![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snooWord Count: 1200
Summary: i was sad. i wrote fic. it's sad.
don't write things when you're sad
kinda feel like throwing up now
The weirdest thing about being dead, Jon found, was that he wasn't upset at all. He wasn't sad, nor happy, or even angry. In fact, it had taken a fair amount of thinking to even remember what feeling was like, and when he had felt the echoes of heartbreak from the memories of his prior life he was glad he couldn't anymore. He thought it was a bit like suspended animation, his life—or, lack of it, rather—now. He could go wherever he wanted to go and do whatever he wanted to do and watch the real world in it's haze of the living go on just as it always had and will, as he stayed the same. Unfeeling and uncaring and—dead.
Perhaps uncaring was the wrong word, though, because there was one thing that pulled at the memory of his stomach. A niggling in his mind that made him ache constantly, and when he decided to follow it he found his grave.
On second thought, the weirdest thing about being dead was looking at your own grave. The numbers scrawled after the hyphen in front of his birth date seemed unreal to him, as they were written right below his own name. Jon knew he was dead; he knew how he died and where he died and how many people came to his funeral, yet he was still here. He could still walk and talk and think, but then he could see his own body empty and cold deep in the earth and that made his memories go fuzzy and his feet would lose the ground and he had to drag himself away before—well, he didn't really know what would happen but it didn't feel right. He wasn't ready to—go on.
Wherever on was Jon thought, staring up at the sky that looked less blue and more grey every time the sun came up again. He knew he was supposed to let go of this world, because he clearly wasn't supposed to have stayed. According to the clock outside of the bank he passed every day as he made his way to his own personal heaven of an old school arcade with every cabinet he could ever want, it had been nearly a year since he died. It didn't really feel that long to Jon, he would have guessed it at about a month or so, but time seemed to slip away from him now. He had to pull himself back down to earth a lot more often now, even when he was just playing in the arcade.
It scared him a lot more, though, because it didn't feel quite so wrong anymore. Every time he felt himself leaving, felt the world around him falling into a even deeper haze than it was already, it felt a bit like a warm hand had taken hold of his arm so that he wouldn't get lost and be alone forever. That touch, that familiar warmth of another—living—being was something he knew he hadn't felt in a long, long time.
But that was also what made him pull away and force his spirit back down into the mortal world. It made him remember what the niggling in his mind was really trying to tell him. As soon as Jon found the ground again he saw him, through the walls of the empty arcade that had been foreclosed on and barren for nearly thirty years. He was walking to his car, arms full of groceries, and Jon automatically started moving towards him. He walked right through the walls of the old building, jogged across the parking lot as cars whizzed through him, and sprinted up to Arin with the memory of tears endlessly falling from his eyes.
Jon stood in front of him and put his hand right through Arin's chest and touched his heart. He grabbed it and he squeezed and the bags in Arin's arms hit the pavement hard, sending the contents everywhere.
"Jon?" Arin said, voice barely above a whisper. His looked around frantically, eyes sweeping right over Jon every time. Jon was calling his name, screaming it, touching Arin's face and feeling the weight of his own heart like he was alive again, but it didn't make him any more so and his hands passed right through the skin he knew was warm and soft and alive. Arin stumbled back, hugging his own torso like he was freezing even though it was a bright summer day, and Jon could see the redness around his eyes from tears he hadn't noticed were falling.
"Jon—Jon if that's you, please, don't do this to me," Arin pleaded with him, looking at a spot in the air far to Jon's right. "I can't hold on to you forever Jon, I'm still alive," his voice was cracking and he stopped to swallow a sob before he could continue. "I miss you so fucking bad. I've missed you every day and I won't stop missing you, but I can't—I can't keep torturing myself like this."
The longer Arin talked, the more the immobilizing weight in Jon's chest lifted. The world that had been so sharp and clear for the moment was going hazy again and the only thing Jon could really make out was Arin. He didn't touch him again, though, he couldn't--he knew the next time he lifted his feet he wasn't going to be able to put them back down.
"I need to... I need to let you go, Jon." Jon had to strain to still hear Arin now, everything around him was so dark and intrusive and he just wanted to leave. The familiar warmth brushed against the back of his hand and he turned, away from Arin, and started to reach out to the crack in hazy air.
Arin shivered one last time as the warmth of the sun hit him again and the unusual chill dissipated. He stepped over the forgotten groceries on the ground and slid into his car, giving the bouquet of orange and yellow flowers sitting in the passengers seat the first look since he had put them in his car that morning and avoided them since. It didn't seem nearly so hard, now, and he even smiled a bit as he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way to the cemetery.
Jon's grave had haunted his nightmares for so long that even the thought of coming here again sent him into a panic attack, but the air was light as he walked across the uneven ground towards it and he only cried a little as he replaced the long since wilted flowers at the base.
"A whole year. You waited for me a whole year and I was too busy pitying myself to notice," Arin said, staring at the light letters of his name standing out starkly from the dark granite. He laughed, genuinely, for the first time since then. "I hope you won't forget about me whenever you get where you're going. I might be a little late to the party."
Arin brushed the hot tear out of the corner of his eye and smiled at Jon one last time.
