#trisco

“Of course, dear Alena!” Vasco’s voice is just as chipper. It makes Tristan want to laugh, or kiss him, or both. It’s new, this want that blooms in his chest and makes his fingers grip his cane a little tighter.

Tristan shakes his head and hobbles back onto the carriage. “Hope nothing bothered you out here - sorry for keeping you both up so late.”

“’Sfine,” Ricardo mutters. “Not like we would’ve been sleeping anyway.”

Alena elbows him, making him glare at his sister. “What he meant to say is that it’s no trouble at all, Valencio.”

Tristan raises an eyebrow. “As long as both of you are fine.” Tristan settles on his seat, Vasco settling next to him just like he did on the ride here - but it feels different, now. Vasco makes sure to settle on his left side, snaking a hand between them in the dark to twine his fingers in Tristan’s own, and it’s all so adolescent and silly that he can’t stop the little laugh that bubbles up from his throat.

“What?” Vasco mumbles, but the grin on his face says he knows exactly why Tristan’s a step away from giggling.

He decides to change topics, speaking low. “Do you think the twins are alright?”

Vasco frowns, a quick twitch of his lips. “Not at all. Cicero spends more time with them than I do, and Kalden besides. They might be the ones to speak to. Suddenly concerned with the Tvothes welfare?”

Tristan nods. “Yes, I suppose. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of a parent the entire time they’ve been with the Registry. They’ve been with us for a year now, maybe two. I know the Citte isn’t - wasn’t - isn’t kind to the Contadani, but I never thought…”

“Orphans were always more of a Sorelle affair, weren’t they?” Vasco’s voice is carefully blank, nonchalant in a way Tristan is learning means he cares far more than he lets on.

Tristan casts a glance to the twins; Alena is staring forward, chipper demeanor lost now that she doesn’t think eyes are on her. There are dark circles under her eyes from what he can see, and she slumps in her seat, exhausted. All of this he could attribute to the time, but considering her behavior earlier… Ricardo fares no better, either, though he wears his exhaustion plainly, not hiding it behind a cheery veneer.

He resolves to ask Cicero about the twins’ welfare once they return. He carefully settles his head on Vasco’s shoulder, wrapping his arm around the other man’s waist.

“The world is changing,” he thinks he hears Vasco say, but he’s asleep between one breath and the next.

They arrive back at Seimora’s Throne in the early hours of the morning, the horizon just barely tinged with the light of the sun. The twins give them both a salute as they disembark, looking more dead on their feet than ever.

“Do they have rooms here?” Tristan asks Vasco, to which he nods.

“They’ll stable the horses first, because they’re nothing if not dependable, and rest for the day - well, Ricardo will. Alena will probably sleep for an hour before forcing herself awake again.” Vasco shakes his head, tutting. “The girl never stops. She’s officially apprenticed, did you know that? Artigiani, if I’m not mistaken. Ricardo, too, though he is a Fabra.”

Tristan did not know. He didn’t even think the twins had the aptitude for that kind of careful maskwork - and yet, here they are. Color him surprised.

Vasco looks at him with some inscrutable emotion in his eyes. “You’ve always been a Masquerada, Tristan.” The smile on his face is not unkind, but it’s - it’s as though he’s staring a thousand yards off, reliving something in memory. “This is entirely normal for a Contadani.”

And of course Tristan knew. He knew how bad it was, he was Valencio, how could he not? But there was politics, and people, and Maskrunners - and somewhere along the way, the Contadani got left on the wayside.

He starts walking toward the Throne, a frown on his face. Vasco is just a step behind.

“Tristan, are you alright? You seem unfocused.”

It’s Kalden’s voice that breaks him out of his reverie. It’s been three days since his excursion, and he’s been absent-minded ever since, thoughts always finding a way to twist back to Vasco, or the Contadani, or the Tvothes. “I’m fine, Kalden. Why do you ask?”

“Mmm. I can see why you and Cicero are so close. You both do the same thing when there’s something on your mind.” He removes his hand from Tristan’s stump, handing his shirt back to him. Tristan tugs it on, tying off the end on his right arm while Kalden speaks. “Deflect to me so I can inform you what your tells are. Cicero does it far more than you do, but that may be because I spend more time with him.” Kalden sighs, shaking his head. “Both of you are a mess.”

“I do not-”

Kalden silences him with a look, and Tristan shuts his mouth.

He finishes tugging on his shirt before he speaks again.

“Vasco, I suppose. The Tvothes, too, but…” Tristan shrugs. “Were you ever Contadani, Kalden?”

The only thing betraying his annoyance is a twitch of the eyebrow and his carefully measured tone. “A rather personal question, Valencio.”

