Chapter Text
A near-empty stage. A single skeleton stands in the center, dressed to the nines in a light grey, silvery suit. He has a tuft of white feathers pinned to the front of his jacket, and a black mark splattering his right cheek. His eyelights flicker between shapes and stars, blues and greens. The atmosphere is hushed, the rustling of an unseen audience petering out into silence.
He smiles, and opens his mouth as if to sing, before thinking better of it.
“Nah. I can’t pull it off like they could,” he says. The audience laughs, quietly. “This song won’t be sung like you’re used to. Oh, it might look familiar, but don’t rely too much on what you know. The cast looks a little different, the band’s taken the week off. It’ll be fun!”
He chuckles, and looks down.
“It’s still the same song, though. An old one. A sad one, too— eh, but you’ve read the tags. You know how this goes.” He’s still smiling, the same as always.
He leans in, pulling You closer.
“You’ve got a bit harder of a job, this time. I hope you know how to play the trombone, ‘cause I’m not sure this’ll be the same without it.” He waves a hand, dismissively. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ve got it covered!”
The theatre begins to dissolve, everything but the stage fading to black. The scenery in front of You morphs, solidifies, until it’s no longer a set but a setting.
“One more time, from the top.”
It was a slow, slow day for business.
The bar was never full to the brim, not even on the best of days, but normally it managed more than a few lone tumbleweeds blowing through— actually, he'd kill for a tumbleweed. At least that'd be something to watch that wasn't drunken flies.
There was nothing wrong with the place, of course, it was just winter. Times were hard, so people didn't travel, and those that did brought nothing but lint and the shirts on their backs. Ink didn't mind clientele that couldn't buy, so long as they didn't cause any trouble, but most folks that dressed like him would mind. Maybe Ink should put up a sign. If he remembered.
He was proud of the place, that's what he was trying to say. Built off the side of an ancient train station, right at the intersection of a couple major roads. At the edge of some much older boundaries, too, but no one could sense that stuff anymore but him. The effect was a kind of sink for the unique, the types of people that didn't fit on either side of the road. They'd come from miles around to be here, whether they knew it or not, and Ink took them all under his wing.
One of them, he'd taken a little closer. Blue, named for obvious reasons. Words like "swap" didn't hold much meaning or power anymore, so most folks nowadays went for something a little more basic— Ink included.
Blue was… Ink hated the word naïve, but if we promised to keep an open mind he'd admit it. He was a little too bright for this world. Ink protected him as best he could, at least. He owed someone that much.
He'd dropped Blue off, way back when, right after the worlds started falling apart. Being an immortal started to mean something else, something different, and it was the last time they saw each other. Ink still wondered where he was, sometimes.
Blue didn't remember much of it, the time before, but Ink did. It took up so much space in his already limited memory that he really wasn't sure how long it had been anymore, or how the early days with Blue had been.
But Blue was a good worker, and something close to a good friend. He cleaned diligently when he wasn't distracted with his mandolin, and he got tipped well when he was. Besides, he was nice to listen to— Ink had always been a visual guy, no knack for music, and Blue sang like a bird on a wire. As hard as times had been for Ink's modest establishment, he was worth partially covering the cost in food and board. And a small fortune in mandolin strings.
Blue was working away at those strings now, actually. Despite it being the middle of a working day.
"Hi Blue!" Ink greeted him, and the mandolin made a discordant screech as Blue started.
He scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly. "Hello, Ink."
"I notice you're sitting in a corner of the bar working on your song," he pointed out, cheerily. "Again."
"I know, but…" Blue gave a guilty smile. "I've really got something going, and no one new's walked in for ages, so the tables don't need to be cleaned right now, do they?"
"You—" he started, but cut himself off. Blue reminded Ink so much of his old self that it wasn't even funny. Man, he'd give anything to lose himself in a piece for a few hours again. He sighed. "Have fun. But only until someone shows up."
Grinning, Blue gave a mock salute. "Yessir!"
Ink stuck his tongue out at him. "Ew, don't make me feel older than I already do."
He watched Blue play for a little bit, out of the corner of his eye. Unfortunately for him (or maybe for the both of them), after just a few minutes someone came in from the cold. Blue set off frantically cleaning tables— so frantic, in fact, that he bumped right into them as they were searching for a seat. Ink felt a twinge of secondhand embarrassment, and… a ripple in his domain?
