Blargh. Not giving too much context on this one since it's very rough, but keeping it under a cut since it's later in The Paths You Take
Managed to write something! But not what I needed to! But it's something! Eh?
CW for depression, grief
Even thinner there was no mistaking that silhouette -- fingers nervously tapping against a thigh, messy hair poking out from under a well-worn beanie, and it hurt her heart to see him curled inward like that, like he'd been robbed of something important, something that had given him substance, leaving him too frail, too small, too vulnerable. He was both her brother and not, a facsimile of the Scott she knew and loved, had held and had lost, grief of a greater magnitude eating away at all the things that had made him so vibrant, so larger-than-life and alive.
"Scotty?"
He didn't react, didn't respond, and that kernel of worry that had taken up near-permanent residence in her chest wound tighter. Her brother had always been flighty, fickle, attention jumping from one thing to another and back, no rhyme or reason, but he'd always been aware. Could always be called back, coaxed into focus, usually with a grin and an innocent widening of the eyes and a laugh at the ready.
Now it was like he couldn't hear anyone, anything, no matter how desperately they called for him.
She closed the distance between them, set a gentle hand gingerly on his shoulder. He jumped, flinching, and something inside her flinched too.
She couldn't remember a time when Scott Ryder had ever been on edge like this.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, dropping her hand and fighting the urge to pull him in, hold him close, as if she could squeeze some life back into him. He jerked, shaking his head as if to clear it, and she pursed her lips to see how glassy his eyes still were, how deep the bags under them had gotten. No rest for the wicked, maybe, but certainly no rest for the broken hearted, either.
"I… I uh." His voice was a rasp, as unfamiliar as his gauntness, his frayed, fraught energy. An echo of an echo of an echo and a spear of anger shot through her seeing him here, the open vista of Meridian's meticulously maintained terrace outside the Pathfinder's Guild behind him. Their salvation, and all it had cost was her brother.
"I wanted to tell you that I… I'm leaving."
Sara blinked, her attention swinging back to him. "What?"
He licked dry lips, looking, if possible, even smaller, even more worn down from one second to the next.
"I already chartered a shuttle."
It was then she realized he had a bag slung across his shoulders. Too small to hold the things she knew he loved, the things he'd felt worthy enough to drag from one galaxy to another. No records, no guitar, and maybe he'd packed them already, maybe they were waiting for him on that shuttle and she was jumping to conclusions, but she didn't think so.
He hadn't listened to music in months.
His eyes finally met hers and her chest clenched to see the sheen in them.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know I'm… I know it's selfish, but I can't… I can't stay here, Sara. Not…not without him. I need to…to not be in this place, anymore."
"Scott…"
A tear slid down his cheek and she couldn't take it anymore -- she reached for him, heart soaring in the split second of recognition and relief when he welcomed it, and then he was in her arms, his own wrapped around her, face buried in her shoulder as tears slowly wet the fabric of her shirt.
"I'm so sorry I wasn't there, Scotty," she whispered again and again. "I'm so fucking sorry."
It took a long moment for him to gather himself enough to respond. She didn't mind, just held him tight, feeling the sharp jut of his bones, the foreign frailty of him, and felt her own throat and eyes burn.
"Come with me?"
Air seemed to explode from her lungs, her exhale sharp.
"Scott…"
"I know, I know," he murmured, giving her a squeeze. "I didn't… I told myself I wasn't going to ask. I'm sorry, that… that was shitty."
"It's okay."
"It isn't." He pulled away and she reluctantly let him go, watching as he scrubbed at his cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie. He offered her a small, humorless smile. "I know we can't both leave, Sara."
"But you do know I would if I could, yeah?"
"Yeah," he whispered. "I know." He sniffled, exhaling shakily. "Um. So… yeah. I wanted… I didn't want to risk missing you, and not… not saying…"
"It's not goodbye," she cut in, voice a whisper but firm nonetheless. She waited until his gaze met hers. "It's not goodbye, Scott."
He fidgeted. "It's see you later," he agreed. His eyes dropped, and he fiddled with the strap of his bag. "I'll see you later, Sara. I'll call you."
"You better."
A fleeting smile and he was hugging her again, and for one moment he almost felt like himself again. Strong, sure, like the path laid before him was unknown and he was all too happy to meet it.
"Love you, Scotty."
"Love you, too."
A final squeeze and she let him go, watched as he began making his way away from her -- away from here, from this place he'd made possible, from a dream he'd made real for so many even as it tore him apart.
"Wait."
He stopped, glancing over his shoulder at her.
"You didn't mention where you were going."
He blinked, then offered her a rueful grin that was closer to one of the many smiles she knew. Slightly lopsided, dimpling one bearded cheek, gaze unwavering.
The sort of smile that didn't meet his eyes.
"Aya."
And as she watched her brother walk away, Sara wrapped her arms around herself, frowning at his back.
Knowing, with the knowledge of a twin who'd spent a lifetime at his side, that her brother's last word to her was a lie.
