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Everything felt like it was spinning, a sick feeling that started from the bottom of his stomach to the back of his throat. A familiar but unwelcome salty taste on his tongue—ah, seawater. Above, light that stung even through his eyelids. Sounds he couldn’t focus on—gulls? And a longer, louder, more plaintive—
“Captaaaaaain.”
Rui coughed as he jerked abruptly and fully conscious, seawater nausea coming into sharp relief as the sickness tripled in intensity.
“Woah!”
He tried to squint, but only got a vision full of white and a sharp spike of pain before a shadow passed over his eyes and dulled it. Damp, but a gentle touch—someone’s hand, resting lightly against his brow.
Tsukasa’s hand, his clumsy brain finally put together.
“Easy there,” said Tsukasa’s voice, on the edge of too-loud. “Think I pulled you out before you could swallow too much water, but you definitely downed a taller drink than you should’ve, captain. Don’t you know Nene’ll get mad if I bring you back hungover?”
Rui laughed, even as it rasped somewhat in his throat. He opened his eyes carefully underneath Tsukasa’s palm to slowly adjust to the light, and felt his lashes drag slightly against the skin. “I don’t suppose you have a cure on hand?”
“Nothing but fresh air, I’m afraid.” Rui felt the palm tremble just a bit, like its owner was stifling a laugh, even as the tone remained perfectly dry. “‘Scuse me for forgetting to grab the pickle juice when you went overboard.”
Rui reached up to tug his hand off of his eyes. The crisp morning sun was still several notches too bright, but a few blinks and Tsukasa’s face finally came into view, eyes crinkled a little at the edges in amusement.
The sight pulled up at Rui’s own lips as he offered an exaggerated sigh. “What horribly thoughtless crewmates I have.”
“Hey!”
Crewmates, overboard… The words spun in his brain as his memory etched back into place: the storm, the rocking, a small pink-haired figure swaying off the side of the figurehead—
“Emu!” He gasped, shoving himself upright in a hurry. “Did she—”
The rest of his words died with an urk as he slapped a hand over his mouth, stomach protesting furiously at his sudden movement.
“Didn’t I tell you to take it easy?” Tsukasa steadied him by both shoulders, eyebrows knit in exasperated concern. “Emu’s fine. She caught the railing, because of you.”
Rui managed a sigh at that, even through the hand he kept clamped over his lips.
“ You, on the other hand, didn’t.” Tsukasa poked him square in the chest. “Maybe next time, leave the rescuing to those of us with wings?”
Tsukasa’s afore-mentioned wings were bristling in obvious annoyance, their brown-white expanse as magnificent as ever. Rui pulled his hand cautiously away from his mouth with a deep breath, reaching forward to run the side of his knuckle lightly down some of the wet feathers.
“I thought you’d been caught by the gale,” he admitted. “I was going to look for you next.”
Tsukasa crossed his arms in displeasure, drawing himself up, and Rui braced for the volume of what he knew was coming.
“‘Hummingbird’ I may be called,” he declared, the words dripping with indignation, “but I can fly hurricanes as well as any eagle.”
“Eagles actually don’t—”
“I’m not any bird, captain!” Tsukasa complained. “I’m Tenma Tsukasa, named for the ruler of the skies, and you’d do me wrong to forget that!”
“Sorry, sorry.” Rui let the rest of the sentence go in a chuckle. “I suppose I just didn’t think.”
That earned him an appraising stare, before Tsukasa’s expression softened, his voice much quieter when he said, “remember for next time, then.”
Rui could only smile back, before he finally pulled his eyes away to look around. He was seated on a raised chunk of rock, the sides of it carved away by the tides even as the center baked in the sun. “Come to think of it, where’s the ship?”
“‘Come to think of it,’ he says…” Tsukasa shook his head in disbelief. “You got swept a fair bit away before I could pull you out, and since the ship was still struggling, I didn’t want to fight back to where it was with you unconscious only to have you thrown off again.”
Rui blinked. “And now?”
“You were still out by the time the storm passed.” He shrugged. “Didn’t want you to wake up mid-flight and drop yourself in the ocean.”
All well and plausible, though something niggled at him still as he kept looking around, before it finally clicked—no shelter.
Why am I not hypothermic, he almost asked, but then he properly took in the bedraggled state of Tsukasa’s wings where he was holding them slightly aloft, the underside feathers damp and messy in a way they never got during flight or tucked away.
Rui thought of what an improvised shelter might have looked like, and felt a tight squeeze of affection at the image of the only conclusion he could draw—Tsukasa’s proud wings, held carefully between him and the storm.
“What is it?” Tsukasa frowned at him apprehensively. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing,” Rui replied simply, making no move to stop his smile from widening.
