27_53

[Follows this: LINK TW: Adult Content]

Skellig had slept well enough, with Kreyu curled up tightly against him, her bodyweight resting solid on his chest and his hip - but it had not been the most solid sleep he had gotten since coming to her world on this journey.

Keeping a watchful eye on her overnight was a given, after her reaction during their previous conversation. And while his concern was moreso on her well-being and rest - he has a concern for the potential for nightmares - a small part of his mind also worries if what he told her about his abilities may have changed her opinion of him.

(Deep down, he knows it is unlikely, but his mind is hesitant to let it fall completely away.)

He told her he was not letting her go, as she held onto him to fall asleep. Now that he is awake, he has kept his mind quiet in an effort to avoid waking her - and he has kept his word. His hand rests lightly against her shoulder, fingertips lightly touching the feathers of her wing, occasionally stroking whenever her feels her stir in an effort to reassure her that she is safe, and he is not going anywhere.

They are in a new town, one with almost-proper winters (at least, he thinks they are almost-proper winters; Katya merely laughs at the clouds when they attempt to spit snow and only manage a flurry of icy drizzle that melts before it hits the ground) and good food. There is a market near enough to the loft they've settled in to, and while the furnishings are not quite as upscale as their last residence, it is habitable.

And in all honesty, habitable is enough right now.

Skellig had begun to feel strange ever since they had arrived in the town, but hadn't been able to figure out why.

Not at first, anyway.

There was a reason they had come here aside from the prospect of better food (even if the ethnic population allows for a wider variety of 'proper' bread) and colder winter weather.

And he had seen evidence that there was something, not like him, not like her, but something else entirely, that needed further investigating. So they had stayed. And things at the bar had begun to get stranger and stranger, so he stayed away, focused on the signs he was seeing in his (their) world instead of symbols and mysteries at the bar.

It has gotten him nowhere.



Tonight, he is sitting on the roof in the shadows, face lit only by the glow of the cigarette dangling between his lips. His eyes are closed as he sits, listening, listening, trying to focus in on what little trace he has to go on.

She patrols the Gloom on nights when he gets like this - leaves him to sit and listen with his cigarettes and sometimes a bottle of the mid-shelf vodka they pick up from the corner store. There is no vodka tonight.

Only smoke.

(And mirrors.)

They need to stock up on a few things, eventually.

It is only normal, after all. Even if this is anything but normal, with her here and both of them still having trouble with things that should be normal. He cannot find the bar (he has not really gone looking, not after the other day and how much it drained him to try) and she is nowhere near able to go looking, either.

So they make plans to head to the coastal town a few miles down the road. It will not be a long walk. There will be cigarettes, there. And maybe even lobsters, if they are lucky.

(He hopes they are lucky. The lobsters deserved it.)

He has his coat (as always) and he's gotten the most of the blood out of it. There are a few tears that need mending, still, but they are unimportant.

"We can cut across the field. It is shorter, that way."

Following the roads is for boring people, apparently.

Four flights up, Skellig remembers.

(He hates stairs. Hates them. They're nothing but endless and hollow and he can hear his boots clattering against the concrete (linoleum?) too loud can't hide and they just plain hurt. Flying is much more sensible, but he can't do that, here. Not here, not where they might see him.)

Five flights up, Skellig remembers.

(Who is she?)

Six flights up, Skellig remembers.

(not like them she is not one of them she is not one of you either none like you)

Seven flights up,



"We need to hurry." She tugs at his arm, causing him to stumble.

"Can't with Arthur," he says. It is not apologetic. He is not worried. (Not about the boy. Not about her. Not about Them. Not about anything.) He is not worried at all. He smiles. "Nasty bastard he is."

he had the boy and the girl bring him the fish oil and the pills to help with the pain, and then bottles of brown to wash it down, and then then food of the gods to heal. twenty-seven and fifty-three. with sauce.

"He's in trouble," she protests.

Skellig rolls his eyes. "No, he's not."

She stops. Stares at him.

iron and salt and sweat and ash

"You're a liar."

"No," she snaps her hand out and catches him by the wrist. "You are a fool."



Eight flights up, Skellig wishes he had a plate of Chinese takeaway. He is hungry.

Nine flights up, Skellig wishes he had a key.

Not sure if the door would even work right now.

Ten flights up, Skellig begins to laugh.

(Because it is funny. He already knows.)

She does not. Laugh.


i had find you tell you i need you
tell you i set you apart
tell me your secrets and ask me your questions
oh lets go back to the start

Thirteen flights up, Skellig wishes he had an elevator.

Fifteen flights up, she stops short in front of him. And then opens the door to the roof.

(He is still laughing.)

"It's not funny," she hisses.

"Oh, but it is."



He sits on the gravel in the center and makes an honest effort to stifle his laughter, and it takes him awhile. Because it is funny; because he was right all along. She is not like him. She is not like them, either. And she is not like the boy -- the boy who is not here.

He knew the boy was not here long before she convinced him to come with her.

(He remembers who she is.)

nobody said it was easy its such a shame for us to part
nobody said it was easy no one ever said it would be this hard

iron
(for the weight of the world on your shoulders)
salt
(for the taste of the tears of the world)
sweat
(for the scent of the fear of all of them)
ash
(for the choking desperation of everything that breathes)
earth
(for the funeral marchers)
death
(for the end)

His arm still itches and his vision is still cloudy around the edges.

But that does not matter. The boy is safe (he is not hers) and so are the people below (150ft) and so is he.

None are like you.

She had said it herself.

None are like you. None are as powerful.
None are a freak like you.

what is that guy's problem?

