In this moment, he doesn't need to be Ilya. There's only the wind in his hair, the impact of his boots against the stone pavement, the shouts of the guards, the smell of the sweet buns in his satchel mixed with the sea salt in the air. He runs, and laughs as he does, his breath snatched out of his lungs.
"Thief!" someone yells behind him, some face in the endless sea of faces that is the city of Lumine. He only laughs louder— they can call him whatever they damn well like, they won't be able to catch him.
The city is something alive, he always thinks— constantly in motion, like the canals running through it. It's a beautiful, sunny day; everyone's hanging up their laundry and going on strolls with their sweethearts. He sees the surprise on people's faces as he passes them. He wonders what those ordinary citizens think of him, this small young man with patches on his clothes and scrapes on his knees, running past as quick as lightning and chased by the Royal Guard. He wonders if they're shocked. He hopes they are. He hopes he's a spectacle.
He risks a glance at the guards behind him, resplendent in their gold-and-white uniforms and— hm, that's rather closer than he'd like. Their frames are hulking, far taller and more muscular than his, so probably best to avoid a physical confrontation, but it does mean he's got an advantage when it comes to agility. Good — that's always been his strongest suit. He makes a sharp left turn into a narrow alley and delights in the sound of all the guards crashing into each other.
Ilya's heart races in his chest as he comes up on what looks like a dead end. Most people would just see a dead end, a wall and nothing else, but he sees the chinks, the footholds. He sees how if he only keeps going he'll get to the roof.
Then there's no more time to think, and Ilya's heartbeat thunders in his ears as he launches himself at the wall and grabs onto the highest windowsill he can reach. Distantly he hears the sound of furious shouts and footsteps as he pulls himself up with one hand. This is easy once you get the hang of it— there's nothing but you and the wall and the sky above, you only have to keep looking for the next foothold, you just have to keep going despite your shaking hands. It's excitement, that's all, is what you have to tell yourself over and over, not fear. Of course it's not fear.
Something grazes his cheek— could be a bullet, he wouldn't put it past the Royal Guard. Some hot liquid drips down his chin. Still he keeps climbing, gloved hands finding purchase on the roof tiles and then he's on the roof, the city laid out before him.
Despite everything that happens here, Lumine is a beautiful city, even more so in the summer. Ilya gazes out over the sparkling blue sea, the gleaming ivory walls of the Grand Library, the endless sea of endless faces — and then he tenses and begins, again, to run. His lungs are burning now, his legs screaming at him to stop, but he won't listen. He can't. He's got to keep moving.
And then he leaps across the gap between the buildings and for one golden moment, he's weightless. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Time seems to slow—
And then he's back to running. Gods, but he loves this, the thrill of it all, how much of the city he gets to see from up here; he loves the scent of the sea in the air and the feel of the sun on his skin.
His satchel hits against his hip over and over again, carrying those precious sweet buns. They're a luxury Lovey rarely ever gets to enjoy, but she deserves them. She deserves them and so much more.
Abruptly Ilya realizes he's still being pursued — there are guards down on the street, running parallel to him and shouting to each other. He curses under his breath. He can't lead them to Lise's place. He skids to a halt and looks down to the street below, the side without the guards.
He can make it, he knows he can. He knows how to fall, how to roll to absorb the momentum; and this building isn't too tall. He backs up, and runs, and suddenly is weightless again and laughing. The sky above him is endless and blue, and he twists in the air to face the street below.
Ilya rolls just as he hits the ground, the perfection of it electric in his veins. He can't stop a grin from creeping onto his face.
He starts to run again.
-----
Ilya swings in through the window, and slumps into their one ratty armchair. He blows his bangs out of his eyes. His legs hurt.
Their apartment is not the height of luxury by any means. It's a place to live, though; it has a kitchen and a bed, even a window. Not everyone has all that.
The door to the bedroom creaks open, and Lovey peeks out. Her eyes light up when she sees him. "Ilya!"
Ilya sits up and grins. "Hey there, dove."
She giggles and bounds over to him. "Did you bring me something?"
"You know I always do." He reaches into his satchel and pulls out the sweet buns, putting a finger to his lips. "You know Lise doesn't like it much when I borrow things, so let's keep this our secret, okay?"
Lovey nods frantically and makes grabby hands at the buns. Ilya snorts and hands her them both. She blinks, and cocks her head to the side. "Aren't you gonna have one?"
