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There’s something ethereal about watching a desert storm brew above the horizon. Watching the harsh sun start to dip below the skyline, providing mercy and cooling the earth enough for water droplets to finally have a chance of reaching the dehydrated sand below. A smell of ozone fills the air, detectable only to those familiar with the environment. The sky shifts to red and purple, and a blanket of grey drapes itself over the top of the world. A once-in-a-while phenomenon that is a cause for celebration for every desert dweller lucky enough to experience the falling of the life-giving water.
The wasteland that is Zone Seven is largely deserted. Many years after Better Living crumbled to dust, the citizens of the desert chose to migrate closer to the resource-abundant City. They filled the neighboring zones with hopes of prosperity that haven't been felt in decades. Few choose to stick it out in the wilderness that the outer zones have become. Not a living soul wanders through this part of the desert besides a few older ‘joys who chose to cling to the past. Change isn't easy for anyone, especially the battle-hardened few who are no longer young enough to dream of adventure and risk.
One such soul sits watching the brewing storm. Vacancy is etched into their hazel eyes as they stare blankly at the desert.
Party Poison, a child turned saint, a saviour that is human, sits in silence. They tap scarred fingers against fraying jeans. Their long hair is tucked behind their ear, faded red framed with greying roots. Pinkish brown tainted silver with age.
They look over the horizon in the resounding silence of the desert, they sit upon the splintering wooden steps of the shack they call home. Aged wood, no doubt placed years before their birth and will collapse after their death. Decades have passed since it all happened, and the fearless leader turned recluse had not returned to the City since they had left Kobra and Ghoul's bodies out in that cursed lobby.
The creak of a door interrupts Poison's contemplation, heavy boots step onto the porch. The footsteps come to a stop a couple of feet behind Poison, they don't have to turn to know who it is.
“Looks like rain,” a voice as sweet as honey graces Poison’s ears. Jet Star sits down heavily diagonally to them, a step above theirs. Her hair is tied in a ponytail resting on the nape of his neck. Curls frame her face, a warm brown, the same greys that poison despises on themself looks beautiful highlighting her hair. She sat still next to Poison; they don’t turn to look at him.
“The witch thinks we need a blessing,” Poison replies in a neutral tone. Their voice is never soft, not the way Star’s is. It's rough; years of smoking and screaming will do that to you. Star is pretty in every way someone can be, not like Poison.
Star smiles, a small yet certain smile, radiating hs quiet confidence, sitting next to her partner, close but not clinging, “We’ve pleased her, huh?” he looks off at the horizon. They don't answer, staying quiet, stuck in their head. Star is used to finding them like this, drifting off in some reality they've made in their mind. The two sit in comfortable silence. Surrounded by the sound of wind blowing over the desert sand. The sound of the brewing storm echoes in the distance, the far-off rumble of thunder, the air beginning to gain moisture.
They never used to be blessed with a consistent weather cycle. The desert has been healing from years of radiation and pollution corrupting the atmosphere. The city pumped out surplus amounts of garbage to make the desert more treacherous and the city seemingly the only safe haven. In the old days, if the zones ever got rain, it would be once every couple of years at best, a cause for joyous celebration throughout the dehydrated people. Clean drinking water was rare, and thriving plant life was rarer. The ground and the people were always thirsting. However it does appear that time heals most wounds. The weather cycle has begun to recover. Star and Poison have come to know what a wet season looks like in the past decades.
There is still a food scarcity choking out the citizens of the zones. The new rainfalls have helped, but the soil is too weak for any of the agricultural efforts that those in the city have attempted to really take root. Even now, there is a struggle to feed the amount of people living in the desert. Hope is a new feeling for the city; desperate efforts for integration have been taken on by optimistic killjoys and city citizens, though the pains of the past are not easily forgotten. Killjoys, it seems, will always resent the city, the ones who kept them trapped. Even if it's not the citizens' fault, they still look and talk like those responsible.
Nerves were fried after the war came to an end; people were lost without the goals and direction they had always had. They searched for someone to take charge. Poison never liked that about crowds, always desperate to be told what to do. The people were in need of someone who could lead the efforts to fix the broken world. They turned to the only familiar face they had.
And Poison choked. They ran, leaving the girl; the girl that the four had raised was left with the weight of a revolution on her shoulders and a lost population of people.
They feel guilty. They always have. But they needed to retreat, to deal with the years-old repressed feelings that had built up in their body. They had never been alone up until that point. Star thinks it broke something in them, but they disagree. They dealt with their emotions in bottles and pills, hoping it would flush out the noise ringing through their brain. They did that for years until the rumors that they were dead turned into accepted truths.
Till they were dragged, drunkenly kicking and screaming, back to humanity by Star.
