Work Text:
Ash didn’t cry.
Crying only told them where you were hiding.
Instead, he curled up in the darkest corner of the alley, his knees drawn tightly to his chest as one hand cradled the fresh purple bruise blooming across his forearm, the latest reminder of what happened when he disobeyed.
But he had escaped.
When they’d gotten distracted, Ash seized his chance, slipping out of the facility and running until his lungs burned and every breath felt like fire.
He hadn’t known where he was going. How could he? He had never seen the outside world before. He only knew he had to get away, as far from the Federation as his legs would carry him.
Even now, his breathing refused to steady when a sudden, sharp clack cut through the quiet hum of the unfamiliar street outside.
Ash froze. His head snapped toward the alley entrance, every muscle locking tight, ready to run if he had to.
A boy about his own age stood there, dusting off the knees of trousers that looked far too dirty and worn for this part of town. Ash stared, his eyes widening.
The boy had long, messy ginger hair that hung over his eyes and… red panda ears.
Ash had barely seen hybrids before. The only ones he’d ever known were the white bear hybrids who served the Federation, and never children.
The ginger-haired boy carried a wooden sword in one hand and a bundle of food tucked beneath the other arm. Judging by the way he kept glancing over his shoulder, he looked like he’d been running from something, too.
The tip of his sword had snapped clean off, likely from striking the stone wall at the mouth of the alley. The boy stared at the broken wood with quiet, simmering frustration, his knuckles whitening around the hilt.
Eventually, he released a slow, exasperated sigh and lifted his head, his gaze drifting through the shadows of the alley before locking directly onto Ash.
Ash flinched, pulling his knees even closer to his chest, bracing for a shout, a threat, or worse, someone who’d call the Federation back for him.
Instead, the hybrid simply blinked through the curtain of ginger bangs hanging over his eyes. His eyes flicked down to Ash’s bruised arm, then to the terror on his face, then finally to the food clutched in his own hand.
Without saying a word, he crossed the alley with surprisingly light footsteps and lowered himself onto the dirt a few feet away from Ash’s hiding place.
He broke the loaf of bread in half and held out the larger piece.
“Wyglądasz, jakbyś umierał z głodu,” he said, his voice rough around the edges but completely free of hostility. (You look like you’re dying of hunger.)
Ash blinked. “Oh... I don’t speak–”
The boy’s ears perked, then gave an embarrassed flick. “Oh! Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I said, you look like you’re starving.”
Ash could only stare at the bread. His stomach chose that exact moment to betray him, letting out a loud, hollow growl that echoed off the brick walls.
The ginger boy’s mouth twitched into a crooked smirk. “See? Told ya.”
He nudged his hand forward again, insistent. “Go on. It’s not poisoned. Stole it from a bakery three blocks back, so it’s fresh.”
Ash hesitated only a fraction of a second before instinct took over. He reached out with his uninjured arm, fingers trembling slightly as he accepted the larger half.
The first bite vanished almost before he registered taking it. He tore into the bread with desperate, hungry bites, and even the plain, slightly stale crust tasted better than anything the facility had ever fed him.
The other boy watched him for a moment before taking a calmer bite of his own piece. He leaned back against the rough brick wall, stretching his legs out in front of him as he chewed.
Above his head, his red panda ears twitched, tracking distant sounds Ash couldn’t hear.
Suddenly, the ears snapped toward the street. Ash froze, the half-eaten bread hovering inches from his mouth. He knew that sound.
It was the heavy, coordinated march of combat boots, the unmistakable sound of the white bear hybrids who kept order inside the facility.
They were looking for him.
His heart began pounding harder, and the fear that had briefly faded returned all at once. If they found him, he knew exactly what would happen.
He would be caught, and he would be killed.
The other boy, however, didn’t panic. He only shifted his gaze toward the mouth of the alley, his relaxed posture dropping into a low, cat-like alertness.
With a firm but gentle grip on Ash’s uninjured wrist, the ginger-haired boy pulled him deeper into the shadows behind the dumpster.
“They won’t look here,” he whispered.
Ash held his breath until the heavy footsteps eventually faded into the distant murmur of the city. Only then did the boy’s grip loosen, his hand slipping away to rest once more on the hilt of his broken wooden sword.
Ash looked from his own purple, swelling forearm to the snapped weapon. “Did... did they do that to your sword?” he asked, his voice a fragile whisper.
The boy glanced down at the broken piece of wood, and for a moment, that same fierce spark returned to his eyes.
“No,” he said with unmistakable pride. “I did that fighting off three boys who tried to steal my bread. I lost the tip, but….”
He lifted the broken sword slightly before flashing a sharp, defiant grin that revealed the hint of a canine tooth. “They all went home crying to their mommies, and I kept the bread!”
