#remember that smoking is bad for you and only ronin looks cool smoking! no one else!

[mftango]

Saw a post about ronin smoking, made me wanna redo a joke I did a while ago

[sabraeal]

Get Up Eight, Chapter 3

River of Silk | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Obiyuki AU Bingo Samurai AU

Many, many thanks to @glitter-and-golden and @krispy-kream for helping me with the honorifics in this chapter, because once we get past -san, -sama, -chan, and -kun I get useless. And many, many more to @bubblesthemonsterartist, who routinely checks me for period history (though clearly we are both bad with dates)

There had been a time when Shirayuki was a young girl, almost too young to properly remember, where she had lived in a house larger than Kino-san’s. Not this one, two floors and pristine white paper, but the house that had been here before, the one that his mother’s family had built generations ago. Yokohama was smaller then, little more than a fishing village, the bones of the city that stood here today.

Now it was the center of Edo’s dealings with the west, a backwater being dragged into what the foreigners called a modern age. But then, then --

It had been her grandfather’s sake house that had flourished. After all, a woman might occasionally buy the cloth for a kimono, but a man -- a man always needed a good drink when the day is done.

But fortunes change with the tide, and now it is her that treads softly in Kino-san’s large house, climbing up polished stairs that creak with weight of her steps and the beat of her heart.

She hadn’t meant to wait up for the ronin after he left, it was only -- only that sleep had been so elusive, like chasing a fox and having its tail slip through her fingers. When his door slid open, his muted steps taking him to the stairs, wondering about his business had seemed a much more pleasant diversion than wondering about her future. A much more enjoyable pastime than wondering about the shiftless samurai who roamed the roads, about whether she would be swept up by the sonnō jōi that followed in their wake.

It would have been better if she had. Perfume still clings to her, it’s cloying sweetness souring with every step, and her stomach churns with each breath.

Even now, his smile sears across her memory, his every word sinking in like fangs as he said, with the money you gave me, I spent it on geisha.

It is not as if she is surprised; growing up between the tables of a sake house, she knows well the misdeeds men get up to when their woman are not there to watch them. Oji-san had not allowed them inside, but yujo aplenty had lurked without, even daring to come up to their very windows when they sat unshuttered in the summer heat. Child though she was, Shirayuki had not been so naive to miss the implications of their custom disappearing with the women...though it had taken her some time to understand the laughter when they returned not long enough later.

No, it is not surprise that dogs her, not now, but -- disappointment. Only this morning she had met him -- yesterday morning now, with how late the night has gotten -- but already she had forgotten his unshaven face, the indecent gape of his kimono, the desperate glint to his gaze when she waved the thought of ryo before him.

She had let herself be fooled by the fine clothes Kino-san had lent him, the sober haori and crisply pleated hakama that had turned him from ronin to samurai in as long as it had taken for him to put them on. When he had come to her room, that flash of red fluttering just beneath, she had thought...

Ah, it does not matter, not anymore. At least he had the geisha to appreciate the flare of his lining.

A breeze wafts gently through the open screen as she pads into her room, the night air cool against her skin. She ran to them with nothing two nights ago, but Miyoko-san had clothed her in the finest weaves they had to offer and given her the best room in the house. That first night, when she could not sleep for the ryo weighing her down, she had looked out the window, into the painstakingly maintained courtyard Miyoko had sculpted with her own hands, and felt peace.

It is not so tonight; there are no amount of paths to trace or flora to contemplate that can ease her restlessness.

Still, she kneels down on her futon, yukata spilling out around her knees. None of her clothes are her own here; the ones she had fled in had been stained and smoke-ridden, a lost cause according to Kino’s mother. Shirayuki was not one to closely examine kindness where it was given, but with every sly look Miyoko-san slid her and her son, she received the distinct impression that aside from her generous nature, she might have her own ulterior motives in allowing her to be dressed in the fine product purveyed by the Kino family.

Her fingers rubbed at the edge of her sleeve. Her own yukata had been of the same indigo-dyed cotton as this one, but yet they were worlds apart; Shirayuki had believed hers soft, worn in to cater to precisely her comfort, but this one felt like a cloud against her skin, like both being encased in her futon and standing in a summer breeze all at once.

