¤ transatlanticism
There's something about this pool of water. It looks kind of shallow but, standing in it, it reaches his chin.
And Balthier feels like he's drowning.
Then he realizes he can't swim. The water is tightly knit, the water is too thick and filled with all the things he questions, the things he doesn't-can't-won't understand.
But he can't admit that now, not after looking into the distance—to the dark blue of the sky, which doesn't seem like an adventure, and more of a colossus.
The only thing he can admit to not understanding is why the island, underneath the swirl of the storm, above the murky clouds and immovable water, is so far unreachable.
-
He's dozing off on the control panel again.
Fran can inhale the stale, bitter smell of a wasted night all the way to her ears. This has become a normal occurrence, she has found, and she can't fathom why. Of course, she can't fathom many things that overtake the Hume mind, especially when alcohol comes into play, but she can't help but wonder if he does this because of something else.
Cutting through the metal walkway is unbearable, but she manages to reach him and rub a hand through his hair. Each finger slides through the strands, and they come away with a dust of another in the pale moonlight.
He gurgles nonsense and shapes unintelligible words with his lips. His eye twitches spasmodically, and his hand twists a bit.
His scent overpowers all else, so Fran decides to sit down in the passenger seat of the cockpit and watch him. She chooses to keep ruffling through his hair.
-
There's something about this lake. He can't see the bottom of it, but it looks so enticing, sparkling and glittering, like a faraway treasure he couldn't steal.
Except that it is before him now, and he can dip his hand in it, his body into it.
And it's so…it's so warm and gentle, and he thinks maybe here, he can swim to the middle and be sucked in, be cleansed in a different way.
There is a cliff towering above it, blocking the sky out of view. He can't see it, but he feels it there, watching his movements. He can't read its face though, and he doesn't know if it is trying to tell him anything.
But the cliff face, he can read. It's cut in a peaceful way, calm, brandished into a perpetual state of standing. It's immobilized, never to jump, and never to dive.
And then, he reaches the middle, and then and then, it's so snug, wrapping him up in a pleasant, sizzling blanket. He feels divine.
And then, he moves his hand. But it's stuck.
And then, the lake rises and he can't remember when his feet reached the bottom.
And then and then, oh, Balthier.
He's choking.
-
He mumbled her name once, as his face buried against his sleeve and a dribble of drool landed against the autopilot button.
Fran blinked, a bit startled, but she kept rubbing his hair all the same.
And then she became confused, the dominant vein of his neck pulsating through the maze of his skin, barreling into her fingertips. She combed through the hair at his nape and brushed at the throbbing, overheated patch of his neck.
It got hotter.
Fran.
Hotter.
Fran.
Sharper, sharper.
Fran stood up and shook him, her force building when his eyes weren't opening.
"Balthier."
Oh, oh, Balthier.
Stop choking.
-
There's something about this moat.
There is no castle on the other side.
The sky is visible, but twilight is approaching. He can't see the sun because of all of the trees, and all of the trees are swaying in this blurring dance, but there are so many.
So many, so many. He spins around, but there are only trees. The sky is only a circle of a heartbreaking blue, and the moat is telling him he isn't welcome. Not here, never here.
He follows the line of the moat to the trees, and it ends there, but the trees don't want him either. He is stuck.
All he wants to do is run away, because what else do you do when nothing wants you? When you have become such a disgrace?
He runs in circles, and he's lost, and he can't do anything except—
Except…
Something catches his eye. There is something on the other side of the moat.
And it is not a castle.
-
He shudders and he gasps, out of breath and feeling sweat explore the lines of his back.
He blinks, his right eye blurry from the pressure of his arm on his eyelid, but he feels tremors near his neck and by his chest. His heart is growing legs, and he has a fleeting thought that it helped him run away.
He looks up to find Fran's penetrating stare, her explosive eyes launching rockets through his mind. They seem worried, a bit frightened, and he doesn't know why. He doesn't really care.
He stands up and he realizes that he can't stop repeating her name.
"Fran," he says. Fran, Fran, Fran.
She backs away, away, away, and he feels angry and disoriented.
"You are not well," she says, but he's got her trapped, her back finding the wall.
He shakes his head, and his mind is still furry, but he can see her just fine.
"Closer," he says, and it's something he doesn't really understand, but at the same time he does, even with the alcohol and the tremors.
His hands finally find her, and he lets himself press against her. He thinks she wrinkles her nose, so he guesses he smells. Does he smell? Well, he might, but she's not trying to get away anymore, so maybe he doesn't.
She opens her mouth and says something, but she's not close enough. He presses her mouth to his, kissing her with no limits. It's easier with a dulled mind, but he considers and thinks he probably would have done this tomorrow, anyway.
Her reaction is close to a robot, but she is scorching velvet, and her tongue feels like a bridge, a pathway.
He wishes he didn't have to breath, so he lets himself drown.
-
There was something about that ocean.
It was rippling, harsh, finding a million different beats for a thousand different rhythms. They clashed and roared, and it seemed to be going a different direction for each passing second.
But he knew he didn't have to worry about dying here, inside of it, because he got crafty—he stole a boat.
Of course, there was wind, and there was lightning, and there was no map. And he scowled about it, he scowled until he laughed, and then realized if there was a map, he wouldn't have bothered.
And he kept laughing, nervously, stupidly, until he saw an island, placed there, a place where no island should ever have to go.
He tried rowing his little boat—it was no Titanic, he feared—but the currents were currently not letting him. Perhaps they would never let him.
So he stopped rowing, and threw them overboard, watching them break apart and smother into the ocean's gleaming teeth.
And he waited for the shoreline, he waited for twilight, he waited for the island to move, because he couldn't anymore. He was stuck.
And he needed it closer, when it seemed so much farther than ever before.
a . n ////
the title is the song i was listening to. go listen!~
it's so lovely. and so is death cab for cutie. :3
REVIEWS are LOVE.