Chapter Text
Ashveil does not like mirrors.
He averts his eyes from window panes and keeps his distance from the edges of rivers and seas. Any time he can’t avoid his reflection, his gaze will pause at the sight of himself and that familiar voice will say, “You’re the one who should be dead, aren’t you?”
He always looks so out of place. Even though he adjusted his style to fit more in line with Planarcadia’s locals, it becomes so much more obvious that he does not belong here when he sees himself face to face.
His eyes are too tired. The ring of magenta around his pupil is too bright. Crow’s feet poke out soft and shy, one of the few signs that show his age. His eyelashes are too long, too delicate, too elegant for who he is. And no matter how long he sleeps, there are always shadows underneath, blue like bruises.
His face is too sharp, too angular, too gaunt. His cheekbones are too high. His lips are too thin. His skin is too pale. He’s too much of everything, and yet a certain gloom clings to him like spiderwebs. Even if he smiles at himself, tries to push down the guilt that swallows him whole with hundreds of serrated teeth, his shadow remains fathomlessly dark. His eyes remain storm cloud gray. Kronstadt gray.
The lights and noise of Planarcadia do not fit him. He took to wearing more white so that maybe he could reflect all the colors around him—the neon signs, the billboards, the storefronts—but he still feels as though he absorbs all of it instead. He has always been better at taking.
The Nameless fit Planarcadia better. They give more than they get. They’re all as bright as the neon signs, the billboards, the storefronts, brighter than the moon and the sun and just as bright as the stars. Their shadows may be long, but they do not bite at their heels or crawl up their arms to sink teeth into their necks.
Ashveil has been thinking about them a lot lately. He’s been thinking of Isee and Tiernan, too, and the hundred-odd Nameless who crashed in Ahatopia all those centuries ago, the ones who were quick to lend a hand to a planet ravaged by the Destruction. Always so kind, the Nameless. Always so fearless.
“You’re the one who should be dead.”
Ashveil stares at his reflection in the river. The Phantasmoon continues to sleep up above him. His sleeves are rolled up, skin chilled by the nighttime breeze. Ghosts of friends long gone ripple in the waves before him, their eyes warm and sad, their hands worn as they reach for him, their whispers silk-soft against his ears, his neck, his jaw.
Isee’s gold charms jingle right next to his ear. Tiernan’s callused fingers flutter over his wrist. Colder than they were. Softer than they were.
“You’re the one who should be dead.”
“I know,” Ashveil says, breath-quiet, staring down down down.
This corner is out of the way of the hustle and bustle. There is only one street lantern here, lonely and tall. It would be the only witness if he were to jump over the railing and rest in the water. It has no voice and no hands to stop him.
It would be easy. He almost drowned on the planet of Lushaka back when he’d upset one too many aqua sprites. He remembers the weightlessness, the panic thrumming through his veins, the wide expanse of sea all around him. When his vision had begun to darken, though, there had been an odd sort of calm that washed over him. It was soft and sweet, swaddling him close, and very briefly, he remembered citrus perfume, gentle hands cradling his face, a dulcet voice cooing a name he had long discarded.
All it would take is a few steps. His clothes would drag him down after that, so heavy with water that no amount of clawing at the surface would help him. He could accept that calmness, then, let it close his eyes with those gentle hands, let it soothe him to sleep with that dulcet voice as his lungs flood and his heart stops.
He has taken so much already: the lives of friends and foes alike, the time and trust of his stars, the power of the Voracity. Would it mean anything at all if he took his own life, too?
He’s considered this before. More times than he can count. This is the third time he’s climbed over the railing, balanced precariously on the side that kisses the waves. His shoes are already cold and wet.
His own face stares back at him. He left his hat at the office, the sight of it twisting his gut. He looks younger without it. There are no more flashy colors to distract from the gray in his hair, though, the white tips the color of sea foam. His eyes are dull. Tired. Lifeless.
He is still that boy in Kronstadt. Still that boy looking up at Isee with blood and dust and rubble all around him, those overcast skies so gray, rain dripping down his face as his hand is squeezed, cool rings pinching his fingers.
