He shivered. He shivered. He shivered.

The heaters were blowing too fierce, but nobody noticed. Nobody noticed him; that was made so by Rouxls, who had accepted the King's request to have the throne room orchestra play with a force that shook the room's mirrors. Nobody would come across this section of the castle.. this was the bedroom, the one blasphemed area secluded, hidden, stifled. This was where Lancer was born. And this was where he was certain he would die.

The weight of it crushed on top of twelve- year- old shoulders, crushed his eyes until tears, unwanted, came shuffling out, squeezing, dripping on the floor. But not enough. It wasn't enough to hold up to what Susie had told him. It ain't love, it ain't love, it ain't love. It wasn't enough to support itself against what a part of him, as girlish and churlish as could be, told him. It was all his fault, wasn't it? It was his fault the floor was so dry, his eyes so wizened. He should be doing more, shouldn't he?

And what was it with him focusing only on himself? He was being selfish, as egocentric as he knew only princes could be.

Shouldn't he pay attention to Sans, to Susie, to Ralsei, to Kris? Would they ever be able to walk away from the venom on his clothes he would never wash off, staining him so deep they reached his soul? Would they even be able to look at him? Curse that. Curse if they were able to or not, it didn't matter; they all had eyes. Would they even look at him? Would Lancer be able to look at himself? Despite the fact that his eyes were dry, his shirt was still soiled. He was disgusting. He couldn't look at himself. He shouldn't be asking for help if he others couldn't even look at him.

A trembling raised its voice in the insides of both of his thighs, and it was only then that Lancer realized how far apart one leg was from the other. He knew, without preamble, that putting his legs even a little more together would result in a clashing tidal wave of pain and tenderness. He exhaled, a choke heaving out of his chest, moving its way up to its throat to die there. He couldn't swallow; trying to ended up with him clutching his throat. He couldn't breathe. The swelling in his throat turned his breathing into a wheeze or two, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as if he were a corpse. In all ways except living, he was a corpse.

He shivered.

His stomach was a flame touching a piece of metal, burning it until it turned white and powdery. But it was still hungry, still needy as ever. Even after all this. After all this.

He inhaled, coughed, ignored the waspsting in his throat. He felt his body break around him, felt the minutae, the cells, closing in on themselves. He knew he needed a doctor. There. He let himself that luxury. He couldn't be walking around like this, a pigeon with clipped wings. Maybe some magical medicine, a night resting in a one-person bed would make him look like he did every morning with his concealer and foundation. But he couldn't let himself have that luxury now. He needed freedom. A different sort of luxury, but by God, what a luxury it was.

He turned left towards the garage. Towards Steed. Towards where his legs wouldn't look startling; one's legs tended to spread on a bike. Towards freedom.

There was nothing left in the bedroom his father didn't take from him already.

…

The shadows began to thin in that certain way that hinted at dawn, its esoteric language that hid the passage of time from Susie, from Kris. The stars were covered with a murky cloud, massive as it was. An owl in the distance hooted, mourned. The crickets seemed to stop. What happened to them? Did the same thing happen to them as they did to Lancer? Even Lancer wasn't sure what happened to him. He knew what it was as a subject, but as an object, as a thing, as a demon… he couldn't stomach it, force it down his burning boil of a stomach.

It was foolish to be guarding a castle tonight. Why would anyone do that? There was a rousing orchestra performance downstairs, and besides, the bedrooms upstairs weren't guarded, so why should the outside be?

He'd already made the via dolorosa to Steed. Rouxls had already approached him, out of the castle and on the way to his duchy, laughing at first because of a joke he'd heard at the orchestra, the smell of a good Merlot on his suit. All it took was a half of a minute for Rouxls to notice Lancer's trembling legs before he was behind him, panting from the run, the eerie thrill of panic in his eyes. Lancer had bat up his hand, said he'd handle this biggie on his own. The words had tumbled, shambled, wheezed. Lancer knew better than to do anything else besides start up Steed with such force that it shook without the engine running.

"I'll handle this biggie on my own, alright? Je vais bien, je vais bien, je vais bien." How many times did Lancer have to say "je vais bien", that he was alright, before anyone believed it?

Steed sputtered a little before ending up in front of the church. Maybe he'd be healed here. This was what he'd always been told. Maybe they were having Communion here, breaking the Host, breaking the bread, bread… his soul was too stained, too putrefied. But maybe he could… maybe…

Jesus hung from a crucifix in the background. Dying. His arms outstretched to the churchgoers to embrace them. To take away all of the true problems their lives vomited out, to take them to a different world… Lancer knew it the ways the churchgoers closed their eyes during prayer, erupted if their prayer was interrupted. It was a different world. A better world. Not this one at all. Not this one.

The tears came out, Lancer's legs tautening. Buckling, collapsing to the ground, Steed letting out a whimper. The tears still came. They came, and his throat flooded. But Lancer didn't care. What did breathing matter, what at all did it matter?

The words spattered, wheezing, indistinguishable between English and French. Still Jesus hung, swaying over the churchgoers, staring straight down, the area outside of the church windows where Lancer was not even in His peripheral vision. He couldn't see Lancer.

"Son of God, where are you now?"

…

Steed guided him towards the light. His legs shook, stopped, rested against Steed. For an instant, the handlebars became the King's shoulders, the front of the bike the back of the King's hood, the noise of the engine turning into an awful, disgusting, unspeakable noise. With a scream that sounded like water and air being pumped through a large pipe, Lancer pulled over, the hotel just in the distance. His brain was festering; anyone could see that now. Sans. Sans could fix this. He was the son of God, wasn't he? He was his friend, wasn't he? The Church was his mother, just as abusive as the King was. Whether or not it could change was up to it.

But Sans… Sans would make Lancer laugh. So there was no reason he would turn away Lancer while he was crying. There was no reason why he wouldn't open his arms like Him on the crucifix did, no reason why he wouldn't tell him, "Don't say sorry just 'cuz you're cryin'." He wouldn't abandon Lancer this time. Oh, God, oh, God, the smell of pancakes was churning out of the hotel kitchen…

Je vais bien.