Despite the fear still lingering beneath his skin, Ash felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
It was a strange, but warm feeling.
Back at the facility, nobody fought back. You took the punishment, kept your head down, and waited until they decided you were allowed to stand again.
“You’re brave,” Ash murmured, taking another, smaller bite of the bread so he could make it last a little longer.
“Thanks, man!” The ginger boy accepted the compliment easily, leaning his head back against the brick wall once more. His long, ringed tail curled slightly around his ankle.
“Where’d you come from, anyway? I don’t recognize you.”
Ash winced, his fingers tightening around the crust of bread. He couldn’t say the word Federation. If he said it out loud, it might call them right to this alley.
“A bad place,” he settled on, lowering his gaze to his knees. “A place with lots of white walls. And white bears.”
The boy’s ears flattened against his messy hair, a sudden, deep understanding clouding his features.
He didn’t push for more. Living on these streets, he knew all about bad places.
Instead, he nudged Ash’s good shoulder with his own. “Well, you’re out now. And they have to catch you first.”
He lifted the broken wooden sword, holding it up like a knight preparing for battle. “And if they try,” he added with complete seriousness, “I’ll poke ’em in the eye.”
A small, genuine laugh escaped Ash’s throat before he could stop it. It sounded rusty, even to his own ears, but not unwelcome.
The ginger boy grinned, clearly pleased with himself for coaxing a laugh out of the terrified kid beside him. He shoved the last piece of bread into his mouth, chewed quickly, swallowed, and then sprang to his feet with a sudden burst of energy.
“Come on,” he said, dusting off the seat of his worn trousers.
Ash blinked up at him, instantly tensing again. “Where?”
“Away from the brick walls,” the boy answered simply, extending a hand. His red panda ears twitched toward the alley entrance as he listened to the city around them.
“The big white bears seem to like the city. We’re going somewhere they hate.”
Ash hesitated, looking at the dirt-smudged hand offered to him.
Trust was a dangerous thing where he came from, but looking into the other boy’s bright, fiercely stubborn eyes, he felt a strange, magnetic pull.
Slowly, he reached out with his uninjured arm and took the offered hand. The ginger boy gripped it tightly and hauled him up with surprising strength.
“Keep up,” he muttered, already turning on his heel.
And to keep up had sounded easy, except the ginger boy moved with the frantic, agile grace of a stray cat.
Ash found himself being pulled through a maze of backstreets, ducking behind rusted dumpsters, slipping through gaps in rotting wooden fences, and sprinting across wide cobblestone roads whenever the way ahead was clear.
Whenever Ash began to slow, his lungs burning and his bruised arm throbbing, the boy would give his hand a reassuring, grounding tug, pulling him forward.
Little by little, the city began to loosen its grip around them.
The towering brick buildings gave way to weathered wooden houses, and those houses became fewer and farther apart until they eventually disappeared altogether, replaced by rolling green hills stretching beneath the open sky.
At last, the boy slowed to a stop, though he still hadn’t let go of Ash’s hand.
They stood at the top of a hill where the edge of the city finally came to an end. Below them, a vast field of lavender rolled down the slope, a sea of vibrant purple beneath the late afternoon sun.
Ash stared.
It was beautiful.
He had only ever seen lavender in faded picture books, but those flat, lifeless images had done nothing to prepare him for the sight before him.
It looked and smelled far better than he had ever imagined.
“Whoa,” Ash breathed, his eyes widening as he took in the view. He had never seen so much color in his entire life.
The facility had only ever been shades of sterile white and cold gray, with nothing bright or alive enough to make him want to keep looking.
“Pretty cool, right?” the ginger boy said, a proud, lopsided smile spreading across his face as he led Ash deeper into the field.
The tall lavender stalks brushed against their legs as they walked, releasing even more of their scent with every step.
When they reached the middle of the field, the boy tossed his broken wooden sword onto the ground and flopped backward into the flowers, folding his arms beneath his head.
Ash sat down slowly beside the boy, tucking his legs beneath him. The lavender-scented breeze swirling around them was almost hypnotizing.
“They’ll never look for us out here,” the hybrid murmured, his eyes closed against the warmth of the sun.
Us.
Ash looked down at his bruised arm, then out toward the endless horizon stretching beyond the field.
For the first time he could remember, his breathing came easily. His chest didn’t feel like it was being squeezed by invisible hands.
He reached out, his small fingers gently brushing over the tiny purple buds of a nearby lavender stalk. “Thank you,” he whispered.
The other boy opened one eye, his ears perking slightly as the corner of his mouth lifted. “Does it hurt bad?” he asked, nodding toward Ash’s purple, swollen forearm.
Ash flinched, instinctively pulling his arm closer to his chest, but then he let himself relax and shook his head. “Not as bad as it did before.”
