IV. GUILTY PLEASURES

RATING T

CHARACTERS Nathan, Mag

CATEGORY More hurt/comfort stuff, some (angsty) Magthan as requested ^^

Here is proof that patience will out. How long has it been since I updated?

Also, this is short. Very short.

"Are you sad?
Are you holding yourself?
Are you locked in your room?
You shouldn't be."

Are you sad? By Our Lady peace

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She knows all too well why she's looking for him. But like always, she gives herself other reasons. Plausible ones so she doesn't feel guilty. She tells herself he's a friend. Tells herself he needs somebody to be strong. And it's funny, because she always thought he was the strong one.

Mag had considered going to the house, but it seemed wrong, on some scale, in some way, to go to his home. The same way meeting in the graveyard seemed right. Neutral ground. All three of them here. Not like they used to be, of course, but they were still there.

Only standing there, she isn't so sure if she can convince herself of that. Nathan's not here, and even if he does appear she's not sure how much of him will actually be there. Something had died with Marni—something besides Shilo.

The tomb door looks so innocuous. Inadequate, for all that's buried back there.

She's already placed her flowers there, and they look too bright and alive, even with their faintly wrinkled red blossoms, against the heavy, dark door. Every day, for two months now, it's been two flowers. They're never there the next day. Once, she'd idly let herself wonder if maybe Nathan had taken them. Stupid dreams she'd had when she was tired and not thinking straight. (Which is more often than she'd like to admit.)

Nathan does arrive. For once, she doesn't have to hurry away any time soon, so she decides not to say anything. Screw the script. If he wants to talk, he will. Maybe that's why he waits so late to visit the tomb: she always ends up talking to him. Or rather, saying something. They don't really talk. Nothing to talk about. Marni was, after all, the only thing that had really connected them, right? That link, it had died with her too.

He seems to think that, at least. She lets herself believe it. And dead things, even in this day and age, they stayed dead.

As they observe the silence, she takes occasional breaks to observe him. Long dark coat, short brown hair. Wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. Nathan still looks like Nathan, but he looks tired. Cold. Thin. Handsome.

"Mag?" His voice sounds small, and lost, and it's more like a statement than a question. He's not looking at her, but she still feels like she's been caught, so she looks away. Only for a moment, though. Nathan's eyes are closed tightly, and she thinks maybe he's crying, but he's quiet. And his hands are clenched.

Before she can tell herself not to, Mag steps towards him. A big gap that takes courage to cross, but she does it anyways because she has to be the strong one here.

He opens his hand a little as she touches it, and Mag takes the opportunity to bring it up, wrap it in her own hands.

Nathan glances at their hands, and then slowly looks up at her. An incomprehensible look on his tired face. Not so tired, actually, now that she can see it up close. Just… darker. He's only four years older than her, but he looks two, three times that right now. For a heartbeat, Mag wonders how she looks. You get so used to being up on the stage, with the spotlight shining in your eyes, you forget what it's like to do this. She feels almost shy.

But he doesn't judge her. Never has. Just looks at her, sad and lonely. Maybe the connection's not completely dead and maybe—Mag stops there, reminding herself that they are just foolish dreams. Guilty pleasures.

And they've fallen quiet again. This—him speaking, them touching—isn't part of their routine.

Routines change, right?

(Damnit, even people could change.)

"I'm here," she murmurs. One of them had to be. Nathan doesn't say anything, but she can feel a faint tremor run though him, and he clutches her hand a bit tighter. He's facing her but looking at the mausoleum. She thinks she catches a bittersweet smile, but in the shadows she can't be certain.

"You brought flowers."

And the way he says it makes her want to smile. Cry, too, sure, but mostly smile. But she doesn't.

"I did." She pulls in a small breath, can't help but notice the warm smell of him, and the smell of death and dirt. Death and him. Mag frowns, and chances a glance at her hands, his hand.

" I did, I always will."

It's true, what she says. She will.

Nathan turns to look at her.

Maybe it's a trick of the light, maybe it's her own imagination. Maybe it's real. But there' a flicker of hope there, in his eyes. It's so unfamiliar it strikes Mag, the songbird, mute. She matches his gaze, but for a minute (no more no less) she isn't there, not really.

In another world, she would smile. She would smile at him. Fake bravery (pretend to be the strong one) and lean forward an whisper something witty, or insightful. Maybe 'this is where we kiss' like in the old films. He might take a moment, consider her words, whatever they are, and lean forward in agreement.

In this world, she only smiles. He leans forward and—wait. She's forgotten her line. Mag watches with almost feline curiosity as he closes in, his forehead bumping slightly against her shoulder.

Maybe she could still fake the bravery.

Don't worry.

They're in a better place.

I love you.

Things he doesn't want to hear.

Maybe, Mag thinks, silence is the bravest thing here.

(Marni, Mag thinks. Marni was always the brave one.)

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