Written for the ice within. A lovely reviewer and a lovely person. Love you dear, hope you enjoy this.
WARNING: Character death. But this isn't a tragedy at all. If you read till the end, you'll get why I say there are fuzzeh feelings.
I am entirely aware of the run-ons in this story. I don't want to go too deeply into why they're there (I hate long ANs), so if they bother you, ask in your review for an explanation.
Gravity
[i.] They spoke about death precisely once in their entire lives. Even though they were frequently faced with it, they pretended that it was always something escapable; a mild threat. An unfortunate alternative to what could happen in their lives.
[Because there are so many things worse than being deaddeaddead. They knew it better than anyone else.]
[ii.] They discussed of it when they were eight.
"If I die you'll carry on for the rest of the flock, right? They'll need a leader, Fang. Swear to me you will."
"I promise."
And that was that.
[iii.] They often wanted to let go of life. In the School, death was an attractive alternative to their hell. [But there are things so much more painful than needles and whitecoats, as he will soon find out.]
[iv.] "I won't leave you, Fang. I don't care what happens; we'll never split up. No matter what."
[v.] On the 26 April, 2015, Maximum Ride broke that oath. Although she didn't find out until she was deaddeaddead. [It was all too fast for her to save herself.]
[vi.] It was an average day, the one she died on. Perfectly normal, nothing unusual. Sunny skies, smiling faces, braided hands with love and laughter.
They flew together, just the two of them. Landed on a mountain. Perfect and serene and idyllic and wonderful and not the day that tragedy should strike.
But alas, it did. Shakespeare would be proud of their ending.
[vii.] When asked, Fang said he couldn't remember what the argument was about. Maybe it was about pink cake or why Nudge should wait a year or two before marriage; he'd never ever know. Every time he thought about the 26 April, 2015, all that he could think of was bloodbloodblood.
[And tears. Lots of them. Almost as much as that ugly red liquid that nearly drowned him.]
[viii.] But still, they did argue on that day and he can't take that backbackback. And like they always did, they physically fought as well. She threw a punch, he released a kick. She retaliated, then he pushed her back.
A bit too far, even for Mighty Max.
[ix.] Downdowndown.
Ten feet. Not enough time to save herself at all. Landed head-first on a rock.
[x.] [Gravity, you bitch.]
[xi.] Irony: Noun. When something opposite from what is expected happens.
[Example: Savior of the world, the incredible, indestructible and maximum Max, getting killed by a rock, because there wasn't enough space to open her wings.]
[xii.] Gravity used to be such a small factor to him. Tiny. But now it crushed his ribs [and her body too because she's deaddeaddead now, thanks to him] and he could only think that it's the most powerful force in the world.
[xiii.] The bird girl fell to her death. Ha-ha-ha.
[xiv.] [… No-one's laughing.]
[xv.] It was entirely his fault, of course. Although no-one pointed fingers at him. It was an accident, they said. We could never blame you.
But how do you justify killing your own wife? [You don't, that's how.]
[xvi.] MaxMaxMax. Deaddeaddead.
[xvii.] He went back to the home they built together.
Twenty-four years with her.
Twenty four short and long and painful and happy years.
And no more.
[xviii.] The doctors took care of her remains. Cleaning it up, performing an autopsy, taking away what was left of her. He was the number one suspect.
They eventually cleared his name somehow. [Maybe Angel helped, but he didn't actually care. He wanted punishment.]
[xix.] The first night without her was the worst. He refused to fly. Instead he went to Iggy's house.
[And everything just crumbled and disappeared and left him. He died but he wasn't deaddeaddead, because if he was, he'd be with her. And he sure as hell wasn't.]
[xx.] One week.
[xxi.] Two.
[xxii.] Three.
[xxiii.] Empty would be one way to describe it. Hollow and numb would work too. But alas, those are just words on a page, and nothing near what he was thinking or feeling. Little black symbols don't equate to that emotion.
[Who knew it could hurt to breathe? Ouchouchouch.]
[xxiv.] Then back to their home. [Correction: His house.]
She was everywhere. Sitting on the couch, humming in the kitchen, lying on their bed.
[xxv.] Her last words kept ringing through his head.
"Fang, you assho –"
He was one indeed.
[xxvi.] Gravity keeps him on the ground. [And her body in it.] He hates it. If that silly little force didn't exist, she'd be alive.
[xxvii.] But he can't change the fact that she's deaddeaddead, and always will be. Forever and ever more. Gone like a sigh and lost just like him.
