Icarus sat hunched over the table, drowning in papers. Ink stained his fingers, as well as his sleeves—equations sprawled endlessly, collapsing into illegibility the longer he stared.
“Icarus.”
The voice from the hallway made the subject jump, kicking papers across the table.
Scrambling to chase after the lost papers, Icarus lifted his head, staring at the owner of the voice.
“You can’t keep doing this,” the voice continued, closer now. “David’s asking for you.”
Icarus stiffened.
God damn it.
He hated visiting David.
...
But it had to be done.
So—after putting it off until well past midnight, after drinking until the dread in his veins dulled into a familiar buzz—he found himself standing outside the door to David’s...
“office.”
It took a moment to steady himself. The image of what lay behind the door elicited far too much emotion in Icarus.
So much so that it plagued his every dream.
Then, he opened it.
He had hoped—no, wished, oh so feverently wished—that this time would be different.
That he wouldn’t find his best friend in the center of a padded cell.
But he did.
And his heart lurched anyway.
“…”
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Icarus tried to speak. His mouth was far too dry. All he managed was a stifled choke and a sharp longing for the quarter-full bottle of whiskey he’d left behind.
“You reek of alcohol, man.”
Icarus flinched at the sound of David’s voice.
It sounded like his friend—but warped. Trembling. Broken in a way that made his chest tighten.
“I know you’ve been doomed to death and all that,” David continued, “but don’t you pride yourself on your mind? Strip that away and what else do you have?”
Icarus hated him.
He hated that David’s intelligence had survived the incident. Hated that even now—unable to meet his eyes—he still found himself standing in this room night after night.
And he hated himself most of all for dragging his friend into this hell.
“Icarus?” David said softly. “You’re not looking okay, man.”
Icarus finally looked up.
David looked… wrong.
So much so that, in another mood, Icarus might have laughed at the irony.
David’s face, usually chiselled and handsome, like that of a model, looked dark and weary, like he'd experienced multiple lifetimes in the span of a second. Blood streaked down his cheeks, though no wound marred his skin. And his eyes—
There was a time Icarus would find that he’d lose himself in the beauty of them, in the emerald green that welcomed him in a way nothing else did.
Now, all that was there was madness, a ghost of the man he knew. And all he felt was his chest tightening at the sight, a dull ache replacing the warmth that used to be felt.
David noticed his stare. His eyes softened, just a little, and a fleeting smile crossed his face.
“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”
Icarus shook his head, fists clenching until his palms burned.
“I was the one who signed up for the scouting mission,” David said. “I was the one who begged to see the other world—even though I was meant to stay behind and monitor the gate.”
He met Icarus’s gaze, unwavering.
“It was my fault. Not yours.”
Icarus snapped.
His arm lashed out, pain detonating through it as his fist slammed uselessly into the padded wall.
“But you wouldn’t have been corrupted if I hadn’t opened that box!” he shouted.
“If I hadn’t built the gate—if I hadn’t sent you to that godforsaken town—you wouldn’t have found that fragment!”
His throat burned. His eyes stung.
“Shut up.”
Icarus froze.
“What?”
“I said shut up.”
David stood, rising from the cushions. His tall, hunched frame loomed closer.
“Do you have any idea how stupid you sound right now?” he said sharply. “Even if you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met, how could you have known? Nobody knew. Half of us didn’t even believe in gods—why would we start then?”
He stepped closer.
“…You know, at the time, I wished the world for us to go together.”
David’s voice softened.
“But now?”
A thin, bitter smile.
“Now it’s my greatest comfort that you couldn’t."
