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The new lab has a lot of ambience.
It's something Lukey has grown accustomed to, in the time he's spent alone building down here. Bad and Pangi, they'd be impressed with how alert he is of every new noise. Distantly, he hears a couple of monsters growl, somewhere from the caverns below. The water columns run like rivers, and the newly-installed tank bubbles in-front of him. Every now and again, the fire in the office will crackle a little louder than usual.
So, he is not surprised when Pangi appears behind him, he'd heard him coming. He knows his footsteps like his own heartbeat.
"Hey," Lukey says, and only turns around when Pangi doesn't answer.
"He- woah, oh jeez."
Pangi, to put it as honestly as possible, looks terrible. His boots track water through the halls, and the bags under his eyes look more pronounced now than they did when he left a handful of hours ago. Moisture clings to his hair, and he stands in the entry-way, dripping on the non-existent carpet like a disobedient dog.
He has blood under his fingernails, but there's no adrenaline behind his eyes, and Lukey didn't see a death message on his comm. Pangi just looks defeated.
"Are you good?" he asks.
Pangi inhales, then lets it all out. "No. I'm not."
Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out, Lukey thinks, and pointedly does not say that.
"What happened?"
He shakes his head like there's something he doesn't quite believe himself, something he can't believe.
"It's nothing, Lukey." he says, and it's another one of those things Lukey will just have to let go.
He nods, but doesn't look away, and predictably, Pangi starts speaking again.
"Is it ready?" he asks.
God. Isn't that a harsh reminder of what they're here for?
The tank is just about as ready as it'll ever be, but it's not like there's really any time for improvement. They're working with what they've got, and what they've got is very little. Pangi has faith in him, he knows. A lot more faith than he deserves.
"Yeah," he breathes, "Yeah. It's ready."
He hears Pangi's breath stutter behind him, and tries to ignore the pain it sends shooting through his heart. They're both terrified. It's been an easy thing to ignore when all they've done for the past few weeks is talk over it, drown it out with noise. Now, it looms over them.
It's quiet, for a moment, and the questions rattling around Lukey's brain are fighting to get out. He's the one who breaks the silence.
"Are you scared?"
Pangi sighs. "I don't know what's gonna happen. How can you be scared of something you don't know, right?"
He says it casually, like it's not the most devastating thing he's ever said—maybe there's some degree of truth to it, because they don't know what will happen—but isn't that the scary part? Isn't that the part they've been trying to get away from?
"Fear can be irrational, Pangi," even though this is far from irrational, "And that doesn't answer my question, are you?"
"I don't want to die," he says, honest. "I don't want to forget."
"You won't," Lukey answers, with certainty he does not have, "I'll pull you back."
He doesn't really have any other choice. It's his name penned into the scriptures, underlined and highlighted as the saviour. The only one who knows the answers. The only one who knows how to fix any of this. The only one who can. They expect him to figure it all out, be what he's supposed to be, but Lukey doesn't even know who he is.
The only parts of himself he knows with one-hundred percent certainty are the parts of him that know Pangi. The memory of him stays familiar when everything else feels foreign, and he hates to recognize the irony in that, its beauty. He's an anchor, really, the only thing that has stayed steady, despite the things that should be driving him away; a past filled to its brim with mistakes, all signs pointing to him as being part of what's catalyzed all of this. Pangi has looked at his history, held it in his palms, and been gentle; he's said, "So, what?" and shielded it away from vengeful, prying eyes. He has always come back, loyal but unchained.
Lukey thinks of what people have said about him, to him, to his face. A pet, a dog. Thinks about the things they've said about Pangi, and what they've said about the both of them. They're all wrong, and there's something beautiful in that, too.
"You better."
"Of course I will," Lukey says, "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Pangi blinks for a moment, and then says, softly, "Really?"
"Yes, are you serious?"
"I don't know, I was just-"
"Do you think I'd run around doing this for someone I didn't like, tear myself up over this cure if it wasn't for you? I'd care if this was happening to anyone, Pangi, but I'm consumed by the fact it's happening to you. Do you know what I'd do for you?"
"I guess not," he says, and somehow Lukey softens further; forever endeared.
"Do you even know what you mean to me, Pangi?"
It's a rhetorical question, truthfully. It's one with no real answer, because there are no real words to describe the space he takes up inside of his chest. How embarrassing it is, to have built your reputation off of your words, but to be left speechless by something so little as caring for another person—though, he supposes it's not really a little thing at all. It's not just care either, it's a type of devotion, what they have—their lives rest in each other's hands. He holds everything about Pangi close to his chest, and he knows it goes the same vice versa; there is not a part of him that doubts what he means to Pangi, and sue him for getting sentimental, but that's a type of worship in itself, isn't it? Living for someone, trusting them to live for you.
