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It's a pretty apartment, Fiammetta has to admit. White marble and gold trim, leather furniture and stainless-steel appliances. The pile of moving boxes near the entryway—most of them emptied and neatly folded, a few still yet untouched—is starkly, incongruously dull compared to the pristine surroundings. The apartment had even been newly renovated in order to properly accommodate the Notarial Hall's newly-appointed bishop and her wheelchair.
The bishop in question is lounging on the floor by the mahogany coffee table in her pajamas, with her back resting against Fiammetta's chest and her feet on Mostima's lap. She gestures sleepily with her second beer can of the night. "But when we scanned in the files," Lemuen says, recounting the week's office woes with her cheeks flushed pink from alcohol, "they were sorted way out of order in the system. Guess what happened?"
Mostima pops open another bag of chips. "What happened?"
"Come on, guess."
Mostima sighs melodramatically. "Lemuen, please," she says, slumping over Lemuen's legs. "I spent all day helping you move, and I've had twice as many beers as you. Are you really going to be so cruel as to make me use my brain right now?"
"Yes." Lemuen nudges Mostima's leg with her foot. "Now guess."
"A poltergeist snuck into the computer."
"Oh, be serious." Lemuen tips her head back to look at Fiammetta, blinking drowsily. "What about you, Fia? Any guesses?"
"Uhhh…" Fiammetta fumbles; her expertise is in firearms, not computers. "Someone… scanned the files wrong?"
"You're close!" Lemuen reaches up to tap the tip of Fiammetta's nose. "Thank you for answering properly. Did you know that Columbians write the date like month-day-year?"
Fiammetta blinks. "…Why?"
"Heaven only knows," Lemuen says, lifting her beer can to her lips, "but it's my problem now." She frowns when she finds her can empty, and reaches toward the coffee table for another, but Fiammetta lightly catches her wrist before she can take it.
"Not so fast," Fiammetta says. "You told us to stop you after two. Your meds."
Lemuen harrumphs, but withdraws her hand. "Fine. Mostima, pass me some water."
"As you wish, Your Eminence." Mostima grabs a water bottle from the table, cracks it open, and passes it into Lemuen's waiting hands.
"Thank you, Seniora," Lemuen says. She takes a long swig. "Anyway, they had me doing revisions until the sun came up. This promotion is starting to feel like twice as much work for just a 20% pay bump."
"But the other perks are pretty nice, don't you think?" says Mostima, gesturing at their surroundings. "Better than when your office was a hospital room. Your shower could probably fit all three of us at once."
Lemuen clicks her tongue. "Shoot, you're probably right. We should've tried that earlier."
"Maybe tomorrow," Mostima offers, patting Lemuen's knee. "But for now, maybe we should head toward the bedroom rather than the bathroom, don't you think?"
"We could stay here…" Lemuen lolls her face to the side, nuzzling her cheek against Fiammetta's shoulder. "You're a good pillow," she mumbles.
Heat rises under Fiammetta's collar. "It'd be bad for your back," she says, delicately shifting her hold. "I'll carry you to bed, come on."
Lemuen pouts, curling into a ball. "You two are just going to party more without me," she says, shooting a grumpy glare at Mostima.
Mostima laughs, raising her hands defensively. "Come on, we wouldn't! You know we wouldn't. It's late anyway. We'll clean up a little and then come join you. Promise."
"…Fine." Lemuen wraps her arms around Fiammetta's shoulders in assent. Fiammetta gathers Lemuen into her arms and stands, heading to the bedroom with careful steps to avoid jostling her.
Lemuen snuggles her face into the crook of Fiammetta's neck. "You smell nice," she says, close enough that her breath skims over Fiammetta's throat.
I smell like the shampoo you bought this morning, Fiammetta thinks. Less than a day, and this apartment is already starting to bear Lemuen's imprint, the inevitable effect of her presence. Fiammetta herself is no exception.
