Two pairs of eyes, shut tight against the world, backs pressed up against each other. Ears covered so that nothing but the music can get in.
Rory nods her head along with her song, breathing deeply, her head leaning back on Chase. Chase shakes his hands to his song, hunched over, eyes squeezed completely closed. He'd shut them further if he could.
His back suddenly tenses behind Rory's and she opens her eyes immediately, turning. He's taken off his headphones and he's shaking. Shaking. The song is loud enough for her to hear it through the headphones now lying on the ground. And how was I supposed to know? I'm not strong . . .
"Chase . . . ?" She asks tentatively, turning to him. He's crying. He's covered up his grief his entire life and now that he's finally letting it out, it is loud. Pained. She is glad to hear the sounds; it means he's healing.
"It was supposed to be an escape," he says when he can manage, wiping his eyes quickly. "But it just enhances everything. I hate it. I hate never forgetting."
"Oh, Chase," she says, concern clear on her face, shifting so that she can put her arms around him. She doesn't say anything else, just holds him until his breathing calms. His arms wrap around her and he doesn't let go, not for a very long time.
It happens quite a lot, this. Sometimes it's Rory who cries. Their grief isn't specific, it's not something explainable or certain. It's collective and overwhelming and unsure.
And so they try to recover together.
"Who taught you to be so afraid of love?" asks Chase, softly, though he already knows the answer.
You don't understand!" she yells. "I do love her! She's my sister!"
"I'm not doubting-"
"But my love for her is dangerous. It might ruin her, Chase. It might be too much."
"I do understand," he says quietly, the look in his eyes so pure and uncensored that it quiets her. He draws her close, and she runs her hands up his back, trembling until the monster quiets inside her.
Today's the day they rename the Wall of Failed Tales. It's becoming the Wall of Fallen Heroes, much more fitting to the memory of the people they've lost. It was Rory's idea, but Chase and Lena refused to leave until the rest of the Canon accepted it. What contrast, she thinks, from when she was new to EAS.
She hasn't seen Lena in a while. She's terrified for her best friend; Lena's grief hasn't shown itself, which means it's hiding just underneath the surface, growing intensity.
But she has to rebuild herself before she can help rebuild someone else. Chase seems to be much faster with the healing process-perhaps he can check up on Lena. Someone must.
She visits the memorial, where crowds of other Characters too are paying their respects. She traces her fingers over the names familiar to her, lets herself cry, and passes the rest of the day in a peaceful sort of haze.
She's hunched delicately over some craft or other, focused on gluing one popsicle stick to another. Her hair's tied back, but loose strands fall forward in front of her eyes, which she blows away with frustrated huffs. The picnic table she's at is a mess, various fabrics and colors of glitter scattered across it.
Chase watches her with smiling eyes before he calls her name gently. He expects her not to hear, but she turns to see him.
"Yeah?"
He heads towards her and wraps his arms around her, forcing her to let go of the popsicle sticks and hug him back.
"My heart sort of . . . bursts whenever I hear your voice saying my name," she admits, quietly.
"Oh?" says Chase, pulling back, a goofy grin splitting his face. "Rory. Rory. Rory Rory Rory Rory Rory Rory Rory Rory."
She stares at him, unamused. "Never mind," she says drily.
He's laughing as he kisses her, and she finds that, as he giggles against her lips, she can, in fact, fall even more in love.
Once again they can be found, back to back, music flooding every ear.
Rory pulls at her shirt collar, just a bit, so she can look down at the mark Solange's hand has still left against her skin. Now all the marks have settled on my skin . . .
She's surprised to find that none of the songs have made her cry. They haven't brought even an inkling of a tear.
And I feel the light for the very first time
Not anybody knows that I am lucky to be alive . . .
She reaches behind her to hold Chase's hand and for the first time neither of their hands tighten with the pain of memories. No, now there are only gentle squeezes and the feel of his soft skin against hers.
Perhaps they are both past trying to forget, and drawing strength from their memories instead. Perhaps they are both healed.