Archive of Our Own

As it turned out, breaking into a lab was no easy feat, even for the likes of one Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, two of Europe’s top assassins. Their mission was simple: locate the Japanese singularity host and hand it over to the French government.

The two men had gone on countless missions much more challenging than this one, but they’d soon find that while this mission was easy on paper, the emotional weight of their task would soon catch up to them.

“Paul!” Rimbaud calls for his partner. “Come here. I think I’ve found what we’re looking for."

From all appearances, the door the black-haired man he was standing in front of seemed relatively unassuming and not all that exciting. But it was this fact that made the steel door more suspicious in the eyes of the master assassins tasked to infiltrate this laboratory.

“My ability doesn’t work on the door,” Rimbaud observes once he has Verlaine’s attention squarely on him.

He produces a golden cube, wiggling the doorknob from within his ability’s confines and looks to his partner when it doesn’t work again.

“That’s pretty suspicious, don’t you think?” the permanently chilled man chuckles. “It's almost like they’re hiding something from us, huh?”

Verlaine sighs beside Rimbaud and glances at the oddly innocuous door once he’s seen how his partner’s ability had done nothing to grant them further access to the lab, "Hmmm, you're right."

The assassin considers their options for a moment, tapping his chin absently with a single finger as he thinks. One advantage to not being entirely human was that Verlaine’s thought processes were often purer than Rimbaud’s because they lacked an emotional component and were instead based on only the most logical solution to each problem they encountered. Eventually, a thought comes to him, and he’s tempted to laugh at how simple this whole situation ended up being.

"Well, I suppose we can simply try to blow the door open,” he begins, unable to hide the smile on his face as he notes how intently the other man is listening to him.

The artificial electrical current keeping Verlaine’s ‘heart’ beating had recently begun to act strangely around Rimbaud, becoming more of a staccato when the black-haired man so much as glanced at him. He really should have told his handler about the peculiar occurrence the moment it started. But on the other hand, the sudden changes in the pulse in his chest didn’t seem to be from any sort of malfunction. They might’ve even felt... pleasant? Why alert the higher-ups to something that wasn’t vital?

“Paul?” Rimbaud questions, interrupting Verlaine’s thought process and looking slightly concerned, “Didn’t you have something you were saying? You just kind of stopped talking there.”

“Oh yeah!” Verlaine exclaims, feeling his cheeks slightly heating up as if his partner had caught him doing something unsightly.

That had also been happening when he had been around Arthur for extended amounts of time. He had time to analyze why that might be happening later. Now, his focus should entirely be on the mission and obtaining the Japanese singularity host.

“Where was I…If we simply broke down the door, that could potentially set off an alarm, and we won't have enough time to get the specimen,” he explains, “No, I think there's probably an emergency key card somewhere."

Rimbaud merely smiles in response, “That sounds entirely likely. Excellent job.”

He had a thing about praising his partner for everything he did, and Verlaine wasn’t sure what to make of that situation.

“But we still have a problem,” the black-haired man continues, “Where do you think we’d find a keycard around here? It’s not like they’d leave it out in the open with a note that says, ‘Here’s the key to our super secret singularity project,’ would they?”

Verlaine considers Rimbaud's question with a tremendous amount of care before he responds.

"Hmm, no, I suppose not. It would be far too simple and also rather foolish if they’d done that."

Then, a sly smile creeps up his face as he nods toward a group of researchers at the end of the hall who seemingly haven’t noticed the two intruders yet. Verlaine pauses briefly before leaning in a bit closer to Rimbaud's ear and whispering a plan to his partner.

"Would it be possible to steal it from one of those research fellows?” he asks innocently. “They're likely to have one on them if they were stationed to protect that door."

It’s impossible not to notice the way Rimbaud nuzzles closer to Verlaine, shuddering a little as he is still left positively freezing in his clothes. Unfortunately, the assassin duo don’t have enough time to lose themselves in one another’s presence. Their jobs would always come first in this situation.

“You’re the mighty assassin between the two of us,” Rimbaud responds. You’d be the more effective one when it comes to the appropriate measures in which to… eliminate them.”

“Besides…it looks awfully frigid over there, Paul…” the other man finishes with a slight pout.

Verlaine smiles at Rimbaud, feeling strangely as he notes how much his partner is shivering from the cold. He feels an almost protective feeling as if ensuring Rimbaud’s warmth was his primary objective rather than retrieving some Japanese lab experiment.

The thought simultaneously terrifies and exhilarates the man.

"I suppose that's true. It does look like there might be an air-conditioning vent over there,” he then playfully nudges his partner and grins, “Just this once, I'll do it for you."

Both men know it’s a lie as this was far from the first time Verlaine had willingly done work for Rimbaud to prevent his partner from getting too cold.

The supernaturally skilled assassin activates his ability, making his body lighter and confidently striding on the ceiling as he moves over to the group of researchers and begins to observe them. He quickly spots the most promising candidate of the lot and hovers over him, carefully stalking him and keeping a close watch on his movements. When the time is right, he makes his move.

Verlaine would be one of the world’s best assassins, even if he didn’t use his highly lucrative ability. However, the wheat-haired man was nearly entirely unstoppable with the power to control gravity flowing through his veins. He was fast, so fast that the poor scientist’s colleagues didn’t have the time to react before one of their co-worker’s necks was bent at an unnatural angle, white gloves on his throat to hold him in place.

“Nice to meet you,” Verlaine says in broken Japanese as he effortlessly moves between each of the scientists, using his ability to make himself lighter and snapping each person’s neck with deadly accuracy and precision.

20 seconds.

It only takes 20 seconds for Verlaine, the King of Assassins, to kill every scientist on the floor. He half-smiles at the pile of bodies he’d created before removing a keycard from his initial victim’s pocket and returning to his partner with a smirk.

“Did you have to go and get yourself all bloodied up?” Rimbaud asks as he steals the keycard from Verlaine’s hand.

Verlaine's cheeks heat up with embarrassment to the point that his ears are slightly burning. He tries to brush past Rimbaud's teasing by giving a nonchalant shrug, but his face is entirely flushed with crimson hues. It's very unusual for him to have such an overt reaction to Rimbaud's teasing, so he tries to compose himself and hide his embarrassment.

"Of course, I had to,” he asserts, “You didn’t want us to have any witnesses, did you?”

The man glances around for a few seconds before leaning a bit closer to Rimbaud's ear.

"I think we're all set now,” he whispers, nodding to the keycard in the other man’s hand.

“Guess there’s only one way to find out,” Rimbaud responds, rapidly swiping the keycard in front of the door and smirking when he spots the flash of a green light and a door swinging open.

“I think we did it,” the black-haired man whispers as he pulls his partner inside the room.

Both members of Europe’s elite assassin crew stand with their mouths agape when they step into a massive room containing all sorts of high-tech machinery and computers. But the pair did not have the luxury of time to admire all the technology they might not have seen in Europe; they had a job to finish.

They turn their attention to a pair of massive incubators with dark, frosted glass. It was impossible to see what was being held inside such a substantial container, but given the room's security, there was a significant chance they’d found what they were looking for.

“This has got to be where the vessel of the Japanese singularity is being held, right?” Rimbaud asks.

Verlaine steps a little closer to the glass of one of the incubators, trailing his hands over a sign, feeling out the characters of the language he’d only barely studied before embarking on this mission.

‘Arahabaki’

The assassin did not know if that word meant anything, but given it wasn’t something he’d learned, he felt safe in assuming he’d located their target. Verlaine rests his head against the cold and smooth glass of the incubator for a moment and squints until he can see a vaguely humanoid-shaped figure suspended in the fluid. Unfortunately, the glass was tinted too much for him to gauge the size of the specimen accurately, the determining factor for whether this was the vessel of the singularity or the unfortunate human child, after which the face of the singularity’s vessel was modeled.

But something was pulling him toward this specific incubator. He was sure of it. Verlaine felt like this was a connection to the entity contained within the synthetic amniotic fluid. The feeling was intense beyond belief, and it was something the French assassin did not know how to describe. It felt much like how he felt toward Rimbaud: warm and overwhelming.

Almost familial.

"Yes, I think this incubator most likely contains the Japanese singularity,” he says suddenly, trying to distract himself from the intense emotions messing with his practical methods of doing business, “But we have one last step to take before we secure the specimen. You need to open the control panel and override the lock on the tank."

He gestures to a door-like panel about 20 feet away, on the opposite side of the room. Rimbaud is quick to use his ability to conjure a golden cube around the control panel. There’s a small electric shock as the man destroys the panel, and in the next moment, the incubator’s glass cracks and shatters on the ground.

Verlaine jumps into action, reaches into the thick fluid gushing out of the broken glass, and audibly sighs as he feels something soft brush against his skin. He gently wraps his arms around the specimen and pulls it from the wreckage of its synthetic home.

He falls backwards as the vessel weighs more than he anticipated it would.

“Are you alright, Paul?” the blond man vaguely hears Arthur ask him.

But for the first time in his life, he doesn’t immediately respond to his partner.

Verlaine is transfixed by the humanoid in his arms. ̶I̶t̶ He was a mess of contradictions, so small but with wild hair to rival the most robust flames, so lightweight but glowing red to give himself more weight. The hardened assassin feels as if someone had stabbed him straight through the gut. He almost feels like he could sob.

The extraordinarily dangerous singularity he and his partner had been tasked to find was a mere child.

“It’s much smaller than I anticipated,” Rimbaud whispers, suddenly much closer to Verlaine’s side, “It’s a miracle that energy as strong as a singularity can reside in such a tiny vessel. We should get out of here soon before backup comes to defend their creation.”

Verlaine doesn't immediately respond to Rimbaud's concern. His attention is entirely on the tiny humanoid now resting in his arms. Time is ticking by very slowly for him as the warmth from the boy's body fills his chest, and his heart starts to beat out of control.

He's aware of what's happening but can't move to respond, as if his senses have been consumed by a single emotion that's suddenly overtaken him. Something about the tiny boy in his arms has made him feel weaker than he’d ever felt before. But yet, Verlaine also felt strong enough to fight hundreds at once if it would keep the tiny being in his arms safe.

That was strange.

Why did he care so much about the tiny artificial life-form in his arms?

