Chapter Text
The world is suffocating.
A blatant nothingness presses against Pyro's ears, like he's woken into a vacuum. The rapid thump thump of the forest animals' syncing heartbeat is silent. The wind that whistles through the pass— something he's learned to take comfort in —is absent, ripped away like it never reached him in the first place. Everything's just gone, barring the low thrum that's pounding at the base of his eardrums. He feels as if he's been shoved below the surface and is suffering from swimmer's ear. That thought alone unnerves him, so he bites his tongue and pushes himself to stir.
Pyro opens his eyes to an inferno, a lurid orange veil above him. Sunlight scatters across his face, and he squints against it, unused to the brilliance; it warms his skin.
It takes time to blink the gunk from their eyes. When they do, the blurred orange cascade sharpens into red strands of hair— illuminated like firelight. Pyro follows the hair to the face it's attached to. They nearly don't recognize her. Shelby's topaz irises carry no hint of ruby— they'd forgotten she used to need the thick frames perched on her nose.
They study her face, expression twisting into one of concern. A frown tugs the corners of their mouth. They'd gotten so used to her final form. Why was her blood content so low?
"—ro? Pyro? You really awake this time?"
They blink when they register her voice, fighting to distinguish her words from the throb throb throb that roars behind their eyes. A strand of hair worms itself into the fluid of their eye, and they groan and raise a heavy hand to rub their eyelid. Tears flood out to rid the intruder. They can hear Shelby curse and brush her hair away from their face. Pyro's more focused on the taste of salt on their tongue when the tear reaches their lips.
He traces a finger over his waterline and swipes up droplets on the pad. Sunlight glints off the liquid, but that's it; no color to see other than the melanin it rests on.
A reluctant hand rests over his own, pulling it away from his face. He'd been staring too long. Shelby's looking at him with more worry than he thinks she can feel, but then again, she's always been one to push against that kind of stuff. He can tell she's got a lot to say to him, but it hovers in the forefront of his mind, not as a gentle buzz in the back.
"How are you feeling?" Is all she manages.
"I'm, I don't know. Strange, alien… Wha—"
Shelby shifts, and sunlight peeks out from behind, blinding. He flinches and prepares for the burn that will dance across his skin, hissing. The reaction, though familiar, leaves his throat with no grace, instead dragging along and burning more than the sunlight. Much more, in fact. His skin isn't even simmering under the rays. A pleasant warmth seeps through him, and he's left dazed with a feeling he's missed so desperately since the night of his death.
"Pyro," Shelby murmurs. Soft. Much too soft. "Pyro, it can't hurt you anymore, it's alright. We're free. You're free."
It doesn't make sense. There are no clouds to provide a thin blanket of relief, no rain to cool the burn. There's a chunk of their memory missing— there always is, but this feels more important, almost. Something they should know. Something they decided.
Their stomach turns with discomfort; this, at least, is familiar. The thrumming stays in their ears, steady and unyielding; it picks up speed. They don't understand. Why can't they remember? What is happening?
Wher—
Shelby takes their hand and slams it against their chest, holding it down with her own. It startles them back into reality, and that's when they register where the thrum originates.
Her wrist thumps gently into his skin, and he can feel the way the two pulses sync when he focuses on it. Two pulses.
Oh.
Shelby scarcely manages to jump backwards before Pyro doubles over and retches. Old blood spews into the dirt, staining the grass an ugly red. The blades wilt as if met with poison. His throat burns, and the taste of iron is so heavy and unpleasant on his tongue that it suffocates him.
He doesn't realize he's gasping for air until Shelby tells him to breathe.
That's right, he needs to do that now.
Pyro takes a conscious breath, letting the oxygen linger in their lungs before they exhale. They fixate on the action until their chest gets tight. How funny, breathing was a habit they couldn't break when they were a vampire, now they have to put effort into it.
They're going to throw up again.
"I'll get you some water," Shelby murmurs, like she can see the nausea on their face. She probably can. After all, she likely went through the same thing when she woke.
