Archive of Our Own ^beta

It all starts in one night.

It’s because of the dark cloak of night that he almost overlooks the cursed thing lying leaning against the stairs. Hidden behind the quartz and crystal, a figure sits curled up on itself, shielding its head and drawing its knees together side by side. He almost ignores it, ready to go on his way and return to his home at a brisk jog, but a premonition pop into his head that seems to pull him towards the figure, as if God is nudging him to find out what that was.

And so he does.

His legs carry him in front of him. His footsteps are light, making no sound at all, but that doesn't stop the figure from rolling over on itself. The thing wakes up from its heavy daze and tries to lift its head from its position, but fails miserably at the last moment, only managing to bang its head against its arms. It nods its head against its arms and tries a second time, this time with much more success. It turns to look at him, slowly, languidly opening its eyelids, batting its long, thick lashes to reveal an amethyst purple eye. The eyelids look tired to the naked eye, as if they haven't had a moment's peace or rest in a long, long time.

No longer hidden behind its eyelids, he can see them—a vivid amethyst eyes filled with a cloud of contempt pierce him with its gaze, as if it could extinguish him using sheer force until there is nothing left to cry about.

He may be alienated from all the other masters, not the least bit interested in their gravelly, ungratifying voices and spending more time than necessary with them generates unprecedented acute stress, but even someone like him who is a recluse—he can say he has never seen this person in his life, not even in passing. He's about to let it go, go on his way and forget he ever saw it, but he looks down and there he sees him, a pair of unworn, gleaming golden boots. They gleam against the waning moonlight, something the boots of already positioned Masters do not do.

His eyes twitch a little as his mind conjures up a possible answer, realizing what he is seeing, or rather, who he is seeing, a parkour pro, or a former one. It's been years since he rose through the ranks to become a master, and he hasn't seen a parkour pro since. He has no reason to, not with how uninteresting they are. It's been a while since anyone has moved up in rank, the only other person he knows who has done so is someone nameless wearing a crown.

How did a parkour pro manage to rank up, with how bad they naturally suck at parkour? A pro is not much different from a noob, no matter how hard you try to make it look like gold, an imitation will be just that, an imitation.

Suddenly, the cursed thing stands up, its white robe slipping down and covering its knees, and steadies itself on its two legs. It is a little off balance, staggering as he tries to regain its bearings; he tries to take a step towards him, but stumbles backwards at the last second.

Before it falls into the void, he catches it and wraps an arm around its waist. The thing just sits there, completely limp, its weight being held only by his arm. It's surprisingly thin, a light weight, not at all tiring for him to be holding it. Hasn't it eaten anything?

He is tempted to drop it, taking it back to where it belongs. But—

He hears a growl. His hand tenses a little as fingernails dig into the gold of his armor. They scratch and scratch that, if they were just a little sharper, he is sure they would leave marks. His mouth hangs open as he lets out more snarls, his pearly teeth reflecting the moonlight.

Again, the eyes it carries are the most striking thing about the wretched thing.

Those striking amethyst eyes are glowing with barely contained anger, but he quickly realizes that he is not the recipient of such rage. It's not a simple rage, like the kind you get when you run out of food for parkour, a rage as simple as that is not worthy of mention, a grudge only belonging to those who wear leather boots; it's a hatred, hurt, aggrieved, it's the hatred you get when a serious offense has been committed to you. It is the kind of hatred towards someone who has attempted against your very existence, who has sought to purge you.

Who has taken everything from you until you were left with nothing.

It looks feral.

For the first time in a long time, he feels his blood pump.

He takes it back to his home.

The cursed thing can't walk, it stumbles over its own feet and that surge of energy it had when clinging to his armor was a one-time thing, so he lifts it up keeping one arm against its back and another holding its legs: a bridal carry. Holding him in her arms, he can corroborate that it weighs nothing, there's not a muscle in his body, it's something... alarming, but that only makes it easier for hiim to carry it back home. Sure, he had to manage to use the water bucket while carrying a dead weight in his arms, but he managed.

He leaves him sitting on his bed while he goes to look for the golden carrots in his chest. When he returns, he finds him lying down while breathing heavily, so he puts a hand behind his back to steady him. He places the tip of the carrot kissing its lips and opens its mouth lunging for the first bite. Each time he manages to take a bite he shoves the carrot further down his throat. But when it is about to finish the second carrot, it closes its mouth, almost biting his fingers off.

That won't work. You can say it has gone days without a bite. A mere two golden carrots won't fill it up. He puts two fingers up its nose, preventing it from breathing, and when it opens its mouth, looking for the oxygen it so desperately needs, he shoves the carrot in. It refuses to chew, but he puts a hand on his jaw to force it to chew and swallow and continues until the fifth carrot is gone and he considers the thing sufficiently full.

If it were a little more aware, he idly wonders, would it feel humiliated by being forced to eat like a dog?

Having eaten to its fill, it blinks rapidly and yawns, like a cat that has feasted. It nods a little and finally surrenders to sleep, dropping to the mattress in a thud. In a rare show of compassion, one he can't recognize, he covers him with the blue sheets; it's not winter, but it's cool, and its defenses are weak, so he must cover it more than he does to himself.

When he has finally tucked it in, he stands with his back against the wall and sits cross-legged, watching his guest intently.

He doesn't sleep a wink all night.

As the rays of dawn filter through the glass, he rises from his position, his legs creaking from having stayed that way all night. He glances around and gets momentary satisfaction from seeing it still sleeping. Good. He's still not in the mood to answer questions.

He makes it all the way down; his feet keeping carefully on the surface of the glass and leaves his house to go get food. He advances at a fast sprint until he is in front of the place where they sell food. He simply goes in and pulls down the lever repeatedly until he gets enough golden carrots to get him through the next few days.

He sees the dispenser that has a sign taped to it with a piece of fresh steak.

