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“What’s that?”
Tim looks, only because the kid’s voice holds a hint of anxiety; and everyone knows that this world is not friendly. But it’s only lights in the sky, swirling ocean green with bruised pink strands. A slowly becoming familiar sight, and Tim buries his boot in the snow, eyes riveted on the colors.
“They’re called the Northern Lights.”
Liam’s eyes widen and Shirley takes tentative steps out from the bunker’s entrance, face tipped to the sky in awe. “What’s making it?”
Few books survived the crash, but still there’s enough to teach the next generation; Tim rifles through the pack by his feet, pulls a giant science textbook out, and flips through the pages. He finds a passage, runs his thumb under the sentences as he talks; he shifts his shadow from the page, reads under the buzzing floodlights of the bunker.
“The basic cause (“Hey.”) involves the (“Hey?”) interaction of the solar wind (“What do you remember from the outside?”) with the Earth's magnetosphere. The trajectories of charged particles (“I saw an aurora once.”) in both solar wind and magnetospheric plasma (“It wasn’t an alien?”) , mainly in the form of electrons and protons (“Aliens aren’t real, Tim.”) . Their energy (His eyes are the color of seafoam, they share the same air under a thin blanket, and Tim smiles.) is lost in the upper atmosphere (It’s one of Tim’s most treasured memory) .” He closes the book, sets it aside, and looks back at the lights.
He can indeed confirm that the information went completely over the children’s heads; their attention span is miniscule, tiresome but endearing, and Toby is suddenly squeezing himself into Tim’s arms. The boy doesn’t say anything, but there’s still--always--something unspoken between the back enders who remember. Who were there, who fought, who cried, who lost, who won… Who’s categorized where? They’re all one and the same.
Tim settles his chin atop Toby’s curly hair and they watch the aurora dance across the sky.
He was too young to remember the before. There’s no windows, no pictures, no books here; no way to jog what little memory he might have of grass or the sky. But Jason remembered and his voice was more vivid than a memory ever could be.
“Tell me about a tree.”
The older boy held his protein block out to a passing Curtis, face turned in a scowl; he’d been burning a fever for a while now, sleeping restlessly throughout the day, hardly eating for the nausea. Tim frowned but dutifully didn’t say anything; he knew better than to nag at the older boy. He was already nagging for a story.
Jason tipped to the side and pulled their shared blanket closer about his shoulders; he sniffled. “I grew up in the city slums, Tim, no one sees trees.”
“But you’ve had to have seen one! Cities aren’t just useless concrete… Are they?”
“Gotham was; but, yeah, I’ve seen trees. When I traveled up north.” Jason traveled, after his mom died; he hitch hiked up into the Canadian wilderness, just for the hell of it, and then down to Oregon because why not?
“What are they like?”
Jason squinted at him, clearly annoyed with Tim’s energy and nattering questions. “They were rough; the bark could cut you if you weren’t careful. Most trees have soft or leathery leaves; they shed in the fall, grow back after winter. Get crunchy when they fall; it’s fun to tear them up or step on them then.”
Morbid to take part in death, but Tim doesn’t dwell on that; they have plenty of darkness in the back end.
“Wow! What color are they?”
A sigh. “Varied; gray brown, deep brown, some were even white. The foliage is always green; ‘cept when it sheds. Then they explode into colors. Reds, yellows… Sometimes the tree gets sick and there’s this gray moss that grows. That’s pretty cool; kinda spooky.”
Tim rested his chin on his knee, reaching over to thumb through Jason’s greasy hair; he hummed, smiling when the tension left Jason’s shoulders. “Trees sound pretty.”
“Almos’ as pretty as you are.”
Tim laughed.
He walks the kids back into the bunker; the world is still awash in snow and the temperatures can still drop low. No one ever stays out very long; the children chatter about the aurora, still in awe at the sight, and Tim hands one child off to his parents, then another, and another. Some at their apartments, others at the mom’s workplace, passing in the hallway; a few he catches at the canteen, and while he’s there he registers an apple for Toby, handing it over, smiling when the boy takes his hand.
“You got sad out there.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Because of the color? From the North Lights?”
Tim registers a bottle of water for himself, then snags a pear for later. “Yeah.”
They walk in silence for a bit and then Toby speaks again. “He had real nice eyes.”
A soft conversation between those who remember.
“Yes he did.”
“I jus’ don’t understand why Curtis won’t fight!”
Jason grunted, bolstering the panel with his shoulder while Tim worked at hammering it into place. “I want to fight as much as you, Edgar, but seriously; look around! Who here’s equipped to handle a fight against armed guards?”
