Archive of Our Own

It feels like everyone has, at some point, died for their leader, and one day it will be his turn. That is just the fate of everyone reared by the Organization. No one has ever been safe from that reality– not the medics, nor the sub-leaders, nor anyone else he’s heard over the years. One day their leader, too, will fall, and the whole world will bend at its knees in mourning.

When he was created– for he was not, as some people like to imagine they were, born in this world, for that implies that someone loved him enough to birth him– the world was pretty like a bauble. It was pretty and fogged over like frosted glass, and the whole world and everything it could possibly contain was the size of a hand basket. And he was happy, actually. Happy to be given purpose and meaning. Content to be positioned and placed like a doll. 

The world was small but pretty, and in its prettiness, he could find lots of meaning to siphon into his limbs, so he would drink it up slowly, letting reality soak into his skin.

You see, Flayon grew up in a sequestered room. His companions were blank walls and training dummies, and that was all that mattered. It was all he needed, so it was the whole world, and it was monumentally beautiful. The world became his duty; he became its staunch defender.

Even now, every outing beyond those walls is simply a deconstruction of the vast fake world, something necessary to return back to his real one. Every mission was just that, a mission. He would don someone else’s skin and pretend like he belonged in that other wispy, complicated, unreal world until he could peel away all the grime and sink back into his shell.

Flayon was designed to be a good operative, and thus he was. He was born for it because he was shaped into it. He must be malleable and soft, translucent like glass with the ability to splinter and maim and slice into anyone and everyone. He must show no mercy for those who do not deserve to taste it.

He likes it that way too.

He prefers the bloody and the brief over the arduous and the delicate. Social stealth, in particular, is not really his thing. He’s already spent far too long learning to become a shadow, so anything that requires purposefully drawing attention his way makes his skin crawl from the wrongness of it all. He does not like being seen. Even cradled in layer after layer of disguise, being seen still opens up the ordeal of being known, even if it’s just a little, and that is never something he wants to invite into his sagging, paper form. 

Even at headquarters, he still takes to roaming around blindfolded sometimes to reduce the noise. It’s one of the only habits he’s never been able to shake, still feeling the compulsion pulling at his strings.

In short, Flayon did not want to take on this mission. He even asked for one of the twins to cover him, but you can never defy a direct order, so it was an unfortunate inevitability. Their leader picked him specifically, so he packed his bags as soon as he had to, reluctant to slip into the fake world once more.

It’s not like he felt it too Herculean and impossible for him to manage. In fact, this mission was a boringly easy one, mostly surveillance with free range for method and timing of termination. It’s more like he’d prefer taking on other tasks instead. It’s hard to see what danger this man could possibly pose, so he’s not sure when he’ll ever be done, and he’d rather not be stuck in this limbo forever. It sounded like a dreadfully boring task, and he never enjoys being sent to do those.

He can’t just dispose of him early either. It would be improper to kill without any evidence, after all. 

So, with only propriety and duty forcing himself forward, he began tailing him in earnest, and with each passing day, his conclusions solidified into a cavernous mass.

When it finally happens, Flayon meets his target exactly where his reconnaissance implies, which is another bad sign. It’s just been bad sign after bad sign. It’s too easy, but he doesn't really seem cunning enough to lie, so that means he really is that simple and easy, which means this target is just how he seems.

Boring.

And he does not enjoy the boring, predictable type. They’re the least interesting to surveil and therefore always the ones that always require the most direct contact to tease out whatever scrap of intel he needs to find. Before leaving, he still held out a little bit of hope that somehow this target would still find a way to surprise him, but of course he isn’t that lucky. He’s as boring as he looks.

For the whole first week of surveillance, he hadn't shown a single hint of deviating from the schedule listed in his file.

That schedule was collated over a month ago, and yet he still hasn’t changed. What kind of person happily lives the same sort of week over and over and over again? 

A boring one, that’s who. 

On Thursday evenings, the man goes to volunteer at a soup kitchen– never any other day for some reason, though you’d think he would pick a weekend since he stays so late. He shuffles a little down the sidewalk, as if his right knee is more lame than the left, and he wears a smile for the whole of the night. 

There is something real about it, a smile not worn as armour, which makes his stomach churn.

Flayon does not really like that. He’s already begun poisoning him with his meekness and mildness, and he wants no part of it.

He has never had a choice in the matter, though, so instead he watches him carefully over his half-empty plate to verify the rest. It’s a little different, seeing him up close, or not different per se, but the weighty confirmation of sitting in the same little room solidifies the more unfortunate truths. 

He is around the same height as him but noticeably weaker. His hands shake a little when his attention drifts. His arms quiver as he lugs around pots full of whatever. That means he can go the physical route if necessary, though choking isn’t really his thing. Neither is battery. No, instead, Flayon prefers a cleaner approach, and he imagines it a bit as he waves his butterknife around. 

Stabbing, maybe, or poison. Both would suit him just fine.

The thought calms him down. Now that is something he knows how to do, having long cut the uncertainty out of himself.

Sometimes he gets so fed up that he makes it a little too obvious, staring directly at him, but the man hardly reacts, so he barely scolds himself for it. It’s good too, anyway. Learning how he reacts to threats. Learning how he approaches outsiders.

He is clearly not carrying something so obvious that it'll make him paranoid, which is good and bad. Good because he hates being sent on the obvious ones. Anyone can kill a man, but not everyone can do the rest of his job.

It’s still bad overall though because, again, this man proving that he is not important is a bad sign for his general sense of peace and enjoyment. They should just stick his picture in the dictionary next to boring. 

Boring, but somehow important enough to waste his precious time. The worst of the worst.

The man tires after about 20 minutes of running around, which is pathetic, so he tries to make up for his lack of physical labour by taking care of everyone’s comfort instead. His pupils smile and flick back and forth as he tries to recall everyone’s name, fingers snapping as he sounds out the parts that he knows, and his eyes are a startling pale blue. He laughs big and loud like an eruption, laughs so loud that the sound must completely fill his tiny lungs, and he stays there for the whole of the night. It’s so… banal.

Maybe he’s overcompensating, but maybe he’s not. Either way, he is definitely harmless on the physical side. When he finally goes back home, he's wrapped up in a giant coat and scarf which engulf him like the sea even though it’s barely October, and he takes the train through most of it, slumped against a pole while his weight shifts left to right and back again.

Each sign deepens the pit in Flayon’s chest. These are, without fail, the worst. 

