Work Text:
“Sometimes I think about it.”
“Think about what, Moondust?”
“Loss. Losing.”
She pauses, searching for the form that can best capture the weight of her thoughts. Then, she exhales — a breath held for what has felt like ages.
“No. To lose. I am haunted by the infinitive — that I may one day have to lose you.”
Eris’s voice is quiet but unyielding, the air now drawn taut between them as they sit beside each other. The Drifter, who had been fiddling with his coin, stills it. It is frozen between his fingers, as if in direct protest to the movement of time that Eris is so haunted by. The thought is a heavy one, and for once, he doesn’t deflect with a quip.
“Hate to break it to you, but we’ve all gotta lose, one way or another,” he says at last, his tone softer than usual. “What's up? What brought this on?”
His words fall flat as Eris’s gaze drifts past him, unfocused. Her mind is elsewhere, lost in a nebulous haze — whether it is a memory or a dream, she isn’t sure. Still, it comes to her now, unwarranted, and as vivid as the flicker of a candle’s flame in shadow.
Moonlight filters through the canopy of a lush and deep forest, casting fractured patterns on the ground. Apart from the rustle of leaves and the light thud of footfalls, there are barely any other sounds. Eris walks alone, searching — but for what exactly she isn’t sure. What she is certain of, however, is that there is a pang in her heart where desperation and yearning seem to have met.
She catches a flicker of movement ahead, a shadow passing between the trees. Her heart lurches — she knows that gait, that coat. Germaine. His name leaves her lips first as an inaudible whisper only she can hear.
She calls out, but the forest swallows her voice. She follows, the shadow always just ahead, but it slips through her fingers like smoke. The air grows thicker around her in the labyrinth of the forest, like it’s pressing in from all sides, the trees closing in as if the forest itself wants to swallow her whole. Just like the Hellmouth. Panic tightens in her chest. He’s leading her somewhere — or is he leaving her behind?
Finally, the forest opens into a slight clearing. He is standing at its center with his back to her. Relief floods her but it is also fleeting. Her boots sink into the soft, damp moss of the forest as she takes another step forward towards him. Germaine, the call once again escaping her lips.
He turns, slowly. The Drifter’s face is obscured, features veiled by shadow. His posture is loose, as though waiting for her to speak or to act. She does not know what to do but reach for him. Hold me, please, she thinks to herself, but the plea remains unanswered as her hand only meets shadow — a slip of an illusion, dissolving at the very touch of her fingertips.
Wait, she thinks. “Wait,” she breathes. But now even the spoken word feels insubstantial, and decays into the mist ofthe forest. The shadows rise around him, and with a final glance that is both heavy and unreadable, he disappears into the dark.
Eris is left in the clearing, her outstretched hand grasping only cold, still air. The forest is now darker, the moonlight dimmer. And even though she knows she should move — to somehow chase after him, to somehow search for him, her legs remain rooted to the spot, the emptiness in her chest growing wider with grief with each passing moment. There is a hole like grief in her heart. It aches.
The Drifter’s voice anchors her back to the present. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Yknow, the staring-off-into-the-void-or-abyss-or-whatever thing. That thing.”
Eris blinks the hazy remnants of the vision away, her gaze now focused on him. He looks away, his expression unreadable, and the coin in his hand glints as he resumes fiddling with it. He’s giving her an out, as he is used to doing when she begins to retreat into herself. She wonders, though not for the first time, just how much he sees, and how much he chooses to leave unspoken.
“It was just a dream,” she says finally, though the words feel inadequate. A clarification. “A dream of loss. Of how it felt to lose.”
“Heavy.”
“Yes.” She pauses, then adds, “But it was not real. Perhaps a manifestation of my history.”
“It was real enough to shake you, though,” he counters, his voice low. He turns to meet her eyes once more. “That’s the crappy thing about dreams. They get under your skin. Crawl under it. Same as anything real. So they might as well be real. So maybe think about them like they’re real, yknow?”
The warmth of his gaze is disarming. For a man who so often presented himself as mostly unbothered and largely avoidant, she expected deflection, or perhaps a jest. Instead, this time, his gaze carried with it a sense of understanding and vulnerability — a window into a part of himself he rarely ever showed to others.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he continues, “but if you want to, I’ll listen to ya.”
Her fingers curl into the fabric of her robe. Vulnerability has always felt dangerous, but his presence has always been an unexpected, odd comfort. A fire that burned just close enough to warm but not scorch. She breaks eye contact, and focuses on her hands.
“I dreamt that I lost you,” she finally admits, her voice just barely above a whisper. “I dream about it every so often. And it has always felt… unbearable.”
The Drifter is quiet for a beat, then responds. “Guess that makes two of us, Moondust,” he says quietly, almost like it’s a confession — a truth shared only between them.
Before she can ask what he means, he shifts in a little closer, closing the distance between them. His hand brushes against hers ever so slightly, and then he places his hand on her wrist — a small gesture of comfort. The touch sends a shiver through her, but the warmth of his dancing flame stills her almost instantly. She doesn’t pull away, and instead she lets herself remain in the moment, anchored by the quiet strength of his presence and more importantly, his vulnerability.
The stillness stretches, wrapping around them like a fragile, yet warm cocoon. As the Drifter’s hand, rough and calloused, rests on her wrist — a gentle, but sure grip — she turns her palm upward, and lets their fingers thread together in the space between silences. The motion is instinctive, natural.
The faint hum of the air beyond their quiet corner seems to amplify the moment. The air is soft, tinged with the faint scent of pine and something earthy that clings to the Drifter’s warm coat. His thumb brushes against her knuckles — a subtle, grounding touch.
“Didn’t take you for the hand-holding type,” he grins, voice carrying a note of amusement. It’s a deflection, but a gentle one.
“Don’t get any ideas, rat,” she says with a quiet smile. There is a quiet fondness suffused in her words.
Eris turns to look at him once more. In the dim light, his features are softened, his usual sharpness dulled by what she can only describe as comfort and peace. She wonders if she looks the same to him.
Silence between them has always been a language of its own, unhurried and unpressured. The Drifter shifts slightly, and leans back against the back of the bench, gazing into the night sky. She mirrors the motion, their shoulders touching. She closes her eyes for a brief moment, letting herself feel the weight of him beside her, the quiet rhythm of his breath. This is now, this is the present, she thinks, a prayer only for herself.
When he speaks, his voice is low, as if not wanting to disturb the fragile tranquility. “Moondust. You don’t gotta worry about losing me. I ain’t planning on goin’ anywhere.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, letting the words hang over her. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft. “And if you do?”
“Then I’ll find my way back to ya,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the universe.
She turns her head slightly, her gaze meeting his — she is not sure how long he’s been looking at her with that quiet, gentle face. There is no bravado in his expression now, only the color of sincerity. She doesn’t reply — she feels no need to — but her hand tightens around his, a silent acknowledgement of the promise.
They sit in the quiet stillness together, beneath the vast sky and moonlight. For the first time in what feels like forever, Eris chooses to believe beyond the haunting infinitive she has grown so familiar with, and to believe in the fragile beauty of the present.