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“You’re back late.”
Riven furrows his brows as he kicks the door shut behind him, trying to recall whether that’s the third or fourth sentence Sky has spoken to him this week. Either way, it’s three or four more than he’s heard his roommate utter in total throughout the past month, and he’s honestly gotten so used to talking to a metaphorical wall that he actually takes pause to check if it’s really Sky in the room with him.
It is, leaning forward on the side of his bed and tugging his one remaining boot off before tossing it on top of the other, already discarded one. It’s Friday, so he must’ve just gotten back from dinner with Silva — one of two activities his father figure has forced him to at least physically attend, the other being training, because “we’re still at war, Sky, no point in being angry at her for leaving if you’re not here to return to”.
The only one Sky’s angry at is himself, for not flinging himself through that interdimensional wormhole after her, and they all know it.
But to his credit, Sky has in fact physically shown up to every scheduled Specialist class on their timetable, where he proceeds to physically hand everyone’s ass to them without so much as a grunt so Silva can’t berate him for slacking, before physically disappearing from sight upon the time signal so instantly Riven wonders whether Sky’s royal ex-girlfriend is involved.
It’s no surprise, then, that Riven itches to crack a joke about this turn of events, ask whether the cat that got his tongue finally vomited it back up with a hairball or something equally crude and childish, but for once, it’s not his friend’s trademark exasperated sigh that he’s after. Because for once, he’s in a place where there’s no getting high daily, bullying insecure first years or fucking, well, anyone really, to distract from the truth: he misses his best friend.
Still. Doesn’t mean he has to be obvious about it.
“Spur-of-the-moment sparring session. Lost track of time.”
It’s a perfectly plausible explanation. He looks the part, Specialist armor still zipped up, hair just on the unkempt side of messy, temples glistening with sweat until he drags his sleeved forearm across his forehead, and it’s not like Sky and he haven’t ever been in this exact same position together, getting carried away with their training until the sun is gone and they had to sprint back to the Specialist Hall to make curfew.
That’s why the blond Specialist’s next reaction — why withdrawn, heartbroken, silent Sky’s next reaction — makes absolutely no sense.
“Sparring, huh?”
He lets out a mix between a scoff and a laugh out of habit. “I like sex, but contrary to popular belief it’s not actually a bucket list checkbox to bed every single person on this campus. So yes, sparring. Or, you know, the closest our newest recruit gets to that.”
Which, although he would never say it to Musa’s face, is getting closer and closer with each of their thrice-a-week (sometimes more if they can squeeze it in, like today) lessons. The days when an hour of teaching her felt no different to a walk from the school to the greenhouse are long gone, as are the days when they didn’t continue beyond an hour because her arms would be so sore she could barely keep her sword pointed at him, let alone repeat a moveset for the eighteenth time.
She’s actually pretty natural at it, and a fast learner on top of that. He’s also a damn gifted teacher, of course.
He expects a ‘Could’ve fooled me’ or a ‘Pretty sure you’re halfway there’ or another form of a snarky comeback, but instead when he drops his bag onto his bed and turns around, he’s faced with a pensive, almost suspicious looking Sky.
“You like her.”
His best friend’s intonation leaves no room for denial, but that doesn’t mean he can’t aim straight for ignorance.
“The fuck are you on about?”
He unclasps the straps across his abdomen, pulls on the zipper and allows his protective gear to slip to the floor with a dull thud, followed by the leather straps of the harness underneath.
“Musa. You like her.”
He’s been accused of a wide range of things over the years, many valid, some way out of left field, but this — coming from the person who arguably knows him better than anyone in the world — has got to take the cake. Riven’s defining personality trait is that he doesn’t like people, full stop.
Nine times out of ten, that feeling is wholeheartedly mutual. That one remaining time is Sky himself, and even that is a big maybe on some days. The one time he just about believed it to be someone else, well… the white noise in his brain when he thinks — tries to think — of a particular night in Rosalind’s office is reminder enough of how wrong he was about that.
He’s about to ask if he needs to call Musa to come check for a Blood Witch in Sky’s head again, but figures it’s probably too soon. By the time he’s dismissed the thought, though, he’s been frozen halfway through grabbing his collar and dragging his shirt over his head for too long to mask his reaction as apathy and goddamnit, did Sky’s first smirk in actual weeks really have to be at his expense?
