Disclaimer: I do not own DanMachi or any of Omori's original characters, nor do I make any profit off of my writing.

When Bell awoke the next day, his head was pounding just behind his eyes and his mouth tasted like ash. And he could say that. He'd actually tasted ash before. Bitter, kinda smoky; pairs nicely with onion and cheese.

He couldn't quite place the reason behind either feeling (last he checked, he hadn't been tracking down any dragons lately).

He made the decision to open his eyes and–

"Fuck!"

–what a horrible decision it was.

Par for the course in the unending series of mistakes that was his week thus far, really.

Grumbling and cursing, he stood. His room was small, so it wasn't difficult to stumble over to the window and draw the curtains.

The day was still young, morning having started only moments prior, but it was still a later start than he was used to.

And so, a choice presented itself.

He could work through whatever the hell was pounding a stake into his skull and suffer a day of customer service (perhaps suffer was not the right word, he really did love his job, endure would be better, yes, endure), or he could choose to take a day for himself.

Again.

Bell sighed.

The kitchen was as he left it prior to his kidnapping (and oh yeaah, that's what happened, he'd been kidnapped by his friend). The cookies were still in the oven and would need to be tossed, the dough was simply too dry, and it wouldn't produce anything he could be proud of.

Each clump thumped as they fell into the bin, each noise resounding with the aching in his head.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The cookie sheet joined the ceramic bowl in the sink and Bell turned the water on, waiting for it to heat enough to clean with. His eyes closed once again as he listened to the faucet empty its contents into the basin upon his counter. It was soothing, in a way. Not pleasant, really, but distracting.

So, distracting, in fact, that he found himself wholly unprepared for the intruder in his midst.

"Bell?"

There was a yelp, then a thud, then a clatter of sorts, followed finally by a series of curses that should never again be repeated. Bell turned, his eyes peeking out over the knuckles of his raised fists, and he relaxed.

"Helun," he returned the called greeting and shut off the sink. It was full nearly to the brim. It probably should've taken longer, but he'd kneed the bottom so hard that it'd indented halfway to the top. "What are you doing here?"

The grey-haired girl walked into the kitchen with a small smile, barely paying his undoubtedly horrid appearance any mind. Her hands were held in front of her hips, crossed at the wrists with her fingers knitted together, and she carried a bag over her shoulder. He might have observed her longer, had his eyes not protested being open any longer. His kitchen was too bright. Too much natural light. Damnable windows.

He didn't see what she did next, but he heard a rustle before she answered. "Hangover cure."

Bell grunted and nodded. He raised his hand aimlessly into the air between them, making futile, little grabby motions in her direction.

He heard her laugh and soon enough his hand was full. He made to raise whatever it was to his lips, but she held it in place. "Patience, dummy. You don't even know what it is yet."

"Then tell me."

She rolled her eyes. He may not have seen it, but he knew her well enough to know it happened.

The next sound he heard was a faint pop! and then his arms were released. There was a faint, guiding pressure on the bottom surface of his hands, leading them up to his lips, the glass of the bottle was cool, the mouth small, not too far from that of a minor potion, and then..

"Hurk– !"

Oh. Oh gods.

His cheeks puffed out and his eyes went wider than should realistically be possible; wide enough, in fact, that it was oh-so-incredibly easy to see the devious smirk playing at his friend's lips. She raised the vial, the glass nearly completely drained, and he immediately recognized the solution within.

Yellow. Thick. A slight, bubbly froth upon its surface.

He knew it, and he knew it well.

Egg.

Raw egg.

Helun's eyebrows waggled and danced over her forehead and she winked at him. "Swallow~!" she singsonged.

So, he did.

Yep, yep, yep.

Nasty.

"I," and he forced himself to pause lest he loose his stomach upon his countertop and floor, "hate you." And then, because she had the nerve to laugh (laugh!), he went on. "So much. So, so much."

Helun continued to laugh. He turned to glare, but found himself freezing up as soon as he caught sight of her.

Her head was tilted back, just slightly, causing her hair to cascade backward over her shoulders. It usually did, but normally her face was half hidden behind her bangs. She was – and he was not exaggerating simply because his morning thus far had been nothing but shit and misery – remarkably beautiful. The hand she'd raised and covered her lips with did little to hide her smile, and it was glorious.

Her laugh was a refined thing, maybe reserved. A tinkling giggle.

