Archive of Our Own

The last thing he sees before the darkness settles oppressively over his sight, is the shadow of someone curled over his prone form, and the bright flash of gunfire. Bang, bang, bang.

Aegis wakes up in a bed that is unfamiliar, his whole body a heavy aching thing. He feels lethargic and he thinks it might be the effect of medicine, tries to link it back to his faint memories of childhood colds and homemade cough syrup. (Unfortunately, he thinks that maybe his parents had just been giving him herbs and brandy, in retrospect. It would have worked about as well.)

There’s a window to his left. The curtains are drawn, but they’re thin enough that Aegis can see the faint glow of dusk through them, a purple-blue light that reminds him of what little free time he’d had at the academy, of dinner with his fellow to-be knights and companionship and belonging. It sets a lump in his throat.

Right of the window is a fire, crackling away behind its metal grate. He doesn’t have enough sense to him yet to discern when it’d been lit, or who had last tended to it, but he knows it is not a dying thing. Someone had been checking up on him, and that lump grows wetter with the knowledge that not only had he not died, but that someone had taken the time to bring him from the forest and have him tended and washed and bandaged up.

(He sees flashes of dark hair when he blinks, hears fragments of speech, a familiar voice with all the smug ease ground out, only grim stubbornness remaining. He does not know if it’s a memory, or a dream.)

Right of the fire, towards the door, there is a chair. And on that chair, staring with focused eyes, is Vicious. Aegis blinks furiously, like the act will clear his vision and reveal Vicious as a shadow of his imagination. It doesn’t.

He’s close to the bed as well, and now that Aegis is aware of him he wonders how he ever wasn’t, suddenly conscious of the warmth he radiates, the quiet sound of his breathing, the heavy weight of his stare. (It’s always felt like something that could pick him apart, and as much as it feels like metaphor Aegis is also hyperaware of the power Vicious wields, hyperaware of how unaware he is of that power. Perhaps he really could be flayed open by a gaze alone, as comical as that sounds. He resolved not to shy away from it, but it haunted him all the same.)

The silence between them passes from loaded to awkward and right around to familiar—at least on Aegis’ end. He feels the tension rise in his shoulders, but feels it fade just as easily as he accepts this situation. It isn’t as if he could be rid of Vicious anyway, and although he’d never even consider voicing it, he’s not sure if he would want to be right now. He still feels tender in a literal sense, where even just breathing feels odd and sore.

Maybe it shows on his face. Maybe Vicious gets bored of just watching him, breathing and staring and really being not that different than he had before, when he’d been unconscious. Either way, he pulls himself to his feet.

It’s then that Aegis notices the book on his leg, folded open over his knee as if to keep a page. His suspicion is only further proven when Vicious transfers the book to the bedside table, keeping it in that same split shape.

He’d know that book if he saw it across the room, could pick its spine out from thousands on a shelf, had seen that cover at every conceivable angle over the years.

It’s just a book. A book he loves very dearly and very loudly and has since he was maybe twelve or thirteen, but just a book. Still, he peers at it, and then at Vicious’ back as he bends over something, and then back at it, and he feels embarrassment itch hot and uncomfortable up his spine. It feels a bit like he’s the one laid flat, rather than the book, that it’s his spine cracking under Vicious’ hands, and his soul read lazily by his eyes.

When Vicious walks back to him, it’s with a big cup in one hand and what looks like a shot glass in the other. Medicine served like brandy, Aegis thinks, and he’s distracted momentarily from the book issue to concern himself instead with the issue of how Vicious came to be the one by his sickbed. (Not that he’d expect any of the others but, ah, well. He knew math, four people with zero care for his wellbeing still equalled zero care as well as one or four hundred.)

“Think you can swallow?” Vicious asks. It’s the first words spoken since he woke up. He swallows once, to test, and though his throat is dry and aching there isn’t any issue, so he nods and moves to sit up.

