dolevalan | Fic: Love and Misery

Title: Love and Misery
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: PG
A/N: Duly inspired by

rougen's "Not Even Love" and her prompt "Love and Misery." Song lyrics by Tobias Fröberg.

The best in me
Look at us and try to see
Look at me
I'm your love and misery

She still had his shirt. It wouldn’t fit him now, if she could even bring herself to give it back. Instead, she curled up on the bed with it, fingers absently stroking the impossibly soft fabric. It still smelled of saltwater; there was still a little sand, stowing away in the folds. It didn’t really smell like him anymore. She wasn’t still in love with him, if she’d ever been. But she didn’t try to pretend she didn’t still miss him. She thought of that night, sometimes, of watching the sunrise through blurry, sleepless eyes, his arms around her. It had been madness, but she had needed something to want. Even something impossible. And though she had been weak with him… she had always been herself. She had never hidden.

She buried her face in his shirt and wished she didn’t miss him so damn much.

The best in you
I understand what you can do
Understand me
I'm your love and misery

She still had the necklace. Her fingers traced the cut-gem forget-me-nots, as if memorizing the feel of their shapes. She’d never expected more than he’d given. It had been the best he could manage, once all the props were kicked out from the lie of her love. Anger, hurt. He’d never understood that she’d been trying to give him something too. To encourage the shred of decency she knew was tucked away at the heart of him. But to be honest… it was too much to expect. And part of it had been selfish. Even knowing it was a lie, hearing someone say the things he’d said… she’d wanted that. Craved it, though it was too hollow to give her true satisfaction. She’d just wanted to be what brought out the best of him. But that had been too much to ask. She didn’t miss the lie. But she missed the warmth she’d stolen for herself, if only for a moment.

Her fingers pressed hard enough against the stones that they left little red patterns in her fingertips.

You may go
It's okay, restless as you are
Rest with me
I'm your love and misery

He hadn’t given her a thing. A rose, once, that withered and she threw out a few days later. She’d not even bothered to dry it. He’d never given her a word of false hope, a glance out of place, a touch that she didn’t know what it was for. They weren’t in love; they’d never been, and they never would be. That wasn’t what it was about. She wasn’t sure anymore what it was about. Care? Redemption? Just touch, perhaps. But he never stayed. He was forever leaving just before she wanted him to. Perhaps that’s what it was. Maybe it was just that he’d been the first. Years ago, now, but then it would have taken so little, to make her feel. To make her care. A kiss – a touch of danger. Darkness… warmth. Low words that weren’t lies but were never honest, over dry red wine.

She wrapped her empty arms around herself, and resolved not to think of it anymore.

This is true
I am fragile just like you
You and me
We are love and misery

She still had the feathers, though she seldom looked at them these days. The pain had transformed itself into a hollow ache. It had been over now much longer than it had lasted. And if she could bring herself to be objectively honest, there had been a great number of things about it that didn’t work. Even beyond his divided heart… The feel of light wind still made her shiver in a way that had little to do with temperature. The smell of rainwater could make her catch her breath. Loneliness was still indigo, flecked with silver, in her mind. But they had both lost so much. The two people who’d loved, who’d cared… they didn’t truly exist anymore. At the time, each had seen the other as strong. It was only now, with distance, she could understand her own strength – and how there had been a part of him to equal her own weakness. She would always love him. But she knew she’d never truly hold on to him, and she wasn’t sure she could take that now, as she had been able to then.

Every now and then, she would open the box of keepsakes, touch them one by one, and breathe the scent of a love long lost. But then she would close the box, wrap herself back in her relative solitude, and go about the business of living her life. There was nothing else to be done.