Wishbone

Figaro bit into his breakfast and Nero swallowed, looking carefully away. Figaro... Garcia, or whatever he was going by now, was seated at his counter, eating his toast. What a goddamn pleasure.

 

"It's good," Figaro said, smiling cheerily at him. He was, but Figaro didn't need to sound like he knew it. "Y’know, you never told me you could cook so well."

 

Not entirely true, considering it was all he did when he moved into the manor a month ago, but that wasn't the "never" Figaro was referring to. Nero snuck a glance at him, a crumb of toast on his face, but kept his attention on the eggs. "Yeah," Nero said. "Guess it ain't really crossed my mind."

 

They remained there for another few minutes, Nero washing dishes as the remaining eggs sizzled, while the clatter of Figaro's fork reminded him he was still there. The Manor’s kitchen had sort of become Nero’s space, with the exception of Kanaria, and Nero was perfectly happy to keep it that way. He didn’t hate company, but with the 23 other people—especially Brad—hovering around, Nero coveted the alone time. It was nice to have something he was good at.  Nicer, still, to be appreciated for it.

 

He switched off the faucet. He heard the crunch of Figaro biting into toast. "It's quite an achievement, cooking breakfast for a house as large as ours."

 

Nero tutted, nervous. "Oh, it ain't no trouble. Just the people that ask for it. I stress cook, anyhow."

 

A thoughtful hum. "You must be quite stressed."

 

He swallowed. "Who ain’t? Moving in is still a bit of an adjustment for lots of us." His eyes slid over to Figaro, cleaning up his plate. "You know the Northern wizards. Those folks are gonna be tetchy for a while."

 

Figaro nodded, smiling. "Quite. Though, you'd be as familiar with them as I am, considering neither of us much associate with them."

 

He said it like it was a little joke between them, with a twinkle in his eyes, sharp and watchful. It was a warning. Nero made a noise of agreement. 

 

“Yeah,” he said, “for sure. You done yet?”

 

Figaro pushed away a clean plate and hummed. “You’re quite the chef.”

 

Nero smiled. He turned away so Figaro couldn't see his eye twitch. “I know. Now get the hell outta my kitchen.” 

 

​

​

​

It was at odd times that Nero felt a pang in his chest when he thought about the North, pieces of emotions that could possibly be placed as homesickness on better days and just plain sickness on regular ones. He could remember it clearly– the cold bite of twin lockpicks in his hair, ready to be unsheathed if anything caught his eye. The murmurs of the bats, telling stories to him and him alone, alone in the little kitchen the gang had lauded as his territory. Running his hand along Brad’s chest, feeling for injuries he’d been keeping to himself, begging, please, for just one night, you can indulge me this, can’t you?

 

He’d hated it. He missed it. He hated how much he missed it, those long nights spent sick with thoughts of betraying the one man who’d ever loved him enough to keep him. Figaro’s mocking laugh as he’d done it would be burned into his mind forever, but he’d turned Brad in anyways, coming out just as lonely but twice as bereft. He’d thought if he could keep Bradley Bain in a gilded cage and run far, far, away, he could put it all behind him. 

 

When Brad yawned and stretched into his kitchen, jacket immediately abandoned on a stool for a cushion, elbow propped up on the counter, raising his eyebrows and letting Nero take the first word, Nero felt 200 again. 

 

There was a beat over the counter as they assessed each other. Brad looked thinner than he had 100 years ago: not unhealthy, but less broad. He was hunched over with his head resting on his fist, languid and just a little tired. Brad’s Adam's apple bobbed; Nero’s eyes tracked the movement.

 

Nero turned away and flipped a sausage. 

 

“Need somethin’, Brad?”

 

It came out quieter than he meant it to. Brad’s eyebrows climbed ever higher. “I’m Brad now, am I?”

 

“Don’t be an asshole.”

 

He exhaled through his nose, a noise that Nero noticed only because he was listening for it. “Breakfast, maybe. You makin’ somethin’?” 

 

“If you want the sausage, just say so.”

 

“Give it to me how I like ‘em, then.”

 

“Demanding piece-a’shit Northerner.”

 

Nero could hear the way Brad’s lips were quirking into a grin. “Nagging Eastern chef.” 

 

There was a pause. Nero rummaged through the fridge for some eggs, of which the manor seemed to have an unreasonably large supply of. Brad dropped his voice into a gentle tone, asking, “You doin’ alright?”

