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You decide to take a long rest for the night, setting up camp underneath a tall, rocky outcropping, slightly obscured by short trees and dry underbrush. The chill of night is a soothing balm after having fought and traveled beneath the sun for most of the day. Above you, the skies are clear, a myriad of stars twinkling as they march across in a stunning parade.
Is there anything you would like to do while at camp?
The Red Prince takes the strange jagged sword that they recently pilfered from his inventory, with the intent of spending some time to attune to it.
Malron gives a distrusting side-eye.
"I don't know if that's a good idea..." Fulgur chuckles in amused apprehension. "I mean, we DID find that thing in a crypt attached to a fresh corpse, after all."
"It's SUPER not a good idea," Rosemi agrees, "but The Red Prince is a dummy, so he'd totally do it."
"Do it, Rosemi!" Pomu encourages, "Do it! I'm sure it'll be fiiiiine."
"I mean, there's like a 50/50 chance it's something busted," Doppio adds through a mouth full of sandwich. He swallows his bite before continuing, "My Arcana check said it shouldn't be cursed or anything."
Rosemi nods resolutely.
"I would like to take some time to acquaint myself with this new artifact," The Red Prince declares pompously. "It should prove useful. No doubt it's a powerful weapon befitting a powerful man such as myself."
Do you want to perform this attunement before or after you fully rest?
"Ummm..." Rosemi checks her remaining hit points.
"Oh my god why would you ask that, that's so ominous!" Fulgur exclaims.
Aia just snickers.
"Perhaps it would be wise to save such activities until after we rest," Duel advises.
The Red Prince hums. "True. Today's battles have worn us down quite a bit. I shall save it for tomorrow, then."
Anything else to be done?
Doppio looks up at Fulgur across the table from him and finds a pair of silver eyes already meeting his gaze. There's a moment of silent communication, whole paragraphs spoken in slight tilts of the head, in the subtle dance of their eyes. The two find themselves talking without talking.
They've been doing that a lot, recently.
Almost against his will, Doppio looks away to the rest of his party. Pomu is drinking from her glass, and Rosemi is pointedly staring down at her character sheet.
"Is that all, then?" Duel asks. The party sounds their agreement. "Then let's all rest. I'll take first watch, since I'm the least injured."
"That's so vile, by the way," Aia interjects jokingly. "You have the constitution of wet toilet paper yet you somehow managed to survive."
Doppio snickers. "It's my IRL luck stat coming in clutch."
"More like you let your pets do all the fighting for you," Pomu accuses.
"That's the whole point of Duel Monsters!"
"I'll take watch with you," Malron offers. "We can't be too sure in these wild lands. Wouldn't want you caught off guard by yourself."
Duel smiles. "That's very kind of you, Malron. But... are you sure? The others should also be fine to keep watch with me."
"It will be alright," the warlock reassures. "I'm second best-off after that battle, besides."
Pomu and Rosemi look at each other.
"Then we'll sleep first," Sans declares.
The two dragonborn bards crawl beneath the lean-to constructed against the wall of rock, just a few feet from the campfire. They set up their bed rolls, and quickly fall asleep.
Duel Manster and Malron sit beside each other on an old, near-petrified log.
Please roll for Perception.
Doppio and Fulgur roll their dice, and get 21 and 18 respectively.
Though there are stirrings in the brush, it is only the sounds of small, nocturnal animals. Nothing that would want to harm you. Your watch passes uneventfully.
"It's a beautiful night, tonight," Malron sighs, looking up at the stars.
Doppio looks up at Fulgur. Raises a brow. Fulgur returns a little quirk of the lips.
Duel chuckles. "I don't think I've heard you get so sentimental before."
A shrug. "Death makes you more appreciative of the finer things in life, I suppose." Malron looks to Manster, and tilts his head. "Was it like that for you, too? When you first died to that mind flayer."
"...I don't know," Duel murmurs, far away in recollection. "It feels as though it was so long ago. I can only really describe it as... a dream you forget when you wake up."
“Probably because you had your brain sucked out of your head.”
Duel laughs heartily. “Maybe so! Maybe so.”
“You didn’t think much of it afterwards either, if I recall correctly.” He scoffs. “Really, I think you had more of a reaction to my own death than yours. You were terribly upset when I was brought back.”
It was a strange memory: fresh from nothingness he was returned to life at his comrades’ feet, Duel a beast of snarling retribution above him, knocking swarms of arrows into the air and sharply commanding his pets to finish off his quarry.
"Of course I was! We all were. You're our friend, you know?"
