shine, oh {bright} star - [Zoe]

When we first came here
We were cold and we were clear
With no colours in our skin
We were light and paper thin
'Til we let the spectrum in

I have not smiled in a long, long time. In the way in which time seems to have stretched between yourself and a former you, becoming thinner and thinner until it’s about to snap, break apart. I ran a finger over the charcoal-encrusted, paper-thin walls that held memories of scrambling and desperate clings of life the other day, and the ashes crumbled against my fingerprints like chalk as they fell towards the ground. Everything is so delicate, so fragile; I treat it all like living things. Even the collapsed framework of this building that we live in is living, breathing. I can hear it inhale, exhale. Consume life, give it back. All I can do is smile, now – I do feel a little guilty for it (I’m surrounded by a chaotic family and live in a matchbox and yet I’m still so very happy), but I think I deserve a smile.

I don’t. I don’t deserve any of this. My home house is still here. My family fellow orphans are still here. My Arwen is still here. Hell, even I am still here. I am a house, a home, oxygen pouring into my lungs and carbon dioxide spilling out of them. I killed someone once but I saved another. In and out and up and down I go, teetering on the balance between good and bad. I -kiss- her. I -kiss- her. I -kiss- her. Missing words are filled up in their blank spaces with an action that speaks louder than a thousand libraries of words. For now, it will do. I can try to scrawl down the letters later, to make sense of it all, but for now it’s just her and I. I and her. Silas and Arwen. We are infinite.

Three sets of three words that I can link together. Three sets of three words that do make sense. My life used to be a blur of black and white, and yet when I say her name, colour elucidates around me in an aurora of hope. A whisper turns from a frightened, harsh metallic forced from my mouth to a soft pastel that floats off of my tongue. She is beautiful and so is her name, her colours, the promise that she brings and the good that pulses off of her damaged limbs that I will slowly patch up again. Everything is so different, but it’s a good different. Change that brings about good in my life instead of bad. It’s a little scary in some places but when you’re faced by a mystery to be uncovered with another, it’s not so bad, right? I -kiss- her so much. My window is still transparent, my wardrobe still as bare as ever, but it is all different now. We are all different. Every one of us.

She moved in last week. Arwen did, I should say. It’s weird, using her name so much now. It used to hurt to say it, to think it, even - but now I find myself at peace with each syllable that rolls off of my mouth. Half our house is gone, licked by flames and stolen by heat until nothing is left but dust, but all that matters is that we all have each other. Not even Lilith objected when I snuck in a spare mattress through my door and laid down an extra blanket by the window. She makes me smile. Arwen makes me smile. I let her wear my clothes and we talk for hours before we drift off to sleep and I show her the constellations I draw in the sky and across her skin. It’s hard to sleep and sometimes I don’t, but she’s here. Sitting in my room and not saying anything, but she doesn’t have to. I want her to talk, but I’m so scared that if I say anything other than her name it will shatter, whatever we have, and I cannot lose her. But she has always been here, there, everywhere. Always. And that’s all the consolation I need.

Perching by my window is different. I can see everything, and yet nothing at all, not just for the darkness that casts a shadow across the District. I am no longer searching, but more rather documenting. The gravel path I walked up when I was thirteen years old, entering this house for the first time that strange, miserable night. The large trees that turn every shade of gold in fall where Arwen made me laugh for the first time in forever. The spot on the hill where everything changed. My life is a book and I’m finally turning a new page. Arwen is my page, my chapter. She was there, hidden between the lines, so subtle only the sharpest of readers could pick up. And then she crept through the corners of the pages and in between the letters, vowels, page numbers. Everyone else was scattered and shoved into the spine as bookmarks and page markers, inked across the paper every now and then. But Arwen was the pages. She is the pages.

