Hakka and Bettels Fight

The air in the TEMPUS guild headquarters was thick with a tension that even Axel’s loudest boasts couldn’t cut through. It had been three days since the "Incident of the Ruined Script," as Flayon had dubbed it. What started as a harmless prank by Hakka—replacing Bettel’s performance notes with doodles of Karasutengu—had spiraled into a screaming match that left the guild hall uncharacteristically silent.

"It’s about the respect for the craft, Hakka!" Bettel had shrieked, his face a shade of red that rivaled his theatrical coat. "You think everything is a joke because you just jump around and stab things! Some of us have an image to maintain!"

Hakka, usually the first to laugh off a conflict, had snapped. "Your image is being a clown, Bettel! I was trying to lighten the mood because you’ve been acting like a stuck-up prick for weeks! Maybe if you weren't so obsessed with being perfect, you’d actually be funny!"

The silence that followed was deafening. Bettel hadn't spoken to him since.

Now, they stood in the rain on the outskirts of a flickering neon district in lower Elysium, tasked with investigating a string of "Essence Drain" reports. Altare had paired them together, hoping the mission would force a reconciliation. It was a tactical error.

"The signature is coming from that lounge," Bettel said, his voice cold and clinical. He wouldn't even look at Hakka. He adjusted his glove, his eyes fixed on the glowing signage of *The Velvet Void*. "I’ll handle the questioning. You just... stand there and look intimidating. Try not to break anything."

Hakka felt a sting in his chest sharper than any Records Corruption. "Fine. Whatever. I’m just the muscle, right? Not like I have a brain."

"Your words, not mine," Bettel muttered, pushing through the heavy bead curtains of the establishment.

The lounge was a hazy, purple-hued den of low music and clinking glass. It was the kind of place where information was bought with coin and secrets were whispered over fermented nectar. Bettel immediately gravitated toward the bar, his natural flair for social engineering—usually vibrant and loud—now tempered into a sharp, aristocratic edge.

Hakka, feeling out of place and simmering with hurt, retreated to a corner table. "I’ll watch the perimeter," he grumbled, though Bettel was already deep in conversation with a contact.

A server approached Hakka, a lithe figure with a mask that obscured their eyes. "A drink for the exorcist? On the house. We appreciate the protection your guild provides."

Hakka hesitated. His right hand throbbed, the purple veins of corruption itching under his skin. He shouldn't. But the sight of Bettel laughing—actually laughing—at something the informant said made a bitter lump form in his throat. "Yeah. Whatever. Make it something strong."

The drink was sweet, tasting of berries and something metallic. Hakka downed it in three gulps, wanting to numb the feeling of being unwanted.

Ten minutes later, the world began to tilt.

"Bettel?" Hakka tried to stand, but his legs felt like they were made of lead. His otherworldly endurance, the gift of his Karasutengu data, seemed to be short-circuiting. His vision blurred, the purple lights of the room stretching into long, agonizing ribbons of color.

"Oh, you don't look so well," a voice purred. It wasn't Bettel. It was a man from a nearby booth, someone with eyes that looked like stagnant water. "Let’s get you somewhere quiet, little bird."

Hakka tried to reach for his spears, but his fingers wouldn't obey. He felt hands on him—heavy, oily hands—guiding him toward a back hallway. He tried to shout, but his tongue was thick, his throat constricted by a sudden, terrifying heat.

Back at the bar, Bettel’s smile faded the moment the informant walked away. He sighed, rubbing his temples. He had been too hard on Hakka. The doodles had been annoying, yes, but Hakka only ever did those things to see Bettel smile when he was stressed. He turned around, ready to offer a stiff, awkward apology.

The corner table was empty. A shattered glass lay on the floor.

"Hakka?" Bettel scanned the room, panic rising in his chest. He saw a flash of a black and purple jacket disappearing behind a staff-only door. "Hakka!"

Bettel bolted, knocking over a chair. He ignored the protests of the patrons, his heart hammering against his ribs. He burst through the door and down a dimly lit corridor, his theatrical instincts screaming that something was horribly wrong. He reached a private lounge at the end of the hall, the door ajar.

The scene inside froze the blood in his veins.

Hakka was sprawled across a velvet divan, his eyes glazed and unfocused, his breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps. A man was looming over him, one hand pinning Hakka’s corrupted right arm down, the other reaching for the fastenings of Hakka’s tactical gear.

"He’s a feisty one," the man muttered to a companion standing by the window. "Even drugged, he’s trying to fight. The corruption makes the essence taste better, though."

"Get your hands... off him," Hakka rasped, his voice a broken shadow of its usual energetic self. A tear strayed down his cheek, driven by pure, helpless frustration.

"Hey!"

The shout wasn't a joke. It wasn't a punchline. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated fury.

Bettel didn't wait for an explanation. He didn't lead with a witty remark. He lunged forward, his cane—a hidden rapier—glinting in the low light. With a grace born of the combat arena, he drove the blunt end of the cane into the assailant’s ribs, sending the man sprawling across the floor.

"Who the hell are you?" the second man shouted, reaching for a concealed blade.

