` ` Everything, Everything, Everything Falls Through ` `

"Betcha half a shot that somethin' will blow up by the end of the night."

"It's already the end of the night."

"Well- guess that depends on yer definition of 'night'." Chester takes a sip of her bottle before idly readjusting the yellow fabric wrapped around her hair, making sure it's fitted on still. There's a soft smile on his face, curling as he waves away the previous statement and tacks on, "M'kay, m'kay, how 'bout till sunrise. Betcha a half-shot that somethin' will blow up by sunrise."

"I've had enough for now." Jerboa hides a smile of her own in the black-smudged glass raised to her own lips, the rim having caught most of the lipstick that's beginning to wear away by now. She would have reapplied an hour ago, but it's hard to remember those things in the bustle of the party. And now, well, she doesn't particularly want to leave the cozy- rarely secluded- spot she and Chester have managed to secure up here.

Chester rolls his eyes at her comment, though her good-natured smile remains, ever growing. This is a game they play sometimes: sure, Jerboa could certainly go for more- it's not like she doesn't drink- but she likes to challenge Chester's words, just testing how far he can go, how long he'll be able to run with the conversation until it threads into something else entirely. And if it doesn't, the laugh and shove she earns out of the brunette is enough of a reward.

"God- okay, it's still a bet though, because I'd be losing something, even if you, I dunno, just pour it out or somethin'. So my point still stands."

"Mm, alright, alright. What is it you're betting for again?"

"C'mon," Chester snorts and leans back, a soft trail of a laugh escaping her as Jerboa lets out her own string of giggles. "Nevermind, nevermind."

"No, I wanna hear it!"

"I'm gonna blow up." She flops onto her back, staring up at the night sky while Jerboa helplessly snorts, entertained by the man's antics. Chester seems content to remain in his spot for now, and with the chill of the night biting at her arms, Jerboa brushes her skirt a tad more beneath her knees before laying over, settling in right beside Chester. Wordlessly, a freckled-arm comes around her shoulder, cushioning her.

A sharp tang hits her nostrils, stinging of that moonshine Chester likes too much; it's not overwhelming though, and it's laced with that sandy, sweet smell the brunette has always carried around. A smile tugs at the corners of Jerboa's lips before she burrows a bit closer, relishing.

"You'd make quite the blast." Is all she offers. Chester snorts again.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm."

"I'll take it as a compliment," Her infectious laugh rings out loud around them. "I'd put a crater in this place, I'm bettin'."

"Betting again... You're in a mood tonight."

"I'm feelin' dangerous, is all." Chester waggles her fingers with that one, grinning. A thought seems to pass over his eyes a moment later though, the same glint that Jerboa has seen a thousand times, the one that tells her that it's time to burrow closer, to prepare to be sat here for the next little while as Chester takes a beginning breath. "You know, I knew a guy who did that once. Blew himself up."

"As in...?"

"Yup, whole shebang. Not a thang left for the funeral. They wanted a grave though! Fair point, I'd say, them are mighty important- and I got a lil livin' out of it, so-" He shrugs. "Anywho, so apparently this guy was fightin' with these inlaws of his-"

It's a convoluted story as always: Chester is never brief, instead choosing to be long-winded in some form or fashion, even if his stories could be short in theory. But overtime, Jerboa has come to realize that Chester likes to talk. Sure, a simple word or quick summary could give all the details, but where is the fun in that? He always rambled on like he needed to get every little thing out, as if it was vital someone hear everything he had inside that head of hers. Jerboa supposes that makes sense, given Chester's lifestyle. It's become more than endearing, and she listens through it, through every little tangent, soaking up the words despite their morbidity.

"Then, bam-" Chester jumps a bit at this part, just to elicit one of those darling smiles from Jerboa. "The guy went sky-high! Left a crater in the center of the town, big as his uncle's house- the one on his Maw's side, the one with the distillery, remember? Speaking of- God, I won't fib, they treated me to that place next time I was over and it was prolly some of the best 'Shine I've had. I dunno the specifics, but it was somethin' straight from the plant they were a' cookin' it from- I couldn't remember my own name when I woke up, eheh-"

She finally pauses for breath, sucking in a deep breath of the cold night. It leaves behind a small cloud of warmth as he exhales, the cloud spreading and dissolving into the air around them. Jerboa lets her eyes flutter at the small relief, a shudder running through her skin.

Gloved fingers tug fabric over her shoulders.

