A King's Throne:

(2 parts) Mistakes

(1 part) Moving On

(3 parts) Green Apple Vodka

People say a lot of things. Talk to ten different people and you'll get ten different answers to the same question. What you believe, however, is a choice you have to consciously make every day. Kitty knew that. He knows it still, even as he stares up at the flecks of grey that pepper the pale white ceiling of his bedroom. The blue sheets move beneath his fingers. Smooth. Soft. Slow. Just like his breath, the way it rises and falls and pushes the blankets off his bare chest millimeters at a time. He doesn't rise, even though his eyes blink from the morning light that streams in through the window. He has to make a choice, perhaps the most difficult choice he's ever made, and he makes it every day. What does he believe? What does he choose to be his reality?

It tugs in the back of his mind, beckoning him back into the gentle haze of forgetfulness. Nothing has ever been so tempting, to float away on a cloud of nothingness that shields him from the pains of the world. The pains of moving on, of facing the world. Beside him, the bed is cold. The sheets haven't been disturbed, the pillows unruffled. Whoever belongs to the other side of the mattress hasn't been there. And as he stares, hands splayed out to run his nails so softly across the surface of the blankets, he wonders. Patience is key. The words feel familiar, like an old motto from another life. They belong to a different Kitty, someone he must choose whether or not to be today. The lull of ignorance is forbidden fruit on his tongue. It's still so easy to forget, to wander in the daze he's become so accustomed to. But he doesn't. He can't.

There's music coming from the kitchen. That is what finally pulls his eyes away from the ceiling. His body rises, sheets falling off at last as he sits up. Goosebumps chill his arms, hands running over them to try and restore the warmth he deprives himself of. Kitty's feet touch the ground, first one and then the other, and he stands. It takes five steps to cross into the open doorway, just five. For such a small number, every step feels heavier than the last.

He sees him in a kitchen chair. King's eyes are focused on the laces of his boots, fingers weaving between string as he chases the knot that will secure them to his feet. Body leaning against the frame of the door, Kitty doesn't make a sound— doesn't disturb the look of concentration on the other boy's face. He hasn't put on a shirt yet and the freckles that dot his body make up a million new constellations, each one more elaborate than the last. Once, Kitty felt he knew them all. Now his eyes are drawn to King's shoulder blade, where the pattern of stardust and supernovas is shredded into three pale scars that scream of violence and fear. He can see the gauze wrapped around the boy's forearm and feel the guilt that accompanies it. What happens on the bad days, Kitty doesn't know. He only witnesses to the aftermath, but King never gives up on him. Never stays away. No matter how many scars he collects from the talons that grow from Kitty's nail beds.

The air tastes like cotton, dry and think and heavy in his lungs. Each breath feels like an effort, but it's for nothing. There's no clarity, no sense, just a vague outline of a world that has ceased to make sense. Colors, lights, sounds, they all exist in a plane of being that he is no longer a part of. He is a machine, pumping blood and expelling carbon dioxide, controlled solely but mechanical, automated responses. "Lawrence?" There is a name, a sound, vibrations in the air that are supposed to mean something. But they don't. They don't. A hand on his shoulder tries to pull his attention. "Lawrence, you have visitors." He responds to stimuli primally if he responds at all. Pain means fear. Discomfort means anger. But that is all he has. All he knows. There's a sigh, he feels the breath on the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid this is usually what he's like. You won't get much of anything out of him."

A new voice. A new sound, one that's less familiar and yet more. "Give us some time alone." Footsteps leave. Others move. "Kitty?" There's a face in his line of sight, one made of coffee and heavenly bodies and a smile that looks at him like the sun. He sees these things, but he doesn't understand. All of the keys are there but he has nothing to unlock them with. "Hey, hotshot. It's me." Still, the face brings a word to his mind. Just one, repeated over and over again. King, King, King, King. It has no meaning to him. Something in it makes his chest feel tight. "Did you see me on the news, huh? Saving the world." He stares, what little focus he has left is centered on the ache that begins to fill his body. Something warm touches his hand, wrapping around his cold fingers. "You would have been proud, Kitty." In the eyes in front of him, a galaxy opens up for exploration, desperate for connection. But there is nothing. Nothing.