Tsukasa raised a suspicious eyebrow at him but with no forthcoming response, he gave up.
He stood up and stretched, wings spreading out alongside his arms to their entire four meter span. The shadow fell over Rui where he sat, sun peeking through the frays in his feathers like the dappling of tree leaves, a winking shine over the edges like the rising over a mountain. He gave them a few experimental flaps, blowing out beats of warm air and flicking feathers back into place.
Rui breathed, long and slow.
Rui was a pirate, see. His life was freedom above all else, playing music and directing fire over waves, of picking up whatever treasures fit his fancy. Tsukasa counted among those, open laugh and eyes as easy to covet as any gem, and it was here, seeing him against the thin line of the horizon where the sea bled into blue sky, that Rui felt the full weight of his spoils.
The sea had always, always been Rui’s. But…
“The sky suits you,” he remarked, for the sake of saying it more than to tell him.
Tsukasa looked down at him, still a beautiful blot against the sun. He looked a bit bemused. “I’d hope so, on account of the flying.”
“Just so,” Rui laughed. “But I meant more that you look like it should be yours.”
Expression clearing, Tsukasa boomed a proud laugh. “Ha ha ha! Ruler of the skies, didn’t I say?”
You look like freedom. “It suits you,” Rui said again as he nodded along, propping his arm on a knee to look up at Tsukasa consideringly. “More so than it suits even the stars.”
Tsukasa’s cheeks went a bit pink, but his grin was wide and pleased. “Careful, captain. Next time you pull out your map, the North Star’ll just blink at you, and then where will we be?”
“Well,” Rui began slyly, “ you’d be asking the gulls for directions, and then we could probably figure it out from there.”
The satisfaction slipped instantly off of Tsukasa’s face to leave behind only pure indignation.
“I! Am not! A bird!”
Dropping his arm, Rui doubled over properly, laugh ringing out in the open sea air over Tsukasa’s aggrieved protests.
.
.
Colors and flashes and snatches of scenes. Himself, wiping fake-mournfully at his own dry eyes. An exasperated look behind tinted goggles, a hairline crack in the glass. Hero’s demeanor abandoned to yell, “it’s not unreasonable to not want jetpacks strapped to my ankles, professor!”
Blurring faces, then blurring backgrounds. A forest, a fire curling cupped in his own palms. An open, awed expression, pretty blond hair lit in the flickering light. A sword left sheathed and put aside, its knight a warm weight against Rui’s side like he’d never ever heard of the word ‘demon.’
Blurring, again, then—
.
.
“Forgive me,” Rui said perfectly politely. “I seem to have misunderstood you.”
Officer Tenma quirked an unimpressed brow at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Where did I lose you?”
A spike of irritation, that Rui smiled pleasantly past. “Who knows, with the many faults in your charisma? Start from the beginning, now.”
Tenma sighed deeply, much more deeply than Rui thought the situation warranted. But there was an intent glint in his eyes that the sigh couldn’t hide, and it was this glint that stirred the beginning of dread in Rui’s gut.
“Once again,” Tenma started, tone shifting to a formal register, voice as loud as if he were declaring it to a ballroom full of people. “For your crimes of obstructing the peaceful agreement between our land’s two peoples, damage of public and private property, misinformation, and direct interference in council duties and goals, the court finds you guilty and sentences you to…”
Rui narrowed his eyes.
“Supervised community service.” Tsukasa tapped the pages against his desk for a brief moment as if to try and straighten them, before he simply dropped the entire dossier of loose governmental information to his desk. “Namely, supervision by myself.”
Rui laughed—soft, derisive. “You can’t be serious.”
“I assure you, Kamishiro, I’m very serious.” He patted the papers on his desk. “All judicial matters are being handled with additional care, particularly those involving the Forest.”
Rui felt his nose wrinkle for a tiny moment before he forced his face to relax again into a vague smile. “Demonstrating goodwill.”
“Exactly!” Tenma nodded like he was a particularly bright toddler. “A peaceful agreement is only the first step. We need to show that we’re willing to protect it.”
Staring blankly back, Rui felt— disbelief? Outrage? He didn’t know where to even begin with this man sitting casually behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him, like this was just any other day, a conversation between subordinate and commanding officer, like Rui hadn’t tried to force him to watch his work burn about his ears.
Rui remembered that betrayal in the rope burn in his hands, in the twinge of the bruise on his back when Tenma had finally caught up to him with a squad of soldiers in tow. Remembered his jaw rattling when he hit the ground, the glare in amber eyes and a distant voice in his head whispering, ah, so it ends here.
His fingers flexed. The cuffs on his wrist clinked musically in response.
