the same old fears | denreze

jam in the garden, treacle in your eyes

Denji wakes early. The shack, the sunlight, the chirping birds and the languorous caress of morning - it almost makes him forget where he is, transports him back to when he had Pochita.

Next to him, there's mumbling. Reze's hair is strewn all over her face and her breathing is shallow, punctuated by little snores.

She's sleeping. He's almost glad.

He remembers her last night - strange and odd and not right. Not like Aki was not right but in a real way, in a something bad way. She'd kissed him too - and it was a real kiss - no acrid tang of vomit in his mouth, no alcohol dribbling down his tongue nor the salty taste of blood and fear. He doesn't know how to feel about it - he should feel happy, shouldn't he? Or something, at least? Something normal?

What's normal about us, huh? she'd asked. We don't have hearts anyway.

He shouldn't think about it. Think about it too much and his head'll hurt.

He needs to do something. What was it? Packing, right? He gets to his feet, spies the old backpack that Reze brought along. The suitcase is latched on the counter - but it's too dusty for clothes. He bets she packed it last night. He struggles with the zip on the backpack for a second before it opens - in go his two shirts, Reze's clothes - neatly folded - hey, shouldn't they take the stove?

He's almost done when he hears a yawn. His eyes dart to Reze instinctively - she's pushing the hair out of her face, mumbling. He watches her stretch and spring up from the bed. She's always a fast waker.

"Oh," she says sleepily. "You've already started."

She moves around the room, picking up odds and ends - the hairband she'd bought him at a sale, an old textbook of romaji - throwing them onto a pile on the bed. She hums as she works: a janky broken tune interspersed with strings of Russian or something.

Denji shoves the last few things in and pulls the zip on the bag, sighing in frustration as it refuses to work, goddammit. Reze watches him for a second before giving him a soft smile and caging the ends with safety pins.

"It'll hold together," she says, examining her handiwork. Denji's sort of impressed.

He strips the bed as she creaks open a window. Fresh air rushes in.

There's something he wants to say to her but he doesn't have the words. She looks at him occasionally as if to make sure he's still there - but her eyes are empty. Almost black.

He can't think about Doing anything so he thinks about Aki - how he'd turn to him, scowl on his mouth after picking Denji's discarded clothes off the ground. Or his eyes after Himeno died - like curdling smoke made alive by revenge.

He thinks about Power - her warmth a distant memory when compared to Reze's coldness. Her elbows digging into his back. The wild edge to her smile.

He thinks of Makima and the shuddering softness of her hand in his. He thinks about dreaming what her lips would taste like. Lollipop flavoured. Or Something. Like a girl in a movie but soft in all the wrong ways.

He tries to think of something else. Arai - warm hand on his back as he vomits into the sink, a Something creasing at the corners of his oddly kind eyes. Dead. Himeno - trailing her fingers down his chest, tossing her head back in a full-bodied laugh. Dead.

Pochita.

He looks at Reze opposite him with her too pale neck and bony arms hunched over the sink. He thinks of her laughter, her odd loneliness, the pale skin of her healed scars.

Somehow, she already feels like a memory.

"Hey," he says. The word is large, clunky in his mouth. Reze turns - her eyes are wide, green - they shimmer with a glint of Something but before he can decipher it, there's a sharp knock on the door.