Ab Ovo

“The death of a beloved is an amputation.”

It begins as it most often does—with fire.

They can smell the poignant aroma of chemicals before they can see it. It filters into the air, makes their head feel fuzzy, and they find their gaze traveling over the many heads that surround them for the source of such a scent. The source is unlocatable, but the aroma seems to grow stronger still, and it makes them feel anxious. They shift from foot to foot, pick at the elastic around their wrist, and try to spot the familiar head of curls making its way through the crowd. They count the seconds that pass—one, two, three—and when they get to thirty, that’s when it sets off.

It’s a riptide explosion that cuts through the world around them and suddenly the only thing they can see is a terrible combination of black and gray. Smoke, soot, dust, and fire—always fire. The poignant chemical that they smelt earlier is gone and replaced with the aroma of burning flesh and ash, and they can hear the muffled cacophony of agony wailing up around them like some terrible glimpse into the inferno. It’s a siren that seems to increase in pitch and in frequency, and as they stumble to their feet, as they feel the gravel and stones beneath them rip up the flesh of their palms and their cheeks—

They wake up. Their body shoots upwards into a sitting position as they grasp at their sheets, sweat beading their forehead and their heart racing a mile a minute. Their breath escapes from them in a rattling gasp as their gaze focuses on the wall directly across from them. Its dark, indiscernible form provides some form of grounding for their rattled mind, and after a few moments, they find themselves able to relax once more.

It doesn’t last long, of course. The scent of smoke and burning flesh is still fresh in their mind, and they find themselves throwing the blankets off of their overheated body and stumbling up to their feet. The cold touch of the hardwood floor provides little comfort to them as they exit the room and hastily make their way down the halls. The other guests of The Juniper Bonds rest soundly in their rooms, oblivious to the small-scale crisis that Pariah is currently experiencing as they make their way into the kitchen. They’re hopeful that it’ll be devoid of life, but this hope is quickly dashed when they see the light on underneath the management office’s door.

Cyrus is still awake, which is incredibly unusual for him. He’s often in bed long before Deadlock and Helios; if Pariah was to run into anyone, they would’ve expected it to be one of those two. For a moment they’re reluctant to enter the kitchen for this reason alone, but eventually the dryness of their throat and the fuzziness of their mind from the leftover traces of the nightmare forces them to concede.

They try to open the cupboard as quietly as possible. They hold onto the handle and pull it open with such precision that one would think they’re handling a bomb; unfortunately, the cupboards of The Juniper Bomb are not accomodating for anyone, and Pariah barely gets it open a crack before it lets out a shrill shriek of protest. Their entire body goes rigid at the sound and they close their eyes—hoping, praying—only to have all of that hope dashed when the sound of the management door opening echoes out from behind them.

“Dorian?”

Dorian. Fuck. They let out a slow breath as they shift to peer over their shoulder; the silhouette of Cyrus stands in the doorway, his hands firmly resting on his hips as he looks at his midnight thief. Pariah feels their lips crack into a strained grimace.

“Evening, Cyrus. Well, morning, I guess.” Surrendering all efforts to stay silent now that they’ve been caught, they yank open the cupboard, grab a glass, and fill it up with water. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

“Jan’s on patrol tonight, is he not?” Cyrus reaches out to flick the kitchen light on—causing Pariah to wince in response—before crossing his arms over his chest. “So what got you up and about so early?”

Pariah grips the glass with both hands as they turn to face Cyrus before leaning back against the counter. He looks tired—valid, since it seems like he hasn’t gone to bed yet—and Pariah feels this mirrored on their face as well.

“Nightmares,” they grumble, taking a generous drink from the glass as they do so. The cool water offers a sense of relief to their parched throat, and Cyrus appears to wait until they’re finished to speak up.

“... Want something stronger?”

Pariah’s eyebrow raises in surprise as Cyrus jerks his thumb to the office. “Still got that brandy Jan got me for Christmas. Personally, I’ve been waiting for the right time to open it.”

“And now is that time?” Pariah sets the glass down on the counter as their expression shifts to wry amusement. Cyrus shrugs in response.

“I think we’ve both had a shitty enough night, yeah?”

—--

Ten minutes later, Pariah finds themself sitting across from Cyrus in the management office, a glass of amber liquid having now replaced the water that they were holding moments earlier. They’re nursing the drink—Cyrus, on the other hand, is not. He’s already pouring himself a second glass by the time Pariah takes their first sip.

“So.” Cyrus glances up at them as he pours the drink. “Wanna share, or would you rather just sit here for a while until you feel ready to go?”

Do they want to share? The memory still sits like a burnt ember on their tongue, filling their mouth with a smokey taste that the brandy fails to wash away. They swirl their glass in thought as they focus on the edges of Cyrus’ desk; he bought it at a second hand store with Jan, and seemed so proud of having acquired it. They still remember the exasperation on Jan’s face as he helped his uncle haul it in through the back—and how the glint of affection in his eye showed that exasperation to be untrue.

“It was Lovers Square.” They knock back their drink in one go after this before setting the now empty glass on the desk. Cyrus gestures to the brandy bottle, and with a nod, he fills it up again. “It changes a little bit every time, you know. The people around me look different, or Gabby has different clothes on, but it always ends the same way—the eruption, and then the death.”

Survivors' guilt is something that Pariah is intimately connected to. In the first few months after Gabby’s death, when they first began living with Cyrus and Jan, they found themself constantly spiraling with thoughts of how they shouldn’t be here, how Gabby should be here, and the constant questioning of ‘why me?’ parroting in their mind. The nightmares had been every night during that time. Jan, Cyrus, and sometimes Micah would stay up until the early hours of the morning with them as they sat there, shaking and crying and declaring that they smell the burnt flesh.

Phantom scents, phantom memories.

Cyrus sits in silence as he nurses his own glass in his hand. He’s examining Pariah with a sharp, attentive gaze—one that seems to be peering deeper into Pariah’s psyche than they’d like.

“And her?” He finally asks, setting the glass down. “Was she there?”

“I saw her walk away. Her scarf—that pink one she wore—vanished into the crowd. No matter how much I yelled her name, she never looked back.” Pariah reaches up to run a hand through their hair as they sink back into the seat. “It hurts more and more every time I’m forced to relive it, you know.”

“The death of a beloved is an amputation. You lose a part of yourself with them.” Cyrus leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk, still watching Pariah with that analytical stare. “And, like with an amputation, it isn’t something you can just bounce back from. It’s a learning process, an adjustment process.”

Pariah snorts at this, although it’s half-hearted at best. “How long do I have to learn for, then?”

“Varies. When my brother—Jan’s father—passed away, it took me a long time to really come back, but I knew I had no choice but to. Jan was only 6 months old and he was relying on me to raise him. He became an anchor for me.” Cyrus points towards the management door. “You got anchors too, you know. Jan, Micah, me. We’re not going to leave you to work through this alone.”

A moment of silence falls again as Pariah chews on their lower lip. Their gaze darts towards the glass of brandy, which sits untouched still on the desk, and back to Cyrus’ face. He’s right—he and the others have always been there for Pariah. Despite the loss of one family, they had managed to acquire another—albeit an odd one—through that loss.

They reach out and pick up the glass, a faintly grateful smile touching their lips.

“... Thanks, Cyrus.”

“Instead of a thanks, how ‘bout you don’t go digging through my cupboards at two in the morning?” Cyrus raises an eyebrow as he grabs the brandy bottle again. “I got a separate cupboard for you kids for a reason, you know.”