Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yuri feels like he’s forgetting something.

Something big.

And he knows it has something to do with this damn e-mail.

He’s lying in bed, phone hovering in front of his face as he stares at the source of his frustration.

It’s an automated e-mail; a maintenance request from someone living in Apartment 47B. There’s nothing remotely unusual about it; requests came in all the time and they were all pretty mundane—lightbulb burnt out, laundry machine stopped working—stuff like that.

So why the hell does this e-mail feel so disconcertingly important?

Yuri scans the e-mail once, then twice, brows furrowing in concentration. Was there some other job he was supposed to do, but forgot? He’s pretty good about keeping track of them, despite the incredibly unintuitive and archaic app he’s forced to use when logging repairs.

No, no—there’s no way he’s forgotten a job. So what the hell is it, then? His eyes dart across the recipients above the message which are also automated: himself, Lloyd, the other repairman, and Hanks, his landlord.

Hanks.

He frowns, staring at the five letter word. Hanks.

… Did it have something to do with Hanks? He tries to recall his last interaction with the old man, but the harder he grasps for it, the groggier his brain feels. He just had dinner with him a few nights ago, didn’t he? Or was that last week? Why does it feel ages ago?

A minute of squinting and failing to spark anything leaves Yuri sighing in defeat. The words are starting to blur before his eyes, and he rubs his temple with his free hand, trying to shake off the drowsiness. Man, is he just too tired to think right now? His thoughts feel sluggish and disjointed; he can’t even recall what plans he’s made for the week, or if he’s even scheduled for a shift at the coffee shop today.

He purses his lips, backing out of the e-mail and pulling up his schedule at Dawn’s Coffee this week. Nothing for today, but a shift every evening except for tomorrow, which had two shifts.

Oh, yeah. He’d swapped with Cheria so he could have today off. How did he forget that?

"Must be really tired," he murmurs, the words feeling strangely hollow in his mouth. He backs out of the e-mail, eyes lingering one last time on the maintenance request above it before he sighs heavily and lets his hand drop to the bed.

Whatever. If he can’t remember it, it’s probably not important, right? Hanks would call him if it’s something urgent.

Maybe he should sleep in a little longer. It's 6 AM, AKA way too early to be thinking about anything, really. He quickly confirms and schedules an inspection so that Lloyd doesn’t, then tosses his phone onto the other side of the bed.

It’s easy to drift off after that.

Waking up with a throbbing headache and drenched in sweat isn't much of an improvement. Worse than that, he still feels groggy as hell.

He digs for his phone which had gotten buried under sheets, the screen's light exacerbating his head pain as he reads: 9:47 AM.

Oops. Overslept.

He peels himself out of bed with a groan, fighting gravity and moving toward the bathroom to start his morning routine. The absence of plans has that unsettling feeling creeping back in, but his brain feels too foggy to make sense of it. Instead, his mind drifts to the mess of tasks he’s been putting off around him—he hasn’t gone to the apartment laundromat in awhile because it’s such a hassle to lug everything over there, and now the consequences are clear as he nearly trips over the heap on his way to the bathroom.

He’ll do a load or two today, then. Maybe walk down to the corner store and stock up on groceries. All after fixing Miss 47B’s broken sink, of course.

It’s as he’s brushing his teeth, groggily staring at his half-asleep reflection in the mirror that the nagging, persistent feeling of something amiss returns full-force. His phone dings on the counter and he reaches for it absentmindedly, brows furrowed as he stares at his unruly hair. Was it always this short? Maybe he should grow it out.

His gaze finally drifts over to his phone, and—

It’s just a text message. That’s all it is, Yuri thinks, but the pain that pierces his head the moment he reads it is unbelievably excruciating. So much so that an audible “ow” escapes him, muffled only by the toothbrush clenched between his teeth. He spits out the remainder of toothpaste, clutching his temple with a groan.

What the actual hell? Is this what a migraine feels like? Fuck.

He squints at the message from his best friend, Flynn—

Another wave of pain grips him, followed by a sudden bout of nausea. Okay, then. That’s definitely a migraine thing, right? Hell. He waits a few moments for the nausea to subside before rummaging through his medicine cabinet in search of relief. Taking pills on an empty stomach might make him feel more queasy, but he's willing to risk it if it’ll stop his head from feeling like it’s about to split in two.

Once the pills are swallowed and he’s gathered himself, he cautiously returns his gaze to his phone, now lying innocuously on the counter. Tentatively, he taps the front so that the message lights up again, eyes squinted as he braces himself for pain.

No sudden, splitting pain comes, though. He gives it a minute before he expands the message, finally registering the words just as another message pops up simultaneously with a ding.

… Oh.

Oh, shit.

The fucking senior fundraiser.

Flynn had practically begged him to come yesterday. And with him skipping school twice last week to pick up some extra shifts, he'd reluctantly agreed to washing cars and auctioning random store junk for the extra credit Flynn insisted he needed.

Panic flickers through him. How the hell could he forget something like that? That’s not something that happens from just being a little tired. That’s… That’s probably a problem, right? Should he get a check up, or something?

The thought of wasting money on a potentially inconclusive doctor's visit makes him grimace. Flynn would undoubtedly insist on it, but Flynn's a hypochondriac and always errs on the side of caution, especially when it comes to Yuri's health. Probably because Yuri has a tendency to overlook potential consequences when it comes to himself...

... Like skipping school, for example.

Yuri groans, staring at the accusatory message. Flynn is definitely pissed. And saying “I forgot” isn’t going to fly—even if it is the honest truth.

He tries to think of something Flynn would deem acceptable, settling on vague:

Yuri shakes his head at the quick responses, watching as Flynn is typing… appears and disappears twice before stopping altogether. He’s such a damn worrywart. It’s the exact reason Yuri doesn’t like telling him anything remotely concerning.

He frowns the moment he sends it, knowing full well it’s not enough, but unsure what to say since I'm nauseous and forgetting things will only send Flynn into cardiac arrest. He types a few different excuses out, hating how alarming all of them sound before giving up and choosing ambiguity again.

… It’s not much better, but his head pounds too much for him to keep staring at his phone. With a deep breath, Yuri pushes himself off the counter and continues getting ready, trying to ignore the feeling of dread rising in his chest.

No need to panic, he tells himself. He has been going a little overboard with the double shifts lately. He’s probably just tired and the migraine is throwing him off. Besides, people forget things all the time—that doesn’t mean there’s some underlying health issue.

… Right?

Flynn takes longer to respond, this time, giving Yuri ample time to finish getting ready before his phone dings again.

Yuri sighs. Leave it to Flynn to keep pressing for the truth. A normal person would just wish you well, silently judge you and count it as a loss…

… Though, okay. Guess a vague, short response is a pretty obvious indicator that Yuri is hiding something. He’s never really been able to hide anything from the guy—though, luckily, the reverse was also true. That’s the curse of growing up together—

A wave of nausea and pain crashes into him and he screws his eyes shut, breathing hard as he leans against his bedroom wall. Damn, he can’t get anything done like this; he’s gonna waste the next several hours just trying to get rid of this fucking migraine. Ugh.

He already confirmed that maintenance job, too. Hanks probably wouldn’t care if he last minute pawned it off to Lloyd, but the whole reason he can afford to let Yuri live here rent free is because he’s helping with repairs. He doesn’t want Hanks to have to hire someone else just because Yuri can’t keep up with requests.

With a deep breath and new resolve, Yuri pulls himself upright and makes his way to the kitchen. Water. He’ll chug a glass or two before he leaves and hope it’s enough to fix it. He'll even skip his usual morning coffee, though the thought alone makes his face sour.

Yuri has a complicated relationship with caffeine. It's less about the actual drink and more about the ritual of it, the comfort of something warm and sweet—overly sweet, Flynn would wrongly accuse—to start his day. Not to mention his job at Dawn's Coffee has helped practically perfect the art of making coffee at home. But desperate times call for desperate measures, as tragic as it is.

He types his response as he shuffles over.

After chugging his first glass, he doesn’t expect an immediate, dramatic change—but he definitely prays for one. He drinks half of another glass before he lets his eyes fall shut, leaning against the counter with a resigned sigh.

Despite everything, Yuri feels a smile tugging at his face. Leave it to Flynn to threaten and worry in the span of one minute.

He does feels a little guilty, though. Flynn made a pretty huge deal about Yuri going, worrying about the repercussions of him missing so much school lately. As expected of the student council’s vice president; Flynn has always taken school way more seriously than him—hell, than the entire student population, probably. As if every grade and achievement is a reflection of his self-worth, or something.

But Yuri never really cared about all that. Why sit in class thinking about theoretical bullshit he won't actually ever need in the real world? Besides, his grades were passable and he’d only missed a couple days here and there in the last few weeks. He can catch up on the material on his own time, and he’s proven time and again that he can bluff his way through exams.

What matters more is the money.

He still remembers the countless nights spent hungry at the foster home, how the other children had looked at him with pity and then gratitude when he had become the center of their abusive caretaker's attention. His eventual escape out of that hell hole left him in a similar predicament—hungry and homeless—and ever since then he had vowed never to be in such a vulnerable position again. Missing a few classes to make some extra cash ensures that he can save enough to support himself and Flynn when they leave this town behind—it’s his way of securing a future where he won't have to rely on anyone else, not even Hanks.

Yuri owes that old man a debt he can never fully repay. Hanks took him in when he had nowhere else to go, gave him a place to live, and treated him like family. The maintenance work he does is a small price to pay for everything Hanks has done for him, and it’s just another reason Yuri needs to keep working. The faster he saves up, the sooner he can start giving back to Hanks properly.

And then there’s Flynn. Flynn, who has always been there for him, who dreams of going to university in the city. Yuri wants to be there with him, to support him in getting the medical degree he’s talked about—but dreams require money. Rent, food, books—it all adds up. Flynn’s family isn’t wealthy either, and the last thing Yuri wants is to be a financial burden on his best friend. So, he takes every opportunity to work, to save up, to ensure that they can live together without any worries.

Yuri frowns. The thought of burdening Flynn has anxiety and guilt mixing in his gut. His concern from yesterday and even the overbearing lecture Yuri had gotten at the end of his shift are so clear in his mind, now—the fact that he had forgotten about even that is starting to freak him out.

He swallows down the rising nerves and takes a deep breath, the pounding in his head pulling him back to the present moment and the issue at hand. One problem at a time, he decides.

There, an apology dinner. That should pacify Flynn for now. He downs his second glass and is grabbing the last granola bar out of the pantry when his phone chimes again.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Claims”. It might as well be italicized and bolded, it’s so loaded with skepticism.

Yuri lets out a breathy chuckle, his headache nearly forgotten for a moment as he imagines Flynn’s amused expression.

But of course, that's the exact moment his headache intensifies, and Yuri's pretty positive he's just experienced what it's like to be stabbed in the brain with an ice pick. "Fuck,” he curses, trying and failing to alleviate it by pressing a hand to his forehead.

It takes longer to die down, this time, and Yuri tries not to read into what worsening effects over time might mean.

Yuri glances at the time and sighs, realizing he’s on the verge of running late now. He types a quick reply, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smirk despite the drumming in his skull.

Flynn adds a dislike reaction to his text nearly immediately, and Yuri pockets his phone with a light chuckle. 

With that, he grabs his tools and rushes out the door, migraine protesting every step of the way.

The tenant who lives at 47B is kind of… ditzy.

It’s the first thought that crosses his mind as she welcomes Yuri into her apartment, flustered and apologetic about the mess in the living room. Books and papers lie scattered across the floor, and as she’s explaining the mishap with her fallen bookshelf, she stumbles over its contents, flailing her arms for balance before landing in an awkward heap on the floor.

It’s a pretty hectic first impression.

"You okay?" Yuri asks, rushing forward to offer her a hand. There's some irony in it, somewhere—offering help when he's barely holding himself together as it is.

The girl—Colette, the e-mail had listed—lets out a nervous laugh, blushing as she accepts his hand. “Yeah, t-thank you!” Once on her feet, she takes a moment to pat her dress down and gather herself, tucking stray blonde hair behind an ear before offering a bashful smile.

She’s pretty, Yuri realizes as he finally takes a good look at her—strikingly wide, blue eyes and long blonde hair, framing a face that’s undeniably cute. She’s the kind of girl that looks Yuri’s age but could be in her late-twenties, for all he knows. “I wish I could tell you I’m not normally this clumsy, but…” she trails off, looking sheepish.

Yuri can't help but crack a small, reassuring smile. "No big deal. Here, let me—”

“O-Oh, that’s alright! You don’t have to do that,” she says as Yuri sets his toolbox down and begins pulling the shelf upright. She hurries to gather up a few of the scattered books out of his way, balancing them precariously in her arms. “I’m sorry.”

"It’s no problem, really," Yuri insists, setting the bookshelf back in its place with ease.

She rewards him with a warm, beaming smile in exchange. Unconsciously, Yuri finds himself returning it. There’s something disarmingly genuine about her smile. Fleetingly, he thinks he should have given the job to Lloyd after all. They'd probably hit it off.

“So,” he says, picking his tools up once more. “You said the kitchen sink is broken?”

“Oh, right!” She dumps the books gently onto the coffee table and then motions him into the kitchen. "It started leaking last night. I tried to fix it myself, but I think I made it worse."

Yuri hums in acknowledgement, kneeling down to inspect the pipes under the sink. "Looks like a worn-out gasket," he mutters, then turns to give her a reassuring look. "Should be an easy fix."

And it is, for the most part. Yuri sets to work almost mechanically, his hands working off muscle memory as he begins disassembling pipes. It’s an oddly soothing process; there’s something therapeutic about fixing simple things, about taking something broken and making it whole again. That, alongside Colette’s cheerful voice and light conversation makes for a pretty nice distraction from the migraine. It’s quieted to a manageable ache, now, lingering but not debilitating, which Yuri decides to count as a win.

Colette hovers nearby for a while before excusing herself to go tackle the mess in the living room, leaving Yuri alone to his thoughts.

That’s when things become a little less manageable.

With his hands moving on auto-pilot, his mind starts to drift. And for some reason, it drifts directly to Flynn.

He's chalking up their forgotten interaction from last night to overworking and fatigue, but there’s still a part of him that feels like he’s forgetting something else, and it’s more than a little concerning. Something to do with Flynn, but he can’t pinpoint what, and it’s giving him this weird, overwhelming sense of dread. It doesn't help that the more he tries to think about it, the more his head begins to throb.

Yuri grits his teeth, frustration bubbling up. What the hell is wrong with him? He's usually so on top of things, but today—today he feels like he’s wading through fog.

By the time he’s replaced the gasket and started re-tightening the connections, his headache has returned with a vengeance, making Yuri equal parts irritated and unnerved. It’s as if his brain is actively refusing to remember, declining with every stab of pain. A sane person might take that as a sign to let their brain rest, but Yuri has never really been good at letting things go, especially when it feels like he’s so close, right on the edge of remembering, if he can just push through—

“What’s your name?”

Yuri jerks up just enough to knock his head into the underside of the sink with a resounding thud.

Pain explodes in his skull and he curses, twisting to pull himself out in the open. The wrench slips from his grip in the process, clattering loudly on the tiled floor as his other hand shoots instinctively to his side to grab—

—nothing. Of course there's nothing. Why would there be something?

Confusion and pain course through him as he instead moves to clutch his head, eyes screwing shut. Why the hell did he do that? What was he reaching for—his phone?

A horrified gasp from Colette yanks him back to the present and he looks up to find wide eyes staring back at him.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!” she says, muffled by the hands now covering her face. “I didn’t mean to startle you! Are you okay?”

Yuri waves a hand dismissively, the other rubbing the sore spot on his head with a grimace. “I’m fine, just—give me a second.” He takes a deep breath, trying to shake off the pain as he pulls himself upright.

The pain he can tolerate, though. He’s been tolerating it all morning—but the move he just pulled? Grasping at nothing? That’s new and it’s throwing him off more than he’d like to admit.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, eyes wide with guilt. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you, I-I just—I wanted to offer you some water, but I hadn’t caught your name earlier, and I didn’t want to be rude—”

“Yuri.”

“—so I—what?”

“It’s Yuri,” he repeats, trying for a reassuring smile. “And you’re Colette, right?”

“Yes!” She says, relief in her voice. Then, frowning, “Oh, I really am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing already,” he says, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. So much for getting rid of his migraine. “Not your fault. I sort of spaced out.” He sheds his gloves and throws them in his toolbox, doing his best to focus on the mundane action.

“Still—Are… are you okay?” she asks tentatively. “You look a little pale..."

Shit, did he? He tries to school his expression. “I'm fine. Wouldn’t mind some water, though. Headache,” he explains, rubbing his temple.

She lets out a horrified gasp. “Not from that,” Yuri amends quickly, watching her mouth form a small "o" in return. “Just woke up with it this morning.”

“How terrible,” she says, sounding personally affected by it. She hurries to grab a glass, her concern never wavering as she goes to fill it at the fridge. “Do you need something for the pain? I’m sure I have something—”

“Nah, all good,” he says, waving another dismissive hand, doing his best to sound unaffected in hopes of redirecting. “More importantly, check this out.”

He turns the faucet on. The stream of water flows without a hitch, and the sink remains blissfully leak-free.

Colette's eyes shine. "You did it!" she exclaims, so enthused that she nearly spills some water while practically bouncing on her toes. "You're incredible! Thank you so much!"

Yuri gives a small nod. It’s hard not to feel a little lighter after praise like that. “No problem,” he says, and then can’t help the relieved sigh as she hands the water to him. “Thanks.”

“You fixed it so fast, too,” she continues, trying it out herself and then beaming in Yuri’s direction. “I thought for sure I’d have to go without a working sink for days.”

“Nah, we try to stay on top of these things,” Yuri assures her. He finishes his water and sets the glass down on the counter, going to gather his things. “If you have any other issues, just let us know.”

“I will, thank you,” she says with a warm smile. “I hope your headache goes away. Drink lots of water and maybe get some rest, if you can.”

Yuri nods, offering her a small wave as he gathers his tools and heads out. “Will do. Nice meeting you."

Colette’s cheerful goodbye echoes behind him, and once he’s left and reached the sidewalk, Yuri takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down.

Okay, yeah, that was weird, but he’s just feeling like total shit. It’s not as if grasping for air by your side actually means anything. His brain is a little preoccupied right now. Of course it’s gonna react to some girl’s accidental jump scare… weirdly.

But…

He slows to a stop, re-enacts the motion, hand slowly reaching to his side to hover there. He lets it linger there for about five seconds before the ridiculousness gets to him.

“What the hell am I doing,” he murmurs, dropping his hand to his side. He’s just stressed and tired, that’s all, and his body is reacting weird because of it. No need to read into it.

He pulls out his phone, checking the time. It’s nearing noon, and he hasn’t eaten anything substantial. Maybe some food and a shower will help clear his head.

With that, he adjusts his grip on his toolbox and heads back to his apartment.

Eating and showering do nothing to alleviate the pain. Several frantic internet searches later, Yuri finds out that this agony could last up to a week.

Resigned to a wasted day, he decides to focus on lessening the symptoms, shutting the curtains and plunging the apartment into a dim sanctuary.

He tries to keep his mind blank, too; tries to pretend there’s no uneasy feeling in his stomach. He finds that if he doesn’t let his mind wander, the nausea stops and his head pain is actually tolerable.

The challenge is keeping his mind empty.

Turns out when you have a throbbing reminder of something being wrong pounding against your skull, that tends to be the only thing you want to think about.

Eventually, he waves the white flag and accepts a much-needed nap as his only salvation. When Flynn gets here, he’ll talk it out with him and based on his response, he'll know whether he's overreacting or if he really should see a doctor.

Decision made, Yuri makes his way to the couch. The familiar cushions mold around him like a sympathetic hug, and he lets out a long sigh, closing his eyes.

He drifts off into a fitful rest.

The knocking jolts him awake. He’s drenched in sweat again, and he groans at the discomfort, pulling himself upright and blinking blearily in the direction of the noise.

It takes him a minute to realize what the noise even is, only registering its come from the front door when the knocking returns, more insistent this time.

Right, that’s probably Flynn.

“Coming,” he calls out, voice raspy from sleep. He drags himself off the couch, cursing as his migraine seems to retaliate, coming out of its dormant state to pulse angrily behind his eye. Fucking hell. How the hell can anyone function like this? He exhales slowly, his hand pressing against his forehead in a futile attempt to alleviate some of the pain.

When he finally makes it to the door, he fleetingly fears how much worse it'll feel when the light floods into the room, but decides to rip the bandaid off and yank the door open any, squinting as the harsh light from the outside floods in.

And of course, after requesting one (1) item from the store, his eyes adjust to find Flynn wearing several grocery bags on each arm, alongside an equally unnecessary frown. Behind the frames of his glasses are two piercing blue eyes that widen just a fraction in surprise.

“Wow,” Flynn says, frown deepening as he searches Yuri’s face. “You look terrible.”

And then, like a slap in the face, it all comes crashing back—that sense of wrongness, that dread, and Yuri knows. It jolts the rest of his sleep-addled mind awake as it sinks to the pit of his stomach, stealing the clever retort from his lips.

Something is off. Really off—

“How are you feeling?” Flynn asks, striding past Yuri without waiting for an invitation, and Yuri’s eyes follow, squinting in pain as his migraine intensifies with each passing second. “Mr. Curtiss asked me where you were today. Guess it’s becoming painfully clear that I’m the one who—” he stops, hands freezing mid grocery bag emptying as his face contorts into worry. “You okay?”

Is he? His heart is pounding in his throat, nausea threatening to surface. And his god damn head—

“Yuri?” Flynn says, dropping everything and rounding the kitchen counter, tone filling with concern. “What’s wrong?”

This, Yuri thinks in a panic, sweat beading down his forehead. This is wrong, right? His eyes shift all over Flynn, trying to pinpoint why, but nothing really stands out. Sure, he's wearing that ridiculous fundraiser shirt that they expected every senior to wear that reads, 'Class of 2025, Fundraising for our Future", but aside from it being incredibly lame and poorly designed, it's just a shirt. Not exactly evidence of something being wrong.

“I’m… fine,” he says, but it comes out strained and far from convincing. He shuts the door with a jerky motion, trying to keep the light out as his migraine pulses painfully behind his eyes. He contemplates mentioning the sudden disorientation and the rush of heat in the room as panic wells up in him, but decides against it. "Just a bad headache—"

And then his migraine pulses and for a moment he sees it, a fragment of a memory flashing before his eyes: Flynn laughing, but not here, not in this apartment. Somewhere else, an open field—

The light reflects off his armor, his golden hair, and he turns his head to face Yuri, something like mirth in his eyes—

Yuri stumbles back, hand gripping the doorframe for support as his vision tunnels, heart pounding erratically. What the fuck? What was that? Where was that? Last he checked, they had never gone LARPing—hell, Flynn had never held a sword in his life—

More images flood his brain: the clash of metal. Blue and silver uniforms. Laughter from a deep, familiar voice—and Flynn, frowning beside him, sword held loosely in his grip as they're both pulled into an unexpected embrace—

"Yuri?" Flynn's voice cuts through the haze, startlingly close. It takes Yuri's addled brain a second to realize it's not just in his head. He knows he should respond, to ask when Flynn had gotten so near, but the onslaught of conflicting images leaves him too disoriented to speak. Where was that? Who was with them? It doesn't make any sense, and yet…

… And yet, it all feels so real, so familiar—he can almost taste the metallic tang in the air, feel the weight of a sword in his hand—

“Talk to me, Yuri,” Flynn says, no, pleads, but it sounds wrong somehow. Too soft, lacking the commanding tone Yuri associated with... with what? His eyes snap to Flynn’s face as he tries to focus, vision starting to swim. “Tell me what’s happening.”

I don’t know, he wants to say, but the words catch in his throat. His head feels like it's splitting apart at the seams, and a flicker of fear seizes him as he screws his eyes shut, doing everything in his power not to see the contents of his lunch again.

Flynn’s warm hands grip him by the shoulders, steadying him as his legs threaten to give way. The touch is anchoring, and Yuri clings to it desperately as more memories surface, vivid and disorienting.

He tries to latch onto the details: A bustling street, worn and dilapidated. Flynn's voice and others nearby, laughing as an old man reprimands a young boy, who points at Yuri in childish accusation. His hand resting in soft fur, shaking with the force of his own laughter. A tail whips impatiently against his leg before Yuri continues to pet him.

Home, he realizes with a sudden, sharp pang in his chest.

The realization is the catalyst for a jolt of memories through him, clear as day of life in the Lower Quarter: The clack of his and Flynn's wooden sword, Repede's comforting warmth as they doze under a starlit sky. Hanks' hearty chuckle, Ted's mischievous giggle—all memories of his family.

And then more images, vivid and unmistakable of his friends—his found family.

Traveling together beyond the barriers, campfire conversations filled with laughter and shared dreams. Fighting together, saving the world—

And then the world tilts on its side and Yuri doubles over with a gasp, clutching at Flynn's arms as it all comes rushing back.

This isn't his home.

He doesn't belong here.

This world, this apartment, the god damn clothes on his back—none of it is right. How did he end up here? He was in Zaphias, wasn’t he? He was at the castle, they had been fighting someone—

“Oh, god,” Yuri whispers, feeling the weight of reality crashing down around him. Is he dead?

Fear seizes him, every breath feeling like it's too little, too late. No, no—there's no way in hell. This has to be some elaborate illusion spell, right? Maybe some vivid, hyper-realistic dream...

He tightens his grip on Flynn in response, but the feeling only deepens his confusion. The texture of Flynn's shirt under his fingers feels undeniably real—and these memories—

His eyes dart wildly around the room, taking in details that feel both familiar and utterly foreign. The worn couch, the faded posters on the wall, the cluttered coffee table—it all screams of a life lived that he vaguely remembers, and yet none of it is his.

Panic claws at his chest. It's as if he's been shoved into someone else's body, living a life that isn't his own—

"Yuri, you’re scaring me,” Flynn says, but it’s off. It’s off, it’s off, and it's all it takes to push Yuri over the edge. His heart turns frantic, dread rising to his throat as he yanks himself out of Flynn's grip. He looks back at him with unfocused, wide eyes, desperate for some semblance of familiar.

Terrified blue eyes stare back at him.

Flynn reaches out, then, says something Yuri can't hear with the blood rushing in his ears. Yuri flinches, rearing back in a moment of frightening clarity.

“You’re… You’re not—” he gasps out.

You’re not Flynn.

And then the world goes dark.

Chapter Text

24 Hours Before

“Oh, Yuri.” Estelle gasps, eyes shining. “Flynn is going to be so happy.”

Yuri bites back the, ‘I’m not wearing it for him’ remark he’s got on the tip of his tongue because he knows there’s no point in lying to Estelle. Not when she’s watched him make a beeline for Flynn every time he’s in the Capital, and Yuri has proven time and time again that he’s slightly more cooperative about answering Ioder’s summons once he confirms Flynn will be around.

He narrows his eyes in disapproval anyway, ignoring the stifled giggle he gets in return. “You guys ready, or what?”

“Um, let me check. One moment,” she says, smiling at him through the crack of her bedroom door before it closes with a soft click, leaving Yuri with a strong sense of déjà vu. Just three years ago, he had stood in this very same spot, waiting for a naive princess to gather her things so they could, in the council's eyes, 'run away together.'

The difference now is the muffled grumbling of Rita behind closed doors, the collected tone of Judy offering the occasional reassurance. Estelle isn't some sheltered, lonely little princess anymore.

And Yuri, well—he isn't directionless and breaking out of jail, for starters.

