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Down by the bay, brownstone townhouses stood in neat, dignified rows.
Endowed with bay windows and grand stoops, walls sheen with light rain. Their doors were a little weak from rot and water damage, and ivy crawled from cracked asphalt up the foundation like spiders, but it still had charm. Frozen, in time and in memory, a perfect encapsulation of the golden hour, the thin line at the end of pouring honey.
Why, It would be lovely, if not for the zombies.
Roaming directionlessly and without purpose, gaits labored and yet, unceasing. Yes, it can be said that the dead hold more resilience than us, having one sole motivation—to feed, and while neither weather nor injury can deter them, they will never be satiated. Hunger is as benign to them as it is blinding.
That is what binds them to those still living. A shared trait.
Greed.
In one of these townhouses, two remnants of the old world hid, surrounded by an ever-growing hoard. A single hand of misfortune led them to get trapped in the first place, tailed by a small group of zombies: Say, around twenty. But where there’s one, there are hundreds, drawn to each other like bugs to putrid meat, quickly becoming more than the two of them could handle alone.
One sat by a window, gazing through boards, basking in the opulent decay of it all for but a moment. Glazed eyes stared back. Lifeless, and with more will to live than he could muster. He’d long since accepted that they would die here, in one way or another.
The other had not.
A morning glory, blooming in entropy, he searched every nook and cranny for a glimmer, a murmur, a notion of escape. In the bottomless, opaque recesses of his eyes, there were all things soft and beautiful and bright, and fragile, so very fragile.
Cracks had begun to form, branching across his limpid pupils.
Soon comes the shatter.
“Have you checked the attic yet?” Felix spoke without pause. He’d been talking nonstop since they got stuck, rambling off lists and plans to himself in an adrenaline haze. A welcome sight in contrast to how sluggish he had been in the past week, what with his sprained ankle and general malaise for life. Fear is an incredibly effective motivator.
“Nope,” Chan lied. “Didn’t even know this place had one.”
“I’ll go look, then! I’m pretty sure the house behind us is close enough to jump to.” Again with that energy, he bounded up the stairs (which must hurt), and they creaked and groaned in protest. The dead responded, taunted.
(Zombies have excellent hearing, much better than that of a human, something Chan noted once after a few dozen followed the sound of his voice from a mile away. Waiting them out is unlikely unless they are deathly silent and that train has already passed.)
Of course Chan checked the attic, twenty minutes ago while Felix had been reinforcing the entrances downstairs. One window faced north, towards the street and over a sea of undead. The other, as Felix guessed, is close to the buildings behind and would have been a perfect escape had it not been barred up so strongly. The previous owner lay up there too, so long rotted their muscle and sinew gave way to maggots and nothingness. Barely enough strength to crawl, let alone muster a growl. Chan figured they were a pre-collapse zombie who starved and cooked in the attic's heat. Easy to kill. Easier to not feel remorse.
Yeah, Chan knew it was useless, but he lied anyway. There’s a fire lit in Felix, born from optimism or denial or a concoction of both, and Chan be damned if he put it out. So what if they’re completely and utterly fucked? Felix didn’t need to know that. Not yet.
No way out, Chan mused. To himself, to God, to the whispers out the window. There’s no way out.
At the sound of glass breaking, Chan flinched. The weight of bodies was too much, and their reckless, relentless pursuit meant they’d stop at nothing to get inside. Only a matter of time.
Delaying the inevitable.
Felix returned and huffed, leaning over the railings. “Nothing up there other than a corpse. Everything was sealed shut. There's no use without a crowbar or something.” He wiped a hand over his face, through his dry hair. “Literally a dead end.”
“Not necessarily. If they do manage to get in, it’ll be a great place to hide.” It was their best shot at making it through this. Pull up the ladder and wait until the zombies grow tired of trying or someone comes to save them.
Or until they starve. Whichever came first.
The wallpaper became interesting all of a sudden. Forget-me-nots and green carnations on white backdrop, peeling and bleached pale. Felix tried to count them. One, two, three, four, ten, twenty, thirty, and his vision blurred, shapes bleeding together. His fingers ran over ridges and valleys in splintered alabaster wood. If he pushed just a little, he could snap the railing right off where it connects to the stairs.
