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It wouldn’t be that hard to fire Old Coco and abolish the postal service. Rossiu’s done worse.
“You got one too?” Viral asks.
Rossiu nods. “Three weeks from now, oh-eight-hundred.” Then, remembering Simon’s chronic lateness: “Give or take an hour.”
“Hm. Then I guess we should start cleaning this place up.”
꩜
Though Rossiu’s grown attuned to spirals’ push forwards, he’s still most familiar with their cyclic motion: the way they double back ad infinitum as they spin, spin, spin.
That’s why, he surmises, humanity once again finds itself at the event horizon of the apocalypse, nearly a year after the anti-spirals’ defeat. It’s his own fault — Gimmy and Darry have incited a cataclysm in his heart; enough to level the earth once and for all.
Gimmy has come out as aromantic, and Darry asexual.
Those words are no longer Rossiu’s, nor are they Viral’s. They’ve dispersed into the world and taken root in those Rossiu loves.
These are kids he’s nursed out of sickness; kids he’s hand-fed; the kids he couldn’t let follow his mother’s fate; the kids — shit, they’re not kids anymore; at the age Rossiu’s definition shattered they’ve cemented their own; they’re not kids anymore and he’s —
He’s forgetting loneliness, and learning how to take comfort in that.
One of the other Graperl cadets gives them shit; they brush it off. It’s over before it really starts, Darry explains. They can handle themselves — besides, they’re Simon’s hand-picked successors.
And no one’s going to argue with Simon.
꩜
“You’ll make yourself sick,” Viral accuses, sounding halfway there himself.
Like Rossiu — and his preventative, week-long, emaciated-fish-only diet — is unaware. “I’m just worried,” he defends, “about what Simon will think. Of the city and of us.”
“No need for that.” Viral tilts his head back against the chair’s cushions and drapes a leg over the armrest. His boot brushes the drafts of the Extraterrestrial Relations Act stacked neatly on Rossiu’s desk, but doesn’t topple them. “If last year’s murder attempts weren’t enough to get him off our backs, I doubt our pathetic sex lives will be.”
Maybe Rossiu would believe him, were it around the time of those ‘murder attempts.’ Had he not spent months learning that Viral’s acidity only ebbs with his nerves.
Great.
There is no God, no grand arbiter of the universe, no more Spiral King — but only because Simon refuses the role.
Rossiu and Viral have spent a year building; Simon, presumably, drilling. Who wins between them is obvious — if not already decided by the namesake of their battlefield.
But Viral’s words argue there will be no fight, even if his tone does not. This is a homecoming, after all. Simon’s first visit to Kamina City post-everything. All Rossiu needs to do is believe it.
Well, it’s been years since he was any good at that.
꩜
Simon’s different.
In part, it’s physical. He’s well-defined, outlined in weighty contours: lean muscles, tanned skin, and dark lower lashes. A black cord around his neck, but whatever hangs from it is hidden — and Rossiu can’t imagine anything so filling as to occupy the divot the core drill left in Simon’s chest.
But those changes are trivial. Rossiu’s seen Simon grow through far more, anyways; where definition is concerned, his smile — its collapse at fourteen, and recovery after; his meeting Nia, and taking Teppelin, and receiving the world’s first-ever batch of testosterone shaping a lopsided crescent moon that pulls all the earth upwards from its tides — is most constitutive.
It’s a gentler version of that same smile offered as greeting now. “Rossiu. You look different.”
Typical. Rossiu’s always been out of phase with Simon, usually a half-step behind. Between that and Boota, alert on Simon’s shoulder, Rossiu realizes some things never change.
He smiles, too. “I know. I turn twenty-two next week, and I’m already going grey. Can you believe it?”
Simon giggles — a small, warm thing, not conveyed in letters and gifts by half — and says, “I can, actually. But I’m not talking about that.”
A beat.
“How’ve you been?”
“Well,” Rossiu answers, honest. The same pressure that’d smothered him in Simon’s absence is letting up, now that he’s here. “The second set of ballots go out next week, and everyone who was displaced during the Mugann attacks is running for re-election. The Surface Restoration Plan is nearing completion. And Viral’s training a special class of cadets for the outreach mission to Alpha Centauri KLK-X, as we’ve maintained contact with them for a year. Leeron is hard at work on the spacecraft that will take us there, too.”
