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“I never said this was going to be easy. I knew that. I mean, that old bitch Sir Pheles didn’t really give much of a choice, did he?”
There are petals of white lys in the wind when Shiro’s gaze lands on them for one second, his pupil catching them like the click of a camera. Behind the crass of his glasses, he doesn’t see the slight yellow the pollen left on them. The breeze is frisk, and it bites him where his skin isn’t covered enough.
“Not that I mind, really. You know me. But it’s harder than you’d think, that’s for sure. At least, the both of them are pretty endearing. The twins. Rin is a bit of an asshole though. That’s the first time in my life I have to take care of a new born and it’s like he’s giving me a test by being the most difficult baby of all time, you feel me? Such an asshole. But when he’s finally asleep… He’s really cute. There’s no way you’d resist him, that’s for sure.”
From very far away, he hears the bark of a dog and the laugh of a little girl. They’re probably near the other end of the park, but he still hears them and, somewhere within the fog the booze left behind inside his brain, he thinks that’s an echo of something he cannot have. A beautiful irony.
“Yukio is something else. I guess. They’re so different, the two of them, it’s kinda crazy.”
Shiro knows he should stop drinking because it makes him weirdly melancholic and unhinged. There’s no echo in the wind or fog in his brain. If there’s one thing his brain is full of, it’s bullshit.
“Yukio looks so much like you. With his little moles… He is really cute.”
The wind lets out a cry and Shiro sighs: “Yeah, fine, I get it,” he says, his voice weary, before noticing the tears that have escaped from his eyes and dampened the used golden rim of his glasses. He beats his chest—as if shaking his old carcass would change anything about the situation. Come on, Shiro, you have to get up. Come on, Shiro, you have to go home. The children are waiting for you. You have a duty, Shiro.
“Bye, Yuri,” he whispers as he gets up from the bench, because Shiro is not an asshole who leaves without saying goodbye, “We'll catch up whenever you want.”
The small grayish tomb—on which no one has placed a photo because the True-Cross Order would rather die under the rubble of its foundations than remember its history—remains silent as Shiro walks away along the dirt path leading to the cemetery entrance. Whatever, Shiro thinks. He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter.
.oOo.
When Shiro gets back to the monastery, Osceola Redarm is there. His huge frame sits on the small chair in the back room of the church (the one usually reserved for guests) next to the low table on which remains only one small candle; his hands, as impressive from a distance as they are up close, rest on the bones of his knees with the polite air of someone who has been waiting in the warmth rather than in the winter cold outside. At the sight of Shiro, his face lights up somewhat—the discreet but very real lines of worry under his eyes seem to indicate that he has noticed the Paladin's battered appearance, if not the smell of alcohol emanating from him, but he says nothing about it. Instead, he whispers: “Good evening, Father Fujimoto,” and, bizarrely, the honorific title betrays more fondness than respect when he says it. It’s because they’ve known each other for years, Shiro tells himself while trying to fix his hair.
“Hello, big guy,” says Shiro, attempting a smile that he hopes is sufficiently welcoming, “what’s bringing you here? I bet the weather is a little distracting for you, huh.”
“Not exactly,” Osceola shrugs (and, well. Shiro guesses it’s his fault for trying this excuse of a joke). “I didn’t want to bother you but Tadashi said it was more than fine for me to wait for you here. I apologize—I'm just here to help before going back home. I take you must be solicited often.”
“Well, not right now, but it won’t be long, I suppose. I was told by the Order to lay back for a while, you know… and… I guess I will become solicited a lot once the kids are…”
Pause. Why the fuck is it so hard? Osceola just wanted to be polite—he didn’t mean to give Shiro a space to just… He doesn’t even know. To complain? Babble? Spit on the ground with useless informations?
“… Fujimoto?”
It’s been a little more than a month since the Blue Night happened—since the death of Yuri Egin and so many others, but, again, that doesn’t matter—and the two half-demon babies in Shiro's care have barely grown an inch, except for the fact that they have become particularly noisy and expressive for creatures that cannot speak. Shiro has little experience with children and real medicine in general and often wonders if he should be concerned about this. He barely remembers Yuri's pregnancy. Rin and Yukio weren't born prematurely, were they?
“Okay, whatever you say. I mean, whatever I say. Never mind. Did Mephisto make a big deal outta of this whole mess?”
Osceola blinks. Shiro does not know whether he is shocked by the tone he uses when talking about their superior or whether he simply always looks like that.
