fic wheee
title: SO VERY MUCH ALIVE
rating: Really, it's G. I mean, I don't see how it could be PG.
pairing: luna/zacharias
prompt: #26, 'futile'
summary: He has to laugh at it because it cannot be real. It cannot be fathomed. It is just-a dream.
notes: Huzzah for stream of consciousness! Also, this is not a happy ending. I think I wanted it to be, but it just didn't turn out that way. Ah, well. Also, story is set in war. Not usual setting.
She asks breathlessly, what ARE we going to do and he finds this very funny, Zach does, because it is Luna, silly goose love-Luna asking him what they are going to do in that helpless tone of voice. He has to laugh at it because it cannot be real. It cannot be fathomed. It is just-a dream.
A very vivid, very lucid dream, yes, Zach tells himself as he smoothes the wild bush of blonde back from that girl’s moon-face (it is waxing, waning; dripping, retreating). He croons things that his mother used to say, wordless songs of old that may have meant something once but now do not mean anything at all, for all meanings have become lost to Z. Smith, all meanings have dissipated into nothingness. Which is sad, sad, sad. All so very sad.
But Zach does not think of this. He thinks instead of windows that are too high up to reach (“Do you think you can get it?” “No, noo, I don’t”), and of floors that are very cold (even with the sweltering mesh of body heat they share), and of once-loathed heroes that are supposed to be keeping them ALIVE (“I hate Potter, that little shit.” “Oh, but you mustn’t, Zacharias. You really mustn’t”). ALIVE, Zach mutters into his blittertwig-blumbering-bizzlebee-baby’s hair, trying not to cry because he is a man, ALIVE.
“Oh but we will make it out of here alive,” mutters Luna L., tears invisible on her mooncake cheeks, or they have all already disappeared into her wide smile. “I believe it. Really.”
She said it-ALIVE, Zach thinks, exhaling deeply and shutting his eyes, pulling in his Daydream Believer (silly goose, mooncake face, lovely Luna L.) closer to his side. A fraction of warmth spreads through his body and hers too, and then everything is not so bad, all of a sudden. Prison cells, they do not matter. Dying heroes, they do not matter. Fighting. That doesn’t even matter.
“Just, what are we going to do?” Luna asks, brow furrowing, lips pursing. She is comic in disaster. Like angels on the battlefield. And thinking of this, Zach laughs again.
“We are going to be ALIVE,” he says, so very optimistic where he has never been before and yet the word hurts him, burns his throat red and desperately raw (like a dirty, filthy, trodden-on insult. Like a slap to the wrist like his mother used to give him when he was being foolish. Like a very ALIVE lie.).
rating: Really, it's G. I mean, I don't see how it could be PG.
pairing: luna/zacharias
prompt: #26, 'futile'
summary: He has to laugh at it because it cannot be real. It cannot be fathomed. It is just-a dream.
notes: Huzzah for stream of consciousness! Also, this is not a happy ending. I think I wanted it to be, but it just didn't turn out that way. Ah, well. Also, story is set in war. Not usual setting.
She asks breathlessly, what ARE we going to do and he finds this very funny, Zach does, because it is Luna, silly goose love-Luna asking him what they are going to do in that helpless tone of voice. He has to laugh at it because it cannot be real. It cannot be fathomed. It is just-a dream.
A very vivid, very lucid dream, yes, Zach tells himself as he smoothes the wild bush of blonde back from that girl’s moon-face (it is waxing, waning; dripping, retreating). He croons things that his mother used to say, wordless songs of old that may have meant something once but now do not mean anything at all, for all meanings have become lost to Z. Smith, all meanings have dissipated into nothingness. Which is sad, sad, sad. All so very sad.
But Zach does not think of this. He thinks instead of windows that are too high up to reach (“Do you think you can get it?” “No, noo, I don’t”), and of floors that are very cold (even with the sweltering mesh of body heat they share), and of once-loathed heroes that are supposed to be keeping them ALIVE (“I hate Potter, that little shit.” “Oh, but you mustn’t, Zacharias. You really mustn’t”). ALIVE, Zach mutters into his blittertwig-blumbering-bizzlebee-baby’s hair, trying not to cry because he is a man, ALIVE.
“Oh but we will make it out of here alive,” mutters Luna L., tears invisible on her mooncake cheeks, or they have all already disappeared into her wide smile. “I believe it. Really.”
She said it-ALIVE, Zach thinks, exhaling deeply and shutting his eyes, pulling in his Daydream Believer (silly goose, mooncake face, lovely Luna L.) closer to his side. A fraction of warmth spreads through his body and hers too, and then everything is not so bad, all of a sudden. Prison cells, they do not matter. Dying heroes, they do not matter. Fighting. That doesn’t even matter.
“Just, what are we going to do?” Luna asks, brow furrowing, lips pursing. She is comic in disaster. Like angels on the battlefield. And thinking of this, Zach laughs again.
“We are going to be ALIVE,” he says, so very optimistic where he has never been before and yet the word hurts him, burns his throat red and desperately raw (like a dirty, filthy, trodden-on insult. Like a slap to the wrist like his mother used to give him when he was being foolish. Like a very ALIVE lie.).