[Fic] like ashes float away (CBS Radio Mystery Theater)
- Fandom: CBS Radio Mystery Theater (Episode: The Deadly Hour - Eric)
- Pairing: George/Martin Jerome
- Tags:freeform: Sharing a bed to keep a close eye on hurt character's well-being & needsfreeform: Comforter stunned by how much comfortee trusts them
- Word-Count: 1060
- Status: Complete
- First Published: 2024-05-30
- Disclaimer: I do not own CBS Radio Mystery Theater and make no profit from this—it is solely a hobby for fun, with no financial compensation.
Summary:
You don't say a word.
Notes:
- For psychomachia.
Work Text:
You don't say a word.
I know the cadence of your silence, of course. You are, as you ever have been, beautiful, and the silence is a part of you now, as it is and ever has been a part of me. When you listen to the music---I will not lie, sometimes I stop and stare; sometimes I drink in your expression of serenity as a starving man drinks blood. You are ever so pretty when you tilt your head back and turn toward the radio, keeping yourself still as your gaze settles on something beyond me, watching something I can not know. I do not begrudge you this; I understand.
I must, of course, be your monster.
I do not truly mind this, either.
(If I must be a monster, let me be yours.)
There is a way you move when you hear one of your favorite songs. You tilt your head just so, and your hair---longer now than it was before, but neat and perfectly cut; I have had a lot of practice lately---sways over your pale skin. You don't get enough sun these days; I don't have a balcony, and lately I've been wondering if we should move to a new flat. It would be better for you, I think, with more sunlight.
But there is a way you turn toward your favorite music that belies your enjoyment. I stare every time it happens. I'm not particularly sorry about it. Your enjoyment is a rare thing these days, and to be able to watch it is a gift I will not deny myself.
At night, you fall asleep to music, too.
I don't turn it off until you have fallen securely asleep. In the dark of the night, your face is slack, half of it hidden in the pillow, and your breathing puffs. It's a loud sound, and it echoes in my ears as I lie on the floor, turned toward you and watching some of the strands of your hair rise on your breaths. Up and down, and you are loud like this like you never are awake, and yet I find myself missing you, already.
In your silence, I know your cadence and your thoughts and your companionship. In your sleep, I know nothing at all.
You have a fever, one morning. You know this, of course. I find myself telling you so anyway, writing it on a little note and handing it to you at breakfast. Your face is red, flushed, and your breathing is too shallow. It brings to mind memories of worse days; you linger, by the windows, watching the sun over the rooftops. Your grip on the curtains are tight, your knuckles whitening, and when I return with the medicine you turn toward me without a word, staring at me. Your eyes follow as I go to the bed, strips of it the old sheets and puts them new ones, and I fluff the pillows extra hard. Fill a glass of water, and hand it to you together with the medication.
You swallow both easily, wordlessly, and you sit upon the bed.
You don't lie down.
I stare at you, watch your breathing and the fluttering of your eyelashes, the way you wet your lips. I refill your glass of water, and walk up to you again. You tilt your head back to look up at me, simply studying me for a long moment, then finally deign to grabs the glass. Your fingers touch mine, and I shudder. I think maybe you smile, but your expressions aren't big. I don't know if they ever were.
When I reach to take the glass back, you get a finger around one of mine and tug. Stilling, I stare wide-eyed at the touch, and you tug again. Your hand is warm, warmer than I can remember.
You were cold, when I got you out of the cave.
At last, you lie down on the bed, turning to your side and curling up. You get a hand under your pillow, and your other one stretches out, holds onto mine, and I don't dare move. I don't think you've ever touched me first, before. So I stare, and I'm not ashamed of it. And I don't dare let go.
Pulling your covers up to your chin, I lie down on the bed beside you. Your breathing washes over my neck, over my shoulder, and you squeeze my fingers. I can't stop looking at you; I don't much want to, anyway. In your feverish blush, you look so alive. Your lips shine when you lick them, and your eyes are teary, even as the expression never changes.
You look at me, and you touch me, and there is nothing I can do but hold on.
You are alive, and I am nearly sorry I almost snuffed out your light.
But you are alive.
It doesn't take long for you to fall asleep. Your grip on me tightens for a moment, but relaxes as time passes. The sun moves outside the window, and the room gets witheringly hot. I should open a window. But I don't want to leave you; I don't want you to open your eyes and find yourself alone. It's not good for you; you wheeze, and you freeze, and you go still and don't leave the bed the whole day. And you need to move to recover. Get air and food and exercise.
Night falls. I eat a quick sandwich in bed, manage to get you to take a few bites as well, but eventually you turn your head away and I give up. I don't want to push you, and you took your medication so well, anyway.
Your slumber is uneasy during the night, and you are awake when I return to bed after a bathroom visit. You stare at me without a word, gazing silently as I resettle beside you, and you grab my hand before I'm even still. Your eyes reflect the light until I turn it out, and you shut them. I continue to look at you well past the point where my sight adjusts to the darkness, and as I listen to the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the only audible thing in the room, I find I can no longer resist the temptation of slumber.