#shivaa

He takes a deep breath to clear his head. A delicious scent drafts up from the kitchen directly below the little loft that serves as his bedroom. Maple and butter. Cypress must be cooking again.

Nine raises his arms to the ceiling in a long stretch and pushes aside the quilt. Cypress calls out a jovial “good morning” the second his feet touch the floor. The things his friend’s ears pick up—Nine swears it’s magic. But it’s not. Not really. He’s seen magic. He knows magic. And Cypress’ exceptional hearing wouldn’t hold a candle to it.

After making his way down the stairs, he turns the corner into the warm kitchen. Cartons of blueberries and strawberries sit opened next to a plate stacked high with French toast. The countertop is coated in a light dusting of flour. Cypress stands behind the counter, holding a spatula in his prosthetic hand. He’s shirtless and the steam rising from the griddle has flushed his face a light red. Shivaa is coiled around his other hand, her small, pastel pink head bobbing close to inspect the grilling toast.

“Hot, Sheev,” Cypress warns. “No touch.”

Nine clicks his tongue twice, and the little snake stiffens on alert. Unwinding herself from Cypress, she slithers across the granite countertop to weave in between his outstretched fingers.

“I thought you were going to sleep in,” he says to Cypress.

“So did I. But Sheev woke me up and said she was hungry.”

Hungry! The familiar echoes, milky eyes gleaming up at Nine. Her tongue pokes out between two sharp, white fangs. She’s grinning in the strange, unearthly way only a snake could.

“So...you’re feeding her...French toast? Cypress, we’ve talked about feeding Shivaa human foo—”

Cypress waves his hands. “No no. I fed her earlier. But I just thought hey, I’m not getting back to sleep so why not make something? You know?” He shoves the spatula underneath a slice of bread and flips it neatly onto the already towering stack on the plate.

“Holy stars, that’s enough French toast to feed a small army.”

The young man only shrugs and reaches for a stick of butter. There’s a crunching, whirring sound as his metal fingers fumble to take hold of the item. When he picks it up, it falls from his grasp. He takes a deep breath and tries again. His brow wrinkles from the effort. His fingers eventually curl around the butter and he moves it in awkward swipes across the sizzling griddle. Nine hears a soft sigh under Cypress’ breath.

Sad, observes Shivaa.

As he watches Cypress flip slices of French toast, Nine’s eyes lower to the inch-long scar on the left side of his friend’s chest, just below his collarbone. Seeing Cypress’ scar, the small bump underneath the skin makes him feel uneasy, but Nine would never say it to his face. Cypress doesn’t need any more reminders of the past, and Nine is one of the few friends who hasn’t abandoned him.

He swallows hard. “Sorry. I know you worked a lot, and it looks great. Can’t wait to dig in.”

“Who says you’re getting any?” Even though his head is lowered, he can tell that Cypress is smiling. It lightens his heart a little to see his friend like this. So different, he thinks, from the months before. Those were dark times. But now, things are getting better.

As he sets the spatula on the counter, Cypress’ face contorts in a wince. His good hand clutches the place where his prosthetic ends and his residual limb begins. Shivaa extends her long body until she’s stretched halfway across the counter in midair. Her head cocks to one side; she’s inspecting him. Hurt?

Cypress sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth. Nine stiffens at the sound. It takes him back to a place he doesn’t want to be. The air feels heavier, overwhelming. He can smell that awful odor of fuel, metal and sweat clouding his senses. It’s still so painfully fresh in his mind, and no doubt it’s the same for Cypress. If only he hadn’t…

Nine manages to find his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Cypress replies, but his words are forced.

“Are you okay?” He repeats.

His friend stares at him, opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He shakes his head.

“Phantom pain again?”

“...yeah.”

“Give your arm a rest. I’ll finish up the toast.”

Cypress grins, but it looks less like a smile and more like he’s gritting his teeth from the pain. “I don’t trust you. The only thing you can’t burn is cereal.”

Nine swipes up the spatula and shoos the young man away from the counter. “Take off your prosthetic and eat your breakfast. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Apothecary’s orders then.”

A knot twists in his stomach as he realizes what he’s just said. Cypress must understand too because his smile vanishes and his brow furrows as he lowers his gaze. The room is quiet except for the sizzling of melted butter.

Home. Shivaa’s pink head lowers to rest on the back of his hand. She misses their little shop too.

Cypress is silent as he pulls his left arm out of the prosthetic and unloops the harness that stretches across his chest and around the opposite shoulder. His arm ends just above where his elbow should be.

Putting two slices of toast on his plate, he pours an unhealthy amount of syrup over it, and tops it off with a handful of blueberries. His fork clanks against the china as he balances the plate in his right hand. Then everything is quiet again. Before he leaves the room, he turns and looks at Nine.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Nine replies, too quick.

A long moment passes. “If…if you and Sheev want to go home,” Cypress murmurs. “Don’t let me hold you back. I can take care of myself. And don’t worry—I won’t burn the French toast.”

The corners of Nine’s mouth flicker in a smirk. His voice doesn’t raise above a whisper but he still feels it breaking. “Idiot.”

“If you say so.” And then: “But if you want to go home, I won't stop you. You can leave anytime.”

Nine wants to believe him, but it’s too late now. He shakes his head with a sigh. Second chances don’t happen where he comes from. “I can’t. I want to—I think I want to—but I—I can’t.”

“Come here.” Cypress sets the plate on the counter and extends his arm. Nine hesitates. He’s not one for hugs. But right now, he could use one. He takes a step forward and allows Cypress to pull him into a one-armed hug. Cypress’ voice is soft, reassuring. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

He doesn’t let go and Nine doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t want to. He wishes Cypress could squeeze all of the pain and homesickness out of him. Wishes that he could do the same for his friend.

Smoke, urges Shivaa, but neither human is listening.