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Chapter Text

The first thing Ender remembered was cold.

Not pain. Not hunger. Not even fear.

Just cold. A vast, clinical emptiness that hovered just outside his body, as if he hadn’t quite stepped back into it yet. Like a door left ajar between the living and whatever came after.

He breathed in. Oxygen. Sharp, sterile.

Opened his eyes. White light. Machines.

Alive.

He tried to sit up, but restraints stopped him.

A voice spoke—gentle, professional. “Don’t panic. You’re safe. Your vitals are stable. We had to secure your arms until the re-integration process finished. You’ve been asleep for… some time.”

He tried to speak. His throat burned.

The woman injected something into his IV. “You’ll be able to talk soon. Please—just listen.”

He listened.

She explained. Slowly. Carefully.

A breakthrough in neurological mapping. A synthetic shell built cell-for-cell from preserved DNA. Consciousness restored from an indexed lattice of memory, choice, personality—extracted, incredibly, from the quantum imprint his brain left behind before death. Impossible, unthinkable—until now.

It had a name: The Lazarus Protocol.

He’d been the first viable candidate. Not because he was a legend. But because his mind, even in death, had wanted to be understood. Even in dying, he had left himself open. Unwilling to vanish completely.

Ender Wiggin had died.

And now… he wasn’t.

Three days later, he could walk.

By day five, he was released from medical quarantine.

By day seven, he asked one question:

“Where’s Peter?”

The scientists paused. One muttered, “We’re contacting him. He’ll be told soon.”

Ender nodded.

He didn’t ask about Valentine. He already knew. She would have made this happen. If anyone still believed in his worth—it was her.

What he didn’t know was why.

Why bring him back?

He had ended his life because it was time. Because he had done what he could. Because the guilt would never leave, and peace had finally come.

But now he was here again. In a world he no longer recognized. A body that felt… familiar but alien. Muscle memory returned in strange rhythms. His reflection looked like him—but not quite the boy, not quite the man.

The past was awake inside him. And it refused to stop whispering.

Peter arrived three weeks later.

He didn’t come with reporters or security. He walked into the research facility alone, dressed in civilian black, coat buttoned high at the collar. Older now. Grayer. Slower.

But unmistakably Peter.

They hadn’t seen each other in decades. And yet, when they looked into each other’s faces, the years collapsed.

Peter said nothing at first.

He just looked.

And Ender—reborn, uncertain, fragile—looked back.

“Hi,” Ender said.

Peter’s jaw worked once. Twice. Then: “I didn’t ask for this.”

Ender flinched, just a little. “I figured.”

Silence.

Peter stepped forward. “Was it really you, that wanted to come back?”

Ender took too long to answer. “I don’t know.”

Peter’s mouth tightened.

Then he did something neither of them expected.

He walked to the chair opposite Ender’s, sat down, and whispered:

“I buried you.”

“I know.”

“I grieved you.”

“I know.”

“I changed,” Peter said, his voice quieter now. “Not enough. But more than I thought I could.”

Ender looked at him—truly looked.

Peter was older. Worn. His face bore lines not from age, but responsibility. The wolf had learned restraint.

“That was always the part I wanted to believe,” Ender said softly. “That you could change.”

“And now?” Peter asked.

Ender looked away. “I’m afraid I don’t know who either of us are anymore.”

In the weeks that followed, Ender lived under observation—partly for science, partly for safety.

His memories were intact. His moral compass still unbearably sharp. But there were fractures. Gaps in time. He would forget the year. Or speak of people long dead as though they had just left the room.

The scientists called it temporal detachment. Valentine called it the price of resurrection.

Peter called it unfair.

He visited every day.

Sometimes they talked.

Sometimes they didn’t.

One afternoon, Ender stared out at the garden beyond the facility and said, “I don’t think I was supposed to come back.”

Peter didn’t argue.

Instead, he said: “Neither of us were.”

Ender turned. “Then why are we still here?”

Peter hesitated. Then: “Maybe because someone has to clean up what we left behind.”

“Do you still believe that’s your job?”

Peter looked away. “It’s the only one I ever had.”

Eventually, they walked the grounds together.