The following week, Flayon stages a little meeting for them, confident that this mission will be an excruciating one. If he’s not a physical threat, then he must be a social one, and he’s not the paranoid, sitting-on-something-big-and-obvious type of social threat. 

Fucking hell, man. 

Fine. 

It’s much better to start sooner rather than later at this point if he’ll be stuck here forever.

As the light changes from red to green, he walks down the street, holding his phone up to his ear. He isn’t really talking to anyone, of course he isn’t, but the illusion is good enough to mask his intentions. And faced with someone easy like that? Yeah, he’ll swallow up every word.

Flayon, on the short side, has primped his hair just right to evoke the maximum amount of innocence, and knows this guy’s heart is as soft as butter. He doesn't have to make it complicated. It’s barely worth the effort.

“Ah– I’m so sorry,” he says, picking himself off the ground. The fall didn’t hurt, but the show doesn’t hurt. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

The other man smiles as he holds out his hand. 

Is he capable of any other gesture? It seems like they are never seen apart, him and his smile. It hovers around with him like its own separate living creature. It burns into his tired eyes ad infinitum.

“It’s all good,” he replies, scooping up his fallen bags. He extends his leg to try to stop a rolling apple. Flayon takes his hand and wonders if it makes him feel powerful, helping the weak. Maybe he has some sort of complex.

Flayon grabs one too. It’s lighter than it looks.

“Do you know where the kitchen is? It’s my first time, so I don’t want to mess up.” Flayon mirrors his smile, clicking his teeth together to come off extra sheepish and sincere. “It’s okay if you don't, of course! I was just hoping– um. Yeah. Sorry to bother you. Actually, I should just go. Sorry.”

He gives it about ten seconds before he tries to stop him. Maybe less.

It’s all a lie, of course, but it’s a pretty one, carefully plated words bundled in paper and twine. Flayon knew exactly where and when this man would show up to organically show him the way, thus giving him an excuse to sidle into his life. He also knows, particularly, that pitiful people are exactly the type he likes to take care of. Maybe he has a superiority complex. Maybe he’s just stupid. It’s not his place to judge or find out.

Flayon turns as if to leave, confident in his assessment. He won’t let him go.

“Wait!” The target grabs onto Flayon’s sleeve. Then, as soon as he realises what he’s done and how improper it may be to grasp so tightly to a stranger, he drops it like it burns– or something like that anyway, Flayon’s not going to waste his time trying to understand his motives. “I’m going there too if you’d like me to show you the way.”

Flayon brightens, the ensuing smile more genuine than before. He does like being right, after all. “That would be great. Thank you.”

“Of course! I’m Hakka, by the way. Feel free to ask if you’ve got any questions.”

Hakka’s eyes are less frightfully pale against the dim autumnal skies. Last week, in the kitchen, they seemed to cleave through his skin merely by existing despite his general lack of awareness. Here, they seem to seep up some of the night, changing from something pure into a purpling hue. 

He prefers it that way, looking back to see they’re a little less blue. He’s not really the biggest fan of the colour.

And they are. Kinda. It’s hard to tell, but it’s also harder to see if they are, which suits him equally well. 

He can handle boring. Unsettling, however? His gut feelings are rarely incorrect, and cases like that always end in such messy ways, and he vastly prefers being clean and tidy.

At least, he supposes, that means he truly does have something to hide. He won’t be wasting his time after all.

“Flayon,” he replies, holding out a hand. It stings a little when they touch. He’s not used to being gentle or soft or direct– certainly not used to touching pure frost. “I’ll be in your care.”

The other man nods as they shake hands. He nods then leads him inside, seeping up warmth from the chugging row of heaters, and it is in that matter that his frightful mission began, full of nothing but pretense and anxiety.

-

It was hard for him at first. Training. Growing up there. Fighting all the other kids to prove his worth. Flayon imagines it’s hard for everyone, but it was harder for him because the world was so loud until he learned how to shut it out. He was dealt a heavy hand in life.

He used to wear gloves a lot, among other things, but it stands out too much here to do that. Maybe in the winter, he can. That would make it a little more bearable.

There’s a lot, actually, that stands out here. The first thing he did after getting this mission was to scope out the apartment he’d live in for the foreseeable future. He spent a whole day just cleaning it and re-cleaning it and preparing it to the best of his ability. It was to be his cell, after all. It needed to be as palatable as possible.

Flayon is actually one of his better cover names. He likes the way it rolls around the mouth, slightly foreign and strange like it ought to be. The strangeness is like an anchor. It would not suit him, he thinks, to steal a common name and call it his own. He is not a common man, so he could never keep such a common name and feel like he belongs somewhere inside it.

In the Organisation, people just called him P. Some people, the more important ones, got to be colours or shapes, something more distinct, but he just got a letter. Maybe they’d throw out P-1 to mark him as the winner of the 16th round of testing, but they both fit him well. It was not so much a name as it was an identifier, but he always valued efficiency over sentimentality, so a single letter suited him just fine. 

Names are only as important as you let them be.

It was not a badge he wore lightly. His ruthless reputation precedes him.

The safest cover is, as always, something only slightly off from what you know best. For him, in his most innocent distillation, that would probably be a mechanic, so he fills his closet with worn coveralls and soft, faded shirts. Hakka barely asks, but he’s still ready just in case. 

He grimaces as he splatters grease onto a few of them, watching the liquid cling to his hands. Oil is such a terrible medium to work with. It stains. It lubricates. It has an awful smell to it.

When he wears them, Hakka still does not ask, but he’s still ready just in case. He does not ask, but he doesn’t seem to doubt him either, so it’s a net gain overall. It would be easy to make something up. This week, he decides, his big project will have been a car that someone wanted restored. Next week, he’ll pick something else.

Progress has been visible but slow– much slower than he’d like. He got Hakka to agree to spending time with him last week, ingratiating himself by helping with the dishes once everyone left. Maybe he doesn’t think they’re close enough to talk about his supposed occupation.

The slow, delicate approach isn’t really his thing, but it’s a necessity in face of this total void of information. 

What threat could he possibly pose? How long will it take to eke it out?

Dry hands and a little less sleep is a fine price to pay. The sooner he finishes here, the better, and a believable cover is the best thing to hide behind. It gives him something to offer first, the guise of vulnerability and trust, which will win him Hakka’s trust in return.

