Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

march 3rd, 1878

The entrance to 2b2t was more of a gaping maw than a door. Blackened stone framed the pit, its jagged edges twisted and scorched as if forged by some ancient calamity. Iron bars arched over it like the grinning teeth of a beast, seeming to beckon the unworthy closer, daring them to step into the abyss. The ground before it seemed to slope inward, as if even the Earth itself had surrendered to the pull of the abyss.

The air was dense and heavy with the metallic stench of rusted iron and the acrid tang of sweat, undercut by a deeper, fouler odour—like something long dead and rotting within. A reek of decay and ancient violence that seeped into the lungs and clung to the skin. It was the smell of despair, of a thousand hopeless souls whose cries had been swallowed whole, leaving nothing but silence and the faint, maddening echoes of grinding stone.

Fit stood at the precipice, his stance loose, his hands resting easy at his sides. But his eyes? His eyes took in everything. Every crack in the ancient stone, every faint scratch where desperate nails had scrabbled for purchase. The scorched patches, still dark from the fury of Gods, and the faded streaks of blood smeared across the uneven floor—ghostly reminders of those who came before.

Above him, the crowd loomed, silhouetted figures against the dim, flickering light, lurking like scavengers waiting for the carnage to begin. They were vultures circling a feast, their anticipation palpable as they leaned forward, murmuring in hushed tones.

A faint tremor in the stone beneath his boots hinted at the mechanisms buried deep within this monstrous place, the grinding of unseen gears like the bones of the earth shifting underfoot. The atmosphere pressed down on him with a suffocating weight, thick and stifling, as though the air itself was alive and conspiring to choke out all hope. It clung to his skin, heavy with the reek of metal and decay, and filled his ears with a dull roar that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. There was a presence here, undeniable and all-encompassing, that lingered in the spaces between the grinding gears and the trembling stone.

It wasn’t just a place; it was a being. It breathed in shallow, rasping drafts that made the air shift unnaturally around him. It watched, unseen but unmistakable, its gaze cold and unfeeling yet searing in its intensity. And it waited, with the patience of something eternal and unrelenting, a predator poised for the inevitable moment when its prey stepped too far. There was no escaping the pit once you’d caught its attention.

Fit inhaled slowly, steadying himself, the faint metallic tang of blood in the air sharpening his focus. The pit did not promise death. It promised erasure, absolution, a descent into something far worse than oblivion. And still, Fit stepped closer. Because for Fit, there was no other choice. There never had been.

The rules were simple: fight or be exiled to the wastelands. Lose the fight, lose everything. But this was 2b2t, and there was always some asshole pulling the strings. Haus. He was the one who ran the place—a self-appointed God over chaos. The fights were his entertainment, and the losers were his sacrifices.

Fit stepped closer to the edge of the pit, watching the man beside him out of the corner of his eye. Countless pairs had already descended the stairs, weapons in hand, shoddy armour hanging off loose. Now, it was just Fit and the other man. He knew he was the “main event”. He knew he would be the moment he decided to come back. He’d embarrassed Haus, and Haus wouldn’t stand for that.

He hadn’t expected to be paired with anyone. He expected Haus to make him fight the whole day’s entrants. He’d prepared for that—countless throwaway names and faces he didn’t know. So why was this other man important enough to be paired with him?

Fit shifted his weight, studying the man next to him more closely. There was something familiar in the stranger’s posture—a kind of quiet resignation that clung to him like a second skin. The man wasn’t built like a brawler—leaner than most, with a sharp edge of exhaustion carved into his features. When the man glanced sideways, Fit caught the faintest flicker of something in his expression. It wasn’t just fatigue; it was the deep, hollow ache Fit knew all too well. Hell, he wore it every damn day.

Fit cleared his throat, turning to face the man. “You ever been to this hell before?”

The man didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes fixed on the darkness below, his jaw tight, like he was weighing how much of himself he wanted to share. Finally, he shook his head.

“No. But… it feels familiar. Like I’ve been standing at the edge my whole life. Just didn’t realise it until now.”

Fit snorted, the sound dry and humourless. “Yeah. It does that to you.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at the man. “What are you in for?”

The man’s head snapped toward him, his expression hardening. Fit raised a hand in mock surrender, letting out a weary chuckle.

“That’s fair. Something small to start. Let me guess—are you here by choice?”

“I am.” The man said simply, his tone flat.

Fit raised an eyebrow. “A runner, then. Trying to escape something?”

The man’s lip curled in something between a smirk and a sneer. “As opposed to?”

“Convicts, mostly.” Fit replied, shrugging. “A lot of people don’t come here by choice. Gets used as a dumping ground.”

The man hummed softly, his gaze flicking back to the pit. “Didn’t know that.”

Fit studied him for another moment before asking, “You got a name?”

The man hesitated, the silence stretching just long enough to make Fit wonder if he’d answer at all. Then, finally: “Phil.”

Fit tilted his head, sceptical. “You really had to think about that one. Not your real name, huh?”

Phil’s lips twitched into a half-hearted grin. “No. And you? What’s your not-real name?”

“Fit.”

Phil snorted, an actual laugh breaking through his guarded demeanour. “You’re kidding. Are you that self-obsessed? What’s your other fake name, ‘Toned’?”

Fit rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Didn’t give myself the name.”

Phil squinted at him, pushing his tongue between his teeth. “Alright, Fit,” he said slowly, voice laced with dry amusement. “Why are you here? Are you a runner, or a convict?”

Fit’s easy demeanour faltered for a moment, a shadow passing over his face. He shifted his weight, glancing back at the pit.

“Neither,” he said finally. “I was born here. Got myself out. Against my better judgement, I’m going home.”

Phil blinked, his smirk fading into something softer, more thoughtful. “You got family here?”

Fit let out a bitter laugh, low and sharp. “Doubt it. Never knew my parents. Anyone dumb enough to care about me didn’t stick around long. I was dead weight, and dead weight doesn’t make for lasting relationships.”

Phil stared at him, his expression unreadable, then let out a soft huff of air. “Guess we’ve got that in common.” He said quietly, turning his gaze back to the pit.

They sat in heavy silence for a moment. Fit glanced at Phil, his curiosity laced with caution.

“So,” Fit began quietly, “what are you running from?”

Phil’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching until it felt like it might snap. Then, finally, he exhaled, the sound hollow and ragged. His words came slow, heavy, like they were dragging themselves out.

“I killed my sons.”

That brought Fit up short. It wasn’t what he’d expected. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected at all, but it wasn’t this.

Phil didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the abyss below. “Should’ve listened to Tech,” he said, voice calm in a way that made it worse. Too calm. Like the storm had already burned itself out, leaving only the wreckage behind. “Fucking stupid. Ignorant. Naive. I thought I could keep them safe; that it didn't matter what enemies I’d made. I thought I could settle down. Thought I could protect my family.”

He paused, swallowing hard. “Got my youngest killed before he could even walk. He didn’t even get a chance. He was just too small. Couldn’t handle all the smoke.”

Fit stayed silent, his throat tight as Phil continued, his voice harder now, brittle around the edges.

“My eldest… I lost him the same day. Not physically—no. But whatever made him my boy, really my boy, burned in the fire too. He was never the same. Too much anger, too much pain, too much hatred—and nowhere for it to go. People started getting hurt. Then they started dying.”

Phil’s hand clenched into a fist on his knee, his knuckles going white. “I tried everything. Everything. But he wasn’t my son anymore. And I—” His voice caught, and he sucked in a shaky breath. “I had to. I had to.”

Fit looked away, his chest tight, his mind scrambling for something—anything—to say. But there was nothing. No words could touch what Phil had laid bare.

Phil gave a bitter, hollow laugh, finally turning to meet Fit’s eyes. “So yeah, I guess you could say I’m running. But there’s no outrunning it. Not really.”

Fit stayed silent, letting Phil’s words settle in the space between them. He knew better than to offer pity or toss out some hollow reassurance that wouldn’t stick. But there was something in the way Phil spoke—like he was dragging the weight of it behind him, waiting for someone, anyone, to tell him to let it go.

“I get it,” Fit finally said. “You don’t walk away from stuff like that clean.”

Phil turned to him with a strange look, his expression unreadable. It wasn’t surprise exactly, but something close to it, like he’d expected judgement and didn’t know what to do when he was handed understanding instead.

Fit shrugged, keeping his tone casual. “Doesn’t mean it was your fault.”

Phil blinked, like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

Fit didn’t respond right away. The rules said they had to fight each other. And now, with Phil’s confession hanging in the air, Fit didn’t want to. Maybe that was the point. Maybe the sob story was a tactic, a way to throw him off. Butter him up, make him hesitate, maybe then Fit would go easy on him. Fit wouldn’t have blamed him—it was smart.

But if Phil was telling the truth, then he wasn’t here to win. He didn’t want to. Both of them wanted to be thrown into the wastes. They’d be fighting for the chance to lose.

Fit glanced back at the pit, the faint tremor of its machinery grinding in the distance. It felt cruel in a way that cut deep. Two men who had already lost everything, dragged into this hellhole to play gladiators for some self-aggrandising asshole God’s amusement. A farce of survival, played out on the backs of the broken.

It was a cruel kind of poetry, Fit thought. He just wasn’t sure if it was the kind you were meant to laugh at, cry over, or curse under your breath as you stepped off the edge.

