Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People who choose to live in deserts are imbeciles.

What benefits could possibly outweigh the numerous rubbish qualities of this hellish landscape? The sun is always beating down, drenching your nape with sweat. Endless horizons of sand and rock are a sore on the eyes. There’s nothing to do out here but simmer in your miserable boredom. 

Why live here? Why accept your pathetic life as a desert dealer? Why not move? The exodus to a land with grass and trees— anything green at all— would absolutely be worth the trouble of going through. 

I hate this place. I hate the coarse sand. I hate the  white sun. I hate the dry air. I hate the cloudless sky. I hate the desert.

These are the thoughts of a miserable Oyabu, who growls to himself as entertainment lest he go completely mad in this wasteland of a country. 

“Oh dear, is someone getting grumpy?” asks the Judge, twisting his torso so he may subject Oyabu to the entirety of his smug, shit-eating smirk. His hair bounces, jostled by their horse’s trot, and the lenses of his mask blind Oyabu with the reflection of the sun. 

Squinting, he swipes at the man’s face with his nails, but is evaded. He’s too bludgeoned by apathy to make any further attempts in attacking the Judge, so he returns to crossing his arms and muttering profanities to his back instead. Picking a fight in the boiling heat is miserable, anyways. 

Nonplussed, the Judge returns to steering the horse, offering nothing of his company. He barely utters a word to Oyabu when they’re traversing these long strips of empty land. It is worryingly eerie. 

Oyabu has tried filling the silence by himself, but he only enjoys the sound of his own voice so much. Not that it would matter if he loved it, for it would quickly grow hoarse with how much silence there is to fill. They travel steadily, but slowly, like a tortoise with no need for rest. 

Except— that’s the kicker! They do need rest. So why must they pace themselves during the brunt of the day? Their objective is to go to the kingdoms, rank them, then leave! Repeat the cycle. Easy. 

Apparently there is a schedule they must follow, which includes crawling through the desert at a snail’s pace. Could they not breach the desert swiftly, then dawdle in a pleasant village with vegetation and shade? A river or lake, perhaps?

It is an awfully lonely journey considering they barely fit on the single saddle of this horse. The Judge isn’t particularly big— pretty small for an adult male, actually— but this saddle was made for one man, and Oyabu is no twig. His legs have been spread so wide for so many days that he’s convinced he could tuck them behind his head if he tried.

With the way the Judge acts towards him, Oyabu almost gets the impression that he’s not wanted here. But it’s not his decision to make, really. The Judge wouldn’t let him leave if he wanted to— if he tried to. Which he hasn’t. And he doesn’t think he will. 

Oyabu is in this for the long haul. 

It wouldn’t hurt for them to invest in a bigger saddle, would it?

Or maybe a second horse. 

“No more than an hour left,” says the Judge. An additional remark is on the tip of his tongue, Oyabu can tell. It is likely he will not voice it. Appears he isn’t in the mood to dodge a dagger to the back at the moment. Oyabu pokes him there anyways, just to be a nuisance, just so the Judge knows he would have tried to stab him if given a reason. 

The Judge knows. Somehow, he always knows. 

Sighing restlessly, Oyabu plants his forehead between the Judge’s shoulder blades and closes his eyes. Maybe the hour will pass sooner if he pretends he doesn’t exist. The clock always ticks slower when you’re staring at it, doesn’t it? 

The Judge shifts back, supporting Oyabu’s chest, nestling between his thighs, allotting his shoulder beneath Oyabu’s chin. This is his way of apologizing for the boredom, although he refuses to amend it, so he’s likely not all that sorry. Still, Oyabu appreciates the opportunity and leaves his limp upper body in the Judge’s care. 

Unlike Oyabu, the Judge won’t try to stab him or toss sand in his eyes at random. He is somewhat more considerate. Slightly. Some would call it common courtesy. 

The Judge is often too courteous. Too polite. 

None of it comes from a place of kindness or consideration. He’s just a mysterious creep who gets off on unnerving people. Simple as. 

Oyabu is hardly qualified to criticize him, being the splendid actor that he is, but at least his performances have passion behind them. There’s nothing going on behind that mask when the Judge is introducing himself to Kings or greeting their soldiers like old accomplices. That’s why Oyabu likes to neg him, push what’s acceptable to push until he’s reached his limit. 

The Judge has an unsurprising amount of patience for Oyabu’s antics, but even he has a breaking point. 

Although, calling it a ‘breaking’ point isn’t doing it justice. It’s better described as ‘a point where Oyabu becomes too annoying and must be buried alive so the Judge can have five minutes of peace.’ 

Oyabu isn’t much of a fan of that point. Treading the line between a lot and too much has become a very important practice. He has grown disdainful of the taste of rocks, and all too familiar. 

“An hour has passed,” says the Judge. 

“Precisely?”

“To the very second,” he confirms. Oyabu can picture that self-satisfied smile of his without even seeing it. Knowing the Judge, the weird bastard probably counted every individual second that passed. 

The Judge nudges Oyabu with his shoulder, but Oyabu doesn’t do more than crack open his eyes. He is welcomed by the sight of an outpost composed of an inn, a tavern, and some shoddy looking houses. The ground has regained some color, at least. There are even flowers in the sparse patches of grass; white and yellow. 

Groaning, Oyabu lifts his arms, stretching his back muscles and popping his spine. He flops forward, attempting to flatten the Judge beneath him, but the man has already slipped off the horse and onto the ground, kicking up sand with his flats. He pats the animal’s flank and smiles up at Oyabu, slightly amused. 

“Submit her to a stable, won’t you?” he asks, which means it’s an order. 

Rolling his eyes, Oyabu complies, leaving any complaints unvoiced. The less he argues, the sooner he can sit on something that isn’t a bumpy leather torture device designed to bruise his hamstrings. Maybe the Judge will take pity on him and allow him to pick a fight with the residents of the bar. He’s been dying for some action, and he knows the Judge doesn’t necessarily hate leaving a bloody trail during their travels. It’s passable in some instances. 

The inn they check into is a single floor. The walls are crooked. The ventilation is shoddy. Every room has one bed. 

The Judge never books two rooms. Either he doesn’t trust Oyabu to go a single night unsupervised, or he wants to supervise him— every waking or sleeping hour in a day. Oyabu knows he sleeps, but sleep must have a different meaning for the Judge, whatever he is, because it is not ordinary. He rests, but always wakes when he needs to. This includes when a dagger is aimed for his jugular and needs to be avoided. Sharing a bed with the Judge is fun target practice. 

The odds of him being human aren’t 100%. Then again, Oyabu can’t think of anything else he would be except human. Very human. Maybe the most human of them all. 

The Judge opens the door to their room. There are no locks. They won’t need one. 

The bed is fit for one, or maybe two— two very close, average sized people. It will be a tight squeeze. They could choose one to sleep on the floor, but both prefer the bed, and neither oppose sharing it. 

The Judge deposits their travel bags on the table. They are small and light, holding only one change of clothes for each of them, some canteens of water, and a notepad with a pen. All of their money remains attached to the Judge, tucked in the pocket of his coat. Oyabu has earned many rocks flung to the back of the head for trying to snatch a coin or two. 

Sitting on the only chair in the room, the Judge places his hands in his lap and tilts his head back, eyelashes slightly visible under the glass. They are long and slightly curled— the sort that most men would trip over. 

Oyabu doubts that the Judge is anything special to look at beneath his goofy hat, but he’s seen enough to realize that he isn’t horribly disfigured, or even ugly. The most attractive part about his face may as well be the mystery of it. Seeing it bare might shatter the little hope Oyabu has in there being something interesting about it. 

He’s grown used to the garish yellow of the mask, anyways. Would be a shame to remove it now that it’s already burned through his retinas. All that suffering and for what?

“Are you hungry?” asks the Judge. 

Oyabu sits on the bed. It is stiff beneath him, hardly any give to give. 

I guess I should prepare myself for a sore backside and a rigid spine, he thinks. 

“Any drink besides water sounds delightful now. I’m not sure my tastebuds still exist.” He grins, leaning forward. “Will you share a drink with me?”

Smiling, the Judge says, “If you’re asking me to accompany you to the lovely establishment across the street, then I’m afraid I must decline. However, if you wish to fetch dinner for us both, I’d gladly share it with you here.”

“Sure, I can do that.” Oyabu thrusts an open palm forward. “Pay up.”

The Judge deposits enough money for two meals in his hand, and no more. With Oyabu’s very convincing bartering skills, he’s certain he can get some leverage with this feeble allowance. 

If not that, then at least some freedom to roam around on his own. He won’t go far— he can’t, doesn’t have the means to. The horse doesn’t listen to his command, even when threatened. He’s tried— and he has failed. It’s not like he planned on going far, just far enough to give his travel partner a bit of panic. 

Oyabu much prefers when the Judge emotes. There are cases where he does do more than smirk or glare blankly at people, and Oyabu is more often than not the catalyst behind that. He finds pride in his ability to agitate the Judge. Antagonizing aloof pricks has always been a hobby of Oyabu’s. 

“If you intend to make a mess, have the decency to put it off until the morning. I’d rather not sleep in a grave,” he warns lightly. 

“You won’t hear a thing,” Oyabu swears. He grabs his crutch and lingers in the doorway. The Judge remains seated in the center of the room, posture far too proper for a man at rest. This sort of oddity has been accustomed to Oyabu. They both have their quirks. It’s nothing to stress over. 

“See ya,” Oyabu feels the need to say, then leaves, closing the door behind him. 

Oh, how he adores the stench of freedom. Granted, it is limited freedom, so it is hardly abiding by its own definition. Nevertheless, he inhales, and begins to explore. 

Those wise to the dangerous aura of their visitors shut themselves inside. The streets of the tiny establishment are empty, save for the tumbleweeds that blow past. 

Oyabu enters the bar across the inn and hobbles straight to the bartender. He plants himself on a stool and musters the most dashing smile he has to offer three days devoid of a shower and proper night’s rest. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” he says and props his crutch against the bar. He asks, “What’s on the menu for a weary traveler like me?”

“Just you?” asks the barkeep. His silver mustache curls around his lips. 

“I suppose I’m ordering for two,” he agrees, flashing a bronze coin. “Does this town belong to a kingdom?” he wonders, acting amiable. 

Unassumingly, the bartender prepares two tall glasses, one filled with mead, the other a thick, translucent juice. It smells of aloe. 

“This is uncharted land. You won’t find us on a map. If I had to guess, I’d say you wouldn’t have found us at all. Your associate, on the other hand, did.” Two drinks are handed to Oyabu. The bartender whistles, and a head pokes out from the window that leads to the kitchen. A woman with one eye sees the bartender hold up two fingers, nods, then begins cooking their meals. 

“You know my friend?” Oyabu asks. 

“Everyone knows about the Ranking of Kings Committee. The judge you’re traveling with has been through here before. You’re heading to the Meeshun Kingdom, aren’t you?”

“Something like that,” Oyabu yawns, chin propped on his hand. He doesn’t make it a point to memorize the name of every kingdom on their schedule. Anything below the top twenty hardly interests him anymore. 

“You’re both going? Together?” the man asks. 

“Yes, we are. Does that surprise you?”

“I’ve never seen an Association member travel with a partner.”

“Oh, I’m hardly his partner. I don’t believe in the rankings much myself.” Oyabu grins, tracing the rim of his glass. “Though I suppose we have partnered for the journey, however long that lasts.”

“Are you a bodyguard, then?”

Oyabu frowns. He huffs, “No.” 

Painful as it is to admit, the Judge is stronger than he is. His power is unrestricted by physical logic. If Oyabu really wanted to kill him, he might be able to pull it off with some luck. But because he doesn’t, there’s no chance in Hell that he could. The hypothetical fails to exist in itself. 

“I won’t pry,” the old man says. 

Oyabu drums his fingers atop the counter and licks his gums, already bored. The other patrons of the bar have huddled to the darkest corners of the room. They fear him, even with his crutch and the limp to his gate? Or is it his association to the Association that they are weary of? They’re right to be scared, of course, but there’s hardly any fun in picking a one-sided fight. 

Perhaps the Judge will indulge him in a spar— their room is small, so there’d be nowhere to run if Oyabu launched an attack. They could scuffle, and Oyabu would get his kicks in before a proper, seven hour sleep. Sounds lovely enough. 

“Enjoy the meal,” says the chef, who places two wrapped meals before Oyabu. He balances them and the drinks in one hand, and his crutch in the other. She doesn’t offer her assistance, merely nodding and returning to her kitchen. 

Tutting, Oyabu hobbles out of the bar, then walks normally once he’s out of sight. No one can be damned to help a charming young cripple nowadays, can they? 

Stubbornly, he stomps all the way back to their room at the inn, and kicks open the door with his bad leg. It rattles his teeth, but he doesn’t mind. 

The Judge is reclined on their bed, still fully clothed, still wearing that stupid hat. The green tip is digging into the soft wooden panel of the wall. He turns his head and sits on his elbows, bending a knee. 

“That was fast,” he comments, and gives Oyabu’s spotless clothes a once-over. He has the decency not to point out a disappointing lack of blood. 

“These people recognize you,” Oyabu says and places the food on the table. He tosses the leftover coins down as well— he managed to nab a few from the bartender’s hand when passing the payment over. Either he didn’t notice, or he was too eager to see Oyabu’s leave that he chose not to notice. 

“You brought back change? Good boy,” the Judge coos happily and pads over to the table. He collects the coins and pockets them while Oyabu unwraps the food. He evades the mocking praise like an arrow. The Judge has a habit of addressing him like a mutt he picked up off the side of the road. That wasn’t the case at all, if anyone ever asks. 

Oyabu was the one who sought this arrangement out, not the Judge. Granted, there was no other choice to seek out, but Oyabu’s willingness to subject himself to this arrangement has to count for something. He is here of his own volition. 

“I have been here before, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Acknowledging,” Oyabu amends. 

“Hm.” The Judge hums around a mouthful. He swallows and sips the thick aloe juice. Oyabu’s nose crinkles in disgust. He’s told, “There is a well here, but use by outsiders is prohibited. We won’t be able to bathe until we reach the kingdom.”

“In how many days?” Oyabu groans. 

“No more than one half. I could detangle your hair for you, though, if you’d like.”

“I’m not letting you put your fingers anywhere near my hair.”

“But you’ll let it get in my mouth when we sleep?” he chuckles. 

Oyabu sighs through flared nostrils, putting most of his weight on his chin and palm. He chews plainly. The food is bland. It reflects his mood rather fittingly. What a dour place they’ve resigned themselves to for the evening. 

“There you go pouting again,” the Judge huffs. 

Oyabu lunges over the table with his dagger drawn, splitting the chair in two where the Judge’s heart had just been. Snarling, he pivots and kicks off the wall, barreling directly into the other man’s gut. The Judge grunts, but protects himself with a summoned barrier of wood. There is a chunk of the table missing. 

Oyabu straddles the man now on his back, bruising his knees on a cobblestone floor. The Judge waves his wand and restores the table and chair. Then he yawns and stretches his arms above his head, fingertips pressed to the wall. There is hardly enough space for him to extend his limbs in the tiny room, which is saying a lot. 

“You didn’t finish your meal,” the Judge mopes. “And I didn’t finish my drink. Will you get off of me?”

Oyabu plunges his blade into the Judge’s chest, but a stone hand catches his wrist. Groaning dramatically, Oyabu drops the dagger and falls to his elbows, caging the Judge beneath him.  

“Too tired to play?” he asks, disappointed. 

“I have preparations to make before we reach the Meeshun Kingdom. Surely you can amuse yourself elsewhere?”

“But there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be,” Oyabu sighs and knocks his head against the mask. “This town is utterly dull. The people are too frightened by you to be anything but terrified of me. What animal doesn’t play with their food a bit before eating?” Oyabu strokes the Judge’s cheek. He doesn’t budge. “I like my meals best eaten alive. You could at least humor me and pretend to be concerned by my assaults.”

“I’m plenty concerned— that you’ll knock over my drink and waste it.” The Judge smiles and pushes Oyabu to the side. He rolls with the shove and lies on the floor face down, limbs spread like a star. The Judge steps around him to finish his drink, unbothered by the exchange of blows and banter. 

He begins to undress, stepping out of his flat shoes, untying his cape, unbuttoning his tunic. He strips to his tights and linen undershirt, then climbs into the bed and hugs the wall. 

“The sun hasn’t even touched the horizon yet,” Oyabu says, his voice muffled by the floor. 

“I’m not sleeping,” replies the Judge. He opens his notebook and begins reading past notes. Oyabu has tried reading them before, but they’re all in a language he couldn’t hope to comprehend. 

The Judge stated it to be a written language, never meant to be spoken. It has no translation. Understanding it is not a feasibility to even the noblest of scholars. Either one can read it, or they cannot. 

Because of this, the Judge allows Oyabu to sift through its pages as he pleases— meaning he hardly ever does. It’s equivalent to looking at a bunch of unintelligible scribbles, worse than witnessing the drawings made by a blind child. 

“Your food is getting cold,” the Judge says. 

Oyabu grabs the plate and hops into the bed, knocking the Judge’s shoulder into the wall. He isn’t too bothered, merely adjusting himself to better fit against Oyabu’s broad flank. While the Association member writes in his notebook, Oyabu picks away at his food, staring at the opposite wall. 

“Tell me about the Meeshun Kingdom,” he demands, then tosses his empty plate onto the table. His company shifts their legs, throwing a calf over Oyabu’s shin. 

“They are currently 76th in the ranking.”

“Meh.”

“Their King has three daughters, but no princes. It will become a queendom lest a son or grandson is born before his death.” The Judge taps his bottom lip with his pen. “I suspect we’ll be doubling back to rank this kingdom again before a year’s cycle passes.”

“Ugh,” Oyabu groans and throws his head back. “If the old coot is going to die anyways, what’s the point of ranking him now?”

“I’m adhering to a schedule,” comes the answer Oyabu’s heard a million times. 

“He’s so low in the ranking. I don’t see the point. Why don’t you focus your efforts on the big leagues? Why do the weaklings matter to you?”

“Every kingdom matters to the Association,” he replies smoothly, lips slightly upturned. The Judge closes his notebook and taps the spine against Oyabu’s chest. He says, “Just as quickly as one can drop fifty ranks, another may rise to the top. Every kingdom must be judged without bias, and within regulations.”

“And you find this interesting enough to do for your entire life?”

“It is my job.”

“How long have you had this job?” he presses.

The Judge’s smile grows wider, but stays firmly shut. 

Pouting, Oyabu takes his notebook and pen and places it aside on the table. He reaches for the window and shuts the blinds, engulfing the room in a light veil. Enough to see, but enough to ignore.

His companion entwines his fingers together on his stomach and watches Oyabu do as he pleases, which includes crossing his arms behind his head and stretching his legs as far as the width of the room allows. The bottoms of his boots lay flat against the wall.

“You’re planning to sleep so early?” asks the Judge.

“There’s nothing else to do.”

“We were having such a pleasant discussion. Have you lost interest in me already?”

Oyabu gazes up at the Judge, who’s tame smile does not waver. That annoys Oyabu, for some reason. As someone who is not only two-faced but wears facades upon both faces, Oyabu knows when he’s being deceived. With the Judge, he cannot truly tell if this is an act to hide malicious intent, or if there is any malicious intent to hide. It’s far easier to gauge the Judge’s mood when there isn’t a stupid smile plastered on his face.

And yet, Oyabu does not look away.

He says, “I have no interest in asking questions you won’t give answers to.”

“Then ask better questions,” he teases and grabs the end of a wavy black strand on Oyabu’s clavicle. Three days of travel without bathing has turned his hair greasy and knotty. He does his best to comb the worst knots out with his fingers, but often that does more harm than good. He should buy a brush or a comb when they arrive at the Meeshun Kingdom.

“What is your favorite Kingdom?” Oyabu asks, and rolls onto his side. He rests his head on the Judge’s thighs. They are nothing to brag home about, but are a far better alternative to the pillows provided by the inn.

“I don’t have a favorite, nor do I have a least favorite.” He fiddles with the lock of hair, then drops it in favor of dragging his nails across Oyabu’s scalp. “There is no point in having a personal opinion regarding my line of work, so I don’t waste energy forming one. I do have interests unrelated to my profession, though, if you’d bother to ask about those.”

“Fine. Do you prefer fish or ham?”

“Fish. I’m not very partial to red meat.”

“I am.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“No?” Oyabu grins, predatory. “Because I like the taste of blood? Is that it?”

“When we last set sail, you got seasick. I assumed you might associate seafood with vomit, so red meat was the obvious choice.” The Judge snickers softly. “Also, yes, your appetite for blood influenced my opinion.”

“There’s nothing wrong with bloodlust,” Oyabu says, shrugging.

“I didn’t mean to imply there was. A lust for blood is a respectable trait in many warriors and kings. If the kings of these lands had half as much of your hunger for violence, I reckon we’d be supervising far more wars on a weekly basis.”

“If only,” he scoffs. “Been a while since we’ve watched a good war. Have you heard any rumors of a new one brewing? Any upcoming assignments from the Association?”

“Hmm…” The Judge pets Oyabu’s hair. He begins to shimmy lower onto the bed, pulling Oyabu’s head higher towards his chest. He murmurs, “The Haiyegh and Sadamui Kingdoms recently found themselves forming an alliance. They plan to overthrow the former Bosse Kingdom.”

“Prince Bojji’s native kingdom?” Oyabu gasps, excited. “What rank are they? Will the battle be glorious, do you think?”

Laughing, the Judge shakes his head. “The Bosse Kingdom is 90th in ranking under King Daida’s rule. He is the second son of Bosse.”

“Oh…” 

“The Haiyegh Kingdom is ranked 82. The Sadamui Kingdom is ranked 106.”

“Oh…. ” Oyabu sighs, thoroughly disappointed. 

“This is precisely why I don’t discuss work with you. All you ever do is mope and gripe.”

“Because I don’t care about the weak kingdoms.”

“You don’t care about any kingdoms.”

“Why should I? It’s not like I’ll ever settle down in one or, Gods forbid, create my own.” He shudders, then laughs raucously. “So long as they are ranked anything but the highest, they are merely stepping stones for your goals, aren’t they?”

“I have no goals,” the Judge mutters. 

“The Association’s goals—whatever. Same thing.”

“No, that is not the same thing. I do not share their goals, I only enact them.” The Judge frowns and tugs on Oyabu’s hair. “There you go nagging me about my job again. We can’t talk about anything without going in circles.”

Oyabu tries to bite his finger, but the Judge recoils. He flicks Oyabu’s forehead scornfully.

“You’ve exhausted my patience tonight, Oyabu. I’m going to sleep.”

“Then I will, too,” he huffs and throws himself over the Judge, finding the crook of his neck with his sharp nose. He speaks against the man’s soft skin, “I have no goals, either, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” 

The Judge returns his hands to his stomach and exhales. He is able to drift off within seconds, while Oyabu is left to glare at his jugular and imagine how it would feel between his teeth.

Oyabu kicks a rock into the crowd of civilians, watching it collide with ankles and shins. Some witnesses of the act shoot him disapproving looks, but quickly shy their stares. He grins, just daring them to do anything about his behavior. 

He is whacked in the back of the head by the Judge’s notebook. 

“I can’t take you anywhere,” he bemoans. 

“Yet you take me everywhere,” Oyabu retorts and tucks his hands behind his back, swaying on his crutch innocently. He tilts his head, amused, and whistles. “Have you booked our room?”

“Yes. We can head to the castle now.”

“Why must we stay in the village when there’s a huge castle with plenty of open rooms?”

“How can you be certain there are accommodations in the castle?” The Judge asks testingly. He tugs Oyabu through the crowd by his sleeve, like a mother would lead their child, worried they’ll slip away the moment she lets go. 

“All royalty are the same; they sit on more wealth and resources than they know what to do with. Trust me, I know.”

“And you think I don’t?” The Judge laughs and rolls his eyes. “We are staying at an inn because that is their function. Travelers do not simply waltz into a castle and demand to be housed.”

“You are no mere traveler.”

“No, but it is vital that I assess the kingdom through every perspective possible, which includes the life of a common man. Tell me, uncommon man, what is your opinion of the village thus far?”

Oyabu licks his gums and ponders. There are bits of chicken between his teeth still, as well as the grounded spices they were dipped in. The food here isn’t too shabby— far less plain than the slop at the rest stop. 

The people are mostly human, mostly average. He cannot discern a special clan or magical race amongst the crowded streets. He senses no substantial challengers, either. 

Houses three stories high touch the skyline and tree branches. It is impressive that a kingdom so small is so densely packed with a population. He wonders if their land has enough resources for a boom in growth to be sustainable. 

“If this kingdom is considered low in ranking, I cannot fathom what the top ten look like. This feels… normal,” he says, voice hushed. 

“It has improved since my last visit, certainly.” The Judge sounds pleased by this revelation. 

He can boast about his lack of biases all he wants, but Oyabu can see his morality for what it is. The Judge is favorable of life itself, and likes to see it thrive whenever it can. That includes the shoddiest of kingdoms known to man, as well as the most pristine. 

That does not stop him from allowing it to perish, should it be predispositioned. 

“Normalcy is subjective,” the Judge says moments later, smiling playfully. “Your opinion of others can reveal a lot about you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a vulture, born and raised in rubble. I’m aware.” 

The Judge side-steps a jab to the gut, kicking up dirt with his heels. Oyabu tries again, and again, snickering the more his partner’s avoidance looks like an odd interpretive dance. Fed up with the nuisance, the Judge finally retaliates, flicking his wrist and taking out Oyabu’s knees by shooting stone pillars out of the ground beneath him. 

Oyabu stumbles and catches himself with his crutch, having nearly face-planted. 

“Cheap,” he scoffs. 

“On the clock,” the Judge reminds him, then forcibly helps him stand upright. “I loathe to keep a king waiting.”

“But think of the anxiety that festers with every passing minute of our tardiness. The King must be quivering in his boots. You don’t find that humorous?”

The Judge stares blankly at him. Were his eyebrows visible, Oyabu reckons one would be raised in his direction. 

“I suppose it is a bit funny,” he eventually cedes. 

Oyabu beams. 

King Meeshun is graying, wrinkly, and well-tempered. He shakes the Judge’s hand when the association member kneels to show his respects. The Judge accepts the palatable behavior in stride, and discusses the tests he will be conducting with the King beforehand. Oyabu stands aside, surrounded by elite guards, and heavily favors his bad leg. 

