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Camus had been trained all his life to notice. From the time he was a child, reading between lines and perceiving the smallest details had been imperative to his survival and to his station. To miss something that might seem miniscule, like a door unlocked when it shouldn’t have been, could bring the palace into peril. To see what others might not had been burned into him by more than a decade of practice.
It had become clear to him within hours of meeting that the other members of Quartet Night were not nearly as perceptive. Camus couldn’t blame them, really. They hadn’t grown up with a sword in hand, balancing the intricacies of high society with the duty of protecting royalty. Even if it was irritating to feel as if the others simply wouldn’t keep up with him or perform to the best of their abilities, it wasn’t their fault for missing things or forgot pieces of their schedule. It was normal. They were only human.
Ai Mikaze, however, was an outlier. The man always seemed to be perfectly on time, never forgetting even the most minor of meetings or the most last minute plan. He was always early to rise and seemed to follow his sleep schedule strictly. Though Camus had never seen inside the man’s private room, he couldn’t help but imagine it lined wall to wall with calendar pages and intense notes on the group’s agenda.
It had only been a few months, but Camus had become used to their little routines, the two of them following the same paths each morning, while Reiji and Ranmaru seemed to bounce around in a comparatively scattered way day to day.
Ai was the first out in the common area, but only by about fifteen minutes. While Camus sat before his mirror, brushing through his hair and running through the day ahead in his mind, Ai would be in the kitchen, preparing coffee that he wouldn’t drink. The man had said he didn’t mind making it, and that it seemed to put everyone in a good mood if it was already prepared when they woke up. It was a sweet gesture, one Reiji was keen to gush about, only to be told that it was only practical. Camus smiled at the thought as he pulled his hair back, tying it up, but forced the expression back down. It was fine to appreciate the man’s logical approach and to enjoy time with him. But allowing himself to feel anything warmer than a content appreciation would only serve to make his duties more difficult. Friendship only got in the way.
When Camus entered the kitchen, Ai turned to him, a cup of fresh coffee in an outstretched hand. “Thank you, Mikaze.” Camus took a sip, and allowed himself to relax as he found a seat on the sofa. Ai had prepared his coffee correctly on his first attempt, a feat so few people had ever managed. Generally, Camus simply prepared his drinks himself-- no one ever did it correctly but him. He would have claimed it was purely by chance, but there was something about Ai Mikaze that said he didn’t leave anything to chance. The deliberate way he carried himself and the intention behind each action was clear.
Ai was different from the others, and while Camus appreciated having someone so level-headed around, it did leave him with an inkling of suspicion. No one remembered things as well as he did. No one picked up on subtleties like him. No one here, at least. In the Queen’s guard, nearly everyone had. In high society, it was essential. Who was this man?
He wasn’t a noble of any sort, Camus was certain. He didn’t seem to blend into the group as naturally as an intelligence agent would try to. Nothing about him tuly added up, and he never seemed all that interested in discussing his own past. Camus eyed him as he sat nearby, scrolling through his phone. He was so difficult to read, but Camus would get to the bottom of this, he was certain.
The days here were often boring. Choreography was easy enough for him to follow after memorizing the dances required of him at formal functions and learning to follow through the steps of sword fighting. To write came without much difficulty, especially with the other three nearby to consult. Meetings were dull and seemed to be of little import compared to the high-stakes conferences he had been summoned to in the Silk Palace. Interviews sought simple answers and quick smiles, nothing more. The work was easy, and that often caused me to be dull. Camus was left with more than enough time to allow his mind to wander.
As they prepared for the evening’s recording session, Camus watched over Ai. A rather long meeting that could have easily been shortened to a few brief minutes of conversation dragged on, and Camus found himself looking to the other man. Even as Reiji and Ranmaru began to appear restless in their seats, Ai sat still, eyes on their speaker. Though that somewhat distant look he often wore was present in his eyes, he was still so seemingly focused. It was uncanny how he sat so patiently, waiting as if the way the time dragged on didn’t phase him in the slightest.
Camus was grateful when the meeting finally ended. The promise of one hour free to do whatever they pleased before they were needed in the studio was a relief. He watched as Reiji pulled Ranmaru by the hand, already off to who knew where. He might have felt bad for the poor bastard, but it took a bit more empathy than he had in him to care about Ranmaru Kurosaki. That just left the pair of them, then. He turned his attention to Ai, leaning and the wall with his phone in hand.
