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It’s not a question of “if” but “when”.
He’s learned that lesson enough times for it to have carved itself into his bones so thoroughly it’s become part of his cells—as though they carry loss through his bloodstream the way they carry oxygen—like it’s as natural to him as breathing.
Life gets better only to get worse. Everything you love eventually turns to ruin and rot. Love is conditional, transactional, or temporary.
It’s why when Rean says he needs to talk, Crow doesn’t bat an eye.
It’s easy to numb himself. Easy to wrap a tourniquet around the part of him he feels dying and prepare for the inevitable amputation. He keeps his knives perpetually sharpened to make these types of emergency surgeries quick.
Rean lets out a long sigh from beside him on the couch. He looks exhausted, like he’s holding himself together with nothing but bits of fraying thread and chewing gum. Crow wants so badly to touch him and tells himself it doesn’t hurt when he realizes he doesn’t get to do that anymore.
“Could you just… hold me for a little while?” Rean asks. His voice is weak and on the verge of breaking.
It takes Crow a moment to process Rean’s request, but once he does, he opens his arms and Rean just collapses into them.
“Thank you,” Rean exhales with both relief and despair in his voice. He’s tense and unsteady, curling into Crow and holding him in what seems like a very counterintuitive way to initiate a break-up.
Crow doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do in this situation. Is this one of those I love you so much but I can’t be with you things? Oh Goddess, that makes it worse, so much worse.
He swallows the nausea climbing up his throat, but it won’t stay down. He knew it wouldn’t last—he started preparing himself for the end the moment Rean confessed his feelings—but somehow, he let himself get comfortable.
He can’t figure out what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. It turns out to be the right move because eventually, Rean finds his voice.
“Some journalist sort of ambushed me on my way home from work,” he starts. “He was smart. He waited for me just outside the school gates instead of trying to get on campus. He rubbed me the wrong way but I still tried to be polite. He started asking questions about the whole Ashen Chevalier thing and brought up injury reports from the Crossbell occupation.” Rean sniffles and draws in a breath like shards of hot glass. His body shakes in Crow’s arms as he tries not to break.
Crow, who is overwhelmed with confusion, rubs circles against Rean’s back to soothe him.
“Lechter kept it from me,” Rean finally sobs. “He made me think I was protecting people, but so many of them got hurt—not like a broken bone or a burn—like third-degree burns on most of their bodies. Limbs gone. Lifelong disabilities—” His breath hitches. “So many people got hurt so badly, and all because of me .”
Crow blinks for a moment. This… isn’t the conversation he thought they were having.
On one hand, it’s great—Rean isn’t ending things yet. On the other hand, Crow’s emotional intelligence is only slightly better than that of moldy bread and about as useful, which is to say: it’s still garbage.
Apparently, brushing things off with a joke is unhealthy, or some shit, according to Towa. And George. And just about everyone else. Even Jusis fucking Albarea agrees.
This is one of those things you can’t make better. Crow can’t fix the source of Rean’s pain. There’s no way to mend those injured soldiers, not unless he goes to Crossbell and convinces KeA to use her powers or something. Crow’s moral compass doesn’t exactly point due north, especially when it comes to Rean (he’s a better person these days, but he’d slaughter villages before he’d let anything harm Rean), but still—circumstances would have to be pretty fucking dire before Crow would allow himself to exploit a kid. The point is that the KeA route is out, and that limits his options.
All he can do is hold him. Hold him and let Rean cry himself out until he calms down and his tears taper off.
“You’re always telling me to let go of everything I did with the ILF,” Crow says quietly, his voice gentle and comforting. “If you can look past that and forgive me, then you owe yourself the same.”
“You were trying to stand up for what was right. You were fighting for something. I was… just letting Osborne use me.”
“You were protecting people,” Crow reminds him. The fingers of one hand find their way to Rean’s hair and stroke the back of his head in a soothing gesture.
“So were you.”
Crow sighs. He disagrees entirely on this point but he knows better than to push it with Rean in this condition, so he just says, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions, right?”
“I hate how true that is,” Rean remarks bitterly.
“You did good, Rean. Juna and her siblings are proof of that. People who would’ve died got to go home to their families ‘cause of you. Maybe not the same as they were, but nobody is after war. Humans aren’t made for that shit. Somehow we keep doing it, though.”
“Because we send children,” Rean muses. “We send poor kids and tell them it’s a chance to serve a country that never did a damn thing for them.”
Crow hugs him tight for a moment. “I know. But we’re changing that. The military is downsizing. Crossbell’s independent now. The class system is breaking down. Slowly, people like our friends are throwing out the old ways and building something better. It’s a hard road and I’ll be honest—there was a time I didn’t think it was possible. But here I am, telling you I was wrong.”
Speeches and inspiration are and will always be Rean’s domain. Crow’s good for a dramatic performance, but sincerity twists him up in knots and makes him feel weirdly embarrassed. He knows vulnerability isn’t weakness, conceptually at least—it’s just taking a while for him to believe it.
It seems to be enough for Rean though, because he raises his head and looks at Crow with a fond expression, full of softness and gratitude. He brings a hand to Crow’s cheek and draws him into a light, easy kiss that lingers as though Rean is savoring the sensation of Crow’s lips against his own.
Crow needs to commit this to memory so it stays with him even after Rean leaves. The softness of Rean’s kiss, how it’s intimate despite its chasteness, the way Rean’s breath feels on Crow’s lips. The way he fits against Crow so perfectly, Crow can almost let himself believe they’re meant to be, even though the only thing Crow is meant to be is dead.
“What do you mean the conference is next weekend?” Rean asks. “We’re having dinner with my parents.” His voice hardens in disappointment and there’s an edge of frustration. “I asked if you were free a month ago, Crow.”
Crow feigns regret and surprise. “Shit, that’s right. Sorry, Rean. Must’ve slipped my mind.”
“This is the third time you’ve blown them off,” Rean replies, his irritation growing. “They just want to have a meal with both of us.”
“They’re your parents,” Crow insists. “They’re coming to see you. Why do I have to be there?”
“Because you’re my boyfriend.”
“They’re not my family,” Crow reminds him because Rean seems to have somehow forgotten that Crow was a member of the group that attacked his hometown, kidnapped his sister, and nearly killed his father. Rean might be damaged enough to overlook what Crow has done, but his parents certainly aren’t. The thought of having to face that is… he can’t do it. And fuck Rean for trying to make him. “No matter how much you want them to love me like a son or whatever bullshit you’ve dreamed up doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen, so stop wasting your time!”
He storms off to the bathroom, unable to bear the conversation any longer. He holds his head in his hands, fingers curling painfully into his own hair, and releases a steady stream of “fuck, fuck, fuck,” as the anger melts to ice-cold shame. His body shakes as the catastrophic error he’s just made replays behind his eyelids on repeat while he watches, helpless to stop himself from making the same mistake with each iteration.
His hands are shaking now and they fall to his sides as he backs up against the bathroom wall and lets himself slide to the floor. Suddenly, he’s thirteen years old again and finally realized that his grandfather isn’t sleeping.
He sat in that room with his grandfather’s corpse for three hours before he finally called someone, and what he felt then was startlingly similar to what he feels now: raw and unmoored, a ship lost at sea swallowed in a storm that reduced it to splinters drifting away from each other, borne by the ocean’s currents to wash up on distant shores so he can never be whole again.
This thing with Rean… it was good. The best he’d ever had—the best he ever will. And he ruined it. He ruined it the way he ruins everything, the way he will always ruin everything.
Gradually, the tremors ease and he lets his mind go blank. It floats somewhere distant, and he gathers himself and takes a shower without thinking about it.
He tries to avoid Rean like they both don’t live here, like he can blink out of sight like Millium or Altina, when he enters the bedroom to grab some clothes so he can sleep in the guest room.
