Columbine Purple

By Kay

Disclaimer: I tried to buy Everworld from KA Applegate, offering a generous donation of dryer lint, empty juice bottles, and a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. She refused.

Greedy old hag.

Author's Notes: Post-Last Book, during the war we never got to see. There are hints of the following couples: Christopher/Etain being a big one, Christopher/Jalil being implicated (one-sided and subtle until one scene). WARNING to all: Homosexuality implied (and then confirmed), dreamy and confusing sequences, symbolism running rampant, and a disgusting amount of ugly OOC writing. VERY OOC. Mwahahhaaa. Feel my wrath.

So yeah. Enjoy. Flower names are taken from various websites.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jalil stared down at him and thought, 'He looks dead.'

Despite being a cruel judgment, it seemed to be the most apt one. The evening sun had fallen backwards in the sky, leaving only a gentle mess of orange light to drift through the windows in the small bedroom. It tinted Christopher's golden hair a fierce sort of red, painting the deathly pallor of his pale flesh. In a way, Jalil was glad for that, because he hated the almost translucent skin, stretched thinly over the blonde's arms, revealing the stark blue colour of veins running beneath it.

His lips were a faint ivory. He wasn't moving, was hardly breathing-- only the slight rise of his bandaged chest told Jalil that he was still alive.

"They fixed up what they could. Broken ribs, stabbing wounds, all of that. There was internal bleeding though. There had to be; wounds like that," David was saying, his voice somehow very wooden and unattached. He sounded casually bitter. Jalil glanced over at him, studying the unusual paleness of their leader's features.

"He's strong, he'll make it," April said firmly. The shaking in her arms betrayed her as she squeezed Christopher's limp hand. She hadn't looked at any of them since entering the room, carefully avoiding their eyes. "It's Christopher."

"Internal bleeding. They can't do anything about it," David repeated dully.

"It's Christopher."

"Internal bleeding… that means his organs, maybe. Maybe his, his--"

"It's Christopher," she sobbed out harshly, bowing her head like a martyr. The curtain of red hair fell around her head, blocking the sniffling tears from their view. It brushed against the top of Christopher's bandages.

Jalil felt oddly light-headed.

"Yeah, it's Christopher," David was repeating, hushed and reverent and somehow, very softly, pleadingly. "He'll be fine."

Jalil carefully detached his stare from April's crying, feeling somewhat awkward and out of place. He didn't look at David, still quiet and intense in his admissions, nor did he attempt to prove or disprove them. Instead, feeling a heavy weight lingering in his chest somewhere, he blinked slowly at Christopher. Christopher, who wasn't looking at him. Christopher, whose eyes were closed and his lips parted as though he were dying of thirst.

The blood had been cleaned up, he noted vaguely. The crimson stains that had decorated his friend's body earlier had been washed away by careful hands. Maybe Etain, then. She had rarely left his side since they brought him back to Daggermouth, dragged him through the doors with unsteady calls for help. They'd immediately gotten it.

Certainly no great surprise, after all. There were dozens of injured warriors laying in beds across the Daggermouth castle, struggling to breath just a little bit longer. Men with holes through their bodies, courtesy of small struggles with the Sennites, and others who had lost limbs in the skirmishes with the Hetwans. Indeed, it seemed to everyone that before they went into large war, it would be best to at least make sure they could get everyone alive through the less important, chance-meeting battles. Casualties were low, but injuries growing ever higher.

It didn't seem quite fair somehow. Those men were alive, still snoring in their sleep or barking orders at the nearest volunteer-nurses on the watch. Christopher wasn't like those men.

"They gave him a room away from the other men." David's steady voice broke through his thoughts like a rush of ice-cold water. He blinked and glanced sideways at the young general. "He's really bad off. And I think Etain may have influenced King Baldwin in the quarters choice."

"It's a nice room," April mumbled shakily, taking a pale hand up to brush away strands of red hair that clung to her face. It was still damp with tears, her eyes rimmed red. "More comfortable, anyway. Who cares how he got it?"

It was a nice room, Jalil could acknowledge that. A pretty little bedroom, with rich carpet and oaken furniture, all mahogany and scarlet colored. The bed was twice the size of the one he was sleeping in now-- the sheets were still blotched slightly with Christopher's blood from when they first laid him down, a disarming pattern of fresh white and garish claret.

He felt the heavy iron weight in his chest clench tightly.

"Where'd Etain go, anyway?"

"Some water and a cloth. A change of bandages for later. She needed to eat, her mother came in and got her."

"Oh. Yeah, okay."

There was something very wrong with this picture. Jalil frowned slightly, the expression coming to him easily through years of use. He stared at Christopher. Pale as death, unmoving. He wanted to look away, but it was getting harder to comply to his inner voices of reason. He wanted to… to…

'I don't know what I want to do.'

David and April ignored him, wrapped in their talking and fearful grieving. The blonde laying in bed wasn't dead, but they spoke in hushed, hopeless tones.

'He's not dead yet. There have been cases where the person subject to internal bleeding and serious injury have surveyed totally intact. Their fear is unjustified. For nothing,' Jalil's mind whispered comfortingly.

He stared at the metallic shine of the bed frame. The sun was setting against it, glimmering across the silver.

When he left the room, no one noticed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Hey. You must be lost."

Jalil Sherman blinked, rain dripping down his face and through his dark hair. It was very cold and made him want to sneeze, but he ignored that for a moment-- instead, he bent down on his knees in the puddles of the street way. He'd been walking home from school, straight there like a good boy. Mama had explained to him the exact route. He knew it by heart, because Jalil was very good at remembering things exactly as they were. He knew he was only two blocks from his house, and that he wasn't supposed to stop until he got there.

