But since we exist here, they cannot be termed as existent.
Therefore I shall call them...
"The non-existent ones."
The youth awoke in a small place, on a bed that by standards was not soft nor comfortable, but was so nonetheless to a weary body. The brunette was pleased that vision had fully recovered, and was able to see every detail in the room, including the torn wallpaper that peeled off the corners of the walls. A fireplace blazed quietly on one side of the room, and there was a beaten wood table with two old chairs. Boxes were stacked here and there: crates that hadn't opened for years. There was a dilapidated dresser along the wall nearest the bed, and a window of fair size. Despite how it looked, the room was very warm and the relative shabbiness wasn't even an observation.
The question of how the youth came to be in this place was the only thing on the brunette's mind. The youth could not recall fainting or falling, and did not think the hooded boy had attacked. It didn't seem the person could be capable of that, although the youth wondered where this faith in the stranger had originated. He had been strikingly familiar, so perhaps he wasn't truly a stranger. Someone the youth could not remember, but not a truly strange person. They must have met before.
The weathered door opened, and the hooded one came in, soaked by the rain and carrying a sack. He let the door swing shut behind him, seeming indifferent to the fact that it was still partially open, and sat in a creaking chair. The youth only watched, not yet having sat up nor determined whether to trust this person or not. He threw his hood off, revealing damp cloudy silver hair. Over his eyes was the blindfold, so at least he was the same one. After this, he dug through the sack and produced a small glass container. The brunette watched silently, observing.
He stood up holding the small bottle and approached the bed. The youth hoped that the ability to feign sleep was an inherent talent. Still quiet, noticeably careful not to make sound, he sat on the bed beside the youth, seeming to gaze through the black fabric that covered his eyes. The blindfolded one pulled the cork out of the bottle and sat there a moment, waiting. The brunette resisted the urge to flinch.
"Drink this. I know you're awake."
A few minutes passed by, and it appeared that the youth's ability to act wasn't very good. The brunette's blue eyes opened, gazing at the boy with a small level of wonder. It was impossible for him to see with that covering over his eyes, and the youth had remained still and silent, although the silence seemed mandatory. The only problem with obeying him was the fact that the youth's body was so stiff that movement wasn't an option. Trying not to seem weak, the youth attempted to sit up. It was a daunting task, and the youth would not have been surprised if the boy had laughed, for it took several clumsy attempts and the youth could scarcely breathe afterwards. Even so, the youth had sat up, and that was all that mattered to the brunette. For some reason, the blue eyed youth did not want to seem weak in front of this person.
It had been tiring enough trying to sit up, but there was still the matter of drinking the green stuff the boy was holding. At this point, it didn't matter what it was. The youth did not care if it was poison or some kind of drug. The only thing that mattered was proving that the youth could do it.
A trembling hand reached out and took the bottle, which was lighter than the youth expected it would feel in this state. Taking it and moving it proved to be the easy part, because the brunette couldn't manage to drink it. It wasn't a question of will, because all of that was directed at accomplishing what the blindfolded boy had asked the youth to do. The youth's throat burned, and instead of drinking it, the youth ended up with it running from the corners of a numb mouth. It took a moment of this before the youth stopped, limply wiped the cool liquid off, and held the bottle for a moment, hand resting against a heaving chest. The youth's heart was hammering like a hummingbird's. All the exertion was too much, but the brunette didn't want to fail in front of this person. Never, even if the youth didn't fully understand the relationship with that person.
It would have to be a few moments before the youth could try again. The effort was draining, but it had to be done. This was proving oneself to be adequate, unknowing of the purpose behind the attempt to do so. Another problem was spilling all of the green fluid, which was a total failure. The youth had to try again soon. The blindfolded boy was still waiting.
"...Can't you do it?" There was no derision, only concern.
The youth would have liked very much to be able to speak, to scream in frustration with this body that was so tired and weak. Words did not come, nor did sound, just pain. This wasn't working, and the youth shook a tired head. It couldn't happen just yet: the youth had to have just a little time to breathe. After that, the brunette would try again.
Before that could happen, though, the boy took the bottle from a barely resisting hand. The youth instantly felt failure, turning to stare out the window. The youth did not pay notice when the blindfolded boy downed the bottle, but turned to face the sudden motion, finding this one of the few motor skills that didn't hurt. The boy's hands held the youth's face, and then the boy's mouth was on that of the brunette. Stunned, the youth flinched, feeling somewhere that this was very wrong. The boy was, in fact, forcing the liquid down the youth's throat. This might have been seen as kindness if not for the fact that the youth was left confused by it.