Or tries, at least. His arm wobbles precariously at even the slightest weight on it, and before he can even begin to fall there’s a hand on it, and another pressed under him to the small of his back, and the touch is paralyzing. There’s no concern in Vicious’ eyes, when he catches them, but there’s no amusement either. He’s more serious than Aegis has seen him since—

—the meaty sound of something sharp dug into flesh, the wet squelch of it, and the nauseating sensation of things placed entirely where they don’t belong—

—that awful tragedy in Southmine, what feels like lifetimes ago but what must be less than three months, tops.

Vicious helps him sit up, even sets a second pillow behind his lower back. There’s a tenderness to it, almost, underneath that serious expression, although he hesitates to even think something so gentle could come from a man like Vicious, made entirely of sharp angles and harsh edges.

“How…” He starts, licking his dry lips. The word sounds hoarse, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears. He pushes on anyway. “How long was I out?”

“Three days,” Vicious replies. His voice sounds familiar, and Aegis compartmentalizes that little bit of information with every other uncomfortable thing he’s experienced since he’s woken up.

“Medicine,” Vicious adds, and pushes the shot glass towards him. What’s inside is definitely no rum though, the liquid viscous and herbal smelling, the whole thing a sickly amber colour.

He scrunches his nose up at it, prompting a genuine snort of laughter from Vicious. “Yeah, don’t really pity you right now. I’ve got water for after, okay?”

“Thank you,” Aegis says, and then downs the medicine in one gulp.

It’s bad. He grimaces. Vicious laughs at him again, but it isn’t mean, and he does so while bringing the cup of water to his lips, and cupping the back of his head, and Aegis doesn’t spit the water right back out but it’s a very near thing. He hopes Vicious was too busy laughing to notice.

The water is soothing on his throat, and he drinks it down thankfully, and he thinks he understands why Vicious felt the need to hold him steady, because if he had his way he would have swallowed it all at once and almost definitely would have been sick. He still feels a little lightheaded when Vicious pulls away and can only halfway convince himself it’s because he hadn’t been breathing as he drank.

“You were reading Mechaknight Avalanche, weren’t you?” Aegis folds his hands in his lap, looking down at them. Are his nails longer than before? He can’t tell. He pretends he can though, if only because the alternative is looking at Vicious right now, and that’s unfathomable.

“Not much else to do,” Vicious says. “Figured it was better than counting the minutes between my own piss breaks.”

“Ah,” Aegis replies. There are questions on his tongue, one where he asks Vicious why he hadn’t simply left, why the others hadn’t watched him instead, why he couldn’t be left alone. He doesn’t think he’ll like the answers he gets, because they’ll be cruel or biting or too real. So he doesn’t ask.

(For that same reason, he doesn’t ask how Vicious had liked the book. Better to accept the kindness in him keeping his mouth shut, however limited it was.)

Still, he can’t not ask any questions, and he turns his attention to the palms of his hands as he continues. “Where are the others? Where are we?”

“Chatty, huh?” Vicious teases. But he seems willing to answer, and that relaxes Aegis. “Carried you to the closest village we could find. Don’t even remember the name, honestly. This ain’t even an inn either, someone’s kid moved out and left an empty room. The others are probably out beating up monsters or some shit, said we could stay as long as we needed if we paid our way with menial labour. Worth more than gald, this far out. Except for trading.”

“They’re still here then?” Aegis asks.

Vicious raises an eyebrow. “Think they’d ditch us?”

Aegis sputters immediately, shaking his head and his hands. “It’s just, three days is a long time! I don’t think they would have wanted to, but something could have come up to pull them awa—”

He pauses then, the words really sinking in, and he feels himself grow frighteningly warm frighteningly fast. “…Us?”

Vicious shrugs. “Not like I was gonna leave you like this.”

Aegis throws his head into his hands. “You… You have to know how that sounds!”

“Yeah? How’s it sound then?”

His fingers drag at his skin when he pulls them down, leaving only his eyes exposed to glare at Vicious. “I’m bedridden and you’re mocking me. Really.”

