This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.
Summary:
"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.
"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.
They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."
-
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
-
or
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
or
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambiguous relationship.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I’ve been reading way too much Hazbin Hotel fanfiction since Season 2 released and concluded, so here is a comprehensive list of my personal Season 2/Post-Season 2 faves and a couple extras. Enjoy!
More Black clover x demon slayer au, this time with the magic knight captains as the hashira!
It took embarrassingly long to draw this and half that time was spent trying to come up with designs. rant about au under cut:
William's design doesn't have every colour in existence on it like in canon i'm sorry i have my limits. i love how you can tell i spent the most time thinking about dorothy and william's designs
Anyway here are the roles:
Yami - Shadow hashira; his tsuguko is nacht but they dont have the usual mentor student dynamic, being the same age + partners. Shadow breathing is derived from idk (i wanna say moon but yk). He found Asta and Liebe in this au and takes the role of giyuu in the trail (with everyone SO ready to execute yami along with asta and liebe)
William - Earth hashira; he trains yuno occasionally but he is not his tsuguko. Earth breathing (maybe tree idk) is derived from stone breathing. He has empathy towards the demons and believes that they can coexist, which may or may not be related to the fact that he is harbouring an upper moon in his mansion. Sides with asta and liebe during the trial.
Dorothy (<3) - Dream hashira; her tsuguko used to be rill before he became a hashira 3 months after being taken in by dorothy. Dream breathing is similar to mist breathing and derived from water breathing. She slept through the meeting so did not pick a side in the trial.
Fuegoleon - Flame hashira; tsuguko is leo but he is struggling a bit. Not on asta and liebe's side at first (think rengoku but less loud and more calm).
Charlotte - Flower hashira; tsuguko is mimosa. Not on asta and liebe's side at first
Rill - Art hashira; used to be dorothy's tsuguko before becoming a hashira, has no student of his own yet. Art breathing is a combo of flame and dream. On asta and liebe's side in the mitsuri way if that makes sense. He waits for julius to come and give the decision.
Jack - Wind hashira; used to be Kaisers tsuguko before becoming a hashira (kaiser is retired), has no student of his own since his training is hell. SO ready to kill asta, liebe and yami (doesnt even care about the corps laws)
Nozel - Water hashira; doesnt have a tsuguko. Immediately says to execute asta, liebe and yami and still holds suspicion after the trial.
Julius is the master, kaiser is the retired wind hashira and mereleona isnt even in the corps but hunts demons for love of the game anyways.
Hey, could you put your fics under a read more? Your stuff is great but the long posts make it really hard to scroll through the tags on mobile
I have added a 'Keep Reading' page break as requested to all the chapter posts for Silver Clouds with Grey Linings! Each chapter post also has links to all other published chapters, and there is a pinned comment on my blog with the chapter masterlist.
Hey, y'all! Thanks so much for your patience with this chapter and happy one-year anniversary to this fanfic! Tbh, I began writing this fic back in May 2024 shortly after graduating college (but shhh...you didn't hear that from me.)
It is over 10k words, so have fun spending an hour or so reading this update (at least that is what to Wattpad preview feature told me).
If you are not following this story on Wattpad or Tumblr, I have been receiving an influx of comments on Ao3 and Wattpad to the extent of "Hello, I'm [insert name], a comic, webtoon artist, etc. ... [insert some bullshit generic compliment] ... I'd love to work with you ... [insert socials]".
Please be aware these are scams and scammy people. If you comment this on any of my works, your comment will be deleted and you will be BLOCKED.
If you are actually interested in creating artwork for fanfiction authors, generally you need to receive their permission and there is not a monetary exchange since the fanfiction they are producing is free! DM them through Wattpad or Tumblr and have a real conversation.
I am not falling for any scammy shit, and most people can detect AI-generated comments or sniff out a scam with a quick Google search.
Also, unrelated to the Black Clover fandom, but I recently published a Huskerdust fanfiction on Ao3 where Husk and Angel reconcile post-Season 2 Episode 4 about the events of Season 2 Episode 3. I am very excited for this week's upcoming episodes! Feel free to check it out!
I am planning to wrap up this fanfic in about 5-7 chapters. It is all dependent on how many ideas my noggin keeps churning out.
There could potentially be a sequel to this fanfic. However, that potentially is a very heavy maybe, given that I have started working on my own personal projects outside of fanfiction.
Anyway, enjoy!
This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.
~ ace-maverick
Summary:
"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.
"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.
They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."
-
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
-
or
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
or
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambiguous relationship.
Chapter 11: Patience 'Tis the Season (Pt. 2)
"What?!" Fuegoleon slammed the teacup onto the floating saucer with enough force to shatter it.
"Well, you don't have to yell about it." Nozel took a measured sip of his Earl Grey before setting the cup down on the floating coffee table.
Dorothy had been gracious enough to lend the pair her Glamour World for their much-anticipated conversation—Nozel's curse and the identity of Fuegoleon's would-be assassin—and was loitering nearby in case Nozel needed an impromptu wingwoman.
"So, you're telling me, that," he gestured rather clumsily to Nozel's scar around his neck, "is a product of a curse from the devil... Megi—Megicu—Megi... Megicula?"
"Megicula," Nozel echoed, his posture impeccable as he sat cross-legged on the velvet sofa across from Fuegoleon.
Nozel drew in a deep breath, bracing himself for the long-winded narrative ahead. "After my mother gave birth to Noelle, we retired to the countryside. A woman contracted to the devil Megicula managed to track us down and fatally wound her. Curse-warding magic—that's what she called it." Nozel wrung his hands together.
"There was—and still is—a stipulation: if I speak of the curse, whoever I tell will be struck by it as well. The lives of those who speak of it erode in the same way."
Fuegoleon's brow furrowed in confusion. They were discussing the very curse that had been inflicted upon Nozel, so why were neither of them dead?
"That's why we had to meet here." Nozel gestured to the dizzying expanse of the Glamour World. "Dorothy's Glamour World is unaffected by the curse's normal effects. It's an isolated dimension from the outside world that, in her words, 'does exactly what she wants,'" he added, lifting his hands to make stiff, almost disdainful finger quotes. "Here, we can speak freely."
"It's a really fucking convenient loophole Megicula failed to consider. But," his lips curved into a thin, humorless smile as he folded his arms across his chest, "I don't think she expected me to befriend a witch."
A beat of silenced passed, broken only by the faint shimmer of the Glamour World's distorted air. Dorothy, somewhere nearby, hummed off-key to herself, giving the illusion of distraction, though both men knew she was listening.
"So... I'm assuming your siblings don't know?" Fuegoleon didn't intend for the question to slip out so easily, but his curiosity had an ironclad grip on him. He and Nozel had come this far, so perhaps a little prying wouldn't hurt.
"No, they don't," Nozel responded flatly, fidgeting in his seat. The smallest shift in posture, but for a man like him, it might as well have been a confession screamed from the rooftops.
"I constructed the careful lie that my mother died due to childbirth complications. Nebra and Solid were too young and witless, and Noelle was a newborn, so it was an easy lie to perpetuate. Our extended family accepted it without protest, and my father was too preoccupied to properly mourn his wife's passing."
Fuegoleon set the black tea he had been nursing onto the end table. The abysmal clink of the saucer against the porcelain surface was a din to Nozel's ears as he awaited Fuegoleon's calculated response.
Instead of responding impulsively, Fuegoleon turned the revelation over in his head. The truth was as heavy as it was cruel, and for once, he found no immediate wisdom to offer—only the faint, bitter taste of sympathy.
Fuegoleon leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees before dragging both hands down his face with a low, weary groan. "Saints above..." he muttered into his palms, voice muffled. When he finally looked up, his violet eyes met Nozel's—somber, searching, and faintly incredulous.
Nozel's ears perked up at Fuegoleon's exasperated plea to the heavens, bracing for some sharp rebuke or biting remark. Instead, he found only a heavy silence. Fuegoleon's gaze lingered on him—not condemning, not pitying, but weighing the cost of the truth laid bare between them.
Nozel's gaze turned colder, though his fingers betrayed him, tightening against his bicep. "Better me than them," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm, like steel tempered in ice.
Dorothy's voice drifted from the shimmering haze, lilting like a nursery rhyme. "Better you than them, better villain than friend, better silence than sorrow... always the same, always the same."
Nozel breathed an internal sigh of relief, not unlike Dorothy, who descended like an angel from on high. She took her seat to the right of Nozel, lacing her hands behind her head as she kicked her feet up on the coffee table.
"He isn't lying, if that's what you're wondering, Fuegoleon," Dorothy punctuated with a wagging finger and a grin far too wide for the occasion.
Fuegoleon blinked at her, his violet eyes narrowing in equal parts suspicion and bemusement. "Are you always this... cryptic?" he asked, voice low, almost dangerous. The edge of his tone cut through the surreal calm of the Glamour World, ricocheting off the floating furniture and shimmering air.
"Not usually. But, I'm Nozel's wingwoman," Dorothy said, stretching one leg lazily across the sofa, the other tapping against the air as if keeping time to a song only she could hear. Her grin remained impossibly wide, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Part of the job description is making sure he doesn't implode from brooding in public. Or private."
Nozel's cheeks twitched, the faintest hint of irritation crossing his otherwise stoic expression. "I do not 'implode,'" he muttered, though his fingers loosened their grip on his bicep.
Fuegoleon let out a low whistle, half-amused, half-confounded. "Implode or not," he said, leaning further into the sofa, "you said nobody in your family but you is aware of how Lady Acier passed, correct? If so, that would be fifteen years."
Nozel and Dorothy exchanged a sidelong glance. Nozel unfolded his arms—one hand coming to rest on the armrest, the other shooing Dorothy's foot off the sofa. "Consider that a half-truth. Aside from Dorothy, nobody else was aware. However, given our recent entanglement with that blasted devil from the elf-reincarnation incident, and Asta's trial and conditional pardon, I thought it pertinent to share it with Noelle."
Her name came out more like a question than a statement as he turned to Dorothy, curious whether the witch had already delivered on her promise to tell Noelle about the curse.
"Oh, right!" Dorothy clapped her hands together in splendor. "Noelle knows now—I even conjured up the cutest Nozel to dote on her, but she blasted that away with her water magic. Still, she was quite insistent on why she didn't hear it directly from the horse's mouth."
Nozel dared to spare a glance in Fuegoleon's direction at the admission that Dorothy informed Noelle of the curse rather than her own brother. Though it wasn't plain on his face, that was Fuegoleon's royally pissed expression.
Fuegoleon's jaw was set just a fraction tighter than usual, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his violet eyes gleamed with restrained irritation. A faint furrow in his brow and the almost imperceptible narrowing of his gaze gave away the simmering annoyance beneath his composed exterior.
Nozel hated it when Fuegoleon got this way, but he supposed it was his own fault for keeping a secret this consequential. Nozel had kissed that scowling face silly just a few weeks ago. He was embarrassingly proud of the mana control Fuegoleon had exercised when delivering Julius's orders to the packed courtroom overseen by Damnatio. He hadn't singed a single edge of that scroll. The physical therapy with Owen was working wonders.
Fuegoleon exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but sharp enough to slice through the fragile calm. "You could've told her yourself, Nozel," he said finally, each word deliberate, like measured strikes of a blade. "She's your sister. She deserved to hear it from you, not secondhand through magic theatrics."
Nozel's lips parted, but no retort came. He'd expected the rebuke—it was written in the fine line of Fuegoleon's jaw, in the faint tremor of restraint that bordered on anger. "I know," he admitted at last, his voice dropping low. "But I thought it better she hear it in an environment where the curse couldn't touch her. The Glamour World isn't as easily accessible as Dorothy would like to make it seem."
Dorothy leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, her grin never quite fading. "Oh, it's accessible enough if you ask nicely," she sang, swinging her foot idly. "But I suppose not everyone can handle the truth and a reality warp at the same time."
Fuegoleon ignored her sing-song meddling, his focus trained squarely on Nozel. "You always have a reason," he said, the words deceptively calm but heavy with disapproval. "A reason for secrecy, a reason for silence, a reason for sparing everyone but yourself. Tell me—how many times do you plan to martyr yourself before you realize it helps no one?"
Nozel's gaze hardened. "You think I haven't considered that?"
"I think," Fuegoleon countered, his voice rising a fraction, "that you've built your life around considering everything but the people who care about you."
Dorothy winced at the shift in tone and made an exaggerated zipping motion over her lips. The air in the Glamour World thickened, shimmered—the ambient hum of the magic itself seemed to quiet in deference to the tension between them.
"I am considering them," Nozel replied sharply. "Every moment of every day, Fuegoleon. Every decision I've made has been to ensure they never have to carry what I do. You think I enjoy lying to them? To Noelle?"
Fuegoleon pushed up from his seat, the motion deliberate and controlled but unmistakably brimming with frustration. "And yet you did. You robbed her of closure, of understanding her mother's death, and of you. You can't protect someone by denying them the truth. That's not protection, Nozel—that's fear."
Nozel rose too, though more slowly, his composure never quite fracturing but his eyes glinting with something brittle—guilt, pride, something dangerously close to grief. "I was afraid," he admitted. The confession landed like a dropped blade between them, both quiet and final. "If she had known, she would've gone looking for Megicula herself. She's reckless, she's powerful—but she's still a child in ways she refuses to admit. I couldn't risk it. Not again."
The edges of Fuegoleon's posture softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. "And what about you? How much of this curse have you taken on because you thought you were the only one strong enough to bear it?"
"That's irrelevant."
"No," Fuegoleon said, stepping closer, "it's exactly the point."
Dorothy, who had been pretending to nap on a floating chaise, cracked one eye open. "You two realize the rest of the Clover Kingdom could probably feel the sexual tension radiating from here, right?"
Neither dignified her with a glance.
Fuegoleon exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he finally sank back onto the sofa. "Geezus, Nozel... you don't have to do this alone anymore. Not everything has to be penance."
For a long moment, Nozel said nothing. Then, slowly, he sat back down as well. The cold gleam in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something quieter, humbler. "Perhaps not," he said. "But old habits die hard."
Dorothy stretched, kicking her legs lazily in the air. "So do curses," she chirped, before looking between them with an almost wistful grin. "But maybe, if you two keep having these heart-to-hearts, you'll bore this one to death."
Fuegoleon huffed a laugh despite himself, and Nozel's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough that Dorothy clapped her hands once, delighted.
The Glamour World shimmered faintly around them, the tension finally ebbing into something tender and tired.
"I'll converse with her eventually," Nozel relented, his chin perched on his palm to hide a pout as he had migrated to the far end of the sofa, furthest from Dorothy.
"That was a caveat to our agreement," Dorothy finished for him.
Nozel's eyes flicked toward her, unimpressed but too weary to protest. Fuegoleon merely sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Dorothy tilted her head, watching the pair with a knowing smile that softened—just barely—at the edges. The charged stillness had finally begun to thin, leaving in its wake something almost domestic, almost peaceful. She could practically see the walls lowering between them, however grudgingly. And because she was Dorothy Unsworth—witch, meddler, and self-proclaimed bringer of chaos—she simply couldn't resist stirring the pot a little further.
Dorothy exhaled dramatically. "Enough with the doom and gloom—let's get into the juicy details. Are y'all officially dating?" She propped her chin on her interlaced fingers, eyes fixed on Nozel with mischievous curiosity.
It was a godsend; neither Fuegoleon nor Nozel was sipping their tea, their cups abandoned and cold on the coffee and end tables. Fuegoleon would have probably choked, and Nozel would have had a spit take.
Nozel's face blossomed into a shade of red that Fuegoleon hadn't seen since he kissed him at his grimoire reception, his nails digging into his chin and biting his lip hard enough he nearly drew blood.
Fuegoleon's brows arched, equal parts amused and mortified. "Dorothy," he warned, tone sharp enough to melt steel but doing little to deter her grin.
"What?" she said innocently, batting her lashes. "You two have been making goo-goo eyes at each other for the last ten minutes. I'm doing the kingdom a favor by confirming the gossip."
Fuegoleon pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about unfathomable witches and their lack of boundaries.
Nozel, on the other hand, looked like he might combust on the spot. "There is no gossip," he managed, voice tight as a bowstring. "And yes, we are dating."
"Fucking finally!" Dorothy squealed, jumping up on the couch. "Oooh, what should your ship name be?!"
Fuegoleon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Saints preserve me."
Nozel looked as though he instantly regretted every decision that had led him to this exact moment. "That will not be necessary," he said crisply, tone back to the aristocratic chill that usually froze subordinates mid-sentence.
"Oh, but it is necessary," Dorothy insisted, kicking her legs excitedly. "This is monumental! The kingdom's two most uptight captains are dating, and you expect me to not celebrate?" She spun in midair, the hem of her cap twirling with her as she chanted to herself, "Fuezel? Noeleon? Hmm... Silverflame? That one's got a ring to it!"
Fuegoleon shot her a warning look sharp enough to cleave stone. "Dorothy."
She only grinned wider. "Oh, come on, Fuegoleon—you have to admit, it's cute. Sounds like a cocktail. Or a disaster."
"Both, apparently," Nozel muttered under his breath, arms folding defensively as his blush deepened.
Fuegoleon, despite himself, let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "You're enjoying this far too much," he said to Dorothy, voice low, resigned, but not unkind.
"Obviously," she said, smug and unrepentant. "It's not every day the world's most emotionally constipated royals decide to act on their feelings. I've been waiting for this arc."
"You know you cannot say anything about this," Nozel remarked to Dorothy as she continued to flit about the seating area, as she always did during their biweekly teas. Nozel swore she was a child incarnate. He pressed two fingers to his temple, looking one mild irritation away from hexing the entire Glamour World out of existence.
Dorothy waved him off with an airy flick of her wrist, upside down now, lounging midair as if gravity had simply given up on her. "Well, duh~" she sang, her grin far too mischievous. "Your dad's got a stick shoved so far up his ass it's coming out his damn throat."
Fuegoleon choked on a startled laugh, while Nozel closed his eyes slowly—counting, no doubt, to ten.
"If you ask me, nobles and royals are far too concerned with preserving their bloodlines. You'd think the slew of loveless marriages and resentful spouses would have been lesson enough. But no!" Dorothy threw her hands up in mock exasperation, twirling in midair as though she were delivering a grand speech to an invisible audience. "Besides, you both have collateral."
With a mischievous glint in her eye, Dorothy popped out of existence in a puff of glittery smoke—only to reappear inches from Nozel's face. Before he could even blink, she reached out and booped him on the nose, giggling as she drifted lazily backward through the air like an overgrown child.
Nozel blinked once, slowly. His brow furrowed, lips parting in visible confusion. "Collateral?" he echoed, his tone hovering somewhere between suspicion and disbelief.
Dorothy rolled her eyes so dramatically her entire head followed the motion. "Siblings, dumbass," she said as she tapped him lightly on the forehead with a manicured finger before pirouetting away.
