Work Text:
Out of range, we are not identified
Out of reach, we breathe air
Out of reach, quite deliberately
We are out of reach..
Morning light filtered through the kitchen curtains in streaks of gold and white, falling on the counter where Caelus stood pouring coffee into two different mugs—his mug had a cartoon fox on it, and Blade's was a plain black ceramic mug that had somehow survived three years of being washed in the dishwasher without a single chip.
He heard the soft shuffling of socked feet on the floor before he felt arms wrap around his waist. Blade's chin rested on his shoulder, and Caelus smiled, looking at the pale hands clasped across his stomach, the silver ring on Blade's thumb reflecting the light.
"You're up early," Caelus said, turning his head just enough to feel Blade's nose brush his cheek.
"I couldn't sleep after I got out of bed."
“Don’t flatter me, I already know that you will do anything for me.”
Blade made a sound somewhere between a hum and a denial, and clenched his hands. His hair was loose and tangled from sleep, and a few strands had fallen into Caelus's coffee. He didn't bother brushing them away.
"There's going to be hair in my drink."
"Uh-huh."
Caelus laughed, his joyful, surprised laughter filling the small kitchen. He twisted in Blade's embrace, turning to face him, and found himself staring into those red eyes—the color of autumn leaves, of old wine, the color of something that shouldn't have been so soft, when the man in those eyes looked like he could gut someone without blinking.
Blade's gaze was already fixed on him, unwavering and warm. It always was. Blade looked at him as if he were the only thing worth looking at.
"You're funny," Caelus said, reaching out to brush the bangs from Blade's left eye. The strands slipped through his fingers like water.
"And in the mornings you are beautiful."
"I haven't even combed my hair yet."
"I know."
Blade leaned down and kissed Caelus slowly, deliberately on the forehead, lingering for a moment, then another on the bridge of his nose, then the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was a sentence, a statement, part of a conversation they'd had for years, without needing words.
Caelus closed his eyes and allowed himself to be kissed. This was his favorite version of Blade—the one that existed only for him. In public, Blade was a wall of black coats and silence, sunglasses obscuring half his face, and a mask pulled down over his face when the street was too crowded. He walked as if he expected someone to cross his path, and dressed as if he wanted people to think twice before doing so. But here, in their kitchen, in the soft morning light, he was simply a man who wanted to kiss his boyfriend on the nose.
"If you keep this up, we'll be late," Caelus muttered.
"Late for what?"
"My job."
"Take time off from work and say you're sick."
"I've taken sick leave three times this month."
"Let's make it four."
Caelus opened his eyes and glanced at Blade. Blade looked back, completely unrepentant, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It was barely visible—anyone else would have missed it—but Caelus knew it as well as he knew the beat of his own heart.
"No," Caelus said, pressing his hand to Blade's chest and giving him a gentle nudge. "I have a meeting at ten, and I'm not about to explain to my boss why I'm flushed and late again."
"Is it true?"
"I have a very demanding boyfriend who doesn't understand the word 'no'?"
"I wouldn't tell him that."
"Well, I won't tell him about that either!"
"Hmph."
Caelus shook his head, smiling involuntarily, and reached for the sugar. Behind him, Blade didn't move. He simply stood there, his arms still loosely wrapped around Caelus's waist, his head bowed to watch Caelus spoon sugar into his coffee, stirring it with such concentration that it seemed he was pretending not to like being hugged.
"You're still there," Caelus said.
"I'm always here."
It was easy to say. Blade said it as if it meant nothing, as if it were just the weather, as if it were the most obvious fact in the universe. At any rate, Caelus felt something warm spread in his chest.
Later, when Caelus returned from work, he found Blade on the couch with a book in his lap—something thick and philosophical, with a cover so dark it seemed empty. He had reading glasses on his nose, the thin silver frames reflecting the lamplight, and his hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw.
When Caelus entered, he looked up and immediately threw down the book.
"Rough day?" Blade asked, already moving to make room.
Caelus dropped his bag by the door and crossed the room on autopilot, collapsing onto the couch and resting his head on Blade's lap. His boyfriend's fingers were already tangled in his hair, his nails lightly scratching his scalp, and Caelus made a sound dangerously close to a groan.
"The meeting dragged on. Then the server froze. And then someone from accounting asked me if I'd 'considered a different career path' because I'd missed a decimal point in an email."
"Did you tell them to consider another option?"
"Blade."
"What? I support you."