Like he expected and initially profiled, there’s very little about Hakka that feels imposing. He is not very tall, even shorter still without the boost from his shoes, and he isn't very fast either. He’s late, often. He doesn't eat much. He seems largely unconcerned with growing bigger or stronger, so it's extremely unlikely that there’s a physical component involved.

He’s got the wrong sort of disposition for it too. People like him are rarely the ones sitting on something physical.

His next thought was poison, but there was no evidence of foul play in the kitchen, which is the main place he could employ it. In fact, sometimes he asks Flayon to chop things for him, citing a growing exhaustion throughout the day. He watches, sure, looming about a meter to the right of him, but he doesn't do much else. He can’t really poison anyone when he can barely work long enough to sneak it in.

It’s not poison, then, or at least not an obvious one.

His job is clean too, which presents a bigger problem. If there’s nothing of note in his profession or extracurriculars, then it could be something more personal. If it’s personal, then it becomes his problem. Intimately and unfortunately, it becomes his burden to bear.

It means Flayon needs to work even harder on maintaining some sort of relationship with him, which, again, is not impossible but not particularly desirable either. It’s simply not his forté. His mechanic cover is a lonely one for a reason; that is the kind of person he approximates best.

Flayon can do personal. He can schmooze with the best of them, but he does not enjoy it. Begrudgingly, he still meets Hakka week after week, chipping away at his walls. He can, and will, succeed regardless of what it takes. He merely needs to bore through the surface with sharp smiles and honeyed words until he’s deep enough to discover whatever secrets he’s been storing inside. It’s not unlike a geode. Surely, there must be something worthwhile beneath all the plainness. There must be some sharp, crystalline inside to find if you train your eyes hard enough.

There must be some reason why they sent him here. 

It would be much worse, he thinks, if they sent him here for no reason at all. He refuses to believe that Hakka is as plain as he appears. Something about him exudes danger. That is the only reason he’s going so far in the first place. He begrudgingly agrees with the brief now. Something is wrong with him. Hakka’s capable of some unknown dangerous thing, so it must be his job to stop him.

Flayon does his best, but it often feels like he's always on the verge of shattering something. Hakka trusts him the way one trusts a familiar stranger, so he cannot push too far too fast. Their bond is barely real enough to be qualified as one no matter how much he’s tried.

That leaves one possible solution. 

He needs to elevate the stakes. He needs to show his hand a little more. 

Flayon does not really want to put more of himself into this than he must, but it’s slowly looking like that will be his new reality. His platitudes have only gotten him so far, and perhaps this requires a more personal touch.

He needs to offer more than his carefully constructed bag of lies.

He did consider the seduction strategy, too, but it wouldn’t quite fit. It would be faster– easier too, maybe, depending on the mark. The problem is that Hakka’s never shown any sort of interest in that department during all the time he tailed him, so he had no idea what sort of persona to craft to do that job for him, so he’d be horribly inefficient throughout the whole endeavour. And besides, Hakka does not really seem like the type to divulge his secrets just because they happen to share a bed, so it wouldn’t work out anyway. Not for something like this.

Instead, Flayon finds himself forced to take the slow and hard-won route. In his hands are stacks of dishes, all used the day before. He drowns his hands as he dunks them into an unpleasant broth of soap and other detritus, imagining he’s drowning other things instead. 

His eyes stay hooked to the clock. 

Thirty minutes left.

Today, it’s not really his job, but currying favour is his job, and he can see no better way of earning it than proving his worth and dedication, so this is what he must do. It makes the most sense, after all. If he does more, maybe he can prove his unspoken sincerity.

First, he proves his sincerity. Then, something else follows. Friendship, maybe?

Hakka, however, does not seem inclined to agree once they finally meet, their feet literally running into each other as Flayon opens the door. He seemed happy at first, or at least pleasantly surprised to see him sooner than planned, but that ever present happiness of his seemed to dissipate more and more the longer they walked. He frowned when he saw his hands, when he realised what he had really been doing.

Sometimes Hakka has these moods, and he can never understand why. If this keeps up, he may even try to cancel their late dinner plans, too worked up to stomach a thing, and that wouldn’t do at all. It was already too late to concoct some other chance meeting, the job having run on longer than he thought. 

He does not mind the effort or the lateness or even the hunger, however. It’s something he’s used to, devoting his body to the mission.

Perhaps Hakka does not agree. His lips remain steadily flat– or worse, downturned– as he marches them out of there, a scarf slung over his thin frame.

Finally, after finding a street cart that wasn't already shuttered for the night, Hakka stopped chewing on his words and out came the torrent.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know. Actually, I’d rather you didn’t,” he says, his whole figure melting into the night. Their breath clouds the air between them. “I was going to do it later, and you robbed me of the chance.”

Robbed him? Robbed him? Is a pile of dishes really that important? It’s not like he rescheduled their meeting just to do them. No, Flayon counted on needing time for it from the very beginning. That’s why he picked such a late hour in the first place.

It’s ridiculous. You show a little scrap of sincerity for once and the man spits it right back in your face.

“So what? It’s late. I was there already. Did you even want to? You never like doing it anyway.”

“It's not about wanting to or not.”

“Look, I…” Flayon grimaces, pulling out the words like teeth. Is he really so prideful? So stubborn? Does he distrust him that much? “I got here early. You mentioned you had to take care of the tableware last week. I had the time, so I thought I’d do it myself. It’s not like I’m going to make you do my share next week to make up for it.”

“I don't need your explanation. I don’t care about the give and take.” Hakka’s brows pinch together like a flock of migrating birds, two slanted lines above a pale blue sky. He’s so resolute that he doesn't even shiver anymore, stony and immune to the cold. “It’s not about the dishes! Now it’s late, and we can barely even eat. All because you decided to be a fucking hero without asking how I felt.”

“I don’t get why you’re so upset.”

“Think about it then. You said you’d be late because you had work to do, not that you’re late because you’re fucking doing my work! Why do you always do shit like this? You think I wanted this?”

Flayon does not try to answer. There’s no good answer to that question. He doesn't really know. This is exactly why he hates social missions– there are too many illogical inconsistencies. Instead, he withdraws, slipping further back into the shadows where he feels safer, more confident. 

It’s not hard to understand if you know him. For Flayon, care is transactional. Giving care for free is a high sign of trust. Disregarding the intrinsic transaction of it is further proof.

