Chapter Text

apotheosis.

Paripus die easily. 

That is the undeniable truth of their tribe, the proud symbol of their people. They are stronger and braver than the rest, and so, they often die young. Brashly, nobly, it doesn’t quite matter. It does not help that they are often so rebellious, as if it is in their very nature to defy the existing order. Danger is a constant companion, and they welcome it. They die and the earth and the sea take in their constituent elements, cycling them into new life.

Fidelio would join them, one day, white bones on a battleground. No one would mourn him, except that brother of his, who always cared too much for his own good. And if not Basilio, Fidelio would only be remembered in those quiet, hushed whispers, of people speaking ill of the man who had inflicted all the world’s horrors upon them, slaughtered their parents or children like slitting the throat on a goat.

This is all Fidelio would have as his legacy. And that was fine, he thinks. He doesn’t expect things to change.

“Is that so?” The woman sitting in the white flowers gives him a rather unexpected look. One that was slightly angry, so different from her usual demeanor. “Are you happy with this?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” He shrugs, in defiance of it all. “You’re gonna kill one of us.”

“I won’t kill either of you.”

“Then fate, or whatever the hell you prattle on about, will do away with us. Yeah?”

“Fate is not such an unchangeable, stagnant thing,” she sighs, like she’s been through this with Fidelio a million times before. In the blinding sunlight, he almost imagines her funeral clothes catching fire. She would like better like that, he thought. On fire. Suited her, the woman who would tear down the laws of nature and rip apart the fabric of magic just to save her son. “It is people who insist they are unchangeable. Most are-- most souls simply bend themselves around the box that is their lot in life. But some people have a core to them, unable to be changed, no matter how the world burns and tears and hammers at them.”

“And?” Fidelio scoffs, putting his hands in his pockets. Acting like this all didn’t matter to him, even up to the last moment. “What does this have to do with me?”

“You are one of those unchangeable souls,” she explains, without any accusation in her voice. “You, and your brother. No matter how much this broken world we live in tries to tear you apart, you will always, till the very end, try your hardest to do what you think is right.”

Fidelio looks away. “So?”

“So there isn’t any fate at play. I didn’t pick you because I drew your name in a game of cards. You weren’t made this way because of some esoteric positioning in the stars and whatnot. And certainly not because of some obfuscated racial destiny, where all paripus are doomed to die young or whatever nonsense the Church tries to pin upon you and I. I pushed you towards my son because you stepped through the fire that was your history and when it burnt away the rest of you, you remained, in your heart of hearts, unchangeable. And that-- that is why I cannot save you, not because I didn’t try to look through all the possibilities that lay ahead of you both, or because of some idiotic notion that you must suffer from more pain than you already have. I never wanted you to suffer even further-- but there are limits to my magic, and only so much I can impart to you all in the space of dream that would be impossible for you to fully recall. For that, I am sorry. If I had known any way to push you forward without standing in the wake of your brother’s demise, or his in your own-- perhaps if we just had more time--”

“Time,” Fidelio says. The word tastes tart on his tongue. “Yeah. Think I get it now. Me brother and I, we’ve never had enough time.”

-----

Forden’s bleeding corpse crashed onto the ground with a strangely hollow sound, filled only with the screams of terror from the crowd.

“Nothing to see here!” A panicked Sanctist man yelled out to the fleeing onlookers, some trampling over one another, others desperately grabbing at Forden and attempting to mend the unmendable. “The festival is cancelled! Cancelled!”

“Del,” Basilio breathed, ears flattening like he was a man standing at the foot of a god. “Lord Louis is... alive…”

Fidelio dragged his hand through his hair, staring in disbelief. “What’s going on?”

“Good people, you have heard the truth with your own ears.” Louis spoke firmly to the crowd, as if they weren’t running from him in fear. “Forden was the vile mastermind behind the prince's assassination. For casting his sins upon me, for seeking to usurp the throne, I have passed due judgement. A tainted Sanctifex is unfit to rule.”

Louis then turned his head, blonde hair looking as clean and methodically tousled as ever. Like he hadn’t been bathing in his own blood just the day before. “What's the matter?” Louis spoke to Dechambul first, because of course he did. Maybe he really did see something in Dechambul that no one else did. “You seem lost for words.”

“But you…” Dechambul pointed to him, pupils in his eyes shaking. “You're supposed to be dead...!”

Louis, infuriatingly, shrugged. “In a sense, yes.”

“Then how!?” Strohl shouted at him next, unable to contain his shock. “How are you alive? Forden's own attendant confirmed your death.”

“Forden's attendant?” Louis angled his body towards stage left. “You mean that fellow?”

The sight of the cloaked attendant taking his hood off and revealing a one-horned half-blood would be almost hilarious, if not for the intense terror just the mere sight of him inspired. His third eye was finally opened, but it wasn’t looking like it should; it was bloodied, crying, like it’d been torn open against its will.

“No…” Hulkenberg gasped. “Zorba!?”

“So that’s why Louis acted like Zorba wasn’t dead,” Fidelio said. “Goddammit…”

Zorba swung his arm forwards, incinerating two horrified attendants in an instant, not even giving them enough time to scream. The power emanating from Zorba felt like a choking haze, soaking through everyone still in the Opera House. Somehow, he had changed forever, in some unspeakable, irrevocable way-- all in Lord Louis’ service.

“Even Zorba’s back!?” Basilio put a hand on Fidelio’s shoulder. “What the hell do we do…!? We… we gotta join in with Lord Louis again, yeah?”

“...Not necessarily,” Fidelio said, not entirely believing himself. “No, we don’t-- but we’ve still got to get these idiots out of danger.”

Basilio glanced at Zorba, then Louis, then Dechambul-- turned back to Fidelio and nodded. “You’re right,” he agreed, and they didn’t have the time to consider how crazy it was to suddenly change their mind about Louis, right at this moment, for the benefit of a few careless dreamers that they’d only known for a few weeks. “You’re right, but-- how?”

“--A holy lance, a convincing prop, what does it matter?” Louis spoke brazenly about his close brush with death, like he’d done it a thousand times before. “Had I truly died, it would simply indicate that I was never fit for my ambitions.”

Louis pointed Drakadios at the ground beyond the stage. “Power is the only true arbiter. Behold the proof: Forden lies dead and the lance is in my hand, just as planned.”

