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Rifts chose the place this time, which means it has booths like Fwhip likes, and if no one’s favourite snack is on the menu, at least their second favourite is.
Gem slides into their booth with a flounce of her monarch-patterned skirts. “What’s up with Scott?” she asks without preamble.
Sheriff makes a dismissive noise. “Owen’s back. Hello to you too, by the way.”
Gem grimaces. “Did Scott tell you that?”
“He brought him along to visit me. As if I wasn’t busy! And you know what Owen’s like if you give him a toolbox and a bunch of electrical wires.”
“Why were you working with a bunch of electrical wires?” Fwhip interrupts. His green-blue drink has a silly straw stuck in it, and is sitting untouched as he fiddles with a brass tile that keeps releasing little spherical puffs of mist.
“I wasn’t,” Sheriff says, defensively enough it’s obvious he was. “The electricians wanted someone to check the lights in another room were coming on when they flipped the switch,” he adds, huffy.
“I take it things are the same as ever,” Rifts says, the only person at the table who has taken a sip of their drink, pale purple and better-looking than it tastes.
“Yeah, they are,” Gem says. She picks up the menu in the middle of the table and starts flipping through it.
“No, they’ve gotten worse,” Sheriff says.
“They haven’t,” Fwhip says, reaching out without looking to flick the brim of Sheriff’s hat. “You’re just annoyed because now Owen likes to bug you too.”
“It’s not—” Sheriff starts. Interrupts himself with a snap of his fingers. “Wait. Rifts, you could fix this.”
Rifts has been occupying himself by stirring his drink and watching the pale clouds of it swirl, throwing off occasional sparks of colour. “What?”
“That’s your whole job, right? Mending relationships, helping people out? What’s the—Providing guidance? Community something?”
“I’m not an Excerpt anymore,” Rifts points out.
“Technically,” Fwhip says. “They never actually said you weren’t anymore, did they?”
“But you could sort them out, right?” Sheriff presses, caught on the idea. “You still do a lot of the Excerpt-y stuff. You know how to—You told Ms. Quail last week you were still doing mediations!”
Rifts shrugs. “Someone has to ask for those. It doesn’t work if I force it, and from what I’ve heard…” He gestures, to convey everything they do and do not know about Scott and Owen. “They’re not going to be interested.”
“They’re so weird,” Gem sighs. “But it’ll probably work out fine when Owen goes into the city again, right? It won’t take long.”
“But—” Sheriff puts his chin on his hand and slurps aggressively from the milkshake he ordered. In an undertone, he mutters, “What if he brings Owen again tomorrow?”
“That sounds like a you problem?” Fwhip and Gem say in sync.
Sheriff makes a face. “Rifts—”
“I think,” Rifts says rather firmly, “this one’s not something we should interfere with.”
“Let’s get something to eat,” Owen says to Scott as soon as he steps out of Chromia.
Scott does something complicated with his face, which he always does. He’s happy to see Owen, and trying to hide it, and annoyed with himself both for being happy and for trying to hide it. Really. And he acts all surprised when Owen can guess what he’s thinking just by looking at him.
“Not even a hello,” Scott mutters. “Okay, where?”
“If I tried to do pleasantries, you’d just get annoyed and complain about how it’s supposed to be your lunch break. Let’s go buy something from the stand over there. I think they have falafel.”
“It is my lunch break,” Scott says, not sounding surprised but communicating it anyway. He falls in step beside Owen. “You couldn’t have waited for me to be done with work?”
“You have, like, three different jobs, and every time I come back, you’ve replaced at least one of them with something else.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
It isn’t. But for the sake of argument, and the fact that Scott shouldn’t get to talk about Owen getting itchy sitting still when he’s just as bad. They get in line.
Scott sighs. “Good choice,” he says, nodding at the food stand. “I like them.”
“Of course,” Owen sniffs, which makes Scott’s mouth twitch.
He doesn’t get a chance to say anything though, because whoever was in front of them has just hurried away. The person operating the stand is smiling at them with eyebrows raised like they’re waiting for an answer to a question neither of them heard.
Owen looks instinctively at Scott, and regrets it for the full three seconds that Scott just stares back at him, expressionless.
Then Scott steps up to the counter and says, “Hello, Mia!”
He orders falafel and salad for the both of them, so smoothly it’s almost not obvious Owen’s half-hiding behind him, then strikes up easy conversation as Mia gets to work preparing their food. There’s no one in line behind them.
“Quiet day?” Scott asks.
Mia’s laugh is nervous as they snap up veggies with a pair of tongs and pull containers out from under the counter. “Everyone who can is already moving on. They’re saying we have to keep going. People are packing up to get to where runners have started setting up base camps.” They smile ruefully. “The only reason I’m still here is you and Chromia. Enjoy this, it might be a bit before we see each other again.”