“I've been thinking about them lately.” Poison's gravelly voice jars the rain-scented air. Their voice is calm and detached as it tends to be these days. They're more dissociated than not these days, loosely tethered. It lacks the expressiveness that once was their default. Once harsh eyes lit by a youthful fire now softened and dulled, they had felt too much for too long.
Star inhales slightly. Posion didn't like saying their names, but he knew they were talking about Ghoul and Kobra. The memory of those two remains a tender wound between poison and star, still painful despite the scar tissue.
“What about them?” she asks, not gently but carefully. Enough to not start anything unwanted. Poison was content to live exclusively in the memories they had. The grandeur that had once enveloped them was all they could stomach when it came to living these days.
Poison wasn't made for calm; it made their head hurt. After so much noise, and so much movement, the stillness felt wrong. It wasn’t peace; it was absence, a void where the tension should be. And that emptiness ached.
Poison fidgets in a self-soothing manner. “I’ve been praying at night,” they say. Jet refuses to react to the change of subject. It's hard to get used to how jumpy their mind is now, how they've changed. She listens to them, attentive to every thought they share. He's almost able to note the old passion in their body when listening to the tone in their voice that they get when they speak of spirituality.
“For what?” he inquires, like treading through a minefield, not knowing what will cause them to lose it. Star is too tired to fight a battle with them these days. She desperately coaxes words from them while hoping not to send them down the path to a volatile argument.
They almost smile, “You… the Zones… the souls of our family..” poison lists off vaguely.
“But not for yourself,” Jet notes.
Poison's tone sharpens, and they glance to the side. They nearly meet Star’s gaze. They always stop just short of his eyes, they have for years, it brings a dull grief, a loneliness not of solitude but of being unseen. She feeds their nonsense not out of interest but out of a hope to connect with them how he used to. ”Does a saint need prayer?”
Star wants to scoff at them.“I don’t know any.”
They don't make any face at Star’s response, though their hazel eyes make a purposeful blink. They clench their fingers one by one as he continues, “You're not a saint, not to me, you're not. You're just Party Poison.”
Poison almost scoffs; they breathe a short breath and study the dark horizon. Just Party Poison. They don't understand how he could be so blind; a hollow weight settles on their chest. They had tried to be more than themself since they were a child. More than a city brat, more than a desert refugee, more than just a soldier. They were destined for greatness, they knew that from a young age. A deep yearning in their blood that they had felt since they were old enough to feel. Star touches their hand; her hands are not soft but are careful and gentle. Always gentle. Poison makes no effort to get closer.
“I would hope you'd think more highly of me, after all we've done.” Maybe Poison knows they are being selfish. They know deep down inside of them that they shouldn't treat people this way. But after years of living in a deep bitterness, in what Star likes to call ‘delusions’, they're immune to the desire to change. They can't change; it's been too many years of holding the same mindset.
An intense moment passes, poison tries to hide the cracks in their fragile veil. Star stares at them, studying the side of their face, “I’m not going to worship you, I don't idolise you. I’m not going to put you on a pedestal. You don't need to be anything more than who you are right now.” he sings the tired song once again, letting out a small sigh. Disappointment and sympathy lace her words.
They hate sympathy. They don't need it.
Spirituality is something new for Poison, growing into religion as they aged. They had rejected the stupid ideas the desert folk held when they first escaped the city nearly three decades ago. It's silly to think any god can exist in a wasteland like this, is what they used to think.
When they first met Star, she was suspicious of the annoying battrat. The curly-haired desertborn with his wits and a scowl that could shrivel a cactus would clutch her rosary at the disrespectful brat that was Party Poison, going on constant tangents of the idocrasy of putting your faith in ‘dead robots’ or ‘witches’. How it ‘just makes no sense’ to believe in anyone who wasn't yourself.
How things change
There was a tense role reversal. The two changing their convictions as they aged. Star, with a resentful stare, would leave the room when Poison knelt to pray. Star’s faith dwindled as Poison became more caught up in sainthood; they began to feel the weight of expectation from those who idolized them in the desert. They chased the idea that their every action had divine significance.
“They pray to me… in the city,” they say it calmly, matter of fact.
Star scowls at them, and he begins to reach his limit. Her frustration with poison was bubbling in his chest. How could they not see how delusional they had become? She knows they're not stupid, but she can't help but want to insult their intelligence. He stiffens his posture. “That's dangerous. Do you not see how that's dangerous? You're only human poison!” he yells angrily. Gripping onto their shoulder.
Poison huffs. “The people need something to believe in.” Their tone indicates their refusal to change their mind. In the chaos that followed after better living fell, the infighting in the desert got bad. Violence followed, and the integration efforts of Battery City citizens and killjoys were futile. Losing BLI meant losing one of the only constants anyone ever had, sure, a corrupt constant that chemically subjugated people, but a constant nonetheless.