A thump from upstairs rattles through the house as Edgar’s anger ripples against the bones of our home, and the smile vanishes. There are eight other people in this house too. I have become so selfish, recently. And while I let Arwen be herself and keep my distance when needed, taking all the time in the world (I can live with eternity if she needs it to be), I have to remember that we are all a part of this body that makes up Sycamore. The ribcage, the sternum, the skull and legs and arms, the flesh and blood and organs. When one of us falls, the others do, too. I can only hope that Lilith (or even Laila) finds him like I find Arwen. Like she finds me. I need her more than ever, but we all need each other, really. Whether we all see that (my eyes flit upwards to a worn-out ceiling where the bark of rage began) is another wall that we must face. Together.

Arwen can’t sleep and neither can I. Who can? Not even Baby Ara can sleep, most nights. I don’t mind her cries any more, for they are a far better substitute for deathly silence that marks someone missing from the house. Perhaps she will grow here as one of us, instead of an odd bit of puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. None of us did, really. Blair fitted with Ruth, Laila to Edgar, Edgar to Lilith, and then Arwen to me, eventually. In ways I am glad that this fire chased us to a desperate grapple for life. We are all closer, stronger. But death still haunts us, taunts us, teases us in sleep. Ripped from dreams, I lie awake – eyes flicking towards Arwen’s broken frame that perches on the edge of her bed. I -kiss- you. Unspoken vows of feelings for another that I did not think I ever deserved enough to even feel in the first place. She can’t sleep and she’s oh so broken, so I do what I do best. I fix her.

Aching limbs creak into life, treading light toes across the creaking floorboards until I sit next to her, my hands so scared of shattering her that they’re almost shaking. Arwen can break at any moment, at any touch, and I must be more careful than ever with her. A finger brushes the top of her hands, no more, no less - light to the touch, as if to say hello. I don’t know what this is, but perhaps you don’t either. I will spend the rest of my life fixing her, second by second, until I have to let her go.

A smile is sent her way through the moonlit darkness, and I realise, in that moment, that I can never let her go.

I -kiss- you, Arwen. Forever.

Say my name and every colour illuminates
We are shining and we will never be afraid again
And when we come for you we'll be dressed up
All in blue with the ocean in our arms
Kiss your eyes and kiss your palms

Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?
Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts
So it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess
And to stop the muscle that makes us confess
And we are so fragile

You should be a ghost, my love. For so many reasons. You should have departed, slipped away, your skin cracked like porcelain that no bandage could ever heal. Pulled up towards an infinite, endless universe, out of your shell of bones and blood and fragments of flesh. Soaring with the stars, exploding, becoming your very own. Floating, invisible flits of air that swirl around our bodies, that creep through this home, that warms the air that we breathe and keeps us alive. She keeps me alive. But you're not a ghost; you're here, with me. Sitting in the darkness, shining so bright, but not saying anything at all. Driving me insane.

Perhaps Arwen is not the mad one, after all. Perhaps I am, sitting, waiting, hoping that if I just sit here and say nothing at all, someone will figure it out for me. Put the pieces together, solve the riddle that is Arwen and Silas, Silas and Arwen, infiinte and nonexistant and as tangled as the constellations in the night sky. I've always been good at fending for myself, for figuring out the answer, for providing the advice - but things like this are far too distant from even my knowledge. Things that need answers, and for once, I am the one seeking them. It seems that she holds the key to my answers, but is unwilling to let me discover them. Just as I am unwilling to ask. I would wait my entire life for this girl, but I know in my heart that at some point, I'll have to realise that I cannot wait forever for her. And it hurts. It hurts so much, Arwen. Maybe she realises this, maybe she doesn't, but a boy can only teeter on a scale for so long before he tilts too far.

I have never been close to others, for everyone is stolen away, and Death leaves me a hand of pain and misery in their place. Yet Death decided to cut me a deal. Instead of a ghost, a memory, a part of me ripped away from myself, a part of Sycamore ripped from it's body, a life ripped away from this earth - she is here. Pulse beating, lungs breathing, limbs moving. With each quiet breath that ripples through the air, I am reminded of her presence. She is alive. And I forget, all over again. For a minute, I am pulled into the raging fires of my nightmares again, choking and gasping and clawing for her. Running down hallways and slamming into walls, tripping over debris and furniture and Lilith's body, Edgar's body, Laila's and Ruth's and Blaire's and Septimus's and Ara's and Miss Aggie's. And Arwen is no longer in my arms, but standing, swallowed by flame in the middle of them all, face contorted and burned, blood dripping from the scars on her arms, eyes hollow and empty. I try to scream, I try to run, but my limbs become sluggish, like trying to sprint through water, and my voice has dissapeared. Orange tongues lick up my family, and Arwen raises her head to chant an echoed whisper: "You couldn't save me. You did this. Murderer."