“Not really. Sir Pheles simply explained the situation to me,” replies Osceola with that soft voice of his, spreading his hands, palm upwards, like he has all of the wisdom of the world stocked within his enormous frame (Shiro knows he should stop looking at him like that. God, he knows), “I wasn’t very surprised that he entrusted you with this task. I know you must be tired of hearing this, but you have all my condolences—for what happened to Yuri, that is.”
“Ah. What? I mean, no—no, I’m not. I’m not tired of hearing it.”
“Oh?” says Osceola, very softly, and Shiro has no idea what to add. Fuck. What the hell. He clears his tightened throat, hoping the tremor in his fingers is not too noticeable, and tries to keep his voice even and his professionalism intact—the kids are asleep, for Christ’s sake.
“Yuri wasn’t very popular, or known, for that matter, among our… colleagues. Especially after the whole shitshow that happened with Satan and, well, you know the rest of the story, right? So. Yeah. Thanks. It’s good to hear some people not shitting on her memory from time to time.”
“I’m sure she was a great friend for you, even after what happened in Mexico,” and Osceola’s lips stretch into a little polite smile, if a bit amused, and Shiro feels the sweat that has been stinging the back of his neck since the beginning of this bloody conversation running down his spine. He has this urge—but he supposes crawling beneath the floor of the monastery to cry for the rest of his life is not a super idea when you just became an adoptive father to two adorable global threats. And Osceola Redarm is looking at him like Shiro has done no wrong in this whole affair and it’s killing him inside. What the fuck was Mephisto thinking? He has already all the help he needs, he doesn’t need… He doesn’t need anyone to see him sobbing. What he needs is a drink, a little voice whispers in his ear.
“Yeah, yeah. She was. Khm. Anyways, thanks for the help, man. Appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Fujimoto. In any case, me and Lewin are still posted in Japan. Do not hesitate to call me if you need anything.”
“Lewin?”
“My… student?” As he gets up, Osceola's expression turns pensive. He scratches his neck, avoiding Shiro's curious gaze. “You know, the child I’m taking care of—the Nephilim.”
“Oh! That little fucker.” Suddenly, Shiro breaks into a broad smile: of course he remembers Lewin. Difficult to forget the bloodied face of a child with crooked teeth, overjoyed at having drained a goat of its blood in his guardian's pantry to perform a demonic invocation ritual. What a day it was.
That earns him a quiet huff of laughter, more breath than sound, and something in Shiro’s chest loosens just a little. Good. At least he’s not completely fucking this up. He shifts his weight, leans back against the wall of the corridor, arms crossed loosely over his chest. There’s a beat of silence between them, the kind that stretches but doesn’t strain. The monastery is quiet in the way only places built for prayer ever are: thick walls, old wood, the distant murmur of monks settling in for the night. Somewhere above them, something creaks.
“Are you guys doing good?” asks Shiro, too happy to redirect the conversation in a place in which he’s not the center of it.
Osceola shrugs—he seems a lot less happy than him. “Lewin has been, uh, weirdly excited about what happened recently, and it’s been bugging me. To be honest, we’re more than fine. He’s in perfect health and he’s been a really good student. He actually listens to me now. But… It still bothers me that he finds such a tragedy, let’s say, fascinating,” and, as he finishes his sentence and clears his throat, Osceola looks away, but not before the embarrassed expression on his face betrays him.
It’s Shiro’s turn to blink. Osceola looks as if he just swallowed a slug. He does look worried, though. Which—Shiro probably can understand, he’s not stupid enough to not see how Osceola has been caring for the kid for years now. He also probably shouldn’t feel relieved to hear that someone else is worried about a kid who isn’t technically theirs. Well.
“Well,” he says, rubbing his face with both hands, dragging the fatigue down into his bones, “kids are like that, I guess. They don’t get it. Or they get it too well, and it comes out all wrong.”
Osceola hums, noncommittal. He stays standing, large and careful, always careful and soft, but still as if he’s afraid the wooden floor might protest against his weight. Shiro notices, absurdly, that he’s taken his boots off without being asked—that his coat is neatly folded over one arm instead of slung wherever it fell and that he smells faintly of incense and cold air. The monastery feels smaller with him inside it. Not cramped, just… occupied. The space seems to have remembered what it was meant for and, somewhere inside of his thoracic cage, Shiro can feel the hideous place nestled between his heart and lungs opening up, raw and full of things he does not want to see under the vivid light of the day.
“Do you want to see them?”
They walk down the hall together. Shiro leads the way, steps soft out of habit now, pausing before the door to the small room Mephisto assigned them when they got here the day after the Blue Night. It still smells faintly of incense and old paper, layered over milk and clean laundry and the sharp tang of baby ointment. A mess of contradictions—sounds about right. He pushes the door open slowly.