A slight tilt of her head, “They should believe in the world we've freed for them. The world our girl gave to them. Not an individual with a complex.” Star was always bringing up this complex of theirs. Ever since they were a teenager, when he first saw the look in their eyes when people cheered for them. When they would grin at billboards of their face. She figured at the time it was just them being young and annoying and selfish. Star was always the only one who would break them down, willing to insult their ideals.
“... I was supposed to be martyred, to die young.”
Star’s eyes reflect the sad exasperation of someone who's had conversations along this script a million times before. “Maybe you were. We all were, I think.” Poison looks at him. Though they don't have enough courage to meet her eyes, she speaks, “But you weren't. You haven't. You need to stop believing you're dead.”
“Star–”
He takes their hand, but they don't finish speaking. They watch as she gently places two fingers over the pulse point on their wrist. “You're not dead. You're breathing, your heart is beating, we survived.”
Poison looks away, a laugh dies in their throat, a forced exhale, and brief, strained sincerity. “Why? What's the point?”
Star doesn’t respond to that. He just sighs. She struggles to feel anything but disappointment these days. Poison thinks that knowledge should bother them more than it does. He gives them a recycled look, which means that Poison has fallen short of hope once again. The air is warm, the brewing storm breaking the stillness. It should hurt to be a failure, Poison knows that they should feel guilt for their less than acceptable treatment of their partner. They never listen to Star, they're quick to frustration and to argue.
Star is only with them from pure obligation, serving a long burnt-out flame. ‘Partner’ is a comfortable title, a struggle for familiarity. He faces away from them in bed every night, giving them a practiced kiss on their cheek when leaving on an errand. She remains loyal to them because he wants a fake ideal. Why else would anyone want to stick with a delusional and tired leader? Picking up the pieces that poison refuses to hold, chasing something she knows is gone. If poison had the energy, they'd ask why. Why bother?
When the war was over, when Kobra and Ghoul died, the two could barely stand to stay in the diner. Memories were painted on every surface, every doodle on chipping paint, every trinket decorating the shelves, every stain on the furniture, and every dent in the walls. Poison didn't believe in the supernatural at the time, but the ghosts that haunted the building led to frequent breakdowns and vile words to be slung at the only person who cared enough to get close to them. They hated everything when they were in that place. Filled with anger and grief, they detested themself for their harshness, They took to dulling themself, the nightmares that refused to leave when they woke, the anger that throbbed in their veins, with the only coping skill they had developed.
Crawling from that pit was harder than any firefight they had ever been in. They had no crutch to lean on for many years; when Star got wise when he clenched his teeth and slammed the door in their face and decided not to take the mistreatment from them anymore, they were entirely alone. She didn't deserve anything they gave her. At their lowest point, they turned to religion, to things they had brushed off as nonsense. They say it's good to focus on something bigger than yourself, but poison was never good at that. But poison has learned in recent years that even they are capable of change.
Poison hasn't had a drink in eleven years now. They miss the way their throat would burn, the warmth in their chest when that lukewarm liquid would flow down their throat. They knew Star didn't like them when alcohol was their crutch. Switching their focus has helped them greatly, though Star still feels wavering murmurs of disapproval for them. Losing his friends forced him into a more atheistic mindset, she chose sobriety from faith as what god would allow for that sort of suffering. What good deity would allow for someone to lose what they love in such a horrible manner? She was happy for poison initially, finding something to focus on beyond reckless self-destruction. Poison could never do anything halfway, they chose to elevate themself beyond a mere worshipper. And the thrill of sainthood is nearly just as addicting.
Rain starts to fall in the distance; it hasn’t reached the tiny shack the two occupy yet. The temperature starts to dip. Star has been discovering new experiences even as he ages; only recently has the sensation of being cold been an experience for him. The desert was always hot, there was no weather or seasons. Only an unrelenting sun. The jacket on her shoulders is the same one she's had for decades. The same jacket that protected his skin from radiation and saw her through countless battles. The same jacket that's been draped over their sleeping girl and a drunken Poison. Laser burns and aged scars litter the leather, the holes patched with intricate embroidery, a hobby he's picked up in his older years. Fraying seams are covered with snakes and strawberry vines, patched with fabric scraps and the colored thread he’s dyed herself. He picks lightly at a loose string. She rests a hand on Poison’s knee. They don't stir, but he can hear a slight shift in their breath.
“It's quiet in Zone Seven.” Poison speaks up, a soft tone in their voice, less edge than it usually carries. They moved a few years after the war was over. Finding a quiet place to rest together. That's all Star wanted. It was a secluded little building, made of wooden planks and peeling paint that once had been blue, yet sun-bleached and faded into a grey. While the building had not always been home, it still reflected years of memories to Star. The porch sagged in the middle from years of sitting out watching the sky. Time had settled into every corner of the building, not quite decaying yet still worn and tired.
