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The human body goes through five broad stages of decomposition.
- Fresh. The body starts to digest itself. Cells collapse inward, self-cannibalizing in a desperate rat race to sustain energy. They all fail. Blood no longer flows to arteries and capillaries and the flesh becomes cold and hard within 6-12 hours. Muscles contract and seize, hands curl in on themselves, knees flex. Even the strongest person has trouble forcing the body to shift, tearing muscles with a crack in order to move the dead. Bacteria and insects take interest. The skin starts to bubble.
- Bloat. Bacteria feasts and the bubbles get bigger. The skin starts to pucker and then rise, gas filling the abdomen and empty cavities, distending the skin and forcing it to unrecognizable stretch. The blood begins to bend to gravity, pooling in the skin and leaving streaks of blue and pink and purple.
- Active decay. The body is eaten. It digests in the stomachs of insects and scavengers, collapsing in on itself. Muscle tissue drips off of bone. If outside, it succumbs to the weather.
- Advanced decay. Flesh is gone. Hair and tendons remain, snapping like rubber bands if touched. The face grins at anyone who sees it.
- Skeletonization. There are only bones left.
William closes the search engine.
The afterimage of his phone screen lingers in his vision, bright white stars dancing across the inky black of the ceiling. He can hear Vyncent snoring across the training room, the soft shuffle of his breath, but William’s chest does not move.
Fresh. He squeezes one hand into a fist, and feels very little. The nerve endings are muted, every sensation and touch coming through less and less. He wonders when the decay started– was it back when he first fell off the cliff? Or was it after he went wisp, re-entering his body to help his friends? This is what he was scared of all along. He raises one hand and stares at it, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he blinks.
His fingers take form, dark shadows. In the night, they look purplish-black, the same color as the skin on the bottom of his feet when he raises them to look.
Places where blood pools.
William rolls over in bed and shuts his eyes harder, like if he tries enough, he’ll fall asleep. He can remember having insomnia as a little kid, lying in bed and listening to the blood rush in his own ears, feeling them hot against his cool pillow. He can remember the sound of it, like ocean waves in a conch. How he’d get annoyed with it and wish the sounds would stop and everything would be quiet, because then maybe he’d be able to get some sleep without his mind wandering.
What he wouldn’t give now to be listening to his own heart.
Instead, he lies here, cold as stone on a similarly cool pillow. The supplies they’d brought with them, plus the stuff they’d managed to find in the wreckage of the old training base is rough and smells like smoke. The whole room does. Even now, after a few months of habitation, they haven’t been able to chase out the stink of fire. Sometimes William freezes up and thinks he’s burning, chasing the sensation of fire across his flesh. He wonders if it would still burn.
He never had rigor mortis. Despite being dead, his body had stayed mostly supple. Sometimes he gets cold and stiff, but only if he doesn't move for a long time, like right now, at night, when he lies in one spot and lets his mind wander. Waking up he’ll stretch and feel things crack and pop where they shouldn’t. Vyncent will laugh, make a comment about him getting old, and William will kick him with one outstretched foot and feel his knee slip in and out of place, like his joints are slowly separating.
William doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to be dead, stuck in a temporary stasis of decay. He has a feeling if he went to a doctor right now, they’d prescribe a coffin and an open grave.
At least he hasn’t started attracting bugs. Animals don’t really like him, keeping a wary distance whenever he and Vyncent are out. But bugs– he really hasn’t noticed. There aren’t any down here in the base, which honestly is a little surprising considering the mess they’ve made down here with food trash. But no flies land on his skin and lay eggs. No beetles come to crunch on his bones. The only scavenger in sight is Vynce.
He’s scrappy like that. He reminds William of a raccoon sometimes, wily and handsy, grabbing at things he shouldn’t and not understanding human social convention. At least raccoons have a good excuse, he thinks somewhat bitterly, rolling over in his bed again and cracking open his eyes to stare at Vyncent’s sleeping shape. Raccoons don’t look human, so they can get away with it. Vyncent just causes trouble. He’s better than he was, William can admit. There are less issues now, and every day he learns something new.
Across the room, Vyncent is still sleeping. It doesn’t take much for William to slip out from under his blankets, creeping across the room until he’s sitting next to the small pallet Vyncent has made his bed.
He’s sprawled out across it, his chest rising and falling underneath a loose tank top and thin sheet. It’s too hot for real blankets. William plays with the strings of his hoodie as he stares at the movement of Vyncent’s breath. It’s not perfect, occasionally stuttering or hitching as he dreams, but it makes it all the more human. Vynce’s hair is over his face, splayed loosely rather than tied back like he usually keeps it. Even in the dark, the soft purple sheen is hard to miss.
