Chapter Text
He doesn't even know when he opened his eyes. He could have stared at the ceiling for ten seconds or ten whole minutes. Time had no shape there. Only when a slow heartbeat thuds behind his temples does Rory begin to recognize that he's no longer asleep.
He sits up with a quiet groan. The dim light of dawn filters through the cracks in the tactical armor installed on the window. He knows this room too well: it used to be a private room for inpatients; now it's his temporary refuge—if it can even be called that—filled with crooked piles of dirty clothes and open books on the cold floor.
He wonders how the hell he got to bed last night if he remembers every step as if his legs were blocks sunk beneath viscous water.
But he moves anyway.
Slow footsteps toward the bathroom—obedient to habit—while he mindlessly takes the pills on the table: two antipsychotics and a regulator. His obligatory ritual even before taking water.
Leaving the room, already smiling his usual smile, he headed to the bedroom where he knew Zack was already waiting for him. And there he was. Sitting up in bed like a scolded child, grumbling at a bowl of oatmeal accompanied by a pile of pills.
“So what do you think of the hospital breakfast?” Rory says sarcastically, leaning against the doorframe. “Better or worse than street food?”
Zack looks up slowly, his expression somewhere between annoyance and relief. He doesn't respond immediately. He just stares at him—as if needing confirmation that he's really there, standing, breathing.
“You should be lying down,” he finally growls, pointing at his chest with the spoon. “The Aries curse takes a heavy toll on the body.”
Rory ignores the comment and shuffles in and sits in the chair next to the bed, too close to be casual.
“Did you want to leave you alone after... Whatever happened yesterday?” Zack sighs and continues eating slowly. “Surely you want to continue the conversation we were having, right?”
Zack looks up to stare at Rory. Her smooth skin, flecked with the same star-spangled freckles he had, is now as pale as a sheet. His eyelids twitch with slight spasms, and his lips are almost colorless. It's clear that his health is still vulnerable and he should be lying down, but Zack doesn't know why Rory forces himself to stand instead of resting.
“The nullite takes at least a week to leave the system. What are you going to do when that happens?” Rory begins.
“Repair my brother's NexCard and keep searching.”
“Brother?”
“Three years ago, I heard news that he died in a car accident. Two months ago, I saw it in a newspaper here in Gienah. I have to find him.”
“And I suppose you'll use the inscriptions on your arms to search for him,” Rory points out.
Zack freezes. Seeing his confusion, Rory continued.
“You have a poem and a map tattooed on your arms and you didn't know it?”
The surprise on Zack's face is palpable; he absentmindedly rubbed his forearm where the tattoos are hidden. He has tattoos on both forearms, lines intertwined with ancient symbols that no one can read anymore, short phrases in a lost language—as if each ink were a fragment of rebellious memory.
“I... What?” he says in disbelief. “A poem?”
He looks at his arms and the tattoos, trying to find something familiar in what he believed were artistic scribbles etched into his skin. His mind travels back years, to when he was younger. He remembers waking up one day in the middle of some ruins with it in his arms. He assumed it was a wild party that got out of control; his father scolded him for disappearing for a whole week and coming back with tattoos. Zack defended them as a sign of rebellion against his father, but he never questioned what they were or if they held any meaning.
“Uh... You mentioned a NexCard, let's start there... Can I see it? Maybe we can make this make more sense.” Rory interrupts his thoughts with a strangled voice.
Zack takes the NexCard out of his pocket and hands it to Rory. Rory turns it on, turns it over a few times, analyzes it, and finally says.
“Evidence 1, you have tattoos in the secret language of the Carriers on your arms, but you can’t read them. Evidence 2, a NexCard with a Project Clarity ID that says he escaped and to come to The Cradle. Evidence 3, The Cradle of Stars is full of carriers of asteranium. Someone must know how to read your tattoos. He’s telling you, ‘Follow me.’”
Rory’s every word stabs at Zack’s consciousness, as if each piece is finally falling into place. His expression is a mix of disbelief, surprise, and something else…
Hope.
But when Rory finishes, he can only stare at the NexCard, his mind racing, trying to process what he just heard.
