A/N: This is from the February of this year (wrote it for a Valentine's Day challenge, lololol). I posted it on Deviantart but I never got around to posting it on FFNet... but since I haven't really got anything else FE-related to post, I figured I'd put this up. I'll put up some other stuff I posted on DA later. Please read and review (or not) as you see fit :)

Why didn't I end Orphanage Blues at three chapters?

~ One cup irony, one cup angst, one cup confusion and Matthew/Leila to flavour. Serve hot with the POV of UnpredictableDrunk!Hector. By UnpredictableDrunk!Hector I mean that he's somehow able to not slur while drunk (probably because I didn't want to write around a speech impairment). He also does the darnedest things. Also, this dish is more of a bromance than anything else. A really, really awkward bromance sprinkled with wtf.

T-rated for a pinch of language.

Hector was drunk and he didn't remember why. There was a reason for it, he knew there had to be, but an empty mug sat on the table and he had already lost count of how many he had had. Who could blame him? After all, Hector only had ten fingers. Anything after ten was a fair guess, and frankly, he was only human.

Death sat in the seat across from him. The pub's lighting was dim or maybe Hector's eyesight was as blurry as the tear stains on the table. Well, this was pathetic. Leila would kick him in the rump. Would be. But Death took care of that. Death had an untouched mug sitting on the table. Death had shadowed eyes and gaunt features. There was nothing human about Death. Nothing.

Slam. There was a dent in the table and even though Hector was numb and trembling, he could still feel the pain in his fingers. His grip was too tight. What was another dent in a dusty old pub? Who gave a damn about a table. Who gave a damn about anything? It was almost sobering when he looked again at the wet tear stains on the table and realized that maybe he did give a damn.

Now Hector almost sort of kind of maybe remembered why he drank himself silly. It was a spectacular moment, a moment that if he ever recalled while sober he'd wonder at the strangeness of how he thought he was sober before realizing he was dead-stone drunk and taking another swig of beer and thinking, "I don't need to be sober." Man. How many drinks did he have?

"Kissing and making love," said Hector suddenly. If Death found the statement strange, there was nothing, no change in expression, no sudden gesture, to betray this. Hector snorted. Of course not. "That's what they'd be doing right now," muttered Hector. "If she were alive." He felt obligated to explain this. Hector wouldn't be able to give a answer why he was telling this to Death of all people, drunk or sober. Death did it. Death took Leila and Matthew is doing something in a world without her. Living, breathing, fighting, something. And Death already knew about Leila's passing, all about it.

Why wouldn't he?

It occurred to Hector that talking to Death was a dangerous thing, but he couldn't help it. Hector had too much to say. The beer overflowed, the words overflowed, and his anger-sadness spilled over the edge of the cup. And Death just watched.

"Matthew's a blasted idiot," said Hector. "He doesn't cry. Secretive little spy, can't even show the decency to cry, just once, in public. We know he's hurting. Did you know? Well, now you do. He's hurting bad. Just one tear. We'd be there. Doesn't help the fact that she's dead. But we'd be there." Hector reached across the table and patted Death on the shoulder. "Right there. Like a pair of worn boots. I think Matthew's only had the one pair. Magical, maybe, hasn't had to replace them at all. But who cares about boots? I hate boots."

Because his train of thought made absolutely no sense, Hector called for another beer. He argued with the barmaid for a while. She told him that he had had enough. Hector was bewildered. It had never occurred to him that he was drinking too much. After all, the mug was empty and it meant only one thing; he needed more. He'd find the answer he needed at the bottom of his mug, but it wasn't there so he obviously needed another.

Hector explained this to the barmaid, "I've only got ten fingers!" and he thought he might have been yelling because the barmaid was suddenly on the floor apologizing and saying his next mug would come soon, so would he please sit down and not scare the other customers. Death did nothing but watch as Hector slumped back into his seat.

"Finally," said Hector. "They've got horrible service here. Nothing like Leila. Not that she was a barmaid. But you know what I mean. She died for her duty, y'know. She might as well have been killed while washing the urinals. Either way, she died. For her duty. You were there. I mean, she died. Secret mission, dirty urinals, whatever. She died. She did her duty. You did yours. You asshole."

