Fireflies

His hand closes around the small creature, its feet soft and light against his palm. Taking a look, he peers into the hole his clasped hands have made, gazing at the tiny body within. Delicate. So delicate. He considers flexing the muscles in his hand. One second, and that body would be gone. Instantaneously. Smashed into oblivion, the only remains brushed away upon the blue-eyed boy's shorts. He gazes at the back of his hand, his eyes resting on the silver ring burdening his thumb, internally debating. His breath catches at each step the insect takes, its wings beating softly against the raven-haired boy's palm.

He releases the lightning bug and watches as it calls out to the others in its special way, talking and screaming through the luminescent glow. The wind blows the creature off track, and the tall boy follows with his eyes, the small distant neon light attracting his attention. It demands it, the vibrant color blaring its siren's song across the night. It won't be back, he thinks. It shouldn't be.

Freedom.

The boy desperately wants what the firebug has. He throws himself onto the damp ground, uncaring if the dew has its way with his shirt. He stares up, his gaze attempting to penetrate the sky. There is something else. He knows it. He feels it. This world is a cage. A cage of lies and light, wrapped in time and space. He yearns to break from the body that holds him in. He pulls his waterlogged shirt up, and he glares at the small tattoo amidst the scars. He envisions it shrinking with his body and sees it disappear. He reaches down to run his hands over it. It remains. The boy casts his gaze over his upturned belly button, and the way it tucks into him, as if sealing him in.

His acid-burned body glowers back up at him, in blinding paleness. Its sheen doesn't faze him, and he pokes and prods at the tight skin. His ribs are the skeleton, the skin stretched mercilessly across them deemed unnecessary. It is eating away at his insides, this disease. This acid of the heart and the lungs. It pushes down his throat and turns his stomach black. Black and blue and neon green. The color of the lightning bugs. It bruises on the outside and gnaws upon his hidden flesh.

The doctors told him it was nothing. It would go away. It should go away.
It hadn't. It remains, a constant nuisance to the already decomposing boy. He will be nothing more than a cadaver, his eyes lying listlessly open in a box. Another box. The coal-haired boy stares at his stomach, tracing each scar as they dwindle down his body, disappearing under the waistband of his shorts. He ignores how they hang off his hipbones, and he insists on buying them larger, every single time. The boy hides his body, swamping it in swaths of cloth, hoping to hide his disease. Hide it away under layers. He doesn't see the way his cheeks sink in, or the way his hipbones jut out. He only sees sickness, and death.

Death.

He stares up, the galaxy spread out like jam in front of his eyes. He isn't sure of its meaning. It's always been above and beyond. But now it's permanent, and the stars loom down on him, bidding him to join their ranks. They call to him, a lantern's sheen spotted through faulty medications and experimental treatments.

The ground rustles beside him, and the boy lifts his head, staring out at the darkness. He hears someone approaching, their footsteps light and indistinct from the cheers of the crickets.

"Fletcher."

A second boy, fair-haired with freckles invisible in the dark, stands above Fletcher, his arms crossed across his chest. He glares down at the skinny boy on the ground, and frowns as he notes dew's kiss upon the dark-haired boy's shirt. Without a word, Fletcher motions for the other to sit, and he scoots over, leaving the shorter boy room.

"You're still here," the pale-haired boy states, not as a question that begs response, but in confusion. The other boy ignores him, choosing instead to pose one of his own.

"Is there something else out there, Em?"

The blond considers the open sky stretched out above him, taking in each twinkling star before he responds, "I guess. I never really thought of that before. I mean, there's got to be something."

"What if there's not?" He glances at Emerson, only to be met with the boy's upturned face.

"Fletcher," he begins slowly, again turning his words over his tongue, "What's all this about? The moping and the philosophical questions?"

Fletcher's eyes bore holes into his kneecaps, his hands violently tearing pieces of grass apart. Mumbling, his gaze remains downwards.

"What? Fletch, I can't hear you. For fuck's sake, stop mumbling," the blond returns hotly, his eyes blazing.

The boy with the onyx hair sighs, repeating his previous sentence, "It's gotten worse, Em. That," he motions towards the vast black abyss above their heads before continuing, "is going to be my new bed."

The fair-haired boy starts suddenly, staring blankly at the other, his mouth slightly ajar. His eyes wander up and down his friend's form, half hidden under darkness, half lit by the occasional wandering firebug. Fletcher's cargo shorts are rumpled, his stocky legs spread out in front of him. The laces of his shoes are stark white against midnight leather, his heels dug deep into muddy grass. "What-" he begins, stuttering over his words, "what do you mean?"

"It's my final resting place," Fletcher replies bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He rips each shred of grass into smaller and smaller pieces, violently beheading each blade with a swift twitch of his fingers.

"Does it have anything to do with..." he trails off, motioning towards the opposite boy's stomach, towards the intricate web of scars.

"Yes," the taller of the two responds immediately, his gaze intent on the boy sitting directly to his left.

"I-I didn't...I didn't realize."

"You weren't meant to." Fletcher returns calmly, the damp blades of grass slipping from his fingers, resting on the ground underneath him.

"Is it that Cro-thingamajig?"

"Crohn's," he says dully, his stomach aching at the word. He wants to spit it at Emerson, the vile word leaking out of his throat so casually sickens him. It is dull acceptance, this nonchalance. He leans back on his hands, pulling the edge of his cargo shorts down to cover his knees before pressing the entire weight of his body back.

The other glances at him quizzically, urging him to continue his one word response. "I...don't understand."

