"DESPAIR"
An Arcana Prequel Tale.
Play through the eyes of Julian, reliving the indelible memories of a now distant past. Try to discover how History was made, or how desperation led to capture memories in the everlasting cage of black ink and paper.
Featuring Julian's and Lucio's youth, from Ilya's perspective.
Trigger Warnings: Blood, missing limbs, mention of war.
Author note: Originally, this was the script for a YouTube fan-tale I had made back in 2023. But since the new company's policy doesn't allow that anymore and it got taken down, i'm now posting it as a Fanfiction. Please, enjoy!
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I remember that day very well. Unforgettable, exactly how I wanted it to be.
I have always been afraid that the hectic life I was forced to live today would cloud my mind, distract, and would soon make every single detail fade away.
It's a thought that tormented me for days, weeks, and that unfortunately I can no longer ignore;
He had been on my mind for too long, and it is now time to put a period.
I want to feel free to not think about it, free to forget, but my brain just won't let me.
So, with the only company of my coffee, the cold moonlight and the biting breeze that the night brought with her, I provide myself with parchment and ink.
The silence of the library is so deep that I can hear the paper being scratched by the steel tip of my feather as I fill the sheet.
Black droplets of ink slowly beginning to form a trail on the wood everytime I dip the nib in the inkpot.
Black, like the farthest corners of that huge room filled with shelves and books, which made the air heavy, grainy, full of dust.
I can barely glimpse that large, elegant door that separates my small and welcoming space from rest, actually confined by the light of my candelabra.
Same door that separates me from an equally dark and desolate corridor, with cold walls and gloomy corners.
Honestly… I am not far from him. Nevertheless, the more the days pass, the more distant he feels.
He is no longer the person I once knew, he is no longer my Montag.
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Cool; it's the first sensation I remember from that evening.
The small hut was completely untidy, as usual.
Tools, tomes and paperwork were everywhere, while I sat on the cot, a science book as my only comfort.
The candle inside the small holder next to my bed was worn out, but the flame burned enough to give a yellow tint to all the objects around me.
Dancing, ambiguous shadows made their show on the curtains.
I liked, when I couldn't sleep, to watch the flame for a while.
Observe the destructiveness of such a small thing, which slowly consumed everything that was available on that metal plate.
The hypnotic movement helped me to reflect, or rather, to get lost in my thoughts and distract me from studying.
Well, at the time I was only 18 when I started working as a medical apprentice on the battlefields.
Very young, I know…
But I had almost finished my studies, and with all the injuries that human wrath called war brought, there was need for whatever little help a person had to offer.
There were those like me who could offer their wisdom to the cause.
There here were those who could offer their resources at a bargain price.
There were those who, having nothing else, offered their life. And then...
There were the ones who had started it all, who only had the desperation of their people to offer.
The same who thought a few pieces of their fortune could compensate for a life.
Of course, I didn't think it was right, but it wasn't my competence and I couldn't complain. I was part of a group of lucky ones...
Not like him.
It was sad how once you were born you couldn't quite choose your own path to take. External factors have always been a constant, and only a few can manage to take the reins of their own life.
Often, I wondered if one day I would succeed too: helping people had always been my main ambition.
But for now, everything had slowly slipped away from my hands, until it brought me there.
A noise coming from outside diverted me from my thoughts, making me look at the entrance of the tent… Nothing.
It was only the wind that rustled the abandoned, ripe tips of wheat, patiently waiting their turn to be harvested.
Harvest that hadn't come since the war started, three years ago.
Now that I think about it, the old Festival coincided with the big day…
Tomorrow.
The supposed, fateful day this war would end. And Vesuvia was sure of winning, with her extra help.
Speaking of my past-self, I can say I didn't change much.
I was just as tall, the only differences being the much less kisses of time and the long-ish locks of thick, red hair, running freely on the back of my neck.
As a young man, just before my 20s, my freckles were still, yet just barely, visible.
The reason I remembered this futile detail... It was him again.
But enough with this "him" now, I want to call him by his name, a pretty unusual one, Montag.
A young man like me, only a few years older.
Despite having only sword skills to offer, he certainly had the reins of his life.
In a very short time he managed to gain the trust of many Lords, building up his own army of mercenaries and becoming its leader.
Back then, coming to work for the current Count of Vesuvia, Count Spada.
The first time I visited him, more or less two months weeks ago, had been enough to make me feel like the most confused, uncertain and disoriented man on earth.
His presence in my life aroused several conflicting feelings, as well as thoughts and emotions.
I couldn't explain it to myself, and the worst of it was that it grew with each passing day.
It was hard to even try to define it, as if there was not yet a word to describe it.
Montag and I happened to be friends, I think.
Perhaps acquaintances, or perhaps simply two boys who, not knowing where to go, were killing time together in order not to think about the future.
For a young person, the future is an abstract thing, a distant present and the present of what I am now.
The future terrified me, I avoided thinking about it.
Just the thought of something that I couldn't plan, of which I didn't have the mathematical certainty of how things would turn out...
A big no. What would happen to me? What would I have done? Would I have been satisfied with who I was?
Would there still be time to change if I didn't like it?
They were all the questions that intermittently, like a firefly, disappeared and reappeared when I least expected it.
But what scared me most was...
Will I have met the right person?
The right person. Another abstract concept, perhaps the most abstract, was love.
I hadn't had any silly teenage relationships as I spent all my best years in Prakra, studying.
I thought I was pretty handsome, yes, but I was afraid that others didn't understand me or didn't appreciate me as much as I craved to.
Surely, one person who proved he didn't have the slightest need to understand me in order to appreciate me-
was the same one who finally made sense of the rustling I heard seconds before.
It wasn't the wind, and as I thought it grew progressively closer.
Why didn't I get alarmed and quietly remained lost in words? Because it had happened before.
Then, a gloved hand frantically lifted the sheet that served as my door, revealing a figure breathless from running.
A few strands of golden hair had escaped from his usual slicked-back hairstyle, softly falling over his visual.
His silver eyes were on me, lively as ever.
They often had that flicker of genuine excitement overwhelming me...
Literally, sometimes.
He had distinctive black war paint marks on his cheekbones, lightly faded as if they had been rubbed off.
I always thought it was something that had to do with the military world, but I've never been sure and I've never asked him about it.
His clothes were generally very practical except for a few questionable and… revealing details.
They were slightly smudged with dirt, a normality since his military service.
He had a huge smile on his face and really seemed not to care about the late after-hours. Even when the whole camp was asleep, he still had energy to free.
Suddenly, I felt my heartbeat speed up in my chest.
I quickly got into better posture, throwing down a ball of anxiety that had tangled in my throat within seconds.
Montag: "Ilya, you're awake! I'm glad!"
Upon entering, he immediately ran towards me, only to toss himself right into my arms.
He did it every time, yet it always felt overwhelming… full, in a good way.
It was his way of greeting and he couldn't speak vesuvian really well.
