AN: I had a really tough time of things this summer. This is dedicated to the friends who stood by me to help me through it, those who came through for me, and the best friend who didn't.

When this is finished, it'll have two or three chapters, I think, all on the theme of friendship. But I won't spoil it up here.

I hope you like it and you'll read until the end of the chapter. It changes, you'll see. There's a proper AN that explains what's happening to Kratos at the end of the chapter, so bear with the inaccuracies.

Disclaimer: I don't own ToS, though I can't deny the grounding this one has to real life.

Kratos sat down by the edge of the steps, his weight gratefully sinking into the sagging cushions of the rickety chair on the veranda of the house they were staying in. Half-elven settlements weren't renowned for their comfort. In fact, it was quite the opposite; the nicest word Kratos had ever heard another human outside their little group use to describe them was 'quaint'. And yet, to Kratos, this seat was the most comfortable thing he thought he'd ever experienced. Or it might as well have been, for all the relief it gave to his aching body.

He could see the stars from his vantage point, their shining lights brightening his view. The night was calm, the air still and heavy under the pressure of the day's lingering heat. Kratos wasn't bothered by this though. His head fell back, its owner clamping his eyes closed to block out the sudden stab of pain that originated in the dead centre of his chest and burned through his body.

He gritted his teeth, without even the ability to relax his muscles enough to breathe. His chest was so tight; it was like being crushed in a liquid lava vice. He'd never experienced anything like this before. He was confused. He was afraid. He didn't know what to do. He just wanted someone to be there with him to make it feel better.

The pain subsided into a dull heat, an ache that captured each joint and tortured his muscles. Kratos could finally relax again. He would have liked to believe he could go upstairs and get some sleep, join Yuan in their twin room, in his world of sweet slumber.

But he couldn't. Kratos was exhausted, his mind still reeling, still confused, still steaming with the pain and stewing in the fear of his mystery affliction, the one he had to suffer through alone. He found himself looking up to the roof as though he could see through it, through the window above it into the room he so desperately wanted to relax in and the friend who got to do just that. He found himself wishing that Yuan would wake up and come down to the veranda with him.

He could see it now. The door would creak as his best friend's head poked through, taking a quick look around the surrounding area, as he always did. And as he watched that typical, ingrained spy behaviour, Kratos wouldn't be able to help himself. He'd laugh, a half-stifled chuckle that would cause Yuan to break into a grin. He would pretend to be angry though. He'd swat Kratos' head, but his eyes would be twinkling and he'd be grinning.

Then he would take himself to the edge of the veranda, lean against the post and sit down on the decking, dangling one leg off the end of it. And he would look at Kratos and he'd notice how tired the human looked, the pallor of his skin, the way he would occasionally wince and flinch.

"You okay?" he'd ask, staring at his best friend with calculating eyes.

And no matter what Kratos said to him, no matter how he answered, he'd know. Yuan would know something was wrong, because they were best friends. Yuan had been by his side for years now, a constant companion, the only true constant in the human swordsman's life. Yuan always knew. Sometimes Kratos thought that perhaps Yuan knew him better than he knew himself.

And he'd feel the need to say, "You can tell me, you know, Kratos? You can tell me anything."

And Kratos never knew why because he would, because Yuan was always the first person he told anything. He remembered running all the way from the castle to the Meltokio slums because he knew that was where the half-elf would be and he just had to tell him what had just happened.

So Kratos would tell him so. And Yuan would shake his head softly as though he couldn't quite believe it, but his eyes would say he could as he got up and approached the human. He'd come closer to study his human companion, to see how bad the situation was, and it would be like skimming a children's book for the genius half-elf, that easy for him to read Kratos' eyes. He'd see what he was feeling.

And Yuan would hug him. Yuan was the only person who ever thought to hug Kratos, the only person who assumed he could get close enough, the only person who succeeded in breaking his defences and letting himself in. It would make Kratos feel better. He'd allow his best friend to hold him, would find himself relaxing into his firm grip.