Vicious smiles, actually smiles, and leans back in his seat like it’s the first time he’s been at ease in days. Maybe it has. The thought confuses Aegis as much as it warms him, unable to coalesce his budding sense of camaraderie and (goddess help him) fondness with a lingering sense of distrust and wariness.

“I told you,” Vicious says, effectively cutting off his racing thoughts, “been real boring round here. Cut me a little slack, right?

Aegis comes to at some point, when the dawn is still damp, and he’s alone. He knows this only because his hand is back under the covers, and very much not clasped desperately with someone else’s. The memory sets his heart racing, enough that he can feel it through his whole body, enough that he thinks the whole house can feel it, like it’d shake the bed and the walls and set the whole house humming to the tune of his nerves.

Order was a comfort to Aegis. Each thing had a familiar place, a familiar set of rules, a familiar order of operation. He felt uneasy otherwise, a fact which he’d easily understood as the reason for his tension these past few weeks. Not only had the order in his mind been shattered—his familiar schemas of justice and sin shaken up beyond belief—but his routine was destroyed as well, carefully crafted and dutifully followed itineraries abandoned in favour of a whirlwind vagabond life that suited him very, very poorly.

He’d had one thing, though. It wasn’t much, but he’d taken to preparing a warm drink whenever he could, both morning and night. Coffee or tea, if he had either. Hot water on its own, if he didn’t. It was more about the act of it than anything, the process of heating the water and holding the cup in his hands, and the forceful slowness of it all. If he drank it too quickly, he’d be burned. So he didn’t, and the moment was his.

Was theirs, really, because it was not a moment he’d spent alone for long. The others were intrigued, and soon enough involved. Even Vicious, always Vicious, who sat and teased him even when the others were uninterested (usually when he had just water,) but who took a cup every time. Aegis wasn’t even sure if he drank it, and didn’t really care. He liked the company, even if he told himself he shouldn’t.

He sighs, swinging his legs to the side to stand. It isn’t something he wants to let himself be disappointed about. This was already a broken routine from the moment he’d taken a monster’s claw to the gut, and he’d never so much as hinted at the importance the ritual held for him. (Even if he had, he’d probably have been mocked for it, and not in the charming way he’d grown unfortunately comfortable with.)

At the very least, he thinks he can find a kettle. Maybe some tea. Something warm would do him good, would stop him thinking about other warm things like the press of calloused fingers against his own and the soft sound of pages turning—

The door opens before he can get to it, narrowly missing his head as it swings inwards. He yells when he jumps backwards, and both acts trigger a coughing fit that has him doubled over before he can even register who it is.

He knows soon enough, when a warm hand settles on his back, surprisingly gentle compared to the sharp smell of gunpowder and magic that clings to its owner. Ah, there he is. (Somehow, even as he coughs enough to make his chest seize, he feels calmer. He doesn’t think about it.)

“C’mon, lets get you back in bed. Got a bit of a fright there, huh?” There’s a smile in Vicious’ voice, but again he finds it isn’t as bitingly cruel as he expected. He wasn’t sure if it ever was. Still, there was nothing that could have prepared him for the unguarded warmth in his motions, or how effortlessly he gave into them.

He gets into bed with just a guiding pat on his hip and a stabilizing arm to lean on, and then Vicious’ smile grows sharper, a glint in his eyes Aegis is just barely conscious enough to notice.

“You’re pretty good at taking orders, huh?”

He starts coughing again immediately, choking on his immediate protest. The proud grin stays glued to Vicious’ face even when he sits down, and only then does Aegis notice the thing at his side, almost as tall as Aegis himself and about as wide and covered entirely in a burlap sack.

“You, ah. Have something,” he states eloquently.

Vicious snorts, but he does lift the bag and toss it right at Aegis, who steels himself for impact with all the reaction time of an (ex)-knight of his station.

The sack, and what it contains, do little more than land with a dull pomf on his chest, feather light.

“A trading caravan passed by. Saw something I thought you might like, so. Not sure why something like this was worth selling out in the fuckshit middle of nowhere, but we’re not gonna think too hard about it.”