Not being an escaped convict means that he also doesn't have to play hide-and-seek with the guards this time, either, which is a relief—since events like these meant that every nook and cranny of the castle was under heavy surveillance. Even with the knights stretched paper thin these days, Flynn had stationed the Royal Guard all over; all the leaders of the world culminating under one roof meant that the empire had to be extra cautious about keeping everyone safe.

Yuri appreciates the irony of that protection extending to him.

His gaze flicks between the two knights stationed at Estelle’s door, who haven’t budged a single inch since his approach. After two agonizing minutes pass and the girls still haven’t come out, he turns to one restlessly. “So… You guys practicing for a statue competition, or something?"

The knight remains motionless, unfazed and equally unamused.

Yuri returns the look measure for measure before eventually relenting with a sigh. The castle's no-dog policy is starting to feel like a personal affront; at least Repede would have graced him with a flick of his tail or his dog equivalent of an unimpressed scoff.

Just as Yuri is about to resign himself to an eternity of awkward silence, the doorknob turns and Judy slips out gracefully.

“Finally,” Yuri says, hand on the hilt of his sword as he gives her a once-over. She's in a form-fitting navy dress paired with black tights and knee-high boots, a look that practically screams, ‘I’ll kick your ass and look good doing it’. A silver brooch in the shape of a crescent moon hangs around her neck, tying together a short cape behind her while her spear, now cleaned and polished, sits securely strapped against it.

She looks stunning, honestly. Yuri tells this to her in his own way.

“You look a lot better without all those monster guts on you.”

Mirth flickers in her eyes, alongside an exhaustion she's clearly trying to conceal. Yuri knows better. They all refused to admit it, but battles wore them out far faster nowadays.

After the spirit conversion and near end of the world, battling without the protection of blastia had made even weaker monsters infinitely harder to defeat. Without bodhi blastia, artes had become weaker, injuries lasted longer, and because of that, volunteers to combat the monster crisis were slim to none.

Rita's tests for utilizing mana in place of aer were still haphazard at best, and spirits hadn’t turned out to be the panacea they’d hoped for. Unlike the original four, most spirits born from blastia cores were unable to communicate and remained hidden from sight. If not for the insane light show that fateful day, most people would scarcely believe they existed at all.

For Brave Vesperia, their saving grace was Estelle's connection with the original spirits. Unfortunately, Undine had explained that the spirits, for the most part, desired to “live a peaceful coexistence by maintaining their separate existence”—a notion Yuri easily dismissed as complete bullshit. He scoffed at the idea that spirits could claim to want peace while standing idly by as humans suffered and died. To Yuri, true peace means doing your part to help others, not hiding away in selfish isolation.

But whatever. At least they had Rita’s genius to fall back on; she theorized that, given the correct formula, mana could be “drawn out” from various biological organisms, so long as there’s some conduit to channel that energy. But that required “elementally separating aer”—whatever the hell that meant. Honestly, Yuri still can’t wrap his head around it. All he knows is that her attempts to reconstruct blastia to be compatible with mana formulas remained largely experimental and were nowhere near ready for a world wide roll out—the issue of protecting cities, resource scarcity, and even basic transportation still very much at large.

They try not to let the uncertain future dampen their spirits, though. They can’t really afford to. Unbidden, Brave Vesperia had become a sort of beacon of hope for many people. Thanks to Karol, of course, who passionately advocated for their guild to support others navigating the transition to a post-blastia world. It’s the reason their reputation has sky rocketed among guilds, and the reason they’d been called to the Capital to begin with.

"I could say the same for you," Judy says, eyeing him in return. She then gives him that smile—the one that always feels far too knowing and makes Yuri itch to turn away. “You look very nice, Yuri.”

"Yeah, yeah," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "Spare me. Karol and the old man already gave me enough grief." After being laughed out of the spare room where they were changing, Yuri did the sensible—albeit slightly childish—thing and fucked right on off to brood.

Judy's eyes twinkle with amusement as she rummages through the crescent-shaped pouch at her side. With a small flourish, she holds out her hand and flips it over, revealing a golden, elastic hair tie with small red jewels embedded in it. “Here. You should put your hair up. Show off more of that outfit.”

Yuri eyes the band skeptically. Simple but elegant, and—yep, a complete match to the gold and burgundy accents that decorated his paladin attire.

He takes it begrudgingly, pulling his hair up with a mutter. “You’re in on this with Ioder, aren't you?”

And there it is again, that knowing smile.

“Let’s just say I spoke to a certain blonde about accessories, once.”

Before Yuri can even process whatever the hell she's trying to imply with that comment, Rita and Estelle are stepping out of the room.

They both look great, each in their own distinct way. Rita's burgundy tie and matching skirt strike a nice balance between formal and practical, complimented by matching accessories and fancy jewelry—items probably worth more than Brave Vesperia’s entire yearly budget. She looks uncomfortable in it, like she’s two seconds away from setting herself on fire just to have an excuse to change, and Yuri can’t help but feel a twinge of solidarity. He wonders just how much coercion had to happen to get her in it to begin with.

Estelle, on the other hand, practically glows. She looks like she just stepped out of some fancy noble’s painting—and it’s not just the soft, flowing cream dress that does it, or even the way her hair is done up in some intricate bun thing. It’s the way she holds herself as she enters the room; back straight, chin up, every inch of her commanding respect, radiating confidence. Just another reminder of how far she’s come from the uncertain, sheltered girl he first met.

Something about the two of them here, older and wiser and dressed the part is making Yuri feel surprisingly nostalgic. “You guys look great.”

Rita gives a sheepish grunt, while Estelle’s eyes glisten. “Thank you, Yuri!”

"The formalities are such a waste of time," Rita grumbles, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

"I agree, but hey, at least none of us have to sit and stew with monster guts on us."

Rita shrugs, in the ‘I'd-prefer-the-monsters’ sort of way, and Yuri snorts. He can’t really blame her. Though today was the first time they'd seen each other in weeks—with Rita and Estelle knee-deep in spirit research these past few years—social gatherings like this wasn't either of their scenes. While Estelle still made the occasional trek to the castle to attend formal state functions and charity events, Rita hardly ever left her lab in Halure. Their heartwarming reunion earlier that day was overshadowed by the dread of having to dress up and play nice with diplomats and politicians.

"It's a nice change of pace, if you ask me," Judy comments.

"Yes," Estelle nods, then turns to Rita and sets a reassuring hand on her arm. "I know it's not ideal, but I think we all deserve a night to relax."

At Estelle's smile, Rita's scowl softens. "... Yeah, I guess."

Yuri watches the exchange with growing amusement. Huh. Looks like Rita and Estelle have gotten even closer since they were away—about damn time.

Catching his smirk, Rita swipes her arm away with a blush and a grumble in the opposite direction. Yuri tries not to find it outwardly endearing.

"C'mon," he says in a generous attempt to spare her. "Let's go get this over with."

The doors to the meeting room are large, excessively ornate and, Yuri thinks, way too loud for them to sneak in unnoticed. The groaning sound it makes as the guards push them open is almost as obnoxious as Karol’s snickering beside him.

Despite this, only a few heads turn their way. The room is livelier than he anticipated; leaders and representatives from every continent filling every inch, the conversations between them serious and tense. His eyes travel to the center of it all, where an exhausted looking Ioder speaks passionately, his words directed to a plethora of familiar faces. His trusted Commandant stands at his side, nodding in agreement before offering his own two cents.

Aside from looking equally exhausted, Flynn definitely has the whole dignified leader look down, back straight and armor gleaming. Yuri can't help but feel a swell of pride for how far he's come.

Beside him, Karol snickers louder.

Yuri elbows him with enough force to tilt him off his feet, feeling satisfied when the weight of Karol’s weapon causes him to stagger slightly. Years ago, he would have fallen over; but even Karol is growing up, stronger and sturdier and finally outmatching the weight of his oversized bag. Seeing him dressed like some fancy diplomat really drives it home, too, even with the indignant whine that accompanies it.

“Yuri,” he complains, adjusting his bag with a flush of embarrassment.

“That's it," Yuri mutters decisively under his breath, resisting the urge to tug at the ends of his jacket. "I'm burning this thing when we’re done." He's feeling less like the 'Free Paladin' Flynn had advertised it as and more like a caged animal on display.

"Now, c'mon, ya don't mean that," Raven says from behind him, stepping up to match his pace and place a hand on his shoulder. He's barely suppressing a laugh, and Yuri has to suppress the sudden violent urge to stumble into him with his sword out of its sheath. "We're just messin' with ya. It really is sweet ta see ya dressin' up for yer dear best friend."

Yuri groans. Ever since he'd let it slip that he missed Flynn the other night, after a particularly gruesome battle left everyone exhausted and nostalgic for simpler times, everyone had been acting like he'd confessed his undying love or something ridiculous like that. And now with Ioder requesting he wear this stupid Paladin outfit, it was even worse—because everyone knew how adamant Flynn had been about him wearing it in the past.

And sure, maybe he is wearing it for him—because yeah, there are some complicated feelings there—but he’d rather eat his own sword than openly admit any of that. Not with everyone getting all riled up over them just being in the same god damn room.

It’s not as if he could ever act on those feelings, anyway. Flynn has responsibilities now, an entire empire to protect and rebuild. There’s no room in that picture for whatever messy, complicated thing Yuri’s got going on in his chest. And that’s fine. He'd long since accepted that their paths had diverged way too far for anything more. Besides, he’s spent so long burying those feelings under layers of snark and bravado that he’s not sure he’d know how to express them now, even if he wanted to.

"It's for world peace, damnit," he grumbles out.

"My, the sacrifices you make,” Judy says. “Doesn't he look pleased?"

Part of Yuri wants to deny her the satisfaction of him turning to check, but the other part of him can’t be bothered to care when he does. He catches Flynn’s gaze across the room immediately, who’s eyes soften from widened surprise to something warm, lips curving into a small smile.

Yuri rolls his eyes deliberately in response, trying to suppress the stupid giddy feeling that reaction invokes. It’s a quick and wordless exchange, and the second Flynn is thrust back into discussions, he shoots Judy a scathing look.

Judging by her smile, he knows it only reenforced whatever dumb thoughts she'd been thinking.

Mercifully, Rita interrupts them all with an exaggerated sigh. "Don't we have more important things to worry about right now?"

Beside her, Estelle nods solemnly.

"Rita's right, we have an important job here," she says near to a whisper. "If a true alliance can be formed between the empire and guilds, people can live without fear of war for the first time in generations."

Everyone quiets down at that; silent nods of agreement exchanged between them. With the world in disarray and being split up, it was almost too easy to get lost in these little moments of levity between them, but the nature of the situation was clear. Things had gone from bad to worse for everyone, and the best solution had been for them to share resources and help each other—something that never entirely came to fruition after the aftermath of a world with no blastia left everyone scrambling for power and resources with a "to each their own" mentality.

It could hardly be blamed that a few meetings in Aurnion wasn't enough to keep the peace between their long-standing animosity, and even with the world's leaders playing nice, it meant nothing for those who had already suffered through the turmoil of conflict and were now having to deal with their way of life being ripped out from under them. Mistrust spread on both sides, and it became increasingly difficult to maintain order within their own borders, much less keep the peace between the two.

That's where they came in. They might just be some rag tag bunch of misfits, but having the favor of the Emperor and an old member of Altosk in their guild, along with their solid reputation across continents definitely made their full support of this alliance vital. Plus, with their diverse backgrounds, they embodied the very cooperation that this new alliance hoped to achieve. Brave Vesperia stood as a living example of what could be accomplished when different factions worked together towards a common goal.

And now, their goal was simple: create the illusion of a bridge between the two sides. Even being disliked by nearly every important figurehead in the empire, Yuri's connections to the Princess, Emperor and Don—coupled with Brave Vesperia's stellar reputation among most major guilds—made him a hot, albeit temporary, commodity.

As they move deeper into the room, the discussions seem to grow more heated, though their presence still garners polite nods and restrained smiles from those around them. Yuri recognizes most of the people present; guildsmen from the union, some of Ioder's councilmen and a few dignitaries they'd met in that gathering in Aurnion all those years ago. He catches snippets of various conversations, but the raised voices and displeased expressions of both councilmen and guildsmen alike don’t bode well for the situation.

Ioder's voice, strained but steady, comes into focus.

"Absolutely, and that is the reason we are here, correct? To ensure mutual benefits."

"And what assurances do we have, Your Majesty, that the empire will respect the autonomy of the guilds?" The familiar, deep voice of Natz asks from the corner of the room. He's looking as burly and intimidating as ever, Yuri notes—though slightly grayer. He wonders if that has to do with his position as the Duce in these past years or simply age. "Past cooperations have been... tenuous, at best."

Another guild leader cuts in, one he doesn't recognize—equally as burly. "What use is autonomy when our resources are dwindling? The empire may have its grand plans, but we're struggling just to feed our people and keep businesses afloat." His voice rises with frustration. "How can we talk about cooperation when basic survival is at stake?"

The room murmurs in agreement, the tension palpable. Ioder's face remains calm, though his weariness is pretty evident. He exchanges a quick look with Flynn, who steps forward in response.

"We understand your concerns," Flynn begins carefully, his eyes sweeping across the room. "That's why we've proposed the formation of a joint council, made up of representatives from both the empire and the guilds. They would oversee the distribution and management of necessary resources—”

“—Our trade routes are swarming with monsters,” a guild representative cuts in, one Yuri doesn’t recognize. Maybe it’s someone from Fortune’s Market, seeing as Kaufman isn’t present. "How can we maintain distribution when we can’t even guarantee safe passage?”

“We must also discuss how to handle internal dissent,” A councilman with a distinctly large mustache—whom Yuri instantly recognizes from Flynn's letters—interjects with visible disdain. “Not everyone sees this alliance as beneficial. There are reports of guild members sabotaging imperial supply lines, and imperial citizens retaliating against guild businesses—”

A guildsman scoffs, his face contorting in annoyance. "Are you implying that we're the ones causing trouble? The empire has a long history of oppression and broken promises. How can we trust that this time will be any different?"

The room erupts into heated arguments, accusations flying from both sides. Yuri watches as Flynn’s shoulders tense in response, brows knitting tightly together. Knowing Flynn, he's probably beating himself up over the rising tensions, and Yuri feels the sudden overwhelming urge to shout at everyone in the room.

Fortunately, a familiar voice rises through the clamor.

“Enough,” Harry Whitehorse demands, rising to his feet. "Squabbling will get us nowhere. Don’t lose sight of why we’re all here.”

The room begins to quiet down, and Yuri blinks. Harry's voice carries the same gravitas that the old man's used to, commanding a surprising amount of respect without resorting to intimidation. It's a far cry from the uncertain, somewhat whiny kid he remembers from their first encounter.

Nearby, Ioder nods appreciatively.

"Precisely," he agrees. He looks around the room, meeting the eyes of each representative. "Our people—both imperial and guild citizens—are suffering. We must focus on solutions, not past grievances.”

Soft murmurs and grumbles follow. Ioder continues, undeterred. “I propose we take a brief recess. Let us use this time to collect our thoughts and remember our shared goal: the welfare of all our people. When we reconvene, I hope we can approach these discussions with renewed focus and a spirit of cooperation.”

He exchanges a meaningful look with Harry before concluding with practiced grace, "Let us reconvene in thirty minutes. Thank you all for your patience and dedication to this cause.”

As people reluctantly begin to stand and disperse, Yuri seizes his opportunity. He knows he probably shouldn’t; he doesn’t need any more reasons for the others to tease him for hovering all over Flynn, but he can’t help the way his feet carry him to Flynn’s side, hand reaching out to settle on his shoulder before rational thought can catch up.

Flynn goes rigid at the touch, but at the sight of Yuri, the tension bleeds away. A weary sigh escapes him in the process, equal parts relief and lingering stress.

“Hello.”

At Yuri’s frown, Flynn offers a strained smile.

"How long has this been going on?" he asks.

"Several hours," Flynn answers, rubbing his temples tiredly. He glances over Yuri's shoulder, offering a wave to their approaching companions before turning his attention back to him. "You wore it after all.”

Yuri crosses his arms, refusing to acknowledge the warmth creeping up his neck. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead, laugh it up.”

“I’m not laughing,” Flynn says seriously. He looks Yuri up and down, and it takes all of Yuri’s restraint not to shift on his feet. “I… I think it fits you well.”

Damn his traitorous heart for flipping at that.

Flynn’s gaze lingers on his high ponytail a second too long before darting away, almost guiltily, and for one terrifying, idiotic moment, Yuri actually feels grateful for Judy’s meddling—

"Well, ain’t that nice,” Raven cuts in from behind. "Our boy Flynn here appreciates the effort.” He attempts to sling an arm around Yuri’s shoulders, but Yuri immediately shrugs him off, pointedly ignoring him and whatever silent looks his friends are sharing behind him.

“You’re just buttering me up so that you and Ioder can use me for negotiations,” Yuri finally manages to mutter.

"That is indeed a benefit," Ioder chimes in from nearby, flanked by his ever-present royal guards. "However I'll second that it suits you." He comes to stand side by side with Flynn, a warm smile on his face as he gives a bow of acknowledgement to the others. "Thank you for coming, Brave Vesperia."

Karol steps forward then, puffing out his chest with pride. “We're honored to be here, Your Majesty! Brave Vesperia is ready to help in any way we can!"

“Someone just point me in the direction where I can be useful,” Rita says impatiently. “I’m tired of listening to all these old men argue.”

Ioder chuckles at that. “Miss Mordio, I believe your insight would be invaluable for the mana research happening across the hall.”

"Witcher is there," Flynn adds. “Lady Estellise, I believe he had a few questions regarding greater spirits.”

Estelle nods vehemently, a sudden determination in her eyes. “Of course! Rita—”

"Yeah," Rita says, already taking off. Estelle turns back to Ioder and Flynn, offering a polite bow. "I'll make sure we're back before negotiations resume," she assures them with a smile. She catches Yuri's eye, who sends her a skeptical look that he hopes conveys, 'Good luck with that'. Once Rita gets in the zone, the only way they're making it back in time is if Estelle physically drags her away.

The smile Estelle gives him in return suggests maybe it won't be an issue.

A guard steps forward with a bow. "Allow me to accompany you, your Highness."

Yuri watches as Estelle's smile flickers for just a fraction of a moment, and honestly, he gets it. Even with her so called 'freedom' to live outside the castle walls and travel with Rita, she's still constantly shadowed by guards. Every single one of her attempts to reason with Ioder about traveling alone has been met with the same polite but unmovable rejection, wrapped up in pretty words about safety and protocol that probably taste just as bitter to her as they do to him.

“Thank you,” she says anyway.

As they hurry after Rita, a courier quickly takes their place, bowing hastily. "Your Majesty, Commandant," he greets, a little breathless, glancing between everyone. "Forgive my interruption, but Representative Markham from Ruins' Gate is requesting an audience to discuss some concerns before matters resume."

“Very well,” Ioder nods, turning to them with an apologetic look before pivoting to address Flynn. “Why don’t you take this opportunity to catch up? I’m sure you all have plenty to talk about.”

To anyone but Yuri, the relief in Flynn’s eyes is probably indiscernible. “As you wish, your Majesty.”

With that, Ioder departs, his royal knights falling into step behind him. Yuri puts a hand on his hip.

“Well, so much for—”

“—Alllllrighty, then,” Raven interjects with a theatrical sigh, stretching languidly in a way that screams up to something. “Looks like it's time for ol' Raven to make himself useful. Can’t let you youngsters do all the heavy liftin', now can I?" He gives Yuri a playful nudge before gesturing to Karol and heading towards the direction of Altosk's men. "C'mon, kid. Judith, darlin'—you too."

“Right!” Karol says enthusiastically, following behind. “Come on, Judith! We need your negotiation skills!”

Yuri raises a brow at that. He’s not sure intimidating smiles and blunt honesty translates to negotiation skills. He’s about to voice this when Judy turns to him, eyes glinting with unwarranted amusement. “Seems I’m in high demand. Try not to have too much fun without us, alright?”

And then she’s following after Karol and Raven and Yuri blinks, realizing they’ve all conveniently left him behind.

He turns to Flynn to confirm it. “Did they seriously just…?”

Flynn is barely suppressing a chuckle, and it’s such a nice sight that Yuri can’t bring himself to feel properly annoyed. "I believe they did. Perhaps you weren't needed for negotiations, after all."

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Very funny,” he says dryly. “Come on, let’s find some place quieter to talk.”

‘Some place’ turns out to be the small unused armory room tucked away two corridors down. It’s dim, dusty, and sparsely furnished, but it still offers what the meeting hall doesn’t: peace and quiet.

Yuri opts to lean against the only wall not littered with rusted weapons, while Flynn wearily sinks into the room's sole seat—a worn wooden chair that’s definitely seen better days.

It’s occupant isn’t looking much better.

"So,” Yuri starts, arms casually crossing over his chest. “How are you holding up, really?"

That’s all it takes. With an honesty that makes Yuri feel both privileged and concerned, Flynn’s authoritative demeanor crumbles. His shoulders slump, any energy he had been feigning now entirely depleted as he admits with a deep exhale, “I’m exhausted, Yuri.”

“I can tell,” Yuri frowns, eyeing Flynn warily. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“It’s been relentless,” Flynn explains, running a hand through his hair. “Every day brings a new crisis, a new fire to put out… The world is moving faster than we can keep up with.” He drops his head into his hands, his next words muffled and heavy. “I don’t have time to sleep.”

Yuri's frown deepens. "You can't help anyone if you're too exhausted to even stand.”

“I know that," Flynn says, voice tinged with frustration. "But every time I try to rest, I can't help but think of all the work left undone, all the people counting on us to make things right.” He lifts his head to meet Yuri’s gaze briefly, then fixes his eyes on the floor. “There’s so much civil unrest—and the citizens who’s lives have been completely uprooted…” he trails off, going quiet.

Yuri’s chest tightens. He knows all too well the weight of responsibility, the crushing guilt that comes with making world-altering decisions.

They all know that the loss of blastia was necessary, but that doesn’t stop the what-ifs that followed. Every life that had been lost or severely injured the moment blastia had stopped functioning—miners trapped underground, ships stranded at sea, people overpowered by monsters when their bodhi blastia suddenly failed. Couldn't they have done more to warn everyone before pulling the trigger?

It's hard not to feel responsible for all the suffering they inadvertently caused, hard not to imagine what could have been avoided had they been quicker, tried harder, or slept less. Yuri gets it. He really does. It’s why he's been throwing himself into guild work with reckless abandon, and if Flynn is being constantly reminded by every meeting, every single report that ends up on his desk—it’s no wonder he’s been doing the same.

A sense of helplessness washes over him. Yuri hasn’t exactly come to terms with it, either; trying to console Flynn by shouting about all the good they’ve accomplished feels sort of hypocritical.

”You're doing your best, Flynn," he says anyway, the words feeling inadequate even as they leave his mouth. "That's all anyone can ask for.”

Flynn's brows furrow at that, his mouth opening and closing in a sudden bout of indecision. Whatever's weighing on him is something he's clearly wrestling with whether or not to voice at all.

“It’s just me,” Yuri reminds him. “No need to hold back.”

Flynn lets out a breath, almost like he really had been holding it in. “… Sometimes I wonder if I'm really cut out for this, Yuri," he says, his voice uncharacteristically small. He looks up at him then, blue eyes clouded with worry. "What if… What if I'm doing more harm than good?"

"Hey,” Yuri starts, standing straight. “Don't talk like that. You're doing everything you can. It’s not like these are easy problems to solve."

Flynn acknowledges him with a quiet grunt, his eyes downcast again.

Yuri’s heart clenches at the sight. He hates seeing him like this—so beaten down and defeated, so unlike the Flynn he's always known. Where was the guy who never backed down from a challenge, who believed with every fiber of his being that he could change the world for the better?

“Sorry,” Flynn says suddenly, as if reading his mind. He pauses, swallowing hard. “It’s just… been a rough week.”

Yuri nods. “Yeah, well, I’m sure the negotiations aren’t helping.”

“No, not really.”

Not for the first time, Yuri feels at a loss of what to say. He’s never been one to comfort with words, that had always been Estelle’s skill. Besides, he knows nothing he could say would help - actions always spoke louder than words, after all. But what actions could he even take?

The thought of suggesting a spar pops into mind—it's how they’ve always worked through their emotions, letting their swords communicate what words couldn’t. But one look at Flynn has him dismissing the idea immediately; with him slumped in his chair and barely keeping his eyes open, Yuri knows that's not what he needs.

It spurs on another feeling, and distantly, Yuri wonders when was the last time he pulled Flynn into a hug. Neither of them were ever ones to ask for comfort, even when they were kids. They both carried that same stubborn pride, never wanting to admit when something was really wrong.

But unlike Yuri, Flynn would occasionally swallow that pride. And on the rare occasions that he did, Yuri remembers Flynn being one for physical comfort. He’d lean into Yuri’s space more, huddle closer at night, try to initiate some contact almost subconsciously. The comfort he sought definitely stemmed from something deeper—his mother, probably, who had remained a gentle presence even as illness slowly claimed her.

When it was Yuri that was upset, Flynn took on that same role, with embraces and words that were softer and more patient than usual. He'd sit closer, speak quieter, and let his hand linger on Yuri's shoulder or back until the tension finally eased. Back then, Yuri didn’t know what to make of it—didn’t know how to handle that level of trust and vulnerability. But eventually he'd learned to return it, to offer a reassuring hand or a steady presence when Flynn needed it most.

The sudden urge to reach out now, to offer some kind of physical comfort, tugs at him. To pull Flynn into a hug like Flynn used to do when they were kids, before everything became stupidly complicated.

He doesn’t move, though. Doesn’t know how to. He’s not sure how Flynn would take it, if that kind of casual intimacy is still allowed or if it betrays something Yuri’s still too afraid to acknowledge.

His hand twitches uselessly at his side.

Eventually, it's Flynn that breaks the silence. "... It’ll be much more bearable now that you’re here, though," he says, looking up at Yuri with a hint of his old warmth. “Your presence makes a difference.”

“Does it?” he asks, unable to help himself. Anything to ignore the feeling in his chest. “The council didn’t look very pleased. I half expected them to start hissing at me.”

Flynn smiles wryly. “The council is never pleased,” he says. “But I think the guilds are more eager to cooperate with Brave Vesperia’s support. Your active participation in today's discussions will make these conversations much more manageable, trust me.”

Yuri makes a noncommittal noise at that, something between a hum and a grunt. He wants to voice his concern that Flynn might be overestimating their influence, but he bites his tongue. The last thing Flynn needs right now is more discouragement.

“Even in this dumb outfit?” he asks instead.

That draws a chuckle out of Flynn. “Especially,” he says, then stands abruptly and moves closer, coming to settle beside him. Yuri tries to ignore the way it sends his heart racing, how he’s suddenly hyper-aware of their proximity as Flynn leans his head against the wall, turning it slightly to meet his gaze.

“It’s good to see you again, Yuri.”

There's that familiar warmth in his stomach, the one that always seems to appear when Flynn looks at him like that or speaks to him in that soft, sincere tone. The way his eyes search Yuri’s for a moment, as if trying to memorize every detail, makes Yuri’s mind go blank until eventually Flynn turns his head away. “How long will Brave Vesperia be staying, this time?”

Yuri hesitates. “… We planned a few days after negotiations.”

“I see,” Flynn says, his voice carefully neutral.

Guilt settles heavily in his chest. Guilt for not coming around more often, for leaving Flynn to shoulder things alone. At least Yuri has Brave Vesperia to fall back on. But Flynn? Estelle was rarely at the castle, and even most of his old brigade has been scattered across continents in his stead. He knows it’s all necessary work, but seeing Flynn like this… It makes him wonder if he’s really made the right choices.