His next mug arrived. Hector didn't waste any time in chugging it down. A lot of it got over his clothes, but Hector didn't care so long as his tongue was wet. Death's mug was still sitting there, untouched. Hector noticed this. Death was a statue. A statue that moved and killed and was always sober.

"You're not drunk. You always sober? Never drunk on the job? Well, that would be a bad idea. Imagine, drunk on the job. Couldn't see straight and took whats-his-face instead of Leila. Matthew would still be pulling his hilarious pranks, switching vulneraries with tomatoes, but it's only funny 'cause it happens to someone else. The Fang's dog is still alive. You killed her. But he's still alive. Isn't that funny? You should've left Leila alone and just killed him. Save us all a load of trouble. When's his turn? Kill him. Just kill him already."

Finally, Death moved. Hector had his teeth touching the lip of the mug when Death reached out and grabbed his arm before Hector could take a sip. Death gently took hold of the mug and tried to take it from Hector's fingers. Hector felt his head throbbing. He felt his stomach shriveling in his gut and maybe that was the sound of a man crying somewhere far away. Or maybe he really did give a damn.

Hector flung the mug at Death. He missed. The empty mug rolled and stopped when its handle hit the table. It landed next to Death's still-untouched mug. "You know what?" said Hector. He stood up again and swayed because the ground wouldn't stay still. Hector stared into Death's eyes. "Kill me. I dare you. Kill me right now. I've already sold my soul, don't worry about that. You see this? This is my neck. And this? My heart. Do it."

When did he grab Death's collar? What the hell did it matter? Their faces were a foot apart. Hector felt a little uncomfortable leaning over the table like this. He was perfectly aware of his shaking hands and the way Death's collar shivered in his grip. And he found out Death's secret.

Death was a coward who couldn't even look him in the eye.

Hector was not surprised and there was only one thought in his head. Pathetic. How did they lose Leila to someone like this? Hector decided that he wouldn't tell Matthew. Matthew wouldn't want to know.

"Sorry I'm not good enough for you. Asshole."

It rained. Inside a pub. For no goddamn reason. The rain rolled down his cheeks in fat, warm droplets and Hector wished these tiny little pubs knew how to do business. Who wanted to drink under a leaky roof? He never wanted to drink here again. Hector's hands started shaking harder, his grip slippery and clumsy. It was the rain. It was the stupid, stupid rain.

"They knew each other for a long time. Did you know that? Matthew told me all about it before. Before he started smiling like his lips were sewn to his ears. Know how they met? Here's the condensed, limited-edition abridged version. First they tried to kill each other before they figured out they worked for the same guy. Second, they worked together on jobs. Third, she was a top spy. Fourth, he laughed too much for his job. Fifth, he kissed her. Sixth, she was surprised. Seventh, she kissed him back. Eighth, they fell in love. Ninth, everyone knew. Tenth, he almost proposed to her. And then they..."

Hector suddenly let go, like he had forgotten about Death, right out of the blue. He stared at his hands and counted his fingers, over and over, double-checking as best he could, but something was wrong.

Someone was pulled him up. He felt himself rising to his feet, his cloak draped over his shoulders and tied around his neck. He didn't resist. He wished he had another beer.

"So then they... they... What did they do next? I can't remember. Leila's dead. I've only got ten fingers."

How many beers was that? What happened to the table? He had his arm around someone, someone cloaked and shadowy with a silhouette like a whisper. The alcohol was catching up to him. His vision flickered and blurred. His feet were catching on twigs and stones, but he didn't fall. Someone was there holding onto his arm.

"Fuck. Why do I keep talking about Leila? She's dead. I know she's dead. You know she's dead. Burn in hell."

Death said nothing.

Later, an hour before daybreak, Jaffar dropped off an unconscious Hector at the feet of a speechless Eliwood. The smell of alcohol wafted off of Hector in waves that the both of them could taste. Hector groaned and moved his head from side to side. His hair was wet with sweat and his face was flushed pink. The skin around his eyes was a shade of unmistakeable red.

Jaffar told the truth.

"He's unhurt."

And it tasted like a lie that he had made up for his own benefit.