fate drabbletober 2018 prompt fill [DRABBLES]

[notturnito]

1) By the Seaside (day 1: getting lost somewhere)

The sea is clear today.

Alexander watches the tides roll into the beach, nearly reaching his place. The sun is hot against him, the back of his head, burning his nape; and its light scatters onto the rippling surface of the sea, until it is sparkling with the waves.

It is quiet here. But the silence is not unwelcomed. He is accustomed to the crowd—rowdiness, camaraderie; people of Makedonía and students of Aristotle weren’t known for being demure and reticent. But here, surrounded by the sound of the waves, as the sun pours onto the back of his head, contrary to everything he has learned in lifetime—Alexander finds himself enjoying it.

He digs his toes onto the warm cusp of the sand, and watches, as it pours down out of his soles when he wriggles his feet.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Alexander turns and finds him—the man. The one carrying the legendary Far-East strategist within him. Something inside Alexander burns, a little. As though an ember of excitement has been kindled, in response to a worthy opponent.

That flame flickers out of existence, when he returns his attention to the sea. It’s odd by how quickly the sight saps him from his will to fight. Perhaps there are some traces that remain from his future self after all, despite his current personality the manifestation of his youth.

He smiles, leaning his weight onto both hands. “Can’t help it. I happen to like the sight.”

Heh, odd to think about that, when he’s witnessed stranger things, things more miraculous from his adventures with Teacher. His Master has always had the penchant of attracting strong and skillful opponents. Alexander has always liked them for that.

He notices, of course, when Lord El-Melloi II moves to stand by his side. His spiritual signature makes it hard not to.

“Master is looking for you.” The sand on Alexander’s side shifts as Lord El-Melloi II draws closer. “You’ve been spending five hours since the Rayshift, and they're worried.”

Alexander blinks, looking up at him. “It’s really been that long?”

Lord El-Melloi II’s dark silhouette cuts an unsettling contrast against the sky, his face nearly shadowed from the sun’s harsh glare. But even then, Alexander still can see the perpetual frown on his lips.

“Yes,” he answers, clipped. “Master thought you must’ve gotten lost somewhere in Okeanos.”

Lost. Alexander considers it, looking away until all that is within his periphery is the neverending stretch of the sea, and the horizon above it.

“Lost? No, I don’t believe so,” Alexander finds himself answering, somewhat absent-mindedly. A pack of seagulls flies into the depth of horizon, stretching across the sky. He wonders if they will reach the sun. “Mm, at least I’m not lost in the way you might think.”

“Oh?”

Alexander tilts his head to side. “Yes. I think I’m at loss in trying to find myself.”

He hears Lord El-Melloi II inhale, harsh.

Alexander doesn’t mind it, and merely closes his eyes instead. The sun’s rays heighten in intensity, coloring the back of his eyelids red. It’s true; ever since he’s gotten summoned at Chaldea, he often finds himself at loss at what to do, how to conduct, what to feel.

Somewhere in the world that creates him—this aspect of his personality, also lies another him, the full-fledged one, the one where he is already a King and both Conqueror.

Is it right for him to act as though he is a King, when that merit wasn’t even accomplished in his own time? Is it right for him to stay a child instead, laughing and fighting and enjoying at his leisure?

He wanted to see the ocean that marks the end of the World. He’s seen it now. Is it a disservice to his older self, that he has gotten what he wanted, when his whole life had been a journey to reach that life-consuming goal?

“Rider... no, Alexander...,” Alexander turns at the voice, finding Lord El-Melloi II in hesitation. “You....”

Ah, and this too. Alexander grins at him, despite. “Caring so much for me, Caster?”

It’s still amusing to see how fast Lord El-Melloi II’s countenance freezes at his words. His hesitance in answering, too. Moreover the usual slack-jawed look he adopts when he is truly caught off-guard.

Alexander knows, alright. He knows of what they’ve shared—not him of now, of course—but that other him, the one who had seen the entire world in his lifetime, with this man before him. It’s hard not too when Teacher brought him along to solve that other Singularity where his older self had been summoned to fight in the Fuyuki Holy Grail War.

Alexander likes him, but he wishes that this man won’t be too abashed around him.

