Amethyst
by intodust
Characters, though unnamed, belong to 20th Century Fox and Cameron/Eglee Productions.
Notes: It's what I'm trying not to put into "Supernova;" I had to . . . exorcise it before I wrote the next chapter. Apologies for the - lack of definition? General oddity?
***
The world has ended, and it's the same as it used to be. It doesn't seem right; he thinks there should be a difference. Someone should know. The apocalypse should be obvious, and not just to him.
But in this, as in everything else, he is alone.
It was supposed to end in life. They'd planned for it. They'd spent so many nights talking about what they would do, what their lives would be like if they lived in a perfect world. Even as they dreamed, they spoke of a reality, and a future. They created it with their words, safe in penthouse burgundy warmth, and for a little while, they lived it.
That's gone, now.
The night air is cold, passing through the thick weave of his sweater and brushing against his skin. He doesn't mind. The streets are quiet, and the city is calm. Maybe that's what surprises him the most, that everything is calm. That he is calm, even now.
He misses her.
He thinks that it would be easier if she had a grave, if he could kneel in the cold earth and mourn for her. He could cry, and maybe he could place a stone in the upturned dirt where the grass was beginning to grow, even though he'd never really been religious.
He thinks he would like that.
He saw her the night before. He thinks that she saw him, too. She just looked the other way and smiled at her friend, someone he'd never met, and as he walked past, she laughed.
She was beautiful in neon, he thought.
He wonders what he would have done if she'd called to him, if she'd asked him how he had been. He wonders what he would have said. "Missing you," maybe, or "dead." To be honest, he probably would have said that he was fine, and how was she?
Instead, he didn't say anything.
He wonders if she has someone else now. He wonders if she sleeps alone. He doesn't think so. She wouldn't stay alone for long, even if her relationships were short and broken.
He wonders if he has any room to talk.
He passes underneath a streetlamp, his shoes silent on the concrete. The light is unkind on his hands, and he thinks that he is growing old. He notices it more than he used to. He is becoming his father.
She is still young. For all he knows, she'll be young for the rest of her life.
He misses her, but he can't begrudge her, either. It wasn't her fault; both of them were to blame. They dreamed, and then they woke up. They forgot that something always gets lost in translation.
If this is peace, he thinks, he preferred the war. As it is, they got what they wanted.
And isn't that all they'd ever asked for?
The city lights radiate off the chrome and glass that create his home. He's tired, both of walking and of being alive. He wonders when that began to tire him, and he remembers when he used to run, to love burning himself out.
He doesn't want ghosts, not even well-meaning ones.
He presses the button that will take him to his tower. There are too many ghosts here, and they're all unwelcome, bittersweet. He wants to destroy them, but he knows that if he does he will regret it. He thinks that he should leave soon.
He doesn't want more regrets.
His apartment is still, and he remembers movement. He remembers her, graceful and energetic and wild. Abstract. He tries not to make noise as he walks through the darkness, but he can't help it. His room is dim and he doesn't bother to close the blinds before lying down.
He thinks that he'll sleep well tonight.
***
Weird? Pointless? Unnecessary? Any feedback, if you're so inclined, would be appreciated.
by intodust
Characters, though unnamed, belong to 20th Century Fox and Cameron/Eglee Productions.
Notes: It's what I'm trying not to put into "Supernova;" I had to . . . exorcise it before I wrote the next chapter. Apologies for the - lack of definition? General oddity?
***
The world has ended, and it's the same as it used to be. It doesn't seem right; he thinks there should be a difference. Someone should know. The apocalypse should be obvious, and not just to him.
But in this, as in everything else, he is alone.
It was supposed to end in life. They'd planned for it. They'd spent so many nights talking about what they would do, what their lives would be like if they lived in a perfect world. Even as they dreamed, they spoke of a reality, and a future. They created it with their words, safe in penthouse burgundy warmth, and for a little while, they lived it.
That's gone, now.
The night air is cold, passing through the thick weave of his sweater and brushing against his skin. He doesn't mind. The streets are quiet, and the city is calm. Maybe that's what surprises him the most, that everything is calm. That he is calm, even now.
He misses her.
He thinks that it would be easier if she had a grave, if he could kneel in the cold earth and mourn for her. He could cry, and maybe he could place a stone in the upturned dirt where the grass was beginning to grow, even though he'd never really been religious.
He thinks he would like that.
He saw her the night before. He thinks that she saw him, too. She just looked the other way and smiled at her friend, someone he'd never met, and as he walked past, she laughed.
She was beautiful in neon, he thought.
He wonders what he would have done if she'd called to him, if she'd asked him how he had been. He wonders what he would have said. "Missing you," maybe, or "dead." To be honest, he probably would have said that he was fine, and how was she?
Instead, he didn't say anything.
He wonders if she has someone else now. He wonders if she sleeps alone. He doesn't think so. She wouldn't stay alone for long, even if her relationships were short and broken.
He wonders if he has any room to talk.
He passes underneath a streetlamp, his shoes silent on the concrete. The light is unkind on his hands, and he thinks that he is growing old. He notices it more than he used to. He is becoming his father.
She is still young. For all he knows, she'll be young for the rest of her life.
He misses her, but he can't begrudge her, either. It wasn't her fault; both of them were to blame. They dreamed, and then they woke up. They forgot that something always gets lost in translation.
If this is peace, he thinks, he preferred the war. As it is, they got what they wanted.
And isn't that all they'd ever asked for?
The city lights radiate off the chrome and glass that create his home. He's tired, both of walking and of being alive. He wonders when that began to tire him, and he remembers when he used to run, to love burning himself out.
He doesn't want ghosts, not even well-meaning ones.
He presses the button that will take him to his tower. There are too many ghosts here, and they're all unwelcome, bittersweet. He wants to destroy them, but he knows that if he does he will regret it. He thinks that he should leave soon.
He doesn't want more regrets.
His apartment is still, and he remembers movement. He remembers her, graceful and energetic and wild. Abstract. He tries not to make noise as he walks through the darkness, but he can't help it. His room is dim and he doesn't bother to close the blinds before lying down.
He thinks that he'll sleep well tonight.
***
Weird? Pointless? Unnecessary? Any feedback, if you're so inclined, would be appreciated.