Work Text:
impermanence
noun · /ɪmˈpɜːrmənəns/
[uncountable] (formal)
the state of not lasting or staying the same forever
0,
'When the heart stops, the brain does not shut down instantly. For up to seven minutes, it shows surges of activity linked to memory and awareness. Often times, people suggests that it shows cherished memories or loved ones.'
1, 2, 3, 4, 5…
"Why did you leave me?" The red-haired child complained, arms crossed angrily. In a few minutes, the bells will ring, and Maitimo will have to go back to kindergarten, and Finno will be taken away again.
He shrugged, rolling his eyes. "I didn't mean to." He nudged over a piece of toffee to his friend as a peace offering, the red cracker glinting in the sunlight.
"But you still did." Maitimo pouted, the tall boy trying his best to look upset.
Finno shrugged. "Have the rest of the toffees and stop wailing."
The other kid paused, burying his hand in the packet and fishing a fistful out. "So you're not going to school anymore?"
He hated how hopeful Maitimo looked at the idea of him coming back.
"I don't know. The doctors said I should stay in my bed, but I can't stand it."
"Are you coming next week?"
"I don't know," he lied through a mouthful of sticky toffee. "We'll see."
"Okay," Maitimo shrugged, legs swinging from under the bench. "Will you let me know when you're sick?"
Finno stared at him, before bursting into a bout of laughter that shook his ribs. "You say that like I know when I'm going to be sick or not. If anything, I'm always sick, but fine. I'll ask Irissë to tell you next time."
Maitimo paused, sucking the extra toffee off of his thumb. "I'd prefer if you were to tell me, but fine. Deal. Promise me you'll stay?"
A pinky was offered up. Finno grinned from ear to ear, toothily. "I promise."
A few weeks later, the doctors told him that he was to stop eating candy and sweets, as they caused his health to deteriorate.
He couldn't quite forget the forsaken, rejected expression on Maitimo's face when he shook his head to the brown lump of toffee that was offered.
…56, 57, 58, 59, 60…
…61, 62, 63, 64, 65…
Fingon was scared of death.
It was a quiet irony, really. The mere thought of it was enough to turn his blood to ice and set a tremor through his fingers, even though the threat of it had shadowed his entire life. But Maedhros didn't know the truth. As far as Maedhros was concerned, Fingon had simply been born a sickly child — frailer, softer, and more easily tired than the rest.
Fingon kept it that way. He refused to let Maedhros waste their dwindling, precious supply of sand in the hourglass worrying over him — or rather, worrying more than he already did. Because Fingon knew, with a heavy, unshakeable certainty, that his lungs might not even carry him through the fast-approaching winter.
A sharp elbow nudged his ribs, drawing him away from his spiral of thoughts.
Maedhros sat beside him on the stone bench, the crisp, autumn wind catching the bright copper of his hair and tossing it across his face. He looked breathtaking. For a fleeting, reckless second, Fingon wanted nothing more than to lean over and press his lips to Maedhros' cheek.
But he banished the daydream as quickly as it dared to form. It was a selfish, cruel impulse. To steal away someone's first love only to leave them hollow and grieving a few months later? He couldn't break Maitimo's heart like that, even if their souls already seemed to know what their lips dared not speak.
"It's a comet! Look!" Maedhros' excited voice drew a bubbly laugh out of him. "Quick, Finno, make a wish!"
His laugh died.
What a foolish concept, wishing on a fleeting streak of dust — a burning rock plummeting through the void, visible for only a handful of seconds before vanishing into the dark. Yet, his mind raced. There were so many things he could ask for, a desperate, selfish list of things he didn't deserve. More life. More time. To be stronger, sturdier. To be loved, to love openly, to have a real chance at experiencing it.
"What did you wish for, Finno?" Maedhros asked, grey eyes meeting his.
Fingon paused, then forced a fragile smile onto his lips. "I wished to—"
A hand was promptly clapped over his mouth. "I forgot! You can't say it, otherwise it won't come true," Maedhros' shoulders drooped. "Ah, I guess never find out, then."
I wish I could promise him forever, and actually mean it.
…116, 117, 118, 119, 120…
…121, 122, 123, 124, 125…
The summer air at the shore was thick with the salt-filled scent of the sea. He sat on a smooth patch of driftwood, his coat pulled tightly around his shoulders despite the midsummer sun. He chose to ignore the way his fingers shook as he fingered the leather, the way his lungs still burned if he breathed in too sharply, instead opting to watch Maitimo — bright, untamed, unrestricted — wading through the surf.
It made the ache worth it.
The other boy had his trousers rolled up to his knees, where the sea greedily at the hem of the fabric. Faintly, Fingon heard his laughter over the crash of the waves as he hunted through the tidepools. Sunlight caught the copper strands of his hair, turning him into something radiant, completely untouchable by death.
