katabasis (thoroughbreds | amanda/lily)

[fiachairecht]

katabasis. thoroughbreds (2017), amanda/lily. 979w, rated m. in the snow there's only memories (and ghosts). for scioscribe in jump_scare_exchange 2021.

Up by the Canadian border, they're the only two people in the world, and Lily's surprised by how much she likes it. She likes being watched, always has, and while she'd thought she'd miss the attention, turns out that the feeling of Amanda's eyes on her is better than the combined gaze of a whole city.

And what Amanda lets her do to anyone else who looks at them, well. That's the best part of all.

It's easy in the summer, with the holidaymakers. Easier still in autumn, the slowly dying days of hunting season. In the summer they paint each other in blood, and by autumn it's seeped into the landscape too, crisp golden-red leaves that pile up atop the bodies they leave behind and drift across the tops of their campfire coffee mug

Who needs pumpkin spice? Lily whispers against Amanda's lips one twilight when they're pressed into the single sleeping bag. We've got blood and spice—

And everything nice, Amanda finishes, her fingers creeping under Lily's sweatpants as Lily obligingly hooks her leg over Amanda's hip. Lily's never asked her what she gets out of sex, but Amanda never says no, and that's enough for her.

Everything's perfect, until the first snowfall forces them inside.

The converted hunting lodge advertises itself as rustic, but it's obvious from the first few steps inside that shabby is the better word. Enormous taxidermy deer heads line the walls, some of them tilting ominously sideways. Lily eyes them while Amanda gets a room, wondering how much force it would take to knock one loose.

What the proprietor — some sleek blonde college-aged wannabe hunter who's still dressed for summer and has to be working for his parents — would look like speared on the antlers.

A girl has to find her fun somewhere, and when the boy turns around to fetch their keys and Amanda glances back, her tongue darting out over quirked-up lips, Lily knows she's thinking the same thing. Better to think about that, anyway, than why the boy feels stuck on some shard of the past she hasn't quite finished packing away.

It isn't that bad, the first few days. The boy from the front desk leaves them alone. They smoke some of the weed they'd picked near the end of summer with more abandon than was possible outdoors during fire season. Reminisce about old kills, telling the stories over and over again until Lily imagines she can see their memories in the smoke: the two of them knelt down next to a backpacker, interlocked fingers wrapped around the hilt of a hunting knife. There's something about the body's face — the tilt of the mouth, the way blood's pouring down its chin—

She blinks and it's gone, the smoke all dissipated. She's going a little crazy, behaving. Of course the memories seem closer.

She doesn't need them, she tells herself. All she needs is right here: the smouldering end of her joint crimson against the white sheet, Amanda's mouth just as red between her legs as her tongue re-maps the stories into Lily's skin.

But the wind keeps getting worse.

It sobs and howls until it's strong and cold enough to pile snow nearly to the tops of the ground-floor windows, whiting out all memory of trees or leaves or blood or dead bodies. There's a single grey sliver of sky above the drifts to remind them there's still a world out there, but Amanda looks straight past it.

"Katabatic winds," she says a week (two weeks?) into their stay, nose against the glass, her breath curling over her lips. "Wonder how many people are going to die tonight?"

"Morbid much," Lily mutters, more focused on rolling another joint. "This is New York, not Greenland."

"Yeah, but." Amanda turns around, back to the window, and Lily looks over at her. She can't not these days, not when Amanda's the only constant in her life. Amanda's shivering, her curls etching fine lines in the condensation. "Lily, I'm cold."

The heater's on, as much of a heater as the hotel has, but Amanda's face is so white it's nearly see-through, like there's a whole other face underneath that Lily could see if she just pulled, and fear spikes in Lily's heart.

And then Amanda laughs, her body stilling, and Lily breathes again. She better not be turning into a paranoid smoker. It's just Amanda's technique. But, "Come over here then," she says, holding out the joint.

Amanda does, but as soon as she climbs into bed Lily almost regrets offering, because, technique or no, Amanda actually is really fucking cold.

"Ugh, your feet are freezing."

"Warm me up, then," Amanda says, like she's said on so many cold nights before, but her voice sounds wrong. Deeper, distant.

And when Lily looks up, she's still by the window, head tipped back against the glass, the lacy patterns spiderwebbing out behind her head like cracks. Like a face. Like something Lily should know.

"Lils? You sharing, or what?" Amanda's eyes are narrowed in something like concern, reaching out for the joint, and all Lily wants is to get up, cross the bare wood floor and cup Amanda's not-frozen cheeks in her hands and prove to herself that she's fine, they're both fine.

All Lily is sure of is that she really, really shouldn't get out of bed.

She closes her eyes, takes another hit. Behind her eyelids she sees the cracks again, moving, settling into a human face. Settling down, into the earth.

Like someone they buried.

Lily can almost hear the sheets rustle, faintly audible beneath the sound of her heartbeat rushing like the wind.

Can almost hear the lock clicking open, the glass creaking under the weight of snow, Amanda's voice saying, Lily, do you remember,

The body that slides in next to her is cold.

Lily doesn't open her eyes.