There had been an uneasiness creeping through your bones, unhappiness in every fiber of you, and a sickening longing that was leading you to dangerous questions, and even more perilous answers. You've been lucky enough to fall in love so quickly, and to have the opportunity to tend to such wondrous loves. You know this. You know that this is good fortune, unearned. It will end. You hope it won't, you know it will. After all, your luck in love has run out before. You lost three breathtaking, brilliant, once-in-a lifetime loves in one go. It could happen again.

And those loves that you held for so long (and still. still.) remained tethered to you, your heart holding onto them by a single thread, thinner than a strand of hair, frayed in many places, but never broken. Kanaya had spoken of holding candles-- wax-wicked lights, she called them-- for the people she loved that vanished from her life, just like you had. To hold so many, she said, was exhausting, but she had done it. And you had done the same. Three candles, still alight, still burning bright, but for how long?

For each of those loves, you've decided to find them, to follow every trail to its end. Kanaya. Rufioh. Theodore. There is no moving on until you know what happened to each of them. This was not decided overnight, though. You have been planning on doing this since the first night of The Unbinding. The moment you were separated, you began your search. Coordinates were written down daily to prevent forgetting, lists of locations were created for when you regained your freedom, questions were asked of scholars and sorcerers and scientists. These were the rituals you did when you could not perform others.

Kanaya had provided to be the simplest search. She was exactly where you left her, and had moved so far from where you had seen her last. Seven years. A little over three sweeps. She said it was nothing in comparison to 143 years. Perhaps, but you didn't feel that way. Seven years is a long time to hold space for someone, to keep the flame of a candle burning. She still speaks with kindness and humour and enough of a bite to remind others what she's capable of, still shines like the stars you wished on every night, but her eyes are tired, her voice is sharper, her heart is far more battered. Part of it is because of age. Part of it is your doing. And for that, you will spend the rest of your life working to repair what you ruined.

Rufioh was next, a search that led you across planets and timelines, doomed and dead and desperate to find him. Night after night, you bounced from location to location, finding pieces and clues he'd left behind. A name, a scrap of fabric, a memory in someone else's mind. On one planet, the Summoner was stoking the flames of rebellion, on another, he hadn't been seen for eons. He was with a large group of rowdy men here, a dangerous woman in blue there, but never long enough to spot him, never long enough to know he's alright. The last planet you follow him to, they tell you they know the name, they know the face, but they haven't been able to track him down either. You use your last resort then and there, a bracelet with trans-dimensional travel capabilities, one that connects you to the person and not to a place. When you hold the bracelet against a pulse point to use it, you close your eyes and think of him. You remember his beautiful stained glass wings, his cocksure smile, his laugh, his kindness, his passion, every wonderful bit of him you've kept in your heart for ages, and you hope the bracelet will bring you right to him.

When you open your eyes, you are back in your room, holding a shirt of his that he left in your room many moons ago. The tears that pour from your eyes, your heart, stain his gorgeous rust with teal. You wail his name for hours, but it doesn't bring him back to you. It never will.

The last is Theodore, and he proves to be the most difficult. Kanaya and Rufioh are trolls-- wherever they were wouldn't be all too alarmed by your appearance. But Theodore is human… Human in a time before trolls have made their presence known. Human in a city with many eyes and just as many dangers for those who have never been before. But you have. You went every Sunday night. Still, you had to wait for one key component. When your children send you your perception disruptor-- a ring of alexandrite and gold, one that cloaks your appearance to the naked eye-- you have all you need to begin.

You ask before you move, if anyone has been to New York City recently. You ask, too, if anyone is willing to accompany you. (you frame it as a date for current lovers. you do not tell anyone that you might not be brave enough to face past lovers on your own.) The answers are all kind, and you are struck with guilt when you understand how genuine they are, and how none of it matters when you have enough nerve to go it alone.

