Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~~~
flower soft and cold make your magic flow

turn back all the time and let me heal your woe
~~~

Once upon a time, a piece of the sky broke away from the heavens and fell to earth.

(No, really, it did.)

(How? I don’t know. Magic is weird like that.) 

It drifted down, down, down. For hours. Days. Weeks. Until finally, it got too heavy for the wind to carry. It sank into an empty, forgotten plot of dirt. Of nothingness; long after the soil had been stripped of its life and abandoned.

From the patch of land it sunk into sprouted a single, tiny flower, unseen by anyone.

(Well, except for one person, but we’ll come back to that later.)

Not far away, there was a village. Which grew to a town. Which grew to a kingdom. All as the years ticked by in the never-ending hourglass of time. 

Time moved forward. People came. People went. They were born, they died, and they loved, in between. If they were lucky. Still, the flower remained where it was for centuries, undisturbed. For the most part. 

But secrets never last forever, and eventually, rumors of the flower curing the sick and healing the injured spread across the land. 

Then, one day, the queen, who was about to have a baby, got sick.

Really sick.

Had she been a terrible ruler, or worse, an unkind one, that might have been the end of it. But she was beloved by all. None so much as her husband. The king decreed rewards beyond measure for anyone who could find this magic flower and save a life he loved dearly, and one that he hadn’t even been able to meet, yet. 

It caused quite the uproar. Money always does. Suddenly everyone was looking for it. High and low. Far and wide. Too bad they never thought to ask the one man who knew exactly where it was. 

Not that he would have told them if they had. 

(Remember that guy from earlier? Yeah, this is still him.) 

See, while almost every member of the kingdom was searching for the cure for their queen, this man had been around long before all of them, and he fully intended for the same to be true after they were gone, too. He’d used the flower to gain wealth, health, and, most of all: power. He could have shared the flower at any time. Helped people who were sick. Dying. 

He hadn’t. 

Instead, he’d kept the flower hidden. Isolated. Hoarded all to himself the goodness he didn’t deserve. 

He had no sympathy for the queen. He’d been alive for so many years the idea of death was laughable, to him. 

Nobody is meant to live that long. But the man had done it anyway. 

(Why not? When it was so easy?)

(When all you had to do was wish.)

But, again, no secret can last forever. 

Eventually, inevitably, the flower was found. It was uprooted, carefully, and taken back to the palace to be made into a cure. (All while everyone remained ignorant of the stowaway they had collected during their search.)

It worked, of course. There is no denying the miraculous healing properties of enchanted flowers, after all. The queen made a full recovery, and the people rejoiced for not only that, but the birth of her child. 

The kingdom’s first crown prince. He was born happy and healthy, with the sky in his hair. His eyes. 

(Turns out there are some side effects to magic plant medicine. Who knew?)

But the queen, the king, and everyone else adored the prince with all their hearts. So they’d drank, they’d sang, and they’d danced in joy for days in celebration of the palace’s newest addition. For a while, everything was perfect. 

Until it wasn’t. 

See, the previous guardian of the flower was less than ecstatic that the queen had been cured. That the prince was perfect and healthy. No, he was furious that his treasure had been stolen from right under his nose. (You’d think if it was that important to him, he would have kept a better eye on it.)

One night, or perhaps it was early morning, he crept through the castle gates, slit a guard’s throat, and walked right on into the palace. Like he owned the place. 

Down the stone, dimly lit corridors. 

And into the prince’s bedroom. 

No one knows exactly what happened after that. And to this day, no one can recall hearing the baby cry. In the morning, he was gone. 

The king and queen were frantic. They summoned every guard, every member of their staff, and searched each nook and cranny of the castle for the slightest trace of their prince. 

The only thing they ever found was a lock of hair, left behind on the child’s pillow. It was haphazardly cut, and split at the ends. The sky had bled out of it. The vibrant blue stained a dull, chestnut brown. 

They say the queen’s anguished cries echoed and bounced off the palace walls, carrying on for miles. They also say that every mother held their child a little tighter to their chest that day. 

Though he was wracked by devastation, the king did not give up on his son. He ordered a search, offering unthinkable riches and rewards one can only imagine for the return of their child. Of his wife’s smile. 

Many citizens undertook the quest. Some for noble reasons. Others, for decidedly less. 

It went on for days. Weeks. Months. You couldn’t take a step without bumping into someone trying to be the first to find the lost prince. 

But it never amounted to anything. 

On the prince’s first birthday, the king and queen lit a single lantern and lifted it into the sky. It floated upwards, sailing across the land; never sinking in spite of the heaviness weighing on their hearts. 

The next year, it was two. 

Year after year, they kept up their new tradition, along with many sympathetic members of their kingdom. They hoped, prayed, wished that somehow, some way, one day the beloved child they’d hardly gotten the chance to meet would see the lights sparkling in the sky and know that they were for him. That his parents were calling him home. 

And somewhere, not too terribly far, a child with sapphire eyes grew up, tucked nearly inside, hidden away from the world. Properly, this time. Such a gem beyond compare had already been lost once, after all. There would not be a second time. 

Yet all the stone walls and locked doors of his room were not enough to keep the boy from looking out from his one, tiny window. 

Every year on his birthday, the lanterns would rise out of the darkness and light the night sky. And every year, the boy watched, waited, and dreamed. 

***

What do you think? Sounds like an interesting story, right? And I haven’t even gotten started, yet. 

Oh, and I also kind of died. But that’s not even important. Because this story isn’t about me. 

It’s about the boy in the tower.

Chapter Text

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

There are fourteen thousand, five hundred, and sixty-three tiles on the ceiling. The last time he counted them, there were fourteen thousand, five hundred, and sixty-five. So, either he counted wrong, yesterday, or this place is shrinking. 

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

It’s not like he’s completely without entertainment. He has a window, some tools for painting (which he has gotten considerably better at, lately), and more than a handful of board games. (They’re kind of useless since he has no one to play them with, but that’s beside the point.)

He also has a modest two hundred and twenty-three books to his name. All stacked in neat(ish) piles on the floor. The table. By his bed. Against the walls. Wherever he’d found a space, at the time. 

He has read every single one. Cover to cover. Five times. 

He doesn’t even like reading. 

Tick. 

Tock. 

Tick. 

Tock. 

Tick. 

Tock. 

There are flecked spots of red at the crease where the floor meets the wall. That’s new. He’s probably only noticing now because he’s lying less than a foot away from it. All in all, the splotch blends in quite well with the light, rusty brick. As it should. It had taken him three days to clean the worst of it. The aftermath of a jar of paint, a blank wall, and, as always, far too much time on his hands. 

The art phase (a still ongoing process) had distracted him much longer than the others. He hadn’t possessed a significant amount of patience before he hurled the jar at the wall and watched it explode into the most vibrant burst of color he’d ever seen. He doubts anything’s changed. But who knows? Maybe he’ll give it another shot, one day.

Why not? It’s not like he has anything else to do.

Tick 

Tock

Tick 

Tock

Against his better judgment, he lets his eyes lazily wander over to the unnecessarily large clock that dominates the better half of the back left wall. 

(Seriously, why does he need a clock? He's not at risk of being late for anything. He never goes anywhere!) 

It’s seven-thirty. In the morning.

A small part of him shrivels up and dies.  

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock 

Tick

Tock 

Ah. Look. Now it’s seven thirty-one.

Tick 

Tock

Tick 

Tock

Alright, screw this. He’s going back to bed. At least time doesn’t care whether he’s conscious or not. It passes all the same. 

If only it weren’t such an excruciatingly slow process. 

Rolling off his back onto his side, he curls up against the unforgiving stone pressing lines into his face, and draws his knees to his chest. 

He could peel himself up and walk ten feet, where there is a perfectly good bed at his disposal, but he doesn’t feel like moving, right now. Besides, the floor is nice and cool against his skin, and at this point, it makes no difference. There isn’t a square inch of this floor he hasn’t fallen asleep on. (No really, there isn’t. He’d made it a personal challenge.) 

He stares at the faded, shadowy remnants of red paint until his eyes burn. Then, and only then, does he let them close, and try to sink back into oblivion. 

Maybe something will be different when he wakes up.  

But he’s not holding his breath.

Tick

Tock 

Tick 

Tock

Tick

Tock 

Tick 

Tock

Tick

Tock

A series of short, sharp, chirping notes of a bird pierce through the relative quiet. 

His eyes snap open.

Okay, this clearly isn’t working. 

Accepting his fate of sleeplessness for the foreseeable future, he gives up; rolling onto his back yet again and ignoring the way the movement stretches and pulls protestingly at his angry, aching muscles. Hair falls into his eyes and he’s so used to that by now he doesn’t even bother pushing it away.

The damn bird chirps again. Such a cheerful sound it’s almost offensive. 

He drags his arm up and lets it drape across his face, as if that would be enough to block out the noise. The light. The outside world that mocks him for how he isn’t -has never been- allowed to touch it.

Tick 

Tock 

Tick 

Tock 

That’s it. He can’t lie here anymore. If he doesn’t get up and move soon, he’s going to throw another jar of paint at the wall just so the cleanup can give him something to do. 

With great effort, he digs his palms into the ground until the tough stone scrapes his skin, and sits up. 

Hair spills over his shoulders and pools into a puddle on the ground. Which is kind of funny, because it had already been on the ground to begin with. 

Over there. 

And there. 

And over there, too.

Every chair edge, tabletop, and flat surface in this damn place is covered in the strands of blue. 

Christ, it’s been days. Probably. He’s going to have to brush it again, isn’t he?

Ugh. It’s going to take hours. 

Well, whatever. He might as well. It’s not as if he doesn’t have the time.  

Ha. On the contrary. Time is the only thing he does have. 

So. Much. Time. 

Time enough for him to sit, think, and stew in the agony that he is alone, again, and for the love of everything holy; Langa. Is. So. Bored. 

The worst part of it is that it’s not even anything new. He’s always bored. But that’s simply the natural order of things when your whole world is a room you can cross in six hundred steps. 

(Six hundred and ten, if you take smaller steps.)

Another dreg of despair nearly drags him back to the floor when he realizes that he doesn’t have the faintest idea where the hell he’s left his brush. Until a glint of silver catches his eye from the shadow of the far corner, almost hidden behind his dresser. 

Ah, that’s right. He’d been in a bad mood the other day and thrown it. He’d been trying to break it, but that was unlikely from the get-go. While most of his things are kept until they’re worn, shabby, and threatening to rip themselves apart at the seams (much like himself), items meant for his hair are always kept in notably pristine condition. Replaced at the slightest hint of something as unacceptable as an imperfection.

(What can he say? A certain somebody makes no secret of where his priorities lie.)

Still, while he hadn’t managed to shatter the thing like he’d wanted to, he’d at least left a few new, splintering cracks in the corners of the tiles where he’d hurled it.

It isn’t much, but oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

(Unless you’re Langa. Then, you can’t be either.)

Maybe, if he’s lucky, one day that spiderweb of a crack will grow. Spread across the floor little by little. Day by day. Inch by inch. He can pretend not to notice the tower scarring before his very eyes until it’s too late. Until the cracks are climbing up the bricks around him. Until the flimsy ceiling itself splits open and this whole damn building crumbles into dust. 

Ha. Wouldn’t that be nice. 

But for now, he needs to do something while he waits for that day to come, or he is going to lose his ever-loving mind. So, he picks up the brush, and ignores the sliver of distaste that curls into the beds of his nails as he does.

The silver is icy against his already cold fingertips. (Always, always cold. There was no warmth in this godforsaken place.) As if the intricately designed snowflake carved into its back had been made so well it had become real, and the sting of winter itself had been summoned to seep into the metal. 

It is, undeniably, exquisitely beautiful. 

But that doesn’t make it any more useful than a normal damn brush. And for something so small, it’s terribly heavy.

No heavier than his hair, though. (All seventy feet of it. Give or take a few inches.) So. He’ll manage. He always does. If only for the hard truth that there is no alternative. 

It takes a solid five minutes to follow the trail of his hair to the end. (Another five to disentangle it from the drawer it had somehow wound up wedged into. Again. At least this time he hadn’t needed to dismantle the dresser. (Taking it apart was easy enough, but the process of figuring out how to put it back together had taken hours.)

The ends are horrible. As he’d expected. You’d think after all this time, he’d learn his lesson about going days in between disengaging the tangles that like to snarl there as soon as he turns his back. Alas. He has not.

Oh well. It’s something to do.

With that in mind, he takes the ends of his hair in his hands, gripping the worst of the first group of knots, and brushes. 

And brushes. 

And brushes.

When Langa tries to remember how long exactly he’s been here, he can’t. 

(This is not a figure of speech, or a metaphor. He literally cannot remember.)

With so many days passing in exactly the same fog of tedious languor, sometimes his memory gets a little… hazy. 

One time, he’d gotten so tired of it all that he’d paused in whatever inane, meaningless busywork he was doing, and given into the perpetual itching under his skin to sink to the floor and just…

stop. 

Moving. Breathing. Existing. Everything. If only for a moment. 

He’d stared at the ceiling. Until he could still see the seared outline of it behind his eyelids when he remembered to blink. Between seconds that had bled into minutes that had bled into hours. Until he’d forgotten about keeping track of time altogether, and the lines above him had blurred. Dissolved and melded into fuzzy, dancing shapes. 

He swore he’d only lied there for a few minutes, but at some point, he jolted -like he did sometimes when he was waking from a bad dream- and realized with a start that the sun was gone. Had been ripped out of the sky and left him plunged into pitch blackness without so much as a candle to see by. 

He thought he’d only zoned out for a few hours. But the hunger twisting in his stomach and the dryness stabbing in his throat was too intense. The dust coating the tables, the shelves, everything, was too much.

He’s still not sure if he lost two days or three. Or if it had perhaps been more than that. 

He doesn’t think it had happened before that, or again after, but, if it had, it’s not like he would know. So what does it matter?

At the time, it had scared the shit out of him. Now he just wishes he could do it on command. Time passing blissfully on, with no need for him to be a part of it, sounded rather appealing he had to admit. Perhaps if he practiced the trick enough times, he’d master it to where the blackness would stay and he would stop being forced to return here entirely. 

Wouldn’t that be the day. 

In the midst of his thoughts as he is, it almost catches him by surprise when the last bunched, snarled strands of his hair untwist all at once, and fall into place deceptively neatly. Years of experience have taught him that it won’t last, and still, it never fails to give him pause on the rare occasion his gnarled stream of hair looks… kempt. It feels like a mockery, the smoothness; when on the inside he has been nothing but a pile of jagged restlessness for years. He’s not sure he likes it. 

But then, his ‘likes’ have never factored into any of the equations here, have they?

Nevertheless, for now, he’s done. Finally. And as annoying as it is, there’s an in-ignorable note of satisfaction to be found in the burn in his arms from hours of such a repetitive motion. 

That said, for the love of god he hopes it’s at least noon. 

Before he can stop himself, his eyes slip over to the hanging clock mounted on the wall like some kind of hunting trophy. 

It’s ten fifteen. 

Langa sighs. 

It’s going to be a very long day. Again. 

This is the worst. 

Langa can’t even be bothered to feign guilt when the pretty, useless, undoubtedly expensive brush slips through his numb fingers and hits the floor with a careless clatter. Oops. 

It skids to a stop against the wall. 

Langa watches it despondently. He could pick it up and store it away properly, as such a pricy object most likely deserves. However, the idea of moving, expending another shred of energy he does not possess? Sounds excruciating. So he lets it be, even as the light from his window winks off of the silver in a welcoming beacon. 

He doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t care he doesn’t care he doesn’t care.

If he sits here for another second he’ll go mad, he swears it. 

He needs… 

He’s not sure. A reprieve. A change. Something to take away this boredom. 

Please, anything-

“Yoo-hoo! Snowflake!” 

And Langa’s heart sinks. 

Oh. 

Oh no.

Come on. For the love of god, anything but that.

He groans, collapsing back and letting his head fall against the floor yet again. 

And yet, the wobbling of the hatch buried in the floor on the far side of the room begins shifting ever so slightly. Which tells him it’s already too late. 

With little warning, the piece of floor trembles, and scrapes against the rest of the tile as it’s pushed out of the way. Right in time for a regretfully familiar figure to spring up from it like a rabbit out of a magician's hat. 

A spectacle as always. 

Even if Langa did know more than one person, there’s no mistaking that presence. He really needs to start being more careful about what he wishes for. 

The man lands in a gratuitous bow with his arms outstretched, as if drinking in the applause of a silent, invisible audience. (For Langa can assure you, there is no one clapping here, nor will he indulge him in such.) 

He looks up with a wide grin. Not the kind sort. He’s too sharp around the edges, for that, and it shows in his smile. 

Langa does not miss the way he shuts the hatch behind him after less than two seconds. How it swings back into the floor with a telling click. He does it so smoothly it almost looks natural, but nearly eighteen years has taught Langa that he never makes a move without a purpose. He still doesn’t trust Langa not to run at the first sign of opportunity.

(To be fair, he’s probably right not to.) 