But again, Simon only chuckles. “Dumbass,” he chides without heat. “I asked how you’ve been. But go ahead and tell me about the city; I’d like to hear that, too.”
Rossiu thought he’d been nervous about Simon’s arrival for two equal reasons. Now, faced with the easiest choice of his life, he realizes how transparent of a lie that was.
“Maybe you’ve already heard from Yoko,” he begins, taking a step towards the New Parliament Tower, “but Kiyal opened a diner last month. It’s her third entrepreneurial attempt this year, after the cell phone company and the idol gig, but Kinon actually thinks this one will last…”
꩜
For his part, Simon is interested in the city. So much so they’ve made it to the basement before Rossiu realizes that the battle he imagined is actually playing out — and has been for an hour.
“This is where the Lordgenome biocomputer was stored,” Rossiu explains. The room is unrecognizable now; well-lit and divided into neat rows by polling booths. “We hold our elections here.”
“Yes,” Simon muses, and here’s his attack: “I’ve noticed you sign your letters as President Rossiu now. No more Supreme Commander?”
Parry: “That’s your title. I never wanted it.”
Counter-attack: “I know.” He doesn’t even wait before adding, “You’ve always been humble like that.”
Simon talks like he doesn’t own the concept of humility himself; hasn’t traded divinity for a lifetime of planting flowers. But his words mean more, because he does, and he has.
It’s the final blow; Rossiu’s no longer so iron-hearted as to deflect an attack sharp enough to pierce… well, you know. In fact, he doesn’t even try. He never was much of a fighter, after all.
They continue that pattern a while longer, until they find themselves somewhere more familiar: awash in sunlight that beats off a statue only called larger-than-life by those who hadn’t known its subject in that massive life of his.
It’s not private — Face God or no, the buildings around them watch, emotionless and omniscient — yet Rossiu still feels like he’s intruding when Simon speaks.
“How’ve you been, bro?” he asks. “It’s been a while. Sorry about that. I’ve kept busy helping anyone I can outside the city. I bet you like watching over this place, though. You’ve got a front-row seat to surface life. And Rossiu’s been doing a great job of making sure everyone gets to live under the blue skies.”
It’s too much. “Simon,” Rossiu interrupts, because —
Startled, Simon shifts his attention. Boota does, too. “Hm?”
Rossiu’s face burns. Car horns honk, their aggression muted against the lazy backdrop of late-afternoon heat.
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I don’t mean to interrupt. But I think Kamina would rather die a third time than see me leading the city.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” The corner of Simon’s mouth ticks up.
This, at least, is easy: “I… don’t think Kamina ever really liked me.”
Simon laughs. “No way! You threw him off, was all. I don’t think bro ever realized anyone so softhearted could have this much fighting spirit.”
And here it is again: weaponized kindness, offense masking defense. And sure, Simon’s always been nice enough, but — something’s up.
Rossiu frowns. “Simon, is everything okay? Why are you acting like this?”
“Huh?” Simon blinks once, then twice more. “… like what?”
He’s got his veneer of confused innocence down too well. Performed by anyone else, Rossiu would suspect it’s an act.
But it’s Simon.
So Rossiu tries to explain. “All I’ve done is show you around New Parliament Tower. But it seems like every chance you get, you’re complimenting me for this or that or the other. Why?”
Simon blinks again, and he’s right; it does sound ridiculous spoken aloud. “Is that… an issue?” It’s not confrontational — simply questioning.
“Of course not.” Rossiu looks away. “It’s just unusual.”
“Huh.” Simon seems to think about that for a moment. “Well, it’s been almost a year since I’ve gotten to catch up with everything. When else am I supposed to tell you all this?”
Spoken by anyone else, Rossiu might miss the unspoken follow-on buried beneath those words: What if now is the only time I have to tell you?
But.
But where did that come from? The anti-spiral is long gone; Lordgenome’s funeral only less so by two days. And no Beastman nor spiral warrior would attack Simon in his prime; he’s still only —
Twenty-two.
Not too long ago, Simon wanted to deck Rossiu so badly he’d tunneled all the way through space-time to do it. When Rossiu remembers — a half-step late, like always — that both Kamina and Nia died at twenty-one, the resulting impact hits him even harder than his own salvation.