Nearly a full year of weekly sessions had passed— long enough for them to fully settle into roleplaying their characters. Long enough for them to have fully redecorated their usual session room with art and trinkets of their favorite scenes. Long enough for fond memories and tender moments.
The warlock smiles wryly, looking down at his hands. “I suppose I’m still getting used to the idea. Not many people like to socialize with tieflings, after all. I’m still half-convinced we only stick by each other out of necessity.”
"Circumstance may have been what brought us together, but I don't see us separating once this ordeal is over." A grin. "Even if you decide you don't want me around. I'll stick to your side like a scar."
Malron laughs. "Sounds like I'd be trading one parasite for another."
"Hey, at least I'm handsomer."
Some new thing said in their shared gaze.
"That's a fairly low bar for you to pass."
“And I’d say I pass it by a lot.”
“Are all elves as vain as this?”
“I’m just saying the truth.”
One long, long look, held between them like a resonant chord.
… Would you like to pass on to the next shift?
And just like that, the moment disperses, evaporating before them in a disappearing trick.
.
The session ends, and they clean up the table, stacking plates and discarding bundles of tissue and paper.
"We'll go on ahead," Aia calls from the back entrance next to the other girls, adjusting the strap of her messenger bag packed with her dungeon master paraphernalia. "It's getting pretty late, and forecast said it might rain later."
"Of course, no problem!" Doppio waves. "Thanks again for the game! Stay safe, you guys!"
The girls all say their goodbyes before closing the door behind them. Doppio turns to Fulgur; the latter had just finished wiping down the table.
"You heading out, too, Fuuchan?”
“Actually,” he says at length, pulling in a breath through his teeth, “I wanted to get a look at that new cabinet you had brought in, if you don’t mind.”
Doppio gasps, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Oh my gosh, you’re gonna love it, Fuuchan! C’mon, c’mon!”
And Fulgur laughs as Doppio leads him out another door and through a hallway, emerging onto the main floor of the arcade, the cozy space filled with machines that have already been powered down and covered with tarpaulin for the night. The counter full of prizes has been locked up, as was the storefront’s shutter door. Their game had been running a bit longer than usual, and Doppio had his part-timers— who he affectionately referred to as his ‘scythekicks’— lock up while they were finishing up an encounter.
Despite the weekly sessions, Fulgur has only seen the arcade after dark a handful of times. It’s not unlike being in a liminal space, with how strange the emptiness is, but then he looks at the boundless energy that is Doppio Dropscythe, and that sensation disappears completely.
“Over here, over here,” the 6-foot-tall puppy calls over from a spot near the main entrance. He fiddles with the wiring as Fulgur walks over to the covered cabinet.
“Is this it?”
“Mmhmm!” A fluffy head of magenta pops up from behind, before Doppio spins and pulls the tarpaulin off in a grand flourish.
“Ta da!”
He proudly gestures towards a brand new arcade machine programmed to run Super Smash Bros. Melee, the nostalgic lights and sounds a bright presence on the otherwise solemn arcade floor.
“Oh my god?!” Fulgur exclaims. He gets close to the monitor, and sure enough, it proudly displays the starting screen for Melee in all its crunchy graphical glory. “What the fuck, how’d you get something like this? I didn’t even know they existed!”
Doppio snickers in that cute cartoonish way he does. “That’s a secret!”
“Damn, man.” Fulgur circles the cabinet, admiring the shiny new artwork of the game’s cast of Nintendo characters drawn along the sides in a late-90s style reminiscent of the video game box art of the time. “Craftsmanship on this thing is solid, too. It looks beautiful.”
“It does! It does, it does, but most importantly, it runs fantastic, too!” Doppio grabs one of the attached GameCube controllers and holds it out to Fulgur. “Wanna give it a shot?”
“Against you and your infinite mains? I don’t know man…” though he’s already approached and grabbed the controller. “There’re no Belmonts in this game! What the hell am I gonna do?”
A cheeky grin splits Doppio’s face. “Aw, useless without your holy water, Fuuchan? Can’t play any good without your busted Down B attack?” he teases.
“Okay, I might not be that good at Melee, but just for that I’m kicking your ass.”
Laughter echoes throughout the arcade as they select their characters and enter their first match.
.
They’re on their fifth (sixth? Maybe ninth?) match when thunder rumbles the building’s foundations, and they become suddenly aware of the torrent of rain outside, loudly pelting against the roofs and pavement. They both put down their controllers, looking at each other in shock.
“Oh fuck, how long have we been playing?” Fulgur asks.
Doppio glances up at the clock behind the arcade counter. “It’s… oh my god, it’s 9: 35 p.m.?”