“I’m home,” he says, practically singing the words as he finally straightens out of his ridiculous, theatrical bow and stands like a normal person. Or someone pretending to be that, anyway. He steps forward, until the lights twinkle off of the gems pressed into his mask. 

It’s a silly masquerade-looking thing. It barely covers his face.

Langa has never seen him without it once. (Not that he particularly cares to.)

The glimmering at the corners of his eyes is almost enough to take a bit of the edge away from the bite of his smirk. But not quite.

“Did you miss me?” 

Ugh.

And now it’s time for an act of Langa’s own. “Adam,” he says, pushing himself off the ground and getting to his feet. It’s a little lackluster. Stiff as his limbs after laying on the floor all day. But honestly, he’s had worse attempts. He’ll take it. “You’re back.” 

What he wants to ask is ‘why?’ Adam had only left last week. Usually, he stays away longer. Much longer. The change in routine is. Displeasing. 

If Adam notices the weariness in his voice, he doesn’t show it. “Oh, darling,” he croons in answer to the silent question, dropping his travel bag to the floor and lifting his arms above his head with an uncomfortably vocal stretch. “You know I hate being apart from you!”

And yet, he keeps leaving. 

(To be clear, Langa is not complaining about this. At all. Adam is… nice. But if Langa had to deal with him more than he already does, he would go more insane than he probably already is.)

Concurrently, Langa has a funny feeling that Adam hasn’t cut his trip short for something as banal as that. He crosses his arm over his chest. “What did you do this time?” He asks. It might be scathing, if he wasn’t so exhausted. “Please tell me you didn’t set someone else’s house on fire,” he begs. He doesn’t see any scorch marks on Adam’s clothes, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

Adam’s sharklike grin quirks into a rather ridiculous-looking pout. Rather unbecoming for a man his age. You’d think hundreds of years would lend a person some maturity. And yet. “Goodness, are you ever going to stop bringing that up?” He trills, offended and unbearably whiny. “It was one time!”

Yes. One time too many. Langa waits expectantly.

The pout etches deeper into Adam’s face. “You’re no fun, Snowball,” he complains. Not for the first time. 

Langa sighs. Again. As riveting as this has been (meaning not at all), if Adam wants him to have enough energy to fix whatever he’s done, he needs to stop beating around the bush already and tell Langa what he wants. There’s only so much of Adam’s… Adamness that he can tolerate at once. 

Adam wilts. Like a lonely flower. 

(Ew, no. That’s too pretty of a comparison. Langa’s read too many books.)

Yet even as his shoulders droop, the line of his spine never so much as bends.

That’s something else, about Adam. There’s this way he carries himself. Whether he’s being a nuisance, or twirling around like a fool without a care. A certain sort of poise that never quite leaves him, no matter what mockery of sincerity he’s performing.

It’s always struck Langa as rather odd. Then again, so has everything about him. Langa’s stopped keeping track. 

“Alright, fine,” Adam allows, spinning around and sinking into a chair in an astounding feat of coordination, considering the mask. As well as the fact that he hadn't bothered to look before sitting, either. He gestures at his side. “I might have gotten a teensy bit sliced by this barbarian in the square on my way out of town,” he admits. 

Ah. There it is. For god’s sake, does this not make it the third time this month?

How do all these people keep missing? 

Adam continues his ‘oh woe is poor, pitiful me’ spiel that he launches into the instant he is ever fractionally inconvenienced.

Langa lets him talk, not hearing a word of it, and eyes him appraisingly.

He doesn’t look like he’s been stabbed. Granted, that can always be attributed to the garish, vibrant shade of red he constantly wears. Every single article of clothing Langa has ever seen him in is a similar color. Given how often he seems to find himself injured in some way, it just doesn’t seem practical at this point.

Ha. Adam. Practical. Maybe in the next century. 

The ringing silence echoing in Langa’s ears brings him back to himself. 

Adam looks up at him with accusation etched into the lines of his face. Apparently, he finally noticed that he’d been talking to no one but himself for the last several minutes. Oops. 

“You wound me, poppet,” he laments. As if Langa had been the one holding the knife that had pierced him. (If only.) “At least heal me if you can’t be bothered to listen,” he huffs, that irritating hint of a whine creeping back into his tone. 

Langa has the strangest impulse to inquire exactly when it had become his responsibility to act as Adam’s personal nurse. He doesn’t, because Adam is in a relatively good mood today, all things considered, and he won’t be the one to spoil that. (If Adam’s a handful when he’s happy? He’s a nightmare when something makes him angry.)

Not like it would do any good, anyway. Langa’s role was set in stone years ago. This is how it’s always been. 

Well, not always. 

Apparently, Adam used to be able to make whatever wish he wanted himself, and Langa’s hair would grant it. But then, somewhere around the time Langa had turned nine, it had stopped responding to him. So, now if there’s anything he needs, the duty falls to Langa. 

Oh joy. 

In any case, the faster Langa does this, the faster Adam will leave. 

With that, he shifts, tilting his body until he faces the window. 

Beyond the shutters, the outside world beckons to him. The glow of the sun. The softness of a breeze. The blue, blue, blue of the sky. 

(Langa’s never made a wish for himself before, but if he did, it would be for that. The vastness of that blue. The freedom. The ability to jump out that window and fly. To soar and glide far, far away. And never come back.)

That is what Langa thinks about as he lets his eyes slip shut. 

After that, all there’s left to do?

Is make a wish.

Make him better. 

Or whatever. 

He waits. 

For a moment, nothing happens. 

Then, something familiar and hot stings at the base of his spine. Tugs at his chest. He doesn’t have to look to see the way his hair begins to shine in response to his request. He can feel the brightness of it pressing against his closed eyelids. 

Then the light fades, the pulling in his chest stops, and Langa opens his eyes. He only feels a little off balance. Which is much better than some other… less savory taxations utilizing his gift have demanded of him. (The throwing-up phase had been the most unpleasant one by far, but the few instances where he’d been knocked into unconsciousness in the aftermath had hardly been more ideal.)

Still, this part always feels weird. Not solely thanks to the floaty bubbles that tend to linger in his head for a few minutes after he uses his power, but because even after having done this so many times, it just seems that there should be… more. But, no. That’s all there is. 

For so-called ‘magic’, it’s decidedly dull. 

Adam does not share in his complaints. Instead, he sighs in relief as the pain subsides. Then stretches, as if to test the newly knitted skin for any lingering tenderness. 

Langa rolls his eyes. Has he ever left anything to be desired in his work? Please. He only does this every other week. 

Then Adam grins. A wide, wolfing thing that should not be permitted around women. Or children. Or Langa. 

Especially not around Langa, he decides with a barely concealed grimace of disgust, as Adam rises from his chair like it’s a throne, and something oily glints in the white of his teeth. 

“Snow angel, you are a miracle. As always,” he proclaims, grabbing Langa’s hand without warning and bringing the knuckles dangerously close to his lips.

Another shudder of disgust rolls in Langa’s stomach and he barely slips his hand out of Adam’s a split second before it’s too late. Thank god. He doesn’t think he has enough soap left to scrub that away.

Adam only laughs. A short, bursting dog bark of a sound. 

A sudden brush of exhaustion sweeps through Langa’s entire body, adding an extra ten pounds to each of his limbs. It isn’t yet noon, and he aches for his bed. Adam’s visits are always… something else. 

“Thank you so much, for that. You are the wind beneath my wings, snookims!”

Langa nearly heaves. If that were true, Adam would have crashed. Years ago. And yet, here they are. Unfortunately.

Luckily, now that Adam’s gotten what he came here for, he’s already inching towards the door. The only good thing about when he drops by is that he never stays too long. It’s a familiar pattern of theirs. One that Langa is more than happy to subscribe to at the moment. 

“Try not to get stabbed again,” Langa says tiredly. Less because he cares about Adam’s well-being as a whole, and more because he really doesn’t feel like gathering the energy needed to clean up his mess again any time soon. He watches idly as Adam fishes out his keys. Langa’s not sure where he was keeping them, given the conspicuous lack of any sort of pockets on today’s outfit. Nor does he care to think about it too closely. At all. 

Adam’s smile gains a sardonic tilt at the corners. “No promises, darling,” he says forlornly. 

Langa takes back what he said earlier. If he were to make a wish for himself, it would be for patience. Something he’s sorely in need of, right now. 

With a surprising lack of the fanfare typically laced into every move Adam makes, he hoists the handle embedded into the trap door. The one that leads to the steps. To outside. 

Langa’s heart stumbles over a beat and his breath catches in his chest. It’s far from the first time he’s seen the door open, but this is… different. It’s too unexpected. Too open. Too close. Adam usually makes him stand further away when he leaves, and it feels like a rule is broken, here. Something tightens around his lungs, cold and squeezing. The iciness of it bleeds into his feet. Unbidden, he takes a step back, holding his breath until the wild pounding behind his ribs slows.

For the briefest moment, it almost looks like Adam’s mouth twitches. 

But when Langa blinks, his expression is as light as it’s always been, and he’s not sure if he saw anything strange at all. 

Well. Stranger. 

Adam rests his hand on the edge of the door. To anyone else, it might look casual, but Langa knows Adam too well, for that. The reminder to stay back is clear as day. Not that he has anything to worry about on that front. Given the hollowness in his stomach at the mere sight, Langa doesn’t think he could get any closer if he wanted to. 

“As much as it pains me to have to say goodbye to you yet again,” Adam says, not looking particularly regretful in the slightest, “there is business in need of my attention elsewhere that I simply can’t ignore.”

Yes. Adam has mentioned this. Several times. Perhaps it’s true, but Langa is more inclined to believe he just likes making himself feel more important than he is. Not that he plans on saying that, of course. It’s not worth the inevitable, splitting headache induced by Adam’s wailing complaints. 

“Be good,” Adam tuts.

Langa can’t quite keep the irritated quirk of his lips away, at that. He’s not a dog. 

Adam simply laughs again. Because he is an odd, odd man. “I’ll bring you a gift when I return,” he promises.

Langa shudders. Adam’s last gift had been… well. It had made for excellent kindling, if nothing else, and that’s all he’s going to think about that. “No,” he insists. “You really don’t have to-”

But the door clicks shut with the familiar soft sound of the lock sliding into place before he can finish arguing. 

“…do that.” 

Great. That will be something to look forward to. 

The silence is nearly deafening in the new lack of sound that settles into the stone at Langa’s feet. 

But he knew this would happen. Adam’s presence is so large. It always leaves a vacuum behind in the space after it’s gone. 

Langa sighs. Guess he’s back to square one. 

Books. 

Some splattered paint. 

A brush. 

And so. Much. Time. 

Which that damn clock loves to remind him about. 

Tick 

Tock 

Tick

Tock

Tick 

Tock 

That infuriating, insufferable sound burrows under Langa’s skin and he debates, not for the first time, if Adam would notice if he ripped it off the wall and threw it out the goddamn window. 

He probably would. If he had the energy for it. But another sweep of fatigue brushes through him so intensely his knees nearly buckle. Perhaps a delayed reaction of calling upon his magic. Perhaps a delayed reaction of enduring Adam. Either one is equally likely.

Against his better judgment, again, Langa’s eyes drift towards the godforsaken clock. 

It’s ten forty-five. 

Langa wants to cry. But even that feels like too much effort. 

Maybe he will take a nap, he decides, stumbling towards his bed; slightly unsteady on his feet. For his own sanity, if nothing else. 

After all, he has nothing better to do. 

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing:

Reki never meant to become a thief. 

Sure, his family isn’t the richest, but between mom’s odd jobs around town and his own budding apprenticeship sending him the occasional customer willing to overlook his age, they’re hardly destitute. Even with four consistently hungry mouths to feed.

(He also strongly suspects that Oka, local carpenter extraordinaire and the coolest mentor anyone could ask for, severely overpays him. Strangely, every time he muses a little too loudly about this particular conspiracy, Oka goes mysteriously deaf until the subject gets changed. So, who can say?)

Here’s the other thing:

‘Thief’ is such a strong word. Reki prefers to think of it as… spontaneous borrowing. 

(Does the ‘borrowing’ imply that he gives the items back? Yes. Does he do that? No. But he would. Probably. And if you ask him, it’s the thought that counts!)

Listen, okay? It’s not like he robs people. He’s not a heathen. He only takes from houses not a single soul has visited in days, weeks, or longer than that. People with more money than sense have no business leaving such pricey, valuable things all alone with hardly a lock or window to contain them. It’s really not a big deal. He never steals anything that isn’t just sitting there. Most of the time? No one even notices when commodities that could keep hungry families fed for months are… unknowingly donated. It’s ludicrous.

Still… he’s able and willing to admit that he might be in a little over his head, here.

(Dear lord, his mom is going to kill him.)

(That is, provided someone else doesn’t beat her to it.)

“You said this was going to be a small job,” he hisses under his breath. Maybe for the third time, or perhaps for the fourth. He’s lost count. Because they had said, and he quotes: “It’s only going to be a small job.” This is not a small job. 

Grouchy Big Nose (Reki can’t remember his actual name) slaps a hand over his mouth, which is just rude. 

“Be. Quiet.” Big Nose growls, danger lurking like loaded daggers under his voice. (Also, this is not important, but his breath smells like, really bad.)

Reki rolls his eyes. Telling him to be quiet has never worked in anyone’s favor, and he’s not about to let that change now. He’s about to kindly inform them of such until the third member of their merry little trio of thieves glares at him. 

That glare shuts him right up. 

See, Reki’s no stranger to dirty looks and all, and he would never judge a book by its cover, or anything, but this guy is… 

scary. 

He’s got a large scar carved into his face over his eye, and he’s missing part of his pinky. Truthfully, Reki is much more wary of him than Big Nose. Not because he looks scarier (which he does), but because he doesn’t talk much, and Reki doesn’t do well with people that don’t talk much. 

(And also because Reki watched him pick up a fallen tree and just. Move it, while they were trekking through the woods on their way here. With one hand. If anyone else would like to pick a fight with the behemoth disguised as a man, feel free. Reki isn’t that stupid.)

(Some people might disagree. They are simply rude.)

By all accounts, Reki should leave. And perhaps, were it an ordinary day, he would. The problem is that he’s not exactly sure how the hell to get out of this place. 

Because they’re in the palace. 

As in… the palace.  

Heavens above. Reki should not be here. This is so far out of his league. 

Not that he’s going to admit that. 

Big Nose Sneers and it makes him look offensively ugly. Or, that might just be his face. Who knows? 

“They told us you were good,” he grumbles irritably under his breath, peering at Reki disdainfully. Like he’s a bug under his boot. 

Something pricks in Reki’s back and his spine stiffens. He has three weak points. His sisters, his mom, and his pride. 

This guy has trod on one too many.  

“I am good,” Reki snaps, because he is. The problem is that he’s good at burglary. Where there are no people. There are a lot of people here. Armed people. Not to mention his usual targets have only ever been things that won’t be noticed. 

The prince’s crown going missing will be noticed. Probably instantly. There were ten guards outside the room, last they’d checked. 

This is not what he’d signed up for.

“Then quit whining,” Scarface says, breaking his strong, silent streak. 

The crushed gravel in his voice grates against Reki’s ears and sends warnings of danger pricking down his spine. Inconvenient. He thought he’d killed that instinct ages ago. He’ll have to work on that. Later. 

“The sooner you do what we came here for, the sooner we leave. Get in, steal the crown, and get out.” 

Reki can’t help but notice he’s leaving out several steps in that list of  ‘instructions’. But a commotion below the dusty attic they're hidden in sends a hush under their group before he can give a list of everything wrong with this plan. In detail.

Without the aid of sight to guide them it’s hard to be certain, but if the information these two have been preaching is reliable (which is a big if), then it means they’re right on schedule. 

The changing of the guards only happens twice per day. They’ve been holed up here in the dusty impatience and suffocating anticipation for hours. If they don’t want to start over from step one, this is likely their only chance.

Reki’s heart beats to the drum pulsing in his ear. 

Times up. 

Scarface holds his gaze and the piercing weight of his one, crystal clear blue eye crushes against Reki’s ribcage with the force of the ocean. Some dulled, muted instinct warns him that looking away would tear some vital little piece of the universe. Good thing he’s rooted to the spot.

“Make your choice now, kid,” Scarface tells him, loaded with sticks, rocks, and all the things that hurt. “But if you bail? You won’t ever be seeing this kind of money again.”

And Reki may be dumb, and slightly arrogant, but not enough to think that it’s not true. 

He’d accepted his status in life a long time ago. He’d been born into a normal family, which meant he was bound to a normal life. Nothing more, nothing less. 

The thing is, he doesn’t have a problem with normal, per se, but it’s so… boring. There aren’t any surprises left when everything has already been done before. 

If he does this? He could have a chance at something different. Not only for him, either!

This money would mean less work for his mom. She has run herself ragged to the bone for years. For him and his sisters. Heaven knows no one else deserves a break more than she does.

It would mean more opportunities for Koyomi. Chihiro. Nanaka. Who are already going to have so many obstacles to overcome for the sole fact that they weren’t born into a man’s body. 

If he leaves now, nothing changes. For worse, or for better. Which is… fine, he guesses. They’re not poor. They somehow always manage to have just enough to make ends meet. Even if it’s only by the skin of their teeth. 

But, wouldn’t it be nice for them to do more than simply scrape by? 

