Chapter 1: Under Your Umbrella
It always starts the same way: a blinding light, a rain of glass like arrows piercing down. And there, in the center, an indistinct figure who smiles. Then screams.
Ten sits in the shadow of a doorway, the rain pelting so hard it turns the world around him to a blur. The shallow indent of the doorframe lends no protection; he’s soaked through.
The driving rain refracts the streetlights and triggers a flash of the dream. Ten closes his eyes against the strain.
The sting of raindrops suddenly ceases. He opens his eyes and sees a pair of wet sneakers, similar to his own, and tall, mismatched socks that disappear under the rolled-up hems of a pair of dark-colored pants. He lets his gaze wander up, then up further.
Above him, head tilted to the side and a small frown on his face, is a person. About the same age as Ten, maybe a year or two older. Twenty or twenty-one, at most. Tall, straight, his features muddy in the shadow of his umbrella.
He stands very close to Ten, so close that Ten has to strain his neck to see.
When Ten sees the frown, he instinctively tries to back away. In the past eighteen years, any time someone has frowned like that it hasn’t meant anything good. But there’s nowhere to go. He can’t retreat any further against the unyielding door, and if he tries to escape into the downpour he’ll be in an even worse situation than he is now. With no options for escape, he curls more tightly in on himself.
Seeing Ten’s distress, the other person’s lips draw down even further, and he reaches out a hand to pull Ten up.
Ten studies the hand. The fingers are long and graceful, the pads slightly calloused. It’s held calmly, without a hint of impatience. Tentatively, Ten reaches out to take it.
The other person’s hand wraps around his own, enveloping it in warmth, and he unhurriedly draws Ten up. Ten, for his part, gives the other person no help. It’s near freezing outside, and he’s been sitting in the rain for so long his joints feel rusted in place. Despite the other person’s gentleness, he winces as his frozen knees are forced to unbend, and blood rushes back towards his soaked feet.
“Here.” The other person speaks quietly and presses the umbrella into Ten’s hand. “Hold this, please.”
Ten takes it and watches with bewilderment as the other person takes off their coat and wraps it around Ten’s soaking-wet body. His first instinct is to shrug it off, but the stranger pulls the collar closed with one hand as he takes back the umbrella with the other.
“Put your arms through?” he says. His his tone is gentle, as though coaxing a child rather than a full-grown adult.
Ten doesn’t require further encouragement. He sticks his arms through and zips it closed. The warmth from the other person has not dissipated, and he feels better almost immediately. He raises his shoulders a bit, buries his nose in the collar.
The other person laughs and adjusts his hold on the umbrella. Ten glances up, somewhat mortified, to find those lips have curved into a smile.
“That’s better,” the stranger says. “Are you hungry?”
Ten’s stomach growls and he purses his lips, embarrassed. He’d tried to enter a shop earlier today, but had been chased out. He knows why; with his current appearance he looks exactly like the sort of person who would rob them for food. Which is precisely what he had been planning to do, before they drove him out.
The stranger clearly understands a ‘yes’ when he hears it. His smile grows, and he leads Ten down the mostly-empty street towards the row of lights that spill out into the darkness from cafe windows.
Ten turns towards the first open shop, but the stranger doesn’t even look at it. Ten glances through the shop window as they pass. There’s an older couple inside, sharing a tray of food. It looks fine.
“There’s a place I like, just a bit further on,” the stranger explains when he sees Ten’s confusion.
Ten catches up and they walk together, close enough that Ten has to try not to brush this stranger’s shoulder. For some reason, the stranger doesn’t seem to mind the closeness. He gestures with his chin towards the umbrella handle. “Will you carry it for a while?” he asks, “The rain makes it heavy.”
A wave of guilt washes over Ten. He’s been inconsiderate. Taking the stranger’s coat, and now expecting him to carry the umbrella. Like a young lord. He reaches out to take the umbrella, and in his haste brushes the stranger’s hand. The stranger tenses, but doesn’t pull away until he sees that Ten has a firm hold on the handle. Only then does he take his hand away and puts it in his pocket.
The space between them suddenly feels very small and not at all empty. More like there’s a current running through the air between their barely-not-touching shoulders, almost tingling in his ear. Ten can feel his heartbeat in his throat and wonders briefly if this person has some sort of patch that lets them have this effect on people, but—as far as Ten knows—he’s the only one who was born with a functioning patch, and his gives him nothing but that same, recurring nightmare. He holds the umbrella tight and tries not to notice when his arm brushes the other person. He doesn’t mean to get too close; it’s only that the space beneath the umbrella is too small.