He decides to point that out. “You seem to be at loss as well,” he says, watching as Lord El-Melloi II’s head snaps toward him, his gaze wary.

Alexander continues, “You don’t know how to act whenever I’m around, because you are a person of my future, and I am a person of your past.”

He looks hurt—Lord El-Melloi II. He looks as though he wants to deny it, but he can’t. Because—

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

Lord El-Melloi II looks away.

It makes a tiny guilt twinge in his chest, and so Alexander leans back again, onto both of his hands. He doesn’t mean to strike so harshly into Lord El-Melloi’s heart. He’s... just grateful, for having someone that looks after him as well besides Teacher.

“Thank you,” Alexander says. “You don’t need to care, but I’m thankful for it. You don’t have to be so worried—I was just thinking of what I would do now, since I’ve already seen the ocean.”

Okeanos is no longer a dream outside of his reach.

It surprises Alexander when he hears Lord El-Melloi II say suddenly, “Of course there are many things, still.”

Alexander turns to him.

Lord El-Melloi II is staring down at him again, his hair lulled by the sea wind. But where Alexander could only find hesitance earlier, there is only determination, now.

“What do you mean you don’t know what to do?” He prompts, voice sharp. “You haven’t conquered the entire world, remember?”

And Alexander breathes.

Oh. Oh. Of course. Of course there is still something to do, after all. An ocean is naught but a single thing to pursue after. Alexander can’t believe he hasn’t realized it himself.

He has been summoned to an era unlike others, where heroes alike meet and time enables them to see other things he can’t even imagine. How could he even limit himself to one, single goal?

Alexander finds himself grinning until his cheeks hurt with the force of it. And he finds that Lord El-Melloi II is smiling too, his gaze fond, the expression smoothing the harshness of him.

“You have my thanks, Caster.”

Lord El-Melloi II’s smile softens a bit when Alexander rises up to meet him, calves still wet from the sand. And it’s in that moment Alexander knows that he is lucky indeed, for having a vassal so trustworthy and considerate.

He also has to know something. “Caster, tell me.”

“What is it, Rider?”

Alexander tilts his head to side.

“The relationship you have with my older self—is it anything like Hephaestion and I?”

“That—” he looks away, undoubtedly red to his ears, face blotchy from his blush. “The answer is yes.”

Alexander grins again. When Lord El-Melloi II turns and finds his eyes, Alexander holds his gaze, meeting him straight on.

“I’m glad,” he says. “My older self is surely a lucky man.”

2) - (day 2: pet names)

Enkidu doesn't know what to make of Gilgamesh.

They find him odd, his actions often contradicting in themselves. At one point he might look as though showing kindness towards Enkidu, yet toward his subjects there is only repulse. There is only condescendence.

Shamhat told them, that somewhere in that city called Uruk, there is a King buried in his own loneliness, until he is suffocated from it.

Loneliness, human emotions-- Enkidu doesn't think they will truly understand that. Humanity is still such a novel concept for them, and they can only begin to even scratch the surface. Even now as Enkidu lives with them, they have always found something new to learn each day.

They do understand the gods, though, which makes understanding Gilgamesh a little easier.

Gilgamesh, before meeting Enkidu, is a cruel tyrant seeking to do as he pleases. And it gets to his head. It makes his ego inflates as though he stands with the gods themselves. (And Enkidu still finds the gods annoying as well. Who are they to dictate actions and humanity?)

Yet, now, Gilgamesh isn't as troublesome.

Oh, he is, troublesome, Enkidu means. It's just that whenever Gilgamesh searches for another territory, he will seek for Enkidu, their opinion and also--perhaps not strength, but--company. He doesn't burst into anger whenever there is something Enkidu disagrees with with him. He only looks begrudging, a tad annoyed, before considering Enkidu's judgement.

It's also a novel concept for Enkidu, having opinions, being heard. Animals do not have conversations the way humans do, and it makes them feel somewhat empty in the chest, whenever they approach an animal and they no longer hear its voice.

Perhaps that is loneliness, the empty feeling. It makes Enkidu wonder if that's what Gilgamesh feels too.

Enkidu doesn't mind learning more. They can stay forever at Gilgamesh's side to understand him.

It's what makes him accept when Gilgamesh asks him, one day, to visit another plains that is said to intersect the mountains.