Caelus laughed, despite the disappointment still weighing heavily on his chest. He turned his head, pressing his nose against Blade's thigh, and felt the soft fabric of his boyfriend's black sweatpants against his skin. The television was playing at a low volume, some documentary about deep-sea creatures that neither of them had really watched. Blue light flickered across the ceiling.
“Play something,” Caelus said quietly.
Blade didn't answer. He simply reached for the controller on the armrest and handed it to him. Caelus shifted, Blade settled in, and within seconds they settled into their usual rhythm: Caelus sat between Blade's legs, his back pressed against his boyfriend's chest, Blade's arms wrapped around his waist, his chin resting on Caelus's shoulder.
The game loaded. Something open-world, something with a map full of question marks and side quests that Caelus was determined to complete, even if they had nothing to do with the main storyline. He made his way through the forest, Blade watching him silently and warmly over his shoulder.
"You're going the wrong way," Blade said a few minutes later.
"I'm doing research."
"The mission marker is behind you."
"There is no quest marker in exploration mode."
"He has a purpose."
"Next time I won't have any goal either."
Blade's chest shook with a quiet laugh, the vibrations running down Caelus's spine and stopping somewhere in his ribs. He felt Blade's lips press to the top of his head, the kiss brushing against his ash-blond hair, and he smiled, looking at the controller.
They played for an hour. Maybe two. Time ceased to matter after about the third time, when Caelus accidentally knocked his character off a cliff, and Blade's muffled laughter, pressed against his shoulder, was worth every second of the reset screen.
On weekends, Caelus liked to drag Blade out of the apartment. Usually not far—just to a corner cafe with delicious pastries, or to the park, where the cherry trees bloomed in spring and old men sat on the benches playing chess. Blade grumbled about this, adjusted his mask and sunglasses, and walked beside Caelus, like a shadow with a personality.
But he always came.
"You look like you're about to rob a bank," Caelus said one Saturday, looking at Blade's all-black outfit—long coat, gloves, mask, glasses that obscured half his face.
"I'm dressed."
"You're dressed like a villain from a low-budget action movie."
"I feel comfortable."
"You're sweating."
"I don't sweat."
"Blade, it's twenty-eight degrees outside, and you're wearing leather."
They stood on the sidewalk in front of their house, and Blade sighed—a long, mournful sigh that Caelus had learned to translate as:
"I love you, but I will never admit it."
Then he took off the mask, folded it and put it in his pocket.
Caelus smiled at him.
"See? The world didn't collapse."
"The sun is shining in my eyes."
"Your sunglasses are literally on your face."
"I have sensitive eyes."
"You have expressive eyes."
Blade looked at him. Even through the dark lenses, Caelus could feel the weight of that gaze, that particular brand of irritated affection Blade had honed over the years. He reached out and pushed Blade's glasses down his nose slightly, allowing him to see his eyes, and kissed the bridge of his nose.
"Come on, grumpy. I'll buy you a croissant."
They walked side by side, so close their shoulders brushed with every step. Blade's hand found Caelus's, their fingers intertwined as if they'd been doing this their whole lives, and Caelus swayed their joined hands slightly as they walked. It was silly, it was childish, he didn't care.
The café had a small outdoor terrace with wrought-iron tables and parasols fluttering in the breeze. Caelus ordered a flat white for himself, a black coffee for Blade, two chocolate croissants, and a croissant. They sat in a corner, away from the main stream of customers, where the sun's rays warmed the table.
Blade put his mask back on. Caelus chose to refrain from commenting.
"You have chocolate on your face," Blade said a few minutes later.
"Where?"
Blade reached across the table and wiped the corner of Caelus's mouth with his thumb. He said nothing more. He simply gazed at Caelus for a moment, his finger still resting on his lip, then pulled back and licked the chocolate off his finger, first removing his mask, of course, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Caelus's face turned red.
"You can't do that just like that."
"I just did."
"In public".
"There are about five people here."
"That's five more than necessary."
Blade's eyes narrowed above his mask, he was smiling behind it, Caelus knew it, and despite the heat in his cheeks, despite the stupid way his heart pounded in his chest, he couldn't help but smile back.
The station smelled of diesel fuel and rain. Caelus shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, hunched against the chill March air, watching the crowd part and flow around him like water around a stone. Platform 7. That's what the message said. Just the platform number and the time, no explanation, no context, no "I love you" at the bottom, like Blade usually did when sending messages during the day.