William lets his eyes follow the curve of his cheek, down to the soft dark skin of his neck, the slotted muscles of his neck and the place where his pulse lies. From there– greedy when no one’s looking– William looks at his shoulders and arms, the dip of armpit and the exposed bicep. He knows from looking in the daylight that there are freckles there, scattered across Vyncent’s skin like stars.
He looks unabashedly for a little while. Just appreciating, lingering in the knowledge that Vyncent is alive. Alive and here, not off on his own. Safe. William’s mind drifts for a moment to Dakota but he shoves the thought away before it can fully form.
Vyncent shifts slightly in his sleep, shuffling and rolling over a little, and William’s not prepared for the sharp pang of jealousy that ripples through him when he sighs. Air, exhaling from warm lungs, blood circulating and beating in his heart and forcing biological compliance. Jealousy is rank and bitter and tastes like rot, but William swallows it back, running his tongue over his teeth and crossing his arms over his chest. He can’t afford to be jealous of Vyncent, not now. Not when all they have left is each other.
He’s so caught up in his thoughts he doesn’t notice when Vyncent’s eyes flicker open. He doesn’t notice, either, when a hand starts creeping toward his own. It’s only when fingers press against his knee does William blink back to– hah– life, startling abruptly.
“Are you just gonna sit there and stare at me?” Vyncent asks, voice rough and quiet, breaking through the silence like gunshots. “All creepy?”
“Oh, god, Vynce–” William shoots backwards, scrabbling at the stone floor. “Oh my god, I’m sorry–”
“You’re good,” Vyncent says with a little laugh, pushing himself up slightly with one hand. “Will, it’s fine.”
William wonders if he can blush anymore. If he could, he’d be bright red. And Vyncent can see in the dark. Oh, he’s fucked.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he babbles, mouth moving before he can stop it. “I couldn’t sleep, I swear I wasn’t trying to be creepy, man, I was just thinking and sitting and you were there and alive, and I guess I just–”
“Needed someone to watch?” Vyncent asks. “William, it’s fine. Chill. I’m alive.”
A hand takes his own, and suddenly William’s fingers are pressed to Vyncent’s chest, brushing skin, brushing fabric. He can barely feel it, just whispers of touch. Vyncent presses his own hand over William’s, making both of their fingers dig into his own skin, just over his heart.
“Can you feel it?” he asks, and William stares.
He can. Very faintly, he can. His nerves are dead and he’s in a weird state between fresh and bloat, and his fingers are turning purple– but he can feel the vibration below Vyncent’s skin, the thu-thump of life. No warmth, no sensation, just a slight thudding that reverberates across his ribcage.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I can, I just–”
“Nightmares?” Vyncent whispers back.
“Something like that.” William sits there, caught between wanting to lean in and lean away, and Vyncent just holds his hand to his chest for a long moment. Neither of them are looking at each other, not really, but William can see Vyncent in his peripheral vision. Mouth slightly parted, expression slightly confused. Like he’s on the verge of saying something. So of course, William opens his mouth first. “I don’t really sleep anymore. My body doesn’t need it.”
“What?” Vyncent looks even more confused now.
“Sleep,” William repeats. “I don’t– I don’t need it. I think. I haven’t slept in a week, maybe. I’ve tried, but I just– can’t.” He doesn’t have to breathe but he does anyway, just for the familiar feeling of his chest rising and falling. The whoosh of air that comes out of his mouth smells faintly of rot. “I can’t stop thinking,” he says, shaking his head a little more. “It’s why I was– creeping. Kind of.”
“You haven’t slept in a week?” Vyncent asks, as if clarifying.
“Nope,” William whispers. “Sorry, uh– sorry, I guess.”
“Sorry for– huh?” Vyncent blinks at him, his hand getting tighter on William’s. Neither of them have moved. William is going to explode into bones. “Sorry for what, like, basically being tortured? That’s not… that’s not your fault. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It didn’t seem super important,” William mutters, because, well, it didn’t. They were busy with other things– Vyncent’s weakening grasp on the Greats, various minor villains. William’s anxiety over being dead always takes a backseat when it comes to this kind of thing. Sure, not being able to sleep anymore is a bit of a red flag, but William’s always been good at ignoring those.
“Withholding sleep is a method of actual torture,” Vyncent says, a little deadpan.
“How do you know that?” William asks, because how does Vyncent know that? Why does Vyncent know that?
“Doesn’t matter,” Vyncent says, and William is about to stop him and make him explain but before he can, Vyncent keeps talking. “Will, if you’re struggling, I want to know. We’re in this together, you and me. Without–” Dakota’s name goes unspoken, Vyncent skips over it easily enough but the void there is wide enough to swallow Prime whole, “–y’know, it’s. It’s just us. We gotta stick together.”
