Four Boxes
Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. This is a work of fanfiction. The story is inspired by the song "Shine" from the RWBY soundtrack by Jeff and Casey Lee Williams, which I do not own, either.
Rated for language.
...
He found her again in- of all things- a box of Pumpkin Pete's, one hand raised in a cheery thumbs-up, lips frozen in a half-grin, half-nod of encouragement. An expression so like her and yet distinctively not her, flickering in a broken kaleidoscope of colors. Outside, the whiteness drowned everything but, inside, the image of Pyrrha- weapon raised, head held high, red hair swinging in the breeze- and the feel of Pyrrha- eyes closed, lips slightly open, a smattering of tears landing on his shield and then- the nothingness of having a dream almost come true and then shattering upon impact- that burned.
Searching was breathing now, even in his dreams.
He hadn't so much as found her again as he "found" a rather poor facsimile on battered cardboard box within Nora's provisions for Mistral. This was also the last time Nora would be in charge of the food, as Everything was syrup and cereal. The container of Lucky Jacks had been consumed around a fledgling campfire their first night in the forest. Ren munched elegantly (seriously, how is it possible to eat that gracefully?!), Ruby loudly and hastily, and Nora...who simply inhaled. The container of Cranberry Fran was consumed the next morning, the Frosted Drakes for the next day's lunch, and so on. Each time the wilted grains bobbed and drowned in the bowl, and each time he managed some ceremonial bites for everyone's sake. (No one really felt like eating, anyway.) By the ninth day even Ruby poked at the Schnee's Special Blend in silence.
On the tenth day, everything was gone except for the Pumpkin Pete's.
Three pairs of eyes- silver, violet, and aquamarine- looked sorrowfully in his direction.
Jaune closed his and nodded.
There was no point in starving, not when there was work to be done.
He had to force himself to eat, too. Strange, how the marshmallows once tasted like cinnamon glazed maple. Now they tasted dry and bitter, perhaps because Commander Schills recalled the Pyrrha-themed packages as soon as that awful tournament aired. Hoarding the remaining boxes felt wrong yet right at the same time, though he was careful to clink his bowl against the one Pyrrha held on the box. Ever since she shoved him into her locker and...well, left wasn't exactly the right word, not that he wanted to think of the right words at the moment, Jaune had been spinning in feelings. Grief. Anger. Sadness. Rage. More grief. In the span of a few months he went from having finally felt like he belonged- at Beacon, fighting alongside his friends, fighting alongside her- to free-falling through a vacuum of despair. He had just begun to be more than the lovable, comical dolt before he...went back to being someone who wasn't entirely that anymore.
Why her?
The trip to Haven was supposed to provide clarity of vision, but the questions just kept howling at the empty expanse of land outside. It wasn't even the inherent absence of answers; it was the absolute senselessness of it all. However much Pyrrha herself trusted destiny; Jaune wasn't sure of he would have, now knowing what destiny had in mind. There was an overarching fear that she had died for something that wasn't worthy; rather, she had died in vain for a battle that couldn't be won.
Which, come to think of it, explains the "I'm sorry" so well.
Just like Pyrrha to apologize for something that wasn't her fault. She left him with the same kind of half-smile, half-nod now frozen across the boxes of Pumpkin Pete's that remain. The sudden thrust of the locker had sent his body careening towards the sky and his soul dropping towards the towers below. Of course her locker had to be close by. Of course it had to smash into what was left of their room. Of course he had to crash-land knees first into their belongings, still smoldering in flames, tendrils of smoke suffocating into his lungs.
Of course destiny had a Grimm's sense of humor.
Of. Fucking. Course.
Qrow found him.
How much later, Jaune didn't know, but time was no longer a meaningful construct. Had it really been just a few months since they first met? A few weeks after that dance, the one that told him everything? Just days from when she first laid her head on his shoulder and the world spun with color? Just heartbeats after their kiss?
Time slowed to a bloody crawl.
He must have spent hours on his hands and knees gathering the relics. There was a half-burnt copy of the comic book she had "confiscated," singed edges of Property of Jaune Arc still visible inside the cover. Half-filled notebooks with Pyrrha's neat, angular script, seared edges of the signature page no longer visible. Melted remains of extra paper clips, magnets, and armor fluttering away. Everything raw and scattered, laden with a sudden nostalgia for times lone gone, luminescent in memory and pale in recognition of the ashes that floated away even as he clutched them.
Above, the lights of the Beacon tower flashed and stilled. Something burst from Ruby, a rush of noise, and then nothing again. No flickers, movements, or sounds breaking through the empty expanse of whiteness that remained. He felt...cold, numb, shattered, forever trying to reconstitute wisps of dreams that weren't to be ever again.
Below, a chill permeated everything, suddenly, his heart ceased its abrupt tumble to the bleakness as he collapsed into the ground, too.
It was over.
He was over.
Dimly, Jaune remembers Qrow picking nimbly through the wreckage. Something red and silky hung from one arm; something blue and broken in the other. Darkness came, suffocating and cold. A consciousness floated between recognition and loss. Numbness. Cold again. Denial. Hazy bits of memories (or were they visions?) weaving through the pain. Cold once more.
When Jaune sees again there are bandages around his hands and knees and cuts making ribbons of his arms and legs. Dimly, he thinks they hurt, but not as much as...no...
He sleeps again to forget.
Dreams.
Colors.
Sparks of sienna and gold-
A ghost floating in the void.
Ghosts, sometimes, crimson intertwined with yellow flecked blue.
(But only sometimes.)
When he wakes again it's all gone, even the faint traces of emerald eyes looking sorrowfully into his- filled with acceptance, love, and hope that at least something was worth saving.
Nights bled into days.
I'm lost, he thinks, but there's work to be done, too, for the time that they could have had. When the bandages come back and the scars fade to a faint pink, he packs the only thing Qrow salvages from the heap- a picture of JNPR at the dance, a circlet that still shimmers emerald (salvaged by Qrow, care of Jaune, for the Nikos family in Mistral), and a box of Pumpkin Pete's in remembrance.
He won't find her again, he knew, but for the tenth, eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth day in the forest he had four bowls of cereal from four different backpacks. They would keep searching in the days to come, but, for now, the marshmallows were waiting.
...
Please review? I think I broke the cliche-o-meter (even for me!) with this one. That and the symbol-o-meter.