Work Text:
To build a fire you need fuel.
You don't need to search for it in the deathtrap of the wilderness. No wood piles or alcohol to induce the heat. Instead, you carefully step over the other girl's tired bodies on the floor. Watching out for spread out hair and limbs to not step on. Mari shuffles in her sleep just as you pass by. Momentarily scaring the shit out of you. She grumbles incoherently before sinking deeper to the makeshift bed on the ground.
You pay it no mind.
The door creaks as you push it open. Sometimes you wonder if it'll break one day by handling it too rough. If your grip at the rusty door knob was just a tad harder—it'll collapse into pieces. But the wood stands sturdy. Older than you or anyone in this cabin, it does not show any sign of stopping now.
Your breath puffs as faint smoke in the vacancy of winter. Trailing up to the heavens as proof, as evidence of how you're still alive. For how long, you're not sure. It didn't feel long with numb hands and a starving body. You already feel like death warmed over.
The world reiterates the sentiment when the snow covers everything your eyes can see. The trees, the ground, the peeking mountains; they all look like some form of white torture. Maybe that's why Lottie brings a certain relief in you. Dark haired and dark eyes as she slumps over the edge of the cabin porch. The rotting wood strains under the weight. Really, you admire this cabin for surviving long. Even if it's dilapidated and falling off the hinges. It exists.
You pause. Unsure and weak willed, the ground beneath you doesn't even feel solid.
"Don't worry, you don't have to stay out here," She said. Her voice almost blending into the quiet. Her form obscured by the lingering night in dawn.
"Then...If I want to, may I?"
A nod.
Suddenly, the hesitation disappears like it was never there at all.
Lottie sits still, her hands placidly resting on her lap. The knuckles almost tinted with red, in a shade that only comes out in the presence of cold. And there's an urge here, an urge to run your own fingers against the lines of her hands. Delicately tracing life lines and callouses. You wonder about the future written in her palms and simultaneously wish that maybe, your name's in there somewhere.
Both of you don't say anything for a while. The snow falls, the world turns in an imperceptible rate, and Lottie closes her eyes. She sighs deep.
"I missed you," You say in a low voice. You can feel heat coming up to your cheeks as you tell her. A few of the cold dissipates under the embarrassed heat. You would almost feel grateful for it if Lottie didn't look so amused in all of the sudden.
Her lips twitch to a small smile. Mirth shining through those eyes.
"Oh, really?"
You scoff. But the smile threatening your lips makes it hard to maintain an annoyed front. It's been a while since you felt a smile graced anyone's lips here. Joy feels as scarce as food and so you take it where you can.
"Nevermind, please forget it," You swallow nervously, afraid of something spilling out for the whole world to see. But the world isn't here in the secluded wilderness. Only Lottie is.
"We're stuck in the middle of the wilderness. If anything you should be sick of me,"
There's a laugh in Lottie's eyes and you savor it. You find yourself too flustered to reply, something fluttering in your throat for you to even attempt at speaking.
Instead, you watch the sunrise, the sky caving in for the sun in a warm streak of orange. You're distracted enough not to notice Lottie reaching for a pack of cigarettes on her person. She's staring at the box in frustration when you look at her.
"No more left, Matthews?"
She grumbles underneath her breath. Her brows furrowed as she resolutely burns a hole in the Marlboro box. The packaging bleeds red in the midst of snow. You're kind of concerned Lottie will murder the poor box.
"Just one,"
She pulls out a lighter, something that was a lifesaver for all of you the first night the cold turned brutal. She cradles it in her hands, her hold gentle on the pink transparent plastic. You can't help but pull away your eyes from the rising sun and into her fingers. Almost brushing the fire, almost burning alive.
You feel rushing heat in your cheeks, in your ribs, and in your bones. It fills you up inadvertently, it's the blooming red at the end of a cigarette and the mouth you want to kiss, wrapped around the filter. Sucking out all the marrow of life. Nicotine burns so smoke wafts between the cold morning air. Solemn and quiet as it climbs up into the sky. This smoke is a thing that will only be in flight, it'll never really crash.
A word dances on your tongue, hanging off the tip and tempting you to spit it out. Despite your best efforts to bite your tongue, a blush betrays all your best intentions. Like water cupped by hands, it spills.
Lottie smiles under the soft glow of dawn and a cheap lighter. It click and rattles in restless captivity. And without ever confessing a single syllable, you know she knows.
"Would you like a taste?" She says, holding the last cigarette for you to try.
I'd take everything you'd offer me, you think quietly. But you mutter a yes instead. It's never good to be greedy, especially in times of famine.
