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There is something terribly revealing about the moment when your childhood best friend stares you in the eye and does not recognize you.
You snort, at first, let out a laugh-–surely this is a bit. It’s not a very good one. But then he tells you again: no, he doesn’t know who you are.
Your hands pull the blue cardigan tight around your shoulders, fingers climbing the hem to brush along scars that have long since been normal to you but are undoubtedly unfamiliar to the boy across from you. The silence stretches between you, and you wince when you realize that he is probably used to sound.
It’s me , you tell him, and he takes a step back and then really looks at you. It’s almost comical, the way you watch him connect the dots and fumble a bit. He laughs and pulls you into a hug.
Because you can hear the surprise and doubt and uneasiness in his laugh, you don’t bother warning him not to touch you.
His fingers feel like fire on your back.
(“I have to go,” the half-demon boy says to his friend, a boy with blond hair, in the pinewood village. Their wet clothes have long since been dried by the fire the blond lit in the old smoker. A sort of tiredness lingers on them both from having spent an entire day playing, leaving them content and their eyes heavy-lidded.
“You do?” the boy asks, face stricken. “But we’ve still got ghost stories to tell one another! I have this one that’s absolutely fuckin’ sick about spiders that–”
The half-demon interrupts him, shaking his head sadly. “I’m sorry, my mom will be worried. Things back home have been kinda off lately and she doesn’t want me gone long.”
“Oh. That’s fine, I guess. Are you… coming back?”
“Yeah. See you soon!”
The half-demon lingers in the doorway and turns to look back at his friend. The house feels so much emptier from this angle, with only the boy to inhabit it. He knows that this house isn’t his, not really–the villagers just haven’t caught him squatting or stealing yet. This is temporary.
The boy watches his friend go and wonders what it is like to have a family. To have a home.)
When he pulls away, you hurriedly attempt to catch the pieces of your old self inside of you fluttering around like dead leaves on the wind and patch them into something he might know.
Are you still shit at swimming? You ask, and he lets out a bark of laughter.
Are you still shit at shooting? He taunts back, all playful, and your jaw snaps shut. When you don’t immediately respond to the bait, his grin falls from his face.
Yeah. I am, you say.
The silence is new. This is quiet.
You hurry to change the subject once you’ve gathered yourself. A tour, you declare, he must have. And then, you say, after the tour, he will do all your work for you.
Some of the tension eases from his face as he rolls his eyes at your antics. This is familiar; he always knew you were a scammer at heart, a consequence of needing too much and having too little. From the time you knew one another, he can surely recall the hands that navigated the oblivious man’s pocket like no other, the innocent mask you could don in seconds if the tables turned on you.
(A dirty crime boy, giggles the corpse that was once a man. His laugh sounds like TNT blasts.)
While he won’t do your work, your old friend says, he’d love to see what you’ve been up to.
A crater of a country. A pole in the sky with one way down. A prison with your blood on its walls.
You flash him a grin, sharp canines poking through, and tell him he’ll be blown away by all the awesome shit you’ve done.
As you walk away from the spawn portal, he fills you in on what he’s been up to: traveling, seeing the world, training, fighting, losing his village and his family. He says the last part in such a somber tone that you have to blink and remind yourself that not everyone is as accustomed to loss as you are. Not everyone is supposed to share the same tragedy.
You tell him that you’re sorry about his village, because you are. He just says it’s fine and that he made his peace with it. There’s something there.
The red marks like bloody tattoos on his arms are answer enough.
(It has long been clear to you that peace and revenge are one in the same.)
In turn, you tell him about everything that’s been going on recently—point out the hotel that used to be yours on the horizon, the few friends you’ve made and the fewer you still have, the church you worship at, the cobblestone towers you’ve built. The two of you walk along the oaken road with heavy steps and telling him about everything makes you realize how much you’ve done.
When you get to the part of the path where the duel took place, you don’t have the heart to tell him what happened. How you forgot his lessons on how to shoot and aim a bow right and how you forgot your own lessons on how to swim without drowning.
Maybe someday, but not now. Probably never.
(Because there’s never going to be a way for you to tell him that you remembered your lessons in exile when December left you for dead, and still almost drowned anyway.)
