Author's Notes: This fanfic's narration will follow third person. It is only in the prologue that first person is used.
Summary: She doesn't like color: too bright, it blinds. too many. unpredictable. wrong. Let the world fade to black. ( a Trinity fic. )
Many thanks to: Kat for the name and Centaur for convincing me that the name could actually work. Warmwarm, affectionate gratitude to you both!
Disclaimer: Julian is mine.
Fade to Black
Prologue
* ~ *
I don't like it when you stay up late he says. Pale yellow light from the hallway floods my room as he steps inside. Momentarily, everything is far too bright to be real.
You didn't knock is my reply. I listen to the gentle ticking of my wall clock. The small, wooden soldier who lives inside rang his tiny silver bell twelve times, not so long ago. It is hard to keep from demanding why he is out of bed at this hour but I manage.
The door was open. Gently, he pulls it shut then comes over to sit down on my bed, next to where I lay staring up at the ceiling. After a few seconds, he breaks the silence and speaks to me in the dark.
You don't sleep very much anymore. His words are dry, like sand shifting to please a harsh desert wind.
I don't need to. Harsh.
I know. It's just that you spend too many nights alone, being the only one awake while everyone else is asleep. I can almost see the disapproving frown he has on his face right now as he waits for me to respond. No more than a child's pout. I close my eyes against the unseen sight, but it doesn't disappear.
There he is, beside me, seated with his legs crossed. Tousled brown hair in a long, boyish cut frame a trusting face. A weak chin and the tilt to his head make visible innocence that is otherwise hidden by eyes which are a paler shade of blue than mine are. It's as if the color was all but washed away completely, almost glasslike in appearance. The similarity, however, is striking.
They tell lies, our eyes do.
( He has his sister's eyes.
Yes. Yes he does.
It's a pity that neither one inherited your brown ones, Marie. Their father's gaze, both are.
They share the gaze, not the father.
Do you mean to say--
--her father adopted the boy not a year before he passed away.
Then he.. He isn't...
I'm sorry.
Don't be. It was a long time ago. )
His name is Julian. He has an old shirt of mine on, one that he insists is his favorite sleep wear, despite its age. Strange, that it is the girl who outgrows a boy's shirt for a boy to wear when she is through with it.
It disturbs me he adds, as if determined to coax a response out of me. Doesn't it bother you at all?
My eyes fly open.
What does?
Being alone.
Oh.
When I am alone, things are simple I tell him. There is only me, after all. There is only one person to look out for and only one person's thoughts to think about. There always seems to be enough time or space for anything and everything, and although this may not be as true as I'd want it to be, no one else is around to tell me it isn't. I like it when things are simple.
I can tell that he is not pleased with what I've just said. Too vague for a boy who wants answers in detail.
I reach under my pillow and pull out a small, thin notebook. I switch on my bedside lamp before turning to face him, with a sigh for his persistence and an unvoiced explanation hidden in pages of lined paper.
I wrote something for you I say, handing the notebook over. He takes it with steady hands and a curious gleam in his eyes. It isn't done yet, but you may look at what I have so far.
He opens the notebook to the first page and reads quietly, squinting at my minuscule handwriting (letters in script, meant only for a chosen few to decipher). I watch his face, made paler by the weak, unsteady flickering of the lamp, for a reaction.
water that flows through my fingers, i grasp.
there, but not quite, you Are
as air in my lungs: a part of me,
a ghost of familiarity,
an anonymous existence.
the words in ink Are,
smudged but not faded,
and you remain an unremembered non-memory.
( answer:dismissal
like I Don't Knows,
or uncertainty
like I'm Not Sure's.
question: will it always be this way? )
a name i cannot form
with lips, dry and chapped.
bleeding through cracks,
thin.
i'll wait on the wide stage,
outside the green curtain,
in dark blue shadows
beneath red-tinted spotlights
that dance to silent music.
exposed and vulnerable.
wait for you to kiss the wounds away.
He finishes reading and glances up at me. I watch the earlier curiosity melt into a soft, lingering grin of unidentifiable affection. Looking away is easier.
Did you write this on your own? he inquires. He returns the notebook and I tuck it back under my pillow.
Yes. My eyes narrow slightly but my voice remains level. Indifferent. Yes - I - wrote - that - shit - so - shoot - me indifferent.
You wrote it for me. It isn't a question this time but I answer anyway.
Yes. I meet his gaze firmly and admire his ability to convey gratitude while maintaining a nonchalant facade. Impressive for a seven year old, or I'm just too observant.
It isn't about me, though. For, but not about. I drown in his thoughtfulness and come to an impulsive decision. Motioning at him with one hand to lay down next to me, I switch off the light with the other.
I showed you what I do late at night, when I can't sleep. I think a lot. Sometimes, I write down what I think. You don't need to worry, a pause, then uneasily, about me.
Who were you thinking about -- Thinking. Hah. Smart kid. --when you wrote that poem?
Does it matter? I don't know. No it doesn't. Go to sleep.
All right... and.. and Trin?
It's too late to tell him off for using my nickname. Mhhmm..?
It's beautiful. Thanks.
One. Two. Three. Four -- I count to ten matching my numbers to his steady breathing, weaving the gentle rhythm into a blanket of serenity. He has his back turned to me as he falls asleep on his side. It's amusing enough that he can jump from concerned, to irritatingly inquisitive to content so easily and still manage to wake up the next morning with a smile on his face.
Restless, he turns over one more time and one hand reaches up to rest between us, limp on the bed sheet. I take hold of those tiny fingers and settle down to await morning's arrival.
You're welcome arrives a little too late for a response, but we don't mind. It's almost as if he can hear me in his sleep.
I relax among the two pillows and Julian's tranquil, sleeping form. My ears catch the clock's ticking again, and before long, the soldier makes another appearance through the bright red doors, ringing his bell once before disappearing again. I find myself wondering why the soldier uses a bell.
They must have run out of guns, where he comes from.
* ~ *
