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It’s a solemn, if hurried goodbye in the middle of the Lloy family’s garden.
The group agrees in unison that Occtis, Julien, and Aranessa need to be out of the city by sunrise. Thaisha offers to guide, refusing to let Occtis out of her sight. Vaelus, who’d never planned on sticking around Dol-Makjar anyway, volunteers extra protection.
And it’s not like any of them have much to pack.
Thaisha trembles in Hal’s arms, squeezing him so tightly his bones creak. “Tell Shadia I’m sorry. And Al—fuck, check in on Alogar, please? I’m sorry, I’m so—”
Hal silences her with a chaste kiss. “I will. They’ll understand, Thai,” he replies firmly. “Al’s gonna be fine. Tell Shadia you’re sorry yourself, next time you stop by. Bring her a souvenir while you’re at it.”
To his immense relief, Thaisha chuckles wetly. She draws back with a sniff, swiping tears from the edges of her eyes. “Are you gonna be okay?” she asks seriously. Her gaze darts to something—someone—over his shoulder before she leans down once again. “Something’s different with Bolaire,” she whispers. “I can’t tell what, but…be careful.”
Hal’s chest aches. “I will,” he reassures her. “He’s my friend. I trust him.”
Her gaze softens. She opens her mouth to speak again, only for Julien to cut her off as he calls, “If you are done with your heartfelt goodbyes, we needed to leave ten minutes ago!”
Hal shoots him a withering look around her, only for Thaisha to shake her head. “He’s…an asshole, but he’s going through a lot. It’s fine,” she tells him. Over her shoulder, she calls, “Coming!”
It’s a blur from there, until Hal stands with Murray, Azune, and Bolaire in the pre-dawn gloom.
Azune clears his throat. “We should go,” he says quietly. “Are the rest of you going to be alright?” He shoots each of them a meaningful look, eyes like the impending sunrise.
“Yeah,” Murray waves a hand dismissively. “What would any rich assholes want with little old me?” She grins broadly, and the gems in her teeth catch what little light is available.
“We’re all gonna be fine,” Hal says, and waits for confirmation from the rest before continuing, “but we need to get back together soon to discuss. In the meantime, let’s agree to keep our heads down and lay as low as possible. Sound good?”
More nods. “If none of you need me, I’m gonna sneak back to the garrison. Goodnight, and stay safe.” Azune only hesitates a second more before turning and walking for the gate, pulling his hood up as he goes.
Murray tugs the brim of her hat down some. “In case it wasn’t made really obvious earlier, gravity brought us all together tonight to do something that should be impossible,” she says gravely. “It’s not a coincidence. Or destiny. It’s the science I’ve spent my entire adult life studying.” She starts toward the gate after Azune. “So stay safe, boys. Until next time.”
Hal doesn’t quite know what to say to that. So he doesn’t. He simply watches her go, and wonders what his brother meant about taking care of her.
A hand lands gently on his shoulder, tentative enough that he could shake it off with little effort, and Hal realizes with a jolt that they are different.
The last body’s hands were slimmer. A little more…delicate. These are sturdier, not quite fitting in the gloves the way the last ones did.
“Might I walk you home?” Bolaire asks softly.
Hal blinks, wondering if the sleepless night is beginning to catch up. “Little out of your way, isn’t it?” he replies.
Bolaire shrugs. “I would…I think I’d be more comfortable knowing you and Shadia are safely locked in for the night.”
A locked door won’t stop the Sundred Houses—Tachonis or otherwise, Hal thinks grimly.
Still, he reaches up to pat the hand on his shoulder. “Your company is always welcome,” he admits quietly. Even after everything. “Shall we?”
Bolaire nods wordlessly, lowering his hand, and they set off together.
Dol-Makjar, for all its hustle and bustle, is almost crypt-like at this time of night. Shadows shift as if preparing to lunge. Their footsteps ring across the empty streets. The slight irregularity of Bolaire’s pace is clearer than ever, settling under Hal’s skin like a second heartbeat. Does it always take a while for him to get used to new bodies? Or is there something different with this one?
Hal can’t find it in himself to ask. Not tonight.
They make it to the Rookery without encountering a single other soul on the road. Bolaire walks him to the stoop. Hesitates. In a tone like glass he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Almost without thinking, Hal reaches over to pat his back. It takes him a moment to find words. “You did something remarkable tonight, you know that?”
Bolaire runs a hand over his messy curls, porcelain brow furrowing. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But that’s not what we’re talking about. You know that.”