***
To build a fire you need heat.
Now, to produce and conserve warmth in winter. Animals of many variety would huddle close together, their combined body heat might just be the answer to their survival after all. Winter does not forgive or discriminate, it's alike to death in that way.
You think about that. How mindless everything is except the urge to survive. You think about that, how the unforgiving cold crowns rat kings under its harsh hold. It wouldn't be bad, would it? The cold is bearable beside Natalie's shoulder. Your head rested on the crook of her neck. You suddenly understand how joyful a fire is in the midst of snow. How peaceful sleep will be with a freezing body.
Dyed blonde hair and brown roots. A steely gaze and a careless hand. The fingers of it delicately wrapped on the neck of a bottle. The palms gentle on your waist. Her eyes boring holes on your nape.
And you think, Natalie smells of communion. Doesn't she?
It's certainly much kinder than Tai's "You smell like a wino," but you've never thought of it so bitterly. You find comfort in it. Surrounded by the tangs of corner store wine, accents of warm summer nights, and some hints of Natalie's light smirk; you almost find yourself at home.
She's agitated now, though. Her stare directed in some far off direction in the woods as she bites her lip. Worry eminating off her like seeping light. You avert your eyes, almost tipsy from the smell of liquor alone. But you don't detach from your position. You lean against Natalie's shoulder, head buried in the fabric tainted by smoke and ash.
"Why do you think we survived?" You murmured at her leather jacket. You doubt she even heard it in the first place as Natalie doesn't look at you. Her jaw clenched and her gaze too detached to be up for conversation.
But she speaks up in a low, thoughtful tone.
"I don't think there's ever any higher reason for these things,"
The sky is amber like beer, the wind is cold like ice, the ground trembles underneath you, and the world spits on your face. You can't really process the whole thing, you're just able to take it in by little pieces and eat them off, one by one.
Coach Ben had his leg amputated, the worst of it stains the ground. There are burns on your arms, and there is a throbbing heat on your cheek. Nationals seem like something far away. Maybe it's what Natalie was looking at earlier. Maybe, you think, if you walk far enough then you'll get there eventually.
You feel the metal studs of Natalie's jacket on your cheek. There's something deep in your psyche that worries about bloodying it. But Natalie doesn't push you away. Her arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer to her body.
Warmth is found on other bodies. Warmth is found on her puffing breath, the heat of it splaying on your neck. It's a bon fire, crudely made while there's still dirt in your nails from the burial of people you barely knew.
And yet, you still find yourself freezing. You still find yourself one night with snow dusting your hair and someone's blood on your palms.
The soft exhale you expel turns into haunting winter smoke. And all the while, your lungs kindle something violent.
The Wilderness stares at you, unflinchingly.
***
To build a fire, you need oxygen.
Death is a marching army of men, blotting the winter ground with their million footsteps. At night, when the cabin is silent and its occupants asleep; you can almost hear the pattering of death. Descending and unrelentless.
All of you are starving. Fact. The winter chill is more than something that's cold. It is an all consuming frost. Fact. You can taste the tang of decay on your tongue. Something delicious in it. Something primal and old inside you coos in approval at every little taste. Fact.
Lottie Matthews is staring at you as if she wants to devour you. Fact.
She makes you feel like an open wound. Gaping and bloody. Like there's an ache in your body that needs healing. In the context of the Wilderness, healing means whispered incantations and questions like What do you hear? What do you see?
You think bitterly about how there's no such thing as healing for death.
The wilderness is pleased with you. Your hunger is satiated. Can't you see how kind it is? Nothing about Lottie's gaze is kind nor does she look satiated now. It's the exact opposite.
The moon is a halo around her head and something about it paints her as sacred. She is a saint who's about to devour you. The woods are absent of altars and pews but something divine is here. The holy communion and the cannibalism of a body. Your body. Even Laura Lee would sneer despite her mild temperament.
Death is a marching army of men drawing near.
Lottie moves as if she has all the time in the world. Her Doomcoming dress is muddied and torn but nothing about it takes away her poise.
She comes close. She comes closer and closer. If you had the nerve to run, she would've caught you no matter what. You know she would.
"Are...Are you going to eat me?" you ask her with held breath. As if one miniscule movement will sent the other girl off into eating you...or doing something worse.
She stops in front of you, a standing statue underneath the moonlight. She bears a striking resemblance to an angel on a cemetery or a poised barrel of a hunting gun. Lottie looks at you in a half lidded stare, her expression blank as the night feels much more primal by the second.
The truth is, you asked a question you know the answer to. If Lottie asked for a bite, there will be something deep in you that will respond yes.