“Mr. Ashveil is a valuable friend to all of us.”
Oh.
Why is he thinking of that now?
He watches as his eyes fill with tears and fall down into the water with tiny splashes. He barely feels them spill over his cheeks.
After so many years, one would think he would become numb to all of this. He doesn’t know how he has any tears left. He doesn’t know how there is anything of his heart remaining. His Shadow must have devoured most of the pieces. It’s torn through most of his body already, mangling his insides, splitting skin with fangs just as piercing as his once were.
His friends always teased him for being sensitive. They called him a crybaby and laughed while wiping away his tears. They thought it was so funny that someone of his stature would cry so easily.
He hides it more now. He thought if he forced it down, it would eventually go away.
And yet…
He laughs through a strangled sob, gripping the railing behind him with a shaking hand. It’s no use wiping the tears. Once they start, they won’t stop. Sleeping means the tears don’t get the chance to come out. He should’ve gone to bed already. His wrist is killing him, his Shadow rumbling deep inside his arm, the nails vibrating harshly.
But the refrigerator is so cold. He hates it.
He hates all of this. He’s so tired. He’s so old.
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Fuck.
“Stop it,” he whispers to the waves. The Nameless look back at him for just a moment—he catches Stelle’s bright eyes, March’s pink hair, Dan Heng’s elusive dimple, Sunday’s fluttery wings—before the waves reflect only him. His cheeks are shiny with tears. His breath shudders.
“I should be dead,” he whispers again. “Why won’t you let me die?”
No one answers him.
☽☾
There is always more work during the Phantasmoon Games. While law enforcement can do nothing against the Supplicants, that doesn’t mean there aren’t regular citizens—or even tourists—who act like they possess a Mask and can do whatever they please. All the changes in Wishpower mess with the imagenae, too, so the ghosts and other spirits that haunt the streets react in strange ways during the Games.
All such matters are the concern of the Department of Aberration Defense, not Ashveil. But as the most successful detective they have, he frequently gets called in. He doesn’t know if they’re unlucky or just plain stupid to be so incompetent at their jobs, but work is work.
And work takes up the space in his mind that his darker thoughts once occupied. It’s easier to focus on muggers passing through mysterious doors and phone booths ringing by themselves than it is to face the fact he’s been crying himself to sleep every night.
“Staying up again, Mr. Ashveil?” Mr. N inquires one night when Ashveil is bent over his desk, computer screen bleaching his skin and his clothes white.
Ashveil doesn’t bother looking up from the case file he’s skimming. “Ah, yeah. Can’t have my assistant doing all the work, can I?”
“You’ve never had a problem with that before,” Mr. N replies, but the words lack their usual bite.
Ashveil keeps reading. Mr. N sighs.
“████,” he says. The name is covered in dust and mold.
Ashveil pauses.
“Put the file down and sleep, my friend.”
The back of Ashveil’s eyes grow warm. He bites his lip and grips the file so hard it crinkles. With a choked breath, he says, “That’s a low blow.”
“I don’t care how low it is as long as it gets you to sleep.” Mr. N hops up onto his shoulder. “It’s been almost a week since you slept. You haven’t been this bad since—”
“Don’t.”
Mr. N hesitates. “Are you having trouble with the Nameless?”
Ashveil’s thumbnail tears through the file.
“Figures.” Mr. N sounds like he’s frowning. “What did they do to get you into such a state?”
“Nothing,” Ashveil mutters as he drops the file onto the desk. He buries his hands in his hair. “They didn’t do anything, Mr. N.”
“And that’s the problem?”
“Of course it’s not a problem—”
“Ah. The problem is they’re as kind as all the other Nameless you’ve known.”
Both of them ignore the tears that fall onto the files.
Mr. N’s voice softens. “████—”
“Stop it,” Ashveil says roughly, the words scraping past his throat. “Enough of this. I have to work—”
“You have to sleep. Your wrist has been buzzing nonstop and you haven’t even noticed.”
The nails in his wrist have been vibrating more often, his Shadow eager to escape without the cold of the refrigerator reigning it in. He’d grown used to the constant buzzing, the phantom pain of sharp stakes slamming against bones that are no longer there, the tearing of skin that is no longer there.