It's good to give food that suits your guest's palate. He wants to believe.

It comes out with some golden carrots, some apples and beef fillets.

When he leaves the place, an hour has already passed. He can't help but marvel at the rapid passage of time, he simply went for food and already wasted an hour in which he could have practiced to climb the ranks and become the champion, but beings like him and that one he brought home need to eat to sprint and do parkour. A pity.

He disconnects from his mind and makes his way back home. He climbs the same stairs where he encountered the strange being and descends to the top with his water bucket. He descends the stairs and finds that the thing has finally awakened. It nods back and forth and its eyes are wide and expectant studying everything, even the microscopic details. But at the sight of him it expression sours before he covers it with a placid and serene, if vacant, smile; if he weren't so attentive to the smallest details, he'd think it was a trick of light, but he knows what he saw.

And isn't that curious? It's the first time he's seen this one, what did he do to make it hate him?

"Come," he calls, "you must be hungry. Let's go to the dining room."

As such, the Masters' houses have no dining room included, they simply have a living room, a sleeping room and a small garden with what little life is left in Parkour Civilization, but you can always get more stuff by doing parkour, so expanding his house wasn't a big deal.

He heads into the dining room, the other follows close behind, and lets his lips curl upward when the other isn't falling through the glass, but keeps a light, smooth stride: someone who knows how to parkour, or well, at least better than a mere pro.

He starts to prepare everything. The first thing he does is to preheat the oven, and while it heats up, he browns the veal in butter, giving it a couple of minutes on each side. When the oven is ready, in a bowl puts the meat, the butter left in the pan, some onions, a spoonful of olive oil and enough salt and pepper to season.

He takes it off the stove with a pair of gloves protecting his hands and lets the juices circulate and settle. Cutting the apples into slices and removing their skins, he roasts them in the pan with a little butter and, when they are sufficiently roasted, he adds the candied onions to brown them and give them a better appearance.

Cooking is a learned skill, different from parkour. One must always be attentive, taking diligent care that the food is not overcooked or burnt. Add just the right amount of spices to accentuate the flavor and know how to accompany the main dish. In Parkour Civilization, many do not see the value of such a skill — what's the point, if you can always order more golden carrots, the most stomach-fulfilling food? But he doesn't think so, eating the same thing all the time just makes you want to throw up, so he's grateful that whoever was the Champion added more food to the options.

Cut the beef into slices and it is ready to serve. He grabs two medium sized plates and puts the beef slices and fried apples on both of them, serves a little more portion on his guest's plate. They both sit on opposite sides and start eating. When it doesn't pay attention to him, he can afford to study it.

The thing he brought into her home is quite beautiful, dazzling even. The amethyst purple of its eyes resemble exquisite gemstones being obscured by long, thick lashes that open and close in an enticing way; its dark hair with purple highlights reaches to its shoulders covering them like a curtain, longer than he expected, but still comfortable enough to care for; and the gold of its jewelry only accentuates its beauty, not enough to dazzle, just something to complement.

Now—what is this? He thought it was just another parkour pro who managed to snake his way to the top, but just by looking at how this one is dressed, he can tell that's not the case; they can't afford such luxuries as gold jewelry; their parkour jumps aren't enough to pay for such luxury. Besides, they are not as nice to look at as his guest. That leads to point two, if it's good enough to move up the ranks, how did it end up in the state he found him in? The building where the food is is a bit far from the houses, but he would eventually find it. He doesn't even have to parkour to get food.

(When he becomes Champion, it will be one of the first things that will change. If you can't do Parkour to save your life, or to get a piece of bread—then you don't even deserve to be in Parkour Civilization).

Unaware of his ramblings, his guest eagerly digs into its plate. It puts it all in its mouth without letting a single crumb spill, as if fearing that if it doesn't eat it fast enough — the food will be snatched away from it.

He tries to start a conversation to fill the place with more than the sound of knives and forks breaking meat, his tone of voice measured, "What's your name?"

The stranger stands quietly looking at him for a moment, its cheeks a bit puffy chewing the food, its lips slightly wet from the juices of the meat exploding on its tongue, but finally it muses, as if not wanting to respond, but having the decency to extend the same kindness its rescuer extended to it, "Seawatt."

Sea—watt, he thinks, is a intriguing name.

"So, Seawatt," rolls the name on his tongue, "congratulations for ranking up.”

Seawatt stops eating, the fork holding a piece of meat hovering in the air. Its eyes are conflicted, sunken, like a child who can no longer cry. Shouldn't it be happy? It managed to move up and be better, he would be happy, thrilled even, to see a larger world than he initially thought.

Nevertheless, as if nothing had happened, it continues to eat, "thank you," it blurts out. Although it continues to eat, he can tell that it has lost its appetite, however, it is aware that it won't get very far if doesn't fill its stomach.

He follows it example.

When they finish eating, they both get ready to wash the dishes. They go into a pleasant trance, scrubbing the plate in circles with the soft surface of the sponge, the water running into the crevices of his armor. He feels a glare on his head and when he turns around, he sees the other casting sidelong glances at him, those ever-studious amethyst eyes, but it realizes that he noticed and stops suddenly.

When they finish washing the dishes, they remain in an abrasive silence. The other because doesn't know how to break it without making it more uncomfortable than it really is, and he because he simply doesn't want to. He enjoys these silences. Listening to each other's voices is exhausting.

(However, he would not mind hearing more of this Seawatt's voice. Its voice is, compared to that of the other Masters, a sweet melody that pierces his ears).

Without a word, he goes into the living room deftly skipping the jumps there until he reaches the couch and sits down, the cushions sinking under his weight. His back drops until the cushions squeeze him. This Seawatt followed him, but stares at him, as if it wants to sit too, but doesn't know if it can. Its feet move sporadically to calm its anxiety; it's still weak, it's noticeable that food may have saved its life, but it's not enough to keep it afloat.

