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It's late. Morning-late, the witching hour when your eyes water and your limbs shake and your thoughts jitter like mosquitoes on the water. Luca lies in bed, slimed in old sweat, staring at the ceiling and knowing he has just woken from a nightmare. Maybe a memory. He stews in the stuffy box-heater smell of the manor and wishes his memory was a little less reliable than it already is.
Andrew's presence in the bed beside him is oppressive—more heat, more weight, more memory. Luca peels the comforter from himself and stands, shaking. True to his title, the gravekeeper does not wake. There is almost no light in their tiny room; Andrew's albinism demands nothing brighter than sunset, lest he go snowblind. Luca can only see out of one eye, anyway, so it's no real bother. He stretches his mouth open as if yawning—an exercise taught to him by Doctor Dyer—but the left side of his face refuses to cooperate, hanging slack, commanded only by gravity. It will be a hard day.
He sits down on the floor. Old pine wood, grounding. Not at all electrically conductive. Two weeks ago, Alva caught him by the neck and gored him with a spear. The wound in Luca's back aches terribly. He does not remember Andrew saving him and he does not remember coming here from the medical wing but he does remember the cold curl of Alva's mouth as he beat him. Again, again, again. Took a long time before he even hit him with the point of the spear—most of the wound is bruising. “Bone contusions,” Doctor Dyer had said as he lay face-down on a cot. She wasn't speaking to him.
Taking a breath so deep it hurts his spine, Luca decides he needs to work on cipher connections. The transmission loss is still too high; he can do better. He will have to do better if they're ever going to get out of here.
He stands, bracing himself on the nightstand. He does not remember having a nightstand, only a desk, but at this point he will take what he can get. His tools should be on the other side of the room. He didn't bring much, being on the run and all, but all he ever really needed were his tools anyway. He's damn smart, that's a fact, but all he can ever keep in his head anymore is machines. He's walking to the box near the door and his spine is really hurting now.
“Luca?”
Andrew's voice is as rough as his hands, calloused from all the digging. Quiet, though—sleep's a part of it, but he never really speaks above a mumble. One time he said he's talked more in the time he's been in the manor than the rest of his years put together, and Luca believed him. Luca always believes Andrew, on account of he's a liar and a fraud and they're both on the run from the law. People like them ought to stick together. Besides, Andrew has this sort of way about him, with the quiet and the praying and the hair in his face that makes you not think twice about him. Luca didn't think twice about him, but all that meant was he was fascinated by him immediately.
“You-ou should re…st,” Luca says, a little louder than he means to. You'd think since it takes his brain so long to get words to his mouth he'd have a better grasp on that, but he doesn't. Frustration burns in his throat. “I'm o-okay, s-s-swear.” He turns to face the bed and tries to smile in his rakish sort of lopsided way. Then he realizes Andrew can't see him and that smile was definitely not present in his voice.
“What are you doing?”
He knows Andrew doesn't mean to come off so blunt. It's just he doesn't see the point in talking around things, not like Luca does, so when he does actually talk, he just… talks. The question still feels accusatory. That's what this place wants. For him to get defensive. He can't—shouldn't. But he's confused and in pain and it's the middle of the night, so he doesn't think about the manor. He just thinks about the trial.
“What I d-da-mmmn w-well please,” he snaps.
Andrew goes very quiet and very still. The faint crinkling of sheets has stopped. Luca is immediately, deeply guilty. “I—I did—I didn't me-ean…” he sighs. “I a-a—I'm—sorry, Andy-y.”
Luca always says he uses the nickname because it's easier to say than “Andrew” is. A truth, but a partial one—he really likes being close enough to someone to call them by a nickname. Andrew was flustered by it the first time, but then, he's flustered by a great many things, not the least of which include the many nicknames that came after. Candy, Dandy, Handy (Luca's personal favorite)—the list goes on. Andrew always frowns and splutters and calls it unnecessary, but he frowns more when Luca calls him Andrew, so here they are. Andrew lights a candle and frowns with a full-name intensity.
“I know. Come here.”
In the shuddering light, Andrew looks very tired. He is worried, visibly so, but it is a grim resignation. Thin wisps of hair stick to his forehead where they were pressed against the pillow, practically translucent when separated from the whole. His lips are chapped. Needs to take better care of himself. At least he has that silly little nightcap—a rare indulgence that Luca thought better than to tease. Andrew looks comfortable in it. Domestic. His face is creased with concern, but there's a warm tint to it that makes his paper-white skin look suitably alive. It catches Luca off guard. He stands there like a deer in the headlights.
