I'll Tell The World About You
Addam has a very distinctive way of running; that is, he jogs. He doesn't frolic with hands flung side to side like Lora, and thus Haze, does, and he doesn't propel himself in a compact parcel like Hugo does, with Brighid and Aegaeon alternately flitting and clanking in behind him.
Many a time has Minoth seen him jog away, to ports in Indol and Auresco and Alba Cavanich and Fonsa Myma alike, first fully backwards and then, after a reluctant about-face, turning back to wave, ever-gleeful. Perhaps this means something key about Addam always running away from his problems, or perhaps it's more about him being less forward-looking than Lora always is, instead dwelling simultaneously in the present and upon the incumbent tragedies of the future. Perhaps.
Whatever it means, it gives Minoth something else to focus on, whenever they're running together. He could think of how his boot treads are wearing down and no amount of ether infused can refresh them, about how his chest tightens with each step and the strain feels nigh to insta-permament, about how the shooting pains in his thighs are certainly not borne of the patterned veins that should take precedence thereon and therein.
He could think of all those things and a thousand dozen more, things he wishes he'd said to Amalthus or to Baltrich or even to the nicest of shopkeepers in Goetius's stalls and things he fears he'll have wished he'd said to Addam when all is said and done and dead, but instead he watches the sun glint off of Addam's shoulders, his elbows, the length of his cape and the tips of his hair.
It doesn't matter where they're going. It never has and it never will. They could be going towards the Praetorium or away from it, towards one destination or intent upon nowhere in any sort of particular, Minoth forgets about all that. It's like clockwork, like the beating of a heart he doesn't have.
Sometimes Minoth flags away, slightly, and oblivious as Addam is to exactly that kind of detail (he's good at processing things, rather, if the situation isn't overly complex, but noticing right off the bat himself in order to be able to clock someone via his strikingly stark perception is but a dream), he notices practically immediately.
He stops, conducting the turnabout of his entire body about the axis point of his nose, which has poked over his shoulder and now is laser-set on Minoth. "Falling behind, Minoth?"
The sun is in Minoth's eyes, now. And Minoth is not a Light Blade; Minoth is very, very Dark. When Addam offers back his hand, Minoth takes it without a second thought.
Maybe Addam kisses the back of his hand as they walk. Maybe Minoth is the one to do it. Maybe they find a tree to sit under, somewhere in Uraya's stomach or Mor Ardain's plains, and forget about anything but each other.
Minoth isn't sure, after it all, when he first realized that he felt any sort of attraction to men, or to other people in general. Somehow he thinks that any other desire he has ever felt had either come in search of something, someone like Addam, or had sprung up directly from the lingering doubt that he might never see Addam again but that he still knew he was in love.
How could he know that, do you think? He'd never had any significant example of love at all, let alone that treading beyond platonic into the romantic ideal. If it's something about Blades and Drivers, Drivers and Blades, well, maybe that could explain it. In fact, it does.
The trunks of the Tornan trees studding the borders of Aletta's fields aren't especially broad, so Addam leans against Minoth instead, lets himself be cradled in the Flesh Eater's arms. Minoth's chin juts, bony, into the silvery-gold thicket of soft gray hair.
Addam's hand is on his Core Crystal, thumbing over the face. The sun is warm - hot, even. Minoth shivers.
"What do you think, about that?"
"Hm?" Addam looks up, dreamy-eyed. "I think it's beautiful. I think it's you. Why?"
Minoth isn't quite sure whether or not he wants to stop the prince before he makes another affectionate pass at the crystal. Soon enough, the actions on either part come into sync. Too late.
"I think it means I'm gonna have to keep living when you die. And I-" a kiss, a touch, a sacrament of feeling, too late too late too late "-I don't want that."
Long has Minoth valued his independence. Long has he thought what a saving grace it is that however long he lives, however much he may age, he'll do it with Amalthus well out of the picture. Long has he thought that sometimes being a Blade, but also not, has its uses.
So this is not one.