Suddenly feeling magnanimous, he says in a voice that has no feeling, "You may sit down."

His guest looks at him with surprise in its eyes that it quickly hides, as if it would not expect this stranger who has saved it to grant this small reprieve. A small, distressed sigh eslayers its lips, so low he could have imagined it, and it hurries to carefully make the jumps of a block, his feet always staying right in the middle as if he couldn't bear to risk being left on the edge. Finally, it sits all the way to the opposite side of the couch. Unlike him, it keeps its legs together and closed, as if trying to take up as little space as possible so as not to disturb him.

When he notices that his guest will not break through this layer of discomfort, it is that he ventures to say, "How did you end up like this?"

A moment of silence and he fears the other won't answer, until it does, "I got here without eating—and when I passed the test I had barely enough left to make three block jumps," a heavy pause, as if remembering those moments of hunger, "my hunger was at its peak, and then," it turns to look at him, "and then—you found me."

The last is said in a whisper. Those amethyst eyes turn to look at him: they still have a devastating hatred capable of destroying entire civilizations, but when it turns to look at him—there is another feeling that he is not able to decipher, gratitude? indebtedness? He doesn't know, and he doesn't think it matters much to know exactly what it is, it's enough to know that it exists.

Imperceptibly and unnoticed, Seawatt clenches its fists, "thank you for bringing me here, but I need to go." Its eyes are chaotic, conflicted, but at the same time so determined that he has to restrain the urge to flinch. This one has a mission, and whatever it is is related to the recipient of such hatred.

So, he won't make any pretense of stopping it. So, he replies, "Goodbye, Seawatt."

When Seawatt leaves his house, less disoriented and tired, he stands up and watches through the windows as a spot moves quickly until it disappears.

Somehow, he doesn't think this is the last time they will see each other.

He was right, it didn't take long to see him again.

He had gone out to look for more food because he wanted to try something new until he saw in the distance a person dressed in a white robe. After a moment's thought he decided to follow him to a distance where he would not be seen. He jumped those three-block jumps until the person reached the parkour training area and, after a moment's hesitation, entered.

He thought about it for a moment: should he go in with Seawatt or not? Maybe that person wasn't even Seawatt, but he knows the Masters, none of them wear the same kind of clothes that his temporary guest wore. Finally, he decides to enter, and what he sees surprises him greatly, it takes the breath out of his lungs and makes him blink rapidly to verify that what he sees is not an illusion.

Brewing Stands.

Seawatt was standing perfectly balanced on those Brewings Stands, its hair swaying gently in the wind as it leaps backwards towards the other Brewing Stand, achieving a clean, effortless leap. When it manages to make that jump it's as if a weight is lifted off its shoulders, it closes its amethyst eyes, its shoulders relax and lets out a sigh so soft it's carried away by the wind.

The knight is so enraptured that he is unaware of his own movements, as he approaches at a slow, leisurely pace, as if in a trance, towards Seawatt. As he approaches, he recognizes all its features: its thick dark eyelashes, its shoulder-length hair mixed with purple strands and that totemic turtle necklace that reaches down to its chest, as well as the white robe it wears to dress. He is so engrossed that he doesn't stop his steps until he is in front of it, and that's when the other notices his presence and bristles, its legs ready to run at the first chance of danger.

When the knight comes out of that state, it is that he clears his throat, his throat feeling suddenly dry and forces the words out, "we meet again, Seawatt."

Seeing him and recognizing his features, his manner of dress, is that Seawatt relaxes, not completely, but it is noticeable. Will it feel comfortable with him? He doesn't think so, but as the person who saved it from dying—there is a kind of gratitude, like that felt by a wounded animal that has been saved by the grace of God.

"...Nice to see you again, knight," is what Seawatt says.

Knight, he can't help but be amused, there is a hint of a smile that paints his lips at the use of that name; if it were anyone else—he would challenge them to a parkour battle at such disrespect, but since it is Seawatt who uses it, he will allow it.

After a moment in which no one says anything, is that he asks, "what's that?" his gaze turns to the Brewing Stands: he already knows the answer, he just wants to hear what Seawatt will tell him.

Seawatt wets its lips with his tongue and opens its mouth, ready to say something, but quickly closes it, regretting it, a moment later it does it again and replies, "Brewing Stands."

"How did you get them?" This is a genuine question: there is no way to get Brewing Stand on the Masters layer, the old man hasn't put them in the store and, judging by his strange behavior, he won't be doing so anytime soon.

"...I got them at my home."

Hmm. "In the Pros layer?"

No response.

Suddenly, a layer of tension covers them both, so heavy it could be cut with a knife. Again, a conflicted expression paints Seawatt's features, its eyes sunken and resentful. He has upset it.

Seawatt removes the brewing stands from the ground and puts them back in its inventory, and as it is about to move forward to leave the site, he finds himself saying, "Want to practice parkour?"

Seawatt looks sideways at him, those amethyst eyes are expressive enough on their own. Its mouth is slightly open in a surprised expression that it quickly closes. It licks its lips. Its feet tap the ground in a slow rhythm. There is hesitation that flashes in its eyes, as if it is unsure of what to respond.

He says yes.

(After finishing the parkour practice with Seawatt and watching it walk away in the opposite direction, he allows himself to return home. As he enters his house, he feels dizzy, full of ecstasy and excitement. As night falls and the blanket of stars and darkness covers the sky, the excitement lingers in his mood, in his mind, pumping in his blood and clouding his senses. The thrill persists throughout the night, no matter how much he tosses and turns in the sheets or covers his eyes with one arm, he can't sleep, he ends up more awake than when he started.

His palms are sweaty and clammy to the touch, and there is a heat on his face that obscures it.

He’s hungry for more. To practice with Seawatt. To be with Seawatt.