Oh, he thought, That time already?
Dust didn't trust this place.
Well, he didn't trust anywhere, but still. Somewhere like this was too artsy, too fragile to survive nowadays, not without a trick. The weather wasn't the way it used to be.
He bumped into some guy on the way in— way too loud, bordering on annoying. He fell over himself apologising, which was weird, and Dust had barely managed an 'it's fine.'
VERY COLD OF YOU, BROTHER! said the voice in his head, at its usual excessive volume.
yeah, well. we live in cold times, paps, he responded.
It was always freezing cold or blazing hot— the former, right now. The dead of winter, and Dust was well acquainted with the dead. He had a long, ratty, black jacket, hood pulled up, and what remained of a red scarf, but they were hardly enough to keep him warm in a chill like this.
He took a seat at a small table by the door (easier to get out, if he needed to) and took out a cigarette from a box he had stashed away in his pack. His matches had gotten caught in a downpour a couple weeks ago, and half of them wouldn't light. Dust had been meaning to buy new ones in the last place he'd stopped, but…
I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT OF THERE EARLIER! the apparition chided. I KNEW THINGS WOULD TURN SOUR.
He struck the first match on the deep red surface, and nothing happened. Damn.
"you always say stuff's about to turn sour," he argued, quietly. Trying to hold an internal conversation would just make him oblivious to his surroundings— better to get a few weird looks. Besides, it'd put people off. "i hit the road pretty quick in the end."
A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS, THAT'S WHAT I ALWAYS SAY! his brother declared.
"i think that expression means you should take breaks, paps."
The ghost frowned. WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO GATHER MOSS?
As he tried the last match, Dust admitted defeat. "fuck it," he muttered, turning to the skeleton leaning against the wall nearby. "you got a match?" he asked.
The other blinked, looking faintly amused. The motion switched his eyelights from cyan-blue to yellow-pink. Weird, but he'd seen weirder. "Yeah, hold on," he said, and dug around in a pocket, producing a small, thin matchbox and offered it out to Dust. "Here."
Sue him, he got a little impatient at the offer of a whole box. "gimme that," he snapped, and snatched it out of the guy's hand. Luckily, he didn't seem offended, just entertained. One of those, then.
Finally, after what felt like a million years, the match lit. He brought it up to the cigarette, trying to get that to light, when it all went wrong. Someone walked in through the door—some tomato-looking asshole—swinging it wide open, and letting the wind creep in and extinguish the fragile flame.
"fuck's sake," he cursed, slamming the cigarette down on the table in his fist and letting his head fall.
Sometimes it felt like the wind followed Dust everywhere he went, stalking his footsteps. Maybe it was all the ghosts, or the Fates, or some sky god with an inexplicable grudge. Maybe he was just cursed. Whatever the case, he was sick to fucking death of it. Sick of fighting for scraps, of clinging to warmth or to shade. He was so, so tired of cold nights spent on the frozen dirt— last night being one of them. It didn't really snow around here, not enough rain, but it got cold as Hell. Or the Underground. Whatever the fucking difference was these days. That was why he'd risked such a suspicious place— at least he'd be out of the wind when they scammed him. Or axe-murdered him in the basement. It didn't really make a difference at this point.
He thought, sometimes, about letting go. Not of life—he'd fought too hard for that—but of survival. Being able to rest, to relax, to unclench his jaw and uncurl his fists. He'd imagine somewhere warm, somewhere quiet, with some faceless other he knows he can trust with his life. It's an image that normally stayed deep in the recesses of his mind, because—
REALLY, BROTHER? the ghost mocked, tone condescending. NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO, THIS IS THE WAY THINGS ARE. YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN THAT BY NOW.
"don't need to remind me, paps," he muttered. Rudely awoken from his idle imaginings, he picked himself off the table and tried a second match. At least they were free.
It burst into flame with only a little effort, and the end of the cigarette caught with only a little more. Dust took a long drag, feeling the relief sink into his bones.
He wasn't stupid enough to buy a drink, as much as he might've wanted one. This place was what passed for swanky around here— you came in to get out of the wind, you left drunk and broke. If they forced him to buy something or get out, he'd take the loss, but he'd gotten this far by keeping a tight leash on his cravings. The nicotine would have to do.