"Hey… hey there, it's okay," he murmured idly. "You can come out."

The shadows behind the alleyway trashcan shifted inquisitively, and he made up his mind.

"Hush," the mocha-skinned child soothed. He walked forward awkwardly, attempting to stay low to the ground as he stretched out a single small hand. "You don' have to be scared, see? I'm not gonna hurt you. My name's Jalil Sherman."

A low growl echoed from behind the green-marked trashcan. Jalil paused for a second, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at the sound.

"Hey, hey. That's mean. I want to take you home."

The gurgling, disjointed growling became a sharp hiss as he drew closer, and he shook his head. "I heard you crying. Come on. Mama will let me keep you, she says I need more… more friends. Come on, here kitty. Here, kitty, kitty."

The little cat-- at least, he thought it was a kitty, although it was mostly a wad of wet black fur and sharp eyes-- slinked low to the ground. It seemed very distracted. Its eyes were wide and unseeing, following his sounds rather than his image. It was difficult to see the rest of it. Mama said he should stay away from the stray kitties. They were sick sometimes. He wondered if that was the case with this one.

"Hey, kitty, kitty. Shhhh."

It gave a final, distressed yowl and fell silent as he crouched down right beside the trashcan. Jalil studied the mass of soaked, inky-black fur with concern and curiosity. "Kitty?"

Mrrrwwr.

"S'okay, let's go home." He was very careful when he put his tiny hands around its frame, because Mama said it you grabbed something hard it could break. He'd accidentally done that to his favorite toy once, a paper windmill on a stick that blew in circles when he sucked in his entire breath and let it out.

The kitty felt very hot and wet. Sticky, too.

"Shh, s'okay, kitty. I got you. You're all messy. Mama won't like that, we'll have to give you a bath when we get home."

It called pitifully, struggling slightly before falling limp in his hands. It stared with glassy eyes at the ground, only growling lowly when he tucked it carefully inside of his jacket. His shirt was turning red, and he stared down at it.

"What?"

He stood in the rain for a long time, breath coming in tiny huffs as he studied the growing stain on his shirt. Mama wouldn't like that. He couldn't understand it. It was all over his hands, all over the little baby animal he held in his hands, like someone invisible person had run by and slashed red paint all over him.

"Kitty, shhh," Jalil whispered hesitantly, holding it tighter to his chest. It groaned lowly, before falling completely silent. His large, mahogany brown eyes peered anxiously at it. It felt awkward; he didn't like how wet his pants were from kneeling in the street puddles, or the sickeningly hot feel of that red paint all over his hands. They contrasted. They felt oddly stark and frightening on him. He had to wash his hands soon. It was itching at him, aching at him-- wash his hands, he had to do it his usual seven times again. Seven times. It had to be seven.

"We're going home to take a bath, kitty."

So he did. He ran home, quick and careful to jump over the deeper puddles of muddy water in the sidewalks. His house was waiting, gloomy and lonely in the pouring rainfall's crescendo, and when he entered, he slammed the door behind him.

"Mama! Mama, I found something!"

She came out of the kitchen, frowning and wiping her hands on a dishtowel absently. Her pretty hair was long and utterly black, much like Jalil's own-- he cut his hair twice as often as most children, and even now, it swayed and gently touched the bottom of his ears. He looked at up her, clumsily opening his jacket a bit and saying, "Look, Mama. I found a kitty cat! Can I keep it?"

Mama stared at him with an unreadable expression.

"Mama…?"

When she started screaming, and took the kitty from him-- and Jalil saw it slump against the wall, dead eyes staring at their pristine white ceiling-- and she was checking his hands and his chest and his face, and crying--

"Oh, thank God, oh baby, baby it's dead--"

It took more than seven washes to clean his hands that night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You don't look so good," David told him the next morning.

Jalil sighed softly, fiddling around with the piece of bread he'd lumped on his breakfast plate. They were sitting around the table, listlessly eating their meal of the morning-- April had already left for Christopher's room. Her seat was conspicuously empty.

"Bad night."

"Huh?"

"Nightmares," clarified Jalil, his voice tired and subdued. He wasn't sure why he told David that, but he did. At the confused look on his friend's face, he added, "Just bad memories, that's all."

He didn't have to say anything else. David's expression fell to a grim and understanding mask. They'd all had bad dreams, horrific memories that stuck to their brain matter like gum-- Hel, Loki, the battles and blood that followed them like an oppressive curtain.

"I'm sorry. You want to go see Christopher after this?"

Jalil paused, his fingers stilling before shredding his bread. "… why?"

David looked uncomfortable. He had no answer.

"I've got things to do. He'll be fine on his own; Etain and April, and obviously you, will be with him. Me being there won't make a difference."

"Maybe," the dark-haired leader said. His dark brown eyes watched Jalil, shadowed with a strange, unreadable question brimming in them. His breakfast laid untouched before him. "You're probably right."

'I am,' Jalil thought viciously, staring down at the table. There were circles in the blackened ash wood, light and scratched deep into the surface. 'It's not important. None of it. Everything will be the same in a few days.'

"Do you think he'll be--"

Jalil stood up abruptly, shoving his plate back. "I have to go."

"You're ignoring it." A surprising blast of insight.

"Screw you, David."

He said nothing in return, so Jalil stormed out of the room.

It seemed he was leaving a lot of rooms lately.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Do you ever think about what happens after death?" Christopher asked him.

