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What sparked one's belief in a person?
It was one of the earliest questions to circle One's thoughts after his summoning, when he met Fëdor for the first time, and looked at him with awe and admiration.
“You really are my clone...” he murmured, hands cupping One's face for a confirmation that he was indeed real. He wasted no time explaining the situation then, that he summoned clones to attend school for him. One considered many things at the time—why go through that trouble, why was school hard for him specifically, why not study harder.
The most critical question, One supposed, was why did he trust him with this?
“Good luck, I believe in you!” His Creator waved from his doorstep as he sent him off.
One blinked and went his way, not wanting to be late and disappoint his Creator even if it lost the opportunity to ask such a damning question.
How did one trust another with their secrets and their life? Why did his Creator trust him to follow his orders? Because he was a clone? Did his Creator think One would do anything he asked, simply because he asked it? Was it the power? But what power, if One could simply disobey his orders? His Creator could send him back to Card World as punishment, but didn't he have just as much to lose since he'd still need to go to school without the clones? So why trust him? Why believe in him?
One didn't understand how Fëdor could place his faith in him so easily.
He didn't understand, until their roles were reversed—and now Fëdor had to go out for school while the clones stayed at home.
Fëdor, who took care of the clones with everything he had, who made sure their basic needs were met, who tried to find easy ways of making money to give them stable lives, all at the expense of himself.
“Why do this?” Gabriel decided to ask one day.
Fëdor flinched, surprised at the sudden question—or maybe it was the fact Gabriel had popped up out of nowhere—but he composed himself quickly, attempting a smile that came out strained. “Do what?”
Gesturing to the pack of clones in the living room and back to the schoolwork on Fëdor's study table, Gabriel pouted. “Why work for us? Didn't you summon us to do that for you? Did we not try hard enough?”
“No, it's the opposite,” Fëdor rushed to say, dropping his smile as he grew serious. “I didn't try hard enough before... so I guess you can say this is me making up for it.”
“And us?”
The intensity of his features softened as Fëdor's smile, weak but considerate, came back. “I care for you.”
“But it hurts you?”
“I wouldn't say it ‘hurts’... It's nothing I can't handle. It's just,” he sighed, “hard. But it's worth it.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. All of this... I can make it all better,” Fëdor assured. He sounded both so sure and unsure of himself. “I swear.”
It was hard to believe. In fact, Gabriel was sure the most of the others didn't believe it, at least not Kuromaku or Spade. Some days, it was like Fëdor didn't believe himself.
Gabriel understood why. Taking care of eight other people and yourself as a ninth grader seemed to be an impossible, if not extremely difficult and draining work.
And yet—Gabriel saw how much Fëdor tried, how many late nights he stayed up, how hard he studied for himself. He saw all this, all his sacrifices and effort, and he understood the want to believe—the idea of putting his faith in Fëdor—despite how unpromising the future seemed at times.
“Good luck,” Gabriel yelled from the doorstep as he waved at Fëdor leaving for school. “I believe in you!”