#rf leon

Chapter Six: Out of Our Depth

     It wasn't until the next day—when the shock had worn off, and he was confronted with Vishnal's still, pale form—that Leon felt the full impact of what he had done.

     This can't be right.

     (I only wanted to scare him a little.)

     And, as Clorica had so bluntly pointed out, it seemed he had.  Of course, in the process, he had also laid him out in bed with a badly sprained ankle and wrist, several pulled muscles, and a gruesome stapled gash on his thigh.

     Though he'd meant no real harm, this was all Leon's doing, and it was apparently now his responsibility to make it right.

     Trouble was, there didn't seem to be terribly much he could do.

     After a rather melancholic breakfast with Kiel, Leon would make his way through the mocking splendor of the spring morning and arrive at the palace, where Vishnal lay like the incorruptible bodies of legend on their stately biers.  Once there, he would stand for a moment in the doorway—to prepare himself mentally, and to make sure the arc of ribs was still rising and falling steadily beneath the bedsheets—then step into the nose-stinging fug of sharp disinfectant and tinny blood.

     He would politely ask permission—a mere formality to assuage his own guilt, as Vishnal wasn't present enough to grant or deny—then turn back the covers to expose the stained white bandages.  Once the shivering stopped, he would take up the shears, snip through the gauze, and confront the wound.

     By now, he was reasonably certain that it really did look worse than it was.

     But that did nothing to change the fact that it looked terrible.

     The worst part, by far, was the staples.  There was a good reason for them to be there, and Leon had already seen what the injury looked like without them, but he still couldn't shake the thought that this was no different than unwrapping Vishnal's leg to find it stuck with needles and pins.  What's more, their insertion had mangled his flesh even further, and the flaky blackened-red seam was ringed with lurid bruising, the deep mushed purple of fermenting Dusk Plums.

     Gods in heaven, am I ever sorry.

     With the initial crisis now passed, everyone was mostly taking things in stride, and Leon had heard a number of nervously lighthearted remarks about how nothing good could have ever come of someone as eager and clumsy as Vishnal running around with a sword in each hand.  And though this probably wasn't untrue, Leon could not forget the fact that, had he not leapt out from the treeline that day with his fierce halberd and silly homemade mask, nothing quite this bad would have come of it, either.

     And now it had, all from a moment's playful impulse.

     He couldn't take it back.

     He couldn't laugh it off.

     Even if he were to swallow his pride and give in to sincere contrition, he couldn't fix it.

     All he could do was clean the wound, apply fresh gauze, and wait.  Adjust the covers until Vishnal stopped shivering, and get him to drink a few sips of something sugary through a straw.  Listen to the injured man's murmured reassurances that everything was just fine between them, and bite back the urge to shout that it certainly was not.  Then finally head home and sit with the realization that, for all the careless mistakes he'd made, he hadn't previously known how contrition even felt.

     As it turned out, it felt horrible.

     It felt like exactly what he deserved.

     And yet, for all their well-deserved horrors, those first agonizing days were easier than what was to follow.  Mainly because—though Vishnal cut a stomach-twistingly pitiful figure as he draped limply on the bed—there was something to say for one's patient being quiet and still.

     "Do you have to do it now?"

     Leon already had the shears, but Vishnal was still curled up petulantly in bed, the covers clutched in one fist and drawn up to his chin.  With a sigh of frustration, Leon absent-mindedly snipped at the air, hoping to send the message that he would cut Vishnal right out of his bedamned cocoon if it came to that.

     "Yep.  Twice a day.  You know what they said."

     Vishnal huffed as he threw off the covers with his good hand.

     "...Fine.  Just work quickly.  I'm freezing."

     Kneeling at the bedside, Leon waited once more for the shivering to quell.

     "Oh, no you aren't.  Summer's on the way.  I haven't even been using a blanket these past few nights."

     With a heavy sigh, Vishnal sank into the pillows, obviously trying to look as pathetic as possible in a vain attempt to elicit mercy.

     "Well, Jones said I would probably be anemic for a bit."

     Completely unmoved, Leon began snipping through the bandages.

     "...And Nancy said you could get an infection if we slack off on this, so stop complaining."

     Vishnal crossed his arms sulkily.

     "Very well, then."

     Peeling back the bandages, Leon scrutinized the wound closely.  He was supposed to alert Jones and Nancy if it seemed redder, wetter, or puffier than it had been, but everything seemed to be in good order to his eyes.  The surrounding skin was turning a sickly yellow-green, but that seemed to be nothing more than the typical gruesome metamorphosis of any healing bruise.

