Chapter Text
09/11: Late Night
Lying alone in the darkness, Basilio knew only one thing: that the arrival of night had heightened his pain, inexplicably so.
It felt as if the swollen knot of grief that had first lodged itself in Basilio's throat had transformed into a malignant mass, which was now sitting heavily on his chest. As the minutes bled on, the anguish dragged down his limbs and seeped through his body while all around him, the surrounding silence intensified.
Del was gone, and for the first time in his life, Basilio had no one to turn to. It was a revelation that had been running on repeat, a continuous stab of pain that increased each time Basilio realised he had no one left he trusted, no true ally with his best interests at heart.
As he’d undressed for bed, Basilio had found a single speck of blood stained on the sleeve of his jacket. Unsure why, he’d sat by the washer for minutes, staring at the blossoming mark, trying to shape the hurt into something more manageable, before accepting the finality of Del’s death and wadding the material into the washing machine.
Stationary now, the Gauntlet Runner offers no low engine room glow, its prior warmth long extinguished. Without the fire stoked, a chill settles in the air, and the lack of light leaves the assortment of shapes shoved into the storage room as nothing more than sharp edges and blunt shards of metal. It's unpleasant down here at nightfall, but it's where he and Fidelio slept on the recent voyage to Virga Island. Maybe Basilio is heady with grief and just imagining it, but there's something in the air that smells like home down here, so Basilio stays put.
Not too long ago, there had been the low thrum of voices somewhere above his head. Now, however, the only sounds are the metallic pops from the steel frame of the Gauntlet Runner as it settles, and Basilio figures he’s alone.
After he’d lost Del and then passed out, Will and the rest of his group had ushered him onto the Runner with sympathetic words and pitiful expressions. Now that he thinks about it, tonight for the first time, Basilio has seen them for who they really are. This band of misfits, which had so greatly amused Lord Louis because a Eugief and Mustari walked among them, had shown in one act more solidarity than Basilio had seen in a long time.
Thinking over it now in the quietness of the night, Will’s entourage reminded him of his partnership with Del, and while he'd never imagined a bond born from chance encounters could rub shoulders with a companionship strengthened by blood, he'd obviously been wrong.
Another creak interrupts the still silence of the storage room, and Basilio opens one eye and flicks an ear absentmindedly towards the sound. A door closing, footsteps on the carpeted landing above, and the noise of a curtain being pulled across a bunker. No enemy cloaked under the darkness of night that he needs to be on alert for. It’s just people, just potential companions carrying on with their own routines, largely unaffected by his mourning.
Basilio sighs deeply, digs one elbow into the stiff leather of the beanbag, and wonders if getting up and moving around would lessen the pain in his chest. Afterall, upstairs and all around, life is continuing, just not for him.
Another surge of grief washes over him as Basilio muses on the moment, certain that if he steps outside, he would be seeing the twilight hours bleed into a new sunrise. The first sunrise Del would never witness.
Upon being remembered, the sadness returns with a pang. A grief so heavy that Basilio fears that unless he finds some refined purpose in his life, it will fully consume him. He sighs again, louder this time, exhaling with such great effort that a cloud of his breath lingers in the frigid air around him. He lifts one hand to his face and rubs at tired eyes, frustrated that on top of everything else, he's seemingly unable to find sleep.
Basilio shifts onto his side, seeking comfort but finding only a shred of softness in the beanbag underneath him. He's acutely aware of the space he occupies, the tip of his tail grazing the floorboards, the bookshelf behind him too close to allow him to stretch out, and his left arm languidly hanging over the edge of the beanbag, dangling in the empty air. Amid his array of emotions, frustration with his level of discomfort floats just below the surface.
Gritting his teeth, Basilio reaches over his shoulder to pull at a tattered blanket, yanking it over his torso in an attempt to stave off the chill. Again, he thinks of Del. Memories faded, yet not softened from the years gone by where he and Del, freshly abandoned, lived on the streets. Just two more faces in a throng of orphaned paripus crammed together for warmth.
Now, all he has is his own fur and a moth-eaten blanket that smells of oil.
So bothered and emotionally wrecked is he by the recurrence of these memories that the nearby clang of metal seems unworthy of his attention. It's late, the Gauntlet Runner is still cooling, and upstairs, others must be awake too. His right ear twitches with half-hearted interest, but Basilio remains curled over on his side, eyes closed, determined to shut out all the feelings swirling in his head.
