"Hair is gray and the firers are burning. So many dreams on the shelf. You say I wanted you to be proud of me. I always wanted that myself." -Tori Amos
Look behind you…
Unbeknownst to the young man checking his phone, a girl sneaks up behind him and warps her arms around his waist, startles him as she tackles him to the floor. His react is impressive though, rolling around so he's the one on top before he smacks her in the face with a snowball, their merry laughter carrying on through the thick glass of his ward.
He always hated this time of the year.
Everything had an enticing touch of white; streaks of frost cascaded over trees and brushed any signs of life away, matching the purity of the washed-out ground. Only the sheen bluish veil covering the water puddle stuck out of the empty canvas, giving the paint that chill of death mien. Just like his room, the entirety of it had boredom for decoration. White walls, white floor, white sheets… Only the man abusing the poor keyboard with the slow pace of his typing was keeping him sane at the passing moment.
It must be Jan, he ponders silently, watching a woman in her late twenties tug on a young boy's hand, pulling him away from the snowman he was working his ass off to build with his fellow friend.
It was a bother not to take all that scenery with both eyes.
*Beep... beep... beep...*
It was times like these Piers wished he had a pistol under his pillow. His head hurt traumatically; the unremitting noise coming from somewhere around him was starting to crawl over his nerves, clouding the voices that nudged him from the comfort of his bed, telling him to get up. "Too early..." He mumbled quietly, but the voices wouldn't relent, sharp prickles of ice teasing the back of his head and his neck and covering him in a thin layer of cold sweat.
Get up!
Fighting the sudden wave of nauseas with a bit of difficulty Piers pushed himself up, the swarm of darkness began to dissolve from his sight when he -very carefully- opened his eyes and tried to focus on his surroundings. His plan was simple: locate the source of his irritation and exterminate it down.
He doesn't remember changing the wallpapers to this shade of white, nor taking down his movie posters or throwing out his medals and trophies…
Why is there ECG monitor in his room?
A set of light padding drew him from his little world, told him he wasn't alone. A petite blonde woman in a knee-length white skirt and buttoned up shirt scattered to his side, her thin fingers tweaking the port on the tube connected his left arm to a bag filled with colorless transparent serum. She started talking in medical term -a foreign language to him- and he craned his neck to the right to meet men and women in white coats, whispering in that same language the woman was using among themselves. It agitated him that he could hear their hush-hush chat, their every word. To add to his worry, his right eye wouldn't cooperate with him.
He frowned at them. "Where am I?"
The chattering ceased. They were staring at him, seemingly incapable of generating a logical answer for him.
Anxiety at its highest rate, Piers scanned the crowed over, unable to come with an escape plan when his eyes came to a sudden stop at a man didn't belong to the group of white coat wearers fretting by his side, fussing with countless tubes and wires and needles jammed into his chest. He recognized that one face.
His heart dropped. "Chris?" He choked, throat dry with a sense of dread. "W-Why are you here? What's going on?!"
Chris had his index and middle finger over his lips, shushing him so he could explain the creepy situation he was in. "Piers, don't worry; you've been in a surgery and you must rest till you've regained some strength back in your arm."
Right on cue, the young ace looked down at his arms—or what was supposed to be left of his right arm, to be more specific. Chunks of flesh sewed together in a feeble attempt of sculpturing the limb back the way it was, blood seeped through the bandaged part of his chest and stained the white gauze in bloody dark patches.
Flashes of a gigantic beast throwing him 30 feet like a ragdoll played in his head, Chris banging on the proof glass of an escape pod and shouting at him to open the door, the screeching of water flooding the area as the site collapsed atop him, the agonizing torture the virus was putting him in by eating his very last bit of sanity before he let his final breath.
"Sir, we need you to lay down now!"
No…
"Sir, can you hear me?"
He'd be damned if he was going to live with that thing sprouting from his shoulder. He grabbed the alien, determent on ripping it from its joint.
"Piers-No!"
No one prepared him for the hot white fire exploding before his eyes and dotting his world red. The agony was beyond appalling, gnawing at his head and tearing his mind apart; miserable, anguished screams were wrenched from his ragged lungs as he dropped down, his gory hands clawing at his face, his chest—any part of shredded skin.
It was a chaotic loop; there was no defining point for where the searing pain began or where it end.
"Stop it, you're gonna hurt yourself!"
He couldn't listen, his ears hurt from listening; every sound was a high-pitched piercing shriek to him.
He wanted the pain to end. He wanted everything to end.
An abrupt, heavy weight was on his back, arms locking around his, making it harder for him to gash his head any further. He struggled, kicked back and tried to hit him with the back of his head.