He's just always assumed Pangi knew all of that, the same way he did.
Pangi hums, but doesn't answer. He looks like he's somewhere else, completely enraptured by some unknown thing.
"It's important to me that you know that," Lukey says.
He hadn't realized how close they were, he rarely does, but Pangi's hand reaches out slowly, hesitant. It lands right where his neck meets his jaw, his fingers sprawl out over Lukey's cheek, warm but not uncomfortably so. Lukey has always ran a little colder than most, as far as he can remember at least; that's kind of the problem with assuming those things, because he doesn't know what he was like before all of this. Sometimes, it feels like the more he learns the less he knows. Pangi's warmth, the scales scattered over the backs of his hands, are reminders that he's alive. That this isn't a memory, because everything feels cold there too, but instead a new experience.
The warmth spreads.
"Lukey," Pangi mumbles, maybe just to say his name. Maybe just to say anything at all.
Lukey smiles and mirrors his touch, lays a hand on his waist—the corrupted side. It's weird, because their skin is separated by layers of fabric, yet the touch still tingles. Not yet painful, but a warning of something to come, a warning to veer away. Lukey does not move.
"Yeah, that's me," he says, stupidly, "What's up?"
A soft smile grows, and fades just as fast. "Lukey," he repeats, and it nears on reverent, no matter how conceited that is to admit.
"Ca- hm, no, no. Never mind, sorry." He makes a move to pull away, but Lukey holds on.
"You can say it," Lukey says, gently, "If you want to, that is. I don't want to push you, but there's nothing to be afraid of,"
Pangi nods, just slightly.
"Not with me, at least."
He closes his eyes for a beat, two, three, then opens them again. Lukey feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. He's beautiful, even as his body gets taken over by this growing parasite, and Lukey is suddenly overly aware of the time they have left. How little of it there is.
"Can I, um," Pangi makes some vague gesture with his free hand, then lets it hover over the other side of his face, waiting. "Can I..."
His voice shakes.
Lukey is many things, and someone who teases and pokes-fun is most definitely one of them; in any other situation, any other circumstance—if Pangi wasn't dying, if this was easier, if his voice didn't shake—he would find a weak spot, and prod at it. But some things are hard to say out loud, he knows. This, this fragile thing; this flickering ember they've stoked into a small flame, is one of those things. He knows when something is delicate, when it has to be cradled and not knocked off the deep-end. He wants Pangi to know he is okay with whatever he's thinking of, and let him lead the way. Let him have the option, make sure he knows that either choice is safe.
There's nothing to be afraid of.
"Do your worst," he says.
And Pangi does just that, simultaneously the worst and best thing he could've done, and kisses him.
It's the best thing he could've done, because Lukey cannot think of a single thing he's wanted to do more consistently for the past month than kiss Pangi on the mouth; when he grins all crooked-like, when he's complaining about some menial thing, when he starts bickering, when he looks at him and sees him for what he is—it's a struggle to hold yourself back from the things you want so desperately when they're right in-front of you, laughing at your jokes and throwing an arm around your shoulder. It's true, technically, to say that it's something he's always wanted, because he cannot remember a time when he did not want this.
Their mouths slot together clumsily, neither of them know what they're doing, neither of them care to. It's ridiculous, laughably so. It might be the worst kiss known to man-kind; Pangi's mouth tastes bitter, chemical. Lukey's been holed up underground for a week, digging stone and smoothing quartz. He doesn't even care.
He feels Pangi smile against his mouth, and then feels him pull away.
"Stop laughing at me," Pangi whines.
"I'm not!" He says, laughing, and then pulls him back in.
It's the worst thing he could've done, because the pit in his stomach reminds him that this could very well be the only chance they get.
It stops being funny after that.
The water bubbles in the tank behind them.
The kiss grows more desperate: less chaste, deeper. They lean into each other like it's the only thing keeping them alive. Lukey no longer holds him gently, but grabs onto him; lets his hands find purchase wherever they can, a final resort to keep him close. Pangi slips a hand into Lukey's hair, the corrupted one, and it snags on knots on tangles. Lukey doesn't even feel it, and neither does Pangi—well, more accurately, Pangi can't feel it. He can't feel much at all with that hand anymore. He pulls on it accidentally, and doesn't even know. Push and pull, push and pull—tomorrow, Lukey knows, Pangi might not even remember his name.
This is something he's always wanted, but not like this. Never like this. It's not fair.
"Please," Lukey whispers, against his mouth. It's one of those things that slips out involuntarily, a plea he couldn't keep in if he tried. It's desperation in its finest form, it's begging to God, to whatever divine being exists in this realm. It's to the Keepers, to that brain of his to kick into gear and remember, to whoever can fix this—most importantly, to Pangi.