 

Nero cracked an egg over the sausage, the way Brad preferred. Internally debated the merits of adding shredded cheese. “Bit early in the day to not be.”

 

“You know that ain’t true.”

 

“And I’m the naggin’ one?” Nero flipped it. The egg splattered dangerously close to the edge of the pan. He snuck a glance over his shoulder— Brad was staring at him intently, waiting for him to continue. Nero huffed and looked back, fishing for a plate in the dishwasher. He’d better get some extras out for the rest of the morning. “Nothin’ I ain’t dealt with before.”

 

“Don’t mean you gotta deal with it alone,” Brad said, sighing. His jacket rustled as he adjusted his weight on the stool. “You’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do.”

 

There was that tone Brad used on subordinates, one that brokered no room for argument, like he was utterly sure it was true. You’ll go left at this hallway. You’ll listen to me when I speak. You’ll leave the riches behind, get yourself out of these first, come to me for help—damn it, partner, don’t you trust me?

 

“Yeah,” Nero said, without feeling, sliding the egg and sausage onto a plate. He looked over at Brad, sitting up straighter, still giving him that careful, considering look. “Sure. You want some sauce with this?”

 

Brad didn’t look satisfied, but his eyes lit up at the plate. “I’ll take it however the chef gives it to me.”

 

Fine, Nero thought.

 

“Fine.”

 

 

 

The rest of his morning went—not smoothly, but it went. Lennox was an early riser and had already stopped by, asking after Figaro, to which Nero gave a curt reply that he immediately regretted. Lennox was a straightforward man. Nero liked that about him.

 

"I'll take some toast," he said, after Nero offered, "if you really insist. I don't normally eat after working out, but..."

 

Nero clicked his tongue. "I don't see the point in it. Come on, you're too thin for a man who runs around as much as you do. I can get you some meat, too?" 

 

Lennox left with a small pile of food. Nero figured that was the end of it—three people, gone though his kitchen; what was he, a portable breakfast bar?—but before he could clean up, the rest of the East deigned to make themselves known in his kitchen.

 

Faust Lavinia, along with the noble kids from Blanchett, quietly made themselves at home on his counter. The rest of the East was a bit of a mystery to him, even now, even with the ordeal they’d gone through with Nova, Nero couldn’t quite say that they’d gone through it together. He found them nice enough. On any other day, he’d be looking forward to spending time together. 

 

It’s not their fault, Nero reminded himself, and carefully smiled at them. Faust looked up, turned toward him, though his mouth was still pinched in a frown. Still, his posture straightened, and the hands that rested deliberately in his lap were placed upon the counter, turning just slightly towards him. Nero’s smile softened into something more genuine. Shino and Heathcliff—Nero kept up with kingdom politics, but only through word of mouth from his old diner—bickered quietly in sleepy, adolescent voices. Heathcliff was fussing over something, Shino was complaining, and their attention was fully focussed on each other. A small collective of quiet people, something Nero decided he could deal with. 

 

Nero opened his mouth to ask, then thought better of it and put some coffee on for Faust, who he watched out of the corner of his eye. That was the Saint Faust alright, wrapped up in his scarf, draped over and over with clothing just the way the churches depicted him. Nero had never been to one himself– he didn’t pay it much mind, regardless— but the image amused him. Faust closed his eyes in a position that could’ve been meditative. More likely tired, though. 

 

Yeah, a black coffee with two sugars would probably be fine. 

 

Faust cleared his throat. “Figaro already left.”

 

Nero had to turn his back on the island table to get any cooking done, but instantly he could feel the sharpness of Faust’s gaze, to the point he was sure that he was trying some passive perception magic. Nero clicked his tongue in irritation—how paranoid can this guy get?—and lightly waved it away with a murmured Adnodus Omnis, not aggressively, just to let Faust know he couldn’t get away with it. “I don’t mean anything by it. Lennox won’t be back for another hour or so, either; he sticks to his schedule like glue.”

 

“And why would I care about…?”

 

 Nero threw an unimpressed look over his shoulder. Faust looked away guiltily. “It’s not my business to pry,” he said, “so I won’t. Just letting you know, that's all.”

 

“Hmph.” Faust sounded indignant, but not surprised. “Awful perceptive of you.”

 

“I’m sure Teach has got some notes on me, too.”

