Six is for holding your breath. For holding your breath, because it's that proverbial coin toss in the air and you don't know which side will land face-up and which side will be wiped blank. Because the sky is tearing apart in slow silk breaths – ripping at the raw edges and you don't know if you're falling or if you're supposed to be screaming it out yet or not. Because you don't even know who the hell you're supposed to be anymore, because the only thing you know how to do is to count to nine.
He can feel the nerves in his right eye pulsating.
It's captured in a single still frame of a second, but he can see even with both eyes wide shut. He can see through a space of infinite blackness, and he can breathe normally too. He can see a roll of film reeling under the crust of crammed memories never meant to be relived or revisited for all of eternity, but.
You don't get to choose what happens to you.
You are never who you think you are.
He is five and happy. Bookman is not what you could call a nice person per se, but Bookman is someone reliable to be around. Bookman is reassuring, though mostly in his own way. You'd have to know him to understand. And Bookman is easy to understand. Bookman is riddled with folded skin, but there are still traces of the most subtle commiseration etched in the contours of forgotten stories already long set in worn flesh. Bookman is Bookman.
Bookman asks for the single greatest sacrifice he could have ever asked for.
Can you devote yourself to being a Bookman?
And he'd been so willing. So he obliges, and so he says yes, and he gives up his namesake.
You won't exist, though, ya know.
Not like this.
A flicker of a shadow glances off his optic nerve. This voice is his own, he realizes. These shared tens of thousands of thoughts are his own too.
A rush of anxiety whispers straight down his back.
You can't live like this.
You can't.
Don't be stupid. You gotta live like this.
You—
I—
He is—
Isn't.
A Bookman is meant to be many things but nothing at all in the same instant. The best thing a Bookman can do is to not exist – to fade away at any given moment so that the story can continue.
This, Bookman says with a slow and calculated arc in his voice, is the legacy of Bookmen.
So he is seven when he first learns about the Vatican, when he first looks for and finds God, and when he sees and records all that is done in His name for His will.
He is barely sixteen when he learns that he will never really understand and when he already knows that all he ever has to do is blindly watch and record.
He is barely sixteen when he's already lived and seen more than he's ever prepared himself to. He is barely sixteen when he is jaded beyond belief, when Bookman is grim and tells him about how stupid humans really are—when Bookman first introduces him to this stupid, sick, insane reality where things like resurrection and demons actually really do exist. When he's unofficially given up on the world and when he first meets this girl with the most impossible faith.
Elaine.
She's looking up at those stars again, and their crystal lights reflect. They tilt in a charming way, spinning like a clock work with a countdown.
His muscles twitch on instinct.
Don't move.
A cut of cards.
They spill; clatter.
You've really fucked up this time.
He is Lavi now.
Lavi. He is Lavi when he takes on this new persona, when he leaves Deak in this complicated unresolved emotional mess, when the past is curled tight and gnawing at the smooth muscle of his aorta.
He closes his eyes. Bookman's words are especially domineering right now. You have to decide for yourself.
Thing is, this isn't even him.
It's the combined effort of scores of personas all alone in space and time; all these personas borrowing the same bruised and broken body, and now every one of them is sunk in the desperation of perpetual identity crises.
This must be what Bookman had been referring to.
Re-experience.
Avoidance.
Hyperarousal.
Distress and distortion and despair and it wasn't supposed to be like this.
The cards are rearranged now.
And it's.
Why did you do this to yourself?
Lavi blinks. Or maybe it could have been Deak all along. "Huh." He scratches his head. That's not right. It's not Deak who ever sees this scene. It's Lavi whose dreams are creeping up on him again and again. "This again?"
The table is before him again; the deck is stacked neat, cards laid flat. On the other side of the table, it's that goddamn dealer again. That dealer with the blank gray face and chapped sneer.
The Earl's words resound again. It'd initially been for Elaine, but the figure from across the table jeers anyway.
If you had the chance to change your past, would you?
This one's for Deak.
