full circle;
Once in his travels through the country Galo had reached the east coast, somewhere between the old capital and where Gueira had spoken of as his old home. He knew it while still paced ten miles out by the way the air turned briny on his tongue. High above a bird resolved itself out of the moon's midnight glare into the shape of a solitary gull dipping lower and larger until it skated right over head as large as any he'd ever seen. The wing span must have been as wide as a person was tall. Laughing a little, taking it as a sign, he continued on straight ahead over the crest of the final hill and found himself in the company of small town, the sort that rarely survived these days, even less that thrived. The secret was in the sea.
The small collective of houses hugged the shore, a greater assemblage of docks pushing out into the water that lapped at their posts. Even at a distance he could see how some slanted against the lines of the stark white moonlight of the horizon. All of them were empty. Galo couldn't make out the ships, only the brilliant halogen lights that strung their taglines from bow to stern like paper lanterns made of fallen stars. They dotted the water at seemingly random intervals. Fishing boats from a town surviving the hell this world had fallen to on little more than centuries old traditions. That would likely survive long after all else had burned away to ash. At least Galo liked to hope so.
Heraklea spreads out before him like that now. The view from the Governor's mansion down the mountainside dappled in the countless point of lights, a sleepless city on the eve of battle. He finds himself clinging to little more than that same blind hope now as he presses his palm to the thick cold glass of the floor to ceiling windows, framed in thick dark, velvet curtains.
It couldn't be more different than that quaint fishing town. Nor could it compare to Promepolis, set out in the flat expanse of desert, a bold affront in the face of apocalyptic adversity. Heraklea folds up into the hills and valleys of the Colorado peaks like a secret, cold and calculated, every inch of it clinging to every foothold it can find with a vice grip intent on ensuring it's survival.
Lio had summoned him here, hours ago, but he's barely spoken a word from the desk of fine grained ebony where he sits, with a pen in hand, surrounded by papers, crisp white, scattered and not the usual neat piles Galo is used to seeing from him. In this day and age he doesn't know anyone that still prefers to write much of anything by hand but then, most people don't have the steady hand nor the elegant, curling script of Lio Fotia. The ink sets down black on the pages, then dries to a deep, rich emerald sheen spotted with flecks of gold. Any other day, Galo might sit and watch watch him, let the rhythm and the scratch of the fountain pen nib calm his agitation but he's too riled up. The energy of the evening, it's in the atmosphere coursing throughout the city. There's simply too much at stake.
Galo paces the room, window to door, door to bed, bed to the massive ensuite bathroom with the ridiculous jacuzzi tub, and then back to the window again, recounting their plans for the morning, the next day, the day after that, and then... Lio offers his confirmations sometimes. Corrections others. And rarely does he stop long enough to look at him long enough to rework one of the finer points that they'd gone over time and time again until it would seem that it's been been picked thread bare and they're left reweaving it from the very beginning. But still he's writing. Always writing, writing, writing.
Remarkably, Galo gives up in end and returns to the window. His eyes settle on the trial of moving lights, dozens of them joining into one to make their way up the mountain. They swarm up to the gates of the mansion before turning, down an old path that leads towards an old military bunker cut deep into the mountain. The yawning opening was once red. The last flakes of chipped paint still visible in some places. It's missing some of the letters but the words can still be made out. Cheyenne Mountain Complex. Lio told him it once belonged to the Air Force. The network underground network was sprawling. It would be safe during the battle. After that, it didn't matter.
He turns his attention to the flames blazing around the very fringes of Heraklea, lining her like a prismatic halo in all the hues a burnish bonfire can take on. Those are his people down there, the Mad Burnish standing the night's vigil. He should be with them. He's fairly certain if he were to turn out of here now, march down the marble steps and through the fire lit streets and join his generals in whatever revelry they had planned, Lio wouldn't stop him. Wouldn't even be upset. It's the end of the world and no one really stops to question what you're doing under those circumstances anymore.
He can't really say what's keep him here except that Lio had asked him to come and so he stays, watching the city below stumbling toward precarious safety, certain warfare and everything in between. Anything to keep his mind from the horizon. From the direction of Promepolis and the approaching storm that would lay siege by morning light.
Anything to to keep from turning toward the sound of that pen scratching away in shades of green and ripping it from Lio's hands and snapping it in half.
