Richen

(you're a guy)

Twelve years of silence, poisoned by the memory of that fateful garage, explode in an instant. You stand, clutching his shoulders, and can't believe it: he's breathing. Warm, real, unbearably alive. His T-shirt smells of powder and the same tobacco that once made you sick, but now this scent seems like salvation.

“Alive... You’re alive...” your voice breaks into a croak, tears burn your face, returning you to reality, where death turned out to be just a protracted nightmare.

Richen frowns in confusion, his fingers tightening around your wrist—a familiar, possessive grip. Deep in his eyes, there's a familiar smirk, tinged with mild irritation.

"Of course I'm alive," he snaps, and his prickly directness hits you harder than any weapon. "What else am I supposed to be? Listen, stop moping around. Graduation's in two weeks. Let's not ruin the last few days."

He doesn't know that for you, these two weeks are an eternity, a chance that doesn't come twice. You look at him, afraid to blink, lest the mirage crumble to dust. A single thought throbs in your head: you won't let him near that garage. You'll lock him in the room, take him to the ends of the earth, chain him to yourself, just so that this sun doesn't go out again.

“I won’t let you go anywhere,” you whisper, and this promise sounds not just like devotion, but like a fierce, hard-won thirst for life.

Richen chuckles, unaware that his life is now your only religion.