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When Ballister was twelve and freshly accepted into the academy, life had been…tough.
As the first knight-in-training ever to not be of noble blood, it naturally set him apart from the others—and not in a good way. The class divide had never felt more tangible. From the way they walked to the way they talked, Ballister felt nothing but alien among them.
And while the queen’s personal approval of him had warmed him like no scrabbled campfire or threadbare blanket off the streets had, it had also only stirred those feelings of jealousy and resentment in the others. It fueled the flames of their hatred, and Gloreth knows how cruel children can really be.
But so were the streets, and in a way, navigating the constant looming presence of the elite was not so different from the potential threats lurking around every street corner. Ballister simply did what he did best—adapt.
Stealth was a crucial skill for survival in the streets. In the end, the corridors of the academy weren’t all that different. He knew the streets like the back of his left hand—he mapped the academy upon the back of his right.
Every staircase and shortcut, every twist and turn, he learned them all. Where Todd and his gang lingered, waiting like sharks to hound him the moment he appeared; where the guards patrolled, no kindness to spare for the commoner sneaking to the training halls for extra practice. He knew the precise swivel of the security cameras, the rotation in guard shifts.
Once, he had used this accumulated knowledge to dodge petty bullies, sneak in extra training hours, and find peace away from the never-ending condescension. He had resented it, having to slink around like that, like he was hiding, like he was doing something wrong, like a villain.
And now here he is, sneaking around, the city’s number one most wanted villain, the alleged queen killer. Key word: alleged. Because Ballister would rather cut off his own hand than kill the woman who had placed nothing but steadfast faith in him.
He flexes his mechanical arm, staring at it with wry irony—the queen is dead anyway, and his hand is the least of what he’s lost.
He shakes his head, focusing himself on the task at hand. The guards should be rotating out soon.
They’ve doubled the security—there are more knights on duty, and they make their rounds more often—but luckily for him, no one had thought to adjust the patrol routes, set paths he can easily avoid as long as he keeps careful track of time.
Plus, everyone hates the night shift. He doubts the guards on duty are particularly vigilant, not when it’s this late, and they’d rather be at home sleeping. They were probably unlucky enough to draw the short straw on the roster.
Ballister only has to wait a minute longer before the rotation happens. He slips past them easily.
Now’s the hard part: finding Ambrosius.
Ambrosius will believe him. He has to. Ballister’s already lost everything. The queen, who was like a second Mother to him. Years and years of training to be a knight, fighting to earn the approval of the people, only for it all to be destroyed in a moment. His fucking arm. But if he can just have this one thing still, if he can just keep the one thing that matters most—Ambrosius’ trust, his adoration, his love—then maybe everything could still be okay.
Ballister swallows around the lump in his throat, tries to still the trembling in his hands.
It will be okay. Ambrosius will believe him. Ambrosius will trust him. He just needs to find him.
He turns a corner, pushes through a set of balcony doors. Outside, the night air is cool. He’s made it several storeys up the building now, but there’s no way around the patrol route ahead, so he’ll need to cross that stretch from the outside.
Perhaps if this were his first time, he might have some sweaty palms, but now his body practically moves on autopilot as he steps up onto the parapet, leaps across open air and grasps at a ledge, swinging his body and edging slowly across the wall. As he bypasses several windows above him, the chatter of some idle knights’ conversation catches his ears.
“-I mean, for the record, I always knew something like this was going to happen. I’m just surprised it ended up this bad.”
“He’s dangerous, that’s for sure. He was top of the cohort, above Ambrosius fucking Goldenloin, the direct descendant of Gloreth. He might be from the streets, but there’s no denying he’s good.”
Ballister rolls his eyes, huffing quietly.
Damn right he’s good. If he really were to kill the queen—not that he would, but if he did—he wouldn’t have done it in such a public setting. He wasn’t stupid.
“I know that, but I don’t think anyone could have expected him to kill the queen! Gloreth bless her, she was too kind for her own good, giving a street rat like him a chance.”
“She never should have trusted him. The bastard had her wrapped around his little finger.”
“It wasn’t just her, either. Have you seen Goldenloin?”
Ballister freezes, his fingers slipping. Somehow, he catches himself before he can fall to his death.
“Those two were close. And I mean close. I haven’t seen him smile since it happened. Not even once!”
“Well, maybe he’s finally learned his lesson about playing nice with street rats. There were people who tried to warn him, that he was just being used, serves him right for not listening…”
His heart twists in his chest, a sickening feeling rising inside. The image of Ambrosius, heartbroken and alone in his room on a cold night like this, thinking that Ballister had betrayed him, had used him-
“Hey, you think I stand a chance with him now that Blackheart isn’t around?”
“I called dibs first! Besides, I’m way more charming.”