Jalil frowned vaguely, reaching out with a small branch to shove at the fire blazing before them. The sparks of orange and red shone in the flames, crackling and jumping as he tumbled the logs. He could see Christopher's face, directly across from him and tinted that unearthly crimson, through the flickering flames.

David and April laid asleep on beds of leaves, off to the side.

When he didn't reply, Christopher continued, "I mean, let's put aside the whole depression factor that may keep us up all night, being broody like General Davideus over there. I'm asking you seriously. What do you think happens?"

"Really?" he asked absently, evading the question.

"I asked. Generally that means I want to know." The sarcasm was thick and ugly, but it wasn't said maliciously. That in itself made Jalil relax a bit-- he could almost see the boy's eyes, almost all pupil and no white in the darkness. It wasn't a mean look. Nothing promising mockery.

So he settled back, scratching his neck thoughtfully and trying to put a world into words.

"It's kind of a strange question. When you observe Everworld's deities and perspectives on death, you have to come to the conclusion that these guys basically make up their own endings. The Viking's believe in Vanhalla. The realm of Hades exists. There's some sort of abstraction of heaven and hell for every religion and belief here. Obviously, when they die, their faith determines their ending. That or their nationality, which just brings up an entirely new set of questions--"

"Whoa, whoa," Christopher laughed. His teeth glowed white in the blackness. "Slow down and say it in English, huh? Poor, stupid white cracker here, remember?"

Jalil allowed a tiny, self-defacing smile at the insult. "You're smarter than you think."

"Yeah, well, not a genius like you. So what? You're saying that… if I believed I was going to go to a glorious harem of woman and wine when I die, then I would?"

He couldn't help himself; he laughed.

Christopher's teeth flashed again in the night.

"Gotcha."

He continued to chuckle to himself, poking at the fire again with his branch. The sparks lit up again; Christopher's face was a mess of pale skin and blue eyes, meshed with a familiar and comforting set of pink lips. Then it faded back into shadow, and Jalil found himself speaking again in an ease that surprised him. "Yeah, basically, though. Belief determines reality here. Except in the more material, physical cases."

"Meaning: I can't wish for beer to appear, because it won't."

"Have we actually tried?" Jalil wondered.

"Oh, hell yeah."

They both laughed in the black.

A minute later, when the silence had fallen in a gentle veil around them, Christopher spoke again. His voice was very soft; very hushed. Jalil had to halt his breathing to hear it, and even then, his heart's pounding nearly drowned the small admission into nonexistence.

"… if I die, I want to stay that way."

He didn't know what to say to that.

"You never told me what you thought happened. After you die, I mean."

Jalil threw the branch into the fire, watching the ashes flare up in tiny dances around them. He saw nothing in the darkness this time, not even Christopher's face, and when he spoke it was a quiet, frightened secret that was lost to the utter nothingness. They never spoke of it again, they never thought of it again.

But for an instant, it was living in them.

"I think I want to have a cat and live under acorn trees."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The library of Daggermouth was an impressive facility, if not one of the most beautiful architectural wonders of this strange world.

Jalil gently ran his fingers over the spines of the leather book covers, feeling the rough material slide against soft skin. There were rows upon rows of them, shelves reaching the high rafted ceiling above and stretching out as long as he could see. When he'd first come, he's assumed that dwarves had little love for literature. He was partly right in this; despite the beautiful day, he was one of the few to grace the room. He had learned earlier, however, that the men had insisted on leaving records. Records of everything-- home lives, mining plans, water tunnels to be built.

But people traveled. They left things, they brought things.

Over time, it had accumulated into an actual library… even if half of it was still devoted to informational value for mining.

He liked it here. He liked the gentle curve of quiet that hid the library from the world. The scent of worn leather and thick pages, sweet and musty and damp within the cold stone walls. The way every chair was mahogany oak, thick and sturdy-- he loved to curl up there and read, fascinated with the primitive way of writing many had adopted. He'd spent more time in there than he'd spent playing War Hero outside with the others, choosing to make strategy rather than see it happen.

Now it had become his sanctuary once again.

Jalil gave a deep sigh, letting his slim fingers clutch at the nearest thick volume on the shelves. It gave a dusty whumf as he pulled it out and opened the old cover. He wrinkled his nose so he wouldn't sneeze.

'The Druid Anatomy Sciences of Ilshmar Andruin?'

He smiled at the black, inked text.

He could do this. This was easy. It was just a book, just like so many others he had perused in this very hall, and Jalil knew this act. It wasn't a wait by a beside, or the comfort of a friend, but somehow it did more for him than any of those trivial things could do. He liked familiarity; stoic repetition. This was his own way of dealing, and he could do this.

He lounged back in a large chair-- the dwarves were wide by nature, and Jalil especially skinny, so he could tuck his entire body into the sitting cavity without a problem. Tucking his legs up under him, he thoughtfully turned the page.

It was nice for a while. This Ilshmar guy was naïve and incorrect in many assumptions over the human body, but he was thorough in his research. Jalil found himself immersed in the man's pursuit of knowledge. He barely heard the other dwarves slowly stomping through the stone-worn shelves.

'The body seems to hold a vessel inside of it, a determent to my experiments as I cannot manage to capture this entity. It is what gives us our strengths and heart. I believe it is trapped in the hollow cavity between the stomach area and the chest's rip structure--'

Jalil allowed himself a wry smile before turning the page.

And then, he was staring.

The anatomy graphs were well-drawn and highly detailed. Graphics of the liver, the nervous system, though they were called occasionally different things. Some of it was missing organs, looking like a bizarre and rigid macabre of a puppet. One man figure was drawn with no clear vertebrae, merely a liquid smooth line down his chest-- a flagpole for the flesh to stand upon.

