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The apartment was small in the way most flight school apartments were. Furniture bought secondhand from people leaving for deployments they never came back from. Pipes rattled somewhere behind the walls, footsteps echoed faintly through the hallway outside, and rain whispered softly against the windows overlooking the city below.
Crimson sat alone at the kitchen table with only the weak light above the stove illuminating the room. The rest of the apartment remained swallowed in darkness, shadows stretching across the floor and over the back of the couch where Monarch’s jacket had been abandoned earlier that morning. One sleeve nearly touched the ground. Crimson One rested his chin against his knuckles and stared absently toward the rain-covered window. He told himself he was trying to relax, but his body betrayed him in small, humiliating ways. His shoulders remained tense despite the silence around him, and every distant sound from outside dragged his attention toward the door before disappointment settled back in again.
It irritated him more than ever. He had spent years training himself into discipline. Flight school demanded precision from all of them. Routine became survival long before any of them ever entered a real cockpit. Wake up at the same hour. Memorize procedures until they become instinct. Maintain control over your breathing, your posture, your voice, your thoughts.
Especially your thoughts.
The famous Crimson One had always been good at that part. At least around other people. But there were nights like this where something restless seemed to crawl beneath his skin no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. Nights where the apartment felt strangely hollow without another person moving through it, where silence stopped feeling peaceful.
He glanced toward the clock on the microwave again.
Past one in the morning.
The rational part of him immediately supplied explanations. Monarch was probably still at the hangars with the others after training. Maybe one of the instructors kept them late again. Maybe the weather delayed transportation back across the city.
None of it mattered. It should not have mattered. Yet Crimson could feel irritation slowly curdling into something uglier the longer the hours dragged on. Because beneath all the logic and restraint, beneath the carefully constructed calm he carried so effortlessly around everyone else, there remained the undeniable truth that he simply hated being left alone with his own head for too long. His gaze drifted back toward Monarch’s jacket hanging over the couch. He remembered Monarch laughing that morning while struggling to pull it on one-handed, still half distracted by something he had been rambling about over coffee.
He crossed the apartment quietly, straightening the jacket sleeve, before catching himself in the act. His hand lingered against the fabric for a second too long.
Pathetic.
Crimson stepped away from the couch and ran a hand through his hair with visible frustration. He did not understand how Monarch made this happen to him so easily. Around everyone else, Crimson remained normal. Other cadets avoided pushing his patience. But Monarch walked through every wall he built without even trying.
The sound of the lock turning finally broke the silence.
Crimson immediately stepped back toward the kitchen before the door even opened, forcing his expression blank out of instinct. By the time Monarch entered the apartment carrying the smell of rain and wet pavement with him, Crimson already looked calm again, one arm resting casually against the counter like he had been there the entire evening for no particular reason. Monarch shut the door behind him and blinked at the darkness filling most of the apartment before his eyes settled on him.
“You’re awake?”
Crimson shrugged lightly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Monarch accepted the answer without suspicion, already pulling his other damp jacket off as he walked further inside. “Sorry, training ran late. Then one of the instructors kept talking to us afterward.”
Crimson nodded once. He is finally here.
Monarch dropped his bag beside the couch with a tired sigh before running both hands through rain-damp hair. He looked exhausted in the soft kitchen light, dark circles faint beneath his eyes from another week of relentless training and too little sleep, but there was still something unfairly relaxed about him.
The famous Crimson One envied that sometimes.
He watched Monarch disappear briefly into the bathroom, listened to the sound of water running, and found himself staring toward the closed door longer than necessary before forcing his attention elsewhere. His fingers tightened once against the edge of the counter. The apartment no longer felt empty. That should have been enough to calm him completely, yet the restless tension remained lodged stubbornly beneath his ribs.
Monarch emerged a minute later drying his hands on the edge of his shirt. “Did you eat already?”
“Yes.” Poor poor Monarch.
The famous Crimson One had not been hungry enough to bother. Monarch narrowed his eyes slightly.
“You look tired.”
“So do you.”
“That’s because I’ve been flying all day.”
