Re: Coffeeshop: Hannah/Si One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. She turned. On seven, Amy turned, her hair loose, her skin rosy, her eyes clear, unhaunted blue. Amy. Big boys knew the difference between what was real and imaginary, Si knew, but he couldn't tell. He didn't know what he was seeing—he didn't know who. But, he remembered the gallows-pain in his neck that'd stuck around for months, courtesy of a rope tied around his sister's throat, and his eyes fell to Amy's throat now. Straight. Unbent. Unbroken. He let out a shuddering breath. He wondered if he'd been given weak shit, because he was so afraid. Right now, he was so, so afraid. His heart felt like it was being held, squeezed, in a cold, dead palm, green with rot. "Amy?" He asked her, his voice running rough over disbelief, over unwanted relief, over suspicion, over everything.
Si felt the tears he'd managed to keep mostly back flood up in a well of burning heat, and his nose stung at the tip. "Amy?" She came closer. Breathing. Her chest was moving. Her throat. She was alive and she—she came closer, smelling like Amy. Amy when she was alive. Not when she visited, stinking of decay. But, when she was alive, and something sat on her skin light and floral and summertime, and Si didn't even hear her question. She came close enough, and he hugged her. As soon as his arms closed around her, he was sobbing. It was a pathetic display, but all junkies were familiar with pathetic displays, with the pitying looks that darted there and back. He didn't care. His hand came up to the back of her head, to her cheek, and he pulled back, still crying. "Is it you?" Was it? Was it, was it, was it, was it, was it? Was it?