[oneshot; edgar's disappearance]
Jan. 24th, 2021 01:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pylades_drunkNot for the first time in his life, Grantaire is woken by the absence of sound.
Briefly, later, he'll have the fleeting thought that if only he hadn't closed his eyes; if only they hadn't decided to take a nap, if only this or that thing: but the truth of it is that if it hadn't happened while he was asleep, it would have happened anyway. He's sure there's someone -- in all the disappearances Darrow, or Tabula Rasa, or any of these places he's lived have inflicted upon all of the people they've snatched away and brought together -- who's walked into a room mid conversation and the person they're speaking to has just been gone, the room empty.
Would it be better if it had been like that? Would it be worse? Would it matter, anyway?
As it is, he wakes, because the rise and fall of Edgar's chest doesn't lift his arm; the light huff of his breathing isn't next to him, or anywhere. Edgar's side of the bed is made, which is answer enough for the questions that leap to mind, the confusion that gives way to panic. His phone still rests where it was dropped on the night stand. His shoes are still kicked off next to the bed.
He'd searched half the island, when Tunny disappeared. He'd smashed half the bottles in the Winchester. That was under a year of being together. After nearly five, after near-deaths and rescues, after wedding vows and one husband's leaving them both and forging their way together anyway, he doesn't have to. He knows.
Edgar's gone. He's gone. He's not anywhere Grantaire can look for him, or follow. He's not in some other Darrow hidden beneath the earth or through a portal. There are no protests to be made or demands to go together. Right now, there's not even anyone in the apartment.
He pulls his knees up to his chest and wonders at how his breath and his mind and his blood seem unperturbed; how many times a heart can break, how much loss can fracture through it and yet keep it beating. He should be crying, he thinks, but somehow a sob doesn't rip its way from his throat. Not yet. What would it be for?
Outside, the winter sky fades into darkness.
Briefly, later, he'll have the fleeting thought that if only he hadn't closed his eyes; if only they hadn't decided to take a nap, if only this or that thing: but the truth of it is that if it hadn't happened while he was asleep, it would have happened anyway. He's sure there's someone -- in all the disappearances Darrow, or Tabula Rasa, or any of these places he's lived have inflicted upon all of the people they've snatched away and brought together -- who's walked into a room mid conversation and the person they're speaking to has just been gone, the room empty.
Would it be better if it had been like that? Would it be worse? Would it matter, anyway?
As it is, he wakes, because the rise and fall of Edgar's chest doesn't lift his arm; the light huff of his breathing isn't next to him, or anywhere. Edgar's side of the bed is made, which is answer enough for the questions that leap to mind, the confusion that gives way to panic. His phone still rests where it was dropped on the night stand. His shoes are still kicked off next to the bed.
He'd searched half the island, when Tunny disappeared. He'd smashed half the bottles in the Winchester. That was under a year of being together. After nearly five, after near-deaths and rescues, after wedding vows and one husband's leaving them both and forging their way together anyway, he doesn't have to. He knows.
Edgar's gone. He's gone. He's not anywhere Grantaire can look for him, or follow. He's not in some other Darrow hidden beneath the earth or through a portal. There are no protests to be made or demands to go together. Right now, there's not even anyone in the apartment.
He pulls his knees up to his chest and wonders at how his breath and his mind and his blood seem unperturbed; how many times a heart can break, how much loss can fracture through it and yet keep it beating. He should be crying, he thinks, but somehow a sob doesn't rip its way from his throat. Not yet. What would it be for?
Outside, the winter sky fades into darkness.