The Judge is pretty lenient about what business Oyabu occupies himself with in their journey, but he does have rules. The most important rule is that Oyabu does not interfere with or disrupt the ranking process. 

It could be interesting to do once, just to see what would happen, but Oyabu values his life, and would prefer not to lose any limbs, or any more mobility in those limbs. He doesn’t doubt that the Judge would punish him if he broke this rule, considering he’s punished Oyabu for less. A man can only eat so many rocks against his will before he is forced into obedience. Oyabu isn’t above admitting when he’s powerless. 

“Since when does the Association send two judges?” asks a knight, peering down at Oyabu through a gated faceplate. 

“That’s clearly not what I am,” Oyabu sneers, presenting his gums. 

“Then what are you? Who are you? And why are we entertaining your company?”

“That’s an awfully rude thing to ask an esteemed guest.” 

“It never hurts to be cautious,” says the knight. He glances at the dagger tucked in Oyabu’s belt.

“Pfffssshh. Spare me the hospitality,” he drawls, laden with sarcasm. Most guards either ignore Oyabu entirely in the presence of the Judge, or they offer him somewhere to sit where they can babysit him. He prefers the former option. This third outcome, however, is not the worst. He can play with this. 

“What is your purpose here, then, if not to judge us?”

“Perhaps I am a second judge after all, and my previous statement was a lie. This was a test.” He extends his hand. “Will you bend over backwards to treat me like an honored guest, in that case?”

The knight scratches his neck. 

“Members of the ranking committee are not considered guests in a kingdom. They are a third party, and there are regulations for interacting with them. You’d know this if you were a judge.”

“If I am so obviously not a judge, why did you ask in the first place?” Oyabu hisses, feigning a lunge. The knight wheels backwards, raising his arms defensively. Snickering, Oyabu tosses his hair, then he sighs, already bored. The knight did not even draw his weapon. How lame. 

“I have no ties to the Association,” he sighs and shifts his weight. His arm is growing numb. “But… I am bound to this member. Where he goes, so do I. He does not lead, nor do I follow. We travel together.”

“That answers practically nothing.”

“I don’t believe I owed you an explanation to begin with,” Oyabu mocks sweetly. He tucks his crutch under his elbow and limps to the nearest bench, plopping in the empty seat and establishing his base. 

It’s no fun tormenting these people without the Judge around to see it. Oyabu likes an audience, specifically the intellectual kind, one that can appreciate his sense of humor, or his tactful performance. A clapping dunce is not a compliment. 

He will remain seated and behave until the Judge returns to him. While he could spectate the King and his guard fight the golems, he could also watch paint dry. Both garner similar results. 

A tap to the knee jolts Oyabu from his doze. He thrusts his palm forward, snarling, but is caught by the wrist and shoulder. The Judge holds him, preventing them both from toppling to the ground. 

“You’re back,” Oyabu says. He brushes the wrinkles out of his shirt. The Judge hands him his crutch and paces backwards, inclining his head. An order to get moving. 

“Yes, I am. Thank you for staying put.”

“Sure.” Oyabu looks around. No King in sight. “So? How did he do?”

The Judge shrugs, continuing to walk at a leisurely pace. He never goes faster than the rate Oyabu establishes, even when they risk running behind schedule. Oyabu has considered purposely dragging his feet in the past, but he is too impatient. There are better ways of being a nuisance. 

“The King himself is elderly and rustic, unable to beat a mid-level Golem. His diminished strength was expected, but a King’s power is not judged solely by his own feats. A King’s chosen elite guard is an extension of his being— his weapons.”

“They are given a stab at the golems, too, I know. How did they fare?”

The Judge shrugs again, his lips flat, pulling the corners of his mouth. 

“Fine,” he says shortly. 

“Ah, you’re disappointed,” Oyabu chuckles. “Want to see how they handle a real fight? Maybe they’ll shape up with their lives on the line.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll pass. We’ll return to the inn for the evening.” He waves a leather-bound bundle of papers. “There are laws and charters I have to read.”

“Ugh, the boring part. Spare me the details.” Oyabu knocks his shoulder against the Judge. He nags him, “Hey, what about those hot springs the lady at the inn mentioned? We should visit them. They’re a tourist attraction, which means they generate wealth. That’s something worth looking into for your ranking, isn’t it?”

“My current task is to read these documents,” the Judge says firmly. He scowls at Oyabu, but then his expression curves into something easier on the eyes. “You’re free to roam the kingdom as you please, Oyabu.”

“I know.” He blows hair out of his face, feigning an aloof demeanor. “I’m free to do whatever I please, anytime, anywhere. That includes sitting on my ass watching you read a bunch of fucking laws!” 

He tackles the Judge, throwing them both to the ground. Townsfolk scream and scatter, forming a circle of bystanders around their impromptu scuffle. 

“Give me those!” Oyabu shouts and claws at the bundle. He rolls off the Judge to avoid a stone fist, then leaps over an arm that tries to grab his legs. 

“You damn brat,” the Judge growls and waves his wand. A hole opens in the ground, swallowing him whole, then closes, taking the bundle of documents with him. Enraged, Oyabu stomps on the stony path and screams. 

The Judge reappears behind him, popping out of a different hole that also closes, and they find themselves in another stalemate with nothing to show for Oyabu’s efforts but scraped palms. The Judge kicks his backside, so Oyabu begins to sob. 

“I can’t bear this miserable life of a slave anymore! Just kill me! Let me die!” he wails and bangs his fists on the ground. Above him, the Judge groans and pinches the nose beneath his mask. The crowd has been alerted, and slightly swayed, putting together the fabricated pieces of Oyabu’s dramatics. 

“Get up,” the Judge says and kicks him again. It is hardly stronger than a nudge, but he should know better than to fuel the flames. Oyabu cries and clutches his faulty leg, pawing blindly for his crutch. He made sure to lose it during the attack, launching it too far to reach. 

“The pain is too much to bear for a second longer,” he moans, and unfastens his dagger, pointing it at his throat. The crowd gasps, but none dare to intervene. If he truly is a slave, then he is considered property. What fool would tamper with the property of the Ranking Committee?

He tries to gouge himself, but the Judge does what he always must and prevents Oyabu from making a mess. A stone collar erects itself around his throat, deflecting his blade. Deranged, he laughs to himself. 

They are both playing their parts well! Worthy of roses, even. 

The Judge tugs on the chains connected to his makeshift collar. Oyabu topples over. 

“Very cute performance. Can we leave now?” he sighs. 

After a moment laid out limp passes, Oyabu stands and brushes himself off. 

“You’re asking me?” He grabs his crutch, too. The crowd continues to stare, utterly bewildered. Oyabu scowls, saying, “That wasn’t ‘cute,’ by the way. It was tragic. You’ve chained me to a date worse than death. That’s poetry.”

“Sure it is.” The Judge yanks the chain. Oyabu makes an aborted sound through a toothy grin. “How about this: I was so impressed by your performance that I’ve decided to reward you. Let’s go to the hot springs.”

“Really?”

“No.” The Judge kicks his stomach. Oyabu doubles over, coughing, laughing. Then, his captor says, “Not yet. I’m going to read these, you’re going to wind down, and then we’ll go to the hot springs. Deal?”

“Deal,” Oyabu agrees and tries to slit the Judge’s wrist. No dice. Dammit. 

At the very least, it causes the Judge to smile while he tuts and drags Oyabu forward. The crowd parts as they pass. Oyabu snaps his jaws at any whose wide gazes linger. 

“We haven’t bathed in three— no, four days. You should be clambering towards this opportunity. How often do you come across hot springs in a kingdom?”

“Quite often.” The Judge folds his cape into a square, then places it atop a boulder. He doesn’t undress further than that. 

Meanwhile, inside the hot spring, Oyabu is naked and blissed out, skin flushed red. 

“We have the spring to ourselves. No one’s going to see your stupid face.”

“I’m not taking my hat off.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not going to take my clothes off, either. I’ll wait for you to finish, then take my turn.”

“Have you never bathed with another man before? What? Scared I’ll laugh at how puny you are? We sleep in the same bed; this isn’t that different.” Oyabu splashes water on his shoes. The Judge steps backwards. 

“I always bathe alone. Before you, I did everything alone,” he says, forming fists around his strained words. The cracks are showing themselves. Oyabu digs his fingers between them and pries. 

“My opinion of you isn’t going to change if I happen to see a little skin. Look, I’ll blindfold myself.” Oyabu ties his hair around his face, covering his eyes. “See? Because I can’t.”

“How do you manage to be so unfunny?”

“I’m not joking.” Oyabu crosses his arms and lies his head on them. He paddles in place, disrupting the bubbling surface of the water. “Stop being a prude. Real men bathe together. Do something enough and it becomes normal. Shouldn’t you be well versed in different cultures? You must know how common bathhouses are becoming.”

“I don’t make it a point to visit those in my travels.”

“Maybe you should. Put your biases aside, or what have you. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

“I’m not a hypocrite”

“Prove it,” Oyabu beckons, curling his fingers. 

He hears the Judge hesitantly disrobe, folding all of his clothes, padding silently to the opposite side of the spring. The water rises the deeper he sinks, until he has submerged himself up to his neck. 

“You can open your eyes, Oyabu.”

Oyabu turns around and combs the band of hair from his face. The Judge looks as ridiculous as always with that stupid pointy hat. His lenses are fogged over white. 

“You’re the blind one now,” he jokes. 

The Judge doesn’t grace that with a response. 

“It’s not so bad, is it?” he asks, goading. 

“I prefer cold baths, but this is fine.”

“You’re such a freak,” Oyabu says fondly. 

“We all have our preferences. Tell me, why are you so eager to bathe with me?”

“It’s not that I’m eager to bathe with you— I want to share an experience with you. Is that abnormal?”

“Yes, because you are deranged and incapable of caring about others.”

“Incapable?”

“By choice,” the Judge clarifies. 

“Eh,” Oyabu doesn’t argue. He shrugs neutrally. “We’ve gotten this far together, haven’t we? Surely you are fond of me by now.”

“I tolerate you.”

“You want me around.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You want me.”

The Judge scrunches his nose. 

“Don’t look so offended!” Oyabu whines. He swims closer to him, but out of arm's reach. The Judge doesn’t have his wand, so he can’t divert attacks as effortlessly. Oyabu knows better than to strike when he’s defenseless. It doesn’t feel any good to make the Judge uncomfortable— he’d rather stick to annoying him. 

“Are you going to wash your hair?” he asks insistently. “Your curls have become frizzy.”

“Worry about yourself first,” the masked man murmurs and flicks water in Oyabu’s face. 

His long, jet black hair fans out on the water’s surface, straightening the natural waves. It’s a shame there are no balms in these hot springs; the desert has done a fair bit of damage to Oyabu’s curls. It’s tough to be a dashing young man with a heart of gold when your hair is ratty and tangled. 

“I was hoping we could shop before embarking to the next kingdom. What say you to adding some more items in our luggage?”

“I prefer to travel light,” he says. 

“Aye, a hair brush weighs little to nothing.”

“It begins with a hair brush, then it’s a spare pair of boots, then pots and pans for cooking, and so on and so forth. We have what we need.”

“But we should take what we want,” Oyabu argues, inching closer. His bottom lips collect droplets as he glides. “I know how to get a free meal. We can use the leftover allowance to indulge ourselves a bit. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“It sounds reckless and unwise.” 

Oyabu squirts a mouthful of hot water in the Judge’s face.

“Please?” he whimpers, puffing his cheeks. 

The Judge’s nostrils flare. He wipes water from his mouth and opens it, but hesitates, jaw hovering around silence. Oyabu awaits a denial, sinking so only his nose may breathe. His knuckles brush the Judge’s kneecaps. 

A hand grabs his chin, then changes the angle of his face. The Judge peers down at him, expression unreadable. Oyabu holds his breath. The fingers under his jaw curl inward, though not obstructively. The Judge is petting him, Oyabu realizes. He’s doing a rather poor job of it, though. 

“I’ll buy you a brush before we leave,” he submits. 

“Thank you.” 

Even the Judge is not immune to Oyabu’s good manners. He knows how to appeal to positions of authority and the role they deem upon themselves, the power that they believe themselves to have over others. The Judge may view himself as a cog in the Association’s plan, but he also views Oyabu as a lesser being than himself. Overlap of ideals is possible, even for a man who considers himself entirely neutral to the world around him. 

Oyabu dares to plant his hands on the Judge’s knees, supporting his body weight. He sinks, attempting to peek under the man’s mask. Exasperated, the Judge dunks Oyabu’s head underwater and shoves him away. Sputtering, he emerges laughing boisterously, then dives below again to dart away, paddling around in the tiny pool until his fingertips prune. 

Getting his way fills him with glee. 

A victory over the Judge feels better than raiding a castle. 

A prize taken by force will never have the same worth as something rewarded. 

An ache is settling in Oyabu’s bad arm, and crawling towards his spine, but he hardly cares, not when the results of his efforts feel so damn nice. He tugs on knots and runs his fingers through the following waves. The volume of his hair doubles, blossoming like newly born flowers meeting the first sunlight of spring. 

He rests his new hair brush against his chest and sighs a wisp of utter content. 

“Are you unwell?” asks the Judge. His hands are thrown outwards, hovering by the crackling fire. Flames dance in two circular glass panes, stealing the spotlight from his eyes. 

“Hm?” Oyabu hums noncommittally, blinking slowly at his travel companion. 

“You haven’t tried to stab me in over five hours.”

“Are you worried about me?”

“Of course,” he says automatically, “If you’re contagious, it’ll put us behind schedule.”

“I’m fine,” he huffs, eyes rolling. He shoves the brush in his bag and clasps it tight. 

Now that he actually has a possession to be possessive of, he’s been more diligent in tracking their luggage contents. Like hell is he going to lose the one distraction he’s been given in months of bleak travel. 

“You like the brush,” the Judge notices. 

“What gave that away?” He’s going to get dizzy if he rolls his eyes any further back into his skull. “My hands are occupied, so I’m satisfied.”

“Your hair will fall out if you brush it too much.”

Oyabu throws dirt at him across the fire. The Judge blocks his face, then continues warming his palms. 

“Gonna end that five hour streak real soon,” Oyabu threatens. 

The Judge crawls to his own bag and produces a parasol of ingredients they bought earlier. He draws water from the depths of the earth with his magic and directs it into his pot. After washing the vegetables and potatoes, he dumps them into the pot and places it above the fire with an erected stone structure. 

Oyabu has to admit the versatility of his magic is impressive, and very handy. If he were able to get his hands on that wand, he’d be unstoppable. That’s assuming it would even work in his grasp. Who knows what damning curses and spells are bound to that thing?

A strong wind interrupts their peaceful silence. It topples the Judge over onto his side, and knocks his hat astray. He is quick to correct it, prioritizing it over the fire, which nearly extinguishes.

Oyabu blinks against the dirt that’s swept into his face. It figures that the winds would pick up at night, accompanying the chill. The high altitude of the mountain they’re climbing doesn’t help, despite the makeshift den the Judge carved into the side of it. A hole must be kept open, and that’s the only excuse the wind needs to enter. 

It whips Oyabu’s hair into a frenzy, and the Judge struggles to stay upright against the onslaught. Their horse whines and complains, huddling closer to the very back wall. 

Amused, Oyabu watches his partner endure a moment of rare weakness. Physical prowess isn’t his forte, after all. 

Then, because he can’t help himself, Oyabu scurries around their dinner and tackles the Judge, flattening him beneath his greater weight. 

“The food will burn,” the Judge grunts miserably. 

Oyabu presses both of his forearms to the man’s throat and slowly chokes him, grinning around pink gums. The Judge gasps, turning blue, but doesn’t stop Oyabu until his body involuntarily jerks and trembles. 

Keen, Oyabu leaps backwards, avoiding a stone fist that erupts from the wall. It would have smacked him directly in the cheek if he hadn’t moved. 

The Judge wheezes and stares at the ceiling, blinking tears from his bloodshot eyes. A limp wrist twirls his wand, and the pot of stew is placed aside where it won’t burn. 

“Plate it,” he croaks demandingly. 

Snickering, Oyabu ladles the stew into two bowls. He sits by the Judge, whose chest rises and falls as he gulps down air, his body supported by the cave’s wall. Oyabu hands the bowl to the frailer man and nudges his shoulder affably. 

“It smells edible,” he says and lifts the spoon to his lips, slurping loudly. 

“It’s always edible,” the Judge rasps and does the same, but far more politely. He rests the bowl on his knees, which knock together. The fabric of his tights stretch thin over his kneecaps, slightly translucent, a bit dirty. 

Oyabu swallows his food and keeps to himself for the remainder of their meal. He does not, however, put any distance between them. Positioned like this, his body blocks the wind that would berate the Judge otherwise. He’s doing him a favor. 

After the Judge has washed their cutlery and stored it in his bag, he sits. Surprisingly, he takes his original seat beside Oyabu, merciful of not a single inch between their flanks. He shudders inside his cape, fogging up his mask. 

Curiously, Oyabu hooks the strap of his bag under his heel, then kicks it within reach. He pulls their blankets out and drapes one around their shoulders, then another over their laps. 

The Judge sighs, and his shivers quickly cease, as does his dubiety regarding the danger Oyabu imposes. He rests his cheek on Oyabu’s shoulder, and angles his hips towards him, throwing a leg over his shins. Even like this, he is considerate and positions his head to avoid knocking Oyabu’s skull with his stupid hat. 

What Oyabu wouldn’t give to chuck it right off of the mountain, if only to see the Judge dive after it with no hesitation. 

“Not a fan of cold weather?” Oyabu jokes. 

“It has its downsides,” the Judge yawns. 

“Must have sucked to sleep alone on nights like these. Luckily, you have me to keep you warm now. You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t mind sleeping alone. The odds of being killed in my sleep back then were lower. This is a fair trade-off, I suppose.”

“I promise I won’t kill you tonight,” Oyabu says and crosses his heart. 

“Don’t bother making promises to me, Oyabu. I don’t need your word.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” He knocks his knee into the Judge’s.

“Mull over it while you spare my life tonight,” he says cheekily. 

Oyabu hums in acknowledgement, entranced by the difference in their shoe sizes. He rocks his foot against the Judge’s, swaying slowly, using the dwindling fire as a backdrop. The ambers glow red and orange, and the two men become a single silhouette. 

“The more money you make me waste on medical supplies, the less money I’ll have to spoil you,” the Judge lectures, dabbing an alcohol solution onto his skinned palms. 

“You never spoil me anyways. I think this is worth it,” Oyabu says, arms crossed leisurely behind his head. The cut on his temple throbs, but the bleeding has stopped. He’s hardly bothered, unlike the Judge, who frets over every single wound imaginable, as if a paper cut will kill him.  

They have been blessed with a period of effortless travel, aboard a ship and crossing a small sea that could also be considered a very large lake. So Oyabu lounges on the deck and soaks up the sun while a salty mist keeps him cool and refreshed. He does his best to keep a clear head, determined not to succumb to sea sickness. 

The Judge lifts Oyabu’s head and places it in his lap, threading hair behind his ear. Oyabu can see up his nose from down here. 

“Shouldn’t you know how to take care of yourself?” He tuts and applies medicine to Oyabu’s wound. Oyabu blinks at the stinging sensation. 

“That’s what doctors are for.”

“We don’t have a doctor.”

“But I have you,” Oyabu grins. “And since you insist on treating my wounds, I’ll never learn my lesson. You’re part of the problem.”

“You’ll allow it to get infected if I don’t intervene.”

“Then let it get infected. Maybe I’ll shape up if I face some consequences.”

“I’m not going to subject myself to an infected Oyabu. You’re troublesome as you are. If I give you something to complain about, you’ll never stop.”

“I’ll find something to complain about regardless.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Is that a suggestion?”

The Judge slaps a piece of gauze and adhesive over his cut. Oyabu continues to use him as the pillow he offered himself up to be. There’s not enough fat or muscle to cushion the bones in his thighs, but Oyabu has slept on countless hard surfaces; rocks, plains, dirt, wood, etcetera… None compare to a warm body. 

“I’m begging you to stop complaining about everything just to bother me,” the Judge says flatly, not an ounce of a plea in his statement. 

“Either I treat my own wounds, or I stop complaining to piss you off. You decide.”

“I’d rather treat your wounds.” The Judge combs Oyabu’s hair, starting at his middle part and following the course of his locks. He abandons the strands at Oyabu’s shoulder, then repeats the cycle. 

“Your wish has been granted. I won’t grate your ears off anymore— as much,” he tacks on, feeling obligated. 

The Judge smiles, and the crinkles around the corners of his eyes are visible through his mask. Oyabu pierces the glass with his own unabashed stare. He wonders what color the Judge’s irises are. It’s difficult to determine past his tinted lenses. 

He sticks his fingers in the Judge’s hair and tugs gently so the curls unwind then bounce when released. The Judge allows him to roam freely, unconcerned by the risk of being unmasked. Oyabu hooks two fingers under his jaw and searches for his submaxillary gland. He knows he’s agitated it when the Judge’s throat bobs, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. 

Oyabu tracks the movement of his laryngeal prominence, bobbing up and down, but not very protruding. 

“You have unique features, for a man,” says Oyabu. 

The Judge’s mouth opens slightly, but he fails to articulate a response. It’s rare for him to be speechless rather than choosing to be silent. 

“Not that many people are lining up to hand you roses, huh?” Oyabu snorts. 

“No, none at all. Why would they?”

“Because you’re powerful. Interesting, sometimes. Many people go crazy for that.”

“Perhaps if I were not the person I am, then that would be the case. Then again, I find that unlikely.”

“Low self esteem, huh? Figures, since you’re always hiding your face.”

“I’m not—“ the Judge stutters, flabbergasted. 

He’s actually flustered! 

“I’m not hiding my face,” he argues. “This is my uniform.”

“Bullshit.” Oyabu blows air up the Judge’s nose. He tells him, “Normal people don’t sleep in their uniforms, or bathe in them, or—“

“Since when were you under the impression that I am a normal person?” he asks. A tinge of true emotion leaks into his carefully constructed voice. He is… offended? Hurt?

The Judge pushes Oyabu out of his lap and sits on his heels. Oyabu’s head knocks on the deck. He grunts. 

“I am far outside the realm of normality. Common folk could not even comprehend— I am a third party. An unbiased, untouchable party. I am not a participant in your— in this.” He fists his doublet, frustrated, wrinkling the skirted section. 

Oyabu has never seen him act this way. He thinks he likes it, but he’s uncertain. It’s too unfamiliar to form an opinion on so suddenly. 

“Some things are impossible, and that is for a reason. They should remain that way,” he mutters with a determination he tries to believe in. 

“Says who?” Oyabu tests. 

The Judge stands. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He narrows his eyes. “My job requires that I approach the world as an ideal. A concept. An entity. Do you understand what that means, Oyabu? I am not like you. I am not like anyone. I am a judge.”

“By my understanding, an important attribute of judging is the ability to consider any perspective. How can you do that as someone who considers himself isolated from the rest?” He cocks his head, challenging the Judge. “If you lack the ability to assimilate with those you deem different, are you really fit to judge them?”

“If I lack the ability,” says the Judge, who then swivels on his heels and briskly walks away, refusing to finish that sentence. Maybe that’s all he had left to say. 

Oyabu falls onto his back once more and stares at the cloudy overcast. Talking makes him feel nauseous. It’s best that they spend the rest of the voyage getting some space. 

When Oyabu scratches his head, he forgets to mind his bandaged wound. The adhesive tape snaps, and he has no means of replacing it. 

“Watch out—“

Oyabu slams into an invisible force, and the reverb sends him flying onto his backside. For a moment, the world spins, and the sky becomes earth. From the ground, he rubs his sore nose. 

“What the hell was that?” he whines. 

“A barrier. Also, an alarm. There will be guards arriving to escort us soon. Here, get up,” the Judge explains and pulls Oyabu to his feet. He holds his hand and leads him towards the invisible wall. Cringing in anticipation, Oyabu allows the Judge to pull him forward, expecting them both to be blown away. 

Except nothing happens. 

The Judge steps past where the barrier should be with Oyabu in tow. Noticing Oyabu’s surprise, he smiles and squeezes Oyabu’s hand, fastening their connection. 

“It is a bubble that surrounds the kingdom and expels unwanted guests. Because their country is tiny, the spell is easier to maintain.” His smile grows wider. “You have entered what is considered sacred land. How do you feel?”

Oyabu searches their surroundings for anything peculiar, but it still looks and feels like the same forest they were in before crossing the invisible border. What he’s most focused on is how the Judge rubs his knuckles. Is he doing it to comfort Oyabu? Or is it a mindless gesture?

“I’m fine. How did you breach the barrier?”

“Surely you must have an idea,” the Judge goads. 

Oyabu groans, scratching his chin. 

“Is it because you’re… they would consider you a sacred being?”

“Hardly.”

“Because you’re not an unwanted guest?”

“Also wrong.” The Judge shrugs and releases Oyabu’s hand, swaddled once more by his cape. “Word of advice: keep your head down and your mouth shut, lest you want chaos to break loose.”

“I love it when chaos breaks loose.”

“Not here you won’t,” the Judge chuckles. He steps in front of Oyabu defensively at the very same second a flock of soldiers burst from the foliage. They are dressed sparingly, exposing skin and colorful tattoos. Not a piece of armor is seen in their wardrobe. They must be nimble fighters rather than brutish warriors. Do they hold a candle to Prince Bojji or that brute he’s training under?

A little chaos sounds fun, Oyabu yearns, fingers twitching restlessly.  

“Association member,” says the commander of the soldiers in a thick accent. She points at Oyabu. “Who is that?”

“This is my partner, Oyabu,” he says kindly. 

The commander squints. She must sense a terrible aura from Oyabu. He can’t blame her for that— most people do, and they’re right to! 

“You allowed him to cross our border. This is a punishable offense for most.”

“Thankfully, I am not ‘most,’” says the Judge smoothly while he shuffles closer to Oyabu in a similar vein. His body is not visible under the cloak, but Oyabu reckons he is clutching his wand in preparation. 

Scoffing, the commander hardens her glare. The feathers on her shoulders rustle, buffing her appearance. 

“We were expecting a single judge.”

“So you were, and so you shall. I am the Judge. He is my partner.”

“Then leave him here until you are done, and we will have no issues,” she bargains. 