Rin is sprawled in his crib like he’s already fighting the world in his sleep, tiny fists clenched, dark and white-ish hair sticking up in impossible directions. Yukio lies more neatly beside him, curled on his side, thumb tucked into his mouth, lashes resting against his cheeks. Two small rises and falls. Two warm, breathing proofs that the Blue Night did indeed happen but also that the world did not completely collapse despite it.
Osceola stops just inside the doorway. He doesn’t say anything at first; he simply looks. Shiro watches him from the corner of his eye, ready for… something. Judgment, maybe. Awe. Fear. Hell, he doesn’t know anymore.
But Osceola’s expression softens in a way that makes Shiro’s chest ache. His shoulders lower. His hands, big and scarred and steady, hang loosely at his sides.
“They’re beautiful,” he says, his voice as small as a butterfly.
Shiro swallows. “Yeah.”
Rin snuffles, turning his face into the mattress, and Yukio lets out a tiny, whimpering sound but doesn’t wake up. Osceola steps closer without thinking, careful as if approaching a skittish animal.
“He looks like Yuri,” he murmurs, nodding toward Yukio.
Shiro exhales through his nose. “Everyone keeps saying that,” he groans, rather hypocritically.
Osceola, as if reading the most subconscious parts of his brain, those dripping with violence and impurity, glances back at him: “Does it bother you?”
“No,” Shiro says immediately, then pauses. Okay. Take it easy, Shiro. “…Yeah. Sometimes. But mostly it helps. I guess.”
Osceola nods, like that makes any sense. Maybe it does. Whatever. They stand there for a moment longer, sharing the quiet, then Shiro gently pulls the door closed again, and they walk back to the back room, the two of them sitting down again on those damned stools that are too small.
“You didn’t have to come, you know,” Shiro mutters, shaking his head somewhere other than into the Arc Knight's eyes. Weirdly enough, Osceola looks surprised.
For a while, neither of them speaks—until, somewhere down the hall, Rin lets out a thin, offended wail, the kind that means he’s not having a nightmare but that he's hungry again. Shiro flinches automatically, already counting in his head how long he can wait before the crying escalates into full-blown demonic outrage. Back at it again, it seems.
“I’ll get him,” he says, standing up too fast.
“You don’t have to,” Osceola replies immediately, and then stills, as if realizing he might be overstepping. “I mean—if you want. I can. If that’s… acceptable.”
Shiro stares at him. For a second, he thinks of Yuri’s hands, too small and too steady at the same time, covered in snow and blood and sweat, the way she scooped Rin up without hesitation even after seeing the half-dismembered, bloodied bodies on the floor of the Vatican. He thinks of how alone he’s been pretending he isn’t.
“Yeah,” he answers finally. “Yeah. That’d be—thanks.”
Osceola nods once, solemn as a knight accepting a quest, and disappears in the corridor. As for Shiro, he sinks back onto the tatami, refusing the chair for a reason he doesn’t want to examine right now. He presses his palms into his eyes until sparks flare behind them, pink appearing in stars somewhere between the black and grey swirls when he puts more pressure on. When he exhales, the room doesn’t feel quite so hollow.
.oOo.
Bath time is, in Shiro’s professional opinion, a form of torture invented specifically to punish hubristic exorcists.
Rin hates the water. Or perhaps loves it too much. There is no in-between somehow. He thrashes like he’s being murdered, tiny horns barely visible beneath wet hair—hair that is, by the way, gradually becoming two-toned—and tail lashing and splashing dangerously close to Yukio’s face. Yukio, for his part, is silent and wide-eyed, clinging to Shiro’s shirt with both fists like he’s afraid he might dissolve if he lets go. They’re both so cute but...
“I swear to God,” Shiro mutters, trying to keep Rin from launching himself out of the tub, “if you summon anything in here, I’m putting you back in Gehenna. I’ll find a way, believe me,” and, to this, Rin responds by screeching.
Osceola, who watched the whole spectacle without saying a word and without showing any emotion (so much so that Shiro starts to wonder if he secretly enjoys seeing him struggle like that), suddenly crouches beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, utterly unfazed.
“May I?” he asks gently.
Shiro barely hesitates for half a second—then relinquishes Rin like a man handing over a live grenade. Slow as if himself in water, Osceola cups Rin’s head, careful around the horns, and hums. It’s low and strange and not quite a melody, something old and steady that vibrates in the air more than it sounds. Rin pauses mid-wail, startled. His tail stills, his eyes fixed on Osceola’s face with a naked curiosity.
“There you go,” Osceola murmurs. “You’re safe.”
