Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Notes:

Sooo guess who finally couldn't dodge Covid anymore? This girl.

I'm fine, gratefully. Got it about three weeks ago, and thanks to dumb luck and three vaccines, it was just a very bad cold, with a persistant cough and the most ANNOYING runny nose that refused to cease. But I am healthy again. Haven't noticed any bad effects except for some lingering wheezing and coughing if I laugh too hard or if I work out too hard, but that's doable for me. I went back to karate last week and it was so calming honestly. It's the longest I haven't been at the dojo since I broke my foot...what, seven years ago? And even then, I could at least sit inside and watch class from the wheelchair. So it was great to go back and be with my fellow classmates and my senseis again, even if I came back to sparring sessions. Which, y'know, my still-healing lungs LOVED.

Needless to say, quarantine was mind-numbing when it wasn't exhausting, so somewhere in all that, I managed to start this fic. The whole sauce thing is taken from episode of Graceland, which was part of my quarantine sleep shows, episode 1x04 Pizza Box.

I loved my friend.

He went away from me.

There's nothing more to say.

The poem ends,

Soft as it began -

I loved my friend.

-Poem, Langston Hughes

The Flanoir base kitchen was packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, some sitting on each other's laps, children on people's shoulders.

"This sauce has been handed down in my family for generations," Oscar said, pitching his voice so he could be heard even in the hallway where people were still crowded. Yuan stayed against the far wall, having gotten his spot quite early. "Ever since Pope Boniface II decreed that all those with elven blood were to be banished from the empire. My great-grandmama's great-grandmama's grandmama was a cook in the cathedral when that decree was made. Her name was Caterina."

"What did she do?" Jalila asked, sitting on her sister's crossed legs up front.

"Ah, she was human. She would have been fine." Oscar drizzled oil into the pot. "But Caterina was not your ordinary woman. She didn't care about differences in people's blood, but see, she had a job to do. She was preparing her sauce for the Pope's men when she heard a knock at the back door."

Yuan rapped his knuckles on a wooden cabinet, making some of the younger ones jump. He winked at the ones who turned to look for the source of the sound, tilting his chin to direct their attention back to Oscar.

"It was Mateo, a handsome tailor, who fell to his knees before her. 'You have to hide me, Caterina', he said. 'Sanctuary', please."

"Oh of course it was a handsome one," one of the guys snickered.

Oscar took an apple from a bowl and pelted it at him with unerring accuracy. "Hey, no interruptions."

"Yeah, you'll throw off the flow," someone said.

"Sorry, jeez."

Botta shuffled up to Yuan's side, breathing hard, snowmelt still on his cheeks. "Sorry I'm late. Did I miss the story?"

"Only the beginning. He's getting to the good part."

"Anyway," Oscar said loudly. The room quieted. "Knowing that this poor man faced either torture or death at the hands of the Papal guards, Caterina said, 'Get in the pantry.' She promised to keep her sauce warm for him until the local bishop declared the city cleansed of all those with 'impure blood'."

"Wasn't it a vicar last time?" Botta asked under his breath.

One of the teenagers smacked his arm, shushing him. Yuan snorted.

"The Papal Knights came to search the kitchens of course. They were very thorough, claiming that the kitchens were not part of the holy ground to claim sanctuary on. But Caterina was lovely and fierce and she told them that as long as they stored the holy oil in her barrels, it would be holy ground and if they had a problem with that, they could get their food elsewhere. After five long days and five long nights, the Pope's men finally left the city of Sybak. Mateo survived the purge on the smell and the promise of Caterina's sauce. They fell in love and left the city to start new lives, vowing to pass the sauce on to their children, and their children's children until the last star fell from the sky." The room burst into applause and cheers.

"This," Oscar dropped a massive handful of herbs into the equally massive pot, stirring them in. "Is Caterina's sauce. It takes five days and nights to prepare. The rules are very simple: do not touch. And don't be late. There are no leftovers. Does everyone understand?"

The room chorused with "Yes sir!" as everyone filed out.

"I can't even get them to listen to me that well," Yuan remarked to Botta, leaning on the wall.

"That's because you can't cook as well as Oscar does."

Yuan made a sound in his throat. He couldn't argue with that. "What's the latest news on Rodyle?"

"We have confirmation from several sources about the Mana Cannon and the status of its completion. We don't have much time. Rodyle has been taking the overflow from the ranches that Lloyd's group has dismantled and using them to bolster his workforce."

