i.
There’s a secret shared between researchers in Laplace. It’s kept from the tattletales, the rule-sticklers and Foundation-worshippers, lest they go reporting to authorities that, tucked away in an outside corner lies an unmonitored area of Laplace.
In daytime, it’s used plenty by researchers, for those seeking a brief respite from their work or are simply looking to while away the time, whether in the company of others or themselves.
And at night...
The door is inconspicuous with its surroundings, painted in a colour matching the bland shade of the walls it shares, impossible to see save for its outline in better lighting. Even the doorknob, small in size and matching in shade, attempts to ward X off with the stinging coolness of the handle. There is nothing here, the doorknob tries to say, but X ignores it. There is plenty to be found beyond this door. A solution, for one.
The door creaks open weakly with its loose hinges; used often, without the maintenance to match. A bleeding sunset sky spills above the hanging roof. The after-scent of cigarettes linger, a tired researcher’s remains.
And though X had timed it all perfectly, the researcher’s secret break room still has an occupant.
Taking up the entirety of a bench — clean, but with chipped wood polish — lies a fellow researcher, asleep. In tepid summer evenings, with warm humidity and light winds, X finds, upon further thinking, that it’s no surprise that someone would sleep outside in such fine weather, even if the ‘someone’ in question is the Head of the Biological Pharmaceuticals Department.
With no plans to disturb their sleep, X sidesteps the bench carefully. This ends up being useless as Medicine Pocket chooses that moment to wake with a snort, perhaps sensing the presence of someone nearby.
Yawning wide enough to catch a gleam of sharp incisors through the gap of their fingers, X has to swallow down a yawn of his own. “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”
Medicine Pocket only blinks at him at first, clearly not fully awake. Their lack of caution could be cause of concern for anyone else, but on Medicine Pocket it is only fitting.
“Alphabet Boy. Funny,” they say, their last word swallowed by another yawn as they stretch out on the bench. “Never seen you here before.”
“It sounds like you come here often?”
“When it’s not loud,” they say, which can only mean that they visit when it’s empty. “And what are you here for?”
X shrugs with a small smile. “What everyone else comes here for; a small break in between research. Are you planning to research late at night as well?”
“Enigma forced me into taking a break,” Medicine Pocket says in a tone that sounds the beginning of a rant, a rustling building under their breath. “Says I’ve pulled too many all-nighters, as if he’s one to talk.”
“Perhaps he didn’t want to see his eyebags mirrored on your own face.”
“He should worry about himself first.” X can hear the roll of Medicine Pocket’s eyes even without looking at them. “By the way, if you were planning on taking a nap here as well, I’m not sharing the bench. Take the other one.”
“As welcoming as that is... I’ll have to decline that offer.” It’s clear at a glance why Medicine Pocket had opted for their bench; the other bench is littered with cigarette butts and ash stubs, small burn marks graciously aligning the edges of the bench, a sign of researchers’ frustrations borne onto an innocent object.
Medicine Pocket says, “Your problem,” and from what X knows of their character, knows they mean it.
X leaves Medicine Pocket to cozy up to their bench as he scours the perimeter. This is an area of Laplace small enough to go unnoticed, the fence bordering the institution only a few feet away, the setting sun’s light caught between its harsh cages. The benches must have been smuggled in by a hardworking researcher for everyone else’s sake, though one has clearly received better treatment compared to its other.
If this area was to serve a purpose for Laplace, it’s long been forgotten.
It’s perfect.
“Enjoying the view?” Medicine Pocket says sarcastically when X turns back to them; the break room is too small to offer anything other than a cramped area to pace in, let alone a “view”.
But X nods sincerely at the question. “It’s not much, but I can see why researchers would use this place.” Medicine Pocket blinks slowly at this, but their attention still returns to X, waiting for him to continue. Without a verbal prompt, he elaborates: “The sky isn’t a view we get to see often. Kept inside all day... I can see why they’d want to see even a slice of the sky for a few minutes.”
In the silence that follows, X finds himself glancing at Medicine Pocket; they’re staring out in the near-darkness, the last gleam of sunlight hanging in their eyes for a captive moment. Before it slips past, X catches the agreement in Medicine Pocket’s voice as they mutter, “It’d be even better if they cleaned the place up regularly,” causing X to snort. The gravity of the moment, barely formed, vanishes with the sound.
ii.
“I said they should be the ones to clean this sh*thole, what are you doing with that?”
Arms hugging his knees, X blinks up at their interrupting figure. Before him, his new little experiment beeps and boops its way to another piece of trash on the ground, sounding much like Titor as it grumbles — no wonder, as he’d gotten her help with its language and commands. Medicine Pocket has a small squint to their expression, as if unable to decide whether to talk down to him for doing work others could be doing or asking about his invention, a refreshing expression to see after one week without contact.
“Hello, Medicine Pocket,” X greets in a much calmer tone, the pleasure accompanying the completion of a new project evident in his tone, and decides to save Medicine Pocket from dithering further. “I’m testing my new invention. I call it a Self-Sufficient Cleaner.”
“The tag says ‘Mr. No-Litter Man’,” Medicine Pocket reads, bent over to read the nametag on the back of the robot’s head. X hides a wince behind his smile. It’s a name coined by a visiting Regulus, who had taken permanent marker to nametag sticker before X had even completed it, and he’d been too reluctant to face her wrath if she returned to find the sticker gone. “What do you mean by ‘self-sufficient’?”
X launches into a polite yet enthusiastic explanation, complete with hand-waving and diagrams he offers from his sketchbook. “The trash it consumes acts as energy for the little robot. Mr. No-Litter Man first needs to be fed through its mouth — that would be the stomach you can pull open, not the mouth it uses to talk, that one doesn’t open, just blinks lights for when it talks — and from there, it wakes itself up and begins searching for more trash using the little antenna on top of its head. If it finds none, it shuts itself down.” His Self-Sufficient Cleaner glides underneath Medicine Pocket’s spread legs. “What do you think?”
Medicine Pocket bends over to continue watching it upside-down. Their hair dangles a few centimetres from the ground, seizing X’s attention, until he blinks, refocusing on what Medicine Pocket’s saying.
“It’s cute. I like it.”
“That’s good,” he says. Medicine Pocket readjusts themselves to observe the little robot in a more comfortable position.
As the robot manages to avoid collision with the legs of the benches with its sensor, Medicine Pocket asks, “Can I borrow it for a bit? My lab could use some cleaning.”
“The Self-Sufficient Cleaner can only handle trash its size, but sure,” X says easily, and starts at the look Medicine Pocket gives them. “What?”
“If it were me, I’d have tried to get some benefits out of it.” In the undercurrent of Medicine Pocket’s words, X can hear them admonishing him.
But X shakes his head. “This is a side project; nothing important.”
“You’d probably be able to get more funding if you were making stuff like this.”