"Yer shiverin'," Chester mumbles, a bit softer this time.

He sounds... a bit out of breath, actually.

"I'm alright," Jerboa tacks on, sighing. She doesn't want to give up this spot yet, this warmth or the tranquility that escaping the others offers them. It's rare to really receive alone time here...

Chester just hums a response, nodding thoughtfully. "Well, I got my own shawl, if you want it on top yer own?"

"Aren't you going to need it?"

"Nah." He smiles a little, all teeth. Jerboa doesn't catch the strain framing it. "I don't get cold."

... Jerboa just levels him with a look, one that has another laugh spilling out of thin, chapped lips.

"I don't!"

"That's a lie."

"I really don't!" He's wheezing a bit, now.

"And yet every time we're in bed, you insist on wrapping those freezing fingers of yours around me-"

"Hey-! Those don't count! They're, like, ex- extre-me-whatchamacallits, they're not like, me me. I'm fine!"

Jerboa rolls her eyes as hard as she can, a small 'tsk' escaping her, one that has Chester kicking her legs as her other arm comes around her torso, holding it. Her laughs are always so loud and unabashed, fully Chester, so much that it's difficult for Jerboa to ignore the thread of amusement bubbling through herself.

Those helpless giggles of his soon ease into harder wheezes, which was enough to get him to calm down, to lay back against the wood beneath them, arm behind his own head now. When she speaks again, it's a bit more hoarse- from cracking herself up Jerboa assumes.

"Are they really that cold?" He murmurs, more thoughtful now. Jerboa humors her.

"Mmhm. Mini ice boxes."

"Really?"

"Stubby icicles."

"Mm. Guess that makes sense?" Her face scrunches, the expression of contemplation exaggerated.

A beat passes between them; between any normal people, the silence wouldn't be as much of a note, as it was to be expected. Chester was far from normal though- he liked to fill spaces with anything he could, whether that be whistles or taps or her own voice. So, despite its briefness, it's of some note, enough that it has Jerboa listening a tad closer when Chester speaks again.

"Do I feel cold? To you, I mean."

Jerboa thinks about that for a moment.

... Her own skin feels a bit like porcelain right now, cold and soft despite the scars littering her fingers. The arm pressed around her, holding her tight, is scathed as well as dried from the sun, but there's a heat to the muscle there that she can feel through her shawl, evident of life. It wouldn't surprise her at all to learn that Chester burned on the inside, a fire bright enough to leak out and spread that warmth to anyone that was lucky enough to come into contact with him.

The thought makes her smile.

She has felt what a cold body is like before, and this... This is far from it.

Jerboa leans a bit more into the chest she's chosen to make her cushion tonight, soaking in the heat. "No. No, I don't think you are."

A breath- something oddly enough like relief - escapes her mattress.

"Really?"

"Mmhm."

"...Would you tell me if I was?"

One of Jerboa's eyebrows twitches up, amusement laced with a hint of confusion. They were still joking, right? Still amusing themselves?

"I think you would be able to tell, no?"

"Just humor me." Chester smiles, one of those soft ones that still show her teeth. There's something tired in the squint of his eyes this time, though. "Please?"

Something in her chest stutters at that.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Curiosity is innate, especially to someone like her; she leans in closer, a question on the tip of her tongue, "Why-"

But Chester is already shuffling around, reaching for the bottle he managed to drag along with them. It's nearly gone, probably one good swig away from empty, though Jerboa is sure that wasn't entirely Chester's doing: the brunette had pretty good tolerance, but a full bottle of what is basically rubbing alcohol would land her flat on her ass- not that she needed any help with that usually.

He lifts it to his lips, but before he can finish it off, a hand on his elbow has him pausing, glancing down as Jerboa shifts onto her elbow. Chester raises an eyebrow, about to offer the remaining, but Jerboa shakes her head at that, confusion temporarily forgotten at the prospect of getting to finally address what has been on her mind since the party started.

"Thought ya said you'd had enough?" Chester asks anyways, staying laid down as Jerboa leans over her torso, reaching; his ears catch the clinking of glass against hardwood, followed by the shine of moonlight against a second shot glass. "Don't push yerself, darlin'."

"I'm not," Jerboa hums back; a bit of her skirt catches on a button of Chester's pant's pockets before she smoothes out the fabric, laying it back out flat as she settles onto her elbow. "Just- hold on."