"Mn. And we need to get in there."

"Sir, I don't think it's a good idea to go. That ranch is too isolated. If things go wrong, we can't pull out, and I don't think we could take that ranch without significant losses. We won't even be able touse it since we don't have summoners. I think sabotaging it would be a better idea."

Yuan exhaled hard. "We don't have that kind of time, Botta. Nor do we have a dozen opportunities for this sort of thing. The mana links are weakened. We need to take this opportunity before Yggdrasill either kills Lloyd's group, or figures out a new way to shore up the defenses around the Great Seed."

"We can use Lloyd's group to assist in the infiltration," Botta suggested. "They already have grievances with Rodyle, and with their history with the other ranches, they could prove useful."

"Where are they now?"

"Our last reports had them in Tethe'alla after Ozette's destruction."

"Let's see if we can't confirm what they're up to. We need the Fujibayashi girl anyway for the Mana Cannon to work the way we want."

Botta dipped his head. "Yessir."

He turned to walk away, but before he took four steps, Yuan said, "Make sure you eat something. You're no good to me collapsed from exhaustion."

"Yessir."

Several days later, Botta was surprised to come into the kitchens and find Yuan there, and Oscar very much not. Oscar slept in the kitchen during his sauce weeks, not trusting anyone to obey the rules of Do Not Touch.

"Is Oscar alright?"

"I convinced him to take a bath," Yuan said dryly, flipping a page in a file. "Before he ruined the sauce with his smell."

Botta hummed as he made himself a sandwich. "I imagine he tried to convince you that that wasn't a thing."

"Indeed. I told him to not have to make me order him." Not that Oscar was super obedient on orders he didn't agree with. He was like Botta in that way, and it was part of what made Yuan like him. A bit of dissent was good for any organization.

"Thus, you're on guard duty."

"I am apparently the only trustworthy person on this base."

Botta arched a brow as he sat across from Yuan, taking a bite of his sandwich. "How'd he do that math?"

"Are you insinuating I'm untrustworthy, Botta?Because I'll have you know," Yuan poured Botta a glass of the wine he'd been steadily working through. "I have stopped several defectors from slipping a taste of the sauce."

"I'm not insinuating anything, sir. I'm just saying—I've had the sauce before. No one can be trusted."

"Fair point. Either way, I'm sure Oscar is working through one of the fastest showers in his life."

"Has he gotten real sleep?"

"As much as one can on the floor of the kitchen."

Botta sighed. "I'll make sure he's scheduled for a few days off after this." He had done it in the past as well, but every year, he hoped Oscar would learn a new system. Unfortunately, Oscar was one of the most stubborn people Botta had had the pleasure of meeting.

"What have you found?" Yuan asked, closing the file he was working on.

"Lloyd's group is in fact in Sylvarant now. One of Sheena's people sold them out to the Papal Knights at the Otherworldly Gate. They were heading towards Palmacosta as of yesterday."

"Perfect. They're already nearby. If we can arrange a meet, well away from any Desian spies, we could have this taken care of by next week." Yggdrasill had been suspiciously absent from Derris-Kharlan these past weeks. Yuan didn't know if that was a good thing or not; Mithos was too clever by half, always had been, and there was too much being stirred up for him to be completely ignorant of what was going on. They had to work fast.

"I already have some of our people bringing rumors of Desians at the ruins of the Palmacosta Ranch to Neil." Botta had seized the opportunity of Governer-General Dorr's death to insert his own people at Neil's side. Dorr had been too caught up with the Desians for the Renegades to get too close for anything other than intel, but Neil had been rightfully suspicious of a lot of the remaining people who had been in power in Palmacosta. One didn't need to be part of Cruxis to be corrupt after all. "That should be of interest to Lloyd's group."

Yuan took a sip, mentally filing that information away. "And the Mana Cannon is very close to completion, yes?"

"From what we can tell, yes. Unfortunately for us, Rodyle is rather good at scrambling signals anywhere near his ranch, so I don't have a precise timeline." Botta took a particularly vicious bite of his sandwich. It was a point of pride for him, his skill in technology. He'd been the one to invent the Rheairds, after all, had been the one to put together the security systems for the bases. "If we're lucky, it will just take some recalibration to adjust it for our purposes."

