Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yuri is seven years old, and he’s going to kill his best friend. 

“But I didn’t even fight the merman! It ran away,” Flynn reasons, his arms crossed, like he wasn’t just fished out of a river by a bunch of strangers. He doesn’t look half-drowned anymore, now that he’s dried off. The old rag around Flynn’s shoulders clashes with the dry clothes the strangers from the caravan gave him. They’re nice and neat, with fancy stitching around the hems. Too bad they’ll be ruined in the scuffle, but killing Flynn takes priority.

“And I’m not even—” He windmills his arms, almost smacking Yuri. 

“Hey!” 

“Sorry. But I’m not even injured or sick or anything!” 

“You’ll have a cold by Wednesday,” Hanks says, exhausted. He pinches the bridge of his nose and gives that real big sigh that means he hasn’t figured out how to punish them yet. Which is good, since Yuri’s not done giving him things to punish them for. 

“No I won’t?” Flynn’s forehead wrinkles. “I feel fine.”

“That’s not how it works, kid, and Yuri put the stick down!”

“He hit me!” Yuri exclaims.“And he almost died!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“So you’re going to finish the job?” Hanks grabs the stick, which means Yuri’s never going to see it again, which is also Flynn’s fault. 

“I never know where to begin with you.” Hanks shakes his head. “One of you doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong, and the other doesn’t care. Hellions, the both of you. ”

“I know what we did wrong,” Flynn argues. “We shouldn’t have played so close to the river.” He straightens and nods at Hanks, but it’s a clumsy imitation of the way the knights bow. 

“I told you!” Yuri clenches his fists. “I told you the river was dangerous after it rains!”

“It was your idea to go!” 

“How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t listen!”

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” Hanks says, placing his hands over both of their eyes. He always does whenever they fight, saying it’s easier to put down your weapon if you can’t see the target. “Disengage, kids.” 

“Fine.” “Sorry.”

“I’m too old for this,” After an extra second to make sure they aren’t going to attack each other, Hanks lifts his hands. “You two should know better by now.”

Yuri glares at the ground. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but it’s… it’s kind of burning and jagged, like the scrap metal that’s always lying around the lower quarter. It doesn’t feel like ‘angry’ or ‘sad’ or ‘frustrated’. It’s close, something like all of them at once, but not really. It hurts. 

“Alright,” Hanks starts, and he’s using his gentle voice, which makes the feeling hurt worse. “First up. Flynn.”

Flynn straightens, his face going blank. 

“You really worried us, kid. We’re not tearing into you just for the sake of it. You could have gotten seriously injured, or worse.” He ruffles Flynn’s hair. “You’re lucky that caravan came along when they did, and that Yuri was around to flag them down for you.” Hanks closes his eyes for a second. “We— We’re very, very lucky you’re safe.”

Flynn stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, and then looks down, pulling at the bottom of his shirt. “I’m sorry I made you worry,” he whispers. 

“I know,” Hanks says. “I forgive you, but be careful next time.” He smiles. “I don’t know that I’m the only one you need to apologize to, though.” 

Flynn’s still looking down at his shirt, mouth opening and closing, but before he can say anything—

“Hanks, we need your help negotiating prices!” 

“Can’t you…” Hanks sighs, walking to the door. “I’m in the middle of something,” The man in the doorway— he can’t be from the Lower Quarter, or else he wouldn’t dare make that face at Hanks— waves him even closer.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s just—” He glances at Flynn and Yuri and starts to whisper. Yuri strains his ears, but he can’t make any of it out. 

“Fine.” Hanks sighs. “I’ll be right back, kids.” He shoots them a stern look. “Don’t think this means you’re getting out of anything. We’ll discuss punishments later.” 

“Eh?” “Yes, sir.”

Once Hanks leaves, there’s a long moment of silence. Flynn nods to himself, thinking, and he better be planning a great apology if he expects Yuri to forgive him anytime soon. 