They hold out two paper boxes, and Owen takes one, Scott the other. It’s warm and rough against Owen’s palms.
Scott sighs. “If they’re having to set up base camps, isn’t that a sign they should slow down? We barely got this district running as it is.”
Owen’s not thinking when he blurts, “You don’t know what it’s like in there.”
He’s not thinking, but it’s true.
Scott’s gaze flicks to Owen, then to Mia. “Let’s go find somewhere to sit,” he says, a half-second too slow. “See you, Mia.”
They find a bench on an out-of-the-way side street and begin to eat in silence.
“You know them?” Owen asks around a mouthful of food. Swallows too fast and coughs.
“Breathe,” Scott says, deadpan. Owen bats away the hand that reaches for his shoulder.
“You know that person?” Owen asks again.
“Mia? Yeah, I’ve been going there for weeks, Owen.” His face scrunches, and Owen is already starting to tune him out when he says, “You know, you’d know that if you came back more often—”
“Neither of us wants that,” Owen interrupts, which is already softening the blow more than Scott would have done. Make them both responsible for whatever this is.
Scott scowls.
“You don’t. I don’t.”
Scott says nothing. They’ve had this talk-turned-debate-turned-argument a hundred times; by now, the silence argues for them.
Owen likes to think his memory is pretty good. So he’s pretty sure those are new patches on the sleeve of Scott’s coat—this is the light one, Mirrors doesn’t really get cold—and careful embroidered patterns on the collar of Scott’s shirt. It’s a funny kind of accounting to do every time he comes back, but it’s reassuring, in its way.
“This is stupid,” Scott grumbles eventually, after he takes a bite of falafel and half of it falls back into the box. “One of these days, I’m making you eat with me in an actual restaurant.”
“No,” Owen says. “Thank you.”
Scott looks at him sidelong. “I’ll check what’s Mesh and what isn’t in advance?”
“No.”
In that gently amused, patiently cajoling voice that always makes Owen feel like a kid, he says, “What if I promise I know a place you’ll like? No invisible hats.”
Owen wrinkles his nose. “God, you’re probably wearing that ridiculous hat right now, aren’t you? I know what the Mesh is,” he adds reproachfully.
Scott makes a gesture that is unmistakably the tipping of a hat. It feels like giving up on something to laugh, but Owen does.
Scott smiles, satisfied, so Owen says, “I know why they do it.”
“What?”
“Why they keep going. Why I keep going. I don’t care about the church stuff. I don’t. But I know why they call getting lost in Mirrors holy.”
“You’ve told me,” Scott says, tired or resigned or something else that gets the threads deep in Owen’s chest to snarl and tighten. “I know you say I just don’t understand it, but I’ve tried, Owen, it’s just—”
“I don’t care if you don’t get it, you never will anyway.” It’s true, and not softer than Scott would have said it. “I’m saying you don’t have to understand it. Just—People have their reasons. Let me go.”
“I’m not keeping you here,” Scott says, flat, standing. “I have to get back to Chromia.”
Owen stands too. “I’m coming with you.”
Scott looks unimpressed, or like he’s trying to look unimpressed. “You really don’t have to.”
“You can see the Mesh.”
Scott rolls his eyes. “Get an implant. Stay somewhere else for a night. What’s stopping you?”
“You like it when I’m here,” Owen says, because it makes Scott’s expression flicker. “I’m coming with you.”
This is the thing: Owen needs to be able to evaluate his situation with a clear head, to keep his wits about himself and know that he’s got an accurate understanding of his own capabilities. Seeing Scott’s expression go soft at the edges makes him feel slimy. It makes him feel like he could do anything.
Pericarp’s pouring tea for them out on her balcony when the subject of the hour comes up.
“Oh, I know Owen! I met him a while ago; he seemed…” A hesitation. “Nice?”
Rifts chuckles, and in a moment of forgetfulness, narrowly avoiding spilling his tea on himself. Peri likes to fill the cups right up to almost overflowing, and he’s been taking slow sips to make it last until Sausage arrives.
“I mean, he was nice! I thought he was pretty nice. Scott didn’t agree with me, and I found out afterwards he took my entire bottle of my favourite honey without asking, which was not nice, but I would’ve forgiven him…”
“Would have?” Rifts asks. She’s already ducking into her apartment, muttering something barely audible about sugar cubes. He waits through the sound of tiles clicking and drawers opening.
She pokes her head back out. “He’s not around much. I don’t know if you know about it—? Wait, I just remembered, I left the sugar in the other cupboard—” She darts back inside in a swirl of the petals she’s always trailing behind herself.
