008. Weeks.

In the presence of Mikhail and Alastair, time has a way of contorting itself, and it never seems to pass in the same manner for more than a day at a time—even the very hours seem to vary in their duration. When Mikhail dozes, bound, in his armchair, and Alastair and I leave to explore cities by night, we will leave just as the sun sets and then glance up at the sky mere moments later to find that dawn has already come. The days sometimes pass languorously, but, more often than not, they blur together, entire sunsets and moonsets merging together in a sky-soaked streak so that I wake up some mornings, glance at Mikhail's watch on the mantelpiece of whatever hotel we might happen to have spent the night in, and realize that a full five days have gone by since I last paid attention to the passage of time.

And in this way, another two weeks pass before I receive yet another letter from my employers, in the center of a sheaf of papers concerning my next target, which requests quiet politely that I kill Alastair and Mikhail, since they are rather high up on our list of targets.

I cannot kill them until I have more information, I write on its reverse, and send that small note back to my employers when I mail the sheaf of packets declaring that I have fulfilled their requests—but Alastair catches me just as I am about to tuck the tiny slip back into the larger stack, and plucks the tiny paper from my grip.

"What's this?" he asks, though the question is more rhetorical than anything else. If he asks me properly, I'll have no choice but to answer honestly. He reads my response first, before flipping over the slip and reading the original message. His laugh is like stars falling—beautiful, but it could burn me.

I glance up at him anxiously, and he smiles at me. Perhaps he's telling me there's no amount of information that could make me kill him, or perhaps he's informing me that he knows something I don't know, and likely never ill. His grin is all sharp teeth, and is hardly reassuring.

"Is this what the arrow was about last night?" he asks, grin still in place.

I nod—there's no use in lying to him, and never will be.

"It doesn't make much sense," he says, his voice almost fierce now, "to kill you before you've had a chance to do away with Mikhail and I, does it?"

I shake my head, as there's no other response I could give.

"But," he says, softly, "I think it shall all work out for the best, in the end. Don't you agree?"

"I hope it will, too," I mutter, though it doesn't really answer the question. I'm not quite sure what will come next, so I cross to the window of our room and press my palms to the glass, gazing out on the street. The sunlight seems harsh, reflecting off the smooth cobbles of the street, and burns my eyes. I stare into it anyways until Alastair steps between the window and I, blocking out the sunlight and shifting my palms from the window to his chest. Again, I can see in his eyes any number of questions, but I believe he knows that I would not lie to him, and out of respect or perhaps a fear of my answeres he holds his tongue and instead bends down and presses his lips to mine gently.

Mikhail starts in his sleep, suddenly, and we both turn to him, bound as he is in the armchair. He wished to sleep before his performance tonight, and Alastair and I both know full well how angry he will be if he is roused too early. The pianist promptly shifts his body slightly before falling back to sleep, though, and we heave a minute sigh of relief. I then give a slight start as Alastair wraps the drapes around the pair of us, cocooning our embrace in sunshine.

The light, I fear, is too bright for me as I kiss him again—the night and I are much better acquainted, and stars so rarely burn.