Chapter Text
He needed to be gone in six hours. Camus had received the phone call early that evening, just after dinner. His mission with Quartet Night was finished. He was strong enough as a vocalist now to perform his duties for the Queen on his own. His voice alone would sustain her-- there was no need for him to be away, and therefore, he was to return. It was impractical for the Baron of the Silk Palace to be absent when it was unnecessary.
For the first few months, when he had first arrived in Japan, he had wanted nothing more than to go home. He wanted to get out, to return to his empty house, to the empty halls of the Silk Palace, to be alone. Kotobuki and Kurosaki were too loud, and it was better to be alone than to become attached. He had never needed others to get by. All he needed was solitude and to remember his duty, to bear his purpose in mind.
But as he lay beside Ai, hand trailing over his cheek, pressing his lips lazily to his, the only thing he feared was the loneliness he knew he would be faced with. That, and the knowledge that the same pain would soon beset Ai. Those bright eyes looked to him so sweetly, and his body pressed into his. Camus rolled over, resting on his back, and felt Ai move over him, laying his head on his chest. He was so pretty like this, hair falling down to frame his face, his eyes emitting a soft glow in the dark of the room.
Camus rested his hand on the small of Ai’s back, pressing the small charger into its port. They had done this so many times, every night for the last five years. Sure, Ai could do this himself. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t reach. It wasn’t as if he was unable to perform such a simple task. Ai was so capable, such an anchor. But Camus found himself wondering, who would do that without him there?
Camus’s fingers moved through Ai’s hair. Would he be alright without him? Ai was so strong. He could do anything. But would he be okay? Those sweet eyes watched him, and Camus held him close, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. He had never thought too hard about these moments, about the joy he felt when he kissed Ai, having avoided considering the idea of someday having their last.
“One more kiss before you fall asleep,” Camus said, a smile on his lips as he leaned down. Ai met him halfway, and Camus allowed himself to take just a moment to revel in the moment. He had never expected to be happy here. He had never expected to be happy at all. Moving through life alone, without desires of his own, had allowed him to live knowing that he wouldn’t have to experience loss and hurt anymore. But he had never been able to feel this kind of love, this kind of exhilaration.
Camus kissed him deeper, hand tangled in Ai’s hair. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to let go of this moment. But he pulled himself away, tearing himself out of the moment. Ai shouldn’t be suspicious. He should enjoy this. If Camus could leave this last kiss as a precious memory, it was everything Ai deserved.
Ai curled closer to him, letting out a pleased sigh. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice so soft, so gentle. He was close to sleep. Camus felt as if his heart were shattering. That was the last time he would hear those words.
“I love you, too.” He kissed Ai’s hair once more. He was being too needy, too desperate. But so long as he kept his composure, Ai would just think he was feeling particularly affectionate after a busy day. He didn’t question it. He just lay steady on Camus’s chest, and slowly, his breathing slowed to a stop. It felt like it wasn’t so long ago that Camus had panicked, terrified of that halt in such a basic human function. Now, it was a comfort, to know Ai had fallen asleep.
After a few long minutes that he wished could last longer, Camus pulled himself out from under the man, making sure to pull the covers over him. At the foot of the bed, Alexander tilted his head, and Camus pressed a finger to his lips. Ai was a heavy sleeper. Unless it was an emergency, he wouldn’t wake while charging, but a loud bark would certainly rouse him.
There wasn’t much time. He pulled together a bag, shoveling in the small folder of documents he had always kept at the ready in case of this exact scenario, a few pieces of clothing, and the other small things scattered about the room. As he reached the vanity, he paused. Setting in a drawer was a delicate hair clip, adorned with silver fauna and miniscule diamonds. It had been a gift to Ai from a fan years ago-- he hadn’t intended to keep it, but changed his mind when Camus said it was pretty. He reached inside the drawer, clipping it into his own tied up hair. Ai wouldn’t notice it missing for a long time.
