Fic: say goodbye (to the world you thought you lived in) (9/9)
say goodbye (to the world you thought you lived in)
Part Nine
-----------------------------------
Mark comes to, and everything hurts.
He blinks once, twice, and there’s tile, a little dingy, but not too terrible; it’s cool under him, but it stretches too far above him: he’s on a floor.
In a men’s room.
In a bar.
He meets the eyes of a college kid who’s scrubbing at the sinks, who in turn catches his gaze in the mirror.
“Hey man,” the kid says, “I was gonna let you be until I had to tackle the stalls, but you’re gonna have to clear out, s’nearly seven,” and Mark notices the glass block near the ceiling, see the glow of sunup, rubs his eyes and winces -- it’s been so much more than a handful of hours, his eyes are sore, tired, weary. Like everything in him, every part of himself.
“Sucks that you got left in here,” the kid continues as Mark struggles to his feet, “dunno how they missed throwing you out come closing time, but at least you’ve got a note, for some direction.”
Mark has no idea what the kid’s talking about, until he catches his own reflection in the mirrors, sees something that’s not supposed to be there.
He reaches up, tentatively, and peels a Post-It off of his head, squints hard to focus on what’s written there:
You're kind of a shitty date, but you've got more heart than I'd have given you credit for.
Know this: just because there’s heartbreak, doesn’t mean there’s not something beautiful just after, somewhere down the line. Perfection’s overrated, Mark. And a cost’s only too high if you’re unwilling to pay it.
Not everything, everywhere, is life and death. But keep trying, keep fighting anyway -- you promised, after all.
You’re living in the best of all possible worlds, remember. Always.
Also: the three-days-to-call rule doesn't apply here.
Mark has no idea what that means; he still folds the note and puts it in his pocket as he moves to leave.
He makes it all of three blocks, in a direction he hopes will lead toward his house, or the office, when his cell phone starts to ring.
___________________________
He’s never dreamed that long, that vividly -- that intensely, so that it ached harsh inside his chest, in each pump of his heart; not ever.
And it’s been a long time, relatively speaking: it’s been a long time since it all went down, and it doesn’t make any sense that he dreamt of what he did, of love and death, over and over, everywhere, every memory he’d cherished and scorned all at once, sullied and made sacred, all in his mind, all in one night.
Except that it felt so fucking real.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to pick up the phone, to dial an old number that’s probably been changed a million times since he’d memorized it, eons ago; he rubs his chest to calm his pulse, to no avail, as the call connects, the ringing starts, and it’s almost as if something beyond himself is driving him, fueling him to breathe and keep from hanging up.
It’s a fool’s hope, but he hasn’t felt anything so strong in far too long. Maybe not ever.
It was just a dream, he tells himself, finger hovering on the button to disconnect, except -- he has to know for sure.
His chest is torn up from the inside, raw with the hammering of his heart by the time someone picks up.
“Hello?”
And something seizes in his gut, something shivers at his core, and he has to speak; he has to, because the voice is like a poison and a cure, and it’s haggard, strained, and it feeds the flame of longing, of hope in him, against all odds.
Even now, he hasn’t learned to quit while he’s ahead.
“Mark?” he asks, voice thin, wavering, and he doesn’t have time to regret it, because then Mark’s saying something, speaking, one thing.
“Wardo?” he breathes, heavy and saturated with something familiar and unknown, written deep in Eduardo, even if he’d only known it for a single night, a long strand of lifetimes, real or imagined, known inside his soul.
There’d been a time, where Eduardo had wished, hoped like hell to hear his name said like that, in that voice; but the difference now is that he has heard his name said like that, a hundred times, a million: it’s full of wonder. It’s full, it’s impossibly, improbably full, of love.
Eduardo breathes, and takes a chance on the faith that this, here, is the chance he never thought would come, the one he didn’t even think he wanted, anymore; maybe it’s the best of all possible worlds, and maybe, just maybe, this is worth it.
This is real.
“Yeah,” he says right back, feeling more than he’s felt in ages, in moments; feeling so fucking alive. “It’s me.”