“Not to mention,” Tim grit out around the nails clutched in his mouth. “The locked doors and other security measures between here and the engine.”
“We coul’ do it,” Edgar grumbled and Jason shifted to nudge his arm.
“And we should.” He shrugged, and ignored Tim’s mumble of quit moving . “And maybe we will. But right now we need to finish fixing this bunk bed.”
Edgar and Jason; so similar. Both rebellious and loudly burning from within. Edgar had Curtis to keep him leashed, Jason had Tim; despite Edgar being so much younger than either other boy, they’d still become a trio--a quad when Grey joined them, but he stuck to Gilliam like glue.
Tim hammered the last nail in and stood upright. “Alright, that should do it.” he grabbed the flat mattress while the other boys reorientated the bed; Tim tossed the mattress back in place, grandly gesturing for Hugh to lay down once more. “You won’t have to worry about breaking through the bottom again, sir!”
The 82 year old thanked them profusely and Edgar was quickly distracted by Curtis’ presence; Curtis, patient and steadying, and Jason raised a brow in Tim’s direction.
They wondered at times at Edgar’s obsession with his caretaker, the look in his eyes; adoration and complete faith in the older man. Tim hid a laugh against his shoulder, pressing a secret kiss to Jason’s arm as they shuffled along.
Tanya asks if Tim is alright and Toby, older than when they won the world, reaches above her waist now.
“We saw Jason’s eyes again!”
Her smile is caught somewhere between sympathy and happiness. “That must have been wonderful! Where’d you see them?”
“The Northern Lights.” Tim watches Curtis, alone despite everyone vying for his attention, reassure each person for another night in the dark bunker; a long forgotten relic of those who had tried to outstay the cold, welcoming now that the worst had passed. “The kids wanted to stay out and play a little later than usual so we got to see the aurora.”
She loses the sympathetic edge, masks the bittersweet sadness of how this almost wasn’t their future with bursting joy. “That’s fantastic!”
Curtis passes them; where he might have given Tim a pat on the shoulder, now he purposefully refuses to touch anyone. He smiles, but it’s empty.
Tim knows the only reason he still lives is to find some peace in his guilt, some perceived some earned; sometimes Tim feels the same way.
They share air; everyone did, but Tim and Jason especially so. They shared everything--a bunk, a blanket, heat and air and love. Jason pressed his cold nose against Tim’s exposed collar bone, effectively waking him up from his light doze.
“Geezum, Jason!”
The older boy laughed; his breath raised goosebumps along Tim’s skin. “Would you fight?”
“Hm?”
“If we rebelled; would you fight?”
Taking a moment to think, Tim pressed his palm against the knots in Jason’s back. “Would you?” He knew the answer already.
“Yes.”
He knew why too, and swallowed the burden down. “Then of course I would too.”
They laid in silence--however silent a train can get, crowded and chugging along in the storm. Finally, Jason spoke.
“I hope you don’t.”
His tone caught Tim’s attention and he shifted to get a look at his companion’s face. “Is there a plan?”
They’ve rebelled before, failed before; Jason didn’t fight then, but he sounded like he would now.
“Curtis has a plan.”
They might actually win.
Tim eats supper with Tanya and Toby; she’s warmth and love and sunshine. She makes him laugh and offers him support on his hard days; and Toby is the future, also light and wonderful.
They eat food; gruel and vegetables from the indoor garden, steamed in the communal kitchen, served through a process of registration and rations. They may be in a better place now, but they are still cautious. It makes some uneasy though, fearful of the control over their food. As if Curtis would ever make them turn back to…
Back to that.
They’d never seen the sun; at least, if felt that way when they exited the tunnel to blinding sunlight. They’d made it so far; from the windowless back end, cold and unloving, to this solitary car filled with the sun, their first glimpse at something natural in years. It happened so suddenly everyone cringed away, Edgar stumbled about for Curtis but Tim needn’t look far for Jason.
He seemed to be the only one not terribly affected by the light; instead, he stood still--how could he always do that? So still and tense, like a statue carved from marble--hand loose on his length of piping. His attention was riveted to the outside world that whizzed past; piles of snow with a few outcroppings of nature--rocks, perhaps, or buried cities--and the sun was moving low, golden in color against a whitish blue sky.
Tim took a step up besides Jason, both to get a better view and to watch Jason. He stole Tim’s breath.