Andrew looks at him, a long, impermeable look, gets out of bed, and walks over to him. It only takes a few steps; he stands before him and offers an arm. “Here. Do you want me to get your brace?”
Luca does not have a brace. He has never had any kind of brace. He turns back to the box of his equipment and moves towards it because he needs… because he needs to do something, something important… something—
Pressure at his shoulder at his waist down his back cold hard inescapable hands weapons traps held bound caught prey agony shame failure useless helpless—he crumples like a sheet and wails a gross wail and shakes on the ground like the coward he is—
But there is no sound: no screams, no laughter, no firework fizz. He stares at the ground and takes his breath in wet, shallow gasps. He is in the manor. He is safe, for now.
The fool. The coward.
He rolls over on his back like an insect because he does not have the strength to stand. Andrew stands above him, hands extended, frozen, eyes wide. His mouth forms the words, “Oh, God,” but no sound comes out. Luca is perversely comforted by this sharp sliver of panic. This anxious, guilty creature is the Andrew he knows. “Oh, God, oh, God , Luca, I—I'm so sorry, it was my fault, I should have asked, I didn't mean to hurt you, I—”
“We-e are even,” he manages facetiously.
Andrew stands above him and evidently does not know how to proceed. This is okay, because neither does Luca. Then Andrew lies down on the wood floor next to him and clasps his hands in front of himself, waiting in polite posture. Luca laughs. Andrew reddens. “Y-you took the Lo-Lord's n-n-name in vain, y-y-you… kn-kn-... y'know.”
Andrew turns on his side to face him, the tail of his nightcap wrinkling against the floor. He looks mortified, but he's making eye contact, which is something. “Let's just—we should—do you want me to take you back to the bed and we can talk about this?”
Luca rolls his eyes and sits up. “Th-there is noth-ing-ing to talk about.”
Andrew just keeps looking at him with his big rheumy kicked-puppy eyes. Luca does have to respect the effect it has. “F-f-fine.”
Smiling faintly, Andrew stands and offers a hand. Luca takes it this time—his tendons scream at him even with the help. He's only now processing what happened. Andrew must have touched him from behind, taken him by the shoulder or something. He knows better than to do that. But Luca knows better than to act like a child. So. Again, even. He leans hard into Andrew—he's steady, solid with muscle from years of digging, taking Luca's extra weight in stride. The prisoner wants to cry. It feels so good to know he isn't going to let go. Andrew sits him down gently on the bed and Luca does sob, once, an ugly little noise. The fire changed his voice, how he cries, too. He hates it.
Andrew lies down beside him, pulls him slowly down, presses his palms to his back and tucks his chin over Luca's head when he starts sobbing into Andrew's chest. He holds him just like that for as long as it takes. Luca doesn't even know what he's crying about—Alva, the manor, his broken body, all of it, maybe—but he hasn't cried in a long damn time and he's thankful he's not doing it alone. Andrew starts rubbing his back in slow, smooth circles, and Luca feels like he's going to die. It's so nice, too nice for him. He realizes absently that his shirt isn't turning red and sticky—that he's not bleeding anymore. In fact, he can feel the ridges of scar tissue as Andrew's hand roves over them. Old scars.
It takes a long time for him to stop crying. Andrew has always been a patient man, so when Luca finally pulls back and makes sheepish eye contact, he still finds nothing in him but worry. “Hello,” he says awkwardly, and Luca laughs again.
“Hello t-t-t-o you t-too.”
Andrew brushes a strand of Luca's hair from his forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“We should s-sl-sl—we nee-eed rest for to-mo-morr-rrow.”
Andrew looks at him, a careful look, the bright sheen of anxiety dulling into understanding. Luca likes to know things— needs to know things—and it's the worst feeling in the world when someone else knows something he doesn't. That's what this is. That's what pity is. “What's tomorrow?”
Luca hates saying it aloud. It doesn't have to be real here, in their room, not if they don't acknowledge it. Andrew used to never stop talking about it, but after a few months that anxious rambling just melted into surrender. Luca really does need to fix the transmission. “Th-th-th—I… there's go-got-going to be-e—th…” He groans, frustrated that he can't get the words out. Andrew watches him expectantly, patiently, still rubbing circles in his back. Luca inhales, focuses, says, “The ga-game.”