"As long as it's most of the way finished, we have the skill and manpower to finish it."

Oscar chose that moment to come skidding back into the kitchen, still putting on his shirt. "Okay! I'm clean. You happy now, Yuan?"

See, most of the Renegades didn't just call Yuan by name. It was usually sir, or Lord Yuan when they wanted to be particularly sarcastic. But Oscar—on sauce weeks especially—didn't much care for any form of formality.

"Ecstatic," Yuan intoned dryly, closing his file. "We can continue this upstairs, Botta."

Botta downed the rest of his wine before following.

They knew the price. This was never a safe life; there were never any guarantees about making it to the other side alive.

That's what Yuan kept repeating to himself anyway. He couldn't stop to rest; there was too much to do, especially now that Botta was—

He was being ridiculous. He'd seen thousands of people die in his time. He'd killed more than a few of them himself. He'd sat with his Renegades as they died on operating tables and battlefields, had held their children and spouses, had performed their death rites with the unceasing vigil only an angel could do.

Is that all you have to say?! Botta gave his life for the Renegades—

Lloyd's eyes, flashing with a fierce grief for a man he'd hardly known—was stark in Yuan's mind. He didn't know how much he resembled the Kratos of Yuan's childhood. Yuan went down into the kitchens almost on autopilot. He couldn't get drunk; he and Kratos had tried a few times in the beginning, but an angelic metabolism burned it all too quickly. Still, Yuan wanted a drink.

He wasn't expecting anyone to be down here at this time, but there Oscar was, sitting on the floor against the cabinets opposite the sink. His curls were frizzy and lank about his face.

Yuan crouched beside him. "Oscar? Are you alright?"

Oscar lifted his head, lips pressed together. It was hard to see, with all the lights off, but with Yuan's senses, he could still see how red and puffy they were. "I was trying to do the dishes. But—when I tried to soak the pot, all I could see was—"

Botta. Fahad. Jaime. Sealing themselves in the ranch to drown.

Yuan sighed, putting a hand on Oscar's shoulder. He was trembling, so minutely that Yuan couldn't see it, could only feel it. "I'll take care of the dishes. You go on up to bed. Get some real sleep."

Oscar took in a shuddering breath. "Yeah...yeah. I'll do that. Everything looks better in the morning." He moved to stand, Yuan steadying him a little as they both went up. Oscar leveled Yuan with a look. "What about you?"

"Thought you knew better than to worry about me by now," Yuan said with a lightness he didn't feel. "I'll be fine. Been through worse."

He didn't expect Oscar to believe him—he was entirely too intelligent for that—but whether he would call Yuan on the lie was a separate story. Botta had been the only one to do it consistently. Noana only did it when it concerned her medical ward, as Oscar did when it came to the purview of his kitchens. He worked as closely with everyone's nutrition as Noana did. Botta had no jurisdiction anywhere, and as such, was the front lines for disagreeing with Yuan. He'd been doing it before he'd been properly joined up, even.

As expected, Oscar's only sign of his displeasure at the lie was a tightening of his jaw and a flattening of his brows. "...There's a plate of pasta and sauce on the stove. It's yours."

"What happened to no leftovers?"

"It was Botta's," Oscar snapped, voice shaking. "I set aside plates for all of them. I already gave the leftover portions of the others to their families."

But Botta had no next of kin among the Renegades. He'd had a sister, out in Luin with her family, and some kind of cousins in Palmacosta that he hadn't spoken to in a decade, Desian supporters that they were.

Yuan inclined his head a little, chastised for his lie. "I'll heat them up once the dishes are done. Thank you, Oscar."

The dishes were numerous, as was to be expected from the amount of people who came through this kitchen daily. Still, someone had already done a solid portion of them. The Renegades circled around on dish duty and other chores, but usually Oscar recruited the younger kids for cleaning, the ones who weren't old enough yet to help with actual Renegade work. Yuan pulled a dirty bowl closer, letting himself get lost in the repetitive movements.

Botta had been young when they'd found out about him. About the Desians taking him prisoner for 'dangerous ideas' and 'weapons manufacturing'. By the time the Renegade team had gone to try and find evidence of his work, the Desians had cleared out Botta's warehouse by the docks, where he lived and worked. And any informants they had in the Palmacosta ranch could turn up nothing, which was—interesting. They were putting more trouble than it was worth into this man.