“Maybe,” X agrees, in an acquiescing tone that’s heard this a million times before, watching as Mr. No-Litter Man picks up a crumbled Marlboro pack and drops it into its stomach. Fellow colleagues, superiors, and spectators have all said the same, but he has never seen the need to change. There’s still plenty of growing left to do — at least, X hopes that’s the case — and he sees no need to move on from his current interests, if at all. All in due time, he’ll say in a half-joke, more patient than any of the adults in the room, half their age but wiser still. You can’t force a plant to burst from its seed fully-formed. “But this isn’t as fun.”
Medicine Pocket hums agreeably, a knowing smile on their lips. Perhaps they also understand, favouring their own interests over the convenience of others in a way that invites the incredulity and scorn of others. The similarity has X returning the smile.
“Well,” Medicine Pocket huffs, “I’m gonna take this guy with me back to my lab.” They pick up Mr. No-Litter Man with both hands, carefully cradling it in their arms, perhaps gentler than how they’d handle a baby. The robot shuffles a bit. It beeps twice with the green light of its open mouth before shutting down. “Let it work for someone who’s actually worth cleaning up after.” X laughs at their words, not finding them to be false.
Medicine Pocket departs with a toothy grin, leaving X staring long after the door has shut. They’ve long departed by the time X’s eyes fasten on the door, and he sighs helplessly, knowing that he doesn’t have much daylight left.
“Time to get back to work.”
iii.
Their meetings increase in frequency after X lends them the Self-Sufficient Cleaner, a combination of Medicine Pocket’s budding affection for the little machine and an uptick in X’s visits to the break room. The more time he spends with them, the more X learns how Medicine Pocket’s reputation in Laplace precedes them. And though X had much the same impression of them, he finds that they’re mostly harmless. He compares them to a spike trap; not dangerous, unless you were to walk into the spikes, but who would try to do that?
The two share late summer evenings and nights together and whatever passing subject fills their mind at that time; the latest news published in their field, a bottleneck reached in their research, or complaining about any colleagues — the last one, truthfully, is mostly Medicine Pocket. Eventually, Medicine Pocket deigns X a seat on the cleaner bench, albeit usually acting as a head- or leg-rest, not that X has ever complained.
Their meetings are not purposeful, but entirely by fate’s fickle design. Nothing is scheduled between them, no dates set on the calendar. X only knows that when he visits the break room, he might see a certain researcher napping in the shadows of the setting sun.
It is on another such evening X finds Medicine Pocket. Unlike usual, they’re not asleep, or even on the bench they enjoy hoarding — no, they’re pacing the small perimeter of the break room. Something in their restless gait reminds X of a beast locked in a cage too small to hold it in, bigger than the skin it had been born in. Their long shadow stretches all the way to the wall, dyed orange in the sunset.
This doesn’t stop X from greeting them like usual. “Good evening, Medicine Pocket. You seem...” His eyes linger on their dishevelled hair, hands run through it enough times to make it more nest than hair. “...excited, today.”
“Do I?” Medicine Pocket says sarcastically, too agitated to even glance at X for more than a second. They continue pacing, running a hand through their hair again.
Sensing their distress, X frowns in concern. “Is there anything I can do to help?” The words are more reluctant than he’d wanted them to sound as they escape his mouth. It can’t be helped; it doesn’t take a genius to know that offering assistance to Medicine Pocket for anything — especially anything relating to their research, which X is sure this is related to in some way — can only end badly.
Medicine Pocket finally looks at X only to frown as they assess him. They glance a few times more as they walk back and forth, indecisive yet more impatient still, and X feels his skin itch as he does nothing, letting them stare. He hides his anxiety behind him, hands clasped in stillness.
“Come with me.” Without explanation, they change their pacing to grab X’s wrist and throw open the door, striding back inside at a quick pace that has X stumbling to keep up with surprise.
“Where are we going?”
“I need to work off this excess energy,” Medicine Pocket says, which answers nothing. Their fingers, wound around X’s wrist, are physically trembling, energy impossible to contain. With alarm, X discovers that, even through gloves, he can feel their scalding body warmth, far too high for a normal body temperature.
Medicine Pocket continues leading him with sure steps down halls he’s never walked before, all the way to the Biological Pharmaceuticals Department, where Medicine Pocket shoves their badge impatiently at the card reader. The card reader beeps dully in confirmation. The doors open at a slow slide that has Medicine Pocket cursing at it as they walk through, down another hall identical to the last, doors on both sides. Arriving at another door near the end of the hall, Medicine Pocket presses their badge down at the card reader one last time. With another beep, this door is one Medicine Pocket opens themselves with a heft of their shoulders.
Meters and meters of artificial grass lie below. Above, the open sky hangs, a bigger view than the pitiful break room. There’s still a fence surrounding the field, but even that is different — a sleek white that sunlight bounces off, completely enclosed, not allowing curious passers-by to look in. Medicine Pocket opens a storage room, and X peeks inside to see plenty of equipment filling the room, stacked neatly in rows and boxes; sports balls and frisbees, sandbags and sponge dummies, and more.
“They prepared this field just for me.” Medicine Pocket still has the mind to boast as they throw their coat on a stack of mats in the storage room. “I come here whenever I need to let off some steam.”
X eyes the dummies on one side of the wall. “And what do you usually do to ‘let off some steam’?”
They shrug. “Run around. Make a mess. But since I’ve got someone who’s oh-so-willing to accompany me today...” They trail off the rows of sports equipment, stopping once they reach a certain row. They pull out a racket like it’s a shiny new weapon.
“...Tennis?”
“D’you know how to play?”
“Somewhat.” If watching a short game between researchers during lunch break counts.
The reality of X’s situation begins to set in as he leaves his coat beside Medicine Pocket’s. He wouldn’t consider himself to be athletic — much the opposite, as he spends most days indoors like the majority of researchers. And yet here he is, trying to find out which is the best grip to hold a tennis racket. How did he get here?
Oh, X realizes belatedly as he sees Medicine Pocket standing on the other side of the court on the far side of the field. They’re retying their hair, cursing up a storm with how tangled their hair has become from their earlier ministrations. I’m the reason. I’m the idiot who walked into a spike trap.
It’s too late to back out now, though X had no plans to in the first place.
By the time X has managed to fix a shaky smile on his face, he finds Medicine Pocket has been staring at him for who knows how long. Something on his face must give away his nerves, because they say, in their own attempt at boosting morale, “If you really don’t know how to play, then just dodge.”
“And if I don’t manage that?”
Medicine Pocket narrows their eyes the way they do when they’re thinking. “I guess I’ll have to pay for your medical bills if you can’t do that much.”
At their words, X tries to reassure himself that nothing will go wrong — no bruises, or worse, broken bones, will be awaiting in his future. That’s what he reminds himself, steeling himself with a tightened grip on his racket.
But with the way Medicine Pocket is standing across the court, shoulders set, poised to serve, this feels less like a tennis match and more like...
Bullfighting?
Medicine Pocket whips the tennis ball X’s way, and so starts off the match where X gets his ass unilaterally handed to him. Maybe Medicine Pocket really will have to pay for his overnight hospital stay when this is over, X thinks.