He didn't know how he'd say it, but Yuan would tell him not to worry; he'd sort it. It was them against the world; that was how Yuan would put it. "You're not getting rid of me, human," he'd say.

And Kratos would manage a smile, his face buried in his best friend's shirt. It wouldn't be so bad anymore, because he wasn't alone. He was never alone. They came as a pair most of the time. They both knew they were going to grow up, get families, get houses, jobs, grow old and die, as the best case scenario, but they would never be alone, not really. Because they were brothers. They were family. They weren't just friends. And even if they were, they would always be so. They had a promise, a pact, that neither of them would ever forget about the other, so they would always be there for each other.

So Kratos could never be alone.

Except he was. In a group of four, he felt completely isolated. He'd never needed his best friend more.

Kratos rose, the veranda suddenly seeming cold and empty. The ache in his chest intensified, clenching almost unbearably. He didn't stop though, pushing at the door to let himself in, numbly climbing the stairs until he reached the door of his and Yuan's room. He hesitated, the heavy lethargy of his body making him feel strange, foreign, like there wasn't a place for him anymore.

He was being silly, he told himself as he opened the door. Of course he belonged there; Yuan was there. Yuan was his best friend. He wanted him to be there. He'd be worried if he woke up in the morning and Kratos' bed was unmade opposite him.

The darker part of his mind told him he wouldn't. Kratos winced, silently slipping off his shoes and sliding slowly into the bed. He would, he told it. Because Yuan couldn't be perfect all the time. It wasn't Yuan's fault if he hadn't noticed yet. Kratos would still be here for him. Their friendship was stronger than that. He just had to give Yuan time.

He'd rather be with his own kind. He doesn't care about you anymore. People never care about you; why would they bother?

Yuan did care. He did. He did. He did. He was just preoccupied. He hadn't had much time to be with other half-elves before, because of Kratos' humanity, so it was his duty as a best friend to let him enjoy it now.

With a pained sigh, Kratos' eyes closed to another night of no-sleep, of only the hope of blocking out the world around him, controlling some of the thoughts that plagued him during the day. His nights were long now, long and lonely.

Tears prickled at the backs of Kratos' eyes as he coughed. The pain made him wheeze, his vision erupting into coloured sparks for a moment before he could breathe again, air flooding his lungs as he released the fork he'd been squeezing. Taking another greedy gulp of delicious, life-saving air, he returned the fork to the slice of Martel's cherry pie he'd taken up to the overhang above Lake Umacy.

His stomach churned and rolled, even as the first bite reached his lips. His tongue took it from the fork, its owner forcing himself to eat it for energy. He didn't want to slow the group down.

He clenched his fists, his head hanging as he swallowed the bland, tasteless concoction.

"Now you want to take my taste too?" he breathed pitifully. "Was my sleep not enough for you? Do you want to hurt me even more than you have already?"

He bit down on his lip, pushing the pie to one side, where it could only mock him in his mind. He didn't understand. Why had this happened to him? Why not one of the slavers? One of the people who had razed his hometown, or who had taken Yuan and his family as slaves? He was trying so hard to save the worlds, as stupid as it seemed, as impossible as it seemed.

The bushes behind him rustled, Kratos starting and twisting around just in time to see the figure of Yuan emerge from the foliage. He grimaced at the pain that stabbed through his chest, but Yuan didn't notice. His best friend was already coming to sit next to him, arranging his legs into a cross and staring contentedly into the sparkling water below.

"Haven't had the chance to talk to you in a few days," the half-elf reasoned. He didn't turn to look at the human, who sat rubbing the centre of pain in his chest, by his side.

But Kratos didn't care because Yuan was here now, and this pain was becoming unbearable. He could just tell him. He had to tell him. Maybe that was what Yuan was aiming for all along, waiting for Kratos to confide in him. Either way, it didn't matter that Yuan hadn't noticed. All that mattered was that Kratos could tell the lightning mage anything once he'd built up the courage to share. All that mattered was that they were best friends, and Yuan was always going to help him. All that mattered was that he wouldn't have to suffer alone.