It was comfortable, homey, two well-used rooms. The kitchen is decorated with Stars' collection of plants and plates. A colorful room with trinkets covering the surfaces. The bedroom housed a mattress and plenty of pillows and blankets that didn't match. Made for two.
Star keeps her hand on Poison’s knee, his hand calloused and rough from years. “Yeah… quiet.” Silence is a background noise the two have grown accustomed to. Silence is comfort when your life is noise. Poison had never been big on relaxation. Star watched how Poison sat, their body language. Goosebumps raise on their arms, the cold air blows from the distant rainfall, a faint and restless whisper carries over the sand and roads. The horizon feels heavy, a distant noise that's steady like electricity in power lines. Star removes her jacket and drapes it over their shoulders, she ran warm anyways. Poison finally meets her eyes, they study Star's dark irises, the crinkles around her eyes from years of laughter, the fun they'd shared to outweigh the heartache. His eyes were kind, a deep brown like stained wood. They held each other's gaze, Star pushed his hair behind her ear, absentminded, practiced action. Since growing his hair from the way it used to be, short above her ears, she's found comfort in the sensation of pushing his hair back. It's long enough to flla into her face, a notion that would have been euphoric to his younger self. The curls are tied back, a strip of cloth used as a tie, silver highlights the strands, picked up by the setting sun. Poison used to tell her how gorgeous he was every day. They stopped doing that a while ago; they must have forgotten.
Her gaze is as intense as the distant thunder that rolls overhead. Poison breaks away, casting their eyes to the distance, watching the way the sand looks in the cool-toned evening sky. Star takes Poison's hand, hers is rough from years of work. Star's knit gloves tickle their skin as she runs his fingers over their knuckles. She watches the horizon along with pPoison. The rain hydrates the thirsty ground, waiting for it to blow in. “The plants are gonna be real happy.” Star offers quietly with a weary breath. Poison nods in affirmation, thinking of the garden they made together. The two’s clunky domestic life they held together. “Should put the rabbits inside.” Poison nods at Stars' offhanded comment, his attempt to interrupt the silence by just saying words not going unacknowledged.
The air is quiet and loud at once. The echoing white noise of nature surrounds them. Distant cicadas chirp. Rain falls to the ground in the distance. The house creaks in the increasing moisture. A beautiful painting of healing nature. A tapestry of resilience with life returning to the world. Poison clenches their fingers around Stars's.
“I wish they were here to see this.” Star's breath hitches at Poison’s words. The quiet sentence is spoken in a steady tone. Its a sentiment that Star shares, yet it also serves as a depressing reminder of how Poison is still unable to crawl their way out of the past. Their mind is always focused on the ones they lost. Like amputating a limb to survive an infection, there will always be a missing piece despite the healing. Poison refuses to see the positive of their life, not that Star blame sthem. The absence is heavy and achy.
“Of course you do,” Star says, his voice carrying the same grief they feel. Though it's lighter for Star, Ghoul and Kobra are nearly twenty years past. He still thinks of them, of course, she often finds herself wishing he could discuss Poisons state with their brother. He feels the ache when she needs a hand when fixing the car. She hears their loss in the absence of laughter in his life, the strange remembrance in not needing to splurge on the expensive cans of fruit because there are no picky eaters to refuse the cheaper options. She never was one to cry, but he will spare tears for his lost family. They never got to see the fruits of their sacrifice. They weren't allowed to see their legacy. They don't get to see the world as it fixes itself.
The two loved the rain, though back then, it was far rarer. The four would run through the stormy weather, wrestling in the sand turned mud. Their adopted daughter giggles, trying to drink the liquid that poured from the sky. Rain meant joy, it meant full bellies and clean drinking water; it meant life. Star used to kneel till it hurt through the droubs, begging for a blessing. Nostalgia is a nauseating feeling, Star muses. He misses the two annoying siblings she used to have, differently than Poison does, but the hole in his chest still aches. She looks back at Poison, responding to them in a simple voice, “I do, too, every single day.”
Poison takes in a small inhale. Tapping the beads on their bracelet, coloured beads threaded along a leather hcord. Five colours, each for a member of their family. The red and green next to each other weigh down their wrist. They miss their brother, they miss the way Ghouls hair would look when it's soaked, the way kobra complained when his socks were damp in his boots.
They sacrificed years of their life for their brother to make sure his childhood was only half as painful as theirs. They would spend hours with Ghoul talking about the way of life in the desert, xe would dull the culture shock for them. Poison knew what grief felt like, but they had never drowned in it like they had then. “I would do anything… to replace them with me.”