So there he sat, nursing a slowly-burning flame, and let the world pass him by.
Blue was watching the skeleton sitting at the corner table, looking half asleep. He hoped he was being discreet, stealing the occasional glance as he cleaned the day's used glasses.
"Hey, Blue?"
Dang, he was cute. Blue couldn't put a finger on it— maybe it was the mismatched eyes, the way he rested his elbows on the table, the scuffed up boots. Blue had never been one for crushes, but…
"Blue."
He'd been here a couple days. He'd paid for lodging last night, but not for the next, and it was getting too late in the day to make it to the next town over. It wasn't uncommon for people to sleep rough around here, but still.
"Blue!"
Blue yelped in surprise, finally noticing Ink's hand waving in front of him. He nearly dropped the glass he'd been washing for the last minute.
"geez, these days you're more spacey than me," Ink joked. "What's up?"
"I was just thinking about… something," he answered, vaguely. He didn't have the courage to finish that sentence with 'the hot guy across the room.' "Sorry, Ink."
Ink didn't even bother pretending to follow his line of sight. "You planning on talking to him?" he asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.
"Yes!" he blurted out, without thinking. "Maybe. I'm not sure if he wants to talk to me," he admitted.
"I didn't think you were the shy type."
"I'm not! I just…" he trailed off, gaze returning to the guy absolutely radiating 'fuck off.'
Leaning over the counter, Ink punched him playfully on the shoulder. "Go for it. Live a little!"
Blue look away, uncertain. "I don't know…"
"C'mon, don't be a chicken!" Ink teased. "You'll never see this guy again if you don't go now."
Finally, Blue relented. "Okay, okay, I'll go," he said, and dried his hands on a towel. Just as he'd made his way to Ink's side of the bar, though, he grabbed Blue by the other arm.
"Hey, Blue?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to come on too strong?" Ink pleaded.
Blue laughed him off, setting off for the other side of the room. Halfway there, he reconsidered just walking up to the guy empty-handed, and grabbed a piece of scrap paper Ink had left lying around. He'd learned this trick from Ink himself, actually— how to fold and rip paper in a fairly convincing approximation of a flower. It wasn't exactly a big, romantic gesture, but he figured it was better than nothing.
Blue approached the small table. Ink was right, he wasn't the shy type, but it didn't mean he couldn't be nervous. Especially when he knew at least two people were watching him.
He gave a little wave, and presented the flower as gracefully as he could. "Hello!" he began. Solid opener, nice and neutral. "Do you want to come home with me?"
Blue instantly froze, and felt something shatter inside his chest. Oh Stars, he thought, feeling faint. Blue, what was that? Why in the Stars' names did you phrase it like that?! Behind him, Ink was wincing.
The hand holding the flower drooped. "Um, that's not exactly what I meant," he explained, helplessly, "It's just that it's going to be a cold night and I—"
"who the fuck are you?" the other asked, posture going from wary to full-on hostile. Ink had sidled into range as subtly as he could, probably to prevent Blue from getting stabbed.
Ink couldn't save him from himself, though. "I'm Blue," he squeaked. Hand shaking slightly, he tucked the paper flower away in his pocket for the time being and held out a hand.
The other skeleton didn't take it. The conversation was beginning to seem less like a meet cute and more like Blue falling down a long flight of stairs. As he moved his hand to a suspender strap instead, he wondered distantly if there was any saving this at all. He at least had to try.
"I, um. Sorry for the… strong introduction. I saw you around and I suppose I wanted to get to you know you better, although I would understand if—"
In the middle of Blue's sentence, the other turned in his chair to Ink. "is he always like this?" he asked, casually. If they'd been good friends, it would've been a playful jest. As it stood, he was clearly signalling that he'd seen Ink approach and wasn't about to be intimidated. Which they weren't trying to do in the first place. Oh dear.
Ink just smiled. "Yep!" he replied, "That's our Blue."
Blue expected him to get even more pissed off, or just dismiss them both entirely, but he did neither. Instead, he exhaled sharply, and the faintest hint of a smile crossed his face. You're a lifesaver, Ink, Blue thought.
