To Be Free Page 6

  "Are you alright; you looked as if you were in physical pain there for a second," he questions, and I nod weakly as I walk back to the boulder, sitting on its rough surface with a grateful sigh. Quinn hands me his canteen, and I take it with a breathless thanks, gulping the cool liquid down and forcing myself to take smaller swallows than I want to take, so I don't choke.

  "I'll survive," I mutter, handing him the half-empty canteen with a thanks. Setting it nearby, he turns to face me a little more fully while I lean my forearms against my thighs, hands limp between my legs as I watch the rain drip from the leaves. A few drops run down my neck, and I welcome the cool. "It's... a side-effect, I guess, of my gift. I can control it on most days, but it sneaks up on me most of the time and I can't really control it no matter how hard I try. When I'm agitated, it's worse."

  "What does it do?" I close my eyes at his inquiry, propping an elbow on my thigh to push my fringe from my eyes and look at the mud at my feet.

  "Time becomes fluid; past, present and future happenings become one, and I can see each happening around me - I can hear the words spoken, the sounds made, the smells, everything - and the ghosts of the past and future walk around me," I sigh, closing my eyes. "Believe me when I say it's complete chaos."

  He's quiet for a moment, simply watching me as I gather my strength again and take a much-needed breather. Then, he speaks again.

  "Does this... happen with every gift?"

  This I smile slightly to, shrugging a shoulder and wincing at the stab of pain that attacks me from the gesture.

  "It depends; every one of our abilities has different setbacks. I know Five was always insanely tired after using his, and Eight was weak as a newborn kitten for hours," I tell him, looking up at him afterwards and quirking an eyebrow. "As for you... I haven't noticed anything after your initiation, so to speak. Any findings?"

  Quinn frowns, looking towards the forest opposite our perch for a moment, his bag of dried fruit forgotten in his lap - quick as I can, I snatch it from his hand and tip a few of the unsavoury pieces into my hand, handing it back after. He simply arches an eyebrow, and says no word on the matter.

  As I chew on the tasteless pieces, he answers.

  "I... there was so much pain," he admits, looking to the bag of half-empty fruit in his hand as if he's never seen anything quite like it. "It hurt to breathe and there was so much confusion - I didn't know who I was or where I was for a second. I felt the heat against my skin and inside my veins, igniting my nerves; the hissing cold of rain on me, a brilliant contrast; I couldn't hear anything. It felt as if there was a storm inside me."

  I nod throughout his entire explanation, chewing my lower lip thoughtfully.

  "There are different ways to use our abilities," I start carefully, looking to my hand and stretching my fingers. "They have radars they use to pinpoint the location someone uses these gifts, though I don't quite understand the technology behind it, so I made sure to hide just how strong temporal shenanigans can be."

  "...and how powerful can these be?" he prompts, and I grin at him.

  "I could send you back to your hometown in an instant, and you'd appear there in the present," I reply with a laugh tacked to the end. His expression is priceless. "There's so much I can do with this - but I can only send someone to a place they've already been to, and it takes a hell of a toll on me. I see crooked for a week straight, sometimes less.

  "As for how to invoke these, the way I go about it is to imagine what I want, and to see it happen. I'm creative by nature, so imagining things isn't as complex as you'd expect."

  "Yet you were a science major," he sighs, shaking his head. I wave off the comment.

  "Geology; can you tell me exactly what you felt?" I question, looking at him fully. He doesn't flinch when our eyes meet, making him one of the only people to ever get accustomed to my uncanny gaze. "Maybe I can figure out what makes yours tick."

  Rolling his eyes at my expression, he massages his calf slightly as he speaks, tearing his eyes away. There's shame in his expression, clear as day.

  "Anger, hatred..." he begins softly, the wind picking up briefly at his words as if reacting to his uneasiness. The rain, as a result, worsens slightly, "...and so much fear. I was so afraid of dying, so afraid and so ashamed of what I'd done, who I am, and I hoped for the chance to see Meredith one last time. Your words kept ringing in my head, a dangerous echo of I hope you die pulling the memory of Kenny from the depths of my mind. I'd forgotten about him, and I felt so much shame at forgetting the one man who, for one night, made me feel alive."