“Tenma,” he started, and something about its flatness must finally get through, because the officer stilled, meeting his eyes properly.
Come to think of it, Rui hadn’t ever really gotten far with the charm, had he? Oh, it’d been effective, Tenma’s arrogant laugh booming out with every minor compliment, that litany of “you’ve got a good eye, Kamishiro!” or “it’s only natural, for me!” But it hadn’t gotten Rui any closer, any sort of rank, not until he’d pitched himself openly and appealed through work and initiative.
Well, fine. He could take initiative.
“Why am I still alive?”
Tenma blinked at him. “Do you want to die?”
“Don’t joke,” he said—lightly, casually, but with all the force of a snap. “By every right, I should have been executed days ago.”
“Yes,” Tenma admitted freely. “But you weren’t, and you won’t be.”
Rui’s smile felt like it was burning the edges of his lips. “ Why? ”
“What do you think are my current priorities, Kamishiro?” Tenma asked, apropos of nothing, in the same way he always had—genuine, asking for an opinion he’d actually listen to. At Rui’s furrowed brow, he raised a placating finger. “Humor me.”
Annoyed, Rui did, shutting his eyes for a brief moment.
“Reconstruction,” he said, to Tenma’s nod. “De-escalating any leftover tensions. …Getting anyone who might run counter to that out of the council and military.”
“Right on all counts,” said Tenma, looking pleased. “As always.”
Ignoring that, Rui raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“In this position, do you think I can afford to let go of my most capable subordinate?”
A second passed.
Then another.
“You can’t be serious,” Rui said again, only this time it was one hundred percent honest disbelief.
“I assure you,” Tenma repeated, standing from his chair to put them at eye level, and like this Rui could see every inch of intent on his face. “I’m very serious.”
“You want me to work for you again,” Rui said aloud, the idiocy of the statement apparent the moment it was voiced, yet Tenma didn’t correct him, so he went on. “You want me to… contribute, in the same capacity I did before?”
“Well,” —Tenma tilted his hand back and forth in a not quite gesture— “Not with the same authority, you understand.”
He moved around his desk towards him, and Rui tamped down on the urge to take a step back. “I openly betrayed you.”
“So I’ll know where to look if it happens again.”
Another step towards him. Rui swallowed. “I don’t share your goals.”
“You’re a reasonable person, Kamishiro.” Tenma’s mouth twisted. “If a selfish, greedy person. But that means that in time, I think I can convince you.”
Step. He reached inside his pocket, and Rui heard a metallic clinking of something that might have been keys.
“I don’t care to give you that time.”
“And that’s why this is a sentence.” For the first time in this conversation, some of the easy brightness in Tenma’s expression slipped away, lips falling into a neutral frown. “You did horrible things. You don’t have a choice.”
Those words sat all wrong, digging into Rui’s skin like nothing else ever had. He clenched both fists, cuff chains rattling noisily in response. Tenma reached forward, plucking up the chain with one hand and brandishing a small silver key in the other.
There’s nothing but loss when you devote yourself to others, Rui wanted to whisper.
“And if,” he said instead, tense silk. “I escape, and do something… adverse, before you can stop me?”
Tenma’s hands froze, key inches from the lock.
I’ve caught you, Rui thought in vicious satisfaction. Why don’t you show me who you really are?
For a moment, all Tenma did was pause. Then there was a quiet ghost of sigh, as he pulled back the keys and slipped them back into his pocket.
Rui barely had time to process his victory before hands snatched his collar, wrenching him sharply forward. In his surprise he didn’t muster any pushback, and with a herald of jingling chains suddenly all he saw was Officer Tenma’s glare, open and blazing.
“Stop lying to me.”
Rui stared back, eyes wide.
“You want me to say that I would stop you, which is true. But the better answer is you’d never do that.” Tenma’s jaw set as he gave Rui a shake hard enough to ring metal.
“Because it wouldn’t benefit you. Because you don’t hurt people for fun. Because you’re not that kind of person. I may have judged you wrong,” —he shut his eyes for a brief moment, self-condemning— “but I’m not so blind as to allow someone like that by my side this long.”
What a bold statement, came the quip to Rui’s tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to let it pass his lips.
“I don’t know what you thought of me, this last year. I don’t know what you think of me now. But you’re my subordinate, my responsibility, and I’m telling you I won’t have you die.”
And with that, he finally let go, breathing hard.
Rui stumbled backwards, barely missing falling. His heart hammered adrenaline in his chest, blood beating in his ears. Understanding came slowly, the first drop of rain before a storm, rolling heavy with the weight of promise.
“What would,” he started, but the words trembled, so he stopped.
“Do you honestly,” he tried again, but he didn't know where to go with it, and stopped again.