“She’s more tolerable than any other mind fairy I’ve come across,” he shrugs with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel and is pretty sure isn’t reflected on his face, which he hides by finally pulling his uniform over it so hurriedly he nearly rips a seam.
“She also seems to tolerate you more than most, mind fairy or otherwise,” Sky points out.
A snort escapes him instantly. “You jealous you’re no longer the solitary member of the ‘I can stand to be around Riven for more than three minutes without sleeping with him’ club? You’re still its founder and my personal favorite, not to worry.”
Sky ignores his sidetrack, cocking an eyebrow despite Riven pointedly not looking his way still, hovering shirtless at his bed when he should be marching into the bathroom and rinsing off today’s exertion in the shower.
He doesn’t mind Musa, per se. Not anymore.
And maybe he likes one or two things about her.
He likes the effort Musa’s putting into her training. He likes the way Musa looks at him when he sporadically admits she’s gotten a move down, like she never expected to get anything right ever at all and is relieved to be proven wrong. He likes the way Musa reacts to his sarcastic comebacks by firing the same snark right back at him. He likes the way Musa’s messy buns bounce when she laughs out loud. He likes Musa’s messy buns, period.
That’s where things are starting to get complicated.
“She’s alright, okay?” he gives in after Sky’s silence begins to irk him. He’s surprisingly desperate to keep his friend talking now that he’s heard his voice again. “She’s serious about learning to fight so I’m serious about teaching her. Isn’t that your fucking wet dream? For me to take things seriously?”
“If you’re going to dredge up that conversation, do you also recall the part where you told me Beatrix was the only person who liked you as you were?”
“I remember you being a massive hypocrite about it, if that’s what you’re asking,” he mumbles.
“She liked you as you were because you were a dick, and that’s exactly what she was in it for.”
Riven finally turns, whirls around even. “Jesus, Sky, tell me how you really feel,” he bites, his tone as sharp as his twin swords. Looking back, this is probably exactly where Sky wanted him. Riven’s always a little too honest when backed into a corner, fury his defense mechanism of choice, and words spoken in anger don’t have to be lies when you’ve got all these truths that hit right where it hurts.
Sky doesn’t back down, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his legs and staring straight at him. “You were into her, and she used that to her advantage. Used you. Got what she needed, then ratted you out to Rosalind, and you got hurt.”
“And then I broke up with her, yeah, I was there, thanks very much.”
A big part of him wants to deny being hurt by Beatrix’ actions, but as much as he knows Sky often doesn’t understand him, this is something his friend has very sensitive feelers for — Riven’s casual, champagne-fueled indifference after the break-up not able to mask the fact that he had never been as affectionate towards anyone else in all the years Sky has known him.
“You know I’m right.”
“You’re rude, is what. She saved your life, you know? All of our lives, probably.”
“She killed me,” Sky corrects, “but that’s not the point.”
“What is the point, pray tell, because I’m fucking lost, mate,” Riven sinks down on the edge of his mattress, swinging his arms up in an unspoken ‘the hell is going on’ as he does.
Sky hesitates at that, schools his face into something softer, something sympathetic, before continuing. “It’s not always going to be like that. I get that you’re wary about opening up again after Beatrix, but Musa’s nothing like her.”
Riven shakes his head like scrambling his brain will make a difference, his face the embodiment of a question mark as he tries to connect the dots that Sky is sprinkling around the room like a confetti cannon instead of a bread crumb trail he would actually be able to track.
He drags a hand across his face. “Yeah, no, still not following. How exactly did we loop back to the mind fairy?”
“We saw you,” Sky sighs. “When Saul drove me back, just now. We saw you two on the platform.”
“…And?” he questions, vowel stretched as long as his exhale will take it.
“And those things hurt, Riv. I saw them on Beatrix and Bloom, saw what they did to their skin.”
Finally, a lightbulb snaps on in Riven’s head, albeit with a flicker that indicates it might need replacing soon.
They’d seen the runic limiters on her wrists.
The runic limiters that Silva thinks Riven’s making her wear solely because he refuses to train her without, because “if she wants to be a Specialist so badly, she can do the work like all of us, instead of cutting corners with an unfair advantage”.
The runic limiters that Sky has apparently concluded he’s making her wear for an entirely different reason.
The runic limiters that he has thought about telling her to get rid of at least five times but she insists are saving her mental stability right now, when he’s quite certain that all the work she’s been putting into her magical development has increased her control tenfold and she’s only refusing because he wants her to stay the fuck out of his head.
