LSS: Before the Wave Breaks

Kirk's hand was warm in Shane's as they found their way back. It was getting late-- perhaps a little later than they'd first envisioned, but that only spoke to them having a good time. He found himself laughing over something, beaming at Kirk with bright eyes.

"I should've chosen different shoes," he said. "My feet hurt."

"What shoes would you wear instead?" Kirk asked with a chuckle. "Cushions?"

Shane laughed again. "Ideally, but then I wouldn't have been able to dance."

The two of them were on their way back from the masquerade, and it seemed as though the whole town had flocked there. His parents had gone separately, planning to arrive later than they did and leave earlier than them, and despite seeing what felt like all of Nye, Shane actually hadn't run into them. The masquerade was undeniably the most-attended of all the festival events.

The two of them had taken it seriously: Shane had found a nice green suit to wear and paired it with a gold and emerald mask, and Kirk had shown up looking dapper in a purple suit and a gold mask with a streak of violet running along the nose. If Shane hadn't already heard purple was Kirk's favorite color, he would've known by now. He'd already stored away the information for future notice.

"And you danced perfectly," Kirk said. "Like a little grasshopper."

Shane grinned. "You did too. Like... some kind of animal that's purple." He paused. "A butterfly."

Kirk snorted. "I can't think of a single purple animal right now. That's how I know it's late."

"To be fair, there's probably only three to begin with," Shane said. "There needs to be more purple in the animal kingdom."

"Three purple animals?" Kirk asked. "That's more than I was going to guess."

"It gets worse," Shane said. "There's a bunch of animals that have purple in their names but aren't purple. Have you ever seen a purple martin bird before? It's blue!"

"Deception!" Kirk said. "The academic birding community should be ashamed."

"I think they need to get out there and start finding purple birds," Shane said. "They're making my similes for your dancing difficult."

"Maybe I don't have to be an animal," he said. "I could be... a plant. Or something non-living. Like a nice hat."

Shane chuckled. "The very nicest of hats, certainly."

"If I am a hat, you are a matching tie," Kirk said, swinging their hands between them.

Shane smiled more warmly, running his thumb over the back of Kirk's hand. Something he thought of from time to time-- such as right now-- was that although it was his left hand Kirk was holding, and he undoubtedly could have a strong grip, his hold was so gentle that Shane felt no pain there. He hadn't even mentioned the unhealed broken bone to him. Maybe he wouldn't have to for a while, if Kirk remained gentle like this.

"Never thought I'd be so happy to be a tie," Shane said.

Kirk laughed. "I don't come up with my best lines at this hour, but they're certainly something."

Shane chuckled, glancing down at their hands with a lingering smile. Maybe it wasn't some of the most clever flirting he'd ever heard, but it was endearing nonetheless.

"You know," Kirk said, a little softer. "My friends keep telling me I'm going too fast."

Kirk's smile dropped a little, in favor of a softer glance Shane's way.

"I don't know how to explain it to them," he said. "But it just feels... right."

Shane's expression softened as well, and he gave Kirk's hand a gentle squeeze.

"It feels right to me too," he said softly. "I'm not really... I'm not the most experienced of daters. I wouldn't know how to explain it either. But it's all felt so natural. Not too fast." He paused, searching Kirk's face, then added, "It helps to hear you think the same."

Kirk brushed the back of Shane's hand with his thumb.

"I think, if there were anything I'd like to establish that hasn't been explicitly said," he said. "It's that I want you to feel like you can tell me when it doesn't feel right."

He paused, looking down at their hands with a small, gentle smile.

"So we can talk about what feels wrong," he said. "Because I like this. A lot."

Kirk met Shane's eyes. "And I'd like to keep it. Officially."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Not because he wasn't being clear enough, but because his meaning was delayed by a filter of initial disbelief. The longer he looked into the brown of Kirk's eyes, though, in search of anything that might reveal anything insincere, the more he felt there was nothing to find.

"That is," Kirk went on. "If you'd like to be my boyfriend. If it feels right."

Shane took a deep breath in, feeling a soft smile spread naturally across his face. He intertwined his fingers with Kirk's.

He was so used to overthinking that his thoughts almost went there. But something in his heart told him he didn't need to send himself into a spiral of anxiety for once. He didn't like doing that-- it was just how he felt safest. Any day could turn into a doomsday when his heart became open to a risk.

But somehow, in this moment, he already felt safe without having to first consider every possible scenario of how this could go terribly, terribly wrong again.

"It does," Shane said softly. "If you'd like that..."

The look he met Kirk's eyes with was one of yearning sincerity. He had to stop and take a moment to realize how lucky he was to be hearing this, from this gentle and sweet man.

"...then I really would, too," he finished.

Kirk's smile turned relieved, and Kirk leaned over, resting his head onto Shane's shoulder, practically melting into Shane's side.

"Then it's official," Kirk said happily. "And now I can finally write my parents about it."

Shane grinned with an almost childlike giddiness as he rested his head over Kirk's.

"Mine are going to be delighted," he said. "You know, my dad thought you might be my type even when he was the only one of us to have talked to you. I'm glad he was right."

"I for one," Kirk said. "Think your father is hilarious. Hilarious and clairvoyant, apparently."

"He's our #1 fan, tied with my mom," Shane said, swinging their hands again.

"They really like me that much?" Kirk asked, lifting his head off of Shane's shoulder.

"Yes," Shane said, amused. "They really do."

"Well, I really like them, too," Kirk said with a chuckle. "Not that I'm dating them, though."

Shane let out a laugh, before turning a softer smile Kirk's way, knowing it looked shy. Another light, anxious flutter had started in his chest, now that he'd gotten the idea to say something.

He wanted to say it. It felt right.

He just hoped his perception wasn't off.

"...I really like you, Kirk," he said softly.

Kirk looked to meet Shane's eyes with warm adoration.

"I really like you, too, Shane," he said.

The tension released in the form of Shane's next exhale. It was then his turn to rest his head against Kirk's shoulder, bumping heads gently.

He was quite happy to walk in the content, comforting silence that followed as they made their way back to the estates, still hand in hand. It felt to Shane like the words they'd just exchanged held enough meaning for there to feel like a quiet exchange was still taking place between them.

He could hardly believe he'd just heard it, but he wanted to wrestle with the fears in his head another time. For now-- this made his heart feel warm. He didn't want to ruin that feeling by doubting it too early on principle.

The night was still warm, and cicadas were buzzing in the fence of cypresses around Shane's house, loud and alive. Somewhere in the estates, live music was playing. Probably another one of Remus's loud parties that went far too late. He noticed they were, once again, slowing on the path to the door. By force of habit-- of what was now apparently tradition-- Shane kept one hand in Kirk's as he placed the key in the lock and turned it, but didn't open the door, allowing the moment to last a little longer.

"Our first dance was a hard one to top," he said, smiling at Kirk. "I have the feeling we just improved upon it, though."

"I think so, too," Kirk said, lingering by him with a sleepy smile.

Shane's smile widened, and he rested his head on Kirk's shoulder again, lips turned towards his cheek.

"When will I see you next?" he asked sweetly.

"Is tomorrow too soon?" Kirk asked in return.

"Not at all," Shane answered.

Kirk turned his head, resting his nose over the top of Shane's head. He could feel the anticipation in Kirk's chest as he took in a breath to speak, but the breath suddenly hitched.

In a rush of forward motion, Kirk pushed the door open, and Shane too.

Shane stumbled as he lost his balance and bumped against the doorframe, completely caught off guard. He was just opening his mouth to make some sound of surprise or ask a question of some kind-- he wasn't sure which, or what the question would've been-- when the harsh bang of a too-close gunshot rang in his ears, and the sound seemed to split his skull, bringing himself and every instinct to a complete freeze.

Oh my gods.

"Shhh. Here comes Remus," Alan cut in sharply, interrupting Lyall's spiel on some mildly questionable modern acting techniques. "Be on your best behavior."

Lyall didn't have the chance to be offended at the mere reminder. Had he not been perfectly respectable and polite thus far? Alan had to have taken him to every corner of the room fifteen times by now, just to ensure every musician and actor was well acquainted with him.

"Gentlemen!" Remus said with a breezy grin, waving his wine glass. "So good to see you again. Are you enjoying the party?"

"Another memorable night," Alan affirmed with a smile and a nod.

"You certainly know how to leave a long lasting first impression," Lyall agreed wholeheartedly, tipping his own glass back toward the smartly dressed man.

"Certainly!" Remus replied with a grin, lifting his wine glass up as a nod. "Now, I do apologize for skipping over formal introductions. Lyall Ashlund, was it? As in, the Ashlund Clinic?"

"The one and only," Lyall chirped in confirmation. "No apologies necessary. Nor an introduction on your behalf, for that matter, since your reputation precedes you." He dipped his head in respectful acknowledgment. "Mister Romulus Cattaneo. As influential in the ever-evolving modern art scene as he is fashionable."

"You flatter me," Remus said with a hand on his chest, grin growing. "Especially as a man with fine tastes as well." He hummed, brushing the shoulder of the borrowed vest. "Is that Letteran cashmere, I see? A fine choice, I daresay." Beaming, Remus brushed his own shoulder and added, "And a matching one, at that."

Lyall had to keep from smiling at Alan with open smugness. "Flattery? Nay. Purely an objective statement."

"Lyall is a musician too, actually," Alan said pleasantly, changing the subject. "We've been close friends for fifteen years."

"Fifteen years!" Remus echoed, cutting in before Alan could elaborate. He patted his hand against Lyall's shoulder, and added with a playful and scolding tone, "You've been friends with this artiste of a gentleman for fifteen years, and you are just now bringing him to my attention?" Remus tilted his head, pursing his lips. "Alan, please. You must not keep such talent away from me."

"Yes. I was getting to that," Alan said with an amused smile, glancing between the two of them. "Lyall is not only a doctor, but is also a fine a musician, actor, and singer."

"Ah," Lyall cut in with a polite smile, "he's overselling. I've dabbled."

"And as as you can see," Alan quickly replied, just as smooth, "he has great humility."

Brows drawing inward a bit, Lyall couldn't help but cast him the briefest of warning looks. Alan simply ignored him, warm smile lingering.

"Mm!" Pleased, Remus nodded, crossing an arm and holding his wine glass higher. "I recognize this is a daring subject, but may I inquire about your political motivations, Lyall?" He tilted his head forward, adding, "Specifically regarding activism?"

Well, Mister Remus certainly did not waste time either.

"You may," Lyall answered affably, but cracked an apologetic smile, "however I'm sorry to say there won't be much to discuss there. My one tangibly verifiable skill among others that Alan has kindly mentioned at the moment is my experience at the clinic, which does not allow room for such aspirations."

"Ah, yes, quite understandable," Remus said with agreeable nods. "I apologize, I do not mean to infer that you are affiliated with respectable political positions. Quite the contrary, in fact! Most of everyone in this house is an artiste with an admirable dedication for change. What, exactly, that change looks like varies person-to-person. Would you say this resonates with you, too?"

Gods, Lyall was too tired and buzzed for this conversation.

Feeling Alan's attentive stare fixed on the side of his face, tacitly urging him to answer, Lyall scrounged up enough mental wherewithal to answer coherently, "A noble crowd, indeed."

He glanced out to the side, eying all the "noble" drunken twenty-something year olds dancing and mingling like there was no tomorrow. Then he thought, perhaps he simply wasn't drunk enough.

"And I quite agree," Lyall smoothly went on, "there's always room for improvement. Reform, if you will, particularly of the social kind."

"Yes, most certainty, quite so," Remus mused, smile broadening. "Alan, have you told Lyall about RADICAL, perchance?"

"Ruddlan Artists for Democratic Involvement, Creativity, and Artistic Liberation," Alan explained pleasantly, though still bore holes through Lyall in silent communication. "Yes. I have."

Damn, someone worked hard on that acronym. Which Lyall had only just heard of now.

"Extensively," Lyall added with a nod.

"Fantastic. Only good news you shared, I hope," Remus said with a pleased smile.

"Of course," Alan said with a grin. "There is only good news to share. You've brought a lot of people together." He paused. "Though, I hope there is room for one more."

Smile turning just a little stiffer, Lyall glared daggers at the side of Alan's stupid face through a thin veil of good cheer.

Remus grinned. "Once again, Alan Alvaro is reading my mind!"

Oh, yes, his most widely acclaimed skill. Well then, read this, Alan: "No" means fucking "no".

Lyall refused to have any official ties to this ridiculous band of college artists who believed themselves far more impactful than they truly were. He hadn't even heard of them once before mere moments ago!

"Oh, I wouldn't say it's mind reading," Alan replied with an amused chuckle, patting Lyall's shoulder twice. "We're just excited for you and want to get more involved."

"Yes, certainly!" Remus offered his wine glass forward. "A toast to new beginnings together then, gentlemen?"

That twisted an invisible knife in Lyall's chest that he forgot was even there.

"To new beginnings," he managed to smile through underlying heartache as he lifted his glass.

The three of them clinked their glasses together before taking a drink of their wine.

"Mm! This wine is divine, isn't it? Imported from Lettera," Remus boasted, placing the empty glass on the counter. "Anyways, it was very pleased to meet you, Lyall. I look forward to working together. I trust that Alan will send you the details. It's invite-only, so please do keep the details under wraps."

Lyall tipped his glass Remus's way. "You've got it, boss," he lightly obliged.

"Ciao, gentlemen," Remus said as his farewell, right on time for him to light up with pleasantries as he crossed paths with someone else.

"Ta," Lyall pleasantly called after.

As soon as the other man's back had turned, he grabbed a fistful of Alan's shirt and starting dragging him to the far opposite corner of the room. Alan sputtered in offense, swatting at his hand while being dragged.

"Lyall!" he scolded harshly. "Let go of me."

"Shut up," Lyall growled back, "I'm mad at you."

"Mad at me?" Alan echoed with greater offense, pushing his hand away when they finally arrived at the quieter corner. "You should be thanking me. I know this is outside your comfort zone right now, but I promise it'll pay off."

"Don't throw your semi-sensible pay-offs at me," Lyall bit out, jabbing a finger at Alan's chest. "If I've said it once, I've said it fifty times: I will not have anything to do with this ridiculous, folksy dopey--"

He was prompty interrupted when Alan slapped his hand over his mouth, shushing him. "Calm down," he muttered.

Lyall smacked his hand away, frankly flabberghasted. "Unhand me!" he whispered harshly.

"Not until you stop being an idiot," Alan said stubbornly, quick to smack his palm over him again. Though, he missed and lightly slapped his nose and eyes instead.

This man was equal parts infuriating and bewildering.

"I don't think you have a full grasp of my--" Lyall wildly flailed both hands to shoo Alan away. "A full grasp of my current predicament." He lowered his voice in case anyone-- Remus, especially-- drifted within earshot. "I cannot invest in both my current work and this, in addition to my siblings. I don't have the time, nor the ability to be in two places at once."

"There's always time," Alan assured.

"Says you," Lyall cut in, "the artist by trade."

Alan firmly poked his chest. "You are an artist too, Lyall."

"Another thing I can't seem to get through your thick skull," Lyall said flatly. "This little 'Oh, I'm a big fish in a small pond' thing you've had going lately?" He poked back at Alan's forehead this time. "That's a solo act. I'm not actually in that scene with you."

Alan creased his brows together, gently pushing Lyall's arm away as he studied his expression. "You're overthinking this, Lyall. I just want you to put yourself out there more. That's all there is to it."

What wasn't Alan getting? Did Lyall have to spell this out for him in big red letters on the wall?

Deflating with a weary sigh, Lyall turned his attention back out to the rest of the room.

Truth be told, he didn't actually hate this. The people were lovely and lively, and the ones sober enough to carry a conversation actually had interesting things to say. Stories to tell. Opinions they didn't feel obligated to sift through and heavily filter out for the sake of propriety. They had their own ambitions for their own paths.

Alan was able to fit in with this crowd, because he was always set to pursue his passions.

Lyall didn't want to be here, because he knew... in the end it wouldn't matter if he did want it.

"Right, well," he eventually sighed, looking back to his ass friend, "why would you be a member if you don't actually want to be?"

"I do want to be one," Alan corrected, setting down his empty glass on the side table. "I just..." He paused, waving his hand in the air, trying to find the right words before settling into a shrug instead. "Don't care to be involved too much. But it doesn't mean I don't participate at all."

Lyall frowned. "You're not making a lot of sense."

"Well, neither are you," he huffed.

"I'm making perfect sense," Lyall countered, thoroughly exasperated at this point.

Alan snatched his nearly-empty wine glass away. "I think you've had enough to drink. Let's get you some water."

"No," Lyall said stubbornly, despite Alan already turning to lead the way, "stop! I can get my own damn water!"

"Then come on," Alan urged over his shoulder, beckoning for him to follow.

"Alan--" Lyall swore under his breath as he jogged to catch up.

"I think I've introduced you to everyone I wanted you to meet," Alan went on, thinking out loud as he made his way towards the kitchen door. "Though I could introduce you to the other more niche groups, if you'd like. I'm just not as familiar with them."

The punk.

Lyall whirled Alan back around by his shoulder. "Could you stop and listen to me for one second?" he hissed in frustration at him. "I'm done here."

Alan creased his brows together, searching Lyall's eyes for a moment before relenting with an, "Okay." He loosely held his hands up in surrender. "We don't have to talk to anyone else if you don't want to."

Letting out another sigh, this one at last releasing some of that tension, Lyall nodded with a quiet, "Thank you."

"Let's hydrate and get water, though," Alan insisted again. "Okay?"

Lyall hung his head in defeat. "Fineee," he yielded, "alright."

Alan nodded, gesturing for Lyall to follow him. They passed a few others who said hello, though Alan only nodded and waved back, glancing back at Lyall every so often to silently check in on him, sensing that something was heavily weighing on his mind. And so he asked: "Aside from this party, what else is running through your mind, Lyall?"

Lyall pointed his chin out to the middle of the sitting room. "Do we grab your friend, or leave him?" he asked in answer.

Out in the heart of the scene, Alan's insufferable dorm mate was...

Well, damn. He was actually doing well for himself? The weasely man with sinus issues lounged back on the sofa, miraculously in the company of five respectable-looking ladies.

"Don't you dare go near him," Alan teased, lightly elbowing his side. "You'll repel them all away."

Lyall rolled his eyes with a wry grin, and shooed him away. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Alan smiled, ducking into the kitchen. "I think Emilear will be fine. But I asked about you."

"I'm more curious about you," Lyall rebutted, swinging in through the doorway after him. "Surely you'd much rather be spending your evening with your lovely lady, instead of..."

Wait. How could Lyall forget?!

He turned Alan around by his arm again, this time grasping his shoulders to keep him there as he barked with the first and only light of genuine excitement in possibly the entire evening, "Alan, the proposal! How was it?"

"My gods, Lyall, I thought you were tired," Alan said amusedly with a faint laugh, brushing his hands away. Or at least, attempted to, since Lyall refused to let go at first. "It..." He sighed, turning away. "I realize now I should have told you sooner, but I ended up postponing it. It didn't quite feel like the right time yet, so I'm now aiming for the end of the summer."

Lyall gaped at him. He shouldn't have, but he couldn't help it.

"The timing?" he echoed incredulously. "Didn't you..." He squinted up at his inexplicable friend. "Didn't you plan the whole thing? Dinner, setting, everything?" He finally let go to wave both hands in nebulous circles around Alan's dumb empty head. "How was the timing not right?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Alan murmured, squinting back at him and leaning away. "Stop that. I don't need to justify my feelings to you. It just didn't feel right."

It just didn't feel right. Feel right, Lyall's tail, Alan and Lara had been dating for almost as long as Lyall and Santiago had been together. And Santiago had only just proposed engagement, what? A mere month ago? Romantic Mister Alan Alvaro just a week ago seemed so close behind them, so what in Nye could have possibly felt wrong?

Alan turned to fill up a glass of water by the water spout, continuing on. "Like I said, I should have told you earlier. But I assure you, it's really not a big deal. We had a fantastic anniversary anyhow. I've been putting some thought into this, into how I want the proposal to go, and the timing of everything-- and I figure her birthday would be more suited, which aligns to the end of the summer. Don't overthink it."

Clearly, Alan could not hear himself and his own absurdity. "Not a big deal", he said.

Snatching the glass from his hands, Lyall dumped the water and set it upside down in the sink. "Alan," he said seriously, leaning a hip on the edge of the counter to stare at the side of his face again, "you're the one overthinking this. You've been dating long enough that something as trival as timing shouldn't be getting in the way. What's really going on?"

Alan frowned, staring back at Lyall with mild annoyance. "I don't get it," he murmured, narrowing his eyes at him, studying him. "Do you want me to propose or not? Sometimes, you're more leery against her. And other times..."

"I'm not!" Lyall had to butt in, pointing both hands inward defensively. "I have nothing against her!"

"Then why are you so defensive?" Alan asked with a sweeping motion of his arm.

Lyall threw a hand Alan's way. "Because of your false accusations!"

"You're also falsely accusing me!" Alan threw back.

"I am not!" Lyall repeated more emphatically. "You--" Shaking himself sober-ish, he blinked himself back to focus. "Postponed proposal." Folding his hands together, he pointed them at Alan. "You're deflecting."

"Oh my gods, Lyall. Don't be a hypocrite," Alan groaned, rubbing the side of his face. "You always deflect about anything marriage related."

Lyall jabbed at Alan's shoulder with each syllable: "De-flec-ting."

Alan cast him an unamused flat look. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" Lyall groused. "Why did you chicken out?"

"I didn't chicken out!" he scoffed. "I'm postponing."

Unbelievable! This man frustrated to literally no end!

With a louder scoff, Lyall grabbed the edge of Alan's mask and yanked it up over his head.

"Ow!" Alan protested sharply as the string scratched at his skin.

"You big baby," Lyall snapped, "now you're just lying to me."

"Oh, fuck you, as if you know everything," Alan said dully, quickly reaching over towards Lyall's own mask to snatch away.

It caught on Lyall's ear as Alan, far rougher than was necessary, yanked it off his face.

"Fucker!" Lyall hissed at him in absolute disdain.

"Who's the big baby now?" Alan goaded, pointing his mask at him.

"Still you!" Lyall said, using Alan's mask to actually poke him.

"I think you're both big 'babies!'" Emilear called out from the living room, across the open kitchen. He then turned to say something inaudible to a lady beside him.

"Oh, fuck off!" Lyall and Alan retorted in unison.

With mild amusement, Alan turned back to Lyall with an impressed tilt of his head, then frowned again, poking at Lyall's chest. "Are you calm now?"

Looking up to meet his eyes, Lyall drew in a steadying breath through his nose. Finding... that he actually was.

Firecrackers erupted just outside.

Lyall blinked. He found himself sprawled on the kitchen floor, dazed and wheezing from Alan's full weight dropping on top of him. He counted five beats of stunned silence in the entire house. Another loud burst exploded, followed by the clatter of breaking glass.

Those were gunshots.

He registered Alan's weight starting to ease off of him. Blindly, Lyall grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him back down to his chest again. Caught off guard, Alan landed on him with a soft thud, peeking up to meet his eyes. Silent understanding washed over him immediately when he saw the desperate plea in Lyall's eyes, and although Alan didn't move, he glanced towards the the other side of the room, gauging reactions.

Tilting his head, Lyall followed his gaze to the panic in the next room over. He caught the shadows of those fleeing the far reaches of the room, away from the windows. There were shrill screams and shouts of terror. Furniture noisily overturned.

"Under the table. Away from the window," Alan urged quietly, peeling away and taking Lyall's hand to pull with him as he crawled away.

"That sounded like next door," Lyall whispered as he followed without hesitation. "Who's around this part of the Estates?"

But instead of answering, Alan settled under the table and worriedly looked Lyall up and down, firmly holding him by the upper arms. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Tightly grasping him by the wrists, Lyall kept watch of the door as he firmly placed himself between the entrance and his friend. Dumbly, he nodded in answer. When no threat appeared there, he held Alan's face between both hands as he scanned him for any signs of injury.

"There wasn't a third gunshot," Alan murmured, glancing towards the kitchen window again, weakly placing a hand on his wrist. "The threat may have gone away. I can go investigate to find out."

"No," Lyall countered, firmly holding Alan by his shoulders again, "the Estates are heavily guarded. Security will be there to check. You are staying put. Got it?"

Alan creased his brows, silent. Then weakly nodded, dismally. "Okay. Yes. You're right."

Lyall didn't find anything of concern on Alan. He tilted his ear to the next room over; Remus's voice carried out over the commotion, his voice tense but steady as he tried to calm everyone. Focusing next on the window of the kitchen, Lyall listened intently.

"We'll be okay, Lyall," Alan assured gently, leaning over to his view to grab his attention again. "Would you feel safer somewhere else in the house?"

Nothing else outside could be heard through the pane. Blinking, Lyall fixed his attention on Alan as he, delayed, registered his question.

"Here's fine," Lyall answered half-heartedly.

"Are you sure?" Alan pressed softly, worry ever-present in his expression.

The sitting room had significantly quieted. Thus Lyall could hear the storming of footsteps outside and sharp commands for premises to be scouted thoroughly.

The threat had passed, but was still at large, then.

Lyall lowered his head to rest on Alan's shoulder, and let out a breath. "They're here," he told him.

"Who's here?" Alan asked softly, wrapping an arm around him to brush his hand against his back in gentle motions.

Lyall couldn't bring himself to explain. He couldn't even bring himself to think clearly, the weight of everything was starting to press down on him, full force. He was trapped beneath it all, with no perceivable way out. And frankly he was too exhausted to even try.

So he might as well finally face the facts he'd been running from the past five days.

"Mum's dying," Lyall whispered hoarsely, letting his full weight sink against his friend.

Alan was quick to support him, wrapping both arms around his back and tilting him backwards to sit more upright. There was hesitance in his silent movements, and Lyall could feel his confused stare through the back of his head.

