Chapter Text
He took you out on a date to the art museum. It was your first date with him, and probably the most memorable. You think it’s because he knew you inside out, even from the very beginning.
He stared up at the large canvas, while you paced behind him, wanting to get past this section of the museum, and onto something that interested you more. Like realism, or even impressionism. You open your mouth, a small pout tugging down on your lips. “I don’t get Picasso. I don’t get what he’s trying to convey. Yeah- it’s abstract, but what does it mean?”
“I thought ‘abstract’ meant what the viewers saw.” He said, with that sweet smile of his only reserved for you.
It makes you smile back as you shake your head, like it would help you get the words together. “But it’s gotta mean something to him. I don’t understand what I see. All I see are mixed bodies and shapely caricatures. I want meaning.”
It’s his turn to shake his head, smile down at the floor, shuffle his feet with his hands in his pockets. He then takes off his glasses, and stares at you with his brown blue eyes. “No- you want poetry. You want something profound. Honestly- Eridan, why don’t you just become a poet instead of an artist?” The two colors stare into your soul, he knows you inside out for sure.
You thought that the answer to that question was easy. “Because I already create poetry with what I put onto my canvas.”
He chuckles. It’s a fond, sweet sound. “Dorky hipster.”
November 23rd, 2015
That was back when Sollux was in love with you. And you thought you were in love with him. But no, you were in love with your canvas.
He’s probably with another sweet girl again, because apparently, you were the only guy he found good enough to date. Or even be attracted to. You wonder how he's doing with her. Or him. Knowing you were the only one made you feel good. But now you're worried that you may not be the only one. Because then maybe you'd be forgotten. And you don't want to be forgotten.
He was right about the poetry though. You're better off a poet than a painter, (But only because it was much easier to make. Art takes hours, patience and time. Poetry, it comes to you at any time. It’s an easier way to vent.) but you've been reluctant about showing off your work. You didn't want to.. put it out there.
(If he were still here, he'd be right by your side and holding your hand as you spoke, grounding you from the pairs of watching eyes all staring at you.)
You were just a coward. A coward too afraid to show him how much you really loved him so you ended up never showing that you did love him. So he left you. You wonder if he still cares. If he still remembers. If he bothers to check on you every once in a while.
Because ever since he left, you haven't been recovering. The heartache was too much. It left you in a pit of your own regrets and the sadness pooled up in you and you were stuck in an ocean. And so the only way to survive in the ocean was to become it. You became a body of liquid; paint tears and an alcohol body. Drinking has always been a big problem in your family.
You made nothing but poetry. Nothing but writing all day. You now lived off of your father and his money, which he didn't care of much, only continuously asking why you didn't do anything anymore. He’s worried. You can tell. And you’re worried too. You’re worried that your life won’t be the same. And it already isn’t.
Not without him.
It sounds so stupid that you’re still hung up on him. But you can’t move on. There’s too many poems about him, him, him, and you can’t get them all out. Your thoughts and your mouth are a never ending well of heartbreak and loneliness and you can’t stop. They won’t stop making more he left me poems, I love him poems, I wish I did better poems.
A cold hand met yours, giving you a squeeze and pulling you from your deepest thoughts. “You have to try to talk to him again, Eridan. You’re not okay - go tell him everything you wanted to, and maybe you’ll be better.” Her voice is like sweet spring water, bubbly and loving. You sometimes ask yourself how you got such a sister like her, who still loves you despite everything you do and say.
“Better?” You didn’t mean to make it sound so whiny. So resistant to her advice. She’s trying, stop being so unnecessarily mean. But the words fall out of your mouth just like the poetry does. “Feferi, talking to him is so difficult. Even if I did, it’ll be just another reason to make another poem about him, I’ll be just like every heartbroken poet in the past who can’t stop drinking and can’t stop writing.”
Honestly, this isn't the best conversation to have over coffee in public. Maybe curled up on the couch, yeah. But she wanted you to get some “fresh air,” so she made you go out. Being in the city, there’s not much “fresh air” anywhere. You didn’t see the point. The only way you were even out here was because she shoved you off the bed and dragged you into the bathroom.
(There was that small part of you that considered trying to drown yourself, because then you wouldn’t have to deal with her, or him, or the ocean of thoughts in your head.
But if you did that, he wouldn’t be proud of you. And neither would your sister.)
She shook her head, and you’re afraid she’s done with your shit. “Eridan. Please. Get better. Make poems about getting better, make paintings about it, do anything that keeps you from falling into drinking.” She meets your eyes and holds your face, cold hands on your cheeks. And she pulls you in to kiss your forehead. “I love you, Eridan. And I care about you. So much. Don’t do this to yourself.”
You can’t help but sniffle and nod, tears forming at your eyes. “Okay.” Why are you crying now? You feel so weak to start crying just from that. It’s stupid. You feel stupid.
You’ve refrained from looking at his profiles, of course he’s everywhere on the internet. Because he’s always in front of his computer. Always in front of it when you get home, and always beside you when you’re nearby. Granted, he’s always on a game or a phone or making up codes in his head. But he was beside you, physically, a hand in yours and that was all you needed.
Not what he needed, though. You were too selfish to ever think of what he needed.
Feferi clears your head, outshines the thoughts that plague you. “How about we go to the beach when I’m free, yeah? Do you like that?” The ocean was always your friend. It listened to you when you cried over your first relationship. It was there for you when you cried over your second. It was there for you again, when you cried for Sollux. The ocean was like the mother you never had. The ocean was home.
Here on the Earth, there is no other place of weightlessness other than the bodies of water. It was almost like the stars, except it’s guaranteed that life can be found there, even if you go deep enough, down into the abyss.
Perhaps that is why you’ve always loved the ocean. You think that you can find yourself within it.
You have to speak, Feferi won’t take just an absent nod of the head. You pull yourself back from your drifting thoughts, looking at your sister. “Sure.” You nod, forcing a smile onto your lips.
She’s satisfied with that answer, not with the smile. But you knew she’d see through it. “I’ll pick you up, okay?”
You nod then, and the two of you go through the rest of your day.
When you’re back home, you can finally let your own thoughts go. The sigh you let out behind closed doors feels relieving. The weight leaving from your shoulders is like taking off a mask you’ve been wearing far too long. It has you thinking back on the days as a child, back in the horrible days of school. The way you used to hold your shoulders and spine straight, chin up to try to make yourself seem bigger than you were. Even then, your thoughts were always a muddled mess.
You realize that you’re still the child you were.
The day comes around where Feferi finally takes you to the beach. You would have gone yourself, but it would mean more of a hassle to you. So you stayed within your home, opened the windows like she would’ve wanted, and gotten some sunlight on you. You're never calm near the shore. The ocean calls you once you're out of the car. You're running as fast as you can to the water, already barefoot and ready as you dive in.
The water is cold. But you embrace it, the deep blue coldness that hugs your body and moves you like a weightless feather. It feels lovely to let go, to let gravity lose you for a moment. Gravity is selfish. It demands you to fall, like you did for Sollux, and the ocean helps you forget about that. You forget everything when you're weightless. Nothing feels as good as when you’re weightless.
In the water, you feel connected. You're part of something greater. Something so mysterious that nobody knows what is in your depths. Not even you. When your body is in the ocean, you are the ocean. You envelop the world like a blanket, secure it and hold life that is yet to be found. You wish you really were the ocean though.
Maybe if you were, then life could be found in your eyes again.