Wouldn’t it be nice to live?

Soft murmurs drift through the floor. Reki makes a choice  

All he has to do is this one thing. 

Get in. Steal the crown. Get out. 

That’s it?

Okay. Yeah. Reki can do that. 

How bad can it be?

Oh, it’s bad. It’s so bad. 

Dried leather bites into the palm of Reki’s hand, tangled in his pale, stiff knuckles. 

For such a tiny thing, it weighs so heavy a burden. And such a huge ruckus it’s stirred up in its brief absence. The loaded knapsack pounds against his side like his heart pounds against his ribs and like his feet pound against the paved, cracked dirt under his feet as he runs faster than he has in a long while. 

All in all, stealing the crown has not gone as poorly as he thought it would. 

Because it’s going so, so much worse. 

The muffled, urgent voices of the palace guards melt and merge through the gaps in the trees; melding together with the crunch of the leaves under their boots and their horses' hooves, drawing closer by the second, until the sounds all coalesce into a symphony that can only be described as the biggest mistake Reki has ever made in his life. (An accomplishment he does not give out lightly in consideration of all the poor decisions that have already passed, and the other ones that have yet to come.)

As it happens, getting in was the easiest part. Getting out, only a touch more challenging. Almost child’s play, really. Now, they need to get away. Preferably alive. Although the necessity of that requirement is up for debate, since, if Reki gets killed because of this harebrained scheme, firstborn son or not? His mom will kill him. 

Gnarled twigs pull at the ends of his hair as he blindly pushes through brush and branches. Each tug and scrape sends another wave of frustration tearing through him, but stopping is not an option. Unless he feels like getting carted away to get an up close and personalized tour of the palace dungeon. (Strangely, while he probably would have loved that when he was younger, it doesn’t sound terribly appealing at the moment.)

And still, no matter how much distance they put between themselves and the palace, the incessant hum of the guard’s searching never fades from the shadows. 

Ridiculous. All this for a metal ring speckled with a few priceless gems that don’t even have a prince to wear them. Is this really how society people live? Maybe he and his family are better off having never been a pet of such nonsense, after all.

The burn in his lungs sears like fire into his chest when he finally comes to a stop for the first time since his trembling hand had grasped the jewel that started this mess. It’s not his fault. Between the exhaustion battling with the panic in his veins, try as he might, he can’t run anymore. 

No, genuinely. He can’t. 

The path has come to an end at the base of a cliff and there’s nowhere else to go where the guards aren’t. 

So. This does not bode well for his continued survival. 

“No, no, no,” Reki mutters, wiping sweat and the creeping dread of his impending demise out of his face. It’s blocking his vision.

Big Nose growls at him like the dogs that are, more likely than not, currently being used to sniff out their exact location. 

“Shut. Up.”

And really, how many times is he going to try that? Nothing about Reki is quiet. Anyone with a shred of common sense would have probably figured out how utterly ineffective that tactic is, by now. If only his brain was as big as his nose. It’s truly a pity. 

A twig snaps nearby and Reki sucks in a breath so sharply he nearly chokes on it. 

The three of them all wait there, hanging on the tense edge of that moment for an instant that feels more like an eternity. 

A shout off in the distance shatters the spell and Reki releases the air in his lungs that had started burning like hellfire ages ago. 

No guards. Yet. But they’re drawing closer by the second. And no matter where he turns, there’s something stuck in their path, blocking any sight of escape. 

To the left lies a bubbling, sparkling river. It’s beautiful and deceptively calm on the surface. Yet everyone in town knows to beware of the viscous, unforgiving current hiding beneath. Reki might be young, but the water doesn’t discriminate, and he’s not the strongest swimmer. 

To the right stretches miles of dense, dark forest. The canopies of the treetops leave little room for sunlight. Or hope. Winding through them is most likely the best option, but it’s a maze in there. He’s a village boy. Every rock looks the same. Every branch is identical. If they had time, maybe, but they don’t. The distant voices of the guards are ever shifting, and ever closing in. 

And straight ahead, there’s the cliff. It’s… a cliff. And more than that, it’s a problem. 

Reki squints. His hand loosens its vice grip around the tiny, priceless trinket he’s about to pay for with his life. 

On a second look, through the burning afternoon sun glaring in his face through a lens of fear and desperation, it doesn’t look that high up…

This is probably a terrible idea. But, hey. When does he have any other kind?

“Boost me up.”

Big Nose and Scarface both turn to him as if he’s lost his mind. 

Sadly, Reki lost that old trinket years ago. 

“What?” Scarface asks, measured, incredulous, and all the other things they don’t have time to be right now. 

A sharp whistle cracking through the trees freezes the air in Reki’s throat. His companions’, too, if the tension that winds into their shoulders is anything to go by.

After a tense moment of boots stomping awfully, uncomfortably close, the search party shifts in a different direction, and something brittle pokes a hole in Reki’s aching lungs. It’s not so much relief as it is desperation. That was by the skin of their teeth. They need to get out of here. 

“I said boost me up!” Reki snaps. Quietly. Because silence does not come naturally to him but the alternative is likely death. So. 

Infuriatingly, they don’t do the one thing he’s asked. 

“Don’t mind him. The boy’s head is full of marbles,” Big Nose scoffs, though his bravado is belayed by the tint of paleness that has been draining into his face since they found themselves more trapped than fish in a barrel. 

Reki stamps down the fierce, childish urge to correct him. Marbles are lighter than whatever nonsense he has stuffed up there. 

“Look, if you put me on your shoulders, I think I can reach the top of the ledge. It might be a stretch, but we need to do something or we’re done.” 

Do they not get it? They might be old and gnarly, but Reki is too young for prison. 

Scarface squints at him suspiciously. Appraisingly.

Reki’s hand curls so tightly that the tips of his nails dig into his palms. He doesn’t look away. Cowering now will only make him seem more like a child than he already is. 

A beam of the slowly setting sun shines in his face. A bead of sweat drips down the back of his neck. His knees may shake as he stands his ground, but he stands it all the same. 

Big Nose scowls at him like he’s just downed a pint of fresh squeezed lemon juice and Reki’s the one who poured it down his throat. Or perhaps that’s just his face. It’s hardly pleasant as it is.

Scarface scrutinizes him as well, before he and his buddy exchange a long, questioning look that says volumes in its silence.

Its stretched out, dragging silence. 

Which is fine. Really. Reki hopes they take all the time in the world to mull it over. They’re not in a rush or anything. 

Fortunately, after a brief eternity wherein Reki very nearly pulls out a decent-sized clump of his own hair, the other two finally seem to come to some sort of agreement. However, that’s the only fortunate part about anything for the foreseeable future.

“Give us the bag,” Big Nose demands, sneering as though Reki were a bug he’d love nothing more than to squash under his boot. 

Reki is rather familiar with that particular look. He receives it often. Yet the familiarity doesn’t dull the sting of it. The ache of the tiny, priceless thing pressed against his side slamming into his chest with the force of a future for his family about to be taken from his grasp before he’s even given it to them. (Despite contrary belief, he’s not stupid. He knows damn well that if he lets go of the crown now, he won’t be seeing a smidge of it.)

“Call it insurance,” Scarface says. His gaze never leaves Reki’s face, but the blankness of it cuts sharper than a blade of ice. “We wouldn’t want you getting any… ideas. Now would we?”

Something sour curls in the pit of Reki’s stomach. And the worst part is that it’s not even a surprise. 

Oh. 

Oh, so this is how they want to play it.

Almighty above, it hadn’t even occurred to him to steal it! Which is something he’s going to have to sit down and think about when all of this is over; should he still be alive and un-imprisoned enough to do so. Unbidden, his hand tightens on the strap hanging around his neck like a noose. He’s risking his life for this, just like they are. He can’t believe that he’d gotten so far ahead of himself, been so blinded by the money, that he’d forgotten his most important rule.

Never trust a thief. 

And now, the reminder of that lesson is going to cost them. Dearly. 

“Seriously?” He tries. In his heart, he knows it’s useless, but he at least wants to give them a chance to change their minds. “After everything we’ve been through, together, you can’t trust me for five more minutes?” 

The other two don’t budge an inch. On the contrary, Big Nose holds his hand out.

“The bag. Now.”

Dammit all. Alright, sure, they’ve known each other for a grand total of… three hours, at most, but still. 

A soft warning noise, not unlike a growl, rumbles in Big Nose’s throat when Reki’s eyes stray too far towards the line of dense trees one might lose themselves in forever.  

He lets the idea melt away before it can truly take shape. It’s for the best. He never would have made it, anyway. 

Fine. Sons of swine. Guess there’s only one thing Reki can do.

Slowly, reluctantly, he shrugs the most expensive knapsack he’s ever owned off his shoulder and throws it to the ground at their feet. 

He feels terrible for what he’s about to do. If only they would have given him the benefit of the doubt. 

Scarface stiffly picks up the bag and slings it over his arm. 

Reki, carefully, doesn’t look at it again. He grits his teeth. 

“Now help me get us the hell out of here.” 

And, magically, neither of them argue with him. Turns out all he had to do to earn their cooperation was give up a priceless treasure. Who knew? 

Luckily, Scarface is the tallest of their merry bunch, so he is heroically volunteered to help Reki reach the top of the rocky ledge. It’s hardly graceful, but a couple of tremulous minutes, a couple of scrapes across Reki’s palms, and one muffled curse later -Reki accidentally stepped on his face. So sorry, truly- it’s done. 

A few beams of sun trickle through the tops of the tree. The sweet taste of freedom has never been closer within his grasp. Until his unwitting entourage ruins the moment, of course.

“Alright,” Big Nose mutters tersely, breaking the brief spell of blissful silence. Shame. It had been nice while it lasted. “Now help us up, Red.”

Oh wow. No one else has ever called Reki ‘Red’ because of his hair color, before. How original. 

Yet still, Reki smiles. 

“You know,” he says cheerfully, lazily twirling a certain bag around his fingers. “I would, but I can’t pull you and your egos up here with only one hand. Sorry.”

The stricken looks on their faces when they realize what he’s got in his hand is almost enough to make him outright laugh, but that would be rather unprofessional of him. 

(It truly hadn’t occurred to him to steal the thing. He’d planned to be a good, honorable little scavenger and share the spoils fairly and equally. Even though he’d done most of the work anyway, hadn’t he? Then, they planted the idea in his young, impressionable mind, and, well, what can he say? He’s never been one to let a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity slip through his fingers. Handing it over would have been a novice’s mistake. Too bad Reki isn’t a novice. 

Well, bad for them. Great for Reki.)

Big Nose looks like he’s about to pop a loud, audible gasket and ruin their nice little hiding spot. 

That would be such a foolish way to get caught. So, Reki does him one better. 

He whistles. 

Sharp. Clear. Shrill. Loud. 

The result is instantaneous. Like magic. 

“I heard something that way!” A voice announces from rather uncomfortably close by. 

It sounds like Reki’s cue to leave. 

“Gentlemen,” he says with a salute. It’s only the respectful thing to do. “It’s been a pleasure,” he assures them, flicking the bag back over his shoulder until it settles against his side. He takes a moment to enjoy the paleness that has drained into Big Nose’s features. The blank bloodlust tensing in Scarface’s jaw. 

He’d tried to warn them. He’s too young for prison. 

With that, he turns and starts running faster than he ever has in his godforsaken life. Nothing personal. Places to go, people to see. They know how it is. 

The roaring bellow of Big Nose’s scream of outrage rustling through the leaves is music to Reki’s ears. 

The thundering footsteps up ahead where he thought had been clear? Not so much. Stars in the sky, Reki’s gotten rusty only choosing abandoned houses. He’ll have to brush up his skills.  

If he makes it out of this. 

“Up here!” Someone exclaims, shout echoing off the ground and bouncing off the protruding stone barriers that Reki’s hair doesn’t exactly blend in with. “One of them is getting away!”

Shit. 

Well. Good thing Reki still knows how to run. So, he does. 

The sun began its slow descent from the sky sometime between when Reki had relinquished his spoils, and when he’d taken it back. The low rays reflect right into his eyes as he tears blindly through vines and bushes. Maybe he can climb up out of sight and wait for the patrol to pass by?

The beginnings of a plan have barely begun blurring into something tangible in his mind before one of the vines gives way as he presses against it. He doesn’t have time to process the lack of weight turning his stomach into a punctured bag of rushing air as he pitches forward into shadowed darkness. 

He chokes on a gasp of shock (and pain) when he tumbles across the ground. Naturally, he lands with the stupid crown jammed between tough, unforgiving rock and his decidedly less unforgiving side. 

Well. He won’t be breathing properly for the rest of his life. Excellent. 

And yet none of that matters as he dazedly blinks up at the… cavern? Cave? Some manner of empty space etched into what was supposed to be solid rock. 

And not merely a single space, Reki realizes. One that stretches almost further than his eye can see save for the prick of light winking out at the end. 

It’s hollow? 

Has Reki perhaps perished without realizing it? Why is there a tunnel in this mountain? Theirs is not a mining kingdom, and Reki has spent half his life looking for secrets such as this. If it had been so easy to stumble across, he would have found it years ago. 

“Keep your eyes peeled,” a voice, yet again too close commands. “He can’t have gotten that far.”

And the fact that Reki is close enough to hear them declare that in crystal clarity only proves their point. He doesn’t have time to ask questions. 

With nowhere else to go that doesn’t lead to his definitive, untimely demise, he perseveres forward; stumbling blindly through the dim mockery of a corridor leading… somewhere. 

There’s something unwelcoming about the cave. A coldness to the touch when his hand accidentally brushes against stone that leaches the warmth from his heated skin and sends warning shooting down his spine. 

This place is not meant for him. 

It isn’t meant for anybody. 

A wise man would most likely turn back. Reki does not. 

Not for lack of wanting, but if he left every place he wasn’t welcomed in, there would be seldom places left for him to go. Not to mention, he’s simply curious by nature. A trait many have warned him will eventually get him killed. 

Which it probably will, but he surely hopes it isn’t today. He’s gone through a great ordeal of trouble to survive past this evening's sunset. It would be such a waste if that were all for naught. 

More light creeps into his vision as he inches his way towards the cavern’s end. When he finally ducks his head under the low, rocky opening, he sees a section of the forest he’s never laid his eyes across. However, that isn’t what halts him in his tracks and steals the breath out of his lungs. 

That honor belongs to the tower. 

Reki blinks. And blinks. 

If it’s a hallucination of some sort, it’s a stubborn one, given it doesn’t disappear even after he rubs his sleeve over his weary eyes. 

It’s- 

It’s…

Incredible. 

Stone brick the color of ash glitters in the evening sun. Shadows wrap around its curves, tinted with a hint of the forest’s leaves and stained with time. It trails so high he has no choice but to crane his neck, and still he can hardly make out the top brushing the sky. 

It looks… old. Sturdy. A part of the very forest. The dirt, the vines, the gaggle of abundant flowers Reki doesn’t recognize intricately curl around the stone in an everlasting embrace. It stands as if it’s stood there for hundreds of years, sprouted from nature itself, and will continue to do so for hundreds more. 

It’s a terribly exquisite sight for a patch of forest that’s been forgotten. 

No, not forgotten. That isn’t the correct word. The air doesn’t feel empty. Merely asleep. 

Reki breathes and the earth smells like somewhere he is not meant to be. 

This place is… mystifying. He’s lived in the village for all of his seventeen years. There is not supposed to be a tower here. Especially not one so close to the border. Though something gives him the feeling this tower existed ages before their silly kingdom and will stand long after 

Right. Austerely, this day just keeps getting stranger.

With no consult from him, his legs carry him closer to the jutting structure.  

It’s even more eerie up close. Horrifically grand. Callously beautiful. In the shadow of the structure blocking the setting sun from searing his eyes, he notices there is no door. Only a window. Near the top of the tower. The very top. (Has be mentioned how tall it is?)

That does complicate things, but Reki has endured worse. 

So, he approaches the tower, lays his hand upon the cooling brick, and he begins to climb. 

What? This is the most interesting discovery he’s made in weeks, and he burgled the palace not one hour ago. How could he not be desperate to know what’s inside? Plus, with the diligent, dutiful search party combing the land for a dashing, red-haired scoundrel on the other side of his newfound haven, he can hardly go strolling back the way he came. In any case, the sun is sinking lower by the minute, and the chill in the air tells him he doesn’t have much time before darkness falls. He at least has a place to sleep if he ends up trapped here throughout the night, which seems likely, taking his luck into account. 

Decision made, Reki continues his ascent along the stone wall. 

Up. 

And up. 

And up. 

His arms are jelly and his fingernails are screaming in agony by the time he reaches the window, but he’s made it, and the sheer elation that courses through his veins assures him he could climb a mountain if need be. Tomorrow. Or next week. At the moment, if Reki has to climb an inch higher, he will inevitably fall to his immediate death; something he has gone through a great ordeal of trouble to avoid thus far. So. 

Luckily he’s hoisted himself far enough through the window that, when his arms stop aching in protest in favor of completely giving out on him instead, he falls in and not out. He tumbles once or twice before coming to a stop, and he’s so exhausted he simply lies there and accepts the overpowering fatigue humming shrilly in the depths of every muscle he possesses. 