Hal sighs heavily. “I know. You don’t have to be sorry.” He moves to start unlocking the door, his hand leaving Bolaire’s back. “I…I believe you, you know. I just…need a little time to think all this over.”
“Of course,” Bolaire replies instantly.
“But if you’re free for coffee tomorrow, I’d love for you to stop by.” Hal pauses to rub his eyes. “I mean—it’s technically morning, so not today, but—“
“Tomorrow,” Bolaire interrupts. A smile teases at his painted lips. “I understand.”
It’s so ridiculously mundane Hal can’t help but grin back. “If you don’t come here I’ll hunt you down myself, alright?”
“Consider me warned,” Bolaire says primly. He dips into a playful bow, and something that had been sitting heavily in Hal’s chest crumbles.
It really is still him. Just…different.
Hal gives a little bow back. “A thousand times goodnight, then, and tomorrow I will send.”
“So thrive my soul,” Bolaire nods, his smile softening.
With that, Hal slips inside and closes the door.
New bodies have never been an issue to Bolaire, before.
Before, he would only inhabit them until he was made to sleep again. The one he wore during and after the Falconer’s Rebellion was the longest he’s gone.
He liked that body though, goddammit. It was the first one that really felt like his.
This one…passes well enough, visually, but that doesn’t stop him from having to remind himself that he doesn’t hate it.
He doesn’t hate it. It’s just…new.
The hands and feet still feel too big. The shoulders just slightly too broad. Coordination is still more difficult than he’d like.
Worst of all, Hal knows. Knows this isn’t the body he used to search for in the crowds of his shows, the body that would sit with him in his living room while they shared a good bottle of wine.
Bolaire spends the next day and a half stewing in that and feeling absolutely terrible for it. Surely Hal doesn’t actually want to see him yet, right? Even if he doesn’t hate him, Bolaire did dump a lot of information on him in one go. The man is grieving, for fuck’s sake!
Still…he told Bolaire to come by, or he’d come looking. And Bolaire certainly wouldn’t want him to think he’d been forgotten.
Fucking hell.
He takes his sweet time getting ready the next day, making himself as presentable as possible. His hands quake as he shoves them into his gloves, his limbs seemingly made of lead—too heavy to only be dread for the appointment.
Bolaire sucks in a long, slow breath. Straightens up.
Heads for the Rookery.
He knows it’s impossible he stands on Hal’s stoop for longer than a minute, but it’s easily the longest minute of his life. And that says something.
The door swings open to reveal not Hal, but Shadia. She blinks, surprised, but her face breaks into a wide grin that eases a little bit of the terror gnawing at his insides. “Mister Bolaire! Dad was wondering when you were gonna stop by! Sorry I can’t stick around, my friends and I were gonna practice a juggling routine we’ve been working on for a bit down at the Round.”
“I see,” Bolaire smiles widely. “Well, have fun, and break a leg—metaphorically, I mean. Do be safe, dear.”
She giggles, rushing past him and down the street. “I will! You two have fun while I’m gone!”
Bolaire watches her go, jumping at the familiar chuckle from inside. “She’s been out almost every night working on that routine. I’m sure it’s gonna be spectacular,” Hal’s voice says.
“Does it…bother you?” Bolaire asks hesitantly. “Her going out, I mean.” He turns slowly, absorbs the warmth of Hal’s smile like parched earth after a thunderstorm.
Hal shrugs, wiping his hands on the stained apron he’s wearing. “She’s her mother’s daughter. And she’s with friends. I’ll always worry, but…I trust her.” He jerks his head toward the dining room. “Come on in? I made dinner.”
Bolaire’s stomach sinks. “Hal, you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” He turns to lead Bolaire further into the house…only to stop in his tracks. “You…forgive my asking, but….” He gestures vaguely, fumbling for the words, and Bolaire laughs softly as he realizes what’s happening.
“We’ve shared meals before, remember? I feel no compulsion toward hunger, but my body requires food. Besides, I’d never pass up your cooking.”
Hal’s shoulders slump, a wave of visible relief washing over him. Bolaire doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so tired—crystalline eyes glassy, face drawn and ashen. Still, he smiles. “Good to know. Hungry?”
Bolaire finally crosses the threshold and carefully closes the door behind himself. “Again, for anything you make? Always.”
Thjazi’s body has been cleared from the dining table, replaced by a simple but elegant dinner spread: fresh bread and soup, a moderately priced bottle of wine (Hal’s favorite, which Bolaire has no complaints with), and a rich cherry pie with a single slice already carved from it. Hal hurries to gather the dishes from where Bolaire knows Shadia had been sitting, explaining, “I told her to go ahead and eat so she could meet her friends. Sorry for the mess.”