“I know only as much as anyone else in our circle, I suspect,” Rifts says once she’s returned. He stands to help her set out little plates of biscuits and sugar.
“Yeah, I… We’ve hung out before, he’s like the only person who’s not creeped out by the view out here, and he asks a lot of questions about the Mesh, but we’re not really friends-friends, you know? Um, do you want more sugar? Or anything?”
Rifts declines as politely as he can considering this is the fifth time she’s asked in as many minutes. Peri’s helpfulness takes on an edge of desperation whenever it’s just the two of them, and he hasn’t figured out yet how to gently ask her what she thinks Excerpts actually do.
She says, “He doesn’t—visit? I mean, why would he, this place is so far out of the way, but it’s… Anyway. It’s good to hear he’s back, I guess?”
“Yeah,” Rifts says slowly. “I mean, I’ve mostly heard about him secondhand, but… I get the impression Scott likes when Owen is around, even if he won’t say so.”
“Yeah, what is that about?” Peri asks, straightening up, clutching the teapot. “Those two are always together. You’d think—I dunno. It’s a little sad Owen’s always going out there. Into the city. I bet Scott’s worried.”
Rifts turns his gaze toward the dark, winding streets of the city, all unlit buildings and unrecognizable alleys. Peri’s apartment is right on the edge of the part of Mirrors that’s been brought online. Rifts, standing here and looking out, can feel part of himself bleeding out into that unknown.
“Oh,” Peri says, quiet. Hushed, she asks, “What’s it like, going into the city?”
“It’s—” Rifts says, the sentence starting before he’s ready for it. “It’s… the start of an idea. It’s the point during a project where you can wave your hands and something happens, but you know it’s not finished yet. It’s the middle of an afternoon when you know what will happen next but not exactly how.” That doesn’t make any sense. He’s translating. “It’s not as frightening as people think.”
“Huh,” Peri says. She’s still holding the teapot. She goes to the railing, staring in the direction Rifts was looking. She laughs a little. “I think I’m still kind of scared of it.”
“Fair enough,” Rifts says.
There’s a little nursery-rhyme jingle from inside Peri’s apartment, and they both jolt. “Hello?” comes Sausage’s voice, muffled by the front door. “I’m not too late for a tea party, am I? I brought snacks!”
Peri and Rifts exchange fond grins, then Peri sets down the teapot and hurries for the door.
“Oh my god, Owen, what,” Scott snaps the moment his eyes open to Owen’s face looming too close to his own. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Used to longer days than you,” Owen mutters, managing to convey both petulance and smugness. Scott would be impressed if not for the lateness of the hour.
“More like used to having no fucking sleep schedule.” Scott adjusts the blankets, rolls over.
Owen, of course, climbs over Scott’s body so he can stare down at Scott from the other side of the bed. The hand planted directly on the soft spot of Scott’s side might have been accidental once upon a time, but it’s definitely deliberate now. Owen’s not a clumsy little kid anymore.
“You never finished telling me that story about the engineer,” Owen says.
“I have work in the morning,” Scott hisses.
“Tell them your brother was visiting.”
Scott glares, which he knows Owen sees because Owen spent the whole afternoon talking about how he can basically see in the dark now.
“Also, it’s cold.”
“It’s not. I know you can handle colder than this.”
“You were always saying that. Having talked to other people, I don’t think you’re normal.” He says it so plainly, like that’s any kind of thing you can just blurt out at someone in the dead of night, crouched over them in their own bed. He squirms around until he’s under the blanket with Scott and pressing icy fingers to Scott’s collarbones.
“Stop that, you’re freezing—”
“I told you so.” Owen scrunches up his nose, blinks a few times.
Scott’s eyes have adjusted to the dark.
With his face squished against the pillow, his brown eyes huge and shadowed, hair recently washed and long enough to cover most of the top half of his face if he tries, Owen looks younger than he is.
“Why are you even here,” Scott mutters, lifting an arm to pull Owen closer. Wraps a hand around the back of Owen’s head to tuck him under Scott’s chin.
“Have to come back to report my findings, don’t I?” Owen says against Scott’s shirt. God, he is absolutely getting drooled on tonight.
“You don’t have to do anything.”
Owen mumbles something unintelligible.
Really, Mirrors is eerily quiet, as far as city-ships go. There aren’t enough people even to fill the streets that have been lit up, and many of them prefer to step softly anyway. Compared to Scott’s vague memories of Gumption’s Gambit, covered in piping and overlapping conversation like a thick coat of paint, Mirrors is as still as stone.
Each time Owen exhales, there’s a faint whistle to the sound. Hearing it is like a needle through the heart, or the aftermath of it, a thin string that keeps pulling when Scott’s not expecting it. He wants it to snap. He wants to find the end of it and stitch it into his veins forever.
