Fire in the Night
She didn't know why. But that wasn't important. It had to be him; he had to know why. Or he had to be okay with not knowing.
He was lying, balled up on the couch, wrapped haphazard in a small blanket and frowning through sleep and the sun. The morning was blue and raw, and the house was empty and waiting for sound.
Her foot prints were padded lightly from the thick bottoms of her slippers, and her bright red hair, falling loosely down her back, was crumpled and hot, standing out in the dull room like fire in the night.
Remus shivered, and some of his gray-brown hair fell softly, caught slightly in his eyelashes and the trouble in his tired face. His sadness was like something hidden in him, pushed away until it is made angry.
She feels awful because she wants so badly for him to be sad. Just be sad. Then let it go.
Last night, the moon had been bad. Strong, bloated and orange as though infected. And it had infected him, as it always did. It left him feeling spent, and empty and feverish with loneliness. And it left her feeling quieter than she had before. Each moment, each day now, it made her quiet, and she was only now realizing it.
Her hair had been long and red for three weeks. She hadn't had the energy or the hope to change it. The world was blazing, like fire in the night. People were dying, she knew, she'd seen it.
So had the thin, fading man sleeping fitfully on the couch, nightmaring of darkness and of falling forever. He was slowly vanishing, she thought. Slowly disappearing while she watched.
There were days now, after he came back to her from infection, that she wanted only to kiss him; feel his fever running through her and push the sadness out of him, with all her body and strength, with all that deafening power that she used to think meant something.
What was the point? What had ever been the point? Being happy used to be all she ever really wanted. Now the world was going up like fire in the night, and happiness was a fantastic lie.
She missed it. Oh god, she missed him.
The end
She didn't know why. But that wasn't important. It had to be him; he had to know why. Or he had to be okay with not knowing.
He was lying, balled up on the couch, wrapped haphazard in a small blanket and frowning through sleep and the sun. The morning was blue and raw, and the house was empty and waiting for sound.
Her foot prints were padded lightly from the thick bottoms of her slippers, and her bright red hair, falling loosely down her back, was crumpled and hot, standing out in the dull room like fire in the night.
Remus shivered, and some of his gray-brown hair fell softly, caught slightly in his eyelashes and the trouble in his tired face. His sadness was like something hidden in him, pushed away until it is made angry.
She feels awful because she wants so badly for him to be sad. Just be sad. Then let it go.
Last night, the moon had been bad. Strong, bloated and orange as though infected. And it had infected him, as it always did. It left him feeling spent, and empty and feverish with loneliness. And it left her feeling quieter than she had before. Each moment, each day now, it made her quiet, and she was only now realizing it.
Her hair had been long and red for three weeks. She hadn't had the energy or the hope to change it. The world was blazing, like fire in the night. People were dying, she knew, she'd seen it.
So had the thin, fading man sleeping fitfully on the couch, nightmaring of darkness and of falling forever. He was slowly vanishing, she thought. Slowly disappearing while she watched.
There were days now, after he came back to her from infection, that she wanted only to kiss him; feel his fever running through her and push the sadness out of him, with all her body and strength, with all that deafening power that she used to think meant something.
What was the point? What had ever been the point? Being happy used to be all she ever really wanted. Now the world was going up like fire in the night, and happiness was a fantastic lie.
She missed it. Oh god, she missed him.
The end