"...What?" he whispered back, dumbfounded and barely audible.

Bringing his arms around him, Lyall held on tightly. "She's sick, Alan," he mumbled into his shoulder. "She's been sick for months, and there's no--" His voice broke on him. Still unable to fully face that there was no fix for it.

Shaky, Alan gripped onto his back with his fingertips, pulling him closer to rest against his chest. "Oh my gods," he said quietly, voice wavering. He rested the side of his head against Lyall's, bringing up a hand to press against the back of his neck. "I'm so sorry, Lyall."

And just like that, Lyall's composure broke. He let out a quiet, muffled sob as an entire week's worth of building emotions finally overtook him. That only prompted Alan to hold him tighter, pulling him in so there was no space between them. He squeezed Lyall tightly, one hand pressed against the back of his head, fingers tangling with his hair.

Nothing about their current situation was logically safe, hiding under a table for their fucking lives from a gunman outside a thespian party. Lyall fell apart anyway. His heart knew that, until he could find his own strength again, Alan would hold him together in his arms in the meantime.

So it was here that he finally mourned what would yet be the greatest loss of his life to date.

The gunshot echoed impossibly through the garden, seeming to ricochet off every tree and well. But that was all in Shane's head, and the numbing, paralyzing shock that made his brain leap to false imaginings was the same shock that froze him in place against the half-open door to his house, staring at Kirk with wide and frightened eyes.

He needed to move. He needed to move, or he could die here. But he couldn't move.

Kirk didn't freeze, though. Before Shane could process any of what just happened, he took Shane in his arms, hauling him inside and slamming the door shut and locked behind them.

Another gunshot went off, followed by the sound of breaking glass in the living room. This time, Shane let out a shout, ducking instinctively.

"Away from the windows," Kirk said firmly, quickly guiding Shane inward by the shoulders, bowing them down.

Footsteps raced downstairs. Shane's parents were hurrying from downstairs, grim urgency he'd only seen a couple times before in their eyes. Something silvery was gleaming in his mother's hands. Dimly, he realized it was the sword tucked behind her wardrobe that she hid there for emergencies.

"Ray, barricade the door and find Shrimp," she urged. "Shane, go with Kirk to the cellar right away."

Something clicked in Shane's head through the numb panic. The wine cellar. They'd picked a house with one for reasons exactly like this. And he knew where it was.

He gripped Kirk by the arm and led him in a daze further into the house.

The cellar was accessed by a trapdoor in the floorboards of a hallway that led to a study, his mother's office and the downstairs bathroom. It wasn't invisible or perfectly hidden, but it was easy to miss. Shane flipped it open, urging Kirk to be the first one to take the ladder down with a guiding hand on his back.

Kirk didn't hesitate and moved quickly. Shane followed a moment later, but hesitated once he had both feet on the ground, looking back up at the trapdoor. Fear sparked in his heart. His parents were planning to follow, weren't they? They hadn't said anything about whether they'd join them or not. What were they planning? If they didn't show up, would he be forced to close the trapdoor and lock it so that--

The floorboards creaked overhead, and Shane could've collasped with relief when he saw his father taking the ladder down with a quivering Shrimp under one arm. He whispered hushed comforts to the cat in Terran as his mother followed just a moment later. Sword still in hand, she reached between the wine bottles standing on a shelf and pulled out a bronze key.

"Matches," she said quickly to Shane.

Shane understood what that meant. Hurriedly, he turned around and picked up the matchbook resting on a shelf behind him. His hands were shaking, and he had to try twice to successfully strike and light one. He lit the candle next to it just as his mother closed the trapdoor and twisted the key into the padlock fastened there, shutting out all outside light. She then stood facing it with a fierce look in her eyes, her sword arm braced as his father rested a hand on her shoulder.

He couldn't hear anymore gunshots. He couldn't hear much of anything at all outside their shelter.

He could hear the rattling of his own scared, shaky breathing, though.

Kirk approached Shane slowly, making his footsteps known before he reached out to put his arm around Shane's shoulders. He squeezed lightly.

"Looks like your parents know what they're doing," Kirk said softly. "We should be safe down here."

Shane nodded tightly, but he couldn't force his brain to believe it.

They'd been shot at outside his own home. Which one of them was it meant for? What would anyone with a gun-- which were in limited supply-- want with either of them? If Kirk hadn't acted, would he even be alive right now?

A shudder ran down his spine. He sank closer into Kirk's side.

"What did you notice?" he whispered faintly.

Kirk held Shane a little tighter.

"The barrel of a gun," Kirk said quietly. "Someone was waiting in the tree across from your house. I didn't see who."

Shane's next inhale caught in his throat. He forced his breathing to steady enough that he could at least fill his lungs, hoping it'd counter the suffocating tightness in his chest. It didn't.

"Then..." he started quietly.

Someone was watching him. That's what Kirk had said. The few times he'd been in public since that incident at the dance, he'd kept an eye out, but he hadn't seen anyone watching him suspiciously. No one seemed to notice him in general. He was easily overlooked. So why was someone trying to kill him?

He wasn't even anyone important. Anything special about him came from his parents and family, and they could've been targeted. But they weren't.

He couldn't finish his spoken thought when there was nothing to realize. He shuddered again, putting an arm around Kirk and leaning into his chest.

His father stepped away from his mother, still cradling an unnaturally silent and skittish Shrimp. Dire concern flashed in his eyes.

"And they were aiming at you both?" he asked quietly.

Kirk shook his head once.

"They were aiming for Shane," he said soberly.

Shane could see the fear that flashed in his father's eyes. His mother gripped her sword even tighter. For a long, bleak moment, it seemed like no one knew what to say to that.

He certainly didn't know.

His mother finally broke the heavy silence.

"I'm going to scout outside," she said solemnly. "There's been no gunshots or other commotion for several minutes, and the militia has good response time in the estates. Remember, three knocks on the trapdoor and then a fourth means it's clear."

Shane wanted to tell her not to go. Instead, he could only nod hollowly against Kirk's shoulder.

His father set a comforting hand on his mother's back.

"Alright," he said softly, a sad, loving look in his eyes. "Stay safe."

His mother pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before she set to unlocking the padlock and climbing out of the cellar. The trapdoor closed with a dull thunk behind her.

Shane watched the candle flame flicker and waver, and his heart sank to his stomach. He didn't like waiting. He hated not knowing whether someone he loved was going to be okay or not.

He suddenly felt ice-cold, like his body was remembering the last time.

It was a dreadful minute or two. But then he heard the three knocks above. Shane held his breath until he heard the final knock, and it was like some immeasurable pressing weight had just been lifted off his shoulders.

His father quickly opened the trapdoor. His mother was visible through the opening, sword lowered peacefully at her side.

"The threat's passed," she said gently. "The militia's outside. They're going to want to talk to you all with more information."

Kirk nodded, squeezing Shane's shoulders for a moment before he gently pulled Shane towards the exit.

"Alright," Kirk said to Shane's mother. "We'll be up there."

Shane followed absently, loosening from Kirk slightly, but not letting go completely to take the ladder up. His father followed a moment later, comfortingly hushing Shrimp, who had just realized it was safe now to yowl a little and was letting it all out.

As they made their way to the door, Shane glanced at the living room. A pane from one of the windows had shattered from the second gunshot, and shattered glass now covered the floor and couch, glittering like malevolent stars. Nothing else appeared damaged, and he knew they'd get it cleaned and fixed, but his heart sank anyway.

What was this? What was any of this?

He tore his gaze away, stepping out the door and into the garden.

"--saw a young man and a woman engage in brief combat before both fled the scene, escaping through the front gate--" A young soldier was explaining before the captain of the militia, Kaja Lindberg, cut him off.

"You mean the front gate is your responsibility to ensure is secure?" Kaja demanded. "At all times of day and night?"

The soldier gulped.

"Yes, Captain," he said, paling under her stare.

"And somehow, no one was able to catch up to them, on foot or on horseback?" Kaja went on. "Remind me, why do I employ any of you if you can't do what you were hired for? Or maybe you've somehow gotten your job description confused with letting the crime happen, in which case, you've been a very faithful worker."

The soldier shriveled under her chastisement.

"It won't happen again, Captain," he said.

"I expect it not to for the next month," she said. "Because you're on barnyard duty until then. Understood?"

Shane had no idea what that meant, but it must've been bad news, because the soldier's skin further blanched, but he nodded with a salute. "Understood, Captain."

With a sharp nod, Kaja turned back around to Shane's mother.

"Ambassador Hawking, this is Estate Guard Dane Rittle," she said. "He would like to present his account of the events he witnessed.

The glare she shot Dane said, You better be respectful to this woman.

Dane bowed his head to Gwen, clearing his throat before he started. "'Evening, Mrs. Hawking. Our report is unfortunately incomplete as we are still gathering information from any eyewitnesses in the neighborhood, but the testimonies of all guards on watch are as follows. At 1:30, one of our guards at the main south gate was attacked and knocked unconscious with a lumshade dart. The intruder snuck past the guards, and the rotating guards on their rounds did not discover the breach until 1:47. I was among them, and was sent to scour the estate grounds at 1:50. The gunshot rang out in front of your manor at 1:51. In pursuit, I approached to see a woman and a man escaping what appeared to be brief combative conflict with each other, before both fled. Unfortunately, they both disappeared from the estate - of which, we have scoured the premises and found no further signs of them, apart from evidence that they may have wounded one another. It is unclear if they were working together. Everything else is still undergoing investigation."

Shane's mother nodded, taking a step closer. She looked serious, but seemed to be trying to get her expression softer, perhaps to counteract the captain's venom.

"Thank you," she said. "Did you or any of your fellow guards see which one of these suspects had a gun?"

"The woman," Dane answered. "All we were able to get of her description was that she was tall, and seemed of a pale complexion under what brief light she passed through."

Shane exchanged a look with Kirk, trying to determine if this very vague decription matched what little he'd seen of their spy. He didn't know what he was hoping for.

"What did the man look like?" Shane's mother asked. "I know it was quite dark."

"All we could see was that he had dark hair, and seemed just as tall," Dane answered. "We have yet to interview your neighbors, who may have seen more. There was a party next door that may have more potential eyewitnesses. Two of our militia are there filtering through accounts."

Shrimp let out another distressed yowl. Shane's father hushed him softly again, petting his head.

Shane's mother nodded. "Thank you. Those are all my questions for now."

"Do you have any additional information you'd like to provide us with?" Kaja asked.

Shane's mother turned around to look at the rest of the group, a soft solemn look in her eyes. It seemed like she was offering them the chance to speak, but indicating she could do it if none of them felt comfortable.

Shane didn't feel like he could. He felt too sick.

"The woman you described," Kirk said. "I can't be sure, with a description that bare bones, but she may be the same woman we've seen stalking Shane over the past week. That's, at least, as far back as we've witnessed it. We don't know if it's been longer."

Shane really wished he'd brought that up to his parents, because alarm flashed over their faces at what was news to them. Kaja raised an eyebrow.

"A stalker?" she asked.

"Perhaps it's a strong assumption," Kirk answered. "But we saw a woman of a similar description following Shane from afar once before, at a dance earlier this week."

Kaja shot Shane a look, and even though it wasn't the same glare she'd been terrorizing Dane with, he still wanted to wither under it. He could read what was on her face-- skepticism. To some extent, he understood it. He had three people around him who made for much more significant targets. That look said, You? What's worth going to these lengths for about you?

"Well," Kaja said, as if she thought this was obvious. "If it was the two of you, I would assume she was following you, Mr. Fayek."

Kirk hesitated. "It's... possible," he said. "But I did see the barrel of the gun just before the first shot. It was aimed for Shane, not me."

Kaja was still staring at him with doubt all over her face. Shane dropped his gaze to the ground uneasily.

"You're sure of this," she said pointedly, as not quite a question.

"Yes, ma'am," Kirk said firmly.

Even from the silence, Shane could tell she was unconvinced. When he looked up again, however, Kaja had turned back to face his mother.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," Kaja said. "It's too early to say for sure, but I suspect most of our investigation will focus on this woman, if she's the potential shooter and... stalker. The young man sounds like a bystanding citizen who witnessed the incident and intended to stop her, but got alarmed by the approaching guards and ran as well. I wouldn't be surprised if he stepped forward by morning to share his own account, which would be invaluable."

"Thank you, Captain Lindberg," Shane's mother said. "Ray and I will reconvene with you at a more reasonable hour."

Kaja nodded.

"We'll depart, then," she said. "Unless you'd like a guard for the night."

"I think we would all appreciate that," Shane's father said gratefully.

Kaja turned to examine Dane, as if considering just leaving him here. She quickly seemed to dismiss the idea, though.

"Find Howard and send him here," she said. "Don't forget to go to the barnyard."

"Yes, Captain," Dane said with a mousey nod, hurrying off.

With no further goodbyes aside from a soldier-like nod, Kaja left, the badges on her uniform clinking with each step. And then it was just the four of them and Shrimp in the yard.

Shane saw his parents turn to him and Kirk, their faces conflicted with emotions. Worry and fear for him. Gratitude and relief for Kirk.

As if he was trying to express that thankfulness somehow, his father carefully set Shrimp down on the path and looked back at Kirk, holding out his arms in a silent offer. Kirk lifted his head, standing straighter for a moment as he met Ray's eyes, but then relented with a nod - meeting Shane's father in a firm hug. He pulled away after a short pat, looking over to Shane with the shared look of worry Shane saw on his parents.

He didn't know what to tell any of them. He should've been able to say he'd be okay. Now he didn't know if that was true.

"We should go inside," Kirk suggested, looking down at Shrimp, whose tail flicked with mischief at the rediscovery of grass. Kirk picked the cat up, bundling Shrimp up into his arms.

"We should," Shane's mother agreed, resting a comforting hand on Shane's shoulder. "We can meet in the study."

The living room would no longer be a comfortable place to sit.

They all retreated inside. Shane heard his father murmur to his mother that he 'knew a guy' as they passed the parlor with the broken window, but otherwise, none of them seemed to want to look that way. Somewhere in that room-- they'd probably find it tomorrow-- was a bullet that had wanted to find the back of Shane's head.

He hoped he wouldn't be doing the searching.

They all found a chair in the family study and library-- a room Shane usually went to if the weather was too bad to leave for the university's library. Shrimp curled up onto Kirk's lap. Normally at this time of night, he could go straight to sleep (and Kirk would be faced with the problem of having to move a cute cat when he wanted to get up), but the cat still seemed a little uneasy at the chaos he hadn't been able to understand.

"Ray and I would both like to thank you, Kirk, even though we would lack the words to sufficiently express it," Shane's mother said softly.

"I'm just glad I saw something before anything happened," Kirk said quietly, managing a weak smile that faded fast.

Shane wanted to do something-- reach out to him, lean against him, hold his hand again. But the distance between their chairs was too great, and he wasn't sure about the time or place. He knew he'd do that later. Instead, he sent Kirk a faint smile that was nonetheless full of indescribable thanks.

Kirk pointed to Shrimp, silently looking to Shane in questioning of whether Shane wanted him. Before Shane could reply, Kirk got up and grabbed Shrimp, walking over and plopping Shrimp into Shane's lap.

On the way over, he dragged his chair next to Shane's.

"Thank you," Shane whispered, and not just for Shrimp.

Kirk plopped back down, now within Shane's reach and watching Shane closely.

Well, then...

Shane stroked Shrimp's back with one hand, reaching for Kirk's hand with the other. Kirk closed the distance and held his hand gently, giving it a soft squeeze. Shane squeezed his hand back, holding on tightly.

"We're very glad too," his father said. "You responded perfectly. I know none of us want to think about..."

His face fell. It hurt Shane's heart to see this bleakness on his father's expression.

"...what would've been otherwise," he finished quietly. "But I know this: we will never forget what you did tonight."

Kirk smiled soberly, gently squeezing Shane's hand again. He glanced at Shane, then met Ray's eyes again.

"Would it... be alright if I stayed here tonight?" he asked.

"Of course," Shane's mother said gently. "I was even about to offer it to you-- we're always ready to accomodate a guest here, no matter how unexpected. We can even include you in our breakfast plans if you'd like to stay that long."

Shane brushed the back of Kirk's hand with his thumb and gave him a small nod to let him know that was alright with him too.

"I think I'd like that," Kirk said softly. "Thank you."

"It's a plan then," Shane's mother said. Her gaze softened further as she looked between the two of them to add, "Are you both alright?"

Shane hesitated. It wasn't easy to answer.

"I'm going to be okay," he said softly. "Thanks to Kirk."

Kirk hesitated as well.

"I feel better with you all here," he said.

Shane's heart hurt more.

Kirk had every right in the world to be just as shaken up as him, target or not. He'd gone through it with them, and although Shane didn't know if this brought up anything for him from his time as a soldier, he would be surprised if it didn't. He'd rarely heard a gun shot before this and his head still hurt with the sound. Kirk seemed like he was trying to stay strong-- maybe not to let everything show, or maybe for Shane's sake-- but if he was afraid, too, Shane didn't want to let that get overlooked.

Hand squeezes were quickly becoming a limited means of communication. Nonetheless, Shane held on tighter, hoping Kirk knew it meant he'd heard him and he wanted to make sure this got addressed.

"Now may not be the best time to go over it all. I don't even know how I'm feeling yet," his mother admitted. "The house should be safe. The best thing for all of us to do would be to rest."

Kirk nodded silently in agreement.

Shane saw more lingering panic on his parents' faces in the next glance they exchanged, but it was very faint. They, too, were trying not to show how deeply they were rattled. Sometimes Shane wondered how it seemed as though everyone could hide or at least conceal their feelings in a crisis, but why when he had one of those, everyone on this side of the river seemed know exactly what he felt. He didn't know if he was envious or not.

He looked back to Kirk, deciding to take initiative on getting him more space.

"I can help you get set up for the night here," he offered softly.

Kirk nodded with a weak smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Okay," he said.

Shane said some goodnights to his parents, taking Shrimp and letting the cat drape comfortably over his shoulder like a ragdoll parrot. He would've been less hasty if not for this, but he knew they'd find their way back to each other to process things together. It seemed like they wanted to talk in the study, so the two of them went upstairs alone. Shane stopped at the top of the staircase, looking into the hallways that branched out and remembering Kirk hadn't seen this before.

"My parents' room is that way, and mine is just there," he said, setting Shrimp down, who ran off to find his cat bed. "We have a fully stocked guest room as well."

He turned to look at Kirk more directly, with a soft gaze.

"If you want to be alone right now, no one will bother you in the guest room," he said. "If you want company, though... I could join you, either in the guest room or mine."

It felt like Shane was finally seeing the cracks in Kirk's composure.

A far more transparent look of fear showed in his eyes, even though he tried to smile. The smile barely turned upwards, though.

"I think it would be good for me not to be alone right now," he said. "If you feel the same."

Shane nodded, swallowing and taking Kirk's hands in his again. "It would help me too," he said honestly.

Kirk nodded. "I... don't really care which room."

Shane wasn't quite sure what difference it made, except that Kirk had already been staying in a guest room since his arrival here, and probably all along the road before that. Shane was sure their guest room felt more homey than whatever the housing situation was at the manor, but he might appreciate a real change of pace.

"Both are cozy," he said, with a faint, sad smile. "Mine's probably cozier."

"Cozier, then?" Kirk suggested timidly.

"Sounds good to me," Shane said, squeezing his hands again.

His room was always clean, but he gave the room a quick, full sweep of the eye as they entered. His bookshelves were clean and dusted, and his desk by the window was organized with his pens, papers, books and notes neatly stacked to the side. The one thing he wouldn't always think to fix was his bed-- he rarely saw the point in making it-- but today, he'd somehow had the foresight to make it neatly.

Kirk stood beside Shane, his hand still in Shane's, looking around his room with a faint, growing smile.

"It's very 'you,'" he said.

Shane matched his faint smile. "Is that a good thing?"

"Bookish, sophisticated, comfortable," Kirk said warmly. "Yeah. It's a good thing."

Shane let out a small, pleased huff of a laugh, squeezing his hand again. It felt good to make the right call.

"Make yourself at home," he invited.

With eyes still wandering around the room, Kirk grabbed the chair by Shane's desk to sit down, starting by taking off his shoes and socks. Shane did the same, perching on the edge of his bed instead. In the midst of everything, he'd completely forgotten that these shoes had his feet feeling sore. What an eternity ago that had been.

Kirk shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of Shane's chair, then started unbuttoning his dress shirt and tossed it over the jacket. Underneath, he wore a simple tank top. Shane didn't have anything like that under his dress shirt, but he didn't want to sleep like this, so he went over to his dresser and took out a simple cotton nightshirt, taking off the suit and dress shirt to change into that instead.

Kirk came over to climb onto the bed, crawling to the side closer to the wall.

"I'm not sure I want to get under your covers," he said. "I smell like sweat and champagne."

Shane chuckled quietly, walking back to half-sit, half-lie on the other side.

"I don't smell anything," he said.

"You will if you get any closer," Kirk said with a small, tired smile as he fully laid down.

With a slight, playful raise of his eyebrows, Shane flopped beside him.

"Hmm," he said, with an exaggerated sniff. "Jury's still out."

Kirk huffed wearily. Were he less tired, Shane had a feeling it'd be a fuller laugh. Kirk reached an arm around Shane's waist, gently pulling him in closer.

"How 'bout now?" he asked, setting his face against Shane's shoulder.

Shane could smell a little of what he was talking about-- it wasn't overpowering like Kirk made it seem-- but what he noticed more of was that Kirk's heart was racing. Shane wondered how he'd missed it in the pulse of his hands before, but there was no mistaking it now.

He wrapped his arms around Kirk, noticing-- in a way that felt like it was for the first time, even though he'd definitely known it before-- just how strong his arms were. It made his embrace feel all the more safer. He let his head fall to rest against Kirk's collarbone and watched the side of his face, remembering-- that before everything happened so fast-- he'd thought about kissing him on the cheek there.

Shane did that now, softly and slowly, lips pressing lightly to the skin just above the edge of his beard.

"Nothing," he said, in a whisper just for the two of them. "But I rather like this."

Kirk hummed faintly. "Me too," he said, barely audible.

His heart rate already seemed to be slowing. That was good.

Shane held him close, taking quieter, deeper breaths as the exhaustion started to sink in for him too. It felt like he'd lived a lifetime since the two of them had left here for the start of the dance. Now that things were finally still and quiet, it was all starting to catch up to him.

He hadn't known what this-- falling asleep in a new boyfriend's arms and actually feeling safe about it-- was going to be like, he realized drowsily, as he thought Kirk might be starting to pass out too.

But Shane liked it. And he was glad they got to have this.

Unbelievable. Unbelievable!

Eve hated how this night turned. She had been so professional, so behaved, so high-achieving the entire year. And the one day a year she gave herself to loosen up, be more adventurous, meet different people? Of course it would go wrong!

Of course her encounters would consist of a man engaged to another man, a chiseled fellow who was as dull as rocks, and Tiberius Hemming. Why did this have to happen to her? What did she do to deserve this forsaken fate?

Did Eve react accordingly? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was not the wisest decision to stuff his dreadful mask into her purse, then opt for another drink to calm herself down, which resulted in someone else flirting with her, but frankly, she couldn't bring her heart into it.

Was it really that much to ask to be held? To feel wanted? Kissed? Adored? And not by a murderous mage-killing war "hero"?

Perhaps it was not her finest moment that she went along with drunk men's antics and kissed them in return for free drinks. But the bar was no longer free, and she needed to feel something else besides this betrayed spite.

And was it her finest moment to be walking back through the Side End's alleys, in bare feet, heels in hand as she carefully walked around broken glass? No. Yes. No!

She didn't care. This was fine. Eve was fine.

Stumbling in front of Jordan's apartment door, Eve fumbled for the keys, inserting it into the lock before she wearily opened the door.

"Jordan?" she called uncertainly, throwing her purse and heels into the room.

He was on the couch, sitting up alert - clearly sober - at her arrival.

"Eve," he said, looking her over. "Damn. Are you okay?"

Ugh. She almost never came by without notice, but she wished he wasn't home. No doubt, she must have looked like a walking disaster.

"Fine," she grumbled dismissively, stumbling into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Jordan was on his feet. He followed after her, hovering with concern.

"Here," he said, brushing past her. "Let me get it for you."

"I can take care of myself," she scolded, pushing him away.

But Jordan had already deftly grabbed a glass, and stuck it under the sink's faucet, filling it up. He looked at her with a smirk, but it wasn't as teasing like it normally was. His eyes still searched hers with worry.

Stubbornly, she snagged a clean glass from his cupboard, focus intense as she repeated his actions, shoving him aside with her hip so she could fill her own glass.

With a sigh, Jordan set the glass on the counter, stepping back to let her do so as he leaned by the sink, looking down at her.

"Something happened," he said. "Are you going to tell me what it was?"

"All the men rejected me," she blurted out, then bit her lip to not elaborate, instead chugging the water to fill the silence.

"Then we live in a city of idiots," Jordan said assuringly.

Eve gasped for air, setting the empty cup on the counter. "The first one doesn't even like women," she blurted out again.

Jordan hesitated. "Okay, well. That's just bad luck," he said. "Can't really blame the guy for that one. Sorry about that, though."

"And the second one," she continued wearily, squinting into the empty glass, "can't even talk to women!"

"Character flaw," he said. "I empathize, but still. Sucks to be him."

"And the third one..." Eve turned the faucet again, filling up her cup, "...is a murderer."

Jordan stared at her, like he was expecting her to elaborate.

Eve sighed, inspecting her filled glass again. "The fourth and fifth one, I don't even remember. They were terrible kissers, though."

"Hold on," Jordan said. "Let's swing back to that third guy. What do you mean he's a murderer?"

