He didn't sleep. He hadn't since he'd died.
Or maybe it was since he'd stopped being Shirou. It was hard to tell when one became the other. When the boy with a dream became a blade, and the blade became a ghost—shaped only by the weight of what it had been asked to cut.
He sat near the edge of the cot, one leg propped up, the Company-issued tablet balanced on his knee like a shield he didn't have the luxury of putting down. Beside him, Isshiki breathed softly. Curled protectively around Riley and Ralts, all three of them knotted up in warmth and blankets and the fragile trust of people who still believed that kindness could be a shelter.
He didn't know why he watched them. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was easier than closing his eyes. Easier than finding out what sort of nightmares would crawl out of whatever corner of his soul still hadn't been burned clean by Alaya.
So he read and scrolled through the Company's terminal like it was scripture carved in rot. Each flick of his finger laid out another line of synthetic normalcy—legal records, false histories, emergency documents, visa stamps. An entire life manufactured for two people who hadn't existed until someone clicked "Confirm."
A domestic partnership. A modest immigration story. A shared trauma tucked neatly behind forged relocation files and hospital records. All so they could slip into this world unnoticed.
He almost laughed. It was too clean. Too calculated.
Then came the rest and the deeper he read, the colder he became. The Waifu Catalog wasn't subtle. It was a spreadsheet of people. Catalogued. Sold. Bent.
There were toggles for obedience, sliders for intelligence, checkboxes for consent. Options to rewrite memory, suppress free will, rewire affection. You could dial someone's love to "unwavering," reduce their mind to "simple," remove trauma, remove independence, remove resistance.
It wasn't a catalog. It was a butcher's manual for the soul.
EMIYA stared at the screen, unmoving, as his own name came up again. Slotted. Tagged. Labeled by power class and attractiveness, reduced to a block of data and a carefully selected promotional image. Not his real face—one of the fake ones, filtered and postured. His body: idealized. His smile: edited.
He could almost hear the menu voice in his head.
[EMIYA: Nasuverse - Servants - Archer. T7-Class. Cost:100.]
He gripped the edge of the tablet so hard it creaked. Not because of anger. Not because of surprise. But because none of it surprised him. This had always been who he was—what he was. A tool. A blade. A pretty thing for someone else to wield. And this system had just made it literal.
He didn't know how long he stared at the listing. Long enough that the screen began to dim. He swiped it away without thinking—reflexively—like brushing ash off his coat. And then he looked at Isshiki again.
The idiot. The moron who hadn't picked bindings. Hadn't touched the memory wipes, the affection toggles, the loyalty locks. Hadn't wanted a servant. Hadn't wanted a toy. Hadn't even picked someone he was attracted to.
He'd picked EMIYA because he wanted to help someone cursed, someone broken, someone he thought he could save.
From Alaya.
From the machine that EMIYA had become.
And he'd done it blindly. Without knowing how much worse it could've been. Without knowing how easy it would've been to turn him into something silent and smiling and hollow. All because he was scared he'd fall in love with someone he shouldn't. All because he didn't trust himself with power over another person.
That, more than anything, made EMIYA feel ill. Because this was a nightmare. A game of control dressed in wish fulfillment. A system of chains made to look like silk.
And yet Isshiki had chosen to walk around the chains. Not out of nobility, but because he didn't want to hurt anyone.
EMIYA looked back at the tablet. At his own name—at his own price—and felt nothing but a deep, bone-cold ache, because even if Isshiki hadn't chosen to own him. Even if he'd chosen him to free him. EMIYA was still here.
Still tagged.
Still bought.
He set the tablet aside, hand lingering on it for a moment longer than necessary. The screen had long gone dark, but the afterimage still burned behind his eyes—data, tags, the shape of his own name wrapped in chains he could almost feel pressing against his skin.
He stood, stretching in silence. His joints cracked—not from tension, but memory. Phantom aches from lifetimes of battles fought on ruined plains and burning cities. The pain never really went away. It just lived quieter now. Buried.
The shelter was quiet.
Riley still slept beside Isshiki, her hand still curled tightly in his coat like a child afraid the world might vanish if she let go. Ralts was nestled against Isshiki's side, small arms looped around his sleeve, horn faintly glowing with the residual echo of comfort.
They looked… safe. Peaceful.
EMIYA stared at the idiot and then bent down and, gently—so gently—adjusted the blanket over Isshiki's chest. Pulled it a little higher against the chill. Just enough to keep the cold from seeping back in.
Isshiki stirred. Eyes cracked open, bleary and unfocused, but full of quiet warmth as they settled on EMIYA's face. "...Why you awake...?"
EMIYA didn't answer at first. His voice caught on something that didn't quite make it to the surface. Eventually, he said, "Sleep."
