Work Text:
Quiet.
It was how he preferred it to be as well.
"Human."
The children had called him out in between, somewhere, and he did remember getting up for a brief moment.
"…"
Cale blinked, the slow draw enough to make him drowsy again. A tick resounded in the space. The curtains swayed and brushed against his skin, light in their motion. It caught his eyes, the sensation bringing him back for a slow minute.
"…"
Tap
Tap
A weight spread over his chest, the dullness of the moment never quite registering in his gaze.
Tap
His palm tapped the armrest, before settling down. No strength remained, so it lay limp, pale and unmoving.
"…"
Whooosh
An aimless cloud swirled, and Cale let out a breath, feeling the ghost of something warm linger over his face for an instant.
The air moved, swirled, morphed into a tangible fog that seemed to dull his vision.
The redhead blinked again.
Not a sound remained now, no memories. No body, just the fall of crimson over his head, an arm resting and twitching in intervals. Not a corpse, because some air remained. In and out. From his neck to his arms. The blanket which was pushed aside lay over his feet, mostly over the floor.
Cale slowly moved his gaze downwards.
A carpet as warm as his breath lay, over which a blanket, over which a corpse.
"…"
The redhead blinked once.
When he opened his eyes again the lights were shut, a wrap of something heavy around his shoulders.
Fwish
The blanket fell as he raised his upper body, which had been leaning against the cushioned armrest.
"…"
The day was a blur, but he remembered a pair of gloves, his own arms which had slumped into something faded, detached.
Cale leaned back again, slumping against the backrest.
A dim moonlight peeked in, spreading as patches over his skin. The redhead looked, more as a reminder, because for a second he had almost remembered. And that wasn't good, that wasn't the reason he sat still as a corpse, in a grave that was mostly empty.
Fwish
It took a while.
To move his gaze away, to have the strength to look ahead.
"…"
Staring against the door, he could hear life. On his side was death.
He could hear his children's giggles and Choi Han's whispers. Ron's quiet chuckle and the sound of Beacrox taking out a new pair of gloves.
On his side was stagnation and a pale wallpaper.
That was how he preferred it as well.
Not the meals, never the bright mornings.
Silence, and only silence. A muted shuffle of the wind and the barest of life in his body.
For someone who could not forget, that was the only respite Cale could ever hope to achieve.