The boy parted from the youth, who coughed, and stared at the one with silver hair. There was no explanation from the other, who wiped some stray fluid from the youth's face, and did no more. If the youth had been able to speak, there certainly would have been a great many things to say. In a way, it might have been good that the brunette couldn't speak. There would have been too many things to think of saying, and that would have made things hurt more. The brunette's throat was feeling considerably better, which was welcome as far as the blue eyed one was concerned. That boy was very strange, though.
"You should get some rest. That potion should help." The boy stated, standing up and going back to his original place in the battered chair. It seemed that the youth was not going to go back to sleep any time soon. They stared at one another from across the room—even when the brunette could not see the boy's eyes, he was staring— for a long time before the blindfolded boy spoke again. "You look so much like him, but you can't be, can you?"
The brunette half-shrugged. The truth was that the youth didn't know who or what either of them was. It was impossible to answer, even if the youth had been able to speak. Only one thing let the youth identify this boy. He was familiar: his voice, his face, and his mannerisms. They were all things the youth felt safe, knowing those things were there. Another part of the youth was disconcerted by this ease, finding that there should be concern. How could one be worried when one knew another by name, though?
"I guess you really can't talk." The boy sighed.
The youth nodded, trying not to look stupid doing it, but feeling it was so anyway. That was right, the youth could not speak or answer anything, even if it was something the youth could answer. Frowning in thought, the youth tried to figure out how to communicate. The boy seemed willing to talk. Somewhere inside, the youth knew the boy's name, so that wasn't a problem. The brunette's own name, however, was harder to recall. It had to be something simple. That was why it was so frustrating.
Deciding that names could wait, the youth motioned with the air to show the boy's blindfold, shrugged, and then watched, hoping he would get the idea. It was the only way the youth could ask 'what's with the blindfold'? He seemed to be able to see through it, and the youth didn't see why he would wear it in the first place. If the youth knew how to sign, it may have been useful.
"...My eyes bother most people." He got it. The youth felt a small level of success. This form of communication wasn't ideal, but it was working. Effectiveness would have to do for now.
The youth nodded to show understanding, then realized that this may also be seen as agreeing that there was something wrong with the boy's eyes. There wasn't much to do about it, but the brunette motioned to both blue eyes and nodded 'no'. Hopefully that would show that there was no intention to insult the boy, the youth thought. Now that some energy was returning, the youth was finding it a bit easier to move a bit.
"...Are you trying to make me feel better?" The boy seemed puzzled. He almost wanted to laugh at the youth's antics.
The youth nodded and smiled in a good natured, childlike manner.
"Thanks." The boy sat quietly for a while. The youth wondered if he knew the next question already. It was a predictable pattern. It didn't matter what the answer was. After all, it was only inquisitiveness. "...You want to see my eyes. Don't you?"
The youth wanted to show that this was a yes if it was okay with him, but otherwise it wasn't a big deal. However, the brunette could only nod, serious and emotionally neutral. Being human, the blue eyed youth wanted to know out of curiosity just what made other people drive someone to hide his own eyes. Blind people often covered their eyes because they were blank, staring into nothing. This boy could see, though, and the youth could not conceive of what could be so bizarre about his eyes.
"Alright." The boy felt for the first time in a long time that he needed to speak. He was the only one that could, and the silence between them was strange. He reached up and untied the knot at the back of his head and slowly pulled the fabric away, keeping his eyes fixed on the youth. The reaction he got from this person mattered more than anything else.
The youth stared at his glowing amber eyes, like those of the shadows that devoured people's hearts. It was an open gaze, unsure what to feel or think just yet. It was terrible. Those eyes were supposed to be different, the youth thought. They had changed in the darkness after all this time. Somehow the youth felt guilty, and even then another part of the youth said they were the same as before: behind the color, they were still his eyes. The eyes of a friend, which were beautiful no matter how they might appear to others. The one that might have been his best friend from so long ago only stared at him. The boy looked down. His eyes were the proof of his betrayal, back when he didn't have the same faith that his friend had invested in him. It was too late to fix that now, he saw that. A single tear burned his face. He had ruined everything, single-handedly destroyed it all. There was no one to blame but himself.