He smells food that someone has brought on board the Gauntlet Runner. To divert his mind from all the noise, Basilio concentrates on the scents, trying to identify their dinner. Only to have his stomach churn when the faint scent of blood from the washer overrides the aroma of spices and exotic sauces.
So, it's safe to say he's caught off guard when a soft voice cuts through the darkness.
"Basilio? Are you down here, love?"
The soft lilt of Junah's voice rouses Basilio in an instant, and he sits up with such haste that for a second, a smattering of stars clouds his vision as he fends off the dizziness.
"Uh… Lady Junah?" he asks, even though her voice is unmistakable, as is the scent of her perfume dabbed at the base of her neck.
Her heels clack against the metal floor, and the soft glow of a light scares away the darkness of the storage room. It is Junah, dressed in her simple nightclothes, enshrouded by the golden glow of a lantern and the softness of her aura. Basilio exhales with calmness, knowing this is no armed intruder, but, on the heels of this revelation, embarrassment washes over him as he remembers his current state of undress.
Basilio fights with the beanbag to right himself. He lurches forward, fumbling in the dark for the spare shirt he left on the table, but it's nowhere to be found; he must have lobbed it further away than initially assumed. Cursing under his breath, he instead grabs the blanket again, hastily throwing it over his bare shoulders.
Stamping down his embarrassment, Basilio clears his throat, hopeful that the lantern is not casting enough light to highlight the sudden flush of warmth creeping up his neck.
"Uh, Lady Junah, sorry, didn't think anyone would come down here, like."
"It's okay, Basilio, I'm the one who walked in on you, remember," soothes the songstress with a subtle smile.
She's close now, standing over him with a sadness that Basilio imagines mirrors his own muted expression. Her eyes are red and slightly puffy. Somehow, seeing her like this enhances Basilio’s own grief, acting as a harsh reminder of the ripples of loss all around him. He glances down, fumbling with the threads of the blanket as an excuse to look away from her for a moment.
"Do you mind if I join you?" Junah asks, gently lowering the lamp down to the table; her decision already made.
Basilio swallows the lump in his throat, confused as his feelings for Junah collide with the tremendous grief inside him. He'd never turn her away; he adores her. But he can't help feeling like it's Del she wishes were here, not him. The flirtation between those two always felt more sincere. Basilio always assumed that Junah enjoyed making him blush for her entertainment; his stammered words and tendency to flush feeding her own amusement, more so than hinting at any deeper feelings or desires.
Shaking his head lightly, Basilio pushes those thoughts away. He shifts over on the edge of the beanbag, leaving the entire left side vacant.
"Uh… be me guest, Lady Junah, it's 'bout as comfortable as a bag of rocks, mind."
Junah smiles again. It's one of her sweet, sincere smiles that makes Basilio feel like everything might be okay. The songstress smooths down her nightdress and takes a seat beside Basilio. She’s closer than he expected her to be, close enough that for a moment, her shoulder brushes his own.
“How on earth do you manage to sleep on this thing?” Junah questions with a frown as she prods the fabric with one pointed nail, and Basilio is so grateful that she’s skirting around the elephant in the room. Teasing out sweet pleasantries instead of going straight for the heartache chained to both of them.
Basilio smirks as he finds his reply. “Us Army kids learn to get sleep anywhere we can lay our heads. I ain’t fussy.”
Junah shakes her head and leans back on her arms, inspecting the corners of the room with genuine curiosity. Basilio’s gaze joins hers, trying not to think about how Junah’s knee is touching his. When he glances down to verify she’s pressed against him, his eyes catch how her dress has ridden up, revealing the soft skin of her upper thighs.
Embarrassed and heated with renewed lust, Basilio quickly looks away.
“I couldn’t get a wink of sleep down here,” Junah continues. “It’s just too cold.”
“Nah, not cold when the engine is runnin',” Basilio counters, glancing at Junah from the corner of his eye and smiling at her. “Toasty, in fact.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it, love. I’m thinking that maybe this on-the-road living just isn’t for me,” Junah considers. “All the cramped quarters and non-stop motion sickness.” The songstress sighs and stretches out her arms above her head. “Give me a nice warm bed and a hot meal from a tavern any day.”
“Aye, that’d be nice,” Basilio responds quietly.
Silence comes to rest on the duo like a light dusting of snow, and a feeling not too distant from peace settles over Basilio. Just a taste of tranquillity, enough to make him momentarily feel normal, but then Junah's shoulders drop, her breathing hitches, and suddenly they're just two people sitting in the dark, wrought with grief.
