Work Text:
They're tired, even now.
Even separated from it all, they're still so-
It hurts.
A bone-deep exhaustion, it sunk onto their body long ago, and even now it got caught on the strings of static just as it had began to lift.
They're sick of this town.
They're sick of the house.
They're sick of the king.
They're sick of themself.
They're sick of the loops.
(They're sick of the party, but even so much as thinking that makes them collapse in on themself.)
It was always the same voices, always the same things and it begun to get on their nerves.
Having to keep that smile pasted on even whilst listening to the same things- over and over and over again!
They no longer had to hear them anymore.
Just another set of actors.
Dressed in the same clothes and reading the same lines.
Closing their eyes, they lean back against the trunk of the tree. Up here, surrounded by branches and leaves they can almost pretend that that's all the world is; branches and leaves.
The sun is warm but their body is cold.
(That's okay. They know they'll grow warmer as the night descends and the air around them coldens in turn. Was it mockery? Meant to further reinforce to them just how separated they were from the world around them? Stars above, how could you be so cruel? Were they not good enough? Was it punishment? A consequence delivered upon them because they couldn't remember? They tried! By the stars, by the sun and the moon and all the planets and rocks, by the light of the universe they had TRIED but they just weren't good enough, were they? They never would be they-)
A leaf drifts onto their head and just like that they're snapped out of their pathetic thoughts.
Gently, they grab it between forefinger and thumb, bringing it down in front of their eye, taking it in for a moment and then-
With a harumph, they toss it away, only further irritated by it's graceful float towards the ground.
Sighing, they slip down a little further, almost completely flat against the branch now as they draped an arm across their face.
Whatever.
None of it mattered anyway.
How was Stardust going anyways?
...
The secret library.
Looking at the shield book.
Again.
Idiot.
The researcher was going to find out, if he kept making mistakes like that.
...
Well, nothing interesting over there, then.
They pass their time with a few coin flips.
Sometimes they perform for an empty audience.
Doing tricks.
Putting on a play.
Watching the stars, when night arrives.
Watching the town and the house, when they climb to the top of the tree.
Distantly, they can almost smell, almost taste the burnt sugar, a full-body shudder running through them as their body near spiked, like popping candy with the memory of a tug on their chest filling their mind before-
Time distorted, and everything was pulled back to how they once were.
(You're fine.)
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Keep to the branches.
The fighter is down there again.
They near grimace, eyebrows furrowing as they resolutely turn their head away.
...
Stardust is back.
They're talking- taking the time to talk, rather than immediately shooing him away.
Without even realising it, they've glanced over.
The two are happy.
Basking in each other's presence, as tired as Siffrin is, they're looking more energetic just looking at him. Revitalised.
Their chest burns.
They feel a shiver, remember a hand hovering above their own shoulder but yet- but yet-
They feel empty.
They should be jealous.
(And in a way they ARE, they ARE because how come they don't get to see their own family? How come they're trapped here helping these fakes these actors these LIARS when- How come they don't even get the chance for a touch, for a friendly conversation, for family-)
They like to tell themself it's because he's a fake, a clone, an actor.
(They know that's not true. Even before-
They remember the confession, so painful their chest near imploded-
They had all the time in the world to sort those feelings out, to figure if the fighter's love was returned, if the play held a cute romantic sub-plot but yet-They're sick of his voice sick of his face SICK OF HIM-
With each loop. Each death. A little more of that feeling died with them.
They no longer hoped to hear that confession, began to dread it instead.
They loved Isabeau. Loved.
They know they should but yet- they can't muster up anything remotely mushy for the fighter anymore.
There's just nothing at all.
Even now, if they met Isabeau again, THEIR Isabeau-
They think that feeling was like a shooting star.
Quick, easy to miss, burnt to ash.)
They know they should feel their heart skip a beat. They know they should feel warm and giddy just looking at his face. Just thinking about him.
(They feel bad that they don't. That they never will again.
Still, they hope-
Even if they never grow as close as they once were, even if their heart can no longer melt, has already melted completely and has nothing left to melt-
Maybe it'd be fine if they were friends.
Maybe.
They just hope Isabeau could learn to forgive them.)
There's nothing but guilt.
They've already got a lot of that.
("'Til death do us part.")
They wonder how much longer Siffrin can keep it up.
(A petty part of them wants him to fall down the same path. Another feels as though they may be torn apart if they had to see such a thing.
Aren't they supposed to wish want better for themself- for Siffrin?
'I suffered so you shouldn't have to'?
They do, but it's hard to hold onto. They wonder if this too will slip away.
Like a dying star, there's a burst-
And only a lightless 'black' hole is left behind.)
They blink rapidly, shaking those thoughts away as sparkles pop and shimmer, dying and igniting beside their head.
The actor playing the fighter has left.
Gently, they disentangle themself from the branches and fall.
There's never an impact, just a slowing and a stopping as they find themself sitting upon their root once more, one leg crossed atop the other as they kick their feet gently.
Stardust looks over.
They give a wave.
He doesn't return it.
What a crab.