“They’re stupid,” the boy stated firmly, closing his eye again and letting his head sink deeper into the grass. “Whoever did it.”
Ash looked down at his lap. His thoughts drifted back to their first moments in the alley, to the strange, rolling words the boy had spoken before realizing Ash couldn’t understand him.
“Hey,” Ash asked quietly, his voice barely louder than the whisper of wind moving through the flowers. “Before... in the alley. What language was that?”
The ginger boy blinked, his ears lifting in surprise before recognition crossed his face. “Oh! That? That’s Polish. Po polsku.”
“Po polsku,” Ash repeated, the unfamiliar sounds awkward on his tongue, but he liked the way they felt. “It sounds… cool.”
The boy’s expression softened, the sharp, defiant edge completely melting away from his features. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands.
“It is,” he said. “Want me to teach you something?”
Ash looked up, curiosity brightening his face, and nodded.
The ginger boy grinned, ears twisting forward. He pointed a finger at Ash, then at himself, and finally swept his hand out over the rolling purple field.
“Say przyjaciel,” he instructed, carefully breaking the word into smaller pieces. “Przy-ja-ciel.”
Ash hesitated, twisting his tongue around the unfamiliar, whispering consonants. “Przy... przy-ja-ciel?”
“Yeah! Exactly like that,” the boy cheered, his lopsided smirk returning in full force. He gave an encouraging nod, his ears giving a happy little flick. “You’re a natural.”
“What does it mean?” Ash asked, a faint smile finally touching his lips.
The boy picked up his broken wooden sword and rested it casually over his shoulder as he looked toward the fading sunlight. “It means friend.”
Friend.
Ash swallowed hard, his fingers tightening in the grass. He had never had a friend before. In the facility, you didn’t look anyone in the eye, and you certainly didn’t make friends.
Caring about someone was just a slower way of hurting. To have a connection like that, and to keep it without getting hurt, was a luxury he’d never dared to dream of.
But looking at the boy beside him, the cold walls of the facility suddenly felt a lifetime away.
This was his friend.
The ginger boy suddenly sat up straight. He reached into the sea of purple, his dirt-stained fingers carefully selecting a single, vibrant stem of lavender.
With a sharp crack, he snapped it free. The sweet, clean fragrance bloomed instantly between them, riding the gentle breeze.
He held it out, thrusting the freshly picked stem toward Ash’s chest with all the gravity of a knight offering a sacred pledge.
“Lavender only blooms in the summer,” the boy said, his voice entirely serious now, bright eyes locking onto Ash’s. “Let this be a sign of my trust!”
Ash froze, staring at the little purple stalk, hand hovering in the air. A gift. Slowly, gently, as if it might shatter, he reached out and took the stem.
He cradled it in his palm, completely mesmerized by the tiny, delicate buds. He already knew exactly what he would do with it.
Hidden away, he had a small, battered book. He would press this lavender between its pages, preserving it so it would never fade.
That way, the summer would never really have to end.
Looking up from the flower, Ash found himself staring at the boy’s messy hair, watching the afternoon sun turn the strands into a bright, burning gold.
“I like your ginger hair,” Ash murmured, his cheeks warming. “It looks pretty.”
The boy’s red panda ears instantly twitched, pinning back in absolute surprise. A furious blush rushed to his face, nearly matching the color of his hair.
“Oh! Thank you!” he stammered, laughing nervously. He leaned closer, his eyes widening as he really looked at Ash for the first time without the shadows of the alley.
“I like your eyes. They’re very pretty. They’re purple, so unique!”
Ash’s breath hitched. He looked away, his chest squeezing with a strange, overwhelming mix of shyness and joy. “Thank you….”
The ginger boy didn’t seem bothered by Ash’s shyness. If anything, he seemed content to fill the silence himself. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he rested his chin on them as he continued studying Ash with open curiosity.
“Seriously, though. I’ve never seen eyes like that. Are they always that color?”
“They’re... they’re always like this,” Ash whispered, his fingers still clutching the lavender stem. “In the facility, they just called it a defect.”
“A defect?” The boy frowned, his ears flattening in clear annoyance. “They’re stupid. It looks cool. They make you look like... I don’t know... royalty or something.”
He reached up to tug a loose lock of ginger hair away from his face before blowing another stubborn strand out of his eyes with an exaggerated puff of air.
“My hair’s just loud,” he muttered. “Makes it pretty hard to disappear when you look like a giant matchstick.”
Ash looked at the messy, fiery mane. Up close, he could see it wasn’t just one flat shade of orange. There were deep, earthy reds near the roots and lighter, sun-bleached golds at the tips, falling past the boy’s jawline in thick, unruly layers.
