Well I was hoping that I could see you,
Who: John Egbert and Rose Lalonde
When: Sunday
Where: Suite 31
Summary: Two kids discuss their parents.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Language, Sad, Derp.
This time, she wasn't waiting in her room, or entrapped herself where nobody would find her. This time she remained in plain sight, elegant, poised. The sole lavender that mirrored itself against emptiness spilled nothing but calm, readiness. An ensuing storm would be naturally heaved, just as the lungs empty their bated, nervous breathes. But Rose would protest that same predestination that would unequivocally damn her into the same rut that has tormented her the past fifty days. This time, she would assure herself in a river of delicatesse, coursed only to flow itself towards the basin stoicism and nowhere else. In the open, it would be easier to keep this composure, this poise. A place where she would be safe from her own toiling heart. Where shaking faults do not tempt themselves on but a single breath in which the might assume themselves as more. Emotion had clashed with her self image for the final time, and determined she as to keep from sinking into something she knew she wasn't. Every single day, there would be the same fleeting desire to return to when she was Rose Lalonde, aficionado of making sarcastic quips and thick "weird" books. Not fragile or soft, never translucent. Was she really growing up? Or was she just getting weaker? The reality in which she needed his help would have to exist separately from the reality that she was not going to compromise her self imagine this time. Separate but equal, she could drown in just the way she likes.
John, more than anyone might understand the affliction, and maybe he was suffering too. Perhaps her ailing will, her sallow thoughts were not the one that needed warmth to bask and time to heal. If anyone would take part in spinning these wheels of angst, it needed to be him. An elucidation for both their sakes. She told him to come here, to join her in the empty open, in the false safety. Among a single swatch of white, she waited on the couch of suite thirty-one, legs folded indian style. Waited for the one person with whom she might hope to leave a tinge of her grief unguarded towards, even if for but a single passing moment. Waited for the person who might help instill a blue thread of optimism into her sorrowful shades of black. A release of this pressure, this guilt from its prison wherein a more copacetic sickness might take up residence to carve the days on the walls of her granite heart.
Or maybe? If she's lucky?
Nothing.