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The concept of marriage means very different things to Weather and Anasui.
For Weather, “till death do us part” is a pretty useless phrase—death is pretty impermanent, for all the shit he’s seen, and for dying to be an endpoint in a relationship seems like a terrible way to go out.
But in his last moments, with his brother’s arm elbow-deep in his chest—man, he thinks, I probably should have gotten married.
It’s, well, oddly out of character. Or maybe it isn’t. Weather, at death’s door, doesn’t really know who he is anymore.
Anasui treats marriage a little too lightly. He’s had a few flings in prison, here and there, and every time, he’s tried to seal the deal. He even did, once. Maybe for lack of actual “people skills”, or maybe because, on some carnal level, he doesn’t want anyone to leave. He’s had to deal with that mess too many times.
It’s probably because it’s himself he’s afraid of losing control of, of seeing that blood red again, staring down at a mess of limbs and torsos and wow, she looks cute even when she’s dead and not knowing whose hand is whose. Maybe marriage would fix that temper.
It’s whatever, he guesses. Stone Free’s fist in his chest isn’t really making him feel as if love is a particularly stunning option at this point, marriage or not.
Feet sink into the grass; a lone tree on a hill echoes in the wind, branches twisting and cracking as it resists bending. Roots stretch into the soil. Anasui coughs. He’s dead. Great.
He checks his pulse. It’s not there—surprise, surprise—and he feels a phantom pressure in his chest even though the hole is remarkably absent. It’s moments ago that he could feel Stone Free, that stringy son-of-a-bitch, so much that it still hurts just a bit, but his exasperation layered upon mild panic seems to have evaporated into the clouds. The numbness is quite chilling of a prospect.
Death seems to have mellowed Weather out in a similar way. He beckons to Anasui from his position on the ground, propping himself up by an elbow, and a faint grin appears on his face. A genuine one, rare and unbesmirched by hints of his past. He doesn’t know whether he would prefer his memories intact or not. For now, though, he’s stuck with what he’s got.
Anasui lies down next to him. Serene silence for a bit.
“You didn’t kill me,” Weather jokes, finally breaking the pause.
“What?”
“When I told you to. You didn’t kill me. Why?”
Anasui blinks. He shrugs. Then he stutters—what he wants to say is something along the lines of “fuck you, don’t ask me about that” but what comes out is something completely different.
“I… cared. Too much.”
Man. This afterlife thing is really putting a damper on his exterior. I cared too much? What is this, a shitty sitcom?
Weather doesn’t know what to say. Anasui’s sudden earnestness comes out of the blue; he’s not used to it. So he says nothing. There’s not really much that needs to be said.
The tranquility returns. Time passes and Weather finds himself gazing at the sky, at the clouds slowly drifting through the picturesque, almost artificial blue. It’s a beauty he’s never stopped to grasp before and, for a moment, he feels the years lift off his shoulders until he swears he’s sixteen again. He closes his eyes and the crisp air of wherever-this-is fills him to his core. The scent of springtime seems perpetual, like it’ll never dull out. Maybe wanting to die was a good choice. This is something he can get used to.
He opens his eyes. “What does that look like?” he asks Anasui, pointing at a cloud.
Anasui shrugs. “I don’t know. A baby?”
Weather grins—another genuine one—and with a wave of his hand, the amorphous blob transforms into a toddler, complete with pacifier and toys. Anasui lets out a laugh. It’s the first one, he thinks, he’s had for a while.
“Hey, hey,” he snorts, “make that one into Mickey Mouse.”
Weather narrows his eyes, looking over at Anasui with something that feels like disgust, but not quite. It’s a bit accusatory.
“What?” Anasui says, scoffing at Weather’s reaction. “Mickey Mouse is the cornerstone of all culture.”
Weather scowls, looking back up at the sky and, after a moment, one of the clouds grows ears, a large nose, and almost comically huge eyes.
Anasui shakes his head. “No, no, no, it’s all wrong. You’ve got some weird antique shit going on! Here,” he flips onto his stomach, picking up a twig, “you’ve got to make it like this.”
