[private]

[subversion]

Light didn't move for a couple of days, after that. Well, more or less. Sometimes one need or another would prod him towards the bathroom - water, or the toilet - and then he'd curl right back up beneath his quilt, and drift back off into sleep. The broken mirror gave him nightmares, and so did she

Comments

[stripesandheels]

[She loses courage at his door. There's a muffled thumb, a scrabbling noise, as she leans her forehead against the wood and manages a weak knock.

It's been a week. She stayed in bed just as long as he did. Had a little more to eat, maybe. Washed and combed her hair before coming here, brushed her teeth. Dressed in clean clothes. It's the best she's looked in a couple of days, and it does nothing to hide the shadows under her eyes, or the redness from the crying. She still hasn't stopped crying, even though her eyes itch and burn, and each time she swears she won't physically be able to start again. Somehow, she always does.]

[subversion]

[Light hears the knock and the scratching, like there's a wild animal out there. And that's just how he reacts - he stills beneath his covers, bruised eyes widening into a set stare, and he holds his breath. Maybe they'll go away.]

[stripesandheels]

Nnh- please?

[She gasps, knocking now, suddenly terrified that he won't let her in, that she'll be stuck outside his door in the hall forever. Or what if he isn't there? What if he moved somewhere else?]

[subversion]

[It is her. Well, he definitely doesn't want to see her - except-

His mouth draws in on itself as if he might sob, but he doesn't; instead, he draws further back into the covers, his defence against the world. The door's not locked; she could turn the handle and walk in, and he hopes she doesn't, and he hopes she does.

Somewhere, he remembers things being simple; remembers thinking he knew exactly what he wanted, in the ancient mists of his adolescence. No longer.]

[stripesandheels]

[She does, pushing it open a crack, and peeking in to look at him.]

Hey.

[She's never known herself to sound this hoarse, or unsure. Without waiting for an invitation (she doubts there'll be one) she steps into the room, bag in hand. She reaches into it, and digs out the first piece of fruit that comes to hand. Brown skin, bristly hairs, the kitchen had been full of kiwi, the bag has at least three of them in it.]

I brought you-

[subversion]

[The visible scuttle backwards, deeper into the bed, is a total giveaway, as is the unfamiliar sour smell that hangs around the room, and around him. Seeing what she's holding out, he stares, bleary-eyed, and laughs, dry and rattling as if he hasn't spoken for a week.]

-kiwifruit. You brought me a-

[It looks ridiculously tasty; he could eat it skin and all, and that might just be a bad idea.]

[stripesandheels]

-yeah. There weren't any melons.

[He'd said bow. All she can do is let her knees go out, hit the ground and lower her head. She's sorry, she's so sorry, she can't find words to tell him.]

[subversion]

[The sound he makes as she falls to the ground is awful; it's not even incoherent. It's a rummage of babytalk syllables, as if he's about to burst into tears. His face vanishes into the cover.

After a few seconds - ten? twenty? - his hand peeps out from under the quilt, and reaches down towards her, looking for hair, or goggles, or skin. It quivers this way and that, and the skin clings to it a little.]

[stripesandheels]

[She scrambles forwards on her hands and knees, and the bag of fruit tips over. It all spills across the floor: apples and oranges, nectarines, peaches, grapefruit, a dozen kumquat, and one lonely pineapple. She presses her cheek against his hand, tearstained, skin like paper.]

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so-

[subversion]

-you don't have to do that. You don't have to do that.

[The words rattle out, airless and barely there. If she looked up, she'd see one horrified eye peering down at her through a gap in the quilt. His hand closes on her cheek, stroking sleepily with his thumb, wiping tears. He can't believe how sorry she is.]

[stripesandheels]

[She collapses, dropping the rest of the way to the ground and resting her head on her arms, trying not to sob. It doesn't feel like she'll ever be able to look him in the eyes ever again.]

[subversion]

[As she folds up, he scrabbles towards her, crablike beneath the quilt. Half-conscious, half-hallucinating as he is, it feels very, very important that she not cry; that it would be his fault if she did, and that he can certainly stop her.]

No, no, please. Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.

[The hand on her face drops to her shoulder, and the other one slides out to take her by the chin and lift her to look at him; that might be familiar to her from someone else, but there's nothing presumptuous or patronising in the eyes that look down at her from the bed. Light can't help feeling he's done something terribly wrong.]

[stripesandheels]

You were right.

[She looks up at him, reaching up to touch his elbow, letting out a gasping noise. The tears don't stop, and by now her eyes burn.]

Not to trust me. Look at what I did.

[subversion]

No no no no no. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please?

[Staring down at her, dizzy and confused, earnest and far from his usual self, he patters out words, childlike: please be all right, please stop crying and be angry with me again, be you again? He'd give anything to stop her crying.]

I shouldn't have said - I should have just done it, right?

[stripesandheels]

Let me twist you into all the things you didn't want to do? No.

[Her hand rests on a piece of fruit. A ripe nectarine. A little bruised from rolling along the floor, maybe, but she presses it into his hand anyways.]

You should have thrown me down the stairs.

[subversion]

Nuh-uh. You'd come back. You always come back, strange girl. Strange ...

[Taking the nectarine and whispering in singsong, he turns it around and around, throws the quilt back to hold it over his face. The smell of it gets into his throat, and he trails his fingers around it. He's quite fascinated by it, as if he's putting off eating it; his whole reality's congealed around the piece of fruit.]

Did you ever notice how pretty these are?