"Look, I know you're right, I just- I can't think about that right now." Felix shook his head. The worst-case scenario happened to be the most likely, and it loomed over them, casting shadows, spilled ink and cigar ash. Better to let his mind go elsewhere. "The others. . . I hope they’re okay."
The rain picked up. Chan doesn't know what month it is, he realizes, but he prays it isn't typhoon season. "We only got separated a few streets down from here, and I think most of these fuckers are focused on us." His head lolled to the side, fixing Felix with a smile. "It's not like we've been quiet."
Felix paled. "Sorry about that."
"Hush, now. You're alright. Anyways, I'm trying to tell you not to worry."
Cities are to be avoided unless circumstances said otherwise. With buildings picked clean and zombies claiming every boulevard and street as their own, risk outweighs reward. Chan remembers trying to move through one long ago, and how dust clung to every molecule of air, blocking out the light. Walking past lines of empty cars. Blood collecting in sewer drains. The first human life his hands took. Yelling, screaming, bandaids on bullet holes, mass graves under neon lights. Never again. They aren’t worth it.
Chan should have never let himself be talked into thinking differently.
“You can find quarantine zones in Savannah, other survivors like you and your friends.”
QZ’s are somewhat of a myth among wasteland travelers such as himself. Whole blocks of land, farms, water reserves. Places where people can drink and forget, where they are safe. It isn’t feasible. It can’t be. Survivors make their way and rebuild what they can on their own, and to have just four walls is enough. Putting stock in legends will only get you killed.
But they had nowhere else to go and barely enough food to last the month, even with strict rationing.
And honestly, his group already had their hearts set on, for once, taking a break, eating a warm meal, and sleeping without shifts. Drowned in their delusions, their exhaustion, past the point of no return and one nail away from sealing the coffin. He would have to be the one to tell them no, that there's no guarantee it’s true, that it’s too dangerous. He would be the bad guy. Even though his instincts and every drop of sense in him said he was right, he would be the bad guy.
And, god, he was so fucking tired.
And they all were.
And Savannah was only a day away.
And they had already started packing.
So into the city, they went, within the thick of skyscrapers and concrete, beneath the crescendos and arpeggios that ring aloft the swaying skyline.
And the city swallowed them.
A high-rise hotel downtown made for good shelter for two months until supplies ran out. And run out, they did, faster than anyone could’ve guessed or prepared for. By the guidance of Chan and Yeji, the de facto leaders of their unit, it was decided they had to leave. That was the smartest option, the safest one, the only one had Jeongin not found a map last night.
Owned by another survivor, it had vantage points marked throughout, alongside areas evidently good for scavenging. Food, water, medicine, weapons. The apocalypse bare essentials. Time came for a judgment call. Chan argued traveling as is, they'd be lucky to make it three days, and leaving empty-handed would be suicide. Yeji disagreed.
She lost the vote. Albeit by a slim margin, a loss is a loss.
I should have listened to her.
A plan came to fruition—a compromise, halfway happy, to ease the minds of those more tentative in their group. Separate, hit as many locations as was safe, and then meet at the train tracks by sundown. It would take about the same time either way, so why not? May as well make the trip worthwhile.
Should’ve left the moment the sea parted.
Bang. Copper-plated rain.
Chan didn't see who fired the gun. He had been scouting ahead with Felix, their eyes trained across the bridge for movement while the others checked in stores, out of Chan's vision. Even then, he felt something amiss, a nudge telling him to turn back, but brushed it off as his usual hover-parent tendencies . He's anxious if he can't count the heads of everyone with him, compulsive in nature.
All it takes is one second for things to go wrong. A twitch, and the dead were brought down on top of them, crawling out of every alleyway and street. Chan could’ve sworn this gunshot was louder than usual, the sound ricocheting off the narrow walls, echoing so harshly it gave him tinnitus. The ringing still hasn't stopped.
Panic set in quick.
They agreed to move quietly, so why did someone feel the need to shoot?