They agreed then, in the silence, that this fight wasn’t going to be about winning or losing. It was about something else entirely. They could lose together, throw the whole thing, and let the world take them both. Haus would hate that. He wanted winners and losers, blood and spectacle, not men deciding their own damn fates.

“Think he’ll be pissed?” Phil asked, a glimmer of humour in his tired voice.

Fit cracked a grin. “Oh, absolutely.”

The conversation didn’t last long. The guards approached with the heavy steps of inevitability, their presence breaking the fragile moment of camaraderie. Neither Fit nor Phil flinched as the attendants barked orders and began stripping them of their bulky clothing, leaving them bare to the world in nothing but threadbare shorts. The cold air bit at their skin, but Fit hardly noticed. His focus was locked on Phil.

Or more specifically, on what Phil had been hiding.

As the cloak fell away, Fit’s eyes widened. Wings. Massive, charcoal-feathered wings stretched from Phil’s back, the edges frayed and battered but still imposing. They rustled slightly as if protesting their sudden exposure.

“How the hell,” Fit muttered under his breath, “did you hide those under a basic cloak?”

Phil didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. His expression stayed neutral, almost resigned, but the way his shoulders tensed spoke volumes.

The attendants didn’t linger on the revelation, as if the sight of wings was just another Tuesday for them. They marched the two men toward the stairs, the crowd above roaring in anticipation. Each step down toward the pit felt heavier, the air growing thicker with the metallic tang of rust and blood.

Weapons and armour were laid out for them at the bottom of the stairs like macabre offerings. Swords, shields, axes, even crude spears. Fit’s hand hovered over a blade for a moment before pulling back. He glanced at Phil, who stood unmoving, his hands at his sides. A silent understanding passed between them. They didn’t need weapons. Didn’t want them.

The announcer’s voice boomed overhead, echoing off the stone walls with a theatrical flourish.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight I have the honour of presenting to you our final contenders.” The crowd erupted in cheers, jeers, and the clatter of cups and boots. “First, a familiar face to some… the veteran, the escapee, the sinner returned: FIT!”

Fit barely acknowledged the introduction, his eyes fixed on the pit ahead. The announcer’s tone shifted, darker now, dripping with anticipation.

“And facing him… the Angel of Death!”

The crowd roared louder than ever, and Fit’s stomach dropped.

Oh. Oh.

Fit’s gaze snapped to Phil, who was already walking toward the centre of the pit, his wings casting jagged shadows across the uneven ground, entirely too sharp, more like knives than feathers. That’s why Haus had paired them. ‘Angel of Death’ wasn’t just some name plucked out of thin air. It was a title. A legacy. A weapon, honed and unleashed in this pit for the crowd’s entertainment.

“Fuck.” Fit muttered under his breath, his pulse quickening.

Phil didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge the title or the crowd chanting his name like a prayer to some long-forgotten God. He stopped at the centre, turning to face Fit. His expression wasn’t anger or arrogance—it was exhaustion. Resignation.

He’d keep his promise. He’d throw the fight.

Even if it killed them both.

The pit’s air was electric, charged with the deafening roar of the crowd above. Fit and Phil stood at the centre, bare feet scuffing against the rough, bloodstained stone. The announcer’s booming voice was drowned out by the chants of spectators, demanding violence, carnage: a show.

Phil’s wings flexed once, feathers rustling like a storm wind, and for a moment, he looked every bit the Angel of Death they’d named him. Fit couldn’t help but admire the theatrics of it. Damn if Phil didn’t know how to sell it.

“You ready?” Phil asked, low enough that only Fit could hear.

Fit rolled his shoulders, shaking out his hands. “Not really. You?”

Phil smirked faintly. “Not even a little.”

And then Phil lunged.

The movement was quick, sharp, and perfect for the crowd. Fit sidestepped just in time, throwing up his forearm to block an incoming strike. Phil’s fist grazed his shoulder, the impact light but looking far more brutal than it was. Fit stumbled back, staggering to sell the hit.

The crowd roared.

Phil smirked again, circling him, wings half-spread as if ready to take flight. He feinted left, then drove forward again, swinging a punch aimed squarely at Fit’s jaw. Fit ducked, grabbing Phil’s arm in what looked like a desperate counter. They grappled for a moment, spinning, twisting, until Phil shoved him away with a force that sent him skidding across the ground.

Fit caught himself with one hand, planting his feet as he straightened. He spat to the side—nothing but air, but it looked like blood if you didn’t know better.

“Not bad,” Fit said under his breath. “You’ve done this before.”

Phil shrugged. “Of course I have.”

Fit charged this time, his fist swinging toward Phil’s ribs. Phil turned at the last second, taking the hit with a grunt that sounded far worse than it was. He spun with the momentum, one wing snapping out and clipping Fit across the side.

The crowd went wild.

Phil leaned in close during the spin, muttering, “That didn’t hurt, right?”

“Only a little.” Fit hissed back, grabbing Phil’s arm as if in retaliation.

They tumbled together, hitting the ground in a mess of limbs, Phil’s wings curling inward to avoid damage. Fit ended up on top, pinning Phil’s arms, breathing hard for show.

Phil grinned up at him, barely hiding the spark of mischief in his eyes. “You gonna finish me off or keep playing, big guy?”

Fit barked a laugh, loud enough for the crowd to hear. He reared back a fist, holding it in the air for a long moment before Phil twisted his body, shoving him off in a wild motion that looked far more violent than it felt.

Fit hit the ground hard, skidding on the rough stone. He rolled to his feet, still grinning, but there was a glint in his eyes now. Phil circled him, wings twitching slightly as he kept his movements fluid, predatory. They were still playing it up for the crowd, but the pace had quickened, the strikes sharper, closer.

Then it happened.

Phil’s punch wasn’t pulled enough, his knuckles connecting solidly with Fit’s ribs. The dull thud echoed louder in Fit’s head than the roaring crowd, and he doubled over instinctively, a sharp exhale forced from his lungs.

“Shit—” Phil muttered under his breath, stepping back, but Fit straightened before he could finish.

Fit’s grin was feral now, his breath coming quicker, more deliberate. “That all you got, Angel of Death?”

Phil’s eyes narrowed, the hint of an apology vanishing. “You want to play it like that?”

“Oh, I’m ready, old man.”

They moved at the same time.

Fit’s fist slammed toward Phil’s shoulder, but Phil ducked under it, his wings snapping open for balance as he pivoted. He came up swinging, his fist catching Fit’s jaw—not as hard as it could have been, but hard enough.

Fit spat to the side, tasting blood. Not fake this time. He chuckled darkly, rolling his neck as he closed the distance again.

What started as a mockery of violence had become something else entirely.

Phil’s strikes were sharp and precise, landing with a practised brutality. Fit countered with raw, bone-deep power, each punch like a battering ram. They weren’t holding back now, not entirely. Every blow was a test, a challenge, a question unspoken but understood: Can you take this?

Fit grabbed Phil’s arm mid-swing, yanking him forward and driving a knee toward his stomach. Phil twisted at the last second, taking the hit on his side and retaliating with an elbow that caught Fit’s temple.

The crowd was on its feet now, their cheers deafening, their excitement feeding the storm brewing in the pit.

Phil’s wings came into play again, slamming into Fit’s chest and knocking him backward. Fit hit the ground but rolled with it, springing up and launching himself at Phil. They grappled, Fit managing to shove Phil into the stone wall. The impact was loud, the crack of stone meeting bone echoing through the arena.

Phil grinned through the pain, shoving Fit off and diving forward with a flurry of punches. Fit blocked most of them, but the last one landed squarely on his ribs again, forcing him to stagger.

Fit gasped, a laugh bubbling out between breaths. “You’re stronger than you look.”

Phil wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. “And you’re slower than I expected.”

Fists met flesh again, the impact jarring both of them, but neither backed down. This wasn’t a fight for survival anymore. It was something primal, something raw. A way to burn the frustration and the rage they carried.

Still, they didn’t forget the plan.

As the fight wore on, their movements began to slow, exhaustion creeping in as they traded blows. Fit took a hard punch to the gut and stumbled, staying down a little longer this time. Phil hesitated, wiping sweat from his brow, giving the crowd a moment to catch their collective breath.

When Fit rose again, it wasn’t with the same fire. He glanced at Phil, who gave the barest nod of agreement. Time to end it.

Phil feinted a punch, then spun, his wings whipping out in a wide arc. The force caught Fit squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground for the final time.

He didn’t get up.

Phil stood over him, chest heaving, his shadow looming large. The crowd erupted in a frenzy, the announcer’s voice booming with the declaration of victory.

And then he surrendered.

For a moment, the pit was silent. No cheers. No boos. Just stunned silence from the crowd. And—

“Haus is going to kill us.” Phil muttered, wiping blood from his split lip.

“Probably.” Fit’s grin was bloody, but real.

Phil looked down at Fit, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he just stood there, catching his breath, before reaching down and gripping Fit’s forearm.

“Come on, you dramatic bastard.” Phil muttered.

Fit hesitated, his muscles aching as he forced himself to move, and let Phil haul him up. The grip was firm, and steady, and despite the rawness of the fight, there was no malice in it. Fit stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly, but Phil caught his shoulder, steadying him before stepping back.

“Thanks.” Fit rasped, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Phil gave him a faint grin, though his wings drooped, feathers ruffled and dirtied from the fight.

Then, Haus’s voice roared through the pit like thunder tearing through the heavens.

