And here's a one-shot inspired by the most recent Eclare plotline. I'm sure there's need for further explanation.
(p.s, sorry for the lack of updates.)
(p.p.s, I sobbed at the misfit reunion tonight)
(p.p.p.s I sobbed even harder when Clare giggled in one of the new promos)
(p.p.p.p.s please let me know if you want me to just write a shit ton of one-shots. I promise I'll update more frequently that way.)
Oh yeah, and enjoy.
"Let's walk for miles and leave the car, it won't work anyway," Clare sings softly in his ear, lightly twirling strands of his dark hair around her finger. The other hand is resting gingerly on his stomach, frequently caressing him through the fabric of his shirt. Her thumb moves in a small, rhythmic, circular motion, and sometimes he feels her sneaking in shapes like hearts. Sometimes they're stars, so bitter sweetly reminiscent of a happier time. And as hard as he tries to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend that they're lying in a hammock instead of a cold hospital bed, the steady bleeping of the machine monitoring her heart rate is impossible to ignore. It's a cruel reminder of how hard reality struck them, leaving with them a painful reminder that death and ailment is a real thing. That too often the healthy and young are immortalized, when evidently, it's most certainly not the case. "One headphone each, arm and arm, I'll show you the way."
Eli curls up tighter against her body, burying his face into her chest. The sobs hit him again harder, wrecking his lungs with desperate, uncontrollable breathing that soon escalates and turns to hyperventilating. His heart is behaving erratically, wildly thumping against his chest so hard that it begins to hurt. It hurts so much that his cries grow louder and more feral, ricocheting off every glass window and wall. He's crying and crying and even though the tears staining her gown is bordering excessive in its amount, she doesn't cease her soothing ministrations. Even when his fingernails dig into her flesh and draws blood, Clare doesn't so as much as wince. She just smiles and kisses his forehead, as if the blood that she's losing is a minor and irrelevant detail.
"If you're in Technicolour, than I'm in black and white. I like the way you paint me, it never looks the same way twice."
They've been laying there for hours now. Sporadically, Eli's wretched sobs would die down from exhaustion and it'd be so quiet that he can hear Clare's breathing. In those calmer moments, she would stop singing and ask if he's okay, gently tugging his iron grip on her loose. He would shake his head and start to panic when this happens, and soon he'd start to cry again. The cycle starts and stops again and again, bringing them in to the hours of yellow dusk. And yet Clare, with her inhumanly, unwavering patience, never once suggests that they stop because it's childish to be mourning this way. She coaxes and sings and soothes, but doesn't rebuke him for his weakness. In some ways, this is a bad thing. It's bad because Eli may never muster the will to tear himself from Clare's embrace ever. He may never return home- or rather, return to his house because this is home. It's also bad because her lovingness and tenderness just makes him love her more, and it's the extra love that he can't afford to give anymore.
"You're going to die," he sobs.
"I won't," she promises.
It's a lie and they both know it.
Times passes impossibly, too quickly and too slowly for them to grasp. At the peak of his wailing and convulsing, Clare decides to change tactics when it seems that singing is no longer effective at consoling, nobly ignoring the scratchy fabric of his skinny jeans rubbing against her bare legs. Ignoring every bit of discomfort coursing through and enveloping her body. "So last Sunday, my mom thought it would be a good idea to try out a new pie recipe she found online," she says musingly, tapping a finger on his belly button. It works like magic, this new tactic. Eli's choked sob cuts off when he realizes that she's talking to him, and he immediately presses his trembling lips together. He strains himself to repress, not only because he's mildly curious as to how the story would go, but also because he suddenly finds himself aching to hear the clarity of her speaking voice. If he's crying, he wouldn't be able to hear her and that upsets him. "And lucky me, she also thought it would be a good idea to let me be her guinea pig."
"W-what kind of pie?" he croaks, his own voice scratchy and hoarse. He cranes his neck to see her face as she speaks, eyes shining with a thin film of tears. He looks so small, like some who had been shrunken in the wash and wrung out to dry.
