The steady stream of gasoline from the can weakens to a quiet trickle as he ambles closer, and when he sees this he pours the rest of the can out before flinging it aside. He walks up to her and shoves the lighter into her hands, and she takes it with the same blank expression she’s been wearing since God knows when.
“Your turn.”
Her eyes follow the trail, and she catches a glimpse of the community built of wood and thatched roofs. She can’t make out the details very well, and her voice is flat when she speaks. “You were quick.” Her eyes catch the glint of silver in harsh yellow sunlight, and at this, she looks at the gun he’s tucked into his shirt. “What’s that for? The town wants food, not guns. If you’re stealing, might as well make it the right things.”
His arms are crossed and his upper lip is twitching and his right hand trembles. He tugs his shirt and it falls over the gun, obscuring it from prying eyes. “They didn’t hide their stash very well. I found it on first try. It’s almost always in the crappiest building in town. These guys stuffed everything there – gas, gunpowder, firecrackers, guns. Everything that could remotely explode, beside the gas. They're idiots, really. Goddamn town's made of wood, and in this kind of weather -" He squints at the sun.
The late afternoon sky flares behind his scrawny figure.
“Just light it already,” he mumbles. “I only took it because the people in town...In case, all right?”
“In case what?” She squats by the grime, the lighter coming to life in her hands, but her eyes never straying away from him.
“Don’t be so thick.” He sees her expression and sighs. “You know they don't trust us anymore. Not after - not after what happened. Jesus, are you ever going to light that? If you’re not, then hand it over and I’ll have fun for you.”
At this she lets the fire graze the grime. The reaction is instant, spontaneous. Bright orange waltzes down the accelerant and towards the decrepit shacks.
“Pft. About time.” He doesn’t bat an eyelid when an explosion drowns out the eerie silence of the asphalt desert, but she does. She watches a handful of ant-sized figures dot the horizon, fleeing from the burning mess.
He bursts into a soft chuckle. “Look at that. Only the smart ones run. The rest stay behind to save the town.”
“They’re running because they want to die on their own terms," she murmurs. One glance back. She squeezes her eyes shut, her lips a thin line drawn on her face. She can’t hear the crackling of the flames, not this far, but she can breathe in their essence. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Frustration comes with a wrinkled forehead. “Nothing’s as good as it used to be anymore.”
He pulls out the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket and takes a little white stick from it. Puts it in his mouth and raises an eyebrow. “Did you say something?”
“I said things aren't the same anymore. We should go.” As she gets up, some dust clings to her knees. "Before they find us,” she nods at the figures, which have grown in both size and detail, “and start begging for help.”
He considers this for a moment. “Yeah, we should. But how the hell are things different? Everything’s still the same, Detta. I don’t see how anything’s changed - unless you’re talking about before the world fucked up.”
She’s already halfway to the red car parked a few meters away. “You don’t even watch it anymore. That’s one way it’s different.”
He pauses, stares at her, and shrugs. “You suggesting something?”
No answer.
Fast forward a few minutes and the stick of cigarette in his mouth is still unlit, even though the lighter uncomfortably peeks out of his shirt. His eyes are half-closed, and for a good part of the drive he dozes. The little cigarette butt almost elopes with the wind running through his dirty blond hair.
Then his grip on it tightens, his right eye opens, and he peers at her, the petite dark-haired driver beside him.
The lighter comes out and breathes life into the cigarette, but he never replaces it in his mouth.
Instead, cinder kisses her soft skin. No reaction. He presses it harder. Still, the air is silent save the whistling wind and the hungry engine, but she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. Blink. Not a single tear falls, but perhaps a shadow of glee settles onto her expression.
He gives in after a while, sighs, and leans back into his seat again. “I wish you’d cry. Or laugh. Anything.” The cigarette shits ash on the leather seat; it stinks bad as the cities from old days. Disgusted, he tosses it to the wind, out of the car.
The sunlight in their eyes brightens. He looks away from the windshield to avoid its accusing glare, but she faces it with a straight face.
“Like a fucking robot,” he mutters, head tilted to the side. ‘You should cry. It’s good for you, you know?”
"You should stick the cigarettes you light in your mouth. It's how you're supposed to enjoy them, you know?" she quips.
Exchanged glares and silence drift past them.