“PATHETIC!” he bellowed, the word so loud it seemed to crawl into their very bones, rattling their teeth. “You dare mock me? You think you can defy me?”

The crowd hushed instantly, a collective intake of breath as the God’s fury filled the cavernous space.

The words reverberated through the arena, Godly and furious, shaking the stone walls with the force of an earthquake. Fit felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, a cold shiver crawling up his spine. The pit floor beneath them trembled violently, cracks spidering through the dirt like veins of some monstrous beast awakening.

Haus didn’t wait for a response. With a flick of his unseen hand, the ground beneath their feet groaned and buckled. The tremors grew stronger, and the cracks widened, splitting open like jagged wounds in the earth.

“Down to the wastelands with you both.” Haus thundered, his voice dripping with disappointment and contempt. “Maybe you’ll learn what real punishment feels like.”

The stone and dirt crumbled beneath them, and Fit and Phil plummeted into the darkness.

The fall was disorienting, the roar of wind in their ears drowning out everything else. Fit’s heart hammered in his chest as he flailed, catching a fleeting glimpse of Phil’s wings snapping open instinctively. But even those couldn’t stop the descent—the pull of the void was too strong, dragging them both down as if Haus himself had reached out to yank them into oblivion.

The faint glow of the pit above vanished, swallowed by shadows.

And then, with a bone-jarring impact, they hit the ground.

Chapter Text

march 4th, 1878

The air was knocked from Fit’s lungs, and he lay there for a moment, staring up into the black nothingness above. The faint scent of sulphur and decay invaded his senses, and the air was hot, oppressive, and heavy. Somewhere in the distance, a low, guttural growl echoed, followed by the faint skittering of claws on stone.

Phil groaned somewhere nearby, shifting on the uneven ground. Fit rolled onto his side, gasping for breath, his ribs protesting every movement.

The wasteland stretched out in every direction—grey dust, jagged rocks, and a sky so clouded it looked bruised. Fit coughed as he pushed himself up from the cracked dirt, ribs screaming from the fall and the fight. Every breath felt like a knife between his lungs. 

“Still alive?” Phil rasped, his voice rough but steady.

“Unfortunately.” Fit winced, clutching his ribs as he tried to stand. His legs shook beneath him, and he wobbled like a newborn calf. “You got one hell of a right hook.”

Phil gave a soft, forced chuckle, shifting as he tried to stretch without hurting anything. “Didn’t think you’d still be walking after that.”  

Fit huffed a laugh. “Guess I’m stubborn.” His grin was sharp and self-deprecating, but it slipped quickly. He knew exactly how bad his situation was now.  

Weak, half-broken, and dropped into enemy territory in the ass-end of 2b2t. Not great.  

Fit blinked, trying to make sense of their surroundings. The darkness was oppressive, but faint red glows dotted the horizon, flickering like embers in a dying fire. The ground was uneven and jagged, broken shards of black stone scattered everywhere.

Fit glanced at Phil, who had managed to sit up, one wing bent at an awkward angle but otherwise intact. Phil was staring up at the sky, a small, tired smile on his bruised face. He looked like he might fall asleep right there.

“Well,” Phil muttered, rubbing his temple. “That went well.”

Fit barked a dry laugh, grunting as the movement rattled his definitely broken ribs. “Haus really knows how to roll out the red carpet.”

Phil dusted himself off, and Fit’s eyes drifted across the landscape. Nothing but endless grey, the occasional stone spire breaking the monotony. The wastelands weren’t just dangerous—they were a graveyard for anyone too slow, too unlucky, or too stupid to make it out. There were creatures out here that didn’t have names. And worse?

Most of them were people.  

The realisation hit Phil at the same time. “You gonna make it on your own?”  

Fit shot him a sideways glance. “Like you care.”  

Phil crossed his arms. “I don’t. I just don’t feel like watching you get murdered and cannibalised five minutes in. Seems like a waste after that fight.”  

Fit laughed quietly, though it hurt like hell. “Appreciate the concern.”  

The truth was, he wouldn’t make it out here alone. Not in the shape he was in. The fight with Phil had drained whatever strength he had left, and the fall had done the rest. His knees felt like they were about to give out, and his ribs were one deep breath away from giving out completely.  

Phil knew it too. His gaze lingered a little too long on Fit’s trembling hands, on the blood crusted along his temple, on the way he leaned just a bit too hard to the right.  

“You’re in bad shape.”  

“No shit.”  

Phil narrowed his eyes. “What’s your plan, then?”  

Fit gave him a lazy grin. “Was hoping you’d stick around, actually.”  

Phil scoffed. “Why would I do that?”  

Fit paused, letting the question hang in the air for a moment. “Because you owe me.”  

Phil’s brow furrowed. “For what?”  

“For not killing you when I had the chance.” Fit’s grin sharpened, though there was no malice behind it. Just the truth. “And because if you leave me here, the guys coming for me will find you too.”  

That was the thing about 2b2t: everyone had a reputation, even if they didn’t want one. Fit’s, though? It wasn’t just a reputation—it was a death sentence.  

Fit was known in this place. Every clan with power wanted his head mounted on a pike—and a good few of the solos, too. And if Phil stuck around him too long? He’d be easy pickings, too.  

“You really pissed off that many people?” Phil asked, though it wasn’t exactly a question.  

Fit shrugged, wincing at the movement. “More than a few.”  

Phil muttered something under his breath, then shook his head. “Seems like you make a lot of bad decisions.”  

Fit raised an eyebrow. “Coming from the guy who killed his own kids?”  

Phil’s jaw tightened, but there was no anger in his eyes—just something bitter, something exhausted. “Fair.”  

They stood there in silence for a moment, the tension thick but not quite hostile. Two men who were too stubborn to admit they needed each other, but not stupid enough to pretend otherwise.  

Finally, Phil sighed. “Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll stick with you. For now.”  

Fit grinned, despite the pain that shot through his ribs. “Glad to have you, partner.”  

“Don’t push your luck.”  

The alliance—if you could call it that—was born in mutual exhaustion, necessity, and just a hint of spite. It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t trust. It was survival, and survival was the only currency that mattered out here.  

Phil bent down and helped Fit to his feet. Fit hissed in pain but managed to stay upright, leaning more on Phil than he wanted to admit.  

“This definitely isn’t going to be a thing.” Phil muttered under his breath as they started walking, the endless wasteland stretching before them.  

Fit chuckled, though it sounded more like a cough. “Sure, whatever you say.”  

They set off in the direction of the flickering red lights, Fit’s steps tentative and pained, Phil’s more sure despite his wing. Fit’s eyes scanned the horizon, looking for anything that might be a shelter or a landmark.

“Keep an eye out for lava streams. They’re not always obvious, but if you see the ground shimmering, stay away. And listen for the hiss. It’s like a snake, but lower.”

Phil nodded, his gaze sharp. Fit could see he was taking it in, that he was a survivor too—despite being thrown into this hellhole without warning.

“And watch for the dust devils. They’re fast, and if one catches you off-guard, it’ll strip you down to bones before you can blink. Oh and—the storms. When the sky turns red, we need to find shelter.”

“Acid rain?” Phil muttered.

Fit snorts, “Wish that’s all it was. Red days are hunting days. Haus puts beacons on a few people, and sends everyone after them. Spawns a shit ton of mobs to help.”

“Wonderful. Fuckin’ hate petulant child-like Gods.” Phil muttered.

Fit’s lips twitched up in a slight grin, but he said nothing.

The air was eerily still, but Fit knew better than to trust the quiet. The wasteland was never truly still. It was just biding its time.

“What about water?” Phil asked, his voice low. “Is there anything we can drink out here?”

Fit’s smile was grim. “Not often. If you’re desperate, some cacti might have a bit of liquid. Just don’t let it touch your skin, or you’ll regret it for days.”

They walked for hours, the only sounds were their laboured breaths and the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Fit knew Phil was in pain too, but he wasn’t about to admit it. They had to keep moving.

As they approached the first red glow, Fit’s heart sank. It was a village, or what was left of one. The buildings were made of twisted metal and stone, the remnants of a time before the fall of the server. A few figures moved in the shadows, and Fit tensed.

“Those are the Outcasts,” he murmured. “They’re not friendly. Best we keep our heads down and keep moving.”

Phil nodded, his eyes on the figures. They were definitely watching.

Fit led them through the village, sticking to the shadows. The air was thick with tension, and every step felt like it could be their last. Outcasts were the scavengers of 2b2t, the bottom feeders who picked the bones of the dead. But they were known to be the killers from time to time.

They made it through without incident, and Fit let out a sigh of relief. They’d be safe for a bit—at least until they hit the next danger zone.

“How do you know where we’re going?” Phil asked as they moved away from the village, the red glow fading behind them.

Fit shrugged. “Wastelands don’t change much. The landmarks are still the same if you know where to look. Ruined, bombed-out, griefed, maybe—but the same.”

“And where are we looking?”

Fit’s eyes searched the horizon, finding a distant shape that looked almost like a mountain. “There. Asgard.”

“Asgard? Like from Norse mythology? How creative.” Phil squinted, “Looks like it’s seen better days, anyway.”

“What?” Fit followed his gaze, and his heart sank.