There were not many girls who would turn away from such fine things, and certainly not ones who had grown up in the back of sake houses. Many would name her a fool for turning away, for walking away from luxury and safety to an uncertain future, but --

None of those girls had knelt at their kamidama, incense burning at their eyes, and taught themselves the mysteries of the human body. Not a one of them could read the Western script, could name the bones of the body in both Dutch and English -- and she could.

She would make Kino-san a terrible wife. He needed a woman to see to his house, to see to his interests, and she -- well, she would always be looking to a book.

If only he saw things the same way.

With a sigh she lays down, drawing the duvet over her. Restless as she is, she is fatigued too, longing for the sweet release of sleep. The hour is already so late. She does not know much about travel, but she does know that if the ronin is wise, he will want to wake with the sun, to start out when the night would still leave its chill.

Her mouth twitches. Time would tell if he could meet such expectations, considering all his...activities tonight. Every man may be different, but Shirayuki had poured enough drunks out from the sake house to know -- he would not be rising so easily, come morning.

Still, she closes her eyes, breathing deep, and wishes for sleep to come. She would need whatever rest she could get for the day ahead.

Ah, but she should know better. The gods do not accept prayers from girls like her.

At some point, she must doze, for time passes without her knowing, and she does, in fact, wake up when the serving girl scurries into her room, setting out fresh clothes and a basin for her to wash in. Her memory does not provide any dreams, only the slow shifting of light through the trees, nor does her body feel refreshed or rested, but instead heavy and slow.

Still, she rises, squinting at the sun rising just over the horizon, and performs the morning’s ablutions. She lingers longer than she normally would -- after all, she is no longer alone in the back of the sake house, instead in a room nearly twice the size with every expectation this would be the last chance she had in quite a while to indulge herself. The hatagos along the route may be safe, may be clean, but she would not have the luxury of bathing or sleeping alone, as she did here.

Her body clean, she sets aside the wet cloth, shrugging on the fresh juban that had been left for her. It slides against her skin as smooth as silk, and--

And suddenly her mind reminds her sharply of the night before, of how time had seemed to slow with Obi’s gaze on her, how leisurely the water had beaded on her back and slipped down her spine as his eyes traced its path --

Ah, her -- her hair. She needs to brush her hair.

There’s no comb perched on the basin. With a sigh, Shirayuki wraps her juban tightly around her body and leans over, reaching into the small sack of her earthly belongings, and -- and it’s not polished wood she feels beneath her fingertips, oh no, but smooth bumps of gold. Her teeth grit down, skin pimpling with goosebumps, and she slides the Buddha out from underneath the cloth.

It is dangerous to let such a statue breathe these days; even in the sake house, Shirayuki had watched dōshin linger at the door, casting wary glances at the Buddha before asking if Oji-san had yet returned from his travels. Her heart fluttered then as it does now, drawing him into the full light of the dawn. Finally upright, she meets the downcast set of his eyes, and a thrill of guilt rolls in her stomach, leaving her breathless.

Her body folds into the proper posture – a habit, long lost in these strange times – and with head bowed, she murmurs, “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”

Not for either of them.

“The road is no place for you,” she starts, but her excuses dry up like riverbeds in the summer’s heat. This was no place for him either, not a house with a kamidama yielded to Amaterasu, where only dints in the tatami mark where the butsudan once stood. Kino the Elder may be traditional, a paragon of custom, but in this he would always bend. His business relied on progress, on being at the head of the wave instead of swept along by it, and --

And there was no place for him among all that.

“You’ll have to come with me,” she decides, breath catching in her chest. She runs a finger along the rim of the offering cup, heart clenching as it slides over the sticky dregs dried there. She should have washed it out that night, not just collapsed into her futon, but now -- “There’s nowhere else for us to go.”

She rubs a palm over the ridges of the Buddha’s hair, hanging her head. “At least there is no one we are leaving behind...”

In an instant, she remembers -- the family urn, proudly on display at the temple, every member of her family for generations with only her to care for them -- and now she is leaving.

Guilt gnaws at her, as it has for months now. She knows her duty; she had thought to perform it for the rest of her life --

But she cannot stay for the dead. Not unless she means to join them.