The first evening was for information. Does the city still stand? What are the people like now? Are Roxy and Rose around? What about Arthur English? Does he still live where you used to visit every Monday? Does he still live? You walk through the Upper East Side, trying to push through the haze of memories to stay on task, to make sure your mission is completed. But you find yourself grabbing a meal in a diner you used to frequent (and take just one coffee to go, not two), you change your path to pass by a brownstone that had grown beautiful pansies years ago (and still does), you wander into a bookstore that you had been regulars at (and find that Dr. Theodore Scratch is writing biographies of New York mobsters now, and signed a few copies for purchase. you do not hesitate in buying one that has his signature inside). To walk around the city like this, it's so easy. It's just like you remember. It's just like you would do on Mondays. But it's not the same. Your left hand is empty. And even in the summer, the city is so much colder without Theodore next to you.

The next evening, with nerves steeled and bravery threatening to flutter right out of your throat, you sit at your vanity, curling your hair, painting your lips red, making yourself as beautiful as possible. Just like before, you check how you look as a troll, then switch to see what others will perceive. You haven't changed the settings on your perception disruptor in 66 sweeps; your human appearance is fair-skinned with freckles, bright orange-red hair, and blue eyes with just a touch of green. The scars on your skin and the grey in your hair still show, but so does the red on your lips. You don't wait for a message before you slip on your dress (green, to match his eyes) and grab a wax-sealed letter before sending yourself to coordinates you never forgot, ones that place you outside of a high-rise, on steps where you frightened a group of drunken young girls with your troll visage and had to be rescued by him once, where you stumbled on the way up and fell into his arms rather often, where you kissed each other on the very top step hundreds of times.

It's still the same. You know everything has changed, but the building still stands. His name is still on the buzzer by the door. You are still hoping that he'll want to see you, that he hasn't forgotten you, that he might still love you.

You fiddle with the letter for a moment, chin tilted up as your eyes are locked onto his window, all the way at the top of the building, and you think you see movement behind curtains. Something compels you to go to the other side of the street so you can see the window better, and your heart nearly stops when Theodore steps out onto his balcony. There's a glass of wine in his hand (white, like you used to drink with him), and glasses on his face (handsomely styled, as always), and you can hear him laughing so many stories above you. There's a glance over his shoulder for someone, and you think you can hear Roxy yelling from inside, but you do not recognise the other person who steps out onto the balcony and presses a kiss to his cheek. It's hard to see who it is when your vision is blurry with tears, tears you don't even realise are streaming down your cheeks. You wonder if he reconciled with his ex-wife, or if he found someone right after you vanished, or if he waited for you. Wonder all you want, you think, but what does it matter? You can wonder for the rest of your life, but you will never get an answer.

There is one more laugh, one you are so lucky to hear-- one you will hold onto forever-- and he heads back inside with his companion, closing the door behind them, but leaving the curtains open. You watch the silhouettes of people pass by the window for what feels like seconds and hours simultaneously, the longest moment you've ever felt, and you can't recall exactly when you ran out of tears. You are only pulled out of your reverie when the curtains close, and the lights behind them go out. He's gone to bed for the night. He's gone to you, forever. You will not ask him to return to you, but you wish, oh, how you wish, he would.

The letter in your hands is heavy, now that he's gone, and you think of its contents. You wrote an explanation, you wrote of love, you wrote of wanting and waiting, but now it feels wrong to give that to him. How cruel of you to come back and wound him like that. He's moved on with his life. But maybe… maybe he'd want to know. Maybe he'd want to know what happened to the girl he fell in love with twelve years ago, the girl he lost four years after that. Maybe.

So you find yourself back in your bedroom in a blur, frantically writing something new-- an apology, more than anything. There is still an explanation, but the only love you place in it is at the very end, right above your name. What good would any more sentimentality do for him? There is a mention, though, that you will not resent him if he never reaches out to you. You know how long he's been waiting. And you know humans don't get all that long to live…

Once it's sealed, you're back on the steps, back at the buzzer, and you practically slam the letter into his mailbox, the original draft still tucked into your pocket. The letter is out of your hands now. It will end up in his soon. Let it be one last thing you share. Let it be something he holds onto for just a little longer. Let it be a beautiful memory at the end of a beautiful love. You might not be the love of his life, but you still think he might be, he absolutely could have been, yours. Lost in thought, you stand by the door for a while, only pulled out of it when a young woman's voice can be heard on the other side of the threshold. It could be Roxy. You do not stay long enough to find out if you're right.