Flesh diagrams, body cavities, brain works--

'They fixed what they could. Broken ribs, stabbing wounds, all of that. There was internal bleeding, though.'

Blood torn inside the body, every meticulously drawn blue line ripped to shreds by Hetwan acid or man-made weapons…

The figures mocked him.

'Internal bleeding doesn't have to be fatal.'

Jalil's hands were trembling. He blinked slowly, staring at them in incomprehension. They clutched at the bindings of the book so hard that his knuckles turned from mocha to a ghostly white, stretched thin over bone.

'Internal bleeding. Might not be able to get through--'

But it's Christopher.

And then, for a moment to his mind, it was-- the pictures in the book, all flat and dead and missing their muscles and life-- all blonde haired and laughing, like Christopher, only Christopher wasn't laughing now. He was laying in a bed, struggling to breath, breaking to live, bleeding to--

Jalil let out a shaky gasp and dropped the book. It hit the floor with a dull thud, pages bent from the fall.

He sat there for a long time, trembling and quaking and angry with himself. Christopher's face danced in front of his, lips that awful color of ivory. Face as glassy as wine cups. Still, silent, eyes closed obediently on his lashes and cheeks.

It was very quiet in the library. Funny how he'd never noticed until now.

Jalil got up, glanced despairingly towards the book on the floor, and left the room without touching it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He was skipping rocks down by Michigan Lake. Eight now. Mom was busy watching his baby sister, noisy little thief that she was.

He watched the stone hit the smooth, placid water. Stared as it skipped again, rippling the darkened blue shadows below it.

"Don't go too far, honey," his mother called from the park bench. She fussed over the squirming bundle in her arms. Jalil frowned at it distastefully.

His shoes felt uncomfortable on the rocky pebbles of the shore; the bumps dug right up into the soles of his feet. But he crouched down again, careful not to touch any wet or dirty rocks, and picked up a flat one. Proceeded to throw again.

Ripples.

"Jalil, stay away from the water!"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I have faith that he'll regain his strength soon," Etain murmured. Everyone pretended not to hear the doubt in her voice, nor the motion of despair in their agreeing nods.

Except Jalil. He said nothing.

It had been a night full of odd, watery recollections in his dreams. Some part of him was quietly accounting for every explanation there was, about Freud and symbolic interactions and subconscious reactions. He was listing the brain processes and charges in the back of his mind, a stream of cold hard fact. They were still speaking softly.

He frowned at Etain, but said nothing.

The morning had been that of dream-like gliding, smoothly wandering without any true purpose-- yet, in the end, he found himself in this room. This ugly, rich decorated bedroom, with its white sheets and ivory-shelled patient. Christopher looked no different, no less dead to him.

Christopher Hitchcock, blonde surfer dude. Dead, dead away. Not yet, then.

Etain was stroking his hair, praying every so often. April joined her at these moments; David, who had been the one to convince Jalil to come down, merely bowed his head.

'We're mourning for someone who hasn't even passed,' Jalil thought in disgust. He avoided glaring at anyone in the room, tried to tuck his fury inside of himself, unsure of where it had come from. 'They think it's over. They've given up, except maybe Etain. Now it's all about being strong for her.'

Unable to help himself, his black ash eyes picked out the slight rise and fall of Christopher's chest. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He could feel it tuck into his skinny chest, that soft and delicate way of breathing, and he incorporated it into his very heartbeat. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't give up hope, guys. Breathe in…

"What kind of flowers are those?" April asked Etain quietly. She pointed to the small vase on the bedtable, where small purple blossoms poured carefully over the glass sheen. The elf princess glanced at them, a faint smile alighting her features.

"Columbine purple. For resolve."

"I don't know any flower meanings," the redhead admitted, awe leaking slightly through her voice. "Do they really?"

"Yes. They will help him find his way home to us."

She clutched Christopher's limp hand in her own, squeezing with delicate fingers and an iron hold. Jalil watched, fascinated, disturbed. He flexed his own slim hands, feeling the earthen fingertips brush over the fabric of his shirt. Wondered, distantly, if they were the same size as Etain's spindly hands, and could they fit the same way?

The thought permeated his conscious mind. He cursed to himself.

'Breathe in. Breathe out.'

Jalil refused to watch her with him, and as such, left before the noon sun could even touch the tips of Christopher's golden head. The halo faded and died before his eyes could see it once again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You shouldn't be so close to the water," the old woman told him.

Jalil stared at her, head tilted curiously. He stood very, very still on the ground, straight and unafraid-- undeterred, rather, by this strange woman. She had appeared out of nowhere it seemed, fading into the foliage near Michigan Lake with her dusted old overalls and yellow garden gloves. Her blue eyes watched him through the stray curls of brown hair fraying around her face.

It hadn't turned white yet. She was ancient.

"Mom says that all the time," he replied finally. She smiled at this, smiled at him. He carefully returned it in the most polite fashion possible, and added, "I'm being really careful, though."

"You're not watching out for the poison ivy."

"It's not supposed to grow around these parts," he said. And he was right, he'd read it in a book just three months and five days ago. She laughed at him, very light and carefree.

"Perhaps you're right. If you aren't, it will certainly be a hard lesson taught, wouldn't it?"