Rossiu’s chest squeezes. He’s reminded of the grape-hippos, and the new trend of fermenting their pressed fruit, and wonders if the juice from his own heart is as sour.
Because Simon… is lonely.
Rossiu stumbles over everything and nothing. I should’ve realized it sooner. Have I already forgotten what it looks like?
“Whoa,” Simon says, and it startles Rossiu out of his haze. Apparently, he’s managed to sit on one of the nearby benches. Simon steps forward to follow; the movement and the setting sun placing him in the shadow of Kamina’s statue. It looks silly, as most things that are outgrown do. “Rossiu?”
Rossiu meets Simon head-on, and takes in the look of startled concern and confusion he’s getting. All in one breath, he says, “Thank you for the carving. I thought it was lovely.”
Which… isn’t what he meant to say.
Simon takes it in stride, mostly unfazed. “Wha — oh! From Adai. Yeah, you’re welcome! It was no big deal.” Then, though, he frowns. “Are you okay? You’re being more cryptic than usual. And you’re not even talking about politics! … I think.”
Rossiu swallows, and thinks back to Simon’s words from earlier. He’s here to see friends, not to arbitrarily approve city-wide improvements.
“I have something to share,” Rossiu states, equal parts necessary and not. A rain check on the point of no return.
Simon takes a seat next to him. “What is it?”
It’s just Simon.
“I’m… aromantic. And asexual.”
For a moment, Rossiu thinks the earth’s about to stop spinning. But car horns keep honking, and Simon shifts beside him, and Boota jumps into his lap. So he gives the pigmole a smile and faces his friend.
He expects a mirror of a situation from five years ago, expects to have to explain to Simon what he means and hopes he can manage the same gentle, steady tone Simon afforded him when talking about bisexuality. Instead, Simon just sticks his thumb up, and smiles. “For real? That’s cool!”
Rossiu blinks.
Then, he finally takes a breath. It does nothing to clear his mind, but it does help him feel a little more solid within his body. “You… know what that means?”
“Well, I actually just learned.” Before Rossiu can ask how in the hell, Simon’s busy answering two different questions. “I stopped by Korehana Island on the way here and sat in on one of Yoko’s classes. She gave a whole presentation on it.”
No wonder Rossiu’s forgotten what it’s like to be lonely. It seems that love, like other energies, is conservative.
Then Simon laughs, good-natured and light. “I guess this explains why you were so against visiting that hot spring, back when we were kids…”
Before he allows himself to redden too deeply with embarrassment, Rossiu has one more question to ask. “You’re not mad?”
Simon’s laugh peters out, and he’s got that concerned look on his face again. “Why would I be mad?” he asks. His voice is quiet.
“Because…” Because I won’t ever be able to use as much spiral power as the leader of Kamina City should. Because my own inadequacies dragged us down. He’s got ample options when it comes to the things he could apologize for; in the end, he decides on: “Because I relied only on myself and I nearly doomed humanity. And I’ll be going it alone for the rest of my life.”
“‘Going it alone’? Do I need to slug you again? Come on, Rossiu, give me a break.” Simon leaps to his feet and stretches, and it’s like Rossiu never buried the mood lower than Adai Village to begin with. “You think the rest of us are gonna let you try to pull that again? I don’t care if you’re aromantic; you’ve got me, and you’ve got Gimmy and Darry, and — Viral!”
Rossiu opens his mouth — he plans to admit that maybe Simon’s right, and then call him out on his own nomadic bullshit — but stops when he notices that Simon’s final exclamation wasn’t of reassurance, but of welcoming.
Viral’s finally arrived to meet them both for dinner.
Rossiu exhales; he’ll bother Simon about this later. In the meantime, he gets to his feet and greets Viral with a slight nod. “Commander.”
Viral returns the hello with a sneer. He gifts Simon a mostly-genuine, “It’s good to see you,” — though before anyone has the chance to call out his sincerity, follows it up with: “What’d you do to the President? You’ve only been here a few hours, but he looks like he’s about to start weeping.”
Simon counters with some comeback, but it fades to background noise. Rossiu’s taken aback; he thought he’d buried his relief deep enough to not let on that Viral might need some of the same… but it seems only fair that sameness allows Viral to understand.
