He moved like a silent sirene. Every step echoed into ethereal rhythm, into nothingness, for he always had those calmness sufficient for both of them. Then, this one of the moments he loathed his lack of voice the most. It used to startle her, in every single damnable way she would react, often in honest surprise, and next, blessing him with those sincere smiley anger pouts. Those were in old days, which were much like his scars, now fading into light scratch lines, or his forgotten memories, which now only bringing up much tingling sensation.
He watched her from the corner of the window, opening the drawer of medicine cabinet, mouth curled up verging on dissatisfaction. That must had something to do with the reckless doctor. If he could manage a smile, he didnt show it. He caught himself reaching towards the lock, working in fast yet inaudible move; even with his apathetic need of being not soundless around her. The metal gave up easily, as if it knew the man was its long forgotten comrade, its long dipshit mute friend. He stalked into the room.
He stood on the even surface, still short, but managed to crowding her. Like always.
She didnt even flinch. Merely stood still, as one would with having him constantly breaking in into their room. Or heart.
"Do you need anything?"
He looked down to her, dwarfing her(even when she was two years older now and taller than last time he preyed her window open), trying to make out her outline between the fluorescent and night's shadows. If the blood on his arm and neck and jaw didn't concern him, he proved it by staring blankly like he always did. She was better angled to him like this, knowing she would only catch his silhouette. It's always hard to manage an apology when you were told you were devoid of emotion. It was harder to pretend to be not hurt by her tone. It was distant, far away from his reach.
The silence that followed etched into the wall behind him, behind his skull, and stayed there.
And there it was, the way she checked him up with those eyes, trained professional one, yet slightly fluttered with concern. He would do anything to draw out the old curl of her lips, pink kissed by spring, and eyes that promised warm chocolate under the balmy weather.
She reached up to his arm, inspecting it before cleaning it with alcohol. She wrapped the bandage around it, doing the same with his neck. And then his jaw, and he smelled the fragrant of tea rose, mind numbling, the flanel of her skirt brushing his leg when she tiptoed. All those times she said nothing. He needed the sound as badly as he needed to breathe evenly. He flicked his hand around his jaw, pointing out her height.
[You're taller now]
She put the drugs on the slick surface of the table, not acknowledging his words, her back towards him. He held back the urge to drown his fingers into the now reached her back hair, flared auburn. There're potent black circles below her eyes that counted the days he knew she had not been able to fall asleep. That was understandable. He coughed up the feeling, drawing her eyes back to him.
She didn't deserve to live in this fucked up macabre town. Ergastulum was too sick for her to even breathe the air. She stared long at him. He knew she knew what he was thinking.
He offered no explanation to this, but moved his hand, steady, fluidly dancing in the air, aware of her eyes that followed.
[Happy birthday]
.
.
It was the end of autumn, when Worick never came back. She suspected that was why he started to also never coming back. The funeral was a quiet one, attended only by close colleagues even when they're not really that close to him. There were five in total, him nowhere to be seen. The weather was fleetingly humid and even the sky was clear, and Alex's posture was solid.
She was fourteen then, had been taught to become a doctor, she was at the edge of being pretty because she had been trying to and maybe someone would notice her, and had long forgotten the feeling of crying. But she was strong, and intelligent, because she had noticed he had been there when she did all those things. Because there were cracks on the window. You could not lock up the window from the outside.
Once, there was this boy from the other clinic from the other city. Much better city not cramped with nothing but hoodlums like in ergastulum. He was sixteen, trained to be a doctor, fresh looking, and a boy. Honestly a boy, who snatched her hand and dragged her into fresh air with sincere smile and promised reliable promises. It was surrealistic, doctor Theo's creepy smile, the boy's laughter whilst whispering some sweet-nothings into her ear, and she had been thinking she could live with that. She really wished that would be the case.
It was raining that day, when she told the boy she didn't use to live with reliable promises.
.
.
He made the tiniest sound when he sat down onto the sofa. Still sturdy, a lot uncomfortable. The strain in his neck didn't pain him, also his downer would no longer take effect. They didn't take effect since a month ago or so.
She held out the mug, steaming with sweet flavored swirls. He accepted it, bit back the laughter, once his head processed the irony. She preferred coffee now, taken black, not any hint of creamer. She untucked her shirt and edged onto the sofa, not so much far from him.
The night was cold, the wind was barely recognizable outside the window. It was thick, full of restraint, like they owned the sounds of the world. She didn't ask, so he didn't tell her. She told him instead.
"You don't have to celebrate it anymore."
He knew then. Knew the words behind it. Always knew he was bad with promises. He knew. Because that night he came for this purpose, she was sixteen, and this time, the mission would require more than the fling of his katana.
You don't have to come here anymore.
It was dark, and he could hear the rattling, something broken. This time it's his heart, if there was enough left since he had given it all to her.
.
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an: unbeta-ed, please make more nicnina :(