Strohl’s face blanched. “You let us do as we pleased, even knowing the risks? You're insane…”

“Indulge me a question,” Louis suddenly said, copper-patina eyes focusing on Dechambul with more intensity than ever. “You stole the magic formula from me. Surely you soon learned that it was useless. That's why you then resorted to killing the caster. You were desperate to lift the spell.”

Dechambul’s face stayed stock-still, as if he was trying not to show his emotions. Trying not to give something exceedingly important away. Louis’ smile only widened. “Is that not so? In other words... the curse's victim still draws breath.”

That did it; Dechambul flinched backwards in shock, knowing he could no longer hide the truth. “For that reason, you sought to kill me even amidst this competition, even with the difficulty of the king's magic in your way,” Louis hummed. “...So. His Venerable Highness the Prince survived.”

He raised Drakadios towards Dechambul. “Where is he? Speak or die.”

Dechambul raised his sword to Louis in response.

“This stupid arse--” Fidelio cursed, knees bending as he braced himself. “They’re going to fight!”

“But if Lord Louis kills Cham, he won’t get the answer he’s lookin’ for,” Basilio said. “So--”

Louis, as if realising it at the same time Basilio did, decided to change what was at stake.

He casually turned his wrist, pointing Drakadios to a clemar family still sitting on the steps.

“No!” Basilio gasped. “Why the hell are people still here!?”

“Fuck’s sake--” Fidelio looked around the Opera House, trying to find anything to use-- bring down the stage lights? Open a trapdoor? But there wasn’t a solution in sight-- “The bloody parents were tryin’ to save Forden, I bet-- the idiots!”

The father, as if only now realising the danger they were in, shook his head in horror and begged. “Please, spare us!

The mother, terrified, wrapped her arms around the two children. Brothers. “No…!”

“They’re just kids,” Fidelio gasped, as if he hadn’t seen a thousand children their age die in front of him, sometimes by his own hand-- “They haven’t done anythin’!”

“Stop!” Hulkenberg screamed, louder than Fidelio had ever heard her speak. “Leave them be!”

Zorba, unmoved by the display, simply watched Dechambul panic with a disinterested expression. “Hmph. How quickly the sanctors break rank and flee, their flock left to die.” His two working eyes traced the arch to Louis’ arm as he drew Drakadios back, like a bowstring. “This is Sanctism.”

Heismay’s daggers were drawn, but he stood rooted in place, ears shaking. “No, stop him!”

Fidelio pressed his heel against the ground. There wasn’t any other way out. “Bas--”

“Aye,” Bas nodded, axe already drawn. “Let’s go, Del!”

Without another word, they ran in.

For once, Fidelio was faster. He outpaced Basilio by just a step, reaching Dechambul as he-- fool that he was-- threw himself in front of the family without a plan, just a hand extended, willing to die before revealing the prince’s location.

Moron! Fidelio had no time to shout. No right to, either, as if he and Basilio weren’t the epitome of stupidity right now-- Fidelio tilted his foot, stretching his arm out to shove Dechambul to safety. “Out of the way!”

A crackle of magic, the light-blue hues-- Fidelio had cast these shields a million times before, but they’ve never been more important than in this moment. They poured out of his igniters, wrapping around Basilio’s axe and quickly tripling in size through a catalyst, just barely making it in time.

The shield came up just as Drakadio’s blow slammed into it with such force that Fidelio felt like it might’ve shattered his ribs right then and there. But the shield-- it held.

Basilio held.

The family behind them slowly rose to their feet, the mother gasping. “Why…?”

Fidelio exhaled sharply through his canines. “Go!”

Basilio turned his head to the side, just briefly. “Run!”

Over the sound of Drakadio’s magic burning against the barrier, Fidelio could hear the children rushing up the stairs, sleeves gripped tight in their mother’s hand. “Thank you,” came the father’s voice, a short gasp of his deepest gratitude.

Then, Fidelio finally looked up.

Through the white-blue lights and Drakadio’s purple flare, he saw Louis. Standing there, studying them, like he always did-- like he used to, when they were younger and less sure of themselves. He had stopped, a year or so ago, perhaps because he trusted them entirely.

He did not trust them now. Louis Guiabern was staring at them with a strange look in his eyes. Something between rage, assessment and quiet resignation. “You protect them,” he began, breathtakingly calm, like the view of Brilehaven’s seas in the blue morning sky, calm waters hiding thousands of drowned sailors underneath. “Yet what value do they have to you?”

Fidelio didn’t have time to think of his answer. If he stopped to consider, the terror would silence him. So he just shook his head and shouted: “It’s not that!”

“This is just wrong…” Basilio sounded a million times more confident than Fidelio did. Always too caring, too kind for his own good. Fidelio had tried so hard to rip the soft parts of Basilio out of him, and yet, here they were:

Unchangeable.

The axe shuddered as Basilio screamed. “It's wrong, m'lord!”

Louis didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe.

Through the blinding lights, all Fidelio could see was Louis lowering his head. If Fidelio did not know better, he would have thought Louis felt betrayed. “I see,” was his only response to ten years of meals and dancing and dreaming up all those unobtainable fantasies together, all turning into ashes in front of his eyes. Like he’d always known they, too, would one day burn, in the same way everything else Louis had ever held dear caught on fire. “So even you two have faltered.”

Louis’ grip tightened, and he looked back up, one last conflagration of copper-patina flames.

He then brought his left arm forward-- forcefully, without holding back an inch. Every trace of magla in Louis’ body slammed forward, intent on breaking the shield, of swallowing them whole.

Fidelio brought forward both hands, roaring in exertion, trying to delay the inevitable-- Louis was always stronger than them. Both of them. From the moment they stepped between him and his target, they never stood a chance.

“Urgh!” Basilio’s legs began to slip, and he tilted his body to the side as he was pushed back, trying to put himself in front of Fidelio--

No.

And when the shield breaks, Fidelio already knows to be faster than him, in the one time it matters.

-----

“Oi, Del!”

Fidelio feels something shaking him. “Deeel! Wake up! You’ve slept in long enough!”

His eyes open with a start, and Fidelio’s hands quickly search for purchase. He finds it in Basilio’s arms, and just like that, Basilio pulls at him till he’s sitting upright. “Right, c’mon!”

“What?” Fidelio blinks, hard, trying to get the crust out his eyes and make sense of the world around him. “What’s goin’ on? Bas-- Bas, weren’t we just--”

“Hm?” Basilio bends his knees, lowering himself down to Fidelio’s eye level. Instantly, Fidelio studies his face, and the cherry-red colour of his eyes.