All thanks to Pyro—
He's left alone with his beating heart and the sun stretching across his skin. Pyro marvels at his skin tone against the light, so used to the gray pallor he'd taken on after his waterlogged death. He ghosts his fingers down his arm to feel the warmth, and his skin tingles. He never realized that some nerve endings had stayed dead during his unlife. Loss passes through him, though there wasn't much use for it; he never liked being tickled, and they were back now, anyway.
Pyro curls his fingertips to scratch the itch he'd created. He watches white lines form a path behind his nails, and backtracks, running his fingers back down again, harder. Angry red trails follow. Entranced, he goes for a third.
Though rid of his vampiric traits and, therefore, his claws, Pyro's nails were still terribly sharp. They wreak familiar havoc over his skin.
The points sink into raised flesh, and he digs a ditch halfway down his arm, watching, unblinking, as blood wells into the scratches. He swipes his pointer over the stinging cuts and collects blood on the pad. It shines in the daylight, enticing (if only to recent memories).
There's a finger in their mouth and blood on their tongue. It tastes as it did a week ago, just less vibrant, like their taste buds have lost saturation. A different kind of grief grasps at their chest, one that carries more weight than they'd like to think about— one that's certainly more potent than the liquid iron on their tongue. They allow it a few more moments of rest before they lean over and spit it onto the grass with everything else they'd puked up. It's startlingly bright against the mess of old blood— a sharp reminder that they're life now.
Pyro's a scholar. They've always been adept at recognizing patterns and analyzing texts, sifting through information given and using it to find the truth— or at least the versions of it.
Logically, They know they've been cured of their bloodthirsty affliction, but there's this gap in their mind. A yawning pit in their gut, almost like a singular missing piece in a puzzle, a piece that, if they find it, will make them understand. But they haven't found it, and all they know right now is that they were a vampire, and now they're not. The lack of in-between is unsettling, and they feel as if they're supposed to jump across this ravine in their memory and move on. Pyro shifts on the cot they woke up in, turning their attention to anything but the lack of buzz in the back of their mind.
The town is quiet. Not in the eerie way, when you know the townsfolk are out risking their lives under a red moon and have left their homes to the shadows, but in the achingly normal way.
Like everything's moved on.
How that's possible, after all this, he doesn't know.
Shelby returns with two bottles in her hands. For once, the sight of water doesn't make his insides ache. He takes the bottle in his palm. It's cool to the touch.
Pyro takes his time with the water, swishing it between his teeth and taking slow gulps to wash his insides of borrowed blood. His stomach still curls with discomfort, but it's better. He watches a glob of contaminated spit drip from his lips.
"You took a while to wake up," Shelby starts, pulling herself up to sit beside him on the cot.
"Doc said you were a lot more worrying than me. Said it was like… like I had a mild fever and you," She glances into his eyes, and he finds himself latching onto those golden irises. "You had really bad influenza."
They hum. They can't remember that.
"That's why you're outside, Legs hoped the sunlight might help. I'm glad you're okay, now. I was only awake for the last half, but you were throwing up all the time and stuff." She curls inward, pulling her knees to her chest.
"Why?" They can't help but rasp.
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes from it. Her tongue looks heavy, like it's weighed under words she doesn't understand.
"I only— Because you…"
She swallows, looking down at her folded hands.
"Animal blood is easier for the body to deal with, is all."
Pyro's acutely aware that it wasn't his, but someone else's blood that curdles in his stomach. That rests under his tongue.
"I guess so." Is all he manages to say.
Silence crawls on. Pyro slips into that void in the back of his mind, reaching out for something that's not there; he can't remember what he's looking for. He can't remember anything. He clenches the bottle so tightly that it cracks.
Shelby's in front of them, fiddling with her fingers and biting her lip. They drag their gaze away from the horizon to look at her. She beckons with a hand before disappearing into a structure they can't recall.
They release the glass. Cuts trickle, unhealed.
Legundo's door is open. They both stand in silence until he notices them, feet firmly planted at the edge of the door frame. He looks up and purses his lips, disappointed, but gentle. "You can come in."