Deak picks up the card from the stack and grins half-heartedly before flicking it. He watches the joker card fall straight to the ground. "You know, if I'm the record keeper," he says pseudo-blithely, "then doesn't that mean history will be written the way I see it?"
The rest of the cards cut in black and red.
Deak—Deak falters.
There is nothing but the darkest sweep of blue and the Earl's words ringing again and again and again. The Joker's smile is stretching, distorting; wet ink bleeding in the darkest shade of black.
Can you walk away from all you know?
Deak hesitates.
Lavi closes his eyes and starts counting again. It's the most terrific work of reality control. It doesn't even matter who it is who says the next part.
"No. No. It doesn't."
He can't.
He already knows; had known all along. He should have known so much better than this. Time—time and history don't work like that.
The rest happens in quick succession.
The thing about rewriting something is that you can't alter one chapter without changing the whole story. Nothing in space or time ever exists alone. There's a chain reaction. There is the past, the present, and future, all of which are dependent on each other.
Drama. Conflict. Reactants. Collision courses. Products. Consequences.
For one moment, for just one moment, the coordinates of time and space align.
They touch. They meet.
And some things become so much more than that.
Elaine looks up at the Earl. Her voice is shaking. "What do you mean?"
The Earl is coaxing. "Your mother. I'm so sorry."
Elaine takes a step back, somewhat taken aback. "Um—"
The Earl moves terrifically, every step perfectly calculated and carefully designed to silently break defense. "I can't imagine what you had to go through."
Elaine stops, looks down, mouth soft – a perfect puppet. "Yeah, it's... yeah."
He doesn't put a hand on her shoulder, but the action is already implied. He waits for a few moments to pass before he says the next bit. It's, "I can bring her back. Your mom." He waits for the impact to sink in. "I can bring her back for you."
There is a long break before Elaine speaks up again. "That's not possible," she blurts out. "It's—"
"And what if I said it was? What if it could be done? Would you let your mom stay like that? Suffering because life wasn't fair? Letting her go when she could have had a second chance?"
Elaine closes her mouth.
The Earl continues, sympathy lining the promise in his mouth and hand. "I can help."
Elaine bites at her bottom lip. "I don't—"
This time, he's even gentler. Softer. Understanding. "Do you understand? This is what He would want. This is why I'm here. Because of Him."
And this time, there's a cut of resolve when she looks up. There's that glance in her eyes again. That naïve faith clashing with everything she could ever pray for. Or maybe she already did.
"It's been so hard." Her voice is caught and breaking. "I mean, why? Why did it have to happen like this? Why her? Why now? It's not—I don't—"
"That's why I'm here. I want to help. I want to help both you and your mother. I want you two to be happy again."
She's silent.
"And I can. I can make it happen."
Her gaze is glassy. "Can you? Why you? Why can I trust you?"
"Because I have nothing to take from you."
Lavi closes his eyes at this. The bastard is lying straight through his teeth and there's nothing he can do but watch, watch, and watch.
"If you do the things I ask, then I'll make it happen. Your mom—she'll come back. Can you believe in me?"
Lavi already knows. Seven eight nine.
Her mouth parts, "I want to."
Ten; it happens.
Cut to dawn, where the sun is at its weakest.
This is just fucked-up.
Has anyone ever told you about man-made demons?
But what if He's not? What if He's not listening, not ever? What if there are a lot of prayers He never gets to and suffering goes around anyway?
He shouldn't have pressed that line. He should've. He should've acted instead of standing still and dumb. He should've done more than just fucking watch.
He doesn't even know how he got here, how he managed to stumble out of the graveyard undetected, but he's drinking tonight. His mouth tastes bitter. His eyesight is getting bleary and he doesn't talk to anyone in particular. He presses at his temples. He doesn't even know how to think anymore.
Fuck fuck fuck.
The stars.
"The thing about forever—"
They're losing light.
"—is that there's no such fucking thing as forever. Everything has a time limit."
Crystal.
Fading fast.
