Threads of a Stolen Self

"Beloved?" Misha echoed. He forced himself upright, brushing his hair aside to glare at Jazz.

Jazz's eyes flicked to Misha, then back to Fanfar.

"Is that what you call him now? How poetic for someone wielding gray flames," Misha said.

Jazz didn't respond immediately. His gaze pierced Misha like a blade, yet his expression softened as it turned to Fanfar, who was struggling to stand.

"You don't have to get involved," Jazz muttered; his voice carried a weight of emotion Fanfar wasn't used to hearing. "This isn't your fight, Fanfar."

"Oh, you should learn his name first." Misha sighed, locking his gaze on Jazz and taking stumbling strides toward the bathroom door. "Lirui." He positioned himself before Jazz and stated, "Ru in short." He offered Fanfar with his hand. "That is his name."

Jazz regarded Misha without moving his head. "So what?"

"It ought to have triggered a memory," Misha said, combing his ears back along with his hair.