There's a knock at the door. It echos high and hollow despite the plush carpet and thick drapery that blankets the room.
"Come in."
Galo doesn't look to see whoever lets themselves in. On the streets below he can just make out a young mother, alone and leading her two children one in each hand. They tug at her in turns, sometimes skipping ahead, then falling behind. The smaller one but maybe not younger slips but her mother's reflexes are quick enough to scoop her up before she ever hits the ground. Not long after they round the bend that would lead them up the steep climb into the forest and toward shelter.
He pays little heed to the conversation behind him until, "Deliver this to the consul. To be opened in the event of our victory and my death. Destroyed under all other circumstances."
And then he does turn in time to see Lio handing over a thin envelope. It's sealed in wax that still smolders faintly, not quite quite set. Like there's still a chance it might ignite.
It doesn't of course. The attendant simply takes it with no small measure of reverence to Lio, tucking it into a breast pocket and sees himself out of the room with a low bow.
The air in the room has gone still. Lio rustles some of the papers together in a pile all pristine white and green cursive and it's the scratch scratch scratching like it's right in his ear, like it's trying to bore a hole through his head that Galo can't stand anymore. He's on Lio in four long strides, rounding the chair to face him.
"Lio what the hell was that? What the fuck? What's the point of thinking like that?"
He knows the point, the painful practically of it all. Lio who is always thinking three, four, twenty steps ahead of them all and the many branching paths that have led them to this point and how it would all branch out again from here. But that doesn't mean he likes to hear about it now. Especially not now. Not tonight.
"Galo."
"No." Lio, the perfect politician, so recently raised as governor of Heraklea, who brokered alliances with unlikely enemies and allies alike to make this final stand, his tone remains terribly even and reasonable as ever. He learned it from the best and also the worst and Galo doesn't want to hear it now. Not how this is necessary. Not how he needs to prepare for the worst. "If you think you're gonna die, we just find a way to save you. That's how it's always worked till now. Don't think you can get out of that now. Don't you dare think I'm giving up on you. Lio!"
Lio looks up at him from his seat and Galo can't ever remember a time when Lio didn't look at him like that, with those eyes held an inferno within them. Only he's come so far from the day they first met. He's learned to contain it, control it, no longer hide it, he wields it as his greatest strength and even Galo can't but feel cowed in the presence of it.
"Galo, let go of me."
Lio sits in his chair with his hands curved over the arms. Galo hands press into his forearms, holding him firmly in place. Smoke curls up into the air between them but he's still five seconds away from letting it catch. Four. Three. Two. Before he gets to one, he slides away from Lio and takes a step back, arms falling limp at his sides.
"Sit down."
The only place to sit is on the bed, directly across from Lio, so he does. The duvet floods around him like a cloud. He keeps both feet planted on the ground, arms crossed over his bare chest, but alternates clenching one fist then the other in a steady rhythm.
For every ounce of tension that mounts in Galo, Lio releases it, like he's passing it along for him to hold on to for a moment. Just a moment before he promises to take it back. He sighs with his whole body, leaning his elbows into his knees. The straight lines of him take on organic curves. Even if Lio tries to take it back, he'll find Galo putting up a fight.
"I've kept you waiting. I'm sorry."
"It's fine." Galo says it and he means it all of a sudden. When he speaks, Lio always captures his whole attention.
"There's something I've wanted to discuss with you. I suppose it could have waited until after. Only. I'm being selfish. I didn't want to wait. I think I'm allowed for once."
Lio Fotia. Selfish. Now there's a thought. Galo finds himself laughing at the notion before he even gets his next thought out. Relaxing, he leans back into the bed and, true to form, he reads the smile in those violet eyes, knows that Lio is reading his mind in turn.
"I want to thank you."
Galo stomps his foot down to cut him off. "Lioooo. Come ooooon. We've been through this before. We're friends. Partners. You don't thank your friends for helping them to do what's right and save them from crazy jerks hell bent on taking over the world."
"Yes. I didn't drag you up here to rehash old arguments. What I wanted to say is I'd like to return the favor. Is there anything you want when this is all over?"
There's something to the way Lio keeps his hands folded, fingers laced and pressed just so over his mouth. It's hard to get a read on his expression. Galo opens his mouth to protest again then closes it almost immediately. Nothing about Lio is ever said or done by chance. His life moves like the pieces on a chess board, one that Galo has only recently started learning how to play.