So now it’s Rossiu’s turn to weaponize that understanding. “Actually,” he butts in, gathering his bickering friends’ attention, “I just came out to Simon. And he was very supportive.”
“I see. So you people are just as sappy as ever. Tch.” Viral crosses his arms over his chest and eyes Simon. “Guess it’s my turn, then. Me too.”
It catches Rossiu off guard. Viral’s so nonchalant about it, so outwardly confident. The universe played a sick joke when it withheld spiral power from him; he carries himself like he already owns it. It’d be right at home with him.
Simon’s grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens. “Hell yes!” he cheers.
“You’re ridiculous,” Viral growls. The menacing nature of it is so obviously artificial that Rossiu allows himself a small laugh. “Let’s get some food. I’m starving.”
Viral steps off first — to his credit, in the direction of downtown. Rossiu steals a glance in Simon’s direction as he follows, and as soon as their eyes meet, they’re giggling like children. Like when they were children. Viral grumbles some more — all incoherent — and Rossiu’s vision blurs with the strength of his laughs.
It’s a non-event, except that the aggregate mass of everything Rossiu doesn’t have, doesn’t feel — heavy as the world, when it had weighed upon his shoulders — has lifted.
꩜
“Yuck!” Kiyal crosses her arms over her chest; sticks out her tongue. “No way, old man! We’ve got standards here, you know!”
“Who are you calling old?” Viral growls.
“You, silly.” Kiyal brandishes the pen she’s been using to take their orders in the air, and Rossiu is careful to avoid its swipes. “I’m not the one eating dinner at three-thirty in the afternoon, am I?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, someone’s trying to keep a low profile,” Viral sneers with a conspicuous nod of his head towards Simon. They’re tucked away in a corner, all sat at a table not much larger than a barstool — but even so, it’s easy to guess who the cloaked figure between the President and the Commander is.
The effort is not helped by a cardboard facsimile of that same figure — minus eight years, plus one older brother — judging them from its post near the entrance.
Kiyal, however, pointedly looks between Viral and Rossiu, and not at either Simon. “I think you all need to try a little harder at that,” she says. “Pretty sure the whole city read that article from last week.”
“Eugh,” Viral retches, before Rossiu can. “You people need to stop calling it an article. It’s a tabloid, and a particularly grasping one at that.”
Out of obligation, Rossiu opens his mouth to join Viral’s bashing, but Simon speaks up first. “What article’s that?”
“Oh, you know,” Kiyal says, her sharklike grin rivaling Viral’s best. “The one that proved these two are an item due to all the time they’re spending together!”
For half an instant, Rossiu fears a line’s been crossed.
Sensationalist publications have taken off in the last year for exactly one reason. It was always Nia who kept the reporters honest, kept them kind, by earnestly casting her expectations so tall that merely straightening one’s spine in an attempt to measure up left the more lurid and libelous speculation buried beneath dust and gravel. She was humanity’s guiding star long before she was stolen by the anti-spiral — and in her absence, everyone struggles to find true north.
Rossiu suspects that the man who once helmed humanity still feels that loss not only as an absent star, but as a black hole. Omnipresent, consuming, and housing singularity.
But Simon just looks between the accused and lets out a hearty laugh as Viral and Kiyal continue their bickering.
Rossiu tunes them out and takes his own not-inconspicuous glance in Simon’s direction. It’s not that funny, Rossiu thinks. How long has it been since he’s heard a decent joke?
He’s about to actually speak up this time — but before he can, Kiyal aims another jab at Viral. “Even your piloting of Gurren is getting sloppy! I don’t know when you’re handing that mecha off to Darry, but it’ll be nice to get some fresh blood in the cockpit.”
Simon perks up; even among teasing jabs, he’s managed to dig up something of genuine interest. “You still pilot Gurren?” he asks Viral.
“You bet. And I’m the best around, these days.”
Simon smirks. “I knew it. Glad to hear you’re putting all that spiral energy to good use.”
Viral falters.
It’s a casual comment, except that it’s anything but. Kiyal blinks twice and slinks away, taking all of the diner’s oxygen with her.