"Ain't Kirsch your cousin?" she continued before either man could reply, floating upside down now with her chin in her hands. "He and Mimosa are the product of House Silva and House Vermillion. Your aunt—" she pointed accusingly at Nozel "—and your uncle," she added, turning the same finger toward Fuegoleon, who arched an unimpressed brow.
"You sure know quite a bit about our family trees," Fuegoleon remarked dryly, arms folding over his chest. The faintest quirk of amusement ghosted across his lips as he tracked her floating figure.
Dorothy gave a sly grin, twirling a strand of her purple hair around her finger. "Well, Kirsch gets really chatty after a couple mimosas," she said breezily. "Never understood why they thought to name their daughter after a cocktail, though," she murmured behind her hand, quiet enough not to offend either man.
Nozel let out a quiet sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off an impending headache. "I don't think Solid or Nebra would be thrilled if I started negotiating marriage on their behalf," he said, tone clipped.
Fuegoleon chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "We already know how revolted Mereoleona is by men," he said with a wry smile, recalling how she had nearly incinerated the one and only suitor their father had ever introduced her to. "And Leopold isn't of age."
"Neither is Noelle," Nozel added matter-of-factly, crossing one leg over the other with rigid dignity.
Dorothy flopped backward midair like she was lounging in an invisible hammock, arms folded behind her head. "Well, you're both already thirty," she teased, grinning down at them. "So what's to say your parents aren't already pushing for grandchildren? They can wait a little longer. Besides, men are fertile their entire fucking lives."
Nozel gave her a pointed stare, unimpressed. "Says the oh-so-wise twenty-eight-year-old," he drawled.
Dorothy smirked, flipping upright again with a snap of her fingers that sent a ripple of sparkles through the air. "My lips are sealed," she said, pressing a finger to her mouth in mock secrecy. Her grin widened into something positively devilish. "Not my business to tell that you're boning and atoning."
Fuegoleon groaned audibly, facepalming while Nozel turned such a shade of red that even his silver hair seemed to glow. Dorothy only laughed harder, spinning gleefully in the air like a cat that had just knocked something valuable off a shelf before settling back onto the couch next to Nozel.
"But seriously," she began, straightening the brim of her oversized hat "Your secret's safe with me. We do not support outing in this Glamour World." Dorothy snapped her fingers, making a heart-shaped illusion appear and pop with a soft poof. "You could tone it down with the pining, though. Honestly, you're subtle—but not that subtle. Still, you've got nothing on Charlotte. That woman's got it bad for Yami."
Fuegoleon cringed at the mention of their fellow captains, his expression caught somewhere between secondhand embarrassment and disbelief. "Please don't remind me," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The last time I walked into the captains' meeting early, Charlotte was staring at the door like Yami was about to materialize from thin air."
Dorothy cackled, clutching her stomach as she nearly tipped over on the couch. "Oh, I know! I thought she was going to faint the last time he called her 'Char.'" She fluttered her lashes dramatically, clutching an invisible bouquet to her chest. "'Oh, Captain Yami, please, say it again!'"
Dorothy clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Anywho, enough about them," she declared, leaning forward on the couch, elbows resting on her knees. "Fire's out from under your ass, Nozel—time to roast Fuegoleon."
Fuegoleon arched an eyebrow, a single, unimpressed sound escaping him. "...Pardon?"
Nozel adjusted the cuff of his sleeve before speaking, his voice laced with biting poise. "Oh yes, Fuegoleon," he said coolly, eyes flicking toward the redhead with feigned politeness. "Do enlighten us—who was the assailant that sent you into a six-month coma?" The last half of his sentence came out displeased and edged with frost.
Fuegoleon exhaled through his nose, clearly torn between irritation and reluctant amusement. "I'm beginning to regret ever waking up," he muttered.
"I am going to preface this with a disclaimer," he continued after a measured pause, lowering his hand and straightening in his seat. His tone shifted—calm, deliberate, and carrying the quiet authority that came naturally to him. His violet eyes swept between the two captains. "What I am going to disclose cannot leave this dimension," he said, his voice dropping to a low, serious register, "and must be kept with the strictest confidence."
Dorothy immediately perked up, sitting straight and folding her hands neatly in her lap, her usually mirthful expression shifting to mirror Fuegoleon's.
"And Nozel," Fuegoleon prompted, his eyes flicking toward him. "You have to promise not to retaliate."
Nozel's mouth opened, ready to protest, only to be met with a stern, narrowing gaze that read, this is not the time nor the place.
"Very well," Nozel relented, clearly put off by Fuegoleon's comment.
"It was William Vangeance."
Dorothy blinked. Once. Twice. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "I'm sorry," she chimed, voice pitching up a note, "come again?"
Nozel's expression, on the other hand, darkened like a brewing storm. His entire posture stiffened—shoulders squared, chin tilting ever so slightly upward in disbelief. "I'm gonna kill him," he vowed, his tone razor-sharp but eerily calm, the kind of calm that came before something catastrophic.
"Nozel." Fuegoleon's hand shot out across the coffee table before the word finished, closing around Nozel's wrist with an iron-quiet grip. The motion was gentle enough not to bruise but absolute in its restraint; the kind of touch that said I will stop you if I must.
Nozel's jaw worked; his eyes flashed like hammered silver. He swallowed, rage coiling in his throat, and for a heartbeat the room held its breath. "No, Fuego. I'm gonna kill him," he repeated, voice a low promise that sounded nothing like fury and everything like fate.
"You promised."
"Well, promises are cheap when the golden boy twink tries to murder my boyfriend."
Neither Fuegoleon nor Nozel noticed Dorothy materialize between them, floating above the coffee table until she was already perched there, legs crossed, palms flat on her knees like a smug little judge. She clicked her tongue theatrically. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, gentlemen—temper, temper," she chided, wagging a finger at both of them. "We are not turning the Glamour World into a murder scene. Not today, anyway."
Nozel ground his teeth, fingers flexing against the fabric of the sofa, but he did not wrench his wrist free. Fuegoleon's grip remained firm, a careful anchor rather than a cuff. Dorothy leaned forward, conspiratorial and impossibly sharp. "Listen—feelings understood, rage appreciated, homicidal urges cataloged. But before anyone storms out to stab Vangeance, let's talk like the civil Magic Knight Captains we are, okay?"
"Fine." Nozel wrenched his wrist back and flopped onto the sofa like a petulant child, while Dorothy snapped her fingers and reappeared at his side.
Dorothy patted his knee with a surprisingly comforting, almost motherly gesture. "Good boy." She then turned her attention to the man of the hour, her expression shifting back into a focused, probing curiosity. "Okay, Fuegoleon," she said, her voice dropping to a low purr. "You've thrown a massive, reality-bending wrench into the mix, so you have to give us the whole story. Why? Why would William, of all people, do this?"
Fuegoleon watched Nozel for a moment—the tension in his shoulders hadn't lessened, only been pushed down. He gave a sharp, curt nod, acknowledging the validity of Dorothy's question.
Fuegoleon's gaze drifted downward, fingers absently brushing along a scar that disappeared beneath his collar. "During the assault on the Royal Capital last year, I was fighting one of the Eye of the Midnight Sun's members when I was teleported to a confined dimension—"
Dorothy tilted her head, one finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin. "Like the Glamour World?" she asked.
Fuegoleon shook his head slowly. His eyes unfocused, distant—as though still caught somewhere between memory and nightmare. "More like a sealed, windowless void," he said, his voice dropping lower with each word. "Nothing but white in every direction—no walls, no floor, no ceiling." His hand hovered in the air, palm open, to illustrate the emptiness.
"William was standing there in his eyebrowless glory, wearing Eye of the Midnight Sun robes," Fuegoleon said, his voice flat but laced with the faintest trace of disbelief. He lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely as though trying to conjure the absurd image from memory.
Dorothy blinked before snorting into her palm. "No eyebrows," she echoed, shoulders shaking as a grin tugged at her lips.
"Oh yeah," Nozel cut in, gesturing dismissively with one elegant flick of his hand. "You haven't seen him without that tacky mask yet. He's got this big-ass scar that covers the upper half of his face." His nose wrinkled faintly, as though recalling it offended his aesthetic sensibilities.
"He doesn't wear the mask anymore around his subordinates or colleagues, but whenever he makes a public appearance, he has those wretched peacock feathers sticking out of the top of his head," Nozel said, gesturing sharply above his own head in disdain.
Fuegoleon cleared his throat pointedly, a quiet cue that the tangent had gone on long enough.
"William looked remorseful and apologetic," Fuegoleon continued, with a quiet, heavy timbre. His hands folded in his lap, knuckles pale against the fabric of his trousers. "Then he relinquished control to Patri." The name left his mouth like something bitter, something he'd rather not taste again. "The last words Vangeance spoke to me were, 'I'm sorry.'"
He exhaled slowly, gaze distant—haunted, almost—as though he could still see that sterile white void if he stared too long. "And then... nothing. Just silence. I woke up six months later to my Vice Captain attacking the Crimson Lion base."
Dorothy had gone quiet, her usually chipper demeanor replaced with reservedness. The playful gleam in her eyes had dimmed, and she turned to Nozel for a flicker of guidance on how to react.
Nozel, on the other hand, had gone utterly still. His earlier bluster, his biting remarks, all of it had drained away. The fingers that had been drumming restlessly against his thigh now curled inward, knuckles white.
Fuegoleon, ever oblivious to their exchange, eyes still fixed downwards, resumed, "Noelle and Leopold visited while I was recovering."
"She said, 'When you were teleported back, your body hit the pavement like a pound of flesh on a cutting board.'" His expression didn't change, but his hand lifted slightly, then it fell back to his knee. "At that point, my arm had already been severed"—he gestured briefly toward the stump, the movement restrained, controlled—"and my grimoire was fading. Had it not been for Noelle's quick thinking..." He paused, exhaling through his nose. "I would be dead."
For a moment, silence claimed the room—thick, unmoving, the kind that pressed on the ribs.
When Fuegoleon finally looked up, he saw Dorothy clutching Nozel's left hand as his boyfriend stared straight at him, tears welling in those gorgeous lavender eyes.
"Are you in therapy?" Nozel managed to choke out, gripping Dorothy's hand tighter.
"Yes, I've been seeing Owen for physical therapy. You know this, Nozel—"
"Not that kind of therapy, you twit," Nozel snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. His composure was unraveling by degrees—the sharp edges of his voice thinning. His hand was still locked around Dorothy's, knuckles white, jaw trembling despite his best efforts to hold it steady. "The mental kind. The kind you clearly need."
Dorothy's lips twitched, torn between intervening and letting him vent. Her free hand hovered in the air, fingers flexing as if she might reach out to soothe him but thought better of it.
Fuegoleon blinked, taken aback—not by the insult, but by the crack in Nozel's usually unflappable exterior. He rarely broke like this in front of the other captains, but he supposed Dorothy was the excpetion. He leaned back slightly, brows knitting in what might've been the faintest flicker of guilt.
"You were in a coma for six months, Fuego," Nozel hissed, voice shaking now, each word edged in frustration and grief. His hand finally slipped from Dorothy's, falling to his thigh with a dull thud. "You almost died, and you're sitting here talking about it like it's a mission report."
Dorothy exhaled softly through her nose, her gaze darting between the two men. "Okay," she murmured like a careful hand parting smoke. "Let's take a breath, yeah? No one's trying to win an argument here. We're all just... trying to make sense of what happened."
Nozel shot her a venomous glare that could've frozen magma. Dorothy only smiled sweetly in return, unbothered. "That's the spirit, sugarplum. Breathe before you start hurling furniture."
Fuegoleon straightened, his features smoothing into that familiar, practiced calm. "Nozel, I do intend to get the help I need," he said, leveling gaze meeting Nozel's.
Dorothy conjured a handkerchief just in time for Nozel to blow his runny nose into it. "Promise?"
"Promise." Fuegoleon gave a firm nod.
Dorothy flicked her wrist, and the soiled handkerchief vanished in a puff of glittering dust. "Good," she said softly, her voice losing its usual teasing lilt. "Because if you hadn't, I'd have scheduled the sessions myself."
Nozel let out a shaky breath through his nose, the sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. He leaned back against the sofa, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand, trying—and failing—to look composed again. "You're infuriatingly calm about this," he muttered.
Fuegoleon's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "Someone has to be."
Dorothy leaned forward, propping her chin on her palm as her tone regained a hint of its usual brightness. "Alright, Fuegoleon, not sure if you've seen the official report on your assassination attempt." She blew on her fingernails as though admiring a fresh manicure before turning her hand over to inspect the shine.
"But William's oh-so-righteous reason for making an attempt on your life was that pretty little red pendant you wore around your neck." Her hand lifted in a loose gesture, as though plucking the pendant from thin air. "It was one of the ten ancient magic stones the Apostles of Sephirah used to power the Tree of Life Monument and open the Shadow Palace."
Nozel stared at Dorothy like she'd sprouted ten heads, and all Fuegoleon could muster was a very polite, very perturbed, "Excuse me?"
The two men exchanged a confused glance before Nozel prompted, "Dorothy, I was there, and I don't understand half the gibberish you just spouted."
"Well, duh. You were there, but you weren't there-there," she retorted, pointing an accusing finger at him.
"What?" Nozel asked flatly.
"At the summoning ritual," Dorothy clarified, "of the Shadow Palace."
"Geezus, I have to walk y'all through everything." Dorothy threw her hands up dramatically, exhaling a long, exasperated sigh before inhaling a gulpful of air. "The Apostles of Sephirah are ten divinely blessed elves who represent the ten spots on the Tree of Life Monument—Sephiroth, the tree of life design in the Kabbalah." She began gesturing with both hands, tracing an invisible diagram in the air. "The Kabbalah is a system of Jewish mysticism that seeks to understand the hidden meanings of the Torah and the nature of the divine."
She crossed one leg over the other, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a lecturer in her element. "The Apostles of Sephirah have the unique ability to open the Shadow Palace—a magical space between our realm and the underworld, where devils originate."
"And you know this how?" Nozel asked, brow creasing, his arms folding in suspicion.
"Because I was there," Dorothy replied simply, her tone matter-of-fact. She leaned back, one hand resting lazily against her cheek. "I was possessed by the elf Reve. She was one of the ten Apostles of Sephirah."
"Sir Kaiser, William, Charlotte, and Rill were also possessed by elves," Dorothy added. "There are still remnants of their magic in the Magic Knights the elves possessed."
"My soul was dormant," she continued, her voice softening. "But I could feel Reve seething with wrath and grief. She was mourning—" she hesitated briefly, eyes distant, "—and lamenting how humans are vile, parasitic hedonists. Especially the royalty and nobility of our kingdom."
Nozel's mouth twitched, his spine stiffening in quiet indignation, while Fuegoleon frowned, lips pressed thinly together.
Dorothy noticed but didn't pause. "She then told me a rather harrowing tale. About how the elves came to harbor such a profound disdain against humans, about how their Tribe was slaughtered." Each word that passed her lips was quieter than the previous.
"The elves lived peacefully in the Forsaken Realm before ever making contact with the humans," she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Then, one fateful day, Licht saved Lady Tetia from a magical tornado after she had stowed away from the castle." A small, wistful smile ghosted across her lips. "That's how Licht met Lumiere Silvamillion Clover—the first Wizard King and your ancestor." She lifted a finger, gesturing between Fuegoleon and Nozel.
"Licht and Prince Lumiere became fast friends. They both sought to establish a lasting peace between elves and humans, and each possessed a four-leaf grimoire. They endeavored to combine their respective talents and knowledge—Prince Lumiere and his servant, Secre Swallowtail—"
Fuegoleon and Nozel exchanged a perplexed glance, brows furrowed in mutual recognition at the name.
Dorothy caught the look and huffed. "The woman with Asta at the Devil Trial. Remember?" she drawled, crossing her arms with mock impatience. "The trial you so graciously interrupted to pardon Asta from a guillotine blade?"
Nozel's jaw flexed, but Dorothy carried on, waving her hand dismissively. "Anywho. Prince Lumiere and Secre were developing a magic tool capable of storing and distributing mana, while the elves' magic stones amplified spells by drawing power from another world. By combining his research with the elves' resources, the Prince advanced magic technology further."
She leaned back, voice softening again. "Licht and Lady Tetia fell in love. She was with child before they were set to marry—twins, actually." Dorothy's eyes gentled for the briefest moment before she blinked it away.
Her tone shifted, quiet but edged with dread. "The devil that appeared in the Shadow Palace was named Zagred. He orchestrated a plan five hundred years ago to manifest in the mortal world from Hell."
"On the day of Licht and Lady Tetia's wedding," she continued, her gestures becoming sharper, "Zagred summoned Prince Lumiere to an audience with his father under false pretenses to keep him from attending the ceremony. There, the Prince was confronted by a minister whom Zagred had possessed to manipulate the royals into stealing the Elf Tribe's magic."
Dorothy's expression darkened, voice steady but grave. "The magic tool that Prince Lumiere and Secre had been developing was used to drain the elves' mana. Zagred then slaughtered the Elf Tribe using an imitation of Lumiere's light magic to convince them the Prince had betrayed them."
Fuegoleon's eyes lowered, while Nozel's grip on his knee tightened ever so slightly.
"The overwhelming despair from the massacre and betrayal corrupted Licht's four-leaf clover grimoire, turning it into a five-leaf clover," Dorothy said, her voice soft but deliberate. "To prevent Zagred from possessing his body, Licht used the magic stones to transform himself into a demon. He became mindless and uncontrollable, leaving Prince Lumiere no choice but to kill him."
Her shoulders sank slightly, the fatigue of recounting the tale finally showing. "While Prince Lumiere battled against Licht, Secre noticed that Lady Tetia and one of her twins were still alive. She sealed their wounds before helping the Prince finish the fight."
Dorothy's hands stilled in her lap, fingers curling inward. "Afterward, Zagred tried to steal the five-leaf grimoire, but Secre used the magic stones to seal him within an Eternal Prison. Before the seal was complete, though, Zagred summoned the stones to himself and used them to suspend the elves' souls—setting both them and himself to reincarnate in the future. As a result of using Forbidden Magic, Secre sprouted Weg."
Dorothy tilted her head, tone lightening just a touch. "Those cute little black horns she has? They appear temporarily when a human borrows a devil's power—or permanently when overusing Forbidden Magic or negative mana."
Her expression sobered again. "Lumiere, grievously wounded from the battle, went to check on Secre. Despite the risk of using the stones again, she sealed him into a statue so that he could be there in the future—to stop the devil, and to protect the peace."
Her words slowed, softening like the last notes of a lullaby. "Five centuries later, Patri was reincarnated in William's body. Due to his incomplete memories and the corrupting effects of Reincarnation Magic, Patri sought revenge on all humans, founding the Eye of the Midnight Sun to revive the elves and destroy the Clover Kingdom."
Dorothy leaned back, resting her elbows on the armrest with a tired sigh. "The Clover Royals posthumously awarded Prince Lumiere the title of Wizard King for defeating the demon and saving the kingdom. And the generations that followed inherited the stolen magic power."
