XLIV
Freedom is a strange thing.
Fon once thought it would feel like air in his lungs—sharp, clean, cutting away the weight he carried for so long. Instead, it feels like water: wide, endless, directionless. Like being a buoy set adrift with no port to anchor to. The Triads had shaped his life for so long that now, without their structure… he's untethered. Not lost. Just—adrift.
He wakes each morning with no orders to follow. No mission, no superior, no carefully folded list of expectations. Just the stretch of sky overhead and a map he barely follows. Some nights, he dreams of the Triads—not the blood or the bruises, but the routines. The structure. The predictability. But when he wakes, the guilt fades with the cold morning air, and the trees around him don't expect him to be anyone but who he is.
That, he's learning, is enough. And when it's not, traveling clears his mind. He moves west at a steady pace, stopping long enough to scavenge, hunt, or sharpen a blade when needed. The map in his bag is annotated with small, neat characters marking rivers, abandoned cabins, promising hunting grounds. The cold doesn't bother him. Storm Flames thrum warm through his core, and besides, it's familiar.
What's unfamiliar—what's new—is the company. Every evening, when the snow begins to darken and the shadows stretch, Harry arrives. At first, Fon wasn't sure if he would come every night. Harry didn't promise it. But he does.
He always comes.
Being beside a curious phoenix as he does his katas makes the sea of his thoughts feel less cold. He doesn't speak often, but when he does, it's with that offhand warmth he doesn't even seem aware of—like a hearth-fire left burning because someone might return home. It's… odd. In a good way.
Fon doesn't smile often, not real smiles, but lately he's been doing it more than once. Every day he rises before the sun with a smile, trains until his body is warm and the morning wind tastes of effort. He then runs towards the west until he mediates while doing so, his mind wonderfully calm. However, it's dinner—always dinner—that brings him back to center and lift his mood. It feels more like a ritual than a routine to set up camp among the snow, a soft place between distances. The air bites, but it doesn't bother him as he's crouched near the fire, flipping rice in a battered pot when he hears the soft whoosh of wings behind him and the faint rustle of feathers settling into the snow.
Harry's here.
Always a bird, at first.
Fon doesn't turn—just continues stirring, offering warmth and silence alike.
Only when the scent of cooked grains and herbs curls through the clearing does Harry shift. There's a flare of gold and black, and when Fon glances sideways, he sees him—human again, still wearing the formal robes that the Triads have given him, and reaching without shame for Fon's thick blanket to drape over his shoulders.
"Hn." Fon huffs, not looking at him. "You've taken a liking to that."
"It's warm," Harry says simply, already pulling it tighter as he sits.
Fon doesn't point out that it's his, that flame instincts make him want to take it back and bicker—or maybe press closer to offer warmth himself. A Storm Flame without a Sky is like a mountain trying to find the right wind. But still… he lets the Sky take his warmth. Just as he takes in the warmth of Harry's presence. It's enough to center him as they eat quietly, steam rising in white plumes around them.
Afterward, Harry picks up a stick and eyes the snow. "You said you'd teach me more characters tonight."
Fon hums and kneels beside him, drawing careful strokes with the tip of his own finger. "This one is ren—人. It means person."
Harry copies it, brows furrowed in concentration. "Looks like a couple of legs."
Fon's lips twitch. "You're not wrong."
It continues like that for a while—Harry drawing, Fon correcting. Then, as the fire begins to die down, Fon rises and brushes off his pants. "Now the lesson you dread."
Harry groans but gets to his feet anyway, pulling the blanket tighter as he shuffles upright.
"Flame control starts in the body," Fon reminds him. "So does discipline, so learning to fight it is."
"But I have magic," Harry says, not really protesting, just… poking.
"You still need to learn about Flames."
That earns him a tired but conceding look. "And I've to learn to fight for that?"
Fon smiles at him, serenely. Harry sighs and puts the thick blanket inside his bag. He shudders once, but the cold is soon forgotten as they begin with the basic stances. Fon moves around him with soft corrections, occasionally tapping his shoulder or hip to adjust his posture. Harry listens, watches, repeats. He's not precise, but he's attentive. Curious and eager once he's warm and not shivering from the cold.
It's… flattering, in a way. To be listened to like that. Most people followed Fon's teachings out of fear or obligation, but there was a disdain in their eyes because he was younger than his students and better than them. Harry follows because he wants to learn.
They end the session with breath work as they stretch, knees in the snow, hands open to the sky. Harry's hair is dusted white, his cheeks pink. He looks peaceful.
Fon exhales with him, but doesn't say thank you even as he watches Harry mouthing the Chinese word for sky, trying to pronounce it right—He thinks it, though. And maybe he is drifting still, but this Sky—this strange, earnest phoenix—is a current he doesn't mind being swept into.
XLV
The snow is silent today. Not in a heavy way—just still. Restful. The kind of silence that settles like a blanket, as though the mountains themselves have paused to listen.
