Work Text:
Sylus slowly turns the knob, quietly pushing open the door. He hoped you would be sleeping, ignoring every ounce of knowledge in him that knew you wouldn't be.
No.
You're still sitting in that chair.
Staring out the window.
He exhales softly. His shoes don't make sound across the floor. Each step, bringing him closer.
He can feel your pain - he carries his own. He can sense your desires - they give him migraines.
He wishes he could take it away. He wishes he could help more than you let him.
His hand rests lightly on the back of the chair as he kneels down beside you. He doesn't give a damn about what is outside the window. As far as he's concerned, the N109 Zone hasn't changed. Though, neither has your face. Staring blankly. Eyes dark. Skin dull. Hair greasy and limp.
"Sweetie?" he says, nearly whispers it.
You don't react.
He winces, biting his cheek to distract from the pain. You look exhausted. You look dead. He wants to see your smile again.
"Are you hungry?" he tries again.
You blink, lids moving sluggishly as they shut and open once more.
He looks down your body. The clothes you've had on for days now. Your hands resting limp in your lap. So still.
He carefully lifts one in his own hand. You're so cold. He brings it to his cheek. Closes his eyes, pretending for just a moment you're doing it of your own accord. His brow furrows. Another sharp pain stabs him behind his eyes.
"Come back to me." He presses a lingering kiss to your palm. "I'm still here, sweetie."
He risks opening his eyes again. Looking up at you.
You take a long breath in. "I miss them..." It's barely audible. Your voice is scratchy. Broken.
He squeezes your hand. "I do, too."
You don't say anything. You don't move. For whatever brief moment you returned from the numbness of your inner mind, he had you here.
But you're gone again. Retreating where he can't follow.
He sighs.
Longing for his beloved back, he lowers his head to your lap. He looks so small. Sat on the floor, curled up just to be close to you. His hand slips from the chair to guide your other hand into his hair. He twines his fingers with the other.
Your hand stays. For a brief moment, he thinks he feels your fingers tense, tangling into his hair like they used to. He thinks he must be imagining things.
Because you stay there. Sitting in your chair. Still. Dead to the world. Consumed by a grief that rots you from the inside.
He wishes you would come back to him.