She paused, her tone dropping to a somber murmur, eyes lowering to the floor. "The demon's skull remained in Hage Village with Prince Lumiere's statue atop it... until he finally passed during the Elf Reincarnation incident."
Fuegoleon's fingers drummed rapidly against his bouncing knee, while Nozel sucked on his teeth. Neither man made a move to respond first.
Dorothy regarded the two in silence for a moment, eyes flicking between their stoic expressions. Then, with a lazy grin, she broke the tension. "A little heavy for a bedtime story, huh?"
Fuegoleon exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's... quite the history lesson," he muttered.
Nozel, however, wasn't so easily shaken. "So this was all due to a five-hundred-year-old grudge match between the elves and humans."
Dorothy tilted her head, lips pressing into a small, sympathetic smile. "Mmm. You could say that." She tapped her chin thoughtfully, gaze drifting toward the ceiling. "Or you could say it's been five hundred years of very fancy guilt management."
Nozel's eyes snapped up at that, the sting in her words landing cleanly. "You make it sound as if we're all responsible for the sins of the dead."
Dorothy hummed, twirling a lock of pastel hair between her fingers. "Mmhmm. Passed down through generations, all shiny and polished by propaganda." Her grin widened, impish but tired. "Makes you wonder what else the royal historians left out of the textbooks, doesn't it?"
She leaned back into her seat, crossing one leg over the other with a faint rustle of fabric. "Every kingdom was built on blood and lies," she said, lifting her hand to mime sprinkling rose petals over an invisible grave. "Clover just pretends its sins smell like roses." Her hand fell back to her knee, fingers tapping idly. "While you may not be directly responsible for your ancestors' misdeeds, you are inheritors. You both sit in the shadow of the same monument Lumiere built to bury the truth." The turquoise rings around Dorothy's pupils flared faintly, casting a ghostly sheen across her lashes.
"You must admit the truth has merit," she pressed on, her tone calm but weighted with conviction. She rose from her seat, pacing slowly, fingers tracing idle shapes in the air as if sketching invisible hierarchies. "Within the past five hundred years, the classism in Clover has only worsened, spurred on by the prejudice of the aristocracy and the subjugation of the commoners."
She stopped between the two captains, standing on the coffee table like a soapbox. "It's even evident in our Magic Knight ranks," she continued, holding up six fingers. "Of the nine Grand Magic Knight Captains, six are either royals or nobles. Only Jack, Yami, and I are commoners." A wry smile ghosted across her lips. "Even then, both Yami and I are foreigners."
Her hand dropped to her side, fingers curling loosely into a fist. "And to add insult to injury, only within the past generation did we have the first commoner ascend to our ranks—and he's dead." Her voice dropped to a deadly whisper as she glanced away. "Murdered by his squadmates for daring to exist around nobles."
Fuegoleon and Nozel looked mildly horrified at that revelation. They'd read the report, of course—everyone had—but hearing it spoken aloud, framed in such human cruelty, made it sound like an open wound.
She raised a hand, palm open, then slowly let it fall. "While royals were already born more favored by mana," she said quietly, "the elven magic you inherited has increased the power imbalance between royal and peasant tenfold." Her gaze lingered on each of them in turn—steady, unflinching, and unbearably knowing—before she sank back into her chair with a sigh, the faint shimmer in her eyes finally dimming.
Fuegoleon stared at the floor, the lines between his brows deepening as if the bottomless pit of the Glamour World could offer him an answer. His fingers twitched once against his knee before stilling completely. There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound hollow.
Nozel sat ramrod straight, every inch of him taut with restraint. The faintest tremor crossed his jaw, gone as quickly as it came. He wanted to argue—wanted to refute her claim with all the righteous indignation of his breeding—but even he couldn't deny the truth beneath her words. The taste of it sat bitter on his tongue.
Dorothy watched them both from beneath lowered lashes, the ghost of her earlier grin nowhere to be found. The quiet stretched, punctuated only by the faint tick of a floating grandfather clock.
Dorothy let the silence breathe for a moment before speaking again, her tone softer now, almost wistful. "Y'know," she began, her fingers tracing lazy circles along the armrest, "it makes me oddly optimistic when Asta and Yuno have their little screaming matches about being the next Wizard King."
Fuegoleon's gaze flicked upward at the mention, curiosity dulling the edge of his tension. Nozel's brows drew together, though he said nothing.
"They're far too young and naive to take up the mantle next," Dorothy continued, her lips curving into a faint, fond smile. "But it gives me hope—that maybe one day, a commoner could ascend to the most revered position in the land."
Dorothy pushes herself forward slightly in her chair, leaning toward them with sincerity. "I do not blame either of you for the station you were born into. It wasn't your choice. But I ask you to do better than your ancestors," Dorothy said, her eyes conveying a solemn gravity she rarely showed.
Fuegoleon closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the weight of her plea. He exhaled slowly, the heat of his indignation replaced by a chilling sense of responsibility. "The path of atonement is rarely clear," he murmured, his gaze directed at the floor. "But the need for reform is undeniable."
Nozel remained rigid, his arms crossed over his chest, but his usual cutting retort died on his tongue. He merely dipped his chin in a barely perceptible motion. He couldn't meet her gaze, instead staring out at the illusory horizon of the Glamour World.
Dorothy gave them a thin, knowing smile. She eased back into her chair, the solemnity fading as she picked up a small, shimmering object—a dream marble—and began to toss it lightly from hand to hand.
"A path you walk because you must is always a good start," she conceded, her tone lightening slightly. She let the marble dissolve into sparkling dust. "But you have to stay vigilant. The problem always comes back." She shrugged one shoulder carelessly. "Devils are like mold, sweetheart. They thrive in dark corners you forget to clean."
Dorothy's words hung in the air like incense—sweet, cloying, impossible to ignore.
Fuegoleon's brow furrowed, his voice low but even. "You speak of devils as if they were only creatures of malice. But sometimes, they're men who've convinced themselves their sins serve a greater good."
Dorothy tilted her head, eyes glimmering with curiosity. "Mmm. Thinking of someone in particular, sweetheart?"
His answer came slowly, each word measured and deliberate. "William."
The faintest spark of interest lit in Nozel's eyes. He didn't interrupt—not yet.
Fuegoleon continued, his tone darkening with memory. "When Patri used William's body to attack me, I wondered later... if he ever tried to resist. Or if he simply let it happen." His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the calm veneer of the Crimson Lion cracked, revealing something colder beneath. "Whether he handed the knife over—or just didn't stop it."
For once, Dorothy didn't have a quip ready. Her gaze softened, thoughtful, as the corners of her mouth pulled downward. "That's a grim little riddle, isn't it?" she murmured. "Whether he handed the knife over or just didn't stop it."
Nozel's jaw tightened. "Either way, he's accountable," he said sharply. "And if the Wizard King won't deal with him properly—"
"Nozel," Fuegoleon warned again, the single word carrying weight enough to quiet a battlefield.
Dorothy clapped her hands lightly, shattering the silence before it could congeal. "Okay! We're officially entering brooding territory, and while you two look divine doing it, I'd rather not spend the next hour in monochrome despair." She stood, twirling once as the room brightened, sunlight streaming in through newly imagined windows. "Let's take five. Tea, anyone?"
Fuegoleon exhaled, the barest trace of gratitude flickering across his face. Nozel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like chamomile, and Dorothy smirked. She snapped away the abandoned teacups in favor of fresh ones.
As she floated toward the kitchenette that hadn't existed five seconds ago, Fuegoleon leaned back again, eyes half-lidded. "You know," he murmured, "for a dream mage, she's remarkably grounded."
Nozel glanced at him sidelong, the faintest curve ghosting his lips. "You have no idea."
"Dorothy's right, though," Fuegoleon said, breaking the brief quiet that followed her departure into the conjured kitchenette. His voice had regained its steadiness. "The divide between royals and nobles, and commoners and peasants, is wider than ever. Perhaps, we start by introducing reformatory measures to the Magic Parliament."
Nozel shifted in his seat, his lavender eyes keen. "Reform? You speak of centuries of ingrained tradition, Fuegoleon. You cannot simply command the nobility to shed their privilege, nor can you suddenly gift the common folk the mana they lack." He uncrosses his arms, a gesture of mild exasperation.
"I'm not expecting all of Clover's nobility to reform overnight. But I do recall a particularly stiff, mild-mannered Silva who used to turn his nose up at the sight of peasants. He's seemed to mellow out over the past year or so."
That was a justified dig Fuegoleon limited to a single, measured jab—one Nozel recognized immediately for what it was. He preferred not to remind his boyfriend that humility hadn't always been a trait he wore comfortably. There had been a time when even a glance from a commoner would have earned a razor-edged retort, his pride as polished and sharp as the silver sigil on his cloak.
Now, though, Nozel merely exhaled through his nose, schooling his features into an expression of affected grace. "Are you implying I was ever anything less than perfectly composed and charitable, Fuegoleon? My distaste was purely aesthetic."
"Of course. And my point is, if a Silva can be nudged off his pedestal by the sheer blunt force of reality, there is hope for the rest of the kingdom."
Fuegoleon leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze intent. "The law is a tool, Nozel. Currently, it's weighted entirely toward the high-born. The Magic Parliament serves as our legal check, but it's run by the very people it should be checking. We need to introduce measures that guarantee fairer representation—perhaps a minimum quota of Commoners or even just competent, unbiased individuals, regardless of their lineage, in key roles."
Nozel pursed his lips. He didn't disagree with the goal, only the practicality. "The high nobility will tear that proposal apart before it even reaches the King. They see the Parliament as their last bastion of unchecked power after Julius's meddling with the squads. It will ignite a political firestorm."
"Then let it burn," Fuegoleon countered, his tone firm. "A controlled burn is often necessary to clear out the old, dead brush. We need to create avenues for commoners to rise without being exceptional talents like the Black Bulls or the Golden Dawn's new crop. A simple, competent man born in a village should be allowed to rise through the ranks of the bureaucracy if he applies himself. It must be about merit, not blood."
Before the pair could continue their political drawl, the glass teapot Dorothy had been tending gave a sharp, crystalline whistle.
She reappeared in a swirl of violet mist, a floating tray preceding her like a parade of porcelain and steam, three cups of chamomile tea balancing perfectly atop it. With a graceful flick of her wrist, the cups glided to their respective saucers, steam curling lazily through the air like ribbons of light.
She added the careful detail of floating Fuegoleon's saucer, given that he had not ignited his fire arm.
Both men offered a polite thank you as Dorothy bounced back onto the couch cushion beside Nozel. She took a loud and otherwise ungraceful slurp of her tea before setting it down on the saucer with a soft clink and exhaling a refreshed sigh.
"Anyways, Nozel. I wanted to revisit a comment you made earlier. Something about Vangeance being a 'golden boy twink.'" She tapped her chin in mock curiosity, drawing out the words with theatrical innocence. The corners of her lips twitched with mischief as her gaze slid toward him, gleefully anticipating the sputtering denial that was sure to follow. "You said it so... passionately. Almost like there was history there."
Nozel's expression froze mid-sip, the porcelain teacup hovering just short of his lips. "I hardly recall my exact phrasing."
"Oh, you recall it just fine," Dorothy sing-songed. "You said it right before yelling something along the lines of, 'Promises are cheap when the golden boy twink tries to murder my boyfriend.'" Her grin was sly, but her eyes didn't soften. "And yet, if I'm not mistaken, you encountered him before visiting Fuegoleon in the infirmary—after months of brooding."
Fuegoleon's brows lifted slightly, the movement subtle but noticeable. He didn't speak, but his gaze shifted toward Nozel with quiet curiosity, inviting explanation.
Nozel set his teacup down with painstaking care, the faint porcelain click sounding far too loud in the small, enchanted parlor. For a moment, his jaw worked as though he were chewing on something bitter—pride, perhaps, or memory.
"...I swear," he said finally, tone clipped.
Fuegoleon's eyebrow arched, a subtle motion that somehow managed to feel like a silent interrogation. Dorothy leaned in, chin propped on her palms, eyes gleaming with the same rabid curiosity that made her one of the best intelligence gatherers in the Clover Kingdom when she chose to be.
"I was waiting outside Julius's office after a mission debrief. William had just finished his audience. Marx informed me the Wizard King would be delayed."
His gaze flicked briefly to Fuegoleon's before shifting away. "He loitered by the door. Removed his mask. Said it was cursed—his scar. That it came from his mother's bloodline."
"Oh yeah, William is an illegitimate child. He lived in the Forsaken Realm until his father's heir died." Dorothy's nose wrinkled in sympathy, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed a scholar's intrigue rather than pity.
"I made a passing remark," Nozel said, hand lifting in a small, dismissive flick, though his gaze refused to meet either of theirs. "Something about how two of the nine captains were cursed." His jaw tightened, the movement precise and deliberate, like he was locking something away. "He didn't laugh, but... he didn't seem offended, either. He told me fate had a peculiar sense of humor."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if trying to punctuate the story and move on, but Dorothy's expectant look made it clear she wasn't about to let him.
"I thought that would be the end of it," he went on, shoulders drawing taut beneath his uniform. His fingers drummed once against his arm before stilling. "But then he said—" His voice faltered, the next words forced through gritted teeth. "'You're thinking about him again, aren't you?'"
Nozel's hand slid to rest over the lower half of his face, his thumb brushing the edge of his jaw as though he could hide behind the gesture. The flush that crept up his neck betrayed him anyway, blooming a soft, traitorous pink against the silver trim of his collar.
"So that's what did it," Dorothy stated matter-of-factly. "Not all the nagging, or the guilt, or that late night drinking session you had with Jack and Yami, or the lectures from yours truly. It was a conversation with a man wearing half a mask and a full load of regret." Dorothy gave a low whistle, shaking her head with mock disbelief.
"Shut up," Nozel snapped, shoulders stiffening as he turned sharply toward her, every syllable ground out through clenched teeth.
"No." Dorothy grinned, rocking back in her seat and wagging a finger like a teacher enjoying a student's fluster.
"You drank with Yami and Jack?" Fuegoleon asked, brows knitting together as he angled slightly forward.
"It was after a Captain's meeting!" Nozel shot back, a sharp gesture of his hand dismissing the thought as absurd.
"He told me I should go see you," Nozel murmured, the words quieter now, almost reluctant to leave his mouth. His gaze dropped to the teacup in front of him, watching the steam curl and dissipate as if it might swallow the confession whole. "That he knew what it was to care for someone and not be able to see him." His thumb traced the rim of the saucer, before he drew in a shallow breath. "That he'd give anything for even a moment with—" He paused, the words catching somewhere between his chest and throat before he managed to push them free. "Someone dear to him."
His fingers tightened around the cup then, just enough for the porcelain to creak softly, and he quickly set it back down—too carefully this time
"It wasn't until after I saw the sorry excuse for PDA after Asta and Vangeance exorcised the elves that I knew he was referring to Patri." Nozel's expression twisted into something between disdain and reluctant empathy.
"Says the man who is so ruefully avoidant of PDA," Fuegoleon muttered as he took an unhurried sip of his tea.
Nozel's head tilted slightly, the corner of his lip curving into something sardonic and dangerous. "Te follaré en la próxima reunión de capitanes, si eso es lo que quieres. (I'll fuck you at the next captain's meeting, if that's what you want.)"
Dorothy nearly fell off the sofa laughing, while Fuegoleon's brain short-circuited mid-reply, his face caught somewhere between flustered and mortified.
"Please tell me you don't know what that means," Fuegoleon managed to rasp, his throat tight, the tea momentarily forgotten as he gripped the saucer. The color was rising quickly in his neck and cheeks.
"Of course not," Dorothy cackled, having successfully collapsed off the sofa.
Nozel's smile widened, very pleased with himself. "Would you prefer I translate?" he asked, slow and deliberately saccharine.
Fuegoleon spluttered, tea nearly escaping his lips as he snatched the saucer to steady himself. "No—" He stopped, throat working, then ground out, "Don't."
"No? Too late." Nozel leaned forward, voice low and mock-formal. "'I'll fuck you at the next captains' meeting, if that's what you want.'"
Dorothy howled, rolling onto her back and clutching her sides to contain the her laughter. Glitter motes spilled from her hair like confetti. "Oh my god, Nozel, you're lethal!"
Fuegoleon's face went a glorious, involuntary red. He shoved his palm against his mouth to hide the faint, incredulous laugh that escaped anyway.
Dorothy's laughter subsided, and with Nozel's begrudging assistance, she managed to untangle herself from her cape.
She sat up, still hiccupping with the remnants of mirth.
"Vangeance goes peacocking around with that feather on his ridiculous mask," Nozel muttered, straightening the hem of his uniform as though regaining composure could erase the prior five minutes. "If that isn't flamboyant, then I don't know what is."
Dorothy snorted, one hand flying to cover her mouth. "Oh, look who's talking! Mister 'I spend twenty minutes every morning polishing my pauldrons until they could blind the sun.'"
Fuegoleon made a valiant attempt to suppress a smile and failed. "She has a point."
Nozel turned a glare on him sharp enough to cut through armor. "You're one to talk, Fuegoleon. Your entire aesthetic is 'holy inferno masquerading as humility.'"
Dorothy gave a delighted gasp. "Oh, he's getting defensive! Quick, Fuegoleon, say something romantic and watch him short-circuit like you did."
Fuegoleon's restraint wavered just enough for his ears to give him away, turning a soft shade of pink. "I have no intention of indulging your theatrics," he said primly, setting down his teacup.
Nozel's lips curved—not into his usual smirk, but something smaller, wry, almost fond. "You already have," he murmured.
Dorothy let out a shriek of laughter, collapsing sideways into the sofa once more. "Saints preserve me, you two are insufferable!"
Nozel merely lifted his cup again, a trace of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "So I've been told."
The trio wrapped up their conversation sometime between Dorothy's last wheeze of laughter and Fuegoleon's resigned sigh. Their teacups sat empty now, pale rings staining the saucers—ghostly traces of the chaos that had filled the parlor. Even the enchanted steam that once curled lazily above the cups had long since faded, leaving behind the subtle scent of rosehip and bergamot.
Dorothy eyed the empty cups, then the two captains across from her, mischief sparking anew. "Well, looks like the tea's gone and so has the peace and quiet. My work here is done!"
She clapped her hands together once, and a shimmer of pink-gold light rippled through the air. An ornate door appeared where there hadn't been one before—framed in ribbons, painted stars, and what might've been the dim outline of a cat wearing spectacles. The handle glittered invitingly.
Fuegoleon blinked at it. "Was that door... always there?"
"Nope!" Dorothy chirped, beaming. "It's my 'kindly escort before I say something I shouldn't' exit spell. For guests, naturally."
Nozel rose smoothly, adjusting the fall of his cloak with studied dignity that didn't quite mask the lingering color in his cheeks. "How considerate," he drawled. "Next time, I'll bring thicker armor."