Fuck. He wants to say something—to apologize, to promise he'll be around more, to tell Flynn how much he thinks of him. But the words stick in his throat.

In the end, he settles for what comes easier.

“Hey,” he starts, nudging Flynn gently with his elbow. “Isn’t this the room we hid in that day we were suppose to be cleaning out the barracks?”

It’s an obvious deflection, but old habits die hard, and Flynn doesn’t object. Instead, he turns to give Yuri a pointed look. “That you hid in, you mean. That got me in trouble.”

Yuri shrugs. "Not my fault you’re lousy at hiding.”

Flynns eyes narrow. “Why should I have hidden when I’d done nothing wrong?”

“Technically you abandoned cleaning duty, too—”

“Only to go looking for you!” Flynn counters, and then shakes his head. “I can’t believe I got stable duty the rest of the week for your slacking off—”

“Hey, I fessed up eventually!” Yuri protests. “It’s not like I left you to suffer alone. I did my fair share of mucking out stalls too, remember?"

The roll of Flynn’s eyes is exasperation, but his growing smile is nothing but fond. “Hardly,” he says. There’s a twinkle of mirth in his eyes as he adds, “I suppose it wasn’t all bad, though. I did get to see you covered in hay and horse manure.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri says, feigning exasperation. “You weren’t much better off yourself, you know.”

That has Flynn breaking out into a wide grin. “Yes, but I’m not the one who fell face-first into—”

“That was one time," Yuri cuts off, but he's grinning too. "And I’ll still die on the hill that you were the one who pushed me." He pauses, knowing full-well there's a mischievous glint in his eye. "I think I still owe you for that one, actually.”

Flynn chuckles, tilting his head down with an incredulous shake and a smile. Yuri’s heart leaps at the sight, surprised by just how much it feels like coming home.

When he finally turns back to Yuri, his expression has shifted—softer somehow, unguarded in a way that makes Yuri want to look anywhere else. His voice is quiet as he admits, almost meekly, "I... I miss you, Yuri."

It’s such a stupidly simple admission—one they’ve both been dancing around for months. But for Flynn to actually say it... Gods, why does it have to make his chest so damn tight?

He tries to keep his tone light and casual.

"Hey, I'm only a letter away.”

That doesn't seem to be the right thing to say. Flynn's smile turns wistful, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He dips his head, eyes fixed on the floor between them.

"Yuri," Flynn begins carefully, his voice low and quiet. He shifts slightly, angling his body toward him. “I...”

He trails off, hesitating. Yuri watches as his hands clench and unclench at his sides—a nervous tick he’s had since they were kids.

It makes Yuri equally nervous. Part of him wants to run, to avoid the weight of whatever Flynn is about to say. But a larger part of him is rooted to the spot, unable—or unwilling—to move.

“C’mon,” he prods gently instead, heartbeat in his throat. “Spit it out.”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Flynn lifts his head, meeting his gaze with something so vulnerable, Yuri’s breath catches. His eyes dart across Yuri’s face for a moment, almost as if trying to convey everything he can't bring himself to say out loud.

Eventually, he averts his gaze. “Sometimes… I often wish things were simpler.”

Yuri swallows. He opens his mouth to respond, to say something—anything—to break the tension, but then Flynn leans in slightly and his throat goes dry.

“If I could be selfish, even just for a day, I'd..."

... His words trail off, unfinished, and Yuri holds his breath. A beat passes before Flynn looks up again, blue eyes searching grey.

He swallows hard.

"I think... I think I'd want—"

Whatever Flynn was about to say is suddenly interrupted as a distant explosion echoes through the castle. The blast sends shockwaves through the walls, causing the room to tremble violently.

They jerk apart, startled, eyes wide with surprise and alarm.

”What was that?" Yuri asks, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword.

"I don't know,” Flynn answers quickly, mirroring the action.

Without another word, they rush out of the room and into the hallway. The smell of smoke fills the air, and there’s a distant sound of commotion growing steadily louder—the clatter of armored footsteps, shouting, and the distant clash of metal against metal.

Before they can even register what’s happening, a knight rounds the corner, nearly colliding with them in the process. The man is breathless, his face pale with urgency.

"Commandant!" he gasps, struggling to catch his breath. "There's been a breach—unknown assailants in the castle!"

Flynn's expression hardens immediately. "How many? Where?"

"We don’t know, sir," the knight replies, his voice shaking slightly. "Reports are coming in from multiple locations—"

Another knight rushes toward them. A lieutenant, Yuri notes from the stripes on his uniform. “Sir, intruders in the east wing!”

"Go!" Flynn orders the knight, then turns to the other. "Gather available forces and secure the perimeter. I want every exit blocked. No one gets in or out without my express permission, understood?"

“Yes, sir!” The knight salutes and rushes off to relay the orders.

Flynn turns to Yuri, his eyes blazing with determination and worry. "Yuri, I need you to—"

"Find Ioder," Yuri finishes quickly, unsheathing his sword. “Got it.”

Flynn gives a sharp nod. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.“ Something flashes across his face—hesitation, Yuri thinks—but then it’s gone in an instant, replaced with growing resolve. "Be careful."

"You too," Yuri replies, and then they're both running, splitting off in different directions.

Yuri sprints down the corridor, mind racing. A breach in the castle's security was no small feat—either these assailants are crazy skilled and well-prepared, or…

… Or they were already in the castle to begin with.

Yuri’s stomach sinks, not wanting to even entertain the idea of the union using peace talks as a smokescreen for an attack against the empire. Raven had assured them that most guild leaders in the union were on board, so long as their demands were met or they were given a fair say in the negotiations. And Harry himself had nearly been acting as an emissary of peace, so why..?

Damnit, whether it was a coordinated attack between guilds or not, the possibility of an alliance if something were to happen to the Don or Emperor—

—Fuck. Yuri pushes himself to sprint faster. The sounds of battle grow louder with each step, and as he reaches the entrance to the meeting hall, he finally sees the full extent of the explosion's damage.

An enormous hole has taken place where the meetings doors once stood, signs of casted magic in its wake. Surrounding it, blood and unconscious bodies are strewn across the floor—Yuri's stomach gives a violent lurch. He nearly trips over a fallen knight in the process, the reality of the situation dawning on him with sickening clarity.

A full on war has started inside the meeting hall, and both the Don and Emperor were most likely in the thick of it.

He swallows thickly, scanning the destruction frantically and silently praying nothing familiar sticks out. He knows his friends can hold their own, that they might even have a handle on the situation, but that doesn’t make his fears any less terrifying.

After a quick once-over confirms no familiar casualties, Yuri tightens his grip on his sword and bursts into the room.

He thought the display outside would have prepared him for what’s in front of him, but it doesn’t. The meeting room is a battlefield, with guildsmen and knights locked in fierce combat—but not with each other. No, they’re fighting the intruders—assailants clad in black, their faces half obscured by creepy, white masks.

Yuri doesn't even have time to appreciate their unity against a common enemy—nor time to even discern who their common enemy was. Not with magic crackling through the air, flashes of light illuminating the smoke filled room as spells are cast in all directions. The room’s been completely destroyed in the process; tapestries that had proudly displayed the empire's history now hanging in tatters, furniture upturned and splintered across the floor—

Yuri curses and ducks behind a pile of debris as a particularly strong lightning spell is cast, singeing the air around him and leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. It’s a way more powerful arte than it should be, he decides—and without blastia, the only way to fuel artes that powerful…

… Not good. If they’re tapping into their own life force, they aren’t just skilled, they’re desperate—and that’s a really bad combination.

Yuri grits his teeth, eyes scanning through smoke and debris, searching for any sign of Ioder. Behind makeshift barricades and in corners of the room, councilmen and staff members are huddled together helplessly, protected by guildsmen and knights who have banded together to shield the unarmed.

Damnit, the bastards aren’t even aiming for a specific side; they’re just lashing out at anything that moves, even the defenseless—

A sharp whistle rushes past his ear, followed by a sharp crack as an arrow embeds itself in the wall beside him. Yuri's eyes widen as he spins to face his attacker, just in time to see another assailant emerging from his left, sword raised.

Ducking under his wild swing, Yuri pivots on his heel and takes them down with a swift strike. As he moves to cover the space between him and his long ranged assailant, he finds him in the process of being knocked unconscious by the familiar swing of an axe.

”Yuri!”

The relief in Karol’s voice is heavy, and Yuri is shamelessly quick to match it. “Nice timing, boss!”

Once he confirms Yuri’s safety, he switches into panic mode. “Everything’s a mess! We heard there was an attack on the other side of the castle, so Raven and a group of Altosk’s men went to help, but then—”

"We were attacked here," Judy cuts in, taking out an oncoming assailant mid-leap before landing smoothly beside them.

Then it was a decoy? He whirls to look at her, watching her prepare against another incoming attack. "Where's Ioder and Harry?"

Judy sidesteps the attack, her elbow connecting with the man’s face with a sickening crunch. Without missing a beat, she gestures towards a heavy door at the far end of the room. Knights stand guard around it, fending off intruders. "It's a reinforced chamber. We're not sure how well it will hold—"

”Yuri! Judith!”

Estelle bursts into the hall, face flushed and eyes wide with alarm. A group of royal knights trail behind her. She looks momentarily taken aback by the destruction before she directs the knights toward the back of the room and then rushes toward Yuri, frantic. “Open the doors!”

"What?" Yuri asks, his voice barely audible over another large blast that shakes the room. Debris rains down from the ceiling and Yuri watches as Estelle ducks on instinct, her eyes darting between the reinforced door and the surrounding injured as she hurries over. She looks torn, like her healer instincts are at war with the immediate threat, but—

"The underground passages," she pants the moment she’s within earshot. "We think the intruders are using them. Sodia and I were investigating, but—"

Yuri's eyes widen, a cold dread settling in his stomach. "Don't tell me—"

"One of those passages leads directly inside the chamber," Estelle confirms hurriedly.

Yuri curses under his breath. "If they know about that..."

"We need to secure it immediately," Judy finishes his thought, already sprinting toward the door.

The split second of hesitation from Estelle tells him enough. He places a hand on her shoulder. “We'll handle it. Take care of people here."

She gives a sharp nod, relief and determination in her eyes. "Please be careful,” she says, already moving to heal an injured knight nearby.

Yuri quickly follows Judy’s lead, calling back behind them, "Karol, watch her back!"

Karol calls back, not a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“Leave it to me!”

They fight their way through a few more masked figures on the way over, and Yuri can’t help but appreciate how in sync years of fighting together has made them. He can feel the weight of Judy’s presence beside him, trusting her to move into his blind spots as they press forward.

They make it to the door in record time.

The knights Estelle had ordered over had already spread the word, so the ones guarding the door are already swinging it open. But of course, the moment there's a wide enough gap, they’re immediately greeted with an attack.

Two more masked assailants, larger than the others—though they might as well be practice dummies for all the challenge they present. Their movements are wild and frantic, like they're more focused on delaying than actually fighting. But Yuri’s not about to waste his time on these guys when he can hear the commotion behind them, the clash of metal and shouting happening deeper inside.

One look toward Judy and he knows their on the same page. Yuri breaks away from his opponent, leaving the knights to handle them as he rushes toward Judy's extended spear, using it as a springboard to vault over the other and move deeper into the room.

He lands with a roll and a curse, barely getting his feet under him before the chaos in front of him fully registers.

Bodies of fallen guards litter the floor; Ioder's personal guard, the Don's protectors, all of them unconscious or worse. Sodia and her command are emerging from the passage way on the other side of the room, engaged in their own battle and trying to gain ground. She spots him immediately like some sixth sense—probably from years of viewing him as a threat—and wastes no time barking a “Lowell!” at him as if he’s a soldier that needs directing.

But that’s the least of his worries.

In the center of the room, Harry stands in a defensive stance, his blade deflecting an attack from two assailants while an Altosk member fights at his side. Several feet behind him, the last remaining royal guard stumbles, blood seeping from a wound in his side as he desperately tries to protect Ioder. The young emperor drops down to hold the knight steady, his usual composure replaced by barely contained fear.

And that's when Yuri sees it.

Movement, at the edge of his peripheral. A lone figure apart from the fighting. While everyone else is occupied with their own battles, they creep forward, something way too ominous to be good raised in their clutched hand. They're moving with purpose, Yuri realizes with mounting dread. Moving towards—

“—Lowell, go!—”

—Yuri's legs move before his mind can fully process the danger, before he can even process Sodia’s command. He pushes past the ongoing fights, his focus solely on reaching Ioder before the assassin does.

The man holds the object up—some weird, red cube—as it begins to hum. It pulses in his hand, starts to emit this glowing, green light—

His world narrows in on this single moment. On his own voice as he yells Ioder's name—and on Ioder, who's eyes widen as they meet his. First in recognition, then in growing horror as he follows Yuri's trajectory to spot the assassin behind him. The artifact's glow paints him in a sickly green hue as it gathers aer, growing brighter and more intense until it seems to reach its peak, as the masked figure raises it in front of Ioder—

—And then, gathering one last burst of adrenaline, Yuri hurls himself between them, just as the artifact releases a blinding flash of energy.

His knees hit the ground.

The last thing Yuri hears before losing consciousness are the blurred sounds of battle, of knights barking out orders, of Harry yelling in distress. And then, the muffled sounds of Flynn, of all people, calling out his name from nearby. Close. He wants to move, to warn him, to do anything, but he can’t fight the darkness pulling him under.

The last thought that crosses his mind before it slips away is that he really, really hopes Flynn doesn't do anything stupid.

Chapter Text

Yuri slowly drifts into consciousness, his body heavy and uncomfortably warm.

It takes him a moment before he’s fully aware of the weight of blankets on top of him, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. How did he end up in bed? He vaguely remembers warm hands, a muffled voice, the sensation of something cool on his forehead...

Had that been... Flynn?

… No, he realizes with a sinking, lurching feeling. Not Flynn, that was—

He bolts upright, disoriented and struggling to make sense of his surroundings. A small amount of moonlight filters through the window in a room otherwise pitch black, but it’s enough for him to recognize the contours of his desk—

—But it wasn’t his desk, was it?

This wasn’t his bedroom. This wasn’t even his world, was it? This—this was—

Panic grips him as he recounts the events in his head. The assault at the castle, that weird, red… box that had blasted him with aer, and then…. nothing. Until he'd woken up here, in this bizarre place with memories that weren't his own stuffed into his head.

He’d almost bought into the whole charade, too, up until...

... His stomach twists. Flynn. Or rather, this world’s version of Flynn, who was younger and carefree and had apparently brought him to bed and played nursemaid while he was unconscious—

Calm down, Yuri, he tells himself firmly, swallowing down the fresh wave of anxiety that thought invokes. One problem at a time, right?

He takes a self assessment. His body feels heavy, almost feverish, bangs clinging to his forehead with sweat. Tentatively, he sweeps them aside and presses a palm to his forehead, wincing at the heat radiating from his skin.

Okay, definitely a fever. That explains the haze of consciousness. But how long has he been out?

With his vision now adjusted to the darkness, Yuri surveys the room. His gaze lands on the cluttered nightstand beside him, eyes fixating on a small, rectangular device. Without thinking, he reaches for it, his fingers wrapping around cool metal and glass. It’s… oddly comforting, and it's only as he presses a button on the side, eyes squinting as the screen illuminates the room, that he realizes what he's done.

A phone. He'd reached for a phone—something he definitely shouldn't know how to use. Yet here he was, instinctively checking the time as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

Because you have, Yuri’s brain unnervingly reminds him.

The numbers on the screen read 8:56 PM, accompanied by some grainy, dark image Yuri can’t make out—but that's the least of his concerns, now. He finds himself frozen, staring at the device in his hands, a mix of fascination and unease settling in his stomach.

The longer he stares at it, the more unsettling it becomes as he realizes it’s not just muscle memory. The knowledge is there, buried deep in his mind, but it feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else. He’s recognizing the actions but not fully connecting with them.

He lets out a small, shaky breath. It’s like some vivid, fucked up dream…

But it’s not a dream, is it? Slowly, he drags his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the cold, wooden floor. The chill feels real, grounding in a way that makes his stomach tie into knots and feels less reassuring than he’d hoped. If it isn’t a dream, then the alternative…

He clenches his fists. No, he’s not dead. He can’t be dead. The burning fever, the sting of his nails digging into his palms—that pain is sharp. Real. Dead people don’t feel pain, right? They don’t have racing thoughts or pounding hearts. The fear, the confusion, the sheer realness of everything around him—it has to mean something, right?

But what the hell does it mean?

Shakily, he stands upright, head on a swivel as he searches the room.

Recognition comes slowly. A desk cluttered with textbooks and notebooks, a closed laptop covered in stickers, posters of bands littering the walls—everything screams a normal teenage life, he knows this. Even as strange as it feels being surrounded by all this advanced technology that Yuri, somehow, understands.

But it all screams wrong.

If he thinks on it, he can recall putting the posters up, where and how he got them. But that wasn’t him—that was this—this kid. This version of him that was younger and in school and living this weird, mundane life.

His head spins at the thought. He’s heard Rita rant about the possibility of other worlds, but even she had dismissed it as just a theory and nothing more. But if that stupid, magic box was really able to transport him to some other world, then…

He freezes, stomach sinking. What did that mean for everyone back on Terca Lumereis? Had he disappeared from his real world? Had he… Had he died, there? The blast hadn’t felt lethal, more like he’d been knocked unconscious…

Could that mean that his body was still there? He’s been teleported through warp formulas before, but even as he was losing consciousness, it didn’t feel like his body was being transported somewhere. It just felt like he’d been hit with a huge amount of aer, sort of like when they’d been investigating those aer krene years back…

… A sudden thought has his breath stopping altogether.

In his final moments, had he even managed to protect Ioder? He must have, right?

But what if he didn’t?

The blast of aer was large, enough to knock out anyone surrounding him. Would his body be able to block a blast of aer like that? Shit. What if throwing himself between Ioder and that assassin had been completely pointless?

He swallows thickly. Did that mean Ioder could be here, too? Living some weird, mundane life, not remembering the fact that he had just been ruling an entire Empire?

… Assuming he wasn’t just killed after being knocked unconscious, that is.

Regardless of who was behind the attack, the motivations were pretty damn clear. Whether the guilds or not, someone was unhappy with Ioder’s reign and sought to end it. Yuri has no doubt that they planned on finishing the job regardless of what state the emperor’s mind was in.

The chances of Ioder surviving were slim.

“Fuck,” he mutters, throwing a shaky hand through his hair. The castle was probably in chaos. Were his friends safe? And Flynn... oh, gods. Flynn. He had been there, just several feet away, hadn’t he? How would he react to losing both of them? He was already struggling enough as it was, and now…

… No, Flynn would be fine. He had to be. Yuri trusted him to stay alive, to keep going—he knew his friends would do the same, even without him.

But…

He draws in a shuddering breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. How bad had things become? How were they managing, without him? There’s no telling what else their attackers had planned. For all he knows, they could have been targeting the Commandant next.

A surge of panic wells up at the thought.

Damnit. He has to find a way back.

But how? Was that even possible? Did that weird box even exist in this world?

… Would he even be able to find it, if it was?

The more Yuri tries to think of the logistics, the more the air seems to become thinner, hotter. Suffocating. He curses and stumbles toward the window, yanking it open to let in the night air, cooling his sweat and sending a shiver through him.

The street below is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, utterly mundane and eerily serene. It’s the kind of scene that Yuri knows should be comforting, but instead, it only makes his breath quicken.

For all he knows, he’s completely alone.

He grips the window sill tightly. No, no—he couldn’t be sure. He could try to find Ioder, couldn’t he? If Ioder is alive and he can get him to remember, then they would at least be together in this mess. He’d worry about the ‘getting home’ part when they got to it.

If they got to it.

If Ioder was even alive. If he could even find the guy—

He sucks in a sharp intake, realizing his breathing had become shallow and irregular, his knuckles white on the windowsill. Get it together, he chides himself. He’s been through plenty of seemingly impossible situations—this wouldn’t be any different. He can bounce back. He’ll figure it out, he just needs to breathe—

A muffled noise startles him out of his thoughts and he twists around, hand itching to grip unconsciously for a sword that isn’t there. Judy had once diagnosed it as a nervous habit of his. He had rolled his eyes and denied it then, but now…

More sounds yank him back to the present moment—a clang of porcelain, a faucet turning on—and he stares at the closed bedroom door warily.

The rational—well, the part of his brain that understands this world—tells him that it’s probably just Flynn. It’s the part that insists there’s no way Flynn would have watched Yuri collapse and not stayed to make sure he was alright.

… The fact should feel reassuring, but his heart rate doubles instead. The thought of facing Flynn again, of trying to act normal with someone who wears the same face as his childhood friend makes his stomach churn.

But…

He approaches the door slowly. This was Flynn, after all. His best friend, even in this world. All the memories lodged in his brain and just their interactions from earlier were proof of that; this world’s Yuri had grown up with him like siblings, had trusted Flynn above everyone else…

… Maybe that's why Yuri finds himself drawn to the door, hand hovering just above the doorknob. What were the odds that Flynn would still be such a vital part of this life, as well? As crazy as it was, he had to be able to find a little comfort in that. There had to be a reason for that. Right?

And then there was also that thought. The one his brain couldn’t silence, the one that’s slowly crept in and taken root in his desperate mind, unbidden. The unfounded hope that maybe, just maybe, Flynn would remember.

Flynn hadn’t recognized him earlier, that was clear, but what if his memories were just taking longer to surface? He’d been nearby when that box went off, after all. Harry, too—they could have easily been affected, right? Yuri hopes not—of course he hopes not, but if they were, it would mean that they could be experiencing the same thing, that the Flynn he knows is in there somewhere and that Yuri isn't completely alone in this nightmare.

It's a desperate, terrible thought. One Yuri knows he shouldn't cling to. And yet...

His hand closes around the doorknob before he's made the conscious decision to move, the metal cool against his palm. He stares just above it, where a few old stickers dot the surface of the door’s wood, partially peeled and haphazard in their placement. From when this Yuri was much younger, he knows that much, but can’t recall the details.

He stares at the most deteriorated one, a worn smiley face sticker with faded yellow edges and a crack running through its center. The words 'Keep Smiling' beneath it are barely legible now, the black text having peeled away in places leaving only ghostly traces of letters. He can’t place where it’s from, but it's just more proof; more proof of a life he never lived.

He’s turning the doorknob before he’s even realized it.

He figured the running water and dishes moving would be loud enough to conceal his presence, so he’s not prepared for Flynn to meet his gaze the moment he steps into the living room.

“You’re awake,” Flynn says with a sharp breath, relief in his voice, in his eyes—and Yuri can’t help but stand frozen as he hurriedly turns off the faucet, wipes his hands with a towel and makes his way toward him, and shit, okay, he’s not actually ready for this—

“You should’ve stayed in bed,” Flynn scolds gently, and Yuri fights the instinct to back up as he moves into the living room, closing the distance between them.

“Uh, I…” He tries to settle his racing heart, his mind grasping for the right words, the right tone—anything to sound normal. It feels monumental when his voice doesn’t shake, but it still comes out hoarse and unconvincing. “… I’m, uh. Feeling better.”

“Bullshit,” Flynn counters, and Yuri struggles to prove otherwise. Sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead and he feels hot, clammy. He opens his mouth to protest in earnest, but his throat constricts the moment Flynn reaches out to steady him. “You passed out, Yuri. You have to rest.”

Yuri's entire body seizes at the touch, mind going blank as Flynn begins gently guiding him to the couch. He's acutely aware of Flynn's hand on his arm, and he can't process it, can't react. He just lets himself be led, wide-eyed and silent, his heart pounding so erratically that for a moment he’s half convinced it might burst.

It’s only when he feels the cushions under him that his brain kicks back into gear. He pulls away from Flynn's grip, finding his voice. "I'm fine," he insists, then winces at how defensive it sounds, how loud it feels in the quiet of the room. He tries to soften his tone, but it still comes out strained and pitiful. "I... I slept all day."

Flynn blinks, looking taken aback. Then, he frowns, searching Yuri's face.

It takes all of Yuri's restraint not to squirm under his gaze. It feels ridiculous, really—he’s faced down monsters and murderers without flinching, but something about this version of Flynn looming over him like this makes him feel uncharacteristically small.

Still, he doesn’t look away; he doesn’t want to look anymore suspicious than he already feels.

Instead, almost involuntarily, Yuri finds his own eyes roaming Flynn's face. This close, he can see the subtle differences between this Flynn and the one he knows. His jawline is softer, any worry lines that normally creased his forehead conspicuously absent. His eyes are even that same striking blue, though now they’re framed behind blue-rimmed glasses that distantly remind him of Flynn’s mage subordinate, Witcher. And his hair, while still a golden blonde, is a touch shorter and a bit too neat—as if this Flynn never had to rush from urgent meetings or fight through windswept battles.

Yuri gets so caught up in cataloging the differences that he almost forgets he’s under inspection himself.

Whatever this Flynn notices must be concerning enough, because his frown only deepens. He opens his mouth like he wants to protest or scold him, but in the end, he only concedes with a sigh.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Soup is pretty much ready, anyway.”

And then he’s walking away, heading back into the kitchen. Yuri stares at him the entire time, watching as Flynn pulls a glass out of the cabinet and fills it up, maneuvering through the kitchen with a familiarity that makes his head spin. If he concentrates, he knows why. They’d spent a good chunk of time in this room—all of their late night study sessions at the kitchen table, Flynn’s insisting on cooking healthier meals for them both, playful arguments over who should have to do the dishes…

It was all so jarringly… domestic. It twists something in Yuri's stomach, making him feel nauseous and unsteady. He watches as Flynn picks up a ladle, stirring the contents of a pot before turning the heat to low, and Yuri realizes belatedly that he'd been making the soup Yuri had promised to make this morning. Even more than that, he realizes with a start that it actually smells... good. Really good.

… Yep, he’s definitely losing it. A reality where Flynn can cook? The universe must be playing some sort of cosmic joke on him. His Flynn was notoriously bad at it; not for lack of skill, but because he always went all experimental with it, tossing in whatever ingredients he thought looked interesting with the determined conviction that they could somehow work together.

But here…

He watches as Flynn prepares a bowl, even adding some garnish on top, and Yuri would burst out laughing if he didn’t feel like he was teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

It doesn’t help that the more he watches this Flynn, the more Yuri feels his hope dwindling. The possibility that his Flynn might be in there somewhere seems more and more like a desperate fantasy. A part of Yuri wants to rip the bandaid off and ask, to not care about the consequences of looking like he’s lost his mind, especially if it could lead to answers. The urge is there, prickling under his skin, making his fingertips twitch with the need to grab Flynn by the shoulders and shake him until things start to make sense.

But then, what the hell would he even say, anyway? Hey, weird question, but any chance you remember being the commandant of an empire? What about the whole fighting monsters and saving the world thing? Any of that ring a bell? No?

… No, he can't do it. Can’t shatter whatever this is. Because what if Flynn looks at him like he's crazy? What if those blue eyes cloud over with even more concern—or worse, fear? And then what? He’d just be making more problems for—

“Yuri?”

Yuri startles, realizing he'd been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed Flynn approaching again. His heart jumps to his throat as he looks up, finding Flynn much closer than he expected, familiar concern etched across familiar features.

"W-What?"

“… I said, do you remember what happened?”

“Uh… yeah.”

Flynn frowns, as if that was the wrong answer. As if he can tell Yuri will say anything to get him to stop looking at him like he’s some sick puppy. “Drink,” he urges softly, pointing to the glass of water now sitting on the table.

Yuri blinks, wondering when he’d put it there. Shakily, he reaches for it, hoping this small act of compliance will be enough to shake off Flynn’s concern. As the water hits his throat, it suddenly dawns on him just how desperately he needed it and he ends up nearly draining the entire thing.

