The Comparisons of Breathing
By Kay
Disclaimer: I don't own Everworld. *sigh* A girl can only wish, right?
Author's Notes: Another angsty little drabble I found, edited a bit, and decided to upload. YAY! I'm on a role here. Heh. Slight Christopher/Jalil implications, but nothing serious. You blink and you miss it, actually. O.o
Actually, I have a half-finished drabble from Jalil's POV about this scene. Anyone interested?
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"Do you ever think about dying?" Jalil whispers in the dark. His voice sounds almost loud against the stillness and quiet of the room, and for a brief moment that feels like an eternity, Christopher feels relieved to hear it. They've had nothing but silence and the soft echoes of raspy breathing for hours.
But the question sinks in, as they both knew it would, and he finds himself slumping against the wall again.
"You should shut up. Keep up your strength," he mutters, but it's a half-hearted effort. It wouldn't help, anyway-- they both know that.
"I'm serious," Jalil continues, hoarse, pained. He has to swallow a few times before he continues, making Christopher's hands itch to reach for the nightstand and get him another glass of water. The last time he did that, though, it had been a nightmare. He doesn't think he can ever forget the despairing image of his friend choking down the liquid awkwardly, slips of water trailing down his neck and the rapid pulse beat that flutters there, dripping below his nightshirt's neckline. In the end, he'd dropped the glass before he was halfway through, coughing violently and hissing through the pained noises.
"Turn on the light," he says.
Christopher wants to tell him that there are no lights to turn on-- there's nothing but a few lanterns, some candles. They have electricity in the castle, but not in this room. It was never needed. Still, he doesn't say anything, just reaches for the oil lamp laying on the floor next to his feet.
Things are very quiet until the light flickers on.
The room is easily filled by the warm yellow presence. It's fairly small, just four walls and a door, and a large bed that is laden with heavy sheets and several pillows, and a chair, the very one that Christopher sits in, slumped and exhausted, but unwilling to sleep. The dulled tones of black shadow and yellow light mix into a garish gray at every corner where the walls meet.
For a second, Christopher doesn't want to look at the bed. As he does, he's ashamed when he becomes relieved that the body in it is curled up so tightly, under so many covers, that he can't see it very well.
He always was a coward in denial.
"Is that better?"
The bedcovers shift uneasily, a small lump in the center shoving outward. A slender arm reaches over the blue sheets, mocha in hue and trembling in state. Followed is his friend's face, drawn and weary.
He still manages to smile, though.
He just doesn't want to.
"I'm serious," the scientist repeats after a moment, an airy and thin breath rattling through his lips. His eyes are darker than they ever have been before; the deep ebony has utterly swallowed any traces of mahogany left. Christopher thinks it looks frightening. "Do you ever… think about it?"
He can't find anything to do with his hands. The bedroom is small, efficient, but hardly equipped with the things a teenager needs to have in order to keep himself from not being bored. It hadn't been fun, just watching the boy in the bed sleep for most of the day. He thinks about folding his hands in his lap for a second, but changes his mind, and begins to pick at the bedcover sheets. The lace rips easily.
"Christopher?"
He wonders if he should tell Jalil that… if he wanted to, maybe, he could call him 'Chris.' Like a real friend.
He hasn't been called that in a long time.
"I don't think about a lot of things," he says instead, though just as honestly. It isn't the answer Jalil wanted to hear; he can tell from the shadows that flit over the young boy's face, giving away his irritation and exasperation. Quickly, to vanquish the expression, he adds, "I'm assuming you give it a lot of thought?"
"I'm going to die," Jalil announces after a moment, sounding disappointed. "Of course I have, you moron."
"So optimistic."
"Fuck you."
They fall silent for a moment again-- it doesn't take a rocket scientist (or Christopher) to see that the small bit of argument has already worn Jalil out, and the spot on his graceful neck where the pulse is beating, quick and nervous, was outdoing itself. After a few moments where the mocha-skinned boy gasps in air, clutching at the covers with bony-knuckled fingers, Christopher stands up and goes beside the bed.
"Do you want me to get someone for you?"
The look of concentrated pain on Jalil's face intensifies. Through gritted teeth, he forces out, "No. Sit."
He does.
He stares at his fingernails as the teenager gets his bearings, focusing hard on the dirty crescent shape. From the bed, he can hear the low sobs of pain that rip through his friend's body, as well as the choked cries for aid, but ignores them. They've all learned the hard way not to coddle Jalil; he only makes it worse for them. He hates pity. Always has. That's the reason they look after him, because no one else understands that it is only Jalil who does the work, only him to keep his attacks in check. And they refuse to leave him alone, of course, despite all his protests, so in the very end of things, it could always ever be them and them alone.
He never tells anyone why he chooses Christopher the most to keep guard. Christopher never asks. Ever.
When the sounds of anguish fade, Christopher glances up hesitantly. The lump in the bed is unmoving.
He stands, pulling back the covers gently, and stares at a peacefully sleeping face that is wrought in tired, smooth hues of cocoa and mahogany. The cheekbones are too sharp, his eyelashes too long, his lips too plain. Slips of midnight tinted hair fall around his face, thick and soft to the touch. He's breathing almost inaudibly. Asleep, then. The blonde sighs in relief.
Jalil smiles fleetingly in his slumber. It is a slight curving of the lips; sweet, but swiftly vanquished to the pleasures of the night.
It has been very long, Christopher thinks numbly, since he's seen that smile.
It never takes much. He feels something burn inside, but blinks away the harsh sting of tears. It was something he had to get used to a long time ago.
He sits again, leaving the boy to sleep and enjoy the momentary respite from pain.
The truth is-- and he doesn't dare to admit it aloud, to see the words form from his lips and into the air-- he always thinks about dying. It's always on his mind now. It's always in the air he breaths, the places he chooses to go, the words he wants to say, but never can.
It is almost sunrise. David will be taking his watch soon. They all have to be very careful about keeping a close eye on progress… or, rather, waiting for the inevitable they cannot explain. Yes, Christopher muses, he always thinks about dying.
Just not for him.
And when he turns off the light, all he hears is two sets of breathing: one a raspy echo, and the other ready to cry.
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So sad. ;_; But oh well. Anyone interested in Jalil's POV? I can pro'lly finish it tonight... hmm... as for what's wrong with Jalil, your guess is as good as mine, I just felt like being mean to the poor boy that night, probably.
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