Voices rises up from the front of the house, and she startles, shoving the Buddha back in his bag with a wince.

“I promise,” she whispers, “it’s only for now. I’ll -- I’ll find you the nicest altar, when the time comes.”

The Buddha cannot answer, but even still she feels it judging her beneath the cloth, disappointed. She bites her lip, annoyed, and makes to speak again --

And the voiced raise again, coming from the street. She hurries to her feet, wrapping her kimono and hiding her hair beneath the stifling head cover. Raj’s ship should already be out to sea, a day’s journey away from the coast, but he’s here instead, making a commotion --

Shirayuki shakes her head, clearing her thoughts. There is no reason for him to be here, for him to believe the serving girl he knew would hide behind a merchant whose goods she could not buy. Still, her heart pounds heavy in her chest, and she knows, she knows that the only way to be sure is to see for herself.

She picks up her bag, grimacing at the weight of it. There was no point in arguing now, not when there were so many greater concerns.

Not when there would be no answer for her anyway.

Shirayuki takes each stair gingerly, sure to keep to the edges where the wood will not groan beneath her, where a single creak might not give her away. She might as well not have bothered; the men outside have voices raised far too loud for a rogue squeak to stop them, but still -- if it is Raj, if he has come for her, her only chance for escape would be to leave unnoticed. Kino-san may resist, may even fight the man to keep her, but the dōshin fought for the shogun, and the shogun --

Ah, well. She is merely the daughter of a sake house. She cannot know what pressure a man such as him may have weighing on his back. But she does know how much a man like Raj could bring to bear. And failing that, the Englishmen carry guns. Kino-san has never even held a blade.

It’s with her heart in her throat that she realizes the conversation is not in English, but in her own tongue -- one that Raj cannot speak. Languages, he had told her, bored him, and with his English and French and Latin, he had learned all the ones worth knowing. In a few years, all of you will speak English, he had said with a laugh. You’re just ahead of the curve.

Still, that doesn’t mean he isn’t out there, standing behind Sakaki as he always does, letting his manservant fight his battles. She hesitates at the bottom of the stair, legs poised to dart, listening to the men outside.

The raised voice she knows like her own heartbeat; Kino-san may be patient with her -- insultingly so, at times, with the way he treats her as if she is but a younger relative, a cousin too flighty to know her own mind -- but with other men, his temper is quick to light. His mother calls him passionate, though Shirayuki is far more tempted to call it petulant. A wise man Kino-san may be, when he is getting his way, but when he is not --

Well, Shirayuki had stomped her way home enough times to know how peeved Kino could be when someone refused to see eye-to-eye with him.

The other man, the calm one, takes a moment to place. It is not Sakaki -- he speaks well enough, for an Englishman, but not like this, and not with a laconic lilt, flirting so flagrantly with impropriety. The words this man says may be deferential, couched in the most formal politeness, but each syllable drips with amusement.

It hits her, as suddenly as lightening: this is her ronin.

Curious, she inches forward, using the screen of the doors to shield her. Kino-san stands broad and fuming in the front walk, waving a purse in his hand. Across from him is Obi, crouched by a slumped set of bags, shaking his head with one of his enigmatic grins.

He is not dressed in fine robes, not like yesterday. No silk-lined haori, flashing like a bird’s wing in the brush, a kiss of defiance against tradition. Instead, he is clan in the same ragged kimono she met him in, though it is clean of road dust now, the frayed edges expertly mended.

A soft smile curls her lips. As if a man could leave Miyoko-san’s house in threadbare clothes. It has been a long time since Shirayuki has seen her with a thread and needle, bent over a kimono with a furrow in her brow, but even here she can see the care in the stitching, the loving attention to detail that had always made her creations rise above the others sold on the same street.

It is not so hard for her to picture it, to think of Miyoko-san kneeling with the rag in her lap, squinting as she stitched by lamplight. It would be no small cost keeping an oil lamp running all night, but -- but Miyoko-san had always said she was as good as a daughter. Obi might have refused her generosity at replacing his wardrobe, but she would not let her child’s escort walk out of her home without making him look as fine as any man could.