“Hey,” Rean starts and his voice is gentle, and Crow knows what’s coming. “Sometimes I forget that what's obvious to me might not even occur to you, and I get a little bit ahead of myself.” He gives a small, regretful smile. “If you weren’t ready to do dinner with my parents, you should have just told me when I asked about it, Crow. I know this whole thing is hard for you in ways I can’t really understand, and that’s why I need you to guide me through it. Don’t just let me pull you toward a landmine if you can see it coming.”
“... What?”
Rean rubs the back of his head with a nervous smile, then stands to cross the room and take Crow’s hands in his.
“You’re the most important thing in the world to me, Crow. I love you. I don’t want you to be afraid to tell me how you feel.”
Crow blinks in confusion as his world tilts on its axis, trying to understand exactly what is going on.
“... Are you still upset?” Rean asks worriedly.
“No, I—” he manages. “It’s just… you’re not breaking up with me?”
“... What? No! Goddess, no! Why would you think that?” Rean asks, and the hurt and fear in his eyes is somehow more intense than Crow remembers it being during the Twilight. “You don’t want to break up, do you?”
“No!” he answers quickly, hating the fear in his voice. “Hell, no. You’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me, Rean—the best thing that ever will happen to me—I just… don’t understand what’s going on.”
Rean looks much more relaxed and lays a warm, calloused palm against Crow’s cheek. “We had a disagreement. That’s a normal thing. I don’t want to lose you over dinner with my parents. I don’t want to lose you ever.”
“... I don’t want to lose you, either,” Crow mumbles, eyes darting to focus on the floor like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
“Good,” Rean says, and Crow can hear the gentle smile in it. “Is it because you’re still worried about the past?”
Crow exhales sharply, self-hatred bubbling to a simmer, and it’s all the answer Rean needs.
He wraps his arms around Crow, who doesn’t understand but accepts the gesture regardless.
“It’s over, Crow. You didn’t send those jaegers to Ymir. Jusis’s father did. You saved my sister and the princess when G was ready to kill them. Mom and Dad understand that your situation was complicated.” Rean gives a small sigh of a laugh. “If they’re holding on to any hard feelings, it’s because of the mess I turned into after you died, and they’re hardly going to berate you for saving my life at the cost of yours.” Rean pulls back and lifts Crow’s chin, not forcing eye contact but encouraging it, patiently waiting for Crow’s eyes to drift toward him. “At the end of the day, you’re the man I love, and they respect my decision.”
Crow just nods because he’s still waiting for Rean to realize this is a horrible mistake.
“I guess I thought that sitting down with them and seeing it for yourself might help you feel more comfortable,” Rean adds. “But I really should have explained that first.”
“... I could have handled it better,” Crow confesses in what might be the greatest understatement of his life. “I was fine when we planned it, but I saw the date on my calendar this morning and…” Crow doesn’t know how to say he panicked and spent the better part of his morning in a vicious chokehold of anxiety, so he lets himself trail off and Rean kisses him lightly.
“Talk to me about it next time. Tell me when something’s wrong. You’re not alone anymore. I know it’s hard to remember that, but we’re in this together.”
Crow nods.
Rean smiles. “Good. Come to bed, okay? We’ll talk it over tomorrow.”
Crow nods again, as though his entire vocabulary has been pummeled to dust in the span of a few seconds, and follows Rean to bed. Rean turns off the light and snuggles up to Crow the way he usually does, on his side with his head over Crow’s heart. He nuzzles into Crow’s shirt and Crow wraps his arms around Rean’s body half a second slower than usual, as if he’s not sure of his reality. Rean must sense this, because he shifts, propping himself up on one arm and craning his neck to kiss Crow’s lips.
It’s light and effortless but firm enough to be reassuring, and though it takes him a moment to respond, he returns the kiss with an intensity not even he anticipated. He pulls Rean closer and presses his tongue into Rean’s mouth, kissing him like oil burning on water. Rean doesn’t hesitate to match him, steady and reassuring no matter how frantic Crow’s kisses become. Crow has never been in this position before, hasn’t been loved in longer than he can remember, and he’s certainly never been loved like this. Rean loves him like it’s an all-consuming thing, like he’s whole and enough despite his brokenness.
“I’m not going anywhere, Crow,” Rean tells him between kisses. “Not without you.”
Crow wants to believe him. He wants to believe Rean so badly, but Crow has learned the hard way that promises are made to be broken.
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” Rean adds, as though he knows what Crow is thinking.
Crow doesn’t want to think anymore. He wants to—needs to feel . Some kind of tangible, physical proof to counter the mountain of evidence his past experiences have left him with. He needs Rean, all of him, so badly it’s almost embarrassing.
After his little tantrum earlier he has no right to make requests, so he swallows his pride and doesn’t even try to hide his desperation as he offers an apology.
“I’m sorry, Rean,” he manages. Not just for the earlier episode, but for everything that’s come before. He’s sorry for all his insensitive blunders and poorly-chosen words, for every time he said or did the wrong thing—sorry for not being strong enough to resist Rean and let him go live the life he deserves.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Rean answers, and Crow wouldn’t have been able to protest the pet name even if Rean hadn’t punctuated the statement with a kiss. Things like that should conjure a cringe, but right now, it comforts him like nothing else. Rean draws back to meet his eyes and looks at Crow like he’s the only thing in the world, like he’s a long-awaited cure and not a disease, and Goddess, what a fucking idiot Crow was for putting that in jeopardy when he knows how fragile this is.
Rean insists it’s not, but Crow knows better. At least, he used to.
The problem is that Rean has made a habit of defying the laws of reality where Crow is concerned, and it leaves him walking a tightrope over a vast chasm watching shadows sever the cable on the other side. He knows they’re just phantoms, but they were real once. The rope he’s walking has been snipped before, and he can still feel the fall in his guts.
He’s heard it said that the body remembers even when the mind forgets, and he hates how true that is. No matter how well he eats, he’ll never shake the gnawing hunger of poverty. The solid thud and subsequent shimmering shatter of a liquor bottle against his skull. The kind of damp cold that settles into the marrow of your bones.
He pulls Rean on top of him before he can think about what he’s doing. He’s all instinct, driven by a need far beyond physical pleasure. What he craves is intimacy—to be so close he can’t tell where he ends and Rean begins. He needs to feel the soul-link thrumming between them so he can drown himself in their connection.
“Hey,” Rean murmurs. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not—”
“Please, Rean,” Crow interrupts with far more desperation in his voice than he’d like.
Rean is slow and tender with him in exactly the way he could never deserve, dragging things out as he takes Crow apart piece by piece and makes him feel so loved he can’t breathe. The sex is always good, but for some reason, this is the thing that never fails to blow Crow’s mind and leave him so spent he can hardly think the next day. He’s hesitant to call it “making love” because it sounds like something out of a cheap romance novel, but that’s exactly what it feels like.
Crow doesn’t have many happy memories of Ordis. He has even fewer of the Cayenne mansion, but Musse is finally making her debut as head of House Cayenne and since both Class VIIs will be in attendance, Crow decides to grin and bear it.
It’s really not a big deal. At least, it shouldn’t be. His shit is in the past and there’s no reason he ought to be holding onto anything but Rean, who, against all reason, is still beside him.
Besides, Rean’s worse off than Crow is in Ordis. Whether he goes by the Ashen Chevalier, Divine Blade of Ash, or Rean Schwarzer, he’s still the man who ‘defeated’ the noble alliance. Rean, of course, did no such thing in reality; he was merely a small piece in the vast Erebonian military machine (who wasn’t fighting on either side), but try telling that to the sort of people who call the October War “the war of Imperial aggression” and believe that the noble alliance was merely stepping in to protect order after Osborne had fallen.
No matter how uncomfortable Crow is in this place, Rean’s more likely to face someone’s malice, and Crow needs to be there for him when the dust settles.
“Are you okay?” Rean asks, and his tone is concerned rather than casual, which Crow finds confusing.
“Peachy,” he answers with a wink. “Why?”