The alley between the two groups quickly filled with zombies. In his infinite wisdom, Chan told Felix to try and find some way back to their friends: Around, through a side street, whatever he could think of. This would have given Chan a chance to fire a few shots as distraction to lead them away. A plan he used often, one which never failed.
But Felix refused.
"I can't leave you." Stubborn bastard. There wasn't enough time to argue. Chan's mouth opened in wordless complaint, seething, interrupted only by a shriek courtesy of Felix after a zombie tried to grapple onto him. The remainder of the hoard slowly turned their attention towards this new, riveting noise, slack-jawed with toothless grins. With no other options, with a heartbeat tethered to Chan's side, he grabbed Felix's arm and ran. Down to a little collection of houses, into the only fence that would open, shooting as he went. The dead followed. They always do.
Who fired the first shot, why they did, remains a mystery. Chan can't even be sure it was one of his kids—for all he knows, a raider or smuggler slinked from the shadows, poised as a viper, and cared little for their life or others, seeing not humans but targets.
He prayed that not be so.
If best-case scenario, it was someone he knew, the moment they reunite (if they do), Chan is going to break their nose. Mistakes are deadly under the best of circumstances, and this one nearly cost them their lives. It still might.
"But what if. . ." Felix looked towards the door, which stood further down the hall with hardwood furniture pushed in front. End tables and fake plants and a red velvet loveseat. A zombie reached its hand through the broken glazing. The corner of Felix's mouth twitched. "What if there's more after them?"
Schrodinger's paradox. Their friends are both alive and dead, safe and not, trying to find them and already giving up.
Who is Chan to give Felix reassurance when he can't even reassure himself? Uncertainty and fear ruled over critical thought, and Chan's head swam in a fishbowl of worries, his throat tightening. What if the kids are in danger and he isn't there to help them? What if they die? Do they have enough bullets? Are they even still together? How many degrees of separation do they find themselves in, scattered across miles and lifetimes.
These thoughts, so cumbersome, he pushes to the back of a shelf, where they'll sit untouched for as long as he can manage. Maybe it's a leader thing, or he is a self-sabotaging moron, but Chan can't have fears of his own, not when those he cares about are scared enough as is. The pains, shockwaves in his ribs still rippling from last week, the whispers of doubt and cynicism, all are to be ignored. Discarded, he decides, for the good of the people, for sweet little Felix.
Chan closed his eyes.
He needs to find a therapist.
Are there even therapists anymore?
If there are, they probably don’t get paid enough.
"No what-ifs, Lix. They're smart, resourceful. Bet they've already figured out some way to lose any that didn't follow us." He’s saying it more to himself than he is to Felix.
Felix laughed softly. "You are giving them way too much credit. Jisung doesn't know his head from his ass. He'd never have survived this long without us. Minho, too." Gallows humor from the front lies. "They aren't that smart. Just lucky."
What is luck, really? Can this be called luck? To live while the world corrodes and with it so do your morals. To know for sure what you'd do when faced with the unthinkable. To be Anubis and the scales and the poor soul newly sentenced. Chan has never felt more unlucky. "Good point."
A groan resounds, the door hinges creaking and fighting against the pressure, and Chan ignores it. For what it’s worth, he thinks there are worse places to die. Better ways, yes, because being torn apart by zombies is not on his bucket list, but the scenery is. . . Pleasant, and enclosed in a way that doesn’t make him claustrophobic. Comfortable. Familiar. Southern intimacy hand-sewn into the quilt he pulled stray threads from. It would be a nice place to retire. A quiet house fitting for a soft death.
Reminds him of where he first met Jisung, actually.
The squirrely fuck snuck into their old base, a motel, intent to steal and was already on his way out with half of their food before they saw him. Even got a blade in Changbins shoulder, which he will never live down. Jisungs refusal to use anything other than throwing knives always struck Chan as odd, but he’s got the skill to back it up (never mind the weird insistence that they make him look cool). That motel was similar to this house in that no amount of them moving in could chase out the ghosts.
There were gentle reminders everywhere that they weren’t welcome. A positive pregnancy test sat discarded on a desk in one room, deflated birthday balloons in another, drifting across the floor. Here too, in the crayon height charts Chan passed by upstairs, forever age eight. The world came to a stop one day and never started up again, and they found refuge in the pieces it left behind. These pieces are comfortable because they were made to fit life, and in the same breath they are confining because Chan is not the life they were intended for.