Somehow, though, when you look at him you get the feeling that he might’ve forgotten something, too.
The hill crests, and the path splits into a T. Something eases in your chest at the sight of the red and white flowers, the carrot patch, the tree and the bench.
You thank your god that you recently just renovated your house into something more permanent, wood walls and stone floors replacing the dirt and roots. It’ll never feel the same as having nature constant all around you-–but it’s about time you tried to settle something for yourself. You have learned to want permanence again, after so long. It is nice to have a home to show him.
You throw the door open with a proud grin.
He looks around and asks about your spider and you tell him you’ll fucking stab him if he looks at it the wrong way. He lets out a huff and holds his hands up in a sign of peace, he wouldn’t dare.
You stand between him and the glass cage for the rest of the house tour. When he finally steps out of your door you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. His hand rests casually on his belt, right next to the hilt of his sword.
(Trust, it seems, is a luxury neither of you can afford. Neither of you have ever been very wealthy anyway, so it’s not too much of a surprise.)
You could head toward the hotel, but the hotel means the prison and the prison means–
He turns and asks, where is Dream, by the way?
Your hands, which were tapping at your sides, still. What?
Your old friend tells you that Dream was the one who invited him here. He didn’t just find his way here–this realm is locked.
How silly. You’d almost forgotten you were a prisoner to this world.
You tell him he is in prison because he did terrible things, and you want to leave it at that. Now things are quiet, you explain, and there’s nothing wrong anymore. But your old friend is the first person you ever opened up to, so you aren’t surprised when more words leak out of your mouth. In a half hearted mutter, you tell him that, without Dream, it’s like you’ve got no purpose.
(You probably shouldn’t have said that.)
His head turns to look in the direction of the prison, then tilts in calculated consideration. Something flares in his dark eyes like embers being stoked.
A familiar anxiety makes your gums itch and your mouth snaps shut.
(You definitely shouldn’t have said that.)
Then you’re whipping around and leading him away from your house, towards the crater in the earth. You walk over the edge of the path and down the stairs without glancing up, but he stumbles: Woah.
After a moment, he catches up, and you only slow when you’re at the lip of the canyon. Down below, water bubbles from the rock wall and into the lake at the bottom. The flag ripples in a low wind along with the tresses of vines and flowers.
He lets out a disbelieving breath.
Who did this? He asks, and he’s not looking at the ruins of the country anymore, but at you.
You stare at the obsidian in the sky and think: my abuser . You trip over scattered rocks and sprouting roots and think: my father . You follow the trails of black wither-scars on the earth and think: my mentor. You taste smoke in the air and think: my brother.
Loneliness aches bone-deep under your skin, and you think: my friend.
Time, though, has led you past the blame game. A lot of us, you reply.
Then he asks if people still live here.
That’s funny, so you let out a bark of laughter. You explain that no one wants to, not anymore. You don’t explain that most people come here to linger on nightmares or wistful memories, often with a bottle or a lighter or a plan in their hands.
He laughs. He says he reckons it would look a bit nicer if someone cleaned it up—beat the smoke out of the corpse, as they say.
Vines trail along the grid. Blooms spill from cracks in the earth. Waterfalls pour down the cliffs into a lake with glittering fish and sparkling squids at the bottom.
You shake your head: This place has had enough of people coming and messing it up. Nature will take better care of it than you ever could.
You say that last part with conviction. Nature has done the same for you.
He frowns like that wasn’t the answer he expected. In the past, you always agreed or disagreed vehemently with him, and here you are: something in between.
This place, this husk of a city has a way of bringing things out of people, so turn to him and you ask why he never came back for you. To the town. To the village and the ocean and the towering trees.
He has a sword at his hip and a bow slung around his back. There’s no more awkward fumbling to balance the weight of the weapons, only rigid shoulders and expert fingers that drift to the sword’s hilt and the bow’s grip like magnets.
I had to go home, he offers.
That isn’t enough. You repeat the question.
I wanted to, he tries, but it’s weak.
That’s not enough . Your best friend wanted to protect your home. Your brother wanted to take it all back. Your mentor wanted to help you . Your father wanted to save his oldest son. Your abuser wanted to fix you.