Seawatt. Seawatt. Seawatt—)

A routine is created.

Every day, he and Seawatt meet at the training grounds, and every day they train until the golden boots squeeze his feet and he feels a pain when he takes a jump that is too long. He has noticed a significant improvement in his already noticeable skills; his steps are lighter and his center of gravity more controlled. Also, Seawatt's skills are nothing to laugh at, if challenged to a parkour battle, he will have a high chance of survival.

It is in those moments where they finish training and sit on the quartz, with their feet stepping out of the white expanse and kicking at the void, that they talk about little and nothing: how the food the old champion adds tastes, the new blocks that appear in the store and little anecdotes that occur to them. He finds himself saying more than he expected, but just the same, Seawatt says a lot, fills in those gaps when the knight’s throat has grown tired of spitting out words and he comes across as much more comfortable.

He never expected to reach that level of comfort with anyone, ever. He has always secluded himself, choosing to better himself on his own without allowing himself in the company of his peers, it's better to be alone than in bad company. But with Seawatt it's different, everything is different, and he finds himself discovering dumbfounded that it doesn't bother him, not one bit.

They are telling stories until they get to the knight's backstory. He simply tells of how he showed up one day in the noob’s layer — this he tells with a feeling of horror and disgust — and decided to rise through the ranks of Parkour Civilization. How much he struggled to get to where he was and how fate gave him back everything he gave and with interest. He mentions how, in a strange and implausible way, there is a hole in his mind that no matter how hard he tries to fill he cannot. He is missing memories, as if someone has tampered with them.

(At that information, Seawatt watched him with wide eyes, his breath held in his throat. That expression of sheer shock suited the shorter one, but if only it was caused by him.)

"So where did you come from?" It's a very similar question to the one he asked him the other time, the difference being that, at that time, Seawatt was unaware of who he was, his position and ability. He didn't know the knight as intimately, as humanly, as he does now. This time is different. "If you want to answer." The last comes out as an afterthought. He offers him a way out, a way to end the conversation, to run away if he doesn't want to answer. For Seawatt. Only if it's Seawatt.

Seawatt does not take it.

A tongue darts out to lick a chapped lower lip and Seawatt begins.

"I come from the Fighters' layer," he says, and hastens to add, fearing that his companion will cut him off at any moment for daring to say such nonsense, "a layer that serves—served as a bridge between the Pros and the Masters. I come from there."

Seawatt holds his hands together in a gesture of comfort, and the knight for a moment thinks about holding his hands and rubbing soothing circles, but in what he has come to know the other—that would kill his pride, and pride is all he has left, so he doesn't.

"It was a beautiful layer, my home. I didn't spawn there one day, no, I was born in Parkour Civilization thanks to my parents," his expressive eyes take on a tinge of longing, of yearning, "from a very young age I started learning the art of parkour, and I practiced every day hoping to rank up, but I found myself procrastinating. I didn't want to leave. It was my home, there was my family, my friends, my neighbors—we all knew each other."

Out of the corner of his eye he watches as Seawatt hugs himself and digs his fingernails into his arms. He is livid.

"The old man," he spits out the name so contemptuously that he has to restrain the impulse to shiver, "decided we were an obstacle to his grand plan. Can you believe it? For a man decided that my layer, my parents were nothing, no better even than the dirt scraping his diamond boots. With the command block he erased the layer, but before the action was finalized I completed the course to rank up. It was supposed to delete the memories of all so that no one will learn of his misdeed, but you will be surprised that the potions work very well."

He inhales and exhales, has stopped burying his fingernails in his arms, but his body exudes turmoil, "and I got here. I barely had enough left for three block jumps, my hunger was at its peak and I was resigned to die, but you—you," Seawatt finally turns to look at him, his eyes containing myriads of feelings, "you saved me."

He offers a soft smile, the slightest curve of lip, it is so startling and so out of the state of emotion his companion is in that it cuts through him like a bolt of lightning.

The conversation continues. Seawatt tells him what his parents were like, how his mother played at finding him behind the sandstone blocks, how his father would play a music disc on the jukebox for the little family to dance to. He tells him how his neighbor catalogued the stars and taught him to identify them with a telescope. He tells him about his self-conscious friend who hated everyone's presence but his own. Carnivals, festivals, celebrations, how Seawatt's birthdays were celebrated by the whole neighborhood for being the only one born in Parkour Civilization, a token of hope. He even tells him how he saw out of the corner of his eye a jester practicing parkour on his later, who he later came to learn was the friend the old man condemned.

Seawatt tells him stories of a layer that no longer exists.

It is a matter of whether the knight chooses to believe him. Everything he has heard may be the ravings of a madman, someone who is no longer mentally well. He may have imagined it all since there is no evidence to back up his claim—the Brewing Stands he may have gotten from the Pros layer. It may be that everything he has heard is an elaborate and complicated lie. If he said all that in the presence of anyone else, he would be repudiated for such slander towards someone as loved and respected as the old man is.

He can doubt him, ignore it and walk away.

But...

It is when Seawatt has bared his beating heart for the knight to inspect with scrutinizing eyes, that he can see the magnitude of Seawatt's feelings: the longing for something that will never return, the anger at such a display of grievance, the sadness at the loss... the knight sees it all—and he—

He believes him.

"When I become the Champion, when I dethrone the old man and remove him from his golden throne—- then I will restore your home."

Finally, he thinks, the day has come.

He takes a heavy step, his golden boots reflect the sunlight, the gold inlays — Seawatt inlays — tinkling with each step. Each leap is calculated before he takes it, the crystal stairs lead him to the highest building in Parkour Civilization, to the Champion's throne.

The day has come where he challenges the old man.