Tenma breathed in, rubbing a hand across his face. “Excuse me for raising my voice. But it’s your life, so, so—” He dropped his hand, expression screwing in consternation. “Don’t be so quick to throw it away.”
“There’s,” Rui began one final time, cast around for the right words for the mess inside him.
There’s nothing but loss when you devote yourself to others. The phrase sprung to his lips again, but more frankly now, because it seemed to him like Tenma had honestly never heard of the concept.
But suddenly, Rui didn’t want to be the one to tell him.
A moment longer to flounder. Another moment to search Tenma’s expression, one more time, see if he could find any deceit locked away in that amber.
One more moment, before he shut his eyes in surrender. “I will never understand you, Tenma.”
“You don’t need to understand me, Kamishiro. You just need to live.” Tenma’s lips curled slowly upwards. “Your answer?”
Rui’s heart beat, traitorously thrilled, and…
…He silently offered out his chained hands.
.
.
Changes, quicker, one thing to the next. Polished blade bouncing off of polished marble, a grab at the lapel of his white coat. Namesake sword hanging by his side, a desperate voice asking, “you said you could steal anything, right?”
Quiet breeze sneaking in through a palace window. A tight grip around his hand holding him in place, a crownless head bowed gently on his shoulder. A steadfast voice whispering, “stay, Rose—”
.
.
“Enjoying the celebration?”
Rui signaled a refill for Torpe’s drink even as he put his own down on the counter beside him. Torpe glanced at him in surprise, visibly processing his presence, before he startled out his address.
“Director!”
“Hi.” Rui waved lazily as he slid into the stool next to him. “So?”
“Ah—” Torpe floundered for a moment longer before seeming to settle, the easy relaxing of his shoulders a victory hard-won over the last few months. “Yes, it’s been lovely.”
Rui smiled, lifting his glass when the bartender finished filling Torpe’s. “It was a fabulous concerto. You’ve come a long way.”
Torpe was the type to get flustered, but he had never been overly humble, which Rui appreciated. He ducked his eyes, but the smile that lit his face was honest as he muttered a thank you, allowing their glasses to clink together.
We can work on that next, Rui thought idly to himself as they both tipped their drinks back, watching Torpe’s gaze drift away. He hummed, casting around for another conversation topic, but this time it was Torpe who surprised him by speaking first.
“I hear,” he started, so quiet Rui could barely make it out over the din, before he furrowed his brow and repeated, louder, “I hear Emu’s been working on a duet, lately.”
“Her and a few others.” Rui nodded his satisfaction. “It’s a refreshing exercise. I’m looking forward to hearing them all for the first time.”
“So you can tear them all apart?” Torpe smiled wryly.
“Ah, well,” he chuckled, “that’ll depend on them, won’t it?”
Torpe laughed as well, but his gaze remained fixed on the counter, like he was working himself up to something. Another pause stretched a few moments, one which Rui allowed this time, curious.
“Are, um, you…” Torpe’s fingers flexed around his glass. “Are you working on one too?”
Oh. Rui blinked, before he felt his lips stretch into a smile. “Not yet, no.”
“Then!” Torpe blurted, surprisingly loud, before blushing and catching himself. Still, he turned to look at Rui properly, expression bright. “Then, if you’d be inclined, would you like to duet with me?”
“I’d be honored,” said Rui warmly. “Did you have something in mind?”
Torpe’s eyes sparked with delight. “Have you heard Die Taubenpost? ”
“Ah, yes,” —Rui raised a hand to his chin with a hum— “Though that’s an interesting choice for a duet...”
“I thought so too!” Torpe turned fully around in his stool, glass forgotten on the counter as both hands went to his knees to lean forward. “The parts are pretty flexible, and I’ve always wanted to hear how you might approach arranging something like that.”
“Oh?” Rui tilted his head, corner of a lip quirking up. “Do I detect an ulterior motive?”
“I’m afraid it’s a wholly primary motive, director.” Torpe’s smile went a touch sheepish, but he held his pose. “When it comes to arrangement, your ensemble work is always so…”
He shut his eyes for a moment, like he was trying to find the words, fingers curling against the fabric of his trousers. Watching, Rui felt something warm in his chest—without uncertainty holding him back, Torpe’s emotions seeped out of him like an aura he couldn’t pack down, and the immense praise hit even before the words.
“Exciting,” Torpe breathed as he opened his eyes again. “Like I never know what to expect. I’m… I’d really like to see your duet arrangement. Especially with your flute playing more of a leading role—”
“And thus Die Taubenpost,” Rui concluded, smiling wide. “Well, if that’s your goal, rather than a specific song, then there are a few other pieces that we might consider…”
The conversation spun onward, Rui turning away from the counter as well to better keep his eyes on his partner. He took idle sips of his drink, less for the sake of drinking and more instinctive, whenever his throat threatened to go dry.
