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He’s but a memory frozen in time, one that resets every time Pierro leaves the space preserved inside the picture in the notebook. Yet, his brilliance is undeniable—Hroptatyr has never had any trouble picking up the conversation from wherever Pierro last interrupted their meetings, eager to share and confront new ideas.
Just like back then, when they were still young men not yet irreparably divided by the choices they made, it’s infuriatingly easy for Pierro to be swept away by Hroptatyr’s erratic lines of thoughts—be them sudden bursts of genius or once cherished shared memories.
During his convalescence, after his fight against Ronova, Pierro has thought over the idea of never opening that notebook again, never gazing at that picture of a past long abandoned. Yet, the results speak for themselves, and he’s not blind to their implications. Any other reasoning is but a deluded dream.
When he finally decides to reopen the notebook and face the fragment left behind by Hroptatyr, bitterness permeates his tongue, until a stilted ‘thank you’ doesn’t leave his lips. It only seems to confuse the Hroptatyr he faces in the moment—though the memories concealed in the notebook have made it all too clear for Pierro, how he’s never truly being able to parse the intentions or sincerity of his once partner.
In the end, Pierro keeps coming back. Every time, he poses a different theory or enigma to Hroptatyr, watches his starry red eyes brighten with curiosity as he shares his ideas to confront them together.
This occasion, however, is different. Instead of indulging in the newest question posed by Pierro, Hroptatyr appears distracted. They’re sitting side by side on a bench by the tree in Hroptatyr’s memory, closer than even Pierro has initially realized. Yet, Hroptatyr’s gaze and attention seem more focused on the doves pecking the grass near their feet.
When Hroptatyr finally deigns to pay attention to their conversation, it’s not to offer any insight. “In your time, I’m absent from your life.” It’s not a question and Pierro doesn’t treat it like one.
Hroptatyr has never brought up the ‘future’, since the first time Pierro has opened the notebook.
What kind of person am I in your time? A monster.
“Our paths have long diverged,” he says, repressing his rage. “You made your choices and the rest was inevitable.”
A smaller dove flies at their feet, capturing both their gazes as a stray ray of sunlight illuminates its candid plumage. This time, Hroptatyr doesn’t sound surprised by the hostility in Pierro’s voice. He just hums, pinching the length of a lock of long hair that has escaped from his low ponytail.
Hroptatyr sags against the bench, his robe slipping slightly from one of his shoulders as he tilts his head to face him. The soft smile he offers Eftirvit only reinvigorates the flame of hatred ablaze in Pierro’s heart.
Their meeting isn’t going anywhere. With a huff, Pierro stands up, ready to depart from this illusion, when Hroptatyr grabs him by his wrist, pulling on it with the same stubbornness from their past. Hroptatyr always used to invade Eftirvit’s personal space like it was his own, leaning on him, touching his shoulders and hands. It used to fluster Eftirvit endlessly. Now, it only infuriates Pierro.
“What is it?” he asks, yanking his hand away but sitting down once more, at the same distance as before.
Hroptatyr is frowning, his gaze melancholic. Pierro half hopes he’ll pick up their discussion from before his weird interruption, but it’s no surprise when that doesn’t happen.
“You’ve never been so on edge around me,” he says. “I must’ve really hurt you.”
Pierro pushes him flat on the bench before those words are even fully out those deceitful lips.
“Oh, Eftirvit, relax,” Hroptatyr says, shoulder shaking as he doesn’t even attempt to hide his laugher. “We’re the only ones here, today.” He sits down at the roots of the tree, his body hidden by the nearby large bushes, and gazes up at Eftirvit, who’s still rigidly standing right above him.
“You can’t be sure of that,” he says, unconvincingly. However, when Eftirvit reaches out with a hand to grasp his wrist and pull him down, he goes without a fight, kneeling easily between Hroptatyr’s spread knees.
“We both know I’m right.”
“Right… Of course.”
Hroptatyr laughs merrily, uncaring of how his voice carries around the garden. Eftirvit can already feel his shoulder tense, even as a blush spreads on his cheeks. Regardless of any misgivings, he doesn’t bolt away or reproach Hroptatyr for improper behavior. Like a moth to a flame, Eftirvit leans forward, until their lips brush together and he effectively stifles Hroptatyr’s laugh with a kiss.
As always with them, it can't end there. He goes down for kiss after kiss, Hroptatyr’s arms lazily wrapping around his shoulders, just as Eftirvit’s hands settle on his thin waist. They pull each other closer, throwing caution to the wind, too caught up in each other’s orbit.
A small dove lands on a root right next to them, cooing and tilting its head as if puzzled by the sight. Hroptatyr laughs again against Eftirvit’s lips, before dropping down on his elbows to then fully lay down on the ground, uncaring of how it'll ruin his uniform. Eftirvit follows, bracing himself above him, resisting the urge to immediately going for another kiss.
“Isn’t this beautiful?” Hroptatyr says, cupping Eftirvit’s cheek to pull him down, close enough their lips are brushing. “It’s a memory worth cherishing.”
Pierro tastes blood on his tongue. Hroptatyr doesn’t even make a move to push him away or sit up, he lays under him, his bottom lip bitten until it bled. It’s Pierro who pushes himself off Hroptatyr, who needs space and a clear mind.
As always, he doesn’t need to say anything, not that he was trying to hide it. Hroptatyr already knows what he is going to say next. He stands up, taking a step back. Hroptatyr slowly blinks at him, then gradually sits up, never breaking eye contact.
“I’ll come back in a few days,” he says, in lieu of a goodbye, as if this Hroptatyr could remember.
“That’s good,” he says, with a smile. “I’ve missed you.”