#roofic

Of course, Rachel already knew who he was, previously scouting all members of the King's Guard, old and new, before his arrival.  Familiarity with the unfamiliar quelled Rachel's paranoia to manageable levels when surrounded by some of the most powerful political figures on Exos.  He didn't have his father's protection if he went a little trigger happy here in Lenombe.

The melancholy facade of Ramge didn't match the tyrannical reputation of his family, and the brief introductory meeting between the King's Guard did little to convince Rachel this was an act.  All accounts stated that the son of Shufraken was a black sheep, and Rachel wondered why Shufraken had sent Ramge to receive the highest distinction afforded to a royal scion.

So Rachel waited, pretending to examine the diamond-studded stars embellishing the lavish tapestries lining the Great Hall of the Emperor's palace, watching Ramge hem and haw from the corner of his eye.

Rachel wasn't the type to wait; patience was foreign to him, to his father's exasperation, but he wanted to see if Ramge had even the courage to greet someone who had already established themselves as sympathetic. Ramge hadn't spoken at all when Xiakhan was trashing him, relying on his talking(!) cat—and eventually Rachel—to defend him, and Rachel could tell Ramge had been ashamed and embarrassed by the entire ordeal. 

But Rachel could also tell Ramge had very much wanted to denounce Xiakhan and prove him wrong.  As Xiakhan had droned on, a spark had begun smoldering in those red eyes—a burning desire to be accepted and respected in this new place—but it was soon smothered by insecurity.  In the end, nothing had passed Ramge's lips, head bowed low in humiliation.

So in Rachel's mind, this was a test. Surely this mouse of a prince, dreaming of becoming a lion, could manage a hello.

It took a few minutes and a few false starts, but Ramge did finally come over to awkwardly express his gratitude.  By the end of their short conversation, Rachel, who, in his own loneliness, might've projected too much on a boy he had just met, felt the wait had been justified.

…

The hour was late and the training yard empty, save for himself and the practice dummies. It was well past the time he had ordered Ramge to be here, but surely Ramge would arrive at any moment.  Rachel did neglect to explain the purpose of this late night rendezvous, but that wasn't important anyway.  He had told Ramge to be here and, in Rachel's opinion, that was all that was needed.

Time continued to march forward and Ramge continued to be absent.  In an effort to remain awake and entertained, Rachel broke into the weapon's shed to retrieve a wooden sword, expelling his drowsiness and boredom on the innocent dummies.  The night patrol swung by once at the noise, but didn't interfere; he was King's Guard after all, even if he was still a greenhorn.

Greenhorn King's Guard or not, he excelled in physical activity, especially swordsmanship.  So he felt he was more than qualified to give Ramge some extracurricular training.  He liked Ramge and wanted to help him. Ramge was a funny guy under that meek exterior.  And smart, really smart, even though he tried to hide it.  He could be a bit stubborn too, but that made things more fun since Rachel was used to getting his own way with little pushback.  And though Ramge regarded Rachel with a bit of admiring awe, they actually had a lot in common, even if Ramge didn't realize it yet.

Rachel never had a friend the same age (or a friend at all) and he wondered if it was okay to have one, even though he was far from Saint West. He was a little afraid that something might happen and it'd be his fault again.

No.  He was stronger now, built upon the corpses of assassins. Nothing to be afraid of; he could protect himself and others now.  He wasn't a child any more. He would protect Ramge. The idea of giving Ramge up, despite the short time they knew each other, made Rachel lash out harder at the dummies.

The moon rose and set and the stars slowly sailed across the foreign sky.  He recognized a few of his mother's favorites, but they were in different positions than he remembered.  The spring air in Lenombe wasn't as sweet as Saint West; it carried a sharp tang hinting of the cool winter which still lay to the north, brought down by Lenombe's many tributaries fed by snow melt.  It chilled the sweat he worked up, which worsened his disposition, so he trained harder to stay warm as he continued to wait.

The hollow thuds of his practice sword striking wood and straw echoed into dawn, each thud pushing his patience more and more taut.  Although Ramge had many positive qualities and many endearing flaws, he had one major frustrating aspect: he was a coward.

The sun fully arose from her slumber when his sword finally snapped along with his temper.

…

A sudden summer rain burst that afternoon; typical Lenombe weather.  The rains would come without warning and leave drowned streets steaming in rainbows and sunshine as the only evidence they had happened.  It was easy to separate the locals from the tourists by who carried umbrellas despite clear afternoon skies.

They were supposed to meet near their favorite diner for supper after they had finished their respective duties.  Despite the quickly forming clouds, Rachel thought he could beat the rain without an umbrella and chose not to return to the barracks outside Khuntara in fear of running late.  The skies unloaded on him for his misjudgment and now he huddled, sodden and pathetic, under a small eave of the pawnbroker neighboring the diner, waiting for Ramge.

At least the rain was warm, the air sweating humidity.  No thunder or lightning disturbed the heavy pour blurring everything into a soft pastel mist.  Rachel kicked a puddle growing under his feet to send droplets out to meet their falling brethren, capturing in their beads the likeness of couples huddled together under colorful umbrellas before they were swallowed by water and swept away.

"I'm sorry I kept you wait—Rachel, what happened?"

He smiled at Ramge, dry Ramge under a somber umbrella with Sia draped over his shoulders.  Rachel thought about the intimacy of the couples he had witnessed, cuddled close under their meager shelter, limbs brushing, heads bent together, sharing breath.

"It's just water."  Rachel flicked drops at Sia and she hissed, swatting in his direction.

"Did you lose your umbrella?" Ramge asked.

As was becoming too common, Ramge saw right through him.  "Yeah."

Ramge shook his head, shuffling to include Rachel under his umbrella.  Rachel could feel the heat of Ramge's body in their closeness, and it was pleasantly uncomfortable combined with the humidity and his soaked skin.

"I'm already drenched, you know.  Bit pointless now."

"You could catch a cold." Ramge frowned at Rachel's blase dismissal.

"And then Master Ramge would have to look after you," Sia sniffed.

"Aw, you would look after me if I get sick?" Rachel asked, teasing.

"Of course."  Ramge sometimes missed Rachel's humor and would instead answer earnestly.  "Though… I wonder if I could keep you bedridden long enough to care for you."

"I'll do anything you ask of me," said Rachel.

It was only a moment's hesitation, an internal uncertainty of the meaning, before Ramge made a face.  "I doubt it. You can't keep still even during serious meetings."

Rachel smirked widely at Ramge's misunderstanding, cynically grateful his words would never be understood.  He tackled Ramge and they stumbled together, the umbrella slipping from Ramge's surprised fingers.  Sia screeched at the onslaught of water, drowning out Ramge's yelp and Rachel's laughter.

Ramge looked like he wanted to scold Rachel when the sky emptied the last of its grey.  The sound of water trickling from gutters replaced the gush of rain. Sunshine breaking through the dissipating clouds reflected off the droplets nestled like stars in the midnight of Ramge's hair.

Like the weather, irritation drained from Ramge, replaced by droll acceptance of Rachel's carefree antics. He lifted his arms and mournfully regarded his dripping clothes.  Rachel decided wet was a good look on him.

"We can't eat out like this…" Ramge sighed and Sia yowled in agreement.

"Why not?"  Rachel smiled, winsome and innocent, retrieving the umbrella. He closed it and shook it free of rain.

"Dripping over the seats, floor, and table, as we shiver and dine?" Ramge raised a brow as he took back the proffered umbrella.

"We'll sit by each other and share a bowl of stew to keep cozy."

"...I'll just ask them to pack it up and we'll take it back to the inn…" Ramge said, another earnest answer which missed the point. "I'll go place our orders."

…

Leaning against a wall outside Ramge's dressing room at the palace, Rachel glanced at the large clock hanging over the small waiting area for guests.  It sure was taking a while.  The last maid had left almost an hour ago and they had to be at the Great Hall in fifteen minutes.