Peter explained how the world had changed. How war had receded, not because of force, but fatigue. How peace had become a habit. How Ender’s story had become a cautionary tale. And then—quietly—how he had tried to honor that story.

“I used to build so people would fear me,” Peter said. “Now I build so they don’t have to remember you died to make it possible.”

Ender was quiet for a long time.

Then he asked, “Do you want me to stay dead?”

Peter stopped walking.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Ender wasn’t sure what to do.

He wasn’t a commander anymore. Not a speaker for the dead. Not even a colonist. He was a relic. A memory that had been forced back into flesh. A question the world hadn’t asked.

But Peter…

Peter still worked. Still built. Still tried.

And for all the damage he had done—he had become someone Ender could almost trust.

Almost.

So when Ender entered Peter’s private office one night, long after curfew, carrying a datapad full of proposals and reports, Peter didn’t question why.

He just said, “Sit down.”

Ender did.

Peter gestured to the datapad. “What’s that?”

“New models. Peace initiatives. Refugee protection proposals. I rewrote some of your drafts.”

Peter blinked. “You’re… what? Helping?”

“I thought I’d try building too,” Ender said quietly. “Since I’m here.”

Peter stared at him.

Then nodded.

No thanks. No ceremony.

Just quiet understanding.

And so, the Wiggin brothers began again.

Not as children.

Not as enemies.

Not quite as family.

But as two survivors of a war no one else could remember properly.

Trying, in their own way, to build a world that didn’t need them.

But one that might still want them—this time, for who they had become.

Not for what they had destroyed.

Chapter Text

The news broke on a quiet Tuesday.

The Hegemony’s press secretary tried to control the narrative. Terms like “biological continuity restoration” and “consciousness recovery technology” filled the press release, cold and bloodless.

But all the world heard was one name:

Ender Wiggin.

Resurrected.

Alive.

Not a myth. Not a memory. A man once called a war criminal and a savior, now walking the Earth again—eating breakfast, reading reports, breathing air..

And the world exploded.

There were protests.

Some called it a miracle.

Some called it blasphemy.

Some demanded answers: What gave the Hegemon the right to bring him back? Was this a return, or a clone? Was his soul intact? Was he a weapon again?

Ender watched the footage from his quarters in the capital, remote in hand, expression unreadable.

Crowds screamed outside embassies. News anchors debated ethics. Religious leaders split. Some wept on camera. Some called him the antichrist.

And through it all, Ender sat still, barely blinking.

Peter entered the room mid-broadcast. “I told them not to announce it this soon.”

Ender didn’t look away. “You didn’t really believe they’d stay quiet.”

Peter didn’t respond.

One anchor said, “If the dead can return, then who decides who gets to live again?”

Another: “Why him? Why not the soldiers who died under his command? Why not the innocents from the Formic War?”

And finally: “What does it mean for our children to grow up in a world where Ender Wiggin is alive again?”

Peter muted the screen.

Ender whispered, “I didn’t ask to come back.”

Peter sat beside him. “No. But now that you’re here, you’ll need to decide what that means.”

The Lazarus Protocol had awakened a new debate across Earth: Who deserves resurrection?

The answer, at least for now, was: heroes. Or what the world thought were heroes.

And in the fine print of the project’s earliest notes was another name, one long buried under myth, war records, and false deaths:

Julian Delphiki II.
Codename: Bean.

He’d left Earth decades ago, his body warped by Anton’s Key, growing beyond what was human, exiled to find a cure among the stars. He’d outlived Ender by years. Died in the void with his children, far from home. The world assumed him lost.

But Bean, too, had been cataloged—genetically, psychologically. His escape vessel had been recovered in a remote, frozen belt, his body cryogenically preserved.

And now…

He was awake.

Ender heard about it secondhand.

A message from a stunned Hegemony scientist:

> “Subject Delphiki has stabilized. Structural enhancement complete. Cognitive cohesion within acceptable variance. You should see him. He’s… he's taller than we predicted.”

Ender laughed, truly laughed, for the first time in years.

He took the next shuttle.

The research facility was built in Iceland, far from the noise.

Bean stood at the far end of the arrival platform.
He didn’t smile when Ender appeared.

