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Contrary to popular belief, March’s room is quite tidy. Despite sharing your tendency of hoarding (March will vigorously deny this, claiming that for all her items she takes home, at least she’s not hoarding trash like you are) , March’s room is the perfect balance of lived in and pristine; the pastels of her room unblemished, her desk free of clutter, with the touch of personal sentimentality with her photo wall and dolls.
At least, that is how her room usually is. You lay back against one of the numerous fluffy cushions scattered in the room as you pick up one of the uncapped glass bottles, careful not to jostle the numerous other bottles strewn about on the floor as you slosh the clear liquid back and forth, the smell of chemicals filling your lungs. Across the room, March turns back from her dresser, scattering the contents of her boxes to create a second pile of mess on the other corner of the room (well, she has to keep all her junk somewhere — you can empathize with that, although you just prefer to scatter them about in your room) .
“Don’t fidget with them,” March huffs, before turning back to her dresser to look for more supplies. “The base coat will be sticky if you don’t let them dry properly.”
Right, March mentioned something about applying more layers later on. You nodded, not even realizing that you had been fidgeting with your fingers. You dropped your hands on your thighs, trying to keep your nails from your clothes as you resigned yourself to spend the next few minutes quite literally watching paint dry.
(Despite March’s numerous offers, you have never accepted her offer to paint your nails.
When you’re the hero of the universe, you simply don’t have the time for something as delicate and indulgent as nail-painting. You need to always be on alert — one moment of complacency is another planet brought to ruin, a blink of an eye is another ally killed under your cause. You’ve grown used to the rush of adrenaline in your veins, the cold bite of wind against your skin; the sound of your footsteps against unyielding ground, your bones creaking under the weight as you face one grand battle after another.
If you try hard enough, you can almost pretend that the blood roaring in your ears is louder than the sound of the ticking time bomb in your chest.)
For a while, the only sounds in the room are the soft clinks of bottles against each other as March rummages through her supplies. The base coat is sticky against your fingers. Trying to distract yourself, you eye the small paper basket March folded up earlier (courtesy of Dan Heng’s teaching and Pom Pom’s thorough scolding after you left one too many trash around the train), counting the amount of nail clippings in the basket borne from March’s insistence to tidy up your nails beforehand.
(Your nails are chipped and jagged, hard-bitten and uneven as you stare into the dark ceiling of some shelter you found in some unknown planet, the taste of copper in your mouth keeping you sane as you feel the Stellaron burning your lungs; molten yellow thrumming through your veins as your mind fills with visages of death and decay, whispers of the mad echoing against your skull — the slow erosion of it like rust corroding your mind as your humanity slowly crumbles into dust.)
“Which color would you like?”
You blink out of your stupor as a familiar tuff of pink hair reappears in front of you. waiting expectantly as she holds two bottles of nail polish in front of your face.
(The smell of nail polish fills your lungs, and perhaps that is the reason you cannot breathe properly when you realize how close her hands are to your face, that you can trace the perfect almond shape of her nails and discern the exact shade of baby pink of her nail polish.)
She notices your eyes lingering on her ungloved hand. She lets out a cheerful smile as she looks at the bottle in her hand, raising the bottle of pink nail polish with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Wanna match mine?”
You nod. March smiles as she uncaps the pink bottle, putting the other bottle away. You let out a breath you don’t know you were holding as that too-familiar shade of yellow nail polish disappear before your eyes. You tried not to startle at the gentle touch of her hand against yours, barely noticing the swipes of the brush on your nails as even strokes of baby pink coat your fingertips.
(Despite her bouncy and excitable nature, March’s hands are always steady — her seemingly delicate hands betraying the hard pads formed on her fingertips; her aim unwavering with the practiced ease of a seasoned archer as she shot an arrow through the sky and clicks on her cellphone for a selfie.
It was no surprise then, that her fingers so perfectly fills the gaps between yours as you lie down side by side in those sleepless nights — how even as you are fated to endlessly wander to the unknown corners of the galaxy until the day you die, you somehow know perfectly what it feels like to come home.)
The room is quiet save for the sound of your breaths and the occasional clink of the nail brush against the bottles. Prior to now, you almost thought it impossible — having only boarded the Express recently after everyone else (the conductor’s no soundproof policy, while effective in ensuring the safety of its members, also meant March’s shower singing sessions can always be heard even from the other end of the train). Outside, you can barely hear the low murmurs of the other crew members in the control room, planning the Express’ next and final departure.