"I know... Yuan, I-I-" he began anxiously, wringing his hands on his trousers.

Yuan cut him off. "Martel is great, isn't she?"

Kratos froze, taking in the look on his best friend's face, the way his eyes were happy, his lips twitching in a contented smile. "Yes," he responded, waiting.

"I don't think I've ever known anyone like her."

Wasn't he going to ask what Kratos was going to tell him?

"She's so beautiful. And she's clever too. And her healing skills – you should've seen her heal Mithos earlier! The brat tripped and got a stone wedged in his arm, screamed to high heaven. And Martel cleaned it out, twirled that staff of hers and cast a spell. It lit her up. She looked like some sort of ancient princess or something. It was amazing! And you missed it." Here he looked back to Kratos, frowning. "Where were you anyway? Why'd you leave so soon before Mithos and I got back?"

"I nee-" Kratos started, desperate to get to his best friend, to tell him what was going on. The pain in his chest was intensifying, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

"Never mind," Yuan interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand as he turned his attention back to the lake. "You're always doing weird things like that. You're so antisocial, Kratos." He sighed, shaking his head, not in playful disbelief as he usually did at Kratos' quirks but in disapproval and annoyance, emotions that Yuan never directed at him, never would unless he'd done something horrible. "I think Martel likes me," he announced, his frown of displeasure evening out into a pleased expression.

Kratos shuffled closer to his friend, hoping to get his attention, to move the conversation so he could finally unload some of the crushing weight that suffocated him. Yuan would help him carry it. He just needed a nudge. Even the best of people sometimes needed nudges, even the best of friends. "Yuan-"

Yuan turned, meeting Kratos terrified eyes with his own green, assured ones. Kratos felt a pang of relief at having his best friend's attention at last. Yuan could read him so well that he was like a prodigy with a picture book in comparison. He would finally be able to breathe.

But something was wrong. Yuan wasn't looking concerned. He wasn't being reassuring. He wasn't reminding him of their promise or soothing him. Or even being shocked at missing his best friend's suffering.

He was smiling.

He reached out to Kratos, clasping his shoulder with hands that were so familiar, yet so entirely alien. Yuan patted it, smiling patronisingly, gloatingly.

"Don't worry, Kratos; I'm sure we can find someone for you, eventually," he said, oozing false helpfulness, false promises, false friendliness.

Kratos' eyes widened but Yuan had already withdrawn and turned back to the scenery below them. His hands had stopped shaking as he froze with the realisation. Yuan really didn't care. Martel was more important to him now. And Kratos could deal with that. He was only a human; Yuan had to find others who would be able to live their lives alongside his unimaginably long one. He knew Yuan would find a wife, and he knew she would take his place as Yuan's most important person.

But he hadn't thought that Yuan would forget about him. He hadn't thought Yuan would just ignore whatever was causing him to suffer, smile in the face of his pain. That wasn't what best friends did. That wasn't what they'd promised each other. That wasn't Yuan.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Yuan close enough for Kratos to touch if he only reached out far enough, living and breathing, blowing the hair away from his face and sighing as he always did, as he always had. It was like looking in a window. Yuan was still there – Kratos could see him, touch him if he wanted to, but it didn't mean he could reach his best friend.

And that was worse. Being so close to him, that familiar presence, so tainted, so wrong, just made it hurt so much more. Yuan was physically there in front of him. But his best friend was gone.

Kratos couldn't take it anymore. He got up as quickly as the pain would allow, scooping up the pie and the fork, and headed back to camp, watching Yuan the whole way, just hoping he might snap out of it, might go back to the Yuan he'd been a month ago, the one who cared if Kratos was hurting, who tried to make it better.

Yuan didn't even bother to look.

