+ Fallacy, a 100themes Challenge +
Sarehptar
Theme: 32, Night
Characters: Avis, Ruwalk
Pairing: Avis/Ruwalk-tinted? (I know, WTF? I didn't intend it to happen either...)
Warnings: Enough symbolism to make you sick. Vague POV on purpose.
Need to Know Info: "Darkness" is not the dark, "light" is not sunlight.
Title Provider: Now Or Never (Josh Groban)
There's no Black and White, Only You and Me on this Endless Night
Ruwalk stands beside him in the darkness.
"Is it foolish?" Tremulous, weak, distant, demanding: Avis does not know what to call the man's words, does not even begin to analyze them. He is caught up simply looking for an answer.
"Yes," the doctor murmurs finally, and there is a note of finality and a note of welcome in that reply. Ruwalk's amber eyes (a little too soft and a little too trusting Avis decides), fall on him.
He shuts his eyes because there is nothing to see: no salvation, no end, no anchor. Oblivion rises like a murder of crows—blackness, blood, death in a whisper of wings.
"I'm sorry," Ruwalk says into the midnight mist.
"A fool shouldn't apologize to a fool." Doctor Rara does not return the amber look (is not quite ready). He stares over the gardens, the lifeless blank windows, the moon's reflection in a still black pond. "Can I see them," he asks finally, "your scars?"
Ruwalk is still; his pale skin glints in the half-light of the night, all alabaster and so many finely chiseled lines. He is perfect in the half-light: a statue, not a man. And then he unbuttons his shirt slowly, one round copper piece at a time.
Imperfection dulls the air around him, makes the moonlight suddenly harsh and cold. Avis longs to cross the distance (it is meager, growing smaller) and touch that bared skin. There is an echo of screaming in their silence, an echo of blood on ivory, on delicate furrowed flesh. He thinks that if he were to spread his fingers, they might fit perfectly over those cruel marks.
Ruwalk laughs, wry and hollow. Kharl's false blue eyes turn away from the ruined artwork. He is the failed artist. It was his trembling hand that struck the hideous blow.
"Can I see your scars?"
"If you look close enough."
It is there like smoke suddenly—encompassing, evanescent, alive. It is in his lungs, his eyes; it warms him to the point of burning.
"It is foolish to be afraid of the darkness." Avis says, says just to hear it (to see it, as his words spiral silver-clouded through the frozen air). Ruwalk does not move, stands half-dressed in the blackness. "Still… What are men but fools?" His smile (he is wearing one now, like a piece of clothing) is empty, too wide to be real, not warm enough to pierce the midnight chill. "And evil is an easy thing to fear."
"What are you afraid of?" Ruwalk's eyes are not as naïve as he wants them to be; agony is shining in the glare.
"I'm afraid," Avis murmurs, counting stars through the haze of his breath, "of light."
He shuts his eyes because it hurts to see. Mercy rises like a flock of doves—white light, breath, perfection in a whisper of wings.
Ruwalk stands beside him in the darkness.
Theme #33: Expectations
"I am taking your son to Prom and there is nothing you can do about it!"