But Isshiki didn't. He blinked slowly, then shifted just a bit, as if registering how much space he was taking up on the cot and scooted. Then, with all the grace of someone halfway submerged in dreams, he reached out and patted the empty space beside him. "Come. Come."
EMIYA stared at him and didn't move. Didn't breathe.
He wasn't sure if he could breathe as Isshiki's hand stayed there. Not demanding. Not pleading. Just… there. An offer. An invitation. The kind of thing people gave to others.
Still, EMIYA didn't move until Isshiki's fingers curled gently around his wrist. Just a touch. Just warmth.
A tether that made EMIYA swallow.
"Tch." It came out like an exhale. Quiet. Frustrated. Resigned. "…My clothes are filthy."
"Mine too," Isshiki mumbled, already drifting again. "Don't like sleeping in 'em… but I was tired. And Riley..."
He yawned, slow and soft. Vulnerable in a way EMIYA hadn't seen since before he died. Before Alaya. Before being a Counter Guardian. It made something twist in EMIYA's chest as a chuckle escaped before he could stop it. Barely a breath. "Go to sleep."
But Isshiki didn't let go.
"You must be tired too…" he murmured. "C'mon…"
EMIYA stood frozen for another heartbeat. Then—against instinct, against conditioning, against every blood-soaked lesson the world had ever taught him—he sat. And then lay down.
The cot creaked beneath the weight. The warmth was immediate and shocking after so much cold. Isshiki murmured something unintelligible, barely shifting, too exhausted to move beyond recognition. Riley and Ralts remained nestled against his chest, the latter humming softly.
Riley didn't wake. Her breath was even. Steady. The kind of sleep children were supposed to have.
EMIYA closed his eyes.
The ghosts didn't leave. Not really.
But for the first time in centuries, they grew quiet.
He allowed himself—not forgiveness, but rest.
.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep that deeply. Not really. But the moment his body settled beside Isshiki's, the warmth pressed in from all sides—Riley curled tight into Isshiki's chest, Ralts radiating psychic calm like a hearth fire—he simply… shut down.
No resistance. No dread. And no dreams.
He didn't remember closing his eyes. Just the moment everything inside him uncoiled. And when he opened them again, the world was soft and gray. Dawn hadn't broken, not fully. The boarded windows let in only hints of morning light, thin and pale across the room. But the haze of night was gone.
And he felt okay. For the first time in… maybe forever, he'd slept without a single image of war, of ash, of screaming. There was no sword in his hand. No mission twisting in his bones. Just… quiet.
He blinked slowly, awareness crawling back in piece by piece. And then he realized—He was curled around Isshiki. Spooning him with one arm loosely draped across Isshiki's waist. His chest pressed against Isshiki's back, their breaths unconsciously aligned. His chin had dipped, just slightly, near the crown of Isshiki's hair.
A small, disbelieving breath escaped him, before he went rigid. Not violently—but enough as heat flared through him, sharp with mortification.
What the hell.
But also…It was warm and so comfortable. And none of his joints ached. And the silence didn't feel threatening.
He could've moved. He should've moved, but…The weight of the cot. The quiet exhale from Riley in sleep. The little wheeze from Ralts, curled like a comma between them. Isshiki's breath, steady and unguarded.
Moving would be like breaking something delicate.
So EMIYA stayed just a little longer.
One hour passed.
Then—A shift. A breath. A sigh.
Isshiki.
EMIYA felt it the subtle tension change, the pull of muscles preparing for motion. A familiar cadence of a body returning to awareness.
He shifted back gently. Carefully, still close enough to feel the warmth, but no longer wrapped around him.
The cot creaked with soft protest as Isshiki yawned and stretched, groggy and tousled. His arms moved with practiced care, not waking Riley, not jostling Ralts.
"…Ugh. I feel gross," he mumbled, voice raw with sleep. "Need a bath…"
EMIYA couldn't help the soft, reluctant chuckle that escaped him.
Isshiki froze mid-stretch. Then, slowly, he turned his head and squinted at him over his shoulder, bleary and offended. "…Were you laughing at me?"
His voice cracked a little, caught somewhere between indignation and pillow-muffled sulk.
EMIYA raised an eyebrow. "…Maybe."
Isshiki groaned and turned back around, pressing his face into the blanket.
"Rude. I'm too tired to deal with you right now."
"Clearly."
Another quiet breath. A flicker of peace.
And, for a moment longer, the world remained simple.
Then, after a couple of minutes, Isshiki stretched again, before glancing toward the direction the makeshift kitchen area was. His gaze lingered there a moment, like muscle memory was trying to steer him.
"…I should go make breakfast," he murmured, voice rough.
EMIYA didn't move.