He winces. “Sorry. It’s just-”

Kalden smiles, annoyance smoothing over into understanding. “You might just be the only one of this little circle that hasn’t been Contadani, Tiziana excluded. And I presume this question doesn’t come from nowhere. Perhaps something to do with what’s been bothering you?”

“Now who’s asking pointed questions,” Tristan mutters, but doesn’t answer.

Kalden is silent for a long moment, pulling his mask from his face and letting it fade into the ether. He huffs. “Alright, Tristan. Cicero’s door, as well as mine, are always open to you.” There’s a strange twist to his mouth as he speaks the next, his eyes almost guarded. “If there is anything - anything - you may wish to speak about, we are always here for you.”

Tristan feels as though he’s missing something, but he’s already pushed as far as he dares. He doesn’t want to break the bounds of Kalden’s kindness - woe be unto the man that turns a good man hard, and all that. “Thank you,” he says instead.

Kalden nods. “If there’s any more phantom pain, tell me. There are some exercises I want to go through with you next time.” He levers himself off the chair next to the bed, heading for the door. “I think I’ve taken enough of your time today, though, Tristan.”

“You’re never a burden, Kalden. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Tristan speaks with a smile. He really does enjoy the other man’s company, for all his occasional crypticism. At least he’s not as bad as Vasco.

And then, there’s that same almost-guarded look in Kalden’s eyes. “I was serious when I said - anything,” he says.

Tristan struggles to put together what he means - it’s obvious there’s something he’s missing, something Kalden hopes he’ll put together himself so he won’t have to speak it aloud. “Alright,” he responds slowly, hoping Kalden will just assume he understands.

Kalden just sighs, giving him a wave as he leaves. Damn. Guess he wasn’t that convincing after all.

He likes to think now that everything’s over, this is the easy part. He’s missing an arm, sure, and he’s still limping, months after the worst chapter of his life closed with his almost-death, but he’s alive. The Citte is alive. The Consilio argue, sure, but they agree more often than not and that’s a miracle in and off itself. The guilds have become more peaceable, less fractured. It’s a world Tristan never thought he’d see. It’s a world he’s glad to wake up to.

Not everything is perfect, though.

He dreams like this: snapshot images of the Spire burning around him, smoke in his lungs his throat his eyes - he blinks, and the world changes, stars in his eyes and cold in his chest. He reaches for a sword he doesn’t have with an arm he doesn’t have, either, and when he drops to his knees, there’s a sneering face above him, sword at his throat, and he’s falling as they kick him back off the bridge. He claws at the mask on his face, begging it to save him one last time, but it flutters to dust in the air, to ether, and he knows he must be dead, must be, it’s the only way they glow like that -

“Tristan!” calls a voice to his side, and he’s darting up from his desk and whipping his arm out wildly, trying to push away whatever’s trying to hurt him next -

It takes him a long moment to come back to himself. “Vasco?”

He’s got a hand to his nose, and something conspicuously red is dripping from between his fingers. “Ages. This how you greet a friend?” There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice, but it’s smothered by his wince.

“Ages, ages, Vasco, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think-”

He gives a short sort of cut-off laugh, holding his nose pinched between two fingers. “Next time, I’ll let you nap.”

Tristan ushers Vasco to the bed, making him sit and grabbing a cloth from the bedside table to dab at the blood. He inspects it carefully, moving Vasco’s hands away with a huff. It doesn’t look broken, which he’s thankful for - ages. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he’d actually broken Vasco’s nose. Probably feel even more guilty than he already does.

Vasco looks far too bemused by the whole affair. “If I’d known all it took to get your attention was waking you from a nap, I’d have done it more often - even with the danger to my face.” It’s a joke and a question all in one - Tristan can hear the unspoken how often do you wake fighting? in his voice.

Tristan doesn’t answer. He has a feeling it’s far more often than either of them would like.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, and prepares himself to summon his mascherine. He can at least heal this, his own problems be damned -

- but Vasco rests a hand on his arm, distracting him. “Now now, you’re a hard working man. I won’t begrudge you a nap at your desk - though your bed is barely ten feet away, you know, and much softer than the one they gave me.” He emphasizes by leaning back against the pillows, sighing - and then flinging a hand up with a wince when he jostles his swelling nose with the motion. “Damn,” he grins, and then drops the grin when that, too, exacerbates the injury.

Tristan feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips, but the guilt still writhes in his chest. “I shouldn’t have been sleeping, anyway - I knew you were coming by, and I know how I am when I’m woken.” It’s an answer of a sort to the question Vasco didn’t ask.

Vasco’s face takes on that inscrutable emotion again - Tristan is becoming more familiar with it by the day. He redirects the conversation ever so slightly, which Tristan is grateful for. “Does it look broken, then?”

“No, thankfully. Just bruised.”

“Damn. Maybe a broken nose could enhance my ruggedly good looks - how about you punch it again for good measure?”