Star’s hand tightened its grip. He had spent her years alone after the war processing. There were people who wanted to see him, of course, but she couldn't bring himself to speak with any more soldiers. To talk about a battle well fought. The only people she wanted to see were inaccessible. Dealing with her feelings by devoting himself to hard work. He did that when her mother died, and he would do it now. Finding Poison again was a nerve-wracking step in his life. Even with them right next to her, they were absent. She had wanted Poison back desperately, though he would never be overt about it. She chose to be compacent in their self-destruction, as he was too nervous and too tired to have that fight with them.
” You spend too much time on memories.”
Poison huffs as they're jarred from their thoughts, their eyebrows crinkling in the center, bringing out the small crease they used to complain about. To think, they used to waste time on vanity in their appearance. They would laugh at the insecurity now. Poison knows now thye are so mcyh more tan that teengaer coveering fear in looks and cocky remarks. Their past portrayals were childish and shallow compared to now, their greater purpose. Being a figurehead, focussing on righteousness over rebellion.
They rub the beads once again, a silent prayer.
“You need to stop being stuck in the past.” The words Star speaks hold little weight. He lacks the energy for actions, shed be willing tot he day he dies, despite the lack of effect. Despite her hatred of how they act, he won't force them into anything. She doesn’t want to say the thing to set them off, make them angry, to bring them down would be to ruin the semblance of normalcy they had.
“I'm not sure if I'll ever get out.”
Star speaks in a gentler tone, a quiet yet purposeful voice, “Not if we sit here and let you wallow in your self-pity.” She tilts their chin towards him, forcing them to meet her gaze. Intimacy that's not often held between the two. Poison is very aware of the way his fingers feel against their skin.
Poison’s eyes refuse to touch hers.” I know that.” Their voice is firmer, they shift slightly. Uncomfortable with the closeness that it's felt so long since they held with one another. Fidgeting with a frayed edge of the embroidery on Stars jacket.
“Then stop acting like you don't.” her voice is loud against the quiet white noise of the desert, her voice holds a seriousness. He takes both their hands.” You need to stop. Stop isolating and praying and sitting around waiting for them to come back.”
Poison pulls their hands from her grip with a sharp look, “I'm not going to abandon my faith just because you did.” Their voice reeks of the pride they always carry. Star scoffs at that, She feels over the feather hanging from her neck as she pulls back.
“I'm not telling you to abandon your faith. But refusing to leave the house in the name of decades-old grief helps no one, including yourself. I'm telling you to try living. Actually live.” her voice is raw, a desperate attempt to break through the armour Poison refuses to remove. Frustration and fear lace her words, the ache of watching them fall into routine and a sedated life. He wants to shake them, to scream at them to stop acting like this, to bring back the Poison she had fallen in love with.
Star has always loved Poison’s eyes, they're gorgeous in a natural way. Poison was no stranger to modifying their body, much like all the killjoys of the zones. Poison’s eyes are natural, a trait they were born with rather than one they chose. Like the sun peeking through leaves of a tree, gold and green reflected when they would look at her that way.
Poison stares at their lap. Silent once again. Star wants to curse at them. Poison studies their hands, minuscule cuts marring the surface. Healed scars were seen through the rips in their jeans. Poison continues their habit of fidgeting with their bead. The colours have dulled greatly lately from wear and tear. Their stomach collides on itself. The fog in their brain worsened by the humidity and arguing.
“Bit too late to start living. I'm 47 Star.” Poison's voice has an emotional edge to it, they are tired. Exhausted from the kneeling before their own altar. Fighting physically and now fighting a constant battle in their head. A string frayed to nothing but a single tiny strand. Even if you miraculously made it past your twenties in the zones, lifespans are shorter than they used to be. Many years ago, Poison was shocked to meet Dr. Deathdefying and finding out his age. With radiation, scarce food, and untreated injuries, most die in their sixties. It's strange if someone doesn't succumb to cancer.
Star scoffs at them; how can they not see it? How have they managed to get so blind?
Poison was a wreck after Kobra and Ghoul died. They had largely stopped drinking up till that point, but the deaths had destroyed their will for sobriety. They became a reckless mess, drinking themself to death, chocking down any substance they could get their hands on. Poison was the one meant to die for their friends, not the other way around.
Star couldn't take it, she had watched too many people die to watch Poison kill themself slowly before him. He had reached her breaking point, he moment where the fear of confronting them was less than the pain of watching *it* happen. He wouldn't bear to see another body as long as she lived. She found Poison three years after the war had ended, alone, high, and filfthy in the diner. A layer of dust had settled on everything. Unvisited from anyone but Poison, though they refused to touch anything that wasn't the moldy sofa in the living room and the mattress that once was their brother's.since it all happened. Poison was passed out in what was once Ghoul’s room. New bottles cast green reflections across the decaying paint on the walls. The halls were haunted with ghosts. Poison was curled up with a small Polaroid. A picture that they refused to let Star see. She took them from there once they woke. He took them somewhere new. Somewhere free of memories. Somewhere to move on from the past.
