◦ i'm still alive (electricsheeps) wrote in thirtysixth,
◦ i'm still alive
electricsheeps
thirtysixth

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he didn't cry

In Memoriam;

Fandom/Pairing -- Mackwell/Lias, hinted Faytnoa/Lias and Azazer/Lias
Summary -- It all runs full circle.
Word Count -- 569




They say it fades if you let it,
love was made to forget it.
I carved your name across my eyelids,
you pray for rain I pray for blindness.
--







He didn’t cry or throw a fit after all was said and done. He scared himself with how calm he was and wonders if he might be broken, somewhere deep inside.



He’s never understood the thoughts that go on in his head or the actions he deigns to take. Of course, he knows that he’s taken them. He’s not that far detached from reality (though others may be, or he was once – at some point, but is no longer).


For a long, long time, things have been the same. After the memories of the fervid and chaotic days of the Diplo had faded into the loaded past, things got stagnant, like mosquito-breeding buckets left out to fester in the rain.


He can’t tell for sure if things weren’t always this way, or if the busy panic of the constant something-happening on the ship just made it easier to ignore. He does know, though, that it was a long, long time ago he rolled pleasantly tangled in the bed sheets against another warm body, surprised eyes waking up to an affable smile that was the start of everything and a promise of what it all could truly be. Then was close-knit and warm and worn like the blankets that wound their way around their legs, holding them close together until the day it didn’t.


If he had pursued his endeavors now with the fervent and pleading passion that he did then, maybe things wouldn’t have ended up like this. Maybe it was the drugs, or Faytnoa, or a combination of the two that extinguished his stubborn enthusiasm for life, he supposes. Because despite his subtlety, he once had been bursting with the will to prove himself outside of his frayed and severed maternal and familial ties.


He stopped trying doing anything at all after a while. Enough nights of going to sleep in an empty bed and waking up equally alone and he became unwilling to disturb the crisp bed sheets or the estranged silence, all except for his incessant need to tidy the room over and over and over again (if he rearranged everything enough times, maybe it wouldn’t seem as empty anymore).


Some things were more important than others, but he couldn’t seem to tick off in his head any discreet order to the way things should be (should have been). Any hidden key to his importance was lost among errant thoughts and jumbled bad excuses for self-acceptance.


Nothing changed until the day someone disappeared.


In reality, it was just outside the scope of his vision, and everything stayed the same as it’d always been for them. On the other hand it was nothing if not a catalyst, or maybe a sign of what was to come (if you believed in that sort of thing).


Nothing would’ve changed at all if he hadn’t been approached. (And he had.)



Now he considers if this is what absolution is suppose to be. He decides that when you’re still living for the past, then you’re probably (definitely) not free from anything at all, really.


(It’s been a long time since he’s been able to kiss anyone outside of the absolute desperation that he’d grown so accustomed to, and it feels nice to take things slow for a change.)


He wonders how long it will take him to stop waiting for the possibility of a tomorrow where he’ll regret what he’s done.




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