His voice is fragile when he finally speaks.
“…What if it doesn’t work? What if this is all a waste of time…?”
Zack takes the NexCard and holds it in front of his face. The image of his brother appears again. The device's flickering light reflects in his eyes like flickering stars.
Rory watches him. Not with pity. Not with impatience. With recognition. Because he's seen that look before: the look of someone who carries hope like it's a sin.
He straightens in his chair, ignoring the dizziness that still haunts him, and reaches out a weak but firm hand toward Zack—not to take the NexCard, but to place it on his tattooed forearm, right where the dark lines spiral almost imperceptibly.
“This wasn't done at random,” he repeats, more quietly now. “But I understand your fear... It's not 'what if it doesn't work?' It's 'what if it does?'”
Zack swallows. The muscles in his jaw tense like cables about to snap. Rory pauses. His fingers barely brush the warm skin beneath the black lines. He lowers his voice to something almost intimate.
“And yes… it could all be a waste of time. Maybe he can’t read this properly, or worse, maybe when he does read it, he’ll tell us things we’d rather not know.” His blue eyes meet the stormy green ones before him.
“But tell me something, Zachary… Did you really get this far?” He taps his shoulder lightly. “…just to give up on the uncertainty?”
Zack freezes completely. His breathing is so slow, so controlled, that he seems not to move at all. His gaze is lowered, lost somewhere between his hands and the bed, but seeing nothing physical—only thoughts whirring like blades inside his skull. He analyzes every word of what he’s just discovered: the tattoos with hidden meanings, the NexCard that says so much with so few letters, the real possibility of finding his brother… It is not just clues now.
It is everything.
And for the first time in years, he needs more than instinct. This time he needs a real plan, instead of just following leads as he goes. Because if this is true… making a mistake could cost him more than just a night of bleeding.
Beside him, Rory watches silently with growing concern. His eyes flicker repeatedly to the small medical screen mounted on the wall—a green line blinks steadily: normal heart rate.
As if he needs reassurance that this profound silence isn't the beginning of something worse.
He knows Zack must be shocked, but this stillness, this complete lack of physical reaction, isn't normal, especially not for someone as stubborn as him.
"Zack…" he says almost aloud, as if afraid of breaking something fragile "You're not alone in this"
"Why do you care?" he interrupts, his voice as cold as the AC unit at that moment.
Rory lowers his gaze, toying with his interlaced fingers. His voice trembles slightly, as if he's about to confess something forbidden.
"I admit… There's something I want from this. Something I… couldn't get on my own…" He pauses briefly. He swallows. His shoulders slump slightly, and his eyes dart rapidly in every direction.
"I want… to use your determination to my advantage." He slowly raises his eyes to Zack—not with manipulation, but with naked vulnerability.
"You're not just strong… you fight. I don't know how to do it anymore without breaking down even more. And with you… I feel like maybe I can finally face… it." A heavy silence falls between them.
The words don't sound like cold interest… but like the stifled cry of someone pleading for help without quite knowing how.
Zack stares at him for a long time.
Without speaking.
But his eyes no longer ask, "What do you gain?"
Now they only see someone as wounded as he is.
'So you're not trying to save me...
...you're asking me to save you too'
“Uhmm… Zack?”
His voice brings him back to reality. Zack looks at him and opens his mouth without saying anything, as if trying to organize his words. Until suddenly, one of the many things they said takes priority in his mind.
“You said ‘when I read it.’ Can you read the carriers' language?” he almost shouts.
“…My grandparents taught me, yes,” Rory says with a lightness that tries to sound casual, but his eyes wander to the ground for a second. “Studying… it was the closest thing I had to normal kids in Alfard. My parents hired tutors from a young age. ‘Just because you’re an asteranium carrier doesn’t mean you can neglect your studies’ they used to say.”
He pauses briefly. He nibbles at the inside of his cheek, as if he’s already regretting having said it.
“Sorry if that sounded arrogant… I didn’t mean to,” he adds softly, almost embarrassed.