Fingers gently tug Chester's hand down, lining the bottle up with the empty glass. Then, pleasant and clean-sounding, the tops clink together, catching on sensitive ears. The grin that forms over Chester's face is a natural response, just as much as is the soft snort that has her shoulders shaking a bit.

"A toast, huh?"

"I wanted to do it right." She tink tink tinks her nail against the glass. "I was raised properly, you know."

"Right, right." He raises up onto his own elbows then, knee naturally raising up to join it. "Well, Ms. Bartender, tell me, what are we toasting to?"

Ah.

Moonlight catches over glass; it bounces from the bottle to the smaller shot to rim of Jerboa's glasses and all the way back to the thin, silver rosary wrapped around Chester's neck, framing them in the soft glow. They feel like they're glowing to Jerboa, soft stars caught in the darkness here. Her star. She wants to repeat it, to make sure it sticks: her star, star, star.

There's a trillion above her, but none of them smile at her quite the way this one does, full of awe and beauty and life. Nothing really does.

Her nail stops its melody against the glass, and Jerboa smiles, tiny and dripping with devout fondness. The answer is simple.

"You, of course."

And she relishes in the way Chester's eyes catch her shine.

Jerboa had been waiting all afternoon for this.

She leans forward then, and colored black meets chapped, lighter pink. Her lips press against Chester's in a soft motion, gentle. To say it was devoid of passion would be a lie: it was coated in it, but not in a way she knew Chester could ever misconstrue at this point in their knowing one another. It's a fact that always lit her own chest in awed flame: that she could push and push, but Chester never expected something more, something Jerboa couldn't give.

It has her smiling, even more so at the soft gasp that escapes into her mouth that is followed by reciprocative force.

When she tugs back, a smudge of her lipstick is left along Chester's, even more pronounced with the brunette's absolutely smitten expression. He always looks like Jerboa just completely melted him in a way that never fails to make Jerboa giggle- she tries to hold it back now, to keep the moment how she planned it, to keep from littering those freckled cheeks in more to see just how much of the evidence of her love she could leave painted along that beaming face.

A gloved hand comes around her back, holding her steady as she leans back enough so Chester can focus on her eyes. Then...

"To your thirtieth." Her voice is softer, pulsing in tune with the steady string of I love you playing through her head, loud enough she is sure Chester can hear it. "Happy birthday, Chester."

It's a perfect night, and an even more perfect scene. The two of them, alone with the distant thrum of music and chatter offering a background melody, together and warmth and soft, illuminated in gentle light. Something right out of a storybook, vivid painted pictures that are now veritable, right in the palm of Jerboa's hand rather than confined to valued imaginations.

It's their perfect moment, another page in the love story Jerboa has been taping together.

... yet.

Sensitive ears catch a tear in the stitching.

Bitten nails and crooked fingers tug at the string binding the pages to her carefully crafted novel. There's a tension in the fabric, widening as Jerboa picks at it, as she picks apart the awed, fawning smile she expected beneath her.

It tears, and underneath there is an unaccounted for strain.

Jerboa has memorized each of the brunette's smiles; each is known by heart, from the joyous to the calm, to the tender to the... the forced.

Why is it forced?

The anxiety must be evident; something flashes in Chester's eyes. Further seams are ripped from their holes as Jerboa watches the struggle it takes to even out the strained portions of that smile, practiced and easy, letting it tug into something familiar yet weighted.

He finally sits back up, the bottle clinking back onto the floor, out of her hand.

"Thirty." Is what she mumbles, of all things. It has Jerboa's planning wobbling on clumsy footing, not understanding where the moment went, what she might've said, what she might've done wrong.

"Thirty." Jerboa simply echoes back, lost.

Chester's eyes crinkle into something contemplative, as he stares out over the stars.

"... I made it."

Chester's shoulders ease as he releases a deeper sigh. His eyes turn back to Jerboa, looking... weary. Tired. More so than usual.

"I made it." He repeats again; this time a laugh manages to sneak out alongside the syllables, not particularly humorous: more as if it were a joke, something to snicker at. "I'll be damned."

... Chester gets like this sometimes. She struggles to settle with the uncomfortable, bad feelings, preferring to avoid them with strings of words and pages of ramblings- but when he cannot, when the sting of them cannot be eased nor ignored, her body cannot quite seem to figure out how to react to it. Jerboa had been a witness to a few of these: she recognizes the way Chester speaks and sits, like the world on her shoulders is suddenly making its weight very apparent, yet her mouth still curls, as if the wires hadn't quite reached her brain that they weren't supposed to be smiling anymore, like they could not comprehend any other state of being.

