LIGHT ‘EM UP!

to say that tracking pavel lam to some terrible shithole was easy would be an insult to the word--after the word gets out among the worst of verona’s underground about the cathedral fire, every feral dog and street rat is suddenly eager to be of some assistance, where a few months ago they might have bared their teeth and raised their hackles whenever he strolled up, match between his grinning teeth. all it takes is a few names passed between the palms of new friends, a few promises of services exchanged, and suddenly nik is in posession of the name of a bar, frequented by the only other person as notorious and feared in the circles of those who dance around the edges of the montagues and the capulets, or those dregs neither side will accept--he has pavel lam suddenly in his crosshairs, without the other even being the slightest bit aware.

the place is awful, exactly the kind of joint both sides turn a blind eye to because they don’t deem it worth the time and effort. the inhabitants within are either strung out to the point of being oblivious or in posession of enough of a self preservation instinct to keep their head down when a stranger enters--which makes it easy enough to slide into a booth in the back, where he set his eyes on an all too familiar face, as annoying and cloyingly mischevious in person as it is in every memory he posessess. the other seems to have already gathered a crowd of temporary acolytes, people apparently desperate enough for human connection to laugh at every joke, every false yarn--he wonders if they even notice that they’re pressing another drink into their hand, if they even feel the tips of fingers as they dance coyly around the linings of pockets and the wallets contained within.

he lies in wait, a wolf in the shadow, until they finally wave a hand and their admirers begin to part like the red sea. they touch a waiter on the shoulder gently, before disappearing out of a back door, into what nik knows from several days worth of reconissance is an alleyway. he waits a long moment before he gives chase, and he can already feel his mouth beginning to salivate with anticipation.

he’s never killed anyone before--immolation is messy, lacks art, and frankly he’s never really hated anyone enough to go to the effort. but he has every intention of making pavel a work that even michelangelo himself would blush at, of inflicting every note of pain that theo must have felt as they crumpled to the floor that night back to their torementor with all of the precision of a master conductor in front of his orchestra. and he’s looking forward to it.

Theodora knew they had to show face at this party, to spare many a suspicion and to be present for Olivio’s initiation. The timing couldn’t have been worse, what with their head still aching and the doctors suggesting they stay away from intense stimuli as much as possible. They were foolish to even wish that the night would have brought a calm, flashy party that they could slip away from early with the intent of resting, the knowledge that they had to rest and the itch to get back to their life as normal as soon as possible battling but both realizing that one side’s desire would lead to the other’s. Of course, that was not what happened, but they could at least stay away from a similar outcome, spending their time keeping Isabella away from the fight they knew was not hers. But the night was not all victories as the explosion stories above hurts their head and causes a ringing in their ears louder than the church bells could have sounded. They held their head as their escape, and as the ringing began to die down they realized just who was behind this.

Nikolai spoke of protecting them, and then this screams the exact opposite. They watched for a moment as heat licked at the frame of the Capulet headquarters, not in horror of what damage is done but with the panic knowing what might have happened if one beam were to fall. If one thing were to collapse and they were in there still. It was reckless, and yes, they could be mad at what was lost, but there was no personal loss to them within those walls. A loss of convenience is nothing to them. It was the selfish thought of what could have been lost that fuels their anger, that fuels their steps home, faster as they hear his voice.

His steps are longer than theirs, and it’s not long before they hear his voice, louder and louder, until he can practically reach out and stop them as they cross the threshold into their home. It would be so easy to fearfully grip the door and slam it shut behind them, keeping him out once again, and yet as their hand slides against the wood to press the door open, they cannot find the ability to grip the door and swing it closed behind them. They’re not afraid. They’re not hateful. They’re angry. Upset. Hurt. Pain is not what they fear. They leave the door open because they cannot bring themself to shut it on him any longer.

“And yet I could have easily been hurt tonight,” they counter angrily, finally spinning on their heel to look at him in the open doorway. “You didn’t even think to say anything? To warn me? Did you not think of what could have gone wrong?” Their head hurts and the volume of their voice makes it no better. Theodora reaches to cradle their head in one hand as they lean against the wall of their hallway.

