Withering Hope

Tristan starts a very small fire just at the edge of the cracked door, roasting the bird. When we realized we would be forced to retreat inside the plane, we brought as much wood as possible inside.

After the bird is roasted, we eat it up hungrily. Then Tristan picks up one of the three cans lining the elevated airstairs. They contain the precious portion of water we can collect every day. As usual, Tristan drinks just a few gulps, then attempts to make me drink the rest.

"You should drink more water." I push away his hand holding the can to my lips.

"You need to hydrate. Your fever—”

"My fever will kill me anyway," I say. Tristan's hand freezes in mid-air, his knuckles turning white. "Let's not pretend, Tristan, just this one time."

"I can't… I don't want to think like this, Aimee. There is still a chance they will reach us in time."

"Tristan." His name spills out my lips with urgency. I want to say it as often as I can in the time I have left. "We both know even if that happens, the hike to the helicopter will take too long. I'll never survive."

He flinches hard. I shouldn't have been so blunt. I'm the one who’s accepted my death after all. He hasn't.

"I'm sure they have medicine with them," Tristan says. That has to be true. But my blood poisoning needs more than what a mobile arsenal can carry. No, what I need can only be found in a hospital. But his tone is so hopeful there's no doubt he's not faking it. This is not good. The sooner he lets go of hope and accepts truth, the better—the faster he'll recover when the inevitable happens. I open my mouth, then close it again, not sure how to put this in words. I can't find it in myself to break him. I don't know what's crueller: letting him hope, or robbing the hope from him.

As if guessing what's on my mind, he presses his lips to mine, and no more words slip out. He sits next to me, and I melt in his kiss, losing myself in his taste and warmth, allowing my skin to tingle with need for him, and my body to soak up his proximity. My hands roam his body, driven by a will of their own—they caress his hard abdomen, the sharp ridges of his hipbones, and travel all the way to his back. He has become so thin. His hands travel over me with equal intensity. There's no restraint in his touch anymore. Since I was bitten, he's restrained, as if he's afraid his kisses or touch might break me. But not now. I revel in the feeling. His passion burns away every thought and worry. Like a balm, it runs through the cracks that have splintered me these last few days in which I tried to keep my pain hidden from him.

"You're everything to me, you know that? You always will be," he whispers against my lips. Tendrils of reality raze at me at the word always, but I push them away. I don’t want to bring reality up this very second. I refuse to lose what is mine for certain—the present—by worrying over a future I have no control over.

"Always?" I ask in a playful tone. "That's a serious statement right there."

He gazes at me with warm eyes. "Always. I would marry you in a heartbeat and take care of you until we're both old, wrinkly, and nagging. I'd brew you coffee every morning and hold you tightly in my arms every night. It would be a privilege to watch you fall asleep every night. I can't imagine anything more beautiful and fulfilling than growing old next to you and taking care of you. Always loving you."

My heart skips a beat at the impossible beauty of his words. "Tristan, I…" Words fail me, as usual.

"Would you say yes?" His eyes search mine with chilling urgency, and he inches closer to me. I feel the caress of his warm breath on my lips. "Would you marry me if we were in another place, and I could give you a big wedding, like the one you always dreamed of?"

I push him away, playfully. "No way."

His breath hitches, pain shadowing his gaze. I didn't come off as playful. "I wouldn't want a big wedding," I continue, "I'd want a small, intimate one."

"Yeah?" The corners of his lips tug upwards in a smile. "After which you'd run away to solve a big case."

I frown. "I wouldn’t want to solve cases anymore, or be a lawyer."

"Really?"

"No, I… I'd want to do something else."

"There's a good chance I'd reconsider piloting for a living."

"You, sir, would never get on a plane again. Ever." I kiss him, pulling him closer to me. "You could give that doctor thing a try."

"Nah, I'm too old," he whispers when we break off.

"You are twenty-eight. That is in no way old."

"So you would marry me?"

"I would."

"You said wouldn't want a big wedding… how would you like our wedding to be? Where would you want it to be?"

I lay my head on his chest, trying to envision what that day would look like. "Hmm, somewhere outside, with just a few close friends attending. To be honest, I'd love it if it was just the two of us, but I know a few people who wouldn't forgive me for not inviting them. I'd like to wear a simple dress and be surrounded by lots of flowers, exotic ones like the ones here, if we could get them." After a pause I add, "And I'd like to get one of those tattoos you said natives do."

Tristan tilts my chin up until I look at him. He's grinning. "I thought you found it barbaric."