A/N: I would like to dedicate this to 6Amaya6, who went and reviewed every single drabble in this and two of my other fics, but I feel like I should dedicate something more happy to her. Still, THANK YOU. Totally made my night last night.
Before you read this, go to YouTube and search for 'Together We Will Live Forever' by Clint Mansell, from the movie 'The Fountain.' Either listen to it before, during, or after you read this. Or, heck, all three. That song is what inspired this and drove me on to write it. It should help set the mood. Also, keep a box of tissues handy.
Drabble Number Seven rating: K+ (For depressive themes)
Empty
Reese must have fallen asleep, Malcolm thought. The hand that lie on his middle no longer rubbed gentle circles into his stomach, and the other around his shoulder hung limp, whereas before it had squeezed softly. The side of Reese's face, which before had never laid still, always moving subtly back and forth against his chest as if to gain some sort of comfort when there was none to be had, was calm and unmoving. His brother's breath was even and unfettered now, whereas before it had come out quickly, raggedly at times, and at others deep and slow. So yes, Reese must have fallen asleep.
Although it really didn't matter. Whether Reese was awake or asleep, he would always be there. In fact, he had been like this for a while now. It had started... well, Malcolm couldn't remember when it had started; time had no consequence anymore. However, it must have started a while ago, because Malcolm had noticed the slight changes Reese had gone through. First he had started out lying next to him on the bed, then he had started slowly scooting closer until they were right up against each other, and from there he had taken the final leap and laid directly on him.
Malcolm hadn't questioned it, he had simply let it happen. It had actually sort of been nice (if Malcolm could actually classify anything as such now) to have something else to occupy his mind. Although it wasn't that he was bored, it was more that his universe had previously only consisted of the bed and the ceiling. Now it contained Reese. Although that part came and went intermittently, he was still a permanent fixture now.
At first Malcolm had thought that maybe something would change—maybe he would feel something again with Reese lying there on top of him. Even if what he felt wasn't positive, even if it was hatred or disgust, it would still be something. Yet nothing had changed within him. Something had been added on the outside, but on the inside there was still nothing.
It was that emptiness that was causing this, he knew. At first there had been a heavy, guilty feeling bearing down in his chest, and that eventually gave way to such a mental anguish that his little summer stint when he was thirteen was as an ant to a Giant Sequoya. And then one day there had simply been nothing. He had been staring up at the ceiling, as he had been, and suddenly everything went away. Everything. Every hope and dream, emotion and sense of self left him in the blink of an eye. And it was as if none of it had ever been there in the first place. He didn't miss any of it, and had no want to bring it back.
After that all there had been was the ceiling, and the bed. He supposed the bed was comfortable enough, but he barely felt it under him. He also supposed that lying flat on his back for so long, and only getting up to fulfill the requirements of his body, must have left him sore and aching, but he didn't feel that either. All that left was the ceiling, and he wasn't even sure if he noticed it anymore. He stared up at it, certainly, but it was as if he didn't see it. Perhaps as he looked up his mind traversed the vastness of space and time, compiling theories and ideas and making breakthroughs and producing failures, solving world issues and bettering mankind, only to tear it all down again in one fell swoop. Or perhaps he simply stared up at cardboard panels that couldn't give him any sort of comfort, and were simply there. He didn't know; it had all streamed into one at some point, and in the end it all meant nothing.
Now though, there was Reese. If the circumstances had been different he might have wondered about this, but as it were he simply couldn't bring himself to care. Reese was there now, a constant pressure against his chest, a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, and slow, meditative circles around his stomach. And although it altogether meant nothing, Malcolm thought that he would be appreciative if he were able.
Reese must have not fallen asleep before, Malcolm thought to himself, because for him to notice something like that would normally have taken a miracle. Had Reese always been awake? Well he must have, unless he had been moving in his sleep the whole time. Regardless of that though, for something so mundane to make him aware, maybe...
There was no point, really, and in the end he would only have done it because he could, and nothing more, but at that moment he decided there really wasn't any counter reason not to, so he lifted his arm. He figured it probably ached from disuse, but once again he didn't feel it. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he really was feeling something coming from his limb, or if he had become numb to it. Maybe he could feel something, but simply didn't want to. He didn't know, and he didn't care.