“Well, Yuri,” he says, finally, “I’m glad that wasn’t a big deal.” 

Yuri attacks him.

“Yuri! No— Hanks said you couldn’t— Hanks said no biting!” Flynn yells, falling to the floor. Then he bites Yuri back anyway like a hypocrite, but that’s alright because it means they’ll both get in trouble if he tries to tattle.

“I was worried too, jerk! Stupid! Stupid, idiot jerk!” Yuri pulls at Flynn’s hair. “How are we supposed to be knights together if you die first!” 

“But I didn’t!” Flynn returns the favor, pulling Yuri down to the floor by his hair, and he shrieks. 

“Ow, ow, ow, Flynn, ow! You know that hurts!”

“Then why did you pull mine!”

“Because it doesn’t hurt as bad for you! Your hair’s shorter!” 

“It still hurts!” 

“Better get used to it,” Yuri sniffs, rolling onto his side and away from any payback. “Knights fight dirty.”

“They do not,” Flynn kicks towards Yuri, but it doesn’t connect, which means Yuri gets to stick his tongue out at him.

“You know they do. You saw those guys destroy Meredith’s fruit stand.” 

“Those aren’t true knights,” Flynn argues, and his face gets even redder than it was when they were fighting. “They’re— they’re doing it all wrong. We’ll be different.”

“Well duh.”He rolls his eyes. “But if the other knights are jerks, we have to be ready to fight back.”

“Or we can convince them to be better,” Flynn insists. He’s always so sure that if he tries hard enough, everything will work out. Yuri should bite him again. 

Instead, he groans. “It’s a good thing I’ll be there to protect you. Do you wanna try making friends with the merman that almost drowned you, too?”

“I was going to fight it!” Flynn aims a kick at Yuri again, but he’s even worse at it than before. 

“More reason for me to step in.” Yuri thumps his chest, then flinches when it hurts more than he expected. “I’ll protect you from the other knights, mermen, evil rivers, bandits, monsters, anything!” 

“Maybe they should be protecting me from you,” Flynn snips. Then, quieter: “You can’t keep using dirty tricks in fights, Yuri. It’s dishonorable.” 

“But it works better and ends the fight faster,” Yuri argues. “Plus! I don’t go for anyone’s eyes!” 

Flynn just looks at him, his face fixed in that one expression that makes Yuri feel guilty for existing. Talk about unfair fights.

“Fine.” Yuri huffs. “But it’s on you when I wipe the grass with everyone fair and square. At least if I fought dirty, they could feel better about themselves.”

“Thank you,” Flynn says, sincerely. Figures. He never has a hard time thanking anyone, but getting an apology is like pulling teeth. 

Yuri’s face falls, remembering what they argued over in the first place.  He turns over on his side. “Yeah,” he says. “Whatever.”

“Yuri?”

Yuri shuffles further away, curling into himself. 

“Why are you so mad?”

He isn’t mad. Or, he is, but it’s not just that. It’s the same hurting, jagged, hot iron feeling as before, and it gets worse whenever he thinks about Flynn disappearing into the water, even worse when Flynn doesn’t apologize, and unbearable when Yuri thinks that one day Flynn might do something like this again and Yuri might not be around to save him, and Flynn doesn’t even think he did anything wrong, and Yuri is mad, actually: he’s so, so angry that it feels like it’s going to burst out of him like shrapnel, but even fighting Flynn didn’t fix it, so what will? 

“I wasn’t gonna die,” Flynn says, and the feeling surges, the rush of it almost blocking out his next words. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

All at once, the fight goes out of Yuri. That hurt, jagged thing in his chest ebbs, catching on something and leaving splinters on its way out. If there’s anyone in the world that can’t be told that people don’t get to choose when they die, it’s Flynn Scifo. 

Instead, Yuri turns around. “That’s still not an apology.” 

“You bit me,” Flynn replies, “so we’re even.”

