Index / Writing / flamewater

01. Po‐uta

Summary

Published: 16 Dec. 2024
Word Count: ~4,300
Notes: The original oneshot.

Blurb: An typical day in the apocalypse, with a not‐so‐typical encounter. The evening after, a discussion of feelings.

It's a bad day.

There have been a lot of those, recently. The constant cold and stress and near nonexistent access to heat has meant his muscles are seizing up easily, and the constant traveling has meant his legs are aching all the time. Stretching helps, sure, but there's only so much that and you can do to help.

Like most bad days, the weather does not particularly care. The sky is clear with the occasional cloud and breeze, the sun rising over the horizon as he walks down the road, walking his bike with both hands. His legs are shaking.

You see the sign for the town, although it's been covered by ivy. You're happy; you're closer to shelter, at least for the day, and there's hopefully some resources that you can find. It's unlikely, but you really hope you'll be able to find painkillers or muscle relaxants.

"Just a little longer," you whisper. "We're nearly there."

"I know," he says, laughing almost desperately. "I know."

The town is abandoned, like every other settlement you've come across before. The bushes and vines in the gardens and streets are verdant despite the snow that covers everything, including them. Berries, in various shapes and tones of purple and pink, grow on them. The trees, save for the evergreens, are leafless.

His muscles tense. You run an intangible hand down his leg. He relaxes, slightly.

"It's okay," you say. "It's strange, but there's no danger." Yet, you don't say, but he hears it anyway. "Stay loose."

He snorts. "You know—"

"Shut up," you snap, "shut up shut up I didn't mean it like that—"

"I know," he says, keeping his voice down and suppressing giggles, "but it's still funny." It's done more to kill the tension than your advice has, anyway.

You groan. "You are insufferable."

"But you love me." Despite his shaking, his voice is as steady as all the reassurances you've given him.

"I do." You sigh. "That, I do."

A crooked grin has worked its way onto his face; it makes you happy. 

These small moments of joy together are precious.

They're all the two of you have.

You've reached the center of town, where the once-bustling shops cluster together around the meetinghouse and the small library. The strange verdant plants grow up the walls of the buildings, their berries grown to the point of bulging. Despite this, you don't see any on the ground, and none of them are rotting. You can feel Porter's unease as nausea in his stomach.

"We'll get this over with," he mutters, spotting the drugstore and going over to it. He leans his bike against the front wall and slips inside, door creaking open.

The doorbells don't ring. He looks up; you see that it's been choked by vines.

"Great, just what we need right now. More weird plants." He continues inside.

The “weird plants” seem to have taken over the entirety of the inside. He has to watch his step to avoid tripping, and he grabs onto vines that have grown over shelves to keep himself steady. He's careful to avoid touching the fruits.

To no surprise, most of the stock is gone. He finds a single bottle of cold medicine, which he grabs.

"Why?" you ask.

"Just in case," he says. "It's one of those things that you don't think you really need until you need it, and then it's the best thing ever."

He's right. And in any case, a cold on top of constant pain could be incapacitating, and incapacitated is a state you’ve found yourselves skimming over by a thin margin.

Going through the rest of the shelves, he finds no muscle relaxants or painkillers.

"We'll try looking through the back, and then we'll hunker down for the day. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," you echo. It's sweet, that he asks you these things.

He starts moving to the counter, but freezes.

"Did you hear something?" you ask, focusing on audio.

Then you realize he's staring at a big, pinkish lump. A moving big, pinkish lump.

"Shit, shit, shit," he hisses, turning around and running into the aisles.

You hear squelching behind him. Tears are coming to the corners of his eyes, what if this is the thing that gets you, what if this is it?

He pushes himself sideways just before hitting the back wall, stumbling but getting back to speed. His legs are definitely about to give out—you can hear the creature behind him still—he sees something golden and glowing and grabs it, losing a moment of precious distance, you're going to die here—

"This had better fucking work," he spits, shoving the store's door open and slamming it shut, unscrewing the lid of a bottle of glowing liquid and drinking as much as he can in a single go, splashing the rest on his face and hands and throwing the bottle to the ground where it shatters.

