#scratchphd

There had been an uneasiness creeping through your bones, unhappiness in every fiber of you, and a sickening longing that was leading you to dangerous questions, and even more perilous answers. You've been lucky enough to fall in love so quickly, and to have the opportunity to tend to such wondrous loves. You know this. You know that this is good fortune, unearned. It will end. You hope it won't, you know it will. After all, your luck in love has run out before. You lost three breathtaking, brilliant, once-in-a lifetime loves in one go. It could happen again.

And those loves that you held for so long (and still. still.) remained tethered to you, your heart holding onto them by a single thread, thinner than a strand of hair, frayed in many places, but never broken. Kanaya had spoken of holding candles-- wax-wicked lights, she called them-- for the people she loved that vanished from her life, just like you had. To hold so many, she said, was exhausting, but she had done it. And you had done the same. Three candles, still alight, still burning bright, but for how long?

For each of those loves, you've decided to find them, to follow every trail to its end. Kanaya. Rufioh. Theodore. There is no moving on until you know what happened to each of them. This was not decided overnight, though. You have been planning on doing this since the first night of The Unbinding. The moment you were separated, you began your search. Coordinates were written down daily to prevent forgetting, lists of locations were created for when you regained your freedom, questions were asked of scholars and sorcerers and scientists. These were the rituals you did when you could not perform others.

Kanaya had provided to be the simplest search. She was exactly where you left her, and had moved so far from where you had seen her last. Seven years. A little over three sweeps. She said it was nothing in comparison to 143 years. Perhaps, but you didn't feel that way. Seven years is a long time to hold space for someone, to keep the flame of a candle burning. She still speaks with kindness and humour and enough of a bite to remind others what she's capable of, still shines like the stars you wished on every night, but her eyes are tired, her voice is sharper, her heart is far more battered. Part of it is because of age. Part of it is your doing. And for that, you will spend the rest of your life working to repair what you ruined.

Rufioh was next, a search that led you across planets and timelines, doomed and dead and desperate to find him. Night after night, you bounced from location to location, finding pieces and clues he'd left behind. A name, a scrap of fabric, a memory in someone else's mind. On one planet, the Summoner was stoking the flames of rebellion, on another, he hadn't been seen for eons. He was with a large group of rowdy men here, a dangerous woman in blue there, but never long enough to spot him, never long enough to know he's alright. The last planet you follow him to, they tell you they know the name, they know the face, but they haven't been able to track him down either. You use your last resort then and there, a bracelet with trans-dimensional travel capabilities, one that connects you to the person and not to a place. When you hold the bracelet against a pulse point to use it, you close your eyes and think of him. You remember his beautiful stained glass wings, his cocksure smile, his laugh, his kindness, his passion, every wonderful bit of him you've kept in your heart for ages, and you hope the bracelet will bring you right to him.

When you open your eyes, you are back in your room, holding a shirt of his that he left in your room many moons ago. The tears that pour from your eyes, your heart, stain his gorgeous rust with teal. You wail his name for hours, but it doesn't bring him back to you. It never will.

The last is Theodore, and he proves to be the most difficult. Kanaya and Rufioh are trolls-- wherever they were wouldn't be all too alarmed by your appearance. But Theodore is human… Human in a time before trolls have made their presence known. Human in a city with many eyes and just as many dangers for those who have never been before. But you have. You went every Sunday night. Still, you had to wait for one key component. When your children send you your perception disruptor-- a ring of alexandrite and gold, one that cloaks your appearance to the naked eye-- you have all you need to begin.

You ask before you move, if anyone has been to New York City recently. You ask, too, if anyone is willing to accompany you. (you frame it as a date for current lovers. you do not tell anyone that you might not be brave enough to face past lovers on your own.) The answers are all kind, and you are struck with guilt when you understand how genuine they are, and how none of it matters when you have enough nerve to go it alone.

The first evening was for information. Does the city still stand? What are the people like now? Are Roxy and Rose around? What about Arthur English? Does he still live where you used to visit every Monday? Does he still live? You walk through the Upper East Side, trying to push through the haze of memories to stay on task, to make sure your mission is completed. But you find yourself grabbing a meal in a diner you used to frequent (and take just one coffee to go, not two), you change your path to pass by a brownstone that had grown beautiful pansies years ago (and still does), you wander into a bookstore that you had been regulars at (and find that Dr. Theodore Scratch is writing biographies of New York mobsters now, and signed a few copies for purchase. you do not hesitate in buying one that has his signature inside). To walk around the city like this, it's so easy. It's just like you remember. It's just like you would do on Mondays. But it's not the same. Your left hand is empty. And even in the summer, the city is so much colder without Theodore next to you.