Caelus was at the grocery store when his phone vibrated. He pulled it out, expecting a complaint about the brand of coffee he'd bought last week, or maybe a request to pick up something on the way home. Instead, he saw four words:
Platform 7. 4:00 PM.
No introduction, no warmth, just coordinates, as if Blade was calling him to a meeting, not asking to see his boyfriend.
He called and immediately got an answering machine.
He responded with a message:
"What's the matter?"
There is no answer.
He tried again:
"Bladie, you're scaring me. What's going on?"
Nothing.
He glanced at his watch and abandoned his cart in the middle of the aisle. The cashier called out to him, something about abandoned merchandise, but Caelus was already out the door, his heart pounding strangely and unevenly in his chest.
Now he stood on platform 7, watching the digital clock count down to 3:58, and tried to convince himself that everything was fine.
Maybe Blade had a surprise in store. Maybe he had something romantic planned. Maybe…
And then he saw him.
Blade emerged from the crowd like a blade piercing silk—one moment he was there, the next he became visible, cutting through the sea of passengers with his mere presence. But something was wrong. Caelus sensed it even before his brain had fully processed what he'd seen.
The hair is gone.
That long, dark blue hair that Caelus had spent years learning to braid, that fell below Blade's waist in waves so dark they were almost black in the dim light but reflected a deep midnight blue in the sun — it was gone. What remained of it brushed Blade's shoulders, shorter than Caelus had ever seen it in the six years they had been together. The familiar heaviness of it, the way Blade tucked it behind his ear when he read, the way it fell across his face when he leaned in to kiss Caelus goodbye — all of it was gone.
The earrings were gone, too. The small silver hoops that had adorned Blade's ears for as long as Caelus had known him, that had sparkled in the light whenever he turned his head, and that Caelus had bought him a pair for their second anniversary — they were gone. Empty earlobes, clean, completely.
And a bracelet.
Caelus's gaze dropped to Blade's wrist — to his left, where a simple woven leather bracelet had hung for six years. The very one Caelus had given him on the very first day of their relationship, pressing it into his palm with trembling hands, and through his too-rapid heartbeat, the confession burst forth:
"I like you. I like you very much. And I know it's stupid, but I did this for you, and I hope…"
There was no bracelet.
The absence of that bracelet struck Caelus more than the missing hair, more than the missing earrings. That bracelet had never been removed from Blade's wrist. Not once, not in the shower, not while swimming, not even that time he was in the hospital with a broken arm and the doctors tried to remove it, and Blade growled at them so furiously that they found another way. That bracelet was theirs and it was gone.
And Blade was standing there with a suitcase at his feet, dressed in a black coat that looked new and wrong, and he was looking at Caelus with an expression that was trying very hard to be neutral.
"Hey," Blade said.
The word hung in the air between them, thin and fragile.
"Hey?" Caelus repeated. His voice came out wrong — too high, too tight. "You text me to meet you at the station, you don't answer any of my calls, and you just say *hey*?"
Blade's jaw tightened. He looked away, scanning the crowd like he was checking for something, someone, an escape route. "I didn't want to do this over the phone."
"Do what? Blade, what is happening?"
A train announcement blared overhead, drowning out the silence for a moment. When it faded, the quiet was worse.
"I'm leaving," Blade said.
Caelus blinked. "Leaving... leaving what? Leaving the apartment? Leaving the city?"
"Leaving." Blade's voice was flat. Controlled. "I'm leaving for good. I wanted to say goodbye in person so I wouldn't feel guilty about just disappearing."
The words didn't make sense. They were English words in English order but they didn't connect to anything in Caelus's brain. He stood there, mouth slightly open, staring at the man he loved — at his short hair, his bare wrist, his empty ears — and waited for the punchline.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"You—" Caelus's voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "You can't just leave. We have a life. We have an apartment. We have— I have—" He stopped. Breathed. "What happened? Did something happen? Did someone threaten you? Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Then why?"
Blade didn't answer. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper — creased down the middle, slightly crumpled, like he'd been holding it for a while. He held it out to Caelus.
"Read this when you miss me."
Caelus stared at the paper like it was a weapon.
"I don't want a note, Blade. I want an explanation."
"It's all there."
"It's a folded piece of paper. It's maybe two hundred words. That's not all there."
"It's everything I can give you."
The train announcement came again, this time with a platform number. Blade's platform, his train. The one that would take him away from here, away from the life they'd built, away from Caelus.
