She was drifting somewhere between getting some well-earned sleep and reality when she felt a hand upon her head. Isabel woke to the kid-friendly patterns of the dojo's infirmary and the sound of crickets rising with the moon. She had no idea how long they'd been making their rounds, let alone what time it was. It must have been pretty late, though, because she wasn't feeling the eerie tension between Max and Isaac anymore. They must have gone home. She shivered at the cold air conditioning on her bare arms, reaching down to tug at the blanket thrown hastily over her shoulders before she even registered that it was there. She yawned and turned her head to the other side, trailing the forearm attached to the hand running tender fingers along her tangled hair. Through a blurred vision that she blinked away and a persistent tremble that pleaded for her to fall back asleep, Isabel could make out the foggy silhouette of a familiar figure sitting up in bed- the same bed she sat at the foot of.

In seconds she was out of the blanket and tossing her arms around Spender's neck, nuzzling her head into his shoulder with so much warmth and affection she hardly recognized his own arms wrapping around the small of her back. "Isabel…"

"You're awake- and alive! You're awake and alive!"

He chuckled in her ear and reached one hand up to pat her head. She couldn't see his face, but she guessed what he must have looked like- the friendly smile of a teacher, the furrowed brows of a concerned brother, and the twitch in his nose of surprise. "It appears I am, though I'm not sure how."

"It doesn't matter."

Isabel pulled away, albeit begrudgingly, and settled back down in her seat, scooching it as close as possible to where Spender was now sitting up. She bombarded him with the expected- if he wanted water or something to eat or more blankets, less blankets… the usual. He rejected all of it, though, still far too disillusioned to do much of anything but try desperately to grasp his surroundings. She called on the older students of the dojo, students who weren't supposed to be up but were anyway because they were watching videos on MayviewTube[B1] , to grab him the biggest cup of water they had. Once it was in his hands, Spender gulped it all down, yet not as urgently as she was anticipating. He said he still wasn't hungry, and in fact he felt a bit nauseous, so she didn't fight him on the subject of food.

"I'm not entirely sure how I'm still alive." He mumbled, fingers tracing the transparent lines of the cup he was holding. "I got a call from a fellow consortium agent-"

"- talking about a breach in the barrier. We know." Isabel leaned over the side of the bed, folding her arms on the sheets. "The same agent called me when you went missing. I mean, clearly it wasn't soon enough." She clutched the sheets of the bed between her rigid fingers. "I wish they'd acted as fast to save you as they did to replace you." Her voice was bitter, as bitter as she was, but she knew that wasn't fair. The agent that'd called her had been frantic, after all. For all she knew they were a rookie who just got put in a bad position; it wasn't necessarily their fault they'd lost their teacher. Spender paused and glanced away. She was certain he was trying to hide it from her- pain over being replaced so easily. She wondered if, after his full recovery, he'd return to work the same as he always had. She recognized it was less about a lack of loyalty on the Consortium's part and more about necessity, but she couldn't imagine that would make his pain any better when he was the one marked off as dead. "What happened?"

"I don't know. I collapsed mere seconds after getting out of my car." She watched him with weary eyes as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Need another glass of water?"

"That would be nice, actually."

Isabel nodded and stood up from her seat, gingerly, gently, taking the cup from his shaking hands and walking towards the door with it. "Zarei is in the next room. Go see her and get checked out. I'll fill this up in the meantime."

She could still hardly believe it, the familiar touch of his muscles under her careful hands. It certainly wasn't the first time she'd ever patched him up, but by god she thought it would have been the last. She could still recall the leap in her chest, the hope in her buoyant little heart when she'd pressed her flowers to his grave- the lingering sensation that told her he was still out there somewhere. She'd thought it because his grave had been empty, because she didn't have a pale face to say goodbye to, and yet he sat there in front of her with a sulking face.

It really was one of his more common expressions.

"How are you feeling?"

He would have shrugged, but she hissed at him when he moved his shoulders. Spender smiled, if only for a second. "Fine."

"Liar." She tightened her grips around his arms as she checked for broken or sprained limbs. He wasn't complaining about pain at the moment, so there wasn't any need to waste time on an X-ray, but she worried still. That always seemed to be the case, her worrying about him while he kept everything to himself. The older they'd gotten, the more they seemed to run in that same circle. She'd hoped him marrying would have taught him how to lean on another human being, but she was quickly learning to not be optimistic with him. It pained her, even after all these years, to have him try so hard to hide things from her, and she wondered if she'd ever grow numb to it. Being angry hadn't seemed to solve anything- not yet. Zarei sighed and let her hands loosen their death-like hold around his upper arms, letting her fingers slide down his skin ever-so like silk, just until the tips of her nails ran along the crease of his elbows. "Richard, if there's something wrong…"

He stood up abruptly, coldly, and muttered something about getting a change of clothes, and she watched him disappear around the corner with narrowed eyes.