"This is him?" Three voices. Three. Still, the word echoes. King, King, King. Another sigh, more impatient than the last. "Remember, I'm doing this as a favor for the Empress. Don't expect miracles." Then, warmth. Flooding, swarming warmth that jerks his head to the side and leaves his mouth gaping like a fish out of water. It fills every corner of his body, humming, buzzing, burning. Slowly, it ebbs away. Like a dull throb, receding into a distant memory. "He's badly damaged. Healing him is going to take constant care and attention on your part. It would be easier to leave him like this." What do the words mean? They seem closer. More distinct, less like a jumble of shapes and meaningless sounds. There's something in the word. The word means something. Something important.

And then it's gone.

It's gone.

"No. He deserves this. I'll take care of him."

The music is back, a chiming and electronic ringtone that sounds from the phone sitting on the little corner table. "Hello, daddy! Hello, mom! I'm your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!" King turns, still oblivious to Kitty observing him from the doorway. No face illuminates the screen, but he picks up the pink phone anyways and holds it to his ear anyway.

Pressing his shoulder against it, he pulls up the other foot, lacing his shoe as a smile crawls across his lips. "Oh honey, if you're calling about a job, you know I'm not interested." A pause, Kitty knows the look in his eyes when he's paying attention. His eyes waver less, his breathing slows, but his hands never stop their quick, steady movements to tie the laces in their grip. "Listen, listen," there's a chuckle in his words, a playfulness that warms Kitty's chest until he finds himself smiling, "as much as I love running around, and blowing things up, and god knows what else, the world just isn't ready for this face." This time, after the pause there's a real laugh. "Admit it, you just miss having me around to cause trouble." When his shoe hits the ground, he looks up, and at last King's eyes meet Kitty's. "Sorry, sweetheart. I'll have to call you back later. Kisses."

The conversation ends. King stands, letting the phone come to rest on the table. In his whole life, Kitty's never seen anyone quite like him. The way he tilts his chin, the way his smile curls the dimples of his cheeks, how his hands are never quite steady and his thoughts move through his eyes. Now he is hesitant, waiting. This is the moment, the choice. "Kitty?" he asks. Who is King getting today? The coherent, playful love of his life or a confused and frightened animal stuck in a room with a stranger.

It's taking its toll on him. King isn't sleeping, he can see it in the shadows that crease his eyes and the tired way he holds his shoulders. How long has it been? he wonders. There isn't an easy answer. Sometimes sleep can be worse than the alertness that plagues his love. Kitty's heard him in his dreams, where King curls into a ball so small he can almost mistake him for the boy he found hiding in the alleyway. He cries in his sleep, a broken and bitter song made of flesh that burns and wounds that will never close even after their scars have faded.

So he smiles, tilts his head, and leans a little heavier on the doorway. "Where are you headed so early in the morning?" Kitty asks and watches the fear drain from King's face as he ventures to smile. Today is a good day. Today, they can be happy together.

"Nowhere special," he answers. "You were sleeping, and I didn't want to wake you."

Kitty thinks for a moment, then crosses the floor. It takes three steps. King counts them, he knows he does. The boy's eyes never miss a second, not even with Kitty's arms wrapped around his waist. "Let me get dressed," he offers. "We'll go for a walk." King's smile grows wider. He loves it. He's never looked at anything that made him feel as happy as it does. We're together. That's all that matters now.

When they go outside, the air is cold and sharp with winter. Leaves crunch beneath their feet. King leans against his shoulder, not speaking, just observing. With every deep breath he takes, Kitty can feel the peace in his body. Finally, he has the shelter he always wanted. Somewhere firm and solid to stand on. The smile crawls across Kitty's face, there's no way to stop it. King's eyes flicker up. They pass a bench. A few weeks ago, Kitty would have had to stop and rest there. But now, he feels alive. He feels strong. There's a woman walking her dog, talking on her phone. Kitty can see flecks of purple paint on the collar of the jacket King wears. It's his jacket, but he can have it. It's always looked better on him.

"What is it?" King asks when he sees Kitty's smile, and the taller boy shakes his head.

There's laughter in his voice, there's peace. "Nothing," is his answer. "It's just—" The smile spreads into a grin. Something warm. Something beautiful. "In this light, you look like a king."

The downfall of Project Phoenix brought reporters looking for those who survived. They say some are easier to find than others but if one was to go looking for a particularly freckled boy with honey dripping from the corners of his grin, all one would need is a cold sunny day and a quiet section of street. That's where they'd be, walking hand in hand, with eyes for no one else. They call themselves Kitty and the King. It's pointless to ask why because that's just who they are. And nobody is going to take it from them.

Split into two glasses. Best served cold and immediately. Top with a kiss and repeat.