Eve faltered. Did she say that? She stared back at him, comprehending. Though instead of answering, she panicked and brought the glass to her lips again, chugging the water. Unfortunately, she swallowed the liquid too fast, and she forcefully pulled away, coughing and hacking.

Jordan stared at her, unamused.

"Nice try," he said, putting his hand on his hip. "But you're not getting out of this one with a coughing fit."

"Tiberius Hemming, Jordan!" Eve blurted out, flailing the water cup around and accidentally flinging the water in the air.

Effortlessly, Jordan raised his hand, seizing the water in the air with his magic. It hovered over his hand for a split second before he redirected it back into her cup with a dance of his fingers.

And then, it seemed the news actually sunk in for him, because his mild annoyance and concern turned to horror. He stared at her, brows pinched and eyes wide.

"Wait," he said, turning his head to the side. "Seriously?"

Exasperated, Eve set the cup on the counter, turning away to pace in the living room. "I hate it, Jordan!" she wailed, accidentally shoving past him as she stumbled in her step. "Why does he have to be so charming?!"

Jordan stared after her, mouth agape. He blinked rapidly for a few seconds before hurrying to catch up as Eve collapsed over the couch, turning away in a fetal position while hugging a pillow.

"How did you know it was him?" Jordan asked in disbelief. "What, did you recognize him?"

Eve shoved a pillow on top of her face in shame. "Because we talked the whole night and then unmasked each other!" she said with rising anxiety.

Jordan stood at the end of the couch, reaching his hand up to his forehead.

"Oh my gods," he muttered. "You... you spent the whole night with him?"

"Not the whole night. The festival night. But if he weren't Tiberius, maybe I-- ugh!" She sharply closed her eyes and slammed the pillow on top of her face again, forcing herself to stop talking.

Jordan slowly sat down onto the arm of the couch by Eve's feet. She could feel the weight shift.

"Dragons above, Eve," Jordan said quietly. "You really did have awful luck with men."

Annoyed, Eve threw the pillow at his face. "Don't remind me."

"Sorry," Jordan said, catching the pillow as it fell. "Deserved."

"I'm never going to another masquerade dance again," she moaned flatly, lying on her back and stretching her legs over his lap.

"Okay, let's not make any vows to ourselves while you're inebriated," Jordan said placatingly. "So, you had a bad night. I'm really sorry it didn't turn out as you hoped, Eve. But it's not going to be like this every time. I mean, it wasn't last year, right? Didn't you have fun last time?"

"Yes, but..."

Eve bit her lip, not able to finish that thought. She did have fun. She did. But lately, she had been craving something... more. Something more fulfilling. Something that didn't feel as dead or lifeless or meaningless.

She was tired of getting by, feeling numb. Eve wanted something real.

Groaning, she rubbed her face, turning away. "I have a headache."

"I could get you more water?" Jordan asked.

"Don't use your magic. It makes it taste stranger," Eve protested.

"I'm not-- Eve," he said with a sigh. "I'm not that much of a jerk, okay."

He huffed as he got to his feet again, walking back into the kitchen. She heard the faucet run again.

"Why did you come back early?" Eve asked louder so the question carried into the other room.

The faucet squeaked off. Jordan came walking back into the small living room, setting the glass on the coffee table across from her.

"I need to leave soon," he said, more seriously. "I had to come home and change before I check on the Hawkings. Shane's out with Kirk again. Things seemed fine at the masquerade, like they were going to stay late, but I'm going to make sure they get home safe."

The paranoia suddenly flared within her.

What if... this was all connected? Kirk with Shane, Tiberius with Eve... Was the resistance in danger? Was the King's Hand on to them? She needed to be more careful. They could be targeted.

Or maybe she was being paranoid. Was she? Yes? No. No, she needed to drink more water.

Suddenly sitting up straight, she reached over she snatched the water from the table, settling back into the couch after a mere sip.

"I mentioned it to Bo, but there's this lady who's been watching the Hawkings sometimes," he said. "I've only seen her twice, really briefly. But I want to be careful."

Eve snapped her head towards Jordan, slowly processing. She wished he had told her this when her mind wasn't fuzzy and inebriated.

"And you are telling me this now?" she growled.

"I only recently saw her a second time to be able to confirm it was a recurring thing," Jordan said. "And -- like I said, it seems like stalking more than --"

Jordan ended his incomplete thought with a sigh, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Sorry," he said. "Okay? Sorry. I'm going to leave soon and hopefully it's nothing. Alright?"

Eve leaned back over and firmly set the full glass of water on the table again, stumbling on to her feet. "I'm coming with you," she said, voice serious.

Jordan barked a laugh. "Like hell you are," he said. "Eve, you're a liability right now."

He reached out, planting his hands on her shoulders. With an ease that stung Eve's pride, he pushed her back down onto the couch. That didn't stop her from resisting, but Jordan was stronger, using more force.

"You're drunk, you're tired, and you're emotional," Jordan said, still holding her shoulders as he met her eyes. "And you're staying here until you sober up."

"I'm not--" Offended, she slapped one of his hands away. "I'm not emotional!"

"Did you have a good time with Tiberius?" Jordan asked, tilting his head and raising his brows.

"You know, until you realized it was him," Jordan added.

Distraught, Eve slapped his other hand away from her shoulder. "The whole night is ruined because it was him!" she answered instead.

Jordan squatted in front of her as she sat on the couch. Like this, they were eye level.

"I'm going to leave," he said. "I highly recommend you don't go anywhere. If you can wait a few hours, I'll be back and we can talk if you want, okay? I know you need to process. But I can't do it right now. Will you be okay for a while?"

Eve knew he was using logic against her, but she hated to hear it. Especially because the selfish side of her didn't want to be alone right now, but she also knew that Jordan was doing the most noble action: to look after Shane who may be watched. She was far too gone to pour into the details of the whys and hows, but she didn't want to get in the way of this.

Unable to look at him, Eve stared into the pillow, evenly mustering out her next words. "And you'll be back? Right?"

"Once I know Shane's made it home safe and all is well with the Hawkings, I'll be right back to you," he said with a small smile.

Eve melted into the couch, deflating. "Okay," she mumbled wearily.

"Okay," Jordan said. He lightly patted her arm before getting to his feet. "Make yourself at home if you need anything, alright? See you soon."



The front door slammed shut. And just like that, Eve awoke with a jolt.

"Jordan?" she said sleepily, stirring on the couch. She peeked up from the cushions, squinting towards the doorway.

He was a blur, moving rapidly across the small living room. He ran into the kitchen.

Something was wrong. This wasn't a dream, was it? No, this felt too real. Now suddenly wide awake, Eve pulled the sheets over her and got to her feet, the giant shirt she took from his closet totally enveloping her body.

"Jordan," she called more firmly, whirling around.

She could see him from behind, leaning over the kitchen sink. Eve hastily walked over with the lamp she set beside her, casting more light into the kitchen.

"Jordan?" she called again, now with apparent concern.

Jordan reached up to the cabinet on the wall beside him, digging into the cupboard and noisily moving things around. He pulled out a box that he let clatter onto the counter.

The light finally revealed what he wasn't saying: blood red lined his ripped sleeve, dripping down his arm.

"I'm okay, Eve," he said, his voice strained and tight with panic.

No. No, he was not okay.

With rising panic, Eve moved quickly, setting the lantern down on the counter as the grim reality set in. Jordan needed medical assistance now.

"I can explain later," he murmured hastily, digging into what Eve now saw was a med-kit. "I need to get this-- this first."

"I'm helping you. Don't fight me on this," she said sternly, quick to take over the medical kit beside him, digging into his supplies.

"Okay," he said tersely. "It's my arm. Stab wound. I think I got the bleeding to stop. Mostly. It's deep, though."

Eve winced, examining the wound. Thankfully, Jordan had tightly tied a makeshift tourniquet at his shoulder, just above the wound, which disrupted some of the bleeding.

"We can find Cyrin or Mel tomorrow," Jordan murmured. "Just need to tide me over for the night."

Eve nodded. "Good. Yes. Okay," she said, swallowing the uncertain anxiety bubbling inside of her. "Stay still. I'll take care of you."

Jordan nodded and pulled up a wooden chair, patiently waiting as Eve gathered the supplies.

Just as he'd said, the cut was deep, and cleaning and wrapping it took some time, but it was easier to look at when it was hidden under a bandage. The bleeding had finally slowed, too, and they managed to stabilize him enough for the night.

Like they said. Cyrin or Mel could heal it up sufficiently tomorrow. He'd just have to wait until then.

For a moment, the two of them sat on either end of his small kitchen table, their backs leaned against the wall as the torn-apart med kit sat on the table between them.

Finally, peace settled in the air. Eve took a deep breath, readying herself to ask what happened.

But Jordan broke the silence first.

"There was a shooter at the Hawking manor."

It was way too early to be awake and committing mischief. Mireya would normally be willing to cause trouble any hour of the day, but after the night before--

"I'm too hungover for this," Mireya grumbled, trudging her feet. "Can't we get the day off after the last day of the festival?"

"Shhh, mira," Andy scolded, pinching the bridge of her nose while beckoning for her to follow. "Too loud. Let's just get this over with. Everyone and their mother is hungover."

"Ugh," Mireya groaned, not any quieter. "Really? No sympathy at all?"

"Best time to steal," Andy said with a more hushed voice over her shoulder, grinning. "You know I'm right. We're going to fuck up this rich dopo real good." She innocently shrugged. "His treasures, I mean. But you know, he's not that bad to look at too."

"His brother's better looking," Mireya said. "Too bad his head's full of fluff."

Andy giggled, poking at her head. "Your head better not be full of fluff, mira. I'm up for a promotion too, y'know."

"Excuse you," Mireya said, patting the side of her own head. Which she shouldn't have done, because it made the headache worse. "My head is anything but fluffy. I've only ever had good, clear ideas."

Andy raised a brow, unimpressed. "Even the time when you climbed that metal pipe during a thunderstorm?" She scoffed, grinning. "What was going through your head, minka? Were you trying to pole dance to death?"

"I was thinking, 'hehehe, this is about to get me so much money,' and it did," Mireya said. "See, don't discount my climbing strategies. We need those to get into rich people's windows."

Which, they would need to do soon. The two of them in the Barlowe Estates, preparing to steal from Romulus Cattaneo-- better known as Remus, although Mireya personally failed to see how anyone got that nickname from his name. Maybe someone dyslexic had read it aloud while having a coughing fit and the way they said it stuck? Whatever. He had a large ruby gemstone that Sparrow wanted and that was that.

"Shhh! Through here, mira," Andy called as she sneaked around the back bushes, beckoning for Mireya to follow. "Here we are."

Mireya ducked into the hedges beside her, doing so quickly once she heard the thud of familiar boots. She watched through the leaves as a group of guards passed. They all looked very tired, which was to be expected since they'd all been partying the night before, and the two of them had planned on their grogginess for their theft today. Still...

"There's a lot more guards moving around here today than should normally be," she whispered to Andy.

"Fa," Andy said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "There always are. They're all hungover anyways. Gem is at the top floor, yah?" She cracked a small hole between the leaves, revealing the top floor window into view. "Let's climb up there."

"You first," Mireya said. "The militia's crawling around like bugs."

Andy rolled her eyes, glancing between the two corners of the house that the militia entered and exited. "Fine. Let the expert show you how it's done."

As soon as the next round of guards rounded the corner, Andy sprung into action, silently and gracefully moving across the backyard. With quick motions, she dug her fingers into the grooves between the brick layers, raising a foot to the windowsill and pushing herself up. Clinging to the ridges and holds around the windows, Andy quickly climbed up the side of the manor, headed for a window that was-- unwisely-- cracked open to let in the breeze. Once there was enough distance between them, Mireya followed, but not without a look around for more guards.

Why were they swarming the place? Maybe a less capable thief had tried something here recently. Well, too bad. They were better and they wouldn't be getting caught.

Mireya heard a creak of floorboards above when Andy made her way through the window. She was about to scold her for noise when the floor did the exact same thing under her feet as she hopped in.

"Damn, this house is fussy," she muttered.

"Damn, minka, you need to lose some weight," Andy playfully sneered, then snapped her mouth closed when her own ill-timed step caused a creak.

"Uh-huh," Mireya drawled. "Thank you, house."

"This way, come on," Andy beckoned with a harsh whisper, leading the way.

The house was well-decorated, every inch seeming to be covered in valuable finery and objects that Mireya didn't even know the names for. What kind of stuff were rich people coming up with nowadays? Everything looked useless. At least it all looked valuable. It seemed like every step they took was doomed to squeak like a strangled mouse, despite their best efforts, and Mireya wondered why these ambassadors' kids couldn't invest in good new floors instead of-- she squinted at a mahogany dresser-- a fifty-seventh oddly-shaped gold item.

"Why are there so many rooms?" she whispered, not even knowing where to start looking for the vault.

"Hell if I know! Rich people make no sense," Andy muttered, shaking her head. "Let's divide and conquer. The vault's here somewhere."

If their information was correct, it would be on the top floor, so they were in a good starting position. Mireya nodded, taking a left down a hallway.

More rooms. Apparently the vault was just that-- a vault, and clearly such. It made her job easier, but come on. Why couldn't someone make her day a little more interesting and at least try to disguise a hidden safe as a painting or something? Bor-ing.

She was treading quietly when she thought she heard what sounded like scuffling downstairs, and she froze.

Was someone... awake? They'd gotten here as early as they could rouse themselves to avoid normal waking hours, and everyone should be sleeping in today. What was it that had everyone on edge? Scaredy cats. All of them. The people here were supposed to be dumb and none the wiser to the two girls upstairs robbing them.

Mireya stayed still for a moment longer, praying she wouldn't hear noise from a staircase next. Sure enough, nothing happened. She'd either imagined whatever she'd heard, or whoever it was had merely rolled over in bed and dozed off again.

Relieved, Mireya set off again, glancing left and right at a new fork-- and then grinning when she saw a metal door in the wall.

"Andy, here!" she whispered, reaching in her pockets for lockpicks.

Head poking out from across the hall, Andy grinned and immdiately scuffled over, taking a zig-zagged path so avoid the creaking spots. "Yes!" she cheered quietly, silently closing the door behind her. "You got it, mira? Or do you need an expert to help?" Still grinning, she flipped her hair back for dramatic effect.

"Please," Mireya scoffed, slipping the lockpick in. "We both know who the lockpick expert is here. You locked an unlocked door when you tried breaking into Emile's place to steal a sweater that wasn't even there. Don't lecture me about lockpicking."

Andy scoffed louder, crossing her arms with an annoyed pout. "That's always why he's locking himself out! Only stupids leave their door unlocked. We're not dealing with stupids, we're dealing with richs."

"The Venn diagram there is a near circle," Mireya pointed out, fiddling around in the lock.

Andy snickered, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, smirking. "Speaking of stupid exes, mira..."

Dear gods. Mireya shoved the lockpick in more fiercely.

"Why didn't you take my side during the festival?" Andy pressed, voice innocent despite the sharp accusation.

Click.

"Oh, heyyyyyyyyyyy," Mireya said brightly, quickly tugging at the vault's handle in a frantic panic to pull it open. "Ask me again later, we've just got our prize."

But when the metal door swung open, they weren't greeted with a ruby the size of Mireya's fist. Neither were they facing any another treasure. Instead...

"What?" Andy hissed with a sharp breath. "Empty?!"

Mireya couldn't even say anything, staring in stunned silence. It was, indeed, empty. It looked neglected, even, from the layer of dust on the floor and the cobwebs that hung at the corners of the room.

The Cattaneos had treasure they wouldn't want stolen. So why...?

Mireya groaned, shoving her hand in her face.

"Fuck," she said. "It's because this manor is owned by an egotistical hoarder. Romulus isn't storing anything precious away to collect dust. He's flaunting them all over the house."

"Are you fucking serious?" Andy moaned, rubbing her face.

"He's fucking stupid!" Mireya seethed.

And somehow that stupidity made it harder to steal from him. For the love of the fucking dragons. When she'd wanted excitement, she hadn't meant utter bullshit.

"So this rich dopo is hiding it in plain sight. Somewhere he wants people to see. Which means..." Andy slowly turned, frowning as she fixed her gaze on the door. "It's fucking downstairs, isn't it?"

"Fuck's sake," Mireya muttered, turning as well. "No robbery taking place on the ground level has ever gone well."

For once, doubt and uncertainty flashed across her friend's face. Andy softly closed the vault before standing upright, leveling with her. "Maybe we should come back at night?"

Mireya gave it thought. It was a true risk-- especially if she had heard some activity downstairs. But the guards would be back as better energized in the evening, and all she could think about was having to face Sparrow and tell him they'd let the strategically best time of day slip right through their fingers out of a moment of cowardice.

"No," she said, standing up straighter and slapping on a smile as she met Andy's gaze. "We've still got this. Let's show this rich bastard how easy it is to steal from you when you put all your valuables within grabbing distance for a ego boost."

Andy grinned, setting a hand on her hip. "Feisty! Let's do it, mira." Stubbornly, she swept an arm towards the door. "After you, since you're sooooo good at this."

"That I am," Mireya said, beaming as she stepped out and crept her way through the hallway again.

It didn't stop the dread bubbling in her stomach, though.

Hmm... She needed a confidence boost.

On their way to the staircase was a suit of armor standing nobly in the hallway with an ornate sword in its metal gauntlets, even though Mireya was sure no one in this family could fight in battle to save their lives. She suddenly reached for the sword and snagged it for herself, holding it up high with a grin. Because nobody ever feared for themselves when they were holding a cool sword they'd stolen.

"Tch. Do you even know how to use that thing?" Andy muttered, staying close to the wall as she sneaked behind her.

"Why would I need to know how? There's sapphires on the hilt. I'm going to sell it," Mireya said breezily, moving on. "And there's our monthly rent."

"Good thinking, mira," Andy replied with a smirk and a huff of a laugh. "Here are the stairs. You go first, I'll be behind you."

"Yeah, leave the expert to it," Mireya whispered, taking the stairs quietly.

"Oh, shut up."

Mireya couldn't see around the corner yet, as she went down, but she could imagine it already. More frivolous uses of precious metals. Gems on things that didn't need gems, like doorknobs and candleholders. Tasteless art that had probably been overvalued and then bought because the price tag sounded worthy of showing it off.

What she hadn't imagined-- and what made her blood freeze in her veins-- were the guards standing in the living room, all watching the staircase tensely.

Six guards. Two with guns.

"She's armed!" one shouted. "She's here to kill him too!"

What? No, no. She wasn't dangerous. She was here to steal, not--

Damnit. The self-confidence sword had been the worst idea.

"Get back!" Andy shouted, tugging on Mireya's arm from behind and swinging her around so Mireya was now behind her and facing the top of the staircase.

The guards opened fire.

Mireya shrieked, beginning to run and now dragging Andy with her. She felt her friend stumble and heard her shout, but there was no time-- they needed to put distance between themselves and those guns. Tunnel-visioned, she hauled her along, slamming the door at the top of the staircase behind after them and hurried to shove part of a dresser in front of it.

"Window. Come on, we need a window," she urged Andy, letting go of her since she could trust her to run on her own now.

But instead of answer, she stumbled onto the floor, shaking and heaving with her head hung low. Blood sputtered from her back, pooling onto the floor. Mireya stared as twin crimson marks rippled outwards over the fabric of her shirt, tainting it with red until she could no longer see its original color.

That shout of hers... It hadn't been one of panic, had it?

"Andy?" she asked urgently, dropping down to her knees and letting the sword clatter thoughtlessly on the rapidly reddening floor. "Andy!"

Someone barreled into the door, and Mireya flinched at the sound, her thoughts going blank with panic. No. No, this was all wrong. This couldn't be happening here. They had to move!

"Andy, we need to run!" she shouted, trying to grab her by the hands and heave her up again.

"Mireya..." Andy coughed weakly, shoving her hand away. Losing strength, she buckled down, wincing in pain as she laid on her stomach. "Go."

"I'm not going!" Mireya shouted, hearing panic and fury pitch in her voice. The door rattled again. "You've got to come with me!"

Instead of responding, Andy whimpered from pain, shakily sliding her messenger bag off her shoulder. With a bloodied hand, she offered the bag for Mireya to take, but immediately lost strength, sliding it her across the floor. "Take this," she said through grit teeth, firmly taking her hand to hold as she met her eyes, a dying fire burning inside of her. "And go. Go! Now!"

"No," Mireya choked out, unsure how she was somehow sobbing out of nowhere. "I can't--"

The door gave, cracking under the force of a new blow, and the dresser inched away from it. Mireya jumped, heart almost stopping with fear.

Biting back a pained whimper, Andy bit her lip heaved herself to sit upright, taking in ragged breaths so she could sit against the wall. She smeared blood as she positioned herself comfortably, the crimson soaking her clothes.

With a glazed determination in her eyes, she reached under her shirt, pulling out a small handgun that Mireya didn't even know she owned. "Go!" she hissed through her teeth, cocking the gun towards the door as pained tears glistened in her eyes. "Fucking go! I've got this!"

Mireya knew there was something to say here. At least a word of thanks. Or an apology. But the choked feeling in her throat betrayed her into silence.

With a muffled sob, Mireya seized the messenger bag, ran for the nearest window, and did not look back.

The last thing she heard from the wall as she climbed down was a series of gunshot bursts. The sound sickened her with dread. But it was so much worse when she heard it stop.

James really couldn't complain about his masquerade experience.

He, after all, hadn't had his night end with an attempt on his life.

The manor had fallen every manner of still that night before the gunshots were heard, and then no one was sleeping. Estate militia came to their door that night, and ever since, they hadn't left.

Increased security meant decreased privacy. Everyone had to know when someone was coming or going, and though Captain Lindberg hadn't said so explicity, she seemed under the impression that the shooter had been targeting Kirk, not Shane. For that reason, the Moonlight Kingdom Manor officially lost any hints of home it might've had, because now it was being occupied and watched by some of the militia's "finest."

The same went for the Hawkings's home, and every other house on the street, apparently.

Some would say it was being careful. James felt like it was overkill. It was warranted at the place of the shooting - but his place of residence didn't need to become a fortress.

He used to be able to come and go freely. However long it was like this, he might actually have to bother sneaking out.

Breakfast that morning felt empty without Kirk there. All they'd heard from the militia was that Kirk had stayed with the Hawkings, and in his absence, everyone's worry was felt tangibly around the table, especially from Fonzi and Hellen.

James just hoped they didn't all make an outing of it, once the morning was underway. He knew the last thing the Hawkings needed at a time like this was the unspoken pressure to host with too many worried people filling their home. It was well-meaning, but the Hawking residence was a crime scene, now.

They'd seen the militia circling around the front porch that morning like vultures the moment the sun came up, and they were able to assess the damage.

James's only comfort in all of this was that the shooter had been unsuccessful.

According to Captain Lindberg, in not so many words, Kirk was a "hero."

A bit bitterly, as James poked at his food, he thought: Join the club. Not that their situations were in any way comparable. Just as bitterly, though, he couldn't help but wonder if all of this would finally get attention off of him. Surely all of the talk of the shooting would drown out any noise about the stupid bar-fight that seemed to haunt him everywhere he went.

Right?

It was selfish to think, and he knew it. He could only imagine what Kirk and Shane were feeling after seeing each others lives pass before their eyes.

Maybe he could beat the rush and go see them.

James looked up as a knock came at the dining room door. One of the guards had come in with a paper rolled up under their arm.

"No new news yet," the woman said. "At least, not about the shooter. The investigation is underway, and we're going to run the casings to see if they match a stolen shipment from last week. We have no conclusive evidence yet, but we think this could be a hit from the Blue Suns."

That grabbed everyone's attention.

"The Blue Suns?" Hellen spouted. "You think this was gang related?"

"It's only speculation at the moment," the guard said. "I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to say more until we find solid evidence."

"Sounds like you're already sharing your speculations with us," Carter said. "Why not share more?"

"There isn't more," the guard said more firmly.

"But why would the suns target Kirk?" Fonzi asked.

"He did mention something about the farm..." Hellen murmured quietly.

Everyone's eyes snapped to her, and Hellen's eyes went wide, as if she'd said something she wasn't meant to.

"I mean, it wasn't anything serious! He said it ended up being a dead end," she said, which was profoundly vague and unhelpful.

"We still don't know for certain who the shooter was targeting," the guard reminded them. "Let's not get carried away."

Carter raised his hands up as a show of surrender. Fonzi relented with a sigh as he sunk back into his chair, and Ingrid kept her eyes on her plate.

James briefly met Hellen's eyes, sharing a look of concern.

He knew she wanted to go check on Kirk. James wanted to check on Shane. They should--

"There's a new paper for the week from the Ruddlan Read," the guard said, pulling the roll out from under her arm. With an unceremonious toss, the paper slapped against the edge of the dining room table, falling open. "Maybe it'll get your mind off things. Looks like your poster boy's got the whole front page spread."

Briefly, the guard flicked her eyes to him with a smirk.

"I'll be just out front if you need me," she said. "Enjoy your breakfast."

She turned out into the hall, and as James leaned over with dread to look at the paper, Fonzi's long arms arched over the table and snatched it up.

"Front page sp--" Fonzi said, before sputtering at the newspaper, holding it out at arm's length. Hellen was right beside him, and she leaned over, eyes widening.

"Holy shit," Fonzi said with a cackle.

"Good gods, that's dramatic," Ingrid said flatly from the other side of him, also leaning in to see.

"Come on," Carter said on the other side of the table beside James. "Now you have to show us."

Fonzi flipped the paper around, and James felt all of the blood leave his face. He paled as he stared at a giant illustration of himself with the massive, bold-faced title reading: NYE'S GREATEST HOPE: The Humble Origins of the World's Most Unsuspected Hero.

The illustration of him beneath the title was of a soldier, far too heroically painted in dramatic black and white contrasts, standing with a sword held into the sky under the light of a moon.