Navigating it is always tricky. But Jerboa at least, for the moment, feels as if she has landed on something solid again: her brunette is contemplative. That's appropriate, that's something Jerboa can understand. There's numerous things that could make a birthday bittersweet.

Tension escapes her briefly, and she shuffles closer, prepared to listen.

... But Chester still doesn't speak for a long moment.

He lets the air between them settle. Seconds tick by, lodging themself in a tally in Jerboa's head. 20, 21, 22...

But Chester doesn't regain speech. It comes eventually most times, but here, the silence begins to feel more and more overwhelming, furthered by Chester's non-attempts to fill it. No... No, not a non-attempt: his lips are twitching, his fingers pick at the fabric of his pants.

He is trying to say something, but, for once, cannot find the words.

"Y'know... I, ehe- I've known a lot of people, who didn't make it this far." It's a clumsy start, but it's something. Jerboa stays quiet herself, trying to spur Chester on as usual.

The brunette tugs at his bandana, readjusting it in a nervous habit before continuing. "Kinda morbid, but- well, most folk don' live that long on this planet, y'know? It's violent out there. I dunno much 'bout statistics and all that but I'd say thirty is, like, a pretty average age most people keel over at, right? It seems to be the one I keep running into, at least, when people give me their death dates. Well, when the family does I mean, it's-" A tiny laugh. "-it's not like the person themself can, ya know?"

Jerboa's mind wanders to sweeping dresses and girlish laughter. Stern voices and roughed hands. Of the halls of a familiar saloon and even more familiar brothel.

Of Hilda.

No. No, Jerboa doesn't agree with that statement of average. But she keeps her ears open, listening.

"Anyways- yeah, in my experience, people don' tend ta go go much further than that. Granted, I s'pose Paw made it to..." He trails off. "Well, I knew a guy who made it to seventy once. He had a big family, lotta kids that were takin' care of him- I kinda assumed that was why. Folks live longer when people are there to watch over 'em."

He shifts, eyes drifting to the side.

"Paw believed in that too. In watchin' over folk and makin' sure they didn't keel over too soon, I guess. He... He, ah, always told me he wanted me to make it ta' thirty, if I could."

... Ah.

That is the crux of this, isn't it?

Jerboa shifts, footing finally caught. Gentle, she leans into Chester's side again, her hand coming to rest along his in his lap; her fingers catch onto his, twisting.

"Yeah?" She hums softly.

Chester glances down at their hands briefly. "I, eheh, I didn't-" He laughs, strained. "-particularly think I'd make it here myself, to be honest."

...The thought certainly hurts. Jerboa's light, left stricken against the sand in some town away from here. She will not lie and say that she hasn't thought of it before, but it still stings a fair bit to consider the idea. It's easier to push it away, to not think of the possibility.

"You did, though." Jerboa's voice is soft when it escapes her as her hand squeezes Chester's. The man's lips briefly tug upward, eyes crinkling a bit.

"Yeah?"

"You're here." She feels her confidence growing, something lighter swelling in her chest. "And ... I'm really happy you are."

She misses the way Chester's other hand tightens. "Mmhm."

"And I'm sure there's more years coming." Jerboa settles her head on Chester's shoulder now, glasses knocked slightly askew by the position, but she doesn't bother fixing them yet. She's smiling now, focused on her words and not the way Chester stares into the distance. "What you said about the average... I don't think that's correct. Not for around here, at least. You've seen Tasha and the others."

"... I have."

"Samir and Jamie are getting older. Your friend, Achilles, you have seen what he's been through and yet he is still here. And then there's Granny Hilda..." She lets out a little amused breath. "In any case, I don't think you have too much to worry about. I wouldn't get so caught up on numbers like that."

She nuzzles closer, turning to look at Chester. "You made it here, that is what is important. And... I think we'll be around a while longer."

Chester does not reply.

Her lips are tightened into a line.

"You do?"

It comes out quiet. The hand in Jerboa's shudders, just enough to be noticeable. Enough to make Jerboa look down at it, missing how tight Chester's throat is.

She squeezes it again.

"Of course."

Another pregnant pause.

She is a screw far too tightened, straining with the weight to not burst: tense, stressed, Jerboa's words no balm to whatever rests within him.