She nudges the bedroom door open with her foot. The bedroom is one of the more modest rooms of the apartment, currently furnished with only a bed and a simple nightstand. There's a stack of photographs resting on one of the moving boxes in the corner, mostly of Lemuel, blurry selfies in front of Lungmen's nighttime scenery. In a day or two, Lemuen will set them in new frames and pin them to the walls or prop them on the nightstand, just like how she decorated her hospital room before she left.
Lemuen winces slightly as Fiammetta lays her on the bed, and Fiammetta can't help but feel guilty for it. It's not as if she can do much to heal Lemuen's old injuries.
But at least I can…
Fiammetta pushes the thought aside for the moment. She tugs the blankets up to Lemuen's shoulders, instinctively smoothing down Lemuen's hair and clothes in the process.
Lemuen reaches out and catches Fiammetta's sleeve in her shaky fingertips. "Fia..." Her voice is soft, and uncharacteristically small.
Fiammetta sits on the edge of the bed, leaning in close. "You okay?"
"Mhm…" Lemuen's palm slips into Fiammetta's, fingers lacing together as easily as puzzle pieces clicking in place. "It's okay if you and Mostima want to keep drinking without me."
"We wouldn't," Fiammetta says, lightly squeezing Lemuen's hand. "You were so against it a moment ago."
Lemuen takes a slow breath. In the low light, her halo casts a soft, delicate glow on the contours of her face, but her eyes remain in shadow. "I know," she says, "the way I am now, you two will always end up leaving me behind."
"We wouldn't–"
"Shh." Lemuen's expression is hazy from alcohol and exhaustion, but her hold on Fiammetta's hand is steady. "You already know how the story goes. The way it's gone for years. You two go out and see the world and all its offerings, and I stay behind just reading the reports you write." She squeezes Fiammetta's hand back, tighter. "But while you're here, with me–" she swallows– "it's enough that you're just… here. That I can hear your voices through the wall."
Fiammetta's chest aches. "Are you sure?"
"I don't want to cage you. Either of you. It wouldn't be right." Lemuen pulls their joined hands close, pressing her lips to Fiammetta's knuckles. "It's okay if you go," she whispers against Fiammetta's skin. "Just promise that you'll come home to me."
Are you lonely? Fiammetta stops herself from asking. What a pointless question. She's known the answer for a long time.
"We will," she says instead, cradling Lemuen's hand in both of hers. "Always. Can you try to sleep?"
"I can try."
"I'll stay here until you do."
Lemuen closes her eyes, but the light of her halo doesn't dim in the slightest. Fiammetta looks down at the small, scarred hand intertwined with hers, weighing her options, preparing herself.
I'm sorry for this, she thinks, too afraid to say it out loud. I know you'd refuse me if I asked.
Fiammetta hasn't used her pain Arts in years, hasn't practiced and honed them to a fine point they way she has with her guns, but they still well up inside her as fluidly as the breath in her lungs, flowing out over Lemuen's body.
It starts with a slight prickling under Fiammetta's skin, radiating up and down her spine, almost like the sensation of goosebumps. She holds herself back from taking all of it at once; slowly, she has to go slowly, otherwise it'll be too obvious. She rubs her thumb rhythmically over Lemuen's knuckles, back and forth, and takes a little bit more with each stroke.
The prickling turns into needles, then knives. Fiammetta silently grits her teeth. She can't let herself stop yet. As if walking through a tunnel blindfolded; she can't tell how far she still has to go, but she has to keep going until she reaches the end. No matter what. No matter what.
Lightning sears through her chest, an excruciating flash, and she bites back a gasp. She blinks the spots out her eyes, her gaze instinctively falling back to Lemuen as if pulled by gravity. Nothing else matters. Nothing matters except for Lemuen's body relaxing at long last, her halo dimming in sleep.
Fiammetta takes a deep breath, relieved, and leans down to kiss Lemuen's cheek. Lemuen doesn't even stir. Fiammetta can't help but wonder if it's Lemuen's pain that keeps her propped upright, that grants her the illusion of alertness by denying her true rest.
Fiammetta lets go of Lemuen's hand and gets up stiffly, taking careful, measured breaths. Pain—Lemuen's pain—stabs through her back with each step, but she wills herself forward, slipping out of the bedroom and closing it quietly behind herself. She slowly makes her way back to the kitchen and living area, hoping that her clumsy new gait won't be too obvious.