The assassin finally nods once, carefully standing to his feet and ensuring he’s cradling the boy to the best of his ability as he strides to the other side of the room to observe the second giant incubator. Placing his hand on the glass, no intense emotion rushes through Verlaine’s body like what had happened with the boy in his arms. It’s just…nothingness.

His curiosity gets the better of him, and his fingers trail over a small placard affixed to the outside of the incubator.

中原中也

‘Ah… the human test subject,’ Verlaine says to himself.

Finally, he turns to his partner, keeping a sturdy hand underneath the small boy’s neck so his sleep isn't disturbed. He hadn't noticed that the weight in his arms had significantly lessened, as the boy’s ability was no longer making him heavier. It seemed like he’d relaxed into Verlaine’s arms enough to feel comfortable without his ability.

“You sure have grown attached to the specimen, haven’t you, Paul?” Rimbaud calmly observes, “It’s fitting actually now that I think about it… I suppose this vessel could be considered your younger brother.”

Brother.

The word alone causes a weird sensation to flood through Verlaine’s chest. It’s an intense burning that takes over his entire body. Unconsciously, the assassin finds himself clutching the small boy closer to his chest as if he needed to protect him from something.

Verlaine doesn't realize that Arthur had noticed the immense toll the youth's presence has taken on him. His body was acting of its own accord, every instinct in his brain telling him he could never let the small, defenseless boy out of his sight.

"You have quite the sharp mind, Arthur," he whispers, fearful of awakening the child.

He fondly looks down at the small boy in his arms and strokes his hair, admiring the bright orange strands against his pale hands. His hair was soft, too, like his skin. Everything about the boy was utter perfection. Perfection Verlaine would burn the world down to protect.

"I guess he could be," his voice is full of wonder, “My brother…”

Rimbaud flashes his partner a sympathetic smile, something full of a small amount of grief. It’s evident to him that his partner had grown immensely attached to the singularity’s vessel.

“We still need to take the specimen back to France, Paul,” the man states cautiously, “Our mission was to deliver it to our government. You’re not going to suggest we betray our organization for this, are you?”

Verlaine glances down at the boy in his arms, then looks back up at Rimbaud, his eyes narrowed with a glint of determination.

"No, I am certainly not suggesting that we betray our organization,” his gaze is sharp, and there is no mistake in his tone, “We will deliver the boy back to France, but..."

The assassin’s expression was stern. He’d made up his mind about how he and his partner would proceed with this mission, and there was no way anything Rimbaud or any member of the French government could say would change his mind.

"...I am not going to allow the government to experiment on him."

Rimbaud’s expression changes instantly. It’s some crude combination of understanding and sorrow, as if the permanently cold man isn’t sure whether he should be responding to Verlaine as a business partner or a close friend.

“Paul…” he starts, “You know that they want to run some tests on the other singularity host. The specimen’s appearance shouldn’t fool you. It might look like a human child, but you and I both know that it isn’t human.”

Verlaine unconsciously holds the child closer, feeling the weak beat of a pulse in the boy’s chest. Realistically, he knew that the small creature in his arms was, much like him, not human. But, despite that knowledge, the assassin feels like there’s something much different about the host of this singularity. Perhaps it was because the vessel looked like a child, but Verlaine is confident that’s not the only reason for his sudden protectiveness.

He scowls in silence as he comes to terms with the fact that Rimbaud is right. The boy in his arms may appear to be just like any other human child, but that's ultimately just it. He just appears to be a young human. The Japanese government had manufactured him to be the clone of a real boy whose underdeveloped body was forever suspended in the other incubator in the room. It was the same story for Verlaine, though he was developed to be a fully grown adult. Their only purpose was to serve as weapons for their respective governments.

However, the very fact that he was only meant to be a weapon to the French government means nothing to the assassin. He wants to protect the child he’s gently cradling. That is his sole intention, no matter what even Rimbaud had to say about it.

"If they want him, they'll have to go through me."

The other man doesn’t seem shocked by his partner’s sudden assertion that he wouldn’t let the specimen out of his sight or willingly hand it over for experimentation at the hands of the French government. Instead, he looks delighted that Verlaine is exhibiting traits that might be considered human.

“I’m proud of you, Paul,” Rimbaud’s voice is soft as he addresses his partner, “You’ve finally found something that’s warmed that unhuman heart of yours.”

Then, the black-haired man sighs, offering his partner a slight smirk.

“I’ll support you,” he whispers, “If you want to take it…him… somewhere, if you know a place we won’t be caught… I’ll help you protect your younger brother.”

Despite the man’s offer to help Verlaine hide the singularity they’d been tasked to recover, it’s clear Rimbaud isn’t entirely confident in betraying their organization. But for his partner, he’d do almost anything.

Verlaine feels a slight sense of satisfaction when his partner offers his support in protecting the child. He knew Rimbaud would understand. He understands what it means to care for something. To have something. To -be- something. It felt like his heart began to skip beats every so often again. That strange burning sensation in his chest from earlier seemed to have faded away, though maybe he just stopped paying attention to it. He turns around and looks at Rimbaud with a wide grin, finding the other man smiling back at him. His partner is a rare soul—a gem one could never find in a thousand lifetimes.

"Thank you."

It’s the only phrase suitable for this situation, the only words the assassin’s entire body screams as the pair exit the room where Verlaine’s defenseless baby brother was held for three years of his life. From his research on the Japanese singularity experiments, the human boy used to model the vessel Verlaine cradled in his arms was taken from his home at the age of five. Three years had passed by the time the French government got wind of the creation of a new ability-derived lifeform.

An eight-year-old child, human or not, should not be subjected to the sorts of poking and prodding Verlaine endured under Pan, his creator. That’s why the assassin duo had to protect the innocent child. Sure, the light-blond-haired man was quickly growing attached to his younger brother (even the thought of having a brother invigorated him), but this was also the pair's moral responsibility to protect the youth.

“Do you have somewhere in mind to hide him?” Rimbaud nods toward the child, who is now comfortably sleeping in Verlaine’s arms.

“Bright red hair would be hard to hide in France or Japan…” the man solemnly adds.

Verlaine sighed and took a moment to consider their options. Where could they hide the boy? He was still young enough to blend in with society without looking too out of the ordinary, but at the same time, he was too memorable. Bright red hair is hard to miss on a child, after all. Returning to France was out of the question since the government would immediately become aware of their presence within the country.

But, staying in Japan also seemed unwise. Two relatively tall European men remaining in the city with a young Japanese child would also raise suspicion. From all logical standpoints, there was no place for Verlaine and Rimbaud to hide the child. But maybe they didn’t need to reside within a city. Perhaps there was somewhere in the countryside where they could live at least somewhat normally.

"Maybe we could hide him in the countryside?” he eventually asks, “We’d be mostly hidden from those who might wish to find us once they learn what we’ve done. Plus, it would give the boy room to grow.”

Rimbaud nods, “That could work. We’d be mostly hidden, and there’d be plenty of space for his… development.”

Verlaine can’t help but smile as he pictures the small red-haired boy running around in a vast field, laughing and playing. A burning sensation prickles at the corners of his eyes as if he might cry merely from the thought of the boy having a regular childhood. The assassin’s heart nearly stops beating as he comes to an absolutely wondrous conclusion.

They could raise the boy as if he were genuinely human.

If they played their cards right, the duo wouldn’t have to tell the boy about the lab experiments, singularities, or how two separate governments wanted to experiment on him and poke and prod him. He could simply be a child, galloping around with limitless energy to waste on whatever he pleased.

“Arthur…” he starts cautiously.

“What is it, Paul?” the other man asks immediately.

“I think I’d like to raise the boy like a human child,” Verlaine’s cheeks flush with embarrassment as he hears how soft his voice had gotten while referring to the boy, “He needn’t know he has no mother or father. Or that his existence is lacking the love of God.”

Rimbaud considers the words for a heartbeat before he simply nods once. He finds himself wholeheartedly agreeing with his partner. Verlaine had a hard time coping with the nature of his existence, and he was a fully grown man. It would be unfair to place that sort of emotional burden upon a child, especially one as small as-

Right. The child didn’t have a name. If their whole plan was going to work, they couldn’t simply call the kid ‘boy’ or ‘that child’ for the rest of his life. It would be incredibly suspicious if any unsuspecting townspeople were to find them.

“We’ll raise him as a human, then,” Rimbaud confirms, gently laying his head against his partner’s arm as he shivers, “Though if we’re to do this, he’ll need a name…”

Verlaine’s face turns ashen as he realizes what his partner has done. He’d given him the weight of choosing the child’s, his brother’s name, for himself.

An overwhelming sense of responsibility encapsulates Verlaine's heart as his partner places the task of naming the child on him. With the single gesture of assigning a name to the boy, Verlaine and Rimbaud were agreeing to nurture and guide the child for the rest of their natural lives. It's daunting, to say the least, especially when the assassin considers the weighty responsibility that comes with giving a human being a name.

Verlaine looks down at his brother's peaceful face as it lays against his chest, a small smile momentarily appearing on his lips. He had been so focused on protecting him that he hadn't even given any thought to what his name might be. But now that he’s looking at the small boy again, really looking at his features, hoping they’d give him some sort of hint as to what to call the child, he begs the universe to bless him with a name worthy of his younger brother.

A part of Verlaine is tempted to give the boy a Western name, like Antoine or Julien, but he quickly shuts the thought down. As much as he was proud of his French origin, if he and Rimbaud were to care for the boy, they would never be able to return to their homeland. As such, a Japanese boy with a French name would draw more unwanted attention. Verlaine also didn’t feel confident in assigning the child a proper Japanese name, leaving him stuck and unsure of what to do.

But upon looking at his baby brother’s face one more time, it came to him all at once, almost like the boy was telling him his name through some sort of telepathy. The symbols he had traced his fingers over on the sign beside the human half of the test subjects. He hadn’t known what they meant before, but now he does.

“Chuuya Nakahara,” Verlaine whispers, sounding slightly unsure of himself, “That will be his name.”

Rimabud looks a little confused, uncertain where his partner got that name from.

“And where did you come up with that?” he asks, curious about his partner’s response, “I didn’t think you were all that familiar with the Japanese style of names.”