“Pfft, as if. But hey, who says it can only be one of us? All of us can take turns fucking Gloreth’s descendant. We’ll teach him what a good time really is, he sure looks like he needs it.”
Laughter erupts, piercing him like barbed arrows. Ballister thinks he might be sick. The rage churning inside threatens to overflow, and Ballister has half a mind to haul himself through the window to beat the living daylights out of them, teach them exactly what happens if they talk about Ambrosius like that again, if they even think about touching him-
The fucking audacity. To accuse him of..of using Ambrosius, when all they think about is the bragging rights they would get from defiling him with their selfish fingers and how dare they speak of him like that, how dare they laugh over his pain, how dare they, how dare-
The concrete under his metal fingers crunches and crumbles under his grip. Ballister stops himself from falling to his death for the second time in a minute.
The image of Ambrosius left alone with his despair flashes across his mind again, and breathing out his frustration, Ballister resumes his journey, mentally reminding himself of his purpose. You’re not here to get arrested. You’re not here to get arrested. You can beat them up, after you clear your name, but you cannot get arrested.
He arrives at the next landing, pulling himself up onto the balcony. He’s so close.
He slips back into the building, making a beeline for Ambrosius’ room. Two more turns, three doors down, just a little further, and…
Ballister reels to a stop before the door. He’s here.
He checks the time—ten minutes till the guards on duty make their rounds here. His heart pounds in his ears, hand hovering over the doorknob.
Should he knock? Let himself in? Would Ambrosius even be awake? What if he called for backup immediately? What if he turned him in? What if he drew his sword to strike him down, what then?
Ballister thinks he might let him, and he’s terrified.
He closes his eyes, turns around, buries his face in his hands. He wants Ambrosius to hold him, like he did, right before the ceremony. He wants to run away, where no one could find him and he’s free from this nightmare.
But he’s already gone through all this trouble to sneak in here. He can’t back down now. He can’t be a coward. He didn’t come this far just to be a coward. He can do this, for himself, for Ambrosius, for the kingdom and the queen and all the commoners who had been counting on him.
He steels himself, takes a deep breath, bracing himself to turn around and just knock, but then there’s the sound of the door clicking open, and a sharp gasp, and-
“Bal?”
Shit.
Ballister whips around, suppressing the urge to reach for his sword, and there Ambrosius stands, as glorious as always. Helplessly, Ballister drinks in the sight of his lover (ex-lover? Oh Gloreth forbid…), the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion in his frame.
He’s out of armour, hair uncharacteristically unstyled, wearing a most familiar hoodie, worn and faded from use (it’s his hoodie, he realises, it’s his hoodie-)
By Ambrosius’ standards, he’s practically unkempt. Ballister’s heart clenches, overwhelmed with emotion. He is beautiful.
When Ballister’s eyes finally settle on Ambrosius’, he realises the other has been studying him the same way, gaze flitting over his body, taking in his presence with a desperate relief much like the one Ballister’s experiencing.
Yet, where Ballister’s eyes had settled upon his beloved’s face, Ambrosius’ eyes had fixated upon the prosthetic. The relief drains away, replaced by some grave, trembling despair.
Almost reflexively, his mechanical fingers curl into themselves. Ambrosius stares, breath hitching. Something like hot shame slides into Ballister’s lungs.
It is a long moment before Ambrosius finally tears his gaze away and locks eyes with Ballister, and by then, he’s gained a haunted look about him. Ballister wants nothing more than to chase it away.
It feels like just yesterday when Ballister wouldn’t have hesitated to kiss away the distress and shower him with affection until all their worries washed away. Now, Ballister stares at the distance between them, not more than three steps, and wonders how such a small space could feel like a vast, uncrossable chasm.
He’s thought long and hard about what he would say when they finally met, how best to explain himself and convince his lover of his innocence. He had planned it all, down to every syllable. Yet, standing here now, he can’t recall a single word.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but his throat tightens, and nothing comes out.
Ambrosius merely stares at him—not resentful or suspicious, but simply tentative, and so very fragile (“I haven’t seen him smile, not even once”) , with his sleep-mussed hair and the old hoodie drawn tight around him, ill-fitting due to Ballister’s lankier frame, and yet, and yet-
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he hears himself say, in a soft trembling voice, before his mind catches up with his mouth.
“Uh, I mean-”
Ambrosius blinks, then ducks his head, face flushing.
“It..still smells like you,” he murmurs guiltily, like the admission is a confession, and the act is a crime.
Perhaps it is, given the manhunt—such a choice betrays his heart, and his heart should be allegiant to the Institute, should be hardened and dressed in shining armour, not the soft lingering possessions of a criminal.
It had not deterred him anyway.