That doesn’t seem right, but, “Yeah,” Yuri says. “Okay.”

He reaches out across the space between them, pinky extended. Solemnly, Flynn does the same. Then, he pauses. 

“Hanks is gonna be so mad,” Flynn says, staring at their hands. It’s only then that Yuri realizes how scraped up they are. 

“It’s fine,” Yuri says. “Rub some dirt on it. 

“You’re so gross,” Flynn replies, nose wrinkling. “You have to take care of stuff like this, or it gets worse.”

“Alright.” Yuri rolls his eyes. “We’ll go clean ‘em and split an apple gel in a minute. Now stop stalling.” He shakes his pinky at Flynn. 

“Okay, fine,” Flynn hooks his pinky around Yuri’s, finally cooperating for once in his life. “We’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Yuri agrees, sealing the agreement with a shake. For now, they’re alright. 

Chapter Text

Yuri’s almost twenty-one years old, and his room feels too cramped when Flynn visits, nowadays. It used to be cozier, back when they’d squeeze in next to each other, knees and elbows knocking together. But Flynn’s forgotten how to squeeze. 

He sits more like a statue than a person: back straight, feet planted, the weight of armor and expectations filling the space around him until there’s barely any standing room. The castle comes with him when he visits, now. 

There isn’t enough room in the lower quarter for that. 

Repede paces a lap around Flynn’s chair before settling next to Yuri’s. Resting his bony snout on Yuri’s thigh, he drops his pipe so that it rolls across his lap. 

“Stay put,” Flynn translates.

Yuri grunts. “Not like I have much of a choice.” He shifts in his seat, to prove he can, and immediately regrets it when the movement sends a new jolt of pain up his leg. “This is stupid. You know I’ve had worse.”

“Let me see your ankle,” Flynn says.

“How daring,” Yuri drawls. “And you haven’t even bought me dinner.”

“What, so you can slip on another plate?” 

“Wasn’t my fault some jackass started throwing crockery around.” 

“No, you just escalated the situation,” Flynn snips, then stills. He leans back and closes his eyes. “Yuri,” he says, once he’s had his breather. “Can you please, for... I’d like to make sure you didn’t sprain anything.” 

“It’s just twisted. I know what a sprain feels like.”

“Indulge me,” Flynn says. As if he could even do anything if it was sprained, or worse. He doesn’t have much more than a first aid kit, and Yuri has even less to work with. 

“Imagine if you had to cut it off,” Yuri muses, swinging out his leg so it lolls between the two of them. “Like, whoops, damage done, off we get. Chop chop.”

Repede makes an irritated whuff of a sound, lifting his head. Yuri can’t tell if he’s angrier about being jostled or the joke, but either way, he’s not resting against Yuri’s free leg anymore. He stays next to the chair though, so he can’t be that mad.

Meanwhile, Flynn manages to ignore him even while staring directly at his face, looking for any sign of discomfort as he works off Yuri’s boot. Admirable effort; meticulous to a fault; irritating as shit: that’s the Flynn Scifo service guarantee. 

After a century has passed, the boot is finally removed. A millennium after that, Flynn finally starts to assess the injury, hands flitting around the tender joint. 

“It seems like most of the damage is superficial,” Flynn says, checking the roll of the ankle. His grip is firm, calloused, and just a little too warm. It always is. 

“Told you.” Yuri fights back the urge to shake himself free. “Now give me back—” 

“Those gashes, though,” Flynn interrupts, letting go of Yuri’s ankle. Finally. He gestures at the scratches on Yuri’s forearm. “They need to be wrapped up, or they’ll get infected.” 

“It’s just a few scrapes.” Yuri reaches down to scratch Repede under the chin with one hand, pushing back his ears with the other.

“‘Scrapes’ that could have pieces of glass in them,” Flynn says, intercepting the injured arm before Yuri can start ruffling Repede’s ears in earnest. 