It’s leagues below his most graceful landing. Yet it’s also not his least graceful. He’ll take it. 

His eyes roam where his body cannot as he gathers the strength and will to move from his bestowed resting place. (A daunting prospect, indeed.) 

With the sun sinking below the horizon as it is, the stone under him glows the faintest hint of dull orange in reflection of the approaching nightfall. It’s a rather beautiful sight, seeing sunset sink over the walls of his haven. The ground. The piles and piles of books strewn across the room in only a vague sense of order. 

It’s absurd. Books are not a rarity, yet one can be assured that they are certainly a luxury. To have this abundance of them scattered around is nothing less than an enviable feat. Perhaps this had been some rich noble’s private library, at some point?

Taking further stock of this place he’s found himself in, Reki turns his head and can’t help but notice pieces that had slipped by him in his rushed entrance. 

The bed in the corner, for one. 

The cooking area off to the right. 

The wardrobe planted not far in front of him beside the window…

A nagging, twisting feeling wiggles at the bottom of his stomach. There are an awful lot of amenities here for an empty property. Amenities that appear to be in rather pristine condition.

Too pristine. Something is missing. 

He sits up, traces his hand over the ground, and squints at the pad of his finger when he raises it up for inspection. In doing so, his suspicions are concerned. 

There’s no dust. 

And for a thief? That’s a more dangerous signal than any guard dog could ever hope to be. 

He pushes himself to his feet. Alarm trills from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes as he peers uneasily into the shadows stretching across the room; willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness faster. 

Oh. 

Oh coming here was a mistake.  

It’s not until one of those shadows moves that Reki is, woefully, proven correct in his speculation. This tower is not as abandoned as he had assumed, which is quite unfortunate. 

Then there’s some sharp cry, a loud thwacking sound, pain erupts across the entire back of his head, and everything goes dark. It all happens rather quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Reki’s hardly even surprised when his knees turn to putty and the world falls out from under him in a dizzying rush before he knows no more. 

It’s just been that kind of day. 

Chapter Text

Terror floods in a wave across Langa’s every molecule. The frying pan he’d grabbed in a blind panic slips through his shaking fingers and clatters against the ground at his feet. The ear-splitting echo rattles in his jaw, but all he can hear is the sound of his own ragged breathing. 

The trespasser does not move. 

A strangled, guttural sound Langa’s never heard himself make before tears itself from the back of his throat. He stumbles back with such haste his heel catches on a crack in the stone. Adrenaline courses through his veins so strongly it beats out the flash of pain that shoots through him like lightning when he falls. 

Still, the trespasser does not move. 

Still, Langa scrambles away away away until his back hits the opposite wall and there is nowhere left for him to go. He tries to take a single, steadying breath, but none of it seems to fill his lungs and he can’t banish the dizzying fog of fear’s grip on his mind. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathebreathebreathebreathebreathe.

Alas, he can’t. 

What does he do? He thought he’d been dreaming when the sound of crumbling rocks had invaded his sleep and pulled him back to wakefulness.

Until the hand had grabbed the edge of his windowsill. Langa thought his heart was going to stop in his chest. He barely dove into the shadows before the intruder hoisted himself inside. 

Adam had always warned him about the ruffians. The bandits. The thieves who would steal, hurt him if anyone ever found out who he was. Where he was. What his magic could do. 

Langa had never believed a word of it. Please, like anyone would go through so much trouble for something so stupid as a wish. Surely they had better things to do than chase down ridiculous rumors. 

But when the intruder had come tumbling through his window with a low, filthy curse, the fear that had squeezed his throat had been instant. Instinctual. It had spread when he swallowed and flowed through his body in a thick, oily poison. 

As piercing eyes peered into the darkness, barely missing Langa where he’d hidden himself in the shadows, there was a moment when the fear coursing through his veins made everything go distant and fuzzy. He truly thought he might-

Well. He hadn’t thought, really. He’d grabbed the first heavy thing his fingers could reach, lunged, and swung. 

Hard. 

Now, the invader lies still, in a twisted, crumpled heap; while Langa’s heart beats against the rigid confines of his burning chest with the rapid beats of hummingbird wings. 

The blanket of silence echoes in the shrill ringing deafening his ears. Broken only by the strained, ragged sound of his own breathing. And that damned clock. 

Tick 

Tock

Tick 

Tock 

Tick 

Tock

It pierces a mocking beat to the rhythm of his pulse. One of these days, Langa swears he’s going to rip it off the wall and smash it into pieces against this godforsaken floor. He won’t even feel bad about it. 

However, that’s a concern for later. For the time being, Langa needs to… check. On the man. To make sure he isn't going to… attack? Hurt him?

Yes. That. He needs to do that. Now. 

Yet time keeps ticking and Langa does not budge.

It’s not his fault. His feet just don’t want to move, that’s all. Langa isn’t scared. 

But he looks across the room, and the man still is not moving. Not so much as a twitch. 

Dread expands in Langa’s lungs as the air there freezes over. 

Oh heavens. Is he dead?

No no no Langa didn’t mean to- 

His body moves before his mind as he scrambles across the floor toward the crumpled figure. Panic is wrapped around him so tightly he doesn’t even feel the stone scrape against his knees. He can’t help it. Just because he was startled doesn’t mean he wanted to murder someone!

He freezes next to a splayed arm when a sound rumbles somewhere near the man’s head.  Then another. 

Snoring. Soft and even. 

Langa only knows what it is because he’s read about it in his books. He hadn’t thought it was actually something people were capable of. As it turns out, though, the real thing is… grating. 

Oh well. At least it’s proof the man is alive. 

Warily, Langa nudges his shoulder to roll him over and get a good look at his would-be kidnapper, and what he sees is-

not what he expected?

Langa stares at his face in complete, utter fascination. 

Because this is no man. This boy can’t be any older than Langa is, if he isn’t in fact younger. 

Langa sits back on his knees. The fear that had been twisting and curling inside him melts away like thawing ice. This is who he was scared of? He doesn’t look like he could hurt a fly if he tried to. 

However, his hair, pinned down under some sort of sash he’s tied around his head, is undoubtedly the most eye-catching thing about him. And Langa thought his hair was strange. 

He’d read in his books that people could be born with red hair, but he’d never imagined it would be so… bright. 

The color reminds Langa of the sunset. He can’t help but wonder if it would burn him if he touched it. 

(It doesn’t.)

(But it’s very, very soft.)

So is his face, when Langa lets his fingers trace a line around the strange, unfamiliar features of the first person he’s ever met. 

The slope of his eyebrows, which are, mesmerizingly, the same shade as his hair. The curve of his cheek. The bridge of his nose. It’s all so…

Wow.  

Okay. 

So.

There is a boy in his tower. 

There is a boy. In his tower. 

There is not supposed to be a boy in his tower.

Oh, specks of stars in the sky. Adam is going to kill him.

It’s dark when Reki wakes up again. So, that likely isn’t a good sign. 

His head is killing him. He also can’t move his hands. These probably aren’t good signs either. 

There’s something pressed against his face. Like his headband has slipped out of place the way it tends to do, and it’s-

Oh. 

Sinking realization pools in Reki’s stomach. 

It’s not dark. His eyes are covered. And his wrists are tied. And his legs. 

Dammit all. His mother was right. He never should have left his house, yesterday.  Why does he never listen to her?

A sharp inhale somewhere to his left freezes the blood in Reki’s veins in an instant. 

Oh again. 

Right. He’s not alone. 

Well. This day just keeps getting better and better. 

“You’re… you’re awake,” a soft, distant, voice creeps into Reki’s ears. 

Surprise flickers in Reki’s chest like a candle flame. 

The voice is… nice. For a guy that had knocked Reki unconscious. (Which is altogether understandable considering Reki was the one that broke into his- 

Tower? But, in his defense, he hadn’t known anyone was home.) 

Strangely, the voice almost sounds relieved to be in Reki’s presence. He thinks. He wouldn’t be familiar with that. 

“I didn’t mean to-” the voice starts, before cutting itself off. Curious. “What are you doing here?” He asks, changing tactics. “What do you want? With me?”

Ah. Now that tone, Reki recognizes. This guy? (And he is, indeed, male.) Has no idea what he’s doing. 

Okay. Sure. Reki can work with this. 

“Well, for starters, it would be great if you could untie me.” Reki tries. 

What? It’s worth a shot. If nothing else. 

The answering silence sends sweat dripping down the back of his neck, but if there’s one thing a life of blacksmithing and burglary teaches a fellow, it’s patience. To a degree. 

“Look, it’s not that I’m not into this,” he says, talking without truly thinking, now. A skill he mastered in the womb, some say. “But I prefer to know the people that tie me up. Y’know?”

More silence. 

Which is fair enough. This is not Reki’s finest moment. 

“I get horrible rope burn,” Reki adds, in case that helps sway his captor’s (hopeful) sense of humanity and compassion. That part isn't even a lie. He’s very delicate. 

The only answer he gets is still more silence. 

Until there’s an awkward clearing of a throat. 

Reki jumps. 

The sound is much closer than he expected. 

“It’s… it’s not… rope,” the nice, soft voice admits, and it almost feels rather sheepish. 

Reki doesn’t have time to ask what that means before the blindfold wrapped around his eyes falls away without warning. The streams of light pooling in from the setting sun aren’t harsh, but he cringes away from the new onslaught of brightness nevertheless. But as his eyes adjust to the return of color and roaring loudness of the world, he begins to wonder if they’re still playing tricks on him. 

The winding material wrapped around half of his body is, indeed, not rope. At a glance, the woven strands seem to be some sort of string, but he squints in befuddlement, and it almost looks like-

Is this… hair?

Before he can ask that ridiculous question, a shadow shifts near the closed armoire as a figure steps out from behind it.

Reki blinks. 

Wow.

The boy who steps into the muted rays of sunlight spilling in from the window is-

Well. There’s no other way to describe him. 

Skin pale as snow. Wary eyes bluer than the sky. Sharp, high cheekbones dusted in a faint, rosy flush. 

He’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so. 

And it’s only slightly belayed by the hair. Or rather, the exorbitant amount of it pooling on the ground. And the tables. And the chairs. And the bits of it wrapped around Reki’s wrists and legs. 

Ah. So that’s what he meant. He didn’t lie. It isn’t rope. 

This is officially the second strangest day of Reki’s life. 

And it gets even stranger when the pale, beautiful boy narrows his eyes at him. Deadly as a shard of glass and twice as sharp.

“Now, who are you? And what do you want with my hair?” 

Reki swallows the confusion pulling at his insides. Why in the world would he want hair? This boy must be mad. 

As luck would have it, Reki is a touch mad himself. It comes in handy, sometimes. Here’s hoping now is one of them. He clears his throat. 

“I believe there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” he says, in his most practiced, polite voice that always tastes strange on his tongue. 

For an added bonus, he lets his eyes go as big and round as he can manage. He’s often told he has an innocent face, and he uses that to his advantage. No one suspects the naive-looking apprentice. What can he say? Hiding in plain sight is the best disguise. 

“I am but a simple village boy who has lost his way,” Reki says, laying it on thick because this guy looks like he would fall for the ‘helpless damsel’ bit. It’s not even a lie. Technically. “I apologize deeply for my intrusion. It was not my intention to startle you,” he offers meekly, letting his head lower shamefully for good measure. Heavens, perhaps he should have been an actor. 

Or, seeing as how Mr. Tall, Pale, and Handsome’s expression doesn’t shift in the slightest from his wary distrust in the face of Reki’s heart-wrenching performance, perhaps not. Alas, he’s pretty and smart. Under other circumstances, he would be just Reki’s type. 

How tragic. 

Alright, fine. Reki sighs. “I also may have been running from the palace guards,” he admits, allowing the faux polite accent to wither up in smoke. The sulk in his voice is grating to his own ears. Delightful. “I needed a place to hide, so I hid. End of story.”

Baby Blue Eyes blinks at him. 

Reki sighs again. There goes the tentative grasp on the freedom he’d been hanging on to with the tips of his fingers. Anyone in their right mind would have Reki tossed back into the palace’s lap before he could swipe a priceless crown. He can’t even blame him. 

But the boy only wrinkles his brow in confusion, and Reki finds himself wondering if his newfound captor may not be as informed as he seems. “Palace… guards?” He repeats slowly, as if he’s never heard the phrase. He must walk the straight and narrow path of honest folk. 

Stars, what Reki wouldn’t give for that kind of life. But how dreadfully dull. 

“So… you’re really not… here for my hair?”

Oh, for the love of the queen. What is his obsession with the hair? Is he some sort of cult member? That would be just Reki’s luck. 

“Buddy,” he says slowly, on the off chance that might help get through to this boy who’s appearing less in his right mind by the second. “The only thing I want regarding your hair is to get it off of me,” he declares. “It’s starting to cut off my circulation.” 

The rather odd boy tilts his head to the side, as though he’s pondering one of the greatest mysteries in the entirety of known history. 

Reki wishes he would ponder faster. He wasn’t kidding. His arms are starting to go numb. 

“Maybe because his hair is strange, too…” the boy mutters. To who? That’s anyone’s guess. 

What?

This is unbelievable.

Reki’s hair is strange?

Reki’s hair is strange?

This boy’s hair is blue! Had he colored it to be that way? Could a person even do that? And wait, speaking of hair, how much of it does he have?

Yes, it is becoming abundantly clear. Reki needs to get the hell out of here. Immediately. While this was undoubtedly a fascinating encounter the likes of which he shan’t soon forget, being tied down in this manner is only tolerable under extremely specific circumstances. He has places to go. People to bother. Sisters to feed. Stolen crowns to sell-

…

A chill washes over Reki head to toe in contrast to the relative warmth of the tranquil evening air. 

“Where’s my bag?” He asks, crisp and calm as can be. 

Blueberry’s puzzled expression does not give any indication he has the foggiest idea what Reki is referring to. 

The thin layer of calm cracks. 

“My bag,” he repeats, not bothering to care when the sharp shrillness of his voice snips straight through his eardrums. “My satchel. My knapsack. The thing that was hanging off my shoulder before you assaulted me. Where is it?” 

The boy's face finally clears in a drop of understanding. If only that were the end of it. 

“Oh, that. I hid it.” 

The admission echoes faintly in Reki’s ears. 

Outside the window, a lone bird chirps in a soft, cheerful greeting to the fast impending night on the verge of its descent. 

Then, Reki remembers breathing is a thing he needs to do, occasionally. So, he sucks in a breath.

“You what?”

His shriek rattles a pile of books perched precariously on the edge of a table an arm's breadth away from him, and he can’t even spare the time to be proud of that. 

Blueberry flinches back at the abrupt booming noise. “You were nicer to look at when you were sleeping,” he mutters under his breath with a wince, rubbing the shell of his ear. 

Unfortunately, Reki can hear. How rude! He is always nice to look at, thank you very much! However, that is the furthest thing from what’s important, right now.

“Listen, I’m not gonna question why you’re living out in the middle of the woods like some ancient hermit when you don’t look a day over your second decade, or the obvious paranoia you have going on, or the hair,” Reki promises. Frankly, he has enough problems of his own to deal with. He can live with a mystery or two. “But I did a lot for that satchel, and if you don’t give it back, you can’t get upset when I tear this place to pieces. Stone. By. Stone.”

Strangely, a spark of something that might appear to be excitement in the average person flickers across Blueberry’s face. Unfortunately, Reki can officially say he’s never met a less average person in his life, and it passes too quickly for Reki to be sure he saw it at all. 

“Go ahead,” he shrugs. “I’ve lived here for a really long time. You won’t find it,” he says self-assuredly. 

Sounds like an invitation if Reki’s ever heard one. Scanning the room as much as he can with his limited field of vision, he strains his eyes for the slightest hint of anything in the relative vicinity that might be out of place. 

And low and behold, as his heart ticks back into place in his search, he finds it. 

“It’s under the bed, isn’t it?” He asks innocently. It’s a classic case. 

In every house he’s ever been invited -or not invited into- there is one common factor. Young or old, rich or poor. People tuck their valuables under their beds when they’re in a rush. It’s quite the fascinating phenomenon, honestly. 

And, more importantly, it’s reliable. 

Blueberry twitches, but doesn’t say a word. That’s how Reki knows he’s got him beat. 

And then, in a flash of movement, everything goes black for the second time in half an hour. 

Dammit all. 

One of these days, Reki really needs to learn how to keep his mouth shut.

He’s smart. 

Too smart. 

Langa swings the frying pan again, although he feels slightly bad about it, this time. While he’s hiding the knapsack, properly, this time, his eyes keep catching on fiery strands and he concludes that Red (he forgot to ask his name) is truly much nicer to look at when he isn’t talking. Though that’s neither here nor there.

He’s still not sure what the big deal is about the… whatever it is inside the bag. He snuck a peek. (He’s far too curious to not have.) It was just some shiny and pretty thing.

(Langa despises shiny and pretty things. They always dull the fastest.)

But it seems to be important to Red, for some reason, which makes it a perfect bargaining chip. See, Langa has just stumbled upon something he hasn’t had in a long time:

An opportunity. 

He wasted the last one. And something that gets learned along with walking, breathing, and living under Adam’s roof? Is not to make the same mistake twice. So, Langa won’t. 