Jalil stared at her. It was hard to do. He shifted uncomfortably, pondering the careful equation of proportions-- looking directly into her eyes was difficult, as she seemed very tall somehow. Even taller than he was, which said something. He had entered the age of thirteen not a year ago, blossoming from his tiny and nimble childhood body into something more suited for aching adolescence. Gawky, awkward. Jalil had determined that, in the end, he was a gangly creature made of twisted knees and spindly elbows. He was still growing, as well. Skin stretched thin. Pants too short for him, raising on his bony ankles, and brown eyes that were too wide and large for his face. Mom liked to call him a fey, and he would get ruffled up, so angry at being called something that didn't exist. As though he really were nothing.

The woman said, "You're really something, kid."

He blinked at her, coming back to reality. Lost in his thought, he hadn't noticed her study of him. She seemed to like what she saw.

"Would you like an acorn?" the ancient gardener asked gently. She smiled winningly at him.

"A what?"

She held up a gloved hand, and against the rubber material was a small brown nut. Unbroken, simple and true. "An acorn?"

"What for?" Jalil demanded suspiciously. "The squirrels may like them, but I'm hardly a woodland animal."

"Acorns are for immortality."

He stared.

That day, he didn't take the acorn, but he would come back tomorrow to say hello.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next morning, Jalil found himself at Christopher's bedside again.

The day was a dreary one, full of gloomy clouds and gray skies. The rain pattered softly against the wooden shades over the window. It was too cool in the room-- his skin was icy, his fingers sporadically twitching in the need to rub friction and warmth into them. Cold as absolute zero.

He watched Christopher with unseeing eyes.

Most of his mind had given up telling him to leave. Why did he come here, anyway?

"Mother says he may be getting better," Etain murmured. Her lashes were on her pale cheeks, eyes avoiding his own. Jalil wasn't sure if she was talking to him or to herself-- either way, he pursed his lips distastefully at the thought of elfish medicine. It was an automatic gesture, however, and it fell not moments later.

"That's good."

"It is," the princess replied distantly. Her hands were arranging a new vase of flowers on the bedside. A small green cactus surrounded by irises-- Jalil blinked at the unique arrangement.

"What are those for?" Words from his lips. Unbidden to come, he hadn't meant to say them, but they wavered in the air.

Etain smiled at him. "The cactus is for bravery and endurance. The irises are for faith, valor… hope."

The dark-eyed boy watched the purple and green sheen for a moment, then turned his face away. "Hm." There was nothing else to say.

"I am hoping to collect more to help bring his spirit up."

"With the flowers?"

"Yes."

Jalil sighed. He glanced down at Christopher's unmoving body again, staring at the rise and fall of his chest once more. Then he flickered his stare down to his fingers, and back to the blonde.

He wanted to hold his hand. Limp, cold, unmoving-- it didn't matter, as long as he could feel that real connection, that lifeline to life--

Etain shifted from the corner of his eye. Jalil sighed again.

His hand lay flat in his lap for a moment, and then he stood to leave.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The bathroom connected to his room. It was pristine, shined white tiles and illuminated light bulbs over his head. A shower, a toilet and sink, the mirror hanging right above it so he could look straight into Jalil Sherman's face when he washed his hands.

It was seven times again. Of course. Always.

Jalil breathed harshly against the mirror's surface. The mist blossomed from nowhere and spread; it covered half of his face in a haze of ivory. He smiled slightly. Couldn't see the disgust and pain in his own dark eyes anymore, not through the mirror, not through anything.

He scrubbed his fingers; fifth time.

And then, even as he intently washed the soapy liquid cleanse his hands, slipping over the mocha canvas in bubbles and gentle washes-- even then, because his mind could never close on one thing at a time, it was all about systems and equations and balances-- he was thinking about school that day.

Some girl had come up to him and smiled. He hadn't returned it. Couldn't, really, didn't think of it again. Just frowned.

Jalil hissed under his breath, more cruel and taunting words at himself. At his hands, under that hot water, beginning to scald. At the misted mirror, where his half-formed face was glimmering at him; the sharp cheekbones, the black eyelashes, the curve of his jaw as it sloped elegantly back to his ears.

He thought of school. How Jack Quinton had been in his American Government class, very tall with shaggy brown hair. A football player, but one of the few that could actually keep up with an intelligent conversation. The one who used to doodle in his notebook margins and flash Jalil little grins, as if saying, 'I'm still listening, don't give me that look. Keep it cool.'

Careful hands. Wrinkle in the forehead when concentrating.

He'd smiled at Jalil in the hallway. Jalil had smiled back.

Now Jalil was scrubbing harder, hissing more bitter and caustic names. Taunting words. Ugly titles.

Different now. Worse names.

The water burned him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next morning, Jalil found himself wandering the corridors, and eventually brought himself to Christopher's bedchambers. It was becoming routine, he ruefully allowed to admit to himself as he entered through the doorway. There really wasn't any way around not visiting.

Etain was not there. He was faintly surprised.

April was.

She looked up. Her face was confused for a moment, very pale and drawn-- he hadn't seen her for a while, and already the scientist could see the strain she was under. Still, it was April. She smiled at him. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Jalil acknowledged.

The silence clouded in after that small exchange. He sat down awkwardly in a bedside chair, a lumpy red thing that made him sink straight down into the cushions. It was smothering. She either didn't notice his discomfort, or didn't care. Either way, it didn't matter.

Christopher looked no better. There were new flowers on the tables.

April saw the direction of his gaze and followed it to the blossoms, smiling when her green eyes lit upon them. "Etain left those before she went to see her mother. Gilliflower. It's for affection."

Jalil studied them, allowing himself to hesitantly lean back into the swallowing chair. After discovering he wasn't completely enveloped by the dusty folds, he allowed himself a response. It wasn't, he admitted, the best he could have come up with. "How cute. This place is turning into a floral shop."