His nails are digging into the palm of his hand. Thin red lines.
"Fuck, it doesn't even matter anymore."
He's right about this, of course. Both sides are wiped blank before the coin even lands. It's spinning in midair, but it doesn't even matter anymore and he's still forever away from waking up for real this time.
And cut back.
Six. Six is where he's been stuck, mentally, this whole time. It's the waiting – the knowing exactly how the story ends – that's killing him slow. The watching and knowing there's nothing you can do, even if you try. No matter how many times you try. Six is the hardest part about forever.
"Post-traumatic stress disorder," Bookman says. "You've heard of it before, Lavi."
Bookman makes it a statement rather than a question, but Lavi confirms it anyway. It'll help him think. He could use a little logic right about now. And this is the first time Bookman ever explicitly said it. "Yeah." He puts a hand over his mouth in distress. It's almost a confession. "Yeah, but I never—" And stops. He's not sure what he thought he was going to say.
Bookman continues on, speaking with precision, words on the wrong side of sympathy. They are neither harsh nor comforting. They just are. "Is this just happening intermittently?"
"Kinda."
Bookman is a man of polished subtlety; he is not one to press for the details, but there is a fold of concern over his brow. "You understand what this means, right? What this means for your future?"
A beat. "Yeah." He pauses. "Yeah."
It's something that neither of them will ever say out loud if they can help it. A Bookman successor who doesn't have control over his memories is more than just a cause for concern. It's trauma. It's psychological suicide.
Bookman is looking vaguely thoughtful. "Can you separate time? Mentally. Can you figure out the events of the past from the ones of the present?"
This question is reassuring, somewhat. "Yeah, 'course, gramps. I can tell. I can tell when I'm looking back at Dea—uh, my memories."
The next one is a little trickier. "Can you tell if—when—your memories are changing, Lavi?"
He pauses.
The other thing about rewriting something is that it's dangerous. It's dangerous to our memories, and it's dangerous to our selves. We destroy ourselves in the process when we want to rewrite the past. Because that's when we rewrite ourselves, when we strip away everything that we are.
There's a flicker of uncertainty when he speaks up again. "N—I don't think they are."
Bookman hides his worry well. Succinct. "But you don't know."
Another beat, "Yeah."
"I see."
A slight silence.
Lavi picks at it. "And what happens if they are? If my memories really are rearranging? And if I don't know?" He's not sure if he wants to know the answer to this one.
Bookman pauses before finally picking up his teacup and sips at the cold liquid. "Nothing happens. You'll just have to watch it all. You'll lose yourself, maybe."
Watching. It's always the watching. He clenches his fist.
"But I'll help you, Lavi."
He looks up, startled. "Huh?"
Bookman arches an eyebrow. "What's with that pathetic face? Did I not teach you anything after all these years? I thought you wanted to be a Bookman."
"Of course I do," he blurts out. He's surprised by how easily the answer comes to him. "But—"
Bookman is just looking at him blandly.
He changes tactics. "Even if—?"
Bookman leans back in his chair. "I've already spent too much of my time on raising you to be a Bookman to let it all go to waste."
He hopes Bookman's right. His memories are a total mess now.
It's five.
This is an exchange – another chance meeting at another chance moment – that he almost forgets. But he doesn't forget. Bookmen don't forget, can't forget, no matter how hard they try. At least there's that. Even if everything's fucked up, he'll still remember it all.
Elaine peers into the glass display, examining the contents inside. He yawns.
Elaine glances over. She adopts an apologetic look. "Sorry, am I boring you?"
He waves it off breezily. "Nah, don't worry about it, I'm good. But what's so interesting about that anyway?"
She drums her fingers at the glass. "Hey, weren't you the one who said he liked craft-making? Check this out."
He leans over and inspects the chipping ink work and fading pigments. "Cards?" He says doubtfully.
"Yeah, the other day, my mom was telling me about tarot. It's like fortune-telling through cards or something like that, I think. Have you heard of it?"