He just said:

“You got old.”

Ender barked a short, stunned laugh. “And you got ridiculous.”

Bean grinned. “They tell me I weigh 340 pounds. All lean mass.”

“You were already dangerous at four feet tall,” Ender said. “Now you’re a biomechanical nightmare.”

“Jealous?” Bean said, mock-serious.

“A little.”

Bean simply stood, as Ender studied him. Arms folded. Seven feet, five inches tall. Broad-shouldered. Eyes sharp as ever, framed by a face that somehow hadn’t aged, even if the world had.

It was the eyes that shattered Ender.

Still sharp. Still familiar. Still Julian.

Ender didn’t walk.

He ran.

Feet pounding across the cold platform, breath fogging in the air, body screaming from disuse—but none of that mattered. He launched forward, arms wide, momentum reckless—

And slammed into Bean’s chest with a force that nearly knocked the giant back a step.

Bean didn’t brace. Didn’t flinch.

Because the moment Ender crashed into him, he wrapped both arms around him—automatically, instinctively—and held.

Ender clung to him like he was drowning. His fingers curled into the back of Bean’s jacket, gripping hard. His body shook—not from cold, but from something deeper, older, like a childhood nightmare finally waking up.

“I thought you were gone,” Ender whispered into Bean’s chest. His voice cracked. “I thought I’d lost everyone.”

Bean said nothing at first.

He just held Ender tighter.

No hesitation.

No awkwardness.

No embarrassment.

Just the silent understanding of someone who had been just as lost.

Just as alone.

“I was,” Bean said quietly. “But not from you.”

Ender’s breath hitched.

“I missed you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now. “More than anyone. More than even I knew.”

Bean’s hand came up to rest gently at the back of Ender’s head. “I know.”

The hug didn’t end. Not for a long time.

Minutes passed. Technicians glanced away. No one dared speak.

“I thought you were dead,” he repeated.

Bean looked away. “I was. So were you.”

“And now we’re not.”

“No,” Bean said. “Now we’re something else.”

Inside the facility, the reunion turned heavier.

They talked for hours in a glass-paneled chamber, overlooking snowy cliffs. No guards. No recorders. Just them.

Bean asked first, “Do you remember killing them?”

The Formics.

Ender’s jaw clenched. “Every day.”

“I wasn’t sure it would survive in you. That part.”

“I don’t think it ever leaves.”

Bean studied him. “You know why they brought me back, right?”

“Same reason they brought me back,” Ender said. “Because they’re afraid peace can’t last without ghosts.”

Bean nodded. “And we’re the scariest ones they’ve got.”

Later, when they finally stopped talking, Bean looked down at him.

Ender wiped at his face, eyes red, trying to smile.

“You’re a skyscraper,” he said, voice uneven.

“You’re still six feet of pure trouble,” Bean replied.

“Do I even reach your ribs anymore?”

“Barely.”

Ender laughed—wet, broken, honest.

“God, I’m glad you’re here.”

Bean’s smile softened. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me. After everything. After… you know.”

“You were always the one I wanted to see,” Ender said.

Bean blinked.

And—for the first time since waking—he looked a little unsteady.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to be now,” Bean admitted. “The world doesn’t make sense anymore.”

“Then we figure it out together,” Ender said. “Like we always did.”

Bean nodded.

And quietly, almost too softly to hear, replied:

“Yeah. Together."

Peter visited the next day.

When he walked into the chamber and saw Bean, alive, larger than ever, his usual mask of composure cracked—just for a second.

Bean stood. Peter stared.

“Peter Wiggin,” Bean said. “Still running the world?”

“Trying not to,” Peter muttered. “You’re… taller than I remember.”

Bean tilted his head. “And you’re grayer than I expected.”

They didn’t hug.

But they shook hands.

And something like mutual respect passed between them—finally unburdened by the boyhood competition they never admitted to.

In the days that followed, the three of them sat in quiet war rooms together—Peter the architect, Ender the conscience, Bean the strategist.

They didn’t agree on much.

Peter still distrusted sentiment.
Ender still couldn’t bear efficiency without empathy.
Bean still believed most problems had only one elegant, ruthless solution.

But they worked. Surprisingly well.