“Shit, I’ll have to hurry to catch the last train,” Fulgur moves to rush out the back, but Doppio grabs a hold of his arm.
“Woah woah woah, I’m not letting you outside in this storm, Fuuchan!” As if to emphasize his point, lightning flashes outside, quickly followed by a loud clap of thunder. “You hear that? It’s raining cats and dogs, Fuuchan! Sounds like it’s also raining pigs and cows and sheep— the whole barn is falling from the sky out there!”
Fulgur chuckles, his shoulders slumping. He sighs. “You’re right. I wouldn’t wanna run out and get all sopping wet.”
They turn to look at each other— there is only one solution, here. A thousand things are said in their eyes. It’s nothing they can understand.
“Stay the night,” Doppio says, quiet, almost overpowered by the wind and rain, the still-running game of Melee beside them.
Fulgur thinks he reads the message in his stare, but the realization is gone in an instant, swept up in the wave of emotions swelling at the proposal. He sets the controller down onto the arcade cabinet.
“Okay.”
.
“Fuck, it really was a good thing I stayed over,” Fulgur remarks, pushing back yellow curtains to look out the window. “It’s downright lashing out there.”
Doppio sidles next to him, handing over a mug of hot tea. Fulgur accepts it with a nod of thanks. “I’d honestly honestly have chased after you if you went out in this weather. You didn’t bring an umbrella, right?” the taller man asks.
“Nah, just my jacket.” He looks towards it, folded with the rest of his clothes atop his bag on an armchair in the corner of the living room. Doppio had generously offered his shower and a set of clothes, and though he purposefully chose his smallest set of pajamas, they still sat loosely over Fulgur’s frame.
Fulgur didn’t mind it much, though. The garments were soft from years of being worn and washed, and the long-sleeved shirt felt like an oversized hoodie, the cotton pleasantly thick and comfortable. Coupled with the wool blanket draped over his shoulders, he was far better off than he would be if he’d gone out in the rain. Much drier, certainly.
Doppio, meanwhile, is still damp from his own shower, magenta-black hair slicked back and beaded with moisture. A few droplets run down the long column of his neck in brief rivulets, dipping underneath the collar of a faded band T-shirt.
“Pasta won’t take long, it’ll be out in about 15 minutes. Why don’tcha sit down in the meantime?” He steers Fulgur towards a maroon antique couch occupied with mismatched pillows and stuffed toys. “I’ve got Netflix if you wanna put on a movie or somethin’ while we eat.” Once Fulgur is sat down, Doppio hands over the remote control to the modestly-sized smart TV, placing it down on the wooden coffee table. “B-R-B!” And with that, he bounds off to the little kitchen, only separated from the main living room by a marble countertop island.
Fulgur chuckles, settling down into the sofa. It looked pretty fancy at first glance, and fairly old, though it’s been well-used and well-taken care of in the past few years. There’s a wool blanket thrown over the back of it, the pair of which was currently wrapped snugly around Fulgur’s form. He moves the pillows around to make some space, and is amused to find that while half of them somewhat match the aesthetic of the couch (if in different colors), the biggest pillow is patterned with beloved catgirl gremlin Neco-Arc striking various poses.
Doppio’s little home above the arcade is eclectic in that way— full of all types of furniture and bric-a-brac. There was neither rhyme nor reason to them, but seeing it all together communicated so much personality, made the small space cozy and welcoming. This was the living space of Doppio Dropscythe, and damn if it didn’t make that crystal clear.
Fulgur leans back into the cushions. He extends his senses and feels the texture of his blanket, of the borrowed clothes against his skin; he listens to Doppio bustle in the kitchen, humming the tune of some unheard song; smells the mingling scents of herbs and sauces, and the bergamot of his earl grey.
He drinks, tastes the bitter of his tea, and he feels very warm.
“Food’s ready!”
Doppio walks up to the couch, setting down a bowl of pasta and two plates with forks. “Here you go!” He plops down beside Fulgur, expertly maneuvering the variety of chick plushies out of the way. “Didja decide what you wanted to watch?”
“No, I haven’t.” He’d been lost in a little reverie, but he won’t say that. Instead, he grabs a plate and serves himself some food. “This smells amazing, Piochan.”
Doppio preens beneath the praise. “Just wait ‘till ya taste it!”
“I shall!” Fulgur proclaims dramatically, tucking in as Doppio scrolls through the Netflix catalogue.
.
They end up putting on the old 1998 run of Trigun, joking and laughing as they eat their food.
The pasta was very good— a lot better than Fulgur was expecting, and he expected quite a bit. They end up finishing the whole bowl of it, and Doppio rises to deposit it into the sink.