He looks up at her. And he grins.

"Come dance with me."

She appears confused -- for a second, his expression shifts to mirror her own -- and then he is off his feet, grabbing her wrists in his hands nevermind the sting and she doesn't have time to understand before he pulls her.

She stumbles, but he does not trip.

The backs of his knees hit the edge of the rooftop

And she screams.






Unfortunately for her, snakes do not possess the ability to fly.

(And they make a lovely crunch when they hit the sidewalk.)



His fingertips scrape the edge of the roof.



Unfortunately for him, he can't free his wings from his coat.

(And it is impossible for a bird to fly without its wings.)

His crunch, however, does not sound the same.

oh take me back to the start

Oh I wish, I wish I was a fish...

Who is he?

Who was she?

"Should be bothered, but not."




His hands are stuffed tightly in his pockets, the dark coat rustling behind him as he walks towards the fish market downtown. It's Wednesday; they get fresh fish on Wednesday, and throw out the old fish on Wednesday. He's hoping for a good bite to eat from the bin out back, but he can't be sure if there will be anything left over.

There's a rustle (not him) across his path, and he knows the wind is cold.

"Not bothered," he mumbles. "Should be, but not. Not like me. Not like them."

(What's that guy's problem?)

But he doesn't feel cold. Stiff, but not cold.

Doesn't matter. Have to hide your wings. Nobody can know.

Don't want them to know you're a freak?



He hears the sharp bark of a dog from ahead on the path; the creature is pulling eagerly at its leash in an effort to break free of its owner's grasp. He keeps walking.

When he passes the dog, it quiets, suddenly.

(Then snarls.)


Hard to hide it from them.



He keeps walking. It is four and a half blocks further to the fish shop.

(It is still Wednesday.)

The owner emerges from the back door as Skellig is rifling through a box he's pulled from the rubbish container, and both men share a startled glance when they realize that they're not alone in the alley.

Neither of them say anything.

(Skellig removes his hands from the box, automatically wiping his dirtied fingers on his coat as he steps back. He will go. There is no need for trouble; no need to call the police. He will not bother the fish shop.)



"Wait--"

The owner holds up a hand and the look on his face is something that Skellig is not used to seeing.

Not angry.


So he waits.

Oh I wish, I wish I was a fish...

It takes only a moment for the man to return, and he's holding a brown paper sack, which he hands over to Skellig. It doesn't weigh much, but the smell (faint, not sour, fresh) confirms what it holds without having to glance in at the contents.

Skellig bows his thanks just a little dizzy but getting better and then shuffles on down the alley, intending on heading back to the park.



He has some change in his pocket that he fumbles with while trying to buy a cup of soda from a hot-dog vendor he passes on the way, his fingers stiff need some brown to wash it down, and maybe a few pills to fight off Arthur but he's not cold.

It takes him much too long to get the correct amount, but he manages, and then stiffly moves on down the sidewalk with his cup and his paper bag.



He's crossing the street when someone turns in front of him, blaring their horn angrily.

He jumps (doesn't spill) backwards with an unnatural sort of hop, but his balance wavers on the concrete as his head spins. He glances up at the light. Green?

No.

Red.



(He doesn't remember not looking at the signal.)

What else don't you remember? Who is he?








He sits on the same bench as the day before, ignoring the ache in his joints (used to it) and the prickle of light at the edges of his vision. It has been a long day.

The park is empty.




He eats his fish and drinks his soda.

wish I was a fish

And watches the empty swing-set. It does not move.




"Doesn't bother."



(But it should.)

There's an ache in his wrist and arm, a tingling, but he ignores it, too. Blame Arthur. Things will be better tomorrow. He has fish. Things are okay.

A siren is wailing.

Faint, distant haunting but growing louder.
Louder.
And louder still.




The sound is audible through the walls, through the plaster and concrete and glass, echoing down the corridor as it bounces from window to door to wall and back again closer now just a few minutes it will all be alright away and then it cuts short, silent.

The night exhales.

A stream of smoke not exhaust but just as poisonous to the lungs filters skyward to the stars.



Time ticks on, a steady march. Drums beat.

So do hearts.


and minds think and lungs breathe

Until they don't.

Another siren begins to wail.
(So does the infant in 45 B.)




The cafeteria is serving turkey breast in sauce with mixed vegetables. Fruit on the side.

No salt to be found anywhere.




Another siren cuts short.


code blue to thirty-four d
time of death

It is going to be a long night.





By the time sun rises it's a beautiful day he can barely shuffle down the sidewalk, knees struggling to fight off the effects of Arthur and he's wishing he had some brown to wash down aspirin with. Newcastle and Tylenol for breakfast? Yes please and thank you.

It is four blocks to the abandoned warehouse he calls home.

where the heart is

He cannot climb the ladder to the rafters.
He cannot fly, either.



A cardboard box becomes a bed, and his tattered wool coat the comforter.

He does not untie his boots. (Socks have holes, anyway.)

His eyes close.



faint, distant, fading, growing softer.
a siren wails. so does the mother in 45 b.



It is going to be a long day, too.

He doesn't need find much.
He doesn't ask want much.
He doesn't take beg much.

( He doesn't get much, either. )

"Where will you go?" he said.

I shrugged, pointed out to the sky. "Somewhere," I said.

( somewhere indeed. )

We sat in a tiny circle, the three of us and for minutes we just watched each other and smiled.

"You're going away," I said at last.

He closed his eyes and nodded.

"Where will you go?" I said.

He shrugged, pointed out to the sky. "Somewhere," he said.

( Somewhere. )