“It’s not loud,” Ash said softly, gathering a tiny shred of courage. “It looks warm. And it’s... it’s long. Doesn’t it get in your eyes?”
“All the time,” the boy laughed, the sound bright and infectious. “But that’s why you gotta do this.”
Reaching behind his head with practiced ease, he gathered the hair above his ears while leaving the rest loose around his face.
“Watch,” he instructed, leaning in so Ash had a front-row seat. “You split it into three pieces. See?”
He separated the gathered hair into three distinct, thick strands. His thumbs held the base steady while his index fingers danced between the locks.
“Left over middle,” he muttered, crossing a fiery strand over the center one. “Then right over middle. Keep it tight, otherwise, it just slides right out when you run.”
Ash leaned forward, completely transfixed. He had never seen anyone do something so delicate and deliberate with their hands just for comfort, or for looks.
In the facility, everyone’s hair was sheared down to the scalp with cold clippers. To have hair long enough to catch the wind, long enough to weave together, felt like the ultimate form of freedom.
“Can... can I touch?” Ash asked, the request slipping out before he could stop it. He instantly went rigid, fearing he had crossed a line.
“Yeah, go for it,” the boy said easily, tilting his head slightly to give Ash better access.
Ash hesitated, then slowly reached out his uninjured hand. His fingertips brushed against the ginger strands. They were incredibly soft, smelling faintly of the sun.
He carefully touched the half-finished braid, tracing the neat, overlapping pattern. It felt like a tiny, structured rope made of silk. “It’s like a knot, but pretty,” Ash murmured.
“It’s a braid,” the boy corrected, his ears twitching happily as Ash’s fingers lightly brushed against his scalp. “This is just a simple one. If you keep pulling in more hair from the sides as you go, it’s called a Dutch braid, or a French braid!”
“I want hair like yours,” Ash said, his voice full of quiet determination.
He pictured his own short, dark hair growing past his ears, long enough to catch the wind and soften the sharp angles of his face instead of leaving him exposed to the world.
The ginger boy broke into a massive, lopsided grin, a sharp canine tooth peeking out. He let go of the braid, allowing the strands to loosen slightly without unraveling.
“You grow it out, and we can even weave some dried lavender into it! You know, if you want to smell like a fancy soap shop.”
Ash felt a genuine smile spread across his face. He looked down at the lavender stem in his hand, then back up to the boy’s bright eyes. “I’d like that,” he said softly.
The sun was finally dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of orange and bruised blue, mirroring the colors of the two boys sitting in the field.
“I should get going,” the ginger boy said, jumping to his feet with an abrupt burst of energy and stretching his arms overhead. “The others will start worrying if I’m gone much longer.”
“The others?” Ash repeated. The word felt heavy, sparking a strange, sharp ache in his chest. He had assumed the boy was entirely alone in the world, just like him.
“The people in the cave,” the boy explained easily, brushing a few stray lavender petals from his worn trousers.
Ash blinked, trying to picture this bright, fiery boy living in a dark, rocky hollow. “You live in a cave?”
“Yeah!” the boy replied, sounding almost offended that anyone would question such an excellent arrangement. “But not one of those creepy bear caves.”
He threw his arms wide, his tail sweeping a proud arc behind him as if he were presenting a grand palace. “It’s tucked into the cliffs past those hills,” he said, pointing toward the distant horizon.
His lopsided grin returned, bright even in the fading light. “The entrance is completely hidden by hanging vines, and at night, when you look up, you can see every single star in the sky.”
There was unmistakable pride in his voice. “Nobody can find it.”
He bent to retrieve his broken wooden sword and slid it through a loop in his worn trousers with all the confidence of a king securing his blade.
“But next time I see you here,” he declared, pointing the sword toward Ash, “I’ll take you there.”
“I’ll be here,” Ash promised, his voice small but steady. He looked down at the flower in his hand, then back up. “And I won’t cut my hair. Not ever.”
The boy’s ears perked up, giving a delighted twitch. “Good! It’s a pact!”
He offered a sharp, playful salute with his wooden sword, his long, ringed tail thwacking happily against the tall grass as he spun around.
“Bye, red panda boy!” Ash called out, his hand lifting in a hesitant but genuine wave.
The boy glanced back just long enough to flash one last, brilliant grin before bounding over the crest of the hill.
Ash stood frozen, watching the empty horizon until the last spark of fiery ginger hair melted into the deep, bruised twilight.
It was only then, standing alone in the quiet, fragrant rustle of the field, that a sudden realization dawned on his face.
He had never asked the boy his name.
Ash never saw the boy again.
He was dragged back by the Federation only a few days later, never to return to the sea of lavender on the hill the red panda boy had shown him.
They punished him for running, of course. The purple bruise on his forearm was soon replaced by newer, deeper aches, and the white-walled cells felt smaller, colder, and more inescapable than before.