"Hey-o," Mostima says as Fiammetta reaches the kitchen. She has another beer in one hand, and is stirring something sweet-smelling in a small saucepan on the stove with the other. "You were gone for a while. Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Fine," Fiammetta lies. "Just stuck around until she fell asleep. Do you need any help with cleaning?"
"Nope, all done." Mostima gestures at the fridge. "There's still a few beers left if you want some."
Fiammetta shakes her head as she sits down at the kitchen table, secretly relieved that she doesn't have to try much harder to hide her self-inflicted condition. "I think I've had enough for the night."
"Mhm…" Mostima takes a slow sip of her beer, looking Fiammetta up and down with an inscrutable expression.
Fiammetta is too tired for games. "Something you want to say?" she says, a challenging edge creeping unbidden into her voice. She almost wants Mostima to challenge her back, to fight her, to argue with her, anything. Anger is an easy distraction, easier than sitting still with phantom fire searing her nerves.
Mostima quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't rise to the bait. With measured, deliberate motions, she drops her beer can into the trash and returns her attention to the stove. "You're doing it again, aren't you?" she asks.
Fiammetta grits her teeth, defensive. "Doing what?"
"I know my reports are a lot shorter than yours, but I do pay attention." Mostima clicks the stove off. "I know about your pain Arts."
Fiammetta blinks, stunned. "How…?"
Mostima only shrugs, her back still turned. "Three years in the same squad, almost a decade of traveling together. Are you surprised that I picked up a secret or two?"
Fiammetta opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, struggling for words. "So what?" she finally spits out. "What about it? You don't get to decide how I use my Arts."
"What about it, indeed…" Mostima opens up a cabinet and plucks out a mug. "It doesn't seem particularly healthy for you, judging by your terrible mood right now," she says as she pours the contents of the saucepan into the mug, "but hey, what do I know?"
Fiammetta glares at Mostima's back. "One of us has to be hurting. I'd rather it be me."
Mostima turns back around to Fiammetta, the mug in her hands. "Don't you think," she says, setting the mug on the table in front of Fiammetta, "that Lemuen would say the exact same thing?"
Fiammetta clenches her fists, but doesn't answer. She hates that she doesn't have an answer.
"Ah, well, too late now, huh?" Mostima says, patting Fiammetta's shoulder with nonchalance that's surely forced. "Sit tight and drink up."
Fiammetta looks down at the mug. Hot chocolate. She's hardly in the mood. "I didn't ask for this."
"Did Lemuen ask for your Arts?"
"That's not the same."
Mostima shrugs. "Well, here's the thing," she says as she returns to the sink and starts washing out the saucepan. "If you insist on borrowing Lemuen's suffering, then you can hardly get mad when I start treating you the same way I treat her, hm?"
Fiammetta can't see Mostima's face like this. She wishes she could, even if it would tell her nothing.
As if reading her mind, Mostima glances back over her shoulder. "What's wrong?" she says with a wink. "Do you like me better when I'm mean to you?"
Fiammetta scowls. "I like you better when you shut your mouth."
Mostima smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Is this the part where I say 'make me'?"
"Don't play games with me." Fiammetta can't quite muster up enough fire in her words. She can't… she can't bring herself to be truly angry. Not right now. Not at Mostima. "Just don't."
"… As you wish." Mostima sets the saucepan on the drying rack by the sink. "I'm going to start getting ready for bed," she says, leisurely stretching her arms above her head. "Take your time drinking. That's the gourmet stuff. Savor it."
Fiammetta watches Mostima's back as she leaves the kitchen; It isn't until she's out of view that Fiammetta takes a sip of the hot chocolate. She can barely taste it, but she drinks it down anyway. She's tired, too tired to fight. Her hands shake as she washes out her mug, as she stumbles to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
Fiammetta stops in the hallway by the bedroom door, hesitating. Is Lemuen still asleep? Is Mostima asleep already? She glances back in the direction of the living room; surely a night on the couch wouldn't be so bad, compared to the guilt of disturbing either of them–
A faint noise reaches Fiammetta's ears, pausing her train of thought. Unthinking, she steps forward to the source of the noise, closer to the bedroom. It sounds like… humming, a tune almost like a lullaby.
