#gils

The sky is without star.

Arkao tugs the collar of his cardigan closer to his neck against the chill. It has started to snow again, as was Ishgard's wont, but even as snowflakes made their gentle descent around him, Arkao can not find solace.

His feet seem to carry him of their own volition. Though in reality he had only been in Ishgard a few weeks prior, it seems like a lifetime since he had walked the streets of his youth. And yet, the ache is not the nostalgia he expected. It is guilt.

Remember that we lived.

All of Arkao's closest people are here with him. Alphinaud, Alisaie, even G'raha—they have all safely returned to the source, and tomorrow morning, they would set out for the Rising Stones with Estinien in tow.

But even though he has returned home, even though his loved ones are well, even though they had saved Norvrandt and soon, with all the strides made in curing tempering, the source would be too — the victories are bittersweet knowing there are people with only vague memories of a home they can never go back to. Perhaps it is silly to wish to save an already dead race — one besides whom are the enemy. As all else in Arkao's life, it's complicated. But it hasn't stopped haunting him.

Arkao begins to slow as he nears the outskirts of the Pillars. He stops at the ledge, hands only lightly on the railing, as though wanting still to keep a distance, though he knows without it a single willful pace would be enough to seal his fate. He stares out, where pitch dark silhouettes of mountains homogenize against the night sky. No sharpness to their peaks anymore. They reduce to mere smudges in an abyss of gloom.

This walk tonight was meant to clear his mind after tossing and turning in bed in the room the Edmont had kindly set up for him and the others. To process everything that happened to him. What is yet to come. But instead of clarity his head is only becoming more spun with turmoil.

It doesn't make sense to call himself a hero when by saving one he hurt another. Isn't Elidibus right? Of course he's going to say that, he can imagine Domin scolding him, but it felt unfair. He wishes it were so easy for him. He wishes everything didn't hurt so much.

He forces his eyes away and his legs reluctantly begin to follow suit. Heart thuds in his chest when he stops. Backpedals a half step and turns on his heels back toward the balcony—

Arkao's wrist is grasped and yanked.

He stumbles a couple steps backwards and lands himself against Estinien; Estinien says, "I do believe I've seen this song and dance before."

Arkao feels the sound of Estinien's voice as though in his own throat, tightening and filling until he can't make a noise of his own, but merely stares wide eyed. His heart is hammering.

Estinien all but drags him away. Arkao's legs function only in autopilot, everything in the snow and darkness meaning nothing, hollow void.

He falls into the seat underneath the gazebo Estinien leads him to. He is no colder than he had been earlier, but nerves have him shivering.

"I've not a coat to offer you, so you'll forgive me," Estinien says, "but it does raise the wonder of why you're out here contemplating the railing with a scarce piece of fabric to cover you."

Through the knot in his throat Arkao fumbles over an excuse that he just needed some air, and, because he's feverish and, and he didn't know what else to, Tataru and Krile have been—

Estinien gestures for him to quit. "Enough. Understand that this, you cannot hide from me. The road to destruction is a road with which I am well acquainted... and I've seen your signs for some time now."

As though Estinien had driven his lance into his gut, Arkao realizes what he meant. Still, he can not reason when it happened. Certainly not in ishgard. Even on their journey to Moghome, though they'd shed a few layers and spent a handful of nights washing off dirt in a stream alongside each other, Arkao kept a modest distance. Maybe he's wrong. Could convince Estinien he is wrong. Or maybe…

Maybe… after G'raha failed to pull him to the First...

With a start Domin pushed forward, cofronting. He shakes their head, "No. Those are old. I'm fine—"

"They still bother me..." Arkao interrupts.

"But I'm fine."

Their head is pounding.

Estinien relents. "I am by no means a coddler, but don't think me the kind to sit by idly as you attempt to—"

"No." The sound is forceful, desperate, dazed. "We don't do that anymore."

Estinien's brows are furrowed, trying to riddle this. Their eyes clench shut. They are trembling unlike he had ever seen before, head spinning from the emotion and all it took for both Arkao and Domin to keep switching like this.

Without warning Arkao's fingers grab the end of their shirt and he pulls it up, revealing on their stomach the selfsame tale: a rush flurry of lines overlapping, red and deep purple collecting to form scabbing over the still tender mess. Clearly not an attack, clearly deliberate, and clearly recent. Tonight. Still doing it.

Estinien takes a pause, lips pressed tight as he's looking at them. He nods slowly.

"Put down your shirt." Arkao does as he's told.