The Judge takes the remaining step backwards between him and Oyabu, resting his back against a broader chest. Oyabu leans over his shoulder curiously, unknowing of his plan but excited to find out. The tension in the air could snap. Just one wrong move would do it. 

“I’m afraid I won’t allow that to happen,” the Judge says, his tone shifting completely. Oyabu nearly shivers, and he sees several soldiers unable to hide the very same sensation. Their hackles raise, but their confidence severely wavers. Oyabu grins, delighted. 

“If— if it is necessary that he follows, then I suppose we can overlook it,” the commander cedes, her resolve shaken. 

“Thank you,” the Judge says with a smirk only someone familiar with would recognize.

“Sly,” Oyabu whispers. 

“Ssshhh,” the Judge hushes him and cradles his jaw, patting his cheek. “I know I tell you this often, but you really must heed my command for once. Be a good boy until we have finished our work in this kingdom.” He pats Oyabu’s face again, slightly sharper. “Understand?” he asks.

Oyabu nods, biting his bottom lip. He’s struggling to contain his delight in being a witness of the Judge flaunting his power. It’s not often he uses intimidation on others to get his way, but it’s a spectacle when he does. They haven’t often been shown opposition in their journey yet, either. Most kingdoms are too wary of Association members to defy them, not to mention they fear what damage it would do to their ranking.

It’s debatable whether or not the Judge would take any slights against himself into consideration when judging, if past evidence of his impassive notions towards the self hold any weight. 

While they are guided through the dense maze of vines and trees, Oyabu lifts his chin towards any guard who sends him a dirty look. They openly scour, but the moment the Judge turns to face anyone, their expressions drop like stones. Oyabu sticks his tongue between his teeth and sneers gleefully. 

The fight between this reclusive kingdom’s leader and the Judge’s golems is the most riveting one Oyabu’s been witness to. He sits on the sidelines, as do members of the royal guard. Everyone is on the edge of their seats— be it tree branches or elegantly carved wooden benches. 

Oyabu watches the fight, but he also absorbs the Judge’s movements. He does little more than flick or point his wand, and his expression remains blank, so unlike the throes of frustration and malice that flashed across his face when he first condemned Oyabu to a living burial. 

If it was not Oyabu’s status as a threat strength that enraged the Judge, then it must have been his personality, no? The Judge deemed him a villain, as any others with a lick of sense are enticed to do. It is an honor to affect the Judge beyond the point of apathy, merely by acting genuinely. The Association member’s true feelings are a delicacy. 

 Quaking the earth, the latest golem slams its fists into the leader of the kingdom, knocking them unconscious. They hit the floor like a sack of flour, but shake themselves awake not seconds later, dazed, unable to rise to their feet. 

The golem crumbles, and the Judge pockets his wand, ending the fight. 

Oyabu leaps to his feet and claps, cheering amidst a crowd of forlorn soldiers. 

“Well fought, my friend!” he exclaims, bouncing on his toes. 

The Judge regards him blankly, slowly blinks, then obtains a jewel in either eye, gleaming with life. He smiles, hardly a twitch of the lips, at Oyabu’s unnecessary theatrics. The people surrounding them, however, are not as fond of his disturbance. 

“Such blatant disrespect will not be tolerated,” snarls their army’s commander, pointing her spearhead at his face. It hovers inches from his nose. 

“Hey, hey, I’m just congratulating the victor,” he aims to appease, shrugging defensively. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” asks the Judge kindly. His polite tone contrasts the menacing gait to his walk and the hunch of his shoulders. 

“We allowed you to enter our country as an act of respect towards the Ranking Association. You were the ones who requested this visit, and we accepted on the basis that you would abide by our rules.”

“You accepted because everyone accepts eventually,” the Judge says. He places his hand on Oyabu’s lower back, tracing the hem of his waistband with his thumb. “Did you think you had a choice?”

“Of course we did,” she growls and thrusts her spear forward, an act of aggression, a warning. The Judge doesn’t budge. 

He continues to smile and pet Oyabu’s tailbone, whose nape is beginning to sweat. 

“Of course you did,” he says pleasantly, but very condescendingly. Oyabu uses every ounce of willpower imaginable to contain his laughter. It must show on his face, though, because the veins in the commander’s neck bulge when she trains her attention on him. 

“Thank you for your time. I will circle back with your new ranking after I’ve taken a tour of the villages,” the Judge announces, tugging on Oyabu’s waistband. 

“Do not bother. The ranking has little worth to our people,” says the leader of the country, nursing their head. Blood drips from their nose and chin. “We are not driven by vanity, or seeking glory like the other selfish men who roam this earth. You are correct in that we did have a choice in this matter, but that choice was made to prevent the very freedom to choose from being taken.”

“What are they insinuating?” Oyabu whispers. 

The Judge ignores him, addressing the leader, “It is my job to rank you. In order to properly do that, I must observe the lives of your people. So I will be off to do so, seeing as I have other places to be, and other places to judge. Thank you, again, for your time, and for not wasting mine.”

Metaphorical daggers are thrown into their backs when they take their leave. Unflappable, the Judge struts into the forest path as if he owns the damn land. Considering the elements of nature bend to his whim, he may as well be the king of this jungle. 

“Think I can’t handle myself in a fight?” Oyabu wonders once they’re out of earshot. 

The Judge responds without facing him, “Against mages? You’re less capable than a toddler would be.”

“Oye…” Oyabu grumbles.

“You asked. What, did you expect me to lie to you?”

“Sometimes you give me the silent treatment instead of an answer. I thought maybe you’d spare my ego.”

“I’ve never done that,” he says, “I never will.”

“Ouch.” Oyabu clutches his chest. “I don’t understand you. I begin to think you actually care about me, then you say such hurtful things without hesitation!”

“You’re awfully dramatic. Were you an actor before a bandit?”

“Tch. No.” Oyabu buffets the Judge’s shoulder. “I’ll take the compliment, though. As if I care what you think of me.”

“Skilled actors are able to fool more than just their audiences,” the Judge says, wagging his finger. 

Oyabu jabs his dagger at the Judge’s spine, where he had been so bold to caress Oyabu earlier. The Judge side-steps, grabs his wrist, and shoves his face in Oyabu’s, hot breath in his ear. 

“What did I tell you earlier? Hm? This is sacred land, and they despise you. I am trying to keep you alive.”

“Why?” Oyabu laughs, and hooks his foot around the Judge’s ankle, sweeping his leg out from under him. The Judge grunts, stumbles, and barely avoids another strike from Oyabu’s blade. He rolls away, hops to his feet, and brushes grass from his tights. There are leaves stuck in his curls. Oyabu does him a favor and plucks them out. 

“Why would I allow you to die?” the Judge asks and returns the favor, reaching around Oyabu’s blind spot and freeing leaves from his hair. Oyabu knocks his forehead against his partner’s mask, displaying two sets of sharp molars. 

“You wouldn’t, would you?”

“No,” he answers honestly, as if reciting a fact. 

“So I could, theoretically, wreak havoc in this sacred land that hates me, and you would come to my rescue, even if it risked your own life?”

“There is no risk to my life here— besides you,” he murmurs, pushing back, rising to his toes. A fire kindles within him, one that hungers. He is seeking a thrill, even if he doesn’t realize it, and Oyabu is glad to be the catalyst for the eruption. 

The Judge has survived decades without Oyabu, but has he ever had fun? Has he ever been excited? Will he ever understand the ecstasy that bloodlust brings, or the impossible high that power creates? 

Without Oyabu, would the Judge ever escape the confines of apathy? 

There is so much to mold, to reshape. Oyabu can’t help but stick his hands in the forge and break everything possible, or reform what cannot be broken. He sticks his hands inside the Judge’s cloak for now, and helps himself to a lesser heat. He wraps his fingers around the man’s waist and squeezes.

“You’re not invincible. I can kill you,” he promises. 

The Judge palms his chest, feeling his thrumming heartbeat. The rhythm he finds is satisfactory, earning a soft laugh. 

“Then why haven’t you?” 

Oyabu licks his gums. 

“You’re useful, and I use people to get ahead. It’s simple. I’ll kill you when I want to, because I can.”

“Oho, you’re sparing me?” The Judge chuckles, using his mask’s beak to poke Oyabu’s cheek. He mutters, “Cute.”

“Cute?” Oyabu hisses. 

The Judge wiggles free and tugs Oyabu along the trail by his fingers, pacing backwards. 

“We’re behind schedule, Oyabu, stop dragging your feet. If you show model behavior for the remainder of our visit, I’ll reward you.”

“Reward me? How so?” Oyabu bites, piercing his cheek with the hook. He couldn’t help taking the bait. 

The Judge’s unnerving smile reaches his eyes and exposes his teeth. He answers, “Be a good boy and find out.”

The reward is a blank notebook and charcoal stick. 

Oyabu glares at the first page of his open book. It’s his book. A journal all to himself. 

Except— Oyabu is a bandit. He doesn’t... write. Or read. Or think about literature in general. 

“This is shit,” he complains. “What the fuck do I do with this?”

“If you press the charcoal against the paper, you can stain its surface. Many refer to this as the act of ‘writing,’ or perhaps ‘drawing,’ if you’d prefer.” The Judge taps on the end of his earthy pen, because he is a bastard. “Need I hold your hand and demonstrate?”

“Piss off.” 

Oyabu glances at the Judge’s drink, but the other man is quick to pull it closer to his chest before he’s drenched by it. Their food is placed in the center of the table by a servant of the tavern. She bows, and the lantern light catches her dark blue skin before she scuttles off. 

The Judge eats methodically and neatly. 

Oyabu plants his chin in his palms and glares at his notebook. 

“Are you not hungry?”

“I’ll eat in a minute,” he grumbles. 

What should he write in his notebook? The first page would typically be special, since it is first. The last will also have to be remarkable, but that day will come far later. Unless it would be wise to bite the blade and mark it now? He could save himself the dread of reaching the end if he skips past the middle. 

Wouldn’t that be dishonest?

Oyabu prides himself on being dishonest— he excels at it. 

But what point is there in being dishonest, when this is his notebook, and only he will be reading its contents? Isn’t he doing himself a disservice at that point?

This is a really shitty reward. Oyabu is less motivated to do what the Judge says in the future if the results will be this disappointing. Then again, the brush was an amazing reward, and was well worth the compromise. 

“It’s just a notebook,” says the Judge. 

“Yeah, which is why it’s so stupid. You could have at least gotten me a book. Then I’d have something to look at. Instead, you’re making me do all the work.”

“I’m not making you do anything. Toss it in the fire over there if you’re so upset by it. I don’t care.”

“Even though you paid for it?”

“It doesn’t matter if you enjoy the gift or not; the money has been spent, I can’t get it back.” He shrugs, then places food on Oyabu’s plate. “Eat. Don’t make a habit of wasting my funds.”

“Whatever,” he sighs and shoves the notebook in his pocket. 

The Judge avoids a barrage of heeled kicks to his shins while they finish their dinner. 

Oyabu ponders the notebook for days without ever blemishing its blank pages. Then he forgets about it, and weeks pass. 

Autumn reveals an ominous chill whenever they travel. Nights are spent in close quarters, and days aren’t much different. 

“Your ass is going to freeze off once winter arrives,” Oyabu teases and squeezes the Judge between his thighs. 

“I suspect I’ll survive, considering your lack of modesty.”

“Not my fault the saddle is so small.”

“It was made for a single occupant.”

“But there are two of us, so who’s really to blame, huh? Can’t spare a couple coins to invest in a bigger seat? Or do you secretly like being pressed against my body?” Oyabu purrs and blows cold air on his nape. The Judge shudders, then elbows Oyabu in the gut. 

Ouch. He has really sharp elbows. 

“Fuckin’ twig,” Oyabu groans, rubbing his stomach. 

“Oaf,” the Judge retorts. 

Whining nonsense, Oyabu throws his arms around his companion, pushing them forward with his weight. 

“Let’s find a town to plunder! Let me loose on some clueless idiots, won’t you? I’ll bring you a big haul! We can spoil ourselves! Don’t you want new clothes? Better supplies? We won’t even dip into your savings!” he badgers. 

“If I give you a town, you’ll take a kingdom. Besides, I’d rather not subject anyone to you if I can’t help it. No one deserves that.”

“Except you, apparently,” Oyabu snickers. 

The Judge also laughs. He’s doing that more, lately. The breakthrough is showing itself.

Enthused, Oyabu shoves his hands under the cloak and searches for the Judge’s waist. His fingers brush over the man’s hips, but he can’t find the wand. He searches lower, but the moment he touches the Judge’s inner thighs, something solid and very heavy slams into his head, knocking him clean off the horse. He’s thrown to the ground, where dead twigs do little to cushion his fall. 

“Oowww…” he moans, and begins to sniffle. “What was that for?” he whimpers innocently. 

The Judge looms above him on horseback, doused by overhead shadows. 

“Did you think you could get away with that?” the Judge asks harshly, laced with icicles. They begin to thaw, threatening to crash down. 

“I never get away with it. Why’d you give me a fuckin’ concussion?” He rubs his head and blinks at stars. His elbows shake, and the limbs on his right side voice their pain. Of course he would land on his bad side, and of course it would flare up his past injuries. He cringes through bending his arm and cradles it against his chest. 

“You never get away with it? When have you tried that before?” the Judge asks. 

“Huh?” Oyabu rolls onto his back. “I’m always trying to steal your wand.”

“Oh. That.” The Judge slides off the horse and kneels next to Oyabu. “I misunderstood your intentions.”

“D’djya think I was trying to kill you again?” Oyabu chuckles. 

“I’m sorry for overreacting, Oyabu. For once, you didn’t deserve a beating.”

Oyabu has to process that for a moment. 

“Thanks,” he grunts. He would roll his eyes if he knew it wouldn’t be severely painful. 

“We’ll make a camp here. It won’t do you well to ride the horse in this state.”

“But our schedule?”

“Can be adjusted.”

“Whoa. You’re being awfully nice.”

“I made a mistake. I am responsible for the consequences, so I must do what I can to amend them.”

“A mistake?”

“Yes, Oyabu, a mistake. I shouldn’t have hurt you.”

“You do that all the time, I don’t mind,” he says, slurring his speech. Talking in circles is making him dizzy. 

“I try to administer justice only to those that deserve it. You did not. At least, not for that. You probably deserve to die for all the innocent lives you’ve slain, though.” He nudges Oyabu’s leg with his foot. 

“So kill me already,” Oyabu snarls, feeble. 

“No, I don’t think I will.” He crouches and reveals the wand, waving it above Oyabu like a carrot on a stick. 

The earth shifts all around them, forming a protective dome above and a slightly softer floor below. Their horse huffs and digs its hooves into the dirt. The Judge retrieves their blankets and sits next to Oyabu, folding one under his head as a makeshift pillow, then draping the other across their laps. 

He lies next to Oyabu, facing him. The hooked nose of his mask prevents him from getting too close. 

“Sleeping might ease your wounds,” he suggests. 

“It’s the middle of the day. I’m not tired,” Oyabu argues. He frowns and clenches his right hand, then releases the fist. Sharp pain jolts through his tendons, stemming from the previously healed break. He winces. 

The Judge actually looks like he feels guilty.

“You should make your intentions clear next time,” he whispers. 

“You’re blaming me for your mistake?” Oyabu feigns offense. 

“I’m— no, I’m not.” The Judge’s eyebrows sink into view, furrowed. “I’m trying to help you— help us both. We can avoid incidents like this in the future if you— if you don’t…”

Oyabu smirks, an eyebrow lifted. 

“If I don’t— what? 

“If you don’t put your hands where they don’t belong. I can usually tolerate your misplaced advances, but even I have a limit,” he huffs. 

“My— my advances?!” Oyabu gasps, nearly choking on his own shock. He coughs, then begins to laugh, which causes him to cough even further. “You— wait, did you think I was going to molest you? Hahaha! Really?” 

The Judge stares. His cheeks are red. They’ve never done that before. 

Oyabu points and cackles, “You did! You actually thought I was making a move!! Hahaha! That is priceless!”

The Judge stares some more, lips flat, jaw clenched, face ablaze. He doesn’t defend himself, nor rebuke Oyabu’s claims. Just stares. 

“I can’t believe it! So you must have some self-esteem after all if you think I, of all people, would prey upon you. Haha! Oh, Gods, my stomach! What a riot!” Frenzied, he battles hysteria until his stomach cramps and his vision blurs. When the roaring laughter finally escapes him, he is left heaving, chest aflutter. 

The Judge rolls onto his other side.

Oyabu crosses his legs and sighs, hands tucked behind his head. His face aches. He hasn’t smiled that wide in years. 

“I would never prey upon you,” he says, then clears his throat. “If I intended to court you, I’d do it properly. The best prizes are not taken by force, after all; they’re rewarded— through cunning and wit.”

“How considerate,” the Judge mumbles, withdrawn.  

Oyabu shifts uncomfortably. He is still suffering the consequences of another’s mistake. 

“I should make my intentions clear next time,” he agrees, recalling a former statement. “This sucks. I can feel tomorrow’s migraine. Have you any medicines for relieving internal wounds?”

“No.”

“A shame.” Blinking hurts more than staring at the ceiling and allowing his eyes to water. Oyabu tries closing his eyes instead, though his heart races too quickly to consider sleep an option. As wounded as he can muster, he asks, “Can you retrieve my notebook for me? I want to write something down.”

The Judge obliges and fulfills his request, placing the notebook and charcoal on his chest. He doesn’t lay with Oyabu twice, deciding to sit against the furthest wall of the dome and keep to himself, swaddled by his cloak.

Oyabu opens the first page of his notebook and scratches it eagerly.

‘’The Judge lost his composure today. How embarrassing for him! He was so flustered by a mistake of his own. What a sight it was. All I had to do was accidentally fondle him. It cost me a concussion and a resurgence of chronic pain, but I’ve dealt with far worse for much less. What I earned is priceless.

I can use this. I can cherish this, too. It serves more than one purpose. Oh, joy. Lucky me. I am giddy. He has become depressed by my teasing, which I find terribly endearing. 

Try as he might, the Judge cannot avoid his own humanity forever. I will rip it out of him if I must.

How I pray that I must.’

The common chill persists, as does the Judge’s blighted mood. Oyabu cuts down on the number of slights against him, not for his sake, but because it’s no fun stabbing a sandbag. He’d rather wait for the Judge to reinvigorate than continue to pester him, essentially worsening his state. 

They’re both recovering, anyway. 

Oyabu spends most hours of travel in a reflective state. He wonders what shifted between them that would cause the Judge to think Oyabu was making advances. It’s not a course of action he even considered despite all the bed sharing, the constant closeness, the groping, and the endless teasing. What made that instance so different from the rest?

Perhaps it was just a moment of irrational thought. It happens to everyone, even the best. 

Rather fond of his health, Oyabu would prefer not to be concussed like that again. The helplessness that accompanies injuries like those makes his skin crawl. 

So he hovers, and he avoids touching the Judge when he can, not wanting to risk another mishap. Though his heart aches to race, his body aches in the literal sense of the word— and his mind is the most conflicted of the three. 

Oyabu thinks he might have grown fond of the Judge by accident. 

Fond. 

That can’t be the right word. 

Possessive?

Closer, but not quite; the Judge could disappear and never return, and Oyabu would learn to live without his company again, even if it took an adjustment period. Spending every single day glued to someone’s side for months on end is an uncommon feat, with predictable results. It’s not Oyabu’s fault that he is human, and thus acts like a human, thinks like a human, and feels like a human. 

Humans crave companionship at their core. It is one of their most defining traits. 

What does he feel for the Judge, then, that isn’t a result of their forced proximity? Camaraderie? Kinship? Affection?

Thinking about this feels counterproductive. You’re not meant to think about emotions; you’re meant to feel them, to act on them. 

Oyabu is losing his edge. 

A lively crowd bustles around them. Oyabu steps on the imprints where the Judge’s shoes disrupt the white sand. They are in a tropical kingdom, so the weather hasn’t been too cold. This raises the Judge’s spirits slightly, so Oyabu decides to ride the coattails this opportunity has provided. 

“Hey, look at this,” Oyabu says, thrusting his hand out. 

The Judge stops and turns around, nearly lethargic. They haven’t been sleeping much due to their expedited schedule. 

Oyabu grins and opens his palm. He presents a quill and ink bottle, newly bought. 

“Where did you get that?” the Judge asks. 

“I bought it. For you.” Oyabu takes his hand and opens it, directing it to grab the gift. 

“With what money?” 

“Oh, you know.” He whistles, shrugging. “Crowdsourcing.”

“You’ve been pickpocketing?”

“A little.”

The Judge takes the quill and holds it to the sunlight, inspecting its curves. 

“Must have been more than a little. This is a quality tool, Oyabu.” He frowns, but his lips quiver, poorly fighting a smile. Grabbing the ink bottle too, he delicately tucks the gifts into his bag. 

“You’re welcome,” Oyabu beams proudly. 

“I’m not going to reward a petty thief with my gratitude,” the Judge snorts. 

“How about a smile, then? Show me those gums.”

Delightfully baffled, the Judge gawks at Oyabu, mouth hanging open. He laughs in disbelief, shakes his head, and sharply turns, stomping away without fulfilling the request. Cackling, Oyabu follows, hot on his heels. Though he cannot see it, he knows what expression the Judge wears, and the knowledge suffices.

“What have you been writing in your notebook?” asks the Judge, lying opposite to Oyabu. 

They have taken residency in a treetop village. The people of this country built their homes in the skies, and the average citizen will rarely touch the ground in a lifetime. Only certain jobs require they descend; hunters, foragers, merchants, guardians. There are buildings constructed directly into the tree trunks and branches. Rope bridges and wooden pathways connect a city among the clouds on several levels. The ancient trees from a distant age support the infrastructure they’ve been decorated with. 

Oyabu and the Judge are sharing a hammock. It sways precariously, sensitive to every movement. Oyabu has his legs crossed, tucked into themselves, while the Judge has his own shorter legs sprawled out in Oyabu’s lap. He taps the leather bindings of Oyabu’s notebook with the toes of his shoes. 

“Poetry, “ he lies.

“I don’t intend to pry. I was making conversation.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Once in a full moon, I might.” The Judge yawns, stretching his limbs. Oyabu raises his book so his bedmate can point his feet. The Judge sinks lower, resting the arches of his shoes flat against Oyabu’s abs. The book comes to rest on his shins, and hand wraps around his ankle. 

The urge to flip the hammock and send them careening through the trees beckons to Oyabu, but he resists. Had they been in this spot a few months ago, he definitely would have done it, but he was riper then, more reckless in his endeavors to pursue the Judge’s vehemence. There are smarter methods to getting what he wants, with far less endangerment. 

It would be funny to flip us while we’re both asleep, though. I’d like to see how he saves us both from that, he chuckles inwardly. 

“Your blatant scheming offers me no comfort,” the Judge drawls, thoroughly unamused.

“Aw, I cannot even think to myself without incurring your ire? That’s hardly fair.”

“I will bury you inside a tree for the night if I must.”

“Will you shove bark down my throat, too? I must admit, I’m curious how the taste fares compared to my favorite delicacy; rocks.”

“It would be easier to chew, at the very least.” The Judge leans forward slowly and closes Oyabu’s book, then touches his toes, groaning. Oyabu tucks the notebook into his waistband. 

“Would you rather lie next to me?” he asks.

Wordlessly, the Judge crawls into Oyabu’s lap. The hammock sways and jitters, but they manage to rearrange themselves without plummeting. 

“I said next to me,” Oyabu grunts. The Judge has nestled himself atop Oyabu’s chest and entwined their legs, forcing Oyabu to hug his waist lest they topple over.

“There’s no room for that,” the Judge makes his excuse. 

“We could have used two hammocks.”

“Ah, but we did not.”

“No, we didn’t,” he huffs, smiling. “Well, I don’t mind having something to hold onto while I sleep, even if you aren’t very comfortable.”

“I’m not?”

“There’s no fat on you.” Oyabu pinches the Judge’s waist, then recoils, flicking his hand and hissing. “Ouch! See? I just cut myself.”

The Judge retaliates, pinching Oyabu’s stomach, resulting in a far less conspicuous result. Drowsily, he hums, sending vibrations into Oyabu’s rib cage. A seeping warmth spreads to Oyabu’s arms, which he uses to tighten his embrace of the smaller man. He’d like to rest his chin on the Judge’s head, but alas, the hat obstructs such a thing.

“Would you ever take this off?” Oyabu taps the hat. “Not to be seen, but to allow us both some comfort?”

“...What do you mean?” the Judge whispers belatedly.

“I mean to rest my head upon yours, is what I mean.”

“Oh.” The Judge’s fists curl into Oyabu’s shirt like a kitten’s kneading paws. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“But now you have! So will you share your opinion on the matter?”

“Hm.” The Judge scratches behind his ear, clearly stalling. “You know how I feel about removing my uniform.”

“Feelings can change,” Oyabu murmurs against his temple. 

“Ah… I suppose that is true.” The Judge exhales. He props his elbows on Oyabu’s clavicle and looms over him, finding his gaze amidst the dim moonlight. “You have no desire to see what lies beneath?”

“I didn’t say that. Of course I want to know what you’ve been hiding under there. However, that is not my intention tonight. I know you don’t value my words, but I promise I’m not being deceitful.” He traces the slope of the Judge’s red beak, tapping the tip with his fingernail. “You may deny my wishes as you are wont to do.”

“You’ve mellowed out in our time together.”

“As a person? Hardly. But for you? Well, everyone plays favorites, don’t they? Why would I be exempt from that?”

“Hmph.” The Judge blows air out of his nose. He brushes his fingertips over Oyabu’s eyelids and tells him, “I will honor your vow. Do not disappoint me, Oyabu.”

“I aim to please,” Oyabu laughs, curling his toes. Blinded, he waits as the Judge twists his body and removes the mask, placing it by their feet, securing it between the woven threads of the hammock. Oyabu cranes his neck, giving the Judge space to situate himself, unable to contain his victorious grin. 

The secretive man places his forehead against Oyabu’s throat, and the curve of his nose hugs the tendon stemming from his sternum. His hair, matted in place, begins to fluff when Oyabu threads fingers through his hairline. 

“Your hair is soft,” he says, then yawns. 

The Judge follows suit, sighing after he does so, abiding by his contentment. 

“Yours is getting in my mouth,” he mumbles, already half-asleep. 