Torpe was a marvelous pianist, for sure, a fact Rui had known when he had recruited him, but he also brought with him this unexpected pleasure—a simple, earnest love for music. One that carried him through both technical and subjective discussions with ease, matching Rui title for title with interesting piece, side notes of I remember they had a beautiful harmony, but their pauses felt a bit rushed and did you hear Arkland's performance last month, I felt like I could barely breathe, filling the conversation with color that caught every inch of Rui’s attention.
He thought he could spend days like this. Just Torpe and laughter and an endless shared love.
“There’s really no end to interesting songs, is there?” Torpe sighed, but it was a happy sound. “We may as well be here for days, especially since your skill as a flautist doesn’t narrow it down at all.”
Rui blinked at the almost-echo of his own thoughts. Then he smiled, waving for a refill again as the warmth simmering quietly in his chest sharpened into an idea.
“Then, let’s narrow it down this way—” he offered, drumming his fingers lightly on the counter. “It might be nice to arrange something like a conversation.”
Tilting his head, Torpe asked, “a conversation?”
Rui nodded, leaning in a little closer. “It’ll be just you and me, you know?”
Torpe blinked, before nodding uncertainly.
“So it’d be dull for me to simply play technical spotlight to an accompaniment when that’s something we could do in the ensemble, anyway. When there’s just two instruments, a long tone can lead just as well as a melody.”
Torpe contemplated that, eyes dropping down as his brow furrowed.
“Besides,” —Rui tapped gently on Torpe’s knee to make him look up again— “I like these back-and-forths with you, Torpe, to say nothing of your piano. And yet a duet gives me both—I’d be remiss not to show them off.”
It was a slow moment, as Torpe processed the words, and then a quicker moment that played itself just as slowly in Rui’s eyes—the sudden shine in his eyes, the happy break of his smile, the flush on his cheeks that had nothing to do with alcohol.
“I like them both too,” he said, voice bright in a way that made something in Rui stutter. “Talking, and your flute.”
“Why thank you,” Rui said with a slight raise of his glass, keeping his voice composed only by God's grace before turning away to take a steadying sip of his drink.
When he turned back, what about Nocturne on his lips, he found Torpe also facing the counter. Or— not quite. Body turned towards the bar, but eyes turned far away. Rui followed the line of Torpe’s gaze and found it lingering exactly where it had been when he’d first approached.
“Do you miss it?”
Startling, Torpe turned abruptly around. “What?”
“You’ve been looking over there for a while.” Rui inclined his head to the right, where a guitarist was quietly strumming in a corner. Rui had looked too at first, evaluating, before deciding there was nothing much to be seen. “But she’s not the sort of talent to draw your attention, is she?”
Torpe’s mouth opened and closed as he shifted awkwardly in his seat, clearly agreeing but not nearly as inclined to be so rude. Rui took pity and continued on.
“So, I figured it was the situation, rather than the music.” He rested his elbow against the counter and dropped his cheek to his hand. “Do you miss playing in places like this?”
Torpe blinked, eyes wide, and Rui furrowed his brows.
“It’s not like we couldn’t arrange something,” he started to say, before stopping at Torpe’s hurried wave of his hands.
“That’s not it,” Torpe assured him quickly, before his hands curled slowly shut again as he lowered them down to his lap. “I was only reminiscing."
Rui shut his mouth, waiting. Luckily, Torpe took his cue, pausing for a moment to wet his lips before continuing.
“There was something about playing in a room full of people and knowing no one was listening,” he said, a touch of a rueful laugh. “It was calming, but it was also…”
His gaze drifted again, and he peeked again at the guitarist. “Lonely. I don’t know if I could do it again.”
The cadence of Torpe's voice, skipping lightly over the word lonely with a forced casualness. Rui's elbow slid further along the counter as he leaned harder into it.
He wanted to take this more seriously than he was, but the simple fact of the matter was, “you’re right. You couldn’t ever do it again.”
Torpe tilted his head at him, looking somewhat thrown by Rui's firm tone. “Director?”
Tapping a fingernail on the side of his glass, Rui considered. “Do you know what I thought, when we first met?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Torpe still shook his head, watching him in clear confusion.
“That a musician might have all the talent in the world and yet keep that world entirely to themself,” Rui sighed. “Skill with the instrument doesn't always mean ability to perform, or connect with others."
He smiled lazily when Torpe blinked at him. "There’s an appeal in a closed off, personal performance, but not for every time. And it’s definitely not the kind of thing that’d be inviting in a place like that—it’s no wonder you were never heard."