From this lighting, Maitimo looked like a god — divine, gleaming and beautiful.
"Finno! Finno, look at this!" Maedhros called out, jogging back up the sloping sand. He was dripping wet, but a triumphant, boyish grin split his face.
Fingon tilted his head, squinting to avoid the glare of the sun. "What have you found?"
Maedhros knelt in front of Fingon's driftwood throne, knees picking up the sand on the beach. He held his hands out, cupping a large, round oyster shell he'd somehow managed to pry open. Nestled deep inside within was a perfectly round, iridescent pearl that glimmered in the light, the soft, watery pink catching the midday sun.
"It's beautiful, Maitimo," Fingon breathed, chest tightening with a bittersweet pang that had become all too familiar to him. A treasure meant for a long life, he thought, watching the way Maedhros' eyes twinkled.
"It is," the redhead agreed, but instead of admiring his prize, he looked up, gaze locking onto Fingon's pale face. The boyish grin softened into something more playful, a spark of mischief dancing around in the depths of his grey eyes.
With a theatrical flourish, Maedhros shifted his weight, dropping fully onto one knee in the wet sand, pinching the pearl between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted it up, as if presenting it to a king.
"Finno," Maedhros said, voice dropping into a mock-solemn, grand cadence with an element of seriousness that Fingon didn't knew the other boy possessed. "My sword is yours, and now, I have brought forth the treasure of the seas to you. Will you do me the utmost honor of being mine? I'll find you a pearl every day we spend together."
A breathless, startled laugh broke from Fingon's lips. It was a beautiful joke. A sweet, innocent game played by a boy who truly believed they had a lifetime of love and youth ahead of them
But inside Fingon's chest, a cold, iron grip squeezed his heart. A pearl every day. If Maedhros truly intended to keep that promise, he would only ever have to find a handful more, unless the other boy planned on decorating a cold grave.
"You're ridiculous." Fingon managed to say, voice remarkably steady despite the sudden tremor in his hands. He leaned forwards, reaching to push Maedhros' hand down. He didn't dare touch the pearl, in case it made their fantasy too real and his reality too cruel. "Get up, before the tide sweeps you out. You'd have fun with the fishes, I bet."
Maedhros laughed, slipping the pearl into the safety of his pocket as he stood and brushed the sand from his knees. "Come now, give me an answer. A definitive 'no' to my grand gesture? Oh Finno, you wound me so."
Fingon gazed out at the vast, endless horizon of the sea, forcing a smile to his lips so Maedhros couldn't see his heart shattering like glass behind his eyes.
"A 'no' for now," he murmured, words ashy in his mouth. I wish I could say yes. I wish I had the right to. I wish he knew how I love him more than the tides loves the moon. I wish we aren't such a tragedy unfolding in real time. "Let's enjoy the sun whilst it's still out. Who knows, maybe you'll find another pearl. I'll say yes if you offer me five."
Maedhros' laugh echoed. "You're so greedy, Finno. You promise you'll say yes?"
He swallowed.
"I promise."
…176, 177, 178, 179, 180…
…181, 182, 183, 184, 185…
"It's been a while," Fingon sighed, from where he was propped up on the hospital bed. Faintly, he heard the murmur of nurses and doctors from beyond the door, but didn't bother to eavesdrop.
"What has?" came the reply, a tall figure silently sat on the edge of Fingon's bed, the texture of the blankets almost akin to the thin paper of his school textbooks. Silently, Fingon wondered how many paper cranes Maedhros could fold before he died of boredom. Cranes were his favourite animal.
Fingon hummed, leaning forwards to drag a hand through Maedhros' matted hair. "Since I've been out of this room." He swallowed, and his too-thin fingers massaging Maedhros' scalp shook slightly. "It's going to be fall in a few days."
Maedhros stayed silent. The book on Fingon's lap lay open on page 17, now forgotten. He shook himself out of the uncomfortable daze, gaze drifting to the open windows, searching through blue skies and green pastures in hopes to escape this cold, white hospital bed. The birds outside chirped, the last summer sun shining bright beyond the treetops. The leaves had begun to yellow, dropping to the ground in a lonely dance.
"Did you not get let out for the entirety of summer?" Maedhros asked, continuing to busy himself with the cranes, paper bending easily under his deft fingers. Fingon shook his head, sighing.
Maedhros scooched closer. "We'll do something fun next year, when you're better. Maybe we could go to town and get ice cream, or we could go swimming in the lake." He murmured, laying a paper crane onto Finno's lap. It was white with pale blue polka dots, gold lining the edge of the paper.