His heart beats in his ears as the sun creeps lower and lower; smoldering beneath the line of a persimmon-stained sky. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

Outside, crickets begin to sing in welcome from the incoming rise of the moon. Red’s eyes blink open slowly.

It’s the most peculiar thing, but it almost seems like when they do, the golden hue hidden beneath unassuming eyelids takes the light of the sun itself and captures it there with ease.

Langa’s heart does a funny, stuttering thing. 

Yes, this proves it. Other people are strange. 

Then, of course, Red opens his mouth, and the spell is broken. A shame, but perhaps for the best.

“Huh?” He mumbles, in a blur barely loud enough to be considered a sound. “What in the king’s name-” 

Langa holds his breath. It does no good. Those eyes that have somehow captured a ray of the sun itself find him quickly. That odd, stuttering thing in his chest happens again. He wonders if he ought to be concerned about that. 

Then, Red glares at him, and there’s no time for such nonsense. “Really?” He asks, more offense than surprise in his voice. “Really? Again?” 

A sudden, zipping surge of relief tinged with a speck of amusement zings around in Langa’s stomach. At least Red doesn’t seem to be in too much pain. Langa does feel a little bad about attacking him twice, now.

Red tries to move his hands, then grimaces when he is reminded that they are still bound against his sides. 

Langa winces. He knows it wasn’t the most elegant solution, but he’d panicked, okay? Cut him a break. 

“You know, no one is sorrier than I am for stumbling into… whatever this is, but at some point you realize you are going to have to let me leave. Right?” 

Langa winces again. Red is starting to sound nervous, despite the blasé blanket of nonchalance he’s trying to cloak it with. That won’t do. This isn’t going to work if Red is nervous. 

“I will,” Langa assures him quickly, and a coil loosens in his chest when Red’s face loses a shade of its anxious parlor. Guilt keeps Langa’s gaze averted when he next speaks so that he doesn’t have to see it return. “On one condition.”

In hindsight, looking away might not have been the best decision. It only makes the small, sharp breath Red inhales -that shoots through his heart in a pinprick of shame- ring all the louder. Oh well. The time for second guesses has long passed. 

“It’s nothing bad, I just want to know… what do you know about the exploding stars?” Langa blurts out before the courage slips through his fingers like some of the last rays of the slowly dwindling sunlight. His desperate, panicked pulse rings in his ears all the same. 

They’re not stars. He knows that much. He’s studied the night sky. Not much else to do when his body won’t let him move and his mind won’t let him rest other than stare out the window. However, knowing what they aren’t doesn’t tell him what they are, so that’s what he calls them. Exploding stars. The sparkling, dazzling eruptions of sound and color he’s seen light up the blackened indigo horizon for a single night every year, for as long as he can remember.

He’d tried asking about them. Once. 

Instead of answering, Adam had nailed the window shut and left Langa alone in the dark for… three days? A week? Long enough. He hadn’t asked again. 

But Adam isn’t here now, and he needs to know what they are. 

Red frowns, and Langa’s stomach twists so tightly that a wrong breath could split it in two. Something that’s either terror or excitement trembles in his hands. He can’t tell which. 

“Exploding… stars?” Red repeats, rolling the phrase on his lips that quirk in the slant of unfamiliarity. 

Langa’s heart sinks. The numb chill of disappointment bites into his skin.

Until a spark of understanding flares in Red’s eyes.

“You mean the fireworks?”

The words fall into Langa’s ears like a fist being driven into the center of his chest. 

Fireworks. 

Fireworks. 

Someone knows what they are. Finally. 

“Yes,” Langa gasps, the single, hasty syllable tearing something fragile on its way past his lips. “Those. You know what they are? What they mean?”

Red tilts his head and levels Langa with a peculiar stare, but shrugs. Or, attempts to shrug, anyway. It’s a bit difficult. On account of the hair. 

He sighs. “I guess? Everyone in the village knows it’s a celebration for the prince.” 

Ah. Right. Everyone knows. Unfortunately Langa cannot be considered in the category of ‘everyone’. Gripping the hem of his shirt to cover up the way his hands are beginning to tremble, he squeezes his eyes shut and does what is, inarguably, the most impulsive thing he has ever done in his life. Which is saying something. 

“I want you to take me to see them.” 

As soon as the words pass his lips, it’s as though all of the air is stolen from his lungs and held above his head, just out of his grasp. 

Oh. Oh, he actually said it. 

He wasn’t supposed to actually say it. 

What in the heavens has he done?

Yet the words stay where they are, thrown out in the world, unable to be taken back. No calamity descends upon the sky.  Time keeps moving forward.

The most disastrous effect that occurs is the strange, bewildered look Red shoots at him from underneath his furrowed lashes. Langa can live with that. 

“Seriously?” Red asks, not for the first time. Langa can hardly blame him. “That’s what you want from me? Why can’t you just go by yourself?”

A bubble of laughter swells in Langa’s throat so abruptly it threatens to choke him. Oh, so, so many reasons. Where does he even start?

“I… wouldn’t exactly know where to go, or-”

“Snowflake!” A distant, cheery voice drifts through the window as the last of the day's light finally drifts below the horizon. 

Langa doesn’t think the lack of light has anything to do with the sudden ice that tears into the back of his neck with little warning and less mercy. 

Oh dear stars. Again? Again? 

No no no no no Adam can not be here. Not now.

Red jerks towards the sound, but it’s more a reflex of curiosity than alarm. 

Langa resists the urge to shake him. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation at hand. On instinct, Langa moves. He doesn’t think it’s an exaggeration to say it’s the fastest he’s ever done so in his life. 

Red flinches when Langa grabs his shoulder, but falls still when Langa shushes him and makes quick work of the knots that had been… ensuring his cooperation. He wishes he had time to explain, but he doesn’t. 

Remember when Langa said that Adam would kill him if he knew Red was here? Yes, he was not talking about himself. 

If Adam finds this boy? He will kill him. Langa would know. He’s done worse for less. 

Anyway, that is, for many reasons, not an option. 

When Red is free, Langa grabs his hand and tugs him toward the closest place he can think of. The wardrobe is hardly the most elegant solution, but Red doesn’t exactly match the room’s drab decor, and there isn’t time for anything better. He yanks open the door, pushing Red inside, and when the boy yelps in offense Langa dives forward and covers his mouth because if he doesn’t this is all for naught. 

“Listen to me,” Langa murmurs, alarm prickling across his skin, trying his best to stay as calm as he can. No easy feat when it feels like his heart has grown wings that are flittering against the flimsy shell of his chest. “If you value your life, even the slightest bit. Do. Not. Make. A. Sound. Understand?”

Red glares daggers at him for having the sheer audacity to try and save his life. His nose wrinkles under Langa’s palm. His breath is warm against Langa’s hand. 

Langa doesn’t have time to think about that, either. “Do you understand?” he repeats, letting the urgency pounding under his pulse bleed into his voice, this time.

Red goes still. A bit of apprehension bleeds into his amber eyes. 

Langa doesn’t like it, but he appreciates the confirmation that his unexpected guest has some semblance of survival instincts, if nothing else. 

Finally, Red nods; the movement tiny and stiff. 

It’s hardly an enthusiastic agreement, but there’s no time. Langa will take what he can get. 

Removing his hand, the only sound coming from the wardrobe is the soft swish of the door as it clicks shut. 

And not a moment too soon. 

“Snowflake?” Adam cries again, as the hatch bursts open with a slam that makes Langa jump, despite being a sound he’s heard dozens upon dozens of times in the past. His head whips around in a frenzy, and it’s… odd. Even for him. “Langa, where are-” 

His voice dies when he spots Langa. 

It may be the first time Langa’s seen him fall silent in the entire time they’ve known each other. Somehow it’s more unsettling than the constant crooning. 

Adam gapes at him in the tauntingly open entryway that carves a pit into his stomach to look at, so Langa looks away. 

“Adam,” he says, impressively bored despite the tremble in his wrists. “You're back. Again,” he observes unnecessarily. To accentuate the faux nonchalance he needs Adam to believe is true, he punctuates his bland statement with a turn of a page of the book in his hands. A nice touch, if he does say so himself. He’d only barely had time to grab the first novel off the top of a pile luckily in his reach. He doesn’t even know the title. 

The silence stretches on for a beat. Two. Three. 

Long enough that discomfort digs its claws into the pit of Langa’s stomach. 

Does he know?

Adam finally seems to snap himself out of whatever trance had befallen him, though it’s difficult to tell. His face never changes. At least, not the part Langa can see with that insufferable mask. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Adam exclaims, shoulders drooping in conspicuous, confounding relief. 

Adam has no business thanking goodness of any kind. Not that Langa intends to inform him of such.

Adam shuts the hatch with little of his typical fanfare.

There’s always fanfare with Adam. Langa idly wonders if the lack of dramatics means he really is dying, this time, but he would never be so lucky. 

Langa shuts his book, and vaguely notes that he had been holding it upside down. He tosses it to the side and hopes that Adam didn’t notice.

“You seem upset. Is something wrong?” He asks, semi convincingly. He hopes. Not because he cares, but because if he doesn’t ask, Adam will throw a fit, and he simply does not have the capacity to deal with that right now. 

It’s enough prompting for Adam, though. It usually doesn’t take much. “Oh, it was awful” he bemoans, slumping into the loveseat and draping his forearm over his eyes like some swooning maiden. The loveseat that’s right next to the wardrobe. 

Panic prickles in a cold sweat on the back of Langa’s next. Adam needs to go. Now. 

That doesn’t seem likely, though. There are fewer things Adam loves more than a captive audience, and Langa is certainly that, if nothing else.

“I had just barely made it to the edge of town when I heard the most confounding commotion,” Adam regales, because he’s allergic to getting to the point of a story. “Apparently, some rogue fiends stole something not too far away and disappeared into the forest. Our forest!” He shouts, offense carved into every line of his face. 

It takes everything Langa has to keep his expression still when he swears he hears a sharp breath through the wood of the wardrobe. Wow. Sounds like Red had a rather interesting morning. 

Langa wouldn’t know what that’s like. 

“My heart simply couldn’t fathom that such horrible ruffians could be so close to my precious penguin,” Adam laments, peering up with something that might be emotion hidden under the stark white cloth of his mask. “I was so worried! I came back as quickly as I could,” he croons. 

Langa has to stifle a snort. Red has been here for a decent while. Adam must have taken the scenic route. Worried, indeed. 

“You’re so delicate,” Adam deplores. “I can’t even imagine what would happen if some fiends tried to hurt you!”

Langa bites his tongue. It’s something he has lots of practice doing. Because, if there were fiends that meant him harm -which their aren’t- he would be fine. Shockingly enough, he exercises. Why wouldn’t he? There is nothing. Else. To. Do.

A tiny snort of muffled laughter echoes through old wood and Langa scrapes his foot against the ground to cover it up, hoping he doesn’t look as alarmed as he feels. 

Delicate? No. Desperate? Absolutely. Is Red trying to get caught? 

“Well, as you can see,” Langa says, maybe louder than necessary, but he’s beyond the point of caring. “There are no ruffians. I’m fine,” he assures. “So, you can go now.”

Please go now. 

Adam tilts his head and stares peculiarly at him. 

Langa can feel it even through the barrier covering his eyes. It’s his imagination, it must be, but if he concentrates it’s as if he can hear Red breathing through the wardrobe. Fear swells in his chest until it drips into his blood. Numbs the tips of his fingers. Adam hums, considering, and the small sound rattles in his bones like thunder. 

“Well, if you say so,” Adam acquiesces with an uncaring shrug that pokes a hole in the crushing tension.

The exhale of relief that gets lodged in Langa’s throat is almost enough to choke him. 

Adam rises from his seat in one fluid motion. “I really would love to stay, but I’m already behind thanks to this unexpected detour.” He tsks. 

Oh no. How devastating. 

Langa takes the first breath he has since Adam popped up. Literally. 

“So glad you’re alright, darling. I truly don’t know what I would do if anything ever happened to you,” Adam simpers, lifting his arms over his head in a massive stretch that audibly pops several of his vertebrae.

Langa cringes in revulsion. He hates when Adam does that. 

Adam saunters towards the hatch with a newfound spring in his step now that he’s ’ensured Langa’s safety’. 

Langa’s not about to correct him. 

“Tata, my love, I don’t know when I’ll next be able to visit, but know my heart is always with you,” Adam decrees, whipping out his key with a flourish. 

Langa’s skin feels too tight for his body. “Thanks. Goodbye,” he says, trying to keep the eagerness from slipping into his voice. He’s marginally successful. 

Nevertheless, Adam hardly notices. He tosses a jaunty wave over his shoulder as he turns his back, and it may be the first time Langa has been grateful to hear the click of the lock sliding into place behind him. 

 Wow. 

That was way too close. Perhaps miracles are real after all.

Langa’s not ready to test that theory, though, so he waits a few extra minutes after he sees Adam’s silhouette melt into the inky shadows that swallow what little light remains before counting his blessing. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Silence. 

Langa lets out a shaky breath that drags some of the tension in his shoulders along with it. This has been either the luckiest, or the unluckiest day in his entire life. Which one remains to be seen. The tremble in his hand is irritating, but ignorable as he reaches for the wardrobe’s handle. The burst of red that blooms into his vision is so unusual for him that it nearly startles him. 

“Sorry about that,” Langa says weakly. “You can come out now, it’s safe,” he promises. 

Doubt clouds Red’s golden eyes as he peers at Langa searchingly. “It wasn’t before?” He asks, but it’s more of a clarification than a question.

Langa would be lying if he said he didn’t understand. “No,” he confirms. He holds out a hand in offering, and something in his chest does a funny, fluttering thing when surprise flashes across Red’s face at the gesture. He’s not sure what that means. 

Red chews on his lip for a second in thought, but he accepts the hand. 

Langa’s not sure what that means, either. 

Red hops down, using Langa for balance. He stumbles a bit as he steps to the ground, but he regains his footing quickly. 

Langa’s hand feels awfully cold when Red pulls away. He gives up on trying to puzzle strange things out, today. 

“Your father is… really odd,” Red says slowly, like he’s trying to choose his words carefully and losing the battle. 

Revulsion curls in the pit of Langa’s stomach, laced with the metallic tang of imminent nausea. 

“He is not my father.”

The correction comes out with more force than he means it to, but it makes the sensation of his skin crawling slightly less agonizing. When he tries to find an apology, he can’t. 

Red blinks at him owlishly. “Oh.” He shrugs. “Okay,” he says, fiddling with a cuff around his wrist. He doesn’t ask for any further explanation. 

Langa appreciates that. He’s not sure what he would say if he did. 

Red clears his throat. “So, Langa,” he says, and for an instant the blood freezes in Langa’s veins before he realizes that Adam had practically announced it to the entire world with his dramatic entrance. “Can I call you Langa?”

The ice in Langa’s blood thaws into a slow steam. Red is… saying his name a lot. Langa’s never heard anyone else say it. He likes it. He thinks. 

Red nods, as though Langa had agreed, despite no such thing occurring. “You want to see the fireworks, and your… whoever, is… let’s say he’s overprotective. Do I have it right?”

Langa’s face twitches into something suspiciously similar to a smile, as ludicrous as that sounds. That’s one way to put it, yes. 

Red nods as if Langa spoke his thoughts aloud. Maybe he did. Who knows. “You could have just led with that,” he admonishes. 

Langa… does not understand.

It must show on his face, because Red sighs heavily. “I should have stayed home today,” he mutters under his breath, tugging a strand of hair between his fingers and pulling on it in frustration.

Langa winces in sympathy. That looks pretty painful. Some instinct in him wants to pull Red’s hand away before he can hurt himself. Again. (Two frying pans to the head in one day can’t be good for anyone. Even someone as… vibrant as Red.)

Then Red whips his head up from where he’d been glaring holes into the stone so quickly Langa jolts. It’s not his fault. Red moves very fast. It’s startling. 

“The fireworks are in two days,” Red says, more of an observation than anything. 

Langa nods along anyway. He knows this. He’s been counting down the days for weeks. Not much else to do, honestly. 

Red eyes him carefully. His round, golden eyes probe at him imploringly and, for some reason, it makes Langa stand up a little straighter. 

Whatever Red’s looking for, he finds it. If the determination that spreads across his face is anything to go by. 

“Alright, then,” he nods firmly. “We better get going first thing in the morning.”

It takes Langa longer than it should to process those few words. But when they sink in the air punches out of his lungs in a single, dizzying rush. 

What.

What?

“What?” He asks, bewildered and exhilarated and more things than he’s ever been at once. “You… you mean you’ll actually do it?”

Red glances at him; flat and unimpressed. “You don’t need to sound so surprised about it,” he says wryly.

Something warm, heavy, and excited floods the cavern of Langa’s chest. He wonders if this is how it feels to drown in honey. 

Red looks up at him again sharply. “But that’s it. No pitstops,” he declares. “I take you to the festival, I bring you back, and you give me back my satchel,” he says, leaving no room for argument in his demand. 

Oh. Yes. The satchel. Langa almost forgot. Red can have it. Red can have whatever he wants if Langa can have a day, just one day away from this godforsaken place. 

Fresh air. People. The exploding stars. 

