[It takes at least ten minutes of chanting it before Billy realizes he's still alive.
He trails off slowly, his hands drifting down from his head to fall limp against his sides, and he leans back until his head touches the wall, staring blankly at the ceiling. He's not dead.
I'm not dead.
It's another two minutes of quietly repeating the phrase to himself over and over before it really sinks in. He's not dead, but why? His magic's supposed to work when he wishes for something, when he really wants it. And after all this, after everything he's done and everything he's been through, what could he possibly want more? What could be conflicting with that desire?
....
....
....
iwanttolive
With that one, tiny, pathetic realization, a sound escapes his lips, a little sob-hiccup-laugh that he can't bury, so he just lets it out. He can't die. He can't die because he wants to live. How stupid is that? How selfish?
I want to see Teddy smile again.
I want it to not be too late.
I want to make everything better again.
I want to be me.
I want to be better.
It's terrifying. The will to live is terrifying. It grips his chest, curls around his heart like a fire, seering and aching and choking at his breath, and it hurts but it feels good. He laughs as much as he cries, quietly, hands pressed over his mouth to muffle the sound, tears slipping unhindered between his fingers. It's not as if he really liked who he was, or thought very highly of himself. Before this happened, before everything fell to pieces. He was proud, a bit. He liked living. Sometimes he even loved it. He loved his family and he loved his friends, and he loved being a super hero. And Teddy. He loved Teddy. He loved living with Teddy and being with Teddy and seeing his smiling face every day.
He loved living.
Loves.
He loves living.
The spell didn't work. He doesn't want to die, so the spell didn't work.
Thank god. Thank god.
And so he cries, because now that he's staying alive he doesn't know what else to do.]
[Action, October 25th]
He trails off slowly, his hands drifting down from his head to fall limp against his sides, and he leans back until his head touches the wall, staring blankly at the ceiling. He's not dead.
I'm not dead.
It's another two minutes of quietly repeating the phrase to himself over and over before it really sinks in. He's not dead, but why? His magic's supposed to work when he wishes for something, when he really wants it. And after all this, after everything he's done and everything he's been through, what could he possibly want more? What could be conflicting with that desire?
....
....
....
iwanttolive
With that one, tiny, pathetic realization, a sound escapes his lips, a little sob-hiccup-laugh that he can't bury, so he just lets it out. He can't die. He can't die because he wants to live. How stupid is that? How selfish?
I want to see Teddy smile again.
I want it to not be too late.
I want to make everything better again.
I want to be me.
I want to be better.
It's terrifying. The will to live is terrifying. It grips his chest, curls around his heart like a fire, seering and aching and choking at his breath, and it hurts but it feels good. He laughs as much as he cries, quietly, hands pressed over his mouth to muffle the sound, tears slipping unhindered between his fingers. It's not as if he really liked who he was, or thought very highly of himself. Before this happened, before everything fell to pieces. He was proud, a bit. He liked living. Sometimes he even loved it. He loved his family and he loved his friends, and he loved being a super hero. And Teddy. He loved Teddy. He loved living with Teddy and being with Teddy and seeing his smiling face every day.
He loved living.
Loves.
He loves living.
The spell didn't work. He doesn't want to die, so the spell didn't work.
Thank god. Thank god.
And so he cries, because now that he's staying alive he doesn't know what else to do.]