  His monologue runs dry then, spent, and his head falls into his hands, the picture of defeat as he shakes his head, saying no more. He's mouthing words, however, whispering only slightly:

  I'm so, so sorry I forgot you. So sorry I forgot you when I promised I never would.

  I watch him a moment, mentally destroying himself as I run through his words and latch onto every last hidden meaning - and those underlying words, those thoughts and emotions remind me too much of the fourteen year old boy who was so scared to sleep at night and was so afraid of the one girl he thought he knew, thought he loved... so much so that he almost died.

  I just want to die. I hate this man I've become, stepping over the pains of those around me and manipulating them. Being born the way I am and being unable to change who I am - I would change if I could. Anyone would, when born in this dystopian nightmare. The words you spoke to me were the whispers of my own mind, reminding me that I'm as worthless as I thought I was, and even more so. The scum of the earth, for forgetting the one man who made me realize how you can be living a dream one night and a nightmare the next. That the ghosts of the past are all too real, and catching up with me fast.

  So I reach out to him, the same way I did that first night, and one of his hands falls from his face as he registers how close I've gotten, turning his head slightly and blinking at me. With a weary smile speaking the words I can't say - I understand Quinn I've been to hell and back and it's calling me once more, nightmares and ghouls of my past dragging me by my feet to the pits of despair - I wrap my arms around his shoulders, burying my face in his neck in a manner quite reminiscent of when we fell asleep.

  He's immobile a moment, and I hear him swallow thickly before he thaws out and returns the gesture, arms stronger than mine and not the bare skin and bones I've become - and the heat of the embrace is welcome, the smell of rain, dirt, leaves and something distinctly Quinn back in my nose and just as pleasant as the first time.

  Maybe even more so than last time, a smell I'm starting to associate with safety and comfort.

  Eleven presses his own face into the crook of my neck, speaking no words as we both take comfort in the gesture. His fingers are digging almost painfully into my back, but I let it be and hold his head in place with one of mine, head leaning against his as I close my eyes and relish the warmth of another human body that hasn't died yet, hasn't had rigor mortis set in.

  "I don't know how you manage to do that," he whispers, breath tickling whatever exposed skin it can find as it skirts over me. I suppress a shiver, letting my curious amusement leak into my voice.

  "Do what?" I question, and his fingers relax now, resting easily at the small of my back. Some of his hair is tickling my face, and I press it back with my hand.

  "Manage to calm me the way you do," he specifies, and here I can't help but laugh lightly, practically boneless in his arms.

  Like this, I can see why his wife loved him and why his friend didn't say no. Quinn is the kind of man who, upon touch, radiates comfort and safety, feels like a home and simply puts you at ease when you're around him. I'm agitated by nature thanks to a certain something that happened to me in my life, and yet...

  You're not the one who should be saying that, Quinn.

  "When I was younger - around fourteen to seventeen - all I wanted when I was hurt, alone and afraid, was to have someone hold me like this. To tell me everything would be alright, even if it
was a lie," I reply evenly, the mere mentioning of that time making me tense up. His hands rub soothing circles along my back in response, and I feel my lips tug into a smile, closing my eyes. "I wanted a place to call home; someone I could see and think safety, and could tell I was loved. Of course, I didn't get that."

  He whispers a thank you, his usually collected and smooth voice hoarse, and a faint pressure on my neck right where it meets my shoulder. Then he slowly pulls back, and as our eyes meet there's nothing but reluctance in the way hands fall from shoulders to biceps and back to waist, fingers clinging carefully to slick fabric. Finally, he pulls his hands away and the change in angle makes mine slip down to his wrists, eyes falling downwards with a sheepish smile.

  Funny, I didn't run a marathon.