     "Still looks fine to me...  No fevers or anything?"

     Another pitiful sigh.

     "I don't think so...  I was worried last night and had Clorica get me the thermometer, but I was just cold."

     Though he didn't want to react and give Vishnal the satisfaction, the spike of guilt Leon felt upon hearing that was almost physically painful.  It was awful enough that Vishnal was so badly injured, and he didn't like being reminded that the entire household had been disrupted by his stupidity.

     (...You have a way of doing that, don't you?)

     Leon rolled his eyes as he unwrapped Vishnal's wrist and opened the squat jar of salve that had been sitting on the nightstand.

     "Okay, okay, I get the hint, already.  You'll have your blankets back as soon as I'm done."

     With that, he grabbed a clean rag and the bottle of disinfectant, beginning the work that required two hands as Vishnal took on what he could manage with one.

     "You're too kind."

     Vishnal carefully dipped the fingertips of his good hand into the jar and began massaging his injured wrist, which had now gone the same nauseous necrotic green as the skin around the gash, over which Leon cautiously hovered with the dampened rag.

     "...Just don't scream this time.  I'm not actually hurting you, and it freaks out your crazy boss."

     Vishnal gritted his teeth, bracing himself and glaring at Leon crossly.

     "Mr. Volkanon isn't crazy!  He just cares for us!  But yes.  I'll try my best.  Go on."

     Leon began dabbing at the wound, wiping away the crusty blood as a strangled sound of pain keened in Vishnal's taut throat.

     "See?  That's not so bad."

     After another brief detour to unwrap Vishnal's ankle—also bruised a rather distressing color, dead blood seeping from countless internal ruptures—Leon patted the wound dry as Vishnal slipped a hand into his robe to rub salve into his sore lower back and hip.

     "Speak for yourself."

     The salve was actually rather interesting stuff; containing all the expected herbs that had been in use since Leon's time, as well as the blessing of Venti's divine breath, the powerful energies of which promoted rapid healing.  All three butlers swore by it for the various aches and pains their work engendered, and the hope was that liberal applications would soon get Vishnal back on his feet.

     Leon laughed as he set about the awkward work of wrapping Vishnal's thigh as Vishnal folded double to apply a generous dab to his ankle.

     "Don't need to.  You've been speaking enough for both of us."

     The balm applied, Vishnal crossed his arms again and reclined sullenly on the pillows.

     "Yes, yes, you're very clever.  Give me back my blanket."

     With the gauze in place, Leon began winding the cloth bandage snugly around Vishnal's ankle.

     "Be patient, would you?"

     Seeing little harm in gently taking out his frustrations, Leon tucked the bandage neatly, then grabbed the blanket and bluntly tossed it over Vishnal's entire body, up to and including his head.  Vishnal—warm at last—simply lay there agreeably as Leon fished out his injured hand and began carefully wrapping that as well.

     When he was finished, Vishnal drew his hand under the covers, then pulled them down to the bridge of his nose.

     "...All done?"

     Leon dusted off his hands, getting his feet under him in preparation to spring nimbly up from the floor.

     "Yep.  See you again after dinner."

     With an urgentness that stunned both of them, Vishnal's good hand snatched at Leon's wrist.

     "No!  Wait!"

     Though he was currently situated in a rather awkward squat, Leon froze in place.

     "...Huh?"

     Vishnal rolled onto his side, pulling the covers down to his neck.

     "If you don't have plans, you can stay here if you'd like...  Clorica doesn't have her break for a few hours, and I get terribly bored this time of day."

     His mouth said "bored," but his eyes said "lonely," in a silent voice so insistent that it made Leon's heart ache.  Finding himself unable to refuse, Leon settled on the floor again and crossed his arms on the mattress with what even he knew was a pathetically affected facsimile of casualness.

     "Oh...  Yeah, I'm free.  Anything you want to do?"

     It was a silly question, because there wasn't much Vishnal could do, besides shrug dejectedly under his hard-won blanket.

     "Talk, I suppose."

     It was a simple enough request, and Leon answered it with a shrug of his own.

     "Okay.  Guess I can do that."

     At first, he was unsure of what to talk about, but eventually figured that you can never go wrong with a funny story.  And while Leon had many of those, he'd found that most of them required a lot of explanation in this day and age.  It would probably be best to begin with something a little more recent.

     And so, throwing discretion to the wind, he began to tell the scandalous tale of the night he left the Bell Hotel.

~*~

     Kiel carefully settled on the edge of the bed, passing Vishnal the rumpled, slightly warm paper bag he'd been carrying.

