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#10
The sun scatters its amber glow across the clouds, and morning light filters through the glass of a humble window pane.
On the other side, faintly illuminated by its glow, Nero stands over a stove handling the cast-iron stem of a pan where several amorphous discs of light-tan pancake mix sizzle and slowly darken. Behind his careful stature sits Rossa—not on a chair, bless her heart, but hoisted upon the kitchen counter. She sways and kicks her legs idly, hands prompt at her side watching her associate cook breakfast. As much as Rossa swears she can gaze at Nero all day, her impatience, and boredom catch up to her in the silent, crackling moment.
“Y’know, we could have always bought some from the store. Heated ‘em up…”
Nero hardly glances to his side, grasping a spatula with his free hand.
“Yes, but…” He silently reasons with himself. “…I wanted to try again. I wanted to get it right.”
Rossa huffs with a soft smile, brushing back the length of her bright red hair, her legs still swaying with idle restlessness.
“Good, then. I’m sure I’ll like it. I always… mm, mostly like what you make.”
Nero shrugs. “Your palette just isn’t used to it,” he mumbles, sliding the spatula beneath one carefully, then flipping the mix over. The sizzling noise flares up a few decibels, while the flat tan coloring reveals its frayed golden-brown sear.
“You could help,” he speaks in sotto voce, almost muffled by the idle workings of his hand, while Rossa tilts her head in self-aware disbelief.
“But do you really want me to?”
Nero’s silent, knowing sigh lends her all the answer she needs. …With a twist of a dial, the flames subside, and he slides the four small pancakes onto a plate, glancing back over his shoulder at the red-haired woman watching over him. Their gazes meet momentarily under the glare of sunlight through the windowsill, the sun having risen to a brighter, less vibrant orange that shines against the terracotta tiling of the floor. Though, Nero’s gaze tightens to something slightly insistent, and Rossa reluctantly takes the hint and slides off the counter. A slight ‘oof’ of shock escapes her lips when her feet meet the floor, and the plate-bearer’s heart traitorously winces. Ascending herself back onto a chair, Rossa rests her head on her hands.
“It felt nice.”
Nero’s eyebrow raises, sliding a bottle of syrup along with her plate carefully along the desk.
“What did?”
Rossa’s smirk widens into a grin as Nero idly stripes his pancakes with chocolate syrup, coating the batter bread in dulcet flavor as per routine.
“Looking down on you for once, beanpole.”
Nero’s expression cocks into a smile, tilting his head a gentle few degrees, taking a bite of the batter of their (his) labor.
“Don’t get used to it.”
The texture and taste isn’t perfect, but it’s plenty good enough to enjoy a waking meal. Neither of them comment—neither of them would need to, and neither of them would dare. In spite of everything, the sun rises.
#9
Nero and Rossa lie together upon the couch as the sun scatters its glow oncemore. Nero’s position is awkward and flattened against the headrest—not yet used to the weight of Rossa sprawled on top of him. The woman using Nero as a lap pillow in question snores quietly, stirring while about to rise as she shifts against the fabric of his thigh. The prior flickering of the TV in front of them has long since passed. It’s a sweet and ultimately insignificant moment were it not for the fact that this was the first time they would sleep so closely together, and so soon after they had just moved in with each other.
Both of the Border Guards awake teary-eyed, for different reasons. For Nero, a sense of alien bliss and tenderness had trickled through his veins throughout the night at the memory of Rossa resting on him, preventing him from moving and dissuading him from musing. ‘Twould soon to be a moment he would look fondly upon—the genesis of his attachment.
As Rossa slowly peeked her eyes awake, coming to her hazy senses, Nero was soon to realize why she seemed a little distraught.
“Good morning,” Nero mumbles fondly. Rossa’s body tightens up—remembering she’d thrown herself and napped right on top of her roommate and coworker. She suppresses the instinct to move.
“Merda– I… when did this…”
“Halfway through the movie.”
“I missed it?” Rossa seems fully tense now, shooting up from her lap pillow as blood rushes to her brain. “Fuck, so sorry, I didn’t….”