And yet, he had been out all the while, soiling her husband’s good clothes with -- with yujo. No, not yujo -- geisha.

Last night’s misdeeds should be evident in every line of him, in every breath, but -- they are not. There are no unsteady hands as he knots his pack, no sickly lean when he turns his head to show he is still listening, no greenish tinge lingering on his bronzed skin as the sun’s first blush brushes over him.

Her jaw clenches, annoyed. Here she is, hardly rested at all, and he -- he just offers a sunny smile to Kino-san, as if he slept like a child! It isn’t fair.

Shirayuki breathes out a long breath, allowing her temper to cool. Of all people, she should know just how fickle fortune can be.

“It will be faster,” Kino-san insists in that certain way he has when he is sure it will only take this one last time for his opponent to realize his rightness. “And a woman like Shirayuki-kun isn’t used to walking. Surely you can see that this is the more reasonable option.”

Shirayuki balks, loud enough that Obi’s gaze darts to the doors. She ducks away before it lands on her, but her heart still flutters wildly in her chest.

Obi shakes his head, and even from where she stands, she can see the amused twitch of his mouth. “Men are born to walk, not ride, goshujin.”

“And women are meant to be carried,” Kino-san pushes, voice taking a petulant pitch. “It would be a pain, Obi-dono, if she should swoon from the exertion.“

Ha! She folds her arms over her chest with a huff. He hardly knows her at all, if he’s saying she is the faint one between them. Kino-san may not know women who do more than mince their way from one polite visit to the next, but she routinely walks out past the civilized paths of Yokohama, collecting herbs for her studies.

Perhaps he may not have, within memory, walked further than from the sake house to the docks, but that gives him no right to say that she is frail, that she cannot handle a few miles beneath her feet. Kino-san has hardly worked a day in his life, and yet she must be the weaker one.

Her ronin lets out a bark of a laugh, smile pulling tight. “I think there is more steel in ojou-san’s spine than most men could handle. She can manage a small walk.”

“Small walk? To Fujisawa?” Kino hooks his palms around his hips, as if making himself wider might lend him some more authority. “You are being stubborn for no reason, ronin. If money is the issue--”

“I could buy a herd of horses with the money ojou-san paid me,” Obi informs him, “but that does not make it any better an idea.”

Kino huffs. “You are rejecting sound advice for no other reason than your own pride.”

“If you were to give me advice on a cut of cloth, goshujin, I would take it gladly--” his smile pulls sharp, a blade meant to cut-- “but only fools follow advice over experience.”

Kino-san snaps straight, chin lifted haughtily. “I will take this up with your mistress. She will listen to reason.”

It is Obi who faces her, and so she can see the moment where his face softens, where his cutting edges dull into something less dangerous. “I have every reason to believe ojou-san knows wise council when she hears it. And when she does not.”

“You are impertinent,” Kino tells him, “And if Shirayuki-kun did not insist on you for reasons only the gods know, I would see you back out on the street.”

Kino turns on his heel, face flushed, storming back to the house. Shirayuki presses herself against the rice paper, barely daring to breathe as he passes. She might as well not have bothered; he stomps right past her with nary a glance, his eyes set for the door to the stair, which he  flings open and takes to louder than any storm.

She slides out from the shadows, edging around the screen and making her way toward where the ronin stands, bags at his feet.

“Ah, good morning, ojou-san!” he calls out with a bright smile and a wave. His gaze hooks on the sack hanging from her back. “You brought your own bag? Okusama already gave me one for you.”

“It’s just...personal effects,” Shirayuki explains haltingly. “Things I couldn’t leave behind.”

“Ah.” He eyes her, curious. “Okusama seemed to think you wouldn’t have much.”

This is not -- not what she wants to be talking about. Not with the man most invested in where her money might be coming from, in whether there might be any more. “You seem quite recovered. From last night.”

“Oh, don’t worry, ojou-san.” He flashes her an indecent smile. “It would take more sake than that to keep me on my back.”

Her lips press thin, and she makes a show of crouching, inspecting the bag Miyoko-san had packed her. “Speaking of that...I would appreciate if you would not use my money for those -- those services.”

