A/N: For Nayla, because she is evil/lovely and lied to me about Roger being alive and because these two are perfect and because I love her.

Sorry if I messed up a) any canon, b) characterisation, c) the Google-found Spanish. It's my first Gone fic; be nice!

It's a bit all over the place but...embrace it. :D

Roger is so soft.

This is the first thing Edilio notices.

Edilio's mother used to bake bread, press the heel of her aging hands firmly against the dough, knead and mould and shape with her fingers. Sometimes, when he was very little, she would let Edilio help. He would mess it up, of course; he's got lanky fingers, long and wieldy.

But he would try. Heel pressing firm against that soft dough, fingers pressing into its warmth...

When he kisses Roger, it is hard not to remember.

Roger's hands crawl up his back and Edilio can feel the smoothness of his skin through the many tears in his worn shirt. The soft pads of Roger's fingers brush against his spine.

His lips press against Edilio's gently, carefully, and they are both so very scared. But they've been scared for a while now, haven't they?

So Edilio stops caring. He pushes Roger's shirt from his shoulders with his rough, soldier's hands, presses his lips soft against Roger's collarbone and says, "You are so soft."

Roger blushes, smiles softly. "I love you," he says, watching the dying sun shoving the last of its rays through the window like an intruder.

Edilio pulls the curtain and they fall apart, fall together, in the fading light.

Roger is so quiet.

This is the first thing Edilio notices.

Edilio's father used to come home from work, from long laborious days, with sweat on his brow and hard-earned cash in his pocket. Sometimes, when Edilio was very small, he would sit at his feet.

"Quiet time," his father would say, letting his eyelids droop. "Ahora me voy a dormir," he would say, prayers always slipping from his tongue in Spanish. They sounded softer that way. Sweeter.

"...ruego a mi Señor que proteja mi alma," Edilio would whisper back, knowing his father would never make it through the next few lines.

A muffled sigh, a slight drop of the head, and he was sleeping.

And there Edilio would sit, legs crossed and hands twisted in his lap, listening to the world that would never really be silent, not at all. Somewhere in the distance, an alarm was screeching desperately. Somewhere in the not-distance, a clock was ticking loudly, bravely.

Edilio often wondered what silence really was, resigned himself to never, ever knowing.

When he is with Roger, it is hard not to remember.

Roger stares at walls. He loses himself in daydreams. He has one stick of chalk and sometimes, only sometimes, he will spend several silent hours sketching shapes and secrets onto the dark blue walls of the boat.

No one ever rubs them out and Edilio sits, legs crossed and hands twisted in his lap, and listens to Roger breathe, wondering what he would ever do if that alone fell silent.

"Never leave me," he whispers, voice tight, throat scratchy.

"Edilio, don't – "

"Promise me. Promise."

Roger smiles, reaches for Edilio with chalk-smudged fingers and love in his eyes.

"I promise," he whispers, and then he promises again and again and again to the skin of Edilio's shoulders, in between frantic kisses and desperate whispers of promise me the same.

Roger is special.

This is the first thing that Edilio notices.

When others run ragged and wild, fear in their eyes, he reaches for Justin and blinks calmly. Fear sits differently with Roger; it doesn't take a home in his chest and use his eyes as windows, it merely visits when the panic sets in, settles on his lips so that he niggles at it with his teeth.

"Stop that," Edilio says. "I'm here. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid," Roger murmurs, leaning back into the warmth of Edilio's lean body as Edilio's arms circle his waist.

"Liar," Edilio chuckles, and Roger smiles, and, for a moment, there is nothing to be afraid of ever again.

"How did you know?" Roger asks, turning around in Edilio's arms and pressing an open palm against Edilio's heart.

"I always know," Edilio says. "But I'm here."

"What if you're not though?" Roger asks, and his voice is so very small, so very weak and frail and scared, and Edilio's heart aches at the sound.

"I will be," he says. "Even when I'm not."

It's the best promise he can give him and Roger knows it.

"I love you," Edilio says, because it never tastes any less than perfect.

And sometimes Roger reminds him of before – Mama, Papi , don't forget me –but mostly...

Mostly Roger reminds him why now is worth living for.

When he has Roger, it is easy to hope.

"Do you think we're ever gonna get out of here alive?" Roger asks him, lips ghosting the shell of his ear.

"Dios Mío, I hope so," he whispers back, and it might be the first time he's ever meant it.

He is soft hands and worried-bloody lips, warm breath and straight spine, fearless and terrified and bold and meek and careful and loving and he takes Edilio by the hand when everyone is watching, and no one bats an eyelid.

Because he is Roger and he is Edilio and how had they not seen it before?

"I love you," he whispers, will always whisper, and the FAYZ doesn't seem half as awful.

Because Roger is Roger, utterly and unapologetically and so very perfectly, and that is the first thing Edilio notices.

"You promised me," he chokes, but there is no one around to hear. "You promised."

He hugs his gun tight to chest and prays it will all be over quickly.

Roger is gone.

Roger is gone.