Ilya shakes his head with a smile. "They're for you, dove."
Lovey chews on her lip for a moment, then gets that look in her eyes that she gets when she won't take no for an answer. She rips one in half with her teeth, handing the other half to Ilya. "For you," she says, muffled through the bun in her mouth.
Ilya can't really do anything but accept. She's very stubborn. He takes the bun. "You know you don't have to share your things with me," he says, bouncing his leg.
She shrugs. "Yeah, but I wanna."
Ilya sighs, defeated, and bites into the bun. It's really good, dusted with sugar and fluffy like a cloud. He hasn't had something like this since — well, okay, since the last time he stole these for Lovey and she made him take some.
Lovey's only eight. The poor girl's clothes all hang too loose or are too tight, and all of them are patched, or sewn back together after the seam split. She's tan, with a hooked nose and beautiful brown eyes. Her hair is long and chestnut-brown, falling down around her face in ringlets, and she keeps most of it up in a ponytail with a strip of red cloth, and she's only eight and far too thin.
Ilya and Lise try their best to keep her happy and fed, but this is Chandelle — the capital, no less — and the nobles don't care when the poor people fall through the cracks. Their best just sometimes isn't good enough.
But she looks happy now, chewing on the buns with stars in her eyes. Ilya hopes she is.
There's the sound of a key clicking in a lock, and the front door swings open. Lise walks in, then stops in her tracks as she sees Ilya and Lovey.
Ilya and Lovey stop chewing and look at her wide-eyed.
Lise folds her arms, one eyebrow raised. "Really, Ilya?"
Ilya gives her his best puppy-dog eyes. Lovey copies him.
"You are both terrible influences," Lise says and swings her own satchel off her shoulders. She must have just finished her shift at the tavern nearby.
She looks terrible. The dark circles under her eyes are ever-present, her hair is usually this unkempt, but still— Ilya hates that he isn't able to help her, that she won't let him look after her like she looked after him.
He wishes she would let him help her.
Lise gestures for him to get up and she takes his place on the armchair, brushing some stray hair out of her face. She keeps her hair short, but it's been growing recently. Ilya might offer to cut it for her soon. "Lovey, you doin' okay?"
"Mm-hm!" Lovey swallows the piece of bun in her mouth and rushes off to the bedroom. She comes back with a piece of paper. "Look, Lili, I drew you!"
"Oh, Lovey, it's wonderful," Lise says softly. Ilya cranes his head to look— it's a cute little drawing of Lise, red hair far redder than it is in reality, freckles exaggerated. Of course Lovey isn't the world's most skilled artist, but it's very good for her age. It's also so sweet that Ilya wants to squeal.
Lovey bounces up and down on her heels, beaming. Then she pauses. "Oh, Lili, did you get things for dinner?"
Lise sighs. "Shoot. No. I have the money, but—"
"I'll go," Ilya volunteers, scrambling to his feet. "You're really tired, Lise, I'll take care of it."
Lise nods, folding up the drawing, and digs through her satchel for her coin pouch. "Yeah, sure. Here."
"I'll make dinner then," Lovey pipes up.
Ilya feels a twinge of guilt. "You don't have to, I can—"
"But I wanna!"
"...Alright, fine." Ilya takes the money from Lise and slips it into his own coin pouch. "Then I'd better get to market."
"You can take the door like a normal person," Lise calls after him as he slips out the window. "You know that, right?"
-----
Ilya knows these streets like the back of his hand. The people come and go, but the city stays the same, and he's learnt the alleys and buildings and shortcuts like a game to play. And he's damn good at it, despite having only lived here for a few years.
He knows everyone can tell he's not from around here. His angular eyes, the jet black of his hair, his pale skin (he gets sunburned embarrassingly easily)— he's clearly Sau, and while the people of Chandelle and especially Lumine don't seem to care much, he knows he stands out. Sau people don't often make the trek all the way from Chiesau Nova to Chandelle; the sea between them is infamously harsh, and it's a long way on land.
He hates that sea.
Ilya bites his lip and digs his nails into his palm and starts walking faster, weaving through the crowd of people with ease. He doesn't want to think about that, not now, not ever. He has to get to market.
Ilya clutches his satchel and thinks about the coin pouch inside. Lise is too kind for her own good, has a bad habit of taking in strays— like him.
He owes her, more than he thinks he can ever repay.