There was one absence he would be aware of, though. Ai always woke before him. He swallowed, pulling a piece of paper from his desk. There was no time for him to explain everything, for him to profess his emotions, to apologize. All he could do was scribble a quick explanation. He was going home, as they always knew he would, and he wasn’t going to return. It didn’t make sense for him to be here anymore.
He folded the paper, setting it on the bedside table, and looked over the still form on the bed. Alexander huffed as he rested his chin on Ai’s leg, looking to Camus as if questioning whether this was the right choice. If the dog could have understood, Camus would have reminded him that there was no choice. His Queen came first. She had to. No matter how much he wanted to stay there, to crawl back into bed, to hold Ai close to him and never let him go, it wasn’t an option. All he could do was place his hand on the man’s forehead, brushing aside a stray hair. There was a piece of him that hoped Ai would wake up, hoped he would find some sort of logical solution to this problem. But he was grateful that the man just slept. It would hurt less if he just left, if he didn’t pain him with buildup.
Camus stepped away, patting his leg. Alexander rose, following at his side. Part of him wondered if he should leave Alexander there to offer Ai some comfort, but Camus was, deep down, a selfish man. In Permafrost, there would be no one there for him. Ai had Quartet Night. He had Ren and his annoying flirtation. He had Syo and that irritating macho attitude. He had Natsuki and the thousand crushing hugs that no one ever asked for. Camus needed Alexander more.
With one last look toward the sleeping form of the man that he loved, Camus left.
Camus felt a chill he hadn’t experienced in some time. The hallways of his sprawling accommodations within the Silk Palace were empty. Everywhere was empty. Those who knew their place avoided him or bowed without speaking when he passed by. He was treated with the respect that he had been so furious not to receive while in Japan. Everything he desired was at his fingertips. A servant was always near enough to be summoned, breakfast always prepared, coffee always on hand. He had all that he required, all that he had missed when he was away.
As he sipped his coffee, he frowned. It was bitter, nothing like the sweet concoctions he had grown used to. It was to be expected-- sugar was a rarity in Permafrost. He sat it down, and exited. As much as he might dislike a headache from a lack of caffeine, he refused to drink this drivel. He didn’t even look at the plate of food that had been left at the table for him. It wouldn’t have nearly the amount of flavor that he was now accustomed to.
Alexander paced before him, finally taking a seat at a door near the hall and letting out a small whine. It was early in the morning, about the time that Ai would wake up.
“He’s not coming to see you, Alexander,” Camus said, pointing away from the door. The dog followed the signal, walking away with a huff. Camus took a seat on the sofa, patting the space beside him. The dog hesitated, tilting his head. Before they left, he had never been allowed on the furniture. That had only been allowed in Japan. At Camus’s insistence, he hopped up, looking unsure. Camus wrapped his arms around him. “I miss him, too. But we have to get used to this. We were fine before, just the two of us. We’ll be alright again. We just have to adjust.”
It had been three days. Four, maybe. The jet lag made it a bit difficult to keep track of the hours. He should have been adjusted by now. He should have been fine. Before, he could travel without any lag, could move between activities without needing any time to make himself comfortable. He just performed his duties, as he was expected to, without complaint. It wasn’t like him to be so hung up on anything.
“We have a job to do,” he reminded Alexander as he stood, moving toward his room. It was his voice and his voice alone that would grant the Queen her strength, the strength that would keep Permafrost running smoothly. He pulled his hair back, placing a small, shimmering clip in it.
For all that he had tried to force thoughts of Ai from his mind, he was doing a terrible job at it. There were small reminders everywhere. The clothing he had unpacked, every piece contained a memory. Ai had once complimented the way he wore his hair up, prompting him to pull the hair from his face more often. The purple collar around Alexander’s neck had been his doing. As Camus exited his apartment, walking down the path that would lead to the Queen’s chamber, the snow came down in heavy flurries.
Just a few weeks ago, he and Ai had walked side by side as the first flakes of the season came down. Ai had pulled him off the sidewalk, tugging him into an alleyway, away from view. You’re supposed to kiss when you see the first snowfall . It was always snowing here. There was no real beginning or end to it. No chance to steal a pair of soft lips for just a moment, tucked away from the eyes of passersby, a quiet celebration of such a simple change in the weather.