Shiro watches, throat tight, as Rin slowly relaxes into the water, tiny fingers curling into Osceola’s sleeve instead of clawing for escape.
At this moment, Yukio hiccups. His lip trembles. Oh oh oh. Recognizing the signs, Shiro scoops him up immediately, pressing him against his chest and rocking back and forth. “Hey. Hey. You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” and Yukio buries his face in Shiro’s shirt and sobs—small, heartbreaking creature. Shiro presses a kiss into his damp hair, whispers nonsense. God all-mighty, he’s so bad at all of this.
When it’s over—when both babies are wrapped in towels and vaguely resemble disgruntled dumplings, wrinkled skin and everything—Shiro realizes his hands are shaking. Osceola probably notices too. He says nothing. He just hands Shiro a cup of tea later, after the kids are asleep, steam curling between the two of them in the quiet kitchen. They drink in silence; the monastery breathes.
.oOo.
Lewin arrives into their home like a curse with legs because that’s what he is and because he’s fucking rude, the little shit. He doesn’t even call beforehand. He just appears in the middle of the main aisle of the church one afternoon surrounded by chalk sigils and scorched air, grinning like he’s Prometheus who just discovered fire and intends to use it irresponsibly. There is no knock, no polite clearing of the throat, no footsteps in the corridor—just the smell of ozone, chalk dust, and something faintly metallic in the air, like blood on cold iron. When Shiro arrives in the alley, disturbed in the middle of doing the laundry and acutely conscious of the fact that he barely slept four hours last night, the lights of the monastery flicker once, twice. From the comfort of his play-mat next to his twin, Rin lets out a delighted squeal, tail thumping hard enough against the tatami to be considered an actual threat. Shiro freezes mid-motion, one sock in his hand.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters.
A circle burns itself into existence in the middle of the room—chalk lines sharp and humming, symbols Shiro recognizes just enough of to know he doesn’t like them—and there he is, Lewin Light, crouched in the center of it, grinning up at the ceiling with the air of the cat that’s successfully knocked something fragile off a shelf.
“Father Fujimoto!” he says brightly. “You should really ward your living space better.”
Shiro drops the sock.
“What part of the word monastery makes you think I want spontaneous teleportation circles in my living room?”
Lewin stands, dusting off his knees. He looks older than Shiro remembers—longer limbs, sharper features, a hint of stubble—but his grin is still the same crooked thing, all teeth and enthusiasm, and his glasses are still askew on the bridge of his nose. In his hands, he’s holding a small wooden box bound in tarnished metal, sigils crawling lazily along its surface.
“I walked here most of the way,” Lewin offers, as if this helps, “I only used short-range displacement at the end.”
“That’s not—” Shiro stops, squints. “Wait. Is that box growling?”
Hearing the sound resonating against the high walls, Rin has already started crawling toward it, fascinated, hands slapping eagerly against the floor.
“Hey—hey, no, buddy, don’t—” Shiro scrambles forward, scooping Rin up just before the box emits a low, pleased rumble. “Jesus Christ. Yukio, stay where you are,” he says a little bit too loud and Yukio, of course, immediately starts crying. From the hallway comes the sound of measured footsteps.
“Lewin,” Osceola starts calmly, appearing at Shiro’s side like a summoned shield. He doesn’t look surprised at all, which does little to reassure the Paladin. “What did I tell you about unsupervised artifacts? Especially in someone else's home?”
Lewin grimaces behind the smudged lenses of his spectacles: “Define unsupervised.”
Not in the least bit disturbed, Osceola’s eyes flick to the box as he inhales slowly through his nose.
“That is sealed with infernal wards.”
“Four of them,” Lewin says proudly, “Well. Three and a half. One of them is more symbolic than functional according to me.”
Shiro stares at the box, then at Lewin, then at Osceola. He should probably call Tadashi. Or Izumi. Doesn’t matter. Someone who isn’t him and has more sleep in their veins.
“I don’t care how many fucking wards it has,” he snaps. “There are babies in this room.”
As if on cue, Rin babbles, reaching for the box again, and the metal sigils pulse brighter in response. Lewin leans in immediately, expression shifting—not guilty, not exactly, but attentive. Curious in a way that’s sharper now, edged with something like restraint: “Oh. They react to it. Fascinating.”
“No,” Shiro says, “Bad word. Illegal word.”
Osceola steps closer, placing himself subtly between the box and the children. His voice remains gentle, but there’s steel under it now: “What is it, Lewin?”
At this, the boy hesitates. That alone is alarming, decides the Paladin.