Bell turned and spit out the egg coating the inside of his cheeks into the sink, before turning and grimacing in her direction. It wasn't intentional. He'd meant to smile, something wide, something broad, something that expressed his typical pleasure when he sees her, and yet something tainted by the pain in his head and the nastiness in his mouth.

Whatever prior reservations she had about her volume melted away as he faced her. She dropped her hand away from her mouth, bearing her smirking grin with pride, and clutched her stomach as she doubled over.

"What?" Bell asked, grimacing slightly at her pitched laughter. "What's so funny?"

"Your teeth are yellow!"

A quick run of his tongue over the front of his teeth confirmed that, yes, they were slicker than normal. (And, oh. Hardy-har-har. Yes, he gets it. Teeth are always slick. They're in the mouth. Mouths are wet. Thank you. He'd never considered that. Truly. He's not being facetious at all. No, ma'am. Jesters, every one of you is a jester.) He stuck a finger into his mouth, rubbing furiously at the surface of his teeth with the side of his index. In the end, he simply grumbled to himself and stomped off to the drawer that housed his measuring cups. The bakery's kitchen contained no drinking cups, perhaps an oversight on his part, but he usually remembered to bring his canteen down from his loft.

The bowl he'd grabbed was marked up the side, each line measuring a culeus. They were useful enough when he was younger and less experienced, but he rarely used them in the present day, save for times like this.

Returning to the sink, Bell dipped the bowl into basin full of naught but water and brought it up to his lips. He'd only meant for a small sip, just enough to twist around within his cheeks, but as soon as the cool liquid touched his lips he could not be stopped. He emptied that first bowl, and then thrice as many in the moments that followed. By the time he turned back to his companion, she'd already calmed down her fit of laughter and was simply watching him with a raised brow, her bangs neatly back in place over the right side of her face.

"Thirsty?" she leered.

The baker did not rise to the bait. "Could you grab the flour for me? It's right over in– thank you."

Helun smiled contentedly in response and sidled up to the space beside him, bumping her hip into his as she laid the bag down on the counter's surface. "I won't be able to stay much longer, I only came to check on you."

Bell nodded absent-mindedly as he thumbed his lower lip, his mouth moving at a league a minute as he mixed the flour with a few of the other dry ingredients.

"Bell," she called again, "did you hear me?"

"Uh-huh, uh-huh." He pushed himself away and moved toward the corner of the room. He bent over and threw open a cellar door before disappearing from view.

Helun, wanting to be of as much help as possible, decided to preheat the oven. She wandered through the kitchen, humming quietly to herself as she made her way to the large appliance. She turned the dial, but when the coils within did not turn orange she frowned. She tapped on the magic crystal embedded in its interface a few times. The glow of the stone hemmed and hawed before it finally let out a spark and the oven hummed to life.

Bell appeared barely a minute later, a carton of eggs and a few buckets of butter cradled within his arms as he climbed back up.

The grey-haired girl leaned against the oven as she watched him flit about. It truly was a sight to see with how at ease he was in the kitchen. She couldn't help but smile softly as she tucked her hair behind her ear, wanting to be able to watch with both eyes.

He started by creaming together the butter and sugar. With the volume of confections he needs to keep his shop stocked, it was no surprise the amount of ingredients that went into each batch. The butter alone must have weighed at least as much as an ingot of orichalcum. The feat of stirring it should be a challenge only the strongest of men could conquer (and only the ones with visibly apparent muscles), yet Bell bested it all the same.

The butter melted as he worked, though Helun could not determine the source of the sudden heat. His palm rested against the side of the metal mixing bowl, but it did not seem likely that would be enough.

The stirring took a while, especially when egg after egg after egg was added into the mix. Seriously, so many eggs.

After that the dry ingredients were added in parts. The bowl used was absolutely massive – nearly the size of a bathtub across – and Bell just kept on stirring despite it all.

With the oven at her back, Helun was getting warming up and it just made her wonder how Bell wasn't. Surely, he was getting hot, right? All of that stirring couldn't have been easy on the forearms.

Almost on cue, Bell sighed and grumbled to himself, before releasing the handle of the spatula and deciding to roll his sleeves up.

Helun froze at the sight of them. It wasn't because they were simply that amazing, no, it wasn't that.

There were just..

"Bell?" He didn't hear her. She was beginning to think that was going to be a common theme when she watches him bake. (When?) "Bell? Where did you get all those scars?"