The look of anguish and disappointed she gave him was enough. He snapped his lips shut and looked away.

After a moment-- a moment of the dark-eyed boy studying absolutely nothing, and April being cold and unforgiving in her silence-- the redhead girl spoke again.

"I've come to pay my respects today."

Ice cold water. In his veins.

"Etain's mother keeps trying to tell her that it's hopeless, but… she's not willing to listen," April continued. The waver in her voice was the only indication that she was about to cry. "Christopher's been unconscious for days. He's struggling just to breath, and only the elf medicine Etain's people have created are keeping him holding onto life. He's going to die, Jalil. She won't let him go, though."

He wasn't looking at her. Not at Christopher. Not at the flowers.

'Give them nothing,' his mind whispered harshly. 'Nothing of you.'

"She won't let him go," his friend repeated hoarsely, the crystalline tears finally beginning to ease down her cheeks. She pleaded with her eyes at him, pain and despair lingering in the emerald depths. "You're the… the logic one. You know what has to be done. Please. Please tell her… it's time to let him go."

'Give them nothing.'

"She's just prolonging his suffering!"

'Look down at your hands. Agree to nothing. Not yet. It can't be right, she doesn't know anything about medicine…'

"Jalil!" And at her cry of misery, his shadowed gaze flew up to meet hers. Terror meeting unreadable blankness.

She was looking at him with pity.

"Jalil," softer this time. "It's time for him to go. You know it. I know it. David knows it, why do you think he's been hiding for so long? He's said goodbye. I'm saying goodbye. You should, too."

'Goodbye,' his thoughts echoed wistfully. He almost smiled painfully, but the automatic structure of his features stopped him. Instead, he forced himself to look calm and unaffected. Untouched. Unpermeated.

'Godlike?'

"Shut up," he said, and he wasn't sure who it was to.

April's face crumbled.

He turned his face away until she was done looking haunted, only daring to peek at her every few minutes. After what seemed like forever, she was staring mutely down at Christopher's bandaged chest, clutching her pale fingers into something quite like a prayer.

"I have to pray for him," the redhead said quietly. "You can stay if you want. But I'm saying goodbye now. O' Jesus, who art thou in heaven…"

Jalil's chest tightened painfully on his lungs, and he shook his head. He rose from the seat, all gangly limbs and shaky bones.

He left the room, and the solemn prayers that curled in around it like a circle of finely woven silk and thorn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He dreamt.

"Is this what you want?" Christopher asked him. The blonde's pupils were dilated, the blue cerulean only an outline against black and white in his eyes. They were flickering in the dim candlelight of the room, dancing with the shadows the crawled up the stone walls and night fallen breezes.

Jalil closed his eyes, willing his heart to quiet. His breath to still.

Gentle, strong hands brushing against his shoulders. Taking hold of him. Christopher was leaning forward, he felt it rather than saw it, and was at his ear. A breathe of air against his skin, "Is this how you want it?"

Like this, hot and sweet and bitter, the window drapes closed and fastened with silken threads, closing them to the world-- just them, sitting there across from the candles, in his room. Looking up at the ceiling, the granite bricks. Christopher was more a part of him than next to him, his lips carelessly falling upon exposed flesh. The bare left shoulder where his shirt had been tugged down, the hollow of his throat, the line of his collarbone. He was being mapped by fingers and chapped lips.

Shaking, trembling, he wove his hands in that golden hair.

"Is this perfect enough?" the blonde murmured, teasing. Gentle. He traced paths of meaningless circles over Jalil's forearm, caressing the soft skin. It made Jalil feel special. Cherished. "Is this everything for the moment?"

'I don't understand,' came from his lips, but it was unheard in the air. Jalil shuddered against the unspoken admission.

Fingers swirling over his stomach now, pushing up the thin white shirt he wore and carefully smoothing over his ribs. Christopher's low chuckle hit his ear.

"You don't eat enough. I see you at the meals. Rabbit food eater," he mocked fondly. He shoved his hands under the shirt material again, circling around to stroke the small of Jalil's back. The dark-eyed boy shivered, his eyelids fluttering shut again. Lips nipping at his throat, nudging the curve of his face.

He breathed noisily, gasping in air and speaking for the first time. "Christopher."

The larger boy paused, his heartbeat steady against Jalil's chest. He was smiling, Jalil could feel it. "Is this what you want?"

"…Christopher. I don't--"

"Is this?" the blonde whispered, and he pressed himself tightly between Jalil's legs, until their bodies were perfectly molded together in symmetry. His hands smoothed fabric over taut thighs, stroking again at the small of his back and hips, reaching up to press his head forward for strong and silent kisses. Kisses uniquely made of something minty and the spicy, like he'd been eating Thai food for years and couldn't rid himself of the taste.

Jalil muffled a keening cry.

It was close, so close, too close-- and so real, the heated furnace that Christopher's body was, and the teasing way he moved his fingers. Light patterns and deep, hard kisses, and slick tongue and the coil winding tighter and tighter inside of him-- and Jalil found himself looking up into those blue eyes again, then he was lost.

"Is this what you want?"

Even as he was drifting into the dream work of candles and heat, Jalil found himself whispering words that awakened him.

"No. Just stay with me."

'That's all I want. Ever.'

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He woke up very late that day. The sun was lowering in the sky already, red and orange flames licking at the castle walls of Daggermouth. It was very much like the first day Christopher had been brought home.