 

He let the coffee brew and decided he was sick of making eggs, switching over to pancakes. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, letting the bickering of the kids wash over him, he set a cup in front of Faust. He eyed it suspiciously, though his hands curled towards the warmth. 

 

“What’s this?” His eyes flickered towards Nero under his glasses, scrutinizing, but not aggressive.

 

“Coffee, Teach,” Nero said, amused. “Surely you’ve seen such a thing before.”

 

“Poisoned?”

 

“You saw me make the damn thing, the hell else d’ya want?”

 

Faust paused, then took a sip. He hummed appreciatively. “You have an accent.” 

 

Nero’s eye twitched, but he smiled. “Do I, now?”

 

Faust made a vague gesture with his left hand, a so-so motion. “When you’re not actively trying to suppress it. Around certain people.” He lowered the cup, stared into it. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me. We are, after all, going to be working together more frequently. I am to be your teacher.” He looked up at him again, meaningfully. Nero shifted under his gaze. “Us Eastern wizards don’t ask questions.”

 

Nero rolled around us Eastern wizards in his head, then grinned, lopsidedly. “Aight, Teach, if you say so. No complainin’ about my language in class then, y’hear?”

 

It took a moment, but Faust reacted, taking another sip to hide his smile. “Hm.” His eyebrows pinched. “How did you know how I took my coffee?”

 

Nero laughed lightly to himself. Faust could make an innocent question seem like an accusation. “Just observant, that’s all, I told ya. Used to run a restaurant, remember?”

 

Faust’s eyes lit up. “Ah. I do recall something like that.” His fingers tapped against the edge of the mug. “Have you been running it for how long? You’re a bit older than me.”

 

Nero bit his lip, nervous, and turned away. “Though you weren’t the prying type, Teach.”

 

Faust exhaled. “Just trying to make conversation, Nero. Not everyone–”

 

He was cut off by the fire alarm. Nero’s mind blanked– first at his misstep, then at, fuck, shit, did I put the pancakes on already? 

 

He hurried over, grateful for the distraction, killing the heat and ignoring Faust’s eyes on his back. Nero waved his hand, muttered Adnodus Omnis, and the smoke–mostly steam and hot air, nothing major—dissipated. Nero blinked at the stovetop. He’d put a pancake on and hadn’t even noticed it. Fuck, some chef he was. 

 

He peeled it off with a spatula and sighed–not blackened enough to be inedible, but certainly more crisp than he’d like. 

 

Nero swore under his breath and moved to throw it away before Shino, fuck, he’d forgotten he was there, placed his hand on Nero’s arm. Nero went still at the touch and frowned at Shino’s face, pinched in a frown. 

 

“I can eat it,” he said quickly. “Don’t waste the food.”

 

Nero blinked at him, then slowly shook his head. Shino had some kind of issue with food, he’d picked up on it, but…“I can’t feed you this, kid, I’ll make you something nicer.”

 

“I can’t waste the food,” he repeated, determined, a little angry, as if it was his personal failing and not Nero’s. “And you’ll make more, right? It’s just one kinda brown pancake. Give it to me.”

 

“I’ll eat it,” Nero decided sternly, excavating authority he hadn’t needed in centuries, “so sit down.”

 

There was a pause. Shino humphed, but to Nero he looked grateful, and sat down at the same damn island table Faust was using.

 

The latter gave Nero a meaningful glance. Nero met his gaze with enough cheerfulness to cut glass. In response, Faust rolled his eyes, staring into Nero for a tense moment before looking away. 

 

Heathcliff shuffled up to what was becoming the breakfast bar, too, sliding into the seat next to Shino like he had been for the past two months. Nero relaxes at the familiar picture. This is growing familiar–this is something he can deal with. 

 

Setting the burnt pancake aside—he really is going to eat it, lest Shino be made more upset, but some creative use of fruit and syrup should mask the burnt taste just fine. Nero set to work on the rest of breakfast, internally deciding that yes, this would be it, and he could fuck right off to his quarters and remain unbothered for the rest of the day. 

 

That wasn’t a strategy that had ever worked out for him, not in the past three months and not when he was running with the gang, but he’d take the maximum thirty minutes of reprieve before someone came knocking at his door for something or another. Nero didn’t mind it. It’s good to be useful. Better to be needed. 

 

Cut some fruit. Ponder the whipped cream. Flip a pancake. Feel the growing anticipation of a captive audience. Hope they're watching the food, not you.

 

He’d only meant to work out some of his jitters, but by the time he slid everyone their plates, his hands were shaking. 

