“Why did you become a Guardian?”
The question, while innocuous, startles Irene. It’s a question she’s heard dozens of times before and the answer is always rather bland amongst all of the Guardians. There is the typical answers of wanting to protect the citizens or serve justice to the wrongs of the world. There is the thinly-veiled excuse of craving fame and fortune, or even craving the taste of being a good person.
Irene, however, is acutely aware that Rose isn’t asking for the socially acceptable answers that Guardian’s give the reporters or newscasters for their story. It’s etched into the grooves of her face- the insatiable hunger for knowledge and truth. Rose is, above all else, still a reporter. Her chocolate eyes glimmer, partially with hope for a proper answer and partially with genuine curiosity that isn’t for her job but rather her character.
“Are you asking me off the record or is this going for an exclusive?” Irene asks wryly, instinctively reaching up to twirl a strand of her pale blonde hair. It smooths the steady thrum of anxiety that blisters like a live wire beneath her skin. “You don’t favor Guardian’s in a good light, and that is the last thing I need right now.”
“Contrary to my previous articles,” Rose defends quietly, ivory cheeks dusted pink at the reminder of her previous writings, “I don’t dislike Guardians. They are the protectors of Skytop City.”
“Right,” Irene replies, faintly bemused. Her golden wings flutter anxiously behind her, aching to be stretched and feel the wind between her feathers. “You just hate the system that the Guardian’s rely on. That popularity is a large part of the job to ensuring that we get a lovely check cashed in and our faces plastered on the billboards.”
Rose’s lips curl downwards, her small pink wings puffed in slight agitation before they curl tighter around her back. “Guardian’s shouldn’t be considered celebrities. They are meant to be the protectors- not our shiny superheroes clad in ridiculous outfits and helping elderly women crossing the street.”
It isn’t that Rose is wrong. Guardian’s, while stronger fighters and protesters against people whoa re equally as strong within their winged world, they are also master actors and actresses. How can they not be? Their paycheck relies on the public’s favor. The more popular you are, the bigger the paycheck and the more you’re pushed into the public’s eye to be treated as if you’re some superhero from the old TV shows from before Wings.
“So, are you saying that you agree with Carrion?” Irene asks, her tone disturbingly neutral despite the ice in her veins. Rose blinks, her round chocolate eyes widening a fraction. Regret shimmers behind her countenance. “In case you forgot, Carrion has threatened you for your closeness to me and whatever piece of evidence you uncovered and remains uncertain.”
“I haven’t forgotten that, Irene,” Rose snaps, then hastily calms herself. In a much quieter tone, she tacks on, “I haven’t forgotten that I’m currently a target. I’m perfectly aware that Carrion has murdered 12 Guardian’s and stripped them of their wings- how could I not be aware of that? It’s the only reason I am here in the Guardian Headquarters is so that I’m not the next one.”
Soothing her lightly puffed feathers, Irene sighs and rubs a hand over her face. “You never answered if this is off record or not, you know.”
With a flick of her baby pink wings, Rose deflates from her defensive position with an apologetic frown. Carefully, she reaches over to place her hand gently over Irene’s thigh, her smile delicate and sweet. She smells faintly of honey and petrichor. “Off record, of course. I know you’re under a lot of stress right now with the public and the lack of clues to Carrion and their plans.”
At Rose’s touch, Irene can’t help the way she slumps into her. She leans closer so that their shoulders are practically melded together, ivory skin clashing with bronze. She resists the urge to spread out her wings and tuck them around the both in a feeble shield from the world around them. All she wants is to just allow herself to be whisked away by pink feathers and dark chocolate eyes, but she can’t.
“I’m afraid the reason I became a Guardian isn’t that exciting,” Irene says with a snort of bittersweet laughter. Rose watches her, gesturing for her to continue quickly, eyes sparkling. Bemused, Irene does as asked. “I became a Guardian because everyone around me expected it from me. All my life I heard things like “oh, she’s got golden wings- she’s destined for greatness” or “she’ll never be like the rest of us. Her wings are of gold”. I never really had the chance to be anything else. My parents groomed me, practically, to be the perfect Guardian- a champion of the people. A symbol of victory with my shimmering golden wings over the feathered city.”
Gritting her teeth, Irene cranes her head away from Rose. She doesn’t want to see the disappointment. “My younger brother got to attend public school and take whatever classes he wanted in high school and university, but me? I attended private school for gifted students. I took charisma classes, etiquette classes, and did modeling and film. I was taught how to speak, fight, walk, eat, dress. I attended the school for Guardian’s at 16 and graduated by 20. My parents never asked what I wanted or who I was. They gushed about my wing color to anyone, praise them, but the praises weren’t for me.”
“I thought that… I thought that wing profiling wasn’t a thing anymore,” Rose whispers, but Irene can’t read the tone of her voice. She’s always been good at that. A master of hiding away her feelings.
“Legally, sure,” Irene agrees readily. She shrugs. “Otherwise, it’s still a thing amongst the people. The whole idea that black wings are evil and white are good. It’s twisted, but people still believe it.”
Rose’s fluffy pink wings press tighter against her back. Pink wings that means love and kindness. A fitting color for the woman named Rose. “And so… you became a Guardian?”
“And so I became a Guardian.” Irene cranes her head back around. Her lips are curled into a plastic smile. “Is it what you were expecting? Is it what you wanted to hear? That lie in the interview by saying I’ve dreamed of being a Guardian since I was a child?”
“It isn’t what I was expecting, but I prefer this version than the great “Irene Golden Wing” one.” Rose huffs, stretching out her wings and letting them flutter for a second before folding neatly against her back. “Golden Wing has always been rather… hmm, bland for my taste.”
Guffawing out a laugh, Irene playfully smacks her with her own wing. It isn’t hard or painful, normally a sign of trust and respect within their culture for wings to brush or touch, and Rose giggles as her own wing stretches out to playfully tangle with Irene’s. Hers are much smaller- the wingspan is twice as small as Irene’s, but they are strong.
Their moment of laughter is broken by the sound of Irene’s work phone blaring. With a whispered word of apology, she breaks away from the sofa in her office where Rose is perched as she hurries to her desk. She barely even glances at the ID on her phone. Very few people know this number, which means it’s something serious.
“What is it?”
The line is staticky. Distantly, Irene can hear the shrill sound of screams and shouts. Sirens of officers and other Guardian’s crying out. Some of their voices are familiar, if only partially, but there is also the crackling of fire. An explosion? It wouldn’t be the cruelest thing Carrion has done, but certainly one of the messiest.
“Irene!”
Relief crashes into Irene like a tidal wave. It’s Max. Another Guardian that she has known since their time at the school for Guardian’s. A good man and an even better Guardian. He’s rather popular amongst the people, especially young girls with his pretty curled hair and sapphire-like eyes. His wings are eye-catching silver and burly in their length and weight.
“Max! Oh, thank the Feathered Heavens.” Irene clutches tighter to her phone, as if grappling to keep Max with her even as the line crackles and breaks. “What’s going on? Where are you?”
“No time… explain,” Max grits out, his voice breaking in and out to the point that Irene has to strain to hear him. It sets her body on edge- like a spring coiled and ready to be bounce. “There… been a… you have to… careful!”
“What? Max! You’re breaking up!” Irene isn’t proud of the note of hysteria edged in her words like a sharpened blade of a razor. Her hand trembles minutely as she presses the phone harder against her ear. “Max, what is happening?”
“… trap! Can… hear…? It’s a…!”
“Trap?” Irene’s thin brow knits together, straining to catch every word that tumbles over the static. “What is a trap?”
“Irene! It was… have to… with pink… you need to…”
Fear blooms in the pit of Irene’s belly. Her hand tightens around the plastic of her phone, a chill racing down her spine. Something is so very wrong. “Max? Max! What- I can’t hear you!”
“-Rene! The… pink wings… Rrion!”
The line clicks.
Startled, Irene yanks the phone away. The call dropped and her screen is flashing that she’s lost all cell service. She checks the corner and sure enough, there are no bars. Nausea curdles in her gut like soured milk. She hasn’t left the Guardian’s Headquarters since the threat on Rose and the last Guardian was found dead. HQ has it’s own network that it runs on- it has to.
Which means that someone disconnected the network from //inside the agency//.
Discordant is a frenzy within her veins. There is no way that any of the Guardian’s would have shut down their service, right? It’s their only connection to their case files, their resources, and the only contact to the outside world. Would a Guardian side with Carrion? Or is there a breech?
Neither are great outcomes. A bead of sweat trickles between Irene’s shoulder blades and her feathers bristled and puffed.