Pangi pulls back just far enough that he can look him in the eyes, his breath still fans across Lukey's cheeks. He mumbles, "What do you need?"
You, he thinks as his first thought and then immediately crumbles. How embarrassing, how true. Always you.
How painful.
Pangi has always, always been beautiful; Mouth drawn back in a grin, doubled over with laughter; the furrow in his brow when something is particularly confusing, the way he tilts his head when he doesn't understand; features at peace, posture relaxed; covered in crimson red, wielding death as if it abides by his beck and call—Lukey could live a thousand lifetimes off of those memories alone to sustain him. Now, though, lips kissed raw and cheeks a beautiful pink—he thinks he will spend the rest of his life chasing an unimaginable thing, something that could even come close to this sight—knowing that nothing will. If Pangi could see himself now, the vision he is, it would be one thing he could never forget. God knows Lukey will never, ever be able to.
A squeeze on his shoulder draws him back to reality, where his friend waits for an answer.
"Anything, man," Pangi says, voice soft and low, "Anything. Just say the word."
In this reality, he will be the only one cursed with this gift, this burden, of remembering.
"A little more time," he begs. Something has to give, something has to be listening. "I need you to hold on a little longer."
Pangi pauses, and Lukey nearly cries. He wants to run his hands over the planes of un-touched skin that still remains, map out the feeling with his fingers. Maybe memorize it by touch alone, hold onto the memory as it gets worse—yearn to feel the whole of him as he's supposed to be, un-corrupted, un-marked. What a sick fucking joke this is.
"Okay," unimaginably quiet, "Alright. I will."
He's lying, they both know.
Lukey could beg again, raise his head to the sky and bare his neck to be ripped out with sharp teeth—ask for anything to answer him, to provide him with the step-by-step to save Pangi's life, to provide him with anything useful at all—but he knows there will be no answer. It's not fair. None of this is fair.
Voice cracking, falling apart, Lukey answers, "Good. Thank you."
Pangi smiles at him, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He'd give anything to never see him smile so devastatingly again, and even still he tries to commit it to memory. Lukey will remember the good parts of him, and the bad parts, and love them all regardless because they are each a brick of Pangi—a brick of himself, too. Things which he has pulled into his own fabric.
He thinks of losing himself again, for a moment; wonders if sometime down the line, years or decades from now, these memories will become fragmented. He thinks of putting these pieces together, a mirror of what he's doing now, and discovering the person he used to be. He thinks of finding Pangi all over again, thinks of losing him a second time. Undoubtably, this memory will make the cut, as most memories of him will. Lukey knows he will be finding parts of Pangi in parts of him for the rest of this life, and knows that he will be finding remnants of him in the next life, too.
This will haunt him. Maybe it will save him, too. Maybe these memories will, one day, be what brings him back to himself.
Right now, it's just painful. Maybe that's all it will ever be, even when it saves him.
Pangi's hand crawls up to his jaw once more, and he leans forward to press a kiss to the corner of Lukey's mouth. It's fleeting. Everything is. He's pulling back just as soon as it happens, and he knows that this one means goodbye.
Lukey wraps an arm around him and pulls them into a hug, guiding Pangi's head into his shoulder. He exhales there, and Lukey feels the warmth travel down his neck and slither across his back. They both shake, and both pretend they aren't; he squeezes tighter. What comes after this is nothing but uncertainty, a map drawn in invisible ink. I am going to save you, he thinks, I have to save you.
"Are you scared?" Pangi asks, muffled by layers of cloth, skin, muscle and bone.
"Terrified."
There's a pause, and Lukey is worried he's going to let go, walk away, and never know his name again.
"Me too," he admits, at last. "Me too. I'm sorry."
It's then that he lets go. It's then that he walks away.
Pangi makes it to the top of the tank before he turns around to look back at him. What a sorry sight he must be, unshed tears and dirtied clothes—the white has not been pure in weeks, and he knows that he looks nothing like a man who can save him. He doesn't feel like one either, and knows it's not something he gets to choose—but Pangi doesn't suddenly realize this, or turn away in disgust with shaken faith, instead he looks at him as if he were something truly special. He looks at Lukey like he's something worth remembering.
He slides into the water, and it's sickening, all of it; Pangi is still beautiful.
Lukey stares at him through the glass and watches his eyelids grow heavy—he feels powerless. He's in over his head, and it's not just his own mess to solve, but Pangi's too. He stares at him through the glass and knows him, maybe even loves him, but has no idea how to save him. Somehow, he's the only one who can—fractured memories and a lifetime forgotten, they tell him that he is the only one who can save him. He doesn't even know who he is.
"I love you," Pangi says through the water, and Lukey almost collapses under the weight of it all.
He passes out before Lukey can say it back.