But they couldn’t strip away everything.
Every time the guards brought the heavy clippers toward his head, Ash fought. He thrashed, he bit, he kicked, enduring harsher penalties just to keep them from shearing his hair down to the scalp.
The workers chalked it up as mindless defiance, a stubborn defect in his conditioning. They didn’t know about the red panda boy, and Ash made sure they never would.
Slowly, painfully, the months bled into years.
Ash grew, and with him, his hair grew too.
It spilled past his ears, brushed his jaw, slipped over his shoulders, and eventually reached the middle of his back. His fingers were clumsy at first as he tried to replicate the movements he had watched so carefully that afternoon.
Left over middle. Right over middle. Keep it tight.
Eventually, his hands grew nimble. Now, his long, ink-dark hair was pulled back into a single, neat braid trailing down his spine, a promise kept, even if the boy who had inspired it was long gone.
And tucked safely inside the lining of his tattered jacket, pressed flat between the pages of his one stolen book, was a single dried stem of lavender.
It had lost its vibrant color over the years, fading to a fragile, muted gray-brown. But if Ash pressed it close to his nose in the quiet of the night, he could still catch the faintest, ghostly trace of summer.
Summer became his favorite season. And purple, the color of lavender, his favorite color.
Ash never forgot the red panda boy. He never stopped scanning crowds for a flash of ginger hair, or looking down alleyways for a pair of round, striped ears.
But the world outside the facility was vast, and he had learned the hard way that missing someone didn’t bring them back.
Until the day the Federation brought him to the island.
The island was a jagged shard of rock thrusting out of a gray, churning sea. To anyone else, it might have looked like freedom, but to Ash, it was just another cage.
Only this one didn’t have white walls. Instead, it was surrounded by black stone, dense, unfamiliar forests, and the same relentless thrum of Federation boots patrolling its shores.
The island, it turned out, wasn’t empty. It was home to rogue hybrids, escaped prisoners, rebels, and people the Federation had failed to erase.
For reasons Ash couldn’t begin to understand, the guards gathered the prisoners in a small clearing and encouraged them to get to know one another.
It felt wrong.
The Federation had never done anything out of kindness, and Ash couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no different. He didn’t care for it, and he certainly didn’t trust it.
That was until he saw the assassin.
The man stood apart from the crowd with his arms crossed, his weight settled comfortably on his heels as he watched the other prisoners without seeming particularly interested in any of them.
He had short ginger hair, cropped close at the sides, while the hood of his jacket cast the rest of his face in shadow. Twin blades rested at his hips, their worn hilts suggesting they had seen years of use.
Suddenly, the man’s striped ears flicked in Ash’s direction. He turned his head slightly, sizing Ash up the way a seasoned warrior might size up a stray dog.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Ash found himself walking toward him.
The man offered a brief, formal nod. “Hello. I am Ewron, from Poland.”
“Hi, I'm Ash, from India,” he replied. Small talk had never made much sense to him, especially here.
He lowered his voice. “Ewron, do you want to help me kill everyone?”
A faint, sharp glint touched Ewron’s eyes beneath the shadow of his hood. “I absolutely can, and will.”
The ginger man gestured toward a cluster of moss blocks nearby. They were heavily reinforced by Federation technology, coded directly into the very fabric of the island to ensure they could never be destroyed or altered.
“You can’t break those, right?” Ewron asked quietly.
Ash stepped forward and struck one of the blocks, but his hand hit a solid, unyielding barrier of code. He pulled back. “I can’t.”
That was when the assassin reached into his jacket. With the ghost of a smirk, he pulled out a loose, perfectly intact block of moss and held it out.
“How is this possible, then?” Ewron murmured.
“How did you–”
“Because I have some powers,” Ewron whispered, his voice dropping even lower. He studied Ash’s expression. “But... I don’t know if I can trust you yet.”
“How can I make you trust me?” Ash asked. He didn’t know why the man’s approval suddenly mattered so much.
He had spent years avoiding friendships, relationships, any kind of connection. He didn’t care for them, because in his experience, every hand offered to him eventually turned into a fist.
“Hmm. I will think about it,” the ginger man said, handing the impossible block of moss over to him. He paused, his bright eyes locking onto Ash’s.
“But meanwhile, take this and hold onto it. Let this be a sign of my trust.”
Ash froze.
The words themselves were simple enough, but the delivery hit him like a physical blow. It was an exact, haunting echo of the boy who’d once offered him lavender, all those years ago.
He stared down at the moss block resting in his hands, a suffocating wave of déjà vu crashing over him before he slowly lifted his gaze.
He took in the loose, coiled stillness of the assassin’s posture. He looked at the short ginger hair, cropped close at the sides, so drastically different from the wild, unruly mane that had once danced in the wind.