The two humans slip into the clinic.
Waking up is like a dream. Maybe it's a nightmare. It's the twisting of her core, the bending and contorting of her brittle soul. It's a gasp for breath, a pounding behind her eyes. Shelby sits upright too fast — getting lightheaded as she does so. She doesn't have enough time to process the concerning lack around her before she's leaning over the side of the bed she lies on — her insides angrily trying to escape, along with old blood that rips through her throat onto the floor.
The taste lingers on her tongue, unpleasant like pure iron. There's no other lingering aftertaste — the taste of blood that only vampires can experience. She pants for breath and can feel the pumping of her heart echoing in her ears. She wipes spit from her mouth, already wanting a shower or a bath — needing to feel clean.
"Shelby?"
She looks up, meeting Drift's gaze. Deep brown hair, caramel colored eyes. A deep breath like liquor to her lungs — the exhilarating bite of chilled air against her skin. "Drift?" Her voice is hoarse from lack of use. Her eyes sting from the light.
Bits of scattered memories come back to her mind. The sting of death, of revival, of witnessing a saint-like glow. Warmth through her numb fingers, warmth surging through her unbeating heart. Warmth unlike anything else she's ever felt, more pleasant than a campfire, more warm than destructive flames. Warmth like a mother's love and warmth like salvation.
Warmth to a beating heart.
She places two hesitant fingers to the crook of her jaw, shaking. Nothing. Panic welling in her chest. Then… faint but there, a pulse. Steady. Hers. A sigh of relief, tears stinging behind her eyes. When she swings her legs over the edge of the bed, she can tell she'll be unsteady. Still, she rushes over to wrap Drift in a hug.
Drift holds her back, and they fall to the ground, a wet mixture of crying and laughter. It worked. It worked. Scott's dead, and no one else had to die. That thought alone makes something weird stir in her chest. It's elation, blood now flowing through her veins, but it's also sadness. There's a piece of her that may forever mourn Scott in a weird, twisted way. He was horrible, but he was also her roommate.
He clawed the humanity out of her, pushing her towards the edge and over the cliff. He would have ground her fingers just so that she would let go — but he was also kind. He was a guiding hand in her new, uncertain life. He was a laugh and a comfort and her roommate. Her death and demise and savior all in the same breath.
"Oh, saints!" Drift says. "I need to go tell Legundo. He was worried about you two."
"Us…" Her stomach sinks. "Two?" A knife raking through her guts, nausea tickling the back of her throat. She doesn't need to ask who the other one is. There's only one other person it truly could be. Pyro. The first two to change, the last two to heal. "Drift, how long have I been out?" Panic rising, curdling in her thoughts.
Drift looks away, a stray hair falling in front of her face. Shelby brushes it away, tucking it behind Drift's ear. With a sigh, Drift confesses in a whisper, "Eleven days."
Eleven days from her life gone. Eleven days of fallout that she's missed. What's eleven days compared to the rest of her life? What's the rest of her life compared to now? "Eleven? And Pyro isn't…"
"According to Abolish— uh." Drift pauses, thinking over what she wants to say. "Abolish, Cleo, and the Doctor came up with a hypothesis. You two were the longest turned… the most gone? Um… The Doc is unsure if Pyro's going to make it. He's not looking good."
"Oh."
More complicated and messy feelings. She's had a lot of those recently. It never seems to get easier. Avid, Scott, Pyro, Owen… everyone, actually. She wants to believe the best in people, yet she keeps getting confronted with their worst, and she doesn't know how much more benefit she has to give before the doubt overtakes her. Pyro… Pyro wanted to be human, and that's probably worth something, right?
Drift stands up, "You stay there! I'm going to go get the Doctor."
After Legs looks her over, ensuring that she's not going to die if he takes her eyes off of her, she ventures out to find Pyro. They moved him outside during the day, bringing him back in at night. The healing power of the sun feels like a myth as she drags her hand across Pyro's face, cupping his cold cheek. His skin… it doesn't get warmer. Day after day, he remains cold and deathly pale. She's almost convinced he is dead. Occasionally, she'll catch him twitch, and he'll mutter something in his deep sleep. He's not dead, just resting.