"Ramge, hurry up!" Rachel yelled at the door beside him.  "What are you even doing?"

After a moment, the door cracked open.  "I… I c-can't do this…"

"Do what?" Rachel asked, a little annoyed.  He personally didn't want to go, but Ramge had been nervously excited about attending his first real gala and Rachel didn't want him to attend alone.

"Th-this…"  However, instead of opening to reveal 'this,' the door began to shut.

Swiftly, Rachel slammed a hand against it and shoved it open, barging in.

Ramge always dressed primly as befitting an aristocrat, but this was the first time he looked so princely. Sometimes it was easy to forget Ramge bore such high status due to everything about him, but the tailors and maids did their best with what they had and it came out magnificent.  Perhaps losing most of his belongings upon his arrival in Khuntara had been a blessing, given the artistry of the glittering galaxy of starlike gems swarming over the breast of his fitted coat of silver and wine.

Ramge spun away with an embarrassed moan, shielding his face with his hands.  "I-I knew I-I looked r-ridiculous…"

Shit, Rachel had been staring.  "You look fine."  The back of the coat was cinched and split to spill long gauzy ruffles which fluttered with Ramge's anxious trembling.

"See?" Sia chirped from her seat on the vanity.  "Rachel also thinks you look nyaice!"

"N-no, this is—"

"You wear finery better than me."  Rachel shrugged.  "It's fine. You're fine."

"Everyone will s-stare—"

"That's the point of wearing this kind of showy garb at these parties," Rachel scoffed.  "You want people to look and talk.  Why dress up if you don't get scandalized comments?"

Sidling up to Ramge, Rachel peered over Ramge's shoulder and into his flushed, covered face.

"Who's this mysterious, tall, dark, and handsome stranger?" Rachel stage-whispered behind a hand into Ramge's ear, enjoying the shiver it sent through him.  "What?"  Rachel staggered back in exaggerated surprise.  "That's the First Prince of North von Frosty?!"  He dramatically pressed one hand to his chest and another to his forehead.  "Be still my heart! Is he available?!"

Ramge half-turned, peeking through his fingers almost petulantly.  "Y-you're mocking me…"

"No." Rachel laughed, slapping Ramge on the back.  The coat's fabric was silken and soft; he let his hand rest there, Ramge's muscles twitching beneath his palm.  "I guarantee that's exactly what'll happen at the party.  I'll bet you on it.  Loser has to buy those new tarts at the bakery.  I hear you have to get in line before dawn if you wanna snag some before they sell out."

Slowly, Ramge faced him and Rachel's hand slid down to settle on Ramge's waist unnoticed, as if it belonged there.  "That… that means I'll have to go to the party…"

"Well, unless you trust my word on what happens." Rachel smirked.

Ramge's face scrunched up at the cheeky admission, but he refused to budge.

"If you really don't want to go, then we'll leave and play draughts the rest of the night or whatever, but you were looking forward to this all month. You sure?"

"I-I just…" Ramge bowed his head, but since his hair had been partially pinned back, he couldn't completely hide under his bangs.  "...looking like this… I look… strange…"

"You're purrfect, Master Ramge," Sia said, pacing up beside them. "Rachel's the one who looks strange."  She eyed Rachel's overwrought regalia distastefully.

Rachel snorted.  "For once, the cat's right.  I look weird.  You look fitting."

Shyly, Ramge lifted his eyes.  "You… you do look a little… out of character..."

"Right?  This ruffled collar isn't just itchy—I really believe it's trying to strangle me."  With his free hand, Rachel tickled the ends of his lone long lock of hair, now bedecked with elaborate ribbons and bows, against Ramge's nose.  "And did you see what they did to this?"

A ghost of a smile touched Ramge's lips, edging away his anxiety.  "It matches the bows on your sleeves and trousers…"

"For the record, I didn't pack this," Rachel grumbled.  "My mother did and this was the least offensive of the lot."  No need to inform Ramge he deliberately wore this outfit because of its absurdity, for Ramge's sake.  "So even if you don't believe us that you look great, at least know that standing next to me, no one's going to laugh at you. You have nothing to be worried about."

Ramge looked Rachel over more closely, his small confidence returning as he assumed his role as Rachel's handler.  "You… you don't look that terrible… maybe…"

"When I'm King, no way anyone is going to catch me wearing any of this.  I think I'll outlaw it."

"Ha…" Still smiling absently, Ramge adjusted Rachel's collar and then tucked an errant curl behind Rachel's ear.

The gesture was unexpected and the brush of the smooth material of Ramge's gloves on Rachel's skin left a trail of heat which drove his heart to surge blood into his ears and cheeks.

Rachel quickly hid his reddened face under the pretense of a cough.  "So are we going?  We can always duck out early if it's too much."

Ramge hesitated, glancing down at Sia, before finally nodding.

…

It had been a hectic week playing escort guard and diplomat.  By the end of it, Rachel was tired of both the frippery of aristocrats and the flippancy of Baraka, his assigned companion.  Another day and there would've been murder. So it was with no small haste and the greatest relief when he all but fled Rudley's office after the debriefing.

The moon was already high in the starless sky when he left the palace, bone-tired and grumpy.  Sour he still couldn't house in the palace, Rachel took the most direct route to the inn, cutting through fenced lots.  The night was hot and windless, alive with crickets singing for the moon, and he wanted nothing more than to wash up and fall into bed—after he took care of one urgent matter.

A restless feeling which had been slowly bubbling up upon his return to Khuntara hastened his steps with a fresh reserve of energy as he barged through the doors of the inn and took the stairs up two by two.

Ramge wasn't in his room despite the late hour, so Rachel let himself in, believing Ramge had only stepped out for a short while. Zarienne, his mother's bodyguard, had taught a too-curious young Rachel the basics of lockpicking (not realizing the hell she would unleash until his mother intervened) and once again it came in handy.  This wasn't the first time he had broken into Ramge's quarters, so he was sure Ramge wouldn't mind.

He turned on the tin glow-lamp on the table, casting a weak yellow glow over the room. It was a mirror of his own: a bed in a corner by a double-door window and a simple table with a chair, but the cheap furnishings were embellished with clutter, from clothes to books to cat toys—a reflection of the mind behind Ramge's meticulous appearance.  Typically Rachel would do his best to organize the disarray, but he was just too exhausted to bother tonight.

Rachel drew aside the thin curtains of the window and propped it open to relieve some of the stuffiness, before plopping onto the hard, rumpled bed with a sigh.  Ramge's bed felt more comfortable than his own, though objectively it was the same flat mattress and creaky bed frame.  He bounced once experimentally and felt that in further pursuit of knowledge he should take off his boots and lay down.

The lumpy pillow was covered in cat fur and smelled faintly of Ramge's floral shampoo.  Burying his nose into it, Rachel stretched to his full height, relishing the unwind which comes after a hard day.  His feet dangled off this bed's end just like they did with his own; no doubt Ramge's longer legs poked out even further, and the image made him laugh.  The small bed was barely made for one, much less two, but as Rachel curled up into his favored fetal position and closed his eyes, he felt he could make it work, even with Ramge's height and poor bed manners.

He must've drifted off because a scraping noise jolted him from sweet oblivion.  He bolted upright, alert but somewhat disoriented, not immediately recognizing his room but still searching for a threat.

Ramge, dressed in plain and homely work clothes, stared at him from the doorway, arms full of cat and a small bushel of peaches.  His surprised face was long with exhaustion.  "R-Rachel…?  I didn't think you'd return today…"

"Ramge!"  All weariness drained from Rachel at the sight he had been starved for, rejuvenating him into high spirits.  "I got sick of Baraka's insufferable smugness and the infinite neediness of the aristocracy, so I pushed to finish the trip more quickly."