“i asked you to stay, i would have begged you if i thought it would make a difference--i wanted you nowhere near that place tonight.” if the way his voice wears thin as he desperately scrambles for the right words, for the magic combination that will make them believe what he’s saying, makes him sound every inch the weak and hungry street dog, then so be it. he’s past the point of caring how he looks--he needs theo more than he needs anything else. he’ll rebuild their cathedral brick by brick, get to his knees for cosimo capulet, if it means he gets to keep them, gets to linger in the doorways and under the windows of their life.

“you couldn’t have stayed, we both know that. you would have looked complicit.” he wants to reach out--to somehow prove the veracity of what he’s saying through touch instead of language. see? he would say, as he gently wrapped his fingers around their shoulder, gently moved his rough fingertips across their cheekbones. i have cast the heat out of my hands, rendered them cold again, afraid of the damage they could do to you.

but he knows--theodora moreau is a language he has dedicated years of his life to studying, to mastering--he can read in the way they hold themselves that if he touched them right now they would shirk it away. they trust in their anger, more than they trust in him--at least, at this particular moment in time.

“i didn’t know what to do, other than go with you, make sure that i got you out.” he rests his hand on the doorframe, just below where they grip it. close, but not touching. “things--didn’t go as planned. but you were my only thought, as you always are. Я люблю вас, theo.” he drags his free hand over his face, through his hair. he tries to summon the courage, from somewhere in the hollow depths of his stomach, to tell them exactly what the words mean--but he doesn’t think that he could bare to hear their response right now. he doesn’t want to see the way their face would shift, go from being sharp and angry to gentle out of pity.

instead he lets them hang in the air, for a long moment, before he speaks again.

“i said i would save your life a thousand times over, i meant that.”

“I haven’t,” they concur, a small smile forming upon their tired lips. “I’ve decided I like it.” Something that is only theirs. What ever in their life has been only theirs except the things they’ve created with their own bare hands? Their life and their things had not been wholly theirs, but Lavinia’s, a gift bestowed to them by the only mother they ever knew. Others had never been wholly theirs, especially Orpheus, who belonged to seemingly everyone in Verona simply to get a rise out of Theodora. Catherine was her own before she was their apprentice. Their business is, in part, Cosimo’s. These were not things to be sad about, of course, simply facts. But there are few things that are theirs and theirs alone: the drugs they crafted from scratch, created from their own tears and their own wit, and now, this name. This bond. They do not expect Nikolai to surrender himself wholly, and yet he speaks a secret in a code they cannot decipher, not yet, at least. “I’ll learn it some day,” they declare, their voice softer than it was, almost breathless at the feeling of his whispers against their skin. “I hope you’ll allow me that.”

It is not Nikolai who needs to allow them that secret. It is Theodora who needs to allow themself to be loved and love in return.

When he looks back at them, there is a soft confusion upon their face, as if they’re repeating his unfamiliar words, over and over, as if the inflection of them alone could tell them what he meant, since his words offered no clues. It’s a curious sort of confusion, the one that makes them wish to learn every word, the one that gives a sign that with every word they learn, they wish to use it to know him better. There is much they have missed in their stubbornness, in the ease of pushing him away for the comfort of the familiar. But familiar was no longer comfortable, not when it included Pavel. Neither was this conversation. “If he cared enough about me, he wouldn’t have chosen me simply to anger you,” they reason, not even knowing there was some tension between the two. “I’ve known him for a while, now. It’s obvious he thinks little of shared history and grief.” Their voice is pained, betrayal wringing out every hoarse syllable. “He serves no one. Not even morality.” There’s a thought that wonders if Orpheus would have done what Nikolai did, or if he would have stood back and laughed, too. They push that down. “He will pay. I’m sure of it.”

Theodora does not typically apologize. It is rare of them, for even when they are wrong, they’ll do everything to make you think they were in the right. But in this moment of vulnerability, they knew Nikolai did not deserve the cold hand slamming the (physical and metaphorical) door in his face that they’d given him for months, now. There was a reason they eventually opened the door, and it was about time they fostered it. “I’ve been unfair to you for some time. I at least owe you an apology for that behavior.” Perhaps Nikolai had never been a mistake, but the whispers of the familiar made it all too easy to believe. Perhaps it was the medicine bringing back those sensations when they were drunk that fateful night. They didn’t give that debate a moment of their fleeting time as their skin ignited from his kiss, even his lips capable of sparking fires with no other ignition source. “Please do not apologize for that. No one could have predicted this. I’m grateful you found me when you did – I’m convinced you saved my life, Niko.”