"i'm dust," he said, and Blue had never been so relieved in his entire life. He almost missed the actual contents of Dust's speech.
'Dust.' That is… quite an unfortunate name.
"I like your name!" he blurted out. Stars damn it Blue, what is wrong with you today? "It's, uh, melodic?"
Dust raised his browbones. "what, you're some kind of singer?" he asked, obviously playing along.
He tugged at the leather strap over his shoulder. "I also play the mandolin!"
Dust leaned back and folded his arms. "so you're planning on playing with my heart, too? i know your type."
"Wait, no, it's not like that—"
Ink placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Blue." The message was implicit: please don't dig this hole any deeper.
Blue took a deep breath. Right. He knew what a joke was. Keep it together. He gave Ink a nervous smile, and they both turned away.
"Believe me, he's a type all of his own," Ink joked. "C'mon, tell him what you're working on!"
Of course he would focus on Blue's artistic endeavours. Oh well. "I wrote a song—I'm writing a song, it isn't finished yet—and it's gonna fix things. Everything. When it's done, and I finally sing it for real…" He knew that familiar sparkle was entering his eyes. He just couldn't help getting excited, not when he was talking about this. "Spring will come again."
Dust tilted his head slightly. "…come again?"
Blue bristled a little. He was used to people laughing him off, dismissing his ideas, but the feeling still grated at him every time. "It will. Someday spring will come back every year, the way it's supposed to."
Dust scoffed. "and when's that gonna happen? there hasn't been a spring or autumn since i… since anyone can remember."
"Well, that's why I'm working on the song! It'll fix whatever broke all those years ago, it'll mend the seasons. People won't have to struggle to survive anymore. If the song has the right tune, the right harmony— it can bring the world along with it. I know it can." Blue looked down at his hands, weaving them together. "And, um. I'd like you to be there too, when all the flowers bloom. If you'll have me."
Dust looked a little taken aback, but Blue couldn't tell if he was moved or just shocked. "and i thought i was crazy. why would i go with you?"
"I mean, have you heard him?" Ink said, leaning against him. Blue knew he wasn't just talking about his music, either. "He has a way of making you feel… alive."
"alive, huh?" Dust looked genuinely pensive. He pulled at the tattered red scarf around his neck. "that's something, alright. is that all you got?"
Blue blinked. "What?"
His voice was suddenly icy, and he leaned forward in his chair. A chill went down Blue's spine, and he remembered all the stories he'd heard about what people out in the wastelands did to survive. "i don't know about a god's little pet, but not all of us can subsist on hopes and dreams."
Well, two could play at that game. Blue's expression hardened. "I know that. If things are how they should be, you wouldn't have to subsist. This can't be all there is."
Dust looked him up and down for a moment, sizing him up. "why haven't you sung it yet, then?"
"It's not ready yet."
"sing it," he pushed.
"I—"
"you wanna win me over?" he asked, tone light but cold. "sing your little song."
Blue looked to Ink, desperate. He only shrugged. Your call.
"Okay," he decided. "I will."
He already had the mandolin slung over his back, he pretty much always did— it was light enough. It wasn't too hard to swing it round, fingers taking up familiar positions on the fretboard, polished wood smooth under his wrist. He played in the bar all the time, stumbling over chords that mixed into the chatter of the patrons, but now the atmosphere felt charged. The voices around them hushed, and the air crackled with something strange but familiar.
He strummed it once, experimentally, and his bones resonated with the sound. Blue didn't know it, but the thin golden sheen over his soul was sparkling like sunlight on the surface of the sea.
It didn't have lyrics yet, so all he could do was vocalise wordlessly, music spilling out of him honey-sweet and enchanting. The air warmed, and that warmth crept into every corner of body and soul. As it progressed, Dust became spellbound, eyes wide. Then melody circled in on itself, like a dancer's ribbon spiralling in the air.
Ink hummed the final few notes along with him. It almost tripped Blue up, hearing that— Ink shouldn't have known this part of the song, the bit that lived solely in his head. How did he?
The final chord rang out into the silent room. Blue went to take out the paper flower again, if only to have something to hold, but the moment his fingers touched it he knew that something was wrong. He pulled out what should have been a shoddily-made creation of paper from his pocket.