Hakka does not seem to understand, but he doesn’t really expect him to. No one inside this plasticine world can ever truly understand. That’s why he tries to disregard them all from the start. 

The only world that matters is the one kept safe by the Organisation’s walls.

Hakka waits for a moment once they finally reach his door, eyes like needles tracing stitches down his skin. They spent the rest of the journey in silence, barely stomaching half a meal between them. “Well. Goodnight, then,” he says, curt as he shuts the door. 

The sound is magnified by the ensuing silence.

Flayon is angry for a bit, though maybe annoyed is a better description. This friendship shtick is not really going as planned, and all his attempts to salvage that plan seem to merely reveal more pits to fall into. The fire slowly dissipates, however, burning low as he circles around the block. Then, with a clear head, he looks past the smoke.

He’ll admit that while he can do personal, he's not so used to acting friendly to do it.

And he supposes, to be fair, he has not really given Hakka any chance to know him, so it’s not like he’s capable of understanding his motivations. And to leave now would be to jeopardise the mission. And it was a little unfair, perhaps, to decide it all on his own, putting his own assumptions ahead of everything else.

Soon he comes back, hand knocking a sharp tap tap tap on Hakka’s door. He comes back, and he’s ready to face him properly. It’s a bit cold, he decides, doing it without gloves. The lacquered wood is stiff beneath his hands.

“Sorry.” Flayon does not know what else to say when the door finally opens. It took less than an hour for the regret to boil over, the feeling wrapping neatly around his throat, and that choking sensation still stifles all his planned apologies. “I’m still new to the whole, um, having friends thing. I should have talked to you first instead of… well– instead of running off and then expecting you to be happy about it.”

It sickens him a little, apologising. It feels a little too real. P-1 would never dare apologise. Not anymore.

He did nothing wrong, but he can't just throw away all this progress. To save face, he focuses entirely on dialling up the patheticness. He must be forgiven, surely, because he is unaware but well-meaning, which would make Hakka his genial saviour for forgiving him. It’s an easy ploy.

That is what he reminds himself. At the end of the day, this is all one big ploy to see this mission through.

“I’m sorry too. I was just worried. You don't have to do that, you know. Friendship isn't just about doing things for people.” 

Is it not? He’s never known any other way to live. He’s never found anything that suited him better. This is why they’re horribly incompatible, the pair of them both liars in some form.

Hakka laughs a little and the sound shrivels his heart. He laughs and he softens, opening the door wide enough to let him slip inside. “So, never? Not a single friend? You don’t have people waiting around the block for the chance to talk to you?”

“I don’t think so.” Flayon hums, thinking back to the worlds he’s visited, real and fake. There are also other worlds, worlds he’s turned his back on, but there are no friends to be found in any of them. Not for him. The twins barely count, but they’re not quite friends either. More like associates. “Maybe one. I used to have one, but not anymore.”

“I guess I’ll have to be your first!” Hakka stands up, tossing a blanket at his chest. “Or your second, if you prefer to count. I won’t judge.”

“First is fine.”

“Won't they be sad? Your first maybe-friend?”

“It’s fine.” The blanket has migrated from his chest, now draped across his knees instead, carefully covering his lap while he sits. It's greyish-blue and fraying at the edges. Well worn, perhaps, to put it charitably. Loved. Yes, Hakka would be the foolish sort of man who loves everything he touches– or pretends to anyway. “You kinda remind me of him sometimes. I’m sure he wouldn't mind getting overwritten like that.”

“I would,” he replies, words swelling with humour. “Mind, that is. If we’re really so alike, maybe he would too.”

“Oh, well. Good thing we’re not talking about you, then.”

Hakka freezes for a moment on his way to the kitchen, staring blankly at a rack of cups. Flayon supposes he should have been a little kinder after they already fought once tonight. It is far too unstrategic to incite another row, to imply that his feelings don’t matter after he just admitted that they did.

It’s not his fault for being blunt, though. That friend is incapable of caring anymore. Like it or not, his feelings are irrelevant.

“Do you want something to drink? Tea, maybe?” He cannot see his face to judge his response. Should he apologise again? Promise to be more considerate? Hakka’s back stays turned, pointed out from the kitchen with a pair of mugs in hand. “It’s getting pretty late. You should stay the night instead of running back home.”

Flayon starts to protest, but he catches his mouth before it can continue being foolish. It is good, actually, since he’s making progress. Even if he feels better and more confident running around, protected by the cover of the night, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t pretend like he doesn’t, so he goes against his instincts and agrees instead. 

Hakka turns off the light when he goes, and Flayon can still hear him from the faint creaking of the floor. He’s not very subtle.

That night, he had a dream. It seems somehow that he only ever dreams on days where he can barely stay asleep. Whenever he tries again, he slips right back into it, one foot lodged somewhere inside that dream’s fractured world.

That cocktail of dreams and exhaustion always knocks the wind out of his sails.

“You can be June,” his companion had said, though it was not so much a companion as it was a mere voice. And when he asked why, the voice simply responded that that was when he arrived, so it could be his new birthday. Name too, if he wanted. 

And it’s always been silly, quite foolish in fact, to keep any ties to anyone that isn’t their leader, but his cover birthdays have always been some day in June, so perhaps it was a memory rather than a dream. It was a warm sort of memory or dream, whichever it may be, so he let himself be pulled slowly back asleep. He let himself sleep, and if by sleeping he slipped back into it, then he couldn’t be blamed. 

What else was he to do? Sleep is essential, after all.

It’s not worth spending time trying to figure it out. Some memories are meant to stay as dreams.

Flayon does not try to hold onto these things, dreams and wonder and views of a painted world that cannot exist. 

If they come on their own, then that’s merely their prerogative, and he will be their unhurried prisoner. 

-

Hakka is not just a normal, boring fool. No, sometimes he’s also a sentimental one, and a kind one, and sometimes even a sweet one.

Hakka is a frequent crier when they’re trapped behind closed doors– a fact known only to his intimates, which Flayon supposed he is now. Sort of. 

The friendship plan is going much smoother now, aided by some genuine showcases of vulnerability and the real feelings that sink through his chest like cannonballs, forced down by their sheer gravity alone. And with it, with that closeness and deeper understanding, comes the growing suspicion that something truly is off about him. 

Perhaps this mission has promise after all. 

He needs to revisit the poison theory. Sometimes, when he looks at Hakka for too long, his head and heart start to throb a little, the blood roaring through his ears. Telltale signs of some sort of poison.

