stilljustandrew (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stilljustandrew) wrote2004-12-24 10:06 am
stilljustandrew) wrote2004-12-24 10:06 am
(no subject)
[After this.]
*The room feels empty, even with him in it. Snow taps at the darkened window like fluttering wings.*
*He doesn't want to think about fluttering wings. He doesn't want to think about much of anything, really. But thinking's a funny thing; it happens whether or not you want it to. Like breathing, or blinking, or crying.*
*Lying fully clothed on the undisputed bed, curled around one of the extra pillows, Andrew watches the walls in the dimness and tries to think about something else.*
*He remembers Delirium's smile over Anakin's shoulder earlier that night, and his hands clench in the pillow. No. Something else. Make it an abstraction, make it a story, make it safe.*
*He remembers an issue of the Sandman comic, two of the Endless debating over which of them a certain human belonged to.*
*Which of them does Andrew Wells belong to?*
*Dream, certainly. Hasn't he spent his whole life immersed in dreams? -- his own, those of others, dreams in paper and celluloid and molded plastic and streaming electrons? Oh, certainly he's one of Dream's.*
*But Dream and Delirium were always close, and he can't forget that blurred sense of belonging to her -- of having once belonged to her, at least a little.*
*The others, now... Destiny has no reason to take any particular interest in him, no more than in anyone else. Death; well, Death likes him as she likes everybody, even knowing what he's done, as she was doubtless the first to know. Destruction, a nodding acquaintance perhaps. Desire --*
*There are so many reasons he doesn't want to think about Desire. And Meg is all of them.*
*It hardly matters. The answer's clear enough.*
*For tonight, at least, Andrew is Despair's.*
*The room feels empty, even with him in it. Snow taps at the darkened window like fluttering wings.*
*He doesn't want to think about fluttering wings. He doesn't want to think about much of anything, really. But thinking's a funny thing; it happens whether or not you want it to. Like breathing, or blinking, or crying.*
*Lying fully clothed on the undisputed bed, curled around one of the extra pillows, Andrew watches the walls in the dimness and tries to think about something else.*
*He remembers Delirium's smile over Anakin's shoulder earlier that night, and his hands clench in the pillow. No. Something else. Make it an abstraction, make it a story, make it safe.*
*He remembers an issue of the Sandman comic, two of the Endless debating over which of them a certain human belonged to.*
*Which of them does Andrew Wells belong to?*
*Dream, certainly. Hasn't he spent his whole life immersed in dreams? -- his own, those of others, dreams in paper and celluloid and molded plastic and streaming electrons? Oh, certainly he's one of Dream's.*
*But Dream and Delirium were always close, and he can't forget that blurred sense of belonging to her -- of having once belonged to her, at least a little.*
*The others, now... Destiny has no reason to take any particular interest in him, no more than in anyone else. Death; well, Death likes him as she likes everybody, even knowing what he's done, as she was doubtless the first to know. Destruction, a nodding acquaintance perhaps. Desire --*
*There are so many reasons he doesn't want to think about Desire. And Meg is all of them.*
*It hardly matters. The answer's clear enough.*
*For tonight, at least, Andrew is Despair's.*
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