Disappearing Act
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A/N: They're older in this, but then again, when aren't they in my stories lately.
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She wakes up to the brink of dawn, the light of day starting to seep in through the flimsy fabric of the closed curtains and her body feels too old and tired in her own skin lately.
Beside her there is the rustle of sheets but she still can't find the heart to move or get up. It's too early for all this she thinks to herself, remaining motionless.
She feels his familiar, warm breath on her neck as he moves closer to her, his body barely touching hers, and she closes her eyes again and tries to pretend she can't hear him or feel him near her.
"I know you're awake," he remarks knowingly but she still refuses to acknowledge the fact or him for that matter.
"Come on," he insists softly and she can only ignore him for so long, "Don't act like this."
She turns around listlessly and he cocks his head to the side a little, still resting it against the pillow, a silhouette of a sad but brave smile outlined across his face and she wants him to go away, for all this to go away.
She studies his face, the way the halos of sunlight that spill in through the glass highlight the bone structure of his cheeks and jaw, bring out the longevity of solitude in his brown eyes, kiss his skin and fall across his mysterious mouth.
She sits up slowly and he remains in his place, observing her intently as she turns to the floor and lets her feet make contact with it, standing up and walking to the mirror on the back of her closed door soundlessly.
She sits in front of it, staring at her reflection, the lack of color on her face, the sober quality of her mouth and limpness of her brown hair. The girl looking back at her isn't who she expected herself to be a few years back. But then again, a lot has happened she never expected. The thought should make her sad but she doesn't care enough to let the feeling arise.
He finally comes up from behind and if she listens closely she can hear the sound of his noiseless footsteps against the padded carpet floor. He stands behind her for a few minutes, looking into the mirror with her.
"You should get ready," he murmurs finally and she still can't react to his words, so he sighs, "I know you can hear me and I know you're upset. But please, Mace—"
She flinches at the sound of her name on his lips, withdrawing further from him and he notices, letting the rest of his words die away from his lips.
He bends down fluidly, his hands hovering over her shoulder for a moment before bringing her up and holding her upright as her knees go weak and she almost stumbles into him.
He leads her to the bathroom, his arm brushing slightly against hers, as she falls in place beside him as they reach it. He puts the shower on and draws his hand into the water that's raining out into the bathtub to check its temperature. He turns around to her eventually and gestures to her that it's ready, but she stays still.
His intrusive brown eyes travel across her features like he can see through her and she tries to avoid his steady gaze, instead holding her breath and letting her mind wander and fill in the spaces in between the tiles of the bathroom walls.
He sighs again, resignation ebbing in his voice, "Okay," he says, "Arms up."
She does as she's told and he helps her take off his baggy shirt and her pajama pants like she's a child that doesn't know otherwise. He examines her appearance for a second before chiding in an informal way, "You're getting too thin."
And he doesn't have to continue, his eyes speaking for him. When are you going to start taking care of yourself?
She shrugs at his observation and he takes in her response without another word, bringing out his hand for her to take.
She takes it, noticing how it feels like ice, weightless and wintry, and her heart sinks slightly but she tries not to think about it for too long.
He guides her into the shower and when the water makes contact with her skin, her face, she gasps in surprise, the first sound to come out of her mouth in days, the spurts of water splashing and splattering across her limbs and trailing down and clinging to her flesh carelessly. It all feels something like drowning she thinks as he tugs the curtain between the two of them.
"Tell me when you're done," he calls out against the reckless, searing sound of the water beating against her skin and echoing emptily against the bathtub walls.
Her fingers tremble slightly as they touch the knob and twist it the other way when she's done, and she waits there for him, feeling cold and wet, the sound of the dripping water making her head spin and shiver uncontrollably for some reason.
He finally pushes the bathroom curtain away, towel in one hand, as he takes in the expression on her face, the frailty of her exhausted eyes, the quiver of her bottom lip, before closing the gap and wrapping the towel around her middle and helping her step out of the tub carefully and dry her hair with another towel.
His hand finds the small of her back and lightly presses her forward, a shadow of direction into the room again.
He sits her down on the edge of the bed and goes to the closet. "What are you going to wear?"
She shrugs again, becoming fascinated with the loosening threads of the sea of sheets and blankets around her instead, and he turns back around, rummaging for something appropriate for her to wear.
He finally stops searching, bringing something simple and black out and turning around to her.
She meets his gaze, "This was always my favorite on you," he comments absentmindedly and something gets caught in her throat, her heart twisting painfully, and she squeezes the fabric in her hands a little tighter than before.
She forces herself to nod her head stiffly and she tries to push down whatever is stuck in her throat, as she gets up, still slightly unsteady and weak-kneed.
He helps her put it on, playing with the seams and fingering the thread-embroidered patterns unconscientiously. The air thickens considerably and she draws in another breath and involuntarily shudders as he leans closer and runs a knuckle idly up her bare back, following the trail of her barely visible spine ever so lightly, like he's mapping her bones and skin with the back of his hand, memorizing every mark, every freckle, every crease -- and yesterdays flood into her bloodstream unceremoniously, singing his sorrowful songs of nostalgia.
He finally starts fastening the buttons of the dress up, pausing on the last one at the very top to sweep her damp hair across the nape of her neck to the front and dipping his mouth down to place a ghost of a kiss on her shoulder instead. He mumbles something incoherent against the material covering it and it's like a car crash or train wreck of emotion catching up with her and swelling up inside of her chest at the caressing motion and she clutches onto the edge of the dresser for dear life. He finishes with the button, letting go of her finally.
She looks at herself in the dresser mirror, at the way the dress hangs loosely on her body, not resting along the curves just right any longer, and she wants to hate the way it makes her look now but she can't. Everything feels a little too unimportant and unfathomable to bother with. She can't help getting used to the feeling.
She sits down in front of the dresser and searches for something as he sits on top of it, his eyes fixated on her yet again. Just as she's about to get a hold of what she wants, his hand comes in between and stops her.
"Don't," He requests softly, "you always looked so much better natural." She looks like a mess, with or without makeup, she's pretty sure, but there's a fondness in his eyes she can't refuse and as he strokes her cheek, something breaks inside of her. She stares into his story-bearing eyes a second longer, a glimpse of blue skies and forget-me-nots somewhere beyond the brown irises, and it's nothing like the wastelands in her own waning ones.
Just then, there's a knock on the door. The doorknob turns and Stella comes in, watery-eyed with her glistening blonde hair pulled back into a knotted ponytail. She's wearing black too.
"Are you ready yet, Mace?" she asks her voice raw and choked.
She feels him behind her, a breath and a mile away all at the same time, and she tries to hold herself together.
"Go," he urges into her ear in a whisper, a phantom of dying melodies and lullabies in his tone, and she nods her head, not really sure for who, closing her eyes for a second before taking a deep breath and getting up.
Stella brings her hand out and she grasps it, letting her needle her fingers through hers and following a little behind her.
She looks back one last time and he's still there. He waves a simple goodbye, something lasting in it, and she only needs to blinks once.
"Mace…what are you looking at?" She hears the twinge of worry in the wavering voice.
She shakes her head, resting her head against her best friend's chest and listening to her steady heartbeat wordlessly as they walk out.
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and if you are a ghost, i'll call your name, you always
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A ghost or a figment of imagination, who knows.