Star sits with Poison a lot. They found the urge to stay clean a few years ago. Star stuck with them through that time, not without taking weeks away for relief from their problems. Loneliness hurt more than watching her friend suffer he found. But eventually, Poison sought to be better, not for themself but for their friends memories and for Star. The quiet of zone 7 helped keep the noise in their head at bay.
Nostalgia weighs down Star’s mind as he squeezes Poison’s hand, “I don't want you shutting yursel f down because you think youre old. I don't want you to think it's all worthless now. Because it's not. We've got so much left to live for,” Star urges with a soft tone. She's desperate; the deep love he feels for Poison is strangling her sense, and she can't feel frustrated with them for long.
Poison felt a click in their brain. Their emotions have become less volatile in the years that have passed. But this made something stir in them. “Oh really? Like a fucking - homestead? With you?”
Anger laces their voice. Star took his hand back from Poisons. The words feel like a shot to the chest. After all he had done, Poison was still willing to treat her like that. She clenches his fists. “Yeah. Like me,” he says sharply, being told to his face that Poison isn't just bored with their life but bored with her, his voice is urgent, desperate, “ Like this life we've built. I know its not as glamorous as “grand leader of the rebellion” but its something. The house we've mad, the garden we've planted, the animals, our bed its–”
“Tjats all your idea. You dragged me along. You let yourself forget everything thagt matters in favour of playing fucking farm!” their eyes simmer harshyl with pent oup frustraiton, words they mean but also dont. Their words are harsh, fueled by fire thats been burning for years. Their teeth are grit angrily.
A pang goes through Star's chest. She clenches her fists and tears her gaze away from Poison for the first time. “Well...” she begins in slow, measured words, a pit opens in her chest. A sinking and painful feeling.” I like it. A lot.”
Poison stands up rigidly, ignoring her tone. “Well, that sounds good for you.” Their words bare sharp teeth; they pull away when Star reaches for them. She takes the rejection and grips her arms as they wrap around him. Anchoring himself to her body, taking in the words poiosn uttered, letting them rattle his brain as she searches desperately for every moment of hesitation and doubt that may have been present in them.
They head inside without a word.
Star blinks the shine from her eyes. His heart pounds with hurt and anger. She takes a steadying breath as he looks to the spot Poison once occupied. The rain has started to reach them, a small dry spot shows the position his partner was once in. he doesn’t feel like arguing with them anymore. They do. They don't mean it, he reassured himself. They spit venom without regard; that's just how Poison is. She rests her head in her hands. Small droplets of cool water land on her back. They'd calm down. They always do, he thinks to herself. But calm isn't okay; they're never okay. No one is there to see as he sheds tears into her hands.
—---------------
The pitter-patter of rain on the metal roof sounds throughout the living area that Poison is sitting in. They are curled up on the windowsill. The interior of the home is warm, with furniture and various decorations sitting out on the shelves. A long time ago, Star extended the windowsill into a seating area with old cushions that smell like family. One of the few things taken from the old diner, the girl grinned as she pointed to them at the arket; they were purple. Her favoorueite color.
. Poison's knees are tucked up to their chest, They fiddle methodically with their blaster; the gun is old. The yellow has faded after years of use, the paint has chipped nearly entirely off. It fits in the palm of their hand like a noose around their neck, tying them to a past they can't forget. A weight settles in their chest when they don't have it within reach, the impending doom of an attack. Star never carries his gun anymore. It rests on the shelf by their kitchen. Collecting dust. The color remains more vibrant than Poison’s, which hasn't left their hip since they were 16. They don't quite know if they're still at risk of being attacked, but they can't be made a fool the day something does end up happening.
The rain is a soothing wite noise to their ears. They set the gun down and pick up their sketchbook, a leatherbound pad, well loved and halfway from completion. They used to consider themself an artist. Maybe they still imitate one from time to time, but never enough to make something beautiful. Like they used to.
The pages are yellowed and have a strange sort of texture, handmade and dried in their own garden. Maybe if Poison had cared at the time, they would have asked Star how he managed to do it. Little coloured flecks inturept the yellowy surface. It strikes them that they don’t really know how Star does much of anything. The pencil clutched in their right hand appears to be handmade; maybe she bought it, though. Is it possible to make a pencil with what they have?
Poison sketches lightly, every so often taking time to glance out the window at the desert landscape. Greyed fingertips don't look the same after years pass. A wide grin looks up at them from the page. But decades later smiles get fuzzier, eyes get blurred. Poison starts to dig through their brain to remember. Was his scar on the right or left? Did xer hair reach eyebrows or eyes? Maybe they can blame the forgetfulness on the fog that hasn't left since they buried everything in chemicals. Logical order isn't real anymore; it's only a mess.
The door opens, a loud creak that causes Poisons pencil to skid across the page out of place.