Holding nothing back in their tennis strokes, Medicine Pocket throws their everything at X with what feels like an intent to kill. As an amateur with no experience in the sport, X is reduced to fumbling and dodging a fair bit at the beginning. Medicine Pocket laughs as he stumbles to grab the tennis ball to toss back for them to serve. Neither of them are keeping score — X can’t afford to focus on anything else at the moment, and Medicine Pocket seems to be having too entertaining a time to even remember.
X settles into the rhythm Medicine Pocket sets for them, a punishing pace that has X wheezing in no time at all. Young as he is, he wouldn’t consider himself to be the most active sixteen-year-old, and his body struggles to adapt to the sudden change. With time, muscle memory and experience forms, but X has neither on his side.
Luckily, he has plenty of time to catch up now.
And Medicine Pocket isn’t actually trying to kill him, which wasn’t a real concern, but is still a pleasant discovery for X, as his eyes adjust to Medicine Pocket’s movements, registering them as they are without his own racing judgements — erratic and wild, without any purpose outside of shedding the energy Medicine Pocket had been holding inside themselves. It’s something they’re used to dealing with by themselves, the existence of the field a testament to how often this occurs, but this being the first time X has seen it for himself, bearing the brunt of its intensity...
It only makes him want to help more.
So he tries to reciprocate the best he can; getting up as soon as possible, lunging for the ball, sending it back over the net. The tennis racket reverberates in his hand from the force. Weak as his stroke is, Medicine Pocket still grins and yells, “Good! Good!” and hits it back over.
And so it goes throughout the night, with X labouring for control over his own body as Medicine Pocket yells encouragement from the other side of the net. Round after round after round...
Until Medicine Pocket collapses abruptly on the court.
“Medicine Pocket?” X wheezes weakly, to no response.
Huffing, X staggers over to them. Grip weak, he loses hold of his racket on the way. Ignoring the metallic clang of it hitting the ground, his heavy breathing is the loudest sound in the court as he reaches Medicine Pocket’s side.
Medicine Pocket is still breathing. With an arm thrown over their eyes, X can only see a delighted smile, all teeth.
They laugh suddenly, but X’s exhaustion leaves him reactionless. They move their arm from their eyes, allowing X to see the grin in their eyes. The field’s lights had turned on while X hadn’t noticed, the sun long set while he was struggling to find his footing. It casts X’s shadow over Medicine Pocket. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re more resilient than you look, Alphabet Boy?”
“I’m glad if I’ve surprised you a little today,” X rasps. A small tug from Medicine Pocket has X collapsing face-first beside them. X turns over a second later, each small move a violent jolt in his aching system. “I’ve surprised myself today with how long I managed to hold out, honestly.”
“That’s the most fun I’ve had in a while.” There’s a breathless laugh caught in Medicine Pocket’s voice, sated and content. X forces his head to turn to see the smile on their face, blinking the sweat out of his face. A smile has never hurt so much to make, but it feels like X is reaping a reward as he does so, mirroring Medicine Pocket’s expression.
Despite how Medicine Pocket had pulled him into this without warning, X doesn’t find himself offended at all. Medicine Pocket has always been spontaneous, willful to a fault, and self-centred. X finds himself drawn to that arrogance, draped over Medicine Pocket like a mantle, a certainty to every step they take, no matter how nonsensical it seems to outsiders.
“I had fun, too,” X says with a relieved sigh, staring up at the dizzying night sky above them.
Not hearing a response, X says, “Medicine Pocket?” and looks to the side again, only to see their eyes closed, breathing deeply. Out without so much as a word.
Gingerly, X slowly sits up. Medicine Pocket sleeps on, unaware of an outside observer. The scissors holding their hairstyle together had long been tossed to the side during their game, leaving their hair tangled and strewn on the floor. A stray strand catches on the air they breathe, rhythmically falling and floating back into place.
His sweat is cooling in the night air, sticking to his damp skin. X looks up at the night sky, then back at Medicine Pocket, asleep in a short-sleeved shirt without a care in the world.
Each minute movement has X’s muscles screaming at him. He still manages to walk all the way to the storage room and back, first putting the tennis rackets and tennis ball back, then draping Medicine Pocket’s coat over their sleeping body, only satisfied once their entire body is covered. Their forehead, which he checks last, brushing their hair out of the way quietly, is at a normal temperature. What a relief. Too tired to bother putting on his own coat after everything, he settles for throwing it over his shoulder.
The walk back is filled with pains both big and small. X trudges on slowly, the entire bottom half of his body feeling like he’s pulling heavy weights. He only realizes he’s shaking when he looks down at his legs for a short break. If Medicine Pocket decides to invite him again, X thinks, hand trembling as he places it against the wall, he should probably consider exercising regularly, or Medicine Pocket really will be handling his medical bills.
Though his body is failing him, his brain is intact; even with it being his first time navigating this area of Laplace, X manages to retrace their steps until the pathways regain their familiarity. From there, it’s much easier to find his room. Once there, all his energy is put into collapsing face-first on his bed after clambering up to it, too tired to even take off his shoes. He should probably make something for that, X thinks as exhaustion creeps into the edges of his vision. A machine that takes your shoes off for you as soon as you get home...
iv.
His body recovers quickly from that night, though it still takes longer than he’d like. Titor wastes no time at all poking fun at him at lunch, his buckling legs making him look like a newborn fawn, though X is sure she’d be in much the same state if she went through the same ordeal. This only motivates him further; once his body’s back to normal, X starts going out on morning runs to make up for his lack of stamina. There’s a running track available for free use in Laplace. It’s not as special and customized as Medicine Pocket’s field, but it’ll do for X. And there aren’t many researchers who are up early enough to go for a run, so majority of the time X is left to bask in the crisp morning wind and early rising sun alone. In those times, it feels like he’s the only one left in the world, following the crisp white track lines on Foundation grey. He can almost forget all his worries this way, lying dormant in the back of his mind.
And then he’s back indoors, and it’s back to work — sketching new inventions that fellow researchers scoff at, ignoring any strange looks he gets walking around with a new shipment of materials (delivered late, thanks to a “mistake” made in the order), and discussing with Titor about the benefits of cotton candy-scented car fumes and edible erasers at lunch. A different day, the same tune.
He meets Medicine Pocket again the evening after a late summer rain, water still drip-dropping from the roof. As usual, Medicine Pocket is asleep, though this time they’ve fallen asleep cradling a jar in their arms. Whatever’s inside rattles softly with their breathing. As X peers closer, curious, Medicine Pocket turns over, facing them with a heavy exhale that ruffles X’s bangs. Their eyes flutter open.
They make eye contact. Medicine Pocket is still in a daze. X notices the small, natural curl in their eyelashes, and how close he’d accidentally stepped to them to look at the jar.
X steps back politely as Medicine Pocket rubs their eyes and sits up. “Good evening, Medicine Pocket. What did you bring with you today?”
They yawn. “Wanna guess what it is?”