 

Shino and Heath’s eyes lit up, enraptured by Nero’s careful arrangement of fruit and the above-average volume of whipped cream he’d opted for, while Faust accepted the (normal, sensible) plate of pancakes with a nod and yet another careful look.

 

“Nero,” Faust said, an irritating note of concern entering his normally monotonous voice. “You seem tired.”

 

Nero laughed nervously. “That obvious? I still ain’t used to wakin’ up this early, so…”

 

Shino furrowed his brow. Nero stifled a laugh at the touch of whipped cream on his cheek. “Then why are you up in the first place? Just sleep if you’re so tired.”

 

Heath swatted at his shoulder. “Nero’s just being considerate,” he said, exasperated. “It’s very kind of him to wake up so early, just for us. Unless you’d want to try making breakfast every day instead?”

 

Shino considered this intently through a mouthful of pancake. Nero laughed, ran his fingers through his hair, aiming for the picture of contentment. 

 

“Little man’s got a point, though; I’m gonna relax in my room,” He said. “Come ‘n get me if you need anything.”     

 

Immediately he regretted saying it, but the kids perked up and nodded, so it must’ve been fine. Before Nero could even consider making more conversation, he swept right back around to face the pots and pans, to clean and put away what he could. By the time he was finished and striding out the doorway, there was a lull of conversation around the table.

 

It still felt like escaping. 

​

​

​

​

There was something wrong. 

 

Fucking obviously, Nero thought to himself, locking the door behind him and throwing up a seal. He leaned against the door, then slid down, feeling rather silly but too tired to care. The clock on his wall—stolen from some gaudy Tudor mansion in the North—clicked just past 9:03 AM. Early as sin, and Nero was already fighting a panic attack over a room full of stolen objects worth pounds more in diamonds than he was. Fuck’s sake, he thought, slightly hysterical, the mirror’s embedded with rubies. It’s 13th century, the hell is it doin’ in a room with me?

 

Most of his things were stolen, practical stuff Brad unsubtly threw at him because he knew it was the only shit Nero would actually keep. Combs. Novelty cutlery. Lamps. Candles. Teacups, worn and well-loved and exquisite, so you knew they were worth more than any tea you could put in them. 

 

Fucking hell. Lockpicks tucked away in his drawers, rings he’d never had the heart to sell, a gilded cage on–

 

A brusque knock made him nearly jump out of his skin. Nero groaned and bumped his head against the door, tasting the tang of blood and gunmetal. If he focused enough, the magic on the other side sounded like jewels.

 

“Fuck do you want,” he said, raising his voice just enough for Brad to hear. “The barrier not get the message through your thick skull? It’s fuckin’ rude to just up ‘n remove it.”

 

“Ya left your damn pancakes in the kitchen!” Brad said. “I’m just tryna deliver ‘em to you, that’s all.” 

 

In his rush to get out of the kitchen, he’d left the pancake he said he’d eat on the counter, didn’t he? It was probably good that Brad got to it before Shino could. 

 

Nero scoffed and pulled himself off the floor. 

 

He opened the door with a scathing retort ready, but instead he paused and squinted at the tall plate of crepes Brad was holding. “That shit is not pancakes.”

 

Brad pushed past him before he could slam the door shut and had the gall to roll his eyes. “Obviously. Shit was fully burnt, I dunno what coulda gotten you so worked up you fucked up pancakes. I fed them to Mithra.”

 

Nero quirked an eyebrow. 

 

“Don’t give me that,” he grumbled, setting the plate of crepes on the bedside table. He sunk his full weight into Nero’s bed and leaned on the backs of his palms. “I’ve seen that man eat rocks. He should be fuckin’ prostrating himself at your feet, bein’ able to eat your cooking.”

 

“Get the fuck off my bed,” Nero said, instead of commenting on anything else. 

 

“Hell no.”

 

“The hell am I supposed to sit while I eat the crepes you so graciously offered me, then?”

 

Brad muttered his spell and Nero’s single chair twirled itself around until it landed in front of him. He gestured to it with his chin. 

 

“Right there, princess. C’mon, sit down, I’ll be your shrink.”

 

That tone again. It pissed him off, the way Nero’s body yearned to move on instinct even after so many years apart, the way relief flooded his chest at Brad’s easy teasing. It was the way he offered reassurance while giving you a cop-out if you weren’t ready for it. When Nero thought he had Brad all figured out—about 50, 60 years before he actually did—he’d pinned this behavior as a way to avoid emotional conversations in the first place. Now, though, it just made his heart sink. 