I'll dream about you, Addam. Sometimes I'll laugh. Sometimes I'll cry. You'll run, and I'll chase you, and I'll wish you would slow down, but you won't, because you can't, and you'll be dead, and no one else in the world will know you the way I knew you.
Isn't that good? Isn't that a treasure? Aren't you mine?
I'm yours, Addam. I love you so much I could die right here. And that would solve things, wouldn't it.
Addam is peering curiously, worriedly, at the underside of Minoth's jaw as it sets back and forth, as his expression goes somewhere quite far away.
"That's quite a long way off, isn't it? I'm only twenty years old," he tries, and fails, to placate. "Maybe we can...I mean, if you really think..."
Put him down like a dog? Perform an artificial simulation of the most beautiful facets of the Architect's system, just like once was done? No. Don't even think it.
"No, no, I can't die with you, my prince," jokes Minoth. His voice hitches, and he squeezes Addam's hand, hard. "Who else will tell your story, when you're gone?"
The tale, of course, is as yet unwritten, in truth and in life. Minoth claims it anyway. Of course he does.
Frowning, Addam tugs gently at Minoth's shoulder, bringing his cheek down for the softest, subtlest kiss. "I just want you to be happy, and safe, and free. And if I can't make that happen, then, well. What good am I as your Driver?" As any Driver at all?
He is all in earnest. He always has been, and he always will be. A blessing. A curse. A gift wrapped in faux velvet paper. Addam wouldn't have ever come near him as his Driver if he'd known this was to be a condition. Minoth feels sick to have wanted it, even for a split second.
"I just want you to be loved for who you are, not what you are," Minoth says, maudlinly and again nauseatingly. "If I can't do that, then what good am I as your Blade?" As any Blade at all?
Of a sudden, Addam starts up. "Run with me, would you?" They've rested long enough; it's not an unwelcome proposition. They clasp hands, lift each other up, and then one presses a kiss to the back of the other's hand, and then they are off and away over the moor.
If I die, Minoth thinks, chasing Addam, then I don't care how pathetic it makes me. I don't care if it's the equivalent of three hundred thousand words, acts upon acts and arcs upon arcs, detailing all the myriad ways in which we got lost in, on, and around each other, I would do it.
Addam's shoes, pointy-toed clogs, were not made for marching orders so much as commanding the army from atop, attached to his armor kit though they are. Still, he manages not to stumble over his knees and ankles propelling him on, on, on and on and on. Someday, he will have knee trouble, but for now the only appendages that plague him are his right shoulder and his back, if you can call that an appendage.
Minoth, meanwhile, feels a stitch immediately. If he were a Blade, that constriction would mean nothing to him. If he were a Blade, he could run at his maximum speed for as long as he wanted, within capacity, without worrying for depreciation of stamina or strength. But he is not a Blade, and so he abandons it all to catch up, to pass, to fall full over and--
And Addam catches him. And they are sprawled, giggling and enamored, in the center of a herd of Armu who plod blithely around the heap of limbs and leather.
"I'll tell the world about you," Minoth whispers, breath hot between the tickling grass and the shell of Addam's ear. "I want...I want everyone else to be able to love you as much as I love you. Because as far as I can tell, there is no greater happiness than that."
Addam flushes (somehow Minoth can hear). "Everyone? Just as much?"
"'S what I said, isn't it?" And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was crazy, but I said it.
"No, no, of course it is, I just...Minoth, I didn't think anyone ever could."
"Not even Flora?"
"Not e-- Oh, damn you, Minoth, will you put love triangles into it too, then?"
"Maybe," Minoth says slyly, on the edge of a full-out guffaw. "I'll show you as you are, how's that?"
As Addam is is sans love triangles, but it is also plus a bevy of avoidance, of cowardice, of fear, eventually.
Still, Minoth leaves all of that out. One supposes it wouldn't have suited his purpose, his promise. No, it wouldn't have brought back that time he missed. It wouldn't have helped him chase after what he was searching for, and what he found, in Addam.