“Yeah, and I’d have noticed if they did. Believe it or not, I can handle myself.” Yuri mutters, even as he lets Flynn manhandle him. Times like this, it’s best to just let him run through his paces until he burns himself out and leaves. 

“Sure,” Flynn says, lips thin enough to disappear. There’s a silence as he pours disinfectant over a piece of cloth, punctuated with the gurgle of liquid. 

“Should you be using that much? It’s a few scratches, not a stab wound.”

“I can afford it.”

“Right.” Yuri bites the inside of his cheek and doesn’t ask whether knights still get commission on tonguing boots. He’s being good, whether Flynn appreciates it or not. 

Repede whines, low, and licks his chops. Yuri lets his free hand dangle, tacit permission for Repede to mouth at his wrist. He gets anxious if he goes too long without something to hold onto. 

“It’ll sting.”

“I know.” Every time. Every time, he acts like Yuri’s never done any of this shit before. As if Yuri didn’t do his fair share of cleaning up after Flynn, too. 

As Flynn works, the light glints off his armor in a way that hurts to look at. So Yuri doesn’t. Easier to watch Flynn’s bare hands on his arm, crossing back and forth over the damage with the disinfectant.The liquid’s cold and astringent, and the cloth pulls at the puckered skin, but it barely registers; it’s the after-effects that are worse. The skin around the wound always feels too sensitive and leeched of heat afterwards, like it’s been rubbed down with mint. 

Flynn’s hands were too warm already. Now they burn like a brand.

Another unpleasant side effect of the disinfectant is the way it makes fresh injuries bead up again with blood and serous fluid. The scrapes are uglier than they deserve, even before adding bloody tears to the mix. It’ll only look more tragic in a few hours, once the bruising establishes itself. Funny how superficial injuries can look so much worse than the serious stuff. 

“You’re lucky I was doing the rounds tonight.” 

Great. This again.

“Sure.” Yuri rolls his eyes, and when that’s not enough, rolls his head back too. “My hero. Saving me from, what, a few hours in the hooseg— ow, watch it!”

“Stop back-talking the person trying to heal you,” Flynn says, prim and petty in a way he’s never outgrown. “And I mean it, Yuri. You can’t keep doing this.”

Flynn never bothers to mention what, exactly, he can’t keep doing. Easier to assume that Yuri knows already and is just fucking up to spite him, apparently. 

Might as well rise to his expectations. After all, Yuri hates to disappoint him. 

“Sure I can.” Yuri tries for a shrug, which is a shitty idea when Flynn has his right forearm in custody. Like an unintentional, pointless game of tug-of-war. “‘Sides, what’s the alternative? Let some drunk assholes destroy the place?”

“You could have sent someone for me.” Flynn sets the disinfectant down, cushioning it with his finger so it doesn’t clink against the table. As far as familial habits go, it’s not the worst one he could have inherited. Still sets Yuri’s teeth on edge though. Flynn usually doesn’t bother with shit like that around him. Not unless he’s being careful. 

Conversations don’t go well when Flynn’s being careful.

“You’re busy.”

Flynn reaches for the gauze. “Responding to civilian concerns is part of my job, you might recall.” 

Yuri almost laughs at that. Almost says that Flynn’s the only knight who thinks that. Almost.

But they’ve had the same argument a thousand times, and a shouting match would be a piss-poor trade for Flynn helping him to his room, so. Whatever. 

Instead, Yuri exhales through his nose and looks out the window. “Yeah, well. Used to be mine, too. So.”

Flynn’s hands pause in the work of unravelling the gauze, tensing over the fibers. “It used to.”

It’s funny, really, that they’re both trying so hard not to give in to the argument, considering how loudly it’s wailing in the background. Like a sad, spiteful ghost that should have long-since moved on, it lingers around them, grasping hungrily at any silence or pause that lasts a beat too long.

It’s funny. It has to be, or else it’s just sad. 

So, Yuri leans into it.