Ballister emits a strangled choke, his heart pounding, face warm. He should have known he would love him, still.
It had not occurred to him just how desperately afraid he had been, to finally see Ambrosius, only to be met with fear and hatred. He had expected his first reaction to be shock, then anger, had braced himself for some vitriolic outburst at his appearance. He had not expected this…this quiet despair, this private longing, a muted grief for a loss still manifesting itself in secret acts of cherish.
It is almost too much to bear.
Ballister only wishes he had something of his own to tide him through the yearning. He had nothing of Ambrosius’ to hold during the night, and one less hand to hold it with.
Good lord, it is too much to bear.
His silence drags for too long, and Ambrosius shifts on his feet, his hand reaching out only to hover in the air, conflicted.
“Bal,” Ambrosius starts, face a mixture of worry and doubt, but he doesn’t get any further, as footsteps sound from around the corner.
His reflexes activate, years of knight training kicking into action. Without thinking, he shoves Ambrosius into the room.
“Wait-”
He presses a hand against his mouth, quick to silence him as the footsteps draw closer, along with the murmur of conversation. As quickly and quietly as possible, he nudges the door closed with his heel, then presses close, straining to catch their voices.
“-caught him on camera, three blocks down from here-”
Fuck.
“-inform the Director, I’ll get a squad together immediately-”
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
Three blocks down from here, that’s where the subway is. He must have missed a camera there. He bites back a groan.
Stupid. Careless. Amateur.
“Bal-” Ambrosius whispers, fingers wrapped around his wrist, gently tugging his hand down and away from his mouth.
Ballister hushes him, too panicked to think straight.
“-secure the building, if he’s in the area, it means he’s headed here-”
“-but what if he’s already in the building?! Quick, contact the night shift guards-”
The voices trail off, hurried footsteps receding into the distance. Ballister tries to content himself with the fact they are unaware of his presence inside the building. Yet, anyway. It might not be long.
Waiting a beat longer and hearing nothing, Ballister finally heaves a sigh of relief, turning back to Ambrosius, only to be met with him staring, wide-eyed.
It is then his mind catches up with his body, registering the line of warmth from where his arm meets Ambrosius’ chest, pressing him to the wall next to the door, and the lingering loose grip of Ambrosius’ fingers around his wrist, not resisting, merely holding him in the barest sense.
Ballister jumps backward, a shameful squeak slipping from his mouth as he scrambles to put a respectable amount of distance between them. It feels like Ambrosius’ fingers had lingered reluctantly, but that might just be wishful thinking.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to-..I mean-..I wasn’t trying to-...I’m not here to hurt you! Or anyone, for that matter!” He blurts, in stammering stilted words.
Didn’t he memorise a script for this?!
Ambrosius pushes himself off the wall, staring at him still. In the dark, it’s hard to make out his expression, yet Ballister can feel the heat of his gaze burning into him. Ambrosius approaches, ever so slowly.
A spike of anxiety rockets through him, and Ballister backpedals, holding his hands up. He tries to look away, eyes darting frantically around the room, but finds he cannot keep his gaze away for long, helplessly drawn back to Ambrosius and his intense expression and the indecipherable look in his eyes-
“I..I’m unarmed, see? And I didn’t..it wasn’t me who killed the queen. I swear on Gloreth, I would never-..”
The back of his knees collides with Ambrosius’ bed, his metal hand catching himself against the bedframe.
“I know it looked like it was me, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t me, I swear.”
He looks up at Ambrosius, silent still even as he steps closer, and the words keep spilling out of him in desperate pleadings, strung together by harsh breaths.
“I was framed. My sword was swapped out, and I..I thought it felt strange, but I didn’t think anything of it until- I didn’t know.”
His fingers curl into the hardwood, backed into the bedframe with nowhere else to go. He looks up at Ambrosius, feeling all at once like a sinner at the mercy of his God.
“Please,” he breathes, barely a whisper, “you have to believe me. Please.”
Please don’t leave me. I can’t be alone. I can’t lose you too.
Hands on his shoulders, firm yet gentle. Eyes that seem to see right through him, like moonlight through glass.
“You promise?”
(A flash of a memory, a different time. Two kids, just out of their boyhood, up where they shouldn’t be.
“I won’t tell.”
“You promise?”)
“Yes,” he whispers, and the word is barely out his mouth before Ambrosius is surging forward, enveloping him in warmth.
His arms wind tight around him, head burying in his shoulder, trembling, trembling, holding him like he might disappear.
“Thank Gloreth…” he murmurs into his ear, voice cracking with relief, “you’re okay.”
And with these words, everything falls away. The room, the night, the impending pressure of being caught. None of it matters.