“i will tell you what they mean a thousand times over, say them to you until you get sick of hearing them.” he presses a kiss to their knuckles, grips their hand as tightly as he dares to. “but you have to trust me when i say that this is not the time, and more importantly, this hospital is not the place.” he can feel his expression soften, all the sharp edges he’s spent a lifetime cultivating somehow smoothing to a curve under the careful touch of their fingertips along the curve of his jaw bone, sweeping over the bow of his lips--as good as a kiss, to a man who has starved like nikolai borisov has starved. in the same way that michelangelo had seen the angel in the four dimensionless sides of the block of marble, theo somehow manages to bring something else out of him--something equally miraculous as any of their creations. “i will teach you something else, instead. a secret, like you wanted.”

he swings his legs over the edge of their bed, adjusts his frame which is too long for this particular hospital bed to ever really be comfortable, so that they’re laying side by side, their hand still held gently in his. “холодный. it means cold. where i’m from, in russia, it’s the first word you learn as a child. don’t go out in the cold, it’s too cold to play. should have settled somewhere where it isn’t so cold, as my father liked to say.” he rolls his head to the side, so that he can meet their gaze, and where he might have once clenched his jaw while he tried to communicate a particular aspect of his upbringing, of the inhospitable arctic city that raised him, he finds those particular muscles are relaxed, coaxed into peace by the warmth of their attention.

i’ve been unfair to you for some time, they tell him, in a tone he recognizes as a deliberate effort on their part to be gentle with him. if only you knew, he thinks. how used to surviving on scraps i am. how little i would be willing to feed on, where you’re concerned. “to be fair to you, i was a bad one night stand.” he laughs, shrugs a shoulder. “i broke all of the rules, and pretty much immediately. i never questioned why you acted like you did.” he brings their hand to his lips again, kisses their palm, the bones of their wrist. “i accept your apology, though i will not admit to one being needed.”

i’m convinced you saved my life niko.

niko niko niko. and here he had been so certain that he was the one adept at lighting fires, at devestating previously constructed fortifications, cities. all it takes is that word, that rounded off version of his name that belongs to them alone, and he is ablaze in a way he could never replicate outside of himself. he wants to hear them say it a thousand times over, wants to climb to the roof of this hospital and declare to the whole of verona that they will never be so fortunate as to hear such a thing, such a collection of syllable and sound.

nikolai manages to pry the window open with some force--not as much force as he would have liked, but at least there was some manner of resistance to his breaking and entering. though--he thinks that perhaps there should be a different set of terms, when its the home of someone that you know, someone you’ve shared multiple life and death situations with--alternative entry, perhaps. the element of surprise doors. using the only method available when you’re on the run from a police force that’s especially suspicious after you already burned a verona landmark to the ground. breaking and entering lacks any kind of style, any kind of narrative drive.

regardless of what it could arguably be called, nik slides himself through the window of izzy’s apartment with ease, one long leg at a time. she’s home--he can the gentle glow of lamplight coming from her front room--but the apartment is devoid of the sound of a television, or the characteristic clicking of laptop keys, or pen scratching against pretentiously thick notebook paper. he keeps his steps quiet as he makes his way from her bedroom, on the off chance that he’s interrupted a completely seperate house invasion, but as he rounds the corner he sees that his worries were unjustified. isabella gagliano, an inferno in her own right, sleeps soundly on her couch, her laptop sideways on the floor next to her, the victim of her exhaustion.

he smiles warmly before retrieving a blanket off of her armchair and gently draping it over her sleeping form. he can wait until she wakes up--he can’t think of anyone in the whole of verona more deserving of at least a few hours of rest, who he would rather have functioning at their peak performance. she can lay down her flaming sword for now, nik may not be able to wield it as she does, but he feels confident in his ability to at least keep it safe for a few hours, while she rests.

when she does eventually wake, later on that evening, nik is standing over a skillet and pushing the makings of a kind of left-over stirfry around idly. “good morning немного огня.” he drawls with a grin. “you really should do something about that bedroom window of yours, it turns out that any kind of street rat with a little bit of elbow grease can force it open.”

