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No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone
No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden
No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love
No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love
No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world
-Florence + the Machine, Blinding
--
Afterwards, John is not the same.
He is no different in physical terms; you have traced your fingers down the piano keys of his spine, whispered breaths into his collarbone, rubbed your thumb over each and every one of his knuckles, tasted his lips and swallowed the words bubbling beneath the surface.
But there is something missing, the lacuna in his being, and even when your hands are splayed like fans across his heaving chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat, so alive and present, you know he is not entirely there.
You can see it in the distance of his eyes and how sometimes you are in bed with his head on your pillow and he is half a world away. You can see it in the things that aren't there, the slivers between reality and delusion that he so often falls into.
You know it's more than a coping mechanism.
You know there's something wrong.
--
You are laying on the rooftop of your shared apartment one evening, takeout boxes scattered around you, John watching the sky, you watching John.
"Look," he says softly, pointing, "there's the constellation Cancer. And Gemini, and Scorpio. I think that one's Aries."
You tear your eyes away from the way John's eyelashes curve like a bow and look up at the empty, smoggy darkness, where there is not a single star in sight. You pull him close and say, "They're beautiful." (You are beautiful.)
--
Every once in a while, you'll wake up in the middle of the night to an empty bed, and you'll hear John in the kitchen, smell the warm vanilla, hear the clatter of pans and the words he speaks to a father long gone. Sometimes you'll drag yourself up and join him, squeeze his shoulders and help him stir the batter and listen to him chatter away about movies and pranks and how Dad is so proud of you too, Dave, and other times you'll pull the blankets over your head and try to control the quavers in your breathing.
--
The nightmares plague you both. They don't come every night, but too often you wake up with your hand clutching your neck, John clutching your face, your screams echoing like shadows through the room. You desperately try to hold your paper thin skin together, stop the blood and the time and everything you know you're not from spilling out, but when you pull your hand back it only glitters with tears. Too often you wake up with John trembling and whimpering beside you, face twisted in fear and pain, and you have to shake him awake, calm him by tracing the constellations only he sees into the skin of his back.
It's worse for John, you think. He bleeds the things he's lost, the things he's forgotten are gone when he's awake.
"It's okay," you say over and over, kneading the words into his shoulders, his neck, until you can almost believe them yourself.
--
One blustery fall afternoon you come home from work and call out, "Babe, I'm home," only to get no reply. Frowning, you toss your jacket onto the couch and call again, "John?"
No answer.
You check the bedroom, the bathroom, your phone for any messages, but you find no trace of him, and the panic that squeezes your chest makes you choke.
Thinking of one last place he could be, you sprint outside and up the stairs that lead to the roof, and there you find him, standing at the very edge and looking down. Your heart leaps into your throat and you are at his side in an instant, feeling like you are splintering, crumbling. You grab his arm, demand, "What the hell are you doing, John?" and it comes out like fire, burning hot and dangerous, and you're more afraid than you've ever been.
He smiles blankly at you, eyes fixed on a point in the horizon, and says, "The world is so big and I am so small, it's crazy to think that I was a god. But the wind is so nice today, Dave. I was going to fly."
Icy fear still gripping the jagged shards of your glass heart, you pull him away from the edge and lead him back into the apartment. You sit him down and tell him in a voice that's shaking as much as your hands are, "We're not in the Game anymore. You don't have any powers. None of us do. You can't fly, John. If you try, you'll end up dead."
"Hm," he says. "I died once." He touches your face, eyes suddenly focusing on you. "And you died so many times, Dave. So many."
You grab his hand in yours, fingertips pressed to his wrist, feeling the steady pulse there. "Yeah. And I'd rather that didn't happen to either of us again for a good long time."
"You can't stop it, Dave. No one can," he says, distant, terrible, and you breathe, because you know he's right, because you're still so fucking scared.
You're terrified of leaving him alone after that. You lock the door that gives access to the roof and hide the key, quit your job and work from home. He doesn't bring up the incident again, but whenever he's out of your sight, you keep hearing him say in that awful, dreamy voice, "I was going to fly."
--
TT: Dave, this isn't just PTSD. He's gone mad.
TG: i know
TG: jesus christ i know
--
You can't send him to a therapist, can't send him in for treatment. No one who can provide professional help went through SBURB, they wouldn't get it, even if you had enough money between the two of you to do so. Most of all, you can't do that to him. Can't put him in a place where he'll be just a name, nothing more than a damaged mind, and they won't understand, they won't know that he's more, that he's everything, that he's your heart.
God, you love him so much. It sits in the marrow of your bones, fills the gaps between your teeth, makes your skin feel too tight, and at night when the phantoms are silent and John is safe in the circle of your arms, you think you'll die of it, of this love.
You know he loves you just as much, but it still hurts because sometimes he'll get so lost in this waking dream he's created for himself that he'll forget you, forget how you'd do anything for him.
--
"You're crazy, dude," you tell him, so gentle. He flips over onto his stomach on the bed, leans his face in his palm, says nonchalantly, "The whole world is insane."
And yeah, maybe it is, but you still remember that frightening peace on his face as he stood millimetres from death and you can't breathe.
"Listen to me," you hiss, clutching the sheets so hard your knuckles turn white, "you need to wake up, John. The Game is over, we got through it, the world is back but your dad is dead, and you can't keep doing this." Your voice breaks. "You can't do this to me. Do you know how shitty it feels? Finally having you only to watch you drift away constantly? I can't lose you again, John. I don't care how much of a selfish prick I sound like--I need you. I need you to come back to me. Please."
You're crying, and John is burying his face into your shirt, shaking and whispering, "I'm yours, Dave. I'm here. I'm here and I love you."
You may be here now, the air whistling between your ribs whispers, but what about tomorrow? What about ten years from now?
And when you exhale into his hair, it brings with it the unspoken phrase, you're never going to be completely here, john. i've already lost part of you.
--
GG: im sorry dave :(
TG: me too
--
"The wind is nice today," John says, twisting his fingers with yours, and you quietly love this broken boy with every fibre of your bleeding, mangled heart.
"Yeah," you say, and your voice barely shakes at all. "It is."