Mathew found the cavern he had long thought lost amongst the snowdrifts in a surprisingly short time… well, a surprisingly short time for something he thought lost.

He gently put Kumajirou down and then slid Sunflower carefully from his shoulders.

He stared at the man.

He is… a man that started a supernatural war?

It explained many things – such as the strength he had showed during his fever, his ability to live through such terrible wounds, how quickly he had healed…

It explained all that blood.

His heart felt sick, but for all the wrong reasons.

He didn't know Ivan Braginski. He only knew Sunflower and Sunflower had staved off his long-lasting loneliness with his bright aura and endless curiosity, his never ending energy and naïve fears.

His heart felt sick because he would never be able to finish that scarf and give it to Sunflower, to see his expression light up with childish joy.

His heart felt sick because all those sunflowers back at his cottage would die without proper care and when they got back – if they got back – it would be to see many sunflower corpses throughout the house and that would make Sunflower sad.

His heart felt sick with the knowledge that Sunflower was not going to know the joy he had known just minutes before for possibly a very long time – possibly never again.

It was one thing to run from Gilbert; once Gilbert told whoever else had been part of the war, once he told Alfred, there would be no force on earth that Mathew could conjure up to save the man before him.

He came back for me.

Yes, that was true. Sunflower had left, but he had returned and he had saved them both.

"So he killed a lot of people who didn't deserve to die, enslaved a lot of other people 'cause I guess he felt lonely. So we called the war the 'Loveless War'."

Mathew curled around Sunflower, resting his sloping head on Sunflower's chest.

He…

He loved Sunflower. He didn't know in what way, but he knew he loved him. Whether it was how a parent felt for a child, how a friend felt for a friend, how lovers felt for each other…

He loved Sunflower. So he wasn't loveless anymore.

He nudged Kumajirou's body closer to them, plopping him down gently between his and Sunflower's body.

He settled in for a long night, knowing that if he lost consciousness, he would change back.

And that would be bad because then he would be naked and it wasn't that warm in the cave. Warm enough, but not that warm.

He sighed deeply, aware of every gash on his body, every hurting bit of flesh, and his sore throat.

Later, he would hunt for them.

And then… maybe… maybe he would go back to the cottage and, if nothing else, get some clothes, some supplies…

And his project.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Blood, blood everywhere…

And that blood remained even as he woke up.

He sat up, rotating his shoulders to work out the kinks.

He lifted one hand and stared at it until each nail lengthened into claws sharper than blades, tough enough to bite through bone and steel.

He derived no pleasure from it. He derived no enjoyment from knowing that he could easily kill someone, that he was fully healed and could take revenge on those that had tried to murder him.

He looked down.

Kumajirou was still unconscious, resting near his hip.

And his angel…

His angel had blue lips and was shivering erratically, his naked body paler than it should be.

He had fallen asleep – a bad idea for shapeshifters, they couldn't retain their shape in an unconscious state, could they?

He dragged Angel into his lap, undoing his coat and wrapping him up in it. He rubbed his limbs for a few minutes, until the shivering subsided and his angel was limp against him, his breathing calmer and his lips with color now.

Tilting his angel's face up, he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

He remembered his angel doing so for him a night not too long ago.

"Did you have another nightmare?" The sleepy drone of his angel's voice soothed him almost instantly.

He turned his head to look at the drowsy blonde and opened his mouth to say 'yes', but before he could, the memory was already gone. Had he had a nightmare? He shrugged. "I don't know…"

Angel sat up and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, like a mother to her frightened child, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, rocking him back and forth as he had become accustomed to doing.

"Don't worry, eh? I'll protect you… I'm your guardian angel, after all."

But he wasn't, was he? He couldn't protect him, not from what he had done in the past.

The allied forces would be hunting him down now, alerted by Gilbert to his survival. And his angel would be caught in the middle of it, forced to pay for his misdeeds because all he had wanted to do was protect him.

Even after being told that he was Ivan Braginski, he had wanted nothing more than to protect him.

He had never found the love he had so desperately hunted down.

But he had now, hadn't he?

His love was lying against him, fitfully sleeping.

He had known for a while now that he loved his angel – had loved his angel since that moment where he had deemed him 'Sunflower'. Of course, back then, he hadn't understood it – hadn't understood why he was so desperate for his angel's attention, his affection, his infinite wisdom and his memories.

It was because his angel was the first being in centuries to show him caring and warmth. In the dead of winter, his angel had brought him sunflowers and had kept him snug by the fire or in bed. His every fear had been assuaged by his angel's endless patience and he had made pancakes, for hell's sake.

He had talked to a bear because that bear was also part of their family.

He buried his chin in his angel's hair.

His throat felt cold – the scarf his sister had made for him so many, many years ago was missing.

He remembered the guilt-flushed expression his angel had worn when he had first brought it up – the scarf his angel had bought him in an attempt he now knew to replace the first.

He had never let a single drop of blood hit that scarf – but the allied forces, once they had gotten a hold of him, had had no such qualm.

He remembered the note on the door saying that the manager had taken the garbage so they wouldn't have to worry about it and Angel's crestfallen appearance after he had read that.

Angel hadn't meant to throw away something he somehow knew had meant a lot to him.

Angel was… an angel. There were people in the world like this? People who dragged strangers covered in blood and death into their homes and nursed them back to life? People who so graciously gave their time and money for those strangers?

He set his angel gently to one side, shifting Kumajirou closer to him. He threw his coat over them.

He would go back to the cottage and get what Angel would need to hide out for just a bit – just until this was all over.

Once he arrived there, it was sullenly dark within and eerily quiet.

Gilbert had left without destroying anything other than what had been harmed in the fight. There was blood on the walls and floor and some on the ceiling from the mini-battle and some cracks and dents to go with it, but nothing that couldn't be eventually washed away or fixed within a few days.

He grabbed a duffel bag of clothing for his angel, enough food that could carefully last about two weeks –

And then he paused, standing in front of the closet he had seen his angel constantly glance at when he had thought he wasn't looking.

Did he have the right to look at something that clearly took up his angel's time when he wasn't busy with him?

He had never cared before.

The door slid soundlessly open.

It was clearly a storage closet – some sleeping bags, a few containers of batteries and flashlights, some other battery-operated machinery in case of an emergency, a set of two-way radios… The list just went on to everything that could be included on a camping trip to a sudden bombing.

Had his angel been planning to abandon him?

The thought made him want to get angry, but all he could feel was sad. Even Angel hadn't cared for him…

He went to shut the door, but as he did so, his foot connected – just lightly – with a sleeping bag lying on the floor, causing it to shift somewhat to the side.

The movement made a rustling sound, like paper.

Frowning, he investigated; what he found was a brown paper bag with… something in it.

That something turned out to be a scarf – nearly complete, but not quite. It was golden yellow, like sunflowers, home-knit with a pattern like petals throughout it with burnt sienna thread.

It was soft to his fingers and awing to look at. … Was this what his angel had been glancing at the closet for?

He studied the rope of fabric avidly and saw where it was yet to be finished – at the tail of it, there was a word being spelled out in amethyst purple, only halfway done.

Sun-

But he could guess what the rest was going to say.

He rubbed the material against his cheek, feeling almost unbearably warm inside as the scent of his angel – woven into every inch of yarn – beckoned his senses.

Despite its incompleteness, he wrapped it around his neck, grabbed the supplies, and left, erasing his trail as he went along.

They would have those with strong noses, strong ears, and/or far-seeing eyes when they would go hunting for him.

He couldn't lead them to his angel. He wouldn't.

Author's Note: My early update is due to the fact that I'm getting excited about updating!