Warnings: Some imagery. Not too descriptive, though.
As all things do, the euphoria fades away into something quieter. It doesn't vanish completely, remaining as a humming feeling of contentment under his skin instead.
Fuuta wants to stay like this just a little longer, but he knows he needs to do something productive. It's nighttime, and he doesn't know where he is, and when he looks down at himself he realizes he's wearing the same charred rags as he had when he died.
And then he sees his hands.
Small. Too small. Tiny and soft and pale, so unlike the rough and blistered and cracked hands that used to belong to him. He rubs his thin arms and shivers at the foreign feeling of soft skin. His whole body is probably like this— new and young and untainted. It's fine, though— he likes having a smaller, softer body better than a bigger, burnt one.
hurry, you'll catch a cold, the stars chide.
Fuuta grins sheepishly and giggles. "But where do I go?"
They wink in the sky like fireflies, unable to come to an agreement amongst themselves. One of them suggests, follow me!
Fuuta does, because the stars have no reason to trick him. They had suffered together and died together and now that they're alive again, they have to stay side by side in this new and possibly dangerous world.
He stumbles the first few steps. For the next while, he gets used to the smaller and clumsier strides of his new body. Fuuta walks and walks and falls down and skins his knees and walks again. He walks until his feet get sore and his legs are covered in bramble scratches, but it's worth it. He can see dim lights just over the faded dirt path he stumbled onto. Reaching the top is tiring— his new legs have less muscle mass then his previous ones.
Fuuta trembles and continues walking.
.🌟.
The view from the top of the hill takes his breath away.
Fuuta is on a mountain. Unsurprising, since mountains are as close to the stars you can get without technology. He can see the clouds blotting out the stars in the sky and the mist hanging in the canyons below. The landscape is filled with forests and shrubbery, save for the beaten dirt trail he's standing on and the destination it leads to: a small, homely village. Fuuta can count the amount of buildings in the area— eight, he thinks a bit faintly. Could this even be called a village? A community, maybe. He wonders if they're friendly, and if anyone's even awake. He's not sure what time it is.
go on, the stars eagerly cheer. you're small and hurt. they'll help you right away!
They have a point. Fuuta huffs but doesn't move. His new body has a lot less pain tolerance than he was used to. He guesses he'll have to build it back up at some point.
aw, don't be a baby! you survived the end of your world, what's a few scratches?
"Well, I'm a kid now, so I can be a baby as much as I want."
fuutaaaaa!
"Oh, goodness me!"
Fuuta sluggishly whips around, caught off guard. A young woman clutches a basket full of herbs to her chest, concern rising as she looks him over. For a moment, all he can see is a charred corpse, still covered with embers, the smell of smoke hanging in the air. It was choking him strangling him killing him oh god not another one don'tleavehimalonePLEASE— but the image disappears with a panicked blink.
It's a human.
A living, breathing human.
It's been so, so long since he's seen anything other than himself breathe.
Fuuta feels himself tear up. The woman drops her basket and hurries over to him, cooing and brushing the dust and dirt off of his sorry excuse of an outfit. He tries not to let his tears fall (he had to save anything he could get his hands on, and wasting water by crying was what had gotten mommy killed) and then he sees his pale, soft, moisturized hands. He's not back there anymore. This world isn't burning, isn't cracking and splitting under the unbearableburninghothothot flames.
"What's wrong, sweetheart? What happened to you? My, look at your clothes! Was there a fire nearby? How long have you been out like this? We'll get you somewhere nice and safe, okay? Shh, it'll be fine! It's alright now," the lady rambles. He listens with a sense of bewildered fascination. The sound of another human's voice is soothing to his ears. Tentatively, the woman reaches out and smooths his face out with her surprisingly rough hands. They're a worker's hands, skin toughened by some sort of labor. Fuuta shudders at the warm touch and is abruptly reminded of how much he's missed human contact. He leans into the hand, memorizing the feeling of a live, unbloodied person's skin on his cheek.
For the second time since the Fire, Fuuta cries.
"It's alright now," she repeats a bit more firmly, and Fuuta believes her.
.🌟.
it's okay to cry.
SCHOOL'S OUT! YAY! I'M FREE! ...For a week, because I have summer school OTL. This chapter has a lot less flowery stuff but I wrote it in one go today so yeah. I'll go back and edit out any mistakes tomorrow, I just wanted to get this up as an "I'm ALIVE!" thing.
Thanks for reading! Leave a review, maybe?