He’s fine. Smiling, even. “Y’got your head screwed on wrong today, Del?” Bas chuckles lightly to himself. “Too excited to sleep last night, eh?”

Fidelio shakes his head, not quite registering the colourfully-decorated bedroom around them, every inch of wall space covered in drawings. Basilio’s drawings, bold strokes and clear lines, from the doodles when he was a child to the perfected portraits of their family.

Fidelio blinks again. “...Sleep?”

“Ah, don’t play dumb with me! I knew you’d be tossin’ and turnin’ all night,” Basilio laughs, slapping Fidelio on the back and dragging him onto his feet. “After all, Lady Junah’s stoppin’ over to sing today!”

Fidelio stands up, still groggy. The sunlight coming through the window nearly blinds him-- were they high above the ground? “Right,” he says, faintly distracted by the smell of fresh bread wafting up the stairwell next to their room. “Today.”

When Basilio drags Fidelio to the bathroom, he takes a while to marvel at the high-quality marble tiling, and how fresh the cold water from the sink feels against his tired face. They brush their teeth in the pleasant little washroom he’d seen, once, twice, maybe ten thousand times before, and when Fidelio opens his closets, he’s somewhat surprised to see all his coats perfectly folded. He hates folding his clothes and only ever puts them on hangers, so why…?

“Damn, where’s me nice jacket?” Basilio opens the cupboards next to Fidelio’s larger wardrobe, because apparently, he didn’t need as much space to fit all his clothes. “Where’d he… PAPAAA!”

The sudden shout from Basilio’s mouth makes Fidelio jump, but what really takes him aback is the name he’s calling. “What’re you--”

Footsteps stomp up the stairs, and a voice Fidelio hadn’t heard in decades yells back, “WHAT?”

Bas sticks his head out of the door. “WHERE’D YOU PUT ME JACKET? THE NICE ONE?”

“BOTTOM SHELF, WITH THE NECKTIES!”

Bas runs back and opens the bottom shelf. “OKAY, GOT IT! THANKS!”

Fidelio’s hands freeze on the buttons of his coat, and he turns his head to the doorway, wondering if that was supposed to be normal. For a brief, hysterical moment, he considers shouting back down the stairs, or looking at Basilio closer again, as if that would reveal inconsistencies he hadn’t noticed yet. Angles on his face that wasn’t supposed to be there. People that weren’t supposed to be there.

Instead, all Fidelio says is: “You still don’t pack your own clothes?”

“What?” Bas smiles at Fidelio, teeth all pearly-white. “Why do it when I have you all to help me?”

“Spoilt rotten,” Fidelio replies, and Bas can only laugh back in response.

They get changed and finally make it downstairs, around the stairs and into their small but busy kitchen. Whatever doubts Fidelio still possessed disappear into thin air; this is just right, the smells, the sounds. Always a constant in their family of touring chefs.

“Ack, no-- mumma!” Basilio dashes frantically past Fidelio, sticking his hands out. “I told you not to reach for things on the top shelf on your own! Just call for me next time!”

As Bas lowers the box on the ground, their mother laughs to herself, positively chuffed. “This box wasn’t too heavy! I could’ve managed it.”

“I don’t wanna have a repeat of that last time when you brought all the bloody pots ‘n pans down on your own head--” Basilio grumbles on and on to himself while unpacking the vegetables. “Was a whole mess, that. I was up worryin’ that you’d concussed yourself for days--”

“Come on, Del!” A thump on Fidelio’s back-- he turns his head up, looking towards the smiling face of his father, older and perhaps a little rounder than he remembers. “Still groggy?”

“Yeah,” Bas huffs, hurriedly putting all the onions and yams onto the counter. “Didn’t even remember that his Lady Junah was comin’ over today!”

Fidelio rolls his eyes. “She’s not my Lady Junah--”

“Ah, well, groggy or not, the diner still needs openin’!” His father put his hands on Fidelio’s shoulders, pushing him out of the kitchen. “Get to it, son!”

“Wha--” Fidelio stumbles forward, pupils widening to take in the sight.

It’s their little diner. Of course it was. Checkered white-brown tiles of bleached and ordinary oak, bright red chairs, clean white tables. A small podium right at the end for anyone in the mood to get up and sing.

Fidelio moves through the motions with the ease of having done them all a million times before. Lights on, windows open. A full water pitcher on every table, salt-and-pepper shakers refilled. Plates all dried and stacked on the bar, waiting for customers to eat on them. Walls and floors utterly spotless. All the linen restaurant napkins, cleaned, ironed, folded up on the rack.

The clock on the wall strikes 8, and Fidelio instantly runs to the front door, quickly flipping the sign over-- We’re Open! There’s no one outside yet, which is a rare luxury for them. Usually, people were queued outside, hungry for their sandwiches to-go.

Quickly, Fidelio wipes down the display counter and runs into the kitchen. “We’re already open, people! Sandwiches! Where are they?”

“Hold on, I’m just puttin’ out the first batch--” Bas expertly flips two hash browns into waiting slices of fried bread before topping it with cheese, shredded lettuce and an unhealthy heaping of mayonnaise. He carried the whole tray out, passing it to Fidelio. “Papa, hurry up with the bidou cutlets!”

“You two slept in, and now you’re hurryin’ me up?” Papa guffaws while ladling oil over the thinly-sliced bidou meat. “Two more minutes! Bring the rest out first, Del!”

Fidelio pulls out the whole tray, nudging the display cabinet open with his knee before carefully lowering the stack into the shelves. He put the price marker in front of the tray-- hashbrown and cheese, 640 reeve-- before immediately raising his head at the sound of the door chime ringing.

“You’re here early,” he remarks, watching as Hulkenberg came through the door. “Just so you know, your honey’s not in yet. Come back later.”

“Is it a crime to come into a diner for some breakfast?” Hulkenberg stares evenly at Fidelio, unamused as ever. “And I’ve not a clue about any ‘honey’ of mine.”

“Suuure,” Fidelio slurred, before closing the display door. “So, eatin’ in or take-away?”

“Eating in. Table for eight. The rest will be coming in soon.”

“God almighty, what part of ‘all parties need to be present for seating’ do you people not understand?” Even so, Fidelio obediently took a handful of napkins and cutlery sets, laying out the plates on the longest table at the end of their diner.

