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“And look at what we have over here. Aren’t you plenty relaxed today?”
The Index Apprentice sighs, but looks up from his half-eaten strawberry cream cake to wordlessly acknowledge the intruder. It’s difficult to gauge whether it’s the comment or Albina’s inherent presence that vexes him so; much like his mentor, Ren doesn’t exactly wear his heart on his sleeve. The corner of his mouth seems to twitch in displeasure, still, when Albina closes in, grin too bright to conceal any malice. Lucio watches from the side as Ren’s sharp reflexes kick in, allowing him to narrowly rescue the Prescript-mandated dessert from being swiped in broad daylight. The dirty look that Ren shoots Albina has to be the most expressive Lucio has ever seen him. Everything suddenly clicks then: how Ren ends up as Albina’s go-to victim on her bouts of boredom, which is… pretty much all the time, as far as he can tell.
In all honesty, Lucio thinks he gets it. Just a little bit.
The failed attempt at thievery doesn’t appear to bother Albina, who playfully pats Ren on the back before she pulls a chair for herself and takes a seat at the table. Virtually no distance is put between her and Ren; if that is something that the latter notices and takes issue with, he’s doing a great job not letting it show.
The kitchen of the Index’s Corridor is only about two-thirds of the Middle’s lounge in size, Lucio distantly estimates. Its interior is fittingly modest, housing no more than the very necessities. The lack of clutter, however, does make it seem considerably more spacious in turn, rendering the space far more appropriate for the impromptu three-person gathering than Lucio originally thought. He wonders if it was the permission of his Nursefather or the Prescripts that Ren had to obtain prior to inviting him here.
“Miss Albina,” interrupts Ren, whose features have settled back into neutrality as their routine banter carries on, “seeing as you have once again found yourself terribly unoccupied, may this humble self suggest you find some better entertainment elsewhere? If my memory serves, Master has procured himself a new collection of picture books. You may browse them on the left-most shelf, second to the top. There will, perchance, be something that suits your fancy…”
“But who the hell comes out of boring training just to look at boring readings? Other than you, of course.”
“That is a statement most erroneous—No, do forget that. In any case, those boring readings would surely be… more riveting than vying for my attention, out of all things? More productive, even, dare I be so bold to add.”
Ren furrows his brow when Albina plucks a fresh strawberry out of the white cream. He glances at the beeper, which stays as silent as a lamb throughout the ruckus, and ultimately says nothing. The lack of response apparently doubles as a tacit approval, because Albina wastes no time popping the fruit into her mouth and muttering something about the Thumb Nursefather’s “godawful tastes”. Truly, the girl’s affiliation with the Thumb is something Lucio doubts he can ever grasp. The general disregard for courtesy notwithstanding, seeing as they are rather isolated from the syndicate itself, but even her attitude towards her own master sends an inexplicable chill down Lucio’s spine. While it isn’t as if she is inadequate in either formal-speak or obedience, one can only claim so with certainty from a strictly technical standpoint. From what he knows about their creed—which is, admittedly, pretty limited—how much grace Albina is given by Lady Valencina can only be described as… appalling.
As if on cue, the golden chains around his arms quietly rattle with his slightest movement. Lucio’s gaze drops to the intricate patterns in black ink on his skin before he can help it. Although it has been a few weeks since their inscription, he cannot yet quite see them as—to borrow Papa’s words—part of himself. It’s all irrationality on his end, really: the notion that he, a lowly Backstreet dweller, somehow turns out to be privileged to such luxuries… has never stopped coming across as ludicrous.
The feeling will go away in time, Lucio tells himself. Not too convincingly. Years have passed since he was first granted residence within the House of Spiders. Yet, even now, gifted with the softest bed and the warmest duvet, Lucio would still sometimes dream of those lonely, cold nights once upon a time. He would wake up from them, disoriented, and find the grand collection in the lounge harder to touch than ever.
Recalling the crestfallen look on Papa’s face has Lucio’s stomach churning with guilt. In that regard, he supposes he’s not in the position to judge Albina’s… qualifications.
Hurried footsteps precede the three successive knocks to the door. Ren holds a hand over his mouth as he finishes swallowing the last piece of cake before calling out, “Do come in.”
A fluffy head of hair pokes out from behind the door. Wide, round eyes dart around, taking in the occupants of the kitchen. The newcomer carries with her an odd combination of fresh paint and blood in the air that Lucio has eventually grown familiar with. Today, too, her white uniform is stained by a myriad of colors—a handful of which exist only to highlight the predominant deep red.