It gets easier to pretend as the weeks go on. Hakka is boring, sure, from a purely professional perspective, but at least he’s not annoying. Their personalities don't clash an unbearable amount. They almost, loathe as he may be to admit it, get along better without a front to get in the way. 

He liked the front though. It kept him safe. It made things easier.

And Hakka does seem to understand him better now. His bluntness does not always come from a place of anger. It’s merely another instinct carved into his lungs. Waste no time. Efficiency is key. 

Now, instead of fighting him off for it, he has learned to translate his words a little, to see through to the underlying meaning. Sometimes he’s still wrong of course, ascribing more sentimentality to his actions than is really there, but he frequently gets the basic gist of it, and that much is enough to clear the air.

Fewer misunderstandings means he can focus more energy on teasing out whatever truth he must find, which suits him just fine. If it is poison, he certainly doesn’t keep it anywhere easily accessible. Flayon’s yet to see anything out of place in his home.

His dreams have gotten worse, though. There’s an infernal whisper accompanying them now. “Be more careful,” it says, scolding him. 

The words sting. 

His old scars sting. 

The sleep-worn words burn like fresh antiseptic, tearing at his defenses. “You’re not immortal, after all.”

He does need the reminder; mortality is a constant, but he cannot make it stop, so he’s learned to merely shut it out when he can.

Sometimes he can even hear it while awake, drilling into his skull. Sometimes he’s transported back to the darkness, and the whispering becomes a breath in his ear.

“This is going to hurt,” it says. And then again, now eerily loud. “Stop being so reckless.”

“Go away,” Flayon mumbles, rubbing his palms back and forth to try to stave off the chill. The sound catches Hakka’s attention, so he tries to mask it with a cough and a smile. 

Hakka likes it when he smiles.

He’s sentimental like that, and Flayon doesn’t hate sentimental. It’s nice, actually, that some people can care so openly like that.

Flayon has never enjoyed the winter. The cold makes people crowd together inside the same little rooms, so missions have always been harder. Too many witnesses. Too little circulation. Too hard to sneak around when everyone’s fuses have been clipped a little shorter.

“Are you okay? I can get another jacket or something if you’re cold.”

Flayon bites down a disparaging remark. He did not come here to be coddled, merely strategically ingratiated. Hakka’s the cold one, if anything, swaddled in a sweater and a jacket and a scarf and hat with more, maybe, beneath all that padding. He forces Hakka to put on his gloves with a pout, channeling his energy into that instead.

Maybe the pathetic act worked a little too well. Hakka always insists on taking care of him no matter the weather. It makes him foolish and weak and silly. If he knew the truth, he would never be so kind.

“Stop that,” Flayon eventually says, unable to reign himself fully in. “You’ll attract snakes.”

“What?”

“Whistling. It’ll attract the snakes.”

“It’s okay. I can take on a few snakes.”

Flayon laughs, sticking out his tongue with a hiss. “Can you? Can you really?”

Hakka shrugs, batting him lightly on the head. The blow barely even counts as one. It’s more of a tickle than anything. “Why not?”

Flailing his arms with a great cry, Flayon plays the part of a dying snake, chased off by Hakka’s barrage of harmless attacks. They ping off him with the heft and humour of foam bullets from plastic guns.

He remains resolute in his conclusion. It’s definitely nothing physical, whatever that threat is, but that’s okay. Sometimes just looking at him is enough to solidify that pinching feeling in that cavity of his chest, and that’s enough confirmation on its own. 

Hakka is not just any ordinary man. Not really.

-

There's a bit of a dichotomy in it, getting close enough to parse out his feelings while trying to avoid getting sucked too deep into the farce. There's an event horizon with this sort of thing. He knows, intrinsically, that Hakka is dangerous. Now, he even feels his temperature spiking occasionally, his face flaring up when they get too close together.

It’s a bad sign. 

At the very least, however, he’s gotten much more used to living inside this falsified world. His cover comes like second nature, and his choices that bolster it feel easier and easier. 

It also helps, he thinks, that the world is not as ugly and useless as he assumed. Perhaps it’s his fault, always writing off the disdainful and undesirable as useless and boring. It’s merely a product of his life though. For someone who only steps into this world while wrapped up in disguise after disguise, it’s fair to assume the rest of it is just as fake as he is. 

It was fair to think that even moments of beauty, too, were fake because they rested inside that illusory world. 

And if all he could trust was what was contained in the walls of the Organisation, then that isn't his fault either. 

Regardless, he finds that he slowly enjoys his time acting as Machina X Flayon– or at least enjoys it as much as he can enjoy something. There are worse long-term missions than ones that leave him playing house with someone nice, someone nice and close to his age and willing to put equal effort into their growing relationship.

Sometimes they meet at sunrise, stealing slightly softer moments before the sun stops cowering behind the horizon. 

Sometimes it’s evenings though, times spurred on by weariness and a lack of desire to do much else. 

There was one such evening, for example, where they sat side by side in the same chair pressed cheek to cheek. The rest of the seats were taken and, well, he was too tired to protest. They were supposed to be bird watching, but Flayon can't say he’s ever cared much to learn about them, and Hakka didn't seem to know a great deal either.

“That one’s a hawk,” he would say, waving vaguely at the space above them. 

“How can you tell?”

Hakka shrugged, forming a cone with each hand. Neither of them owned a real pair of binoculars. “I dunno. It’s big, isn't it?”

The maybe-hawk was nothing more than a speck of dust in the sky, something carried off by the wind. 

“I’ll show you big,” he replied, scoffing as he looked for a real hawk this time. 

“Oh, yeah? How big?”

“You’ll find out tonight. If you think you can handle it, anyway.”

Hakka whistled, stretching out with a bit of a chuckle. “Let's just focus on the birds for a bit. The sun’s gonna set without us.”

He could feel the steady warmth without even turning to look. 

“Okay. Whatever you want.”

Usually he won their little spats, so he could barely find it in himself to feel embarrassed. There's no reason to ever feel ashamed if it gets you the win, after all.

There was someone he knew that was a bit like that. He was the type to keep, to collect but not read, vast tomes beside his cabinets. He’d shove notebooks between his coats without ever revisiting them, and when Flayon asked, he merely said that he didn't want to read them since then he’d be done with it, and it’d be a bit of a waste. 

It was nicer to live with the possibility, he claimed, something to keep forever. 

