I'm very slow about updating, no matter what it is. (What does that even mean.) This is very late, but Chapter Three should be out very quickly!

"And… I think that's it! Meeting's dismissed; thanks for your hard work, everybody."

I get up and, just like everyone else, gather my belongings together, then turn towards the door. But to my surprise, I'm the last to leave. I briefly wonder why- this has never happened before- but it appears that I am one of two left.

"Oh, Alaude."

"… Giotto."

He smiles at me as he walks over, and I turn back around to face him. He's short, but not that much shorter than me- I could probably put my chin on his head easily, but it doesn't take much effort to meet his eyes. In any case, that would be rude and might result in me having to deal with angry young adults, and I'm really not in the mood right now.

"I found these in my jacket pocket the other day. I'm pretty sure they're yours," he says, and hands me something. I'm a bit surprised to see my best pair of handcuffs- I've been looking for them since yesterday. "Am I right?"

"You are," I reply, taking them back and tucking them into my own pocket. "I wonder, though, how they got there."

He chuckles a bit. "I'm not sure. Oh, and before I forget- thanks for, uh, helping me out Tuesday night."

I sigh. That "party" is not the greatest memory of my life. "It means nothing," I sigh. "Just know your limits from now on; I'd rather not have to carry you when you're drunk and green in the face again. If you had vomited on me, who knows what I might have done."

It's a real laugh this time: light and warm, filled with slight amusement and happiness. "Yes, you were much, much kinder to me than you could have been," he comments, before muttering to himself as he makes his way towards the door. "Though I still can't seem to find that shirt that I was wearing… pity; that was my best shirt, too. G's probably going to get—"

"I think I have it."

He turns, surprised, and I try to mask my equal shock at what has just spilled out of my mouth. I didn't mean to say that, but there's no turning back. "The girl who does the laundry left a shirt on one of my hangers, but it's a bit too small for me and I don't own that color. I've been wondering whose it is; I thought it might be yours, but it completely slipped my mind to ask. Sorry about that."

They're all lies, of course- I knew very well that that was Giotto's shirt. God only knows that nobody else in the mansion wears pinstriped black clothes, let alone a white suit and black shirt: that's his formal wear, for parties. (It sets him even farther apart from other Bosses, I think.) Asari Ugetsu doesn't even wear European clothes; I've yet to understand how he moves about so quickly and quietly in that costume. And yet, occasionally, someone's clothes will be found in someone else's hamper and there will follow a mild confusion while people try to locate their own things and return what isn't theirs. The cleaning staff themselves say that they clean mostly by room so there shouldn't be any mistakes, but I'm not so sure.

He follows me to my room and to the closet and, sure enough, breaks into a smile when he spots his own garment. "Yes, that's mine," he says, as though I am not already aware of the fact. "Thank you for finding it, Alaude."

"I didn't 'find' it," I retort. "It was in my closet."

He smiles anyway. The same smile as always. All the time. Unchanging.

"But still: thank you."

…

"Did you get into an accident? You were favoring your left arm back there."

"This is classified information."

"Haha, you're always focused on the job, huh. How's the tea?"
"… Adequate. I am more used to coffee, however."

"Aaah, sorry 'bout that. And you're probably even less used to green tea than black, huh? I can fix something else, if you-"

"It's fine. In any case, aren't you acting strangely?"

"…? What do you mean?"

"Effectively, I infiltrated your home and attacked you. I threatened the safety of you and your comrades. And yet, here you are, pouring tea for me and asking how my day is going. You don't even know who I am, and yet you're treating me like some old friend. Why?"

"Do I always need a reason to be nice? I don't hold a grudge against you or anything, and there's no reason for me to throw you out or dislike you just because you like fighting; some people are like that. Though I would like to know how you got up to the third floor balcony without anyone noticing…"

"Classified. In layman's terms, 'a magician never reveals his tricks'."

"Hehe, you're a funny guy. But anyway, what I said earlier- I mean it. Will you join us? We could really use someone like you; you're strong, trustworthy, and honorable. My intuition doesn't lie."

"I can't just leave the job I have now."

"But you-"

"I can't just leave my country, which raised a vagabond like me. I have little place anywhere else, and I owe it my gratitude and service. I will pay back any debts owed, and any debts owed to me I will have paid back."

"Hehe. See? Honorable. You're a good guy- um… you never told me your name."

"That's-"

"'Classified', right? I know. I'm Giotto, by the way- though you already knew that."

"… Alaude. That is my 'name'."

"'Alaude'? Weird choice for a pseudonym, but I can't really judge with my best friend being 'G'. Well, Alaude, would you like to stay for dinner? I'm pretty sure we can make enough curry for one more person."

"As enticing as both offers seem, I will have to decline. There is another matter to which I must attend."

"Injured friend?"

"… Yes."

"See! My intuition doesn't lie. But care to elaborate? You can bring him along then next time you come over to play."

"He used to be a good sparring partner, but after an… accident, he vowed never to touch his gloves again. Right now, he's recovering."

"I understand. Well, come back sometime. You don't have to find a final answer for me for a long time, so just keep doing whatever it is you do. 'Til then, arrivederci!"

A closing door. The last summer breeze. Red and gold leaves falling.