“Ren! A-and Albina. And Lucio. I hope I’m not di-disturbing you…” Sora’s concerns are instantly absolved by a clean flick of Albina’s wrist. She beams. “It’s wonderful to see you guys here... Lucio, thank you again for the special edition of the Fauvist Main Gallery’s Anniversary Artbook you secured for me the—the other day! Albina, how were the, mm, prosthetics? M-Miss Valencina looked pretty a-angry earlier…”
It feels wrong for him to receive such gratitude when Papa was the one who spent all that money; Lucio thus shakes his head and offers a halfhearted, “It’s nothing”. At the same time, Albina perks up like she has been waiting for this exact moment—for those exact words. With her gloves hastily undone and long sleeves rolled to her elbows, they all stare in awe as the fluorescent ceiling light bounces off the smooth surface of her brand new pair of arms. The last time Lucio listened to Albina’s complaints about her brittle bones somehow felt like a lifetime ago, despite his very vivid memory telling him that the conversation was, in fact, only about a few days back.
“They are awesome. Sora, you’re the best,” praises Albina while wriggling her fingers. “Really, these were all I needed to perfect my form. The lightness improved my speed, and they were even sturdy enough to take a few hits from her sword. Master looked like that because she couldn’t find a good reason to punish me, not because of these guys! She warned me about hanging out in the Ring’s Corridor again; she won’t care as long as I perform well. How much time did you spend on sanding those bones down again?”
The attention has Sora’s cheeks flushing. She awkwardly fiddles with her fingers and averts her gaze, yet not once does she cease smiling. “D-don’t worry about it! I’m happy they’re to your satisfaction…” Albina, with an uncharacteristic softness on her features, is keeping her arms outstretched for Sora to gently run her fingers down her own masterpiece, stars twinkling in her eyes. Lucio has always thought she shines too brightly—too warmly—to fit into a place like this. “Mister Calli—I mean, Sir Maestro said they’re a little too, uhm, simplistic for his tastes, b-but he understood my vision. He helped me a lot, also. I didn’t kno-know they could really be installed… Ah, speaking of which—!”
Sora suddenly startles, finally remembering her initial purpose. The revelation compels her to hop towards Ren, who is dutifully doing the dishes at the sink, and Lucio can vaguely catch a few jumbled words and one instance of “a carving knife”. Ren looks at her thoughtfully for a moment before he nods. The pair thus depart the kitchen—not without Ren, still in his pink apron, pausing at the door threshold and looking back just to them to behave. It’s a little offensive, really. Lucio frowns but says nothing, as he does.
The treatment doesn’t similarly affront Albina, who cares more about her sparkly new wares by a mile. Lucio dodges by a hairbreadth when she thrusts her arms out in his direction, almost smacking him square in the solar plexus. “Do you wanna touch them, Lucio? You should, by the way, since it was thanks to you that they got all nicely wired up and—”
“But it wasn’t me.”
“Ah, your big man, whatever. Not like he did that himself, yeah? Plus, he probably wouldn’t have even remembered my existence if it weren’t for you.” Lucio unconsciously draws a sharp inhale at the remark. Albina, thankfully, spares him not a speck of attention as she prattles on. “Anyway, are you touching them or not? You’ll get the honor of being the second—I mean, third person who gets to feel it. Go ahead. It’s for free, anyway.”
It doesn’t take a genius to see the way Albina is subtly indicating that she’s not letting this go until Lucio does what she wants. So he does. To Albina’s—and Sora’s—credit, the prosthetics do feel nice to touch. The knowledge of its material still weirds him out a bit, but he can practice cognitive dissonance and pretend it’s high-quality ceramic or whatnot.
Everything is peaceful until it’s not. A new voice from the other side of the door punches through the quietness; Lucio exchanges a meaningful look with Albina, and they simultaneously leave their respective seats to head towards the door. While eavesdropping is hardly a hobby of his, he can’t deny that the gaping absence of vigor in that familiar voice is piquing his curiosity. Lucio has never deemed Kira as someone capable of sounding so profoundly distressed.
“It is that bad this time! I’m not staying with her any longer—no, I don’t even wanna see her face!”
“That, regretfully, isn’t your choice to make, Miss Kira. As previously emphasized, this humble self of mine is unable to grant you refuge without my Master’s approval—”
“Come oooooon! Can’t you just, like, ask him? Or something?”
“Indeed, I can. In theory.” Ren’s voice stays rigidly leveled, though Lucio thinks he can hear the thinning patience. “But it would not be feasible at this time, keeping in mind his extended leave… Say, Miss Kira, the last time you took this matter up with me, and even the time before that, did you not find reconciliation with your mentor well before half a day passed?”