“I thought you didn’t like it,” Nero interrupts, glancing down and over his shoulder as Rossa gazes back almost apologetically. His smile tightens awkwardly—unsure of how or why he’s receiving an apology after this moment.
“W-Well, I did! It had good animation and a good score, but… Ah…” Rossa trails off, rolling one of her wrists in a rapid circle as she attempts to articulate.
“...Tsukushi’s work can be quite dark,” Nero explains, quickly followed by a sudden grip on his wrist.
“You think?! That poor robot boy got bolted down and had his whole hand cut off while Riko had to watch , and Warcrimes McGee’s apparently a hive-mind now!” Rossa exasperatedly recounted, and Nero couldn’t resist a snicker escaping his cold lips at Rossa’s unique term for Bondrewd.
“You should have seen what happened with Prushka.”
Rossa’s deep brown eyes widen, now practically clinging onto Nero’s arm and jostling insistently, though she practically gets dragged alongside his limb.
“D-Don’t tell me she dies! You’re kidding!” She’s caught between distress and scolding. She’d been “too attached for her own good”, some had told her, even when it came to works of fiction. Yet Nero just gently smiled, resting his hand down the length of her ponytail and closing his eyes, savoring their closeness yet again, muttering consoling words.
“…They bring her along by their side.”
#8
“Nero, hurry the fuck up!” Rossa shouts from outside the bathroom door, met by silence. From the other end, Nero stares intently into the mirror, meeting the gaze of his right-handed mimic. Both of them grip a flat-iron in their dominant palm, carefully straightening out the dark, flowing strands of his hair.
“My hair looks like a rat’s nest!” She whines impatiently, her palm dragging down the door’s surface, swiping against the locked handle. The gentle sensation of warm metal pinching and cradling each line of strands is juxtaposed with the muffled complaints from his partner about hogging up the bathroom.
Nero mumbles in acknowledgement, as if she was just stating the obvious, which only flushes Rossa a shade of pink closer to her self-described nest. She knocks forcefully, leaning up on her tip-toes as a poor, unseen attempt to appear more intimidating.
“Because you use that 13-in-1 men’s shampoo that probably works as mouthwash.”
Rossa’s knocking comes to an abrupt halt after her dark secret had been unveiled. She humphs and turns on her heel, slumping her back against the door. Rossa crosses her arms, tilting her head to muffle her voice under the quiet hum of the flat-iron.
“Damn him and his stupidly sweet vanilla-scented hair…”
#7
The downpour catches both guardians, ironically, off-guard. Heavy rain pattered along their skin, dampening their thin coats and jeans. The pendants of Notalium hummed with light, illuminating the foggy path. Dim, frustrated clouds blot out the sky, darkening the broken marble of the eastern ruins they were sent out to patrol.
“Right there!” Rossa declares, pointing into the mist where the transparent visage of a structure appeared. Sprinting towards the building while dragging Nero in tow, she discovers a run-down, cracked concrete building—half-destroyed and carved open.
Panting irregularly, she quickly slides her way into a secluded corner with an overhang, huddling up and shivering as the cold rainwater trickles down her skin. Not out of fear, but a desperate, restless attempt to stay warm.
Nero towers over the shuddering border guard bent and sat in a shaded corner. His own senses are muddled, though the chill of his bone-soaked body is certainly uneasy. He never minded the rain itself much—moreso the various unsavory connotations it brought as a harbinger.
But discard the musings. Rossa is beneath her, quivering like a lost, stray puppy. Without more forethought, he slips his dampened lab coat off his shoulders, draping the cotton over her. She quietly yelps in surprise—jolting her gaze up at Nero like she’d just been handed a live grenade.
“You—… you idiot, don’t…” Rossa gaze contorts into a flustered pout, concealing concern behind her eyes. With one hand, she tugs Nero closer. His knees buckle, and the taller guard lets his body limp and fall with the motion. Before he could protest, Rossa flips the lab coat up as the cotton flutters down onto Nero’s back as well, huddling close to share their warmth. He’d freeze up if she wasn’t so warm, and a small, low breath escapes his lips. Rossa’s damp red hair buries into the dried fabric of Nero’s dark grey undershirt, mumbling protectively like she wasn’t the one encompassed by his radiating body heat.