"Hey, Mister Spender! Heard you were awake-!" Ed yelped as the soles of his shoes sent him sliding a little further than the doorway to his teacher's infirmary room. Perhaps he should have seen that coming, since the wooden floors of the dojo were always slippery- it was even worse in socks- but he recognized that he made a mistake and maybe crashing into the stack of Legos the elementary students left in the middle of the hallway was a punishment he deserved. When he made it back to the door, he had small plastic blocks falling off of his skin and out of the hood of his sweater. His breathing was labored and he was bent over with his hands on his knees, but he tried to speak anyway. "Okay… um, sorry" he inhaled and exhaled "welcome back to the world of the living!"

He tried to make it sound less sore than the situation really was, extending his arms to either side as though awaiting a bear hug he didn't have the energy to give. He was expecting to see Spender sitting there in his bed, eyes wide behind his glasses, which were probably somehow still intact. He was expecting to see him smile, maybe laugh, and tell Ed he's fine without a hug because he's too weak to stand, to which Ed would promptly cross the room and scoop the man into his arms.

What he saw was Isabel in a chair by an empty bed, head turned to look out at the moon and stars beyond the window. Her hands were clasped in her lap, patiently. The room's light was dimmed, almost as though she was intentionally sitting in the dark. Was she?

Ed coughed into his hand and approached her slowly, heart beating rapidly against his chest. He was, after all, alone in a dark room with her… with a bed… after he'd just made a promise to himself to love her like a brave man and not a coward. Ed shivered and shook his head. He was just freaking himself out. "Where's the patient?"

"He's asleep in one of the guest rooms." Isabel's voice was uncharacteristically quiet, maybe even uneasy. He frowned when she spoke again. "He's staying here for a while- until we can settle him into his old life again."

"Oh well," Ed forced a small smile, one he knew she couldn't see. "I'm glad to hear he's okay!"

Isabel didn't respond. She only adjusted her body in the seat, just enough that he couldn't see her face, enough that her back was turned on him at an angle. Worry consumed him, and he racked his imagination for what could have possibly happened in the time he was at Cindy's to elicit such a distance between the two of them. You left her alone again, you idiot. His conscious barked at him. Of course she's upset! What are you, twelve?

"Izzy," he inched closer to her, wincing and shaking his head clear of doubts before reaching out and placing a tender hand on her shoulder. "You should go to bed. Your cold might still come back-!"

"You're right." Isabel brushed his hand off of her shoulder with little less effort than one would swat at a bug. "See you tomorrow." The voice he'd thought distant before became cold and settled in the pit of his stomach where it twisted and churned his guts. He watched after her with wide eyes and noticeably empty hands, chastising himself over and over again.

He was sure he'd been staring at his phone for hours, now, Max's number in bright lights until his phone didn't register his movements and it faded. The first seven times should have clued him into the concept of doing something else, like sleeping or watching TV, but he clicked his phone back on and punched his password in for the twentieth- twenty first, now- time. Isaac was growing tired of his own indecision, but he just couldn't bring himself to make the call. His bedroom was getting darker by the minute, and that felt strangely familiar to him.

He'd punched Max; he'd actually, physically, laid his hands on him in a way other than lovingly or teasingly. Out of all of the people to break his vow of peace on, of all the people to lose control and hurt- it was Max. Max, who he wanted nothing more than to call and apologize and beg to give him a second chance. Please, you think getting on your hands and knees will make this better? Isaac frowned and let his hands, and his phone, fall limply into his lap. He'd seen the way Max avoided eye-contact with him when they'd shown up at the dojo at the same time, the way he said nothing to anyone but Isabel, not even the dojo's students. That was his fault. He was the one who called their relationship, or lack thereof, off. He was the one who stormed home because he couldn't handle hearing another word out of Max's mouth when he knew it'd just break him even more. Max was going to call it off, anyway he reminded himself. You heard him say it- Max regrets being with you. It was only a matter of time before he called things off, then you'd be an even worse mess.

Isaac winced. Max had brought it upon himself. He was being a chicken and delaying the inevitable, delaying how he felt, and he'd been killing Isaac in the slowest most painful way possible. He needed to get rid of that injudicious hope that still rattled around in his chest, use it to push himself forward instead of moping around waiting for Max to call. The question was not of whether or not they'd get back together, but of whether or not they could stay friends. It was an ambitious wish, especially when Isaac was still seething with anger, but the possibility was there. It'd require some distance between the two of them, maybe an apology or two (on both sides- Isaac wasn't stupid), but there was a chance that he and Max could move on.