Galo considers him now, carefully. "How is that any different? I'm not looking for any favors. If you really feel like you need to do something to put your conscience at ease or whatever, we can discuss it later. After we win."
"I'm asking you now."
So he's not going to get out of it that easily. Some how Galo knew that was coming and he's already searching for how he wants to answer. He looks for it in the patterns of the carpet, where years of tread have worn it down in some places more than others. And in the popcorn patterning of the ceiling overhead. The crystal teardrops of the chandelier sparkle in a scintillating way, like they're mocking him in morse code.
Maybe he doesn't need anything, but there's always others. "I need help with the rest of Mad Burnish. I've done my best to take care of them. You can do a lot more. They deserve a real home. After all this."
Lio smiles, seemingly satisfied and that's all the reply he needs.
"Of course. I had already planned to expand the perimeter of the city to accommodate them. By the look of them now, I can't imagine them wanting to live anywhere else. We can also work with the rest of our allies if our own resources fall short. And I'm sure there will be refugees that need accounting for from Promepolis and the like as well."
Lio has already thought this far ahead because of course he has. Galo laughs bowing his head with a little shake of it. They sit like that for a time, in amenable silence, warmed by the glow that seeps in from the window outside. The cool glow of the moon mingling with the heat of burnish fire.
It's Lio that stirs first, the ball bearing of his chair creaking audible but just barely.
"For a leader, you've grown quite comfortable with following my orders.
Galo is like a knight that's been caught unaware by a pawn. He looks up to find Lio transformed again. Where had the stubborn brat gone that had refused to burn because he thought he didn't need it? Now he didn't burn because he knew he didn't. Unlike Galo, he would never need a throne of fire to play the part of a king. Nor was he just playing at it.
"What can I say?" Galo aims for his best attempt at casual shrug. "A good leader also knows where to to seek guidance. When to stand up and also when to stand down. And you've proven time and again that your orders are worth following."
Lio is still smiling.
"And if I ordered you to do your duty to me as my husband?"
Without lifting a finger. He slides the final piece into place. Checkmate. Galo never saw it coming.
"That's... that's what this was about?" He's on his feet, pacing the foot of the bed, retreading the steps that have worn deep grooves into the carpet. Flexing his fingers he tries to burn off some of the heat that's gathering there, the rush of his pulse suddenly accelerating in his chest. He can't believe this.
"Haven't I done that? I gave you my army. I'll help you win back your city. Your home. Lio, I made a vow to stand by you until the very end. And here we are about to save the whole damn world from that bastard."
For a response, Lio turns to his desk and extracts something from beneath one of the neatly straighten piles of white paper and green ink. Another envelope with that same seal. This one looks older, the edges worn with age but not yet starting to yellow. It looks familiar. Taking a knife, he loosens the wax and extracts the documents within. Galo holds his breath. He's seen these before. His name written on them in his own hand. Right besides Lio's.
Lio gestures for him to be seated. Galo obeys.
"Contracts. Those were contracts. Actually I have it right here. See."
Rising from his chair like it were a high backed throne, Lio only needs to take one step and then his knees are brushing up against Galo's legs. He holds out the contract they had signed. Lowers it into his hand waiting outstretched and Galo isn't sure when he held it out. He isn't sure he's not imagining it either but he thinks the words on the pages are glowing faintly like Lio is lighting them up with his own flames, ready to set them ablaze at any moment. He looks between the papers and the one still holding them.
"I could order you to destroy. No one would have to know. What do you say to that?"
It's a choice. One that Lio is putting directly in his hands. A few pieces of paper that feel like the heaviest thing in the world and in twelve hours time they may not even matter any more.
He's wanted this. More than anything. He thinks he's wanted it from the moment he first saw Lio burn like some kind of terrestrial supernova, raw energy and power that nothing yet had extinguished. That's what scares him now. Causes the words to stick his throat.
The paper starts to catch at the corners where they hold it, turning to ash. The same as the many lives that would be lost in the coming days. Galo stares at it, holding back, watching them drift up like snow defying gravity.
Lio slides hand under his chin, tilts his head back, draws his attention back to him. Galo the moth and Lio has always been the spark, the flame, the inferno. And then he nods.