As he takes the last step and the quartz welcomes him, he allows himself to reflect. How much had he sacrificed for this moment? How many days and nights training and jumping until he got blisters on his feet? How long had he put it off for fear of losing? He had always been good at Parkour, but one doubt gnawed at him: what if it wasn't enough? What if his parkour wasn't good enough? If he lost to the old man and had to see his wrinkled face again—he thought he would die of mortification. But this is not just his doing, no, because now someone is relying on him to get the old man out of his reign. Seawatt, who has made a place for himself in his ribs, trusts him to execute his long-awaited revenge, and he will not fail, he cannot, he must not.

Before he can announce his arrival, a slow, raspy voice is heard coming from the throne, "What is the reason for your visit, my son?

The knight is disgusted beyond words, how dare he, how dare he, act so jovially, after all the wrongs and crimes he has committed. To remove one layer, just to imprison one man. Don't misunderstand, he is not aggrieved by the loss of the Fighters, he didn't know them, but he cares about them because Seawatt cares about them.

He takes a deep breath, not wanting the anger and disgust he feels to cloud his judgment and intones in a low, raspy voice, "to challenge you for the throne of champion."

The old man is unusually quiet, nothing is heard, not a sound comes from his lips. Finally, he replies, "Very well."

He has finally stopped hiding in his throne and is approaching the knight. His diamond boots reflect the sunlight and dazzle his eyes. A sneer covers his face covered by the shadow of his armor. The old man is no great beauty on his own, he seems to have seen better days, how can someone so old and senile be trusted to rule a civilization? He cannot understand how the other Masters respect him.

"Come," the champion calls to him, holding in his hand a bucket of water, "Let’s go to the arena." And he jumps.

The knight follows.

The arena is nothing impressive on its own, a simple small arena with several seats. A show place it is supposed to be. A suitable place to eliminate the old man.

The knight has several blocks: wood blocks, fences, flowerpots and ice blocks; he spent months waiting for this moment, waiting for them at the bottom of his chest until he pretended they didn't exist, but not anymore.

As the one challenging the old man, he is the first to launch his attack. A simple three-block attack. He is playing safe and saving his blocks for the future. To his eternal annoyance, the old man completes the leap with great skill, a sharp blow against the wood and the knight's leap disappears.

The old man says nothing. He looks relaxed, as if he is not in a duel for his throne, the knight feels aggrieved, is it not enough of a challenge for him? Does he not feel threatened in the least by his presence?

Seawatt's voice telling him not to be rash fades to the back of his mind. The old man launches an attack: a four-block jump. He rushes to complete it only to realize to his horror that he misses. A four-block jump! And he misses! How is that possible? He, who trained hard until his feet blistered, missed a jump as simple as that. A sense of shame and mortification fills him, he grits his teeth, his jaw tense.

What followed was a total and complete humiliation. Every jump the Champion made against him was flawed on his part. He could do nothing to prevent the outcome. And it is then, when black begins to appear at the edge of his eyes, an imminent death, that....

Forgive me, Seawatt, is the last thing he thinks before the Parkour God takes him away.

He closes his eyes.

A moment later he opens them again to see that he is in his room lying on his bed. He hears the quick footsteps of someone climbing the glass staircase to get to his room. A gasp sounds in the air and there he sees him.

Seawatt looks beautiful, glowing in the lamplight. A smile paints his lips before he realizes the situation he is in. Seawatt looks at him, there is relief in his eyes, but when he turns down at his golden boots, it is that his eyes widen comically, greatly. He blinks once, twice, as if to check that it's a simple trick of light, but no, he's still wearing gold boots. It's as if he's been punched: he staggers and covers his mouth with one hand, as if he wants to vomit, but swallows the sensation.

Even then, Seawatt wants to ask him directly, to give him a chance to explain himself, to explain his failure of ability, of uselessness. So, he opens his mouth and:

"...Did you lose?" Seawatt asks pettily. For the knight Seawatt has always been small, but now he looks smaller. He shrinks in on himself, as if wanting to disappear.

He remains unusually still. He certainly doesn't know what to answer to that. What can he offer to the other than flowery words? He can't say I got distracted, the sun dazzled me or something like that, it's too stupid and he already imagines Seawatt's reply. An I'm sorry gets stuck in his throat almost choking him because he knows for a fact how much Seawatt waited for this moment only for him to ruin it, but there's no use in an apology if it doesn't fix anything.

He has never felt so humiliated.

Seawatt is shaking.

They don't talk about it.

Seawatt acts like none of that happened, and the Knight is very good at playing dumb. They are liars, it would be true of them, they are liars, they know it, and they don't try to disguise it. When the subject of the Knight's failure to defeat the old man is no longer interesting, they regain the familiarity they once had.

(The knight is a fool, foolish man.

Seawatt really hoped he could defeat him, all those promises, those oaths—meant nothing, he realizes foolishly and belatedly. The knight was said to be the one who did Parkour best in the Masters layer, Seawatt would know, he spent time gathering that information. Maybe Seawatt wouldn't like being around other people (fear that they'd be taken from him too, a part of his mind he didn't recognize whispered), but he knew power and talent when he saw it, and the knight had it in spades.

He nurtured for a long time that fantasy that the knight had about him, hoping that with it he could convince him to defeat the old man. He was pleasantly surprised when the knight stated that he also hated the old man. They could agree on that, he could work with that.

And then—then—he found himself longing for the knight's company. He was the only one who treated him as someone, not something, the other Masters looked at him like the dirt scraping their golden boots. But the knight did not, despite his reluctance, believe he could trust the knight.

And when the long-awaited day came—all his hopes withered. The higher one flies the more painful the fall is.

"I'm sorry," he finds himself saying, feeling weak in the knees, tremors take over his body, why is he apologizing? He's not the one who failed. "Just—give me a minute."

He got out of there before the knight could say anything, but he could see how he reached out his hand to comfort him. Seawatt didn't need his sympathy, he needed a result.)