There is nothing promising about want.
So why didn’t you? You challenge him, and the response ignites a spark. The corners of his mouth curl up, revealing pointed canines.
Maybe I just didn’t like your stupid face, he grumbles, nonchalantly. His fingers tap along the hilt of his sword. He is uncomfortable.
You just roll your eyes and wait.
He says nothing.
Somehow, the two of you make it back to the road in front of the community house. A rainbow beacon pierces the sky in the distance. You point out the nether portal and do not offer to show him around the other dimension, even though that would likely be the best place for him to stay.
You’re selfish like that, says your abuser. You just lead him to the bench to conclude the tour.
The sun is just rolling over from afternoon to evening when you sit. He stands next to you, taking in the landscape, and in an odd moment your eyes meet.
At last, you let yourself admit the thing he has been thinking every time he looks at you. Your childhood best friend is different.
Wildfires blaze in his eyes. His horns are longer, grin sharper.
You wonder what he sees when he looks at you:
( And when he looks at you, he sees this: Blue eyes drowned in the color of hurricane glass. Golden hair now dull and streaked with white. Hands that don’t know how to hold or be held anymore .)
Conceptually, you suppose, you are the same: two boys with too much fire who lost their homes and have nowhere to go.
In reality, you two are nothing alike anymore. Your flame went out and his went hotter, his smile digs into his cheeks and yours is smaller. You have died thrice and he has not died at all, based on the three hearts still lingering on his wrist. You have made and lost new friends he will never know, and he has undoubtedly done the same.
You do not know who it is you speak to anymore.
(“Eryn!” calls the boy from the boat. “Hurry up!”
The half-demon boy wades in the water, uncertain. “This is stupid. Just bring the boat to me.”
The boy rolls his eyes, and extends a hand. “You’ve gotta learn! Just get to me, big man, and I’ll pull you in!”
“No!”
“Come on! I know you can do it!”
After another moment of hesitation, the half-demon begins to swim awkwardly away from shore, and the blond shouts encouragement from the boat. At last, the half-demon gets to the boat, hands and legs flailing, and the boy pulls him in. They land in a tumble of limbs and water droplets. Waves gently rock the vessel.
“You’re an idiot,” the half-demon gasps, breathless, but he cannot help the smile that spreads across his face like a map.
His friend laughs. There is nothing around them but the boat and the brimming white sea, and the world has never felt so wide.)
You let your gaze fall to the ground, and he shakes his head.
You’ve changed, he says, like it’s supposed to mean anything.
It’s meant to sting, to get you to react. You know it is, that it should . But it takes a nerve to be struck, and your body has been struck by lighting too many times for your skin to be anything but numb.
So you say you know.
There is something terribly revealing about your childhood best friend not recognizing you.
There is something even more terrifying about staring at your childhood best friend and not recognizing them.
But the most terrifying thing of all, you think later that night as you stand in your room, is looking at yourself in the mirror and not seeing anyone at all.
(A lifetime ago, a half-demon meets a boy in a village tucked away amidst the pines. The half-demon has been shunned by the others, who clutch crosses to their chests and ward him away with scathing prayer. He has nowhere else to go but this shabby house at the end of the forest road because his boat floated from the shoreline.
The door opens, spilling yellow light into the misty air that clings to him like a dog to its master. A boy peers out, blue eyes sharp but curious.
He sees the boy’s own carved crucifix on a string around his neck and expects the same treatment.
“I have nowhere else to go,” the half-demon says, his firebright heart upset by the pathetic admittance. He shifts the bow slung around his back nervously. Now he’s just waiting for the stinging rejection, but he says anyway: “My boat drifted away and I can’t swim.”
Instead of screaming or calling for help or shoving the wooden pendant in his face, the boy steps forward. His blond hair is backlit by lanterns like a halo.
“Okay,” the boy says, then sticks out a hand. “You can stay. And tomorrow I can teach you how to swim if you can teach me how to shoot.”
Warmth pours from inside, and the scent of cooking meat permeates the air. The half-demon smiles, and gives the boy’s hand a firm shake. It feels something like a start. (It feels something like friendship). “I’d like that.”)