It was closest to their small stage, so Dechambul’s people always sat here. Partially to make fun of Fidelio whenever he went up to sing, he was convinced, but also so Junah could always have easy access to the podium. “Any drinks to start with?” Fidelio takes his little notepad and pencil out, ‘lookin’ all professional-like’, as Bas would say it. “Or just your usual?”

Hulkenberg blinks. “I have a usual?”

“You’ve ordered a bidou tail stew and a strawberry milkshake every single time you’ve sat down ‘ere.”

“Have I…” Hulkenberg thinks to herself, vaguely perplexed by that realisation. “Well, it is a little too early in the morning for that… surprise me, then.”

“You sure?” Fidelio gives her a look. “Sure, everythin’ outta the kitchen is solid, but y’know me mumma ain’t the type to hold back on the drinks. She’ll surprise you for sure.”

“Excellent,” Hulkenberg replies, smiling. Just then, the door chime rings out again. “Ah, there you are!”

Strohl walks in next, Heismay following fast behind. “Good morning,” he greets cheerily. “The smells from the kitchen are as amazing as ever, Fidelio.”

“The rest will be here soon,” Heismay says. “At least, I hope they will. You know how it is.”

“I’m sure they’ll make the time,” Strohl hums. “We’ve gone too long without seeing each other, and Junah getting a break from all her performances is a rather rare occasion indeed. Speaking of… Hulkenberg, I thought you’d arrive together with Junah.”

Hulkenberg’s face takes on a light pink shade. “Why does everything say that? There is no reason for the fair and very busy lady Junah to show up with me.”

“Right…” Strohl looks at Fidelio. “I’ll have the Brilehaven Breakfast Set.”

“Same here,” Heismay says, pulling himself a seat that already had cushions stacked for him. “Put everyone’s orders on my tab. My treat today.”

Hulkenberg gasps. “No, Heismay! We will all pay for our portion.”

“I’d much rather put it all under one tab,” Fidelio mutters. “Splittin’ the bill between eight people drives me mumma nutty.”

Strohl shrugs. “Well, if it’s easier for you, then of course, put it all together. But next time, I’ll get the bill.”

Heismay turns to glare at Strohl. “Don’t be daft, boy! You’re saving for a house, are you not? You should be scrounging for every spare penny.”

“And you, old man, aren’t too far from retirement yourself. You should putting every bit of reeve into your retirement fund, instead of treating us…”

As they bickered away, Fidelio heads back into the kitchen, shouting the orders. “Two Brilehaven Breakfast Sets, and a surprise me for Hulkenberg-- not that I know what that soddin’ means!”

“A surprise!” Basilio’s tail begins to wag in excitement. “Aight, I hear ya! Two Brilehaven Breakfast Sets and a surprise!”

“Mumma,” Fidelio says as he pulls his head back and sees her wiping down the cups at the diner’s bar, “please don’t poison Hulkenberg. Lady Juanh will have my head.”

“Oh, my dear lil’ Del! You need to have more faith in me.” Mumma’s words do not inspire much confidence, but whatever. “I’ll get to it in just a second. Entertain them while I set up, yeah?”

“Ugh…” Fidelio rolls his eyes and drags his feet over to the table.

Miraculously, there were somehow more people there already: Eupha and Neuras had taken their places without Fidelio even hearing them enter. “Jolly nice place you have here,” Neuras praises, smiling under his thick glasses. “I was just wondering… are your beer taps already on?”

Eupha looks at Neuras with all three eyes wide. “It’s still bright and early in the morning! Is it normal for mainlanders to begin their rounds of drinking hours before the afternoon? I fear I may not have the stamina to partake…”

“No, no, my girl. Calm down,” Heismay says. “Neuras is just a drunkard.”

Neuras gasps aloud, looking wounded. “I handle my drink with perfect ease, what!”

“Oi!” Fidelio jabs his pencil into the side of Neuras’ head, evoking a squeak of surprise. “Enough prattlin’! Gimme your orders, or I’m throwin’ you out.”

“Alright, alright!” Neuras raises his arms in surrender as he scans the menu. “Well… those delightful sandwiches by the display are calling out to me… how about one of those, and a pint of--”

“Orange juice,” Hulkenberg cuts in. “Get him orange juice first. It would be incredibly embarrassing if he drinks himself into a stupor before Junah arrives.”

Neuras lowers his head dejectedly while Eupha raises her hand next. “The Mustari-Style Fish Head Curry, please! I always love your brother’s interpretations of our food.”

“Drinks?”

Eupha looks a little shy as she says: “Just a glass of mellow milk.”

“I don’t understand mustari food,” Strohl admits. “It’s incredible, yes, but so spicy! It feels like I’m setting my insides on fire.”

Eupha nods. “That’s what the milk is for. It helps to null the heat!”

Strohl shakes his head. “But why make it so spicy in the first place…?”

“You lack grit,” Hulkenberg says, which is hilarious both in and out of context. “The spice is there to make you sweat! To make you feel the intensity of each bite, inside and out! With each meal, you become stronger!”

Heismay looks at Eupha, who is currently giggling to herself. “I doubt that’s the actual reasoning…”

And just like that, Fidelio falls back into the routine he must’ve known for years. The smell of food fills the diner and dances together with the sound of laughter. The rhythmic shaking of his mother’s cocktail mixer and his father pushing out meal after meal, yelling order up! with each one, like Fidelio couldn’t tell from smell alone. The tune of Basilio’s whistling as he fries up another batch of perfect sunny-side eggs.

Fidelio doesn’t know if it’s been five minutes or five hours when he hears another customer walk in, footsteps unmistakable. “Hell’re you doin’ here?” Fidelio calls out to him, an extremely casual greeting to his former lord. “Thought you were out conquerin’ the world or whatnot.”

“Even a conqueror must have his breaks,” Louis answers, smiling as he does. “I also heard the Lady Junah will be visiting tonight. I could never pass up an opportunity to hear her perform.”

Glodell pops up from behind Louis’ large cloak. “I am also here for Lady Junah’s incredible singing, but who could say no to Basilio’s cooking-- ack!”

“Shut yer trap,” Zorba grumbles. “Lord Louis is talking!”

“So… table for three?” Fidelio takes another set of napkins. “Right this way.”

Fidelio seats them at a corner booth, mostly to keep them as far away from the others as possible. Glodell orders enough bread to send his blood sugar into the stratosphere, Zorba orders… just a side of coleslaw… while Louis orders something utterly diabolical (who the fuck eats fish and chips while drinking a hot cup of eggnog? Is Louis a psychopath?).

