It was early.


Much earlier than usual and he was wide awake, with a kind of ill dizziness in his step. Light feet padded the cool carpet of the plush rug that stretch the hall and a small, young hand trailed fingers over the grain of the wall.

He turned left, down another corridor. Then, another left and a right, passing countless other doorways that led to opulent rooms. How many were there? He’d lost count.

The boy picked up his stride, a brisk walk, now, and short wisps of red hair danced at his cheeks. As he traveled, his eyes wandered over the lavishness of the home he was trekking, over the walls and their skillfully engraved borders, to the frames that hugged rich, heavy doors. He loved his place. He loved it like he loved its lord, one of the only two he entrusted his heart to.

One of only two he could ever feel truly responsible for.

He was almost there.

Like a child, he entered the room, humbled by its size, its immensity. Of all the rooms in the great home, this one had to be the absolute most impressive. Walls that stretched high as cliffs, all lined with books and numerous other shelves within the room held many, many more. Countless. There had to be a book for every star that dotted the night sky.

Paces away was a desk- a study, just as grand in scale as the room that housed it and the man that governed it. Behind the desk was a tall, comfortable chair. Dark, earthy suede covered its every inch and where it didn’t, there was solid, polished wood that was intricately and masterfully carved to depict scenes from a history long past. Seated in it was a man, equally tall, finely muscled, and boasting the purest white of complexions. His head and shoulders were draped with tresses of silky black hair.

He didn’t avert his eyes from a thick book that was balanced carefully in one palm. Any intelligent person would leave him be-

The boy strode across the room.

Still, the gentleman didn’t glance up, didn’t move, save for turning pages. Beside him the redhead stood patiently, waiting to be noticed, silently begging for his eyes to be met, but that didn’t happen. Right then, he did something almost unthinkable for anyone else: he leaned over the arm of the chair, lifting a knee to it for height, and curled his black sleeved arms about the man’s neck.

“Nine-! What have I told you about- …“ He was cut short for the boy had heaved himself up into the chair and tumbled into his lap with no regard what-so-ever to personal space.

Nine hugged to him, tucking knees to the brick-white of the Bylah’s side and leaning his boyish face into the curve of that great neck. There was a heavy, exhausted sigh from above and the soft scuff of a book being placed on the desk could be heard.

Heat. Young Nine was practically glowing with it, the kind of warmth that unsettles and cooks the it from the inside, a fever that he had likely picked up from playing in winter rain.

Bylah stood, lifting the boy with him and cradling the pale form in his mighty arms. He carried him, retracing those small, invisible footprints that littered the floor; a left, a right, another right... to the one room in the manse he did not call his own before easing his ward into bed.

Lights dimmed and a door closed as the master of the house left the room. Rest was needed.


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_{Random writing featuring Nine and Bylah. YeahIdunno.}