“It’s… a reliquary,” he answers, “Or what’s left of one. I found it near the ruins of an old binding site in Ciudad Juàrez the last time we went home. The energy signature is inconsistent, so it shouldn’t be active.”
“And yet,” Shiro grits his teeth, bouncing Rin on his hip as Yukio’s crying escalates, “it’s growling.”
Funny enough the box chooses this moment to start making noise again, rattling in Lewin’s hands. Something inside emits a quiet laugh. Okay, what the fuck now. Distinctively, Osceola exhales.
“Put it down,” he says, “slowly.”
Lewin obeys, setting the box gently on the tatami. The moment his hands leave it, the sigils flare violently, illuminating Rin’s little horns under his hair like Christmas lights on snow.
“Ah,” Lewin murmurs, “That’s new.”
“Shiro—!” Before he can do anything, Osceola grabs his arm, yanking him back just as a burst of black magic cracks through the air where Shiro’s hand had been. Rin squeals all the more, his twin still crying in fear, and—and Shiro’s heart slams painfully against his ribs. For half a second, he can’t breathe. For half a second, all he can see is fire and blood and Yuri—
“Enough,” Osceola says, voice cutting clean and strong through the panic. He kneels down, quickly draws a circle in the salt, murmuring words that make the air around them vibrate and bounce off the stained-glass windows. The box jerks once, twice, then slumps, inert, returning to its state as an object. Silence crashes down over the room.
Shiro sinks onto the floor, his legs giving out beneath him. He’s laughing, he realizes distantly. Too loud. Probably a little hysterical. Quick, he needs to stop, he’s gonna scare the kids again.
“I’m gonna kill Mephisto,” he says weakly, fully knowing he needs to blame someone for the current state of his life and that someone is going to be that old bastard, “I’m actually gonna do it. I’m going to haunt him.”
Lewin blinks, then smiles, now sheepish: “In my defense, I didn’t think it would react to infants.”
Osceola stands, brushing salt from his hands. He looks tired but, when he turns to Lewin, his expression is not angry. “Intent does not negate consequence,” he says with an even tone, “Come here.”
Lewin does. He always does, in the end, and his guardian must know that too because he rests a hand on his shoulder—not heavy, not light, but anchoring. “You don’t experiment around children,” Osceola continues, “Ever. Not only because they are fragile, but because they are unpredictable as well. Like you.”
Lewin’s grin fades. He nods once. “Yes, sir.”
Shiro watches them, chest still tight, Rin finally settling against him as Yukio hiccups himself into exhausted quiet. Something in him loosens a bit.
“Tea?” Shiro offers, voice hoarse and small, mostly to keep himself from shaking apart.
Later, the box is sealed away properly. Lewin sits cross-legged next to the kids’s play-mat, obedient for once, hands wrapped around a mug. Rin stares at him with huge blue eyes as Yukio sleeps next to him. Osceola meets Shiro’s eyes over the steam of their cups. The house is still standing. Shiro thinks—absurdly, gratefully—that this, somehow, feels like progress.
.oOo.
“You’re good with them,” Shiro says quietly, later, much later. They are in the small courtyard in front of the monastery, smoking, and night surrounds them. The stars above them twinkle behind the curtain of neon lights and the late winter mist. Osceola's body burns beside him as if he had just used his Qaletaqa Gauntlet.
The Arc Knight doesn’t look at him. His cigarette hangs from his lips; the wind lifts his braid behind him, a calm, measured serpent. “So are you.”
Shiro thinks back on how Yukio stares at Osceola’s earrings like they hold the secrets of the universe, and he snorts: “I’m barely holding it together.”
Osceola turns then, expression soft and unbearably kind, yet Shiro sees something tight and old and tired behind it and he doesn’t know what it is. “You don’t have to do it alone,” murmurs Osceola, and, in this moment, he almost sounds like a child, “I have been there before.”
He doesn’t even know what the fuck his friend is talking about. Is it about the alcohol? The kids? Maybe it’s both. Or maybe it’s about the exhausted line of Shiro’s back when he comes home from the Vatican, or the long nights lost in memories that can never be reality again. He doesn’t know. Perhaps he will never be certain of anything ever again in his life and this thought scares him more than anything. Shiro leans back against the stone wall, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers, and for the first time in years, he lets his shoulders drop, lets the tension bleed away. The stars above flicker beyond the rooftops, far above the cross that overlooks the monastery, distant and cold, but down here, in the gentle curve of Osceola’s presence, there is light. When they get back inside, Shiro can feel it in his bones, in this body that will never be truly his again. Outside, the wind carries the scent of lilies and the wind movies through the trees; inside, the war pauses and, for the first time in a long while, Shiro feels like he’s home.