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It was not as strange as Black Swan thought it would be, seeing Acheron again.
It was no less of a physical shock than it was the first time. An electric current, racing down her back and thighs, coming to settle in her fingertips. Crackling. It made her want to flex her fingers, hold up her palms. To beg for something, to receive something. To pry her claws into something broken, to rip and pull with all her strength. For what exactly, she wasn’t sure yet.
But there was no surprise accompanying this feeling. Nothing out of the ordinary as they held eye contact; Acheron looked indifferent, even.
“Hello. Why are you here?”
Well, at least Acheron remembered her.
Black Swan can’t help but glance at her as they walk through the dreamscape; Acheron, tall, cold, impassive. She longed for something more. Some kind of tenderness, perhaps. Some kind of lingering gaze on her, like fingertips running down her back.
It’s unbecoming, this desire. This juvenile desire to be special. To her.
The last time they danced, she was special; special in the way prey is to a predator.
Take me, claim me, make me yours. Take me—
Black Swan gasps. She’s stopped walking. Acheron is looking back at her.
There’s the faintest trace of surprise on her face.
How does she do it? Sink into an endless pitch black ocean, only to come out the other side, colourless, pure. Alone.
Beautiful.
Black Swan wants to reach out to her, call her name. To apologise, for what happened last time they met. To have any recognition of what it was exactly that happened. To catch her breath, grasping Acheron’s shoulders. To share something with her; to inhale her exhale. To make a ripple appear in the still waters of her eyes.
“Hmm,” Acheron reaches out her hand. “You’re slow today.”
Black Swan’s wan smile is the only answer to that.
“No matter.” Acheron continues. “Should I lead a dance this time?”
Two dark shadows cast across the ground, weaving in and out of each other. It’s hard to tell where the first ends and the second begins.
Take me between your fingers, hold me tight. Scatter me, inhale me.
For you, I would break. I would be transformed again. I would be consumed.
What is the notion of self for, if not to be lost?
And what a person to be lost in.
Acheron’s hand is firm in hers, leading her forward.
Ahh, it hurts, almost, this gentle touch, when all Black Swan wants is to feel her grip tighten.
Suddenly, without warning, Acheron pulls her close.
Her breath is warm on Black Swan’s ear.
Don’t lose yourself, Memokeeper. I like it when you’re you.
The shudder that tears through Black Swan is inevitable. Her footsteps grow unsteady.
She knows. She knows.
Black Swan can’t help it, can’t help but peer up into her companion’s face.
It’s gentle, warm against the darkness around them, under the dreamed-up lights. Her eyes finally reflected in Acheron’s, warm amber blending in with cold violet.
Ah, Black Swan thinks. She…
And her heart swells with the possibility that she is seen, that maybe, she is loved by her.
Black Swan knows this is childish. Knows the fruitless labour of this endless pursuit. But for so long, she has been nothing but other people’s memories. How long has she held onto herself, a watcher, a keeper, sworn to listen but never to talk?
In her arms, she feels like more.
Black Swan leans in close to her dancing partner. A silent thank you, for the words she cannot say. At the same time, an apology, a gamble, an offering. Acheron’s hands do not waver, her eyes betray nothing, but Black Swan can feel her smile against her lips. Soft against hers, undeniably, another body, another soul, gently laying her bare.
And in this dream, and the next, and the next, they endlessly embrace.