wasblindbefore | (no subject)

There's a part of Elvis that's surprised to wake up where he does, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar hut, acquired mostly because there was no way in hell he was going to spend the night with a bunch of strangers. Of all the things he's learned since showing up here — too many to really try to process — the one that's made an impression is this apparent notion of a blank slate, the idea that the past doesn't matter here. What he takes from that is that no one here will know about the stories reporting him to be a necrophiliac, and that anyone who did wouldn't be able to hold it against him; he doesn't care. He's still no more inclined to be around people he doesn't know, especially not when it's still so clear what he tried to do before landing on a stranger's floor, the signs of it evident in bruises around his neck. Talking isn't as bad as he thought it might be, but it still hurts like a bitch.

He dreams about it, too, wakes up gasping for breath, still half-convinced he's being strangled, but that initial panic subsides quickly. (He's been assured that he's alive, and he believes it. That's all he needs.) Even so, he thinks it probably adds to the feeling of being disoriented that sets in right away, leaves him looking around the small room like he's never seen it before. He'll have to get used to it eventually, not about to put any stock in the prospect of being taken back home agin any time soon, but he's too far away from that now and doesn't really care enough to try.

It's just that the light's different. Which is a strange sort of thing to notice, he knows, but the way this looks, it almost doesn't seem natural, a brilliant yellow-gold that streams in from the windows, illuminating the whole place, too bright for the hour of morning he imagines it to be. Rubbing at his eyes, he squints against it, hauling himself out of bed mostly because it seems useless to try to get back to sleep with all of this.

In retrospect, looking out the window, he probably should have seen it coming.

The first time Elvis saw a field of sunflowers that didn't belong, they saved his life. This time, the second time, they're no less a miracle, seeds for them probably not even having been planted in island dirt, but it's a lot harder to see it that way. The hope they're representative of is a world away from him now, the life he decided not to leave no longer his own. He lived, and he's damn glad that he did, but being here, it may as well have not been the case at all. He's farther away from all of it than he would have been even if he'd gone through with the mistake he so very nearly made. Now, he can't tell if the flowers following him here is meant to be another sign of hope or a taunt, a reminder of the chance he never got to take, and probably never will.

Still, they did save his life, and for that, he can't help being grateful for the way they've apparently sprung up out of nowhere yet again, barely able to look away. There's an allure in the flowers that's reminiscent of Anabelle herself, like they're a part of her, like she's the one who planted them here. Now, it's the closest to her that he'll ever get. At least it's something.

Leaving the hut and walking out into the field isn't exactly a conscious decision, but rather an instinct, a magnetic pull drawing him into the middle of them. The light off the vivid yellow petals is almost blinding now that he's surrounded by the flowers, but he doesn't care, dropping to lie down on his back amidst them, fingers laced behind his head. They're here for him, of that he has no doubt; he might as well spend a little time in them.

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The idle life is not for her, and in that sense, Geneva was right in assuming that Anabelle would want more, but she got carried away (as mothers do) and failed to realize that pageantry was never her daughter's ideal for happiness. Perhaps it was when she was still too young to know better, but the years took their toll and eventually, it was striving for beauty and perfection that nearly killed her. That isn't something she will soon forget; she may still be here, she's up to two near-death experiences now and the only constant is Elvis. Twice, now, he's been the one to save her, however indirectly, and she isn't so stubborn as to overlook the signs right before her eyes.

Patience is not her strong suit, but in this moment, Anabelle wants nothing more than to stay put, to lie in his arms and keep kissing until both their lips are too chapped to go on. "I never wanna leave again," she tells him. If her purpose in life is to find what makes her happy and never let it go, she's succeeded in the former and intent on the latter. They'll spruce up the house some more and Elvis will write his books while she learns to play the guitar and sing songs she actually likes. They'll hole up in bed on the weekends and surface only at Charlie's behest, and someday soon he'll finally score under seventy. They can be themselves, together, and let the rest of the world just fuck right off. Nothing's ever sounded so good.

Anything else being a possibility is just not something that Elvis is prepared to consider. He's been here long enough to know that it doesn't always work that way, that people don't get a say in whether they stay or go, but she is, quite truthfully, melodramatic though it sounds, the only thing he's got. To lose her again, after what he did when he lost her before (though she was far from the only contributing factor, his reputation ruined and his dad gone, too), he doesn't even want to try to handle it. Of course, the truth in that means it would be just his luck, that he should try to prepare himself for the probable inevitability of it, but it's so soon. They have this, they have now, they have each other. For her sake, he can try to adopt her mindset and focus on that, instead.

"Better not," he says anyway, voice low and rough, though no louder than before. His hands lift, resting over the place where her jaw meets her neck, holding her close so he can keep his gaze steady on hers. He doesn't need her, he refuses to put it like that, but maybe, this once, he can let himself lean on someone else. "I don't intend to let you go."

Given the way that her life has panned out until recently, Anabelle never had good reason to believe in much of anything, least of all romanticism. Like miracles, romance was the stuff of films and fairy tales, beautiful notions that were nice to entertain but which never seemed to present themselves in reality. Those eighteen years of proof to the contrary were what made it so easy, then, to be convinced of Elvis' betrayal. But inherently, she always wanted to believe the best in others, in the world itself, and having now been presented with incontrovertible proof has never been happier.

Still, it feels surreal to be lying here with Elvis, to see herself through his eyes and know that he must feel about her just as strongly as she does for him. When she woke up on that table, her life became a story the likes of which she never could have imagined, and it's almost as frightening as the alternative to know that she now has something to lose. Both arms snaking around Elvis once more, she pulls him in closer, tighter, with no intention of letting him go herself. "I'm glad we agree on that," she murmurs, biting her lower lip just as a small smile blossoms across.

He should tell her, he should tell her; it becomes like a mantra in Elvis' head, low-level but persistent, and yet still overshadowed it is just by how damn nice it is to be near her. It's probably stupid to keep coming back to the unexpectedness of hearing her say things like that when he really thought he lost her — she's here now, after all — but considering what happened, how utterly empty everything had seemed after she left and he got home to find his dad's body, he doesn't think he could be blamed for it. Of course he'd come back to that. He almost made the biggest mistake of his life; he almost ended his life. She's everything the opposite of how he felt that afternoon, though. His hand curls gently in the fabric over her waist, nose brushing against her cheek when he leans in, and there are ways this could be better, surely, but not many.

"You could stay with me," he says, "you know, if you want." He should be more concerned, maybe, with the fact that they're eighteen and stuck on a magic island that's unpredictable at best, but it's difficult to concern himself with much other than the fact that she's here, that he gets a second chance same as she did. And anyway, who knows? Maybe they'll get another miracle. "Plenty of room."