"Next time," Dorothy teased, wagging a finger, "try not to threaten to ravish someone during tea, hmm?"
Fuegoleon nearly choked on his breath. "That was not—"
"Mm-hm." Dorothy's grin was merciless.
The two men exchanged a long-suffering glance before stepping toward the door. Nozel opened it with a graceful flick of his wrist, the hinges sighing like they'd been waiting centuries to be useful.
As they crossed the threshold, Dorothy called after them, "Don't forget—love confessions and profanity are perfectly welcome next time, just not in that order!"
The door winked out of existence the moment it shut behind them, leaving Dorothy alone in the quiet parlor.
She chuckled softly to herself, pouring the last lingering drops of tea into her cup. "Saints above," she murmured, smiling into the steam, "those two are going to kill me someday—and it'll be worth it."
Nozel was impressed that Dorothy had managed to conjure the exit door from the Glamour World directly to Clover Castle, considering she had only been there a handful of times.
They'd conversed longer than he expected. Night had descended upon Clover Castle. The waxing gibbous moon hung holy and hollow in the sky, silvering the gardens and setting a soft halo along Fuegoleon's hair.
Nozel's internal sense of time, warped by the Dream Magic of the Glamour World, was just beginning to reassert itself. He supposed they should retire for the evening, a distant clock reading half-past ten.
"It's late," Nozel said, voice a low hum, silvery and restrained. "We should retire for the evening."
He shifted slightly, angling toward the path that would take him to the Silva Estate. "Goodnight, Fue—"
But before the name could finish leaving his tongue, a hand—warm, firm, and very deliberate—caught his arm.
Nozel opened his mouth—perhaps to unleash some barbed remark about boundaries, propriety, or the obviousness of separate estates—but the words scattered like startled birds when Fuegoleon dragged him into the shadowed alcove of the Vermillion Estate's entrance.
Fuegoleon turned sharply, pressing him back against the nearest column. The impact was soft—measured—but the air between them thinned like silk drawn taut.
Fuegoleon's pinned Nozel's hands above his head. His breath was warm, close enough that Nozel could feel it ghost across his cheek.
"Fue—" The rest of the name vanished as Fuegoleon's mouth met his.
It wasn't a chaste thing. It was restrained power wrapped in reverence—an unspoken apology, a challenge, and a confession all at once. Nozel inhaled sharply, one hand tightening reflexively around Fuegoleon's sleeve before sliding fisting a hand in Fuegoleon's collar, pulling him closer, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss.
Fuegoleon drew back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against Nozel's. Their breaths mingled—shallow, uneven, threaded with all the words they'd both swallowed for years and laid bear in the Glamour World.
"Been waiting to do that all day," Fuegoleon murmured with a presumptous smirk.
He was so convinced he was going to get some tonight Nozel thought.
Nozel gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh—half irritation, half something softer he refused to name. "Of course you have," he said dryly, though his voice betrayed a tremor of something dangerously close to fondness.
Fuegoleon's smirk only deepened. "You didn't seem too opposed."
"Don't mistake silence for surrender," Nozel replied, his tone smooth as steel drawn from its sheath. The faint moonlight caught the sharp planes of his face, lending his eyes a silver fire that refused to yield.
"If you want to leave—"
Nozel cut him off by catching his face between his hands. "Don't give me an out now," he said, voice rougher than intended. "You've already set the fire."
"Then were doing this?"
"Of course," Nozel confirmed, sounding every bit the aristocrat even with his hair slightly disheveled and his breath uneven.
"Very well." Fuegoleon effortlessly hoisted the Silva up with one arm. Nozel, startled by the show of strength, instinctively hooked his legs around the Vermillion's solid waist.
"Geezus, when did you learn how to do this?" Nozel managed, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant admiration. His fingers tightened around Fuegoleon's shoulders, as if testing the reality of being lifted so easily, his legs still instinctively braced around the Vermillion's waist.
Fuegoleon chuckled, the sound low and unhurried. "PT has been working wonders," he said, his grin infuriatingly self-satisfied. He adjusted his grip slightly, hand steady beneath Nozel's thigh. "But you'll have to open all the doors on our way to my bedroom," he added, tilting his head toward the hall with mock solemnity. "You know—one arm and everything."
Nozel gave him a long, incredulous look, the kind that would have frozen most men on the spot. "You're absurd," he muttered, though his hand was already reaching over Fuegoleon's shoulder to push open the first door.
The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by the soft glow of lanterns and the silver wash of moonlight filtering through tall windows. Their footsteps—well, Fuegoleon's—echoed quietly against the marble floor as they made their way through the hall. Each time they passed through another doorway, Nozel's hand brushed against cold brass, the motion growing easier, more instinctive, as the silence between them stretched taut and unspoken.
Fuegoleon's warmth pressed through every inch of contact: his arm steady beneath Nozel, the slow, measured rhythm of his breathing betraying the effort it took not to hurry. The Vermillion's expression had softened—less smirk now, more reverent focus.
By the time they reached the last door, Nozel could feel the pulse at his throat—steady but insistent.
"Last chance to retreat," he said, voice low but gentle—half challenge, half invitation.
Nozel's answer came without hesitation. "You've already carried me this far. It would be terribly undignified to turn back now."
Fuegoleon laughed softly, the sound warm as the hearthfire that awaited them inside. He nudged the door open with his shoulder and stepped through, the shadows of the corridor falling away behind them as the door clicked shut—quiet, certain, and final.
In case anyone is interested...*slides a 4000+ word, a one-shot of Huskerdust having a heart-to-heart about the events of Hazbin Hotel Season 2 Episode 3 after Season 2 Episode 4*
I received an influx of comments on AO3 and Wattpad to the extent of “Hello, I’m [insert name], a comic, webtoon artist, etc. … [insert some bullshit generic compliment] … I’d love to work with you … [insert socials]”.
Please be aware these are scams and scammy people. If you comment this on any of my works, your comment will be deleted and you will be BLOCKED.
If you are actually interested in creating artwork for fanfiction authors, generally you need to receive their permission and there is not a monetary exchange since the fanfiction they are producing is free! DM them through Wattpad or Tumblr and have a real conversation.
I am not falling for any scammy shit and most people can detect AI generated comments or sniff out a scam with a quick Google search.
Sincerely,
A pissed off author who has received at least 20 of these comments in the past month
This chapter is the reason this fic has been upgraded from Mature to Explicit on Archive of Our Own.
Also, I’ve been receiving an influx of comments across platforms saying you hope I finish this fic. Well, I am here—on record—PROMISING that I will complete this fic, even if I have to write it into my will. My planned posting schedule is at least once a month, if not every other month, though it may be a little more sporadic from here on out because work is hectic.
This is the first of at least two spicy scenes that will be in this fic. And yes, I swear there will be one where Nozel gets railed seven ways to Sunday.
Anyway… I hope you enjoy this 7,500-word addition to Silver Clouds with Grey Linings (and yes, the fic title is based on a lyric from “The Phoenix” by Fall Out Boy).
This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.
~ ace-maverick
Summary:
"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.
"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.
They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."
-
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
-
or
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
or
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambigious relationship.
Chapter 10: Patience 'Tis the Season (Pt. 1)
Summer passed painfully slow. Fuegoleon had to relearn how to move without wincing, how to trust his own body again after months of injury and weakness. Every morning, the sun would rise like a relentless sentinel, shining through the heavy curtains of his chamber, reminding him that time was still marching forward—whether he was ready or not.
The simplest tasks became trials of patience: lifting a cup of water without shaking, standing without the dizzying spin of exhaustion, summoning even a flicker of mana without collapsing afterward. No matter how much he pushed, the fire inside him flickered weakly, reluctant to ignite.
Nozel was there through it all—sometimes silent, sometimes prodding with his sharp wit, but always unwavering. The cool touch of Nozel's hand against Fuegoleon's skin was a tether to the world, a promise that he wasn't alone in this slow, torturous healing.
Fuegoleon's grimoire sat untouched on the bedside table for days on end, as if afraid to demand more from him than he could give. Yet the fire spirit within stirred restlessly, sensing its master's frustration and desperation.
The most herculean task to relearn was the simplest: writing. Before Fuegoleon had learned how to ride horseback or draw a bow or light kindling, he learned how to write. As hard-headed and brawny as House Vermillion was, they were also educated.
Fuegoleon was right-handed. And it was his right side—his dominant arm—that had been severed.
The quill felt like a lead weight in his left hand. His fingers cramped awkwardly around it, and no matter how he angled his wrist or how slow he moved, the letters came out jagged and uneven. Ink blotted the page where his grip faltered, smudges streaked across his name like bruises.
He hated it.
More than the limp in his gait, more than the fragile flame of his mana, more than the shame of being bedridden while the kingdom carried on without him—this was the humiliation that cut deepest. That he, Fuegoleon Vermillion, who had once written orders with crisp precision, could no longer even sign his own name without it looking like the trembling scrawl of a child.
Fuegoleon Vermillion.
Fuegoleon Vermillion.
Fuegoleon Vermillion.
Each signature was more illegible and graceless than the last. The scroll of parchment spilled over the right side of his desk, littered with a graveyard of vertical lines repeating his signature. Some neatly crossed out, others violently scribbled over like cracks spiderwebbing across glass.
Ink stained his fingertips and the edge of his sleeve, dragging the quill again and again as though sheer stubbornness could wrest order from his uncooperative hand. Mastering the push versus pull motion of adapting to writing with his left hand was cumbersome.
He had tried and failed to use his fire arm to write, burning countless precious goose feathers in the process. Fuegoleon was sure the stationers in the capital had plucked every chicken clean by now to sustain his attempts at relearning his once masterful penmanship.
Hours bled into each other. The candles burned low, pooling wax over the holders, and still he sat there, hunched over the desk, refusing to look away from the parchment.
Fuegoleon didn't register the tears staining the parchment or the Silva loitering in the doorway as the moon cast its pale light across the room. His hand trembled around the quill, the letters blurred beneath saltwater and exhaustion.
Nozel exhaled slowly through his nose, and after a beat he crossed the room, his footsteps soft against the hardwood floor. He placed a hand on the back of Fuegoleon's chair, the other resting lightly on the desk, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment.
"You're gripping too hard," he murmured, echoing advice he'd given before. His fingers ghosted over Fuegoleon's left hand, adjusting his hold.
The Vermillion blinked up at him through bleary eyes, exhaustion evident in the bags sagging underneath them. His jaw tensed, and for a moment, it looked as though he might speak—some sharp retort, some protest of pride—but it crumbled before it could form.
He rested his head against Nozel's tunic. Nozel carded his fingers through Fuegoleon's hair in return. Greasy and tangled.
"You need a shower," Nozel stated matter-of-factly.
"With you?" Fuegoleon murmured thoughtlessly.
Nozel struck him lightly on the head. Fuegoleon grimaced and buried his head further into Nozel's tunic. The Vermillion was clearly overtired and drunk on ink fumes and willpower.
Nonetheless, he wrestled the quill back into Fuegoleon's hand. The Silva's touch was careful, deliberate. Not delicate—Nozel Silva did nothing delicately—but steady. Grounding. His hand was warm against Fuegoleon's, the calluses along his fingers catching faintly on the ink-stained skin. They repositioned the quill, easing the cramped knuckles and adjusting the angle of his wrist until it no longer felt like a weapon clumsily repurposed.
The only sound was the soft scratch of the quill as Fuegoleon tried again—this time slower, steadier. The line trembled, but it held.
A name. Still imperfect, still crooked. But it was his. Written by his own hand.
Nozel leaned down just slightly, his breath brushing against Fuegoleon's temple. "For every signature you scribe, you will earn a kiss and..."
Nozel swiped the quill and wrote"después de veinte, mi verga (after 20, my dick)" — then underlined it with two bold strikes. If there was one thing Nozel knew would kick Fuegoleon's ass into gear, it was an incentive. Albeit a rather vulgar one.
Fuegoleon stared at the bold, underlined words with smothered delight. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "You're insufferable."
"And you're four signatures behind," Nozel said, casually placing the quill back in Fuegoleon's hand as he pressed a chaste kiss to the Vermillion's lips. "Nineteen to go."
The next signature was marginally steadier. The one after that, a touch more confident.
Fuegoleon's fingers tightened around the quill, the ghost of Nozel's kiss still tingling against his lips. He kept his eyes trained on the parchment, but his ears burned crimson.
Nozel, ever composed and infuriatingly smug, leaned back just enough to give him space—but not enough to give him peace. "You're improving," he said, voice silky with amusement. "I suppose motivation does matter."
Fuegoleon didn't respond right away. He signed another line, slow but sure, and set the quill down with deliberate calm. "This is blackmail."
"It's incentive," Nozel corrected smoothly. "Positive reinforcement. You do want your reward, don't you?"
Fuegoleon turned to glare, but Nozel was already beside him again, trailing a hand across his jaw. The kiss this time landed just beneath Fuegoleon's ear. "Eighteen."
"Is that supposed to help me concentrate?" Fuegoleon growled, pulse betraying him.
"It's supposed to make you hurry up," Nozel whispered, eyes gleaming.
Fuegoleon exhaled through his nose, picked up the quill, and began signing faster.
Each successful stroke of his name earned him a kiss—each more lingering and heated than the last—until he completed all twenty signatures. By that point, the quill was long forgotten; the inkpot had been dashed to the floor. Fuegoleon decided he'd alert the cleaning staff later.
Nozel had crawled his way into the Vermillion's lap and busied himself trailing kisses along his collarbone while Fuegoleon's hand slithered up Nozel's sinewed back. It wasn't the first time they had fucked in Fuegoleon's office, and it would not be the last. It was far past working hours, so they were sure not to be disturbed.
Fucking, making love, sex, copulation—put simply, they had fallen back into it naturally. Nozel preferred not to use sex as motivation, but his patience had become weathered by Fuegoleon's penmanship. He was still learning (and failing) to exercise a modicum of control over his fire arm. So when they fucked on hot summer nights such as these, Fuegoleon would bottom. Or, on the rare off-chance Nozel had time to prepare himself, he would ride the Vermillion to completion.
He much preferred the latter, even if it required the occasional hassle of douching and fingering himself open. Nozel had not allowed Fuegoleon—no matter how many times he had volunteered—to prepare him. He wasn't as adept with his left hand as he had been with his right, and until he had some degree of coordination with his left hand, he would not allow it. And after receiving a mild brush burn from Fuegoleon's fire arm, there was absolutely no way in hell he would let him finger him with fire fingers—even if they were artificial.
"Did you prep?" Fuegoleon asked, breathy and dazed from the workout Nozel had done on his neck.
"No," Nozel replied curtly. Fuegoleon cocked an eyebrow, disappointment flashing behind those lavender eyes. "I was busy today, and you know our agreement..."
Nozel's hands slid beneath Fuegoleon's shirt, fingertips tracing the taut muscles of his ribs before dipping lower, fingers pressing gently but insistently. The Vermillion swallowed thickly, body responding despite the ache and soreness of his left hand. Nozel's mouth captured his again, teeth grazing, tongue flicking teasingly.
"Yes, I know." Fuegoleon shimmied off his overcoat while Nozel worked at his shirt. "One hundred clean signatures with my left hand, then I can prep you," Fuegoleon said, like a bureaucrat quoting protocol—Nozel repeated the dependent clause in unison, but ended his sentence with "me."
"Good boy," Nozel crooned, tossing Fuegoleon's shirt to the an absintee corner of the room and giving a deliberate grind. Fuegoleon's breath hitched at the pressure. "Glad we have an understanding."
Fuegoleon allowed his eyes to flutter shut as Nozel continued absentmindedly stripping off their clothes. Once they were down to their underwear, Nozel coaxed Fuegoleon to lift his hips and slipped off his boxer briefs.
"That's no fair," Fuegoleon drawled lazily, gesturing to the Silva's still-clothed hips, an erection bulging beneath the fabric. "You're overdressed."
"It's fair for the reward I'm about to give you." Fuegoleon snorted, the sound dissolving into a sharp inhale as Nozel cupped his crotch, teasing without mercy. Nozel leaned in and kissed him—deep, consuming, the kind that left no space for thought. His mouth moved with practiced intent, all heat and control, tongue stroking slow and deliberate until Fuegoleon's fingers curled into his back.
"Will you be my good boy tonight?" Nozel asked, voice low and rough against Fuegoleon's lips.
"Yes," Fuegoleon breathed, voice thick with need and surrender.
Nozel's smile was dark, predatory. He eased the last barrier between them, sliding his underwear down with slow, tantalizing movements. Fuegoleon's skin burned where Nozel's fingers trailed, every touch igniting a fire that had nothing to do with the day's exhaustion.
Nozel knelt, settling fully between Fuegoleon's thighs as he parted them. A tuft of well-trimmed vermilion pubic hair sprouted at the base, thinning along the shaft as Nozel gave an experimental upward stroke. A mewl escaped the Vermillion's lips, his left hand gripping the armrest of the chair. Fuegoleon was a solid seven to eight inches when fully sprung—at least, that is what Nozel estimated. Right now, he stood at around four or five, half-mast. Nozel supposed he would have to change that.
"Have you been following the bottom-friendly diet tips I recommended to you?"
"Yes," Fuegoleon gasped. Nozel gave a downward stroke.
"Yes! Please, Nozel!" Fuegoleon exclaimed, pupils blown and voice strained with need.
"Very well," Nozel hummed thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand much to the chagrin of the Vermillion to clip his bangs back.
Nozel readjusted himself to sit more comfortably on his feet, then surged forward, taking the Vermillion's cock into his mouth and wrapping his hands around whatever he couldn't fit.
Fuegoleon's breath caught in his throat, a strangled gasp punching from his lungs as the heat of Nozel's mouth enveloped him. His head tipped back against the high-backed chair, the muscles in his thighs tensing with the effort not to thrust. Nozel had made it explicitly clear—thrusting into his mouth without permission was a punishable offense.
But gods, the way Nozel worked him—slow, wet, and utterly merciless—was maddening. He bobbed with patient rhythm, tongue flicking the underside on each upward pull, fingers kneading at the base with the kind of restraint that only came from knowing just how far to push before someone snapped. Fuegoleon's left hand hovered uselessly midair, twitching, wanting to tangle in silver hair but knowing better.
"You always get so loud when I do this," Nozel murmured between sucks, his voice dragging along Fuegoleon's skin, dragging shivers up his spine. "You say you're the disciplined one, yet here you are... trembling."
Fuegoleon's teeth clamped down on his lower lip, but it did nothing to muffle the moan that tore free when Nozel hollowed his cheeks and swallowed around him. His legs spread further of their own accord, hips rocking slightly before Nozel pulled back with a wet pop and a look that could curdle steel.
"No moving," he said coolly, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "Unless you want to finish in my hand instead."
"Then behave." Nozel's hands gripped Fuegoleon's thighs, pressing them further apart. "I haven't even started yet."