He lets out a bark of a laugh. “It was my money, ojou-san. That is how payment works.”

Her cheeks flush, and -- and she does not like this, how easily he twists her around. “I mean, while we are traveling.”

“No need to worry, ojou-san. Last night, I was a free man.” He meets her eyes as she stands, gaze hooded. “Today you hold my reins.”

She ducks her head, heat flaring at her collar. There was no need for him to put it quite like that. “I only mean that I don’t want you to get used to -- to those sorts of things. While we’re on the road. That luxury may not be, ah, available to you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and she risks a glance up. A mistake, since all there is in the gold of his eyes is all-too knowing humor. “Coin is enough payment for me, ojou-san.”

The heat on her cheeks is painful. “I didn’t mean...”

She loses the thread of her thoughts as he saunters closer, a grin canting the edge of his mouth. “I won’t touch you, ojou-san--” he looms over her, bending so that she has to lift her chin to meet his gaze, so that their bodies feel only a breath apart, but there’s not enough air between them to fill it -- “unless you beg me.”

She sputters, rearing back, and his laugh scalds her, half cruel and all mocking.

“Well, there’s -- there’s no need to worry about that,” she assures him primly, breath too thin in her lungs. “I don’t--”

“Shirayuki!”

She spins on her heel, watching as Kino steps down into the yard, his gaze growing hard as it slips off her and falls on her companion.

“Shirayuki,” he pants, holding out an arm to beckon her. Perturbed as she is with him, it’s a welcome excuse to put space between her and -- and that man. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

She drops her chin as she approaches, hoping it disguises her grimace. “We must have just missed each other.”

“Of course.” He nods, trusting; it galls her for a moment that he does not even think to question such an obvious deception. Perhaps Kino-san believes that girls who cannot walk cannot lie as well. “I meant to talk to you...without your companion.”

She casts a glance over her shoulder, but Obi has already forgotten them, crouched down to check their packs once more. Buddha’s elbow digs into her back as she watches. “I think it is safe enough for you to speak.”

“Yes.” Kino frowns, turning her so that he is placed between them. “I supposed we must trust that your ronin is honorable enough to give us our privacy, even if it is only an illusion of it.”

Obi’s mouth curls behind Kino’s back. Shirayuki doesn’t say a word, just lets her gaze dart away before Kino can follow it, coming to rest on his face, which --

Which is intent. Far too much so. It is the same sort of intensity he turned upon her two nights ago when she came to him, still reeking of smoke, and told him her plan. The same sort of quiet earnestness that had asked her to consider his own.

“Please, Shirayuki.” She has known Kino all her life, and never once has she heard him beg -- but he comes the closest to it now, hand firm around her elbow. “You need not go on this journey. Stay here. Even if you do not want to be married to me--”

“It is kind of you to say so,” she tells him, propriety pricking at her for her rudeness. Still, she cannot help it -- if it is rude for her to interrupt him, it is ruder still that he offers this, that he thinks she might be enticed by a concubine’s life, when a wife’s would not suit. “But my cousin is waiting in Kyoto.”

Kino-san’s mouth pulls thin. “Shirayuki, I know every well that you have no--”

She leaps, hand clapping over his lips. Over it, Kino’s eyes are wide, dark, and full of questions. She slides her gaze pointedly toward where Obi stands, and removes it, returning to her respectful distance.

“You are too kind, Kino-san,” she tells him, meaning every word, “but it is far past time for me to go.”

No question lingers in his gaze now, only resignation. “You have never been one to take the easier path.”

“No,” she agrees, earning her a sigh.

“Take this then.”

Cold metal presses into her palm, and when he pulls away, she looks down and -- “Kino-san! I cannot possibly take this. It’s--it’s too much.”

“It’s enough,” he tells her, words barely more than a breath. “Buy horses. Get a more trustworthy escort. Use it however you need it, just -- just stay safe.”

She blinks. “I already have Obi--”

“Any man is tame when there are his betters around to enforce it,” Kino warns her, “but on the road you will be alone. A man is different, when he has no one to answer to.”

