Uh, hi. It's been a long week. Um, I wrote this in an hour at 11PM. Again. Didn't proofread it. Didn't sleep on it before uploading, like I should've. I'm sleep deprived, so this is probably Really Bad. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and take this down if no one's read it and then do some actual editing...

You should probably read 'flowers in time' before reading this. It'll make a little more sense that way.

First try writing a song fic. The song is "I Don't Quite Remember" by Beth Crowley (it 'premiered' or whatever today, and I listened to it and cried, and my brain that was quite clearly not in its right state came up with this).

For once, it doesn't matter that I can't submit more than four characters on this website.


The image is discolored now

Like a photograph that's fading over time.

He's been alive for a while, and-and he's kind of tired.

"Stand up straight," chastises one of the only people he can trust anymore. He's a vampire. Likes high heels and capes. He's immortal. "You slouch now. It's so unbecoming."

He does slouch now. He ignores the admonishment. He's tired, give him a break. Trying to bridge the millennium-old chasm between humans and vampires and werewolves (it turns out that the Sirius tribe wasn't the only one, and he was happy once, and then it just became another struggle to add to his collection) is exhausting. Oh, and add to that trying to learn piano on his down time (which he has none of).

How long has it been? He tries not to look at the dates now, though he can't help a glimpse here and there. It becomes sort of a paranoia-like fear. He drifts away from the mortals and gravitates towards the vampires, because they don't age, so they don't really keep track of the time, and he doesn't want to keep track of the time anymore. It just keeps reminding him.

When I think I'm ready to move on,

I find another trace of you.

He feels obliged to, but he doesn't really need to anymore. They're doing fine. The sprawling ranch-style home cobbled together in rural Ireland has been fully rebuilt since some of the vampires who didn't support him burned it down in retaliation, targeting his family to get him to lash out-

It almost worked.

He felt a bit like a stalker, watching them from the trees surrounding their home, but he's just doing what he can, since he couldn't do anything when it counted.

Ginger hair everywhere, for god's sake. Playing catch, rolling around in the field, being a family. One of the older ones catches the other in a friendly chokehold, ruffling his hair; none of them notice the shadow that detaches itself from the trees and leaves, shoulders hunched.

Ginger hair everywhere, but there's so little left of those cheerful amber eyes, and the warm, boisterous laugh that sounded like it could carry for miles.

They're doing fine too, running that little family restaurant in a sleepy little town on the coast of Spain. The waves lapping at the soft sand smells like salt. He keeps his hood up; after all these years, he still doesn't have much of a complexion for tanning.

He takes a seat that's near the door by instinct now, sighing at himself internally as he does so. As long as he's alive, he'll have to run and run and run, but it's not like his body's going to give out anytime soon, so he'll keep on running; it's on autopilot by this point, and he's sort of sick of it.

A cheerful young man with dusky skin and dark hair takes his order and leaves, chattering up a storm of Spanish. How many years has it been now? He's surprised the place is still being run by the same family, handed down from generation to generation. He shouldn't be surprised, though; they share the same blood, the same fierce determination to see things through all the way to the end.

A corner of my mind you still can haunt.

On one occasion, he visits human society, walks streets that he once could without being wanted for this thing in his eyeball that makes him a god or a devil.

Clapping and appreciative murmurs catch his attention. Curious for anything to take his mind off things, he drifts his way towards the noise.

He jerks to a dead stop in the middle of the road at the soft, sweet strain of violin music; it sings straight into his tired heart; the bars and the notes fly off the sheets and wrap themselves tight around the sluggishly beating muscle, squeezing and squeezing-

He almost gets hit by a car that day, but he can't care less.

(He's finding it harder and harder by the day to care less)

During the day, I'll be alright.

But it's a different story at night.

I get lonely.

For months after Dogville, he woke up in cold sweats, his little seven-year-old lungs dragging breath after breath of air that wasn't thick with smoke and the scent of burning homes and flesh. He still did years and years after, he still sometimes does, he just learned to bear it by himself in silence.

In a way, he's glad he didn't see them die, and he also feels like a bloody coward for it. He should've been there in their last moments. They were his family. But it hurt enough when he watched his mother close her eyes for the last time as her heart stopped beathing. It hurt enough when his brother crumbled to glowing ash in his hands and then when those blew away in the wind too, he just didn't want to feel that pain ever again. So he stayed away, and regretted it deeply each time.

He still leaves flowers. Some of his few trusted advisors roll their eyes, but he ignores them. He's the Ark. He's a god to some and a devil to most. What use is he if he can't even remember to pay respects to his family when they fought side by side once, bled for each other, were there for each other, alone together?

And it hits me then.

The mortal brain isn't meant to hold on this long, though. He's fine, his mind functions just fine (well, as fine as he can be, he's so goddamn tired all the time), he can make rational decisions and everything, but they're slipping away.

I don't quite remember

All the little angles of your smile.

Their determination and their warmth. Their tears and the hopelessness that they would hold back when there was something to be done.

It hurt, every single time, when he heard, and realized that he'd never see them again. A neat matching set of serrated knives, embedded deep into his heart, weighing it down with grief.

It's been a while.

It hurts even more when he wakes up one day, and realizes that he can't quite remember.

He can't quite remember the feel of their hands in his.

The echoes of their laughter. The facets of their gazes.

Thought that I'd always remember.

They're still here, they have to still be here. Humans always say that those you love never leave your heart, so long as they never leave your memory. Right? Right?

So he has to keep remembering, but he's so tired now, and it's so hard to keep going.

He has to. He's bled for this world, and they did too, they bled their lives out for this world, and he's going to make it right. He's going to make it a world they can all be proud of.

Dorothea. Fallon. Philip. Professor Willard. Mother. Father.

Mikhail.

How long will it take, though? Can he do it before-

But I don't quite remember.

-turns into

I can't remember.


I'm going to sleep now.