No matter how tight a space he breaks his body to crawl into, he will never fit.
None of them will.
The quilt begins to unravel.
Chan didn’t realize he’d been picking at it for this long. During that time, Felix wandered off, still stuck in his head. He’ll look out the windows again, perhaps, or recheck their supplies, like maybe this time, he would see differently. It’s a wonder how that never changed about him, his tenacity. How he never changed, despite everything.
As for Chan, he’d say he’s unrecognizable now. There may be a flicker, here or there, of what once was, and anyone who knew him pre-apocalypse would call him indistinguishable, but he knows better. His hands are far too calloused to imply otherwise. In fact, he can’t even remember a before, a pre-apocalypse.
What would Chan say to his past self if he had the chance?
If he could only give one piece of advice, it would be to pay more attention.
For weeks beforehand, there were signs. Massive recalls in crops across Asia and Europe, infected with a mutated fungus strain scientists didn’t recognize, and a startling uptick in hospital admittance, leaving them shorthanded and without amenities. The common public noted it with passive concern and moved on. It was small talk, idle prattle, alongside “how's the weather?” and “some game last night, right?”
It’s not that the news wasn’t worrying, per se, but rather that their lives held more pertinent troubles. Bills to pay, the CSAT lurking around the corner, they blindsided themselves with other stresses and then acted surprised when the world caved in. As if there was no warning, as if this was the rapture and they’d been left behind.
The first announcement—a stay-at-home order—rang out at 6:31 pm. Chan had been with Hyunjin and Seungmin at the former's apartment, and he watched it all unfold on the TV screen, a plane crash in slow motion. He was far too sleep-deprived to process most of what he heard. Fungal-based disease, riots downtown, fires breaking out, politics intertwining morality. Like the plot of a bad horror movie, down to every terrible cliche, Chan almost found it laughable. Almost.
"Hyunjin, do you really need all that?" Seungmin asked from where he stood, leaning against the kitchen counter, fidgeting with the pop socket on the back of his phone. Fourteen calls and still no answer from his parents.
"Fuck if I know! At least I'm actually packing, unlike you two idiots!" His emotions were sporadic; in tears one minute, a forest fire the next. "I mean, does the government really expect us to just sit pretty in our houses while they do God knows what? Yeah, right."
Hyunjin had grabbed two paint brushes from a three-day-old cup of paint water and thrown them into his bag. Of all the nonsensical things Hyunjin took, that stuck out the most. There was no reason behind this choice, no rhyme or rhythm. He instinctively reached for them, without even looking, like second nature, a habitual twitching in his fingers, grasping for comfort when turmoil blackened the world around him.
Since then, Chan has seen many others do the same, met people who had half-full bottles of makgeolli or PlayStation controllers in tow, straight to DVD movies and empty instrument cases. It isn't careful thought nor a subconscious need to brandish material comforts like a shield, at least that’s what Chan thinks. It is simply random. A want for normal in bedlam.
Hyunjin still has these paint brushes three years later. On days when no one cares to scavenge or scout, he sits idly by and twirls them in his fingers. They find home resting behind his ear, pushing back his long hair. Often he's been asked why he has them still, and he shrugs and stares off into the distance. "I don't know," he says, and that's the end of it. He won't throw them away, and he won't use them either. They are the past, perpetual, crusted with long dry blue and purple paint, and he'll have it be that way forever.
Memories cling to objects, like spirits, possessing the articles of your devotion. Sticking to your hands, fly in a fly trap. No matter how useless they may be, you can’t let go. SIlly feeble emotions won’t allow you to.
When they finally came to leave, stumbling from an egg reborn and unknowing, that is when Chan made a fatal mistake, one which has haunted him since. The previously mentioned now came into play - what he’d tell the him of before. Pay more attention.
He had misplaced his phone.
Not a big deal, normally, but it was two blocks away when Chan realized, and he so quickly ached for the chance to call his family. Hollow consolations were given. This isn’t like the movies, they said, again and again. It won't go on longer than a few months. Your family is probably okay, you’ll see them again soon. The cityscape is burning, but that’s only temporary. Corpses are walking, but it won’t last. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.
