Log; ongoing

[playstheblues.livejournal.com]

When; Friday, March 20th, late afternoon
Rating; PG
Characters; Boy Blue playstheblues and Death highcost_living
Summary; Blue discovers the high cost of living.
Log;

It's so quiet. Blue can't remember the last time things have been so quiet, so serene. He wonders why there's no more pain, but the wonder doesn't last very long. He had said goodbye to Swineheart, hadn't he? He had made sure that the doctor understood.

He wants to be on top of the mound, on Haven. He wants to be buried in the land that he spent so long fighting for. He wants to have his tomorrow in the Homelands, but more than any of that, he wants to be somewhere where people who matter the most to him can visit. They can remember how much he loved them. They can remember his music and how much he liked baseball and how much he was their friend.

Blue would hope that's what they remember, anyway. He wonders who's next, on the seemingly endless parade of Fables to say goodbye.

Comments

[highcost-living.livejournal.com]

There's only one Endless in this parade, really. She slips into the room without opening the door. It's her way. With infinite patience, Death waits as the other visitors leave.

"What a turn out," she thinks to herself. The boy has always been lucky.

Death approaches the bed with a smile. "Hey there, Blue."

[playstheblues.livejournal.com]

Blue remembers her, and he isn't afraid. He takes a deep breath, instead. He's lived a long time. There's always an end to things, right? His rhyme was small and short and he's lived a lot longer than any Fable really should.

"Hello, Lady," he says, polite and respectful even knowing why she's there. He knows she comes for everyone, but it's really nice that she's coming for him.

"It's nice," he says, quietly. "That I got to say goodbye."

[highcost-living.livejournal.com]

People come and go, leaving imprints in different ways so few have rhymes. Even after an extended life, Fables have a sort of immortality that keep writers, painters and all kinds of ambitious folk up at all hours. Who is to say that pursuit gets us there, as long as there is happiness.

"I think so too," she answers threading her fingers together. For a moment she perches beside the bed, careful not to disturb the gifts around him. After displacement, loss, war, and a lot of little sorrows Boy Blue has had his notable interludes of happiness amidst it all. "The Inuit language doesn't have a word for goodbye. I bet that you've said it more than you thought you ever would."

[playstheblues.livejournal.com]

Blue's left his own small impact, and he's pleased with the extent of it. There's nothing left, really, to say. He finds himself a little bit of strength and manages to sit up.

"Well...I didn't know that," he says. "And everyone seemed so sad. But I'm not sad." He's peaceful, instead. "I got to say I loved them." And he told Rose Red off, but that doesn't need to be said. "I don't feel like saying goodbye anymore," he pauses. "So good afternoon, Death."

It seems to make it more real to him, to say her name, like her name is what makes her actually there. "I almost thought I would see Dream, instead," he admits. "Because these days, everything feels a little like one."

[highcost-living.livejournal.com]

"They'll be sad. They've got some peace to find on their own." She cradles her chin with the curve of her hand, watching him with her bright dark eyes.

His cheer makes her smile. "Good Afternoon, Blue. But not just yet. We've got some time you and I. Just a little walk, I think." Death stands and scoots her seat away from the bed.

"You've got me instead," she gently asserts that this is the real deal. Of course, he's a bright boy and very much aware. "Gosh, now you've got that song stuck in my head. Merrily, merrily." When she shakes her head, her hair fluffs. "Ready to be on our way?"

[playstheblues.livejournal.com]

"They'll remember me. Gosh," he says, softly. "I hope they don't forget to bury me with my trumpet." It's important. Even if he never comes back, even if he can't use it. His trumpet is special to him.

He looks up at Death, and gives her a sweet smile. He hasn't smiled a lot, recently, but she makes him smile. She's really so beautiful. "Lady, you might need to help me up."

He still feels a little weak. He isn't altogether sure why.

[highcost-living.livejournal.com]

"That sounds very unlikely." The two go together, no matter the condition. After all, they made one another immortal.

He's ready. From the way he smiles to the increased frailty of his body, Death knows. "Okay, give me your hand."

[playstheblues.livejournal.com]

"Well, I'm sure Fly will remember." His trumpet had been his faithful companion, even when it wasn't a trumpet, for so long. It had been his strength when there was nothing else to hold him up, and Blue couldn't imagine eternity without it.

He sighs, and looks down at his left hand, his remaining hand, before he reaches up to slide it into Death's.

[highcost-living.livejournal.com]

"Of course. That's what friends do."

Again she shakes her head, more gently this time in refusal. The room around them looks like a water color painting, the colors run into one another without boundaries. She holds his eye contact amidst it all. There's a near impish quality to the curve of her mouth as she says, "the other one, please."

[playstheblues.livejournal.com]

"And I have especially good friends."

He pauses at her request, however. "My other...?" he doesn't notice the spinning of the room, but he looks down sharply. He wonders, for a moment, if Death has gone blind, or maybe she's being a little mean (although he had never heard of her being mean, but it wasn't like he's ever heard much to begin with), and suddenly his right hand is slipping into hers like it should.

It's there. His entire right arm, strong, whole. In fact, his left arm is looking pretty...well, normal, too.

"Oh," he says, feeling a little stupid, but he slides out of his bed. He's wearing pajama bottoms with a trumpet and blue note pattern on them, and the wires and IVs slip away like they were never there.

"Oh." he says again, with a little smile.

[highcost-living.livejournal.com]

Death is many things to many people but not mean or cruel. Not her. She lends him whatever support is needed to slip from the bed which has slipped into the figureless plane they find themselves on. "There we go. How's that?"

She gives his hand a squeeze and eases him into a few steps. He's already gaining what strength was sapped from him.

[playstheblues.livejournal.com]

He's walking, and he squeezes her hand back. "I feel great," he says, his strength back, his smile slightly melancholy, but not sad. He's not sad.

"Where are we going?"

[highcost-living.livejournal.com]

"You'll see. Not much longer." The indistinct territory they cross has no signs or even a clear path. Death leads him surefooted. Is she even walking anymore?

"Ah, there it is." Unlike the departure, there's no easy fade. They've arrived. The apartment complexes surround the square. The lights of a carousel beam in the distance.

[playstheblues.livejournal.com]

He looks around. The memories are there; they've always been there. He knows his way from here to his apartment, to Fly's apartment, to where he needs to go or wants to go or both.

He's suddenly a little cold, and he looks down to find his trumpet in his left hand. "I see," he says, and it's not sad. He smiles over at her. "Thank you, Lady."

[highcost-living.livejournal.com]

Death gives his restored right hand a last little squeeze before letting go. It's all up to him.

"You're welcome." Though she would have done it anyway. There's no need to thank her at all. "I'll see you around. Have fun!" Of course he will. And she doesn't need to tell him goodbye. He's all out of them for today.