His grip was strong, pressing my body against his like we haven't seen each other in a long, long time.
Despite his... secure arms, I was much taller than him.
He never said it explicitly, but I think this difference in height bothered him enough as he often got up on his toes, thing I found pretty amusing.
I stood still for a couple of seconds to process the hug before timidly wrapping my own arms around his shoulders.
Normally, I would have given him an awkward pat on the back and pushed him away, but... That night was cold-ish, and I could feel his body giving off heat.
A pleasant sensation that his bare chest was able to transmit, even through my uniform, on my skin.
We paused like that long enough for me to think about his words.
Montag came to see me almost every evening or early morning, depending on whether he was going to or returning from his expeditions.
He also stopped when he had very little time, or when, like now, he was completely exhausted.
Reluctantly, he took a step back, still smiling.
For a short amount of time the room was silent.
I wasn't sure what to say to break it: on one hand I wanted to converse, on the other... No.
I fell too fond of him, and it wasn't great.
I shouldn't have grown attached, because I knew I would've missed him and I would've once again suffered.
However, no matter how many times I could blame myself, I didn't regret it.
I never did, and I still am not. I always had a taste for pain, both emotional and physical.
Actually, speaking of physical pain…
I apparently occurred to not be the only one having a weird relationship with it.
Monty had held out his left hand to me, taking off his glove and showing his palm.
Or rather- the bandage wrapped around it.
Call it a bandage then, it was nothing more than a couple of turns made with a piece of cloth, marked with stains of blood.
He had been hurt, again, most likely with some kind of blade.
Montag got hurt often; his incredible recklessness made him a mercenary of great fame, along with his said notorious cruelty...
Maybe I had never seen him fight, but to me, he only seemed like a wild and vain boy I had to teach how to peel apples to.
Otherwise he was very sweet, even if the stories of his battles were blood-curdling.
He was short-tempered, very skilled, and his moods changed so quickly it was hard to keep up with his friendship.
Another reason why it confused me to death, or why it made me... frightened.
Anything I couldn't handle made me fearful, and even now it isn't much different.
Back to him… I got up and went to take a vial of alcohol from my bag, since he was begging me with puppy eyes to take a look at the wound.
Of course I had to, as a doctor I could have never left him like that.
Ilya: "How did it happen, this time? You'll end up with something worse than a little cut if you keep being distracted."
Looking back on, even then, I was a huge web of anxieties and paranoia.
And that actually made me notice the growing and spontaneous concern for my friend, helping me to understand how much I really didn't intend to lose him.
The real problem was; to what extent was I willing to make sure he was always safe?
My head exploded at the very thought…
I was being ridiculous.
I couldn't know how to feel or what to do.
But I could definitely let his crystalline laughter take the place of all those thoughts, as if my brain was enthralled by it, overflowed with pure beauty.
Seeing him even giggle consistently gave me a certain sense of intensity.
I never wondered why or from where it came from, and with time I realized that there are simply things we don't feel the need to seek answers for.
Maybe because we already know them, deep down, somewhere, even if we have a hard time accepting it.
Montag: "Parried dagger. Burns! Quick, so we can go."
Go?
Ah, right, right. Every now and then, Montag and I went out for night walks, just to hang around and get some fresh air.
And this night was particularly special, being our last…
Now, of course he was in pain, the cut wasn't disinfected yet.
To say I was irritated was saying nothing, but not because I was mad at him.
By then I was used to his unpredictable personality.
I was mad about how he didn't take the slightest care of himself.
I couldn't always be there to bandage his wounds on the battlefield, like now…
I had to wait for the battle to settle and for the survivors to drag the wounded to the medical tents.
It often took time, the soldiers could be left on the ground for hours, and many bled to death before being rescued.
I took a couple of steps towards him, who in the meantime had sat down on the edge of my bed.
I gently took his hand in mine, kneeling on the ground while removing those rudimentary bandages.
Then, my gaze explored the still fresh wound; a long, thin and shallow cut.
The blood had naturally ceased to flow, but I knew it could have gotten worse soon.
Feeling observed, glanced upward; I was under Monty' satisfied eyes.
A content smirk arised, not in the slightest malicious, able to lit up the whole room.
I shyly avoided meeting his regard, only focusing on my work.
Even then, my hands felt shaky, and my stomach was feeling dither.
Sudden realization hit me fully…
Had he hurt himself on purpose?
I wasn't the type to fantasize about usually, nor the type who looked for that kind of attention.
This, however, was probably dissimilar for the blond in front of me, who in all likelihood had so many strange fantasies running around his head.
I threw the idea into the bin, regretting having even pulled it out.
The concept of friendship for Montag was much more articulated than the ordinary;
as if he needed to express how much he cared about a person with banal and sometimes unnecessary, touchy-feely gestures.
Trivial, yes, but excessive. Excess that was coming to the surface as the days went by, never daring to say a word about this subject.
Just laughter. Just what my ears wanted to hear.
Knowing I was to make someone happy just with my clumsy presence felt great…
And I am now sure that if I didn't indulge this said feeling back then, I would have been suffocated by loneliness.
What happened next and how I found myself keeping my word isn't very clear to me, since I recall not really wanting to go outside.
Yet, feeling the night breeze and the loud silence of the slumbered camp was much better than from inside the tent.
I was practically being dragged, held by the wrist, somewhere by the same hand I had to take care of a few moments ago.
Our footsteps making the grain crackle were the only background noise while I let myself be carried, since too busy mulling over my not-so-past shameful thoughts.
I looked placidly at the figure in front of me, on that typical blank stare you get when you're not paying attention.
I could see Montag from behind, with his arm stretched back just to hold me.
From time to time he turned to my direction, continuing to hum to himself a melody that we had surely heard several times during our evenings.
Ilya: "Where are we going?"
I asked after a few other steps, realizing we were leaving encampment, now standing in-between the few left tends and the open field.
He turned back quickly at my words, his expression initially disappointed, as if I had done something forbidden just by talking.
I started to get anxious… Until his lips curled up again.
Montag: "Far."
Ilya: "How much far?"
Montag: "Far Enough."
They were the few, brief words that formed our equally brief conversation, going back to that creepy quietude.
It wasn't weird that Montag didn't speak much, especially when tired.
For him, vesuvian was a language he had learned positively, but found difficult to maintain as a constant.
I bet if he could have spoken his native tongue with someone who could understand him, he would've had a lot of things to say.
Or at least as many as he used to say early in the morning, when he was full of energy.
Nowadays, his accent has faded away;
I often think he might even have partially forgotten it, as he never practiced it since.
I wanted to be that person who could always listen to whatever he had to say, even when tired.
But he never told me the name of the tribe he said to come from, as he didn't belong to any of the civilized cities on my maps.
We were getting very far from the camp… and we never did.
It bothered me, leading my mind to create other questions.
Tomorrow the battle would've started, he would've had to fight, he needed strength and therefore we couldn't stay up too late.
It could've been dangerous for him…
Did he want to escape?