Medicine Pocket hands off the jar to X. The jar is filled with what looks like confections, colourful and attractive in their simplicity, something that would have any child eyeing it eagerly. But considering who Medicine Pocket is, it can’t be any standard candy, but...
“Is this Picrasma Candy?” Medicine Pocket nods. “I’d heard about your team releasing an improved version, but I’ve never tried it before.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day, Alphabet Boy.” Medicine Pocket stands up and stretches. “Let’s go test it today.”
It goes without saying that X follows them without any questions; he’s already guessed where they’re heading, and he’s long become used to their impromptu orders.
Medicine Pocket steps into a hallway X is quickly becoming familiar with. Unlike the last time, they encounter a researcher along the way, a fellow colleague in Medicine Pocket’s field. She pales at the sight of them — or is it Medicine Pocket specifically? — and immediately looks away from them, eyes shaking. She practically glues herself to the other wall trying to skirt past them.
X watches her back calmly as she skitters past, fleeing as if her worst nightmares lie on the other end of the hall, or a particularly large co*ckroach. “Do they not like you?” X says curiously.
“They think I’ll bite.” There’s some contempt sharpening Medicine Pocket’s tone, too unbothered to correct such misconceptions.
“Will you?” X hasn’t ever heard of any incidents involving Medicine Pocket in such altercations. Do people assume the worst because of how sharp their teeth are?
Medicine Pocket stops before the door. They look back at X, a taunt in their eyes. As the card reader beeps in confirmation and the door clicks open, Medicine Pocket says, “Come closer and you can find out for yourself.”
They push open the door, and a cool breeze ruffles X as he blinks.
The field is still experiencing the after-effects of the weather. Artificial grass is stained with rain, the scent of petrichor faint but tangible. The equipment is all stored safely in the storage room. Medicine Pocket stands without making any moves to unlock it; they won’t be needing it today.
Medicine Pocket pops open the jar. “Which one do you want?”
X steps closer to study his choices. The Picrasma Candies sparkle like jewels before his eyes. “Only one?” he sighs, half-joking.
“One at a time, or you’ll overdose.”
“What happens if you overdose?”
“You get the jitters all over,” they say. “It’s like everything inside you wants out, Arcanum and all. Can be f*cking difficult to get out.”
X tilts his head, grasping something by the venom in their voice. “Like what happened last week?”
“Exactly,” Medicine Pocket confirms.
He hums. Looking down at his choices, he picks out the yellow Picrasma Candy, holding it up to the sky like his own sun to replace the disappearance of their current sun, hidden behind grey rain clouds. “This one, then.”
“That’s the lemon-flavoured one,” they warn.
“It’s fine,” X insists. It was such a pretty colour, after all. Similar to Medicine Pocket’s eyes.
But maybe picking a Picrasma Candy based on its similarity to Medicine Pocket isn’t the brightest idea X has had.
At first, when he rolls it around in his mouth experimentally, it tastes the same as the Picrasma Candy lollipops he’s had before, sugary and bitter, accompanied by a sour lemon flavour that’s light on his tongue.
And then the sour lemon flavour stays. Not only does it stay, the flavour strengthens, persisting even as the other flavours do the same.
“...So? How does it taste?” Medicine Pocket has a hand covering their mouth, definitely hiding a smile at whatever expression X’s face has contorted into.
“...Um.” When X tries to swallow, he finds he has no saliva to swallow. He moves the Picrasma Candy to the other side of his mouth, feeling like he’s burnt a hole into one side of his tongue and is just making another one. He bites into the candy, hoping to force the taste to dissipate faster, but the candy shatters like glass into a tiny million shards stabbing his tongue before finally melting.
X blinds rapidly to prevent tears from forming as he swallows. His whole mouth is tingling. “I... don’t think the flavour agrees with me.”
Medicine Pocket cackles cruelly. “I told you to pick something else. You’re the first dumbass I’ve seen to pick that flavour, did you know? That’s impressive.”
“Thanks,” X says weakly. He doesn’t know what can be less impressive than the last minute of his life. He tries not to think too hard as Medicine Pocket pats him on the shoulder, still laughing at his misery.
Once their laughter’s died down, they ask, “So, how do you feel? Reenergized?”
“...Yes,” X says after considering for a moment. He’d been so distracted by the flavour profile that, now that he’s observing the changes he feels in his body... “I feel better than I would on my best days.”
“Compare the amount of stamina you regain from this Picrasma Candy and the lollipop version. Rank them both from one to ten on how big the change was between your original state to after eating the candy.”
Medicine Pocket assesses X like that for a bit. They’d pulled out a notebook while X was talking to jot down X’s answers. Meanwhile, X conjures up a rug, a sofa chair, and pillows for Medicine Pocket to lie back on while they write. The Arcanum catches Medicine Pocket’s attention, and they demand X to perform more spells for testing, which X agrees to, conjuring a cup of tea for them.
Several assessments and destroyed dummies later, Medicine Pocket shuts their notebook after writing the last of X’s answers (“Any suggestions on what kind of Picrasma Candy you’d like next?” “...Maybe a gummy or caramel kind of candy? Something softer on the teeth”) and declares this survey a success.
“You can keep the rest of the Picrasma Candy as a gift,” Medicine Pocket says, tossing the jar casually.
X catches it with both hands, counting up all the candy left in the jar. Speaking of gifts... “Do you mind if you return the Self-Sufficient Cleaner to me? I just wanted to upgrade it a bit,” he adds hastily at Medicine Pocket’s crestfallen look.
“...As long as you give it back after,” they say reluctantly, and leave as X huffs in amusem*nt. Clearly, they’ve gotten attached to the little robot after X had given it to them.
The Self-Sufficient Cleaner doesn’t look that different from when X had last seen it, if a bit scuffed. Medicine Pocket had been treating it well. The thought makes X smile, seeing how carefully they cradle it.
“I’ll return it as soon as I can,” X promises.
That night, Medicine Pocket walks X back all the way to his room, insisting on carrying Mr. No-Litter Man the whole way through with X’s hands full holding the jar of Picrasma Candy. When they part, it’s with whispered vows, as dramatic as a lover’s parting that X watches with amusem*nt. Medicine Pocket pats him goodbye with a gloomy look — perhaps already seeing the future appearance of their lab — and a final wave.
v.
It’s difficult to meet Medicine Pocket again. They’re technically colleagues, but in different fields, and don’t collaborate often for work. In fact, X spends most of his days without catching even a glimpse of the tail of Medicine Pocket’s coat, the other researcher spending most of their time holed up in their lab. Even at lunch, X can see other researchers in their department fetching their food for them. Sometimes X contemplates taking over their task just to see Medicine Pocket, even if only for a minute or two of stolen time.
It’s long become routine for them to meet outside in that break room (still not reported to anyone’s superiors), but even that will come to an end soon. Medicine Pocket wouldn’t try to nap outside in the cold, and soon it will be winter.
“It’s an early birthday present,” X explains when he arrives to meet them with an elaborately wrapped gift box that matches in colour to Medicine Pocket’s clothes. He hides his nerves behind a sheepish smile. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, so don’t be disappointed.”
