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The forest outside of the Bandito camp was not a welcoming place at night.
During the day, the sun shone through the canopy of the trees, leaving splotches of dappled golden light across the forest floor. Birds chirped, and small forest creatures roamed freely; a peaceful place that many sought refuge in when the camp felt too overwhelming.
Nova remembered doing so himself on several occasions.
Now, as the moon cast a deathly glow across the landscape, the forest shifted into something entirely different.
The silence was unnerving, and try as he might, Nova couldn’t escape the memories of his own body being dragged through the fallen leaves by the hood of his clothing. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet a part of him still yearned to be able to see the camp in the way he once did.
He didn’t appreciate the beauty of Trench enough when he had the chance, and now most of it had turned a dull grey in his vision.
He didn’t like to be kept waiting – he never had done – but ever since the day where he’d begged and pleaded in his mind for the Torchbearer to come and save him from having to fight Nico alone, the thought of being kept in the limbo of uncertainty had his feet itching with the urge to run.
His fidgeting hands went still at the sound of something moving in the bushes. The brief thought flashed in his mind that maybe his own end wouldn’t come at the hands of another melancholic boy that carried his old name, but rather through the sharp teeth of forest wolves seeking food for their pack. The image of his own blood staining the ground the same colour as his robes flashed in his mind, but it didn’t fill him with as much dread as it might have a long time ago.
A cough from behind drew his attention.
In between the trunks of birch trees, a tape-less Torchbearer stood perfectly still.
His emotionless gaze made something within Nova flinch, almost as if he felt a sense of betrayal by Torch’s lack of reaction.
The leader of the Banditos remained stoic, determined not to make the first move.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I’m risking a lot to be here, Nova.”
He tried not to think too much about why he was disappointed by the use of his new name.
“So am I, Torchbearer.” the Bishop replied.
“If anyone was to see you out here-”
“-You’d hand me over in a heartbeat. We both know that.”
It couldn’t have been further from the truth. They both knew so, but neither one of them would admit it.
“Why did you come here?” Torch asked, crossing his arms over his chest like he was protecting himself from something.
“I see you’re being straight to the point.”
“What would you rather do, then? Ask me how I’ve been holding up?”
Nova softened; it was nearly imperceptible, but the two of them had never lost the instinct to be totally attuned to the other’s body language.
“How are you?” His voice wavered as if he was afraid of the answer.
Torch wrestled his bottom lip between his teeth before answering. “Every day is fucking shit without you.”
“I know. And if it’s worth anything, I am sorry it turned out this way.”
“Sorry.” scoffed Torch. “Yeah, well. You weren’t sorry enough not to do it.”
Nova had never seen this side of Torch before. Angry, bitter, and holding onto the past like it was the only thing tethering him to the present. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that the old Bishops were right – that they were being honest when they said that the Torchbearer was a ruthless man who didn’t care for those who crossed his path.
He did know better, however. He’d seen it more than enough.
Days spent with his head in Torch’s lap as they watched the clouds roll by, trips to the lake in the middle of summer where they’d get into a water fight before inevitably kissing, the countless nightmares Torch had coaxed him through when the horrors of his capture in Dema felt too real.
What had he thrown it all away for?
Influence? Power?
Or the chance to stay alive?
“You know why I did it.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.” Torch snapped, palms pressed into his eye sockets as if he was trying to wake himself up from a dream. “You wouldn’t even look me in the eye for more than a second.”
“I would’ve died, Torch. I was bleeding out.”
“At least if you had, I could still think of you as Clancy. Now I’m forced to mourn someone that’s still alive.”
Nova frowned. “You don’t mean that.”
“You’re right. I don’t mean that. I’m just that fucking angry at you that I wish I did.”
Wind blew through the leaves in the silence they both left. Owls hooted in the distance, crickets chirped in the thicket, but it all felt inconsequential to the tension thrumming between them.
“Would you believe me if I said that this wasn’t my intention?” Nova’s voice turned meek, an almost desperate plea for Torch to understand the necessity of his actions. Ones that came from self-preservation, from the desire to live another day with Torch alongside him.
“Did you believe me? By the bonfire, after Voldsøy? When I begged you to see my side of things?”
“That was different-”
“-Was it?” If Torch had been holding his flame, maybe Nova would’ve seen the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes; a sea of hurt and regret and overwhelming sadness for everything they both lost. “You called it a betrayal. And if that’s how you saw me doing my best to be there for you when I had no other way in, I’m going to need a stronger word for whatever the fuck you pulled on me.”
“This isn’t about us trying to one-up each other.”
“When did I ever imply that it was, Clancy? Fuck-”
The name slipped out so easily, the sound natural on Torch’s tongue like he hadn’t even realised what he’d said. Nova thought earlier that he longed to hear that name from Torch’s mouth once more, but now that he had, all he was left with was a festering guilt simmering in his gut at the thought of how badly he fucked up.
Maybe it would’ve been better if he’d died in that tower. Maybe that was why the thought of wolves mauling him in the night didn’t even make him twitch.
Upon realising what name had fallen free, all the fight seemed to drain out Torch’s body, allowing Nova to see for the first time how truly exhausted the camp leader was. He’d been fighting his whole life, finally thinking a happy end was in sight, only for it to be ripped away from him in a heartbeat.
“Why couldn’t we have spoken about this. Why did it have to end the way it did?” The sound Nova made wasn’t quite a whine, but it was certainly close. Something caked in shame that made Torch start to believe that maybe this wasn’t as one sided as he once thought.
“I think-” Torch started, hands fidgeting as he tried to crack the bones in his fist. “I think that we both felt hurt, and placed our blame on each other. I think we were our own undoing.”