No, no, impossible. We weren't carrying anything with us.
Did he want to show me something, somewhere?
I only received an answer when, suddenly, the blond sat down on the ground, yanking me next to him.
Slightly taken aback, I sat cross-legged and looked around;
our tents were barely visible on the horizon, thanks to the few lights from the abandoned bonfires that would've gone out before morning.
What time was it now? Judging by the moon, past midnight.
There was another one of those stifling silences of ours, then Montag was the one who spoke first.
He brought his knees to his chest, crossed his arms on them, and rested his chin on top of everything, eyes up to the sky.
Montag: "I studied the coste-... stars, when you were asleep. There too many lights on at night here, not like at home, there is no clear sky. So, I came here and stared, for long. I know you know them, but can I show my favorite, Ilya?"
That was… extremely tender.
One of the very few times he ever mentioned his "home", and in a way I took it as a confidation.
He hated to talk about it, and if he wanted to tell me something, it meant he was finally ready to open up.
I got really excited at the mere thought; he was going to give me a hint of his world and it meant so much to me.
The fact that he was studying in my absence could do me nothing but pleasure, he was 21 years old and could barely read.
His eyes seemed to shine again, reflecting the bits of white light the sky distributed throughout the lawn, giving a blue color to his irises.
I smiled, nodded at his question without hesitation and looked up at the stars, tucking my hair out of the way.
My lips parted, in amazement.
I was probably too distracted from my own mind to appreciate how beautiful the sky was.
Who thought a small light source like campfires could hide so much…
What had almost always been just a dark blue tinged with white, was now sprinkled with purple and green hues in stripes and patches. There were so many stars that the space between them was minimal, making it look like some extravagant artist had splashed silver paint everywhere.
A cliché, but not less mesmerizing.
I only wish I had comprehended earlier how superficially I used to live nature due my monotonous life, only made of ink and yellowed pages…
Montag moved closer, to the point our shoulders touched. Then, he pointed his finger in one direction:
Crux, or rather said Southern Cross, one of the simplest constellations that could be observed in September.
Ilya: "The Southern Cross! How come that one?"
I questioned, feeling it could've had a meaning.
It drew only a cross, nothing more.
Monty heaved an amused sigh, his expression neither restless nor too relaxed. He was just smiling, calmly.
Montag: "I see it all time, and I don't know how to name It. It's a cute name. Better than Scourge of the South."
His voice came out in a whisper, before facing me directly.
Now his expression wasn't calm at all, but it showed concern and insecurity, things I never expected to see from him.
The atmosphere was intimate, just perfect to share such a secret;
He was telling me something he shouldn't, but was dying just to talk about It.
Mh, "Scourge of the South". I had never heard of it before.
I could have assumed it was a place in the south, but those are empty and wild lands.
It was too cold, and generally was rare for someone to live or trip there.
...Could that be the tribe where Montag came from? In such a place? Woah.
Ilya: "...You don't like it, right? Southern Scourge, I mean. What is it?"
And perhaps, by saying that, I had gone too far. It could have been anything: a weapon, a book.
The blond ended up sulking, and I knew I had done something wrong just by pushing him to let me know more.
I hated it when he didn't explain himself.
As wonted, if I asked any curiosity about the argument Montag would immediately change his mood, becoming very unpleasant to deal with.
Still, I had to be understanding, I couldn't force him.
From what I could understand it could have been a really delicated key to touch, and most likely he hated to talk about it now too.
Slowly and timidly I put my arm around his back, getting the result I was hoping for;
a quick spark of joy illuminated his face, heavily placing his head on my shoulder the second after.
He gave a hint of a smile and shook his head, nuzzling my neck.
I remember feeling a quirky interest growing inside me I didn't know I ever had when near him… this wasn't the first time.
A feeling of sudden well-being which I thought was due to the fact I enjoyed helping people.
Though turned out to be instead a selfish desire for a type of contact which somehow, aided by another set of things, led me to write this story.
Oh, knowing how things are going to turn out, I'll surely bury this somewhere in a drawer.
I felt ashamed of myself, I had never been very comfortable with my feelings.
Writing nostalgically about a youthful relationship that never actually existed, but which managed to bewild me, was even more unbearable.
Yet… I know this is the best way to move forward; immortalizing my memories and freezing them in ink, as to never forget.
Montag: "No, didn't like… what they did. Used to be home."
The answer surprised me, I wasn't expecting him to actually say something.
He was speaking with an anguish voice, and it hurt me to know he had to leave his home so young.
Plus, for a reason that made him feel dejected.
I didn't want to ask him any more questions, this information was enough and more.
I wish I had shared more of myself, I wish I could have talked all night knowing we would have to separate from each other.
But we felt comfortable in our quietude.
So comfortable I began to caress his shoulder with my fingers, tracing empty and automatic paths with lasciviousness.
This of course caught his attention, and we ended up crossing stares.
Realistically it would have been for only a minute, but I felt like I was looking straight inside him.
His icy eyes had deeply focused on mine, while we were so close it only took a little movement for our noses to touch.
My breath tickled his skin, and I felt that intermittent heat coming from him too, warming the surface of my own lips.
A sort of appeal lingered in my mind.
It was inviting us to do from the most trivial things to the most extreme ones.
No. We couldn't be silent any longer, not if we wanted to grow up.
My other hand reached for his, just to make him feel how nervous I was.
I saw in Montag's expression a spark of energetic curiosity, before trying to study what I was doing.
Embittered, I suddenly felt my eyes get wet with hot tears, reluctant to go down.
Ilya: "Don't go. It's such a stupid ideal…"
I managed to say, by concentrating on the swaying of the grass.
I don't know why I was being so insistent that day.
As if I cared, as if I really wanted to try to protect him in a romantic way, as if I really looked after him.
No, I just wanted him to have mercy on my conscience.
I didn't want to see him die like everyone else knowing that he was my friend.
I didn't want to suffer knowing I deserved it, because that battle could have been avoided if only I had been able to convince him enough.
And I had to convince him.
Ilya: "Er- I-"
I took the deepest breath, trying hard not to let my voice break.
Ilya: "Let's get away from here, now and forever. Let's escape to Nopal or Venterre, even Vesuvia if you wish. Everywhere but let's get away from Annyala's Gate's field. If we do it now no one will know until we're too far away to catch up. I-I... I don't want you to fight tomorrow, Count Spada can't win. Vesuvia's army might be the majority, but they're weak! Even with teams of mercenaries like yours to support them, they wouldn't make it. Please, Monty... You're young, you're strong, you can quietly find a better job than this. There's no need to… throw your life away, you have seen nothing of the world but the worst part.
This is not civilization, this is just a game that the powerful people play when they get bored. Do you really want to be a soldier toy in exchange for some gold? Do you think... Is it really worth it?"
There is no more perfect word to describe what I felt other than despair.
My gaze on his face trembled, as much as my voice did, failing the confident look I was trying to maintain.
I was hoping he would've said no, I was hoping he would've cried like I was about to do.