"And… you came straight here?  At this time of night…?"  Ramge shut the door with a bump of his hip and placed both bushel and cat upon the table, rolling his shoulders in relief.

Eager to touch him, Rachel leapt up to help massage out the kinks, earning a grateful groan.  "I wanted to see you."

Ramge's brow furrowed and he glanced over his shoulder.  "It couldn't wait?  Is something wrong…?"

"Not anymore."  Rachel grinned.  "So where were you?  'At this time of night?'"

Wrinkling his nose at Rachel's toss-back of his own words, Ramge shrugged out of Rachel's grip to gesture at the bushel of fruit.

"I was helping Mrs. Lievere—you remember, the grocer by the central square?—with the store today...  She gave me these as thanks.  Take some with you."

Rachel peeked into the bushel from around Ramge.  The plump fruits were just the perfect mix of flesh and blush.  "Looks like she gave you the best of the lot.  Isn't she the one who wants to set you up with her granddaughter?"

"She doesnyat even knyow Master Ramge is a prince!" Sia said.  "Making him do menial labor."

Ramge laughed nervously, lightly elbowing Rachel.  "D-don't be ridiculous, you two.  I wasn't busy and she needed help…  and she just wants her granddaughter to have some friends…"

"Uh-huh.  With the handsome bachelor who's always so helpful and sweet."

"Rachel…" Ramge said in that exasperated way he only used with Rachel.

"That's my name."  Rachel wrapped arms around Ramge's waist, delighting in how snugly he fit, and tugged him backwards toward the bed.  "Come on, sit with me.  I want to talk about all the fun things you missed."

"Complain, you mean," Sia said, trailing.

"Well, Ramge is such a great listener."

Ramge sighed good-naturedly as he let Rachel drag and drop him onto the mattress.  Sia immediately claimed her spot on his lap while glaring at Rachel as he sat down to face them, resting against the headboard and stretching his legs out behind Ramge to hog the bed's remaining space.

"Rudley should've sent you with me instead," Rachel said, ignoring Sia's dirty look.  "He knows I work better with you."

Ramge smiled faintly as he removed his shoes, careful not to jostle Sia.  "I'm sure he had his reasons.  Captain Rudley always works with a purpose."

"So what if some of the nobles were from Wasted Red?"  Rachel waved around a hand dismissively.  "I personally think he just wanted some peace and quiet by getting Baraka out of the palace for a while."

"And you too."

"Hey."  Rachel poked Ramge in the side with a foot.

"It had been more quiet with you gone," Sia said

"But was it any fun?"

Ramge tilted his head.  "I didn't have to run any extra laps this week…"

Clicking his tongue, Rachel tried to shove his foot into Ramge's face and Ramge ducked, laughing quietly, pushing it away.

"Just for that, you really will get to listen to me complain."

Ramge smiled faintly, as no one had not been under the impression they were going to get anything but Rachel's complaints about the mission. "If my eyes shut, that means I'm just resting them."

Pausing, Rachel leaned forward, peering into Ramge's face.  "That long a day?"

"A little… it was somehow more exhausting than training."

Rachel pursed his lips before drawing Ramge toward him, settling once more against the headboard with Ramge and Sia between his legs and Ramge's head upon his chest.

"R-Ra—"

"I don't want to leave," Rachel said, looking at the ceiling so he wouldn't have to look at Ramge, "and you're tired, so just rest there and indulge me.  I had a long week."

Gradually, Ramge's rigid body conceded into a more comfortable position, too tired to protest, and, just like Rachel had imagined, his legs did hang off the bed.  Rachel pulled Ramge up higher against him, resting his chin atop Ramge's head.

"Better?"

"...mm."  The vibration of Ramge's assent rumbled against Rachel's ribs.

Ramge tried to keep up with Rachel's venting narrative about the 'fun' of being trapped with only Baraka for company, murmuring wordless acknowledgements to Rachel's rhetorical statements, but eventually he went limp with slumber, steady breaths tickling the sensitive skin on Rachel's neck to distraction. Sia, cocooned between her master and Rachel, was already busy sawing logs.

With no one awake to listen to his complaints, Rachel settled for watching Ramge sleep.  It was one of the few times Ramge's skittish, guarded expression would disappear.  Even when he was with Rachel, that look would still be present in his eyes.  Brushing hair from Ramge's brow, Rachel wondered what secrets Ramge kept to make him wary around his best friend.  Sometimes it seemed like Ramge would want to confide in Rachel only to clam up—not for a lack of trust, but because some greater will held him in thrall.  Rachel surmised those secrets had to do with why Ramge joined the King's Guard, so the only thing Rachel could do was wait for Ramge to gain the courage to break free.

Rachel leaned over, close enough to see the individual hairs intertwined in Ramge's thick lashes despite the dim light.

"One day we'll both be free," he whispered so softly not even the stars heard, his lips barely brushing warm skin.

…

The room was dark and quiet as he waited with everyone in a large parlour set aside for them at the palace.  Occasionally there was a whisper of conversation or someone scolding Rera for sneaking bites of the hors d'oeuvres. Light from the hallway bled from under the closed double doors and flashed like fireflies across the glintzy decorations set up for the party.

It was strange to wait with others for Ramge. Rachel had been waiting the longest, so he felt it was a bit unfair for others to suddenly hop the queue. But today what he felt wasn't important.  These were people whom Ramge had accepted and Rachel in turn had to accept that.

"Come on, Master Ramge!" Sia's voice floated from beyond the doors and everyone inside immediately silenced.  She had been tasked with leading Ramge here at the appointed time.

The doors slowly swung open, a growing line of light in the darkness.  "... wait, Sia, is this the right—"

"Surprise!"  A chorus of voices flooded the room as Estoris glow-lamps sprang to life, Rachel's voice loudest of them all.

Ramge remained framed in the doorway, hands full of the papers he was ostensibly ordered to fetch.  Rachel wouldn't ever forget the flow of confusion into epiphany into a tangle of overwhelming emotions twisting Ramge's face, culminating in him turning away, papers fluttering to the floor like fallen leaves, as he hid those vulnerable feelings behind his hands.

Rachel didn't move as the others flocked around Ramge in goodwill and cheer.  Today Ramge needed to know other people cared about him too.  Rachel would wait.

The party was fun: good food, good games, and relatively good company—for once there were no quibbles between certain members of the King's Guard.  Even Xiakhan managed to be civil during his toast.

"To Ramge," Rachel said when it came time for his own speech.

Ramge's radiant eyes were upon him, the silly conical hat festooned with tinsel and star confetti Rera foisted on Ramge askew on his head like a jester's crown.  He looked beautiful despite it.  Rachel could say nothing more.

…

He didn't wait when Ramge was in danger.  Maybe he should've, but by then, the Emperor was already dead.

It was the Emperor's own fault.  He shouldn't have tried to take what belonged to Rachel; it was akin to a declaration of war between their nations. The only remorse Rachel felt was the loss of Ramge's peaceful life, but given the circumstances, that would've come sooner or later, though maybe not so violently.  He wished Ramge had gained the courage to confide in him.

Regardless, it would work out.  Ramge wouldn't have to fear his father's cage if he flew into Rachel's.

…

He waited in a sparse sitting room in this cold fortress at Ramge's behest, eager to see him again.  It had been the longest he had gone without seeing Ramge since they had become friends.  He wanted nothing more than to touch Ramge and hold him tight and never let him out of his sight again.  Earlier, he couldn't indulge his impulses with those annoying strangers around, so now he impatiently paced about as he waited for Ramge to arrive.

Tomorrow, Rachel would take him straight to Saint West—no arguments accepted—and all would be well. He had been anxious when he couldn't locate Ramge after their parting that fateful night in Lenombe; he had become even more anxious upon discovering Ramge was headed north toward his homeland and not south to Saint West, as they had agreed.  He didn't understand what Ramge was thinking.