"I’m the last thing you’re ever going to see if you don't run," Bettel hissed. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, were cold and deadly. He didn't look like a jester; he looked like an executioner.

The two men, realizing they were facing a member of TEMPUS who was very much prepared to kill, scrambled out of the side exit. Bettel didn't chase them. He didn't care about the mission anymore.

He dropped to his knees beside the divan. "Hakka? Hakka, look at me."

Hakka’s head rolled to the side. "Bettel...?" His voice was small, trembling. "I... I couldn't move. I’m sorry. I failed... I’m not... cool..."

"Shut up," Bettel whispered, his voice cracking. He pulled Hakka into his arms, clutching him tightly. "Don't you dare apologize. God, Hakka, I’m so sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone. I was being a selfish, arrogant idiot."

Hakka leaned into Bettel’s chest, his body shivering violently as the drug ran its course. "Everything... went dark. I thought... I thought you hated me."

"Never," Bettel said, burying his face in Hakka’s hair. "I could never hate you. You’re the loudest, most annoying, most wonderful person I’ve ever met. I was just... I was scared of how much I care about you, and I took it out on you."

The door burst open again.

"Status report! We heard a—whoa." Axel stood in the doorway, his hand on the hilt of his sword, with Shinri right behind him, bow drawn.

Shinri lowered his weapon immediately, his expression softening into one of deep concern. "Is he alright?"

"He was drugged," Bettel said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "And targeted. We need to get him back to the guild. Now."

Axel stepped inside, his usual bravado replaced by a grim seriousness. "I’ll call Flayon. He’ll have the pilot rig ready for a fast extraction. Shinri, secure the perimeter. I want descriptions of those bastards."

Shinri nodded, his eyes lingering on Hakka’s pale face. "Take him home, Bettel. We’ll handle the rest."

The trip back to the guild was a blur of neon lights and the hum of Flayon’s transport. Flayon, usually a whirlwind of high-strung energy, was uncharacteristically quiet, his hands steady on the controls as he pushed the engine to its limit.

"Don't worry, Hakka," Flayon muttered under his breath. "I’ve got the best stabilizers running. We’ll be back in ten."

In the back of the transport, Bettel held Hakka on his lap, refusing to let go. Hakka’s breathing had evened out, but he was still weak, his hand clutching Bettel’s sleeve as if it were a lifeline.

"Bettel?" Hakka whispered.

"I’m here."

"The doodles... they really were funny. I drew you as a prince because... because that’s what you look like to me."

Bettel felt a fresh wave of guilt, followed by a warmth that started in his chest and spread to his fingertips. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Hakka’s forehead. "I know. And I’m going to frame that stupid drawing when we get back."

***

Two hours later, the infirmary was quiet. Altare had checked in, his face a mask of 'Leader Mode' concern before leaving to coordinate with the local authorities. Shinri had brought a tray of tea, patting Bettel on the shoulder before retreating to give them space.

Hakka was propped up on the bed, some color finally returning to his cheeks. The toxins were being flushed out of his system, though he was still banned from any "otherworldly leaping" for at least forty-eight hours.

"You’re staring," Hakka said, a weak version of his usual smirk playing on his lips.

Bettel, who was sitting in a chair pulled flush against the bed, didn't look away. "I’m making sure you don't disappear."

"I’m an exorcist, Bettel. It takes more than a spiked drink to get rid of me." Hakka reached out, his hand trembling slightly.

Bettel caught it, interlacing their fingers. "I know you’re strong, Hakka. But you don't have to be strong all the time. Not with me."

Hakka’s expression softened. The sarcasm and the 'cool guy' persona melted away, leaving behind the boy who just wanted to be loved. "I was really scared. When I couldn't move my arms... I kept thinking that the last thing I said to you was something mean."

"We’re both idiots," Bettel sighed, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. "But we’re idiots together. I promise, from now on, I’ll listen. No more ego. Well... maybe a little ego. I am a performer, after all."

Hakka chuckled, the sound a bit raspy but genuine. "There he is. There’s the jester I love."

"And there’s the brat I adore," Bettel countered. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in, capturing Hakka’s lips in a lingering, desperate kiss that tasted of relief and promises kept.

When they pulled apart, Hakka looked dazed, but happy. "Wow. Maybe I should get roofied more often if this is the treatment I get."

"Don't you dare," Bettel snapped, though there was no heat in it. "If you ever do that again, I’ll make sure your next performance outfit is a giant chicken suit."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

The door creaked open, and Axel’s head popped in. "Yo, lovebirds. Shinri made soup. Flayon’s trying to eat it all, so if you want some, you better come out now."

"Tell him if he touches my portion, I’ll pilot his mech into a lake!" Bettel shouted back, his theatrical flair returning.

Hakka laughed, a full, bright sound that echoed through the sterile room. He leaned back against the pillows, his hand still firmly held in Bettel’s. The shadows of the lounge were still there, lingering at the edges of his mind, but with the warmth of the guild around him and Bettel by his side, he knew the light would always win.

"Hey, Bettel?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you. Even when you’re being a wise guy."

Bettel smiled, a real, soft smile that he only ever showed when the masks were off. "I love you too, Hakka. Now let’s go get that soup before Flayon actually causes a diplomatic incident."