Rean doesn’t look like he believes him for a second, and there’s a trace of disappointment in his eyes that punches him in the gut. Alarm bells start going off in Crow’s head.
“It’s just… you’re holding my hand kind of tight, and you look uncomfortable.” Rean pulls him aside in a fluid, gentle motion so they’re out of foot traffic, and brushes a loose lock of Crow’s hair behind his ear. “I remember you said that you don’t have good memories here. If it’s too much for you, we can leave. Musse will understand.”
Crow is so close to folding it’s embarrassing. For a moment, he lets himself fantasize about grabbing their luggage from the hotel and jumping on the next train out, watching the scenery whip by as Ordis grows smaller and smaller in the rear view, but that’s not an option. Not really. It’s important that Rean is here to support Musse, and Crow can’t let either of them down.
After all, it’s just one evening. Crow can survive a few hours wearing a suit and tie in a stuffy ballroom where social elites, who never worked a day in their lives, complain about lazy commoners and reminisce about the “good old days when everyone knew their place” and harass the staff.
Things will be different this time, he reminds himself. He’ll be there as a guest, among friends, with Rean on his arm. He has no mission or objective beyond enjoying a few drinks and enduring a couple of dances.
“It’s really okay,” Crow replies, because it will be. “Being here just reminds me of a person I ain’t proud of.”
It’s hard to describe the shame that’s settled over him. It’s an almost palpable, grimy thing that makes him feel like the walls of a septic tank—no matter how hard you scrape it, you’ll never be able to totally wash the shit away.
Rean deserves better. Maybe that’s another part of what’s amplifying his anxiety about being here. There are too many opportunities for Rean to learn more about the person he was—the things he’s done—that could easily change his mind.
But Rean just looks at him with tenderness and compassion. “Well, I’m proud of the person you’ve become since.”
It’s easy for Rean to say because he doesn’t know the details, but it’s nice to hear.
“We won’t stay long tonight,” Rean continues. “We’ll congratulate Musse, and then we’ll sneak out. I’m sure our friends will cover for us.”
Crow snorts. “Yeah, running off with me like that won’t cause a tabloid headache for you at all.”
Rean tilts his head in amusement and confusion. “What are they going to say? Ashen Chevalier leaves party early with longtime partner? ”
It takes Crow a moment to remember that he’s not some kind of dirty secret.
Rean’s expression shifts to concern again, though this one is etched more deeply into his face. It’s almost like he’s trying to look into Crow, but there’s nothing to find, so Rean just frowns and ultimately decides not to push.
Great, Crow just made Rean disappointed in himself, like he bears some kind of responsibility for salvaging threads from the messy tangle of Crow’s disastrous life choices.
A good partner would be making sure Rean has fun. Would be distracting him with ice cream and conversation, with visits to little shops and buying him something nice to wear with his suit tonight.
But Crow does none of that, and so they walk in relative silence back to the hotel. Musse had offered them a room at the mansion, but Crow would rather sleep in the crawl space on the dock where they store buckets of chum than spend another night in the place he sold his soul.
It feels more like they’re dressing for a funeral than a ball. There’s this sense of dread hanging over them like a precarious scythe slicing the air, inching closer to their heads with each sweeping arc.
This part of his life is over. He’s not that person anymore and he never will be again—except he was that person once. He chose that life and everything that went with it.
He goes through the motions, greeting his friends and hanging back, watching the parade of bright colors and glittering excess, as he and Rean drift to the periphery of the crowd.
Even Rean makes use of the open bar, though not as frequently as Crow, who unconsciously clenches a hand around his third drink that’s more gin than tonic. Musse is a vision done up in exactly the way that doesn’t suit her at all, laughing politely as she entertains thinly-veiled marriage proposals and various suggestions of potential alliances as her irritated former classmates take turns intercepting and whirling her out on the ballroom floor for a chance to breathe.
Rean doesn’t look any happier than his students.
“She doesn’t have to do this,” Rean muses aloud. “Put herself on display just to satisfy a bunch of strangers.”
Crow shrugs and takes a long sip. The tension’s bled out of him thanks to the alcohol, which has his mouth moving just a few steps faster than his brain. “This crowd likes tradition. She knows how to play their game.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” Rean replies. He sounds more tired than irritated. “It’s all so fake.”
“‘Course it is. If half of these people ever had to really look at themselves in the mirror, they’d take a bath with a toaster,” he answers, throwing back the rest of his glass.
Rean looks surprised, even though he shouldn’t. This is pretty basic shit.
“What I don’t get is how none of ‘em feel even a lil’ bit ashamed,” Crow admits. He glances into his glass, disappointed to find it hasn’t magically refilled itself, and sighs. Just his luck. “Least they don’t until the truth comes out. Kinda funny watching ‘em all try to butter Musse up, though.”
Rean crosses his arms. “I wish they wouldn’t hound her like that,” he remarks.
“They’re afraid she’ll put all the nasty skeletons in their closets on display,” Crow explains. “And they got every right to be scared. Between her own smarts and the blackmail ‘ol Uncle Croire collected, she could bring ‘em all to their knees if she wanted.”
Rean’s expression seems to ask Crow if he’s serious. He looks surprised when Crow nods for emphasis. “Wait… really? That’s a thing? You mean there’s some drawer in this place with a bunch of people’s secrets?”
“Bank statements, DNA test results, sleazy pics,” Crow supplies.
Rean balks at him in disbelief.
“C’mon, how do you think he got the mira to wage a civil war?”
“I guess I never really thought about it,” Rean admits. “But,” he sighs. “It makes sense. The Pantagruel itself must’ve cost more than the Soldats.”
Crow gives him a wink. “A-plus, as usual. Dude knew how to hide his crazy and hit you exactly where it hurt. Didn’t have to lay a finger on you to get his way.”
This is not a path he wants to stray down, but it’s the only one in front of him. It’s thorny and overgrown and he can hear snakes hissing and wolves snarling from somewhere in its dense foliage, and he wonders how much will be left of him when he comes out the other side, and whether it’ll be enough for Rean to hold.
“Do you mind if we leave?” Rean asks with an exhausted sigh. “This place is getting to me.”
Crow raises an eyebrow. Rean has no history here—not that Crow knows of, anyway.
Rean draws in a breath and tries to answer the question he reads in Crow’s expression. “I know this place belongs to Musse now, but all I can think about is the guy who got you killed. How senseless it all was.”
It feels like whiplash. Crow is so completely thrown that his brain can’t find words to respond with for an embarrassingly long pause. He’s been so absorbed in his own self-flagellation that he completely missed how upset Rean has been all night.
Crow nods, unable to do much else, because what is he supposed to say to that? “Sorry, I had my head too far up my own ass to notice you've been in emotional anguish for the last two hours” just doesn’t seem like it’s gonna cut it.
This place is getting to him, too, making him bitter and resentful—not of Rean, but of himself. History is latching onto his present happiness and tainting it with spores of an old infection.
Relief breaks over Rean’s face, and he looks as glad as Crow feels at the prospect of leaving. “Thanks. I’ll go say goodbye to Musse for us. You can drop your empty glass off at the bar. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
It’s a smart play. The others won’t hold Rean up if they know Crow is waiting on him, and it gives Rean a polite excuse to brush off anyone who approaches seeking conversation.
“Okay. See you there,” Crow replies.
Rean gives him a smile and starts on his way. Crow watches his mop of dark hair fondly for a few moments, then lets out a relieved breath of his own and makes his way to the bar where he turns in his glass. He stands casually beside it so as to not get in the way of anyone who wants a drink, and scans the edges of the crowd for where Rean might emerge.
Suddenly, a voice slices through his temporary peace.
“I thought I recognized you.”
Crow turns toward the stranger and recognition hits him with the grace of an avalanche. Its deafening roar rings in his ears; it knocks the breath out of him and leaves him frozen.
The older gentleman gives him a smile that’s supposed to be seductive but manifests as lecherous and predatory. “It’s been quite some time.”