.. there were just so many scars. They lined both his arms, criss-crossing up and down the skin, and she just didn't get it. He was a baker, wasn't he? So what happened? He wasn't clumsy enough for those all to be caused by slips of a knife.

The baker paused in his work, glancing down at his arms. Helun watched as his eyes traced each one, his lips curving down further with each curve of raised tissue.

He slid the sleeves back down to his wrists. "What scars?"

"Bell."

The white-haired boy sighed and straightened back to his full height. His right hand grabbed his left arm and he rubbed at his skin through the fabric of his shirt, massaging them as if they still ached down to the bone. Then, his hands went higher, and he pressed them into his eyes.

The smile he gave her before walking to the sink was tight, fake, but he did not need to keep it up for long.

The bowl of water must have been absolutely delicious as it absorbed all of his attention for the next minute. Helun waited, patiently, for him to quench his thirst, but Bell proved to be insatiable, with an appetite for water that far outlasted the bounds of her goodwill.

Shoving off the oven, the waitress marched over to his side with purpose. As gently as she could manage, she stole the measuring vessel from his hands and place it down on the counter behind her. "Bell," she urged, "we're friends, aren't we?"

She liked to think they were, she did think they were, but she would be a fool to deny what was right in front of her. She knew they didn't know much of anything about one another. Most of their interactions were just senseless flirting, but it was innocent and it was fun.

She liked him, and she liked to think he liked her too.

It didn't even really have to have any romantic connotation, she enjoyed his company, and that was good enough for her.

It was for that very reason why she wasn't offended that he didn't want to talk to her about scars. They were private, and even if they weren't, he was under no obligation to tell her anything about himself. It was the same for her.

But that didn't keep her from worrying.

Her companion looked over at her through the corner of his eye, and he nodded. "Yeah," he affirmed, "we're friends."

"Okay."

"Okay," he echoed.

"Okay," she concluded. They stayed like that for a moment longer, but Bell eventually closed his eyes and shook his head. Wordlessly, she handed the bowl back to him, and he filled it once again. "Is your head still hurting?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

The hour was getting late, and she really ought to be leaving, but this felt like a horrible place to end things. She worried their relationship was at a turning point and the words they were both refusing to say would become the keystone upon which they continued to build.

She opened her mouth again, trying to force the words out, but they refused to budge.

'I like you,' her heart whispered, too quiet to be heard.

In the end, she stayed silent, and turned to face the wall with him, feeling all the worse off for it.

A few more minutes passed just like that until it got to the point where she could no longer hold out any longer.

"I should go," and when he didn't say anything, she felt like she needed to clarify, "I have work."

Bell pursed his lips, she saw it in her periphery, and he nodded.

"Okay," he answered.

"Okay," she repeated, despite quickly coming to hate that word more than she'd hated anything before.

She waited, because whatever it was that was here, she didn't want it to slip through her fingers, but Bell said nothing, and so she left without another word.

Or, she nearly did.

She paused at the door, her fingers gripping the frame harshly as she all-but held herself in place because fuck that.

Bell was the first thing Helun had ever done for herself. Not Syr. Not Freya.

Helun.

He was the one thing she had going for herself. For her, as an individual. And she refused to give that up.

Everything in her life thus far had been a confusing amalgamation of denying herself her own identity. She wasn't Syr, she wasn't. Syr was a face she put on, a facade. She might be in there, somewhere, but it couldn't be wholly and unequivocally her. It just couldn't.

It was hard to admit that, harder still to prove it, but she knew it to be true.

She never felt comfortable playing the part of Syr, never once. It felt as if she were an actress upon a grand stage, reading memorized lines and never deviating from the script given to her. There were parts of her there, tucked away in the intricacies of the character, bits that bled out into her performance, but she could never be positive which they were.

She didn't know who she was, who she is, and she had no idea who she was meant to be.

But Bell's friend seemed as good a place as any to start.

"Bell," she called out once more, not turning to look at his back for fear she might wither her resolve, "I don't know what the word means to you, I can't say I've ever really had a friend before, but I think I want to be the kind of person who listens to theirs. So, if you ever want to talk about.. anything, I'll listen."

And then she was gone.

The white-haired boy stared down into the water filling the sink's basin and let out a huff of a breath. His eyes were drawn back to his covered arms, and once more he released them from their bonds.

For a while he simply stood there, staring at down at the mosaic upon his skin.

With pursed lips and the shake of a head, he returned to his work.