Post-Champion epilogue, because WHY. June & Day meet again; things go better than expected.
A/N + DISCLAIMER: I ACTUALLY FINISHED SOMETHING. I AM RIGHTLY IN SHOCK.
I claim no rights to the Legend trilogy; characters, situations, events, & places are property of Marie Lu.
Daniel "Day" Altan Wing
The night has swelled with possibility.
I am dazed, full of wonder, as I grip this girl's, this mystery's, warm, dry hand in my own. Her name is June, I remind myself.
"June," I repeat. It lingers on my lips, familiar and foreign all at once. I hold it in my mouth, cherishing the gentle tap against my teeth on the J, the round, open shape of the ooh, the upwards flick of my tongue at the end.
She shifts her gaze downwards. The neon kaleidoscope from the Jumbotrons blares alien patterns against her pale skin, and it takes several long beats of silence for me to realize I'm staring, another to realize I'm still holding her hand, and another to recognize the wetness shimmering on her lashes.
"Hey," I mumur. I capture her chin gently, lifting it upwards. This is overstepping boundaries, I know. I've just met this girl, after all.
Have I just met this girl?
A hospital room, stark and white, waking up from a deep sleep, and a slender, serious-faced teenager in full Republic regalia standing over me—
A shadowy alleyway, a wounded girl, and the taste of cheap nectar wine—
The hot press of a body against mine, limbs melting together in a frenzied dance, an ache fulfilled—
Scenes replayed in dream-fragments, over and over again, and in this lightning-bolt moment, everything is starting to click into place.
Her dark eyes glimmer, wet and fierce with joy and sorrow in equal measure, then she blinks.
Once, twice, and her face smooths into a wavering smile. She clears her throat and takes a step back, away from my touch. The loss is jarring. My arm falls limply to my side.
"Well," she says. "Since we're headed the same way." She motions forward.
I stuff my hands back into my pockets. "Oh—yeah. After you."
June Iparis
I'm grateful for Eden.
When I first approach at Day's side (at Day's side—I can hardly believe it, all the hopes and wishes I hadn't dared hoped and wished, blooming into reality), Eden's eyebrows arch into his hairline, a question and a smirk wrapped into a single gesture. His sky-blue gaze is sharp with knowledge and the barest hint of mischief.
"Who's your friend, Daniel?" he asks.
I sigh, relieved.
Eden's childish precociousness has transformed him into a gregarious, articulate adult, bursting with conversation. As we head to the train station, he chatters about his interview, his opinions on the Republic's transformation, what he had for lunch, the first projects he would put into place…
I steer with some well-placed questions. If my unremarkable run as Princeps-Elect had been good for anything, it had certainly improved my abhorrent small talk skills. Eden talks, and I sneak glances at Day.
Daniel, I remind myself, half-heartedly.
(To me, he will always be Day.)
My military-precise senses, used to sweeping the dark nooks and crannies of LA, focus on my teenage boyfriend, details solidifying in stolen half-second flickers. The lay of his pale golden curls, sweet as sunshine, against the nape of his neck. The barest limp in his leg, a relic of more troubled times. His hands fidgeting with the paper-clip crown entwined around his finger.
I inhale sharply and my nails dig into the palm of my hand. I lift my gaze upwards and my eyes catch Day's. In a prism of a moment, I can see it all: his curiosity, his confusion, his longing.
His desire.
I duck my head and keep walking.
Daniel "Day" Altan Wing
When Tess greets us at the door, her mouth immediately pops open into an 'O' of surprise, articulated thus:
"Oh!"
Then, her face breaks into a bright, cheerful smile. "I see you all have already acquainted yourselves."
She embraces Eden first ("Congratulations, Eden! Oh my Gosh, I'm just so proud of you!"), then me ("Oh, Day, it's just been too long, you need to come visit more often"), then June ("Happy birthday, sweetheart," then a soft murmur of "You're ok, right?").
Her presence is familiar, comforting. It's nice. It's especially nice considering that June's presence is making me feel like the world is careening wildly off its axis.
The back of my neck prickles with familiarity when I'm introduced to Pascao, another friend of Tess and June's. His grin is broad and easy, and when our hands clasp in greeting, he pulls me in for a quick embrace.
"You may not remember me, but… It's good to see you again, brother."
Tess pours glasses of rich red wine, chatting genially with Eden as she flutters around, laying out plates and silverware. The room is fragrant with the scent of warm butter and rosemary-roasted lamb. My stomach rumbles.
"A gift from Anden… You know, he's so sweet, even after you guys…um." Tess swallows her words with a nervous laugh. "More wine, anyone?"
Anden? The Elector? Annoyance flickers through me, briefly, an inexplicable pulse.