"It will be a long journey," Gilgamesh says to them, smirking. His red eyes ablaze when Enkidu meets his gaze. "Tell me, what do you require? Gold? Comfort? Don't be so humble. You will find everything at your disposal at once."

Ah, this too. Enkidu doesn't believe Gilgamesh will go so far for anyone else, before this.

Is that a human quality, too, to change within the span of time?

So Enkidu smiles, as they answer. "Only that I may accompany you, of course, Gilgamesh."

Something flashes in Gilgamesh's eyes, something foreign and Enkidu finds too quick to be able to identify.

"So stubborn," he says, begrudgingly, and Enkidu laughs at him.

And of course, whenever Gilgamesh is anywhere in the equation, Enkidu learns that it always comes down to--

"Fight by my side, Enkidu," Gilgamesh grins, ferocious. "Let us show these filthy mongrels a taste of divine power, as undeserving as they are."

Surrounded by the enemy's army, of course Enkidu will fight. This, at least, they know of, as a weapon of the gods'.

"You don't have to ask, really," Enkidu says, bringing forth their chains.

They've only had several chances at seeing Gilgamesh fight, before, but they know how unguarded that King truly is. He fights careless, uncaring. He always finds himself at advantage, after all.

Which why it is Enkidu who only notices, when a soldier comes from Gilgamesh's behind, as coward as though the action may be.

Enkidu is too far, and Gilgamesh is too mouthful as a name to call, and so Enkidu calls out--

"GIL!"

Gilgamesh turns, eyes wide. He doesn't waste time in taking down the soldier when he spots him by the side.

Enkidu forgets they don't have to warn him, really. Gilgamesh's armor is protection for him enough.

And as for what they called him in that battlefield, the confrontation comes later when they both walk, side by side, back to Uruk from their expedition.

"Earlier in the battle," Gilgamesh begins. He sounds odd, somewhat. Enkidu can't quite pinpoint how. "You called me something."

Enkidu stares at him.

Gilgamesh has his hair down, and it makes him look younger than what his charisma suggests. It almost softens him, his look. And under this light that Enkidu would recognize as hesitance later on, Enkidu answers.

"Yes."

Gilgamesh is silent, for a time.

"Say it again." He suddenly looks up, at Enkidu, almost challenging. "What you called me back then."

And Enkidu considers it. It comes as easily as breathing when they say the name outloud.

"Gil."

Gilgamesh looks away, quick. His eyes are too unreadable, either from the lack of emotions or rather, for having too much of them that one in particular can't possibly outdo the others.

Enkidu thinks that this is not something of human's, this trait. They think this particular quirk is one that belongs to Gilgamesh alone.

Finally, Gilgamesh speaks up.

"I like," he says, and Enkidu can recognize this as hesitance, now, "the way it sounds in your voice."

"I see," Enkidu says, gently.

Resolves forms in Gilgamesh's eyes. "From now on, I permit you to call me as such," he orders, imperious.

Enkidu can't help the smile forming on their lips.

"Who am I but to deny," they say, and Gilgamesh finally smiles.

3) An Act of Honesty (day 3: patching each other up)

Tristan finds him at the back of the barrack.

He seems to be attempting to nurse his wounds only with his one good arm, which doesn’t seem to be going any well, if Tristan is to judge by the constant fall of his bandages and the slight frustration on his face. And that reminds Tristan that he looks tired. Even from here, Tristan can see the way he slouches to side, his furrowing eyebrows, the deep lines on his forehead.

At least the wounds don’t seem to be so bad.

Tristan steps out of the shadows. “You seem to require assistance.”

Befuddlement crosses Bedivere’s face for a split second before he then looks up. At the sight of Tristan’s face, immediately the weariness set upon him vapors away. His face is bright.

“Sir Tristan,” Bedivere calls, as Tristan seats himself to his side. “Ah, your help is appreciated, but I assure you that I can definitely handle this—”

Tristan plucks the roll out of Bedivere’s hand. “I insist,” he says, meeting Bedivere’s gaze straight on.

All protests seem to die on Bedivere’s lips, when Tristan begins to unroll the bandages. They sit in the silence, for a while.