But Zack's gaze —a moment before skeptical— wasn't that of someone judging him. Instead, it was a mixture of tenderness still afraid to name itself, and a barely perceptible glimmer of someone who had just found more than just a convenient ally. Studying was a luxury that asteranium carriers couldn't afford. For those who spent their lives hiding and running, going to the same place every day, so that people might get to know you, was a potential risk.
For a moment, Zack imagined Rory watching from afar the 'normal' children going to or coming from their classes, sharing with their classmates, or simply enjoying the fact that their only concern was their studies. Did he feel envy for the ignorance of those children? Or… did it cause him sadness?
Parents send their children to study at Alfard so they can have "a secure future." But behind the armored doors of Project Clarity—the government's official scientific arm—another fate awaits those who show unusual signs. A child overly sensitive to noise, one who heals wounds without explanation, another who dreams of events before they happen… all it takes is an anonymous report, and they vanish under the motto: We correct instability for the common good.
They aren’t killed. Not directly.
Instead, they are studied. They are promised medical treatment if they cooperate. They are persuaded with sweet words: “We just want to help you be normal.”
But in the subterranean rooms where neither sunlight nor mercy reaches, more powerful silencers are tested… or every last gram of cosmicarium is extracted from their bones.
And that isn’t even the cruelest part: some parents willingly hand over their children upon discovering their powers—out of fear, shame, or because they firmly believe in the doctrine the government has worked so hard to implement.
Zack shakes off those depressing thoughts. There’s no point in worrying about it now. And then he asks, seriously:
"So you can read everything? Everything I have here?"
He slowly rolls up his left sleeve, exposing the interlacing lines that run from thumb to shoulder—a dark current made into a living word.
Rory swallows as he approaches Zack. He leans in slowly and gently takes Zack's forearm in his hands, like someone touching a sacred manuscript no one has opened in a hundred years. Zack's skin tingles at the gentle touch of Rory's fingers. They're long and slender—as slender as any artist's—as they explore the contours of his arms. They seem to be following a melody that doesn't exist in the outside world, and he feels every note vibrating beneath the first tattoo that crosses his wrist.
“I can try,” he whispers. “But first I need some tea... and maybe pray to my grandparents that I won't misread it.”
Zack looks at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Tea? Another custom of the rich?”
Rory smiles weakly as he takes a step back, rubbing his fingers as if he can still feel the texture of the tattoo beneath the other's skin.
“It's not that... Coffee and the Aries curse don't mix. It makes me shake more than a chihuahua.”
Zack lets out a dry laugh, almost surprised by the image, but instantly, his treacherous mind paints Rory with bright little eyes, pointy ears, and a tail wagging indignantly.
The image lasts a second.
Long enough for his lips to quiver in an ill-contained smile.
Then he looks away—and notices Rory's hair: shoulder-length, midnight black, with wispy streaks tinged with mint green. Well-groomed. Soft. Irritatingly styled.
“Nah,” he muttered sarcastically. “A chihuahua doesn't suit you. You're more of a show Pomeranian: all pompadour and pose, not a hair out of place.”
Rory raises both eyebrows.
“Are you really comparing me to a groomed dog right now?"
“To a prize-winning one,” Zack corrects, very seriously. “Besides, you said it first.”
It had been the longest week for Zack, not only because he didn't want to stay in that bed, hooked up to IVs and feeling useless. But because every day Rory came to his room to personally care for him. He never saw another nurse, day or night. And when he was there, he seemed to want to stay glued to him. ‘It's just part of the procedure’ or ‘I have to get close so I can read your tattoos’ Rory would say with that mischievous smile that had begun to haunt Zack's nightmares.
Like that moment: Zack in bed, body tense and ears red, forcing himself to look out the window, to count the petals of each flower on the bushes, the scratches on the glass. Anything but acknowledge Rory's proximity and his ridiculous honey scent. Sitting next to him, staring at his shoulder, his fingers leaving a trail of fire beneath his skin, his lips pursed in an adorable pout as he jotted things down in a notebook.