“No,” Andrew says immediately, intensely. “No, Luca, there’s no game anymore. We’re far away from there, okay? You’re safe. We’re safe.”
“Where—” Luca’s trembling. He believes him. “W-where?”
“In our house,” he says, and it’s the sweetest thing Luca’s ever heard.
They lie there in the nested warmth of the bed—their bed—and he knows profoundly that this is not the guest room they shared in the manor. The sheets are worse, for one thing. He laughs suddenly, a delirious little giggle, and knocks his forehead against Andrew’s. “R-really?”
“Really,” he says seriously, and that just makes Luca laugh harder. Andrew gives him a confused little smile. Luca kisses it.
They must really be home, because Andrew feels like it. Like home. Like a home, which Luca was certain he did not have a lot of firsthand experience with, but this feeling is well-worn. In a rare pleasant surprise, he realizes that he—his brain, his soul, and his body most of all—is used to being safe. Is used to being loved. Andrew makes a sweet little noise. Drinking it in, Luca hugs him tight and slots their lips tighter. His spine aches and his skin burns and his muscles twitch but he is held.
What’s that word Miss Mesmer used? Psychosomatic? Doctor Dyer never liked it when she interfered with her work, and Luca was work, but Miss Mesmer never listened to anyone but Mister Emil anyway. God. Luca hopes they’re still out there somewhere. Safe. Living in a house of love. Andrew’s hands find Luca’s waist and he shivers so hard it’s almost a flinch.
Andrew takes it as one, because of course he does, anxious creature that he is. He pulls away. “Lu—”
Luca kisses him again. And again. And again, until Andrew wedges his hands between their chests and draws back and says, flushed, short of breath, “Stop.”
Luca blinks. “S-sorry, I should have ax-ak-asked.”
“I’m not—I’m fine.” He glances away. “I just don’t like it when you… hide like this, for lack of a better term.”
“I wa-asn’t—”
“Please don’t lie to me.”
Staring, Luca feels his hands numb. Andrew never says please or thank you or anything like that. And Andrew never, he means never , interrupts him. Luca is scared and confused and he can’t even be forgetting anything about this and that’s worse because that means it’s kind of his fault. It is. He was shaking before, but his body is really putting its all into it now.
“If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, just say that.”
Luca swallows. He does want to talk about it, but it's so much easier not to. Hence the kiss. “I want-anted to wor-wor-k on the tr-tr-trans-miss-ssion.”
Andrew nods. “Okay. You left it at the manor when we got out. We don't need it anymore.”
“Y-yeah, I got-t-t that.” He breathes in slowly. “I want-ed to be-because I thought n-n-now was the ti-me af-aft-er A-Alva… after h-he…”
“Oh,” says Andrew quietly.
Luca might cry again. He knows Andrew isn't mad at him, but he's still reeling. “I-I-a—I'm scared. Scared of n-nev-ver being ab-abl-able to b-be… h-here, rea-lly here with—with you.” His voice constricts with the threat of tears.
Silently, Andrew starts petting his neck, the soft spot where the skull meets the spine. Luca says, “It-’s a-al-ways going to be li-ke th-this, isn-is-isn't it?”
“I don't know.”
Luca does not cry again; he thinks he may have used up all the tears he had when he did. “I hate th-this, hate it hate it hate it h-hate —” his words choke off into a desperate inhale. God, does he never stop shaking?
Andrew's voice is always quiet, but it's nearly imperceptible when he presses his mouth to Luca's jaw and whispers, “I love you.”
Luca doesn't reply. Andrew keeps talking. “It's not your fault. You can forget a hundred times, but it won't stop me from loving you, not for a second. You know that, Luca?” He kisses his cheek. Luca makes a choked little noise. It is his fault. He started the fire, he killed Alva, he fried his own damn brain.
“P-pl-lease don't go,” he says senselessly. It's vulnerable and pathetic and he hates how stupid it sounds. He holds him tighter, though, tight enough to feel like he's going to slip inside his skin. Tight enough to feel the badly-healed rib that the Disciple broke, tight enough to feel the ladderlike punctures from the Geisha, tight enough to feel the old swollen places where he was bruised by the very earth he exhumed.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
It’s not all that reassuring. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel for them, but then, Andrew’s always digging tunnels, and Luca would go wherever he went. He giggles again, and gets a sort of sigh-snicker out of Andrew, and for now, it’s enough.
It’s enough.