  To Be Vulnerable

  QUINN

  The trail of fire remains, burning pleasantly along my skin as we make way once more, avoiding conversation. After the awkward clearing of throats and the avoided eye contact, we geared up again and continued on our way through the trail, long after the sun has set.

  The clouds part, revealing the night sky and Seb sighs gratefully, stating something about being able to navigate with the stars and throwing a small, sheepish smile my way. Our clothes have dried substantially since, the warm winds caressing our skin as we make headway.

  Why did I do that...? I frown as I watch the man walk along in front of me, my eyes falling to that one spot on his right shoulder where, for but a second, I kissed his person.

  Nine leans forward slightly, squinting as he stares at something just beyond his field of vision - right before his face lights up and he turns to face me, grinning from ear to ear.

  I shouldn't feel guilty at all for looking at him - it's not like I was looking at his-

  "We made it!" Seb shouts, running back to me and grabbing my hand before I can protest. He then pulls me along, running through the mostly dried-out dirt beneath us and towing me along. I stumble after him, his antics somewhat amusing to me despite the situation.

  Ass. I was going to say ass, by the way.

  We race through the winding path, the moon disappearing behind the horizon a witness along with the stars as we reach a shack thrown alongside a clearing clearly meant for campers, a fire pit set up for that very purpose. It's old, to say the least, with aged boards making up the walls and a few shingles missing from the roof from nature's merciless beating. One of the steps leading up to the door is broken, and the floorboards creak under our combined weight as we carefully slip inside.

  The inside smells of mildew and old wood, the macromite on our suits bathing the inside in a curious blue and yellow light. Once I shut the creaking door behind me, we dump our burden near it and look around.

  Obviously time hasn't been kind to this place, to say the least. A family of racoons probably made their home here at some point during the off season, tearing most of the blankets and drapes to shreds and making a mess of the wooden furniture. One and a half beds survived out of maybe a dozen, the half part being questionable as there's a curious, foul-smelling stain along the mattress that's been otherwise torn to bits along the other side. There's a door leading to a bathroom that's been relatively untouched save for a broken window and a bit of rainwater collected on the ground, and again the electricity doesn't work.

  It's eerie in that outpost.

  Seb sits on the edge of the only surviving bed - they've got a costly repair job, I'll tell you that much - and watches me as I run my fingers along one of the gouges set in the wooden wall. He falls onto his back as I glance around the brown-and-grey room, seeing the destruction once again and finding nothing new.

  "Draw for straws?" he questions, and I scoff at the suggestion - and at how quickly his optimism left him. It was nice, I'll admit, seeing him happy.

  "I'll take a part of the floor that hasn't been completely destroyed or marked with questionable chemicals of the natural kind," I state, kicking the leg of the bed beside me. It groans in protest, crashing to the ground a second later and making me wince.

  The man pushes himself up onto his hands, scowling at me.

  "Care to explain to me why you're sacrificing yourself, oh knight?" he inquires with an arched brow and a sarcastic lilt to his voice. His accented English flows with the carefully selected words of his phrase, a low tone barely hinting at the horrors of the past its owner has witnessed.

  "You've just broken a fever," I reply, scowling, and the man rolls his eyes, muttering something unintelligible. "I don't want you getting sick again."

  "We've shared a bed before," he scoffs, shrugging a shoulder. "Sure, it was a bit bigger, but one night won't kill either of us. Besides, we don't need you catching a cold, either."

  I frown at him, and he grins in smug satisfaction at me.

  "Dick," I hiss, and he bows shallowly.

  With that settled Seb pulls his pack closer to the bed and I do likewise, pulling out both blankets we packed and using one to cover the mattress, stretching it over the sides, and the other to use as an actual blanket. Once two pillows are thrown into the mix, we settle back-to-back in a silence that isn't exactly comfortable.

  My skin tingles again at the spots his touched mine, and I snap my eyes shut to push all thoughts aside and try to will myself to sleep in the next instant.

