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There is something different in Inaho's eyes when he enters the cell. Slaine eases up from the bed and watches the other sink into the chair as if an anchor is holding him to the ground. "Orange?" he says, taking the seat opposite, watching him. Then he sighs, leans back, arches a pale brow. "Is this about the announcement?" He sees the shift in the other's shoulders and he let out another long sigh. "What? What punishment do they have in store for you? Are they demanding I live with you?" Eyes widen, a smirk at his lips. "Wouldn't that be awf-"
"They won't listen."
Slaine stops, expression shifts, fractures. "Huh?"
"They won't listen. I can't stop it."
Swipes a hand through his messy hair, blinks and sinks like a rock. "I told you they wouldn't." His voice is weak, trembling as he looks down at the pallor of his hands. "So, I guess this is it." He smiles that heartbreaking smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Inaho's head raises and Slaine meets his remaining eye with strength he doesn't feel within the stuttering of his horrible heart.
There is a flicker of anger in the other's maroon eye before it settles back to neutrality. "We have until tomorrow." Curt, to the point. Slaine laughs because he'll miss it. It's hollow and it catches on the inside of his throat, but he lets it out because if he doesn't, he'll cry.
"Chess?" says Slaine and there is a quirk to his lips (it trembles), leaning over the table to jab Inaho's shoulder. He wants to ease the tension in the air, to erase that far away glaze laying across the other's eye. Normality; he wants normality for the last few hours of his life. Heavens above. His eyes scramble, trying to find the stretch of floor where he can sometimes see the sun. It's there, bloody red against the floor. Soon, he thinks, breath catching. Soon- He cuts off the thoughts and focuses on Inaho as the other rises and retrieves the chess board. "I'll beat you this time," says Slaine with false vigor.
"You haven't won a game since we started," reminds Inaho and Slaine huffs. It's true and there's no malicious intent behind the words the other boy speaks. It is merely fact. In the two years Slaine has been a prisoner here, he has never won a game of chess against Inaho. In the beginning, he didn't understand the game having never played. Slowly, that changed, and he tried harder, finding the challenge in the movements and wishing to actually beat the other. He's never managed it.
He doesn't want to win today. That would be different; abnormal.
The pieces clink against the board as they play. Otherwise the cell is silent, save their breathing. Then, he sees it, catches on and pauses; puts his piece down. "Inaho."
"Hm?"
"Don't let me win." Their eyes meet; cyan and burgundy. Slaine is frowning, Inaho is straight -faced but Slaine can see past the mask, see the wheels moving. It's easy now, to see through Inaho and sometimes he wonders how he never could before. Still, he is no mind reader.
"You already won."
The words bury in his heart, head falls forward after a moment of suspension. His fists clench and he breaths out shakily. He finishes the game, letting the words continue to pierce him over and over. He wins. There is no victory, so they clean it up and return to the table. Slaine clasps his hands and stares, Inaho is equally as silent.
"When do you go to Mars?" asks the criminal to fill the silence.
"Next month," replies the hero.
The teen nods, looks at his long fingers curling together. He squeezes, and his breath strangles, comes out heavy. "Will you be there? When-" He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to.
"Yes." The answer is instantaneous. There is no pause, no beat.
A guard comes to the door, taps his watch. "Three minutes, Kaizuka." He's gone again, heels clicking on the cold stone floor. Slaine swallows, stares at his hands and closes his eyes. This will be his last night.
"Slaine."
He looks up.
"I'll be there."
His heart stops. That one eye is suspiciously misty.... Is Inaho- Lurching from his chair, Slaine's arms wrap around the other's shoulders, his face falling to press into Inaho's neck. "Thank you," he breathes out past the rising tide of his emotions. He doesn't know what he's thanking him for. Maybe it's because he knows when he dies there will be a face out there that is not jeering. Maybe it's for all that Inaho has done, all the time they have shared in these iron walls. Maybe it's for trying to stop the inevitable.
He fights not to break when he feels arms slide around him in return. Holding on tight, Slaine tries to breathe, tries to be strong for Inaho who is always strong. They part, and it is too soon, Slaine steps back and blinks quickly.
"Good night, Slaine Troyard." It sounds like farewell. No! Not yet! Slaine's not ready.
"Wait!" he blurts, reaching out, cold fingers closing around Inaho's wrist. The other turns to look at him. That eye is closer to breaking now, he can see the mist. His own eyes fill and his lip trembles. "Here-" He reaches around the back of his neck and unhooks the pendant, holds it out.
"For Seylum?"
"Wha- No." A soft, weak and disbelieving laugh. "For you."
Inaho looks at it, swinging faintly and twined through Slaine's fingers. Lips turn up into his rare smiles and Slaine steps forward, taking it as permission, looping it around Inaho's neck. He smiles back, tilts his chin up.
"Good night, Inaho Kaizuka." A one-armed hug before they part for the final time. It leaves Slaine breathless and staying composed is a harder struggle than before. He manages it and watches Inaho go, watches his former enemy, his friend, leave the cell and pause. Don't look back, pleads Slaine softly.
He doesn't. He leaves.
