Work Text:
the fight is finally over. alan steps into the many-doored well-lit room.
you're here, waiting for him, as always. feet dangling from the granite table.
–i'm cold.
the writer looked around.
– the heater's on. it's suffocatingly hot in here, what's wrong, honey?
your voice small.
–i don't know.
wake reaches for your hand, taking it into his burning palm, rubbing circles on the back of yours.
–better?
the back of your greying palm.
–thank you.
caressing your waxy skin.
–no problem.
your hand traveling higher, rigidly, painfully slow, reaching the tears. steadily pulling closer.
–i'm okay.
your sweet solace in the dark place, writhed in pain, hunched over in an embrace over your body, melting away under the sobs and shudders and the endless pain he sees ahead of him.
you accompanied him in life,
–i won't leave you here alone.
now he accompanies you in death.