// Master Post //
<--- Part Eight
Part Nine
-----------------------------------
Mark comes to, and everything hurts.
He blinks once, twice, and there’s tile, a little dingy, but not too terrible; it’s cool under him, but it stretches too far above him: he’s on a floor.
In a men’s room.
In a bar.
He meets the eyes of a college kid who’s scrubbing at the sinks, who in turn catches his gaze in the mirror.
“Hey man,” the kid says, “I was gonna let you be until I had to tackle the stalls, but you’re gonna have to clear out, s’nearly seven,” and Mark notices the glass block near the ceiling, see the glow of sunup, rubs his eyes and winces -- it’s been so much more than a handful of hours, his eyes are sore, tired, weary. Like everything in him, every part of himself.
“Sucks that you got left in here,” the kid continues as Mark struggles to his feet, “dunno how they missed throwing you out come closing time, but at least you’ve got a note, for some direction.”
Mark has no idea what the kid’s talking about, until he catches his own reflection in the mirrors, sees something that’s not supposed to be there.
He reaches up, tentatively, and peels a Post-It off of his head, squints hard to focus on what’s written there:
You're kind of a shitty date, but you've got more heart than I'd have given you credit for.
Know this: just because there’s heartbreak, doesn’t mean there’s not something beautiful just after, somewhere down the line. Perfection’s overrated, Mark. And a cost’s only too high if you’re unwilling to pay it.
Not everything, everywhere, is life and death. But keep trying, keep fighting anyway -- you promised, after all.
You’re living in the best of all possible worlds, remember. Always.
Also: the three-days-to-call rule doesn't apply here.
Mark has no idea what that means; he still folds the note and puts it in his pocket as he moves to leave.
He makes it all of three blocks, in a direction he hopes will lead toward his house, or the office, when his cell phone starts to ring.
___________________________
He’s never dreamed that long, that vividly -- that intensely, so that it ached harsh inside his chest, in each pump of his heart; not ever.
And it’s been a long time, relatively speaking: it’s been a long time since it all went down, and it doesn’t make any sense that he dreamt of what he did, of love and death, over and over, everywhere, every memory he’d cherished and scorned all at once, sullied and made sacred, all in his mind, all in one night.
Except that it felt so fucking real.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to pick up the phone, to dial an old number that’s probably been changed a million times since he’d memorized it, eons ago; he rubs his chest to calm his pulse, to no avail, as the call connects, the ringing starts, and it’s almost as if something beyond himself is driving him, fueling him to breathe and keep from hanging up.
It’s a fool’s hope, but he hasn’t felt anything so strong in far too long. Maybe not ever.
It was just a dream, he tells himself, finger hovering on the button to disconnect, except -- he has to know for sure.
His chest is torn up from the inside, raw with the hammering of his heart by the time someone picks up.
“Hello?”
And something seizes in his gut, something shivers at his core, and he has to speak; he has to, because the voice is like a poison and a cure, and it’s haggard, strained, and it feeds the flame of longing, of hope in him, against all odds.
Even now, he hasn’t learned to quit while he’s ahead.
“Mark?” he asks, voice thin, wavering, and he doesn’t have time to regret it, because then Mark’s saying something, speaking, one thing.
“Wardo?” he breathes, heavy and saturated with something familiar and unknown, written deep in Eduardo, even if he’d only known it for a single night, a long strand of lifetimes, real or imagined, known inside his soul.
There’d been a time, where Eduardo had wished, hoped like hell to hear his name said like that, in that voice; but the difference now is that he has heard his name said like that, a hundred times, a million: it’s full of wonder. It’s full, it’s impossibly, improbably full, of love.
Eduardo breathes, and takes a chance on the faith that this, here, is the chance he never thought would come, the one he didn’t even think he wanted, anymore; maybe it’s the best of all possible worlds, and maybe, just maybe, this is worth it.
This is real.
“Yeah,” he says right back, feeling more than he’s felt in ages, in moments; feeling so fucking alive. “It’s me.”
// Master Post //
<--- Part Eight