He's vaguely miffed. "Of course I know what it is." And then stops. "Wait, you don't actually believe in that, right?"
Elaine is looking a little wistful. "Well, it would be nice if we could look into the future like that," she admits.
He shifts uncomfortably. This isn't exactly his style, but, "I know tarot, you know."
She bursts out laughing. "Yeah? You? Weren't you just making fun of them?"
He adopts an appropriately offended look. "It's for research purposes," he insists. It actually hadn't been; he'd been charmed by them once too, but he'll never tell her that. "But anyway, isn't there a better way than to rely on things like tarot cards?"
She pauses. "What do you mean?"
He thinks about it for a bit. "Like, shouldn't you be taking control of your own future and all?"
"Huh," she considers pseudo-thoughtfully, "That's probably the cheesiest thing I've ever heard you say."
A beat passes. He opens his mouth to retort but she beats him to it. "I mean, I never thought of you as a carpe diem kind of guy."
The full phrase is Horace's. Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Seize the day, putting as little trust as possible in the future.
He shuts up.
Five is for the dreamers. It's lucid dreaming for the yesterday rather than the tomorrow. It's that one perfect moment in time where it's too early to think about emotional attachment and too late to pull out safely. Five never lasts for too long. He pulls his head wrap down to the base of his neck. It's always about time though, he figures. Always about time. He closes his eyes and steels himself. Nine, eight, seven, six, six, six—
One more thing. This never ever happens either. It just never gets the chance to.
There are far too many nevers and ifs, and not enough happens and wills.
If.
If only.
"I'm sorry, Deak."
The voice is faded. Faded but familiar.
"I mean, I thought you were interesting. And well yeah, you were."
A brush of wind sweeps by. He blinks. "Uh—"
"—I mean, it's probably pretty obvious," she waves his dumb response off mostly nonchalantly, but her cheeks are touched with pink. "Since I went through all that trouble of bothering you all those times... even though I knew you probably didn't ever want me around. But—um, I don't know."
He closes his mouth.
"I mean, you remember the first time we met? The truth is, before I came up to you, I saw you. It was weird, because you were just watching people. I don't know, people don't really do that around here. But you watched them."
He remembers, of course. He doesn't forget.
"And you look like you hated everyone. Everything. You looked like you hated the world." She reflects. "And well, I guess that really bothered me, and I know it wasn't any of my business, but... well, I guess I wanted to do something about it, as stupid as this sounds. Yeah, sorry." She scratches the back of her neck sheepishly. "That was pretty uncalled for."
Cut to spring.
"And I wanted to hang out with someone who didn't know anything about the local gossip and about... well, you know. That's why I liked hanging out with you so much, even if you didn't. Sorry."
Cut to summer.
"I'm glad. I'm glad that I went and talked to you that first time... even though you were probably weirded out about me."
Indigo episodes.
Five.
"Anyway. Let's watch the stars again sometime, okay?"
Six is for holding your breath. For holding your breath because you don't know what's going to happen next. Because the future is only ever charted in graphite.
It's time to let go, Lavi.
Lavi looks up at that short side of the sky and it takes some effort for his mouth to tip up in the breeziest smile he can manage.
His laugh is even shorter when it ends. He puts a hand over his mouth and then over his eyes. "What the fuck?"
He pauses. Later, maybe sometime far later, when time is done standing still, the burning stars will map the night sky again. And maybe the ends of their fire will be brighter this time around. And maybe this time around, it will be for Lavi, for Lavi, to see.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The corners of Elaine's mouth are tipping up brilliantly. Five is for the dreamers.
The rest is reality.
Raw, timed, searing, bleeding reality.
But.
You know what the thing about stars is?
He looks up wearily; they're burning again.
The stars.
Spinning. Spinning and spinning and spinning.
"...Of course I know," he scratches at the mess of hair on his head, half bemused and half insulted, before closing his eyes and yawning nonchalantly. A moment passes before he speaks up again. And this time, his voice is quieter. "I learned that one way before you did, you know."