Creation, Ennis del Mar," she smiles at him. "Bet you never thought you'd hear that one."
She doesn't take him away, because this is where he is and should be, but she puts a cool hand to his forehead for a moment and it's nothing but a cool hand to the forehead.
But maybe that's kinda all it needs to be, and then her hand's pulled away.
There are things she could do. A lot. But could isn't would and isn't will, and she won't, because that's what it's about, in the end. This is what it's about. Not waiting for the Sister, but the moments where even if you are waiting for the Sister--or a bus--or for the cake to be finished baking--whatever it is, it's about the moments where mad or sad or filled with glee, you know it's okay.
However you are, it's okay.
It's just the way it was meant to be, because it's what you chose.
"Can I tell you another secret, Ennis?" she asks, and what had been silver flecks have taken over her eyes til they're just wide and shining and almost like mirrors where it's easier to see yourself--the good and the bad and all that is you in them--than anything else.
The beauty of it, though, is that you don't lack for breath, drowning or not. And whatever he's drowning in, it's not really her. Because she can't take him in. That's not how she is. Not like this.
He has to take her in, like this, you see.
So it's like drowning, but she's just there, holding his hand.
She leans over and kisses his forehead, soft and gentle, and then says, "The mystics say that the difference between happiness and joy is sorrow. They're kinda right. That's a secret. And it's not a lie."
All she can do is sit at his side and take his hand in hers, and say, "And it's okay. It is. I hurt too. And I understand."
And he remembers her hand and her wish and her promise, and he remembers her sibling, sitting there at the food of his bed, tellingpromisingthreatening and he struggles against the pull of sleep.
There's limits. There're rules. It's all in the playbook.
But the thing is, you can't put all of life in the book. She thinks. She thinks that's the secret she knows, that there are things you can't write down and can't be understood except by experiencing, and she thinks a lot of things and smooths his hair, gently.
"I'll offer him a hand, too. I can do that. I can't--Desire is a bitch, y'see? Always has been, always will be. World without end amen, as they say. But I can offer Jack a hand. I'll do that, if you want."
It's more than a lot get. Death waits for everyone, and you can't escape her. She's not like Death. It's entirely possible to avoid her, if you want to, and she's the kind you find half by accident and half by seeking out and half because you're blessed.
Too many halves, she thinks, and starts to fracture again, and makes herself not.
And maybe that makes him feel better, maybe he'd laugh if he could. Maybe it's that he's half asleep, or maybe it don't matter none 'cause maybe he's already asleep and this is all a dream anyway.
And in the end, none of it matters anyway, 'cause in the end, it's all sleep.
And when he does sleep, maybe no one else can see her sitting next to his bed--or maybe there's one girl around who could, if she looked close--but there's a damp cloth on his forehead that wasn't earlier, and the room still smells like grass and cool air from the mountains.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
She smiles and crawls up the bed a little to peer at him, kinda like a little kid peering down at a sleeping parent. Or kinda like looking at a dog you know might bite you but you want to pet anyway.
Or both. Or neither.
"SoMeThInG lIkE thAt," she finishes, except she forgot to say any of it, cause she was doing it instead, and Delirium grins down at him.
"YoU NeVeR diD ViSiT EnOuGh. YoU ShOuLD hAvE." It's scolding, really.
no subject
no subject
But only long enough to say, "I'm sorry we didn't play more," and for the scent of flowers and champagne to wash over him, and then it's like a stained glass window being hit with a baseball and they
FrAcTuRE
and she giggles and it cuts into him like knives as she pats his forehead.
"We CaN nOW. FoR a LiTtLe WhIlE LoNgeR!"
It's a promise.
"SoMeTiMeS pRoMiSeS SuCk," she sighs and pats his head again.
"WaNt To HeaR a FuNnY StOrY?"
She may be asking him, or she may be asking the air. It's hard to tell.
"EvEn FoR mE. MaYbE eSpEciAlLy HaRd FoR mE."
no subject
no subject
She pokes at his knee, absently.