That makes Aegis more nervous, holding this strange thing as far from himself as he can. Which, admittedly, is not far at all.

“It ain’t gonna bite you,” Vicious quips.

Aegis huffs. “It might, knowing you.”

Still, he tugs at the sack until what’s inside comes loose, and then takes a good, long look.

And then a longer look.

Vicious grins, nudging his shoulder. “Can’t take your eyes off him, huh?”

It’s… It’s Mechaknight himself, the eponymous protagonist of Mechaknight Avalanche, and perhaps Aegis’ first venture into feelings of justice and romance both. On a pillow, a pillow about as tall as Aegis himself, with Mechaknight pictured laid out and smiling so surely and so warmly, one hand outstretched as if to pull him down onto the rumpled white sheets he lays on, and Aegis is—

Well, he’s a little overwhelmed, really.

“Vicious?” He asks, unsure how else to wrap up all the questions spinning around his head except to turn to the only other person there.

Maybe his voice is more vulnerable than he wants it to be, because Vicious settles a hand on his back again and sits him up straighter, and then lets it linger there, hot and firm and present. What he doesn’t do is laugh about it, which is weird, because this is a joke, right? To give him something so… So brazenly obsessive! Even he had never considered buying something like this for himself, not really!

But now it’s here, and he’s not quite sure how to feel about that, or about how obviously Vicious has picked up on that genuine emotion. Over a pillow.

“If it’s freaking you out that bad, I can take it out back and shoot it.”

He laughs, and oh, goddess help him, it sounds watery even to his ears. Still, he hugs the pillow to him, and shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. It’s. Thank you. For thinking of me. I’m just emotional from all this, I think.”

Vicious hums his ascent. His hand moves away, but he’s still close enough that Aegis can feel the warmth rolling off of him, can smell the sharp metallic tang of gunpowder that always clings to him. (The pillow smells like it as well, and he decides very smartly to not reflect too much on how that might impact him down the line. It wasn’t Vicious’ fault he had to carry the thing back, or that Aegis had a sense of smell as sensitive as a bloodhound.)

They’re quiet for long enough that Aegis almost thinks the conversation is over. Sure, Vicious is still looking at him, but Vicious has the social skills of a feral wolf, so Aegis tells himself not to worry about it.

But then he tilts his chin, gesturing at Aegis as he says, “You should try and sleep more.”

Aegis wants to say no, itching to rebel against taking advice from Vicious, however right and well-intentioned. But he’s tired, and the direction of the window makes it so the sun isn’t bothering him, and he has this new pillow of his favourite fictional character, and—

He lies back down, back facing to Vicious. Sleep comes easy.

His recovery is slow, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. For so long, Aegis has been in motion. Knight’s school was regimented and strict and knighthood was even more so, and then he’d been a transgressor on the run and even the slightest dreams of relaxation had been shattered in the constant hum of anxious thoughts that filled through his mind. How could it not? Misella and Kanata are resilient children, but they’re just that. Children. There’s no predicting what the future brings for them, if even the most mundane flu might knock them entirely out.

And Yuna and Vicious play the part of two luxury-loving fools, ignoring the dire straits they’re in in favour of the finer things in life. He knows, of course, that it’s a lie. That they keep their eyes on the group’s funds as much as Aegis, but he’s never been good at sarcasm, or being misled. It makes him twitchy and nervous, and keeps him up at night, thinking about if he should sew a pocket into his coat for gald or if he could pick the embellishments off it instead to try and pawn off.

He can’t do either right now regardless. The medicine Vicious keeps giving him makes him drowsy in a way he’s not used to, and his thoughts slip like water through his fingers before he can latch onto them. It’s as frustrating as it is freeing, if only because he can feel the effects of it ebbing between doses. (It must also be working, because he hurts less each day, even going so far as to walk around the small property he’s been placed in with Yuna at his side.)

