Four: Scared
Fear is an illness that both are afflicted with. It is a silent force at first, a tickling that comes and goes whenever they envision the other and death riding the same train of thought. Fear creeps quietly around their bones, as light and nimble as their veins and just as numerous. It is a force to behold after months of nursing it on nightmares and possibilities, on attachment and fondness.
For when they become attached to one another, they fear losing one another. They fear the holes that will rip their souls hollow should they lose one another now.
He fears seeing the breath-taking fire in her eyes flicker and die out.
She fears seeing red paint his face in a coppery sheen.
They fear death.
Not their own, mind you, but the others'. Time and time again the boy knows he would gladly take the bullet, stop the sword, bear the brunt of an attack for her. She is too much for him: too much laughter, too much happiness and light, too much compassion and passion for him to go without now. She is his addiction. One he cannot, will not, go without.
She knows he will play her knight if the time comes. She knows he thinks her brave and strong, but she knows how much he cannot bear to watch her die. She never mentions how in just the right light she can see past his aviators and bear witness to the gentle affection he looks at her with. So she also knows that she cannot go without him. Without his rare smiles and endless loyalty, sense of humor and respect, and those eyes that scorch holes into her soul; she will have little to live for.
But they never speak of such sacrifices when they are together. When they speak to one another, fear never bubbles up to pass through lips. They refuse to scare the other with their devotion and attachment- too scared of loss to take that chance.
This fear runs wildly through their bodies every chance it gets. It fuels their desires to be with one another, to drink in one another while they can.
Memorize those beautiful eyes, Dave. His terror beckons him as she grins and giggles. Memorize the way they burn like a fire that may go out.
Imprint his smile in your brain, Harley. Her fright begs when she gets him to tilt his lips up. Remember it forever- someday he'll never smile again.
Fear drives them near insanity as the months go on, and the less they talk, the more frantic their fear bubbles like a vicious pot ready to boil over.
Yet they say nothing.
He sits in his world, as it burns and turns around him, saving and damning himself with memories of her. How the rifle rests on her shoulder, how she absorbs the recoil with a steady face and narrowed eyes. How her wild mane of hair reminds him of the night sky, and how he's wondered if it would be silky to touch. How her dimples bloom when she giggles, and how she can make him feel alive when his spirit teeters on death.
Oh death, he feels, would be relief. No longer would he fear the loss of her, of his sister, of his friend John and the trolls. No longer would he bear the weight of doomed timelines, of past corpses that dance in his dreams and are fed by the fright that makes his veins sing. No longer would he be burdened with all this bottled silence, this facade of coolness, this duty to protect others that he can't fill... no matter how many times he's tried.
Yet, for a moment, he imagines what his death would do to those he loves. What would his sister do? Would she cry over him? She might weep, he concludes, break her calm for a few minutes to morn her sibling, charming eyes red and dumping tears down her face as John tries to calm both her and himself. John would lose it. Dave knows this. John would sob lightly on the outside, trying to remain composed for Rose, but inside would be screaming and screaming for his best bro. These thoughts gnaw at the time traveler, as breaking his friend's hearts shatters his own.
Then his soul almost bows under the immensely heavy vision of Jade leaning over his corpse. He bites the inside of his cheek as fear plays the scenario like a movie for him. Some twisted film that cuts his spirit in half.
Her green eyes burdened with tears, her voice howling over his body. The ways she wails his name, over and over, in vain. Her pretty mouth gasping for air, her eyes bearing salty rivers that trail down her smooth cheeks.
The thought is enough for him to shake his head to rid himself of it. Never would she morn him that heavily because she loves him, he scolds himself. Her compassion and giant heart would be her motivation for her blinding grief, not her love for him.
She has no love for him, he swears. She grins for everyone. She loves everyone the same. She is strong for everyone, not just him.
Never just for him.
Yet just for him is why she giggles so loud, why she holds herself back when they saw each other, when they chatted together. She has so much love for him, she knows, and fear holds her back firmly so he will never run away. She is an addict- high off her memories of him. Her heart aches in pain when she can no longer hear his voice outside of her mind.
She overdoses on his voice: the deep sound one that, if she imagines it just right, vibrates in her chest and fills her warmly. The way his whole body steps into his music when he creates it, how he dips his soul into the sound and is unable to pull himself out. Oh how many times has she watched sunlight pet his hair gold, only for him to reach an arm up to ruffle the short locks. How she's memorized the tiny freckles that spot his handsome face and strip him of his 'cool kid' act faster than any snarky remark his sister might make. How his fingers curl gently around hers when she grabs for it.
The memories fill her and empty her. They drain her and fuel her. Damn her and save her.