Work Text:
Length: 15:44 (with music), 15:05 (no music)
MP3 download: right click to download from archive.org | from mediafire | no music version
Saori dies.
Saori dies and he can do nothing.
Every time Kōga closes his eyes, Saori dies. Each time is different. Sometimes he is back on that beach, and Saori disappears into the folds of Ares’ terrible cosmo. Sometimes she is pierced by a golden arrow and he watches life slowly bleed out of her. Sometimes the dreams taste different, like they belong to someone else, like stories more than memories.
It’s easier to trust Yuna during the day, to believe Saori is still alive, that she is not yet out of reach. But at night, in the silence of their dorms, Kōga is afraid.
After his aborted flight from Palestra, though, things get a bit better. Whenever the nightmares threaten to overwhelm him, a gentle cosmo envelops him, soothing. It feels different from anything he’s felt before, but there is something… it reminds him of how Saori used to ruffle his hair, and of the moments of quiet when Shaina would be less gruff and ask if he was alright. It feels like family, and yet it doesn’t. Kōga tries to focus on it, to follow that distant light creeping into his dreams, but he never can, and as the nightmares recede, he falls back into a peaceful sleep. In the morning, he remembers nothing but a vague sensation of warmth.
Having so many people his own age around is still strange, but he is almost starting to like it. Or at least to like some of them.
“Good morning,” he tells Sōma around a yawn. He feels more rested than he has been since he saw Saori get taken and Shaina beaten.
Sōma, it turns out, is not a morning person. He’s just not a person before he’s drunk some of his gross, bitter coffee, so Kōga isn’t really bothered by the other’s lack of response.
Once they are both on their way to class, Yuna catches up with them, but Kōga isn’t really following the conversation anymore. He is wondering about Ryūhō. They don’t have all the same classes, but he finds himself looking forward to lunch so he can check up on him. He’s been looking especially pale. And, well, if Kōga already misses talking to him, no one has to know. He feels the telltale warmth of a blush creeping up his neck and buries his face into his notebook. Yuna, diligent and focused, doesn’t seem to notice, but Sōma shots him a curious look.
He doesn’t have the time to ask, though, because the teacher calls on him.
By the time lunch rolls around, Kōga’s head feels like it’s been filled with rocks, all rattling around with every step he takes.
“I’ll never catch up with everything,” he whines, then braces himself for a scolding. For a moment, he has forgotten Shaina isn’t there with him and he finds himself missing her, despite everything.
“Don’t worry,” Sōma says, “Everyone struggles at first. Hey!” He says, noticing Ryūhō sitting at one of the tables, and running up to him.
They all end up sitting together - attracting more or less well-hidden stares from many of the other pupils. Between the fame of the Pegasus cloth and Yuna’s renunciation of the mask, they are at the centre of quite a bit of gossip. Not to mention how popular Ryūhō is.
A very small boy stops by their table, almost jumping up and down in excitement.
“Ryūhō! Look, look!” And he opens up his hand, palm up. A tiny spark of cosmo flares up and there’s a sound like a miniature thunder. Ryūhō’s glass shatters in his hand and the boy’s face falls. “Sorry, sorry! I’m so sorry!”
But Ryūhō is laughing and petting the boy’s head. “Don’t worry about that. I’m glad you found your element.”
“It was all thanks to your help! Meditating with you helped me so much! Thank you!” He gives a quick little bow and scampers away.
Sōma smiles, then elbows Kōga and stage whispers: “Genki is half ready to hand over the school to him the moment he asks. Ryūhō is an excellent teacher.”
“I know that, he helped me too.”
But Ryūhō doesn’t seem to be paying attention, barely picking at his food.
Sōma frowns. “Aren’t you going to protest that? You always say teaching isn’t your calling.”
“Mh,” Ryūhō nods, gaze lost into the distance.
Sōma turns to Kōga and shrugs, making a “what can I do?” gesture. Well, Kōga surely doesn’t know.
He clutches the cloth stone on his neck, trying to sort out his feelings, and Sōma mistakes that for worry about their afternoon lessons.
“Come on, you’re getting the hang of it, last time you managed to get most parts of your cloth out, right?”
Grateful for the unwavering support the other boy has offered him since they met, Kōga nods and doesn’t correct his assumptions.
In the large training hall, the teacher’s voice echoes over the din of attacks and muttered curses, shouting instructions in quick sequence.
As they’re going over basic techniques, for the first time Ryūhō can’t call the parts of his cloth as soon as the teacher gives the word. He still completes the exercise, but there is a minute lag, as if he is not paying attention. Or he’s too tired to do so.
It’s only because Kōga has been watching him closely (worried, not staring, not at all mesmerised by the way dark hair framed that face, curls almost falling into wide blue eyes) that he notices the slightest falter and is ready to catch Ryūhō before he hits the floor.
“Kōga!” The teacher bellows, “Take Ryūhō to the infirmary.”
He cradles the unconscious boy to his chest and carries him away from the training room as the other kids politely avert their eyes. He is so light in his arms, and Kōga’s heart clenches with worry. What could have caused this? Ryūhō had said he was not too healthy, but was this normal for him?
After depositing Ryūhō on the infirmary bed, Kōga should have gone back to class. In the privacy of his own mind, he can admit just how much he needs the practice. And yet he can’t leave Ryūhō.
He reaches for his hand and holds it. It’s cold, but after a moment Ryūhō’s fingers tangle in his.
His eyes open slowly and focus on him. “Hi, Kōga.”
“You scared me,” Kōga blurts out.
“It happens,” Ryūhō says, looking apologetic, “You shouldn’t worry.”
“I’m sorry, you must not like having people fuss over you so much.”
Ryūhō smiles up at him. “I don’t mind it, if it’s you.”
