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[joaquinaraya]

𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈​:

—  mccowin park cemetery,  9th may 2044,  with joaquin araya.  @joaquinaraya​

it feels almost like a disservice to be stood in the peripherals of ray’s service, when it’s his last name that caused him to be buried earlier than he should have. nikolai keeps his head low, not wanting to draw attention, wishing only to pay his respects to a man who brought so much life into their depressing reality. nik will miss the fearlessness, the way ray would address him like anyone else, with respect completely unearned, but most importantly, not like a monster. 

when he looks over at the family stood closest to the freshly dug place of rest, nik imagines his own body being lain into the dirt. but in his reality, only daiyu can stand at his side, but she won’t be allowed to mourn. the others he can’t bear to think about, so there’s a small fraction of him that’s grateful to have someone approach to shake him free of his thoughts, but he still braces himself for outrage at his presence.

quino. it’s just quino. nik exhales audibly, eyes softening, relieved to be in the company of someone whose heart he can without a doubt claim to be good. nik nods in silent greeting, eyes returning to the rest of ray’s family. “how’d you sleep?” because he can’t quite bring himself to ask outright how much are you hurting?

& . . .

It never got easier. At the start, Quino almost convinced himself it would. That eventually loss could become synonymous with life. That losing people, good or not, in a world that knew only how to take might become less jarring. But, it never did. His heart never steeled the way others might’ve, instead remaining soft, and gentle. Vulnerable to a continuous sort of heartbreak. He mourns openly, and grieves loudly. He does not care who might hear him say this never should have happened, or he should still be here. It is stupid, he knows this much. But he does not care, cannot care as his mind drowns in injustice, and in grief for a lost friend.

He spots Nik in his periphery, and is unsurprised by his attendance. He knows Nik’s goodness. Knows he would not fail to pay his respects. And, though he was no mind-reader, he could devise that perhaps, hidden behind that facade he had become so comfortable behind, there was hurt. A pain, wrought by the situation at hand. 

Quino approaches with a delicate step, and an even softer “Hey.” There is a sad smile that finds it’s way onto Quino’s lips. This was their dance. He wanted to reach out, to place a comforting hand upon Nik’s shoulder and tell him you are allowed to grieve. To be as open and loud in his support of his friend as he was in his grief. Instead, he stuffs his hands into his pockets, and stands at a suitable distance.

“I’ve slept better.” A strange guilt accompanied Quino to bed the evening prior. While Ray’s life ended, Quino was somewhere, lost to one-too-many shots of end-of-the-world-alcohol and the excuse of celebration. “I thought, y’know, that when I woke up it all would’ve been a bad dream. That he’d still be here.” A pause. “I guess I’m still waiting to wake up.”

He looks at Nik now, though Nik’s own gaze is elsewhere. “What about you?” Quino almost hesitates, almost. “How are you holding up?” He cannot offer him as much support as he might like to, not here, not now. But he will offer what he can. 

[joaquinaraya]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘, 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓. 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇, 𝟐𝟎𝟒𝟒. 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊. 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 @henriklarsen.​

Word of new arrival reaches him by word of mouth — from somebody that heard from somebody else that bore witness to a stranger, a man, injured and alone, finding his way into the QZ. To Quino’s knowledge, there was no official Idaho Falls welcoming committee. No group outfitted with banner and cake and balloons to greet each wayward soul and straggling survivor that happened across their slice of survival. The very thought — of banner and balloon to welcome the clueless to Alexei’s domain — forced out a short puff of laughter, concurrent with the smooth slicing sound of knife through gel as aloe leaf was cut from it’s root. No, maybe there was no welcoming committee. But, that didn’t mean he couldn’t make an effort. Try to make new arrivals feel welcome, feel safe, secure. At home. 

The leaf was wrapped delicately in a scrap of mostly-clean canvas, and concealed with a similar quality of gentility in the inner pocket of Quino’s jacket. There had been no effort to slip from his post before the proverbial clock-out. Greetings could wait, and the man had no desire to be caught elsewhere, not when his responsibilities laid solely somewhere between the spuds, and the berries. When word first found him, this strange new man supposedly was recovering in the infirmary. Whether he could still be found there proved to be seen. 