He dipped again, this time slower, wetter, dragging the flat of his tongue along the vein on the underside before circling the head with a flourish that left Fuegoleon gasping. Each sound he made was rewarded with a pleased hum, the vibrations sending tremors down his spine.
By the time Nozel pulled back again, Fuegoleon's thighs were trembling, his cock slick and twitching with need. "N-Nozel, I—please—"
"Let me take care of you properly," Nozel purred, his voice silken with promise. He opened the second drawer of Fuegoleon's desk—a small vial of clear liquid that caught the dim light.
Fuegoleon's breath caught as Nozel uncapped it, the subtle scent of something herbal mingling with the musk of their arousal. Slick fingers glistened as Nozel coated them liberally.
"Spread wider for me," he commanded.
Fuegoleon complied instantly, shifting his hips forward on the chair, exposing himself fully. The vulnerability of the position sent a thrill through him that rivaled the arousal itself.
Nozel's cool, wet fingertip circled his entrance with maddening patience. The sensation drew a low groan from Fuegoleon's throat, his head falling back against the chair as that finger finally breached him. Fuegoleon inhaled sharply, the initial intrusion both foreign and exquisite. He forced himself to relax, to breathe through the stretch as Nozel worked him open with methodical precision.
"Good," Nozel murmured, his lavender eyes gleaming with approval. "You take my fingers so well."
The praise sent heat coursing through Fuegoleon's veins. He bit his lower lip as a second finger joined the first, the burn of the stretch melting into pleasure as Nozel found that spot inside him that made his vision blur.
"Gods," Fuegoleon gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily. His cock throbbed, leaking against his stomach as Nozel's fingers curled expertly within him.
Nozel's free hand stroked along Fuegoleon's thigh, his touch firm and possessive. The dual sensations—Nozel's fingers working inside him while that other hand caressed his skin—were almost too much to bear. Fuegoleon felt consumed by the pleasure, his body caught between pushing down onto those fingers and arching up for more contact.
"I need you," Fuegoleon managed, his voice hoarse with desire. "Please, Nozel." Nozel's eyes darkened at the plea. He withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving Fuegoleon feeling empty and desperate. Then he rose to his feet, his movements graceful despite his obvious arousal. He took the vial again, pouring more of the slick oil into his palm before coating his own length thoroughly. He wasn't nearly as girthy or lengthy as Fuegoleon, but he sported a good six to six-and-a-half inches when erect—more than enough to leave an impression.
"We can do this one of two ways. Either I fuck you in your office chair, missionary style, or..." Nozel ran his fingers along Fuegoleon's jaw, tipping his head so their eyes would meet. "I take you over your desk, doggy style. Which will it be?"
Fuegoleon exhaled shakily at the vivid images Nozel's words stirred. The idea of being claimed on his own desk, bent over and exposed, sent a fresh stream of blood south to his dick. But the promise of missionary style, of being able to see Nozel's face as they made love, after eight grueling months of abstinence, was equally tempting.
Fuegoleon leaned into the Nozel's palm, now resting against his face. Fuegoleon swallowed hard. "The desk," he whispered, cheeks coloring. "I think I... need that."
Nozel's answering smile was pure sin, his silver eyes glinting with dark promise. He leaned in close, his breath ghosting over Fuegoleon's ear as he whispered, "Then the desk it is."
Nozel straightened, offering his hand to Fuegoleon with a courtly gesture that belied the raw desire etched into every line of his body.
Fuegoleon took it without hesitation, allowing Nozel to pull him to his feet. His legs were shaky, his body still thrumming with residual pleasure.
Nozel led him to the desk, his steps sure and purposeful. He turned Fuegoleon to face the solid oak surface, his hands settling on the broad plane of Fuegoleon's back. A gentle pressure, and Fuegoleon was bending forward, his palm flat against the desk, his ass high and exposed. Nozel stepped closer, his cock nestling against the cleft of Fuegoleon's ass.
The cool air of the office caressed his overheated skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.
"Nozel," Fuegoleon gasped, arching back into the contact. "Please..."
"Patience," Nozel chided gently, one hand sliding around to curl around Fuegoleon's hip.
He notched himself at Fuegoleon's entrance, the broad head pushing insistently against that tight ring of muscle. Fuegoleon bit his lip, forcing himself to relax, to open up to the invasion. Slowly, steadily, Nozel began to push forward, breaching Fuegoleon inch by hard, throbbing inch.
The burn was intense, still foreign to him after months of celibacy and bottoming only a few times during the past few weeks he'd spent recovering. The stretch was too much to bear. He feared he might tear, like when they were experimenting as teenagers and he had volunteered to bottom first.
"Yellow," Fuegoleon called. Nozel paused immediately, hips halting with a sudden stillness. Fuegoelon's head fell against the desk with a muted thump, a sheen of sweat dampening his brow.
Nozel reached around to where Fuegoleon's hand was bracing himself against the desk, intertwining their fingers where Fuegoleon's had been digging into the wood.
"What do you need, baby?" Nozel punctuated each word with a kiss against the Vermillion's shoulder blades.
"I..." Fuegoleon's voice faltered, his throat tight.
"Use your words, baby." Nozel's hand tightened around Fuegoleon's.
"Slower, and...more lube," Fuegoleon managed after a few moments.
"Very well," Nozel murmured, easing back slightly. He reached for the vial, drizzling more of the slick oil between them, letting it run down where they were joined. The cool liquid made Fuegoleon shiver. Fuegoleon released a slow breath, grateful for the momentary reprieve. He felt Nozel's hand run soothingly down his spine, tracing each vertebra with careful attention.
He took his time, taking Fuegoleon by the hips and massaging the muscles, making sure they were nice and relaxed before his fingers traveled to toy with Fuegoleon's hole, still clenched around the head of his cock. He played and prodded with it, stretching the taut skin to better accommodate his sizable cock until the Vermillion's hole loosened and didn't squeeze his dick to popping.
Nozel's traced soothing circles on Fuegoleon's lower back. "Breathe for me," he instructed, voice low and steady. "Just like that."
Fuegoleon closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythmic pattern of Nozel's palm against his skin. He drew air deeply into his lungs, held it, then released slowly. The tension in his muscles began to ebb, replaced by a languid warmth that spread through his limbs.
"Better?" Nozel asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he slowly pressed forward again.
Fuegoleon nodded, then remembered Nozel couldn't see his face. "Yes," he breathed, focusing on relaxing around the intrusion. This time, Nozel entered him with exquisite care, pausing after each inch to let Fuegoleon adjust. The burn was still there, but manageable now—transforming gradually from discomfort to a pleasurable fullness that made Fuegoleon's toes curl against the floor.
When Nozel was fully seated inside him, they both paused, breathing heavily in the quiet of the office. Nozel could feel Fuegoleon's heartbeat through the solid column of his back, a wild, powerful thrumming against his own skin. Nozel rested his forehead against Fuegoleon's shoulder
Nozel's hands tightened on his hips, thumbs stroking absent patterns into the skin as if to anchor them both. He stayed still, letting the moment stretch, letting Fuegoleon's body settle fully around him.
"You're perfect like this," Nozel murmured, leaning in until his breath fanned warm across the back of Fuegoleon's neck.
A low sound escaped Fuegoleon—half a sigh, half a moan—as he shifted minutely, testing the fit, the stretch, the way every nerve seemed to hum with awareness. The movement drew a quiet, restrained growl from Nozel, his hips flexing in response before stilling again.
Fuegoleon's fingers curled tighter against the desk, knuckles whitening against the polished wood. "Move," he whispered, his voice rough with want.
Nozel obliged—slow at first, drawing back just enough to make the absence keenly felt before sliding forward again in one smooth, deliberate stroke that left them both shuddering.
"Nozel," Fuegoleon gasped, the sound a ragged breath torn from his lungs. The rhythm was a slow, agonizing pleasure, a deliberate dance of control that pushed him to the brink. With each measured thrust, Nozel seemed to read his every reaction, his hips moving in an exquisite counterpoint to Fuegoleon's involuntary clenching.
Nozel's eyes darkened, the sheen of sweat along his jaw catching the low light as he leaned closer, his breath mingling with Fuegoleon's in a charged rhythm. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, voice rough but tender. A soft moan escaped Fuegoleon's lips, mingling with the quiet rustle of papers and the distant hum of the city beyond the office windows.
Fuegoleon shook his head, lips parting in a soft, breathless smile. "Never enough," he said, voice low and sure.
With that, Nozel found a steady pace—deliberate, patient, every movement measured to stretch, to soothe, to ignite. The slow, building friction was a balm to Fuegoleon's tense muscles.
Fuegoleon's back arched, pressing more insistently against Nozel, fingers digging into the desk as he tried to ground himself. "Closer," he begged, voice trembling with need.
Nozel responded without hesitation, pressing his chest flush against Fuegoleon's back, letting their bodies meld completely. His hands slid down to grip Fuegoleon's thighs, holding him steady as he deepened the rhythm, each movement drawing out a shudder that rippled through them both.
The room filled with the sounds of their breathing, the slick slide of skin, the whispered names and soft groans that spilled like confession. Nozel's lips brushed behind Fuegoleon's ear, trailing a path of heat that left a shiver in its wake.
"I'm here," Nozel whispered, voice thick with emotion. "Always."
Fuegoleon's response was a tremulous exhale. Nozel continued to thrust steadily, his rhythm growing faster and harder as he neared his peak. He reached around, taking Fuegoleon's cock in his hand and stroking it in time with his thrusts.
Each thrust drove deep, direct, and relentlessly against his prostate. Fuegoleon thought he might piss himself from Nozel's pistoning rhythm. Fuegoleon would say Nozel was no less masterful at fucking than roasting duck or cursing in Portuguese.
It reminded him of the first few times they had penetrative sex. Fuegoleon had volunteered to bottom, enduring the strenuous process of douching for the first time. Flushing water into his ass and shitting it out was certainly a humbling experience. Anal sex lacked the ease and lubrication of vaginal sex, neither of which Fuegoleon or Nozel had the anatomy to accommodate.
Sure, vaginal sex felt good, like a warm, wet towel. But, Fuegoleon preferred the familiarity of male anatomy. It was simpler and rawer—less about ceremony and more about the primal connection between him and his partner. He knew how to pleasure women and where the clitoris hid beneath its hood, but there was something more illustrious and visceral about the prostate than the enigmatic g-spot. If the Gods had gifted men with their own pleasure button, why not embrace it—bigots be damned.
The first time they had tried penetrative sex, Fuegoleon bottomed. He had winced and clenched and seized up at every probe of Nozel's index finger against his asshole. They did not manage to perform the penetrative part of penetrative sex; instead, Nozel fingered Fuegoleon to completion and the Vermillion was left with anal fissures the next morning.
Like cygnets to water, they eventually got the hang of it and took their prefunctory roles as top and bottom—the former too rarely assigned to Nozel, and the latter too seldom to Fuegoleon. What they lacked in balance, they made up for in frequency and creativity. The number of times one had lured the other to a secluded alcove for a quick fuck or a stolen moment of intimacy was innumerable. They fucked in lakes, storage closets, balconies, and, most recently, Fuegoleon's office.
The Silva hips suddenly stopped. Nozel's hands left Fuegoleon's thighs, and he withdrew with a soft, wet sound that made Fuegoleon's knees instantly weak. A frustrated whine escaped the Vermillion as he felt the sudden emptiness where Nozel had been, the loss of friction and fullness leaving him feeling cold and exposed despite his overheated state.
He tried to turn, to question the abrupt halt, but Nozel was already moving, his hands on Fuegoleon's hips, guiding him away from the desk. "Turn around," Nozel murmured, his voice a low command. Fuegoleon did as he was told, his legs still shaky, his body thrumming with unspent energy.
Nozel caught him by the shoulders, turning him to face him. His lavender eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, a mirror of Fuegoleon's own desire. Nozel's hands slid from his shoulders, tracing a path down his chest, his thumbs brushing against Fuegoleon's hard nipples. He cupped Fuegoleon's face, his expression one of profound affection.
The height difference between them was laughable when Nozel topped—roughly five inches—but it still left Fuegoleon about a head taller than him. Nozel's eyes flicked to Fuegoleon's lips for a fraction of a second, hands wrapping around his thighs where they met the crest of his ass.
Nozel was all lean muscle—svelte, lithe, trim. He couldn't compare to Fuegoleon's bulk and towering stature, and he certainly couldn't lift him up to fuck him on the desk, so he gave an encouraging push. Fuegoleon complied, hopping up to sit his bare ass on the ornate wood, papers scattering to the floor as he rested on his hand.
Nozel leaned in slowly, tilting Fuegoleon's head down until their lips met in a searing, consuming kiss. The Vermillion's cock had softened during the maneuvering, but Nozel gave it a few deliberate pumps, and it quickly perked back up.
Fuegoleon broke from the kiss with a gasp, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. Nozel's hand never faltered, stroking him with a steady, practiced rhythm that had his thighs tensing beneath the Silva's grip. "N-Nozel," he breathed, the name half-groan, half-plea.
Nozel's mouth curved faintly, a rare softness tugging at his sharp features. "You're beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice low and reverent, each word brushing Fuegoleon's ear like velvet. He shifted closer, pressing himself between Fuegoleon's thighs, the blunt heat of his cock brushing insistently against him once more. Fuegoleon shuddered, wrapping his legs around Nozel's lean waist, drawing him in with a desperation born of trust and need.
Their mouths found each other again, slower this time, the kiss hot and anchoring. Fuegoleon clung to him, arms hooked around his neck, holding him close as Nozel shifted his hips and eased back into him. The stretch, the fullness, the sound of both their voices breaking against the kiss—it all rushed back in a dizzying wave.
Nozel pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes heavy, lips wet from their kiss, hair plastered to his temple. "You feel..." He stopped, swallowing hard, words failing him. Instead, he pressed deeper, slow and deliberate, until Fuegoleon was trembling around him. Fuegoleon's fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting as if he could pin Nozel inside him by force alone. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, every exhale turning ragged as they moved together,
His hips found a faster, more insistent cadence. Each thrust drove him deeper, a rhythmic pounding that made Fuegoleon's vision swim. He was all raw sensation, the feel of Nozel's hands on his thighs, the hard press of his body against his, the exquisite friction of their joined flesh. He let go of Nozel and gripped the cool, hard surface of his desk a grounding point in the tempest of pleasure. He squeezed his eyes shut, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
Nozel's lips found the tense muscles of Fuegoleon's neck, a gentle nip that sent a fresh shiver of fire through him. "I want to hear you," Nozel rasped, his own breath ragged. "All of you."
Fuegoleon's body arched into him, every nerve alight as the steady grind of cock against prostate left him trembling on the edge. Nozel adjusted his angle with precision, each thrust purposeful, ruthless in its intent to unravel him. Fuegoleon clutched at his back, dragging him closer, needing every inch, every ounce of pressure.
The desk beneath him creaked faintly in protest, a counterpoint to the harsh rhythm of their bodies. Fuegoleon bit down on his lip, but the sound that broke from him was still loud, still desperate—he couldn't contain it, not with Nozel driving him open so completely.
"Don't hold back," Nozel murmured against his mouth, his voice almost breaking with the strain of control. His hips snapped forward again, and Fuegoleon saw stars, his back bowing, every muscle strung tight as a bowstring.
Fuegoleon's control snapped. A loud, guttural moan tore from his throat as Nozel found the sweet spot again, a relentless, targeted pressure that made his head fall back against his shoulders. "Nozel!" he cried out, the name a breathless plea.
The name was a final command. With a low cry, Fuegoleon came hard, his body shuddering and clenching around Nozel's cock. Nozel followed a moment later, spurting inside Fuegoleon as he moaned his name. He collapsed on top of Fuegoleon, both of them panting and sweaty and sated.
Nozel stayed buried inside him, his forehead pressed to Fuegoleon's shoulder, breath ragged against sweat-slick skin. The world seemed to narrow to the frantic thrum of their heartbeats, the scent of sex and sweat.
For a long moment, neither moved. It was only the slow glide of Nozel's hands along Fuegoleon's thighs—gentling after their bruising grip—that broke the stillness. Fuegoleon's legs remained looped around his waist, refusing to let him go just yet.
When Nozel finally lifted his head, lavender eyes half-lidded and glassy, Fuegoleon met his gaze and gave a soft, incredulous laugh. "Didn't expect to get fucked over my desk tonight," he murmured, voice roughened from moans and cries.
"Didn't expect to fuck you over your desk tonight." Nozel offered a half-assed smile. He shifted, sliding out slowly, carefully, and Fuegoleon hissed at the raw sensitivity. A low, satisfied hum escaped the Silva's throat at the sight of him flushed, trembling, undone.
The sight of him—feverish and spent, with a faint sheen of sweat on his chest and throat—was a masterpiece of Nozel's making. He gave Fuegoleon one last, lingering look before turning to survey the damage. The desk was a disaster. Papers were fanned out like discarded playing cards, some with ink smeared across the elegant script of official reports. An overturned inkwell left a dark, spreading stain on the paper that had started this whole debacle, the scribbles of Fuegoleon's signatures bleeding into one another.
"Well, at least the important paperwork survived," Nozel remarked dryly, plucking a single unscathed document from the chaos and holding it aloft between two fingers. His lips curved faintly as he set it aside, the gesture as meticulous as if he hadn't just ruined half a week's worth of reports.
Fuegoleon gave a hoarse laugh, running a hand back through his damp hair. "Important? Those were requisition orders for the barracks kitchen. Unless you think the kingdom will collapse without its shipment of flour."
"I imagine the cooks might," Nozel said smoothly, though his eyes softened as they swept over Fuegoleon again—still perched on the desk, legs parted, skin flushed and gleaming. The sight tugged at something deep inside him, something far less sarcastic.
Fuegoleon caught the look, and heat flared in his chest—not arousal this time, but something quieter, heavier. He shifted forward, reaching out to snag Nozel's wrist before he could turn away again. Their fingers laced together easily, naturally, and Fuegoleon's voice dropped low. "You're staring."
"I have every reason to." Nozel's thumb brushed over the back of Fuegoleon's hand, a ghost of tenderness belying the steel in his tone. "You should see yourself right now."
Fuegoleon huffed, though the warmth in his chest spread. His legs swung down from the desk, feet meeting the cool floor, and he glanced at the inky ruin again. "Perhaps this desk is cursed," he muttered.
"No," Nozel corrected softly, thumb brushing against the curve of his jaw. "It's blessed. It gave me you tonight."
That earned him a faint snort, but Nozel leaned in anyway, brushing their mouths together in something softer than before. No fire, no frenzy—just a slow press of lips, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had just passed between them.
When they finally broke apart, Fuegoleon exhaled, the tension ebbing from his broad frame. "As lovely as this would be to continue, I believe some aftercare is an order," Fuegoleon stated plainly, gesturing to the cum already crusting on his stomach, Nozel catching a glance of his leaking down the Vermillion's thighs.
"Right," Nozel winced, busying himself with rifling through Fuegoleon's desk drawers.
