Chapter Text
Camus had only been gone for three days, but the ache in Ai’s chest felt as though it had been there for an eternity. When was the last time he had slept in his own bed? For years, he had crawled beneath the plush covers of Camus’s bed, falling asleep at his side, head on his chest, arm tossed over him. Ai sat on the edge of his twin sized mattress, staring down at the floor. The glow of the computer in the corner cast a blue haze over everything, making the emptiness of it even more pronounced.
He should be asleep now. It was important for him to recharge before the day ahead. Low battery would throw off the entire day. But did it matter all that much? The day was already ruined. It would be as the last three had, dull and aching. Ai blinked as he took a small cord in his hand, thumb running over the plug. His breath shook as he recalled the feeling of cool, strong hands pressed to the small of his back. Camus had taken it upon himself to press the charger into the small port on Ai’s back every night for the last five years.
The night before he disappeared, he had held Ai in his arms like always, pulling him close, holding him tight, securing the cord for him. As Camus held Ai to his chest and kissed his hair, he had seemed so calm, so collected. Had knowing he was leaving been so meaningless to him that he could continue on without giving Ai even a hint of what was going on? When he fell asleep with Ai pressed into him, had he cared about the panic that would set in when Ai woke up alone?
Ai took a breath, putting the charger in on his own. Sleeping was vital. If he was going to be able to work tomorrow, he had to rest. Not that there was much to do-- with Camus gone, there wasn’t much that Quartet Night could do but announce a temporary hiatus. Outside the four of them and management, no one even knew he was gone. That was fine. Ai supposed he felt his absence heavily enough for everyone. He pulled the blanket over himself. How was he meant to fall asleep? He couldn’t even rest in the correct position. No amount of pillows tucked against him replaced the arms that had always held him.
Mornings were just as hard. Schedules were important to Ai. Routine was a sacred thing, but it had come tumbling down around him the moment he realized just how much of his day had become an intricate dance for two. There was no large, needy dog at the foot of his bed in the morning. There was no one beside him while he pinned back his hair. The apartment was silent as he prepared one cup less coffee for the others.
Ai knew that Camus had come to Japan with a mission, and that someday he might fulfill it. That had always been possible, and he had always known that there was a chance he would return to Permafrost. But he had expected a warning. He had expected conversation and planning.
Ai had expected a goodbye.
Sitting on the sofa was frustrating. The shoulder he usually leaned against was missing. The hand he was convinced he had been built to hold was gone. In the silence of the room, he could focus on nothing but his own thoughts. His mind had been running in the same hazy circles for days, ever since he’d woken that frigid morning without Alexander at the foot of the bed and without Camus seated at the vanity across the room. His thoughts repeated the same question now as they had that morning. Where’s Camus?
How long after Ai fell asleep had he left? Most of his clothing was gone, as were a handful of his books and the supplies he kept at the vanity. His favorite mug was still on the counter, and one of Alexander’s toys still rested under the coffee table. It couldn’t have taken him long to pack the few things he’d taken.
How long ago had that letter he left been written? How many days, how many weeks has it been in their home, waiting to be laid out on the bedside table for Ai to wake to? The simple words telling him that Camus was in Permafrost, that he would not be returning, the lack of any pleasantries or emotion, it had shattered him.
He had never felt this before. Loss and upset had overtaken him before, but never like this. It was a type of grief, and that was something he had never gone through. It made his throat tight and it felt as if he were stumbling through a fog. Every piece of him ached. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to feel like this.
Ai had never realized he could cry. He didn’t know his chest could heave like that. It was cruel to give him that function, he thought. It was so unkind to build him at all if he was capable of feeling this.
Ai stood. The sofa was too uncomfortable on his own. His own room would at least contain fewer memories. The two of them almost never went in there together. The walk down the hallway was difficult. As he passed the door to Reiji’s room, he was tempted to enter. The man had told him to come to him, that he was there, that he would help as much as he could. But he had spent too much time bothering Reiji when the man surely needed time to process his own emotions. Camus was his friend, too.
The door across from Reiji’s called to him. The room where Ai had fallen asleep, where he has spent countless nights tangled in a mess of sheets and limbs, the room where he’d given Camus everything he had to give. The door had been closed for three days, ever since I moved his things back to his own bedroom. It wouldn’t help to be in there. He should be avoiding thoughts of Camus as much as possible. But, despite his better judgement and despite every bit of logic, his hand was on the doorknob.