Quino might’ve arrived sooner to the infirmary, had the trek not been through the mall, not been through the proximity of friends, acquaintances idling in their off time. He could not resist that special kind of end-of-day-small-talk, post shift chatter. Brevity never had been his strong suit, or so his brother had once claimed. If there was an ear to listen, there were words to be exchanged.

Even so, Quino remained convinced that his intention remained quickness, and kindness, and an offering of friendship — if it so interested the stranger. The aloe vera leaf acted as a sort of gift, a show of good faith. He had read somewhere that the gel within aided impressively in the healing of wounds, and the repair of skin. He was unsure just how true that was, but it was the thought that counted, no? He thought so, at the very least.

As he approached the area, he stepped a bit heavier. An act meant to announce himself, so that he might not startle whoever could be found within. “Good evenin’!”  He calls out, lopsided smile worming it’s way onto his tired features. “I hope I’m not bothering you. Heard there was a new face around, and I figured I oughta come introduce myself.” In recent years, Quino found his eyesight had begun to... struggle. Even so, in the blur of the distance between the two, he can’t help but fend off a feeling of recognition. An almost familiarity. He does not know this man, and yet, there is an energy about him that his own seems to resonate with. 

Quino maintains the smile, and tries to placate the hairs that stand to attention on the back of his neck. “I, uh, I brought you a little something. From the gardens — see, I run them. The gardens, I mean. Provide fresh food, and herbs for the QZ. And I heard you were injured so I figured I’d bring you something that might help.” Somehow, he stops what verbal onslaught of holistic plant usage threatens to spill forth from his lips, instead reaching into his jacket and pulling out the makeshift canvas package. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

[joaquinaraya]

𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐒, 𝐌𝐈𝐃-𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐘, 𝟐𝟎𝟒𝟒. 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 @cordiiceps​.​​

It is in this way that Quino makes himself useful — hunched over the garden beds, fingernails caked in a fine sheen of topsoil, mulch; picking, preening. It is in this way that Quino — even still, surrounded by this decaying world, and it’s deteriorating people — feels normal. Feels at peace. He is grateful, in his own way, that Alexei allows him this luxury. To be of purpose in a way the can also evoke such a personal joy. But, he does not gloat of these little joys nestled between the roots, and scattered across the leaves. Never, and especially not in front of his cruelty. 

Were he alone, he’d be humming by now. Filling the silence left behind by the birds, by society. He would prefer the real thing, he thinks, but Quino never dared to bring his walkman to the gardens. Never once had he encountered infected on the clock, but he knew his own luck. Knew the day he did, plugged in and tuned out while attending to the garden, would be the day that changed. The thought makes him exhale, hard, through his nose, smiling silently to himself.

He looks up, meets Nik’s eyes, and offers this smile to him. He breaks the silence, just as he would in his solitude. But this time, with words. “Just like that.” He demonstrates, tearing leaf after leaf of lettuce from the stem, leaving enough distance from the root to encourage a recurring growth. “I use my hands, cause I know what I’m doin’. Been at this for a while now. But uhm -” He discards his example in the collections basket to be later washed, delivered elsewhere, before reaching for a pair of scissors. They are an old thing, once a pretty paisley, he imagined. Now, faded, and struggling at it’s hinges. “You can use these, if it makes you feel more in control.” He takes them by the blade, offers the handles to Nik. “But, I trust you either way.”

He has expressed it before, once, in passing; just how much Quino appreciated Nik’s company. He appreciated any company received in the gardens, help included or not. But Nik’s company was always friendly, always good. Goodness being in short supply, it was something he had come to value. Greatly. But Nik? Nik was good people. Whether he himself believed it or not. 

[joaquinaraya]

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⎯⎯⎯  LET ME STAY TENDER-HEARTED, DESPITE DESPITE DESPITE

joaquin araya. fourty-four. horticulturist at the idaho falls qz.