The letter H, the word: Horoscope. I have this terrible habit of excluding proper nouns for stylistic purposes, but just guess who he's talking to.
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They sat under the stars.
"Which one are you?"
He gave a blank look, but, when there was no answer, Robin provided words upon remembering how dark it was, on that grassy hill in Rome. Why had he ever forgotten?
"Capricorn, you flighty idiot."
"Flighty idiot?"
"It's late; give me a few hours sleep and I'll give you some better insults." He took a deep drink from the wine at his side before continuing, "Yes. Capricorn. Capri. Goat."
"I'll overlook the fact that you seem to have classified the reason for your current incompetence incorrectly. Capricorns, aren't they supposed to be... competent? Reserved? Cautious?"
In response, Robin curled up into a ball and lay down on his side. The night wasn't looking to go anywhere interesting, and he was so tired-
And then he was kicked.
"Bastard-! This silk is the work of forty virgins slaving over-"
"Which is why you were about to sleep in it on a hill."
"There's a difference between clean grass and the bottom of your shoe."
"I don't intend to let you sleep, Robin,"
And Robin didn't have an answer to that.
The silence stretched on.
They sat under the stars.
The silence felt like rejection and being ignored, so Robin did with it what he did with most things he didn't approve of; he broke it.
"I don't have a date of birth, horoscopes have never much bothered me. The calendar wasn't yet invented when the world had been humbled by my being brought into existence."
"Hm?"
"Thus, a goat." Robin's smile was smug, if unseen, and he took another drink of wine.
And another silence.
And then, an answer.
"Capricorn is a sea-goat, you're aware."
Robin groaned and sneered, and swore he could hear the subtle, inward grin spreading on the face next to him. Bastard.
"...And what would this all make you, the rooster?"
"Wrong zodiac, you insufferable bastard." Robin's hand, slowly creeping across the distance between them, was swatted away; Robin snapped it back and nursed the injury, making as much noise as possible to properly get across his indignation in the dark.
"...Virgo, isn't it." And Robin could hear the glare, too.
"No." There was a huff, and Robin swore he could hear ruffling? Ah. "Cancer."
"Now, that's a water sign if I ever-"
"I actually have a birth date, Robin."
A pause. This one had a people, too.
To ward off saying something he feared he would regret (for once), he answered with something he'd regret less. "This is Rome. I'm Faunus."
"Ah, yes," In that voice, Robin could hear the sarcasm, and the disappointment, and something else, faint, that he felt he could've recognized if he wasn't so dizzy. Must be the wine. "Do forgive me for forgetting when and where and how you were worshiped."
"Were?" Robin smiled deeply, "Am being worshiped. Just like always." He yawned and laid back in the grass, his hands cradling his head, smelling the grass that wasn't quite clean as it'd once been. He heard a huff, a sign that the patience Robin'd been afforded for the night was running low. His companion had wanted to say something, from the beginning, and Robin was pretty sure he knew what that was. And Robin didn't want to hear it. He mocked the subtly. "But why are you asking me about horoscopes? Hm? Curious about my sign? We don't match up, we never have, we don't even apply to the systems they
make to relate which star we're under. As far as I'm concerned, I'm all of them... they should be so lucky."
But he just heard another exhalation, and the sounds of standing, sighing, that was the end of his stipend of patience for tonight, wasn't it? Robin got comfortable in the grass, trying again to sleep. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to be kicked while he was down, at least not metaphorically.
But just before he drifted off, "The last time we had any kind of conversation, you pointed out that I always had to have the last word. Because I detest proving you right, I leave the floor open for you; you've proved my point well enough without me having to voice it." And Robin heard the sounds to indicate that he was now alone on The Quirinal.
Robin's eyes fluttered to shut, and slowly, finally, the edges of his consciousness blurred into sleep.
And he wasn't kicked again, this time, rolled over. Just wouldn't let him sleep, hm? He signed and thanked Zeus for the dark masking his grin at the thought.
"I was right."
"Shut up."
"Alright, alright." Robin yawned and sprawled out on The Quirinal's southmost face and lazily smiled up at him. "You can have the last word. Go. I'm tied, talk and then leave me alone, hmm?"
Robin heard a faint curse muttered under impatient breath, and then, "The point is, you're terrible at mourning. Really? Getting drunk on a hill, Robin? It's the anniversary, I'm aware, but for someone who experiences loss so-"
"Stop." Robin couldn't take the next part. 'So often.'
"Then you know it already. And I'm tired of watching you go running off inebriated into the hills whenever you manage to remember the date of someone's death, and then having to distract you so you don't do something stupid, or better, this time, you manage to fall down the side of The Viminal and get a concussion. Do you know what would happen if you fell asleep, you suicidal bastard?"
But Robin was having trouble keeping track of the words, and the dizziness persisted. "Alright, are you done now? Go away."
Robin heard a tsk coming from the air above him, and arms and hands, self-assured and lacking in any gentleness or tact, lifted him up.
"Come on. We're going home."
"I assure you that wherever my home is, it isn't with you." Robin sneered, and he was just a little afraid when he heard laughter precipitate the response.
"Robin, you can't even remember where your home is, right now. I'd be shocked if you could even recall my name."
These words, too, Robin had trouble keeping track of, and he lost them in the weight of how heavy the world was, and how tired he felt because of it. Still, arms kept him up and carried him, to where he wasn't sure.
Maybe home.
Through the haze, he answered an old, dead question. He didn't feel any better, afterwards, which he realized was what he'd been expecting, and so he didn't clarify.
"Sagittarius."
"Hm?"
"Nothing."
But, occasionally, clarification wasn't required.
"Sagittarius... fits."
"I'm so glad you approve."
And though it was dark, Robin could almost feel the vague, sad smile spreading on the face so near to his.
"I know."