At last, buildings, cracked and fading, dot the horizon. Bruised sunlight filters past pockmarked houses and into their eyes. Long strands of dark hair calm down and plaster all over her face as her grip on the steering wheel tightens.
He smirks. “Why go slow now, Detta? Afraid someone’s going to flag you down for driving so fast?” His eyes shine when he sees her jaw tighten. “Finally. The fräulein stops pretending to be a mannequin. Remember what he said, Detta. They used to call it illegal, but today, no one gives a fuck because everyone who calls it illegal is in a box underground.” He snickers as if it’s a joke. “He always was the –“
She stomps on the brakes so hard his face slams into the dashboard, rips away her seatbelt, and leaves the car, slamming the door behind her.
She straightens her white coat and smoothes out the wrinkles before staring at the dishevelled town, sand and dust dancing through its streets. She peers through it, searching, searching. No one traipses down the deserted roads, so she strides forward. Her gait is confident despite her hunched shoulders.
She can hear him groaning and swearing and damning her in the car behind her, but she can hear the glee in his voice as well. She bites her tongue and walks on.
No distinct line marks the edge of the town. The wooden sign welcoming visitors has been ripped out of the ground, and nothing but a hole remains on the spot. A sentry aimlessly parades back and forth, carrying a torch to ward away the impending darkness. Detta walks straight past without glancing at the guard, or his partner asleep on the ground. The conscious guard’s eyes follow her, and she’s aware of his gaze; her hair prickles because of it, but he receives no acknowledgement.
And then another one, Guard Three, steps in front of her. She stares at the broad chest blocking her way into town. Refuses to look at the third lookout's face.
“Whoa there.” His gruff voice is soft, afraid of waking anything asleep in the wasteland around them. “Nothing for today?”
She steps to the side, to his side, but he’s too big and it’s not possible to avoid him with a single step. “Made a bad call. Town was empty.”
His face hardens. Realization is quick - she's said the wrong thing - but his reaction is as forceful as it is expected. Strike and shove. Cue her falling on dust and serrated asphalt. A stifled cry of pain breaks through her composure. A trace of blood stains the gray terrain. There are tears in her eyes, but she's biting back a smile. The guard grabs her by the shoulder and yanks her up, snarling.
She can smell his breath at this distance.
"Let's see if you like it as much when they come for you while you're sleeping in your -"
Click. "Whoa there, friends." Johann's stolen gun shines as beautifully under the moonlight as it does in the fading sunset. He waves his trophy around, beaming. "Detta and I, we're sleeping at home tonight. I don't really want to use this, and I know you don't want me to use it either. Violence is never the answer, right?" Johann looks at his finger on the trigger.
Guard Three eyes him and lets her go. Awake Guard stiffens and vigorously shakes his head at Guard Three. "Don't," he mouths.
The vice grip on her shoulder loosens. A few more heartbeats pass before Guard Three pushes her towards Johann and shuffles away with his comrades. He kicks their slumbering friend and soon, the trio is out of sight.
Johann holds Detta's arm, but she wrenches out of his hold and punches him on the shoulder. He grins. Punch, kick. He laughs. She punches him again. And again. And again and again and again and again, then a kick, and she's thrashing and doing anything she can to hurt him -
Finally, his other hand catches her wrist and twists it. She yelps.
"What the hell?!" he demands, letting go only when she turns white with pain.
They pause for a moment of recovery.
His voice is calm when he speaks again. "So."
"So? So? Now what?" She spits on the ground. "Tell me, Johann, how are you, no, how are we going to sleep tonight, knowing those guards are going to tell everyone in town about what you did? About how you have a gun? You know what they already think of us. They're not going to stand for this."
He stares at her in apparent disbelief before turning away and ambling down the broadest avenue of town. "I haven't slept at night since it happened. Can't. I couldn't let anything happen while you slept."
And between the moon and the stars and the eyes peeking out of cracked windows, she's alone. She clenches her hand into a fist so tight her nails dig into her skin and liquid warmth tease her fingertips. Breathe, breathe, just remember to inhale and exhale.
"I hate you." Three words, eight letters, and only for the wind's ears.
Spoiler
Author's note: This is an edited (and continued) version of Breathe (1). Lack of thoughts is due to a challenge issued by Jagged, who said that I'm not allowed to include *any* of the characters' thoughts. oo" Also, thanks to Ultraviolet for mentioning the mistakes! I've edited it. ^^
Here's a thanks-for-entering review!