Snickering, Oyabu nuzzles his chin into the Judge’s hair and welcomes the eventide, grasping onto the wake for a few minutes more.

Across a battlefield littered with corpses, broken weapons, and general desolation, the Judge carefully steps over the twitching arm of an adversary. Since the Judge won’t do it, Oyabu plunges his sword through the warrior’s heart, ending their life. The Judge shoots Oyabu an unimpressed twist of his lips, but Oyabu has nothing to be ashamed of. That person was suffering. If anything, he was saving them! The Judge’s inaction was causing more pain than Oyabu’s swift decision. 

Although, Oyabu was definitely not ending their life as an act of benevolence. 

Heh. 

He wipes the flat side of his sword on his pants, staining cherry red with crimson red. They traverse through the aftermath of a war between kingdoms. While the Judge takes notes of his observations, Oyabu is free to do as he wishes to the remains. He runs pockets, looks for better swords, and kills any survivors. It’s been so, so dreadfully long since he’s stolen this many lives. He’d almost forgotten the euphoria of it. It is unmatched by nearly every other pleasure that befalls the world. 

“You’re a sick man,” the Judge says indifferently, attention never straying from the task at hand. 

Oyabu hops over the broad back of a soldier and hacks their head from their body, giggling and skipping to match the Judge’s brisk pace. 

“Not like anyone is coming to save them, including you.”

“Then leave them to die naturally.”

“It’s the same result whether I kill them or allow them to drown in a pool of pathetic, bloody misery. What’s your problem?”

The Judge sniffs, then says, “It is a matter of basic respect, but I’m not surprised you lack that.”

“Eh, whatever. Preach your ethics to me all you’d like, it won’t change their fates.” To drive home his point, he kicks a crawling soldier onto their side, planting his foot on their shoulder. Sneering at them, he growls, “Gravel beneath me and I’ll consider sparing your life.”

“Please…have mercy,” the soldier rasps, tears streaking down their dirtied cheeks. 

“Sure,” Oyabu chimes, and kicks them onto their back. He frollicks over to the Judge’s side, singing a carefree melody, then launches a dagger to the rear of the soldier’s head. They die clueless.

“Did you see that? How I allowed them to experience their last shred of hope?” he exclaims, knocking their shoulders together. 

Nonchalant, the Judge hums, “Yes, Oyabu, I saw. Very chivalrous.”

Oyabu rolls his eyes in good nature.

“So what’re you planning on ranking the winner? They were 30th before the war, right? Will this bump them up a few pegs?”

“Very few pegs, as there were many casualties. To be victorious does not mean to be successful.” The Judge taps on his bottom lip with the pen’s butt. There are subtle bite marks from when the Judge loses himself in thought and gnaws on his quill— the one Oyabu gave him. It is uncharacteristically humane.

They are nearing the outskirts of the field where most of the war saw action. Oyabu stops abruptly to take in the sight, squinting at the setting sun on the horizon. Pillars of dark smoke divide the sky into columns. Torn, scorched flags flutter on their poles. The Judge waits for Oyabu, only three steps aside.

“Dance with me,” Oyabu demands.

“Pardon?”

“Come here, dance with me! We rarely have a moment like this to enjoy.”

“Even twisted madmen would not sink to the depths you inhabit, Oyabu. What joy is there to be found amidst all this tragedy?” the Judge asks, but shuffles closer.

“The fact that we stand above it, unscathed and thriving,” Oyabu answers genuinely, tilting his head. “You’re allowed to deviate from the schedule when observing a war, right? Three minutes won’t hurt anyone. Except maybe those we step on.” He dials his charm to its highest degree and extends two olive branches, both ripe for the picking. 

The Judge wrings the spine of his notebook, scanning the grounds and their dying witnesses. They will have an audience, but no one to toss roses at their feet or applaud once the performance is complete.

“Partner,” Oyabu says softly, inviting him closer with curling fingers. 

Sighing, the Judge yields and pockets his notebook and pen, replacing them with Oyabu’s hands. He is yanked into Oyabu’s chest and held fast, clutched by the waist with one hand, led by the palm with the other. Color rises to his face, pink like the sunset.

“Is this alright?” Oyabu asks as he begins the dance, stepping forward, guiding the Judge’s foot backwards. 

“What? The fact that we’re dancing in a living graveyard?”

“No, this.” Oyabu squeezes his hip. “Are you alright with this?”

“Oh. Yes, that’s fine.” The free hand that was hovering awkwardly over Oyabu’s bicep comes to rest on his pec, just below his collarbone. He says, “Would you stop if I weren’t?”

Oyabu sucks on his lips, focusing on the rhythm of the dance, determined not to step on the Judge’s toes and make a fool of himself. He has an audience of one to impress. 

“It would be difficult to dance with you if you didn’t want this. You’re slippery.”

“Evasive?”

“Yeah, but slimier, because you’re a creep.”

“I’m a creep? Says you, the man who wanted to dance on corpses?”

“We’re both creeps, and we’re both dancing on corpses.” Oyabu lifts the Judge over the body of a mangled soldier, twirling him in the air then placing him on the ground, continuing their path of disrespect. “We make quite a team, you know.”

“Are you proposing something? I cannot induct you into the Ranking Association, if that’s your goal.”

“Huh?” Oyabu laughs. “Hell no! I’m saying we make a good team! Friends, even. Would you consider me your friend?”

The Judge slides his hand over Oyabu’s shoulder, then does the same with his other hand, linking them behind Oyabu’s neck, under his curtain of hair. He slows the tempo of their steps, closing the space between their bodies. Their thighs are flushed, moving in tandem, and their chests expand into one another. Oyabu’s thumbs and index fingers connect wrapped around the Judge’s tiny waist. He cranes his head forward, resting his forehead against the hat, and his hair falls around their faces, granting them privacy they don’t deserve.

“A Judge does not need friends,” he murmurs. Oyabu stares at his lips.

“Bandits do not need friends, either, but we make them, because we can, and we do what we want. Do you want a friend?”

“I never have, but if I did, I wouldn’t have chosen you.”

Oyabu rubs the Judge’s sides, daring to hold the bottom of his ribs, dipping his thumbs beneath the protruding bones. The smaller man shudders, exhaling sharply through his nose. 

“You did choose me,” Oyabu whispers, licking his lips. Sweat beads on his temple despite the cooling temperature. The sun’s light is surely fading.

“When did I do that?” 

“When you made me your partner,” Oyabu answers resolutely. “Hey, do you have a name? Something I can call you?”

“You may refer to me as a judge, or a member of the Association,” he speaks, reserved. 

“So impersonal,” Oyabu sighs, dejected. 

“Don’t— don’t do that,” the Judge utters despairingly, stumbling, accidentally stomping on Oyabu’s foot. The desperation of his insistence sends Oyabu reeling. “Do not sigh on me, Oyabu, not when I’ve allowed you to get so close, to desecrate these lands for my sake. That is why we are dancing, is it not? For my sake? For me?”

“I— I only wished to dance with you,” Oyabu stutters, taken aback. 

“For what reason?” he presses.

“Because, uh, because I wanted to…” He swallows dryly. “I wanted to share a moment of glory with you?”

“Ha!” the Judge laughs gleefully, a short, sudden thing. It flees as suddenly as it came, but the aftershock lingers. His cheeks glow, as does his radiant smile. Oyabu’s tongue ties itself in a knot. The Judge tells him, “You may call me your partner, by any definition of the word, in song or dance. I do not mind. In fact, I approve of it.”

“You do?” 

“Indeed, I do. What will you do with this privilege?”

“Um. Uh.” 

Oyabu holds the Judge against him, cupping his shoulder blades, failing to restart their dance. The Judge has anchored himself to the ground, staining his shoes in a shallow puddle of blood. Irked, Oyabu hooks his arms under the Judge’s backside and lifts him, cradling him on his hips. The shorter man now boasts several inches of height on Oyabu, securing a foundation with locked elbows upon Oyabu’s shoulders.

The moon cascades pale light, overtaking twilight. 

“What will you do, Oyabu?” the Judge whispers.

Lips wet and parted, Oyabu’s gaze flickers to the Judge’s mouth, then back to his heavily lidded eyes. He searches their depths, but finds no resistance. 

“I will treat you like my own,” Oyabu swears.

The Judge’s smile reaches its peak.

Chapter Text

“This is the first kingdom I was assigned to when I became a judge.”

“That piece of shit?” Oyabu asks, incredulous, gesturing at the meager kingdom in the distance. He cups a hand over his eyes and searches the horizon. “There’s not a second kingdom in the distance that I’m missing, is there?”

“No, it’s that one.” The Judge points, smiling. “Ranked 163. The Xeragaugh Kingdom. My first ever assignment.”

“The Association must love fucking with you,” Oyabu chortles. “Somebody isn’t a teacher’s pet.”

“I never claimed to be.”

“But you’re such a priss, there’s no way every association member is as anal about the rules as you are.”

“We all do our jobs as we are intended to do them.” The Judge grinds his foot on Oyabu’s boot, but his soles are softer than the stern leather he’s failing to crush. Adorable. 

They are going to make camp atop this canyon tonight, seeing as the sun is well into its descent. The Kingdom in the distance is deceptively farther than it looks. It will be hours of horseback before they arrive at the gates, and this day has been full of travel already— uphill travel. A lot of climbing, many steep cliffs and ridges. 

“Should I start a fire?” asks Oyabu. 

“Mm,” the Judge hums, reminiscing. He gazes into the past, seeing a younger land, and finding himself smaller in it. 

Oyabu observes his profile, the chapped lines on his lips and his strong jawline. There are burrs stuck in his curls, which Oyabu will remove for him later when they make their bed. 

The Judge is handsome. He wasn’t before, when he was nothing more than an asshole in a stupid hat, but now he’s Oyabu’s partner, so he’s a handsome asshole in a stupid hat. He’s deadpan, but funny. Bland, but layered. Polite, but terrifying. 

He is so very human, so very alive. 

Oyabu stabs the Judge in the back, except—

Oh. 

Except nothing. 

He stabs the Judge in the back. 

“Oh shit,” he says, slightly thrilled, mostly worried. Very worried, actually, because he expected the Judge to avoid him, but now he’s been stabbed through the back, and the tip of Oyabu’s blade sends its regards from the other side of his stomach. 

“Ow,” the Judge hisses, then levels Oyabu with a glare that tells him just how stupid that was. 

“I’m sorry,” Oyabu laughs, a bit maniacally, then clears his throat and says more sincerely, “I’m sorry, really.”

“Sure you are.” The Judge sighs and hovers his fingers over a bloodied inch of blade. One of the sides is ridged, designed to be painful upon removal from a stab wound. His fingers are quaking, too unreliable to do anything but stay suspended in the air. 

“I thought you would avoid it.”

“Uhuh.”

“Because you always avoid it.”

“I was bound to lower my guard at some point.”

“Why?” Oyabu wonders, releasing the grip of the dagger. It has made its home inside the Judge’s torso. 

“Hm, I wonder. Is it because you declared me to be your partner? One of your own? I guess only a fool would trust someone he considers his friend. I must be a fool.” The Judge rolls his eyes with an impressive amount of sass considering he’s been impaled. “F-forgive me for— fuck,” he curses, shivering. 

“I’ve never heard you swear before. How exciting!” Oyabu taps the handle of the dagger, jostling the wound. 

“Fucking hell, Oyabu!” the Judge screams, wheezing as his body involuntarily curls into itself. Blood gushes from the wound where his muscles contract around the blade. His face is paler than bones, and sweating an ocean of buckets. 

Oyabu fans himself, panting. 

“I can yank it out for you,” he says hungrily. “I’d love to rip it out of you.”

“Oyabu,” the Judge rasps sharply. “That’ll make it worse.”

“It has to come out eventually. You’ll lose more blood if we wait.”

“Aaaggh…” he moans, resigned but far from accepting. He palms Oyabu’s arm, blotting blood into his white shirt in the shape of a smeared handprint. 

“I’ve never seen such despair in you,” Oyabu comments.  

“You stabbed me.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry for that. Then again, I’m sort of enjoying this.”

“Well I’m not.” The Judge takes a deep, long breath, holds in for ten seconds, then exhales. “Pull it out,” he declares and turns his back to Oyabu. “Make it swift, but be careful.”

“You’re sure?” Oyabu asks, stalling. 

“Yes, I’m sure. You’re right; the longer I wait, the more bl—“

Oyabu pulls out the knife. 

The Judge emits a silent scream of agony and collapses to his hands and knees. 

Chunks of flesh and torn muscle tissue hang from the ridges of the blade. Oyabu tilts the dagger towards the sun, catching the light in the glistening pink meat. He brings the blood to the tip of his tongue and dyes it crimson, metallic and warm. It is reassuring to know that the Judge bleeds black, rather than silver. 

He tosses the blade aside and kneels by the Judge, who has begun to hyperventilate, unable to put enough pressure on his wound to stop the blood flow. It stains his clothes and hides under his fingernails. There’ll be dried blood there for weeks. 

“I hate you,” the Judge whispers, wheezing. 

Oyabu caresses his cheek with his knuckles and a doting smile. 

“You’ll be fine. It’s my turn to take care of you now.” Oyabu slips out of his blouse and rolls it into a ball, then shoves the Judge onto his back and straddles him, pressing his shirt against the wound. It soaks the blood immediately, and the Judge scratches the ground, hissing and writhing, kicking his heels. 

“There you go,” Oyabu says, encouraging him. “You’re doing great. Only a bit more suffering until the pain becomes tolerable. Yep, that’s it.” He pauses to wipe his hands on his pants, then continues pressuring the open wound. “You’re allowed to scream, you know. Actually, I’d prefer if you did. I bet you sound ridiculous when you scream. It’ll ease the pain, too, if you let loose a little.”

“I’m going to kill you,” the Judge snarls past grit teeth. 

Oyabu laughs to himself. 

“Get the first aid supplies out of my bag,” the Judge demands. “We can clean the wound later. Just— just focus on closing it first.”

“Aye, captain,” Oyabu salutes and fetches their supplies. He dawdles, humming a merry tune under his breath, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to steal sights of the Judge’s chest rapidly expanding and deflating. His bloodstained flats dig into the earth, carving miniature trenches with his heels as he twitches and squirms. 

In a state like this, Oyabu reckons the Judge is defenseless. Could he wield his wand? Could he stop Oyabu from doing whatever he desires? Oyabu could ravish him, or he could leave him here to treat the injury alone, with no one to rely on but himself, like in the olden days when he didn’t have his best buddy Oyabu around to have his back— or to stab it.

Oyabu towers over the Judge, contemplating the paths before him. The road is straight and narrow with only one direction to move towards, but Oyabu has never been fond of being straightforward. The more twists and turns there are to a story, the more fun it is to create, and then unravel. An opportunity has presented itself; Oyabu can forge a new path on this road he’s chosen. 

Or, he can turn back to the horizon and set forth, chasing after a goal he no longer has. 

Oyabu steps on the Judge’s wound and pins him to the ground, apathetic to his distressed gasp. He scrutinizes the man beneath his boot, weighing his options, imagining the futures a single decision could branch off into. 

The Judge’s head rolls on the ground, his eyes dilated. He wraps his fingers around Oyabu’s ankle, slippery and frail.

“Oyabu,” he says, but it is not a plea, nor is it a declaration. He simply says Oyabu’s name.

Growing frustrated with his own inability to take action, Oyabu chews his bottom lip, huffing hot air, his nostrils flaring. He doesn’t put any more weight on the wound, but he doesn’t let up. 

“I can kill you,” Oyabu says, struggling to find his voice. “I don’t even know your name. You’d just be another number to me, in the end. I’ve killed hundreds, so many that I can’t remember. I don’t want to remember. I have no reason to.”

“You don’t have a reason to remember me?” the Judge chuckles. “I’m not going to tell you my name, so don’t hold out on whatever decision you’re trying to make if it depends on an answer.”

“You’re not going to tell me? Even if it would save your life?”

“Do you really think you can kill me?”

“I will,” Oyabu threatens silently.

“But do you think you can? I don’t think you can. I know you can’t.”

“Because you think I am weak? You think I am so attached to you that I wouldn’t end your life? I have killed those I’ve considered family, and that is not the worst I’ve done. I am capable of killing you.”

“Heh.” The Judge smirks, then spreads his arms. “Try to kill me, then. I welcome you.”

“You—” Oyabu growls and grinds his heel into the Judge’s stomach. He makes a guttural sound through a demented, overly confident grin. It is a gorgeous sight on the Judge, who was not designed to show so many teeth at once. 

This is Oyabu’s fault. This is Oyabu’s influence.

He kneels by the Judge and slaps his ruined shirt off the wound, shoving the man’s doublet and undershirt over his chest to expose the hole in his waist. Fuming mutedly, Oyabu applies bandages to the Judge’s body, wrapping gauze around his waist and tying the strips of gauze together in a tight knot. He sits on his calves and heels and wipes sweat from his brow. There is blood in his hair— there is blood everywhere. 

“Thanks,” the Judge grunts, and his head falls, thumping against the ground. His entire body relaxes considerably.

“Shut up,” Oyabu snarls, refusing to face him. He glares at the black drop over the side of the cliff instead. 

“What are you sulking over? Angry that you had to save a life instead of ending it? That must have been so difficult for you. My poor little Oyabu.”

“I told you to shut up. And I didn’t have to do anything.” 

Shuffling on his hands and knees, Oyabu searches for his dagger, finding it several feet away from the pool of blood. He wipes the blade on his pants then tucks it into his waistband. 

“I’m going to start a fire,” he declares. The Judge doesn’t respond.

Oyabu digs a tiny pit into the earth, tosses a blanket over the Judge, then begins scouring the area for firewood. The environment is dry here, but the harsh chill of winter is making itself known without the sun to deter its bite. The lack of moonlight adds to the difficulty of traversing their surroundings, but Oyabu is experienced in navigating shadows. He finds enough wood to last them the night. 

The Judge is exactly where Oyabu left him, only his shivering has increased tenfold. All of that cold, dried blood isn’t exactly helping. 

With a fire brought to life, a perimeter secured, and a horse fed, Oyabu allows himself to lie next to the Judge, resisting any leftover violent urges. He rests on his elbow, leaning over his companion, squinting to capture any details of his expression. While he doesn’t look miserable, he is far from comfortable.

“Hey,” Oyabu whispers, then clears his throat. He grabs the Judge’s chin and redirects his face, forcing their faces closer. He asks, “Do you have enough strength to erect a shelter for us? You’re going to freeze to death before you bleed out.”

“It hurts to move,” the Judge says.

“Boo hoo hoo, too bad.” Oyabu rolls his eyes. “Where’s your wand? I’ll do it myself.”

“Hah. You’d kill us both.”

“Fine! Then do it yourself! Where is it? I’ll retrieve it for you.”

“My waistband.” He sighs deeply and squeezes his eyes shut. “By my spine, but I don’t feel like rolling over seeing as every tiny movement causes me anguish.”

“And I’m the dramatic one? Get over yourself. Someday we’ll look back on this and laugh.” Oyabu shoves his hand under the Judge’s waist and grabs the wand, snickering under his agitated moan. He slaps the tool into the Judge’s open palm and forces his fingers closed around the handle. “There,” he announces and waves. “Do your thing.”

“I hate you,” the Judge says again. 

“So opinionated! I should stab you more.”

“No.” 

The Judge erects three stone walls around them, but does a rather shoddy job of it. Oyabu barely contains a laugh. 

“Do you want to sleep in a grave tonight?” the Judge barks, throwing a fist into Oyabu’s bare chest. It bounces off, ineffective.

“You’re cute like this,” Oyabu giggles, tracing the Judge’s bandages.

“This is a rather peculiar fetish to have.”

“Nah, tons of people find suffering attractive.”

“You’re not even going to deny it?” the Judge laughs, then whines, clutching his stomach. “Stop that,” he groans.

“What? Stop making you laugh?”

The Judge nods, sucking on his lips, swallowing the noises he knows Oyabu would feast upon.

“Do you think we’re ever bound to grow sick of each other?” Oyabu wonders, reclining against the wall, wrapping his arm around the Judge’s shoulders, offering his bicep as a pillow. The Judge adjusts to their new positions, rubbing his cheek on Oyabu’s pec.

“I was sick of you the moment we met.”

“That’s very romantic of you to say.” Oyabu walks two fingers across the Judge’s collarbone, dancing atop his sternum. “No one has ever kept me around for as long as you have, even those who adored me.”

“I find it hard to believe that anyone adored you.”

“Most people don’t know how truly deplorable I am. You’re special.” Oyabu grins. “You’re special to me, partner.”

“It goes against my beliefs to be considered special, but…” He sighs, grabs his hat, then removes it, placing it on the ground. Reflexively, Oyabu shies his gaze, clenching eyelids shut and turning his cheek. “You’re oddly considerate at times,” the Judge says fondly. He pets Oyabu’s chest, nuzzling the side of his face against it. Bare skin on skin.

“Er, thanks, I guess.” Oyabu cracks open his eyes, choosing the fire as his new subject.

“I never told you to avert your gaze.”

“Was it not implied?”

“No,” the Judge whispers.

Oyabu blinks against forming tears. The intensity of the fire clashes with the dry winter air, irritating his eyes.

“There are some things we’re never meant to see,” Oyabu murmurs.

“You think my face is one of them?”

“Yeah, I do. But when have I ever cared about following rules?”

“Then why do you hesitate?”

“I guess I’m trying to give you an out, in case you change your mind.”

“You’re subjecting us to a pointless stalemate. Just look at me, Oyabu.”

Oyabu drags the Judge’s upper body against the wall, then swings his legs over his lap, sitting on his thighs. 

He looks at him.

“Huh.” Oyabu snorts. “You look normal.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t lying when I told you my reasons for keeping the mask on. I simply adhere to the rules of the Association, which means always wearing my uniform.”

“Unless you’re sleeping with me,” Oyabu says. 

“Right, unless I'm sleeping with you,” he says sarcastically, but Oyabu hears only truth.

“I’m glad you aren’t horribly disfigured. It would make kissing you much harder.”

“Kissing me?” the Judge gawks, eyes wide. His irises are redder than the blood he sheds. Oyabu pinches his cheek and crawls closer, avoiding his wound by a wide berth. 

“Yes,” he replies innocuously, preparing the angle of his head. The Judge’s comically wide eyes hone in on Oyabu’s approaching lips. 

“Um,” he says gracefully.

“What?” Oyabu runs his thumb over the Judge’s bottom lip. A rough surface meets another. The Judge’s hands, still bathed in blood, grab Oyabu’s waist. His skin runs hot like the fire that dwindles beside their bed.

The Judge swallows, throat bobbing. Oyabu licks his gums. 

“You’ve never kissed anyone before,” Oyabu states.

“Of course I haven’t.”

“Do you know how?”

The Judge glares, pouting. Oyabu shrugs innocently.

“I can teach you.”

“How about you just kiss me, and spare me the lecture?” the Judge snarks.

Oyabu slots his lips between the Judge’s and wets their chapped surface with his tongue. An immediate, muffled gasp hits Oyabu’s mouth, then a rush of exhaled air through the Judge’s nose. His eyes flutter. 

Oyabu watches him closely as he deepens the kiss, baiting a reaction by sucking on the Judge’s lower lip. Then he sticks his tongue past his lips and licks the Judge’s teeth, running his tongue along his bottom gums. He finds his molars, and the insides of his cheeks. 

The Judge exhales, then breaks free of the kiss, taking a trail of saliva with him. It runs down his chin. 

“I should have expected you’d be a selfish kisser, too,” he pants.

“I’m good, aren’t I?”

The Judge slaps his chest, then does it again, turning fascinated by his pecs. He squeezes Oyabu’s tits, cupping them in his hands. 

Soaking up the attention, Oyabu dazzles like he’s on center stage. 

“You’re a pervert after all.”

“Says the whore.”

“Whoa! The tongue on this lad! Did I rub off on you too much?” Oyabu sways his hips in a circle, grinding his crotch against the Judge’s. He doesn’t feel any signs of arousal, though. 

“Yes, too much, indeed. Get off of me.”

“So soon?”

The Judge yawns. It would be insulting if there weren’t dark bags under his eyes. He pulls Oyabu in for one last kiss— lasting only two seconds— then shoves him away. 

“I’m going to clean this wound, you’re going to sew it shut, and then we’re going to sleep. Okay?”

Oyabu purrs and nuzzles his jaw, invigorated by the freedom to do so. 

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Hard not to use pet names when I have nothing else.” He kisses his cheek, then his temple. “Get used to it, darling.”

“If anyone is the pet between us, it is not me.” The Judge flicks his wand, and two half circles burst from the ground, clamping together around Oyabu’s neck. He claws at the stone uselessly. 

“Good boy, nice and obedient,” the Judge titters. 

Oyabu bites his hand. 

They clean that wound, too.

“That scar is healing nicely.”

The Judge pauses briefly, then continues slathering his wound with ointment. 

“Mhm,” he agrees, a bit subdued. The medicine he ingested earlier has the side effect of making him lethargic, so he doesn’t often take it, but the wound was flaring and they had a horse to ride for six hours, so he indulged. He won’t be able to again unless they restock their milk of the poppy. 

Oyabu was allowed to man the horse— it’s rare that the Judge passes him the reins. He got them to their next objective safely, though, so maybe the Judge will allow for more leeway moving onward. They’re still on schedule, too! 

“Will you be alright tomorrow?” Oyabu asks, sitting beside him on the bed. The mattress is softer than most they come across, and sinks under his weight. 

The Judge closes the bottle of ointment and covers the injury with a new layer of bandages. He moans, exhausted, and flops into Oyabu’s side. The tip of his hat nearly pokes Oyabu’s eye. 

“Uh.”

“Sorry,” the Judge mumbles and removes his hat, dropping it on the floor. Oyabu grabs it, brushes it off, then places it on the nightstand. “I’ll be fine. I was fine when we ranked the Xeragaugh Kingdom.”

“We?”

“Me. When I ranked it. You know what I meant.”

“Just making sure you aren’t lumping me into a job description I never signed up for.”

“M’not.” He yawns. 

“Want to sleep?”

“No,” he claims, but crawls under the blankets and buries his face in a pillow. “Join me,” he says. 

Oyabu stretches out beside him, groaning while popping his joints. Riding a horse for hours never gets better, only worse. 

The Judge grabs his face and kisses him sloppily, licking his lips and front teeth. A tad startled by the forwardness, Oyabu laughs into the kiss and pulls the Judge closer by his ass. The smaller man freezes, gasping too sharply for it to be erotic. 