The world called them a myth reborn.
They called themselves something simpler:

Custodians.

Not kings. Not gods.

Just survivors.

Trying, for once, to leave something behind that wouldn’t burn.

Chapter Text

Bean’s room was sparse, like the man himself.

Just a bed large enough for his genetically-enhanced frame, a desk, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a snow-drenched valley. Cold light drifted in. A quiet, northern dusk.

Ender stood just inside the doorway.

“You can sit,” Bean said, nodding toward the edge of the bed. “I don’t bite.”

“You used to,” Ender muttered, stepping in.

Bean smirked. “Only metaphorically.”

Ender sat, careful. Still getting used to this body. Still feeling like his bones were borrowed.

There was silence.

Comfortable, for a moment.

Then Ender exhaled. “Do you think we were ever supposed to be normal?”

“No,” Bean said, without hesitation. “They made sure of that.”

“I don’t mean the teachers. I mean… us. Our minds. Our wiring.”

Bean looked at him—really looked. “You wanted to be normal. That was the difference between us. You wanted to be good.”

“And you didn’t?”

Bean shrugged. “I wanted to be right. Maybe that was worse.”

Ender leaned back against the wall. “We were children.”

“Not really.”

“Still,” Ender said, “we bled like children.”

Bean turned to the window. “And they called it victory.”

The snow began to fall harder outside.

Soft white flakes hit the window, stuck for a moment, then melted away.

Ender watched them vanish, one by one. “When I died,” he said, “I thought I was finally done. No more guilt. No more running.”

“You weren’t running,” Bean said.

“I wasn’t staying either.”

“Maybe you needed to go to see what the rest of us lived with.”

Ender flinched.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Bean said quickly.

“No,” Ender murmured, “you’re right. I got to die on my own terms. The rest of you had to live with the mess I left.”

Bean was quiet for a while. Then: “You didn’t leave a mess, Ender. You left a world that finally had a chance to be better.”

“And did it become better?”

Bean turned. “Peter tried.”

Ender blinked. “Peter?”

“He’s not the same.”

“I don’t know how to believe that.”

“Then you’ll have to do what I did,” Bean said. “Watch him anyway.”

Later, after the quiet stretched long enough that it became heavy, Bean asked:

“Do you want to lie down?”

Ender glanced at the bed. “With you?”

“No. I thought I’d just stretch my legs across the whole damn mattress and let you nap on the floor like a dog.”

Ender gave a weak laugh.

“I mean… yeah,” Bean said, voice lower now. “With me. Like old times. Just for a bit.”

Ender hesitated.

Then nodded.

The bed creaked under their weight—Bean a giant shadow at one end, Ender curled lightly at the other, knees pulled up, head resting against Bean’s side like a younger brother against the older he never really had.

They didn’t speak for a long time.

Eventually, Ender whispered, “Sometimes I think I loved you more than anyone.”

Bean didn’t move.

“Not like that,” Ender added quickly, almost embarrassed. “Just… it was something different. I needed you.”

“I know,” Bean said softly. “And I stayed. As long as I could.”

Ender closed his eyes.

The warmth of Bean’s body was comforting. Immense. Grounding. Like a wall he could lean on without fear of falling.

“I feel like I’m six years old again,” Ender murmured.

“That’s probably not far off,” Bean said. “We never really got past that age. We just got taller.”

Ender laughed. “Well, you did.”

A pause. Then:

“You were always my constant,” Ender whispered. “When I couldn’t trust anyone, I could trust you. You didn’t lie to make me feel better. You told me the truth.”

Bean looked down at him, eyes tired. “I didn’t want to carry you, Ender. I just didn’t want you to carry everything alone.”

Ender turned his face into Bean’s chest. “Then don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Bean said.

And he meant it.

Hours passed. The snow outside kept falling.

And inside, two ghosts who had never been allowed to rest finally found stillness.

No war.
No orders.
No guilt.
Just quiet

Chapter Text

They weren’t trying to hide.

But in a world where the dead walked again, nothing stayed private for long.

First, it was a leaked photo—grainy but unmistakable. Ender, curled up against Bean on the observation deck couch. Both asleep. Peaceful.