“Eggnog with fish and chips?” Basilio gives Fidelio a concerned look. “You sure you got that order right?”

“Sadly, yes,” Fidelio sighs. “Maybe lay off on the ‘egg’ part so we don't send our former boss into the gutter retching his insides out.”

“Huh. Maybe he lost all his sense of good taste after we left,” Bas chuckles, before kicking the oven door open and sending out another tray. “Bread’s up!”

Fidelio carries the tray of piping hot bread with dips to Glodell, who is trying to hide how hard he’s rubbing his hands together with glee. “It’s been too long since you two have travelled with me,” Glodell says, reaching for the first piece-- and watching as Zorba took it. “Wha-- hey!”

“What?” Zorba munches on the bread without a care. “Not like you can finish the whole thing, you stick bug.”

“Stick bug!? I’ll have you know I am filled with muscles under my coat-- L-Lord Louis!?”

“I didn’t order this, but it smells fantastic,” Louis hums. “You don’t mind, do you, Glodell?”

Glodell hangs his head in defeat. “No, of course not, my lord…”

Fidelio snickers to himself before turning back to the livelier table.

“You enjoyin’ your food?” He presses a hand on the empty part of the table as he talks to them. Everyone nods, especially Hulkenberg, who somehow seems pleased with… whatever unholy concoction Fidelio’s mother had created for her. “Been waitin’ a while, haven’t you? Don’t tell me Cham’s not--”

“--I’m here!”

Dechambul stumbles into the diner, completely soaked through. Coat, hair, boots, everything. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught in the rain,” he says, as if that wasn’t obvious already. “You alright, Gallica? Mom?”

“I might just fall out of the sky,” Gallica says, her wings spraying water with every flap.

“I’m fine,” Dechambul’s mother says, somehow untouched by the rain pouring buckets outside. “What a lovely little place this is.”

“God almighty, look at you!” Fidelio dashes over to Dechambul, quickly helping to take his coat off and hanging it on the rack to dry. “Wait, don’t just drag your muddy boots all over the floor! Ugh-- BAS, GO UPSTAIRS AND GET YOUR BLOODY BOYFRIEND A CHANGE OF CLOTHES!”

Bas sticks his head out of the kitchen. “I DON’T HAVE A SODDIN’ BOYFRIEND, YA-- oh, Cham! Crikey, you’re drippin’ wet! Gimme a moment!”

Fidelio hears his brother run up the damn stairs like his life depends on it. “‘Don’t have a soddin’ boyfriend’, he says…” He shakes his head and hands Gallica a napkin to wipe herself dry with. “Your friends are already waitin’ for you.”

“Thank you,” Dechambul says, smiling from ear to ear. “It’s good to see you, Fidelio. Junah should be here soon. I think she took a small detour.”

“Her ‘detours’ are never anythin’ resembling small,” Fidelio complains. Dechambul laughs at that, much to his chagrin.

After just a minute, Basilio rushes down, a fresh towel and a very oversized set of clothes in hand. “Here ya go,” he practically coos, gently drying Dechambul’s face and shoulders dry before holding the towel up and letting him quickly change while out of sight. A scandalous lack of privacy to anyone else, but paripus kids never had the luxury of private space to care much about that kind of stuff. “Whaddya wanna eat, by the way?”

Fidelio folds his arms and gives his brother a scathing look. “Thought you said you ‘never wanted to do front of house stuff ever again’, Bas.”

“Well… I mean, it’s Cham,” Bas says. Like that’s reason enough! “But, I bet it’s me honey cakes you’re hankerin’ for, yeah?”

Dechambul, now changed into Basilio’s green t-shirt and baggy grey pants, nods in excitement. “Yeah! That’ll be amazing.”

“Just the soup of the day for me,” Gallica says. “Remember, just a spoonful.”

Bas turns to Dechambul’s mother, tail wagging. “What about you, ma’am?”

“Oh, I’m not very hungry,” she says. Her voice is rather hoarse, perhaps from her age. Crackles at the edges, like fire. “I’ll simply steal mouthfuls of food from everybody else’s plates!”

Dechambul grimaces. “Mom, you’re embarrassing me…”

“Right!” Basilio folds up the wet towel. “So, one order of honey cakes, and… uh…”

Fidelio glares at his brother. “How do you only remember Cham’s order!? It’s honey cakes, plus a spoonful of our soup of the day!”

“Well, that’s why Del takes all the orders, eh?” Bas and Dechambul laugh in unison, which makes Fidelio feel rather ill. “I gotta go back to the kitchen-- sit down and enjoy yourselves!”

Dechambul took his seat with the rest, Gallica on his shoulder and his mother right next to him. There’s only one empty chair left.

It takes a few more minutes before it’s filled. The way the door chimes almost sounds like a melody when Junah opens it, boulder-opal eyes glittering like the blue sky. “Hello, all! Please excuse me for being fashionably late-- and I hope you won’t be mad about a plus one!”

As Junah steps inside, a pink-haired ishkia woman follows from behind. “Hello,” Rella greets, rather awkwardly. The way her voice echoes slightly inside the diner somewhat surprises her. “I was just in the area, and Junah insisted I come see her perform here tonight.”

“No complaints from me,” Fidelio says, the first smile of the day (night? It’s dark outside) slipping onto his face. “I’ll pull up an extra chair for you, Rella--”

As he walks them to the table, he arrives just in time to watch Neuras fall out of his chair. “What!? Wait, how is he already pissed off his arse!?”

“Sorry,” mumma says, and Fidelio turns to glare at her. “I didn’t realise he was that much of a lightweight!”

“Oh, I’m the most-- hic-- delicate of flowers…” Neuras rambles incoherently on the ground, while the rest of the table laughs, with only Strohl’s face buried in his hands in embarrassment.

“...Well, looks like we got one seat free,” Fidelio grumbles, bending his knees and moving to carry Neuras away.

He puts the drunk man onto a plush diner booth seat, letting Neuras lay out on his back to hopefully sober up before the night is over. “With that done--” He walks over, pencil and paper in hand for a final time. “Orders?”

Rella and Junah lean in to whisper to each other. “Hazelnut souffle,” Junah says, beaming brightly. “I’ve been thinking about it since the first time Basilio made it!”

“And I’ve been hearing Junah rave about it since then, too,” Rella says. “So make it two hazelnut souffles.”

