Wrong Number

She jumps out of bed the second she hears her phone buzz.

At first, she’s only startled by the noise; Artoria has always been a light sleeper (better have very fragmented sleep than to wake up dunked in a bathtub) and so any sound right by her ear is bound to set her off. Then she realizes the noise comes from her phone, and her half-asleep concern turns into fully awake anxiety.

She forgot to turn off a phone.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck she forgot to turn off a phone she’d picked so many pockets last nights she must have skipped one of them. Fuck fuck fuck she needs to get her shit and leave right now if they turned on remote localization she is toast.

She slams her hand on that phone and click on the button. She intends to power it off right away, but the notification flashes right into her eyes, reading:

Artoria’s first thought is: thank god, that’s no death threat for stealing someone else’s phone.

Her second thought is: who the fuck texts at four in the morning.

Unlocking the phone is painfully easy- there are glaring fingertips on very specific spots of that touchscreen. Briefly, she scrolls up through that conversation with “Senpai.” She doesn’t really read it (it’s very boring and mundane stuff as far as she can tell) but she does check the timestamps. Whoever this guy is, they’ve got the nasty habit of texting at the oddest hours.

That’s… An okay thing to say, right? Friends banter all the time. Probably. Not that Artoria has much experience in that regard, but she’s seen movies. That was prooobably generic enough to not betray her identity.

She wouldn’t know. If Artoria gave up on any of her current habits, she would either die or go to jail.

Fuck. Right. Jail. She needs to pack up and leave. What is she even doing? Chatting with a stranger? Why not send them her ip address while she’s at it?

She turns the phone off, and shoves her stuff back in her bag. She has to get going.

---

She grabs the first bus she finds and sells her loot next town. She never stays in one place for long anyways. She doesn’t feel any safer among resellers than she does with the police. The less people can recognize her, the better. She dumps the jewelry, the ipads, the wallets, the watches, anything of value she had for a handful of cash.

She keeps one of the phones.

She doesn’t know why. By now its rightful owner probably rescinded her sim card. Even if it were safe to keep (which she’s not even sure of) it’s not like she can use it to text anyone, yet alone him. It’s a liability. A danger. A waste of money.

Three days in, she turns in back on.

Artoria stares at the message for a few seconds. And then, slowly, she types out a reply.

---

Every morning she wakes up expecting her signal to die. Every morning she wakes up expecting this stranger on the other side of the screen to realize that she’s a fraud committing blatant identity theft. Every morning she wakes up expecting the messages to die down.

They don’t.

It’s stressful as hell. She has to watch anything she says to not contradict herself. She can’t be too specific about anything, or the whole ruse will fall down. Sometimes, thinking her replies through give her a stomachache.

But-

A phone hazardeously stashed under a bed. A username; Mage_of_Flowers. Late night conversations. A promise. I’ll be there for you.

-it has been a long, long time since she’s had a friendly conversation with anyone.

It helps that this guy always texts at the oddest hours. Quite concerning for their health, but useful on Artoria’s side. Daylight is great for pickpocketing and commuting, but nighttime is when she’s the most at ease.

Artoria looks up from her phone. Two drunk guys are currently arguing in front of the bar. A cat is yowling down the alleyway the way only animals in heat do. Broken glass and cigarettes litter the road. And she’ll take that life a hundred times over Tintagel and its perfect lawns and its kicks to her stomach.

---

Artoria expects, naturally, for the picture to be that of a bra laying on a table. Maybe a rack with all the bras they were thinking of getting. Not to be flashed with tits in the middle of the street.

She immediately trips over herself, barely catches herself on a bench, and promptly sits down to avoid further incidents.

What the fuck. What the fuck happened to them??

She’d always known there was something wrong with her chatting partner; most people sleep eight hours a day, be it from 11pm or 3am. But she’d always assumed it was some sort of insomnia, an illness, not- this.

There is a scar on their belly. Not surgery. It’s botched, amateurish, done with purpose but not with skill. If anything, it reminds Artoria of when her toes necrotized, and she had to take a knife to-

There. Playful banter. The situation is not upsetting and is not worrying. This is a surgery scar by some guy who cheated to get his diploma. That’s it. That’s it.

