#simpletonshipping

If there’s one thing Alit can thank Academia for, it’s for being pretentious. Academia views the residents of Heartland as dirt on their shoes, an army of ants armed with knives that needs to be crushed and eradicated. In that same vein of thought, they think themselves superior, kings in comparison to the rest of them.

It’s this mindset that drives Academia away from the forests. Dirt, wild animals, and cold hard ground when there’s a perfectly good city before them? As if. While Heartland has burned, the forests have thrived, full of life and even a couple handfuls of survivors.

It’s why, even ten years later, Alit’s old training ground is still intact. Gilag isn’t there anymore, hasn’t been for almost three years now, but Alit has a new companion to join him at the spring, even though Mizael never trains with him.

The first time Mizael came with Alit to the grounds had been the day after Gilag’s death—distraught and grieving, Alit had torn through their burning city, Mizael close on his heels. He’d beaten a tall old pine over and over to vent his frustration, again and again and again until his knuckles were scraped and bleeding and his hands started to throb.

Mizael had pulled him away then, and by consequence Alit had punched him in the face. The scuffle that followed had left Mizael with a black eye and two cracked ribs; and left Alit with a broken nose and a bad limp.

Mizael had come with him to the training grounds ever since. It has become something like a routine, really—Alit trains and Mizael drinks tea to keep from laughing.

“You could join in, you know,” Alit says for what must be the thousandth time. Mizael, perched up on his usual rock with a first aid kit by his side and a thermos cradled in his hands, scoffs and takes a sip of his tea.

“I refuse to take part in your ridiculous…” he trails off, frowning. “…Whatever you call them.”

“Exercises,” Alit offers, cheerfully. He swipes his hand through the waterfall with a sharp cry. “Draw!”

“…Sure,” Mizael mutters, eyeing him incredulously. “One bear face down. Pushups. Swiping hands through waterfalls. A very serious and respectable practice, I’m certain.”

“It’s training!” Alit insists, but he’s grinning. This is an argument they’ve had a million times before, and they tie every time. If there’s one thing Alit and Mizael have in common besides their honor as a duelist, it’s their stubbornness.

Mizael rolls his eyes at him, taking another cautious sip of his tea. “Whatever you say, Alit.”

Alit laughs and goes back to his training. The conversation dies off into silence, but it’s comfortable, weathered by years of casual conversation and easy friendship. It’s almost funny, remembering how little Alit interacted with Mizael in the beginning. He’d seen Mizael as an ally, perhaps a friend, but the other Barian had never meant much more than that. It had always been just Alit and Gilag, and sometimes Mizael if the other Barian cared to amuse them. Now, Alit can’t imagine life without the other.

Mizael is harsh, taciturn, and overly dramatic in subtle ways that makes Alit laugh even now, but he’s also the most loyal and dependable individual Alit knows.

A sudden thought occurs to him, and Alit stops mid-draw, letting the rushing waters of the falls slam onto his hand. “I wonder… is it still there…?”

Mizael looks up from his book—he’d taken it out halfway through Alit’s drills—and raises one eyebrow. “Is what?”

Alit doesn’t answer, just removes his hand and dries it off on his pants. “I mean, it’s been a couple years…”

Mizael puts down his book, picks up his tea, and scowls. “What?”

He jumps off the rock and wades back to shore, deliberately silent. It’s fun to rile Mizael up because he always makes the best expressions, and besides, there’s nothing wrong with leaving someone in suspense. He takes his time in putting back on his shirt and smoothing it down, overly slow to the point where Mizael rolls his eyes at him again, taking an equally slow and deliberate sip of his cooling tea.

It’s only when Mizael’s taking another sip does Alit cheerfully proclaim, “That crater you made ten years ago when you dramatically crashed from the sky!”

The sudden break in silence as well as the words themselves startles Mizael, and he doubles over, choking. Alit is just starting to mentally congratulate himself when Mizael twists and spews his mouthful of tea right in Alit’s face.

Shrieking, Alit falls back, slamming backwards into the chilly water of the spring. He comes up spluttering, just in time for Mizael to pour the dredges of his cold tea over Alit’s head with a small little smirk on his stupidly smug face.

Soaked from head to toe with green tea dripping from his hair down his face, Alit gives Mizael the best annoyed look he can muster. “I can’t believe you just spat in my face.”

“Cold tea,” Mizael says. His face is impassive, but his eyes glint with amusement. “You know how it is.”

“I know how it is,” Alit agrees, and splashes Mizael with the cold water before ducking his head to wash out the tea.

He resurfaces to see Mizael scowling, his long hair plastered to his forehead and his clothes soaked. “I hope you get hypothermia.”

Alit grins at him, squeezing the water out his hair as he clamors back onto dry ground. “I was serious, though, about whether that crater is still there.”

Mizael makes a face at him, but closes the thermos and starts to pack up, absently throwing Alit his cloak. “We have time if you want to check.” He sweeps on his cloak in one fluid motion. “But just for the record, I didn’t falldramatically.”

“Sure, okay,” Alit says and pulls up his hood. “Of course, my friend. Whatever you say.”