I was hoping for him to tell me how much he would've loved to follow me anywhere.
But he looked away, and I shouldn't have expected anything else.
He felt no mercy. He couldn't feel it, because he didn't know what it meant.
He didn't know anything about how people really feel, how easy it is to hurt them, how much life is worth or what is right and wrong. He made choices with recklessness for convenience, which actually were not so convenient.
Montag: "Ilya… you- I can't. Spada won't win with no me.
Sweet of you to worry, but the Count and I are friends. Really! He invites me to the palace with the nobles. I'm important to him! I'm his right hand and he done a lot for me, even if I lose, I can't leave battle, not if I want to make a name for myself. I don't mind work… Every victory, story to tell. It is easy to meet new people, and enjoy talking about my fights. Also… don't call me that. I don't wanna hear Montag anymore."
This concept of his was rotten. Fortunately over time it faded away, yet I still remember how blunt his way of saying such things was.
I couldn't believe it, I refused to.
I knew that he was ready to explode behind that stern face, I could tell by the lucid veil of his eyes.
I thought he wanted me to do it first, but he surely wasn't sincere about what he said.
I swallowed what little saliva was left in my mouth and looked at him, seriously.
To say I was angry is an understatement, but the reason was more complicated than this whole conversation was leaking.
I was trying to change his mind for what purpose, exactly? Once the war was over I would have never see him again. Why did I care?
Yet I wanted to hear Mon- him say it. At all costs, even if he would've decided to go.
Ilya: "You're scared, I know you are. You're scared of your own feelings, it's impossible you aren't scared of dying. None of those rich people cares about you, okay? None.
They just want to use you. If you lose, they will soon forget about you. If you win, they will praise you because you profited them, and not because you saved the city or the citizens. Now, now… Answer me, and sincerely. Is it worth it to risk death for the chance of getting some glory?
To hurt, suffer or mutilate yourself to please a couple of people? If Spada really cared about you, he wouldn't send you to shed blood, but he would keep you safe in the Palace like all the other nobles."
He stood with his mouth slightly open, as if savoring the bitter truth.
He was no longer tranquil, but seemed disappointed, disappointed in me as if he expected something more.
He wanted me to understand, but I couldn't.
He pulled back the hand I was holding, looking at it with some kind of regret.
About not wanting to be called Montag…
Understandable. Nonetheless, it did nothing but increase my worries.
What could happen to a man to make him change every memory tied to his past? Even his own name? For now… I didn't address a word about it.
To try and save him from war came to be way more relevant.
He sighed again to release something that seemed to block him, then began to speak in a very faint whisper.
Montag: "But… That all I know how to do. I was born for it, I was raised for it, and I was never enough. I must enough. Fighting is enjoyable, rewarding. B-but I don't want, you know? It's just revenge, so please don't mad. After the battle over, we can run away where you want, for a while... If you still want me with you."
I'm not sure how I should have felt.
I felt sorry, pitiful, but the anger from before didn't leave in the slightest.
Perhaps, too buried to emerge; I simply couldn't blame him like he deserved. What did "I was raised for" mean?
His tribe must have been a horrible environment to grow in to have indoctrinated him with certain ideologies, and I was glad he got out of it.
Revenge. I have no idea towards who nor how his position could have been of any kind of revenge.
He was going to the slaughter! How could death be rewarding, how could you find death something to benefit from.
However, I was too resigned to try anything else.
Lord, how painful loving something that death could touch was…
I laid back on the grass, exhausted.
The brief aurora of the sky gradually began to fade, along with my energies.
I was still intoxicated with the good fortune of having witnessed such a colorful show, which unfortunately lasted for a fleeting time.
It was useless, I couldn't stop him from not choosing for himself.
I had worked all day and having certain discussions, certain thoughts, was considerably tiring.
I watched the blond getting a little closer, but remaining curled up to his knees.
There was a thoughtful, soundless pause for both of us, where I could let my eyes dry out.
Then, he finally seemed to feel a kind of remorse, however crude.
Montag: "...sorry, didn't-"
Ilya: "Ah, don't apologize and come here, Mont- Hm… tell me, how would you like to be called if Montag isn't an option?"
I told him without putting too much weight on my words, eyes closed slightly.
To be honest, I couldn't care less: it wasn't worth it to cry… I had to distract myself.
If his choice was to fight, then it was fine for me too. Although, the hours after which I will never see his face again were numbered.
So, I decided to throw away all my mental complexes and savor his eccentricity, his boldness, without restrictions.
He looked puzzled at the request, yet didn't have it repeated twice;
He laid down on his back by my side, with his head turned to look straight at me.
For some arcane reason I…
I wanted him to make a move of his own.
Whether messing my hair or just hugging me, I craved his impulsive touch. Though, he didn't do anything.
Had I brought his mood down? Definitely.
And then I thought, why did he always have to be the one to make the first move when I could simply do it as well?
And so, with my cheeks on fire, I laid on one side and wrapped an arm around his chest.
Just for a second I was afraid my manners were being too touchy, too inappropriate; maybe it wasn't the right time to give up on affection.
Montag: "Mh… have to think about it~"
Instead, he giggled, and went for one of his usual hugs. …Who do I want to fool?
No, no. It was way more. He totally overpowered me.
My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my ears, as I found myself laying under him;
pinned against the grass by both of his hands, positioned on both sides of my body.
I could feel his warmth, like I never did before. Shooting, yet overwhelming.
I didn't dare to move, not even an inch. It seemed that once you gave him your hand, he tamed your whole arm.
That's what I wanted right? Now what? What was I supposed to do?
I couldn't look away; I was totally lost on examining his features, more than anything else.
I watched his cheery expression turn into a now more familiar one; regret.
Obviously this was what he wanted, but maybe doing it felt different than just thinking it.
Sometimes he was readable just like a book... With some missing pages.
He was looking all over but into my eyes.
His lips parted, as if to say something…
Though, he closed them immediately afterwards, as if he didn't know how to express himself.
I wanted to help him, but I had no idea what he wanted to say and the situation was already awkward.
Montag: "Ilya, I..."
I knew I had to give him time, but he appeared to be too nervous, and for the first time, he was blushing as well.
Montag: "I want- you… I don't know how to say it."
He then surrendered to the words he said the most, and in all likelihood one of the first complete sentences he had learned.
He had overall great skills at acquiring knowledge, but his attention span was incredibly poor.
I shook my head trying not to make eye contact... alas, he was too close. I wanted to escape, but my body refused to do anything.
It was a conflict between my heart and my brain, I suppose.
How was I going to help him if I had no idea what he wanted to express?
I didn't know his language, he never spoke it.
The basic words he knew in Vesuvian were enough to make sentences, but if he had to go into specifics, he couldn't.
Several times I had seen him tired or stressed from studying, but never like the times when he couldn't find the right words.
He liked to talk too much- and still does.
I looked at him uncertainly, the proximity setting me in awe.