That was after Isaac raged and burned every ounce of desire he felt, of course, which could be done.

How many times had he traced that same spot, the spot Isaac had laid in when they woke up that morning? Max had lost count and track of time, curled up under his covers with his phone in one hand and his pillow over his head in the other. He laid on his side, willing away the urge to stand up and walk around. He'd just end up pacing back and forth- that's what he always did. He readjusted the pillow and winced when his sore cheek burned. It'd been a month since Isaac called it all off, a month since Isaac left him with a purple bruise on his face and a dagger in his chest. The color on his jaw had healed well, but the disgusting twisting sensation under his ribcage had grown even worse. It was every night he woke up longing for Isaac's touch- his voice, his kiss, his electricity- except ten times worse. Before, the only thing keeping him from dialing Isaac's number was fear. Now, when he needed Isaac the most, it was reality keeping his thumbs off the green button.

Max grunted and stuffed the pillow further over his face, like he was hiding from everything he was feeling, but it wasn't working. He scrolled through their most recent texts, trying to ignore the memory of Isabel's six-year-old message and how it'd really started it all. That single text, one meant to tease and torment, it'd started the ball rolling- the realization that he liked Isaac, their first kiss, the night Spender died, their blowout- it all happened because Isabel sent that one little message just to play with Isaac's emotions. He hardly even remembered it now, something about them being cute or something, but he still couldn't believe that fate had dealt him such a bogus love story. It'd rattled off all of these thoughts, moments, kisses, touches, and yet it'd ended in seconds. It was like somebody had told the story wrong- he and Isaac were supposed to end up together, supposed to be happy and cute and all of that other stupid rom-com shit- but he knew why he felt that way.

He was in denial.

Losing Isaac didn't feel real. The entire thing felt about as real as the strangest, craziest dream. It felt like he could just call Isaac and tell him all about it and they'd laugh together and joke about how ridiculous the idea of them falling apart was, like none of it had ever happened. He hated himself for it, especially when he never should have fallen for Isaac to begin with. Isaac was a dork, the dorkiest dork to ever walk the Earth. He was excitable and irritable and optimistic and kind and immature, certainly not someone Max thought was ever his type. Yet, there he was, torn up from his heavy head to his numb toes, over Isaac O'Connor and the touch of his electric skin. He could still feel it in his shoulders.

Max pulled his head out from under the pillow and set his head atop it, tugging the blankets over what it'd used to cover. He heard Zoey calling him to dinner, but he simply wasn't hungry. Once Max plopped his head into the bag of feathers, he eased the rest of his body onto his stomach. A familiar scent drifted up through the fabric and fell over Max like a curtain he didn't ask for- Isaac's cologne. How it still smelled like him after he'd washed the sheets ten times, he didn't know, but somehow rain and summer still washed up against him like he'd held a spoon under the faucet. As much as he knew he shouldn't have, he reveled in it. Max pulled on the other end of the pillow so that the space where Isaac's head had laid was flush against his nose, a small sad smile beginning in the corners of his lips.

He'd just have to hope he'd get over it soon.

He knew he wouldn't.

"I have to say, I'm surprised Master wants me to be the dojo's new leader!"

"You're certainly his first pick." Isabel smiled and leaned over the railings that kept her from falling over the porch of the dojo. It was midday and the students were yet to begin their training. With all of the excitement of the day previous, she wasn't too surprised Grandpa Guerra was allowing them to sleep in. She herself was glad it was a Saturday, not that senior year classes were all that challenging. "Are you gonna take the job?"

"I'm not sure yet," Spender tittered and scratched his cheek, turning his gaze somewhere to the side. If she had to take a guess, she would say he was watching the field of blooming flowers somewhere just beyond the hills they lived in. She couldn't see much, but there were just a few monkshood petals peeking over the horizon. "I'll have to think about it for a little while." Isabel understood, but she knew him well enough to know he'd take the job. He respected Master Guerra more than she'd known him to respect anyone, and it wasn't as though he didn't find reward in instruction- he was, after all, a middle school history teacher, and that was one of the worst things to be. "But enough about my troubles, as I'm sure they've only just begun." He laughed and looked over at her. "I noticed Ed left earlier this morning?"

Isabel's eyes widened, and he chuckled at her. "What about it?"

"Well, you didn't go with him. Is there something troubling you?" She got the distinct feeling her reaction was to pout, because his eyes narrowed behind his glasses and he got that shit-eating grin on his face that she hated so much. It reminded her that she'd missed him. "You can't hide from me, Isabel! I am, after all," he fixed his glasses "your wise senior!"