Clumsily, the youth stood and stumbled over to the dresser, slamming into it. With the slam, the boy had looked up, puzzled, at the youth, who was standing against it to remain steady. This person was a friend, the youth knew for certain, and that friend needed reassurance. It wasn't something the brunette was sure was possible, but it was worth a shot. This person was a friend, and this person was sad. No matter who it was supposed to be, the youth wanted to help.
It was hard to keep from falling onto the floor, and the youth had to lean on boxes along the way. The boy still did not understand what the youth was trying to get to, but stood to help, having replaced the blindfold. Tentatively moving along the wall, the youth got close enough and reached out for the boy, collapsing against him and breathing heavily in exhaustion. The boy held the trembling youth up, and it was apparent that the brunette could not stand alone: moving across the small room had worn the blue eyed youth out.
"If you'd needed something, I could have gotten it for you. You're still injured." He looked down at the youth, wondering if it was possible. Had he really found who he'd been looking for all this time? Had be been forgiven? He didn't think there was forgiveness for people like him.
The youth silently said 'no' again, brown spikes brushing against the boy's chest. Pushing away and limply standing, the youth waited until the room stopped spinning to look up at the boy, smiling tiredly. There was a chair nearby, and the youth sat down before falling, wondering how to communicate. It was hard to say what needed to be said, and as the boy pulled up a chair and sat near the brunette, the youth tried to think of a way. It was terrible, having him so sad.
At once, it occurred to the youth that it was remarkably simple.
The youth got back up, hoping the small amount of rest meant that standing briefly wouldn't lead to crumpling on the floor. Standing before the boy, the youth wanted so badly to speak, but had to show words. The brunette concentrated on staying up and reached out to touch the boy's face, following the blindfold to its new, tighter knot. Gloved hands fiddled with the tie until it loosed, all the while the boy stared at the smaller person, who wavered in an attempt to stand still. At last the youth took the black material away and promptly fell against the boy, whose arms instinctively held the slight weight, propping the youth up.
The youth's one hand rested on his shoulder, another on the youth's head, possibly dizzy again from all the movement when there should have been rest. A young face smiled down at him: a weary, kind smile. Blue eyes met amber ones without flinching, without retreating. There was only warmth there. It was because this one person in all the worlds might understand him, and that he wanted to be forgiven so badly.
Even without sound, he knew what the youth meant.
Therefore I shall call them...
"The non-existent ones."
The youth awoke in a small place, on a bed that by standards was not soft nor comfortable, but was so nonetheless to a weary body. The brunette was pleased that vision had fully recovered, and was able to see every detail in the room, including the torn wallpaper that peeled off the corners of the walls. A fireplace blazed quietly on one side of the room, and there was a beaten wood table with two old chairs. Boxes were stacked here and there: crates that hadn't opened for years. There was a dilapidated dresser along the wall nearest the bed, and a window of fair size. Despite how it looked, the room was very warm and the relative shabbiness wasn't even an observation.
The question of how the youth came to be in this place was the only thing on the brunette's mind. The youth could not recall fainting or falling, and did not think the hooded boy had attacked. It didn't seem the person could be capable of that, although the youth wondered where this faith in the stranger had originated. He had been strikingly familiar, so perhaps he wasn't truly a stranger. Someone the youth could not remember, but not a truly strange person. They must have met before.
The weathered door opened, and the hooded one came in, soaked by the rain and carrying a sack. He let the door swing shut behind him, seeming indifferent to the fact that it was still partially open, and sat in a creaking chair. The youth only watched, not yet having sat up nor determined whether to trust this person or not. He threw his hood off, revealing damp cloudy silver hair. Over his eyes was the blindfold, so at least he was the same one. After this, he dug through the sack and produced a small glass container. The brunette watched silently, observing.
He stood up holding the small bottle and approached the bed. The youth hoped that the ability to feign sleep was an inherent talent. Still quiet, noticeably careful not to make sound, he sat on the bed beside the youth, seeming to gaze through the black fabric that covered his eyes. The blindfolded one pulled the cork out of the bottle and sat there a moment, waiting. The brunette resisted the urge to flinch.
"Drink this. I know you're awake."
A few minutes passed by, and it appeared that the youth's ability to act wasn't very good. The brunette's blue eyes opened, gazing at the boy with a small level of wonder. It was impossible for him to see with that covering over his eyes, and the youth had remained still and silent, although the silence seemed mandatory. The only problem with obeying him was the fact that the youth's body was so stiff that movement wasn't an option. Trying not to seem weak, the youth attempted to sit up. It was a daunting task, and the youth would not have been surprised if the boy had laughed, for it took several clumsy attempts and the youth could scarcely breathe afterwards. Even so, the youth had sat up, and that was all that mattered to the brunette. For some reason, the blue eyed youth did not want to seem weak in front of this person.