Rachel paused by the lone, barred window overlooking the courtyard of the bleak fortress and watched a troop of soldiers march through the snow as ghostly sounds of revelry wafted from the central hall.  Downy flakes filled the hollows their footsteps made in the snow until they disappeared, returning the courtyard to a pristine slate. Rachel had never seen snow like this.  It didn't snow in Saint West and Lenombe's winter consisted of frost and slush.  Here, the snow fell and stuck, an unpleasant, starry powder which muffled and blanketed and blinded, hiding many secrets in its frozen white embrace.

Another troop of guards crossed paths with the first.  Rachel knew the fortress lay on the border, but there did seem to be an excessive amount of soldiers on patrol—more than necessary for a banquet for the lord's nephew and his guests.  Rachel's paranoia watched their movements, attributing them with sinister purpose, and as always, Rachel deferred to it.

A soft sound like muffled snowfall came from somewhere behind him, carried on the wings of bloodlust which brushed the hairs on his neck to attention. His eyes flicked to the reflection of the room in the window.  His grin knifed through what he saw.

Assassins were his favorite.

…

Since Ramge didn't come, he went to Ramge.  Sheltering behind his sister on that cold, white mountain, Ramge wouldn't look at them—at him.

Rachel had waited all this time and… hahaha, that fool wouldn't come because despite everything Rachel had shown and taught him, Ramge was still a coward.

Did Rachel need to kill Shufraken too?

But Rachel's ego was greater than his ability. Never had he been so humbled; the realization that, for all his strength, there were still others so much greater was frustrating as he remained bed-ridden from the almost mortal wounds delivered by the King of North von Frosty.  How could Rachel protect anyone, much less himself, if he was still so damnably weak?

Patience was once foreign to him, but it was the one thing Ramge had inadvertently taught him and Rachel learned the lesson well.  He could be good at anything when he put his mind to it and his mind had been filled with Ramge while in Lenombe.

Now the lesson was put to the test, since the only thing he could do was wait.  Ramge had made his decision and Rachel had other problems and tragedies to attend to.

Rachel would wait.  Rachel had accepted that he'd still wait (be waiting) even when the last shining star in the heavens flickered and died.

Someday Ramge would stop running away, even if it was at the end of the world.

…

A cataclysm had devastated the continent.

Rachel had long lost the familiarity of sleep.  When he went out with a regiment of coalition forces to meet a potentially hostile army bivouacked across a field of neutrality, he thought he was dreaming.  This Ramge standing under a banner of acquiescence before ragtag and hungry North von Frosty exiles didn't quite look like the Ramge Rachel knew.  Part of his dark hair had turned to frost.  A permanent crease furrowed between brows drawn low over steady if tired eyes.  The bend of his neck was only from exhaustion.

But everything else seemed real:  the smell of steel weapons under the acrid air, the scorching sun beating sweat from Rachel's flesh, the loud silence of nervous men wondering if they were to fight not dragons but an enemy kingdom, the burned earth beneath his boots as he broke rank to skeptically, hopefully, desperately approach that apparition, because even if he would wait forever, he didn't want to now.

Questing fingertips tentatively touched an arm, grasped firm its shoulder, and squeezed until Ramge flinched with a beloved, rueful expression.  Convinced, relieved, comforted for the first time in a long time, Rachel jerked Ramge forward, swallowing him in a hug and pressing his face into Ramge's unforgotten warmth.

"I missed you," Rachel choked out, his chest as tight as his grip.  "Welcome back."

Hesitant hands crept up his back before clutching tight, digging and bruising, as if the unrestrained, loving greeting was finally enough for Ramge to accept what Rachel (had always) offered.

Rachel wanted to agree that'd be for the best—right now he was apt to say or do something he'd regret later—but his mouth started flapping before his brain could stop it.

"No, it's fine."

He grimaced inwardly at the betrayal.  Today was already a shitty day and it wasn't even noon.  But what the hell, may as well rip the bandage off and get this over with.  Ramge was going to find out sooner or later, right?

"Oh. Okay."  Ramge lifted his eyes, but Rachel failed to give him a reassuring smile.

Seconds ticked by as the two stared at each other, one growing confused, the other remaining unreadable.

"Soooo, are you gonnya let us in?" Sia asked, tail flicking impatiently.

Rachel started to tell them that he changed his mind and they should come back tomorrow, but once more his body acted before his brain, and he instead opened the door wide with a magnanimous gesture.

Ramge quickly averted his eyes with a startled sound, red climbing his neck to settle on his face.  Rachel squinted at him, wondering what had gotten into Ramge now, before remembering he hadn't bothered with garments or comb after that nightmare had roused him violently from sleep before daybreak.

Regardless, he didn't feel like coddling Ramge's delicate sensibilities about his state of undress and disarray; his pair of loose pants was a suitable genuflection toward propriety and his hair always returned to its default unruly setting no matter how much he combed it.  At least he had splashed some water on his face to wash away the sweat and memories the nightmare had left behind.

"You coming in?" Rachel asked when Ramge didn't move.  "It's cold."

Ducking his head with a wordless murmur of apology, Ramge scuttled into the suite. Despite himself, a sliver of amusement touched Rachel's lips at the wide berth Ramge gave him.

Sia trotted after her master, glancing left and right with large, curious eyes, the tip of her tail curled into a question mark. "Wow, what a mess! What happened?"

Ramge raised his head at Sia's exclamation and stopped, all traces of his demure embarrassment falling away.

Rachel's rooms normally exhibited an almost obsessive fastidiousness no one expected from his insouciant personality.  This military neatness he applied even to his duties, and it privately amused him when people were caught off-guard by his rigid organization. It was a necessary skill he honed to survive palace politics, allowing him to protect his privacy by minimizing access to information about himself.

But today a hurricane had blown through the spacious, once spic-and-span living quarters, spewing up festive paper, gaudy boxes, bright flowers, and shining balloons over the carpet and furnishings.  Not wanting to deal with the myriad of gifts pouring in since daybreak, Rachel had tossed, kicked, or pitched them about to become tomorrow's problem, creating a landscape mirroring the malcontent inside him.

Ramge whirled toward him, concern overriding his natural shyness. "Rachel…? What is—"

Rachel shut the door sharply and Ramge jumped at the sound.

"Junk," Rachel said, sweeping past Ramge to flop down onto his settee with a loud crunch.  He yanked out a crushed package from under him and sent it sailing into the unlit hearth before dropping his feet onto the long coffee table before him, knocking more gifts to the floor.  "Just crap I've been dealing with all morning."

"Oh. I-I see…"

Worried, Ramge carefully lifted a box by Rachel on the couch and sat down in the opened spot. He looked at the wrapped box in his hands, decorated with bright ribbons.  Florid calligraphy stated the occasion.  "This is—"

"I told you, it's junk."  Rachel relieved him of the box, tossing it behind the settee.  "Did you want some tea or something? I'll have someone bring some up."

Ramge's eyes followed the trajectory of the box, his worry morphing into something more poignant.  "No, thank you…"

Those eyes flicked back to him and Rachel drew himself up into a proper sitting position; he had lied and nothing upset Ramge more than Rachel lying to him, even if it was for his own good.  An argument was brewing and Rachel was more than fine with that.  He didn't have to look too deep to know that the reason he let Ramge in was because it was going to end in a fight.  He welcomed the opportunity to vent and hurt someone else.

Ramge always forgave him after all.

(You should've never been born.)

But Ramge didn't say anything—only looked at him with those hurt eyes.

Rachel looked away.

"Today's your birthday, Rachel?" asked Sia, hopping up onto the back of the settee between them. "All these presents say 'Happy Birthday' on them.  Who are they from? There's so many!"