When he opened his hand, something small, crinkled, and azure unfolded before their very eyes. An iris— a real one.
"how did you do that?" Dust asked, voice hushed. He was entranced, eyes fixed firmly on the flower.
"I— I don't know. The song's not finished yet."
Dust looked at him, all the hostility drained from his gaze. "well, shit, it can do that?"
"I guess?" He'd always believed he could do something like this if he just found the right notes, but it had been a distant dream. Blue couldn't have imagined a rough, messy draft would send flowers into blossom— would make flowers from paper.
"you've gotta finish it, if i'm gonna stick around here," Dust said.
"Yeah, I— What?" What was that last part?
Dust shrugged. "i said, didn't i? play your song, and you win me over," he explained, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. He plucked the iris right out of Blue's hand, twirling it in his own. "well, you've won. whatever can do that, i'm not just gonna walk away from."
They posted Dust up in the room he was already staying in. Blue's cramped bunk in an old storage room wasn't large enough for two, even if Dust had been willing to snuggle up. Blue paid for the room out of pocket, despite Dust's suspicion— he had a good bit saved away, enough to last the both of them to the summer at least. It'd stretch longer if Blue got good tips and Dust took a few odd jobs around the town, which he'd said he planned to do. Hopefully after that would come the usual flurry of customers, with cash to spare. Blue couldn't bring himself to truly worry, though, not when he knew Dust would still be there in the morning.
They were… a little ambiguous, at the minute. Blue, of course, was upfront about his romantic intentions (he really didn't know how to be anything else), but he didn't push and Dust didn't pull. It seemed they were just… acquaintances, for the time being. It still felt like they'd known each other for much longer, though.
It was after Dust had settled in for the night, a little after closing time, that Ink approached him. He was chipper as always, but a little quieter than usual.
"Where'd you find that melody?" he asked.
Blue had been wondering that himself. "I'm… not really sure," he admitted. "I just woke up one day and it was stuck in my head, like it'd been there all along."
Ink snorted. "Well, it has. It's not quite your own work. It's been a long while since I heard it played, though, especially that well!"
It was a little crushing to hear, a fact that his fellow artist probably knew well— judging by the compliment he'd tacked on the end, anyways. Had Blue really just recreated a song he already knew? (Again?)
Blue frowned. "It's not? What's it from?"
"Uh…" Ink tapped his chin with the pencil he'd been fiddling with. "A love song, I think? An old one, like worlds old."
"Who's going around singing it, then?"
A wistful expression crossed Ink's face, one Blue rarely saw. "An old friend of mine liked it."
Visits from Ink's 'old friends' were few and far between, and Blue felt like he'd remember if one of them had burst into song. "Who?"
Ink just shook his head. "Doesn't matter. D'you remember that story I told you?"
"Ink, that could mean anything. Which one?"
"You know!" He waved an arm, unhelpfully. "The one about… what are they called now? Nightmare and Horror, I think? How their love used to keep the worlds spinning."
Recognition dawned in the back of Blue's mind. "I think I know what you're talking about? The one set… really long ago?"
"It's been a while! If you still remember it… could you sing it again for me?" Ink clasped his hands, putting on puppydog eyes he was far too old for. "Please?"
"Yeah, yeah, alright," Blue agreed.
when sunlight froze over
memories in the shadows stirred
in earth, through rock foundation
and cast the shade of minds
as the dark has no shape
it went searching for a way
it could see itself portrayed
where blooming flowers grow
as immortals hunger
so too do we reach out for
another kind of harbor
the promises of peace
holding leaves marks upon
the beholder's hands, and one
is not yet set free from want
for yet another kind
want has no answer for
the ties one cannot sever
which pull, if by half measure
which demand half one's time
and with it the cycle
of the seed and the sickle
and the lives of the people
and the birds in their flight
Ink leaned in. "Singing…?"
Blue opened his mouth, and the same notes he sang before flowed out as naturally as the river. No flowers bloomed, but that same warmth settled in the air.
Ink finished the last stanza for him.
in world, and space without
in the clash of blades and doubt
still, the wheel went spinning round
on scales carefully kept
The look in his eyes was no longer fond— it was bitter. "But that was a long, long time ago," he said. "Before this story started being written."