altschmerz + connie/maj, chrysalism + sandy, kenopsia + cole. c:
ughhhhhhhhh
Altschmerz (Connie & Maj)Weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had – the same boring flaws and anxieties that you’ve been gnawing on for years.
“Congratulations.”
She smiled. Excitement breathed into the word, inflating it like a balloon. She hesitated. Poised on the balls of her feet before impulse, panic, propelled her forward. She hugged Chauncey tightly.
This way, at least, she rationalized, with her chin resting on his shoulder and his arms circling her waist, he wouldn’t be able to see the pink blotching her cheeks, her lips faltering while she struggled to maintain the weight of her lie – I’m happy for you.
So easy to say.
Marjorie heard Connie’s, “thanks,” first, as a quiet mumble in his chest. She felt like the proximity might burn her if she lingered too long. Their relationship was limited to accidental hand brushes, collar fixing, tie adjusting, pen sharing, takeout splitting, late night meetings, sometimes – such small gestures, when she thought about it. Nothing compared to this Ursula, whoever she was, all silk robes and romantic gestures, Maj imagined, lazy mornings and tangled sheets and long-weekend Parisian escapades and puppy co-parenting–
She stepped back, tucked her hair behind her ear, “Ral told me this morning,” in between bites of a bagel, in between sips of coffee, casually dropping the news, what? Connie hasn’t told you yet? And her, feeling like she had the wind knocked out of her, needing to sit down at the kitchen table, only replied faintly, no.
No, I hadn’t heard.
Her hand fell to her side, playing with a simple silver bracelet on her wrist, fidgeting to subconsciously mask her guilt. She wanted to be sincere. She wanted to mean it. She wanted to share his happiness (though he didn’t look particularly happy, at the moment, he looked like he might be sick) like any good friend would. But she was tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of overthinking, overanalyzing. Tired of smiling when she wanted to say, no.
No, you can’t marry her.
“We should celebrate,” she offered, stupid, stupid, “maybe dinner… or drinks?” seeming more assured than she felt in her withdrawal. They had been side-stepping one another for years, after all.
If he wanted to dance with her, or maybe, if she was worth dancing with, metaphorically speaking, he would have asked.
(Right?)
Chrysalism (Andy & Sara) The amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.
Lightning veined across the sky, somewhere over London, near enough to the flat to engulf the room in a shock of light like a camera flash, briefly illuminating everything before plunging it back into shades of slate and grey.
A crack, a grumble, followed only by the softer tap of rain against the window, steady and insistent, the faint gurgle of the gutter, otherwise quiet, save for the rustle of Sara’s sweater, the peel of a page turning, the grit of a ceramic mug being put down and picked up off the floor next to the window seat.
Andy stayed his breath just to hear those sounds.
He sat, stretched, his back resting against the wall, Sara nestled comfortably against his chest as she alternated between book and tea while he watched, fascinated by her seamless rhythm, her soft inhales and soft exhales, occasionally skimming words or paragraphs to piece together what she was reading.
He glanced outside.
Below them was a trickling parade of wellie-wearing, raincoated people, mushroomed by umbrellas being pulled by the wind, zigzagging to avoid puddles and drops falling from awnings. Andy fought back another yawn, breath misting the glass inches from his face. He could feel its coolness radiating against his cheek.
“Poor Custard…” he laughed a little, words slurred from his half-asleep state, warm and cocooned, “out there in this mess.”
“Hm?” Sara asked.
Neither of them had spoken for a half hour, at least.
He only nuzzled the back of her head in reply.
Kenopsia (Cole)The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.
He stalked down the hallway, a predator without prey.
When he thought of home, it was the home from memory, not the home that remained.
The castle was quiet, no thundering gale, threatening wind – even the sea seemed to be holding its breath.
Echoes of footsteps, of laughter, a missing pitter-patter, on stone, on carpet, one of his brothers stealing down the bannister when their mother wasn’t looking. No sounds, no smells, just dust, decay, something stale, something rotting, old wood, the foundation itself.
He wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead, sweat beading his temples. The place felt like the inside of a furnace, air so thick it was difficult to swallow. Sun streamed in through arched windows, mockingly, particles floating listlessly on beams falling over disused, broken furniture, brown boxes of old, once-loved things.
Cole passed by a drawing room (where Chauncey took the blame for breaking blue and white porcelain vase, when it was really the dog), the billiard room (where their father always entertained, a ghost of cigar smoke and whiskey, low voices deep in conversation), the dining room (dinnerware stored in cases and cabinets, empty table and empty chairs, hanging art covered by white sheets, giving the room a gaunt, mausoleum quality), the pantry (where Custard would sometimes wander in the middle of the night, tiptoeing to pluck food off shelves he couldn’t reach).
He found Ailsa outside, in a chair by the knot garden overgrown with thistles and weeds, an ocean of purple and mossy green.
“Another bad day,” she said, glancing up from her book only after finishing the page. Her face was drawn in a waxen smile. If she sensed Cole’s bubbling anger, she didn’t show it – a practiced air of resignation, of abandonment as bitter as the house’s.