A few days after the battle, everything is back to normal, the knight continues to practice Parkour and Seawatt continues his routine. It's as if the battle (the attempt to) never happened. Both are content to pretend it never happened and move on.

But... Seawatt notes after a while, the knight is not quite right. It's not that he's never been normal, he's always been a bit eccentric, it's just that he's weirder than usual. When he wakes up, the first thing his companion does apart from serving him food is practice parkour in his small garden. He's had new jumps made for him: of ice blocks, fences, even a weird five-block one. The garden that was once his safe place has now become the reminder that, come what may, it's all going to be parkour.

One day, the knight doesn't come home, more time has passed than usual and he hasn't returned, nor has he been seen in the vicinity. Seawatt is not worried at all. He has a feeling that gets on his nerves, that urges him to pull all those jingling jewels that the knight gave him and throw them into the void.

Seawatt remembers: the knight went out to the store to get more food, and came back with food, but there was a strange air around him. His hand seemed to be holding something, something Seawatt could not see, and under the shadows of his helmet he could see him open his mouth, to tell him something, but abruptly closed it. He said nothing, simply walked away and did not return.

What if he abandoned him? A treacherous voice whispers in his ear, but he doesn't even pay the slightest attention to it, the knight would never willingly abandon him, at least he can rely on that.

And then, a sound is heard, Seawatt waits a moment ready to fight, the wooden block in hand ready to be placed, but when he recognizes the appearance in front of him he stops in his tracks. It is the knight, imposing as always, but there is something different about him. He examines him: he still wears his golden helmet and golden armor, his cloak is still blood red, like wine, but as he lowers his eyes he immediately understands.

Seawatt sees the tinkling diamond boots the knight has. Made of the purest and neatest diamond, they stand out in the room, when the light spills on them they leave reflections of light that spread over his eyes. Seeing that, he feels a strange sensation on his face, when he puts his hands to his lips he feels it—an ear to ear smile plastered on his face. His eyes tremble and he has to close them repeatedly to keep the tears from spilling over his cheeks.

The knight opens his arms. Seawatt invites himself.

As he is pressed against his Champion's chest, he can only think that, finally, he will never have to see the old man's disgusting face again. His grudge was complete.

It's been a few days since he's been crowned the Champion and much remains the same. There's a list of changes he's planning to implement, along with changes Seawatt wants, but first—he wants to do this. It's important, at least to him.

A sound of footsteps announces the arrival of someone, the only person who can access here besides him. He rises from his throne and turns to that person. Seawatt is there, behind his throne; he stares at everything, his amethyst eyes studying everything, even the microscopic details.

The Champion opens his arms, but makes no pretense of approaching him, "You have arrived," he says, "I have to show you something."

The other looks at him with an annoyed and irritated expression, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed. He slowly approaches until he is closer to the throne, but not close enough to reach it if he were to run. Good.

Seawatt has developed more confidence with him. He used to play gentle and calm, a smile always present and not looking to cause trouble, even though it will kill his pride, all to go unnoticed and dethrone the old man. But since the knight and he became close, he allows himself to let emotions paint his face. Seeing Seawatt's real emotions—is one of the things he looks forward to most in the world.

"And that something," Seawatt repeats, his frown not going away, "involves summoning me to the Champion's throne in the middle of the night?"

He smiles sharply, his pearly teeth reflecting the silver moonlight, and he stands on top of the command blocks and commands the world to bend to his will. There is no sound or movement to announce that his wish has been fulfilled, but he knows it happened, it always happens.

Seawatt stares at him with narrowed eyes, as if he is going crazy. Slowly he approaches him. It is in this state of confusion that Seawatt is in that he takes the opportunity to retreat, and when the last block of quartz is preventing him from falling into the void straight to his death, he retreats further until there is no quartz under his feet.

Seawatt opens his eyes, shocked beyond reason, the realization hits him full in the face to give way to a despair that no other living being has felt. His slow steps become quick as he extends an arm. But it is slow, or he too fast, and it does not stop him from walking to his certain death.

Except that he doesn't fall. He is seemingly floating, the Masters layer below him. Seawatt is dumbfounded, his breathing labored as he blinks rapidly. With one hand he clutches at the cloth in his chest area as he looks at it in dismay, worried and deceived.

"Why aren't you falling?" Seawatt asks after a moment of silence, his brow furrowed as confusion is evident on his face. "Why—are you floating, is it potions?"

His smile lingers as he extends a hand toward Seawatt, "why don't you come find out?"

Those bright amethyst eyes look at him with feelings too complicated to understand. Once again, he looks at him as if he's gone crazy. Seawatt lets out a nervous chuckle before he suffocates him, grabs a purple strand of his half-length hair and looks at him sharply, coldly, "For what, to die?"

"To dance," corrects the now Champion, "just—come here." And to prove his point, he moves one, two steps, the platform is big enough to move freely, he had special emphasis on ordering it to the command blocks.

There is a moment of hesitation in Seawatt's movement, as he approaches the edge of the visible quartz and stares at the invisible blocks, as the entire citadel of the Masters comes into view from the Champion's throne. His eyes linger on the offered hand, hesitating to move any closer, his survival instinct warning him not to, that it's dangerous, he didn't come all this way just to die naively like that. Nevertheless, he finally does. His steps are quick, as if he's taking advantage of the momentum to keep from falling, and he grips the Champion's hand so tightly that he fears his arm will be torn off.

The Champion greets the pain, the burning, with a blunt, burning satisfaction, pumping through his veins, and draws Seawatt into a fierce grip. His hand finds itself holding Seawatt's waist in a way he knows will leave marks in the shape of his fingerprints.

Seawatt shudders slightly but makes no move to break away. They stay like that for a few minutes, the time that Seawatt uses to calm down. When he notices that his companion has calmed down enough, is he, still with his hand on Seawatt's waist, puts his other hand on his back, instinctively Seawatt wraps his arms around the knight's neck, making his arms rest on the Champion's shoulders. He is still nervous, but he trusts him.