It feels like a dream, but Langa’s never dreamt something it would be this cruel to wake up from. 

Red clicks his tongue in irritation and Langa snaps out of the bubble his thoughts had started pulling him into. They do that, sometimes. 

“Do we have a deal?” Red asks, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Langa expectantly. 

What a notion. It’s hardly a choice. Is it?

“I…” Langa breathes, more of a brittle, fragile word than a proper sound. There’s only so much he can do when he’s just been handed the only thing he’s ever wanted. 

Heaven help him. This is the most insane thing he is ever going to have the chance to do. 

He can’t wait.

“Yes,” he gasps, finally forcing the word out. It takes a weight off his chest when it leaves him. He can’t hold back the smile that pulls at his face. And funnily enough? He doesn’t think he wants to. “Deal.” 

Chapter Text

Here's something Adam doesn't know:

One time, he left the door unlocked.

It wasn't for very long. Half an hour, at most. He'd barged in, bearing his usual chaos and melodrama, and then after he got what he needed, he'd left; appeased and ready once more to wreak his havoc on the unfortunate people who were fortunately not Langa.

Except this time was different from the others. Because when Langa strained his ears for the telltale jingle of keys and the click of the lock sliding into place, he only heard silence.

He almost thought he'd imagined it. Then, he'd worked up the nerve to wrap a curious, trembling hand around the handle, feeling the sun-warmed metal etch rusty lines into his sweaty palm. He'd halfheartedly tugged on that door dozens, hundreds, thousands of times. But that day was the first time it had ever opened.

(The last, too.)

If he concentrates, Langa can still feel the drop of his stomach plummeting below the concrete surface swaying under his feet. Hear the ringing in his ears left behind in the deafening clatter of the hatch crashing against the floor. He'd stood there with his feet frozen to the ground, not blinking until the chill in the air sank beneath his eyelids and made his pupils burn.

Until something somewhere within him told him to move. So he moved.

Clutching the wall with white knuckles is the only way he made it down the winding, stone stairs without breaking his neck. Each step leached another smidge of warmth from his bare feet, and bit another slice of cold through his soles until he was numb to everything but the sting. Still, he kept moving, one foot in front of the other, heart pounding in his chest, until the shadows melted into pools of light streaming in, curving along the walls, and there were no more steps and-

He stopped.

Because a foot in front of him, there was grass.

Grass. Tall and specked with wild-growing flowers that he hadn't imagined would be so bright up close it nearly hurt his eyes to look at. The tangled vines twisted around the entrance with a few tendrils brushing the walls. All things seen but never touched, now right there, less than an arm's width away from him for the first time in his life.

Langa took a single, shaky step toward the arch marking the entrance. The exit.

He could leave.

He could let the soft-looking grass cushion his thundering footsteps as he ran, truly ran as far as he could imagine. Further, and further, and then even further than that. He could run for days. Weeks. Months. See the world beyond four bland walls, and what had been moments ago only a pretty picture with some leaves and some flowers. He could escape. Go somewhere Adam could never find him, and then-

And then, what, exactly? Live off the land with his extensive knowledge of hunting and agriculture? Books are one thing. Reality is another.

(Loath as he is to admit it, everything has always been… provided to him. Food, clothing, shelter.)

Sure, he could always sleep under the sky and pray for a rainless night, but what about the night after that? Or the one after that?

Langa doesn't know where the nearest town is. Stars almighty, he doesn't even know if there is one within walking distance. He doesn't know anything.

And therein lies the problem.

Yes, he could leave, but where? To do what? No one would take him in. Not without ulterior motives. Adam is bad enough, but at least he's familiar. Predictable.

Perhaps Langa is, too. Because he doesn't know how to be anything else. The only thing that frightens him more than knowing he's going to die in this tower is the countless ways he would most likely die outside of it.

He could leave. But he can't, really. So he doesn't.

Instead, he stays. Takes one last look. Lets the scent of wild flowers, grass, and almost wrap around his aching heart and burn into his eyes with the searing, early winter sunset.

Then, he turns. Goes back up the steps. One by one. And when he gets back to the top, the click of the lock when he closes the hatch neatly sounds like relief.

(He tells himself nothing would have changed if he'd run off into the woods and never looked back.)

(He wonders if maybe everything would have.)

Adam would probably laugh if he knew. Good thing he doesn't.

Reki wakes up more tired than he fell asleep, feeling remarkably like he slept on a rock.

(No, that's untrue. He's slept on rocks more comfortable than this godforsaken love seat.)

He groans against the rays of sun piercing through his fragile eyelids and curses roughly every decision he's ever made that led him up to this point. In order.

The sleeping arrangements weren't ideal, and Langa had watched him strangely while he'd pulled the damned thing across the floor underneath the open window, but it couldn't be helped. Reki never sleeps somewhere he isn't meant to be without access to a quick escape. It's a personal rule of his, after four too many close calls. It's a necessary pain, despite how it's landed him in a few… peculiar makeshift beds.

(Under a few trees, in one of them, and, once, in a sweltering attic next to a scattering of splintered bones he strongly suspects did not belong to an animal. Don't ask. He doesn't know, either, and he tries not to think about that one.)

So, all in all, no. This is not the strangest or worst surface he's ever slept on. The electric blue gaze boring into him when he rolls away from the wretched sun and cracks his eyes open is new, though. A jolt rushes through him and, miraculously, any remaining traces of exhaustion vanish in an instant. He takes a breath so deep it splinters the lining of his lungs in its stretch.

"How long have you been watching me sleep?" He asks, perfectly calm.

Langa doesn't even have the decency to pretend to look ashamed at being caught. It is merely another hint toward his highly likely insanity. It's becoming quite the pile. He does shift back a bit, though. So, he has better manners than some of the people Reki's met.

"I just… wasn't sure when you were going to wake up," Langa says.

Reki tries to tell himself it's only because he woke up less than moments ago that the soft voice sends a shudder zipping down his lower spine. It's rather ineffective. In a speck of good sense he'd thought had deserted him years ago, he ignores it.

"You could have tried waking me up," he points out with more patience he's been made to expend since that one time Chihiro knocked the whitening tonic into the soaking bin and ruined every shirt in his wardrobe.

Deep blue eyes emptier than a cloudless sky blink at him. A sure enough indicator that particular thought hadn't occurred to Langa in the slightest.

Of course it hadn't. Reki sighs.

"You don't get out very much, do you?" He asks in sincere befuddlement.

Something flickers across Langa's face. It seems an awful lot like amusement. Perhaps he truly is insane.

"You could say that," he agrees, lips quirked crookedly as if he's trying not to smile. He doesn't elaborate. Infuriating as he is pretty. What a terrible combination.

A striking wave of exhaustion rolls over Reki. Despite the fact that he only just dragged himself into the waking world, he's more than ready to leave it behind again. Posthaste. Pity that's not an option. He sighs again, and if it turns into a stifled yawn hallway through, then he's perfectly within his rights.

"Alright then," he concedes, standing and stretching his arms toward the ceiling and craning his neck until it pops. A brief flash of pain later, and he can finally turn his head again. Wonderful. "If you're that eager, I guess we might as well get moving."

To him, it sounds like a perfectly reasonable suggestion. However, the spasm of something suspiciously similar to alarm over Langa's expression begs to differ.

"What? Really? Now?" He asks, uncertainty coloring his voice and seeming to shrink, though he's perhaps a good finger or two taller than Reki.

Oh, good grief.

"Yes," Reki says blandly. "Unless you'd rather just forget this whole thing and give me back my satchel-" He doesn't have time to finish the sentence before Langa is shaking his head. Typical. "Worth a shot," he shrugs, letting the bead of disappointment roll off him like a water droplet. He hadn't truly thought it would work. "But if that's the case, then the festival is in two days, and the village isn't exactly next door."

That's putting it mildly. Alone, Reki could probably make the trip with plenty of time to spare. With uninvited company likely less inclined to walk through the night instead of wasting precious time sleeping, he has a hunch they'll be cutting it close.

Langa nods, but it's more of a vague, absent reflex than a genuine show of agreement. His eyes are like the sky itself; vast and vacant. His body might be in this room, but the rest of him is thousands of miles away.

Reki doesn't know why he bothered wasting his breath. Langa recruited him for his sense of direction. Not for his opinions. And that aside, the longer they're here, the more furious his mother is going to be when he finally drags his sorry ass back through their worn, faded front door. So. No time like the present. He snaps his fingers to yank Langa out of whatever daze he's in. He only feels a little bit guilty when Langa flinches and jerks toward him like an especially frigid puppet.

Jumpy fellow. Reki can't imagine how he's going to fare at a kingdom-wide festival full of excitement and people, but Reki's job is to get him there. Not to care. (Curious how that thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth, isn't it?) He clears his throat to banish some of the bitterness clinging to the back of his tongue.

"We should head out soon," he says, instead of apologizing. That would be lame. "Is there anything you want to pack or bring with you…?"

Langa pauses, thinking for a moment, then shakes his head.

Probably not the best decision for both of them to be galavanting through the woods empty-handed, but Reki shrugs anyway. Guess there's nothing here Langa can't live without. That only makes it all the more convenient to travel. Besides, the only people Reki babysits are his little sisters. Not men around his own age. Langa will have to be fine with his charming companion and the clothes on his back. Reki's made do for longer with less.

"Okay then." That's settled. Hooray. "Let's get going." His hand is inches away from the absurd door hatch contraption's handle when Langa's voice stops him.

"It's locked," he says helpfully.

Reki closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath through his nose. Patience has, tragically, never been one of his many virtues.

"Okay," he says with a measure of evenness that had better earn him at least a modicum of good karma. "Then unlock it-"

Langa shakes his head again.

"From the other side. I can't," he says.

Reki gapes at him. Very eloquently, of course. The swell of irritation trades places with confusion. He has several questions. All of them being some variation of 'What?'

In the end, he doesn't ask a single one of them. He's learned over the years that only a good thief asks questions. Conversely, a thief that stays alive shuts his goddamn trap when the time comes. And, as much as Reki may joke to the contrary when Oka lets the orders start piling up, he would actually like to live past his eighteenth summer.

Also, frankly, this is simply too far above Reki's usual pay grade of petty theft.

"You know what? Fine." He acquiesces. It's hardly as if a meager locked door has ever stopped him before. He pulls Langa's confused gaze to the open window over his shoulder with a jerk of his head. "Hope you know how to climb."

It's only a little bit funny watching Langa's already pale pallor drain of yet another smidge of color. (What? He tries not to hold a grudge, but after more than one occurrence of being rendered unconscious, his civility tends to go out the window.)

(Speaking of which.)

Flexing out his hands once for good measure, he silently thanks Koyomi for the excellent grip the gloves she'd gifted him for his last birthday possess. Then, he rests his elbows on the sill of the window at his back; calculatedly causal.

"Last chance to back out," he goads.

There's a beat of silence, maybe two, where the only movement in the room is a tense anticipation sparking like static.

In the end, Langa doesn't take the bait, and Reki finds with a bit of a shock that he would have been quite disappointed if Langa had. Curious, indeed.

"No way," Langa says firmly, folding his arms arms across his chest. There's a certain… intensity about the way he holds himself as he does it that draws the attention. Among the other things.

Reki's eyes do not linger on the lines of Langa's biceps, nor the slight dip of his shirt in front of his chest. He's a burglar, not a scoundrel. Most of the time. (Listen, at risk of sounding redundant, it's not his fault that Langa is really pretty. It's just a shame about the personality.)

Reki snorts.

"You're certainly serious," he points out, fingers experimentally dancing along a stone behind him until he finds a hold. He'd been half joking, anyway.

Langa's eyes narrow and, though it's far from hot outside with winter still clinging greedily to her remaining days, Reki feels his cheeks flush. How terribly inconvenient.

"You're certainly not," Langa counters.

And, well. Touché.

"I don't appreciate the deflection. We had a deal, Red," Langa declares. The unnecessary reminder isn't even the most annoying part of what he's just said.

Reki's eyebrow twitches. He has a name, dammit all. It's not much, but it's one of the only things he has that he's… proud of. People who refuse to use it have always irked him. Fiercely. Let alone those who label him without bothering to ask, first.

In that case, if this is how Langa wants to play it? Then fine.

"We do have a deal," he allows, flexing his shoulders behind him. This is going to be hell on his wrists, but he's pissed off enough right now that it feels more than worth it. "But it only stands for as long as you can keep up."

Then he leans back and lets gravity take him out the window. Head first.

Inside, Langa lets out a startled sort of yelp.

The sound is so funny Reki almost doesn't regret the painful yank that tugs at his joints. Nor the burn of friction between his hands and the stone he's clinging to by the tips of his fingers.

(He really needs to thank Koyomi for his gloves when he gets home.)

(Whenever that might be.)

The belated sound of frantic footsteps scraping against rock hit his ears and he shakes himself out of his brief reverie. (Mentally. Any physical shaking would likely dislodge his grip and lead to him falling to his death. He'd prefer to avoid that, for the time being.) It's not easy to scale the wall, but it's not particularly difficult, either. If he had to rank it, he'd say it's maybe the… sixth most tricky escape attempt he's ever pulled. Roughly. But a few carefully placed footholds, here, a few deep breaths to maintain the strength in his arms, there, and it isn't too long until he reaches the point where the tower melts into the ground.

There. Piece of cake.

His chest heaves with the subtle drumming of exertion and smug triumph. (He doesn't like to be a braggart, but… yes he does.) He squints up into the morning light and finds that the early rays of sun aren't all that are gaping down at him. He waves.

"What's wrong?" He calls up at the aghast face peeking over the windowsill. "We're burning daylight, here. Get a move on."

Even as a small speck high in the air as he is, the affronted pout that wipes onto Langa's face is plain as day.

"I can't do that," he hisses; scandalized.

Reki shrugs. "Not my problem," he announces with all the sympathy he can muster. He grins when Langa scowls. What? Knocked out with a frying pan. Twice. Reki's earned this. "I told you I'd take you, but I didn't say I'd babysit. If you can't keep up, you forfeit. So, figure something out, 'cause in thirty seconds I'm leaving."

(It's a total bluff. Reki worked his ass off for that stupid crown. He's not leaving without it. If it means he has to hide out in the trees until night falls again and Langa falls asleep to quietly ransack the place until he finds what he's looking for, then that's what'll happen. Langa doesn't need to know that.)

The tiny, offended noise Langa makes floats down and lands on Reki's ears like a stray drop of winter's forgotten snow. Now, a better man perhaps wouldn't let his amusement show so plainly on his face. It's unsportsmanlike, or whatnot. However, with Langa being as far up in the air as he is anyhow, Reki doesn't see the point in bothering to hide the grin that curves his face.

(Wow. Oka was right. He does hold a grudge.)

It's expected, but no less disappointing when Langa vanishes from the window and fails to reappear.

Too easy. Reki almost feels bad. (No he doesn't.) (Okay, he does a little.) He yawns up at the empty windowsill and stretches his neck until it cracks while he waits for Langa to admit defeat. Or, more likely in the case of such a seemingly stubborn fellow, for time to run out. He even counts slowly. He's generous, that way. (Others might say 'petulant' but, semantics.)

"One. Two. Three."

He yawns again between four and five. What a dreadfully dull ending to what could have been a decidedly interesting story. Too bad. Hopefully now though, he'll be home in time for dinner.

But probably not.

Because he's at twenty-seven when a burst of blue explodes from the window and Reki steps back just in time to avoid getting smacked in the face with a ridiculous amount of hair. His last thought before he watches in some vague sort of horror while Langa climbs out the windowsill and starts plummeting toward the ground like a stone is that maybe, maybe, this whole crown nonsense isn't worth it after all.

Red thinks he's clever.

Maybe he is. But Langa is desperate, and he has nothing to lose. He's been dreaming about this for years. He's not going to wait another second. And he's definitely not letting another opportunity slip through his fingers. If he really wants to get rid of him so badly, Red is going to have to try harder.

The drum beat of determination thrumming in his veins nearly makes it less terrifying to step up to the window and loop his hair through the old hook that once held a flower pot tacked into the stone.

It's still not great.

Regardless. One way or another, he's getting out of this godforsaken tower. (Alive, preferably, but at this point he'll take what he can get.)

He tugs the hook once. It shifts slightly. It holds. It'll have to do. He takes a breath, tightens his grip, and takes one more look at that damned clock hanging on the opposite wall.

The face stares back at him, hands pointing mockingly.

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Each second passing etches another stitch of resolve over the indecisive pit in his stomach. He's leaving. If only to get away from that horrid noise. And if that clock is the last thing he ever sees, he's going to be exceptionally upset.

He takes a deep breath, and looks at the grass, the freedom that's so close, yet so far away. His heart beats against his ribs hard enough that it hurts.

Here goes… something.

Then, before he can think better of it -can think at all, really- he jumps. Or rather, he falls.

He can't remember if he screams. He supposes it doesn't matter. He couldn't hear it over the rush of air roaring in his ears and the woosh of his stomach being left behind. His blood sings as he plunges

down,

down,

down.