Fidelio nods and heads to the kitchen. “Two hazelnut souffles for the ladies!”

Basilio pulls out a pot. “Two hazelnut souffles, comin’ right up! Papa, preheat the oven!”

“Yep, yep, on it!”

As Fidelio turns back, he sees his mother filling two cocktail glasses with dubious liquids before bringing them over to Rella and Junah. “Woah, hold it, mumma--!”

“On the house,” mumma says, grinning widely. “For how much you two have helped my sons!”

“Oh, thank you very much, ma’am.” Rella smiles politely, but she does give the cocktail a rather dubious side-eye.

“Your sons are the most delightful young men I’ve ever met!” Junah, meanwhile, shows zero hesitation before swigging the whole thing. The ensuing series of expressions on her face were rather hilarious-- shock, then horror, then madness, then resignation, then enjoyment-- before she finally swallows the drink. “Wow! Um. That was…”

“Mumma!” Fidelio yanks his mother away by the arm. “Stop feedin’ them drain cleaner!”

Mumma rolls her eyes, showing who Fidelio inherited his sass from. “Oh, Del! It’s not drain cleaner! Just because you have no stomach for a good cocktail doesn’t mean I don’t get to treat your friends.”

“Speaking of a treat…” Dechambul turns to Junah. “I remember you promised to sing tonight, didn’t you?”

“You don’t need to pressure me about it,” Junah pouts. “At least let me sit down and enjoy a nice dessert before I start performing!”

Eupha turns to Rella. “How about you, Saint Rella? Can you sing?”

“Uhm, me?” Rella, the indestructible and untarnishable saint of the Sanctist Church, goes redder than a ripe tomato. “Not in the slightest, no. I fear any singing of mine might turn you all deaf.”

“Same here,” Fidelio concurs, much to Junah’s annoyance. He looks at her irritated expression and shrugs. “What?”

“Your singing is wonderful,” Junah says. “And we’ll prove it!”

All of the sudden, Junah grabs Fidelio’s sleeve, tugging him along. “Oi-- hang on! Didn’t you say you wanted to sit down and enjoy dessert first!?”

“Changed my mind,” Junah chirps. She pulls Fidelio up onto the podium they’d shared many times before, on almost every free night Junah can eke out of her busy schedule. “Now, choose a song!”

Fidelio points at himself. “Me?”

“Yes! I think I’ve chosen enough times for you,” Junah giggles. “Look! Your mother’s already at the piano!”

Fidelio glances over to his side. Sure enough, mumma has dusted off the piano covers and has placed her hands over the yellowing keys. “Hah! Make sure it’s somethin’ I can play,” mumma laughs. “Got only one or two highbrow opera songs in me, but I’ve got every paripus folk song in livin’ memory tucked under me belt!”

“Wait, are you gonna sing already, Del!?” Basilio, instead of tending to the souffles, runs out of the kitchen. “Papa, you finish up! I can’t miss this!”

“So?” Junah turns to Fidelio, smiling. “You start!”

“...God, you people…” Fidelio sighs.

Then, he takes a deep breath, and begins to sing.

“Slip inside the eye of your mind, don't you know you might find, a better place to play?” Fidelio’s mother recognizes the song from the very first note, and she begins to play, with all of the passion of someone who’s never had a piano lesson in her life but had always loved music. “You said that you'd never been, but all the things that you've seen, slowly fade away…”

“So I start a revolution from my bed!” Junah joins in from the pre-chorus, and even though it’s a world of difference from the songs she has to sing in the Opera House, it makes Dechambul and Basilio jump to their feet all the same, dancing without anyone telling them to. “‘Cause you said the brains I had went to my head! Step outside, summertime's in bloom…”

Fidelio smirks, tapping his feet against the podium. “Stand up beside the fireplace, take that look from off your face!” He sees Glodell clapping to the tune, and shockingly, Zorba doesn’t move to stop him. Instead, he nods his head along to the beat, silently acknowledging the song. “You ain’t ever gonna burn my heart out!”

“And so, Sarah can wait-- she knows it's too late as we're walkin’ on by…” Both of their voices mesh together perfectly, ringing joyfully throughout every corner of the diner while Basilio and Dechambul’s boots tapped on the ground, holding each other’s hands. “Her soul slides away… but ‘don't look back in anger,’ I heard you say…”

Their father, carrying both souffles in his hands, tries not to interrupt the performance before placing them on the table. Rella thanks him quietly, her eyes fixed on Junah all the while. “Take me to the place where you go-- where nobody knows, if it's night or day--” And Fidelio glances out the door to seethe pitch darkness outside has been replaced with a pure sheet-white. “Please don't put your life in the hands-- of an opera act-- who'll throw it all away!”

“I’m gonna start a revolution from my bed…”

Fidelio steps down from the podium, away from Junah, just past Dechambul and Basilio as they dance. Looking in the other direction as their mother plays the piano, their father sings along.

With a smile, he stretches his hand out to Dechambul’s mother, watching silently from the table.

“You…” There’s a short look of surprise on her face before it melts into something resembling sadness. “You know?”

“‘Course I know,” Fidelio laughs, somehow okay with it all. “Now, c’mon-- they might be dreams, but you’re real, yeah?”

Dechambul’s mother hesitates.

Then, she takes his hand, and Fidelio pulls her out of the seat, to the unknowing audience of his own imagination. “And so, Sarah can wait! She knows it's too late as she's walking on by!” He can’t dance to save his life, and as it turns out, neither can Dechambul’s mother. Funny how that works-- drifting here in Fidelio’s consciousness, and he can’t even imagine them being good at dancing. “My soul slides away-- but ‘don't look back in anger,’ I heard you say!”

“So, Sarah can wait!” The whole diner is singing now, all clapping and cheering as Fidelio steps backwards, towards the door. “She knows it's too late as we're walking on by! Her soul slides away-- but ‘don't look back in anger,’ I heard you say!”

Without hesitation, Fidelio slams his shoulder onto the door, making it swing open the chime of the bell.

And just like that, he pulls her into the abyssal white, the sounds of the diner getting further away as they leave.

“So, Sarah can wait! She knows it's too late as she's walking on by… my soul slides away… but ‘don’t look back in anger-- don't look back in anger’, I heard you say…”

When the diner is just a little dot in the corner of Fidelio’s imagination, he turns his head up, looking at her. “I already figured from the moment I woke up, but when you appeared, it was obvious. You look more solid than anythin’ else in this place.”

