Remember all those obnoxious plot seeds that I was talking about? You know, the ones that never grow past that part of their life?
This is my home for them.
(P.S. - "L'ennui" means roughly "the annoyance" or "the bothersome thing" in French.
She hated the sunrise. When she was younger, she loved it. She woke up every morning to watch the magnificent arc it made as it stretched across the sky, reminding that she had a whole more day to live, to enjoy living, to be alive.
She loved the sunset. When she was younger, she hated it. She made sure to stay away from any windows and planted herself firmly in her room, curtains drawn, often allowing herself to drift to sleep before the sun had even settled. She hated to see the day end, hated the reminder that time in life is limited, hated that, someday, there wouldn't be anymore sunrises or the days that followed.
She slept in now, not stirring from her bed until late in the morning, when she was sure the sun was fully up, usually shining through her window, her curtains flung open from when she had fallen asleep watching the sunset.
He'd always annoyed her, kind of like the sunset, when she was younger. He loved the sunset. It was like he was okay with the fact that he had nothing to look forward to with the beginning of every new day.
It was like they'd switched roles when…
She shivered and drew her thick covers around her shoulders and across her chest. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she sighed and bit back an ironic, dry laugh. She spared a quick glance at the clock—eleven thirty, it informed her brightly, every day—closed her eyes, and fell back into her pillows.
They still reeked of him.
She should wash them, she knows, but she can't bring herself to part with that scent, disgusting as it is. She changes the cases, but never cleans her actual pillows—the scent has long since been absorbed into the soft cotton inside, and she is afraid to rinse it out. She likes it, that sickly sweet smell of oil and cigarette and sweat, though she isn't sure why. She forced herself to roll over, sitting up, this time dropping the covers. They fall to her knees, pale and scarred here and there, but smooth, as she watches, and for some reason that she can never explain, the action reminds her of him.
Stretching, she finally put her feet onto the floor, throwing the blankets off, and shivered at the cold. God, she hated Callisto.
He loved the sunrise. If anyone had asked him just a year ago, he would have stated the opposite. He'd hated it back then, it only served as an exquisitely painful reminder that he was, somehow, still alive, and that he had no reason to be so. It wasn't that he was particularly suicidal; he just no longer saw the point in living when everything was gone anyway. It was a certain kind of depression, the kind where one is perfectly aware of the problems and the solution, but is unable or, indeed, unwilling to do anything about it.
He hated, now, to see the sunset. After dying he became acutely aware of what it meant to live, and he abhorred the day's end for that very reason—life seemed to pause at night, when everyone went to sleep. He was tired of putting his life on hold in respect for the few hours of darkness, because a few hours might as well be a lifetime. He'd never realized how much time he wasted sleeping until he began to stay up.
Sometimes he wondered what they were doing now, without him around. Were they still all together? What happened?
But he couldn't bring himself to go back.
She fnally ileft a year after he did. She wanted to get on with her life. She wanted to get away. She wanted to forget about all of it.
She rented a shitty apartment in a shitty neighborhood in a shitty city on some shitty moon. Not even a real planet, just a moon. It was cheaper. She got a job at a bar, a topless place, but she was just a bartender. Jet didn't believe her, but it was the truth. She stayed fully clothed all night as she watched the men watching the other girls lose theirs. She didn't talk to the dancers, they reminded her too much of her. But she was younger then.
She's so much older than that now.
He wasn't sure why he'd come here, of all places. It was a dive, he'd gotten used to more upscale establishments. He was getting soft, he thought, and he walked in. He saw the pretty girls dancing from the window, that was it. Pretty girls dancing and the promise of "A GOOD TIME!" that was stamped on the sign.
But he could see that the girls were hardly alive at all. They all had eyes that looked around the room without seeing anything at all. Like he did when he was younger. When he was stupid.
He could admit that now without feeling stupid. He'd wasted too much time feeling sorry for himself. Wasted too much time on her. But he wasn't doing that anymore. He moved on. He was alive now.
He saw someone who looked like someone he might now across the room. It was like they were a million miles away. But it was tunnel-vision, almost, and his feet dragged him up to the bar against his will.
"Bartender. I'd like a whiskey, please."
Oh, he was casual, to be sure.
She almost dropped a glass when she saw him but she caught herself and smirked instead. No use letting 'em see you sweat, Poker Alice.
"Coming right up, sir." He had a new suit, that was the first thing she noticed. A nice one, instead of that ugly blue rumpled one he always wore back then. Something like she vaguely remembered her daddy wearing when he came home from work and she sat on his feet, gripping his leg, and he walked with her.
No, she didn't really recognize this man. He had scars on his hand and a few smaller ones on his face. She was surprised to see that he didn't have two fake eyes now, instead of one, and she tells him so as she pours his whiskey into a glass.
He raises an eyebrow and drinks it one gulp, but doesn't answer. She guesses that there really wasn't much to say to that, after all. She remarks on his new suit, he says he got a damn lucrative offer and he took it, because he's always been a man of opportunity.
Doing what, she asks, leading another syndicate?
No, he answers and for once he sounds serious. Bringing them down.
She leaves when he does and she knows that she'll be in trouble for not timing out and leaving early without asking but she thinks that she doesn't really care.
It was all such an annoyance anyway.