"People," Rachel said curtly.  Mostly aristocrats he barely knew, but who had grabbed the opportunity to toady up to him; he was a public figure and the date wasn't difficult to discern even outside Saint West.  The presents from his family and some of the servants he was more acquainted with were treated a bit better: those were brought to his bedchambers, only to be promptly kicked under his massive bed to be dealt with some other time—like next year.

"People who knew of your birthday," Ramge murmured, "yet you told me…" His voice trailed off even as his lips continued their accusation.

Rachel did tell him. He had told him his birthday was in the spring, the first thing he could think of when Ramge had approached him a number of months ago, bright-eyed and eager, inquiring in his meek, endearing way.  Ramge had looked so excited with the knowledge—'coincidentally' close to the date of their first meeting—but by then it was too late for Rachel to recant his lie, so he put it off to deal with later.

It was now later. He didn't know how to deal with it.

"I lie all the time," Rachel said, a defensive note hooking his tone unconsciously, dragging it in a childish way which pissed him off.  "You know that."

"But about your birthday…?"  The 'to me' needn't be said; Ramge's eyes shouted it and Rachel had no way to cover his ears.

"I didn't want you to feel obligated—"

"Why would I feel obligated about something like your birthday?"  Ramge never interrupted people, much less Rachel.  But his growing upset was a tiger rending away his deferential nature.

Rachel bared his teeth at this tiger cornering him. "Everyone does."  His family. The ones beholden to him.  The suck-ups looking for favors.

And especially his only friend, who felt indebted to him in even the smallest of ways.

"Everyone," Rachel repeated, imagining kicking Ramge's obligatory gift under his bed and hating the idea of it. "It's just some day where people butter you up despite ignoring you the other days of the year.  Who cares about all that crap?  What's there to celebrate anyway?"

(You should've never been born.) 

(That person had been the first to say it, blade raised high, an elegy for the dead. Rachel didn't understand then, didn't believe it.)

"You…"  Ramge's mouth worked, struggling to articulate his astonishment.  "You—you believe people celebrate your birthday because they have to? You don't believe they care about you or are happy you're here with them?"

"If you think all of this"—Rachel gestured at the excess of presents—"are from people genuinely glad I exist, then you're more gullible than I thought."

A furrow creased between Ramge's brows, pulled low over blazing eyes.  "Why are you s-so… so cynical?" 

"Why are you so naive?" Rachel shot back and Ramge stiffened.

"Is—is that how you felt when we celebrated my birthday?" Ramge's sweet tenor was restrained, but his back was ramrod straight, his pallor heightened. "Obligated?" 

Scowling, Rachel pressed his lips together.  "That's different," he finally said. 

"How—"

"Because it is!" 

Ramge flinched, dropping his eyes as Rachel's cross tone deflated him.  His long, elegant hands clutched each other tight to still their trembling.  Sia, sensing her master's distress, pressed a comforting paw to his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek.  He leaned into her comfort, breathing deep.

"Sometimes I don't understand you," Ramge said softly.  "How you can believe… that you aren't loved…"

"There's no 'love' for me in any of this," Rachel muttered.  Ramge cocked his head, staring at him from under the dark fringe of his hair, and Rachel didn't like the revelation dawning in those eyes.  "I just don't want to celebrate my birthday, okay?"

"...Then why didn't you tell me that? W-why did you lie? I would have respected your wishes..."

(You should've never been born.) 

(Their family had been the next to say it. Not to Rachel; servants couldn't confront royalty. But it was there on their faces and body language, loud and grieving and resentful. He started to believe then, just a little.  A wedge that tilted his young world,  just a little.)

It was something Ramge wouldn't understand.

Ramge, who had to hide his tears when the King's Guard and several members of the Royal Guard surprised him with his first-ever birthday party, wouldn't understand. Ramge, who desperately sought meaning to his birth, wouldn't understand.

Exhaling long, Rachel tilted his head back against the top of the settee, staring at the geometric patterns in the ceiling. Ramge, who was kind and forgiving despite a lifetime of neglect, wouldn't understand that some people weren't meant to be celebrated.

"I lied cause..." Rachel trailed off with another sigh.

He had panicked. He hated to admit it, would never admit it to anyone, but when confronted with Ramge's earnest question, he had panicked.

Ramge had been so flushed with happiness when Rachel answered with his fake date of birth, practically vibrating with unspoken plans. It was ridiculous how happy Ramge had been. Ridiculous.

(You should've never been born.) 

(The whispers from his enemies followed Rachel around the palace. His existence made politics complicated, dangerous. It had been easier with only one queen and one clear line of inheritance.  But this wasn't the fault of his father, wise and beloved.  No, Rachel was at fault. He was a demon, a fae—like his mother—bewitching the king to be unfairly favored, an outsider usurping what he never had a right to. If only he hadn't been born. If only he died.

He believed what they said was true and it made him complicated, dangerous. 

He did what he wanted, without regard for consequences. He did what he wanted, took what he wanted, destroyed what he wanted. If his birth was such an inconvenience that it was a mistake, then he saw no reason to live any way but spitefully, selfishly.

Happiness wasn't meant for people who shouldn't have been born. No one was going to give it to him, so he took it away from them instead.

Spitefully. Selfishly.

His birthday was a yearly reminder: his death weighed more than his birth.)

Ramge had been so happy and Rachel couldn't take that away.

At Rachel's continued silence, Ramge abruptly stood, turning.  Sia leapt onto the coffee table beside him. Hurt was heavy on his shoulders and back, hunching him over. "I-I should go."

(You should've never been born.) 

(This morning, in the graveyard quiet of his bathroom, Rachel's reflection said it to him, as it had every morning on his birthday for many years. 

He could only smirk spitefully back at the hateful eyes boring into him.

I know.)

"Wait." Rachel caught Ramge's elbow. "You know what? I'm getting hungry." 

Ramge glanced at Rachel over his shoulder, confusion mingling with the hurt at the apparent non–sequitur.  "A-are you… telling me to have something brought to you…?"

"You have a lot of nerve," Sia added, glaring.

"No," Rachel said, ignoring the cat.  "I'm asking you to buy me brunch."

A conflation of incredulity, indignation, and heartache fought over Ramge's face, with none of them the victor. "I… I don't think… that would be a good idea right now... "

Gently, Rachel grasped Ramge by the hips and turned him about, holding him there with minimal pressure. He leaned forward, tilting his head up to catch Ramge's downcast gaze, studying the conflict of emotion on his face, and offered a tentative smile.

"I thought we could pick up a cake from that bakery I like afterward."

Ramge shook his head, tense, ready to fly away, but Rachel's touch, light as it was, kept him captive. 

"I'm sorry," said Rachel quietly, "that I lied.  I don't like my birthday and I could tell you wanted to celebrate it.  I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but I still screwed that up anyway, huh?"

It took a moment and it was a wan, miniscule, and quavering thing, but it was there: a smile born from forgiveness.  "A-A little…"

"More like a lot," Sia sniffed and Ramge shushed her, embarrassed.

Rachel mugged a face at her—even if she was right—before flashing a return smile at Ramge and guiding him back down onto the settee. "Then let's make up over cake. I'll get ready."

"No..."  Ramge's smile instantly disappeared and he shook his head again.  "Don't—don't force yourself.  You don't want to celebrate, so we won't."

"When have I ever done anything I don't want to?"

"When it involves me," Ramge whispered, guilty.

"There's nothing I wouldn't want to do with you," Rachel said firmly.  That was the truth, and he never tried to hide it.  "And right now I'd like to get out of the palace with you, dine with you, and enjoy some cake with you." 

When Ramge looked like he wanted to protest further, Rachel added, "We're not celebrating. We're just going out to eat and it involves a dessert common for birthdays in some countries.  There won't even be candles on it."

