Sight Of The Sun :: [Calliope + Wolfy] (68th Finale Day)
Dec 26, 2014 1:56:40 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Dec 26, 2014 1:56:40 GMT -5
Mad cat, I pace the space outside of Poe's room, making it as close as the door handle before skittering backwards across the tile flooring and rewinding up the hallway a few steps. The passing nurses keep giving me funny looks and I want to shake them off, want to get away, but I'm not sure how. The closest I can get to going into the room is pressing my face against the glass until my nose smushes and a red splotch blooms in the center of my forehead. Like that, my breath fogs up the glass until Poe dissolves from sight before my eyes. He's there and then he's gone. There and gone. There. Gone.
I should be used to this. I'm not.
A twitch hurtles up my spine and I jerk away, the sound of my footsteps echoing out. I can't go into that room because my brother is a reminder of stillness and things I can't give a name to today, not when Galaxy is as close to coming home as Aesop ever was. Closer, even. There is this violent hope raging through me, howling and tearing at the pessimistic despair I've re-carved all my bones from. It's enough to make me doubt myself... in a good way? I think that's what most people would say and I can't argue with that, not when my chest is on fire and I'm writhing with the unsettled madness of it. It's almost like dancing. I don't know who I am right now.
The next thing I know, the idea of going to see Poe has pushed me back so far that I pass by Galaxy's old, empty room and find myself pacing restlessly in a place where I have even less business being. The name on the closest door says PAINT CHU and I can't go in there either... but that's not why I'm here. I can't admit why, but I do know that it has nothing to do with Paint. It's five? Ten? Fifteen minutes? I don't exactly understand the logic of time right now, but it's probably still passing as I wait aimlessly for reason to walk out of that door and eventually it does. After all, Wolfgang's visits to this hospital are almost as consistent as mine and so him being here is as unexceptional as a sunrise or breathing in or any other thing that has to happen.
It's obvious, but that doesn't mean I'm admitting anything. Except, my defiant body is tagging along behind him as soon as he steps out of the room and when I reach out to grab his shirt sleeve, it's not a choice. It's a sunset. It's breathing out. It just has to happen, sort of like the lie I tell myself about all of these things being unexceptional. "Wait!" The desperation in my voice is quiet enough to be missed, except for the way the syllables are laced with cracks of fragility. My fingers are tangled up in the fabric of his shirt and I don't let go — not of the fabric or the warmth or the hope or the desperation. "Can you just wait for a second?" I haven't been running, but I feel a little like I'm out of breath anyhow.
Blinking up at him, I couldn't tell you why. Mixed expressions muddle up my face and I can hear a thin whisper of Claudius Templesmith's voice reaching out to us from the television in the waiting room at the end of the hall. It sounds like the weight of a hand upon my back and I redirect my gaze to the ground, before the unstable rebellion within me flares up and I'm making eye contact again. "I —" It won't come out at first. "I Need —" Oh, God. Oh, Ripred. "I need your help." Flinching against the unfathomable blasphemy tumbling out of my mouth, all I can do is stare him down and swear with all my fingers crossed that I'm truly as shameless as I sound.
A faint blush creeps up on me and I smack a hand over my face. My nose smushes against my palm and the red flares up again, but there's no glass. The air doesn't fog with my exhalation and so when I hazard another glance, Wolfgang doesn't fade away. He's there and then he stays. There and staying. There. Staying. "Please?" I'm really not used to this at all.
I should be used to this. I'm not.
A twitch hurtles up my spine and I jerk away, the sound of my footsteps echoing out. I can't go into that room because my brother is a reminder of stillness and things I can't give a name to today, not when Galaxy is as close to coming home as Aesop ever was. Closer, even. There is this violent hope raging through me, howling and tearing at the pessimistic despair I've re-carved all my bones from. It's enough to make me doubt myself... in a good way? I think that's what most people would say and I can't argue with that, not when my chest is on fire and I'm writhing with the unsettled madness of it. It's almost like dancing. I don't know who I am right now.
The next thing I know, the idea of going to see Poe has pushed me back so far that I pass by Galaxy's old, empty room and find myself pacing restlessly in a place where I have even less business being. The name on the closest door says PAINT CHU and I can't go in there either... but that's not why I'm here. I can't admit why, but I do know that it has nothing to do with Paint. It's five? Ten? Fifteen minutes? I don't exactly understand the logic of time right now, but it's probably still passing as I wait aimlessly for reason to walk out of that door and eventually it does. After all, Wolfgang's visits to this hospital are almost as consistent as mine and so him being here is as unexceptional as a sunrise or breathing in or any other thing that has to happen.
It's obvious, but that doesn't mean I'm admitting anything. Except, my defiant body is tagging along behind him as soon as he steps out of the room and when I reach out to grab his shirt sleeve, it's not a choice. It's a sunset. It's breathing out. It just has to happen, sort of like the lie I tell myself about all of these things being unexceptional. "Wait!" The desperation in my voice is quiet enough to be missed, except for the way the syllables are laced with cracks of fragility. My fingers are tangled up in the fabric of his shirt and I don't let go — not of the fabric or the warmth or the hope or the desperation. "Can you just wait for a second?" I haven't been running, but I feel a little like I'm out of breath anyhow.
Blinking up at him, I couldn't tell you why. Mixed expressions muddle up my face and I can hear a thin whisper of Claudius Templesmith's voice reaching out to us from the television in the waiting room at the end of the hall. It sounds like the weight of a hand upon my back and I redirect my gaze to the ground, before the unstable rebellion within me flares up and I'm making eye contact again. "I —" It won't come out at first. "I Need —" Oh, God. Oh, Ripred. "I need your help." Flinching against the unfathomable blasphemy tumbling out of my mouth, all I can do is stare him down and swear with all my fingers crossed that I'm truly as shameless as I sound.
A faint blush creeps up on me and I smack a hand over my face. My nose smushes against my palm and the red flares up again, but there's no glass. The air doesn't fog with my exhalation and so when I hazard another glance, Wolfgang doesn't fade away. He's there and then he stays. There and staying. There. Staying. "Please?" I'm really not used to this at all.
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