(Such a token of loyalty—)

So, they start, one step at a time, when one moves the other does the same. It takes a few minutes before they manage to coordinate. Unnoticed, Seawatt begins to intone a meaningless tune, soft, harmonious, one that the Champion had never heard before in his entire life.

(He wonders if that tune came from the Fighters' layer, if it was sung to Seawatt when he was just a little boy, another thing he lost.)

Round and round they went slowly, the glare of the stars on the Champion's throne unfocused and focused at varying intervals, the moon illuminating them with its dim, silvery light. The world beneath his feet seemed too small and far away, or they were too big for it. Whichever way it was, a difference was noticeable.

He doesn't know at what moment it happens, but after listening to that tune for a while, he begins to imitate it; his voice is deeper than Seawatt's, and he has never been very vocal, but he wants-for the first time in his life—to share this moment with Seawatt. He has never felt what he feels for Seawatt the way he feels for another human being. Since he met him and without having planned it, he has changed his life. From his appearance, his manner, his wit—everything is dazzling. There's no use denying it when it's all so obvious.

He is so happy, so satisfied, that a smile paints his lips. His white canines gleaming like knives show his mood. He is careful to intone the song in the right rhythm and tone, not wanting to ruin this.

Seawatt looks beautiful, dazzling even the stars themselves. There's an ear-to-ear smile on the face of his right hand. He looks absolutely happy, dare he say blissful even, his narrowed eyes bright and his breathing ragged. Round and round it all comes down to Seawatt and his voice, his face, his lips, his eyes.

Seawatt. Seawatt. Seawatt.

After being in this dance for a while, the Champion noticing that Seawatt's steps are less coordinated, he puts an end to the dance. He wraps an arm around Seawatt's waist and bends him down, making his face look directly at the stars. The Champion brings his foreheads together as the hot air blows in his face.

With his heart pounding in his ears, his face hot, is that he realizes—he wants to see more of that kind of expression on Seawatt's face.

Seawatt's hair is longer than ever. Reaching down to his lower back, two small braids, one on the left side and one on the right, tie and hold his hair in place, the amethyst purple and inky black colors intertwining and blending perfectly.

It's been a few months since his partner was crowned as the Champion. Many changes have been implemented as part of his new mandate, such as implementing daily tasks in the pros' layer to keep civilization going, or removing the sprint for noobs, and none of them must be especially smart to realize that inevitably, sooner rather than later, the Masters' layer will be affected as well.

Seawatt is not affected at all. Why should he be?

With her slender fingers he adjusts the golden earrings in the holes of his ears, every time he turns his head they jingle like bells.

As a way of asserting his power, the Champion organized a celebration. Despite all the changes that had taken place, the Masters did not know the Champion very well. He knew his benefactor's tendency to isolate himself. That won't do, if they don't respect the Champion then they will be more likely to try to dethrone him, and Seawatt can't have that, not with how much he waited for this moment

Looking in the mirror and taking special care, with a brush he applies kohl under his eyelashes giving them a shadow that highlights his bright amethyst eyes. He applies loose powder on his cheeks giving them a healthy blush and with another brush he applies pale lilac blush on his lips. When he deems himself ready, he adjusts the tiara on his head, the dangling crystal beads floating in his vision. He has never dressed so ostentatiously, but the Champion wants to see him dressed like this, and who is he to refuse such a request? He will appease him.

When he deems himself ready, he admires himself in the mirror: dressed in milky white silk, adorned with exotic tinkling gold jewelry and makeup painting his face—Seawatt looks lush.

Footsteps announce the arrival of a certain person. He turns to look at him with his always studious eyes.

The Champion still wears his ever-present helmet, but he opted to change his armor for a more formal costume just for this occasion, although he wears metal shoulder pads as a replacement.

He stares at him for a moment, until he moves forward and gets close enough. He is taller by half a head. He bends his head and grabs a loose amethyst strand of his hair and brings it to his lips, kissing the air above it. Seawatt is speechless, he can only stare at him. His benefactor never looked so... so...

He can't describe it.

When he breaks away, he can see the depths of his dark eyes, a rich black that seems to swallow him whole. Under the shadow cast by his helmet, there is a hint of a smile on his lips. It is devastating. He thinks he'll never forget it.

"Seawatt," he finally pronounces in a deep voice, "I have something for you.”

He stands still. The Champion has a piece of silk wrapped in his hand. He unwraps it to reveal a thick gold necklace with engraved patterns. Seawatt's eyes widen. With a snap, the Champion opens it and reaches behind him, stirs his hair to one side and adjusts the necklace around his neck. His fingers take a second longer than necessary to pull away.

"There," he muses, "Now you're perfect."

He breathes, his fingertips touching his neck still warm from the touch of the now Champion.

The necklace fits him perfectly.

The Champion offers his rough, calloused hand, "Are you ready?"

Seawatt looks at it for a moment before taking it.

He does.

They arrive at the site at a leisurely jog. The newly built ballroom by the command block is a bit out of the neighborhood, so it took them some time to get there. As they set foot inside, all eyes are fixed on them. They are an impressive sight, the newly crowned Champion with a beautiful companion.

Seawatt had both his hands wrapped around the Champion's arm and pressed his body against it. Quickly, several Masters rush over to discuss proposals to implement or simply praise him for being crowned the Champion, Seawatt quickly disengages and keeps a placid look on his face. He lets his champion take control of the conversations.

As the comments end, a throat clearing is heard echoing against the open hall. He turns his gaze to see a Master standing on a platform that is higher off the ground. The Master is a black blob wearing a crown, taller than him for sure, taller than his Champion. Seawatt had certainly never had the joy of meeting him.

(That can't be allowed. Who's to say it's not a lurking enemy.)