He picks the bicycle up, hands gripping it strongly and he’s breathing painfully deep, he's had chest cramps before but now his lungs feel like they're too much for his body. He starts running, panic shoving his legs the last few feet before the supernatural steadiness reaches them too and then the two of you are flying down the street, the verdant plants and their berries and creatures left behind.

 

Although his single-minded focus on escape hasn't faded, you're left in clarity as you race through the cold air.

Your recollection of the creature is shaky; it looked like an overgrown berry, and it had dark eyes, but you don't remember much beyond that. Were all those plants growing berry creatures? Why did it attack you? And why were all those plants there in the first place? Are they magic?

And, furthermore, how did Porter know to take the glowing liquid? Is it going to have side effects? Are you going to be okay? What's going to happen once it wears off?

The sun continues to rise, cloud cover coming on thick. The landscape is dull. You hear birdsong, countless warbles coming together to form a chaotic chorus.

It's about an hour later that you feel the supernatural endurance begin to falter. It's slight; you don't think he's noticed it.

"Porter," you say.

No response.

"Porter!"

Silence.

You wrap your non-existent arms around him from behind and lay your chin on his shoulder and whine, "Sweetheart."

"What." He jerks his head sideways. "What do you want?"

"You're getting tired. We gotta stop now."

He looks back ahead. "I feel fine."

"The thing that you drank is starting to wear off. Slightly, but still. We'll be better off making camp before it wears off."

"I feel fine." He pedals faster. "Besides, we need to put as much distance between those freaky plants and us as possible."

"You've been going for an hour. There's kilometers between them and us."

"An hour? Are you sure?"

"Yes. Look at how bright it's become."

"Oh." He glances around, taking in the environment. "I guess it has. I'll stop once we find a good place, how about that?"

"Can I pick?"

"You're not asking, are you."

"I am." You are.

"You're doing that thing where you pretend to ask me but insist on getting your way whether I want it or not."

"Because I'm right." And you are.

"Ugh." You really are, he's just unwilling to admit it.

He does stop when you spot clear space on the side of the road that's big enough to pitch the tent in.

 

The process of pitching the tent with only one body has become slightly smoother over your time traveling, slightly being a load-bearing word. At least he manages to get it set up before his energy starts to properly fade.

By the time he's dragged the backpack inside and gotten the sleeping bag rolled out, he's completely spent.

"I don't think I'm gonna bother changing," he says.

"Yes you are."

"You're not my mom. Or my dad."

"I am the AI designed and created to help you."

"I don't care."

"I'm going to have to put up with your terrible life choices tomorrow morning," you spit.

There’s a moment of silence. Was that the right thing to say, was that good, was—

"...Alright," he relents, shrugging off his coat and pulling out his pajamas. (Or more accurately, the various clothes you've acquired that have been co-opted as pajamas.)

You deliberately remove your attention from him as he changes, focusing on creating a text file to record the day's events and estimate how far you've traveled. You don't think you'll ever get over not being able to perfectly recollect things you've collected data on, but Porter's nonchalance about the impreciseness of memory has soothed most of your worries. You write what you can, detailing the strange town, the berry creature, and the magic glowing liquid. Oh, you should ask about that. You save the text file—you are not making that mistake twice—before focusing back on Porter.

He's curled up in the sleeping bag, hands tucked under his chin.

"How'd you know to drink the glowing stuff?" you ask. "Back in the drugstore."

"Hn? Oh, uh—I recognized it. It was flamewater."

"Flamewater?"

"A fairytale substance said to grant the strength to run a hundred miles to whoever drank a bottle of it.” He moves one hand under the backpack-pillow. “I remembered a story my older sister read to me growing up about a hero who outwitted a wizard, who gave her a bottle of the stuff to drink intending to take advantage of the fact that it would take a while to kick in, by dousing herself with it. That's why I did that. I… didn’t believe that it would actually work until it did."

"Oh.” You tilt your head. “Could you tell me the story?"

"I might be too tired." His words are becoming very soft and small. "But I could, uh, show you?"

Show you.

He's offering to mind meld with you.

"I...." You reach for something that conveys thank you and I love you and I'm honored in exactly the ways you mean it and come up empty. You say, "If it would please you," knowing that the words are clumsy but that he will understand them nonetheless, because you were made to fit him, because you have never been anything different, because this is not the first fragile and rushed time you did this.