Clare tries not to laugh as she wipes his tears. "Apple, Eli."
"You hate apple pie," he says immediately.
"I know."
"Does your mom know that?"
She purses her lips together, taking in his concern. His eyebrows are knitted together anxiously, as if her eating something she doesn't like is a horrifically awful thing to think about. "She shouldn't. I was very discreet about gagging it up."
A small, weak smile crackles across his face. "You're a sneaky thing, Edwards."
She smiles back. "More for you to love."
"Miss Edwards?" a nurse says tentatively, gingerly poking her head into the room. And just like that, the spell is broken and his smile fades, twisting into something between a grimace and a frown. The nurse's white uniform is a blatant reminder of where they are in the world- a place between Heaven and hell, where tragedy can strike and where love can be made. Closer to hell but not so far from Heaven that it can't be reached, and they're both cognizant of this.
What a mess this place is.
Her initial expression of wariness dissolves into a full face of pity when she sees Eli quivering at irregular intervals beside Clare, holding onto her for dear life. "It's getting late now. Visiting hours are over."
"Oh," Clare whispers, frowning. "I-"
"No," Eli says quietly, scrubbing his eyes clean.
"But sir, the rules-"
Eli abruptly rips away from Clare, and springs to the nurse so quickly that she doesn't have time to register. Her jaws drop and she instinctively recedes, cowering away from the angry, anguished-looking boy that had just appeared out of thin air. No longer was just the sad, lamenting mess whose cries could be heard from down the hall- from that sorrow shot out someone fueled by bitter resentment. Someone who has loved. And will lose.
"I don't give a flying fuck about the rules here, miss," he growls, clenching his fists at his sides. "My girlfriend is about to die, and there's no way in fucking hell that I'm leaving her side."
"Y-yes, yes, I understand," she blurts, absolutely terrified. "I'll j-just be…"
She scurries away, nearly running headfirst into the door before escaping Eli's wrath. The pitter-patter of her steps fade away, creating a new silence that holds palpable tension. His chest isn't heaving anymore, but he finds himself wishing that it was. The silence is too deep. It holds too much meaning, and it takes everything in him not to crumple up on the floor and writhe.
"I won't die," she says quietly from behind him.
He doesn't ever turn around. "You will."
"I won't."
And in that moment of finality, Eli lets her win. But not because she's right.
But because he wants so badly to believe that she is.
-x—
She shaves of all her hair that day, leaving behind a pool of soft curls that he won't ever get to touch again. She wears a new wig in replacement, one that Imogen and Adam had brought her and it's blonde. Blonde and wavy. A deathly combination that could either look so wrong on Clare or make her look even more stunning than she was before. Somehow, the wig manages to accomplish both things, and Eli empathetically tells her the latter.
Clare just smiles ruefully. "But I know you miss my curls, Eli."
He can't lie to her, so he just stays quiet and strokes her arm. Saying the words won't bring back the soft, bouncy tendrils. Saying the words won't turn her fake hair cinnamon. Don't you tell Eli Goldsworthy that he doesn't know this, because he does and it kills him slowly but surely. Cancer is like a thief in the night that steals away the parts he loves most about Clare, and for one, desperate moment, he's thankful that it can't take away her beautiful eyes. It's her eyes that made him fall in love with her, and it was her intelligence, wits, courage, lovingness, and kind heart that made him stay.
Sometime between their kisses and cuddles and bad daytime television show, Adam walks in wearing a baseball cap and a sympathetic smile. He's holding a stack of DVDs, thank God, and heroically proceeds to save the pair from the nightmare that is West Drive. Clare excitedly jumps up to give Adam a warm hug, who enthusiastically returns it.
"You came," she says in awe, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"Yup," he grins, taking off his cap and plopping it on Clare's blonde head. She giggles and adjusts it, beaming at her friend. "Degrassi's going to be a mess without you as Drew's Veep, you know."
