Beyond the Horizon

39. Grateful

Shion's mind couldn't stop whirring.

          His nightmares had returned with a vengeance. Violent images of Nezumi being ripped away from him by shapeless black and orange figures, the fogged look of horror spreading across Nezumi's face as Shion fell backward onto the porch, exhaustion bursting through his bloodstream as Nezumi's voice drifted around him before the darkness cut him down.

          It was one thing to be locked in a cell. Shion had become accustomed to that rather quickly. Nezumi's many stories about Horizon Labs had painted a terrifying image in his head; now that he'd been captured, Shion realized how much truth sat behind those words.

          It was another thing to be incapable of escaping the Lab even in his dreams. When sleep overtook his frazzled mind, Shion's memories replayed the horrors of Hawk's death, the jagged edges of the Yoshidas' fence piercing his throat.

          What had happened to the Yoshidas? Shion never asked Nezumi. He never cared to ask. When he'd woken up in the backseat of a sedan he didn't recognize, panic flooded through him—followed immediately by a crushing wave of self-loathing and horror.

          Shion had committed an atrocity, had murdered someone all for the sake of escaping—but he'd loved every moment of it. He'd liked scaring the agents. He'd liked hurting Hawk and impaling him on the broken fence...until the reality of the situation crashed into him like a truck.

          After that, Shion drowned in his own misery. He was a monster. All the control he'd practiced with Nezumi in the warehouse—all their busy days training—hadn't meant a thing. When push came to shove, Shion lost control.

          His memories of the incident were hazy, filled with red clouds and the stench of blood and burning grass.

          When they arrived at the cabin, Shion thought about dying.

          He didn't know how he could face Nezumi, knowing what he'd done. He'd hurt people—hurt Nezumi—and there was no chance he could make up for what he'd done. The only way he could ever make up for it was to remove himself as a potential threat. There were countless ways that could happen, and if Nezumi would never forgive him for what he'd done, then Shion couldn't find the strength to keep going.

          But miraculously, Nezumi had forgiven him.

          Nezumi had held him and wept with him and loved him when the world fell apart. He was warm and soft and he smelled like leather and the remnants of green apple soap from the Yoshidas' house. He'd cuddled with Shion beneath the blankets in the tiny cabin, chasing his nightmares and worries away with soft kisses and whispered words of love and assurance.

         Nezumi. God, I miss you so much.

          Shion realized with sudden, gut-wrenching clarity, that he didn't know if Nezumi knew where he was. If what Aki and Rin had said were true, then everyone down in the basement had been officially marked as deceased.

          Had Lab Coat told Nezumi that Shion was dead? Or had he told Nezumi about his secret survival, intending to use it as leverage? Shion's mind reeled at the thought of Nezumi thinking he was gone. His whole world had been shredded by the Lab years ago. To lose Shion, too—Shion's heart ached at the thought of Nezumi's misery.

          He closed his eyes and prayed that Nezumi would realize he was all right. Trapped in a strange cell and completely at the mercy of a deranged doctor, but otherwise all right.

          Shion couldn't stand thinking about it anymore. His companions had snuffled to sleep hours ago. Shion was beginning to understand the passing of time, as their meals arrived on a set schedule. Rikiga delivered them in the mornings, then again in the evening. Shion's stomach began to growl shortly before mealtimes. He wasn't even remotely hungry now, so it must have been late in the evening.