“You could’ve asked our esteemed court mage,” Tristan begins to say, “to heal your wounds.”

Bedivere sighs. “I’d rather not,” he grumbles, looking away. His expression softens then. “He’d be better off healing those with worse wounds than I.”

Right. Tristan forgets that Bedivere has always been like that. A man with too kind of a heart, who always puts others above himself.

Which is why Tristan shrugs, though inelegant as it seems, as he leans forward. “Have it your way.”

Bedivere also leans forward towards him, flinching slightly from the pain. This close, Tristan can see the dark circles underneath Bedivere’s eyes, the bruises on his skin, the fall of his hair onto his eyes. Tristan tries not to look further.

As Bedivere raises his arm and his stump, Tristan begins to wrap the bandage around Bedivere’s torso.

“So,” Tristan hears Bedivere, and looks up, finding Bedivere smiling at him. “What brings you here?”

It is blinding, the smile. Tristan accidentally tightens the gauze too tight, making Bedivere cry out in pain.

“Ah—” Tristan breathes, releasing his hold, to Bedivere’s slight wince. “I apologize— it’s not usually in my habit to slip....”

Bedivere has his hand pressing on his torso, as scarred as it is, still wincing. And Tristan is not used to tend people—he feels as though he is supposed to say something, to do something, but....

Suddenly Bedivere laughs. “I thought I’d never see the hands that hold Failnaught falter,” he says, his tone teasing, his eyes kind.

Tristan can only stare.

“I suppose,” he then quietly says, looking down, before reaching out to tend Bedivere’s bruised arm.

He takes Bedivere’s hand and holds it to help him keep raising it up, and tries to will his heart’s pounding down when Bedivere links their fingers together, the action unprompted.

“You haven’t answered my question, though,” Tristan hears Bedivere say again. “What brings you here, really? It can’t be that you just happen to feel like tending wounds.”

And Tristan’s heart leaps.

This is the part where he feels as though he is baring his heart for—not for the whole world, really, but only Bedivere. Only for Bedivere to see. And it’s honestly ridiculous by how much he is afraid of it. An act of honesty is only as right as chivalry is to knights, but Tristan is afraid. That is the honest truth. He is so afraid.

“I happen to like your company,” he says, as truthful as he can, without breaking apart. After a sudden spark of courage, he then adds, “I like it better than others.”

It feels as though he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. And Tristan starts, when he feels Bedivere take his hand so suddenly. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t lift up his head. He is still silent, when Bedivere speaks.

“Sir Tristan, I...” Bedivere grips Tristan’s hand tight. “Thank you, I’m glad that my presence is good company, for you.”

Tristan knows that if he lifts his head up now, he will see Bedivere, staring at him with earnestness, with easy honesty that always seems to come so easily to him. He will see Bedivere’s gratitude for something that Tristan is only half-truthful about.

Bedivere will never know about the truth of Tristan’s feelings. That Tristan, in truth, has never had his eyes for Isseult. From the beginning, it has always been—

Tristan doesn’t look up.

“Yes,” he says, voice only slightly above whisper, before continuing his work.

4) - (day 4: hospital visits)

Now that Ritsuka has grown closer with him, she always drops by unannounced.

“Hospital visit,” she says today, opening the door to Roman’s room, before then walking in.

Roman chokes on his hot chocolate, nearly ruining important documents of SHEBA’s observation records from this morning by his spray of chocolate-mixed spit, as Ritsuka walks to his bed and slumps onto it without a single care in the entire world.

He painstakingly wipes the stain on his desk, and only stares despairingly at the tiny spots of chocolate on the documents.

“Please, Ritsuka,” Roman begs, swiveling on his chair to face the one single person who is relaxing in his bed right now. “No.”

Ritsuka makes a noise of disagreement, as she kicks off her boots and socks and takes Roman’s blanket, pulling it up to her chin.

There’s no choice. Roman gets off of his comfortable chair and hovers above her, not knowing exactly what to do. Eventually, he settles for having both of his hands on his hips.

“This is not even the infirmary!” He protests, to Ritsuka’s noise of disorientation. “No, whatever you’re doing, no, you’re not using my room to sleep, ever. Just go to the infirmary if you don’t like your room so much.”

At once, Ritsuka wakes, grabbing his T-shirt by the front.

