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There are two things about his current predicament that’s apparent to him. The first, that he isn’t uncomfortable. He knows better than to think it unintentional that his blindfold isn’t giving him a headache, and that his hands are bound loosely enough not to allow the flow of his blood.
The second thing he’s aware of: that this position of comfort isn’t meant to last. The shadows will weigh upon his eyelids steadily, until the mere sight of light might hurt them, and atrophy will set in his muscles and rid him of his agility. It’s only a matter of time.
That is, if his warden doesn’t arrive on time. And for all of Samatoki’s disregard for rules and niceties, he never keeps Gentaro waiting.
As if falling in accordance to an unseen script, he hears the click of the doorknob, barely the creak of the hinges, and very clearly the footsteps approaching him. But while Samatoki is all haste in his stride, his touch is heavy with care when he returns Gentaro’s vision.
“You have to keep those on,” is the first thing he says with Gentaro squinting up at him, discarding a proper greeting and eye contact both to motion at the ropes wound around Gentaro’s wrists. “At least while you’re in here.”
“I know the protocol,” replies Gentaro, rolling out a smile despite the protests of his sore elbows. “It hasn’t been that long since I’d been captured, has it?”
A lie that Samatoki doesn’t deem worthy of a response, busying himself instead by pulling up a chair to sit opposite Gentaro. The movement, though, is worth watching, from the minute frown that adorns him to the grunt he lets escape once he’s finally seated. Gentaro feels the lie twofold in his bones, right then; it had been quite a while.
It shouldn’t have been.
“You’ve been writing less,” says Samatoki without leaving room for denial or disagreement. “The agreement was to send letters at least once a month. We haven’t gotten one in more than that.”
“It’s hunting season. Perhaps your men have made game of the poor ravens.”
Samatoki only scoffs, crossing his arms and leaning back into the chair in a slow, measured motion that Gentaro reads as the practicing (or the dwindling) of his patience. As if he’s putting a slight, if inconsequential, distance between them to calm himself. Gentaro smiles, to soften how mildly he acquiesces.
“Our side has been busy. I haven’t found a moment most opportune. It is a war you’ve been waging, you know.”
“I know,” says Samatoki, dryly, and whether or not the amusement that seeps into it is accidental Gentaro still counts it as a victory. “How about now?”
“What about now?”
“You don’t need ravens to deliver your report now. Are you gonna start anytime soon?”
“Perhaps if I were given high-quality parchment and an inkwell that never dries. Along with a fruit tart, with rose petals on top, and while we’re at it, permitted to have my hands untied. Now be a peach and grant my requests, won’t you?”
“Thought you knew the protocol.”
“Thought you wanted your report.”
That, finally, bursts Samatoki into laughter, sharp and bright as a blade freshly forged. The tension turns ticklish until Gentaro’s laughing too, which definitely isn’t protocol, and is most alarmingly suspicious, but Gentaro’s remembered as a difficult prisoner around these parts and he intends to hold onto that reputation.
“I’m not an idiot,” says Samatoki, a hand at his abdomen as if that would subside the painful consequence of their laughing fit. “You’re avoiding the question. Think I can’t recognize your steps on the dance floor?”
“Of course not. But that’s never stopped me from trying out another waltz.” Gentaro sighs and it’s a more significant surrender than what he actually says next. “What you want to know hasn’t changed since the last time you asked. The prince maintains his stance on the war. His adviser hasn’t yet stopped telling him to consider otherwise. What the empress wants is the same thing she’s always wanted: dominion over all, with her son by her side.”
“That can’t be all of it. Not after all those moons have passed.”
Samatoki’s right, because it’s not. Gentaro’s left out the details, if only because orating the sheer number of them will root him into place all night and bait the dawn into catching him when he inevitably breaks free.
He doesn’t mention that Dice is against this war because he’s against all wars, and how often it keeps him awake that he is not at all his mother’s son if not for the blood they share. How bloodshot his eyes become after seeing a friend cut down. How Ramuda’s eyes fare no better despite having been created for this singular purpose of serving the crown. How neither of them wear that old spark that would have made Gentaro flit towards them in their days at Garreg Mach, even if it weren’t his assignment to do so. How he stays with them despite, offering his wings as kindling to the fire. How he intends to stay.
How the sun in their part of the shore cuts through the breath of winter with ease, reaching him through the windows in the library Dice said was his to peruse, anytime, during reprieves from the battlefield.
If only because of that.
“Pardon me for the disappointing reunion,” shrugs Gentaro, and he isn’t so cowardly as to avert his gaze from Samatoki while he lies to him again. At the very least, Samatoki is no stranger to it, not since the first time Gentaro had stolen Samatoki’s bracelet right off his wrist (and with it a spot among his band of thieves) when they were children and said he’d only come upon it on the street.
Samatoki’s answering stare seems to agree.
“Do you know the way back?” He asks, instead, because more than not being the kind to beg, he’s far too kind to force Gentaro into refusing. Kinder than Gentaro deserves, but not so fragile that Gentaro would go out of his way to avoid breaking him.
“Like the stars know the sea.” Again, Gentaro smiles, and he’s smiling as Samatoki approaches to undo his bindings, smiling as he reaches out to take the pendant in the midst of Samatoki’s collarbones—a symbol of the rebellion, among others—between his fingertips. “This is looking a shade tarnished. You ought to polish it more often.”
The situation doesn’t occur to Samatoki until a handful of seconds later, after which he growls, “You little shit.”
Gentaro’s smile widens into a grin as he shows off his freed hands. “Saves you the trouble, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure.” Again, Samatoki scoffs, but it’s softer now, recognizing the moment as tenuous, and even with his loyalties firmly elsewhere, he lets his eyes linger on Gentaro.
It’s as deliberate as everything he does, but it doesn’t last.
*
There are two things Gentaro bears in mind once the night has cloaked darkly enough for him to slip away unseen. The first, that his escape is near effortless but not on his own merit, as if the route had been cleared for him beforehand.
The second is a memory, rather than anything completely depended upon to be true:
“You’re smiling,” says Samatoki, as a cigar stolen from one of the nobles switches hands. Gentaro has just finished recounting, in exquisite detail, how His Royal Highness had been caught gambling among the commoners, yet again, and had to receive an earful from the archbishop herself about how his actions were unbecoming of the crown prince.
The You like him goes unsaid, but not unheard. Gentaro exhales and smoke stutters out of him in bursts, imitating laughter.
“I suppose I am.”
You won't stay with me, I know
But you can have your way with me until you go
— FINNEAS, 'Let’s Fall in Love for the Night'