And I would awake, sweat pooling in my hair and my pulse beating, the moonlight filtering through my window in it's sea of diamonds. Sometimes it's a mirror, my face in it's relfection. Sometimes my mother, my grandmother, the other orphans. It is always her voice, though, and that is what shakes me to my core. Not tonight, though. I sit under the same sparkling ceiling, although there is no flames. Just the two of us, side by side. Silent, for not the slow breathing that she takes, a constant reminder that she is ok, she is ok, she is ok. With every inhale, I hold my breath. With every exhale, relief flows through me all over again. She breathes, I live.

I used to be comfortable with silence. I used to be silent. And then she found me, of course, because that's what she does. Weasled into my cracks, and forced the silence out. Lately, it has become so painful, waiting, that sometimes I cannot bear to look at her at all. I ache. I ache from the realisation that she is not the girl that plagues my nightmares each evening. I ache for longing to feel her against me, to constantly fight against the drumming inside of me that pulls me toward her. I ache for her, I ache for us, I ache for what we had, what it has become, and what it may never be. It is too late to turn it back, to be where we were, as best friends and nothing more. Yet it wasn't enough, what we had before. And it's still not, even as we slowly progress, sliding centimetres back and forth along our tightrope bond. When will it ever be enough? When will I stop being so goddamn selfish?

And then she breaks the silence. I find myself short of breath as her voice reaches my ears, twisting around it, clutching it tightly, holding on to every little syllable. They're soft words, made up of delicate, breakable letters, posing a question on me that could slice our tightrope in two and watch us fall into oblivion. "Why are you doing this, Silas?" My first instinct is to speak. But as she takes my hand, I hold my breath, swallow back my words. Sit in the silence, watch it stretch, grow, morph into tension. Because I am selfish. Because I -kiss- you. Because I want this, need this, need you. Because I...

It's not fair. It's not fair, that Edgar gets to let out his anger against our home. I want to yell and scream and cry and punch a hole through the wall. I am the one who has to keep quiet, stay calm, hold people together. Hold Arwen together. But I want to set myself on fire and let myself burn, for this deal with Death is far more vexatious, so much more heart-wrenching, so undeniably painful than this. I think he's won, again. But I'm tired of playing his games. I'm tired of tiptoeing around questions, around mourning, around dark dreams and empty shells of wondering what could have, should have, would have happened. And I know now, as I raise my gaze to look at her, what I'm missing.

I take her hand and whisper back, "Because..... because it's easy. And I'm sorry. But it's too hard for me to... to not do this. Whatever this is."

My blade slices through the air and I pray that I haven't just cut her loose.

And we are so fragile
And our cracking bones make noise
And we are just breakable
Breakable, breakable girls and boys
And our cracking bones make noise

ooc; lesbians

There is a house built out of stone
Wooden floors, walls and window sills
Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust
This is a place where I don't feel alone
This is a place where I feel at home

This girl shall most certainly be the death of me.

Not a fire. Not tablets. Not falling from my windowsill one day when I lean against the window too far, only to realise that the hinges that have stayed secure for who knows how many years have suddenly become loose again. Not a falling branch from a tree, not a knife plunged into my stomach. Not old age, not young age, not an infection or plague or disease that buries itself in my body and slowly eats me from the inside out. No, not any of those things. Arwen shall cause my demise, in the end. I'm sure of it. After all, it's inevitable. She's already slowly shutting down my insides whether she knows it or not.