     "Hey there!  I can't stay long, but I figured I'd drop off something nice you can eat with one hand!"

     Vishnal carefully unrolled the top of the bag and inspected its contents; obviously trying to remain dignified but unable to fully contain his enthusiasm at discovering a fresh pile of curry manju, yolk-yellow and smoothly plump.

     "Oh my, you shouldn't have gone to all this trouble...  Thank you very much, though!"

     Kiel, too, was playing it cool; shrugging casually, glowing on the inside with the simple pleasure of making a friend happy.

     "No trouble at all!  I made curry for dinner last night, so I had the filling all ready."

     Vishnal reached into the bag with his good hand, passing one of the buns to Kiel before taking one for himself.

     "Here.  Have one too, for all your hard work."

     For a moment, Kiel wavered.  Eating something intended as a gift felt silly, and he'd already left a few buns at home for himself and Leon to enjoy.  But Vishnal's smile was so gentle and sincere that it felt impolite to refuse, so he eventually accepted the bun gratefully.

     "Oh, I shouldn't, I'm going to go home and start dinner in a few minutes...  But what the hey, right?"

     Raising his manju in a gesture of friendly camaraderie, Vishnal smiled and took a hearty bite.

     "Right!"

     Kiel delicately picked off a bit of the springy dough, letting the steam vent.

     "How is it...?"

     Vishnal swallowed with a gasp.

     "...Spicy!"

     Seeing his friend's pallid face flush slightly, Kiel felt a rush of panic.

     "I'm so sorry! I guess I just got too used to cooking for Leon!  You don't ha-"

     Vishnal murmured reverently into the remains of his steaming snack.

     "...It's perfect..."

     Kiel sighed, profoundly relieved that poor Vishnal hadn't been accidentally injured by two hapless morons this week.

     "...Oh.  Good."

     Then he dipped the bit of dough into a rivulet of hot filling that had begun to ooze over the edge, popping it into his mouth and noting that it was quite spicy, but certainly not inedibly so.  He smiled as he quietly ate, watching as Vishnal did the same.

     Nothing we can't handle!

     When Vishnal arrived at the palace, Kiel almost immediately found a sense of comfort and belonging in simply being around him.  He felt that they were kindred souls; the same sort of lost boy trying very hard to be a better man, the same sense of noble heredity passing them by.  One believing he wasn't clever enough to be a doctor, the other knowing he was too weak to be a Knight.

     Both left to forge their own path to greatness, no matter how long it took.

     "...May I have another?"

     Kiel had no doubt that they would get there someday.  And in the meantime, they would simply keep everything in order.

     "Vishnal...  They're yours."

     Vishnal laughed nervously, then shyly reached into the bag and removed a second bun.

     "...Right."

     He bit into this one less frantically, obviously determined to savor it as fully as he could.  Kiel smiled at his efforts as he stood from the bed.

     "Welp!  You're not the only hungry person I'm responsible for.  I gotta head home."

     Pausing briefly to swallow, Vishnal nodded cheerfully as he reclined back against the headboard.

     "Of course.  See you soon."

     Kiel waved brightly as he backed out of the room

     "See ya!"

     Then—after a brief but polite bow to Lady Ventuswill—he stepped out into the gilded early evening light, Cerezo blossoms blowing across the cobbles and swirling around his boots.

     It was the kind of day that made him feel like things really would come right; that there was a clear path for him after all, and he needed only to wait for it to reveal itself.  As long as he stayed the course and kept on believing, it was probably inevitable.

     But first...  What's for dinner?

     Kiel scratched his head thoughtfully as he strolled toward home.  All of the solid bits from last night's curry had made it into the buns, but there was still a good deal of leftover sauce that was too good to waste.

     Hmm, that would probably be good on some potato croquettes...

     The young man's mouth watered at the very thought of it, so it seemed he had a winning idea.

     And a salad, and some roasted turnips...  And of course you have to have dessert...

    Fully immersed in his menu planning as he was, Kiel ended up walking clear past his own house.  Feeling a bit silly, but not embarrassingly so, he broke into a run as he backtracked, which segued into a gutsy running hop onto the front steps.

     ...Strawberry upside-down cake!  It's a fun project to do together, too!

     Leon, much like Kiel, had quite the appetite for fun projects.  And uncommon knowledge, and complicated games, and books of riddles.  Keeping him entertained enough to stay out of trouble could be a challenge—and one that he had initially failed rather spectacularly, hence Vishnal's current predicament—but the fact that they were entertained by many of the same things meant that the effort enriched Kiel's life as well.