The fact that Botta was sent to Kvar—an engineer himself—confirmed that he'd in fact made something interesting. And that was enough for Yuan to plot an escape for him.

Botta had been, what, perhaps twenty-six years old then? Not more than thirty. Still a young man, not yet having grown into the breadth of his shoulders. Young and utterly brilliant, as Yuan discovered when Botta described what would be a Rheaird to him. He'd submitted blueprints and a scale model to the Palmacostan government to apply for funding. It had been an idealistic hope, something to help bring Palmacosta out of the recession they were in, that the whole world was declining into.

And he'd been arrested for it, his blueprints and sketches and models burned. Cruxis always kept an eye out for such leaps in innovation. Too dangerous ideas indeed.

So when Yuan offered him funding and protection, Botta had warily seized the opportunity.

A proper working Rheaird was built in five years. It had been centuries since something inspired such awe in Yuan. He'd been there through the working stages, bouncing ideas and generally keeping Botta company; Botta had a dry, hardly visible humor that Yuan found rather hilarious, and he was also very opinionated and they two had rather legendary debates.

Nothing, however, could compare to the loveliness of a completed Rheaird. Sleek curves and matte metal, with the low-grade hum of its engine. Yuan had been in love from the word go on the those blueprints, but that curl of satisfaction from a completed project was something he couldn't get used to.

Yuan grabbed the sauce pot, still with the dredges of soapy water that Oscar had gotten in there before grief intervened, and prepared to put some elbow grease into scrubbing.

How many times had Botta found Yuan down here in the kitchens after hours with a glass of wine, waiting for a team? How often had Yuan had to functionally drag Botta down here when he got too deep into his head and needed to eat? It had been many decades since Yuan had to do that, but in the first ten or twenty years, it had been a common sight. There were running bets on how successful Yuan would be. While Yuan was physically capable of tossing Botta over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Botta played dirty, and when he was younger, he'd had no shame about it.

One night, early on, the night before Jaime's wedding, that Botta and Oscar had been here, finishing the prep and cleaning for the wedding feast. Yuan had come down to help after calming a quietly panicking Jaime about cold feet. Oscar and Botta had been sharing wedding traditions in their towns, as well as wild and sordid stories of weddings past. Yuan hadn't expected to be drawn into the conversation, to enjoy the tellings as much as he did.

They'd drank and snacked on peanuts long into the night, Jaime eventually dozing off on Oscar's shoulder. Yuan had carried Jaime back upstairs to his bed, like he had when Jaime was six and terrified of his new surroundings.

That wedding had been a wild affair, drinks flowing, everyone being pulled into dances. Even Botta hadn't been able to say no to such an earnest bride tugging on his hands to get him to join.

The base was quiet when Yuan set aside the last dish to dry, stepping backwards until his hips hit the kitchen island, bracing his arms on it. He let his lungs take in the whispers of the tundra night, hardly there, but scratching familiarly at his awareness. Nowhere with so many Renegades was ever properly quiet, it must be said, but it was quiet for them. If Yuan wanted to, he could tune his senses more, could pick up the quiet prayers no doubt being said, the low conversations at altars, the restless shuffling of people in their beds.

Tonight was not a good night for that. Yuan did not need to be reminded of the safety of his Renegades. That safety had been bought and paid for, once again, by someone's sacrifice.

Tonight, Yuan heated up the leftover pasta and sauce, letting the delicious smell fill the kitchen again. He sat himself in his unofficial corner opposite the back door, where he'd waited for many a team to come back to base and poured two glasses of Palmacosta red.

He could hardly taste Caterina's sauce now, though when he'd had his portion earlier that afternoon, it had been rich with flavor. Still, he did his best to savor it. After all, who knew if there would even be another sauce week?

(Yuan makes a mental note to speak to Oscar about putting the recipe and the story in his will, if he doesn't leave any next-of-kin. The Renegades will carry on Caterina's story if no one else will)

Once his plate was clean, Yuan just sat back in his seat, looking at the two still-full glasses. The absence of Botta was a vacuum in his ears, like water that wouldn't come out. It echoed in his skull in a horrible way. Perhaps, one day, the water would leave his ears and the vacuum would release with a pop.

And maybe at the same time, Yuan would one day stop wearing his wedding ring.

Yuan reached for his glass, lifting it in a silent toast and downed half the glass. He would be there until dawn finishing the rest, watching the empty space before him.