“Why would I be disappointed?” Medicine Pocket asks, puzzled. They rip the bow off without any delicacy. X tries not to wince at the action. “I didn’t even know you knew when my birthday was... Mr. No-Litter Man!”
Medicine Pocket holds up the Self-Sufficient Cleaner in dazed shock. The robot has been cleaned to a shine and repainted in a silver and purple to match its owner. Its nametag has been stripped off and stuck on again, this time with X’s reluctant writing penning it. A puppy sticker from a set X had spotted while browsing the street market has been stuck on beside it.
“I gave it a few upgrades like I said I would,” X says, seizing Medicine Pocket’s distraction to avoid explaining how he’d gone about getting access to Medicine Pocket’s records. He points further down below the gift box, and Medicine Pocket sets the Self-Sufficient Cleaner on their lap to reach in. They pull out a paper, which lists all the upgrades X had given the little robot: a wider range for the sensor, larger wheels for less difficulty traversing unstable terrain, and a new function he had added.
“An incense burner?” Medicine Pocket reads. “On its head? How does it work?”
“You have to press this button.” X instructs them on how to use it, showing where the incense would be placed and other controls. A small puff of smoke pops out from Mr. No-Litter Man’s head like its own personal halo.
“You can get the incense changed if you don’t like this one.”
Medicine Pocket shakes their head, turning off the incense function and cradling the Self-Sufficient Cleaner in their arms. “It’s fine, I like this one.”
X smiles, pleased. His nerves have faded after watching them admire the little robot, an ecstatic look in their eyes that has X feeling warm all over. “Then I’ll take that to mean that you like your gift?”
As Medicine Pocket nods, opening their mouth to answer—
The door to the break room swings open with a tattered creak.
It’s the first time another person has visited while they’re there. This late in the evening, it can only be another researcher planning to pull an all-nighter. The visitor is already mid-action, cigarette pack pulled out and cigarette in his mouth when he spots the two of them. He freezes, backlit by the harsh light of Laplace’s hallways.
X finds him to be a normal-looking man, but the way his face twists in disgust makes him more memorable in an unpleasant way.
With a click of his tongue, the man shoves his pack of cigarettes back into his pocket — Marlboro, X notes disinterestedly, as the man turns to leave, muttering around his cigarette, “Damn freaks.”
The door slams shut behind him. The sound of his footsteps as he flees echoes harshly in the silence.
“Who was that?”
“Robertson,” X replies. He remembers him, not only because of how he’d delayed his orders and harassed Titor at some point (she’d put a stop to that before it could go too far), but his generally malicious presence — too cowardly to speak when outnumbered, but perfectly uncivil with company.
Taking a moment to think, Medicine Pocket only frowns. “Nope, don’t know him.”
X explains patiently, “He’s in the—”
“No, I don’t care,” they say with a roll of their eyes, trying to get X to understand. “If I don’t know their name, it means they haven’t accomplished anything, so they’re not important.”
X breaks into a small smile at their words.
“What’re you smiling at, Alphabet Boy?”
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” Past the shadow of the roof’s outline, the stars gleam in the sky. Brilliant, cold, and far out of reach. “Did I ever tell you that I admire you?”
“No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.”
“I admire your attitude,” X says. “You’ve never let anyone get in your way. And you’re always dedicated to what you want; other people can’t sway you. And you’re unapologetic about it all.”
“So that’s how I look to you.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Of course not,” Medicine Pocket says, “but geniuses also have their off days.”
“What do you do when that happens?”
They shrug. “You’ve seen it. I complain, I let off some steam, and the next day I go and try again. It’s not like I don’t get pissed when something doesn’t go my way, but I don’t let that stop me.”
“See, that’s the attitude I like,” X sighs.
“Maybe, but aren’t you putting me on too high of a platform? I’m just like you. I wouldn’t be able to make something like this little guy, for one.” Medicine Pocket drapes over the Self-Sufficient Cleaner. They blink. “Well, if you give me a month, I might be able to pull it off.”
X is startled into a laugh at that declaration, his breath fogging the air. He puts his gloves hands to his mouth, exhaling warm air into them. Now that he’s thinking about it...
“It’s getting colder, isn’t it?” X says, trying to hide the disappointment in his tone. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to nap outside anymore.”
“Probably not,” Medicine Pocket says with a laugh.
“Be careful not to catch a cold,” X says as Medicine Pocket gets up, stuffing the gift box under their arm as they hold the Self-Sufficient Cleaner with both hands. “Good night, Medicine Pocket.”
“...Yeah, good night,” they say after a moment of silence. X looks at them questioningly, but their face is shrouded in night’s darkness. The most he can discern is the fog of what might be an escaping breath, or a sigh.
Medicine Pocket waves farewell with the little robot’s arm. Belatedly, X snaps out of his reverie to return it, but they’re already gone, the door creaking closed behind them with a rattle. And though the temperature hasn’t changed since Medicine Pocket left, it still feels colder without their presence.
+
Time still passes, when it’s not flowing backwards.
X creates more inventions, some well-received by the public, some not. He takes it all in stride. He only notices how the days pass by the changes in the weather, the sun fading behind wispy clouds as he continues his morning runs, armed in a thick jacket and scarf. The calendar, when he looks at it one late evening before bed, tells him he’s almost out of time. The deadline is nearing.
He’s the only one there when he goes to the break room, earlier than he would usually meet Medicine Pocket. They’re probably holed up in their lab, X thinks with some dismay. But that’s good. It’s better for him.
Except two hours later, Medicine Pocket makes their appearance.
Flustered, X stands up quickly from where he’d dodged the door that had swung open. “Medicine Pocket.” He fails to hide the surprise in his voice, delight overshadowed by a trace of guilt. He hides his hands in his coat’s pockets.
“Alphabet Boy.” They’re wearing a sleek winter coat over their lab coat, a pair of mufflers hanging around their neck. X tries not to stare for too long, but they haven’t seen each other in weeks, and it’s hard not to.
He coughs, trying to dispel the awkwardness hanging in the air. “What are you doing here? It’s too cold to sleep outside.”
Medicine Pocket looks at him, eyes narrow, as if trying to decide just how stupid he is. “I’m here for the same reason you are, obviously.” They snort at X’s blank face. “I’m here to see you. We didn’t exactly make plans to meet.”
“Oh,” X says dumbly. He hadn’t thought that Medicine Pocket would purposefully seek out his company. “You could’ve sent a letter.”
“So could you, but you didn’t, and you still came here,” they point out.
X smiles. “I’m afraid it’s too cold to stay out for long, though.”
“You’re right.” Medicine Pocket leans forward, pinching both of X’s cheeks. “You’ve been waiting out here for a while, haven’t you? Funny how you’re the one who told me not to catch a cold, yet you’re out here being a dumbass... Are you listening?” They pinch X’s cheeks harder. X nods obediently, though his cheeks are so warm he can’t feel much.
“We... can talk in my room,” he manages, though it’s hard to fight the urge to avert his eyes when Medicine Pocket makes eye contact. “If you’d like.”