“Mikaze. Do you have plans before the recording?” he asked. The man never seemed to have plans outside of scheduled sessions of online games and meetings with some professor that he seemed to be studying under. Camus had rarely seen him out during their free time, the man always seeming to prefer staying home with a nose in some book or locked into his computer.
“I didn’t schedule anything. I thought you might want company with whatever you would spend the time on.” Ai pocketed his phone, and tilted his head slightly. “People get lonely if they don’t have enough time with others. You should have company when you go out more often.”
Camus did his best to contain a laugh. If Ai was concerned about anyone being lonely, he ought to look to himself first. Of course, there was a part of him inclined to believe this was Ai’s way of saying he was lonely, that he would enjoy the company himself. It was sweet to think. Maybe it didn’t serve Camus’s best interests to think of the man so fondly, but he would allow it, just this once. “I would enjoy that. How do you feel about bubble tea and a walk before we have to be back?” It would be good to calm any lingering nerves with a walk, and Camus was always more than interested in finding the sweetest drink he could.
Ai just nodded, placing his hands in his pockets as he followed Camus out the door, into the chilled autumn air outside. As they walked, Ai was quiet. He never seemed to have all that much to say, not one to start a conversation unless truly bored or with a question that needed answered. There was intent behind everything the man did.
“The cold weather is nice,” Camus said, trying to break the silence. If nothing else, conversation would help him to figure out who this man was. “It reminds me of home.”
“You’re from the Silk Palace,” Ai said. It was a statement, but Camus nodded to confirm. “Why did you come to Japan?”
Camus smiled. He had intended to be the one asking questions, but it seemed Ai had turned it around on him. As long as he could use the conversation, though, that was fine. “I was sent to use my vocal talents abroad. The musical culture is better suited for large audiences here. If I do well, I’ll bring honor to Permafrost.” It wasn’t a lie. But Ai didn’t need to know that he was here to sing, to use his power to support the nation through his voice, to protect the Queen’s power from afar. It was too complicated, and it wasn’t something he really wanted to get out. “What about you? I don’t think you’ve ever told me where you’re from.”
“Tokyo.”
Camus nodded. He was frustratingly vague. It was a way of answering he was perfectly familiar with. He did the same exact thing, but that was because he was hiding something. “You came into this in an unconventional way as well, yes?”
Ai shrugged. “I guess so. I’ve always made music, though.” He sighed. “I was made for it.” His voice was fatter than usual, almost sad. It was the most emotion Camus had heard in it in the time he’d known the man. Made for it. The way he spoke sounded as if he, too, were here out of some kind of duty. Camus didn’t want to press and risk upsetting him. There was no way to get information from him if he irritated the man into ending the conversation, and more than that, Camus didn’t want to see him sad.
“You are well suited to it. You’re very skilled, and you pick up new things easily. It’s admirable.” He did mean it. It was a way to get him to keep talking, but there was truth behind his words. “With how scattered Kurosaki and Kotobuki can be, I’m grateful to have you around.”
Ai nodded. “It’s nice to have you, too. You follow routine and structure. I always know where you are. You just make more sense to me. And you keep up easier.” He tilted his head as Camus stepped forward, opening the door to the building beside them. “I don’t understand why you’re so different from them.”
Camus almost laughed, shaking his head. So Ai had been thinking the same thing about him. It was amusing, but it made him nervous. Camus was well aware of what had caused him to be like this, what had forced him into perfection and routine. It wasn’t something he could say openly, and it certainly might be considered dubious. What had brought Ai to act so similarly? It made him suspicious. The sooner he got to the bottom of this, the better. As they had ordered and moved aside to wait, he eyed the man. What was he hiding? Sure, Camus himself didn’t have any malicious intent, but if Ai was from some sort of agency, there was no telling what he could be doing?
Ai’s face was so difficult to discern as they collected their drinks and exited. He was always difficult to read. Camus kept an eye on them as they walked, watching as he put the straw to his lips. And something changed. His eyes lit up, and he smiled. Had Camus ever seen him smile outside of a photoshoot before? He wasn’t sure.
“Is it that good?” Camus asked, raising a brow.
Ai looked up to him. “I’ve never had boba. I like the texture.” He took another sip, and Camus swore there was almost a bounce in his step. “The feeling of the pearls pulling apart on my teeth. And it’s sweet.”
