[McDragon's Memo: Lise said that it was very irritating that I made her like the idea of Remy staying alive, but she presented me with this anyway!]
Still a prezzie for JB! :) =====================
"Remy. I did not expect to find you here, my friend." "Stormy. Why not, chere?" She ignores the nickname for once, knowing there is more here to delve
into. There are a hundred ways to answer the man she adores, that sits
on the roof, alone; a hundred things he could be doing rather than
visiting past ghosts. She could say that he should be happy, should be
grateful that he breathes in and out, that his lover is downstairs,
waiting patiently for him to come to bed. The stars, they stare down on her, and she feels their soft smiles. The
wind, she feels that too, and it brushes past the two of them. The
Goddess knows how close they are, of course, and gives them delights to
ponder, to stare at. Gazing at him, vital and well, she is so very grateful that they can
share this moment, together. She is frightened by how close she was to losing him. She hugs her arms around herself, and stares fondly at him again. His
cheeks are pale, made more so by moonlight and sickness... but the
sickness is retreating, and the moonlight is kind, even if it
accentuates the shadows in the planes of his face. She knows that those
shadows stand for strength, now, not hardship, and for that, she thanks
the earth and sky and heavens and water and everything. She would have wept, were they to have lost him. He should not be sitting here, alone. He should not be lonely. "Are you coming inside, dear friend?" "Soon, chere." She worries for him, naturally. There are a billion beautiful things in
the world, and he stares at them, serious expression at the ready.
There is not nearly enough joy in this world, she thinks to herself, and
sighs. She wishes that he would not brood -- she thought that phaze was
over, with the retreat of the sickness, and the good news they rejoice
in. Death was not coming for him. Not yet, and hopefully not for a long
time. It smells of spring, and he inhales quietly. She knows he is ever so
grateful to be able to feel the air in his lungs. It is something she
has always taken for granted, but now it feels like the most important
thing in the entire world, to know that breath exists and they are both
bringing it into their bodies. Each breath is a testament to him. "Don't worry, Stormy. I ain' down tonight." His tone is gentle, caring, and laced with something stronger and larger
than before. She is surprised to hear it coming from a man whom once
was so broken, it made her cry. His mending was a cure for more than just his body, and the changes
within him made her heart sing. His lover, too, was part of it, and so
much more -- was part of his new lease on life, his newfound life
itself. Bobby and him swam together now, connected in fate, and for
that she was so very grateful. It was time that he found happiness, and
when he and Bobby looked at each other, she felt the flowers blooming
outside. How could it ever rain, when two such people lived? He was not brooding, then, and she begs to ask the question, 'Why are
you here?' The timing does not seem right, however, because he is deep
in contemplation of something she suspects she will never see, for all
her looking. While they are close, were close, and always will be, a
part of him is always closed off, so deeply in love that she would feel
strange to see it. She suspects that she isn't the only one grateful for his breath
tonight. His lover still waits patiently, wanting him to come to bed. She cannot help but ask, "What has brought you here, Remy?" He has warmth, and beauty, and even love, beneath him inside, and yet he
chooses to sit on the roof and stare out at the night and its
blackness. She does not understand what he is enraptured with. He looks to her, and smiles, a slow, wide smile that has nothing hiding,
or pained, or cramped within it. He does not see what he did before.
She cannot see with his eyes, the perspective that is slowly changing.
She worries for him, but there is no need. All his life, he sat up
here, and never saw what splendid sights were really laid out for him,
the whole world a feast for his senses to soak in. But, for all his
thinking, he cannot express it. He has to make do with a quiet, "I'm jus' admiring the view."
Back to the living room
- - - - -
A New Kinda Perspective
By Lise
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