"Anyway, we brought some food back from the inn for you, in case you were hungry," says Junah, punctuating the silence.
Basilio gives Junah the courtesy of a half-nod of acknowledgement, then, upon second-guessing himself, verbalises a thank you.
"It's nothing, love," Junah says quietly. "Honestly, I wish there was more I could do. I wish there was more that all of us could do."
Somehow, Basilio knows she's not only talking about this heavy grief, but the shared weight now resting on the group's shoulders. So much had shifted in a matter of hours: Forden's murder, the unexpected revival of Lord Louis, the gap left in the tournament after the death of a high-profile Sanctist candidate. The seeds of change and unease are already sowing chaos in Altabury.
"We're going to find Rella tomorrow," Junah mumbles, and Basilio wonders if she's laying out a plan to distract herself from everything else that's happened. "We need to find some answers about the prince’s curse."
Basilio nods, uncertain of what this means for him.
Junah purses her lips, as if contemplating her following words carefully. "I hope that you'll come with us, Basilio."
From the determination and surety of her voice, Basilio gets the feeling that she means for the long run. But regardless of what happens next, Basilio knows that he’s done running around for Lord Louis, peddling a future that ostracises the weak in favour of the strong. Those days are long gone.
Basilio sighs deeply and presses his fingers against his brow. "Ain't got nowhere else to go, Lady Junah, plain and simple like."
Beside him, Junah winces. Her visceral reaction is just another reminder of the layers of hurt still left to peel back and face head-on.
"I know, love. I mean, I’d hope that you want to stay with us; we'd all like that. I'd like that."
Basilio feels a lightness in his chest, like the threat of something he's lazily daydreamed about for a long-time awakening. She'd like that. Not Will, who might have seen potential in his loyalty, or Hulkenberg, who may have appreciated his strength, but Junah, who wants Basilio by her side simply because of who he is and what he may mean to her.
Under the soft glow of the lamplight, Basilio turns to look at Junah. Her eyes, a shimmering prism of soft blues and lilacs, meet his gaze in an almost trance-like stare. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth but fades after only a few seconds. Junah breaks eye contact first, then lowers her head into her hands before working her fingers through a strand of golden hair.
"There's been so much loss," she mumbles quietly. "I... I don't think I could lose you too."
Basilio furrows his eyebrows and stumbles over the ramifications of her words. "Lady Junah… I…”
Feeling uncertain and overly flustered at the weight her words carry, Basilio once more lets the room fall into silence. He's longed to hear something akin to this from Junah for longer than he can remember, and he's adored her with a one-sided puppy love since they were first introduced. Still, despite her flirting and occasional lingering looks, he'd never once dared to imagine that she might reciprocate those feelings.
On the table, the lamp flickers, casting shadows across the walls. For a while, it's the only movement in the room outside of Junah brushing her hair and Basilio’s tail swaying with an idle motion. Basilio has once more tightened the blanket around his bare torso with a new surge of embarrassment. Hearing these words from someone he dotes on so deeply has ignited his imagination, unravelling a thread of fantasies in which he declares his own feelings. Fantasies where he and Junah may one day be more than friends.
But then again, he might be overthinking it, and even if he isn't, the timing isn't right.
As if proving this, Junah's shoulders fall, and her hands drop dejectedly into her lap. She pulls at the silk of her dress, and with his gaze still upon her, Basilio watches her fingers shake. His arms are crossed over his chest, still pulling the blanket taut, but there's a growing itch to unlace his fingers and find Junah's hand with his own.
"I just… I can't stop thinking about Fidelio's last words," Junah says with a heaving exhale that shakes her shoulders.
Ah, yes, their diner. Their dream.
It's another pang of heartache on repeat. A wave that hits and leaves ripples in its wake. He'll never fully process the loss of his brother. Still, over the hours, Basilio has tried to rewrite Fidelio's death into a drive to fulfil his brother's will. But the diner, a dream dashed… dwelling on something impossible that will haunt Basilio forever, won't do any good.
Drawing on these heartfelt last words seems to be the final straw for Junah, who gently reaches out, placing her hand on Basilio's knee over the coarse fabric of the blanket. Basilio's eyes leave Junah, and he instead looks down at her hand, shellshocked. His heart pounds in his chest, and slowly, perhaps bolstered by her making the first move, he allows the blanket to slide off his left shoulder, freeing his arm as he tentatively lowers his palm over the back of her hand in a gentle sign of compassion.
