origfic: untitled [g]
this isn't, she says, shortly, what i thought it would be like. her fingernails are chipped, ragged, blood in the creases of her pale skin and under the nails; she sees him looking and feels the need to quantify. i don't bite them, she says, quietly, i just-- pick. kind of. it's a bad habit; one day i'll break it.
like you, is the unspoken suffix; he shrugs, drops his hand and hers by default. what did you think this would be like?
i don't know, she says, sighing. happier. gentler, maybe. less harsh, for certain.
he shakes his head. this is all i've got; i ran out of flowers and hearts a while back.
back by the sea, she says, back when you liked the sun. she sits down, carefully, feet dangling off the edge of this low stone wall. there are flowers growing, dandelions and daffodils twining through the grass, and little purple flowers neither of them knows the name of peeping out of the cracks in the boundary of the field.
back when you were a girl and i was a boy and that was the story. back when we were friends, and i loved someone else. he stands, brushing his hands against his thighs, scattering a shower of blades of grass. "i should go," he tells her, aloud, voice echoing even to the empty open sky. "places to go, people to see."
she swallows. not me. she's never liked speaking out loud; once she told him, chin on her hands, my voice doesn't sound like me. her dress flutters, gentle come-and-go breeze that's there for a heartbeat then gone, leaving the faint scent of new-cut grass in the air. but don't. stay.
he pauses, bare foot half-lifted off the ground, toes tangled through with weeds and rocks. okay, he says. and, tilting his head up, stares at the sun for a moment, before it gets too bright, and he rubs his eyes to clear the neon spots. i'm sorry. that i can't be who i was.
yeah, she says, but you know i-- she bites her lip, closes her eyes, presses her palms flat against stone and moss and vine. there's a tattoo he never noticed before, twining its way around her ankle; a string of words he can hardly read, curlicue font and faded blue-black letters. you weren't my dream, she says, brutally honest, but you're true, this you, and that's better. i miss who you were, but i'm not who i was, and we can't go back.
he shakes his head, to clear the thoughts buzzing like bees behind his eyes. shit, he says, it's been a while.
not too long, she says, long enough. but it hurts.
everything good hurts, he says, everything bad too. everything important, then?
her face is thinner than it used to be, narrow and pale and gaunt, with tired eyes and copper earrings swinging from her ears, paint on them starting to fade. the breeze comes again, makes them chime, a little like bells he used to know. she says, tiredly, "everything is important." her voice is harsh, unused and both of them wince. i miss fairytales, she says, and i missed you.
hey, he says, gently, sitting down beside her, back against the wall, remember, dragons are much less fun than we thought they'd be.
she grins, doesn't mean they weren't worth seeing. and it doesn't mean unicorns aren't awesome. she stretches, arms pointing up over her head, a little of the ballet training she hated when she was small lingering in the trained grace of her movements. look at the sky.
what? he says, head thumping back, dust in his hair, it's just clouds.
but look, she says, putting a hand on his shoulder, they're moving.