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Once Cross is gone, and Dream and Blue have left, Killer says bluntly, "He didn't have a headache."
"...Probably not," Epic concedes. "But I think it stresses him out, when we all interact with the king and prince like we're friends."
"We are their friends," Killer argues. Epic almost snorts, because Killer is certainly more than Nightmare's friend, but he knows Killer would eviscerate him if he laughed without articulating that.
Dust saves him from having to reply. "Nix's culture is very straight-laced and emphasizes social status in some ways," he explains.
"Cross was a prince ," Killer points out testily.
"He was a pawn and an attack dog," Dust shoots back. "They disowned him as soon as they found out about his Grace."
Killer stumbles in his argument at that, and Epic quietly adds, "They tried to have him killed for it. The king only kept him alive because a fighting Grace was useful for him."
Killer has been stunned into silence. They're all quiet for a moment, before Dust points out, still blunt yet somehow gentle, "And I'm not sure Epic being his superior but also his friend helps with the confusion."
"He doesn't need a superior," Epic replies. "He needs a friend. I'd rather be his friend, because he needs the support, anyway."
"I'm not saying it's a bad thing," Dust says, eyes piercing in the shade that his hood creates. "Because stars know he needs people he can trust. But it's still probably confusing."
"Yeah," Epic sighs. "I'm worried about him."
Dust hums in agreement, and even Killer looks thoughtful, his soul spinning in a slow, calm circle. Finally, he mutters, "Maybe I'll ask Night to talk to him again. Check on 'im."
Epic snorts. "I thought you didn't trust him."
"Goin' soft?" Dust adds. Before Killer can reply, he continues, "But I'm not sure getting the king involved will help — at least not now."
Killer frowns, choosing his words. Finally, he says, "I didn't realize the culture in the north was so… different. The Sands and Arbre are plenty different, but…"
"They have the same sorts of thoughts about Gracelings," Epic finishes for him.
"Yeah."
"Nix is… well, behind on the times probably isn't right," Dust says. "More like their thoughts regarding Gracelings have always been more negative, and they're behind on the times in matters of social status…"
"Arbre's always emphasized the symbiotic relationship between a ruler and their people," Epic agrees. "The northern kingdoms are definitely a lot stricter in that regard."
"The royal family in Nix built their power on the backs of their citizens. In Arbre it was a little more… tit-for-tat, I guess," Dust shrugs.
"In the Sands, there isn't this… comradery with the higher classes," Killer says. "But the higher classes also didn't have open disdain for the people like there seems to be in Nix."
Dust and Epic hum in agreement, and Dust adds, "We should ask Horror what it was like in Osphron. For comparison's sake."
"Probably cold and miserable, like in Nix," Epic guesses. "But with a little less disdain for Gracelings."
"And more starvation," Killer snorts. "Honestly, that queen of theirs…"
"I'd say I wouldn't be surprised if we got an influx of refugees from Osphron, but I'd be more surprised if it was an actual influx, and not a trickle, considering their string of famines," Dust rolls his eyes. "Undyne is a fool to not accept offered help."
"She's been a fool ever since she disfigured and exiled one of her most popular nobles," Epic points out. "The area that Horror's family was in charge of has been in pretty much constant turmoil since then." Without waiting for an answer, he continues, "I'm going to go find Cross."
"Probably a good idea. He thinks too much." Dust rolls his eyes goodnaturedly. "We could use the smoke that comes outta his skull to calm every beehive in Arbre."
"Yeah," Epic sighs. "You're not wrong."
Before he can get suckered into further political conversation, Epic leaves the arena, heading for the guards dormitory instead. He figures Cross has returned to his room to hunker down and overthink.
The dormitory is on the north side of the castle grounds, built into the wall surrounding them. Epic fondly remembers his time there; he lived in the same room for several years, between the beginning of his training as a guard to his promotion to head of the castle guard. He had lived in Nim City all his life, with his father and brother, though there was markedly more tension in the house following the discovery of his Grace.
When his eyes changed, he had immediately begun working in service of the queen, mostly doing odd jobs around the castle. The expectation was that his Grace would be useful to the crown, and his eventual employment would make use of it.