Kōga is sure he’s blushing darker than his hair. He puts a hand to the back of his neck in a nervous gesture and looks away. His other hand is still holding Ryūhō’s.
“I just don’t like missing classes.”
“It was all stuff you could do already anyway,” Kōga protests, “You don’t even need most of them.”
All he gets in response is a huge yawn.
“Did you not sleep well?” Kōga asks, wondering if perhaps the other boy has nightmares of his own. He thinks of Saori getting weaker every day, of the worry he’d grown up with and accustomed to. Does Ryūhō worry about his father like that? Does that keep him up at night?
The look he gets in response is strangely intense.
“You should get back to class,” Ryūhō says in lieu of a real answer, and Kōga is smart enough to know he’s being dismissed.
For some reason, it smarts.
That night, the nightmares come back.
As Saori is about to be pierced by a golden dagger and the fear threatens to choke Kōga, something bright steps in as if to chase the vision away. But it’s a fainter light, and Saori still bleeds out on darkened steps while Kōga watches, rooted to the spot and unable to intervene. Still, it gives him time to realise that this is a dream and to try and shake himself awake.
A moment later he’s back in his bed, disconcerted and tired. His eyelids feel heavy with sleep, but he forces them open, trying to rouse himself. Something just happened, and he needs to figure out what.
The thing that’s been holding his nightmares at bay was a cosmo. It’s obvious now, but not less worrying. A stranger tampering with his dreams? He tries to focus, to extend his consciousness like they’d been trying to teach him. That kind of awareness is still hard, and he doesn’t even feel fully awake yet, but suddenly there’s a thread. It’s not physical, but that’s the only name Kōga has for it. He reaches for it with the utmost care, as if he could snuff out that light by holding on too tightly, and follows it.
Distantly, he’s aware of Sōma snoring softly in the bed above his, of his cosmo at rest, together with those of all the other students nearby. The spark calls to him and he silently slips out of the room, as if in a daze. He isn’t afraid, even though maybe he should be.
The corridor is silent and blissfully empty, but Kōga doesn’t have very far to go, only a few doors down from his. It’s another student bedroom, and he hesitates a moment before reaching for the handle. What if he’s wrong and he wakes up some poor unsuspecting kid? How is he going to justify that?
The need to know overpowers everything else, and he pushes the door open.
The room looks exactly like his own - except much tidier. Only one of the two beds is occupied, and Kōga catches the faintest light slowly disappearing around Ryūhō’s sleeping form.
Ryūhō.
Now Kōga really doesn’t want to wake him up, knowing how much he needs his rest. But Ryūhō has apparently been… sleepwalking into his dreams?
Before Kōga is forced to make a decision, Ryūhō turns around, curling on his side, then stiffens and sits up.
“What…” he starts, then sees Kōga. “Oh.”
“Have you been…” Kōga starts, then falters, because he doesn’t know how to ask, or even what to ask.
Ryūhō rubs his eyes and the gesture makes him look so young and soft, nothing like the serious young man he shows the world during the day. He makes a sleepy sound, then pats the space beside him on the bed, inviting Kōga to sit.
“In my nightmares,” Kōga starts again as he goes to sit, then stops at the feeling of the sleep-warm covers, at the nearness of Ryūhō. This close, he can count his eyelashes even in scant moonlight filtering in from the window.
It’s Ryūhō that saves him from having to continue. “You felt so sad,” he tells him, his voice low and even, “And on my first night back I couldn’t sleep. I miss the sound of the waterfall when I’m here. Back home, there’s… it doesn’t matter. Something felt wrong, so I tried to help. Except after that, I kept getting pulled in every time you had a nightmare, even when I was sleeping myself,” he gives a little shrug, looking straight at Kōga, “I thought you knew.”
“Not until tonight. I always fell asleep right after and didn’t remember enough. Isn’t that… dangerous?”
“I worried you might be mad about me snooping on your dreams?”
“I’m only mad you’ve not been sleeping for my sake!”
“It’s not like I could help it, not really.”
“What if I stay here tonight? And I promise you, no more nightmares. You’ll know I’m safe, and I’ll know you’re safe,” Kōga doesn’t know what came over him to suggest that, but he finds that he is once again unable to leave Ryūhō’s side.
Ryūhō turns his head abruptly, dark hair falling over his face to hide his expression, but Kōga catches the ghost of a blush over the other boy’s cheeks before they disappear from view.
“Or I can leave,” he hastens to add, feeling like he’s crossed some invisible boundary and making to stand up, but Ryūhō’s hand on his wrist stops him.
It’s not a gentle grip. Kōga couldn’t free himself if he wanted to - not that he does.
“No. Stay,” Ryūhō whispers.
There is more they need to say to each other, but it can be left for tomorrow. Tiredness overcomes both of them, and they lie down. The process is made a bit awkward by the fact that Ryūhō doesn’t seem intentioned to ever let go of Kōga’s wrist. Kōga is… strangely okay with this development.
The following day, they arrive at breakfast together. Kōga is hyper conscious of their every move. Are they walking closer to each other than they normally do? Did Ryūhō’s hand brush his accidentally or was that on purpose?
Before he can spiral into yet more inane questions, he gets to the table where Sōma and Yuna are sitting.
From behind his coffee mug, Sōma asks: “I thought I’d find you here already, since you were already gone when I woke up. And why are you still wearing-
He stops himself. He looks at Kōga. Then at Ryūhō. Then once again at Kōga.
“You know what? None of my business. There’s still egg and pork congee, if you want. I wouldn’t recommend the buns, they’re always soggy.”
Yuna looks distinctly uncomfortable, like she really doesn’t want to be there. It must be hard to adjust to everyone seeing your expression, Kōga imagines.
Meanwhile, Ryūhō is drinking tea with the serene expression of someone without a care in the world.