It's not a graceful process. Nor a particularly painless one. As far as things go, jumping out a window holding onto nothing but his hair isn't one of his brightest ideas. (Which is saying something.) But maybe the blessing in being too terrified to close his eyes is that he doesn't waste his first glimpse of the world beyond his window when he stops. Not gently. Not kindly. All at once. His stomach catches up to the rest of him roughly a foot above the ground; pitching back into his queasy abdomen. His knuckles tangle in his hair tight enough that the ache feels more like they're trying to pull from their sockets. His nails bite into his palms and leave a sting in their wake. And none of that matters in the slightest.

Because the earth is inches away and this is the closest he's ever been to it.

His pulse thuds painfully against his ribs. Excitement or terror. He's not sure which way the drumming sound in his chest is beating. Maybe it's both. Maybe it's neither. Whichever it is, he hangs trapped between each possibility for what could very well be the longest second of his life. His arms begin to ache, yet he can't force himself to move.

The grass looks… wrong. It had always seemed like a plush blanket, whenever he'd peeked out his safe little window, and his one little glimpse from the doorway a lifetime ago. Now that he's hovering over it, seeing the stiff-looking points of green, he finally understands why they're called blades.

His stomach sinks, though it only just returned to its assigned location after the jump. He doesn't have shoes. As in he does not own a pair of the things. Pants, shirts, garments galore, yes. One of Adam's eccentric insistences is that Langa deserves "clothing that dazzles almost as much as you". Funny how shoes never came into that equation. Not exactly a necessity for the boy whose world is nothing but smooth stone.

It's a small issue, all things considered. It's also a perfect testament that this whole idea is a mistake.

What the hell is he doing? He can't be outside. He's not ready. How could he be? He's spent his entire life being warned about the dangers that lie in wait on the other side of his four walls. They might be suffocating, but at least they're safe. They're all he knows.

Everything else is… new. And he doesn't even have a pair of shoes to face it with.

Adam was right. He's not strong enough for this. Not smart enough. If he leaves, who's going to protect him should someone find out about his magic? Red? Ha. He'll likely drop Langa like a sack of stones the second an opportunity comes about. And Langa doesn't blame him.

This is a terrible idea.

Yet somehow the idea of running away again, of losing this chance and rotting the remainder of his life away in that tower, after coming so close is. Worse.

So, when every shred of Langa's questionable wit screams at him to give up this whole charade and fall back into the embrace of the devil he knows, this time, he ignores it.

Slowly, tentatively, inch by inch, eyes squeezed so tightly shut sparks dance in the darkness of his vision, he lowers himself onto the spikes of something new underneath him. (He still holds his breath, but if it hurts, at least he'll know that means this isn't some kind of dream.)

In the end, however, hiding his sight does him no good. Because the second his foot brushes ground that is not mortar and stone for the first time, the shock that runs through him has them flying open. His hands, too. Strands of hair slip between his fingers and he falls. Again. Although this drop is, luckily, far less perilous. Only enough to knock the wind out of him, but, truth be told, he thinks that would have happened regardless.

Because he lands with his back flat, a minor twinge to his shoulder that hardly feels as he looks up instead of down for the first time, and-

All he can do is. Stare.

Wow.

He's never seen the sky like this.

Something tickles his neck. His palms curl at his side, fingers twisting around the green spears he'd been so terrified of. The warm delight of the truth bubbles like honey in his chest.

It's not sharp. It's soft.

As soft as he always imagined it would be, with tiny flecks of flowers woven into the patches. A little cool to the touch, thanks to the chilly layer of lingering winter blanketing the ground, but it's not altogether unpleasant. It's bracing.

It's-

It's…

Incredible.

His chest does a peculiar sort of galloping somersault. When he hiccups too much air into his lungs at once, he discovers that the taste of freedom is rather bittersweet as it settles on the back of his tongue. Yet somehow, in spite of each of his revelations in these achingly infinite moments, it's the shadow that falls across his face that captivates him most of all.

More especially, it's the pair of amber eyes peering down at him in hesitant concern, that seem to nearly put the rays of sun streaming through his (admittedly) messy hair to shame.

"Are you… okay?" Red asks, eyebrows furrowed to a dip in his forehead. It's with (conspicuous) reluctance that he holds a hand out towards Langa's sprawled form.

Langa can't rightfully fault him for the misgiving. Still, he also can't help the quirk that tugs at his lips as he accepts the offered help. "Never better," he breathes, after Red pulls him to his feet. (He's surprisingly strong, Langa notices, for his frame being slightly smaller. Not that it's an important observation. Merely. An observation.)

(Anyway.)

He takes a deep, greedy lungful of what could very well be the first true breath he's had since he was a child. He's not sure how many more of them he has, but he intends to make each and every one of them count. He lifts his head up high. He has a festival to get to.

"Lead the way, Red."

There is something deeply, deeply wrong with this Langa, Reki's coming to realize. Normally, he appreciates that in a person. This is not normally. Normally was two frying pans to the head and a jump out of a very high window ago.

Still, though, he can't help but admit that he's perhaps, maybe, just the tiniest bit impressed.

Not that he has any intention of telling Langa so out loud. Something tells him doing so wouldn't be good for either of their health.

"Then," he says, and it's the strangest thing, but he can't quite seem to look Langa in the eye. Something about it feels like looking too closely at the sun. Maybe it's the smile. Not that it matters.

"Let's go."

Chapter Text

The diplomatic way to describe trekking through the forest with a boy whom it is becoming abundantly clear has never traversed any ounce of wilderness a day in his life is… challenging. 

(The more accurate description is one that Reki could never, in good conscience, give in the presence of his younger sisters. Or any children, for that matter.) 

Reki vows to make better decisions once this whole fiasco is mercifully ended. He’ll ask Oka if he can take on more commissions. He’ll help Koyomi, Nanaka, and Chihiro with their studies so they don’t end up like him. Hell, he won’t even burgle from any rich, privileged snobs anymore. 

(Much.) 

(Probably.) 

He has finally learned the error of his ways, and he is more than ready to turn over a new leaf. Provided he doesn’t die of frustration first. 

How hard can it be?

They’ve been slowly, slowly meandering their way through dense trees and rough, uneven ground for the grand total of half an hour with hardly any progress to show for it. That’s when they run into a little problem. 

(And by little, Reki means-

Well. You’ll see.) 

It’s not a graceful procession. 

There’s a startled yelp as Langa trips over a tree root. Again.  

Reki sighs, reaching out and catching a pale elbow before it can completely crash into the ground. Again. It would seem that, as well as his penchant for jumping out of windows and a thorough backhand with a frying pan, Langa has been favored with the remarkable talent of detecting every wrinkled patch of ground in their path. With his feet.

Reki’s starting to wonder if he’s ever been outside in his life. 

Langa doesn’t bother apologizing. (Again. It had gotten old after the first fifteen stumbles.) Instead, he holds Reki’s gaze with a sheepish smile, and the strangest hitch tugs in the back of Reki’s throat. How odd. As it were, the only people he trusts less than rich people are pretty people. So. No need to think about that too much. 

“I can see why you needed a guide,” Reki says dryly, letting his hand slip away from its light grip of smooth skin and pretending he doesn’t feel just the slightest bit colder for it. 

Achieving its desired effect, the ripple of gratitude washes away as annoyance flashes across Langa’s face.  

What’s less expected is the way Reki’s face twitches dangerously before he knows to stop it. Odd. He should not be so entranced by the subtle tensing of this strange boy’s jaw and the slight narrowing in his eyes. Alas, never let it be said Reki has much going for him in terms of self-preservation. Or common sense. Or-

Alright, the point's been made well enough.

“Pardon me for being civilized,” Langa sniffs, delicate as his doll-like appearance that thus far has failed to match up with the personality. “Not everyone is adept at tromping through the woods like a scoundrel.”

Offense pricks the same fingertips that had kept Langa from eating a mouthful of dirt less than moments ago. 

A scoundrel?

A scoundrel?

Oh, if Reki did not have four mouths that only get fed through his continued proficiency in staying out of the gallows, one missing boy might not seem like a high price to pay. Stars above, the stupid crown had better be worth all this trouble. 

Langa’s chin juts, stubbornly proud. The stride forward he takes could almost be called refined, if it weren’t for his tripping over nothing. Again. 

This time, Reki lets him stumble until he rights himself. “Consider yourself pardoned,” he mutters, trudging a few steps ahead before his already short temper can get the best of him. It fills him with a petulant satisfaction hearing Langa’s lilting voice spit a quiet curse as he scrambles to keep up. 

Or, it does until there’s a rustle in a patch of wild, thorny bushes and the steps behind him freeze. 

“Red,” Langa whispers, the sound small and choked; drenched in fear. “Red-”

Reki’s heart drops like a stone to the bottom of a river. It’s more instinct than actual choice that has him whirling on his heel so quickly he nearly slips on a patch of leaves and recovering the meager, stupid distance he’d put between him and Langa. 

Shit. They’ve prattled around at this snail's pace too long and now it’s come back to bite them. If the guards have found them, their best bet is to duck into the trees and pray they can lose them. Dammit all, they’re going to have to move fast. Easier said than done with Langa’s lack of prowess. Oh well. They’re going to have to figure it out. Reki may be doing this out of necessity, but if he says he’ll do something, it means he’ll do it. He’s evaded them this long. He has no intention of soiling his record.

He’s juggling the possibility of simply grabbing Langa and carrying him through the trees to safety (a stretch, but it would be worlds faster than making Langa run by himself) when they run out of time. A figure darts out from the bushes and Reki flings his arm out in front of Langa, even though this is his fault, except-

The figure is… smaller than Reki expected.

Smaller than a lot of things, actually.

Because it’s a squirrel. 

The squirrel goes still as stone the moment it sees them, and while this may not be the strangest confrontation Reki’s ever found himself a part of, it is. High on the list. 

Langa blinks. The panic on his face melts into a tint of confusion. 

The stone of anxiety rattling in Reki’s stomach stills. He lets out a breath of relief that feels like a balm on his stinging lungs. 

Ah. Yes. What a horrifying and vicious creature. Whatever will they do. 

“Don’t worry,” Reki says flatly, lowering his arm. “I’ll protect you.”

Embarrassment burns, high and conspicuous on Langa’s pale cheeks. “Shut up,” he says, looking away as if that will stop Reki from seeing the pout that’s curling on his lips. 

Cute, some traitorous sliver of Reki’s mind whispers. He ignores it. He was chosen as a guide, so he will guide. Nothing more, nothing less. This road has an end, and when they reach it, they’ll be going their separate ways. No need to get attached.

(Still, if he lets his gaze linger a second or two longer than strictly necessary, it’s not like Langa notices. Or like he would care. It’s fine.) 

“It could have been anything,” Langa continues his protest, despite Reki’s pointed silence. “How was I supposed to know?”

Reki clears his throat to cover up the laugh threatening to bubble out of his throat. “Well you have eyes last I checked,” he reminds Langa helpfully. “Using them might have been a good place to start-”

But perhaps fate’s decided he’s had enough unpunished egotism for one lifetime, because Reki also isn’t looking when a shadow launches itself at him from the trees. A real one, this time. 

The body crashing into him sends them both tumbling to the forest floor. Reki’s head strikes the dirt hard enough that he sees stars when he blinks against the daylight. 

What in the name of the queen?

“Red!” Langa cries, pitch straining with alarm.  

Awfully sweet of him to be concerned for a mere escort. As it were, Reki is a bit busy at the moment, so reassurances are going to have to wait. He does his best to fend off the hands grabbing at his arms. Damnation. He’s made it seventeen summers without getting captured. That streak can end after his family gets set for life. 

But then there’s a blur of blue and Langa is pulling the shoulders looming over him away? 

“Let him go!” Langa shouts, the scream heavy and curled around an edge of frantic desperation.

Reki’s lungs are just starting to burn against the pressure sitting on his chest when it tumbles away. Air fills him so quickly it’s nearly painful and he gasps against the pop of unexpected freedom. The stars begin to wink out of the edges of his vision as he breathes greedy gulps. He has to say, he didn’t think Langa had it in him. Color him impressed. Perhaps even a touch appreciative. 

No, that’s too sentimental for his tastes. 

“Get off me!” A voice screeches through his ears like the pine needles sewn into the trees. “You’re interfering with official palace business!”

The shock of hearing that voice echoes through Reki’s bones like lightning. He sits bolt upright so quickly his smarting head sets the world spinning faster yet again. He blinks away the dizziness. There are more important things to worry about right now. Such as how he would know that smarmy, holier-than-thou tone anywhere 

Oh, he always has the worst timing. 

“Miya?” 

Langa and one of the most irritating little brats he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting are nothing but a tangle of limbs, yet an invisible blanket of relief wraps around Reki’s shoulders. He can’t believe he was scared of Miya, if only for a handful of seconds. The squirrel would have been a more threatening opponent.

Well, to him. Langa does appear to be struggling as the two of them slap and yowl at each other like wayward kittens.

Reki supposes the honorable thing to do would be to intervene. However, the sight of a man around Reki’s age losing a fight to a child is a rather entertaining one. He almost hates to see it end. 

Still, he did promise to get Langa to the festival. They never explicitly determined that his state would remain unscathed, but that was implied. 

Drat. 

Fine. 

Such a heavy burden, responsibility is. Pity. 

Reki sighs as he pushes himself to his feet, reaches out, plucks the smaller figure by the over-starched collar of his shirt, and pulls him off of his unwitting charge. 

Too quickly, apparently, given the resulting sputtering and coughing. Unfortunate, but maybe next time he’ll stop and think for a moment before launching himself at unknown, wandering pedestrians who could be concealing any number of weapons that may do him harm. Honestly. 

“Miya,” Reki groans, releasing his grip on the boy’s shirt as he pinches the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to fend off the imminent headache cracking at his skull. This is what his life has become, and the only one he has to blame is himself. “What are you doing here?”

Predictably, Miya sneers at him while he tries to make his rumpled uniform something less disheveled. It’s a valiant effort, if not very effective. “That’s junior officer Chinen to you, swine.”

It’s with great difficulty that Reki holds back the snort of disbelief bubbling behind his ribs. Miya’s going to have to work a lot harder if he wants to come off as any sort of intimidating. He’s barely older than Koyomi. A child playing dress up. A very prideful child, albeit. Reki can’t say he doesn’t understand. Or that he wasn’t worse when he was Miya’s age. It’s the strangest thing. He truly thinks that, perhaps in another life, the two of them could have become good friends. 

What a shame it’s just not in this one. Oh well. It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. Good to know he hasn’t lost his cheerful disposition. 

Langa swivels his dazed, confused gaze between Miya and Reki like a puppet subject to the whims of the breeze. “Wait, you know him?” He demands, a candle flame of wariness flickering in his eyes. 

Kingdom almighty. And Reki thought he was paranoid. Still, Langa looks foolish sprawled out on the ground like that, and Reki’s feeling generous with the comforting knowledge that the only danger they were in is from a bratty attitude. He reaches down with an offered hand to pull Langa back to standing.  

After a breath of suspicion-laden hesitation, Langa accepts. It’s not as easy as it should be. He’s sturdier than he looks.  

Reki feels… something about that, but he doesn’t have time to figure out what it is. So. 

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, and pretends not to feel the flash of disappointment that surges through him when he has to let go of Langa’s hand. Odd. Anyway. “We go way back,” he adds, simply because he knows it will needle under Miya’s skin. 

It works like a charm. 

“Don’t say that like we’re friends,” Miya bristles, hair standing up and highlighting the twigs left in it from his tumble through the dirt. He looks about as dangerous as a bunny. “I’m here to arrest you!”

Reki holds back a sigh deeper than the forest. For the love of everything holy. If he had a coin for every time he’d heard that. 

Yeah, that’s the other thing about Miya. He is, technically, the youngest and only son of the palace’s head royal guard. On top of officially being the kingdom’s youngest officer in training. It’s popular speculation that his parentage is all there is to thank for his status, but, while it certainly helped, anyone with eyes can see that he’s a prodigy in his own right. 

Smart as a whip, with the makings of an exceptional strategist. Wickedly talented with his sword. There’s every likelihood that he’s on the path to becoming someone extremely formidable as he grows into his own. 

And, for some reason, he despises Reki, specifically. Because why not? One would think such a talented individual would have bigger priorities than a petty burglar. 

And yet.

“You have no proof I did anything, Miya,” Reki reminds him, and for the first time, he’s glad that the crown is tucked away somewhere safe if it means he’s not going to be killed for having it. 

Langa opens his mouth as if he’s about to say exactly that. 

Reki stamps his foot. Discreetly. 

Langa shoots him an irritable, betrayed look, but he says nothing. 

Miya’s eyes narrow, but the slight tightening at the corner of his jaw is all Reki needs to know he’s right. No proof, no crime. As always. Small mercies. 

“What are you doing out here, anyway?” Reki asks, finally putting a finger to what’s off about this picture. Yes, it’s a subject change, but Miya doesn’t need to know that, and Reki is genuinely curious. “Where’s your entourage?” 

One thing their previous meetings have all had in common is the handful of fellow palace guards, minimum, that flank their youngest addition. Regardless of whether or not they look thrilled to do it. 

Miya’s cheeks flush, even as defiance glints in his slitted eyes. Geez. This kid seriously needs to learn how to relax. “My father gave me an assignment, just like any other member of the royal army. I don’t need a babysitter,” he spits venomously. 