He traces his own rendition of the cartoon mouse into the dirt. “You’re on some Steamboat Willy-type stuff, man. The 1940’s redesign—” Anasui slurs that a bit, like dropping years doesn’t come to him that easily, “— Fantasia, you know, that’s what it’s about. You got the eyes all wrong.”
Fantasia. That’s something that he’s seen before, a long time ago. The dancing broomsticks? Night on Bald Mountain? He remembers it pretty clearly, but it seems to have more weight to Anasui than it does to him.
So Weather obliges. Mickey’s eyes reform into their more active redesign. Then, a wizard hat blinks into existence on his head. Anasui nods in approval, interlacing his hands behind his head. “That’s it.”
Brooms pop into the scene. Magical books and furniture—Mickey grows a body—spiral around the mouse, suddenly dancing into life as Fantasia is recreated in the sky. Weather’s not sure how he recalls the scenes with such accuracy. He thinks maybe he’s winging it at times. But as Mickey poses on his pillar, streaks of moisture dotting the sky as he casts spell after spell, Anasui feels like a kid again, at least for this brief moment.
Weather’s never done this before, and to him, the scene is a bit stilted, the movements more than a bit clunky. But when Chernabog finally evaporates and the scene dissipates into a fine mist, Anasui swears he’s not crying. Maybe he is. Either way, Weather shouldn’t see. He scoffs instead, hiding his face. “Yeah, yeah, show-off.” The music isn’t there, but it’s as if they can both hear it echoing over the hills.
The sun moves faster now; unnaturally so. Weather notices while Anasui tries to recollect his facade of masculinity. “Hey,” Weather almost whispers, pointing at the sky as it—too quickly—fades to night, “you think something’s happening out there?”
The time acceleration. Anasui almost forgot. He looks over at Weather with something resembling a grimace. There’s never enough time.
“Yeah,” he finally replies, the tears coming back now, “something we can’t stop.”
Anasui’s hand hovers over Weather’s. It grazes him, but it’s a soft touch. Weather turns his palm over. Anasui rests his own on it. A brief moment of tenderness. It’s fitting, Anasui thinks, for their last moments.
“Hey,” Anasui says, voice trembling slightly, “when this is all over…”
“Yeah?”
“You want to get married?”
Weather smiles. It’s the third time now. The grass turns to dust around them and the lone tree snaps and bends upon itself. The leaves fall, brown, and disintegrate before they touch the ground. Darkness falls and the clouds are replaced by a veil of night. Their hands are intertwined as they gaze up at the same sky, facing whatever lies ahead—together.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
Wes can’t believe he’s stuck without a ride. It’s so damn hot.
He trudges along the interstate, feet almost pounding against the solid dirt, dried up and cracked from years of sun. It’s so damn hot. He hopes he can catch a ride soon.
Thunder booms on the horizon, and Wes groans. A storm, in this season, at this hour? He’s lucky if he can avoid being swept up by a hurricane or something. Maybe that’d be better for him, though.
The wind speeds up, suddenly, and Wes has to shield his head with his book bag. The rain’s coming down now as he approaches a gas station. Motel, it says behind it. Hopefully he can get out of this storm.
He’s not even halfway to the station when a car, compact and sleek, rumbles down the road in his direction. It looks expensive. Wes doesn’t have a hope in the world of catching a ride from the kind of crowd in those cars, but he sticks out his thumb anyways.
A familiar voice. Wes’s head tilts a bit. That’s strange—he hadn’t planned on meeting anyone he knows.
“A hitchhiker!”
Some disagreement, he can tell, arises as the car pulls up to him. The door swings open as a group of mixed reactions greet him. They all seem somewhat familiar. Pink hair catches his eye and Wes finds himself grinning again. He doesn’t know why.
“Annakiss,” the pink hair introduces himself as Wes slides, drenched, into the backseat.
He pauses. Wes feels a sudden urge to cry. It just sounds too familiar.