100 Yellow Doors

june 17th, 1963, 3:32 p.m.

He curled now against the shack's floor, catching his breath. He was in a sleeveless shirt, though the tears along it suggested it had had sleeves not too long ago. The same fate appeared to have befallen his shorts. His legs and arms were black and red, the skin cracking and bleeding. Iman steeled her heart and crawled over to him, lifting his face.

She cursed, letting him go. "Jules."

He turned away from her, ashamed. "I was only out there for two hours."

"So?" Iman said. She was trying very hard not to yell, but she wasn't going to be able to fight it much longer. "Another hour and you would have been burnt to a crisp, Jules. What—what the hell did you do?"

He sounded as though he was speaking around broken glass; both he and Iman winced at every word. "I got..." he swallowed, shaking his head. "I got careless."

"No shit," said Iman. "You can't do this, Julien. You know what you are, and you know how people respond to it most of the time—"

A rustling noise interrupted her. She saw Julien's head perk up, heard a frantic, rodent like squeal, then the quiet shink as fangs sunk into skin.

Iman exhaled and turned around. Julien never liked anyone to watch.

When she turned again, Julien was standing. His face was healed, unscarred, as were his arms and legs. He looked like the Julien she'd seen a few days ago, in the present, only his hair was shorter and his eyes were sadder. A smear of blood painted his mouth and chin red.

Relief filled Iman; her shoulders slumped. "Look. I don't—I don't want to know."

He nodded, walking over to the nearest haystack and hopping on top of it with a certain grace only accessible to the undead. "You're in Nevada," he said matter-of-factly, folding his long legs beneath him. "1963."

Iman blinked. She'd forgotten to ask. "Oh. Thanks."

"How long are you here for?"

She shook her head. She rarely talked to Present Julien about Past Julien. Some things were better left unsaid. "I don't know."

"Hm," Julien said. He tilted his head, mopping the blood remnants from his mouth quite inefficiently. "When did you come from, then?"

"2019."

Julien's eyes widened. "Long trip."

"You have no idea."

For a moment, the two of them were silent. Iman had meant it when she said she didn't want to know what had happened. She already had half a guess, anyway. It was just difficult to talk circles around it like nothing at all happened in the first place. Like this was one of their usual meetings in Julien's San Diego house, an hour or two or four spent figuring out a useful way to pass the time before Iman jetted off to the present again.

Because it was not a usual meeting. It was the least usual meeting of them all, so far.

Julien was tired too, it seemed. "If I told you, Iman," he said then, "that I was ready to die just now?"

Something caught in Iman's throat. She said nothing.

"If I said that," Julien said, quietly, his voice smooth but timorous, "what would you say?"

Iman waited. Half because she wanted him to take it back. Half because she knew he wouldn't, so she had to figure out what indeed she would say.

She folded her arms across her chest; her heart was a jackhammer beneath her hand. She swiveled, staring at Julien. "Why?"

Julien opened his mouth to speak, but Iman cut him off. "I'd say why? Why the hell are you giving up so easy? Why don't you stick around a bit longer, just to see what there is to see? Why don't you live, why don't you fall in love, why don't you breathe, why don't you feel? That is what I would say. I would ask you why."

As she watched, something within Julien broke. She saw it, the way his eyes turned vacant for a moment, as if his soul, his being, had left his body behind. He looked lost. Completely lost. "Clearly it doesn't matter. Clearly I'm still alive in 2019, aren't I? Because you'd be talking to me differently if I were dead."

"Would I?"

"You would. I know you would," said Julien. "You're encouraging me because you've seen where I end up. It'd be different if I were dead."

"In that case," said Iman, frowning at him, "you have no choice but to listen to me."

Julien's gaze was level, unwavering. It bled curiosity, hunger, yearning. "What am I living for?"

"Like hell I know," snapped Iman. She walked over to the haystack, kneeling down in front of it, bringing her eyes to Julien's. "You keep so many secrets, you know. You're a secret yourself. Basis is, you're right. You are still alive. There is something out there for you, Julien. I frankly don't give a shit if you're tired of looking for it. It's still there and as long as it is you'd better not throw it away. Lots of people need you around. I need you around. So please don't—"

Hot tears caught in the back of her throat; she swallowed them down. "Don't leave me yet, okay?"

Julien's eyes, dark, unsettling orbs in the musty dark of the shack, searched her face. She had never felt so far away from him and so close to him at the same time. "Immy," he said. "I'm sorry."

Iman did not say what he wanted her to say: that it was okay, that he didn't need to worry about it, that they didn't have to talk about any of this again if he didn't want to. Because it would come up again, and again, and again. This was what it was to be immortal, wasn't it? To have forever and hate forever.

Forever was a bittersweet word. Julien had taught her that.

A familiar feeling rose in Iman's gut. She touched Julien's knee. "I'm leaving, Jules," she said. "Sorry I can't stay longer. Are you gonna be okay?"

He nodded. "Will you?"

When Iman got to her feet again, the weightless feeling surged. Her head beginning to spin, she said to Julien, "Yeah. I think so. Till next time."

"Yeah," Julien said, grinning ruefully at the ground. "Till next time."

And she was gone.