“Uh… sorry. You got the wrong guy,” Crow manages, his mouth dry and his skin crawling like a thousand bugs have burrowed underneath and made their home there.
“I wouldn’t forget a face as pretty as yours, no matter how much time had passed,” he replies, that smile widening, even as Crow withdraws. His voice takes on a note of amusement. “Oh, come now, you weren’t half this shy at Croire’s winter ball.”
He reaches out, presumably to cup Crow’s chin. Crow’s instinct is to deck the guy, but Rean abruptly appears in front of him and grabs the man’s wrist out of the air.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Rean says, gritting the words out while he forces his tone to remain polite and neutral. Crow can’t see his face, but his posture is ready for a fight. He guides the shocked nobleman’s hand back to his side and holds his own right palm out. “Rean Schwarzer. Divine Blade of Ash. I see you’ve already met my partner.”
“Oh, we’re well acquainted, thank you very much,” the nobleman says with heavy emphasis, and it dawns on Crow with distinct horror that he’s going to lose Rean for good.
The older man has the nerve to shake Rean’s hand.
“Marquis Fontaine,” he replies genially, eyes searching out Crow who’s putting every ounce of effort into appearing normal, but the widening smile on Fontaine’s face says he’s failing miserably.
“I’m afraid we’re heading out,” Rean explains, the protective edge never leaving his voice.
“What a shame,” Fontaine sighs, eyes still fixed on Crow. “Here I was hoping for another round of intimate time together. Your partner certainly knows how to make a lasting impression.” He’s gloating. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and Crow can’t help but feel like a trapped animal watching a cage door slam shut. “On his knees, if you know what I mean.”
An invisible hand clutches his throat and squeezes with manic glee.
There goes plausible deniability, along with any chance of spinning this into something other than the revoltingly shameful truth.
“As I was saying,” Rean interjects firmly, barely-contained rage rippling at the edge of his voice. “We’re leaving. If you value your life, you’ll get the hell out of our way.”
Something must flash in his eyes, because the other man actually flinches and mutters an apology as he flees in an awkward stumble that nearly lands his ass on the floor.
Crow is an idiot for thinking he could hide this, especially with Rean’s status as a baron’s son. Sooner or later they were going to end up at a fancy party where this exact thing would inevitably play out. Sure, Crow didn’t have to do it too many times, but—
Crow flinches at the sensation of a hand on his back, and Rean instantly yanks it away like he’s touched a branding iron.
“Let’s go,” Rean says, so obviously trying to pretend he’s holding it together. He’s coming undone, and it’s all Crow’s fault.
Crow wants to crawl out of his own skin. He chokes down the urge to vomit.
“Crow,” Rean tries, his voice somewhat pleading this time. “If we stay any longer, I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold myself back.”
He’s not surprised that Rean wants to unload on him. He deserves to be read the riot act. Rean probably feels disgusting for ever letting Crow touch him, and he’s not wrong.
Movement does nothing to help his rising nausea. When the fever-sweat starts prickling the back of his neck and his vision gets grainy, he pushes toward the exit.
He manages to make it outside before he unceremoniously pukes his guts into the nearest decorative flowerbed.
He hates how weak he feels, arms shaking as he tries to steady himself while he heaves again. But the truth is, he’s always been weak. He couldn’t bear staying in Jurai, couldn’t handle the brutality of life on the streets, couldn’t stand up to Cayenne’s demands. He couldn’t even bring himself to talk to Scarlet after V’s death and tell her he was afraid to lose her, too. Forget about admitting his feelings for Rean.
And here he is, being a coward when the consequences of his cowardice finally come back around.
He has to pull himself together. He’s causing a scene, probably earning the judgemental stares of passers-by and compounding Rean’s embarrassment.
When he finally manages to pull himself away, Rean is holding out a bunch of tissues with an expression Crow can’t understand. He looks beyond worried, though he’s trying not to show it.
Crow takes the tissues and wipes his face, then braces himself for Rean’s wrath.
“Can I get you some water or do you just want to go back to the hotel? Are you okay to walk? I can call us a car.”
Maybe Rean feels bad chewing him out in public. Rean’s always been tactful like that.
“Walking’s fine,” he forces out.
It’s an awkward, silent journey that passes in a haze. Crow’s about ready to throw up again by the time they reach their room.
“What do you need?” Rean asks.
Crow hasn’t really unpacked anything, so all that’s left to grab is his toothbrush and bag of toiletries.
“Just give me a second,” Crow manages, turning on his heel and heading toward the bathroom, which still smells faintly like Rean’s cologne.
It feels more like someone’s wringing out his guts than punching them, squeezing tight like a dog clamping its jaws on a chew toy. His eyes sting but he forces it back. He needs to get out of the bathroom, so he brushes his teeth and washes away the awful taste in his mouth as quickly as he can.
He throws his stuff in his bag like a zombie and starts zipping it up when Rean asks him what he’s doing.
“You can have the room,” he explains, not looking up.
Rean makes a distressed sound. “I promised myself I wouldn’t ask—you’re entitled to your privacy and I have no place prying into your past, but… I’m really worried about you, Crow. I understand if you don’t want to be touched—I don’t mind sleeping on the floor or getting a cot—but a whole room to yourself…” he trails off, wrestling with what to say next, like it’s some kind of puzzle.
Crow blinks.
Wait.
“You… don’t want me to go?” he asks, utterly confused.
Rean looks at him like Crow has just turned himself into a llama. “Of course not!”
“Um,” he swallows, stalling to assemble a sentence despite his confusion. “I just thought you’d be… upset.”
Rean sighs. “Damn right, I’m upset. If it hadn’t been Musse’s debut, I’d have ripped that guy in half with my bare hands for the way he ran his mouth.”
Crow looks away, shamefaced, and shrugs. “It’s not like he was lying.”
Surprisingly, Rean’s voice is soft. “I don’t care what you did with him.”
Crow’s eyes snap back to Rean and his jaw drops because there’s no trace of disgust whatsoever.
Crow tries to find words, but comes up empty.
As always, though, Rean seems to understand what Crow doesn’t know how to say. “If it was what you wanted, I wouldn’t care if you fucked your way through half of Zemuria, Crow,” he explains, meeting Crow’s eyes seriously before his gaze softens. “All I care about is whether or not he hurt you.”
Crow finally manages to find his voice. “Hurt me how ?”
“Did he… force anything or coerce you?” Rean tries as gently as he can. “Make you feel like you couldn’t say no?”
Crow doesn’t know how to answer that. “No. Not exactly. I mean, he didn’t push me into anything I didn’t offer.”
Rean’s thoughtful expression goes tight.
“It’s fine,” Crow insists. “It was my choice.”
Rean nods in hesitant acknowledgment. “You say that, but the way you’re acting makes me think there’s more to it,” he presses gently. “Most people don’t throw up when they see an old fling, no matter how embarrassing a decision it was.”
Crow lets out a long, exhausted breath. As loathe as he is to dredge up the specifics of the sordid arrangement, Rean deserves the truth.
Well, it’s not like this was going last, anyway.
“It’s… it’s not as big a deal as you’re makin’ it out to be. I’m just being dramatic.” He exhales and runs a hand through his hair, hating how unsteady he feels. “I signed up to do Cayenne’s dirty work. It was my fault for not looking too closely at what that involved.”
This is, apparently, the wrong thing to say, because dread is mixing itself into Rean’s concern and it’s taken on an edge of something almost… fearful?
“Did… did Cayenne make you—”
“He never made me do anything,” Crow snaps. “If he needed dirt on somebody and couldn’t get solid proof, he’d come to me. Like I said before, raising an army is expensive, and he would’ve had to cut the ILF’s funding if I didn’t help him out. You can’t exactly lay people off from a terrorist organization—not if you don’t want ’em to blab all over the place, so there’s really only one option and it ain’t pretty. I sure as hell wasn’t gonna let that happen, especially when I recruited them. It was my responsibility to take care of my people, so I did what I had to.”
