[fic] In Lieu of Kindness: Chapter 7
Title: In Lieu of Kindness
Notes: Original characters belong to Zephuu. Discontinued at her request.
Summary: The bruises we leave on each other all fade away, but the changes we make are the steps we take towards the future.
Chapter Seven: War .
Chaz almost feels cheated by the world. It is a sunny day, bright and colorful, the horizon a piece of pure blue and dotted by cloudy wisps of white, as to mocking him. He'll take it if this is the worst of his worries, but it's not and he knows it, which is probably why he is here, legs thrown haphazardly over a bench with long fingers loosely intertwined, head tilted back to stare at sky. Grimly, he insists that he is not running, because that would make him cowardly and Chaz is no coward. He's just a little tired, a little sick of the mindless abuse, a little bit fraying and a little bit lonely.
And yet, all alone as he is in this park, he does not feel lonely at all.
It still has not hit him that he is going to war. That the train he waits for will bear him away from the only land he has ever known and ship him to the battlefield to be one among many, one soldier of an army. Ready to fight, ready to die. The secret he carries black and deep inside the chambers of his heart is that of all the things he is ready for, he is not ready to live.
For now it is just him and the world, with none of the problems that plague his shaking hold on uncertain calm. The whisper of leaves and the hiss of wheels blast through his fanciful imagination of a place with no war and no cruelty; he resents the source of those sounds instantly, because skepticism does not often leave him time to pretend. His entire form snaps to rigid attention, eyes seeking out the perpetrator and words sharpening upon his tongue.
He fails to give voice to those words when she emerges from the corner, a brittle ghost consumed by a white nightgown that billows around her bleached-brown skin (bleached and brown like driftwood at sea, crusted with salt and far from home). The riot of matted curls threaten to swallow her face, a hand clutching at the metal stand she drags along with her.
This curious woman-child is the last thing he expects to see and she appears just as stunned to see him. He wants to tell her that this is a public park so he has every right to be here, as if he should be explaining himself to the dark pull of her eyes.
"Why the nightgown?"
The moment he asks the question he winces, because obviously that's not a nightgown and clearly she has no say in what she wears (the folds of the fabric drape oddly over her shoulders, but he doesn't miss the swell of her breasts or the narrowness of her waist again the curve of her hips). She doesn't seem offended though, nor does she seem upset, confusion falling from her face like an autumn tree shedding red-gold leaves.
"It was all I had at the time," the strange creature of avian frailty returns, her movements neither elegant nor sure, but thoughtlessly graceful in their own way.
Silence passes between them and she takes a seat beside him, where he watches her with a mix of trepidation and uncharacteristic interest. He does not shift to accommodate her and so she perches delicately upon the space left for her, settling down with unabashed ease, like he does not scare her.
"You look horrible in it," he bites back sharply, but with no real malice, searching for the flinch, the wince, the subconscious recoil that will give her away as human the way all others are.
She lifts a corner and examines the hem, tilts her head like she is pondering the loose cotton that pools around her. "It's a poor fit, I guess."
"Yeah. It looks like a sack."
"Are you from the hospital too?"
Chaz gapes at her open mouthed, at a loss in face of her genuine innocence, casting her face, marked by illness and wrought from smooth silk, in a glow that steals the breath straight from his starving lungs. "I'm going to war. Do I look like a sick man?" He struggles to keep the hesitation out of his retort, to sound confident and snide and not the least worried that she might think him less in some way.
"Not really," she admits. "This park is very nice, isn't it? Very... quiet." Her lashes cast shadows upon her cheeks in an image that mirrors his own just minutes ago, only he sees real joy in the corners of her mouth, real sunshine kissing the edges of her face and sinking into her skin in flashes of amber fire.
It takes too much concentration to keep himself from dipping his head, if only just to agree with her. She has a surreal gravity that draws him in, nudging him off course and distracting him with the soft cadence of her voice. There is no mistaking the damage left by her stuttering heart, her cheekbones standing sharp and the skin at her wrists paper thin.
