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Treviso was a city of glittering lights and still waters, its canals winding through the night like veins of liquid silver. Lucanis took a deep breath, taking a moment to truly appreciate the sights and smells of his home. He’d never again take such an opportunity for granted.
Rook had been easy enough to track—his presence was an erratic pulse against the city’s quiet hum, not unlike a drunk moth flinging itself at a lantern. (Yet, with Rook, this was nothing exactly new.) The only surprise was the location: the roof of the Cantori Diamond, where he was perched with his legs dangling over the edge, a bottle of wine in one hand, and the posture of a man in deep, rambling thought.
Lucanis climbed up silently, his boots steady against the tiled slope. Rook didn’t notice him at first—too busy muttering to himself and the stars as he swirled the bottle lazily, as though he were lecturing the heavens themselves.
“It’s just a thought,” Rook was saying, as though trying to convince himself. “You fall in love with the dark, brooding type, and maybe it works out. Or maybe it’s a disaster. But either way, you’ve got stories to tell at the end of it, right?” He paused to take a swig, sighing as he gazed out over the water and up to the sky. “Not that I’m thinking of anyone specific. Just, you know, hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically,” Lucanis said, stepping into the edge of Rook’s peripheral vision.
Rook yelped, nearly tipping the bottle and himself over the edge. Lucanis reached out instinctively, grabbing his arm and pulling him back with infuriating ease.
“Lucanis!” Rook gasped, clutching the bottle to his chest like it was a lifeline. “Ever heard of knocking?”
Lucanis arched an eyebrow, looking perfectly unimpressed. “I don’t usually knock on rooftops.”
“Well, maybe you should start,” Rook huffed, though his annoyance was mostly for show. He leaned back on his palms, looking up at Lucanis with a grin that was equal parts sheepish and delighted. “What brings you here, anyway? Couldn’t resist my sparkling company?”
Lucanis crossed his arms, his dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Hardly. Someone had to make sure you didn’t fall into the canal—or off a roof, apparently.”
Rook waved the bottle dismissively. “I wasn’t going to fall. I was just… thinking.”
“So I heard,” Lucanis said, sitting down beside him.
Rook blinked at him, his cheeks flushing faintly as he scrambled for a comeback. “Well, you know, they were just… general musings. Philosophical stuff. Nothing to worry your stoic head about.”
Lucanis gave him a long, unreadable look before sighing and reaching for the bottle. “Give me that.”
“Hey!” Rook protested, but let him take it. “That’s mine!”
“And you’ve had enough,” Lucanis replied, taking a sip himself before corking it and setting it aside. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Rook groaned theatrically but didn’t resist when Lucanis hauled him to his feet. The world tilted slightly, and he swayed into Lucanis’s side, laughing as the other man caught him with one arm.
“You’re warm,” Rook murmured, resting his head briefly against Lucanis’s shoulder.
“You’re drunk,” Lucanis countered, though his arm tightened around Rook’s waist as he guided him toward the edge of the roof. “Do you even remember how you got up here?”
“Of course I do,” Rook said, affronted. “I’m a Crow. A rooftop master. You should see me sober—I could probably scale the Lighthouse.”
Lucanis snorted softly, the sound so rare it made Rook smile wider.
“You’re in a good mood tonight,” Rook teased, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. “It’s nice. You should smile more often.”
“Stop talking,” Lucanis muttered, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks as he helped Rook down a nearby trellis. Rook, of course, noticed this and mentally cataloged it as a personal victory, and by the time they reached the eluvian, the younger Crow was more giggly than ever, leaning heavily on Lucanis as they made their way back to their temporary home in the Fade.
“You know,” Rook said, his voice softer now, almost serious. “You’re a good man, Lucanis. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Lucanis paused, looking down at him with an intensity that made Rook’s breath hitch. But he didn’t say anything, just gave a faint nod before leading him inside.
Rook let himself be guided to bed, his thoughts swirling as Lucanis disappeared into the shadows of the Lighthouse.
(Hypothetically, he thought, falling in love with the dark, brooding type might not be such a terrible idea after all.)
——
Rook woke slowly, clawing his way out of sleep like a man dragging himself up from the bottom of a well. His head throbbed with the steady insistence of a hangover, every beat a grim reminder of his poor life choices. He scrubbed a hand over his face, dislodging sticky remnants of sleep, and cracked his eyes open.
The first thing he saw was the glass wall. Its bright glamour shimmered faintly, giving the illusion he was lying at the bottom of the sea. Shadows of fish—or perhaps they were just tricks of the light—floated lazily across the room, casting fluid, wavering shapes on the walls.
For a moment, he watched them without thinking, letting the play of light and shadow match the sluggish churn of his thoughts. When he’d first set eyes on the wall, he’d liked it—loved it, even. It reminded him of Treviso and the sparkling canals of his childhood. But lately, the water seemed to press down on him, memories of The Ossuary heavy and suffocating.
With a groan, he sat up, wincing as his body protested. The chaise that served as his bed creaked ominously. Once, he’d thought it elegant; now it had all the charm of an old piece of driftwood. Stretching, he rolled his neck to one side, then the other, relief arriving in the form of a satisfying pop.
