MACROSMATIC – (adj) having a good sense of smell

Arson's feet drew through the water. At least it had stopped pouring down gallons of murky sky water. He took in a deep breath and immediately regretted the action, his lungs curling in an unseen fire. He hacked up a rather large cloud of smoke and groaned at the pain in his chest.

Slowly, he went on, unsure as to where Wyatt would be, if he was ali—No. The Hunter was still alive. He could feel it in his heart, that warm spot that gave him hope that his lover was both safe and sound. As the clouds tore open to reveal a more than welcome sun, he wiped the water from his blond hair with one hand.

He trekked on aimlessly, trying to find something that would lead him to the Hunter. He was ready to call it quits, the chilled air getting to him, when his foot hit something. He bent down for the shining charm and lifted it into his palm. It was a familiar looking golden watch, with W&A etched professionally on the back. His heart clenched.

This was Wyatt's. Whenever the Hunter went out, even for a walk, he placed the faulty timepiece in his back pocket, as a good luck charm of sorts. It was cracked along the face and the minute hand was scrunched upon itself angrily. Arson could feel his heart cracking. Did this mean something terrible had happened?

"Wyatt!" he called out, beginning to worry for the first time since the dreaded storm had started. "Wyatt!"

He scaled a building and scanned the city. He couldn't tell the original Commons from his dear Hunter. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes. Was this the end of everything? Did he have a reason to live anymore?

Suddenly, he got a waft of toxic Spitter bile. It wasn't normal, thought. It smelled like him. Like Wyatt! He hurried towards the scent as fast as his feet would allow, excited and terrified at the same time. Spitters were furiously hateful towards Hunters.

He found a Spitter compound and entered the building casually, a few of the acid-eaten females approaching him with a gurgle-like purr. He tried his best to avoid their advances without having to come in contact with their flaking skin. His nose was overwhelmed with the scent of hydrochloric acid and bile, but he was sure that the younger male wasn't on this floor. He found a stairwell and climbed to the second floor, stepping over some sleeping critters and corpses. His stomach churned. Even for the zombie apocalypse, this was disgusting.

The second floor was cleared as well, if his nose could be trusted, and he ascended even higher. His fingers were still clutching the good luck charm, hoping some of its luck would fall on him.

The stench of Spitters and decay were even stronger on the third floor and he covered his nose and mouth. There wasn't much of a fourth floor, so Wyatt must be here.

"Wyatt!" he called down the hall. His lungs protested and he hacked up a rather large cloud of smog. He took a second to calm his nerves and listen. A door at the end of the corridor opened with a creak and he wanted to cry out in joy.

Wyatt was rubbing at his eyes in a tired manner, sniffling softly. "Arson?" He sniffed the air and the next thing Arson knew, his lover was trembling in his grasp and tears were soaking his already damp shirt. His hand rubbed at the smaller's back and murmured sweet nothings. Arson could hear words such as "cold" and "terrified" and "death". His heart was conflicted. He was overjoyed that his lover was in his arms again.

But the traumatic incident made him regret his decision not to follow the smaller like he used to do.

"I'm sorry," Arson muttered, pulling Wyatt away to kiss some of his tears away. "I should have been here. I should have kept you safe."

"Shuddap, Arson," Wyatt muttered.

"Come on, babe," the Smoker whispered, lifting the Hunter into a bridal carry. "Let's get home. Your parents must be ripping their heads off with worry."