Bolaire stops him with a gentle hand on the shoulder, taking the plate, bowl, and silverware from him. “It’s alright,” he soothes. “You didn’t have to wait on my account. Go ahead and dish yourself up some, I can take these to the sink.”
Hal opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but eventually nods. “Sorry for not being a better host this evening,” he says defeatedly.
“You’re my friend,” Bolaire reminds him softly. “My friend first, and my host second.”
He trots to the kitchen before Hal can try to argue, rinsing the dishes and carefully placing them in the sink. Hal has already served both of them when he gets back and is settled in his chair, apron discarded somewhere and visibly happy to be off his feet.
The food is, as expected, absolutely divine. Bolaire eats slowly, happy for the distraction from his aching body, as Hal speaks.
“I sent a message to the Barrowguard yesterday, asking after Al. Haven’t heard back yet, but I guess that’s to be expected.”
“Surely you’ll get a response in the next couple of days,” Bolaire nods. “I’m sure that if anything happened we’d have heard by now.”
Hal buries his face in his hand, propping himself up on his elbow. “I need to get him out of there,” he hisses, half to himself. “If what Occtis said is true…fuck.” He wipes roughly at his face as he sits back up and takes a healthy swig of wine. “I can’t think about that right now. I…” he breaks off in a breathless laugh, eyes glazing over further. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared in my life.”
Bolaire feels as though someone’s kicked him square in the chest. He reaches across the table for Hal’s hand, running his thumb soothingly over his knuckles. “And no one blames you, Hal,” he says frantically. “The last several days have been a horror show. We’re…eventually we’re going to dismantle the powers that strangle this city, and we’re going to do it together. But all we can do right now is breathe and trust that things will be alright for a little longer.”
He considers offering to take his leave for a moment. After all, how is his presence a comfort? He’s a sentient mask who was reviled by Hal’s own brother—who reviled him right back, in all honesty. Bolaire’s sure he’s only contributing to the problem.
But then…no. This isn’t about him. The last thing Bolaire wants is for Hal to shut down again and feel the need to reassure him.
So he sits in silence and holds Hal’s hand even tighter, offering all the reassurance he feels capable of.
Hal shudders, blinking like he’s struggling to come back to himself. “You’re doing remarkably, my dear,” Bolaire murmurs. “Just…focus on taking one breath at a time.”
It’s another long minute before Hal’s breathing starts to even, stray tears tracking down his face as he steadies himself.
“I’m okay,” he breathes. “I’m…I’m okay. Sorry.”
Bolaire gives a gentle, affectionate little smack to the top of Hal’s hand. “You’re not,” he corrects. “And that’s perfectly alright.”
Hal’s hand twists abruptly in his grasp, and suddenly their fingers are intertwined.
“You’re right,” he concedes quietly. Then, even softer, “Can I admit something?”
“Anything.”
Hal sighs shakily, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t hate my brother. I can’t. But I might be starting to…resent him. A little. He left dozens of irons in dozens of fires and suddenly it’s all any of us can do to not get burned, you know?”
Bolaire understands resenting Thjazi Fang. He has since he met the man. But Hal’s words still feel like another kick to the chest. They should be a victory, but they aren’t.
“That’s perfectly understandable,” he says gently. “You have every right. I’m so sorry, Hal.”
“For what?”
That he’s gone. That I’m glad he’s gone. That everything is so complicated now. For only making things worse.
“Everything.”
Hal squeezes his hand with shaking fingers.
“I don’t blame you,” he whispers. “It’s a lot, but…” he meets Bolaire’s eyes (or lack thereof), and a tiny smile crosses his lips, “I’m happy to know the real you.”
Bolaire is but a mask. He can’t cry, no matter how much he may feel the urge. He can smile, though, so he does.
“Hal,” he murmurs. “You’ve always known the real me.”
It belongs exclusively to you.
Hal’s gaze drops once again. “Right,” he sighs. “I know. Sorry if any of this comes across as insensitive.”
“You’re completely fine,” Bolaire soothes. “Do you still feel like eating, or would you like me to pack some of this up for later?”
“Hm?” Hal sits up once again, his hand sliding from Bolaire’s. “Oh, I can take care of it. Sorry, are you still hungry?”
“Not particularly.” Bolaire enjoys food, which makes eating one of the easier parts of maintaining a mortal body. “I’m certainly not opposed to leftovers, later.”