[xxviii.] He washed their sheets. They smelled of her.
Donated her clothes to charity. Neither of them cared much for material possessions; it was what she wanted.
He scrubbed the bathtub. Wiped the counter. Ordered a new couch.
[xxix.] He got rid of her. Her fingerprints weren't on the remote any more. Her tampons in the third drawer of their bathroom got thrown out [with so many other things]. Her side of the bed was still made.
[xxx.] But she'd still sneak up on him. He'd find a strand of hair on the carpet; pretty and sunstreaked and brown and hers. Actually hers. Part of her living and breathing body and part of what he ran his hand through and what he kissed and what he idly twisted around his finger and what he stared at when the sun hit it just right.
[xxxi.] He got a new apartment.
[xxxii.] [He didn't fly.]
[xxxiii.] He stopped her cellphone contract. Cancelled her library card. Threw out her gift-voucher to iTunes. He stopped buying ingredients for chocolate-chip-cookies, because he could never ever eat them again.
[They'd taste of her softsoftsoft and gonegongone lips.]
[xxxiv.] He kept on buying pear-flavoured yogurt for two months before he realised that he actually hated the flavour. He started making shopping lists, careful to not add any of her favourite foods.
[xxxv.] Where was his heart? [Certainly not that vile thing beating in his chest, forcing blood through his veins in a body that belonged to her.]
[xxxvi.] He unfriended her on Facebook. No point in being online friends with the deaddeaddead, after all, she can't reply to his messages that he sends.
[xxxvii.] He stopped sleeping. And started. Then stopped again.
[xxxviii.] He remembered her broken promise. He decided to keep the other one he made to her anyway. Just in case she was still screaming at him from heaven, because that's where good deaddeaddead people go. [And good she was good indeed, unlike him. He's badbadbad.]
[xxxix.] He started volunteering at local home for troubled children.
There was a girl with pretty brown-blonde hair and chocolate eyes and a silly but broken grin and slim fingers with a warm heart.
He wanted to stab that girl. How dare she be her?
[xl.] He transferred to a different charity organisation. An all-boys home. [No deaddeaddead girls there.]
[xli.] Someone noticed a golden band around his finger.
"Are you married?"
A smile cracked on his face, carving a brief gorge in his features. "Still am." Married for four years, she's been gone for one.
"Treat her good, son."
"I did my best." [He didn't say it wasn't enough.]
[xlii] On the 17 of December, 2016, Fang flew again. Only for twenty minutes; his wings couldn't manage any more. A tiny allowance of healing.
[xliii.] He felt like a monster for enjoying that feeling again, forgetting gravity like that.
[xliv] He spoke to her while in the air. Just like they always did. He thought it was silly. No-one can speak to the deaddeaddead, not even birdboys so close to the sky.
[xlv.] Years passed. They always do.
[xlvi.] Thirty.
[xlvii.] Forty. [Iggy died. Killed by a bombbombbomb. At least he died with style.]
[xlviii.] Fifty.
[xlix.] Sixty. [Nudge and Dylan went out together, holding hands. The died with joyjoyjoy.]
[l.] He lived without her. But in those moments when he wasn't paying attention, the realisation would hit him and punch a hole through his chest and he'd diediedie with her and only to be revived again.
[li.] Seventy. [Angel with a gringringrin on her face. Gazzy followed quickly after.]
[lii.] The doctor's voice was grave. A promise of death.
"How long do I have?"
"Two months."
He let out a breath he'd been holding for the past fifty years. [Gravity isn't pulling his lungs any more.]
[liii.] He decided to spend his time remembering. There was Before and After. She lit up Before, and he lit up After. He laughed and cried and smiled with and without Max. He's a functional whole, and she was one too. They just happened to fit together to make one even bigger [and slightly misshapen] piece.
[liv.] Almost there. Almost.
He stood alone without her for fifty years [sometimes crouching or leaning] because that's what lovers do. They go on and still live and be strong.
He's beginning to die. He can feel his body shutting down. His time has come, and he's embracing it. Gravity be damned.
[lv.] So close.
Ah, there it is. Mild pain, nothing he's not used to. Kind of tingly, actually. Feels a bit like butterflies tickling his insides. He feels so... fuzzy.
Fuzzfuzzfuzz.
[What a pathetic last thought; he's glad Angel isn't around to listen. She'd piss herself laughing.]
…
[lvi.] Finally.
[lvii.] I kept my promise.
[lvii.] I'm not letting go this time.
-FIN-