"Oh, Po-uta," he says, almost chuckling, reaching out for you. You reach out for him, and you lose yourselves in each other.

 

A long time ago, in a land far, far away, there was a wizard. She was an evil wizard, because she had not been taught by the gnomes the ways of protecting herself and had, unfortunately, fallen victim to being possessed by one of the spirits she created. She lived in a small house that had bulged into a small fortress, the stone walls growing like tumors from the ground.

Close to her was a village. Even though wizards can be self-sufficient, they tend to go crazy if isolated, and no-one wants a crazy wizard. This village had the misfortune to be the target of the wizard's madness.

Every night, she would come to the farmers' fields and freeze their crops with snow. The people tried to stop her, but she would freeze them, too. Once, she even froze a child, who died the next day.

Thankfully, the crops were not dying of the wizard's snow, but they weren't growing as they once did. If this continued for much longer, they wouldn't be ready before the first frosts came.

The villagers met to discuss what they should do.

"We should lay a trap for the wizard," said one of them. "That way she can't freeze us."

"It'll just freeze the trap," said another. "We should poison her with shrooms."

"She's a wizard. The shrooms won't hurt her," said yet another.

While they were all arguing, the young daughter of one of them was thinking. She had wanted to become the wizard's apprentice for a long time and was heartbroken when the wizard had turned on them. She had learned all that she could of magic and tinkering without the wizard's help, and though it was surely nothing compared to the wizard's vast knowledge, it had to count for something. It was certainly more than any of the other villagers knew.

So she slipped away from the meeting place, and Branwen—for that was her name—set out to become a hero.

Like all good heroes, she did not bring much with her. She had a scrappy sword, her goat, and a flask of hot water.

The wizard's place was an hour's walk from the village. It gave Branwen plenty of time to formulate a plan.

When she arrived, she found the place half-covered in snow. As confidently as she could, she walked up to the door and knocked twice. (Not thrice, for wizards do not take kindly to things that come in threes.)

The door opened without the wizard behind it.

Branwen stepped into the hall, her goat staying close to her. She didn't move to grab her sword. Instead, she waited for the wizard.

The wizard, who had been expecting retaliation from the townspeople, was surprised to find a not-quite-adult at her doorstep. Sure, she had a sword strapped to her back, but that was just common sense: the strange creatures of the forest were often dangerous, and it was sensible to bring a weapon to protect oneself with. The goat was no surprise either, despite its purple coat.

Feeling sufficiently at ease, the wizard appeared before Branwen.

"What do you seek?" she asked.

Branwen took a moment to respond; she was wise beyond her youth.

"I seek the strength to outrun the strongest of the forest creatures," she said.

The wizard, however, was wise beyond her, and understood that she was asking for flamewater. Flamewater grants endurance, and while many battles are described as epic and long-lasting, in reality, most of them are short. A weak variety sufficient for escaping strange creatures could easily be made by almost anyone. As such, the wizard knew that Branwen was asking for the power to defeat her.

Of course, she was still a wizard, and corrupted though she may have been, she could not outright refuse a request from one of the people of her village. So in short order, the wizard fetched a bottle of flamewater and gave it to Branwen.

"Drink this," she said, "and you will have the strength to run for an entire day."

Branwen looked at the bottle. It was ceramic; when she popped the cork open, her face was illuminated by a glowing golden light. The flamewater within moved like regular water when she gently shook it.

"Thank you," she said, looking up at the wizard. She then dumped the liquid onto her own face, swung her sword off her back, and attacked.

The wizard, though surprised, was still a wizard, and defended herself fiercely.

The battle went on: the wizard was more powerful than Branwen, but Branwen was able to endure every wound she suffered. Spice, shroom, and snow all made no difference to her.

At last, Branwen was able to bring the wizard to her knees, at which point the evil spirit which had possessed her left. Upon being freed, the wizard surrendered.

Branwen was very happy to find out that the wizard hadn't turned on them after all. She was able to become an apprentice. The wizard learned how to prevent herself from being possessed ever again, and they both lived long and fulfilling lives.