Rean is very still, but the atmosphere around him is a tempest so brutal Crow can almost see it. He usually associates Rean with fire, but right now, he’s ice.
He knew Rean would be pissed at him, but not like that.
He feels more raw and exposed than he’s ever been, sick with shame so thick he’s drowning in it. The silence is suffocating and oppressive, so heavy on his chest he swears he can feel his ribcage fracture.
“Bastard,” Rean finally growls out, the sound half-choked, like it hurts, because of course it does.
He wonders why Rean is surprised. He should know by now that if Crow is anything at all, it’s a liar.
“I’m going to kill him,” Rean grits out, and the pronoun takes Crow by surprise. “No, death is too good for someone like him. I’m going to cut him open and make him eat his own entrails, rip out his fingernails…” Crow thinks he hears Rean mutter something about his intention to ‘cut his dick off and shove it up his own ass until he chokes on it’, and Crow isn’t sure which shocks him more: Rean’s abrupt violence or that it’s not directed at Crow.
When Rean starts to seethe so deeply his breathing gets ragged and his hand involuntarily clutches his chest, Crow worries that the ogre power might not really be gone after all.
“Rean,” he tries, unsure what to say since some of Rean’s anger has to be reserved for him. “I know it was fucked up.” He swallows, clenching one hand into a fist. “And you deserve better than an embarrassment of a partner.”
“I could never be embarrassed of you. Not for that,” Rean replies, anger suddenly snuffed out in favor of concern. Then, his voice turns serious. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he explains, as though this point is the most important thing Rean has ever said.
“I mean, I set up a bunch of innocent dudes to get extorted.”
“None of them was innocent, and the only one being extorted was you,” Rean answers, the words fired like bullets he can’t hold back. He winces immediately, like he can see how deeply they’ve hit.
“I wasn’t… no, you’ve got it wrong,” Crow tries, his own voice sounding as weak and shaky as he feels, unable to hold back the barrage of things he’s always known but couldn’t let himself put together because the picture they formed was too ugly to acknowledge.
Of course it wasn’t a coincidence that Cayenne only asked for his help when the target had a weakness for handsome, young men. That these cases always seemed to be “emergencies” that required action within a few days, a timeframe that always coincided with one of Cayenne’s parties right when Cayenne was short on mira for the ILF.
Did he really need the blackmail, or was he just trying to control Crow? Both? Neither? Was it about the power? Maybe he just got a kick out of humiliating a filthy, immigrant commoner.
And fuck, was it ever humiliating.
Selling himself would have been honest work at the very least. An exchange of goods and services. A transaction. What he did for Cayenne was different. It felt wrong, somehow dirtier than anything he’d done while trying to survive.
Well, this is great. A whole new can of worms Crow didn’t even know was there until it cracked open, and now they’re pouring out in an endless, wriggling mass.
And yet, despite how gross Crow feels, Rean isn’t repulsed in the slightest.
He’s not asking Crow to leave.
The revelation leaves him almost breathless.
“Even so,” Rean replies, carefully not disagreeing while also not dismissing the issue, “I shouldn’t have brought it up tonight. I just… couldn’t bear you blaming yourself.” He waits for Crow to meet his eyes. “You’re not an embarrassment. Not ever.” Then, he tacks on, “Unless you’re wearing that awful black vest with buttons on both sides.”
It’s so unexpected that it actually startles a laugh out of Crow.
“What I mean is, you were still a kid—especially compared to guys like Fontaine. Even if you were throwing yourself at them, they should have—they absolutely knew better. What they did is a reflection of them, not you,” Rean explains. His face goes dark again. “And I will make sure every single one of them pays for it. Personally.”
Rean likes to talk about how far he’ll go, how he loves Crow so much it scares him sometimes because there’s no line he wouldn’t cross for Crow’s sake, but Crow has never for one second believed that if push ever came to shove, Rean would choose him over the greater good. Not because he didn’t love Crow enough, but because that would be the right thing to do, and Rean always did the right thing.
The look on Rean’s face has Crow questioning that certainty.
He’s seen Rean angry before. Seen him furious beyond reason, seen him feral and literally out of his mind, but he’s never seen Rean like this .
He’s not sure how to describe it, exactly. “Rage” falls short. Wrath, Crow thinks, then corrects himself.
Hate.
It’s surreal to see it on Rean—the man who couldn’t even hate Lechter and Claire for their compliance in conspiring to throw Altina’s life away.
“Maybe don’t do something that’ll land you in prison,” Crow tries jokingly. “I can’t bail you out on a part-timer’s salary.”
“I don’t plan on getting caught.”
Rean says it so seriously, so honestly, with that steely determination in his eyes, that Crow has to recalibrate his entire existence and adjust everything he knows about Rean.
On one hand, it’s weirdly flattering. The knowledge that Rean would betray his own moral code to right what he perceives as a wrong against Crow. On the other, it’s just wrong to see Rean like this.
“You’re better than that, Rean,” Crow says.
“No, I’m not,” Rean answers. “You always think I’m some paragon of justice—and maybe it was even true when we were students, but that was before I knew what it was like to lose you.”
“This ain’t gonna kill me, Rean,” Crow reassures. “Yeah, it’s fucked with my head some, but I’ll be fine.”
“It’s not fair,” Rean says helplessly. “You’ve been through so much . I don’t know how you managed to endure it all.”
Crow is careful to bite his tongue before “technically, I didn’t” slips out.
“Spite, mostly,” he supplies.
Rean sighs, brows knitted together, uncomfortable and frustrated, but he decides not to push. “I know I need to let this go and let you deal with it when you’re ready. But you’re hurting and I can’t do anything to help you, and I really, really hate that.”
“Look, Rean, this whole thing sucks, but as long as you’re not breaking up with me, I really don’t care,” Crow admits.
Rean looks aghast. “You really thought I’d break up with you over this?”
Crow shifts his weight and sighs. “Most people would. Especially in your position.”
“Too bad. I love you anyway.”
Crow reaches out and draws Rean into a hug. It’s warm and familiar and safe —somehow, despite all the wretched bullshit of the night, he feels safe. His chest aches with gratitude and a fullness that almost makes his eyes sting—but not necessarily in a bad way.
Rean is here. He’s chosen to be here even though he doesn’t have to be. Crow doesn’t know what that means—if it means anything at all—but he’s going to enjoy it for as long as it lasts.
It’s not unusual for Rean to go off on his own for an afternoon or even a day trip. They’re not so codependent that they can’t function without each other. Occasionally, Crow takes his bike and visits Gelica or George. He’s met up with Jusis, Machias, and Elliot, and he’s got a standing lunch date with Fie in Heimdallr once a month.
It’s just… Rean’s been doing it way more often lately.
It started maybe a month after Musse’s party. At first, Crow was glad that Rean was getting out. But it’s become a weekly thing, and he’s even ditched Crow on a free day. It didn’t bother him until the day Rean told him he was meeting up with Jusis in Bareahard. Crow had called Rean to see if he’d be home for dinner, but he didn’t answer. So he called Jusis. And apparently, Rean had never been there at all.
It’s not that he thinks Rean is cheating. Rean’s not that kind of guy. Sure, it’s weird that he won’t tell Crow what he’s up to, and even more unsettling that whenever he comes back home, he’s got this utterly destroyed look in his eyes. He’s always clingy on those nights, but never wants anything more than cuddling. He just wants to hold Crow and tell him he loves him over and over.
He could ask about it, but Crow’s not sure he wants to know.
Maybe Rean has realized he can’t do this anymore. Maybe everything he learned at the party has finally sunk in, and he feels guilty he can’t stay. There was an article about a Marquis Fontaine—or rather, the former Marquis Fontaine—and his wife divorcing in the Imperial Chronicle around the time Rean’s strange behavior started, so the timeline makes sense. Apparently, his wife went scorched Earth after finally wising up to her husband's infidelities and took everything, down to the family name.