"I'll see you later, Jon."
Summary: i was sad. i wrote fic. it's sad.
don't write things when you're sad
kinda feel like throwing up now
The weirdest thing about being dead, Jon found, was that he wasn't upset at all. He wasn't sad, nor happy, or even angry. In fact, it had taken a fair amount of thinking to even remember what feeling was like, and when he had felt the echoes of heartbreak from the memories of his prior life he was glad he couldn't anymore. He thought it was a bit like suspended animation, his life—or, lack of it, rather—now. He could go wherever he wanted to go and do whatever he wanted to do and watch the real world in it's haze of the living go on just as it always had and will, as he stayed the same. Unfeeling and uncaring and—dead.
Perhaps uncaring was the wrong word, though, because there was one thing that pulled at the memory of his stomach. A niggling in his mind that made him ache constantly, and when he decided to follow it he found his grave.
On second thought, the weirdest thing about being dead was looking at your own grave. The numbers scrawled after the hyphen in front of his birth date seemed unreal to him, as they were written right below his own name. Jon knew he was dead; he knew how he died and where he died and how many people came to his funeral, yet he was still here. He could still walk and talk and think, but then he could see his own body empty and cold deep in the earth and that made his memories go fuzzy and his feet would lose the ground and he had to drag himself away before—well, he didn't really know what would happen but it didn't feel right. He wasn't ready to—go on.
Wherever on was Jon thought, staring up at the sky that looked less blue and more grey every time the sun came up again. He knew he was supposed to let go of this world, because he clearly wasn't supposed to have stayed. According to the clock outside of the bank he passed every day as he made his way to his own personal heaven of an old school arcade with every cabinet he could ever want, it had been nearly a year since he died. It didn't really feel that long to Jon, he would have guessed it at about a month or so, but time seemed to slip away from him now. He had to pull himself back down to earth a lot more often now, even when he was just playing in the arcade.
It scared him a lot more, though, because it didn't feel quite so wrong anymore. Every time he felt himself leaving, felt the world around him falling into a even deeper haze than it was already, it felt a bit like a warm hand had taken hold of his arm so that he wouldn't get lost and be alone forever. That touch, that familiar warmth of another—living—being was something he knew he hadn't felt in a long, long time.
But that was also what made him pull away and force his spirit back down into the mortal world. It made him remember what the niggling in his mind was really trying to tell him. As soon as Jon found the ground again he saw him, through the walls of the empty arcade that had been foreclosed on and barren for nearly thirty years. He was walking to his car, arms full of groceries, and Jon automatically started moving towards him. He walked right through the walls of the old building, jogged across the parking lot as cars whizzed through him, and sprinted up to Arin with the memory of tears endlessly falling from his eyes.
Jon stood in front of him and put his hand right through Arin's chest and touched his heart. He grabbed it and he squeezed and the bags in Arin's arms hit the pavement hard, sending the contents everywhere.
"Jon?" Arin said, voice barely above a whisper. His looked around frantically, eyes sweeping right over Jon every time. Jon was calling his name, screaming it, touching Arin's face and feeling the weight of his own heart like he was alive again, but it didn't make him any more so and his hands passed right through the skin he knew was warm and soft and alive. Arin stumbled back, hugging his own torso like he was freezing even though it was a bright summer day, and Jon could see the redness around his eyes from tears he hadn't noticed were falling.
"Jon—Jon if that's you, please, don't do this to me," Arin pleaded with him, looking at a spot in the air far to Jon's right. "I can't hold on to you forever Jon, I'm still alive," his voice was cracking and he stopped to swallow a sob before he could continue. "I miss you so fucking bad. I've missed you every day and I won't stop missing you, but I can't—I can't keep torturing myself like this."
The longer Arin talked, the more the immobilizing weight in Jon's chest lifted. The world that had been so sharp and clear for the moment was going hazy again and the only thing Jon could really make out was Arin. He didn't touch him again, though, he couldn't--he knew the next time he lifted his feet he wasn't going to be able to put them back down.
"I need to... I need to let you go, Jon." Jon had to strain to still hear Arin now, everything around him was so dark and intrusive and he just wanted to leave. The familiar warmth brushed against the back of his hand and he turned, away from Arin, and started to reach out to the crack in hazy air.
Arin shivered one last time as the warmth of the sun hit him again and the unusual chill dissipated. He stepped over the forgotten groceries on the ground and slid into his car, giving the bouquet of orange and yellow flowers sitting in the passengers seat the first look since he had put them in his car that morning and avoided them since. It didn't seem nearly so hard, now, and he even smiled a bit as he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way to the cemetery.
Jon's grave had haunted his nightmares for so long that even the thought of coming here again sent him into a panic attack, but the air was light as he walked across the uneven ground towards it and he only cried a little as he replaced the long since wilted flowers at the base.
"A whole year. You waited for me a whole year and I was too busy pitying myself to notice," Arin said, staring at the light letters of his name standing out starkly from the dark granite. He laughed, genuinely, for the first time since then. "I hope you won't forget about me whenever you get where you're going. I might be a little late to the party."
Arin brushed the hot tear out of the corner of his eye and smiled at Jon one last time.
"I'll see you later, Jon."