Maybe that's why Hakka didn't buy any binoculars. He's tailed his card usage, so he would know. It’s been nothing but sporadic supplies and presents for his family. No poisons, no hard drives, nothing nearly so suspicious.

“What about that one? I think that was a raven. Or a crow. I dunno. It was black, anyway.”

Flayon let the protest dissolve, ever so slowly, on his tongue. His eyes weren't very good. It seemed to be a running habit between them, Hakka’s mistakes and his relative lack of desire to correct them. Mistakes are his business, after all. Mistakes and trickery.

The bird had a red stomach, so it was more of a blackbird than anything else. It didn't really matter though. It’s not like he's here because he loves watching birds. 

If they both believe it, then that can be the truth. Above them is nothing but a solitary raven.

“I think you’re right,” he says instead, pulling attention away from the warmth of their cheeks so he could focus on keeping his breathing in check.

You don't need fancy tools to make poison anyway, so those bank statements might be useless anyway. 

It seemed like Hakka was doing just fine without.

-

His monthly reports have been a little less concrete every time. He is intimately aware of that, but there’s only so much you can do when the mission reduces to living a normal life with someone until you find what they’re hiding. You can't be too obvious, after all, since the moment they’re aware, your mission gets a hundred times harder. Impossible, even.

Would they care that he just met Hakka’s brothers for lunch the other day and that no, actually, none of them are connected to any sort of grand conspiracy? No, not really, but he has nothing much else to say.

This meeting is more important, however, since the deputy is watching, and whenever he is there, their leader isn’t too far behind. He knows that. He knows this is serious. He cannot be seen as a louse. He cannot let anyone think he isn't working as hard as he should be.

He hears their veiled frustration when they ask, yet again, if he’s discovered the intel that his target is hiding, but Flayon has yet to confirm a thing. 

He does not doubt their connection now, but the truth remains. He has yet to confirm anything, and he finds, more and more, that he doesn’t really want to either. Still, he is obligated to do so, so he continues on as best as he can, all while preserving his interests.

“I still think it’s some sort of poison. His family is clean, but maybe someone else is involved.”

He says it all because it is true, but also because he wants it to be such. Sometimes he still feels sick when he looks at Hakka for too long, and it’s easier to chalk that feeling up to a slow-acting poison. 

Last week, they ended up on top of each other, the product of rolling around the ground in a play-fighting pile, and Hakka could barely push him off when he was so out of breath. There really is no viable option except for poisons, not really. He isn’t cunning enough for anything else.

“I’ll report back as soon as I find evidence of collaborators.”

He is truthful, but he is also selfish. 

Flayon wants there to be conspirators. He wants there to be some bigger, wider agenda going on. It’s much better, frankly, to imagine that Hakka is one of many unsuspecting people exchanging secrets and stolen treasures in the dead of the night, that he is just part of a great big, dusty machine of people who are not necessarily evil but aren't quite good either. He needs that to be the truth of this case, and thus he must believe he will find it.

If he cannot believe it, then he has to accept the fact that Hakka is ordinary and that he is sentencing him to death– or worse, that he is not ordinary but has still been working alone, and by working alone, he invites all the weight of scrutiny and revenge to rest solely on his weakened shoulders. 

Though he knows it’s partially fantasy and errant desire, he hopes that it is true. He reports half as much because there’s a chance that it could be. And even though his feelings are less important than his duty, this feeling comes with suspicion, and suspicion has always been welcome in their ranks. The longer this lasts, the stronger that feeling gets. Both of them.

He needs Hakka to merely be menacing in the ordinary sense. Nothing more, nothing less.

That's the only way he can feel unconflicted about finishing this mission. 

-

On Wednesday, he had another run-in with his unfortunate target. It was the third time this week, and each time seemed to last even longer than before.

That seemed to be a constant with them. Each time feels longer in the last, and leaving, too, gets a tiny bit harder, but that's just because he’s gotten used to it. He is like a burr or an angler or that little tuft of hair that flies up without fail, heedless of gravity.

Hakka brightened a little with the coming of spring, smiling whenever their arms knocked together in the train.

He’s always been like that, amused by this strange world’s curiosities, more amused than he should be.

“It’s nice to finally be free of the cold,” he says, pausing slightly between the ‘finally’ and the ‘be’ with his eyes screwed shut.

Flayon still doesn’t know why he insists on doing things like this when he’s so weak, but if Hakka wanted him to know the reason, then he would have already divulged it, unable to help himself from letting his thoughts erupt from his lips, so he doesn't even try to ask.

It’s easier that way. No point in wasting time.

And besides, looking at him and thinking about the mission, feeling the way his ribs sting sometimes after extra long days spent glued together, it's easy enough to see the truth. He is dangerous enough, despite the weakness.

It’s not like he’s told him much about it, not exactly, but he doesn't really need to. It's obvious enough if you know where to look.

First, there's the way he walks with his head tilted downwards sometimes, feet slightly off-center as he tries to clear his head. Sometimes he leans his hand against the wall for a second as they walk, disguising it as something more casual than it is. On occasion, he pauses– his speech, his steps, anything– and takes a moment to return to himself, keeping one hand poised palm-up near his face as he waits patiently for his vision to come back to him.

That one is harder to hide, but Flayon pretends not to notice all the same.

“Excited?” 

It’s an easy question, giving him plenty of time to recover.

Archery doesn't really seem like his thing, but maybe that's precisely why he enjoys it. It’s not something Flayon particularly enjoys, being new and bad at something and being caught in that feeling of flailing and faltering, but he can respect their differences. Maybe Hakka’s just weird like that.

“Of course! Hey, I bet I'll do better than you.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure. You're too soft. And I'm better with my hands. Remember last month?”

Flayon’s skin prickles a little, hot with embarrassment. He keeps his arms crossed for the rest of the journey, pout fixed to his face. That was not one of his finest moments.

And he is many things, but soft is not one of them.

“Pretty sure knitting skills don't translate to this. Totally different type of string.”

“What about guitar? It’s a little closer, right? Pretty sure I’m better at that too.”

“I think a harp would be closest, and we both suck at that.”

“Still,” Hakka shrugs, falling into step with him. “I think I’ll win.”

In his defense, it’s not like Flayon was the worst with his hands. He could stitch himself up a little if needed, could patch up his clothes of their little fractured tears. It’s just that knitting wasn't really his thing. 