Roman screams.

“I’m begging you, Doctor,” she says, ignoring him as she stares at him with haunted eyes. “Please, please, please, you know Nightingale’s there. You know you can’t possibly let me sleep there when every single movement I do is labeled bacteria-inducing or—whatever she is always raving about!”

“But your room—”

“I’m telling you,” Ritsuka cuts him, pulling Roman closer by the collar of his shirt, making him face her eyes directly. “I can’t. Sleep. There. Not when Mama Raikou or Serenity or Kiyohime—anyway the three of them are there! They’re always there! And believe me, Doctor, I love them all so much, but I wish they wouldn’t love me as much and I honestly just need this- this one tiny sleep—”

Roman raises his hands. “Okay, okay! I get it, so please don’t pull my shirt too tight! It’s Magi Mari’s!”

Ritsuka removes her hold from Roman’s front shirt, giving him a judgmental stare. “Right,” she says. “I’m gonna hog the bed, so just—move me if you wanna scoot in, I guess.”

Roman can only watch, as she rolls over to side and pulls up the blanket. He sighs.

Not even long after he goes back to his seat, Ritsuka rolls over again, laying spread-eagled this time.

“The world is in ruins and the whole universe conspires against me,” she says, ominous.

Roman sighs again, and pushes his desk to propel his swivel chair toward Ritsuka. He has to paddle to reach her side. “I wish you can be that eloquent when we’re dealing with Singularities,” he grumbles, when he finally gets to it.

Ritsuka’s stare is blank towards the low ceilings of Chaldea. “I can’t sleep in the moment I finally got the peace enough to sleep. I don’t even know what I’m saying. Oh God. I’m turning senile.”

Roman tries to hold in his laughter. “You’re not even old, Ritsuka.”

Ritsuka’s head lolls towards him. “You’re a doctor, Doctor. You know it better. What I have here... you must call it... early senility. Yeah, that’s it. Latin name: Earlinus senilitinus.”

“There’s no Latin name for diseases, and I really think that you should sleep.”

“But—”

“Nope! No, nuh uh,” Roman places his hand covering Ritsuka’s eyes. “Doctor’s orders. Sleep!”

Then, Ritsuka is silent.

“Doctor...” Roman hears Ritsuka say, quiet, a direct contrast to her usually more enthusiastic self. It makes Roman sit up straighter, to listen. “Won’t you sleep, too?”

Roman smiles at that. He can’t help it when Ritsuka surprises him like that, with the warmth and empathy of her humanity. “I can sleep later.”

“But you didn’t sleep yesterday.” And Roman starts at that. How does she know...?

Ritsuka slightly tilts her head to side, to where she would face him if only Roman wasn’t covering her eyes. “You’re a bad doctor,” she tells him. “Humans need 8-hour sleep to get their minds straight, you know.”

Then, she adds. “Not that I am. Straight, I mean.”

Putting her joke on her sexuality aside, Roman can’t help but feel touched as well. He forgets, sometimes, that when people are talking about humanity, he too is included in that equation, now.

He is also human.

“I will sleep later, Ritsuka,” he says, trying his best to speak with a serene voice. It’s bad. He’s not used to do it.

Ritsuka snorts a bit. “You should work on your bedside manners. Really, if I got handled by a doctor like you in a hospital, I’d... I’d sue you. For being bad.” And as Roman slightly chuckles, Ritsuka then adds. “But you promise, Doctor? To sleep?”

Ah. But still, there is one fundamental thing humans can’t help but to do.

Roman smiles. “I promise,” he lies, despite his heavy heart.

5) Of Our Temporary Existences (day 5: scar worship kissing)

“On your right, Ruler!”

The warning comes a tad too late. There is a slight cry of pain from Amakusa as the enemy’s sword grazes his arm, serrating off the cloth of his right sleeve. That’s all how far it gets. Amakusa regains his bearing with ease, pulling the enemy closer by its arm, before driving his sword into its skull until its forehead bumps with the sword’s guard in a thud.

Semiramis is silent.

She watches him pull out his sword as the enemy vanishes, its remains blown out into the wind. She watches him as he stands in silent only for a while, chest heaving slightly, blood still running from the fresh wound on his arm. He looks disheveled, his usually pristine garb torn until she can see half of his upper body exposed.