"Do it."
They could torch it all in a less than a second. Send it up to the heavens in a puff of smoke and ash and that would dissipate as fast as they had started it. Like it never existed at all. They don't do it like that. It feels disrespectful not to make a ceremony of it, of everything that led them here, to this point, on the eve of the beginning of everything, and the end.
They can't say who starts it first, only that the flames form at the fringes, lighting up the green ink, flickering with gold, charring it black until it bleeds into the charcoal of the scorched pages. They have no idea how long it takes, nor how long they remain with there with their hands together long after the last vestiges of the fire have faded.
Without a word, Lio draws back to slide his ring from his finger. In unison, Galo does the same. Without a moment of hesitation, they exchange them.
Galo isn't sure he knows what to expect next but it isn't this. Lio Fotia. The strongest burnish he knows. The strongest person he knows. Who no longer bows to anyone. Who has raised an army, an entire nation. He falls to his knees before Galo. With a smile like the moon lighting the way in the darkest night. He holds up Galo's ring.
"Let this ring be a symbol of my promise to be with you. For as long as I live."
And then he slides it back on.
As long as he lives. It should sound sad, like the beginning of the end, but the words don't wash over him with anything except the love with which they were intended. Taking up the other ring in his own hand, he replaces it on Lio's finger. And repeats the words, as much as he can without them sticking. "For as long as I live."
Outside the Governor's mansion, civilians continue their solemn processional. The armed forces persists with a less than silent vigil. The whole city lit up in violent shades of violet and blue and pink and every color of the rainbow that burn like stars in the night, reflected on the ocean that would be their last chance at salvation. The only fires burning inside resided within their hearts, proof that they were still alive, for now, together forever in this moment.
golden ratio;
The number and letters bleed together at the best of times. At times Galo spends fifteen minutes or so just tracing the shapes of them. A numeric here. A variable there. The elegant curves of Greek script. The perfect balance of theta poised at the tip of a triangle. In the heat of their Indian summer, they do more than just bleed, they practically melt, right off the pages of both his geometry textbook and the clean sheet of college ruled loose leaf where he's looping lazy spirals in the margins.
From his seat at his desk, he can just make out the shape of Lio artfully poised in his bed, knees drawn up so the light splashing in through the window highlights the pale white of his bare legs. He holds Galo's phone in his hands that are half covered by the sleeves of an over-sized Prom U hoodie—also stolen from Galo—and his ankle tilts out and back, in time to whatever idle interest holds his attention on all five inches of screen. A flick of his thumb and he's moved on to the next.
Flick. Flick. Flick. Measured as a metronome.
Like the complex equations sitting in front him, Lio manages to split the line between two worlds, past and present, ancient and modern, rational and irrational. Every few seconds, the very longest strands of blonde hair fall forward into his face and every further few, he reaches up, oblivious, to tuck it behind the spiral curve of his ear. A living statue made out of marble and polyester. The heavy silver ring inlaid with a red cabochon that never leaves his finger complements, rather than clashes with, the nest of cheap plastic bracelets he'd received from a pretty girl at a party last week.
She'd been sporting warm brown doe eyes and a crown of clovers they'd scavenged together in the back yard. He called her anthousa, a mess of alphas and thetas and a whole letters that had no business being strung together and it had fit, because it was Lio. When she asked him what that meant he had simply laughed.
Logic has never been one of Galo's strong points. That's what he struggles with now. So it stands to reason that Lio, who exists so far outside of it, who manages to look perfectly at ease as the temperature stretches to the nineties a week out from October, Lio at least, should make sense.
The window by his bed opens out onto the quad where the annual season of spoon assassin is underway. Lio angles his face in profile to the loud shrieks of someone losing, unfolding just far enough to lean over the sill momentarily. Enough to sate his perpetual curiosity and then he's drawing back inside.
He catches Galo staring. No longer existing at the fringes, Lio consumes the whole of his attention. When he smiles, Galo blames the heat for stealing his breath way.
The letters on the pages are still fuzzy. The intersecting lines and diagrams of circles in squares might as well be Greek. But the beauty of their symmetry is mirrored in the way Lio brushes his hair back, this time intent, without releasing him. And suddenly, crossing the void between past and present, through the space separating the desk from the bed, Galo knows exactly how to connect the dots.
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