It’s just that Hakka is, perhaps, better with his hands because he is gentler with them and a little more precise.

That part was not a lie, actually. That little moment, sprawled on the carpet in Hakka’s apartment, where he counted the stitches and tried over and over with increasing frustration to find what he missed, was completely genuine. He doesn’t have to lie about things like that.

Hakka probably didn't know that, laughing the same as always in the face of his struggle, but he witnessed something rarely won. Flayon is a consummate liar– even lying in his reports, he admits, the most sacred of places– because lies are some of the best kinds of armour. The severity differs, but it’s true nonetheless. 

Maybe he can cook more than the few dishes he’s asked Hakka to help with, and half of his bumbling persona is nothing but pretense. 

Maybe he is more prone to failure than he’d like to admit, cherry-picking the missions and options that suit his strengths best.

Maybe he does know what Hakka’s been hiding, but maybe he doesn’t.

It's not easy to admit, so he ignores what he can, hoping new evidence will prove him wrong. In that way, he can even lie to himself. The uncertainty is better, actually, while he waits around waiting for something to corroborate his story.

“See! I told you I’d be good at this!”

Across the field, in the vague direction of Hakka’s outstretched finger, is his sad little arrow, tip lodged just on the edge of the innermost circle. His cheers are raucous, raucous but subdued in a way that seems to drape over him like a woolen coat. 

If his smile hangs around him like a separate creature, then this too, this tiredness, has recently joined the fray.

He proves once again, however, that despite all change, despite the flush of spring and the softening of frozen soil and all of his enduring weakness, he is still a formidable opponent. 

Flayon grins before readying his own bow, careful to avoid hitting it too close to the center. 

“You haven't seen anything yet.”

It's not a fun challenge if there’s an obvious winner, after all.

-

Next time, he throws them a bone.

The target is dangerous but dying.

He’s been lying for a while, but that one stings the most coming out.

Still no sign of conspiracy.

-

Hakka must be killing him. He’s felt it all this time, the twisting suspicion that maybe that was the danger that he was sent to stop. There’s something about him that invites fear and nightmares and deep, deep pain.

In this line of work, you’re always ready for your own death. It’s something you need to live with like a gargantuan jacket, the reality clinging to your bones.

“I feel like I’m dying,” he finally admits. Everywhere he looks, he sees Hakka, the flowers and the skies melding into the same shade of blue. It is like he is never able to truly avert his eyes. “My heart is… Something is wrong with my body. My stomach and heart. The constant adrenaline. It feels like you’ve poisoned me somehow.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is.”

Hakka hums thoughtfully, and the sound stretches across the horizon. “I’m dying, too,” he eventually says, but his tone eliminates all of the associated triumph.

There would have been a time where he celebrated that news– the fact that his problems would all take care of themselves. Now, however, it just feels like too much. It does not feel like the triumph it should be.

It never feels like they’re on the same page. He’s always had too much to hide, and Hakka’s never tried to push, and it's not like Hakka to be dishonest or indirect in the same way he is.

He expected some kind of rebuttal, not an admission. He expected him to sneer and say he’d gladly kill him if he thinks he’s dying, and they’ll both have to pretend like they’re joking. He expected him to be happy, knowing his pursuer is too choked up to do a good job with it.

He does see it now. Banzoin Hakka is, altogether, a dangerous man. He’s known it all this time.

Still, Flayon tries to spin it into something much nicer than it is, masking his turmoil with a shaky laugh. “You mean you feel the same way, right?”

Instead of answering, Hakka crouches down, taking time to press dappled cuts into the little petals. “Do you know the meaning of these flowers?” he asks, as if Flayon cares about flowers when he’s just revealed he’s dying. Hakka is many things, but he’s not a liar.

He does not know why Hakka keeps his nails so sharp, so long they could nearly be talons. It seems like such an obvious hazard.

He has never tried to ask. Something else has always grabbed his attention first. It’s always been something he assumed he could get to some other day. He thought they’d have time to pretend for a little longer. He knew that he knew– that they both knew. He knew, but he did not want to know.

To be more precise, he did not quite know for sure because he never wanted to confirm it, but Hakka’s behaviour is a damning confirmation of its own. Damning and unwanted. 

Flayon has always been prepared for his own death. 

He has never, not quite, been ready to feel so much about anyone else’s.

“No. I thought you liked them because they were pretty. And it’s nearly your birthday, so– I don’t know. I thought it would be a nice thing to do. Coming here together. What do you mean you’re dying? Please tell me you’re joking.”

Hakka continues with his idle thumbing.

“They mean I forgive you.” Hakka exhales with a quarter of a laugh. Maybe even less than that, honestly, because it flies away in the breeze without much of a fight. It is not the kind of laugh that follows a grand old joke. “And they’re blue, yes. And very beautiful.”

They are blue, and Hakka is– yes. An annual instead of a perennial. An annual without any seeds. An annual that will die with the frost. This whole field is nothing but hundreds of thousands of reimaginations of his spirit.

It takes him back to their first meeting, the startling blue of his eyes seemed to swallow him whole. When he thinks of Hakka, the memory of that colour is quick to follow.

And he knows something, then, if he thinks there’s something to forgive, which means either he knows Flayon’s identity or he knows his no matter how much he tried to deny it to himself. Maybe both. 

It would be both, honestly, if the second is true. If Hakka truly is who he never wanted him to be, then it would have to be both.

It can’t be true, though. If it were true, then he would be like those fake cities drawn onto maps by their creators to stave off copycats. He would be their shared false memory. He would be the one caught unaware.

That explanation always made the most sense, but he didn’t want to admit it. Of course he knew, of course Flayon suspected something, but he never, not for one moment, wanted to be proven right. 

“I know you were sent to kill me,” Hakka adds, smiling like the setting sun. He looks much happier than he has any right to be. He looks light, even, as if something quite large has fallen off of his shoulders.

“You’re wrong,” Flayon blurts out, more to himself than anything. He needs to fight back with the truth he needs to see, the truth that he prefers. He needs this to be another one of his bad dreams that feels too real to be true. “I wasn’t. Why would I– Hakka, c’mon. Don’t be crazy. I’m just a mechanic, remember? What business would I have killing anyone, much less you?”

Hakka steps forward, blurring into the blue. Flayon does not follow. It is not his place to follow. Not yet.

If he truly is dying, then he deserves that much as a courtesy.