  Unfortunately, that rarely works.

  Seb clears his throat, fidgeting slightly, and the strange glow peeking out from under the blankets whenever either of us shifts - brushing against each other in the process and helping no imagination - blinds me momentarily.

  "You know," he starts quietly, his tone sounding slightly regretful at the fact that he managed to gather enough courage to speak. He forges on, however, "it gets cold sometimes here - well, it did last time I was here - so... if you get cold, you can cling a bit, okay?"

  I can't even find the heart to fight the smile tugging at my lips.

  I like this side of him - the kind, sort of shy, yet very happy man who doesn't always look so haunted and forgotten, alone in the world. The one that reaches out to hold me because he knows words can't make anything better, words are just symbols we associate to things and tack empty meanings to; whereas actions are truer than life, and remain imprinted in your mind and on your skin.

  "Alright," I reply softly, a breath spoken in the pre-dawn. "If you get scared, you can do the same."

  He doesn't say anything to that, though I imagine he has a sarcastic remark he's keeping in check. I do mean it, though. Nine's dreams are anything but pleasant, riddled with his fears and haunting nightmares, and if my presence can give him a night of respite, I don't mind at all.

  We fall asleep like that, back to back with the promise of comfort held within each other, trust being placed in another individual we barely know but that I wish I knew so much better. An individual that makes my breath catch sometimes and makes me believe in hope again.

  And if, in the presence of the post-dawn light streaming in through the old boards and the grimy windows, we somehow end up tangled together in our search for comfort... well, I can't say much to that, can I?

  Waking up is a strange process in itself, especially that afternoon. First, as I slowly pull out of the first dreamless sleep I've had in years, I gather my bearings while still clinging to that wonderful warmth wrapped around me. Then, once I'm satisfied and I remember where I am, I open my eyes to first see a mess of dark brown hair a few inches from my nose.

  Sleepily, I take inventory of every little spot there's a small fire burning, where skin meets skin.

  His forehead is pressed against my neck, a small pressure that offers comfort and allows his breath to ghost over my collarbones; his hands are curled loosely between us, trapping my left hand between his hold; I have an arm around his waist, cradling him slightly; and our legs are tangled together. He's still asleep, snoring very slightly in his sleep as he dreams.

  I close my eyes again and just relish that warmth, taking comfort in his presence and all
owing myself to relax in a way I haven't done with another person in a long, long time.

  My mind tries bringing back up the memory of that night, but I stubbornly push it away and focus on the warm, breathing body of the man who life has broken beyond repair.

  He shifts slightly, leaving my hand free to roam as he turns his head up enough for the afternoon light to catch his profile. Propping myself up on my elbow now, right hand resting casually on his hip, I brush aside a stray lock of hair from his face and lean against my arm afterwards, watching him sleep peacefully.

  This expression suits him far better than the one of anger and solitude; it's free of worry and pain, of anger and sorrow. He's smiling slightly in his sleep, even, and the expression suits him.

  I would've been more than happy to continue watching him sleep and listen to his even breaths, but a sound at the very edge of my perception forces me from this moment of respite, forces me to tear my eyes away from the man beside me to the dirty window allowing the sunlight to stream through, straining my ears.

  For a moment I feel as if it was my imagination, but then I hear it again: barking. Faint voices following afterwards and the distant sound of footsteps. Somehow, as my fear escalates and I realize the danger, these footsteps echo through my skin, getting ever louder with the passage of time.

  We have scant minutes at most. Five if we're lucky.

  "Seb," I whisper, sitting up fully and leaving the warmth behind - not without hesitation, mind you. With my right hand I shake him, and his expression contorts into one of irritation as I manage to drag him from sleep.

  "What?" he hisses, blinking blearily. He doesn't comment on the placement of my hand on his stomach, so thin I can feel his bones and organs.

  That touch reminds me of the pain he's endured, and makes my blood boil at the thought. I secretly vow to myself to do whatever I can to change time's doings.