"You didn't eat your pie," Martel commented as Kratos set the pie down on the ground by the fire pit being built by Mithos.

The only human of their group, the odd one out, shrank back from her accusing stare, his eyes dropping from hers to rest on the ground, that wasn't accusing him of anything, that neither liked nor disliked him and expected nothing of him. He didn't know what to say to her. He knew it would probably be expected of him to make an excuse, or to tell her he wasn't hungry, clever even.

But Kratos' head was still occupied with thoughts of Yuan and of the ailment and the numbness of the realisation that he was alone again. He hadn't been alone for so long now and the memories of being so were horrifying. The pain was clouding his thoughts, highlighting his fears and failures with a red-hot haze.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, before getting up again.

And yet, despite the mist in his head, everything was suddenly clear; it had been a mistake to come back to camp. Who was he kidding? He didn't belong there. The only reason they had accepted him so readily was Yuan and now Yuan no longer cared for him, they had no reason to want him around. It would be better all around if he just left. He wasn't really useful to them anymore anyway; the pain was too strong and he was too weak to fight as he used to. He'd just be a burden to them.

A burden. He'd been a burden before. He wouldn't be again. Nobody else would die because of his weakness. He would make sure of it.

Numbly, he picked up his pack and left the camp, Mithos' curiosity on his destination reaching over his head as he disappeared into the trees and out of their lives.

It was for the best. So what if he wasn't thinking rationally? It was quite obvious, had been for a while now, that he wasn't fit for such a journey. He was falling apart, losing his humanity, succumbing to the pain that burned through his body without relent. And he had no reason to stay anymore. It wasn't as though he was wanted anymore. He'd seen that in Yuan's eyes today. It didn't matter to Yuan if Kratos wasn't around. Yuan wouldn't even notice, would probably be glad to find out he was gone.

Another sharp stabbing pain ripped through his chest, forcing him to fall to his knees, the pack crashing to the hard earth as Kratos bit down on his lip, blood dribbling down his chin as he fought the urge to cry out, his fingers scraping to find purchase on the harsh ground. His eyes prickled with tears, his body writhing, hands shaking violently until the wave passed and he collapsed face first onto the dirt, utterly spent.

Thoughts bothered him like flies, stinging him as his mind lashed out at them, simply wanting the rest, the blissful darkness, the respite from suffering that he was never granted anymore. He might actually die there, alone with the trees. It stung. That thought stung so much more than the others. He could be dying, probably was dying, wouldn't last long anymore now anyway, all on his own. Because he couldn't fight it alone. Not anymore. He was so exhausted.

His breathing was fast and shallow, sweat dripping from his face to the ground, yet he could no longer feel it, could no longer feel anything. Nothing was real anymore. But it didn't matter. His eyes fluttered closed, his mind shutting out the world.

His chest stabbed, the skin tingling around the mount of the exsphere he'd been given by the half-elves of Sybak. They hadn't trusted him. Perhaps they were right not to. The only person Kratos had left to trust was himself and even he didn't manage to when his body was failing him this badly.

He flipped over onto his back, his eyes peeling open, taking in one last picture of the sunlight streaming through the leaves, creating a dappled effect on his face, body and hair, its beauty managing to touch him even in his darkest hour, his last hour, despite its warmth failing to reach him.

Another spike of gut wrenching pain hit him, his back arching, mouth open in a scream that had been silenced by the lack of air in his pressured lungs. His eyes were screwed tightly shut as if to block out the pain with the world, to enter into his own world, where he was at peace and the raging fire could longer ravage him.

He didn't know how long it lasted, but it felt like hours before his body relaxed again under the slow burn of the usual pain, his head falling back onto the earth, the feeling of its harsh surface on his body returning in a rush as he took short gasps of the air he so desperately needed to cool the fire, to tame the flames that had taken hold of the tissue of his lungs.

A cold hand rested on his forehead, the corners of his lips twitching upwards in a weak smile. He only knew of one person who would dare to come so close to touch his forehead – one person with hands that cold.