“It should be warmer there, right?” Medicine Pocket finally lets go, stepping back. “Go on. Lead the way.”
Ignoring the smarting of his cheeks, X hastily opens the door for them, holding the handle carefully. He closes the door just as cautiously behind them. Bemused, Medicine Pocket says, “I don’t think the door’s that delicate. It’s been like that since I’ve been going there.”
“You never know,” X says lightly. He falls into step beside Medicine Pocket as they make their way to his room.
His misgivings about the Foundation don’t stop X from setting his roots in Laplace. His room is clearly lived-in, the space (larger than the average room issued to researchers) invaded by the sheer amount of inventions occupying every inch of the space, crawling up the walls and trailing the floors in what would be clear tripping hazards for any visitors.
“Make yourself at home,” X says, pulling a lever by the entrance as he sheds his coat. A mysterious ticking noise starts up in the room, like a bomb set to go off. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”
“Huh?” is the only word that leaves Medicine Pocket’s mouth, too distracted by a ping-pong ball rolling on a shelf set off by X’s actions to notice the chair that pops up from behind and sweeps them under their feet, forcing them into the seat. The seat continues moving forward, finally stopping with a small jerk in front of the table that X has walked over to in that same timeframe.
At Medicine Pocket’s befuddled stare, X continues thoughtfully, “I did make a new hot chocolate setting for the season, if you’d like to try it.”
“...That works,” Medicine Pocket says, for once rendered speechless. X helps them take off their coat and hangs it up as Medicine Pocket openly eyes everything around them; the paper airplane-shaped lamp that moves slowly clockwise in a circular motion, gently pulsing in shifting colours, the tracks of Goldberg machines lining the walls and shelves, a family of plants sitting by the window, X’s workspace set under his loft bed — an old habit he has of sleeping on the top bunk since he was at the orphanage —, desk filled with the morning’s sketches. “Nothing’s gonna go off if I get off this chair, right?”
X tilts his head, considering. “Not unless you press any buttons or pull a lever at random, no.”
“...Pay for my medical bills.”
“I doubt there’s anything that dangerous here...”
“You doubt? You can’t even guarantee anything?”
X laughs awkwardly. Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes, but they leave the chair, looking mildly surprised when nothing goes wrong after that one action.
Medicine Pocket scours X’s room like it’s a museum. They’re careful, quieter than X has ever seen them or known them to be capable of. After X makes a joke about his inventions being incapable of biting, Medicine Pocket starts exploring with a bit more of the daring X is used to.
The tea and hot chocolate is done by the time Medicine Pocket has started poking around X’s cabinet.
“You keep newspaper clippings of yourself, too?” Medicine Pocket says as X sets the refreshments on the table. Medicine Pocket follows after him with a newspaper in their hands, flashing a glimpse of the headline at X: ‘A Foolish Genius?’
Medicine Pocket lowers the newspaper. “They’re not wrong — you are a bit of a dumbass, but their reasoning is off. Oh, this looks good.” They’re quickly sidetracked by the hot chocolate X presents them: massively topped with whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, marshmallows, candy cane shavings, and a candy cane to stir, the hot chocolate is buried beneath all the toppings.
Medicine Pocket licks the whipped cream off the candy cane as X takes a sip of his chamomile tea. “Even though I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a ‘dumbass’, I’ll have to agree.”
“No sh*t you’d agree with me; you like me.”
X chokes.
As he clutches at a napkin to cough into. Heart beating in his hands, he lowers it to see... Medicine Pocket dunking their face in the whipped cream, not a care in the world.
Realizing that Medicine Pocket hadn’t meant it like that, X clears his throat awkwardly. “Of course, I did say I admire you quite a bit...” At the squint they give him, X quails.
Sighing, he wilts in his chair. Medicine Pocket has the delicacy of a freshly woken bear, trampling over all the undergrowth. His face feels the same as it did when Medicine Pocket had pinched his cheeks earlier, tingling all over. “When did you notice?”
Medicine Pocket ponders quietly. Or maybe they’re still trying the hot chocolate. Regardless, X tries not to fidget with the handle of his teacup as they do, willing them not to rush, the tea slowly cooling under his hands. His cup is shaking too much to catch his reflection in the tea.
“...I can’t really pin down when exactly I’d noticed,” Medicine Pocket finally says.
“So it was before today?” They hum in confirmation. The answer only makes X wonder. “Yet you still agreed to come to the bedroom of someone you knew was interested in you.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Medicine Pocket says with a look of confusion that morphs to shock at X’s blank expression. “You really are a dumbass, Alphabet Boy,” they sigh.
“What do you mean—” X asks in confusion, but doesn’t manage to finish his questioning. The rest of his words crumble up in his throat as Medicine Pocket tugs him forward to meet in a kiss that’s more of a sudden mash of lips than anything else. X can feel Medicine Pocket’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, butterfly-soft but setting off a new rhythm for his heartbeat.
And then Medicine Pocket tilts their head to the side, a soft give in their lips, and X exhales shakily. His eyes are shut furiously tight as he leans forward cooperatively. He feels too much of everything in those precious seconds: the hum of the paper airplane lamp, his lashes fluttering on Medicine Pocket’s cheeks, the scent of their hair filling his senses.
“Oh sh*t” is the first thing Medicine Pocket says when they part, and then they’re leaning back in to suck on X’s bottom lip, which almost gives X a mini-heart attack. He just avoids spilling his cup of tea.
X thinks it’s over then, but they keep that close distance to lick the side of his lip. Their breath puffs over his lips. “Sorry, the whipped cream. Also, you’re bleeding a little. My bad.”
“Right,” X says, so overwhelmed he’s become numb. He does think his bottom lip is smarting more than it should. It’s hard to tell under the taste of candy cane sweetness.
Long after he’s collapsed into his chair with a stunned thump, X finally says hollowly, “So you do bite, after all.”
Medicine Pocket looks up from their hot chocolate, takes one look at his face, and bursts into laughter.
“Tell me again why you won’t go back to your room,” X says tiredly for the fourth time, neck craned up at the trespasser.
In the loft bed, Medicine Pocket lounges. They’ve long shed most of their clothing, save for their shirt and underwear. X has picked up after them, the clothes they’d left strewn in a trail from the washroom to the bed. The only article of clothing that had managed to avoid such casual treatment was their gloves, which X had left where Medicine Pocket had placed them on the table. The rest he’d folded up or hung up carefully, placing them on the seat Medicine Pocket had sat at.
Medicine Pocket’s head pops up as they lean on the edge of the loft bed. “For one, I’m already in your bed, so it’s too late to get me out of here. Second, you lent me a toothbrush, so you have to have known that I was planning to stay overnight. Third...” They roll over, disappearing from X’s sight, though he still hears Medicine Pocket’s pleased sigh. “It’s really comfy.”
X sighs a sigh of his own, one of defeat. He’d long given up internally, but he was hoping Medicine Pocket would offer some resistance. Whatever happened to late nights in the lab?