He looked at it in the dim light of the room. When had his wrist become so thin? How much had he been eating lately? He couldn't remember; all there was was the bed, the ceiling, and Reese. It didn't matter, but it might have been surprising at a different time to see a noticeable difference in the thickness of his wrist, and his arm, and even his palm. The rest of him probably looked similar. Gaunt probably. Which actually suited his state anyway.
But it was so thin, his arm. Was there muscle under there at all? Could he move his fingers? He tested that out, and found he could. He might've been relieved, if he wasn't.
Slowly, because for whatever reason it wouldn't move any faster, Malcolm brought his hand to rest right off the edge of Reese's ear. It stayed there, right at the cusp of where skin gave way to tiny amounts of fuzz. He could bring himself to touch his brother, he knew, because it didn't matter. It might have mattered at a different time, but that time was gone and now it didn't. He could run his fingers up and down the shell of Reese's ear, and probably wake him, and it would never matter. He didn't even need a reason to do it—he simply could.
But he didn't. He let his fingers drift lazily at the tiniest of boundaries between their skin, and continued to do nothing about it. There was no point in letting his hand stay there, but at the same time there was no point in crossing that insurmountable distance needed to bring the tips of his fingers down a fraction of an inch. So he didn't.
That was when, of course, naturally, Reese shuddered in his sleep and took the step for him. His fingers crashed into the side of his brother's head in a way, he thought, would surely wake him. But it didn't. Instead Reese seemed to unconsciously move into the touch, and as he did so Malcolm's fingers grazed across his skin.
Whatever it did for Reese, though, was nothing compared to what it did for Malcolm. Which was precisely that, nothing. He wasn't sure what he'd thought he'd accomplish in the first place, but he supposed it really didn't matter. He wasn't even sure he could feel Reese's skin against his own, or the fine hairs that graced the tip of his ear.
No, wait. He must have felt something, because he still had nerve cells, right? It wasn't as if he'd lost his physical sense of touch, so he had to feel something. So then why didn't he?
Lifting his hand to where the tips of his fingers just barely touched the edge of Reese's ear, Malcolm ran them across it. Forwards, then backwards. Then he moved down its front to Reese's temple, and he left gentle swirls there before moving on to his cheek. He thought idly that his cheek could either be warm or cold, but because he couldn't feel it (nor the temperature of the room), he didn't know. Reese probably wouldn't have cared anyway.
As he softly dragged his knuckles across the gentle curve of Reese's cheek, Malcolm wondered why it didn't provoke any reaction of him. He was doing it because he could, and not because he had any real desire to do so. But didn't 'because I can' beg an emotional attachment? Shouldn't this have made him feel something? But there was still nothing. It could have been mildly comforting, and should have been mildly disturbing, but was neither. It just was.
If Malcolm could have been, he would have been extremely frustrated with himself.
This was when he felt—felt—a hand tenderly enclose his own, and his gaze shifted over to look Reese directly in the eye. He hadn't felt Reese wake up, nor had he seen him shift to look up at him, but he had felt him touch him. But even though that should have been a breakthrough, he didn't care. It was different, but it was still nothing.
Reese gazed into his eyes, and Malcolm stared right back. He noticed how unsure his brother looked, but couldn't think of a reason why he would be. This was Reese, he didn't worry about a thing, so why start now?
Hesitantly, Reese took a breath and opened his mouth to speak.
"Are you back?" he asked.
Malcolm thought about that for a second. Had anything changed? He had felt Reese take his hand, but had that provided any sense of comfort or compassion? No. It was meaningless. He still felt empty, and his world was still only comprised of the bed, the ceiling, and Reese. Nothing mattered, and there had been no change. So he was forced to answer truthfully.
"No."
Reese's gaze dropped, and he pressed his ear to Malcolm's chest. Malcolm felt a steady pressure on his shoulder as Reese's hand re-enveloped it, and he felt those gentle circles continue on his stomach.
And life went on.
A/N: Unlike usedusername (who is much more dedicated than I), I didn't do any sort of research. So this is probably full of baloney. I just went with what the music told me, and this is what I came up with. I know there are a few contradictions in there, but I chalk that up to Malcolm's depression, which is probably rife with contradiction.
I think from now on I'll stop with the depressive themes, because it really is a pain to write. Not that it isn't worth it--it just stresses me out too much to get into the mood to write it. So the next drabble thingy should be a little more happy, or at least not depressingly sad. I have a few ideas in mind.
Reviewing isn't necessary, and virtual hugs are available for those I've depressed with this. Now I'm off to Biology. Hope you enjoyed! :D