A nearby dwarf maiden informed him that he'd missed the main dinner party. Jalil thanked her absently, wandering down the hallways in a lost fashion. The dream images were still heavy on his mind. Incomprehensible. They were like jagged jig-saw puzzles, unable to fit into the order that was his brain. Chaos shards.

'Is this what you want?'

"No," he found himself whispering, low and uncertain. He ignored the passing strange looks from some of the miners trooping down the lower halls. Found himself walking towards Christopher's room, idly wondering what colour the walls would be-- he hadn't been there this late before.

When he opened the door, Etain was standing in the dying sun.

"Jalil," she said, turning towards him. There was a false cheerfulness in her clear blue eyes, a deceptive tilt of joy in her voice. He found himself cringing inwardly. "Come in, I was just about to give Christopher his medicine."

"Ah." 'It's time to run away. Get out now. You don't want to be here for this, Jalil, man. It's not…'

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Etain smiled at the thin, silent realworlder. She was cupping a vial in her hands, ignoring the sloshing of lavender liquid as it moved in the container. "Did you notice the flowers? I added a few new kinds that King Baldwin was king enough to seek for me."

Jalil hesitated; he didn't want to see the results of her hope. But his eyes still followed the direction of her nod, and he blinked at the huge amount of flowers spilling over the tables in the room. How could he have missed them? Dozens of different kinds by now, everything Etain had managed to get her desperate hands on within the past week or so…

"Pansies for thoughts," she said shyly, touching a dainty fingertip upon the blossoms. "And… this is myrtle for joy. Peonies for healing and prosperity." Then, as her eyes lit upon another breed, she added, "White hyacinth, meaning 'I'll pray for you.' And, of course, yellow tulips… for sunshine and smiles. And one of the dwarves, Merton, gave me--"

"Acorns," Jalil said dully. "For immortality."

Etain looked threatened. She seized back against the wall, eyes tiny and almost shrewd as she smiled frighteningly. "… yes. For immortality. You know your gardening, my Lord."

"Christopher's not immortal, Princess Etain," Jalil said quietly. The words came from him, stumbling out in a placid manner, but his insides were whirling with an indefinable panic. "It's inappropriate to label him as such, because no one, not even you, are immortal."

"Gods are immortal."

"Perhaps. But we are not gods."

She bit her lip, blue eyes darting around the sweet-scented room. "I-I know this. I know this," she repeated, brokenly. Tears began to stream like rivers, torrents of rain down the smooth heavenly skin. "I know this!"

"I'm sorry," was all he could say.

To her credit, she did not crumple like a paper umbrella under harsh weather conditions. After a few struggling moments of blinking and rubbing, her tears had vanished into the perpetual sheen of water against oceanic irises.

"I have to take leave tonight," she finally whispered. She straightened listlessly, not meeting his eyes. "King Baldwin may seek me out if I don't."

"Good night," Jalil said awkwardly. And it was night; the sun had all but faded in the sky, leaving a blackening bruise across the canvas above. There was no moonlight, nothing but the lanterns flickering on the walls.

"Good night, my Lord," she echoed, and nodded in respect.

He watched her leave, and sighed when the door closed behind her. Found himself falling into the red chair by Christopher's bedside, watching the blonde breath. Even more irritating, he found himself gripping that limp hand much like Etain and April and David had done.

The flesh was as cold as death.

"Christopher," Jalil said softly in the stillness, and winced when it seemed too loud. He tried again, even quiet. "Christopher, I'm…"

'I'm what? Confused and tired and scared? Because Etain's falling apart, loosing her grip on reality? And April's given you up for dead? And David… I haven't seen him come out of his room for days, always brooding. I hear him pacing at night. What am I trying to say to you, then, Christopher? What?'

He sighed lifelessly, tossing a glance at their entwined hands. The pale skin seemed almost luminescent compared to his own chocolate hues. It was… interesting. He'd looked at his own hands. At Christopher's. But never at theirs.

"It's all so screwed up," he found himself whispering. "I don't know what I'm doing. God, I don't even know what day it is. You know that? I can't think. I can't sleep anymore. Dreams, they…"

Broke off, faltered.

'Is this what you want?'

And then, even as he was fighting back the images, Jalil saw the vial.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The old woman again. The Michigan Lake. A garden of acorn trees and poison ivy, her yellow rubber gloves weeding through them.

Jalil was twenty.

"Oh, you're back again," she said, a smile of delight forming on her ancient features. "I thought you'd never get here."

"I don't think I'm really here," he replied hesitantly, looking down at his neatly pressed jeans. There were no creases in the faded denim folds, no holes or frayed edges. His shirt was equally neat. Loose on his thin frame, gently outlining slender curves and chasing away the gawky awkwardness. In fact, it wasn't there at all. Just attractive curving calves and wiry muscles, a slightly jutted collarbone being the only piece leftover from his youth.

He looked into the lake's surface, and surprised brown eyes stared back. His own face, older, black hair longer and falling into his features. Silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose in a dignified manner. Shyer, pleased angles.

It occurred to him that he was grown up now.

"This never happened," he said.

"Everything happens," the old woman disagreed. She stood, brushing off her dirty overalls with her gloves. "Whether it happens to you, and only you, is the real question."

Jalil thought about that. A few seconds later, it still made no sense. "I'm in Everworld. This is a dream."

"Perhaps," she sighed despondently. "But you're also in the real world now, you know. You're late getting home. He'll be upset with you."

"Who?"

She smiled at him.

Jalil fidgeted under her blunt stare, avoiding her eyes and scuffing the heel of an expensive-looking pair of black shoes. Finally, he asked, "I can't stay here. Can I?"

