latine
in
yougetgrey
hallelujah
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, anythingbutgrey! PRESENT AHOY!
JACOB/ELYSSA - dream come true, huh? Huh? Title owned by the genius Bob Marley. It seemed to fit.
every little thing
is going to be all right
He sits in the same tree, at the same time, every single day. You have been watching him for a while, have seen how the heart he wore so carelessly on his sleeve was unjustly snatched away from him, leaving nothing but painful memories and permanent scars. You promised yourself every day that the next time you saw him, you would come out and hold out a hand for him to hold, to help his poor soul. But as much as you promised you would, you always step back at the sight of him, heart pounding, head full of memories that aren't even yours to remember. You have learned, at last, that his pain is your pain.
When he finally sees you, it isn't courage or madness that makes you show yourself. Only your left foot is responsible, covered in black leather of your favourite pair of boots - it steps on some dried leaves and -- crunch, crunch, crunch, echo the shadows in the forest. Your eyes fly instantly to his - has he seen you? Has he noticed? - and you see the hesitation in his eyes, know exactly what is going on in that prim little head of his.
"Is it worth the risk of transforming?"
He doesn't, opts for the safe side of things; blinks, tears his eyes with a hardness.
Convinced that there is nothing left for you to lose now, you approach him, not caring if the crunch, crunch, crunch from the leaves echoes a million times louder.
For some reason, the forest seems to have changed-
He does not escape, does not run away, and you take it as a good sign. He is only about three feet away, if you stretched your arm you could caress his bare shoulder, if only-
"Who're you," he rasps, doesn't even bother to ask the question. As always, your heart tugs at the sound, sight, touch of his suffering; knees buckle, mind dizzies, sight unfocuses. You take a deep breath and compose yourself: it's for him, not for you; it's always been for him. It's difficult not to jump towards him, hold his face and tell him that you are Ely, that you know everything about him and that there is no need to worry anymore, you are here now. But as you open your mouth, as the first syllable slips in your tongue, you halt.
"No one."
He closes his eyes, sighs, and sinks back into his position. It is as if he doesn't care. Does he? You think not. You hope you are wrong. Just a little bit. With short steps and a confidence you are positive is not yours, you move towards him and fervently wish you had some higher power to just take all the weight he carries on his shoulders. Make it vanish.
"Come," you hear yourself saying, wondering why your mouth is acting on its own accord. To your surprise, he looks at you in the eye and gives a slight nod - yes. He reaches for the hand you offer and it's not electricity but warm comfort that runs through your arm - practice is never like theory never sounded so true. You would like to know if he felt it too, but keep from asking. Who knew even you could have a little shame?
He knows it's time to move on. You do, too. The forest whispers in agreement, and the wolves howl in consent.
Come.
WHOO!
JACOB/ELYSSA - dream come true, huh? Huh? Title owned by the genius Bob Marley. It seemed to fit.
every little thing
is going to be all right
He sits in the same tree, at the same time, every single day. You have been watching him for a while, have seen how the heart he wore so carelessly on his sleeve was unjustly snatched away from him, leaving nothing but painful memories and permanent scars. You promised yourself every day that the next time you saw him, you would come out and hold out a hand for him to hold, to help his poor soul. But as much as you promised you would, you always step back at the sight of him, heart pounding, head full of memories that aren't even yours to remember. You have learned, at last, that his pain is your pain.
When he finally sees you, it isn't courage or madness that makes you show yourself. Only your left foot is responsible, covered in black leather of your favourite pair of boots - it steps on some dried leaves and -- crunch, crunch, crunch, echo the shadows in the forest. Your eyes fly instantly to his - has he seen you? Has he noticed? - and you see the hesitation in his eyes, know exactly what is going on in that prim little head of his.
"Is it worth the risk of transforming?"
He doesn't, opts for the safe side of things; blinks, tears his eyes with a hardness.
Convinced that there is nothing left for you to lose now, you approach him, not caring if the crunch, crunch, crunch from the leaves echoes a million times louder.
For some reason, the forest seems to have changed-
He does not escape, does not run away, and you take it as a good sign. He is only about three feet away, if you stretched your arm you could caress his bare shoulder, if only-
"Who're you," he rasps, doesn't even bother to ask the question. As always, your heart tugs at the sound, sight, touch of his suffering; knees buckle, mind dizzies, sight unfocuses. You take a deep breath and compose yourself: it's for him, not for you; it's always been for him. It's difficult not to jump towards him, hold his face and tell him that you are Ely, that you know everything about him and that there is no need to worry anymore, you are here now. But as you open your mouth, as the first syllable slips in your tongue, you halt.
"No one."
He closes his eyes, sighs, and sinks back into his position. It is as if he doesn't care. Does he? You think not. You hope you are wrong. Just a little bit. With short steps and a confidence you are positive is not yours, you move towards him and fervently wish you had some higher power to just take all the weight he carries on his shoulders. Make it vanish.
"Come," you hear yourself saying, wondering why your mouth is acting on its own accord. To your surprise, he looks at you in the eye and gives a slight nod - yes. He reaches for the hand you offer and it's not electricity but warm comfort that runs through your arm - practice is never like theory never sounded so true. You would like to know if he felt it too, but keep from asking. Who knew even you could have a little shame?
He knows it's time to move on. You do, too. The forest whispers in agreement, and the wolves howl in consent.
Come.
WHOO!