The silence stretched on for far too long. Fingon stared at the crane, a tight smile fixed firmly onto his face, through which no other expression could leak through. "I might not last until next summer, Maitimo."
Fingon felt Maedhros tense up, paper bending backwards as his grip tightened. He knew how he sounded; small and weak, so unlike the brave, smart facade that he put on. He saw Maedhros' gaze look him up and down, take in his IV-tied wrists and glaringly prominent ribs, how his wrists were thin enough to wrap his pinky and thumb around. How his voice shook when he spoke, or how his hands coulnd't remain steady any longer.
Fingon knew, deep within his heart, that he was dying.
"Mae," His voice cut through the silence, and he forced it to be stable. "you've always been smart. Might as well come to terms with it while you can."
His throat dried as his sentence finished.
"Yeah," Maitimo whispered, hands fiddling with the bedsheets. "Yeah, I guess so."
…236, 237, 238, 239, 240…
…241, 242, 243, 244, 245…
The turn of the year brought a bitter, biting frost that locked the world up in a blanket of ice. In the courtyard, wrapped in layers of heavy wool that still couldn't keep the chill from seeping into his bones, Fingon leaned against Maedhros' side. He counted each of his own shallow breaths, amazed and grateful that his lungs had carried him across the threshold of January.
Around them, the crowd began the countdown to midnights, their voices rising in a unified crescendo, a thousand blended notes seeping together.
"Three! Two! One!"
With a deafening roar, the sky erupted.
Vibrant bursts of crimson, gold and emerald shattered the darkness, blooming like brilliant, dying flowers across the onyx night. The thunder of the fireworks vibrated through Fingon's chest, a phantom heartbeat filling the quiet spaces of his body.
"The red ones, Finno! Look!" Maedhros cheered, face illuminated by the cascade of sparks. He looked… alive, practically glowing with the thrill of a fresh beginning, a blank canvas of a year waiting to be painted, oblivious to the dark slash of grief that would engulf it soon enough. He wrapped an arm around Fingon's shoulders, pulling him closer to share the warmth. "Happy New Year!"
Fingon looked up at the sky, watching a spectacular crown of golden sparks scale the highest peak of the heavens, only to dissolve into trails of smoke a second later.
So bright, Fingon thought, the familiar ache returning to his chest and swelling in his throat. So beautiful, yet gone so fast.
"Happy New Year, Maitimo," Fingon whispered against the noise, pressing himself a fraction closer into Maedhros' side, all too aware that was the last time he'd ever utter those words.
A massive finale lit the courtyard, bright as day. Maedhros leaned down, resting his sharp chin on top of Fingon's head. "Here's to the next one," Maedhros murmured into his hair, his grip tightening in a promise of a future he took for granted. "And the year after that, and millions more."
Fingon closed his eyes, letting the phantom warmth of a tomorrow he would never get to see wash over him. He didn't bother to correct Maedhros; he was heartless enough to let him linger in a fantasy that he knew would never be reality, but kind enough to resist from breaking the illusion.
As he watched the dying embers fall from the sky, he wished with everything he had left that the winter would be gentle when it finally came to claim its prize.
…296, 297, 298, 299, 300…
…301, 302, 303, 304, 305…
The fire in the hearth had burned down to a pile of glowing, ruby embers, casting long shadows that danced across the bedroom walls. Outside, a harsh winter wind howked against the glass, yet the inside of the room was cocooned in a heavy, fragile warmth.
Fingon lay with his head propped against Maedhros' chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic thumping of his friend's heart. It was a terrifyingly robust sound. A living one. Fingon traced a finger over the fabric of Maedhros' tunic, his own breathing shallow and careful in the quiet room.
"Maitimo?" Fingon murmured, his voice barely rising above the crackle of the dying wood.
"Hmm?" Maedhros stirred, long fingers trailing lazily though Fingon's dark hair, untangling the small, intricate braids.
"I read something curious today," Fingon said, staring blankly into the shadows. "A theory, from an old scholar's scroll."
Maedhros huffed, a soft, amused noise emerging from his mouth. The vibration send pleasant rumbles beneath Fingon's cheek. "What kind of theory? Knowing you, it's either something incredibly romantic or utterly nonsensical."
"You'd be wrong. It's neither, really." He replied softly, pausing to swallow down the sudden tightness that had knotted his throat. "She wrote that when a person dies… when the heart finally stops beating and the breath leaves their body for the last time, the mind doesn't go dark right away. It keeps fighting."
Maedhros' fingers paused for a fraction of a second, before resuming their steady, gentle rhythm. "Fighting? How?"
"Seven minutes," Fingon whispered. "For seven minutes, the brain stays alive. And in those final seven minutes, it plays back a dream — a sequence of your most vivid, deeply etched memories. Like a melody, sort of, but composed of everything you loved most about being alive."