(When Artoria was a child, back in Tintagel, she managed to catch a pigeon. She’d intended to eat it raw, but the first wing made her sick. Merlin had scolded her over text, and then instructed her on how to remove the organs, how to pick the bones clean, how to cook it as quickly as possible without getting caught.)

(This is what that scar looks like. Like they’ve been gutted.)

Oh. Oh fuck. Oh.

Okay she. She gets it. The pic barely shows any skin at all- just a hint of belly, and then a pair of briefs- but there’s no need for skin for that bulge to be sexy. Okay. Okay. Okay, she gets it.

Her thumb hovers over the touchscreen. She could play dumb. Could ask for more exemples. Push some more, get to see more, find a nice rooftop to hide in and jerk off-

---

Fuyuki, huh? She googles it up quickly. It’s pretty far. The shortest way there takes no less than seven buses (or three trains, but it’s noticeably easier to stowaway in a bus than in a train.)

She’s always wandered at random. Might as well do it on purpose for once.

---

It occurs to her, between two bouts of panic and general this is the stupidest shit I’ve ever done, that she’s never seen her friend’s face. She’s seen their tits, she’s seen the outline of their dick, but she’s never seen them proper.

Technically, she only sees half of their face now; thick glasses cover their eyes, hiding most of the upper half. Everything else is out in the open though; nose, mouth, cheeks, they look so… so…

Ordinary.

Whatever their issues are, they’re just… a person. Just a regular person.

“I’m glad you could make it!” They greet her with a smile. Like this, Artoria can almost fool herself into thinking that they’re happy to see her, that they’d smile the same way if they had their full sight, if they could see her for who she truly is. “It’s good to see you. Or, well. Hear you.”

She has a nervous laugh. Stay calm. Stay calm. Fuuuuuuuuck why did she coooome this is stupiiiiiid. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

They extend a hand toward her. She grabs it, with the intention to shake- but before she knows it they tug, pulling her into a tight embrace. It’s as brief as it is mundane; when her friend lets go, they turn around and walk back into their apartment, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

Artoria’s skin is tingling all over. She can’t remember the last time anyone has touched her with affection.

“Welcome to my humble abode!” They make a vague wave with one hand. The other is set firmly against a wall for guidance. “It’s not much, but it works.”

It’s not much, but it’s still load better than the streets (or her childhood stable for that matter) so this two-rooms apartment seems marvelous to Artoria. There are separate rooms for the toilet, the bedroom, and the living room. There’s cookware, furniture, a fridge, Artoria would kill for a way to keep food long term- and there are power outlets, just here in the open, do you have the slightest idea of how much of a bitch it is to order a coffee anytime she wants to charge her phone at a café?

It’s like a dream. The entire situation is like a dream. They sit down and talk- talk! When was the last time she had a meaningful conversation with anyone?- she boils water and they eat shitty ramens together. They let her borrow their showers, and even a shirt while she’s at it.

(She “borrows” some other stuff too- just knick-knacks! Nothing they would miss! Old habits are hard to kill. She slides a fork in her pocket, and the prickle of the prongs through the fabric is her reminder that this is truly real.)

Sadly, she’s been journeying for days now, and by 2am, she’s yawning like crazy. Her friend chuckles at that. “Need to sleep?”

“’just need a couple hours.” She grumbles, rubbing her eye. “Can I take your couch?”

They reach out to pat around until they finally grab her upper arm, and then they get up. “Don’t be silly. The bed is big enough for the both of us.”

Aaah. Yes, that makes sense- HUH????

“I- what?”

But they’re already pulling her forward, walking with a hand extended to not hit anything. “I got a big mattress just for that purpose. We won’t even have to touch if we’re careful to not move too much.” Their knees hit the bed and they stagger briefly, before letting go of her. “There we go. It’ll give me a good excuse to sleep too, I guess.”

There are a thousand reasons why this would be a bad idea, but none of them functions without the very important context of I am not who you think I am and you shouldn’t invite a near-stranger in your bed first thing, so she turns off the light and gets under the covers.