It's like something is waiting, buried yet pulsing, finally pressing against the skin of its prison. Her teeth nip at the skin of her lips in an effort to cope with the words that he knows will rip and bleed.

Jerboa's brows furrow, eyes finally registering the signs around her.

"Chester?"

And god, it's been so long.

This is a bile that has sat in the back of his throat for so long the sting stopped registering- but now it burns, acid that tears at the tender walls of his esophagus, clawing out for release.

"I..." It feels like something deep within him cracks. He has held the hammer over this for so long he feels every fissure as weight hits it, overwhelming and splintering.

"I don't think so."

His words are impossibly soft, something that has Jerboa's sensitive ears twitching as the syllables catch on his teeth.

... She- ?

A grating, humorless laugh follows. The shards and broken pieces fall out her mouth, ripping- and the sound is so unnatural for the brunette, so much that Jerboa nearly flinches away, emotion surging through her that teeters on the edge of concern and macabre. Her Chester- he never knows how to not laugh.

It's instinct that keeps her clinging on, her mind always curious, always reaching for answers. "What?"

... The smear of lipstick across his lips is still there, not wiped away yet; the black has smudged considerably. His lips look blue from the coloring of it, in this light.

"I don't think so." She repeats, even quieter. Something secret, something obtrusive and overwhelming and so small. They're such simple syllables, a small statement of opinion, yet Chester speaks as if it is something wrenched out of the deepest part of his chest, bleeding and raw.

... The meaning, to Jerboa, finally catches up.

Maybe it could have been construed as a doubt or anxiety, the internal fear every human being has over the idea of death. Of course futures weren't guaranteed, Jerboa knows that and she knows Chester, of all people, understands that. Someone in the line of work he was would be expected to harbor that anxiety, no matter how positive he was.

But... There's a weariness to the admission. A deep, profound acceptance. As if this is something set in granite, the dates already carved and set into the stone she's prepared and planted in his mind. A solid, spoken fact: that Chester doesn't think he will... he will...

Now that Chester has started speaking, he tries to ride the adrenaline of it, to follow and thread the conversation as usual; however, it's bumpy and knotting, stumbling and graceless, lacking any typical zeal.

"I mean- you would, obviously. You're- yer healthy, and the others will take care of you, you'll be around a long while, I'm sure. Hilda's probably got some secret... secrets, ta living long, that sorta thing." He's rambling. Always nervous rambling... "And Samir, I don't think God could kill that boy at this point- ah, knock on wood- after all the stuff he's lived through, and Jamie's got that cowgirl who ain't gonna let nothin' happen to him, so..."

What is he...

"-so you'll be fine. But me, I... I know what kind of work I do, I know I'm pushin' my luck by wandering all'a 'round Gunsmoke- I'm careful but it ain't no tellin' when I'm gonna get my ass got by someone who don' care for a friendly face. And, if not that, then it'll be... It'll be..."

The words hit his teeth and catch. She swallows, hard, breath stuttering around the admission in her throat while Jerboa stares, eyes wide behind her glasses, everything in her straining to understand.

And finally, finally, Chester chokes out the scab.

"It'll be 'cause I wore out." Another laugh. Stop laughing, Chester. She sounds so out of breath, just trying to shove it out now that the ball is rolling. "I'm wearing out. I wasn't even supposed to make it this long."

...Stop.

"I mean, by God, we went to church, went to any healer, went to every doctor, but they couldn't do a thing about it-"

Stop talking.

"Paw always wanted me to get here, and he tried, but I knew he knew I wouldn't, nobody thought I would-"

"Stop."

Never has she thought that before for the brunette, but more than anything now, she wants him to stop.

Chester stumbles face-first over his words, tearing to a halt. His lips slam shut, tongue darting out weakly to wet his lips before his eyes crease into something pained that has Jerboa wanting to tear up the floorboard, tear that look off, tear something.

What can a person even say, after that?

That she did make it here?

That he cannot just assume he wouldn't make it farther?

That she can't just say something like that?

"Don't talk like that." Jerboa finds herself whispering. It burns. "Please, don't joke like that."

Chester looks as if a knife is twisting in her chest.

"I'm not."

"Chester-"

"I'm not joking, darling."