“Move over,” he announces, and listens for the sound of Medicine Pocket’s shifting movements before climbing up the ladder.
Medicine Pocket has moved to the other half of the bed, blanket lifted for X. He takes his side of the blanket gratefully. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but Medicine Pocket doesn’t seem bothered by the closeness at all, though X still flinches instinctively when he skims Medicine Pocket’s bare leg with a socked foot. He tries not to look or think too long about the situation — how the person he likes, who reciprocated his feelings, is going to stay overnight. And they’re sleeping together, in his bed. Side by side—
No, don’t think about it.
“If there really is a reason you need me gone, I can leave.”
“No, that’s not it,” X says. Lying sideways, he meets Medicine Pocket’s eyes. The paper airplane lamp’s night light setting gives their eyes a duller shine, a shadowed dusk that’s less intense than their usual stare. “I feel like we’re supposed to progress a little slower than this.”
“‘Supposed to’? Says who? Is there a rulebook for dating?”
“I’m sure there are some who follow a list of some kind,” X says thoughtfully. “But are you okay with this?”
Wordlessly, Medicine Pocket reaches under the covers to lace their fingers together. Watching X’s face slowly turn red in the passing light, they say, with a smirk, “Yeah, I think I’m okay with this.”
Medicine Pocket laughs as X drops their hand like it’s on fire, turning over to switch off all the other lights in the room. He leaves the paper airplane lamp on, its dull hum a small comfort to return to after everything that’s happened today. He hadn’t slept with a night light until after he’d left the orphanage, but the faint light seeping through his eyelids in sleep is only comforting now.
In near darkness, every minute move feels magnified. X snuggles under the blanket. He only shrinks back a little when he feels Medicine Pocket’s hand again, reaching for his own. He reciprocates slowly, careful in the way firsts are. He hears Medicine Pocket laugh, not mocking but unbelievably giddy, and X doesn’t hold back a smile of his own at the sound.
It takes a long time for X to fall asleep despite his exhaustion. Throughout the entire night, Medicine Pocket’s hand remains in his.
X learns that, unlike him, Medicine Pocket takes time to wake.
X wakes naturally a second before his alarm clock does. He reaches over to shut it off before it wakes Medicine Pocket. He finds Medicine Pocket’s hand slack in his own when he turns over. The researcher lies spread-eagle in the bed, taking up most of the space with their limbs. Their quiet snores is a new tune X takes the time to pause and listen to, a small sense of wonder filling him as he watches them drool on the pillow.
X wipes the sweat off his hand and rearranges Medicine Pocket’s limbs to rest in a more comfortable position under the blanket. Tucking them in, he tucks a stray wisp of hair behind their ear as he does. Climbing down the ladder, he wonders what to make for breakfast as he internally makes a note of rescheduling his morning run for a later time. Pulling open the windowed curtains reveals a world of crystalline white. The year’s first snow.
Medicine Pocket stirs at an unknown time, probably roused by the smell, or the music. They creep up behind X and swipe the plate of freshly made pancakes from under his nose. Meandering over to the table, they pause to give a ruffle to X’s already fluffy bedhead. “Thanks for the breakfast, Alphabet Boy.”
“...You’re welcome,” X sighs, and readies a new batch. Those pancakes had originally been Medicine Pocket’s anyway.
Medicine Pocket wanders the room as they eat, as comfortable as if they were in their own abode. It only took one night, X thinks ruefully. “I didn’t know you listened to... what is this? ‘The Rolling Stones’?
X glances back to see them standing by the record player. “Oh, yes. Regulus sent me their album to listen to while I had time.”
Medicine Pocket hums indifferently. X hears them rummaging around in one of his cabinets. A moment later, they read out, “‘Party B — X — agrees that should anything happen to this precious album, from the smallest scratch to utter destruction of this vinyl record, property of Party A — Regulus —, that they will be held responsible with their life. Signed...’” Medicine Pocket lowers the paper, clearly ripped from a page in X’s sketchbook. “Why would you sign a contract like this?”
“She cares about her music very much. I just wanted to earn her trust.”
“...Well, if the contract looks like this, I doubt she was serious.”
“I’m sure she was very serious when she wrote that contract,” X says cheerfully as he finishes making the last of his pancakes. He turns to see Medicine Pocket rolling their eyes, but they still join him at the table to eat properly, still courteous at a whim.
Medicine Pocket makes a sound as they’re eating. When X looks up questioningly, they point at the windows. “It’s snowing.”
X turns to watch the snowflakes fall. He swallows his food. “I think it snowed last night,” he says. “When I looked out this morning, the snow was already there.”
“We must’ve missed it since we were asleep,” they say, reminding X of how he’d fallen asleep the night before, feeling the press of Medicine Pocket’s forehead on his shoulder, their breath caught in the collar of his shirt...
“Probably,” X agrees, and hides any embarrassment behind another bite of pancake. Medicine Pocket smiles behind a bite of their own pancake stack as if reading X’s mind.
X tries another method to drive the embarrassment away. “It’ll really be too cold now,” he says. He coughs at Medicine Pocket’s gaze. “To go outside to the break room after today. Right?”
“Oh. Yeah,” they nod.
As X sighs internally in relief, they add, “I was only going there later to see you, anyway.”
X’s forks screeches on the plate. “I didn’t... forget that.”
“Good.” Medicine Pocket looks too satisfied by the effect they have on X. “I guess for now I’ll go back to napping at my lab.”
X turns his fork over in his hands. “...I have a spare keycard for my room, if you want.”
“Mm.” Medicine Pocket gestures with their free hand as they shovel another mouthful of pancake into their mouth. X fetches the spare keycard for them, and receives a sloppy kiss on the cheek for his troubles. He’s still reeling when he returns to his seat, and doesn’t realize he’s staring until they point at his uneaten pancake.
If he could, X would spend the rest of the day with Medicine Pocket, but there’s still plenty of work for both of them to do. Medicine Pocket leaves after breakfast, tragically efficient with how quickly they get ready, winter coat hanging over their arm. They look so normal, it’s almost as if last night hadn’t happened at all.
X is only a little despondent about it.
“I wanted to comb your hair,” he tells them honestly at the door.
Medicine Pocket blinks as if the idea hadn’t occurred to them. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances to do it later.” They step forward, wrapping X in a hug that’s less warm and more constricting with how they squeeze, kissing him on the cheek. It’s a very them hug.
“Meet you later?” they say.
X gives their hand one last squeeze. “Later,” he promises with a smile.
The silence is a physical pressure in Madam Z’s office. Maybe it has something to do with the dull lights, or the sound of rustling papers that fills the room. Maybe it has something to do with how Madam Z hasn’t said a word in the five minutes since X has sat down.
Madam Z finally moves past the file she’s been reading, closing it with a light sigh. Her expression is inscrutable. “I’m sure you know why I called you here today, X.”
Never one to confess, X plays dumb. “Is there a problem with an invention I made recently?”
“No,” Madam Z sighs again, “No, if only.” They both know that X wouldn’t be seeing her if it was as simple as that.