“He sent you himself, didn’t he? Our leader. You wouldn’t have agreed any other way. You hate stuff like this. Months of deep cover. Tailing ordinary people living boring lives. You never change.”

“Hakka, please,” he says again, unsure if he wants to hold out his arm towards him. If he does, he has to see his hand, like Hakka, getting smaller and smaller in his field of vision as they get further and further away from him. “I don’t understand. We just met like six months ago! You helped me find the kitchen! These people, I– I don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re not me and you. We’re Flayon and Hakka! You’re Banzoin Hakka, born April 21st, remember? That’s not–”

Hakka turns around, the light burning his whole outline a garish shade of white. The sun is his spotlight, and Flayon truly, truly feels like this will kill him. No poison has ever compared to this, not even the first bottle he gulped up as a youth to build up some facsimile of foolish immunity.

Back then, the young clinician held back his hair and chided him for his rash behaviour. You can’t build up a tolerance to everything.

He did not see his face. They were never allowed to see each other, to compromise each other, but he remembers how it felt. There was a hand on his forehead and a voice in his ear, and it crackled as it came out, frosty, another invisible presence lingering inside his sacred universe.

Hakka’s eyes swallow up the sky, burning an even fiercer shade of blue. 

It was the closest, before now, that he had ever gotten to having a friend. That voice.

Flayon does remember of course, the memory faint like a fairy’s wings. Translucent. It was something he tried desperately to cut away from himself. 

It made him weak. And he couldn't help himself but feel that way, which meant that weakness was intrinsic. It was a part of him, and it would not do to be so nakedly weak.

“I’m Hakka, yes, but I’m also Blue. April. Whatever name you want to use. They are all me.”

He has realised now, perhaps, that it is not duty which makes a world beautiful. Hakka has taught him that. Even when he tried his hardest to forget, he has once again reminded him.

This great and terrifying place, the unpredictable world outside the Organisation’s comforting grasp, can be beautiful too if there are beautiful people inside it. And there are. There are people strewn like snowdrops who fight to survive through the cold.

There are people like Hakka.

These flowers suit him perfectly, he decides, as does the whole season of spring. He is another one of the nemophilas.

The wash of blue reminds him of happier moments. Healing. Care that extended beyond routine maintenance.

“I thought you died already. That’s what they told me. You died on a mission in the sea, and that’s why they–” Flayon pauses, clearing his throat. The petals seem to bob like ripples in the wind. “That’s why they could never recover your body. I asked, you know. I tried to look.”

Now that he’s unshackled love from its bonds, there are other emotions that flood past too, free for the first time in years. There’s a lot that you cannot safely acknowledge in their line of work. You just have to pretend you both cannot see it, maintaining a safe distance between everything.

“Ah. I shouldn’t have told you, then.”

“What? Why? You want to die without letting anyone know? You want me to kill you? I don’t understand.”

It comes off him in waves– his grief, his venom, sadness to rival the sea. He wasn’t going to assassinate him, not really, having abandoned the killing part of the mission long ago, but he does understand now. Yes, insider information would be exactly how he still manages to pose a threat. Yes, he should kill him– on paper, anyway, it makes sense– or leave him to die, whichever leaves less evidence behind, but he doesn't want to.

Fuck. He really, really does not want to.

It’s pathetic. Flayon could never fully quash his desires.

There it is again. His weakness. He supposes he never lost it in the first place, merely burying it under bigger and bigger rocks until it could barely move, but it did not die.

Hakka shrugs. He would never have made it very far anyway, so Flayon let him walk as much as he pleased while they talked. He has never been capable of much, which is a sickening reminder of his reality. “Now you have to mourn me twice. You’ve turned into a fine young man, you know. You grew up so well.”

He does not want to think about it. The years they grew together. The ones that separated them. The future, inevitable ones where they’ll be forever apart.

“Shut up. Don’t say that! Don't say that while looking so sad. What if I don’t kill you? What if I– I could lie, you know.”

“You? Lie? I can't make you do that.” Hakka laughs to himself as if privy to some private joke. It makes his heart lurch, the whole of it threatening to spill overboard. “Why do you think they let me go?”

“I don’t know. Because you were a good agent? Because you weren’t a threat? Because you wanted to quietly retire and you earned your time, so they let you?”

“They sent you after me as a contingency. What did you tell them? That I was so frail that you’d take me down without much trouble? That I go out barely twice a week? Why do you think they sent you here now?”

“Because you’re…”

“I won’t be a problem for very long. I’ve lived a nice life here, Flay. It’s been a good few years. I’ve been happy.”

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Flayon surges up to meet him, and they stand side by side once more surrounded by an ocean of petals. The whole world is blooming all at once, and its main colour is blue. 

That is the world and everything inside it. Blue. Him. The two of them.

“Can I stay with you at least?” The words are barely above a whisper. “I want to see this through till the end.”

“For the mission?”

“For you.”

The world is unfair. Beautiful, yes, but deeply unfair.

“I do, you know. Feel the same way.”

“I know.” Flayon does not quite cry, but he comes quite close. “I didn't want to believe that either.”

When Hakka looks back at him, Flayon can practically feel the icy water crawl up his ankles. The chill is a new type of burning. It brings him back to simpler times, to winter days spent sharing one pair of gloves, holding hands inside his pocket to keep the other ones warm. It brings him back to his first solo mission, the voice offering a tiny comfort as it patched up his wounds.

It’s cruel, showing him this new life before tearing it down. There is no petty rebellion that can save them from the ticking clock.

What was it they said? P-1 and Blue, Pinocchio and his Blue Fairy, as inseparable as they could be while following orders like two little imprinted puppies. Hierarchy and order have always been paramount, but they still found little cracks within which they could live. Even without seeing each other, without knowing each other, they still had that little scrap of knowledge. Someone was there with you. Someone cares.

Back then he hated it, burning with shame at being so obvious, so transparent that anyone could see just how weak he was, but now he sees how well it fits. Love does that to you. It gives you life. It makes you just as strong as it does weak.

Hakka is a smear of purple in a sea of blue, but he is also the ocean itself. He is here where he belongs, surrounded by his namesake. He is the beauty of the unrestrained world, and he could never exist anywhere else.

“Welcome home,” Flayon finally says, shaking off the thought. Would a kiss be too much? Would he be asking for more than he deserves?

Hakka laughs and the sound bubbles up between them. The frost subsides momentarily, replaced by sunshine and foam.

“I’m home.”