“Make sure you wrap me up nice and pretty.” He flashes a grin. “Know you can’t really get creative with first aid around snooze central, but we can have a little fun with it down here. Tie a bow or two if we’re feeling adventurous. Promise I won’t tell your boss.” 

Flynn stiffens, gauze straining in his grasp, and there’s a thrill to it, almost: the knowledge that no matter what Yuri says, it’ll always be the wrong thing. More than the thrill, though, is the bone-deep, nauseating frustration.

Yuri’s tired of this. Of all of it. Of saying the wrong thing, of watching while Flynn strains at normalcy without actually telling him anything, of not knowing where to step or what to say or what the ever-shitting-hell Flynn wants from him, anyway! He’s tired of avoiding the inevitable.

More than that, he’s sick of going along with Flynn and pretending like everything’s fine, like if they’re pleasant enough, like if they do everything right, then the problems will solve themselves.

Flynn used to let himself get angry over injustice. He used to let himself feel things. He used to talk to Yuri. Even when they argued, at least they were communicating instead of just! Sitting there silently! 

Yuri used to know where they stood with each other because Flynn would tell him.

Now, he can barely see the cracks in the mask. Can barely see the way Flynn bites his tongue, holding back every objection and argument. Holding back who he is. Even so, the cracks are there. 

It’s satisfying, in a way, to sink fingers into the chips and faults and pull out the blistering truth, and expose the anger to the light because that’s the only time Flynn’s ever honest with him anymore, not like when he let himself grin and laugh and play along, back before he’d built the mask, and Yuri doesn’t know how to get that smile back, but he does know how to get something. 

“Didn’t even get a cool scar out of it this time. Guess I’ll have to try harder, next go around.” The tone falls, blasé, unimpressed, infuriating.

Yuri scoffs as he rolls his eyes to meet Flynn’s, a smirk spreading its way across his face. Predictably, Flynn bristles. If there’s anything Yuri’s good at, it’s getting a reaction. 

Anger surges in Flynn’s expression, tense and visceral, and Yuri’s fist clenches in anticipation. Finally. Finally. 

And then it all falls apart.

The flush leeches out of Flynn’s face, chilling and falling even as a spark of something like realization rises in his eyes. Like he can see what Yuri’s doing. 

Flynn’s grip loosens, the gauze falling— warped and worn— from his hands. He sinks, boneless, back into his chair, letting his head fall back. For a moment, he sits there, arm draped over his eyes. 

“Okay,” he sighs. “That’s it.”

And he gets up. 

“Wha—” Yuri gapes at him. This wasn’t… Why is he getting up? “Where are you going?”

“I’m tired of this,” he says, simply, as if that explains anything. Then, he turns away and walks towards the door. 

Repede clambers to his feet, a growl building until he’s barking, pacing between the two of them.

“You’re just gonna leave the job half finished?” Yuri’s fists clench, his arm stinging with the pull of skin, and Repede won’t stop howling, and Flynn’s still walking away like he doesn’t even care. 

“I’m not going to fight with you, Yuri,” Flynn says. Funny. He’s never had a problem with that before. “You’re injured... and I’m tired.”

“Tired of what?” Taking care of his fuck-up friend who doesn’t have what it takes to stick to the high road? Tired of being reminded that he's still a person, beneath it all? Or is he finally gonna give in, acknowledge what all of this has been leading up to, and admit that he’s tired of Yuri, full stop.

“I’m tired of caring more than you do.” Flynn’s eyes won’t even focus on Yuri. Instead, he just looks at the stupid bandages that have gotten fucked up beyond recognition, like all he can see is the mess they’ve made. 

For a second, it looks like he might cross the room and try again. Instead, he sighs. 

“Remember to get some rest. Keep the wounds clean.”

“I still remember basic first aid, thanks,” Yuri snaps. “I can take care of myself.”

“I wish I could say I know that,” Flynn says, his voice distant, as if Yuri can’t see the way his fists are clenched.  

