A/N: This is deliberately vague. You're going to have questions, I promise. I'm not going to answer.

Stood In Tears

lurkisblurkis

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"...Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow."
john keats

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There are sometimes no words. There are just sitting and staring, standing and walking, sitting and staring at the insides of your hands, standing and turning around, if only to keep the blood moving in your legs, if only to seize precious seconds of not having to watch. They are only seconds, because you have to come back. For the sake of everything that has ever counted, you must come back. And sit. And watch.

His face, you think, looks almost beautiful with fever.

There weren't enough times—times to sit and laugh at stupid things, times to eat, times to say goodnight, times to be on the same train. Not enough 'hello's. How many different ways he has always had of saying hello. You can think of all of them, immediately, even through your mind is broken, and you have nothing left inside of you. Hugs, different words, handshakes, manly tackles. The one you cannot think about is the smile. It was so much more than hello. You cannot think about it—you must—you weep—cold, useless tears, entirely useless, hot on your hands and arms, aching down your face. You weep harder. Harder still.

If you pull enough out of the inside of you, perhaps the world will turn inside out and become good again.

They have said that if he opens his eyes, there is a chance. His eyes are beautiful. They have said, if he opens his eyes, he will at least see. You long for him to see. Waiting for him to open his eyes is like waiting to see him for the last time. It was always as though one could never see him until he himself could see. You do not hurt inside. You are paralyzed. You inhale fear, and you exhale fear. Even if he opens his eyes, he will never see again.

It is the deepest depth of the night. Your brother is dying.

There are no words—but you think, as you stand, the hundredth stand since the first hundredth stand, and as you walk to the window, and lay your body against the wall, and feel exhaustion coming in through your mouth and your nose and your skin, you think, staring at yourself in the dark window pane, that the world is anguished, the world falls to its knees when the last breath of beauty is blown away, and it makes sounds, that are worse than cries, worse than keens of agony, worse than animal cries. It is the most exquisite of tragedies. Your heart is rended by it. It takes away words and it takes away the love of your life. It takes away the smile, and it hammers it out of your memory.

On the other side of the window, quite near the glass, a nightingale begins to sing.

You turn around. His eyes are open.