The gleaming spire that had once crowned Valkyria’s fortress now jutted into the sky as a jagged skeleton of its former glory. The once-proud bastion lay in ruins, griefed by unknown hands. It had been bombed out entirely, wrecked, crumbling buildings all around. Stone walls, once pristine and gleaming, had collapsed into heaps of blackened rubble, their surfaces marred by scorch marks and deep cracks. The great gates lay twisted on the ground, half-buried under debris, their intricate carvings scorched beyond recognition. A nauseating stench of charred wood, melted metal, and something darker clung to the air, cloying and thick, making it hard to breathe.  

Everywhere Fit looked, there was devastation. The grand hall, once the heart of Valkyria, was a gaping crater, its foundation shattered and scattered like broken bones. Towers that had once stood as proud sentinels were now crooked stumps, their stones strewn like a trail of breadcrumbs leading to ruin. Smoke still rose from some areas, faint and ghostly, curling upward like the last remnants of a funeral pyre.  

“What happened?” Phil’s voice was quiet, almost reverent.

Fit couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. He’d been gone for too long. He’d missed it all.

They ventured deeper into the ruins, feet crunching over splintered wood and glass. The remnants of weapons and armour were scattered among the debris—broken swords, warped shields, shattered arrows—but none were intact enough to be of use. And then, there were the bodies.  

They came upon the first corpse near what might have once been the training yard. The figure lay sprawled amidst the rubble, a tattered cloak still clinging to its decayed frame. Fit froze, his stomach twisting, but forced himself to move closer.  

A sword protruded from the body’s ribs, its hilt dark with dried blood but otherwise miraculously unscathed. His hands shook as he gripped the weapon, the metal reluctant to give up its grim claim. He yanked hard, the sickening squelch making him flinch as the blade came free.

Phil watched silently, his face unreadable. Fit held the sword up, its edge nicked but still serviceable. He glanced down at the corpse and murmured a soft “Thank you,” though the words felt hollow. He strapped the blade to his side, grateful to at least have a weapon, even as guilt settled heavily in his chest.

They pressed on, the silence between them as suffocating as the haze of ash. Fit’s gaze swept over the carnage, searching for anything, anyone, that might have survived. But the ruins offered no comfort. Only more reminders of what had been lost.

The chill of the wasteland wind bit at their exposed skin, a sharp reminder of their lack of proper clothing. Fit wrapped his arms around himself, his bare torso streaked with grime from the trek through the ruins. Both of them were still clad in little more than the shorts they’d worn during their fight, and the ruins offered no mercy from the biting cold or sharp rubble underfoot.  

“We’re going to freeze or shred our feet before we even make it anywhere else.” Phil muttered, kicking aside a piece of twisted metal as they trudged through the wreckage. “We need clothes. Shoes. Something.”  

Phil scanned the area, his gaze landing on a cluster of bodies half-buried under a collapsed wall. A few still wore tattered cloaks and boots, their armour scorched but mostly intact. He hesitated, grimacing.

“What about them?” he asked, nodding toward the fallen.  

Fit’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “Looting corpses now? Have some standards.”  

“It’s not about standards.” Phil shot back, his tone sharp. “It’s survival. They don’t need it anymore; we do.”  

Fit sighed, running a hand over his ash-dusted lips. “I know. I just… let’s keep looking first. Maybe there’s something that doesn’t involve stripping the dead.”  

They moved deeper into the ruins, the crunch of debris beneath their feet the only sound. Every corner of Valkyria’s once-grand fortress told a story of sudden violence—a battle lost before it had even begun. Fit tried not to think about how many of the faces they passed might’ve been people he’d known.  

Near what had once been the barracks, they stumbled upon a stroke of luck. A half-collapsed storeroom had spilt its contents into the corridor beyond. Several packs were scattered amidst the rubble, their likely owners lying lifeless nearby.  

Phil crouched by one of the packs, tugging it open. “That’ll do.” He muttered, pulling out a folded shirt and a pair of boots. He tossed the boots to Fit. “Try these. Might be your size.”  

Fit caught them, grimacing at the bloodstains on the soles but grateful nonetheless. He slipped them on, wincing at how stiff they were but relieved to no longer feel every sharp edge underfoot. “What else is in there?”  

Phil rummaged further, producing a pair of trousers and a long coat. “Not bad. Bit torn, but it’ll keep the wind off.” He tossed the coat to Fit and set the pants aside for himself.  

Fit opened another pack, his heart sinking slightly at the sight of dried provisions and medical supplies mixed in with spare clothing. “They were trying to get out,” he murmured. “Didn’t even make it to the gate.”  

Phil paused, his expression sombre. “At least their supplies aren’t going to waste.”

As he slipped his hand into the pocket of the pants, Phil’s fingers brushed something small and crinkled. Pulling it out, he examined the half-melted candy in his palm. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You like butterscotch?” he asked, holding it out to Fit.

Fit glanced at it, amused. “Hell yeah, I do.” He plucked the candy from Phil’s hand unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth without hesitation. “It’s the little things.”

Phil chuckled softly and shook his head, slipping on the pants before wrapping a scarf he’d found around his neck. “We take what we need and keep moving. No point staying here any longer than we have to.”

Fit pulled on the coat, fastening the buttons and feeling a small flicker of relief as the wind no longer bit so harshly. He glanced down at one of the bodies, a silent apology in his mind, then shouldered one of the packs.  

By the time they found a spot that looked relatively safe to rest, the weight of it all felt unbearable. It was a crumbling tower, its top missing, but the walls were mostly intact. And it was the only shelter from the merciless wasteland winds. Fit slid down the wall, his back against the cool stone, and stared out at the wasteland that had once been his home. 

Valkyria, the clan that had raised him, the clan that had been his family—gone, reduced to nothing but ash and echoes. Disbanded, most likely. The thought was a knife in his chest, but he had to accept it. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really. It was impressive they’d lasted this long to begin with.

Phil sat beside him, his expression grim. “What now?” he asked quietly.

Fit didn’t answer at first. His fingers tightened around the sword hilt, its presence both a small comfort and a bitter reminder.

“We keep moving. We find out who did this.” His voice was low, rough with anger and grief.

“No.” Phil said. “Don’t be stupid. If that’s really what you want to do, we do it tomorrow. Rest.”

Fit nodded, though his mind refused to quiet. Resting seemed impossible when every crumbled wall and scorched fragment of stone screamed memories at him. The ruins of Asgard were a grim reminder of what 2b2t could do to you. It didn’t just break bones—it shattered lives and crushed dreams.

But Phil was right. Charging blindly ahead would do them no favours, not in the state they were in.  

The wind howled outside their makeshift shelter, rattling loose bits of debris, but the tower held firm. Fit leaned his head back against the cracked wall, staring at the jagged hole where a ceiling had once been. Stars glittered faintly through the haze of dust, distant and indifferent.  

“You’re not alone in this, you know,” Phil said, his voice softer than Fit expected. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever happened here, we’ll find the truth.”  

Fit nodded, though he wasn’t sure how much he believed it. The truth wouldn’t rebuild Valkyria or bring back the faces he’d never see again. Still, the promise of answers was something to cling to—a thread in the darkness.  

As the hours dragged on, silence settled over them, heavy but not unwelcome. Fit stared out at the ruins, his mind replaying fragments of the past. Laughter in the great hall, the clang of swords in the training yard, the pride in Valkyria’s strength. And now… ashes.  

When Fit finally spoke, his voice was low and ragged. “I should’ve been here.”  

Phil didn’t respond immediately. “Maybe,” he said finally. “But I don’t think anyone that cares about you would blame you for getting out. And beating yourself up won’t change anything, regardless. What matters is what you do now.”  

The words hit harder than Fit expected. He stared out at the ruins. Valkyria might be gone, but its spirit didn’t have to be. He wouldn’t let it die here, forgotten in the dust.  

Tomorrow, they’d search for answers. Tonight, he’d hold onto that small ember of determination.

They rested fitfully, the cold stone ground offering little comfort. The night was filled with strange, eerie noises that made them both jump at shadows. The wasteland was never quiet, never safe.

As dawn approached, they pushed themselves up, their bodies stiff and sore from the unyielding surface. They had a long way to go, and Fit was running out of hope.

“We’re going to need to find supplies,” Fit said, his voice gruff. “Food. Water. And a map would be nice too if we can find one. This place has changed since I was last here. More than I thought it would.”

Despite his demeanour, his mind was racing. Where could they go? Who could they trust? The wasteland was a minefield of danger and betrayal, and tauntingly cruel in its reminder of just what he’d left behind.

“We’ll head to the Great Library. It’s a neutral zone, or it was. Maybe we can find some information there—or at least some decent gear. And if we’re lucky, someone might have seen what happened to Valkyria.”

Phil raised an eyebrow at Fit’s suggestion but gave a short nod. “Neutral zone or not, I imagine it’s a trek from here. You sure you’re up for it?”  

Fit smirked, though the pain in his ribs turned it into more of a grimace. “You’re worried about me now? Really? Are you sticking with me? Thought this wasn’t becoming a thing.”  

Phil snorted, adjusting the strap of his pack. “It’s not. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just making sure you don’t keel over before we get somewhere with actual walls and a roof. Can’t have you breaking more bones before you’ve fixed the ones you’ve already got.”  

Fit’s grin widened despite himself. “Aw, Phil. You do care.”  

“Shut up.” Phil leaned back against the wall, glancing toward the jagged horizon.

Despite his casual tone, his mind was clearly elsewhere, calculating their odds, weighing their options. The wasteland wasn’t kind to wanderers, especially those carrying grief and vengeance like a banner.  