He does see the others as well, because they truly hadn’t left him (and Vicious, his mind helpfully supplies, because Vicious had all but promised not to leave him, with as much genuine emotion as he can muster.) They’re kind to him, genuinely so, and he aches both for it and from how unfamiliar it is. Yet even still, none of them are as doting as Vicious, who lingers more often than not, just watching. Aegis hasn’t seen him pick up Mechaknight Avalanche since, but the fire is always lit and his water is always filled and the room is always rich with the smell of whisky and metal.

“You really like that thing, huh?”

Aegis blinks his eyes open, mood shifting so suddenly it makes his temples throb. “It was a kind gift.”

“Don’t think you’ve slept without him since,” Vicious replies. He smirks, but it doesn’t feel genuine. Somehow, that’s more concerning.

“I—” Aegis swallows, trying hard to find the right words to avoid whatever trap Vicious is setting. “He’s—It’s useful. To help keep my back straight, to aggravate the wound less. It was a very smart choice, and I’m thankful.”

“To him?”

“To you, for bringing him to me.”

Vicious keeps watching him. He pretends not to notice, letting his eyes fall shut. It doesn’t matter that Vicious’ gaze feels like fire on his skin, even when he can’t see it. He’s sleeping because he was stabbed. Vicious is just being a very thorough nurse, even if his bedside manner could use some work.

Surprisingly, he speaks again. “Someone might think you were in love with the guy, you know. With how you’re all cuddled up to him.”

Aegis’ eyes shoot open as he gapes at him. “You—If you got me this just for some awful joke, it isn’t going to work. It’s a nice pillow and I’m going to pretend the gesture was kind.”

“Not my fault you’re all snuggled up on him like that.”

“He’s… Vicious, you are aware he’s not real, yes? And also a pillow that you gave me. I couldn’t be in love with him if I tried.”

Vicious makes a face Aegis can’t place, something tight and awkward. “But you would,” he says, placing his words with shocking care, “if he was.”

Aegis groans. “I don’t know Vicious, I haven’t had flights of fancy about meeting my favourite fictional character since I was twelve. Now, is there a point to this that isn’t bullying me for my taste in men after you brought him to me, or can I go back to sleep?”

For once, Vicious looks almost chastised. Almost. Then he stands, and leaves the room, taking the tension with him. Aegis exhales heavily. He can never read these situations, and that uncertainty leaves him exhausted.

“So he’s your type, yeah?”

“He’s a pillow.”

“I mean,” Vicious’ lips pucker, as if it physically pains him to say this, “the… Person.”

“…The character?”

Vicious grunts. He isn’t looking at Aegis, which continues to be uniquely concerning when the topic is right out of the ‘teasing Aegis Alver’ playbook. He should at least want to look at Aegis’ face for reactions, right?

Aegis presses on anyway, telling himself the sooner he guides Vicious through whatever odd line of thinking he’s on, the sooner Aegis can go back to mindlessly daydreaming. The dosage of his medicine is dropping, and he’s finally beginning to have the presence of mind to form thoughts longer than one sentence.

“It’s hard to say. He’s the protagonist, so it stands to reason that he’d be the easiest to love. You get to know him the best, to learn his ideals and past. But…” He sighs, fingers brushing absentmindedly along the blanket pulled across his lap, “it all seems so juvenile now. I really thought he—thought we—had it all figured out, that if you were just smarter and braver than the rest you really could make such simple judgement calls on the goodness of others. And that that would be enough.”

“Look at you now," Vicious snarked.

Aegis snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yes, we’ve established I’m a terrible judge of character.”

“Got that right,” Vicious starts.

But Aegis keeps going, fingers digging into the fridge of his blanket. “Misella is… Worryingly codependent, and has the diet of a wild beast. Kanata killed his own father—and while I don’t necessarily think that was wrong, the way he tells the story speaks of an equally worrying lack of foresight on his part, and his diet is no better. Yuna has never voiced a truth in her life—even if every word she pens is nothing but—and sometimes I worry she has more enemies than you, and on the topic of that, I’ve never met anyone more flagrantly self-absorbed, hedonistic, or dedicated to the image of being a drunk. And—”

“—way to pile on the compliments there—”

“—I care for you all so much that it scares me.”