“I’ll clean these up real quick,” he says, stacking the dishes on top of each other.
“Lemme help you with that,” Fulgur offers, following Doppio to the kitchen.
“You’re my guest, Fuuchan! You don’t have to, it won’t take that long.”
“Please, you’ve already done a lot for me, and you wouldn’t let me help you cook a while ago!” Fulgur steps in front of the sink and commandeers the sponge. “At least let me do one thing for you. Please?”
Doppio stares down at him in what he probably imagines to be a stern look, but Fulgur doesn’t budge, putting on the best puppy-dog eyes he can muster. A few seconds pass, and Doppio groans.
“Alright, alright, if you insist.”
Fulgur mentally cheers as Doppio acquiesces and comes to stand beside him, their thighs gently bumping into each other. As Doppio said, there isn’t a lot to wash, but there’s something about the moment that seems to stretch on as they soap and rinse together, rain falling and TV playing in the background. It could have been an hour, or half a day. And yet when it ends, it feels as though it passed too quickly.
They dry their hands and smile at each other. Normally, they love to run their mouths together, passing topics back and forth until external forces halt their conversation. This time, though, there’s a comfortable quiet between them— all that needed to be said was passed between their eyes.
With the dishes done they return to the living room, settling down on the couch. Doppio pulls in a padded footstool from the side, and they both prop their feet up. They sit close together, close as they were at the sink. When they laugh their shoulders jostle against each other.
“It’s getting pretty late, huh,” Fulgur finally remarks after an episode passes.
“Oh! I guess it is,” Doppio responds. Their feet gently bump together.
They hadn’t talked about sleeping arrangements.
.
They don’t talk about it at all.
Instead, the two wake the next morning splayed across the couch, Fulgur snuggled against Doppio’s chest. At some point, they had adjusted themselves such that the older man was laid atop the arcade owner, arms wrapped loosely around each other. Their limbs tangle together carelessly underneath the cover of two wool blankets.
When Fulgur finally stirs, it’s with great reluctance, instinctively pressing closer to the source of warmth in his arms and quietly groaning. It takes an overly long amount of time to register the beating heart against his cheek. He groggily opens his eyes, and looks up, only to be met with golden eyes looking back at him.
Doppio stiffens when he is caught staring, breath catching. Fulgur feels it beneath him, the lazy rise and fall suddenly halted.
Gentle light filters through the curtains, the pour of rain softer than it was last night. Thunder and wind are replaced by birdsong.
A hand runs through Fulgur’s hair— trembling and hesitant at first, though it slowly gains confidence, large fingers threading through silver locks and pleasantly scratching against his scalp.
They stay like that for a while. Looking. Touching. Not saying a word.
Eventually, they stand up. They stretch. Doppio heads to the kitchen. Fulgur follows, bumps his hip and gives a look from beneath pale lashes. Doppio smiles, shakes his head, and they make breakfast together.
It’s only when they are sat at the counter, eggs and sausage in front of them that Fulgur says,
“Last night was nice.”
He smiles, and Doppio smiles back.
“It was,” rough voice rougher from sleep.
One long, long look.
“Did you just want to see the new cabinet?” Doppio murmurs, quiet. “When you asked, last night.”
A bashful huff. “No. I was actually thinking of talking a bit about the campaign.”
“What about?”
Fulgur scrapes his fork across his plate and takes a bite of scrambled eggs, stalling for time.
“I was honestly shocked with how attached we got to our characters,” he finally says after a moment. “Somehow, even though we had the ability to revive Malron, his temporary death felt very real.” Fulgur looks up from his plate. “I could tell you really were upset about it, beneath the RP. I wanted to check up on you.”
Doppio looks down and away. “Aw, that’s real sweet of you, Fuuchan.” Haltingly, he reaches out across the table, gets as far as an inch in front of Fulgur’s resting hand, before retreating to the center of the counter. “Thanks for looking out for me. You didn’t have to.”
Fulgur thinks to admit more. “Of course. No problem,” he says instead.
“Do you…”
Silver eyes flicker up and meet gold, drawn together magnetic.
“Do you— do you want to do this again, sometime?” Doppio asks, a light flush dusting his cheeks. “Stay over and hang out… together.”
A quiet gasp. Something of the atmosphere from last night returns, the ringing chime of a bell.
Fulgur reaches over, and puts his hand over Doppio’s. Another gasp. Doppio gets redder. So does Fulgur.
Though flustered, he keeps eye contact, musters his will and a thousand things unsaid, and doesn’t look away when he smiles and says,
“I’d love to.”