"Now look what you've done." Domin does not say it out loud, but Arkao shakes his head as though it will block it out. "Do you want him to make you stop? I thought you had gotten stronger. But you're the same dependent pup you used to be."

A heat rises to their face. They're dizzy and dizzy and their eyes close as Gils switches to front, tears pouring from his eyes. He falls forth, curling into Estinien's lap and balling his fists in the fabric of his trousers as he hiccups sobs.

Estinien stiffens. "Ah—" comes from his mouth first, stunned and a touch confused by the predicament. He attempts a couple awkward, impersonal pats at Gilss' back. Then he says, "Follow me inside, will you?"

~

They walk to Estinien's home close by — a humble quarters given to him back when he was first officiated as a dragoon. The frigid air is shut out with the door and replaced with the subtle warmth of a hearth on the other side of the room. Gils's crying has eased, but he sniffs and his voice still wobbles as he asks, "Do you have hot cocoa?"

Estinien takes a pause to contemplate the question. He sighs. "Yes. I have hot cocoa." Then, "Come."

Gils follows Estinien into his kitchens. As Estinien sets about heating the water, Gils curls up in a seat at the table — making himself comfortable. He lays his pounding head down on the table and closes his wet eyes. Little by little, the clinking and shuffling of Estinien fixing the cocoa lull him to a calm.

Estinien's grunt as he takes a seat makes Gils lift his head at last. He has a mug in either hand and slides one across the table. Heat blazes his icicles of fingers when Gils captures it in his hands — but still he takes several greedy gulps. Estinien watches this, speechless.

When he finally stops with a sharp exhale, Estinien says, "So let me get this straight. You say you're not Arkao anymore."

Gils shakes his head. "Not forever. Just right now." He explains that he's the youngest alter and that's all he really knows about this stuff. Arkao and Domin had been fighting during their conversation outside, and Arkao got sad, so Gils had begun to share consciousness— before ultimately taking the front, to stop their fighting and prevent them from wearing out their body.

"Something I've never had to do before…" Gils admits.

Estinien scratches his neck, not really seeming to understand. But then he nods. "When Nidhogg was in possession of me," he tries finally. "I think I understand that grapple for control."

"I don't. If they didn't hurt each other, no one would have to feel hurt at all." Gils's gaze falls. "I wish they would get along…"

Estinien sits back. "And you're... eight?"

Gils nods.

Estinien is silent a moment before sighing. "Aye, you have the right of it," says Estinien. "But people will never stop preying upon others for want or need of something. All there is to do is bring justice to it."

Gils pouts his lip, unsure if that was a compliment or an insult. He takes another sip. Says nothing.

Estinien leans forward. The look on his face is a puzzling one; near impossible to discern the thoughts and feelings beneath it. He gives a tilt of his head when he says, "I don't suppose you would want to talk about what's going on between them. So I won't make you."

"I don't know, anyways."

Estinien hummed.

Bit of silence. Gils expects Estinien to say more after his statement, but he does not. This guy really doesn't make sense to him. He finishes his drink as Estinien just takes him in.

"Want mine too?"

Gils looks up at him. A small smile began to twist on his lips. "No thank you."

Estinien ends up getting up then, and motions to set the cup in the washbasin before placing it on the counter. Gils, calmer now, takes in his surroundings. It has been a long time since he has relished in the comforts of Ishgard. His home.

In a corner of the room opposite of the door, the hearth blazed, casting gentle light into the room. Gils gets up from his seat and hurries over to it — plopping down on the old wood floor in front of it, legs tucked under his chin.

"You're allowed to speak your mind, though," says Estinien finally, "if you wanted. But, ah…" He makes a vague gesture with his hand, but Gils could guess what Estinien is trying to say: he is no Haurchefant.

Despite himself, Gils giggles a little. "No, I'm okay. I'm tired."

Estinien mumbles, "'Tis only two hours past midnight..."

Gils wriggles in the shirt Arkao had on, cold and wet and wishing it weren't so tight. It is the only thing making him not totally comfortable right now; otherwise, he feels fit to sleep. He looks back up to Estinien, who is now standing just behind him. "Can I have a bigger shirt?"

Estinien's brows furrow in intense thought. He says, "I don't own many pairs of clothes. But"—he shrugs—"I'll see what I can find."

He leaves the room then, disappearing down the short hall.

Gils, disregarding his alters' sense of modesty, takes off the snow-damp shirt. Then he takes a deep breath as the warmth wraps around his skin. Slowly, surely, the gentle crack and pop lulls him like a lullaby, and he sinks into the floor and closes his eyes.