Ren must have had a point, because the girl only grumbles and stomps her foot in frustration instead of challenging the observation. Although her expression is obscured by the distance and the limited field of sight, even Lucio’s laughable excuse of an imagination can easily supply him with the severe scowl on the Pinky Apprentice’s face. Donned in an oversized white hoodie over a purple pair of shorts, she appears way smaller next to Ren than Lucio knows she is. As formidable an opponent as Kira can be, she does look rather harmless most of the time.
That isn’t to say the deceptive appearance has no merits to it. Case in point: Ren pinches the bridge of his nose, but stops insisting on chasing her off. Even his voice softens minutely. “If you would allow me to ask—what, then, of the… mm, pardon me, that Fixer Island video game you ceaselessly boasted about just yesterday? Would your Nursefather not be interested in…?”
Lucio turns the game title over in his mind once. Twice. Considering Ren and his disinclinations for anything not poetry or otherwise difficult, wordy books, Fixer Island most likely isn’t the accurate name, but he swears he has heard Papa describing something similar.
“Didja mean Umodachi Life1?” Oh, yes. That Umodachi Life. The one Papa has been spending hours customizing characters and building fake Wings on. Lucio had to sit through the divorce of the (fictional) K Corp’s director and the Red Mist before he was told to help recreate the Backstreets area in which he had been brought up. “That one’s technically a single-player… Wait, we were literally playing that together last night! She was so into it, too! What’s with her?! I mean, I kinda get it, but it gets real annoying. Man, is the Dihui Star seat even sick enough to be worth all this? Wait, since you mentioned Umodachi Life, lemme tell you that you and masked dude just moved into a neat little house in my City now, which you gotta check out—”
Come to think of it, the fact that Papa specifically shares a hobby with a peer of his makes a rather… uncanny discovery, so to speak. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but still.
Ren squints as he proceeds to list out a few more (probably butchered) titles, ranging from comic books to animated movies; all of which were vetoed by Kira as a medium to her truce with the Pinky Nursefather—Lady Yoru, if Lucio recalls correctly. Other than Papa, seldom are his encounters with the adults around the House, but what little impression he has of the veiled woman doesn’t seem to have any connections with the concept of a visual media fanatic that Ren and Kira are alluding to. The pickiness isn’t unexpected, though. Lady Yoru does look like she has high standards.
Does Kira often partake in her hobbies with her Nursefather, then? That girl isn’t the best at being secretive, so the fact that she hasn’t let that slip—to Lucio’s knowledge, at least—is somewhat impressive.
“It’s kinda funny, isn’t it?” whispers Albina, still spying through the gap, “Hearing those tacky names from Ren’s mouth, I mean. He acts like he can’t care less, yet here he is, reciting them one after another…”
“He got most of them wrong, though.”
“But he’s still doing it. That’s what makes it cute, don’t you think?”
Cute, she says. There’s a passing look of puzzlement on Ren’s face as Kira’s whole form starts deflating like a balloon. Lucio blinks. Ah, he can see where Albina comes from, now. While it is rather unsurprising, all things considered—in terms of physical distance, for one, with the Pinky’s Corridor directly opening to the Index’s, Ren and Kira are as close as neighbors can be—the fact that Ren has paid enough mind to Kira’s ramblings to more or less retain her plethora of interests makes Lucio feel… a sort of way. He has long learned firsthand that Ren’s stoicism doesn’t quite equate to indifference, but seeing it explicitly playing out before him from a third person’s perspective is, for the lack of a better word, novel—
Suddenly, as if having heard his thoughts, the object of his ponderings promptly turns his head to make eye contact with Lucio.
“Please forgive my humble self for being short of a practical solution for your predicament at present, Miss Kira. Although, I reckon my esteemed guests over there may be so ingenious as to propose an alternative outlook…”
Unlike Lucio, whose first instinct was to freeze and hold his breath, Albina ignores the unimpressed sarcasm in Ren’s voice to brazenly shove the door completely open and stride towards the dumbfounded Kira—“And I thought you would never ask!”
“How long—wait, no, just how much did you hear—?”
“Don’t worry about it. Either way, Ren is too much of a doormat when it comes to those kinds of things, y’know? If you want somewhere to stay around until Miss Yoru forgets it all, then how about coming over to my place?”
“But—”
“It’ll be fine. Master is totally daydrinking right now, so she won’t even notice you there. I also wanna show you this cool new thing Sora made for me…”
The invitation doesn’t cheer Kira up as much as Lucio had anticipated. If anything, she looks oddly hesitant. Parsing the space between spoken words is the rustling of Kira’s hoodie as she turns from Albina to Ren, seemingly weighing her options. Her frown has shifted from sulky to ruminative. When her uncertain gaze settles back upon Ren, it is with what Lucio can tell is an unspoken question.