Max was attempting to warn her. What was it it that he said? A trap? And something about pink. Pink wings? That doesn’t make any sense. The only person that they know of with pink wings is Rose, who is under protective custody and has been for almost a month. She’s been living with the Guardian’s at HQ. Is the traitor or breech coming for her? No, that can’t be. Not even Carrion would break into a heavily guarded place like this.
Rose isn’t the endgame.
Unless… unless Max isn’t warning her of someone coming for Rose. He’s warning her //about Rose//.
“Irene.”
Irene whirls around. Her phone clatters to the floor. It’s loud against the abrupt silence.
Rose is standing from her place at the sofa. Her expression is marred with worry, small hands clasped in front of her and searching Irene’s expression. She even reaches out her hand but Irene scrambles backwards to create distance between them. It can’t be Rose, right? It can’t be. Rose, who is as sweet as she is fiery. Rose who loves the truth and has pink wings.
“What’s going on?” Rose asks faintly, chocolate doe eyes round. “Is Max okay? Did something happen with Carrion?”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Irene asks. Her voice is disturbingly steady despite the thundering of her heart in her ears. The cracking of her heart. “You’re Carrion.”
“What?” Rose’s expression wilts into something akin to hurt and anger. Her wings flair behind her with indignation. “What the hell? Irene, come on, I may not disagree entirely with Carrion’s ideals, but that doesn’t make me Carrion!”
And, God, Irene wants to believe her. She can feel her heart threatening to leave the confines of her chest to return with Rose and apologize for even considering it, but she can’t. Rose is the only person that Irene can admit she’s fond of. She never had a friend growing up when all she knew was competition to be the best- always striving to win, win, win. The idea that her only friend she has made, the only one who isn’t a Guardian and she befriended on her own, could also be the serial killer she’s been chasing for months.
Too much of the puzzle fits. The stripping of the wings. The reporter who always knew a little too much that it got her in trouble. Carrion’s threat to her life that has placed her in the heart of Guardian Headquarters. The friendly questions and sweet words. The way Irene always got the sense that Rose isn’t always truthful- a nagging feeling of little white lies and hurts.
When Irene makes no move to say anything or apologize, Rose’s worried expression melts off entirely and leaves something barren and cold in it’s place. There is no emotion in her dark eyes other than contempt that twists her pretty features into something monstrous. She watches Irene the way a wolf stalks a deer.
And for once in her life, Irene feels like a deer.
Pursing her lips, Rose cants her head to the side. “I’ll admit. I hadn’t considered the possibility that Max would be my undoing. He always seemed to foolish and stupid. I didn’t want to waste my time killing him.”
“Oh god.” Bile lodges in Irene’s throat and she gags. She forcefully swallows it down, stumbling backwards until her thighs hit her desk with enough force the desk moves and an ache lingers on her legs. “Oh god, no.”
“Oh, come now,” Rose says sweetly, smiling like she always does. “I expected you to figure it out a long time ago- I mean, come on? The Symbol of Victory, the woman with Golden Wings? The stories of your valor and determination aren’t unfounded. Where was it all? You were entirely too easy to trust me.”
And Irene hates the truth hidden away in the words. She wanted to trust Rose. Rose with her pretty fluffy wings and shy smiles but words sharpened to a fine point if it meant the truth would be uncovered. Rose who smiled and laughed, never once fawning over her golden wings and reputation of being the best. She wanted Rose to be her friend.
Wilting at the words, Irene isn’t sure what to do anymore. A slew of emotions is threatening to drown her. Anger, sadness, heartbreak. Betrayal. Crashing into her so quickly that she can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. She doesn’t know how to react or what to say, because what can she say?
Carrion has been in front of her this whole time.
“Despite being discovered earlier than planned, everything else went far better than expected,” Rose says with a heavy sigh, flickering her fingers through her strawberry blonde fringe. Her dark eyes are nearly black. “You truly are predictable, Irene. Everything I laid out, you followed like an obedient dog on a leash. I have to thank you for that.”
Irene grapples at her desk, floundering to keep herself upright. Her wings feel like lead on her back, far too heavy to lift, and her legs tremble weakly beneath her. She’s drowning, drowning, drowning. “Why? God, Rose, //why//? I thought that- we were…”
“What? Friends?” Rose clicks her tongue against her teeth. She strides over to Irene with all the grace of hunting cat and her pink wings fluttering behind her on full display. “As for why, you know why. You shouldn’t ask stupid questions that you already know the answer to. You’re smarter than that.”
“Because you hate Guardians,” Irene says methodically, forcing herself to swallow past her dry throat. “You hate that we aren’t underground but instead treated like celebrities. Like we’re gods amongst men.”
Rose huffs. “No, I hate that Guardian’s are taking on the role of protectors and yet they fail to do the job that they swore an oath to do. Instead, they do magazine interviews, festivals, and sell merchandise for their franchise. They do commercials and play in movies, as if they are more than what they are supposed to be,” she argues with an irate scowl to her lips. “Guardians are meant to save the people. Be //heroes//, not some sideshow commodity!”
“So, you ripped off their wings and murdered them? And for what? To prove a point?” Irene hisses snidely, hands bawling into fists at her sides as she narrows her gaze on the other woman. Her golden wings puff up to twice their size. “Some of them were great Guardians! True heroines and heroes that lived for the people, not the fame! And their dead with their wings missing! And for what, Rose? What is the point in all of this!”
“So I can kill you myself.”
The words may as well have been a punch to the throat. Irene sputters, the words dying on her tongue to create a graveyard of things left unsaid. Her mouth gapes, opening and closing in desperation to find some words because out of all the things Rose could have said, that wasn’t one of them.
Yes, Carrion had made it abundantly clear that the agenda was taking out Guardian’s who don’t conform to the ideals presented, and has constantly put Irene, the leader and highest ranking Guardian, under severe pressure. Putting her in the spotlight time and time again- calling her out or leaving her coded messages.
Not once did she consider that it was her life that was the endgame.
“Kill… you want to kill me?” Irene whispers breathlessly. Rose bares her teeth, but doesn’t respond verbally. “I don’t… why? What have I…”
“It isn’t what you’ve done,” Rose interjects tersely. “It’s what you haven’t done.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
For a moment, Irene fears that Rose won’t respond. She watches with her bristled pink wings and dark eyes searching her expression. There is no warmth hidden with the grooves of her face or malice. If anything, there is deep resignation. A grieving for a loss of something that Irene can’t quite place.
Finally, Rose asks, “Do you remember how my sister died?”
Confused, Irene nods once. “You told me she died in a tragedy and the news lied about it. It’s why you became a reporter.”
“A partial truth,” Rose hedges darkly, grinding her jaw together. “She did die in a tragedy. I just wasn’t honest about what kind.”
“Then, what happened to her?”
“My sister was murdered by father,” Rose states blankly. Irene recoils sharply, inhaling deeply and staring wide-eyed at Rose. “I know what you’re thinking. Oh, poor Rose. I’m sorry for your loss, but you can save it. And before you jump into the spiel about how my tragedy shouldn’t lead to more tragedy, let me explain further and how you tie into this.”
“Rose…”
“My sister was four years older, but the age gap didn’t really matter all that much,” Rose says, ignoring Irene entirely. “I wasn’t lying when I said that my father was a good man. He was, but he wasn’t to us. An important distinction, you see. None of that mattered because it was just Dahlia and I, and Dahlia loved Guardians. She practically worshipped them. You see, she wanted to be a Guardian and protect people. Save them from bad situations and fight off all those who abuse their wings. That is just who she was. She knew every Guardian, their wing type, and watched their interviews and bought merchandise.”
Rose pauses in her story, breath hitching in her chest as her wings quiver behind her.
“She was like that, and one night there was a festival for a Guardian. She was so excited. She wanted to go and take me. Her speckled white wings looks so lovely since she had done them up with the colors of the Guardian. Our father, however, wasn’t happy and he had come home drunk and fired from his job. Dahlia hid me in a cabinet and told me to not come out until she says so, but father wasn’t… he wasn’t calming down this time. He beat her. He beat her and beat her and beat until I couldn’t even recognize her aside from her wings.”
Irene’s stomach rolls dangerously, clenching and tightening with foreboding. She knows where this is heading and she wishes she could stop it and change the outcome.
“And in his drunken rage, my father ripped apart my sister’s right wing. Feather to bone.”
With barely a moment to spare, Irene pivots around and retches into her trash can beside her desk. Acidic bile lines her tongue, chalking the inside of her mouth, and Rose watches almost distantly. As if she isn’t really here, but off somewhere else.
“Dahlia screamed. She screamed so loud that it rattled my skull and shook my bones. I can still hear it. Feel it. It practically wasn’t human. She begged and pleaded for a guardian to save her, and I didn’t know what to do. I flew out of the cabinet and ran down the street towards the festival. A Guardian would save my sister. I just had to find one.”