Crimson folded his arms loosely. “And I haven’t?”
A faint smile tugged briefly at Monarch’s mouth, like he recognized the sharpness for what it really was and chose not to challenge it. “There he is.”
Fuck you Monarch. He wanted to say. Monarch sounded so comfortable saying it. He understood the game.
Monarch moved into the kitchen and opened one of the closets, standing there silently for a moment while cold light spilled across the dark apartment.
“Where are the mugs?”
“Under closet. “
Monarch laughed softly under his breath, then he watched Monarch pull out leftovers and lean lazily against the counter while eating straight from the container.
“You could’ve texted me,” Crimson One said finally, the words leaving his mouth before he fully considered them.
Monarch glanced up. “Hm?”
“You were gone for hours.”
Monarch lowered the container slightly. “I told you it may take some time.”
“Still I would have appreciated it.”
Monarch studied him quietly for another second before looking away again. “Okay.”
That should have ended the conversation.
Crimson pushed himself away from the counter and walked toward the window, folding his arms tighter across his chest as rain continued streaking softly against the glass outside. The city lights below blurred into gold and white smears beneath the storm. Behind him, Monarch set the empty container down in the sink.
“You know,” he said carefully, “sometimes I can’t tell if you’re angry at me or just stressed.”
Crimson One let out a quiet humorless laugh. “Maybe there’s no difference.”
Monarch did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded softer.
“You’ve been getting worse lately.”
Crimson’s shoulders stiffened before he could stop himself.
“Worse?” he repeated flatly.
Monarch seemed to hesitate for a second after hearing the tone in his voice. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then explain it.”
The room fell quiet except for the rain tapping softly against the windows. Crimson hated how sharp he sounded. Hated the fact that he could already feel control slipping and still could not stop himself from pushing further. His pulse had started beating too fast again, every emotion inside him arriving at once with exhausting intensity.
Monarch exhaled slowly and stepped closer, his expression careful now.
“I just think…” He paused briefly, searching for the right words. “I think maybe you should talk to someone.”
Crimson stared at him.
“What?”
“A professional,” Monarch said gently. “Someone who could actually help. I don’t think I can help you because you don’t talk to me.”
For a moment Crimson One genuinely could not speak. Something deep inside him tightened so suddenly it almost hurt. Embarrassment came first, hot and immediate, followed almost instantly by anger sharp enough to cover it.
“You think I’m unstable?”
“No.” Monarch shook his head quickly. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“You just did.”
“Because I’m worried about you.”
The concern in his voice only made everything worse. Crimson One looked away toward the rain-dark window before Monarch could see the reaction flicker across his face. His jaw tightened hard enough to ache.
Worried. What kind of emotion is this?
“You’re overreacting,” Crimson One said finally, though the confidence in his voice sounded thinner now.
Monarch leaned back lightly against the counter. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
“I’m in flight school. Nobody sleeps.”
“You barely talk to anyone anymore unless you have to.”
Crimson folded his arms tighter across his chest. “I talk to you.”
“That’s kind of my point,” Monarch said quietly.
Crimson One laughed once under his breath. “So what, I’m too attached now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Monarch took another careful step closer.
“I’m not trying to insult you,” he said softly. “I just think you’re carrying things by yourself that you probably shouldn’t be.”
Crimson One’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
Because that was the problem. He did not know how to explain that being alone with himself felt unbearable now in ways he could not fully describe without sounding completely insane. That every emotion seemed too large inside him lately. And worst of all, so much of it had started revolving around Monarch without either of them noticing when it happened.
“You make it sound like there’s something wrong with me,” he said quietly.
Monarch’s expression shifted immediately. “Hey,” he murmured, “that’s not what this is.”
Monarch moved closer until only a small space remained between them.
“I’m saying you don’t have to handle everything alone,” he said.
Crimson One swallowed hard and looked away again before the emotion on his face became too obvious. That somehow felt even more terrifying.
He was alone in Presidia. The city below him screamed through open radio channels and collapsing structures, through distant anti-air fire and the roar of Federation engines tearing across the smoke-filled sky. Alarms blared somewhere beneath the clouds while entire districts disappeared behind fire bright enough to stain the cockpit glass orange.