Amakusa catches her looking before she can look away.

He smiles. “Thank you, Assassin,” he says. “I would have gotten off worse if it weren’t for your warning.”

Semiramis doubts it, though she is pleased to hear it in some deep recesses in her heart. “There is no need for that sweet talk,” she tells him as much. “I’m sure you could’ve handled it just fine.”

Something in his smile falters. Semiramis gains a semblance of satisfaction in seeing him that way and both in knowing that she caused that. But then his smile returns, softer than the one he gave her earlier, as well as the light in his eyes.

“Still,” he says, softly, and Semiramis’ heart burns.

“We should head back,” she says, unable to keep the hurry out of her tone. Her heart beats so terribly loud in her ears. “Master must’ve been waiting for us.”

“So soon? Shouldn’t we stay a bit, to enjoy the beautiful view here, just the both of us?”

And Semiramis breathes.

“Stop it,” she says, quietly. Then louder. “Stop it, whatever you are trying to do.”

Amakusa—that man has the gall to look questioning at her, his smile unfaltering. “I’m afraid I do not know what you mean, Assassin.”

Semiramis shakes her head. Her next words aren’t shaky, but it’s hard to keep her calm as the blood rushes to her head, burning and burning and burning. He is such a bad liar.

“This,” she says. “The way you are trying to recreate the relationship between us, as though to mirror the one that our parallels had in that other world.”

And this time, Amakusa’s smile does drop.

Does he think that she wouldn’t realize his efforts at that, since the day he was summoned to this world? That she wouldn’t realize the way his eyes would always trail at the sight of her, whenever she enters his periphery? That she wouldn’t realize the way he would always try to be in whatever team she is assigned to?

“You would do well to remember that I am not that girl, Ruler,” Semiramis says. “That Assassin whose life became your sword, that’s not me. You’ll only find disappointment if you seek for her within me.”

Amakusa stares at her, stunned to silence.

At the sight, Semiramis feels her heart ache, though for unknown reasons. She refuses to seek those reasons.

But then Amakusa smiles again—but this time, he looks apologetic with it. Slightly self-deprecating. His smile looks more honest than ever.

He chuckles. “Am I that bad of a liar, Assassin?”

Semiramis can’t help but to smile. “Yes,” she says, “you are.”

Amakusa looks considering at that, humming. “I see,” he says quietly.

“But,” he then adds, looking up at her. His eyes shine golden, from reflecting the sun’s light. “I still want to learn more about you. That is, if you would let me.”

Semiramis’s heart aches.

Truth be told, if there is one thing she envies from the girl who was summoned as Amakusa’s Servant in that Holy Grail War, it’s this. It’s what Amakusa has been working on with her, since the beginning. The bond of their relationship, her dream intertwining hers.

“You are a persistent man, aren’t you,” Semiramis says, fond, despite knowing deep in her heart that it is not a question but a fact.

Apologetically, Amakusa shrugs. He smiles again at her. “I’m afraid it lies in my nature to be that way.”

This time, Semiramis truly smiles back.

“Goodness, really,” she says, approaching him, her body light. She doesn’t dislike this quality of him. And she thinks... that Semiramis from the other world, she must had liked this quality of his as well. “Well, I do dislike it when I see a person whose hardwork goes unrewarded.”

She’s so close to him now, their eyes easily meet. This close, she can see how he is not that far from her in height, how young he is, his boyish features.

Amakusa’s eyes are wide as he stares at her. “Semiramis...?”

She leans closer to him, and reaches to hold his face. He doesn’t notice this, and Semiramis will never tell this to anyone, but there is a scar there on the smooth of his cheek, a thin line nearly fading. It is hidden, and Semiramis can only know the scar’s existence from the memories of that other Semiramis, who once were a Servant to Shirou Kotomine, from when Hanging Garden of Babylon fell and they both along with it while holding one another.

She kisses him there, on the corner of that scar.

.

The convergence of our temporary existences perhaps led to a parting which only the dead can remember ever since. Still, though however briefly, it left a mark- that leads us to one another, once more.