"...If you say so…"  Ramge remained unconvinced.

"I say so."  Rachel smoothed out the line of worry between Ramge's brows with his thumb.  "You're going to look like an old man if you keep doing that."

Ramge caught Rachel's hand between both his own.  Involuntarily, Rachel's fingers curled against them, greedily seeking their warmth, annoyed at the soft gloves keeping him from it.

"Rachel."  Ramge's eyes were grave, unmoved by Rachel's attempt at humor.  "You're not… not lying?"

"No, I'm not," Rachel said.  "You will really look like an old man if you keep frowning like that."

"That's…! That's not what I meant…"

Rachel laughed at Ramge's cute sulking. "I'm just messing with you. But I'm not lying about anything else either."  Not lying, no, but not quite the exact truth either.  Ramge wouldn't understand, but he didn't have to.  He was always the exception in Rachel's life, and this was just another line in the long list of compromises Rachel shouldered for him.  "So are you ready for some cake?"

"Okay."  Ramge's mood finally lifted, bolstered by Rachel's words.

Relieved, Rachel moved to rise, but Ramge held onto his hand tight, staying him.

"Can—can I say one more thing…?"

Rachel raised a brow curiously.

"D-don't get mad but... I want—want you to know that… I'm grateful you were born."

Rachel froze.

Words rushed out as if Ramge had dammed them up for too long and couldn't hold them in any longer. "My life has changed so much since I met you… If it weren't for you and Sia, I-I don't know. "

Rachel quickly tamped a lid down on his inner turmoil, affecting a carefree air.  "That's all you. Give yourself some credit."

"He's right, Master Ramge!" Sia chirped in agreement.

Ramge smiled faintly at her. "Maybe. But…" He shook his head.  "...if you two didn't believe in me, I would've given up long ago."  The nebulous red of Ramge's eyes brightened, suffocating in their admiration and adoration.  "I'm sorry, Rachel… I know today is an unpleasant day for you, but to me... I'm grateful it exists. Because it allowed you and I to meet."

(You should've never been born.)

Maybe Ramge understood—a little bit.

"That so? I guess," Rachel shrugged, reversing Ramge's grip on his hand to capture one of Ramge's own, "I was born to meet you, then." He lifted the hand, ghosting his lips across each gloved fingertip, an intimate shadow of a courtly gesture.

He was well-rewarded with a pretty rose blooming on Ramge's cheeks—much more pleasant than the angry flush staining them earlier.

"... that's …that's not funny…"  Ramge's voice was small.

"Who said it was a joke?" 

Ramge licked dry lips before biting on the bottom one; Rachel watched the tiny flash of white teeth burrowing into plump pink.  "Sometimes… I don't understand you..."

"What's there to understand?"  I love you.  One day, Ramge would believe him.  In another life, Rachel could tell him.

"What you're thinking."

Rachel grinned crookedly.  "Right now?  Wanna know?"

Realizing Rachel was now teasing him, Ramge sighed, trying to shake his hand free, but Rachel wouldn't relinquish it.  "Rachel…"

It was hard not to tease Ramge, not when he was wearing that long-suffering expression like an old weathered campaigner. "I'm hungry.  I want some cake from my favorite bakery.  I want to share it with my best friend.  I hurt him today so he can pick the type and we can even have some of that disgusting tea he likes with it."

"...nevermind… forget it…"

"And I was thinking one more thing."  He really shouldn't but…

It was his birthday.

Slowly, Rachel slid off the thin leather sheathing Ramge's delicate hand, the dark leather pulling away from pale skin like clouds parting before the moon. The refined birdlike bones stretching from each knuckle twitched as if made suddenly aware of their nakedness, and Rachel ran a separate finger along each—one, two, three, four—cupping his hand, turning it to expose the white palm. 

He pressed a kiss to the long life-line, but one just wasn't satisfactory enough, so he placed another above it, and another, and another, until he felt the slight surge of Ramge's pulse against his lips.

Rachel wanted to taste it, mark it, but he had indulged too much. If he kept going, he would no longer be able to keep up the veneer of protecting Ramge from his own worst impulses.  He had done enough damage for today.

Ramge murmured something and Rachel looked up, only for Ramge's hand to slide free, grazing his cheek with timid fingers, hovering, uncertain. 

Rachel's past, present, and future were overlaid with fire and blood, and he was used to their heat, but it was Ramge's warmth he craved, a quiet warmth like the embers of a hearth, welcoming and life-giving.  He knew he didn't deserve it, that violence and death were only what his hands could hold, so he didn't move, didn't lean into that warmth, didn't grasp it, didn't encourage it, didn't do anything. 

But Ramge touched him anyway, cradling his cheek with that warm hand, stroking a thumb across the scar on his face and heart. 

"Happy Birthday, Rachel."

Rachel closed his eyes and smiled, a bit wry, a bit wistful.  He hated those words but, as always, Ramge was the exception.

He would do everything in his power to make sure Ramge never would believe the former. 

(You should've never been born.) 

(I'm grateful you were born.) 

And he wished with all his soul that Ramge would still believe the latter, this time next year.

Maybe someday he could believe it himself. 

He groaned, fighting valiantly against the clutches of sleep.  Something soft and furry gently prodded at his cheek.

With admirable effort, he opened his eyes; they immediately shut afterwards, so he tried again.  No use.  He lay there, drifting in a fog, unusually groggy.  He couldn't recall drinking last night so he didn't know why his limbs felt so heavy.

The furry thing prodded his cheek again, more insistently and with the vague threat of incoming claws.

After several half-hearted attempts, he managed to lift his arms.  Rubbing his eyes with his palms, he pried them open. Daylight already filled his chambers and he could hear the pop of a tended fire from the hearth.

He frowned; he didn't like the servants entering his quarters unsummoned and they knew that.  And did his canopy always have this particular tacky pattern?

"Sia's hungry…"

He turned his head to meet a pair of large yellow eyes staring down at him soulfully. He stared back bemused.

"Sia's—"

"Okay, okay," Rachel groaned, forcing himself to sit up.  Sia must've been unable to wake up Ramge; damn bastard was one hell of a heavy sleeper.  "I hear you, furball.  I'll get your master up."

Absently, he scrubbed a hand through his hair—not an unruly mess for once—while wanting nothing more than to collapse back into sleep.  Last night was fuzzy, but he thought Ramge had returned to his own rooms.

Maybe not.

Yawning, he swung his legs out of bed, before pausing, blinking lazily.  These weren't his bedchambers.  He recognized the vase of tea roses Ramge always kept on the vanity.

What was he doing here? They never hung out in Ramge's rooms.  What happened last night?

"Master Ramge… is that really you?" Sia placed a wary paw on his thigh.

What an odd question. He stared down at her, confused, ready to ask her what she meant, when a loud slam made both of them jump.

A resounding commotion clamored from the foyer, accompanied by muffled sounds of pain.  Rachel shook the cobwebs from his head, mind finally jump-starting to attention at the idea of an incoming threat, but his body remained curiously slow to respond.

The clamor quickly reached the door to the bedchamber and it was flung open wide.  Rachel stared at himself, harried and panicking, framed by the doorway.

"... the hell…?"

The other Rachel clumsily bounded toward the bed, tripping over strides much too long for him, and fell face first against the mattress with a muffled groan.

Rachel and Sia warily peered over the edge, but the other Rachel quickly sat up with wide eyes and an anxious expression Rachel was used to seeing on another face.

"R-Rachel," the imposter choked out, scrabbling at the lapels of his nightshirt.  "I-I think we—we have a p-problem…!"

A heavy ball dropped into Rachel's stomach.

“Oh, finally awake?”  Raven froze at the voice, the arm already tensing at a perceived threat. (put down a rabid dog said that voice through bared teeth before a phantom disc sought his carotid arteries)

Gloved fingertips touched his forehead and he lashed back instinctively.