And yet none of it reached him properly.
Because everyone else was already gone.
Crimson Squadron had vanished from his radar one by one until only empty static remained where familiar voices used to be. The last transmission still echoed somewhere in the back of his skull, fragmented and distorted by interference, cut short before it could fully become a goodbye. After that, there had only been silence. Crimson One flew through it alone.
The cockpit felt too large without them. Every movement inside it seemed mechanical now, detached from thought, detached from emotion. The city stretched endlessly beneath layers of smoke and fire, familiar streets barely visible through collapsing buildings and blackened clouds. Somewhere down there, people were running. Screaming. Dying. He knew that. The Federation channels overflowed with panicked voices demanding updates, evacuation routes. His hands remained steady on the controls despite the blood drying stiff against one sleeve of his flight suit. The strange part was that he did not feel grief yet. A hollow pressure inside his chest where something human should have been reacting. Maybe the mind protected itself from too much loss all at once. Maybe there was simply nothing left inside him capable of processing it anymore. One of the officers on comms was still talking to him. Repeating his callsign over and over with increasing urgency.
His eyes remained fixed on the burning city beneath the aircraft. For a brief moment, through gaps in the smoke, he could still picture another life superimposed over the destruction below. Monarch laughing quietly somewhere behind him.
“Crimson.”
For one impossible second, he genuinely thought exhaustion had finally broken something in his head. His grip tightened instinctively around the controls as static hissed softly through the cockpit. Then the voice came again.
“Crimson, don’t do this.”
Monarch. His Monarch.
His eyes widened slightly before narrowing again just as fast, emotion crashing violently into anger so sudden it almost made his vision blur.
The radio crackled again.
“I know you can hear me.”
Crimson One said nothing.
Below him, Presidia continued burning.
“You need to stop,” Monarch said, his voice rough with static and exhaustion. “Please.”
Something ugly twisted hard beneath Crimson One’s ribs at the word. Like this could still be fixed. Like either of them still resembled the people they used to be. His breathing had gone uneven without him realizing it. He stared blindly through the cockpit glass while Monarch’s voice filled the silence around him, dragging old memories behind it whether he wanted them or not.
“You don’t understand,” Crimson One said finally.
His own voice sounded hollow.
“I do! I do Crimson, please!”
“No,” Crimson One snapped immediately, sharper this time. “You don’t.”
The anger arrived fast now, intense enough to almost drown everything else beneath it. It felt easier than grief. Easier than the unbearable relief of hearing Monarch alive again after believing for one horrifying stretch of time that he was dead too. By his hands.
“You think this is about revenge?” he continued. “About anger? You think that’s all this is?”
“Crimson-”
“They killed them.” His voice cracked violently around the words before flattening again. “You killed everyone.”
When Monarch finally spoke again, his voice had softened.
“I know and I’m truly sorry.”
Crimson One laughed quietly under his breath.
Below the clouds, another explosion bloomed through the city. The flames illuminated smoke drifting endlessly across the skyline, and for one terrible moment Crimson One remembered lying awake years ago with Monarch asleep beside him.
Maybe he had always known this was how it would end.
“Crimson,” Monarch said carefully, “listen to me. I’m sorry. For all of it. For the squadron. For what happened to you. For the way everything turned out.”
Monarch still sounded like himself. Meanwhile Crimson One could barely recognize the person speaking through his own headset anymore.
“But this won’t fix it,” Monarch continued quietly. “It won’t bring them back.”
His hand tightened harder around the controls.
“You think I care about fixing it?” Crimson One asked.
“I think you’re hurting.”
Crimson Squadron was dead.
The Federation was collapsing.
Presidia was burning beneath him.
And the person Monarch kept reaching for had already been torn apart. Crimson One shut his eyes briefly. When he spoke again, his voice sounded exhausted more than angry now.
“You should’ve let me hate you.”
Then Monarch answered softly, almost painfully gentle.
“I don’t think you ever really did.”