Every good memory Leon had was disappearing - becoming a song he could barely hear, an ache sounded in his heart as the words were lost to him. The tide came out to greet him, rushing around his ankles. It felt good, the kind of sensation that embedded itself in memory and could never be replicated. The waves receded back and his small feet sank in the wet sand, for a moment he wasn't on the beach. He was a part of it. And then it was gone. Strands of his long hair whipped around his face in the strong breeze. Mother always threatened to cut it, but never did. Sleep, without dreams of dying and waking up in a flight response. Smiling genuinely, Claire…when she smiled she meant it and he wanted to trace her lips and remember how.
The bad kept burning bright red. Ada was an entry wound, lunged deep within him and he never had the strength to perforate his own skin. He knew hearing the bullet fall to the floor would break him.
She was in his head, following him like a shadow throughout his day.
The morning sun streamed through the venetian blinds in rays. Leon was bathed in a hazy light as he scanned the newspaper, if it could even be called "news." He would rather watch dust drift than swallow anymore lies. Slouched in the living room recliner he carelessly poured Jameson into his coffee. It helped him forget her. If only temporarily.
The shower door squeaked open. He waited for the water to become scalding before stepping in. He scrubbed until his skin was red, blood and dirt circled down the drain, but he could never get clean of her. He lathered up his arms and as the scent of flowers and cedar wood enveloped him she came to life. Leon felt every inch of Ada. He let the fantasy pull down his eyelids.
Leon lay on his side, underneath the cooling silk sheets and listened to clock tick past midnight, the drip of the faucet, and the whirr of the refrigerator - an adult lullaby - until he was swallowed by sleep.
They stood on the patio of a log cabin. Autumn leaves rained down around them. He had never been here before. Maybe he had seen it in vacation brochure, "country getaway." It was a beautiful place. The sky was clear and the air was sweet, Leon couldn't get it out of his thoughts that things shouldn't ever return to this. It was too cheerful after everything the world had been through it seemed wrong somehow. Ada neared him and lightly touched the collar of his leather jacket. Her fingers grazed his neck. His pulse quickened, she smirked. Her hands were cold. He reached for them - half warming her, half trapping her against the railing. She met his eyes unwillingly. It wasn't fun to lose.
"What are you to me?" Leon whispered. He nuzzled her neck, kissing it, and asked again. She breathed softly as if she was still in control.
Ada parted her lips.
There was a rustle coming from the woods. It stole his attention away from Ada. Expecting a corpse animated by its lust for flesh to stagger out from behind the trees he reached for his gun, but it was only a squirrel. Leon laughed softly; he was getting paranoid, and looked back at Ada. She was already gone.
Leon sighed, he wanted to live forever in the moments they were together whether real or dream, and looked at the compact on the nightstand. He didn't need any reminders of her, but kept it with a fading hope she would come back for what was hers. He knew she would see her again, either tomorrow or forty years from that night on his deathbed.
…
Chris had buried Piers's BSAA emblem earlier that morning and now resided in the bar where they had first met, back when he was steeped in his little coma.
The grave was unmarked. He didn't need a bouquet of pink blossoms, cutting thorns, and dark veins running over the earth to remind him where he had said his last goodbye. He knew exactly where this was and always would. It was a scar so far within him he could never trace it to the beginning and forgive the hurt it had caused. Chris thought about what to say for a while. "Sorry." Death lived in his bones. Chris knew every time Piers touched him, pushed him out of danger, and shielded his body with his own that one of them was going to die. He wasn't sorry for getting him killed, though his guilt was a heavy weight and he wished that it was his body lost in the inky sea, he knew it couldn't have ended any differently. He was sorry for being cut off emotionally. Everyone that needed him, dare he say loved him he let down and so he disconnected and filled his head with revenge.
"I did it for the BSAA… for the future." 'I did it for you." He was too kind to say those words.
Grief had made him a liar. "You're going to be okay."
Pain was bursting in his eyes. This was a battle that couldn't be won and with every passing second the urge tear Chris apart rose. Hurting Chris would kill Piers more than the mutation.
Chris studied the dirt underneath his fingernails. He wanted it to stay there as long as possible. There was honesty to it. People were always trying to wash their hands of things they shouldn't be so easily freed from the guilt of.
The sounds of a cap being unscrewed, liquid gushing out, and clink of glasses was like the trigger of a gun pressed to his head. He was waiting for someone to pull it.
He wanted to drink, for each breath to be labored and simply, most beautifully to forget, but wouldn't for Piers. The plate of carrots, mashed potatoes, and steak was growing cold. He mounded his folk up with food, took a bite, and tasted nothing.