The golden-winged Guardian could picture it in her head. A much younger Rose running down the street, barefoot and scared, and crying out for her sister. It shattered her already fragile heart to picture. To even consider.
“No one… no one even glanced at her. No one did anything. I screamed and called and shouted for help, but I never had anyone help me or try to assist me and my sister. I rushed through the festival of people celebrating Guardian’s but no one bothered to ask if I was okay,” Rose continues, her voice steady and monotonous. “Finally, an elderly gentlemen stopped me and I led him home. My father was gone, probably off to buy another drink, and my sister… she had crawled to her room with her nubs of wings bleeding. She was clutching her Guardian plushie and died there. She was sixteen years old.”
Trembling, Irene sank to her knees. Her legs couldn’t withstand her weight anymore. The floor is hot against her cold skin.
“Do you want to know her favorite Guardian? Newly debuted that year. Fresh out of school and making a huge splash in the headlines.” Rose’s penetrating gaze never wavers. “A girl with golden wings and sweet smile. The same Guardian’s whose doll she was cradling. Hoping to be saved. You.”
Somehow, Irene finds her voice. “So, you want to kill me because I couldn’t save your sister.”
“I don’t just want to kill you,” Rose says quietly. “I wanted to break you. I wanted you to be on your knees in front of me, knowing that you failed. That the perfect golden-winged Guardian has fallen off her pedestal and is in the dirt with the rest of us. I wanted you to feel as helpless as I felt that day and know that no one is coming to save you. Like no one came to save me. To save Dahlia. Only then, I wanted to kill you.”
And it hurts because Irene knows that Rose has already won. She’s taken everything from her. She has bared her weary soul, her tattered heart, and helped hold together her stitched remnants of herself. Rose knows she is scared of failure, the ugly truth of why she is a Guardian, and even the exhaustion of the lie her wings represent.
There is nothing left for her anymore, and for once, Irene never lied about who she is to Rose. Rose knows nothing but her battered self that she has fought to remain hidden from the media.
Tipping back her head, Irene doesn’t get up. She remains on the floor, wings drooping against the ground, and stares up at Rose’s pinched expression and teary eyes.
Slowly, Rose kneels in front of Irene. She reaches out her hand to touch the curve of her cheek, ivory fingers stark against bronze, and Irene doesn’t flinch away. She doesn’t move or run or scream. She doesn’t fight. She only watches Rose silently as the pink-winged woman cups her cheek and memorizes her face.
“You’re so much different than I thought you’d be, Irene,” Rose whispers, as if divulging a secret she isn’t sure she should share. “You made it so hard to hate you, you know? I thought… I thought I was a good actress. That anything you said or did would mean //nothing// in the face of my plan, but then… you were so fucking kind even amongst your turmoil. You were supposed to be this… cocky, arrogant Guardian and you’re… you’re //not//. You touched me like I was your water to your desert.”
Irene doesn’t respond. She closes her eyes, remembering the secretive smiles they shared as they stole food from the cafeteria late at night, or the boisterous laughter from Rose when Irene tells a corny joke. It’s better that way.
“Irene. I don’t want to kill you., but I have to.” Regret is thick in Rose’s voice. It leaves imprints from her fingertips. “Our fate is sealed and nothing can change it.”
“I’ll let you.”
“For the record,” Amara seethes through clenched teeth, ignoring the way her stomach rolls and her legs cramp, “I am blaming you for this.”
“Me?” Penelope squawks indignantly, fiery red hair swaying with her movements as she writhes and struggles against the thick rope wrapped tightly around her ankles. A thin sheen of sweat has bloomed over her brow, freckled cheeks distinctly red as she glares heartily at the rope-trap currently holding her hostage as if that will make them loosen their grip and send her tumbling back to the dirt. “Why is it me?”
“Because you said to go check out the camp of humans,” Amara replies thinly, wincing at the echoing answer of pain in her head and lets her arms swing absently by her earthy brown hair. “You said, and I quote, “let’s go see how long we can fit in with the humans at their beach party before we are caught” and now look. We are hanging upside down. By a human rope trap. Looking like this.”
Penelope briefly stops her struggling, amber eyes skittering over Amara’s tattered clothing and ivory skin gradually becoming blue as she glares at Penelope. The younger girl offers a wry grin. “At least we were at the party for fifteen minutes before they realized we weren’t human.”
“That’s what you are going to focus on right now?” Amara questions incredulously. “Not the fact we are hanging upside down like rabbits caught in a trap?”
“Well,” Penelope drawls, wiggling her body around like a gleeful slug, “more like wolves caught in a trap.”
“I swear to the Moon,” Amara grumbles under her breath, “when I get out of this, I am going to kill you.”
Penelope only laughs, barely managing to hoist her upper body up and grapple for the rope wrapped tightly around her bare ankles. She grunts, more sweat glistening across her brow and trailing down the nape of her neck as he tugs and pulls at the rope, but it does nothing to loosen it’s painful grip.
“Maybe we should call for help,” Penelope says, letting go and squealing as she returns to hanging uselessly upside. Her stomach rolls, a hint of green tinge adorning her cheeks. “Oh, my stomach. I don’t think I should have tried the bubbly apple cider.”
“Pretty sure that was alcohol, Pippin.”
With a little scrunch of her nose, Penelope cants her head to the side as she sways with her hands pressed against her stomach. “Alcohol? But I thought it was cider!”
“And that was your first mistake.” Amara side-eyes her companion wearily, noting the way her ivory skin is darkening to green. “You better not throw up on me. I swear to the Moon, Pippin, I will bite you.”
With a shaky thumbs up, Penelope remains silent as she attempts to keep her churning intact.
Sighing heavily, Amara grits her teeth against the headache beginning to bloom behind her eyes from the blood rushing to her head. She should be use to the absurd situations that seem to follow the younger she-wolf around like the plague whenever she is involved. Honestly, she should have just stayed at the pack den and wash her paws with it, but no. Amara decided to join her and now look?
They certainly aren’t just //hanging out//, now are they?
And all for fifteen minutes of clumsily mimicking humans.
“Okay,” Penelope says with another groan. “Definitely not cider.”
“You think?” Shaking her head, Amara grunts as she hoists her upper body up until her stomach burns to reach for the knots holding them hostage. “Okay, we need to focus. And whatever we do, we can’t draw attention to ourselves because of the-“
“ALPHA! BETA! HELP!”
“-pack…” If Amara wasn’t hanging upside with blood rushing to her skull and trapped in human form, she probably would have nipped at Penelope in a scolding. “Pippin! I said //don’t// draw attention to ourselves!”
“Oh.” Penelope at least has the decency to appear sheepish. “Uh, whoops?”
Closing her eyes, Amara reminds herself that Penelope is pack and she will be missed. Probably. Either way, Alpha would be furious if anything happened to her, so killing her is off the table. She is pack, after all.
The sound of twigs snapping and paws on dirt touch Amara’s sensitive hearing. Great. Looks like Penelope has actually managed to catch the pack’s attention. Wonderful. This night keeps getting better and better. Where was the Pack when they were stuck in a skunk den? Where was the pack when Penelope thought that traipsing through a creek bed in winter was a wolf way to “ice skate”? Where was the pack when Penelope decided that she wanted to join a herd of deer for “fun”?
(It wasn’t fun).
“I don’t even know why I’m shocked at this point. It’s Pippin and Mara. Double trouble. The Dynamic Duo of Chaos.” The foliage parts to reveal the lanky form of russet fur, thin from summer, and golden eyes dancing with mischief and amusement of Killian. He tilts his head to the side, examining their… predicament. “What… what are you doing?”
Amara gives the wolf a droll stare. “Oh, you know. Hanging out.”
“Why are you staring at me?” Nora asks, a frown curling the ends of her pink lips as she wearily eyes Axel from the corner of her eye. “If you tell me that I have broccoli stuck between my teeth, I may chuck this remote at you.”
“Good thing it isn’t broccoli, then,” Axel jests lightly, barely managing to stifle a smile.
The frown painting her lips instantly vanishes, replaced with a hint of a grin that is hidden by her hand. She leans over and smacks his arm, although there is no real heat behind the action.
“You’re such a brat, and a total liar,” she retorts, but brings up her phone to check her reflection regardless. He snickers under his breath as she groans loudly, smacking him once more. “See! You liar.”
“I would never lie to such a lady,” Axel protests, dramatically pressing his hand against his chest and staring at her with mock horror at the mere idea. “That would be dastardly of me!”