"Oh, Kratos, you don't have to suffer alone, you know."

Kratos' eyes fluttered open once more, slowly focussing on the figure that hovered over his prone form. Another hand joined the first on his body, gently rubbing his arm like he was a newborn child who needed life to be rubbed into him.

"Ma-" He began with a frown, staring hazily at the person who had come to save him, the person who wasn't Yuan, but should've been, the person who couldn't really care for him, had to be pretending because half-elves didn't like humans. Yuan had just been a special case, but, as he'd found out, even Yuan couldn't stand to be around the human for that long.

"Shhh," she hushed, her green eyes, so much like his, down to the feline shape, down to the emerald hue, down to the distrust of humankind and the warmth that shone through for half-elves, the warmth he'd thought had shone through for him but didn't. Not anymore.

Yet hers seemed to. Hers held concern.

"Don't try to speak," she urged, softly, one of her hands brushing his hair from his forehead while the other one travelled across his chest, glowing green.

"I- Th-" Kratos started again, his eyes captured by the dancing hues of green above the pale material of his outfit.

She hushed him again, pausing to offer him a bright, reassuring smile. "Quiet now, it's alright. I'm here."

He stared up at her, watching how she held the smile for long enough that he had to notice it, her kind eyes holding his in place before she turned her attention back to the healing mana was cooling the fire in his chest into a bearable warmth, like the warmth that lingered in her eyes even after she had turned from him, even when she had no reason to convince him and eye contact had been lost.

His chest loosened, his breathing slowing to a manageable level, evening out, and he found his eyelids fluttering closed as his muscles finally completely relaxed, leaving behind only a light burn.

"There," she said, the gentle heat of her healing mana fading, drawing away, and her hand withdrew, prompting his eyes to open and focus slowly on her as she leaned over him, wearing a concerned smile. "Honestly, Kratos, you should have said something. It isn't right that you thought you had to deal with this on your own. We're a group now. You've got to learn to trust."

His eyebrows journeyed downwards in a semi-conscious frown, stimulating Martel's hand to brush back his unruly hair again, a caring gesture to match the kindness of her eyes.

"You could have given yourself lasting damage," she chastised, the harshness of her words cancelled out by the softness of her eyes as she shook her head in disbelief, much like Yuan always did, or rather, always had.

He broke the eye contact, dropping his eyes to her knees, which rested in the dirt by his elbow, trying to rid himself of the pang of emotion he felt at the thought of his old best friend and this woman who was acting so much like him that it hurt.

Her hand travelled down from its resting place above his head, lifting his chin up and to the side to point his face in her direction, her manner apologetic, her smile smaller, tentative. She wasn't Yuan. He knew this. Yuan didn't have an apologetic manner; Yuan punched him on the shoulder, muttered the word 'sorry' and asked if they were 'square'. She was similar because she cared, but she was someone else, something else entirely.

"Hey, don't worry. It's alright," she soothed, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze.

Kratos' eyes widened at this. People didn't touch him. Yuan had ruffled his hair occasionally and hugged him if something was really wrong or had gone really well, but he was a swordsman, dangerous, an instrument for death who walked around with free half-elves. He received no human contact and only distrust based on race from half-elves.

"I've healed the damage," she told him, releasing his hand as he sat up, attempting to scoot backwards, away from the foreign contact. "But you need to take it easy, so no sparring and stay back with me in battle, alright?"

He nodded mutely, Martel continuing her monologue thoughtfully. "I'm not certain, but it seems to be your exsphere. It feels like your exsphere is affecting your mana distribution, so your mana concentrates around it and damages your chest cavity. Healing you redistributed it, but you'll need a new key crest at least. I knew we should have waited for those exspheres to be tested properly," she finished with a slight clicking sound of irritation directed at herself, not at him. "Do you think you can stand now?"

