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theblueintheday2015-04-22 12:31 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in theblueintheday2015-04-22 12:31 pm
Entry tags:
[team sonic] If I had only felt
Starting word from here.
Title from Sleeping at last's Turning Page.
This is the first story in the Une aube suffit AU, title from this. Followed by One step closer.
Down the corridor, there's a hushed whisper and a rustle of fabric, soft footfalls, step, step, step—
the smell of roses
Kavinsky opens his eyes.
Everything is white.
Why am I here?
He's supposed to be dead. He can remember—
the crushing pressure loud boom explosion silence tearing red veins behind his eyelids air motion metal numbness—
"I'm supposed to be dead," he says. His voice is barely a rasping whisper, sandpaper over scratched skin, but the footsteps pause.
Kavinsky doesn't move. He can't, and he doesn't want to anyway. I don't want any of this. He braces himself for pity, sympathy, pandering to a sick and twisted soul that has no remedy but to have its threads snipped by the fates, strings fraying until they unravel in the silence.
"Why?" a voice asks, from beside his bed, interrupting his thoughts. It's nothing except curious. Against his better judgement, Kavinsky looks.
And groans.
His entire body is pain, now that he's shifted, nothing sits and he can hardly breathe.
"I'll call the nurse," the voice says, and Kavinsky manages to see, now that he's moved and inflicted all of this upon himself; it's a tall man, maybe slightly older than him, clipboard in hand. Florist delivery. He looks concerned now, but when all his nerve endings are exploding at him, how many ribs did I break? Kavinsky can't seem to mind.
"Wait," he finds himself blurting out, over the pain or perhaps despite it. The figure stops, finger hovering above the call button.
"Yes?" The man is too tall; his face is strange, somewhat unearthly and his ears stick out on either side of his head. Suddenly Kavinsky feels like laughing; it's been a long time. Decades. Real laughter. He doesn't know this person at all, and they don't know him either.
"Could you ever like someone like me?" He cringes at his own words, chokes over his bubbling breath. The man presses the call button, and Kavinsky can hear the click, click, click of heels coming down the hall. The man stands there for a moment, just looking. He smells like flowers.
"Joseph?" he doesn't quite ask, glancing at the name on the bedframe. "I don't know you at all." But he waits there, beside the bed, clipboard in hand. Kavinsky smiles as the nurse comes in and opens the morphine drip.
Title from Sleeping at last's Turning Page.
This is the first story in the Une aube suffit AU, title from this. Followed by One step closer.
Down the corridor, there's a hushed whisper and a rustle of fabric, soft footfalls, step, step, step—
the smell of roses
Kavinsky opens his eyes.
Everything is white.
Why am I here?
He's supposed to be dead. He can remember—
the crushing pressure loud boom explosion silence tearing red veins behind his eyelids air motion metal numbness—
"I'm supposed to be dead," he says. His voice is barely a rasping whisper, sandpaper over scratched skin, but the footsteps pause.
Kavinsky doesn't move. He can't, and he doesn't want to anyway. I don't want any of this. He braces himself for pity, sympathy, pandering to a sick and twisted soul that has no remedy but to have its threads snipped by the fates, strings fraying until they unravel in the silence.
"Why?" a voice asks, from beside his bed, interrupting his thoughts. It's nothing except curious. Against his better judgement, Kavinsky looks.
And groans.
His entire body is pain, now that he's shifted, nothing sits and he can hardly breathe.
"I'll call the nurse," the voice says, and Kavinsky manages to see, now that he's moved and inflicted all of this upon himself; it's a tall man, maybe slightly older than him, clipboard in hand. Florist delivery. He looks concerned now, but when all his nerve endings are exploding at him, how many ribs did I break? Kavinsky can't seem to mind.
"Wait," he finds himself blurting out, over the pain or perhaps despite it. The figure stops, finger hovering above the call button.
"Yes?" The man is too tall; his face is strange, somewhat unearthly and his ears stick out on either side of his head. Suddenly Kavinsky feels like laughing; it's been a long time. Decades. Real laughter. He doesn't know this person at all, and they don't know him either.
"Could you ever like someone like me?" He cringes at his own words, chokes over his bubbling breath. The man presses the call button, and Kavinsky can hear the click, click, click of heels coming down the hall. The man stands there for a moment, just looking. He smells like flowers.
"Joseph?" he doesn't quite ask, glancing at the name on the bedframe. "I don't know you at all." But he waits there, beside the bed, clipboard in hand. Kavinsky smiles as the nurse comes in and opens the morphine drip.