The image hit the net within hours. Went viral within minutes.

Two legends.

A single frame.

The world lost its mind.

The first reaction was awe.

“Ender Wiggin and Julian ‘Bean’ Delphiki, reunited after death—found asleep together in a private facility in Iceland.”

“Childhood war heroes or something more?”

News cycles jumped on the intimacy. They used words like brotherhood, trauma bond, reconnection. But the undertones shifted fast.

Because they hadn’t just been comrades. They had been children, molded together by war, bred for genius, denied softness, forged in isolation.

And now, in this strange afterlife of a future they never asked for—they were found holding on to each other like survivors of a shipwreck.

Public fascination became obsession.

Memes flooded the nets. “Big Boyfriend Energy.” “Commander and His Giant.” “War Crimes and Cuddles.”
Holo-pundits speculated daily: Were they lovers? Were they broken? Were they even human anymore?

The smarter ones asked the real question:

“If these two are the moral foundation of the Hegemony—what happens if they fall apart?”

Back at the facility, Ender stood in the command center with his arms crossed, watching the holoscreen in grim silence as pundits argued over the ethics of “resurrected intimacy.”

“I’m going to kill whoever leaked that photo,” he muttered.

Bean, sitting on the floor stretching (all 7'5" of him taking up most of the room), glanced up. “No you’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not about them. It’s about us.”

Ender turned. “So you’re fine being tabloid fodder?”

Bean shrugged. “We died. Came back. Changed the world. This is nothing.”

“‘Are they in love? Are they a threat? Are they still people?’ That’s not nothing,” Ender snapped.

Bean paused. “Does it bother you? That they think it’s love?”

Ender opened his mouth. Then closed it. Too fast. Too tight.

“I just… don’t like being dissected,” he said finally. “Not like this. Not again.”

“Then don’t flinch,” Bean said. “Let them wonder. Let them talk. You and I know what we are.”

“…Do we?”

Bean looked up at him.

The question lingered.

Peter called the next day.

Ender took it in private.

His brother’s image appeared on-screen, dressed sharp as ever, bags under his eyes.

Peter didn’t waste time.

“If you two are going to be close, I need to know what that means.”

Ender’s jaw set. “He’s my friend.”

“Friendship doesn’t trend in twenty-seven languages,” Peter said. “Public perception of your relationship is starting to bend political pressure around your position. You two are the heart of the Lazarus Program’s legitimacy. If they think it’s being compromised by—”

“By what?” Ender asked quietly. “By love?”

Peter went still.

Ender stared at the screen. “We were boys who couldn’t cry. Couldn’t touch. Couldn’t rest. And now we’re back. I don’t know what this is. But it’s mine. It’s ours.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Then you’d better hold onto it.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t protect each other now,” Peter said, “they’ll tear you both apart.”

They started avoiding cameras.

The cuddling stopped. At least in public.

But the distance wasn’t real.

Behind closed doors, they were closer than ever.

Ender started sleeping in Bean’s room most nights—not because he had to, but because he couldn’t sleep without him.

Bean never said no. He just made room.

Sometimes, they talked about death. About the ships they’d lived on. The stars they’d slept under. Bean told him about his children—his love for them, his guilt for dying among them.

Ender didn’t speak much about Lusitania.

But one night, as he lay beside Bean, staring at the ceiling, he whispered:

“I never wanted to wake up again.”

Bean turned his head.

“But I’m glad I did,” Ender added. “Because you were waiting.”

Bean didn’t respond.

He just reached over and took Ender’s hand.

The world kept watching.

They didn’t care.

Let them guess.

Let them wonder if the war gods had fallen in love with each other.

Because for the first time in either of their lives—they weren’t alone.

That meant everything.

Chapter Text

Ender had spent his whole life being watched.

In Battle School, it was the adults. The cameras. The other children, studying him like he was a holy relic or a ticking bomb.

On the colony worlds, it was reverence. Worship.

Then death.

Now rebirth.

And still, the world watched.

But he’d learned something since coming back: the real surveillance wasn’t external.

It was internal.

Every look at Bean felt like being scanned from the inside out.

It started subtly.