I lift the glass of wine to my mouth and sip.
The earlier wisp of the dream-memory slowly materializes through the fog… A different wine, cheap and cloying, its sweetness muted by the tremble of a mouth against mine, belonging to a girl with no name…
June, her name is June, whispers a voice in the back of my head…
"Daniel? Are you okay?"
And poof—just like that, it's gone. I turn to find June, eased on the couch next to me, a tentative smile softening her features. Somehow, I know this tenderness is… rare.
I run my hands through my hair and smile back at her.
"Of course, sweetheart," I say automatically.
Her mouth falls open, soft and pink.
"Dinner's ready!" Tess trills.
June Iparis
I'm nervous, so I drink maybe a glass or two more than I intend to at dinner. But it's good. I feel nice.
In fact, sitting here at the battered wooden table in Tess's tiny kitchen, stomach full and head pleasantly clouded by Pinot Noir, listening to Tess and Pascao bicker with good cheer, I'm more than nice.
I'm happy.
I would be lying to myself if I didn't attribute some of that happiness (OK, a lot of that happiness) to Day. Here. Here, in North America. Here, in Los Angeles. Here, sitting next to me, a miracle crystallized in flesh-and-blood-and-bone.
In fact, if I'd ever come close to feeling positively giddy in all my twenty-seven years of life… Well, this moment would certainly qualify.
Of course, it could be the wine. Tess did tend to pour with a generous hand.
Control yourself, June, I remind myself, and I take a deep, steadying breath.
"I'm getting some air," I announce, slapping my hand down on to the table with an unusually loud thump. "Oops," I giggle.
Pascao's eyebrow cocks. "June, did you just… giggle?"
"Um…no?"
Before he can dig into it any further, I slip out of my seat and hurry over to the sliding glass door, leading out on to Tess's balcony. I step outside, relishing the feel of cool evening air against my flushed cheeks, and slide it closed behind me.
The world quiets, the clinking silverware and conversation muffled. I lean against the metal railing and stare down at LA, absent-mindedly twirling a coin over my knuckles. I think of the past. I think of Metias. I think of Day. My angels and my demons.
The door hisses open and shut behind me. I don't have to look to know who it is.
He steps up next to me. For several long moments, there's silence.
"Daniel," I say, just as he exhales "June…"
We laugh. He stuffs his hand into his pockets and turns his gaze in the same direction as mine—to the gold and neon labyrinth, sparkling underneath the smoggy night sky. From this vantage point, the city seems benign and placid. Optimistic, even, its lights twinkling with promise.
"So," he says, clearing his throat.
"So."
Another silence.
"Quite the conversationalist, aren't we?"
No, that was never me. That was always you, Day, with your quick charm and your silver tongue. I
It sticks to the back of my throat. "I try."
He grins. I've forgotten the radiance of his smile, and I'm temporarily stunned.
It's a second before I realize he's caught my hand in his. It's a gentle movement. Our palms kiss with the force of a feather.
"I'm trying to wrap my head around you, June Iparis, and I can't—I can't quite seem to get there." His thumb, calloused and dry, skates lightly along my inner wrist.
I swallow.
"June—I know there's something in my past. In our past. At first, when I woke up from that coma, I was. I was content. To let it go. To release the pain, the suffering. As long as Eden was safe."
He turns to me, his face shadowed, and puffs out. "Until tonight."
He waits one beat, expectant. The words, their implication, hang heavy in the evening air. One beat stretches out to two, three, four, five, and I can't — I really can't do this, not right now. Not maybe ever.
"Do you want to go on the roof?"
"What?"
Before he can say anything else, my fingers have caught the bottom of the patio above us and hooked around its concrete edge. I hoist myself up and climb, climb, climb.
Daniel "Day" Altan Wing
She melts into the night.
I curse and push my sleeves up, keeping one eye out on her slender form darting across the brick face of the building, up, up, up. I follow her path with ease: the texture of this city's architecture is inscribed into my bones and the familiarity exhilarates me.
I've missed this.
She leaps from Tess's roof, easily clearing the gap to the neighboring building, her body silhouetted by moonlight.
And she's off.
I set off after her, jumping and scaling and flying. When I finally catch up, she's cool as a cucumber, her forehead sweat-free and her breath light. Nothing to show that she just cleared the entirety of downtown in ten minutes.
I take a moment to suck in some oxygen. My cushy lifestyle in Antarctica may have had more of an effect than I thought, and I grimace, making a mental note to sign up for a gym membership.
Once I've caught my breath, I look around, my brow furrowing.
She turns to me, her dark gaze liquid and vulnerable.
"Day, I—during that time. I did things I wasn't proud of. Things that I'm not sure you'd ever be able to forgive me for… I don't even know if I've forgiven myself."
