Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The world ended twenty-eight days ago and Lorenz doesn’t know why they’re keeping count.

He says they but means him, the way Lorenz always does.

(Who is he speaking of? Marianne asks quietly, a few months before the sky comes crashing down around them.

Hilda rolls her eyes. Claude, duh. One beat, two, then, a little lower, Lorenz is, like, obsessed with him. He says it’s all about beating him and… I mean, maybe it is, but -- whatever. Either way, it’s Claude. He’s always talking about Claude.)

It’s just one of those things, Lorenz thinks. Claude keeps counting because he started doing it, and now he has to continue. At first, it meant -- the world has ended, and here we still are. Day One After Calamity. Then day two, then day three, until it got to the point that it seemed more likely than not they would keep surviving after the point of no return, and still Claude kept counting.

Lorenz doesn’t think it’s a misplaced sense of optimism. He knows Claude—has for a long time now, even if he never used to admit it, never wanted to let anyone know how closely he paid attention to him—and that’s not his style. The man is maddeningly intelligent, a schemer to his core, deeply loyal to his allies, and has bigger dreams and ambitions than anyone Lorenz has ever met -- but he’s not unrealistic.

There’s no return from this. Lorenz knows this. There’s no way Claude doesn’t.

He kicks a loose piece of rock away from him -- probably the remains of someone’s home. Lorenz of twenty-nine days ago would never have done it, but Lorenz of twenty-nine days ago wouldn’t have been surrounded by wreckage, thinking about Claude von Riegan.

(Really, the wreckage is the only part that’s changed.)

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“This is vile,” Lorenz mutters.

Claude, crouched over a blistered corpse, hums in agreement. It’s less comforting than it could be, given that he’s still examining said corpse.

“Gross,” Hilda says, but her boots are still splattered with blood from the sun-struck they ran into earlier.

(When Lorenz was younger—not that long ago, really, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since those days when they first met and he entertained himself with conspiracy theories about Claude, as if he could will those thoughts to be loud and vicious enough that they would drown out any of the other thoughts his traitorous mind insisted on—he’d sometimes thought to himself about how golden Claude seemed -- a boy made for sunlight.

Then the sun came roaring down from the heavens and kissed its chosen with solar flares, twisting them into something -- else. Something other. Not the distant warmth of daylight, but the surface of the sun: immense & powerful & too hot to do anything but burn.

Lorenz does not dream of the sun on Claude’s face anymore.)

“Can we go?” Lorenz demands, impatient. He hates the stench of death, hates how it clings, hates how even though Claude is going to smell of it for weeks (he’s too close, too close, has been for too long, it’s going to be under his fingernails locked in his hair beneath the skin into his body infiltrating everywhere Lorenz can think of stop stop stop), Lorenz will still stay by his side for the watch: half a step too-far for comfort, half a step too-close for his excuses.

It’s what he always does, after all.

Finally, Claude rises. “Yeah,” he says, quirking his lips in a distracted smile. His eyes are elsewhere, calculating.

Lorenz’ heart still flips. He curses it where it stands.

Rinse, repeat.

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“That could have gone worse,” Claude says.

Lorenz shoots him an incredulous look. “How?”

“I mean, nobody died,” Claude says.

“You were stabbed!” Lysithea points out. “Which, undoubtedly deserved, but—”

“Wow,” Claude says, looking to Lorenz in commiseration.

Part of Lorenz feels smug -- half because he’s the one Claude looks to, half because Claude is being chastised -- but, frankly, he agrees with Lysithea. “You are very maddening,” he says, and wishes he meant it less fondly.

“I can’t decide who I should be more offended by,” Claude muses.

Lysithea throws up her hands, then a roll of bandages, which Lorenz catches. The tonic she throws next hits Claude in the forehead. “Well, if you decide, tell me later because I’m only treating people who didn’t get stabbed by a secret brother nobody even knew to look out for! If you’re lucky, Lorenz will take pity on you.”

With that, she stalks out.

“She has a terrible bedside manner,” Claude mutters, rubbing at his forehead. His expression is hangdog enough, though, that Lorenz mutely gathers the supplies and sets to cleaning Claude’s wound.

“You’re lucky,” Lorenz says, partway through the process.

Claude makes a strange sound: half-amusement, half-groan. Lorenz determinedly does not think about it in other contexts. “Yeah? How’d you figure?”

“Well, it missed all your major organs,” Lorenz says. “Unfortunately.” He doesn’t mean it, and they both know it.

“I’d love to say that was intentional from him, but…” Claude trails off, expression darkening. He sighs, glancing at Lorenz ruefully. “Not how I’d have picked for you to find out about him.”

There’s almost a promise in that. Like: I’d have picked you to find out about him, somehow, eventually.

Lorenz swallows. “Just don’t get stabbed again,” he chides. “It’s inconvenient.”

Claude smiles. “I’ll do my best,” he promises.

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This is how the world ends:

Oppressive heat, slowly building, then suddenly higher – quicker  – moremoremore—

The sky is on fire. The sky is black and nothing is distinguishable and it is on fire and all of these are true at once.

CRASH – Lorenz can’t tell where the sound is coming from, what’s happening, who’s screaming, but everything is -- everything is -- everything, everything, it’s—

“Lorenz!” Claude yells, and he grabs Lorenz’ hand, tugging him desperately, hand clenched tight, and Lorenz’ arm is almost out of its socket, and Lorenz opens his mouth to protest, gearing up to wrench his arm back, and—

And the sky is falling, the ground scorched where Lorenz was standing seconds ago. He stares at it, then at Claude, open-mouthed.

“Come on,” Claude says, and is that something desperate in his tone? Beneath the honey and steel? Lorenz can’t tell. The moment is gone, flickers back, gone. Claude’s hand is still wrapped around his, palm-to-palm.

Lorenz feels like throwing up. Lorenz feels overwhelmed. Lorenz feels --

Lorenz feels Claude’s pulse thrumming against his.

It anchors him, like a promise. Like: you’re not alone.

“Lorenz,” Claude says again. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

A moment. Two. Then a deep breath.

“Well, obviously,” Lorenz says, doing his best to sound snarky. “The sky is falling, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Claude laughs, a breathless, relieved thing that does not belong in this mayhem and devastation. 

Lorenz promises to hold onto the sound.

This is how the world restarts:

Bandaged, bloody knuckles, and fingers rubbed raw from a scavenged bow. A kiss pressed against a palm, holding a hand cupped to his face. The scratch of Claude’s facial hair against soft cheeks, but not as soft as they used to be.

(This is how the world restarts:

With a promise.)