(F I V E  Y E A R S  B E F O R E)    

The walk home would be miserable - that much, you could say with unmatched certainty. Somewhere along the lines of a sunlit morning and a few hours of bartering at the local markets, the day had soured, and gray clouds had rolled in, bringing a gentle rain with them. You would've appreciated the change of skies under nearly any other set of circumstances, but this was not one of them.

After your mother had fallen ill earlier in the day, you'd agreed to try and find some medicine for her. She couldn't have caught a sickness on a worse week - nearly half the town was suffering from the same ailments. Needless to say, there was hardly anything left. You had been scouring the whole town, floor to ceiling, nook to cranny and back again, but it had been to no avail. And now, far from home, you found yourself inside a small general supplies shop, anxiously seated against a window that displayed the ever-darkening clouds swirling outside.

Inside it was only you and the store owner, an older man who currently seemed uninterested in anything but reading the newspaper. He'd been kind enough when you'd asked if he had any of the cure you were looking for; of course, he didn't, but he had given you a warning about the brewing whirlwind and offered his store as a temporary refuge. So there you were. Waiting.

About a half-hour of steadily-increasing thunder and rainfall, something strange happened. A tall shape, bundled up in what looked like makeshift raingear, had slipped through the door and made his way to the counter, sopping wet and dripping water in his wake. The shopkeep did not appear too pleased about the last detail.

You didn't pay much attention to the conversation they had - rather, you were stuck on the person's entry. Why would someone have walked all the way here in the middle of a storm? It wasn't like this was near any residences; the last town you'd seen had been well over two miles back. But that wasn't the thing that ensnared your full attention.

It was the person's voice. A familiar one.

"Bertholdt?"

The shape nearly jumped out of his skin. As he pulled the soaked hood of his coat back, your eyes met with his, confirming your suspicions. You couldn't tell exactly why his face was so wet - maybe it was rain, or maybe sweat, but probably a combination of both. His wide eyes stared you down for a moment before he seemed to recognize you.

The shopkeep had left the main room; presumably heading to the storage section to grab something for his newest customer. You slowly made your way over to him, stopping only a few centimeters from his stance, heart racing. Why was he here? Why had he risked the storm? And - why did he look even more nervous than normal?

"What're you doing?" You murmured, expression changing from surprise to concern. Over the past few months of school, you two had grown relatively close, and you considered him one of your best friends. It hurt you to see him shaking and drenched.

This question only made him grow more tentative. "[Y...y/n]...?"

You tilted your head to the side. "Did you - did you walk here? In the middle of...all that?" Your finger had a mind of its own, and rose to point at the window you'd been seated by earlier, behind which you could see the spinning chaos of rain and lightning.

He slung a hand around his left arm, face growing red as his gaze fell to the floor. He must've sensed your concern, and didn't want to make you upset, especially over him. "I...no, I just -"

"- Just got out of the shower and teleported into the building?" By now, you were beginning to grow angry. What had he been thinking? In the paper it had said that the storm had even claimed others' lives! The only reason you'd dared to come out was that it wasn't scheduled to hit your city...of course, predictions had their mistakes, and this was one of them. So why had he been out there, risking his life to get to a corner store? "What are you doing? That's killed people." Your voice quivered with every word - out of ire, out of concern, it didn't matter.

Bertholdt was even more frightened by your quiet resentment, but he didn't say anything, just clutched his arm tighter and let his face turn redder. Finally, after a few minutes of your caustic glances, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"What-?"

He shoved something into your arms, abruptly ending your sentence, then made a quick grab for the bags that the store's owner had returned with, threw some money on the counter, and turned to run in a single fluid movement. But something stopped him.

Somehow, your reflexes had beat his speed, and your fingers were digging into the back of his coat. "What are you doing?" You choked out, feeling heat rise on your cheeks and fluid building behind your eyes. Had he really been about to take off? Into that storm? Get himself killed; and leave you here to watch?

You could feel his body trembling beneath the layers of cloth. You were silently praying that he'd drop whatever crazy plans he'd been formulating in his head and just talk.

You didn't get your wish.

Instead, you got arms wrapped around your shoulders, then quickly pulled away, and then as quickly as you'd caught him, he'd escaped you, out into the storm.

You cried out - "Wait!" - and dashed for the door after him, but your reaction time had been delayed. By the time you'd stepped a foot outside the threshold it was as though he had entirely disappeared, leaving you standing alone, disoriented and tearful, mind pounding against your skull in its swell of worries.

It wasn't just raining anymore. It was hailing.

You would've followed him if you'd known where he'd gone. But the storm had darkened everything, and around the shop there was nothing but a vast expanse of wooded areas, only further cast into shadow by the looming trees. Your body was getting swamped to the bone by the small but sharp chunks of ice, but you couldn't feel it. All you felt anymore was the weight in your chest of your sunken heart, and the item that was tightly grasped in your hands. It took you a few moments to even remember it was there, much less to inspect it.

It was a drawing.

You remembered the day it had been made. The school had thrown its annual fair, and you and Bertholdt, not exactly being fans of crowds and rather well down the path to friendship, had decided to stick together, but apart from the rest of the classes. There had been a small artist's stand, with a student a few grades above you who'd been more than excited to draw you both. You had grinned and, with Bertholdt's agreement, decided to get yourselves a portrait of the two of you in her cute style. At the end of the day, you'd practically forced him to keep it. You and your family were going to be out on a business trip for your mom on his birthday. Giving him a gift had only felt like the right thing to do.

Carefully shielding the artwork from the weather - and your tears - with your jacket and free hand, you noticed a small arrow scratched in on red pen, with the word 'flip' scribbled beneath it. You turned the page over.

It was a message.

I'm going to miss your birthday. Thanks for being my friend, [y/n]. I'm sorry.

- Bertholdt

You weren't just crying anymore. You were wailing.