In midsummer in this part of the world, life is fast and fleeting. Unless you are careful and caring, humans and plants alike droop and drop, as Leorio knows well.
The sun beats down on the terrace as he sips his wine and looks out on his dying garden. Just as caring for humans brings him satisfaction, tending to plants usually brings him solace. Yet, in the heavy, morbid heat of this summer, the concept of cultivating life feels foreign to him.
He is empty. Shaken. The pendulum in the hallway has long stopped swinging, and yet a clock ticks in his ears. God, the sheer irony of it. Ten years ago, he lost his - ah - friend for no good reason at all but the sheer injustice of capitalism and he swore he would use the gift of his own life to fight it. He hasn't even reached thirty, and he certainly hasn't done nearly enough good to justify giving up here.
The pity in his supervisor's eyes when he handed in his resignation had made him nauseous. Her pleas for him to stay and at least give yourself a chance had provoked an anger in him comparable to the sort of anger he might show when an older or slighter person might see the dark circles under his eyes and offer him their seat on the bus.
Beyond his yellowed plants, the tall cypress trees are luscious and the sky is clear and blue and life goes on around his little pocket of death. He leans back in his cheap plastic chair and a strikingly red butterfly darts across the terrace. He hopes, for its own sake, that it does not return.
With a sigh, he stands up, stubs out the cigarette he's hardly touched and goes inside the house for another bottle of wine. The dizzying heat stays outside, yet the cold, damp stone hardly feels much better under his feet.
He falls asleep that afternoon in the shade of the house and wakes only to drink another three glasses of Chianti and start to write a letter to his godson. He will leave him everything, he decides. It doesn't mean much, but it's not exactly as if he has anyone else to leave anything to.
The next morning, as he drinks his coffee and picks at his croissant with a pounding headache completely unrelated to his growing pile of empty bottles, another deep red butterfly dances around him. In his haze of pain and misery, he can't recall if it is the same as yesterday, but he's certain that its colour isn't that common.
He considers calling his estranged father. A part of his feels almost as if it should be revenge. Look what you did, he wants to say. You brought me into this world and then fucked off, and now it turns out you couldn't even make me right. Look how you've failed. It might not be as effective as he wants it to be.
His neighbour, a former judge from the capital drops in that afternoon, saying he heard it from his daughter who heard it from the baker who heard it from the paperboy who heard it from Leorio's last resident. He is not allowed secrets, apparently. The neighbour — an older man with an impressive moustache, whose very presence radiates a wisdom Leorio will never have enough time to acquire — asks him if he wants help in settling his affairs. He politely declines. The old man gives him an old business card anyway, and a basket full of pastries from his wife, and tells him he's never seen a butterfly that colour before.
Leorio drinks another bottle of Chianti for dinner, washing down the sweetness of the pastry.
Days pass as if stuck in a loop. Each day, someone new appears, offering some sort of service, which he turns down, and then leaves his with some sort of gift, usually edible. It's helpful, actually. The supermarket is in the next town, eight kilometres away, and he's usually about a bottle of Moscato over the limit.
As he's sobbing into a risotto (courtesy of the butcher's cousin) one evening, he hears the crunch of footsteps in his driveway. Not unusual, but unusual at dinnertime, and unusual in their lightness. Unusual in that they don't seem to come closer, don't ring his doorbell, don't offer their sympathy and worthless words. Odd. As quietly as he can, he stands up from his chair and sneaks around the house to catch a glimpse of his visitor.
His sight may be compromised by a concoction of wine and malaise, but he wonders, for a second, if time has caught up with him already, for he is certain he is looking at an angel.
They're young. Younger than Leorio. Strikingly beautiful. Delicate features, fluffy blonde hair with dark roots barely visible curling around their face and bright white robes that flutter in the warm breeze. For a brief, blissful moment, Leorio forgets everything and is simply captivated.