6) The Greatest Warriors (day 6: making fun of each other)

“Never have I ever,” Cú Chulainn begins, sleazily grinning. His tone is purposefully drawn out as to extend tension. When one looks, one can see how his eyes glint under the light, red as though gems.

Then: “... been disguised as a woman for a part of my life,” he finishes.

“Fuck,” Achilles breathes out, to Cú’s loud cackling. He takes a swig from the beer can under Cú gleeful gaze.

“That’s a dirty one, brother,” Achilles says when he is finished, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“What can I say? History doesn’t hide anything about us heroes.” Cú leans back, his body lax. “Reminded of bad memories?”

“Of being a woman? Nah, I was radiant in that dress.” Deidamea, however, comes to mind, and it sours a bit of Achilles’ good mood. “Bad memories of someone, though? That I have.”

“Ooh. Bad lover?”

Achilles sighs. “Got married to her just because I wanted to be free. She was pretty, but...,” this time, he remembers Patroclus. And suddenly his chest is hollow, his heart bruising from his memories. “I had someone else in mind.”

Achilles takes another chug of his beer, despite unprompted, and Cú laughs at his action.

“You ain’t supposed to drink yet—ah well, whatever. Followin’ yer lead, then,” he laughs again, taking a swig from his own can. “Ah, damn. This stuff’s real shit.”

Achilles shrugs. “Nothing better than drinking those stuffs with friends, though.”

Cú Chulainn’s red eyes glint. “Oh, so we’re both just friends?” He teases, prompting Achilles’ laugh. “Oof, thought we had something special, Achi. Ah, by the way: your turn, bud.”

“Sorry, got carried away.” Achilles racks his mind for something, anything from Cú life story. Remembering Deidamea brings him an idea, and for the first time ever he is thankful for her. “Ah, got one.”

“Never have I ever...” Achilles says, intently holding Cú’s gaze. “Been killed by a woman.”

This time, Cú grimaces.

“Dammit,” he swears, and Achilles gleefully grins. “Just so ya know, bud, Medb is a vicious woman. She’s tenacious. She’d stop at nothing to get me.”

“She’d be great friends with Deidamea, then,” Achilles surmises, watching as Cú takes a swig as per the game’s rules.

“Maybe,” Cú answers as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Dunno, Medb doesn’t have friends. ‘Kay, so... never have I ever... been hung upside down, burned by my own mother, over a pyre.”

Achilles bursts. “It was that one time—”

Cú stares at him, an eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

“Okay, alright,” Achilles amends himself. “It was so many times that I’d lost count. But still, she meant well!”

“Man, you’re messed up. If I were burned at a pyre by my god dad, I’d...,” Cú trails off, unfocused. “Huh. Dunno. He’d never been really around that much in my life.”

“Heh, godly parents.” Achilles shakes his head. “No matter in which country, they’d always be neglectful.”

“Ooh, damn right. And deadbeat.”

“And a pain in the ass!” Achilles adds, locking his gaze with Cú, only finding agreement there. They nod together in the spirit of camaraderie, and takes a chug of their respective beer again.

Alcoholic beverages don’t really affect Heroic Spirits, but the good atmosphere and the easy-going attitude Cú Chulainn has, they bring Achilles memories. It’s easy to fall one step beside him, easy to like Cú Chulainn, with his sharp grin and drawling voice and fighting prowess. He’s nothing like Patroclus at all, this hero, but Achilles can’t help but remember anyway.

“Hey,” Cú calls out, nudging him on the leg with his toe. “Your turn.”

“Right,” Achilles says. He has to think a bit on what to challenge. “Never have I ever... had to look for a wife, just because all other men got scared I could steal their wives.”

Cú chuckles at that, raising his beer can in acceptance. “Can’t help it. Being this good-lookin’ comes with a price.” Achilles laughs as Cú takes a swig of his beer with ease. When he is finished, he says, “Though, I’m more surprised about you.”

Achilles blinks at that. He stares at Cú in surprise. “What?”

Cú jerks his head at Achilles. “Y’know, yer good-lookin’ yourself.” His eyes, red as though fire ablaze, rakes at him up to down with lazy interest. He finally settles to return back Achilles’ gaze. This time, his voice sounds different when he speaks. “Kinda hard to believe that no one’s ever tried to get into your pants, really.”