"I'm not letting you go like this," Caelus said, and his voice was shaking now, his hands were shaking, everything was shaking. "You don't get to just show up with a haircut and a letter and expect me to wave goodbye."
"I don't expect you to wave."
"Then what do you expect? What do you want?"
Blade was silent for a long moment. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Someone's suitcase rattled past. A child was crying somewhere.
"I want you to be okay," Blade said quietly.
"Then stay."
"I can't."
"Why? Why can't you? What is so important that you have to throw away everything we—" Caelus's voice broke again, and he felt the tears coming, hot and unwanted, burning behind his eyes. He didn't want to cry here, in front of all these strangers, in front of Blade. But his body wasn't asking for permission.
He grabbed Blade's wrist. The skin was warm under his fingers. He'd held this wrist a thousand times, pulled him back into bed, traced patterns on the inside of his arm while they watched TV.
"Why does it look like we're breaking up?" Caelus whispered.
Blade met his eyes. That red gaze held his, steady and deep, and for a second — just a second — Caelus saw something crack. Something raw and painful that Blade was trying very hard to keep buried.
Then Blade pulled his hand free.
"Because we are," he said.
The words hit like a physical blow. Caelus staggered back half a step, his hand falling to his side, empty.
"I'm going to The Xianzhou Luofu," Blade said. His voice was controlled again, locked down, the crack sealed over. "My father has already chosen a wife for me and soon I will have another family. Don't wait for me."
"Family? Didn't you say that I am your family?"
"I lied."
Caelus felt like the ground was dissolving beneath his feet. "What else did you lie about?"
Blade didn't answer. He just looked at him, and in that look was something that might have been apology, might have been love, might have been goodbye. Then he turned, picked up his suitcase, and walked toward the platform.
"Blade."
He didn't stop.
"Blade!"
He kept walking. The crowd was parting around him like water, like they could all see he was a man who couldn't be stopped, a man who had made his decision and was walking away from everything.
Caelus watched him go. He watched the short dark blue hair, the unfamiliar cut, the way Blade's shoulders were set with a tension that didn't match the casual stride. He watched until Blade reached the platform gate, held up his ticket, and disappeared through the barrier.
He didn't look back.
The train was already pulling in, a long silver snake of metal and glass, rumbling and hissing as it came to a stop. Caelus stood frozen as he watched Blade board, watched him find a seat by the window, watched him settle into his seat without looking outward.
And then the doors closed.
The train began to move. Slowly at first, then faster, the windows blurring into streaks of light and shadow. Caelus watched until the last carriage rounded the bend and disappeared from sight, swallowed by the horizon.
The platform was suddenly very quiet.
He looked down at his hand. The note was there — he didn't remember taking it, but it was there, crumpled in his grip, the paper warm from Blade's pocket.
He didn't open it, not yet, he couldn't.
If he opened it, it would be real.
If he opened it, it would mean Blade was really gone.
Caelus stood on the empty platform, the fluorescent lights humming above him, the note clutched against his chest, and let the tears fall.
Something snapped.
It wasn't a clean break. It wasn't the quiet crack of ice giving way. It was a violent, ugly rupture, the kind that came from deep in his chest, from the place where all the fear and confusion and heartbreak had been pooling since the moment Blade had said "hey" like nothing was wrong.
"No," Caelus said out loud. A woman glanced at him as she passed. He didn't care. "No, no, no, no—"
He crumpled the note in his fist. Then he smoothed it out again. Then he crumpled it again. His hands were shaking, his whole body was shaking, and the tears were streaming down his face but he wasn't sobbing — he was too angry for sobs. This was a different kind of grief. This was the kind that burned.
Don't wait for me.
Who the hell did Blade think he was? Who did he think he was to walk into Caelus's life, love him for years, hold him every night, kiss his forehead like he was something precious — and then leave a note and a haircut and a "goodbye" like it was all just a chapter he'd decided to close?
But Blade hadn't given him the choice. He'd made the decision alone, for both of them, and he'd walked away with his shoulders straight and his head high like he was doing something noble instead of something devastating.
The anger rose, hot and bright, cutting through the fog of grief. Caelus stuffed the note into his pocket and started walking. Then jogging, then running.
He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stay here, couldn't stand on this platform surrounded by strangers while his heart was being torn in two. He needed to get home. He needed to find his wallet. He needed to buy a ticket — to the Xianzhou Luofu, wherever that was, whatever it cost — and he needed to find Blade and shake him until the truth fell out and then kiss him until they both forgot why they were crying.