They finally stop in front of a tiny shop, only three tables inside, with a low wooden counter where it doesn’t look like anyone’s working. The stranger catches Ten’s eye and his lips curve upwards in a small smile.
It’s a good smile. Ten’s heart speeds up, and he follows the stranger through the door.
A small bell hanging overhead alerts the owner to their entrance and soon a woman walks out, her dark hair pulled up in a bun with wisps that stick out haphazardly around her head in a sort of messy halo. She smiles when she sees the stranger. “Back already?” she asks.
There’s a lilt to her voice that Ten thinks is her teasing, though he’s not sure. He’s rarely been teased, at least in a lighthearted way. He shakes out the umbrella, pulls it closed.
The stranger nods and glances at Ten, who’s standing slightly behind him. “My friend was hungry.”
“Hm.” The woman peers at Ten, looks down at his legs sticking out under the coat. “He’s worse than you were, when you first turned up.”
Ten suppresses the urge to hide behind the stranger.
“Ah, Kira, don’t be rude!” The scold is half-hearted, at best. Ten can hear the smile in the stranger’s voice. His tense shoulders drop, just a little.
“Alright. It’s on the house this time if you agree to eat whatever I give you. I have a bunch of leftovers that are about to go bad.”
The stranger glances at Ten, who nods; it’s not like he’s been allowed to have any say in his food choices before. They leads ten to a small table pushed against the wall. The chairs are rickety, and even though he’s not large Ten worries that he’ll break them by sitting down.
The stranger shows no compunctions about it though, and immediately sits and rubs his hands over his arms. “It’s cold! How long were you out there, anyway?”
It’s warm in the shop, but a chill runs down Ten’s spine anyway. He likes this person, but he doesn’t know them. If he tells them, then what? He answers with a shrug, then unzips the coat and hangs it over the back of the stranger’s chair.
The stranger starts to put it back on, feels the dampness inside, and lets it drop back onto the chair. “Hm. We’ll just have to stay until it’s dry.” He glances back up at Ten, gestures towards the empty chair. “It’s easier to eat, if you sit.”
Ten’s pants are still soaked. He’s afraid of damaging the shop owner’s property. He opens his mouth to answer, but the stranger didn’t actually ask him anything, so he’s not sure they want him to answer.
Luckily, Kira emerges at that moment with a blanket and a pair of folded towels. “Excuse me,” she says, and nudges Ten aside to place one towel on the chair, one on the floor. “Take off your shoes and socks, I’ll put them on the dryer for you.”
Despite Ten’s tension, the stranger is still smiling, relaxed. He looks at Kira and frowns. “You’ll take his shoes but not mine?” he complains.
“You already know where the dryer is,” she retorts. She drapes the blanket over the back of the chair and makes an impatient, grabbing gesture towards Ten. The gesture is somehow both patronizing and endearing. It makes her seem less like a business owner and more like a bossy sibling. “Come on,” she says, “Hand them over.”
Ten looks between Kira and the stranger, sees the stranger kick his own shoes off.
“I’ll show him, no worries,” the stranger says. “Come on.”
The stranger picks up his coat and discarded shoes and leads Ten around the side of the counter to a door marked ‘maintenance.’ He pushes it open.
Ten pauses at the threshold.
“I work here sometimes,” the stranger explains, “Kira’s my friend.”
Ten has a brief urge to ask the stranger when he worked here, how he met Kira, why he doesn’t work here any longer—but the stranger still hasn’t asked him anything, and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to talk. He follows the stranger into the room and removes his own shoes and socks when he sees the stranger put theirs on top of a shelf over what looks like an old, steam-powered radiator. It hisses and pops, filling the small room with warmth.
The lights are dim, and through the gloom Ten can see a few shelves filled with bottles and cans and folded towels. There’s a mop standing in a bucket. In the corner of the back wall is another door, streaked with rain. The whole thing like something Ten has seen in a movie—a set piece designed to look like a maintenance room. Nothing in the place he used to live would have looked like this.
He places his shoes and socks beside the stranger’s and watches the stranger drape his coat over a nearby hook.
The stranger seems attentive to all of Ten’s facial expressions, because he remarks, “It’s a really old building. It used to be a house, before the shopping district got built up. A lot of these buildings were houses.”
Ten nods. This answers why the radiator exists, but not the rest. He doesn’t ask, though. He simply puts on the slippers the stranger hands him and follows them back into the bright, cozy dining room.
When they sit, the stranger stretches out and his ankles cross between Ten’s feet, just barely not touching. Ten can feel it like an electric current running through his ankle bones and wonders, again, if this person has some sort of patch Ten isn’t aware of. Something that would make Ten feel like they’re touching, even when they’re not.