She digs her nails into his skin. There's a part of her that's convinced he should remain asleep. Pyro never had to deal with the deal of one of his fledglings. All of his fledglings had been mistakes; she had been a mistake. She doesn't know how she goes about forgiving him, if she ever does, if she hasn't already. He was a monster craving to be human, the best and worst of them. He was her best friend, her accomplice in the cure.
A necessary alliance. The enemy of her enemy and all of that.
They were all supposed to get out of that stupid town. She laughs under her breath. Days have passed; people linger, and they claim that they'll leave. No one wants to be the first, though they know they cannot stay. Oakhurst has claimed too much from all of them; it's sucked life and love out, freezing over their hearts and filling them with paranoia. They all jump at shadows.
She wipes her nose, sick of the congestion that's plagued her since she woke up. Sickness associated with curing, something that has been recorded tirelessly by Legs. Abolish, too, has found some interest in it, considering he's a professional Vampire Hunter. He wants to try to bring the possibility of curing back to his secret organization, or whatever.
Five days. She's been awake for five days, and being a vampire becomes more and more like a bad dream. She still finds herself flinching at the sun, and she's developed this nasty habit of checking to make sure her pulse is still there.
The world is so much more muted, something she's found ridiculous. Colors are dimmer, noises are quieter. She finds herself straining to listen for footsteps, only to be met with silence in their stead. The vampirism completely cured her of her vision problems, fixed the shape of her eyeballs, or something, because she doesn't need glasses anymore. She popped out the lenses of her old frames and now wears those to pretend like it never happened.
It'll never truly be gone — the vampirism that is. She can feel it underneath her veins, understands the habits and instincts that linger. She'll catch her vision drifting towards someone's neck, and they'll wince. Shelby brushes Pyro's bangs out of his face to feel his temperature.
His eyes scrunch close before they open, just barely. "Pyro?" She says. "Pyro, you really awake this time?"
Pyro has to get out.
Not… not out of Oakhurst, not yet. They haven't been cleared by the doctor, and they're not sure they'd be able to put a foot beyond those dormant magic borders anyway. They need out of town, away from these splintered walls erected to keep them away. They're still not used to turning a corner and not having silver slam against their mind and simmer their veins. Pyro can't rid themself of the paranoia that settles over their shoulders. Nobody else lingering in town can either, but this is different, somehow. They don't know why.
Someone mentioned the castle in passing, and the word stuck itself to their mind like black mold. They knew what it was, of course, that was their home for so long, but the longer and harder they think about it, the memories slip from their grasp. There's no face, but a presence that overshadows everything— that digs into the void in the back of their head and takes root there.
He needs to go. Get answers. He cannot deal with this fog any longer; he's choking on knowledge that isn't there.
He leaves town when the sun has crested the sky. He cannot bring himself to stray past the walls while the undead roam. There is no kinship anymore; they're more aggressive, as if he's betrayed their way of unlife. His shadow is a pool beneath him, and the sunrays stretch over his skin. The warmth isn't unwelcome, but it's hard to adjust to the heat after months of supernatural algor mortis. There's a sheen of sweat on his back; it's unpleasant, but at least it reminds him he's human.
The trees are scarce closest to town— something that made spying very inconvenient when the sound of sizzling flesh inevitably reached the humans' ears —no doubt a byproduct of the fruitless labor the humans put into their renovations. Then again, the humans did win with those renovations, in the end.
Then again, he must stop referring to them as the humans. That is what he is now. What he used to be, at least on the outside.
Pyro sinks his nails into his arms and weaves his way around trampled saplings and mangled trunks.
Shadows stretch as the day progresses, and he can hear old whispers echoing in his ears, beckoning him into the dark. He steps through, but they do not wrap around him as they once did. Goosebumps scatter over his arms when the light leaves them. A chill seizes him, hostile.
There's no comfort here. He's unbidden.