if the other man is in pain, he hides it well--he grins upon seeing nik reclining in the bath, cheerfully poses a question about the night of the gala, as if they were old chums catching up with one another instead of aquaintences who had met each other in the dead center of a firefight--a firefight that had ended with nik beating pavel lam damn near senseless. he admires tomas for it--his dogged effort to ignore the ugly parts of the world they linger on the fringes of. “that’s the thing about me,” nik chuckles and shrugs one shoulder. “i always manage to find a way out--no one thinks to pay attention to the stray dog, makes it easy for me.”

he worries his bottom lip between his teeth at the mention of theo--his mind is quick to supply the image, to dig its long and spectral fingers into the wound in order to open it freshly--but nik doesn’t allow it to get that far. theo is fine--theo calls him niko more often than not now, looks at him with softness around the edges of their eyes, threads their miraculous hands through his hair and presses their mouth to his neck as they weave magic--he has nothing to fear from that image, anymore. “i did. they weren’t in good shape--they are fine now, however.” it feels strange to hear tomas talk about them as nik’s friend--they have yet to give a name to whatever is going on between them, and he’s working on rebuilding the damaged portions of their trust after the cathedral fire, but it still doesn’t feel right to address them as something so simple.

he narrows his eyes at tomas, raises an eyebrow. “it doesn’t look as though i can say the same for you, though. i told you, you’re too pretty for fighting.”

he smiles warmly at her determined expression, at the way her whole being seems to come into itself when she’s able to communicate in her mother tongue. “you are amazing, do you know that?” he presses a kiss to her forehead, reaches above her smaller frame to pull two chipped mugs from the cupboard. “i’ve only been in love for about a day, maybe even less, and yet i feel as though i am nothing more than ash. you have been loving so much longer, and with far more danger, and you’re here taking care of me.” he laughs gently and bats her hands away, pours the water from the tea kettle for both of them.

her instinct, as it usually is, nik has found, is correct--he feels more alive with something warm in his hand, like a dull flame he can nurture to full blaze in his own time, gently. “you can come here, if you ever need a safe place. i will look after you both.” his smile is thin, a short lived thing that is easily overwhelmed as exhaustion starts to settle over his shoulders in the spaces where adrenaline, confusion and anger in equal parts, had once sat. its strange--he lacks the vocabulary to speak about it to even brielle, who speaks the same language that he does.

“catia loves you back--it’s different.” he says with a shrug of his shoulder, a ginger sip. “i worry alone, for someone who would sooner tell me how capable they are of defending themselves.” he drags a hand through his hair, grins even though he can feel new pain pressing behind his eyes--tears he does not want to shed, that they wound’t want him to shed for them. “all i am is the one night stand who didn’t leave when he was supposed to--the stray they keep feeding scraps to. i cannot tell them to run away, to stop for my sake. and now i don’t even know if i’ll get the chance, even if i wanted to.”

33. concept of home and family?  nik’s longstanding idea of “home” is that home is a place he won’t feel like he wants to run from. for most of his adult life he’s never felt really compelled to stay in one place--he’s always been able to find a reason to move onto something and someone different, because he figures that once he feels settled, then that will be the place for him to actually stay. he may or may not be coming closer and closer to that, the longer he stays in verona and the longer he stays close to a certain someone ;)  as far as his concept of family is concerned, he very much abides by the rule that family isn’t something dictated by blood--family is the people you come across in your life that are important to you, that come to mean something to you as you spend time with them. his blood relatives wanted nothing to do with him, in the case of his mother, or didn’t understand him and therefore distanced themselves from him, in the case of his father. again, this is something he’s only now starting to decipher the meaning of, the longer that he stays and allows himself to get closer to people. 

37. are they more analytical or emotional in their decision making?  nik makes decisions based purely on how it will make him, or other people feel. will it make someone he hates annoyed or hurt? sign him up. will it bring him joy to watch a longstanding verona landmark go up in smoke? absolutely, that’s why he puts in the effort. people in verona tend to hide their emotion as a kind of defense mechanism, so to subvert that and make himself as annoying as possible, he makes an effort to wear his emotion on his sleeve, and as loudly as possible. 

42. hobbies?  nik is a bit of a mad inventor--he was the kid that was always taking things apart just to see how they worked. he loves making explosive devices, or even taking apart something like a clock, just to see if he can put it back together again in a new kind of way. he also really likes urban exploration--seeing the parts of cities that generally get overlooked for more pristine experiences, experiences that would look good on an instagram page. he’s the kind of guy that would break into an abandoned theme park just for the hell of it. 