"Masters," he exclaims, his voice gravelly like all Masters, a harshness at the end of his words, "we are gathered here to celebrate the mandate of the new Champion."

Seawatt immediately stops paying attention. His Champion leaves his side to join the stage and give an inspirational speech, or so Seawatt thinks. Applause is given as he finishes, and the Champion steps off the stage.

Apparently, the Champion has decided to talk with other Masters about proposals and ideas, his knight is now a big shot, so they pull him from one side to the other. Meanwhile, Seawatt is dedicated to observing his surroundings, the sun sets making the sky take on orange, yellow and pink colors, a purple here and there dotting the sky. The lights of the lamps illuminate the room softly while waiters are continuously walking around with trays full of drinks.

Suddenly, a cup comes into his vision. He looks up expecting to find his Champion, but it is a simple Master, surprise quickly passes over his face before he covers it with a cordial smile.

His amethyst eyes observe the Master, he is like that Master who gave the speech, a black spot, really are all Masters the same. But he hasn't met him either, so he assumes he is no one impressive on his own.

"Pleased to meet you, fellow Master," the other person begins, their jaws opening as they utter the words while giving a small bow, "may I know your name?"

It takes a moment for him to respond, the music softly filling the atmosphere, but he finally responds, "Seawatt, my name is Seawatt,"

"Sea—watt," the stranger repeats, their voice incredibly soft, a purr accompanying the syllables, "that's a beautiful name."

Seawatt's eyelashes fluttered a little, but his face betrayed nothing.

His eyes soften as he smiles, the slightest curve of lips, a smile that does not reach his eyes, but it is enough to make the stranger blink, as if he cannot believe what he is seeing at that moment, "Oh? I accept the words of such a respected Master," his words are syrupy and thick as the sweetest syrup, a sound that is very pleasant to hear. His eyes lowered to observe the cup in front of him, the liquid releasing a sweet, floral aroma, "what is this, if I may ask?"

"Apple cider. I couldn't help but notice you ogling it, so I thought you might like to try it." The stranger sheepishly admits.

Seawatt blinks at that. Admittedly he was ogling it, it was a popular drink in his home and whenever there were parties he tried to drink it. He missed the taste; it was a memory of the desert that he wasn't willing to let go.

Just as he was about to take the drink...

The sound of feet on chains sounds, the metal making a high-pitched screeching sound. A few seconds pass in which no one moves, until the stranger does and—disappears into thin air, the cup falls to the ground and shatters into dozens of shiny, sharp pieces wet with the liquid they once carried.

Seawatt doesn't have to turn around to realize who did it.

"Was it necessary to kill him?" He asks in a whisper, his eyes only able to observe the place where the Master previously stood. Apple cider stains the floor; small drops stain his neat silk. Seawatt moves away before the liquid reaches his boots.

The Champion removes the chains from the floor, his tone of voice contains no emotion, it is totally neutral, if you listened to him, you could never realize that he ended a person's life, "it just annoyed me."

Seawatt could only stand there. Sometimes he didn't understand the totally bizarre and inconsistent logic of his Champion.

It has been some time since he was named Champion and many things have changed. Firstly, it was those changes towards the noobs, taking away their ability to sprint was necessary, what if one were to rank up and challenge him for the throne? He can't allow that, not when he fought, they fought so hard for this moment. The tasks assigned to the Pros were necessary, the old man was a fool if he thought that maintaining the entire civilization came without a cost, and if the cost was that some would work to maintain those at the top — then it would be paid. The changes that were assigned to the Masters was Seawatt's idea, to make them work the same as the Pro—must have killed their pride, that even they were not exempt from the changes that the new Champion and his companion implemented.

(He has a slight idea why Seawatt did this, his companion is very spiteful to those who have wronged him, but the Champion is just as spiteful, and he would do anything to please Seawatt.)

Everything is going well, but there is only one change he has not implemented: restoring the Fighters layer. When he told Seawatt why he had not done it he found himself telling a lie interwoven with truth; it is true that he could not restore the Fighters layer without knowing it, the command blocks are miraculous, but he should have advanced knowledge of them, and he does not. But there is another reason and that is....

he does not want to.

There, he's admitted it, isn't that repulsive of him? One of his first promises to Seawatt, the most important one, was to restore his home when he became the Champion. But now that he is the Champion he finds he doesn't want to. And the reason is very simple: he doesn't want Seawatt to leave him, he knows for a fact that the moment Seawatt gets his friends back, his parents, he will leave him aside despite all he did, does, is for and for him.

His heart is raw from the admission, he needs Seawatt, but he wants Seawatt to need him too, just as badly. Seawatt owes him, he wouldn't have tried to become the Champion if it weren't for Seawatt's persuasion, his silver tongue. Those months they lived together were the most blissful moments of his life, waking up and seeing Seawatt's sleepy smile was one of his favorite parts of the day, watching as his tongue lashed out insults like a whip at another Master and they could do nothing because they knew Seawatt had the knight's protection—really, being loved like that.

But he knows that, despite those displays of trust, Seawatt didn't need him. He knows him, if it had been another Master who had encountered Seawatt that day, would his partner have opened up to that imaginary person? He knows the answer and despises it.

With each passing day another crack in Seawatt's perfect smile, the sight of his benefactor failing to deliver on his long-awaited promise—must have been a blow to the trust they both shared. But it was okay, as long as Seawatt felt something for him, even if it was a oily, negative feeling like resentment, it was okay, because at least he would feel something for the Champion. And the knight knows that, even if Seawatt resents him, he won't try anything against him.

After all, Seawatt had no one but him.

(Later, when the lowest of the low has risen up defying all odds and standing up to him for all the injustice he has committed, when he knows he is going to lose everything and builds that Neo jump in the middle of the platform, stepping straight into the void, he allows himself to lament:

In the end it really will be you who kills me, Seawatt.

And jumps).