Jate woke up to Peach mock snoring in his ear. "Waaaaakkkkkkeeee ngh uuuuppp ngh."
He didn't want to get up. He clung to the sanctuary of his pillow, face buried, arms locked around it like a lifeline.
"We endure the day together. Move."
"Seriously, when are you going to start sleeping in your room?" Jate muttered, without budging.
"You need me here. It's nearly four-thirty."
"Four-thirty! Are you here to torture me?"
She was already at the door. "Roof. Now."
Jate grunted, heaved himself upward, then dragged his feet toward the staircase.
The city was still dark below them, the air cool and damp. Jate sat with his knees pulled to his chest, staring out at nothing in particular. Peach sat beside him, unhurried, chewing on some seaweed.
He didn't know how to start. So he just said the thing that had been weighing on him since the Viharn.
"I feel like nothing," he said quietly. "When I disappeared down there… there was no body. No hands. I was just… thoughts with nowhere to go."
Peach glanced at him sideways.
"You're mist, Jate. Mist is a thing, not nothing."
"That's not reassuring."
"Wasn't meant to be reassuring. It's just true."
Jate leaned back on his elbows and yawned. "Can Thanom's fire evaporate me? If we can't control this—"
"Mist and fire have been sharing the same sky since the beginning of time," Peach said simply. She popped the seaweed to the other cheek. "Go back to sleep if you want. But you won't."
"Why do you never just answer a question?"
"I do." She looked at him evenly. "You just don't like my answers."
Jate stared at her for a moment, then turned back to the city.
"I wish I could hit you sometimes."
"Mm." She was already closing her eyes, tipping her face toward the dark sky like she was waiting for the sun. "You never will."
⁕ ⁕ ⁕
Later that day, Jate sat in class doing an assignment. He was trying to work out a particularly difficult math problem. As he flipped his pencil to erase an error, the pencil slipped straight through his palm, bounced off the surface of his writing desk and hit the floor with a clink. A few students glanced in his direction. Jate immediately concealed his hand under the desk. He excused himself to the restroom and sat in the stall, staring down at his translucent palm. Panic clawed at his throat as he shook his wrist violently, until the flesh turned opaque again.
After school, Jate sought somewhere less anxiety-inducing. He tucked his hands deep in his pockets in case they happened to disappear again in front of a passerby. He found himself walking toward the back garden, where the noise of the orphanage faded.
Art was sitting alone on the old stone bench, partially shaded by the massive roots of a banyan tree. He methodically braided thin, pliable vines through the slats of the bench, his fingers moving with an unconscious rhythm. Tiny white flowers bloomed and swayed wherever his thumbs pressed against the stems. A small robin landed directly on his shoulder and was preening its feathers, completely indifferent to Art's movements.
Jate stopped a few feet away, expecting the usual knot of anxiety to tighten in his chest. The familiar urge to turn around, to solve the "problem" of Art by retreating. But it didn't come. Instead, he stared at the bird. He felt an intense, irrational flare of annoyance that the animal rested there so easily.
Did Art like this bird just sitting there? His shoulder probably feels awkward from holding that little freeloader up, Jate thought, shifting his stance on the dirt. If I rested my head on his other shoulder, he would feel balanced. Jate bit the inside of his lip, mortified by his own thoughts.
Art glanced up, not surprised to see him. He observed Jate standing there, wound tight with thoughts he clearly couldn't speak.
"You don't have to talk," Art said, his gaze returning to the vine in his hands. "I'm just here. Growing stuff. There's room on the bench if you want."
Jate didn't sit or leave. He leaned his shoulder against the rough stone of the garden wall, crossing his arms firmly over his chest to steady his hands. The robin on Art's shoulder chirped once, fluffed its feathers, then settled. The vines continued their slow, silent growth under Art's delicate touch.
The silence between them wasn't like the usual awkwardness of two people who find themselves with nothing to say to each other. It was just a neutral space. A place to stand. A place to breathe.
Jate watched Art's hands—the way they could coax life from things effortlessly. He recalled those same hands gathering his scattered papers in the hall. He pictured the way Art could soothe Thanom's fire.
Then he thought of his own power, and the unpredictable way that his body slipped between solidity and nonexistence.
Art's ability focused on staying and growing. It made things bloom, tying them to the earth. Jate's power deleted him. He once felt security in being severed from the world, but right now, with this essence, it felt like a cage. Jate watched Art's hands and said nothing. He tucked his own firmly under his arms.
⁕ ⁕ ⁕
Later that night, the dormitory was an ensemble of soft snores and creaking springs. Art lay awake, staring at the mildew stain on the ceiling.
"You awake?"
The whisper came from the cot next to him. Art turned his head. Thanom was watching him, his eyes catching the faint light from the hallway.
"Yeah," Art answered back. "You okay?"
"Thinking too much." Thanom kicked his tangled sheet down to the foot of his cot.
"Should I move over there?"
"Sure, that could maybe help."
Thanom scooted over and Art crawled onto the cot with him. It was cramped. Thanom had to press his spine flat against the wall just to keep from pushing Art off the edge. Art shifted, pulling his arms in tight so their elbows wouldn't bump.
"Do you think there's a reason we have these powers?" Thanom whispered, keeping his hands carefully laced over his stomach.
"Peach would say so," Art replied.
"I'm not asking Peach."
"I don't know, Thanom. There could be, but I guess we can only wait and see."
They rolled onto their sides, facing each other in the narrow space. Their knees almost brushed. Thanom clamped his eyelids shut, his dark lashes casting elongated shadows against his cheekbones.
Could he actually fall asleep? Art wondered. He let himself watch. Not just Thanom's face—but the hollow of his throat. The slow pulse there. The way his chest rose with every breath.
I could bridge the gap, Art thought. His hand rested mere centimeters away. I could lean over. Trace the edge of his nose with my thumb. See what he'd do if—
Thanom's eyelids flicked open.
Art's hand suspended halfway across the sheet. Neither spoke. They were staring into each other's eyes, the silence encompassing them.
Thanom's gaze dropped to Art's mouth, then down to his hands, where it lingered. He looked like he was struggling with a thought, his brow furrowing slightly.
It felt awkward to look up… but when he did and saw that Art had seen him staring, Thanom blurted out, "I like your hands."
The words hung clumsily in the dark.
His pupils dilated as he realized what just came out of his mouth.
Hell no, that sounds weird, he thought.
"I mean, um… not like… in a creepy way," Thanom scrambled, his vocal cords constricting. "Just… they're steady. Yeah."
Art let out a nervous, breathless laugh, tucking his hands under the pillow to hide the way they trembled. "Cool. Me too. Yours, I mean."
Art rolled onto his back, staring at the shadowy ceiling as the outside world fell silent. All he could hear now was his heart pounding inside his chest and thoughts racing around his head.
What was that?
⁕ ⁕ ⁕