Nora rolls her eyes, smirking slyly to herself. “Dastardly, indeed. Just eat your food already, you heathen.” Playfully, she tosses one of her throw pillows, which he catches easily enough with his quick reflexes.
Pointedly, Axel tears his eyes from Nora and her wicked grin and focuses on the layout of Chinese takeout, snagging a random box from her chipped wooden coffee table. It’s certainly seen better days, but he has grown rather fond of it during the past three weeks, even when it wobbles on it’s legs as if a single breeze will knock it down.
Wagging his brows, Axel stuffs the food in his cheeks to the point he is sure that he more closely resembles a chipmunk than man, and she almost chokes on her rice.
“I totally take a picture of that and post it as your wanted poster,” Nora warns, directing her metal chopsticks in his direction and waves her phone around with her free hand.
Swallowing it, he pouts in her direction. “Wow, here I am with no memories and you would defile my poster like that? And here I thought we were friends.”
“Yeah,” Nora says, canting her head to the side, “and as your friend I would defile your poster like that. You’re welcome.”
Flipping her hair over her should, Nora winks at him, jade eyes glinting with play, and focuses on the TV as she flips through the channels, absently stuffing some food in her mouth and dull nails rubbing back and forth on her chopsticks.
Chuckling, Axel returns his attention to his own food, but can’t help himself from cutting Nora glances in the corner of his eye, and he finds the meager food within his belly souring, turning heavy in his stomach and the food in his mouth congealing to something tasteless.
He can’t help but examine her profile- the soft slope of her nose, the swell of her cheekbone, shimmering jade eyes, and the pink tint to her full lips. The way she crosses her legs on the couch, feet covered by fuzzy koala socks, and her only hair cascading over her shoulders in wild waves.
It feels impossible to place Nora Adams with the villain Crimson Sparrow. There are no streaks of scarlet red among the sea of black tresses, and her shapely body is devoid of the thick black leather completed with a bird tail made of daggers, and the mask. The crimson mask that shields features and molds her countenance into something dark and unreadable. There is no twisted smirk to her blood red lips or blazing amber eyes that fester with malice.
Axel’s stomach churns, threatening to crawl up his throat and spill his secrets across the beige carpet beneath the frayed brown couch. Three weeks ago, his alter ego, Starfire, the superhero of Summerville, engaged in a battle against Sparrow, who was intent on destroying a nearby hospital.
The battle was brutal and disturbingly long, as it usually was whenever Sparrow is involved. Her tenacity and hatred for the world around her powers each of her well coordinated attacks, and she is no stranger to hand-to-hand combat, nor a stranger to her abilities. She wields them with confidence that the smaller criminals lack.
That particular attack was no different.
If Axel is completely honest with himself, he doesn’t remember too much about the fight. Blurred images of Sparrow, lips twisted with hatred and eyes blazing as she pounded into him, but he remembers the stench of garbage from the alley that they had tumbled in, or he possibly led her to keep her away from the busy streets, and pain.
A flash of white-hot pain that spreads over his head.
He woke up some thirty minutes later with no memories nor his name, and laying in the alleyway in casual clothing with a woman fluttering over him with worry. Her green eyes were glistening with concern and her small hands soft as she asks him if he is okay, and explains he hit his head, if he can remember what happened.
When he tells he can’t remember anything, not even his name, she looks horrified, but offers to bring him to the hospital which he refuses, so she instead leads him to her small apartment that more closely resembles a college woman’s dorm. It’s a single bedroom apartment with one bathroom and the walls covered with beautiful charcoal sketches of outlines of the city, sunsets, and even animals.
Including a sketch of himself. It was a sketch of Starfire. His alter ego. Of course, at the time, he didn’t know that considering he couldn’t remember his own name as he napped on the bed with sheets the color of silver, soft, and smell faintly of something floral and detergent. The bedroom walls were a soft spring green.
And a woman. A beautiful woman with obsidian black hair and displeased frown on her lips as she hovers in the doorway as if she doesn’t know what to do, or how to act. Staring at him as if he is an alien or has two heads. It was endearing as it was confusing as she fumbles to explain she was passing by and noticed him, so she had to help.
Axel, however, regained his memory two days later when she was off getting groceries. He had her small TV playing just to keep away the lingering silence that scratched at the back of his head as discomforting, but the news was playing some recap about a fight between Starfire and Crimson Sparrow, and the memory slammed back into his skull like a sledgehammer.
It didn’t take long to put the pieces together that Nora is the Crimson Sparrow to his Starfire.
He just didn’t understand why. Didn’t she know who he is? Why would she take him in and nurse him back to health? None of it made any sense, so when she arrived back home, arms laden with groceries and a wry smile on her lips, he told her he still doesn’t have his memories. A farce he planned to continue until he learns of her reasons, but so far, he hasn’t figured anything out.
It’s been three weeks.
“Flare.”
Axel tears his gaze from his plate at the name she had given him, since he “doesn’t remember” his own, raising his head to meet her curious gaze, brows knitted together in worry and lips pressed into a thin line.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” As if to prove a point, he raises his fork to his mouth and stuffs a piece of his Chinese food in his mouth. He doesn’t anything, and he resists the urge to gag, but he forces a smile to his lips and chews. “No worries.”
The frown doesn’t falter from Nora’s lips. “You don’t look fine.” She hesitates, eyes widening a fraction. “Are you remembering something? It better not be about chicken just because of Chinese food.”
Axel snorts, almost choking on his pepper chicken. He coughs, clearing his throat and places his fork down. He carefully puts his mostly empty plate back on the table before he really does drop it.
“Hilarious,” he quips, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I still don’t remember anything. Chicken or otherwise.”
Axel pretends he doesn’t notice the flash of relief behind her eyes, or the way her shoulders loosen. The lopsided smile returns to her features as she stuffs her chopsticks in her rice and places it on the table. She pulls her legs close against her chest, resting her chin on her knees.
“It must be hard not remembering anything.”
Actually, I would kill to not know who you are so I can just enjoy this a little longer, Axel thinks ruefully to himself.
“It can be,” he says instead, “but it’s been kind of nice. Like… I don’t have anything to worry about, because I can’t remember what I am supposed to be doing.”
Nora’s brow knits together further, the smile faltering briefly as if the words confuse her. “Even if… even if it was important?”
Like saving the world from you? Axel flinches minutely at the thought. It’s not that it wasn’t a fair thought, but it still sends a sting to his heart that thumps in his rib cage.
Bobbing his head in agreement, Axel cants his head in her direction. “Yeah. Even then. A vacation from my own struggles,” he says, ignoring the twitch in his gut. He loved what he did, but he has to admit to himself that the past three weeks where he didn’t have to eased the tension in his taunt shoulders.
“When you out it like that, not remembering about my bills sounds pretty great,” she teases, but the emotion is a little off in her words. Her eyes are hooded and dark, the smile brittle. “Think I can be clumsy enough to bump into a wall and hurt my head so I can forget to adult?”
Axel laughs, endeared and confused, but her smile solidifies a fraction more at his laughter. She raises her legs to her chest, tucking her chin to lay on her knees as she watches him.
“That’s going to be another disappointment for you, because I don’t think so,” he replies, scrunching his nose. She sighs woefully, pouting, but reaches to take her plates when he leaps to his feet. She arches a thin brow as he gathers the plates. “I got dish duty since you were slaving away for hours making this.”
Nora snorts, the corner of her lips twitching into amusement as she cuts him a sidelong glance. Her arms tighten around her legs. “Yes, a whole ten minute walk. I don’t know how I ever could have made it. My legs practically fell off!”
“Shut up, feathers,” he jests lightly, rolling his eyes as he strides towards the kitchen. At the sharp inhale of breath, Axel can feel a cold drop of dread travel down his spine, goosebumps breaking over his arms as he realizes the grave mistake at the slip of tongue.
Feathers.
Starfire called Sparrow that to ruffle her feathers and get under her skin, but Axel never dared to refer to Nora as such.
“What… what did you just call me?” Nora asks, her voice is airy and disturbingly empty.
Axel halts in place, his chest inhaling raggedly as the cold creeps farther up his spine, settling like a rock within his gut. The thin sheen of sweat blooms over his forehead, prickling at the back of his neck as he stammers and stumbles over some form of an excuse. He carefully glances over at Nora, who is staring at him with narrowed eyes and shallow breathing.
“What do you mean?” He says quietly, laughing weakly as he places the takeout plates on the kitchen counter.
Suddenly, Nora is at the entrance of the kitchen. Her inky black hair is loose from it’s ponytail, her jade eyes dark with fear to match her bloodless expression. “No. No, don’t- don’t do that. You- you called me “Feathers”. I heard you call me that.”