“Oh.”

With a sigh, Aegis lets the blanket drop from his hands, settling back over his lap. “Someone like that, someone so perfect, so put together? I don’t think I could love him anymore. Even if he could be real, someone like that wouldn’t understand me. He’d probably try to kill me, if he didn’t pity me too much to try.”

“Huh.” Vicious says. Aegis twitches with nerves, too many emotions laid bare. “Right, but he’s still hot?”

“Vicious I’m not—I’m not having this conversation anymore!” Aegis huffs, turning pointedly away.

The door closes a minute later. His head throbs to the tune of Vicious’ footsteps.

The next time Aegis’ door opens, it slams against the wall with the force of the person barrelling inside. This person is not Vicious.

“Oh, so zis is zat strange thing Vicious was hiding beneath a sack! An odd present, oui?”

It’s Yuna.

“I hope you’re not here to mock me for a pillow I didn’t choose.”

“I would never!” Yuna insists, a twinkle in her eye, “when ‘ave I ever been anything but angelic to you, Aegrouch?”

As she speaks, she crosses the room, settling into the same chair Vicious had made home these past weeks. Aegis has to tilt his head less to meet her eyes, and ends up staring at her forehead, too used to a different person in her place.

If she notices, she says nothing on it, instead looking Aegis up and down, eyes lingering shamelessly over where his almost healed injury rests.

“We’ll be leaving this week,” she states, “the mademoiselle says ‘omeone was staring at ‘er. News on us may be reaching ‘ere.”

“I understand. I can travel by then. Hopefully not much slower.”

“We’ll adjust,” Yuna says, “zat is not a lie, of course.”

“Vicious is moping,” Yuna finally says, fingers dancing on the edge of the bedside table, “something has him especially sour. Now, I ‘ave no intention of pointing fingers—” she pauses with an emphatic look, “—but ze last place he was was ‘ere.”

Before he can stop himself, Aegis blurts out, “He’s moping?”

“Oh?” Yuna sits up straight, eyes lit up.

“It isn’t me who came and attempted to quiz an injured man on if he kisses his pillow at night! It’s all, do you think he’s hot, would you fuck him. I can’t handle it!”

“Ah.” Yuna says. Aegis can’t read her face. “I see what zis is.”

Then she stands, presses an affectionate kiss to his forehead, and leaves the room.

“Hey,” Vicious says, standing awkwardly in a doorway he’s barely short enough to stand under.

The sight is uncharacteristic, and Aegis feels a smile tugging at his lips he only barely tamps down.

…Vicious doesn’t move, except to shift his weight to his hip, the movement radiating a discomfort that sits wrong on his frame. Wrong enough it brings a flustered flush to Aegis’ cheeks, averting his gaze. But all that does is land his eyesight right onto his damned pillow, and he’s right back to staring at Vicious all over again. Tag teamed, he thinks helpfully, trapped in his own personal social nightmare. His idol (in pillow form) and a drunk callous idiot he likes too much.

“You can come in,” Aegis finally says. He’s already exhausted.

Vicious must be as well, if the forced confidence of his saunter is any indication, his feet stamping too-loud on the wooden floors as he makes his way over and sits heavily in the chair. His chair.

“Apparently,” Vicious starts. Clicks his tongue. Huffs, “tellin’ a guy to fuck a pillow isn’t ‘appropriate behaviour’, and ‘if I don’t get my shit together someone beautiful might try to smother me with it in my sleep’.”

Vicious’ obvious—if not half baked—imitation of Yuna brought a smile to Aegis’ lips, only helped by the put-out expression on Vicious face. But before he could speak, Vicious raised a hand and continued.

“Wasn’t tryina be a dick.”

“For once.”

“For once—hey wait fuck you.”