She thinks of the flash of red, of the way his smile had tilted in the dark, of the way his mouth had wrapped around the word geisha --

“He will answer to me,” she says firmly, More gently, she adds, “And I doubt I am the sort of woman Obi would wish to -- to seek comfort from.”

Kino sends him a dark look over his shoulder. “A desperate man takes comfort where he can find it. But I know you all too well, Shirayuki. You will not hear me unless you want to.” From his robes he pulls out two folded pieces of parchment, seals pressed into wax to close them. “Here, these are your travel papers. They should save you any troubles at the post stations. Or...elsewhere, I hope. And--”

He hesitates, hand reaching out, cupping her elbow. “I will take care of your family. The money for the temple--”  His lips press thin, and he shakes his head. “Never worry about it.”

Tears sting her eyes. “Thank you.” She bows over the envelopes, trying to hide how her breath catches in her chest. “You are too kind, Kino-san.”

She tugs, but he does not let go, not until she looks up at him, into the eyes of a boy she has known for longer than her memory can serve her. “Just promise me you’ll remember,” he pleads. “You always will have a place with us.”

It’s not true, not without accepting that she will be as thoroughly owned by Kino as any of his bolts of cloth, but she appreciates that he believes it.

“I will,” she promises, the papers slipping into her hands. “I will never forget what you have offered me.”

“Ready to go, ojou-san?” the ronin asks as she walks back, Kino’s gaze palpable against her back. “The day won’t be getting any younger.”

“Yes.” She nods, gathering steel in her spine. “It’s time.”

His hand reaches out. “Here, ojou-san, let me--”

“No!” she shouts, slapping the hand away. The Buddha bangs harshly against her back. “No. I will carry this.”

Obi eyes her, not wary but curious. “If you say so. Only say the word, and I will--”

“No.” Three times makes it stick, makes it true. “This is my burden to bear.”

[no-white-knights-blog]

Halo - An Etrian Odyssey Novel (Chapter 12/50)

Nirim remembered the little port village he grew up in very well. There were hundreds of houses of all shapes and sizes, painted boring gray and ridiculous shades of pink and yellow, with five long wooden docks stretching from the shoreline out into the deeper waters of the bay, where trading ships would anchor and bring their wares ashore.

Despite being a coastline town that focused mainly around trade, they weren’t very popular. There was no reason to it, just that traders and merchants preferred bigger cities like Lagaard, cities closer to Labyrinths, because business was much better when there were explorers around. Even so, the village was still bustling with life.

All kinds of people lived there, from fishermen to retired explorers and long lines of family who just wanted somewhere peaceful to live their lives, away from the tempting yet dangerous and often fatal call of the Yggdrasil Labyrinths. Nirim was from one of those families, with parents and uncles and grandparents, all stuffed into a little five-bedroom shack in the middle of town. They were all ronins by birth, and his parents and grandparents would tell stories about the Labyrinths all the time, so naturally Nirim would be curious about it.

Though he never really planned to move to Lagaard, and he certainly never planned on joining a guild. He’d been training from a very young age, he had plenty of experience, but that didn’t mean he had any original plans to go off jaunting through the Labyrinth looking for fame. All he wanted was what his family wanted. A peaceful life.

But tragedy came hand-in-hand with content. It was a wonder the raids didn’t start sooner than they did, really. Nirim lost everything to the flames. First his family, all of them, trapped in their little home, too crowded and terrified to logically find a way out. The roof had collapsed, and the screaming was lost to the roar of the red and orange fire.

Then his best friend. They’d always been close, when Nirim watched his family fall, all he could think about was finding that person, staying with him, so he wouldn’t be scared, but the fires burned hot, there was no clear route to safety, his clothes were burning and melting against his skin, and the hand he was holding onto was shaking and slipping as the boy behind him coughed hard and struggled to breathe against the smoke.

For a long while Nirim managed to keep a hold of his friend’s hand. Whenever his fingers started to slip, Nirim would reached back further to grasp his wrist, yanking the stumbling boy closer. Really, he didn’t know how it happened, all he could hear was screaming and roaring flames, so he didn’t hear his friend calling to him.