"What's your name?" She does not open her eyes to look at him and his heart hitches in his chest, thudding against his ribs.
"Chaz."
"I'm Alessa."
Now she does look at him, peeking at Chaz from the corners of her eyes, serene, and terribly beautiful. How she can be so beautiful despite everything that stands in her way bothers him almost as much as it stuns him.
"Are you a... patient?"
Alessa rewards the attempt at civility with a smile that warms him to the coldest dredges of his wasteland hopes. "Yes," she confides, like it is as simple as that. He knows it's not because the hospital in this city is a large one and specializes in some of the trickiest ailments there are.
"Isn't it hard? To be sick and useless, confined to bed and unable to do anything for anyone?" He prods, wanting to see her mad, to break that silent resignation he sees growing in her, like a pile of snow rising and rising as she piles it on.
"It is," she admits, an inexplicable sorrow turning the mahogany brown of her eyes bittersweet. "But I have faith."
A distant whistle blows, high and shrill, shocking him. Where has all the time gone? He doesn't want to leave yet, doesn't want to go to war when Alessa sits next to him like a wonderland he has never known, the impossible miracles of the universe hidden in her smile. She watches his eyes fly to the east, resting on the tiled roof of the train station.
"Off to war now, Chaz?"
The soldier in him nods because the man in him is wordlessly lost to the wrinkle forming at her brow, the solemn kindness shining in her touch. Her lips are soft and dry on his forehead, dropping the kiss like a benediction, a blessing that shoots through his veins in an arrow of lightning. "Be safe Chaz."
He tears away, feeling like he is clumsily ripping wandering roots from their place. "Thanks."
It would be nice if he could tell her that he is doing this for their country, out of patriotism and courage, but he knows that he is only doing this for himself, out of fear and a lack of something better to do.
When Chaz is in the field, he will trace her name in the dirt with a branch, connect the stars until he sees her face outlined in the heavens; maybe he will never see her again beyond these rough sketches.
Maybe, but he is finally ready to live.
Notes: Original characters belong to Zephuu. Discontinued at her request.
Summary: The bruises we leave on each other all fade away, but the changes we make are the steps we take towards the future.
Chapter Seven: War .
Chaz almost feels cheated by the world. It is a sunny day, bright and colorful, the horizon a piece of pure blue and dotted by cloudy wisps of white, as to mocking him. He'll take it if this is the worst of his worries, but it's not and he knows it, which is probably why he is here, legs thrown haphazardly over a bench with long fingers loosely intertwined, head tilted back to stare at sky. Grimly, he insists that he is not running, because that would make him cowardly and Chaz is no coward. He's just a little tired, a little sick of the mindless abuse, a little bit fraying and a little bit lonely.
And yet, all alone as he is in this park, he does not feel lonely at all.
It still has not hit him that he is going to war. That the train he waits for will bear him away from the only land he has ever known and ship him to the battlefield to be one among many, one soldier of an army. Ready to fight, ready to die. The secret he carries black and deep inside the chambers of his heart is that of all the things he is ready for, he is not ready to live.
For now it is just him and the world, with none of the problems that plague his shaking hold on uncertain calm. The whisper of leaves and the hiss of wheels blast through his fanciful imagination of a place with no war and no cruelty; he resents the source of those sounds instantly, because skepticism does not often leave him time to pretend. His entire form snaps to rigid attention, eyes seeking out the perpetrator and words sharpening upon his tongue.
He fails to give voice to those words when she emerges from the corner, a brittle ghost consumed by a white nightgown that billows around her bleached-brown skin (bleached and brown like driftwood at sea, crusted with salt and far from home). The riot of matted curls threaten to swallow her face, a hand clutching at the metal stand she drags along with her.
This curious woman-child is the last thing he expects to see and she appears just as stunned to see him. He wants to tell her that this is a public park so he has every right to be here, as if he should be explaining himself to the dark pull of her eyes.
"Why the nightgown?"