He nodded again, using the tree beside him as leverage to force his exhausted muscles into cooperation. She hovered close by, occasionally reaching out a hand to as if to steady him then thinking better of it and allowing him to do this himself.

As he took a wobbly step in the direction he thought he'd arrived from, she tucked herself into his side, under his shoulder, to guide him with her cold hands and warm smile.

"Martel," he said, his eyes dancing around her face, unable to look her consistently in the eye as she rewarded him with her attention. "Ah, thank you," he managed, a faint tinge of pink colouring his cheeks in embarrassment for opening himself up, even very slightly, to another person, especially after this person had seen him at his most vulnerable.

Her lips broke out into a wide, sunny smile as she threaded her arm around him and squeezed him in a quick, feather-light hug that was over almost as soon as she'd instigated it but that caused him to gasp. Nobody hugged him. After Yuan, he thought nobody ever would.

"You're welcome," she replied, her voice stronger now yet somehow light and airy, reasoning simply with overwhelming clarity, "You're my friend. That's what friends do."

He openly gaped, staring her directly in the eye for the first time since their journey back to camp had begun. They were shining with sincerity, bright with joy, strengthened with belief in her statement and saturated in caring. She meant it. She truly believed the words she had spoken.

A friend. She thought she was his friend?

She laughed softly. "Why do you look so shocked?"

He felt a strained, spontaneous smile slowly spread across his face. "I have no reason," he replied quietly. "I apologise."

"Don't apologise," she told him, giving his arm a quick rub as if to spread her words on his skin like ink, to be remembered with the clarity of her tone. "You are strange, Kratos," she laughed indulgently, amused but not scathing, acceptance showing in her demeanour. "It's a good strange though. I'm going to assume your appetite hasn't been fantastic either? Otherwise, I'd like to know if you've got a problem with my cherry pie."

His smile, which had wavered at her observation of his quirks, gained momentum in its bid to dominate his expression. He listened intently as she nattered on, telling him this and that, sharing her feelings about the scenery, the towns she had visited, Mithos' cooking ability and how much she liked sunny days. He listened, sometimes chipping in with small nuggets of his own facts, his own opinions, his own shared sentiments of warm weather and forest tracks. He listened and committed what she told him to memory, holding onto her words for future reference – birthday gifts, conversation – and because she was a friend and friends listened to each other.

She was including him in her life, welcoming him even. When he responded, she smiled like his revelations brightened her day as her friendship had brightened his. When she spoke, she did so like he was someone important, like she really wanted him to know, like with each snippet of herself she gave was a weight she had unloaded and shared with him, when really, it was the other way around; it was Kratos whose weights were being lifted, turning into feathers as she weaved her words around him, lightening him to point of flying away.

Only this time, he wasn't ascending alone. This time he had somebody to share the feeling with, no pain forcing him away, no darkness beckoning his body into its tantalising depths, only the light, breezy, uplifting conversation and his own free will with the friend he hadn't known he had. His saviour.

Yuan may have been his best friend, but Martel was his friend now too. And she was worth just as much as the best friend who no longer needed him.

After all, you could change the world, but it would mean nothing without the friends by your side.

AN: A bit of a weak last line there, but yeah... I hope you liked it. The bit with Martel was originally supposed to be a short piece to tie it all together and end this section on an optimistic note. I actually considered cutting it altogether as I wrote it, but then it sorta carried itself away, and yeah...

I thought I should note here that Kratos' exsphere is actually a Cruxis crystal – think Angelus Project. It was an exsphere that evolved to a Cruxis crystal. In this, Kratos has been parasitized by the exsphere and is going through the transformation like Colette. I know Colette's transformation was in stages and didn't happen like that – as in she lost the feeling all at once, but I thought that after 4000 years, Mithos would've sorted out the mount and figured out a way to make the ritual and the Chosen's transformation a process that wouldn't harm his sister's vessel too much.

Next chapter shows Yuan learning the meaning of friendship.

Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you liked it! ^_^

~ThePurpleRose