Soft freckles never before noticed stood out against Jason’s pale skin, flowing across his nose, joined with scattered scars; little nuances across not only his face but his arms, his hands…
And his eyes; glowing green, effervescent sprinkled with gold flakes.
Tim fell in love all over again.
With dinner done, there isn’t much left to do; around the bunker, some people play board or card games by the yellowed lights. Others chat, some play instruments softly or read… A few retire early; somehow, they’ve fit everyone into this bunker. Perhaps an easier feat than Tim thinks; many were lost in the uprising, even more in the crash.
Tim leaves the canteen for the brighter hallways; brilliantly bright lights, burning somewhere between a soft blue and a blinding white, against nigh white colored walls. It’s a strange sort of feeling; close quarters with no windows yet this artificial light meant to replicate the sun is welcoming.
He passes by his apartment; he doesn’t want to go in there yet, doesn’t want to face the blank loneliness.
“Do me a favor,” Jason whispered when the doors opened and they’re faced with a train car full of armed guards. “Make it to the front.”
Tim breathed deeply of the clean air up here. “Only if you do too.”
“Tim, promise me you’ll make it to the engine.”
Tim grasped a handful of Jason’s hair, turning and tugging him so they’re pressed brow to brow, breathing air. From Tim’s lungs to Jason’s, and back again. “Only if you do.” His words were sharp and pointed.
For a moment, they stood in silence; then, hell broke loose. The two sides clashed, but Tim and Jason stood still in the flow of violence.
“Only if you do.”
Finally, Jason gave a jerky nod and Tim rewarded him with a kiss.
They won the fray but not without casualties and Jason nigh wept against Tim’s side as Edgar’s eyes were slipped closed; Curtis too hiccuped where he knelt amongst the gore, and Tim held his breath.
Was the cost worth it? If it had been Jason lying in a pool of blood, Tim knew the cost wouldn’t be worth it for him. Maybe they shouldn’t make it to the engine.
Shuffling, and Tim’s heart sinks into his stomach; he knows that cadence so well, eerily too well. He wants to cry but instead he lifts his chin and keeps going; he owes it, owes so much, and he wonders momentarily if anyone else hates him for what he’s done.
Around the corner comes a figure, hand brushing against the wall for guidance and feet so uncharacteristically hesitant; the freckles are gone, replaced with gnarled burn scars everywhere.
And his eyes are a dull gray now, gone from the heavenly green.
The outside was tolerable; or so they’ve speculated, at this point in time, spotting movement on the horizon as they move along the track. Curtis and Namgoong planned to blow the train off the track and stop the cycle; children sacrificed to keep the engine moving, back enders fed protein blocks while the upper class splurges on delicacies.
Never again, Curtis decided and Jason pushed Tim into the far corner.
“Promise me,” he began and Tim knew he had to stop him.
“No.”
“Promise me you’ll make it to the outside.”
Namgoong and Curtis wrapped Yona and Toby between them; Jason pressed himself to Tim’s body, as if to be his bodyguard too.
Tim grabbed Jason’s jacket and gave him a shake. “Not without you.”
But this had been always his plan; from the moment he decided to fight, Jason had resigned himself to die for this purpose. To ensure Tim’s survival.
The explosion came, and with it a rain of fire as the train tumbled off the tracks.
They barely speak as they walk down the hallway; Tim is happy to feel Jason against him, arms linked together, but then there’s the swallowing darkness of his eyes and Tim knows he doesn’t deserve this.
“Step.” barely above a whisper, but Jason follows his warning perfectly, sliding his foot forward and up into the next section of the bunker.
Then the silence returns, and Tim feels guilty for that too.
“We made it,” Tim whispered against Jason’s bloody temple. “We made it; you and I. To the engine, to the outside.”
Namgoong was gone in the wreckage, neck broken by the chaotic movements, and Yona rubbed snow into her tangled hair in grief; Toby reunited with his mom, and half of Jason’s body was burned and bleeding.
He knew the wetness on his cheeks were tears but he also knew he didn’t deserve to feel sorry for himself; feel sorry for possibly losing Jason, for ruining his body like this, for making him suffer. Rather, he twisted that into the guilt of being the reason Jason barely even breathed.
“We made it, so please open your eyes.”
He doesn’t know which is worse when Jason pulls him close at night, sleeping deeply against his side as if Tim hasn’t stolen his beauty; his eyesight, his confident steps, his strong muscles now sore too often to exercise properly.
“Love you,” Jason mutters sluggishly.
“I love you too.”
Which is worse: to have loved and lost, or be the reason his love suffers?