Chapter Text
Byron watches his friend from across the flickering campfire. When the flames sway just so and illuminate certain parts of his face, it’s easy to remember how Faker looked back when they were in school together.
Young and hopeful for a future they had yet to form. No opportunities truly out of reach.
Byron wants to think they can still achieve anything, of course. He wouldn’t be out here braving the wilderness, away from his young sons and the comfort of their family home if he didn’t truly believe in his friend’s mission. But he can’t deny how much more consequential every venture has become with time.
Faker sits hunched over his notes, flipping through the same few pages in a frantic cycle, as though he’s hoping the numbers scrawled across the pages might change the next time he lays eyes on them.
Byron tries to remember when their work became so dire. When the possibilities began to dwindle and room for failure started to close off.
Sure, losing their wives had changed them; their deaths forcing Byron and Faker to grapple with their own mortality. Byron became meticulous about wishing his sons goodnight at the end of every evening now, careful to close each day without any anger or regrets. And he could only imagine how Faker was managing, now that Haruto’s condition had begun to decline.
But Byron suspects their attitudes had begun to change long before that in smaller measures. Perhaps in ways they hadn’t even noticed at the time.
Hadn’t they made the decisions to marry, and start their families at some point? He certainly recalls a time before that when the idea of either of them settling down would have been laughable.
He adjusts the scarf around his neck and clears his throat.
“Do you remember back in university, the night we finally finished writing our dissertations?” Byron asks.
“Vaguely,” Faker grunts, still clutching his journal tightly in his hands.
Byron laughs. “We must have stayed out the entire night drinking. I wonder how many bars we got kicked out of.”
Faker watches him silently. He seems so far away, the billowing smoke distorting his image.
“I recall you making a proposition that night. If we weren’t married by the time we reached forty, we should marry each other,” Byron continues.
“I don’t remember that,” Faker sputters, finally dropping his papers to look Byron in the eye.
He seems almost frightened for a moment, then his expression settles back into something too subtle for Byron to fully make out behind the strange lighting of the fire.
Byron adjusts his monocle and pushes down the feeling of embarrassment, though part of him is pleased to have finally wrestled his friend’s attention from his notes.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You were drinking so much that night,” he says.
Faker snorts, crossing his arms and leaning back into the darkness. “I was. But I’m sure you’re right. I was much more reckless back then,” he agrees, shaking his head. “And I had so many wild ideas.”
Byron smiles. “You speak as though we aren’t halfway across the world, searching for a portal that will allow us to set foot in another dimension as early as tomorrow. I don’t believe your ideas have gotten any more reasonable with age.”
The fire leaps up, giving Byron a clear view of his friend’s face now. The years are creased into his skin, and there’s a lack of sleep shadowed around his eyes.
“It hardly feels like it will be an accomplishment,” Faker admits. “I simply have no other choices left.”
The two of them sit in silence for some time, the years burning off and on again in the embers.
Eventually Kazuma emerges from his tent and comes to join them, heaving himself onto a spot on the ground between them.
“I figured I should check in my family before we run out of signal,” he laughs. “The little one worries when we go on these trips.”
Faker stands up abruptly with a huff. He brushes some dirt off his pants before disappearing in the direction of his tent without a word.
Though Byron is long accustomed to his friend’s brusque nature, Kazuma’s presence makes him wince at the rudeness.
“I apologize, he has a lot on his mind right now,” Byron explains. “His youngest is very ill, and I don’t know that he likes to be reminded of that.”
“I didn’t realize,” Kazuma says, looking back in the direction Faker disappeared. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Byron shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. I can’t imagine he’ll hold it against you.”
He gives Kazuma a reassuring smile. “So how many children do you have?”
Time always passes quickly when they’re talking about their children, and Byron finds Kazuma to be personable and a rather energetic storyteller.
But every so often he can’t help but steal a look into the distance where a faint light flickers in Faker’s tent.