Jerboa doesn't want to hear this anymore. "You can't know that! Nobody knows for sure when they're going to d-"

"I do!" Chester finally tugs himself up onto her knees, her palm uselessly hitting his chest for emphasis. The tilt to her brow, the tremble to her lips- it's an unmistakable expression of desperation for Jerboa to understand, a desperation Jerboa has never wanted to see on his face. "Damnit, Jerboa, I-"

He sinks, like the strings animating his knobbled body have been cut with the same knife carving open Jerboa's chest right now.

His voice is too weary. Too weak. "I... I do."

Somewhere, deep in Jerboa's core, she hears pages tearing.

Chester tugs his legs back up, using them to settle her elbows onto. Stupidly contemplative, stupidly serious. He is pointedly not looking at Jerboa, he can't look at her if he wants to get this next part out.

"Since childhood." She whispers. "Since I was tiny, they told me I wouldn't live long. Honest."

... The resulting speech is directed at the floor, for the most part. Jerboa listens, throat tightening as Chester's words, usually animated and bright, spark and clatter against the ground like thrown dice, fate shining off the top side.

He speaks of his childhood. Of being raised careful, weak, labored- sick. Of doctors and tests and healers. Of being handled like glass from the minute he was dragged from home and onto the road, sickness chasing her heels.

Onto the road...

Jerboa remembers this story, from when Chester told it once. The hidden pieces of the why click into place in a way that makes Jerboa motion sick, bile burning at the back of her throat as her mind echoes with Chester's words.

"Thirty, is what the doctor estimated." His brows are set, hands clenched tightly into the fabric of her jeans. "Thirty years old. If I was lucky."

He manages to look up enough to see the tremble in Jerboa's hands, the way she simply stares, glasses hiding her eyes. It makes him swallow around glass. "And- and I did get lucky. But, now..."

Jerboa...

She cups the pieces of her heart back against her chest, and fills her pen back up with the blood. There has to be a happy ending here- there has to be.

"It's longer than they said." She is grasping at sand grains of hope. "That means something."

"... Not really."

"You don't know that." A weak protest.

"I can feel it."

And Jerboa can see that.

Can see the way his limbs have gotten skinnier over these past few years. The way she shakes when she stands. The way he has to catch his breath and take twice as many breaks, wide smiles and goofy laughs slathered over the wound like vaseline to hide the color.

Wearing out.

No. No, Jerboa does not

cannot

will not think of that.

"Jerboa." Chester looks- sounds - impossibly tired. "...I'm sorry."

...Her eyes are stinging, she registers dimly.

"Stop it." It's a hoarse, terribly tiny request. Chester cannot humor this one. She can only pick at the paint splatters along his pants while Jerboa sits, processing, pushing back against looming words.

Grief and ire swell into a tender bubble. She breathes through the sting, through the way her vision blurs, through the grief that swells behind her eyes, through her chest, a wave of constricting binds that tighten with each shudder. Her voice slips out beyond her, a different entity, hoping, still hoping, for an explanation as to tell how this could not be real.

"Why now?" So stupidly lost. So stupidly hopeful. Why tell me now of all times?

Chester looks away, guilt oozing out of him. This answer too will hurt; she would give anything to keep it from her, but... well, that's just the selfishness speaking, right? They are not afforded that mercy now.

"...Because it's going to be soon."

The bubble pops, liquid flowing.

Chester is met with the weak shake of Jerboa's head, a tear running down her cheek.

"No."

"It's soon, my love. And I didn't want it to... to take you by..."

Her arm brushes away from his, body turning inward, aching to escape the heat. Aching to freely float, to not be weighed down by touch or this awful emotion choking her.

This life has been a rarity. A gem among the dirt Jerboa has been digging through since childhood, since she ever decided leaving to the city in her youth was a good idea. Chester has been a rarity, something precious that she sunk her nails into and clung too. Never- god, never has she met someone like him, someone who gave and gave and only expected Jerboa, not anything the woman couldn't be, only Jerboa in return. Kisses without expectation, touches without intention- her burning fucking light in the dark of anything else that claimed to be love in the past she trampled beneath her working heels.

Someone who reshaped the very idea of love for her. Of love and living and what a relationship could even be.

She cannot- She will not live without him.

That is asking a man to return to the darkness of the cavern after seeing light for the first time. When the warm sun touches his skin and lets him see what he is missing, lets him experience the comfort of sunrays and the blue of the sky for a fleeting moment, only to rip him right back into the dark.

Damnit, she will not return to that.

Salt runs down her cheek, her teeth gritting in both defiance and an effort to contain herself, to cope with the liquid anguish blinding her.