Torpe frowned. "Then why…"
“I approached you because your playing was stunning,” said Rui, easily guessing the question on the musician's lips. “But more than that, I wanted to know—if I asked, were you willing to learn to share?”
Asked is a charitable way of putting it—he remembered that moment even now. Remembered being enthralled by that almost-careless improvisation, remembered his feet striding to the piano bench of their own accord, remembered barely having the presence of mind to not simply demand, join.
“You weren’t able to at your audition, and that might have been all.” Rui rested his other palm flat against the counter. “But then, when I told you about the competition, you took on the challenge like there was no other option.”
Torpe opened his mouth, wordless for a moment before he said, simply and a little lost, “I wanted to play.”
Rui felt his face loosen even further, fondness too warm under his skin. “And that tells me plenty, Torpe.
"You’re a performer at heart, my dear,” he said, endearment slipping so easily from his lips even as he heard Torpe’s breath catch. “And I believe if you performed at that bar again, you’d find your reception very different.”
As expected, Torpe tore his gaze away almost instantly, staring down at his knees with wide, off-guard eyes and raised shoulders. His lips opened and closed soundlessly for a long moment. But when he finally spoke it was to say, in a tone soaked in embarrassment and a touch of awe:
"It feels like all I'm doing tonight is thanking you."
Flustered, but not humble. Rui felt his smile turn smug, and his cheek slipped a tad down the heel of his palm, tilting his vision further to the side. "I've only presented the facts."
"Even still." Torpe gave him a sidelong glance, looking fond. "I'll think of a way to thank you properly yet, director."
"If you really want to show your gratitude," Rui drawled, head continuing to slip until it was the side of his skull on his hand instead of his cheek, "then I wouldn't mind if you dispensed with the honorifics."
Torpe blinked.
"I have told you my name, haven't I?" Rui raised an eyebrow. "The first will do fine, if you would."
Torpe blinked several more times.
"These titles," sighed Rui, "they're all so distant. How are we supposed to deliver a convincing rendition of Gaubert's Romance if we’re not on the same level?"
This seemed to kick Torpe's brain into action, because he finally snapped from the stupor with a splutter of, " what song?"
"Ah, excuse me." Rui nodded as he backtracked through his sentence. "You'd probably prefer Schumann's Romance, wouldn't you?"
"I— That's—" Torpe stammered, flushing red, searching,"Why are those the only options?!"
"Brun's Romance, then?" Rui frowned, "Saint-Saens's? That wouldn't let you shine much at all."
"Director," Torpe close-to whined as he covered his face, and it was the most undignified noise Rui had ever heard from him. If it was always accompanied by the ruby glow of his ears, though, Rui could definitely stand to hear it a few more times. "When did we pick—"
Torpe, even with his face buried in his hands, suddenly paused as if realizing something. He peeked out at Rui through his fingers, eyes evaluating, and the conclusion dawned on his face.
"Director, you're drunk," he reproached, exasperation wiping out the embarrassment.
"Hm?" said Rui. Or, he meant to say. It actually came out more like hmmmmmmmmmm? and he had to concede Torpe was probably right.
“Definitely drunk,” Torpe sighed, dropping his hands. “If you’ll excuse me, I should probably cut—”
Rui quickly snatched his glass off the counter and out of Torpe’s reach in a graceless motion that sent some of its icy contents sloshing over the side and down his cuffs.
“Wh— Director!”
“Even still,” Rui pushed, paying the dripping no mind as he lifted the cup high in the air. “My point stands, Torpe.”
“You’re going to drop that on yourself,” Torpe said worriedly, reaching to stretch for the cup, but his height advantage meant Rui could keep it well out of his hands even as he swayed on the spot.
“I’m happy to hand it over if you ask me for it properly.” Rui leaned back a little further, stool creaking warningly.
“I speak to you perfectly properly!” Torpe dismissed with a harried look, and oh, he appeared a bit drunk himself, didn’t he? He made a few more fruitless grabs for the glass, huffing as he missed, before he finally stood up to try for a proper lunge.
Rui dodged out of its line, but the move overbalanced him, and his stool shuddered and began to tip.
“Ah.”
Torpe’s eyes widened, aim switching to grab at his jacket instead, mouth opening with a panicked call—
.
.
“Rui!”
.
.
Rui doesn’t come awake with a shock or a jerk. It’s a gentle transition—every sensation floods in between one moment and the next.
The distant, near-inaudible sound of a choir of flowers, a fresh and familiar detergent scent, wooden hardness under his back but warmth under his head as fingers card lightly through his hair.
He opens his eyes to the SEKAI’s night sky, geographically impossible auroras and all. The hand in his hair stops moving, and he barely has time to mourn the loss before Tsukasa’s leaning over to blink down at him.