“Alright.” Hal rakes a hand down his face, and Bolaire can’t help himself—he reaches out, gloved fingertips tracing the outline of Hal’s face as he leans across the table.
“You look so tired, love,” he whispers.
Hal freezes for a moment, then all but melts into Bolaire’s palm. “Sleep’s been tough,” he sighs, eyelids fluttering.
Here, here. Bolaire hums, running his thumb along the ridge of Hal’s cheekbone. “You should rest while you can,” he says firmly. “When I’m here, you don’t have to do anything you don’t feel up to doing, understand? I’ll help you however you need.”
Hal hums back, leaning further into Bolaire’s hand…when suddenly he tenses, eyes flickering open. One of his hands gently closes around Bolaire’s wrist—not restraining, merely holding.
“You’re shaking,” he mumbles. “What’s wrong?”
Fuck. Bolaire tenses. Thinks up a dozen lies he could tell and all the ways he could curve the conversation back to Hal.
Then he meets Hal’s eyes again, and something in him…caves.
No more lies. Not about this.
“I…how do I explain this without it being uncomfortable?” he muses, sighing. “You remember what I said about eating, earlier?”
Hal nods, half-nuzzling into his palm. “The need is there, but not the compulsion?”
“Precisely.” Bolaire clears his throat. “It’s the same with almost everything along those lines. My body feels thirst, but I don’t feel the need to drink. My stomach hurts when I get hungry, but I have to remind myself to eat. Sleep is much the same way.”
Hal blinks slowly. “All the physical effects of exhaustion with none of the cognitive? You lucky motherfucker.”
Bolaire bleats out a laugh. “Yes, well…before the Falconer’s Rebellion, I never wore anyone long enough for sleep to be part of the equation. Short bursts, single missions. And my last body—the one you knew—was of elven descent.”
“So you didn’t need to sleep anyway.”
“No, and I preferred it that way.” Bolaire feels it even now: the heavy pull of exhaustion in each limb, the tremble in his fingers he can no longer control, the ache settling like a blanket over his back.
Hal’s eyes widen slightly as recognition seems to dawn. “You’ve only ever had to sleep when you were in-between bodies.”
Bolaire ducks his head. “As stupid as this is to admit, I’m not entirely certain how sleep works for…normal people,” he huffs. “I’ve never tried.”
“How would you feel about changing that?”
Bolaire freezes. “Pardon?”
“Care to join me upstairs for a nap?” Hal sits up slightly, still gently holding Bolaire’s wrist.
For a moment, Bolaire has to fight to remind himself that it’s just Hal. That he trusts him. It’s not enough to keep panic from surging white-hot up his body. “I’m fine,” he says quickly. “Really, it’s nothing to worry about.”
Hal’s brow furrows. “You know, bodies tend to last longer when you actually take care of them,” he says quietly.
Bolaire huffs. “This body will last as long as I need it to, thank you very much.”
Hal simply stares at him, expression flat and unblinking.
It’s far more effective than it has any right to be.
“Fine.” Bolaire swallows. “I’ll…try.”
Hal’s face immediately breaks into a smile. “Atta boy. Let’s go.”
They pack up what’s left of dinner and stow it away for later before Hal leads them up the stairs, to a bedroom Bolaire’s only had the privilege of glimpsing in passing.
Hal’s room is small, but remarkably cozy. The bed is mostly buried in pillows and quilts, none of which match in any way. The closet is full almost to the point of overflowing with proper outfits and costume pieces alike. Books cover almost every available surface—save for the desk, where the Liar’s Blade serves as a grim reminder of their situation.
“So,” Hal says lightly. “How to sleep like a person. First step: be comfortable. That means taking off shoes and any super tight or restrictive clothing.” He gives Bolaire a pointed once-over before shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a nearby chair.
Bolaire hesitates. Everything he wears is tight and restrictive—for good reason, too. Eventually he settles for unclipping the garters and taking off his boots, several belts, gloves, and cloak. The outer layers of his top take a bit more work, but after a few moments he stands in only his tights and black undershirt. It’s all he can do not to shrink back as Hal looks back up at him—what if it all catches up? That it doesn’t matter whether they’re best friends, isn’t it horrifying to see your friend’s…face? Lack of face? On a body that only mostly looks like theirs?
But Hal only smiles. “Good. You sure the wig is okay to sleep in?”
Bolaire had honestly forgotten he’s wearing it. “I’m much more comfortable with it than without it,” he admits.
“Nothing wrong with that, just wanted to check.” Hal stretches, his shirt lifting just high enough to expose a quick glimpse of soft stomach before it falls again. He shifts it around just so, and it falls low enough to expose a muscled chest covered in dustings of greying hair.
