Houses of Ice - Epilogue

[celestos]

If you've read everything so far... well, I gave out all the warnings before. 

Epilogue

Click went the lighter, echoing in the silence. A tiny flame flickered in the breeze of the morning. Ryou watched it, transfixed, trying not to think of the taste lingering in his mouth.

He needed a fix. The sight of the flame did not feel good enough, and neither did the ache as he brought it up to his skin. A few hairs were singed, but it no longer satisfied. It had not been enough for a while now. The taste on his tongue was strong, still, no matter how much he swallowed it down, no matter how much saliva there was. Fubuki had offered him water. It had not helped.

Sighing, he reached into his pocket. Fingers flicked open a cardboard lid, creased with movement. He touched one of the things and pulled it out, closer to himself, even the touch of it spreading something like comfort through all of his being. He hated it, but he needed it too, just as he had known he had needed something else only minutes ago.

The deed had been done. The taste was still fresh. The roof of his mouth felt like he had been sucking on metal.

The cigarette felt too small in his hands. His joints would not stay still as he tried to keep hold of it, thin and deathly, pale as a poisonous mushroom between his fingers. Still, he lit. The lighter clicked in his left hand. The cigarette stayed, just for a moment, in his right, enough for him to light it up and for the first trails of smoke to start seeping.

Ryou took a puff.

Fubuki would tell him off again, he knew; but for the sake of what it meant, for the way the taste of his own death calmed his nerves and the sick feeling down in his stomach, he took it in, and breathed out. He watched the puffs dance, head sinking into one hand. The pain was not settling.

It would settle, he thought as he inhaled. The smoke trailed white, cloud-like against the blue of the sky. It hurt a little, but it refreshed, too, in a way that he could not quite describe.

“You know that shit’s bad for you.”

A pair of brown boots kicked against the kerb. Ryou did not jerk up. He could not bear to move.

“I know,” he sighed. “I might as well. Not like this body of mine could get any more fucked up.”

His hand ghosted over his sleeve. Beneath were the raised bumps of a scar.

“Ryou…”

Fubuki’s voice caught in the cool of the breeze, just like the smoke. Ryou turned around. The look in Fubuki’s eyes wavered, as if hiding something.

He did not want to hurt him. Fubuki was all that he had. The roads around them were empty, and they had been empty for days - weeks, he realised. Weeks had passed, and the touch of the knife was no longer enough, the lighter’s small fire no more effective.

The smoke, he hoped, would be enough. He no longer choked on it, each inhalation nothing more than an extension of simple breathing, of taking in air and smoke and toxicity: what he knew, and hoped, deep down, would be the taste of his death, before his own death would come to be tasted.

Circle of life, Fubuki had said. The damn circle, he thought.

Groaning as he got up, he crushed the butt of the cigarette under his shoe. The taste that stayed behind made him cough.

“You all right?”

Fubuki leaned over, his hair trailing over his shoulders.

I wonder what Shou’s hair is like now. Long hair always did suit him…

“Fine,” Ryou said. “Just needed a moment.”

“Think we should get going?”

He looked back with caution. Fubuki was tired, probably just as tired as he was, though maybe a little fuller from their makeshift breakfast. He had taken care to throw out the cans, walking for longer than needed in search of a trash can, even when there was no point. Nobody collected the trash any more. Nobody cared if they threw leftovers on the ground to feed to the rats. There had been more rats around since the humans had died, and Ryou had spotted a few more that morning, gnawing on the red remains of a corpse.

Guess that’s what I am now, Ryou thought . I’m a rat, but I’m alive in this place.

It was probably better than being dead, he decided.

Saying nothing, he picked up the bags on the ground. One went onto his back. The other he threw on his shoulder. Soft clothing padded it out, ballooning the bag into a shape that Ryou could barely fasten, but the straps had stayed on this time.

He moved the straps of his rucksack and heard bottles give off a jangle.

“Ryou?”

“Hm?”

He turned around. Fubuki had taken the last of the bags, holding it up in his hands like a gift. There was still something uneasy about him, he realised, and he stopped.

“Wait,” Fubuki hesitated. “There’s a bit.”

His hand appeared to fidget, gravitating up to his face. Ryou realised.

“Where?”

“Just… there.”

Fubuki pointed at his own chin, and Ryou mirrored the action. There was a crust under his fingertips. He spat onto them, and rubbed at the skin, until the reddish-brown came apart. Part of it flaked on his fingertips. They drew a small, rusty line with the rest of it, and just as quickly, Ryou wiped it away.

“Better?”

“Yeah. It’s gone.”

Ryou sighed. His hand drooped down again. He brushed his hand against the dark of his jeans. The rest of the blood fell away. Saliva sank into fabric. One sleeve smeared off the rest of the damp on his chin.

“Yeah. Let’s get going,” he said.

The sky up above made him think of summer. Summer was long gone. Fubuki led on, and Ryou followed, tugging at the collar of his black coat and wishing he was not so sensitive to the temperature. His bones already felt frozen. His throat hurt. His stomach had yet to settle, and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to dispel the thought of what he was, and what he had become, and what - whose remains - he had eaten that morning.

Ryou walked on. He did not complain as he let out a shudder. It would be winter soon.

Shining down on the cold road was sunshine.

End