“…Don’t try and catch your death in front of me again.”
The loud, rhythmic pattering of rain—the chill dripping down their bodies—it all seems to slowly dissipate into fine ambiance.
#6
Sprawled upon an unfamiliar velvet-tinted leather couch lies a schoolboy. His inky mane has not yet developed, only reaching down to the edge of his neckline. His half-lidded eyes struggle to either close or open.
Rossa’s house is uncannily loud—he’s felt it ever since he crossed through the doorway. Her ample family wakes and chatters on hastily, and his mind captures all the subtleties of it, save for the meanings of said conversations. Wood floorboards creak under the shifting and idle pacing. Dishes and cups are clattered away with a hiss of sink water. Something’s muffled from a closed-off room—perhaps a television. The passing of trains and the skidding of wheels on pavement resound from outside the walls.
This isn’t ever what Nero has remembered ‘home’ to be. ‘Home’ is an obscenely quiet word, with nothing but movements and thoughts to spruce up the silence which he’d grown so accustomed to. Despite being invited in, thoughts invade the schoolboy’s mind of intrusion. He’s observing a routine that he doesn’t belong in. In an attempt to line his alienation with silver, Nero is grateful that he managed to rest somehow in the first place—his old method of counting hadn’t failed him.
Light seeping through the curtains flash into his tired eyes. Nero grumbles on instinct, rolling to his side awkwardly.
“Cazzo…” His guttural noise is followed by a too-close creak of footsteps, with bright eyes gazing down with strange fondness over his crumpled form.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Nero tosses flat on his back to view Rossa’s giddy smile flashing over him. The closeness, like everything else, is far too unusual to handle.
“I’ve been awake,” He mumbles flatly, his voice escaping from the bottom of his throat. The air condition system kicks in, and a knock echoes from the refrigerator as if the house had to comment.
“For how long?” Rossa asks, unable to stifle her curiosity, and internally worried about how long she hasn’t spent with his company.
Nero rolls over exhaustedly, wordlessly explaining that he has no clue. Rossa huffs at his non-answer, tugging herself up onto the couch’s seat, resting on her knees and idly braiding her sleep-messed hair.
“Well, you said you were gonna be on your way in the morning. You could stay here a little longer if you want,” One of her eyes crack open, hardly hiding her mirth. The concept stirs something even more unfamiliar in Nero’s gut, and it’s all just a scattered mess of intrusions and mismatching sensations at this point.
“...My parents will wonder where I’ve been. I have to get going,” Nero says, lifting from his flattened posture with a wince of effort before the call of the couch leather pulls him onto the side of the couch. His eyes meet his acoustics classmate, and the urge of respectful acceptance swells in him. But what he expects to come out as monotone cracks slightly with genuine emotion.
“Thank you… for having me over.”
Rossa’s pupils shimmer like stars in the night. For all that this place was a living contradiction of his experiences, that blessed upbeat smile made Nero feel at home.
#5
Black eyes unblur.
Black fades to red.
In some world, a whispered voice stirs Nero from his empty sleep.
“Dear…”
Rossa’s troublesome expression lingered over the bedridden guard, backlit by morning light smothered under the dim curtains of Nero’s bedroom. Nero hardly notices much besides her face until a sudden tactile sensation grabs his attention. She settles a solid object onto Nero’s lap.
“I-I’m sorry, I was going to, ah… make waffles, but I burnt them. Horribly. So I just bought these from the bakery.”
As hollow as Nero feels in the moment, his gaze tilts familiarly to the plate in his lap. Three pastries of puffy bread with cranberry filling and a dusting of sugar above it. His pupils dilate by a few micrometers.
Rossa’s hands coil together with tension. Nero’s coal-streaked eyes shutter open and closed. The tangled streaks of Nero’s dark hair and the oversized hems of his plain black tee pool across the bed unceremoniously. He reeks of an infectious misfortune.
“Later,” his voice rasps after a drawn-out silence, his body glued to the cluttered covers. “I’m not hungry. I just… need to rest.”
