fly my scarab !!!!!! (fennel x soren fanfic under the cut)
between the shards of manmade seaglass
And they were caught up in his room, in that still and unshifting home that has never once been so quiet. Hands bundled together in a sweet form of warmth, against the bitter wind trilling fingers through the crack in his window.
Fennel’s name crunched in his mouth like grapes between yellow teeth. A harsh comfort, maybe. “I could only think of— calling you.” Trembling through that parting of chapped lips so silently slipped ‘I have no one else to call but you.’ And so they answered.
“He’s gone— my God, Fennel he’s gone.” And never once did he have to imagine it again, how familiar such clammy skin can feel. And never once did the rain taste so heavy of salt and silt than that night.
And maybe, if he had to be more desperate, he would’ve gotten on his knees and buried his face into the fine folds of their skirt. Maybe he would’ve prayed, reopen his blisters from folding his dirt soaked hands together so tight. But instead he stood, shaking, folded up in wide arms and muttering "I have nowhere else to go.”
But they just smiled, that soft, afraid thing. “You know my mother always loved you,” his face so familiar against the thick curls. “and you… you know I—” his hands clinging to the damp cloth of their sleep shirt. “I would do anything for you.”
So they took the careful steps of their last dance, bare feet soft against worn carpet. Holding onto each other sharp and desolate. “…Do you want me to take you home?” Home. Where the pain ebbed through him, lapping at his lungs and heaving out wet sobs.
“Let me– let me stay here. One more time.”
He spent one last night in his father’s graveyard. Chests pressed together, cradled by their arm. Lashes stuck with dewy tears, coughing up every stray thought till they soothed him quiet again.
And he nearly felt the thump of heavy raindrops against the window. Felt them against his back, aching, whiny, thudding against his dead face. and his father so silently pleaded with him to dig that grave. And he was so desperate he clawed at the ground with his fingers. And he dug it so well, he knew he did.
But when his fathers voice never rang out, not even the shortest praise, he let the thunder fill the silence.
And when he nailed that coffin shut, he clung onto the wood so hard his palms bled. And he pleaded so hard he cried “come back, come back, please.” and he heaved it down and put it so gentle into that hungry earth. “don’t leave me like this. I can't do it on my own.” And his father said nothing, not even his own son’s name.
Fennel’s car had that familiar scent of old weed and smoke masked with vanilla perfume. Where the two spent hot nights curled up, the bare skin of their legs pressed against the worn fabric covers. spent quiet nights so innocent, rolling whatever they could get their hands on, carefully and against each other in the backseat.
He held his legs tight to his chest, boots pressed against the undersides of his thighs. And over his shoulder his things sat in the back. Piles of clothes and papers and whatever felt important enough to take just then. The car sank just slightly as they sat in the driver's seat, engine humming before it started.
They sat in such unyielding silence. bumps on gravel paths and soft asphalt murmured underneath worn tires. The window cool and hard against his temple. And the sky was so heavy, pale and grey and shy. Soft eyelids holding shut, feeling the car pull onto the main road.
And when he opened his eyes again, he looked into those muddled clouds and saw nothing. Nothing at all.