Now that time had passed, Nirim knew what he was saying, that he couldn’t breathe, he was freaking out. He fell, tripped, or maybe he just collapsed to his knees from exhaustion, and a crowd of people rushed past them. Nirim was knocked away before he could grab his friend, and ended up screaming in fear, calling for him, searching through the flames with boiling tears burning red lines down his cheeks.

Nirim lost everything that day, and the disfiguring scars that trailed down his neck and across his back to his thigh had been constant reminders since that day that he’d failed everyone, that he was alone now, and he deserved to feel the ache he did.

Then he decided to come to Lagaard. All he wanted was a quick drink before heading back to the inn to rest for a little. He never expected anyone to speak to him, let alone a troubadour, slamming his hands against the table across from him. A troubadour with bright pink hair and silver eyes.

“Ah, he looks just like him,” was Nirim’s first thought, and that was why he decided to sit there and listen to what he wanted to say.

Then his name, Vien, and Nirim only had years of disciplinary training to thank for not passing out or showing his shock outwardly at all. He just stared in silently stunned fascination, at first not believing his eyes, but it was so hard not to accept it. So, he did accept it; but Vien didn’t remember like Nirim did. That was fine. If Vien would just keep smiling, then Nirim didn’t mind if he never remembered. He would still be there.

It was the soft strum of music that had Nirim’s eyes twisting tighter before peeling open to stare up at the ceiling in his room, his head rolling to the side to see the curtains of the window had been pushed open, cool wind blowing gently into the room, making the curtains rustle and wave like the oceans he grew up beside.

Vien was awake, of course, sitting on the window sill with his lute in his hands, dressed in loose casual clothes and staring outside with an empty look in his eyes. His hair had been pulled from the half up style he normally kept it in, and the dark pink locks were hanging down to his shoulders, the bangs on the left falling a bit to cover his eye halfway.

“Are you alright?” Nirim asked, and Vien jumped, his fingers pulling a painful sound from his lute as his head snapped to the side, eyes wide.

“D-did I wake you up?” he asked apologetically, cringing, “I was trying to be quiet.”

“No, it’s fine,” Nirim assured, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, “Are you alright? Why are you awake?”

Vien shrugged a little, “I dunno. I always wake up at night, so I’ve just taken to practicing when that happens.”

“You shouldn’t have the window open,” Nirim scolded, standing up, “You could get sick.”

“I wanted some fresh air is all,” Vein argued, pouting when Nirim pulled him to his feet before shutting the window, “You’re no fun.”

“Are you breathing fine?” Nirim asked, turning to Vien with a serious look on his face, “Do you need your medicine?”

“You’re worse than Emery, he would’ve just smacked me and made me go back to bed,” Vien mumbled as Nirim pushed him back over to his bed, “I can breathe fine. My lungs only really hurt if I run or hike or something like that. I can sit near cold air fine.”

“Lie back down,” Nirim said, ignoring Vien completely when he started to whine.

“But I’m not tired.”

“Count sheep.”

The troubadour pouted heavily as he slipped back under the covers and pulled them up to his chin, glaring halfheartedly at Nirim, “Happy now?”

“Stay,” Nirim said simply, turning and walking back over to his own bed to slip back under the covers.

“That’s not fair,” Vein complained, rolling onto his side to stare at the other bed, “I’m not tired yet.”

“What do you want me to do about that?” Nirim held his hands up, and Vien hummed like he was legitimately thinking about it.

“Bedtime story?”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Nirim rubbed his eyes, murmuring a quiet, “Right, forgot,” as Vien shifted around in his bed a few times, rolling over and attempting to get comfortable before he sat up in bed.

“It’s cold,” he decided, and Nirim squinted at him.

“You opened the window.”

“Scoot over.”

“What?”

Vien tossed his covers back and grabbed his pillow before scrambling over to Nirim’s bed, and the ronin inched over to the wall, eyes wide as he watched Vien drop his pillow next to his and jumped onto the mattress, grabbing the covers and holding them up so he could slip under them, smiling.

“That’s better.”

“Y-you can’t just get in bed with someone like that,” Nirim argued, and Vien pouted a little.

“Iliad, Dyria, and Emery never complain,” he mumbled, and Nirim gaped at him before slumping down and sighing, pulling the covers higher.

