In This Time And Place: Part 3c
The return of his nightmares unnerve Donald more than he cares to admit. He hasn’t had nightmares since shortly after Cassandra’s death and terrible as those were they were never this bad. Never this terrifying.
His first conscious thought is of Stuart and the overwhelming need to see him. Something about the dream unsettles him, something specific that he can’t quite remember, something relating to Stuart.
He’s dressed and on Stuart’s doorstep less than an hour later the unsettling feeling in his gut urging him on. He’s raising his hand to knock when Jim opens the door as if he’s been sitting there, waiting for Donald to arrive. He looks old, tired, sadder than Donald has ever seen him. He follows Jim to Stuart’s study where he finds Ruby staring blankly into the fire. She’s wearing all black and when she turns to him there are tears in her blood shot eyes and Donald knows. Everything slows, stops as they stare at each other, both trying through force of will alone to make the next moment not happen.
He makes it to the nearest chair before his legs give out. He drains the whisky Ruby hands him in one go, welcoming the slow burn. Donald doesn’t have to ask before Ruby starts talking, her voice trembles only a little.
“Something happened to delay us. Something Stuart felt he had a responsibility to finish. He gave a reading to…someone, someone he shouldn’t have. Stuart should have known, maybe he did. The reading was too much, too powerful. He couldn’t handle it all. He fell unconscious and he never woke up.”
It hurts to hear and yet, it’s not a surprise. Deep down Donald always knew that this would kill Stuart in the end. “Where is he?”
Ruby just turns and stares at the sliding doors across the hall before returning her gaze to the fire.
The parlor looks exactly like it has nearly every other time he’s been in it - curtains open letting light pour in, vase of flowers on that familiar round table, a book left on the seat of Stuart’s chair - except for the open coffin sitting in the middle of the room, Stuart’s body lying inside looking grey and drawn.
Someone has tried to make the body presentable, done what they can to smooth out the wrinkles in Stuart’s suit and remove the dried blood from under his nose, folded his hands over his chest and smoothed back his unruly locks of hair.
Those unruly locks that were always a constant source of amusement between them and that Stuart refused to tame. Donald runs his hands through Stuart’s hair, doing his best to mess it up. He can’t stand to see it look so different in death than it did in life, can’t stand to see it any other way than how Stuart wore it - tousled and curled and falling into his face, framing his piercing cat eyes.
But all it does is highlight how grey Stuart’s skin looks, how pale and lifeless his face is against his dark hair. He can’t look, can’t see Stuart’s beautiful face like this. He takes Stuart’s hand in his. His friend’s hands that used to be so strong, that used to touch Donald with such surety and affection, now cold and frail cradled in his hand. He brings it to his lips, kisses it, feels the cold against his lips, tastes death against his skin.
It’s that coldness, that taste of death that makes all this real and Donald feels his legs start to give out. He leans forward, folds himself over to rest on his forearms, Stuart’s coffin taking all his weight, keeping him standing. Stuart’s hand is still clutched in his, pressed to his forehead, the cold seeping into him, down into his bones.
He realizes now, at the end, when it’s too late, what it was between them. The realization makes the loss of Stuart even more unbearable. The loss of Cassidy was the loss of youth, sharp and raw and dulled with time. But the loss of Stuart is the loss of age, deep and eternal and Donald knows he’ll never recover from it. The hollowness in his stomach, the ache in his heart will never leave him; he’ll die with this feeling. And when he does finally die, it will be with a broken heart.
***
Part 3 continued...again
His first conscious thought is of Stuart and the overwhelming need to see him. Something about the dream unsettles him, something specific that he can’t quite remember, something relating to Stuart.
He’s dressed and on Stuart’s doorstep less than an hour later the unsettling feeling in his gut urging him on. He’s raising his hand to knock when Jim opens the door as if he’s been sitting there, waiting for Donald to arrive. He looks old, tired, sadder than Donald has ever seen him. He follows Jim to Stuart’s study where he finds Ruby staring blankly into the fire. She’s wearing all black and when she turns to him there are tears in her blood shot eyes and Donald knows. Everything slows, stops as they stare at each other, both trying through force of will alone to make the next moment not happen.
He makes it to the nearest chair before his legs give out. He drains the whisky Ruby hands him in one go, welcoming the slow burn. Donald doesn’t have to ask before Ruby starts talking, her voice trembles only a little.
“Something happened to delay us. Something Stuart felt he had a responsibility to finish. He gave a reading to…someone, someone he shouldn’t have. Stuart should have known, maybe he did. The reading was too much, too powerful. He couldn’t handle it all. He fell unconscious and he never woke up.”
It hurts to hear and yet, it’s not a surprise. Deep down Donald always knew that this would kill Stuart in the end. “Where is he?”
Ruby just turns and stares at the sliding doors across the hall before returning her gaze to the fire.
The parlor looks exactly like it has nearly every other time he’s been in it - curtains open letting light pour in, vase of flowers on that familiar round table, a book left on the seat of Stuart’s chair - except for the open coffin sitting in the middle of the room, Stuart’s body lying inside looking grey and drawn.
Someone has tried to make the body presentable, done what they can to smooth out the wrinkles in Stuart’s suit and remove the dried blood from under his nose, folded his hands over his chest and smoothed back his unruly locks of hair.
Those unruly locks that were always a constant source of amusement between them and that Stuart refused to tame. Donald runs his hands through Stuart’s hair, doing his best to mess it up. He can’t stand to see it look so different in death than it did in life, can’t stand to see it any other way than how Stuart wore it - tousled and curled and falling into his face, framing his piercing cat eyes.
But all it does is highlight how grey Stuart’s skin looks, how pale and lifeless his face is against his dark hair. He can’t look, can’t see Stuart’s beautiful face like this. He takes Stuart’s hand in his. His friend’s hands that used to be so strong, that used to touch Donald with such surety and affection, now cold and frail cradled in his hand. He brings it to his lips, kisses it, feels the cold against his lips, tastes death against his skin.
It’s that coldness, that taste of death that makes all this real and Donald feels his legs start to give out. He leans forward, folds himself over to rest on his forearms, Stuart’s coffin taking all his weight, keeping him standing. Stuart’s hand is still clutched in his, pressed to his forehead, the cold seeping into him, down into his bones.
He realizes now, at the end, when it’s too late, what it was between them. The realization makes the loss of Stuart even more unbearable. The loss of Cassidy was the loss of youth, sharp and raw and dulled with time. But the loss of Stuart is the loss of age, deep and eternal and Donald knows he’ll never recover from it. The hollowness in his stomach, the ache in his heart will never leave him; he’ll die with this feeling. And when he does finally die, it will be with a broken heart.
***
Part 3 continued...again