The silence stretched between them again, broken only by the whistle of the wind. Fit leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the faint ache in his ribs and the dull throb in his legs ground him. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally, but his determination burned brighter than his fatigue.  

“Dawn breaks soon.” Phil said, breaking the quiet. “We can go then. The Great Library might be a neutral zone, but the roads to it sure as hell aren’t. If we’re lucky, we’ll find some supplies on the way—gear, food, something.”  

Fit opened one eye, a teasing lilt in his voice. “And if we’re not lucky?”  

“Then you’ll get to test that fancy sword of yours.” Phil shot back with a smirk.  

Fit chuckled, the sound dry and humourless. “Great. Been dying for a chance to bleed some more.”  

Phil sighed, his expression softening. “You don’t have to do this alone, Fit. Whatever’s driving you, you’ve got someone watching your back for right now. Even if it’s just to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”  

Fit glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. But instead of dwelling on it, he simply nodded.  

“Thanks, Phil.”  

Phil waved him off. “Save it. I don’t want to hear it. Better not to get attached, isn’t it?”  

Fit’s lips twitched into a soft grin. He wondered how long it would be before Phil stopped lying to himself. But instead, for now, he said:

“Right, right, of course. Just a one-time thing, I get it.”

Maybe things would have been easier if that were true.

Chapter Text

august 19th, 1881

Fit stepped back, brushing the dust from his hands. “Alright. Try now.”

Phil stood, flexing his wings, and sighed when the nail finally didn’t bite into his back.

“Good?” Fit asked, arms crossed. “Try drawing.”

With a fluid motion, Phil reached over his shoulder, fingers wrapping around the bow secured to the strap. He drew it free with ease, his left hand quickly drawing and knocking an arrow from his hip.

Fit snorted, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Why not?” Phil murmured, an amused glint in his eyes. “People have been doing this for centuries. You think archers just threw their bows on the ground when they weren’t using them?”

Fit rolled his eyes. “Not in the books I read. They all complain about how you can’t holster a longbow properly. Too awkward, too clunky, or some bullshit like that.”

Phil quirked an eyebrow, his grin widening. “You read?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Phil laughed, the sound breaking through the oppressive silence of the wasteland. He swung his strap around to lock the nail back into place, the bow snapping snugly into its makeshift harness. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he bowed low, one of his wings sweeping outward—and smacking Fit square in the face.

“Oi!” Fit barked, stumbling back and swatting at the offending feathers. He glared at Phil, who was clearly trying not to laugh. “I’m gonna catch some kind of bird disease from you.”

Phil straightened, his grin now a full-blown smirk. “Well, scholar,” he said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness, “thank you for your invaluable assistance. Are you ready to go?”

Fit grunted, brushing stray feathers off his shirt. “You’re lucky I don’t shove that bow right up your—”

“Easy there, mate.” Phil interrupted, his grin widening. He reached out and clapped Fit on the shoulder, his touch brief but steady. “Save your energy for something that actually wants to kill us.”

Fit didn’t respond, instead pulling his bandana over his nose to hide the irritated twist of his mouth. He shouldered his pack, nodding westward. Without another word, the two set off into the wasteland.

The land stretched out before them in an endless expanse of ash-grey dirt and jagged black stone, broken only by the occasional twisted spire of what might once have been trees. The sky hung low and heavy, a dull bruise of swirling clouds that blocked out the sun, casting everything in a perpetual twilight. The air was thick and dry, scratching at their throats with every breath.

Phil walked a few steps ahead, his wings shifting slightly with each step, the tips brushing the ground every so often. Fit followed close behind, scanning the horizon for any signs of movement. They’d been lucky so far today—no mobs, no outcasts, no storms—but luck didn’t last long in 2b2t.

After a while, Phil broke the silence. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Animals.” Fit replied, his voice muffled behind the bandana.

“Yes, animals.” Phil mocked. “That single word gives me the whole answer, thank you. Mate, can we do something fun for a change?”

Fit glared at him. “No. Not here. We need hides for leather. And meat we can smoke or dry. Jerky lasts longer than this crap.” He patted the side of his pack, where a few scraps of stale bread and dried cactus rattled around.

Phil glanced over his shoulder. “You’re assuming we’ll find anything alive out here. Not exactly prime hunting grounds.”

Fit shrugged. “Heard there’s still some sheep by the river. Besides, there’s always scavengers—rats, wild dogs, maybe a few pigs if we’re lucky.”

Phil glanced at him. This was stupid. “And if it’s something bigger?”

“Then we kill it before it kills us.” Fit’s tone was matter-of-fact, but his hand drifted to the hilt of the sword at his side. He glanced at Phil’s wings. “You can scout from above.”

Phil snorted. “Flying in this hellscape isn’t a great idea. One gust of wind, and I’m a smear on the rocks.”

Fit smirked. “Sounds like a skill issue.”

Phil shot him a glare, but there was no heat behind it. “Keep talking, and I’ll let you be bait.”

They walked for hours, the barren landscape offering nothing but dust and silence. The occasional gust of wind kicked up clouds of ash, forcing them to pull their scarves tighter and keep their heads down. The monotony was exhausting. But just as Fit was about to suggest they stop for a break, Phil froze.

“Are those tracks?” Phil pointed at the ground.

Fit paused to come back and look. There were indentations in the gravel, clearly showing the pattern of something—or someone—walking. Gravel wasn’t the easiest ground to tell prints on, though. You can barely tell the difference between a fox and a deer when it’s only partials.

“Huh.” Fit pursed his lips. “Sure are. Don’t think they’re animal though, might be human.”

“Wait.” Phil held up a hand, his wings half-spreading as he tilted his head, listening. “Do you hear that?”

Fit stopped, straining his ears. At first, there was nothing but the whistle of the wind. Then, faintly, he caught it—a low, guttural snuffling sound, followed by the faint crunch of something moving over loose gravel.

“Something’s close.” Phil murmured, his voice low. He slipped his bow free, knocking an arrow with practised ease. “You see anything?”

Fit scanned the horizon, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The sound was getting closer now, accompanied by the occasional scrape of claws on stone. Then, just ahead, he saw it—a shadow moving between the jagged rocks.

“Got it.” Fit whispered, pointing toward the movement. “Looks like… a dog? No, bigger. Too big.”

Phil narrowed his eyes, following Fit’s gaze. The creature stepped into view, and both men tensed. It was a wolf—or what might have once been a wolf. Its fur was patchy and matted with dirt, its ribs visible beneath its scarred hide. Its eyes glowed faintly, a sickly yellow that made Fit’s stomach churn.

“Corrupted.” Phil muttered, his voice grim. “Figures.”

Fit drew his sword, the blade catching the dim light as he shifted into a defensive stance. “Think it’s alone?”

Phil didn’t answer, his eyes scanning the rocks around them. “Doubt it.”

As if on cue, a second wolf appeared, then a third. They circled slowly, their movements eerily coordinated, their glowing eyes locked on the two men.

“Well,” Fit said, his tone dry, “Having fun?”

Phil smirked, despite the tension coiling in his chest. “I’m having a blast.”

The first wolf lunged.

Fuck, they were fast. Fit met the first wolf head-on, his sword slicing through the air in a wide arc. The blade bit deep into the creature’s side, black ichor spraying across the dirt as it yelped and staggered back.

Phil loosed an arrow, the shaft burying itself in the second wolf’s throat. It collapsed with a wet gurgle, but Phil didn’t stop moving, already drawing another arrow as the third wolf charged. His wings snapped open, propelling him backwards just as the creature’s jaws snapped shut where his leg had been a moment before.

“Watch your left!” Phil shouted, loosing another arrow.

Fit turned just in time to see the first wolf lunging again, its teeth bared. He sidestepped, driving his sword upward into its chest. The creature let out a strangled howl before collapsing in a heap.

The third wolf tried to run, but Phil wasn’t having it. This was not something they needed to come back to bite them in the ass (literally).

Phil kept his arrow drawn, slowly turning as he tracked the wolf. Then he released it, and the arrow whistled through the air, finishing off the last wolf with a well-placed shot between its glowing eyes. The body hit the ground with a dull thud, the eerie glow fading from its gaze.

For a moment, neither of them moved, their breaths coming hard and fast. The wasteland was silent again, save for the faint whistle of the wind.

“Sheep, huh?” Phil said finally, lowering his bow. He glanced at Fit, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not completely useless, at least.”

Fit wiped the ichor from his blade, his expression deadpan. “Oh yeah, thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”

They surveyed the carnage, the bodies of the corrupted wolves sprawled across the dirt. The meat would be a lost cause, unsafe; but the hides were salvageable. Fit knelt beside one of the wolves, pulling a knife from his belt.

“Let’s get to work,” he said, glancing up at Phil. “We’ll need these.”

Phil nodded, but didn’t sling the bow back into its harness. He’d certainly like to go get his arrows, but this didn’t feel right.

“You do the skinning.” Phil murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”

Fit didn’t argue.

The air was thick with tension, the faint metallic tang of blood and ichor lingering around them. Fit had just begun skinning the second wolf when the first voice broke the silence.

“Well, look what we have here.”

Fit froze, his hand tightening on the hilt of his knife. Phil turned slowly toward the sound, his wings shifting slightly as he straightened. A group of people emerged from the jagged rocks—six that he could see from his position, but shadows of others hovered behind them. They were a ragtag mix of desperate scavengers and hardened killers, their gear as mismatched as their expressions. Rusted swords glinted in the dim light, jagged spears rested on shoulders, and makeshift shields were strapped to their arms, some little more than scavenged metal plates.