The forest is vast, dense in ways that don't seem possible. His legs burn with exhaustion; he almost misses the strength lost. The trees yawn over him, an intimidating path to all that's dark and heavy and ambivalent. He cannot see past the thousands of branches that hide the cliffs, but he knows that they're there. He knows what's there. Knows that he'll probably always remember the way.
They find themself yearning to grow wings and glide above them. They find themself longing to turn back.
But they have to move forward. Behind are the sentimental survivors, and Shelby, and a conversation between them they desperately do not want to have, though they cannot recall why.
They befriend a cow on the way. It nuzzles into their hand, trusting because it has no reason not to be. They think of ripping its throat out and drinking it dry. It moos at them, and its fur is soft. They travel together until they don't. The cow roots itself in place about fifty metres from the bridge, disturbed by the evil that seeps from beyond its crumbling pillars.
Leaving the animal behind, Pyro makes their way to the edge of the forest, hands trailing on the tree trunks they pass.
They smell it before they see it. Acrid smoke spreads out like tendrils, curling in their expanding lungs and tethering them to the castle grounds. Their teeth begin to ache.
When he steps from the forest, feet at the border of stone and dirt, the sun is quick to blind him. He raises a hand and cannot stop the no-longer-instinctual hiss that leaves him. It takes two minutes for Pyro to reorientate himself, eyes sore from the sunlight; they hadn't forgotten death either, it seemed. The human lowers his hand.
Charred wood smolders with a quiet fury, the setting sun a halo behind it. It lists at an angle, the base devoured by old flames and reduced to blackened, depraved logs. The pyre stands wicked against the castle, too disgraced to be seen near the shiny windows and newly lain bricks, wrong in it's very existence. It casts its too-dark shadow across the bridge to Pyro's feet, a path leading to their salvation and damnation. Sunlight slips from their skin as they step into the shade; led by compulsion and shadowed beckonings, they cross the threshold.
Shadows cling to their shoes like tar, not dragging them back but pulling in further. They're at the base of the pyre, now, and darkness licks at the back of their vision. They're not supposed to be here. They should be back at the village. They should be back at the Capital. They should be up there.
Pyro reaches for the nearest log, running their hand over the blackened wood. It coats their fingers with ash darker than it should be.
He stares at the ebony powder. It seems to bleed into his skin.
Scarlet and winter blue in the corner of his eye.
The ash is in his lungs.
There's a vile howling that twists around the cliffs, pounding pounding in his ears in his brain. Smoke clouds his face, and an unneeded breath claws out of him, ragged and unfamiliar. Pyro rakes his claws through his hair, tugging at the strands in a desperate attempt to distract him from the burning, unceasing pain that envelopes him.
Silver carves into weakening wood, driven by the thrashing of a burning man. Their Sire. Their Sire is burning, strapped down with inscripted chains and mounted like an animal for all of Oakhurst to see. A holy-soaked stake is burried in his chest, held there by the undead skin knitting itself together. Logs shift and fire pops. Embers land on the elder's melting skin, singeing holes into muscle. Pyro writhes as their head screams. They're dying, they've betrayed their kind, they've betrayed their Sire, they're almost free, they're—
falling. A young vampire with grayed hair slips from their grasp, taking the stake buried in his chest with him. They stand, stunned as a body twice dead hits the water. They curl their claws into their palms until satisfaction is a burning hole in their chest. This is how it needed to happen. He deserved it. Pyro—
slams his claws into a beating heart, snaps at fleeing limbs. The hunt pulses in his head like pressure on a bruise. Blood spills across the grass again, and again and again. It isn't enough for the hunger, he needs more, more—
fear. His Sire towers over him, words pressing against the madness at the back of his mind. He'd gone against his kind, gone against Him. He shivers against the stone, no heat being taken from him but feeling like it nontheless. He needs to make it up to him somehow, maybe if he could—
succumb to the hunger. Shelby cries out, fleeing from his frenzied claws. She doesn't make it far, stumbling backwards when another vampire materializes in front of her and falling into Pyro's awaiting fangs. He sinks his teeth into her neck, and she—
screams as he's pushed under. Water floods into his mouth. He cannot thrash against the strength of the supernatural. His lungs expel the last of the oxygen they'll ever need. He tastes blood for the first time, his blood. A smile against the gaping wound in his neck. His heart beats slower; he knows this is the end.