When he lowers it, he finds blue eyes watching him carefully.

“You were burning up earlier,” Flynn tells him after an uncomfortable beat. “And you were in an out of consciousness for hours.”

Yuri makes a noise of acknowledgement, gaze falling to fix nervously on the glass in his hands. He’s struggling to come up with things to say; it’s taking effort to keep both sets of memories separate, to answer in ways he thinks this Yuri would actually respond.

By the time he looks up again, Flynn has averted his gaze.

“So, don’t get mad,” Flynn says carefully, nearly grimacing as he says it. “… But I called Hanks.”

Yuri’s heart stutters.

Hanks. Holy shit, he’d been so overwhelmed by everything that he’d forgotten about Hanks.

There was no mistaking it, either—the same name, same weathered face, even that same gravely, infectious laugh. It was undeniable—it was Hanks.

His chest tightens. What were the chances that the two most important people in his life were still nearby and playing major roles in his life…? There’s no way that’s a coincidence, right?

The thought brings a twisted sort of comfort, along with the sudden, intrusive thought: Did that mean there were constants between both worlds? His thoughts reel as he tries to consider all the familiar faces he's encountered in this world. There are more, he’s sure of it, but…

His mind races, trying to remember. It feels like his real memories had come to the forefront of his mind and shoved everything this Yuri had experienced in the back—but it’s all still there. Dull and faint but overwhelmingly real.

Some memories seem to stand out more vividly, though. Certain moments—faces, conversations, emotions—that feel more accessible than the rest. They must be important to this world’s Yuri, because they're the ones that come to him with startling clarity.

Like the memories of his mother, for starters.

A beautiful, caring woman who died in a car accident early with Yuri in the backseat. It’s almost funny—in a terribly heart wrenching sort of way—that even in this world, trauma found him early. The universe seems to have a sick sense of humor when it comes to consistency.

So, no family here, either. Different world, same tune—Yuri Lowell, the orphan.

But he still had Flynn.

The way they had met was almost comical. Apparently the Yuri of this world wasn’t keen on the law either and ended up breaking into one of the unused apartments Hanks owned after running away from his foster home. He lived in the apartment for a week without getting caught until Flynn had stumbled upon him sneaking around. Flynn, the ever goody two shoes had been playing alone in the park when he noticed, and then called him out for clearly breaking the law and then promptly ran to tattle-tale to Hanks about it.

Seeing as Yuri and his mother used to live in one of the apartments, Hanks had recognized him immediately, and in sympathy let Yuri stay with him temporarily. After contacting the authorities and learning that the foster home he ran away from had been under investigation for neglect and abuse, Hanks had advocated for Yuri to stay with him until they could relocate him. They never did, of course, and a bunch of legal processes and court hearings later, that temporary situation had turned permanent.

Hanks was a pretty hands off guardian, though. When Yuri turned fourteen he’d given him his own apartment within the complex in exchange for helping out with repairs. Yuri always joked that the old man got tired of him complaining about their small one bedroom, that he wanted some much deserved peace and quiet. But really, Yuri knew it was Hanks' way of letting him have his independence while still keeping an eye on him. When the old man presented him with the keys, he'd gruffly told Yuri to "try not to burn the place down," but Yuri hadn't missed the proud glint in his eyes.

He chose the apartment he first broke into; the one across from Flynn’s.

Flynn’s early years were a little different. He had parents, of course. A father who was killed in the line of duty when Flynn was young, and a mother, currently working as a flight attendant. He had never known Flynn’s father in their world. But his mother…

Norein. She’s rarely home, but Yuri saw her occasionally. It was her. He recognized the kind smile and the look of utmost affection she gave Flynn. She gave it to Yuri, as well.

Not only that, but, like everyone else, she has the same name, a similar appearance. The only difference is that she’s healthy. She’s alive.

He intakes a sharp breath. The thought of potentially seeing her again, alive and smiling…

… Distantly, he can't help but wonder if his own mother looked anything like the version from this world.

Yuri's heart gives a sharp pang and he shuts that thought down immediately. That particular door is triple locked and reenforced with steel—not the kind you crack open when you’re already on the edge of a breakdown.

Instead, he forces his attention back on Flynn. Belatedly he realizes he’s been talking this whole time, and his eyes snap to Flynn's face, trying to focus on his words and settle the pounding in his chest.

It feels impossible. His thoughts won’t stop racing, and now, staring at this Flynn, he can’t help but notice that despite the subtle differences he’d spotted earlier, there’s also so much that’s not—the way this Flynn's brow furrows in that achingly familiar way, how his voice gets that gravelly, concerned tone…

“… the right choice by not driving you to the hospital,” Flynn is saying. He’s looking at Yuri now, expectant, as if waiting for a sign of approval or acknowledgement.

Yuri swallows until he thinks his voice won’t stumble. “Right,” he manages, and when Flynn doesn’t seem satisfied, he adds, “no hospitals,” for good measure. He doesn’t have to dig hard through this Yuri’s memories to know it’s not a financially viable option.

Flynn frowns at him, looking apprehensive. “I thought you’d be angrier,” he admits, studying Yuri's face.

“Oh—well, you know,” Yuri says, trying for indifference that falls miserably flat. “What’s done is done.”

Flynn’s silence only emphasizes it. He stares for an unending moment, eyes narrowing, and it’s so painfully Flynn, Yuri can’t look away.

“… You weren’t listening at all, were you?”

Yuri forces a small laugh, but it comes out more like a strained exhale. “… Sorry.”

Flynn frowns deeply at that, and gods, it's the same. The same look of concern he's seen countless times before—lips pressed into a thin line, blue eyes intense with worry. For a moment, Yuri can almost forget where he is, can almost pretend he's home, and Flynn is just chiding him about being reckless in that exasperated, secretly fond way that he did.

Whatever twinge of comfort that thought brings is overshadowed by a sudden, crushing sense of loss. It settles in Yuri’s gut like a heavy stone, making it hard to breathe.

“Hey,” Flynn says. “Are you sure you’re okay…?”

No, Yuri thinks in a panic. He takes a deep breath, trying to ease the constricting feeling in his chest. A lump is starting to form in his throat but he swallows it down, forcing himself to nod.

Flynn doesn’t look convinced. “Yuri…” he says, a soft warning.

And then he raises a hand to Yuri’s forehead, and Yuri holds in a shuddering breath.

His hand isn’t calloused. Not like it should be. It hasn’t been through years of training with a sword, years of hardship and struggle. This Flynn has never had to fight for his life, has never been burdened with making life or death decisions.

His hands are soft because they've never had to be anything else.

In the depths of his mind, Yuri knows this. The memories of a childhood with Flynn in this world—of growing up together, of going to classes and playing outside—its dull and faint but it's there, it's real, and it simultaneously hurts and confuses him when he thinks of his Flynn, who spent every day of his childhood just trying to survive with Yuri on the streets of the lower quarter.

"You're still pretty warm," Flynn murmurs.

It's nothing like his Flynn, and yet just as gentle. It pulls at something deep in Yuri's chest, drags forth a memory of another time he'd been sick; huddled under thin blankets in their shared room at the inn. His Flynn had been just as worried then, checking his temperature with gentle hands, staying up all night to make sure he was breathing okay…

Yuri remembers being an ass about it, claiming it was Flynn’s hand that made his forehead feel comparatively hot, trying to get Flynn to leave by being increasingly difficult. And when insisting he was fine didn’t work, he'd even tried picking a fight, telling him he was being annoying and overprotective. But Flynn had seen right through him, like he always did.

“Nice try, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in Yuri's chest twists painfully. He feels the lump reforming in his throat, the sudden urge to blurt out that memory, to blurt out everything—every shared experience, every battle fought, every quiet moment and heated argument and stupid joke made between them—almost unbearable.

He doesn’t, though. He can’t. But…

… His hand moves without permission, drifting up to settle firmly over Flynn's.

"Y-Yuri…?"

Flynn’s voice wavers, uncertain. A blush begins to creep onto his face, and hell, Yuri’s heart aches.

He tries to ignore the feeling as he stares into familiar blue, searching desperately for any flicker of recognition, any hint that his Flynn might be buried deep down. But there's nothing—just earnest confusion and that spreading blush from the stranger wearing his best friend's face.

Would his Flynn have reacted this way? When he was this young, maybe. He remembers their time in the knights, when Flynn wore his heart on his sleeve, was a lot more prone to blushing and flustered grumbling. He’d grown harder, more guarded over the years, especially after becoming Commandant. But this version of Flynn never had to learn that kind of control. Never had to forge himself into steel through tragedy and hardship. This Flynn's hands were soft, his whole being gentler, shaped by a kinder, easier life—

Yuri's hands begin to tremble. He pulls away, clenching his fists, fighting for control as the truth becomes impossible to deny. No matter how familiar this Flynn looks, how similar he acts, he's fundamentally not the person Yuri has known his entire life. The Flynn who’d spent countless nights at his side, whispering about changing the world between mouthfuls of stale bread. The one who’d spar with him until they both collapsed, grinning and exhausted, who would fall onto the same mattress afterward and snore peacefully beside him. The Flynn who knew exactly how he liked his coffee, who understood him without words, who made Yuri want to become better, kinder, stronger—

That Flynn—his Flynn—is gone.

The thought hits like a knife through the gut. He tries to shove it away, but it clings and twists, digs in deeper with every breath. Flynn had been on the verge of collapsing. He’d been asking Yuri for months, no, years to stop by more—for longer, for holidays, for anything. And now, he’s… No, everyone is—

“You’re really starting to freak me out,” comes Flynn’s voice, laced with growing panic, and Yuri’s struck with the realization that he’s forgotten to respond.

“S-Sorry, sorry,” he says. He tries to punctuate it with a laugh, but it’s stilted and strained. His voice is shaking. Everyone he’s ever known, ever loved—they’re all gone. Estelle. Repede. Karol, Judy, Rita, Raven. All of his friends, and everyone from the lower quarter—Hanks, Ted, everyone—just… gone. Everything he ever had. Everyone that ever mattered.

And worst of all, he has no idea how to get it back.

His throat goes impossibly tight, the room closing in around him. He’s not like Rita; he doesn’t have a brilliant mind to problem-solve and invent his way out of this mess. He doesn’t have Estelle’s natural affinity for aer or magic or anything that can at least point him in the right direction. He’s always handled most of his problems with his sword, used his street smarts to get out of other messes—and that was enough. He’s faced down monsters, corrupt nobles, and world-ending threats that way.

But those things won’t help him here.

"H-Hey, it's okay," Flynn says, thoroughly concerned as Yuri's breath turns shallow. "Talk to me—what's wrong?"

“Sorry, I-I just—” Yuri stammers, mind scrambling for an excuse. His voice cracks like he’s fourteen again, and the fact that the number isn’t far off makes him spiral further. He tries to compose himself but he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs, can’t suppress the tremor in his voice. “Just, uh. Hold—hold on.”

As requested, Flynn goes quiet, waiting on bated breath for Yuri to gather himself—but he can’t. His heart won’t stop pounding, there’s a sharp pressure in his lungs, and as much as he knows he can’t break down now, not here, not yet—he can’t get his breathing under control. All he can think about is how he's trapped here, in this world that doesn't make sense, with this version of Flynn that's looking at him with way too much understanding, as if he’s seen Yuri fall apart countless times before—

"Was it a nightmare..?"

The question floats between them, soft and careful, and belatedly, Yuri realizes why.

This Yuri was prone to the occasional nightmares, apparently—not that he can recall what they were about. Childhood trauma, probably; all he remembers are the hazy memories of late night phone calls, pretending he just couldn’t sleep when really he just didn’t want to be alone.

It seemed this version of Yuri was softer, too—dropping his guard in ways Yuri never would, letting Flynn see him at his lowest. And this Flynn welcomed it with open arms, would even guide Yuri through it—giving him the space to cry and yell and feel whatever he needed to until his breathing evened out and the trembling stopped.

This Yuri had learned to be vulnerable.

It’s so much different from the guarded, defensive person he really is; someone who deflects concern with sarcasm, who would rather pick a fight than show weakness.

Still, as unsettling as it is, it comes in handy now. As his breathing slows, Yuri manages a jerky nod, watching as sympathy softens Flynn's features.

His Flynn, the real Flynn, would have been thrown completely off-balance seeing him like this. Because as close as they were, Yuri never allowed himself to break down in front of anyone. Hell, the amount of times Flynn must have wished he'd just open up, wished he'd tell him what was wrong instead of deflecting with some smartass comment or changing the subject entirely. The amount of chances Yuri had missed to get closer, to be vulnerable with the person who mattered most…

Now he’d never have that chance.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Flynn asks, and the gentleness in his voice nearly breaks Yuri all over again.

“I… can’t."

“That’s okay,” Flynn says easily, softly. “It’s okay. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Yuri feels a rush of emotions—panic, grief, desperation—clawing at his throat, and all he can manage is a broken, “I—”

It’s really starting to set in. The small, nagging voice in his mind that he’s always been so good at ignoring, always been so easy to dismiss, to shrug his shoulders and grit his teeth and tell I’ve been through worse, I can bounce back. I’ll figure it out. It’s nothing I can’t handle.

For the first time in his life, Yuri doesn’t know how to fix this one.

“Hey,” Flynn says, sitting in front of him now. When had he dragged the other chair over? When had he gotten so close? “Yuri, look at me.” Yuri does, and the hot sting of unshed tears begin to burn behind his eyes. He screws his eyes shut, ducking his head. “Deep breaths, okay? Just like me.”

I’m fine, he wants to say, but the words won’t come. He hadn’t realized his breathing picked up again. He tries to do as he’s told, tries to match the pace of Flynn's breathing despite his own coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

It’s hard. He doesn’t know how much time passes, how long he sits there, trembling and struggling to breathe. All he knows is that gradually, painfully, his breathing starts to even out and the room stops spinning quite so violently. It takes a while before he even becomes aware of Flynn's hand on his back, before he even begins to register Flynn’s gentle words of encouragement.

"That's it. Just like that. In... and out..."

Eventually, even that stops, leaving silence that’s punctuated only by their breathing—Yuri's still slightly unsteady, and Flynn's, calm and measured.

When the panic finally drains out of him, exhaustion takes its place. He finds himself slumping forward, spent, forehead nearly brushing against Flynn’s shoulder.

He doesn’t care, now. He's too drained to care about proximity, and if he closes his eyes, if he focuses on the warmth in front of him, then for a moment, just for a moment, he can pretend…

“I can spend the night, tonight. If you want,” Flynn offers, voice barely above a whisper. “My mom’s still out of town."

When Yuri doesn’t respond right away, Flynn shifts slightly, careful not to dislodge him. He can feel his gaze on him, but Yuri can’t bring himself to meet it—only managing the barest nod in return.

He doesn't need to look up; he can feel Flynn relax at his answer.

"Okay," Flynn breathes out, overwhelmingly gentle. "Okay," he repeats, settling back into place.

The soup goes cold on the counter.

Chapter Text

Flynn strides down the corridor with careful steps, timing his breaths to match his pace in hopes that it might keep his breathing measured. Steady.

The tell-tale signs are there; he knows them intimately. The tightness in his throat, the pressure building behind his ribs, the growing tremor in his fingers. He clenches and unclenches his fists as he walks, willing himself to stay in control.

He can’t afford to break down. Not yet. Not when there’s still so much to be done. He still has prisoners to question. Reports to review. Supplies to manage. All the problems demanding his attention, his solution, his decision—

—And yet, it all feels so impossibly distant to the vice grip around his lungs, to Ioder and Yuri sprawled lifeless on the ground, faces slack and still as death—

He slows his pace and breathes. In, two, three. Out, two, three.…

Judith’s words keep him together. A discovery in the imperial archives, she’d said. Some ancient, worn down text that might finally shed light on what happened. There was a tiny spark in her eyes as she told him; a flicker of hope he hadn’t seen since everything went wrong. Their first concrete lead after hours of despair.

Flynn clings onto that same hope like a lifeline. Until now, they'd been stumbling in the dark. The assassin who wielded the artifact had been killed during its activation. Witcher had theorized that it was probably by design—they were much older, with less energy to tap into—but they couldn't be certain. All they knew was that he’d used his own life force as a catalyst, leaving them with nothing but half-formed theories as to what the cursed thing even did.

But now, they had a chance for answers. For solutions. If they could trace the artifact's origins, understand its purpose, then maybe they could undo its effects and pull Yuri and Ioder out of the terrifying, comatose-like state they were in.

The mere possibility sends a surge of desperate energy through Flynn’s tired body. It’s foolish, probably, for him to pin his hopes on some old book that might turn out to be nothing—or worse, indecipherable—but his heart latches on, anyway. Judith wasn’t able to tell him much else, only that they had planned to share their findings once Rita had some time to dissect it.

He planned to meet them beneath these halls.

The south wing of the castle is eerily quiet; a stark contrast from earlier this morning. The area had become a restricted zone since lockdown began—ten, maybe eleven hours ago. Flynn couldn’t be sure. He’d lost all sense of time since.

He'd focused on constant movement instead, as if staying occupied might keep his thoughts from spiraling to darker places, to Yuri lying motionless in his arms, utterly unresponsive to even Estellise’s healing artes—

He wrenches the thought away.

The chaos provided ample distractions, at least. They'd succeeded in apprehending some of the assailants, had managed to secure the perimeter and regained some semblance of control, but the situation was far from stable. So far the interrogations proved useless, and not knowing who their attackers were affiliated with meant that they had to treat every corner of the castle as potentially compromised. That meant that every person unfortunate enough to be within the castle walls before the lockdown was subject to heightened identification protocols and restricted to specific, heavily guarded areas.

Flynn's grateful, eternally so, that his past paranoia led him to enhance security measures when he did. The damage could have been far more catastrophic.

Even so, reports flooded in of suspected infiltrators, of missing persons, of damages to castle infrastructure. There were supply shortages in the infirmary. Disputes between knights and guildsmen. Nobles demanding release. Accusations of theft, of preferential treatment, of conspiracy...

So many demanded answers, demanded accountability. Others simply huddled in corners, grieving their losses.

The council proved especially demanding, insisting on emergency meetings to deliberate response measures even while the situation remained volatile. They wanted to debate the extent of the threat, the implications, the necessary response. They spoke of succession protocols. They spoke of Lady Estellise.

If there's any silver lining, though, it's the unprecedented cooperation of Harry and the guild representatives. Brave Vesperia's influence, maybe, or perhaps just the universal human instinct to unite against an unknown threat. It makes the question of who’s behind it all even more maddening—though Flynn wouldn’t dare rule anyone out for simply cooperating.

Still, the heightened security and restricted movement had naturally bred tension. Flynn had to personally negotiate with each representative, explaining the necessity of the protocols while ensuring their continued support. Yes, perhaps he could have delegated it, as often suggested by others, but forcing himself to relinquish control here, when he felt powerless in every other way…

… Estellise’s presence had helped immensely. She’d taken on much of the diplomatic burden early on, naturally stepping into a leadership role and taking on a calming influence during the panic. Coordinating with the medical team, managing the nobles' concerns, maintaining order where she could…

The council was already whispering about making her regent, but the word carries too many implications Flynn isn’t ready to face. He can’t bring himself to consider what it means, what it implies about His Majesty's condition. About Yuri’s condition.

He hasn't allowed himself to process any of it. Not yet. If he dwells on the fact that Yuri is—Yuri could be—

—He can’t. There’s still hope. There’s still Rita.

He clings to that as he walks.

His destination is a hidden chamber accessed through a passage in Ioder’s study. It had been the only one not compromised during the attack, evident by a layer of dust and debris. It’s a secret known solely to the royal family and a select few; an old escape route that had been sealed off centuries ago. Now, Flynn, Sodia, and most of Brave Vesperia know of it’s existence. All except Yuri, of course, who would only know of its existence once he wakes up to find himself lying in it.

Gods, how Ioder’s ancestors must be rolling in their graves, Flynn thinks, to see their sacred sanctuary used in such a manner. To have their royal blood not only lying unconscious there, but some common-born troublemaker lying beside him…

It would be just the kind of thing Yuri would find hilarious. Still 'sticking it to the man' even while unconscious.

The entrance is concealed behind an innocuous wall panel, leading to a winding staircase that descends deep into the castle's foundations. Flynn pauses at the threshold, stopping for the first time since everything happened. He hasn't been back here since this morning, when he had to carry Yuri’s unconscious body down these steps. He hasn’t been able to slip away since—nor has he wanted to.

But this is it. The thoughts he’s been avoiding… there’s no escaping them past this point. No more hiding behind duties and protocols. Here, he'll have to face everything he's been trying so hard to ignore.

Flynn draws a careful breath. Then another. No matter what happens, he has to stay strong. He has to brace himself, keep himself from breaking down if the news is worse than he fears. He refuses to crumble, not when everyone has been doing their best to stay strong. When they need him.

He steels himself, gathering what's left of his courage, and descends into the dark.

Even with Estellise’s earlier demonstration, the entrance is difficult to find.

Granted, they’d had several light sources to work with at the time, whereas now Flynn had only a single torch to light his way. The flickering of the fire casts uncertain shadows on the walls, and Flynn’s unarmored hand brushes against them, catching on rough stone as he searches for the groove that marks the entrance.

It takes longer than it should. His tired brain is making his movements clumsy, less precise, and Flynn starts to feel the frustration welling up inside him until—there. The slight indent beneath his palm. He pushes, and the hidden door’s mechanism is activated with a soft click.

The wall gives way with a louder grinding sound that echoes through the passage. Flynn sucks in a sharp breath as he tugs his gauntlet back on, bracing himself as the room is slowly revealed.

The chill hits him first.

It’s a deep, penetrating cold that seeps into his armor, the kind that makes him think of crypts or tombs. The room was meant to be a sanctuary for the royal family, with old furnishings and provisions that Flynn is sure at one time provided relative comfort, but now... Now, all he can think is how cold and oppressive it all feels, how terrible it would be to be trapped down here. The torches they’d brought down earlier do little to dispel the darkness, and the air still feels stale and damp, heavy with centuries of disuse. No place for the living, Flynn finds himself thinking. No place for…

… The room has transformed since he was last here. Where earlier the shelves built into the alcoves along the walls had been empty, now books litter every surface, with scrolls and papers stacked precariously in any available space. Rita’s doing, no doubt. She seems to have claimed the main room entirely for herself.

And the other…

Flynn forces himself to look in the direction of the smaller room, the one that branches off of Rita’s makeshift research station. It's where they've placed the beds, where Ioder and Yuri lie, and where the whole of Brave Vesperia seems to be talking now, their voices set in quiet murmurs. Through the doorway he can see the flickering of warm light, the shadows of his friends huddled together. His heart clenches at the sight. He only catches fragments of their conversation, but the overall tone is hushed, low and urgent.

His feet feel heavy as he forces himself forward—

"Ya shouldn't let your guard down, even here, Commandant."

Flynn startles badly, whirling around to face the potential threat. Raven emerges from the shadows to his left, bow half-drawn.

“C-Captain—Raven—!” Flynn tries to amend, then winces—for slipping up and nearly calling him Captain Schwann for the first time in years, and for foolishly letting his guard drop despite everything that had happened. How had he not even noticed the man’s presence? “I… I didn’t see you there,” he admits, forcing his hand away from his weapon.

Raven's serious expression softens into something more familiar, closer to a smile, if it reached his eyes. “Guess this old man’s still got it, then,” he says, lowering his bow. “Judith and the kid came down not too long ago. Had to make sure no one was bein’ tailed, ya know?”

“Of course,” Flynn nods, feeling his breathing even out. “That caution is… well-warranted.”

They fall silent. Raven gives him a long look, then nods toward the ceiling.

“How’s everything, up above?"

His tone is deceptively casual, but Flynn knows better. He considers his words carefully.

“It’s… stable. Sodia is doing damage control, handling the immediate concerns, but no one is quite enthused with the decision to hide his Majesty and refuse medical attention. As much faith as the council has in Lady Estellise, they are…” He pauses. “Skeptical, to say the least.”

"They're gettin' antsy up there, huh?" Raven says, leaning against the wall. "Can't say I blame 'em. Having both their Emperor and their Princess out of sight during a crisis ain't exactly reassuring."

"I know," Flynn says. "The council keeps insisting that Lady Estellise’s absence is causing unrest. That hiding away in some unknown location sends the wrong message.” He clenches his fist, metal plates digging uncomfortably into his hand. "They don't understand why she needs to be here."

Raven sighs, shaking his head. “Always worryin’ about appearances, even at a time like this.”

Admittedly, Flynn can understand why. He knows that they can’t keep everyone in lockdown forever. They’re going to need to free the representatives and make a public appearance sooner than later. But bringing Estellise in front of anyone with so many unknowns, when she’s most certainly going to become a target… It’s far too risky. And yet, the longer they wait, the worse things could become. Prolonged silence breeds distrust, suspicion, fear. People will need reassurance, need to see their leaders standing strong amidst an attack. If word were to get out before then, panic would spread beyond just the castle walls, creating a mess their enemies would certainly exploit…

“And you?” Raven asks, pulling Flynn out of his spiraling thoughts. He’s studying him with that look again, the one the older man always gets when he’s treading carefully. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

The question takes Flynn aback. It doesn’t matter, he wants to say, because they have more pressing things to worry about. I’ll be fine, he wants to say, but he’s not quite sure that’s true. His gaze drifts unconsciously toward the doorway, but he catches himself, pulling it back to Raven.

“I’m… managing,” he says instead.

Something flickers across Raven's face—understanding, Flynn thinks, or sympathy. He looks toward the doorway. "They've been at it non-stop. Rita's been pourin' over those old texts like they're gonna disappear any second."

"Has she found anything?" he asks, trying to keep the desperate edge out of his voice.

"Nothin’ concrete yet. She's got theories, but... well, you know Rita. Won't say anything until she's certain."

Flynn nods, trying to ignore the way his heart sinks in disappointment. He knows better than to expect good news so soon, but he had hoped…

… No, these things can’t be rushed. The wait is excruciating, but he knows Rita's thoroughness could mean the difference between success and—

“Kid,” Raven says. Flynn doesn’t realize the man has even moved until a hand settles onto his shoulder. He struggles not to tense, looking up to catch the older man’s concerned gaze as he firmly points out, “Ya look terrible.”

Flynn winces. His mask must be slipping more than he realizes. Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t be too surprised. Raven has always been particularly perceptive, especially when it comes to Flynn’s state of mind. He'd been there during the aftermath of Zaude, after all—he’d seen Flynn at this lowest, had watched him slowly unravel as the days stretched on with no sign of Yuri. Flynn had fallen apart so quickly, then, throwing himself into his work with reckless abandon, running on the same desperate energy that drives him now…

Raven had been a good support for him at the time, offering guidance without judgement, reminding him to eat, to sleep, to breathe. Flynn attributed it to the fact that Raven had seen his fair share of knights push themselves too far, had lost too many friends to exhaustion and carelessness. More than that, though, he knew Raven understood loss in a way few others did. He knows all too well the helplessness and grief that comes from losing someone important to you.

Raven understands, more than most, exactly what losing Yuri and Ioder will do to him. To all of them. That understanding shows in the way he watches Flynn now.

“You can’t keep running yourself ragged like this,” Raven continues, voice stern, and Flynn could swear he feels a touch of Schwann Oltorain shining through. "Even the strongest blade'll break if you push it too hard."

"I know," Flynn says quietly, unable to muster the energy to deny it. His exhaustion suddenly feels heavier, more tangible with Raven’s note of it. “It’s just… Everyone is counting on—"

"On you bein' at your best when we need you most," Raven finishes. "Which ain't gonna happen if ya keep pushin' yourself like this."