Verlaine gives his partner a small smile, then holds his brother just a little bit tighter, resting the boy’s head on his shoulder. He feels his heart practically exploding in his chest as the sleeping child drools on his shoulder, content and asleep. The assassin can’t help but imagine some of the more domestic moments he might soon experience in the countryside. He can almost imagine his little brother growing up in a small cottage, free of all fear and judgment, his name ringing out loud from Verlaine’s mouth as the child roamed and ran in the fields without a care in the world.

And, of course, Rimbaud would be with the two of them as well. For whatever reason, the thought of his partner beside him to watch Chuuya grow up makes Verlaine feel all warm and tingly inside. His cheeks then darken at a potential future for him, Rimbaud, and the young boy. By giving Chuuya as close to a traditional young person's life as possible, the two assassins were setting themselves up to act as his parents, something that Verlaine didn’t think he’d ever desire. But, he was quickly realizing there was no one he’d rather co-parent with than Rimbaud.

Maybe, just maybe, his feelings towards his partner were becoming a little more than platonic. But Verlaine couldn’t find himself caring about the semantics all that much. As long as he was with the two people he cared about most, the exact circumstances didn’t really matter to him.

“The name just sort of came to me, I guess,” the assassin replies with a slight smile, “But it fits him, don’t you think?”

“I like it,” Rimbaud gently laughs and holds a door open for his partner, carefully raising his arm, so Verlaine doesn’t have to duck his head too much.

The sun had begun to rise in the time it had taken the pair to infiltrate the laboratory successfully and extract their sacred treasure. Chuuya’s hair shone brightly in the sun’s light beams, making the young boy look like a phoenix or some other mythical creature.

“We should get going,” the black-haired man whispers, “Before anyone comes looking for him or he wakes up. Speaking of which, how are you planning on explaining this to him? Do you think he’ll even understand us? We barely speak Japanese, and I’m sure they weren’t teaching him French either.”

Verlaine scowls at the harsh glare of the rising sun when Chuuya whines in his sleep and tries to move away from the bright light. The assassin immediately positions his younger brother so he is as far from the sun as possible. He hadn’t thought about how he and Rimbaud would communicate with the young boy, but now it was an inevitable conundrum. Chuuya had spent most of his short life thus far in a lab, where he potentially hadn’t learned any language, much less French.

The assassin sighs.

"We'll have to learn a hell of a lot more Japanese, and we’ll explain everything we can to him the best we can, and I assume he'll be like a sponge. He'll pick up on things pretty quickly,” Verlaine says, looking proud of his brother, even though the two have yet to interact properly.

Rimbaud nods, moves to the car's passenger side, and holds the door open for his partner. Verlaine is often the designated driver between the two men, but it doesn’t seem like the man would want to let go of the small child anytime soon.

“We’ll learn more Japanese,” the black-haired man confirms, “But knowing you, you want to teach him French too, don’t you?”

The other assassin nods his head in agreement. He's always valued the importance of a second or third language. Besides French, Verlaine was fluent in English and German and semi-conversational in Japanese. His partner could speak English with some level of proficiency but had absorbed Japanese much quicker than Verlaine. Learning Japanese would be crucial to Chuuya’s upbringing, but French would also prove useful for the young boy to learn.

"It will help him develop critical thinking, and if he ever leaves Japan, he'll be able to connect with many individuals,” Verlaine responds as Rimbaud starts the car, “I think Chuuya deserves that much. One day… I’d like him to see France.”

Rimbaud sighs. He, too, would like to return to his homeland one day, but he knows that day won’t come anytime soon. He and Verlaine would be executed as traitors the moment they set foot back home. And that wasn’t even the half of what would happen to the young Chuuya.

“Perhaps one day….” he mumbles as he steers the car onto the street, heading south with no particular destination in mind.

Within fifteen minutes, expansive rice fields and forests replace the city's tall skyscrapers. Verlaine finds himself sighing into Chuuya’s hair. Japan was much more beautiful than he’d ever imagined. As terrifying as running away from all their responsibilities was, the idea also excited Verlaine to no end. He finds the need to busy his fingers as Rimbaud drives, resulting in him unconsciously crossing sections of Chuuuya’s cheek-length hair over one another. The assassin repeats the movement a few more times before realizing he’d made a braid in roughly the same place as his own flaxen hair.

“He looks like a mini you,” Rimbaud says under his breath, just loud enough for his partner to hear.

“I think you should keep it in his hair,” the man continues, holding out a translucent rubber band and a spare black ribbon, the same kind Verlaine used on his own hair, “It looks nice.”

Verlaine takes the velvety ribbon from his partner’s hand and effortlessly loops the clear band around the edge of the braid he’d made in Chuuya’s hair. Once satisfied with the braid, he ties a simple bow with the black ribbon, bringing the braid into a short little ponytail in the back of the child’s head.

Aside from the distinctly different hair shade, Chuuya almost looked exactly like Verlaine now.

Rimbaud drives on for another two hours before turning off on a side street, turning to his partner with a soft smile. He’d spotted a small cottage from the road, but upon seeing the building up close, the assassin could easily envision a future for himself, his partner, and the small boy within the home's walls.

The very traditional-looking home looked relatively well-kept despite there being no evidence of someone living there. Rimbaud summons a sizeable golden cube, encompassing the whole home, and closes his eyes, focusing on what he feels inside.

“No one lives here,” he declares, “It’s supposed to go on the market again within a week, but that’s a simple case of… altering the documentation.”

Rimbaud slides the door open, smiling to himself as he already finds the basic necessities within the home.

“Yes, I think this will do nicely.”

Verlaine couldn't help but feel a wave of pride wash over him as he observed his partner examining the quaint home. It's the perfect place for them to lay low: a small kitchen area and two bedrooms large enough to accommodate all three of them comfortably. The home is also located in a more remote location, making it less likely they’d be discovered very shortly. And just like Rimbaud thought, it has most of what’s needed inside a house. However, the most important thing is that it's a place full of potential, a home where Chuuya can grow up as if he were a human child.

Almost on cue, the small red-haired boy starts thrashing in Verlaine’s arms, glowing a bright scarlet as he makes his body heavier using his ability and trying to escape the assassin’s arms. His eyes, an icy blue shade, snap open, and the boy looks utterly terrified that he’s not in the lab in his large incubator.

Verlaine freezes as the child struggles to escape his grasp, his face contorting in panic as his mind quickly runs through a dozen possible solutions and scenarios to soothe his younger brother in less than a second. He doesn't even have time to process the boy's unique eye color before Chuuya makes himself heavier by using his ability. The assassin’s heart skips a beat as he realizes just how strong his brother’s ability is. Even using his own ability, Verlaine is barely able to lift the child a single inch higher.

Rimbaud places a gentle hand on his partner’s shoulder, slightly smiling at the other man. He conjures another one of his golden cubes around the small boy, alleviating the immense pressure he’d been exerting on Verlaine’s body.

“This is your chance to be a caring older brother,” he whispers into his partner’s neck, “You said his name just came to you. There’s clearly some sort of connection between the two of you. Use your bond with your brother to soothe him.”

Rimbaud's words strike a deep chord in Verlaine's heart, and the assassin finally realizes he's been given the perfect opportunity to form a stronger connection with his little brother. He tightens his hold around the small child, offering him a comforting squeeze and planting a quick kiss on Chuuya's forehead before he begins to speak to the boy in the softest tone he can manage.

"Shh…it's okay, little one,” he begins, opting to speak in French where he had the freedom to explain his thoughts in the most detail, “There's nothing to fear; the two of us are here to keep you safe and make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again."

Chuuya’s eyes were wide, and while an immense amount of fear was still evident in his face and body language, at the very least, he’d stopped thrashing. Though, what he’d started to do instead was no less heart-wrenching for his older brother to witness. Instead of thrashing, the boy was now crying.

Verlaine feels his heart shattering in his chest and holds his dear baby brother close to his chest, wishing he could take every hardship the small boy had ever endured and carry that weight for himself.

“We'll always be there for you, no matter what,” he continues, “So please, don't be scared. We will protect you with our lives if we have to because there's nothing more precious to us than you.”

“You are very strong, but you aren’t alone anymore,” The assassin tucks a loose strand of Chuuya’s fiery orange hair behind his ear and smiles at the boy when he remembers how he’d braided his hair in the car, “ You’ve got your big brother here now, mon petit phénix.”

At first, it doesn’t seem like the boy understands anything Verlaine is saying. He’d stopped crying, but his eyes were just as wide as before as he processed his surroundings and the presence of someone besides the man, his brother, holding him. But then, his red glow entirely fades, and the boy surges forward, his tiny hands wrapping around Verlaine’s neck and squeezing tightly; as if he let go, he’d be pulled away from the first trace of love and tenderness he’d ever experienced.

The assassin doesn’t mind Chuuya clinging to him like a barnacle. He adjusts his grip on the boy to hold him more comfortably and gently strokes his brother’s hair. If necessary, Verlaine was prepared to hold Chuuya in his arms for the whole night if it meant the small boy would feel safe. Rimbaud cautiously steps closer, also placing his hand on Chuuya’s hair. After the boy doesn’t flinch away from the new hand, he replaces Verlaine’s hand in carding through the fiery strands.

“We will do our best to make your childhood as fulfilling as possible,” he whispers, sounding cautious at first but quickly gaining some confidence.

Chuuya hesitantly raises his head from the safety of Verlaine’s neck and looks at Rimbaud with a confused expression. The assassin laughs as he comes to an undeniable realization.

Poor Chuuya didn’t know their names.

The black-haired man smiles at the boy and points to himself, “Rimbaud,” then at his partner, “Verlaine.”

Chuuya seems to understand, nodding his little head.

The boy tries to mirror what he hears, his voice small and raspy from never being used.

“‘imbud, Fehline!”

Both assassins’ hearts melt in their chests. Chuuya had tried so hard to get their names right, but his failure was absolutely adorable.

“That’s right,” Verlaine praises the boy with a soft kiss to his brother's forehead, “Très bien,”

Chuuya, invigorated by the praise, beams at the two men.

“Ah...Ahab…Ahaba…” the boy looks annoyed at himself for being unable to say what he wants.

