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Padparadscha has lost count of the times they've gone under. Whenever they come to, Rutile’s crossed brow is above them, eyes praying to meet Padparadscha’s. The school’s high white roof is always curved above them. Rutile’s upkept lab is behind their box. Various chunks of incisions are likely lining the window sill to Padparadscha’s right, and The Hills of White can be seen on the very distant horizon.
It’s familiar.
Padparadscha isn’t sure when they started feeling dread at waking up, but now they can’t open their eyes without feeling guilty.
They know Rutile slaves over their torso. The weight on their half-numb half-pleading face is enough to tell that Padparadscha has disappointed them more than a few times. It's becoming impractical. Rutile doesn’t have time to invest in Padparadscha. The number of Gems is dwindling. Their fight against the Lunarians is far from over.
At least, as long as the truth never gets out. Padparadscha often wishes to whisper their theories to Cinnabar on night watch or discuss the lies the Gems are living with alongside Rutile, but they refrain. The truth is not without consequences.
Time will tell. Phosphophyllite, one of their youngest and most troublesome gems, is showing a hint of…humanity. Rutile, hundreds of years ago, had convinced Chrysoberyl to divulge information on their origins in hopes of reviving Padparadscha. Rutile had done research on every arcane lead, including the myth of humans. The knowledge hadn’t helped Padparadscha stay awake any longer than normal, but once Rutile shared the theory with them, the idea of humans has stayed with Padparadscha for quite some time. It explains more than they wish to know.
As time moves forwards, there is no use for Rutile to keep salvaging Padparadscha. It’s become more of a burden, and a burden they cannot make up for, at that. When they used to fight alongside Rutile and their fainting spells didn’t last more than a few days, Padparadscha felt justified in getting Rutile to amend them. All Gems needed medical attention.
But now, they wake up to Rutile’s heavy eyes and the knowledge they have a few hours awake only to fall back asleep for years. They can feel it. Being awake saps their energy ridiculously fast. Even bathing in the sun is exhausting.
This time, Padparadscha knows they’ll only have a few minutes of consciousness. The moment they open their eyes, they are tempted to lie back down in their box and give in. They don’t.
“Good morning,” Padparadscha says, even though the sky is dark. They crack their neck, working out the possibly-hundred-year-old kinks. While they never know exactly how long they've been asleep, based on Rutile's shaky face and the stiffness in their bones, it's been longer than usual.
“Padparadscha.” Rutile’s voice is airy, almost disbelieving, and then the doctor side of them kicks in. “How do you feel?”
“Not a day over a hundred.” That’s a lie. And being a hundred was so long ago they don’t remember it. “Not so good.”
“I see.” Rutile sits beside them, on the other side of the box. “I suspected as much. The alloy I found only has a hardness level of 6.”
“My incisions aren’t sure if they like it,” Padparadscha says. It’s funny to feel their torso and chest testing out the new ore. Attempting to bond with a foreign substance that goes through them six times over.
“I’ll try to find a more compatible one.” Rutile’s writing notes in another one of their brown small books. Padparadscha doesn't like the idea of Rutile combing through the washed-up minerals. Some lost causes may be alright with fading.
“I’d like to see the clouds,” Padparadscha says, to change the subject and to take advantage of being awake. Clouds are the other thing worth being conscious for. Rutile, and clouds.
“Alright. Let me know if you’re going to collapse.”
“I’ll try my best, partner.” Back when they were on the front lines together, Padparadscha would often collapse on days without vibrant sunlight. As their fainting spelling grew more and more frequent, Rutile often ended up carrying them back to the school, two blades strapped to their shoulder and a verbal lashing sitting under their tongue.
Rutile nods, and then offers their hand to Padparadscha.
Ah. What a glorious time to be awake and conscious.
“Gloves?” Padparadscha tilts their head. Is that asking for too much?
The night air is still in between them, the wind filling the silence, and then Rutile slips off their gloves, one hand at a time. They get set on the floor.
What a glorious, glorious time to be awake.
Rutile’s hands are softer than all of Padparadscha. At a hardness level of 6, they feel like dandelions.
“Be careful,” Rutile says as Padparadscha goes to step out of their box. The wooden box squashes their hair ever-so-slightly, but Padparadscha doesn't want to bother Rutile for another bed. Maybe they could take over the hibernation chamber.
“I’m nothing but careful.” Padparadscha clears the box with little trouble. Coordination always feels a little bit wonky after a hundred-year sleep, as it does, but nothing they can’t handle.
“Window?”
Padparadscha nods. With constantly adjusting steps, Rutile guides Padparadscha to the window sill. They sit. The marble is chilly, and Padparadscha runs their hand over it.
“Sit. I won’t bite,” Padparadscha says when Rutile doesn’t automatically follow them.
“I hope not.” Rutile joins them. They're not close enough that their legs touch, but Padparadscha can see the gold shadows in their eyes. They sparkle, like in the myth of cats.
Padparadscha doesn’t give Rutile the chance to consider letting go of their hands. They fold both of their hands together and into Padparadscha’s lap.
Although they glance down, Rutile doesn’t make any comment or attempt to move away.
Outside, Cinnabar is on watch. Padparadscha knows that hasn’t changed. The moon is just within viewing range. Grass bends with the wind and hills stretch on for miles and miles and miles.
If they weren’t tied to an hourglass right now, Padparadscha would’ve grabbed Rutile’s hand and taken them to The High Fields. The ocean always looked more alluring there. They aren’t sure how many new places Rutile has been visiting. Even though it only took Padparadscha around seven years to completely memorize all of the island with their photographic memory, they used to take Rutile around as if they were giving them a tour.