“We’ll have to get it again soon.” It was difficult for him to pay much attention to subtly prying info from the man when he smiled like that, so impressed by something as plain milk tea with tapioca pearls. Camus was learning nothing. Well, almost nothing. He now knew that Ai enjoyed his tea moderately sweet, and knew exactly the topping he liked. It might not be useful, but he found himself glad to know it nonetheless.
The days off leading up to tour season were few and far between, and that made Camus more grateful when they finally came. The morning had begun easily, like any other, meeting for coffee in the kitchen before moving to the sofa. Ai scrolled through his phone, sitting very near Camus. There was little that Camus had been able to discern from the man since making his resolution to get to the bottom of his motivations. Ai enjoyed playing games with other idols online, and he seemed to have almost weekly lessons with the professor he studied under. Camus still didn’t know what he was studying, and had never actually seen inside his bedroom.
Still, even if he didn’t have much information, he felt as if he knew the man better now. He had finally figured out how to make Ai laugh, a feat that he’d initially thought must be impossible. It had become easier to keep a conversation without panicking that he might let his guard down. Talking with Ai came naturally. Camus may not have been able to explain everything to him, but he could speak freely, comfortably.
While the two of them sat there, Camus was at ease. The apartment was quiet without the other two running around scrambling to get ready. He would never admit it aloud, but it was nice to see how Reiji and Ranmaru had bonded so quickly. Even if the pair could be annoying, and loud, and overzealous, and incredibly frustrating, he found that their resounding laughter around the building had become a comfort.
Too many things had become small sources of joy for Camus. He was meant to focus solely on his mission, to think only of his Queen and her intentions. But, he supposed, there was little harm in enjoying his time here as much as possible. So long as he never became so attached that he would feel any conflict about returning home, he was fine. So long as his Queen was his first priority, there was nothing wrong in having fun.
He turned the page of his book, and looked toward Ai, who was seated so close to him. If he just reached out, if either of them shifted more than a centimeter, they would make contact. That had to be intentional. Months ago, Ai had sat a proper distance away from him. When had he begun moving closer? The man never seemed to do anything without intent. It must have been purposeful.
Slowly, Camus extended his arm, letting it rest around Ai’s shoulders, his hand delicately ghosting over his bicep, touch gentle. Ai didn’t react, continuing to scroll through his phone. He didn’t lean into the touch, and he didn’t pull away. If it weren’t for the quick look toward Camus with an unchanging expression, Camus might have thought the man didn’t feel it at all. He could be content with this, just sitting there, close to him. Ai was warm, a sharp contrast to the shiver that usually ran through Camus. It was nice.
Camus could allow himself a bit of relaxation. If he kept an arm around Ai, that would be alright, right? If he just let himself read with him at his side, there would be no harm done? It wasn’t betraying his mission or his Queen to enjoy the peace of the moment.
In the quiet of the room, Ai stood quite suddenly, and Camus blinked in surprise as his arm was shrugged off and Ai stood before him. “Please don’t touch me anymore,” the man said. There was no anger in his voice, no sign that Camus had upset him, but he swallowed. It felt as if he had been caught making a mistake, as if he were in trouble.
“Mikaze, I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. It wasn’t my intention--”
Ai just shook his head. His eyes were wide, like an animal that had been frightened. Had Camus done that? Without saying anything, he walked off, down the hallway that led to his room. Camus’s stomach twisted. Had he upset him that much?
There was a part of him tempted to follow the man down the hall, to chase after him, to try to talk about this, to get out a proper apology. But as the door to Ai’s room clicked gently shut, Camus sat there, staring down the hall, frozen. The motion hadn’t meant that much to him. It was just a touch. Ai’s rejection shouldn’t have stung. And yet, as Camus blinked toward the hallway, something inside him ached.
Even as the other members of Quartet Night panted heavy breaths, Ai was perfectly composed. Even when they all fell into the sofas and chairs of the green room, he remained poised, sitting delicately. Even if the three of them were drenched in sweat after three hours of performing under the heat of the stage lights, Ai’s skin was perfectly matte, not a hair out of place.
Camus eyed him as Reiji and Ranmaru excused themselves from the room. The last week had been frustrating. Between intense practice sessions, interviews, and travelling, there was little time to rest, and even when they were given the opportunity, Camus couldn’t properly enjoy it. The air in the apartment felt thick. Sharing a hotel room with Ai made Camus nervous. In a perfect world, they could have sat side by side as they always had, enjoying each other’s company while focused on their own independent activities. In a world where Camus hadn’t fucked things up by misreading the situation, the two of them would have been able to relax.