“I’m not incompetent!”

“No, you’re not!” A change in volume, finally, but Flynn’s still not looking at him. He’s already halfway to the door. “That’s the thing, Yuri,” he says, softer. “You’ve never been incompetent. You just don’t care.”

Repede follows Flynn to the door, and for a single, terrifying second, it looks like he’s going to leave with him. He paws at Flynn’s leg, releasing a quiet wuff of a bark that decrescendos into a whine. Flynn rests a hand on Repede’s forehead. One final, gentle touch left behind. 

Then he opens the door, and Repede trots back to Yuri’s side. Fortunately, Flynn’s not the only one who thinks he can’t survive on his own. 

The click of the latch echoes with subdued finality, and Flynn’s gone. Slamming the door would have been better, maybe. Would’ve sounded less intentional. 

Yuri’d always thought the last straw would be bigger than this. Or that he’d be able to recognize it, at least, so he could play his part in the end of it all. Go out in a blaze. But no. 

It’s just this. Just a bad joke and an empty room.

“Figures it’d be something this stupid,” Yuri says, but his voice comes out wrong. “What the fuck?”

It wasn’t even fair. Flynn could accuse Yuri of a lot. He could shout and scream about every promise left unfilled, every failure, every dirty trick, every reason that Yuri could never measure up to task. But not caring?

Repede lets out a low whine, snuffling up to Yuri’s face, and that’s when he figures out that he’s sprung a leak.

No wonder Yuri’s throat feels so tight. He scrubs at his face with his uninjured arm, but it doesn’t stop the way his nose runs, or the sting of his eyes.

Yuri grimaces down at the wet streaks on his sleeve. “And who’s this for, huh?” There isn’t exactly an audience around. Repede doesn’t count. Would be a shitty performance, anyway. He’s just some sad sack sitting in a chair with a scratched up arm and a twisted ankle, and his breath won’t stop stuttering out of him in labored, wet rasps even though it’s stupid and useless and he knew that Flynn was always going to leave anyway. He knew that.

Bending over— tucking his head between his knees is supposed to help with this kind of thing, but he has the pipe across his lap still— stay put, Yuri, always stay put, waiting in place while Flynn takes off— and Repede is squirming up towards Yuri’s face, frantic to get to him, practically crawling into his lap, and the unintentional scratch of his claws and the bony jut of his snout hurt even though he’s trying to help, and somehow that’s the saddest thing in the world, so the strained gasps of pointless, pathetic grief just get worse.

Flynn left, and it’s all so, so stupid because this is supposed to be a good thing. Now the both of them can get on with their own lives and fix things their own way. Stop dragging each other down. 

“This is stupid,” he says, again. There isn’t anything else left to say.

Chapter Text

Yuri is in a Capua Nor alleyway, soaked to the bone in an outfit that was never meant for rain, struggling to catch his breath without gagging on the smell of rotten fish and piss, and Flynn fucking Scifo is there to witness it all. 

On the bright side, fighting for his life means that Yuri isn’t freezing from the wind and rain anymore. In the shadow it casts, however, Yuri is flushed crimson and sweating. He looked half-drowned even before adding the natural luster of an alleyway brawl. He must look like a lobster: ripped straight from the brine and flailing in confused, ineffectual rage. For a single, frantic moment before he has enough air to power his brain, he considers calling himself the catch of the day. 

Luckily, inflated lungs are a prerequisite for stupid quips, and the lock of wet hair caught in his mouth acts as extra insurance. What he wouldn’t give for a hair-tie. 

The most infuriating part is how put-together Flynn looks. The barest hint of light from a nearby window halos him with a soft, hazy glow. He’s still breathing heavily with exertion, and his cheeks are flushed, but it looks healthy on him: makes his eyes shine. The eyebags are a permanent fixture as always, but he’s never been good at getting himself to bed at a reasonable time. He’s probably still grinding his teeth, too. 

