Author's Notes: And so he said: I miss being part of that group, where death didn't feel so eminent.
I seem to have a thing with writing about aging. A short little oneshot to put my mind at ease.
"in conclusion"
by: Rosalyn Angel
-
You're older.
Your hair isn't as long as it used to be. It's cut close to your head—the short spikes are slicked back for business and responsibility. Gray is clustered at your temples, mixing into the dull red strands. The colors contrast harshly and fight for dominance. The red is slowly losing.
"I like it," he once said, running a hand through your hair. "It makes you look distinguished."
There are wrinkles at the corner of your eyes; small creases much more obvious when you smile, the same as the loose skin on your face. It's not as taut and smooth as it used to be. It's a little darker, a little rougher—you don't bother shaving everyday because it helps to hide it. Small stubble constantly graces your chin.
Your bones are growing weary. They're not as strong as they used to be. You walk at a slower pace, but you still look ahead. Can't lift as much as you used to, though—had to tone down the weights before you hurt yourself.
"Please," he said, helping you to your feet, "don't push yourself."
Your eyesight's a little blurry up close, so you use glasses for reading. You don't wake up as easily, so you make some coffee in the morning. Your back aches sometimes, so you make sure to use a pillow in the car seat.
Things are harder now.
"It's just how it is, Axel."
That's just how it goes.
-
His eyes are the same as they were thirty years back. They're a little more shadowed underneath than they were before, but their aqua color remains the same, just as bright and brilliant.
You brushed aside his bangs and smiled. "Hey, beautiful."
He smiled back and looked away. "Liar. I feel old."
His hands are different, though. The veins are more prominent, the knuckles a little bigger. But they're still good hands, you decide, because they hold yours and they always have and you think they always will.
-
Back in that time you were wild. Your hair was untamable and fiery, and tattoos graced your face instead of stubble. Your limbs were long and sinewy; you could sprint down the driveway and tackle friends that were alive and well.
Your mannerism was carefree and reckless. You drew people to you unintentionally, and you relished in the attention.
In your youth you were invincible and you held the world in your hands. You spread out your arms and shouted for a challenge, daring life and everything it contained.
He was there. He was always there to bring you down from your ecstatic high. A subtle smile and a warm hand brought you to the ground, and you embraced the simple path before you.
Sitting in your house, an arm wrapped around his shoulders, your tie undone from a day's work, you relax and the world around you thrives. His head lies against you, tired and resting, hair a darkening silver and bound into a ponytail. You watch him simply, noting his smaller physique and slighter frame.
They seemed to pass by too quickly, all those years past.
-
There's a tightness in your chest. You ignore it with a grimace.
(th-thump)
You drive home slowly at night because the bright headlights disorientate you. You rub your head at your graying temple and think about bed and him and lying down.
It's a little worse than usual.
You woke up once to find him staring down at you. "The couch isn't the bed," he said. "Tired, old man?"
You waved him off with a laugh. You stood, swayed a little, and followed him to the bedroom.
You grit your teeth and rub at your chest. You lean back in the car seat and try to breathe deep, but it's hard. The air won't come.
He studied the wrinkles at your eyes, tracing them with his fingers. "Crow's feet," he said. "You smile too much."
The car rolls to a stop on the side of the road. It's parked but the engine runs. Headlights blaze past outside and dizzy you. You curl forward, clutching at your heart, and gasp for breath.
(th-thump)
Red and gray hair falls out of its style and hangs in your face. The day was long.
He'll be at home, like always. He always gets home first.
You'll just sit there for a little while until you feel better. You'll go then.
He looked at you once, when you were younger and both your bodies were fit and lean. He looked at you with some distant expression, pressed against each other closely in bed, the blankets coiling on the floor. He looked at you and said a simple statement, in that cryptic way of his:
"We'll grow old together."
Part of your body turns numb. The hand at your chest flops down uselessly.
You feel your heart give a harsh jump. You jerk forward. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.
(th-th-thump)
The lighted dashboard blinks numbers and meters at you. You stare at it in a daze. Things begin to blur.
"It's scary, isn't it?" he said quietly. "Growing older."
You stretched your young limbs out. "I guess. We have a long time, though, don't we?"
He gazed down at his folded hands, slouching forward. "Yeah. It's just hard to imagine what it's like, at the end."
It's scarier now than it was then.
You just want to go home. You just want to see him again. You just want to lie down and rest and feel better, and you just want to hear his voice—
You never wanted to grow old.
Another harsh heartbeat. You can't stop a strangled cry.
You never wanted this.
But that's how it goes.
(th-thum—)
He'll still be waiting for you, in the morning.
-fin