Rossa’s fingers tightened, her teeth gritting beneath her lips. She hated this. Hated when he lied so blatantly to her, hated how little he cared for himself. She stammered for a moment, trying to bubble up words in her throat that could get through to him. Suddenly, she suddenly grips one of the pastries, holding it right up to Nero’s lips. Occam’s razor trails down her throat and forces her voice into quiet pleading.
“Please, eat.”
Nero’s fingers tensed in the blankets, thoughts creasing and stinging in his head. Why? Why do I need this? Why do I deserve this? Why does she have to struggle and fear for me? Why do I have to hurt her more?
Eventually, he cracks. He tilts forward an inch, lips closing around the sweet pastry and taking a bite. His stomach winces, but it’s almost pleasant. Like a bone snapping back into place. But his musings of why still linger.
“You don’t need to do anything more for me,” Nero whispers with a sunken gaze. His pale arm reaches out, taking the bitten pastry from her palm into his.
Rossa’s heart pangs with perseverance. As dependent and lifeless as Nero is, she needs him. Needs him more than she’s ever felt a need for something. Her hand grasps his, a soft thumb brushing over the silver-drawn line running down his wrist. She leans forward, hushing with stern affection.
“I’ll do all I can for you.”
Nero’s eyes turn foggy as her fabric, her warmth, and her light in his darkness coil into his grasp. An unfamiliar choke of catches in his throat, silenced by red hair falling in front of his face, pressing close to swallow his sobs.
#4
Nero and Rossa boarded the vaporetto like any other commute to work—with the breeze of fresh air washing across their skin stifled by the cozy interior of the ferry’s cabin. As it set sail across the rivers towards the Institute, Rossa couldn’t help but notice particularly that Nero had brought his headphones along the ride. Bouncing her leg along the polished wood floor as the ferry rocked through the waves, she couldn’t help but interrogate.
“Hey,” Rossa interjects, poking Nero’s shoulder. “Whatcha listening to?”
”Nothing, really.” Nero murmurs casually, spaced out and gazing out the window. That’s not the answer Rossa was looking for, and that’s not the one she’ll settle with. The shorter researcher clings onto Nero’s arm, rattling it slightly to get him to budge.
“Come on, pretty boy, we’ve known each other for years, and I haven’t even gotten to peek into your playlist?” Nero scoffs, tucking away the miniature tablet in his palm.
“We spend most of our time tuning and working with music in the lab, so I don’t see why personal tastes woulD—“
Nero’s voice suddenly sharpens when a yank on the silver cord of his headphones catches him by surprise. Before he can react, Rossa has his headphones on—cupping most of his face as she listens incredulously.
High-pitched gentle singing in Japanese with a light, funky pop tune. A backing of brass and a glockenspiel melody cause Rossa’s head to swivel, snorting with humor.
“You listen to J-pop?!”
Nero feels like curling up and dying or chucking Rossa right out the glass window of the vaporetti there and then. He cups his face frustratedly while Rossa laughs slightly too loudly for his tastes.
“I never would have guessed! That’s adorable.”
Nero plucks his headphones off of her undersized ears, aggressively silencing the cutesy melody. He attempts to calm himself, but a hint of petty competition remains.
“Fine, let’s see what you listen to.”
Rossa smirks proudly as she’s handed the reins to the aux cord, fiddling with the search function before settling on a song. Nero waits a few moments, and his ears are hit with the auditory equivalent of a metal bar. Chaotic soundscapes, drum and bass distorted beyond recognition and a BPM higher than the amount of chocolates Nero had this month. Nero frantically shuts off the song, reeling from the electronic assault.
“This is just noise!”
Rossa’s eyes brighten up as she slides into his space with a viciously amused grin.
“I know, right?!”
#3
A ping tremors from Nero and Rossa’s comms simultaneously—an urgent alert from the Administration’s automatic system. Al Niente was once again erratically shifting at the border, seeping monochrome skies through.
Rossa shoots up out of bed faster than the blood could flow to her brain, scrambling forward. Nero is awoken shortly after by the painfully familiar alarm. As unpredictable as the breaches could be, their routine was seared.