What was the pride-adjacent, upward lilt of Viral’s expression curdles, and flashes in the halogens — toothy, like Enkidudu’s shields. “With respect, it’s electricity keeping that gunman running. I just aim the damn thing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Even shaded by the hood, Rossiu can see a familiar glint in Simon’s eyes. “Bro took the battery out the moment he found it.”
“No.”
Simon sits taller, despite the opposition… or perhaps because of it. He may be apathetic to his invulnerability here — he’s shielded not on account of defeating the anti-spiral, but because Viral loves him — but Rossiu, at least, is grateful that he won’t have to deal with a headache of papers come morning in an attempt to scrub murder from Viral’s records. “Yes. You remember bro; you know he’d never accept that anything other than fighting spirit kept Gurren moving.”
Every part of Viral seems to shrivel inwards. No argument can refute the memory of Kamina’s soul — least of all biology and logic.
Finally, he spits out a, “Tch. Believe what you want.”
“I will.” Then Simon turns to Rossiu. “Is Gurren in the old hangar?”
Rossiu nods, a bit dazed. That Viral can — and does — use spiral power is unsurprising. Rossiu held him in high regard as a fellow spiral warrior before knowing him in any other way, after all — but that alone doesn’t change Rossiu’s perennial reliance on the so-called facts of biology and logic.
Simon, though, is unfazed. “Good. When we’re finished here, I’ll prove it to you.”
꩜
Simon keeps his word. An hour later, he kicks the back of Gurren’s left leg, and a hidden panel swings open. Inside is a crude drawing of a lightning bolt and wires ripped apart so long ago their frayed tips have rusted over. In the relative privacy of the hanger, he’s taken off his ridiculous cloak, and his satisfied grin is on full display. “Now don’t make me say ‘I told you so,’” he teases.
Stubborn as always, Viral puts up an impressive effort — but it’s no match for Simon, and never has been. “I — I don’t believe it,” he stammers. “I’m a Beastman. I don’t have that — that ‘helical DNA’ nonsense; I don’t have —”
“Maybe you didn’t at first,” Simon admits. Gentler, now that they’ve all seen what they needed to, he nudges the panel shut. “But it makes sense. You got caught in the spiral labyrinth too.”
“On accident.”
“Heh. Yeah, okay. I don’t think so.” He shakes his head a bit. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, actually, about how the anti-spiral called us ‘people of the spiral’ instead of just ‘humanity.’ Because we’re not just using spiral power, are we? It’s… symbiotic, I think. Spiral power would be useless without the people who drive it forward.”
Viral blinks. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with Simon?”
But Simon’s found his path, and doesn’t waver from it. “I like to think that spiral power evolves with us, to meet our needs. It’d be kinda bullshit if it was stagnant, right? Even Lagann got it working, sometimes…”
Rossiu thinks on Simon’s words. They go against everything humanity knows, and everything the Spiral Power Research Institute’s published, and in most cases, Rossiu wouldn’t believe nice platitudes and wishful thinking could tangibly change the universe.
But this is Simon. Simon the digger, clothed in the fabric of reality. And, more importantly, Simon their friend, who even now is reshaping the world so Rossiu and Viral can fit into it a little better.
So Rossiu — to keep things balanced — can’t let Viral off too easy. “I always knew you had it in you, Commander,” he starts. “You’re the most formidable spiral warrior we have.”
“Can it,” Viral shoots back. His exasperation at such a light dig pulls a giddy smile onto Rossiu’s face. “Like I didn’t have to tell you the same damn thing a year ago.”
Rossiu’s satisfaction vaporizes when Simon whirls to face him. “Rossiu?”
Simon’s gaze casts Rossiu in a spotlight — uncomfortably warm, laying every detail bare. Has it always been sunbeams leaving this hangar so stuffy? Rossiu’s not sure, so it’s easy to try for cluelessness. “Yes?”
“What did Viral mean by that? Of course you have spiral power; you’re human.”
“I know that now.” Simon doesn’t look convinced. “But… I told you. I’m not interested in ‘gamogenesis,’ or anything that comes with it.”
“… so?”
“So… that’s why. And likely why I’m still not great at it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rossiu’s only seen Simon frown this deeply once before — and he takes a step back on instinct. Even Boota looks put off. “You were Gurren’s pilot for months!”