In his initial shock, he couldn't form a single thought apart from the abject horror of the far-too-favorable title.

Laughter felt wrong in this moment, yet the room filled with it.

"Oh, come on," Carter said, patting the back of James's shoulders. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"Hold on, hold on," Fonzi said with a burst of excitement as he flipped the paper around. "This is by the guy who interviewed us? Fuckin' Romero Santiago? The guy who you said grilled Tiberius like a leg of lamb?"

"A grotesque description," Ingrid commented.

"Apparently the interrogation-style approach wasn't a reflection of his opinion," Carter said with an amused shrug.

Ingrid and Hellen both leaned on Fonzi's shoulders to stare at the front page with them.

"'At the end of their travels, the King's Hand has landed in the heart of Nye as a shining beacon for the future of world leadership,'" Fonzi started reading aloud. "'While some have been skeptical about their formation as representatives of King Blackfield, the King's Hand might be the fresh blood that this world needs among rigid regimes. These five young representatives each hold something special--'"

Fonzi interrupted the spiel with a laugh. "Fuck it all, he made us sound like, man I don't even know--"

"He's a kiss-ass," Ingrid said plainly.

"Okay, but why's the title all about Tiberius?" Hellen asked, casting James a sidelong glance.

"Clearly, this article takes a turn for the worse," Carter said like it was a joke.

But it wasn't a joke to James. For him, this was worse.

"Hold on, I want to see what he said about me," Fonzi said as his eyes searched the paper again.

"It says 'joined by their childhood friend, Lieutenant Heart,'" Hellen said.

Fonzi squinted at the paper. "That's it?" he said, holding it closer to his face.

Fonzi had no idea how envious James was of him at the moment. What James would give to be but a one-line mention.

"I think so," Hellen said with an apologetic shrug.

"You're not in the King's Hand," Ingrid said. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah, you never fail to keep reminding me, Ingrid," Fonzi said with an eyeroll. "It's like you're just waiting for the next opportunity."

Carter reached over, snatching the paper from Fonzi's hands.

"Alright, that's enough," he said. "Our turn."

"Check if they say anything more about 'Lieutenant Heart!'" Fonzi said, grasping in the air for the paper that was now gone.

Carter set the paper between him and James, but James did not know that he had it in him to read it.

"Looks like you got the same treatment as the rest of us, Fonzi," Carter said. "Because by the second paragraph, this whole thing is about Tiberius."

Together, Ingrid, Fonzi, and Hellen stared at him, and in order he could see what was in each of their eyes: contempt, jealousy, and pity.

James's plate was still half full, but he had sufficiently lost his appetite. He held his eyes behind his hand as he rose to his feet.

"Ohoh, look who's gonna storm out again," Fonzi teased.

"Come on," Hellen chided.

"No, I'd like to see this," Ingrid said, folding her arms as she sat back in her seat. "What is it now? You're too liked for your liking?"

James pressed his lips into a line, shooting her a desperate look.

"'No one would've expected an orphan boy from the fringes of the Moonlight Kingdom to be where he is today,'" Carter started reading, holding the paper up a little higher. "'But Tiberius Hemming is proof that with hard work, dedication, and applied ambition, anyone can find a place in this world.'"

James looked down at Carter with a spark of anger and annoyance.

Why did it feel like he was always being framed to have a 'fit?' Was it so wrong of him to be upset?

Fuck it. They wanted a show? Fine.

"I'd like to see each of you with your whole life story published for everyone to read," he said sharply.

"Look, it's not like we don't understand where you're coming from," Fonzi said with a too-easy smile.

"I really think you don't," James said more firmly.

"'As the fates would have it,''" Carter went on, reading as if anyone cared to hear it. "'The boy who'd had his parents stolen from him had a chance at redemption: avenging his own parents, and the parents of many more in his stead, Tiberius managed to do what no one else--'"

James ripped the paper out of Carter's hands.

"Woah," Carter said with a weak laugh. "Okay, use your words--"

"Read it on your own damn time," James said, crumpling the paper in his hands.

Ingrid began to slow-clap, tipping the scales of James's irritaiton. He tossed the paper into the bin at the corner of the room, then turned to Hellen.

"I'm going to check on Shane and Kirk," he announced. "Hellen, are you ready to go?"

The look she gave him was full of surprise and confusion for a split second, but after a quick glance at the others, she nodded.

"Oh, yeah," she said, getting up from her seat. "Sure."

"Hey, I'll come too," Fonzi said, starting to get up.

"No, you won't," James said.

"Kirk's my friend too, Tiberius," Fonzi said, more seriously.

James could tell he'd put Hellen in the cross-fire, volunteering her for something that hadn't discussed prior. He grit his teeth as he walked to the door.

"Look, I just don't want to overwhelm them," he said. "The Hawkings have enough--"

"Oh, so you're not even going over for Kirk, are you?" Fonzi scoffed, hands on his hips.

"Guys," was all Hellen managed to say in-between them.

"I-- I'm going for them both," James unsteadily defended.

"No, because you've been spending more time with Shane ever since we've got here than any of us," Fonzi went on. "And honestly, Tiberius, it's really offensive that you think you get to decide what Kirk needs right now because 'The Hawkings' this and 'The Hawkings' that. He needs his fucking friends too."

Whatever anger James had dampened in that moment, and his shoulders sank.

"I'm... sorry," he said weakly.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," Fonzi said, putting a hand on Hellen's shoulder. She looked up at him with a tense concern in her eyes.

Ingrid got to her feet with a sigh. Carter cast James a side-glance that said more than any words spoken aloud.

"We'll give our condolences," Carter said, rising to his feet last. "And those who want to stay longer can stay, if it's welcomed. Let's not crowd them so soon after something so sensitive."

James fell silent as everyone got up to leave. He hung back until the end, following behind Ingrid as Carter, Fonzi, and Hellen led the way.

They walked out to the front, where Carter exchanged words with the guard on watch. It was just a few seconds before the formalities were through and they were 'cleared' to go. And the walk, of course, was no more than a few yards from the manor to the Cypress.

They practically shared a yard.

Instead of knocking on the door, they had to deal with the guards and investigators crawling around the porch. There were more inside, seen through the broken window, sectioning off a portion of the room to leave undisturbed.

Carter dealt with the guard at the door, and they dipped inside to let the Hawkings know they had visitors.

They saw Ray first. If anything else could've possibly indicated that this was bad, it was the wearied, discouraged look on the optimistic man's face. He did smile with some warmth at them before he turned back in the doorway to say something to someone behind him, but it was obvious: this had shaken the family.

Gwen appeared at his side next. She was steadier, more composed than Ray... but not unaffected. She still had her authoritative, assured stance, but her eyes betrayed the information that she likely hadn't rested much, if at all. She seemed to have things taken care of, but not without its toll on her.

And then there was Shane and Kirk, emerging side by side, hovering in the doorway.

Shane seemed smaller and more subdued than James had ever seen him to date. He was casting his gaze all around, as if he couldn't trust any feature of the landscape. There was one thing seeming to keep him grounded, though, and that was Kirk, who held his arm around Shane's shoulders. The only thing James saw on Kirk's face was a tired relief when he saw his friends at the door.

Before any words were exchanged, Hellen burst through and tackled both Kirk and Shane in a hug, but Kirk bore the brunt of it. Kirk hugged her back tightly. Shane, who didn't seem to mind the contact but seemed a little shy about how much to return it, put a loose arm over Hellen's shoulders.

"It's a relief to see you're all alright," Carter said, addressing Ray and Gwen.

Gwen offered a faint but appreciative smile. "We've been well taken care of. Thank you for stopping by."

"Have you guys had breakfast yet?" Fonzi asked.

Ray nodded. "We all have, not to worry. Kirk's been fully fed."

Fonzi met Kirk's eyes with a wink. "There's more leftovers," he whispered loudly.

Kirk grinned faintly with a nod as Hellen finally pulled away from the hug.

"We don't want to take up too much of your time, but we wanted to stop by," Carter said.

"It's very appreciated," Gwen said.

"It's been a pleasure having Kirk under our roof, but we can return him back to you now," Ray said, glancing at Kirk with a soft affectionate look. "With the utmost sadness."

"They took good care of me," Kirk finally spoke up. "But--" he looked to Shane at his side. "I should catch up with them. There's much to discuss."

Shane nodded understandingly. "Of course," he said, with a faint but true smile. "You should do that."

"Though-- well, I know things are a bit... busy in here," Kirk said, looking around at the investigators still actively taking stock of the Hawking's front room. Kirk looked to them, but Carter in particular, then back to Shane.

"Want to just come with?" Kirk offered. "Shrimp can come too."

"Shrimp?" Fonzi asked.

James would've answered, but he didn't have to.

"My cat," Shane quickly clarified.

"Oh, right! You have a cat!" Hellen said. "Is Shrimp okay, too?"

"He probably recovered faster than the rest of us," Kirk said with a dulled sense of amusement as he looked to Shane with a weak smirk.

Shane smiled slightly back, then looked back to the rest of the group. There was a timid, uncertain hope in his eyes.

"Well, if you all wouldn't mind the two of us there..." he started.

"What? Not at all!" Hellen said.

"I love your cat," Fonzi added on. "And I haven't even met him."

"We'd be happy to have you over," Carter finalized.

Shane looked relieved. "Thank you. I'd really like that."

"Sounds like all we need to do is find Shrimp," Kirk said.

As if summoned, there was a friendly mrrp from the house, and Shrimp emerged from inside, winding around Shane's legs. His smile a little stronger now, Shane picked the cat up.

"This is the sweetheart himself," he said.

"Aww!" Hellen cooed, reaching over to pet the cat. Shrimp happily craned his head into the touch

"Confirmed: I love your cat," Fonzi said.

"We'll just be nextdoor, Gwen and Ray," Kirk said, gently leading Shane, Shrimp, and Hellen out onto the porch.

"See you soon," Gwen said warmly. "You'll always be welcome back."

Wearied, warm goodbyes donewith, the seven of them - not including the cat - almost comedically walked the short distance back to the manor nextdoor, back the way they came almost as quickly as they left. With the Cyrpress behind them, they all congregated in the Moonlight Kingdom manor's front sitting room, where the cat was let loose to explore a new environment.

Unfortunately, the maid stopped by, worried about the cat sabotaging all of the delicate plant arrangements, so that ended pretty quickly before Shrimp could knock something over.

So, Shrimp was kept in Shane's lap, where he and Kirk sat on the couch together. What followed after everyone got settled ended up being something of a debrief as Kirk and Shane - but mostly Kirk - caught them up to speed.

The only thing that was really new news was that Kirk was convinced the shooter was after Shane, since he'd apparently seen the sniper's barrel. The only other relevant information to note was that the Hawking's window was getting fixed as soon as their home stopped being a crime scene - which - no one knew when that would be.

The conversation grew longer as it branched off into other subjects. They finally moved away from the shooting and began to discuss the night prior. Fonzi was quick to share his stories, as he'd spent most of the night with Mel Sommers, and that went well for him. Ingrid and Hellen apparently had a good time too, finding themselves in the company of a group of militia girls who enjoyed their company. Carter regaled them with stories of several dance partners before he ran into Hild Ashlund - who James frankly couldn't see hitting it off with Carter. But apparently, they did.

And then finally, it came back around to Kirk and Shane, who said they had a marvelous time before they returned to the estates.

"But. We should also let you know," Kirk said, holding up his hands. "That we did make it official."

Hellen's whole face lit up beside him, and she pulled Kirk into a rough hug, shaking him side to side.

"Yes!" she said. "I knew it! I knew it!"

"You finally did it," Fonzi said with a laugh. "Well, congrats, you two."

"That's wonderful," Carter agreed.

Even Ingrid managed a smile, which surprised him.

Shane grinned softly for the first time James had seen that morning, casting Kirk a look of true happiness. "Thank you all," he said, already seeming relieved by the reception. "It makes me glad too."

"Now I can call you his boyfriend for real instead of teasing," Fonzi said with a smirk.

Shane let out a laugh. "Yes, you certainly can."

"It's a shame your evening had to end so poorly," Hellen said. "Hopefully it didn't ruin the excitement of this."

Kirk smiled at that. "I don't think it ruined it," he said, looking to Shane. "Just -- well, it for sure made it memorable."

"I don't think so either," Shane said, with a soft look Kirk's way. "It certainly made the bad parts of the night easier, though."

Which was a nice sentiment, really. But James knew they were desperately reaching for something to keep from circling back to that conversation, on top of keeping the room from getting heavy again. No one wanted to sit in the dread for too long. With all of the uncertaintly still surrounding the situation and the lack of answers, it was profoundly unhelpful to speculate further than they already had.

All it did was make things feel worse.

So, as James predicted, they changed the subject. It just didn't turn in the direction he'd hoped.

"Wait, we didn't get to hear about Tiberius's masquerade experience!" Fonzi said, before Carter was about to move them on.

Godsdamnit, Fonzi.

Everyone had almost forgotten. No one would've even cared. It wasn't going to matter. It shouldn't anyway.

"Well?" Carter asked, raising a brow.

"It was fine," James said. "Danced. Drank. Had food. Just like everyone else."

Fonzi gave James a pressing look, widening his eyes expectantly. James widened his eyes tensely in return.

"Fine," Fonzi said with a sigh. "I wasn't going to say anything."

Oh, but Fonzi. You already have. James rubbed his hand over his face.

"You know what guys, my head is killing me," Fonzi said, getting to his feet. "I had a little too much fun last night, if you know what I mean."

"Where are you headed to?" Carter asked.

"Dunno," Fonzi said. "Might stop by the doc or something, but I'll catch you later, anyhow. You all take care."

And, with Fonzi's departure, the living room started to clear out rather quickly.

Carter excused himself, saying he had undefined duties to attend to. Ingrid didn't bother giving a reason, and just wished everyone well before disappearing. Hellen said she would've stuck around but wanted to catch Caspar at the stables.

Before James knew it, it was just him left in the sitting room, with Shane and Kirk beside each other on the couch across from him.

For some weird reason, it felt like he didn't belong.

He was happy for them. They seemed more than content with each other. But he didn't think he brought anything useful in the space that was left, and frankly, the silence was deafening. He couldn't find comfort in the other's absence any more than he could in Shane and Kirk's presence.

He just felt... distant.

The only thing keeping him from getting up himself was the obligation in his heart to at least try and be a decent friend. Not that he really knew what that looked like anymore, or why he felt the need.

"So, um," he began, with no idea what to say. "You two... you're...?"

He wanted to ask if they were okay. But gods, it was a such a stupid, overused question.

"...I assume you'll probably be staying in today," he said instead.

Kirk glanced at Shane, shrugging a shoulder. "Probably," he said. "Can't say I feel the urge to go anywhere at present. I know the games are supposed to start tomorrow, but -- maybe we can wait on jumping into that right away. There's two weeks' worth of those, right?"

"That's right," Shane confirmed.

"And honestly," Kirk said. "I have a feeling that after I've seen one, I'll have seen them all."

Shane let out a chuckle. "That's true. Anyone who tells you otherwise is attempting to sell you more tickets."

"That's how they make money," Kirk said.

Shane's smile quirked up a touch. "They have to do it somehow," he said, before he looked back to James. Concern flickered in his eyes. "What about you? Are you... Well, are you alright?"

James knew he was too transparently troubled to brush the question off completely, but he decided to pick the lesser of two evils: the article, not the masquerade.

"Hm?" he said, trying to sound unassuming. "Oh. It's just this... the article we got interviewed about came out this morning."

Kirk's eyes turned attentive with curious concern.

"It did?" Kirk asked.

James smiled, barely. "You don't have to worry about it," he said. "They -- well, they barely wrote about you."

Kirk's brows furrowed. James didn't know if it was because Kirk understood the connotation or if James had to spell it out for them.

"It's nothing bad," he amended, looking down to his feet. "Just... my face, on every newspaper. So. That's out there, now."

"Ah," Shane said softly. "I'm sorry. It's not really a blessing to end up there."

"If I couldn't go out in public before without getting recognized," James said. "I certainly can't now."

"I'm sorry," Kirk said softly.

James wanted to tell Kirk he should've been there for breakfast an hour ago, but it was for the better that he wasn't.

"Not much I can do about it," James said with a shrug. "It is what it is."

Shane dropped his gaze to a well-behaved Shrimp momentarily before looking up at James again.

"Wide brimmed hats are having a good year," he said, equal parts a gentle, sensitive joke and a well-meaning suggestion. "It's not too late to pass as a cowboy."

James huffed through his nose, reaching up to rub his forehead. It was a little early to try that, but the joke was appreciated nonetheless.

"We'll see," he said.

For now, he was going to try and do his best to bear the renown. If he couldn't do that, he didn't think he'd survive the coming scorn.

Kirk looked over to Shane, raising a brow.

"I feel like I'm missing something," he said with a faint smile.

"Maybe I've offered him fashion suggestions before," Shane said, before looking down at himself and letting out a laugh. "Not that I actually have any to offer."

"It's just a joke," James offered, not really wanting to explain why he was asking Shane for disguise ideas.

Sure, he had enough reasons without explaining his future plans for his life, but the less anyone had to suspect of him, the better.

"Well, if you're talking fashion advice," Kirk said to Shane. "You should ask Tiberius. He actually has a good eye for it."

James winced. It was supposed to be a smile. It wasn't.

"Is that so?" Shane asked curiously.

"Truthfully," Kirk said. "He helped me learn how to dress better."

"It was just basic color theory," James said weakly.

"Which," Kirk said. "I didn't know anything about. But now I know what colors compliment my skin."

James shrugged. Those days felt so far away, now. That was years ago.

Shane looked amused. "I take it that purple and black were some of those."

"They were," Kirk said with a grin.

It was a genuinely sweet exchange - because James knew it was an indirect compliment to Kirk's former masquerade outfit - but he couldn't help but feel disjointed. Still, like he didn't belong.

Maybe he should give them space.

"I think I'm going to take Billy out for the morning," he said before the next silence could be filled with idle chatter. "If you're... here, later, I'll see you around."

He got to his feet, managing a small smile, but there was no joy in it.

"Sure," Kirk said.

"Alright," Shane said with a slight smile of his own. "Say hi to him and Arden for me, please."

With a small nod, James turned to leave.

"Will do."

It was-- a little unexpectedly-- possible for Shane to feel more or less at ease in the Moonlight Kingdom manor. Even on a day like today. It seemed like it just took some being alone with Kirk.

He'd cozied up with Kirk a little more now that they had some privacy, resting his head on Kirk's shoulder. Shrimp was now halfway on his lap and halfway on Kirk's, which could be described as a win for everyone involved. Shane let a couple seconds of easy silence slip by until Kirk let out a heavy sigh. At that, Shane flicked his gaze up to his face. Kirk seemed... a little sad, maybe. Certainly in thought.

"What is it?" he asked gently, resting his hand over Kirk's.

Kirk glanced down at their hands.

"I think I missed something, this morning," Kirk said quietly. "While I was at your place."

Shane hummed softly.

"The atmosphere did seem... off," he said. "I don't really know what your normal is, but something felt different."

"Our normal's been pretty dysfunctional lately," Kirk said, looking across the room at a shelf lined with plants. "But things have been slowly deteriorating for a while."

It didn't feel like it was news to Shane.

There wasn't really one thing that he could point at and say proved it all. But there were smaller ones. The way Ingrid had snapped at Tiberius on the porch before she'd realized Shane was there, the helplessness Kirk had described about none of them being able to reach Tiberius, even just the way everyone had... scattered recently after Fonzi had fled the tension in the room.

"Things have gotten worse since Ingrid and Tiberius broke up," Kirk said softly. "Rifts were already there, but now it's more obvious."

Shane slowly blinked.

Broken... up.

"That was maybe two weeks ago," Kirk added for context.

"I'm about to sound incredibly clueless," Shane said, with a faint, very self-conscious laugh. "But I did not even know they were a couple until you said that."

Kirk let out a laugh through his nose, but it sounded more sad than anything.

"Yeah, well... that doesn't surprise me," he said. "Things were falling apart between them for a while before Tiberius cut it off."

Shane was quiet for a moment, weighing that. So that had been while they were in town-- days after they'd met, probably. While he still couldn't really locate many signs of couple-like behavior between them-- maybe because anything he'd witnessed felt... unromantic-- knowing this caused some things to make more sense.

"Strangely, he quit smoking not long after," Kirk murmured, like he was now thinking aloud.

A beat. Shane supposed that was good.

"Sorry, I don't want to gossip about him, I'm just trying to figure out how to navigate all of this," he said. "It's not just him. I think he just has a way of stirring things up without meaning to. There's a lot that goes unsaid that should be said, and most of us have a hard time talking about hard things, especially together. I think it doesn't help that we've known each other for so long, because everyone knows what to say to get under each others' skin when they'd rather avoid an adult conversation. And it just... falls apart so fast."

Kirk sighed.

"To Tiberius's credit, at least he can be honest," he said. "Unlike... most of us."

"He seems like he values honesty," Shane said. "From what I can tell with the times I've been honest with him, at least."

He took Kirk's hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

"The six of you have a lot of history," he said softly. "And history is hard to agree on. It sounds like you all could benefit a lot from addressing your issues, but... honesty has a way of feeling threatening. I'm sorry."

Kirk squeezed Shane's hand, just once.

"I guess I just feel... discouraged," he said. "And disheartened. Because I've tried talking to all of them over the years. You know, to see if things could be worked out in private, even if we couldn't have a conversation all together. And the only person I've been able to truly connect with is Hellen. She's amazing, and I love her like she was family. But she's been having a hard time, and..."

The memory of how a smile had slipped off Hellen's face that night they were all having dinner at Sage & Saffron flashed before Shane's eyes again. He felt his heart sink.

"She lost a partner, didn't she?" he asked quietly.

"His name was Jack," Kirk said, just as quiet. "He was our friend, and her fiance. They got engaged just before the war."

Shane leaned against Kirk a little more, taking a deep breath. No wonder Hellen had changed the subject so fast at dinner. If it wasn't for that, he wouldn't have guessed there was anything weighing on her. Hellen was so lively and bright... And yet that was such a devastating loss. His heart ached for what she must be quietly carrying.

"A lot has changed," Kirk said sadly. "Since the resurgence... and Jack's death. Nothing's been the same, and I don't think it ever will be."

"I'm so sorry," Shane said quietly. "For her, for you. For all of you."

"Thanks," Kirk said in a whisper.

Kirk leaned against Shane in return, and for once, it felt like Shane was seeing the sadness Kirk carried really come to the surface. Normally, Kirk had a very steady composure - one that almost never seemed to crack.

Now he leaned on Shane more heavily, resting his head on Shane's shoulder.

Shane wanted him to know it was safe to do that. He'd known many strong people-- he'd been the closest of friends with several. And he knew that as steady as someone could seem, as impressive as their resilience was, as awe-inspiring it was for them to so often be there for others... strength was not infinite. Even the bravest of hearts could ache.

As much as he craved softness for himself, he wanted to be the one to give it, too. He wanted to be gentle and not regret it afterwards.

Shane rested his head over Kirk's, reaching for his hand with both of his. Slowly, tenderly, he lifted Kirk's hand up so he could press a soft kiss to the back of his knuckles. He kept his lips there for a moment before gently returning their hands to his lap.

"You're carrying a lot," he said, sadly and softly. "You seem to be doing the carrying for others too."

He squeezed Kirk's hand in his.

"But you deserve tenderness too," Shane said quietly.

There was a few seconds of silence.

"Is it wrong?" Kirk asked quietly. "That I've grown tired of being the strong and reliable one all the time?"

"It's not," Shane said softly. "No one can be that forever."

"It just feels like I'm giving up," Kirk said. "If I were to let myself fall apart. Like everyone else."

Shane knew that fear somewhat, at least. It was so... tempting to fall apart. To declare he'd hit rock bottom and didn't need to worry about holding himself together anymore. But even when he'd been in the worst of it, it had felt like there was still something forcing him away from tipping over that edge. Even though he had no one left to be strong for.

"I don't want to," Kirk said after a second. "I just... I don't. I guess I wish that I felt like I could. Like there would be someone to catch me if I did. You know?"

Shane felt his heart clench as he went silent for a moment.

He knew. He'd had that spot unfilled for years now.

"Would you let me catch you?" he asked quietly.

Kirk was quiet for a moment.

"Can we catch each other?" Kirk asked softly.

Shane turned his head so his cheek was resting over the curls of Kirk's hair.

"I would like that," he whispered.

Kirk lightly brushed his thumb over Shane's hand.

"Me too," he whispered back.

Shane let out a deeper breath, feeling himself settle a little further as he gave his hand another gentle squeeze. He was glad to fill this void. He was touched it was him. And yet it hurt his heart that no one had stepped in for Kirk in this way.

Because it was terrifying to know there was no safety net, even without the intention of falling.

Kirk did have friends. He had company. That was more than what Shane had had for the last three years. And yet, in an sense, it sounded terribly lonely to lack that particular connection-- and it sounded like Kirk had been looking for it among the King's Hand without finding it. It couldn't have been made any easier by him being alone in his viewpoints once his outlook on mages had changed after the war.

He wasn't alone in that regard, though...

He'd heard from Tiberius first. Now he'd heard from Kirk. Shane was the one who could fit them together.

Somehow.

"If you're looking for more people here to trust with something..." Shane started softly, in Terran. "If that would help you. I think there's one of you who it would be safe to share what you said when we were talking about Jordan with."

Kirk pulled away so he could turn to look at Shane. There was curiosity, but equal parts apprehension at the suggestion. He seemed unsure.

"Who?" Kirk asked quietly.

"Tiberius," Shane said, in a low tone that wouldn't carry.

Kirk stared at Shane, a look of disbelief passing over his eyes before he tilted his head, more intent.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"I heard from him before I knew about you," Shane said. "The first week you got here. He seemed to think he might be alone in this, too."