It couldn’t be...
And as Ash looked closer, navigating the sharp, hardened angles of a grown man’s face, he caught the faint, unmistakable gleam of blue eyes.
They were older now, steadier, but unquestionably the same. His heart lurched.
“Red panda boy,” Ash murmured, the nickname slipping past his lips before he could stop it.
The assassin went entirely rigid. The casual, indifferent mask he had been wearing shattered in an instant. His crossed arms dropped to his sides, and his striped ears pinned back flat against his head in absolute, breathtaking shock.
He stared at Ash, his blue eyes widening as they swept over him. Nobody had called him that name since he was a child.
“Only one person ever called me that,” Ewron said, his deeper, rougher voice dropping into a breathless, disbelieving whisper. He took a half-step forward, his gaze searching.
“You–your eyes. I should’ve–” He broke off, dragging a hand down his face, laughing once, short and disbelieving. “I looked for a kid with purple eyes for years. You grew up.”
“So did you.” Ash’s grip tightened around the moss block, grounding himself in the cool, damp weight of it. “You cut your hair.”
“Had to. Long hair’s a liability in my line of work… gets grabbed, gets caught on things.” Ewron’s ears flicked, still half-pinned. “But you didn’t. Cut yours, I mean.”
His gaze dropped to the thick braid trailing down Ash’s spine, and something entirely raw crossed his face. “You kept the braid.”
“I promised I would.” Ash’s voice was quieter now, stripped of the flat, guarded tone he used with everyone else. “You taught me how in a field that doesn’t exist anymore, probably.”
“It exists,” Ewron said quickly, like the thought of it not existing was unacceptable. “It’s been a while since I visited it, so it’s probably overgrown as hell by now, I’d bet. But it’s there.”
His long, ringed tail wrapped slightly around his ankle. “I kept looking for you, you know.”
Ash looked down at the moss block in his palm, then back up. “I was caught by the Federation again. Just a few days after.”
Ewron’s ears dropped entirely, flattening against his short ginger hair as a cold, dangerous stillness settled over him. “They took you back.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Ash said softly. “You gave me the first taste of freedom I ever had. And you gave me a reason to keep fighting.” He gestured slightly to the thick, dark braid resting over his shoulder.
Ewron stared at the braid, the anger in his eyes melting into something profoundly tender. He let out a long, shaky breath, dragging a hand through his cropped hair.
“I spent years looking for a ghost,” Ewron murmured, stepping closer until the scent of the salty sea mist mingled with the faint, earthy smell of the moss between them. “And all this time, you were right back behind the white walls.”
He looked down at the moss block in Ash’s hands, then back up into Ash’s striking purple eyes covered by glitches. “And the.. your eyes.. was that their doing, too?”
Ash’s hand instinctively went up, his fingertips hovering just a millimeter away from the edge of his eye socket. He didn’t need a mirror to know what Ewron was seeing.
“Yeah,” Ash said, his voice flat, stripped of any remaining warmth as the reality of the facility forced its way back into the open.
Ewron’s hand rose, looking as though he meant to touch the flicker at the edge of Ash’s eye, then stopped himself an inch short, fingers curling back into a fist instead.
“Well,” he said, his striped tail giving a sharp, decisive flick against his leg, “they made a mistake bringing you to this island.”
A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And they made a bigger mistake putting me here with you.”
Ash smiled, his chest rising and falling evenly. Without saying a word, he slipped a hand inside the lining of his worn jacket.
His fingers found the hidden seam by pure instinct, brushing against something incredibly delicate before he carefully drew it free.
It was a small, weathered book.
As he opened it, the pages fell naturally to the same well-worn place they always did, revealing the single, dried stem of lavender.
Ewron’s eyes dropped to the page. His breath hitched, his blue eyes widening as he stared at the preserved flower.
“You... you still have it,” he whispered, his voice cracking ever so slightly.
He reached out, his rough, scarred fingers hovering just above the fragile stem, as if afraid a mere touch would turn it to ash.
“I told you,” Ash replied softly. “Let this be a sign of my trust. You gave it to me, so I kept it.”
Ewron looked up from the flower, his gaze locking onto Ash’s glitching purple eyes. “I told you back then that I’d poke 'em in the eye if they came after you,” he murmured, his red panda ears twitching forward with newfound purpose.
“I think a wooden sword won’t cut it anymore. Twin steel blades sound a lot better.” He stepped closer until they stood side-by-side, one hand resting casually on the hilt of a sheathed dagger.
Despite the weapons at his hips and the reputation that surrounded him, there wasn’t a trace of tension in his posture whenever he looked at Ash.
“We’re going to tear this island apart,” Ewron said.