Ai wasn’t there at all.
He never would be.
Camus could pretend that it was the cold stinging against his face that made his eyes so damp. He had to. He had to do all he could to pretend that none of that had ever happened, that he was unaffected by the last five years. He had to accept the crushing weight on his chest in the place where he used to hold Ai to him. He had to accept that this was his life. It always had been. This was where Camus was meant to be. It was what he was born and trained for. He wasn’t meant to love or to be loved. He was meant to serve. Nothing else.
In the Queen’s chamber, presented with a cello and his only purpose, his voice cracked. The snow raging outside reminded him of Ai. The feeling of a song leaving his lips reminded him of Ai. The knowledge that he would never see him again, that he would never see anyone who cared for him again as he and Ranmaru and Reiji had, it made his chest heave and his throat tighten. In all his years in the Queen’s service, he had never cried in front of her. Not when injured by battle, not when his mother cast him aside, not when he’d spent a decade in near isolation just to give himself to her.
“Camus, I may have judged you incorrectly. If you cannot complete your duty while in Permafrost--”
“Your Majesty, I can perform my duties. Please allow me another chance.” He blinked, staring down at the bow in his hands. He had to do this. Permafrost depended on his voice. To use it was an honor. He should be behaving himself, acting properly. To show weakness here, of all places, was pathetic. “Allow me to sing for you.” He was pathetic. His mother had been right. He was a disgrace. He shouldn’t have been allowed to take up this duty. He wasn’t worthy of it.
“I will not. In your current state, you are unable to sing properly. Tell me what has happened to you.”
A knot formed in the pit of Camus’s stomach. He had never lied to her, but the guilt that came with the truth made him feel ill. Still, the words came out. “I believe I’ve fallen in love.” He took a breath. “I didn’t intend for this to happen. I promise that I will forget. My duties here, to you, come first. I just… may need some time to collect myself. I am sorry.”
“Camus. Forget about duty for a moment. What is it that you want?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Mikaze.” He turned his head away. “I never enjoyed performing until I shared a stage with him. With Quartet Night, my own voice is stronger.” It was shameful to say this. To admit that the others made him better, to confess that he needed other people, it was disgraceful. His title didn’t call for collaboration. It demanded dedication to the crown. To have others by his side was a sign that he wasn’t strong enough to do his job on his own. He was a wretched excuse for nobility. “I will work harder to be strong on my own, as I was before.”
The Queen stepped forward, long white trains of silk following behind her. Thin fingers cupped Camus’s chin, forcing his gaze upward to meet hers. “You are not weak for needing support. You’ve grown so much from it. If I had known how it would affect you, I would not have asked you here. It is convenient to have you on hand, but not if you are so distraught that you are unable to perform.” Her hand pressed against his hair, patting his head as if he were a child. “You are to return to Japan. I would rather you have the strength you need for your duties at a distance than see you close but so upset that you’re useless to me.” There was no malice in her voice, but the words made him wince.
“Your Majesty…”
“Go. Before I change my mind and my desire to keep you for myself gets the better of me.” She smiled when she spoke, soft, kind. When it was only the two of them, she always radiated such a warmth.
Camus rose, and bowed low. “Thank you, Your Majesty. For your understanding.”
“I was in love once, too, my son. If the opportunity to feel so deeply has been given to you, you would be a fool to reject that.” The look in her eyes was so kind, so delicate. “Now leave. You have a life to live. Do so fully.”
Camus was certain he had never run faster than in the moments spent sprinting between the cab and the apartment door. The stairways felt so cramped, stifling, but it was faster than the elevator. He was so close to home. He’d spent the hours on the plane thinking of nothing but this moment. Would Ai be angry at him? Had he found some sort of calibration that allowed him to move on more easily than Camus could? Camus pushed the idea aside as he retrieved his key, pressing it into the door.