Ender would glance up from a holo-screen and see Bean adjusting his sleeves—just a basic movement, but it tugged at something beneath his ribcage.

Or Bean would walk past and Ender would track him without realizing—like his body needed to know where he was.

It wasn’t lust.

Not really.

It was gravity.

Bean entered a room and the axis shifted.

One morning, Ender walked into their shared kitchen quarters—quiet, half-asleep—and saw Bean already up, frying eggs in a too-small pan. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt that stretched tight across his back and clung to his shoulders.

The sunlight hit his hair just right.

And Ender’s breath caught.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched, hand resting on the doorway.

And realized:

Oh.

It didn’t feel like falling in love.

It felt like remembering something he’d been hiding from himself for years.

Like it had always been there. Dormant. Patient.

Waiting for him to stop running.

He didn’t say anything that day.

Or the next.

He tried to ignore it—tried to bury it in logistics, in briefings, in the endless noise of world affairs.

But at night, when they lay side by side in the dark—Ender’s head near Bean’s shoulder, close enough to hear his heartbeat—it was impossible to lie to himself.

He was in love.

With the boy who had always been just beyond his reach.

With the man who now stood beside him like a fixed star.

One night, it got bad.

Ender couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think.

He got up, left the room, walked out onto the balcony where the snow had stopped falling and only silence remained.

He stood there barefoot, arms wrapped around himself, breath fogging in the cold.

And that’s where Bean found him.

“Ender,” he said softly, “you’re freezing.”

Ender didn’t turn around.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said.

Bean stepped closer. “About what?”

“This,” Ender said. “You. Me. All of it. I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to love someone without destroying them.”

Bean was quiet for a moment.

Then: “You haven’t destroyed me.”

“Yet.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Ender looked over his shoulder. “Maybe you should be.”

Bean moved closer. “Maybe you should stop assuming you’re poison.”

Ender’s breath hitched.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” Bean said. “I’m asking you to let yourself want something. Anything. For once.”

“I want you,” Ender said, so quietly it might’ve been a confession or a prayer.

Bean didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just reached out and touched his arm.

That was all it took.

Ender turned into him, pressed his forehead against Bean’s chest, and closed his eyes.

And Bean wrapped him up again—careful, warm, unshaken.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Chapter Text

Bean sat alone in their shared quarters, the muted hum of the facility around him.

Ender had gone to rest after their late-night conversation on the balcony, but Bean hadn’t slept.

He replayed those words over and over:

“I want you.”

The confession was soft, almost broken—like a fragile piece of glass, half-hidden beneath years of doubt and self-recrimination.

Bean’s chest tightened.

He wasn’t sure if it was fear, hope, or something he hadn’t let himself feel before.

For years, Bean had been the protector—the silent giant who kept secrets buried deep.

But hearing Ender admit that… it cracked open something inside.

He thought about all the times they’d shared—every long night, every small touch, every unspoken moment.

Was it possible?

Could they finally have what neither of them had dared to hope for?

The next morning, Bean found Ender by the window, staring out at the icy landscape.

“Hey,” Bean said quietly.

Ender turned, eyes tired but steady.

“I’ve been thinking about last night,” Bean admitted, taking a step closer.

Ender’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Me too.”

Bean hesitated, then reached out—tentatively—his hand brushing against Ender’s.

Ender didn’t pull away.

Instead, he took Bean’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

They stood like that for a moment—two souls reaching across the void.

Then Bean lowered his gaze, meeting Ender’s eyes.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said softly.

“You won’t,” Ender replied.

Encouraged, Bean moved closer, his breath mingling with Ender’s.

Their eyes fluttered closed almost simultaneously.

And then—

Bean’s lips brushed against Ender’s.

Gentle. Testing. Full of everything words had failed to express.

Ender responded, tilting his head, his hands rising to cradle Bean’s face.

The kiss deepened—soft, slow, like they were discovering a language they’d always known but never spoken aloud.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless.

Ender smiled, a rare, genuine light in his eyes.

“Feels like coming home.”

Bean chuckled softly. “Yeah. Home.”

They rested their foreheads together.

It was just quiet.

Chapter Text

The days after their first kiss felt like waking from a long, dark dream.