Fon sits cross-legged on the packed snow, his breath even, body relaxed in a way that only years of training can create. Across from him, Harry mirrors his posture, still bundled in the thick blanket he insists on stealing each night. Only this time, the look on his face is serious. Focused.
"Okay," Harry murmurs, his eyes closed. "Let's try again."
Fon hums in acknowledgment but doesn't speak. Harry doesn't need words right now—he needs quiet. Stillness. Trust.
They've been practicing for over a week now, each evening after dinner and Chinese lessons. Meditation, breathwork, control. Fon guiding. Harry trying and failing. And trying again. It's not easy for him as he's more attuned to magic, to a river he commands with ease, to power that obeys his will without needing to name it. But Flames aren't like that. They aren't a power that's inside a core, that he can use whenever he wants, separated from him but still his own. They're his soul.
They're his self, the hidden and obvious parts of him. For someone like Harry—someone who spent years distancing himself from pain, from people, from the world—it's no small thing to sit with himself and ask: Who am I?
But today feels different. It always takes Harry a while to enter a meditation state but this time he's calmer, more centered. Fon can feel the shift even before Harry, in the way that—slowly, softly—heat rises in the air. Fon's eyes open just in time to see it: a flicker between Harry's palms. Small, but steady. Like a flame coaxed from embers. It shimmers gold with what he thinks is his magic, but it's unmistakably an orange flame.
A Sky Flame of high purity. Unfettered, unclaimed. Radiating quiet acceptance and warmth. So much warmth.
Fon draws in a breath before he can stop himself. It's not just the power of it—it's what it feels like. What it does to the space around them. The snow doesn't melt, but the air changes. Softer. Safer. Like sitting beside a fire you didn't know you needed.
Harry blinks open his eyes, surprised by his own success. Then he grins, the kind that lifts all the weariness from his face and makes him look years younger.
"I did it," he whispers, as if afraid to break the moment.
"You did," Fon says, voice low. He keeps his posture still, but inside… something shifts in him. The kind of shift that feels like plates beneath the earth moving into place, inevitable and there.
The flame glows brighter for a heartbeat—just slightly—like it heard his longing. And Fon's fingers twitch in his lap, but he doesn't reach for it. Doesn't reach for him even if it would be easy—too easy, now that the flame is open—to place his own Storm beside it and let the bond fall into place.
But Harry is still learning and discovering what his Flames mean, what they can do. He's still learning what it means to be a Sky. And Fon… Fon cares about him too much to make that choice for him. So he waits and watches the way Harry coaxes the flame into a spiral above his palms, entranced. Like it's new, like it's sacred. Because maybe it is.
Fon lets himself think, just for a moment, about things he usually buries too deep to name. Like his mother, always distant. His sister, too young and fragile, someone to protect more than confide in. He's had loyalty. Duty. Responsibility. But never—never—a place to rest. A home. And this… this quiet moment, in the snow, with a boy grinning at the glow of something inside him—This feels like what a home should be.
Not walls. Not a roof.
Just a presence.
Fon exhales through his nose and closes his eyes again, waits for the moment to pass when the flame fades. It doesn't. The feeling stays. And he knows then, without doubt or denial, that someday—if Harry will let him—he will call this Sky his own. But not now. For now, he watches Harry's hands and the snow beneath them and thinks: I can wait.
XLVI
The morning sun stretches slow and golden over Sicily's cobbled streets, washing pale stone in light. The sea air smells of salt and citrus, and the whole city moves like it remembers how to breathe after holding it in for too long.
Fon walks beside Harry not the first time, and—if he has his way—not the last. However, something about this morning feels different. Charged. Anticipation lingers in the space between footfalls. They have a meeting later—an important one—but the world hasn't asked for blood yet, so they walk together. Harry is talking animatedly now, pointing at the corner of a building where ivy spills down like green lace.
Fon barely hears the words.
He's too busy admiring the way the sunlight filters through Harry's hair, how his light scarf—borrowed from Fon, of course—keeps slipping off his shoulder only to be caught again with careless fingers. There's a warmth to him that has nothing to do with fire or magic or power. Just Harry.
They pass a stone fountain, half-covered in moss, and Harry leans close to look at the carved face of Neptune. He hums thoughtfully, brows knit in curiosity.
"Do you know what the history of this one?" he asks, tipping his head back toward Fon. And Fon steps closer, maybe a bit closer than necessary. Close enough that if they were anyone else, it would be impolite. But Harry doesn't step away. He leans in, instead, as if waiting.
So Fon does what he does best—he explains softly. "It's from the early 1700s. A noble's attempt to impress a visiting French count, if I remember correctly. The French never came, but the fountain stayed."
Harry lets out a quiet chuckle. "A story of disappointment, then."
Fon lets his lips curl into a real smile—one that's not crafted or polite. "A story of permanence."
Harry glances at him then, eyes bright. And warm. Always warm.
The day continues like that—slow and careful. They walk the narrow streets where balconies overflow with laundry and basil, and as they do, Fon tells him more. Not just about Sicily. But about the Mafia.
He murmurs near Harry's ear whenever he speaks about it, keeping his voice low so the few people around them don't hear him as they pass by.