"You’re right," Flynn says, shame curling in his gut. “Forgive me, I just…”

"I know," Raven says quietly. "Trust me, kid. I know."

Silence falls between them, a quiet understanding, before Raven squeezes his shoulder and lets go.

"Shouldn't be much longer now," Raven says, moving past him and toward the doorway. "C'mon.”

Flynn hesitates, his feet suddenly feeling like lead. That familiar surge of panic rises in his chest—the same feeling that's had him finding excuses to stay above ground, to delay coming down here. But Raven's previous words have him swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat.

He forces himself to follow.

Estellise is the first to notice their approach, rising from where she'd been sitting at the foot of both beds. The others turn at her movement, and Flynn's chest tightens as it reveals their still occupants.

His eyes catch on Yuri first, always Yuri, still wearing the formal burgundy and gold uniform Flynn had always insisted upon. It’s ruined now, torn and stained with blood. Even his hair is no longer tied back, falling messily around his shoulders, tangled and matted with sweat.

The sight of it makes his stomach clench, sends panic clawing up Flynn's throat. His eyes dart away, settling on the bed beside him, but Ioder looks infinitely worse—unbearably small and fragile in his imperial regalia. The blood of one of his guards is splattered across the fabric and Ioder himself looks pale, nearly sick—

Flynn swallows. Both of their breathing is shallow, slow. Barely visible beneath the blankets. Even in sleep, Yuri was never this motionless, this quiet—always tossing and turning, always full of restless energy. And now…

His lungs begin to constrict. They don't belong here, Flynn thinks with sudden, overwhelming desperation. Not in some cold, dark, underground tomb. Ioder should finally be taking a break, enjoying the dinner reception, discussing his policies with that patient smile of his. And Yuri—Yuri should be out there causing trouble, being incredibly blunt with his opinions and completely unapologetic about it, simultaneously frustrating and endearing Flynn in the process. Not looking for all the world like he's already—already—

"Flynn," Estellise says softly, overly gentle. As if she could tell he’d begun to lose his bearings. He tears his gaze away from Yuri, looks up to see her worried expression, eyes red-rimmed from crying, grief no longer masked behind a calm veneer.

Flynn loves Estellise deeply. Even being apart in recent times, she’s remained one of his dearest friends, someone he knows he can always rely on and trust implicitly. And it’s because they’ve always possessed that rare understanding—both being duty bound in some way, both sharing that desire to better the world and help others. It’s what cultivated their deep mutual respect and admiration for each other, what made them gravitate towards each other in those early years when they were both feeling lost and unsure of themselves.

But what binds them most powerfully in this moment is their shared love for the two lying motionless in front of them. Even though Estellise had rarely seen Ioder in her youth, they’d grown closer since his coronation. He knows she’s grieving for him—not because of their blood relation, but because she’d finally had the opportunity to know him just as Flynn had.

And Yuri…

Even if her love for Yuri is different from his own, it’s undeniably just as fierce. Yuri had given her what Flynn never could; he’d broken down the walls that confined her, showed her the world she’d only dreamt about in books. For her, Yuri was freedom personified; giving her the space to make her own choices and become her own person just as she always deserved.

She loves Yuri with all her heart - just another thing that gives them that shared understanding. And now, seeing the concern in her gaze, the remnants of tears on her cheeks, Flynn can't help but feel a sudden surge of protectiveness.

It’s enough to make him pull himself together, if only for her sake.

“Lady Estellise,” he greets with a jerky nod, relieved when his voice comes out steady, if only a little rough. He directs his gaze to the others in greeting, managing a strained smile to Karol's wobbly one. When he notices a table in the corner littered with books and scribbled notes yet strangely unoccupied, he pauses. “… Where is—”

“There,” Judith answers, pointing in the adjacent corner. Flynn’s eyes follow the motion, landing past Ioder’s bed onto a spot of disheveled maroon hair. He takes a step, leaning forward to get a better look.

Sure enough, Rita sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a clutter of carefully arranged papers and ancient texts. She doesn't acknowledge their presence, completely absorbed in the book in hand, a deep frown on her face and brows furrowed in concentration as her eyes dart across each page.

“Ah,” Flynn finds himself saying. It’s both reassuring and concerning, watching her work with such single-minded focus. For a second he considers interrupting her, urging her to take a moment to breathe, but a weaker, selfish part of him has him holding his tongue.

He knows his words would fall on deaf ears, anyway.

"She's been like that for hours," Judith says after a moment. "Barely stops to eat or drink."

"Sounds familiar," Raven murmurs pointedly behind him.

Mercifully, Judith moves past it. “Any updates?” She asks, looking between him and Raven. He recognizes the tension around her eyes. Even Judith—unshakable, composed Judith—is showing signs of strain.

Raven answers before he can think of anything reassuring. “Nothin’ we don’t already know. Council’s actin’ up, but we expected that.”

Judith nods. “And the prisoners?”

“Uncooperative,” Flynn admits. “It’s clear they’ve been trained to resist questioning; they all have the same rehearsed responses.”

There’s a look in Judith’s eyes then, one Flynn discerns as, ‘Then we should try other means’, but those words never come. Instead, she gives a resigned nod and shifts topics.

“Nothing suspicious on our end, so far.”

Flynn nods. She’s referring to Ba’ul, of course; her connection with the entelexeia gives them the added benefit of eyes outside the castle walls while they’re in lockdown. His presence is reassuring, even if Flynn can’t directly sense it himself. “Please, send him my gratitude.”

"Of course."

A heavy silence falls over the room, broken only by the soft rustling of paper from Rita's corner.

Then, their princess—ever gentle—cuts to the chase.

“Flynn,” she says quietly, raising a hand over her heart. “You look exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Karol chimes in, equally worried. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should lie down…?”

"We have some time,” Judith tacks on. “Why not rest while you can?”

Flynn feels grateful, eternally so, for the opportunity to get close to Yuri’s friends when he did.

They’re all something special; not only are they the only people Yuri ever let in, but they’re genuinely good people who have become precious to Flynn in their own right.

But the fact that he cherishes them so makes their concern infinitely harder to bear. He knows they're all hurting; they shouldn't have to worry about him on top of everything else.

He tries for a reassuring smile, hoping it doesn’t look as stiff as it feels. “I appreciate the concern, but I'm alright.”

It’s not an answer Estellise is willing to accept. "Perhaps you could rest while we wait," she suggests, gesturing to one of the spare bedrolls they'd brought down. "Raven can check on things above, and we can wake you if anything changes—"

"That… won't be necessary."

Rita's voice is stilted when she finally speaks, far too strained to mean anything good. Flynn turns to see her standing, clutching the text she was reading with white-knuckled hands. His heart drops at her expression—nothing short of grim.

"I've found something.”

‘… A place of brilliant technology and odd familiarity, a place I would later understand to be a mirrored reflection, or perhaps a shadow, of Terca Lumireis itself. Yet, I remembered nothing of my old life; instead, I was burdened with memories of a life I had never lived, filled with faces I should not know yet I inexplicably recognized.

For years, I lived that other life in blissful ignorance—’

Flynn lowers the yellowed paper in his hands, heartbeat in his throat. “I don’t understand. What is this?”

“A journal entry?” Judith asks, peering over his shoulder.

Rita nods gravely, turning to rest her hand on top of the tome now placed on the table. There’s a long pause as she collects her thoughts.

“… Most of this book is filled with research data,” she begins after a moment, tapping its cover. “Endless calculations and failed experimental data trying to understand how the artifact manipulates consciousness.” She pauses, then looks up to meet their gazes. “The researchers were documenting each activation, trying to figure out how it was putting people into comas, and why… Why only some of them were waking up.”

Flynn stiffens in place. The others go deathly silent. Rita takes the moment to spread out some of the documents on the table, worn pages covered in formulas and calculations.

“Their early hypotheses are all over the place. They had no idea what they were dealing with—not that I blame them. They were working with concepts far beyond normal blastia formulas, with something way more intricate than any blastia body I’ve ever seen.”

She unravels a diagram of the artifact, a faded drawing surrounded by notations.

“Look,” she says, pointing to a particular section. “The artifact itself is ancient, made of everlight—a metal with incredibly high aer conductance. It's what allows the formula inscribed on it to have such a powerful effect. But this script..." She gestures to one as she shakes her head. "Some of it is similar to what we used to use in warp blastia, but the complexity... And the way it's configured..."

‘Tempus obscurum, exsisto divergere,’ a section of it reads. The words are incomprehensible to Flynn, but his gaze drifts to the words written in the margins above it:

'Distortion formula.'

“Most researchers wouldn’t even consider formulas like this viable,” Rita carries on as anxiety begins pooling in Flynn’s stomach. “The script has always been purely theoretical, and the energy requirements alone should make them impossible to execute. I thought so too at first, but the Everlight metal's conductance properties could make it work. And then…” She picks up a specific stack of papers, set apart from the rest. “I found these.”

She turns the pages around, holding them up. Immediately, the difference is clear—where they’re still covered in writing and complex formulas, the handwriting is messy, erratic—a complete match to the journal entry Flynn currently holds in his hand.

As he looks between the pages, a cold realization creeps in. The handwriting isn’t just messy; it’s shaky, almost desperate—like someone fighting to get the words out before they slip away.

Flynn’s heart pounds harder.

“Pages… of a journal?” Estellise asks tentatively.

Rita nods. "It’s a personal account from one of the lead researchers. A firsthand experience with the artifact, hidden away in the back pages like an afterthought."

“But… it looks…” Karol’s sentence peters off.

“That ain’t exactly the most reliable lookin’ source, Rita darlin’,” Raven says, a hint of unease surfacing.

Rita lowers the papers, her head following suit. “… I dismissed it too, at first. I thought it was just the ravings of someone who'd lost their mind, and the handwriting doesn’t help his case. But the signs of muscle atrophy and poor motor control actually support the story he’s detailed out. And after deciphering some of his later frameworks..." She meets their gazes again. "The science could potentially support what he experienced.”

“S-So… what does it say?” Karol asks. Flynn looks back at the worn paper in his hands—seemingly the first entry in the entire line of them.

The words blur and refocus, his exhaustion warring with adrenaline. He stares at them anyway, trying to process what he's reading through the static building in his mind, the cold dread forming in his stomach.

The researcher’s description of this other world, this alternate version of reality… No—he can’t possible be reading this right. Perhaps his eyes are playing tricks on him…?

He blinks hard, but the words remain stubbornly unchanged. Behind him, Judith reads a line over his shoulder, her soft voice loud against his ear, making them undeniable.

"It was a mirror of our own world, one where magic was no longer prevalent, where technology advanced beyond our imagining..." Judith's voice trails slowly as she reads, trying to process each word. "... And yet, the people remained unchanged.” She pauses a moment. “In other words…”

“He believed the artifact transported him,” Rita confirms, expression carefully neutral. “To another world.”

The room falls silent. Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Raven is the first to break it with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry, ya wanna run that by us again?”

“That’s…” Estellise whispers, eyes wide.

"That's—that’s crazy, right?” Karol blurts out. “I mean, that’s—"

"Impossible," Judith finishes, though her expression is thoughtful rather than dismissive.

"I know how it sounds," Rita says, crossing her arms. "But that’s what he believed. His consciousness was somehow transported to another version of himself in this other world, while his body remained here in a coma."

"Another... version?" Karol's voice cracks.

Finally, Flynn finds his voice. It’s faint, he knows—hardly recognizable as his own. “Transported… how, exactly?”

Rita would normally bristle at being made to over explain like this, but even she can sympathize, no doubt going through the same cycle of disbelief earlier. Her fingers drum anxiously against her arm, though her voice remains calm. Clinical. “He theorized that the artifact was creating some kind of link to this other, parallel world, matching the user’s energy signature with the identical copy.”

"Parallel world?" Raven echoes weakly, looking more and more shaken by the minute. "Ya mean ta tell me there's a whole other world out there with different versions of us runnin' around?"

“Parallel worlds,” Estellise repeats quietly, hands clasped tightly together. “I’ve—I’ve read about them. Alternate versions of our world, branching off at different points in history, with versions of ourselves living completely different lives. A lot of novels imagine the existence of parallel worlds, but…” She turns to look at Rita, unsure.

“… Right,” Rita nods. “It’s always been purely theoretical. But his calculations on energy signatures actually make sense. It could also explain why only some people would be put in a coma and others only knocked unconscious temporarily—if their counterpart wasn't available. If someone was dead in this other world, or hadn't been born yet, there would be no matching signature to connect to. The consciousness would have nowhere to transfer.”

”Wait, wait, wait.” Raven holds up a hand, confused. “You’re losin’ me—energy what now?”

Rita sighs in exasperation, but it comes out shaky and unsettling. “Just… think of it like...” she pauses, hand in her hair as she considers her phrasing. “… Everyone has their own unique mana signature, like a fingerprint. In theory, if parallel worlds exist, there would be another version of you with the same mana signature since you're technically the same person. The artifact could use that connection to transfer consciousness—exactly what the formula seems designed to do."

"But—wait, if what you're saying is true, couldn’t Yuri and His Majesty still wake up?" Karol asks, a hopeful lilt in his voice that has Flynn holding his breath. “I mean, maybe it just takes a while to come back from something like that..?”

Their hearts plummet the moment Rita uncomfortably drops her gaze. "It's unlikely," she says. "According to their past data, the ones that woke up did so in less than an hour. We're well past that window now."

Karol deflates. “Oh,” he says quietly. After a long, nervous pause, “T-Then… you really think that they’re…?”

The silence that follows is deafening. Flynn’s heartbeat thunders in his ears, painfully loud in the quiet of the room. Everyone is processing the information in their own ways: Karol shifts nervously on his feet while Judith stands motionless, expression unreadable. Estellise sinks down onto the stool and presses a hand to her chest, while Raven leans heavily against the wall, holding his around the base of his neck.

And Flynn...

Flynn scans the paper in his hands, disbelieving. The researcher's account should sound deranged, and yet…

… And yet, there’s clarity in his words, logic and reason in his writing despite the impossible things he’s describing.

And hadn't Flynn witnessed the impossible before? Children of the Moon, the Adephagoes, the enormous city they’d found at the bottom of Zaude—the list went on. He's seen too much in his life, faced too many impossible things, to dismiss this outright...

… No, he eventually decides. As much as he wants to, he can’t deny the possibility that everything written here rings impossibly true. And if Rita believes the science is truly sound... then…

Then… what does that mean for Yuri? For Ioder? Could they really have woken up in some other world, suddenly in someone else’s body, living someone else’s life?

Fear seizes him at the thought. Gods above, if it’s really true, then what horrors could they be facing at this very moment? They were probably so confused, terrified—and what if they’d found themselves in harm’s way? What if they were hurt, or sick, or trapped in some way?

His heart rate doubles, thoughts quickly spiraling. The other versions of themselves could be anyone, living any kind of life. What if Yuri's counterpart was caught up in something dangerous? What if he was lost and alone, panicking about how everything was suddenly different, how everyone he knew was suddenly gone—

Flynn draws in a sharp breath, grip tightening involuntarily. Nearby, Raven lets out a low, wavering sigh.

"Just when I thought I'd seen everything,” he murmurs shakily.

“Compared to what we’ve dealt with in the past, it’s not that far fetched,” Rita reminds them, but something about her tone—the forced nonchalance—has Flynn tensing with dread. “I mean, we watched a giant monster in the sky almost eat the world, remember?”

“Rita,” Estellise says, picking up on that same edge of discomfort. Flynn looks up to find them exchanging an unnerving look. Where Rita’s expression usually softens for Estellise, she looks uncomfortable, nearly reluctant to meet her eyes.

Flynn swallows thickly. Estellise continues, voice beginning to waver. “If the researcher’s words really are true,” she ventures slowly, “then… how do we bring them back?”

There’s a stretch of silence, and for one, horrifying second, Rita looks nervous.

A fresh wave of fear surges through him. Rita tilts her head down, tightens her grip on the stack of entries in her hand—

"Rita." His own voice comes out raw, desperate in a way he can't bring himself to care about. "How do we bring them back?"

“… That’s the thing,” Rita says after an agonizing, unending moment. At once, she lifts her head up, forcing herself to meet their gazes. “If what he’s written is actually the truth, then we’ve got a massive problem.”

Chapter Text

“If what he’s written is actually the truth, then we’ve got a massive problem.”

For several heartbeats, everyone goes deathly still. Rita takes a second to breathe, like what she’s about to say is painful, and Flynn finds his own breath seizing in the process.

"According to the researcher's account," she begins, deliberately slow, "when he first woke up in this other world, he had no memory of his real life. None at all. He was completely unaware that he was living someone else's life for—for years.”

The world stops turning.

He hears Estellise’s sharp inhale, watches her press her hands against her mouth in his peripheral.

"W-What do you mean 'years'?" Karol asks, voice wobbling.

Rita's voice climbs higher, a nervous pitch breaking through her attempt to sound steady. "I mean years. He had a sense that something was wrong, but it took years for him to encounter anything strong enough to trigger his memories.”

Flynn stares numbly at her, blood running cold. No—he can’t believe that. He refuses to believe that. He could accept this researcher’s account about impossible things being possibly true, but the idea that Yuri and Ioder could just be out there, living out completely different lives, just—just completely oblivious of their real selves? That Yuri could have no memory of who he really is, that he’s forgotten everything, forgotten Flynn—

—Flynn’s hands begin to tremble, so he clenches them, crinkling the edges of the paper in his tight grip. His eyes dart over the researcher's frantic scrawl again, heart sinking rapidly with each word.

‘For years, I lived that other life in blissful ignorance, plagued only by a persistent fog of forgetfulness, a sense that something crucial was just beyond the grasp of my memory…’

“Recovery from memory loss can be gradual, or spontaneous, but it almost always requires a powerful trigger,” Rita nervously rambles on. “A familiar face, a meaningful place, something with deep emotional significance. And even then, memories might not come back all at once—they could return in fragments, or be triggered by multiple experiences over time...”

'I encountered familiar faces in this new life; colleagues, acquaintances, even old friends. But these chance meetings, though unsettling in ways I couldn't explain at the time, failed to pierce the veil of my amnesia. It wasn’t until I encountered her—Adelaide, the woman who had been my wife in my true world, who had passed away too early from an illness that had shattered my heart…’

“For him, everything was eventually triggered by someone he knew well from our world,” Rita’s voice filters back into focus. “Not the same person, obviously. He writes everything. Same name, same appearance. And…. I think because it was someone he knew well. His late wife. He had no other familial connections.”

‘Seeing her alive, vibrant, but as a stranger, triggered a cascade of memories, flooding me with the painful realization of who I was and what I had left behind.’

Flynn stares at the words. And stares, and stares, that familiar pressure building in his chest. Rita continues, voice beginning to waver.

"I-It would explain why most victims never returned—they had no idea they needed to come back. They were living completely different lives with—with no memory of who they really were—”

“Let me see the rest.”

It nearly surprises him, how rough his own voice sounds. Rita hands over the remaining entries without comment, though her pained expression says enough. She continues, voice quiet but undeterred, “He was able to remember everything after that. And… worried that his body wouldn’t survive being in a comatose state, he looked for the artifact in that world.”

Flynn scans through the next few entries, desperate for clarity, heart hammering against his ribs—

‘The weight of these two separate lives crushed me. I tried to explain to Adelaide, or the woman who looked like her, about my true origin, but the words sounded like the ravings of a madman even to my own—’

‘—She withdrew, leaving me isolated with my dual memories and a desperate need to return—’

’—and harrowing experience of my life, for posterity, or perhaps as a testament to my sanity—’

He shuffles through page after page, the details beginning to blur at the edges of his vision. His eyes catch on a line that makes his breath hitch, freezing him in place.

‘How much longer could my consciousness tether to this foreign vessel? I dared not ponder.’

“… That’s how he returned, but it took several years of searching,” Rita is saying. She tries to take a steadying breath but it catches, her composure finally breaking, “By the time he was able to activate it, his… his body—“

“No way,” Karol says, voice trembling now. “You’re—You’re saying they could just not remember? But—!”

“But both Ioder and Yuri have met so many people,” Estellise says frantically. Flynn doesn’t know when she’d risen from her seat but he looks up to find her standing now, hands balled up into fists in front of her. “And—and we’ve traveled so much! Surely, Yuri would…!”

“He—he could,” Rita says gingerly, eyeing Estellise’s increasing panic. “I mean, supposedly this guy lived as a farmer—he was isolated on the countryside, with minimal outside contact… That, combined with having few meaningful relationships… It—it could explain why it took him so long for him to regain his memories.” She looks to Yuri and Ioder, swallowing thickly. "In theory, Yuri could recover them sooner than the researcher did, but…”

“Then it is possible,” Karol says, desperately optimistic. “If we could just—

“—It’s possible,” Rita cuts him off. “B-But, even then…”

“He can’t activate the artifact alone, can he?” Judith finally speaks up. Flynn turns to find her fixing Rita with a hard stare, demanding confirmation. There’s a myriad of emotion in her eyes that Flynn has rarely seen, but it’s overshadowed by the gravity of her words. “That’s what you were going to say earlier, right? That his body couldn’t handle the activation, like what happened to the assassin."

Flynn’s heartbeat climbs to his throat, watching with growing horror as Rita gives a reluctant, jerky nod.

“Or… at least it would be highly dangerous,” she clarifies as the room falls silent. “If he’s linked to this other version’s mana signature, then activating the artifact using his mana alone could have serious consequences, possibly doing serious damage to both versions of him. This was when they were first beginning to experiment with life force powered technology, so the guy might not have even known the risks, or maybe he was just desperate enough to do it anyway.” Her eyes flicker to Estellise once before darting to the floor. “… Whether it had an affect on his body or it was the comatose state of his body that did him in, I’m… I’m not sure. But…“ she pauses, taking a heavy breath, “… his entries end abruptly a few months later.”

Flynn’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach. He hears Estellise whisper shakily under her breath, turns to find tears welling up in her eyes. Beside her, Karol’s face has gone pale, and Raven throws an unsteady hand in his hair.

“Hell…” Raven says shakily.

“T-There are other factors that could affect it,” Rita tries miserably. She’s taken a step toward Estellise now, hand uselessly outstretched in her direction. “His body could have been too weak to endure the effects simply due to age…”

“But none of the other victims made it back,” Judith supplies quietly.

Rita's outstretched hand falls limply to her side, her whole body tensing as she averts her gaze. “… No, they didn’t.”

“Then, you’re saying…” Estellise’s voice comes softly, barely above a whisper. Barely audible through the ringing in Flynn’s ears.

Rita doesn’t look at her. Instead, her fingers curl into tight fists at her side. They tremor slightly, high emotions spilling out before she can stop them. “I’m sorry,” she says at once. “Even if Yuri and Ioder somehow regain their memories, they'd still need to find each other to activate the artifact together. If they can’t come to their senses, let alone find each other, then they—” Her voice breaks. “They might not…”

Survive the process.

The room falls deafeningly silent. Her unsaid words hang heavily in the air, refusing to settle.

Flynn’s throat has gone impossibly tight, making it hard to breathe, swallow, speak. His eyes dart back to the writing in his hands, desperate for something—anything—to counter Rita's words, but even that blurs away, refusing to come into focus almost as if in cruel finality.

Yuri and Ioder might never wake up.

They’re out there somewhere, living someone else’s life, completely unaware of who they really are. Of all the people who love and care about them.

And worst than that, without their memories, they can’t find their way home. They might not even be able to find their way home with them—

The room is growing increasingly suffocating, but Flynn feels paralyzed, powerless to stop it. He feels his heart hammering, but his entire body is frozen, rooted to the spot—

Somewhere out there, Yuri is walking around, completely oblivious to their distress over him. He probably doesn't even remember Flynn's name, let alone their friendship. Everything they were, everything they've been through together—

And there's nothing Flynn can do about it. Nothing at all.

Flynn stares at the fully blurred papers in his hands, feeling numb. He hears his companion’s distress around him but it all feels too unreal, too distant—like he’s watching it play out from far away.

“—No way,” Karol is saying, holding his head. “There’s—There’s gotta be something we can do!” He looks between everyone, voice breaking in the lingering silence. “C’mon, we—we can’t just give up—”

“No one said anything about giving up,” Rita snaps, voice teetering between frustration and something fragile. Raven holds a hand out in her direction and turns to face Karol.

"No one’s givin’ up," Raven repeats calmly. "We just gotta think this through.”

Karol swivels to face him, desperation spilling out in waves. “What if one of us went to find them? I-If we could just—"

“And risk getting trapped there too?" Rita cuts in, voice rising sharply. "Think about what you're saying!"

"So we just do nothing?" Karol demands, whirling around to face her.

Estellise's voice comes faintly from behind her hands, nearly lost in their heated exchange. “But, if no one can remember…”

“There’s no way for us to bring them back,” Flynn finishes hollowly, the words barely registering as they leave his mouth. His fingers tighten mechanically around the papers, a distant attempt to stop the tremor in his hands, before he forces himself to meet Estellise’s gaze. The sudden detachment he feels has him barely processing the way her eyes seem to well up even harder, unshed tears threatening to spill over. "We wouldn't retain any memories of our world when we arrived."

They lapse into silence for a long moment.

“There’s gotta be something,” Karol repeats, like he’s muttering a mantra. Out of Flynn’s peripheral he sees Raven shift, setting a hand on the teen’s shoulder. “Couldn’t—couldn’t we—“

“Could we reverse it?” Judith asks, voice tight with forced composure. “Rewrite the formula to do the opposite effect?”

“I don’t know yet,” Rita responds shakily. She’s crossing the distance to Estellise’s side, now, and when her hand finally settles on her shoulder, Estellise crumbles against her. “I just—I need more time.”

But they don’t have time, do they?

At the thought, Flynn can’t help himself; he finds his gaze drifting back to Yuri.

He’s been avoiding looking at either of them, trying to keep his thoughts in check, trying not to spiral. But even those efforts seem pointless now, and Flynn finds his eyes drawn to him almost inexorably.

Aside from his disheveled look, Yuri looks exactly like he's sleeping. His chest rises and falls in a even rhythm, his expression peaceful, as if nothing was even wrong. As if he could wake up at any moment…

… It's in looking at him like this—peaceful yet unnaturally still—that the numbness Flynn has been clinging to begins to crack.

How long can he survive like this? Days? Weeks? Months? The researcher's notes mentioned years passing before he regained his memories, but his body had been failing by then. What if it takes just as long? What if takes longer? How much time do they have before—before—

Flynn’s chest begins to constrict painfully, and suddenly he can’t breathe. He tries to draw in a steadying breath, then another, but his lungs refuse to cooperate—the loss of control only sending panic coursing through him.

If they can’t figure out a solution, then they have to bank everything on Yuri and Ioder remembering who they are and finding each other. But even if they manage that, what then? How would they find the artifact? Would they even know what it looks like, what to look for? What if they can’t remember everything, only enough to know they have to do something but not enough to understand what or how or even why? Or what if— what if they never remember, trapped in those other lives forever, with no idea that their real bodies are slowly wasting away—

Each possibility feels more crushing than the last, stealing what little air remains in the room. He tries to stay calm, tries to focus on his breathing even as his vision swims, tries to stay present even as the sounds around him become muffled and distant—but he can’t. His mind won’t stop racing, his heart is hammering too fast, and the tremor in his hands won’t stop no matter how hard he tightens his grip—

A hand settles on his gauntlet.

“Careful,” Judith murmurs in his ear, quiet yet firm, “You’ll tear them.”

With an enormous amount of effort, Flynn looks down. Staring at the forgotten papers in his hands, he’s surprised to find that Judith is right; they had begun to tear at the edges. “Right,” Flynn’s voice comes out stilted, barely audible. He forces his fingers to relax, allows Judith to pull them gently out of his grasp, watching distantly as she begins smoothing out the edges.