 

He waited for a moment, to make it clear that sitting down was his choice, not Brad’s. “If you’re the shrink, shouldn’t you be in the chair?”

 

Brad hummed, moving his head from side to side to crack the muscles in his neck. He watched Nero carefully, as if afraid he would leave. “I’m comfortable.”

 

“And if I’m not?” Nero leaned forward on his knees without thinking, pushing into Brad’s personal space. He played it off as leaning forward to grab the plate of crepes. Shit, he had to eat these now, huh?

 

“Let’s fix that,” Brad said. “Need somethin, sugar?”

 

Did he need something, Brad had asked. “Don’t call me that, I ain’t five,” Nero snapped, then took a bite of the crepe to stall for time. It was decent, but a little cheap. The image of Brad running down to the local patisserie to grab Nero the closest thing to a breakfast food he could find did something to his chest. “I need to be left alone for a century and a half.”

 

Brad scoffed. “Yeah, and I need to beg Figaro to stuff me back in his tower to rot. What do you want, Nero? ‘Cause you’re clearly havin’ a shitty morning.”

 

Nero’s expression darkened. “You never seemed to have a problem with it before.”

 

“Fuck, is that what this is about? You know damn well I wouldn’t have made you do our chores back then if ya told any of us to fuck off about ‘em.”

 

“You people needed me and you know it,” Nero snarled, but soon remembered himself, where he was, who he was talking to. He clicked his mouth shut. 

 

A beat as the cogs turned in Brad’s head. “We didn’t,” Brad said, slowly, “but this manor definitely does. Shit, is being reminded of the gang really that fuckin’ awful for you?” Did you hate me that much is what goes unsaid, but he sees it in the tense line of Brad’s shoulders, the intense gaze that’s always been able to pick him apart. Nero’s chest flooded with guilt. 

 

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he snapped, then took another bite. The breakfast made him feel the slightest bit better, which he tried to be mad at. “Just fuckin’ overwhelmin’ to go back to it after livin’ on my own for so long.”

 

He wasn’t lying. Nero wasn’t quite sure what had him jittery all morning—Figaro, Brad, the workload—but it was true that he wasn’t used to it. True, also, that Nero didn’t hate him, no matter how much easier that would be.

   

“Livin’ alone, huh,” Brad mused, valiantly trying to mask the hurt that was still there. Brad never asked why he left, and Nero didn’t think he was about to start now, but the beat of do you hate me, do you hate me, do you hate me was still palpable between them. It never really left, but Brad never asked, like he was afraid of the answer. Just pushed Nero’s boundaries as far as they could go instead. “If it’s really that bad, I could just tell the Sage not to rely on you for meals anymore.”

   

Nero looked up sharply. “Absolutely not.”

 

“This shit again? C’mon, sugar, you know-”

   

“Know what? That I can’t handle it?” Nero’s fork clattered on the plate, crepes half eaten. “You’re one to talk.”

   

Brad scoffed. “Oh, yeah, you’re doin’ fuckin’ excellent, holin’ up in your room after half the peanut gallery rushes you like a pack of seagulls. Nero, I ain’t needin’ your permission to make your life easier, so-”

 

Something ugly rose in Nero’s chest and crawled up his throat with pincers. “And I don’t fuckin’ need you anymore, Brad, when’s that gonna get through your thick skull?”

   

Brad flinched, and the only reason Nero could tell was that he’d gone perfectly still to suppress it, a tell of hurt it had taken him 70 years to pick up on. Nero wondered if he were the only man who knew Brad like that and walked away alive for it. 

   

He swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I ain’t mean it like that, you–”

   

“Why don’t you tell me what the fuck your problem is, huh,” Brad said. 

   

There were two options with what Nero could say next, and he dearly wished he could go–you’re trying and I love you but I don’t fuckin’ trust you, not with your life and not with my feelings, because you keep runnin’ over them like they’re garbage and I keep crawlin’ back. I don’t need you because I don’t need the stress of loving you and gettin’ nothin’ for the effort.

 

But he couldn’t say that. “Brad,” he pleaded.

 

Brad scoffed and got off the bed, stalked towards the door, the glimpse of hurt in his eyes hiding away. Nero almost reached out to turn him physically, forced Brad to look at him, but the waves of magical pressure coming from Brad wouldn’t let him move any closer, even if he wanted to. 