Verlaine’s heart sinks in his chest. He knows that his little brother is trying to say his experiment’s name, and it breaks his heart that the young boy thinks that’s his name. It made sense why Chuuya would assume that was his name, but it didn’t make it any less painful.

“Arahabaki?” he offers, to which Chuuya nods enthusiastically.

The assassin gently shakes his hand and rubs his thumb over his brother’s cheek.

“That’s not your name, mon phénix.”

Chuuya looks confused by the response, so Verlaine elaborates.

“Only bad people call you that,” he reassures the young boy, “Your name is Chuuya.”

“ ‘uuya!” Chuuya exclaims.

“Well, at least he likes his new name,” Rimbaud laughs and pats the kid’s head. “We should get him into a bed so we can start to tidy this place up.”

As it turns out, Chuuya did not want to let go of Verlaine to sleep. That’s how Verlaine and Rimbaud ended up pressed against each other, nearly cuddling, on a single mat, holding the red-haired boy between them. Not that either man minded. They’d do anything for Chuuya’s comfort, of course. Plus, it helped that they didn’t seem to mind embracing one another.

The three shared a single bedroom for an entire month before Chuuya could stay in his own room for the night without having some sort of episode. Most times, it started with the child screaming in agony and floating to the ceiling of his room until Verlaine and Rimbaud could figure out how to wake him. Peculiarly, the boy didn’t seem to remember any specific details from his nightmares. It was a double-edged sword. On one hand, Chuuya didn’t have to suffer with what were probably memories from when he was being experimented on in the lab. But on the other, the boy was annoyed at himself for not being able to remember his dreams.

Even when Chuuya could reliably sleep in his own room, there were some nights that he couldn’t stay asleep. In these cases, he’d crawl in between the other two men. Verlaine and Rimbaud didn’t see the need to make another bedroll when sharing one worked fine. And if they began to exchange soft kisses soon after sharing a bed, that was merely coincidental.

Rimbaud and Verlaine face parenting a young, mostly-human-looking child like they’d faced everything else: together. However, compared to some of their other collaborations, playing a healthy family unit with the young Chuuya turned out to be the most rewarding mission. It was by no means easy for the two assassins to comfort and care for a boy who barely spoke their language.

Especially difficult were the days that Chuuya thrashed around in his sleep and mumbled half-broken Japanese sentences that neither Verlaine nor Rimbaud had heard before. It almost sounded like some sort of witch’s incantation. They did their best to calm the boy, but on the worst nights, the trauma of what Chuuya had endured in the lab was too significant for anything to calm him down.

Each assassin had his own way of reacting to the young boy’s residual suffering and trauma.

For example, Verlaine learned several Japanese lullabies to soothe his baby brother to the best of his ability, whereas Rimbaud took up sewing. Specifically, the black-haired man began to make all sorts of blankets and stuffed animals for Chuuya in hopes that the presence of something soft or cute would help the boy have fewer nightmares in his sleep.

The first animal Rimbaud attempted to make the young boy was an orange cat to match his hair, but it turned out a lot more blob-like than he’d anticipated.

“It looks more like a slug,” Verlaine had laughed, “The boy deserves a better animal than that, surely?”

Rimbaud had only rolled his eyes and gently kissed the other man.

“I’ll get to it,” he whispers.

A few days later, Rimbaud had made a much more anatomically correct cat, this time in black, but Chuuya had grown attached to the little slug plush, so the man didn’t have the heart to take it away. Soon, the slug and the cat had new friends in the form of a sheep, dragon, crab, and, of course, at Verlaine’s request, a phoenix.

As it turned out, identifying animals was the most effective way to teach the young boy the various languages they wished him to become more knowledgeable in. Once they’d gotten a little more adjusted to the small home and were courageous enough to venture into a nearby town, they bought loads of little (and some not-so-little) gifts for the red-haired boy. One such gift was a picture book full of animals the couple used to teach their boy the words for various creatures in French and Japanese.

Chuuya loved looking at the pictures in the book and pointing out all the animals he knew, and Verlaine and Rimbaud enjoyed teaching the boy French and strengthening their knowledge of Japanese. It was really the perfect combination for all three of them.

“What’s this one?” Verlaine asks a particularly energy-filled Chuuya perched on his lap, eagerly anticipating seeing more pictures of all of his favourite animals.

“Chat!” the kid exclaims in French first, wanting to make his brother proud. Chuuya also says the word in Japanese, “Neko!”

“Very good, Chuuya,” Verlaine praises, “Can you identify anything else on this page in French?”

Immediately, Chuuya’s eyes darted around the page as he looked for his favourite animal.

“Chien!” the boy’s eyes sparkle as he finds what he is looking for, pointing at a tiny puppy opposite the kitten he had just been looking at.

“Très bien, mon phénix,” Verlaine had never sounded prouder of his younger brother, “In Japanese, Inu.”

Chuuya folds his arms indignantly across his chest, seemingly done with his language lesson, “Je veux un chien!”

Rimbaud giggles from the doorway. For once, he doesn’t feel cold. Instead, watching Verlaine explain how much work caring for a dog is to Chuuya fills him with a warmth he’d never felt.

It feels like love.

“Verlaine is right, little one,” the black-haired man finally speaks, “Having a dog is a lot of work, you know.”

“I can do it!” Chuuya huffs, “I promise!”

As assertive as the little boy is trying to be, his being so small for his age makes him look more adorable than anything.

“I don’t doubt that you think you can take care of a dog,” Verlaine tries to withhold his laughter, “But a lot of dogs will get much bigger than you. That’s not entirely safe.”

“But I’m going to get super big, too!” Chuuya exclaims, glowing red and floating off Verlaine’s lap with a determined grin.

The boy hadn’t used his ability often since being rescued from the lab, probably out of fear of what would happen to him if he allowed it to get out of control. But given Rimbaud and Verlaine had never once raised their voices at him or reacted with physical violence, he’d slowly become more comfortable using his gravity manipulation for silly things like trying to be more prominent in hopes of getting a dog.

“Get down from there,” Rimbaud laughs, surrounding Chuuya with one of his golden cubes and gently lowering him back to Verlaine’s lap, “You’re a silly child, aren’t you?”

“I’m not silly!” Chuuya asserts as Verlaine’s arms wrap around him again.

“If you say so,” his brother whispers, “Should we return to learning some of the animals?”

The boy clearly isn’t ready to stop talking about getting a dog. His eyes illuminate as his mind gives him an idea of how to get what he wants.

“Si je m'améliore en parlant, puis-je avoir un chien?” he asks in the best French accent he’d ever done.

Admittedly, Verlaine and Rimbaud are slightly affected by their boy’s sudden near-perfect accent. They share a quick glance in which they seem to consider whether they can realistically bring a dog into the home and still not draw attention from anyone who might be searching for them or Chuuya. It doesn’t help that Chuuya looks at the two of them with his wide blue eyes, doing his best version of puppy dog eyes.

Verlaine is the first to break the silence, gently carding his hands through his brother’s hair, avoiding the braided section, and untangling knots as he finds them.

“Chuuya,” he sighs, “I’m not sure about this….”

“S'il te plaît,” the boy whines.

“How about this,” Rimbaud interjects, “I’ll make you a plush dog, and we’ll see how well you can take care of that before we decide whether you’re responsible enough for a real dog.”

Chuuya leaps off Verlaine’s lap and bounces up and down, his ability activating occasionally and sending him nearly to the ceiling before he comes down again. Seeing the ability activate from pure excitement rather than fear was refreshing, as in most situations where the two men saw it in motion, it was when the young boy was in the throes of one of his countless nightmares.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” he exclaims, “I’ll take the best care of him!”

Verlaine looks away from his excitable brother and smiles at Rimbaud.

‘Thank you,’ he mouths.

The other man just grins.

A few days later, when Rimbaud had the time and materials ready, Chuuya finally got his dog plush, a brown and white beagle-looking thing. The boy absolutely adored the plush, carrying it wherever he went, either cradled in his arms or floating it beside him with his ability when his hands were full. He stuck to his promise to care for the plush like he would a real dog, offering it some of every meal he had and running around outside for ‘walks.’

“I think he’s serious about a dog,” Rimbaud observes as he and Verlaine watch the red-haired boy sleeping surrounded by his pile of stuffed animals, but the dog in the prime position of Chuuya’s arms.

“He hasn’t been complaining about his language lessons in a while either,” Verlaine adds, sighing deeply, “Do you think we can manage it?”

The other man sighs. They’d ventured into a nearby town several times for groceries and other necessities, but they didn’t like to linger much more than necessary in fear of being discovered. On one hand, entering the town again to get their boy a puppy was extremely risky. But on the other, the two men felt the compulsion to spoil Chuuya with everything he could have ever wished for as solace for what he’d experienced in the lab.

“It’ll be a risk,” Rimbaud responds honestly, “But if you want to do this, I will support the decision wholeheartedly.”

Verlaine wraps his arms around the other man, leans against him, and kisses his neck.

“I think we should,” he says nearly inaudibly, “He deserves a dog more than any other kid out there.”

Rimbaud places his hand on Verlaine’s head and brings him for a soft kiss, “I agree.”

The following morning, Verlaine and Rimbaud perch on the edge of the red-haired boy’s bed to tell him the good news. Or at least that they were taking him out of the house for the first time.

“You’re bringing me into town with you?!?” Chuuya’s eyes widen and he nearly drops his dog plush in surprise.

Verlaine and Rimbaud had decided that their boy deserved to choose his own dog. Sure, bringing a very excitable red-haired boy into town with them would draw more attention to the non-traditional family than necessary, but it would be worth it in the end.

“We are, mon phénix,” Verlaine responds, ruffling his brother’s hair, “But there are a couple of rules you’ll have to follow, alright?”

Chuuya immediately puffs out his chest and looks much more serious, “I promise!”

“Firstly, you are going to stick by our side the whole time. Don’t wander off or go anywhere without saying anything to me or Rimbaud, alright?”

The boy nods in understanding.

“Also, our word is law; if we decide it’s not safe for you outside, we expect you’ll listen to us without complaint, alright?” Rimbaud adds, “This also means you cannot use your ability while we are out. It’s too dangerous for anyone in town to see that sort of thing. They might not understand how special you are. Does that make sense?”

