Work Text:
"I'm thinking of leaving."
We're lying next to each other in an old building, rain falling through the rare holes in the roof.
Near the side of the room there's a small table, it's chair only half there. In the corner sits a wardrobe, one of the doors missing and strategically placed to cover a hole in the floorboards.
The frame of a window is high in a wall to our left, the shelf beneath it littered with yellowing paper and little things that might've meant something to someone who lived an age away now.
You and I are in the center of it all, with just enough space to lie here side by side, hands, heads and feet sometimes tapping the odd bits strewn around that are soaked and sitting in rainwater puddles.
I found you here some time before, lying alone with one of your arms in the air. Weak rays of sunlight were colouring your face and your hand, body dry with the clouds only lumbering in above, not yet heavy or dark.
We didn't share a conversation then, not when I laid by your side, nor when the rain started.
These are the first words I've heard you say in so long, and my first thought is that you might want to leave because of me. I try to push it down, however. We've known each other long enough by now.
"Where do you want to leave? This town?" I ask the roof and small parts of the sky.
"I," you start, lowering your arm down beside your body, soaked through with water. "I'm not sure. There are so many places. Too many."
I wonder for a moment about what is most important.
The things you leave behind are cherished, old and known. They've changed you, but you've changed them, and that might not be a good thing.
But it's safe, no? This is where you've been, where you've chosen to stop for a moment and maybe get a little caught up in questions that don't have obvious answers, nor good ones.
But there are things you might get to see if you leave, and if you're lucky, and maybe they aren't better than what you've had but they're new, and you'll learn, and they'll grow old.
Both of these are important, and simply not know the reason why does not remove the importance of the feeling.
"Do you feel okay here? Like all this is enough?"
"Yeah," and your foot starts to gently tap on the wood of the table. "Yeah, it's fine here, in the town, this building. I thought it would have gotten a little old, staying in one place for so long, but now I find that it's nice sometimes to just... remember. But... I don't know its just- this place and these people, thats all it is, and the memories I've created in these streets and our houses and their minds it doesn't- it doesn't... this is just a place, and those are just people. Not you, though. You're not them."
An almost refreshing feeling washes over me, watering down the fear and worry that was slowly festering. My shoulders are loose now, and my body feels easier to move than before - not wound so tight now that you've chased away my doubts of me not being enough, not being what you need. Of you wanting to leave me.
"I'm sorry," I say, apologising for my irrational mind.
"It's okay," you reply. "Please don't doubt me again."
There isn't silence, not here with the rain and your foot tapping against the table leg though it may be slowing, but there are no words.
It's like this for a while, just those two sounds with the occasional animal calling out and maybe passing through or under or over this place that has stood for so long.
"You only mentioned physical things, when you talked before." The sentence covers the silence, soft and not needing a reply or an answer. It would prefer one, though, and I'm sure you're never one to run away from things.
The words lie still for a moment, gentle and pleasant. You move your head slightly as you think, fingers skimming the rotting wardrobe coated in dust and some parts rain.
With your sigh, the little particles floating in the air fizzle away from you, all soaked in barely-there sunlight, still disturbed by the drizzle of water. You open your mouth to answer.
"I've never felt this before. I don't know how to describe it, not in any way that does it justice, and I don't know why it's there." I wait while you draw in your mind, probably thinking of the best way to explain things. It takes only a little while. "I don't want anything new. I don't- I don't want change - not if this is all life'll ever be, old and- 'n repetitive and the same for everyone."
"So you're tired? Tired of life?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess. An easy way of putting it, sure."
You sigh, your foot now resting on the table leg, and I wonder if you're still thinking of a better way to describe that touch of everything you feel.
You continue, "I said before that I don't want something new, or to have things change, and I think I meant it in a way that- in a way that I want something not like this. Not what I have now, I mean. Something... Something that isn't hard or sad or perfect or complicated. Something simple, easy, nice. A way out, I think."
The rain slows a little, and becomes slightly easier on my mind. I can think a little clearer without the splash from the bucket on the wardrobe or the gentle, sliding crash of heavy drops on the papers that are almost falling off the windowsill.
In the quiet atmosphere you get a little nervous, fidgeting and swallowing loudly.
I think for some time, wondering if I should really say this out loud. I figure that there really won't be another time like this, where you're so pretty and open, so willing to let me help you.
"What you're describing sounds an awful lot like death," I say.
It seems to take you by surprise, and your foot starts up again, tapping on the table faster than before.
A shaky exhale floats through the air, shivering in the cool of the slight rain.
"But that's okay. There's nothing wrong with it, with you," I continue, reaching for your hand so I can just lay my fingers over yours, not overwhelming but still there.
"Okay. Okay. So I- I want death. I want to die, and find something better than here," you say loudly, sounding frustrated and beautiful. "But... there isn't anything better than you."
And oh, it feels like my heart's just flown right up into the sky.
"So stay. " The words crowd their way up my throat, and I can't control them, can't stop them. "Stay, please, if you really want to. I'll be with you, just me and just you and you won't have to worry or be perfect or be sad and you can just- you can just..." I sit up sometime during my overflow, needing to look you in the eyes, to see your face. "Just stay with me," weak and soft and all for you.
In that quiet moment between us the rain gets a little heavier, splashing louder on the paper and the wardrobe and the floorboards. You seem a little caught up in things, eyes pretty and wide and dripping with the rain and the sky and the stars.
"Alright." Your voice comes out rough and choked and not quite perfect. "Alright, I'll stay." A shaky breath leaves your lips, all wet and helpless but it's you, it's you it's you it's you. It's always been you. "I can't- I can't promise how long or if... or if I'll tell you if I do leave, but I'll stay. I'll stay with you."
And I'm so happy that you're staying with me, for me, and just that you'll be here for a little while longer that my brain gets a little fuzzed over and I kiss you, then, so quick and barely there but it's you you you and that's all that matters.
"That's okay. Stay for as long as you want, and I'll be happy. You can leave whenever you want too, okay? Because it's fine, it's fine fine fine if you want to die, only if you're sure and it's all you want. You don't have to tell me if you're feeling like leaving, not if you don't want to. I'll be here, and you'll be here for a while, that's all I need. Thank you."
We stay like that for a while, your tears hidden in the rain with my arms around you, and we stay together for a while after that, too, not sad and not perfect but simple and nice, before you leave.
You told me that maybe it was all you ever hoped for, all you ever could have wished for.
But it was enough, because it was us.
Because it was you.