Chapter Text
The intern’s pink shirt was burned monotone red. It turned crusty from his dried blood, and the soaked fabric had frozen into a crackly second shell. His young face looked almost peaceful in the ice—eyes shut, expression relaxed—even despite the blood loss leeching the saturation from his skin, and the gauntness of his cheeks from malnutrition.
The crash had only been the beginning of the end.
Really, their rations had run out, before anything else. Daisuke had seen them dwindling each time his Boss told him to go count their stock. Twenty cans became sixteen, became twelve, became eight, became four.
By then, Death had already settled its heavy cloak over the crew’s shoulders. Only a month or so after the ship crashed, the set of eight focused eyes turned dull and heavy with exhaustion. Their wide smiles became close-lipped and uncertain. Brushed hair became greasy. Clear skin became dirty and riddled with bumps.
All of them were prepared to attend their funerals long before it was time to.
Daisuke stood for a while, there; looking listlessly down at the packet producer, as his hand hovered over the buttons, considering stealing another sweetener for himself. He realized then, in that moment of stillness, that he really didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to think about death. He didn’t want to acknowledge death, didn’t want to feel it’s cold hand touching his shoulder.
He hadn’t even had the time to do anything—make anything of himself.
What did he want to be?
…Well, not dead, at the very least.
But when the Cryopod’s door hissed open and was shoved aside with a clang, and Daisuke’s body had but a moment to thaw, the pain swelled and blossomed like fresh hibiscuses sprouting out of his skin. Only this violent bouquet in his honor could make Daisuke wonder, briefly, that perhaps death would be a more pleasant aspiration.