But then his usual dizziness catches up with him, forcing him to step back and lean against the cold stone of the house, and the gravel crunches underneath his feet. The sound is almost imperceptible, yet the figure flinches, looks directly at him, and now Leorio is sure there is something wrong with him — well, more than there already was, anyway — for their eyes, older and wiser than their face, are the colour of spilt blood.
And then they step back and run away, and Leorio, in his sorry state, can't exactly follow them.
He sinks back down in his shitty plastic chair and finishes his dinner by the flickering candlelight, and then stares at the stars until both he and the candles burn themselves out. People simply don't have red eyes, he tells himself as he passes out on the sofa. Perhaps he's hallucinating.
The next day, he manages to convince himself it was a dream. It's a shame because they really were very pretty, but this way, Leorio gets to keep his mind and his faith in his own knowledge of the human body a little while longer. The same bright butterfly visits him again, and again. It starts to feel almost like a friend. He realises how pathetic that is.
Part of him hopes it wasn't a dream, because it is, in fact, the only interesting thing that has happened to him in the last six months. Another part of him realises that, should it have been real, he still wouldn't know what to do with the information.
He wonders aloud one morning whether he, now a pitiful, withered creature, even has the capacity to dream up something so divine. As he's spreading Nutella on toast, hands shaking, the butterfly settles briefly on his arm, as if to chastise his self-deprecation.
Perhaps he should stop taking his meds on an empty stomach.
"No, perhaps I should just stop drinking," he whispers, and the butterfly lands briefly in his hair.
He is, without a doubt, losing his mind.
It's not long before he's pouring his heart out to this insect. His fears, his dreads, his regrets. His growing obsession with this stranger. The eternal question of whether he's made the right choice.
(He should have so much more time, he should have been able to help so many more people, but he knew as saw as he saw his own scan, read his own results, that was no hope, and he didn't want to end his own life in in the place where he had been trying so hard to save those of others, didn't want to waste precious resources on a lost cause.)
Time passes more smoothly once he does start talking about his feelings, and it's unbelievably embarrassing that it took offloading to a fucking bug — but then again, it's all a damn dream, all undoubtedly the side effects of painkillers and alcohol, so what does it matter?
Day after day, he wakes up, eats a late breakfast, falls asleep in the sun on the terrace, wakes up to tell the butterfly about his latest fantasy about the little blonde angel, forgets to eat lunch, self-administrates an underwhelming form of pain relief in increasing amounts, and falls asleep again. When he reflects on it, it seems blissful, but at this point moving, breathing, eating, sleeping, reading, speaking is arduous. One hazy morning, he looks at the butterfly and whispers, "It won't be long now."
The butterfly doesn't move from resting on the rim of his wine glass.
Things grind to a halt one day when he fails to wake up for breakfast, replaces lunch and dinner with more painkillers and chooses to nurse a glass of ouzo and ice in the optimistic hopes of numbing himself.
He doesn't see the butterfly that day. He doesn't step outside, but that hasn't stopped it before when he's called it like some sort of tiny winged dog — he has even, on one shameful occasion, invited it to follow him into the bathroom. Perhaps less shameful than talking to himself while in the bath. Perhaps not.
Now, lying on the sofa he's been sleeping on since the stairs defeated him, Leorio feels empty. He decided long ago that he'd be better off alone, yet the absence of his stupid little insect is somehow enough to drown him in regret. Someone will find him, eventually, on his own in a house built for a family. It didn't need to be like this, and although he's glad that any fussing has been reserved to unwelcome neighbours, he wishes it wasn't.
Bizarrely, a knock at the door stirs him from this thoughts.
Between the haze of opiates, ill-advised alcohol and incredible pain that neither even begin to touch, standing up to answer the door is hardly an option for Leorio. He can barely raise his voice, but any company would be welcome now.
"Either come in or go away," he says. At least if the visitor has ill intentions, it might speed things up.
The door creaks open, followed by soft footsteps.
And then, Leorio is positive that he's lost it.
His light-haired angel smiles softly at him. "You were right."
"I don't understand," he breathes.
"That wasn't very long, was it?"