He burst through the station doors and onto the street without looking.
The headlights came out of nowhere.
There was a screech of tires, a blare of a horn, and then — nothing.
The first thing Caelus became aware of was the beeping.
It was rhythmic, mechanical, a sound that didn't belong to his body. He tried to open his eyes, and the light was too bright, and he tried to move his hand, and something was wrong with his arm, and he tried to remember what had happened, and—
Nothing.
There was nothing there. Just a blank wall where his memory should have been, like a room with the furniture removed, like a book with the pages torn out.
He opened his mouth to speak, and the sound that came out was rough and cracked.
"Where...?"
A nurse appeared above him, her face kind and tired, her scrubs the colour of pale blue. "You're in the hospital. You were in an accident. You're going to be okay."
Caelus stared at her. Accident. The word meant nothing. It was just a collection of letters. "What... happened?"
"You ran into the road without looking. A car hit you. You've been unconscious for three weeks."
Three weeks. That felt wrong, but he didn't know why. He didn't know anything. He didn't know his own name until the nurse told him, and even then it sounded foreign, like a word in a language he'd once studied and forgotten.
"Do you remember anything?" the doctor asked him, days later, when he was stable enough to speak in full sentences.
Caelus searched the blank room of his mind. There was dust and silence and the faint impression of something warm — a shape he couldn't quite make out, a feeling he couldn't name.
"No," he said. "Nothing."
The doctor nodded, wrote something on a clipboard. "That's common with severe head trauma. The memory loss may be permanent."
Permanent.
Caelus looked down at his hands. They were his hands. He knew that. But they felt like strangers' hands, attached to a body he didn't remember living in.
"Okay," he said, because there was nothing else to say.
Five years passed.
Five years of learning to exist in a world that felt slightly off-kilter, like a painting hung just a degree crooked. Five years of building a life from scratch — a job he didn't remember applying for, friends he didn't remember meeting, an apartment full of objects that had no stories attached to them.
He'd found photographs, of course. An entire photo album tucked away on a shelf, thick with pages and pages of moments he couldn't recall. Two men in every picture: himself, and a stranger with dark blue hair and red eyes and a face that seemed carved from marble. They were laughing in some photos. Kissing in others. Making silly faces at the camera in a way that made Caelus's chest ache with something he couldn't name.
He'd assumed, at first, that this was someone who had hurt him. Betrayed him. Left him. Because if they'd been important — if they'd loved him — they would have been at the hospital. They would have been there when he woke up with no memory and a body full of broken bones. They would have been there to help him piece together the shattered fragments of his life.
But no one had come.
No one had visited. No one had called. The nurses had told him there was no emergency contact listed beyond a social worker. He'd been alone.
So the man in the photographs — this Blade, whoever he was — must have been a traitor. Someone who had taken what he wanted and disappeared when things got hard. Caelus had looked at those photos with a cold distance, treating them like evidence of a crime he couldn't remember committing.
It was easier that way.
The moving boxes were piled high in the living room. Caelus had decided to downsize, to find something smaller, something without so many rooms full of silence. He was sorting through old clothes — things he hadn't worn in years, things that had been shoved to the back of the closet and forgotten — when his fingers brushed against something in the pocket of an old jacket.
A folded and old piece of paper that, surprisingly, somehow hasn't gotten lost somewhere on the street.
He pulled it out and unfolded it, the creases so deep they had almost worn through. The handwriting was sharp, angular, precise.
Read this if you get homesick.
And below it, words that made his breath catch in his throat.
«You know, there was a man in the world who loved you in a smart evening suit, and in a crumpled T-shirt straight out of bed. He loved the way you twirl your hair when you're nervous. He loved the way you chewed on your pen when you were concentrating. He loved the way you got angry when you couldn't get past a level in a game. He loved it when you laughed and when you cried. He loved you because you are you. Please, love yourself too.
Give me a call if you need anything.
— Blade.»
Caelus read it once. Then again. Then a third time, and by the third time the words were blurring because his eyes were wet and he didn't know why.
A headache bloomed behind his temples, sharp and insistent. The kind of headache that felt like something trying to break through. He pressed his palm to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, and for just a moment — a fraction of a second — he thought he saw something. A flash of dark blue hair. A pair of arms wrapping around his waist. A voice saying *I'm always here.*
Then it was gone, and he was left standing in his empty apartment with a note in his hands and tears on his face and a hole in his chest that had always been there but that he'd never known how to name.