It’s enthralling to feel the smoothness of her skin beneath his own hand, but the weight of grief is still so heavy in the air. This is more than just a simple touch amongst friends; it's a sign of togetherness, of unity. Then Junah begins to move her hand beneath Basilio’s.
For a second, he fears she's suddenly repellent to his touch, and he leans away. Swiftly though, Junah flips her palm, pressing her fingers against the side of Basilio's hand whilst her thumb strokes the back of his knuckles. A flush of warmth spreads across the base of Basilio's throat as he flits his eyes between Junah's grief-stricken face and the sight of his hand clasped around hers.
Then wordlessly, she angles herself towards him, and with that single motion, Basilio’s mouth goes dry. There’s the clash of emotions again, but it's all too much to bear on a day like today, because as much as part of him is lost to grief, the other half burns from Junah's touch.
"I'm… I'm so sorry, Basilio," Junah says quietly, the tail-end of her sentence falling into a strangled cry as she fights back an avalanche of emotion. Her lip trembles, and she lowers her watery eyes before the first tear falls.
It would be a lie to say everything was alright, or to dismiss Junah's apology as if it wasn't sincere. But Basilio is at a loss for words, and driven by something stronger than his fears, he does the only thing he can think of. Slowly, with a touch of hesitation at first, he pulls Junah towards him, and, like water, she follows his movement with complete fluidity, nestling herself beneath his arm with her head resting against his chest.
Basilio exhales in stunned silence, lost in disbelief at the moment's magnitude. The blanket has long fallen away, and with one hand still clasped in hers, Basilio fixates on holding Junah's body against his own. That, and keeping his heart rate as controlled as possible, while fighting internally to not let his body betray his feelings.
"Our Del would hate all this fussin’ 'bout him, y'know," Basilio says with a forced smile. He closes his eyes and presses his cheek to the top of Junah's head, allowing himself to bask in this moment for just a while longer.
Junah manages a light laugh, like she knows this to be true, but there's still a terrible sadness in the air. However, it's hard to think about that when her skin is soft against Basilio's chest, and her fingers are drawing circles on the back of his hand.
As a paripus, Basilio has known nothing but a life of discrimination and intolerance. Tender touches and moments of sincerity have been few and far between, and only by rising through the ranks of Lord Louis's army did Basilio and Fidelio garner respect. Now, disgracefully cast out in an act of open treason, he no longer has that value either, so Junah's touch, her soft smiles and eagerness to bridge the gap between them mean more to him in this, perhaps his lowest moment, than anything else.
As if wanting to telegraph this but lacking the words to convey it, he encircles his arms fully around Junah’s shoulders to pull her closer, and despite the reluctance to do so, slips his hand from hers so he can properly encircle her body. Junah wraps her arms around his back in an unspoken response, and Basilio loses his breath to feel her so near. Basilio no longer feels any shame in his lack of clothing, or distracted by the dampness on Junah's cheeks that reveal a sadness that hasn't been forgotten. There’s nothing between them now aside from a tenderness that’s so desperately needed.
Basilio just holds Junah as the world outside moves on, his thumb stroking the silky fabric of her nightdress while his mind quietly does somersaults to imagine the softness of her skin underneath. Junah’s fingers are also dancing, tracing the muscles in Basilio’s back, sloping over his shoulder blade, then dropping back down to tighten around his waist. It's a tranquil moment, with nothing further exchanged, as if words would only sully the sincerity of their touches.
Junah shifts in his hold, and time after time, Basilio is sure that she's yearning to leave his grasp, but she only readjusts for comfort, moving closer or angling her hips into the hug. She's practically on his lap now, and Basilio would be lying to himself if he wasn't affected by her closeness. He presses those thoughts down, closing his eyes and exhaling deeply, willing his breathing to steady and the heat of his body to quell.
After several minutes pass, Basilio wonders if this embrace is solely for his benefit, or if it's something the songstress needed as well but could not ask for. If there is any chance it’s the latter; Basilio gathers his courage, then breaks the silence. "I'll be alright, Lady Junah."
Eventually, Junah pulls away, but in doing so, leaves a brief moment where she is mere inches from Basilio, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and steady.