Star. Her hair is tied back. He looks pretty despite his anger. Poison knows they have no right to be angry; they know they're cruel. He wants their approval, but they can't give it to him. She looks at them. The wide-eyed look as they stare and stare. Wide hazel eyes. They're pretty.
She approaches, Poison snap from their stupor. They clench their fingers and take a breath. “Id liek alone time. I need to think my thoughts correctly.”
Star huffs and walks up to them, “Don't be grumpy.”
“Leave me alone, Jet Star”.
He gives them a pointed look at the comment, glaring at the way they say her name. Weaponising it, “no.”
She picks up the sketchbook from their hands, they let him. Flipping through the pages. The early drawings are messy. Snippets of their time together, the life they began early on. Strawberry vines, rabbits. Desert horizons. And Star Star. Various poses and various expressions all of him. In the garden, grinning back at them. Hair down, curling around her shoulders. The crinkle at the edge of his eyes. Her drinking coffee in the morning. Him.
Their lines were shakier now than they were in their youth. Slower. Everything they used to draw was fast sketches. Capturing the action, the excitement that used to light their lives like neon signs. Parties and guns and drinking and dancing. Playful smirks and blood splattered jeans. Overcorection, the attempt to feel like your supposed to, the expected way of a killjoy. Hodling yourself up to soldiers' standards while making the mistakes of a kid. Aart scrawled on walls, bits of paper and stolen books.
Now it's slow, slowed by aged hands that tremor from years of substance use. Soft and cloudy. Simple fragments and hazy memories. Art that felt like slipping and spiralling. Desperate to hold onto something that's fleeting.
Star flips to the last page. A simple drawing of Ghoul, one of many drawings of their lost family. His hair is flowy with uncertain strokes. A grin that could be playful or genuine, an edge of something unknown in the blurry eyes. Like looking for detail in a fogged-up mirror or chasing a spooked animal, the specifics steal away quickly.
“I'm forgetting… what they look like.” Poison looks out the window, refusing to meet Star as he watches the page. A sharp pain in her chest cuts to his heart, and the melancholic guilt bubbles in her lungs. She shuts the sketchbook, the worn leather bound shut by a string.
The rain echoes in the room. Silence is loud. Star pats their shoulder, the stiff anger letting up. Poison looks out the window sadly, emotions heavy in their head. The desire he has to just fix it all, undo all the wrong, “I'm gonna go clear up, eat. Rest. i dont know.”
The ‘bedroom’ is small. An off part of the main part of the home. Poison walks the short distance in slow, measured steps, floorboards creak under shaggy rugs to announce their trial. A small yet warm wooden room. A large mattress rests on the ground, covered in all manner of blankets and pillows collected over the years. Poison sits in the same corner they always do. Quiet prayers are muttered before bed. They hold their rosary tight in their fist. Praying till their fingers ache from pressing beads tight.
They don't sleep long. They never do. At some point, Star lays down next to them, a warm presence, backs turned on each other. The presence is welcome, comforting despite the fights they fought. A weight shifts down the mattress, proving to the other that they are not alone. The room smells of the rain and blown-out candles.
—-------
The ground is already losing the moisture from last night. The rain was short-lived, yet the plants are grateful. Lorusihing like the citizens in the zones ince did after a rian. Star wakes up early. She's a hard worker, always needing to be doing something. Her chosen method of handling the painful thoughts and tender wounds gained form being at Poisons throat. She exits the green house that's set up in their yard. Her posture is straight, and there are mud stains on the knees of her raggedy overalls. Her hair is tied back with a yellow bandanna, her clothes covered in dirt.
The mornings in zone seven are filled with work. It's almost funny to Star; she used to love to read, remindshim of the books about farmers, years in the past with horses and cows and sheep. But for him, it rabbits and plants and weeds. Poison is out. They're more lucid in the morning; sleeping is good for their psyche.
Rabbits shuffle around in a wire pen, Star drops their food to them, they eat, and they hop about happily. The animals have lived a stress-free life despite being food animals. They run about with each other, Star likes to imagine they're playing. She's been fixing the hole in the gorund og the hutch. Something's been illing them lately. Digging into the pen. She smiles softly as he picks one up. Hee pets the rabbit's small head, fragile. It's life in her hands. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. He’s held many lives in his hands, but this one is smaller. Maybe insignificant to some, but the things life is what allows him and Poison to go to sleep fed. Signficatn insignfigance.
Poison comes back from the wilderness. A limp animal in their arms, a shotgun slung over their shoulder. Blasters are out of fashion; they are not combat weapons that absolutely ruin an animal's body. They had found the gun out in six, a market. Payed good money for it to keep the coyotes away.
The one in Poisons arms is small. They hold it by the scruuf of the neck, the thing was small. A little coyote. Growth stunted, probably, lack of food. Despite wildlife largely returning to the desert, lack of food was an issue for more than just the people of the zones. The animal was skin and bones; it was kobra halfway through the second week of refusing the food they had.