The moment he asks the question he winces, because obviously that's not a nightgown and clearly she has no say in what she wears (the folds of the fabric drape oddly over her shoulders, but he doesn't miss the swell of her breasts or the narrowness of her waist again the curve of her hips). She doesn't seem offended though, nor does she seem upset, confusion falling from her face like an autumn tree shedding red-gold leaves.
"It was all I had at the time," the strange creature of avian frailty returns, her movements neither elegant nor sure, but thoughtlessly graceful in their own way.
Silence passes between them and she takes a seat beside him, where he watches her with a mix of trepidation and uncharacteristic interest. He does not shift to accommodate her and so she perches delicately upon the space left for her, settling down with unabashed ease, like he does not scare her.
"You look horrible in it," he bites back sharply, but with no real malice, searching for the flinch, the wince, the subconscious recoil that will give her away as human the way all others are.
She lifts a corner and examines the hem, tilts her head like she is pondering the loose cotton that pools around her. "It's a poor fit, I guess."
"Yeah. It looks like a sack."
"Are you from the hospital too?"
Chaz gapes at her open mouthed, at a loss in face of her genuine innocence, casting her face, marked by illness and wrought from smooth silk, in a glow that steals the breath straight from his starving lungs. "I'm going to war. Do I look like a sick man?" He struggles to keep the hesitation out of his retort, to sound confident and snide and not the least worried that she might think him less in some way.
"Not really," she admits. "This park is very nice, isn't it? Very... quiet." Her lashes cast shadows upon her cheeks in an image that mirrors his own just minutes ago, only he sees real joy in the corners of her mouth, real sunshine kissing the edges of her face and sinking into her skin in flashes of amber fire.
It takes too much concentration to keep himself from dipping his head, if only just to agree with her. She has a surreal gravity that draws him in, nudging him off course and distracting him with the soft cadence of her voice. There is no mistaking the damage left by her stuttering heart, her cheekbones standing sharp and the skin at her wrists paper thin.
"What's your name?" She does not open her eyes to look at him and his heart hitches in his chest, thudding against his ribs.
"Chaz."
"I'm Alessa."
Now she does look at him, peeking at Chaz from the corners of her eyes, serene, and terribly beautiful. How she can be so beautiful despite everything that stands in her way bothers him almost as much as it stuns him.
"Are you a... patient?"
Alessa rewards the attempt at civility with a smile that warms him to the coldest dredges of his wasteland hopes. "Yes," she confides, like it is as simple as that. He knows it's not because the hospital in this city is a large one and specializes in some of the trickiest ailments there are.
"Isn't it hard? To be sick and useless, confined to bed and unable to do anything for anyone?" He prods, wanting to see her mad, to break that silent resignation he sees growing in her, like a pile of snow rising and rising as she piles it on.
"It is," she admits, an inexplicable sorrow turning the mahogany brown of her eyes bittersweet. "But I have faith."
A distant whistle blows, high and shrill, shocking him. Where has all the time gone? He doesn't want to leave yet, doesn't want to go to war when Alessa sits next to him like a wonderland he has never known, the impossible miracles of the universe hidden in her smile. She watches his eyes fly to the east, resting on the tiled roof of the train station.
"Off to war now, Chaz?"
The soldier in him nods because the man in him is wordlessly lost to the wrinkle forming at her brow, the solemn kindness shining in her touch. Her lips are soft and dry on his forehead, dropping the kiss like a benediction, a blessing that shoots through his veins in an arrow of lightning. "Be safe Chaz."
He tears away, feeling like he is clumsily ripping wandering roots from their place. "Thanks."
It would be nice if he could tell her that he is doing this for their country, out of patriotism and courage, but he knows that he is only doing this for himself, out of fear and a lack of something better to do.
When Chaz is in the field, he will trace her name in the dirt with a branch, connect the stars until he sees her face outlined in the heavens; maybe he will never see her again beyond these rough sketches.
Maybe, but he is finally ready to live.