(You should stop this. You should be out there with Dan Heng and the others; gathering together planning for your grand voyage into doomsday — your part as the hero of the universe, far too foolish and determined as you swing your rickety bat against the Aeons, molten yellow flame burning out in your chest as you blaze your way into certain doom, too terrified to look back at the trail of destruction you’ve left in your wake.)
That is, until you hear March beginning to hum a quiet tune as she paints your nails. You’ve never heard this one; you have not had the chance to sit down and listen to all the playlists March has shoved your way, nor have you been one to keep up with the newest songs apart from the CDs you play in the train and the occasional records from your friends’ albums. Regardless, you find yourself smiling as you sway to the soft tune — the way you have always done from the other end of the train many times before.
(Or who knows, you could also use this time to properly accept your fate. Why not go out with a bang? Throw one last big party in the Express, pop open the secret stash of wine Himeko keeps under her bed, challenge Mr. Yang to sing the opening of that one show he loves so much for the entire crew, watch Pom Pom’s adorably angry expression as you litter the train floors with confetti and cake. Have one last memory of laughter and merriment before facing certain doom; it would make grieving you easier for your comrades later on.
Perhaps, then, you could have properly said goodbye.)
Before long, the nails on your left hand are already fully painted. You were just about to pull your hand back as March tugged on your freshly-painted hand, smiling sheepishly when you raised your eyebrow at her.
“Your nails will take a long time to dry, blowing on them helps them dry faster.”
Strange. You could have sworn Dan Heng had scolded March for this exact reason; something about the moisture preventing the paint from drying. You could also just blow on your nails yourself as she works on your other hand; surely it would have been faster? Instead, you simply nodded, watching her nervous smile melt in relief as you surrendered your hand to her once more.
(Perhaps it was selfish then, the way you tugged on March’s sleeve as you made your way into her room, bolting the door of her room behind you. Perhaps it was pathetic, the way you rummaged through her dresser like you would in many a trash cans, digging out bottles of beauty products you never learned the names of on the floor. Perhaps it was cowardly, the tremble in your hands as you raised your jagged, unkempt nails in front of her face — ever unsure that you are allowed to want this, ever fearful that she would laugh in your face and turn you away.)
You watched as she pulled your hand close to her lips, cradling your painted hand in her hands. You felt the steady thrum of her Six-Phased Ice under her veins, and wonders how her touch still remains warm against yours. Perhaps it is why you could not help but shiver as she blows cool air on your nails, the ghost of her breath ever so gently kissing your skin.
You can almost pretend that the blood roaring in your ears is louder than the crackle of the train speakers coming to life.
(Perhaps it is selfish then, to have your best friend in the whole wide universe paint your nails before you walk into certain death, just so that you could feel her gentle touch upon yours one last time.)
Your nails are far from dry, yet you feel your hand drop as March lets go of your hand. You tried to swallow the ball of disappointment forming in your throat as you rise from your seat, only for March to grab your unpainted hand and drag you back down, newly dipped brush in her hand. You felt her hand tremble as the furniture rattles, her strokes efficient yet careful as she continued painting your nails in the middle of the warp.
(You almost want to cry at the unfairness of it all — a fool cursed to be a hero, doomed to endlessly save countless universes from certain destruction, forcing Aeons and destiny itself to bend their knees to your will — yet powerless to do anything to keep the warmth of her hand upon yours, even for just a little longer.)
The train jostled roughly, bottles clinking and clattering on the floor as the train leapt through the stars. You felt March’s brushstrokes missing its mark; a streak of pink staining your perfectly-coated nails, a tremble in the gentle dab of cotton on your fingers, the feeling of cool liquid seeping into your skin.
(You don’t have much time.)
Thunk.
You felt the train slow into a park, the voice of the conductor crackling over the receiver announcing your arrival. You looked up to see March facing away from you as she screws the cap shut and sets the bottle of nail polish on the floor — watched as water droplets fell from her face and seep into the floor.
(You hate that it felt too much like a goodbye.)
You cradled March’s face in your hands, turning her face to yours. Cool liquid seeps into your skin as you wiped the tears from her face.
She lets out a weak smile. “Do you like it?”
You watched the reflection of the stars exploding in her eyes, baby pink nail polish smeared across her cheeks.
(Pink is really her color.)
“It’s beautiful.”