Still, I was hoping for another gamble.
I wanted to experiment with him, he was my most curious subject.
Meanwhile, however, he seemed too self-conscious in not being able to speak;
I could guess he couldn't even say anything due to the pressure.
Then, he hastily placed a hand on my cheek. Indeed, the other gamble I craved, finally arrived…
Our noses were pressed against each other, his breath hot on my lips.
All I could feel was the movement of his chest going up and down, meeting mine in some unmatched dance.
Montag cried out something in his language, which of course I couldn't understand.
It sounded rudimentary and disparate, completely the opposite from the style of the linguistic lineage of Vesuvia.
Immediately after, with an adorable pink painted on his cheeks, his lips were against mine.
Perhaps with a little too much strength-
No, actually, it was more of a messy disaster than a proper kiss.
And I was being a total disaster, too.
Even now it is difficult for me to recall well all the emotions that hit me at the time, such was the confusion.
I had never kissed anyone before, and maybe that wasn't how I wanted it to happen.
I was in a burning state and his cold hand was a relief to my cheeks.
I savored his taste; the sun had kissed him before I could.
Soft sun rays, a scent I enjoyed breathing in whenever he was nearby.
Now coming even more marked in contrast to the pungent evening air, infusing my mind with the memory of a long, sunny day spent outside.
I managed to close my eyes, letting myself be guided by my own body as my senses could not stay lucid.
It could have meant anything to him, and maybe kisses didn't even have the same meaning they do in our culture.
Was this a way of telling me what he couldn't say? But if so, what did it really mean?
I didn't have to feel like an idiot if it wasn't an actual kiss, right?
On the other hand, why would someone like Montag wanted to be with someone like me.
…Or someone like me with him.
It is also true that, amidst the load of questions, I surprisingly remained calm.
I focused on one sensation at a time, completely isolating the embarrassment for a moment.
I loved it. It became more delicate, more caring, which scared me a ton, especially when he pulled away shortly afterwards.
He stood a few inches away from my lips, somewhat breathless.
I looked back, reopening my eyes. His expression sought certainty, which he surely wouldn't have found in me. I had to say something! Even the most obvious.
Ilya: "Why?"
And… that was another mistake.
When I asked the question he winced, glaring at me in desperation, distancing us a few inches. I really wanted to know why, but if before he was nervous about not being able to speak, he now looked miserable.
He just couldn't make me acknowledge how he felt, not even with this.
A salty aftertaste remained on my lips, but I could still detect the lovely, warm imprint of his touch.
Montag: "Why? Why would I do that!?"
He covered his mouth with the hand he had on my cheek, like my taste was something he deeply regretted.
With frustration flooding his irises, he came back over to my side, staring emptily at the sky. …Was he mad about it?
I was getting too impatient, his behavior was just too casual and dramatic. Montag's whole personality was, and it drove me crazy.
I still felt dizzy from the small, dear moment we shared, which made me reconsider who was the person I was getting myself into.
I stared at his profile, noticing the sparkling drops crossing silently his cheeks, unbothered. I hurt him the day before the battle.
I didn't mean to... But he was way too easy to distress, and too hard to deal with.
Ilya: "Hey hey… no. You know how much I hate to see you like that."
With a gentle movement, my thumb reached up one of his tears, caressing it away.
He finched at my touch, but… he leaned his cheek against my hand, closing his eyes.
Ilya: "I'm sorry. I didn't mind it, if that's what you're worried about. Er- sure… It was Indeed a surprise, but we don't have to do it a second time if you don't want to.
I'm sorry you had to, well, use certain manners to try to make yourself understood. It's hard, right? It must be. I'm… still not sure what you wanted to say. it's okay, though. I don't want to push this any further."
Those damn, silver eyes…
They looked just like the stars above.
They made me feel ridiculous, I was too mortified not to comfort him.
Addressing him in such a superfluous way was wrong, but it was the easiest.
He would've never understood that his behavior was… just different, even after so many years.
A lot of things have happened since then.
Communication wasn't really important in his job, or at the least not as important as in other professions.
I guess that was one of the many other reasons why he was on that field, and had been on many others.
Without any warning, he shifted closer, clinging to my shirt and sinking his face into it, wiping out the remaining tears with his own glove.
I wrapped my long arms around his torso and stood still, listening to his choked sobs.
I felt so pitiful.
And it hurt to have him this close to my heart.
I could feel his tears being distilled through the fabric of my uniform; warm, wet.
The night was too peaceful, too comfortable for these feelings. So unfair.
Montag: "Lucio."
What?
I thought that my tiredness was playing tricks on me. Was I having auditory hallucinations?
Montag: "Call me Lucio."
No. It was only his frail voice, speaking against my neck.
Lucio, instead of Montag? I wondered where he heard it from… I had to get used to it.
Ilya: "That's a nice name. In Vesuvian, it means…
It's fitting, because you- Er, it's perfect."
I interrupted myself, taking a moment to reformulate the phrase.
I sank my face into his hair, enjoying the warmt. Then finally spoke again.
Ilya: "It means light. And it's fitting because that's what you are, Lucio. To me, at the least.."
Minutes passed, and after that sentence, no answer came.
The only thing I could hear was his heavy breathing. I tried to move to look at his face; he was deeply asleep, smudged war paint all over under his eyes.
I think he didn't even hear what I had to say…
How to blame him, the night wasn't young and I was dying to get some sleep too, weirdly enough.
I shut my eyes for a moment, to rearrange my own thoughts.
When I opened them again, the sun bathed the grass around me, golden and cosy rays on my skin.
Despite being enveloped by that soothing light though, I couldn't help notice a much more pleasant warmth was missing;
Lucio was no longer by my side, or even nearby.
It only took me a couple of seconds before I realized that it might have been too late, to realize I had to run. The panic started to hit my chest.
So, I jumped up and ran as I had never done before, arriving at the camp in record time, out of breath.
The more I left behind those immaculate fields, the more I approached the conflict-zone, feeling the smell of the air in my lungs.
It was contaminated with something strong, ferrous, piercing through my nose.
The sky was tinted with orange ues, due to the ashes and smoke coming from the distance. Fire.
From time to time, incredibly loud shots could be heard.
I remember tripping over a couple of times before heavily bumping on a doctor;
before saying a single word, I was scolded to instantly go back to my workplace.
There were already some wounded soldiers coming in, and soon there would have been more in need of any kind of assistance we could provide.
I got the answer to the question I wanted to ask, but I felt the world collapse on me.
I wanted to sink, I wanted to disappear, I wanted the time to stop and never start again.
It was already ten in the morning and a few kilometers away from here, a war was being fought with blades and blood.
So strange…
So strange to think that two completely different worlds were separated only by an infinite-looking expanse of wheat.
Everyone here was worried, nervous, but the atmosphere was calm.
Everything around me flowed as before, identical.
The wind moved the grass at the usual, wavy rhythm.
The weather was mild thanks to the sun, and one could say the day had no business being so beautiful, so peaceful, during an horrific occasion.