“I suppose it would have been obvious, yes.” She sighs. “If you’re wondering…”

“Ha, I know you didn’t make this,” Fidelio says. Lowers his head and laughs a little, if it even matters anymore. “Too bloody specific. No one but meself remembers how much our mother loves music.” Loves, as if she was still here.

He looks at her again. More serious, this time. “Guess this means I’m gonna die, yeah? Whole ‘life flashin’ before my eyes’ business.”

She nods. Firmly, rather miserably. “I’m sorry,” she says, although Fidelio figured by now that she had so very little power over anything that happened. Not too different from himself, in the end. “I would have let you pass peacefully in this wonderful dream, but there is something I still need from you.”

“Always seems to be the case,” Fidelio hums, still not quite realising that his ‘always’ was coming to an end soon. “So? What is it?”

“Within you, there is a power that I’d like for you to pass on,” she explains, as simply as she possibly can. “The process is easy. At least, on your end. I will lend you as much power as I can afford, and for one last time, you will appear in front of your brother, Basilio. You will… give him the same power that you witnessed in my son and the rest of his friends. It is vital that Basilio have this to survive--”

“Oh, helpin’ Basilio, was it?” Fidelio grins. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

She bows her head. “Thank you. But… it means I will have to draw you out of this dream. And when you return to reality…”

“I’ll feel it, I guess. Dying.” Even now, Fidelio acts like it doesn’t matter to him. Defiant to the very end, like he’d always hoped he would be. “S’ fine. I’d always known it would end like--”

“Deeel!”

Fidelio turns his head.

The diner’s all hazy in the background. Little splotches of red paint on cream, like a dream he was already forgetting. “Can’t believe you were just gonna leave without sayin’ a thing!” Basilio is there, except it’s not really him, because he’s made of black strokes on a canvas, two little red dots pointed on where his eyes should be.

“Always in such a hurry,” Junah says, walking up from behind Bas. “Sure, leave us all in the dust if you want, but at least say good-bye to your parents!”

“It isn’t much of a surprise,” mumma says, the memory of her fraying like little pieces of split thread, a patch that once fit perfectly into his heart. “Always had a feeling that Del would run far, far away, where we can never ever reach ‘im.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” papa says, and Fidelio had never fully forgiven him, yet here he is, living happily in his most fantastical of dreams. “Well. Guess we’ll see you later, eh, Del?”

“Right!” Bas waves his hand. “Seeya, Del!”

“Bye,” Junah hums, gloves like streaks of oil running down paper. “Till our next performance.”

“We’ll take care of the diner,” mumma promises, like she could promise anything at all. “It’ll look good as ever once you’re back.”

“...Yeah,” Fidelio says, somehow finding the need to bid farewell to his own dream. Pretend he could ever return to this place, when he knew with utmost certainty this was a one-way trip. “Seeya.”

Dechambul’s mother moves him by the hand. Not forcefully, not by any means. Like guiding a boat, bobbing on a river’s surface, slowly rowing to the other side. “Seeya,” Fidelio says again, and he raises his one free hand to his face, catching the tears running down his cheeks. “Promise.”

“Promise,” Bas yells, the smile on his face disappearing into the misty edges of his imagination. “It’s just good-bye for now!”

“Yeah.” Fidelio waves back, fingers wet from the final acknowledgement of his sadness, breaking out though from the cracks in his face. “Good-bye for now.”

“That’s true,” Dechambul’s mother says, and Fidelio turns to her. “It’s more true than you know.”

She smiles to herself, remembering something from her own lifetime. Something warm and kind, a bookmark tugging out between the burnt pages.

“It’s just good-bye for now.”

-----

Fidelio finally feels the blow go right through him.

It doesn’t hurt too much. For a moment, Fidelio almost thinks it isn’t too bad. He breathes in-- and it feels so very odd, air entering his body with an ease he’d never experienced before, like his lungs are pushing against nothing.

“Del?” Basilio yells out to him, voice panicked. He goes quiet, suddenly, and Fidelio briefly wonders if it was all in vain-- but it couldn’t have been.

Fidelio glances down. Muscle and bits of broken bone fall to the ground, drenched in blood. The burnt good luck charm he’d put in his pocket slips out, too, in ashes and gore. He doesn’t feel his heartbeat in his head anymore, and he realises the parts of him that are now on the floor were once his heart.

Ah, right.

He’s dying.

“--Del!” He hears Basilio again as he collapses forward, horrified and pleading and terribly alive. It’s fine, then. He was faster.

“Fidelio!” Strangely enough, it’s Junah's scream that makes him sigh. In the thick of it, he had no time to consider her. No time to consider Basilio, truth be told-- not that it would have changed anything.

“Hey… hey!” Hands on his shoulder-- must be Basilio’s, but he can’t feel their warmth. The skin on his body goes cold before anything else, like his half-of-a-heart is trying to prioritize what to keep alive till the inevitable. “Wake up!”

Basilio pulls him up on his knee. So gently, Fidelio thinks. Like cradling a baby. He wasn’t ever as gentle with Bas as he should have been. Was so reckless with Bas when he was a kid. Maybe he’d never forgiven himself for that.

“No…” He hears Junah crying before he opens his eyes. Find her, first, boulder-opal eyes shining with her tears, before turning his gaze to the right.

He always knew the look on their faces would be the one thing he regrets.

“Haha... I get it now…” His lungs shiver as he speaks, barely able to hold a form in the formless cavity of his chest. “Only fair thing in this world... is power. With it, you can take whatever you want in this life.”

He looks at Basilio, blood welling in his mouth, the ghost on the smile on his lips. “Or so I thought…”

“Del…” Basilio’s fingers tighten around Fidelio’s back. He knows what’s going to happen, then. That was fine; Fidelio clearly trusted the motley gang of fools enough to have them visit his diner. They would take care of Basilio, then. Fidelio had no choice but to let them.

“But you know…” Fidelio looks at the hazy faces of Dechambul, standing at the back, healer’s mace already in his hands. It makes Fidelio’s trembling smile widen-- still trying to save him, even now. Hopeless, honestly. “If all the weak get left behind... who's left to protect them? Haha… ah--”

He coughs, body lurching forward into the cold air. He reaches out, grabs Basilio’s arm with every bit of strength he still has. “I've been... an idiot.” And Basilio, in the end, had been the one who was right about everything. “Sorry 'bout that--”

The blood flows back into his throat and makes him cough, red splatter going everywhere. Like his body was still desperate for air, even though it must know such a thing is futile now-- still struggling for every last breath, a single more half-quiver of a beat in his broken ribcage.