Leorio stares at them. They're every bit as beautiful as he remembers them from that snatched glance all those weeks ago. Their long, white robes, the soft curve of their nose, full, pink lips…
...those deep red eyes, the same shade as Leorio's little insect companion.
It clicks.
"You," he chokes out. "How the fuck—"
The angel — butterfly — thing kneels beside Leorio's sofa and places a finger over his lips. "Hush," they say. "Don't waste your words, Dr. Paladiknight."
For weeks, months, Leorio has been confessing his feelings about the apparition to the apparition themself. If he weren't on his literal deathbed, Leorio would be incensed. As it is, he's certain now that any hopes of a peaceful (albeit miserable) death are long lost.
Fuck it.
With one frail hand, he leans up to tug them down by their silky blonde hair and its subtle brown roots to pull them into a kiss, absolutely consumed by the panic and desire that comes on one's deathbed, the regret of a twenty-nine-year-long lifetime, the frustration of having had them so close to him all this time.
They smile, and kiss him softly on the lips. It's caring and beautiful, but it's not enough, and in his blind, pained desperation, Leorio bites down on their lip, teasing them.
They moan, low and passionate, and kiss him properly this time, a pierced tongue grazing against Leorio's and a hand wandering to the bottom of his shirt.
And then he freezes.
Dr. Paladiknight?
They seem to understand, somehow, without him saying a word. They smile sadly.
"You don't remember me."
Leorio raises an eyebrow. He does remember them. They know perfectly well that they haven't left his thoughts this whole time, since he's been fucking telling them about it.
But he's certain he's never told them his title.
"I was devastated when I overheard. You were always my favourite to observe in theatre."
He does his best to focus his weary eyes on them, trying to place them in context.
"You were probably the best surgeon there."
They slip a mask out of their pocket — the kind Leorio used to wear at work, twelve hours a day. He never did get used to recognising people over them. They slip it on and pull their hair back in a scrunchie and he realises that yeah, he has seen them. The eyes are different — they're wearing contacts now, surely, perhaps to scare him, but fuck knows with this kid, really. They were — and probably are still, it's not as if the hospital crumbled when he left, however much he crumbled when he left it — a nurse in his department.
They've known him and he's known of them all along.
"So, what, this is revenge? You're coming to laugh at me on my deathbed 'cause I didn't pay you enough attention?" Leorio spits with every last ounce of his energy.
Their terrible, beautiful eyes widen and they shake their head. "No, god, no," they say. "I just told you, I was distraught when I found out you didn't have long. I'm here to save you."
His head feels on the brink of splitting open and his heart is racing as if to fulfil another fifty years' worth of beats in the time it has left. "Is this a joke? You know well I can't be fucking saved."
"No?"
"No."
They grin, and then gently take his head in their hand. Leorio flinches, and they shush him, gently kissing his forehead as if to calm him.
And then their teeth sink into his neck.
He tries to scream. He tries, but no sound comes out. He realises then that he cannot move, he is completely paralysed and the pain — oh god, the pain — he didn't think there could be anything more painful than death, yet now he realises that this, this is far worse, and as the seconds pass he feels less and less real, and then he's looking down on himself and watching the life drain from his weak, pathetic body and this creature, this monster enjoys every second of it—
And then they look up at him, look him right in the eye, and something flickers across their face, and they pull back immediately.
Leorio's body crumples and the return of the blinding, crushing pain pulls him back into himself. His blood is on fire and he wishes it could stop, that he could simply die — hasn't he been through enough, god damnit — and the creature supports him, cradling him as if he were a child.
And suddenly, it all stops. Time stops, even. Everything stops, and Leorio blinks.
He feels… good.
He doesn't fucking trust that.
"What the fuck have you done to me?" he snarls at the creature, surprising himself with the venom in it.
"I saved you," they say simply.
He's so hungry. So thirsty. As if possessed, he leaps up from the sofa and crashes through the house, only vaguely aware of himself.
Everything in the kitchen repulses him.