The only difference being the breeze of desolation that grew stronger every now and then, carrying a pungent smell with it.
One I barely knew despite my profession. Blood, rust, maybe my conditioned mind occurred to be part of the trick.
However, I was sure that, a little further on, hell was brought on Earth.
Screams, pain, if I closed my eyes I could hear it, I could see it. And nothing could erase him from that image.
Lucio knew very well that if he woke me up that morning, I would have been able to constrict him to stay.
He knew damn well I would've cried, and that we would've both hurt each other with abrupt and untrue words.
I hadn't slept so well in a long time...
Almost too rested; I felt numb.
A sense of repentance was devouring me with every stride towards my tent.
The moment I stepped inside, I collapsed to my knees, resting my arms on the intervention table.
My head ached, while my vision steamed up with tears.
My hand desperately sought a foothold, tugging at my own skin with frustration.
A radiation of tension and cold left my stomach, making me shiver, reaching up to the very tip of my hair.
Every time I looked up towards the entrance, all I could see was my Montag, his blood scattered everywhere.
On the table, on the ground, on the walls, I was going crazy... I was delirious.
And while I was letting off stress, sobbing, I couldn't help but feel the warmth of his lips on mine.
Of his body on mine. The sound of his crying, his grip on my clothes.
That gesture, what I refused to call a kiss, was goodbye. Maybe a confession.
He wanted to tell me something, but he hasn't been able to do it and I wasn't able to help him.
He was asking for help, just as my body and mind were doing now, silently…
But if before I was there for him, now no one could be there for me.
I wiped my eyes with my sleeves, trying to calm down. It's war, that's how it is.
One day you see them smiling, the other you have to cry their name on stones, wondering if their body is actually under your knees or not.
I was mad at him, even if I had no right to be. And nothing will make me forgive him or myself.
He had to say bye, at the very least.
Voices just outside my small hut managed to calm me down, or more likely, to distract me from these intrusive thoughts;
Some recovery doctors had brought the first two wounded, one with what I understood to be a serious chest wound, and the other with an injured leg.
They should've been treated right in the tent next to mine, where my mentor had shelter.
I was a second-class physician, nothing but an apprentice, it would have been rare for someone with serious injuries to be entrusted to me.
More hours passed, the more wounded soldiers and mercenaries were brought back to the camp.
Half of them wouldn't have survived.
I couldn't help but think about it... I wanted to see him one last time.
Savor all the features of his face, give him a chance to express himself better.
Well. Within another couple of hours... that wish came true.
I heard loud murmurs in the distance, coming closer and closer.
They seemed to be directed to me, so I got out of bed and ran to open the curtain, peeking.
I was hoping they finally decided to put me in the care of someone.
Two doctors, one of whom I was very familiar with, were carrying a mercenary by legs and shoulders, hurrying him straight into my place.
My eyes widened in surprise, surely not expecting to see a trail of blood behind them. As they surpassed me, I froze in place, looking up at the scene.
Those bright, red hair... I could recognize it everywhere; it was my mentor Nazali.
A whirlwind of panic hit me hard as I worked out the situation, and as they placed the soldier on the operation table I so desperately cried on earlier.
My first patient was bleeding so much he had left a thick red trail on the wooden floor as well, continuing to lose it in droves on the table.
I recognized him right away, and not principally from his appearance.
Above all, from his cries, which still echoed in my mind from last night; Lucio.
I admit I don't remember many details, it felt like time was rushing.
He was crying with his eyes closed, he was screaming, but he stood completely still.
He had grass, dirt and blood stains on his face and clothes, especially on his left arm;
From there I noticed how it was completely quartered, remaining attached to the shoulder only by miracle.
I began to sweat, my head was spinning and I really wanted to throw up.
I felt the beating of my heart in my throat, in my ears.
Amidst the confusion I barely heard Nazali's voice, determined and hasty.
Nazali: "You can do it. You know him, right? We don't have more space. It's all yours."
Before leaving me all alone, followed by their other assistant.
My eyes met Lucio's. Inevitably they started to get wet, even when not allowed to.
I had to act fast, and luckily I used to work much better under pressure.
I gently stroked his cheek, brushing the wisps of hair off his sweaty forehead.
I had no idea what Nazali was thinking when they left me to deal with this.
I had never done an operation on a big scale before, and I wasn't supposed to do it, no, not yet!
I was tempted to call for help, or wait for them to come back.
But before I could even think about it, my hands were already moving on their own.
Ilya: "I-it's going to be alright- I promise, I promise! Just don't be so loud..."
Pathetic. That's what I was.
I didn't know how long he had been injured, I didn't know how much blood he had lost, but he was still awake and I couldn't give him any anesthesia; I didn't have any right tools to do so, nor the skills.
I came to the conclusion that stopping the blood without amputating most of his arm was impossible.
I quickly disinfected the area, Lucio's head turned around not to look.
Every now and then he would kick with his leg, complain in agony, but the worst had yet to come...
I couldn't reattach his arm, it was almost completely disconnected.
So in the blur of the moment, I took the bone saw from the folder behind me.
My hands, my clothes and even my face, by dint of drying my tears to see something, were covered in red liquid. His.
It was all over the place, and the scent was overwhelming.
I don't know exactly how it made me feel to have his blood on myself…
I guess I would've liked to shut him up, to run away from it all like he did and never turn back.
But I couldn't, I was forced to save his life. And not because I didn't want it on my conscience this time, no.
Because I couldn't bear the idea that I wouldn't have been able to see him laugh again.
I needed to see him live, outside of this raging fire a single, selfish spark had started.
Quickly, I took a small piece of wood and put it in his mouth. I couldn't bear to listen to any sound anymore.
At least he would have had something to grit between his teeth... His gaze begged me not to, but I had to ignore it.
As soon as I got close to his arm, Lucio started squirming and screaming, yet his voice was nothing more than a stifled, scratchy sound.
…
……
A thud was all I heard when I was done cutting.
My hands were shaking like they never did before, and my mind was very dizzy.
A last, piercing, muffled cry rang out in the silence of the tent. Then, nothing more.
Lucio was completely helpless on the table, his head still looking away from my work.
He passed out, debilitated, but he had been significantly strong.
I removed the piece of wood between his teeth; deep grooves were left on it.
It only remained to stop the blood and fortunately, it wasn't a complicated task.
....
I couldn't sleep.
I kept getting up, going in and out through the darkness of the canopy.
The clatter of my boots on the wood was the only assonance present, along with Lucio's breathing and the mumbled talking from outside.
A heavy, slow breath, as if he had run. It was late at night, and the Annyala's Gate battle was settled down, if not over.
Vesuvia had gloriously triumphed over the enemy.
For obvious reasons my mind liked to think outside the realistics, in the foolish belief the cause which led to victory were the mercenary groups.
In the following afternoon we would've sent the surviving soldiers to their respective homes or clinics for recovery.
