and they won't let us outside anymore {for

[at_one_blow]

They smile when they say things like 'stable.' 'Healthy.' 'Improving.' He smiles back because he doesn't know what else he's meant to do with his face.

It's the only time he smiles these days.

It's a nice facility, really. The government hadn't skimped on making his prison a comfortable one. Some piece of his mind that hovers in 'stable' and 'healthy' and 'improving' appreciates that--or finds it ironic.

Most pieces of his mind are still quietly screaming, quietly scrambling to cling together over the cracks realization had left. Looking for six more pieces of himself that shouldn't be missing.

But they smile. They smile and tell him he can have visitors now. He smiles back absently and returns to his sketches as he sits in the common room, waiting for visitors who won't come.

Not allowed shears. Not even allowed needles.

The dresses he draws are beautiful and completely unsatisfying.

Comments

[spintosurvive]

It's ironic, really, that all those times of her memory 'slipping' when they still believed in the fable have actually made her stronger; made it easier, at least, to reconcile who they'd been told they were with who they're supposed to be. Others weren't so lucky.

He wasn't so lucky.

It breaks her heart to have to wait until he's 'stable' to be allowed to see him. She wishes she were able to help him every step of the way, like he'd tried to for her.

But she's here now. She's able to settle into a chair beside him as he sketches dresses that are lovely, for certain, but nothing like the stuff out of fairytales that he used to make.

It takes a moment to work up enough of a smile so she can manage the greeting, "...Hi."

Please let him remember her.

[at_one_blow]

Bodies mean so little. Bodies come and bodies go and he has enough to spare so--

One. Everybody has one body. He knows that.

A body across the table doesn't mean much. The other patients flit in and out and around in spaces like this, never have anything much to say before drifting on again in the same half-dream the medication keeps them all in. Makes them 'even.' 'Stable.' Smile in a quiet dead way when they're prompted to.

The word is nothing. It's the voice that makes his charcoal stop, his eyes flit up. For a moment, they're intelligent. For a moment, he recognizes...

Who? Who can he possibly recognize? He's not real. His life hasn't been real. His memories aren't real.

His lips part to tell the half-memory she's not real, then close again. It's easier when his attention drops back to the paper. "... 've not got any deals today."

[spintosurvive]

It helps a little to see the flicker of recognition, even though it dies away almost instantly. She wonders if this was how it felt for him, when she didn't recall who he was.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes dropping at his words.

"That's-- that's okay. I've... never been very good with deals."

He knew that, didn't he? Or he did, once.

[at_one_blow]

For half a second, he swears the words mean something.

The charcoal stutters in his fingers, leaves a black ugly mark across the dress. It sets his brow furrowing before he crumples the paper. Just a little violent, just a little of his old frenetic energy; mostly just a bland haze.

"'s weird." The charcoal is less certain on the page as he starts again. "Everyone's good at deals."

[spintosurvive]

She still sees him; bits of him, anyways. It's a hopeful sign. He's not all lost, the part of him that's distinctly him and not all wrapped up in the fairytale or lack thereof. She can work with this.

"Not everyone." It's hard to keep her voice light, but somehow she manages. "Mine have a history of landing me in all sorts of trouble."

[at_one_blow]

The sketchiness of his work is likely familiar to her. The skirt is a little fuller. The bodice has a little more of a pattern to it.

His fingers take a moment to slow to a pause. His eyes stay largely blank as he lets his gaze drift up to her face again.

"...you have a story?"

He's so rarely allowed stories these days. Just facts. Facts and truths.

[spintosurvive]

It's familiar enough that she manages to keep the smile even though the blankness of his eyes cuts at her heart.

"I do. Plenty of stories, in fact. Some of them are real and some of them-- some of them aren't. But they all have a little bit of truth in them."

[at_one_blow]

Panic isn't new. Panic is an emotion, even, real and sharp and gone after a heartbeat.

"--real ones."

He needs to hear real things. They keep telling him that. And when he forgets, when he thinks Make Believe is real, they take away charcoal. They take away sitting with other people. He stares holes into his wall and can barely think for the daze the drugs set him in.

"Only-- allowed real ones."

[spintosurvive]

Her hand stretches out almost instantly, wanting to touch him but uncertain how he'd respond. She draws away after a few heartbeats. Pulls up another, tired smile.

"That's fine." Her hand comes up to run through her hair just a little fretfully as she thinks on what to tell. It takes another moment before she begins to story closest to her heart.

"I know a girl, and she grew up with a boy who would always take care of her, even if she didn't want to be. And he was very, very good at taking care of her, and many of their friends." A beat, the smile faltering a little before she speaks again, "But he never-- he never really let people take care of him. Until-- until he got sick, and a lot of their friends went away, and the girl promised herself that she'd do her best to show him the same kindness. Because--"

But, no. That's not something she can't say, now.

"--because he's very dear to her heart, and she isn't going to let him go without a fight."

[at_one_blow]

Listening means he can drop his attention back down to the drawing on the table. Listening helps makes the lines longer, the curves gentler. The head on the faceless model he's sketching grows her hair.

Listening... gets harder, for some reason, toward the end.