Chuuya’s arms tighten around his plush, and he looks a little scared, “Can Doggy come with us?”

Verlaine and Rimbaud exchange a glance before nodding at each other.

“As long as you keep him safe, of course he can come with us,” Verlaine smiles.

The child’s grin just about melts both men’s hearts.

“One more thing,” Chuuya’s brother adds.

He removes his hat and places it on Chuuya’s head, covering as much of the boy’s red hair as possible.

“Try to keep this on, alright?”

Chuuya nods resolutely, locking in the promise with his brother with a determined look in his azure eyes.

“I’ll keep it on, I promise!”

With that, the small family leaves the home with Chuuya excitedly hopping from foot to foot. It’s clear the boy wants to activate his ability to travel just a little faster, but he keeps himself under control, much to the pride of his brother.

It’s not a long journey to the town, especially when Verlaine and Rimbaud are traveling with an overly energetic child. However, the moment Chuuya sees another person, he buries his head in Rimbaud’s coat and hides.

“It’s alright, Chuuya,” the man whispers, patting the hat firmly affixed to the child’s head, "Don’t worry about it; we’ll keep you safe from anyone who might wish you harm.”

The child looks up at Rimbaud with wide, wet eyes, holding the stuffed animal in his arms a tad bit tighter.

“That’s it,” the black-haired man whispers, “Hold your doggie, and he’ll keep you safe too.”

Chuuya hesitates as he lets go of the man’s coat, but the soft fur of his dog plush in his arms soothes him enough to walk beside Verlaine and Rimbaud with a little more confidence.

“I’m very proud of you, mon phénix,” Verlaine says with a smile, “I know this is scary, but I promise Rimbaud and I are taking you someplace you’re really going to like. You’re going to love the surprise we have planned for you.”

The young boy’s eyes sparkle a little as he’s told he will like whatever the two men had dragged him into town for. He sniffles and wipes any tears from his eyes away with the back of his hand as he follows his caregivers through the streets.

“Here we are!” Rimbaud announces a few minutes later, stopping beside an incredibly tall tree.

Chuuya looks confused as he looks at the tree, “What’s so special about a dumb tree?”

“Patience, Chuuya,” the black-haired man giggles, “Just wait.”

The boy folds his arms and huffs, trying to keep himself calm so that his surprise will not be taken away. He stays like that for a solid five minutes before he feels Verlaine nudging his arm and pointing to an older woman approaching the tree.

“Your surprise is on its way,” his brother whispers.

Chuuya straightens his back and looks between Verlaine and Rimbaud as the woman gets closer, and he spots a woven basket in her arms.

“You must be little Chuuya,” the woman says with a smile on her face, “Nice to meet you.”

When the boy remains silent, looking at the two adults on either side of him for the answer of what to do, the elderly woman also turns her attention to Verlaine and Rimbaud.

“You’ve taught him well to be wary of strangers,” she observes, then smiles at Chuuya again, “I like your little dog.”

Rimbaud places his hands on Chuuya’s shoulders.

“It’s okay to talk to her,” he whispers.

“T-thanks,” the young boy responds cautiously, “His name is Doggy! My brother and Rimbaud say I can get a real one if I’m good!”

“Is that so?” the old lady chuckles, “Do you think you’ve been a good boy?”

“Of course!” Chuuya had gained some confidence in speaking to the stranger.

“Then I suppose I could give this to you,” the woman responds, handing the woven basket to the boy.

Chuuya’s eyes widen as he realizes what his surprise is. He throws the basket lid off and barely held back tears pour from him when he meets the gaze of the first live dog he’d ever seen. It was a small puppy with big, sparkly brown eyes and slightly fluffy curly fur that was only a shade or two lighter than the small boy’s hair.

The creature was just as excited to see Chuuya as the boy was to see it, happily yipping and rapidly wagging its tail as it tried to climb the basket walls to get to the boy.

“C-can I touch it?” Chuuya asks, utterly transfixed by the puppy.

The older woman giggles.

“He’s yours. Of course, you can touch him!”

Chuuya gasps and his eyes widen as if he had not expected to be allowed to touch the animal. He turns to Verlaine and tugs on his brother’s sleeve, holding the plush dog up.

“Can you hold Doggy for me?” he asks.

“Of course,” the man responds, grabbing the toy from Chuuya and holding it safely in his arms.

With his hands now free, Chuuya wraps his arms around the excited puppy and hoists it into his arms. He’s grinning from ear to ear as he hugs the dog close to his chest and strokes its fur. In response, the puppy licks Chuuya’s cheek in its own nod of appreciation.

Rimbaud and Verlaine watch their boy proudly with tears in their eyes.

“I’m glad the boy seems to have bonded with the young pup,” the woman says with a smile, “You guys have a few papers to fill out before I can let you leave fully.”

The two men view the substantial stack of paperwork and sigh. Verlaine turns to his brother first and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“This might take a bit, and I don’t want your arms getting sore,” he starts, “So why don’t we put the little puppy back in the basket for a few minutes?

Chuuya is already pouting and shaking his head when Rimbaud chimes in.

“You can take him out again the moment we get home. How about that?”

The boy seems a little more agreeable to that option, hesitating as he lowers the squirming puppy back into the basket and closes the lid. Then, he sits down beside the basket, wrapping his arms around it while the adults fill out the paperwork to officially adopt the dog.

All is going fine until a quite substantial breeze blows through the trees. It’s strong enough to push Verlaine’s hat off Chuuya’s head and pull it away from the safety of the tree. The boy looks to his brother and Rimbaud to get their attention, but they’re engrossed in the paperwork, so he takes it upon himself to chase after the hat. He didn't see the harm in venturing off as long as he didn’t get too far from the tree.

Unfortunately, in his hesitation to leave the tree, the young boy loses track of the hat. He turns around, still seeing Rimbaud and Verlaine not all that far away, before he turns down a street, hoping to find his brother’s hat. There’s no luck even after the boy turns a few more times. Tears spring from his eyes without a second thought.

Chuuya cries harder, hiccupping a little as it turns to sobbing. His vision is blurry, and he can no longer see where that tall tree is. He couldn’t find his brother’s hat, and he was utterly lost. It couldn’t get any worse.

The boy meanders the streets, hoping to find a sign of either the tree or Verlaine’s hat, trying not to panic any further. His brother and Rimbaud were great caregivers. They’d rescued him from a place much more sinister than a quaint little town. He just hoped they wouldn’t be too mad at him for misplacing Verlaine’s hat and running off to find it despite being explicitly told not to wander off.

Chuuya’s heart turns to ice in his chest as he comes to a potentially harrowing revelation. Would he get his brand-new puppy taken away because he hadn’t listened? He shivers and swallows another wave of tears. Verlaine and Rimbaud wouldn’t do that. They were friendly people and had never so much as raised their voices at him. But then again, the boy had never given them a reason to be angry at him before, so maybe it was a reasonable assumption that they’d take away the puppy.

He’s so distracted by his rapidly spiralling mind that when he sees a flash of Verlaine’s hat, he almost doesn’t believe his eyes. But, upon blinking, it’s still there. A man Chuuya had never seen before holds the hat out to the shaking child with a polite grin.

“I think this is yours,” he says softly.

Chuuya immediately grabs Verlaine’s hat from the stranger’s hands and places it on his head but stays silent, not making eye contact with the man.

“Do you know where you’re going?” the man asks.

Chuuya chokes back another sob as he shakes his head once.

“Such a shame for someone so young to be alone,” the stranger laments before placing a hand on the boy’s head and gently patting the hat, “What’s your name, young one?”

“C-Chuuya…”

“Hello, Chuuya,” the man says calmly, not wanting to scare the child, “I’m a doctor. You can trust me.”

He extends his hand.

“My name’s Mori.”

“Chuuya! There you are!”

Verlaine’s voice rings out, causing Mori to jump. The assassin sprints toward his brother and scoops the young boy into his arms, glaring at the other man. Chuuya openly sobs into his older brother’s chest, mumbling his apologies for getting lost.

“Shhh, it’s alright, mon phénix,” Verlaine soothes the child while glaring at the man before him, “What are you doing with him?”

Mori merely shrugs, “He was alone. I was merely trying to help him. I’m a doctor, you know.”

“Your assistance is not needed,” Verlaine responds coolly, “If you so much as look at him again, I will not hesitate to destroy you and everything you might hold dear.”

“Noted,” the doctor responds, turning his back and mumbling to himself, “I’d like to see you try.”

Verlaine effortlessly meanders the streets of the strange town, heading toward the tree where he’d left Rimbaud, the old woman, and Chuuya’s brand new puppy while stroking his brother’s hair.

“Why’d you go running off?” he questions, “I know you, you wouldn’t do something like that for no reason. What happened?”

“Your hat!” Chuuya hiccups, trying to regain his composure, but being so elated his brother had found him had caused him to cry again, “There was a breeze, and it came off my head, so I chased it, and then I couldn’t find it, and I got lost and couldn’t see the tree anymore and-”

“That’s enough, Chuuya,” Verlaine says calmly, “Thank you for getting my hat back, but if something like this ever happens again, I’d prefer you tell me or Rimbaud and let us take care of everything. There’s a lot of people out there that would like to see harm come to a sweet boy like you.”

Chuuya can only nod in response.

“There you two are!” Rimbaud exclaims as the brothers finally return to the tree.

The elderly woman had gone, leaving the black-haired man with the basket containing Chuuya’s puppy.

“We should get going,” Verlaine announces, “Chuuya? Would you like to walk and carry your dog, or would you like Rimbaud to carry the dog, and I’ll carry you?”

The child’s eyes widen, “You’re not going to take him away?”

Both men look confused.

“Why would we take your dog away, Chuuya?” Rimbaud asks.

“Because I wasn’t a good boy,” Chuuya whines, “I didn’t listen and ran after Verlaine’s hat.”

“That’s no reason to punish you,” Verlaine adds, “You were only doing what you thought was best.”

Chuuya relaxes in his brother’s arms, his eyes and limbs beginning to feel heavy from the adrenaline of getting lost wearing off. Verlaine holds the boy closer, gently moving a strand of fiery hair behind the boy’s ear.

