Illana was crying.
It's not as though such a thing is incredibly rare, but she was trying to be quiet, silent, to not worry her companions and her friends. After all, there was no reason that they should have to hear her sobs. She had ruined so many lives already, practically murdered her father and her people…why should she be allowed to cause anyone else pain or sadness? They shouldn't know about the tears running down her cheeks like rainstorms, about the pain that would forever haunt her.
But at least she was alive.
"I've made it hear," she whispered to herself, "And that's all that matters."
She felt her heart cracking, and the pain of it made her sobs a little louder, made her eyes a little redder, killed her a little more inside. She was alive. And her family was dead. Pointless. Stupid. Pathetic.
She punched the wall then, enjoying the feeling that the textured wall made on her skin, the little etching lines that it made on her knuckles. She hit it again, and again, until her hands ached and then until she stopped feeling anything at all.
Then, she smashed her fist into the mirror instead, unable to bare the sight of her own reflection any longer.
The glass danced up her arm, cutting, cutting into her pale skin all the way to her elbow. White skin red blood deep pain good pain sadness stupid stupid stupid death white skin dripping blood door open yelling no why go so sleep…
She slammed her other fist into the mirror, and he couldn't catch her in time to stop her.
"Go to bed, Lance," she whispered. "Just go to bed."
"Ilana, stop it! You're hurting yourself, you're bleeding, your father told me to protect you-"
"MY FATHER IS DEAD!"
There was silence for a long time.
"And I, I, the beacon of hope and life and purity…I left him to die." She turned away, slamming her fist into what was left of the glass just to spite him and her father and everything that had happened, and this time her hand pushing through the wood that held the reflective pool, splinters and chips everywhere…
"Ilana!" he yelled, grabbing her arm and pulling her away. "Stop it! You're being an idiot!" He pulled her close to him, recklessly close, passionate and urgent and angry close. "Whether your father is dead or not, he would not have to hurting yourself!" he yelled at her, and his face was close to hers, so close…
"Shut up! You have no idea what it's like! To know that your father is gone because you were to cowardly and weak and stupid to help hi—"
"Ilana!" he yelled, and his voice was so biting and sharp that she pulled back from him, but he didn't loosen his tight grip on her wrist. "Ilana," he said again, more gently. "Ilana, your father loved you. He loved you so much that he was willing to risk death for you. Be thankful for that." Ilana looked at him blankly, almost unable to believe that he was saying things this…deep. "Don't question it. Don't hate it. And don't hate yourself. Don't sully his memory and his love for you by doing ..." he took her hand more gently, showing her the many cuts on her arms, "this."
She looked down at her lap, allowing her mind to observe his words. She was silent for several minutes. Lance was right. She'd been a fool. And she wanted to keep being a fool, wanted to allow herself to drown in and be sustained by the self-pity, but she wouldn't, couldn't and refused to. "Thank you," she whispered.
She couldn't see it, but he smiled. "You're welcome. Let's get you bandaged up, and then we'll go to bed."
But they sat there for a long moment, still stupidly close, still holding tightly to each other. Both of them wanted something, but neither knew what, and they wouldn't have known how to ask for it even if they had.
Lance stood first, taking her with him and pulling her gently to the bathroom. He sat her down on the closed toilet while he rummaged through the cabinets and found what they needed. She winced and whimpered when he rubbed disinfectant into her self-inflicted wounds, but the wrapping itself was silent, quick and tender, full of nervous smiles.
Then he led her back to her room. It seemed natural that he would crawl into her bed after she did, and neither questioned it.
She didn't know when, but at some point she'd cuddled up again him, and he'd wrapped his arms around her waist, and then their lips had brushed – on complete and total accident, they would later insist – and then they had let them brush again, for longer this time, and then, then they kissed each other, hard and deep and needy and selfish and giving and wonderful and painful. Neither wanted to pull away, but eventually they did. And there was more nervous smiling and giggling and little kisses and finally they said goodnight.
When Octus had found them in the morning, he had just been happy to find them with their clothes on. He had learned that, on this planet, that was rare.
E/N: Oh wow. I seriously need to stop with these angsty depressing little one-shots. Seriously. I mean, do I ever do happy stuff? From the stuff I write, you'd think I'm hopelessly depressed. xD But it was fluffy and cute and funny at the end.
I do that a lot too, I've noticed. Write depressing/angsty/serious oneshots and then give them comedically cute endings.
I think I just have this strange fetish with depressed/pissed off Ilana. She's so cool when she gets like that. I mean, she's cool always, but…y'know. xD
But there's like, what, TWO stories with this couple and that just wasn't acceptable. Nope nope nope. So I wrote this. This was written in one sitting, and I'm so tired I think I'm gonna collapse on my keyboard in a matter of minutes, so…
I'm thinking of doing a longer one with multiple chapters, one where Ilana goes insane. Cos that would be fun, y'know? xD
In case anyone cares, I listened to Gomensasai by T.a.t.u., Headlock by Imogen Heap, Everything by Alanis Morisette, and You Found Me by Kelly Clarkson.