The only real flaw, though, is the cut that runs right above Flynn’s vambrace— one of the assassins must have caught him when he was running interference. 

The blood’s starting to seep into the cloth, and Yuri makes a face at the sight of it. He opens his mouth to offer… something. Bandages? A lemon gel? But before he can form the words, Flynn’s blastia starts to glow, and the wound knits itself shut. Looks like Flynn’s picked up some neat new tricks along with his promotion to lieutenant. 

Good thing, too, considering that if he’d arrived any later, he’d probably have to use it on Yuri. 

“...Heh,” Yuri sighs. “That was about to get ugly…” 

Flynn doesn’t respond. He frowns, wiping away the rainwater as it drips down his face, and Yuri decides to look elsewhere. 

He turns on his heel, swinging his axe over his shoulder as he goes. He feels a little sorry for the weapon; he only just picked it up, and the poor thing’s already soaked. He’ll have to dry it off and oil it down later. 

Not like Flynn’s doing much better. Those pauldrons and vambraces are probably going to need some tender love and care after getting drenched. Then again, he has the option of handing them off to some poor schmuck on armory duty. Not that he would. Mr. Bossyboots would die before he let someone else handle his equipment. 

Yuri can’t help the way something in him unclenches, just a little, with relief. Despite everything, Flynn seems to be doing—  

“Alright,” Flynn says, and then he’s pivoting, slashing towards Yuri with the blade of his sword. 

Yuri ducks under the blade— powerful, heavy, slow — and falls into a defensive stance. Feet planted, he readies himself to take on an overhead strike, and Flynn doesn’t disappoint. The axe shrieks in complaint at being used like a shield, but the only alternative is letting Flynn slice him into deli meat.  

“Whoa, hold on!” The words stumble out with the same frantic immediacy of the dodge. “What are you doing?”

Flynn applies even more force, as if in response. The jackass knows Yuri works best when he can dodge and redirect, so he isn’t giving him the chance, trapping them in a stalemate. Unless the axe buckles under the force, leaving Yuri with a cleaved skull and no weapon. That’s always a possibility. 

(Un)fortunately, Flynn’s doesn’t seem interested in actually fighting him. The more pressure he puts on his sword, the more it feels like a tantrum. A useless show of force. The rest of the knights must be rubbing off on him. 

“Yuri, I’m happy to finally see you outside of the barrier,” Flynn grits out, scowling. 

His attention is split the second he starts lecturing— Flynn never got the hang of multitasking—  and it’s the only opening Yuri needs. Twisting to the right, he uses the momentum to redirect the force of Flynn’s blade down and away, then jumps back to create distance. Or, at least, he tries. 

The incessant, stupid rain has slicked up the cobblestones, and Yuri almost eats shit because of it. He recovers, but it’s an ugly, stumbling movement that has him almost kissing the ground and oh shit that’s Flynn’s sword slicing the air above him. 

Yuri springs forward, letting the force of the pop-up propel him further down the alley before turning to keep an eye on the sword-wielding maniac that won’t stop swinging at him. 

“So be a little more happy then,” Yuri yelps. “And stop pointing that thing at me!”

“Well, I got a little less happy when I saw this!” Flyn draws one last, powerful arc with his blade, but it doesn’t connect with Yuri’s axe. Instead, his sword points to one of the waterlogged posters on the wall.

Though the ink has run and smudged in places, it’s obviously the same, ugly poster calling for Yuri’s arrest that Flynn left behind in Halure, except— 

“Hey, it’s up to 10,000 gald.” It takes everything Yuri has not to whistle in awe. Someone must really have it out for him. “Nice.”

Flynn doesn’t pause in sheathing his sword, but the face he makes as he stares down at the ground means he’s seriously considering it. There’s a slight tremble in his arms as he puts the weapon away; either his insomnia’s worse than usual or he hasn’t been drinking near enough water. Two short fights shouldn’t take this much out of him. 

