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I find him in the old junk shop. The one a little ways outside of town. It’s the place where he goes to after a fight well won. As far as I’m sure, I’m the only one who knows.
It’s a modest 10 minute jog on foot at most but that means nothing to me. I’ve done worse.
He has never said it out loud, or rather, I have never dared to ask, but I think he finds comfort in this rundown place. Where one would see the ruins of an old world, he sees sentiment. Maybe he likes being surrounded by all that history. All those memories. Or just the reminder that something better existed outside all of this. Before all of us.
The dying sun shines in my eyes as I look up at the largest hill of waste on the property. It’s quite hard to miss, as it showcases a rundown white pick-up truck at its crest. That and there’s the boy sitting gingerly on top of it, looking at the refuse that surrounds him; like royalty gazing down on his subjects.
Only this sovereign has unruly navy hair for a crown and bandaged knuckles for a scepter. His only riches lie in the blood that’s still running in his veins.
Life is a luxury these days. His more than anyone’s.
And like any monarch, gambling his only treasure will not do him any good.
Leave it to him to be ruler of all this wreckage. I think, then scoff. Leave it to him to be the hero.
His head snaps to me at the sound. There’s no surprise there, in his dark eyes, instead there is something more akin to relief. But it’s gone when I look again.
As a joke, I curtsy. He furrows his brows, perplexed.
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand the idea that there is so much waiting at his feet. He doesn’t understand that this mess could be his if he makes it. He doesn’t understand at all.
So instead, I start my way up the hill with nimble steps. He waits for me silently, idly picking at the straps of the gas mask in his hands, undoing the velcro and looking at the cracked lenses.
I reach the peak with a heave. As I catch my breath, he turns to me with all daggers raised. He’s good at this. Looking like something he’s not. But he’s only mastered the art of putting on a farce to survive. I can’t fault him.
His slanted look would be threatening had it not been for the fact that I know him as well as I know these streets. I roll my eyes in annoyance.
“You aren’t scaring anybody,” I say matter-of-factly, taking a seat next to him on the hood of the car. “You’re as intimidating as a kitten.”
“Maybe to you,” He bites back, voice carefully bored but I can hear the telltale lilts of a whining child at the edges. “The only thing that scares you is a shower.”
“Hey!” I tackle him with half-hearted force and don’t expect him to budge. But he does because he wants to. I let out a curse in surprise, before we tumble onto the dusty ground like a pair of children.
It’s far from an actual fight but it’s something. Something we’ve never given a name for but somehow have always done. I think about the familiarity that comes with every breath he takes as our hard-wired reflexes, brought about by the years in the alleys we grew up in, come out naturally. It’s simple parrying, good practice, a decent warmup for the days to come. None of us hit hard, but we have never hit hard to begin with. It’s never been about that.
There’s no reason to, and besides: he’s laughing and I’m laughing. For a second, we are the only two people in the world. I think I could almost picture it. Just him and me in this mess. But maybe it would be less of a mess if it meant it would only be ours. If we could make it ours.
Our frantic movements kick up the dirt and debris around us, forming a cloud of dust that obscures my vision. I hold my breath in an instant. I’ve always been quicker than him. And he isn’t immune to this type of smoke so he coughs, and taking advantage of that millisecond falter, I get on top of him as fast as I can while dodging his grabs.
In the clamor, I blindly get a hold of his wrists and he lets me slam them to the ground. One at each side of his head. I am careful with his arms without thinking twice.
The cloud of dust dissipates and then I see his face. All boyish grin and stubborn battle scars. His eyes form into crescents and the dimples in his cheek appear, as though to accommodate the hairpin curve of his mouth. The blue in his hair makes his skin glow, like the dying sun. He’s a sight for sore eyes. Or just for mine.
“You win.” And I feel like it as he smiles up at me. My breath catches in my throat. I wonder then. The what if I've never asked.
We have been friends for years. Partners in crime. Confidantes. It’s never been a question. Not when the world hangs on the brink of unrest. Not when there’s nothing we haven’t lost, but so much more to keep.
The end of the world leaves no room for what ifs. It shouldn’t.
Interrupting my thoughts, he says “Are you seriously getting lost in my eyes right now?”
I scowl. He’s still grinning. God. The nerve of this boy.
Releasing his wrists gingerly, I stand up. “You wish.”
“I do.” He says jokingly, holding out a hand for me to help him. The touch is short and mindless, but it warms me. I consider asking him if it does the same for him too, but he’s already walking away.
“Enough, we need to find shelter before—
I stop myself, realizing my mistake. I need to find shelter. Not him. It’s still odd to think about.
He glances back at me once, as though to agree with the thoughts in my head, but he says nothing and keeps walking.
