Still In Bloom ↠ Twilight ✓

48 ; where blood makes civil hands unclean

Here's the thing: In so many wonderful experiences, there is the acknowledgment that the only reason they're as wonderful as they seem is because they have the possibility to end.

There is no eternal happiness. The very definition of the word implies there needs to be something unhappy to pair along. Antonyms are tricky things, and yet impossible to separate. 

And with this knowledge, Wallace has no reason to have tripped up so significantly as he had when the rug had been pulled out from underneath him. But yet, maybe it's the human parts of him that still exist, he had hoped. 

That just this once, there wouldn't be another shoe to hit the floor.

Frothy air decorates the windows of the McAtee home, and Wallace stands in his childhood bedroom, a sleeping Veran sprawled on the bed behind him, and he wonders what would've been. He can hear Shelby's fluttering heartbeat down the hall as she collects warmer clothing for the trip, she's nervous and Wallace can smell it on her like a cloak. He cannot find it in himself to blame her and instead blames himself for being about to add to it.

"Wally?" Shelby questions after a moment, footsteps nearing. "I think I misplaced my parka from a few years ago, do you think I could borrow-Are you alright? What's wrong?"

Wallace turns at the sound of his sister's concern, instantly catching the sight of her face drawn up into a deep frown, the same worry lines their mom had had apparent on the expanse of her forehead. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a loose bun against her neck, snug around her ears, and flaring outwards from her throat.

For a moment, Wallace stares at her in silence, lips popped faintly open and he wants to tell her so much. He wants to tell her about how scared he is, and how he knows that Daniel's death was his fault, and how he's so angry at himself for never trying hard enough. He wants to get on his knees and sob to her about how sorry he was for every time she had to look at him from in between the bars of a cell, or all the times she had cleaned him up from the bathroom floor after a drunken night. He wants to tell her so much because he doesn't know if he ever will get the chance to again and that terrifies the shit out of him.

Shelby steps forward, "Wallace, what's wrong? What happened?"

"I-" Wallace hesitates, the words logged in his throat as he stares at his sister, into the eyes that have always held him steady. And he's a little boy again, clutching onto her skirt and hoping that the gunshot would stop replaying in his head.

"Sit down, sit down," Shelby soothes, motioning towards the bed at their side, careful not to disturb Veran.

Wallace lets himself be guided to the edge of the bed and it's at that moment as Shelby's hand comes to rest on his arm, trying to shield him from a monster she doesn't know of yet, that Wallace finds his voice. 

"I'm so sorry," He croaks and the words stop Shelby entirely. Her face drops, hand hesitant on his arm, and Wallace feels another sob work itself up his throat. "I'm so sorry-I tried and Shelby-"

"What's wrong?" Shelby is panicked now, voice edging on hysterical. "Wallace, why are you sorry? What happened? Is Bella alright?"

Wallace meets her gaze, and looks at her once more, and says, "I have always taken so much from you,"

Another pause and Shelby is still for longer this time, and so Wallace holds her hand in his own, letting him memorize the shape of her warmth. "I have always stolen so much from you. And years ago I wouldn't have ever felt guilty about it. I would've continued on without any care and-and I'm sorry for not realizing it sooner. For not realizing how much you have always fought for me, even when I didn't-even when I didn't do it for myself."