This is part of Blood like sunlight, my PT oneshot series based around random songs.

I'm posting two today because I'm in a hurry to get to the next one, which will start in with the less strictly canon, more out-there, darker, symbolism-heavy parts of the series. Those are my favorite parts, but I needed a few lighter notes to build into the crazy crescendo.

Song: Make Damn Sure

Artist: Taking Back Sunday

Album: Louder Now

Focus: Fakir and Mytho

Scenario: During series

Rating: G (K+)

Warnings: Slight manhandling, one mention by name of the fiery pit, nothing not in the series.

Notes: I love writing about the relationship between Fakir and Mytho, and I've always associated the song with them. This is a scene that takes place neatly in-series, and is basically a more emotional extension of one of Fakir's pushing-Mytho-around scenes.

This is not a shipping fic. If you read it as such, you're probably reading the original show in that way. I have no problem with people who do so, but I just wanted to clarify. If you're looking for slash, have some characterization! And Fakir getting dressed! But no slash, sorry.

You won't ever get too far from me

Fakir blinks. The sunlight, streaming through the curtains of his dorm's window, burns into him. Outside, birds chirp and a few students chatter as they pass under the building.

He yawns, moans, turns over.

Mytho lies in the bed next to him. Small mercies. Fakir holds his hand up to block out the light. There are blanket folds printed up his arm, and the shallow cuts from the glass shard are beginning to scab over.

He reaches out to his bedside table, gropes around. His hand clenches around the pendant. Smaller mercies. He doesn't know if it belongs to Princess Tutu, or how to lure her with it.

He hears a murmur from the other bed. "The sunlight's warm."

Fakir sits up.

Mytho crouches on the edge of his bed, staring at the window. A breeze ruffles the curtain, and he leans his head forward so it can play with his hair.

"It wasn't warm before," Mytho says. He turns to Fakir, and a look crosses his face. It's disgustingly incomprehensible. "Fakir…?"

Fakir lies back down, puts his hands behind his head. "I was sleeping, idiot."

"I'm sorry," Mytho says. "Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Mytho shrugs. "I don't know."

Fakir gets up, takes off his sleeping clothes.

"Are you angry, Fakir?" Mytho asks.

Fakir goes to his cabinet and pulls a set of pants out. "Not at you." He puts them on, then slips the pendant in his pocket.

Mytho watches him. Fakir flinches; he knows curiosity will kick in at any second.

"Look," Fakir says, before Mytho can ask any questions. "I'm angry about the window. You got me so worked up I broke that window last night, and someone might ask questions."

And just like that, Mytho's back to staring out the window.

Fakir walks up to the window and sits in it. The sun warms his back.

Mytho leans forward, propping his head up with his hands, eyes closed. He lets a small smile creep onto his face. A pleased sigh escapes his lips.

Fakir's grip on the sill tightens.

Of course sunlight is warm and pleasant. But before long, Mytho will start to sweat and pull at his clothes when it's too hot. And then Kraehe will hurt him and he'll moan and scream and feel it on his skin. He'll come crying to Fakir.

Then he'll wake up the next morning, stretch, breathe in the sunlight.

Fakir grabs the curtain, yanks it back. Only a few students are left in the courtyard now. "Look at them," he says.

Mytho nods.

"No, look at them. They're able to touch each other and taste things, right? You're going to be like them if Princess Tutu won't stop being such a nuisance."

Mytho stands, wanders to the window.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Mytho nods. "Mm. I can be like them."

"But if they touch the rose bushes, it'll hurt. If you hit them, they'll bruise and ache for days. And if they're there when a window shatters, then the broken glass…the broken glass…"

Fakir holds his hand up and shows Mytho his palm.

"You're whole," he says, and brings his palm in front of Mytho's eyes. "You don't have to be like them. You've been given the chance, Mytho. You don't have to hurt. You can just keep on being whole and good."

Mytho still strains to see past Fakir's hand, to look at the students.

Fakir grabs his chin, forces it up. "Look at them. Look at them! Do you want to be like them? You're so stupid you can't take care of yourself. It's better if you don't hurt. Are you willing to suffer just to feel the sun on your face?"

"I don't understand," Mytho says.

There is silence, for a few moments.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Fakir asks. "You've been given the chance and you'd…"

He lets his hand fall.

Mytho looks down at him, and there's clearly pity and fear in his eyes. "Fakir, you're—"

"I'm not shaking," Fakir says through clenched teeth.

"But you'll still protect me, right?" Mytho asks. He reaches, finds Fakir's collar, lets his hand hang from it. "Right?"

Fakir brushes his hand off, stands up, closes the curtains. "Yeah. I won't let the sunlight touch you."

"That's not what I—"

"Get ready for class, idiot."

Smallest mercies of all: Mytho leaves the window, gets his uniform, begins to dress methodically.