Work Text:
Fu had been careful not to make too much noise.
The temple didn’t appreciate it.
Neither did Su-Han.
Still—
His arms were shaking.
Badly.
Every breath felt like it scraped against his ribs on the way in.
“M-Master,” he gasped, barely lifting his head, “how… how many more?”
He already regretted asking.
Above him, Su-Han didn’t even hesitate.
“At least twenty more push-ups,” he said flatly.
A pause.
“Fifty somersaults. Thirteen punches. Four hours of meditation.”
Fu made a sound that wasn’t quite human and collapsed onto the stone floor.
Cold.
Hard.
Unforgiving.
“…Urgh…”
So this was how he died.
“Whatever are you moaning about, Chicken Legs?” Su-Han snapped.
Fu flinched.
The nickname never got less painful.
“Being a Guardian is a sacred duty,” Su-Han continued. “This training prepares you to protect the Mother Box and the Miraculous—even blindfolded. And yet you—”
His finger jabbed Fu’s chest.
“—have shown no improvement.”
Fu swallowed.
He knew that.
He really did.
But he also knew something else.
He was trying.
With effort that felt like dragging his bones through mud, Fu pushed himself back up.
Better to obey.
Better than arguing.
Arguing never ended well.
Still…
Something had been bothering him.
Something small.
Persistent.
“…Master,” Fu said hesitantly, voice unsteady, “why all this exercise?”
The air shifted immediately.
Even the distant sounds of training seemed to dull.
Su-Han’s brow twitched.
Fu hurried on.
“I understand discipline is important,” he added quickly. “But… it doesn’t feel practical.”
A pause.
Too long.
“Practical?” Su-Han repeated.
Now his voice was colder.
“Yes!” Fu said, surprising even himself with the volume. “We don’t even use the Miraculous. They’re for chosen heroes. So why train like we are them?”
Words spilled faster now.
Like a dam breaking.
“We guard a box we barely touch,” he continued, breath shaking. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to hide it properly? Use the Horse or the Bunny—store it somewhere no one could reach it—and focus on healing like the Order used to?”
He hesitated.
Then, softer:
“Something… safer.”
Silence.
Su-Han’s eye twitched.
Fu immediately regretted everything.
“I-I’m not saying the Order is wrong!” he rushed. “Just—maybe inefficient? A little? Possibly?”
He shrank.
“That sounded worse, didn’t it.”
“Enough.”
The word cracked through the hall like thunder.
Fu flinched hard.
But no strike came.
No punishment.
Instead—
Su-Han exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face.
“…Why,” he muttered, “do I feel like I was just insulted?”
Fu froze.
“…That wasn’t my intention,” he whispered.
But it already felt too late.
Su-Han told himself he had forgotten the conversation.
It was easier that way.
Students complained constantly.
Weakness. Exhaustion. Confusion.
Nothing new.
Fu was no different.
Except he was.
Because Fu’s words didn’t fade.
They stayed.
Quiet.
Persistent.
Like a pebble in a shoe that refused to disappear no matter how far you walked.
We don’t even use the Miraculous.
Su-Han gritted his teeth every time it surfaced.
Irrelevant.
And yet—
It returned.
Again.
And again.
During debates, when voices overlapped…
When decisions stalled…
When tradition was used as both shield and excuse…
Fu’s trembling voice echoed in his mind.
Not accusing.
Just… asking.
The Order wasn’t perfect.
Su-Han had never believed it was.
But recognizing a flaw and acting on it—
That was different.
That required something else entirely.
Eventually, reluctantly, he spoke.
He expected resistance.
Arguments.
Dismissal.
Instead—
Nods.
Agreement.
Quiet, uneasy acceptance.
“…Of course,” Su-Han muttered under his breath.
“Of course it was that simple.”
The Mother Box was moved to the burrow.
The Kwamis were monitored more closely.
Not imprisoned.
Protected.
Even they agreed on that much.
The Order shifted.
Slowly at first.
Then all at once.
No more isolation.
No more frozen silence.
They began to exist where people could find them.
Where they were needed.
And Su-Han hated how quickly it worked.
Because Fu had been right.
Fluff had not wanted responsibility.
Which was why she now had it.
Accidentally.
Obviously.
She floated through time like she always did, ears twitching.
Something was off.
Something important.
Then—
It wasn’t.
Then—
It was again.
Sass sipped tea nearby.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he said.
Fluff pouted.
“I am not thinking. I am vibing through timelines.”
Sass did not respond.
That was answer enough.
Reluctantly, Fluff opened a portal.
A girl adjusted her schoolbag.
Frowned at her reflection.
“…Why do I feel like something bad is going to happen today?”
Fluff grinned.
Closed the portal.
“Oh,” she said lightly.
“Big sis gets a holder anyway.”