"You don't have to do anything," he said quietly, voice low in the dim light. "You're injured. You don't work for the PRT. You don't owe them a damn thing."
Isshiki twisted slightly in the cot, just enough to pout at him over his shoulder, light hair messy, eyes still half-lidded. "But I like cooking."
"Then cook later," EMIYA replied, not unkindly. "After we deal with the PRT. Maybe Dragon, if she's still on-site."
He glanced down at the two still-sleeping figures curled between them—Riley half-tucked into Isshiki's chest, Ralts cradled in her arms like a small, breathing pillow. Their breaths were soft. Steady.
"…Though it's probably better to wait until they're awake," EMIYA added. "They'll need food that isn't field rations."
Isshiki sighed, but it wasn't annoyed. It was fond. "Okay, okay. You win." He shifted back again, slumping with the resigned grace of a cat deciding not to move. His shoulder brushed against EMIYA's chest again. Barely a touch. But it lingered. "…You're kind of warm."
EMIYA blinked.
There was no tease in the words. No flirtation. Not even awareness. Just a sleepy truth, spoken like an observation on the weather. It could have been said about a campfire, but still made EMIYA looked down at the man beside him. The man who'd chosen him not out of want, but out of compassion. Who risked himself for people he didn't know, cried for a child he'd just met, and wanted to cook stew in the ruins of a warzone.
He could've pulled away. He'd done it before.
He didn't.
"…So are you," he said quietly.
Isshiki smiled, slow and drowsy, and didn't say anything else.
And for a few more minutes, they stayed like that. Just existing. Breathing. Warm.
It was weird and suffocating in a good way, but so foreign that it made EMIYA want to fill the silence.
"I looked through the tablet last night." His voice was low. Measured. But not cold. "The catalog. The shop. Everything."
Isshiki hummed in acknowledgment, not quite awake. "Yeah?"
"There's a lot more than just perks and talents," EMIYA continued, eyes distant. "If you earn enough points, you can buy... a lot of things."
Isshiki cracked an eye open. "Like?"
EMIYA hesitated for just a second. "You can improve yourself. Or others. Unlock powers. Change your body. Your mind. You can even…"
He exhaled slowly.
"…You can buy people."
Isshiki blinked and shifted, pushing himself up just enough to look at EMIYA fully. His voice was quiet, but firm. "You're serious?"
EMIYA met his eyes.
"I'm there. In the shop. Or I was. Maybe still am, in some version. Tagged. Rated. Like a weapon or a game asset."
Isshiki stared at him—shocked, but not angry. Not horrified. Just… listening.
"…Well," he said after a long pause. "I don't think I want to buy more things for me. But maybe… we can use it to help others. Like… give someone a second chance."
His gaze softened. "Like the one you can get here...right?"
Something in EMIYA tightened. There it was again. That wordless weight behind Isshiki's voice. That maddening sincerity. He didn't want to name what it stirred in him. Not grief. Not guilt. Something older.
So he deflected. "Am I not good enough for you?"
Isshiki blinked. Then gave him a deeply unimpressed look and muttered, "That's not what I meant and you know it."
EMIYA let a faint, smug smirk twitch at his mouth. "I just like watching you flounder."
Isshiki narrowed his eyes at him. "You really are the worst."
But the moment broke. And the silence returned, a little easier now.
Then EMIYA asked, quieter now, more curious than teasing, "Will you select a woman?"
He watched Isshiki stiffen slightly.
"…I don't want to test if I'm weak-willed," Isshiki muttered, looking away. "So no. Maybe not now. So probably another male?"
EMIYA hummed. "Avoiding your type, then."
Isshiki squinted at him, suspicious. "And you think you know what that is?"
"I'm guessing feminine. Soft voice. Pretty face. Big eyes."
Isshiki's ears flushed red instantly.
"I—I can appreciate a beautiful face," he admitted, squirming. "But that doesn't mean—!"
EMIYA raised a brow. "So your type is just 'beautiful,' then?"
"Er—I mean—Yes? No? Maybe?" Isshiki groaned. "Why are we even having this conversation?"
"To know what not to select," EMIYA said evenly, voice cool as always.
Isshiki buried his face in the blanket again with a muffled scream. "You're impossible."
"And yet," EMIYA said dryly, "we're married."
"Shut up."
Riley stirred faintly behind them, and both of them froze. Then EMIYA reached over and gently pulled the blanket up to her chin. Ralts shifted but didn't wake.
Isshiki exhaled quietly.
"…Okay," he whispered, not moving from where he lay, cheek half-pressed against EMIYA's arm. "Okay. So we'll help people. If we can. But not like that. Not like Company wants me to."
EMIYA didn't respond immediately, but slowly, deliberately, he nodded. "…Not like them? I can live with that."
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