"If that's what you wanna call it."

Spender fudged around with his tie, trying to hide how he was sweating, no doubt. Isabel sighed and leaned further over the railing. With the loss of Spender and the impending fate of her future no longer hanging over her head, it seemed that everything was reminding her of her less-than platonic sentiments. Usually, she would have been glad to feel something so remarkable constantly (it was a rush of her heart, nonstop warmth in her lungs, giddiness she couldn't shake), but reality was a very important factor and she couldn't ignore it.

Ed was cutting her out, hiding from her, not letting her help him. Sure, maybe he wasn't going to be grieving over Spender anymore, but what would happen the next time he needed help? He'll go running back to Cindy. Isabel groaned and let her head fall into her cupped hands. Figuring out how Ed made her feel was like walking into a field of roses only to get stuck by all of their thorns at once. She was sure it looked tragically beautiful from a distance, but that wasn't exactly a comfort. If there was love there once, it very well may bloom again. When she heard the phrase in her mind, it was mocking her. Or maybe she was mocking it? She certainly felt bitter towards the words, if not downright cross. Ed might have been an oddball, especially when they were younger, but she didn't want to believe he'd stoop to a relationship with Cindy knowing what he knew. She cringed at the thought. Wasn't she the better choice? Was there a reason he was trying to rekindle a blatantly disastrous relationship? "I love him and I'm pretty sure he's got his eye on someone else."

Spender sputtered beside her, probably not expecting that exact development. He'd been shocked when she told him about Isaac and Max hooking up, and they'd all seen that one coming. Her falling in love with her best friend probably wasn't something he'd anticipated, much less knew how to advise her on. "O-Oh, I see…"

They fell into mutual silence- Isabel, because she didn't have much else to say, and Spender probably unsure of how to respond. The sun beat down on the green grass of the dojo's yard, wind brushing against each strand and caressing the patches of green as though winter hadn't killed it all three months ago. The air was still a little bitter and cold and Isabel reached up to rub her arms and keep herself warm. She wondered if Ed would take care of her again if her cold came back, but immediately shook the thought away. She was desperate, but not that desperate- not yet. She hoped she'd never be. She could still feel the warmth of his fur jacket over her shoulders, the warmth of his hands at her waist…

"Don't trust anyone but yourself."

For a moment she almost didn't believe he'd said it. It just seemed so out-of-character for him, but a quick glance proved that he was less than jesting, a stone cold expression she'd never seen on him before. His brows were furrowed dangerously and his hands were in fists by his sides, lips thin and eyes narrowed. Isabel parted her lips to say something, but couldn't find the words. She vaguely wondered what happened to him over the past three months. While she was in school or in her room with a big bowl of chicken soup, mourning his loss, was he suffering something far worse? "Mister Spender…"

"I sincerely hope I'm not interrupting?"

Heels clacked against the steps leading up to the dojo's front doors, a low feminine voice so cautious it was hard for Isabel to get mad at the interruption. Berenice stood there the same as the day she'd showed up, braided hair tied together with a dull yellow band, orange purse in her twitching fingers. A less mature person might have been swaying on the soles of their shoes, but Isabel caught only a slight shift from side-to-side. "Miss Guillory! Mister Spender, this is-!"

"We've met before," Spender smiled and reached out a hand. Berenice took it with a nervous smile and a coy squint of her eyes. "Berenice…"

"Richard…"

Isabel glanced between the two of them, brow rose as she tried to figure out what to do with her own hands. The interaction between the two seemed nearly intimate, their eyes locked for three seconds longer than was customary between two professionals. Spender only pulled back when Berenice did, their fingers gliding slowly, almost sensually, to part. "Pleasure to meet you again."

"The pleasure's all mine."

Isabel blinked and the tension between the two was gone. What the fu-?

"You were my replacement, I take it?"

"Confirmatory." Berenice's smile was less nervous than it had been before. She stood taller, almost. It suddenly felt like she was standing towers over Isabel's head. "And now that your status has been revoked, it is time that I return to the Consortium for further instruction. I cannot continue living your life, after all."

"No, I suppose you can't." Spender tilted his head to the side and nodded to the path where Berenice's car sat parked under the shadow of the bridge. "May I walk you back to your car?"

"Of course." Spender offered his arm and she took it willingly, turning her head over her shoulder to glance back at Isabel. "It was nice meeting you, Isabel. Please inform the remaining members of the activity club of my departure."

All Isabel could do was nod wordlessly as their retreating forms neared the car parked in the shade, which Isabel could now see was a dull shade of yellow. "Oh my god." Her arms fell from the railings, limp at her sides. "Was that his wife?"