"The original Families began in Naples and Sicily," he whispers, brushing Harry's shoulder with his own as he pretends to gesture at an alleyway. "Protectors first. Then criminals. They called themselves 'men of honor.' Most still do."
Harry raises an eyebrow. "Honorable criminals. Sounds ironic."
Fon chuckles. "It's complicated, like all things that survive centuries are."
Each time he speaks, he leans in. And each time, Harry listens, flame-bright and unguarded. He doesn't seem to notice how close they're walking now, or maybe he does—and doesn't mind. Fon likes this closeness, not only to his flame, but to Harry. He likes the excuse of lowering his voice to a whisper, of needing to stand near to be heard. The truth is, he doesn't need to whisper—not really. But he likes the intimacy it brings. The reason to breathe in the Sky's warmth. To feel the edge of his flame just beneath the skin, like a heartbeat against his own.
Harry turns to him, beaming at something he just saw through the window of a bakery. "Do you think we have time to grab something sweet before the meeting?"
Fon allows the smile to linger. "Only if I'm paying."
Harry laughs and drags him toward the scent of sugar and almonds.
Fon follows, not because of duty, not because of expectation. But because there's a flame beside him that feels like home and Fon—unmoored, lost for so long—has learned to follow warmth when he finds it.
XLVII
He arrives thirty minutes early to the meeting. The coffee bar is like the first time he's seen it with Harry: small, tucked in a quieter street where the city hums rather than shouts. Old stone walls, wicker chairs. Sicilian light paints everything gold and warm. Yet Fon can already feel the weight of sharp eyes before he steps in.
Renato's presence is unmistakable.
He's already there, sitting like he owns the place. Dressed in his tailored suit and signature fedora, espresso in one hand, the other loosely curled around the saucer. His tie is slightly loosened—not out of sloppiness, but purpose. It's a disarming move. The relaxed hunter.
Fon approaches with quiet steps, his expression unreadable behind his usual half-lidded eyes and pleasant smile. He slides into the seat across from him without ceremony. He greets him, but Renato doesn't offer a greeting in return. Not really.
"I heard you're a free agent now," he says instead, voice low and casual, but his eyes are as sharp as ever. "No longer shackled to the Triads."
Fon isn't surprised. Of course news like that travels fast—especially when Renato is the one doing the listening.
"It's not new," Fon replies mildly. "Everyone knew I'd been trying to escape their leash for years. It was only a matter of time, especially when they decided to involve my sister."
"You're right, everyone knew you wanted out," Renato says, tilting his cup. "But no one thought you'd succeed. So my question is: what did it cost, Fon? What did you pay to finally cut the leash?"
Fon keeps smiling. He doesn't blink. "I came to ask for the favor you owe me. Not to entertain gossip."
Renato ignores him.
"Maybe you didn't pay the price," he murmurs, eyes gleaming over the rim of his espresso. "Maybe it was your Sky."
The word drops between them like a stone in water and Fon's smile fades. Not suddenly. But like morning mist burnt away by a rising sun. Quiet. Absolute.
"So that's the rumor now?" Fon asks, voice low.
Renato shrugs. "Not quite. I didn't hear it from anyone." His smirk sharpens. "I just happened to see you yesterday. And again this morning. The cozy little walks and your longing stares told me he wasn't yours yet, even if he was clearly comfortable in your presence. He looked very warm. Very... Sky."
Fon exhales slowly through his nose. "You followed me."
"That's what I said, isn't it?" Renato takes another sip of his espresso like they're discussing the weather. "Others will start connecting the dots soon. He's a free agent with no ties, right? That's rare, especially with a flame that bright. He was clearly new into his Flame though even if the strength and purity of it was obvious to all." He leans back. "Sure you can protect him?"
"He doesn't need protection," Fon says tightly, which only makes Renato smile wider.
"So he's strong, then? Didn't look like much." He taps his finger against his cup. "But who am I to judge?"
"Renato," Fon warns, and there's iron in the way he says it. Quiet, but unmistakable.
Renato leans forward, eyes gleaming with amusement. "You wrote to me needing a new identity for a scientist. I can do that. No problem. I owe you, after all." A pause. "But if you want my best work…" He smiles. "I want to meet him."
Fon narrows his eyes. "You're not just curious."
"I'm interested," Renato corrects, tone still maddeningly casual. "There's a difference. You show up out of nowhere with a Sky, someone unclaimed, untouched by the Families, but with the enough leverage or power to cut your leash to the Triads. And you expect me not to be intrigued? Please."
"I saved your life," Fon says evenly. "You swore you'd repay that."
"And I will." Renato folds his hands, grin still in place. "But the job will be… perfunctory. If you want it done with care, with precision—if you want me to put my full attention on it…"
His grin grows sharper.
"Then satisfy my curiosity."
The words hang in the air, silky and barbed. Fon doesn't reply. He stares at Renato, weighing options, paths, costs.
Across the table, the World's Greatest Hitman raises his cup in salute and Fon sighs.
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