Ash carefully closed the book, securing the fragile lavender back in its hiding place before sliding the volume deep into the lining of his jacket. He patted his chest to make sure it was secure, then turned his gaze back to Ewron.
“Could you take me…” he asked quietly, “...back to our place?”
Our.
Ewron’s red panda ears twitched, and his striped tail swept once against his boots before that familiar, lopsided grin returned, warmer than before.
“Of course,” Ewron said softly. He reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around Ash’s, just as he had done in the dark alleyway a lifetime ago. “It’s a bit of a hike, so try to keep up!”
With a sudden, agile burst of speed, he pulled Ash forward, and they ran hand-in-hand into the twilight.
And that was how they found themselves standing once again atop the very same hill, overlooking the far outskirts of the old city.
Ash’s breath hitched in his throat as he looked down the slope.
The field was still there.
Just as Ewron had promised, it had been reclaimed by time. The neat rows they had wandered through as children had dissolved into a vast, untamed sea of wild violet and deep indigo.
The lavender had grown wild in their absence, thick stalks rising to their waists and swaying gently in the breeze. The air was heavy with its familiar scent, so strong that Ash almost felt dizzy from it.
It smelled exactly the same.
“Told you it was still here,” Ewron said, unable to hide the quiet satisfaction in his voice.
Ash glanced at him. The assassin looked entirely out of place against the soft, vibrant backdrop, still clad in his dark tactical gear with twin steel blades strapped to his hips.
Yet, with his hood pushed back, his striped ears standing proudly upright, and his ringed tail lazily sweeping through the lavender, he somehow looked more at home here than anywhere else.
Home. Was this Ash’s home, too?
Without another word, Ewron strode into the field. With the exact same abrupt burst of energy he’d had as a kid, he pushed straight through the thick lavender, parting the overgrown stalks and leaving a path behind him.
“Come on!” he called over his shoulder.
Ash smiled to himself before following. His boots sank slightly into the soft earth with every step, the familiar scent of lavender growing stronger around him as he moved deeper into the field.
When they reached the center of the untamed field, where the grass and flowers grew thickest, Ewron unclipped the belt holding his twin daggers and let it fall carelessly into the lavender.
Then, with a contented sigh, he dropped backward into the flowers, folding his arms beneath his head exactly as he had all those summers ago.
Ash remained standing, gazing down at him. The warm breeze caught the loose, dark strands that had escaped his neat braid, whipping them softly across his face.
Ewron cracked one blue eye open. “Well?” he asked, a familiar lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “You planning on standing there all day, or are you going to sit down?”
A quiet laugh escaped Ash before he could stop it. He lowered himself into the lavender beside Ewron, tucking his legs beneath him.
For a while, neither of them spoke. There was no need. The silence between them was warm, filled only by the gentle rustle of the stalks and the quiet hum of the bees.
Eventually, Ewron sat up and reached into the purple brush. His scarred hands, shaped by years of carrying steel blades instead of wooden toys, moved with surprising care until he found a single, perfect stem of lavender.
With a gentle snap, he plucked it free.
Ash watched him curiously.
Ewron leaned closer. He didn’t thrust the flower toward Ash’s chest with the dramatic flair of a child this time. Instead, he reached up toward the dark, heavy frame of Ash’s jaw.
Ash flinched instinctively, a lingering reflex of the facility, but forced himself to stay still, holding his breath as Ewron’s fingers lightly brushed against his hair.
Carefully, Ewron tucked the freshly picked stem directly into the neat, overlapping folds of Ash’s braid, securing it tight against the dark strands.
“There,” he said, pulling his hand back and admiring his handiwork with a proud twitch of his ears. “Matches your eyes.”
Ash reached up, his fingertips lightly brushing the fresh, velvety buds woven into his braid. A genuine smile spread slowly across his face, brighter than any expression Ewron could remember seeing on him.
Beautiful, Ewron thought.
“Thank you, Ewron,” Ash whispered.
Ewron’s tail gave a happy, sweeping brush through the lavender, his red panda ears tipping forward as he returned the smile with a soft one of his own.
Years ago, Ash had been a starving, trembling runaway clutching a piece of stolen bakery bread, terrified that the next sound he heard would be the heavy thrum of Federation boots.
Now, he was free, sitting beside the very person who had shown him what freedom meant.
The parallel was dizzying, and as Ash looked out over the untamed purple field, he realized he had never been happier.
“You know,” Ash said softly, his voice carrying over the rustle of the stalks, “when you gave me that first stem, and I found myself back in those white walls... I thought they’d take it from me.”
Ewron shifted, leaning back on his elbows, his gaze drifting up to the vast blue sky. “But they didn’t.”
Ash shook his head. “No.” His fingers rested over the hidden pocket sewn inside his jacket, feeling the slight, familiar bump of the pressed book.