 

“Shit, I can’t even say no one fuckin’ needs you either, huh?” he growled, curling in on himself, away from Nero, hand hovering over the doorknob like it would burn him. “This whole goddamn mansion runs on your goodwill. Even Figaro’s been up your ass lately, like he fuckin’ knows you the way I do.”

 

Yeah, Nero thought, a bit hysterical, yeah, everyone needs me. The Master Sage needs me, the kids need me. Saint Faust fuckin’ Lavina needs me, Kanaria needs me, Figaro was the monster under the bed for all our time together and he needs me too. I get 6 hours on a good night and those are few and far in between because everyone fuckin’ needs me, all the time, and I don’t need you and it’s a damn good thing that you don’t need me either, because if one more person needed me I’d skip the stone and turn right to dust.

 

“Not a word,” Nero said quietly, staring at the plate of crepes in his hands.

 

“Business as usual, then,” Brad snarled, and slammed the door behind him. 

 

​

 

   

They couldn’t avoid each other forever. 

 

They tried. It felt like that first week in the manor again, with Nero brushing Brad off and Brad getting so worked up he steered clear too. A heavy, upset feeling dragged on Nero’s ribcage, wrapping up his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Nero sulked in his room and helped Shino with his homework and critiqued Cain’s poker skills. He lasted for about 5 hours before someone noticed.

 

“Mister Nero,” Riquet said, “have you eaten anything today?”

 

Nero looked up from the coloring pages Rutile insisted they all do together and laughed nervously. “Well,” he said, “I had breakfast.”

 

Half of it. The rest of the crepes sat untouched on his bedside table, next to the jade lamp and jewel-encrusted letter opener. 

​

Rutile gasped dramatically and slammed down a colored pencil on the table. Nero snorted. “Nero! What have I been doing taking up your time, then? We have to get to the kitchen and make something right away!”

 

“We really shouldn’t make Nero cook,” Mitile insisted. All three of them nodded in unified seriousness. “Bradley mentioned that Nero makes food every day, and dinner, so it would be rude to make him do it again.”

 

Seriously? “Don’t listen to that guy,” Nero scoffed, looking back down at his coloring page. Rutile had drawn what he was pretty sure was supposed to be a tiered cake. “When’d he even mention all that to you?”

 

“A week ago,” Mitile said seriously. “He’s the annoying Northern wizard that makes you make chicken for him every day, right? He’s so rude!”

 

Relief, then amusement. Nero snickered. “Yeah, he’s awful.”

 

“You two seem to get along,” Rutile said brightly. “Lennox said that people can only bicker so much if they like each other a lot.”

 

“Did he, now…”

 

Riquet frowned. “But you two got into a fight today, didn’t you? A serious one.”

 

The table grew quiet. Nero went still. Rutile and Mitile had the sense to look away, but Riquet only looked at him, waiting for an answer. Right, Nero thought, Riquet had latched onto Brad too. 

 

“What makes you think that?” Nero asked, already feeling the headache. 

 

“I saw him coming out of your room really upset,” Riquet said. Damn it, don’t mention that in front of Rutile and Mitile! “When I asked him about it, he told me that it was nothing and that I shouldn’t bother you for a little while. But I think he was lying about it being fine.”

 

Riquet was delightfully straightforward and frank, the way Brad was, but not half as tactful. Neither was Brad, but that was on purpose. Nero pinched the bridge of his nose. 

 

“You shoulda came in if you needed somethin’,” Nero sighed.  “Don’t listen to him, alright? He’s an idiot sometimes.”

 

“But he cares about you,” Riquet insisted, Spirits, this child was incessant. “So I trust him. I just wanted to ask you for breakfast, so it wasn’t anything urgent.”

 

Rutile, bless him, clapped his hands together and cleared his throat. “Well! Clearly, another meal is in order. We should move this to the kitchen, hm? We can finish our coloring when Nero is all taken care of. I’m getting hungry myself.”

 

“We should try making lunch this time!” Mitile said, eyes lighting up like it was the most exciting prospect imaginable. “We can make, uh, toast–”

 

“And pancakes,” Riquet nodded, voice deathly serious. “With lots of whipped cream. And sausages. And–”

 

Rutile laughed like bells at Nero’s paling face. “It’s alright,” he said in a low voice, leaning over so the kids couldn’t hear them. “I’ll make sure they don’t set anything on fire. I’m a decent cook. Nothing compared to you, of course, but I can keep them from burning anything.”