Slowly, his panic begins to recede, replaced instead with an overwhelming sense of shame. It kicks in years of military discipline, and systematically, Flynn feels his resolve returning. He locks his knees to force himself straight, wrenches a shuddering breath through the vice-like grip around his lungs. In, two, three. Out, two, three…

He can’t allow himself to sink into grief. If he breaks down now, it will only be accepting that Yuri and Ioder can’t…

… He can’t. Flynn's gauntlets dig into his palms, now, barely registering the sting as it breaks skin. Blood wells beneath his armor, but he doesn't stop—doesn’t want to lose this small measure of control.

It’s that pain that grounds him, in the end.

When his surroundings finally shift back into focus, everyone has gone silent. Estellise has sunk onto the stool once more, with Rita standing beside her, staring blankly at the papers Judith had taken from him earlier. Across the room, Raven and Karol have taken to leaning against the far wall, the former with his arms crossed and eyes closed in thought while the latter fidgets restlessly with the hem of his tunic, an overly ornate thing he'd worn for negotiations that morning, now slightly torn in the aftermath.

The tension and grief are tangible, nearly unbearable as everyone loses themselves in their own thoughts. Flynn tries to gather his words and school his expression, though it's Rita who eventually breaks the silence.

"There might be a way," she says, but Flynn can tell her words stem solely from feeling and an urge to comfort. “I’ll just… I’ll need more time to dissect this. More time to study the real thing. I won’t know enough until then.”

“I’ll help you,” Estellise says then. It surprises him, how steady her voice sounds. When he looks to her, her hands are clenched, her eyes glistening, but her gaze surprisingly resolute.

“No, Estelle,” Judith says. “We can't risk anyone taking drastic action while you're gone."

“She’s right, princess,” Raven says. “We need a game plan.”

She frowns, but nods. “I spoke with Undine earlier. She said she’s willing to look after them while… while they’re in this state.”

“Let’s take turns keeping an eye on them, too,” Karol adds, squaring his shoulders, his earlier desperation receding as determination takes its place. He’s grown so much in only the last few years, Flynn realizes. No longer the cowardly little boy Flynn had met all those years ago. He reminds him of Ioder in some small, painful way. “And Raven and I should talk to the master guilds.”

“Took the words outta my mouth,” Raven says, crossing his arms. "Some things ain't addin' up with this whole mess. Gotta couple questions that need answerin'.”

"Something’s been bothering me, too," Rita says, brows furrowed in thought. She looks to the the desk, “… That book. It mentions using life force as a power source. That kind of research should have been documented and locked away in the restricted section, especially after what happened with Alexei. But we found it by accident, misfiled in the wrong section."

“The lead archivist recognized the cover,” Judith tacks on. “When I questioned him, he said it was among a collection of books that had been salvaged from Aspio. He was adamant that it had been flagged for review, that it should have still been stored with the other flagged, unverified texts,” she says, looking thoughtful. “... He seemed genuinely surprised and apologetic that it had been misfiled.”

"For it to be misfiled after being flagged..." Rita trails off, crossing her arms. "That's not just incompetence. The review process is strict; there’s no way it was mishandled like that.”

Flynn's stomach twists. She's right, he realizes grimly; mishandling would be extremely unlikely. The archival process had been one of the first things he'd helped restructure after becoming Commandant, precisely to prevent sensitive information from falling into the wrong hands.

“Yer thinkin’ it was purposely moved,” Raven says, leveling Rita with a knowing look.

“Not just moved, hidden,” Rita says, then crosses the room to pick up the book in question. “Think about it. Everyone claims they know nothing about the artifact, but we have living proof that it was studied and researched under imperial jurisdiction.” She holds it up, her eyes passing across everyone before landing on Flynn with a meaningful look. “That means someone has to know more than they're letting on.”

“But why hide it in plain sight?” Karol asks. “Couldn’t they have stashed it somewhere better, or… destroyed it or something?”

“’Must’ve been in a rush, ta do that bad of a job hidin’ it,” Raven muses dryly.

“Maybe someone panicked. Flynn initiated lockdown and had a million guards stationed everywhere, after all.”

“I mean, it was tucked away in a corner,” Judith supplies. “I wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t been desperate.”

Quiet stretches between them, the implications slowly setting in. A mixture of disbelief and horror churns in Flynn’s gut as he starts connecting dots he hadn't dared to before.

It’s simple, really—only a select few possessed the means to access restricted documents without raising suspicion. Someone with enough authority and motive, who could maintain plausible deniability if caught…

Flynn’s stomach lurches as it all clicks into place, and suddenly he feels sick, nausea rising to his throat. He swallows it down, channeling it instead into something harder, sharper—the first stirrings of rage beginning to burn beneath his skin.

“I thought it was strange,” Estellise speaks up, her voice gaining stability, hardening with the same realization. "How the intruders had known about the passageways. They aren’t common knowledge even within the castle, only some workers and high-ranking officials should know about them. At first I had thought nothing of it—in fact, Yuri had once stumbled across one by accident—” her voice cuts off. She stops, her gaze dropping to her hands as she clasps them together in her lap. "But now I'm wondering if there's more to it. If someone deliberately helped them navigate those passages."

“Could a disgruntled employee have leaked information to them?" Karol asks her anxiously. "Someone who knew about the layout of the castle. Maybe they had a grudge against Ioder, or the Empire..?”

“But to unite that many people to the cause…”

“It wouldn’t be hard,” Raven says, then instantly raises his hands in surrender. “What? People aren’t exactly happy right now on both sides. They’d rally under anyone promising ta change the world for the better,” he finishes with a weary shrug, "All ya need are the right words and some grievances ta exploit.”

"The council," Flynn murmurs, his voice low but sharp enough to draw attention from everyone in the room.

Raven heaves a heavy sigh, dropping his hands. "Hate ta say it, but that’s exactly what this smells like.”

Judith gives him a pointed look. "It’s a serious accusation, Commandant.”

"Is it?" Flynn challenges, voice raising slightly. "Who else would have that level of access? Who else would benefit from undermining both the guilds and the Emperor in one move? The council has always been divided on Ioder's reforms.” His shoulders draw tighter as his anger rises, words tumbling out faster, "and just as Ioder was about to implement an alliance with the guilds—with trade agreements that would diminish the council's control over certain resources…”

He’s had his suspicions about Ragou’s replacement, Councilman Harting. He's maintained many of the same connections. And Councilwoman Mirien has been unusually vocal about her opposition to Flynn’s precautionary plan to station more knights at the castle temporarily, in preparation for negotiations. Both of them had expressed their displeasure of Ioder’s proposals in the past—and now that he really thinks on it, some of Harting’s words now seem as if they were calculated to sow discord rather than engage in genuine debate…

Anger surges through him, hot and vicious. He manages to bite back the urge to shout only through years of self restraint, jaw clenching tight instead.

“Would they resort to something that extreme?” Estellise questions softly. “I mean, if it leads to war…”

“All the more reason for them to do it,” Flynn seethes, unable to keep still as he moves across the room. "They could pin the blame for the current crisis on the guilds, then use it as justification for the empire to strike first.” He whips around, voice beginning to shake despite himself, “To seize guild resources under the guise of maintaining order."

"They'd profit from the conflict, too," Judith adds, her expression darkening with understanding. "War means weapons contracts, supply agreements..."

“It would keep everyone divided,” Estellise says slowly, hand clutched to her heart. “Using the public’s fear and grief against them.”

“That’s… That’s horrible!” Karol shouts.

"It wouldn’t be the first time the empire has abused its authority," Flynn spits out, harsh and bitter. He knows he’s losing what little control he has over his temper, and that awareness only makes him spiral further. His hands shake at his sides as he forces his gauntlets into white-knuckled fists, feeling the sharp sting as he presses against the cuts on his palms. "It doesn’t matter how many people they sacrifice to do so. If they think they can manipulate this crisis to their advantage, they won't hesitate."

Estellise watches him carefully. "Flynn..."

"They were willing to risk Ioder's life—Yuri's life—" Flynn's voice finally breaks, the anger he's been using to hold back his grief cracking through. He stops abruptly, taking a deep breath that doesn't quite steady him. "For what? Power? Money?”

He turns away then, forcing a shuddering breath.

"We need to investigate them all," Flynn says after a long moment, redirecting his emotion. He swallows down his residual anger and turns back to his companions, voice low and firm. "Quietly. "

“And we will,” Raven says, pushing off the wall he'd been leaning against. His tone sounds light, almost carefree, but Flynn recognizes the dangerous edge to it. “Trust me, no one’s gettin’ away with anything.”

“Whoever did this, I swear…” Rita’s voice trails off, low and full of emotion. She’s angry, too, and it’s barely restrained as she meets his gaze. “They’ll pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

Flynn nods firmly at her words, a collective determination settling over the room as the rest of his companions exchange silent words. The way Estellise’s eyes meet his, grief and betrayal slowly transforming into steadfast resolve, steadies him in a way he hadn’t expected.

His gaze falls to Yuri and Ioder behind her. The combination of anger and anguish that swells up at the sight, sharp and all consuming, has him clenching his jaw painfully until he eventually forces himself to turn away.

They have a lot of work to do.

There’s no restful sleep that night. How can there be, with so much work to be done? So Flynn doesn’t sleep.

Instead, he investigates.

He starts with the most basic approach—following the paper trail. Council records, financial statements, communications logs. Every document might hide a crucial detail. Flynn knows better than to trust official records completely—Alexei's betrayal taught him that—but any discrepancies between records could reveal something.

And he gets help. Despite having a handful of knights that Flynn did trust to handle certain things, he only truly trusted three individuals for their assured discretion and unquestionable loyalty.

Luckily, his attempts to keep the castle defenses secure had brought them back into his company.

He tells his closest confidant first. Sodia is on board immediately, already expressing similar concerns. Within thirty minutes, she’s recruited Witcher and LeBlanc to his side.

After they all express their grief for the situation, they resolutely get to work.

They spend the rest of the night looking for suspicious activity, recorded evidence of anyone deviating from standard protocols, expenses that don’t quite add up. He assigns Sodia and Witcher with the mind-numbing job to review the council members' recent correspondence and financial records, while Leblanc is tasked with quietly interviewing castle staff about any unusual activities or visitors in the weeks leading up to the attack.

Convenient absences, strange behavior, questions that seemed out of place… They all take on a new meaning, now. Flynn channels every flicker of anger into the task at hand, picking through records and searching for evidence with brutal efficiency even as exhaustion blurs his vision.

He ignores the way his heart feels like it’s being crushed in his chest, how each document shakes subtly in his hands—pushing through it the only way he knows how.

When the sun starts to rise and he’s used up the remainder of his energy, he finds himself walking all the way back to the tunnels.

He doesn’t protest when Sodia quietly falls into step beside him. He had dismissed them all hours ago, but Sodia of course had remained, insistent on continuing the investigation despite Flynn’s stiff and repeated assurance that he would finish up for the night. At that, she had simply raised an eyebrow at him and settled in with another stack of documents, matching his determination with her own.

In the end, he couldn't find it in himself to argue; her quiet presence at his side was a comfort he hadn't realized he needed.

That comfort falls from his mind the second they reach the entrance.

At once, they're greeted with Rita’s sleeping form, curled up on a bedroll in the corner of the main room, surrounded by piles of texts and scrolls.

She doesn't even stir at the grinding sound of the stone door or their metallic steps into the room. It makes sense—she’s surely exhausted and has always been a deep sleeper—though to see her so unaware of her surroundings still sends a bit of unexpected anxiety through him.

Even in her sleep, her face is drawn with tension—

“Sir,” Sodia whispers.

Flynn catches her alarmed look at the faint, golden glow emanating from the other room. There’s a question in her eyes, but Flynn simply shakes his head. The magic is far too telling; that familiar, soothing feeling that’s enveloped him countless times before.

His suspicions are confirmed as they approach the doorway; Estellise sits between the beds, her hands clasping both Yuri's and Ioder's hands as she channels a powerful healing arte. It casts a gentle light over Yuri and Ioder's still forms, their clothes now clean and properly arranged. Her carefully styled hair now falls in disheveled strands around her face as she bows her head in concentration.

Immediately at the sight, Flynn feels a jolt of adrenaline, to put on a brave face and comfort his dear friend as she always did for him.

But the second he reaches her side and she looks up at him, face crushed and tears silently streaming down her face, any reassurance he’d hoped to give her dies quietly in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Estellise whispers instead, eyes red-rimmed with tears that she doesn't even seem to notice falling anymore. Her voice hitches miserably. “I’m trying…"

And something in Flynn breaks.

His eyes well up and he lets out a shaky breath, doing his best to conceal it with the action of grasping her shoulder and pulling her against his side. The soft hum of magic in the room fades away, replaced with quiet sobs and irregular breathing. She withdraws her hands from their still friends, turning to clutch at the fabric of his uniform.

He wants to reassure her, to dry her tears and promise her that everything will be alright. But he can't bring himself to lie to her, not when she's always been honest with him. So instead, he tightens his grip around her, doing his best to speak with as much firmness as he can muster.

“Get some rest, Lady Estellise.”

She nods with a quiet sniffle.

But neither of them move. They stay like that for a long time—though from the darkness of the room, Flynn can’t discern how long.

Chapter Text

The alarm vibrates in Yuri's hand, making him flinch despite expecting it. 5:30 AM blinks back at him mockingly.

He doesn't feel ready. Not even close. He’s been up for an hour and a half, staring at the ceiling, trying to gather the courage to move at all, but his racing thoughts have kept him rooted in place.

After his little meltdown last night, he’d spent a lot of time thinking.

It was all he could do, with this world’s Flynn sleeping in the next room and effectively stopping him from panic sprinting off in the night. But when he finally wrenched his thoughts away from the doom and gloom of ‘I’m completely alone in this strange alternate reality’, he was able to make the dizzying realization that he actually wasn’t, in a way.

That is, this world’s Yuri knew a lot of familiar faces.

Last night, he’d started a mental list. Names, faces, relationships—anything he could remember about the people this world's Yuri knew. It started as a survival tactic, really, to avoid getting blindsided again like he had been with Flynn. But going through name after name, face after face... it forced him to really confront just how many people from his world were walking around in this one, living out completely different lives as if nothing was even wrong.

There didn’t seem to be any consistent pattern, either, which made things infinitely worse. He'd thought there might be constants in this world, some kind of rhyme or reason to who ended up here and who didn’t—but that theory fell apart pretty quick as he realized that, aside from Hanks and Flynn, the people he recognized felt entirely random. It was as if the universe had just grabbed everyone he’d ever run into and then carelessly sprinkled them about.

And yet somehow, still no sign of Estelle. No Rita. No Brave Vesperia.

Mostly just… familiar strangers. Old acquaintances working at the corner grocery store, guild members living next door, former comrades from his brief stint in the knights—hell, even former enemies, showing up as teachers and students at his school as if they’d always belonged there.

Yuri could hardly wrap his head around that little tidbit; memories of sitting in actual classrooms, wearing weird uniforms… It’d almost be laughable if he wasn’t busy being horrified by it.

Far worse than that, though, are the new memories he suddenly has of people he actually knows—people who matter to him. False memories that make no sense yet try to overwrite everything about the people he loved. People who shaped his life. People who were dead.

Like Niren.

Niren, his former Captain. The man he'd admired—grieved—was here. He was alive—teaching one of Yuri’s classes, of all things.

Damnit. Even now, his chest tightens as he recalls it—the realization had left him breathless and reeling in the darkness last night. Just the thought of seeing him, of hearing his voice, has hysteria bubbling up in his throat all over again.

He swallows it down, though. He can’t afford to spiral about that right now; not when there's another ghost from his past he needs to deal with today.

He takes a sharp breath and finally pulls himself upright.

With mounting dread, he looks down at the phone in his hand. The screen has dimmed, untouched—but his boss’s contact information that he’d found twenty minutes prior still stares back at him, stark and undeniable:

‘Don Whitehorse’.

He’d realized it last night, somewhere in the storm of everything else—Don freaking Whitehorse owned the tiny, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that this world’s Yuri worked at.

Back home, Don Whitehorse had been a revolutionary. A leader. A man who believed in the people more than the systems that failed them. And gods, even here, the old man was still at it—thumbing his nose at truancy laws with the same gusto he'd once applied to defying the Empire.

And he was still loud. Still stubborn. Still kind in that gruff, no-nonsense way.

But the last time Yuri saw the Don—really saw him—he’d been standing beside him, blood soaking into the dirt, gripping the hilt of a sword with shaking hands as he helped a dying man do what he couldn’t finish alone—

Yuri shoves the thought away. The old man is gone, he reminds himself. It’s not him. Just like it isn’t really Flynn, or Niren, or anyone else.

Still…

… Still, some stupid, masochistic part of Yuri wants to see him. He’s scheduled to, even; thanks to the workaholic version of him who stupidly agreed to cover someone else’s work shift on top of his own.

But it’s also Sunday. Which, in this world, means the last day before the start of a new school week.

As much as he’d like to, he can’t just go do whatever he wants. Even if this isn’t his life, he’s not about to go around wrecking everything this world’s Yuri had worked for. Especially since it had good intentions. For Hanks. For Flynn.

So he can’t be abandoning the guy’s responsibilities like work or school, but he can’t be sitting around twiddling his thumbs either—which means he really only has today to figure out what the hell he’s going to do without raising any alarms.

Which leads him to his current predicament: getting out of his work shift.

He stares down at the phone. Flitting through his memories, he’s had to call the Don before for supply runs and deliveries, but he’s never called out sick before. His finger hovers over the call button, caught in that same suffocating space between longing and dread. He wants to hear the old man’s voice again, but the idea of confronting him when he can barely keep it together around Flynn is feeling less and less realistic. He’s not sure he can handle talking with a ghost from his past right now.

Screw this, he decides after an unending minute, swiping around for a moment before eventually locating 'Messages' instead. A written message is safer, even if it wasn’t their usual means of communication. He can take his time, think through his responses, and not have to worry about his voice betraying him or anything.

Yuri skims through the sparse message history, lips twitching at the laughably brief exchanges between them. Each one is short and to the point, all work related. They’re friendly enough, though, and something about having that sort of casual dynamic with the man has the tension in Yuri’s shoulders loosening, just a tad.

He starts typing before he can chicken out.

‘hi'—

Delete.

'hey don, i know that this’—

Delete.

'hey boss, i'm sorry this is last minute'—

Damnit.

For all Yuri’s usual quick wit and creative bullshitting, he’s been drawing a mortifying amount of blanks lately. He curses under his breath, staring at his latest message and hoping the words might spontaneously rearrange themselves into something less pathetic before he eventually gives up and presses send.

The message looks like something this world’s Yuri would send, but as the seconds pass, Yuri can't help but second guess himself. Was he too informal? Apologetic enough? The fact that this world's Yuri has never called out sick before makes his stomach churn—what if the Don finds it suspicious? What if he ends up calling to check?

Just when he's convinced himself he’s made a huge mistake, the phone vibrates in his hand.

... Oh.

Yuri stares at the message. Just six words—short, simple, understanding—but something about it knocks the wind out of him. He's not sure what he expected; the old man hadn't even questioned him. Just... trusted him.

Yuri lets out a shaky sigh. He knows he should feel relieved, but something about betraying that trust—

A light knock sounds at the door, and Yuri's thoughts scatter, heart lurching as the phone nearly slips from his hands.

Shit.

Flynn.

He doesn’t move, at first. He knows it’d be pointless to pretend he’s asleep—his heart is slamming against his ribs hard enough to make his fingers twitch, and the buzzing edge of anxiety is still rattling through his limbs. So instead, he shifts slightly under the blanket, trying to look like he hasn’t been having an existential crisis since 4 AM.

The light knock comes again, followed by the soft creak of the bedroom door opening.

He keeps his eyes fixed on his phone, trying to appear absorbed—normal, even—as it creaks to a stop halfway, before opening altogether.

“Oh,” Flynn says, voice rough with sleep. “Hi.”

And then Yuri opens his mouth—he means to start with his best blank expression, to throw out a simple didn’t hear you knock, but the second he glances up and actually sees him, Yuri’s mind goes blank instead.

Because Flynn is standing there, blinking blearily at him from the doorway, glasses crooked and blonde hair sticking up in a dozen chaotic directions, wearing a stretched-out T-shirt that might’ve been white at some point and pajama pants that hang so low on his hips it’s kind of criminal.

And he looks… soft. Vulnerable. Far less intimidating with bed hair and sleep in his eyes, yet still somehow managing to make Yuri’s stupid heart stutter to a stop.

“… Hey,” Yuri manages after a beat, the word catching awkwardly in his throat.

Flynn squints at him, rubbing one eye like he’s still not fully awake. “How are you feeling?”

Okay, Yuri tells himself. Focus. You’ve got this. You practiced this.

He lifts his head just a little. “A lot better,” he says. “Thanks for everything last night.”

Flynn’s answering smile is soft, genuine.

”Of course. Anytime—you know that.”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, heart hammering in his throat. “… Yeah.”

Silence stretches between them, heavier than it should be. Yuri can feel it pulling at the edges of his resolve, unraveling all the lines he’d carefully rehearsed hours ago. Damnit, this shouldn’t be this hard, but—

“I know you’ve got work,” Flynn starts, cutting through his thoughts. He's more awake now, blue eyes sharper as his tone shifts to something deliberately careful, “but… I was sort of thinking that maybe you should take today off.”

“Can’t,” Yuri shoots back, too fast. “I took Cheria’s shift. Plus, the Do—uh, the boss needed help with stuff today.”

Flynn’s brows draw together slightly. “Did you tell him you were sick?”

“No,” he lies, eyes flicking down to his phone before he forces himself to return Flynn’s gaze. “But I’m feeling way better. Fever's gone and everything."

It’s technically not a complete lie. His fever is gone, and aside from being clammy and gross, he is feeling slightly better.

Flynn doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t know, Yuri…”

"C'mon," Yuri says with forced lightness. "Don't be such a worrywart. I feel fine.” He shrugs, “Just need a shower and I'm good."

Flynn stares at him hard for a long moment, and Yuri tries his best to look unaffected. He recognizes that look, the one that says I know you’re full of shit but I’m giving you a chance to prove me wrong.

“No fever?” Flynn asks. “No migraine at all?”

“Nope,” Yuri says, popping the 'p' for good measure.

Flynn’s gaze lingers. He’s clearly still unconvinced, and Yuri can see the gears turning in his head before he eventually lifts his hand.

“Mind if I check?”

Shit.

“Knock yourself out.”

Even with permission, Flynn takes his time moving around the room—slow and measured—as if he thinks Yuri might spook and bolt if he moves too fast. He's not really wrong; Yuri's muscles tense involuntarily, his free hand gripping the bedsheet as Flynn steps closer, closing the distance between them.

Then Flynn hesitates. His hand lifts halfway and stalls, hovering in the air like he's suddenly unsure if he's crossing some line.

And it’s stupid, how Yuri’s heart hammers at the sight of it—at skin that should be calloused, at the way some traitorous part of him wants to lean into the touch like muscle memory…

It makes him want to laugh. Or cry. Or bolt.

Instead, he stays perfectly still, letting Flynn’s hand brush his hair back to press a gentle palm to his forehead.  

“It really is gone,” Flynn murmurs after a quiet moment, a hint of surprise in his voice though his brows stay furrowed. He pulls his hand back almost as soon as the words are out, stepping back—further than he needs to, like he’s trying to put a polite, careful distance back between them.

Yuri huffs out a breath, forcing a steady grin. “Told you.”  

Flynn doesn’t smile back. He shifts his weight, arms folding loosely over his chest, mouth tugging downward into a familiar frown. “I still think… maybe it was stress related. The fever. I just…” He trails off, lips pursing before meeting Yuri’s gaze with that look. “I’m just worried you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

And there it is, that classic Scifo concern. Protective and stubborn and completely unmovable once it sets in.

But Yuri knows this dance. And even if it knots something in his chest, it still gives him something to work with. 

Yuri leans back against the headboard, forcing something easy into his voice. "Seriously, Flynn, I'm fine. It’s not like I'm made of glass.” When Flynn's frown doesn't budge, he shrugs, "I was just overwhelmed and tired yesterday. But I slept it off, and now I'm good."

Flynn's frown wavers slightly. "You literally fainted, Yuri—"

"Look," Yuri says, pushing himself to meet Flynn's gaze. "I get that you're worried, but I'm not gonna keel over from making coffee." He stretches his arms over his head with feigned indifference, ignoring the way Flynn's eyes track the movement. "Besides, what am I gonna do? Sit around here all day feeling sorry for myself?"

Flynn's arms tighten around his chest. "I'm just saying, maybe taking it easy for one more day wouldn't kill you."

"But going to work won't either," Yuri counters. "And I'd rather not screw over my boss by calling out at the last second."

A long pause. Flynn’s jaw shifts slightly, and Yuri can see it—the argument building behind his eyes, all neat and logical points stacking into place.

But instead of launching into them, Flynn just exhales through his nose.

"At least let me give you a ride," he insists, that stubborn edge creeping into his voice.

“Flynn.” 

"Alright, alright. Fine," Flynn finally relents, moving back toward the door. He pauses at the threshold, turning back. "But you're not skipping breakfast. I'm gonna make eggs."

“Whatever you say,” Yuri says, trying not to sound relieved as the conversation ends. He’d agree to anything right now if it would just get Flynn to go.

But Flynn doesn't go—not right away. He hovers there, barefoot in his rumpled pajamas, like he's got something else to say but can't quite figure out how to say it. And the longer he stands there, the more Yuri feels it—the soft, creeping awareness of how domestic this all feels. Flynn, worrying, checking his temperature, looking at him like a concerned parent—or worse, a concerned partner—

It sets Yuri’s nerves on edge in a different way, makes his skin itch in a way he refuses to think about.

He watches as Flynn studies him for one final, unending moment before he finally turns, disappearing down the hallway.

“And take a shower,” he calls back. “You stink.”

The door falls slightly ajar, leaving Yuri alone once more. He takes a sharp breath, holds it for five seconds before he lets it go with a shudder.

Shit. Shit.

He scrubs his hands over his face, trying to get his racing thoughts under control. He’d pulled himself together in the end, but Flynn's not an idiot. He definitely knows somethings off.

He pulls his legs over the side of the bed, trying to compose himself. He needs to get it together. He can't just keep sitting here freaking out about Flynn and this world and everything else. He needs a game plan.

First things first: he needs to understand this world better. From what he can tell, there’s magic in this world, but it’s faint. No one in this world believes it exists. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard of aer in this life, but since it’s so prevalent in his world his memories are getting mixed up. He needs to sort out what's real in this world and what's just bleeding over from his own—

Wait. What the hell is he doing? He’s got the whole world at his fingertips, doesn’t he?

His gaze drifts down to the phone. He'd been so caught up in his own head last night that he hadn't even thought about using the damn thing for anything beyond checking the time. But isn't this exactly what these things are for? Finding information?

And he's been treating it like a glorified clock.

Stupid. 

He grabs the first set of clothes he can find and slips out of the room, peering down the hallway to make sure the coast is clear before padding softly into the adjacent bathroom.

He locks the door behind him with a soft click, then presses his back against the cool wood, items clutched tightly to his chest.

Okay. Go time.

He sets the clothes aside and taps the screen to life. The message thread from earlier still sits there, the Don's words staring back at him.

'No worries kid, get some rest.'

Something uncomfortable stirs in his chest so he quickly swipes it away, focusing on the task at hand. Browser, browser... That's—that's this one, right?

He taps on the icon.

