Stay At Night

“-and that’s when Mash, get this, that’s when Mash replied with well, of course. You’re in an elevator.”

Artoria snorts, a low strangled sound similar to a sneeze, followed by another noise, and another, and another, until it devolves into a full-blown cackle. It’s ugly and ridiculous and not too dissimilar to a hyena’s laugh, and it’s absolute music to your ears. You can’t see faces all that well anymore, but even through the haze of your curse you can make out the crinkling of a nose, the baring of teeth, the pure joy on her face through this. You could look at her for hours and not get bored.

Alas, every good thing has to end. Soon, her laughter dies down, and she glances up at the clock. “Ah, man. I was so into the story I wasn’t looking at the time. I should go before it gets too dark.”

“Ah, right right.” You reply lightly, though you can’t help but feel disheartened that your time together is cut short. You get up from the couch, stretch, and make a vague gesture towards the remains of the pizza. “Do you want the leftovers? There’s no way I’m eating all of that.”

She lets out a fake sigh, then gathers the cartons together. “Sure, I guess. We really need to stop ordering so much everytime.”

“It’s hard to gauge how much we need when you eat so much.”

“Oh, fuck you.” She kicks her slipper off right to your face. You shield yourself with a laugh. She’s laughing too, so you know she doesn’t hold it against you.

The banter continues for a few minutes, but eventually, it dies down. Artoria gathers the leftovers in a box under an arm, then heads towards the door. “Alright. See you next time, then?”

You should see her out. You should respond with yes, see you next time. You should open the door and wave at her and watch her walk into the distance. It would be easy. You’ve done it before. It would be so easy to let her pretend she’s walking home.

You know she has none to go back to.

(There’s a reason you always order a little too much when she comes over.)

You should let her go. It would be easy. You’ve done it before. It would be easy. It would be easy. It should be easy.

It’s not, and perhaps that’s why this time you snap.

“You could stay at night.” You say. “You know. If you want.”

Artoria pauses, a hand on the door handle.

You can find excuses to give her leftovers. You can give her clothes and blankets and knick-knacks under the pretense of friendship. But the one thing you could never sneak in her hands is a roof and a soft bed.

She’s pretending, so you go along. She goes along with your own pretenses, after all. But you think you’ve left her homeless for long enough.

“… The.” She replies after a short pause. She’s not looking at you. “I could stay the night. The singular night. Saying I could stay at night implies I could stay every night forever. You need to be careful about your wording, Ritsuka. Someone could take advantage of that.”

You know. Exact wordings are important. It’s the difference between what do I call you and can I have your name.

You do not take it back. “I think you know exactly what I meant.”

Slowly, she turns to look at you.

“… Where’s your salt?”

… Okay, what? “I’m sorry?”

“Your cooking salt. Where is it? I’ve been in your kitchen more time than I can count, and I don’t recall ever seeing any. So where is it?”

“Why? I didn’t know you could cook at all.”

She shoves the pizza boxes over the counter and takes a step towards you. “Where is it, Ritsuka.”

“I don’t know. Somewhere? In a cupboard?” You sit back on the couch with a shrug. “I don’t use salt much when I cook-”

“What about your silverware?” She strides across the room. “I’ve seen chopsticks and wooden spoons, but no fork.”

“I’m Japanese. I don’t use those.”

“And you don’t use knives either?”

“I just store those elsewhere. I don’t know why-”

“Ritsuka,” her hands land on the back of the couch, framing your head. She looks down on you, effectively pinning you there, and you wish you could see the details of her features. “What do you think I am?”

You stare back, unblinking. You will not flinch. “You are my friend.”

“What a non-answer.”

“It’s the only answer of worth I have.”

“Do you think I would flinch in the presence of salt, Ritsuka? Do you think my skin would burn under the touch of iron?”

“I told you, I don’t-”

“Do you think me a Fae, Ritsuka?”

Ah. She just out and said it. You… hadn’t expected that. No one speaks openly of the fair folks in this city. Not even you (especially not you.) “I’ve seen you lie.” You reply. Fairies are well-known to be incapable of that.

“But you don’t think me human.”

You don’t respond to that. If you didn’t have doubts, you wouldn’t be hiding your salt and your iron anytime she comes over.

“What do you think you’re doing, inviting unknown creatures into your home?! Do you want to get hurt? Is that it? Are you a masochist?”

You quirk up an eyebrow. “I don’t think how what you are is relevant in that regard. Human and nonhuman can hurt me all the same. Why should I care if they do it with a knife or with a curse?”

“Maybe if you cared you wouldn’t be riddled with so many curses!”

Oh. Oooh, you see what the problem is. You’ve always suspected it, but like many things with Artoria the two of you have always skirted around the subject.

She has the Sight. Able to see the truth in every things- in words, in actions. And through illusions.

Yeah. You don’t know what you look like to her, but you know it must not be pretty. “Some of these are blessings too, I’ll have you know.”

“And what did you trade for these, huh? Enlighten me. How much of you do faes own?”

Nothing I couldn’t afford to lose, but you doubt she would take that answer kindly, so instead you reply with: “some of these are gifts too. From friends.”

“To be loved by the fair folk is far worse than bartering with them.”

“It’s heavy, but I bear it.”

“Of course you do.” Her left hand leaves the couch to gently touch your throat. “They won’t even let you die.”

(Mash’s sole blessing upon you; she’s not a fae, not quite, not really. Curses and blessings are not her trade. But she was just enough to ask you to live. She was inhuman enough to force you to live. Whether you wanted it or not.)

You reach up, slowly. Tap your fingers against hers. She doesn’t pull away. You take her hand, then, as softly as you can manage. You’re not sure if you succeed. It’s hard to tell the pressure you’re exerting anymore. She’s not yelping though, so there’s that.

“Artoria. Stay the night. Stay at night.”

“I told you-”

“Do you really think committing to the homeless life is going to help me?” And then, a little quieter: “Do you really think anything in this world could save me?”

You are cursed, cursed to the marrow. Faces are unrecognizable to you nowadays. Your hands have long lost any fine motor skill. Your body is only vaguely held up by the fact that half of your curses are nullifying each other.

What do you have to lose, then, by being kind? What do you have to lose, in loving recklessly?

“Artoria. Stay.” You lean forward, until your forehead rests against hers. “I don’t know what you are. I don’t care. I am no Winter Court and I am no human council. Please, just… stay.”

Artoria stares, for a few seconds. You wonder what she sees. You don’t have the Sight yourself; for all your gifts, this is not one of them. Does she see your heart, bared and bleeding? Does she see the love you hold for her, so much it threatens to spill? Or does she see the horrors circling your eyelids, the marks left behind by enemies and ill-advised allies alike?

She sighs, and closes her eyes. “… Alright.” It sounds like there is so much more she wants to say. Her shoulders are tense. Her hand is trembling in yours. She looks like a little animal about to flee.

But she doesn’t. She stays here, in your house, forehead on forehead, and that’s more trust than you ever thought she would give you. “Alright.”

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