Work Text:
“There you are!”
Sun setting by the horizon, breeze breathing through the dozens and thousands of discarded items spreading through this side of the grassland. The day is almost comfortable, if such an adjective can still be used in the state the world is in with the fungus infestation and all the corruption of the body thing. Daily basis to all, too worried with surviving to even bat an eye towards good nor bad weather.
Even so, some stray souls still look up towards brighter days. Florian is one of these fools, or at least he plays-pretend to be until he starts believing in his own lies that things will be better one day.
The man known by the alias of “Unlit Manuscript” immediately rises from his seat (a giant rock, no better place to rest on in this place) with a warm smile once the Prosthetist approaches at the range of his eye. Per usual, the sun stands just for a little longer on the sky as if it’s waiting for the duo to meet once more, and their business shall start in this area of the wasteland filled with all kinds of baubles and trinkets one could be interested in.
This is a schedule they have been following for God knows how long now. Prosthetist needs artifacts to work with and aid his fellow group of travelers, explorers if you will, and Unlit Manuscript happens to be the bringer of these things to a reserved area of the wasteland, as his official job to discard what the ones above him consider useless. One man's trash is another man’s treasure.
Unlit doesn’t mind the lack of a smile from the Prosthetist. It’s nothing personal, that he knows; the scarcity of expressions is a natural development from his body. There’s something utterly ironic in always being everybody’s doctor, yet unable to save himself from the inescapable ending.
The reason why Unlit is still able to breathe for yet another day stands before his eye now, illuminated by the sun behind him like a holy halo shining around his head. Divine image, the bringer of hope to Unlit since the very day his arm got fixed (upgraded even!) under his handling.
In a moment the infection took over his vision in a blur, in another moment he was awake with the Prosthetist as the first person before his eye. He made a miracle out of his nearly-deceased body, and none of the things Unlit has done to him ever since could ever be enough to pay back for his doings.
If it was by Unlit’s will, he would let the whole world burn if it meant saving his favorite doctor, but alas, life is not fair, and unfortunately he isn’t the writer of this narrative. Poor old him.
For now he can only relish on what he has. Prosthetist alive, waving kindly with the ghost of a smile on his deformed lips. Face so pretty it can only make Unlit feel a thousand moths bat their wings inside his guts, and walk under hypnotized steps towards the doctor like he is the flame these moths oh so much crave to touch.
Unlit, eager yet gentle in a cheap attempt to hide the true extension of his excitement, holds on to both of Prosthetist’s hands, welcoming him with a smile as warm as ever.
“Glad to see you again, doctor,” Unlit speaks, shamelessly, and appreciates it when the Prosthetist’s face seems to get tinted pink. If only that could be a darker shade— “I was starting to worry something could’ve happened to you on your way up here.”
“It was just a minor occurrence I needed to deal with before leaving the camp,” Prosthetist shakes his head. Unlit is in the seven heavens, glad with how the doctor doesn’t pull his hands away from his. “Collector needed my help before I left. Her wind wings are fixed now, but I fear it won’t last much longer,” he sighs tiredly.
Unlit’s smile grows wider. He is always more than happy to hear about the Prosthetist’s doings. “My, you are truly amazing! Managing to fix everyone so quickly like that. No matter how many times Ms. Collector needs your help, you are always there to rescue her,” he thumbs over the Prosthetist's knuckles, his eye never leaving the doctor’s face. “But now, I’ll need you to rest your working hands for what I have planned for today.”
Prosthetist hums him a question, but he remains left in the unknown once Unlit moves away from him to catch something among the peddler-wannabe junk that surrounds their feet and the stones around this area.
First, Unlit raises just to hand over something Prosthetist hasn’t seen in a long while now. Blinking in surprise, he holds on to the black, round objective, and eyes it down with curiosity: a black cylinder.
Well, no, not any average black cylinder — one with thousands of lines carved on it, almost unseen by the average human eye, bearer of sounds only possible to be heard through endless waves in contact with a certain stylus needle. A magical machinery for recording and replay of the past sounds, the perfect company for a good book and tea. Ah, if only Prosthetist could go back in time to have such a night one more time…
Should be something extinct by now, with how humanity has regressed in time. Caring over trivial things such as music and culture won’t give them any progress with the attempts to survive, or so most think. Not a very kind trail of thoughts, but one that exists constantly and makes people like Prosthetist dearly miss the times he could sit by the loneliness of his room and read a good book about fairytales, rather than live in a surreal story like this.
While Prosthetist ends up lost in his own thoughts, analyzing the cylinder with care and curiosity, he barely notices it when Unlit pulls something metallic over a flat stone he kindly uses for a table, much bigger than the cylinder itself.
A phonograph. Gramophone for some, although no matter the name, it should be gone by now. Or, at the very least, a rarity Prosthetist didn’t expect to see ever again.
