Arguing with Asra Volume 1
Arsenal is reading when Asra comes home, and the force of the door swinging open makes the pages flutter loudly. They lift their head to welcome him, but before they can say anything, he sweeps them into his arms.
“Arsenal,” he says, urgency creeping into his soft voice, “I booked us passage on a ship headed for Milova.” He pulls away to search their face with haunted eyes. “It leaves at dawn.”
“Of course we can,” Asra huffs, and he turns from them to start shoving things into bags. When he realizes that they haven’t moved, he looks at them with upturned brows, nervous and frustrated. “What are you doing? Get your things.”
Arsenal shakes their head.
“We have to help,” they say, gesturing weakly at the books and vials stacked on the desk. “That’s the whole reason for...”
“It’s not working,” Asra says sharply. “We aren’t going to stay here and die trying to fix it.” At the stricken look on their face, he lowers his voice. “We can still help. Just not here. Not in the middle of all...this.”
He spreads his arms, and though the shop is empty, his meaning rings as clear as the silence: the neighbourhood is dead and the city is dying.
“No,” they say quietly, shoulders set. “I won’t go with you this time, Asra. If you run from this, you’ll be doing it without me.”
His eyes widen for a moment, shocked and hurt, before his expression sours and he drops his gaze.
They pass the rest of the night in silence, Asra packing and Arsenal organizing their notes.
In the last hours before dawn, Asra slings his bag over his shoulder and Arsenal walks him to the door. They stand in the stillness, side by side, and say nothing. Finally, Asra speaks, careful, like he is afraid of breaking the precious link between them.
“You really won’t come with me?”
He looks miserable, and Arsenal’s heart breaks, not for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” they reply. “It’s your decision. But this is mine.”
He nods once, grimly, and pulls his scarf tight, Faust wrapped carefully within. He reaches for them, then drops his hand, glancing over his shoulder with uncertainty. Across the city, a ship’s horn bellows. There is a storm in his eyes when he looks back at them, almost as if he’ll change his mind.
“Go,” Arsenal urges gently, offering him a last, small smile. “I’ll see you again.”
“Soon,” he promises, and darts away into the night.
