needle & thread
19: northern lights
"Read to me."
They're snuggled up in bed, and recently, Ishida Uryuu has taken to reading one particular book by Phillip Pullman. And Ishida Yuzu is somewhat curious at what's so intriguing about it.
Her husband gives her a glance, one that asks, are you sure?
"Please?"
"… do you promise not to fall asleep?" Tentatively, he asks her. "Or snicker when I stutter."
"I promise." Earnestly, she says, nodding. "I even promise to remind you when you stop reading aloud, and promise to give you time to breath, making the story sound natural."
"Alright." Finally, her husband agree, shifting to make himself more comfortable, holding the book and resting his arm around her shoulder and she does the same, holding him both to hear the beat of his heart and feel the rise and fall of his chest. She's always loved listening to the sound of his voice. "I'll start at the beginning – I'm sure you don't want to start at the middle of the story."
"You don't mind?"
"Not for you."
"One last question: do you do voices?"
20: broken dreams
It's such a silly thought, but he honestly thinks that her hugs have power. They fix him, mending some broken part of him; it's like magic – warming his frosty exterior and giving him hope.
He doesn't know how she does it, but she's like a panacea, alleviating his fears as she pulls away, and kisses his cheek, always murmuring to believe.
And if he believes in one thing, he wonders if what he truly believes in is her.
21: be an angel
She honestly doesn't think it's hard to mistake Uryuu for an angel.
It's getting harder to breathe – but she knows it's him holding her in his arms.
He's always dressed in white, in clothes that show him to be slender and lithe. When he moves, it's almost too graceful, too beautiful to watch. It's like silk; too glossy, and sinewy, and part of her never believes that he's actually real. There is no need for wings, he considers them to be gaudy; an wearing a halo is too hard to make it look realistically floating above his head.
But he flies already, quick as arrows soaring in the sky; he bends like a bow, quivering as he holds her, finding her hand to hold and her cheek to stroke.
And she reaches for him, but however hard she tries, she can't touch him.
Saline liquid soaks her clothes, but she knows that can't be hers. What soaks her skin is red and sticky and crushing her lungs with stained air.
But—it's him.
He's here.
Her angel is with her in her final moments.
Pleading for her to stay conscious and stay with him.
Above all, to keep—