Funny how that answer doesn’t make Reki feel any better. “You're telling me your father’s fine with letting you tromp after dangerous criminals through the woods with no protection?” He demands. A whip of outrage flashes through him. Miya can’t be more than a year older than Koyomi. If that. Even imagining her out here like this has Reki’s skin itching under the threat of hives. It’s ludicrous!

“Awfully presumptuous to call you dangerous” Miya scoffs at him, before it twists into a decidedly unbecoming scowl. “I’ll have you know it is an honor I’ve been tasked with returning such an important treasure to her imperial majesty.” He waves his hand in Reki’s general direction; his scowl melting like butter into something smug and haughty. “Not that you would know anything about that.”

Reki rolls his eyes. An honor. Right. Maybe that’s what they call it. He calls it a joke. 

Their kingdom operates via a trading port. Perhaps the largest one this side of the sea. One of the worst-kept secrets on the docks is that, if you have enough coin, it’s not particularly difficult to convince a captain to overlook an extra passenger or two. 

If Reki had actually managed to sell the crown for what it’s supposedly worth, which he would have if it weren’t for the… unexpected detour, he could be anywhere right now. 

Miya’s not being praised, he’s being mocked. He’s been sent on a fool's errand, and he doesn’t even realize it.  

Pity swells between the gaps of Reki’s lungs. He and Miya may not see eye to eye, (in no small part due to Miya’s height) but the desire to prove oneself is something he intimately understands. 

It really is too bad he’s such an insufferable runt. And that Reki’s got more than enough troubles on his own right now while not saturating the list with the woes of a sheltered, naive scion who would gladly watch Reki hang before heading home to take an afternoon nap. 

But Reki digresses. It’s not as if he hates the kid. He just doesn’t have time to deal with him right now. Or the patience to withstand his attitude. He glances at his most pressing, blue-haired problem out of the corner of his eye. 

The chances of Langa getting very far if they make a run for it are -and there’s no other way around it- abysmally low. Now, normally, Reki isn’t all that against a good gamble or two. It gets the heart pumping. Life is so boring if you don’t take any risks. This is not one of those times. 

The unabashed truth is that Reki would love nothing more than to use this opportunity to slip away and slink through the woods. Unimpeded by the clumsy footsteps that have been trailing behind him for the last handful of hours until he finds his way back to his ordinary, mundane life, and do his best to forget any of this madness ever happened. 

Unfortunately, the other unabashed truth is that Reki put a lot of work into stealing that crown, and the idea of all that effort going to waste doesn’t sit well with him. His mom, while still whip smart as hellfire and stubborn as ten mules, can’t keep running herself to the bone as she does for the rest of her life. Chihiro and Nanaka are growing too fast for their clothes to keep up with, and two rolls of fabric are always more expensive than one. Koyomi is obviously never allowed to get married, so finding her a husband is simply out of the question. She has to stay too. 

They’re a rowdy, stubborn, chaotic bunch, but they’re his family. He learned a long time ago that if he doesn’t take care of them, no one else is likely to do it.  

Plus, all that aside, he simply doesn’t feel like being arrested today. (Or any day, but that’s not the point.)

Sure, he could cut and run. Leave Langa to fend for himself. He’s the one who insisted on following the thief he’d met hours ago out into the middle of the woods. He can find his way back. Or not. It’s none of Reki’s concern. 

But then makes the mistake of glancing too far to the side, and sees Langa watching him. With those bright, blank blue eyes slightly narrowed under the weight of curiosity. Confusion. He finds he’s not terribly fond of that idea, either. 

So. That leaves the second option. 

“Aw,” Reki coos, slinging his arm around Miya’s shoulder and tapering down the wince when the half-pint shrieks his protest directly into Reki’s ear. Damn. He’s liable to go deaf by thirty at this rate. Oh well. For that to matter, he has to stay alive that long. He turns them both towards the dense cluster of trees behind them. It’s not very sportsmanlike, but no one ever wins by playing fair. They need as much of a head start as they can get. 

“If you took a wrong turn and got lost, all you had to do is say so,” he says, adding an extra dash of patronization with a ruffle of Miya’s hair. Both because it’s exceptionally funny watching how red his cheeks go when Reki successfully digs under his skin, and because if he’s angry, he’s less likely to pay attention to Reki’s hand inching for the handcuffs at his belt. 

What can Reki say? He believes in efficiency. It’s not his fault that these esteemed, impeccably trained pompous asses make their equipment so easy to steal. 

He pretends to stumble so Miya doesn’t notice the jolt as his restraints snap away from his belt. Then barks a laugh that’s a little too loud to cover up the tiny, metallic click snapping around Miya’s lithe, thin wrist. 

Outrage flushes across Miya’s cheeks and he scowls. 

It’s probably meant to be threatening, but the whole thing merely reminds Reki of a kitten baring its claws. And how he always did have a bad habit of taunting the strays until he got scratched. Hard to believe he still hasn’t learned his lesson. 

He ruffles Miya’s hair again. This time just because the small boy’s lips twisting in a snarl amuses him. 

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” Reki allows graciously, taking a few more calculatedly casual steps towards the line of spindling trees. “Yet.” 

The word has hardly passed his lips when a blur swipes into the corner of his eye. He leans back to avoid the swing of Miya’s bony elbow aiming for a strike at his ribs. He smothers a yawn behind his palm, and it’s not even entirely fake. That chair was awful. He barely slept a wink. 

“I am not lost,” Miya hisses, hot under the collar as always. The kid seriously needs to learn how to relax. Instead, his short fuse reaches its quick as he balls his fists and launches himself at Reki. 

Which is exactly what Reki was hoping he would do. 

It’s easy enough to slip around the rushed, would-be ambush. (Greater than Miya have tried. He may have the enthusiasm, but Reki has years of practice staying out of the undesirable’s grasp.) When Miya nearly sails into the trunk of a proud, towering tree that’s stood far too long to care to witness such foolishness, it’s all the easier to grab the free end of the restraint dangling at his waist, and hook it around the branch that’s just out of his reach. 

Miya doesn’t know he’s been caught until it’s too late. Which is a relief because, frankly, Reki didn’t have another plan. 

Miya’s eyes go big and round. It makes him look younger than he already is. 

Creeping tendrils of sympathy nearly worm their way into Reki’s excuse for a heart. Maybe he was a bit too impulsive. 

Then the screaming changes his mind. 

“You can’t be serious!” Miya squawks, outraged etched into every livid line of his face. 

Funny choice of words, too. He should know better than anyone that Reki is never serious about anything. 

“Enough games!” Miya demands, tugging uselessly against the flaking bark with his metal-bound wrist. “I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again if you don’t uncuff me this instant!”

A few startled birds scatter from the tops of trees until their wings melt into the sky, loudly chirping their displeasure at being disturbed. 

Reki stifles another yawn. “Pretty sure that was already your end goal,” he mutters. 

Miya’s lips curl around his teeth. Goodness. He looks positively feral. And he calls Reki uncivilized. “Swine, undo it!” He screams. His command is so strong it almost covers up the single warbling note of fear tucked behind it. 

It’s very compelling. Unfortunately, if Reki listened to every royal knight who ordered him to sit still, look pretty, and do as he’s told, he would have ended up behind bars years ago. So.

“Wish I could,” Reki laments, and he really is the faintest touch apologetic. He’ll simply have to endure it. “But we’re actually in a bit of a hurry.” 

Once again, it’s not a lie. It likely won’t take long for Miya to notice that he’s been… liberated… of his key as well. Time is of the essence. 

Still, it is rather uncouth. Hopefully his companions truly aren’t that far away. If he hasn’t come spewing fire at Reki’s ass trying to get him thrown in prison three days from now, Reki will come back and check on him. 

Probably. 

He cringes away from the stream of curses pouring out of Miya’s mouth that he’s surely too young for. Some the likes of which even Reki never could have thought of, and that his mother surely would have had him rinsing his mouth out with soap if he had. 

He turns, and is greeted with the sight of Langa’s eyes watching him with a hint of astonishment cutting through some of that vagueness he wears like a cloak. 

For heaven's sake. Must Reki do everything himself?

“Come on,” he whispers fiercely, wrapping his fingers around Langa’s wrist. Honestly. He’d make for a terrible thief. “We have to go.”

Langa’s eyebrows furrow in the shadows cast over his face by the branches overhead. “What?” He asks, sounding appalled. 

Reki valiantly fights off the appealing urge to shake him. He can play the high and mighty prince after Reki ensures they aren’t under imminent threat of being cast into prison. 

He can’t bring himself to look at Miya as he pulls Langa behind him into the safety of the trees, but the boy’s echoing cries cut through the bark anyhow; sharper than any ax could dream of being. 

“Wait, you bastard, don’t leave me like this! Get back here!”

Reki ignores the guilt clawing into the back of his neck as he turns deeper into the endless possibilities the forest has gifted him with. He’ll repent when the phantom fibers of the execution rope curling around his throat leave his skin. 

Langa, of course, protests. It would appear that he never received the memo that pretty, excess baggage is meant to be seen and not heard. 

“Where are we-” Langa starts, breathless from the exertion finally forcing a pinch of color onto his ghostly cheeks. 

For crying out loud. 

Reki cuts him off, squeezing his wrist in warning. “Eyes forward,” he orders, kicking a stone out of the path before Langa can go and trip over it. Holds a branch back so that it doesn’t get caught in Langa’s hair. They’re a tad busy. This isn’t the time for chit-chatting. “Run now! Talk later!”

For the first time in their brief, frenetic stint of knowing each other, Langa listens to him. Little miracles. 

It lasts all the way until Reki jerks sharply around the bend of a tree and starts in the opposite direction.

Langa’s breath hitches in surprise. He nearly pulls Reki along with him directly into the truck of a tall oak who surely wouldn’t have appreciated the disturbance, but Reki manages to throw his arm around Langa’s waist and the collision is diverted. 

“Why are we going back?” Langa asks between puffs of panting breath. 

Not that Reki can fault him. His own lungs are starting to burn something savage.

“We’re not,” Reki assures, though they still don’t exactly have time for pleasantries. He pushes the ache away, and begins weaving through a new set of trees soaring into the sky. Blotting out the sun. They can rest when they’re dead. “But if he manages to get loose sooner than I’d like, all the better if he thinks we went the other way.” 

He ducks to avoid a split trunk hanging sideways overhead, and hisses as a twig hanging off a branch nicks his cheek for his troubles. That’s what he gets for being distracted. He grits his teeth, willing the sting away, and keeps his gaze ahead after that. 

To his credit, Langa keeps up remarkably well. Given his earlier ineptitude, anyway. Soon enough, in the wake of their frantic desperation, the forest melts into a blur. The stretching shadows swirl until it’s nearly impossible to separate one tree, one overturned rock from the next. Reki’s hearing narrows until all that remains is the crunch of dry dirt crumbling under his shoes and the pounding of his heart in his ears.  

It’s as if the woods bewitch him. He’s not sure how long they run. Only that when the distant murmur of voices cut through the taut bowstring of his chest he nearly trips.

Voices. Voices mean people. People mean a place to hide. In all his questionable plights, Reki has never yet found a more effective way to disappear than into plain sight. He guides Langa to a stop, and for a moment there are no words shed while they gulp greedy lungfuls of air in attempts to replenish their dwindling supply of it. 

His blood turns to ice when Langa’s heaving chest goes still and he sucks in an alarmed breath. What now?

“Red, your face. You’re bleeding,” Langa tells him, distress dripping from his tone. He steps forward, a bit closer than Reki would have expected. His hands flutter next to Reki’s chin like he’s about to touch him, as absurd a thought that might be. 

Reki blinks through the sudden stutter shocking the lump of muscle that lives behind his ribs. Without thinking, he touches his cheek. Pain slices through him and he winces, jerking his hand away quickly. Indeed crimson glistens on his fingertips when he glances down. However, when all is said and done it’s definitely not the worst off he’s ever found himself after a run-in with Miya. He brushes his fingers over the fabric of his pants and puts a touch of space back between them. 

“Oh no, a scratch,” he says dryly. “No one will ever marry me now.” A laugh nearly bubbles out of his throat. The couple of scars he’s littered with are much less of a detriment to his prospects in that regard when faced with his personality.

The concern clouding Langa’s features flickers into irritation. Excellent. That, Reki can deal with. Or at the very least it’s easier to ignore. 

“I hear people up ahead,” Reki says, more hushed than he’s typically capable of so as not to let his voice carry too far away now that he knows there are others about. “Wait here while I take a look.”

Langa’s eyes widen, a slice of the blue sky cutting through the darkness of the woods. “What? By yourself? Are you mad?” 

And perhaps it’s the adrenaline still lingering in his veins, buzzing beneath his nails, but this time Reki loses when the desire to laugh sweeps through him.

“I sincerely hope you’re not just now realizing that.” 

If it were possible, Langa’s already pale parlor drains of one of its last remaining tints of color. 

Really. If it weren’t for the memory of that frying pan etched into the lump under Reki’s headband, he might mistake Langa for quite the delicate fellow. Luckily, he knows differently. A helpless maiden, Langa is not. He’ll be fine on his own for a few minutes. 

“I’ll be right back,” Reki promises anyway, since it looks like Langa is inches away from being sick. Good grief. He slips through a gap in two spindling birch trees whose trunks have woven together throughout the years. Before he can give in to the confounding urge to ease the discomfort on Langa’s expression. Ridiculous. Reki’s becoming much too sentimental, lately. He blames the head injuries. 

It’s going swimmingly until a hand plunges out from the depths of the trees blanketing the earth covering their roots in darkness and clasps his shoulder. His pulse screeches to a stop in his chest. 

Langa’s fingers curl. Another reminder that he’s stronger than he looks. “You can’t, it’s not safe.” His hissed protest slips between the thin slices of leaves still stubbornly clinging to their homes in defiance of winter’s creeping chill. “Red-”

“That is not my name,” Reki snips. Foolish. It doesn’t matter. Not really. But it’s getting rather grating. He slips out of Langa’s grip and brushes his rumpled collar, studiously ignoring the dryness in his throat. It’s been a while since anyone but his family has gotten close enough to get the drop on him like that. He’s getting rusty. 

Langa eyes him like a kicked pup that’s been left to the street to fight for scraps. 

Reki sighs. The scraping, dragging kind that leaves him feeling hollow once it leaves him. “I won’t be more than a minute. Wait. Here,” he commands, stern as the years he’s endured wrangling a rowdy pair of twins into behaving. 

Luckily it’s as effective, here. To be sure, Langa’s mouth slashes downward into a tight line of unhappiness as he edges back into the safety the forest provides, but unhappiness has a much lower history of leading to death than being caught by the king’s guards. And also this whole shebacle was his idea in the first place. He can manage. 

Reki lets a crisp breath of the midmorning air fill his lungs. All this fuss and it’s not even noon. He’ll never complain about a boring day again. 

Another low rumble of voices hums through the distance and curls around Reki’s ears. A clink of something metallic. A short barking guffaw of a laugh? 

Now Reki is intrigued. 

Slinking along the line of trees acting as his shield, he follows the sounds. It doesn’t take long to find the source. 

Not a hundred steps further than where he’d left Langa hidden away, the crowded clumps of moss, bushes, and branches fighting for sunlight open up into an alcove not overrun by nature, despite this being her domain. 

That’s not the interesting part. The interesting part is the walls of mortar sprouting into the space, prouder than any tree. The sun has bleached the stone to where it is faded in spots, but nowhere near decrepit. On the contrary, the bit of wear gives it a good deal of character not found in the town square not far away, whose proprietors always seem to prefer gleaming, boring, uniform smoothness and perfection that couldn’t possibly be real. 

Reki likes it immediately.

A breeze sweeps past, and brings with it a sharp scent of spices, herbs, and something savory that makes his mouth water. 

A restaurant. A good one, too, judging by the smell. 

More importantly than that, however, is that it’s nothing to be worried about. When he’d first heard the dull chattering he’d feared it to be a gaggle of the palace guards. Some dining patrons are highly preferable, and much easier to avoid. As long as he and Langa make sure to stick to the forest, they should be able to pass by unnoticed with no problem- 

Reki doesn’t hear the twig behind him snap until it’s too late. By the time he’s scrambling away, the hand is already clamping down on the back of his collar and shoving him out of the shadows. His fingers scrape against the bark as a choked scream sticks in his throat, but he doesn’t manage to catch himself before he goes sprawling onto the forest floor. 

Naturally. Oh well. At least dirt is softer than concrete.

He’s trying to push himself back to his feet when a rough, meaty hand digs into the flesh below his shoulder and hauls him up.

Reki bites back a hiss as pain flashes in his joint. Damnation. It’s his own fault for getting caught, but there’s no need to be so rude about it. 

“Well well well,” his newfound captor croons. His voice brings to mind the gravelly squeal of two rocks sliding against each other. “If it isn’t the shrimp who made off with the Crown Jewels.”

Reki’s stomach plummets somewhere around his ankles. 

He knows that voice. That smug grin. That awful orange hair. 

The oaf who runs the flower shop on the other side of the village. Like many others, he’s none too fond of Reki, but he’s one of the few who are vocal about it. Of all the people it could have been. Talk about insult to injury.

“You’re an awful long way from home, kid.” His lips curl into satisfaction. Every bit the cat that’s finally sunk its claws into the canary. 

Once more, Reki sighs until the lack of air nearly turns his lungs inside out. 

Dammit all. Today is just not his day.