He runs out of the house. Something somewhere smells delicious — like the pastitsio his late mother would cook in the winter, like lamb shoulder roasted in its own juices for hours, like nutrients, like everything his starved body is craving — and he runs while the world happens slowly around him.
He runs to the nearest house to his, to the old judge who offered him his help so long ago. He must be cooking because something in the kitchen smells good, and Leorio runs in and the old man doesn't even flinch at his sudden appearance or maybe he doesn't even see Leorio because everything is happening so slowly around him and he sees now what smells so good and he doesn't understand why but he understands that he needs it—
And then he's drained the old judge like a juice box and the Leorio that was on his deathbed mere moments ago rises up within him and screams. He pushes it down.
That Leorio, the doctor, the son, the godfather, the weak, the dying loses his grip on the crucial, human brevity of life and this new, strong, hungry Leorio silences him.
He grabs the old man's wife and tears open her throat with his teeth, disappointed when she's done with, then runs out to the next house on. The little blonde creature grabs him and stops him.
"Enough," they say.
It's then that he catches himself in the old man's window. Ashen, gaunt, covered in blood.
Bright red eyes clouded by hunger.
The human within Leorio rejects the idea. Yet staring straight at himself, he understands what he is, what they've done, and so he lunges for them.
They grab him by the neck, pulling him down to their eye level, a blade in their hand ready to teach him obedience. Raw power and strength course through his veins, yet they overpower him easily. He feels like a rough gemstone, all potential begging to be polished, with absolutely no chance against a diamond.
"I saved you," they repeat. "I told you I would."
They speak with conviction. They truly believe they've saved him. Looking them in their dark, blank eyes, Leorio thinks suddenly of his patients.
Patients who died. Earlier than he had predicted. On the table, two days after, whatever, unexpectedly, leaving him empty and shaken — it didn't happen often, but when he was sure they still had time left, he couldn't forget — checking their vitals, finding nothing, so it couldn't be—
They have his hands in a grip behind his back, but he manages to press a finger to his own wrist.
Nothing.
"You disgust me," he spits. Those pretty eyes look shocked for a brief second, then fill with sadness, then go back to complete emptiness.
"Would you have preferred I let you die?" they ask coolly.
"You think you gave me life? You think you gave any of them life? You fucking bastard, you took my humanity. I much rather be dead."
"You would be if it weren't for me," they say, "You'd be curled up in pain in there, suffocating with every attempted breath, choking on your own blood. I gave you another chance. You can save more people, now."
Every word they say makes Leorio angrier. He lunges for them again. The same look of hurt flickers in their eyes.
Leorio misses.
"My friend, my partner died when I was a kid," he hisses. "Killed by a disease we were too poor to treat. I thought, back then, that it was inhumane, letting people die like that. The system, the government that let people, let children die like that was inhumane. But if I've learnt anything as a doctor, letting humans lead their deaths themselves is an inherently human ideal and as pissed as I was that I would never see thirty, at least I was the human in control of it. And now you've fucking stolen that from me and made me a fucking murderer and you're acting as if I should be grateful."
They flinch.
Leorio tries again, and this time shakes them free, and sinks his teeth into their neck. They look at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. They don't struggle, don't even try to move their knife, and within a few seconds, they're dead.
Leorio retches into the old man's bushes at the sight of it. He's a murderer. He's a killer. He's not human.
He doesn't want to live like this.
He snatches the little blade from their bloody corpse, and something silver in their hand catches the light.
It's a dog tag. Scratched, worn, years old and identical to the one Leorio wears under his shirt. His name, along with another, marked in his native tongue, and a date.
He sinks to the ground, staring at them. They're so small. Their face is young but their eyes, glassy and unseeing, are old beyond their physical years and their skin so pale after a decade of missing the blood that kept them living. They're a different person now, a new person, face twisted with hatred, fuelled by their need for revenge on a world that tried to send them away too young, but as Leorio sobs to himself, he realises that their dark roots always betrayed them.
He takes the little knife and plunges it into his own chest, whispering an apology to the friend, the old love that he allowed to die once and killed once again.