Kirk looked out into the room, turning away and leaning back into the couch slowly, like he was letting it sink in.

"...all this time?" he asked, but it didn't seem like it was directed to Shane.

Shane dropped his gaze to their hands.

"Come to think of it," he said softly. "He did mention you specifically. He thought he couldn't ask you where you stood, but that maybe I could. I communicated to him that I wouldn't be reporting on you for him and if I learned anything, I hoped it would be from you sharing by your own choice, and he understood. But he... he seemed like he hoped he could trust you."

Kirk let out a long sigh, bonking his head on the back of the couch.

"That idiot," he muttered.

Shane cracked a faint, sad smile.

"Not the most straightforward means of communication," he admitted quietly.

Kirk huffed. "Honest," he said. "But..."

Kirk sat up straight again, shaking his head.

"I do not understand him," he muttered.

"Sometimes I don't either," Shane said, with the faintest of chuckles.

"He wasn't always this secretive," Kirk said. "Ever since we came home from the war it was like--"

Kirk let out another frustrated huff, throwing his hands up into the air.

"Gods, if I'd have known," he said.

"I wonder if he's thinking that too," Shane murmured. "But... you might have the chance to do something about it now. Since you've heard."

Kirk took in a deep breath and then nodded.

"I guess so," he said, softer.

"If you talked to him, would you like me there?" Shane asked quietly.

"I don't think so," Kirk said quietly. "At least... I'd rather try talking to him first. Just us."

Shane nodded with a soft look. "Okay. I think that's a good idea."

"Thank you for telling me," Kirk said. "It's comforting to know I'm not the only one."

Shane offered him a slightly mournful smile, sinking back into the couch beside him again.

"I don't want you to feel alone in any way," he said softly.

"I don't," Kirk said. "At least... not as much, anymore."

Shane breathed out quietly through his nose, leaning against Kirk's side again.

For him, it felt a bit like that, as if he'd been walking through a tunnel of loneliness and he'd just seen the first light in what felt like ages this summer. He hoped Kirk had never been there. The ache left behind seemed to occupy every corner of Shane's life like a shadow, even if it didn't hurt at that moment. He didn't want Kirk to have to feel its weight, too.

"Good," he said quietly.

Year 1102, five years ago.


Eve was only eighteen. And yet, it felt like the weight of the world sat on her shoulders.

"You must learn to let go, Evaline," her mother said sternly from the other side of the hall, standing in her way. Crossing her arms, her glare coldly pierced through Evaline.

She was saying a silent threat. It did not ease Evaline's silent sobs. Biting back a cry, she wiped her eyes with her shaking hands, fiercely shaking her head.

"I-- I don't want to," Evaline croaked, a flare of defiance bubbling in her throat. Still shaking her head, she briskly walked on, wiping away her blurry vision as she attempted to squirm past her mother. "I didn't want to say those things to him. You made me do it. I have to go back. I have to--"

Her mother struck her cheek, sending a wave of sharp pain down her spine. Shocked into silence, Evaline stared at the empty white wall to her side, letting the pain ground her back into reality, as her mother usually did. Quietly, weakly, she touched her sore, swelling cheek, tears blurring her vision again.

She stared back at her mother, whose hand was still lifted in the air. Satisfied by her silence, she dropped her hand to brush Evaline's hair back, her cold stare unwavering.

"You are becoming rebellious, Evaline," her mother said sternly, stoically watching her cry as she brushed the hair out of her face. "I'm disappointed in you. You should know better."

Evaline felt the defiance reignite in her heart, the love and affection she had for her lost friends outweighing the certainty gained from controlled pain and discipline. She loved her mother dearly, but surely, she had to understand. Surely, she could understand that there were people she loved, and she couldn't let them walk away.

After all, she was her mother, and Evaline was her daughter.

"You made me this way!" Evaline cried out, letting the defiance control her, if only for a moment.

She instantly regretted saying the five words. Her mother stopped her movements in her hair, and Evaline's eyes went wide as she felt her neutral glare harden into violence. Panicked, Evaline took a step back, but her mother was quicker to act.

With her hand already on her head, her mother tightly dug her fingers into the roots of her hair, marching forward and yanking Evaline behind her. Letting out a pained shriek, Evaline panickedly slipped back and gritted her teeth through the pain, doing her best to shuffle back on her feet and match her mother's pace.

"Why can't you be as behaved as Oliver?" her mother said coldly, continuing to drag Evaline across the hall by her hair. "You are a bad daughter, lashing out and misbehaving over things you cannot possibly understand at your age. It's all in your head, Evaline. You are imagining pain that does not exist. You must learn to be better. To do better."

Whimpering through the pain, Evaline was barely able to process that she was standing in front of her own room, which set another pit of dread twisting in her stomach. "Mom--" she wailed, but was promptly cut off, winded when she was pushed inside the dark room.

Just barely catching her fall with her hands, Evaline could no longer hold back her sobs, barely able to see through her the hot tears as she looked back at her mother over her shoulder.

Even in the shadows, she could feel her piercing glare.

"Think about what you've done. Otherwise, you will end up just like your father." Tightly gripping the doorknob, her mother swept the door closed at the mid-way point, pausing as her frown deepened. "A failure," she finished coldly, promptly closing the door shut, the lock clicking behind her so she could leave Evaline to weep in the darkness of her room.

There was a knock at the door. Closing her sketchbook, Eve quickly slipped it in the drawer of her desk and called, "Come in."

Jordan, as expected, came in early, but this time his normal friendly exterior was replaced with a weary sobriety. He'd found Mel Aradis that morning, so his arm was mostly healed up, but the previous night's events still weighed on him heavily; it was evident in how he heaved himself into the chair closest to her desk, and didn't bother with a greeting like he usually did.

"Hi," Eve greeted softly with creased brows, concern washing over her as she quietly folded her arms on top of one another.

"Hey, Eve," Jordan said, mustering a small smile for her.

"How..." Biting back her lip, she glanced at his arm, the hazy memories of last night bubbling back into her mind. "How is it?" She paused. "You, I mean. How are you?"

It was still so hard to believe that there was an assassination attempt on Shane. Eve hardly slept after hearing the news, uncertainty and paranoia having overtaken her like a disease. She couldn't bear the thought of someone shooting-- killing-- no, murdering-- Shane, and... Jordan, too, he was--

"I don't know," Jordan said quietly.

There was an attempt on Jordan's life, too. Perhaps he did not see it that way since only his arm was pierced, but if the attacker were to stop at nothing to target Shane, no doubt they wouldn't have hesitated to put an end to Jordan's life too. Eve hated that Jordan had to depend on his strength to get by and live.

Most of all, though: she hated that she could do nothing about this. She was entirely helpless, with no information, no action plan, nothing. She didn't know who did this or why. She wasn't even awake when this happened. She should have been there. She should have done something. Anything.

Instead, the two people she wanted to protect the most were hurt in ways she couldn't undo.

"I'm sorry, Jordan, I--" Eve stared blankly at her desk, withdrawing her arms to place on her lap, digging her fingernails into her thighs. "I should have been there. I shouldn't have put you up to this. I don't know what I was thinking. I wish I could go back and change things."

Eve furiously shook her head, talking faster. "I never should have placed you to watch over Shane. There are other people who could have helped, but I was selfish and wanted you to do it, because I--" She faltered, biting back her next words, deciding to rephrase as she balled her fists below the table. "Maybe if I had chosen them instead, you wouldn't have gotten hurt. And the attacker may have been stopped sooner."

Jordan sighed, leaning forward with his arms crossed over his knees.

"I know what you mean, Eve," he said. "And I know you mean well. But it really doesn't help to think about what could've gone different. I mean... maybe for the future, sure."

Jordan ran his hand over his hair as Eve retreated into a defeated silence.

"I should've been honest with you from the start," he said. "I didn't know how to say no to you. I never have."

"What?" Eve breathed out, snapping her gaze at him, the concern seeping into her voice. "What do you mean? I don't want to force you to do something you don't want to do."

"I know," Jordan said. "You didn't force me to do anything. I just... I don't think I realized how hard all of this would be. Emotionally. I had a feeling it would be, but I... ignored it. I didn't want to disappoint you. But that's not your fault."

"Jordan, why--" was all she choked out when the realization fully sit in.

She caused this. Eve had placed this undue pressure on him. She had caused this needless stress, this fear of disappointment. She didn't want that. She didn't mean any of that. She wasn't disappointed in him. She wasn't.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked quietly, trying to not let the hurt show in her eyes.

"I don't think I was ready to admit it to myself," Jordan said, looking down at his hands in his lap. "Never mind to you."

"Is it something I said? Something I did?" Eve blurted out, feeling her words slurring together. "Why? Why didn't you trust me enough to tell the truth?"

"It's not-- it's not you, Eve," Jordan said. "It's--"

"But I've known you for practically my whole life, Jordan!" Eve cut in, exasperated. "If it's not me, then what is it?"

"I wasn't ready to face it," Jordan said with a sigh. "I wasn't ready to face how much I missed them. And how much I--"

She could hear the hitch in his voice as his throat tightened.

"I-- I wish I could see them again, Eve," he said, looking down to the floor with eyes that grew misty. "I kept telling myself I didn't. That it was for the best that they thought I was dead. It would be easier if it stayed that way. But seeing them again felt so... it was like everything I tried to ignore got ripped open again. All the... love I have for them. It's still there."

No. No, no, no. They couldn't be talking about this now. Eve had been waiting... longing to have this conversation for years, but Jordan was not as eager as her. He wanted to move on too. And so did she; she was certainly a different person now than she was back then.

So why did they have to have this conversation now? When she had already accepted the silent agreement to protect without being a slave to her emotions? And here, now, when anyone would come in at any moment now...

No, no, no, no, no. Eve felt her own emotions slipping under her, crawling its way out of her chest, squeezing her lungs to slip up her throat and sting her eyes.

Breathe. Breathe. Deep breath in, deep breath out. She needed to get a hold of herself. Relax the tension in her body, close her eyes, and breathe.

"Jordan," she called calmly, feeling like she was one small push away from losing herself entirely. "Let's talk about this later. We are one minute away from the start of a meeting."

Jordan looked up at her, his chin going soft as he visibly pushed the tears back down and nodded, quickly wiping his eyes.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"I'm not trying to dismiss you," Eve quickly added, the apology flaring up the reminder that she had hurt him again. "We'll talk about this after the meeting. How does that sound?"

Jordan nodded, still trying to collect himself.

Eve wished she knew what she could say that wouldn't result in a tumble of emotions. She opened her mouth to speak, only able to utter out, "Jordan," before the knock on the door signified the official start of the meeting.

More alert, Eve straightened herself, eyes widening as she silently asked if he was ready. Jordan just nodded again.

"Come in," Eve said evenly, swallowing the knot in her throat and steeling her nerves.

Cyrin almost never managed to sneak in silently into a work meeting. Of course, that was only because Hendrik always walked with him, and Hendrik was loud. If the resistance was just a little shallower underground, Cyrin was sure they'd have been caught by now.

Wouldn't that be ironic. Hendrik's booming rants over how a rhino-bear should've won a horse race dooming them when there were a million other things to worry about.

As Hendrik went on about how if the race had simply been a different form of competition, Bongo would've certainly made any horse go 'boingo' in a boxing match-- Cyrin had no idea what that meant-- they pushed open the door to the meeting room. The moment he entered, he felt the change in mood. Just a look around told him it was not a good day, and there would be plenty of bad news to go around. Like the one he had to share.

He hated these days.

Cyrin took a seat, flashing the group a thin smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'd say good morning," they said. "But I think it's just a morning today."

"That it is," Bo echoed in agreement.

Tula and Robin slipped in, and when there wasn't even a knife thrown their way, that was when it sank in for Cyrin that it was going to be a really bad meeting.

As everyone shared, it seemed like there was no good news in sight. Jordan spoke about his assignment on protecting the Hawkings that turned out to be less useless then Cyrin thought in light of the attack on Shane Hawking, where he'd fought off a member of the Blue Suns that Cyrin confirmed to be Pia Saylor. Tula grumbled over being found by Alexander Kingsman, and Hendrik joined in on her frustrations with the "silver fox". Leilan shared his concerns about being placed on a mage watchlist, and the room suddenly felt much colder. Robin reported a concerning werewolf smell around town that he "didn't like at all". Raj updated them on a second shooting this morning at Romulus Cattaneo's house that made even less sense than the first and was probably a Blue Suns theft gone wrong rather than another murder attempt. And Eve's news wasn't strictly negative, but she did cause a bit of a stir with her announcement that she would be working with Kirk Fayek of the King's Hand to investigate potential Blue Suns activity on a Ruddlan lumshade farm.

Was it a good idea? Cyrin didn't know anymore. Nothing felt like it had the power to make things right after this week.

It was then their turn. They felt all eyes on them as they took a deep breath.

"As Tula mentioned earlier," Cyrin started with a careful slowness. "She and I were spotted together by Alexander Kingsman at the netball tournament two days ago. He seemed very curious about how we got to be in each other's company-- especially since Tula's last communication to him was about hunting me down, although she described me rather than naming me. I knew he was suspicious no matter what I did."

He suddenly found himself back in the memory of being on the netball field, sprinting through red dust. He'd collided with Alexander just as the mage hunter had caught the ball, still in the process of pulling it closer to himself. And in that second-- in a moment made invisible by the very speed it took place with-- his hands had landed on Alexander's, finding, pulling, breaking.

"So I found a way to break his trigger finger in the gameplay after that and pass it as an accident," Cyrin continued. "He's definitely angry now, but he's slightly more harmless."

Dagger in hand, Tula brandished the blade in front of her, spinning it over her fingers. "You should have cut his finger off, not just break it," she said with disdain.

"That would've gotten Cyrin in trouble with the game masters," Jordan said with a sigh.

"Getting in trouble with the game masters would've been fine," Cyrin murmured. "The militia and DAMG, less so."

"Seems you're already in trouble with DAMG," Robin murmured, curled up at Bo's feet. "I'd have just killed him."

Bo gave Robin a flat look. In contrast, Tula brightened, a devlish grin tugging her lips.

"Can't believe I agree with the dog," she said, pointing the dagger at him. "Next time, I'll murder Alexander myself."

The look Robin gave to Cyrin directly was one that said without words: "I have to put up with this disrespect every day."

Cyrin gave him a helpless shrug, but honestly, their heart wasn't in making light of things today.

"Oh no, you won't, gothic," Hendrik said gruffly, crossing his arms. "The silver fox is my subject, not yours."

"Back off, drunk," Tula hissed, now pointing the dagger at him. "You make everything worse with your anger problems and your loud ass voice."

"Guys," Leilan cut in wearily. "He's our collective problem. We've established this today. We're not here to fight over who gets to bring him down, we're here to work together on stopping him as one."

"But," Bo said. "We are here to look out for each other. It'd just be better that we don't jump on murder as the first solution. That'd get us even more attention, which I'd rather we not have to bear."

"Heed my warning, cyclops," Tula said through gritted teeth, sheathing her dagger before holding an intense stare targeted at Bo. "If he so much as lays one broken finger on Cyrin, Alexander is a dead hunter."

As a rare show of agreement with Tula, Bo raised his hands in relent with a faint smirk.

"Warranted," Bo said.

Cyrin smiled the tiniest, faintest bit. It hardly sounded like it, but he knew this was the closest Tula got to affection.

"I'm hoping it won't get to that point," he said, a little quieter. "But... I do have a contingency plan for if something happens."

He'd had it for a while now, ever since the uptick of the mage traffickings locally. Bo-- and Eve, a little more recently since she became a supervisor-- were both privy to it.

"There's no need to go over all the details," Cyrin said, looking around at the group grimly, "but if I'm caught, assume that I've been traded rather than killed."

He glanced at Leilan.

"If you haven't already, you might want to think of making one," he added softly.

Leilan stiffened a little at that, but nodded, weariness spreading further over his face.

Bo caught Leilan's eyes with a small point of his chin. "We can talk later," he said. "But that's a last case scenario. I know things feel grim, but we all know each other: none of us are going down without a fight - and fighting for each other."

"If Alexander so much as breathes next to the Bridgers's home, I'm going to eat him," Robin added.

That was touching. Somehow.

"Let's not put cannibalism on our list of plans," Bo said.

"Is it cannibalism if I'm--" Robin started, which was exactly what Cyrin was just wondering.

"Grey area," Bo said. "Besides the point."

Robin huffed.

"Leilan," Jordan spoke up, leaning to look over at him. "If I see Alexander lurking around the estates, I'll see what I can do to scare him off."

"Don't let him get suspicious of you," Leilan warned. "He's seen you with me."

Jordan smirked, but it was a bit tired.

"Who says he's going to see me?" Jordan said.

"If you're completely out of sight..." Leilan trailed off. "Well, I wouldn't object to him getting a little drenched."

Jordan smiled a little warmer. "Good."

This dream again.

Before Alistair opened his eyes, he knew where he was at: the very top of the same mountainside he had only visited in his dreams. He could tell; the air was viscerally clean: sharp, like it was forcefully scraping off the ash from his lungs.

Opening his eyes, the air at the top felt ten times more real. The wind rushed past him, blowing his bangs out of his face while prickling his exposed skin. It was so strange, to feel like he was at the top of the mountain, poking above the clouds. All while he was in his damn pajamas.

And just like all the other times he dreamed of this exact moment, Alistair made a note to self that, one day, he should sleep in hiking clothes he did not own. That way, it would actually feel like he actually climbed this damn mountain.

Peering into the vast sky below him, he lost his head in the clouds, letting the calm dream pass him by.

It was always the same... except this time, a strong gust pulled at him from behind, like it was trying to show him something, beckoning for him to whip around. Hesitantly, Alistair followed the wind's orders, turning to squint up at a distant figure in the sky: a long, white, snake flying through the air.

Alistair rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was seeing right. When he peeled his hands away from his face, however, he realized that the flying snake was barreling towards him at an alarming speed.

Of course. Of course this dream had a catch. This was a new angle on falling-off-buildings dreams, wasn't it?

Panicked, Alistair stepped back, nearly losing his footing-- not from the lack of ground, but from another strong gust that completely winded him, knocking him onto his back. In a daze, he gritted his teeth, panic rising as his arms went out in front of him to tether himself on to the ground, realizing that he had nearly skidded off the mountain entirely.

"Alistair," a feminine voice whispered in his ear, almost like a desperate plea to grab his attention, calling out to him.

Panic rising, Alistair whipped around, only to be succumbed into darkness.

Waking up with a jolt, Alistair snapped his eyes open, realizing a few dumb seconds later that he had dug his fingernails into his mattress. Groaning, he released the tension in his body, tiredly rubbing his face instead.

What time was it...?

Ugh. The sun was too damn bright. Alistair hated mornings.

"Alistair!" Makena called through his door, rapping her knuckles against the wood. "Time to get up. You're going to be late for work."

"I'm up," he moaned, rubbing the tired from his eyes, peeking at the door through his fingers. The rapping didn't stop, and so he mustered more energy to say, "I'm up!"

"Your uniform's hanging at the clothesline," was all his aunt said as acknowledgement, her heavy footsteps walking away.

Well, at least she didn't tell him to do a chore on his way to or from work, like she usually did. Ever since Alan moved out, he became the new slave to this family. Yay.

He sat upright, idly running his hand through his air, waking mind wandering.

That dream, he thought to himself. That was... different.

Uncertainty floated through his head as he sighed, turning himself to find footing on the floor. It was only a dream, and yet... something about that woman's voice was so...

Despite the stupid desert summer heat, he felt a shiver run through his spine.

Haunting.



For once, Alistair was early. Early. Gods, this was off brand for him. That was why he used the spare minutes to sit on the porch, dressed for the stupid griffin games he hated, toast in one hand, cigarette in the other. The sun was shining, it was morning, and it couldn't have been any worse.

Taking the last bite of the bread, he squinted at someone approaching the gate, realizing he was coming face-to-face with--

"Mireya?" he called with confusion, making a sour face from her unexpected appearance. "What are you doing here?"

Mireya froze in her footsteps, staring at him with wide, almost frightened eyes through the gate. Her lips parted, but she didn't speak just yet. A haunted look painted her face.

"I..." she started weakly, visibly fumbling for the words. "I can leave."

Suddenly more awake, Alistair stuffed the cigarette into the nearly-full ash tray, quickly getting up on his feet. "No, it's fine. I was just--" He faltered, running his hand through his messy hair, wondering what could be troubling Mireya so much. Maybe he should have drank that second cup of coffee. "I have some time to spare before leaving for work. What's up?"

It seemed like Mireya was... shaking. Trembling, even. Her hands were clenched at her sides as she dropped her gaze to the ground.

"Hey," he called more panickedly, scanning the area behind her, wondering if someone was following. "You okay? Do you want to come inside?"

"Please," Mireya said faintly.

"Yeah..." Concern gnawing in his stomach, Alistair opened the front door, sweeping his arm in. "Come in. I can..." Fuck, what did she need right now? "Make you coffee," was the first option that came to mind. He snapped his mouth shut, feeling like that wasn't quite the right answer, but he also had no idea what was going through her head.

"It's fine," Mireya said quietly as she stepped in. "It's..."

Her eyes were bleak as she looked back at him. He saw her swallow.

"It's Andy," she croaked.

It was strange. When Alistair was dating Andy, Mireya often tagged along and involved herself in their hangouts. The two of them were close, and it was through Andy that Alistair met Mireya, after all. But since they broke up... well, things were weird, even though neither of them would admit it. They were still friends, but it was a silent unspoken agreement that they would just... not talk about Andy. Even though Alistair was certain that he came up all the time in conversations when it was just the two of them alone.

This was the first time Mireya had willingly brought her up. And for how shaken up she was, the fear and uneasiness in her eyes, the tension in her body... Alistair couldn't help but feel a pit of dread fall in his stomach.

He felt the tension rise within him when he dared to ask: "What happened?"

"She's--" Mireya blinked furiously, and to his shock, he could see tears glistening in her eyes. "Alistair, Andy's dead."

He stared at her, unreacting. Because much like the dream, this didn't feel real. This couldn't be real.

"And it's-- it's all my fucking fault," Mireya choked out, her shoulders shaking and her words getting strangled by a sudden onslaught of sobbing.

Alistair stared dumbly at her, the revelation not quite sinking in yet. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel or how to react. He felt the urge to reach out and hug her, he felt the urge to ask for details, he felt the urge to cry with her. These were all actions he anticipated to have for any reaction regarding death, nevertheless a death of someone he previously deeply loved.

Mireya threw the word "death" into the air, and it pierced his chest, but Alistair hadn't yet felt the pain, and he hadn't yet bled.

This didn't feel real.

A harsh wave of reality flooded his senses when he recognized Makena's heavy steps originating from the kitchen. Sudden panic coursed through him at the thought that she'd stop to ask about this dreadful subject, and without thinking about it, he snatched Mireya's arm, quickly taking her back out the front yard.

"Mireya," he called with more alarm as the door shut behind him. He placed his hands on her shoulders, angling his head down to meet her tearful eyes, pleading with her. Begging her, silently. "What do you mean, she's..." He felt her grip on her shoulder tighten as he choked out, "...dead?"

"It means," Mireya sniffled, as more sobs shook her shoulders, "that we were doing something for the suns, I fucked up, and she got killed."

This still didn't feel real.

Feeling his face pale, Alistair stared at her, expecting a different response. Still silently begging her to say something else. Something that wouldn't be this dismal. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't be dead.

Instead, Mireya just hunched over and wept into his shoulder. Weakly, Alistair pulled her in, wrapping an arm around her. He felt his gaze go distant as he stared at the dying smoke rising from the cigarette he put out.

"When?" he asked emptily, stuttering the simple one-syllable word.

"Morning before yesterday," Mireya whispered, sniffling again. "I should've come over sooner, but-- I couldn't-- it was just--" Her words died in a hoarse croak.

Alistair hadn't realized he was trembling with her until he reached up to pull his other arm around her back, his fingers brushing the ends of her hair. "Does-- Does her family know?" he managed to whisper without a breaking voice.

"I don't know," Mireya said hollowly, shuddering. "The news is still getting out."

"Who else have you told?" he asked instead, clenching his jaw in pain.

"Just you," Mireya whispered. "Just you so far."

For some reason, that pained him. Alistair finally felt the pain.

Sharply closing his eyes, he took in a shuddered breath, feeling like the world was spinning too fast. It wasn't until he blinked his eyes open that he realized he was squeezing Mireya too tightly. Immediately, he lessened his hold around her.

And with that, his sense of reality.

"Fuck," he whispered, tears now brimming his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but they only threatened his vision some more. Trembling with her, he held on to Mireya to ground himself. "Fuck!"

She let out another choked, teary sound of grief. His shirt was turning wet where her face was. Her grief soaked through the fabric, seeping onto his skin, affecting him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Dear Eve,

I don't normally write to you this soon after the last letter. Usually I've got nothing new to say in the span of two weeks. In the past, sometimes I've sat down at my desk after several months without writing and I still came up blank. Life is quiet. But for once, I have so much to share that I don't know how to fit it all in a single letter.

The good thing about writing this, though? I don't have to work to make everything concise and clear. I only have to do that if someone else is going to read it.

Shane dipped the tip of his pen in fresh ink, then paused as he held it over the paper. This could potentially be a more chaotic way of sharing things than he was used to. At least it would probably help him get everything off his chest.

I've been spending a lot of time with the King's Hand this summer, and I'm just as surprised as you would be. I expected to quietly dislike them. But a couple of them showed themselves to be unlike anything what we might think-- they're not just kind people with good hearts, they've also been able to see through the lies they've been told. This letter is about Tiberius Hemming and Kirk Fayek.