“Rest well, mon phénix,” he coos, “We’re going home.”

Touched by the sight, Rimbaud removes his scarf and drapes it around Chuuya’s neck to keep him warm on the return journey. In turn, Verlaine moves closer to the other man’s side, hoping some of his body heat will soothe Rimbaud’s chronic hypothermia until they get home, where they can cuddle up to one another all night.

“Getting Chuuya a puppy was the best decision we’ve ever made,” Rimbaud whispers about an hour later as the couple watch a young boy and his puppy sleeping comfortably together. Chuuya’s small plush army, especially Doggy, are still in bed with him, but the dog is closest to him.

“Second only to taking him in,” Verlaine agrees.

Life with an excitable child and an even more excitable puppy was a lot for the relatively young assassin couple to deal with. Domesticity was not a natural state for either battle-hardened man. Still, they embraced the life with ease, providing Chuuya with the best care and schooling they could manage. Any ounce of caring would’ve been a significant improvement from what the child had endured in the lab, but the two men were determined to overwhelm him with praise, care, and attention. Hence, allowing the child to get a puppy and, soon after, letting the boy come into town with them on a regular basis.

Chuuya never wandered away from his guardians’ sides after the first incident, terrified he’d end up lost again or running into that strange young doctor. He happily followed the two men on their errands, only occasionally tugging on one of their sleeves and pointing out something that caught his eye. And, nine times out of ten, he’d end up bringing home whatever he pointed out.

Sometimes, when Rimbaud and Verlaine felt extra generous, they allowed Chuuya to bring his dog into town with them, too. The boy thought he was being sneaky when he slipped scraps from various food vendors to his fluffy pal, but his guardians were merely turning a blind eye. It seemed like the two men and their adopted young ability user had finally found a comfortable routine and method of existence.

Until that knock on the door came.

No matter how close Verlaine and Rimbaud might’ve seemed to get to some of the townspeople, they would never allow anyone to see their home. It was just the most basic form of common sense. Despite lowering their guards substantially over the near year they’d been caring for Chuuya, there were some safety measures they would never relent in upholding. The men exchange a worrisome look when the knock comes, silently communicating as much as possible in those crucial first few seconds.

‘Did you tell anyone where we lived?’

‘Absolutely not, did you?’

“Of course not!’

‘There’s no way this is a friendly chat. We need to think and act quickly.’

‘And preferably without alerting the child to the danger lingering outside.’

As if on cue, Chuuya speaks, tugging on one of Verlaine’s sleeves with a curious expression, his puppy at his feet with a wagging tail.

“Who’s that?” the red-haired boy asks with all the innocence of the typical child.

Verlaine and Rimbaud exchange another worried but frantic look, neither one of them wanting their surrogate son to become aware of just how serious this situation is. They're forced to quickly conjure up a lie to reassure Chuuya, trying their best to keep their voices level and calm in order to prevent him from noticing the tension.

"Oh, it's just… a delivery we were expecting. Probably a package containing some food or another little present for you; you know how those delivery guys always ring the doorbell a few times when they drop something off?"

Chuuya looks confused. Not even the mention of potential presents for him is enough to keep him distracted.

“But we’ve never had any sort of delivery here…” he pouts and folds his arms tightly across his chest, “You’re hiding something big from me because I’m small again, aren’t you?”

Rimbaud quickly kneels down to Chuuya’s level as another heavy knock pounds on the door.

“You’re a very good boy, Chuuya,” the black–haired man speaks calmly, “I promise your big brother and I will explain some grown-up things to you in a little bit but for now, I need you and your dog to go to your room and hide like we taught you, alright?”

The black-haired man had never been more grateful that his partner’s constant paranoia had led to having a plan with Chuuya in place in the event that someone showed up at their door.

Chuuya looks at Rimbaud with fear in his big, wide blue eyes. It takes the boy a few seconds to process the request, but when he does, he tightly grabs the edge of the man’s coat and clings to his leg, sniffling back tears.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“We love you too, mon phénix,” Verlaine murmurs as he ruffles Chuuya’s hair, “Now off you get!”

A split second later, Chuuya retreats to his room, his puppy following him with a wagging tail. Rimbaud only turns to Verlaine after he hears the distant sounds of Chuuya scrambling to get into his hiding spot.

“You still up to fighting?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

There was no way in hell that either assassin would let whoever had interrupted their tranquil life in the countryside with Chuuya touch even a hair on the child’s head.

Verlaine stares at the door with a steely gaze, his heartbeat thudding rapidly in his chest. While he's relieved to see Chuuya retreat to his hiding spot without complaint, he's frustrated by the sudden interruption to their peaceful existence. The poor child had gone through enough in his short life. He deserved the chance to play and develop as if he were a regular human child. As such, the assassin has no intention of allowing whoever's on the other side of that barrier even the slightest opportunity to lay their hands on his little brother.

"I'll gladly fight for as long as it takes to keep him safe," he replies, his voice laced with a layer of simmering fury.

“Me too,” Rimbaud replies just a breath before their front door caves in.

Two familiar figures enter the room, sneering at the two former assassins. They’re both members of the Transcendants, the same European organization Verlaine and Rimbaud had belonged to prior to taking care of Chuuya.

“At last, we meet again,” the first man, Victor Hugo, speaks, “I was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

“Boss didn’t believe us when we first suggested that you’d fallen in love with the Japanese singularity,” the second voice, Johann von Goethe, smirks, “Does it really look that much like a real child?”

It was painfully evident that the pair were trying to anger their former colleagues.

Verlaine's expression darkens as he glances at the two former colleagues, noting their intentions with a single sharp glare. He's aware that anything they say is only meant to provoke him and Rimbaud, so he remains calm and refrains from giving them the satisfaction of getting a reaction. In contrast, Rimbaud's own expression seems to tighten with each word, his patience clearly fraying at the seams.

“You know nothing of the boy,” Rimbaud eventually replies, his rage barely disguised behind cold words.

Referring to Chuuya as a boy rather than a complicated string of code, as they’d been told, seems to amuse the pair.

“I’m disappointed in you, Arthur,” von Goethe sighs, “I could’ve expected this from someone like Verlaine, some sort of pathetic excuse of a bond between machines or something, but you…. You were supposed to be much better than this.”

“Do -not- call him a machine,” Rimbaud warns, clenching his fist until his knuckles are wholly white.

“Oh, I see,” Victor half-laughs, “You got Verlaine in bed with you once, and now you’ve become all sorts of delusional. Do you think a machine is capable of truly loving you? And here I thought you were smart, Arthur.”

It was an intentional decision to attempt to wear down Rimbaud’s usual calm demeanour first. The man was fiercely protective of those he loved, and when his former friends and colleagues were questioning the man he loved, it was hard to contain his anger.

Von Goethe turns his attention to Verlaine with a wicked grin, “And what about you? Are you delusional enough to think you are capable of true emotions like your precious little boyfriend?”

Verlaine snarls at the former colleague, his expression rife with anger. He remains silent, feeling no need to explain the depth of his own emotions because they've already made up their minds about whether he is capable of genuinely caring for others. However, Rimbaud is who Victor has chosen to needle and prod, which is precisely what the assassin is doing. Based on the sheer rage emanating from the black-haired man, it was evident that Victor was more than succeeding in his mission.

“I’m not sure why it matters,” is the response Verlaine gives, “Not when that’s not the reason you came here, is it?”

The blond-haired man takes a single step forward, glaring at the two men he used to work beside and smirking as they hesitantly step backward.

“Lovely to see that you’re just as terrified of me as I remember,” Verlaine laughs, “You absolutely -adored- it when I was able to slay your enemies for you without the peskiness of human doubts. But you never treated me as an equal, only a weapon to be wielded whenever you saw fit. But I have some news for you. Unlike the likes of you, I don’t care that I’m not human.”

Verlaine harshly grabs one of Victor’s hands and forces him to touch the center of his chest, right over where electrical pulses startlingly similar to the rhythm of a human heartbeat.

“My heart beats like yours, I bleed like you, I process emotions like you,” Verlaine whispers, “I am indistinguishable from any ordinary human being aside from my origins.”

Victor tries to pull his hand away, but Verlaine holds his hand tighter, shattering the bones in his former colleague’s fist with practiced ease.

“It would be a crime to rob a child of the opportunity to be raised with love, wouldn’t it?” he asks, “The Transcendents' mission was to preserve the innocent. It doesn’t look like you’re doing a very good job of that right now, does it?

“That’s far from the point, and you know it, Paul,” von Goethe hisses, pulling his colleague away from Verlaine’s death grip, “Your orders were to retrieve the Japanese singularity vessel and return with it to France, where our organization would decide the next best steps."

The man steps toward Verlaine, glaring at him before dragging him down by the tie.

“This child you speak of isn’t a child at all, you know that,” von Goethe sneers, “It’s nothing but a few lines of code arbitrarily put together to make it appear like a human. It might look like a child, but it is incapable of human emotions. Its purpose is for destruction, nothing more, nothing less. The same can be said of you, Paul.”

Simultaneously, Victor stalks toward Rimbaud with an insatiable hunger burning in his eyes.

“Make this easy and tell me where you put the vessel?” he’s practically spitting in his former colleague’s face.

“Before we make you regret it,” Von Goethe adds.

His eyes dart toward Rimbaud, and the implication is clear. He was threatening the two men.

Verlaine narrows his eyes at the former colleague, the rage and indignation simmering within him growing with each passing moment. He remained silent when von Goethe attempted to intimidate and threaten Rimbaud, his expression still and calm. However, his entire body trembles at the suggestion that any harm may come to Chuuya, his only thoughts becoming dedicated to protecting his little brother. This is a line neither man should have crossed.

“If you think either of us is threatened by your remarks, you’re gravely mistaken,” Rimbaud hisses, “We will gladly tear you down before letting you touch a hair on Chuuya’s head.”

“Chuuya?” Victor questions before his mouth widens in an unreadable grin, “How cute…the two of you named your little lab experiment. I’ll be certain to add your little nickname to his file when we transport him back to France.

Beside Victor, von Goethe has rolled up his sleeves, “So are we going to fight this out or what?”