A terrible sound escapes him, a devastating cry as he falls into Ambrosius’ arms, collapsing into his embrace and grasping at him like a dying man. His vision blurs, and he squeezes his eyes shut, wraps his arms around Ambrosius, whose grip only tightens, fingers curling into the gaps in his armour, both of them clinging to each other like it’s the only thing they know.
“I’m sorry,” he says, thinking of the six excruciating weeks they spent apart from each other, six whole weeks Ambrosius must have spent, left alone and confused each night, nursing his broken heart, wondering how his lover could have betrayed him, and he should’ve come sooner, why didn’t he come sooner?
“I’m sorry-”
“Stop,” Ambrosius cuts, voice sharp.
Ballister flinches, nearly imperceptibly, but nothing about Ballister has ever escaped Ambrosius’ notice, and he presses their foreheads together, lowering his voice soothingly.
“Please,” he sighs, sounding just as close to tears as Ballister feels, “don’t apologise. You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. I’m the one who-” the words catch in his throat, a strangled choke.
He pulls away, shaking his head, eyes settling once more on the makeshift prosthetic Ballister had built for himself. Once more, his hand reaches out only to hover over it, stopping just short of him, as if afraid his very touch would shatter it apart.
Unable to bear it, Ballister closes the distance, intertwines their fingers and squeezes reassuringly. Ambrosius flinches.
“You’ve no idea, Bal. I thought I might have killed you. I thought-”
“It’s nothing, it means nothing,” Ballister says quickly, desperate to ease his anguish, and it’s true, almost.
His arm aches with phantom pain, but it’s nothing next to the pain of seeing the vigorous hatred Ambrosius carries towards himself.
“It’s not nothing,” he howls, near hysterical, “I cut off your arm-”
“Ambrosius-”
“I hurt you. All that blood-”
“Ambrosius, listen-”
“And I couldn’t find you, after. I looked, but I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t-”
“Look at me-”
“-I don’t know what I would’ve done, if I really- if I had killed you-”
“Rose, look at me,” he snaps, his flesh hand cupping Ambrosius’ jaw, tilting his head away from the prosthetic to his face, to him and only him. Look at me, look at me.
Finally, finally, Ambrosius tears his gaze away, drags his eyes up to meet Ballister’s.
Ballister does exactly what he’s been longing to do since he first laid eyes on him. He kisses him.
Ambrosius shudders, melting into it instantly, kissing him back with equal fervour, and neither of them are dying, but it feels like life-or-death, feels like coming apart and being put together again, over and over. As if all the emotions from the past six weeks are pouring out, condensing into this one moment.
His fingers slide up Ambrosius’ jaw, into his hair, tugging him closer, and Ambrosius moans, all too eager to follow. The sound lights a spark in his core, one Ballister wishes they had the time to fan, but has the better sense not to.
Instead, Ballister drinks in the softness of Ambrosius’ lips, the taste of his longing reciprocated tenfold, and it is sweet relief. Catharsis.
When they finally break apart for air, albeit with heavy reluctance, it is as if whatever frenzied animal that had been rattling around in their ribcages for the better part of six weeks has finally been released. A haze of calmness settles in its place, and for a moment they do nothing but breathe, soaking in each other’s presence.
Ballister takes a deep, heady pleasure in having succeeded in his goal—the lingering remnants of guilt persist, but it is a shadow compared to earlier, a warm flush painting Ambrosius’ cheeks instead, expression vaguely sated. Once again, Ballister finds himself fighting back the coils of want.
“Bal?” Ambrosius asks, tentative, and the sound of his name in his mouth is divine.
“I’m here,” he says, holding his gaze with fierce resolve, “I’m right here.”
I’m not going anywhere.
Ambrosius kisses him again, soft and tender, slow and leisurely. Ballister revels in it, a tantalising thrill of desire shooting up his spine. Ambrosius pulls away slowly, eyes shining with overwhelming emotion.
“I love you.”
Ballister laughs, a tearful thing.
“I know.”
He leans in to kiss him again, make up for all that lost time, but then the shriek of an alarm pierces the air, shattering this perfect moment. He glares up at the ceiling. Mood-killer.
“Looks like we’re out of time.”
He turns to Ambrosius, suddenly unsure of what comes next.
“Listen, Rose, I..I know I owe you a proper explanation, but-”
Ambrosius takes his hand, lifts it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. He looks up, eyes warm and full of devotion as he interlocks their fingers, squeezing gently, echoing Ballister’s own earlier gesture.
“What’s the plan?”
Ballister smiles, his body thrumming with adrenaline.
“Well…remember that crazy dream of ours, back when we were fifteen?”
“You mean the one about eloping together?”
The sirens wail, a background noise. Ambrosius grins, expression alight with the very same tenacious determination Ballister had fallen in love with.
“I thought you’d never ask.”