“I’m fine,” Ashveil mutters, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard that they ache.
“You’re not,” Mr. N says. “What will you do when you fall asleep and your Shadow escapes?”
“I won’t fall asleep—”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Mr. N’s voice cuts through him like a blade. “Poet and Musician aren’t here to assist me. If your Shadow were to break free, there would be nothing I could do to stop it.”
Ashveil presses his lips together to stifle a sob. His breath catches at the back of his throat. His head hurts. His arm hurts. His joints hurt. He wants to go back to that river and rest deep below the waves where no one will ever find him.
In the end, he sleeps in the refrigerator. His Shadow only quiets after he beats it into submission. His blood and tears freeze in the aftermath. He dreams of friends long gone, of laughter and songs around a fire, of black skies full of shooting stars, and then the days come on slow and harsh, so dreadfully dull because his friends are all dead and he is not.
He continues to bury himself in work. Kuchiba comments on his change in work ethic, clearly suspicious of something, but he’s a well-practiced performer so all it takes is a few dismissive jokes for the matter to be dropped. She needs the help, anyway, so it’s not in her best interest to grill him about it.
He spends the days tracking down runaway imagenae and interrogating them through brute force. Mr. N brings him leads despite his disapproval. Any time he brings up how the Nameless have been visiting the office looking for him, Ashveil waves him off and mumbles about another case they have to get to.
“You’re really shutting them out?” Mr. N says another night. “Again, Mr. Ashveil?”
Ashveil doesn’t bother with a reply. This conversation always goes the same way.
“You’re grieving them while they’re still alive!”
The case file swims before his eyes. “I’m tired, Mr. N.”
“You’re sabotaging yourself. Surely you see that.”
“Didn’t you say I should put more effort into the cases we take on?”
Mr. N scoffs. “Come now, Detective. I know you’re not as moronic as you would like to appear.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You’re not.” Mr. N hops up onto his shoulder again, then settles on the top of his head. “But you’re being stupid now, and as your assistant, it is my duty to enlighten you.”
Ashveil chuckles wryly. “Oh, really?”
“Not all of your friends are dead yet. You aren’t dead yet. Why must you insist on living like a ghost?”
Ashveil doesn’t respond.
“For Lan’s sake, Ashveil, your life isn’t over. Shouldn’t you—”
“Enough.” Ashveil suddenly stands up. Mr. N jumps off, unbalanced. “I’m going out.”
Mr. N watches him gather his coat. “Running away again, are you?”
Ashveil chances one look back at him, magenta rings glowing in the dark. “Of course. It’s what I do best.”
In the end, he returns to that corner by the river where there is only one street lantern and no hustle and bustle. The night sky is always the same: Midnight blue and glowing. Phantasmoon full and asleep. No stars.
He climbs over the railing again. He fantasizes about falling deep below the waves again. He recalls the voices of all his friends again, their kindness and their joy and their love. He thinks of the Nameless again.
Again, again, again. Over and over and over. Like Oroboros eating THEIR tail.
☽☾
Ashveil knows full well that the way he’s been living isn’t sustainable. It was all going to come to a head eventually, and he was prepared for it to be as catastrophic as the Anti-Matter Legion invading Benzaitengoku. That wasn’t the first historical disaster he’s lived through, and he fully expects this one to be far from the last.
Underneath the exhaustion and the tears, there is so much guilt that it could consume the planet faster than his Shadow could. The Nameless don’t deserve being left in the dark. They have been nothing but kind and understanding. They have only ever looked at him as though he is worthy of their respect and their trust, as if he is worthy of anything at all.
The truth is that he’s just some mangy mutt nursing centuries-old wounds. Sooner or later they will realize that. And even if they don’t, they will die before it matters. And he will still be alive chasing after evil, a lone arrow shooting through space until the end of time.
He expects an angry confrontation. As kind as the Nameless may be, they have plenty of battle experience. Mr. N would call him dramatic for expecting them to pull their weapons out on him for leaving them in silence for two weeks, but Ashveil has been held at gunpoint for less.