“Calm down,” Add said, and Raven blinked at him, disoriented, half-sick with lingering nightmare.  Add was serene despite the violent reaction, leaning back in a chair by the bedside to dismiss the holoscreens beside him, plunging the room into a sweet orange dusk.

Once Raven realized Add wasn’t trying to murder him, he scrubbed his face with his hand to wipe the clinging remnants of the dream away.  “S-sorry… I … sorry.”  Raven swallowed hard, throat dry.  “What happened…?”

Add hummed.  “I made a miscalculation.”

Raven stared at him over the top of his fingers at the nonchalant tone, brain fuzzy as he tried to parse what Add meant.  “You made a mistake?”

Clucking his tongue, Add scowled.  “Not a mistake.  A miscalculation.”  Pouring Raven some water from a pitcher by the bedside, he offered the paper cup to the hybrid in an uncharacteristic display of consideration.  “This is something new I’m dealing with, so it was bound to happen.”

Taking the cup with murmured gratitude, Raven downed the contents in one gulp; Add poured him another.

“I addressed the issue, however,” Add continued, watching him drink, “so it shouldn’t happen again.”

“What issue.”  Raven’s words were flat.  Add wasn’t even attempting an ambiguous explanation so much as just flat out avoiding explaining it altogether.

Add inhaled deeply, mentally shifting through explanations and discarding them.  It had been two weeks since Raven agreed to Add’s little bargain; two long weeks of suffering Add’s company and boarding with him every night since he had installed that limiter.  Two long weeks of getting to know the devil Raven dealt with, of realizing that for all his supposed genius, Add was terrible at hiding a lot of his intentions.

(it was curious why he was so bad at it, as if he had little experience in the art of deception, of the little every day lies used to conceal or deflect)

Two long weeks of recognizing when Add was trying to hide something, like now.

“No bullshit, Add,” Raven said, trying to be patient, trying not to worry.  “Is it about the limiter?”

“Hm, yes…”  Add reached out to pry free the cup Raven was unconsciously crumpling in his fist.  “But as I said, I have addressed the issue.”

“Which is?” Raven ground out, grabbing a thin wrist.

Unblinking eyes stared at Raven’s hold on him before raising to meet a burning golden gaze; and it hung there, the unspoken challenge between them, of who held the power and who didn’t.  Add wanted data from the arm and Raven wanted him to fix the damn thing: a mutually beneficial but ultimately selfish business deal where neither of them respected the other as a business partner.

Just a means to an end.

Add clicked his tongue again, breaking their staredown and shaking his wrist free.  “I did not take into account that your body would outright reject the new limiter I placed in your arm.”  He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in his lap.  “You’ve been ill for the past four days.  This is not an uncommon phenomenon according to my mother’s notes; transplant rejection was one of her biggest obstacles in perfecting Nasod and organic integration.”

While Raven only understood about half of that, he definitely understood one thing.  “What... do you mean I’ve been ill for four days...?”

Add’s expression clearly exposed what he thought about the other’s intelligence.  “It means exactly that. Your immune system was treating the limiter like a foreign agent.”  He shrugged.  “I adjusted the parameters of the limiter.  You should be fine now.”

Raven raked his hand through unruly hair.  “Four days…” he breathed, dragging his hand over his head and covered his eyes briefly.  He couldn’t remember...  Something terrible twisted in his heart, anxiety clutching it tight. (had the nightmare been real) “Where are the others?”

“They’re here.”  Add’s smile was sardonic as he tilted his head.  “Did you think they’d abandon you?”

No, they wouldn’t.  That’s why Raven made a deal with the devil after all. (to keep that nightmare from becoming real)

“A few of them were just here in fact, checking up on you.  But it’s late so I ushered them out since they were in the way.”  Add pursed his lips.  “That elf and the brat were particularly stubborn, but,” and his left eye glinted, “I’m the only one that can help you, after all.”

Damn if Raven didn’t hate that fact.

Exhausted, he sank back into his pillow, lifting the arm to stare hard at it.  That nightmare felt more like a premonition than dream; waking up didn’t dispel the images of the broken bodies of his friends, of Rena’s betrayed, tear-stained face (an echo of hers).  The arm felt back onto the bed with muffled thump.

“I’m relying on you, Add,” he said, looking at him.  Raven didn’t bother to suppress the pitiful desperation in his voice.

He closed his eyes; the pain unballed into white stabs, but he grit his teeth and concentrated instead on issuing commands to his remaining dynamo, sweat beading on his brow.  If he could get them afloat, he could use them to help him stand and return to the others.  But despite almost depleting his remaining energy, they merely jerked off the ground and hovered for a moment before dropping like dead flies. With an irritated exhale, he tried again, even more unsuccessfully; this time they only shivered before lying still.

Scrap. All scrap.  They were going straight into the trash bin as soon as possible.

Voices floated out of the muffled white noise buzzing in his ears; they picked at his headache and he drew in a long ragged breath to silence them.  Everyone was such a pain; he was in pain; it was all pain; there was only pain. Why couldn’t he have peace even in his dying moment?

… hm… was that right?  He was dying, wasn’t he?

The thought sat there, floating above his physical agony, foreign, confusing, incomprehensible. He examined it from a distance, befuddled by the concept, the mere idea that it was happening to him.  Never, never in his short life had the idea of his own mortality touched him.  Not when his family was executed, not when he was enslaved, not while fighting Nasods, demons, or even the gods themselves…

Dying.  Death.  He was intimately familiar with it, of its grief and loss, but only as a bearer or a witness.

Not as a recipient.  Surely not he.

“Add!”  Being called by that one kept him from exploring the thought any further.  With a groan, he opened his eyes and craned his head, trying to focus on the silhouettes rushing toward him.

A heartbeat, a bit more of his life lost, and then that one was kneeling by him, bending over him, blocking out the sky with darkness.  For some reason this irritated him—everything about that one irritated him—and he lifted a bloodstained hand to weakly shove Raven away.

But Raven just caught his hand in a fist, holding it tight, face grave yet too-carefully composed.  “Don’t move.” “Don’t tell me what to do,” Add spat out with some effort, further annoyed that he had to once again remind Raven of his place.

A sudden acute spasm pulsed through Add’s side and he grimaced, squinting past Raven at the person attending his injury: the elfwoman.  Of course.  She and Raven were like a set; if Add had known he’d have to deal with her meddling ways when he had chosen to focus on Raven’s Nasod arm, he would’ve stuck to studying the Nasod Queen.

Cool air hit his heated flesh as Rena pulled back his clothing from the wound.  Add heard her quick intake of breath and he felt Raven’s grip on his hand tighten briefly.  Well, he didn’t need their reactions to know how bad it was.  The pain was certainly enough of an indication.

But he wasn’t dying, no.  Not he.

He closed his eyes.  He was tired, the pain now washing over him in overwhelming waves. If he drowned in them, would he able to rest? Just a little bit of sleep.

Rena whispered something to Raven—”keep him awake, I need his mana to supplement the spell” or something like that—but it was all more noise.  They couldn’t tell him what to do.  If he wanted to sleep, he’ll sleep.  Who did they think they were?  Rena called herself his big sister, but Add never agreed to that no matter how much she pestered him.  And Raven… was just… well, he tried not to think about that one too much.  Either way, they had no place to tell him what to do.  He wanted to sleep and they weren’t going to stop him.

“Add.”  Despite being a single syllable, there was an insistence in the mild way Raven said his alias that he found impossible to refuse.  Forcing open gummy eyelids, he met Raven’s steady gaze, found himself captured in it.  “You once told me you calculated more prime numbers than any person alive or dead.”