As promised, they don’t touch. They turn their back to her, and then essentially turn to stone, unmoving the entire time. It’s not much different than sleeping with a desk or a pile of hay.

Artoria can’t sleep.

Ector had patted her on the head as a child. Merlin had texted her until her burner phone was found out. But that- sleeping with someone- laying open at your most vulnerable with someone- that, she has never done.

She counts their inhales. One. Two. Three. It’s dark in their room, the moonlight barely shining through the window. Their shelf is full of books, about half mangas and half advanced physics manuals. She counts. Four. Five. Six.

Is this what life is like for normal people? Casual affection, effortless connection? Is this what life is like for anyone who isn’t her?

Seven. Eight. Nine. She wants to scream. If you knew who I was, would you still do this? If you knew all my lies to you, would you still welcome me here? Ten. Eleven. Twelve. The bed is too soft. It’s unbearable. Her heart is beating like crazy, expecting the other shoe to drop, the kicks to come back full force. It won’t so long as she keeps the charade up. She doesn’t know anymore if this would be better or worse.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

By thirty-six, she falls asleep.

---

Artoria has always been a light sleeper. As such, she wakes when she feels the bed shift. She doesn’t move yet, though; it takes her a moment to remember where she is, what she’s doing here, and most importantly, who she’s pretending to be at the moment.

She… should be safe, though (as safe as she can be, if anything) and so once she’s gathered her bearings, she cracks an eye open and peers up.

Her friend is sitting up. They’re holding their glasses in one hand. They’re waving their other one in front of their face, as if to check their eyesight.

Artoria’s blood runs cold.

Three large scars cross their face horizontally, passing by each of their eyes. They look like slashes of sorts, but Artoria can tell from experience that these were not made by knives. They look like something else; something less sharp, but just as destructive. Like claws.

My eyesight is declining. I need surgery to get better. No fucking wonder.

She must have made a noise, because her friend startles. “Ah, sorry, did I wake you? I wanted to check if my sight was back.” They shoot a sheepish smile in her general direction. “No dice, though.”

“Yes, I assume you’d need multiple days to recover from that.” She responds, rolling on her back. “… Fuck. What happened to you?”

“I fell asleep with a gorgeous friend whom I happen to be very fond of. Give it a bit, it’ll calm down on its own.”

For a few seconds, Artoria says nothing, trying to understand what the fuck they’re talking about. Then her gaze falls down between their legs, and she feels the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Oh.”

They burst out laughing at that. “Sorry! I love boner jokes. They’re funny.” They shake their head, a light smile on their face. “Don’t worry though. While I would love to have sex with you, I’d like to know your name first.”

…

“You knew.” She doesn’t mean to sound accusatory. But when she speaks up, her voice is cold as ice.

“So you did think I didn’t know.” They tilt their head to the side. “Yeah, I know Mash in real life. She dropped by a couple weeks later. She told me she lost her phone, and it wasn’t hard to figure it out from there.”

“… And you invited me into your house? While you were blind?” 

“What’s the worst you could do? Steal my stuff? I’m not really materialistic.”

“I could hurt you. I could kill you.”

“Could you?”

She thinks back to their scars. Their belly. Their face. “There is something wrong with you.”

“Perhaps. But you’re not all right either, are you, girl who came to nurse a complete stranger?”

She doesn’t have any counterargument to that, so she deviates the conversation instead. “It’s Artoria, not girl. No last name.” Well, the Tintagel folks called her Caster, on account of her reputation as someone who makes silverware and jewelry disappear, but just because they’re peeling off one of her masks doesn’t mean she has to bare herself completely.

They nod. “I’m Ritsuka. Ritsuka Fujimaru.” They bring their glasses back up, then set them on their face. The gesture briefly calls attention to the scars near their eyes once more.

“… What the fuck did happen to you?” Artoria’s life was painfully mundane in its cruelty. But these… something terrible happened to her friend. Something terrible no ordinary person should ever go through.

“It’s a very long story.” They shrug. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” They turn around, intending to get off the bed- but they pause briefly, as if thinking of something. “Actually, I do know. Have you ever read an isekai?”

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