44. religion?  nik was raised russian orthodox, but he was easily bored and as he got older he began to put less and less stock into religion as a whole. he likes the concept--because of his particular skillset, it’s nice to think there might be something that happens after he dies, somewhere to go--but he isn’t a regular churchgoer or anything like that. he likes learning about the different traditions of each place he visits, so he has a lot of random knowledge about different religious practices stored away in the back of his brain. 

rumors travel fast in verona--nik is used to keeping track of them, to tracking down truths that he can in turn funnel to izzy’s pen, that she can render into something useful, into a complete narrative. what he isn’t used to, is being the unnamed subject of them. he isn’t used to being forced to look at himself in pieces, fragments of fact wrapped in the shrapnel casing of fiction.

my wife heard it was someone attached to the capulets.

a buddy of mine said the guy was definitely russian--he used vodka to light the thing up.

i heard it was neither--just someone who wanted both of them to suffer at once. guy’s the rightful king of verona for a stunt like that, if you ask me.

he grins every time, has to stifle a laugh behind his hand or turn his head and feign a cough--he doesn’t want to be the rightful king of verona, but he likes the idea of stealing a crown that so many who see themselves as better would kill each other for. let the mother, the lover, anyone who had never wanted him look at him standing on top of the heap at the end and wonder about the decision they made.

it’s an idea and nothing more--nik has only ever been interested in survival, not glory or any of the gore that goes with it. not to mention the fact that noteriety tends to get in the way of his work--the best fires are lit from complete darkness, and the worst thing that could happen would be for the wrong people to start sniffing around, asking questions with answers that lead back to him, potentially to the scant few people in this town he gives a damn about.

laying low for the time being is his best course of action, which means timing a trip to the roman baths at an hour where he hopes the place won’t be crawling with mob personnel. he just wants an hour--60 whole uninterrupted minutes where he can just focus on the warmth of the water, the way it seeps through his skin and into the parts of him that will always remain made of ice and snow, the way it soothes the ache of overtaxed muscles and renders burn scars something beautiful, something unintelligible.

he gets about 20, before he’s forced to crack open one eye and confront an intrusion. what does one even say, in a place like this? he wonders, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. he lets his neck relax against the tile and drawls lazily, “lovely weather we’re having, no?”

the cathedral goes up, just like nik had planned it. they all gather outside to watch as the flames wrap around it like a serpent, fangs bared to speak the unmistakable message that even the power of the capulets is not enough compared to the elements that nik has at his disposal--that even the mighty in verona will not survive, should he set his mind on destroying them. they had once left theo without protection, without shelter, while pavel lam wreaked havok and almost took away their life--nik has no problem letting them scatter to the four corners of verona like rats without hovels.

its everything he had wanted it to be, but it happens several long minutes after it should have--long minutes that could have trapped theo, izzy, or other innocent people inside of it. he shoulders his way through the masses, trying to keep his desperation under control--he can barely stomach the thought of hurting either one of them as a hypothetical. if they’re in there, somewhere? crying out for help? nik will run into the heart of it and never look back.

he catches a glimpse of dark hair, a familiar shape, a look that shatters any composure that he was holding onto. he’d wanted to share this moment with them--he’d planned out every word he was going to say.

look, no one will dare hurt you as long as i’m here. there isn’t a length i won’t go to, in order to make them understand that you are my priority.

instead he finds himself chasing after them, calling after them without a response. even when he finally draws close to them, mere steps away from the front door of their apartment, they do not look at him, and they do not speak. for a moment, as they cross over the threshold, he thinks that his great gesture has lead him to the final nail in his own coffin--surely, the door will close and leave him on the outside, like it had a hundred times before. they will be alone, and they will realize that they can do better than someone who is unable to keep the chaos inside of themselves contained, who delights in such destruction.

he opens his mouth to beg them to keep it open, to give him a chance to explain his motivations--but he doesn’t have to. a small miracle happens, right on the streets of verona, as the bright light of what had once been the cathedral of burns in the distance.

they walk inside of their apartment, but they do not close the door.

he wraps his fingers around the doorframe, but he does not enter. he’ll only do that once he’s certain that they want him there, once they tell him as much--if they decide that they need space, that they need time, he’ll give it without complaint.