You're gone in a flash, pressing your bracelet to your wrist, but you've gone right from the frying pan into the fire. Now you've ended up on another lover's stoop (another twisted ritual, it seems), and you wish, so terribly, that you had the foresight to go home first, that you had changed out of your dress, that you had turned off your perception disruptor. So when Simon-- kind, tender, caring, perfect Simon-- greets you, with nothing but love in his voice and concern in his eyes, you feel nothing but overwhelming shame and sorrow.

The little boy’s idea of heaven was right at dawn when he and Rufioh lay by the dying fire on a bed made of nothing but a blanket strewn across the ground and one thrown over their shoulders. With Rufioh’s body covered him as much as possible without crushing him, making sure that if anyone should dare tread into their camp to kill the young prophet that the blow would fall upon himself first instead of Karkat. His arms wrapped around the boy even when tension was high after a quarrel over what was best – what was easy or what was right. A fight that always ended with Karkat declaring his revolution would have no blood shed that wasn’t spilt in self-defense and that if Rufioh didn’t agree he could leave. Karkat had eternity to save Alternia and he could be as patient as possible.

He would never leave though. He would storm around the camp and chastise Karkat for his arrogant ways; that such methods never worked for his ancestor and they would not work now. Rufioh simply wanted the best for Karkat. He wanted the boy in a palace sleeping in soft bedding and wrapped in finery. He wanted the boy to be granted the safety and happiness denied to him his entire life and he wanted Alternia to draw peace from his reign. He knew that if he would be permitted his war that Karkat would warm Alternia like the sun pounding through his very veins. But Karkat wouldn’t budge.

Rufioh would still remain vigil even after these fights, when bedtime came quietly and they simply fell into each other out of habit. Sleep pulling at them slowly as there was a lack of conversation to stimulate their thinkpans, lack of excitement for a new Empire to keep them awake. Karkat would slowly push a hand through Rufioh’s cherished hair and press a long desired kiss to the man’s lips, whispering quietly against the chaste touch: “I know… I’ve known for ages, and I’m sorry.”

---

The little boy’s idea of heaven was flittering about in the twilight sky; flying was always faster than walking. That was until they hit a town and they were forced to light down so as not to draw attention. They would scramble through their pockets and sylladexes until they scrapped together enough caegars to get a motel room somewhere.

Sometimes they would be bad off and they would have to sit on the corner and beg or hunt down bodies to rob until they’d managed enough to get a sleazy room that served its purpose enough for neither to complain. When they were the most poor off, the recooperacoon would be a single and Rufioh would have a crick in his neck for a few nights. When they were worse off than that even the ablution trap would be too small and Rufioh would have to stand over the sink while Karkat sat on the counter and washed his hair for him.

But when things were going well for them, when Karkat’s sermon had garnered a heap of donations or when they came across the remains of a FLARP session gone bad or when they stumbled across legislacerator killing grounds they would have enough money for a rather nice hotel. The sopor was always of good quality and the ablution trap was big enough for both of them and sometimes, when they hadn’t eaten in awhile or hadn’t eaten anything Rufioh would deem food in awhile they would order room service.

And when the server would come to give them their food, sometimes they would be recognized and the server would run to get their boss for the reward for their heads was a large enough sum to keep the entire hotel staff secure for the rest of their lives. In those instances Karkat and Rufioh would CAPTCHAlog the food, laughing while Karkat fluttered out the window, pulling Rufioh out by his wrist (wedging out his horns had become an art form at this point) and ascending high into the clouds.

Rufioh would always search out a cluster of stars that sat perfectly together and he would point out the second star on the right with the fondness of a troll looking upon their lusus and Karkat would smile in a way that made Rufioh unable to look at him.

---

The little boy’s idea of heaven was the look Rufioh would get on his face every time they found an underground Church of The Holy Sufferer and they would be invited in to take shelter. The rooms were always only big enough for Rufioh to turn his head in any direction and only half the time they had recooperacoons instead of beds, but it was always warm and there was always food and there was always guaranteed protection.

But there was not always guaranteed happiness. They had harbored in the largest church they’d ever seen, and at first it had been merrymaking all around. Karkat and Rufioh had been allowed a few nights to decompress from the stress of their travels before slowly pastors and travelers and honored disciples came to speak with Karkat. At first a mere trickle that allowed Rufioh to proudly remain at Karkat’s side, arm protectively slung around him. Soon the number in the crowd grew so that his grip migrated to shoulder, then hand, until Rufioh was hardly able to see the boy over those that wished to be blessed by him.