“I kept it hidden. Every time they tried to make me forget who I was, I’d remember the way you looked when you told me it was a sign of your trust.”
A fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced sideways at Ewron. “You looked so serious. Like a knight.”
Ewron let out a bright, barking laugh, his cheeks flushing a faint pink that matched the warm gold of his hair in the sunset. “Hey, I was serious!”
He reached out, his thumb and forefinger plucking another stem of lavender, twirling it idly between his fingers. He looked at the flower, then at Ash's long, dark hair.
“I’m repeating myself but... you actually did it. You grew it out.”
“I promised I would,” Ash reminded him gently. “I fought them every time they brought the clippers near me. They thought I was just being difficult. A defect.”
“Idiots,” Ewron scoffed, his ears flattening in that familiar, protective annoyance. “It’s not a defect. I told you back then, it looks like royalty. Now you’ve got the hair to match.”
He leaned in a bit closer, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Though, your braid is way neater than mine ever was. Who taught you to keep it so tight?”
“You did,” Ash said, his chest swelling with a quiet warmth. “Left over middle. Right over middle. Keep it tight so it doesn’t slide out when you run.”
Ewron blinked, his ears perking up in absolute surprise. For a moment, he looked completely speechless. “You have a good memory.”
“I didn’t have anything else to remember,” Ash replied honestly, looking out over the endless, rolling hills. “The facility was just white walls and gray skies. This field was the only color I had.”
Ewron sat up completely, shifting so he was sitting right next to Ash, their shoulders brushing. The physical contact was grounding, radiating a steady, comforting heat.
“Well, the white walls are gone now,” Ewron said firmly. “This will be our home.”
Home.
For someone who had never owned anything, who had spent a lifetime being dragged from one sterile cage to the next, the idea of belonging somewhere felt almost impossible to comprehend.
He turned toward Ewron, watching the last rays of sunlight catch in his fiery ginger hair until the loose strands glowed like spun gold.
For the first time in his life, the future didn’t look like a threat waiting to consume him. It looked like the person sitting right beside him.
Ewron reached for his backpack and pulled it onto his lap, rummaging through its worn contents before eventually drawing out a weathered stone.
It was unlike anything Ash had seen before. The surface was rough and ancient, yet a faint warmth pulsed beneath it, carrying a quiet, unfamiliar magic.
A waystone.
With a firm thud, Ewron lowered the heavy block into the earth, anchoring it among the wild lavender. The carved runes along its surface immediately flared to life, casting a soft blue glow over the surrounding flowers.
Ewron rested one hand against the stone and touched the glowing symbols carved into its surface. His fingers moved with practiced familiarity as he adjusted the settings, locking in the coordinates before carefully entering a name.
Prawdziwa Polska 2.
Ash watched as the glowing letters hovered briefly in the air before sinking into the stone, becoming part of the ancient surface.
“What does it mean?” he asked quietly.
Ewron didn’t answer right away.
He remained crouched beside the waystone, one hand resting against its weathered surface as though he could feel the ancient magic settling deep into the bedrock beneath them.
“True Poland,” he said at last. “The second one.”
A small, almost sheepish laugh escaped him as he glanced sideways at Ash through a stray lock of ginger hair. “The first one was taken from me when I ended up here. So I figured I’d build a better one.”
Ash’s chest tightened. His gaze drifted across the hillside, where an endless sea of lavender rolled toward the horizon beneath the fading afternoon light.
He understood all too well what Ewron meant.
It wasn’t just about leaving a country behind, but about the innocence they had lost along the way, and the lives they should have lived before the Federation and this world had reshaped them into the people they had been forced to become.
Ewron rose to his feet, brushing the dirt from his knees with the same absent-minded motion he’d had as a boy after a scuffle.
He turned toward Ash.
For just a moment, the blue glow of the waystone caught in his eyes, softening the hardened lines that years of hardship had etched into his face.
The assassin disappeared. All Ash could see was the boy standing in a lavender field with a broken wooden sword slung over his shoulder.
“Dla mojego przyjaciela,” Ewron said softly. (For my friend.)
The words echoed through the quiet, carrying him back to warm summer sunlight, the sweet scent of crushed lavender, and a young boy patiently breaking a difficult word into smaller pieces.
Przy-ja-ciel.
Friend.
A smile spread across Ash’s face.
It had been the first word of kindness anyone had ever taught him. Hearing it now, spoken by the man Ewron had become, filled the hollow ache in his chest with a sudden, burning resolve.
They were no longer those frightened children running blindly into the night, desperate for a place to hide.
They had found each other again, and with that, they had found a home. One they would build with their own hands, and share, together, for as long as the lavender kept blooming.
And for them, the summer would last endlessly.