Pyro opens their eyes after death. Darkness personified—
towers over them, still smoldering, and they turn away with a retch. They taste the smoke and the ash and the blood caked on their tongue, unable to suck in a breath, unable to remember to.
Guilt seizes them and they choke on it, staining their knees with charcoal and ash.
He heaves out nothing. A chill shoves itself down his throat to take up the empty space. He shudders and gags again. Nothing. No food, no bile, no wretched blood. No proof of what he'd done, what he'd become, what he was.
Phantom thoughts that taste like poison spew into his mind. He curls his fingers into the grass and sobs.
Tears and snot drip down his face, unmistakably human but feeling so much like spilled blood he can't think. It's everywhere. Pouring from his mouth, coating his hands.
They stumble, maybe trip, down the mountain side. The waters are stormy as they always are, lapping angrily at the rocks like they're cursed to the confines of this river and eternal rage. Familiar.
Pyro balances on the rocky bank, threatened by the water but craving its cleanse. They shove shaking hands into the current, watching the water run past their skin come away clear. It's not enough. They scrub at their flesh until it's raw, scratching their palms just to see the relief of crimson washing away. They can feel old blood on their hands like unset candy coating, sticky to the touch, staining their hands and enticing in a way unhealthy. It was these nails that had carved into their neighbors. These palms that had gripped others with the intent to kill. They'd relished in this, once. A week ago, yesterday, maybe years ago when a body that wasn't his own bled under the water.
His stomach turns in a way he can't decipher.
It makes him sick.
But still, that exterminated part of his brain, the new growth that had been hacked away with saintly magic, bleeds like a phantom limb into his mind. It rests in the raw, blistered edges, whispering a comforting eulogy.
you did what you had to. did what was right. no choice. no choice. they deserved it. what you were supposed to do, what your S—
no choice.
He bites his tongue and scrubs his hands harder.
Pyro returns to Oakhurst at dawn. His absence is not noticed.
She could have left. She should have left… probably a long time ago. Shelby lingers, though. As the town clears out, as people start to flee back to their normal lives, she lingers. When people ask her where she's going, she dodges the questions. When they ask when she plans to leave, she's vague. 'Until Pyro is better,' she says. It's an easy excuse; he's bedridden for the most part. They take it as some sort of weird ex-vampire thing and leave it at that.
If Shelby's being honest, she's not staying for Pyro. Well, she is, but she isn't. It's a weird, complicated knot in her stomach, threads of thought that she doesn't dare follow. This is her curse, she supposes, her cross to bear. There's never been a truly easy relationship here, in Oakhurst… except for maybe Drift. She's gonna miss Drift the most, and she's definitely not thinking about Drift to avoid thinking about Pyro because her head hurts if she thinks about him for too long.
Her? Do something like that? Never.
"Oh! Shelby," Doc rounds the corner. She found herself an unburnt spot of soft grass on the rolling hills just outside of where Oakhurst's walls used to stand. "I'm glad I found you."
She runs her hands through the blades of grass, soft morning dew sticking to her fingers. "Did you need me for something?" She was more than content to sit in her own stupor, to try to dissolve the uncertainty that's promised with her future.
With the vampires, it was easy. She didn't have to plan for a future; there isn't really a future to plan for when there's no discernible end. She could dilly-dally all she wanted; she could travel the world a million times over. She presses her fingers once more to her jaw, a motion that has quickly become habit in the past few days. Breathing. Heart beating. She's alive. There's a future she needs to plan, something she needs to do. She can't just lay around and reminisce on how these few months ruined her.
"Yes." The Doctor narrows his eyes and sighs. "Pyro's being… Pyro. Could you try talking to him?" He seems to shrink away as Shelby's gaze turns cruel and hard.