Achilles stares back.

In this light, slouched against the bed, legs lounging with careless grace, it’s easy to find Cú Chulainn beautiful too. His hair, spiked back, reveals the shape of his face, making it more prominent under Chaldea’s harsh white light. He can easily imagine how it would feel to hold him, feel the way Cú’s muscles work on his back with both of his hands.

It’s a tempting thought.

“Oh, many tried,” Achilles replies, slow and with intent. When he leans on the side of the bed, he can see how Cú’s eyes follow his movements. “But there was the war back then. The greatest war, fought by the best of our kinds.”

“Aristos Achaion,” Cú says slowly, drawling out his voice. Best of Greeks. “That’s what they called you back then.”

Achilles laughs. “Good ol’ times,” he agrees. “Not for the romancing, though.”

“I had that one too,” Cú mulls, head tilted as he reminisces. “The greatest war. Though I had to fight Connacht’s army all by myself. What a life.”

They both take another swig of their beers again.

“But,” Cú says suddenly, looking at Achilles. “Time’s different from back then.”

Achilles feels a smirk form on his lips. “Indeed,” he says, also tilting his head. “I think I could afford a romance or two, this time.”

And Cú Chulainn grins, feral and wild, free as though the wind.

+ Bonus: Impermanence

Gilgamesh laughs and Kirei forgets whatever he’s about to say.

He can’t remember either way. Not when Gilgamesh smirks and tilts back his head that way, uncaring if he is baring his throat to Kirei’s sight. Not when he is smiling as though he holds all the answer to the universe, and that smile is all that he is willing to give. Not when the red of his eyes glint as though rubies reflecting the light. Not when sunlight falls from the windows of the chapel, burning a mirage of halo onto the back of his head.

And when Gilgamesh walks toward Kirei in that student uniform of his, looking years younger than he is supposed to be, light shifting behind him until his hair, too, shines golden within it; Kirei finally thinks, that’s all Gilgamesh will ever be.

Gilgamesh ten years after The Fourth Holy Grail War is still the same as Gilgamesh back at the first time he met Kirei. All golden. All glorious. All beautiful. He itched a way within Kirei’s soul until that existence of his is one that entangles Kirei.

It went back before Emiya Kiritsugu destroyed Fuyuki with fire and Kirei woke up finding Gilgamesh before him, manifested in flesh, and they kissed in hunger and want and everything that burned in the hollow where Kirei’s heart used to be. It went back to the first of their meeting, even before Kirei found Gilgamesh loitering in his winery. It went back to the first time Kirei saw Tohsaka Tokiomi summon an existence more ancient than his comprehension, first time Kirei laid eyes upon the form that is the King of Heroes.

Kirei just never thought of the consequences, until now.

Gilgamesh could live a hundred years more and he would still be golden. His existence is one of permanence. He would remain this way forever as he is in Kirei’s mind: a king who possesses the garden of the world; an existence that is more than human’s.

On another hand, Kirei has aged.

He ten years before is not the same as he is now. He’s older. Perhaps wiser. Despite the hollow in his chest, there is something to look forward to when he wakes up every day. There is grey in the strands of his hair now. There are new wrinkles he finds each time he looks upon a mirror.

Kirei wonders how much longer they can make this last. Whatever they have between them. This connection.

One day, Gilgamesh will wake up and find the sight of Kirei lacking. Will wake up and find that he no longer needs Kirei. And perhaps by that time, Kirei will grow to be so undesirable, that Gilgamesh will finally find it in himself to kill him.

Perhaps, but not now.

Now, Gilgamesh has walked even closer to Kirei, until the close distance makes Kirei reach out with familiarity, and finally his arms are holding Gilgamesh by the hips.

Now, Gilgamesh is before him.

“What are you thinking about, mm?”

Gilgamesh stares down at him, glorious and beautiful and everlasting. His gaze is one that burns.

“The future,” Kirei finally answers.

Gilgamesh’s smirk widens. He bends down, until the golden of his hair brushes over Kirei’s, until Kirei is close enough to see that the red in Gilgamesh’s eyes is of blood instead of gems, until their lips are only a breath away.

“Sounds boring,” he says, eyes glinting, before leaning forward and capturing Kirei in a kiss.