Tiberius has been the greater surprise of the summer. He's not much of a talker, but something about how our first meeting went made me think he might not be all I assumed. He seemed like he didn't have any heart in the things he'd done in the war-- not at all your typical war hero behavior. When he admitted to me that he didn't believe any of those mages deserved to die, things began to make more sense.

I don't know what I did to earn that confession. I don't even know if he likes me very much or if he's just tolerating me because he's decided I'm harmless. Kirk hinted that he could use company from someone like me, but... I don't know. In any case, he seemed to appreciate someone confronting him with his deeds rather than treating him as a glorious figure. I can do that. I'm not quite clear on what happens now that I know, but it's possible that nothing does. At the very least, if he does ever want to actually connect, we have that barrier between us removed.

The sound of a piano being played downstairs cut through Shane's thoughts. It seemed like his father was getting some practice in before they left for the games later today. He'd probably gotten the idea to serenade his mother.

Even though Shane wasn't speaking out loud to anyone, he found himself taking a deep steadying breath before he kept writing.

Tiberius is still a bit of a question mark, but I have more to say about Kirk. I can hardly believe that I'm writing this, but he's my new boyfriend.

Kirk has been the best thing to happen to me this summer. He has this lovely gentleness to be seen in everything he does, and his presence is so calming that I can go from an anxious mess to forgetting what I was so worried about in a matter of seconds around him. He's an incredibly steady, strong person, but he has such a kind, soft heart as well that shines through everything he says, and I can't get enough of it. I'm already learning to love the way he smiles, or how his eyes light up whenever he talks about science or anything else precious to him. I'd feel fortunate to be his friend; I have no idea what I've done to deserve him asking me to be his boyfriend. I'm scared I'm going to mess this up... but also, I know I'm not as scared as I could be. I feel at peace with him, somehow. Safe, even.

I never got to share this before you left-- after everything that happened with Tristan, I was worried that I wouldn't know what it looks like to be treated right. Now, I can safely say I know what that feels like. I know you don't want anything more to do with me or my life, but I hope that if you knew about this, you'd be happy for me. I'd want my best friend to like whoever I'm in a relationship with, and you still fill that role. I'll never know what you'd think of Kirk, but I choose to believe what my heart says, which is that you'd like him.

This isn't the only thing to happen since the last letter, though, and it isn't all good news either. I think someone tried to kill me.

A person shot at me when Kirk and I were getting back from a date, and Kirk saved my life by pushing me out of the way of the bullet. None of the authorities quite believed I was the intended target until the next morning when-- you wouldn't believe this-- Remus's house got attacked too. Now everyone's trying to get to the bottom of a conspiracy where two children of Letteran diplomats are somehow being targeted by the Blue Suns. We know it's them because the bullet casings match a shipment of guns they stole recently. Somehow, this only serves to make things more confusing.

I don't know what a gang wants with me. I don't understand why anyone thinks I'm important enough for this when I'm no one special at all. And honestly, even though I don't think I've admitted it in words, I'm afraid.

I know the fact that I'm afraid means I'm in a better place than before, though. A year ago, I wouldn't have cared about a bullet trying to find its way through my skull. Now I'm clinging to life tighter than ever because I know how close it was to slipping through my fingers, and I no longer want to lose it.

Shane felt his hand shaking. He forced his shoulders to relax, waiting for the anxious trembling to subside.

I might not have said anything about my fear, but Kirk knew. I think he was afraid, too, deep down. He stayed with us that night, and I didn't even have to ask for him to hold me close as we fell asleep. That sense of stability and security, too, felt right-- but I did know what it looked like before. Your arms were the safest place in the world before you used them to push me away. You taught me peace, Eve. I'll always be grateful for that. It hurts my heart that it's taken this long, but it also fills me with warmth to know that I've finally found it again.

As scary as things are, I feel hope for the first time in a while this summer. I want to see where things go with Kirk. I want to try to build trust with Tiberius. I even want to make a friend out of Alan, someone I met about a week ago-- he's a fun, exciting and warmhearted person who's very pleasant to spend time around, and he's a very good musician as well, although he'll deny it. I still can't wrap my head around how a couple weeks ago, I only had Shrimp for company, and now I can actually pick between people to spend time with. It's new, but it's what I've been wanting, and I'm going to seize the chance.

I hope you have people around you this summer. Maybe even a new best friend. I'm sure I'd like them, if you do. I wish I had some way of knowing that you're getting the love you deserve-- the most I can do is love you anyway, despite it all, even though that love has nowhere to go.

If only it weren't so heavy to hold on to.

All my love,

Shane

Shane set the pen aside, capping the bottle of ink before opening the drawer in his desk. He held his breath as he folded the letter and dangled it over the pile, but didn't drop it in just yet.

His first heartbreak hadn't really been Tristan. It had been Eve. His disaster of a relationship had left scars, but it was nothing compared to the canyons torn open by the dissolution of the deepest friendship he'd ever known. That was what he really feared repeating whenever he chose to trust others again.

But he wanted to. And in Kirk's case... he wanted to be able to give him his heart. He just had to hope Kirk meant it when he said they could catch each other.

With a breath that was more relieved, Shane dropped the letter into the drawer and closed it up.

Something was calming about scraping dirt out a horse's hooves. The methodical, repetitive movement was simple, but detail-oriented. He didn't mind the closeness of it: holding a horse's leg up between his legs, trimming the hoof, and filing it down.

Billy was well behaved in ways James didn't deserve. He'd put none of the work in, training the horse to be the way he was, and it was still something he couldn't fully communicate. There was a strange sense of gratitude, but a sting of underserved favor. If he hadn't been a public figure, he never would've been roped into the race, and he wouldn't have "won" a horse.

Still, he couldn't dwell on it too much.

Billy was in his care now, and he wanted to make the most of it. For as long as he had access to quality tools for care, he wanted to give it in the hopes that under rougher conditions, Billy would be able to adapt. James had spent the past year conditioning Elliot for less: without skimping on quality. Because in their world, a good horse was invaluable. Even more-so when that horse was part of what was keeping you alive.

Traveling on foot where he was going would be deadly. If only for the pace, but...

Hooves. He finished up Billy's front left hoof. With a heavy sigh, he gently let Billy's leg down, moving to the front right leg, patting Billy as he did so.

"Almost done," he assured the horse. "Just one more, and you're a whole new being with freshly trimmed nails."

He huffed in mild amusement at himself.

"I wish being reborn was that simple," he murmured to himself as he brought Billy's front leg up to assess the hoof.

The midday light poured in through the stable windows across the way. It was bright, and the stables were warm in the summer heat. It was cooler, in the shade, but the air was stuffy. Billy's body heat melded with James's as they stood beside each other, shoulders pressed together.

Predictably, Billy's hoof was as well-cared for as the others, only in need of a small trim and cleaning. James began to gently carve out the mud caked in the crevices.

Caspar and Hellen had stepped out for lunch. That was an hour ago, when James told them he'd hang back to finish up. He never implied an intent to meet with them later, but he knew Caspar noted those things: skipping meals, showing up late, being gone for long hours.

He wasn't overly doting, but he cared.

It wasn't something James wanted to take for granted, especially as they were about to take on something as ambitious as stealing from the king out of the palace. He knew Caspar was well invested in all of them.

He just felt selfish asking this of Caspar when he knew the others needed him just as much, if not more. Hellen, especially.

It felt wrong to take Caspar from them, even if he knew it was Caspar's choice.

James pinched his eyes shut for a moment, letting himself refocus.

Hooves. He began trimming the outer edge.

It wasn't a few seconds that passed, however, before he heard the main door to the stable open and shut. It wasn't roughly, but James already knew the faint creak of its hinges, and where he anticipated seeing one of the regular stable-hands walk into his view, he instead saw Kirk.

James paused in shaving the hoof, staring up at Kirk with a mix of befuddlement and apprehension. Kirk wasn't one to go out of his way and find James these days. He'd stopped doing that early on, after James pushed him away enough times - just like everyone else. To see him now felt odd and out of place, even more so that there was no one else present.

Had someone put him up to this? He knew Kirk had been absent that morning because of the shooting. Was he looking for a confidant?

More questions swirled in his head as Kirk broke the silence, resting his hands in his pockets as he looked about the stables.

"I can see why you and Caspar like it here," Kirk said.

His eyes flitted about with purpose. James knew well what Kirk was searching for: entrances, exits, and people. Kirk was checking to see if they were alone. James's sense of apprehension grew stronger when Kirk asked the question.

"Are we alone?" he asked.

James glanced down at Billy's hoof, determining to finish up quickly. He began filing.

"Besides yourself," James said. "Our company includes the horses and the barn cat."

And he wanted to ask why, but he knew Kirk was getting to that. He never liked to cut to the chase. Kirk eased into things - which was perhaps, for him a comfort, but James it was agony.

Kirk nodded, stepping back to the hay bales that lined the opposing wall. He sat down heavily, and the hay crunched under his weight.

"Shane said I could trust you," Kirk said.

It came with a whirlwind of doubts.

James knew that Kirk and Shane were advancing quickly in their relationship. After having met over two weeks ago they'd spent a great amount of time together. If Kirk wasn't obligated by the hand, he was at the Hawkings's, and it was amazing how he recieved far less teasing for his absence or newfound favoritism; but that was besides the point. Kirk mentioned Shane because he knew James and Shane shared some level of trust, which meant Kirk was trying to establish trust. Between them.

The question was, what did Shane say Kirk could trust James with?

Kirk was being intentionally vague, which meant it really could only be about a handful of things. Either this was about to be a deeply personal confession, or profoundly political in a way that was intensely unpopular.

That, or it was possible it was both.

And the only thing James had confided in Shane with was the issue of mages and magic.

James finished up filing Billy's hoof, feeling over the surface with the back of his thumb before he set the horse's foot back down. Kirk watched James's hands with anticipation, and James said nothing as he brushed past Billy, closing the door to the stall behind him as he took his tools with him.

"I never intended for the bomb to be used," Kirk said with a sobering weight that fell over the stable the moment the words were spoken.

James stood frozen with the canvas bag of tools in his hands.

His heart began to pound loudly in his chest as he stared at Kirk, unable to look away. Kirk watched the hay-covered floor.

"I know how that sounds," Kirk continued quietly, holding his hands together between his knees. "I always intended for it to work. I wanted it to work. But I never could've imagined what that looked like. And when I saw what it did..."

Feet nailed to the floor, James clutched the bag in his hands tightly.

It was impossible to speak of that day without memories flooding back to him. Kirk saw it too, and neither of them had to speak of the bloodied bodies that littered the camp, or the graves they'd dug with their own hands. The bleak expanse of a battlefield had been no stranger to them - but the chilling scene left in the wake of the gaseous lumshade had left everyone ruined.

It was one thing to fight in a battle where the odds felt evenly matched: where at least those opposing you could put up a fight. It had made sense of the violence. It was easier to call it glory: the victory found, with blood on your hands.

But when the people so visibly never stood a chance...

There was no glory in that. And James realized far too late that there was no glory in war at all.

Those were people. Their agency and their last line of defense was stripped from them.

And still, those were the same people who'd taken his friends and held them hostage.

"I'd never felt so inhuman in all my life," Kirk finally said after a deafening silence. I don't think anyone should have that kind of power, to take so many people down so completely. It ruined me. I... I can't look at lumshade the same way again. I can't look at a lab the same way again. I can never approach invention the same way again--"

Kirk felt responsible.

"--I'll never look at mages the same way again."

And he felt guilty. Kirk hung his head low.

"I can't believe I accepted the lie we've been told all our lives," he said lowly. "Magic isn't what makes people monsters. People of every kind are capable of horrors all on their own. I, the prince of them. If it weren't for me, you would never have the burden you carry."

Kirk stared at his hands: wringing them together, running his fingers over one another tightly.

"I don't think I could've done what you did," Kirk said. "And I don't envy you in the slightest. The choice you had to make..."

James swallowed. Still staring.

"I know you saw them as people too," Kirk murmured in a near-whisper, and it made James feel tense. Backed into a corner.

Having had no foresight of this, James wasn't sure what to think. It was almost like everything Kirk was saying was too good to be true. Ever since that day, James had believed he was the only one who felt a loss of humanity, the only one who felt the loss of life - not just on their side, but all of it. It was more than just images for him. More than just memories. He knew he'd stolen the lives and the stories and histories of people far more worthy than himself, and he'd known it too late. Too late to make a bigger difference. Too late to do something better. Too late to take back... all of it.

His youth had been wasted. Wasted, fighting a war he didn't believe in anymore. He'd spent half his life devoted to a cause that was dead to him, and the pain of that loss and failure still left him gutted to the core of his being.

It wasn't enough to turn around now and say he thought differently.

It would never be enough. None of it would. And James couldn't tell if Kirk's admission of guilt was to seek comfort, shared understanding, or if all of this was some elaborate set up to get him to share in turn.

Because the worst thing that could happen to James right now was getting exposed prematurely. Then everything would be a waste. And he couldn't risk that. Not for anything.

Not even connection.

With his heart climbing into his throat, he leaned back against the stall door, keeping as much distance between himself and Kirk as possible.

"Is this some kind of trick?" he asked in a harsh whisper.

Things that were good to be true were always too good to be true.

Kirk finally looked up and met James's eyes. His face fell, his eyes saddened, and James knew with that simple question he'd done more harm than good.

"I have no reason to trick you," Kirk said with a longsuffering weariness James knew all too well.

He'd heard it in Kirk's voice. Hellen's voice. Caspar's voice. Everyone's voice.

Everyone was tired of him. Tired of his distrust. Tired of him being difficult. But they didn't understand--

"To get me... to tell you..." James choked out, feeling his eyes beginning to sting.

"I'm not trying to trick you," Kirk said again, more firmly. "I'm trying to tell you that you're not alone, Tiberius. I think we understand each other."

Kirk paused with a frown, staring up at James with searching eyes.

"Am I wrong?" Kirk asked softly.

And in that moment, James felt like he was reaching a turning point that he hadn't seen on the road. In front of him was an opportunity to be honest - not just with someone like Shane, where the cost felt cheap - but with someone like Kirk, where their history ran deep. With Shane, it wouldn't sting as much if he were to turn on James. There weren't years of trust, shared memories, shared experiences, and lives intertwined. Betrayal was only betrayal when it was from someone your life was inexplicably bound to, despite your efforts to leave it.

Trust at this degree was giving a knife the other person could use to cut you deeper than ever before. The thought of letting Kirk take this from James was terrifying, and he knew if he did this, there was no going back.

He was either going to have to push harder against the hands reaching out to him, or he was going to have to take it.

But why did it have to be this?

James stared at Kirk for far too long. The man waited, not speaking another word as the silence of the stables fell between them again - the only residual noise being that of the horses, occasionally shifting in their stalls.

Desperate, James hoped he wasn't about to regret saying: "No." In the faintest voice possible.

He wished he felt the same relief he saw flood to Kirk's face.

"It's not your fault," James blurted.

He'd been biting it back the whole time. He needed to say it, but Kirk lifted his hand in resistance right away.

"No," Kirk said. "Neither of us want to waive responsibility. Nor should we."

"You didn't set it off," James said, trying to explain himself.

"You were given an impossible choice, Tiberius," Kirk interjected. "We were in a war. You did the only thing you knew how to do - you were trained to do - and you protected the your friends and your platoon."

James felt his mouth snap shut.

All this time, no one had ever said it outright. No one had ever understood. It almost felt wrong, that it felt like Kirk was in his head, saying thoughts he hadn't had the courage to say aloud.

"I know the world wants to tell your story differently," Kirk went on. "But I know you never cared about ending a war."

James had just wanted to save his friends. He wished it could've stayed that simple. But it wasn't.

Finally, James let himself pull away from the stall door. Silently, he stiffly walked over to Kirk and sat down a seat away from him on the long bale of hay, hearing it crunch under their shared weight. He set the tool bag between his feet, and when he leaned back against the wood-paneled wall, he let out a long sigh.

He didn't have any more words. This all felt like too much to take in at once.

"I just bore my heart open with you," Kirk said, looking over to him. "Could you tell me... something? Anything?"

James felt helpless at the question.

"I don't know what to say," he whispered.

Kirk hummed, but fell silent. James found himself still wondering if all of this was real and worth it. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely, Kirk was bringing all of this up for a reason. He was going to ask something of James, or he needed something. It couldn't just be to know. There was always some outside obligation, some inner motive. Kirk had to be looking for an ally, a resource, something.

Was this all because of Shane? Did Shane put Kirk up to this?

"Why now?" James asked in a quiet voice.

"...Why tell you?" Kirk asked.

"Why tell me now," James clarified.

"As opposed to..." Kirk said instead.

"Sooner," James said.

Because Kirk could've brought this up at any time. Later. Earlier. He didn't have to bring it up at all. James was just short of asking: What do you really want from me?

"I guess we both held our cards close, didn't we," Kirk admitted, looking down to his hands with a slouch forward.

James watched Kirk let out a heavy sigh. It seemed... Kirk was carrying something heavy too.

"Yeah..." James trailed off.

James stared off in front of him at the door of Billy's stable. Billy had hung his head over, staring out at them with idle curiosity. For once, he finally let himself see Kirk as a human. Not that he didn't prior. He just let himself feel it, now.

Just like James, Kirk would never forget the impact of that day. How it changed the tides of the war. It changed the world. It changed them.

He knew Kirk carried the weight of their group of friends on his back without saying a word of it. It never went mentioned, but James noticed. Kirk was always quick to support, and he was always there for Hellen, especially. The man never complained about it, either. He just kept showing up.

For some reason, James found himself feeling guilty. And maybe even a bit envious.

He wished he had even a fraction of Kirk's stability and strength. He wished he had the ability to be open like Kirk, in a way that felt so normal, and so grounding. He wished he had Kirk's ability to just be.

"I thought you hated me," James finally admitted after some minutes. "For using the smoke bomb when you forbid it."

Kirk whipped his head to the side in shock, his brows pinching together.

"Hated?" Kirk echoed, frowning. "Tiberius. No. I-- I felt guilty. Guilty that I'd made it. Guilty that the responsiblity fell on anyone but me. That it fell on you. I've felt guilty for so long."

Kirk leaned back against the wall again, looking up at the ceiling as he whispered: "I still do."

James nodded in silent agreement.

Yeah. He did too.

Premature exhaustion started to seep in as James felt the memories of that day finally pulling away. The feelings always lingered for too long, but at least the images were as present in the forefront of his mind.

He wondered if Kirk was feeling the same thing, because neither of them talked again for a long time.

"Why did you tell Shane?" Kirk asked after what felt like almost ten minutes.

"How much did he tell you?" James asked.

"Barely anything. Only that I could trust you with what I told him."

There was a beat of hesitation, before Kirk added: "Which... was far less than what I told you just now."

And that surprised James.

That meant Shane didn't know, did he? About the invention of airborne lumshade, and the smoke bomb? He knew it was a lot to tell, but for some reason, he'd been under the impression that Kirk might've overshared from the start. Maybe things were moving slower than he thought.

Then again, James hadn't told anyone outside of their inner circle about it either. Only the people who already knew, knew. And they still weren't supposed to talk about it. It was a government secret.

Which made things more complicated. But this must've been Kirk's first time talking about it in a long time if he really meant it when he said he also held his cards close.

Did that mean... Kirk actually saw James as a friend?

James felt like that needed to sink in.

"I guess... I felt like I had to prove myself," he finally answered quietly.

"Prove yourself to Shane?" Kirk asked. "Of... being what, a decent person? In Shane's eyes?"

"I'm not proud of that being my motivation," James said with a sigh. "I guess I just wanted him to see me... well, I don't know how he sees me. I think I wanted..."

But he didn't know what he wanted.

Did he want to feel justified? Seen? But even after he told Shane, the shame clung just as heavy as ever.

He didn't feel like he could answer the question. He thought he understood what compelled him, but it turned out, he didn't. Maybe what he'd really been hoping for was validation: but he never got it. Not the kind he was looking for.

"I'm glad he told me," Kirk eventually said in the ensuing lull.

James nodded weakly, but all that followed was a rising anxiety. The same one he felt from the start the moment Kirk walked in, but now with a reason.

Kirk knew.

What now?

"Can I get your opinion on something?" Kirk asked, interrupting what might've become of James's panic.

Unsure, James nodded.

"I can't be sure," Kirk said carefully. "But... I may have met someone in the resistance."

Oddly enough, Lyall slept fairly solidly once he got back. Not for long, but deeply enough to feel wide awake for the dawn of a new day.

Did such effective sleep have something to do with the fact that he was emotionally drained from crying his tear ducts dry? No. Obviously.

Or the fact that Alan agreed to stay over too? After a short back and forth over where to even land for the night, following such a shocking conclusion to a midnight party? Lyall wouldn't hesitate to concede, the close presence of his best friend in the safety of the patients' ward had a lot to do with it. Alan's sentimentalities were rubbing off on him, but Lyall liked how it harkened back to their younger days. When things... made sense.

Anyhow. Lyall was up before the sun, oddly wired, and with nothing to do but man the reception desk.

By around nine in the morning, a short while after Alan awoke to greet the family and made his exit, Lyall was damn near losing his mind trying to fill his time without losing himself to thoughts. He even resorted to addressing the filing cabinets behind the desk, which were already well-organized thanks to Hild's near-religious daily filing.

Did Lyall tweak the system a little bit, just to frustrate her later? Maybe. No one could prove anything, though.

Then, in walked Lieutenant Fonzi Heart, pushing aside the door with the telltale swagger of a man near-successfully hiding a hangover - but Lyall knew differently. He recognized the man from their brief encounter at the market, where he'd helped Ms. Sommers and Heart connect, and the only prior recollection was the mere mention of his appearance at the clinic the night Mr. Hemming was brought in.

Now, however, it seemed Lieutenant Heart had other needs in mind, as he reeked of day old beer and wore a look in his eyes that said: his head was killing him, just like it was many others in this city after the night of the masquerade.

Loping up to the front desk with a cheesy smile, Fonzi rested his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned on it with his full weight.

"Oh, thank the gods," he said with a sigh. "I was hoping it'd be you and not your sister. No offense, but she's like, super mean."

Well. He wasn't wrong. Still, something about the bluntness forced Lyall to actively fight the urge to bristle a bit.

Mr. Heart waved a hand dismissively.

"Anyways," he said. "So, uh. You know, you guys are a clinic, right? You have all the medications? You know, the ones?"

Mr. Heart narrowed his eyes and nodded, like he was trying to communicate to Lyall with his mind. He pointed from his head to Lyall's. Lyall slowly nodded back, his smile turning a bit blank.

"The feel-better-after-having-too-much-fun ones," he said.

"Ah," Lyall hummed in understanding, "right. Yes, of course!" He tapped the stack of papers in his hands until they were well-aligned, then set them aside with a welcoming smile. "Lucky for you, my good sir, we accept walk-ins."

"My day has been made and my gratitude is immeasurable," Fonzi said, spreading out his arms as he stood up straight again.

A little haphazardly, Lyall tucked away the papers in the cabinet, then held the door to the hallway open just to the left of it. "Might I inquire whether you were joined by Ms. Sommers for last night's festivities?"

"Mel? Gods, yes, she's an angel," Fonzi said as he drifted in ahead of him. "So fun. We danced all night. It was like a dream!"

"I'm quite glad to hear!" Lyall said warmly, already looking forward to hear from his friend herself about their evening. He fell into step beside him, leading the way to the second examination room. Then stopped short, a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder to grab his attention. "If you don't mind my prodding, where did you two go after?"

"Well, first we made our rounds at the booths to hit the best end-of-the-night deals, obviously," he said. "We got only the best food before it was all snatched up."

"Obviously," Lyall echoed with a grin. He unlocked the door to the room and showed him in. "What did I tell you, hm? The Ruddlan experience is truly enhanced with the right company."

"I'll say," Fonzi said. "Though, not going to lie to you, doc, I'm starting to think this city's out to get us."

Lyall showed the lieutenant to the patient's table, inviting him to get comfortable with a sweep of his arm. "'Out to get you'?" he echoed, brows furrowed with some incredulity.

"Well, first that guy bashed Tiberius's head in, right?" Fonzi said, taking a seat. "And then last night, some chick takes a shot at Kirk! Like, what's that all about?"

A beat, wherein Lyall froze with no immediately appropriate response at the ready.

"And I mean a literal shot!" Fonzi furthered. "He got shot at! Twice!"

The sounds echoed in the back of Lyall's mind as the vision of that kitchen window flashed behind his eyelids.

"My gods," Lyall breathed out in quiet shock. "Where was that?"

"Right outside the manor, man!" Fonzi said, throwing his hands up in front of him. "Literally nextdoor to me at the Hawking's home! I wake up, hearing: BANG! BANG! Fuckin' got me jumping out of bed thinking we were in the next war or something. Dragons above! I'm just glad nobody got hurt. But damn it was close. Kirk said he practically saw the bullet flying over their heads."

So, it was an attack that he'd heard outside. On the King's Hand, no less? Their reception in the city had been off to a rough start with Hemming at the bar, but this seemed like an odd escalation. Unless Hemming was there too?

Oh, gods--

Lyall instinctively jumped from his seat, resisting the urge to grab Fonzi by the arm as he urged, "Mel? Was she with you? Was she there?"

"Oh, no! No, I walked her home! She got home safe and sound, I made sure of that," Fonzi said quickly. "This was after all that."

Lyall nodded faintly, the explosion of panic in his chest settling again. "Good." He nodded as he retook his chair, repeating more sincerely, "Good. Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, for sure," Fonzi said, bobbing his head. "Are you uh--" Fonzi tilted his head to the side, squinting at Lyall. "You good, doc? I know a shooting is scary."

Oh. Lyall hadn't intended to appear so shaken by it. "Knowing that one of my close friends was well cared for and far from that scene, yes. I'm quite alright."

"Okay, good," Fonzi said with a sigh of relief. "The city militia is on the case now, so if you see them guarding up the estate more now, that's why."