She lowers her glasses to set an assessing stare on X, a mixture of contradictory feelings in her eyes: cold yet caring, indecisive yet firm. A myriad of titles she holds; X knows it can’t be easy bearing them all.
“Mr. Robertson will be recovering in Laplace’s infirmary until further notice. Have you ever met him, X?”
“Would that be the... haggard-looking, mousey, brown-haired man?” At Madam Z’s nod, X continues, “Then I’ve seen him before. It was only a brief encounter, not enough for us to introduce ourselves. But he’s in the infirmary?” X takes on a look of vague concern, one a person would for passing acquaintances — or colleagues. “Is he alright?”
“...Where did you see him, X?”
“...Well, about that,” X says awkwardly.
Madam Z takes off her glasses to wipe the lenses gently. “I already know about that neglected corner — the break room, is what the others call it? If you’re reluctant to tell me because of that. I’m guessing you saw him there?” X nods. “And what were you doing there?”
“I usually go there to meet Medicine Pocket,” X says sheepishly.
“Medicine Pocket?” Madam Z repeats with a slight tone of surprise. “And you two are usually there together?”
“Yes, always.”
“And Medicine Pocket would be able to confirm that?”
“They could if it was needed, but what for?”
Madam Z lets out another sigh. “As you know, Mr. Robertson is in the infirmary. He had an accident at the break room just yesterday.”
“That’s a shame. What happened?”
Madam Z leans back. Her office chair emits a small creak at the familiar motion. “The door’s hinges had loosened. When a colleague swung the door open, it accidentally hit Mr. Robertson in the head.
“If that had been it, he might have recovered. Except his head struck the floor after he was hit.” Madam Z puts her glasses back on. “I’d say his chances of recovery after that are small.”
“That’s such a shame,” X laments. “I’m sure Laplace was in need of a man of his talents.” His voice is mild and innocent as he says it.
Madam Z gazes at X with sharp eyes. “I’ll be questioning Medicine Pocket after this. If there is any reason at all for you to be suspected in this case, then...”
Then you can’t protect me at all.
“I understand,” X says calmly. Smiling, he stands up. “I’m assuming this is all you wanted to talk about?”
“Be careful, X,” Madam Z admonishes, and waves X off with a soft flick of her hand, already moving on to her next set of documents.
“Always have been,” X says in a sing-song voice, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Soooo,” Medicine Pocket says, in that tone they have before they say something earth-shattering. “You wanna talk about that guy you sent to the hospital?”
It’s the evening after X’s meeting with Madam Z. He’s experiencing one of the little joys in life that is untangling Medicine Pocket’s scissors from their hair for the first time. It’s more difficult than it looks, but X is enjoying every second of it.
Medicine Pocket turns to make eye contact with X. Their hand is lowered, just finished reading over a letter Regulus had sent him — two pages’ worth of rambling about The Rolling Stones’ group, origin and sound, with a tacked-on sentence at the end politely asking him how he’s doing that’s clearly penned by Mr. APPLe.
The rest of their album’s playing on in the silence of Medicine Pocket’s abrupt question.
X untangles a knot with a deft hand, avoiding their gaze. “If you want to know, I did go to the break room at first with that in mind, but I kept delaying it so—”
“So you could see me, I know,” Medicine Pocket interrupts breezily. “I already figured that out and I don’t give a sh*t about that, but Alphabet Boy.”
“What?”
“You can’t just let me be questioned without giving me a heads-up!” They shake X’s shoulders, disrupting his hair-combing process. He’s lucky he’d already managed to free their scissors from their hair. Regulus’s letter flutters to the ground. “What if I’d accidentally given the game away?”
“I assumed you’d be smart enough to keep up. Which you were,” X says, a hint of smugness in his voice.
Medicine Pocket frowns. “Sly, sly bastard,” they mutter, locking X in a headlock, rubbing his hair fiercely. Through the chaos, X can hear the pitter-patter of their heartbeat. “Warn me the next time you pull something like that, okay?”
“You... want me to warn you next time?” X repeats incredulously.
Medicine Pocket shrugs, letting him go. X immediately turns them around, hands returning to their original task, unknotting their hair. “If you want me to help, I can do that, too...”
“With burying a body, or something?”
“Or something,” they confirm.
X pokes at Medicine Pocket’s cheek. Medicine Pocket bites his finger softly before releasing it. They continue talking.
“So I got curious and checked in at the infirmary. That guy is a total vegetable right now, won’t respond to anything, though they suspect he can still hear everything going on around him.” X hums for them to continue. “And I checked the break room — they changed the door. The benches have been nailed into the ground, too. It’s a proper place to have a smoke break now, but there’s a security cam set-up. But there hasn’t been anyone visiting the place,” Medicine Pocket says. “Not only is it too cold, everyone thinks the place’s haunted since the accident. I guess we can hang out there whenever we want now.”
“We don’t need to go there anymore since we can meet in my room now.”
“True.” Medicine Pocket hums. X is content in the silence to wind a strand of their hair around his finger, now able to comb his hands through their hair smoothly, chestnut and pitch-white mixed in his hand. “Isn’t it funny to think about how we wouldn’t have gotten together sooner if you hadn’t decided to try and kill that guy?”
“Very funny,” X agrees. “Maybe I should send him some flowers.”
“Don’t. He won’t be able to see them anyway,” they say callously.
“Alright,” X says, and the topic is dropped. “Are you planning on sleeping here today?”
Medicine Pocket picks up Regulus’ letter. “I actually have some research planned to do tonight...”
“Oh.” X tries not to let his disappointment show. He draws away, his hands leaving their hair. “That’s fine. I’m sure you’re busy. It’s a shame, since I had an invention I wanted you to try tonight, but it’s okay. I can get someone else as a test subject.”
Medicine Pocket looks at him suspiciously. “How is that supposed to make me want to stay—...I mean,” they pause hesitantly at X’s dejected face. “What did you want to show me?”
X brightens, revealing his new invention with a flourish. “This all-purpose pillow! It’s cold and soft on all sides, designed for maximum comfort throughout the night—” Medicine Pocket swipes the pillow before X can finish his explanation. They flee for the bed, leaving X staring up at them amusedly, even as he picks up the clothing they’d shed at record speed.
“Do you mind if you have a bedmate for the duration of testing? A small one, won’t take up much space.”
Silence. A sigh. Then, X sees a hand flapping a small acquiescence at the edge of the bed frame.
Victorious, X is still beaming when he slides into place beside Medicine Pocket. “Have I ever told you that I like you?”
“Several times,” Medicine Pocket says bluntly. They’re lying on the pillow possessively, but X is plenty satisfied with his own pillow. “I’m only doing this because you’re my favourite. Got it?” X can’t tell if they mean the experiment, or staying overnight when they could be working, but either reason fills him with happiness.
They poke at X’s smile. “Now dim the lights. I can’t sleep when you’re looking at me like that.”
Laughing softly, X does as he’s told.
And at night, Medicine Pocket still curls up beside him fearlessly as they always do.
