My head swells as I sink into lethally peaceful isolation. The explosions from fireworks and the boom of music go mute. Water insulates even the occasional burst of conversation from partying neighbours taking smoke breaks on the street.

The movement of the shadows on my bedroom ceiling slows along with my breathing. I'm near enough to death that even Beewolf don't register me as worthy prey. Or maybe I just can't hear it.

My own eyes look up at me from the ceiling. Down? Gleaming black that hides the pupils.

No, that's not entirely right. I have moved to the ceiling, now watching my body in the coffin of my bed. The reflections of the singing clouds outside are cast over the side of my face, fire nibbling at my ear and cheek.

My phone screen lights up. With it discarded on the bed by my thigh, I shouldn't be able to see it. I shouldn't be able to notice the incoming call at all because my phone is muted. But I watch Diwa's caller ID flash on the screen until my hand finally grabs it.

'Hello?'

'Cece? It's Diwa.'

Why does she always say that? I'll commit war crimes if she says that one more time.

'I know that,' I hiss—or intend to, but my voice is flat. 'I have your contact saved.'

Rather than match my snark, she laughs at herself. 'Just wanted to ring to say happy new year.'

Oh... I didn't even think about doing that.

I'm a bad friend. I might be the worst friend.

'You too,' I mutter. She might not hear it, not with the commotion clamouring into my ear. 'You having a nice night?'

'Yeah. I don't get on very well with my immediate family but it's nice to see the rest of them. My aunt has been drinking since noon and she called my dad a crusty jizzsock—it were brilliant. How's your night been?'

'Fine.'

Clatter. Then the distinct sound of a door and the party muffles. After shuffling, which suggests she has sat somewhere soft, Diwa speaks again. 'So have you got any resolutions?'

'No. Promises are just a guarantee for letting people down.'

'Not unless you make a resolution to be a cynical tosser.'

Fair enough.

'Well,' Diwa starts, 'I've been thinking about what you said about not caring so much about what my parents think and I promise–'

She's cut off by a shriek of her name followed by babbling in at least two voices in what I assume is Tagalog. I don't have to understand the words to know that Diwa is trying to convince them to leave her alone but, eventually, she admits defeat.

'My younger cousins have found me. I've gotta go. We always eat pancakes after midnight on New Year's.'

My facial muscles are likely incapable of smiling but a wink of joy kindles somewhere in my chest. I'm not sure I've ever heard her voice be the tickle of grass against bare feet rather than the clash of talons.

'Enjoy. See you at school.'

'Be ready to study,' Diwa sings. She wishes me a happy new year again before ending the call.

I drop my phone on the pillow. My sight has returned to my eyes, watching the shadows on my bedroom ceiling disperse from fireworks. Holes and holes and holes burned into the dark.

The sky bleeds gold, the clouds shredded by glimmering claws, each whistle the harbinger of a new wound. I stand in front of my window as tatters of the nightfall between the houses of our estate.

It's only when the scratches of light get less frequent that I'm able to pull myself from the window. I fetch Nicolás's laptop from his room and return to my own, log in and find The Hellstrom Chronicle from my bookmark bar.

I leave the laptop on top of the dresser I've placed by my bed so I can use it as a nightstand. It's too tall and the bottom sliver of the screen is cut off from my line of sight as I lie down.

It don't matter. The mechanical nature of insect routines snares my focus so that I've no room to think about how my hands might not be mine, how someone might've drugged me and replaced my hands with someone else's.

Long after humans are extinct, insects will continue their routines. They won't even notice our deaths and disappearances, not beyond the provided carrion.

'Faces functional and without expression,' Hellstrom narrates. 'Only eyes and a mouth—just enough to keep the rest of the body alive. No muscles to smile with or frown with, or in any way betray what's lurking beneath the surface. He can see us and hear us through a thousand tiny hairs that warn him of our presence in every pore of his body.'

The documentary is interrupted only by a knock on my door. Nicolás manages to make knuckles on wood sound like the rap of rain on the windowpane.