     "Hey, Leon!  I'm about to get started on dinner, but if you want a little appetizer, I also m-"

     But Leon, it seemed, had already discovered the manju.  He was sprawled belly-up on the floor with their favorite book of ghost stories in one hand, a half-eaten bun in the other, and his feet lazily propped on the short steps that led up to the kitchen.

     Kiel stepped over him with a warm smile and a fond shake of the head.

     For so long, he had seen Leon as the embodiment of everything he had ever wanted to be, a goal that kept him striving forward not in spite of its obvious unattainability, but because of it.  Even if Kiel couldn't do it, there was at least living proof that it could be done.

     It's different when you know him better, isn't it?

     It wasn't as though Leon had lost his glamor.

     It was that Kiel had come to see in him not only what he longed to be, but so much of what he already was.

~*~

     Even through those first half-conscious days, one thought was crystal-clear in the dim haze of Vishnal's mind.

     "He can't be here.  I can't bear it."

     In truth, he wasn't really sure why Leon was there, but it didn't really matter.  In his rare lucid moments, the whole of his being was occupied only with thoughts of how terrible it was for this man he so admired to see him this way; weak, muddled, ungroomed, unable to do anything for himself or anyone else.  Even if Vishnal had been at his best, the constant proximity surely would have been enough to drive him mad.

     But, by the time the fog lifted, something strange had happened.

     "I like having him around."

     There was still a bit of awkwardness as they bumped up against each other; Leon clearly unused to this sort of caretaking, Vishnal cranky from fatigue and unused to being cared for.  But their rapport, for the most part, was surprisingly easy.  Leon made Vishnal laugh, and Vishnal's more irrational moments were accepted by Leon as a friendly challenge.  Every meal and dressing change saw them growing closer, both palpably delighted to discover just how much they enjoyed one another's company.

     Even the constant physical contact that their situation required—once a heart-pounding, head-spinning prospect for Vishnal to even contemplate—soon became ordinary and natural.  There was still a pleasant surge at the sensation of those elegant, corded bronze hands on his body, but Vishnal was rather impressed by his own ability to keep it together under those conditions.

     He didn't even blush when dressing the gash on his leg sent those adept hands dangerously high on his thigh.

     And so it was that Leon became a balm to, rather than the cause of, Vishnal's dismal misery.

     But still, he could only do so much.

     The physical pain was a trial, to be sure, but that wasn't the worst of it.  Vishnal was well-accustomed to pain; prone to knocks and bruises and repetitive strain injuries, constantly pushing beyond his own limits and being harshly punished for transgressing against himself.

     Pain, at the end of the day, was only pain.

     The worst was when he heard Clorica and Volkanon shuffling around the palace, each doing the work of one and a half men.  Or when the morning sun glanced off his blades, unused on their rack.  Or when he remembered his leek seedlings, abandoned in the field.  Both Leon and Clorica swore up and down that they wouldn't allow them to wither, but Vishnal privately wondered if he could even enter them in the contest now, or if that would be dishonest.

     Vishnal despised dishonestly.

     But he despised ineffectiveness most of all.

     Leon, to his credit, was putting up with him heroically.

     "You're overwatering!"

     Though still too injured to be of much use, Vishnal was now able to sit upright for quite a long time without getting lightheaded and needing to lie back down, so he had insisted on being hauled outside and placed on the cool stone steps of the Castle, where he could supervise Leon's novice attempts at gardening.

     Leon, he suspected, was beginning to regret this.

     "I'm doing it like you said."

     Vishnal winced as the water poured carelessly from the can, a tragi-comedically perfect manifestation of his own lack of control.

     "I don't think you understood what I said!"

    With an irritated huff, Leon sat the can in the mud and folded his arms crossly.

     "...Do you want me to carry you out here so you can do this?"

     What Vishnal wanted, of course, was to be whole and strong.  As far as he was concerned, this conversation shouldn't even be happening.

     "Yes!  Well, no...  Maybe?  I expect we'd have to change my bandages again...  Would that be too much of a bother?  Oh, of course it would, never mind..."

     The irritated note in Leon's voice rose to outright snappishness.

     "...Well!?"

     It made Vishnal jump, less from shock than from how it so perfectly mirrored his own feelings; two instruments suddenly playing the same note, so loud and off-key that it was impossible to distinguish them.

     It jarred his bones.

     It made him want to cry.

     "Just...  Do what feels right.  I'll close my eyes."