It might do that guy good to meet him- Giotto. He seems like a healer.

But if he's a healer, why is he posing as a fighter?

…

Some days, when I'm not sleepy, but I know that I've pushed myself too far over the past few days, I'll lay awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering.

What if I hadn't been born a man? Would it be easier for me to think these thoughts about you? After all, our world is not particularly kind- at all- to feelings of affection and, dare I say it, love, and even the other side of the coin is especially abusive to the "brand" of love that I harbor. But… no, it wouldn't work. Had I been a woman, It's unlikely that I would have ever been trained to serve my country, and thus, would never have met you. Perhaps I may have heard of you, your vigilante group's exploits, but I never would have taken the time and energy to go meet you, too restrained by society's norms.

Then what if I had been born into aristocracy? Like some of your friends, especially the blond woman, her lover, and the child. Perhaps, once you had gained power, I would have met you and, drawn by the resolution burning in your eyes and the hope pouring from your mouth, would have followed you. But… no, it wouldn't happen. Knowing me, inherited power would either enrage me or go to my head. In either outcome, I would manage to find an enemy in you, and seek to destroy you, or have you destroyed somehow. I would never understand your feelings, your view of the world.

So then, what if I had been born like you? Impoverished, but not hopeless, growing up together with you and your red-haired friends. Perhaps I would have become your first ally in strength, standing back-to-back to drive those mafiosi and delinquents out of our town, with our own power. But… no, it would do nothing. I would have set myself apart, saying that I could do things by myself, my own way. Maintaining a distance, I would have kept myself to myself, brooding with my injuries and refusing help. I would not accept your kindness.

So I toss and turn uselessly, and the only sleep that will welcome me is a restless one.

…

When I wake up, you're there, sitting on the edge of my bed and holding my wrists. It is dark, but the moonlight coming through a crack in the curtains is brilliant, spilling onto the floor. You smile warmly, gently, brightly. "Oh, good, you're finally awake. Are you feeling better?"

I sit up and try to ask, "What do you mean? Why are you here?" But instead, I can only produce coughs and hacks.

You push me back down again, softly, pulling the covers up to cover my chest. "You were trying to strangle yourself in your sleep, Alaude," you say. You're looking down at me with eyes made narrow from carrying burdens, a flame dampened to mere embers. "And I've never seen you sleeping that deeply. Usually, you'd wake up as soon as someone stepped into the room, though you might not show it. Are you feeling sick at all?"

You press the back of your hand to my forehead, and I try not to squirm. I don't dislike you, the feeling of your warmth, but I am so unused to it all.

"You don't seem to have a fever; that's good." You allow yourself a sliver of a smile, barely showing teeth. "You work yourself too hard; maybe you should take the next day or two to rest, Lau."

There it is: that nickname that you call me when you want me to listen and do as you say. Only you would call me that, and only when no one else was nearby. But… who is it that's working himself too hard? You always shoulder everything, biting back any cries of pain so as not to alert anyone to your suffering. I am the only one who needs to bear the pain, you tell yourself. I will toil beneath this cross if it means your happiness.

"What am I going to do with you," you mutter, clucking like an old mother hen. Perhaps you know that I can hear it, perhaps you don't. "You're a stubborn bull, Lau."

I manage a smile, yet well I know, it is nowhere near the magnificence of yours. "If I rest too often, I'll become a bovine," I joke.

You are quick to notice the two-sided joke. "Don't make fun of Lampo too much," you say. Your eyes are laughing, embers sparking. "He's trying. And, just in case you haven't noticed, he looks up to you."

I close my eyes. "Me? Or my strength?"

You are silent for a bit, and I wonder if I've fallen asleep. I wonder if you really exist, of if perhaps my mind is making things up.

Then you grasp my hands again, and my eyes open. "Stop that," you chide. This time, though, there is only stony cold in your eyes. "Please… don't hurt yourself. I couldn't bear it if… if…"

I realize it then. "He was supposed to come back today," I say. "Is he not here after four days without contact?"

You shake your head, and your grip falls slack. "No, no… Daemon's back, and he brought G with him. He says that all of his men were-"

With some effort, I sit back up, raising a hand to touch your face. "That badly hurt, are they?" I ask when I feel the dampness. "You must be shaken. Are you here to check on me before I go?"

You laugh, and I can feel fresh tears rolling between my fingers. "… Sharp as ever," you sigh after a pause. Then you turn to face the crack of moonlight, but allowing me to still touch your face as the rains of sorrow pour down on your "flames of determination". You whisper. "I love you all so much…"

Before I know what I've done, I'm pulling away from you, my hand turning your head towards mine. "… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. That was wrong. I apologize."

As I continue speaking half to myself, your eyes change. Surprise, recognition, sadness, pain. "Alaude…"

I continue muttering my apologies like some sort of Gregorian chant, and then…

And then you kiss me, right on the lips, and I fall silent.

When you put your hand down, your face falls too, and you cry right there. When I reach out to hug you close, try my best to comfort you, all you can do is whisper the names you call all of us between breaths and the words that you repeat like a Gregorian chant.

Alaude-

I'm sorry.

Lau-

You're too good for me.

I'm sorry-

I've burdened you.

I'm sorry-

I'm sorry.

I've ruined everything.