Panic swells and crests within Axel’s chest as he stares at her, mouth opening and closing as he fumbles to ease the sudden tension that has grown within the small apartment as large as a tsunami.
Nora takes a quick step back, features twisting into the eerie familiar malicious expression of the Crimson Sparrow. Her shoulders pull back, lips set into a scowl and eyes blazing. “Get out.”
“Nora, please-“
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses out sharply, throwing out her hand where her power surges, shoving him painfully against the stove. He barely manages to exhale at the last second, saving his breathe, as he stares at her in remorse. Crimson streaks weave within her inky hair, the jade color of her iris morphing into amber. “Don’t you dare call me that.”
“What do you want me to say?” Axel whispers, grappling to hold himself up on her stove and rubbing the sore spot on his chest from her powers. “Please, tell me what you want me to say.”
“You remember.” Nora grits her teeth, slowly lowering her hand back to her side. “How long?”
“I remembered two days after the accident,” he confesses quietly.
Nora’s eyes blow as wide as saucers, exhaling in a rush. She stumbles backwards, back hitting the wall as she stares at him in muted horror. “That… that was three weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
Anger sparks in her eyes, hands bawling into fists at her sides as she narrows her eyes into thin slits. “Get the hell out of my house. Right. Now. Starfire.”
“Nora, please, you have to listen,” he says instead, shaking his head adamantly as he shoves himself off the stove to approach her slowly.
“I don’t have to listen to anything you say!” Nora shouts. “For three weeks! Three weeks! You lied to me that you didn’t remember. That you didn’t know who you were. Who I was, and now you- you’re telling me that you not only know who you are, but you think you can just call me that and be fine? What is wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me?” Axel repeats incredulously, sputtering out a startled laugh. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? You’re the one who knocked me against a brick wall and made me forget, and what?” He rakes his fingers through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief as the words tumble faster than he can sensor them. “Did you, a villain, feel guilt for hurting me so you took me in? Played nurse and being nice to me? Told me your name and showed me your life? Your actual enemy?”
Nora growls wordlessly, shoving herself off the walk and stalking closer to Starfire so that she is toe and toe with him. Her amber eyes have fleck of green hidden within the color, hair tumbling over her shoulders like the wildness in her eyes. “I hate people like you, Starfire. You think because I kill a few people that means I am automatically a villain to your hero. It’s sickening. You don’t even know me.”
“Killing people is wrong, Nora! You can’t just go around killing people for the hell of doing it,” Axel snarls, scoffing in disbelief. “So, yeah, you are a villain because you think these powers make you something better than the people around you.”
A flash of hurt blooms within the amber eyes, the golden color briefly fading back to their natural jade green. “Better? You think… you think that I think I’m better?” She laughs breathlessly, angry tears misting at the corner of her eyes, but they never fall. “Some hero you are. Do you actually think that I belief I am better when I can’t cook to save my life, so I eat take out every night? I live in a dingy apartment and eat meals with my elderly neighbor so he doesn’t feel lonely as he slowly dies because I belief I am so much better?”
And it cuts something inside of Axel. Cuts some of the raw wrath, molding into something wordless and aching, as he stares down at her as if staring into the face of the most complicated puzzle. It hurts because he knows it’s true. He has spent three weeks in this dingy apartment with a chipped coffee table and takeout, the sound laughter from across the hall as she visits the kind old man with dementia, but he always seems to remember her smile.
“Yeah, I kill people, Starfire,” Nora continues, ignoring the way his expression falls from angry to distant. “I kill people and I’ll even admit I like it. I like the rush of power, the way I can control who lives and who dies, and how. I will never say I am a damn saint, but at least I am not a fool like you. The people I kill? Those innocent men and women?”
Nora steps away from him, canting her head to the side as the cruel smirk twists her lips. “Arthur Jones, the CEO, beat his wife every single night, but everyone turned a blind eye because of the depth of his pockets.” Axel’s breath hitches tightly in his lungs, eyes dropping to the floor as images of the man’s beaten body appears in his mind’s eye. The tearless expression of his wife. “Jennifer Malcom, the nurse at the main hospital? She killed people by giving them heart attacks, so I gave her one.” The nurse who died with nails drilled into her palms, but died of a heart attack with a needle mark in her elbow. “She wanted to play god, so I showed her the truth.”
“Stop it,” Axel pleads breathlessly, stumbling back against the counter as he fights to find air for his straining lungs. “Stop it.”
“I may be a murderer, and I will never pretend otherwise,” Nora continues, ignoring his pleas as she raises her chin obstinately, “but at least I can admit my own faults. Paint me as your villain, I don’t care, but don’t you dare tell me that I am better. That I think my life is worth any more than even my elderly neighbor. Don’t you dare, when you’re the one who has been lying to me for three weeks.”
“I still don’t understand why,” Axel retorts, raising his head to peer through his shaggy fringe towards her icy expression. “Why? Why did you bring me here? Why were you so kind to me if you hate me?’
Nora’s lips tighten as if she sucked on a lemon. “Hate you? Christ, Starfire, I don’t hate you,” she replies, her voice steadily softening as she stares at him in mild disbelief. “I have never hated you. You help keep people safe, even if it’s misguided. I don’t hate you, I just hate what you stand for. The idea of good versus evil… I’m not… I’m not evil, and I hated that you always pictured me as such.”
“So,” Axel continues, “you brought me back here to make sure… to make sure that I was okay?”
“I never intended to harm you, especially fatally. I don’t kill people who haven’t hurt others,” Nora says firmly, arms wrapping around her middle as the crimson streaks fade from her hair and the green in her iris returns. “I’m sorry for what I did.”
“Nora…”
Nora shakes her head, craning her face away as she turns her back on him. “You should go, Starfire. You don’t belong here.”
“Axel,” he says. Nora’s head whips around, eyes widening as she blinks in his direction, confusion clouding her face. “My name is Axel Williams. And… and I am Starfire, superhero of Summerville.”
Nora’s lips quirk into a small smile. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Axel Williams, superhero of Summerville.” She tilts her head in his direction, the smile slowly vanishing as she flickers her gaze to the door. “You need to go now. You can’t stay here anymore. Goodbye, Starfire.”
“Nora, wait-“
“No,” she interjects sharply. “Nothing has changed. I will continue to do what I need to do, and you, hero, will continue to do what the public needs.” Her lips quirk into a rueful smile. “I am, after all, the villain. Just because you see the girl under the mask doesn’t change the fact that we are completely different.”
Axel hesitates, then strides over to her. She doesn’t move, stands her ground like the proud woman she is, even as she has to tilt her head to meet his gaze. He surveys her face, each crack and crevice, the flutter of her lashes against her cheek, and the subtle tremor in her lower lip. The way her brows wrinkle and eyes pinch in the corners.
Carefully, he reaches up and cups the nape of her neck. She doesn’t move, nor protest even when her breathing hastens and her eyes widen a fraction as green clashes with blue, and he leans down to press his lips against her own. She gasps quietly, but doesn’t push him away. If anything, she cranes her head to deepen the kiss, fingers fluttering over his shirt but then sink into the soft strands of his hair.
There is nothing magical about the kiss. There is no fireworks or the world fading around them. Everything is heightened- the sound of her breathing, the motion of her plush lips against his own, and the sting of her nails as she rakes her fingers over his scalp, tugging at the fine hairs at the back of his neck. The feeling of her warm body flush against his own, the bumping of noses and teeth.
Her kiss is like fire licking at his lips, scorching the soft skin and branding herself into his flesh.
When he pulls away, she peels open her eyes, a soft smile on her lips. Her hands drop from his neck, putting space between them. “I’ll see you around, hero.”
“Yeah. I’ll see you around.”
“I think I just met the happiest person in the world!”
“That guy looks like he is about to pummel your face into the nearest trash can, Zayn,” Charles retorts tersely, staring incredulously towards his best friend as Zayn offers an lopsided grin, his shaggy mop of brown hair almost covering his eyes as they scurry away from the coffee shop and fuming barista.
“Yeah, with joy!” Zayn replies, craning his head over his shoulder to wave sporadically in the direction of the red-faced barista. “Bye now! I liked your service a-latte!”
Charles groans, shoving his friend hard enough that Zayn nearly kisses the pavement as they shuffle out the door and into the quiet night. “More like he will joyfully kill you if you don’t shut the hell up with the coffee puns,” he mutters, snagging the hood of Zayn’s leather jacket to tug him in the direction of their university and shared dorm room. “Did you have to almost get us kicked out of my favorite coffee shop, which consequently also is the only one that is open 24 hours?”
Zayn manages to regain his balance, clambering back to his Pikachu slippers that squeak pathetically against the pavement. They are ridiculously out of place amongst his ensemble of leather and black, but Charles supposes that’s just a part of Zayn’s charm. Or his insanity. Whichever.
