sunday_reveries: It is always necessary.
1. There was never a right time to say it.
It was always unnecessary.
There would be other nights.
And how can you say I love you to someone you love?
(Here is the point of everything I have been trying to tell you, child.
It is always necessary.)
-Jonathan Foer
[A/N: This is a companion/follow-up to the beautiful story that oncehawkgirl wrote here. I suggest reading that first.]
Sunrise, Sunset, and Fire Burns
"What's your name?" The girl asks him one night.
He looks at her sidelong. "Pyro."
"What's that, like Peter?" She leans over the edge of the bench, as if she's waiting to fall off and see what happens.
"No. Like Pyro."
"What's it mean, though?"
He shrugs. "Fire."
"Fire burns."
"That's right."
"What's her name?"
"Shayera."
"That's pretty."
"I know."
Moments pass in silence. The girl hops up and runs around the bench, pretending to flap wings she doesn't have. He considers showing her a bird of flame, letting it fly with her, but doesn't want to scare her. Fire burns.
After a few minutes of running circles around him she comes back and looks him straight in the eye, the way children do. "Don't you want to know my name?" She isn't petulant. Just curious.
"No," he answers, staring at the other kids. The ones that interest him less.
"Why not?"
"It's not my question to ask."
The girl's called away. Her mother has seen St. John and Shayera enough, noticed them not harming her daughter. They're safe. He almost laughs, but instead waves to the mother who, after a moment's hesitation, waves back. He thinks she's assumed they're expecting a child. Only parents or expectant parents would come to a playground night after night. Or pedophiles, but that lot travels alone, and they rarely come without each other.
Tonight's an exception.
--
That night, alone in bed, he dreams of a boy who flies with wings of flame. St. John wakes up crying for the son he'll never have. He makes some phone calls.
A man who can die and be reborn can find a boy that never lived, after all. And he promised her anything.
Anything.
--
"You should talk to her." His arm is around Shayera's shoulders. It's sunset and the girl is watching them from the swings.
"Why?"
"Because she loves you. She doesn't know you, and she loves you. Do you know what that means?"
Shayera stiffens. "It means she's silly. A child."
"It means it's true."
She turns to look at him. "You know me. You love me. Is that less true?"
"No." He closes his eyes and recites the rest in Thanagarian. "It's truer than everything else is."
Her answer is in English. "I shouldn't believe you, but I do."
"Talk to her," he repeats.
"Maybe tomorrow."
--
Tomorrow comes, but she doesn't approach the child. St. John doesn't push it. He lets each evening continue as it did before she told him about her son. The nights she's not with him he stays up, digging, searching, finding ways to give her what she wants. The nights she is with him, he joins her on the bench more often now, watching the children instead of the water.
The girl comes every day, and every day they watch each other. School will start soon, summer will fade. St. John wonders if Shayera will ever say anything to the girl. He wonders why it bothers him. He kisses her neck and she playfully swats him away, murmuring something about in front of the children. He tells her he loves her in three languages and she presses her lips to his. He puts a hand on her stomach. She pulls away.
"No," she whispers.
"I know." He doesn't let it bother him.
She looks at him and nods. They turn back to the playground, their playground, and watch the children play in the setting sun.
It was always unnecessary.
There would be other nights.
And how can you say I love you to someone you love?
(Here is the point of everything I have been trying to tell you, child.
It is always necessary.)
-Jonathan Foer
[A/N: This is a companion/follow-up to the beautiful story that oncehawkgirl wrote here. I suggest reading that first.]
Sunrise, Sunset, and Fire Burns
"What's your name?" The girl asks him one night.
He looks at her sidelong. "Pyro."
"What's that, like Peter?" She leans over the edge of the bench, as if she's waiting to fall off and see what happens.
"No. Like Pyro."
"What's it mean, though?"
He shrugs. "Fire."
"Fire burns."
"That's right."
"What's her name?"
"Shayera."
"That's pretty."
"I know."
Moments pass in silence. The girl hops up and runs around the bench, pretending to flap wings she doesn't have. He considers showing her a bird of flame, letting it fly with her, but doesn't want to scare her. Fire burns.
After a few minutes of running circles around him she comes back and looks him straight in the eye, the way children do. "Don't you want to know my name?" She isn't petulant. Just curious.
"No," he answers, staring at the other kids. The ones that interest him less.
"Why not?"
"It's not my question to ask."
The girl's called away. Her mother has seen St. John and Shayera enough, noticed them not harming her daughter. They're safe. He almost laughs, but instead waves to the mother who, after a moment's hesitation, waves back. He thinks she's assumed they're expecting a child. Only parents or expectant parents would come to a playground night after night. Or pedophiles, but that lot travels alone, and they rarely come without each other.
Tonight's an exception.
--
That night, alone in bed, he dreams of a boy who flies with wings of flame. St. John wakes up crying for the son he'll never have. He makes some phone calls.
A man who can die and be reborn can find a boy that never lived, after all. And he promised her anything.
Anything.
--
"You should talk to her." His arm is around Shayera's shoulders. It's sunset and the girl is watching them from the swings.
"Why?"
"Because she loves you. She doesn't know you, and she loves you. Do you know what that means?"
Shayera stiffens. "It means she's silly. A child."
"It means it's true."
She turns to look at him. "You know me. You love me. Is that less true?"
"No." He closes his eyes and recites the rest in Thanagarian. "It's truer than everything else is."
Her answer is in English. "I shouldn't believe you, but I do."
"Talk to her," he repeats.
"Maybe tomorrow."
--
Tomorrow comes, but she doesn't approach the child. St. John doesn't push it. He lets each evening continue as it did before she told him about her son. The nights she's not with him he stays up, digging, searching, finding ways to give her what she wants. The nights she is with him, he joins her on the bench more often now, watching the children instead of the water.
The girl comes every day, and every day they watch each other. School will start soon, summer will fade. St. John wonders if Shayera will ever say anything to the girl. He wonders why it bothers him. He kisses her neck and she playfully swats him away, murmuring something about in front of the children. He tells her he loves her in three languages and she presses her lips to his. He puts a hand on her stomach. She pulls away.
"No," she whispers.
"I know." He doesn't let it bother him.
She looks at him and nods. They turn back to the playground, their playground, and watch the children play in the setting sun.