As for Lu... Spada requested he would've been taken back to the Palace, and continue his medical treatments under royal care.
I'm not sure if he knew he had just lost a limb for his city…
Taken by the thought of leaving him,
I knelt near the cot where, by weight, I had moved my unconscious patient.
Although he had been sweating and although his hair was all out of place, he seemed of a beauty equal to a ray of pure light.
...Which thought made my cheeks flush, not wanting to refuse my truthful consideration, nor wanting to fully accept it.
His eyes didn't open for at least ten hours. And I hadn't closed them, not even for a second, for ten hours.
I leaned against the thin mattress, as I felt the weight of my eyelids blur my vision again.
I knew it was time for another coffee.
I wanted to be there when he regained consciousness, if he ever did again…
From tomorrow, I'll finally have to let him go. I would've taken this useless burden off my chest.
I would've gone back to my clinic and he to the Palace, like the turn our lives had taken before the war.
My hand was about to absently run its fingers along the edges of his face, to warm him up, to make him feel I was there;
Lucio was freezing, yet the one who shivered this time was me.
The false luminescence of his eyes was unmistakable, he was awake!
I finally felt the tears I didn't know I was holding fall, warmly pleasant lines rolling down on my cheeks.
I wanted to throw myself over him, hug him like we did on the prairie the night before, though he was way too weak to allow myself the actual action.
Ilya: "How... How do you feel?"
I whispered like I was speaking to his hand, no longer having the courage to look directly at him.
Was I pitying? Shameful, perhaps?
Then, his eyes closed again, and no response came.
His rested expression changed, replaced by a tired pout now.
I felt anxiety kicking in, radiating through all my body.
"You have to eat something, you've lost a lot of blood-"
Lucio: "Y-you... you made me defective?"
I didn't think he really said it, so weak it was... No. He really did.
I stood there, in total disbelief. One could say something had just broken.
Detective? That's... That's how he was seeing it? Of course losing a limb is a big change, your body has to get used to its new weight, etc…
Still, defective was an unrestrictedly wrong way to see it.
Very gently and very slowly, Montag sat up, glaring at me with contempt before looking at his fresh stump, grimacing with pain.
He was shirtless, as it was too unhygienic to leave him in his dirt-and-blood stained clothes.
I had cleaned his skin too, perfectly tightening the bandages around the seam I made to close up the flesh.
His left arm lay, wrapped in a sheet, on the table where said mercenary had been operated on. Peradventure, keeping it there in sight wasn't the best... But throwing it away somewhere in the wheat around the shelter was a worse option for me.
Part of the shoulder was all I could save, knowing damn well that would've left a huge, indelible scar.
I had done my best... And all I deserved was his disappointment, his rudimentary judgment of events.
Of course, of course it was- The price of my incompetence was a piece of him. A piece of his body, in every literal means.
I can't imagine how hard it could be to accept losing a part of yourself, like a machine losing pieces... Falling apart.
Yet hearing those words coming straight out from his mouth felt like shit.
As if all the things I did only hurt him. I couldn't make him happy, I couldn't hear him laugh.
I wanted it and I didn't deserve it, as if there was an immense distance of differences between me and his whole nature.
Inexplicably, we just could not stay together.
Guilt was devouring me from the inside, an emotion I recall vividly.
At the same time though, a deep sense of emptiness washed over my heart.
So intense that.... I wasn't capable of saying anything, nor doing anything, or showing how sorry I was-
I Just stared at him, eyes wide, suffering as much as he was now, by how I managed to ruin his whole life in a single night.
Lucio: "How am I supposed to fight, now?? Spada-!"
Suddenly he raised his voice, making me wince. I already knew what he was going to say, I didn't want to hear it.
Ilya: "It was the only way. Stop it."
I had already seen him change mood like that before, but never so drastically with me.
I never used any cold tone with him as well, so he seemed quite surprised and looked away.
Habitually, I was his soothing remedy...
This time though, from the ferocity of his expression, his furrowed brows and his watery eyes, I could tell he craved to get out of control. And I knew perfectly well that it wasn't for the arm;
Montag wasn't stupid enough not to acknowledge that he had his life saved, despite my lack of skills.
It was an outlet, an outlet that as much as I felt to deserve... I knew he was just trying to let everything out.
Unfortunately, he barely had the strength to sit still, let alone yell at me.
At least he seemed to take this into account, as he didn't dare to speak further.
I felt the need to add something, in a softer manner.
Ilya: "I.. I barely have words. You know, I didn't even expect to see you alive- I'm sorry, Lucio. It's over now, so please, spare the scene. You need serious rest. I-i'm really glad I got to see you."
I stood up, staying calm and firm. I was not angry, not even sad.
I was slowly accepting that I couldn't do enough for him, and that I really couldn't stand his dangerous mood swings anymore.
He might have hated me, so what? He gave me strong emotions, it's true, but they were incomprehensible.
Was it really worth it to waste so much energy just to get basic communication?
He kept glaring at me, muttering something in mere whispers; it had no effect- or almost.
Letting him vent was the best option, so I remained passive.
I watched him until his eyelids started to lower, a sigh escaping from the depths of his throat. Montag began to tremble, lying back on the bed and covering his mouth with his only hand.
No, I couldn't do it.
I couldn't think only for myself when he was clearly asking me for help; whether it was moral or physical, he would have never admitted his needs.
So yes, it was worth it.
I approached a few steps, my gloved hand running through his golden hair.
He leaned in instead of pushing me away, as expected.
Ilya: "...What did you want to tell me yesterday?"
I tried asking. Shaded, pitiful words, which caused his sobbing to stop.
He gave me an excessively cruel look, eyes still shining bright.
I felt so much distress... Was I really only capable of increasing his frustration?
Lucio: "Nothing. Not... important."
Nothing. I know it was impossible, but I convinced myself that he really didn't want to tell me anything.
It couldn't be a goodbye anymore, as he was safe and sound, in my bed.
It was the easiest way to forget it: that night, he kissed me for nothing. He cried in my arms for nothing.
And I incredibly felt nothing, empty, as if the lighthouse who kept me on track during this year suddenly went off.
I nodded slowly and he turned away, giving me his back. He just wanted to be left alone... Probably to process everything that had happened, hoping for the next day to get better.
As I was about to take the first step towards the other side of the tent...
Lucio: "Will you… visit me? When I will be Count."
To my surprise, I heard him whisper, and froze in place.
Visita him? Obviously he meant at the Palace.
Only there I realized how terrified I was at the thought of never seeing each other again. Despite everything...
There are unforgettable people, and no cure. Lucio is one of them, and I'm clearly one for him.
How curious it is, being mutual illnesses for our own minds.
I had never thought about it, but no one actually forbade us to be together except ourselves.
So... well, I smiled.
____________________________________________
Suddenly, I hear footsteps from outside. Clear, recognizable 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘥𝘴. Heels clattering on the marbled floor, just how he likes it.
A lot changed since the last time I saw my Montag, the version of him that I was so fond of.