"It's an incurable inflammatory bowel disease that's-"

"I know what it is, Fletch."

The dark-haired boy picks his head up, his pupils large and vigilant, and his eyebrows stretching towards his forehead. "Then..."

Emerson looks pointedly at him, sighing quietly. "I occasionally pay attention to what you're talking about, Fletcher. I just...don't-no...can't...understand why you wouldn't tell me. Why you didn't tell me. Did I do something? I just-"

"No," Fletcher interrupts yet again, hurriedly continuing, "It wasn't that. It's not you."

They catch his eye as they pass, their small bodies buzzing with energy. His gaze trails the dark outlines of the firebugs as they taunt him, their soft humming drilling holes into his ears. He hears them mock, laughing lightly. Transfixed, he leans up, reaching out to catch one, but they swiftly evade his too-slow hands.

The blond reaches his own hand up, catching the other's wrist. He brings it softly down, forcing Fletcher to stare him in the eye, forcing him back to his cruel reality.

"Then tell me."

The elder mumbles again, his light words stolen away by the passing wind. The leaves on the trees above the two boys rustle gently, spilling occasional sacrifices of crinkled foliage.

"I couldn't tell you."

"I'm your best friend, Fletch. You can tell me. I've gotta know. It's not right for you to keep something this...big...from me."

Letting out a frustrated sigh, the taller of the two spins the heavy metal ring around his finger, casting his eyes back and forth between the boy next to him, and the soft silver glinting on his thumb. "It's not that I didn't want to tell you, Em. I couldn't tell you."

"I got that. But why? I don't bite." The blond smirks, his grin quickly fading as his attention is drawn to Fletcher's somber countenance. He notes the solemn posture and the focus the other boy is placing upon his hands. He hesitantly reaches over, removing the silver band from Fletcher's grasp, slipping it onto his own finger. The light-haired boy brushes his hands absentmindedly along the other's fingertips, casually dipping his own into the space between the elder's fingers.

He hears the intake of breath from above him as palm meets palm, and he instinctively freezes. He retracts his hand quickly, casting his gaze down at the ghost of Fletcher's hand burned into his skin. Emerson feels the blood rushing to his face and listens as Fletcher exhales slowly. He leans away from the dark-haired boy, leaving only enough space so that their limbs barely touch. Trembling, Fletcher hooks his fingers in Emerson's shirt to keep him from going too far.

His voice is quiet but audible as he clears his throat, timidly staring over at the boy now clutching the sleeve of his shirt. "Fletch? You don't have to tell m-"

The dark-haired boy cuts in hastily, his voice cracking, "I couldn't 'cause I was afraid. Not of you...but of your reaction. I-it's just," he pauses, his hands dropping to his sides.

Fletcher's fingertips accidentally graze the other's knee as he reaches for another blade of grass, causing both boys to shift uncomfortably. His voice trails out, and he inhales slowly, his breath slow and steady, his pulse roaring far ahead. Inwardly, the boy begs his voice box, willing it to speak, willing it to scream the words he only dares to think. "It's just...you're different than the others."

Emerson stares at Fletcher, watching silently as his ears crimson darkly, the blood rushes up into his face, staining his cheeks like leftover rouge from a dawn's affair with the earth.

They remain silent, each word ambiguous and left to rot in the summer air. The breeze hovers over the pair, embracing them individually.

Emerson tips his head back once more, sneaking slight glances at the disintegrating boy at his side. He shivers, the proximity of Fletcher's body running circles around his head. He leans back on his hands, grimacing as the dew eases its way onto his hands, strips of abandoned grass sticking to his palm.

The world stirs around them, but the pair don't notice. They gaze noiselessly up at the moon, the silence crackling underneath their still bodies. Shadows dance around their silhouettes, only the stars bright against a somber sky.

The atmosphere is pungent and tart, pregnant with the scents of mold and oxygen. The air is heavy, pushing down on the taller boy's chest, suffocating him in silence. It's quiet, the sultry songs of the crickets is a dull roar, and the bitter taste of words left unsaid leaves a stale taste in both their mouths.

Again, Emerson is the first to speak, whispering the words he needs to face.

"Are you scared?"

"Scared?" The dark-haired boy turns his head to face the other, his cerulean eyes burning holes into the shy boy's chest, daring him to continue.

Emerson begins gently, trying to soften the blow as he delivers his line, "Scared...to die?"

"Would your opinion of me change if I said I was?" Fletcher teases, his eyes narrowing at the blond.

"Depends," he answers honestly, tilting his face back at Fletcher, a smirk dominant over his features.

"On what?"

"Whether you were lying or not."

It is quiet for a moment more as the dark-haired boy stares at Emerson, his gaze clouded. His eyes flicker down to the strip of skin peeking out from underneath his shirt. He sees the edge of one of the wrinkly pink scars as it wraps around his intestines, slowly, slowly.

"I am," he breathes. Clearing his throat, he speaks once more, this time his voice growing stronger, "I am scared."

The other inhales sharply, not expecting the raw tone of voice. He hesitates, then remains silent as Fletcher opens his mouth again.

"Em..." he begins quietly, causing Emerson to crane his neck to hear. Fletcher's voice is fragile, cracking over every other syllable. It reverts to pre-pubescent boyhood, with a soprano lilt to it. He trembles but the warm summer air does nothing to qualm his fears. His eyes catch three lightning bugs skimming across the edge of his shorts, and he locks eyes with the blond.

"Do you think I have a chance of getting into Heaven?"

With a wry glance, Emerson smiles. "If anyone can, it's you."

And the fireflies took flight.