Aegis laughs, reaching out to lay a hand on Vicious’ knee. “Thank you. I forgive you—”

“—wasn’t asking for forgiveness—”

“I forgive you, you insufferable asshole. Even if you think I’m that desperate.”  

“Not that,” Vicious says, and pointedly doesn’t elaborate. And Aegis thinks he gets it, a little bit. There’s a hesitancy to the splay of Vicious’ hands that he wants to read too much into, and when he thinks over these past weeks he feels his stomach flip with warmth entirely incongruent with how much he was recovering from a stab wound, and something clicks.

He moves the pillow. Vicious’ eyes track it like a hawk, watching Aegis gently move it off the bed, leaning it upright against the side. Then he lifts his blanket, and pats the bed once, firmly.

“Come here.”

For a moment that feels painfully long, neither one of them moves. Vicious stares at where Aegis holds the covers up, and Aegis stares at him, unwavering despite his heartbeat hammering painfully in his throat. He’s committed now, and stubbornness has always been one of his self-defining traits, and he knows he can’t back down now.

Then Vicious kicks off one shoe—eyes still never leaving Aegis and the bed—and the other. Aegis wouldn’t have known, if he couldn’t hear the slide of leather on fabric, followed by the steady thunk of solid heels on wood.

A moment more, and the bed dips under his weight, all that warm and smoke-and-magic smell and the even sound of Vicious’ slow breaths close enough to perceive.

Aegis had just had his pillow at his side, but Vicious isn’t a pillow. It takes until he’s already slid under the covers, but Aegis thinks he can pinpoint the moment Vicious determines he isn’t going to be kicked right back out, and he responds accordingly. He’s not rough, but Aegis yelps out a protest at being manhandled around anyway and grumbles his protests as Vicious shifts both of them until he’s comfortable.

He ends up with his head pillowed on one of Aegis’ arms, eyes closed and face spread in a cat-like smile that almost makes Aegis regret nudging him.

Almost.

“Were you the one who carried me here?” He asks.

Vicious hums an affirmative, and reaches up, grabbing Aegis’ hand to drag and drop on his head. Right. Cat-like. Aegis scratchs at his scalp lightly, the action automatic. Right.

“I never thanked you.”

“Stayin’ alive and gettin’ better was thanks enough,” Vicious replies.

“You’ve been suspiciously kind to me these past weeks,” Aegis adds, lighthearted.

Vicious blinks open one eye at him, narrowing it. “You got suspiciously stabbed. Not that much of a dick.”

“You got me that pillow to be nice.”

“Mmph.”

“…Did you like Mechaknight Avalanche?”

“S’fine. Like that he knows what he wants,” Vicious states. “Guy’s too damn high off his own shit though. World ain’t that black and white.”

“Sounds like someone you know.”

Vicious snorts, nuzzling himself in closer to Aegis. “Nah. He wouldn’ta lasted one day in your shoes. S’not easy doing all this.”

“No,” Aegis confirms, smiling. “I think I’m starting to not regret it though. I’d do things differently, if I could. But meeting Kanata, and Misella, and Yuna, and you? I don’t regret that. You’ve all changed me for the better, unlikely as that is.”

“Don’t gotta be rude,” Vicious says, his own smile audible.

“Arguably, I got it from you.”

“Nah. You…” He pauses, yawning long and loud, “…always had it in you.”

Aegis lets his head sink into his pillow, bringing him face-to-face with Vicious. He has long eyelashes, and high cheekbones, and a dip on his chin that looks suspiciously like an acne scar, which brought to mind the image of a gangly teenage Vicious. They would’ve hated each other, and he smiles with the knowledge that they avoided that, somehow. That Vicious was there, close enough for him to see every human imperfection on his face and feel the soft exhale of his breaths on his cheek and drag himself a little closer, pillowing his nose in Vicious’ hair.

Muffled by it, he states with finality, “I like you, Vicious. More than the pillow you bought me, you disaster.”

Vicious wound an arm around his waist and dragged him closer, and that was answer enough.