“Who do you think is the most attractive teammate you’ve ever had?”
“What kind of question is that?” Logan laughs and grabs the card from Alex to make sure he’s not bullshitting him. He turns to the social media admins behind the camera, holding up the card as evidence for their crimes.
“It’s alright, Loges, we all know the answer is me,” Alex whips his hair like he’s a pubescent member of a boy band. Logan smacks his arm with another chuckle.
“Yeah, well, besides you it’s gotta be Liam.”
“Lawson?” Alex nods, considering the answer. “Yeah, we were teammates for a bit, too. He’s cute.”
“It’s the hair,” Logan argues, gesturing to his own head. “So silky, and he pulls off the bottle blonde look so well.”
“I pulled off the bleached look.”
Alex gasps at Logan’s so-so gesture and their interview quickly dissolves into Alex trying to mess up Logan’s own hair as an act of retribution.
—
“Liam?!”
Oscar’s voice hits a register Logan hasn’t heard since middle school and he quickly tries to duck back into his hotel bathroom. He’s caught around the waist and wrestled down onto the bed.
“You think Liam is prettier than me, huh?” Oscar asks while Logan’s still slightly damp skin allows him to wiggle out of the younger boy’s hold. “Should I pop by the alchemist and get a bottle of bleach dye?”
“Oh shut up, mate.” Logan is grinning as he rolls on top of Oscar. He meets whatever snarky comment is about to come out of the Aussie’s mouth with an open-mouthed kiss. It only deters him for a minute.
“Do I at least beat Fred?” He mumbles from between their lips. “‘Cause it’s a little embarrassing for my boyfriend to like his teammates better than me, mate.”
“I don’t like anyone better than you,” Logan sighs, smiling as he twists Oscar’s soft brown hair - which he is more than happy with by the way. Oscar is obviously joking around but Logan doesn’t want there to be any doubt that he thinks he’s the handsomest man in the world. He leans down and presses a kiss to his hairline.
“Despite appearances, they did actually get our approval for that question before putting it in the video. I said Liam cause I knew he’d be the most cool with it and nothing will happen from a spotlight being put on my relationship with him.” Logan tugs on Oscar’s hair again and meets his eyes. “Unlike my relationship with another past teammate.”
“I should still be your favorite, though.”
“The handsomest, the smartest, the most talented,” Logan lists. “My favorite teammate I’ve ever had.”
Oscar grins up at him and Logan takes that as permission to continue re-exploring Oscar’s mouth. When Oscar turns them both over, Logan assumes they’re going in a much messier direction. Instead, he finds himself meeting empty air as Oscar moves off the bed.
“Alright, that’s all I wanted,” he says, making his way back towards the door. Logan stars dumbly after him before propping himself back up on his hand.
“Wait what?”
“I have my own media stuff to do, unfortunately,” Oscar explains, opening the hotel door. He peeks out to make sure no one’s coming before turning back to Logan with a smirk.
"Laerryn, Zerxus needs us. I think we should say a few words. Laerryn?"
The light pierces through the stained glass windows, littering the floors with fractals of colour. People mile around, unaware of the boundaries they cross, light sluicing off them like rain on glass. In the center of the room, an empty pyre stand lies. Mourners had brought gifts, and the Septerion had sent ornamental effigies. The Ring of Gold had marched through earlier, leaving flowers and enough layers of enchantment to choke on. The Ring of Silver had left a self-replenishing feast. The Ring of Brass had not brough anything, keeping their hands free to clutch and sooth and care. Laerryn's, usually busy with a wrench or a bit of machinery, lay still on her thighs.
"Laerryn." It's Loquacious, at her shoulder. He'd written the eulogy. It had been beautiful. It had been perfect. She eyes a head of red hair, standing near his remaining father, scarlet crown bowed. "Laerryn!"
"Quai," it croaks out. Her voice surprises herself, she had not noticed she'd been crying. Loquacious carefully kneels in her line of sight. Her gaze fixes on the clear whiteness of his eyes.
"Laerryn. You're worrying me." He says it like a fact, no questions, no demands. He knows she will fill the silence if she feels the need. Some part of her brain reminds her its an interview technique, but she doesn't have the heart to care. She looks at the man she loves and wonders if he will still love her when he knows.
"It was my fault," she whispers, eyes wide and wet. Loquacious goes still. He's published enough headlines to know one when he sees one. He takes her hand.
"Let's go talk somewhere quiet."
Later, when she tells him, he does not speak. He does not interrupt her, or ask questions. The truth lays heavy in the air, and Loquacious nods. When Laerryn asks him to keep it a secret, to tell no one, he nods. He nods and nods as if its the only function he's retained, until she whispers brokenly, not even to him.
"I killed him. Evandrin is dead because of me."
And only then does he wrap her tightly in his embrace, and shake his head.
"No, Laerryn. You did nothing wrong. It was a foolish pursuit, but what happened was not your fault. Some lessons have to be learned the hard way. I wish it did not have to be like this. But now we know. Promise me you will not try again."
"Of course," she whispers into his golden lapels, the color matching her intricate face paint. "Of course."
While the pyre burns that evening, empty and bright, Laerryn watches, and plans.