"Good," Lyall repeated. He rolled his chair back to parse through the medicine cabinet across from the patient's bench. "What of yourself?" he asked a bit softer. "And your friends? No one was hurt, but it had to have been unsettling, to say the least."

They were former soldiers, so they weren't unfamiliar. Still, the days of gun fights should be well behind them by now, and shell shock could only be made more vicious by the recurrence.

"Yeah, things are teeeeense," Fonzi said with a groan. "Gods, everyone's all-- well, you know. Gunshots. On edge. As if things weren't already that way between us."

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "It's so stupid, doc, you wouldn't believe," he said. "Tiberius just keeps starting shit for no reason."

Pulling open a few different little drawers, Lyall made a bit of a show of contemplating a variety of bottled tinctures and tablets. A small part of him urged for him to redirect conversation, but... This was the opportunity he promised Santiago.

"I'm so sorry that last night has only significantly worsened things between you all," Lyall offered with a sad smile as he spun back around to face the lieutenant. Hesitating, trying to find the right way to subtly pry, he eventually asked, "Would it help to talk about it? Vent a bit?"

"Gods, yes, if you don't mind," Fonzi said with eager relief.

Well. That was entirely too easy.

Alan felt like he wasn't playing his best work since his heart wasn't in the song. Partially because he was stressing about Lyall, and partially because he found these "required concertmaster duties" to be quite bothersome.

Holding the last note of the song, Alan watched for the lead violinist to cue the ending, which she did with a grand sweep of her bow. The quiet audience clapped, they did their bows, and finally, they were done. He could check-mark "perform with the Ruddlan gallery quartet" off his required to-do list.

After exchanging thank yous and farewells with the other members-- pleasant, older folks who were exceptional players, no less-- Alan turned to place his violin down in his case, eager to put everything away. He still had some time to kill since he told Lyall he would walk him back to hear about his first day at RADICAL, which Alan anticipated would consist of a lot of complaining and whining, though he was prepared to throw it back at him and taunt: "So, what are you going to do to change it?"

But he still had another hour. Normally, he wasn't this jittery and impatient to see his friend on short notice, but after the night of gunshots and of the news about Astrid... his heart broke for him, and Alan wanted to be there to help him grieve. Especially because Lyall wouldn't. He knew him well enough to know that Lyall was not going to sit with uncomfortable emotions by himself, and the thought of him lost and alone by himself was too much for Alan to bear.

So, this was what he was doing now. Providing Lyall with forward-thinking distractions while also vowing to be a steady presence by his side. The remainder of the summer will be hard for Lyall, but at least he wouldn't have to face the somber music alone.

Strapping his case on his shoulders, Alan waved goodbye to the quartet one last time before parting ways, moving down the corridor of the walls decorated with art pieces. He slowed in his steps, mildly distracted by the colors and shapes.

The event gallery had a new showcase for the season that he was unfamiliar with. The theme was about up-and-coming artists, which amounted to a large variety of art work. Some were abstract sculptures, others were detailed paintings, and some were only splashes of color on a canvas.

Alan found himself coming to a stop in front of a large canvas that was otherwise blank, save for a singular circle of black in the middle. He tilted his head, silently staring at the black dot, wondering what was going through the artist's head to make such a daringly simple piece.

"The artist touts her use of negative space," a soft, rumbling voice mused from beside him. "And the precise placement of the subject, off-center to the left and oriented northward on the plane of the canvas."

With mild surprise, Alan tore his gaze away from the painting to face an unfamiliar man. A gentleman with neatly swept-back hair, a faint shadow of stubble, and a grey sweater vest, stood tall an arm's length away from him. He cracked a pleasant smile in greeting before turning his attention back to the piece.

Alan shrugged a shoulder, offering a smile. "I'm guessing you don't like it," he said amusedly.

The stranger huffed with a more wry grin. "It's rubbish," he answered bluntly. "It's an eight-by-twelve stretch of good quality canvas that contains a singular ounce of black oil paint altogether. Couldn't have taken more than a minute to decide where to place it. And what does it even represent? I'd say nothing more than the mental state of the artist herself."

Alan couldn't help but softly chuckle from the unexpected brazen commentary from a total stranger. He glanced down the corridor, realizing no one else was around this side of the art gallery hall. And yet, the two of them were giving this one piece of art the most attention at this point in time.

"Is that so bad?" Alan countered back with a curious tilt of his head. "The art and the artist are inexplicably tied together, though that is often lost in translation for the audience. But one can't exist without the other. Shouldn't most art be a true reflection of the artist?"

"It should," the stranger agreed wholeheartedly. "But an observer should be able to look at this, centuries from its creation, and be able to find something of real value." He swept an arm up toward the black dot. "The artist's mark. Some of their will, perhaps even their personhood, imposed on the canvas. Which should amount to more than a mere speck of paint."

"Maybe," Alan continued, daring to challenge him, "that's the entire point." He loosely shrugged. "Maybe this expectation you placed on what it means to be an artist in the world-- to create something worthwhile, perfect, insurmountable-- is the point of this piece." He swept an arm towards the remainder of the wall for extra emphasis. "Take a look around: every piece is near perfection. But here we are, focused on the one piece that is daringly simple. Perhaps that alone is enough of a statement to be art."

"It certainly is a statement, yes," he conceded. Tilting his head, the man cast him an intrigued smile for a quiet moment. Then further yielded, "So you propose the piece, as is, is perchance a direct representation of the artist. And that in itself is sufficient to call it art to begin with... Let's take that a step further."

Tucking his hands in his pockets, the man stepped behind Alan to stand at his other side. Physically trying a new stance on the matter.

"I still find the work itself leaving much to be desired," he mused, studying the canvas. "But, if that is indeed the point, then one could read it as the artist lacking in..." He tapped his chin. "...perhaps a source of inspiration, like a muse? Original thought? Or even lacking in her own individuality altogether." He fell silent, brows furrowed now in deeper thought.

Curious, Alan glanced between the canvas and the stranger, mulling this over. "And who can blame her?" he said, emphasizing the hall with another gesture of his arm. "With impossibly high standards, it's hard to conjure inspiration or originality that would be accepted by the masses."

Alan fixed his gaze on the simple black dot on the canvas, strangely feeling inspired by the accusation that this artist lacked inspiration.

"I, for one, am inspired by the artist's bold statement. The piece is simple, minimalistic, and impactful considering the painting conveys great meaning with merely one stroke of the brush. That alone is beautiful and ought to be celebrated in its own way."

The man next to him quietly hummed his acknowledgement. Head tilting the other way, the discerning edge in his gaze gradually melted away.

"You find yourself inspired," he said, his bolder tone of voice quieting again to his original softness. More somber, even. "I find myself disheartened on the artist's behalf." He peered around Alan to scan the other artworks down the hallway. "To have let others' apparent acclaim minimize her perception of her own potential. Thus minimizing her artistic voice."

Alan opened his mouth to respond, but found that he couldn't muster a response on the spot, because none came to mind. There was something about this topic that felt unsettling, though he couldn't explain why or when it started to feel this way. And so he turned to more hopeful responses instead.

"Maybe she has other works," he offered hopefully, nudging down the hall. "I'm sure not all of them are this simple."

The man looked back down to Alan, and offered something of a rueful smile now. "This was her first and only debut piece. If she does have more works hidden somewhere, then that only makes this choice that much more poignant, I suppose."

"Perhaps this is the artist's way of garnering attention, to have people stop and stare," Alan offered, feeling the strange need to defend this artist he didn't know. "As you said, this is her debut-- as in, this is only the beginning of her great artistic journey. More works will come, as will her inspiration sourced from herself."

The stranger's smile warmed with the sentiment. "We will have to keep an eye out for these future works, then," he agreed. "I won't completely discount that she may be onto a successful longer term mission of statement, if she's already able to spark such lengthy discussion between two perfect strangers." After a short, thoughtful pause, he held out a hand to shake with an even friendlier grin. "Conway."

That was... an impressively charming and smooth introduction.

Alan huffed out a quiet laugh, slipping his hand in his. Conway's grip was strong, and he let go after a singular, firm shake.

"Alan," he greeted back. "It's nice to meet you, Conway." He slightly inclined his head in thanks. "And thank you for the conversation. Even if we had different opinions, I enjoyed hearing your thoughts and insights. I appreciate you sharing."

"I appreciate you challenging them," Conway answered amicably, hiding away his hand in his pocket again, shoulders sloping into a more relaxed angle. "It takes a man of bold spirit and real thought to play devil's advocate in such an engaging manner. So I must thank you as well for such a riveting debate."

Alan softly chuckled, adjusting his hold on the violin case as he shifted his weight to his other foot. "It's nothing, really," he assured, briefly glancing down at the floor before turning back to him with a smile. "But for both our sakes, we can simply say that we both enjoy the company of a fellow appreciator of the fine arts."

Conway's grin broadened with amusement. "For both our sakes, I'd rather not. You are more than welcome to have your dots on otherwise empty canvases." Shifting his weight back as he began to step away, he smiled up at the minimalist painting once more. "I'll hold fast to my original position and say, there remains a certain standard that the artist should at the very least try to rise up and meet."

He nodded his acknowledgment, then turned away fully without waiting for another answer. His voice echoed in the corridor as he strode off, calling back over his shoulder, "I sincerely hope to have the opportunity to debate with you again, Alan."

Alan opened his mouth to speak, but again, nothing came out right away. He was far too baffled to think of something on the spot. Conway was already walking away, and Alan stumbled to the middle of the hall, eyes fixed on his back.

Was bafflement the right word? He was feeling was a mix of surprise, but that was a secondary reaction from... intrigue? Curiosity? Wonder? Like the daringly simple painting, Conway boldly stated his opinions, staying true to them despite Alan challenging them. They held a respect for their statements, and yet...

Alan wondered: what did Conway mean that artists should at least try to rise up and meet the certain standard? Or, spun another way: if he so strongly felt this way, what on Nye did that even look like? He spoke so confidently, and yet, revealed no method to this line of thinking.

"Yeah..." Alan replied much too softly and much too late, more to himself since Conway was already disappearing down the hall. "Me too."



"Lyall!" Alan waved across the street from the Estate's gate, waiting for the carriage to finish crossing before darting to meet his friend across the street. "There you are. How did it go?"

"Fast," Lyall answered honestly, smiling brightly when their eyes met. He fell into step beside Alan. "Hardly any time to really breathe, it was introductions and trying to beat the learning curve, but by gods was it... " He waved both hands, trying to prompt the right words. "...entirely electrifying!"

Alan grinned, the excitement radiating out of his friend completely contagious, brightening his own mood. Humming, he leaned towards Lyall, bumping his shoulder. "You sound excited," he mused playfully, straightening up and broadening his grin. "Excellent. I knew you'd find your people in this group. I'm so glad it went well."

"Ah!" Waggling a finger at him, Lyall shook his head. "Now, hang on. Nothing's decided yet, this was purely networking. An introduction. I still don't know that I can fully invest in this group."

"Don't worry," Alan said with two assured pats on his back. "You'll find the time." Grinning, he continued on without allowing Lyall a response. "What subjects intrigued you the most?"

Brows raised, Lyall gawked at him. "You're still not listening to me!" he groused, but without any real heat behind it. "It's not even a matter of how I'd like to contribute yet. They're highly passionate and driven, but they're lacking in cohesiveness and focus altogether. Their attentions are far too spread between all the causes they want to address and their own ongoing studies. I feel compelled to reiterate for you: I don't have that time and energy to help them effectively."

Alan nodded, turning the corner and gesturing with his head for Lyall to follow. "So what you're saying is that they're lacking a leader," he mused.

"They have a leader," Lyall snorted, effortlessly ducking around the corner after him. "Mister Cattaneo shares in their passion and has done well to unify them in the first place."

"I amend," Alan corrected, pointing a hand at him. "They're lacking an equally passionate, equally fearless, equally strategic leader." He then sliced his hand through the air, landing on Lyall's shoulder. "Such as yourself."

Lyall grinned dumbly at him for a moment. "No." He pushed Alan's hand away, scoffing, "No, Alan! Delusions! Desist!"

But of course, Alan went on anyways, vaguely waving a hand in the air. "You already have vision. I can see why you may not like how the operations are performed, but what are you going to do about it? Surely not just mope around, claiming you have no time to do anything but complain."

Hopping out in front of him, Lyall brought them to a complete stop. "Alan," he said, far more seriously now, "this is why I didn't want to attend the party to begin with." He patted a hand to his own chest. "I want to get involved, to help them find clearer direction. I want to put myself out there in a different way." He lifted both hands in a helpless shrug and finished, quieter, "But I'm not the artist by career. I have the clinic, and I have my family."

Alan held his gaze, hearing the words left unsaid. He wasn't nearly this pushy with others, but Lyall was never going to take a leap of faith by himself. He needed a push.

He sometimes didn't understand his friend, stuck in a perpetual cycle of "I can't do this." There was always a reason: he didn't study this, he didn't know what he was doing, he had to do this, and that, be there, show up, on and on and on. There was always an excuse, always something new that cropped up that explained why he couldn't, rather than why he could.

And although Alan's heart broke for Astrid, he refused to believe that her imminent passing was truly the reason that fell between Lyall and his passions. Obligations held him back-- most of which were obligations he could delegate to others or peel away from, but Lyall was far too stubborn to do that, caring too much about image or how others perceived him.

Alan knew that Lyall wasn't going to listen to reason. There was only so many times that he could tell him: "You're an artist too. You have others who can take care of the clinic. Your family would want you to be happy and pursue your dreams."

And if Lyall had to be reminded again, then he would gladly do this. But rather than immediately jumping into those affirmations, Alan instead decided to ask, "How can I help, then? How can I take some of these obligations off your shoulders?"

Lyall's urgent stare softened at the question. "You've done plenty," he emphatically assured him. "More than that, really, and I..." He pat a hand to Alan's shoulder and added in earnest, "Thank you, truly. But I've got it from here, alright?"

Predictable, but at least he offered. Alan nodded, continuing on with a piece-wise approach. "Your family would want you to pursue your dreams," he assured gently with a smile, resuming their walk. "They only have love and happiness for you. Remember that."

"I know," Lyall quickly answered, now trying to move them along conversationally too as he followed close beside him. "I'll remember."

"And you also have a wealth of people who are here to support you, whether your concerns are related to the clinic or not," Alan added on. "Remember that, too."

"Yeah, I know," Lyall dismissively agreed again.

"And don't forget, your last reminder..."

"Please," Lyall cut in, exasperated now, "that's enough reminders, thank you."

But Alan went on, poking him four times for each of the four words: "You're an artist, too."

For that, Lyall didn't have a quick response. Just an unreadable side glance as he brushed Alan off.

"Speaking of art," he suddenly and casually piped up after crossing another two intersections. "How was playing for the gallery?"

"Oh, not too bad," Alan answered just as casually as he took a sharper turn that veered towards Midtown, rather than the clinic. They didn't exactly say where they were going, but if Alan was leading the way, he would happily take Lyall to see Santiago. "The quartet went well. We were more of required background noise for a small audience, but it was nice to connect with the players. I also had ample time to spare, so I browsed the gallery and exchanged conversation. It was a pleasant experience, actually. I'd go back on my own free time."

Lyall quirked both brows at him. "Anyone of note in attending?" A brief pause. "The Letteran ambassador's son, mayhaps?"

Alan squinted at him in confusion. "Wasn't Remus with you?"

Lyall rolled his eyes. "The one who poisoned you with nuts," he clarified flatly. Then quickly amended, holding up both hands in mock surrender, "Oh, sorry. Nut, singular."

It was Alan's turn to roll his eyes. He shook his head, dismissively waving Lyall away. "He didn't poison me," he spat stubbornly, feeling the need to defend Shane's honor.

"Ah, that's right," Lyall yielded further, voice alit with exaggerated recollection now. "You essentially poisoned yourself. For unfounded confidence in your own physical robustness."

"Oh my gods," Alan moaned, rubbing his face. "This again, Lyall? I thought we were past this."

"You will never live this down," Lyall said, shamelessly giggling at him.

"First of all: no." Alan cast a pointed stare at him. "I did not poison myself. And second of all: no, he was not. At the gallery, I mean." Frowning, he scoffed and threw his hands in the air. "Why does that even concern you?"

Lyall threw both hands upward in a big shrug. "It doesn't concern me. It simply doesn't add up, is all."

"What do you mean?" Alan pressed.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Lyall said stubbornly.

"Yes, you do," Alan huffed. "Now I'm concerned you're stalking me."

"Well, clearly I haven't been," Lyall retorted, brows raised matter-of-factly, "since it was not in fact the Hawking son."

"Then how do you know I've been spending time with him?" Alan pressed anyways.

Whirling around, Lyall jabbed at his shoulder. "So you have been? Spending time with him, I mean."

"What?" Scoffing, Alan swatted his hand away, frowning. "I spend time with a lot of people. Including your stubborn ass."

Lyall gasped, affronted. "You're the ass!" he retorted very maturely.

"Wow," Alan said with a half-roll of his eyes, completely unimpressed. "Good one."

Falling behind him, Lyall snagged him by the back of his collar and tugged him down a side road. Alan sputtered in offense, hating whenever he dragged him like a stupid rag doll, and barely having the time to spit out his complaints.

"Answer my original question," Lyall chirped, quick to let go once he'd successfully veered the both of them.

"I don't even remember your original question. That's how far off topic you've went," Alan grumbled with annoyance, adjusting his crooked collar.

"Still fruitlessly trying to lie to my face." Lyall tsked with disappointment.

"Yes, I still spend time with him!" Alan harshly whispered with brimming exasperation, tired of him always getting in his business. "It's no big deal!"

"The other question," Lyall lightly corrected, "but thank you for further confirmation on the Hawking matter."

Alan slapped his hand over his face, facepalming himself. The nerve of this man... gods, sometimes Alan wanted to strangle him. Lovingly.

"What question?" he said evenly, rubbing his face.

"Who of note was at the gallery?" Lyall finally repeated. "Clearly whomever you shared conversation with there was worth noting. Which usually isn't the case for that kind of setting if you're not already attending with friends or family, close colleagues, or have even been working directly with fellow contributors to the events themselves for a solid chunk of time prior. All pre-existing connections I know you didn't have for this afternoon, seeing as you were only filling in for one of their usual violinists for a mere hour. So." Turning on his heel, he walked backwards ahead of Alan, raising both arms in another expectant shrug. "Who'd you meet?"

Alan tiredly stared at him, running his hand through his hair. Lyall had a point; the gallery portion of the event center wasn't affiliated with the university. Rather, it attracted a more posh crowd, those stemming from power and status. It was also pricey to enter, and Alan was only really able to get in for free because of his well-timed musical endeavors. He supposed this would spark a natural curiosity in Lyall, though he didn't think this warranted harsh questioning.

Not to mention how detailed this assessment was... Did Lyall actually pay attention to these minute details? Why?

It was a little strange, but... it was also nice, actually, to know that his friend listened and took notes. Even if it was about the small things, like filling in for a violinist, not having direct connections tied to the gallery portion of the event center, and knowing where his connecting friends would be.

Alan sighed, dropping his hand as he followed suit.

"I didn't meet too many people," he answered with a light shrug. "I met one person by name, though. It was actually a riveting conversation about an art piece we were both admiring. It was one of those conversations that had depth and meaning, and I have to give it some more thought, but it was nice nonetheless." He smiled weakly, shrugging again. "That's all."

Arching a brow at him, Lyall quietly waited for more.

"The piece was a white canvas with a black dot?" Alan offered, not really sure what else he wanted to hear.

"You met only this person by name," Lyall clarified. "What was their name?"

"Ah." Alan nodded. "Conway. We only exchanged first names."

Lips pursed, Lyall slowly nodded. Then spun around and slipped out the other end of the alleyway. "A black blot?" he asked. "What did that look like?"

Alan raised a brow, feeling like there was antics behind his questions he wasn't hearing. After a brief hesitation, he hastily caught up to his friend, studying him with furrowed brows, trying to get a read on him. Now that the focus had shifted completely, Lyall had a more casual and lighthearted air to him, which only confused Alan even more. At the same time, there was this look Lyall held whenever he was overthinking something. Which was, of course, all the damn time.

"It's truly just a black dot against a giant white canvas," he replied. "Conway said it was, quote-on-quote, 'rubbish.'" He shrugged, offering a lighter smile. "I saw deeper meaning. So, we exchanged thoughts and ideas."

"Well, on first glance, I'm sure I'd have been inclined to agree with this fellow," Lyall scoffed. "What did you see in it?"

Of course you would, Alan thought to himself.

"He was amenable to other ideas," he pleasantly corrected instead. "For instance, Conway suggested that the piece represents nothing more than the mental state of the artist. I countered by saying that the art and artist are inexplicably tied, and that the true art ought to represent the canvas of their mental state. All the other pieces were without flaws, not challenging the impossible standard of the required perfection to be hung in the gallery. And this piece-- it was daringly simple, so much so that it striked conversation between two strangers. And that itself is beautiful and a bold enough statement to be art."

Lyall kept a steady pace. Though his attention was fixed on the road ahead of them, he faintly bobbed his head as he listened intently. "Who was the artist?" he eventually asked.

Alan furrowed his brows at that, realizing that he didn't catch the artist's name. He made it a habit to associate artist names to the art, but... he had been so distracted by Conway, he had neglected to even read the engraved description of the piece, which also detailed the name.

"...I'm not sure," he admitted quietly, then shook his head, swatting the thought away. "You're being awfully nosy about this specific topic. Why does this have your interest all of a sudden? Why the investment?"

Slowing in his steps, Lyall furrowed a brow in a fleeting moment of confusion. But chose to only backtrack and further explain himself, "The artist's background, how they came to the spotlight to begin with, and current social and economic standing all play roles in their success as well."

Nodding to the side, Lyall banked a hard right around a shop corner, which Alan noted was towards the direction of Santiago's home.

"The artwork itself, I won't even try to debate its artistic value," Lyall smoothly continued, "because we can talk circles around the garden all day and never reach any real conclusion or agreement. It's too subjective. But it sounds to be on the most technical of terms severely depraved. Thus, it's reasonable to assume it was not any actual artistic talent that got this person a spot in a gallery, in the Estates of all places. But rather an esteemed family name, or even pre-existing wealth, entirely separate of their artistic efforts."

Lyall stopped at another intersection, visibly counting up the floors of Santiago's apartment complex across the way. This left Alan enough time to sigh, trying not to deflate from his hyper-logical, dull response.

Something about this conversation didn't sit well with Alan. He couldn't quite place why, but the familiar foreboding feeling at the gallery stirred within him.

He had no idea who this artist was, or where they came from, or why they painted this, but--

"The artist didn't come from a family of prestige," Alan casually lied, following his gaze across the block. "That much I read."

Lyall turned a mildly surprised look his way. "Then that truly does make the piece daring for the better, regardless of the work's apparent technical skill level."

"Yes. Especially because someone came from nowhere and challenged all expectations," he answered smoothly, glancing back at him with a small smile. He resumed his steps, leading the way towards the building. "And the other artists didn't like it, because it grabbed too much attention."

It wasn't until they were directly under the shade of the building that Lyall furthered, "Because this someone came from obscurity, and have that much farther to fall for such a risk."

"There's not much to risk," Alan said with a gesture of his hand, "if there's not much to lose."

"That doesn't mean there's nothing to lose," Lyall corrected plainly.

"Perhaps not," Alan said with a nod, taking a wide step forward to walk ahead of him. "But they certainly have everything to gain."

"That still comes at a steep price," Lyall countered, jogging to keep up. "And when someone has very little to give in the first place? What won't they sacrifice to attain this all-encompassing reward?"

Alan shrugged with one palm facing upwards, stepping aside to broadly gesture Lyall towards the front entrance. "There's always something to give up, Lyall," he said simply, patting his shoulder. "Like your time, to give to RADICAL. And to see your dear lover."

Lyall's expression quickly fell flat at that. "My time, to my family and my current work," he corrected him with no enthusiasm. "And I think you meant 'fiancé', sir."

"Go see your dear lover," Alan teased with a grin, lightly shoving him towards the door.

Lyall didn't resist his guidance this time. "Then go see yours," he shot back, but with a hint of a sincere smile as he glanced over his shoulder.

"Deal."

With a final wave, Alan said goodbye to his friend, turning around after Lyall disappeared behind the door. Almost immediately, his grin fell and he dropped his hand, standing alone by himself.

And now that he was alone, the unfamiliar uncomfortable feeling gnawed at his stomach, overtaking his chest. He felt the summer breeze kiss his skin, pushing him. Whispering for him to move. Take action. Do something.

He had do something. But do what? For what? Who? Where? Why?

Briskly turning around, Alan followed the wind, feeling his heart race with nervous anticipation.

He needed a distraction. Something to stifle the noise in his head.

He needed music.

No.

He needed to play music.

Now.

Regretfully, the library did not allow cats. Shane had tried-- and failed-- to convince the librarians. He'd even smuggled Shrimp in through his bookbag a couple of times, except once the cat had broken out without him noticing and... Yeah. He was very quickly found because a crowd of thirty people had surrounded the bookshelf Shrimp had curled up within, and Mrs. Tanner, the head librarian, had asked to search his bag every time he'd come in for months afterwards. Even now, he felt like she still had her eye on him.

So, when he and Tiberius left for the library with Arden and Billy, they were catless this time.

"I know it's a big question," Tiberius said softly, breaking the silence of their morning ride across town. "But... how are you holding up? I know it's been a few days now, since the shooting."

Tiberius glanced over at Shane with a look of concern.

Shane attempted a faint smile, but he felt it fall quickly. It wasn't an easy question-- partly because it was a hard one to answer honestly, partly because he didn't truly know for himself.

"I'm..." He trailed off. "I've got a lot on my mind. I'm torn between fear and... just plain confusion."