The next evening, with nerves steeled and bravery threatening to flutter right out of your throat, you sit at your vanity, curling your hair, painting your lips red, making yourself as beautiful as possible. Just like before, you check how you look as a troll, then switch to see what others will perceive. You haven't changed the settings on your perception disruptor in 66 sweeps; your human appearance is fair-skinned with freckles, bright orange-red hair, and blue eyes with just a touch of green. The scars on your skin and the grey in your hair still show, but so does the red on your lips. You don't wait for a message before you slip on your dress (green, to match his eyes) and grab a wax-sealed letter before sending yourself to coordinates you never forgot, ones that place you outside of a high-rise, on steps where you frightened a group of drunken young girls with your troll visage and had to be rescued by him once, where you stumbled on the way up and fell into his arms rather often, where you kissed each other on the very top step hundreds of times.

It's still the same. You know everything has changed, but the building still stands. His name is still on the buzzer by the door. You are still hoping that he'll want to see you, that he hasn't forgotten you, that he might still love you.

You fiddle with the letter for a moment, chin tilted up as your eyes are locked onto his window, all the way at the top of the building, and you think you see movement behind curtains. Something compels you to go to the other side of the street so you can see the window better, and your heart nearly stops when Theodore steps out onto his balcony. There's a glass of wine in his hand (white, like you used to drink with him), and glasses on his face (handsomely styled, as always), and you can hear him laughing so many stories above you. There's a glance over his shoulder for someone, and you think you can hear Roxy yelling from inside, but you do not recognise the other person who steps out onto the balcony and presses a kiss to his cheek. It's hard to see who it is when your vision is blurry with tears, tears you don't even realise are streaming down your cheeks. You wonder if he reconciled with his ex-wife, or if he found someone right after you vanished, or if he waited for you. Wonder all you want, you think, but what does it matter? You can wonder for the rest of your life, but you will never get an answer.

There is one more laugh, one you are so lucky to hear-- one you will hold onto forever-- and he heads back inside with his companion, closing the door behind them, but leaving the curtains open. You watch the silhouettes of people pass by the window for what feels like seconds and hours simultaneously, the longest moment you've ever felt, and you can't recall exactly when you ran out of tears. You are only pulled out of your reverie when the curtains close, and the lights behind them go out. He's gone to bed for the night. He's gone to you, forever. You will not ask him to return to you, but you wish, oh, how you wish, he would.

The letter in your hands is heavy, now that he's gone, and you think of its contents. You wrote an explanation, you wrote of love, you wrote of wanting and waiting, but now it feels wrong to give that to him. How cruel of you to come back and wound him like that. He's moved on with his life. But maybe… maybe he'd want to know. Maybe he'd want to know what happened to the girl he fell in love with twelve years ago, the girl he lost four years after that. Maybe.

So you find yourself back in your bedroom in a blur, frantically writing something new-- an apology, more than anything. There is still an explanation, but the only love you place in it is at the very end, right above your name. What good would any more sentimentality do for him? There is a mention, though, that you will not resent him if he never reaches out to you. You know how long he's been waiting. And you know humans don't get all that long to live…

Once it's sealed, you're back on the steps, back at the buzzer, and you practically slam the letter into his mailbox, the original draft still tucked into your pocket. The letter is out of your hands now. It will end up in his soon. Let it be one last thing you share. Let it be something he holds onto for just a little longer. Let it be a beautiful memory at the end of a beautiful love. You might not be the love of his life, but you still think he might be, he absolutely could have been, yours. Lost in thought, you stand by the door for a while, only pulled out of it when a young woman's voice can be heard on the other side of the threshold. It could be Roxy. You do not stay long enough to find out if you're right.

You're gone in a flash, pressing your bracelet to your wrist, but you've gone right from the frying pan into the fire. Now you've ended up on another lover's stoop (another twisted ritual, it seems), and you wish, so terribly, that you had the foresight to go home first, that you had changed out of your dress, that you had turned off your perception disruptor. So when Simon-- kind, tender, caring, perfect Simon-- greets you, with nothing but love in his voice and concern in his eyes, you feel nothing but overwhelming shame and sorrow.