It had been tiring enough trying to sit up, but there was still the matter of drinking the green stuff the boy was holding. At this point, it didn't matter what it was. The youth did not care if it was poison or some kind of drug. The only thing that mattered was proving that the youth could do it.
A trembling hand reached out and took the bottle, which was lighter than the youth expected it would feel in this state. Taking it and moving it proved to be the easy part, because the brunette couldn't manage to drink it. It wasn't a question of will, because all of that was directed at accomplishing what the blindfolded boy had asked the youth to do. The youth's throat burned, and instead of drinking it, the youth ended up with it running from the corners of a numb mouth. It took a moment of this before the youth stopped, limply wiped the cool liquid off, and held the bottle for a moment, hand resting against a heaving chest. The youth's heart was hammering like a hummingbird's. All the exertion was too much, but the brunette didn't want to fail in front of this person. Never, even if the youth didn't fully understand the relationship with that person.
It would have to be a few moments before the youth could try again. The effort was draining, but it had to be done. This was proving oneself to be adequate, unknowing of the purpose behind the attempt to do so. Another problem was spilling all of the green fluid, which was a total failure. The youth had to try again soon. The blindfolded boy was still waiting.
"...Can't you do it?" There was no derision, only concern.
The youth would have liked very much to be able to speak, to scream in frustration with this body that was so tired and weak. Words did not come, nor did sound, just pain. This wasn't working, and the youth shook a tired head. It couldn't happen just yet: the youth had to have just a little time to breathe. After that, the brunette would try again.
Before that could happen, though, the boy took the bottle from a barely resisting hand. The youth instantly felt failure, turning to stare out the window. The youth did not pay notice when the blindfolded boy downed the bottle, but turned to face the sudden motion, finding this one of the few motor skills that didn't hurt. The boy's hands held the youth's face, and then the boy's mouth was on that of the brunette. Stunned, the youth flinched, feeling somewhere that this was very wrong. The boy was, in fact, forcing the liquid down the youth's throat. This might have been seen as kindness if not for the fact that the youth was left confused by it.
The boy parted from the youth, who coughed, and stared at the one with silver hair. There was no explanation from the other, who wiped some stray fluid from the youth's face, and did no more. If the youth had been able to speak, there certainly would have been a great many things to say. In a way, it might have been good that the brunette couldn't speak. There would have been too many things to think of saying, and that would have made things hurt more. The brunette's throat was feeling considerably better, which was welcome as far as the blue eyed one was concerned. That boy was very strange, though.
"You should get some rest. That potion should help." The boy stated, standing up and going back to his original place in the battered chair. It seemed that the youth was not going to go back to sleep any time soon. They stared at one another from across the room—even when the brunette could not see the boy's eyes, he was staring— for a long time before the blindfolded boy spoke again. "You look so much like him, but you can't be, can you?"
The brunette half-shrugged. The truth was that the youth didn't know who or what either of them was. It was impossible to answer, even if the youth had been able to speak. Only one thing let the youth identify this boy. He was familiar: his voice, his face, and his mannerisms. They were all things the youth felt safe, knowing those things were there. Another part of the youth was disconcerted by this ease, finding that there should be concern. How could one be worried when one knew another by name, though?
"I guess you really can't talk." The boy sighed.
The youth nodded, trying not to look stupid doing it, but feeling it was so anyway. That was right, the youth could not speak or answer anything, even if it was something the youth could answer. Frowning in thought, the youth tried to figure out how to communicate. The boy seemed willing to talk. Somewhere inside, the youth knew the boy's name, so that wasn't a problem. The brunette's own name, however, was harder to recall. It had to be something simple. That was why it was so frustrating.
Deciding that names could wait, the youth motioned with the air to show the boy's blindfold, shrugged, and then watched, hoping he would get the idea. It was the only way the youth could ask 'what's with the blindfold'? He seemed to be able to see through it, and the youth didn't see why he would wear it in the first place. If the youth knew how to sign, it may have been useful.
"...My eyes bother most people." He got it. The youth felt a small level of success. This form of communication wasn't ideal, but it was working. Effectiveness would have to do for now.
