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Title: Don't Forget
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kivrin
Rating: All audiences.
Summary: Coming off the chocolate is a bitch. Post-Band Candy; Companion piece to Never Spoken.
Notes: Thanks toadarog for beta.
Word Count: 515
It was like waking up, Joyce said, and now I'm falling asleep again. Coming down, hard, gut cramping, head spinning, vision going gray. Like raising the demon drunk and hitting the ground already hungover. But this one I can't sleep off. I'll be sleeping forever. Forever in my ancestors' decaying dream, all flaking manuscripts and the glory of pro skopis mori. Forever responsible, not just for her but for the sheeplike people of this tired little town. For the boy who mops at the Espresso Pump, for the real Miss Natalie French with her fixed income. For Oz and Cordelia, for Willow. For Xander.
He's here, of course, where he's always been these last months, on a stool at the buffet, but now he's all knees and elbows, all dark liquid eyes that won't meet mine. He's made tea and brought towels, and his hands keep moving, as if he's seeking the familiar pills and plasters. He starts conversations and flinches when I answer, and keeps craning his neck to see the clock. His restless hands are white and smooth.
I wonder if this is what it's like for Oz, those nights when we cage him and he screams and changes. If he feels the second self inside him, if the shape of desire swells and shrinks with his skin. If for a moment he wants everything - Willow and she-wolves, pizza and wriggling rabbits.
I want Laphroaig and I want cheap cider. I miss my study at the B.M. and Philip's bedsit and my room at my parents' old house with the Spitfire model hanging over the bed. Too many desires, overlapping, contradicting, and yet all mine. All mine.
Xander asks about Lurconis, as if he doesn't see the parallel, that my people too are baby-eaters, that it's in my blood. One girl in all the world, destined to be consumed to the salvation of the world. One girl, then another, chew and spit, chew and spit.
She won’t be eighteen until January, but they’ve already sent me the drug.
Disgust and Kahlua roil in my stomach, sending up acid to burn my throat. He's staring at me, like he's heard everything, but then I see he's holding out a glass of water. I shake my head and swallow hard. He offers the kitchen bin instead. I decline, manufacturing a smile and stuttering thanks, all but polishing my glasses. Under my breath I try again in the street accent, but it’s no easier in my mouth.
I could smash the vial now and claim madness, enchantment, oblivion, when they come. I could pour them Scotch and argue again that to live to Cruciamentum age is proof of what the test examines. I could black their eyes.
Xander makes me lie down and puts the steamer rug over my legs. Nothing fits and yet everything makes sense. Fleeing, kissing, killing, all rational and all impossible. He’s saying it’s all right. My eyes are closing. But I must remember.
Is this how the world is saved, not with a bang but with Bovril and lies?
Author:
kivrinRating: All audiences.
Summary: Coming off the chocolate is a bitch. Post-Band Candy; Companion piece to Never Spoken.
Notes: Thanks to
adarog for beta.Word Count: 515
It was like waking up, Joyce said, and now I'm falling asleep again. Coming down, hard, gut cramping, head spinning, vision going gray. Like raising the demon drunk and hitting the ground already hungover. But this one I can't sleep off. I'll be sleeping forever. Forever in my ancestors' decaying dream, all flaking manuscripts and the glory of pro skopis mori. Forever responsible, not just for her but for the sheeplike people of this tired little town. For the boy who mops at the Espresso Pump, for the real Miss Natalie French with her fixed income. For Oz and Cordelia, for Willow. For Xander.
He's here, of course, where he's always been these last months, on a stool at the buffet, but now he's all knees and elbows, all dark liquid eyes that won't meet mine. He's made tea and brought towels, and his hands keep moving, as if he's seeking the familiar pills and plasters. He starts conversations and flinches when I answer, and keeps craning his neck to see the clock. His restless hands are white and smooth.
I wonder if this is what it's like for Oz, those nights when we cage him and he screams and changes. If he feels the second self inside him, if the shape of desire swells and shrinks with his skin. If for a moment he wants everything - Willow and she-wolves, pizza and wriggling rabbits.
I want Laphroaig and I want cheap cider. I miss my study at the B.M. and Philip's bedsit and my room at my parents' old house with the Spitfire model hanging over the bed. Too many desires, overlapping, contradicting, and yet all mine. All mine.
Xander asks about Lurconis, as if he doesn't see the parallel, that my people too are baby-eaters, that it's in my blood. One girl in all the world, destined to be consumed to the salvation of the world. One girl, then another, chew and spit, chew and spit.
She won’t be eighteen until January, but they’ve already sent me the drug.
Disgust and Kahlua roil in my stomach, sending up acid to burn my throat. He's staring at me, like he's heard everything, but then I see he's holding out a glass of water. I shake my head and swallow hard. He offers the kitchen bin instead. I decline, manufacturing a smile and stuttering thanks, all but polishing my glasses. Under my breath I try again in the street accent, but it’s no easier in my mouth.
I could smash the vial now and claim madness, enchantment, oblivion, when they come. I could pour them Scotch and argue again that to live to Cruciamentum age is proof of what the test examines. I could black their eyes.
Xander makes me lie down and puts the steamer rug over my legs. Nothing fits and yet everything makes sense. Fleeing, kissing, killing, all rational and all impossible. He’s saying it’s all right. My eyes are closing. But I must remember.
Is this how the world is saved, not with a bang but with Bovril and lies?