“Rui?” He asks, voice hushed.
Changing lights playing over blond hair. Soft blue sleep-shirt pressing against Rui’s cheek. Focused, amber eyes meeting his own.
Rui swallows.
“Hi,” he says, a little breathless in return.
The rest of the information fills in—he’s lying on a bench, head on Tsukasa’s lap. Tsukasa stares down at him for a moment longer, then turns his head upwards to look at the sky, drawing in a long, slow breath. From experience, Rui recognises it for what it is—a plea for patience.
The breath leaves Tsukasa’s lips in one, heavy huff, and when he meets Rui’s eyes again, his brows are furrowed sharply down.
“You,” he begins, the tone full of warning, “are absolutely impossible.”
“I’m well aware, Tsukasa-kun,” Rui laughs, earning himself another huff. He turns a little into Tsukasa’s hand to try and prod it into moving again—he’s not sure when he ended up in this position, but it wouldn’t be right not to take advantage.
Unfortunately, Tsukasa remains unmoved to his attempts, squinting down at him with an unimpressed look.
“You aren’t going to ask?”
Rui hums. “What time is it?”
“That’s not really the question I meant.” Tsukasa’s face pulls further into one of consternation, but he still answers anyway. “It’s past eleven PM.”
“I’ve been asleep,” he surmises. For over two hours, no less—concerning. It’s really hard to be concerned in this position, though.
“More like you grabbed something weird and knocked yourself out,” Tsukasa bites. At Rui’s blink, though, he relents, sighing as he smooths a thumb across his forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Mm,” Rui answers vaguely as he considers Tsukasa’s words.
Grabbed something weird. Now that he thinks back, he might remember—something shining, quite unlike the fragment he’d once seen, spikier lines of light from something misshapen rather than a simple ball glow. He’d been intrigued, wondered if the difference in appearance was something to do with the root of the feelings creating it, and touched it without a second thought.
Which, in hindsight, may not have been the best idea. The SEKAI really does completely kill his sense of caution, doesn’t it? It’s just a bit difficult to muster any worry in a world where even the trees bend to catch you when you fall.
“Do you know what it was?” He asks.
“Kaito explained while you were asleep.” Tsukasa nods. The hand he has resting over Rui’s shoulder taps idly as he seems to cast his mind back. “He said it was ‘an unstable object in the process of manifesting.’ And that made it dangerous, because…” Tsukasa’s face twists, “because it ‘technically didn’t exist yet.’”
A second passes.
"Come again?" Rui finally asks, when it becomes clear that time is doing nothing to help him process.
“Don’t ask me to explain this,” Tsukasa groans. “It’s totally beyond me. But apparently it was still ‘moving between realities’?”
A delightfully casual confirmation of the existence of alternate realities. Truly, the SEKAI brings new revelations every day. “And I assume that didn’t have the best of effects on my person?”
“You tell me,” Tsukasa furrows a brow, looking concerned. “Kaito said there was a possibility it was making you jump your own realities, and it sort of seemed like—”
“Wait,” Rui cuts in, quieting Tsukasa when he grabs a fistful of his sleepshirt, before immediately shutting his eyes. His own realities. Meaning alternate selves. Meaning a possible wealth of different stories and settings to draw inspiration from…
…
“Ah,” says Tsukasa, reading him before he can speak. “You don’t remember.”
“Not a thing.” Rui lets out a deeply plaintive groan, dropping his fist to his forehead. “Not a thing. I’m almost certain Kaito was right, but—”
It’s all scattered sensations—the taste of black tea on his tongue, the smell of roses, worn leather under his fingertips. Enough to know something’s missing, enough to know, something happened here. But that’s all they are: scattered, fading and slipping further out of his grasp with every second that passes.
“There’s nothing concrete,” he finishes, disappointment endless.
Tsukasa offers a conciliatory pat to his shoulder. “That’s too bad.”
“Gifted an opportunity and robbed of it in the same encounter,” Rui laments with a sigh. “What kind of sick punishment is this?”
The patting stops, and when Rui opens his eyes in curiosity, Tsukasa’s expression is complicated. “You know, this is really not the worst case scenario that could have come out of this.”
Rui hums a vaguely questioning noise. “Isn’t it?”
“Of all the—” Tsukasa gets out before he cuts himself off with a sharp click of his tongue. “Have a little consideration for how I felt when I came to meet you, only to see you drop like a stone!”
Oh.
“You just…” His voice goes hushed. “You just stood there for a second with something lit up in your hands, and then you just collapsed. You’re lucky you were on the grass. What if you’d brained yourself?”
“Tsukasa-kun,” he starts, a little alarmed, but Tsukasa continues like he hasn’t spoken.
