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Nero shoots up in his bed. Sweat trickles between his eyebrows and down his nose, chest rising and falling so quickly it almost hurts. He looks towards the window and out through the glass panes, where the moon sits high and golden in the late night. The stars dance around it, prancing about anywhere the sky will let them. Silently, he watches them a moment longer, before standing to leave his room and out towards the kitchen. Whether it’s to calm his racing mind, or to momentarily forget snow covered mountains and gilded rings, he can not say.
His slippers fall faintly along the carpeted halls, taking him to the kitchen as if it were second nature, as if it was where he belonged. He supposes there was nowhere else he would go if he had made a conscious decision about it; when he passes through the door frame, one hand is already reaching for the kettle, and the other towards the knob of the stove. The action in of itself is comforting, increasingly so, to the point where he almost misses the presence that leans against the entrance carefully.
When he whips around, it’s not Faust’s folded arms and kind smile he had expected to see, but he relaxes indefinitely at the sight. Wordlessly, he motions to the seats just outside the kitchen as he prepares drinks for the two of them.
Back facing the flames that crackle warmly in the fireplace, Nero holds two cups in his hands. One is tall and ivory, adorned with shaky, hand painted trees along the bottom – the other a deep, dark red with splotchy streaks across the handle, like it had only been remembered right before being sent to the kiln. Nero distantly thinks about how messy the kids’ shirts were when they had finished, their fingers and nails still stained despite the constant scrubbing and washing. As he turns towards the sofa, his hand reaches towards Faust’s own, their fingertips grazing ever so carefully.
Faust is sitting cross-legged against the arm of the couch, taking the cup from Nero while smiling softly. His shoulders seem to loosen before the ceramic even presses against his lips, the tea warm and pleasant in a way he didn’t realize he needed. The steam fogs his glasses and whispers sweet words of comfort on his nose and cheeks. When his glasses have cleared, Faust glances over to see Nero watching him closely, gently.
“It’s not like you to be up this late,” he pauses and looks away, “or at least, out of your room this late.”
“What, you don’t ever have restless nights? I find that hard to believe.” The corner of his lips rise in faux amusement, an attempt to hide what lies beneath his ribs – words unsaid of years long past that play on repeat within his chest, in his heart. It’s suffocating and beautiful all at once, and Faust finds himself looking anywhere but at the fire that burns in his periphery.
Nero makes a choked noise of agreement, “Yes… no, you’re right.” He hesitates, not knowing whether to offer the comfort he desires to give, or to keep his distance as he always has. He’s so familiar with the desolate, ribbed hands of separation, so much so that it’s fingers trail down his spine as a lover would. But he continues regardless, voice cracking just barely on the first syllable, “Do… you want to talk about it?”
He looks away, rubbing his finger on the rim of the mug back and forth; eyes memorizing the patterns on the walls and counting the cracks in the ceiling. Anything to keep himself from abandoning the room all together, even if it’s what his body aches and begs to do.
Faust’s foot twitches quietly, and he uncrosses them. As if it burnt to hold them together, the skin ridged and discolored – a reminder. He sets his cup down and places his hands above his knees, fingers intertwining and lacing in one moment, and unwinding the next. Where knuckles meet fingertips, the unseen cracks begin to mend themselves. And Faust takes a deep breath in, his eyes searching for Nero’s.
The vulnerability does not come easily. Nero finds himself looking anywhere but at Faust, despite him just being the one listening. He’s not sure if he could even do something so riddled with intimacy in the future. Even though he wants to, even though he craves the relinquishment of secrets and the formation of trust between two. It claws its way up his lungs and into his throat, pleading to be let out, if only for a second.
Nero looks back at Faust, eyes open and clear, softening ever further as he peers into drops of amethyst – when he sees a figure coming down the hallway. His jaw clenches and throat tightens at the Northern wizard seemingly sauntering towards them.
Mithra yawns loudly as he comes into the common room, pillow stuffed under his arm and robe falling off his shoulder.
“Having trouble sleeping?” Faust’s voice is warm as he turns to face Mithra’s approaching footsteps.
He lets out a disgruntled sound in agreement, “And Akira is with the Central wizards on a mission. Oz will not let me take them back to the manor.”
“Well-”
“He keeps saying he’ll kill me if I try and I do not feel like dealing with that right now.” But, of course. Mithra’s thought process is a difficult one to understand, let alone argue with.
Despite the mild fear resting on his tongue, Nero cuts in, “It is night – can’t you just take Akira anyways? …Not that I think you should…”
“That defeats the purpose,” Mithra now stood between the two, eyebags more prominent than ever.
“Okay…” Nero decides that he can no longer question any of what Mithra says, lest he go even more mad than he already is.
And without another word, Mithra lies down on the cushions next to Faust, resting his head in his lap. The horror and bewilderment that displays itself on Nero’s face would be laughable, had he not already thought of twenty different escape routes to get away from – his mind wracks itself completely before coming up with nothing – whatever this is.
Faust’s hands hover over Mithra’s wide frame as he looks over to Nero. Apprehensive, but not all that frightened. Mithra was more akin to a hibernating bear with the way his exhales came out in long, deep breaths, a deep rumble lying within his lungs.
Nero gestures wildly, mouthing exclamations that surely Faust would understand as, We need to leave, preferably quickly. But instead, Faust shrugs lightly before eventually placing his hands on Mithra’s head and arm, fingers splaying over rough, tangled hair. He begins to card his fingers through the strands, untangling it as he goes, almost in awe at his slowing breaths the longer they sit there together.
Had Nero not known who Mithra is, he would be nearly endeared at the sight. And he supposes he still is, in one way or another, because he takes the woven blanket sitting on the back of his chair and drapes it over them both. The action doesn’t stop him from mentally mapping out his quiet getaway, though.
As he begins to leave, Nero places his hand on Faust's shoulder, and whispers, “We can talk again later.”
The warmth that spreads through Faust’s body is comforting – more so than he even thought it could be, and he falls asleep with Mithra still in his lap. He dreams of night skies blanketed with stars and crackling campfires that jump and lick around his ankles in a tender kiss. For once, the flames don’t ignite the dark, hidden fear that thrums within the hollows of his ribs, and he finds himself sleeping better than he ever has.
And in his room, Nero is no longer haunted by the images of snow-tipped trees and chests full of glittering stones, instead finding solace in the calm spring rain that now accompanies him day after day in his new home