The Nature of Clockwork
"Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live"
-Mitch Albom
They sit quietly at first. Cross-legged on the pale tiled floor, hands twined, lips trembling with spasms of sadness.
The room is white, like his unhealthy face, and blank, like her mourning eyes. A clock watches them intently, an unwelcome visitor upon the wall, tolling out the seconds, minutes, hours of nothingness.
Slowly, haltingly, she arches her neck and presses her face to his chest. Listening. Determined to find that steady heartbeat, drown the tick tock of consistent time. And it is there, as always, and she's reassured. He puts his hand to her breast and finds her pulse as well.
They stay like this for a long, long time. Listening to the beats and silences, the rhythm of blood coursing through veins. Each pulse is so real, so solid, so human. This is what life would feel like, he thinks, if you were to touch it. Warm and slow.
"Beetee," she whispers, curling her free hand into his shirt, "We're going to die."
He says nothing. But drops of saltwater collect in his eyes, spill over, and run in silent rivers from his chin. They catch and sparkle like tiny diamonds in her black curls.
She draws a long, shuddering breath. Her lashes beat moisture against his chest, painting thin stripes of wetness on his clothing. "Are you afraid?"
Consideration. Analyzation. A moment where she can see the brilliant gears turning beneath his skin, deep inside his skull, trying to put reason to emotion.
"Science says I should be...that there's nothing after this. Oblivion. Our souls die with our brains," grim lines cross his brow. She's unmoving, but he knows, by her tense shoulders and shallow breath, that she's hanging onto every word. "That's what most people are afraid of. Not death itself, but what, if anything, comes next. It's so...ambiguous. And human beings, perhaps by intelligence, perhaps by instinct, fear what they don't know. But dying...everyone does it. Millions have done it before us, millions will follow. It's as inevitable as the advancement of time."
"But are you afraid? Right now?"
In one swift motion, he rises, forcing her head from his chest. She whimpers and skitters backwards, unsure. His back is turned and he's sniffing harshly and rubbing beneath his glasses. He strides agitatedly towards the clock on the wall.
"Beetee-" she starts. But she's distracted as he pulls the white and black face down and, with one smooth crack against the floor, kills it. The silence is powerful and astounding now, free as it is of those hated mechanical clicks.
His shoulders shrink as he exhales. "There. Now I'm not afraid."
She's back on her haunches, fearfully pressing fingers to her chin. But she offers one of her quirky half-smiles, and her blue eyes glint like electric lights. "Good. I'm not afraid either."
The white tiles are marked where the clock was struck down. Wounded in their innocence. She looks away.
"Fish kisses, Beetee?"
He laughs weakly. "Fish kisses, Wiress," and presses his lips to hers, tasting the ocean.
There's a metal drain in the floor, and she is glad because it means they can't drown in their own tears.
Notes: Just a quick little verbal doodle, probably doesn't make a lot of sense. May write more, may not. And to the approximately five people who read Arachnophobia: I'm taking a short break from Wadsworth/White to obsess over some Hunger Games pairings, but the next chapter is in the works. Will be soon, I promise!
Ta ta for now!