Ender and Bean moved through the facility with a new kind of awareness—of each other, of their own hearts, and of the world that still watched them so closely.

At first, it was small things: lingering touches, knowing glances, sharing meals without talking politics or war.

Bean found himself humming quietly as Ender adjusted the holo-settings. Ender smiled more, his walls crumbling just enough to let in warmth.

The outside world didn’t pause for their newfound peace.

Rumors erupted again, louder this time.

Newscasters debated the implications.

Some praised the bond as a beacon of hope, proof that even the broken could find love.

Others whispered warnings about the “dangerous influence” of such closeness on the fragile political balance.

Ender read the reports in silence, his fingers tightening around Bean’s hand.

“Let them talk,” Bean said softly.

“But it’s never just talk,” Ender replied. “It’s a weapon.”

Bean nodded. “Then we hold each other tighter.”

That night, under the glow of the stars visible through the observation deck, Ender finally let himself rest against Bean’s shoulder without guilt.

Bean wrapped his arm around Ender, the solid weight of him a steady anchor.

“Whatever happens,” Bean whispered, “we face it together.”

Ender closed his eyes.

“For once,” he said, “I’m not afraid.”

Chapter Text

Peter had always thought he knew his brother.

Ender—the golden child, the reluctant hero.

But the world was changing.

And so was he.

It happened on a routine visit to the facility.

Peter’s sharp eyes caught the way Ender and Bean moved—closer than before.

Less guarded.

More… intimate.

He watched them from the corner of the room, unnoticed.

Ender leaned into Bean, resting his head on his shoulder.

Bean’s hand slid over Ender’s.

The image burned itself into Peter’s mind.

Later, Peter confronted Ender in private.

His voice was low but firm.

“Is it true?” he asked.

Ender met his gaze.

“Yes.”

Peter’s jaw tightened.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ender shook his head.

“I didn’t know how.”

Peter’s expression softened, but only slightly.

“You’re my brother,” he said. “I should be the first to know.”

Ender looked away.

“I needed time. You’re still… Peter.”

Peter sighed.

“I’m not perfect,” he admitted. “But I want to understand.”

Bean stepped forward, breaking the tension.

“We’re still the same team,” he said.

Peter nodded slowly.

“Then show me.”

The three of them stood in silence.

Chapter Text

The sun rose over the frozen horizon, painting the sky in shades of soft gold and violet.

Inside the Lazarus facility, the three sat together - Ender, Bean, and Peter.

Peter had spent months wrestling with his emotions.

Jealousy, confusion, protectiveness—all battled within him.

But beneath it all, he found respect.

For Ender’s courage to open his heart.

For Bean’s strength to stand beside him.

For the unbreakable bond between them.

In private moments, Peter had apologized.

Not for what they felt.

But for the distance his own fears had created.

Ender forgave him.

Bean understood.

Together, they began to rebuild.

Public opinion remained a challenge.

But now, they faced it as one.

Peter used his influence to shield them.

Ender and Bean spoke openly, their story no longer whispered but shared with honesty.

One evening, as snowflakes drifted outside their window, Ender reached for Bean’s hand.

Peter smiled softly beside them.

“We’re ready,” Ender said.

“For what?” Peter asked.

“For whatever comes next.”

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered softly through the tall windows, casting warm patches across the wooden floor.

Ender sat in the quiet kitchen, a mug of tea warming his hands.

Bean was nearby, sprawled comfortably in a worn armchair, his long legs curled beneath him as he read from a thin book.

The room was peaceful, filled with the gentle hum of domestic life—soft footsteps from distant halls, the occasional clink of dishes, and the steady rhythm of their shared breathing.

Outside, the first snow of winter began to fall again.

Ender glanced up and caught Bean’s eye.

A slow smile spread across Bean’s face.

No words were needed.

Their hands found each other across the table, fingers intertwining with ease and familiarity.

Peter’s voice came from the hallway—a casual greeting, warm and unhurried.

Ender felt a familiar comfort settle in his chest.

They had built something fragile and strong: a family shaped not by blood alone, but by choice and love.

Ender leaned back, eyes closing briefly.

The wars were behind them now.

The ghosts had quieted.

THE END