You lay on your side, a pulsing, inevitable pain above your belly button. Somewhere, beyond you, a siren wails. You’re not a hero. Not gifted in the way the special ones are. In your open palm, a struggling moth flops and flutters. It flickers, its incandescent glow fading.
You’re not a hero. You shouldn’t have stepped in. They had guns.
The pain is a crescendo. You close your eyes.
When you open them, you’re in bed. She’s there.
A memory, then. Maybe death is just living an eternity in a single moment. If so, you’d give anything for it to be this one.
You’re both on top of the covers, summer saturated breeze kissing bare skin. Cheekbones pressed against pillows, noses and hips aligned.
Midnight hair streams, liquid black, over the pillow between you. Her face is composed of thoughtful angles, made to be painted, sculpted, remembered. Her eyes are dark, like her hair, and they watch, as if waiting for you to disappear. It’s ridiculous, given that she’s the one prone to vanishing. Slipping so easily between your fingers. You cling to her now.
If the night is velvet dark, her voice is satin. You watch her lips. She breathes, teeth worrying her bottom lip, and tells you her secret:
When she stops looking, the world stops too.
At first, you laugh. An ugly sound – one you regret the moment it rises from your throat. You can’t help it. The idea is so…absurd. A solipsistic joke. People are born with gifts, true. But much like the glowing moths that sprout from your hands, most gifts are little things. Party tricks. A nightlight to stave off the dark. You’d always known her gift was special. Teleportation, maybe. Speed, perhaps. But this?
Her fingers press against yours. Her palm against your palm. Between them, fluttering wings. Luminous light.
The siren intrudes. But she’s still here. Those midnight eyes are still on you. Her nose brushes your nose. Her cheeks are wet, you realize. Teardrops roll from her face to yours. And hands you know better than your own are grasping your shoulders, pressing you up, cradling you against a warm chest.
“No. No, no, no. Please.”
“You came.” It’s all you can say. It’s all that matters.
Her voice is thin, the bleak space between stars. “I squeezed my eyes closed as soon as I got the call. Navigated the city by touch. Crawled blind until I found you.”
“You must be exhausted, love,” you say, and god you’re tired.
“I’m okay. I am. Just hold on. I’ll - I’ll carry you out of here. I’ll close my eyes and I’ll-”
Her hand is bloody when you grasp it, and you don’t know if it’s your blood or hers. You squeeze, and leave a tiny glowing moth on the pad of her palm. Your chest is tight, and your tongue tastes iron.
“No,” you sigh. “This is good. This is enough.”
Something like a sob crawls from her throat. Then, arms wrap around you, and she squeezes and stills, like a statue settling into place. Near to your ear, she whispers, “Do you believe there exists beings in our universe with gifts greater than our own?”
“Aliens?” you manage in a mumble.
You feel her shrug. “Aliens. Gods.” Lips press against the side of your forehead. “How long do you suppose I’d have to wait for a being with healing touch to stumble upon our frozen world?”
Years? Centuries? Forever? You don’t think you’ve spoken aloud, but her chin bumps against the crown of your head, and she pulls you with her as she leans back, settling against a wall.
Nearby, moth wings stop mid-flutter and go perfectly still.
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