“Too much?” Oyabu winces. 

The Judge forces his eyes closed, inhales, then relaxes. He threads his fingers through Oyabu’s wavy hair, tangling his fingers in knots.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, and brings himself closer, aligning their crotches, droning a low hum. 

“Really?”

“Just a bit.” He bites Oyabu’s chin, purring. “Don’t go overboard.”

“Hands above the waist, then. Understood,” Oyabu agrees cheerfully, diving in immediately with the permission he’s finally been granted. He hikes up the doublet and finds the Judge’s waistband to his tights, pulling them taught and snapping them on his hips. Then he travels higher than he’s ever been, exploring a rib cage with the divets of his fingers.

He’s so tiny, Oyabu thinks, swallowing a mouthful of drool. 

He searches for a flat chest, but is surprised when he comes across curves. Soft, plump curves. Breasts. 

His eyes widen. 

The Judge blinks into a clearer state of awareness. 

“Oh. Did you not know?” he asks, beginning to sit up. 

Oyabu slams him down, quickly straddling his hips. He presses their noses together, groping the Judge’s chest. 

“No, I didn’t. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it’d be obvious. We sleep with fused bodies, after all.”

“Why would I notice that you have tits when I’m asleep?” he gruffs. 

The Judge frowns. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Oyabu hurriedly says, and removes his hands. The Judge grabs his wrists, stopping him.

“Are you put off?” he asks, face sincere. But Oyabu doesn’t sense any vulnerability.

“No, not really. Maybe a little disappointed.” He licks his lips. “I favor the taste of cock is all. That won’t deter me, though.”

The Judge turns pink. 

“Over the waist,” he rasps. 

Oyabu rolls his neck. 

“I know,” he groans. “I'm just sayin’.” 

“Alright…” The Judge’s lips flatten, pulled tight like a fish line. He doesn’t look at Oyabu, awkwardly fluttering around the room instead. 

“Hey, let me mark you.” He lies on his stomach between the Judge’s thighs and rests his chin on his diaphragm. Grinning, he shows off sharp canines. 

“Fine. Enjoy yourself.”

“Oho, I will.”

Oyabu clamps his teeth around a chunk of skin from the Judge’s stomach, sucking a vacuum, cutting the blood-flow. The flesh turns purple, slick, and indented by a set of teeth. 

The Judge rubs his thighs against Oyabu’s ribs, unable to squeeze together with an obstacle between them. His hips rise with every new hickie planted beneath his skin, the blue rings of leeches. 

Oyabu reaches his chest, flickers his gaze in a considerate display of hesitation, then takes a nipple between his lips. He rolls his tongue around the bud, then bites, throat rumbling proudly when the Judge shudders an exhale. Both of his hands grip the roots on the back of his skull, tugging his hair. 

Throbbing, Oyabu grinds his erection against the mattress, huffing hot air when his lips disconnect with a pop. He targets the other side, licking a wide stripe from the bottom of the breast to the Judge’s sharp collarbone. He bites his clavicle, nearly enough to break skin. A firm tug prevents the taste of blood Oyabu yearns. 

“Behave,” the Judge murmurs. 

“Or what?”

The Judge wraps his legs around Oyabu and crushes his lungs. He wheezes and slaps the bed. 

“Okay! Okay!” he pleads, laughing. Then he whines, “I thought the punishment would be sexy.”

The Judge smirks, a warm glint in his eye. His face is slick with feverish sweat; a side effect of the poppy milk. His body is emitting a powerful heat, the source of it being his lower region. 

Oyabu wishes he could feel it past the layers, dip his finger into the man’s slickness and taste it around his own fingers. He’d stick them in the Judge’s mouth, too. 

Never let it be said that Oyabu is a wholly selfish man. He is capable of sharing his food. 

“My definition of ‘sexy’ punishments might not align with yours,” the Judge says. 

“How so?”

“Well, mine include something more sinister than hair pulling, or scorning.” He grins, unnervingly so. “How do you like your limbs, Oyabu?”

“Intact, preferably,” Oyabu snorts. He squints, playing devil’s advocate. “What would you do to my limbs, had you your way?”

The Judge swallows. His pupils have dilated. His thighs tremble. 

“I’d sever them,” he moans, giddy, and starts giggling. He’ll be out cold soon thanks to the medicine. The loopy side effects that kick in right before that are always a treat, though they’ve never been this kind to Oyabu personally. 

“You’d wear a collar, and I’d walk you thrice a day,” he says, trekking forth on the path of delirium. “I wouldn’t have to worry about being stabbed in the back. Maybe I’d take your tongue, too, and save myself the headaches. Hah. You can keep your teeth. I know how you like to bite.”

Entertained and absolutely, positively surprised by this confession, Oyabu raises the Judge’s left forearm to his mouth, resting it against his lips. 

“You’re right about that. I’m going to bite you,” he warns. 

The Judge snickers and his head rolls onto its side. He nuzzles his pillow and mumbles something unintelligible, but it sounds close enough to consent for Oyabu to continue. 

He chomps into the Judge’s arm, all salivary glands activated when blood spurts into his mouth. Oyabu slurps as much as he can, gulping like a beached fish tossed to the sea, but some drops escape his mouth and splatter on the bandages around the Judge’s stomach. 

Panting once he’s done, Oyabu paints the Judge’s lips red with his own blood. The other man recoils from the taste and smell, wriggling beneath Oyabu’s heavier weight, but he’s in no state to fight. Oyabu coats the Judge’s mouth with blood, licking his gums and the teeth in the furthest depths of his mouth. 

“Oyabu,” the Judge gasps in a brief interlude. “Stop,” he demands. 

Not while I’m still having fun, Oyabu thinks, determined to share his meal. He grabs the Judge’s jaw and forces his mouth open, then spits a red glob of drool into it. The Judge gags, but swallows. 

Satisfied, Oyabu moves to sit atop him again and watch him suffer. The blush from earlier has rotted, turning green around the edges. 

“Euyugh,” the Judge retches, then swallows whatever had come up. Squalid tremors stampede through his body from his center outwards. He is wrecked by ruinous, thundering hooves.  

“Don’t insult yourself like that. You taste delectable.”

“You,” the Judge moans, dazed by misery, striving for contempt. He swallows, cringes, then says, “You are a rabid cur, and nothing more.”

“I know,” Oyabu grins. He wipes his mouth with his hand, then kisses the Judge’s forehead, which is dewy under a thin sheen of sweat. He tells him, “Some say the taste of blood is acquired, but I’ve always been fond of it— fascinated by it.”

“Deplorable.”

“You want to clip my wings, but I want to tear you open,” he growls.

The Judge yawns and paws at Oyabu’s chest lazily, sinking deeper into the bed. 

“Sleeping midday after all, are we?” 

“Blame the blood loss,” he murmurs, yawning a second time. He rolls onto his side, forcing Oyabu to readjust. Blood trickles from the dots on his arm onto the bedsheets. “Leave me alone. Go terrorize the locals. I don’t care.”

“Aw, do you really mean that?”

“To an extent. Don’t kill anyone.”

“Ugh.” Oyabu pouts and jumps out of bed, stretching. He pops his back, then touches his toes, and grabs his cane. “I won’t track anymore blood into the room,” he promises. 

“Oyabu,” the Judge grunts, half-asleep but fully disappointed. 

“You’re no fun,” Oyabu exclaims, throwing up his hands. 

The Judge makes a very rude gesture without the gall to even face Oyabu as he does. 

Bastard! 

“I’ll be back by moonrise,” he promises, then slams the door shut. He hopes the Judge flinches because of it. 

He sighs. 

Now to find a secluded corner to relieve myself in.

The Treasure Vault is currently located amidst a land of ruins with running rivers and toppled buildings. 

Hundreds of swords pierce the earth, some chipped, others completely unscathed. There is a palpable tension that hangs in the air. One could pluck its strings and play a daunting chord if they moved their fingers just right. 

“I can’t allow you inside,” says the Judge as he ties their horse to a post. 

Oyabu hugs the horse’s neck, lying on his stomach, swinging his feet. 

“How long will this take?” he asks petulantly. 

“No more than an hour.”

“An hour?!” Oyabu whines. The horse whinnies. 

“I know I can trust you alone for an hour, Oyabu.”

“Sure, normally! But these circumstances aren’t normal!” He waves at the entrance of the vault. “Waiting on a bench in some nobody’s country is very different from this. You expect me to sit and behave when the Treasure Vault is right there and unguarded?”

“I do,” he says bluntly. “Otherwise, I really will have to kill you.”

“Pff. Sure you will.”

The Judge crosses his arms, foot tapping. 

“Oyabu, don’t make me cage you.”

“Blah blah blah,” Oyabu drones. 

“If I must, I will; for your own safety.”

“I’ll be a good boy, I promise.”

“Stay put.”

“Yes, master, whatever you say, master.” He salutes, too, because he’s such an obedient mutt. 

The Judge disappears, the clock ticks, and Oyabu grows sick of cloud gazing. Grumpily, he kicks a rock down a staircase, then follows its skidding path. He pockets his fists, huffs, and launches the rock. It ricochets off the blade of a buried sword, then hits another. They vibrate, causing a low ringing sound to echo in off the stone walls. 

“Huh.”

Oyabu kicks the rock again, aiming for another. It hits one, then another, and a third. The swords reverberate. Loose dirt crumbles off walls. 

Having nothing else to do, Oyabu plays music with his feet and dances with them, too. However, he doesn’t break the perimeter the Judge warned him about when entering the territory of the ruins. 

Apparently, the Treasure Vault exists on a chunk of land that is mobile. As in, it teleports. 

Oyabu isn’t so sure he believes that. He’s seen the wildest things firsthand, but for an entire land to disappear in the blink of an eye? Even the Gods of the modern age could not do that. It would have to be the doing of an elder God, and everyone knows their power faded and their kind dwindled to extinction. 

“Having fun, are we?” asks an unfamiliar voice. 

Oyabu whips his body around to face the— whatever this hulking, monstrous being approaching him is. Scales ripple across its face and exposed hands, with fingernails so long they curl into spirals at the tips. Four additional arms sprout from its back, bent at absurd angles. Their smile is silver, and their eyes are obsidian. 

“Who are you?” he shouts. 

The being, which Oyabu can only assume is a God or a Demon, flicks the handle of a sword. The weapon dissolves, as if it was made entirely of dust. The remains scatter in the wind. 

Oyabu draws his own weapon, his mouth stuffed with cotton, throat dryer than sandpaper. This being reeks of visceral dread. 

I’m in danger. 

“I am… disappointed that you don’t know my name,” says the being, shaking its misshapen head. It blinks vertically like a lizard. 

“Why should I?”

“Because I am a God, and deserve to be shown respect by slaves.”

Oyabu shuffles backwards slowly, but the God mirrors every step. Goosebumps prickle across Oyabu’s arms and neck. 

I cannot defeat this thing. I have to run.

He plants his foot, swivels, and bursts into a sprint. 

Then he slips and nearly breaks his nose. The ground has become frictionless. It’s impossible to comprehend. Oyabu cannot upright himself, doomed to slide and topple over no matter what he does. 

I am the prey, and that thing is a hunter.

Thinking fast, Oyabu stabs the ground with his dagger and pulls, launching himself forward. He slides as if he were on a lake of ice, until the effect disperses and he finds solid, malleable ground again. 

Scrambling, he tries to run, only to faceplant. This time he is not so lucky. Blood gushes from his broken nose, over his lips and down his throat. 

“Ack—“ he chokes, hacking up blood. 

The God slithers closer, slowly, menacingly. He taps his disgusting fingernails together. He is laughing. 

I am being humiliated. 

Without warning, Oyabu throws his dagger at the God. It hits, but is not powerful enough to pierce the thick scales. Useless, it clatters on the ground. 

“Very little separates humans from the beasts they hunt. However, when your life is jeopardized, you panic, and act strangely. Fear. I am familiar with what it looks like.” The God scratches its chin. “When an animal knows it will die, it does not think, it does not beg. They are not capable of such a thing. When a human knows it will die, it pleads. It prays. Tell me, will you pray? To me? For mercy?”

Oyabu stares, horrified, frozen and helpless. 

What the hell is a God doing here? he thinks. Why me? Why now? I don’t deserve this. What misfortune have I spurred the ire of to face a vengeful God alone? 

“Speechless? The line between human and animal is thinner than I presumed,” the God muses. He walks slowly, torturously drawing out the suspense. 

Oyabu can do nothing else but stare. He refuses to pray. 

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” shouts the Judge from atop a wall, his wand drawn and pointed offensively. Oyabu has never heaved a bigger sigh of relief. 

The God regards him, but does not back away from Oyabu.

“Ah, a member of the committee.”

“You are not welcome here,” the Judge states. 

“But this human is?”

“Yes. He is mine.” The Judge glares, fists clenched. “You will abandon your hunt and leave this land. Now.”

The God rises, floating, and begins to glow a brilliant purple aura. 

“Who are you to command a God?” it hisses, distorted, piercing their ears. Only Oyabu flinches, throwing his hands over his head. The Judge stands firm. 

“I am a judge, and he is my human.”

“You would defy a God for that pathetic creature?! Fool!” the God strikes, thrusting its hands out, summoning a blue glyph beneath the Judge. 

The Judge doesn’t budge, and the blue flames that erupt from the glyph cause him no harm. He glares, terrifyingly silent. 

The God makes an alarmed sound, flinching. 

“What?” it gasps. 

The Judge points at the God again, then to the north. 

“You do not belong here. Leave. I won’t tell you again.”

“Grrrr,” snarls the God, who glances at Oyabu, but retreats in the opposite direction. It avoids the perimeter around the Judge and floats away, disappearing somewhere in the vast ruins. Upon his escape, the ground returns to normal beneath Oyabu. He collapses onto his back and wheezes.

“Holy shit,” he says. 

The Judge appears next to him, lighter than a feather. His head blocks the sun. 

“Are you injured?” he asks. 

Oyabu spits a glob of bloody snot onto the ground. 

“No, so thanks for that.”

“Hm.” The Judge pulls Oyabu to his feet, preoccupied. He looks around, then walks, elevated by the pillars that form under his feet like stairs. He searches the maze of broken structures from the vantage point, hitting every cardinal direction, but doesn’t appear to spot anything.

The earth moves under Oyabu, then he is suddenly being carried by a wave of stones, and is transported to the Judge’s side dozens of meters in the air. 

“Gods are unwelcome on these grounds,” he says. “So are most humans. It is not uncommon, though, that we must drive them out. This is not a hidden location, after all, and curiosity can kill even the wisest of men.”

“You— his magic didn’t work on you. At all.”

The Judge scoffs. 

“Of course it didn’t.”

He doesn’t provide an explanation as to why that is, so Oyabu doesn’t pester him for it. There’d be no point. Besides, he’s just thankful to be alive. Doesn’t matter how.

“Did you finish your business inside?” Oyabu asks, leaning on the makeshift stone crutch the Judge conjures him. Those damn falls jostled his bad leg, and banging his knees didn’t help either. 

Exasperated, the Judge sighs, his head craning back and shoulders sagging. Oyabu bites his tongue, unsure how to approach. 

“We can go,” is his eventual answer— or lack of one. 

They ride a wave of stones and earth to the nearest upper level. The Judge lags behind, allowing Oyabu to establish a hobbling pace. He doesn’t appreciate walking alone, though.

That wasn’t always the case. Funny how people change— even villains like Oyabu. Although, nothing is truly fun without someone to witness it, even villainy, especially villainy. 

“You’re lucky it didn’t immediately kill you,” the Judge mutters. 

“I’m a very lucky man.” Oyabu stops. He musters the courage to ask, “What would you have done if it did kill me?”

“I wouldn’t have done anything. You’d already be dead.”

“You wouldn’t exact revenge?”

The Judge shakes his head mutedly. 

“Because you’re not allowed to kill Gods,” Oyabu guesses. The Judge’s twisted lips confirm his theory. “So that’s why you’re upset,” he murmurs, smirking. “That’s very… rebellious of you.”

“Oyabu—“

“No, no, I like it,” Oyabu interrupts with a toothy smile. 

The Judge’s expression, however, falls. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answers, clearly bothered by something. It’s not as if he’s trying to hide it, either. He trudges past Oyabu, nose pointed at his feet, entirely downcast. 

“What? It’s nothing you can’t tell me.”

“I know. But thank you for worrying about me, Oyabu.”

“Yeah, well, I care about what’s mine.”

“If phrasing it like that is what helps you sleep at night, so be it,” the Judge says shortly. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you offended by my imprudence? How about I sing you a serenade, as an apology? Since when are you so sensitive?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been changing too much, while you haven’t changed enough. Ugh.” He rubs his face. “They were right,” he sighs.  

Oyabu bristles, throwing the cane aside and stomping to the Judge, punching his shoulder. 

“The fuck are you chastising me for, huh, bastard?! Who was right? About what?”

The Judge slaps his hand away like it’s been dipped in filth. He sneers unkindly, “Show some restraint for once, won’t you? How fickle your gratitude is to be overcome by abandon so easily.”

“I’m plenty grateful, asshole,” Oyabu snaps, shoving his shoulder. 

The Judge stumbles two steps, nursing his arm. 

Oyabu hits him again, a punch to the arm, a kick to the knee, a jab to the scar he will wear forever. 

The Judge doubles over, clutching his side, gritting his teeth. His jaw pops. 

“Either dodge, or hit back,” demands Oyabu, impatient. 

“Why don’t you stop hitting me instead?” he groans. 

Frowning, Oyabu grinds his foot into the ground, fingernails biting his palms. 

The Judge glares at him, but his expression is indecipherable past a blockade of icy, carefully erected indifference. 

“Calm down, and maybe I’ll tell you my woes later,” he says, then scoffs. “Ha! Since when am I so sensitive? Oyabu, since when are you so hellbent on monitoring my well-being?”

The Judge raises a hand while Oyabu opens his mouth to answer— which he wasn’t exactly going to do, since he planned to argue. 

“Petty squabbling will do us no favors. Come, I have a new assignment. We’ll ride at once.”

“So you’re not ditching me?” Oyabu asks, trotting towards their horse. He uses his good leg to launch himself onto its back, then extends a hand for his partner.

The Judge unties the reins, then stares up at him, his eyebrows furrowed together.

“Why would I abandon you?” he asks sincerely. 

Oyabu feels as if he’s just swiped a coarse sponge across the Judge’s face and revealed gold beyond the rust. His hurt is raw and tangible, like it would crumble between one’s fingers if held too gently. 

Clearing his throat, Oyabu says, “I don’t know. Am I wrong to imply that your boss isn’t happy with our arrangement?”

“…Sometimes I forget how clever you really are,” the Judge murmurs mostly to himself. He laughs softly into his chest, head shaking. Then he takes Oyabu’s hand, maneuvers onto the saddle, and kisses him. The beak of his mask pokes Oyabu’s eye. 

Rumbling, the Judge says against Oyabu’s lips, “You’re stuck with me, Oyabu. Do you think I’d ever let you get away?”

“Heh.” Oyabu grins and wraps his arms around the man’s waist, then hoists him into his embrace. He gnaws on the Judge’s exposed nape, speaking colors into his skin, turning pink into purple. “If I wanted to leave, you’d never find me,” he claims. 

Reigns snapping, the Judge whips them onto a new course. 

They ride east, opposite from which they came. There is a mountain range on the horizon, and a sea beyond that. 

Hooves trample budding flowers that recently thawed out of winter’s frost. The final days of the season are waning. They are off to find new beginnings, and enact overdue endings. 

Behind them, the vault completely disappears. Oyabu rubs his eyes, just to confirm he isn’t hallucinating. It really is gone.

“I would always find you,” the Judge says, difficult to hear, but Oyabu does; he listens. “I am never lost. All will be found. There is no place in this world I cannot go, for I’ve already been.” 

Oyabu listens to the Judge’s heartbeat with his palm. 

He says his last piece to the sky, “But I wonder. When there is nowhere left to run on this earth, what other option is there than to leave it?”

The Judge grins, an evil thing. 

It is ethereal. 

There is a traveling carnival on their path. 

Because it originates from a kingdom and is technically a source of revenue for it, Oyabu manages to convince the Judge to visit it with him. Under the guise of observing it as a third party, of course. 

They are still expected to purchase tickets.

“Ah ah, don’t even try it,” scolds the Judge, who yanks Oyabu by the collar of his shirt away from the kind lady who charged their entry. 

He pockets the dagger originally aimed at her nape. 

There is a circus tent, carnival games, and a few food stalls. It is surprisingly packed for an event outside kingdom walls. The venue must be well known to attract so many traveling civilians. 

“Look there,” says Oyabu, pointing at a game he finds interesting. 

It is a test of accuracy; one shoots an arrow at a stack of pins, and wins when they’ve knocked the tower over. The secret kicker is the fact that the pins are filled with sand, and that the bows they provide have a weak drawstring. One cannot brute force a victory out of this game. Pinpoint accuracy is the only answer to winning a prize. 

That, or burglary, which the Judge would not approve of, so it’s off the table. 

“You can use a bow?” asks the Judge. 

Oyabu places a stolen copper coin on the counter, readies his bow, and tests the weight of his arrow. Six pins, three arrows, one partner to woo.

“I have, once or twice. Always preferred melee weapons.”

“Ah, so I should expect our funds to plummet.”

“And why should they?” Oyabu laughs, drawing his first shot. 

“You will fail this rigged game, yet will continue to try until you succeed, because you are stubborn and you intend to impress me.”

“Well, you’re right about two things, but not all three.”

Oyabu shoots.

Bullseye. 

He knocks over the top pin and the one supporting it on the right. Only the three bottom pins and the top left remain. Four pins, two arrows. 

The Judge claps politely, already enjoying himself. 

Oyabu snickers and draws the string again. 

The person manning the booth watches, arms crossed leisurely, an eyebrow risen. 

Two more pins fall. 

“This is easy,” Oyabu scoffs. He points his last arrow between the owner’s eyes. It has a rubber head, but will still cause damage. “Oye, hide behind something, in case this goes awry.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” they gasp, then duck behind the counter.

“Just making it a bit more challenging,” Oyabu murmurs and backpedals, tongue poking between his teeth in concentration. He shuffles as far as he can before his back hits another booth. 

The little girl covered in fur that he knocks into squeaks and cowers behind her guardian, who only dares to glare at Oyabu for a second before thinking better than to aggravate an armed man with a dangerous smile.

“Sorry about that,” he says charmingly, then squints at his original target. 

The Judge, acting aloof, remains where he was, tapping his foot as he awaits the end of Oyabu’s dramatics. Little does he know (hardly; he knows better than anyone else on the planet), Oyabu’s flare for drama is infinite. 

Arm bent, feet planted, and eyes closed, Oyabu holds, aims, and fires. 

He hears something get hit. It doesn’t sound like the pins. 

Cracking open his eyes, Oyabu dares to peek at the potential carnage. 

“Aw,” he sighs, disappointed. 

The arrow is lodged in a stone pillar inches from the Judge’s face. 

“You missed,” he drawls. 

Oyabu struts over and plucks the arrow from the dirt mound. He taps the Judge’s beak with its rubber head, then returns it and the bow to the booth owner. Quaking, they thank Oyabu for his coin, then hide behind the counter until he is gone. 

Dragging the Judge by the wrist, Oyabu takes them to the circus tent. 

“You’ll fit in here,” he says. 

The Judge kicks his calf. 

The circus show itself is fine, but dull. 

Oyabu finds the popcorn more interesting than the clowns and aerobatic performers. 

Better than that is the Judge, who sits properly on the bench next to Oyabu and watches the show attentively. Whatever runs through his peculiar mind in mundane situations like these is an enigma Oyabu has yet to discover. 

Does he study them through the lenses of an entity, or does he watch with the eyes of an audience? 

Oyabu places popcorn against the Judge’s lips and practically forces him to eat the salty, delicious treat. It’s rare they have the opportunity to eat for pleasure. Plus, it’s an excuse to touch the Judge’s lips, which always brightens Oyabu’s mood. 

The real show is located behind the circus tent where the stagehands load and unload supplies. No one stops Oyabu and the Judge when they mingle in the restricted area. Either they recognize the Judge’s authority, or they don’t, and think he is one of their clowns. 

Oyabu nudges the Judge with his elbow, implying the latter via an exaggerated wink.

“Are you having fun?” the Judge asks, sincerity poking through his pouty facade like morning sunlight breaches shutters. His arms are crossed and his foot is impatiently tapping the ground, but his jaw flexes, and his lips twitch. 

Oyabu realizes that he has become an expert at reading the Judge’s body language. It is in that moment that the urge to sweep the Judge into his arms and suck his tongue dry is direly overwhelming, but his willpower persists. That, and his desire to remain unharmed for their duration in the carnival. 

They haven’t yet established the rules of public displays of affection, but Oyabu can make an educated assumption as to the Judge’s opinion. The safest option is to smirk, tease, and bury any lust until it is ready to pierce the surface and blossom. 

“Watch this,” Oyabu says and grabs three pins. He begins juggling them with no introduction, executing a flawless act. 

The Judge’s head tilts. He says, “Impressive. When did you learn to juggle?”

“Do you think I spent all my days killing people? Don’t answer that.” Oyabu closes his eyes and concentrates, tongue poking between his lips. He begins spinning slowly in a circle, blind and juggling three twirling pins. Then he hops on one foot, and begins using the other to aid in the juggling. 

“Impressed yet?” he huffs. 

“I already was, Oyabu.”

“Nay, you were feeding me the waste of a bull. But this is the real deal! Look!”

“I am looking, and I’m very impressed. What more can I say?”

“Tell me I look ravishing, and that I do not look like a clown without his makeup.”

“You look ravishing, Oyabu. The only one resembling a clown between us is me.”

“You would admit that for my sake?” he gasps, touched, and drops all pins in favor of taking the Judge in his arms. He kisses the red section of his hat loudly and wetly, declaring, “How humble! How recognized! You are my favorite clown of all! My favorite person to grace the earths!”

Groaning, the Judge goes limp in his embrace and allows Oyabu to indulge in making a scene. The stagehands are too busy to pay them more than a passing glance, anyways. 

“Can we go?” the Judge sighs. 