With a sigh, she stands up, smoothing out her skirt. "Yeah. I can do that."
Time is slipping away from her, seconds, minutes, hours. There's so much she could be doing. Yet she's stuck. She can't go back to her little town; they already think she's crazy — she'd be living with thoughts that she'd never be able to express, with proof that no one could see. She's scarred, and scared.
Shelby pushes open the door to Pyro's room. He doesn't look over as he fixates on something far away. It looks like he's looking out the wide open window, enjoying the sight of the town. Shelby knows better; she knows that look. She's used that look before. His mind is further than his body is, stuck probably, somewhere deep and terrifying.
She touches his shoulder, and he jumps a little. "Oh," he says, clenched fists at his side relaxing. "It's just you."
"Just. me." Little old her. Never a threat. Never a problem. Never worth anything real, a perfect blank canvas for people to project onto.
"The Doctor sent you, I presume?" Pyro asks, fiddling with his fingers in his lap, not meeting her eyes.
The room is mostly barren. A bed and a dresser. There's more medical stuff strewn about than personal; she's not sure either of them have much of the latter left anymore. Maybe they'll go raid the castle, see if any of that stuff still remains. She still has her bedroom down there. Shelby winces, remembering the tree she stashed her book in had burned down.
After a moment, she says, "Yeah."
A long silence stretches between the two of them. It's thick, palpable, like she could grab the silence and ball it up in her fingers. Pyro shifts his weight on the bed, the wooden board squeaks under his weight. He at last says, "So."
"So…" Shelby repeats. She furrows her brow, searching Pyro's face for something. She doesn't see it. No anger or guilt. He's just... tired, she supposes. It's hard to be hyped up on emotion and adrenaline all the time. Eventually, you have to crash.
They were both crashing, and it looks like they'll make one glorious train wreck.
"Once the doctor clears you, where are you going?"
She forgot that's the lie she told Pyro, the Doctor hadn't cleared her, which is why she's still here — why she's one of the only ones still lingering. The truth is that she was cleared to leave a long time ago. She wasn't lying when she said that she had no home to go back to. It's just her. Her and her meandering thoughts — her head still so high up in the air.
Where is she going?
Nowhere.
She's lied to everyone else, dismissed them, been vague. For some reason, she can't lie to Pyro. Maybe it's all the pain she knows he's gone through, maybe it's the way that she still seeks comfort in his presence. "I don't know." She glances away. "I can't go back; there's nothing left for me there."
"There's nothing for you here either," Pyro points out. Out of her periphery, she can see him look up. How the roles flip so easily between the two of them.
"I know that," and despite the way she strains, she cannot keep her voice from cracking — from shattering. "I know I can't stay here. I know I have to move on and leave, but I can't go back. I can't be the crazy, weird girl anymore. I can't be stuck in that town—"
Pyro cuts her off, and his suggestion makes all her frazzled, unraveling thoughts pause. "You could… uh. You could come back to the University with me?"
She hadn't considered it. It hadn't crossed her mind. But also… she's not… "I don't know," Is what she settles on, tongue heavy in her mouth, the sobs that were building stuck stubbornly in her throat. A cold draft sweeps through the room. "Pyro, you—" He killed Avid, in cold, unmoving blood. He killed her fledgling, but he was also her sire. And her best friend. Her only friend for a really long time, it felt like. He's the one who got Scott killed, who allowed them to be free of that never-ending ceaseless hunger.
"I know." He says, and there's that flicker of guilt she had been expecting. "I know you— I don't know what you think of me. But if I— I think I could probably throw my name around… get you into any program you wanted." He grabs at the sheets next to him, white knuckled grip.
"Yeah. Thank you, I—" She takes a hesitant step back. "Feel better soon."
Her? At the university? But more importantly, with Pyro? He knows her, he knows what she's been through. He might be one of the only people left who truly understands how Scott can worm himself into your mind. She blinks back tears as they start to form behind her eyes. It's relief. It's sorrow.
But more importantly, it's a promise of a future she did not have moments ago.