A thousand thoughts course through Basilio's mind as his attention snags on Junah, unable to quite register that she’s looking at him like that; yet somehow, she is. Her once bright eyes are now dark, and heavy with something Basilio can only draw up as desire. He's seen it before, that same expression on the faces of lover’s past, but it's nothing compared to the way Junah is looking at him right now.
Basilio's breathing quickens as he flounders between the push and pull of years built on treating Junah with a distanced respect, all while yearning for her quietly. But it's hard to think rationally when all he can feel is the pounding of his heart as it hurls itself against his ribcage, with Junah's sweet perfume saturating the surrounding air. He bites down hard enough on his lip to almost break the skin. The sharp pain that follows serves as a reminder of where he is, and what he’s doing.
"Lady Junah... I."
Basilio leans forward, just a fraction, driven by an instinct to restore the closeness he yearns for. But then, just as suddenly as he moves towards her, something in him pulls him back. Stalling, despite being aware that Junah's eyes are on his mouth, and at some point, her fingers have worked their way around his shoulders and laced themselves at the nape of his neck.
Halted by a cruel concoction of his grief and a strange feeling of betrayal of Fidelio, who probably loved Junah with the same fierce quietness, Basilio leans back on the beanbag and instead settles on taking in Junah's beauty from afar. He exhales deeply, blinking quickly in an attempt to shake off the rising desire that's stirring in his abdomen, his skin pricking with fire in the places where Junah had touched him.
He anticipates the worst, but Junah only smiles softly, as if she understands.
"Basilio," she breathes, gently running a hand across his cheek. "It's okay."
It doesn't feel okay; it feels like he may have floundered the only chance he'd have with someone like Junah, but then again, nothing has felt okay for hours. Basilio has always prided himself on shouldering burdens, but without Fidelio there to steer his decisions, he's more than a little lost at the anticipation of a blossoming relationship, especially with someone like Junah.
Especially when he’s drowning in a quiet sadness.
Junah's hand slides down his bare shoulder, and he might be imagining it, but he's sure she's taking her time grazing her fingertips down his arm.
"I know this is a hard time for you. I can’t imagine it," Junah starts, letting her hand come to rest once again on top of Basilio's, her touch electrifying. "I just want you to know that I'm here for you. I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me or..."
Silence falls once more.
"Lady Junah?" Basilio presses, absentmindedly running his thumb over the back of her hand while she ponders her words.
Junah inhales deeply, closes her eyes for a moment, and slowly lifts her hand out of Basilio's. Her touch is gentle and sweet, but Basilio still feels his heart drop as she retreats. Still, it's not lost on Basilio that, as the songstress smooths down her dress, she steals a lengthy, drawn-out look at him. Her eyes wandering down to his bare chest before meeting his gaze once more.
Junah has never looked at him like this before, and if she has, Basilio has never noticed it. It both staggers and embarrasses him that with just one look, she's managed to work him up all over again, leaving him with a lump in his throat he can't seem to dislodge, his hands shaky in her absence. Once more, he’s thankful for the darkness in the room, and he wastes no time repositioning the blanket over his shoulders and lap.
"Please… just stay with us, Basilio."
Still looking away, face warm with embarrassment, Basilio forces himself to bring his attention back to Junah, nodding as he plants a reassuring smile on his face.
His motivation isn't solely to remove Lord Louis from the race for the throne or to continue the work he and his brother began together. It's because he senses a change in Junah, and perhaps one day, he'll be in a position where he's not too weighed down by other matters to actually lean forward and kiss her.
But today isn't that day.
Basilio holds onto Junah's stare until she reaches over for the lamp and makes a move to leave the storage room. As she goes, she alternates glances over her shoulder with small smiles to herself that Basilio catches in the flickering light.
"I'll see you in the morning, love," Junah says, hesitating slightly on the rung of the stairs.
Basilio nods, even though he's probably too obstructed by the darkness for her to see. Besides, Junah is already more than halfway gone. He listens to her footsteps recede, dwelling in the ensuing silence as he forces his breathing to stabilise.
Alone once again, but no longer feeling quite as empty, Basilio finally lies back against the beanbag. Blanket long forgotten, he dwells in the warmth stirred up by Junah's touch, the fire inside him burning low. He replays the small moments over and over in his mind. His body thrumming with a pleasant low-level vibration that does just enough to numb the multitude of other feelings swimming in his head.
Somewhat content, Basilio laces his fingers across his chest and, with a revitalised sense of peace, finally manages to slip off into a sleep punctuated only by snapshots of Junah smiling at him, with the soft sound of her music lingering in the air.