“Since when do you ask me?” Oyabu chuckles. He claps his palms to the Judge’s cheeks, pulling his lips towards his ears with thumbs hooked into his cheeks. “Oye, Judge. Partner. Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I was able to take notes for my ranking, eat popcorn, and watch a show. I am quite satisfied.”

“And you did all of it with me,” Oyabu reminds him.

The Judge pinches Oyabu’s stomach. A crescent smile forms wrinkles around his eyes. 

“I wouldn’t have done it without you, Oyabu. Thank you for the suggestion.”

“Anytime.” Oyabu bites his bottom lip and puts some distance between them. “Would you buy some food for the road while I fetch our horse?”

“If that is your request, then I shall.”

“Yes, please. Grab the tastiest looking jerky you can.”

“I will, Oyabu. For you,” the Judge promises lightly. “Be seeing you in a bit.”

Oyabu tampers with the tingles in his limbs, shaking his hands and hopping backwards on his toes. His cheeks burn roses, and his teeth grind together to resist a doofus’s grin. 

The Judge is so cute, he thinks as he skips through the carnival towards the stables. 

He is good to me, he thinks as he finds their horse. 

He’s so— I want to— gah! Oyabu buries his face in the horse’s mane and screams. Several other horses jolt, panicked by his outburst. The Judge’s horse, unfazed by Oyabu, does not react as it is used to muffle his screams. 

“I want to be with him,” Oyabu hisses, clawing at his own heart. He is unfamiliar with the ache that has suddenly spawned within. It nestles between his ribs, creaking his bones. It is a welcome pain. 

Oyabu has become the masochist of his own sadism. 

“Is this what it feels like to care for someone?” he rasps. 

He is trembling. 

Oh, how thrilling. How terrifyingly new. 

He has never felt more human.

Never felt more alive. 

This is freedom, isn’t it? True freedom?

Oyabu runs through the streets of the carnival until he finds the Judge carrying their food. 

“Let’s go!” he laughs and mounts the horse, pulling the Judge onto the saddle and between his legs in one swift motion. He snaps the reins, and the horse obeys, speeding out of the carnival grounds. 

“What did you do?” the Judge yelps, doing his best to stay upright with only his legs to cling to the galloping horse, hugging their food lest it scatter. 

“Nothing!” Oyabu cheers, cackling into the wind as they ride, faster and faster into the open expanse. 

The carnival is left behind in a cloud of dust.

Once again, the Judge and Oyabu are alone on horseback, with nothing to do but be together.

Rain finds them amidst the purple mountains; mounds of lavender rocks covered in every shade of purple a flower can possibly be. They stretch farther than two horizons, and higher than the clouds in some parts. The sky is tinted yellow in these lands due to the insurmountable pollen floating about. 

The Judge is not deterred by the weather, but perhaps he should be. They are drenched to the bone by the storm, and nearly stricken by several bolts of lightning before they make their camp for the night. Although they are shivering like squelching rats, they are still on schedule, always the priority. 

Half naked and clothes laid out to dry, they huddle by the fire in a self-made den. 

The Judge has nothing but his tights on, exposing his upper body and every imperfection on it. Oyabu has never actually seen him naked, only ever felt what lies beneath his clothing. There are more scars woven into his skin than he presumed there would be considering the Judge’s inexplicable evasiveness. 

Oyabu drags his fingers across the scars on the Judge’s biceps. There are several that run parallel to one another; too precise to be anything but calculated. There are others, small knicks on his back, a few blemishes around the shoulders and chest. Oyabu’s scar ranks highest in terms of size and severity. He doesn’t touch that one just yet. 

The Judge doesn’t grace his exploration with a remark. He squirms and shrugs occasionally, but is otherwise occupied with warming himself by the flames. 

Oyabu collects his curly hair into a ponytail and wrings out the remaining dew. Then he uses his own tie to secure it, exposing the Judge’s nape. The smaller man shivers and rubs his arms. Oyabu kisses the goosebumps on his neck, then sucks a hickey under his ear. There are very few places to mark the Judge that end up visible. 

There is not much of a point to be made in a brand only the owner can see, but Oyabu is satisfied in knowing of its existence. 

“Our travels will be abrasive in the coming week,” the Judge says tiredly. He places his hand on Oyabu’s knee. The other goes to his lips, where he bites the nail of his thumb. “This mountain range is difficult to navigate, especially after rainfall.”

“We can’t take a different route?” 

“No.” The Judge tucks his knees under his chin. He spits a fingernail into the fire. His eyes are downcast. A droplet clings to his lashes. “You will man the horse tomorrow.”

“Me? Why?” 

“The moon is new, and I have bled.” He sighs. “The use of herbs to deny my administered pain would be an act of sacrilege, so I will suffer. I expect I’ll be in no state to lead us.”

“You have bled?” Oyabu searches his torso for an open wound. “Sacrilege? What are you talking about?”

“My fertility, Oyabu.” The Judge pouts, cheek pressed to his knee. “Surely you are educated in basic anatomy? When those who bear eggs should fail to fertilize them, they are punished. This is the price we humans pay for neglecting the gift of immortality.”

Oyabu blinks, and blinks, and blinks again.

“You’re on the rag?” he gasps. 

“Yes,” he murmurs and groans into his legs. “Please see to our safe travels in the meantime.”

“You would trust me to lead in these harsh lands?”

“A former bandit has experience in traversing the terrains, does he not?”

“Aye, he does, but never these, and never alone.”

“You’re not alone. I’ll still be there on the same saddle and horse we’ve always been on, and I will guide you.”

“When you’re not writhing in pain atop a rag soaking of your own blood,” Oyabu says jokingly. The Judge doesn’t laugh, but he wasn’t expecting him to. Slowly, Oyabu wraps an arm around his shoulders and speaks into his ear, “Why is this the first time I’m learning about this? Were you committing ‘sacrilege’ to keep it a secret from me?”

The Judge glares daggers sharper than newly forged iron. 

“Sorry,” Oyabu chuckles. 

“I am trained in the skill of withholding information from those I am unfamiliar with,” he declares. 

Oyabu smiles. “You’re no longer unfamiliar with me. You trust me.”

“Unfortunately, I do— to an extent. I trust that you can steer a horse in a single direction for a few hours. Is it wrong of me to place these expectations upon you?”

“It is wrong of you to trust me, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. I’ll keep us safe, partner.”

“Is that a promise?” the Judge asks playfully, lips hooked. 

Oyabu kisses his cheek. 

“You don’t need my promises,” he reminds him. 

The Judge is pleased by this recital and kisses a favor between Oyabu’s lips. He nips Oyabu’s throat, then his clavicle, scratching the wiry black hairs that thicken the lower they are. Fingertips tease the band of Oyabu’s braies, doing no more than that. 

“You’ll let me deflower you one day, won’t you? Or is that considered an offense to your council?” Oyabu murmurs. He squeezes a tit in his palm. 

“It is not considered an offense for a judge to partake in his desires, because it is an unfathomable thought altogether. A member of the Ranking Committee does not have desires. They do not have a partner. They do not love.” The Judge bumps his nose against Oyabu’s. “They do not approve of you, but you know this.”

“They do not forbid our companionship, either,” Oyabu states. 

The Judge hums, face flat. 

“I would allow you to enact your own carnal desires, Oyabu, just as I have allowed you to enact your killing sprees. I am a bystander to the actions of man.”

“Even when the actions are done to you?”

“Yes.” The Judge cedes, sighing. “Should I allow them to be, then they may be. If you wished to lay with me, I would allow it, if that is what you desire.”

“It is my desire, but it is not your s,” Oyabu muses, rearranging the puzzle to better fit together. He tucks a curl behind the Judge’s ear. “Is that your excuse?”

“It is no excuse.” The Judge smiles. “I have given you an opportunity within the confines of my code. Will you fumble, or seize it?”

“I’ll seize it when the chances of knocking you up aren’t so bloody high,” he snorts. 

“You think you can impregnate me?” he asks. 

“Who is it that needs to learn basic anatomy, again? When a man sticks his cock in a w— another person’s cunt, they get pregnant. How can you bleed but be incapable of reproduction?”

The Judge smiles behind his fingers. He answers, “There are rituals and spells that can be done; preventative matters.”

“Ah, delightful. We’d be having voodoo sex,” Oyabu scoffs. “Nothing is normal with you.”

“Nor you,” the Judge exclaims, gleeful. He derives pride in being aligned with abnormality. 

“You would not consider that sacrilege, then? To prevent the very fertility you are punished for neglecting?” Oyabu wonders. 

“I am punished by my ancestry— the blood before mine and those before them. To bleed is to endure a human decree, but to stop the bleeding…” The Judge drops to a whisper. “To stop the bleeding would be to betray those I serve. I am a human, but I am no apostate, nor will I ever be. There is nothing I can be that would change what I truly am.”

The Judge grabs Oyabu’s chin. He bites the tip of his nose lightly and purrs. 

Oyabu’s cock jumps, and his tongue shrivels dry. 

“I am a member of the association,” the Judge whispers between Oyabu’s eyes. 

“You are also my partner,” Oyabu says, holding his hips. He cranes his neck, finding the Judge’s gaze. It captures flames that fail to cast reflections. He is burnt alive. 

“You should rest, my Oyabu,” the Judge says and caresses his cheek. Then he dismounts and lies against the wall, his back to the den. The hickey beneath his ear is hidden at this angle, but it is there. 

Oyabu takes watch at the mouth of their camp. They haven’t needed to post a lookout once in their many, many travels together. They have never been in any real danger, not counting the threat they pose to themselves and one another. 

Still— Oyabu sits, and he watches the stars, wishing for the first time in his life that he could pull them a bit closer. 

“Does your horse have a name?” 

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was never named.”

“That would do it.”

“Would you like to name it?”

“You’re giving me the honor?”

“No one else will if you don’t.”

“That’s cruel. Every pet should be given a name.”

“It is not my pet, it is my horse that I use for travel.”

“For how many years?”

The Judge does not answer. 

Oyabu rolls his eyes. 

“Fine, I’ll name her. Let me think.”

“Not too hard. We cannot have both of us out of commission.”

“Oh, har har, you’re hilarious. I bet no one’s ever told you that.”

“You have, several times.”

“Rocket. I like that name. Rocket. Like those fireworks that explode in the sky.”

“Is that what my horse reminds you of?”

“Hm? No, I just chose a word I like.”

“I find it contradictory that you would offer to name the horse something meaningless. Isn’t the point of a name to give meaning? To belong to a family? To have a purpose?”

“Dunno, does that mean you don’t have a purpose?”

“I have a name,” the Judge huffs. 

“Do you remember it? Or what it sounds like? How long has it been since someone has spoken it?”

The Judge doesn’t answer. 

But then, he does. 

“I do, when I am alone,” he whispers and hugs Oyabu tighter from behind. “But so long as you are with me, I am not alone.”

“Thus, your name shall not be spoken,” Oyabu sighs. He throws a hand over his brow and searches the horizon. 

The sun beats down heavy on them like a paddle to a moth infested blanket. Even winter’s remains cannot protect them from an unbridled sun. Not this far south. They are going east— directly east. Oyabu is grateful his vision hasn’t been seared black. Where did all those lovely rain clouds go?

The Judge hisses and huffs, writhing against Oyabu’s back. 

“Are you alright?” Oyabu murmurs, feeling that ache in his chest again. 

The Judge grunts, the barest affirmative. 

“I know that ingesting medicine is considered sacrilege, but are there other methods to ease the pain? Can you ice the wound?”

“It is not a wound, Oyabu,” sighs the Judge. Oyabu is glad to give him something to do other than groan. “There are other methods, yes, but I do not use them. My only solution is to endure the pain.”

“Tell me about them anyways.”

“Why? To remind me of my suffering?” laughs the Judge. 

“I never turn down a learning opportunity,” Oyabu snickers. “Teach me,” he insists, nudging the man behind him. 

“You turn down learning opportunities more than women’s advances.”

“Hey! I like women. Sometimes.” Oyabu pops his lips. “Er, maybe not. Don’t distract me with rubbish that doesn’t matter. I have you now, so I don’t have to think about preferences anymore.”

“Is that something you had to worry about in the past?”

Oyabu crinkles his nose at the reminder. He’d rather not think about it, but the funny thing about thoughts is that they have nowhere to go except the forefront of your mind. Once they’re there, they take their sweet time going anywhere else. 

He thinks of his father, who no longer thinks of him. 

There are many memories Oyabu wishes he held onto; memories he knows he’s forgotten but cannot remember forgetting. It’d be a miracle if he ever lost the best memories of his father. It would require a combined effort of all the Gods in the world to forget the worst. 

Alas, he will always remember the worst. 

Those memories live not in his head. 

“I’ve offended you,” the Judge notices. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Oyabu offers a carefree smile. He reassures him otherwise, then finds the sun and adjusts their horse to face a truer east. 

“The whores we kept— and when I say ‘we’ I do mean the collective group of bandits— the whores we kept around our camps treated their cramps with leather canteens, warmed over the fire then pressed to their pelvises. The heat was meant to relieve the aching. I always found that cold baths numb pain more effectively, though.”

“The torturous nature of the blood cycle is more complicated than a flesh wound…” The Judge hesitates, cusped by a budding curiosity. “You placed yourself in the company of bleeding whores?”

Oyabu shrugs. 

“I liked their company more than the men— when the men weren’t naked in my bed,” he says. 

“No bandits I’ve met would admit this so freely.”

“That is because— before me— you’d never met a bandit with the power to be as free as I am. You’d never met anyone like me. Because I am powerful, I am free to do as I please. When you take the freedom from those that would limit yours, you can be who I am.” Oyabu puffs his chest, grinning. He declares, “I am a powerful bandit; free to kill, pillage, and fuck as many men as I want.”

“After everything, you would still consider yourself a bandit?” the Judge wonders. 

“Of course! A monster born hideous does not turn handsome— but a man born handsome may become hideous if he meets a monster.”

“Which one are you in that scenario?”

“I am the sicko who watches the man and the monster kill each other, then loots their corpses.”

The Judge’s shoulders shake through silent laughter. 

Nostrils aflare, Oyabu huffs, content in the atmosphere that embraces them. He has brought happiness to the Judge, and this alone is enough reason for Oyabu to feel it as well. How ironic that he would have once used this moment to prescribe suffering for his own amusement. 

For months, the Judge has endured the curse of his anatomy and Oyabu was none the wiser. Had he known then, he’d have taken advantage of the opportunity to multiply it tenfold. His joy would have been built on anguish, rather than tranquility. 

No, that was not joy. Oyabu’s head shakes. That was amusement. I know what real joy is, and it is far from artificial. It is earned, like all the best prizes are. It cannot be stolen, but it can be shared. 

Oyabu is entrusted by someone he has no intentions of betraying. 

Oyabu hasn’t trusted another person since before his father first struck him. 

That was decades ago. 

Does he trust the Judge? 

The hands that clutch the front of his shirt are smaller than his own, and far less calloused. The nails on each finger are blunt, but they are not ragged or chipped. Their knuckles are pink, and the thin layer of skin stretched over tendons and bones is paler than most on this side of the world, but tanned by exposure. If the sleeves were to be rolled back, a hard line between bronze and white would be revealed. 

While these hands are thinner, smoother, and smaller than Oyabu’s, they are capable of holding more power than Oyabu can comprehend, much less hold with five, ten, or hundreds of his own hands. 

The Judge is capable of besting Gods without lifting a finger, or establishing hierarchies with only a pen and paper, but he chooses to use those fingers to bundle fabric in his palms and twist the wrinkles in Oyabu’s clothes.

His hands could be free, but he chooses to occupy them— with many things, many obligations, many responsibilities. But only one man! Only one person. He holds Oyabu, while he has the power to crush him, toss him aside, and bury him. 

He holds Oyabu like a precious thing— like a favorite thing. 

It is rare that a judge would succumb to his biases. 

For Oyabu, this one has. 

“When you are done bleeding, I want to make love to you,” Oyabu states. 

The hands do nothing, but the Judge catches his breath. 

“You‘d wait until I’ve bled? You, the lover of bloodshed?”

“It has nothing to do with the presence of blood, only the suffering that accompanies it.” He sniffs. His cheeks are hot. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he mumbles, bashful. 

He curses the man he becomes when left to soft boil like this. That man is far better than he normally is, but so very embarrassing.

“That’s kind of you to say, Oyabu.”

“There’s no fun in a selfish lover.”

“Is that what we are? Lovers?”

Oyabu blushes harder. 

“That was a common turn of phrase,” he grumbles. 

“Yet you wish to make love to me. I think that would make us lovers.”

“Would you rather I fuck you? Ravish you? Wreck you?”

“I have no preference on the approach you take in courting me. If you wish to copulate once I’ve surpassed the moon’s contempt, then we shall.”

“You have no objections?”

“I have no objections, I have no desires,” he hums. 

“If you have no desire for sex, then I’d be raping you.” Oyabu squeezes his eyes shut. “I do not want to rape you.”

“Well, I applaud your chivalry on that front. Although, you’d not be able to rape me if you tried, so knock the very notion from your brain.” The Judge pinches Oyabu’s waist. “You may court me without regard, Oyabu. I will stop you if needed.”

Oyabu swallows around a rock-sized lump. 

“I want to be aroused, but your way of speak is so drearily clinical,” he groans. 

What he neglects to mention is the bitter twang that the notion of rape leaves under his tongue. The mere possibility that he might— to the Judge— it heightens the ache in his chest. 

“Would you have me express interest? If it eases your conscience, I am capable of reciprocating. It is not a lifeless thing you’d be sticking your cock inside of, Oyabu.” The Judge scoffs, clearly smiling as he speaks. “We have kissed and frotted plenty, haven’t we? I’ve enjoyed myself in those moments. This would not be a loveless affair.”

“You enjoy kissing me, and having your chest fondled, but you have no desire to fuck? What am I to make of that?” he whines, frustrated. 

The Judge gathers himself, hands departing from Oyabu and vanishing inside his cloak. His forehead rests between Oyabu’s shoulder blades. The hooked beak of his mask follows the curve of Oyabu’s spine. 

“To go from kissing you to being penetrated by you— that is a big leap, don’t you think? Am I not allowed to prefer a jump? A hop?”

“You are allowed to feel however you want. I just— I just don’t understand it, I guess.” Oyabu hunches over, bringing the Judge down with him. “There is a lot I still don’t understand about you, but I persist, don’t I?”

“You do, and I admire that quality in you. I also appreciate that you respect what you do not understand. Such a trait is rare to come by.”

“Is it? Only foolish men would use their own ignorance as an excuse to be disrespectful. There are points to be made in disrespect— sharp points that can be wielded like blades— but they are only effective when adorned by those who know how to use them. Ignorance is a detriment to disrespect.”

“I suppose the world must be littered with foolish men, then,” the Judge simpers. 

Oyabu grins to himself, chin tucked to his chest. 

They consume the silence with their provisions, trotting over mounds of purple with seemingly no end in sight. Occasionally, the Judge utters noises of discomfort and claws at Oyabu’s hips, clinging to what he can to stay grounded. Oyabu steers them east and allows his partner to ride out the waves of pain, as he is finally free to do so.

Eventually, the Judge finds Oyabu’s shoulder with his chin, hugging him so their bodies are flush. 

“The sex you’ve had in the past, was it all for fun? Or did you intend to bond with those you took to bed? Seeking intimacy, perhaps,” he asks.

“Hah. What, do you think you’re special?” Oyabu does his best not to laugh. He doesn’t want to disturb the position the Judge has settled into. 

“Am I not?”

“Of course you are,” Oyabu cedes, eyes rolling. “To me, you are. Would your bosses at the Association think the same?”

“I am a member at their disposal. There is no… How do I explain this? I am a judge, that is what I am, who I am, and what I do. To those I serve, serving is my purpose. There is nothing special about that.”

“Yet you were chosen to serve them, so you must have some significance compared to the common man.”

“You’re making assumptions.”

“Educated guesses— because you refuse to share information.”

“It is not mine to share, and far from yours to receive.” 

“Circles,” groans Oyabu, “You lead me in circles.”

“You ask the same questions, so I give you the same answers.” The Judge kisses his neck, chuckling. “Maybe someday you will make an educated guess that is accurate.”

“How would I know when that day comes?”

“You wouldn’t; that’s the definition of a guess.” 

The Judge nips at his nape, then drags his tongue over the ridges of his spine. While he teeths and gropes any bits his hands can find, the Judge begins telling Oyabu about the next kingdom on their itinerary. Oyabu hums and nods, always facing the east. 

The sun finishes rising, then begins to set. 

A circle of sugar surrounds the bed they’ve dragged to the center of the inn room. When asked the reason for the usage of sugar rather than salt, the Judge shrugged and told Oyabu that sugar was a better conductor of cursed magic. 

“We’re going to fuck inside a cursed magic ritual?” gawked Oyabu. 

“No harm will come of it,” the Judge had assured him, but he did mutter something about the danger of ants afterwards. 

The Judge sits in Oyabu’s lap now, having bled his dues and ensured his infertility for the evening. He dawns only the white tights and his hat— a necessity, he claimed adamantly. Why? He didn’t mention, but Oyabu knows he is riddled with nerves. A smoothly voiced lie cannot hide the tremor that wrecks his limbs. 

If wearing the mask helps the Judge overcome his nerves, Oyabu will let him have it. There will be other places to kiss.

He curls his fingers around the Judge’s upper thighs, digging his thumbs into the conjunctions of crotch and leg. The man sitting on his lap shifts, indecisive. He chases the touch as eagerly as he avoids it. 

“We can start small,” Oyabu offers. 

The Judge shakes his head slightly, using Oyabu’s bare chest to plant the foundations of his posture. 

“I performed the ritual so that you could penetrate me. I’ll not have so much purchased sugar go to waste.”

“It’d be more of a waste if this was bad for you,” Oyabu says. 

“It won’t be bad. I’m fine.” 

The Judge rolls his hips. There is nothing beneath his tights. Oyabu can see the outline of his cunt positioned like this, and it glides nicely over the bulge in his pants. 

Oyabu tugs the waistband of his tights down to his thighs, stretching the material nearly to its snapping point, then finds him with saliva coated fingers, sliding his index inside with ease. 

The Judge blinks slowly, waiting for something to happen.

Oyabu is a bit out of his element. 

Typically when he fingers boys, they huff and whine and rock against his knuckles like animals in heat. 

The Judge takes three fingers and does little more than stare at the lines he draws into Oyabu’s chest with his nails. 

“You’re not enjoying this,” Oyabu sighs. 

“Did I say that?” the Judge replies, cocking his head. 

“No, you didn’t have to—“

“Because it is not true. It seems as though you’re the one who is bored. Why don’t you worry less about me and start pleasuring yourself?”

“I have to stretch you, so it won’t hurt.”

“I don’t mind a bit of pain. If I did, I wouldn’t keep you around.” He lowers his voice to a rumble, “Do not treat me as a fragile thing, Oyabu. You never have before.”

The Judge rolls his hips harder, firmly. He clenches around Oyabu’s fingers, then lifts, removing himself from the digits. The taste of his slickness is salty on Oyabu’s skin. 

While the Judge frees Oyabu’s cock from his clothes and strokes it to full mass, Oyabu thumbs over the scar he left behind. It is pink and misshapen. Oyabu regrets the missed opportunity of sucking the blood straight from the wound when it was open. Perhaps the Judge would tolerate an encore to a lesser extent, with consent given and first-aid at the ready. 

The possibility of that fantasy coming true is what completes Oyabu’s erection, and it drives him to guide the Judge onto his cock by pulling his hips. He slides past the head and shaft in a single attempt, sitting flush to the base of Oyabu’s crotch. 

“Are you alright?” Oyabu asks, curling his toes. 

The Judge shrugs. He is blushing, and his stomach is twitching, but his gaze is somewhat distant. 

“Continue,” is all he says. 

Oyabu does his best to pleasure the Judge as he fucks up into him, biting his nipples and rubbing his clit, but ultimately focuses more on his own release, which he is encouraged to do inside the Judge, who clamps down and refuses to be removed from his pulsing cock during the climax. 

Head thrown to the cushions, Oyabu moans until he’s emptied himself. His hands fall to the bed and his cheek hits the pillow, sticking to his hair with sweat. He pants, squirms, and basks in the brief afterglow of his orgasm. 

The Judge hums and plays with Oyabu’s hair. 

Cracking open his eyes, Oyabu finds that same leveled expression behind the mask. 

“You didn’t come?” he sighs, disappointed. 

The Judge continues smiling, saying, “No. Do I need to?”

“Uh. That’s— yeah. Or else what was the fuckin’ point?”

“To have fun? To share intimacy? To be vulnerable with your partner and physically bond?” The Judge rubs his hands in circles over Oyabu’s chest, sliding across his sweaty skin. “Are you sure you’ve done this before?”

“Yes, I have! You’re just— insane, or something.”

“Maybe you’re just not very good at pleasuring your partner. That doesn’t surprise me, though, considering your selfish nature.” The Judge purrs and nuzzles his nose with his beak, lips ghosting over an open mouth. “I am only jesting. I did enjoy myself, Oyabu. You don’t have to worry about my climax.”

“Really? But…” Oyabu huffs, gripping the Judge’s waist. Riding a tremor, he rolls his hips into the man, who does little more than slowly blink. “Now I feel like shit.”

“So you’re not entirely selfish after all.”

“Hey, come on, you know I’m different for you, and only you. Give me some credit here, lambkins.”

“Lambkins?” the Judge laughs delightfully. He removes himself from Oyabu and lies beside him, wrapping himself tightly around Oyabu’s stomach.  He remains a smiling dove, pink and fluffed, cooing. His hat is placed on the floor. They pull the blanket over their hips and face one another. 

Oyabu combs the Judge’s hair out of his face and kisses his forehead, then his nose, and his cheeks. He finds his lips eventually, savoring the journey, but relinquishing the treasures of his destination. The Judge hums and huffs between their kisses, still abuzz with an orgasm that will never be. Oyabu feeds him his tongue until the Judge decides he is satisfied.

Oyabu flops onto his back. The Judge follows, lying partially on his chest. His shoulder bones are sharp and contour the expanse of his back. Oyabu scratches the Judge’s spine like he would a sleeping cat. 

His own warm seed leaks atop his thigh. 

“You’re truly satisfied?” he wonders. 

“Yes, I am satisfied. My libido could not hold a candle to yours, Oyabu. Witnessing the faces and sounds you make at the peak of your pleasure was all I needed to enjoy myself.”