The youth nodded to show understanding, then realized that this may also be seen as agreeing that there was something wrong with the boy's eyes. There wasn't much to do about it, but the brunette motioned to both blue eyes and nodded 'no'. Hopefully that would show that there was no intention to insult the boy, the youth thought. Now that some energy was returning, the youth was finding it a bit easier to move a bit.
"...Are you trying to make me feel better?" The boy seemed puzzled. He almost wanted to laugh at the youth's antics.
The youth nodded and smiled in a good natured, childlike manner.
"Thanks." The boy sat quietly for a while. The youth wondered if he knew the next question already. It was a predictable pattern. It didn't matter what the answer was. After all, it was only inquisitiveness. "...You want to see my eyes. Don't you?"
The youth wanted to show that this was a yes if it was okay with him, but otherwise it wasn't a big deal. However, the brunette could only nod, serious and emotionally neutral. Being human, the blue eyed youth wanted to know out of curiosity just what made other people drive someone to hide his own eyes. Blind people often covered their eyes because they were blank, staring into nothing. This boy could see, though, and the youth could not conceive of what could be so bizarre about his eyes.
"Alright." The boy felt for the first time in a long time that he needed to speak. He was the only one that could, and the silence between them was strange. He reached up and untied the knot at the back of his head and slowly pulled the fabric away, keeping his eyes fixed on the youth. The reaction he got from this person mattered more than anything else.
The youth stared at his glowing amber eyes, like those of the shadows that devoured people's hearts. It was an open gaze, unsure what to feel or think just yet. It was terrible. Those eyes were supposed to be different, the youth thought. They had changed in the darkness after all this time. Somehow the youth felt guilty, and even then another part of the youth said they were the same as before: behind the color, they were still his eyes. The eyes of a friend, which were beautiful no matter how they might appear to others. The one that might have been his best friend from so long ago only stared at him. The boy looked down. His eyes were the proof of his betrayal, back when he didn't have the same faith that his friend had invested in him. It was too late to fix that now, he saw that. A single tear burned his face. He had ruined everything, single-handedly destroyed it all. There was no one to blame but himself.
Clumsily, the youth stood and stumbled over to the dresser, slamming into it. With the slam, the boy had looked up, puzzled, at the youth, who was standing against it to remain steady. This person was a friend, the youth knew for certain, and that friend needed reassurance. It wasn't something the brunette was sure was possible, but it was worth a shot. This person was a friend, and this person was sad. No matter who it was supposed to be, the youth wanted to help.
It was hard to keep from falling onto the floor, and the youth had to lean on boxes along the way. The boy still did not understand what the youth was trying to get to, but stood to help, having replaced the blindfold. Tentatively moving along the wall, the youth got close enough and reached out for the boy, collapsing against him and breathing heavily in exhaustion. The boy held the trembling youth up, and it was apparent that the brunette could not stand alone: moving across the small room had worn the blue eyed youth out.
"If you'd needed something, I could have gotten it for you. You're still injured." He looked down at the youth, wondering if it was possible. Had he really found who he'd been looking for all this time? Had be been forgiven? He didn't think there was forgiveness for people like him.
The youth silently said 'no' again, brown spikes brushing against the boy's chest. Pushing away and limply standing, the youth waited until the room stopped spinning to look up at the boy, smiling tiredly. There was a chair nearby, and the youth sat down before falling, wondering how to communicate. It was hard to say what needed to be said, and as the boy pulled up a chair and sat near the brunette, the youth tried to think of a way. It was terrible, having him so sad.
At once, it occurred to the youth that it was remarkably simple.
The youth got back up, hoping the small amount of rest meant that standing briefly wouldn't lead to crumpling on the floor. Standing before the boy, the youth wanted so badly to speak, but had to show words. The brunette concentrated on staying up and reached out to touch the boy's face, following the blindfold to its new, tighter knot. Gloved hands fiddled with the tie until it loosed, all the while the boy stared at the smaller person, who wavered in an attempt to stand still. At last the youth took the black material away and promptly fell against the boy, whose arms instinctively held the slight weight, propping the youth up.
The youth's one hand rested on his shoulder, another on the youth's head, possibly dizzy again from all the movement when there should have been rest. A young face smiled down at him: a weary, kind smile. Blue eyes met amber ones without flinching, without retreating. There was only warmth there. It was because this one person in all the worlds might understand him, and that he wanted to be forgiven so badly.
Even without sound, he knew what the youth meant.