Unfortunately, his Grace was — and frankly still is — completely useless, and instead Epic was dismissed back to his family. He was thankful, mostly, that in Arbre the Graced were able to keep contact with their family, and that it wasn't seen as shameful to be sent home by most.
His father was not most, unfortunately, so as soon as he could, Epic had joined the guard, and moved permanently back into the castle that had been more his home than his father's house ever had. That was saying something, considering that he had only worked in the castle — the Graced in Arbre were permitted to remain with their families if they lived within the city, or given lodgings within the city if not.
Epic's room within the dormitory had been the first place that felt like
his
after his failures.
It also just so happened to be the same room that Cross had been assigned to, through no fault or machination of Epic's. Really, Horror was the one who had pulled it from the list of empty rooms when Cross had arrived, and Epic had simply approved it. It wasn't until later that he realized that that was the room he had practically grown into a man in.
As he climbs the stairs, he wonders absently if Fate had intervened on Cross's behalf. There were monsters who believed that intent lingered in inhabited places; if that were true, it certainly couldn't hurt Cross to be in the room that used to be Epic's, where his intent — first to make his father proud, and then to be true to himself and be happy and the best he could be — likely still rang through it.
Epic has never been spiritual. But it's a nice thought — that Fate had made it so he would take Cross under his wing, and help him up from what surely felt like rock bottom.
Cross's room is on the third floor, with a south-facing window that overlooks the castle grounds below it and the sea beyond that. Epic knows from his time that there when the wind blew just right, one could smell the salty air that came with the breeze.
With how enchanted Cross had been by the ocean, Epic is sure that he enjoys that.
The dormitory hasn't changed much since Epic lived in it, though he finds that the energy of the guards living in it has, probably because Epic was now their superior instead of their comrade. Still, it's a place of comradery, exhaustion, and sweat.
He doesn't encounter anyone on his way up to Cross's room — it's midday now, so most of the guards are posted, sleeping through their day off, or out on the town. The dormitory is quiet, and the sounds from the grounds beyond are muffled.
When he reaches Cross's door, he almost goes to unlock it on autopilot. Funny, how his body automatically remembers it as his room, despite it being almost twenty years since he lived in it. His knock is solid against the wood, and he can picture Cross flinching at the noise on the other side.
It takes a few moments, but Cross opens the door a crack, warily eyeing Epic. Even with a little over a month in Arbre under his belt, he still looks exhausted and anxious, like a stray dog on the road.
"Hi, Cross," Epic says, taking care to keep his demeanor open and friendly. "Can I come in?"
"Sure," Cross responds, opening the door wider. He seems suspicious, and he's definitely tense, but his shoulders drop a smidge after he closes the door behind Epic.
The room is pretty much the same as it was when Epic inhabited it, though it's definitely cleaner. Cross has very few personal effects — Epic makes a mental note to remedy that. The only addition Epic can see is a small shrine on his dresser, a portrait with a candle in front of it, and a glass vase clearly made in the Sands.
Cross looks just like the woman in the portrait.
"Is that your mother?" Epic asks before he can think better of it.
"Yeah." Cross sighs. "She died when I was very young — before my eyes changed." Quieter, he adds, "I still miss her very much."
Epic nods, sitting lightly on the edge of Cross's bed. "You look just like her."
"Not really," Cross says, looking a little uncomfortable. "She was…" He hesitates, before simply stopping.
"You have the same eyes as her," Epic explains. Before Cross can argue, he continues, "Kind. And open."
Cross just frowns and doesn't respond, but he does sit down beside Epic. The biggest difference, in Epic's opinion, is that Cross's mother looks happy. The closest to happy that he's seen Cross is when they went to the ocean, and even then, he wasn't really happy, just content.
Still, content is better than nothing, and it's better than the look on his face now.
"What's eating you, bruh?" Epic asks, jostling Cross gently with his shoulder.
His friend doesn't respond immediately, instead frowning deeper and curling in on himself. He looks like he's about to cry, gripping at his shirt like he's trying to hug himself. At their backs, a breeze drifts in through the window, carrying the scent of the sea, and Epic watches as Cross closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, taking it all in.
Epic leans back a bit, and instead of waiting any longer for Cross to answer, he says, "This used to be my room, y'know. Back when I first joined the guard."
