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Lucas stands in the field. Grasses whip his knees bare; he can feel skin tear and stares up at the clouds. They look… billowy, he decides. Skewer them on a stick and turn them over an open pitfire, come back from the heat charred and cracked clay. When that skin is peeled he’d savor the taste, the sweet inside melted effortless and slick against his tongue. No rain today though—lightning will come tomorrow, he can sense the air twist and change. The horizon is gray; the clouds over the mountaintops are striated and marked a diagonal where the storm first landed. It’d be here, tomorrow.
Sparks fly about his head. The fireflies seem restless—one spins between both ears and continues to do so. He watches it go and idly raises a finger for the bug to rest; it complies and stretches its legs. If he peers closer he can see antenna prodding at air and in the light of the evening ducking below the eyes shine globes all-encompassing.
Just an idle thought: he could concentrate and reduce the creature to ash. It wouldn’t be anything on his end, not even a bother. He lets it travel down his knuckle and onto the back of his palm where the skin is bumpy and raised numb from the calluses. The wings flutter; Lucas thinks it will take off at the impression of his thoughts, sensing violence. It doesn’t. Instead the firefly only settles and ambles so Lucas has to tilt his wrist up to let it dance over his scabs.
The other fireflies are moving, arranging themselves in a line. He could imagine they were pointing his way forward if he had anywhere in particular to be, or any reason to follow. The earth itself could reach for a hug and he’d turn away from it. So he remains where he loiters—move too much and his newfound friends would leave even knowing they’d leave if he stayed still too long, not moving to keep up. Lose-lose.
He's proven right: as one the fireflies disappear into the night yawning longer as he watches. The stars begin to creep up the backdrop of space showing pinpricks of the cosmos.
The sunflowers have only grown to his waist around him. They part for his sake. He wishes in the dreamscape he could sink into them, and they would watch him cry without judgment or intercession before laying him to rest.
X x X x X x X
Lucas is awake. The bed opposite is empty when he turns and looks. Following the motions and still rubbing away sleep he walks himself into the bathroom and stands before the sink facing the vanity mirror. He’s only half-awake to register the sight but he thinks the bags under his eyes are a little darker, deeper in his cheeks. A quick teeth and hair-brushing, water splashed onto his face and he’s ready. He makes sure to click his door shut on the way out.
When he gets to the main thoroughfare foot traffic is light. Storefronts down the hill are beginning to open: he sees the shutters on the Able Sisters branch peek for morning sunshine. He thinks he can see shadows moving behind and begins to walk a little faster, turning his eyes away. Cobblestone steps help pave his way; he takes the railing and slides his palm down steel. He has places to be—the stadium opens at noon on weekends. Time enough to sleep in. Do more dreaming. If Kuma couldn’t volunteer her time (“princesses need their beauty rest!”) Ness was more than willing to step up.
After enough walking the journey is a blur. He keeps his eyes on his shoes as he rounds the bend at the base of the hill and sees the fountain. Today the spouts are clear and scraped free of algae, today the water looks bright and see-through. The road to the stadium warps on the other side of the waterfall. The noise is louder with the pumps working and each round level is polished to blinding perfection. He could get closer and poke at his reflection. If he’s late he’d tell Ness it was meditation. He “scraped his knee on a wall”, he “got sad and breathed himself back to normal”. Throw in a sob story or five and they’d buy it. Not that he cared about judgment or a moral failing, but even Ness still furrowed his brow when commitments weren’t met—the one sign they had for certain when he “wasn’t doing well”. Do you need sleep? Can you take care of yourself? Worry was the only thing on their minds, anyway.
Lucas pauses when he sees the man sitting on the lowest wall. His back is turned but the silhouette is clear enough, hunched and wide as it is. He’s missing his bandana and his hair seems a bit grayer than the other day, the roots thin and coated disuse. Still the shape remains.
He goes to greet him but Snake is already speaking. “Up early, huh.”
Not that a kid could surprise him. “I don’t know if it’s early.”
“On a weekend?” He breathes short. “May as well be.”
Lucas glances around. Gotta be a clock here somewhere. Through the afternoon fog beginning to settle he sees not time but tables set out for the day, pedestrians of all shapes, colors, fur and feathers traveling on foot making time for their commutes to walk the distance. It’s almost nostalgic.
Snake turns to face him fully: wisps of stubble cling to his jawline. His shirt is untucked and the collar is askew just enough to remain casual without being messy, the top button undone. Sleeves rolled up past the elbows reveal a steel-brushed watch on his left wrist. He reaches into a pocket on his cargo pants and rifles until he retrieves a paper box that fits in his palm. With his other hand he pulls a lighter and flicks it open, raising the light but not before eyeing Lucas squinting. “You won’t tell?”
He shakes his head. Few other competitors smoke, Lucas realizes. But the Hands listen and the architects agree. They respect a tournament veteran just enough. He had to admit this wasn’t like the older man—the first in the room to shoo him away from drugs and adjacent vices, he made an active effort to “be a good influence”, however much of a mandate the restraint was. Maybe he came here to be alone, didn’t expect someone to stumble into his vicinity.
Snake almost grins then. Now lit the cigarette perches between his lips and he takes a drag.
Somehow Lucas sits beside. He’s never sure when Snake wants to make small talk or if he’ll try today. He keeps to himself for the most part, even here at his return. His second invitation and not much has changed about his constant solitude. He’s all right with kids barging in, Lucas knows. He’s seen it firsthand; now he tries for company. “Didn’t you quit smoking?”
He only continues to inhale thin smoke. Lucas holds his breath when Snake exhales. “You like dogs?” the man asks.