“That was a long time ago!” Rossiu argues.
“Hah!” Simon’s bark of laughter isn’t of joy or humor, but appall. “Sure.” He motions towards Gurren. “Get up there.”
“Wait, hold on!” Rossiu may have envisioned Simon’s visit as a figurative battle, but even his worrying brain, wired for doomsday, hadn’t imagined they’d fight it with gunmen. “You — Lagann’s being serviced right now; it’s not ready for combat.”
Simon’s eyebrows shoot up into his bangs. “Combat? What the hell, Rossiu. You’re not gonna fight anyone; you’re gonna prove to yourself that you can use spiral power just fine.”
And somehow that’s even more surprising. “What? Now?”
“We’re not getting any younger,” Viral snarls.
Rossiu gulps and looks to his friends. Simon’s got his ‘Leader of Team Dai-Gurren’ face on, complete with a lopsided smile and determination blazing in his eyes. Viral’s arms are crossed over his chest, casting his irritation in a commanding role.
Rossiu’s spent much too long thinking about what he’d have seen in the extradimensional labyrinth, had he been fished out of the galactic spiral abyss by the same net — one woven with threads of fate, webbed with desire and perception and the infinite — as everyone else. Viral’s living proof that it’s, of course, a hopeless exercise… yet Rossiu finds the answer here and now.
He’d have seen a world in which Simon’s request doesn’t scare him shitless. In which he’d know, with even a speck of certainty, that he can awaken Gurren with willpower alone, and he won’t have to disappoint his friends.
Because they sure believe he can.
And… well. Shit.
After a lifetime of not fucking getting it, Rossiu understands.
So he sets his jaw and focuses on Gurren. It’s taller than he remembers, somehow, but climbing up its frame and into its mouth is much easier.
Once he’s settled, he hovers over the controls. The first time he’d ever tried this, he’d been alone, a month or two shy of fourteen, and confused by so much: how a godmachine could sense human emotion, and why the skin of his reddened nose itched and peeled, and how the hell no one else thought the random bathhouse hidden by fog was at all fishy. In all respects, he should be better off, now.
So he takes ahold of the handles.
Green light flickers around him, along with his cartoon icon. Gurren’s walls display its spiral gauge… and it’s barely ten percent full.
It’s pathetic.
But that can’t be right, because Simon and Viral are expecting more. Rossiu frowns, trying to figure out where he went wrong —
— until brilliance surges around him, a tsunami to carry all adrift home. He’s blinded by it, drowning in it, except that the controls thrum against his palms, tethering him to life with their own heartbeat.
Or… not quite. But Simon’s right — this is alive. It’s got a pulse, and the whirling rhythm of it matches Rossiu’s.
Tears freefall from Rossiu’s eyes, but his mouth’s pulled taut into a smile so wide it hurts and they’re led to the edges of his cheeks. Simon cheers a whoop! in victory, Boota a bu-bu!, and a celebratory yes! even finds its way out of Viral. They’re all illuminated, too: awash in the color of trees, of grass, of things that grow.
꩜
Simon and Viral are already conversing when Rossiu gets his feet back on solid ground. “The spiral abyss,” Simon’s saying. “Or, that’s where I first noticed it.”
“Wasn’t that just the pigmole?”
Boota, enthused, leaps from Simon’s shoulder to Viral’s. Viral goes rigid; Simon chuckles.
“Boota says he was just helping,” Simon explains. “He only needed to be there so that you thought Gurren was contributing. After that, it was all you.” Then he turns. “Isn’t that right, Rossiu?”
“Yeah,” Rossiu agrees without hesitation. “I think so.”
Simon beams.
No light is lost as Simon faces Viral again, and finally indulges himself. “Told you so. That’s spiral power, more than sex and romance have ever been. And it’s always been inside you — both of you — just waiting to be dug up.”
His voice lacks the bite it once had, when he’d screamed, “You’ll never understand what bro felt inside!” But, Rossiu realizes, it wasn’t Simon’s just anger then that’d cast the notion in impenetrable stone, solidifying it as truth.
Because now, gentle and smug as they are, Simon’s words are enough to fuel Rossiu’s fighting spirit for years to come.
And he’d really like to see those years through.