"Your attempt to break my partner's resolve and provoke us into engaging in a physical confrontation is quite evident, but the threat of bodily harm won't change a thing in our determination to protect the boy we view as our son. If you wish to test your powers against ours, so be it,” Rimbaud replies cooly.

Chuuya’s guardians remain as stoic and unmoving as ever, their eyes never straying away from their former colleagues. However, the assassins’ hands have already tensed. Verlaine’s arms and legs were aching to unleash their destructive powers, eager for the inevitable battle. He’d never thought he’d miss crushing foes under the weight of gravity, but it’s like a breath of fresh air as he allows the power to flow through his veins.

His first move is to strike Victor with a slight right hook to the jaw, amplified by his gravity manipulation to make his fist heavier. Rimbaud follows his lover’s lead and strikes their former colleague from the other side, sending him off balance.

“Well, that’s certainly one way to wake me up, ”Victor responds, glowing slightly blue as he lunges toward the pair with his arm outstretched.

“You should get a better ability,” Verlaine teases as he jumps out of the way of the other man’s hand, “You needing to touch us to be useful really will be your downfall.”

“Is that so?” von Goethe asks from behind Verlaine, grabbing the taller man and holding him against his chest, allowing Victor to place his hand on his shoulder.

The effect is immediate. Verlaine feels his legs and arms weighed down as if he were swimming in molasses. Upon closer inspection, the assassin realizes his vision is much cloudier than before like he was looking through slightly tinted glass. Once he sees a flash of very familiar fiery orange hair, he finally understands what’s happening. Verlaine opens his mouth to scream but finds the thick liquid he’s suspended in makes it next to impossible to make any sound.

He knows he’s in a delusion caused by Victor’s ability, but even that knowledge isn’t enough to protect him from the vile sight before him. The man can only struggle helplessly, trying to break out of his tubular prison as a crowd of scientists poke and prod at his little brother, causing the little boy to cry and scream for help.

And then, the scene fades away as if it had never happened at all.

Victor was no longer touching him. That much was evident by the fact that Verlaine could see the familiar sights of his home around him instead of the claustrophobic incubator he’d found himself in only moments before. Rimbaud throws him a concerned glance before he uses his ability to cover the entirety of the room, glaring at his former partners.

“As I said before,” the black-haired man spits, much more in control of the situation than before now that he could effectively control anything that happened in this space, “We will tear you down before you touch Chuuya!”

But to his surprise, Victor and von Goethe do not look even slightly startled by being surrounded by Rimbaud’s ability. It almost seemed like they’d expected the man to take control of the entire room.

“You’ve always let your heart lead you a little too much,” von Goethe observes, “It made you the sloppiest one of the Transcendants. Lovely to see that after nearly a year of trying to track you down, it seems you’ve let your guard down even easier than before.”

Rimbaud raises an eyebrow in question.

“What are you talking-”

Then, he realizes what his former co-workers had done. His hands shake, and he nearly allows his golden cubes to falter. Not that it would matter if he had. It wouldn’t stop the inevitable harrowing event he and Verlaine were about to bear witness to.

Von Goethe was glowing red, a sign that his ability was active. But given that he and Victor were contained within Rimbaud’s ability, it meant he was using his ability elsewhere, somewhere outside the golden cube’s boundaries.

Verlaine catches up to the current situation right in time for something that looks shockingly similar to Chuuya’s puppy running into the room, disappearing the moment it touches the outer wall of Rimbaud’s ability.

Both Rimbaud and Verlaine’s hearts sink as they watch a confused red-haired child coming around the corner, stopping as he comes in contact with the golden walls. He looks around his feet, clearly looking for the dog he was chasing and his face pales when he sees the two strange men in the room.

“So this is Chuuya,” von Goethe sighs, sneering at his partner, “Turns out it’s just as easy to fool robot children with my ability as it is to trick human children.”

“Chuuya!” Verlaine and Rimbaud shout simultaneously.

“Why don’t you stay a little while,” Victor smiles deceptively softly at Chuuya, “The two of us were just catching up with our old friends.”

The red-haired boy frantically looks between his guardians and the strangers before his eyes settle on the man who’d been talking to him.

“You were hurting my brother and Rimbaud!” his voice betrays no sense of fear at all.

“Brother?” von Goethe seems amused, “That’s a new one…”

“I wouldn’t call it hurting him, little man,” Victor responds to Chuuya, “Your brother and Rimbaud just broke some rules, and they need the appropriate punishment.

“Go back to your room, Chuuya,” Verlaine begs, “Let us handle it.”

“No,” the intruders bellow simultaneously.

“That won’t be necessary. He should watch this.” Victor smirks, turning towards Verlaine and Rimbaud, “We’ll make your deaths quick for the sake of his young mind.

Several things happen at once.

Victor and von Goethe lunge at Rimbaud, the moment the former’s hand touches the black-haired man’s, the golden cubes keeping Chuuya safe disappear. A loud scream tears itself from Rimbaud’s mouth as he endures agony born from whatever he’d find the most painful experience. Verlaine, in turn, uses his ability the second his lover’s control over him disappears to push the two intruders away.

“Run away, Chuuya!” he shouts toward the small boy, “Run as fast as you can and get away from here, and don’t stop.”

But the boy does not run.

He stands determined, glaring at the two men who dared to break into his house as if he could kill them with his chilly gaze alone. He rolls his shoulders back, never breaking eye contact with the intruders as he opens his mouth.

“You should not have touched them,” a voice that sounds much too strong to belong to a little boy says, “I will make you pay.”

The red-haired boy closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before speaking again.

“Concédants de sombre honte,” Chuuya’s voice does not even slightly falter, “Ne me réveille plus.”

It does not take long for the men in the room to understand exactly what the young boy had done. Deep scarlet blooms on the young boy’s skin, slithering around his arms and cheeks like snakes, and the vibrant blue of his eyes turns the shade of freshly fallen snow. He looks like he is on fire, like the namesake of his brother’s most common nickname for him.

Verlaine and Rimbaud leap toward their boy, trying to do anything to stop him from succumbing to the immense power within him, but are sent flying across the room, colliding into a wall so hard that they lose consciousness. Chuuya pays no mind to the state of his guardians as he lumbers toward the other two men in the room with a distinct glint of insanity sparkling in his pale eyes.

The air in the room suddenly feels much heavier as the gravitational pull emanating from the boy only intensifies. Chuuya might be a small boy, but at this moment, he was the most powerful individual in the room, paling even what Verlaine might be capable of in a similar state.

“What an honour to bear witness to such a potent ability, von Goethe says, awestruck as Chuuya’s fist collides with the side of his head, knocking him against the opposite wall.

He conjures another model of the child’s beloved dog but isn’t shocked when it does nothing to deter the maniacal red-haired boy’s attacks. His ability was much more effective on children, and the red-tainted individual was no longer a child, more on the level of the gods.

Perhaps that was why the project to manifest such a powerful ability in a child's body was named after the god of chaos.

Chuuya’s ability pins von Goethe and Victor to the wall of his home with ease, continually increasing his pressure with a wicked grin twisting the young boy’s expression into something that was entirely devoid of any humanity. The sight amuses the boy’s captors beyond belief, despite knowing their abilities are no match against Chuuya.

A deep black hole, darker than even the darkest known shades of black, forms at the end of the red-haired boy’s palm in time with thick burgundy blood spilling from his eyes, ears, and mouth. His body heaves as the power within him clearly becomes too much for his small frame to handle.

Chuuya shrieks painfully as he doubles down on, pressing the two men into the wall with a little more force, using the last of his strength to absolutely annihilate his foes. Only once von Goethe and Victor are no more than stains on the wall does the boy collapse, seizing as his limitless power starts effectively cannibalizing itself.

That’s precisely how Verlaine and Rimbaud, both equally beaten and bloodied as a result of Chuuya’s ability, find their beloved boy. He’s screeching in pain and writhing on the floor of the almost completely demolished country home. They crawl over to the suffering boy on their hands and knees, as standing up would require too much effort on their part.

Verlaine cradles his baby brother in his arms, combing his hands through the thick hair that was no longer its usually vibrant orange as it was matted with blood. He chokes back tears as he begs his ability to do anything useful in aiding him with rescuing Chuuya from the throes of his uncontrollable ability.

“Shh… I’m here for you, mon phénix,” the man whispers as Rimbaud surrounds the pair with a golden cube, trying to calm him with his ability, “You can rest now.”

Chuuya spasms in Verlaine’s arms once before he falls still. Eerily still.

Verlaine gently shakes his little brother and chokes back a sob as he shakes his head at Rimbaud. The tiny boy’s skin had already become several shades paler, and the blood seeping from seemingly every orifice on the boy’s body had already begun to run cold. Countless injuries littered the boy’s usually flawless skin, too many to accurately pinpoint where one gash started and another ended. Verlaine pokes his brother’s shoulder none too gently and feels a dull ache thrumming in his chest with every beat of his artificial heart.

“He’s not breathing,” his voice sounds harrowed and also on the verge of disbelief, “My little brother isn’t breathing! What do we do?”

Rimbaud was on his knees instantly, cradling the small boy’s head and feeling for a pulse. When he also doesn’t find one, he looks at Verlaine with the most serious gaze he’d ever had.

“I think he exhausted the singularity inside him,” the black-haired man says glumly, “Since his body was made with the purpose of housing the singularity, it’s very likely he will rapidly decompose without it.”

“That can’t be right!” Verlaine exclaims, “There has to be something we can do to stop it. He’s just a boy.”

Rimbaud sighs heavily.

“There’s only one thing I can think of to save him, and you’re not going to like what I’m about to say,” he replies, “But it will almost certainly guarantee Chuuya’s life.”

“If it means my baby brother will live, I’m willing to do anything,” Verlaine responds, no longer making any attempt to swallow the tears forming in his eyes.

“Are you sure you mean anything?” Rimbaud asks as if to prompt his lover to understand what he was planning to do.

It only takes Verlaine an extra few seconds to understand.

“No,” is his first word, “Anything but that…”

“Paul…” Rimbaud sounds absolutely devastated, “Like you said, he’s just a boy… He deserves to grow up. I’ve lived a good life.”