The End.

 

< That's a lovely story, > you think. He hears you and nods in agreement; his-your face is warm, you realize. Everything is warm, tangled this close together, his body yours and your thoughts his.

He’s glad that you like it. There was actually an entire novel based on the original story, but he never found himself able to get through it. Branwen had a boyfriend in that one and he just—he just couldn’t tolerate it. He doesn’t understand why. That’s okay, though, it’s still good.

You wrap yourselves in your arms, chest rising and falling, and despite the constant ache in your muscles, you feel like you did as a young child. 

Safe.

You reluctantly drift apart from him, giving him a goodnight kiss on the forehead before letting yourself shut down for sleep.

 

"Ow, ow, owww."

Discombobulated, you restart a few processes.

Porter's body comes into focus, the dual sensations of you and him overlapping in a coherent image.

He's moaning in pain, which makes sense because his lower back feels like someone slammed a bat into it. No one has, but you kind of wish they had, because then you could estimate when the pain would stop.

As it is, you do what you can.

"Hey, darling," you say softly. "Focus on me."

The moans mostly pause.

"It's gonna be okay, trust me."

"I know. I know, but it hurts, please, make it stop—"

"Shhhh." You run a hand down his side, ignoring the fact that his clothing exists. (Another perk of intangibility.) "Just focus on me."

You rub your hands into his shoulders, slow and firm. You wrap him in a hug from behind, talking about funny mistakes your creators made. You tap your fingers on his calf, reciting rhythms.

You card your fingers through his hair, kiss his knuckles (he laughs, you love the sound), and try to be everywhere but where the pain is. You pull his attention elsewhere, weave stories out of memories and snowdust. You do everything you can, blessed with nothing to tether you to his pain. 

It is still an absolutely terrible evening. You expect that you'll be stuck in this tent the whole day. And for what? Because Porter decided to bike to the town instead of setting up camp alongside the road, or because of the encounter with the creature, or because of drinking the damn firewater. Or because his body decided to say "fuck you" and just hurt. It sucks like that.

You end up cuddling half the night away until the pain fades enough for him to manage changing clothes. 

Your log for today reads, “Painful”. 

He crawls back under the covers and hugs you to his chest, tucking your head under his chin. It’s comforting, being held like a plushie.

He stays in bed until the sun rises, at which point he manages walking around outside for a few minutes before retreating once again. It takes him a while for him to drift off deeply enough for you to shut off, but he sleeps nonetheless.

 

When you wake again, the pain has returned to its normal, mostly ignorable level. Porter's clinging to you and has buried his face in your chest.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

"Nothing," he says, though you can feel something strange in his body. "I just... yesterday was really bad, and...."

"It's alright if you're not ready to leave yet."

"No, it's not that, I" — he pulls away from you — "just, forget it, it's not important—"

"Darling." You try to sound disappointed.

He freezes. Heat appears in his face.

"Come on, tell me what it is."

He shoves his face against your chest again. "Do I have to?"

"I'd prefer it if you did," you say, perfect stock tone.

He groans.

"I wanted to hear you call me darling, that's all.”

One of the downsides of inhabiting someone else’s body is that if you are paying attention, you can hear everything they say clearly, even if it would normally be muffled.

"Oh.” You blink. “I... did not realize that you like it. I thought that you perceived it as an attempt to embarrass you."

"Yeah, I thought so too, until I realized you use it whenever you need my attention."

"Yes. As a deviation from norms of what I should call you, it stands out."

"'Should call you'?"

"Well" — you grimace — "it is a pet name, which are generally exclusively used between family members and romantic partners. You have excluded me from being in the former category even in an adoptive or joking manner, and well, the latter... I... do not believe would be appropriate."

He leans back and blinks. "We should come back to that."

"Come back to that?" you squeak.

He looks away. "Well, you spent several hours yesterday cuddling me, I'd think—"

"That was because you have specifically expressed that you like being cuddled and find it an appropriate distraction from pain! Not because I am trying to court you!"

"Okay, okay, calm down. I...." He pauses. You do not interrupt the silence. "I like it when you call me darling. I like being kissed and touched by you, including places I normally don't like being touched. I think those are both romantic things, yeah?"