Rossiu’s eyes are misting over again, blurring his vision. It’s a relief, though, since he thinks the same might be happening to Viral — and he’d never leave this hangar alive if he witnessed that.
Then, because Simon seems to be incapable of going two fucking seconds without giving, wiry arms find their way around Rossiu. On instinct, he hugs Simon back — only to find himself engulfed by the whole of his friend’s presence. There’s Simon, sure, but there’s something else: a familiar cloud, glowing with connection, energized by swirling turbulence. It’s like the universe itself can’t bear to separate from him.
“You too, Viral!” Simon calls.
Of course, Viral protests. “Aw, come on!” Simon teases him. “We know you love us, just get over here already!”
Their back-and-forth continues a few more seconds before Viral concedes. “Alright fine, Romeo; cut it out,” he grumbles.
“You read that book I sent you!” Simon exclaims, and Rossiu feels three bodies shake with laughter. An oversized hand lands on the small of his back, and he breathes in soil and flowers.
Rossiu’s been wrong. He does belong in this world. It just took him a while to find the one place he fit right.
(Or… maybe even the kind of love he’s capable of — even the kind he succumbs to — can change things.)
So he decides to test his luck. When they break apart, Rossiu wipes his eyes and speaks first, in earnest. “Thank you both. I could never have done that on my own.”
“Hah! Welcome to the club.” Simon claps him on the back. “You’re not alone, Rossiu. And you never will be.”
Rossiu almost believes that’s the end. Ego and self-importance are just a few of the insignificant limiters that have parted the way for Simon over the years — but he has grown used to having the last word, and he’s damn good at it.
But Rossiu looks at Simon — Simon, who no longer shakes when the earth does, who could pilot Gurren Lagann solo but who always chose a copilot — and decides to put some of his new fighting spirit to good use. “Neither are you,” he argues.
Simon blinks. “What?” He looks between Rossiu and Viral. “Of course I’m not.”
“No. But you are lonely, right?”
Simon’s eyes grow wide. “I —”
“Even I can tell,” Viral mutters.
In the half-step Simon’s off balance, Rossiu strikes with a finishing move of his own. “Why don’t you stay here, in Kamina City? You know you’re always welcome.”
“I —” Simon repeats.
Then he blinks a few times before closing his eyes. His smile is back, no longer solely the definition of melancholy, but its herald, too.
“I love you guys,” he says. Then he opens his eyes. “And it’s tempting, but I’m just not cut out for a life here, let alone a job.” He looks to Rossiu. “You should know that, better than anyone else.”
“You don’t have to work,” Rossiu offers.
Simon chuckles. “And what, just sit around all day? No way, I’d get so bored. Maybe all I’m good for is digging, but I can still do some good with that, I think.”
“You saved the universe with that,” Viral deadpans. “And all of humanity.”
Rossiu’s three-quarters of the way to glaring him down for the betrayal alone, but adds another half when Simon’s following laugh is somber, rather than cheered. “Oh, yeah. I won’t be doing that anymore, though. If I did… and even if I visit more, I’ll just bring the Spiral Nemesis on sooner.”
It’s a brilliant strategy. How could anyone argue Simon’s claim, after the day he’s spent demonstrating his exhaustive understanding? Rossiu mentally notes the tactic for his next election debate. It’s shrewd and the slightest bit sinister.
Which Simon… is not.
So Rossiu sets his jaw. Simon’s always been a better man than him — in character, and bravery, and spiral power… and that’s just the beginning of it — but a quick self-assessment tells him that marginal improvement in one category doesn’t map to the others. His newly awakened spiral power is no reason to quit being selfish.
“You should still visit more often,” he says, and tells himself that it doesn’t sound like begging.
“Or at least use your damn cell phone,” Viral cuts in.
“We’ll handle the Spiral Nemesis when it arrives,” Rossiu promises. “We’ll kick and scream and fight like hell.” After all, as Viral so tactfully pointed out, Simon fought for all of them.
It’s about time they fight for Simon, too.
Even Boota chimes in, chattering away from Viral’s shoulder. Simon hears Boota out before sweeping his gaze over all of them and lifting his brows in what’s obviously a futile attempt to make his grin appear less severe. “You’re certain?” he asks.
“Of course,” Rossiu answers, because he is. “Who the hell do you think I am?”