"You don't remember where the wet wipes are, do you?" Fuegoleon asked, his tone halfway between amusement and exasperation, watching Nozel rummage with all the elegance of a man attempting surgery blindfolded.
Nozel's hand stilled mid-search, his expression flattening into something perilously close to affront. He angled a sharp look over his shoulder. "Do you truly think I make a habit of memorizing the location of your... wipes?"
Fuegoleon chuckled, low and hoarse, the sound tugging at the corners of Nozel's composure. "It would save you the trouble of scowling through my things like an offended cat."
With a faint sniff, Nozel resumed his search, finally producing a small packet from the back of the drawer. "There. I'll have you know I located them in record time."
"Mm, congratulations, Captain," Fuegoleon murmured, taking them from him and brushing his fingers deliberately against Nozel's as he did. "A new skill to add to your repertoire."
Nozel took care to wipe down Fuegoleon's abdomen while Fuegoleon swiped his ass cheeks and thighs clean.
With the immediate mess handled, Fuegoleon stood, grabbing a fresh pair of boxer briefs from a nearby cabinet. "Well," he said, pulling them on. "That was... thorough."
Nozel didn't respond immediately. He was still kneeling by the desk, a faint blush on his cheeks, meticulously folding the used wipes before placing them in the wastebasket. When he finally stood, he didn't meet Fuegoleon's eyes. "My services aren't cheap," he said, his voice returning to its usual dry cadence. "I'll require payment in the form of a list of clean signatures."
Fuegoleon chuckled, a low, warm sound. He walked over to Nozel, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. "I suppose that's fair," he murmured, his lips brushing against Nozel's ear. "Consider it a fee for... excellent work."
Nozel's breath hitched faintly. "And don't expect me to be so lenient next time," he said.
"Now, put some pants on," Fuegoleon grinned, giving a light smack to Nozel's ass.
Nozel stiffened at the smack, his blush darkening, though he refused to give Fuegoleon the satisfaction of a reaction beyond a frosty sniff. "You're entirely too pleased with yourself," he muttered, pulling on his own set of boxer briefs.
Fuegoleon only smiled, unrepentant. "Shouldn't I be?"
Fuegoleon knelt down to begin haphazardly organizing the leaflets scattered about the floor. Nozel joined him, and within a matter of minutes they managed to piece the papers into something resembling neat stacks. Fuegoleon's version of order was more "good enough," while Nozel's was surgical—straightened edges, aligned corners, each page smoothed free of wrinkles.
After tidying the product of their chaos, Fuegoleon corralled Nozel to the couch. The Vermillion dropped into the cushions with a sigh, stretching his arms across the backrest in careless ease. Nozel, of course, perched on the far edge, posture rigid and knees angled as though the couch were a throne rather than a place to rest.
Fuegoleon's mouth curved, watching him. "You know," he said, voice low and teasing, "most people relax after sex."
"I am relaxed," Nozel replied crisply, though the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
Fuegoleon chuckled, scooping Nozel up and settling him atop his torso. "If this is you relaxed, I almost pity your subordinates."
Nozel made no discernible effort to resist the Vermillion, instead weaving his fingers together to create a makeshift pillow and rest his chin comfortably against Fuegoleon's chest. Fuegoleon unclipped the cross flory flitchy securing Nozel's bangs and set it on the side table, earning a pointed look as he tousled and fluffed the strands into a soft halo.
Nozel swatted at his hand, brushing a few stray strands that Fuegoleon had missed out of his eyes. Before he could return to his place against Fuegoleon's chest, the Vermillion grazed his fingers along Nozel's neck, over the battleworn and faded, albeit pronounced enough, scar to determine it was text from some primeval language. Fuegoleon's fingers lingered, tracing the divots of each character as if trying to deduce the inscription Megicula had mauled into Nozel's flesh.
"And when are we going to talk about this?" Fuegoleon indicated the scar by tapping his index finger against it twice.
"As soon as we talk about this," Nozel retorted, giving a firm squeeze to Fuegoleon's right shoulder. Fuegoleon flinched, a quiet hiss of discomfort escaping his lips, and Nozel quickly drew back his hand.
"Sorry," he apologized, a little disingenuity lacing his tone.
"It's fine," Fuegoleon mumbled, rolling out his shoulder in relief.
"No, it's not," Nozel breathed, kneading at his neck. "It's just... complicated." He thumped his head against the Vermillion's chest.
"Complicated, how?"
"Complicated, like we shouldn't be having this conversation unless you want another episode like pre–last year's Magic Knights Entrance Exam."
It took Fuegoleon a moment too long to register the incident Nozel was referring to before the Silva flicked him on the forehead.
"You seriously don't remember?" Nozel snapped.
"No, I do." Fuegoleon raised his hand in defense. Sheesh—who could blame him if it took a hot minute to recall the memory? He had been incapacitated for the past six months, three of those months with Nozel whispering sweet nothings at his bedside. But he wasn't going to tell Nozel that—at least not yet.
"It was when you collapsed from a cur—" Curse. Before Fuegoleon could finish his sentence, Nozel was on him, cussing, hissing, and shushing him to avail. The Silva had climbed onto Fuegoleon's torso, straddling him with both hands covering the Vermillion's mouth.
"Shut up! You musn't say that word," Nozel snapped, his forehead pressing against Fuegoleon's, hands firm over the Vermillion's mouth. His lavender eyes flashed with a mix of panic and authority, the remnants of that cursed memory sharpening his tone.
"If you tell anyone that Megicula had a hand in Acier Silva's death, you will die."
"If you talk about it, the one who heard you will also be struck with the curse."
"The spell will spread like a disease."
The words of Megicula rang clear as a death knell, a venomous reminder of the helplessness Nozel had felt as he watched his mother wither away. He would not—could not—allow Fuegoleon to be inflicted by that curse. He refused to let him die, to let that same suffocating fear consume the Vermillion as it had consumed him.
Nozel withdrew his hands. "If we're to discuss this, then I'll have to arrange some time with Dorothy."
"Dorothy? Dorothy Unsworth?"
"No, Dorothy—the petulant, ten-years-younger-than-me woman my father tried to set me up with last year." While intended as a sarcastic quip, it was true. Nozel's father had been particularly zealous in marrying off his eldest son, especially as he entered his thirties, spouting some bullshit about keeping the bloodline potent. Nozel shuddered at the memory of awkward dinners, forced smiles, and the endless parade of well-meaning but suffocating family commentary.
"Yes, Dorothy Unsworth, you dolt. Who do you think was keeping me sane while you blissfully slept for six months?! At least she has better taste in tea varieties than you."
Fuegoleon arched a brow, amusement tugging at his mouth despite the gravity of the conversation. "Ah, so that explains the chamomile I kept smelling every time I woke up halfway. I thought it was you trying to soften up."
Nozel scoffed, sitting back on his haunches, arms folded tightly across his chest. "Don't be ridiculous. If I wanted to soften up, I'd have poured hot wax in my ears to drown out your incessant optimism instead."
Fuegoleon chuckled, tilting his head, eyes narrowing with a kind of gentle persistence that always grated on Nozel's carefully maintained walls. "So, Dorothy knows?"
"Yes," Nozel responded curtly. "Now, we mustn't talk about this anymore, because we don't want to trigger anything," he growled through gritted teeth. His lavender eyes hardened, sharp as glass. "And in exchange for my information—" Nozel leaned forward, pressing a pointed index finger against the bridge of Fuegoleon's nose, a gesture halfway between reprimand and claim. "You're going to tell me who this little would-be assassin of yours was."
Fuegoleon blinked at the sudden shift in tone, the playful veneer of their banter stripped away in an instant. The finger against his nose was deceptively delicate, but the steel behind Nozel's gaze left no room for evasion.
"You make it sound like I've been hiding something from you," Fuegoleon replied, his voice steady though his chest tightened beneath the razor's edge of Nozel's scrutiny.
"You have been hiding something," Nozel shot back, his tone cutting, though underpinned by the faintest tremor—fear disguised as ire. "Assassins don't simply appear. Someone sent them. The Eye of the Midnight Sun wanted you dead. And if you think I'll tolerate being kept in the dark, you gravely underestimate me."
Fuegoleon reached up, brushing his hand against Nozel's wrist, not to push him away but to anchor him. "It wasn't secrecy. It was timing. I wasn't about to unload everything the moment I woke from six months of near-death." His eyes softened, though a shadow lingered behind them. "I needed to be certain of who it was, of what I was dealing with. And until then..." He exhaled slowly. "Until then, I wanted to spare you the weight of another war."
Nozel's nostrils flared, his grip twitching against Fuegoleon's shoulder. "Spare me?" he echoed, venom curling through his voice. "You arrogant, sanctimonious—if you ever dare to think that sparing me means lying by omission again, I will make you regret it." His finger pressed harder against Fuegoleon's nose, his lavender eyes blazing like tempered steel.
Fuegoleon didn't flinch beneath the sharpened heat of Nozel's glare. Instead, he leaned forward, closing the scant distance between them, and pressed the offending finger to his lips. His mouth lingered there, warm and unyielding, before he kissed the fingertip with deliberate tenderness.
"You think I lie to you to protect myself," he murmured against Nozel's skin, "but the truth is I'd burn the world down before I'd ever betray you." He tilted his head, meeting the full blaze of lavender with his steady amber. "I love you, Nozel. Even when you're impossible. Even when you're wrath incarnate."
The Silva froze, as though the words had struck harder than any curse. His jaw tightened, a flicker of disbelief breaking across his carefully guarded expression. For all his composure, for all the frost he wielded like armor, a faint tremor betrayed him in the way his breath caught.
Fuegoleon's thumb brushed along the ridge of Nozel's knuckles, gentle, coaxing. "I don't need sparing. I need honesty. If you can give me that, then I can give you everything else."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched—thick, fragile, electric. Then Nozel withdrew his finger only to curl his hand against Fuegoleon's jaw, grip firm but not cruel, as though holding him there by force of will alone. His voice, when it came, was low and fractured, raw as a wound.
"You reckless, insufferable man," he whispered. "Why must you say things like that when you know I can't—" His words broke, teeth gritted against the tide threatening to drag him under.
Fuegoleon leaned into the hold, unafraid, letting the weight of Nozel's storm crash against him. "Because it's the truth," he answered simply. "And because you need to hear it."
Ooooo...a flashback chapter 👀. Enjoy! This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.
~ ace-maverick
Summary:
"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.
"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.
They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."
-
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
-
or
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
or
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambigious relationship.
Chapter 9: Daffodils from Graves
It basically confirmed everything I was feeling after your grimoire ceremony."
"Which is…?" Nozel started, expecting Fuegoleon to finish his sentence. Fuegoleon was propped up against a mountain of pillows, hand supporting head while Nozel laid on his chest, peering up at him with an air of impatience.
"Which is (1) that there was abso-fucking-lutely no way I was exclusively attracted to women." Nozel rolled his eyes dramatically; if they could have reached the back of his skull, they would have, as if Fuegoleon wasn't making the most astute fucking observation ever. "And (2) that the only man I wanted to court was you," Fuegoleon murmured romantically, his voice low and smooth, a secret meant only for Nozel to hear.
"Excuse me? Court?" Nozel gawked. "Like House Silva would have ever allowed you to court me." Nozel sounded awfully regal, and by "regal," Fuegoleon thought, mildly narcissistic and pompous—one of Nozel's less desirable qualities.
Fuegoleon mocked offense, his hand pressed dramatically to his chest. "Oh, so now I'm not good enough for your precious house?" he teased, raising an eyebrow as he flashed a sly grin. "How tragic."
"You know that's not what I meant, Fuego," Nozel breathed out, his fingers idly tracing over the fabric of Fuegoleon's shirt.
"I know," Fuegoleon affirmed, combing his fingers through Nozel's bangs.
"I was—am—we are—were—are…" Nozel continued stumbling over his words, struggling to decide between past or present tense and singular or plural pronouns until he huffed in frustration, pressing his lips into a thin line. Nozel sat up, straddling Fuegoleon's waist. "We are the Lords, heirs, of our Royal Houses. We are expected to wed blue-blooded noblewoman and sire heirs to sew our seed. We are pillars of tradition," Nozel stated with practiced precision, reciting the expectations drilled into him since childhood. His fingers clenched at Fuegoleon's shirt.
"If we adhered to every doctrine our positions demanded of us, I'd be married to some noblewoman by now, and you—" He trailed off, smirking his right hand wandering up Nozel's thighs to rest at the slight curvature of his waist. "Well, you'd be even more repressed than you already are."
Nozel scoffed. "I am not repressed," he bit out, but it lacked true heat. He exhaled sharply, looking down at Fuegoleon. "Nor am I naive, Fuego. Even if we could convince our houses to allow us to court, it's not like it's going to magically spawn royal offspring. At best we could be lovers, married miserably to some vapid noble cunts."
He sneered at the thought, fingers curling into the fabric of Fuegoleon's shirt. A gilded cage, that's what it would be. A cold marriage, built on duty rather than desire, where his so-called wife would bear his name but never his heart. A woman bred for politics, chosen for her lineage rather than her merit, someone who would expect obedience, children, and nothing more. No passion. No fire. No him.
"I've managed to stave off the watchful eyes of Clover's nobility for over a decade now," Fuegoleon replied smugly, rolling his shoulders stiffly. "What's a few more?"
"We are practically sprouting up fucking daffodils from our graves, Fuego."
"Thirty is not old," Fuegoleon deadpanned, giving Nozel a flat look.
Nozel rolled his eyes and stretched his arms above his head, cracking his lower back. "Sure makes my back feel old."
Fuegoleon smirked, shifting to press a warm palm against the small of Nozel's back, kneading the muscles there with deliberate slowness. "That's what siblings are for."
Nozel scoffed again, arching a delicate silver brow. "So you are just assuming Leopold is going to want children?" He let his weight settle more comfortably against Fuegoleon, though he feigned disinterest in the warmth pooling between them.
"Unlike you, I have three other siblings who can sire an heir for House Silva," Nozel countered, flicking imaginary lint from the sleeve of his tunic.
"And I have two."
Nozel's expression turned smug as he corrected smoothly, "One."
Fuegoleon blinked, then frowned. "Two."
"You really believe Mereoleona, of all people, is going to pop a fucking child out of the old baby maker?" Nozel scoffed, his voice dripping with skepticism.
Fuegoleon sighed, rubbing his temple. "No, but I can hope." A pause. "Very colorful language."
"Oh, fuck off," Nozel cursed, saluting him with his middle finger.
Fuegoleon pressed a kiss to the offending finger like he was courting the gesture itself.
"Okay, then if we cannot court, what about dating?"
Dating: a peasant's paltry substitute for courting. Devoid of the lacquer of marriage interviews, drawing rooms, ballrooms, and — worst of all —chaperones. God forbid a young nobleman be left alone with a young noblewoman; he might deflower her simply from the frills on her skirt or the scandalous glimpse of an ankle. Where high-born ladies had to remain chaste and cloistered until their much anticipated wedding night and noble lads were encouraged to increase their lot of whores before settling with the old ball and chain. It was all quite misogynistic and dated.
But as the proverb goes: "Old habits die hard." And the habit of selling your virginal daughters to the highest bidding nobleman was rotting like hot shit in sunlight. Parliament was already considering legislation to amend inheritance laws, and Nozel wouldn't be the least surprised if it bled over to conductings of the marriage mart.
But dating. Nozel has always found it to be both base and enigmatic. The first time he had heard the word was on a visit to a trading town on the boarder of the Noble and Common Realm. It was in passing at one of the posts where a common woman mentioned she was attending a mixer that evening. Nozel had mispronounced the word for upwards of two months, replacing the long 'a' with a short 'a' until his mother sought to correct him. That was something Nebra was never going to let him live down.
He had witnessed the younger, fresh-faced commoner and peasant knights of the lower-ranked squads couple up quickly upon their induction, holding hands and exchanging brief, chaste kisses in public — always incurring the wrath of their older, and thusly wiser and more experienced, counterparts, often in their earlier twenties, who scolded them about the 'dangers' of dating coworkers. If it could even be called "dangerous". Granted, Nozel had heard his fair share of horror stories from the crowds who frequented the gay bars in the business district on the outskirts of the Noble Realm. So, maybe, there was some merit to their warnings.
But, being able to freely, willingly, unashamedly, choose your life partner through the experimental trials of dating was not a luxury afforded to nobility, let alone royalty. Nozel has endured round upon round of failed marriage interview, putting up his prickly front to abhor his proposed suitors and prolong his bachelorhood. All the while, much to the chagrin of his father, fucking, floundering, and splaying closeted nobleman every other weekend, returning to Fuegoleon the most . He was certainly increasing his lot of whores, just not to the standard.
It's not that Aberforth Silva was a homophobe or prude, he would just rather not hear about the depravity of his adult children's sex lives — a behind closed doors, stick his head in the sand sort of deal. Especially, after Nozel had rather loudly and unabashedly lost his anal virginity on his eighteenth birthday with Fuegoleon fucking him in all sorts of creative positions in his childhood bedroom. That had earned him a stern and awkward lecture from both his governess and father.
Dating was foreign, courting was familiar. "Dating," Nozel parroted, the word rolling of his tongue bitter and cryptic, fingers drumming where they were splayed on the Vermillion's chest. "Dating is for peasants and commoners not royals, Vermillion."
"And cheap spirits are for peasants and commoners, but I still recall you partaking, Silva," Fuegoleon said smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he rested his hand over Nozel's, anchoring it there on his chest.
Nozel's eye twitched. "It was one time. One drink. And it was disguised in a crystal decanter."
"You asked for another round."
"I was being polite," Nozel huffed, lifting his chin with haughty defiance. "It would have been rude to refuse."
Fuegoleon let out a soft laugh, the kind that rumbled in his chest and made Nozel's fingertips involuntarily flex. "You burped halfway through the third sip."
Nozel narrowed his eyes. "That was a side effect of… of carbonation. A ridiculous invention, really. Bubbles have no place in alcohol."
"Still didn't stop you from—what was it? 'Feeling the warm bloom of sin in your throat?'" Fuegoleon teased, voice pitched just high enough to mock.
"That was poetry, you uncultured brute," Nozel muttered, though he could feel his ears burning as he threw himself back into the crook of Fuegoleon's arm with a melodramatic sigh. "Why do I even like you?"
"Because I entertain your bullshit," Fuegoleon punctuated with kiss pressed to Nozel's brow.
"Shut up," Nozel muttered, flipping to lounge on his stomach and stare sidelong at Fuegoleon, head pressed against the disturbed fitted sheet.
"But dating…," Nozel repeated, voice low and contemplative now, his cheek smooshed against the sheets. "I am amenable to dating as long as it is you." Each word was quieter than the next till it subsided to a mumble, Nozel's eyes flicking up to meet Fuegoleon's tentatively. He reconciled to to deal with the overarching consequences this would have on House Silva later.