I step up to the ledge and look down into the neighborhood, recognition shivering through me.
It's still a bit run-down. Potholes dot the street and the grass in the yards is dried to brown straw. The dilapidated houses are gone, though, replaced by modest apartment units, windows shining with warm golden light. And it's… quiet. No children, wailing with empty bellies, no vagrants clanging through trashcans, no not-so-distant sirens cutting through the night.
The last time I was here was when I left home, those long years ago, to keep my mother and Eden and John safe.
Something tugs at my memory, and I frown.
That wasn't the last time I was here.
I turn to June, whose body is rigid with expectation.
"June," I said quietly. "Have we been here before — together?"
She nods, once.
June Iparis
His right fist clenches. The wire of the paper clip ring digs into his skin; the flesh around it burns white against the strain.
I blink back the hot pinprick of tears against my eyes and cast my gaze down. I can't bear to watch him realize. Earlier in the night, caught in the warmth of his presence, I had let a fragile hope blossom…But I knew I couldn't let myself get swept up. Not without this terrible wound in the open.
My head hurts. My buzz from earlier has dulled into a throb behind my eyes.
I wish you hadn't come.
To have the possibility of Day, the chance of his love always lingering on the edges of "someday"—that was a less cruel fate than to have our story to begin and end again, to stutter to a stop in the span of one night. In three scant hours. The bitterness wells up at the back of my throat, and suddenly, I'm weary. The war has been over for years, but on this day, when the pain of Metias's death shines like a copper penny, and in this moment, facing retribution for my mistakes, I feel scared and exhausted and fifteen, again.
Then—for the second, third, fourth, infinity-eth time today, I forget to breathe. His fingers float along the curve of my face, and his palm cups my chin, a warm, calloused parabola.
He lifts my face, and he's mere centimeters away. I've forgotten how blue his eyes are, summer sky and deep blue ocean.
Without meaning to (as if you had a choice, June Iparis, the moment you bumped into Day Wing on a dirty, loud Los Angeles street corner, you lost any say in the matter), I reach up and press my mouth against his, fierce and desperate.
Just let me have this, then I can try. I can try to forget you and I can say goodbye to us and I can suffer for the rest of my life. Just let me have this. I'm sorry for all the pain I've brought you. I love you, I love you, still and always and forever.
Daniel "Day" Altan Wing
June's mouth crashes into mine.
My mind goes blank.
Then, suddenly, all my senses are exploding at once. My hands, unbidden, slip through her hair, find her lower back, pull her towards me.
I'm no stranger to kissing. Being The Republic's hero has its perks, one of them being that girls tended to be much friendlier— but this is something else entirely, a different beast than those one-off encounters, forgettable and already-forgotten. Every part of her invades my senses. The softness of our cheeks brushing together; her mouth, warm and dry and sweet; her fists, curled into my jacket. It seems impossible that June, so strong and proud, can feel so small in my arms.
Seconds later and an eternity too soon, she pulls back. Hurt bobs in her throat and her eyes are flooded.
"Day," she croaks. "I—I'm sorry, I don't know what to say—"
"June," I say, somber, my voice lined with steel.
She drops her gaze, her words lost.
"Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
Her head snaps up.
I laugh. I feel light and giddy and dizzy. I feel fifteen again, but not fifteen as I was, scared and grim-faced, always preparing for the world to throw the next hurt at me. I'm fifteen and in love. In love, what are you talking about, you sound cracked, my boy, but somehow, I know, with bone-deep certainty, that this is it. It's the real deal.
And it certainly won't be sunshine and rainbows and roses—June isn't any of those things and neither am I. She's complicated and raw and a little broken; she's ruby-wine and star-gazing and a crisp, clear winter's night. I want to spend hours talking to her, healing old wounds, making each other's souls a little more complete. I want to see her loveliness spread out beneath me, against dark sheets. I want to make her serious face light, to crack it wide-open with joy.
"June… I think — I have no doubt, that there's a lot we have to talk about. There's darkness in our past and uncertainty in our future. I know this is goddy crazy talk, I just met you today, but" — I take a deep breath and plunge foward — "I feel like I know you. Whatever it is that's happened, I know we can work on it. This is worth fighting for. We're worth fighting for."
The words come out, a babble of pure insanity. Any other girl would be running for the hills right now, but June looks at me, as serious as anything, and I clutch her as tightly as I can.
"There'll be a time for that. All of that. We'll have all the time in the world, to heal and to love and to make things right. And I'm not trying to be flippant or disregard you or anything like that, but, really, right now, all I can think about is one thing, and that's kissing you again, before I go stir-crazy."
June Iparis
I smile, close my eyes, and oblige.