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shinonFandom: Final Fantasy VI
Characters: Edgar, minor Sabin
Word count: ~450
Warnings: Imminent death
Notes: Pre-canon Figaro angst because I like that stuff.
This room is stifling all the time now; the king is too sick to keep up his own body heat. His hand on the coverlet is cold - but this has to be a good sign, right? The dead come to room temperature. If he's colder than that, surely, it must be some active process. He's not dead. He might not die in the next three hours. He might not die tonight, or even tomorrow. But die he will, and then everything's going to change, very fast. In that sense these long nights are a mercy. You can slice them up fine and look at every smallest fraction of a second and say to yourself, Good, here's one where it hasn't happened yet. We still live in the world before it happened.
Edgar brought a bunch of papers in with him, because he always brings a bunch of papers, because sitting around in case this is the night when it happens is still sitting around. If he didn't have something to do he would go insane. Only then doing something always starts to feel too callous. And then it turns out he's not callous enough to manage, when he tries. He can't focus. He has to keep stopping, and looking up, and making sure his father is still breathing.
In the earlier days of the affliction, when Dad was conscious more often, they'd talk. Who knows if they will again, before he dies? Maybe that's better - maybe it's better if Edgar doesn't pull out this stack of suits and countersuits over water rights and ask "What were your plans?" or "How am I supposed to manage all of this?" That can't be their last conversation. Death is a logistical problem, but you can't say so. What good does it do to remind someone how much you'll miss them? It's not like he has a choice.
Sabin came in, last night, and stood wavering in the doorway, letting in a draft. He stared at Dad, and then at Edgar, and then at Dad again, and asked the obvious questions in a choked voice. He touched Dad's hand, and then recoiled, and then knelt down by the bed sobbing, and then - "I can't do this," he said, as he left, almost fainting from the heat. "I can't."
And you think I can? Edgar didn't say, and still doesn't. He avoids the thought. He can't remember ever being sincerely angry at his brother, and he doesn't want to start. Not now.
Anyway, he can. He's doing it now, isn't he? He inches his chair a little closer to the bed, in case he's needed. He watches. It hasn't happened yet.
Characters: Edgar, minor Sabin
Word count: ~450
Warnings: Imminent death
Notes: Pre-canon Figaro angst because I like that stuff.
This room is stifling all the time now; the king is too sick to keep up his own body heat. His hand on the coverlet is cold - but this has to be a good sign, right? The dead come to room temperature. If he's colder than that, surely, it must be some active process. He's not dead. He might not die in the next three hours. He might not die tonight, or even tomorrow. But die he will, and then everything's going to change, very fast. In that sense these long nights are a mercy. You can slice them up fine and look at every smallest fraction of a second and say to yourself, Good, here's one where it hasn't happened yet. We still live in the world before it happened.
Edgar brought a bunch of papers in with him, because he always brings a bunch of papers, because sitting around in case this is the night when it happens is still sitting around. If he didn't have something to do he would go insane. Only then doing something always starts to feel too callous. And then it turns out he's not callous enough to manage, when he tries. He can't focus. He has to keep stopping, and looking up, and making sure his father is still breathing.
In the earlier days of the affliction, when Dad was conscious more often, they'd talk. Who knows if they will again, before he dies? Maybe that's better - maybe it's better if Edgar doesn't pull out this stack of suits and countersuits over water rights and ask "What were your plans?" or "How am I supposed to manage all of this?" That can't be their last conversation. Death is a logistical problem, but you can't say so. What good does it do to remind someone how much you'll miss them? It's not like he has a choice.
Sabin came in, last night, and stood wavering in the doorway, letting in a draft. He stared at Dad, and then at Edgar, and then at Dad again, and asked the obvious questions in a choked voice. He touched Dad's hand, and then recoiled, and then knelt down by the bed sobbing, and then - "I can't do this," he said, as he left, almost fainting from the heat. "I can't."
And you think I can? Edgar didn't say, and still doesn't. He avoids the thought. He can't remember ever being sincerely angry at his brother, and he doesn't want to start. Not now.
Anyway, he can. He's doing it now, isn't he? He inches his chair a little closer to the bed, in case he's needed. He watches. It hasn't happened yet.