A long enough moment passes in silence that Scott dares to hope it was actually that easy to get him to sleep.
Then Owen declares, just a bit too loud, “I had a terrible dream.”
“Yeah?” Scott doesn’t bother to hide how tired of this he sounds.
“It was the worst thing my unconscious mind could come up with. It was really, really awful.”
“Just tell me what it was,” Scott sighs, realizing too late to stop himself that he’s carding fingers through Owen’s hair. He finds a tangle and works at undoing it, absentminded and trying to stay that way.
“I dreamt,” Owen says, “that you told me I should go back out there and get lost. Disappear into Mirrors forever. You know, I thought about it. I think I did.”
Scott despises how immediately his heart skips a beat. “I’ve never said that.”
“I know.” Owen yawns and betrays himself by wriggling impossibly closer. It doesn’t make Scott feel better. “‘S how I know it was a dream, innit?” A disgruntled huff. “Stop that, you’re pulling my hair.”
“You deserve it,” Scott snipes back. It takes a conscious effort to loosen his grip on Owen.
“You’re so rude,” Owen mutters. “If I ask nicely, will you sing me a lullaby?”
“No.” They’re not children anymore. “You’re not a baby.”
“Jerk.” It’s hard to take the insult seriously, mumbled all blearily like that.
Scott, not thinking about why, starts humming something he doesn’t care enough to remember the words to. Owen joins him for a few bars, then trails off.
So that still does the trick, Scott supposes.
The thing is it’s so easy to fall into this, every time. They don’t learn. Owen, soft puffs of breath and warm skin and pliant body curled safe and living and whole in Scott’s arms, will find a way to make Scott hate him again in the morning.
The Sky Reflected in Mirrors is not meant for those who grew up with the Divine Fleet’s ships. The radiant hues of the Mirage get dim, get faraway. In the dark, in the still, it is like wandering the lungs of a whale holding its incandescent breath. The buildings like ribs, the windows like the memory of true stars. The digital fizzes out, and the material left behind is like bones poking out beneath skin.
It is not that someone of the Divine Fleet must be unfamiliar with graves called cities called ships. It’s that they keep their graves, tend them and decorate them and run their fingers over them. The Sky Reflected in Mirrors is a grave absent its mourners. Walking its streets, the Divine Fleet’s followers don’t know how to unlearn the expectation of opened bodies.
Flashlight, sunset, glass. Wood and prayers only you can answer. In the doorway of one building, a carving of something three-winged and canid-like. On a bench, two circles of glass, one laid atop the other. There, a little further, graffiti in a language without translation. A dent in a lintel like someone drove a spike into it.
It’s an inflorescence of questions, each almost an answer in itself. Even the tunnels warren-winding below defy whole comprehension.
For some, every street is the same question: how much farther, until we might know what could have lured a god so far into this labyrinth it could not or would not come back out? For others, the question is more abstract, but just as true: if this place is a grave, what has been buried here? What bones do we yet roam upon?
Owen wakes up first the next morning. To Scott’s credit, when he wanders into the kitchen, he doesn’t look all that surprised to see Owen there. It’s never the same amount of time, with Scott, that Owen has to take to overstay his welcome.
“I made waffles,” Owen says, mouth full.
Scott looks slowly around the kitchen, his eyebrows rising. “You dripped batter all over the counter.”
Owen, scraping at his plate with a syrupy fork, says, “I’ll clean it in a bit.”
“You’ll sit there six hours from now and watch me clean it, is what you’ll do.” He turns away to investigate the fridge.
Owen shrugs. “Well, if you say so, sure.” At Scott’s huff and the sound of rustling, he adds, “I made some for you too.”
“Oh, I know.” The assurance would be more annoying if not for how it’s still Scott’s stitching that Owen thinks of when he’s patching old clothes. If not for how sometimes people get nervous sending you out into Mirrors if they think you don’t have a tether and for how Owen’s always been able to point them at Scott.
The whole room smells like syrup. Through the windows, if you look at the right angles, you can see the Mirage like a technicolour blanket.
Owen finishes his breakfast and thinks about leaving. Hands Scott his used fork, which he knows is Scott’s favourite and which Scott narrows his eyes at.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
That Excerpt that disappeared all those years ago. What was he sure-footed enough to walk away from?
Scott rinses the fork Owen gave him. Owen gets a new plate, passes it over. Having nowhere else to go, they sit across from each other at Scott’s dining table, where Scott eats and Owen watches.
“Where are you going today?” Scott asks.
“I’m going with you,” Owen says.
Scott looks away, chewing. Looks away, like he doesn’t believe him.