Boliare nearly slaps himself.
“You okay?” Hal asks.
“Yes!” he squeaks. “Second step?”
Hal’s lip quirks up around one tusk. “The second step is to actually lay down.” He lets that sink in for a second before trotting around to the far side of the bed, pulling down the covers, and starting to climb in. Bolaire takes the hint and does the same on his side. The mattress dips under his weight, the sheets cool against his skin as he slides under the covers. His body seems to melt as it silently weeps its relief. He turns on his side, pushing as much of his hair back and away as possible. Just like that, he and Hal are mere inches apart, laying facing each other.
“This is…quite nice,” he manages softly.
Hal smiles, eyelids already drooping. “Right?” He yawns so widely his jaw cracks. “Okay. Third step is to just…relax. Try not to think. Close your eyes…if you can?” His eyes flicker open as if realizing his mistake.
Bolaire laughs. “I most certainly can, even without eyes.” He blinks to prove his own point, knowing that the lights of his lenses dim with the movement.
The tips of Hal’s ears darken slightly. “Of course,” he chuckles. “Sorry. Just close your eyes, and try not to think. Focus on how nice it feels to just…be.”
“Right,” Bolaire mumbles absently. That sounds…doable.
Hal hums, voice slipping lower in his drowsiness. “Goodnight, Bolaire,” he sighs.
If Bolaire had a heart, it would be melting. “Goodnight, Hal.”
The room then fills with the soft sounds of Hal’s breathing, which quickly becomes Hal’s snoring. It’s nice; Bolaire finds he could watch Hal’s sleep-slack expression for hours and not get bored…although that’s probably not normal, come to think of it.
He closes his eyes. It is nice, he thinks. The bed is soft, the blankets warm. Hal is safe and resting. The end of the world can wait a few hours.
Darkness creeps up, pulling at the edges of his mind. He’s floating away, sinking down, vanishing—and how long until he wakes again? How long until he’s written into another show, the same tragic character to fulfill the same role over and over and over—
Bolaire jerks, panic coursing through him like wildfire. He can’t sleep again. Doesn’t want to sleep. Not when he has everything to live for and everything to lose—
“Bolaire? Hey.”
And then he’s back in his body, sweaty and shaking as the room spins back into focus. A weight settles firmly over his side: Hal’s arm, wrapping around him and drawing him close.
“Easy,” Hal murmurs. “You’re safe, yeah? You’re here. Focus on that.”
Bolaire flexes his hand just to feel each individual finger. Shuffles his legs. Presses into Hal’s touch. Seeming to understand, Hal closes the last of the distance and tucks Bolaire’s head under his chin, bundling him tightly.
“You’re still here,” he says softly. “And you’ll still be here when you wake up tomorrow.”
Bolaire wishes he had it in him to weep, to explain that that’s all he wants, anymore—to wake up no longer a character, but simply…alive.
Hal’s hand strokes absently through his curls, not in a way that he can really feel, but it’s still quite nice.
“I don’t blame you for hesitating,” he whispers, “but just letting it happen is the last step. You’re gonna be alright. I’m right here.”
Bolaire closes his eyes again. Sucks in a breath through his nose. His body is still so painfully heavy. Hal’s arms are guides, keeping him tethered to mortality. Should that bother him? That he’s never felt so unguarded in his entire existence, including when he would sleep for years at a time?
He finds he doesn’t care, even as darkness reaches for him once more.
Hal’s heartbeat is the song he drifts down to, trusting it to be there to pull him back up.
And it is.
Boliare wakes to warmth and light across his surface. His eyes need no time to focus as he gazes around a bedroom lit by gold.
He shifts, pushing up onto his side and inadvertently rousing Hal. “Hn—fuck. G’morning,” he rumbles, voice like gravel. It settles in the pit of Bolaire’s stomach, sending it into funny flips.
“Good morning,” Bolaire whispers back. He tugs his fingers through his hair, finding more snarls and knots than he knew to expect. Still, he marvels at how much easier it is to move. How much less everything hurts. His hands are as steady as a surgeon’s. “Sleep well, dear?”
“Best I’ve had in a few days.” Hal’s eyes blink open, swimming unfocused until they find Bolaire. His face breaks into a soft smile.
“What do you know?” he mumbles. “Sun’s out today.”
It’s all Bolaire can do not to reach down and frame that lovely face in his hands. Hal’s eyes gleam, bright and hopeful and so terribly alive.
“So it is.”