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Faust is a genius.
Faust knows this.
Faust is in tune with herself.
Faust knows that, too.
So when Faust pauses one day, her eyes lingering too long on a certain sinner, feeling the inside of her throat burn with the need to choke out unidentifiable words, she is quickly able to diagnose the problem.
When Faust lets the idea of being lost in a sea of fiery orange, captaining her own ship through a cascade of emotion and logic, her heart stilling itself with cold aching with every wave take over her train of thought, Faust is able to diagnose the problem.
When Faust lets hazel eyes bore into her from a distance, whispering out soft desire back into her own gaze, Faust is able to diagnose the problem, and able to
turn
away.
❦
There comes a time where Faust is alone, waiting for the manager to arrive and resurrect the lifeless, bloodied piles dotting the floor. She sits on something or other, with her chin resting in her palm, connected to the elbow resting on her knee. This is a rare moment Faust can actually meet those hazel eyes.
Dead eyes cannot see right through her.
“Faust is sorry.”
“Faust cannot return your affections.”
“Faust will ruin you, if she indulges in fantasy.”
It helps to say it to the nothingness that is Ishmael. Her ears and eyes are there, but there is no brain functioning to receive Faust’s admissions.
She can find comfort in that, knowing the words have been said, knowing that it should be over now.
Still, even after the sailor is up and walking again, flashing smiles her way when nobody else is looking, Faust averts her gaze, and feels her throat throb with the need to speak.
Maybe she made it all worse.
❦
Faust feels her resolve weakening over time. She lets herself indulge more and more. A passing grin, a wave, a small laugh at something the sailor says to her.
This is unlike her. This isn’t Faust.
They’d just arrived back at the bus. Faust is still stuck in a state that is herself, but not quite. An alternate life ripped from the mirror, one that causes Faust to weaken ever so slightly, that causes her to think a bit too much, to follow the emotional side of herself rather than the well trodden path of logic.
The sailor tries to converse again. She asks if she can speak to Faust, if they can talk about “us”.
“Faust is unsure what you mean.”
The sailor, face hot and teeth gritted, confesses. She asks, “what are we?”
Faust blinks.
“Faust didn’t realize you felt that way about her. Faust-”
She is interrupted.
The sailor says she’s caught on. That she knows Faust has to feel the same, right?
“Faust…”
A war rages inside her head. This ID is making her head spin, calling out for her to release the dam holding the words inside her throat, while the version of her that is herself holds it closed, struggling against the pressure.
And a light touch lands upon Faust’s shoulders, calloused hands wrapping around the back of her neck.
And a glance into hazel eyes, a moment of hesitation.
And Faust realizes too late that the dam has broken.
Faust says the words that she swore she would never say.
And Faust presses pale lips up against the sailor’s.
And Faust
finally
falls.
❦
It couldn’t happen again.
Her indulgence in emotions hung heavy on her. They should never have kissed. She misses the aching in her throat. She misses the time before, when the sailor had kept her emotions, and Faust had hidden away her own.
She stares out the bus window, regret piling in her stomach. Now what would she do?
Faust would have to find a way.
The sailor greets Faust when she returns to the bus.
Faust, despite her aching heart, keeps her eyes trained out the window, and doesn’t say a word back.
❦
The sailor finally approaches Faust after several days of avoidance.
It’s in the back hall of the bus, far enough to avoid prying ears and eyes that may consume them both.
The sailor’s fists are clenched lightly, her face nervous. It’s a long moment before anyone speaks, with the sailor cornering Faust.
Faust blinks. She keeps her own expression still, hoping it came across as unreadable.
The sailor finally speaks. Why was Faust avoiding her after everything?
Faust sighs.
“You are aware it is possible to be influenced by the emotions and desires of our other selves,” Faust begins. “The other night, Faust was influenced heavily by her alternate self, one that seemed to hold heavy affections for you. And unfortunately, Faust… does not carry those same emotions.”
The sailor tenses up.
“Faust is truly sorry, Ishmael.”
The sailor trembles, but lets out a long, shaky breath.
Faust feels her throat tighten as once again, hazel eyes meet her own.
The sailor speaks once more. She’s sorry too. She thought maybe there was something here, after catching Faust eyeing her from time to time. She thought maybe there would be a chance.
She’s sorry, she says.
She misunderstood the situation. She wouldn’t bring it up again.
Faust gulps it down.
“You will find someone, Ishmael. You will be happy with someone someday. Someone who can return your affections.”
Ishmael doesn’t respond.
Ishmael walks away, grabbing onto the handle of her dorm. She opens it, and she disappears inside.
Faust is left to stand and think about it all.
She hurt her. Yet she saved her from being hurt again.
It could never work.
Faust, internally, was nailing the dam in her throat back together. It could never flow free again.
And so, Faust sighs.
And returns to the front of the bus.
And finally, it is over.