Rossa rolls onto her feet with sleep-mussed hair standing on end, rummaging through her closet to toss out her boots and shorts—not even bothering to remove her pajama top. Nero blinks the crust out of his eyes, grumbling awake onto the linoleum floors. He swipes his coat off a nearby chair, slipping into his own boots while deftly buttoning up. A soft, curious whine emits from the other room. In the middle of grabbing her tuner, Rossa spends a precious second patting Gracie’s head before storming out the door, yelling urgently for Nero to follow.
He scowls and murmurs a curse under his breath. He grabs his tuner, extra vials, and reaches into his partner’s closet to tuck something in his pocket. Rossa’s already beat him to the motor-pool, hopping into her booster seat.
“Did you grab the stabilizer?!”
“It’s in the glovebox already!”
Nero tucks into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door behind him as the engine whirs to life.
“25.0 north, 121.5 east.” Nero recites pointedly from the dashboard as Rossa swerves to align. And after the clutter of waking up, the rush of driving was oddly silent. The symphony of the breeze, the hum of wheels on pavement, all slowly tuned out into the forgettable moments in between moments. Nero reached into his pocket while Rossa’s eyes were affixed, her shoulders tensed and ready. Carefully, he drapes her brown coat over her shoulders. She softly gasps as Nero tucks under her arms.
Alas, her muscles can’t help but ease.
#2
Like every other morning, Rossa was there to witness Nero asleep. Uncommonly, he’d been strewn on the couch face-first—not caused by arguments or banishment but by the man’s propensity for exhaustion. And previously rarely, today was an important day, not with regard to scientific progress or defense from the apocalypse, but to the tapestry of their own humble lives. Simply, they were traveling for a camping trip out north, and Nero had to be roused.
Rossa, of course, had an idea. She gingerly tip-toes past to grab a glass from the cupboard, twisting the sink’s dial all the way to ‘C’ and pours it half-full. Her hand slips to the hem of Nero’s shirt, exposing a sliver of his pale back, and trickling the cold water down.
Nero jolts awake at the chillingly tormenting sensation, and a viciously unthreatening cackle resounds from the culprit. His muscles shudder for a moment in recalibration, but he’s already deduced the proper response.
“Fine, let’s just get dressed,” Swaying off the couch onto his feet, he strides with extended steps into Rossa’s bedroom, snatching her leather boots and placing them atop of her cupboard. Rossa, of course, was too busy internally gloating to notice. While she packs for the hike, she slowly grows more and more aware of the situation that this vengeance has brought upon her, frantically pacing around the house in socks.
Nero renavigates to the kitchen, legs crossed on a chair and taking a sip of black coffee (Or at least, what he’d affectionately named the amalgamation of espresso and dark chocolate), watching as Rossa took embarrassingly long to deduce.
“Fuck off, Nero, that’s not funny!” Rossa shouts from her bedroom, hands waving uselessly in the air as if they’d extend and compensate for her vertical challenge. With an innocent swallow, his words of careful revenge remain unspoken yet vividly heard by both. Touché.
#1
The world was pale and shivering when Rossa and Nero stirred awake, the kind of cold that seeped through the thin fabric of their shared tent and into their bones. With every exhale, breath fogs in the air like transient ghosts vanishing as quickly as they formed. Neither of them wanted to move. The two guards remain in their sleeping bags, joints stiff from the ground beneath. The soft glow of sunrise pushed against the horizon, tugging them out into the brittle morning.
They shuffle out together, boots crunching over frost-bitten grass, shoulders brushing as they approach the ridge. The sky bleeds gold at its edges, the sun cresting over the dark silhouette of mountain pines, spilling warmth across the jagged peaks. Below, the waterfall they’d hiked to in that precious yesterday roared faintly, its mist catching light like scattered glass.
Neither spoke. The hush of dawn and the whisper of the breeze—not quiet, but not noisy. They sat close, knees pulled to their chests, watching as the sun climbed higher, pushing away the chill. Frost-stiff hands interlace, clamping the other with gentle adamance. As cherishable as those vivid memories were, the exposure of elements upon their skin served to remind them they were so fragile. Still, they choose to hope, and to brave the threats of the outside world in tandem.
In that silence, in that intermittent twilight where night tipped into day, they both felt it: the sense that even with the long trail ahead, even with the unknown creeping in on all sides, there was still reason to tread onwards.