“I didn't think when you quit the Knights that you'd take up a life of crime.” The voiced accusation almost drowns out the unspoken one: Yuri used to have direction. He used to know what he was doing. He used to be better. 

“A lot of things have happened, Flynn.” Yuri turns around and waves in dismissal. “It’s not that simple.”

“Simple or not, a crime is a crime.” 

“...Good to see you’re still as stubborn as always.” Yuri heaves a sigh, walking away from whatever fight Flynn seems hell-bent on reigniting. “I…”

A glimpse of white and gold, distinct amidst the stone and muck derails his train of thought with a crash. Estelle. 

“Uh-oh.” Guilt crashes through Yuri like a wave before breaking on the realization that he didn’t actually do anything. Flynn was the one who started swinging his sword around! For once, Yuri isn’t in the wrong here. Other than, uh… wandering off, he was on his best behavior. No need to live in fear of their sheltered young miss looking distraught and disappointed.

“Yuri, I heard something happened.” Estelle’s gaze sweeps around the alleyway. Luckily, the rain makes it too dark to see the scars Yuri’s azure edge left in the walls further on. “Are you al—” Her eyes widen, hands dropping to her side in shock at the sight of Flynn. 

“Perfect timing.” Everyone wins. Estelle and Flynn get to reunite, and Yuri gets to avoid a lecture. He rests a hand on his hip, watching as Estelle’s face transforms from a mask of disbelief into pure, relieved joy.

She rushes past, fast as can be, and Flynn exhales in the next second. Must’ve made impact. Good thing Flynn can take some damage— Estelle probably forgot she’s wearing armor, or else she wouldn’t have gone for such an insta-kill of an embrace. 

“Oh, Flynn! Are you alright? Have you been hurt?”

Time for Yuri to excuse himself. This isn’t his scene. He walks forward, far enough up the steps out of the alley that the rain almost muffles whatever the two of them are saying. The tone still comes through— relief, gratitude, happiness— but there’s no remedy for that. 

Reunions are… well, they’re fragile. It’s easy to get wrapped up in the concern. The relief. Easy to get absorbed in whether they’re alright, what they’ve been doing, how they’ve been. More easy to be taken by surprise, too. It makes a person vulnerable.

Flynn doesn’t get to be vulnerable that often. Estelle probably doesn’t either, given her… circumstances. Not that she doesn’t try anyway, despite the danger. It’d almost be funny how bad she is at covering for her own weaknesses, if it wasn’t so anxiety-inducing.

Her voice peaks in concern again, audible above the rain, and Yuri smiles to himself.

Estelle is nice, and good, and more than anything else, she tries. Like Flynn, she gives all of herself away, exhausting everything she has in an effort to help people. The two of them are the stuff of prophecies, their conviction and devotion shining out of them like swords of legend, lighting the darkness ahead.

But when it comes to the dirty jobs, well. Leave the firewood to the axe.   

So Yuri keeps watch. 

Somewhere between seconds and centuries later, Flynn rushes out of the alleyway, Estelle chasing after him. Makes enough sense. If they’re going to be discussing imperial secrets, they’ll need privacy. Yuri’s skeptical about how much of that they’ll actually find at the inn, but better there than out in the open. Maybe while they’re at it, Estelle can convince Flynn to get off Yuri’s back about doing what he had to. Though, knowing her, it’s just as likely that she’ll confess every detail of their escapades. At least she stands a fighting chance of getting an explanation out, which is more than Yuri can say.

In any case, it’s clear Yuri’s presence isn’t needed. Suits him just fine; he has to track down the kids, anyway. Hopefully, Repede’s been having an easy time looking after them. If not, Yuri’s sympathies lie with any poor fool who’d dare to provoke the fifteen-year-old that shoots fireballs and the kid carrying a mallet twice his size. 

On second thought. 

“...I’d better go find Karol and Rita.”