Lucas wants to say yes when the words are all in order and the image of a brown dog is fresh in his mind, because he can almost piece together Boney’s curled smile when his tongue sticks out just slightly as he pants, a pink smear of saliva. Instead he only nods and continues to watch the currents rippling in the fountain. Another fresh splash lapping the rims, white froth circular. He wants to run a finger through the water and see how it feels. Heat from the sun, water cool against scarred hands. It sounded nice.
“Kid?”
He glances over. Snake is still smoking. The freshly lit cylinder bobbing up, down while his lips move, he makes eye contact. Lucas sees no need to break it. “Sure,” he feels himself mutter. The glimmer like warmth in his chest melting the block in his sternum is a brief flash—then gone. Boney is harder to picture now. The people around him laughing, hugging. At one point he could sense air on his skin as they brought him closer. He’s getting cold, is what the shiver in his jaw should be about. Just the weather and absolutely nothing else.
The man blinks slow and nods. He takes the cigarette and holds it between two fingers as he blows billowing smoke. The sigh reverberates; Lucas watches the exhale crawl across the courtyard and when the last strands disappear Snake is breathing in smoke again. The cycle continues. Lucas takes in the smell sharp—the bitterness squeezes tears from his eyes. Somehow he doesn’t mind. They don’t need to speak.
“Where’re you headed today?” The question was casual enough. Snake was still looking over the hills with eyes unfocused.
“Training,” he fibs.
“Hmm.”
The fountain gurgles. Sunlight flashes on each ripple. “Ness says my fire needs work.”
Snake looks over, and Lucas immediately feels a chill run down his spine. The guy had always been nice enough to kids but his instincts were unparalleled: he’s being read front to back, he knows, and the lie won’t stand alone much longer. The burnished hazel in his eyes isn’t any less piercing today. “It won you the tourney last week.”
He shrugs to cover the tremor in his chest. “There’s room for improvement before my match tomorrow.”
Another grunt. “So you’re taking the long way to the stadium.”
“I—”
“Just messing with ya, kid.”
Lucas tries for a smile. It doesn’t stick and he feels it slide when his cheeks refuse to stay stretched. He gives up.
“If you gotta leave, I won’t stop you.”
“N-No,” Lucas mutters. “I… We’re just hanging out. Nothing urgent.” Not that they’d planned this a week in advance.
“It’s noon now.”
He turns back to the fountain and fights the urge to jump in.
Snake works out a long breath, the cigarette still in his mouth. “Don’t leave him hanging. Be honest if you’re not up for it.”
“He’ll worry.” You people always do. “How can we fix you today?”
“Do you not want him to?”
To this he has no answer.
“I won’t pry,” he recants, raises a hand with a conciliatory tilt of his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
This wasn’t a proof—nothing to “figure out”. Not math to solve and plug in completing an equation. Lucas breathes through his nose. It’s just a conversation, nothing to lose composure over. “Thanks.”
He hears laughter across the way: green hair flutters waving. It brings him to attention, back into his body and the tightness in the lines of his shoulders. He catches Palutena’s gaze as she glides past in a casual set of jeans ripped at the knees, a loose blouse hanging just below her collarbones. Glasses perched askew on her nose she smiles and waves in his direction jangling the gold necklace resting on her chest, her other arm catching a chagrined Pit in a headlock: Lucas can see the protest in his eyes as he pouts. His wings spit feathers as they fight to gain ground. Other crowds are staring. The pair drifts across cobblestones and out of earshot.
“Well,” Snake says, and he gets up, stretches his forearms by pulling them across his chest: first left, then right. He walks to the nearest bin burnished a green rust and sticks the cigarette butt in the provided ashtray pressing down wisps of particulate. He brushes stray ashes from his collar and clears his throat behind a closed fist. In the shadows beneath an afternoon encroaching his brows stand sharp. Wrinkles, too. “‘Bout time I get going.”
“H-Hold on.” Lucas speaks up, fights to make his voice louder. Snake is already walking away with both hands in his pockets but he needs to at least try. He sees himself in the field from his dreams again and the fireflies are dancing on sunflowers hiding ghosts in broad daylight as the sun begins to set. His chest sags deep. He thinks he might throw up but forces words all the same. “Can I… ask you something?”
Snake turns.
“Do you ever get scared?”
“Of…?”
Nausea spikes in his stomach as he feels it clench again. His throat tastes sour enough to be an anomaly so it hurts to swallow and it itches when he opens his mouth. “Losing.” He hopes Snake knows this is only half about his matches or his questionable winning streak. He’s always felt a measure slower than the swordfighters and half as dexterous—a flurry of ice can only do so much when they’re constantly prodding personal boundaries.
He pauses and appraises. “Sometimes.” The answer is halting and his voice stutters enough for Lucas to notice. He can sense the crack beneath even as he quiets into softness, and he’s satisfied. Snake would get it, of course he would. It only makes sense. “But I’d say that’s living.”
It doesn’t have to be. The thought strikes sudden and Lucas senses himself stagger at sitting. He tips to the right and has to reach out an arm to steady himself on the fountain wall he’s perched upon. If Snake notices his disorientation he doesn’t give voice to it. Too much and the shards no longer fit together. Too much has happened. “Sure.”
The pause between them lengthens.
Lucas must have turned aside when he wasn’t here, paying attention. “Take it easy,” Snake says. He hears footsteps draw away.
Lucas glances into his reflection, his hair made golden and parted with the motion of the water. Even in the sunlight playing chromatic across the billowing mirror in an approximation of joy, he sees it frowning. It was never anything different when he cared to look.
It’d be the same, tomorrow.