[The unwritten life is, as it turns out: not so great.
But Bloom isn't wandering, not anymore. Stephen's voice drew him here, to this room, where Stephen is talking, like always. That same familiar gesture. Tug up on his sleeves, a flourish: ta-dah. In profile, from behind, from the front, Bloom would know his brother, who is not his brother at all.
And Bloom doesn't miss anything, and he doesn't want it written. He has been sitting, just sitting, and every now and then he touched his fingertips to the back of his neck, to the cold metal port that mades the tips of his fingers sing, a little, like accidentally touching a live wire. Except, it didn't. It was just cold. He just wanted a little of that electric feeling. Maybe that's what Stephen's voice is, that electricity.
Everything else seems quiet, and hushed, a dead chill of dead air. He can't sit alone. He wants to be alone. In the door, when he looks at Stephen, whose skin does not look as grey as he knows his does--Stephen, who still looks alive, who still smiles the same way, even here--Stephen, who is not really his brother. Who was never his brother. Bloom folds his hands over each other and remembers the pressure of Stephen's hand, an echo, a memory that never really happened. Just a pulse of electricity in his brain.]
It was all written already. Someone else wrote it.
['Someone'. The corner of his mouth tugs, up, and then very quickly down. Brittle, he folds his arms over his chest, and he does not shuffle into the room, and he does not shuffle out, just-- stands.]
angry
But Bloom isn't wandering, not anymore. Stephen's voice drew him here, to this room, where Stephen is talking, like always. That same familiar gesture. Tug up on his sleeves, a flourish: ta-dah. In profile, from behind, from the front, Bloom would know his brother, who is not his brother at all.
And Bloom doesn't miss anything, and he doesn't want it written. He has been sitting, just sitting, and every now and then he touched his fingertips to the back of his neck, to the cold metal port that mades the tips of his fingers sing, a little, like accidentally touching a live wire. Except, it didn't. It was just cold. He just wanted a little of that electric feeling. Maybe that's what Stephen's voice is, that electricity.
Everything else seems quiet, and hushed, a dead chill of dead air. He can't sit alone. He wants to be alone. In the door, when he looks at Stephen, whose skin does not look as grey as he knows his does--Stephen, who still looks alive, who still smiles the same way, even here--Stephen, who is not really his brother. Who was never his brother. Bloom folds his hands over each other and remembers the pressure of Stephen's hand, an echo, a memory that never really happened. Just a pulse of electricity in his brain.]
It was all written already. Someone else wrote it.
['Someone'. The corner of his mouth tugs, up, and then very quickly down. Brittle, he folds his arms over his chest, and he does not shuffle into the room, and he does not shuffle out, just-- stands.]
You can't do it over.