"No."

"I thought not." He found himself smiling, relieved despite the pain that was beginning to crack somewhere inside of his chest. "It wouldn't have worked out according to the rules. There are always rules."

"Always," the old lady agreed, cheerfully grinning with aged wrinkles.

Jalil smiled at her again, and looked back down at his reflection. "I would have never made the right choice, anyway, even if you'd given me it."

"It would have ripped you apart, child."

"I guess."

"You know," she corrected. "You know it."

And then, Jalil reflected-- checking his wristwatch and wondering how soon he'd be going home, and whether they were still going to that stupid jazz concert his lover had been so fond of-- he really did know.

He knew exactly what he would do.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was a small vial, barely bigger than his thumb. Jalil stared down at it's shining surface pensively.

Etain wouldn't be back tonight. She forgot to give Christopher his medicine. That was keeping him alive, making his body fight to hold on. Someone had to give him it. Someone had to stop someone from giving it. Someone had to make a choice.

Jalil closed his eyes very, very tightly.

When he smashed the vial on the ground, the liquid stained the stones a deep lavender.

Then he sank down, and it was much farther to the floor than he'd imagined, and the stones were twice as cold against his knees. He kneeled next to the bed and clutched Christopher's hand, gripped it until his knuckles were white and all blood had stopped rushing through that wasn't rushing into Christopher.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Hitched his breath.

"I'm so sorry," Jalil sobbed again.

The seconds turned into minutes, minutes to hours, hours to even more-- the night sky was a blackened abyss of charcoal and ink, smearing into the room like a plague. But the dark-eyed boy stayed there, curled up against the bed frame like a wounded animal, stroking the skin until all the warmth had left it.

Until the cold skin was seeping into his own.

Christopher's lips were no longer ivory, but a pale blue. His body, which had been held from the brink of death for days, shut down and faded into a deeper sleep. His chest no longer rose and fell with every breath, his eyelids no longer fluttered.

Even then, Jalil stayed, lovingly smoothing the covers and golden hair away from that face. Staring intently. Willing. Begging.

"Christopher."

His voice shattered. "C-Christopher..."

It was over; it was gone. He should go tell the others. Arrange a… a burial. Tell Etain, explain to Etain, be condemned by the beautiful and haunted Etain-- yes, he'd made the choice that should have been hers, but he couldn't leave it to her. It was his own as well. Because Christopher had been his own, as well, as a way.

He should go…

But no. Jalil clutched tighter to the now cold body, inhumane wails convulsing his throat.

No, today he stayed, and wept bitterly into the night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Feel better?"

Jalil considered. He blinked lethargically up at the empty blue sky, kicking his legs back and forth under the seat of the bench. Lake Michigan before him, cerulean and placid as the day it welled forth from the earth. It was devoid of life, however, except for him. Him and the person sitting next to him.

"Not really," he finally replied. He turned his head and looked at Christopher.

The blond smiled.

For a second-- but no, there was no wind in the air, no sound to hear. A dream, then. Jalil sighed woodenly, stilling the movement of his long legs and closing his eyes against the peaceful setting. He considered the question again.

"I feel… lonely."

"You've got me here, how can you be lonely?!" Christopher sputtered indignantly. Jalil frowned at him, reopening his mahogany eyes to glare.

"You're a dream."

"Yeah? And?"

"… never mind." So he smiled, unable to help himself, unwilling to resist in this strange fantasy. All of the aching in his muscles and stinging headaches behind his eyes, elements left to reality, were conspicuously missing. He felt disturbingly peaceful and calm. Christopher had returned to him, smiling, patient; a nonexistent breeze ruffled his golden hair.

He found himself, for the first time in days, with a clear mind. Every chaotic thought had faded, worn and burned-- they scattered across the ground before them as crisp, dead leaves on the pavement. All there was remaining was a dim sensation of exhaustion hovering over his neck, and the soothing rhythm of the lake waves. In and out. In and out.

"What happens now?" he finally asked.

Christopher leaned back against the bench. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, looking so very like himself that Jalil felt a lump return to his throat.

"I don't know. Maybe nothing does. Maybe you wake up, and the world just goes on," he suddenly spoke. He sounded resigned; simple.

"But it just can't," Jalil whispered.

"Maybe it has to."

Then he turned and smiled at Jalil, grinned with everything that was warm and good in the world. It was toothy. Wide. Christopher. "Thanks for knowing when to let me go. Okay?"

Jalil shook his head numbly. "But I didn't. I didn't let you go."

"No, but that's okay. Maybe I like having people hang onto me."

"It's not the same." It was a bitter statement. Christopher's gaze softened in a way that it never had in real life; at least, not to Jalil.

"It's not. I understand that. I'm stupid, but not that much."

"I know you're not," he whispered painfully. He closed his eyes tightly, and hesitantly leaned against Christopher. The blond felt real; solid and firm. The arm that slowly encircled his shoulders and half-hugged him close, that felt real, too.

He carried the scent of dying columbine purples.

"Is this it, then? Is this all?" Jalil finally asked, after the silence had grown, and Christopher had begun tracing circles on his arm. The motions paused after the question, and he felt the boy laugh.

"It's never all, Jalil. Not all of it."

"But all of you?"

"… maybe."

There was nothing to say after that, nothing that Jalil thought he could say without falling apart, or saying something he meant but couldn't mean. So instead, he closed his eyes and relaxed against Christopher, listening to the soft breathing and taking in the scent of flowers and mint and Thai food not-eaten, just staying.

When he woke up, the world just went on.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The End