It wasn’t Ai that he first saw. Ranmaru stood in the kitchen, his head turned toward the doorway. His eyes widened, and Camus was furious at himself for being so grateful when the man smiled.
“Ran-Ran? I heard the door. Did you invite--” the bright voice from the hall came to a stop mid-sentence. His deep brown eyes were wide, his body frozen for just a moment before he came barreling forward, crashing into Camus hard enough to send him back a step. “You came home.”
Camus usually shoved the man away when he did this, but he found himself pulling his arms around the man. For all the years he had spent doing his best not to trust Reiji, to think of him as nothing more than a pawn to achieve his goals, he had failed. “Yeah. I’m home.” As he pulled back, he asked, “Where’s Mikaze?”
Reiji frowned and stepped aside, gesturing down the hallway. “Your room. He’s… He’s trying so hard. But he spends a lot of time in there.”
Camus nodded, setting his bag down beside him before he moved to the door, knocking once before he entered. Ai sat, legs crossed, looking over a pile of sheet music with a pen in hand, headphones over his ears. He didn’t look up-- with the way Camus could hear music emitting from the headphones, he was certain the man hadn’t heard him enter. For just a moment, he took in the sight. He couldn’t quite see Ai’s face from this angle, but he knew it was likely soft, focused on the papers before him. A thick blue cardigan was wrapped around his shoulders, his free hand tangling in the fabric.
Camus stepped forward, unable to restrain himself any longer and he reached out, pulling the headphone away. Ai turned, brow narrowed, face scrunched as if he were about to argue, but the look quickly faltered.
“Camus.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ai shook his head, hand moving to cup Camus’s cheek. His touch was so tender, as if testing whether or not the man who stood before him was real. Camus couldn’t help but let out a small, quiet laugh as Ai looked him over. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”
“I’m sorry.” He leaned into the contact from Ai’s palm, gripping the man’s free hand in both of his. “I thought the same.” He pulled Ai’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “I… I didn’t think that I would be able to come home.” He hated the way his voice shook. It was unbecoming.
“You didn’t say goodbye.”
The hurt in his voice made Camus turn his head away. Had he hurt Ai so much that he sounded like that? As much as he had missed Ai, had Ai felt that emptiness just as strongly. “I thought it would hurt you more to know in advance. I’m sorry, Ai.” He kissed his hand once more. He wanted to kiss him a thousand times over, press his lips against every inch of him, but he had made a mistake. He didn’t deserve that honor.
“I forgive you. I understand.” Ai met his eyes. “How long can you stay?”
Camus blinked. He didn’t have the right answer. He hadn’t asked. You have a life to live. Do so fully. “I will do everything within my power to stay forever. As long as I’m able, I’ll be by your side. You are my priority. As long as I’ve lived, I have never cherished anything the way I cherish you.” If it meant forsaking his title, if it meant never returning to his home country, if it meant that he would disappoint his Queen, so be it. He had never felt an ache the way he had during those long days when he had believed he would never see Ai again.
“Promise me you won’t leave without telling me again. I don’t want to feel like that again.”
Camus nodded. “I promise.” He had sworn ages to be with Ai through all of the new, developing emotions he would feel, to be there even when his feelings were frustrating or complicated. Camus had broken that when he left, and he couldn’t allow it to happen again. “I give myself to you.”
“Good.” Ai nodded, his cheeks damp and expression difficult to read. “Good,” he repeated.
“Ai…” Camus couldn’t stand to see the tears in his eyes. Before he could say anything else, Ai’s lips were on his, the man’s arms pulled around him. Camus was grateful for it, grateful to have him there, to have the weight of Ai in his arms once more. The emptiness that had rested inside his chest felt as if it were being filled once more.
Camus had spent the past five years thinking of Permafrost his real life, of the cold chill there as a home he was meant to return to. But with Ai pressed against his chest, music still blaring from abandoned headphones, lips on his, hands grasping for whatever they could reach, he knew. This was his life. Ai was his life. Whether he was deserving of this kind of love, of this kind of forgiveness, he was unsure. But he would spend every waking moment trying to be worthy. That, he could promise.