The empty search bar rests in the middle of the screen, cursor blinking expectantly.

It's absurd, how overwhelming it feels. Just this little box in his hand, and he could look up anything. Any object. Any name. Any history. A whole world at his fingertips...

... Some deeply ingrained part of him, the part raised on blastia and lower quarter workarounds, can't help but marvel at the thing. If people back home had stuff like this, it would have changed everything. No more relying on guild contacts or word-of-mouth rumors. No more traveling for days just to find information that might not even be accurate. Hell, if they'd had technology this advanced, would they have even bothered with blastia at all?

Maybe that's why magic isn't prevalent here, either. Maybe technology just... replaced it.

But he can still feel it. That subtle hum of aer beneath the surface. It's faint, but it's there. That has to count for something, right? As long as there's aer, there should be a way home.

… Right?

His stomach churns. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to focus. He can’t start doubting before he’s even begun.

But where the hell does he even start?

He stares at the blinking bar, thumb hovering over the keyboard. There's gotta be some information on this internet thing that knows about aer, or magic, or…

That box. The thing that yanked him across worlds. That's how he teleported, so that must be the way back, right?

But what the hell is he supposed to look up? Creepy red cube? He couldn't even tell what it was made of, or what the symbols on it even looked like…

"Okay," he mutters after a moment, starting to type. "Let's just… Red cube teleport magic thing—no, maybe device—"

The phone chirps.

"Searching: 'red cube teleport magic thing no maybe device'"

Yuri startles. "Wait, what?" 

A loading screen spins, then a video ad blares at full volume:

"ARE YOU INTERESTED IN THE POWER OF CRYSTALS? Discover your astral destiny today—"

"Shit!" He fumbles to turn it down, dropping it in the process. The phone clatters against the edge of the sink. "Damnit—"

By the time he finds the mute button, he's frazzled, annoyed, and somehow on a page called ‘Buzzfeed: Which Minecraft Cube Are You?’.

Yuri glares at it, unimpressed, then sinks onto the closed toilet lid with a heavy sigh.

Okay, he tells himself firmly. Maybe just start with the basics.

First he tries 'aer', but it's way too vague—giving him search results of travel companies and airline websites. He tries searching for 'mana' next, but that only brings up video game references and new age spirituality blogs. Nothing about the kind of magic he knows exists.

Yuri drags a hand down his face.

Abandoning that angle, he tries to type in what he remembers about the artifact—the red metallic sheen, the fact that there were designs etched into its surface, the size of the thing. But each search just brings up fantasy novels, movie props, or other similar things that Yuri unnervingly recognizes as ‘probably useless’.

More scrolling, more searching—nothing. Nothing useful, anyway. There was definitely a lot of something; turns out the internet isn’t just this world's collective knowledge. It's this world's collective ability to argue about literally everything.

Midway through his current rabbit hole—a forum on Reddit arguing about whether some ancient civilizations had derived from space—he drops his hand down with a frustrated sigh.

This is going to be a lot harder than he thought.

Or, wait—maybe he's going about this all wrong. If he can search up anything with this thing, he can search people, too, right? Which means—

Ioder.

Of course. If Ioder is here, and if he remembers, then Yuri won’t be alone in this mess. They could figure out how to get back together.

Plus, he'd been inches away from it before it went off, right? If anyone had gotten a good look at it, it would be Ioder. Maybe he'd seen the symbols, or even knew something Yuri didn't about the attack.

And if he's not here, or worse—doesn't remember—well... Yuri will cross that bridge when he gets to it.

He has a place to start now, at least. There's no way there could be that many people with his complicated name. Plus he's such a big shot in his world, that kind of person has to have some kind of presence online, right?

He types in 'Ioder Argoyle Heurassein', unwarranted hope blooming in his chest—

A sharp knock cuts through his concentration, making him nearly drop the phone again.

"You okay in there?"

Shit, right—the shower. He was supposed to actually be using it.

"Yeah, just—getting in now!" He fumbles for the faucet, pipes groaning to life as steam slowly begins to rise.

Flynn's voice picks up louder to compensate, muffled through the door. "Okay, well, food's almost ready."

"Cool, thanks," he says automatically, heart thundering in his ears. And then, before he can think better of it:

"Hey, Flynn?"

Flynn must have started to return to the kitchen, because his voice grows louder as he returns. “Yeah?”

"This might sound random, but—do you know anyone named Ioder?"

"Ioder?" A beat passes. "Why? Someone from work?"

"Uh, yeah. Someone I met."

There’s a pause on the other side of the door. “Oh,” Flynn says, then, “Sorry, nope.”

Damnit. “And there’s no, like, kings or princes named Ioder, right? Maybe like… a politician or something?”

He can practically see Flynn’s confused look in the silence. “… What?”

“Uh... never mind. Just—forget I asked.”

Another pause. “Oh—kay," Flynn says slowly. "Food’ll be ready in five.”

Yuri waits until Flynn's footsteps fade before looking back at his phone. Steam has started to fill the bathroom, and he wipes away the fog on his screen with his sleeve, glancing between it and the shower.

Five minutes, Flynn had said.

He can multitask, right?

He strips quickly, balancing the phone on the corner of the sink where he can still see it through the gathering steam. The search results are still loading as he steps into the shower, and the hot water helps to loosen some of the tension in his shoulders.

He keeps glancing at the screen through the steam as he washes his hair, watching the results slowly populate. There aren't many—less than he expected, actually. That's... good, right?

Ioder Martinez - Real Estate Agent, Pine Valley

Ioder C. Andersen - High School Teacher, Ashford

Ioder Singh - Software Developer, Westfield

Wrong names. Wrong faces. Wrong everything. He fights off the disappointment, eyes scanning through each new result as he scrolls slowly, carefully, uncaring as water drips down his elbow and onto the floor—

—Then, halfway down the second page of results, Yuri's breath seizes in his throat.

There—nestled between two more wrong faces—a single line of text that makes him freeze in place:

Ioder A. Heurassein.

And beside it, a tiny thumbnail portrait staring back at him.

Yuri braces himself against the slick shower wall, heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Holy shit.

Same blonde hair, same kind, green eyes, same overly perfect diplomatic smile Yuri always used to mock—

It's definitely him, right? It has to be him.

His finger trembles as he taps on the profile.

The enlarged photo fills the screen—Ioder at what looks like some campus event, standing next to someone in an expensive suit. He’s smiling politely at the camera, gaze piercing and full of life, and Yuri’s knees nearly buckle at the sight.

It's him. It's actually him.

A laugh escapes him—short, breathless, cracking somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming relief.

Holy fucking shit.

He swipes frantically through the information available. ‘Political Science student at Nova Crown University. Student Government President. Passionate about diplomatic solutions and social justice.’

“Fucking of course he is,” he breathes, something bright and sharp stirring in his chest.

He scrolls through more photos—pictures of him at campus events, student council meetings, charity drives—looking every bit as diplomatic and insufferably composed as his royal counterpart.

Nova Crown University... Yuri searches for the location with shaky fingers. It's only three hours away by car. Three hours. He could be there by—

Loud knocking jolts him back to reality. “Yuri!”

“Shit," he mutters, suddenly aware that the water's gone lukewarm. “Coming!”

He turns off the shower, hastily throws on his clothes, nearly slipping on the wet floor in his rush. He gives himself a second to breathe, to bite down the burning questions racing through his mind—like if he could search for everyone else this way, if they were all here too, if Ioder remembered and would be searching for him, too—before he yanks open the door to find Flynn standing there with his arms crossed.

Flynn's annoyed expression shifts immediately upon seeing Yuri—growing amusement, and something else Yuri can’t place. "You, uh, still have soap in your hair."

"What? Oh—" Yuri reaches up to touch his head, feeling the sudsy remains of his half-finished shower. Oops.

Flynn shakes his head, exasperation softening into something almost fond. "You're a mess. Don't you need to be at work in like, twenty minutes?”

Work. Right. The Don. The life he’s supposed to be pretending to have.

“Yeah, I—”

“Also,” Flynn tacks on. “The eggs are cold.”

“The eggs?” Yuri asks, then winces. “Oh, shit. Sorry—”

Flynn waves him off. "It's okay," he says, already turning back toward the kitchen. "I'll make you something you can have on our way there."

Yuri raises a brow, eyes following him. "'Our' way?"

"Yep," Flynn calls back with finality. "I'll drop you off and pick you up at closing."

Not good. “Flynn, I told you I don’t—”

“You can let me take you or call out sick,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turns around, eyes challenging. “Your choice.”

Yuri blinks at him, caught off guard by the familiar steel in Flynn's voice. It's so perfectly, stubbornly Flynn—the real Flynn—that for a moment he can only stare.

Normally he'd push back measure for measure, but something in him falters instead.

"Ugh, fine," he says, retreating back into the bathroom before Flynn can see whatever's written on his face. "Just—give me ten minutes."

He shuts the door before Flynn can reply, hand gripping the handle until he hears a quiet, amused breath and footsteps fading down the hall. Yuri lets himself sag against the door, lets the hammering in his chest die down before his gaze falls back to the phone clutched in his hand.

Ioder is only three hours away.

Three hours.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror—soap still clinging to his hair, face flushed from adrenaline, eyes bright with something dangerously close to hope—and a laugh escapes him. Short, shaky, definitely edging toward hysterical.

For the first time since waking up in this world, he recognizes the look staring back at him.

Chapter Text

“Here?”

"Shure," Yuri says through his last mouthful of breakfast sandwich.

Flynn pulls up to the curb after circling the block twice, finally giving up on finding a parking spot that isn't directly in front of a hydrant or reserved. The morning traffic is starting to pick up, and Flynn flicks on his hazard lights with a slight grimace as he watches a car slow behind them in his rearview mirror.

It’s only when Yuri steps out onto the sidewalk that the sheer magnitude of everything really strikes him.

In the other Yuri's memories, he's always categorized this city as medium sized, modest—a little underwhelming—but Yuri couldn't disagree more. Downtown feels as lively as the Capital; people rush past him with purpose, disappearing into glass towers whose ground floors house coffee shops and stores that are already crowded with morning customers.

He’s so mesmerized by it all that he nearly misses Flynn calling out to him through the passenger window.

"Just text me when you’re done, okay?”

Right. The plan. Yuri turns back to the car, channeling every ounce of casual confidence he can muster. "Actually, you don't have to. I've got plans after work."

Flynn blinks. "Wait, what? Since when?"

"Just gonna hang out with Luke for a bit," Yuri says with a shrug, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn't spent his 10 minutes in the bathroom practicing how to say it.

Luke—his coworker at the coffee shop, apparently. The guy with the long red hair who's always complaining about his rich family and their expectations. From what Yuri's gathered from memories and context clues, they're not exactly friends, but they get along well enough to seem like it.

"Luke?" Flynn's brows knit together. He looks around before adding, "I thought you said he was—and I quote—'an entitled brat with daddy issues'?"

Well, shit.

"Yeah, well," Yuri forces a laugh, "he's been better since he started dating that med student."

A car honks impatiently from behind them. Flynn's eyes dart to the rearview mirror anxiously, then back to Yuri, brows still furrowed. "That’s… that’s great? But, I mean—are you even sure you’ll feel up to—”

"I'm sure," Yuri says firmly, doing his best to ignore the flicker of confused hurt in his expression. “I'll text you when I get home, okay?”

Flynn stares at him for a beat, jaw working like he wants to say more until another aggressive honk makes him think better of it. His hands flex on the steering wheel.

"Okay," he says finally, voice carefully even. He shifts the car back into drive. "Have fun, I guess.”

Yuri takes two steps back, waving his goodbye as Flynn begins to drive away. He waits until the car disappears around the corner before finally dropping his hand with a deep exhale. Guilt settles uncomfortably in his stomach before he forces it aside; no time to unpack that or second-guess himself now.

Instead, Yuri pulls out his phone, unlocking the screen to the map app he’d pulled up earlier, and walks in the opposite direction of Dawn’s Coffee.

The bus station is only a block away, and with his thoughts racing, it feels like he gets there in no time at all. This Yuri practically gets everywhere by bus—mostly by this station—but even the muscle memory of walking this route and standing in line isn't enough to keep his nerves at bay.

He buys his ticket with shaky hands, watching the early morning crowd thin out as people board their respective buses. The closest stop near Nova Crown University leaves in ten minutes. A three hour car ride turning into nearly five by bus, plus the couple blocks he’ll need to walk to get there, but at least getting there is actually possible.

He gets to the platform as the last passengers are filing in, just in time to squeeze through the doors before they hiss shut. The bus is only half full—a few commuters with their morning coffee, some students talking quietly, scattered travelers who look like they're in it for the long haul. Yuri keeps his head down and moves past them, sliding into an empty window seat near the back.

Once the bus lurches into motion, Yuri finally allows himself to breathe.

This is it. He's actually doing it.

He's going to find Ioder.

His leg bounces restlessly as buildings blur past the window, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The initial excitement of finding Ioder's profile is slowly being tempered by the dawning realization that he has absolutely no idea how he’s actually going to find him. What exactly is his plan here? Show up at that university and then what? He’s pretty sure they don’t let strangers waltz in and ask around for someone they have no connection to.

Yuri pulls up Ioder's profile again, scrolling through his photos more carefully this time. He read that he lived in the dorms on campus, that the school was one of those prestigious, fancy ones, and all of his photos pretty much reflect that. Shots of him at formal events, student council meetings, charity fundraisers; he's always surrounded by well-dressed people, usually older than him.

He flicks through several images before he finds it: a casual photo of Ioder with some friends posing in front of some large building. It's exactly what he needs: one of several identical brick buildings with neat rows of windows and "Rosewood Hall" carved into the archway above the entrance. The caption reads, "Dorm life (:"

Yuri zooms in on the building details, committing them to memory. The big stone letters will make it impossible to miss, at least…

But then what? Just knock on his door and say, hey, remember when you were an emperor?

He bites the inside of his lip. Seeing as Yuri’s memories were reawakened at the sight of Flynn, and any time he thought of him, Yuri wagered he just needed to do or say something familiar enough to Ioder that he could realize and wake up on his own. He didn’t know Ioder that well, but Yuri’s shared enough ‘close calls’ with the man to leave a lasting impression.

Probably.

He did save the guy from drowning when he’d been trapped on Barbos’s ship—that's a pretty memorable experience in Yuri's book. And there was of course his most recent life or death experience…

… But worst case, couldn’t he just mention Flynn? They’d been genuinely close friends, after all. With him as the context, Yuri’s face might be enough to trigger something just by extension.

Hopefully.

… Well, first things first: find the guy.

After spending what feels like an ungodly amount of time studying Ioder's profile, the temptation Yuri's been running from all morning finally corners him. He'd been actively, deliberately avoiding it—but now, with hours stretching ahead of him and nothing but time to think, the urge becomes impossible to ignore.

His thumb hovers over the search bar for an unending minute before he finally, carefully types:

Estelle Sidos Heurassein.

Yuri’s heart sinks as the results populate—it’s less pages than Ioder had. A few random people with similar names, but no one that looks like his Estelle. He goes back to Ioder’s profile, looks for any related family members, any posts or comments that might mention her in passing…

Nothing.

The disappointment hits harder than he expected. He tries a few variations of her name, different spellings, but the results are all the same.

Rita Mordio, he types next, fingers trembling slightly.

Too common, apparently. He scrolls through pages of strangers—doctors, teachers, students—but none with those sharp green eyes or unruly brown hair. He even tacks on professions he thinks she could have, but it only makes the absence more glaring.

A pit starts to form in his stomach. Judith is way too common of a name, and she’s Kriytian, so who knows how that translates. Finding Raven is probably impossible.

He sucks in a shaky breath, typing in his last attempt.

"Come on, Karol," he murmurs.

The results for Karol Capel are equally impossible to sift through. Yuri spends time going through each profile with a hint of desperation now—even clicking on ones that have no profile photo at all—scanning the information available for any hint that his Karol might exist. He has to remind himself that ages work differently here, that Karol wouldn't necessarily be sixteen anymore. Hell, he could be in his twenties, thirties even, depending on how this world's timeline works.

But that realization only makes it worse somehow. Because Yuri doesn't even know what an older Karol would look like. The last time he'd seen him, the kid had barely hit his growth spurt, still all elbows and nervous energy…

He'd promised to take him out for drinks when he turned eighteen. "Real drinks," he'd told him, grinning at Karol's mortified expression. "Not that watered down stuff Raven sneaks you.”

Karol had turned bright red, sputtering excuses, and Yuri had simply laughed and ruffled his hair.

But now... Now, he might never see Karol hit eighteen. Might never see him gain the confidence that came with age, or see him finally stop apologizing for taking up space in a room...

Yuri's grip loosens on the phone, hand landing with a soft thud in his lap.

Outside the window, the landscape has shifted from urban sprawl to rolling hills. The morning sun cuts through the clouds, warming the leftover frost still glinting on the fields and casting everything in a golden light that should be beautiful but just makes Yuri feel hollow instead.

He sighs, leaning his head against the cool glass. Five hours suddenly feels like an eternity—too much time to think, to spiral. So he closes his eyes instead, lets the gentle rocking of the bus lull him into something that isn't quite sleep but isn't quite consciousness either.

He tries not to think about how quiet the world feels without Repede's steady breathing beside him, or how wrong it feels that Rita isn't here to call him an idiot for his half-baked plan.

The campus looks like it was designed by people who've never had to choose between eating and paying rent—fancy sidewalks, manicured lawns, buildings that practically scream 'old money'. Even the students are dressed to impress, wearing blazers and trousers and loafers that make Yuri suddenly acutely aware of his own worn hoodie and scuffed sneakers.

He finds a bench with a clear view of Rosewood Hall's entrance and settles in to wait, slouching just enough to look bored instead of anxious. The place is surprisingly packed for a Sunday—students rushing between buildings with streaming cups and textbooks, groups gathered around study tables discussing internships and study abroad trips and other things Yuri knows nothing about.

It's the exact place Yuri never fit into, in either reality.

A couple of students pass by, and for a moment he tenses, waiting for someone to ask what he's doing here—but they never do, too absorbed in their own conversation to spare him more than a glance.

Yuri lets out a quiet breath and slumps back against the bench. At least with this many people around, one more face in the crowd isn't drawing much attention.

He checks his phone. 2:47 PM. Who knows when Ioder might appear, if at all. Maybe he picked today to stay holed up in his dorm room, or hell, maybe he’s not even on campus at all—

No, he thinks, shutting that thought process down immediately. Not really a point spiraling over what-ifs now, is there?

He sinks into the bench and forces himself to people watch instead, using the task of cataloging faces to keep his anxious thoughts at bay.

Two hours crawl by. Yuri watches the steady stream of students flow in and out, eyes growing heavy despite himself. The warmth of the sun, the exhaustion of the morning, the entire emotional clusterfuck that’s been the last few days—it’s all starting to catch up with him. His eyelids start to droop, head lolling forward before he catches himself once, then twice—

"—honestly, I'm exhausted just thinking about it."

Yuri's head snaps up.

A group of several students have stopped in front of the archway. He sees a flash of blonde hair, but it feels like a shade too light, except—

"Come on, Ioder," a boy in a purple vest sighs. "You're going to Milan for a week. That's hardly a hardship."

And then Purple Vest shifts, and Yuri's breath catches.

Because there he is—Ioder fucking Heurassein, surrounded by a bunch of college kids and looking like he stepped out of some preppy magazine instead of an imperial throne room. His hair is styled to perfection and he’s wearing an expensive-looking sweater that probably costs more than Yuri makes in a month—but it's unmistakably him. Same sharp eyes, same overly straight posture like he's perpetually addressing a crowd—

Yuri can’t stop staring. It's fucking surreal, seeing him like this. Not pale and bloodied, not crumpled on cold stone, not staring at Yuri with wide, terrified eyes. Here he’s just some… some kid.

"It's a conference, Richard, not a vacation," Ioder says, and gods, even that measured, diplomatic tone is exactly the same—the one that used to make Yuri want to roll his eyes but now just loosens something tight in his chest. "The European Union summit on climate policy isn't exactly what I'd call recreational."

"But you'll be staying at The Grand Palazzo," a blonde girl chimes in. "And your dad's paying for it all, right?"

"Yeah, poor you," Richard adds with a grin. "Forced to dine on daddy's dime.”

Yuri blinks. Daddy’s dime?

"Father says half of diplomacy happens over dinner, anyway," Ioder says with a slight shrug, adjusting the cuff of his sweater. "Might as well make it memorable.”

Holy shit, Yuri thinks with a mixture of disbelief and bitter amusement. He’s a spoiled brat.

Yuri had expected different—he’d seen the photos, after all. But he didn't expect... this. The casual entitlement, the way he smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his sleeve…

Yuri never knew Ioder that well back home, sure. And yeah, he might've found that forced smile of his insufferable, but Flynn had told him enough stories to know he wasn’t like this. This isn't the same person who'd insisted on learning the names of every servant in the castle, who'd spent sleepless nights pacing and planning with Flynn because he actually gave a damn about the struggles of his citizens.

"God, you sound like such a politician already," Richard laughs, but it's affectionate rather than mocking.

"What time's your flight tomorrow?" someone else asks.

"Seven AM. Which means I absolutely have to finish that comparative politics paper tonight." Ioder runs a hand through his hair, the first crack in his composed exterior. "I'll probably be camped out at the library until they kick me out at midnight."

The blonde girl wrinkles her nose. "On a Sunday night? That's brutal."

"Such is the price of procrastination," Ioder sighs with theatrical drama that makes his friends laugh. “Speaking of which, I suppose I should finish packing beforehand…”

“God, now you’re giving me anxiety," the girl beside him laughs, nudging him playfully. “Just go, already.”

This is it.

He doesn't even remember getting up from the bench, but here he is, already on his feet, staring at a group of college students like some kind of creep. His legs feel unsteady beneath him, adrenaline and nerves and something stupidly hopeful making his hands shake.

But he doesn’t move.

Because Ioder is surrounded by people who clearly adore him, who hang on his every word like he's some sort of celebrity. And maybe that's exactly what he is here—some wealthy politician’s son who gets to jet off to Europe for important conferences and complain about staying at five-star hotels.

The thought makes Yuri's approach falter, and suddenly the five hour bus ride feels incredibly stupid. What was he thinking? That he could just waltz up to someone like that and expect them to give him the time of day?

"—really should get going," Ioder is saying, and Yuri feels his chance slipping. "See you all next Monday."

The group exchanges hugs and well-wishes, Richard and the others heading off in one direction while Ioder pulls out his phone, probably checking the time.

And Yuri just stands there, frozen like an idiot, as he disappears through the archway.

Shit.

He sinks back onto the bench, hands shaking slightly as he drags them through his hair.

Okay. Okay. So that didn't go as planned. But it's not like he only gets one shot at this, right? Ioder's not going anywhere—well, except to Milan tomorrow morning, but that still leaves tonight.

The library, then. Ioder will be at the library tonight, alone, working on some paper the rest of the night.

That’s good. That’s something.

Yuri pulls out his phone, searching the campus map. It’s a six minute walk from here, maybe less. If Ioder really plans on packing first, Yuri should have plenty of time to scope the place out and figure out his approach, right?

It’s better this way, anyway—neutral ground, quiet. Easier to strike up a natural conversation, and a hell of a lot better than loitering around here like a creep.

He just wishes the knot in his stomach didn’t say otherwise.

The library is bigger than he expected.

Yuri slows to a stop as it comes into view, chewing thoughtfully on something called a Velvet Crunch—a vending machine gamble he picked mostly out of desperation. It was the only thing less than three bucks, and even though the wrapper seemed to over promise the whole ‘premium dark chocolate experience’, it actually delivers—sweet enough to not taste like dirt, and solid enough that his stomach stops screaming at him.

He takes another bite as he eyes the building ahead.

The library stands out from everything else; three stories of concrete and glass that look more intimidating than inviting. But the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a pretty clear view inside, and with the sun already starting to set, the warm lights inside almost emphasize it: rows upon rows of books, screens, tables. The whole setup basically screams 'come on in, knowledge is free'.

Or it would, if not for the damn scanners on every door.

Yuri watches as a girl walks up, tapping a white card against the black square mounted beside the door. A soft beep, then it slides open, closing behind her.

Great.

He expected locked dorms—of course they’d keep strangers out of where students live. But the library? Seriously?

Yuri chews slowly as he circles the perimeter, looking for the usual suspects—a propped door, a service entrance, an open window—but there’s nothing. No unlocked doors, nothing that looks remotely jammable or bypassable. Every entrance has the same damn black scanner, and the lone security guard at the front desk—some bored student with her face lit by a phone screen—is just alert enough to be a problem.

Yuri dumps the wrapper in the nearest trash bin, chewing the last bite with frustration as he leans against the cool side wall.

Confidence might get him through. He's gotten through worse with less. But having two sets of memories scrambling his brain has clearly put him off his A-game, and if he gets caught, it’s over. No re-entry, no second shot.

He checks the time—5:03 PM—and starts weighing bad ideas. Maybe he waits outside, corners Ioder on the way in. But that screams stalker if he times it wrong, and he’s already flubbed one approach today—

“—oof—shit—sorry—!”

Yuri reacts on instinct, lunging forward to steady a stack of teetering textbooks just as the person carrying them stumbles into view. A short, silver haired kid with an overstuffed messenger bag and an ID card dangling from his mouth.

This could work.

“Woah, there—need a hand?”

The kid practically wilts in relief. “God, yes. Thank you,” he says, the ID card falling from his mouth as he gratefully lets Yuri take half his load. "I really should have made two trips, but I was trying to be efficient.”

"No problem." Yuri hefts the books, and— "Holy—What are these, bricks?" He glances at the top cover, which clears up absolutely nothing: Advanced Theoretical Mathematics and Quantum Physics Applications.

"Might as well be," the kid mutters. "I swear, if I have to read one more chapter about gravitational acceleration theory, I'm going to lose my mind."

“Can’t say I envy you,” Yuri says as they reach the doors.

“No one does,” the kid sighs, tapping his ID against the scanner.

Beep.

Yuri follows him through, trying to project the confidence of someone that belongs there. They pass the security desk without so much as a glance, the girl behind it glued to whatever is playing on her phone.

They make it to the first available table, both dropping their loads with matching sighs of relief—though for completely different reasons.

“I’m Genis, by the way,” he says, rubbing his shoulder.

“Yuri. Good luck with the... Uh.” He gestures vaguely to the tower of books. “Gravity… thing."

Genis snorts. "Gravitational acceleration. But close enough."

And just like that, he's in.

It takes another forty-five minutes of pretending to browse shelves before Ioder shows up.

Yuri spots him through the second-floor railing—same expensive sweater, sleeves pushed up now, phone pressed to his ear. His brows are drawn tight as he talks curtly into it, tone agitated, clipped. Even from a distance, Yuri can tell it isn’t a fun conversation.

"—understand that, but I specifically asked—" Ioder's voice carries just enough for Yuri to catch the edge of frustration before he forces it back under control. "Yes. Yes, I know. Fine. I’ll handle it.”

He ends the call with more force than necessary, rubs his temples, then sinks into a table in the corner of the room.

Finally alone.

Yuri repositions himself to get a better angle, watching from between the shelves as Ioder pulls out a laptop, a textbook, then a stack of papers that he spreads out in front of him. There’s something about it, though—the stiffness in his movements, the way he stops for a moment to run a hand through his hair, then arranges everything with the kind of methodical precision that screams stress management…

It’s nothing like the relaxed confidence he’d shown earlier with his friends, and something about that makes Yuri falter.

Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. Ioder types furiously, stops, deletes entire paragraphs. He slumps in his chair. Rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. Checks his phone. Forces himself to straighten. Types again.