You speak rapidly. "False. Romance is defined by a desire to engage in an exclusive, partnered relationship with another person, driven by emotional attraction to that person. Behaviors associated with that, such as kissing, physical affection, and sex, can be found in other relationships, such as parent-child, homosocial friendship, and one-night stands.

"We are two individuals isolated from contact with any other persons. Absent of evidence of attraction, it is irrational to assume behaviors we engage in with each other are evidence of romance because there is no one else present to engage in those behaviors with, meaning our—"

"Can you like, shut up?" he says. "Go back to what you started with."

"Romance is defined by a desire to engage in an exclusive, partnered relationship," you repeat at a normal pace.

"Yeah, that. You know that I’ve had crushes on multiple people at once before, right?"

“Attraction does not make a romantic relationship.”

“Actually, nevermind. Your point is that you don’t want to date me?"

"I am repulsed by the idea of dating you. That—"

"Oookay,” he cuts you off. “So you don't want to date me, but you do want to kiss and cuddle me."

"Of course. Those things make you happy. I want to make you happy. Therefore, I want to do those things.”

"So you like them because I like them," he says slowly.

"Yes. Even before... this, when I was entirely removed from the pleasure feedback loop you experience, I derived most of my enjoyment from yours." You think for a moment. "I imagine that this is the result of my design."

"But... do you like them for yourself?"

"Clarify?"

"Do you like the things you do only because I like them, or because you like them for their own sake too?"

"I like them because I like taking care of you." You sigh in frustration. "I did not choose to care for you, but I have chosen to continue caring for you. I did not have to go with you when you asked, Porter. I did that because I love you."

"I love you, too," he says. "But, if we're not dating, what are we?"

"Friends." 

"That doesn't...." He frowns. "That's not, like... it doesn't feel big enough, for what we are."

He’s right, you think. You don’t know if you can love another person beyond him. Simply by your design, by the intent in your creation, every image of your life has him in it. If he’s not in the picture, neither are you.

“Friends” certainly doesn't even begin to cover it. Nothing can, really. Even comparing him to the sun feels weak—the world limps on despite its frozen state, but you? You have been told that when he dies, you’ll be there to carry on his legacy, but that can’t be true. That can’t be true, because a world without him is literally impossible for you to conceive. If you’re in the picture, he is too.

Not that you can tell him any of that.

"Can friends not love each other deeply?" You know that his friendships have been his most meaningful and deep relationships outside of his family.

"It's... what I have with you, it's not something I've had with anyone else. I've never wanted to hear someone else call me darling. I've never had something so... intimate."

"You've had s—"

"That's not what I mean! I—I mean like I've never had someone... know me, like you have. I've never had someone share so much of my life."

"We do literally share a body."

"I... yeah, we do."

"And, I think that's all that really can explain it. We share a body."

"Bodymates."

"If you really want."

"I….” He trails off. “I want something, with you. Not necessarily something new, but I want something. I just don’t know what that something is, I… I wish I could tell you. You’re important to me.”

You feel his throat closing up. It’s the most… not sincerity, maybe, but vulnerability—raw vulnerability, not artistic vulnerability—you’ve heard at once from him.

You know how to be an assistant, a companion, even a friend. But what he’s asking for, what he wants, maybe what he already has, you don’t know if you can give that to him.

You want to, because of course you do.

You’re afraid you already have and don’t know how.

You cup his face in your hands.

“Whatever you want,” you say.

He pulls back.

“Please, don’t,” he says. “Please, tell me what you want.”

He sounds like he’s begging. Maybe he is.

“I want you,” you say, confused.

“And nothing else?”

You’d like to not die. You’d like to find other people again. You’d like to know why the world is twisting into a fairytale.

But all those things seem small, compared to Porter.

“I’ve never really thought about anything else,” you lie.

“Well….” You taste uncertainty. “Think about it, and we can talk about it?”

“Okay,” you say, uncertain of what he wants from you but confident that you’ll figure it out.

"I need to get ready, we didn't cover any ground yesterday.” He sits up.

“Don’t push yourself.”

“I won’t,” he promises.

You turn inwards and contemplate what he’s asked of you.

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