"...'s a sad story."

[spintosurvive]

Her shoulders lift in a slight shrug, throat working before she can manage to reply.

"I like to think it's going to get happier."

She's never going to stop hoping; it's the one aspect of their fairytale selves that she's never going to lose-- the thought that they'll achieve their happily-ever-afters in the end.

[at_one_blow]

"Don't be stupid."

Maybe the sentiment will cut less in his new, completely dull voice. His eyes don't flick away from the tangles he's sketching into the hair, artful and delicate, clearly demanding attention.

"Real life doesn't end happily."

Because it's not a story. It's real. Stories are stories. He's not in a story.

[spintosurvive]

The dullness of his voice makes it cut worse, in fact. She almost physically flinches away, manages to keep it limited to her face alone.

"But ou-- their lives aren't over yet," she retorts, "And there are plenty of people whose lives had been happy. Things-- things balance out."

She has to believe that.

[at_one_blow]

Balance. It's like 'even.' He doesn't know if he likes 'even.' He doesn't know much of anything these days, beyond the fact the world would make so much more sense if they'd just let him have a needle and some thread.

Sewing was real. Maybe being a Tailor who caught unicorns and slew dragons wasn't, but he'd made clothing. He had a belt. They took it away.

He just wanted to make a new one. Wasn't allowed. How could it end happily without his belt?

His face stays quietly blank as his charcoal scritches over the paper.

[spintosurvive]

For some of them it had been easier to get rid of the reminders. She'd burned all of her straw soon after they'd found out the truth. Almost did the same to the spinning wheel before she thought better of it. She'd heard through the grapevine that Shang had sold his sword.

She can't help the soft sigh that escapes as the silence stretches, before she starts up, rather abruptly, with another story that settles into her mind at the thought of Shang.

"There's another boy and girl I know. All their lives they were told that they were-- destined for one another, and then they found out that they weren't. And it's taken them a long time but they're-- they're starting to realize that just because they aren't destiny doesn't mean that they don't actually love each other. That they can make something new out of who they thought they were and who they are now." Shang Brian and Mulan Li were an inspiration to the rest of them, really. They'd almost ripped apart same as so many of them-- as she and her King Edgar had, although their circumstances were very different-- but they'd realized that some of the love, at least, was still real. Had to be.

And they were trying, and it couldn't help but have her believing that there's still an ever after for them all out there somewhere.

"They're happy. Or they're getting to be, even though it was really-- really bad for a while, and it probably will be again. But they're happy because they're trying to be."

Won't he try to be?

[at_one_blow]

"Stop."

He doesn't know why it upsets him. He can't examine his own emotions without someone explaining them to him, telling him he's Happy. The little crown he'd been detailing onto the sketch's head turns into a thick black scrawl. The paper is shoved away rather than crumpled.

"Why-- are you here?"

He thinks he's Upset. He doesn't like it.

[spintosurvive]

The orderlies are giving her a Look. It's a struggle to keep her voice level, but she has to-- if only so she can stay a little longer.

"Because--" there are so many becauses. Because she promised herself she'd take care of him. Because she doesn't have anyone else. Because she thinks she might love him and might have loved him even before things all went to hell.

She starts with the simplest, "--because friends don't give up on one another. And-- even if you don't remember it-- we're friends."

Family is, perhaps, more accurate, but she can see that even that would be too much for him. That even being friends may be too much for him.

Maybe her being here is too much for him-- but she doesn't want to ponder on that.

[at_one_blow]

It takes a lot to keep him leveled. Even here, with the full funding of government labs and the unfettered access to experimental downers and uppers and cocktails that they wouldn't trust in a less resilient body than one they'd essentially manufactured themselves, it takes a lot to keep the reeling of his mind at bay. They've managed because everything is so bland here. There's no stimulus beyond what he creates with his sketching. They can account for that.

They hadn't accounted for her. They hadn't accounted for the fact that she'd want to save the person he used to be.

The charcoal crumbles in his grip before he shoves himself back from the table. It's easier to remember he's supposed to be breathing if he can curl up, knees to his chest, arms tight around himself.

"I'm-- Aaron."

The Tailor had had friends. He isn't the Tailor. His name is Aaron, and he's an orphan; and he has nothing and no one that isn't a dream.

[spintosurvive]

She starts when he shifts away from the table. The workers are looking like they're about to intervene. She can't take it slowly when she doesn't even know if she'll be able to see him again after this display. Has to rest one hand against his knee.

"Yes." Her fingers tighten just so, "You're Aaron, and I'm Erica. But names really don't mean a thing when it comes to the two of us." They've both had so many after all.

Her other hand caresses at his cheek in the old familiar way, "We're still who we are. I'll remember that while you can't."

Just like he remembered when she didn't.

[at_one_blow]

"I don't--"

His eyes squeeze shut to reboot himself. Focus. Remember to stick in what's Real.

"...I don't know an Erica."

He'd known the Miller's Daughter--in his dream that hadn't been real. Some piece of him knows he'd fought to keep her over someone named Erica. Or maybe he hadn't.

It's too much. It keeps his head ducked down. "I don't... I don't know..."