“Fine. As long as you actually sleep.”

Vien smiled and snuggled deeper under the covers, and they laid in silence for a long time. Nirim had grown comfortable enough to roll onto his side and close his eyes, because it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d ever shared a bed with Vien, it was just a bit strange for him because Vien wasn’t just a kid anymore.

He was older now, and Nirim was a bit nervous, especially since Vien didn’t exactly remember their shared past. That was fine, Nirim wasn’t going to complain, he was just happy he could stay close to him, protect him.

When the sun finally rose, Nirim was woken up by the bright light casting over his face, as he hadn’t drawn the curtains the previous night. He peeled his eyes open and rubbed at them before turning his head to look at Vien, his cheeks heating when he noticed how close he was. Somehow while they were sleeping, Vien had curled right against his side, his arms wrapped around one of Nirim’s arms, face pressed into the pillow and hair falling over his face.

Nirim swallowed the lump in his throat and reached out to pull the covers higher over Vien so the light was being blocked out and he could sleep a little longer while he himself slipped out of bed, turning again to make sure Vien was comfortable before silently closing the curtains and getting ready for the day.

By the time he stepped out of the little bathroom, Vien was awake and dressed, stumbling into his shoes and rubbing his eyes as he shuffled forward and bumped into Nirim’s chest, “Tired.”

Nirim pressed his lips into a thin line before setting a hand on Vien’s back and leading him over to his bed, making him sit before retrieving the half empty vial of medicine from his bag, “Here, you need to take this.”

Vien’s pout became heavier as he took the vial and pinched his eyes closed before sculling it and sticking his tongue out with a whine. Nirim took the empty vial and slipped it into the pouch belted to his thigh with the intention of bringing it back to Emery later that day, then reached out and pushed Vien’s hair away from his eyes.

“Sorry,” he apologized, and Vien hummed as he rubbed his eyes and leaned down to finish pulling his shoes on.

“Not your fault I have to take gross medicine sometimes. I’m lucky I don’t have to take it all the time, otherwise I’d just let myself suffocate,” he sighed, “I’m fine. My lungs aren’t that bad.”

“Can’t Emery help?” Nirim asked, fingers twitching at his thighs, “Medics should be able to easily mend weak lungs.”

“Yea…,” Vien agreed, standing up and carding his fingers through his pink hair, pulling it back and tying it up before smiling brightly, “Nah, I’m fine. Come on, I’m hungry!”

They met Emery right when he was leaving the hall towards his room, and the medic smiled at the two of them, “Feeling better?” he asked, and Vien gave a salute.

“Yessir! Can I get breakfast? I’m starving!”

“Go for it, grab us a table,” Emery chuckled, watching Vien dart forward, grabbing a tired looking Iliad when he appeared and dragging the stunned survivalist towards the dining hall.

Nirim held the empty vial out for Emery, “Here.”

“Oh, thank you,” Emery smiled and took the bottle, “I can pick up a replacement later today. Did he sleep fine?”

“He woke up once, but he didn’t have an attack,” Nirim answered, scratching his neck and looking over at the door to the dining hall, “Is… is there any way his lungs could be healed from this? I’m… worried about him,” he looked back at Emery, who had a grim look on his face, “I mean, is it a matter of a simple refresh spell? How badly damaged are his lungs? Is it lifelong?”

“I don’t know,” Emery said simply, head bowed, “All I know is this medicine can calm the attacks and make it easier for him to breathe,” he held the empty vial up and stared down at it, biting his lip, “I’m sorry. If it gets really bad we can take him to Dr Stiles, I’m sure he can help with something, but I can’t do it on my own.”

The question “why” was on the tip of Nirim’s tongue, but Emery looked so broken and angry at himself, he decided to simply nod, “Thank you for looking after him,” he said, tensing when Emery looked up, a half smirk on his lips.

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that?”

“Right,” Nirim turned, shoulders tense, “That’s what I meant,” he pointed, “I’m just… food.”

Emery stared after him as he awkwardly shuffled away, then hummed and rubbed his chin, arching an eyebrow, “That was… interesting…,” he mumbled, smiling devilishly as light flashed across the lens of his glasses, “Very interesting.”