“Well, at least something still works,” he muttered.
Dragging himself out of the room, he descended the Lighthouse stairs two at a time, his steps quick and uneven. The movement didn’t so much wake him up as it jarred him into a sort of bleary resignation. On the ground floor, the sound of voices caught his attention—Harding’s, sharp and chipper (as always), and Taash’s low murmurs of agreement.
“Harding,” Rook croaked, rounding the corner and gripping the bannister like it might hold him upright. “Any chance you could scout me a decent mattress when you get a spare moment? I feel like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a nuggalope.”
Harding’s laugh cut through the room like shattered glass. “A mattress? Should I also scout you some Orlesian sheets while I’m at it, your highness?”
Rook snorted as he turned to leave, gesturing rudely behind him. “Sure. Add a full turndown service and a mint on my pillow while you’re at it.”
The sun hit him like a punch as he pushed open the door to the courtyard, swearing as the rays pierced his already pounding head. He shielded his eyes with one hand and followed the smell of coffee like a man starved.
By the kitchen hearth, Lucanis was already pouring a steaming mug, moving with a quiet efficiency that Rook found equal parts irritating and deeply attractive (though he’d never admit the second part). His dark hair was slightly mussed, falling loose past his jawline in a way that suggested he’d only just run a hand through it. Even half-awake, Lucanis carried himself with an elegance that made Rook feel perpetually rumpled.
“Good morning,” Lucanis said, his voice low and smooth. He offered Rook the first cup without being asked, his reserved smile tinged with amusement. “You look like hell.”
“That’s generous,” Rook muttered, taking the mug with both hands like it was a sacred relic. He sipped, sighing as the bitterness spread through him. “You’re a saint, Lucanis. Truly.”
“I’m a lot of things, but a saint I am not,” Lucanis replied with a light smirk. “And you’re lucky I made extra, considering how much you drank last night.”
Rook leaned against the counter, the warmth of the coffee already working miracles. As he drank, flashes of the previous night resurfaced: the rooftop, the stars, Lucanis’s steady hand dragging him down before he could topple over the edge. He looked at the older man over the rim of his mug, a sly grin forming.
“Hey,” he said, lowering the mug. “I’ll have you know the stars and I had an exceedingly meaningful conversation.”
“Mm. I’m sure they found your insights riveting.”
“Riveting doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Rook’s grin widened, but then his gaze fell on the table. Papers were spread across it—letters, reports, maps. Someone had been busy.
“So,” he said, straightening. “I suppose I won’t get to sleep off my poor life choices in peace?”
Lucanis carried his coffee to the table, his gaze flicking across its surface. “That depends. No urgent news yet from Antoine or Evka, so nothing pressing,” he gestured toward a stack of messages, “But I’m sure Davrin could use a training partner if you’re looking to stay occupied.”
Rook shuddered, the thought of training with Davrin and Assan enough to make his headache worse. “Not sure I can handle his idea of ‘keeping busy’ today.”
Lucanis smirked faintly over the rim of his mug. “Then perhaps you should focus on recovering your delicate constitution,” he said, his tone carrying the barest trace of teasing. “Though if I recall correctly, you thrive under duress.”
“Oh, I do, don’t I?” Rook’s grin returned, brighter now. “Amazing how well I’ve turned out, given Viago’s exacting standards.”
Lucanis hummed, noncommittal, though his gaze lingered on Rook a fraction too long before returning to his coffee. “You’ve certainly grown… creative.”
“Creative?” Rook leaned against the table beside him, tilting his head. “That’s a very diplomatic way of putting it. I think the word you’re looking for is impressive. Or irresistible, maybe.”
Lucanis didn’t look up immediately, but the way his fingers tightened around his mug betrayed him. “Is that what you’re calling yourself now?” he asked, his voice calm, though his gaze fixed stubbornly on the papers instead of Rook.
“Just calling it how I see it,” Rook replied lightly, though his eyes sparkled with something more. He let the silence stretch a moment before adding, “Come on, Lucanis. You can admit it. I’ve grown on you.”
Finally, Lucanis looked up, his usual composure faltering for just a heartbeat. “Grown on me?” he repeated, his accent lilting faintly. “Like mold, perhaps?”
Rook let out a bark of laughter, one hand over his heart. “Ouch. Wounded. I might never recover.” He set his empty mug on the table and leaned closer, his grin softening. “And here I thought we had something special.”
Lucanis’s gaze flickered to Rook’s face, something unspoken lingering in his eyes. For a moment, the air between them seemed to hold its breath. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he straightened and stepped back, breaking the spell.
“Mierda,” he said firmly, though his voice betrayed a trace of warmth. “Go find something useful to do before I regret making you coffee.”
Rook chuckled, his grin returning in full force. “Just admit I’ve grown on you—like a particularly charming fungus.”
Lucanis muttered something in rapid Antivan under his breath, shaking his head as he moved to gather the papers on the table. Whatever it was, Rook was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment, but it only made his grin widen.