"God dammit, calm down!"
He slammed him against one wall.
Piers stepped back, looked down at the slumped body of the legendary Chris Redfield, groaning and holding his head.
What was he becoming?
"I told to you leave me the fuck alone." He breathed, shallowly; the flames subsided with the sight of the captain trying to get up. "I warned you."
Dark eyes glared up at him, bore into the unfazed creature taking over him and Piers found himself willingly returning it with his visible one (he was sure he looked like a psychopath). "And I'm not… leaving." Chris hissed through clenched teeth, still out of breath. "Consider it pay back for being a prick and sticking up with me when I didn't want your sorry ass back in China."
Persistent fucker.
Letting on a scornful sneer, Piers climbed back on his bed, wanting nothing but to avoid any threatening lashes that would put the man he sacrificed his humanity for deep underground.
But Chris wouldn't take the hint and leave him the hell alone, and for that he wanted to throw him out the window.
"Piers," the footsteps drew closer, albeit slow. He could hear them clear over the rushing sets' of doctors' fawning over his bleeding arm and injecting him with various liquids—sedatives…? They were making him drowsy… Good, he didn't want to watch what that scalpel was to do to his side. "Piers, look at me when I'm addressing yo—"
"I want EAS," he cut in shortly. "I don't want to go back to the B.S.A.A.—I'm a fucking monster! Why else are you keeping me here!?" His voice was quivering, betraying him. "I fought my fight, Chris. I—" Don't cry, soldiers don't cry. "I served up to my purpose, and it's about god damn time I got some rest from this war."
His head got heavy as the doses took effect and helped putting down his raging desire to snap that staring nurse' neck. "I deserve some fucking peace." The blonde woman –Loren was what her name tag said– help him lay back. He shivered slightly when she brushed his neck with antiseptics, the waft made him dizzy.
"You're not giving up that easily, Nivans."
The world started to sway around him and the hint of tears stung his eyes for losing a fight he wasn't supposed to live to get in. Chris' words were like bitter, merciless. Piers looked up in despair as a last resort. He begged him silently for an end; no monster has the right to room this world while it maintained a sense of humanity.
He prayed for a quick, painless leave, though was certain his wish wouldn't be fulfilled.
"I'm putting you on CON, soldier. Quitting was never an option for you." And he knew he wasn't bluffing, judging by the hard glare directed toward him, not even pitying the disbelief showing on what was left of the sniper's tattered face.
They haven't spoke with each other since then, the only times he trusted his voice was when he would answer to the doctors' queries and asks as they poked and prodded him with various medical equipment, checking for any negative reaction or deterioration of his human condition.
Waiting for the monster to break out.
He just wanted out of quarantine; isolation was a torturous, though ineffective, way to killing him.
His arm, chest and neck were back to their normal form, granted he ignored the scars marring the lifeless shade of pale his skin tone took on, reminding him forever of what he became.
He doesn't want to know what will look back at him in a mirror.
Loren was there for him though, she made it her oblige to check on him three times a day. Piers was fond of the little human interact, though he noticed the way her fingers will linger over the visible lines of veins nearly jutting out of his pale forearm while she changes the gauze, her angel like smile when their eyes will meet. He knows it is her job to make the patient feel better and for that he was thankful. Plus, the sore look on the face of his captain was really worth it.
Former captain, he corrected himself.
He looks at the window again and sighs for the umpteenth time.
Chris is always there when he wakes up; sitting in that gray leather chair and working on his laptop or reading his a book—the same one he had seen around his office before, back in the days he still served in the B.S.A.A. He couldn't quite remember its title, though. He would leave for the afternoon and come back around midnight, say he wanted to finish a chapter before he called it a night. Piers wouldn't tell him he was wide awake during the times he spent brushing his fingers through his hair.
He wanted him to say something; to talk to him about anything.
The rattling noise continued, going on a speed of 80 wpm and making him almost weep. "God, you're so slow."
The rattling halted.
"What?"
He said that out loud, didn't he? Oh well. "Your typing," Piers turned in the small hospital bed to face the older man. "It's too slow for a captain of the B.S.A.A. I would've assumed you picked up a pace over the years."
Chris chuckled and closed the lid on the laptop he was using. "I recall a time where you were asked to take over that position." He stretched his legs out. "You're finally up for talking?"
Yes! "No, I'm still angry with you for doing this to me," he scowled and shook his right hand as if to remind the man of his new state. "And I told you before; I want to leave the B.S.A.A. Permanently"
Pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, Chris left the coziness of his chair and stood next to him, a deep frown knotting his brows together. "My answer stands the same,"
"Why!? We both know here it's just a matter of time before this change—before everything changes and you're forced to waste numerous clips in my dead head!"