That gets Cross's attention, and suddenly those handsome, mismatched eyes are back on Epic.
"It was a lot messier," Epic laughs. "And a little less… sterile. But then again, I lived in this room for almost a decade, and you've been here… what, a month and a half?"
"Less than that," Cross says softly, his face losing some of its worry-borne creases.
"Yeah, well, it feels longer," Epic scoffs. "I feel like we grew up together."
Cross returns to frowning at that, worrying about something that Epic isn't privy to.
"Everything is so different here," he finally says. "It's exhausting, because — it's like I was always on guard, and now I suddenly… don't have to be."
"You're coming out of survival mode."
"No," Cross says immediately. "I'm still in survival mode. But suddenly the world isn't as dangerous." He fists the fabric of his pants, and Epic watches his joints go from pale purple-tinged white to bright white. "It's fucking scary."
"Why?"
"Because it could go back to being dangerous at anytime, " he says seriously. "What if I get too comfortable here, and that's when everyone decides that, hey, actually, we don't want the Graceling traitor prince from Nix living among us?"
"Cross," Epic interrupts his spiraling. Cross looks at him, eyes wide and wild, looking both stressed and on the verge of tears all at once. Gingerly, Epic takes his clammy hands. "That won't happen."
"You can't know that."
"No, but I do know that if that ever happened, as unlikely as it is, I'd still be here."
"You're my superior."
Epic chuckles — he can't help it. "Figured it had to do with how we all interact." He looks Cross straight in the eye, Graceling to Graceling. "I'd rather be your friend than your superior, Cross, if that gets it through your head."
Weakly, Cross argues, "That's just you, though." His hands go limp in Epic's grip, untensing as he mumbles to himself, "I guess that's more than I had in Nix."
"Trust me, you've got more than just me. I'm just willing to say it out loud," Epic grins, squeezing Cross's hands. More seriously, he says, "I know things are different here. And I know that's really scary. But I'm here if you need me."
"It's really scary," Cross agrees in a mumble, but he relaxes a bit, knocking his shoulder into Epic's as he leans back against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. "But I didn't have anyone in Nix. Here, it's like… I have people. But I'm afraid that I'm going to end up in the same situation that I was in in Nix."
He doesn't have to explain that he means alone, hated, and used as a weapon. They had spent hours talking about their childhoods early on in Cross's service, stuck in the pouring rain waiting for an important delivery to a side gate, bonding over their fathers' cold treatment of them. Cross had listened intently to Epic's stories of training as a guard, and Epic had cringed as he imagined Cross sleeping in the kennels and facing attempts on his life as a child.
"Cross," Epic says seriously, taking Cross's face in his hands. His thumbs rest below his friend's cheeks below his dark circles, the left one on the crimson scar burned onto Cross's face from the first serious attempt on his life. "I will
never
let you face an environment like that again."
Cross's eyelights flicker, his gaze searching as his holds Epic's stare. Epic's hands remain where they are; it's perhaps too tender a gesture, but physical touch has always been his way of showing affection, platonic or otherwise, and besides, Cross hasn't protested, and Epic knew the poor guy needed all the touch he could get.
"Okay," Cross finally says softly, his voice a little broken. He drops his skull, and his forehead clunks against Epic's. "I'm still — it's still really scary," he croaks. "But I believe you."
Epic throws an arm around him, letting Cross go fully limp curled into his side. It's not exactly a comfortable position, slumped against the wall, but cool air drifts in from the window beside them, and Cross seems nearly fully relaxed.
He wishes he could get Cross to fully let go of his hypervigilance, but he also knows that isn't something that could be achieved in a month and some odd days. Really, he's lucky that Cross is receptive to this, and believes him at all.
Without his say-so, Epic's mouth quirks up into a smile, and he fully leans back, curling up on the bed with Cross tucked into his side. It's not comfortable, the two of them oriented wrongly on the tiny bed provided to the guards, with their heads against the wall, the foot of the bed to Epic's right and the head to Cross's left. With the breeze drifting in, and the midday light fading into shadows in the corners of the room as the sun's angle shifts, the conditions are perfect for a nap.
So nap they do.