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The snow was a strange but familiar sight. Harsh winds pummelled at his nape and distorted his hearing. The damp cold snuck into his shoes.
In his memories, Kain remembered the day as blurry but lively, crowds of people bustling about, trying to go on with their regular day, cussing at strangers and not paying anyone much attention. It had been normal; but he realizes that might have just been a trick of time. What he saw now were two people struggling to climb upwards a slope, alone, and in the amidst of a blizzard. The weather generally had a bad habit of being erratic, but it wouldn't have stopped the two from coming out anyway. From afar, only their height disparity would have distinguished them, the smaller one following the elder's footprints in the snow.
Their faces became more discernible as they grew closer to present time Kain, who watched over them like a ghost in his own memory. He was almost as tall as Yakov now; just a few disconcerting inches away from being at eye level. However, Yakov looked more beaten-up than he was accustomed to, dark circles under his eyes that wasn't just makeup, grimy, ill coloured skin and fingers that had a tint of black to their tips. It suddenly came back to him why they were that way, the child behind him were wearing his gloves. Gloves that didn't fit him and never would.
The weather grew worse with each step, and even breathing became a laborious task. At some point, Yakov had called his name, but Kain's ability to hear had left him. This pushed Yakov to his final straw, it was always the little things that broke him down.
He aggressively stomped back to Kain's position and roughly grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.
"Shit, are you not even capable of the simple task of keeping up with me?" he couldn't refrain himself from yelling even in the coldest winter, maybe it was his screwed idea of warmth.
Kain tried clearing one of his ears as he answered: "No, I didn't you jackass. Apparently all the filth you smoke has finally worn out your vocal cords."
That lead to the delivery of the first punch.
Kain landed with his back onto the frigid ground and soon caught a few more fists to his face. All of them hurt, even for present day Kain, but he couldn't intervene. His cheek swelled up in the same spot.
Before this, Kain had involved himself in some ridiculous scheme that had led to their positions being discovered. Yakov was under a lot of stress, unsure if he could get himself out of this situation; let alone a homicidal pre-teen.
Nevertheless, Kain fought back like he always did, instinctively aiming for the same spots. But Yakov had grown not to underestimate those small hands that held a world's amount of ferocity within them; and for the first time, he interrupted Kain's routine, and sucker punched his head to the snow.
It was a lesson Kain would learn from in future years, but at that moment, he felt himself disassociate. His ears rang hollow and a trickle of blood flowed down his temple. The pain wasn't the reason young him had lost consciousness though, it was the lack of sugar to compensate. The surrounding snow turned an ugly shade of red.
It was only older Kain and Yakov now. Fuck you. He thought, not too different from his younger self.
Yakov turned around, and headed for the main city. Seemingly no longer ready to affiliate himself with Kain, uncaring of the wolves lurking in the distance.
He needed a cigarette.
No, he needed two.
Scratch that, he didn't even have any left. He digged up his pocket to find one that barely had anything left in it, but he brought it up to his lips anyway, and searched for his lighter.
When he didn't find it after turning his pockets inside out, he realized he had left the stupid thing with Kain. He was so used to the rascal carrying parts of him, and then changing them in ways Yakov couldn't take back. His lighter, when he had bought it, was blue and shiny; morphed into dull grey with stains and scratches after his period with Kain.
Yakov was looking into the distance, but his eyes pierced right through Kain's skull, almost like he still saw him. Lying was like his mother tongue, but to Kain his wild eyes and moribund posture, always gave away what Yakov truly felt. If one were to visualise Yakov, he'd be a storm in a bottle, just waiting for the tides to be strong enough to shatter the glass outside.
When Yakov turned back around, Kain ruminated if he did it to get his lighter back, or for another option he never considered for too long.
He watched him fade away into white, the way he always did. Far beyond his reach with a coldness between them, but always with clear footprints left for him to follow.