"I hAVe A SiCk SeNSe Of HuMoR. BuT. Um. ThEy LiVed. For A WhiLe. ThEn ThEy DiEd. AnD SoMeTimEs THeRe WAs HaPpIly inBeTWeEn. AnD SoMetImEs TheRe WaSn'T. ThAt'S HoW thE StoriEs Go. MayBe. I ThInk."
no subject
"Real fuckin' hilarious."
no subject
"I'Ll TeLl YoU aNoTHer, ThEn!"
And she does. She tells him stories, as she sits by him, and the fog moves through, and if he can't remember them later except in fleeting moments it's really maybe for the best.
They're all true stories, except for the lies.
Time passes, and she's sitting with him on the bed as her dark hair
(it was red)
falls aroudn her shoulders and she finishes the last story.
The room doesn't smell quite so sour anymore. It's something fresh now, something like fresh grass and the sea and the mountains all at once, and if there's a scent for being where you have to be and it being okay--even if that place is here, even if that place is your deathbed--maybe that's the other part of the scent in the room, too, as she murmurs, "The end," and looks over at him.
"Except it never really is. That's one of the secrets I like to tell. Some I'm not supposed to just share, but. That one's okay."
no subject
Or maybe he means Milliways or maybe it don't matter much what he really means. And if it's easier, now, with her sittin' there -- if it's easier for him to talk, to breathe, well, maybe he don't notice so much.
no subject
She doesn't take him away, because this is where he is and should be, but she puts a cool hand to his forehead for a moment and it's nothing but a cool hand to the forehead.
But maybe that's kinda all it needs to be, and then her hand's pulled away.
"Still mad?"
no subject
Right?
no subject
"Desire's good at that."
There are things she could do. A lot. But could isn't would and isn't will, and she won't, because that's what it's about, in the end. This is what it's about. Not waiting for the Sister, but the moments where even if you are waiting for the Sister--or a bus--or for the cake to be finished baking--whatever it is, it's about the moments where mad or sad or filled with glee, you know it's okay.
However you are, it's okay.
It's just the way it was meant to be, because it's what you chose.
"Can I tell you another secret, Ennis?" she asks, and what had been silver flecks have taken over her eyes til they're just wide and shining and almost like mirrors where it's easier to see yourself--the good and the bad and all that is you in them--than anything else.
no subject
no subject
He has to take her in, like this, you see.
So it's like drowning, but she's just there, holding his hand.
She leans over and kisses his forehead, soft and gentle, and then says, "The mystics say that the difference between happiness and joy is sorrow. They're kinda right. That's a secret. And it's not a lie."
All she can do is sit at his side and take his hand in hers, and say, "And it's okay. It is. I hurt too. And I understand."
And all of it's promises that don't suck at all.
no subject
no subject
Instead she sits and the room is cool and comfortable, and you can almost hear someone singing.
"I wish we'd known each other longer, Ennis del Mar. I truly do. But, you know."
And she's always Del, so she looks over at him and her smile's a little secret.
"You know. Like what I said. Remember?"
"And my hand's here as long as you want to hold it."
no subject
And he remembers her hand and her wish and her promise, and he remembers her sibling, sitting there at the food of his bed, tellingpromisingthreatening and he struggles against the pull of sleep.
no subject
There's limits. There're rules. It's all in the playbook.
But the thing is, you can't put all of life in the book. She thinks. She thinks that's the secret she knows, that there are things you can't write down and can't be understood except by experiencing, and she thinks a lot of things and smooths his hair, gently.
"I'll offer him a hand, too. I can do that. I can't--Desire is a bitch, y'see? Always has been, always will be. World without end amen, as they say. But I can offer Jack a hand. I'll do that, if you want."
It's more than a lot get. Death waits for everyone, and you can't escape her. She's not like Death. It's entirely possible to avoid her, if you want to, and she's the kind you find half by accident and half by seeking out and half because you're blessed.
Too many halves, she thinks, and starts to fracture again, and makes herself not.
"...And I'll steal Desire's cigarettes."
no subject
And in the end, none of it matters anyway, 'cause in the end, it's all sleep.
no subject
But you can think that if you want.
And when he does sleep, maybe no one else can see her sitting next to his bed--or maybe there's one girl around who could, if she looked close--but there's a damp cloth on his forehead that wasn't earlier, and the room still smells like grass and cool air from the mountains.
For a little while, anyway.