Mostima…? Fiammetta lays her hand on the doorknob, compelled as if by siren's song. With all the carefulness she can muster, she quietly pushes the door open.
The room is lit only by Lemuen's wings and halo, a soft, diffuse gold. Mostima is reclined on her side, propped up on one elbow, gazing down at Lemuen as she delicately runs her fingers through her hair. Lemuen herself has her arms wrapped tightly around Mostima, her face buried in her chest.
The humming stops. Mostima glances up, meeting Fiammetta's eyes. A lazy smile spreads over her face, and she lifts her hand, beckoning Fiammetta to join them.
Fiammetta carefully closes the door behind herself and slips into bed. She mirrors Mostima's position, lying against her elbow, with Lemuen's body nestled in between theirs.
With her face half in shadow, Mostima watches Fiammetta like a curious animal: observant, but feigning aloofness. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Fiammetta wishes she could peel back all those layers of dispassion and open her like a book, wishes she could pore through all the things that Mostima refuses to say out loud.
She can't rely on Mostima's words; all Fiammetta has are her actions. And tonight, Mostima did what she could for Fiammetta, just as Fiammetta did what she could for Lemuen.
Mostima raises an eyebrow, an unspoken question. Fiammetta can almost hear her voice: Whatcha looking at, Flaming Envoy? Something on my face?
Under daylight, Fiammetta wouldn't hesitate to call her an annoyance. But the only light here comes from Lemuen, a light that's all but impossible to hide from.
Fiammetta leans forward, closing the distance between them in a kiss. Mostima makes a tiny noise of surprise, little more than a puff of breath from her nose, but she soon closes her eyes with a sigh. The kiss is a slow, chaste thing; Fiammetta hesitates to call it romantic, even Mostima's hand lightly cups her cheek.
Fiammetta pulls back by a millimeter. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," she murmurs in the space between their lips.
Mostima simply smiles. She takes hold of Fiammetta's jaw with two fingertips and gently turns her head, dotting a second kiss onto Fiammetta's cheek, and a third next to her ear. "Go to sleep, Fia," she whispers.
"Mm…" Fiammetta wills herself to relax her tense muscles, settling back down on the bed. She tucks herself around Lemuen's peaceful, petite form, resisting the near-instinctive urge to kiss Lemuen's nape.
Mostima's fingers thread lightly into Fiammetta's hair at the back of her head, a slight, familiar weight. Her humming starts up again, slow and quiet, a tune Fiammetta doesn't recognize. Even after all these years, Fiammetta could count the number of times she'd heard Mostima sing outright on one hand. Lemuen claims that Mostima used to be a choir girl when they were younger, an exceptional one, just as she was exceptional in everything she did back then.
But that was back then, and this is now, and that holy praised voice no longer sings the words of God under cathedral arches. All that's left is a hum, filling this little bedroom as if it's something equally sacred.
The hand in Fiammetta's hair slips down to her back, rubbing light circles in between her shoulder blades. If it were anyone else, other than Lemuen, Fiammetta would probably shrink away from the touch, nerves raw and oversensitive. But somehow, from knowing that it's Mostima, with the anchor of Lemuen's warmth against her chest, the rhythmic motion is as soothing as the lullaby in her ears.
Fiammetta buries her face in Lemuen's hair. Her head is hazy from exhaustion, as if she's already dreaming. Afraid to wake up, afraid to let the illusion shatter, afraid to lose this moment. When she wakes up in the morning, Fiammetta knows, Lemuen's pain will return to her.
And when she wakes up in the morning, there will still be a set of matching color-coded mugs, a trio of toothbrushes in the holder by the bathroom sink, a bed big enough for three.
Come home to me. Lemuen's words echo in Fiammetta's heart. As she closes her eyes, Fiammetta hopes that those words will stay in her forever.