Ren doesn’t reply right away. Only after staring at Albina for a few seconds does he start, “While Miss Albina’s statement bears much to be… amended, I unfortunately find myself concurring with the sentiment in essence: it might prove beneficial for you, Miss Kira, to find consolation in some time away.”
“Then, what about—”
“Worry not about your Nursefather, for I can attend to her until you choose to return. Should there arise any matter that requires your urgent attention, my insignificant self shall relay it with haste.”
“What he said,” Albina hums, satisfied, as she tugs Kira towards her by the arm. “Self-care’s important, and you have Ren to count on. What else is there to worry your pretty little head over? Now, if you’d excuse us…”
In typical Albina fashion, Kira is dragged away before she can put another word in. Ren watches them with knitted brows, but does not step in to stop them from leaving. The front door unceremoniously shuts following their hasty exit. Lucio’s attention is back on Ren just in time to catch him releasing a long, exasperated breath.
“That sounded like an everyday occurrence for you.”
The dry noise Ren made in immediate response vaguely resembled a chuckle. “Not as apt a description as an exaggeration—or so I would like to say.” He shrugs off the suit jacket of his uniform, hangs it on the coat rack by the entrance, and undoes his tie. “Rarely do I see Miss Kira so disheartened, however. It appears to be imperative that I pay the Pinky Nursefather a visit soon…”
“I didn’t know you were close.”
Ren doesn’t spare the comment any reaction, and Lucio knows better than to push. He conscientiously moves away from the door, making way for Ren to reenter the kitchen. The frilly apron is returned to where it belonged, and the kitchen light flicks off with a flip of the switch. No words are exchanged between them, as per usual. The quietness in their shared presence always comes naturally, companionably; Lucio doesn’t wish to complain, but he misses the previous liveliness just a little bit.
“Ah, pardon me for letting this slip my mind,” Ren’s voice suddenly reaches him through the dim kitchen over the even footsteps, startling Lucio from his thoughts, “but I believe you had something you wished to consult me about earlier, no? Prior to the rude interruption from a certain someone.”
“Uh,” says Lucio, intelligently. It takes him an embarrassing second to understand what Ren means.
The way it is brought up makes Lucio’s initial purpose for visiting sound more important than it actually is. It’s somehow… flattering, especially when it comes from Ren. Lucio ignores how his ears warm as he rummages through the bag that he left on the sofa when he first came in.
This novel, according to its owner, is on the shorter end, capping at only 100-something pages. Ren lent it to Lucio at the beginning of last month when he offhandedly expressed interest after reading the summary. The implications inherent to most of Ren’s preferred literary works hadn’t occurred to him back then. To say that Lucio regretted it would be a stretch, but, as he soon had the displeasure to find out, his novice level of literacy couldn’t hope to fully comprehend even the first few pages. Now, a month and a half later, with the help of a dictionary and active note-taking, he is only barely halfway through the story. Not a single day has gone by without Lucio regretting not pressing Papa to let him continue his general education.
A tinge of surprise disturbs the perpetual tranquility in Ren’s night-colored eyes when Lucio gingerly passes him his notes. The minor height difference between them becomes obvious with proximity, where Lucio only has to look down to capture the slightest flutter of Ren’s eyelashes as the latter flips through the notebook pages. He also gets a whiff of whatever shampoo Ren is using. It smells nice.
“Your handwriting…”
“Sorry, I hadn’t really been holding a pen before this—”
“Oh, you might be mistaken. My humble self meant to tell you it is nice to look at.” Unaware of the cardiac arrest his fleeting smile has sent Lucio into, Ren carries on, “I can see that you already have a decent grasp on the major plot points. If you wish to discuss the book further, I regret to have to ask you to wait as I attend to certain matters…”
“It’s alright.” Lucio shakes his head. In retrospect, this must be the most Ren has spoken to him in one go. “I can wait. Please take your time.”
Only after going so far as to prepare tea and snacks for Lucio does Ren bow to him and retreat to the back, possibly to enter the Pinky’s Corridor as he mentioned before. Lucio lets his back sink into the cushion behind the seat and idly fiddles with the pressed flower bookmark that Ren gave him alongside the novel. The clock on the wall denotes that it hasn’t been an hour since he was brought here, yet it feels like almost a day has passed. The recollection of the events that have unfolded renders him a little lightheaded—not exactly in an unpleasant way. While it isn’t rare that he crosses paths with the fellow apprentices, the chance to freely converse with them at length doesn’t present itself as often. Considering how they all share the same roof, there is, evidently, still much Lucio has yet to know about them.
The realization unravels a foreign thread of anticipation in Lucio’s chest. He wonders if it would be presumptuous of him to hope that he can eventually learn more about his peers.