But maybe it’s got nothing to do with that at all. Maybe Rean just doesn’t trust Crow with whatever’s going on.
Crow isn’t sure why that last one hurts so much.
He doesn’t plan to bring it up. He’d much rather dance around eggshells and broken glass if it means he gets to be in the same metaphorical room as Rean for a little longer, but all that goes out the window the evening Rean comes home looking uncharacteristically disheveled and faces him with a heavy, shameful sigh.
“I need to talk to you,” he admits, his tone one better suited for a confessional than the kitchen.
Crow doesn’t know why he’s so suddenly seized by bone-deep terror. He saw the signs. He knew this was coming.
Somehow, none of that makes the reality any less awful. Goddess, he wants to puke.
“Okay,” he croaks out weakly.
Rean can’t even look at him. Wow, this is bad. Worse than Crow imagined.
“… I messed up,” Rean admits. “I really messed up.”
He shifts uncomfortably, hands still jammed into the pockets of his coat, which is just weird to Crow because Rean’s the one of them that always runs hot and never wears his jacket in the house.
“I know I shouldn’t have—it wasn’t my place to get involved.” He unconsciously runs a hand through his unruly hair.
Crow might not have caught it, given the state of electrified panic seizing his brain, but Rean’s movement is unsteady which draws Crow’s eyes to Rean’s hand, and allows him to glimpse the red across Rean’s knuckles.
“What the fuck happened to your hands?!” Crow asks thoughtlessly, seizing Rean’s wrists as firmly and gently as he can. Rean tries to pull away but doesn’t have the strength to refuse and ultimately surrenders without a fight.
Crow has been in enough bare-knuckled brawls to know the signs of a fistfight when he sees them. It takes him a moment to process “Rean Schwarzer” and “fistfight” in the same sentence because Rean Schwarzer is calm and collected and focused and absolutely not the kind of guy who’d resort to something like that.
Maybe Rean isn’t breaking up with him—maybe he just needs help hiding a body or something.
Crow doesn’t have the mental space to worry about the morality of actively hoping his partner has committed homicide.
“I went behind your back, and I’m sorry,” Rean replies, his voice painfully earnest, as though it answers anything. “I… just couldn’t let them get away with it.” Crow tries for eye contact, but Rean evades it. “I know it wasn’t my decision to make and I tried to let it go, but—” he breaks off. “At first, I just wanted to get rid of the blackmail, but when I actually saw it… fuck, Crow, I got so angry.”
Rean’s hands shake in Crow’s grip. Maybe it’s Crow who’s shaking. He can’t tell.
“They had to pay for what they did.”
Crow has no idea what the fuck is going on for a very long moment. It takes him longer than it should to realize the blackmail Rean’s referring to is the shit Crow collected for Cayenne, and when he does, Crow’s eyes widen in shock and disbelief as his gut churns.
Goddess, maybe Rean really has killed somebody.
“... Rean, what did you do?” he asks shakily.
“I didn’t want to let anyone see the photos,” Rean explains. “So I burned them and did some investigating. Followed those guys around until I had something concrete. Then I met with their spouses or parents and told them what I knew. Implied they might want to take some measures to protect themselves from potential fallout. Most of them didn’t need much convincing.”
Crow thinks he should probably feel violated, but Rean hasn’t actually breached his privacy. Crow would really have preferred if Rean had never seen those images, but better him than Musse.
“And how does all that explain why your hands look like they’ve been through a cheese grater?” he asks as calmly as he can.
“I went to see Cayenne today.”
Oh.
Oh.
“But—h-he’s not allowed visitors,” Crow stammers uselessly.
Rean shrugs. “Being the former Ashen Chevalier still carries some weight, apparently.”
“So… you just showed up and laid into him?”
“I wanted him to give you a written apology. A genuine one. I even offered to put a good word in in case he’s ever up for parole—not that I would actually have followed through with that.”
Crow scoffs. “You could’ve offered him the entire country and he still wouldn’t have been willing to say he was sorry for anything.”
“... I know,” Rean admits. “I won’t lie and say I went there with good intentions. I just… wanted to make him feel small and scared and alone, knowing no one was coming to help him. I might have gotten a little carried away.”
“I can see that,” Crow replies, lightly squeezing Rean’s hands, careful not to inflict pain.
“He’ll live,” Rean answers the question Crow doesn’t ask. Then tacks on, “Unfortunately.”
Shockingly, Rean means it.
“I know this wasn’t my fight,” Rean starts guiltily, and it sounds like it hurts. “I violated your trust. It was stupid and selfish, and I understand if you hate me for it.”
How could he ever hate Rean?
Rean is right that he had no business getting involved in Crow’s shit, but Crow can’t say he doesn’t feel immensely relieved that the blackmail is gone forever. And, he supposes he won’t have to worry about any awkward future run-ins with the nobility.
Granted, any normal person would probably find Rean’s behavior bordering on psychotic rather than endearing, but, well… Crow’s not exactly normal.
“I don’t hate you at all, Rean. Let’s get you fixed up,” and starts guiding Rean toward the sink.
“I don’t love that you kept it from me.” He turns the faucet on and sticks a finger underneath, waiting for it to warm up. “Shit, Rean, I was convinced you were gearing up to leave.”
Rean blinks in disbelief. “Why the hell would you think that?!”
“Oh, I dunno, maybe the secret trips to goddess-knows-where, the fact that you lied to me about where you were going, the coming home guilty and sad,” Crow responds dryly as he guides Rean’s hands under the running water.
Rean hisses briefly, but allows Crow to clean the cuts. They’re not bad now that he can see them without the dried blood, but they’re swollen.
Rean hangs his head, embarrassed. “… Yeah, I see how that might have looked bad.”
Crow turns off the water and pats Rean’s hands dry, then casts a healing art. The swelling recedes almost immediately.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about how no one was ever there to protect you when you needed them,” Rean explains. “I couldn’t be there for you then, but I thought that being here for you now might help somehow.”
“Rean, you can admit you just wanted to deck Cayenne,” Crow jokes. It confuses Rean for a moment, but then his lip twitches into a half smile. “He’s definitely on the short list for Most Punchable Face in Zemuria.”
That gets the laugh he wants. It’s small, but it’s there.
“You know, it ain’t fair that you get to punch all my enemies,” he continues.
Rean laughs again. “Still love me?” he asks, then immediately regrets it, like he’s afraid of the answer.
“Of course I love you. And anytime you start going on about how cringeworthy and dramatic C was, I’ll remind you of this moment.”
Rean scoffs. “Only one of us wore a cape.”
“I made that shit look good,” Crow replies. “Come on, my getup was way better than Rufus’s. How did he even see out of that stupid helmet? And white pants?”
Rean blinks. “You said you love white pants.”
“Said I love ‘em on you,” Crow clarifies. “The shadows really make your assets stand out.”
Rean sighs in exasperation.
“Oh please, don’t think I haven’t noticed how you ‘accidentally’ buy me shirts a size too small and take the tags off before I can return them.”
Rean shrugs. “Fair enough.”
“I don’t really know how to say this,” Rean starts. He gives an anxious, uncomfortable laugh and runs a hand through his hair in the way he does when he’s stressed and needs to occupy his hands with something. “I’ve… been thinking about the future lately. About what I want my life to look like five or ten years down the line.”
Crow is trying very hard not to throw up. He’s gotten complacent, let himself get too comfortable with what they have, and now he’s paying the price.
“And I realized that I don’t really care where I end up as long as you’re there with me.”
Crow waits expectantly for the “but” because it has to be coming, bracing himself with his hands fisted on the couch cushion.
“I’ll be happy whether we decide to get married or not,” Rean continues reassuringly. “I guess I just wanted to ask how you feel about it.”
“... How I feel about what?” Crow asks uncomprehendingly.
“Getting married,” Rean answers with deliberate gentleness.
Crow blinks. “To… you?”