The admission hung heavy in the night air, a truth so fragile that the slightest breeze could break it.
“I isolated myself.” began Nova, “I had you there, so willing to help me and I totally shut myself away. I let it all go to my head. I thought that the duty of taking the Bishops down was mine and mine alone, and just look where that got me.” A rueful chuckle escaped from between half-painted lips. “I’m not good at admitting my own faults, you know that just as much as I do. Now it’s your turn.”
It seemed that there were in fact still traces of the old Clancy left in Nova; Torch remembered countless times where the heat of the conversation was deflected away from Clancy after saying something a touch too vulnerable.
“I should’ve been more honest with you.” came Torch’s confession, “You’re not made of glass, and I treated you as if you were countless times over. But, I want you to understand that I didn’t do it because I didn’t trust you, but because I was scared of the consequences."
“Like what?”
“I thought that if I told you about the cycles, then you would spiral into thinking this fight was hopeless. I thought that if I told you that I was projecting myself to you, then you would never want to come back to me. At every turn, I felt that being honest would mean losing you – when in reality it was the opposite.”
Nova finally closed the distance between them, standing close enough to Torch so that he could finally see the thinly veiled emotion in his eyes that the man was trying to repress. He itched to reach out, but the fear of what his hands might do kept them glued to his side.
In the end, Torch made the move; a warm palm gently cupping Nova’s cheek, thumb tracing across the line between tanned skin and black paint, watching as the harsh divide smudged ever so slightly. The Bishop nuzzled into the touch, the resulting feeling making him realise how incomplete and unfilled his days had been since they parted.
“I missed you,” Torch said plainly, words left with nothing to hide behind. “If I could take it all back-”
“I know, but if you could, there would be no need for me. I’m just another stepping stone in your story, and I need to come to terms with that.”
“What if I don’t want you to be? What if you were the one that I was so sure was it for me? I wanted to break this cycle with you. I let you down.”
“I let you down just as much. But we’re here, meeting with each other and talking about it. Maybe there’s hope for us yet.” Nova looked into Torch’s kind, brown eyes, taking in every detail in case they never got to be this close again. “I know you came without your tape, but it doesn’t stop me from seeing you. The tape, the yellow – it all just looks grey to me, but you’re not completely erased from my vision. The paint on my face is lower, I can still feel things like love and empathy to a degree. I’m really trying to be better than he was. I don’t want to be like Nico.”
“And I don’t think you ever will. Nico was…vile. He was ruthless, and cold, and cruel. That’s not you; it’s never been you.”
Torch brought their lips to meet, a soft kiss planted on pink and black, the taste of the ash-paint bitter on his tongue. It was a kiss without expectation – one to carry all the words they couldn’t tell each other, because they’d never be able to say it right. Nova sighed into it, and Torch swallowed the sound with a further press of their lips. They both kissed in a way that erased every ounce of hurt that had festered in the months since they parted, a gentle and saccharine union of a soul split in two.
Nova felt Torch’s spare hand glide up to his head, fingers carding through strands of hair that had recently grown fluffy. He’d only ever shaved it with Torch around, and keeping it short felt wrong somewhere deep in his soul. Shaving his head used to represent a fresh start, and paradise knows that he’d run from that chance the second he put the robe on.
The hand didn’t tug, only scratched softly at Nova’s scalp as he hummed at the sensation. He’d missed this. Nova didn’t want to admit that to himself, like it was some sort of weakness that he needed to bury, but it was clearer now than ever that the divide between them wasn’t doing either man any good.
When they pulled apart, they allowed themselves a moment just to stare at each other, mapping out every crease and freckle on each other’s faces. A quiet resolve settled inside them that this wouldn’t be it; a way forward was possible for them both, even if the cycle was set to repeat itself.
The hand that was in Nova’s hair reached to Torch’s back pocket, a mask of red and black pulled free from the green fabric.
“I know what you’ll say. But I’ll never forgive myself if I don't try once more.”
He held it out between them, the mask symbolising everything that was Clancy. Nova’s fingers twitched, and his own hand raised to trace the reminder of his past self. The black paint on his hands wasn’t anything new, but he felt like there was something improper with the idea of him tarnishing the fabric with his touch. It was enough to make him falter, his hand falling back to his side.
“It’s not me anymore.” Nova said, face etched with regret. “I wish every day that it was, but that mask will belong to someone else soon enough.”
“I understand.” Torch let out a shaky sigh.
“Don’t give up on him. On Clancy. He’ll need you, just like I did. Just like I still do, if we’re being honest.”
“And you’ll have me.” affirmed Torch. “Always.”
“The sun will rise.”
“And we will try again.”
An old motto. A reminder. A prayer.
Nova took a step back, the soft moment between them fracturing slightly. There was hope though, that somewhere along the line the cracks could be filled in with gold – fixed, but unforgotten.
“Goodnight, Torchbearer.”
“Goodnight, Nova.”
As the Bishop turned to leave, he tossed a playful smirk over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way. I’d make sure you wipe the paint off your lip before you go back to camp. I would hate for everyone to get the wrong idea.”
Torch laughed, a sound that Nova wished he could hold on to for the rest of time. The Bandito leader hadn’t laughed much lately, and pride bloomed inside that he was the one to make it happen.
A month or so later, Torch locked eyes with the Bishop from the top of the valley; a boy held kindly in arms covered by red robes, quiet whispers of ‘Clancy, child, let’s go home’ carried away on the breeze. This new Clancy seemed to be more comfortable in Nova’s presence than the last Clancy had ever been with Nico.
Maybe there was hope after all.
The two men graciously offered each other the slightest of nods.
A recognition, an acknowledgement.
Things would be different this time.