If we used to have a decent relationship before, a sweet one, even, things have embittered. It's nothing more than him bossing me around.
Ever since Lucio took Count Spada's place as his heir, his whole personality took a fancy turn.
He is selfish, ignorant, annoying.
Hard words coming out of my mouth, for sure, but all truths.
He completely lost his curiosity in little things, his genuine way of laughing, the glim in his eyes whenever we were together.
He lost himself, and I lost myself with him.
A Golden prosthesis with thorny decorations and luminescent streaks replaced the arm I cut off, more or less 18 years ago; he still won't forgive me for that.
Howbeit, he never stopped hanging around to show, however eccentrically, that he cares about me.
Did I care, though?
No, not really, not anymore.
I quickly grab the stack of papers I had written, the last page undried, the fresh ink making the words thick and lucid under the dim light.
I put them in the first empty drawer of my desk I can find, only now taking note of the mess on my hands, staining the "documents" even more.
Just in time, the heavy door opens with a slow squeak.
I have been writing for quite a while, without break.
The first lights of the morning pass through the colored glass behind my back; warmer, stronger, allowing my tired candle to get some rest.
Parallel to me, in all his royalty, Lucio's figure, put in contrast by the enlightened rosey corridors of the Palace.
Always dressed in pure white, always adorned with golden trims, and always with his impeccably perfect make-up.
The war paint he had under the corners of his eyes is now a pointy eye-liner, one of a kind.
Not sure why he decided to keep it.
Probably to demonstrate that despite the years gone by, he is still the mercenary, the hero, who once saved this city.
The Count came regularly to check on my work on the Red Plague;
a concerning disease that had begun to spread all over Vesuvia, causing way too many victims already.
Not being able to do enough in my own clinic… Here I am.
He is quite interested in it, even though it never bothered him enough to personally take part of the research.
He has many other doctors to do it, and not only physicians; magicians and necromancers are part of the crew, things I don't particularly enjoy.
Between me and him, there is a silent break of elaboration. For a second I believed he has seen me making an ambiguous gesture-
So I hold my breath, scared to make him think I'm hiding something.
It should be dawn… the atmosphere is shaded, but I can indistinctly glimpse his charismatic smile.
Then, with dramatic elegance he approaches me, walking the library's hallway until my desk.
I can do nothing but stare, as he takes a look over the disorganized table, placing both of his hands on it to hold his weight.
Lucio: "The report, Jules?"
Oh, right, I forgot…
I had changed my name in the Vesuvian version of Ilya, which is definitely not Jules- but Julian.
To mark a new beginning in my life, like Montag did.
I don't hesitate, on the verge of trembling, to hand him the very few papers about the plague from the beginning of the night that just flew.
Unfortunately, he pouts, giving them only a quick glance before setting them back down, with very poor care.
I keep looking at him, tilting my head to the side, trying to manifest my perplexity.
Lucio: "You can definitely do better than this, you know? I'm letting you have the privilege of having a whole library as your work space. You're a friend, so I give you the best, but I expect you to get me the best. This is barely enough… You used to be so smart, do you remember~? You used to teach me stuff all the time! Why won't you use that knowledge now? I want those beetles gone. My city is dying…"
I'm terribly sleep deprived, and I suddenly feel too numb, narcoleptic, to answer immediately.
Just like I've just woken up from a feverish, summer dream.
Reasoning well on his words, I realize that the coincidence of mentioning my past self has put my mind in some stress limbo.
I feel my cheeks flush…
I pass a hand between the auburn strands that cover my vision, feeling the dampness of my forehead even from under my gloves.
I had given up my medical duties to write cheesy junk! Quite unethical and unexpected from my persona.
With the corner of my eye though, I notice that Lucio isn't actually displeased.
He peers at me, his perlaceous eyes narrowed, blurry; the morning is too hasty to arrive, and you could read it on both of our faces.
It's early… far too early. Why is he here?
The corners of his lips are softly curled up, and he's more interested in studying my face than reading my notes.
Something in the air is surreal.
I swallow some saliva as he approaches my side of the desk, in a couple of quick steps.
The blond then hops to sit on it, an aura of confidence seems to envelop his whole shape;
as if he is preparing to whisper to me some secret of his, some revelation, which was only meant to be between the two of us.
He leans closer. Turns out he wants to listen to my foolish excuses.
Sitting on the armchair and so in a lower position, I find my gaze right in front of his bare and smooth chest, a vice that never left him.
I just want to go away-
That is the thought that lends itself to me initially, before taking a deep breath.
I haven't been this close to him in so long…
The sun had never left him, perpetually entracing. He carries the scent of the sunshine even in the coldest room.
By now, his Vesuvian is spotless.
My heart accelerates, more out of fear than from emotions.
His mood swings had seriously deteriorated. Montag-
No, Lucio, became unpredictable, not in the virtuous way he was before.
He would get angry about little things, amuse himself by organizing brutal fights in his own arena and get very demanding about everything he wants.
Everyone loves Count Lucio, like he always says.
Yet, I know my way with the people, and many despise his ruling methods as much as I do.
Julian: "Er- I'm aware, sir. It's been a couple of hard nights for my team, none has been sleeping… We are tired, and finding a solution that even slows down the disease seems impossible.
But, recently we've come close to a potential provenance of the cause. The red dye from-"
Lucio: "Tired? So why don't you quit talking and get some rest instead? You have dark circles around your eyes… Heh, the last time I saw you without them was before Annyala's Gate!"
I can't help but open my eyes wide at the statement.
This is just too unreal, it can't be a damn coincidence!
My lips part in disbelief, not sure what to say.
Soon I discover that there's no need to even think about it.
Lucio grabs my chin, cold golden claws pressed against my skin.
He gently pushes my head to look up, making him the only subject my gaze can be interested in.
Lucio: "How was it… Ilya, right? I can still picture your long curls, I always thought the way they framed your face was silly."
I'm amazed. He just- I felt my throat going dry.
For the first time in more than a decade, perhaps thanks to the prophetic undertones in that room, his smile seems genuine.
Not a smirk, not winking, not hinting any mockery or derision. But cheerful, sweet, like he is savoring the taste of that reminiscence.
His voice is warm, just like his lips would feel if they were on mine…
It can't help but remind me of Montag' same smile, the one I was so hungry of seeing again long ago.
So thrilling… I shiver.
It's a momentary illusion, my mind still too infused with all the longing scenes I wrote about.
The claws are piercing my skin, but I can't not feel peaceful, happy, to receive a caress from his left hand.
The metal is no longer cold, heated up by my body temperature. I wonder if he can feel it…
I lose control of my body and mind, getting up from my chair, slipping out of his hold.
We are at the same height now, face to face.
Our noses touch, the adrenaline of our last night flowing back through my veins.
His breath on my lips, the rush of risking, like trying these emotions for the first time all over again.
His inquisitive yet curious expression is erased the exact moment I close my eyes, desperately leaning forward…
Warmth.
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