If he were honest with himself — but Riven rarely is — that hasn’t necessarily been true for some time. Or, at least, he doesn’t want her to stay the fuck out of his head more than he wants her to not be in pain.
“She’s a fairy, denying her access to her magic isn’t natural. Musa’s had to suffer through it once already.”
Except she hadn’t suffered, of course, not after the initial attack, but no one but him knows that. It’s a marvel, honestly, that out of all the people in this school, he is still the only one in on the secret of Musa’s little ‘escapade by scrapers’. Perhaps even more bewildering is the fact that even before she’d looked at him with wide and pleading eyes, he’s never been tempted to change anything about that. He loves gossip, thrives on slander. But none of what he had seen and heard that night is something even the cruelest slither of him wants to publicize.
This isn’t like Stella being so jealous she blinded her best friend, or Bloom being a Changeling. This is Musa, hating every fiber of what she is so intensely that she would risk her life to get a break from her own head.
He knows a thing or two about that kind of self-loathing.
“How long did you two stand there exactly, watching us like a bunch of creepers? Did you enjoy the show, at least?” He rips the belt from the loops of his black cargo pants like that, too, is a show.
Sky rolls his eyes at the blatant diversion, but indulges him either way. “She’s good. You know she’s good; you wouldn’t be bothering with more lessons if she wasn’t.”
“She’s good because—well, I’m teaching her, first off,” he shrugs one shoulder as if to say ‘obviously’, “but secondly, she’s good because she agreed to learn like we did: from scratch. Building stamina, learning to read and interpret body language, wielding a sword, using your physique in your favor. You taught me all of that, and it worked. Made me feel accomplished. Made me…better.”
He’s suddenly very focused on wrapping his belt around his hand.
“There’s a point to her not having her powers to lean on.” A bubble of something bitter pops in his throat. “It’s not just good ol’ Riven out to ruin yet another unsuspecting Alfean.”
It’s not Sky’s fault that Terra’s jab is still on his mind weeks later, and it doesn’t even make sense seeing as the truth is that Musa’s the one who asked him for the limiters, but something compels him to spit it out anyway.
“Do you really think that’s what I’m assuming, or are you just throwing it out there so you don’t have to think about what it means if I’m not?” Sky near-whispers, breaking through the haze slowly fogging up his mind.
He leans forward onto his elbows, brow raised. “What, you’re telling me this isn’t a Saint Sky lecture?”
“Course it is. But I never said that I think you’re doing it to hurt her. I’m not accusing you of anything, Riven. Well, except deflecting.”
“Deflecting what?”
“The fact that you like her. And why that makes you so uncomfortable.”
Sky’s voice is calm, steady, and Riven hates it. Hates how Sky knows he’s right even if it’s just about half of that sentence, how he’s learned to see through him so effortlessly, how he won’t be scared off by a raised voice and biting tone.
“I don’t need you in my head anymore than I do her, Sky.”
There’s not been enough denial on his part, he knows that, but for some reason beyond his comprehension, he just can’t find it in himself tonight. Not when this is the first proper conversation in a month with the guy who’s seen all of the ugliest sides of him yet somehow continues to reach out a hand.
Not when the girl they’re talking about might have unknowingly been making him do the same.
But again — Riven doesn’t like people, hasn’t even liked himself much for a big portion of his time in this place, and he’s not quite ready to connect the fact that that ominous disdain has become more of a lingering remnant in his mind lately to the day he carried a wounded and powerless mind fairy from the lodge to the school.
Sky seems to recognize this too, because he flops backwards onto his mattress, breaking both their eye contact and the tension in the room.
“Oh, she’s in your head alright. ‘Pixie’? Really?”
“Oh shut up.” Riven reaches behind him to grab the end of his pillow cover and flings the entire thing in Sky’s general direction, but he’s alert enough to catch it.
“We were there not even five minutes, Riv, you’re not subtle.”
He’s up and halfway through the room before Sky’s even finished his sentence. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Do you even realize you do the heart eyes and everything?” Sky questions excessively loudly to make sure it carries through the bathroom door he slams shut.
He almost yells back he liked Sky better when he was impersonating a wall.
Almost.
He does tell Musa they’re training without the limiters from now on when they meet on the platform two days later, demonstratively pulling her sleeves down when she offers him her bare wrists, and although her eyes stay their usual chocolate brown, he feels more seen than he ever has before when her gaze drifts up to meet his.