But as he sat there, his breath becoming more stable and the soreness of his muscles setting in, Camus was on edge. After a moment, Ai stood, turning toward the door. In a second, Camus was behind him, his hand gripping Ai’s wrist. The man turned, brow narrowed. He didn’t pull away from Camus’s grip, instead opting to stare at him. “I asked you not to touch me anymore.” The words sent Camus’s heart to his stomach, but he held tight.
“What are you?”
Ai’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open for just a moment. And then he sighed, nodding. “I’ll tell you if you let go of my hand. Please.”
Camus let go immediately. “I’m sorry.”
Ai shook his head. “It’s fine.” As he spoke, he pulled his arm toward him, holding it delicately to his chest. His fingers moved over the place on his wrist where Camus’s hand had been, as if cradling a wound. Camus had messed up again. “I should have expected you to notice something was different about me. You’re different, too.” His tone was even, calm. His head tilted a bit. “I’m an android.”
Camus blinked, balking at him for a moment. And then he laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s very funny, Mikaze.”
Ai’s face fell, and his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
Something in Camus tensed. It wasn’t like Ai to make this sort of joke. But to think that there was something that advanced, that Camus had spent nearly half a year side by side without noticing that anything was strange about him, that was impossible. He supposed, though, that he had noticed something was different about him. That was what had led to this suspicion. It just wasn’t the answer he had expected. “Who else knows?”
“Natsuki, Syo, Shining, and the professor, the man who built me.” Ai sighed, turning away from him. “And you, now.” For a long moment, it was quiet. Camus didn’t know what to say. He had prepared for a thousand outcomes, but not this. “Does this make you dislike me?”
Camus had never heard that kind of sadness in his voice before. He reached out a hand before pulling it back, not wanting to make the mistake of unwantedly touching him again. “Ai…” He swallowed. “Is this personality your own? And your actions?”
Ai nodded. “I’m just like a person. I’m still learning how to handle emotions and interact with people, but so are most humans.”
Camus nodded. “If you are yourself, no matter how you came to be, then I do not dislike you.” It didn’t matter how he had been created, Camus supposed. Ai was who he was, regardless. To hate him for having lived a life he couldn’t control would be hypocritical and cruel.
Ai turned back around, finally facing him properly. His eyes held a shine that Camus had never seen in them before. Not quite wet, but… Christ, he looked so sad. “Do you have questions?”
Camus nodded. “I do. But I suppose it may not be appropriate to ask now. I appreciate that you’ve trusted me enough to share this with me, and I wish to honor your priva--”
“Just ask. I know that’s all just what people say to be polite.”
Camus was caught off guard, but he nodded again, smoothing his jacket. There were plenty of questions on his mind. Why had he been created? Why weren’t his bandmates told? Who had built him? But only one was clear enough in his mind to speak aloud. “Is this why I can’t touch you? Or… am I the problem?”
Ai looked at him, that cool, analytical gaze he always gave when he was trying to read someone. “I didn’t realize that was weighing so heavily on you,” he said, his voice soft. His eyes darted toward the ground for a moment. “I told you I’m still learning how to handle emotions. Romantic feelings are the most difficult. And when I think too much and don’t understand something, I overheat.” He paused. “I find that when you touch me, I process things too quickly and not enough at the same time, and it makes my temperature increase.” Ai reached out a hand, holding it just above Camus’s. “It isn’t that it doesn’t make me happy. I just get overwhelmed, and the heat can damage my system.”
Camus held his hand just below Ai’s, just centimeters separating them. “I can regulate temperature. Mostly cooling. It’s something I was taught in Permafrost. If it helps.” He swallowed. Since when was he so nervous? He reached his hand up, slowly, the time seeming to drag on forever. As his hand met Ai’s warm skin, he cooled it. Working with ice was second nature. After a moment, Ai squeezed his hand, interlocking their fingers before looking up.
“That does help.” His eyes were wide, glimmering with a light that always seemed to shine when he found something new to be fascinated by. “You aren’t angry that I’m not human?”
“I’ve encountered stranger things than an android.” Compared to some of the everyday elements of life in Permafrost, Ai wasn’t too outlandish. As they spoke, Camus was working with ice magic. He could handle this easily enough. There were questions in the back of his mind, certainly. But he could save them for another time. All that mattered to him now was the feeling of Ai’s hand in his.