And something uncomfortable twists in Yuri’s chest.

Because suddenly he's not just looking at some spoiled kid anymore. He's looking at someone drowning in expectations, in responsibilities, in the weight of trying to be perfect all the damn time—

And fuck, now all Yuri can see is Flynn.

Flynn, that day in the armory, collapsing into that chair with that same defeated sag in his shoulders, that same crease on his forehead. The hesitation in his eyes as he’d met Yuri’s gaze and quietly admitted just how exhausted he actually was.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm really cut out for this, Yuri."

Yuri swallows hard.

Flynn is back there, probably blaming himself for everything that went wrong. Probably working himself into the ground trying to fix it, the same way he always does. Yuri had left him alone again—left him to deal with the fallout while he got himself blasted into another dimension like an idiot. And hell, for all Flynn knows, Yuri is dead—

Yuri’s hands tighten into fists at his sides and suddenly he can't just stand here anymore. Not while Flynn is probably out there, grieving and running on fumes. Not when Yuri’s ticket back to him—to fixing all of this—could be right in front of him.

So he starts moving.

He grabs a random book from the nearest shelf without looking—something about economic theory that looks painfully boring—and lets the guilt propel him forward, that familiar reckless energy taking him down the stairs and across the library floor.

He slows as he approaches the table, forcing his breathing to even out. Don’t come in desperate. Just stick to the plan.

But the plan he'd half-formed in the last hour—something about getting him to drop his guard, finding the right opening—crumbles the closer he gets. This close, he can see the dark circles under Ioder’s eyes, the tension set in his jaw as he types furiously on his laptop—the guy’s clearly not in the mood for small talk.

Right. Straight to the point, then.

With what he hopes is the right amount of lazy confidence, Yuri stops in front of his table, tightens his grip on the book, and finally, finally says—

”Hey, mind if I sit here?”

Ioder stops typing. Straightens reflexively.

Green eyes meet grey.

And then those green eyes widen, just a fraction, and Yuri’s heart leaps into his throat—

“Oh,” Ioder says after a beat. His eyes flick to the empty chairs, then back to Yuri with polite disinterest. "Sure, go ahead."

Yuri's heart sinks. No real recognition. Just… that. Yuri slides into the seat across from him, trying to keep his expression neutral despite the disappointment churning in his gut. "Thanks. Library's pretty packed tonight."

"Final projects," Ioder says simply, already turning back to his work.

Yuri watches him for a moment, the soft clicking of keys filling the silence between them.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

Ioder’s fingers pause over the keyboard before he’s glancing up, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Yes?”

“It’s just—you look really familiar,” Yuri says, meeting his eyes. “Have we met before?”

That actually catches his full attention. Ioder’s brow furrows, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies Yuri’s face, clearly trying to place him.

Yuri stays perfectly still.

“I don’t think so,” Ioder says after a beat. “Though I suppose it's possible—I attend a lot of university functions." His eyes flick over Yuri. "Maybe you've seen me speak somewhere?"

Yuri’s hands tighten on his unopened book. Damnit. Damnit—

“Maybe,” he says, forcing a shrug. “Could’ve sworn it was somewhere else, though.”

"Mm," comes Ioder’s noncommittal reply. "Well, if you remember where, feel free to let me know.” He gives a tight smile before turning back to his work with the obvious undertone of 'I'm busy, please don't waste my time with networking attempts.'

But Yuri can’t end it there.

“Oh, wait a minute—” Yuri snaps his fingers, leaning forward slightly. “You were in Zaphias, weren’t you?”

Ioder blinks. “… Is that a restaurant?”

"No, it's—" The capital city. Where you lived. Where you were possibly assassinated.

He swallows. “It’s a city,” he says, hesitates, then decides to just go for it. “You know Estellise, right?”

“Who?”

Fuck. “Estellise—you’re—you’re not related?”

Ioder's polite smile fades into something guarded. He closes his laptop slowly. “Sorry, I don't know anyone by that name."

"She has pink hair, really sweet—”

Ioder shifts slightly in his seat, casting a quick glance around the room before checking his phone—not reading anything, just tapping it awake.

Yuri’s throat tightens. “She, uh… She also goes by ‘Estelle’—”

"I think you’re confusing me with someone else." Ioder's voice is stiffer now, more short, and Yuri knows. He starts gathering his things, bag zipping open with cold finality.

Wait. Don’t—

“Oh,” Yuri leans back, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “You know what? I probably know you from a mutual friend. You’d definitely—”

Ioder stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. 

"Sorry, I need to get going,” he says, shoving papers into his bag, and Yuri lurches to his feet—

"Mind if I walk with you? I’m heading that way, anyway—"

Ioder’s hands still on his bag.

“What?”

The word comes out sharp enough that a few nearby students glance over, and fuck, not good—

“Okay—yeah, no, that’s weird. I just—shit, sorry,” Yuri backpedals, hands raised. His mind scrambles for an excuse. "Look, I—"

“I don’t know you,” Ioder says firmly, stepping wide around the table and past him. “Excuse me.”

Yuri panics. “Wait—just hold on—”

But Ioder's already moving, laptop thrown hastily into his bag, a dozen eyes following him as he practically speed-walks toward the exit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

Yuri doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches Ioder’s blonde head disappear around the corner.

Then he curses under his breath and sprints after him.

Chapter Text

Yuri bursts out of the library doors, eyes scanning frantically for blonde hair in the dark. The courtyard is mostly empty now, just a few scattered groups of students, and—

—There. Ioder's halfway across the main walkway, moving fast—

"Wait!" Yuri calls out, breaking into a jog.

Ioder's head snaps around at the sound, eyes widening as they lock onto Yuri. He immediately breaks into a sprint, dodging around the few remaining students on the path.

"Stop following me!" Ioder shouts over his shoulder, and the nearby students turn to stare, their conversations trailing off into wary murmurs as they turn their attention to Yuri.

Great, an audience.

But Yuri can't really afford to care about that right now. This is his only chance—Ioder's leaving tomorrow, flying off to Europe, and if Yuri lets him go now—

Damnit. He forces himself to move faster, but Ioder's already crossed the plaza, weaving between benches and hedges faster than Yuri can keep up. Yuri curses under his breath as he watches him take another sharp turn, disappearing behind a building.

He follows the sound of Ioder's footsteps—rapid, echoing off the narrow walls—until they come to an abrupt stop.

Dead end.

Yuri slows his pace as he rounds the corner, chest heaving, and finds Ioder frozen between the building's brick wall and a wrought iron fence that borders it. It’s nothing but a narrow space between buildings; just brick, overgrown ivy, and a rusted gate at the far end that doesn’t look like it’s been opened in years.

Ioder realizes his mistake immediately. He grabs at the gate's bars, rattling them once in desperation before muttering something incoherent under his breath. When he whirls around to face Yuri, he's wild-eyed, chest rising and falling like he's about to hyperventilate. He presses himself into the corner where the gate meets the wall, hands fumbling frantically at his coat pocket.

"Look," Yuri says, stopping several feet away and raising his hands in surrender. He tries to force his voice into something gentler, less threatening, but he's too winded, the words coming out in gasps instead. "I just want to talk—"

"Who are you?" Ioder cuts in, eyes darting frantically between Yuri and the alley's entrance. "Y-You're not even a student, are you?"

"I can explain," Yuri says, taking a careful step forward. "If you'd just—"

"Don't come closer!" Ioder's voice cracks.

Yuri freezes in place, hands shooting up higher. "Woah, hey, okay—I'm staying right here, see?"

"Just—" Ioder's hand finally retrieves what he was looking for from his coat pocket. He tosses it onto the ground between them with shaking fingers. "—take it. I won't say anything, just leave me alone—"

"What—" Yuri stares down at the leather wallet, then back up at Ioder's face. "Oh, for the love of—I'm not trying to mug you!"

Ioder flinches at his tone, cowering further into the corner. Yuri makes a disgruntled sound.

"Can you just—" He sighs heavily, raking a shaky hand through his hair. "Okay, can we just start over? This is crazy."

Ioder says nothing, his gaze shooting back toward the exit like he's calculating whether he can make a run for it.

He doesn’t move, though. Neither of them do—standing in a silent standoff that's punctuated only by their heavy breathing. Yuri can practically feel the seconds ticking by, his window of opportunity shrinking with each visible puff of cold air between them.

"Look," Yuri tries again, going for calm and reasonable but sounding more like he's talking himself down from a ledge. "I just had a few questions. Alright? That's it."

"Is this about my father's company?" Ioder's voice trembles.

"What? No, why the hell—?” Yuri cuts himself off, taking a sharp breath. He tries again, slower this time. “Just a few questions. A few questions, and then I'll leave. Deal?"

Ioder glances between him and the exit again, clearly weighing his options. Eventually, he gives a jerky nod.

"Good." Yuri exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. "Now can you please pick up your wallet? You're making me feel like an asshole."

Ioder hesitates, then slowly crouches down to retrieve it, eyes never once leaving Yuri. The second it's in his hands, he's back against the wall, clutching it against his chest like a shield.

"Alright," Yuri begins, fighting to keep his voice steady. "It’s pretty obvious you don't remember me, else you wouldn't have ran… probably,” he says wryly, then swallows hard. "But do you remember Flynn?"

"F-Flynn?"

The name comes out as a stutter, and something unreadable flickers across Ioder's face—confusion, or maybe—

"Blonde hair, blue eyes, about my height?" Yuri asks, heartbeat in his throat.

"I... I don't know. I..." Ioder trails off, one hand drifting shakily to his forehead. "I don't..."

Yuri's heart leaps.

“You do know him,” Yuri presses, hope flaring in his chest. "Flynn, your friend—your best friend. He's brilliant, and stubborn, and kind of a stick in the mud.” He takes a step forward, barely registering the way Ioder begins to inch away again.

But Yuri can't help but ramble now, words tumbling out faster than his better judgment can catch them. "He was your best friend, your right hand man—you guys were always together, remember?"

"I... I don't know what you're talking about.” Ioder’s voice rises, then wavers. "I don't know what you're talking about. You've got the wrong person, I think, I—” A shaky, aborted laugh escapes him. “God, this is insane—"

"Just think," Yuri presses, composure cracking. "Don't you feel like something is missing? He was your Commandant—and Estellise was—"

Ioder’s expression shifts, confusion warping into fear.

"I think you need help..." Ioder whispers.

And that should be Yuri's cue, he knows it. He knows that he needs to back up, apologize, take a deep breath and start over.

Instead, something in him breaks open.

"Screw it—I know it sounds insane, but just listen," Yuri says, committed now, riding the edge of hysteria as days of fear and frustration boil over. He takes another step despite himself, watching Ioder freeze like a startled rabbit. "You're not some—some random rich kid going to some elitist school, alright? You're Emperor Ioder—the ruler of an empire. Your people need you—"

"Y-You're insane!" Ioder cries.

Yuri reaches out without thinking, hands landing on Ioder's shoulders before his brain can catch up. "Just—try to remember—"

"Don't touch me!"

But Yuri can't seem to loosen his grip, all the panic and grief from the last few days rising to his throat in a rambling mess.

"The attack at the castle, the—the guy who attacked you! Your guards risked their lives for you! I—" his voice breaks. "I risked my life. And now you're—you're—" Here? Dead? "—Don't you remember any of that?!"

"Please stop," Ioder whispers, voice breaking on each word. "I don't—I don't know."

The plea comes so quiet, barely audible—but it's enough. At once, the fog clears, and Yuri looks. Really looks.

Ioder’s gone rigid beneath his grip, pressed flat against the wall like he's trying to disappear into it. His chest stutters with shallow breaths, wide eyes locking onto Yuri’s before he’s screwing them shut. He looks pale, terrified and helpless and gods, it’s—it’s exactly like—

Yuri’s blood turns to ice. He rips his hands away.

“Fuck, I—” Yuri’s voice shakes, words tumbling in pieces. He stumbles back. “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t—”

Behind Ioder, light spills from his phone. Yuri catches a glimpse of the screen. Three numbers, a call in progress, and it takes a moment to process why his heart drops before recognition slams into him—

He rears back.

"You—you called the police?!"

Ioder slides down the wall to crouch on the ground, ducking his head.

"Security! S-Someone help!"

A muffled voice crackles through the phone—distant, professional, asking for details. The reality of the situation washes over him with sickening clarity.

He's just cornered a terrified student in an alley, rambling about empires and castles. He put his hands on him.

He's going to get arrested.

"I'm sorry," Yuri blurts out, backing toward the exit with his hands raised. "I'm leaving. I'm going."

But Ioder doesn’t respond. And when Yuri risks one last desperate glance back, he’s huddled on the ground, phone slack against his knee, one hand clamped to his forehead like he's trying to hold himself together. His breathing is rapid, gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere past Yuri like he’s not really seeing him at all.

Yuri wrenches himself away, shame burning hot in his chest.

And then he’s running, shoes pounding against the pavement as he tears out of the alley, the sound of approaching voices already echoing behind him—campus security, probably, responding to Ioder’s call.

Yuri doesn't stop running until he's several blocks away, chest heaving and lungs burning as he doubles over against a lamp post.

Fuck.

He presses his forehead against the cool metal, trying to stop the world from spinning. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, now—from adrenaline, from panic, from how spectacularly he'd just blown his only shot. But worse than that is the hollow ache spreading through his chest.

"Damnit," he breathes, voice cracking as he slides down the post. His legs give out and he hits the curb hard, head falling into his hands. "Damnit, damnit, damnit."

Ioder didn’t remember.

Not him, not the empire—not even Flynn.

Yuri doesn’t know what this means. He doesn’t want to think about what it means.

He hadn't been banking on Ioder recognizing him—they'd barely known each other, after all. But Flynn? Estelle? The entire fucking empire he'd ruled? There should have been something.

As the adrenaline fades, an overwhelming surge of dread begins to take its place.

He thinks back to when he first woke up, how just Flynn's name had sent daggers through his skull, had left him nauseous and disoriented for hours. But Ioder? Ioder had seemed… confused, sure—but not like someone fighting against buried memories. If anything, he was probably just reacting to Yuri scaring the shit out of him.

Which means either Yuri's words weren't enough to break through, or—

Or there was nothing to break through to.

Panic churns in his gut. Maybe Ioder was unaffected by the blast, sure, but that’s the best case scenario. More likely, if Ioder really doesn’t remember anything, it’s because he can’t.

Because after the artifact went off, Ioder really had been—

—Fuck. He knows he shouldn’t think like that, but the more steps he takes toward the bus station, the worse his thoughts spiral. Ioder didn’t remember. Yuri had failed. Whether he failed protecting him at the castle, or now, with regaining his memories, Yuri had failed him.

He wants to cling to hope. He still could bring Flynn here, somehow; try to get him to remember Flynn just like he had—but that ship has sailed, at least for the week. If this Ioder really is going on a trip…

… But did Yuri even have a week to wait for him to return? What was the state of the castle? Of his friends?

Did either of them even have a body to return to?

His pulse hammers in his ears, emotions running wild. He doesn’t have enough information. He doesn’t know if his attempts mean anything at all; he doesn’t know if he can even find the artifact again, let alone activate it, and now, without Ioder—

Fuck. He feels nauseous and defeated.

Maybe worse than that, though, is how alone he suddenly feels.

The bus ride back is a blur. Yuri stares out the window, watching the scenery pass without really seeing it, his mind replaying the disastrous confrontation over and over again.

He'd really messed up. Cornering Ioder like that—he probably sounded completely unhinged. And now he probably has a police report filed against him.

At least he’s a first time offender, so they won’t find his name in records or anything like that. He doesn’t even live there or have anything to do with the place, so maybe that will help him avoid any serious consequences. There's a good chance campus security will just write it off as a weird misunderstanding.

But, if they don’t…

Damnit, he's got enough problems without law enforcement getting involved.

At least Ioder is leaving town soon, that should help things blow over. But now getting Flynn anywhere near him might be impossible…

What’s the point, his brain bitterly supplies. He won’t remember.

Yuri slumps lower in his seat, exhaustion finally catching up to him. The sun has long since set, the bus windows reflecting a tired, defeated face back at him. His phone buzzes somewhere in his pocket, but Yuri can't bring himself to care.

What is he supposed to do now? He'd gambled everything on finding Ioder, hoping they could figure this out together. But Ioder is just... gone. Just like Flynn, just like everyone else. They're all here but they're not really here, living completely different lives, not really knowing Yuri at all.

Estelle doesn’t even seem to exist—Yuri never realized just how wrong a world without her would feel, how incomplete it would be. The kindest, gentlest person Yuri ever met. How could someone that real, that vibrant, just not exist?

Or maybe... maybe he's the one who's wrong. Maybe this is reality and everything else was just some elaborate, fucked up dream—

His phone vibrates.

Yuri jerks slightly, exhaling a shaky breath as it continues to vibrate. He digs it out of his pocket, the name on the screen making him freeze in place.

Incoming Call — Hanks

He stares at the words blankly.

It’s funny; he doesn’t feel that overwhelming spike of panic, that urgent need to start calculating how to sound normal. There’s just this growing, hollow sense of resignation. Like his brain has given up trying to process any of this and is trying to shut down instead.

But it’s Hanks. The man who took him in when no one else would, who never asked for anything in return except that Yuri live his life—

His throat tightens. He stares at the screen, thumb hovering uselessly as the phone continues to buzz in his palm. He could just... not answer. Let it go to voicemail. Pretend he's still sick, still sleeping off whatever mysterious illness Flynn told him about. But then Hanks will worry, and Flynn will worry, and—

At the last possible second, Yuri swipes to answer.

He waits a beat until he thinks he won’t stumble. “… Hey, old man.”

"Hey kid," Hanks' gruff voice comes through. Yuri's stomach twists distantly in response, but he’s feeling so numb that the shock of hearing his voice hardly registers. "Heard you had quite the scare yesterday."

"I'm fine," Yuri says automatically. His voice comes out more exhausted than he means it to.

"Mm-hmm." A pause. "Flynn called me in a right state, you know. Said you collapsed with a fever."

His free hand clenches in his lap. "It… It wasn't that bad."

"Sure it wasn't." Hanks sighs, and Yuri can practically see him rubbing his temples. "You sound rough, kid. What's eating at you?"

The question should make him scramble for an excuse, should send him straight into damage control mode. But Hanks sounds so much like himself—gruff and concerned and familiar—that for a moment, Yuri feels his guard slipping.

He closes his eyes, leans his head against the cold window, and lets himself pretend.

"Just... had a really bad day."

Hanks grunts. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not really." Yuri watches the streetlights blur past. "Just... feeling…” Discouraged. Miserable. Alone. “I don’t know.”

"Ah." There's understanding in that single syllable.

"Sometimes," Hanks says after a moment, "the best thing you can do is just keep putting one foot in front of the other. The rest'll sort itself out."

It's such a Hanks thing to say—practical, no-nonsense, tinged with the kind of weathered optimism that comes from surviving decades of life's curveballs. And it hits Yuri harder than it should, because it's exactly what his Hanks would have said too.

Yuri knows his voice wavers. “Yeah, well, not so sure about that this time around.”

Hanks lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Kid, you've got more grit than anyone I know. Whatever's got you down, you'll figure it out." His voice comes softer after a moment. “And don't forget—you've got people in your corner. Always have."

And damnit, suddenly Yuri feels it—the sting burning his eyes. He quickly blinks it away.

"… Thanks, Yuri manages after a moment, voice rough.

"Anytime." There's a pause, then Hanks clears his throat. "Speaking of which—don't worry about any of those maintenance requests for the next week or so. Lloyd can handle 'em.”

Yuri straightens slightly in his seat, that automatic sense of responsibility kicking in despite everything. "What? No, I'm fine to work. The fever thing wasn't—"

"Yuri." Hanks' tone cuts through his protest, firm but not unkind. "I'm not asking."

Yuri opens his mouth, then closes it.

"I don't want you overworking yourself on my account," Hanks continues, gentler now. "You hear me?"

"Yeah." Yuri's voice comes out thick. "I hear you."

"Good." Hanks seems satisfied with that, and the silence that follows isn’t as uncomfortable as Yuri thought it would be. After a beat, Hank’s voice brightens with something that might be anticipation. "I'll be back in town wednesday. How about you and I break out the old grill this weekend? Make those burnt burgers you used to love."

Yuri's chest tightens painfully.

Used to love—as if it's a memory they share, like it's something special between them. He can almost taste it suddenly: charcoal and grease, the way Hanks always burns the edges just slightly, standing around in the evening air while the old man complains about his tenants or the weather.

It feels real. More real than it should.

"Yeah," Yuri says, throat tight. "Sounds good."

They say their goodbyes, and Yuri hangs up, staring at the Call Ended screen for a long moment until it eventually dims to black.

Minutes pass, maybe longer.

Tentatively, he presses the power button. The lock screen flickers to life, and for the first time since waking up in this world, Yuri actually looks at the image under the clock display.

When he first saw it, he didn’t bother giving it a second thought. It’s clearly a photo this world’s Yuri took: some grainy, dark shot from a concert he’d apparently gone to. The photo is taken from somewhere in the crowd, probably in the middle of jumping for how blurry it is, and he can only make out that it’s a stage from the colorful stage lights just barely visible in the background.

Yuri doesn’t remember it. Not really. Just flickers and feelings. A vague echo of the crowd cheering. The way his heart had clenched at the sound of a certain verse…

It was this Yuri’s favorite band. That much he knows.

And the song—something about letting go, about refusing to backslide—had meant something to him. Meant enough to make it the phone screen he woke up to every morning.

Yuri's heart pangs at the thought.

He swipes it away, opening the photo app almost without thinking.

He scrolls through photos taken the last couple of days. Pictures from his job at the coffee shop—customers' latte art, a selfie with a coworker. Before and after shots of broken sinks and leaky pipes. A series of blurry photos of some stray cat he'd tried to befriend.

He keeps scrolling, through the weeks, months, years, something tight building in his chest. Group photos with Flynn at various places. Birthday parties. Hiking trips. Pictures with Hanks. With friends. Moments Yuri only vaguely remembers living.

Because they’re not his memories, not really. They belong to the other Yuri, the one who's lived here his whole life, who had people who cared about him, had moments worth capturing and keeping.

And he looks happy in them. Real.

Yuri spends the rest of the bus ride flipping through photos, trying to piece together the life of the person he’s supposed to be.

Yuri presses send the same time his head hits the arm of the couch, fully spent. The two bus trips, all the walking and running, not to mention the emotional wreckage of the day have left him barely conscious, but he'd already missed Flynn's text on the bus, and he'd promised to check in when he got home.

Flynn’s reply comes a few minutes later, halfway in the middle of his eyes fluttering closed.

For a second, Yuri doesn’t even know what he’s referring to. ‘fine’, he types, then deletes it. ‘had fun’—deleted. ‘good. his house is huge’—

He sighs. He doesn’t want to lie anymore. The truth is sitting too heavily on his mind—not that he could bring himself to type that out, either.

Yuri stares at his phone, feeling hollow. One word to summarize the complete disaster of a day. He'd failed Ioder, failed Flynn—failed everyone, really. And now he's just… tired.

Just like Hanks, Yuri can hear it—even through text, it still manages to sound like Flynn. His Flynn. Or maybe Yuri's just feeling sentimental again, trying to make a connection that isn’t really there.

A twinge of guilt settles in his stomach. Flynn's clearly fishing for details about a day that never happened. 

Yuri knows he should deflect it, somehow. Knows he should make something up about work being draining, about Luke.

But he's just so tired. So he settles with:

It's not entirely a lie, at least. Just... missing about ninety-nine percent of the context.

Flynn's response comes immediately.

Yuri swallows thickly.

It's surreal, seeing that easy comfort he'd struggled to find with his Flynn just be offered up so simply, without a second thought. No strings attached—nothing so complicated as duty or expectations or feelings getting in the way.

Yuri stares at the words until they begin to blur, something sharp and unexpected lodging itself in his throat.

And maybe it's because he's exhausted, or because this day has been too much, or because Hanks' kindness earlier left him feeling raw in a way he doesn’t know how to process, but—

The honesty slips out before he can stop it, and he stares at the message in growing horror.

What the hell is he doing?

He shouldn't be leaning on him like this. This Flynn thinks he's comforting his childhood friend, not some stranger who's taken his place. 

Regret pools in his stomach. He's in the middle of backtracking—’in bed though, i’ll see you in the morning'—when his phone buzzes again.

Yuri freezes, half-finished message still glowing on the screen. Then comes the inevitable soft knock at his door, barely audible but unmistakable. 

Panic flares through Yuri's chest.

He forces it down and slowly pulls himself upright, knuckles going pale from his death grip on the cushions beneath him. His heart hammers against his ribs as he stares at the door for a long moment. 

It's a bad idea; he shouldn't even be entertaining it. This Flynn's kindness, his easy affection—it belongs to a different Yuri. Taking advantage of that feels wrong on a level Yuri can't even articulate. It's selfish, and fucked up, and he just can't. He really, really can't.

And yet. And yet.

He sets his phone aside and forces himself to his feet, legs unsteady as he crosses to the door. His hand rests over the lock for a heartbeat before he’s turning it—almost reluctantly—with a soft click.

Flynn doesn’t give him time to think.

Yuri barely registers him standing there in his pajamas before he’s stepping forward to pull Yuri into a tight hug—solid, warm, real. For a stunned second, Yuri’s arms hang uselessly at his sides, his brain struggling to catch up—

But then, gods help him—Yuri melts into it.

He lets his arms come up to return it, collapsing against Flynn with all his weight even as his brain screams at him that this isn't him, this isn't real—and sinks into the warmth. Flynn smells like soap and toothpaste, his shoulder fitting so perfectly against Yuri's cheek that a shaky breath escapes him, pulled out like a confession he didn't mean to give.

Flynn's arms tighten fractionally around him in response, hands pressing gently against the fabric of his shirt, and for one, dangerous, stupid moment, Yuri screws his eyes shut and lets himself believe it's actually for him, that it actually is him—

And then Flynn is pulling back, a slight flush coloring his cheeks as he meets Yuri's eyes.

”There," he says with a sheepish smile.

Yuri opens his mouth, but no words come out. A complicated mix of grief and longing and overwhelming guilt crushes him, sudden and unbearable.

He takes an unconscious step back.

"I..." he starts, the words stuck in his throat. His voice comes out raw. “Thanks."

Flynn's smile fades, just a little. "... You okay?"

"Yeah." Yuri can't meet his eyes. "Just… tired. Really tired.”

Something flickers in Flynn's expression, and the guilt digs deeper. He opens his mouth to respond, but Yuri can’t—

"We should probably get some sleep," Yuri says, taking another step back, hoping it looks natural and not like some desperate retreat. "School tomorrow and all that."

"Oh. Right, yeah." Flynn's brow furrows slightly, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. He takes a reluctant step back, hand brushing the doorframe like he doesn’t want to leave. "Just… I’m here if you need to talk, okay?”

“Thanks,” Yuri says, offering what he hopes is a passable smile. "Night, Flynn."

Flynn smiles back, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Night."

Yuri closes the door before Flynn can say anything else, locks it softly, and leans his forehead against the wood. He listens until Flynn's footsteps fade away, and then presses his back against it, sliding down until he's sitting on the floor.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Yuri pulls his knees to his chest, trying to ignore the self-loathing building on top of everything else.

The worst part is how natural it feels. How easy it would be to fall into this pattern, to accept this version of his life where Flynn lives across the street and everything is simpler.

But he can't. Because every moment he spends pretending to be this other Yuri feels like a betrayal—of himself, of Flynn, of everything he’s ever known.

Yuri buries his face in his arms.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. He’ll start over, keep searching, figure something out.

That’s what Flynn would do, right?

The silence presses back, offering nothing in return.