“That is the bullshit only a gold-digging skank would spew,” Oyabu snorts. 

“I have no reason to lie to you, my dear partner,” he coos, walking his fingers over Oyabu’s clavicle like a tightrope. “Besides, I alone reside over our finances.”

“I wasn’t calling you a gold-digger.”

“No, only my words.” 

The Judge grins against his neck. Oyabu doesn’t think the Judge has stopped smiling for several minutes now. It is bordering on the unnatural, but is endearing because of that. The Judge is weird, and creepy, and the sort of person you’d never want to entrust your body to; all the more reason Oyabu is attracted to him.  

Normal people are boring, and they die. 

The Judge does not die.

Oyabu will make sure that he does not— by any other hand than his own. 

“I think I love you,” says Oyabu. 

“Who is speaking? You, or the afterglow of our lovemaking?”

“I am.” Oyabu drags his nails from nape to tailbone. He sows a pale expanse, watering the rows with blood, planting his seeds in future scars. The Judge does little more to react than shudder through his nose and arch his back. 

“You’re my own,” Oyabu growls. 

“Indeed. And you are mine to own,” the Judge whispers, feverishly smug, but with good reason to be. He’s right, after all; Oyabu belongs to the Judge, while the Judge only belongs with Oyabu. 

Pride is not a wall impossible to climb. To Oyabu, who has no shame or care, pride is nothing more than a ledge he merely need step over. So long as his power is granted unto him, so long as his glory is well-kept, and so long as he is free to do as he pleases, even if that means abiding to limited freedom, then Oyabu is content. 

Oyabu is powerful, but he is only human. 

The Judge is powerful, and he is only human. 

This here lies the sole difference between them. 

Oyabu and the Judge are partners. They are together. 

A power combined into one makes two stronger. 

“Oye, lambkins.”

“You like that one? Lambkins?”

“Can’t think of anything better at the moment.”

“I can think of plenty.”

“Well, I’m not hearing them.”

“I’ll let you figure this one out on your own.” The Judge kisses his jaw. Sweetly, he asks, “What did you want to ask me?”

“You once claimed I was incapable of caring about others, yet I find myself caring for you— loving you, even. Now I wonder, having confessed my feelings for you, if you would do the same. Are you capable of the same?”

“I am plenty capable of loving you, Oyabu, but alas, I do not. I don’t suspect I will,” he says confidently, not a moment’s hesitance. Then he thinks, possibly reconsidering. He says, “A judge is a very necessary thing. This world would devolve into chaos if not for the Association. Because of members like me—“ He cradles Oyabu’s jaw, “—who have faith in their job and intend to serve with their lives, humans like you, and so unlike you, can maintain a semblance of peace.”

He tuts, tapping Oyabu’s cheek and shaking his head. 

“I could love you if I so choose, but I’d rather possess you. Your leave will be easier to digest, by then. Pets run away from home often, so I’ve observed, and most never come back— by choice or misfortune.”

“You think I’ll leave you? After all we’ve been through together?”

“All what? Ten months?” 

The Judge bites his earlobe. 

Oyabu sucks his teeth and shudders. 

Mumbling, the Judge says, “This is merely a phase in your life, Oyabu. No man walks the same path until his end. I am no man. I am a judge.” His eyes widen, sharpened by intensity. “You may love me as you please, but what will you do when that love is eroded? Will you stay with me as my partner for years? Decades? A century? Or will you run once you’ve become bored of my company, and chase the tail of a passing hope that catches your waning fancy?”

The Judge pets Oyabu’s hair and face, breathing down on him heavily, dissecting him from within. 

“You will never again witness a life without me,” Oyabu promises. 

“Because you’ll kill me?” the Judge asks. If Oyabu didn’t know any better, he'd think the Judge was hopeful. 

“Because I’m yours, and where you go, I go. It’s that simple. Don’t go complicating a good thing.” Oyabu slaps the Judge’s thighs and snickers. “If I ever try to run, you’ll catch me, won’t you? Isn’t that what you vowed? So why are you worried?”

“I’m not worried—“

“Yes you are. But you don’t have to be. If I leave, you’ll hunt me down, no matter where I go. You will. So there’s no point in worrying about it. Cheer up.” Oyabu kisses his wrist, then scrapes his teeth over the Judge’s veins. 

Baffled, but pleased, the Judge smiles again, far softer than before. The clouds in his gaze part to reveal a violet expanse. 

The tail end of winter guides them east to the Bosse Kingdom, where either a festival or a war await them. Maybe both. Oyabu isn’t opposed to either. 

The Judge has bundled himself in two cloaks, and clutches the reins of their horse close to his waist. He bought Oyabu a new coat in the last kingdom they visited, and it has served him well to combat the flurries of snow. Although, the lapels tend to catch his curls if he isn’t careful.

A blizzard is chasing them. Either they will take shelter in the Bosse Kingdom, or its ruins. A building is a building, and an abandoned bed is better than sleeping on freezing stone.

“Ready your senses,” the Judge warns, throwing a look over his shoulder at Oyabu, who was only half awake. 

Rubbing the crust from his eyes, Oyabu yawns and cracks his back, then pats his waistband to confirm the placement of his daggers. 

“What am I looking for?” he asks, squinting at an empty expanse of land. The Kingdom walls are still a good few miles away.

“Nothing you’ll find with your eyes,” the Judge says.

Then, suddenly, a camp appears out of thin air.

Oyabu jolts, grabbing the Judge’s waist and drawing a blade defensively. 

“It teleported?” he gasps. His heart pounds against his throat. 

The Judge stops their horse, swings his legs over the saddle, and drops to the earth. The snow crunches under his shoes, freshly white. 

“Not teleportation; concealment. Do you see those banners?” He points at the bright yellow banners flapping on poles held by soldiers. They are spread evenly, one man to every three yards around the establishment. “The wood on those poles are from enchanted trees. Do you remember the Miyenai Kingdom?”

“Nope.”

The Judge rolls his eyes. 

“The one with the invisible barrier in the forest. They hated you.”

“Every kingdom we go to hates me. But yes, I do remember them. May I assume that the trees those poles used to be originated in that forest?”

“You may.” 

The Judge offers a hand to Oyabu, who has never needed it, and rarely takes it, but accepts the help dismounting their horse nonetheless. From the bags roped to their saddle, the Judge retrieves his pen and notepad. His wand is likely already tucked into the waistband of his tights, hiding somewhere under all those extra layers. 

The inhabitants of the camp— soldiers, squires, bannermen— peer at the Judge and his unexplained partner as many kingdoms have a history of doing.

Always with the stink eye, these lots, Oyabu thinks, and sneers at those who dare point their nose in his direction. 

Soldiers tend to think they’re better than everyone just because they have fancy armor and royal funding to forge their weapons. Surprise, surprise; money does not necessarily make the man! A real man knows where to put his money, and Oyabu always bets on the underdog. 

“Behave yourself. I am a third party, and you are my responsibility. Tensions during war are high enough as is without you gallivanting about,” the Judge grumbles. 

“They’re less exciting without me, too,” Oyabu snickers and bumps their hips together. He crosses his arms behind his head and whistles. “Oye, why don’t we go straight to the action? These guys aren’t doing anything fun.”

“‘These guys’ have established a perimeter around the entire Bosse Kingdom, and they have seemingly done it entirely undetected. Such a feat should be assessed and noted.” 

The Judge unravels a map, inspects it, then looks for a different one. Eventually, he finds a layout of the Bosse Kingdom, and uses their horse’s flank as a surface.

“You there,” he says to a nearby soldier.

“Aye,” they reply gruffly and approach, halberd in hand. 

Oyabu shifts on his heels, chewing his tongue. 

“Could you please mark every other camp location on this map?” the Judge asks and extends his pen. 

The soldier squints, taking the pen between his fingers as if it will ignite. 

“Why would I do that?” he inquires.

“It will help me better determine your King’s ranking. There is much to observe during wartime, and so little time to do it. I’d rather not waste it running around in a literal circle.” The Judge taps on the map. “If you would, please.”

Sighing, the soldier relents, jabbing dots onto the paper with no abandon. 

Their horse huffs and scrapes its hooves against the ground in light protest. The Judge’s mouth twitches in the way it does when he’s agitated. Oyabu burns the soldier’s face into his memory, just in case the opportunity arises. He remembers where the other camps are, too.

“There you are,” the man says and drops the pen in the Judge’s open palm. 

“Thank you.” The Judge blows on the map, rolls it up, then tucks it into his coat. His head swivels, searching amongst the tents. “Where would I find your commander?” he asks politely. 

“You’re lucky he’s at this camp and not the one opposite the wall.” 

“Hmm. Yes. I am so very lucky,” the Judge hums, rising to his toes, then flat again. 

The soldier juts his chin in the direction over yonder. “Right in the center. Biggest tent, ya can’t miss it,” he says, then stomps away, nearly buffing Oyabu’s shoulder when passing. 

“Oyabu,” the Judge warns before he’s even grabbed his dagger. 

Oyabu slumps and allows the man to walk away without a knife between his ribs. 

“You’re no fun,” he sighs. 

“No, I’m not. War isn’t, either. You can pick at the remains like a vulture when it is over.”

“What if it lasts days? I’ll starve before then.”

“It won’t.” The Judge ties their horse to a post, firmly knotting the reins, then faces Oyabu wholly. His lenses are fogged over. He declares quietly, “This is not a proper war; it is an invasion. An operation— of stealth and infiltration. One that has been brewing for months, festering before the big finale. They have one shot at this, but know not yet where the arrow has landed. Do you see that fire there, beyond the wall?”

Oyabu looks at the wall, but he sees no fire, just clouds and fog. 

“Smoke,” the Judge says, his voice distant. “It is smoke from a fire that doesn’t create ashes until it has extinguished. The fire is gone, so the smoke has risen. Whatever happened inside those flames has happened.” 

He gestures to the camp around them. The soldiers are oddly lax for men who are supposedly at war. 

“These men are confident in their survival, regardless of their arrow’s status. Did it pierce their target, or fall flat? Whether their enemy or their ally approaches, they will be prepared for either outcome, and will act accordingly.”

“Why don’t they give their guys inside the walls some backup? Isn’t that what they’re here for?” Oyabu wonders. Then, he snaps his fingers. “Oh! Wait, I get it. They’ve got less riding on this war than their buddies from the other kingdom, don’t they?”

The Judge smiles proudly at him. 

“Pretty dastardly to let their friends fight the battle for them,” Oyabu chuckles. 

“Some strategies favor self-preservation over honor. There is no wrong or right path during war, only two destinations. You win, or you lose.”

“There could be a stalemate. A third option,” Oyabu shrugs.

“It would be a loss,” the Judge murmurs. “There is no victor in war except for the side who wins.”

“Sure, sure.” Oyabu shudders and rubs his arms. “How about we find the commander? I bet he’s got a nice cozy tent and fireplace.”

Glued by the hip, they trek through the camp, (mostly) ignoring the lack of hospitality they’re given. The Judge is unbothered as always, but Oyabu can feel the disdain pointed his way. He’s used to it, but he’s not exactly a fan of it. It’s easier to let small offenses like these slide when they’re guests in a kingdom, but these people are invading another man’s land, yet they still have the gall to treat Oyabu like he’s lesser than them? Like he’s the real enemy here? 

Have they forgotten that they are the intruders, the pillagers, the usurpers? What are a bandit’s crimes compared to the greed of a King overextending his reach? A bandit takes from lands he doesn’t belong to, but the King at least belongs to a land.

“You’re from the Ranking Committee,” exclaims a boy, no older than a young man. His face is fresh and round, and his stature leaves much to be desired by one who calls himself a warrior. He bows to the Judge, who is obligated to return the notion. Oyabu snorts and resists slapping his rear. 

If only, he sighs internally, dreamily. 

“I am. He is not. Is this the commander’s tent?”

“Yes, my Lord! I will fetch him for you with haste!” the boy says then scurries into the tent, throwing the flaps aside. 

“I am no Lord,” the Judge grouses to himself. Oyabu snickers into his palm. 

Minutes later, after the murmurs inside the tent have concluded, a broad, towering man with flowing silver hair and a braided beard emerges to greet them. He wears plated armor; a sign of both wealth and ranking. This man must be quite the warrior if he’s been given the honor of wearing such expensive gear. 

“Commander,” says the Judge graciously. When the Commander does not initiate a handshake, the Judge chooses to curtsy. Oyabu does neither. 

“A member of the Association is in my camp,” says the gravelly man, head askew as he does a once over of the Judge. His assessment of Oyabu follows, and with far less grace. He doesn’t bother hiding the disgusted purse of his lips when he pegs Oyabu for the troublemaker he is. 

Is it that obvious? Oyabu bites his lip to prevent a poorly timed laugh. Of course it is obvious; he’s done nothing to convince them otherwise. Traveling with the Judge has put his acting skills out of practice. It’s harder to pick a fight when your desired opponent is charmed or infatuated by you. 

“I am here to observe the war and assign new rankings when it is complete.” The Judge reveals his pen and paper. “You don’t mind answering a few inquiries about your strategy, do you?”

“I don’t mind sharing them with you,” the Commander spits aside. The hand resting on the hilt of his broadsword flexes, and he gestures towards Oyabu with his thumb. “It’s this one I don’t trust. Is he your prisoner? We’ve got a few spare posts we could tie him to, if you’d like to get him off your hands.“

“He is my partner. I’d appreciate it if you treated him with the same respect,” the Judge says through his smiling teeth. They strain to resist a quiver. “However, he is not a member of the Association, so I will comply with your request. Shall we discuss matters inside? Or, erm…” the Judge glances at Oyabu, apologetic. “Perhaps my partner can remain inside while we tour the camp together.”

The commander’s steel gaze does not waver, nor his distrust. Oyabu’s skin crawls as the target of his scrutinous, piercing gaze. This man is brimming with hatred, haunted by discontent. 

I’m doing so well, though. I’m behaving! What did I do wrong to earn his contempt? Oyabu whines internally. He shrinks into himself, hoping his coat will swallow him whole. Maybe then the Commander will forget his presence altogether, and the Judge can do his job without needing to worry about babysitting a ticking bomb. 

Noticing his discomfort— and Oyabu can only imagine the sort of expression that’s contorting his face to cause such concern— the Judge steps closer to him and grabs his hand, bringing it inside the warm safety of his cloaks. He runs his thumb over Oyabu’s knuckles, granting an intimacy no one can see, but only they can feel. 

“Keep to yourself until I return, Oyabu,” he murmurs. 

“Oyabu,” says the commander, testing the sound on his tongue. “Oyabu,” he repeats, clicking his teeth, searing a dormant flame to life. “Oyabu, as in Oyabu, the Bandit King?”

“I am no King, but I am that Oyabu, yes,” he answers before the Judge can stop him. His partner slaps a palm to his mask and groans.

“You! I knew it was you! Yer bandit tribe laid siege to our kingdom! How dare you stand before us unawares?” roars the Commander, alerting the entire camp in their proximity. 

An audience, thinks Oyabu excitedly. Am I being rewarded for my good behavior? Is this it? My time to shine, after I’ve spent so long concealing my talent?

Oyabu stands to his full height, puffing his chest and dawning the most tormenting grin he owns. With the swagger of a man who cares not that he is surrounded by hostiles, he opens the curtains and begins the show. 

“Laying siege to a kingdom…? Is that something I would do? Yes, it is.” He scratches his chin. “But did I?”

“You are the bandit scourge that raped, enslaved, and pillaged our people!” the older man growls. 

“Raped? Enslaved? That doesn’t sound like me. Pillaging, however? Oho, I do love to pillage.” Oyabu sweeps his hair over his shoulder, charming as he wags his eyebrows. “Tell me, who do I have the honor of speaking to?”

“I am Commander Yuu, serving King Haiyegh!”

“Well met, Commander Yuu. I am Oyabu, the bastard son of a rapist and his slave. Perhaps you have mistaken me for my father, who loved to pillage and rape slaves. I am privy only to pillaging, you see, and—“

“I am not mistaking you for a different man, Oyabu, King of the Bandits,” Yuu declares. 

“Hah! Is that really what you frollicking pansies call me? A King? I told you, I am no King.” He bows, presenting a head with no crown. “Nor am I familiar with the Haiyegh Kingdom beyond rumors of this war.”

“We were not the Kingdom of Haiyegh then. Perhaps you would recognize us as subjects of Leeyegh?”

Oyabu’s eyes pop open. 

“Oh! I remember now!” He rubs his chin, truly recalls the memory, then throws his head back and laughs. “Oh! Hahah! The Leeyegh Kingdom! What a miserable lot! Haha! You blame me for that invasion? I was not the leader of that charge. You would blame a child of single digits for the weakness of your own guard?”

“You killed my daughter ,” snarls Commander Yuu, marching into the clearing with his greatsword drawn. 

“I don’t doubt that,” Oyabu shrugs, grinning madly. “My bloodlust was realized at an early age. I wonder where you were, when I killed her. Were you defending some other bloke’s family, just for your own to die?” He snaps his fingers, gasping. “Oh! It’s all coming back to me! My father— you know him, the raper, the enslaver? I’m fairly certain he was with me that night, we were doing a bit of father-son bonding. Where was he while I killed your daughter? He was… he was… hmmm… Tell me, is your wife still alive?”

“Oyabu,” sighs the Judge, inching closer. “Stop.”

Oyabu ignores him, beckoning Commander Yuu closer by wave of his fingers.

“My wife—”

“Was raped by my rapist father, then slain and tossed aside into the same pile of corpses as your darling daughter, of whom I killed, lest we forget too soon!” 

“You demon!” the Commander cries, brittle yet powerful like an ancient lion’s roar. His men have readied their weapons as well, and all blades point at Oyabu, which means they have included the Judge in their hostilities. An error on their part, all by Oyabu’s design.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” the Judge whispers, gripping his wand and pressing his back to Oyabu’s.

“It’s been months since we’ve had a decent brawl,” he laments, too giddy to stand still.

“This will be more than a decent brawl.” 

Poison drips from every syllable.

“Perfect,” Oyabu moans, practically drooling.

Over fifty lives snuffed by two.

Oyabu loots the pockets and chests around the camp. It is more silent than a proper graveyard; those at least have mourning visitors. This is a tragedy undiscovered, and freshly spilt blood does not travel far very fast. It flows thicker than water. 

While he pillages, as is the Bandit King’s nature to do so, the Judge combs through documents in the commander’s hut. Not a speck of blood was on him, a contrast to the shower Oyabu was bathed in. Before he practically tossed Oyabu out of the commander’s tent, he mentioned needing to read and catalogue any correspondence letters or intelligence the Haiyeghan forces had filed. 

It was apparent that he did not derive the same pleasure in slaying these soldiers that Oyabu did. Granted, not everyone they killed was a soldier. There were some squires. Some doctors. Some chefs, scouts, servants. Oyabu killed those. The Judge only fought those who sought to strike him or his partner— his possession. 

If being treated like a pet is what allows Oyabu to enjoy himself while he’s fighting, then he’ll gladly drop to his knees and beg for belly rubs. He’s never been able to fight next to an ally he trusted with his life before. It was new and exciting, especially considering how impossibly powerful the Judge is when he isn’t holding back. 

Their short-lived reign of terror over this camp was just the refresher Oyabu needed. Not that their journey was turning bleak. No, it was fine, and company with the Judge is fine, even when he disallows Oyabu to partake in his favorite hobbies. But the thrill of violence— nothing compares to that. 

Violence is power. Power is freedom. Freedom is the ultimate joy of living. 

No one can take that away from him. 

Clouds evade the canvas of the sky, which rains violet blue and stark white heat from above. 

Oyabu thinks he may have fucked up, but he doesn’t know why.

The Judge has never been this upset with him. Even when he was stabbed and it took him months to fully recover, his partner’s attitude never dipped so dramatically.

A week has passed since they finished their business in the Bosse Kingdom. One full week of sulking, snappy responses, and a constant cold shoulder. Any physical contact besides sharing a saddle is off the table, meaning no kisses, no embraces, no spooning. Nothing.

Oyabu isn’t the only one suffering the consequences of the Judge’s stubbornness. He has snared them in a spiral that gets worse the longer it spins, making them dizzier, dizzier, and dizzier. 

Agitation and pent up frustration with no outlet to direct them towards has caused their nerves to fray, and their patience to threaten a tear at any moment. 

It has never been Oyabu who was the patient one between them, but the Judge is a different beast altogether when he’s upset. If Oyabu says something he doesn’t like, the Judge barks for his silence. If Oyabu places his hand here, or walks over there, or breathes air that the Judge doesn’t approve of, he throws a stone wall his way and kicks him once he’s down.

Fond as he’s grown to be, Oyabu has never allowed others to beat him without a fight, so that’s what he does; he fights. He lunges with claws, yanks with his teeth, kicks with his hooves. 

He never wins, because stalemates are not wins according to the Judge, but he does lose often. Actually, he mostly loses. 

It’s really wearing on his morale.

The Judge has just sent Oyabu skidding across a sand dune with a stone fist he conjured from deep within the ground. It is orange and red like baked clay, solid like a bag full of bricks. 

Such excessive measures and for what? A complaint about the weather?

Cursing through gritted teeth, Oyabu hisses, nursing the new bruise on his already bruised ribs. His elbows tremble as he pushes himself to his feet, glaring the daggers with which he wishes he could pierce the Judge’s chest. He’d make a butcher’s block out of the man if he was capable, vow of love be damned.

“I’m getting sick of your pissy attitude,” he snarls and throws a knife at the Judge’s face. It is blocked by a rising golem that gurgles and bellows an inhuman roar. The blade disappears in the ever shifting sand.

I fucking hate deserts.

“Imagine how I have felt for the past year,” the Judge says coldly and lifts his wand. The golem stomps forward, readying fists that surely weigh a ton in combined force.

Oyabu stands, because he has no other choice. If he lies down and takes it, he’s not entirely certain that the Judge won’t kill him, even if only by accident. 

With that romantic thought to be considered, Oyabu unsheathes his short sword and crouches low to the ground, as if he couldn’t sink any further in this coarse hell on earth. He sprints, slides between the golem’s legs, and swipes at the Judge’s wand. His opponent glides several meters across the sand without lifting a leg, as if the sand is carrying him. Considering his ability to control the elements, Oyabu wouldn’t put it past his lazy ass to ride the sand like a wave. 

“You’re a fucking cunt,” he clamors and kicks up sand in an attempt to regain his footing. Despite the Judge’s efforts to swallow him in the ground, Oyabu manages to jump, tuck, and roll out of the way of the golem’s next blow. “You’re going to kill me!” he cries, offended, but even moreso disappointed by his own lack of excitement. 

He can’t even enjoy the fight because he’s so damn resentful.

“If I wanted to kill you I’d have done it the day we met. You’d have deserved it, too. You deserve worse than death for all the things you’ve done. You’re so lucky I’m not the sort of judge who rules over executions, otherwise I’d have buried you six feet under instead of keeping you around like an abandoned mutt,” he spits, exposing his gums.

“I wish you would kill me and spare me the pity party, you fucking coward!” Oyabu shrieks and throws one knife, then another. The first is evaded, the second is blocked, and the third that he snatched from the sand while the Judge was avoiding the first hits the Judge in the shoulder, lodging itself under his collarbone. 

Oyabu feels no satisfaction in the Judge’s cry of pain, which only infuriates him further. 

A fight he cannot enjoy is either one he runs from, or finishes before it gets boring. He can do neither of those things here, because running will end in being caught, and finishing a fight he cannot win means it is not a boring fight. 

He is empty on throwing knives, left only with a shortsword and his body to fight with. Unless he sprouts wings or the ability to kill his enemies with a thought like that of the Gods, Oyabu is fucked and out of luck, which means he is done fighting.

But the Judge is not, so the only option left is to evade and wait out the worst of it.

“You’re an insolent, spoiled child,” the Judge sneers.

“Am I a helpless mutt, or am I an annoying brat? Make up your damn mind and beat the shit out of me already! You stupid fucking prick! I’d rip out your tongue with my bare hands if I could reach you!” he screams and throws a pile of sand uselessly in the air. The wind carries it back into his face, in which he cries out and sputters.

The golem grabs his waist in its huge hand and squeezes the air out of him like a tube of oil. Oyabu wheezes, failing to scream in agony, and swears he sees colors darker than black for a split second. 

The Judge appears before him on the golem’s arm, poised like a ballerina and not like a psychopath torturing his own beloved pet. He crouches, tapping the stone arm with the tip of his wand, glaring with the thousand forces of a magnifying glass under the sun. Oyabu is the unfortunate ant in millions that he’s chosen to burn to a crisp.

“You disgust me, do you know that?” the Judge murmurs, head shaking. “What disgusts me even more is that I’ve allowed myself to become so complacent in your sadistic treatment of those around you.”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo. Get rid of me, then, if you think I’m such a piece of garbage!” Oyabu spits on his shoes. 

Wordlessly, the Judge stands and kicks Oyabu square in the jaw. A tooth flies from his mouth and into the unknown. Blood rushes past his lips as he coughs, tears swell under his skin. 

“Do that again,” the Judge whispers.

Grinning, Oyabu spits again, and this time it stains.

The Judge glares down at him apathetically, but poorly so. He is unable to hide the passion of his disdain behind two masks. Oyabu would be able to see it past an entire blockade of them, and then some.

Sighing, Oyabu goes limp, planting his face in his arms. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset with me,” he groans, struggling to speak without swallowing blood. It always tastes terrible when it’s your own. “If this is about those Haiyeghan soldiers, then I think you’re being a bit unfair! I’ve killed tons of people in the past and you didn’t give a shit! Why have you suddenly grown a conscience now?”

“I’ve always had one, unlike you!” the Judge shouts. “But I am not like you. I don’t enjoy bloodshed. I don’t enjoy killing, or violence, or fighting. Do you think I’m enjoying this? Hurting you?! I’m not.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?” Oyabu mutters sourly. 

The Judge screams a nonsensical sound, providing no explanation.

“I think—”

“I don’t want to hear what you think,” the Judge snaps, stomping his foot. The golem’s grip on Oyabu tightens. He swears he feels a rib snap.

“I think—” He wheezes again, exhaling what’s left in his lungs past a mouthful of rushing blood. It requires several painstakingly slow gasps of air to let him speak. Finally, he says, “I think you do enjoy it. Maybe not to the extent I do, but you do, and that scares you. Yeah, it terrifies you, because you’re supposed to be this almighty paramount of justice, or morality, or whatever dumb bullshit your bosses in the Association are feeding you—”

“Stop,” the Judge demands.