What he does not expect is an intervention.
It comes after a long day ghost hunting out in Duomension City. Many of his cases involve the paranormal, but they don’t usually end with so much blood. He always gets the worst cases during the Games as vengeance infects the air like a toxin. Vengeful ghosts, especially, stalk the streets in numbers he tries not to think about.
Phantom pains have been killing him all day, too. As much as he would like to put off climbing into the refrigerator, he’s too drained to do anything other than sleep. Mr. N won’t be happy about him skipping dinner again.
Unfortunately, when he opens the door to the tabloid office, it is not an empty room that greets him. Instead, there are four rowdy cubs waiting for him.
Stelle is showing March something on a nearby computer when he walks in. They both perk up immediately, gazes snapping towards him, while Dan Heng and Sunday rise from the cheap sofas right by the door. They all greet him as warmly as ever, no flaming lances or Xianzhou spears to be seen.
“Hello, Mr. Detective!” Stelle says with that usual tinge of mischief, but her smile is pulled just a little taut. She looks him up and down. At least when Dan Heng does it he tries to be more subtle.
“It’s been so long!” March puts her hands to her hips. “What have you been doing all this time, huh? How can it be more important than us?”
“Have you been busy masquerading as someone’s dad?”
Dan Heng and Sunday share a confused glance.
“No, I haven’t.” Ashveil laughs, soft and tired. “Things have been busy around here ‘cause of the Games. Kuchiba keeps calling me in to help.”
He should add a joke. He should say something like She works me like a dog! and then he should laugh, and then he should ruffle all of their hair and ask how they’ve been so he can direct the conversation away from himself.
But he’s so tired of performing. He just wants to sleep.
“Listen, little ones,” he says, voice dipping somewhere low and gentle, somewhere it hasn’t gone in a long time. “As happy as I am to see your lovely faces, I’ve had a long day and I’d like to get some shut eye. We can catch up another—”
“Let’s have a sleepover!” March suddenly yells, bunching up her fists in excitement.
Stelle, of course, backs up the plan wholeheartedly. He expects one of the boys to be the voice of reason, but neither of them discourage the idea at all. Dan Heng nods along as if it makes perfect sense, and Sunday’s wings flutter nervously about his face, his eyes locked on Ashveil. He looks concerned but he’s trying very hard not to show it.
Ashveil appreciates it; he knows he doesn’t look great. He certainly doesn’t feel great. His head feels hollowed out, and he has half the mind to rip off his prosthetic as if that would do anything to stop the pain from tearing through his arm.
Mr. N isn’t here, he realizes belatedly.
“I’m sorry, Miss March,” he says. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re being a sore loser just because you lost to Stelle in karaoke!”
He blinks. He’d forgotten about that. “No, I—” He smiles, almost laughs again, but he doesn’t have the energy. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I live in a fridge. That’s where I sleep. Not very conducive to a sleepover.”
“Just sleep out here.” She gestures to the tabloid office around them like it’s any better. “We brought a ton of blankets so we could all be together!”
His brow furrows. “You came here to have a sleepover?”
She pauses, her smile turning nervous. “Um—”
“We didn’t think you’d say no!” Stelle says with a frown. She’s already unzipping a giant bag she’d stuffed under one of the desks. Did she hide it so he wouldn’t see it when he arrived?
“Mr. Ashveil,” Dan Heng says hesitantly, “I really think this could help you. All of—”
“I don’t need your help.” His voice comes out colder than intended.
“You need help. Will you let me help you?”
Isee and Tiernan are dead. They’ve been dead for a long time.
They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re fucking dead ████ why can’t you get it through your thick fucking skull that it’s been this many years you will never see them again you will only ever see them in your dreams and when you open your eyes again again again you will remember that they’re still not here and that they never will be just like all the others just like everyone you have ever met because death loves everyone but you and you will be alone alone alonealonealonealone—
“Mr. Ashveil?”
It’s Sunday who says it. It has to be. Soft and worried and kind.
Ashveil can’t look at any of them as he says, “Please leave. I need to sleep.”