“i would never hurt you, theo.” he says, his voice hoarse from a mixture of desperation and smoke inhalation. “you have to believe that.”

Isabella: [She releases a breath she didn't know she was holding, the sound of 'I'm fine, Isabella' sweetly gracing her ears.] Good. Good, I'm so glad to hear it.

Isabella: Puck? Dios mío, they're always stirring the pot. [People like Puck both hindered and helped Isabella and her publications.] I wasn't aware they were even in attendance. [Annoyance leaks into her words--not at Nick, but at her own ignorance.]

Isabella: Theo... They're a Capulet, no? Titania, sovrano delle fate? [The ruler of fairies, she's heard they're called--regaled for their drugs, boasting that both il sangue and il anello were better than the Montagues' ambrosia.]

Isabella: And what of you, cariño? I'm glad to hear your friend is alright, but I'm worried about you... You're playing with fire, lingering around a Capulet--especially after Tomas' stunt with Juliana.

Isabella: Odessa only wounded my pride. I couldn't get away from her to get back into the hotel.

Nikolai: I didn't know they were a Capulet when I met them. I was new to Verona and we weren't...[he chuckles, and the sound is equal parts fond and something approaching desperate] we weren't supposed to be anything at all.

Nikolai: Isabella...[he pauses for a long moment, not because he fears to tell her about his true feelings, but because he doesn't quite know what to tell her. how does one begin to describe the northern lights? the ocean? the moon over a desert?] they aren't just a friend. Or at least--I don't think they are anymore. I don't know--do you think it's possible to have been in love with someone without realizing it?

Nikolai: Is it arrogant of me to believe that the Capulets don't care enough about me? I'm nothing to them--a stray dog they can summon with meat when they want me.

the capulet party is blinding, for one so used to only being able to glance at these sort of things through windows, and momentary gaps as doors would swing closed. women sweep by in gowns that probably cost more than andrei borisov’s entire workshop, and men glide from conversation to conversation with the ease of ancient kings and courtiers--its achingly apparent that he doesn’t belong here, even if he comes on the arm of their beloved and resplendent titania.

it would bother him, any other time--but on this occasion, he would prefer if no one noticed the stray dog in their midst, that no one wonder how it got in, or what precisely it might do now that it has gained entry. let them wonder that after they’re left with only the smoldering ruins of their gluttony, of their self-righteousness--he’ll grin and shrug his shoulders as casually as ever, throw a wink in their general direction as he disappears into the night so brilliantly lit by their destruction.

he presses one last kiss to theo’s hand, gently touches katarina’s shoulder as he passes, grins wolfishly at izzy with her trademark expression of equal parts frustration and dogged determination,  before he easily slips into the shadows along the edges of the event and into the labyrinth of hallways and corridors that make up the body of the cathedral.

he’d stolen inside the place with staff earlier that day, left the backpack with his specially made gift tucked away in a closet with charitable donations--its in exactly the same place when he steals away now, ready and willing, practically singing with the siren song of the sweet chaos it will inevitably reign down. it's almost too easy after that--he’d been studying the blueprints of this place for weeks, had even requested a walking tour that a sweet old priest was only too happy to indulge--he can see the best place to put a bomb with almost photographic clarity in his mind, and as he moves as quietly as he can through the ancient depths, it becomes clear that the capulets are not expecting any of their guests to go wandering, and didn’t see the need to post guards.

it's their mistake.

he only vaguely registers the sound of chaos unfolding, of shots being fired--he’s too busy with placement and delicate mechanisms that only his hand can bring to life. it will be worse if you leave it half done, he rationalizes after a shot of fear goes through him and his thoughts go back to theo, to the hotel--it will be worse if someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing comes upon it. someone like pavel lam, who takes the delicate art of chaos and destruction and smashes it to dust. the sooner he finishes this, the sooner he can convince them to leave, to run to safety.

he inhales and exhales slowly in an effort to keep his hands steady, in an effort to focus himself only on what he’s doing. It's a difficult effort even under normal circumstances, and it's rendered even more difficult once his brain translates what had once been annoying static, mumbles from a distance, into a voice--a voice that seems to be drawing closer and demanding help. repeatedly.

nik grits his teeth, worries his bottom lip between them. he does not turn his head. “i cannot help you.” he says shortly, with a quick shrug. “you are better off up there with the others.”