The leader stood at the front, taller than the rest, with a cruel grin that split his weathered face. His armour—if it could be called that—was cobbled together from scraps of leather and chainmail, and a massive spiked club rested casually over one shoulder. His eyes glinted with malice, but there was something else there too: recognition.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the leader drawled, his grin widening as his eyes landed on Fit. “If it isn’t the infamous Fit. Haus’s favorite little plaything. Escaped the pit, survived the wastes, pissed off every clan with a pulse…” He chuckled darkly. “But tell me… how’s it feel to be brought down to our level? Skinning wolves for scraps. Pathetic.”

Fit didn’t respond immediately, instead standing slowly, the knife still in his hand. His eyes swept over the group, cataloguing weapons, stances, and weak points. Phil shifted beside him, his wings flexing slightly as if stretching in anticipation.

The leader’s gaze flicked to Phil, and his grin turned mocking. “What are you supposed to be? An angel? Thought you lot were supposed to be graceful. You look like you’ve been dragged through the dirt.” He sneered, pointing his club at Phil’s wings. “Bet those don’t even work anymore. You’d make a fine trophy, though. Maybe I’ll hang those feathers over my mantle.”

Phil’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. His hand hovered near his quiver, ready but patient. Fit, however, wasn’t as restrained.

“Big talk coming from someone who smells like he hasn’t bathed in a decade.” Fit said, his tone sharp. “Did you raid a garbage heap for that armour, or is that just your natural look?”

The leader’s grin faltered, his eyes narrowing. The other raiders shifted uneasily, their hands tightening on their weapons. The tension in the air grew heavier, the kind that begged for one wrong move to set everything off.

“You’ve got a smart mouth,” the leader growled, taking a step forward. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You hand over everything you’ve got—supplies, weapons, even those scraps of wolf hide—and maybe we won’t leave your corpses for the vultures.”

Fit glanced at Phil, their eyes meeting briefly. No words were exchanged, but the understanding was immediate. They weren’t handing over anything.

“Last chance.” The leader said, his tone darkening.

Fit smirked, his grip on the knife tightening. “You’re gonna regret giving me that chance.”

The leader snarled, his patience snapping. “Kill them.”

The raiders surged forward, their movements chaotic but dangerous in their desperation. Fit and Phil moved in unison, their instincts honed by years of survival.

The first raider came at Fit, swinging a rusted sword in a wide arc. Fit sidestepped, his knife flashing as he drove it into the man’s side. The raider let out a strangled cry, but Fit didn’t stop, wrenching the blade free and driving his elbow into the man’s jaw, sending him crumpling to the ground.

Another raider, emboldened by the chaos, charged at Fit with a jagged axe. The weapon came down hard, but Fit pivoted sharply, the blade missing him by inches and embedding itself into the dirt. With practised ease, he hooked the hilt of his knife under the raider’s wrist, twisting it savagely. A sickening crack followed as the raider howled in agony, dropping the axe. Fit drove his knee into the man’s stomach, sending him sprawling before finishing him with a quick throw of his knife. Finally, Fit drew his sword.

Phil was already in motion, loosing an arrow with deadly precision, taking out a raider. Another raider lunged at Phil with a spear, but he twisted out of the way, his wings flaring to knock the weapon off course. Before the raider could recover, Phil drove the edge of his bow into the man’s temple, dropping him like a stone.

The ground around them was a mess of churned earth and blood. The air was thick with the tang of iron and the sharp, acrid scent of sweat. The raiders, undeterred by their fallen comrades, pressed forward with reckless abandon, their shouts blending into a roar. Fit and Phil moved like predators, one striking while the other covered, their movements synchronized.

A spear came hurtling toward Phil, but Fit was there, his sword knocking it aside before it could hit its mark. He grabbed the shaft, snapping it over his knee, and hurled the broken half with deadly accuracy. The jagged end hit another raider’s chest, the force of the throw knocking the man off his feet.

Phil leapt into the air, his wings beating hard to lift him just above the fray. The sudden movement drew the attention of three raiders, their weapons raised as they tried to track him. From his vantage point, he loosed two arrows in quick succession, one striking a raider in the leg, the other grazing another’s arm. The distraction gave Fit the opening he needed to flank them, his sword carving through their ranks with brutal efficiency.

But the raiders had come prepared. One of them seized the opportunity to throw a weighted net at Phil, the coarse fibres tangling around his legs. He crashed back to the ground with a grunt, his wings flaring instinctively to cushion his fall. Phil drew a short blade from his belt, cutting through the net with rapid, precise strokes. He rolled to his feet just in time to parry a blow with his bow, the impact reverberating through his arms.

Phil was really starting to think this wasn’t random. Who carries around a weighted net?

The raiders were relentless. Their desperation made them dangerous, and their sheer numbers began to take a toll. Fit took a blow to the ribs from a spiked club, the impact sending him staggering back with a grunt of pain. His vision blurred for a moment, the edges darkening as pain lanced through his side. He barely had time to recover before another raider was upon him, swinging a chain. Fit deflected the first strike, his blade catching the links, but the second strike wrapped around his arm, the barbed edges biting into his flesh. With a cry of effort, he yanked the chain free, pulling the raider off balance before finishing him with a swift slash.

Phil wasn’t faring much better—a raider managed to land a glancing blow on his wing, tearing through the feathers and drawing blood. He hissed in pain, but his movements didn’t falter. Instead, he used the momentum of his spin to bring his bow around in a wide arc, the reinforced edge slamming into the raider’s skull with a sickening crunch. Blood dripped from his torn wing, a crimson trail staining the dirt as he moved.

For a moment, it seemed like they might lose. The raiders’ faces twisted with feral grins, their eyes alight with the thrill of impending victory. They moved with renewed vigour, their jeers turning into guttural war cries. Fit’s breath came in ragged gasps as he clutched his side, his gaze flicking to Phil. Even Phil’s defiant glare couldn’t mask the fatigue that weighed heavily on his every move. The remaining raiders closed in, sensing their advantage, their jeers growing louder.

The leader of the raiders stepped forward, an unnervingly calm presence amidst the chaos. His scarred face twisted into a sneer as he surveyed the two warriors.

“Not so tough now, are you?” He taunted, his voice dripping with malice.

The other raiders laughed, their weapons tapping against shields or the ground in a rhythmic, mocking beat.

Fit wiped blood from his mouth, his eyes locking onto Phil’s. He saw the exhaustion there, the pain, but also the unyielding determination. Slowly, he straightened, forcing himself to ignore the sharp protest of his ribs.

“What do you think, want to surrender?” Fit asked sarcastically.

Phil smirked, despite the blood trailing down his face. “No, that would be a stupid way to die.”

Fit adjusted his grip on his sword, his knuckles white against the hilt. Blood dripped from a gash on his arm, pooling on the dirt beneath him, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, a smirk breaking across his bloodied face.

“Are we fighting or dancing?” Fit called out, his voice carrying. “Because I’ve got to say, you’re a little slow on your feet.”

The leader’s face twisted into a snarl, his scarred lips curling back to show jagged teeth. Without another word, he lunged, his blade cleaving the air in a deadly arc. Fit parried, their weapons locking for a moment as they glared at each other.

Phil, still catching his breath, loosed an arrow toward a raider trying to flank Fit. The arrow struck true, burying itself in the man’s chest, but Phil stumbled slightly as he lowered his bow. His torn wing hung at an awkward angle, blood staining the feathers. He grimaced, forcing himself upright as another raider charged him. He didn’t have time to draw another arrow, so he swung his bow like a club, the reinforced wood cracking against the raider’s jaw and sending him sprawling.

“Phil, you all right?” Fit called, his voice strained as he ducked another slash from the leader.

“Fine.” Phil grunted, though his breathing was laboured and his hands trembled on his weapon.

“Good, because I think our dance partner here has two left feet.” Fit quipped, twisting out of the way of another strike.

The leader faltered for a moment, and Fit slammed the hilt of his sword into the leader’s wrist. The man roared in pain, dropping his weapon. But he wasn’t done. He lunged at Fit with surprising speed, tackling him to the ground. The impact drove the air from Fit’s lungs, and for a moment, the world spun. The leader’s hands closed around his throat, squeezing with brutal strength. Fit gasped, his vision darkening.

An arrow whistled through the air, lodging itself solidly in the leader’s abdomen. The man let out a guttural scream and fell to the side, clutching the wound. Phil staggered over, his face pale but determined. He drew another arrow and pointed it at the leader’s chest.

“Don’t move.” Phil warned, his voice sharp despite his exhaustion.

The leader sneered, blood bubbling at his lips. “More will come. You won’t last.”

Phil didn’t reply; he loosed the arrow, the shaft sinking into the leader’s heart. The man slumped to the ground, his body still.

For a moment, the battlefield was silent. The remaining raiders had either fled or lay strewn across the dirt, their weapons discarded. Fit sat up slowly, coughing as he rubbed his bruised throat. His sword lay beside him, covered in grime and blood. Phil dropped to his knees, dropping his bow, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he clutched his torn wing.

“See? That’s the fun I was looking for.” Phil panted, regarding Fit with a bloody grin.

“Define fun.” Fit said after a moment, his voice hoarse but laced with dry humour. “Reminds me of our first day here. You know, back when we both thought we were gonna die in the first five minutes.”

