Characters: Roman Sanders (Jo March), and Patton Sanders (Beth March)
Setting: A beach in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, in the 1860’s
Trigger Warnings: Major character death (not written, but heavily implied/confirmed), fatal illness mention, crying, let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Author’s Note: Hi, everybody! I don’t know what possessed me to write this, because this is very sad, but I. LOVE. Little Women. I first read the book when I was in sixth grade, and I absolutely adore it, along with the musical and the movies. This oneshot is based heavily off of the musical, with some aspects of the 2019 movie and the book thrown in as well. Therefore, much of the dialogue—not all of it, but a lot—is taken directly from lines in the musical, book, and movie.
Also, I am still working on my prompts—I got a LOT, and I’m going to post them all as soon as I’m done.
I hope you enjoy, I’m really pleased with this one!
There was a boy in a wheelchair by the sea.
He leaned his head back, eyes closed and a small smile playing across his face, the breeze gently rolling in off the water. His toes were curled in the sand, and he had a light blue shawl wrapped around his shoulders, one that his mother had knit for him when he was just a baby. A conch shell rested in his lap, his hands carefully placed on top of it.
Roman watched him, clutching a kite with a rainbow tail close to his chest and holding a picnic basket. Patton hadn’t needed a wheelchair before he had gone to New York; yes, he was still frail and ill, but he recovered. He would again, now, Roman was sure of it, because he was Patton. He would. He would.
He slowly approached his brother, feet making indentations in the sand as he went.
“I brought you a kite,” he said softly, when he was merely a few feet away; he didn’t want to startle him. Patton opened his eyes and looked up, and suddenly he was smiling with a radiance as though somebody had lit a candle in his chest. Warmth, as usual, seemed to pour out of him and into whoever was the recipient of his gaze.
For a moment, his illness seemed to melt away, and he looked like himself, save for the gaunt face and bags under his eyes. He looked like the lovely young man he was, no older than twenty, instead of somebody whose light was already beginning to flicker out. His wide blue eyes, partially obscured by his wire-rimmed glasses, held their usual sparkle and kindness, despite the circumstances.
“Roman,” he said, his smile widening, and as soon as he spoke something tugged at Roman’s heart. His voice, steeped in kindness and love and affection, was the equivalent of receiving a warm hug upon coming home. His voice was coming home. Roman couldn’t believe he had ever left.
“I brought you a kite,” Roman repeated, grinning and brandishing it at him. “Look at the tail—it has all the colors of the rainbow! I told the man at the shop that it should have every color for my baby brother.”
“It’s the most beautiful kite I’ve ever seen!” Patton said, running his fingers over the multicolored ribbons, in vibrant reds and blues and greens, purples and yellows and oranges.
“Let’s put it together,” Roman declared, and Patton reached up his arms for Roman to help him down. He felt shaky and weak in Roman’s arms, and slumped against him once they reached the ground, a blue gingham blanket laid over the sand. Patton rested his head on Roman’s shoulder and leaned against him, huddling closer, as the sea breeze was becoming more brisk.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” Patton said quietly, his voice nearly drowned out by the sound of the waves and the wind. Roman smiled and wrapped his arm tighter around him.
“You’ve always wanted to come to Cape Cod,” Roman replied. “Is it everything you wanted?”
“And more,” Patton said earnestly. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. I only wish you didn’t have to give up your first earnings from your novel to bring me here.”
“Oh, stop,” Roman replied, adjusting Patton’s shawl against the wind. “Anything for my baby brother.”
They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the seagulls and the waves, the salty breeze mussing their hair, sometimes punctuated by Patton coughing.
“Tell me about New York,” he eventually asked softly, drawing circles in the sand. Roman chuckled.
“It’s a circus,” he replied, smiling at the sea. “It’s never dull like it is back home, and there’s always new people to meet. And,” he paused, “there’s a large foyer in my publisher’s building, with the grandest and most beautiful piano you can imagine in it.” Patton’s face lit up at the statement.
“Yes, and it has flowers carved into the wood, and it’s inlaid with gold—and I told my publisher, I told him: one day, my brother is going to sit here and play this piano, and it’ll be the most beautiful music you’ve ever heard, and everyone in New York will want to come and hear it.”
“I’d love to,” Patton smiled, resting his cheek on Roman’s shoulder.
“I’m going to take you there, one day,” Roman informed him, and Patton’s breath seemed to hitch, just for a split second, before returning to normal.
“I have something for you,” Patton told him abruptly, changing the subject and reaching behind him for the conch shell that was still resting on his wheelchair. “Here,” he said, handing it to Roman. “If you hold it up to your ear, it speaks to you!”
Obligingly, Roman held it up to his ear gently, afraid he might break it. The sound of waves and wind whistled in his ear, trapped inside the shell. “What does it say?”
“We grow up so fast,” Patton whispered, almost inaudibly over the roar of the tide. Roman looked at him for a moment—it shattered his heart to see his brother so melancholic due to his scarlet fever. He knew he’d get better—believed it like a child believes in bedtime stories and fairytales, believed it so fervently because he had to—but he’d do anything to raise his spirits.
A moment of silence passed over them, as fluffy clouds raced across the sky.
“When you were first born,” Roman began, smiling fondly at the memory, “not even an hour old, I told Mother—“
“Patton is mine!” Patton finished for him, giggling. Roman smiled at the fond memory of a headstrong, bossy young boy first holding his newborn brother. Patton’s big blue eyes had fluttered open for the first time, and he cooed and smiled up at Roman. It was that instant that Roman had declared that Patton was his, his person that would become his closest companion.
“Everybody has someone special in the world,” Roman continued, tugging the knit shawl tighter around Patton. “And I have you. My sweet Patton. Give me a task to do.”