Three years, it's been. Three years and change.
Nothing got better.
Three years.
Chan doesn’t even know if they're alive.
If he had known where the phone was, nestled underneath a couch cushion, he would’ve answered it a million times over, to say sorry for not making the flight last Saturday, to tell them to stay safe, to hear their voices one last time before the cell towers collapse.
A small part of Chan believes there will be an end to all this. The curtain call, roses tossed onto the stage, tanks rolling in as promised to deus ex machina their problems away. He’ll go home, Felix by his side, and find his family alive, unharmed. The way things were always supposed to be.
If only the universe could be so kind.
Crack!
Chan can’t be sure what woke him from his contemplation-induced stupor: The front door finally snapping off its frame, or the screams of his canary, fluttering in a wire cage.
If not for the furniture pushed in front, the undead would already be inside. Another ear-splitting crack sounded off as they, ravenous, struggled further, an end table scraping across the hardwood floor. Felix screamed again, and that’s when Chan noticed him fully, standing halfway up the stairs, face awash in marigold terror. The sun is setting.
Shit.
A beat of stillness, then two, anxiously awaiting their verdict. The wood creaked uneasily and then settled, one determined zombie reaching its torso through what remained of the door. They were safe for now, but it was still far too close for comfort. A writhing mass of walking corpses only a few feet away, begging to be let in, isn’t what Chan would call relaxing.
“We’re going to die here, aren’t we?”
Chan turned back and caught his breath. Felix’s eyes glistened with tears, a white knuckle grip on the railings as he slid down into a sitting position. Unblinking and shaking so violently, the world shook with him. “We are going to fucking die here. I know we are.”
“No, Lix.” Chan knelt by Felix’s side and brushed his fingers across his face, across tear-stained freckles. “We’ve gotten out of worse situations before. Remember a few months back, at the compound? This is nothing in comparison.”
“That- that was different. We were together then, but now- I don’t know where anyone is, and I'm scared and-” Felix’s breathing became more uneven, and he stopped talking altogether, looking down at his open palms like they were stained with blood.
It’s not like Chan hasn’t been thinking the same thing. Ruminating over how utterly alone they were. How in the grand scheme of things, they aren’t likely to be found. But hearing Felix say it?
To be burned would hurt less.
The faces of their friends flashed through Chans' mind, one by one. He tried to memorize them down to the last detail. The inflictions of their voices, the trill of their laughs, the little habits he’s grown so accustomed to. Somewhere in another place, another dimension, they are all sitting, drinking soju and eating mountains of takeout, laughing at trivial things, blissfully unaware of any other fate they could meet. Chan would have been content with that and nothing more.
If they were together now, things would be different, wouldn't they? Chan can only do so much on his own. Together, they could get out and survive, as they always do. Without them. . .?
Nothing.
I’m nothing without them.
There’s no such thing as happy endings. You live until you die at the hands of some otherworldly monster, and sometimes, if you squint your eyes, a familiar face will be among them. A friend, a family member, rotted nearly beyond recognition, glass eyes devoid of all color. This fact should be enough to break anyone of their hope, rid them of their belief and strip them of their faith until they lay bare in a godless world. But Chan doesn’t find hope in false idols or ill-placed trust. It's not an emotion or a feeling one can describe with words.
For Chan, hope was found in a young boy named Lee Felix, whose heart was so pure it dampened the melancholy of the asphodel meadows. Whose laugh calmed like a peace treaty, bridging the great divide between you and me. A voice worth turning up on the radio, a person you are comfortable falling asleep next to on a long drive home. A melody that curled around your soul more tightly and tenderly than any hug could.
Now, hidden away from the sun, hope slowly faded, phasing out of view. Soon to go out entirely, extinguished, and along with it everything good and sweet left in the world.
That fact was all Chan needed to shake him out of apathy.
It doesn’t matter how right Felix may be, how right both of them are. If death is a certainty, he’ll do everything in his power to postpone it. A peaceful epilogue was not written in the stars for them, so Chan will make an ending of his own with drawings in sand.