Clare's smile falters. "I wish I could be there right in the beginning."
"You will," Eli says firmly, rising from the bed just a bit so that he could pull Clare back in. He wraps his arms around her waist and sits her on his lap, pressing a gentle kiss on her temple. "Next semester, you're going to kill it. You will be there, Clare, planning dances, organizing fundraisers…"
He trails off, leaving Adam feeling more and more uncomfortable at his optimism. The boy now without a hat pretends to fumble with the DVD boxes, pretending to be indecisive and pretending that the possibility of any of that happening is good. Like cancer isn't something long term… and often times terminal. Which is a stupid thing to even think about, really, because Clare is one of the strongest people he knows. Her parents' shattered marriage didn't kill her, nor did the bipolar boyfriend that once upon a time crashed a car for her. Cancer can't and won't do what all those things didn't.
But damn it, this sickness wasn't just hurting Eli. And right now, as Adam mutters some excuse about using the bathroom, the trickle of tears is falling down his cheeks. They won't see it, but they're there. They'll always be there.
"I need to take a leak," Adam mumbles half to himself, scurrying out the room before either of them detected a thing.
Clare, nodding, averts her gaze. "Whatever you say, Eli."
And like how he didn't believe her, she sure as hell doesn't believe him.
-x—
They're kissing, hard and fast. The blood pounding in Eli's ear is so loud that every time his eyelids flutter open, he sees a blur of colour. Technicolour. He presses into her, gently but urgently, eliciting a soft moan out of her when his lips fall to her neck. They impatiently trail down to her collarbone, than to her chest, where he can hear her heartbeat thumping irregularly. This is good, he thinks, referring to the vibrant beat of her heart. Clare arches her back and sighs happily, giving her more access then he could have ever asked for. This is really good.
Maybe it's her impending demise that gives them that little extra pint of bravery, but they're moving fast. Their breaths are coming in short pants, and somehow Eli's leg has found a way to swing over both of Clare's. She wriggles. He lets out a primal moan. His hips are bucking without his conscious consent, and he can't seem to channel any desire to stop it. There's too much of sweet pleasure surging through him, evading his senses and arousing him so deliciously. He feels like he's going to burst from all the pressure building up inside of him, and he's scrambling to hold himself together for the reason that they're in a hospital, and a nurse could walk in at any moment- or worst, her mom. But the moment her hands slide under his shirt, caressing his chest and stomach, he's a goner.
"Clare, please," he groans, never imagining himself as the type to beg. Primarily because he would never, ever pressure Clare to do anything because of him. He would never allow himself to be that selfish. Ever. But desperate times calls for desperate measures, he supposes, and he's not sure how much time he has left with her.
So he lets himself be selfish and whimpers her name. And only all too lovingly, Clare kisses away any trace of guilt he may have and slips off her shirt.
-x—
Time is running out, and he starts to cry again that night. Clare is lying next to him when he does, rubbing his back and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. She sings Technicolor again for him, but this time she doesn't finish the song. She's getting too tired for the whole thing now.
Even so, she doesn't dare fall asleep before Eli does. She waits until his sobs has died down and until his breathing evens before even thinking about drifting off, and she's only all too happy to do this. Eli is peaceful when he sleeps. So beautiful and glorious when he's not in tears. Clare hates it when he cries, but at least she knows he won't have to cry any longer.
-x—
She doesn't have strength to get up that morning, so Eli doesn't either. He peppers kisses where she asks him to, whether it'd be her face, her tummy, or her fingers.
"Anywhere else, M'lady?" he asks politely, giving her a cheeky little smile. He purposely draws a light circle on her inner thigh, and wriggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Her giggle is weak, and he can't help but greedily engrave the sound in his head.
"Gently," she whispers, and he nods, kissing her nose before dipping downwards.
-x—
Clare never wakes up again, and in some way, Eli never will either.