Patton thought for a moment, staring out at the ocean, the sea spray blowing in his rosy-cheeked face and tousling his hair.
“Can you read me a story?” he asked, looking up at Roman hopefully, with those big blue eyes of his. “Like you always did when we were little?”
“Of course, Patty,” Roman smiled, turning to dig around in the picnic basket he had brought. “Lucky for you, I brought a whole selection, as I thought you might ask—which one?” He spread out the books on the blanket, and Patton peered at them all, making a goofy show of examining each one and either wrinkling his nose or nodding to himself, weighing his options. At last, they settled on a tome with “pirates” in the name—and off they went, windswept into an epic tale about lost lovers, far away from each other at sea, and treasure and violence and intrigue.
And then, once that was finished, they moved to another. And another. And another?
“What did you think of that one, Patty?” Roman asked, closing the latest book—a story of lost love and family—and Patton smiled faintly and leaned his head on his shoulder, looking out at the setting sun over the glimmering ocean.
“They’re all wonderful,” he said, thinking. “But I think I like it better when you write them yourself. You’re a regular Shakespeare!”
“Oh, Patty, you know that I’ve given up on that, now!” Roman said, his heart squeezing. Patton adamantly shook his head.
“No,” he said, a joking smile playing on his face. “I am very sick, and you must do what I say.” Roman barked a laugh, and Patton giggled.
“Alright, alright, anything for little Mr. March,” Roman teased lightly, and Patton playfully stuck his tongue out at him. “What would you like to hear?”
Patton pondered this for a moment, his gaze finally settling on the beautiful, multicolored kite that Roman had gotten him. “Tell me a story about us,” he began. “Flying through the air, as if we’re on a kite.”
Roman smiled warmly at his younger brother’s earnestness. “Very well.” He cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, there was a bold, brave, handsome, chivalrous—“ Patton poked him, smiling. “Almost done—and all around golden boy named Roman March. And by his side, his baby brother Patton March, who, although Roman was great in all aspects, was his better half: sweet, kind, gentle, loving, and talented.” Patton beamed, and his smile seemed to light up the gathering dusk.
“They did everything together—and, one day, when Patton’s brother brought him a kite, they went to go fly it, and they were swept up into the air along with it, floating like birds!”
And so, they embarked on yet another great adventure—their fourth of the day—Roman’s words bringing them up, high, high, high above the sand. His inflections swooped and dipped, as if his voice itself were flying. He described their astounding journey, how they will be mad and explore high above the rest of the world. Away from everyone and everything, in the sky. Away from Patton’s illness, away from his weakened heart. No, in the heavens there are no illnesses, only the birds who dared to fly as high as them, and the clouds.
“We will pass the days doing only as we please,” Roman said, bringing them back down to Earth by the end of the tale, back down to the blue gingham blanket and the glittering waves crashing against the sand and the seashells that Patton had taken a fancy to, all in a pile, and the reality of their situation. “For that,” he finished, “is what living is for.”
They were both silent for a long time, staring out at the darkened ocean and the sky full of stars above them. Roman could feel Patton shivering against him, and he adjusted his shawl again. At last, Patton spoke.
“Can I tell you a secret?” He said, so softly that he was almost drowned out by the crashing waves.
“I never made plans,” he began, “about what I would do when I grew up. I never had to.”
“No,” Roman corrected him. “When we were children, I was to be a famous writer, and you a famous pianist, and we would travel together, remember?” Patton laughed lightly and shook his head.
“That was when we were children...and I think you know as well as I do that I am not meant for a life onstage, in front of thousands of people. I never made plans, because I always knew that when I grew up, I would still be with Mother and Father, and I wanted to take care of them.”
“Of course,” Roman smiled. “You’re practically an angel.” Patton smiled, but it faltered again.
“I’m not afraid to die.” Those five words caused Roman’s heart to squeeze mightily, for him to close his eyes tightly and banish all thoughts of the unspeakable happening away.
“Don’t—please don’t say that, Patty,” Roman got out.
“Roman...I know that it will happen. And I’m not. Really. The hardest part, Roman...it’s leaving you. For I will be homesick for you, even in death.” Roman barely choked back a sob. He grabbed Patton’s hand and held it tightly.
“I won’t let it happen. Do you hear me, Patton? I won’t.” Patton only smiled at him, softly, sadly.
“Some things are meant to be. And I know this is bound to happen, no matter what I do…” Roman choked on his tears. Patton shakily shifted and took Roman’s face in his hands. “But. Some things will never die...like the promise of who you are. Roman, you’re so talented! You can never stop writing, because I know that you’re going to be great. And I’m—I’m so proud of you! And—the memories will never die, either. Even when I’m far, far away from here, you’ll carry me in your heart, and you in mine.”
With his thumb, Patton brushed away the tears trailing down Roman’s cheek.
“All my life,” Patton said, looking at him earnestly with those big blue eyes, “I’ve lived for loving you. Let me go now.”
And Roman wrapped him up in a hug and cried into his shoulder, and Patton hugged him back, frail and shaky, but also loving and warm and brave and remarkably resilient. And the wind swept up into the star-speckled sky, going high, high, high up, higher than them or the Earth.
Roman stood in a publishing company, looking through the window at his first novel being printed and bound and brought into the world. It was an autobiographical memoir, of sorts, while still remaining readable to audiences who enjoy fiction.
It is the story of him and his brothers.
Their entire lives, from when Roman was a wild boy of sixteen, to now, as he is standing here, in this old, creaky, wooden hallway, watching his future as an author come into the world.
At last, one of the workers handed him his finished novel, with a lovely red leather cover and the title written in big lettering on the front with gold leaf. And he hugged the book close to his chest. This was his story. This was his book. This was his dream, coming to realization before his very eyes.
On the very first page was the dedication.