 

Nero shook his head. “It’s no problem. I could just do it myself…”

 

Rutile bumped him with his shoulder. “Look at how excited they are that they can do something for you. Let it go, just this once.”

 

Nero looked back at Rutile, a kid in his own right, and his kind, smiling face. Something in his heart lifted. “Alright, master chef,” he said, bumping his shoulder back. “You lead the way.”

 

​

​

​

Being the one behind the island table, perched on the left-middle stool, was nerve-wracking. 

 

Given, this was mostly because watching Mitile go near any sort of hot pan or object felt a little like watching a mouse nibble on electrical wires. Riquet had insisted on cooking the way Nero did, sans magic, and when Nero carefully suggested they not have multiple things cooking at once, he’d given him that owlish look that nearly drove him to tears. 

 

It’s alright, Rutile had said, and here he was, inspecting the back of the baking powder container like it was going to deliver unto him a prophecy. They were making pancakes, right? The hell was he getting the baking powder out for?

 

Nero cleared his throat. “I already have a pancake mix prepared,” he said, “So you just gotta put some buttermilk in it. Left cupboard, above the counter–the other counter—”

 

"Don't get up, I can find it!” Rutile’s hand finally landed on Nero’s pre-made dry ingredients, thank the Spirits. “Aha! Found you! Buttermilk, buttermilk…”

 

“I found the white chocolate chips,” Riquet said, through a mouthful of them. Mitile was sneaking a couple too. Nero was going to die. “He puts them in, doesn’t he?”

 

“I do,” Nero said, “but they’re easy to burn. Maybe you should…”

 

“It’ll be just fine when I’m watching!” Rutile looked so positively joyous that Nero wanted to cry. “Riquet, don’t eat any more of those.”

 

“I’m not,” Riquet said, subtly wiping his hands clean on his pants. 

 

Mitile discreetly swallowed his share. “Big brother, we should put in even more than Nero usually does.”

 

“Do you want white chocolate pancakes, or white chocolate with pancake mix in it?” Nero shook his head exasperatedly, but he couldn’t help the smile stretching across his face. “Rutile, please make sure that doesn’t happen.”

 

“Let’s not overdo it,” Rutile chided, though he looked disappointed too. “Let’s save the experiments when we’re making these for ourselves, alright?”

 

The clattering of pans resumed as they figured out what to do with themselves, and Nero resigned himself to just watching. After the initial awkwardness, they settled into an easy rhythm, flitting too and from the kitchen as they got used to the space. The easy friendship between Mitile and Riquet, Rutile effortlessly guiding them and scolding them good-naturedly—it warmed Nero’s heart, it really did. Every so often, they’d look to him for approval, and Nero would just nod, and they would brighten and carry on with their task. 

 

A tap on his shoulder he barely registered. Nero sighed and turned around, leaned back on his forearms against the island table, and there was Brad: hair mussed, jacket just slightly rumpled, tie somehow even more askew than he usually left it. Nero felt the inane urge to fix it. Brad threw his head to one side. 

 

“Uptight Eastern chef,” he said.

 

“Unkempt asshole Northerner,” Nero replied. “The hell’s that?”

 

He knew what it was. A small pot of what looked like hibiscus buds, bright red and on the cusp of blooming, still in the dirt, was carefully balanced in Brad’s hands. The soil was fresh, and without any of the typical fertilizer or perlite you’d find at plants bought from stores, so he’d most certainly had to have dug it out himself. Nero’s heart twisted at the image. 

 

“A hibiscus plant,” Brad replied. “You used these to make tea back then, right?” Brad’s eyes flicked up, then back down. “You could use ‘em, I mean. My old partner was fond of ‘em. S’not bloomed yet, but…” He hesitated, head still held high but not quite meeting Nero’s gaze. “Just means you’ll have to wait a little. Take some downtime, maybe.”

 

There was a pause as Nero considered him. There was upset in the purposefully straight posture of Brad’s back, hesitation in the way his fingers twitched on the pot, itching to let go. “You don’t need to do this.” You don’t need to do anything for me to forgive you. There’s not much for me to forgive. I’m the one at fault, I’ve always been the one at fault, what do you…

 

Brad dropped his voice so only he could hear, “Damn it, Nero, I want to. Gee, I won’t get any sleep if you’re mad at me much longer.”