“Still might.” Phil muttered, wincing as he tried to flex his wing. “And you’re bleeding everywhere.”

Fit looked down at the blood soaking his side and let out a laugh that quickly turned into a cough. “Yeah, well, so are you. Guess that makes us even.”

Phil shook his head, exasperated. “You’re an idiot.”

Fit grinned, leaning back on his elbows as he caught his breath. “Maybe. But you’re still here, aren’t you? After all your talk about getting out of here the first chance you got. What was it you said? ’This isn’t going to be a thing’.” He mimicked Phil’s accent with mock seriousness, earning another glare.

“Do you ever shut up?” Phil muttered, but there was no heat in his voice.

He sat down heavily beside Fit, his bow resting across his lap. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though his expression was still tight with pain.

Fit studied him for a moment, his grin softening into something almost genuine. “You know, we should just make it official.”

Phil raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” Fit said, gesturing between them. “Us. Partners. We work together, we watch each other’s backs. What’s the big deal? We might as well call it what it is.”

Phil snorted, shaking his head. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I never am.” Fit admitted, his grin widening. “But I’m right. And you know it.”

Phil didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was beginning to rise, casting the battlefield in a dull, golden light.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Oh, definitely.” Fit agreed, laughing softly despite the ache in his ribs. “But you’re still here.”

Phil rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stood, offering a hand to Fit. “Come on. If we don’t move soon, we’ll bleed out before we even make it back.”

Fit took his hand, wincing as he got to his feet. “Partners, then.” He said, his tone light but his eyes serious.

Phil shook his head, hauling Fit to his feet. “I hate you.”

Chapter Text

january 25th, 1886

The camp was quiet aside from the occasional pop and hiss of the fire, embers slowly dying as the night pressed on. Fit lay flat on his back, staring up at the low ceiling of his tent. Sleep eluded him, slipping just out of reach no matter how much he willed it. He shifted his position, the canvas beneath him rustling, but it made no difference. His mind refused to settle.

The reason was painfully clear. Every sound from the next tent bled through the thin fabric walls. Fit squeezed his eyes shut as if that would block out the noises: muffled groans, whispered words too soft to make out, and the unmistakable rhythm of bodies moving against each other.

He gritted his teeth as the sounds grew louder. It wasn’t the first time Phil had taken someone to his tent. Shit, he had done the same thing, knowing full well that the other could hear every single movement, every moan. Nights like these were part of the life they lived—exhaustion and adrenaline had a way of driving people to find comfort wherever they could. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just bodies. Just noise.

So why was this time different?

Fit rolled onto his side and clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the distant sound of the wind through the trees, the chirp of insects. But every time he thought he might slip into oblivion, another sharp gasp would drag him back—pulling him into the intimacy of a moment that wasn’t his.

He hated how it unsettled him. It was irrational. There was no reason to care. Phil had always been this way—no strings, no complications, just fleeting moments. And Fit understood that. He lived by the same rules, didn’t he? The boundaries had always been clear.

But tonight, those boundaries felt thinner, more fragile, as if some invisible line had shifted without his permission. He tried to shake it off, tried to tell himself it was just exhaustion warping his thoughts, but it gnawed at him, burrowing deeper beneath his skin with every stifled moan from the next tent.

He wanted to block it out, wanted to turn off the part of his brain that cared. But the sounds carried on—soft gasps, the rustling of blankets, and that low, rough chuckle from Phil that made something twist uncomfortably in Fit’s chest. It shouldn’t bother him. It never bothered him.

But tonight, it did.

Fit exhaled sharply, and sat up abruptly, shoving his blanket aside. The humid night air clung to his skin, heavy and suffocating, only amplifying his irritation. He wanted a distraction, something to quiet the restless thoughts gnawing at the edges of his mind. But there was nothing—just the sounds from the next tent, digging into him like a splinter he couldn’t pull out.

Another low moan, drawn-out and breathy, reached his ears. Phil’s voice followed, a soft murmur of something indistinct, intimate in a way that made Fit’s stomach churn. He clenched his fists, trying to keep his mind from filling in the blanks, from imagining too much.

“Shit.” Fit muttered under his breath, scrubbing his face with his hands.

This wasn’t about Phil—not really. At least that’s what he told himself. It was easier that way. Easier to blame it on the tension of the day, on the adrenaline still pumping through his veins from the fight earlier. They had nearly lost the guy Phil was now busy fucking. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was just the leftover rush from dragging someone back from the brink, from the way survival always made everything feel sharper, more immediate.

But that excuse felt thin—flimsy, even. Fit knew himself better than that. The knot in his chest, the way his pulse kicked up every time Phil’s name slipped out of the stranger’s mouth in a broken gasp…

His pulse thudded heavily in his ears, drowning out the night sounds, but not enough to block out them. Not enough to block out the sudden flare of jealousy that twisted through him—hot and unwelcome.

Jealousy. The word clicked into place, bitter and undeniable. That was what had been bothering him.

He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to admit that it had settled deep in his gut like a rock. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They weren’t supposed to matter like this. Phil was a friend—if you could even call what they had a friendship. It was a practical partnership built on shared goals and the need to survive, nothing more.

Except now, as Fit sat there listening to Phil with someone else, it felt like more. And that scared the hell out of him. He squeezed his eyes shut again, jaw tight as he tried to shove the feeling aside. You don’t care, he told himself fiercely. It doesn’t mean anything. You’ve both done this a dozen times before. It’s just sex.

But the knot in his chest only tightened with every broken moan that spilt from the next tent. He could picture it too clearly—Phil’s broad hands, the press of his weight, the leaning in close when he whispered something filthy. He punched his pillow in frustration as if it would somehow scramble his thoughts.

There was no point in staying in that damn tent, no point in trying to force sleep that wasn’t coming.

Fit slipped out of the tent as quietly as he could, the canvas rustling softly as it fell back into place behind him. The camp was bathed in dim firelight, the embers low but still warm enough to keep any curious animals at bay. He shoved his hands into his pockets, bare feet whispering over the cool dirt as he made his way toward the river just beyond the tree line.

The night stretched wide and endless around him, thick with the hum of insects and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. It was cooler by the river, and the air smelled fresher—earthy and damp. Fit inhaled deeply, savouring the contrast to the suffocating warmth of the tent, and settled himself on a smooth patch of riverbank.

He grabbed a flat stone from the edge of the water and sent it skipping across the surface. One, two, three skips before it sank. He scoffed at himself, grabbing another stone. He sent another rock sailing across the water, listening to the satisfying plip with every bounce.

Above him, the sky stretched in a blanket of stars, clear and sharp against the dark. He leaned back on his hands, letting his thoughts drift with the flow of the river. The noises from the camp were mercifully distant now—just a faint crackle of the fire and the chirp of night creatures.

He let the stillness settle over him, listening to the steady buzz of crickets and the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface. It felt good, in a way, to be alone out here.

Footsteps stirred the quiet, slow and familiar. Fit didn’t need to turn around to know it was Phil. There was an ease in his gait, a kind of self-assured laziness that gave him away long before he spoke. The man appeared out of the darkness like a shadow made real, his messy hair glowing faintly in the firelight behind him. Phil crouched beside him, his presence warm and close, and Fit could feel the grin radiating off him without even looking.

“Couldn’t sleep?" Phil asked, though the teasing lilt in his voice made it clear he already knew the answer.

Fit didn’t respond right away. He tossed another stone into the river, this one sinking on the first skip.

“Figured I’d give it a shot out here." Fit muttered, watching the ripples spread.

Phil stretched his arms overhead, letting out a contented sigh. “Good night for it."

His grin never faltered, that self-satisfied gleam in his eyes like a cat after a successful hunt.

“Didn’t think I’d see you out here." Phil added casually, as if the tension that had been chewing through Fit all night didn’t exist. “Usually you’re the first one to crash."

Fit shrugged, tossing another rock into the water. “Not tonight."

Phil hummed softly, a sound that was more amused than anything. "Was it the noise?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “Sorry ’bout that. Guess we got a little carried away."

The smugness in his tone made Fit’s jaw clench. “Don’t worry about it." he said flatly.

Phil chuckled, leaning in just a bit closer. “Come on, don’t be like that. It’s not like you’ve never made some noise yourself."

Fit shot him a sideways glare, but Phil just grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. He reached down, scooped up a stone, and flicked it lazily into the river. It sank with a dull splash.

For a long moment, the two of them sat in silence, the night wrapping around them like a soft blanket. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, but neither of them acknowledged it directly. That wasn’t how they did things.

Eventually, Phil broke the quiet. “Something on your mind?”

Fit hesitated, unsure how to answer. What could he say? That hearing Phil with someone else had twisted something inside him, made him feel things he didn’t want to feel? That for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was on the outside looking in—and it stung in a way he hadn’t expected?

Instead, he shrugged, brushing it off. “It’s nothing.”

Phil didn’t push, which was a small mercy. He just nodded, his grin softening into something more genuine. “Well, if it’s nothing, you sure look like hell over it.”

Fit let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Thanks for that.”

Phil bumped his shoulder lightly, and for a moment, everything felt easier—like the weight pressing down on Fit’s chest had lifted, if only slightly.

“Look,” Phil said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “If something’s bothering you, you can tell me. You know that, right?”

Fit glanced at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. It wasn’t often that Phil dropped the act, but when he did, it always caught Fit off guard.

