yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
metamorphosis2012-12-14 12:18 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2012-12-14 12:18 pm
Entry tags:
475;
Title: tell me how the world ends
Characters: Markus, Eliza
Rating: G
"Tell me how world ends," she murmurs. He's quiet, feigning thought. She turns on her side and looks up at him, waiting for his answer. He's tempted, almost, to tell her the truth. How it won't end; how it will continue even past their death, how things will still live and breathe and breed and evolve just as they always have after catastrophe and ruin. But she means her world -- when is her world going to end? How will it end? The world she knows and loves, the one she spends at the window watching the cars drive by while perusing books and being pampered and prodded by maids and butlers.
"The world ends," he begins, "not with a bang, but a whimper."
"Be serious." He's glad for her scolding; she hadn't been herself lately. She grew paler and thinner as the days passed and he was beginning to worry. The color returns to her cheeks for a moment as she pulls herself up and lets his hands guide her to the headboard of the bed so she can properly sit up and address him. "Don't go all T.S. Elliot on me, young man."
"You're just as young," he reminds her. "If not younger."
She drops her glance to her hands instead of answering, knotting the pink blanket with careful consideration. He watchers her fingers deftly twirl and pull the cloth through the holes she forms, then stops the procession of knots by placing his hand over hers. He rubs small circles into the back of it with his thumb and leans closer to her, watching the way red surfaces to her pale face again and snakes underneath her thin gown. He follows it with his hand before he rests it against her hipbone, palm flat on the bed. There's no love lost between them, none wandering in thickly misted forests searching for reasons of why it exists or words to express itself. She is his, and that is how it will always be.
He considers her request again and tries to think of a more serious answer. She waits, the color beginning to recede and the sickness starting to blossom again. He turns the hand in his and kisses the upturned palm, alights down the side of it and pausing at the joint of her wrist that sticks out like an ugly mess. It's a reminder of when he broke her wrist, and he kisses it again before he slips off of her bed and watches the cars drive below, past the window he had fondly looked up at while he was gardening.
"The world ends quietly, like I said." He hears the bed creak and her soft sigh as she relaxes into the pillowy surface. "It ends with silence and darkness. No one will know it's coming, except for you and I."
"Why only us?"
"Because it will start with us, and the rest of the world will follow."
Characters: Markus, Eliza
Rating: G
"Tell me how world ends," she murmurs. He's quiet, feigning thought. She turns on her side and looks up at him, waiting for his answer. He's tempted, almost, to tell her the truth. How it won't end; how it will continue even past their death, how things will still live and breathe and breed and evolve just as they always have after catastrophe and ruin. But she means her world -- when is her world going to end? How will it end? The world she knows and loves, the one she spends at the window watching the cars drive by while perusing books and being pampered and prodded by maids and butlers.
"The world ends," he begins, "not with a bang, but a whimper."
"Be serious." He's glad for her scolding; she hadn't been herself lately. She grew paler and thinner as the days passed and he was beginning to worry. The color returns to her cheeks for a moment as she pulls herself up and lets his hands guide her to the headboard of the bed so she can properly sit up and address him. "Don't go all T.S. Elliot on me, young man."
"You're just as young," he reminds her. "If not younger."
She drops her glance to her hands instead of answering, knotting the pink blanket with careful consideration. He watchers her fingers deftly twirl and pull the cloth through the holes she forms, then stops the procession of knots by placing his hand over hers. He rubs small circles into the back of it with his thumb and leans closer to her, watching the way red surfaces to her pale face again and snakes underneath her thin gown. He follows it with his hand before he rests it against her hipbone, palm flat on the bed. There's no love lost between them, none wandering in thickly misted forests searching for reasons of why it exists or words to express itself. She is his, and that is how it will always be.
He considers her request again and tries to think of a more serious answer. She waits, the color beginning to recede and the sickness starting to blossom again. He turns the hand in his and kisses the upturned palm, alights down the side of it and pausing at the joint of her wrist that sticks out like an ugly mess. It's a reminder of when he broke her wrist, and he kisses it again before he slips off of her bed and watches the cars drive below, past the window he had fondly looked up at while he was gardening.
"The world ends quietly, like I said." He hears the bed creak and her soft sigh as she relaxes into the pillowy surface. "It ends with silence and darkness. No one will know it's coming, except for you and I."
"Why only us?"
"Because it will start with us, and the rest of the world will follow."