“You absolute bastard,” Tristan admonishes. Vasco has a shit-eating grin plastered to his face, and Tristan knows it has to hurt his nose, but he doesn’t even flinch.

Tristan finishes cleaning up Vasco’s face with a deft, practiced hand - most of the waterbrands were taught at least rudimentary first aid, Tristan included, seeing as it’s the element most tuned to healing. He makes to summon his mascherine again, but Vasco shakes his head. “Nah. I think it’ll be fine.”

Tristan thinks of all the times Vasco has seen him struggle with the thing, and realizes Vasco is much kinder than he gives himself credit for.

He’s holding a new cloth to his nose, but now he’s leaned back against the pillows and the headboard. Tristan shutters the thought that he looks good there before it even begins to float around in his head. He just punched the man in the face, not three days after kissing him -

Tristan feels his cheeks heat, and the silence suddenly becomes thick, awkward between them.

“Have you seen the twins recently?” Tristan asks, for lack of things to fill the space. He still hasn’t asked Cicero about them, and mentally kicks himself.

“Nope,” Vasco answers, popping the ‘p’. “Not since our little adventure.” His eyes turn fond, and Tristan feels the distance between them keenly; he remembers it being closed, remembers Vasco’s breath mingling with his own in the night air -

Shame floods him, and he bites it back, shoves it down his throat, swallows it. What had he said? You’ll have to be patient with me. Ages, if he isn’t feeling it now.

Vasco’s face drops into a frown. “Tristan, I don’t - I was under the assumption we were on the same page.”

Tristan is quick to soothe, almost jumping off the bed in his haste. “No! Yes, I mean - we were - are - are on the same page. I just…” He slumps, running a hand through his hair. Oddly, he thinks about how he needs to get it cut, and shunts the thought from his mind to focus on the matter at hand.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t seen you these past three days. It’s been,” he pauses; he knows his next words might hurt, but they’re the truth: “It’s been easier to not think about what happened, honestly. I don’t want to forget it, but -” He looks at Vasco, pleading. He doesn’t know what he wants; here, in the light of day, it’s harder to face than in the dream-soft haze of night.

Vasco’s lips twist into a frown. “Sorry for pushing you, then. If you’d rather forget-”

“Ages, Vasco, I just told you I didn’t want that!” Tristan lets his irritation seep into his voice. “I just think that maybe it’s - ill-advised at best. Or maybe I’m overreacting! There are barely even Legacies anymore,” and his voice tapers off, finally noticing the hurt look on Vasco’s face.

“So that’s what this is about,” Vasco breathes, and Tristan feels like a fool.

“Yes? No. Maybe. I don’t know!” The fight dies in him, irritation cooling to regret. “Sorry. You don’t - deserve this. I’m-” being a child, being foolish, being an idiot, he wants to finish, but the words die in his throat. “Sorry. You shouldn’t have to be so patient with me.”

Vasco sighs, frown slipping from his lips to something fonder. “You’re an idiot,” he says, and when Tristan nods it makes him laugh; it’s the best sound Tristan’s ever heard, even when he winces and his nose starts bleeding again.

Tristan’s hand is dangerously close to Vasco’s where they lay on the bed, and he debates whether he should take hold of it for far too long - long enough that Vasco notices his internal argument and just grabs his hand himself, pulling him closer on the bed. It’s a little precarious, and Tristan feels like he might fall off any moment now, but he can feel where Vasco’s hip presses against his own, and when Vasco winks up at him and drops the hand holding the cloth, well -

He’s always been weak to a pretty face.

He’s careful of Vasco’s tender nose as he leans forward, pausing just before their lips meet.

“Second thoughts, Valencio?” Vasco says, and there’s something underneath the words that makes Tristan want to wrap his arms around Vasco and never let go.

“Not now,” Tristan says instead, and means it.

The kiss is slow, careful, almost an apology. Vasco reciprocates readily, deepening it with a sigh.Tristan is lost in the sensation of it, Vasco’s hand sliding onto his neck, deft fingers curling into his hair. There’s intent behind the motion, and when Vasco tugs on it ever so slightly as he takes Tristan’s lower lip between his teeth, he gives a sharp inhale.

Vasco lets him breathe a moment - it’s new, here, with just them, nothing outside this room feeling more real than where they press together, Tristan near sitting in Vasco’s lap - and he’s just a touch overwhelmed.

Just a touch, he consoles himself, as Vasco’s nose begins to bleed anew. It prompts a string of curses from the other man, and Tristan laughs.

“You’re the one that gave me this damn problem,” he grumbles, but he can’t quite repress the smile on his lips. “What were you even working on before I arrived, anyway?”

“A report,” Tristan says, then wrinkles his nose. “I’ll probably have to rewrite it. I tend to - drool.”