Fuegoleon didn't respond right away. He just looked at Nozel—really looked at him. The kind of gaze that stripped past the aristocratic frost, the duty-laced posture, the blade of his tongue, and saw the vulnerable boy who'd once flinched at the word love like it was a curse.
"I can work with that," he said at last, his voice gentle, but no less firm for it. He reached over to brush a lock of silver hair away from Nozel's temple, fingers lingering just a beat too long.
Nozel made a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh, rolling his eyes as though Fuegoleon had just offered him a marriage contract instead of the simplest, most damning concession of all: patience.
"Just don't make me do any of that commoner bullshit," Nozel muttered, poking Fuegoleon in the ribs. "No street food. No taverns. No candlelit picnics in the middle of a field like we're some lovestruck stablehands."
Fuegoleon grinned like a man who had every intention of doing all three. "No promises."
Nozel groaned and buried his face in the sheets. "I should have gone with the wine merchant's son."
"You mean the one who cried when you insulted his cravat?"
"It was a hideous cravat," Nozel snapped defensively.
"Mm-hmm," Fuegoleon hummed, wrapping an arm securely around Nozel's waist and drawing him close again. "And yet somehow, here you are. Dating a common peasant like me."
"You are a royal captain," Nozel sniffed. "Barely."
Fuegoleon chuckled. Nozel closed his eyes. The room was warm. So was the body beside him. And maybe—just maybe—that warmth was worth the storm that would follow. Let the noble houses whisper. Let the parliament grumble. Let his father grind his teeth to dust.
Nozel would face the fire when it came.
But tonight?
Tonight, he could rest.
Fuegoleon's arm tightened around Nozel as he nestled closer, the warmth between them a comfort he hadn't realized he'd been craving. Nozel traced absentminded patterns across the expanse of Fuegoleon's torso before his next question manifested. "So…," his fingers creeped up to rest at the Vermillion's collarbone. "Salamander. The Fire Spirit. One of the four Great Elemental Spirits. Care to share how it chose you?" Nozel sounded more patronizing than curious.
"You make it seem as if I'm not worthy," Fuegoleon jested, feigning offense again.
Nozel arched a brow without lifting his head, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk. "I didn't say that," he drawled. "I merely implied it."
Fuegoleon huffed a laugh, eyes closing as he tilted his head back against the pillow. "You really know how to make a man feel special, Silva."
"It's a gift," Nozel replied dryly, his hand now splayed across Fuegoleon's heart, feeling the steady thrum beneath skin and bone. "Now answer the question."
"Okay, okay, Salamander manifested in this…subliminal white space." Fuegoleon shivered recalling the memory. A flashbang of blinding white coaxing him from months-long slumber. A rush of endorphins to consciousness. Then a wall of roaring flames shadowing a hulking dragon. Salamander communicated with little more than perfunctory grunts and acrid huffs of smoke. A primordial avatar of raw, unbridled fire magic. He was surprised Salamander hadn't chosen someone like his sister for their next holder. She was more aligned to their volatile edge — jagged like the blade of a handsaw. Something about honor or whatever. He supposed Salamander was telepathic or something similar; something he would have to develop with the beast.
Fuegoleon sighed, the sound quiet but weighted, like embers shifting beneath ash. "It wasn't a conversation. It wasn't even an invitation. It felt like… combustion. Like Salamander knew I'd already been forged for this, and it just stepped into the furnace."
Nozel listened, the smug tilt of his mouth smoothing into something softer. Thoughtful. "You always were the heir forged in fire," he murmured, almost to himself. "Even if you pretend to be humble about it."
Fuegoleon cracked one eye open. "Pretend? You wound me."
"I haven't even started," Nozel retorted, though the edge in his voice had dulled. He shifted just slightly, his hand still splayed across Fuegoleon's chest, fingertips tracing the shape of a flame-shaped scar peeking just beneath the collar of his sleep shirt. "Did it hurt?"
Fuegoleon was quiet for a moment.
"Not in the way you'd think," he said finally. "It felt like burning, but also like being lit up from the inside. Like every grief, every failure, every ounce of rage I'd buried was kindling—and Salamander just… breathed."
Nozel's fingers stilled. He didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. "Sounds… violent."
"It was," Fuegoleon admitted. "But not cruel."
Nozel hummed, unsure if that distinction brought him comfort or not. "Typical fire magic. Temperamental. Demanding. And still somehow more emotionally adjusted than most nobles."
Fuegoleon chuckled. "They like you, by the way."
That made Nozel blink. "What?"
"Salamander," Fuegoleon said, grinning. "They're a fan."
Nozel scoffed. "Of course they are. I'm charming."
"You insulted him the first time you met."
"I insult everyone the first time I meet them. Besides, they were contracted with…uh— Fana!" Nozel snapped his fingers a the name recognition. He was always shitty with recalling names, especially those of his opponents or commoners or peasants or anyone who generally displeased him.
"It was in a cave outside of Nairn — that drivel little town out in the boonies." Fuegoleon rolled his eyes at the added slander, opting to not inform Nozel his former mentor, Theresa Rapual, had retired there as a nun but a decade earlier.
"She wielded fire magic and spouted some bullshit about being the embodiment of hatred for the Third Eye," Nozel huffed, rolling onto his back and kicking his legs up in the air like a startled wombat. "But, Salamander was no larger than a common lizard back then. Unless, you account for the reports from the Witches' Forest incident. Apparently, Salamander morphed into a hulking dragon, like when he manifested for you." Nozel peered up at Fuegoleon, the latter responding with a languid nod, indicating he was still listening.
"The elf Fana possessed a girl hailing from the Diamond Kingdom with the same name, a ward of the state. Her host was allegedly a test subject for magic enhancement experiments in Diamond. At least that's the abbreviated version of the reports, and what I could piece together from Yami's drunk testimony." Nozel flexed his feet absentmindedly, his pant legs falling to mid-calf. He glanced back up at the Vermillion, now busy massaging his brow.
"That's the abbreviated version?" Fuegoleon breathed the question exasperatedly. "Geez, I have some serious catching up to do," he muttered, head flopping back onto his pillow.
"Eh, you'll be fine," Nozel assured, limbs landing back on the mattress with a 'thump'. "Mereoleona might loathe paperwork, but she's been thorough. I'm certain she'll give you an unfiltered version of a debrief upon your full recovery." Nozel did a pragmatic once-over of Fuegoleon from head to toe before resigning his gaze to an undefined corner of the bedchamber.
Fuegoleon hummed in contentment before reaching for his grimoire on the left nightstand. Nozel shot him a look that could curdle milk — sharp, incredulous, pissed. "You are not seriously about to use magic again, Fuego?! Your mana reserves are still fucking drained —"
"Calm down," Fuegoleon interjected, not even sparing him a glance as he began to page through his grimoire until he reached Salamander's summoning spell. "I'm not casting anything. Just seeing if Salamander wants to come out."
"You're gonna have your flame lizard flutter their fucking lashes for me."
"(1) They are not a flame lizard, they are a fire spirit, and (2) only if they want to."
As if on command, a puff of rose-gold smoke curled from the grimoire's pages, soft and fragrant like embers kissed with perfume. It spiraled upward before coalescing into a small, floating silhouette — unmistakably Salamander, albeit in their more compact, salamander-like form.
They blinked once, their eyes glowing with an amused intelligence, then flitted through the air to perch neatly on Fuegoleon's sternum. The warmth of their presence was immediate, settling in the room like a hearth fire — not scorching, but undeniably powerful.
Nozel narrowed his eyes. "They are fluttering their lashes at me."
Fuegoleon smirked. "Told you they liked you."
Salamander let out a chirruping noise that sounded suspiciously smug.
"They're mocking me."
"They're bonding with you." Fuegoleon reached up to scratch under Salamander's chin, which earned him a pleased trill. "You might be cold as ice, Nozel, but they say fire likes contrast."
"I prefer being admired from a distance," Nozel replied, though his voice lacked conviction — especially as Salamander slinked from Fuegoleon's to hover in front of him, tilting their head in a slow, deliberate study. Then, with a flick of their tail, they landed lightly on Nozel's chest.
He froze.
Fuegoleon watched with the air of someone holding back laughter. "You were saying?"
Nozel looked down at the spirit, who was now nuzzling against the collar of his tunic. "They're nesting. Why are they nesting on me?"
"They do that with people they trust." Fuegoleon's grin turned sly. "Or people they think need a nap."
Nozel scowled. "I do not—"
A warm pulse of comfort rolled through him, and his protest died in his throat. He blinked, drowsy confusion overtaking his frown.
Fuegoleon chuckled and tucked his hand behind his head. "Told you. They like you."
Nozel muttered something unintelligible, but didn't move Salamander. He didn't have the will to. The fire spirit was too warm.
He peered at the spirit stomping happy circles against his chest, no doubt leaving behind a trail of soot marks that would need to be bleached to oblivion. The thought of his clothing—carefully pressed, polished, and proper—slowly unraveling under Salamander's antics was enough to make Nozel's lips twitch in annoyance.
"Are they sentient?" Nozel questioned, tentatively running his fingers down the coarse spine of the spirit. "Like the wind spirit contracted to the golden boy from Dawn."
"You mean, Yuno?"
"Yeah, Yuno." Nozel waved a dismissive hand. If there was one thing Nozel sucked ass at, it was remembering commoners' and peasants' names—especially commoners' and peasants' Magic Knight names.
Fuegoleon rolled his eyes. "They're definitely not sapient, but I'd imagine they're sentient," he said matter-of-factly, scooping the spirit from Nozel's chest and depositing it back on his grimoire. "They're like a docile house cat, at least in this form."
Salamander made a grumbling chirp at the comparison, curling their tail around their body with theatrical offense. Fuegoleon snorted. "Okay, maybe not that docile."
"They've got the sass of a housecat and the ego of a noble," Nozel muttered, brushing a smear of ash off his uniform with a frown. "No wonder they bonded to you."
"That's rude," Fuegoleon said, utterly unbothered. "Accurate. But rude."
Nozel folded his arms, one brow arching as Salamander turned a lazy circle on Fuegoleon's grimoire, then puffed a spark in his direction—no real heat behind it, just a petulant flicker of light. "You're encouraging them."
Fuegoleon shrugged, unapologetic. "I'd call it positive reinforcement."
Salamander flared their wings with a self-satisfied flutter and chirped again, smug and insufferably pleased with themselves.
Nozel narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to find a way to discipline a spirit. I swear it."
"That would require an actual bond," Fuegoleon pointed out, nudging Salamander gently with the side of his finger. "And I doubt they're ready to jump ship just yet."
Salamander gave a dismissive flick of their tail, as if to say you wish, and began tracing lazy figure-eights across the spine of the open grimoire, trailing little ember footprints that vanished as quickly as they appeared.
Fuegoleon watched them with fond exasperation before sighing through his nose. "Alright, alright. You've had your fun."
Salamander paused mid-step and blinked at him with that glowing, impish stare that could either mean 'Make me' or 'Feed me'—the two were often indistinguishable.
"You know I'm too damn tired to deal with your dramatics tonight," Fuegoleon said, voice soft but firm. He tapped the corner of the grimoire with a practiced ease, and a gentle pulse of mana shimmered across the page, calling the spirit back.
Salamander gave one last flicker of defiance—tail swishing like a spoiled cat being told to get off the countertop—but finally relented, curling into themselves and dissolving in a swirl of warm, shimmering smoke. It folded neatly back into the grimoire's binding, leaving the pages crisp and faintly glowing.
Nozel exhaled through his nose. "Is it always that theatrical?"
"Only when they're in a mood," Fuegoleon said, flipping the grimoire closed with a dull thump. "Which is… frequently."
Nozel leaned back against the headboard, arms still crossed but less tightly now. "You're lucky they adore you."
Fuegoleon gave him a tired but warm smile. "I think they like you more than me at this point."
Nozel scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm not," Fuegoleon said, his tone gentling. "They don't make a habit of snuggling with strangers."
"I'm not a stranger."
"You're not exactly their master, either."
Nozel hesitated. He looked down at the now-quiet grimoire, then to Fuegoleon, and finally back at the ceiling as if it might offer an easier explanation than his own brain.
"…They're warm," he offered at last, tone grudging.
Fuegoleon smiled, resting his head back into the pillow with a sigh. "They are."
A long silence settled over the room—comfortable, slow, the kind that stretched out between two people used to the presence of war and the rare, jarring peace that followed it.
Then, a quieter voice, almost an afterthought:
"They can visit again, I guess."
Fuegoleon didn't even open his eyes. "I'll let them know."
A beat.
"They'll be thrilled."
The hours had ticked by to dusk, and, in a matter of minutes, the pair dozed off.
The room, once alive with flickering embers and bickering pride, dimmed into a hush broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards and the wind skimming across the curtains. Fuegoleon's grimoire sat undisturbed at the foot of the bed, faintly glowing with residual heat—its spirit curled tight in slumber within its pages, like a coal buried beneath ash.
They could talk about William being Fuegoleon's attempted assassin later. And Nozel could tell Fuegoleon about Megicula's curse later. For now, they would sleep. The hours had carved enough from them already.
Outside the Vermillion Estate, the moon began its slow climb, spilling silver light over the terracotta rooftops and ivy-strangled balconies. Somewhere in the distance, a nightbird called once, then fell quiet again.
Two pairs of unattended shoes sat at the threshold of the House Vermillion that night: a pair of strappy gold sandals and a flopped-over pair of black boots.
The only visitors who disturbed them—but did not stir them—in the wee hours of the morning were Mereoleona and the shadow of her youngest brother, Leopold.
She did not knock. Damn Fuegoleon for not locking the door.
She never did.
The heavy oak door creaked open on its ancient hinges, admitting a sliver of moonlight across the tiled vestibule. Mereoleona stepped inside like a storm entering a chapel, her gait unhurried but absolute. She paused just past the threshold, one hand braced on her hip, the other rubbing her temple with the force of someone trying to knead away the impending headache her brothers were surely about to give her.
Leopold hesitated a few paces behind her, the toes of his boots scuffing nervously against the polished stone. "They're asleep," he whispered, as if the sleeping figures inside might be sacred or cursed or both.
"I can see that," Mereoleona muttered, her voice a low growl more felt than heard. Her eyes flicked to the bed, where two silhouettes were tangled together under the covers—too casual to be diplomatic, too peaceful to be coincidence.
"Nozel's here," Leopold whispered unnecessarily, and it earned him a sidelong glance. Her expression didn't shift, but the corner of her mouth twitched in what could've been amusement—or disdain.
"You don't say," she said dryly, eyes raking over the scene like a general surveying enemy terrain.
Leopold took a cautious step into the room, voice still hushed. "They look… happy." The words came out in a tone that was almost reverent.
Mereoleona grunted. "That's because they're not awake yet."
But she didn't move to wake them.
She studied her brother with a complexity that, had she been anyone else, might have resembled protectiveness. Fuegoleon's chest rose and fell in a rhythm that hadn't existed in the months after his injury. Nozel's body curled toward him, his expression unguarded in sleep, free of the rigid lines of pride and performance he wore like armor in waking life.
"They'll catch hell for it," Leopold said after a moment, his voice small.
"They already have," she replied. Then, softer, "And they still chose this."
Mereoleona stepped back, turning on her heel with the finality of someone who had seen enough. "Come. Let them have what little peace this rotten world can afford."
Leopold glanced back one last time, then followed his sister out, pulling the door shut behind them with the softest click.
The room returned to silence. Still warm. Still dark. Still safe—for now.
Tomorrow, there would be questions. Politics. Family. Pain.
But tonight, fire and steel slept unbothered.
And somewhere in the hush of the chamber, the air seemed to exhale.
Ooooo...a flashback chapter 👀. Enjoy! This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.
~ ace-maverick
Summary:
"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.
"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.
They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."
-
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
-
or
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
or
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambigious relationship.
Chapter 8: Gilded Expectations
Nozel was newly fifteen, and unlike commoners, did not have to wait until March of the following Spring to receive his grimoire. Nobleman and royals were treated to a private ceremony in the Royal Capital Grimoire Tower, where the most coveted grimoires were stored under lock and key, exclusive to the noble class. Noble families typically shared their ceremony with three to five children coming-of-age, but not the Three Great Royal Families. Their grimoire ceremonies were far more prestigious and grandiose; the Wizard King, Clover's King, and every uppercrust noble family in the kingdom were in attendance.
It was a rare treat for the nobility to witness two ceremonies in less than a year, Fuegoleon's preceding Nozel's by four months and Mereoleona's preceding Fuegoleon's by two years to the date. Before Mereoleona's grimoire ceremony, there had been a dry spell of nearly twenty years without a royal grimoire ceremony — the last to occur of the previous generation's, Acier Silva. The rarity of such events added an air of gravity to each one, only second to royal weddings, and by the time Nozel's turn arrived, the anticipation was palpable.
Fuegoleon remembered watching from the grand seating reserved for the Vermillion family, his own grimoire ceremony still fresh in his mind. He had been seated beside Mereoleona, who had been unusually quiet for once, her sharp eyes fixed on the Silva heir as he approached the raised dais.
Nozel had looked immaculate, of course—his silver hair gleaming in the candlelight of the ceremonial chamber, his tailored robes a perfect blend of regal elegance and understated power. Fuegoleon had been struck by how composed he appeared, his posture a portrait of nobility and pride.
But what captivated Fuegoleon most wasn't Nozel's appearance—it was the moment his hand touched the grimoire. The book had been stunning, bound in silvery-blue leather with intricate, glowing glyphs etched across its surface. The instant it connected with Nozel, the room seemed to shift, the very air charged with his magic. It was freezing and biting, yet impossibly graceful, like the first snowfall of winter—a paradox of beauty and brutality.
Nozel recalled it quite differently, though. Fifteen. Still freshly stricken with the grief of his mother's loss from just a few months prior. His golden collar was too tight, a numbness extending down to the pads of his thumbs. Perhaps it was due to the servants failing to heed his requests to loosen it or the anticipation leading up to the ceremony itself. His pupils vibrated with brevity, nerves screeching at the dozens of eyes trained on his person. His throat was hoarse as he ascended the dais, smacking his lips together to wet his dry mouth.
Every step felt heavier than the last, as if he was sinking into quicksand. The floor beneath him was cold, his polished boots clicking against the stone with a sharp, unsettling echo. The ornate ceremonial chamber, filled with noble families and their scrutinizing gazes, seemed to shrink around him, making the air thick and oppressive.
As he settled at the dais, Nozel's breath hitched in his chest, tightening with the pressure. His heart beat faster, the rhythm pulsing in his ears, drowning out the low murmur of the gathered crowd. He could feel their eyes like firebrands against his skin, each glance searing into him, dissecting every inch of him, the sensation made his skin crawl.
He had known his grimoire would be extraordinary; it was a matter of family pride. The Silva lineage boasted an unbroken record of receiving grimoires imbued with powerful elemental magic. Still, there was no small amount of pressure to live up to those expectations, especially with Acier Silva's shadow looming large over the occasion. She had been a prodigy, a force of nature whose accomplishments were whispered like legends among the nobility.