Here are the lily pads Phos talks to, and here is the dent Green Diamond couldn’t quite cover up after Kongo-Sensei fell asleep on it. Here is your bed (oh, look, it’s messy) and here is the greatest hill on this island where I will dance with you now. (The hill changed depending on the day.)
Rutile shifts. This view likely isn’t anything special to them. Padparadscha is sure they work late into the night. “Perhaps the Shore of Nascency will have better luck once this winter passes—”
“Don’t bother.” Ah. Padparadscha guesses it’s time to go there then.
“—since the patterns indicate another half-formed Gem will wash up.” Rutile does a double-take once actually registering Padparadscha's words. “What?”
“Don’t bother.” Padparadscha has floated the idea of letting them go by Rutile before. It’s never gone well.
“What?”
“It’s time for you to give up on me, Rutile.” Their last sleep was over a hundred and fifty years. From what they’ve heard, that’s well over a human’s life. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“I just need to find the right incisions,” Rutile says, shaking their head in denial. “I’m almost there.”
“My bad luck is coming through.” Padparadscha lifts one of their shoulders with a corner of their mouth. A jolt of tiredness goes through them. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“I’m a doctor.” There’s no room for argument. Padparadscha wouldn’t deny that. “I’m a doctor, but what purpose do I serve if I can’t keep you awake?”
“Sitting there and looking pretty?” Don’t blame them. It’s been a while since they’ve gotten to flirt.
“I’m sorry I’m such a failure.”
“Don’t say that.” Perhaps today is not the day. Padparadscha gets the sense they won’t be able to prevent Rutile from attempting to fix their puzzle of a chest, at least this time around. Maybe after their next nap. “I’m awake, aren’t I?” (Even if they are about to fall asleep.)
Rutile presses their lips together. This argument will get neither of them anywhere.
While Padparadscha wants Rutile to leave them behind, to move on, to continue helping the others and to stop tormenting themselves when their over-a-thousand incisions don’t work out—
Padparadscha is glad they get to see Rutile.
They don't want to argue.
“Has your hair gotten shorter?” Padparadscha cranes their neck to get a better look at Rutile’s hair. “It frames your face. The yellow is nice.”
Padparadscha is glad they get to talk to Rutile.
“Your gloves were a different colour, yeah?” They think back to when Rutile offered their hand. “Now they’re grey. I’m pretty sure the other ones were also grey, but darker. Red Beryl must be working hard.”
“They are.”
“And if I squint” —Padparadscha does— “Then you still look like you always have bedhead. Invest in a comb, would you?”
The neutral expression on Rutile’s face quickly changes to annoyance. “You’re one to talk.”
Padparadscha is glad they get to annoy Rutile.
And they’re sure their own hair is atrocious. And more bedhead-esque than Rutile could ever be. Even when they were younger and Kongo-Sensei joined the Gems on patrols, Rutile never slept for more than seven hours unless it was winter.
“Get Red Beryl or Obsidian to craft one for you,” Padparadscha continues with a smile. “It can’t be that hard. Is it? I can't imagine it would be. Your hair is short and should be easy to take care of.”
Rutile pinches their leg.
“Yes?” Even though it’s been years, Rutile is still the same one Padparadscha fell in love with. Of course Padparadscha knows them. And it’s Padparadscha’s job to annoy them, no matter how small the matter or how long they've been apart.
Rutile’s frown stares at them.
“Yeeeeesssss?” Hehe. Padparadscha grins.
Wind disturbs Rutile’s bedhead. They’re still as pretty. If anything, the longer Padparadscha looks at them, the more beautiful they become. Rutile's strong, and determined, and funny, and everything worth waking up for.
“...I want you to be able to see the clouds every day.”
Ah.
To be sleeping, so they don't have to leave Rutile yet again. It aches. Their incisions and their…humanity. The third that is left in them is cracking, fissuring, and crying. Padparadscha ignores the prick behind their eyelids.
“Don’t worry about me too much,” Padparadscha says, even though they know Rutile won’t listen. “I’m lazy, you know. I like to sleep.” That’s true. At least, they like to sleep more than Rutile. Rutile had to drag them out of bed right before every morning's debriefing and force them to call it a night when they were playing cards with Yellow Diamond and Phosphophyllite.
“I’ll find incisions that let you stay awake.”
There’s no way to flip the entire argument. Rutile is set in their ways. However.
“Okay.” Padparadscha needs to remedy their guilt somehow. They can feel sleep beckoning to them, much too quickly. “If you promise not to slave over me. Not to be disappointed if I don’t wake up. Not to miss me too much.”
Rutile laughs, somewhat held back. “Tall order.”
“Indeed.”
They’ll just rest their eyes. Padparadscha drops their head onto Rutile’s shoulder. They stiffen, and then relax in their lab coat.
“Is it time?”
An apology wouldn't do anything. It won't stop their body from rejecting the incisions. It won't stop the bittersweet yearning Rutile must go through every time Padparadscha sleeps. It must be cumbersome to have a lover like them.
“...Give me a goodnight kiss.”
“I’ll see you again, soon.”
“Not too soon. You need to do other things. And I need beauty sleep.” Black creeps in the corners of Padparadscha’s vision. Welcome back, it’s saying, welcome home.
Rutile chokes, laughs, and nods.
“Goodnight, Rutile.”
“Goodnight, Padparadscha.”
As they drift off, Padparadscha registers the clouds fading out of view, and a press of lips to their forehead.