There isn’t much more he can do.
Chan pulled Felix into his arms and rocked slowly, attempting to soothe him. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. I’m right here, and I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. We just need to wait for the others to find us.” It’ll all be okay then. It has to be.
Felix said nothing. His vocal cords were tied, all strung up in ribbons and bows and lovely little nooses. He curled further into Chan and covered his ears, trying to make himself as small as possible so he could feel safe with his tears.
The growls grew louder. Sometimes, some of them sound human still, guttural whines like cries of pain. Chan wonders if they are trying to speak but can’t, a mere echo of who they once were. Louder, they cry. They ask of vengeance, of mercy. Chan wants to cover his ears too. He wishes they’d stop trying.
“They’ll be getting in soon.” Chan doesn’t mean to be pushy, but patience is a resource finely measured, and he’s about used his up. Apologies and virtue can come later after they haven’t been eaten alive. “We need to go upstairs; If you won’t get up, I’ll have to carry you, okay?”
Still no response. Felix shut down completely, naive to the world around him.
I wish I had that option, Chan thought, swooping Felix into his arms. It was now, carrying him up the stairs, that he noticed how frail Felix had grown to be. Months of low rations will do that to you, turning your bones as delicate as porcelain, brittle, able to be shattered with a single touch. If they survived this—if providence allowed them to—Chan swore he’d get them at least one good meal, something warm and homey. They don’t deserve to go hungry.
They all deserve so much better than this.
“We should put a warning label on you. ‘Fragile, handle with care,’” Chan laughed, pushing his way into the room closest to the attic. They couldn't climb up the ladder if Felix refused to walk, so it would be wise to stay close.
"Hey, I am not fragile- ow." Felix hit the ground with a thud. He rolled onto his side and groaned dramatically. "There was no reason to drop me, asshole."
Good, he’s talking again. "Easier than setting you down," Chan said, sitting next to Felix.
"I thought you said to handle me with care?!"
"You were dropped carefully!"
Felix rolled his eyes and made no rebuttal. His frame still shook, far more than Chan felt comfortable with, but he’d calmed down considerably. It was now a passive panic, on par with that of a dog in a cage.
Chan took a moment to gather their surroundings, and under the mess and wreck, he figured it was once an office. Far messier than the rest of the house, papers and bottles were strewn across the floor, and thick spiderwebs covered the ceiling (Chan recognizes the kind—golden orb weavers). Dust lines on the south wall showed where a family picture used to be, and glass shards showed where it ended up, thrown across the room. Chan could just make out the words on one paper nearer to him; it looked like an unfinished letter, an apology. Whatever transpired here wasn't the work of the apocalypse.
Books also littered the floor, most of their pages more dust than paper. Felix tapped his knuckles on one cover rhythmically. Wuthering Heights, hardback. “Does your gun have any ammo left?” He asked suddenly, eyebrows furrowed. There were hints of desperation in his voice, but more than that, he seemed almost resolved.
Lies are starting to become commonplace for Chan, second only to breathing. “. . .Ran out on the way here.”
Chan’s pistol hung at his waistband, heavy with the weight of one bullet. Not enough for the hoard, only good to stop a single heartbeat. It’s an idea Chan already courted—to die swiftly and deliberately, of his own accord, but he found this plan to be asinine, absurd. He won't allow Felix to consider it for even a second. Pulling that trigger is out of the question.
Water droplets raced down the window. Felix looked at them with envy and brought his knees up to his chest. “I don’t want to die here. I can’t- We didn’t even get to say goodbye to the others.”
Chan reached out and rubbed circles on Felix’s back. He couldn’t say anything more to comfort; words had long since lost their meaning. They’d just pass in one ear, out the other. His being there was comfort enough.
When you love someone, the closer you grow to them, the more similar you’ll become. You’ll adopt their mannerisms and way of thinking; be pavlovian trained to recognize the smallest of tells. Every thought that graced Chan's mind was voiced by Felix. Every emotion Chan buried, Felix expressed. They are soulmates, after all, bound together by something unexplainable.