When finally they were alone, Rufioh would grab him by the shoulders, kneeling down to look him ocular orb-to-ocular orb and in a hushed and worried tone declare the church was dangerous and they needed to leave immediately. Karkat of course would see through his insistence and push the man away. “You’re jealous,” he would gape. For how often Rufioh got him alone to be without him in his arms, without him dependent Rufioh would allow not a soul to enjoy his company as much as he did. And Karkat would storm from the room, angered that he was finally safe and happy with a full congregation, finally he was getting somewhere in his revolution and Rufioh wished to return to the road for his own selfishness.

At such harsh rejection Rufioh would turn from the church, finding his way out of the winding cave it was built deeply into until he’d reach fresh air and he would pace to get himself back together. He was angry, he was jealous, he was embarrassed, but he couldn’t leave Karkat despite how much of a tantrum he wanted to throw. Being an adult was difficult he would sigh as he would search up through the canopy for Neverland.

During his pacing though he would discover that some reckless disciple had been followed. Hiding high up in the trees he would watch the army below, slowly picking through the underbrush looking for clues as to where they had run off. But it wasn’t until he was certain that the location of the church had been found out that he would dart back through the cave to Karkat’s side.

Again he would grab the boy and demand they leave, but Karkat’s patience would be thin and he would argue with the man. Rufioh would cling to him though, drawing Karkat up into his arms despite how Karkat would push at his wide chest. His followers were soon upon them, trying to disentangle Karkat from Rufioh’s grasp. His hold remained tight, though, nose buried into Karkat’s hair and the boy tucked perfectly against him. He had had perigees to discover just where Karkat could be placed so that no troll or beast could pull him away.

The followers’ attention was soon diverted as the doors were broken open and the army began to open fire. Rufioh flew up into the vaulted ceiling, keeping Karkat safe between him and a corner. Karkat’s arms were tight around Rufioh’s neck then, watching the battle below. Rufioh’s breath was heavy, ocular orbs closed as he prayed to The Signless himself that he had been fast enough, that his black clothing and brown wings would help to blend them into the shadows and the army would not discover them. Despite himself he prayed that the others would be arrested and in the battle searching for The Second Coming would be forgotten.

It would seem as if Rufioh’s prayers had been answered, as the battle died down as bodies fell. As if The Signless was rewarding Rufioh for his loyalty to the royal blood pumping through the tiny shivering form against him. As he relaxed, listening to people being dragged out to later be loaded in carts and strung up for all to witness, one of the last remaining priests knocked a candle with her elbow as she struggled for her life and freedom and the church was engulfed in minutes.

Karkat would see though. His gaze never leaving his people even as Rufioh tried to block it all with his shoulder, he himself never once looking down. Karkat would struggle again, pushing at him enough to fly, trying to lead Rufioh to safety without making a sound. He couldn’t risk telling the man what was going on and thus alert the army to their presence. Rufioh would eventually turn and see it though, and he would hold Karkat more tightly. Between Karkat’s struggles and their wings both trying to achieve a dominant flight pattern, the two bumped around the ceiling like moths trapped until eventually Karkat slipped away and dove for the nearest window.

Flinging himself through the colored panes he made a hole to freedom and Rufioh was quick to follow. There was enough time between fitting himself through the window and the army rounding the building for Rufioh to gather the bleeding and unconscious Karkat into his arms and take off through the emergency escape route out of the caves.

---

The little boy’s idea of hell was waking up to the blurry sight of the canopy above him, just barely thick enough to keep out the sun. The familiar pressure of Rufioh’s arms was only mildly comforting about his sore and tender body, and the prickling of brown tears was more soothing than it ever had been.

When he had come-to enough, they strung a hammock between the highest branches of the tree Rufioh had chosen to hide in, and Karkat settled against Rufioh’s chest once more. As the sun moved across the sky and the muffled chirps of the birds echoed from below, Karkat ran his hands through Rufioh’s mussed hair. Sleep was far from the boy’s think pan even as Rufioh drifted. He was awake enough, though, that his hands caressed Karkat’s back and hair, pulling him closer as Karkat moved against him.