He studies the stranger seriously for the first time. He’s a young man—Ten thinks his original assessment of being close to his own age was probably correct. His long black hair is pulled into a low ponytail, and he has large hazel eyes that seem to express his every emotion. Right now, they’re half-lidded as he rests comfortably, hands behind his head. He’s wearing a thick, cream-colored sweater and a thin silver chain around his neck, tucked into the front of the sweater. Aside from being uncannily beautiful, there’s nothing abnormal about him.
Ten wonders if he really is as normal as he looks.
The stranger notes the look on Ten’s face and sits up properly. “Ah,” he says with a self-deprecating smile, “I haven’t introduced myself yet, how rude! I’m Ere.” He pronounces the word like ‘airy,’ lightly touches his fingers to his own chest, “No family name.”
“Ere,” Ten says, testing out the name. Beautiful, just like its owner.
Ere tilts his head at Ten and his smile becomes genuine. “So you do talk,” he says.
Ten freezes. He can feel his own eyes grow wide before he squeezes them shut and bows his head low, hiding his face from Ere.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I—” he hadn’t waited for permission to speak. He’d just opened his mouth without thinking.
Ere clears his throat awkwardly. “Why are you apologizing?” he asks.
Ten looks up, and sees Ere’s nose wrinkle with his confusion. “I spoke out of turn,” he says. There are consequences for speaking out of turn. When he had lived alone, speaking to himself could lead to a new round of medication. Speaking to the staff without being asked a direct question or asking permission was even worse.
“I don’t know what that means, but”—a light blush appears on his cheeks—“You should talk whenever you want. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
This makes Ten feel uncomfortably warm and yet at the same time he shivers and pulls the blanket, which he has wrapped around his shoulders, even tighter.
The stranger also seems awkward after this statement and looks to the side. Now that Ten knows Ere is waiting for him to speak, he can’t bring himself to say a single word. They’re both quiet until Kira arrives carrying two huge bowls of noodle soup.
Ere’s dish looks like a fairly standard mix of noodles, broth, and vegetables, but the bowl she sets down in front of Ten is covered with a slick of oil, as though she’d accidentally spilled the whole bottle on top. Ten looks at it, a bit intimidated.
“You’re going to like it,” she promises, before handing them both their utensils and disappearing back into the kitchen.
“Ah, she gave you the best one,” Ere says, eyeing Ten’s bowl.
“You want to trade?” Ten asks. He frowns internally at the gravel in his voice, rough from disuse.
Ere doesn’t seem to mind it though. He just huffs and says, “No way, she made it for you. I’ll get in trouble if I take any.” He takes a sip of his own soup, then glances up.
Ten is still staring into his soup. He knows, logically, that it’s fine, but this is the first outside meal that he’s had, and he’s unaccountably nervous.
Ere seems to understand Ten’s worries without having to ask. “I might want to try it, though,” he says as he holds up his spoon expectantly. “I haven’t had it in so long, I wonder if it’s as good as I remember.”
“Are you sure?” Ten asks.
Ere just smiles and makes a ‘give it here’ gesture.
Ten pushes the bowl towards Ere, who dips in his spoon and takes a sip. Then another. Then another, until Ten wonders if he’s forgotten it’s not his. He pulls the bowl back just as Ere is going for another mouthful.
Ere gives Ten a disappointed frown, then perks up. “You want to try mine?” he asks.
Ten thinks about the spoon, which has been on this Ere’s lips, dipping into his soup. About the same thing happening the other way around. His stomach swoops. “Sure,” he says, and Ere nudges the soup bowl towards him.
He takes a sip. Ere’s soup is light and herbal, almost medicinal. Like something the nutritional staff of the Institute would make for Ten. But much more flavorful. He tries his own.
It’s rich. Much richer than anything he’s been allowed to eat before. And salty. He almost spits it out, forces himself to swallow. I would be illogical to waste food. “This—isn’t good for me, is it?” he asks.
Ere chuckles. “Maybe not for most people. But for you? It’s good.” His eyes meet Ten’s as he speaks, and then flit over Ten’s figure.
Ten feels every place that gaze lingers, and wonders for the first time if he hasn’t been fed properly, before this. He takes another sip of the broth. Then another as the taste becomes familiar.
Ere stretches out his feet again. His ankle brushes Ten’s this time before moving away, and Ten shivers, but otherwise doesn’t react.
“So,” the stranger says in a curious voice, “I’ve told you my name, are you going to tell me yours?”
