Work Text:
Does it smell like a school gymnasium in here? It's funny how they're all the same.
Small giggles slipping between lips as the flame and the cloud circle around eachother atop a building that was home to them. It was familiar, all of it; the cars, the sky, the stars, the buildings, the sounds.
It's funny how you always remember, and we've both done it all a hundred times before. It's funny how I still forgot.
Soft chuckles and empty curses as the flame stumbles over his feet, despite having done the routine dozens of times before, in this same place, with the same little cloud.
It would be a hundred times easier if we were young again. But as it is, and it is,
We're just two slow dancers, last ones out.
Staying atop the roof for hours until the sky went dark and the only light they had was the glow of the city, lighting up eachothers eyes and hearts for a few minutes more. Seeing the life in one another made them forget about mortality, and that they could stay together, forever, until the very end of time.
We're two slow dancers, last ones out,
and the ground has been slowly pulling us back down. You see it on both our skin.
Tired mumbles and the borrowing of clothes on late nights. Neither the flame nor the cloud were ever too good at taking care of themselves; just for others. Eye bags and slouches, glazed over eyes and the dragging of feet along the carpet.
We get a few years and then it wants us back.
The dread of losing eachother. The test of time had been beaten by many, but thousands of times more had people not. This couldn't last forever, no, not the way they wanted it to.
It would be a hundred times easier if we were young again. But as it is, and it is,
To think that we could stay the same,
A thud of a body. A shriek. A calling of a name.
To think that we could stay the same,
Blood on his hands. No, no, blood on his hands. Red blood soaking through a red bandana he was holding in his hands. It shouldn't be in his hands.
To think that we could stay the same.
This wasn't supposed to happen this wasn't supposed to happen this wasn't supposed to happen this couldn't be happening no no this wasn't real it wasn't real there was no blood on his hands please get the blood off of his hands-
But we're two slow dancers, last ones out.
Tears and tears and tears was all that he could give. Salty tears that soaked through blood-stained clothes and tears that watered the ground below them.
We're two slow dancers, last ones out.
Flowers and flowers and flowers was all that he was sent. 'Sorry for your loss' had been read and said so many times they didn't sound like words anymore.
Two slow dancers, last ones out.
Dirt and dirt and dirt was all that he saw. A gravestone with the name of a cloud. A red bandana tied around his wrist. The feeling of blood that wasn't there anymore, and the feeling of hands on his face that wasn't there anymore, and the feeling of lips on his own wasn't there anymore.
And the feeling of love wasn't there anymore.