I will follow you to the end, like I always have.
The first time Kingo gets his hands on a tangerine, he peels it in a perfect spiral and the stringy white parts catch underneath his nails. It almost feels like a shame to crack it open, but he pulls it apart in neat pieces and the flavor hits him with a rush, as if he has a sunburst tucked under his tongue.
He calls Sprite over, pokes at them with juice-sticky fingers until they relent and try - their eyeroll cut off by soft surprise, delight sneaking past their aloof demeanor. He laughs when they snatch more slices from his hand and shove them into their mouth with unabashed greed, and Makkari darts over to investigate, bright eyed and curious. He offers her the last slice with a flourish, and she takes it with a silly grin, face lighting up as she chews. She’s gone in a blur a moment later, signing ‘thank you’ as she pockets two of the tangerines and races away.
Kingo and Sprite carry the whole cart home with them, finding a balcony and hurling fruit down at the back of Gilgamesh’s head. He catches it without looking up, roars with laughter when another smacks into Phastos instead, and there’s a happy feeling settling into Kingo’s bones, drenched in warmth from more than the setting sun.
They pass out the rest of the tangerines at dinner, and Kingo slips away from the table. He tosses a tangerine from hand to hand as he walks, catches it without looking, strips away the peel - and offers it, quietly, to Ikaris. “You don’t have to stand guard on your own, you know. You’re missing out on some real fun, Gil is trying to outdrink Thena.”
Ikaris nearly smiles, a small curve in the moonlight. “Someone has to ensure the Deviants don’t catch us unawares.” But he takes the tangerine, turning it over under his fingers, and Kingo savors the victory with an uncharacteristic lack of crowing.
"You're right," he says with a shrug. "But not alone." He leans forwards, resting his arms on the top of the wall, surveying the earth stretching out below him. Tactically, it's not the best place for him - he can't fly, would have to sprint down stairs to reach the doors. But it's Ikaris' place, and Kingo stays.
He's keenly aware of it, when Ikaris rests the full weight of his gaze on him. He doesn't move. Ikaris splits the tangerine in two, eats one slice by slice, vulnerability shadowed and safe in the dark of the night. He presses the other half into the palm of Kingo’s hand, careful.
“You fought well today,” he says simply, and they stand and guard the still-growing city behind them, the smell of citrus wafting through the air.
Dust clouds flare with every step that slams against the ground, stinging Kingo's skin, making it hard to see. He falls back from the fighting, another blast of energy slowly gathering on his fingertips as Thena and Ikaris hold back the Deviants. It’s not fast enough - he’s been working on that, honing his abilities, hates to have to wait and leave a crack in the team’s defenses.
The dust settles. There’s a brief moment of clarity. Kingo doesn’t think, doesn’t need to; in the span of a heartbeat, he sees Ikaris land to kill a Deviant, watches Thena turn to assist him, and catches the flash of motion as another lunges for their backs. Kingo doesn't think, doesn't need to; he throws himself forward, the Deviant's claws sinking into his chest, and the blast of energy he slams through its head leaves him tossed back into the dry earth and aching.
The Deviant is dead. His lungs burn. He can't breathe right. Something pools on his stomach - blood. He doesn't know if it's his or the Deviant's, realizes with a faraway lurch that he must be covered in both.
Distantly, he hears Thena yell, and Ikaris kneels beside him what feels like millennia later, what must be only a few seconds. Kingo blinks slowly, eyes heavy, and then there are rough, steady hands on him, and Ikaris pulls him almost gently into his arms, taking off into the air to find Ajak.
He doesn't feel as scared as he should, Kingo thinks, so high up as the lights fade, and when he awakens a shiver of longing rushes through him when he finds there are no strong arms bracketing his body. The air is crisp and still, and he inhales without tasting blood, thanking Arimesh for Ajak and all of her skill. He knows he must be healed, but he shifts slowly nonetheless, wary of an unexpected bolt of pain - stops in his tracks when he finds Ikaris sitting at his side, arms crossed over his chest. Expressionless. Waiting.
“Why do you always do that?” Ikaris’ voice is quiet and solid as stone - not quite angry, not quite sad. Kingo can’t look him in the eyes and pretend that he doesn’t know what he means.
“We’re a team,” he says finally. “We protect each other.”