“But you’re just a human! You aren’t special! You’re normal, and it’s normal for humans to be flawed! It’s normal to feel things, ugly things, and to express yourself poorly when you’re overwhelmed! You’ve been fucking abusing me for a week because you’re too stubborn and immature to fucking talk to me! You dumb twat! You’re a piece of shit like the rest of us!”

“No, I am not. I am a judge. I’m not like you. I will never be like you,” he growls, face flushed red, and throws his hands down. The golem crumples, and Oyabu falls flat on his back in a bed of solid sand. It does nothing to cushion his landing, but it’s better than being crushed to death.

Too busy gasping for air, Oyabu fails to elaborate on his point before the Judge has turned tail and fled. He sweeps himself onto their— no, his horse— and bolts away like a rocket. The irony is the final nail in Oyabu’s open coffin.

“If you’d told me your fucking name, I’d be screaming it!” Oyabu shouts, but he doubts the wind was merciful enough to carry his message. 

The Judge runs, and runs, and runs, until eventually he is a speck that disappears on the horizon. 

Oyabu wheezes, and wheezes, and wheezes, until he has witnessed his own abandonment and realizes that the Judge had no plans to turn back.

“Bastard,” he growls and punches the sand. Then he sighs, whimpers, and clutches his broken rib. Pathetically, he crawls on all fours and searches for his daggers. He finds all three, two clean and one caked with bloody sand. “You shouldn’t have removed it, you fucking idiot,” he groans and wipes the crust from its blade. 

Thankfully, Oyabu has a good sense of direction, so he knows which way to limp if he wants to reach the closest kingdom. If he’s truly lucky, maybe he’ll reach it before the Judge leaves, and he’ll have his chance at revenge. It won’t be a satisfying revenge, as the job will need to be done quickly to be effective, but it will be revenge. 

It’ll be deserved. 

It’ll be something. 

It’s enough of a reason to keep moving, even if his bad leg drags behind at an odd angle and his lungs cannot inflate without being pierced by bone. 

Asshole.

So much for never abandoning me.

It’s not even my fault for once. That guy was going to sicc his army on us regardless of how much shit I did or didn’t give him. 

Stupid fucking judge with his stupid fucking hat and his stupid fucking superiority complex, thinking he’s so much better than me just cause he’s too pussy to do as he pleases, hiding behind his excuse of a moral code. 

Life is just a bunch of rules to follow, isn’t it? 

What does he know about the real world and what it takes to survive? He doesn’t have to live in the filth, he just walks past it and jots it down in his dumb little notebook. Every peasant or slave we meet is a number; a statistic for his pointless fucking rankings. He doesn’t know how good freedom feels because he doesn’t need it. He’s never known what it’s like to be powerless. 

The Association exists for the good of the people? Ha! Horseshit! He’s being fed horseshit and has been brainwashed into enjoying the flavor! Imbecile! He doesn’t know anything! What of struggle? What of thrill? What of rebellion?

I’ve shown him freedom, but he’s grown too used to the chains around his neck to live without them.

If he wants to spend the rest of his life hoarding a meaningless amount of power, then so be it. I’ll go my own way, and I’ll use the power I have to make his job miserable. I’ll burn every kingdom to ashes. Let’s see how much he likes ranking a bunch of graveyards!

He survived before me, and he can survive after me.

Let him live a boring, empty shell of a life without me.

Oyabu collapses to his knees.

I can live a fulfilling life without him.

He grinds his hands into wet cheeks.

The ache in his chest hurts far more than a broken rib.

As much as Oyabu hates the desert, he will admit that the skies here are more beautiful than anywhere else. If there’s a better place to be buried alive, it would be home, but Oyabu doesn’t have a home, so under the stars will have to do. 

He lies on his back like a five-point star, as if he could ever compare to them. It is, unfortunately, the most comfortable position to lie in with a broken rib and two chronic injuries. His hair is infested with sand, his clothes are dirty and rough, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he awoke to scorpions making nests in his boots.

He is too tired to curse the Judge. It would be a waste of breath, and oxygen is hard enough to come by. The more he talks, the dryer his mouth becomes, the less satisfying it is to spew profanities to an empty audience. 

A gust of traveling wind blows sand in his face, causing him to shiver. His coat was in one of their bags, which was tied to the horse’s saddle. 

Left to freeze in the desert. 

What will kill him first? The wildlife? The thirst? The weather? Or will the Judge circle back while Oyabu is asleep and finish it himself? Finally enact some of that justice he was boasting on and on about with no spine to support his threats?

If the Judge plans to dispose of him, he hopes he isn’t too cowardly to look him in the eye while he does it. At least then Oyabu would have the opportunity to spit on his face rather than his shoes.

To think he once admitted to loving him. How foolish. 

Even more foolish that his feelings haven’t changed. 

He wipes his face again. After shedding so many tears, he’s unable to tell if it’s due to the sand or the betrayal. As someone who often betrays his own acquaintances for self gain, Oyabu knows he is not the sort of man who deserves to grieve a good thing lost, but he really thought they had something going there. He really thought the Judge would keep him around. 

Then again, no one has ever kept him around before, not even his own family. 

That’s the sort of blemish that never really fades away, even with time to erode its stain. Who would love an unlovable bastard?

The Judge was capable of loving Oyabu, but he chose not to. He chose to follow a pointless set of rules instead. 

Figures. 

In hindsight, it’s Oyabu’s fault for believing that— for once— a situation he found himself comfortable in wasn’t too good to be true. He lowered his guard. He made the mistake of trusting someone— actually trusting them. With his life, even. 

When they fought that camp of soldiers together, back to back, synchronized in their movements, Oyabu really felt a spark. True love, maybe. He doesn’t know what else would describe it. 

Some religions believe in soulmates. 

Oyabu could get behind their existence in theory; it’s not impossible in the presence of Gods and magic. Anything is possible in their world if the earth can come to life with the wave of a wand, or men can drop dead with a single glance. 

Even if soulmates do exist, Oyabu and the Judge were never destined to be them. They were hardly friends, even if they were lovers. 

How can you love a man who won’t give you his name? 

How can you love a man who might kill you on a whim?

They were never meant to be together. 

Honestly, it’s a miracle they managed to tolerate each other for a year without resulting in murder.  

“I will kill you someday, my love. I swear it,” he whispers past cracked lips, waiting for the stars to acknowledge his promise. The blink and glimmer, unfeeling. 

Oyabu closes his eyes a final time that night and hopes he wakes in the morning.

He knows better than to pray. 

The nearest kingdom resides on the outskirts of the desert, but still well within the realm of sand. There is no wall surrounding this kingdom. If there had been, sneaking past its border would have required Oyabu to act like a poor, injured traveler to convince some lowly pair of guards that he’s no danger to their kingdom. Perhaps they would have guided him to a doctor themselves. 

Since there is no wall, Oyabu skips a few steps and infiltrates under the cover of night. He’s two days without food or water, but the promise of civilization kicks him into high gear. He expends what little wit remains and sneaks his way into the lobby of an inn, nearly collapsing on the front help desk. 

He rings a bell.

A young girl exits an employee room and sits on the stool behind the counter. There are bags under her eyes, and her cheekbones protrude from a face that should normally have baby-fat. Oyabu imagines he looks similar.

“How may I help you?” she asks.

Oyabu rubs his face and tries his best to breathe without wincing. 

“Do you serve food and water here?” he rasps. 

“If you buy a room, yes,” she says kindly. 

Oyabu has the suspicion she would offer him a meal without the room given he paid, but he does need a room to stay in, so he doesn’t bother bartering. There’s no charisma left in his tank. He’d not get far with pleasantries. 

“I’ll take one room.”

“There are no rooms available, I’m afraid…” the girl mutters apologetically, poking her fingers together. 

“You should have led with that,” Oyabu groans into his hand. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Oyabu rubs his face some more, but it doesn’t help in any way. It’s something to do with his hands, at least. Heavens forbid they find worse things to do. 

“My friend may have passed through here lately. Maybe you can give me some information, if not a room.” He tries to smile. “Did a clown happen to stay here in the last two days?”

“A clown?” the girl asks, head canting aside. “Which sort of clown?”

“There are different kinds?”

She begins counting her fingers as she explains, “There are fools, jesters, circus clowns, creepy clowns—“

“He’d be the creepy kind. Tall pointy hat with an ugly beak?” Oyabu pantomimes the shape above his head, but the motion pulls something unpleasant in his ribs. He doubles over, moaning his woes. 

The girl leans over the counter and notices the state of him, dirtied and bruised. 

“If your friend is the creepy clown that bought a room here and hasn’t left it once since arriving in the village, then I can give you his room number. I can’t give you a key, though, so you’ll have to knock. I hope he isn’t asleep.”

“Thanks,” Oyabu wheezes. He rests his temple on the countertop. The wood is considerably cool. It soothes him. “Are there other clowns staying here that necessified clarification?”

“No,” the girl chirps, "but it never hurts to be certain.”

“I suppose not.” Oyabu closes his eyes and sighs. 

“Um, sir.”

“Hm.”

“The room number is twelve. It’s down that hall on the left.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you going to the room?” 

“I will.”

“Okay.” She taps her fingers on the counter. “You look injured.”

“And you look malnourished,” he snaps. She wilts. He sighs again and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry,” he says and means it. He frowns in disbelief. He’s truly gone soft. “I am injured,” he admits. 

“Is your heart injured, too?” she asks softly. “You seem sad.”

“I’m not sad,” he mutters.

“Then what are you?”

“Tired. Hungry. Thirsty.” He stands and narrows his eyes. He hisses, “Angry.”

“Angry at your clown friend?” She points down the hall and asks, “Are you going to hurt him?”

“No,” he answers immediately, once more shocked by his own admission. He pulls his hair behind his neck with one hand, watching sand gather around his feet on the rug. They’ll have to beat it out the next time they wash the thing. 

“I am mad at him, though. If you hear us shouting, promise you’ll ignore it.” He places a silver coin on the counter, then a golden one. The girl’s face alights, eyes flying wide like saucers. Smiling, Oyabu taps a finger over his lips and winks. “Buy us both some food and drinks, and I might let you keep the change. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, I promise,” she squeaks excitedly, holding the gold coin like a piece of treasure. For a girl who’s likely never seen real gold before in her life, it’s an understandable reaction. 

“Thanks. Leave it by the door,” Oyabu says and struts away, doing his best not to limp. He waves over his shoulder, knowing the weight of an awed gaze on his back. It’s been a while since he’s felt that rather than murderous glares. 

Room twelve’s door sits across a lantern with no light. The candle inside is missing its wick on which to place a flame. 

Oyabu listens for signs of life beyond it, but hears nothing. He knocks anyways, and readies a dagger in hand in case worse comes to it. 

There is no response. Not surprising. 

He tries the handle. The door is unlocked. Eyebrows risen, Oyabu opens the door, then places his better foot forward. What little light lingered in the hallway floods the room, and illuminates a figure sitting on the edge of a bed against the far wall. 

Lips pressed together, Oyabu enters the room and closes the door behind him. 

The lock clicks when turned. 

The Judge is sitting fully dressed in uniform, as if he knew Oyabu would arrive tonight. Given his penchant for knowing more than he should, this doesn’t come off as alarming.

The placement of his wand on the table across the room, however, does raise some questions. 

Leaning against the only exit, Oyabu gives the Judge the floor, a chance to explain himself, to say hello, to do anything but sit there and stare at his bloodstained shoes. 

A minute of tense silence passed, undisturbed.  

Fuck it. 

“You abandoned me,” Oyabu says. “You said you’d always find me,” he adds, frowning. “You didn’t find me.”

The Judge responds blankly, “Looks like I didn’t have to.”

“You knew I’d come crawling back, is that it?”

“I assumed you would hunt me down for revenge, so I waited for you, and here you are, seeking revenge.”

“Tch.” Oyabu clicks his tongue and tosses his head aside. “You’re a liar.”

“I am many things, but I’m not a liar. I promised I would find you if you ever ran away. You didn’t run; I did.” 

“Semantics. Doesn’t change the fact that you abandoned me,” he growls. His voice nearly wavers. Taking a deep breath, he pushes the ache back to his chest and out of his throat. 

“I waited for you,” the smaller man argues weakly. 

“You broke my ribs and left me to die alone in a desert. You know I hate deserts. You—“ His voice cracks. He groans his upset. “You couldn’t guarantee I’d return to you.”

The Judge sniffles, entirely still. 

“No, I couldn’t guarantee anything. I put my faith in you instead.”

“Your faith?” Oyabu laughs mirthfully. “What need do I have for your faith? The same faith in Gods and Man that drove you away?”

“Oyabu—“

“You don’t get to say my name!” he shouts and punches the door. “Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth. I was out there hurting, alone, and you know what I did? I cursed you with the little breath I could spare. Do you know how hard it is to curse someone without a name? I called you my lover, because I had nothing else to call you!”

“Oyabu—“

“I could have called you my enemy, or my partner, but no, I called you my lover. Why would I do that? Why would someone incapable of caring about others cling to the one person he has left? You’re all I have left,” he cries. “You’re all I’ve ever truly had.”

“There were others before me,” the Judge croaks. 

“None I ever cared for,” Oyabu says. He clutches his chest, but cannot reach the ache. “You are special. You are special to me. I love you. I— I…” 

The Judge does not fill his silence. Oyabu is left to stutter and pant until his heartrate stabilizes. The color slowly drains from his face. 

“Why haven’t you killed me?” asks the Judge, curling his fists into his doublet. He glances at the wand out of reach with no intention to reach it. 

“I don’t know,” Oyabu sighs. His sandy hair tangles around the fingers that comb through it. “Could I, even if I tried to?”

“You could.”

“Since when? How? Why?”

“Maybe I'd let you.”

“You’d let me?” Oyabu grunts, enraged. “Don’t you have a job to do?! One that requires you to stay alive?!”

“I can be replaced,” the Judge mumbles.

“No you cannot!” Oyabu stomps again, then again and again, until he is brought to tears by self-inflicted pain. “What about me?! Don’t you care about me?! Who would I go to after you?! Who would I have left?!”

“You could have anyone you wanted if you tried, Oyabu. You're plenty capable of convincing people to flock to you en masse.”

“But I don’t want anyone! None of them are you! I hate you, I hate you so much you thick-headed, selfish fucking cunt!” He yanks at his hair while he screams. Then he stops, bites his cheek, stomps over to the Judge, and sits next to him.

He buries his face in his hands and sobs until he’s hoarse. 

The Judge picks his nails and waits for a drought. 

“I hate you,” Oyabu rasps, wiping snot from nose and lips. 

“You should,” the Judge murmurs. 

“I do.”

“But you don’t,” he whispers, breaking two syllables in half. 

Oyabu stands and paces around the tiny room like a maddened bull, kicking over chairs and swiping things off surfaces. He avoids the wand, as if it will burn. 

A frenzy befalls the contents of the room, ruining all but the one who wishes to be brutalized. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches the carnage unfold around him. 

He is the eye of the storm that Oyabu flaps the wings of. 

“Why did you leave me?” Oyabu asks, shoulders quaking. 

The Judge scratches his knuckles red. 

“I had to,” he says. 

“Bullshit.”

“I had to, Oyabu. I have to. I should. It was a mistake to wait here for you like this.”

“Right, because that’s all I am, huh? A mistake?”

“No— not you.” The Judge’s mouth opens, closes, then presses into a flat line. He hugs himself and says, “I was the one who made a mistake, not you.”

“What, in trusting me? In— in loving me?! But you couldn’t even do that! No, you chose not to do that! You could have, but you haven’t!” Oyabu slaps his chest. “You killed a few assholes to protect me and— what? Suddenly I’m the burden? Am I a liability? A weakness?!”

“You are my partner,” the Judge grits out, word by word. 

“Partners protect each other. They don’t abandon their friends. Their only friend, ” Oyabu spits. 

“I killed people for you, Oyabu,” the Judge croaks. 

“It was self defense! You had an excuse!”

“That wasn’t— that was different. You made me— they— no one made me hurt those people. I killed those people. I chose to kill. I killed them because I was… because I wanted to protect you.” He claws the underside of his wrists, trembling madly. “You— who doesn’t deserve to live any more than they did. I chose you over them because I— because of my biases. That was unfair. That was an abuse of my power. I— I shouldn’t have done that. I could have protected us both without killing anyone, but I killed. Don’t you get it? Don't you get what’s wrong with that? I’m a judge! I exist for the happiness of the people, but I killed them, for you!” 

His eyes leak, shedding tears Oyabu has never before witnessed. There is an unnatural quality to their components. They do not reflect light. 

“I killed them for myself, because I’m selfish, because I succumbed to temptation. I’m a disgrace. I’ve forsaken my beliefs. Everything I stand for, ruined , because of you— because of me. This is my fault. I did this. I did this to myself. You were never held to the same expectations, you’re free to do whatever you want. I’m not— I can’t! I shouldn’t! I am a judge! I am an enabler; I am not an enactor. It is not my place to act on emotions, or biases, or anything else that humans are supposed to have!” he snarls. 

Oyabu clenches his fists in his lap and listens to the Judge shout with the force of giants. 

He cries until his face is scarlet. Unlike his shouts, his tears are eerily silent, as if nonexistent. 

Then he stops, and Oyabu continues to listen. The Judge’s trembled breathing falls to the floor and scatters among the broken furniture and belongings. Enough tears to flood a dam cascade down his cheeks and into his lap. The sources of them remain locked behind the mask of a different man. He weeps like a broken faucet, unaware it is leaking.

Oyabu removes his boots and shirt, slowly to avoid agitating his wounds. Then he kneels, as painful as a sacrifice it is to make, and removes the Judge’s shoes for him, placing them precisely by his own. His hands find the Judge’s knees, then his thighs. He squeezes his legs, sighs, then wraps his arms around the Judge’s waist and rests his head on his lap. 

The Judge is rigid beneath him, much as one can be when they’re sopping wet and trembling like a leaf. 

“Never leave me again,” Oyabu whispers. 

The Judge sniffles. He hunches over Oyabu and clutches his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

“Promise you’ll never abandon me again,” Oyabu pleads. It is not an order. Seeing as he is not one of the Judge’s bosses, he feels the distinction is important to recognize. 

“What good is my word anymore?” the Judge asks. 

“It’s plenty,” Oyabu swears. He presses his forehead into the Judge’s waist. “Make me an oath, like the ones you made to the Association.” He looks up, finding a sign of humanity behind fogged lenses. “Swear yourself to me as I have done for you.”

“As your lover?”

“As my friend, my partner, my own. I am already yours, but you could be mine.”

The Judge huffs. He manages to crack a tiny smile. It is a meager thing, but impossibly bright. 

“I can’t,” he says, and laughs. 

Oyabu rises to his knees. They ache, but his chest does not. 

He cradles the Judge’s face with one hand, and the man melts into his palm, bottom lip quivering. 

“Have you ever cried before?”

“Yes,” he snorts. His head shakes as more tears shed. “Many years ago. Many years.”

“You’re doing it wrong. You’re supposed to make noise when you cry, unless you’re hiding from something— or someone.” Oyabu holds his face and wipes tears with his thumbs. “But you don’t have to hide when you’re with me, so make some noise. Wail. Sob. Scream. Do whatever you need to get it out of your system.”

The Judge’s head shakes solemnly, but gratefully. He curls into himself and regulates his breathing while Oyabu surrounds him. There is no satisfaction in this state, nor would there be any in worsening it. All that’s left to do is try and make it better. 

A soft clank is made outside the door; and the light beneath it is made a shadow. 

“That’s my food,” Oyabu says, limping to the door.

The little girl is still standing there when he opens it. She presents a handful of coins, eyes glimmering in the candlelight a warmer color. 

“You said you might let me keep the change,” she says. 

Oyabu snorts— wetly. His face is still snotty and ugly. 

He pats the girl’s head and ruffles her hair. She giggles, swatting his hand away with closed fists full of silver coins. 

Kneeling, he grabs his tray and tells her, “Thank you. Go treat yourself to something nice.”

“I will, Ser.”

“Me? I’m no Ser. I am a bandit. Some even refer to me as the Bandit King.”

“A King?” she gasps and tilts sideways. “I am so sorry. You are no Ser. Forgive me, your Grace.” She bows, shows him her teeth, then skips off and into the darkness. 

In another life, Oyabu might have liked having a sarcastic little shitstain of a daughter like her. It would be fun to raise an army of tiny killers. Exhausting, too.

He snorts the last of his tears and closes the door with his heel. The Judge is watching him through squinted, irritated eyes. His personage has calmed considerably. 

After dumping the tray on the table, Oyabu sits on the edge of it and beckons the Judge over, smirking. They both look ridiculous so he doesn’t bother wiping his face clean, but he does try to smile to distract the Judge from the tear tracks. 

“C’mere, I won’t bite.”

Sighing, his partner stands, brushes the wrinkles from his clothes, and shuffles between Oyabu’s spread legs, downcast. He hooks his thumbs under the Judge’s mask and begins to lift, then stops.

He gasps, “Oh, there’s someone under there!” 

“You knew that.”

“I know, but you’d forgotten.” Oyabu pokes his chest. “The person I fell in love with is the man under the mask, not the one who wears it.” He removes the hat, places it aside, then slaps his palms to the Judge’s cheeks and smushes his face into funny shapes. “You’re obscenely cute for a man who sounds ancient.”

“I’m not a man. And I don’t sound old.”

“You agree that you’re cute, then?”

“Beauty is subjective.”

“So is music, and I think you sound like an old man.”

“My voice is not comparable to music, either.” He sighs— like an old man. Oyabu’s hands fall from his partner’s face to rest on his shoulders. His head tilts and he glances at Oyabu past his eyelashes, brown eyes dark and doughy. 

Still smiling, Oyabu squeezes him between his knees. 

“Why won’t you kill me?” the Judge mutters. 

“Because I love you.”

“Has that stopped you from trying before?”

“If I decided to kill you now, I wouldn’t be trying , I’d be succeeding— because you’d let me do it. That’s not fair. It’s not fun, either. I refuse to subject you to a boring death.”

“Wouldn’t that be the kind I deserve?”

“You’ve had such a dull life already. I’ll show you mercy in your final moments, my love.” He traces the Judge’s cheekbone to his ear. “We’ll be silver and grey by then.”

The Judge chews his lip, yearning to deny him.

“You intend to spend your life with me?” he asks instead, meek like pine. 

“Yes. Didn’t I tell you that already?”

“I didn’t believe you.”

“But you do now?”

The Judge chews his bottom lip harder.  

Oyabu huffs. 

“Guess I’ll have to keep convincing you, even if it takes me a lifetime.” 

He winks. 

The Judge frowns, guilt ridden. 

“You should eat, Oyabu. Drink, too, then sleep. I’ll— I’ll restock our supplies in the morning, so feel free to sleep in for as long as you like.”

“As long as I like? What about our schedule?”

“We’re already behind. A few more hours won’t matter. I’m a disappointment in the eyes of the council— it can’t get worse than that.”

“If it can’t get worse, then you can do what you want while you’re at the bottom, can’t you?” Oyabu grins, swinging his feet. His stomach growls, so he grabs his plate and begins tearing meat from the bone, talking around cheeks full of food. “We should fuck. I hear makeup-sex is almost as good as hate-sex. I’ve had hate-sex. Trust me, it really doesn’t get better than that. Maybe I’ll channel some leftover resentment into scrambling your guts. Are you up for that?”

“Are you?” 

The Judge holds his mug of water for him, offering the rim between bites of his food. 

Oyabu swallows and answers, “Sure, why not?”

“You should rest after spending two days without food or water in the desert.”

“I'm having food and water now, aren’t I?”

The Judge’s fingers drum atop the mug. He stares tiredly at Oyabu’s chest. 

“I don’t want to have sex with you tonight,” he murmurs. 

Oyabu lifts the jug to his mouth and drinks, observing the Judge’s expression over the cup. He gulps, pants, and slams the empty cup on the table. The Judge flinches, shuffling a half step backwards. 

“I’ll go right to bed, then.”

“Alright.” The Judge rubs his elbows, holding himself awkwardly. “I am sorry.”

Oyabu struts past him, yawning and stretching his arms over his head. He says over his shoulder, “Don’t apologize for that.”

“I’m sorry for everything else, then,” the Judge whispers and slowly turns to face Oyabu, who has begun stripping. 

He rolls into the bed until his back is to the wall. There’s plenty of space for two. They’ve worked with far less. Oyabu holds the blankets up like a pitched tent, offering the vacant space and pillow beside him.

The Judge shakes his head, steps forward, hesitates, then sits on the bedside. He carefully scoots close enough to rest his hand on Oyabu’s arm, but no further. 

“I’ve slept enough in your absence. Rest without me one night more, please.”

“You were able to sleep without me? I’m hurt.”

“It wasn’t satisfying, mind you, but I was able to—“ He stops upon noticing Oyabu’s jeering grin, and blushes, flustered. “Stop,” he grumbles. 

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yet,” he scoffs and crosses his arms. 

They wait for the quiet night outside to crawl through the window. It encompasses the room in a dark glow that sounds like crickets, frogs, and rustling tree branches. There are many sounds in the desert at night. It’d be worrying if there weren’t. 

In here, Oyabu can hear the Judge’s inhales, and the longer exhales. He can feel his warmth on the bed sheets. He can smell his sweat and taste the memory of his smiling lips. 

“You are my own,” Oyabu whispers, then yawns. His jaw cracks. 

The Judge hugs his knees to his chest and watches over him in place of the moon and stars. 

“You are mine. My one earthly possession.” 

The stains cascading his cheeks catch no reflections. The tears he shed capture no light. 

When the Judge opens his mouth again, he speaks in a language Oyabu does not understand. The sounds are entirely incomprehensible, and the cadence is impossible to distinguish. 

Oyabu hopes the Judge is pledging his life, if not his love. 

Whatever the Judge says makes Oyabu’s blood turn blue. Shivers wreck his frame. He bundles himself in the blanket and grits his chattering teeth, willing his body to give in to the exhaustion of days past. 

The Judge chooses not to love Oyabu, but Oyabu is confident that he will eventually. 

Humans can only resist the beckoning tug of their emotions for so long until the futile fight ends. 

Oyabu thanks the Gods for creating the human he loves. 

If not the Gods, then other humans. 

And if not humans, then what else?