Pale blue curtains were pulled apart to let in the early morning sunlight, which fell delicately onto the bed. Ai stepped forward, running his hand over the fabric before he sat down. The bed still smelled like Camus, that light floral perfume that always followed him. Ai leaned forward, letting himself lay over the bed, the place he’d spent every night for so many years. His fingers dug into the fabric of the pillow, scrunching the smooth silk. Camus would have hated to see his fingernails dig into the delicate fabric, so close to tearing it.
Part of him wanted to tear it. He wanted to rip down the curtains and smash the flower vase that sat on the dresser. He wanted to crash through the closet and burn the clothes inside, take away any remnant of the man who had once been here. But he couldn’t. Even more than he wanted to wipe every memory from his mind, delete each piece of data he’d collected, he wanted to hold onto them, to cling to them.
To leave him behind wasn’t like Camus. It wasn’t.
Even when they were first getting to know one another, Camus had stayed by his side. When Ai was struggling with a new upgrade, his head pounding and thought swirling so slowly that he’d felt delirious, before Camus ever even knew what he was, before they could even have called one another proper friends, he had stayed. He had kept close to him, remained nearby even when the others went out.
When he had been afraid that Ai wouldn’t care for him in the same way, he hadn’t run. He sat down, he talked through his emotions, he took Ai’s hand in his and confessed his intentions. Camus didn’t run away or hide from him, even when his own emotions became difficult. He had never just left.
A floorboard creamed behind him, and Ai didn’t turn to look.
“Ai-Ai…” Reiji’s voice was soft. A warm hand clasped Ai’s shoulder.
“When does it stop feeling like this?” Ai asked. He didn’t like the way he sounded. His words were so strangled, so quiet.
Silence passed between them before Reiji let out a soft sigh. “I don’t know. But I promise, you’re going to have a day someday where you’ll make it to nightfall and realize you haven’t thought about him, and you’re going to breathe again.”
Ai sat up abruptly, brow narrowed. “I don’t want that,” he said. He could feel the hot tears on his face. “I don’t want to stop caring. I don’t want to forget.”
The worry in Reiji’s eyes was as strong as it had been that morning. His arms pulled tight around him, and Ai allowed himself to be held. “I know. I know. Camus’s really special, to all of us. I know he wouldn’t have gone if he didn’t have to. He’d never want to see you upset.”
“If he didn’t do it to hurt me, why does it feel like this?” He pulled away from Reiji’s touch. He was too warm. The longer Ai’s mind was on this, the further he buried his face on Reiji’s sweater, the hotter he felt. He took a shaky breath. He was going to overheat. He needed to cool down, he needed--
Camus wasn’t there.
“Why don’t you meet us in the kitchen when you’re ready, okay?”
Ai nodded, and looked to the window as footsteps slowly moved away. Was it snowing like this where he was? Probably. It snowed most days in Permafrost. Was he out there, too, staring out his window, watching as the white flakes fell down? Was he thinking of Ai?
He took a breath, steadier now.
Camus wasn’t there. But he was out there, probably feeling the exact same ache, wishing he was closer. Ai stood, moving to the closet. He still had his own clothes in there, and everything Camus had left behind remained. With trembling hands, he pulled out a thick blue cardigan, wrapping around himself. Camus was out there, and even if he couldn’t be here, for better or worse, there were reminders everywhere.
Ai exited, entering the kitchen. The air was rich with the smell of bacon and pancakes, Ranmaru and Reiji moving around each other behind the counter. The two of them always seemed to move like a dance, someone always pushing, someone always pulling, never crashing, always in sync.
“Well, we should get him to eat at least,” Reiji said, his voice quiet. “Even if you’re sad, you need to eat, you know?”
“Pretty sure he doesn’t need to, but I get your drift,” Ranmaru answered.
“I’d like to eat,” Ai said, watching as the two of them turned toward the sound of his voice. “Can you make some of the bacon chewy?” he asked, taking a seat at the bar. He pulled the cardigan closer to himself. He had to work through this. Somewhere out there, Camus was doing the same, trying his hardest, surely trying to remain calm and collected for his Queen. Ai didn’t have a Queen to gather himself for, but he had Reiji and Ranmaru before him, putting their own sadness aside to take care of him. And he had the thought of Camus, so far away, working just as hard.
“Yeah, of course, Ai-Ai.” Reiji smiled. Ai watched as he elbowed Ranmaru, giving him a look that Ai couldn’t quite understand, but was certain both of them knew. It wasn’t quite the same as having those knowing glances and silent communications directed at him. But it helped to see them there, to know that there was still happiness in this home, even if all three of them could have been happier.