Ikaris leans forward, dark purpose on his face that Kingo has seen in battle a thousand times, but never directed at him before. “We do. But you take more hits than anyone else. I watched you shielding Druig, once. You don’t think.” There is a fracture, as if he remembers himself, and Kingo watches Ikaris’ features shutter, become more composed. “We protect each other. That includes you. You’re a skilled warrior. We need you. Don’t do that again.”
Kingo stares at him with helpless, wordless surprise, and Ikaris stands and steps out of the room with his usual stiff shoulders, every move slow, like he expects to be stopped. Like he wants to stay.
He leaves behind a single tangerine, sitting small and perfect on the bedside table.
Kingo drifts like a leaf in the wind for centuries. He lingers for years in Cairo, tries Paris and Istanbul on for size. He leaves Sprite in Macedonia and Sersi never visits and once, he hunts down Gilgamesh and Thena in Australia, leaves two days later with one of Gil’s pies and a gash on his arm.
He visits Mumbai at the turn of the twentieth century, and the feeling of home hits him like a freight train.
It takes him - awhile. He runs, comes crawling back. He wanders through the streets of the city, soaking in the feel of it, and isn’t sure what to make of this, when he’s always considered his home a people, not a place. Tentatively, he settles down. He rents an apartment and scouts out the best local store, is lured into a production at a local theater, and he finds...he likes these humans. He’s proud of this beautiful development that he helped spark in the name of Arishem, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s their short lives and their big feelings, their imagination and their admiration. He likes their living, likes living with them.
He’s alive. There’s a new spark settling into his heart, and he thinks he knows what Ajak wanted for them, now. He steps on stage to applause, shining under the fierce lights, and he thinks he’s found it.
Once, he looks into the audience and he swears he sees a familiar silhouette, but the spotlight is blinding, and Ikaris disappears with a blink. He walks to his house past the orange vendor, closed for the night, and his stomach twists with the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck.
But he’s been hearing about these things called moving pictures, and he doesn't turn around.
The plastic box rattles as Kingo pours orange Tic Tacs into his hand. He tosses one at Karun with a grin as he strolls off the set, laughs when it bounces off the side of his head. There's something forced to it, but he's gone before Karun can say anything; it's getting concerning, how well his young friend is learning to read him. But Karun brings him enough Tic Tacs to supply his growing potential addiction, so Kingo supposes he’ll keep him around. For now.
He pops the top button of his shirt open when he closes the door of his dressing room behind him, kicking off his shoes and letting the faux relaxation drain away. He rolls his shoulders, turns to the mirror to wipe off his eyeliner - stops in his tracks, eyebrows raising.
“That’s...that’s creepy, Ikaris. That’s terrifying. Have you ever played a serial killer? You should. Why are you lurking in the shadows like you want to serial kill me?”
Ikaris snorts quietly, pushing off of the wall he had been leaning against, dropping a brown paper bag on the counter in front of Kingo, and then retreating back to the other side of the room. He sits down on the couch like he owns it, head tilted carefully. “I was waiting for you. Was I supposed to invent a story to convince the crew not to kick me out?”
Kingo shrugs. “We’re friends from college. Did you bring me a present?” Ikaris looks at him blankly, and Kingo rolls his eyes, snatching up the bag with barely concealed interest. It crinkles loudly as he pulls it open, reaches in, and...softens unexpectedly, smile lines creasing around his mouth. “You know these are clementines, not tangerines.”
There’s a brief pause, and Ikaris visibly loses some of his confidence, presses his lips into a thin line. Kingo picks one up, tosses it from hand to hand, and beams at him. “Thank you, Ikaris.”
He cracks a hint of a smile, relaxing again. Kingo sits beside him on the couch, brings the bag with him, and puts his feet up on the coffee table. “How have you been?”
Ikaris watches him peel the clementine, and Kingo watches him from the corner of his eyes, and something settles. “Good,” Ikaris says finally. “Good.”
Sersi is the one who calls. He doesn’t remember her exact words, and he doesn’t think he ever will, though he could come up with a thousand devastating lines made for the silver screen. It doesn’t matter. The end is the same: Ikaris is dead, and Kingo sprawls out on a patio chair in his back lawn. Sunglasses firmly in place, he stares at the sun and he thinks, Was I looking up when he died?
Sunglasses firmly in place, he stares at the sun and he thinks, Was it worth it?
He believes in Arishem’s plan. He believes in his family.
He believed in Ikaris.
His mouth tastes bitter for weeks, afterwards. There’s a part of him still stuck in that hallway, watching Ikaris turn away. There’s a part of him still stuck. A part of him that’s always been.