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There were hands on his shoulders.
He did not need to open his eyes to recognise their grip, much as he had never needed to look to know the quiet contemplation of Rene’s face.
When they had first met, he’d kept a firm grip on Jakob’s wrist, like he thought Jakob was a skittish cat that would run the second the chance presented itself. It was the same grip his father kept on his shoulder in the moment before the flash of the bulb. It was the same grip that Mary-Ann would keep on him, that the institute children would, that the director would, too. That firm grip in stillness turned into a firm grip in flight past the smoke, and ever since, he had known the shape of the hand that closed around his wrist. So it was that Rene walked the path ahead, and Jakob followed behind, ever tracing his steps.
Rene’s hands were tight on his shoulders. He’d always had a strong grip, but now Jakob could feel the lines of his nails, the heavy press of his thumbs. He was so close that Jakob could feel the hitch of his breaths in his chest, that uneven rise and fall. He did not open his eyes. He did not need to, when he already knew the patterns of Rene’s breath.
Above him, Rene shook, soundless. He was so close that he could feel every tremble within him.
Jakob did not open his eyes.
It returned to him almost like a dream: the desert and the pressing cold. That long sleep, stretching onward and onward, past the far-off shore, and then waking.
They had run out of jam again the night before, left with only the hard biscuits and the dried-up crusts of bread. Uncle Karl had pressed a cloth to his forehead and carefully wiped away the sweat, still damp on his skin. He’d promised that he’d return with some of the edible nuts they could find elsewhere, and between moments of fever and moments of awareness he had been there and gone, swept away.
Jakob breathed, slow and hazy. His hands had gone numb, but he could still feel the weight of Rene’s head on his chest.
…Ah. Rene was crying, wasn’t he?
He hardly ever cried. Even when the tears slipped free and the moment stretched on his face stayed quietly thoughtful, contemplative. He was more likely to cry from the sting of the smoke or the burn of the overlong night than sadness or despair, and what grief he did feel had always turned itself into a resolve that filled his chest.
So why would he…?
It was alright, he wanted to say. Look, Rene, I’m still here. His heart pulsed, aching, body a growing bruise. He could hardly open his mouth.
Rene’s tears were damp on his cheeks.
He had sworn, once, that no matter the effort—no matter the “time” it took—he would return to Rene’s side. He’d never been able to imagine a world where they parted for more than a single moment, and if their fates had long been written, then the threads of their lives would perpetually twist together. Beyond everything, he would wake from the long dream of the world and know the shape of Rene’s soul, no matter the form he took.
So much “time” stretched ahead of them, still.
Jakob did not need to open his eyes to know Rene: the way his shoulders shook, the way he pulled Jakob so close that the borders between their very selves dissolved, and time turned slow and thin between them. Enough to measure “forever” with.
A very long time ago, Jakob had dreamed of the end of the world. The sky had wept, the lakes had split open and drained themselves dry, and Rene had held his hand. When he had woken up, he had seen the blossoming conviction in Rene’s eyes, and the promise of hope deep within.
There was so little energy within him. What the fever hadn’t taken had spilt out into the sand. He could not open his eyes. But he did not need to, because he knew the shiver of Rene’s body, and the way his heart pounded, and the newly-sown conviction within him, and the promise that at the end of the day, when he returned home, he would have “time.”
And if Jakob could have his way, that “time”—Rene’s time—would never run out.