With practiced tones, I tell him that the two of us need to go home. But already, I’m tailing behind his heels.
“You have your mask, right?” He ignores my words, not looking back.
It’s a useless question. You would have to be an idiot to not have one on you at all times.
“Where do you plan to go?”
“You’ll see.” He swivels his head again, but this time to wink at me, unceasing in his combat boots.
I think about refusing. I think about stopping him and just laying all the cards out on the table. Say the reason I’m here and ask him in turn, to have it all out. But I open my mouth only to close it again. He’s always had a way about him that leaves you dumbstruck and docile. The way his entire demeanor makes you curious and always yearning to see more. It’s the urge to know him, understand him. The want to spend every second in his presence and just take everything he gives.
I’ve had the fortune, or misfortune, of knowing him since we were kids, and yet, I have never been immune.
We arrive at one of the only buildings still standing in the city. It is dilapidated and rotting but still, it stands. Kind of like the world. Like us.
“Remember when we said we would climb all the way to the top?”
His voice is filled with excitement. I know it well. For one, I know it doesn’t entail anything good. And the 20-story building in front of us should be more than enough proof. I give him a look as if he’s deranged, but there’s a part of me that craves the adrenaline. It’s tempting. Him more so than anything else.
“Clearly, we were young and stupid. The fog is going to settle in any minute now,” I grab at his arm but it’s no use.
I can tell just by the way he walks that he’s decided to do whatever it is he plans. There is no shaking him. Being set on something is unusual for him, but when he is, he’s set for life. I know changing his mind is impossible. Oh but boy, do I try.
We climb the old structure on foot. There is no electricity so we use flashlights. The elevator has been devoured by nature. It’s the inevitable fate we share.
“They called this a skyscraper,” He ignores me, and the amalgamation of thoughts in my head. “Because-
“Let me guess, it scrapes the skies?” Unlike him, I have no problem hiding bite. I cross my arms.
He just grins back at me like a boy. “Don’t you think the view would be nice?”
It’s striking, seeing him like this. As though he could be something mundane, something un-special. But I know the reality says otherwise. “I think you’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am.”
For once, I say his name to get him to take me seriously. The tone I use is what I always use when he’s being idiotic, which is most of the time, but for some reason, now it sounds different. As though it’s a foreign word. As though I’m unsure.
That gets his attention and he stops to face me.
“I said yes to their offer.” He says it almost too casually. As if recalling what he had for lunch. But the stress on the word ‘their’ is evident. I take an inhale, a step back, visibly surprised.
Immediately, I feel my spirits rise. He’s going to be seen as a legend. “T-that’s great.”
I falter when I see his face. He doesn’t mirror my glee, not even close, as he goes as far as clenching his jaw. My elation dies in my throat.
He shakes his head wordlessly, almost angrily.
It’s rare for him to be genuine in his vexation. I always told him that he’s never had the capacity for it, that he’s made of too much heart and little fury. This is the first time he’s looked like he wants to prove otherwise.
“You love-” I wildly gesture to our surroundings as he watches me with narrowed eyes, not once wavering. “-all of this. And you’re going to save it. What’s wrong?”
I know of the government’s plans with him, heard about it from one of the elders. They just need a sample from his lungs, the solid symbol for his immunity, to make a vaccine. All he needed to do was agree. But right now he looks like he wanted to do anything but that. He looks at me as though he’s pleading.
“You don’t want to do it.” I say it like it’s a sin. A blasphemy. Astonishment seeps into my expression without my meaning to. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything at all.
I want to ask him for a reason but instead, I eye the nasty cut on his cheek.
“That explains the-
“Fighting. Yeah.” He took up all the bets this week as though he wanted to get himself killed. If it wasn’t for his skill and sheer luck, maybe he would have. I feel a chill run through me. “That was the last one, don’t worry.”
The tragic part of all of this is, I do. Sometimes I wonder when the exact moment my life evolved into this constant concern over everything that he does and will do. I figure it was somewhen between the first time he said my name and that time I lost sleep after he went missing for days after a raid. I tend to not dwell on these things. It’s never good to be so vulnerable. For anything or anyone.
So, I say nothing. We climb the flights with silence one can almost hold.
The moon is already out once we reach the top.
Looking out from the edge, we can only see the sky and the fog as it stretches to the horizon. For a moment, I wish I was more disappointed.
The rooftop is covered with moss and a few puddles from last night’s storm. We’re so high up that the fog only laps up at my ankles. I still secure my gas mask on tightly. He wears the broken one, if only out of courtesy.
We sit on one of the dry spots on the ground. I watch him breathe deeply, still astonished.