She can't, can't, can't...

Chester only leans closer, hand meekly reaching out.

"I'm sorry." He whispers again, not knowing what else to say, how else to comfort. How do you apologize for not saying a word? For letting herself get this close? For what he knows he is going to do to her?

An apology does not even begin to encompass it. It isn't an ounce of comfort.

But she does not know what else to say.

Wordless, she presses forward, catching Jerboa's attempt to hide away. The smaller only resists for a moment more, shaking her head in a movement that stabs through what remains of Chester's heart before she finally lets the brunette come closer, her gloved hands snaking around Jerboa's waist. Chester does not hesitate to bring her forward, dragging her into his arms, his body wrapping around her entirely, catching the fallen, weeping pieces and cradling them as tight as she can.

The smallest choke escapes Jerboa into Chester's neck, causing her own eyes to well.

"I'm sorry." She whispers again and again, a soft mantra while the body in her arms shakes. "I'm sorry."

It isn't any comfort.

.

.

.

The tears never quite clear up. Instead, they stay stuck to Jerboa's eyelashes, stinging things that make her eyes ache, though only dully in comparison to the ache located lower.

Chester shifts, his hand rubbing small circles between Jerboa's shoulders, catching on the fabric there.

The quiet is predictable.

Jerboa releases a small breath, wobbling a bit on the exhale. It burns.

...

They should talk about it.

They should talk about this.

Her words feel stuck in her throat though, equal parts nauseating and gummy. Buried, unwilling to leave. Even Chester, the chronic speaker she is, is the same now.

There is a tension that has been released from him though. His shoulders are sagged, weight and relief pushing them down in a contradicting manner. Her thumb quietly rubs into Jerboa's shoulder next, tracing a line along the bare skin.

They should talk about this, right?

And finally-

"We should..." Chester murmurs, voice small, hushed, as quiet as the air around them. "... we should head inside soon."

...Ah.

Jerboa shifts, tugging a bit out of the arms that encircled her. Warm, warm, warm.

In contrast, the night air feels cold against her bare arms. The shawl she had been wearing is crumpled beneath them, wrinkled, scraped against the wood, the same as Chester's. Laying there, forgotten and limp. Lifeless.

She steps on it as they both rise.

Chester only briefly pats herself off as they stand. Her hand wipes her eyes for a moment, before he is glancing down at Jerboa, mouth opening-

"Darling?"

Jerboa merely looks at her.

Chester pauses, mouth twisting. He brings his hand up behind his head, scratching the bandana that rests there, adjusting it.

"... Can we..."

He looks away.

"Can we keep this between ourselves?"

Jerboa... blinks. Cautious. The voice that escapes her lips feels detached and far away. Quiet. "Who else knows about this?"

Chester bites her lip. "Just you."

Of course.

"... No one else?"

Of course he would've...

"Mmhm." Chester nods. There's a pleading gleam to his eye, catching the moonlight. "I'd... I'd like to keep it like that. Please?"

Of course Chester would not have told anyone else.

Something in her chest... settles. A blanket was settled over the wound; it didn't offer comfort, nor curing, nor healing- but it offered something.

Something to hide in.

They do not need to acknowledge this. Nobody does. Nobody should- because it will not happen. It won't.

She's not going back into the dark.

Her Chester is warm, bright, burning. Her Chester is alive, in front of her, asking for the only secret he ever has wanted for himself. Asking for something Jerboa can offer:

Avoidance.

She only gives him a brief nod, lips pursing.

"Okay." The word settles deep in her gut, writing over the previous chapters, scribbling out everything that lacks importance to the ending, anything that contradicts the predetermined finale. No one needs to see that draft, to see what ultimately is nothing but a potential, uncanon to the timeline she so carefully dreamed out.

No. No one needs to hear about what will not happen. That would just be cruel.

Jerboa realigns herself, as she has always done. As she will always continue to do. She dusts off her skirt, folds her hands against her stomach, and takes that step forward, the unimportant buried.

She can give Chester this, at least:

Her silence.

Chester stuffs both hands in his pockets, some mixture of relief, vulnerability, and exhaustion all wrapped into one. Regardless, he takes a step forward, off the porch, out of where the admission still hangs in the air, knowing that Jerboa will listen to this one. That she will respect it.

The forgotten shawls shift beneath her heel as she walks over them, leaving the stars behind.