“Stop talkin’, Del!” Basilio’s fist curls underneath him. Oh, he’s so upset. He really is.

--A little bit of movement in his left arm. He still feels it, faintly, but doesn’t know it’s Junah till he turns his head to her, the last few twitches of his muscles before all his nerves snap in half.

“I see it, you know.” He whispers the remnants of his dream to her as she sobs, bold and ugly. In the end, they were both the same-- neither of them could ever say how they really felt. “Our little diner. Music in the air. It's grand.”

He turns to Basilio, one last time. He’s blurring at the edges now, like a painting left in the rain.

What is there left to say? He already knew everything important. The only important thing, really. That Fidelio loves him more than any number of words could ever say.

So, in lieu of any more wasted words, he gives Basilio an order.

“Look after… Lady Junah.”

-----

.

.

.

.

.

“Ugh, look at you, kid. You look near dead yourself.”

Basilio turns.

He doesn’t believe it, not really. He finds Del standing there, leaning against a tree. Fidelio walks up to him, hands in his pockets.

“Uh, Del...?” He feels like the air is being ripped out of his lungs for a second time. He’s finally lost it, then. Basilio’s gone fucking crazy, and of course it would take nothing less than the only person he’s ever truly believed him being buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave. “Del, what?”

“Heh... seems you made it out in one piece, though.” But Fidelio doesn’t look like a figment of his decaying mind. With that smile on his face, and all the anxiety bled out of his body-- this is the most serene Basilio has ever seen him.

He can’t believe it. He wants to believe it. “Are you alive...? But back there, you…” His mind races to outrun his logic, and Basilio allows himself to believe it, please-- “Don't tell me you'd pulled some bloody trick!? Just like Louis! Bloody hell, Del! I... I thought...!”

“Basilio.”

He stops. The belief drops onto the ground and shatters into the snow, lost in the deluge of white.

“Sorry.” Del speaks again, looking down as he does. As Fidelio’s head tilts, Basilio can see the moonlight filtering through him, like a doll made of glass. Oh, of course. Of course. “From here on, you're takin’ the lead.”

“But why?” Basilio gasps, every desperate beat of his heart just a reminder he was here and Del wasn’t. “I can't. Without you, I'm…”

Nothing, he thinks. Nothing at all.

“Del, I only made it this far 'cause I followed you…” Basilio wants to reach out. Wants to grab his brother, shake him, find the proof of his existence. But he won’t-- he can’t. He knows his hand will pass right through, and just like that, the dream will be over.

“Hah, don't give me that.” And, despite it all, Del seemed to be the only person who was alright with that. Smiles, like it doesn’t matter to him, like it never did. “You're the strong one. Me, I never knew where I was goin’.”

Fidelio looks back down. Thinking, as if a ghost could think at all. “Basilio,” Del says, and his words are heavier than his ethereal body. “Protect the weak. Swear you'll do it. Not for me, but for yourself. If you can do that, I'll always be with you.”

Basilio’s tears well back into his eyes. “Del…”

“Don't gimme that look,” he chides, like they were kids again, Fidelio bandaging the scrapes on his knee with torn pieces of cloth. Basilio supposes they might as well be-- he feels like a kid again, lost in the mess of the world, hanging onto only the word of his big brother. “Well... this one's good-bye for now. You ready?”

Del walks towards Basilio, not waiting for an answer. A piece of proof that this really was Fidelio, then. “Let's hear it, Basilio.” He always tugged Basilio along the gaps, even when Basilio thought he’d never make the jump.

Fidelio smiles at him. “Ya fight, but why?”

--A strange light overwhelms Basilio, bringing him to someplace far away from here. He opens his eyes, and it looks familiar, somehow. Like he’d visited this place before in his dreams.

“O lodestar, ye grief-wracked brother.” A woman’s voice speaks to him, and now Basilio knows he’s heard her before. The pang of familiarity was unmistakable. “O thou anguished traveller… thy long-stagnant stance hath finally been broken. Now choose thy path.

Basilio breathes in sharply through his teeth. “Not really a choice.” If he closes his eyes, he can also imagine kissing the scratch on his knee. An innocent act of playing pretend to make it all better-- a sliver of proof that neither of them had ever been made so hopeless that they would stop dreaming of better days. “It's back to the startin’ line.”

He exhales, slowly. Raises his arms and clenches his fist, tightly enough to remind himself he’s still alive. “This time I'll lead. Our Del entrusted me with this chance,” he declares, thumping his chest in a show of promise. More than a promise-- he’ll bring it into reality, no matter what. “I've gotta show him I've got this.”

“Thank you.” The voice sounds genuinely grateful. Basilio supposes she should be; he’s just promised to carry himself that would crush a lesser man under its weight. “Thou hast chosen a noble parting. O lodestar, whose light reveals the king's own path…”

Del walks into Basilio’s view, smiling.

Wordlessly, Fidelio raises a fist.

“Henceforth, thy fears and insecurities are thy light.”

Basilio looks back at Del, face unmoving. And then, determined, he takes his fist off his chest and bumps it against Fidelio’s. Despite all his fears, Fidelio’s hand is as solid as he always was.

“Awaken.”

Another bright light shines from the moment their hands make contact.

When it disappears, Basilio is left in a sea full of blue. Now, Fidelio’s not standing in front of Basilio anymore, but somehow, he knows Del hasn’t gone anywhere at all.

There’s only one thing left to do, now.

His right hand, aching for warmth, plunges under the skin of his chest. He doesn’t hesitate-- no longer has the luxury to, really-- and he hooks his fingers against the heavy thud of his own pulse, finding the proof of his life, embracing it in his palm-- screams it out, because that’s all he’s got left now to scream and to scream and to rip his heart out over and over until the world finally looks like the one Fidelio wanted to make for him--

Basilio’s heart comes out of him with more ease than he’d expected. In truth, Basilio always had the resolve inside of him. He just needed a way to get it out.

He brings it to his mouth. Hears the lifeblood of his determination beating in his hand, refusing to die. Even if the world tries to break him again, Basilio won’t be snapped in half so easily-- not with a little piece of Fidelio inside of him, to be defiant till the very end.

Cradle to grave.

He breathes in, and parts his lips.

“See you ‘round... Del.”