When the air settles, I clear my throat. I’ve been rehearsing my words in my head during the trip up the stairs but they still come out uneasy.
“If you don’t want to do it, then why say yes?”
He takes a long moment to watch the moon before he turns to me. He says it as silently as he could. As though uttering a damning secret. And in most ways, it probably is.
“I’m not going to make it.” He leans back on his elbows. “It’s a one way trip.”
I allow myself a chuckle, certain this is one of his jokes. He doesn’t match my amusement.
“You’re kidding.” His silence proves it.
“But they said-
“They need both my lungs.” He almost laughs. “Trust me, you’re the last person I wanted to tell.”
I feel a lead block bury itself in my stomach. A flurry of indignation rushes to my tongue but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. This is why he was reluctant to do it, why he was relieved back at the junkyard. He was worried about me. If I wasn’t here, it wouldn’t be a question. He wants my approval.
I feel him stare. I don’t acknowledge it. I’m not sending him to his death.
So instead, he says, “You see that group of stars there to the left?”
It takes me a second to recognize what he means through the tinted lenses of the gas mask. But I’m able to make out a cluster of stars that forms what looks like a child’s drawing of a house, with a tail attached to one corner. I nod, unsure of what to say.
I don’t see it but I know he’s smiling. I can imagine his crooned eyes all too well.
“They used to call it Cepheus. It’s a constellation.” His voice holds all the pride he can muster.
“Cepheus,” He repeats, whispering smugly as if only to himself. “Or also known as: The King.”
And for everything that’s worth something in the world, I indulge him. “How’d you find out about it?”
Like a child, he begins talking so fast that I have trouble knowing where his words begin and end. I can hear bits and pieces of the story but he’s so caught up in his own bubble, that the context gets lost in his jumbled fray. As I watch his hands make weird gestures to accompany his raucous ramble, I figure it’s enough to just hear the way his voice is so animated and giddy. So alive.
I think: I have him here. I have him still.
Unbeknownst to me, I reach out with my hands and hold his face through the gas mask. He stops talking, startled about my sudden action. Well, that’s both of us. Maybe he undoes all my natural reflexes.
“Was I talking too much?” He laughs and my arms leaning across his chest feel it like a deep rumbling.
As long as I can hold him in two hands, maybe I could save him. Who has a hero complex now?
He calls out my name but it feels far away. I don’t tell him it sounds nice from his mouth.
These games have to end at some point. I know for a fact he doesn’t have enough tricks up his sleeve to save his life this time. I’m left to try my own hand.
“Don’t do it.” I whisper. Before he could open his mouth, I let the words spill. “Look, there should be enough here that you should feel some sort of obligation to me.”
The pleading look is back again, along with his mouth pressed into a thin line. This is not what he wanted to hear. But he’s not surprised. It’s what he expected.
But stubbornness is the only trait we share.
“I have to.”
I shake my head, feeling my anger rise. This is one thing I can’t agree to.
“It’s the cure we’re talking about.” He reasons, voice perfectly stable. It’s unnerving. “The whole world is counting on me.”
“It should count on someone else,” My voice is rising, undeterred by his calmness. “It doesn’t have to-
“It has to be me.”
“But you’re just one boy!” I’m screaming now, whatever amount of control or patience I had has run out. “It shouldn’t be up to you!”
“The world is unfair—
“Unfair? The world is cruel.” My hands are shaking with thunderous rage. “And you’re naive to let it use you. It doesn’t deserve your saving.”
“You don’t think I know?” He says, and whatever anger I have dissipates into reverence. Of course he knows that the world is long past the need for salvation. He’s seen it himself. People killing their own for survival, for sport. These streets have been painted with too much blood.
So in the end, I can’t bring myself to say another word. Not when he wants to do it because he knows he shouldn’t. Not when it’s him.
Even when I try, I fight him like a wolf with no teeth bared. On his end, he fights like one that was just born yesterday. It’s no use. We’re like dull knives. We simply cannot utter any words that cut.
“To think this all started because I shattered my mask during a mission.” I stare at the broken one he’s wearing. It was mine once. I breathe inside mine. His. “And you gave me yours.”
“It was the only choice.”
“You could have died.”
“I didn’t.”
We stay up there well into the night. Until my eyes become heavy and my breaths short. At some point, we went from sitting to lying down on the concrete.
I turn to my side, facing him. One last whispered plea. “Please.”
“Do you trust me?” He says, opening his arms; an invitation. An apology.
Who else could I trust in this world, if not him?
I collapse into him. I listen to his heartbeat through his chest like it’s a reminder. I think: Not yet. I think: Stay. The way he breathes lulls me to sleep.
I wake up to the sun shining through the lenses of the gas mask.
He is gone.