The room fell silent, save for the whistling wind outside. Maedhros shifted slightly, tilting his head down to try and catch Fingon's gaze in the dim light, but he trained his eyes strictly onto the dying embers of the hearth.
"Seven minutes of a dream," Maedhros repeated, his tone softening, a hint of that perpetual, protective worry creeping into his voice. "That sounds beautiful, Finno.But why are you reading such melancholy things?"
"It's not melancholy," Fingon lied, swatting Maedhros' hand playfully, though the action didn't have any real intent or strength behind it. He reached up, his pale, trembling hand brushing a stray lock of copper hair away from Maedhros' forehead. "I think it's comforting. It means that no one truly dies in the dark. It's nice, how their mind gives them one last sanctuary."
Maedhros stared at him, brow furrowing, sensing the unspoken weight behind his words but unable to comprehend or decipher it. He placed a large, warm hand over Fingon's, squeezing tightly. "Well. If the theory's true, I know what my last seven minutes would look like."
Fingon's breath hitched. "You do?"
"Of course." Maedhros smiled, leaning down to press his lips gently against Fingon's forehead. "It'll just be a loop of you laughing at my terrible jokes, and the day we found the pearl by the sea. It'll be the toffees, new year, and that book you left unfinished on page 17."
A single tear slipped from the corner of Fingon's eye, soaking immediately into Maedhros' collar. He hid his face in the crook of his best friend's neck, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it hurt.
Seven minutes, Fingon thought frantically, heart aching with a devastating, beautiful agony. Seven minutes is so short. I'm going to have to compress a lifetime of loving you into seven minutes.
…356, 357, 358, 359, 360…
…361, 362, 363, 364, 365…
The winter had finally broken its promise of mercy.
The bedroom was freezing, the fire in the hearth having long since died down to a grey ash, but Fingon couldn't feel the chill anymore. He lay tangled in a nest of heavy wool blankets, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps that rattled painfully in his hollow chest. Every inhale felt like glass piercing through his throat.
Oh. This is it, then.
Beside him, Maedhros was a frantic, devastating storm of grief. He was on his knees by the mattress, clutching Fingon's pale, trembling hand to his cheek. Tears tracked hot and fast down Maedhros' face, dripping onto the bedsheets.
"Stay with me, Finno. Please, please just breathe," Maedhros begged, voice cracking, entirely stripped of its usual strength.
Stars be damned, he was trying to breathe, thanks very much.
…384, 385, 386…
Fingon attempted a smile, but soon realised he didn't have the strength to curve his lips. His fading eyes wandered across the room, catching on to the little fragments of life they had shared, scattered across the bedside table like a trail of breadcrumbs leading him home.
There, resting on the dark wood, was a small, lopsided pile of paper cranes Maedhros had folded in boredom. Next to them sat an old, dented tin that used to hold the rich, burnt-sugar toffees Maedhros always bought to make him laugh, even if only one of them could indulge in the sticky sweetness they offered. And right at the edge, catching the faint light of the moon, was the single, iredescent pearl from the sea. Maedhros had never put it away; he had kept it close, a silent hope for a future they would never get to build.
Outside the window, a sudden crack echoed through the night.
Maedhros didn't look, but Fingon's eyes drifted to the glass. Far out into the city, a single firework was reaching its peak, blooming and dying in a single second.
So bright, Fingon thought back to New Years. So beautiful. And gone so fast.
Through the glass, just above the cascading sparks, a solitary, brilliant streak of white light cut through the heavens — a comet. Plunging through the void, visible for only a handful of seconds.
…398, 399, 400…
Make a wish, Finno.
Fingon looked back at Maedhros. He wanted to tell him the truth. He wanted to say I'm sorry I lied, I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was dying. But his throat was tight, choked with the metallic taste of his fading life. With a final, agonising shudder Fingon's lungs grew perfectly still.
The frantic grip of Maedhros' hand grew distant. The sound of his best friend screaming his name faded, echoing as if underwater, before dissolving into a profound, heavy silence.
Fingon couldn't move, couldn't breathe, but inside the quiet sanctuary of his rapidly closing mind, the phantom heartbeat of his memories took over. The pain in his chest, for the first time in his life, evaporated. The taste of sweet toffees lingered on his tongue, the sound of a thousand paper cranes rustling in the wind filtered through his ears. The colours of the fireworks blurred together with the light of the comet, illuminating the image of a boy with copper hair, kneeling in the wet sand with a pearl in his hand.
…416, 417, 418…
In the cold room, Fingon's lips parted, exhaling one final, invisible breath.
I'm not scared anymore, Maitimo. I'm not scared.
420.