"Will you stop being melodramatic for once?!" Chris grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him up, their faces dangerously inches apart. "You're given a second chance and you're not turning it down, understood?"
"I don't want it!"
"You don't have a choice in it!"
They glared at each other, both adamant in their stance and won't back down. Piers wanted them to part, though; Chris' breath was tickling his lips, tempting him to cross the line.
A faint intake of breath drew them out of their intense eye-war and Piers could feel his cheeks flare when he sees Loren standing in the doorway with a shy smile. "I'm sorry, I'll come back later," she said hastily and shut the door behind her, her giggles echoing off the walls of the corridor.
Chris didn't seem to take notice of her at all (or maybe he did but instead chose to ignore her presence), fist not losing its vice hold on him and eyes turning an angry shade of blue.
Five days passed since he awoke from an induced coma he was forced into; the doctors had him off the paralyzing medicine as they deemed it not necessity for his recovery. And while he didn't need any kind of physical therapy, the awkward position of his torso twisted to the side sent a pang of pain up his spine and Piers found himself squeezing the captain's wrist, trying to pry it off. "Chris?"
Giving him a final nasty look, the captain of the B.S.A.A. let go of his shirt, watching him flop back on his bed. "We are not talking about this again. Do you hear me?" He stated firmly and walked away.
Piers casted his eye down and nodded, defeated. Why can't he say no to him?
The lights turned off, drowning the room in complete thick darkness. He could hear his heart beating faster, his eye searched around franticly for Chris—even when he knew Chris milliseconds away from switching the bedside lamp on.
Even a monster like him feared the dark…
The yellowish glow of the lamp came to life and Piers felt a heavy sigh leaving his parted lips. "I'm never leaving this place, right?" He asked, despair evident in his pathetic whisper. "I didn't want this… You know I did this for global security."
For you…
Callused fingers caressed the healed side of his left cheekbone –just over the small patch—and moved under his chin, urging him to raise his head up and look him in the eye. Chris had that calm smile; the one that said he should see the good in bad things, that the world is still worth living for, no matter the odds.
He wasn't a kid; he didn't need to be fucking lied to.
"Is there something I can do for you? Anything?"
Kill me before it's too late.
"Can I have my iPod?"
Chris is silent for a moment, pondering the request before he nod and pat his cheek. "I'll send someone to retrieve it for you first thing in the morning."
"Can I get some magazines?"
"Any type but fashion; I have a reputation to uphold and I can't be seen carrying one of those around."
"Can you dance around in a pink tutu to help speed my recovery?"
"Don't push it, kid."
He chuckled, shaking his head and looking away. If only it wasn't a fight not to grin like the cheeky devil that possessed over him sometimes.
Something on the other side of the window catches his attention and Piers squints his eye a bit. A slide! How did he miss that before? He smiles, the corners of his lips tugs upward when he remembers the little fun Chris and him had in that playground back in China.
Brushing the vivid memory from his mind, the young man lied on his back (his right side's still sore and he didn't want to turn his back to Chris) and pulled the thin sheet of covers up to his chest. He turned to face the other man, now that there was silence no more. "Aren't you going home? You need some rest, those bags under your eyes ain't doin' any good for your age," he pointed out when Chris sat in the chair by his bed and opened his book, staking the marker out and setting it aside.
Chris took his reading glasses off the bedside table and perched them on the bridge of his nose. "I'll go after you sleep."
"Edward Cullen, stop being a creep."
"You can call me whatever you want but I'm not leaving. Deal with it."
He snorts, settling back to eyeing the hue of ashen light ceiling. "Suits yourself; you're the one who's gonna be a whining bitch about backaches in the morning."
Chris snickers but doesn't say anything.
Raising his fingers and touching the patch covering his right eye, he started to form little dreams and fantasies in his head to lull him to sleep.
Maybe one day, if he got out of the B.S.A.A. and Chris wasn't around to breath down his neck, he will find a way to behead himself… and hopefully he won't come back.
"Chris?" The skin blew his jaw felt like a mess. A gruesome mess. "Will you be here when I wake up?"
"Yes, now shut up and sleep. And if the doctors allow it, I'll buy you some of those lollipop cakes thingy you like."
"They're called cake pops, Chris. Learn it."
"Keep it that way, kid, and the only thing you will get is the fist of fury."
He smiles.
Maybe winter wasn't bad after all.
Not proof read, but critiques are appreciated.