“Oh, well, it’s not in its best state, but aren’t we all just as damaged?” Unlit laughs to himself to shoosh away the bitter yet real insinuation of his words, leaning with a shoulder on the slightly rusty cylindrical, amplifier horn. “I bet your crew would approve something more lively to the ears after last time I got you that violin and… You know,” he gestures vaguely in the air, but the Prosthetist knows perfectly what he means by that. His assistant hasn’t recovered from the disastrous sounds accomplished by little Miss Guide’s hands and her attempt to play the instrument. “Hah, my bad on that.”
“How…?” mesmerized by the sight, the Prosthetist questions with wonder, then approaches the machinery, even kneeling to be on the same level as it. There are a few marks of scratches by its base, but it’s, at the very least, whole. Not many things (or people) are intact nowadays, so this is quite a miracle. “I haven’t seen one in so long. I thought it was gone… And this isn’t even made of wax. Good quality,” the ghost of a smile forms on Prosthetist’s lips, his eye rising to face Unlit. “Where did you get this from?”
“No matter. It’s mine now, therefore yours too.”
Unlit decides he doesn’t want to mention his personal frustration from the moment his superiors mention the phonograph as “Useless rusty metal we won’t be able to reuse even as material for nails”. All he could do was smile to please them all before accepting the work to discard what they consider of no use once more. Those mindless fools can’t see anything beyond the surface, but Prosthetist— by the admiration in his eye, like a child pulled by the sight of a real fairy, Unlit knows his hopes on his dearly doctor had been achieved.
Things of no value are meant to be discarded. Therefore, if Unlit can see the artifact as valuable, it’s just nonsense to throw it away!
“Now allow me to show you what is truly worth your attention.”
Distracted by the gold-rusty cylindrical, the doctor can only comply as his hands are led to place the cylinder over the phonograph’s base. With extra care, Unlit winds the handler by the side of the machinery, adjusts a thing or two like he has studied the system’s logic to perfection it, and finally lowers the needle just enough for its tip to touch the song-bearer.
A crack, threatening to fail and still in time like the stones that fulfil the wasteland. Even if the Prosthetist doesn’t notice it, Unlit’s lips twitch with growing anger, close to crack and undo under frustration. Heavens, he tested this damned piece before the Prosthetist arrived! It was working, even with the hoarse sound, it really was! Don’t leave me hanging now, he thinks to himself, and now all he can do is take a deep breath through his nose just to not let his sentiments slip further in front of the doctor. He is ready to let out a grunt, until—
Hope sings from within the metallic horn.
The Prosthetist watches it as the soft sound of a violin finally comes from the machinery signing it’s still alive even under the pressures of time with quite a harsh sound, surrounding the both of them with a sense of nostalgia, of temporary peace— and when Unlit catches his hands, accompanied by a shameless “May I have this dance?”, Prosthetist can only follow to raise on both feet with no chance to refuse the invitation.
“Wait—”
“The song is already ongoing, doctor! Can’t let these precious minutes go to waste.”
A hand on his waist, another holding his own. It takes Prosthetist but a moment — and a smile shining down towards him, as full of endearment as ever — before he follows on the gesture, and shyly plants a hand on Unlit’s shoulder as if he naturally knows what to do since forever.
The Prosthetist doesn’t have the heart to warn Unlit the proximity is too much, and might influence the dance to become a harder task, but he doesn’t mind it anyway. Warmth is a rarity only Unlit can provide him nowadays.
Just like a homeward dove, Mr. Prosthetist always comes back as a fresh breath of air to Unlit’s life; a constant reminder of the life he is only able to live thanks to the doctor’s doings, and the nearly-extinguished hope for the future. And now, having the man just under his grasp, Unlit wishes there could be a way to encage the beauty of this bird and make sure he is never to fly away from him, and keep all the remaining warmth of his body well preserved like an everlasting flame.
But oh, well.
Fate isn’t as fortunate as Florian wishes. A shame; all he can do is appreciate the present instead. A marvelous present, where the only thing that he needs to worry in the world is to dance with his dearest doctor, the light God has put in his path.
And he does, he really does appreciate their bodies so close, touching through the layers of clothes that separate their union— when he moves his first step at the vague entrance of a piano in the song, and the Prosthetist hesitates, he doesn’t give in easily. In comparison to their first meetings, having the shy figure of the doctor in his grasp is such an advance, one Unlit won’t let go easily. It’s the firm yet gentle grasp he has on the Prosthetist that keeps his feet steady; it’s the constant yet uncertain hope of meeting him again that makes Unlit go on with the tiring days that carries the end of the world.
The song speaks in their name. A clumsy step, another, before Unlit manages to lead the way properly, unbothered by how their feet take a few seconds to alienate.
It’s the Prosthetist who attempts to stop the dance, but Unlit doesn’t allow him to. Neither heavens nor hell will make him separate from his doctor. Even if he manages to mask it away well, desperation is present in the way he unconsciously pulls the doctor closer when he threatens to step away.