It had been caught in the wire fence surrounding their yard area, Poison shot it dead. Ended the creature's suffering. They didn't like killing animals. When they had first got into the desert Ghoul had taken in a small coyote. He calle it Dog. The thing lived with the four for a while, till girlie moved in. It refused to leave, but they couldn't afford to keep feeding it. They told Ghoul it ran away, but really Poison had to bury it under the porch in the middle of the night.
Star walks over to inspect the dead creature. Poison doesn't put up a fight as he takes it from their arms.” You could take it to the market, could get a decent trade for the pelt,” he says. The poor thing doesn't have enough meat to make a worthwhile meal. Certainly not for two adults.
Posion clenches their fingers and draws in a breath. They avert their eyes to the dead animal. “I, uh, could bury it. Probably won't get much,” they speak nervously. They're quiet, almost asking for permission, an attempt to fix something they're able to control.
“Yoy could get us some more food. Some variety would be nice.”
Poisonn has a reluctance in their body detectable to Star as they hold the dead coyote in their arms. “It didn't ask.. To be Starvin, you yknow? Just tryin' to make it as much as we are. Whys that… whys that give us the right to sell its body for a few extra cans of peaches?”
They never got ot bury kobra and Ghoul. It was too dangerous, too many shots fired. Poison was angry enough to go down, tearing through every drac there, but they had to be the adult, taking Ghoulie and Star and running. The bodies were gone by the time they returned. A half bloodied leather jacket and burnt mask were found in the dumpsetrs outside the city weeks later, a helpful agent of doctor d got those back. Poison was always weird about death to begin with. But only recently had they started insisting on burying anything they could get their hands on. Strange ritualistic practices for all the animal remains they ended up with.
Star considers Poison, standing there with a dead coyote in their arms. The sight makes her sad, the pathetic look on Poisons face as they ask permission to put an animal to rest. He takes the body inside, Poison following like a lost puppy.
She cleaned it, her emotions blank.
Poison goes outside, digging a small hole for the little animal's body.
When Star steps outside, he sees the hole Poison had been digging in the dirt, a shallow grave wider thenn the length of the small animal. She kneels on the ground, the floor is moist as she lays the animal in the hole. Star heads inside with an armful of various objects. The whole affair is silent, Poison is lost in thought as they watch Star set down the things hes collected.
“I've got some things, I think it would be nice if it could, uh.. Bring it to our family, from us.” Star's voice is steady, his chest aches with the weight of something unspeakable. She hopes so deeply that finally, the ghosts that haunt their household will be set free. Maybe ts cruel, a selfish belief, to suggest they let go of the only possessions of theirs they still have. But watching the way Poison looks down at the dead coyote, a gentleness and sadness in their eyes she hasn't seen for years, part of him is willing to have hope.
Star looks to Poison. They both kneel on either side of the grave. He picks up, for the first time, a jacket of red leather with bloodstains mix on the fabric. He drapes it over the body. Poison is yet to do more than breathe quietly. More items follow. A green mask. A bandana with red and black patterns. A belt that Star hasn't worn in years. She unclips the blue blaster. She hasnt felt the weight of a gun in her hands like that in a long, long time. She whispers thanks over the weapon, she sets each item in the grave one by one.
Poison’s hands are shaking when he looks up at them. They feel hollowed out, their face drawn tight, not from anger. They sit still beside the animal's grave, they run hesitant fingers over the bundle inside the ground. They don't want to let go; they never have. ,aybe the idea of relief is appealing for once.
There is an expectant look on Star's face, a soft suggestion.
Poison hesitates; they don’t want to. They want to argue. Words choke in their throat as their fingers brush over their gun. They hold it in their hands. A familiar weight, a trigger squeezed countless ties. The paint is chopped, designs pealing off the yellow surface. They study it carefully, tracing every intricacy on the blaster's surface. The metal is cool against their palm. The thin has been a part of them for so long, saved their life countless times, and ended many.
For a moment, they just sit there, the suggestion settling over the shoulders like dust in the air. Their hands flex around the blaster. There is a deep wrongness in their body as they lower it into the dirt. They stare at it as it rests in the hole. It looks.. Right next to the possessions of their family.
As they watch it, there is no dramatic exhale, no instant relief. An emptiness, a space where something used to be. But, as they sit back on their heels, as they curl their fingers around their knees, the toil wound tight in their chests loosens.
Star takes Poisons hand, the shaking stilled by the weight of another. They both look down at the body of the coyote, buried under shared memories. The possessions of the two of them and their family. Star starts to whisper a small prayer, Poison joins in with a scratchy whisper.
The dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
Star fills in the dirt as Poison cries over the body of an animal, and the final pieces of their family.