A devilish grin twitches as Zayn’s lips as he snags a straw from his pocket and stuffs in his coffee cup. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I did nothing wrong!”
Charles casts him an unamused stare, huddling further within university jacket. “You literally opened up the line of conversation with ‘what do you call a sad cup of coffee? A depresso’. I think that warrants grounds for murder considering it’s three a.m. in the morning.”
The streets are completely empty, which is probably a good thing because they probably look half-mad cradling their coffee in their hands as if plotting some gruesome murder. The streetlights cast a pallid glow as they pass, wearily glancing around them as they stride back towards their dorms.
“What does the time have to do with anything?”
“I can’t barely handle your puns at noon on a good day,” Charles says, “but at three a.m? If the barista doesn’t kill you, then maybe I will.”
Zayn cackles, downing his coffee in one long drink. “You both must be the happiest people in the world then!”
Charles eyes him wearily, inching slightly away from him as if terrified he is going to implode. Or sprout coffee beans. “How much coffee have you drank tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Zayn replies, shrugging. “I lost track after the third cup.”
“Tate, earth to Tate, are you there?”
Tatum jolts back into reality, blinking her eyes rapidly to clear them and moisten her contacts which have steadily dried out. Carefully, she slides her eyes back to Ainsley, fingers twisting the a stray string of her hoodie, while Ainsley has half of a smile on her face, amusement twinkling in her dancing blue eyes.
“There she is. Where did you go, Tate?” She asks quietly, cocking her head to the side so that her honey-blonde curls tumble over her sun-kissed skin and her pink lips curled into a fond smile that scrunches her nose playfully. “You really went quiet there. Lost in your books again?”
“Oh, um,” Tatum stammers, cheeks dusting pink at being caught daydreaming for only the thousandth time, and clears her her throat as she averts her eyes from Ainsley. “I was thinking about this new series I was reading. Sorry. I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to ignore you.”
Ainsley chuckles, adjusting her robin-egg blue blouse over her shapely frame and fluffs her hair in the rear view mirror. “It must be really good.” She glances over at Tatum. “What’s it about?”
“Oh, um, this… this boy who lost his family in a fire but found solace in his best friend who is actually a part of a whole another world.” Tatum pauses, gnawing on her bottom lip as she surveys Ainsley’s movements from the corner of her eye. “You look pretty already. Why the extra fluff?”
“Because I think Tristian is going to be there tonight,” Ainsley explains, and Tatums stomach knots painfully, leaden as if a rock as sunk into her gullet. She tightens the string around her index finger, ignoring the answering sting of pain. “You’re still coming tonight, aren’t you? I know you don’t really like get-together.”
“I’m coming.” She hesitates, then glares out the window at the manicured lawns and two-story houses glinting in the evening sunset. “Besides, we are already here. I would feel bad if you drove me all the way back.”
Soft fingertips touch Tatum’s hand, startling her as she whirls around to see Ainsley’s smiling features hovering just in front of her. Tatum inhales sharply, holding her breath as she stares into the familiar blue eyes so close that she can count the thick lashes and freckles half-hidden under light foundation. Her fingers easily loosen the string from around her finger, then offer her hand a quick squeeze.
“Tate, I will never mind taking you back if you don’t feel comfortable,” she says quietly, her warmth breath fanning over Tatum’s features. It smells faintly of her favorite fruity gum and her protein shake, but it’s as familiar as her cherry blossom scent from her perfume. “You’re my best friend, and I love you, so it isn’t a problem. Okay?”
Tatum’s heart skips a beat, thundering within her rib cage like a beast desperately trying to escape, and she nods hastily. She carefully leans backwards, if only to avoid her best friend’s sweet smell, and glares down at her hands, now string free. Her throat is tight, stomach fluttering like a hummingbirds wings, and firmly reminds herself that she can’t have her like that.
“Okay,” she whispers instead.
“Okay.” Ainsley’s soft fingers instantly leave Tatum’s hand, and she almost instinctively chases after it, but bawls her hands together and keeps them firmly in her lap. She refuses to peek through her mud-colored fringe. “Oh. It looks like Kristen and Jake are already here. You ready to head inside?”
No. Definitely not.
Tatum bobs her head once, humming. “Yeah.”
Ainsley grins brightly, eyes sparkling as she clambers out of the car.
Tatum groans, throwing back her head so that it hits the headrest. She presses her hand firmly over her chest, directly over her racing heart as she watches Ainsley wave and greet the other girls as they get out of their car. She hisses through her teeth at churning of her stomach, and the tightness of her lungs.
“Get your shit together,” she mutters to herself, wincing as she coughs slightly under her breath. “You can do this. Ainsley is your best friend. She can’t be yours.” The pain in her chest grows, lungs almost painfully tight, but she plasters a smile on her face before climbing out of the care.
-2 months later-
“Miss Bloom?”
Tatum almost laughs aloud. It’s feels as if it should be a joke, or some kind of prank, but the thinly veiled concern and horror on the doctor’s face is enough to know that it isn’t a joke, nor is a prank.
“I… I heard you, doctor.” Loud and clear, actually. The hidden meaning behind honeyed words and whispered apologies. The underlying meaning to his words is more than enough. “You don’t have… you don’t have to look at me like that, doctor. I know what Hanahaki is. It’s the rare disease that effects a person’s lungs when their love is unrequited. They start coughing petals until soon they can’ breath or their organs give out.”
The doctor’s withered features wince, his fingers tightening around his tablet with enough force that his knuckles plaster white and the gold of his wedding band stands out over the pasty flesh. He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses perched on his thin nose and shuffles his weight. “Miss Bloom, we do have a couple of options for you. Medication to help control the- the growth of the flowers in your lungs, and-“
“-And that isn’t a cure,” Tatum replies tersely, bitingly, and she instantly recoils in on herself when his dark eyes snap to her in bewilderment. She averts her gaze back to worn converse, the white blotched out with colors and little hand-drawn sunflowers. “I’m… I’m sorry, that… that was rude, I… I don’t normally… speak out like that.”
“I understand, Miss Bloom,” the doctor replies kindly, but his smile is a little too small and doesn’t reach his eyes. He hesitates, then gently lays his hand on her shoulder. “You’re right. It’s not a cure, only helps manage the pain more than anything. There is only two cures.”
A frown tugs at the ends of Tatum’s lips, her eyes never leaving the little sunflowers on her shoes. She can feel the warmth of his hand seep through her hoodie and blister at her chilled skin. She shudders. “I won’t confess to her, doctor,” she admits quietly, her voice barely audible within the cramped, white room. “I can’t. She’s my best friend, and she already has a boyfriend. She cares for him, and if I tell her this? I already feel like a burden, but if I told her I went and did something stupid like fall in love with her?” She shakes her head adamantly. “I can’t ruin that for her, because she is the kind of person who would try to love me if it means saving me. I won’t.”
The doctor’s mournful expression doesn’t falter, and Tatum is grateful for the lack of distant professionalism. She supposes it’s fair. Hanahaki is so rare, practically a myth if it isn’t for the new that every few years broadcasts a death or a successful surgery, or even in the movies that portray it as something beautiful and romantic.
It doesn’t feel very beautiful sitting on the cold metal table with a doctor looking at her as if she is already six feet under.
“Well,” he says quietly, “there is also the surgery. We go in and remain the infected part of your lung where the flowers have taken root and remove it.”
“And forget my best friend.”
It isn’t a question, and the doctor’s expression tightens, constricting as if he is the one whose lungs are clogged with flower petals.
A rueful smile twitches as her lips as Tatum shakes her head. “No, thank you, doc. I’ll be fine.”
“Miss Bloom, please, think about this,” the doctor presses more urgently, his hand tightening over her gaunt shoulder, “you’re terminal if you don’t get the surgery within the next week. I beseech you to reconsider.”
“I can’t forget my best friend, doctor,” Tatum explains quietly. “And I can’t imagine not loving her.”
Pushing herself off the table, she shudders as her legs hit the floor jarringly, wincing as her bones rattle and she attempts to inhale deeply, but her lungs painfully clench. A rattling cough tears at her throat, and she instantly bends over as she fights for air, and only manages to come up when three little petals rest in her palm. They are pale pink and coated in a thin coat of salvia and blood.
Three little cherry blossom petals.
Carefully, she tosses them in the trash can and raises her head to meet the doctor’s expression is twisted with wordless grief and dawning realization.
“Don’t be upset, doc. From my rotting body, flowers are going to grow, and within them, I will live. That’s more than I could ask for.”
