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“This is a tragedy,” Daniel says, “why would you keep reading this if you already know how it ends? He keeps looking back — it’s stupid, because he knew the terms of the gods. If I were him, I wouldn’t have looked back.”
“That’s the whole of the story,” Henley says disapprovingly, “he loves her enough that he looks back, needs to know. That’s why he’s doomed. That’s why it’s a tragedy.”
“It’s stupid,” Daniel says, “insanity is doing the same thing over and over—”
“— expecting a different outcome,” Henley interrupts smoothly, “thank you, Einstein.”
She shrugs, and crosses her arms as she turns away to look out the plane window, putting her book away on the folding table in front of her. “I think it’s sweet. You read the story again because you’re rooting for them, hope that maybe this time they’ll make it. Maybe this time he won’t look back.”
“It’s a story, Henley,” Daniel says incredulously, raising his eyebrows at her. “It’s not going to change unless you write a different ending. There’s no sense in re-reading the same thing over again without changing anything.”
“The story’s already ended, though,” Henley says, “there’s nothing we can do to change it. It’s written in the stars, in the stones beneath our feet and worn into the paths that we’re walking even now.”
“Poetic,” he comments neutrally, “maybe you should write your own odes. You seem idealistic and romantic enough for it.”
It’s scathing, derisive despite the mellow tone, and Henley huffs. “Well, at least I have some sense of wonder left. You’re just cold, and bitter.”
“I’m practical,” Daniel tries to correct her, “and pragmatic. I don’t believe in dreams and love — I put my faith in the things I can trust. Hard work, predictability, patterns. Love is whimsical — mechanisms are reliable.”
Henley rolls her eyes, pulls out her phone to signal an end to the conversation. “And that’s why you could never be Orpheus. You’re more like Hades — resentful and spiteful, and you’ll be alone forever because of it.”
“Sure,” Daniel gripes back, always needing to have the last word — “and you can die like Eudydice did, putting your faith in a love that’s fickle and unreliable. See which one of us lasts.”
It’s been months since their show on Five Pointz — it’s been good, all things considered, even if Daniel gets into arguments with Merritt over the little things and Jack’s been quieter than ever since his faked death, even if Henley gets more and more restless with the day and Merritt seems to try to cure his boredom by riling them all up as much as he can.
Dylan’s not there. He flits by occasionally, asks them how they’re doing and telling them to keep up on their skills for whenever he deigns to let them in on any of his planning — it hasn’t happened yet, but it’ll be soon, he says.
Daniel doesn’t believe him. He followed the tarot card because it was clear, definite — a time and place to show up to, a plan laid out, coherent rules and instructions, explicit directions that were as close to infallible as possible.
Dylan was… not that. Dylan was a man, a person — someone with a grudge and a penchant for making plans, but not exactly for the in-between when there were no plans to be carried out. Dylan’s a solo player, and Daniel can understand that — commends it, really, because the only way to ensure a plan goes smoothly is if you’re the only one to touch it, to execute it properly — but it means they’re left in limbo, waiting, putting their faith in a fallible man.
Henley’s crumbling. It’s been visible in the way she leaves the house more often, shrugs off their attempts at drawing her into conversations and they speak less, and less — it’s screaming, now, or biting insults back and forth.
They were going to make it work — planned ahead, taken each others hands, vowed to stick together and make it to the afterwards together, and beyond that. They were going to keep walking onwards, together, hand in hand and in the lights.
None of that is here, now. There’s no shining lights, no chorus or song to guide them through the background. The drumming of heartbeats, the flickering spotlights and voices of the crowds have all but died out, and they’re in the in-between. They need to keep their heads up, keep walking — a little like that stupid myth that Henley liked, he thinks sardonically, where Orpheus had finally reunited with Eurydice again only to drag her back into his life, walking through the dark and letting doubt creep in.
It’s a stupid tale. All he had to do was not look back, to keep walking and put his faith in Eurydice, in himself, in Hades — the man who got the both of them there and gave them the choice to walk away, left their fates in their own hands.
Daniel’s content to keep walking, to make it out of the underground they’re stuck in — hiding from public view, dodging traffic cameras and security recorders and never sticking around too long in one place. All they have to do is keep walking, keep waiting, trust that Dylan will keep his word and get them out, get them through. He can do that.
He just wishes Henley could take his hand, so it wouldn’t be so alone.
He’s started going to bed earlier, at her request — and now she’s the one staying up late, staying out later, and she’s gone from his bed before he’s even woken up properly. The words they share are harsh, bitter, and with every push she gives he can’t help but shove. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s always done, and she knows it. They both know it.
He thought he could be better than this. He tries, and so does she — he apologises for a few of the things he’s said, though not all, and she in return lets him get away with it, doesn’t call him out and sighs, lets an argument slide instead of firing back the way he’s known her to do. He can do this. He doesn’t have to look back on how things were, not when they have something different, something new, now.
Another month drags by. Henley’s started arguing with Jack, now, about his endless optimism and faith and loyalty to a man that’s given them nothing — he gave us work, Jack tries to argue, and Henley laughs. It’s not a very pretty laugh, anymore.
They’re running around in circles, only building up walls to hide behind even more. That’s not work — that’s hell. They’re waiting, stuck in limbo, hiding from the world instead of partaking in it. It’s not what she wanted. She signed up for the world, to have it in the palm of her hand and to feel the light shine on her skin. She signed away her life, instead — and she wants it back.
She wants to leave. Daniel sits blankly on the bed as she announces it, the two of them the only ones left in the apartment. She’s already told the others, has her stuff packed. She’s leaving, finding her way back to the light.
Daniel breathes in, deeply. He’s been trying to be better — so has she. She’s learned to be bolder, be more than he’s ever known her to be. She’s more than a performer, now — she’s radiant, brilliant and everything and he wishes he could look at her forever. He’s not the only one, he thinks. She was made to be seen, and he’s always known it — but it’s like she knows it too, now.
She’s trying to be better than she was — and so is he. He’s swallowed scathing, harsh remarks and stopped trying to push her away, tried to keep her close and take her hand and walk in step with her instead of always trying to stay one or two paces ahead. He wanted to do this together, walk away by her side instead of always on his own. He’s been trying to be more than he was, keep his eyes to the future they could have—
He can’t help it. He looks back. She’s always wanted more, more than what he was or could offer — and he’s always been a little practical, and pragmatic. Bitter and cold, as she’d put it — and the old habits are there, just as they’d always been. Harsh words coat his tongue, sharp enough to drive her away, and she stops pacing, stops walking.
It’s what he’d been resolved not to do — he wanted to be better, to make it out with her. To get through the darkness by her side, and all he’d have to do was not look back. They’ve been here before, years ago — a story told again, and again, and they’d tried again because they were rooting for them, hoping that maybe this time they’d make it. Maybe this time he won’t look back.
It’s stupid. There’s no sense in re-reading the same thing without changing it, and it’s like she said — the story’s already ended. It’s written in the stars, in the stones beneath their feet and worn into the paths that they’re walking, even now.
It’s a tragedy. It would have been so easy — all he had to do was not look back. Daniel had vowed to be better.
Henley tells him that she’s leaving, that she wants something more, something better, and Daniel tells her that she should. It’s their old pattern. It’s the song they’ve sung a hundred times before, the story they’ve told again and again. They’d thought they could change it — that maybe this time, they’d make it through, hand in hand, under the lights, side by side. All it required was a change, to not give in to the patterns they’ve established. Not to look back.
Daniel can’t help it. He looks back.
The door closes behind her, and Henley’s gone.