“We are sticking together,” William argues. Vyncent looks at him now, eyes narrowing slightly. He looks down at their hands, still pressed to his chest, and pulls their fingers away from his skin. William briefly mourns the loss and knows he’ll replay it in his own mind over and over again in the future– he can already imagine the daydreams. But for now, he just stares as Vyncent wraps his hand around William’s fingers and holds them up between them.
“Were you going to tell me about this?” he asks. William’s fingers, the tips blue, are stark in the night.
“I don’t know–” William starts, then stops. He could lie. But he could also tell the truth. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he settles on. Neither truth nor lie– somewhere in between. William is very good at the in between. Unfortunately, so is Vyncent.
Vyncent, who traps him in a look. Eyes still narrow, gaze unyielding. William’s spent enough time around him the past few months to know that he’s not thinking, though– he’s talking to one of the Greats. Or multiple of them. Vyncent’s lips twitch once, then twice, and then he sighs and drops William’s hand.
“Sure,” he says. William’s fingers feel so much colder without Vyncent’s around them. “Okay, dude. If you can’t sleep, then feel free to do stuff. I can sleep through it.”
“I mean, I guess,” William says. He’d thought about it before, even done it a little. Worked on some of the minor things bothering him late at night, when the whole world was asleep except for him. He’d even gone out for a walk once on his own, flitting between buildings and dark streets and staring up at the stars with wide eyes. That hadn’t lasted long– he’d gotten too nervous about leaving Vyncent alone, terrified that if he was gone too long Vynce would disappear just like Dakota did. So he’d crept back into the base and found Vyncent still asleep, blissfully unaware.
“It’s okay, man,” Vyncent says. “I sleep like the dead.” Then he giggles. William blinks himself out of a spiral of negative thoughts and blinks at him.
“Um,” he says, and Vyncent giggles again. It’s stupid how much William’s annoyance melts away at the sound of it. “Okay, rude. I am kind of having a crisis.”
“And you woke me up at three in the morning to deal with it,” Vyncent says, then giggles again. “You deserve this.”
“Now you’re just being mean,” William points out. There’s no true anger behind it, though– all of his bad feelings have faded into the background for a moment, melding into the concrete and dust. Now it’s just him and Vyncent and the stupid little smirk on Vyncent’s face, the expression he does when he knows he’s won.
“I know you can’t sleep,” Vyncent says, shifting on his thin mattress a little and patting the side of it. “But do you want to lie down?”
If William wasn’t already dead, he’d keel over at this moment. Vyncent gesturing to his bed, the tired, earnest smile on his face, the nighttime air cool and intimate. If William was a stronger ghost, or maybe if he was alive, he’d lean over right now and kiss him.
But William is not strong; he is dead. So instead he just scoots over on his butt, crawling over until he’s on the mattress. Vyncent shuffles a bit more and they arrange themselves silently, Vyncent making room and William trying not to take up too much of it, ending with the blanket draped over his shoulders and Vyncent lying across from him, face-to-face, limbs pressed together. This close, William can feel his breath on his face. He wonders what Vyncent thinks about the fact that William doesn’t have any.
“Min says you need to eat more protein,” Vyncent whispers to him, giggling again. “I can feel all your bones.”
Skeletonized flashes across his mind again, the images of human remains bleached white from the sun curling across his eyelids. He squeezes them shut, trying to push it away, but it refuses to leave. His own body, the flesh dripping off of it, until there’s nothing left but bones. Across from him he hears Vyncent sigh, and then an arm comes up around his shoulders.
Despite Vyncent, the sheet, the summer heat, and the embarrassed delight coursing through him– William feels cold.
“Hang out as long as you want,” Vyncent mutters, already half-asleep again. William murmurs acknowledgment, keeping his eyes closed.
It should be nice, lying here. He should be enjoying it– he’s daydreamed about being this close to Vyncent, this situation exactly. But all William can think about is the state of his hands and feet, hearing imaginary flies buzzing in his ears. He can see vultures circling every time he steps outside. There’s no room in his mind to enjoy the closeness. He grieves the loss intently, but doesn’t leave either.
Fresh, bloat, active decay. Advanced decay. Skeletonized.
Fresh, bloat, active decay. Advanced decay. Skeletonized.
William lies there in bed, and repeats it over and over to himself. He sees the flush of Vyncent’s cheeks, imagines how warm his hands would be if he could feel them. He sees his own bones at the bottom of a cliff. He sees his body in a hospital bed, in a coffin, in a grave.
Fresh, bloat, active decay.