And I think she does. Or at least, is slightly aware of what she does to me. What she's doing to me. Arwen is not stupid. She can hear my desperate, pleading cries to listen to me, Arwen. Please, just listen. Understand. Feel the same way. Give in. My thoughts make me furious at myself and her and everyone at the same time. I can't make her care about me. I can't make her mind up for her. That is unfair, to plead for her feelings. To plead to walk through her life for her, constructing how I want it to work out. Writing out every page, deciding the words she says and the actions she carries out and every emotion she feels the way I like it. No, that is selfish. That is impossible. But I can at least try to persuade her to let down her wall. To hold her hand as she does so. To promise to keep her safe and sound. How many times have I already asked her, told her, showed her that I will? The answer is too many, too many times. Too many chances. Yet as much as I wish I could be stronger, I cannot deny that I would walk to the edge of the world and back for her. Who wouldn't?

"Silas," she whispers. It sounds so much like silence, the silence that has hovered between our ears and lips and eyes and bodies and keeps us apart. The silent, seemingly endless game of I -kiss- you, I don't know, I -kiss- you, I don't know, Please make up your mind, I'm trying. But I am trying too. Trying to sit here without exploding, collapsing, falling back out of this window altogether and facing an easier fate than the tug of war between myself, Arwen, and the struggle to find balance. Then maybe, Death would have finally won - not greeting him as a friend, but as an equal - and he will finally leave me at peace to be content with leaving Earth. I can't leave her, though. I just can't. Because, although she is my greatest downfall, she is also a staircase I refuse to stop climbing.

I press my lips together and listen to the rain hammering outside and another pause in her dialogue. Stop it, Arwen, this is tiring Take your time, I do not mind waiting forever. Now it seems that the tug of war has left her mind and travelled to mine, infecting my lungs and eyes and organs. Arwen has infected my lungs and eyes and organs, her bittersweet guilt escaping her own body for a moment and finding a new salvage in mine. Plaguing insecure minds too weak to stand on their own, too weak to fight back. Don't you see, Ar? This is why we have to stay together. To fight it off. To rid it of you, of me, of us once and for all. We are infinite and we are strong and we are fighting a battle between Death and doubt and everything in between.

I just hope that she realises that before my pulse stops beating.

"Silas," she says again, the pain that comes with uttering my name prominent enough for me to realise before she raises her lips to mine. My body screams again, it hurts, stop it, it hurts, it hurts to hold her, kiss her, that-stupid-little-word her. She takes my hand and leans into me, all the right things to do and say to reassure me that she's not going to try and leave me again. I haven't thought about the sheer possibility of loosing her since the fire, because I am most certain that if I do, I will go insane.

"List good things about Sycamore House" she instructs. A memory sparks inside my head at her words from a time before fires and hand holding and scarlet gushing from fore arms. With it, a thousand and one options to fill up my list. But I can only think of one, and she knows it already. Do you need reassurance too, Arwen?.

It's not fair that I have to tell her that I care, and it not be returned. "Ara's laughter," I begin, stretching out the list for as long as I possibly can. "When Lilith cooks and you can smell the flavours from all the way upstairs as it fills the room." Perhaps if I paint the pictures out for her, it will seem like we're really back there. Back home. "Food, clothes, a warm bed and a roof over our heads." It's not so bad here. Others have it worse. But they don't have to battle raging flames that threaten to eat up your family or a never ending indecisiveness inside of the one you care about. "When Septimus found fireworks and set them off outside. Birthdays. Making snow men at winter time." Blank brown eyes stare at the wall as I re-create the memories, projecting them onto the faded, peeling piece of wood and plaster. They make me smile, the images in my head. Because they're real.

"And you" I finish with a small kiss on her copper coloured head before I rest mine on hers. "Your turn" I whisper gently, asking for the thousandth time to let me help her pull her walls down one brick at a time. Don't leave me here to drown, Arwen. I won't go without you.

And I built a home for you, for me
Until it disappeared from me, from you
By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top
When the gusts came around to blow me down
I held on as tightly as you held onto me

ooc; 1000th post! \o/