     Vishnal slumped, burying his face in his hands so as not to see the mess Leon was making of his little plot of Earth, and to hide his nascent stinging tears.  He kept his ears open, though; biting his tongue so he wouldn't protest when the wet patter of droplets became a sloppy deluge, wincing at the sting in his dripping sinuses.

     You've said enough already.

     (He's getting so sick of you.)

     Well, that makes two of us, doesn't it?

     Much to Vishnal's relief, the pounding racket of water stopped, and he soon became aware of a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder.

     "...Hey, what gives?  You've been a royal pain in the ass all morning."

     Vishnal glanced to the side and regarded Leon through a crack in his fingers.  How could he even begin to answer that question?  How could he tell his friend what was wrong when, clearly, everything was wrong?  And why should he have to, when it was so plainly obvious?

     The only dignified thing to do was stay quiet, but Vishnal horrified himself by blurting out an answer anyway.

     "It's laundry day."

     Even more horrifying, he heard his voice thicken and break.  Here, in front of this achingly perfect man, who had probably never cried in his life.

     You're ridiculous.

     (You're disgusting.)

     Leon, thankfully, seemed less disgusted than confused.

     "Oh.  Dire straits indeed."

     Vishnal sniffed back his tears, roughly wiping his eyes on the sleeves of his robe.

     "I had to lie there and listen to them do it all themselves.  I...  I couldn't help...  And then Clorica was out there hanging it up to dry...  I usually do that part.  I like that part."

     Total loss of control was imminent.  He felt like a watering can about to tip.

     And all the while, Leon remained wonderfully, frustratingly Leon, the contained laughter as obvious in his voice as Vishnal's unfallen tears.

     "Okay...  When you're back on your feet, how about you do my laundry, if you feel like you've been missing out?"

     In all actuality, that sounded lovely.  If he'd been a better man, Vishnal would have pivoted instantly; agreeing cheerfully, penciling it into a pristine little notebook.  Healing immediately and springing to his feet, vigorous and ready to get to work.

     Instead, he buried his face in his hands again, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

     "I haven't practiced with my blades in so long that I'm gonna have to start all over!"

     Leon slid his hand from his shoulder, giving him an awkward pat on the back.

     "Maybe that, uh, would be a good th-"

     Stop this nonsense at once!

     Vishnal's voice broke again, coming out as a creaky whine.

     "...I don't think I have biceps anymore!"

     How vain.  How foolish.  How undignified.  He knew he should be ashamed of himself, and was perversely gratified to feel just how deep that shame went.  It felt especially sharp when Leon's hand shifted again; wrapping itself around Vishnal's upper arm and giving it a playful, inquisitive squeeze.

     "Uh...  Did you ever?"

     Vishnal let his hands drop and glared at Leon through his tears; noticing anew the sinewy perfection of his arms, but unable to see it as anything but a silent commentary on his own failings.

     "Oh, very funny.  More than I used to...  You weren't there the first time I put on my uniform.  I looked like a mop handle!"

     Leon was trying not to laugh again, which Vishnal supposed was reasonable.  Who in his right mind would take any of this even remotely seriously?

     All that mattered was that, unserious as he was, Leon had resumed patting his back.

     "Well, hey, that's not so bad...  I've seen some pretty shapely mop handles in my time."

     The kindness got to him, and Vishnal began to sob.

     "It was so bad.  It was awful.  It's awful now, I-"

     For a tense, terrible moment, Leon froze.  Then slowly, as though he thought he might spook him—and as though he were already plenty spooked himself—he awkwardly gathered Vishnal in his arms.

     "...Hey.  Hey.  Vish.  Get yourself together, all right?  You're just having an off day.  It happens."

     Vishnal wanted him to hold on tight, but that seemed like too much to ask, given that Leon was already so uncomfortable.

     "...I'm sorry..."

     And yet, within that discomfort, he had managed to muster an incredible amount of tenderness; gently patting Vishnal between his trembling shoulder blades, his voice softer than either of them had ever thought possible.

     "It's okay.  You can't get around or do any of your usual things, and that's rough.  I'd probably cry, too."

     Vishnal shook his head, sniffling pathetically into Leon's vest.

     "No you wouldn't.  Don't lie."

     Leon shrugged casually.

     "...Fine, I guess I don't really know.  But I do know that I'd probably do something worse."

     Another sob rose in Vishnal's throat.

     In that moment, he was sure that there couldn't be anything worse.  What could be worse than losing all pretense of composure?  Than allowing oneself to break under so little weight?  Than sitting before a man who had willingly given up his entire existence, and acting as though your suffering was anything at all?

     He desperately tried to think of something, but nothing came, save for more tears.