For a moment, Fit thought about saying something—about telling Phil everything that had been gnawing at him all night. But the words stuck in his throat, too tangled and messy to come out right. So instead, he just looked back at the river, watching the water flow steadily under the stars.

“I know.” Fit said quietly.

Phil’s grin shifted into something sharper, his gaze glinting with amusement under the starlight.

“You were listening.” Phil said slowly, dragging out the vowels. It wasn’t a question, and Fit hated the way it made his skin prickle. “Got under your skin, huh?”

“I don’t care.” Fit muttered, though the words felt clumsy, unconvincing even to his own ears.

“You’re jealous.” Phil said casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Fit tensed, the denial forming on his tongue before the thought even fully landed.

“I’m not.” He snapped, tossing another stone into the river, though it landed with a sad little plunk.

Phil just chuckled, leaning in a little closer, the warmth of him brushing against Fit’s side like a taunt. “You’re such a shit liar.”

Phil’s hand slid down to his arm. The touch was casual—too casual—and yet it burned. Fit’s breath stuttered, just barely, but it was enough. Phil noticed everything. He always did.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Phil murmured, voice low and pleased, as if he had uncovered some secret Fit had been desperate to keep hidden.

Fit jerked his arm instinctively, but Phil held on, steady and patient. He shifted, crouching down in front of Fit, his grin spreading wider as he peered up at him, dark eyes full of mischief.

“What the hell are you doing?” Fit asked, though the question came out too soft, more plea than protest.

Phil didn’t answer, not with words. His hand slid lower, a slow and deliberate move that made Fit’s breath hitch. And then Phil pressed his palm firmly over the front of Fit’s pants, his fingers curling just enough to make Fit’s hips twitch forward involuntarily.

“Fuck.” Fit breathed, the word slipping out before he could catch it.

Phil’s grin only grew. He watched Fit closely, his thumb brushing in teasing little circles, drinking in every shaky breath, every flicker of tension in Fit’s expression. For a moment, everything stilled—the world reduced to Phil’s hand, his gaze, and the quiet night stretching endlessly around them.

Phil smiled, soft and knowing, and Fit closed his eyes as the world blurred, letting himself collapse into the warmth of Phil’s touch and the river’s quiet song.

Phil’s hands were deliberate—too familiar, too patient—like someone reacquainting themselves with an old habit. Fit felt the brush of cool air as fabric shifted, leaving him exposed to the night. He should’ve shivered, but the warmth of Phil’s breath chased away the chill before it could settle.

There was no fanfare, no warning—Fit’s breath escaped him in a harsh exhale, carried away on the night breeze. His hands gripped the earth beneath him, fingers curling into the cool grass, desperate for an anchor. But there was none—the gentle rhythm building and cresting like waves lapping at the shore.

Phil worked quietly, almost reverently, as though savouring every small twitch, every shaky breath. There was something intimate in the way he moved, too careful to be careless, too slow to be anything but deliberate. It was maddening and consuming all at once, unravelling Fit thread by thread.

It was too much—too good, too Phil. Fit bit down on his bottom lip, struggling to keep quiet even though no one else was close enough to hear. The night seemed to draw closer, wrapping them in the quiet hum of insects and the murmuring river, as if the world had agreed to look the other way. Fit’s breath hitched, sharp and unsteady, and Phil responded with a low hum—pleased, coaxing. It thrummed through Fit’s body like a plucked string, resonating somewhere deep, where want and frustration tangled together.

He bit down harder on his lip, as if that would stop the sounds threatening to spill out, but it only made the sensation sharper, keener. Phil didn’t stop, didn’t falter—he knew exactly what he was doing, and he was endless in his patience. Fit’s hips twitched forward of their own accord, and Phil’s hand pressed lightly against his thigh, steadying him, reminding him there was nowhere else he needed to be.

Now and then, Phil would glance up through his lashes, catching Fit’s gaze just long enough to make his stomach flip. Fit couldn’t think—couldn’t focus on anything beyond Phil. The sky above seemed to blur, stars smearing together as Fit’s breath came in shallow bursts.

“Phil—" Fit breathed, the name slipping out unbidden, wrecked and desperate.

Phil hummed again, a low, satisfied sound that sent sparks racing down Fit’s spine. And that was it—that was all it took. Fit could do nothing but let it carry him under. The night swallowed his gasps, the river cradling them in its endless flow. Phil didn’t pull away, not right away. He stayed with him through it, slow and steady, until Fit’s breath evened out and the tension ebbed from his body, leaving him weightless and quiet.

When Phil finally leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, there was no trace of smugness in his expression—only a quiet satisfaction, as if this had been his plan all along.

He grinned up at Fit, utterly unrepentant.

“Feel better now?” Phil asked, his voice light and teasing.

Fit let his head fall back, staring up at the sky as his breath slowly returned to him, each inhale laced with the scent of damp earth and river water.

Fit stayed silent for a long time, catching his breath as the cool night air wrapped around them. Phil leaned back on his hands, his grin fading into something softer, something almost thoughtful. The river burbled quietly beside them, its flow steady and unchanging.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was easier not to—easier to let the quiet linger, to pretend like nothing needed to be said. But Fit wasn’t sure that silence would hold much longer.

Phil broke it first, of course he did, because that’s just who he was. He always had a way of sidling up to the edges of things, poking at them until they gave.

“So,” Phil said, his tone light and easy. “You going to tell me what’s going on, or should I just keep guessing?”

Fit let out a low scoff, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t already know?”

Phil chuckled, low and warm. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

Fit didn’t answer right away. He stared out at the river, and watched the moonlight ripple across its surface, his jaw tight. The knot in his chest hadn’t fully eased—not yet. Maybe it never would.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Fit muttered, grabbing another stone and flicking it into the water. It skipped twice before sinking.

Phil grinned. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

They lapsed into silence again, though it wasn’t as heavy this time. Fit could feel Phil watching him, waiting, but he didn’t press. That, more than anything, made it harder to stay quiet.

Finally, Fit exhaled sharply, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I don’t know what the hell we’re doing.”

Phil tilted his head, his grin softening into something more curious. “What do you mean?”

“This.” Fit said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Us. Whatever it is. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be.”

Phil’s brow furrowed slightly, but his expression stayed open, patient. “Does it need to be something?”

Fit hesitated, his fingers twitching against his thigh. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just…” He trailed off, frustrated with himself, with this whole damn conversation. “I don’t want it to fall apart.”

Phil’s gaze sharpened, his usual teasing edge giving way to something steadier, something more serious. “You think it will?”

Fit shrugged, his shoulders stiff. “Everything does eventually.”

Phil let out a soft hum, thoughtful. “Not everything.”

Fit shot him a sceptical look. “Name one thing.”

“The river.”

“The river?”

Phil nodded toward the water. “It’s always there. Always moving, always steady. Doesn’t matter what happens around it—storm, drought, whatever—it keeps going. Doesn’t fall apart.”

Fit frowned, glancing at the river as if it might suddenly offer some kind of wisdom. “That’s… not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Phil asked, his tone light but his gaze steady. “We don’t have to have it all figured out, Fit. We just… keep going. Keep moving. Doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

Fit didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure he could. There was a simplicity to Phil’s words, a kind of practicality that felt almost comforting. But it also felt risky—dangerous, even. Like trusting in something that could slip through his fingers when he needed it most.

Phil seemed to sense his hesitation, because he leaned forward, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Look, I’m not saying it’s perfect. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time. But I know I trust you. And I know I want to keep this—whatever it is—steady.”

Fit’s looked down at his hands, his knuckles faintly dusted with dirt from the riverbank. “Steady, huh?”

Phil nodded. “Yeah. Something we can count on. No matter what else is going on.”

Fit huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so damn simple.”

Phil grinned, leaning back on his hands again. “That’s because it is. You’re the one making it complicated.”

Fit opened his mouth to argue, but Phil cut him off, reaching into his pocket with a sly smile.

“Here.” Phil said, pulling something out and holding it out to Fit. “Sweeten the deal.”

Fit stared at the object in Phil’s hand, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Is that… candy?”

Phil’s grin widened. “What, you don’t like butterscotch anymore?”

“Where the hell did you even get that?”

Phil shrugged, his expression entirely too pleased with himself.

“What the fuck?” Fit muttered, his voice flat.

Phil just chuckled, pushing the candy into Fit’s hand. “Does it matter? Just take it.”

Fit stared at the candy for a moment, then back at Phil, his expression torn between exasperation and something softer. Finally, he shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re unbelievable.” Fit muttered.

“And you’re predictable.” Phil shot back. “Now eat it before I change my mind.”

Fit rolled his eyes but unwrapped the candy, popping it into his mouth. The sweetness hit him immediately, warm and rich, and he let out a quiet hum of appreciation despite himself.

Phil watched him, his grin soft. “Better?”

Fit let the candy melt on his tongue, the simple comfort of it easing something deep in his chest. Finally, he nodded, glancing over at Phil.

“Yeah. Better.”

Phil’s smile widened, and for a moment, everything felt steady—like the river, like the stars, like the sunset—like something worth holding onto.

“Good.” Phil said, his voice low and warm. “Because I’m not going anywhere, Fit. Not unless you tell me to.”

Fit looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time all night, the knot in his chest began to ease. He didn’t have the words to say it—not yet. But as he leaned back on his hands, letting the night stretch wide and quiet around them, he thought maybe—just maybe—Phil was right.

Gods, this was getting complicated.