He heads for the door of his office, more focused on holding back tears than he is keeping up the smile that was too fragile to fake anyway. He doesn’t want to see the expressions they’re wearing. He won’t be able to bear it.
“Mr. Ashveil,” Sunday says again, closer this time.
A hand wraps around Ashveil’s good wrist. He stiffens. The grip slackens but doesn’t drop.
There are footsteps behind him. Clothes rustling. Uneasy breaths.
“Would you… like a hug, Mr. Ashveil?” March asks meekly. “That always helps me when I’m feeling down.”
The first tear falls.
“You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to,” Dan Heng adds quietly. “But— I’m sorry, sir, we’re not leaving.”
“The Nameless don’t leave friends behind!” Stelle declares.
“Will you let us help you?” Sunday asks softly.
The second, third, fourth tears fall in quick succession, and then Ashveil loses count. He bows his head so that the shadow of his hat slips over his face. He bites his lip bloody to keep any embarrassing sounds from escaping.
He is meant to be a reliable guardian. That is the role he must play: an older figure who they can look up to. Even though it’s a disguise that he sheds every time he comes home, he doesn’t want to take it away from them. He doesn’t want them to know that it’s a lie.
If he were to break now, what would they think?
Most likely, they’d finally understand that both Ashveil and La Mancha are nothing more than monikers. They are only masks. It’s just that the latter shattered into a million pieces and the former is made of cheap plastic.
Would it be okay if they knew?
Sunday’s grip shifts, his fingers pulling away to make way for his other hand. He clasps Ashveil’s wrist firmer now, thumbs pressed against his pulse point. He could use telepathy like all Halovians can, but instead he’s doing this—a gentle insistence without words, a grip that keeps Ashveil anchored, refusing to let him sink.
Before he can regain his composure, a body collides into his side. It catches him by such surprise that half of a sob breaks through his lips and he nearly loses his balance if not for Sunday keeping him steady.
As arms wrap around him, decisive and Stellaron-warm, his breath trembles and he can do nothing but lean towards it, head tilting forward so he can rest his chin on top of gray hair. Stelle says nothing as his tears fall onto her. She only hums something short and sweet, a lullaby with no lyrics.
Another pair of arms embraces him on his other side, slower, less certain, and with it there is the cool, smoky scent of the Remembrance. When he curls an arm around March’s shoulders, she squeezes him tight, then loosens her grip into something gentler.
She must have remembered what I said last time, he thinks. He holds her and Stelle tighter, yanking Sunday into the hug in the process.
Sunday makes a startled noise before he’s enveloped by what is likely March’s other arm. She snickers and pulls him in closer. His wings flutter, smacking Ashveil’s ear, before he folds them away with an unintelligible mumble.
“Come on, Dan Heng, get over here!” Stelle calls, her voice vibrating under Ashveil’s chin. “Your hugs are the best. You wouldn’t want Mr. Ashveil to miss out, would you?”
“Mr. Ashveil’s hugs are pretty good, too, you know~” March adds, voice lilting as if she were coaxing a cat over with a piece of fish.
“Top three, I’d say,” Stelle agrees with a thoughtful hum.
Dan Heng laughs, quiet and shy. “I don’t want to overwhelm him.”
Ashveil clicks his tongue. He picks up his head to glare at Dan Heng through his tears. “Get your Vidyadhara tail over here or so help me Lan.”
Giggles buzz around him, thrumming through all the bodies pressed against him. When Dan Heng finally walks over, ears flushed pink and eyes flicking back and forth unsurely, it feels as though the entire group tilts towards him. Ashveil can’t see who pulls him in, but somehow, he is subsumed into the group hug with a laugh so soft that Ashveil almost misses it.
They’re all so warm that it’s like sitting right in front of a blazing fire. Ashveil is already sweating, and with the tears, he is such a mess that he doesn’t even want to think about what he looks like. Unmasked, unarmored, unmoored, he feels as though he’s been cracked open. Even when his legs shake and his knees buckle, the group only sways as they catch him. They laugh and call him clumsy and oh—
Maybe his cubs aren’t the only clumsy ones.