Waving a little over her shoulder, Tatum stuffs her hands in her front pocket of her hoodie and shoulders out of the small office. The sunlight greets her as she steps outside, already fighting to catch her breath as she tilts her head to the sky and allows it to warm her cold body with a small sigh.
Her phone buzzes within her pocket.
“Hello?”
“Hey, girl,” Ainsley greets, a smile dancing in her voice. Tatum’s fingers tighten over the phone, an answering pang in her lungs at the sound of her voice. “I was about to head out to grab some lunch, and Tristian is working, so did you want to go to our place and snag some grub?”
“No one says grub anymore,” Tatum mutters, ignoring the way her lips quirk in the corners. “Yeah, I’m free. I’m not far from the diner, so I’ll be there in five.”
“See you there!”
The diner is a small little hole in the wall off one of the main streets of their small town. The outside of it is a crumbling little brick building hidden off the side of the road, but the inside is adorned in Halloween orange, purple, and greens. The walls are decorated in art from students in high school and university, and the greasy scent of hash browns and bacon stain the entire interior.
By the time Tatum gets there, her chest is aching and her pockets stuffed with cherry blossoms petals. She shivers within her hood despite the warm temperature as she inches her way through the bustling diner and slides into the booth across from Ainsley, whose honey blond curls are in a small, messy bun atop her head and her clothing loose and casual.
And she is still beautiful.
Ainsley beams when she catches sight of Tatum, blue eyes twinkling and freckles exposed form her lack of makeup today. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Tatum winces at the roughness of her own voice, raw from her fits of coughing and spewing petals. “You look nice today.”
“I’m literally wearing sweats and my heavy eating shirt,” Ainsley retorts, amusement dripping in her voice as she arches a thin brow at Tatum. “I literally want to die of heartburn potato’s, and you, Tate, are here to ensure my death is perfectly greasy.”
Tatum snorts, grabbing a menu to hide her features and the small smile that is threatening to bloom over her lips. “I shall do my best.”
“Of course you will.” Ainsley pauses. “You look really thin, Tate. Have you been eating okay?”
If a few bites a day counts as eating okay, then yes, Tatum mutters within her mind. Her fingers tighten over the menu, the messy script blurring as she chews on her bottom lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I eat.”
“Still, you should get an extra plate of potatoes,” Ainsley says, and Tatum knows her blue eyes are searching her skeletal features and the ashen pallor to already pasty white skin. “You look pale. Tate, are you sure you’re okay? Are you sick?”
“Yeah, well,” the lie tastes like chalk on her tongue, “I just came back from the doctor, and it’s just bronchitis, but I’ll be fine in week. Don’t stress, Ainsley.”
“Okay,” Ainsley says, shoulders sagging in relief and her smile slowly blooming back onto her face. “Let me tell you about this week!”
And she does. Her voice is as sweet and warm as the sun in the spring time, the flowers in Tatum’s lungs blooming at the sound of her voice, and she doesn’t have the heart to stop her, so she listens. Even when she tells her about Tristian, her wonderful boyfriend, and their dates, and everything that she wishes she could have for herself, but forces a smile on her face even when the petals threaten to choke her.
Tatum can feel them. The thorns and branches growing inside of her rib cage, wrapping around her lungs as if attempting to ease her heartbroken heart, and she can’t breath, and it isn’t because Ainsley won’t love her, but because Tatum can’t love Ainsley.
It’s fitting, Tatum supposes as she breaths in the scent of Ainsley cherry blossom perfume, that the flowers growing in her lungs mean the beautiful fragility of life. Cherry blossoms bloom brilliantly, and it’s powerful, beautiful, and intoxicating as it is fleeting. So tragically short-lived.
If Wren is honest, the afterlife isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be. The mood is a little dead, you know? A lot of mourning and talking about the good old days when oxygen was a thing, which, okay, yeah. Oxygen was great and all, but Wren is quite favorable to being able to walk through walls whenever the mood strikes.
And haunting. She definitely loves haunting. Helps her feel alive and all that good jazz.
Despite all that, the afterlife truly isn’t what she imagined. Not that she ever imagined what dying would be like, or what happened after. Her grandmother would tell her about Heaven and Angels, but she hasn’t particularly seen any of that.
She’s seen a lot of dead guys, though.
It’s not like how horror movies paint it, either. It isn’t grotesque, unhappy ghosts hellbent on making the living suffer simply because they are suffering. Truthfully, most don’t really bother except for a small laugh here and there, or they stretch a little too wide and whoops… there goes the picture on the nightstand.
No ghost really lingers except for a few, and even then, it’s never to cause any harm or scare someone out of their apartment. Most of the time, they are happy for the company and leave it at that.
Kinda a bummer. A real letdown. Dead at twenty-one and can’t even really haunt all those jerks she promised in life. A true waste.
Oh well. She’s found ways to spend her time. Mostly going around and enjoying the sights that she never got to experience in life. It’s must easier to do things without the burden of existing, so she just wanders, and when she isn’t wandering, she is frequenting a bar.
Ironically, it’s almost always filled with the living, and it’s known for being haunted, but not in the way you think. Ghosts hang out and gather here to talk and sometimes to find members of their family that could be lingering around, so it’s become quite the hangout.
Wren thinks it started because of the name of the bar. It’s called That’s The Spirit. It has a giant bottle of vodka next to it, so she is assuming it is referring to the spirit of drinking until your liver dies, but the ghosts claimed it as their own anyways. They have an ongoing bet of how long until the owner is going to kick the bucket and join them in being dead.
The music playing at the bar is quiet compared to the cacophony of chatter permeating the semi-full bar. The pool tabled tucked away in the back has a staggering number of living gathered around it, the clatter of the balls hitting each other almost as loud as the voices themselves. The familiar stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer mixed with unwashed bodies barely grazes her nose.
Being dead really dulls the senses, and this is one of the few times she is grateful for it.
The dead linger amongst the living, sometimes hovering over the living’s phone and reading up on the news or snooping into some gossip. Who knew that ghosts love spreading gossip?
Other dead are sitting at empty tables, talking amongst themselves or sitting at the bar watching a game of football with half glazed eyes. Another dead is wandering around like a lost lamb, fear in his wide brown eyes as he stares at the chaos around him, but makes no move to join the living nor the dead.
Wren has half a mind to go over and check on him. Dying and waking up outside of your own corpse tends to really put a damper on one’s mood, but she thinks better of it. His expression is pinched, lips pressed into a firm line as he attempts to talk to the bartender, who of course, doesn’t notice him at all, so he’s probably still in denial and wouldn’t listen to her.
“Wren!”
Wincing at the familiar voice, Wren pivots on her heel, canting her head to the side to survey the room with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. A familiar mop of shaggy brown hair greets her from across the room at a table devoid of living and dead, except for Simon. One of the few ghosts around her own age, and intent on befriending her.
Rolling her eyes, Wren strides towards the table, smirking to herself when she goes through the waitress, who instantly stills at the biting cold that suddenly washes over her. She pales, watery blue eyes glinting with fear as she glances around and then scurries off as if hellhounds are on her heels.
Simon arches a brow, lips ticked as Wren takes a seat. “Seriously? That’s quite rude.”
“Oh, come on. You’re dead. The least you can do is live a little.” Smirking at her own words, Wren leans back into the wooden chair that doesn’t even groan at holding her nonexistent weight as her peridot eyes flicker to the ceiling, then scan the room. “It’s busy tonight. And it looks like we have a newbie.”
Simon hums absently, chocolate gaze watching the new ghost continue to wander around, shouting for someone of the living to listen to him to no avail. “Yeah. Poor kid. Died at sixteen to a car accident.”
Wren frowns, finger tapping the sticky wooden table as he follows his gaze. “What? The accident from a few streets over?”
Simon bobs his head, sighing. “That’s the one. He’s taking it pretty hard.”
Snorting, Wren shakes her head and peels her eyes away from the newly dead. “Why should he? It’s not like life takes any survivors.” Simon casts her a dirty look, but doesn’t respond. It isn’t uncommon- she’s quite used to glares from the other dead around her.
“Can’t you at least be empathetic?” Simon asks under his breath, chocolate eyes searching her features.
“Not really,” Wren replies, jerkily raising her shoulders and dropping them back down. “The thing is, people die. It’s like the number one fact of life. We live, we die, the end.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the newly dead. “The sooner he accepts it, the better he will feel. We aren’t caged by our bodies anymore. We aren’t burdened with living.”
