#dsus

Consider this: falling and drowning are the same thing. It’s about results. Fledglings fall before they can fly. Gravity pulls them down, their wings too still to keep them airborne. This is where instinct kicks in. This is where down becomes up. Birds are odd that way, like meteors that stop, mid-plummet, to admire the view. But it’s as much about circumstance as anything else. Wings are useless underwater. They make them heavier and clumsier. Down becomes down. There is no chance of escape. Air is gentle that way, water is unforgiving. That’s the main difference. Once it’s got you, it’s got you, and all you can do is sink. The air in your lungs becomes water, and the farther you fall, the lighter you feel. Down and down and down, until you feel nothing at all. Whenever Lysander falls, Marina is always there to catch him. That’s the rule. Always, except for today. Always, except from now on. The thought tightens the knot in his stomach. The bag of peanuts in his pocket rattles disapprovingly as he shuffles in his seat. The train is far too cold and far too quiet. He blames the empty seat beside him. Announcements are a muffled conversation from the room next door, and though he strains to hear, he can only fish for words. Perhaps he’s not paying enough attention. Perhaps he can’t. He is distracted. The world outside his window has stopped to a halt; the image stays the same, regardless of when he looks. Fields upon fields upon fields: an endless pattern of grass and sky, of green and white. Marina mocks him for it. The walls, Lysander - changing colours? Well, you must come to me immediately if they turn green, hm? He would kiss the smile from her lips. He would, but he can’t. His focus slips. He slips. His reflection is not smiling. The room is empty now. He didn’t know what he’d expected. The door is like a mirage, the stranger had said, which you have already found. But doubt is a mirage that turns certainty into illusion. The ground beneath your feet slips. The world blurs at the edges. You stare at a wall not because you promised to, but because you doubt whether it is there at all. Perhaps it’s a metaphor. The train was a metaphor, and now it’s real. Time makes the line more and more uncertain. The train moves, but the landscape is frozen. Lysander takes a deep breath, willing himself to sit still. Still, his thoughts race ahead of him. He’s sinking. He is empty. Marina must be worried. Time drips between his fingers like water drops. Perhaps he should turn back. Back through the wall that is a door. Back into his cage, where it is safe. His hands have grown numb from keeping them so still. He stretches his arms with the curiosity of a bird discovering its wings. The train shudders to a halt. The line drowns under the swarm of passengers pouring onto the platform. The moment he steps out of the train, he scans the crowd in search of his sister. Instead, he finds Dorian, his smile a hologram which appears and disappears with the changing light. It defines him, though he would hate Lysander for saying it. He doesn’t. Instead, he greets him with a mirror-image of his smile.