“Arthur…” Verlaine doesn’t seem to be capable of saying much else, “Please…”

The black-haired man places a comforting hand on his lover’s shoulder and squeezes, “Promise you’ll look after him for me?”

Verlaine shakes his head, unable to believe the situation unfolding before him.

“There has to be some other way…. He needs you, I need you…”

Rimbaud smiles as the tears start to flow down his eyes as he activates his ability, the first golden cube surrounding his, Verlaine’s and Chuuya’s bodies.

“I’ll still be here,” he says as calmly as he can as he gently places a hand on his lover’s cheeks and brings Verlaine in for a soft kiss, “I’ll be in your heart and quite literally in our boy’s…”

Verlaine squeezes Rimbaud as tight as he can, sobbing into the other man’s shoulder until the ability becomes too strong to hold onto him any longer. He’s forced to watch as the man he loves repeatedly activates his ability on himself, simultaneously nullifying and strengthening his power until it becomes a singularity.

Despite having the knowledge of how singularities were formed, Verlaine had never seen one in person, let alone one that burned as bright as Rimbaud’s. He watches in awe as the sizeable golden sphere hovers above Chuuya before dissolving as it touches the boy’s skin. A slight golden glow travels through the red-haired boy’s veins until Verlaine can see the faint outline of a small heart illuminated by the gleaming ability.

Then the glowing stops and Verlaine is entirely alone in a mostly destroyed home. Any trace of the body of the man he had once loved had disappeared when he’d turned himself into a singularity. Verlaine just manages to swallow his next wave of tears enough to scoop the tiny form of his brother into his arms.

Chuuya looked peaceful as if he were merely in a deep slumber rather than resuscitated from beyond the grave. He looks smaller, almost a little younger. It was as if he’d been reborn. Verlaine’s hands shake as he places his palm flat against the small boy’s chest, holding his breath as he waits to see if there will be any sort of detectable pulse.

“Please,” the man desperately begs as he can’t feel anything at first, “I can’t lose the both of you.”

Verlaine openly sobs when he feels the faintest heartbeat underneath his palm. His little brother was alive, had come back from beyond the grave.

“You really are like a phoenix,” the man whispers under his breath, “Mon petit phénix.”

Chuuya doesn’t respond, of course, as he was still comatose. Verlaine lifts his baby brother into his arms and heads for the little child’s room, looking for the only other remaining member of the household, the little puppy. Thankfully, the creature bolts out of its hiding spot when the blond man enters the room. It almost looks like the dog has a sad expression as it sees the limp form of its master in Verlaine’s arms.

“You’d better follow me,” the man addresses the dog as if it understood him.

With that, the man, his brother, and the loyal puppy following him left the place they’d called home for nearly a year. Verlaine wasn’t sure where he’d take Chuuya now, but he knew he’d have to get as far from the town in case the French government sent anyone else after him and Chuuya. He travels with his blissfully unaware brother and his excitable puppy for almost six hours before the sun begins to sink beneath the horizon, painting the sky an elegant array of oranges and red similar to the intense hues of Chuuya’s singularity.

Despite his best judgement, Verlaine decides he shouldn’t travel in the dark and checks into a room at a rather dingy-looking hotel outside a bustling city. But one of the benefits of filth was the man behind the front desk didn’t question the limp red-haired boy in his arms or the puppy.

He first takes his brother into the bathroom, glad to find the room had a bathtub. Verlaine exerts significant care as he washes the thick blood from his brother’s hair, smiling as the signature fiery shine of Chuuya’s fiery hair is finally revealed underneath several layers of dried blood. His heart aches with every beat as he gathers a small section of his brother’s hair to retie a braid and ponytail. The child remains unconscious for the whole ordeal, which Verlaine is thankful for. It allows him the time to sob and begin to process and mourn the loss of Rimbaud.

The assassin hadn’t the slightest idea what he would do without his lover’s presence beside him. For many years, Rimbaud was the only thing keeping Verlaine sane. Now that he was gone, there was no guarantee that Verlaine would be able to keep himself together. There’s a throbbing in his chest with every beat of his heart that grows ever more painful with each passing second.

Soon, Verlaine’s eyes can no longer produce tears, and he’s left hunched over the porcelain tub with his mouth open, rapidly gasping for breath that will not fill his lungs. Burning spreads from his heart to his lungs as panic and a feeling of utter hopelessness consumes his mind.

Verlaine’s half-tempted to activate his own singularity, allowing the powerful ability to use his body to destroy anything in its path. He can almost picture what it would be like to cede control and become a mere passenger in the decimation. It would almost certainly be excruciating, ripping him apart in the very fabric of his existence.

But didn’t he deserve to be in pain after everything that’d happened?

Perhaps the burning in his chest would finally stop if he just let go?

Wouldn’t it be nice for the pain to finally end?

Verlaine squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they can go, shaking as the constant barrage of questions almost convinces him to end his own life. Losing Rimbaud was the most painful thing he’d ever experienced. He’d do anything to sacrifice himself and switch places with the man he loves. But he would never achieve what he wanted by destroying a whole city block and killing himself.

Besides, he wasn’t alone.

Chuuya still needed to be taken care of. The poor boy didn’t deserve the pain of waking up to learn that he’d lost both Rimbaud and Verlaine. Sparing his little brother from pain isn’t the best excuse to keep living, but it would have to work for now.

When Verlaine finally opens his eyes again, he feels bile rise in his throat. The bath water Chuuya was submerged in had begun to run a much brighter red than the slightly brown shade from the small boy’s hair. The man’s heart sinks in his chest for the hundredth time that day when he realizes the cause.

Amid his panic, Verlaine had incidentally pressed his nails into his brother’s skin, creating ten crescent-shaped wounds on Chuuya’s shoulders, each one leaking with bright red blood.

“Forgive me,” he begs as he drains the water from the tub and rinses the wounds with fresh, warm water, “I’ve hurt you, my dear brother. Please forgive me.”

Once the boy is sufficiently clean and his wounds have been cleaned and bandaged, Verlaine redresses Chuuya and lays him in the bed closest to the bathroom, smoothing down his hair and feeling over the boy’s skin for any injuries that hadn’t been healed by Rimbaud’s singularity.

Verlaine pauses momentarily as he reaches his brother’s wrist, feeling a slight lump underneath the boy’s skin. Upon closer inspection, it appears that there is a slightly gray mass underneath Chuuya’s skin, something akin to pencil lead. He feels over the raised skin a second time to guarantee that what he is feeling is indeed there. From all appearances, the wound looked like it had been there for more than three years, much longer than the time Chuuya had been trapped in the lab. Meaning that the wound must’ve been recreated from his human vessel.

But there was just one problem with that realization.

Both Verlaine and Rimbaud had studied the file the government had provided them regarding the vessel they came to name Chuuya. The two men had studied the paper with precision, committing every single detail of his appearance to memory. No part of the file had mentioned a piece of lead in the vessel’s body, which meant only one thing. That wasn’t shocking in itself. It was a minor wound, after all, something that wasn’t necessary to copy when making the ability-derived copy of the human Chuuya Nakahara. But the fact that the boy in Verlaine’s arms had that wound could only mean one thing.

Chuuya was not the vessel of a singularity or an artificial creation made only to house an ability. He was an entirely human child made to endure constant suffering by greedy scientists. He could hold a singularity’s power inside his tiny body, something no human should be capable of.

Verlaine doesn’t have enough time to profess the horrors that had been forced upon a young human before he comes to another heartbreaking realization. If Chuuya were truly human, it meant he didn’t need the singularity to be alive as he would if he were an artificial creation.

Meaning that Rimbaud didn’t have to turn himself into a singularity and effectively kill himself to save the young boy. Though, considering the facts again, it made sense why he’d made that decision. Chuuya’s heart had stopped, and the boy was human. The singularity’s untamed power was probably too much for his weak body to handle on its own. The black-haired man’s sacrifice had allowed the boy to live on after exerting all of his body’s energy to protect his guardians from von Goethe and Victor.

“Oh Arthur…” Verlaine laments, squeezing his little brother’s hand, “What have you done? You’ve left someone unhuman to raise a human child all on his own.”

Verlaine looks to the end of the bed where Chuuya’s puppy had curled up to sleep and sighs. They both looked so peaceful, and he felt like his world was coming to an end.

“I don’t know the first thing about being human,” he whispers, twisting a lock of auburn hair between his fingers, “But I will not let you down, my dear brother. You’ve gone through too much suffering.”

The blond man leans down, delivers a soft kiss to his brother’s forehead, and clambers to the second bed in the room. The mattress is firmer than necessary, but Verlaine doesn’t care. His body is too exhausted by grief to be assed with comfort.

Sleep claims the former assassin the moment his head hits the pillow, and before he knows it, he feels a wet sensation on his cheek. When he blinks his eyes open, it becomes clear to him what the source of the ever-growing damp patch on his face is. Chuuya’s beloved puppy is licking him.

The adorable creature yips at Verlaine and jumps off one mattress to leap onto the other the moment it’s certain the older male is awake. The puppy rapidly wags its tail as it licks Chuuya’s face with an exorbitant amount of glee.

Verlaine rolls his eyes, on the verge of dismissing the dog’s actions as typical puppy behaviour, when he realizes that there’s a peculiar sound coming from the other side of the room. He blinks his eyes a few times, which gives him the extra few seconds he needs to understand what the noise is.

It was laughter.

Chuuya was laughing.

Verlaine’s little brother was alive.

He throws the blankets off and rushes to Chuuya’s side, wrapping the small boy in his arms. Verlaine shakes, not caring that heavy tears stream down his face. He’s just so happy to hear something as silly as the child’s laughter again.

“Chuuya!” Verlaine sounds more overjoyed than he’d ever sounded before, “You’re alive!”

Chuuya gently pushes his big brother away. His eyes are wide and blue, full of confusion.

“Why are you crying?” The boy’s tiny voice asks, “Where’s Rimbaud?”

Verlaine can only offer his brother a half-smile as he tightly squeezes the red-haired child, a couple of his tears soaking the boy’s clothing. He knew it would be painful to explain everything that happened, from when Chuuya activated his singularity to waking up in a strange hotel room. But for the moment, the former assassin wants to revel in having a little brother that’s alive.

“Don’t worry about it right now, mon phénix.”