“Some of us didn’t suffer in life like you did, Wren,” Simon states sourly. Wren inhales sharply, despite the fact she doesn’t actually need to breath. Habits die hard, she muses. She cuts her eyes to Simon, smirk faltering. “Some people enjoyed their life, or at least parts of it. Death means more than that to them.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Wren questions quietly, fingers tapping out an off-rhythm beat against the table. She glares down at the stained floor. “I wasn’t happy about dying, either. I may be happy-go-lucky now, but it’s not like I died and threw a party.” She huffs, shaking her head. “I was in denial for about two months, but then I just… got over it. And he should to. Just because we are dead doesn’t mean life stops.”
At first, the other dead doesn’t reply. Simons chocolate gaze softens, melting into something sweet like hot chocolate, and his scowl slowly morphs into something fond and gentle. “I get your meaning.” His gaze shifts back to the newly dead, a sigh rattling his chest. “Still, I feel bad for the poor kid.”
“He’ll figure it out,” Wren promises. “We always do. Until then, want to go check in on our families and then go scare some teenagers on the streets?”
Simon laughs heartily, grinning as his eyes spark with life. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Aria sighs, wrinkling her nose at the lingering stench of burning herbs and charcoal that clogs her nose. Puffing up her cheeks, she closes the heavy book, wincing at the answering groan from it’s ancient spine, and brushes away her bronze fringe as she glances around her living room littered with small animal bones, crystals, and herbs burning in a bowl, but low and behold, no “devil”.
Rolling her eyes, she huffs tiredly. “Of course. Next, pigs will start flying.”
Pivoting on her heels, Aria raises her head and jolts in place at the sight of a woman standing before her, who was certainly not here moments ago within her completely locked house during the witching hour. Heart jackknifing in her throat, she stumbles backwards and winces when her lower back collides with her TV stand.
“I can’t imagine a human would summon me purely for the entertainment of watching pig’s fly, especially with the abundance of intent it took to get me here,” the woman says, scarlet eyes absently surveying the room.
The woman looks out of place of Aria’s cheap living room when she is wearing a slinky black dress that flows around her bare feet, but the waistline tight around her shapely body, features delicate and lined in light, alluring makeup. Her omission black hair cascades around her shoulders in loose waves, red lips ticked into a sardonic smile.
“Who… who the hell are you?” Aria manages out past her tight throat, trembling hands grappling at the edge of her TV stand.
The woman arches a thin brow, amusement dancing in her scarlet eyes as she wanders towards her frayed couch. She eyes wearily, but ultimately settles onto the cushions. “Interesting choice of words, but unneeded considering you’re the one who summoned me here."
"Summoned… you? Here?" Aria repeats dumbly, staring blankly at the woman that she has certainly never seen before in her life. "I… I don't understand."
The woman laughs quietly, brushing manicured fingers through her obsidian hair before gesturing towards the mess of items that Aria used for the demon summoning spell. "Yes. Summoned me here." She stands, the dress swaying around her as she approaches Aria, lips stretched into a manic grin. "You summoned me here, an impressive feat, may I add."
"You're… you're a demon."
The woman purses her lips. "Not just any demon, I'm afraid. The demon. Please, call me Lucy."
"Lucy. Right." Aria licks her lips anxiously. "So, if you… if you are a demon, and I summoned you here, then… why… why are you here?"
"Humans are so funny these days," Lucy says, laughing brightly before she strides back over to her couch. She settles down, crossing her legs over one another and carefully watching her with red eyes. "You summoned me here with intent, so it's up to you to tell me what you want so desperately. Otherwise, I certainly wouldn't be here."
Aria stares blankly, carefully loosening her grip on the TV stand. Rubbing her arms, she inches farther into the room and closer to the demon that remains sitting pliant on her couch.
At the continued the silence, Lucy scoffs. "Tell me what you want. We don't have all day, human. What is it you desire? Money? Fame? Talent?" She waves her hand absently. "I can give you anything that you wish, for a price of course. So, what is it?"
"I… I don't want any of those," Aria replies feebly.
Surprise briefly colors the demon's delicate features, red lips loosing the hint of a smile, and narrows her eyes back on the human woman. Her head cants to the side. "If it is none of those that you seek, then tell me why you have summoned me?"
"I… I didn't think the spell would work, if I am honest, Lucy," Aria explains hastily, shakily scrambling towards the spell book that is sitting innocently on the coffee table. "I just… I was desperate, and my grandmother had kept these books around her old home for years telling me about it's abilities, and it was late, and I just… I needed to… to at least try, but I didn't… I didn't think it would actually work."
"I assure you, human, it worked," Lucy retorts drily.
"I just… I wanted a friend."
Lucy blinks twice at the words, staring blankly at Aria with round scarlet eyes. The smile falters, disappearing from the red lips and is replaced with a faint frown. She leans back against the cushions. "A… a friend?"
Aria bobs her head once.
"You… you are telling me that you turned to witchcraft… because you were lonely?" Lucy continues.
A frown tugs at Aria's lips. "It wasn't like… it wasn't like I just decided, oh, let me try witchcraft where I summon a demon instead of just going out and being friendly," she replies tersely, huffing. She marches towards her recliner, plopping into the seat with a heavy sigh. "Believe me, I have tried, but it's not… it's not like I can just walk outside and gain a friend. I've tried, but people don't want to be friends with someone like me."
Lucy survey's Aria's frame curiously. "You seem like an average human to me."
Aria's lips quirk into a tiny smile. "I appreciate that, but it's not… it's not about my appearance."
"If it isn't your appearance, then what seems to be the problem? Surely it isn't your social skills, considering you are speaking to a demon just fine right now," Lucy continues.
"I'm terminal."
"Terminal?" Lucy repeats. Her shoulders loosen as the word settles within her thoughts. "You mean, you're dying."
"Unless the word terminal has changed within the last five minutes, yes," Aria jokes, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Lucy shakes her head adamantly, shoving herself back to feet as she paces around the meager living room. "Wait, wait. Let me get this straight. You turned to witchcraft, not because you're a human who is dying, but because… because you want a friend?" she asks, pinning Aria with a bewildered stare.
Aria flinches, recoiling into herself. "What's wrong with that?"
"What's…." Lucy groans, striding over and sitting at the edge of the coffee table to pin Aria with a stern stare. "You do realize that I am a demon. I make deals. That's my thing, and it could be anything. You could tell me that you want to live, and we shake on it, and boom. You live."
Aria frowns, shaking her head once. "No, I… I am aware that you can do that, but… it's not that I want to die, but… I don't want to make a deal to save my life when I don't actually have things going for me." She hesitates, then glares down at her hands. "I know what you must think of me, but you have to understand…. I don't want to die. Not at all, but I spent a long time coming to terms with it, fighting it, whatever, but if I am truthful… I don't just want to survive. I want to live, and to me that means having a friend. A real friend. I haven't had one since I was kid, because not many people want to invest their time in someone who is dying."
Lucy inhales sharply, leaning away from Aria and crossing her legs. The human woman doesn't squirm under her stare, only fiddles absently with a stray piece of string that has come loose from her cardigan. She doesn't completely understand the human emotion attached to the intent, the intent that is practically swallowing the human whole, and what brought Lucy here, but she doesn't know what to do about it.
"I know that humans are selfish, but… this is certainly a new one on me," Lucy mutters under her breath, sighing. "I don't… I don't think you should make a deal with me. I am a demon, and that means your soul would belong to me."
Aria's head jerks up, mouth gaping as she snags Lucy's wrist before she stands. "Wait, please. I don't… I don't care about my soul, I just… I want to be able to do things with someone before I die. I want to just have a friend. Please!"
The grip on Lucy's wrist isn't strong- quite the opposite, actually. It's fragile and could probably snap her wrist in half if she jerked too hard. It's then she noticed the skeletal appearance of the human. Somehow the grip feels like iron chains anyways.
"Aria, you need to care about your soul. A soul like yours does not belong to the devil. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Aria says, "but I don't care. Make a deal with me."
The intent is stronger. Lucy can feel it bubbling around her, nearly making her dizzy with her desire to harness it, but she pushes it down. She may be the devil, but she was God's angel first and foremost, and even if she hates humans, these humans remind her of those closest to God.
Lucy sighs, gently prying her wrist from Aria's grip, but then takes her hand in hers in a gentle hold. "Listen closely, Aria." Aria inhales sharply. "I will make a deal with you, but to do it, I need you to lay out the groundwork. It's in my nature to deceive, but I don't want to do that here. So, you need to make sure you do not give me a chance to make loopholes. Understand?"
Aria nibbles on her bottom lip. "Okay."
Lucy nods once. "Okay. The deal I am offering you, a friend in exchange for your soul. This friend will be attached to you until the moment you take your last breath and you are pronounced dead. Then, I shall collect the debt. This friend will be yours, and yours alone. They cannot betray you, nor cause you any harm, whether it's emotional or physical." She pauses, searching Aria's features. "Do you accept?"
"I accept."