He shrugged weakly.

"Aside from my family, there's nothing important or special about me," he said, a little quieter. "And when my parents are in town, right here... I don't know. It makes no sense to target me. It makes no sense that the Blue Suns would want to do it."

Tiberius hummed softly.

"I've been wondering the same thing," Tiberius said quietly. "But... a lot of this doesn't make sense. There's probably more going on than meets the eye. I'm just sorry you're getting caught in the middle of it."

Shane rubbed tiredly at his face.

"I don't really buy the explanation that someone's going after the children of ambassadors from my country," he murmured. "What happened at the Cattaneo's seemed much too sloppy for another attempted killing. Their vault was found open, and the two suspects were known thieves. But... I've got no other evidence to work with either."

"Yeah, it doesn't add up," Tiberius said.

There was a short pause.

"Has it felt... weird, at home?" Tiberius asked.

"A little," Shane admitted quietly. "The atmosphere's different. We got the window fixed, but it still doesn't feel right to be in the living room. And my parents keep looking at me with this... worry."

He'd finally explained the news about his 'stalker' to them, and he could tell they wished he'd told them earlier. They weren't disappointed, and they certainly weren't angry, but he knew that look on their faces. They couldn't understand why he hadn't come forward before, and now they had to be worried sick for him.

"I imagine it's difficult," Tiberius offered. "Not being able to assuage their worries."

Shane nodded faintly. "Yeah. I want to tell them that I'll be alright. But I don't know if that's a lie."

Tiberius nodded. "I understand," he said. "It's uncomfortable. And you don't want them to stop caring, either."

"No," Shane said quietly.

He'd occasionally wondered, the last couple years, who might care if something did happen to him. His parents had seemed like they might be the only ones. He didn't want to diminish their care in any way, not when it had been all he'd had.

"Can I ask how you're sleeping?" Tiberius asked.

"Restlessly," Shane said honestly. "It might just be that way for a while."

It hadn't been like that when Kirk had stayed the night, though. It had felt so nice to just be... simply held. Held like he was something to keep safe, to treasure, to care for. Shane wondered if he'd be willing to do it again.

He wasn't sure how to ask for it, though.

"I'm sorry," Tiberius said. "Lost sleep is no small thing."

Shane cracked a faint, joyless smile. "Yeah."

Tiberius might know something about that, too. When Shane had gotten concussed, he'd had trouble falling asleep. The migraines had been agonizing.

"How's your head now?" he asked gently.

"Well, the stitches have been out for a while. It's healing up just fine, now," Tiberius said, shrugging. "I get headaches all the time, still. But that's not new."

Shane nodded understandingly, with a slight wince. "Is that a chronic condition?" he asked, before realizing that probably wasn't a great thing to ask. "Sorry. You can ignore the question."

"No, it's-- it's fine," Tiberius said with a huff. "I haven't had them all my life, but they've been recurring for the past two years or so. At this point, doctors think I'll probably deal with them for the rest of my life, so. I guess it is."

Two years. So... once the war efforts had truly kicked in, then.

"They think it could be related to my hearing," Tiberius added after a small pause. "I, uh. Have this ringing in my ears, now."

"Do loud sounds bother you?" Shane asked. "I'm asking because..."

He shrugged one shoulder, patting Arden's back as he did.

"I don't really frequent many noisy spaces," he said. "But if those are harmful to you, I'd like to know so I can either avoid them with you, or be more mindful when we happen to be someplace like that."

"That's really kind of you," Tiberius said softly. "I, um. Sometimes loud noises do bother me, but it affects my head more than my hearing. With the latter, I think the damage is already done."

Shane nodded. "That's good to know. Thank you."

He meant it sincerely. A moment passed.

"I guess this makes the library that much more of a safer space," he added.

Tiberius looked to Shane with a grin.

"For both of us, right?" he asked.

Shane wasn't really sure why, but he found himself grinning back.

"For both of us," he confirmed.

It felt good to see Tiberius... actually smile, even when it wasn't at full brightness. He knew by now it should be taken as something small but special.

"Are things going well with you and Kirk?" Tiberius asked. "Kirk seems the happiest I've seen him in a long time."

"Really?" Shane asked, a little surprised, though a smile spread over his face. "Well-- it's going really well, in fact. I'm also the happiest I've been in... quite a while, now."

It was true. He still couldn't wrap his head around how quickly his fortunes had flipped around with the change of a season. It felt almost too good to be true-- almost. That almost made a lot of difference.

"That's good to hear," Tiberius said. "I guess that means you're enjoying getting to know each other."

Shane nodded, his expression softening but brightening. "I am. Kirk's an incredible person, and I feel very lucky to have crossed paths with him this summer. I never would've thought hosting you all for dinner would lead to this, but I forgot wonderful things can come from unexpected places." He glanced at Tiberius, adding, "It's been a nice surprise to connect with all of you."

Well-- he hadn't really connected with Carter and Ingrid. But that he was fine with. Everything else had been rather pleasant.

"The feeling is mutual," Tiberius said. "I... wasn't expecting to make any friends, while we were here."

Friends. The word felt the same to Shane as it had when Kirk had said it unexpectedly at the Cypress-- full of nearly unbelievable hope. He felt his smile turn more touched and delicate.

"Me neither," he admitted softly. "But I'm glad."

"I've honestly found your company refreshing," Tiberius said. "It's been a while since I've been able to comfortably sit with someone without the pressure to fill the silence. You know?"

Shane hummed and nodded, a little sadly.

"I'm sorry it's been a while," he said, a little quieter. "But I'm glad to be able to provide that."

"The point is it's nice being with you," Tiberius said. "That's what I'm trying to say."

"It's nice being with you, too," Shane said. "I really appreciate your presence. You make moments better by being in them."

Tiberius let out a laugh that sounded a bit embarassed.

"I-- thanks," he said.

Well, they both had not knowing what to do with compliments in common.

"I wanted to tell you thank you, by the way," Tiberius said before Shane could speak. "For sending Kirk my way. We... had a good conversation. It was long overdue."

Shane looked at him hopefully. He'd been wondering if that had happened already-- it seemed like when Kirk meant to do something, he didn't need to wait too long.

"Do you feel like you're on the same page now?" he asked softly. "Less alone?"

"Yeah. I think so," Tiberius said. "There's definitely more we'll need to talk through, but... it doesn't need to happen all at once."

Shane nodded.

"I guess the question of 'what now' is... a pretty looming one," he said. "But also one that'll take some time to answer."

Tiberius nodded soberly, his expression more grave as he looked out into the street with a distant gaze.

"Yes," he agreed. "It will."

With that, he seemed to lapse into deeper thought. But it didn't last long, because Shane suddenly heard the clamor of shouting and running behind him.

"Hey! Hey, do you have a moment?"

Shane turned over to see the man dashing towards them, extending... his hat for some reason. His first thought was that maybe they'd dropped it before he remembered that neither of them were wearing hats. His second was the realization that this man was clearly interested in Tiberius, not him. He was a slightly short, eager-faced man with light brown skin and dark hair made fluffy by the cowboy hat that had probably been sitting over it a moment ago.

Tiberius flicked an apprehensive gaze to Shane, but brought Billy to a stop as he looked down at the man who'd chased them down.

"Is everything alright, sir?" Tiberius asked politely.

"Oh! Things are great, sir," the man said. "I'm just excited to see you in town. Welcome to Ruddlan! Do you have a moment to sign my hat?"

Without waiting for confirmation, the man thrust his hat out at Tiberius.

"And can you write something like 'for Alejandro Rivas, my number one fan'?" the man added hopefully.

Tiberius hesitantly took the hat in a bit of bewilderment.

"Uh... I don't have something to write with," Tiberius said awkwardly.

"Oh! Of course you're going to need that, I don't know what I was thinking," Alejandro said, quickly patting down his pockets. "I have just the thing."

A few moments of searching passed, with no writing utensil located. Alejandro deflated.

"Or, uh," he said. "Perhaps I don't."

Shane glanced at Tiberius, trying to communicate silently that he had plenty of pens-- and that he could either speak up or stay silent about them. Tiberius seemed eager for this interaction to be over, but obligated to appease the man. He winced in a way that was simultaneously full of embarassment and resignation.

"I've got a pen," Shane said, trying not to sound reluctant as he reached into his bookbag and pulled one out, passing it to Tiberius.

"Oh, you're a hero too!" Alejandro said brightly, as if he'd just noticed Shane for the first time. "Thank you so much."

Tiberius quickly turned over the hat, writing on the underside of the brim. Shane subtly peeked over to see if he was really writing what was asked of him. Turns out, it was a bit more than requested.

To Alejandro,
May your days be ones of peace and safety.
Dragons' Blessings,
- Tiberius Hemming

Tiberius handed the hat back.

"Thank you, sir," Alejandro said excitedly, sticking the hat back on his head and tipping it to them playfully. "I'll be out of your hair now. Y'all have a wonderful day!"

"You as well," Tiberius said, quick to get Billy moving again. With a pull of his lips into something smile-like, Shane followed soon after.

"I can't imagine how annoying that gets," he murmured after their horses had traveled some distance.

Tibierius shivered with a shake of his head in his saddle.

"Fortunately it doesn't happen too often," he muttered.

"That's a small relief," Shane said. "I still don't envy you."

He may have been born noble, but it hadn't vested him with the same kind of fame.

"So-- the library," Tiberius said abruptly. "You mentioned you're getting access to a portion that's restricted. Ancient texts, right?"

Shane nodded quickly, sensing he wanted to move on. "That's right. It's the library's special archives. Supposedly the reason it's more restricted is to preserve the older, delicate documents because they need careful handling, but--"

He gave Tiberius a quick side glance.

"While I'm sure that's true, it's probably because they don't want anyone and everyone reading it," he finished quietly.

"Restricting knowledge," Tiberius said faintly. "Yeah, I'm familiar."

Shane looked ahead again.

"It's hard to be a historian in a world with no history," he murmured.

The look Tiberius shot at Shane was unreadable.

"...Right," Tiberius said a bit more distantly. "Well, I hope today is interesting."

They tied up Arden and Billy at the stable by the library and stepped inside to find their usual table. While Tiberius went to find his next read, Shane slipped away to the front desk to find Mrs. Tanner.

She was at the desk where several piles of books were sitting around, being filed into new stacks, rearranged, and put on a wheeled cart beside her. She looked to be in a deep focus with her glasses perched on her nose, and she only looked up to see who Shane was for a second before continuing to sort the books in front of her.

"Mr. Hawking," she said. "You're here for your studies, I presume. Are you wanting to visit the Historic Texts section today?"

"Yes please, Mrs. Tanner," Shane said politely.

In his experience, most librarians he'd met liked him-- she seemed to be the only one with a grudge against him. He still had ground to make up after the Shrimp incident.

Honestly, though? It had not been that big of a deal. Shrimp had been perfectly well behaved even when he'd left the bookbag. Maybe Mrs. Tanner was upset that people had been paying more attention to his cat than to the books.

"You remember the proper precautions when dealing with aged records and books, correct?" Mrs. Tanner asked, still working.

"Of course," Shane said. "Only touch with clean, dry hands. No food or drink anywhere in their proximity. Don't open it flat. No folding pages. Keep them out of direct sunlight."

"And no guests," Mrs. Tanner said, looking up at Shane pointedly through her glasses.

There it was. Shane smiled thinly. "No guests, Mrs. Tanner."

With a terse nod, Mrs. Tanner finally got up from her seat, and with a wave of her hand motioned for Shane to follow her. Leading him through the library, she took him to the back, pulling out a set of keys as they stopped at the door to the closed off section of the library.

Unlocking it, she pushed the door open and entered first, holding the door for him.

The dry scent of old paper was the first thing Shane noticed. The second was that it wasn't an especially large room-- but it was full. The bookshelves here stretched much higher and were packed much fuller than the ones outside, lined with aged scrolls or books from the early days of printing. Everything in here made the rest of the library look like it had been bound together yesterday. Turning in a circle to glimpse every corner and wall, Shane felt breathless-- almost suffocated-- by the significance of all that surrounded him.

This was a dream to him.

"It's incredible," he breathed quietly.

"Everything is organized and marked according to the estimated date of origin and the subject matter," Mrs. Tanner said. "Please return everything to its proper place when you're done with it. I expect this room to look just as it did when I left you. Understood?"

"Understood," Shane echoed. "I wouldn't dare mess with anything."

Mrs. Tanner nodded. "Alright. I'll leave you to it. When you're done in here please return to the desk and let me know so I can lock up. I'll leave you to it, now."

"Thank you," Shane said. And he was actually grateful to her.

With a bow of her head, she closed the door, and he was left alone, encased by decades of lost history.

His head was spinning. He'd worked tirelessly to get here, and now that he was finally in the presence of all he'd been looking for, he didn't know where to start.

No. No, he did.

He scanned each shelf he passed by with a racing heart. The topics were various-- Monsters, Weaponry from 500-650, Trade Routes of the 7th Century-- and while most were intriguing, he didn't see what he was looking for yet. He began to worry after a couple shelves. What if the knowledge he was after was so restricted that he couldn't find it, even here? Then this would all be pointless. Digging any deeper would be near-impossible.

But then he saw two categories occupying the same shelf ahead, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

The first category was The Great Calamity, 1000-1010, and the second was The War Against Magic, 1005-1010.

Perfect.

Shane didn't mean to, but he found himself holding his breath as he drew closer. Now he had to pick between subcategories-- it would be impossible to look at all of them today, but he could return.

He looked at the calamity first. There were diaries and letters (some of the easiest literature to access before now), shipping and trade records (not irrelevant, but not the most crucial either), records on the hallic plague... Shane paused, carefully removing a book from that section.

He was going to allow himself to look at two texts today. No, three. He couldn't help himself.

Shane looked over to the war next. There were more letters there, although they appeared to be between King Blackfield's military leaders, rather than the general public. Some of them were addressed to people without titles, and he figured those were different. Messages to families of soldiers who died, most likely. As he was removing a letter from one general to another, the next subtopic caught his eye. It was on mage genealogy.

He wasn't sure why it surprised him to see that here. Was that once recorded, public information that anyone could look up if they went searching for that? It must've been. And of course such information could've only been kept track of by the mage guilds.

These scrolls before him weren't information rescued from the jaws of passing time. They were stolen property, looted from a destroyed once-haven.

Shane tensed his jaw as he carefully removed a scroll from the shelf. It felt dangerously brittle in his hands. Not only that, but he swore the scent of smoke still clung to it.

He was going to have his hands full.

He made his way to the only desk in the room, tucked tightly between two more towering shelves. As he was setting everything down, and was about to sit, he found himself pausing when he read a new category. The Formation of the Blue Suns, 900s.

A week ago, he wouldn't have stopped for it. But now that he was looking, he couldn't squash the itch to investigate this too.

Three items today.

Shane glanced back at the texts he'd selected.

Okay. The letters between some long-dead generals could wait.

He quickly picked those up, carefully placing them back exactly where he'd taken them from-- he wasn't going to be risking facing Mrs. Tanner's wrath twice-- before taking out a biography with the name "Matvei Petrov" on the spine from the Blue Suns section. If his biography was there, he couldn't have been anything good. Shane hoped he didn't end up as a permanent feature on a gang's non-fiction shelf one day.

He flipped open the medical records first.

As he read, he couldn't help but notice how the professional language hardly cloaked the fear of the time. The records were full of observations on how the 'Red Death' killed nearly all who contracted it, including the grisly symptoms it brought that Shane really didn't like reading about. Much more of it was musings, though. This physician didn't seem sure whether the hallic plague was spread by touch, mere proximity, or something else, and there was some thinly veiled suspicion cast towards healing mages, who had no ability to cure or alleviate the disease. The doctor even went so far as to suggest it had been caused by a mage.

Shane knew how suspicious that factor could seem. But it didn't strike him as the only possible explanation at all.

He took even more special care with unrolling the scroll. It was in Nayan, and the title dated it from between 900-1000, recorded by the BurningHood Mage Guild. Shane wrinkled his nose against the stench of smoke it released when it was open enough to read. BurningHood Guild had been the first to fall in the war; it had been razed to the ground, with only a small handful of survivors who were all taken captive. No one had known the destruction that would be unleashed so viciously. In his hands was one of the only items left from it.

He tried not to feel sicker than he already felt as he read through it.

A surprising amount of the record was dedicated to healing mage bloodlines. There were other types mentioned, such as a wealth of air and water mage families that lived in the Desert Sands, but the healing mage families saw the most attention to detail. Shane could have been speculating, but this difference seemed to be due to respect. It made sense-- when allowed to exercise their magic freely, healing mages could easily provide a great service to humankind. The world might've been a better place to live. Shane might still have unrestricted use of both hands if he'd been alive back then.

Maybe that was where the accusatory language in the medical records came from. If you gave your trust to a group of people to keep you safe, and then they suddenly became helpless in the face of the world's deadliest plague, it could effectively be seen as a betrayal.

Similar names kept coming up over and over in the scroll, giving him an idea of which families would've been so wildly admired and appreciately before their sudden downfall. The Linden family in particular took up over a foot of space on the scroll, indicating it had a very strong bloodline, until it suddenly ended at the name of Mary Linden. The note next to her name was simple but weighty-- failed to inherit magic.

Shane squinted at the scroll, haunted by the feeling that this meant something. Maybe he'd seen her name before, in some other document of the time. Or maybe her name was just familiar in a way he couldn't place.

Any reason for his recognition didn't make sense. But he could've sworn he'd seen it before.

Shane sighed. This was going to bother him now, wasn't it? His memory rarely came up short like this. But he had nothing else to work with, and he couldn't just sit here and hope for everything to make sense suddenly. He'd have to wait until it occurred to him out of the blue.

He rolled up the scroll and moved to the last text, the book on Matvei Petrov.

It seemed in better condition than the others, despite being decades older. The pages were yellowed, but the spine didn't creak when he carefully opened it to an angle, and the bindings held. Maybe it just hadn't been a popular read back in the day.

This text held a lot more new information. Matvei Petrov was the founder of the Blue Suns, credited with building a criminal empire from the ground up to span all of Nye. He'd created his success through loyalty-- and fear. He'd been an incredibly powerful lightning mage, and behind every act of persuasive charisma, there had been a chilling threat. From the sounds of it, he kept his own hands clean, but was happy to pass off the dirty work to others who were too afraid to say no.

Now, over a century later, Shane was wondering if this description was a portrait of whoever wanted him dead today.

He didn't know. He couldn't find that information here. He'd been all too happy to concern himself as little as possible with the Blue Suns in Ruddlan today, and now he had no clue why they were suddenly relevant to him-- or why he was relevant to them.

Shane hadn't even done anything, for dragons sake.

He heaved a sigh as he capped his pen, tucking his notes back in his bag before he stood up and carefully put everything back where he'd found it. After a look around to make sure the room was exactly the same as he'd entered, he left the archive behind, closing the door behind him to find Mrs. Tanner at the front desk again.

"All done for today," he said.

Getting up from her desk, Mrs. Tanner moved quickly.

"Thank you, Mr. Hawking," she said. "I hope you have a good evening. I'll go lock up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tanner. You as well," Shane said, already looking for Tiberius once she'd left.

Tiberius had dozed off in one of the cozier cushioned chairs of the library, a book against his chest and his head slumped over his shoulder. Shane couldn't help but crack a smile. These chairs were dangerous. He'd watched many an undergrad succumb to the urge to 'close their eyes' here for just a few minutes while studying and then be woken up hours later at closing times by an impatient librarian. It seemed that fate had claimed Tiberius too.

He didn't move to wake him as he settled into the chair in front of him. What gave him pause, however, was the subject of the book in Tiberius's lap. It was on trauma wound care.

Tiberius didn't need to know this information anymore. He'd secured a comfortable position as a counselor for life-- he didn't need to make any more battleground visits, where he might possibly be at risk of losing life and limb. That was in his past. And if anything somehow happened to him at the palace, he'd receive the best of treatment. So why was this his choice of a book?

Shane hadn't thought too much of it when Tiberius had picked out a book on edible and poisonous plants in the wild the week before. Yes, it was a strange contrast to his choice of an adventure novel before that, but everyone had their niche interests. Kirk had told him every member of the King's Hand was a nerd, in some fashion or another. But he felt like he was seeing some kind of pattern here, and he didn't know what to make of it.

What use could Tiberius possibly have for studying up on survivalist information? What purpose could there be in it, beyond a fascination with the topic?

Shane didn't know. And like Mary Linden's name, he had the feeling he'd have to wonder about it for a while before he finally got his answer.

He didn't plan to wake up Tiberius, but he knew how long a person could pass out in these chairs for, so he took out his notebook and flipped it open. Time to review.

It was maybe another 20 minutes before Tiberius stirred. His head shot up with a start, and he blearily squinted out into the room before his eyes landed on Shane.

Tiberius rubbed his eyes, quick to try and collect himself. The book fell into his lap and he sloppily tried to catch it, then fixed a few bent pages.

"Sorry," he murmured, his voice low like he'd managed to fall into a deep sleep. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Less than half an hour," Shane answered. "You looked like you were getting some much needed rest, so I didn't want to disturb you."

He gestured at the chairs.

"These are the best places to unwillingly sleep on campus," he added.

Tiberius hummed. "I've now been warned," he said. "Should we leave before the librarian chides us for speaking?"

Mrs. Tanner had probably dealt with Shane as much as she wanted to today.

"If you're ready to go," he agreed.

Nodding, Tiberius set the book on the table at the chair's side, and the two of them headed out. Shane noted that Mrs. Tanner watched them go. Maybe she was still looking to see if a certain tabby cat head would poke out from under the flap of his bag.

Well, not today, Mrs. Tanner.

"I normally get along very well with librarians," Shane said, once they were well out of the building. "The head librarian here has disliked me ever since I got caught sneaking Shrimp in my bag here, though. To be fair, we'd managed it several times by that point, and he was not supposed to slip out of the bag."

Tiberius let out a light laugh.

"That'll leave an impression, though, I'm sure," he said.

"He was cute and insufficiently appreciated by her," Shane grumbled.

"A travesty," Tiberius said with a smirk.

Shane couldn't let his joking annoyance linger, and he smiled slightly as they found their way back to Billy and Arden.

"How was your reading?" he asked, watching Tiberius in the corner of his eye as he patted Arden's head affectionately. The horse huffed happily.

"Informative," Tiberius said neutrally.

That was a basic reply if he'd ever heard one. It only raised more questions for Shane.

"What drew you to that book?" he asked, as he began to saddle up. "I would've figured it was safe from being read by anyone who wasn't a medical student."

The look Tiberius flashed Shane was one that made Shane think Tiberius was ashamed Shane saw that. He didn't know which reaction he expected, but it wasn't that. Then Tiberius hopped into Billy's saddle.

"Oh. Well. Just... picked something random, I guess. It was lying out already," he said.

Shane almost raised an eyebrow. Instead, he nodded as if this had made perfect sense, scooping up Arden's reins.

"Did you find anything interesting in the things you read today?" Tiberius asked, quickly moving on.

Shane could change topics easier than he could forget about an old one.

"Oh, yes," he said, securely adjusting his bag's strap across his chest. "There was too much in there to get to today, but I read several different things. Some medical records of the hallic plague, an account of the founder of the Blue Suns, and a scroll stolen from the BurningHood mage guild."

Tiberius hummed.

"That's a lot," he said. "Even to start with. Did anything stand out?"

"Some things about healing mages," Shane said, starting to direct Arden to move, because he figured this was a better conversation to have on the move. "The scroll was a mage genealogy that gave a lot of focus to families with healing magic. They had the most attention to detail in their records of any type of magic. It seemed as if they were respected and important, which makes sense, since any community would want to know all the healers in their midst who could help them. But judging from the medical records, that respect got replaced with anger and accusation once there was a threat out there in the form of a plague that they were unable to heal. The Red Death might've been one of the first waves of anti-mage fear."

Tiberius nodded slowly as he listened.

"I wonder what hospitals were like back then," Tiberius thought aloud.

"Probably more effective," Shane said. "You wouldn't have needed stitches, or to stay overnight at the clinic."

And there were so many people out there in the world who would benefit so much from rapid healing.

"Sounds really nice," Tiberius hummed.

"I guess you made it anyway," Shane said, not really wanting to linger on the idea of what could've been.

"Yeah," Tiberius said. "I guess so."

For a moment, the only sound between them was the familiar noise of hooves hitting dirt.

"Was it what you were hoping for?" Tiberius asked. "The opportunity."

"It was," Shane said, looking back over his shoulder. "I'm far from done, though. Somewhere out there, there's going to be the right book, the right scroll, the right letter that helps everything make sense. It's just a matter of finding it."

Tiberius nodded.

"...Right," he said a bit distantly.

He'd said that twice today on this topic. Shane couldn't help but notice that. What to make of it, he didn't know, but it was stuck in his mind now.

"Do you think you'll be going back to the library more for this?" Tiberius asked.

"Definitely," Shane said. "Probably even this week. I'd love to take someone with me, but I've been told to bring no guests."

Mrs. Tanner had probably been emphasizing no cats, but since humans were included in the term, he wouldn't get away with bringing someone in under malicious compliance.

"I don't mind going with you, even if I can't go in," Tiberius said.

"You can always be there to hear my frustrations about how I can't read as fast as I would like to for this," Shane suggested.

Tiberius chuckled. "You have all summer, right?"

"All summer," Shane confirmed. "I hope it's enough."

"I hope so too," Tiberius agreed.

It was good to know he had the support of a couple people during this controversial research process. Tiberius and Kirk both had his back. Most historians would go in that archive to add to the prevailing interpretations of the time, intending to strengthen it by filling in the gaps. Shane hoped to tear it all down and start over from truth.

That would be no small feat. But he'd do better if he could rest in the knowledge that he wasn't alone.