For Your Life
desperate to hear her footsteps again
this house is on fire
and we need to go
Frank ran. He ran, focusing on his footsteps, the concrete underneath blurring and shifting. It was quiet, the streetlamps casting a soft glow on the sidewalk, and he measured his panting breaths with the sound of his footsteps. And then he sped up, pushing himself to go faster, faster, faster. His lungs burned, his ribs aching with a sort of fire that rose up deep in him, but where it should've felt painful, it didn't. When he ran, he didn't have to think about the prophecies. No quests. No pain here. No sorrow. Just him and his footsteps, losing his thoughts behind as he gained speed, making every intake and outtake of air the only thing there was. The brick walls, iron gates, and empty parking lots flew past him.
It was these times Frank could focus best. He narrowed his eyes, staring at a metal grate-sewers- feet away from him. He focused on it, watching it get closer and closer. He took in every detail-the rust, the shadows falling away from it, the one uplifted corner-and kept it in his sight and pain jarred every nerve in his body. He breathed, one, two, staring at the grate and the way the light filtered through it, the dank smell coming from it. He could feel it happening, starting, his bones crunching and dissolving, longer, slimmer bones taking place, his face contorting, growing, his nose widening and stretching out. Still he did not look away from the one metal grate. It was one thing that would not change as he did, each shadow still the same, each flake of rust and scratch embedded in the surface. And it would remain the same in his peripheral vision.
A pale, chestnut-colored pegasus slammed into the pavement.
He snorted, looking around through his new eyes. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. The sound of his feet made him look down. Hooves. He could feel something on his back, light and airy, the night air gently flowing through it. Frank imagined them as where his arms would go, extending his wings out naturally as if he had been born with them. Run, run. A voice crept into the deep recesses of his mind, and he ran, wings out, pushing the air down in whooshes.
He was flying.
He moved up and forwards, following the familiar path. Soon enough, he was in Canada, his home, his birthplace. He slammed into the ground on his hands and knees, but valiantly picked himself up. First he went to the old oak tree, the one he used play on. He climbed up the branches, reaching up for the bow he knew had been stashed up there. His fingers curled around a soft grip, as well as a strap. Bow and quiver. Then he jumped down, taking the impact with a grunt. Then he was running again, feet pounding and heart racing. Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go...
The Zhang family mansion stood tall and dark against the deep, blue patchwork sky. Ashes fluttered around him, and as he drew closer, he asked himself what he was doing here. But still he walked, still he moved closer. The top floor was in ruins. A portion of the house had collapsed. Gray walls and crumbling staircases greeted him. Doors had been thrown off their hinges. The bow in his hands suddenly felt heavy, so heavy, and Frank dropped it in the tall grass. He moved closer still, climbing up the steps, entering the family room. The windows were shattered. The fireplace falling apart. Grandmother's Chinese statues lay on the floor, some of them broken. He moved closer again, his heart aching, and Frank sat down on the soot-streaked rug before lying down. He closed his eyes, ignoring the destruction, remembering when he had been a child, and his mother's voice rang, echoing, as she walked down the stairs. Echoes of laughter and voices poured through the room. If he just listened closely, he could hear what used to be a home. He could almost see it, Grandmother, her hair in a bun, sitting stiffly on the couch, her face pulled in a scowl, though there were the tiniest traces of a smile. His mother, stroking his hair, sitting on the floor, her face soft and lighting up. And he himself, staring at his mother there, her dark hair gleaming auburn in the light. Something wet made its way down his face, and soon he was crying, his arms wrapped around his knees and hugging himself.
Creak. Creak. The sound of footsteps on the stairs made him squeeze his eyes together. Thump. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to see no one there. Thump. Closer. Someone squatted down next to Frank, wiping his tears and running a hand through his hair.
"Frank?" a careful voice asked. He opened his eyes. Hazel. Hazel had followed him here. He slowly sat up and reached out quietly. She wrapped her tiny arms around him, letting him bury his face into her flannel shirt. She just held him there, the two of them clinging to each other in the skeleton of a home.
"I just want her back," he murmured, his voice muffled.
"Shhh," Hazel hushed. "I know. I know." When he was done, he just held her tighter, drawing her closer. She didn't protest.
"I can't lose you, too, Hazel," he said, and he knew it was true. If he lost Hazel, then something inside him would die with her. She gently pushed him away. Frank stared at her in the dim light, her eyes glittering, dark skin blending in with the shadows. She stood up first.
"Need a hand?" He looked at her outstretched hand up to her, her expression soft and understanding. He took it, and she hauled him up. Then they were close, too close, almost, and Hazel reached on her tiptoes to press a kiss on his cheek.
"You won't," she said.
And they stood there, just two kids in a broken house, in a spinning world, and Frank took her hand in his.
This is such a bad fanfiction. Whatever. I could've done better, really. I mean it.
Meh. Written for kitty132383's The Zodiac Competition on PJFC. Also written for Percy Jackson Ship Weeks Week Six: Hazel/Frank.
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Achieving Elysium