[spintosurvive]

It hurts. She can feel her heart breaking as she watches him, squeezes his knee again.

"...You do. You just-- It might take a while to remember that."

But she'll come every day if she has to, until he can.

[at_one_blow]

"...remember?"

That gets his attention back. Lifting his face is slow, eyes still guarded and hesitant. He's not supposed to remember so much, after all. Not supposed to remember being something wrong and a lie.

But he wants to. His body craves to. When he can hear it, his heart screams to.

Can't he drag at least one memory out of the wreck of his life? Why not this one? Why not... Erica?

"It's... allowed?"

[spintosurvive]

Her smile is hesitant. Her fingers tremble when she reaches out to touch his cheek again.

"Yes. Yes, it's-- allowed."

By her if no one else.

[at_one_blow]

For half a second, his body knows to lean slightly against her touch. It boggles him a moment later, but for half a second, he remembers something.

"...because..."

Because they're friends, she'd said. It's a little difficult to set into his less than entirely lucid brain.

Erica. Friend.

[spintosurvive]

"Because we're friends," she repeats firmly, hoping that it will stick in before she takes another chance, "Because-- because we're family, Aaron, okay?"

[at_one_blow]

It's a touchy word these days. Learning that--after years of having the Project as his family--he had literally no one at all, biologically, and hadn't since he was a young child had come particularly hard.

"...they said... I don't."

Have family. The Project wasn't a family. It was a squadron. And his parents were dead.

[spintosurvive]

"...They lied." And she hates them more than she thinks she's ever hated anyone before for it, "You've got the best sort of family, I think. Th'sort that you choose."

And, more importantly, that's chosen him.

[at_one_blow]

This is... nervous. He thinks he remembers this particular tickle as 'nervous.' It's skirting lots of lines, after all, smudging and blurring and he's not supposed to let things blur anymore.

"...I didn't... chose anything in..."

In his entire life.

[spintosurvive]

"Maybe not... directly, yeah?" Another careful squeeze of his knee. "But your-- your heart did some choosing, I think."

Likes to think, anyways.

[at_one_blow]

It's too much. It hits something overwhelming that wants to rush out but can't. He can't feel now. His mind won't let him. The drugs in his system won't let him.

So he shuts down instead. Curls in closer around his legs and drops his attention to the floor.

[spintosurvive]

It's too much. She knows that now, at least. Can brush carefully at his hair when his gaze drops and he goes silent again.

She can take a moment to maintain the quiet. Let the both of them try to settle with what they have to work with, now.

[at_one_blow]

Having his hair smoothed isn't horrible. It's something to focus on while he tries to breathe properly.

"...Erica."

Not a question. Not a request for attention. Just a quiet attempt to solidify that this feeling is the feeling that comes with... Erica.

His... friend.

[spintosurvive]

Her response is little more than a quiet hum as she continues to smooth at his hair in a calm, easy rhythm. She wants to do more-- wants to hold him, really, but that's not going to be something that will help things along at this point.

It's okay. She can be patient.

"...Aaron, I'd like-- to visit you more often. Is that okay?"

[at_one_blow]

"...visit me?"

He can't help sounding mildly incredulous. Someone whole, well, stable surely didn't actually want to come to a place like this, right?

He's still not properly 'well.' He still can't go outside. What's he worth, coming to such a cold place to visit him?

[spintosurvive]

"Yes. I want to visit you."

Maybe it's because she's not entirely whole, while he's still in here. Maybe it's because she's not well, with everything wrong with him. Maybe it's because she's not stable, with their entire world having gone topsy-turvy beneath them.

It's definitely because he's worth it.

"You're-- important to me, okay?"

[at_one_blow]

Important. It's important that he keeps calm. It's important that he gets better. It's important that he become a stable, productive member of society.

"...okay."

If this will help with the other important things, how can he say no?

[spintosurvive]

She can't help but smile at the agreement.

"Good. Thank you."

[at_one_blow]

"...why?"

Why would she thank him? What had he done except submit like he'd done to everything else?

[spintosurvive]

"...I'm always grateful to you, Aaron."

For so many things.

[at_one_blow]

It's strange, really, having so many people say they know him when he doesn't know himself. At least this time, he feels...

He doesn't know what the word is for being Known by Erica. He just knows it's different.

"...you'll really come back?"

[spintosurvive]

A firm nod.

"I will. Promise."

[at_one_blow]

"...I'll make you a dress."

A simple sort of promise on his own part, but one that will keep him focused. Keep him remembering her while she's not here.

[spintosurvive]

A soft smile, "I'd quite like that."

It'll mean he's doing something a little more like his old self, after all.

[at_one_blow]

It's not his old smile. It's a dull, drugged sort of smile.

It's still more than just blank. Hopefully that counts for something.

[spintosurvive]

It counts for enough, for now. It's something she can keep smiling back at, something she can carry with her when they finally have to part again.

It's a smile, and even if it's not quite his, it's a hopeful sign nonetheless.

[at_one_blow]

Next time will be a little better. Next time, he'll recognize her properly when she comes in--have a name for her face.

This time, he'll slip back into the silence, exhausted from the ordeal of being someone.