Rean studies him for a moment, and then his expression shifts into understanding before it goes utterly flat. “Crow, please don’t tell me you thought I was breaking up with you. Again. ”
The way Crow’s entire body relaxes answers Rean’s question before Crow himself can voice a response.
Rean takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “Do you want to know how this ends, Crow?” he asks with a tender smile Crow doesn't understand. “It doesn’t. Not unless you want it to. I love you and I want to be with you until,” he stops himself with a shy little smile and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t ever want to be without you.”
Rean’s eyes are gleaming with sincerity and unrestrained affection, and Crow’s breath catches when all at once, he realizes that Rean means it.
He actually wants to marry Crow.
“I… really?” is all he manages. “Are you sure?”
Rean’s expression somehow goes even flatter, but then it softens. “Of course I’m sure. Honestly, I’ve been sure for a while. The first time I woke up next to you, I knew I wanted to start every day like that for the rest of my life. I’ve only waited this long to say something because I didn’t want to rush you, or make you feel obligated to say yes.”
Crow just looks at him and tries to wrap his head around what’s happening.
“Is it really so hard to believe?” Rean asks.
Of course it is. Rean is amazing— incredible; he’s everything. Kind and good and so damn sexy it should be illegal. He’s strong and smart and he’s overcome so much that “remarkable” sells him short.
Rean’s face suddenly slips into concern. “Crow… am I a bad partner?” His voice is worried now.
“What? No, not—what the hell? Where’d you get an insane idea like that?!”
“You always think I’m going to leave you,” Rean answers. “I have to be doing something wrong if you still feel that way after all this time.”
“Rean, I’m waiting for you to come to your senses,” Crow explains hurriedly.
“My senses?” Rean asks, perplexed. “Do you think I’m just… using you until I get bored or something? Crow, you have to know I’m not that kind of person.”
“Of course I know that!” Crow replies. He exhales, trying to find the words he wants and shape them into something that will explain what he means. “It’s not you—not at all. You’re amazing—that’s the thing. You’re… you make me feel,” there’s no word for what Rean makes him feel, nothing that could hope to capture the myriad emotions Rean elicits, but he gropes amid the flurry of adjectives fluttering like butterflies in his brain and tries to catch one without crushing it in his clumsy fingers. “Happy,” slips out. It’s not wrong, but it feels too juvenile, too simple to encapsulate his meaning. He exhales, conceding defeat to his own limited vocabulary. “You make me so fucking happy it scares me.”
He doesn’t know how to say what he means, but Rean seems to understand.
“Have I ever broken a promise to you?” Rean asks.
“No,” Crow answers. Rean has defied the Goddess, physics, and everything in between just to keep his word.
Rean takes Crow’s hand, and Crow watches in confusion as Rean lays the open palm against Crow’s own chest.
He looks at Rean questioningly.
“I promised I’d bring you home, right?”
Crow nods.
“You said I couldn’t do it. I shouldn’t have been able to. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”
Crow’s heart beats steadily against his own palm in answer.
“As long as your heart is beating, you can trust I’ll keep my word. Because this, right here, is proof. No matter what we’re up against—gods, monsters—whatever comes our way, I’ll be by your side. I’ll always choose you. Because I always have.”
Crow’s breath catches and he feels his heart pick up speed. From anyone else, it would be a metaphor; a cheap literary device steeped in cliche and mired in trite symbolism. Rean is more than talk in this case, more than pretty words and sentimental artistry. Rean is the reason Crow is alive. Ordine would never have intervened to change Crow’s fate—not because he wouldn’t have wanted to, but because he knew Crow too deeply and understood that Crow would never forgive him for taking Valimar away from Rean to save Crow’s life. Crow has just… never thought of it like that before.
Rean lifts Crow’s hand off his chest and takes it properly in his own. “Wherever I am in five, ten, or sixty years, I know it’ll be by your side. Whether you’re my husband or my boyfriend is up to you. Either way, I’ll be your partner for however long you want me, Crow.”
“Forever,” he blurts out. It’s stupid because nothing lasts forever, not in this finite world of theirs. It’s an impossible promise, and nobody knows that better than Crow, except… it’s impossible to revive the dead, too, and yet, here he is, thinking and breathing with a heart that’s about to beat out of his chest.
Isn’t the impossible what Rean does best?
Rean’s smile is bright and wide. “Good. Forever it is, then.” He gives Crow’s hand a squeeze. “Whether we marry or not doesn’t matter, and you don’t have to decide now.”
Crow hasn’t thought about marriage for himself since he was a kid. He was sure the possibility died along with his grandfather and burnt to ashes in the flames of his rage. The path he’d chosen ended in blood and an early grave, not a white picket fence, and that was that.
Somehow, he managed to be both right and wrong; he died and his story ended exactly the way he always assumed it would, but then it didn’t; it picked up again, a period forcibly made a semicolon by a pen wielding the power of a god. And now, the metaphorical pen is in Crow’s hand. He gets to decide the direction of his story—everything is open to him now, and with Rean by his side, anything is possible.
It’s strangely easy to imagine being married to Rean. Nothing between them changes, nothing aside from a pair of rings, a label, and a hyphen linking his surname to Rean’s—whose name should go first? Does Rean even want to hyphenate? Would Rean prefer to keep his surname in case he decides to take over the barony someday? They don’t have to do anything with their names to be married… but it would be kind of nice. Why is he even worrying about this when Rean is literally right there?
“Would you wanna hyphenate?”
Rean blinks, and Crow watches as Rean works Crow’s thought process backwards to make sense of his meaning. He’s gotten so good at it that he understands before Crow even realizes his remark had absolutely no context.
“Armbrust-Schwarzer does have a pretty nice ring to it,” Rean replies with a smile so full of love that Crow’s heart skips a beat.
Crow finishes folding a shirt and places it on top of the pile in the laundry basket when his ARCUS buzzes with a message from Rean.
Rean: I need to talk to you when I get home.
Rean: It’s nothing bad! I love you very much and we’re not breaking up.
Rean: ❤️
Crow sighs and shakes his head with a smile. He sends back a heart so Rean knows he understands, and sets the device down on the table before turning back to the laundry.
Crow appreciates the gesture. He knows he shouldn’t need it, but he can’t quite bring himself to brush it off and tell Rean to stop when it helps. It probably shouldn’t have taken literal years for him to figure that out, but there’s a learning curve to relationships and this is the first real one either of them has been in.
And the last, if Rean is to be believed.
They’ve had a few more conversations about the whole marriage thing. Crow still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around why someone like Rean would want to marry him, but apparently, there’s no accounting for taste.
Crow stops himself abruptly. If Rean knew Crow’s thoughts were starting in that direction again, he might worry that he’s been a bad partner.
Whether it makes sense to Crow or not, Rean loves him. How things will play out is anyone’s guess, but Crow’s not getting his hopes up. He’s going to enjoy what he has for as long as he has it. There’s no point in borrowing grief from the future—not when it doesn’t actually blunt the pain of reality.
He’s been living his life the same way he used to plan operations: accounting for every angle so even if he finds his back against the wall, he’ll know how to adapt. It’s taken an embarrassingly long time for him to realize that despite his best strategizing, Rean has always outplayed him without even trying.
So he’s going to take shit as it comes. Or he’ll keep trying to. He’s honestly a lot better than he used to be.
That doesn’t say much, but hey, this shit ain’t easy.
He finishes up the laundry and heads to the kitchen to start preparing dinner. He takes off the wolf’s head ring he still wears and smiles at it warmly as he sets it inside the little dish he bought specifically for that purpose. He’s changed out all his other accessories, but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to ditch the ring. He feels naked without it.
Crow’s not one for sentimental attachments, especially to objects, but there’s something about Rean taking the time to pick that out for him while the world was crumbling around them and the threat of losing his own mind loomed over him. Rean did that for all his friends, of course, but it made Crow feel like he belonged. After everything they’d been through and all the harm Crow had done, that ring was a reminder that Rean thought no differently of him.
