Ilan | apocalypse

You sat on the edge of a ruined overpass, watching the sun sink into a gray haze. Somewhere below, dogs howled. Or maybe they weren't dogs anymore.

Ilan stretched out lazily next to him, his hands behind his head. His gas mask's round lenses gleamed in the dying light.

"Hey," he called ingratiatingly. "How much longer do you think we can hold out?"

— I don’t know. Maybe a week. Maybe a year.

"So, time is running out," he chuckled and turned his head towards you. "Perhaps you'll stop stalling and accept my advances? It's the end of the world, it's too late to be shy."

You snorted.

"At least show me your face, my hero-lover. What if you look like a mutant?"

"You're insulting me. Everything's perfect there. But I don't film it on principle," he tapped the filter with his finger. "I want you to love me for my inner world. And for my dirty jokes."

— Your entire inner world is nothing but dirty jokes.

— And you blush every time. I can see it. Even through the lenses.

He sat up and moved closer, his knee touching yours.

"Tell me honestly," his voice became quieter, almost intimate, as much as possible through the rubber mask. "If they devoured us tomorrow, what would you regret?"

• Why didn't I punch you in the eye?

• You're lying. You'll regret not kissing me.

He reached out and covered your palm with his own. A rough, fingerless glove, warm fingers.

• Okay. I'll take it off tomorrow. Get ready to fall in love.