“I’m afraid I’m rusty for such an activity… I may step on your feet if I’m not careful,” Prosthetist warns, the smile on Unlit’s lips doesn’t lower in the slightest. “I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.”
“Last time you hurted me, it was to save my life, and allow me to still use my once corroded arm to this day on. If you are to hurt me again, I’d take anything from you with pleasure,” Unlit’s hand apologetically caresses the side of the doctor’s body, as if to sooth away the worry stamped on his face and the a-little-too-hard grip he had on his body for the sake of the proximity.
It’s effective; Prosthetist’s lips tighten under the quickened pumping of his heart at the gentleness of Unlit’s words.
“Ah, but no matter! Don’t be so hesitant, doctor! Nobody is looking, and I bet you will need to teach your crew how to dance once they get their hands on this thing. I just know our darling Collector will have a waltz feet for the more lively songs,” he laughs sweetly.
“You— Did you just say songs?” Prosthetist blinks, blindly having his feet to move under Unlit’s guidance. It seems none of them knows how to dance well, but still they find their way on it with baby steps. “How many did you…?”
“A few,” Prosthetist can only obey as Unlit suddenly spins him around at a particularly lively part of the music, as if he knows the song already, never letting go of his hand as his back meets the taller man’s chest. His voice is so close now, just above the shell of his ear. “Enough to fill some nights of yours with something else but the sound of wind blades or odd hybrids of noisy locusts with cicadas.
Immediately welcomed with the familiar smile that makes the Prosthetist hope for a better future rather than the inevitable fate he shall soon face under the pressure of the infections.
Their bodies never stop at the calm rhythm of the phonograph. He is graceful as to change their positions, once more chest to chest with Unlit, just like a couple of figures that would spin over an antique musicbox.
“You didn’t need to do so much for us. Are you sure you won’t be scolded by… You know, those people, your superiors? Even if they order you to throw these things away, you’ve helped us so many times now, and yet you never let me pay back.”
If that is even possible, Unlit’s smile seems to increase an inch as he speaks. “No action of mine is in vain when it’s for you. Knowing you will appreciate it is what makes it worth it.”
Their gazes remain fixed on each other, and for a moment — an oh-so-sweet moment in time — none of the things happening in the outside world matters to them. To the Prosthetist, all that exists is the warm touch on his side, the sight of the sun smiling down at him, and the comfort to let some of the burden leave his shoulders for but a moment.
To appreciate the present, to not think of tomorrow… If only time could stop forever, the Prosthetist wouldn’t ask for any other moment to still on eternity.
As he leans his head on Unlit’s shoulder, the violins slowly cease to play. A cranking noise comes from the phonograph, the melody comes to an end, but neither of them bother to fix once the instruments come to a final stop. There’s a sound the Prosthetist likes much more: the beating of Unlit’s heart.
“Always full of miracles,” a relieved sigh escapes his lips. “Thank you,” he whispers kindly.
That alone is enough to ignite the fire within Unlit’s heart, but when the doctor looks up at him and tip toes on his feet— the taste of his lips is what sets his whole body on fire.
A shy thing that is, the touching of their lips feels just as good as the first time Unlit was graced with such a miracle of life, one he can’t help but act greedy on as he holds on to the Prosthetist’s cheeks to deepen the act. Only God and the moon beyond the horizon are the witnesses for the union of the two lovers, allowed to coexist while time is still kind to them.
The Prosthetist doesn’t fight back the tongue that invades his mouth and starts a dance with his own, marking the continuation of their valse even when the melody of the phonograph goes mute. His balance relies on Unlit, who devours him whole just like every bittersweet goodbye of theirs.
Every second is meant to be cherished when one fears what is to be waited for the following day.
“I’ll always wait for you and for our next dance,” is a promise only the Prosthetist heard, softly whispering against his lips. “Always.”
And he did.
Always he waited on that same hill, the one the Prosthetist has paid a visit oh so many times before.
Always, for days to come after their last goodbye, for weeks to go by and make the grass grow wildly, for months to pass under the lunar circles of the moon who witnessed the lovers’ affairs, Unlit was there.
Now, on yet another day, Unlit waits.
No one has eyes on him for no one is around, yet his lips remain upturned in a cordial smile he gives to the horizon. Masking his feelings is not needed when what he feels to the mere thought of him is so sincere, genuine. Unlit would hate to welcome his favorite doctor with a bad mood, ah, no, he can’t let that ever happen!
There’s still hope while the infection hasn’t strangled his lungs and forced his last breath, and another night is to pass as the tendrils that escape his hollow eyesocket idle move eager to meet the very man who kept this vessel alive for so long with the sheer will to see him.
Uncanny.
No better word to describe the sight of him.
A hopeful man (a foolish one if you ask anyone with good sense in these tiring times) sitting by the hill, gazing down the same direction every day, while humming the melody of their last valse.
No matter the others’ opinion. At the very least, even if the symphony has gone mute, he still carries the memory of him, and a promise he has to keep.
Unlit waits.
For as long as he exists, he waits for Matthias to return.