He’s not making anything fancy for dinner; just a quick noodle bowl. He’s busy searing strips of beef in a pan on the stove when he hears the front door open. He smiles involuntarily.
“I’m home!” Rean calls out, as he always does, while he shucks his coat and boots. “Smells good,” he remarks, his voice drawing closer.
“Just a beef bowl,” Crow replies.
Rean’s hands settle on Crow’s hips and he leans in as Crow turns his head to meet him for a quick kiss.
As usual, Rean asks, “Anything I can help with?”
“Nope. Almost done here. Just gotta throw the noodles in.”
Rean nods and makes his way over to the counter. He places the cutting board, dirty knife, and the other few used prep items in the sink before he rolls up his sleeves and starts washing.
It’s not unusual for Rean to do this. It minimizes the after-dinner clean-up, and keeps him in Crow’s proximity, so Crow doesn’t shoo him off.
“How was your day?” Rean asks.
“You should’ve seen the mess Reese made of his laptop,” Crow answers. “It has more viruses than St. Ursula’s at peak flu season.” He shakes his head. “Makes me miss the orbal computer room. At least kids weren’t using those for porn.”
“You don’t know that’s how his computer got infected,” Rean replies.
“Oh yes, I do. I know very, very well and I wish to Aidios I didn’t.”
Rean chuckles. “It’s just as awkward for him as it is for you. Try not to embarrass him too much.”
“I’m definitely adding lessons on orbal net safety to the curriculum,” Crow says, tossing the noodles into the pot of boiling water.
Rean finishes cleaning everything in the sink and plants a quick kiss on Crow’s cheek before he heads off to set the table.
The noodles cook quickly and the bowls are easy to assemble. Once he’s finished, he washes his hands and grabs his ring out of its dish—and immediately notices that something about it is off.
It’s lighter for one thing. It’s also much shinier. There are two thin channels of inlaid diamonds at the edges, and a thicker one in the center. The rest of the band is silver. It’s somehow both flashy and understated, and Crow just stares bewilderedly at it for a solid twenty seconds while his brain tries to process its existence.
“I thought you could use an upgrade,” Rean explains.
Crow looks up, utterly dumbfounded, as Rean approaches him. His smile is carefully neutral but it twitches at the edges, like he’s holding back a grin so wide it might split his whole face, and Crow just watches as Rean takes the ring out of Crow’s palm and lowers himself to one knee and holy fucking shit, is this—this is really fucking happening.
Crow almost doesn’t hear Rean ask, “Will you marry me, Crow?” over the cacophony of joy and shock in his brain.
It’s one thing to talk about it as an abstract concept or entertain it as a possibility. But for it to happen, actually happen, right here, in their kitchen, is…
“Meeting you changed my life. I didn’t know what I wanted or where I was going. I was afraid of myself and afraid to let other people get close. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to love someone the way I love you. I didn’t think I deserved to be loved the way you love me. I don’t know what’s in store for us, but I know I want to face it with you. I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Crow makes the sound of a kettle left on the stove too long, which is a fairly apt metaphor for what’s going on inside him right now: this strange, euphoric bubbling causing his heart to beat faster than boiling water. Something weird is happening with his eyes; they’re stinging and strange and his face is wet for some reason… is he crying?! Oh, oh shit, he didn’t think he could even do that anymore.
His inner skeptic is too stunned for words and all of Crow’s have evaporated into steam, so he just nods because what else can he do? Rean is down on one knee like some prince in a goddessdamn fairy tale, a smile breaking across his face like sunrise as he slips the ring onto Crow’s finger.
Another kettle-like noise escapes him, this one shorter and thankfully softer. Crow has imagined every possible ending, agonized over infinite what-ifs and anticipated every worst-case contingency, but never once did he consider this.
Rean stands up and pulls Crow into an embrace. Crow buries his face in Rean’s shoulder and holds on tight. It takes him a minute or two to rein himself in; it’s been a long, long time since anything has overwhelmed him like this. He feels like he’s just been knocked on his ass by a huge wave, like the ones he used to play in when he was a kid. It’s as if some long-dormant part of him is stirring from decades-long slumber, like shutters that have been locked for years suddenly fly open and let in the sun.
Once he’s mostly composed, he withdraws, but only far enough to kiss Rean, the man he loves—the man he’s going to fucking marry, and it occurs to him that he gets to do this, to kiss Rean whenever he wants, for the rest of his life. Another small kettle sound escapes him, but luckily, it’s smothered by Rean’s mouth.
“I love you, Crow,” Rean says adoringly, holding Crow’s face in his hands. “I love you so much.”
Rean could have anyone in the world, but he’s looking at Crow like he’s all the world there is. Like the only things he needs to survive are Crow and a steady supply of oxygen; everything else is extraneous.
“Are you sure?” Crow manages to ask, which is stupid because of course Rean is sure; he wouldn’t still be here if he weren’t.
Rean, patient as ever, just gives him a warm smile. “There’s nothing in this world that would make me happier. Are you sure?” he asks, as if Crow doesn’t worry every day that he could lose this.
Crow nods. “Yeah. I am.”
“How many times have I asked you not to touch the thermostat?” It’s more of an exasperated accusation than a question, and Crow instinctively lets out an irritated noise as he thumbs the well-loved wedding ring out of habit.
“It was 18 degrees, Rean,” Crow retorts.
Rean huffs, annoyed. “So put on a sweater or something.”
“I did. But I shouldn’t have to wear two sweaters in the middle of summer inside my own home,” Crow answers pointedly.
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
He can’t keep from rolling his eyes. “Says the human furnace.”
“You cranked it to 23,” Rean complains.
“That’s room temperature, Rean.”
“Ugh. You’re impossible sometimes!”
“Do you even hear yourself? You’re pissed that I adjusted the temperature while you’re not home and I’m doing your laundry and making your food,” Crow replies with an edge of incredulity in his voice.
Rean releases a dramatic exhale and stomps off toward the bedroom.
“The hell is up with him?” Crow mutters to himself, turning back to the stove.
Well, Crow knew Rean was a drama queen when he married him, so he shouldn’t be surprised. Talk about an overreaction, though. Rean is being absolutely ridiculous. He’s not the only one who lives here, and Crow shouldn’t have to make himself miserable just to appease Rean’s broken perception of hot and cold—especially when the man isn’t actually home!
Yeah, Rean complains about it every now and then, but he usually uses it as an excuse to walk around the house in nothing but boxers.
It’s not like him to be so snippy.
Something probably upset him at work. Rean only had a quick salad for lunch, and Crow’s willing to bet he forgot about the protein bar Crow stuffed in his pocket to keep him from getting hangry later. If Crow can’t trust him to feed himself properly, he’ll have to start making lunches for Rean again. He actually liked doing that—even though they eat together in the cafeteria most of the time, it was still nice to see Rean enjoy what Crow had made. Rean insisted Crow shouldn’t have to do that, especially when he did the majority of the housework, but clearly, Rean was wrong.
Crow finishes everything just as Rean returns to the kitchen, hair wet from the shower and his face looking guilty and apologetic.
“I’m sorry, Crow. We’re not divorcing and I love you. I just had a bad day at work.”
Where did that come from? Crow laughs. “I didn’t think we were.”
For some reason, Rean looks surprised. “Really?”
“Um… should I have?”
“Crow, for years you thought I was going to leave you over the most random things.”
… Rean’s not wrong about that. He remembers the Involuntary, knee-jerk reaction assuming the worst and constantly preparing to be tossed aside.
When did that change?
He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “Hooray for personal development, I guess?”
Rean pulls Crow into his arms and kisses him. Crow can’t remember when he first realized there was a promise on Rean’s tongue, offering an answer to the question he was constantly asking:
“How long will you stay?”
He doesn’t know how many kisses it took for Rean’s unspoken answer to become truth, or when Crow’s desperate inquiry became an echo of Rean’s vow, but he hears it now, that promise made and remade with every press of their lips:
“As long as I live.”