When he's alone, he stands in the center of the room and he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes briefly. He does not cry, simply sinks to the ground and stares up at the ceiling, decorated in tiny little florescent stars that do little to illuminate the room when the lights go out, but he likes them. They remind him of the sky, of the stars he'll never see again. Now, he cries; silent tears burning down his cheeks and vanishing into his hair line.
They come for him the next morning, find him curled on the ground where he fell asleep. His eyes open when the cell does and they step inside. "Get dressed," one snaps, the other says nothing, frown creasing. They leave him for the moment and he stares at the reds sitting on the table. He drags himself from the ground, steps to the edge of where they played chess and presses his finger tips to the cloth. A heavy exhale falls from his lips and his eyes squeeze shut. It's the same, the very same he wore before.
The ghosts settle on his shoulders with the golden epaulets of the red jacket. His fingers do not shake as he does up the buttons and straightens the collar. He is Slaine Saazbaum Troyard. He is a criminal of war and he is sentenced to death for his crimes against Earth and his treachery against the Versian empress, Asseylum Vers Allusia. He is her would be assassin. He is her traitor, he is her devil. This is his fate, and he deserves it.
He owns his guilt and he wears it on his sleeve as the guards take either side of him, leading him from the cell after shackling his wrists together. A silent goodbye is passed between the boy and his cage and a low smile flickers on his lips. In a strange way, he will miss it; miss all of this.
It's not until he starts walking, guards' hands at his elbows and chains jingling, that it truly hits him. He's being herded to his death, like a pig to slaughter. His eyes close, he stumbles. The guard to his right tightens his hold, says a word but it doesn't sink in because all he can think is: I don't want to die. He wants the coldness of his cell and the warmth of Inaho's rare smile. He wants the irritation at losing another chess game and he wants that rock-hard mattress he hates. He wants the little stars on his ceiling and the dreams of the outdoors. He does not want to die. It's this fact that finally shakes him to his core.
The sob chokes up from his throat, tears a waterfall down his cheeks. Pleading, his thoughts are pleading. Isn't there another way? There must be another way! He will repent! He will fall upon his knees and beg every god there is for their forgiveness, to find the good in him. His sins can be forgiven, can't they? For the blame on his shoulders is not all his to bear! It was not he who plotted the assassination. It is - Can he not change this?
He does not allow himself the weakness as they enter the lower level. As they push him into the back of the vehicle, he sniffs up his melancholy and tilts his chin up. He will be their villain. He will be the antagonist they wish to see when they look upon the executioner's stage.
"How?" he asks.
"What?" The voice is sharp.
He speaks up, "How will they do it?"
"You mean kill you?"
He flinches. "Yes."
"They're going to shoot you, right through the noggin." A predatory grin in the mirror, a pointer finger pressed to a temple. Eyes glint, anger shimmering within them and he knows. Someone they knew must have died in the war. This man has been waiting for this day since the world was lied to. Waiting to see the witch hang.
Slaine leans his head against the window and wishes he could pull it down, wishes he could feel the air rushing through his hair. The sea is outside his window, he can see the waves rushing in and out, lapping at the shore. He yearns to smell the salt, to feel the sand beneath his toes and he nearly whines in his desperation for the outside, but he holds it in. That too is weakness and he must not be weak; must meet his fate with his chin up and his eyes clear.
Shadows pass over the water and his heart leaps. He cannot see them, but he closes his eyes and he can imagine their white wings, beaks open to allow a caw to exit. Have you seen the birds, Princess? Tell me Klancain and Inaho have shown you the birds... Have given you the life I cannot. His breath fogs the glass when he let it out, chest burning in need. Please take care of one another, my friends. He hopes she will find peace when he is no longer in this world to burden her.
Finally, the car stops. They pull Slaine out and for the first time in two years he feels the wind. His lips part and his eyes close, breathing in the clean air. It ruffles through his hair and he nearly weeps. The sun presses in and kisses his pale skin, warms his cold fingers and attempts to thaw the ice he's been building up in his chest. Overhead, he hears them, the seagulls and his eyes snap open. They're beautiful, wheezes the slipping thoughts, hands roughly moving him towards the crowd he can hear.
Suddenly, the world he longed for is forgotten.
Pressing in on all sides are angry faces, shouts rising above in a grotesque cacophony. Words meet his ears, threats and insults and each one is a barb through his heart. But they are words he has said to himself every night for the past two years. Traitor. Killer. Liar. Criminal. He is breathless, and his cheeks are wet by the time he reaches the stage. They are an angry mob and they hate him, hate the blood red of his jacket and the coldness he tried to put forth while fighting down the childish glee that had rose up only to be snuffed out. They force him to his knees, and they collide with the ground, sending shocks of pain up his legs. He gasps, eyes shooting up to search the angry faces.
He must be here. He has to be here. He said he would be here.
Breaking. He's breaking and suffocating, everything is shaking. He can't do this. This isn't right. He's - No. His gaze finds Inaho's. On the edge of the crowd, he stands restrained with a fire in his eye.
Oh, Orange. Even you are not strong enough to stop fate. He shoulders his regrets and he dries his tears, the last of them dripping forlornly off his chin. He looks up at the sky, at the perfect round sun overhead and the puffy clouds rolling lazily across it. Behind him they lay his crimes bear and the crowd melts away. He focuses only on the spring breeze and closes his eyes as they press the cold muzzle of the gun to his temple.
He smiles.