Maybe the pain was making the conversation hard to follow, but Add couldn’t quite parse the rationale behind the statement given the current context.  “What?”  He could recall a time he had once boasted about that, trying so hard to impress the diffident.  Raven never did appreciate Add’s intellectual prowess, though frankly, it was to be expected from an uncultured clod.

But what did that have to do with anything?  Did Raven suddenly realize what an exceptional genius was by his side?

“Prime numbers,” Raven said levelly.  “Recite them to me.  All that you know.”

The white pain swiftly flared green-gold in his head as Rena’s hands pressed down over his wound. He gripped Raven’s fist with a choked grunt, glaring at him through the haze.  “Don’t... tell me what to do.”

“How does it go?” Raven barreled on despite Add’s demand; his face was doggedly calm, even as his voice took on an ignorant lilt.  “First 2.  Then 3, 5, 7…  … 9?”

Damn, this birdbrained—!  Raven knew Add couldn’t ignore the opportunity to correct him; he always knew what buttons to push.  Add tried to resist, but as Raven continued to feign ignorance (“It’s 9, right? Yeah, it’s 9.”), the pedant burst out of him, ready to fight. “Why are you so stupid?  2, 3, 5, 7, 11.  Idiot.”

“Okay,” came the mild reply, at odds with the serious, focused gaze which refused to let Add’s go.  His carefully cultivated expression was making Add uneasy.  A butterfly born of that foreign thought (dying, death) flitted across mind before Raven’s voice crushed it. “What’s next then? 15?”

“13.”  He continued on before Raven would further embarrass himself with his ignorance. “17. 19. 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67—”  Raven’s thumb stroked the back of his hand, distracting him. “Are you listening?”  

“I’m listening.”

Dutifully, Add progressed down the list, the numbers initially coming to mind without effort, though it took effort to speak them.  This was child’s play, but it served well as a distraction.  He was only vaguely aware of the pain now, as ghostly to him as the sounds of fighting or the stench of blood; the only immediacy—his only reality—was his line of knowledge and Raven’s inhuman eyes.

But he was still so tired and as the numbers climbed higher, so did his exhaustion. His precise rhythm of syllables slurred and rambled as his body began to feel detached from the sum of its parts. He just wanted to sink into the verdant light fogging his mind; what did he need a body for anyway?  It was his mind that was exceptional—the only thing about him of any worth.  The human body was simply fragile meat, with its disgusting, constant needs and desires.  He was all too aware of its shortcomings lately; wouldn’t it be better just to let it go?

Thoughts scattering, he grasped at integers, recital stumbling, tongue tangling.

Finally with a stutter, he stopped and made no effort to continue, defeated by his body’s limitations.  He knew his prime numbers, even if it was too much work to share it.  Wasn’t just ‘knowing’ enough?  Did it mean so much to impress anyone with how brilliant he was, much less this insufferable brute who wouldn’t let him go?

Raven squeezed his hand.  “What’s after 431?”

“431,” Add repeated drowsily, eyelids fluttering. Why did he always have a hard time ignoring Raven?  Add always had to answer him, always had to have the last word.  “Then.... Four.. thirty-f… ive…”  He trailed off, ready to give into his body’s demand for rest.

Raven’s lips pressed into a thin line, a small but not inconsequential movement which released another butterfly of that foreign thought, thrilling through him like adrenaline.  “... Are you sure?”

‘Are you sure?’  What kind of ridiculous question was that? Of course Add was sure.  He was never wrong.  He never made mistakes.  He couldn’t afford to make mistakes. When he made mistakes, Father would be disappointed—(but he’s dead, edward)

he didn’t make mistakes

(joining elsword and this merry band of useless fools was a miscalculation, not a mistake)

(giving up on his mother and forsaking his lost past was a miscalculation, not a mistake)

(that one was a—)

It wasn’t 435, was it? He… he couldn’t remember. What was it? Was it 435?  Unable to focus, his thoughts spun like leaves on a fickle wind.  A number that could only be broken by itself and (that) one.  Not 435. Not even numbers after 2. Not 432. 433? What about 433?

What came then was not the next number in the sequence. What came was the meaning of ‘dying.’  The gravity of dying.  The consequence of his miscalculation—his mistake.

He was losing his mind.

So he was dying.

His breath quickened with this new, frightening knowledge, thin chest heaving with sudden wet gasps.  He couldn’t be dying!  No, he had too much to do!  Too much to learn and create!  And what would that one do without him?  He hadn’t finished his greatest work!  If he left that one incomplete, who knows what would happen (to him)?

“Add.”  A digit of Raven’s Nasod claw delicately brushed sweat-drenched curls from his drawn face.  “You don’t know what’s after 431?”

He didn’t know...?

He didn’t—

Like an ugly beast, irritation flared up in Add’s chest to crush the panic threatening to consume him, goaded by the simple questioning of his intellect.  He knew! Of course he knew!. He just… temporarily forgot due to anxiety and pain.  Understandable, right?  Lesser souls wouldn’t have made it this far with their cognition intact, but Add was an exceptional genius. He knew.  He wasn’t losing his mind.

“If you’d shut up, I’d continue,” Add grumbled, mustering enough energy for the rebuke and a rather pathetic glower.  “433. Then 439.”

“Okay.”

443, 449, 457, 461, 463, 467, 479, 487, 491, 499, 503, 509, 521… With each number, the spell death had over him became a little bit less. The idea of dying was no longer a foreign concept, even if it needed further examination to be fully understood.  However, he’d deal with it accordingly when the time came, and when it did, he’d be better prepared.  Bolstered by this knowledge, his cognitive facilities remained sharp even as his limbs grew numb, all while the numbers spilled from his mouth as if to supplant the blood spilling from his wound.

523, 541, 547, 557, 563, 569, 571, 577, 587, 593...

“Just a little more,” Rena murmured, though her words felt unreal, garbled as if she were underwater.  He was hypnotized by the grave, dark face haloed by an impossibly blue sky, yearning to impress, happy to be important, euphoric with his epiphany.

599, 601, 607, 613, 617, 619…

The pain was just an ache now, hollow and dull, fading like that green-gold light.

Only two things could break down a prime number.

631, 641, 643, 647…

Raven shifted his hold on Add’s hand, their fingers tangling together in that not-uncomfortably intimate way which Add detested because he enjoyed it so much.

653, 659, 661…

Rena leaned back with a long but relieved sigh, wiping her forehead with the back of her arm, hand stained with the life of the one she saved.

673, 677...

At Rena’s reassuring smile, all the tension slid from Raven’s frame and, like a doll suddenly bereft of string, he slumped low, bowing his head and breaking off his stare.  Still, his grip remained firm, palm glued to palm. “You did great, Add.  You can rest now.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” came the automatic reply.  When was Raven going to learn?

“Sorry.”  Raven’s voice was unusually small, tight.  Behind the black and white curtain of his fringe, Add saw Raven’s eyes squeeze shut.

Add licked his dry, cracked lips, tasting his blood and sweat.  Today he learned about his own mortality, but he supposed neither of them needed another lesson on the mortality of others.

“...Idiot,” he finally said because he couldn’t think of anything else to say and turned his head away.  His fingers curled once against the back of Raven’s hand, a reflexive twitch trying to convey thoughts even his genius mind had no way of formulating.

Another day.  He’d leave it for another day.  This, too, bore the need for further research.

Sighing, he drifted toward sleep, finally relenting to the exhaustion from his blood and mana loss.  It was uncomfortable here under the sky, with the sounds of battle ending, a throb in his side, rocks in his back, Raven’s fingers through his, and all over the cloying scent of death.  But it was not unpleasant, because these things were also things his mind could process as reminders that he was alive.

One, two.  Drops of water splashed onto his cheek, dotting clean the dirt and blood on his skin.

‘Rain?’ he tried to ask, but it was lost to dreams of Raven cradling him close.

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