Piecing it together is not as hard as her parents told her it would be.
There were fireworks with Mischa, like the end of a Disney movie. She got her prince and they lived happily ever after when the last scene dimmed out; when the movie projection ended and all the audience left. She had butterflies and rainbows and every fruit tasted better than she remembered, and she dreamt of tasting him too, and wondered how planned their meeting must’ve been by the universe if they clicked together so fast, too.
Then her prince died. But there was no audience to witness the puzzles being thrown off the table, or her silently crying while the plane took off in Saskatoon.
Instead, here was Astrid waiting for her by the door, inside the tiny airport, in a too–big jacket Talia immediately recognized as not–theirs; but piecing together what she had going with Astrid wasn’t hard, either.
(If she were to decide, yes, Mischa was easier to click with, but there was no need to click with Astrid. They were always two pieces, already put together.)
Astrid holds her hand through the very brief blessing of the coffins and two urns of them. Astrid tells her how her cousin used to be, despite knowing that they’d sent multiple e–mails complaining about her. Astrid tells her how Mischa was, the little interaction the two of them had. Astrid tears up when his urn is handed back to them, and holds Talia when they watch his parents’ backs as they walk out of the cemetery.
They don’t hold hands when they walk home — or, as much as a friend–of–a–friend’s couch can be called home. Uranium only has one main street, and five that are asphalted, and it’s really difficult to get lost, or not recognized, especially while carrying
But Astrid makes her head spin and face burn against the already–cold September air; makes her forget the awful stench that permeates every street in Uranium, forget the urn even as she’s holding it. Astrid is all that she remembers, like something that she lost for such a long time she forgot how it feels like to have it right under her fingertips.
Soft, bumpy skin as she traces shapes on their cheeks, and patterns on their hands where they’re painted with scars. Blue eyes melting like a candle, crinkling corners.
And Talia doesn’t have any issues with recognizing when it’s time to press their lips together.
(Later, much later, Astrid will tell her that they’d kiss her in a garbage dump if it came to that. That they really didn’t mind that it was behind a kebab place in downtown Uranium, and it smelled of old meat, rust and oil, and that their jacket was dirty with some dark substance after being pressed against a wall. That it was perfect. Theirs.
But that’s not the piece that’s falling in now.)
Talia lets the back door swing open. It’s finally warm enough to be able to do it, after the entire winter and early spring was spent with the two of them — as in, Talia and Astrid — huddling in the living room where they weren’t in danger of getting frostbite while sleeping. Talia likes in letting the fresh air, even if it's a little chilly, and watch the curtain dance on the wind.
Astrid crashes in barely ten minutes later, breathless, choking on their own spit, and banging their elbow on the doorframe.
“Hi.” They wheeze out, half–throwing the shopping bags on the floor before sliding down next to them, head hung low as they breath heavily, hands shaking, legs sprawled out, as if they were forgotten parts.
“Did Ermolenko's dog chase you again?”
Astrid’s nod between desperate wheezes of air makes Talia sigh fondly.
Only Astrid could react like this to the absolute teddy bear of a dog their neighbors from down the road had. Bruno might be a little nervous when Astrid’s loud–as–the–gates–of–Hell–opening bicycle rides by, he’s wary when Talia rides it, but Astrid certainly doesn’t help with their panicking.
Talia shouldn’t blame them for it. Honestly. She gets it.
But she might, just a little, because Bruno is a tiny guy, — barely halfway to Talia’s calf and even smaller in comparison to Astrid, and Astrid—
Well, Astrid is Astrid, and Talia is all-too-familiar with their lack of willingness to change, and if the mud tracks at the open door from their combat shoes they insist on wearing year round say something, it’s “I’m stronger than a small dog.”
But that’s all so Astrid.
Talia rises from the couch and kisses the crown of Astrid’s sweaty head, curls tickling her lips. Their face rises up to meet her gaze, like a sunflower chasing the sun, and a genuine, Astrid smile appears on their lips.
Then Talia’s eyes slide over to the haphazardly thrown shopping bags.
“Were the eggs in there?”
A beat.
“... Would you be disappointed if they were?”
Astrid can’t recognize Talia anymore, but if they had to decide on one thing that's been replaced the most of all, it's her eyes.
When they look into them, they’re still hazel, they still glisten in the fire as they used to do at the Scouts’ bonfires, everything is in the right place — but they’re cold. So cold, like she took an ice pick and held it until her eyes froze over.
And Astrid can’t recognize her eyes. Logically, if that’s even the case anymore, to think logically, their brain knows it’s her best friend, and the eyes that look at her at night are the ones they grew up staring at and wishing they would look back just once.
Talia’s eyes have been frozen over since the first bad weather signs, as much as their fingers are cold to the bone nowadays.
The lizard part keeps telling them to run away as far as they can. It’s dangerous to stay here, with all the fake people, all the liars who just want them dead so they can finally eat.
Anti–her. Anti–Talia.
Not her, it keeps hissing, it’s not the girl you remember.
It’s not the girl they used to steal cherries from the orchard behind their neighborhood and jump over fences with, or the one that taught them how to braid bracelets so fast they started selling them one summer to get money for rollerskates. Not the girl who worked evenings at weddings so she could buy a getaway ticket to Canada, and who collapsed into them the moment they were finally together.
Anti–Talia.
The Talia they remember wouldn’t lick her lips at a nosebleed.
There’s a certain type of hunger that wasn’t there before: in her eyes, fingers, movements, chapped lips and forever–cold fingertips, a body that used to be so familiar in every corner; a body that threatens to fall apart on Astrid when they huddle together at night, freezing body against freezing body, as water drips from their snowed–on hair.
They’re just cemented in their belief when Talia’s teeth sink into human flesh, and there’s not a single glisten of regret as she chews and swallows, savoring the taste, the fat, eyes closed and she smiles brightly — then bites off another chunk and swallows again, blood trickling down the corner of her mouth.
But they don’t refuse when Talia passes them a piece of flesh to eat.
They lick their fingers, instead, and Talia’s too.