 

Nero swallowed. Hibiscus plants were easy to take care of and flourished in any climate, faring well in cold areas but even better in tropical ones. They were one of the few plants Nero could reliably take care of a few centuries ago, even with magic. Here, in the warm, perpetually sunny environment of Central, he’d just have to water it once every few days for it to bloom. Don’t tell me he went to my old garden just to find them…

 

“Give it here,” Nero said, reaching for it, and Brad’s face broke into a smile. He flushed. “The hell are you so happy about? Go wash your hands, you have dirt under your nails. Don’t tell me you dug this out with your bare hands.”

 

Brad laughed all the way into the kitchen. Nero sighed, thumbed one of the petals of one of the early bloomers. Soft. Seemed like the system he’d set up to protect them was still working, a century later. 

 

“Mister Bradley!” Riquet exclaimed. “You’re back! I thought you said it would be a while before you finished your top-secret mission.”

 

“I talked Mithra into doing me a favor,” Brad said dryly. He turned off the water and put his hands in his pockets, leaning forward over Riquet’s shoulder. “What’re you workin’ on in here, kid?”

​

Riquet gestured excitedly to his pan, filled with pancake batter and a reasonable amount of chocolate chips. “We’re making lunch for Nero! We made much more than we needed, so… you can have some too, if you want.”

 

Brad looked back at Nero, still grinning, who raised an eyebrow. The hell are you lookin’ at? 

 

He laughed again and turned away, thumped Riquet on the back just hard enough to make him jump. “Nice, Central shortstuff!” He looked at Mitile, who was too focused on his own pan to notice, and Rutile, who gave him a happy wave. He had pancake batter on his cheek. Brad snorted. “Ya’ll don’t mind if I join ya, right?”

 

“Hell no!” Nero said, then coughed. “Absolutely not. Brad, you sit your ass right behind this counter before I go up there and put those skewers to good use.”

 

“Ooh, scary,” Brad said, not sounding very intimidated at all. He slid into the chair next to Nero and half-heartedly pressed against his side, afraid Nero would pull away. Nero sighed and pressed back, the warmth of Brad’s body like a space heater even though the coat. He smelled like sweat and soil and crushed snow, and his jacket was just slightly damp. Nero caught himself relaxing into it.

 

“We good?” Brad asked, so quiet Nero almost didn’t catch it. Nero knocked his knuckles against Brad’s, admonishing. His other hand was still on the planter, unconsciously rubbing circles into the clay. 

 

“We’re good,” Nero said, then, “thank you.”

 

Brad shook his head. “No need for the pleasantries between us, partner. S’only the least I could do.” 

 

“What I said before…”

 

“Fuck, you feelin’ bad about that?” One of Brad’s fingers tapped Nero’s hand, the most overt gesture of affection he was comfortable with. “It was true. It’s a good thing.”

 

“Didn’t hafta say it like that.”

 

“Didn’t hafta storm out, either.” 

 

Nero exhaled. “Then we’re even. Till the next time you say some dumb shit and drag back an ingredient to make up for it.”

 

“Oi, it works!” 

 

“Yeah, and you get somethin’ out of it too, don’t you, ya greedy-”

 

Rutile clapped his hands. “Riquet! Mitile! Present our guests with their plates!”

 

Immediately, Nero and Brad dropped it. Something important uncoiled in Nero’s chest, leaving nothing but an embarrassingly sappy mess behind.  Riquet and Mitile excitedly presented them with the fruits of their labor, 5, 6 pancakes on each plate—not even close to their whole batch, somehow—clumsily decorated with berries. 

 

“This is entirely too many pancakes,” Nero said, accepting a fork. 

 

“Hey, if you don’t want ‘em I’ll take ‘em,” Brad said. “Don’t be ungrateful.”

 

“Get your paws off my pancakes, asshole!”

   

The others joined them at the island table, Riquet and Mitile taking their seats at the stools. Rutile sat on top of the counter, which Nero allowed as long as his feet hung off the sides. Nero was fussed over, until it became clear he was fine, thank you, the food is making me feel better already and the afternoon devolved into a worrying amount of whipped cream. Nero ate his first proper meal of the day, pleasantly surprised at its quality, and scarfed it down the moment his body realized it was hungry. 

   

Through the chaos, the hibiscus plant remained untouched, waiting to be moved to his windowsill and bloom.