Words. Words, words, words. There are not nearly enough and there are far too many. Youâve never wished to have been born deaf before, but right now the prospect of not hearing things like âghostâ and 'nightmareâ and most importantly 'leaveâ is sounding entirely too attractive.Â
Overhead you can taste the lightning spiderwebbing across an inky sky. A crack of thunder cackles in your ear, and you close your eyes as though shutting yourself in to the darkness behind your eyelids will make the world fall away into a comforting silence. The forceful rapping of the rain upon the ceiling overhead is like nails in your skull, the scream of the wind a siren shriek in your ears.Â
You rise, with a stumbling effort, and the world gives a threatening lurch as your gaze falls upon the window. It would be so easy, you think, to leave it all behind. To up and go, to soar like the storm, destructive and deadly and so very free. You are a god. The heir of the storms, a child born of the breeze and of the perfect, open sky. The clouds are your domain, and air itself your subject. The wind and the rain beckon you to them, and in your mindâs eye you can see him, the John Egbert that died and became divine and relishes it, the winds at his whim and the skies his court. You see him echoed in the north wind, see him dancing in the hurricane. The Heir of Breath, come into his own.
Breath is a tricky thing to understand for those who do not share your aspect, you have come to understand. Breath is more than the wind, more than the breeze that billows against the windowpane. Breath is freedom. Breath is change. Breath is the first hint of autumn in the stifling heat of summer, a whisper of spring in even the coldest of winters. Breath is the whirlwind that summons the storm; the harbringer of the rain. Breath is epiphany. Breath is the spirit.Â
Breath is flight.
The window is cold to the touch, and damp from condensation. Entranced, you press your palm against the glass and stare into the storm, searching. Rain pelts the window as though with enough drops of water they can free you from what is so obviously to them a prison, cut of from the open air. To the winds this is an affront that borders on blasphemous.
To you?
Is that what youâre truly asking, John?
To you this is no prison.
Should I leave now?
This is asylum.Â
Roseâs hand are soft on your cheek, and you turn away from the window, turning your back on the tempting, tricking tempest. You give an almost imperceptible shake of your head - little more than a twitch of your neck - and slowly reach up to hold Roseâs fingers in your own.Â
There is an echo in your chest, a slow percussive beat that rattles between your ribs. You bring down the hand that cradles Roseâs and press it, gently, to your sternum, feeling the slow, strong pulse of your heartbeat through your shirt.
âStay,â answers the wind, answers the sky.
âStay.â
This storm is snow and silver, clouds for leaves and lightning for branches, and you wonder what he hears in that discordance.
In the dark, what you can see of his face is portrait-blank. You want to seize his shoulders and force him to see.
John, you want to say.
John, this was a mistake.
John, you should leave. Find Rose. Forget me.
Please, please, donât tell me to abandon you.
This wonât last. It will only hurt.
You deserve better. You deserve Rose Lalonde. I must leave.
John, John, John.
Goodbye.
John, I love you.
Naturally, you donât say any of that.
When he turns around, his eyes are as blue as the wings of a morpho butterfly. Your hands have fallen halfway to his shoulders; the thumbs rest within the depressions of his neck.
He shakes his head, catches one of your wrists, bringing it down deliberately to rest against his chest. Time freezes. The storm halts its war cry to listen.
âStay,â John says quietly, staring into your eyes.
Your heart stops beating momentarily.
Thatâs fine. You can easily pretend that Johnâs pulse beneath your fingers is your own.
You throw your arms forward and clutch the back of his pyjamas. John collides with the windowpane on the rebound and trips over Colonel Sassacreâs Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery. Both of you tumble to the ground.
Wind howls, rattling the doors like marbles; Johnâs carpet bruises your knees. His shirt snags on a corner of Colonel Sassacreâs Daunting Text and begins to rupture in earnest. The two of you roll about like puppies; then, seized with inspiration, you press your lips to his, and you smile a little when he squeaks.
âSorry about this,â you murmur when you break apart, fingering the tear in his shirt. You squeeze him, hard.
âRose Strider will be a shining example of a stay-at-home partner and mend your shirt later. I promise.â
Then you lower your head onto his shoulder, and both of you listen to the storm wear itself out.
* Â Â * Â Â *
âAre you certain?â you ask two weeks later.
Youâre in a cafĂ©, in one of Seattleâs smaller districts, gazing through the window with a black coffee. Paving slabs, urban shrubbery and glass shop-fronts stretch towards a pale horizon; the sun is bright and dewy and the pavement is busy with commuters.
You told John once that this could never happen. He proved you wrong.
âI wouldnât be hasty,â you say, watching a laughing couple stroll past with a push-pram. âI wonât be around to share your eternity. Within five years, Iâll be physically your senior. Within ten, anyone who sees us will wonder whether Iâm your elder sister, or perhaps your mother. Someday- perhaps six decades from now; perhaps seven; perhaps one, even- someday, I shall have to depart.â
You lean your chin on the backs of your fingers and trace the lines of the rose emblem on the napkin, thread by thread.
Busy sidewalk, the noon sun. Normal people, living normal lives. How you envy them, sometimes.
âWeâve had difficulties,â you continue, in a matter-of-fact tone, â and we will come upon greater difficulties. No doubt weâll encounter more problems than most partnerships could be reasonably expected to weather. I want to know that you are certain.â
Johnâs nightmares have improved. Your woes arenât over, but itâs no small reprieve to know that he no longer dreams of shedding your blood, or of you shedding his. Youâd had frankly quite enough of that during SBurb.
âIf youâre going to walk away, John, walk away. I wonât hold it against you.â
When you look around, John happens to look around simultaneously. The corners of your lips quirk upwards.
âAre you certain, John?â
You reach across the table, and clasp one of his hands gently in yours.
Some child outside yodels in delight. His fingers are very warm.
Certainly, you could envy those outside the windows. Not at this moment, though; no. Not right now, sharing a table for two with John Egbert, in a café mere feet away from the Seattle sunlight and a world full of life.
Right now, Â in fact, you probably couldnât have wanted for more had you tried.