He looked at the note again.
Give me a call if you need anything.
There was a phone number at the bottom. He must have noticed it before, must have seen it when he first found the photo album, but he'd never called. What was the point? The man had abandoned him. Maybe he has a better life now without him.
But the note said call if you need anything. And right now, Caelus needed... something. He didn't know what. An answer, a voice, a connection to a past he couldn't remember.
He dialled before he could talk himself out of it.
The phone rang twice before a woman answered. Her voice was low, smooth, with a hint of amusement in it, like she already knew something he didn't.
"Hello?"
Caelus's mouth went dry.
"Hi. I'm looking for Blade. Is this... is this a good time?"
"Speaking of whom?" the woman said, and there was a smile in her voice. "This is Kafka. I'm his wife. How do you know my husband?"
Wife. The word landed in Caelus's stomach like a stone. Everything was as he thought, the man already had his own life.
"I'm..." He paused. What was he? A friend? An ex? A stranger who had found a note in an old jacket and felt something he couldn't explain? "I'm a friend. An old friend. I found his number and I just wanted to... catch up. Is he available?"
"Just a moment."
There was a shuffling sound, a muffled voice, and then — footsteps. And then a man's voice, low and careful, the kind of voice that had learned to hold itself back.
"This is Blade."
The name hit Caelus like a wave. He didn't know why. It was just a name, but his heart was pounding, and his hands were shaking, and the headache was back, throbbing behind his eyes.
"Hey," Caelus said, and his voice came out too bright, too cheerful, the voice he used when he was pretending everything was fine. "It's Caelus. I don't know if you remember me — it's been a while — but I found your note. And I was going through some old stuff, getting ready to move, and I found this photo album, and I realised we must have been pretty close back then. Good friends, you know? Really good friends."
He was rambling. He knew he was rambling, but he couldn't stop.
"And I know we haven't talked in years, and I'm sorry for calling out of nowhere, but I just — I wanted to say I'm really happy for you. Kafka sounds lovely. And I heard a baby in the background — congrats, by the way. That's huge. That's really huge. I'm happy for you."
He paused, swallowed, the next words came out quieter.
"I lost my memory, by the way. A few years ago. Car accident. I don't remember... I don't remember anything. But I found the album, and I could tell we were close. And I'm a little upset that you weren't there. In the hospital, I mean. As a good friend, you could have at least called, but I get it, you had family stuff going on. That's what matters, family comes first."
There was silence on the other end of the line. A long, loaded silence that felt heavier than any words.
Then Blade spoke.
"You don't remember."
It wasn't a question. It was a confirmation, a quiet acceptance of a reality that had already been determined.
"No," Caelus said. "Not a thing."
Another silence. Caelus could hear breathing on the other end, slow and measured, like someone was counting to ten in their head.
"Blade?" he prompted. "You still there?"
"Yes." The voice was steady, but there was something underneath it — something that sounded almost like pain. "I'm here."
"So we were good friends, right? The album — there were so many photos. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. We must have spent a lot of time together."
"Yeah," Blade said. "We did."
"I'm sorry I don't remember."
"Don't be."
Caelus shifted the phone to his other ear. "Why didn't you come? To the hospital, I mean. When I lost my memory. I was there for weeks. I kept waiting for someone to show up, but no one did. The nurses said I didn't have any visitors."
The silence that followed was so long that Caelus checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
"I'm sorry," Blade said finally. His voice was rough, like the words were being pulled out of him one by one. "I should have been there. I should have been there for you."
"It's okay," Caelus said, and he meant it. "You had your own life to live, you had Kafka.. And you had the baby. I understand."
"You shouldn't have to."
"What?"
"Understand," Blade said. "You shouldn't have to understand. I should have been there. I should have—" He stopped. Breathed. "I'm sorry, Caelus. I'm so sorry."
And in that moment, Caelus heard something in Blade's voice that made his chest ache. Something raw and broken that didn't match the picture he'd built in his head — the traitor, the abandoner, the man who had left and never looked back.
"It's okay," Caelus said again, softer this time. "Really. I'm not angry. I just... I wanted to hear your voice. I don't know why. I just..."
He trailed off, blinking at the tear that had slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
"We're best friends," Caelus said. "Right?"
There was another pause. A beat of silence that seemed to stretch into eternity.
"Yes," Blade said. "We're best friends.”