It’s bittersweet how it took all of this for Chan to notice. A connection that once existed in his peripheral vision now standing clear as day. If only he had realized sooner, maybe he could have mentioned it, he could have. . .
If I wasn’t so oblivious-
In the end, what does it matter? Too late to reminisce on what might have been. The present took precedence. Here they are, dangling over devils maw, and to look into the past would leave them blind. Judgment clouded, handed over on a silver platter.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
But which one to take?
Would it make a difference, or did they lead to the same destination?
Chan was acutely aware of downstairs and every little noise that may spell doom. They were living on borrowed time. Any minute now, they’d have to hide away deeper in this mausoleum and wait, and for what? People who may never find them? Who very well may not be looking in the first place? It would be worse then; death lurking underneath their feet. Running on the bare minimum of food and even less sleep, with adrenaline and fear alone to keep them awake.
“Give me your hand, Felix.” Distraction is the best medicine. Well. . . maybe not the best, but it was all Chan had right now. One pawn left unplayed. Felix reluctantly accepted and let Chan pull him to his feet. His eyes were bloodshot from crying, and still, choked-back sobs wracked his body. “Dance with me.”
“Chan. . .” Felix sniffled. “Don't be ridiculous.”
“I’m not!” Despite everything, Felix still managed a small smile in amusement. He laid his head on Chan’s shoulder and sighed, contented. “Nothing crazy. Just sway with me for a moment.”
There’s no better way to spend your last day than in the warming embrace of someone you love. Desolation so serene it makes everything more bearable, like the final golden rays of sunset before sinking below the ocean. It makes way for darkness, but much unlike the human nature of kairosclerosis, it isn’t scary. No, to describe such a thing, only words of beauty will suffice. A reverie the poets could only faintly grasp. That time, candied requiem, is not spent dreading the night. Bathed in a daffodil glow, in ephemeral tranquility, you admire it for all it is, unburdened by fear or vexations.
Death delivers unto us urgency, and without it, love would hardly matter.
I can tolerate the end of the world if I’m with you.
Chan began to hum gently, and that hum formed into verses. How long had it been since he sang last? Centuries, it felt like. Music used to be a constant, to soothe all ailments and cure all wounds. Scarcely do we hear it anymore. With most of his time spent running from danger, the art of music was left behind to gather dust. Not gone, just lost. Further than ‘I miss you’ but closer than ‘goodbye.’
It felt nice to sing again. He should've done it more often.
“When this world is no more, the moon is all we’ll see.”
Songs transcend language and spoken prose, and singing. . . It felt like home. It was the only thing that felt like home to him, other than his friends. The only thing the dead couldn’t take away. True freedom could be found scribbled in the lines of Chan’s old notepad, lyrics to a song we’ll never hear. A symphony forever unfinished.
“ I’ll ask you to fly away with me.”
Felix tried to sing along, and his voice broke, worn from sobbing. He was so faint, verging on inaudible. Only if you listened closely could you hear him, a voice as sweet as syrup.
“Until the stars all fall down, they empty from the sky, but I don't mind.”
Downstairs, a loud crack echoed, and Felix’s scream was muffled into Chan's chest. Are they in already? Didn’t sound like it, but Chan's heart rate spiked at the thought. On the outside, he tried to keep calm and finish the song for Felix. On the inside, screaming and profanities. Every curse word ever invented jumped into his head in bold letters. Had he been alone, he would’ve yelled them out. Felix’s trembling came as a reminder that he wasn’t.
“If you're with me, then everything's alright.”
Felix gripped the back of Chan’s shirt and mumbled something under his breath, unable to be heard. Then he took a shaky breath and repeated himself. “Don’t leave me. Please, please don’t leave me.”
“Wh- I would never.” Preposterous for him to even entertain the thought. In no universe would Chan ever willingly leave his side. “You’re stuck with me, honestly.”
“Promise?”
There it was. One little word which held so much power. Promises are as lovely as they are tragic; gorgeous in theory, devastating in practice. Especially in times like these, when the future is bleak and uncertain, you cannot afford to make them lest they be broken.
The guilt of not keeping a promise is a heavy cross to bear, and Chan would carry it all if that’s what it took to protect those he loved.
Some things are made to be broken.
“I promise.”