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theblueintheday2015-04-23 02:22 am
bluedreaming) wrote in theblueintheday2015-04-23 02:22 am
Entry tags:
[team sonic] one step closer
Starting words from here.
Title from Christina Perri's A thousand years.
This is the second story in the Une aube suffit AU, title from this. Preceded by If I had only felt. Followed by Follow.
—bringing up that topic. . .the voices grow and then fade as footsteps approach and then recede down the hallway. He slumps back into the pillow.
Kavinsky is getting tired of no one asking anyone. No one says anything. The doctor comes in and pokes things and grins and makes notes which materialize in different things getting dripped into his veins, a rainbows of colours that he would rather dream than see.
He doesn't dream. As soon as he closes his eyes he opens them again and it's morning. Kavinsky doesn't even know how he feels about this. His hands feel empty, that's the biggest thing.
He might miss dreaming but he doesn't miss people. How can he, when he was racing towards the end? You don't miss the paramedic on the way to the hospital.
Every time he closes his eyes, it's still a surprise to wake up.
He lies there, between sheets, tracing patterns on the ceiling, watching the flowers wilt in the arrangement beside his head, the buzzing noise of the television turned down to white noise as people wave their hands around on the screen, houses burn, bombs fall, people die and are born and say things they'll regret. Slowly, his bones knit themselves back together, his skin cells reproduce and pull the smoothness back over his bones.
But his head is still waiting.
He doesn't know what day it is when he's woken up by the smell of flowers, life in the midst of cold and clean and antiseptic. It's hard to begin if you're perpetually beginning, stuck in the midst of being born. Or maybe just dying the long way.
He recognizes the figure in the doorway before his brain catches up with him, peering up at a young man who's too tall, ears slightly too prominent, face obscured by an arrangement of creamy white lotuses. The man juggles the vase to one side to peer at his clipboard, revealing his face, so that when he looks up again his eye's meet Kavinsky's. They both blink.
He won't remember me, Kavinsky thinks, and there's a strange kind of regret in the thought. He looks away, at the white walls, the city outside the window.
"Joseph!" the man says, and the smile in his voice is audible. "I didn't think I'd see you again."
Title from Christina Perri's A thousand years.
This is the second story in the Une aube suffit AU, title from this. Preceded by If I had only felt. Followed by Follow.
—bringing up that topic. . .the voices grow and then fade as footsteps approach and then recede down the hallway. He slumps back into the pillow.
Kavinsky is getting tired of no one asking anyone. No one says anything. The doctor comes in and pokes things and grins and makes notes which materialize in different things getting dripped into his veins, a rainbows of colours that he would rather dream than see.
He doesn't dream. As soon as he closes his eyes he opens them again and it's morning. Kavinsky doesn't even know how he feels about this. His hands feel empty, that's the biggest thing.
He might miss dreaming but he doesn't miss people. How can he, when he was racing towards the end? You don't miss the paramedic on the way to the hospital.
Every time he closes his eyes, it's still a surprise to wake up.
He lies there, between sheets, tracing patterns on the ceiling, watching the flowers wilt in the arrangement beside his head, the buzzing noise of the television turned down to white noise as people wave their hands around on the screen, houses burn, bombs fall, people die and are born and say things they'll regret. Slowly, his bones knit themselves back together, his skin cells reproduce and pull the smoothness back over his bones.
But his head is still waiting.
He doesn't know what day it is when he's woken up by the smell of flowers, life in the midst of cold and clean and antiseptic. It's hard to begin if you're perpetually beginning, stuck in the midst of being born. Or maybe just dying the long way.
He recognizes the figure in the doorway before his brain catches up with him, peering up at a young man who's too tall, ears slightly too prominent, face obscured by an arrangement of creamy white lotuses. The man juggles the vase to one side to peer at his clipboard, revealing his face, so that when he looks up again his eye's meet Kavinsky's. They both blink.
He won't remember me, Kavinsky thinks, and there's a strange kind of regret in the thought. He looks away, at the white walls, the city outside the window.
"Joseph!" the man says, and the smile in his voice is audible. "I didn't think I'd see you again."