“Kaito and the rest were all in the tents and I… I couldn’t leave you alone, so I just had to yell for them but I didn’t know what happened— ”
“I’m sorry,” Rui puts forward, reaching up to run a hand over Tsukasa’s upper arm—the worried pinch of Tsukasa’s brows makes something in his stomach clench. But still, he has to emphasize, “it just didn’t feel like something that could hurt me. Especially not in this world.”
Tsukasa presses his lips tightly together for a moment. “Emu nearly fell off the train fifty feet in the air.”
Well. “That’s still nothing outrightly malicious.”
“ Yes, but…” He lets out an irritated huff, gaze drifting to the side as if to find the right words. The hand on Rui’s shoulder curls a little to tangle Tsukasa’s fingers into his shirt. “Even if I’m supposed to have created it, neither of us know enough about this place, and…”
His eyes come back to Rui’s. “I trust you, right? But even I would get hurt if I tried one of your stunts without listening to you first.”
Rui blinks.
Blinks again, something tingling in the tips of his fingers and inside his ribcage.
“You make a good point.”
“No need for the tone of surprise,” Tsukasa sighs, nose scrunching.
“Did I sound surprised?” Rui smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind. Honest.”
“Do that.” Tsukasa nods, taking the concession for what it is. “If not for safety’s sake, then for time’s! I was really looking forward to seeing the plan you texted me about, you know? But now it’s already well past time to rest.”
Remembering the circumstances behind their late-evening SEKAI meet-up, Rui frowns, suddenly put out. He’d wanted to show him, too. “I’ve slept more than enough, I’d say.”
Still, Tsukasa holds predictably firm. “Well, I haven’t. And being unconscious doesn’t count as proper rest, anyway. You need real sleep.” He pokes Rui in the chest. “I’m holding you to telling me in the morning, though, so don’t you dare skip!”
Rui huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he agrees easily, settling more comfortably back into Tsukasa’s lap.
"...Rui."
"Hm?" Rui peeks out of one eye to see Tsukasa's brows furrowed again, though this time his lips are quirked like he doesn't know whether to be annoyed or amused.
"I meant that as the cue to go home."
Rui offers a wide smile, and doesn't move.
"Ruiiii," Tsukasa complains. "I can't reach my phone like this."
"You're the one who put me in this position," Rui points out with a sniff. "You can't take it away now."
"What kind of logic is that?" Tsukasa asks, incredulous, before flicking him in the forehead. "Come on, it's almost midnight—I want to go to bed already."
"You're so cruel," Rui sighs, but Tsukasa is looking more than a little tired despite his lively retorts. He reluctantly concedes to lifting himself up and off. His stiff shoulders pop when he stretches out his arms, spine protesting somewhat as it detaches from wood. Tsukasa's lap aside, perhaps a bench wasn't the best place for an impromptu two-hour nap after all.
Tsukasa stands up after him, bending to rub feeling back into his legs as he retrieves his phone from his pocket. Rui looks around for his own, finding it placed neatly on the opposite arm of the bench.
"Hey, Rui…"
He turns back at Tsukasa's call, who's looking at him consideringly.
"I stand by that you were lucky, but I am sorry you can't remember," he says, expression abashed. "I know you really wanted to."
A blink, and Rui feels his face melt into a smile. "That's alright. Besides, I do know that you—"
He falters, brain catching up to the words on his tongue, and his voice dies in his throat.
"Rui?" Tsukasa looks concerned.
Rui swallows, before rapidly switching gears with a tilt of his head. "I know that you were just as interested," he grins. "It would've been a wonderful inspiration, no?"
"Ah." Caught out, Tsukasa's cheeks tinge red. "Well, I can't say it's not a bit disappointing, especially with how much you seemed to be enjoying your dreams."
"Did I say anything in my sleep?"
'Mm, you sort of mumbled here and there?" Tsukasa contemplates as he fiddles idly with his phone. "But mostly, you were just smiling."
Something snags in Rui's chest. That, combined with the words that'd almost slipped unbidden off his tongue…
"Maybe it'll come back to me when I sleep again," he says lightly.
"Maybe, yeah! Let me know about it tomorrow." Tsukasa brightens as he navigates back into his music app, thumb hovering over the pause button. "For now, though, good night!"
His eyelids are drooping, voice at only half its usual volume, but his smile when he offers Rui one last little wave is as genuine as it always is.
"Good night, Tsukasa-kun," Rui replies softly. "See you tomorrow."
And Rui doesn't say the words, but he dwells on them, on this quiet little fact that'd sprung to his lips and remains there still, disquieting and reassuring in equal measure.
You were there, he thinks with a sureness he can’t explain or understand. You were always there.