“Your brother isn't stupid. He covered the writing with popular designs. It looks like a normal tattoo unless you know what to look for.” He looked up when he didn't get an answer. “Zack! I'll die without your attention!”
“Huh? What are you saying?” he reacted, withdrawing his arm inconspicuously.
Rory puffed out his cheeks and tapped Zack on the forehead.
“And I try so hard with you. Boohoo. How cruel. How cruel.”
Almost instinctively, Zack rushed to comfort Rory. Only to stop abruptly before touching him when he realized that, on the one hand, he doesn’t know how to comfort anyone; and on the other, why the hell was he comforting Rory?! It was obvious he was faking it. He settled back in bed and huffed. Rory had been teasing him all week with sweet words and suggestive gestures, almost as if he were—
'No, stop! Don’t even think about it!'
“You’re so dramatic,” Zack rolled his eyes, trying to look irritated. But the blush on his cheeks betrayed him. “Are you like this with everyone?”
“Is that jealousy I heard?” He hummed, leaning closer to his face “Nope! Just you.”
“Just me? But why? I'm just the guy who showed up out of nowhere and talked stupid things to you half asleep. That can't be attractive.”
Rory laughs at the way Zack spoke so quickly, at the way he flapped his hands and his face turned redder. He took Zack's hands and placed them on his cheeks. Those hands are big and rough, but they feel warm.
“You think I'm cute, Zack?”
The other nods without hesitation, calm, but still blushing.
“... you think I need protecting?”
Zack nods again. Rory's smile falters.
“So... you think I'm just a cute little kid, right? A spoiled rich kid playing in a hospital.”
“No.” Zack says. The word cuts through the air. Clear. Firm.
Rory stares at him, surprised. It wasn't the pattern he expected, or perhaps it was the answer he wanted. He feels a calloused finger run over his lip, and only then does he recognize the metallic taste in his mouth. He unclenches his jaw, not knowing when he'd clenched it.
“Rory, I saw you beat the living hell out of five guys, two of them armed, on my first day here.”
“But you just said”
“I know what I said. A person can be beautiful and strong at the same time, but just because you're strong doesn't mean you have to survive alone.”
Before Rory can respond, he pulls him down onto the bed with gentle but sure force. There's no playfulness in the gesture: it's pure intent.
“You're a hypocrite… You don't…”
He stops when he sees the shadow cross Zack's eyes.
Zack sighs, then pulls him down to sit beside him.
“I have no allies… And I'm looking for my only family. But are you seriously going to tell me you don't trust anyone else in this sad, three-story freezer?”
Rory looks down. His voice thickens.
“No…”
“Wait, what?”
“Half the people here think my dad got me this job on a whim, the other half think I seduced someone for it. Those who know I'm a carrier think I'm a defective Aries... Whatever that is.” he sighs and leans back on Zack's shoulder. “Everyone only sees my pretty face and daddy support, and they label me a sugar baby. You're the only one who sees me as just Rory. In five days, you've seen more of me than most people have in their entire lives. That's... rare and very attractive.”
Zack tenses again. The heart rate monitor is announcing his internal conflict, so I pull it out.
“Well, what bad luck. Your first interest is a walking disaster with bad breath and a worse mood.”
Zack's response was swift and firm, as if he refused to lose ground in some kind of mental battle. But Rory didn't perceive it as an attack or a defense, but rather as… reassurance. It would be a lie to say he wasn't afraid of Zack's reaction. That his opinion of him might change, shifting from pitying his past to disgustingly repulsing his sentimentality.
His lips parted as if he were about to speak… but no words came out.
Instead, he starts to laugh.
Suddenly and uncontrollably, he startled Zack. And he was even more frightened when Rory planted a kiss on his cheek. Taking advantage of the brunette's momentary daze, he got up from the chair he was sitting in and walked to a nearby closet, where he took out a suitcase and placed it on Zack's bed.
“I can take care of your appearance and breath, and I'll have to put up with your mood like you have with mine.” The suitcase was full of new clothes and a box of luxury cigars. “I don't care if the zodiac curse cures us, now you'll only be smoking dried winterbell leaves. It has calming effects and they smell better.”