His voice, too, is cushioned. 'Cece? You awake?' When I hum to affirm, he asks, 'Can I come in?' and I hum again.

Nicolás eases the door open, peeking at me through the crack before venturing to enter. The only light in my room is the laptop screen, leaving him with only the reflection of the blue glow from the wall behind me. Even as most of his features are feathered into the shade, the puffiness of his eyes is sharp.

He's been crying.

Rubbing his wrist, he asks to sit down and when I grant it with another hum, Nicolás lowers himself to the edge of my bed.

'Happy New Year.' He whispers even though he can clearly see I'm awake. 'You alright?'

'Yeah.' I turn back to Doctor Hellstrom's lesson on insects. I can imagine I look ill, bathed in the light of the screen, harsh shadows carved into my face. 'Everything fine with you?'

'Course. Why wouldn't it be?'

Just the general "might melt into a puddle of water" demeanour I guess. Where I've always been stoic (evil), Nicolás feels too much. Sometimes I think he might hurt so bad that he turns into seafoam or a cloud of fireflies like in the fairytales he used to read to me.

And it's my fault. He was happy before me.

Nicolás picks up my notebook from my feet. He has offered to buy me better sketchbooks but I cost him enough money as is. And whatever horror scenes I need to get out of my brain and onto paper or corporate property aren't technically good enough to warrant expensive materials.

'What are you drawing?'

'Stuff.'

Sincerity is the light bulb encased in an electrical grid that we're doomed to moth around.

Except Nicolás decides to get zapped this time. Maybe in hopes of proving to me that fatal electric shocks aren't actually that bad.

'Erm... there's this regular at work,' he starts. 'She comes in almost every weekend. I thought she were well nice and that we had this, you know, thing. Turns out she's not that nice.'

I shift my focus to him. His side profile is carved into the wall with light and shadow. 'Sorry.'

'It's my fault.'

We fall silent. It's my turn to open up, show effort and appreciation for his companionship. The only voice to fill the dark is Doctor Hellstrom's.

Nicolás lies down behind me, not touching but near enough for me to be cradled by his warmth. Unable to help himself, he reaches for my hair and I don't shove him away, not even when he starts detangling my curls the best he can with just his fingers.

'Your hair's growing. It'll be longer than mine soon enough.'

We both know my spirit will only ever be a fragment of his. But his hand moves to caress my cheek and the touch is too gentle to be malicious.

'What's your favourite insect right now?' he asks, an obvious attempt to distract me when he gets to work on the worst knots, a clump of matted hair the size of an eyeball. 'Still beetles?'

'Giraffe stag beetle is always gonna be up there. But I like vampire moths. They suck blood.'

'Lovely.'

His sarcasm is so rare that a laugh trills from my tongue. At a breath's delay, Nicolás's chuckles follow.

We've just settled into each other's presence when ice begins its creep up my spine. My gut twists though it's not maggots that writhe in it but summat with wings.

Whatever it is, it summons tears into my eyes. I refuse to sob and so it claws the inside of my ribs instead.

Even when all he can see is the back of my head, even when I do my best to disguise the winged thing into a tense body, Nicolás senses it.

'You sure you're alright?'

'Sometimes I just think it would be nice to have traditions.' My voice comes out as monotonous as it always is.

Silence for two heartbeats.

'We can start traditions.'

'You've already got traditions with your mates.'

Nicolás shifts, lifts his torso with his elbow to watch the side of my face. 'That don't mean we can't have our own traditions.'

Maybe we–

No. I shake my head. He already has a family. I'm nothing but blood hardened into handcuffs.

I'm evil. He's hurting. He's hurting all the time and I know he reckons I don't notice when he cries in his car, but I notice. It's my fault. Even Nicolás will eventually reach a limit.

He'll have had enough of me eventually—no matter how patient and kind he is, he'll have had enough of me eventually.

Notes

Council estate: Neighbourhood of public housing built by local authorities.