[12/1] Cut Flowers

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Re: [12/1] Cut Flowers

Postby Dark Siren » Mon Aug 01, 2011 1:53 pm

Everything was all right, everything was finally all right, Chason had come, just like the boy knew he would, and everything would be all right. And yet, no matter how many times he told himself that, clinging to the man with broken bloody fingers, it didn't truly set in for a long while. Chason had come, yes, Chason had saved him again, but too late. God, too late, for him and for Maeve and it was a great sinking feeling that he'd never be safe again, outside of Chason's arms lie nothing but pain and ruin.

There was movement that he barely registered, not daring let his mind wander beyond Chason, but after a long while he realized they were no longer on the street. He'd felt the pull of the sun as well, though it had been more a background ache dwarfed by more immediate pains. Jean Claude looked up from Chason's chest for the first time since the man had caught him and blood made the shirt stick to his skin, blood and worse things smeared over fabric over them both. He thought to apologize, more than the inaudible rambling apology he barely remembered making in the alleyway, but there was no use. Chason couldn't hear him anymore.

It sent a wave of panic through him, no matter that they were in some car safe from the sun, moving in a direction he could only hope would be home. There was no safety anymore, no, not without him, not without Chason, beautiful and blood-stained and gone, useless, frozen with his arms wrapped around the boy.

Some feeble, frightened sound fell out of his lips, there was no helping it, before he summoned just enough energy to look beyond Chason to the other passenger in back of the car, a faint ball of shadow in the distance. "Ma petite?" he said, maybe, didn't matter, still clinging to Chason as the car bucked beneath them. Madness, everything was madness, and he just accepted it, was the way of things now, no use in fighting, never any use.

He needed to go to her, he needed to help her, broken and bright and dead, please no, he had to try- And he didn't move. He'd tried, tried and failed but he'd tried, damn it, and for nothing. For nothing. She was gone, unreal as everything else, and it was cowardice he knew, but that didn't stop Jean Claude from curled tighter against Chason, one eye still glancing to Maeve now and again, hoping she'd come back to him and not daring to move to help her.
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Re: [12/1] Cut Flowers

Postby Maeve Glaistig » Mon Aug 01, 2011 2:17 pm

It hurt and the sun was weighing on her neck like a hand; it made her think of other mornings, the worst mornings, when she had been seared for her sins. She had always tried to be strong, but that only made it worse, in the end; seeing the sunrise was not worth the burning of her eyes. She might never have moved again, let herself give up and stay where she was, abandoned and slowly ebbing out, if someone hadn't called her. Ma petite, and she didn't know the words at first - they were not her name - until she found the voice to go with them.

She still didn't remember his name, but she remembered his loyalty, a fellow captive who still lived, unlike all the others who didn't. There was despair and fear and loneliness in him, reaching desperate fingers toward her from his voice, and while she could let herself sink forever into the black depths, she couldn't leave him alone. It was a terrible thing, to be left alone. He didn't deserve it.

It was the hardest thing she could remember doing, at this moment, to uncurl herself centimeter by centimeter, to crawl shaking and slow, limbs giving out, upholstery rough beneath her, toward him, to drag herself near enough to touch. Another man and he was dead; it didn't matter. She fell at last and there was no more moving, and she curled herself like an infant, begging for help, but she reached the hand that was still whole out to touch him, feather-light and warm with her own blood, at the curve of his ruined cheek.
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