'Here,' he said, handing her the mug. She sniffed
its contents and raised an eyebrow. 'Green tea? Really?' He scowled and
shrugged. 'It was the only thing I could find. What the hell are you
complaining for? You said you were thirsty.'
'For water,'
she said, torn between exasperation and laughter at his rapidly reddening face
in realizing his stupidity. He retaliated by growling and hunkering down,
slurping at his drink moodily. She took a sip from hers before knocking her
shoulder against his. 'Come on. I actually find it very sweet that you made
an effort.' 'Shut up,' he muttered, making her chuckle. They lapsed into
comfortable silence.
Crickets began singing softly in the background and
the wind whistled in appreciation - they were singing in tune to the breeze's
symphony for once. She closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. Peace. She liked
this, could get used to this.
'What are you sighing for?' he asked, and her eyes
flew open. She frowned. 'Don't be such a goddamn bumpkin. How many times
do I have to tell you to relax?' 'Yeah, well, ain't nothing to be relaxed
about,' he mumbled, tossing his empty mug aside and staring into the distance.
She grinned. 'Is that how you treat your girlfriends as well? I bet you're a
real bummer when it comes to foot massages.' 'I-h-hey! Shut up!' he spluttered,
pointing a finger at her. 'You don't know anything about me!'
Her eyes softened. 'Then tell me. It's not like we
have all the time in the world.' His momentary anger subsided and he suddenly
looked helpless, shy and hesitant. He shifted his feet, gazing fixedly at the
mud beneath his boots. The sky grew darker and fireflies began descending
now. She looked up at them. 'Christmas
lights.'
He was startled. 'What?' She pointed up at the
glowing dots as they swirled and twirled above their heads, an elaborate ballet
of dancers who shone and glimmered with every jeté. 'Christmas lights. They
used to look just like fireflies when I was a kid. Dad made them by himself and
stuck them all over the house, so when you switched them on, it was like a
thousand eyes glaring at you from every corner.' She laughed. 'What a creep.'
He looked down again. 'We went camping during
Christmas,' he whispered. Her eyes widened. 'In the snow?' 'Yeah, well, Mum was always a bit cuckoo after Dad passed,'
he snorted. 'She shopped all morning for the thickest sweaters and the heaviest
boots, and then in the night, she'd make us trudge to the nearest field and lay
on sleeping bags in the snow. ''Try to find Santa's outline against the moon,
and you'll get an extra cup of cocoa.''' He shoved a stick into the sticky mud.
'I never got that extra cup, it was always my b-tch of a sister.'
He expected her to gasp, shush him for being
abusive, or maybe put on an understanding face - mask and ask him gently about
what caused him to swear. But she simply grabbed his stick and broke it into
two before tossing it away. 'You hate her,' she stated, like it was a fact that
the world had established. 'Of course I do,' he bit back, a little surprised at
himself for confiding in her. 'She had everything in her life going good for
her, and then she had to go and kill herself because some c-ksucker she loved got her best friend pregnant. My mother can't speak anymore.' His eyes began burning and he
found himself hating her beside him, loathing her for bringing this side out.
'That's why I left. I couldn't stand the silence.'
Noisy gulping brought him back to earth, and he
turned his head in wonder. She smiled at him. 'This tea's pretty good. Thanks.'
'What the hell?' he exclaimed, standing up. 'I'm telling my life story and all
you have is ''Good tea''?! ' 'Yes,' she said simply, watching him, completely
unperturbed. Suddenly, he felt weary. He flopped down next to her, and couldn't
help but notice that they were...just a little closer than before.
'I can't stand sad stories,' she said after a pause.
'I really can't.' He sneered. 'Then you can't exist in this world.' She shook
her head. 'Yes, I can. I can stop telling them, I can stop listening to them. I
can shoot all those f-king storytellers in the head and get them to shut up.
Then they wouldn't be around to just tell me those tales and not to do anything
about them. I'd keep them alive long enough to find out where they'd gotten the
story from and kill them and go out there and prevent the story from happening.
That's what I'd do. ' She breathed out slowly after this outburst. 'I learn
from my mistakes. After what Dad did to my big sister, I should have taken his
gun and put a bullet in his head, instead of helping him continue another sad
story with the neighbor's little girl. That's why I left,' she said, looking straight at him. He stared back, the fire in her eyes was a little hard to
ignore. 'I never wanted to find how that story ended. '
'So..?' he began awkwardly, and she shook her head.
'Never,' she repeated dully. 'There was nothing I needed to know. The last
thing I saw was my sister in bed one morning. She never woke up, I never looked
back when I packed my stuff.'
Their mugs lay side by side now. The fireflies were
gone.
He reached across to take her hand, but the sirens
began blaring, and they quickly stood up, grabbing their weapons and shrugging
their heavy jackets on. As they raced back to the barracks, he realized that
he'd forgotten to ask. 'What's your name?' he yelled over the noise. She ran
past him, throwing him a last grin over her shoulder. The sound of firing
Kalashnikovs grew louder in the distance. 'Does it matter?' she shouted back.
'We'll be dead anyway!'