He's been trying. He works hard to provide for Lovey and Lise herself; he's skipped more than a few meals so that they can eat. But that's fine, he doesn't mind, he doesn't care about that—
Ilya stands in front of a vegetable stall and wonders briefly how he got there. Then, he just sighs and starts haggling with the stall owner. Which is boring, but at least it's a distraction from his thoughts. Then the fishmonger, and he kind of hates it, but at least it occupies his stupid brain for more than a few seconds. He prefers running. But he tries not to commit too many crimes in the same week; it gets the Royal Guard antsy.
Eventually he collects a not-very-full bag of food to bring back to Lovey and, walking back, grips the strap of his too-light satchel so tight his knuckles have gone white. He bites his lip just a little too hard and a metallic taste floods his mouth. He can only hope Lise doesn't notice it, like she didn't notice the scrape on his cheek from that bullet.
The worst part is that she insists on taking care of him still. Despite everything, despite the fact that he can more than take care of himself now, despite the fact that he already owes her so much, he—
The corner's right there. The one where she found him. Gods damn it. He turns away, wiping the blood from his mouth, and tries not to think about the cold and hunger pangs and the sea of faces that never even gave him a second glance.
Ilya trips over a stone sticking a little too far out of the pavement, and "Vekich," he hisses, checking his knee. That's a bad scrape. Lise is definitely gonna notice he's so banged up. And of course he had to curse in Sau. He shakes his head and stands up—
He starts to run, ignoring the pain in his knee and clutching his satchel close to his chest. Far away from the sea and Chiesau Nova and all those people at the market and back to Lise and Lovey and their tiny apartment. He tastes blood and ignores that, too, in favor of the beating of his heart and the wind in his hair. And he finally stops thinking and just keeps going and he isn't laughing, but he's not crying, either.
-----
The chowder Lovey ends up making is filling and, while it isn't the most delicious thing Ilya's ever eaten, it's still very good. By the time they've all finished eating it's getting dark outside; the summers in Chandelle stretch out the days, yes, but the sun always sets eventually. It's just past nine bells, and Ilya is tired. Seems Lise and Lovey are, too, because they all collapse into their one bed without a word.
Ilya stares out the window, watches the breeze flutter the curtains and the moon shine through onto their bed. Lovey's arms are tucked around his waist; Lise lies across from him, next to Lovey as well. She looks her age when she's asleep, only nineteen or twenty, only a few years older than Ilya himself.
The moon is full and bright tonight, reflected off the canals and the sea beyond.
Lise had fussed over his injuries, just like he'd thought she would. "What even happened?" she asked, gesturing to his cheek, expression pinched in concern, and Ilya couldn't take it, so he'd just grinned and then turned away from her piercing gaze.
Ilya wonders if this is going to be forever. This city, this life, day-to-day and moment-to-moment. Even now, exhausted and half-asleep, all he wants to do is jump out that window and run and keep running. But he won't, he can't. He owes Lise, for everything she's ever done for him— and so he stays.
He runs his fingers through Lovey's hair and stares at the ceiling. It's riddled with cracks. When he was younger, when Lise first brought him here, he remembers mapping them out, pretending he was an astronomer and these were his constellations. He remembers telling Lise all about them over their meagre breakfast, remembers her laugh like bells.
He remembers before that, too. The streets, cold and unforgiving to a boy like him who didn't speak the language. His Yvsken wasn't good back then, and he'd never had any cause to learn Chandellan, and he didn't have any money, and when he tried to tell anyone who he was they didn't believe him. He'd ended up stuck in Lumine near the end of summer. It was winter when Lise found him.
Ilya remembers the first time he'd gotten desperate enough to steal. He had hated himself for it, so small and hungry, crying himself to fitful sleep every night. The smell from the baker's stall had been so close, and so tempting, and he couldn't help himself. He had snatched a bun dusted with sugar from right under the baker's nose—
And he ran off like a shot, and felt the wind in his hair, and even when people started shouting he didn't care. He didn't care, because he was faster than all of them and almost entirely unremarkable and free, and he laughed and laughed and laughed and when he stopped running, he'd eaten the entire bun in tiny ravenous bites in some dark corner of the city.
Maybe there's something wrong with him. Something broken, cracked like the ceiling. Ilya doesn't know.
His eyelids flutter shut and he slips into unconsciousness.
Points: 15247
Reviews: 116
Donate