His grimoire had rattled down from the uppermost shelves, soaring down to slam itself onto the lectern leaving lesser grimoires littered in its wake. When his fingers brushed the silvery-blue leather of the grimoire the world narrowed to just him and the book. The glyphs blazed brighter, a cold wind whipping through the chamber despite the lack of open windows. He could feel the magic resonate with his very soul, a perfect match that sent shivers up his spine. The room had gasped as the frost spread across the marble dais in delicate, crystalline patterns, and Nozel had fought the urge to flinch under the awestruck gazes of the crowd. They were spellbound. Nozel had looked untouchable, like a king stepping into his rightful place.
Of course, Nozel hadn't felt any of that. He had been too preoccupied with the weight of the grimoire in his hands, the chill of its magic biting into his palms as though testing his resolve. He remembered glancing at his family—his father, stern and expectant; his younger siblings, wide-eyed with awe—and feeling an odd mix of pride and suffocating responsibility.
After the ceremony, as the nobles crowded around to offer their congratulations, Nozel had felt like an artifact on display rather than a person. Everyone seemed eager to laud his grimoire's power, to compare him to Acier, to speculate on the heights he would reach. The praise had been relentless, overbearing, and it was only later, in the solitude of his chambers, that he allowed himself to exhale.
Fuegoleon had found him later, steeled away from the noble horde on the balcony off the ballroom where his grimoire reception was being hosted at the Silva Estate. Nozel was crumpled against the rear wall in an upright fetal position, his cape wet from soaking up the rainwater in a nearby puddle. He cradled his grimoire close to his chest, fingers carding through the pages in chunks.
He didn't register Fuegoleon's presence till a footfall in the same puddle that had muddled the stark whiteness of his cape to a dull gray. Nozel's head snapped up, his sharp eyes locking onto Fuegoleon with an intensity that could have burned rain from the sky. His posture didn't shift, still curled inward trying to make himself as small as possible, but his gaze was anything but diminutive.
Fuegoleon paused, his heart catching in his chest at the sight of Nozel, despondent and listless in a way he'd never seen before. The storm outside had nothing on the turbulence inside Nozel's expression — layers of resentment and confusion churning in his gut.
"Don't look at me like that," Nozel grouched, attempting a scathing edge but failing miserably as a tremor seeped into his voice.
Fuegoleon stepped forward, closer than he would usually dare, his boots leaving soft impressions in the water. He clutched the gift stowed behind his back tighter. He crouched down, his vermilion mane dripping like candle wax in the cool night air, but his focus was entirely on Nozel. His breath was steady, though his pulse quickened as he watched Nozel's fingers trembling over the edges of his grimoire, almost as if trying to anchor himself to something in the physical world.
"I'm not looking at you like anything, Nozel," Fuegoleon said softly, his tone laced with a sincerity that didn't match the playful edge he usually carried. "I'm just here."
Fuegoleon settled a foot away from the Silva, maneuvering Nozel's gift beneath his cape as he folded his knees in to mirror Nozel's position. Nozel flinched, a sharp inhale that betrayed more than he intended. His fingers paused on a page of his grimoire, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't seem to make himself. The weight of it all—the ceremony, his mother's recent passing, the stares from the noble families—had crushed him in a way that no one but Fuegoleon seemed to notice.
"You know I don't do well with all of this," Nozel admitted, his voice rough and wracked with fatigue. He glanced at Fuegoleon, the corners of his mouth pulling into a strained smile. "You shouldn't be here. Not now." He resigned himself to studying the curvature of his fingernails, neatly manicured for today's occasion. He silently prayed Fuegoleon would fuck off and leave him alone but another part of him pleaded a resounding 'no'.
"You should be off wooing the soon-to-be eligible misses of Clover, dancing and preparing for the social season. Go scout out a good wife for your future, Lord Vermillion. You'll be debuting this season." A pang of bitterness pierced his soul as the words escaped Nozel's lips. Imagining Fuegoleon waltzing and conversing with the many faceless daughters of the Clover nobility eventually wedding and begetting children with a noblewoman left a foul taste in his mouth. His eyes watered at the intrusive thought, dropping his grimoire in his lap as he buried his head into his arms.
But Fuegoleon didn't move. Instead, he scooted closer, his hand reaching out just enough to brush against Nozel's, not forceful, but gentle, trying to reassure the younger Silva that, for once, he didn't have to hide from everything. "The young noble ladies of Clover can wait," Fuegoleon insisted. "I'm more concerned about why my childhood friend—the gentleman of the hour," he emphasized with a shoulder nudge, "isn't in there enjoying his grimoire reception."
Nozel could feel the pair of expectant violet eyes boring into the side of his head as he mulled over whether he should be offended or grateful that the Vermillion had referred to him as his 'childhood friend'. It certainly had a fervid sting to it, given the newfound revelation that he might be exclusively attracted to boys—specifically this boy. He was so repulsed by the pictures of bare breasts in the anatomy books in the Silva library, yet so enthralled by the kiss they had shared just a few months ago.
When Nozel finally honored Fuegoleon's snooping gaze with his own, the Vermillion was closer than before, nearly nose to nose. A deafening too close rang in his ears as he retreated back a bit, swearing he saw a flash of disappointment cross Fuegoleon's face but chalking it up to wishful thinking.
"You know, I had no input into how today would go — the ceremony, the reception. I was just stuffed into this fugly get-up," Nozel tugged roughly at the golden collar, hearing the satisfying pop of a few stitches as it loosened, something he was sure his courtiers would scold him for later, "shoved into the grimoire tower then dragged here on one of the shittiest days in January," he huffed, gesturing to the dreary night sky still drizzling rain.
Fuegoleon admired Nozel's pissy expression for a moment before responding. "Such creative language for the first son of the esteemed Silva family. I'm sure Lord Aberforth would be beaming with pride," Fuegoleon snickered playfully, receiving a charged smack upside the head from Nozel.
"I jest, I jest," Fuegoleon repeated, raising his hands in surrender, half-sheilding the back of his head.
"Geezus~" Nozel drawled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "At least you had a meal at your reception," he remarked, dramatically rolling his head. "I swear the Vermillions look like gluttons with the bland morsel horseshit the Silva catering staff arranged. And you cannot argue that your ceremony robes were more uncomfortable than mine. Nothing can beat be laced, sewn, and plucked into a suit..."
Fuegoleon listened intently as the Silva vented, punctuating his tirade with firm nods and keen one- to two-word answers, allowing him to ramble on without interruption.
Fuegoleon waited for the torrent of complaints to lose its momentum, leaning back on his palms and letting Nozel's voice fill the cool, rain-slicked air. There was something oddly grounding about it—listening to Nozel unburden himself, even in his typically sharp and dramatic fashion.
"You done?" Fuegoleon asked with a faint smile when Nozel paused to catch his breath.
Nozel huffed, tilting his head back to glare at the overcast sky. "Not even close," he muttered, though the bitting edge of his frustration was already beginning to dull. His hands smoothed down the front of his damp suit reflexively, and he finally turned to Fuegoleon, his tone softer. "Why are you even out here? Shouldn't you be basking in the glory of being a prodigy or whatever nonsense they're feeding you these days?"
Fuegoleon shook his head, droplets of rain flicking from his hair. "Because I wanna be," he said simply, his gaze steady.
Nozel frowned, clearly thrown by the unexpected admission. "Seriously?"
Fuegoleon didn't elaborate, letting the sincerity of his words hang in the air. The quiet confidence in his tone, paired with the unwavering determination in his eyes, made it hard for Nozel to offer a cutting retort.
Nozel snorted at that, the sound sharp and uncharacteristically loud. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?" he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest hint of a smile.
"It's a talent," Fuegoleon replied breezily. He reached into the folds of his cape, retrieving a small, neatly wrapped package. Without a word, he held it out to Nozel.
Nozel's fingers stilled over the frayed edge of his collar, his jaw tightening. "What is that?"
"A little something I thought might make today slightly less unbearable," Fuegoleon replied.
Nozel hesitated before reaching out, his fingers brushing against Fuegoleon's as he accepted the package. The touch was fleeting, but it lingered in a way that made his stomach twist. He pulled back quickly, focusing instead on unwrapping the gift.
Inside was a four-inch brass sextant. For a moment, he couldn't speak, the words lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat. Nozel turned the small brass instrument over in his hands, the polished metal catching the faint light filtering through the overcast sky. He recognized it immediately—a navigational tool, one typically used by sailors to chart their position based on the stars. It was an unusual, thoughtful gift, far removed from the perfunctory offerings he'd received throughout the day.
"A sextant," he said softly, his voice tinged with something uncharacteristically close to delight. He glanced at Fuegoleon, eyebrows raised in surprise. "You—how did you know I've wanted one of these?"
Fuegoleon leaned back on his palms, a satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You mentioned it once, years ago. Something about wanting to learn celestial navigation because it's more precise than relying on mana alone. Thought it might be... useful."
Nozel's fingers traced the edge of the instrument with an almost reverent touch, the solid weight of it grounding him. "Useful?" he repeated, smirking faintly. "This is more than useful, Fuegoleon. It's—" He cut himself off, swallowing the overly sentimental words that threatened to spill out.
"Perfect?" Fuegoleon teased, raising an eyebrow.
Nozel huffed but didn't deny it. Instead, he inspected the sextant again, the polished brass glinting even in the dim light. "I didn't think you actually listened to half the things I said back then."
"Shows what you know," Fuegoleon replied lightly. His voice softened, sincerity replacing his playful tone. "I thought you could use something that's just yours—something to remind you that you're allowed to want things, too."
Before Nozel could second-guess himself, before the ever-present voice of doubt could rear its ugly head, he leaned forward. The movement was deliberate, but the kiss was sudden—an impulsive act that came from somewhere deeper than thought.
Fuegoleon froze for a fraction of a second, his breath catching in surprise. But as Nozel's lips pressed softly against his, warm and tentative, he found himself responding instinctively. His hand came up to steady Nozel, brushing against the curve of his jaw as he leaned into the kiss, matching Nozel's hesitance with a gentle certainty.
The rain pattered against the balcony floor, unnoticed, as the world around them dissolved into a blur. It was their second kiss—technically the sixth or seventh; Nozel had failed to keep count.
Fuegoleon pulled back first, his forehead resting lightly against Nozel's, their breath mingling in the cool night air. For a moment, neither spoke. The storm outside continued its relentless rhythm, but here, in the shelter of the balcony, everything seemed still.
"You're full of surprises," Fuegoleon murmured, his voice low, carrying a warmth that seeped into Nozel's chest.
Nozel didn't move away, his hands still clutching the sextant. His face burned with an emotion he couldn't quite name, somewhere between relief and terror. "Don't make this a thing," he mumbled, his words a rushed exhale.
Fuegoleon chuckled softly, his fingers ghosting over Nozel's shoulder before pulling back to give him space. "Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, though the twinkle in his violet eyes suggested otherwise. He leaned back against the wall, his posture loose and unbothered, as if sharing a stolen kiss in the middle of a rainstorm was the most natural thing in the world.
However, it did become a thing, and not just between them.
The next morning, whispers swept through the Silva Estate like wildfire. Servants spoke in hushed tones about seeing Fuegoleon leave the balcony well past midnight, his normally pristine attire damp and muddied. Nozel, too, had been noted returning to his chambers much later than expected, his ceremonial robes inexplicably soaked and his expression unreadable.
Neither of them confirmed or denied the rumors that began to circulate among the noble circles, but their interactions in public subtly shifted. To the untrained eye, they were the same as always—formal, poised, and steeped in the decorum expected of their stations. Yet, there were new, almost imperceptible changes: the way Fuegoleon's gaze lingered a fraction longer on Nozel, or the softening of Nozel's tone when addressing Fuegoleon.
It took two weeks for Fuegoleon to muster up enough courage to approach Mereoleona. With the rumors swirling and the ever-increasing exchange of words between him and Nozel, he figured he could use a... queer perspective to bring some clarity to the butterflies churning in his gut for a certain silvered royal.
Mereoleona had come out to her parents the morning after her grimoire ceremony at the breakfast table. They were unphased and seemed more dissatisfied when she informed them she would not take up the mantle as the next head of House Vermillion.
Mereoleona, as unapologetically brash as she was, had a reputation for seeing through bullshit—hers, others', and especially her brother's. If anyone in the family would take his fumbling emotions seriously without mocking him into oblivion, it would be her. Probably.
He found her exactly where he expected: at the Vermillion training grounds, obliterating a practice target with a series of precision fire spells. Fuegoleon stepped forward cautiously, the sound of his boots crunching against scorched gravel catching her attention. The scorched remains of the unfortunate dummy smoldered as she turned to acknowledge him, one eyebrow raised in a question she didn't bother voicing.
"Well?" she drawled. "You've been skulking around like a nervous rabbit. Either say something or get back to sulking in the corner."
Fuegoleon straightened his posture instinctively, falling back on discipline to mask his unease. "Mereo," he began, his voice firmer than he felt, "I need to talk to you."
"Congratulations," she said, her smirk growing. "You've managed three words. Let's aim for a full sentence, shall we?" She leaned casually against the remains of a scorched post. "What's eating at you this time?"
He exhaled slowly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back in a practiced stance. "It's... personal."
The smirk faltered slightly, and for a brief moment, the sharpness in her gaze softened. "Alright," she said, her tone shifting to something less teasing, more attuned. "Personal, I can work with. But I'm not dragging it out of you, Fuegoleon. You know better."
Fuegoleon's hands drifted to his cape, fidgeting with the clasp as he avoided her gaze. "Is it... is it normal to feel attracted to both men and women?" His voice was so low it was nearly swallowed by the breeze.
Mereoleona froze for a fraction of a second, her expression flickering with surprise before settling into thoughtful neutrality. She pushed off the post, closing the distance between them with measured steps. "Of course, it's normal," she said, her voice firm, as though daring anyone to suggest otherwise. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know," Fuegoleon admitted, his hands tightening on the fabric of his cape. "I've always thought I knew exactly who I was, what I wanted. But lately... it's different. I'm different."
Her expression softened further—a rare and disarming sight. "Different doesn't mean bad, Fuego," she said, her tone low and steady. "It means you're figuring yourself out. And there's nothing wrong with that."
He hesitated, his throat dry, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them. "Is there... a term for it? For being attracted to both?"
"There is," she said, her lips curving into a small, genuine smile. "Bisexual. That's what it's called. And it's just as valid as anything else. You're still you, no matter what you call it."
The word felt foreign and oddly grounding as he repeated it softly to himself. "Bisexual."
"Yep," Mereoleona said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder with enough force to make him shift on his feet. "You're still my pain-in-the-ass little brother, whether you like men, women, or both. Doesn't change a thing."
Fuegoleon allowed himself a faint, almost shy smile. "Thank you, Mereo. That... means a lot."
Mereoleona studied him for a long moment, searching his expression. Then, she clicked her tongue. "Tch. You sound just like Father." There was no real venom in her words, but there was something else—something knowing. "You're really ready to throw yourself into all that nonsense? The politics, the scrutiny, the expectations?"
Fuegoleon straightened his shoulders, the weight of his decision settling over him like a familiar mantle. "I've always known this would be my duty," he said, his voice steady, though not entirely without hesitation. "It's the responsibility I was born into."
Mereoleona snorted, folding her arms. "Born into? Maybe. But no one's got a knife to your throat forcing you to accept it. You could do what I did—walk away. Hell, you're strong enough to carve out your own damn path."
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "I don't want to walk away. Not like you did."
Her expression darkened briefly, but she didn't interrupt.
"It's not just about duty," he continued. "It's about stability. House Vermillion has thrived because we uphold our responsibilities. I want to ensure that continues, not just for our name, but for the people who rely on us."
Mereoleona clicked her teeth in irritation, then rolled her shoulders, looking him over like she was reassessing him. Finally, she exhaled, almost begrudgingly. "Hah. Guess you really are cut out for it."
Fuegoleon dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I know what I have to do."
"Right." Mereoleona eyed him again, something sharp lurking beneath her casual stance. "Then you also know what comes next."
Fuegoleon frowned. "Next?"
She smirked. "Marriage."
He stiffened. "That's—"
"That's exactly what the noble houses will start circling like vultures, waiting for you to announce who you'll court," she cut in. "You think they weren't already tossing around ideas? Now that you've basically announced you're taking the helm, it won't be long before every noble family starts throwing their most 'eligible' options at you." She rolled her eyes. "Bet they're already planning how to get you in a room with some delicate little noblewoman so you can 'form a connection.' Of course, they have to wait till your 'of age', 'of age'."
There was of "grimoire-receiving" age — 15. And then, there was of "matrimony" age — 18. Noble houses could swear and betroth their blossoming youth upon grimoire-receiving age, but could not wed their pitiful offspring till they were barely legal. Fuegoleon had been grateful the marriage age had been raised by parliament, but two generations beforehand. Three years and he'd be subject to their matchmaking woes.
Fuegoleon grimaced. He had considered this, of course, but hearing it spoken aloud made the situation feel even more suffocating. "I have no interest in being a pawn in their matchmaking games."
"Then you'd better start making that clear." Mereoleona smirked, tilting her head at him. "Or, better yet, you could beat them to it."
Fuegoleon hesitated. "What do you mean?"
She grinned. "If you don't want them setting you up with someone, the best way to stop them is to pick someone yourself."
His stomach turned uneasily at the thought. "It's not that simple."
"It is," she countered. "You pick someone. You show them you've already got your sights set elsewhere, and they'll back off. Or at least, most of them will."
Fuegoleon was silent for a moment, lips pressed into a firm line.
Mereoleona's grin slowly faded as realization dawned. She leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with something dangerously amused. "Wait a minute."
Fuegoleon looked away, jaw tightening.
"Oh-ho," she chuckled. "So there is someone."
"There's... someone," Fuegoleon admitted, his voice faltering as a faint blush crept up his neck.
Mereoleona stilled, then grinned like a lion spotting its prey. "Someone," she echoed, dragging out the word with obvious delight. "Well, that explains the brooding. Who is it? Some noble girl with stars in her eyes? Or maybe—" Her grin widened. "—a charming commoner with a rebellious streak? You always were the responsible type. Maybe you're drawn to a little chaos."
Fuegoleon exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "It's... complicated."
Mereoleona scoffed, folding her arms. "Everything with you is complicated," she said, tone light but insistent. "Just say it already before I start taking bets."
He hesitated, his fingers twitching at his sides.
Her eyes gleamed. "Wait—" she leaned in slightly, scrutinizing his expression. "It's not a girl, is it?"
Fuegoleon stiffened, and that was all the confirmation she needed.
Mereoleona let out a slow whistle, then slung an arm around his shoulders, squeezing just enough to make him squirm. "Hah! I knew something was up! My dear, serious little brother, caught up in forbidden romance—oh, this is fantastic."
"It's not forbidden!" Fuegoleon hissed, trying to shrug her off, but she only tightened her grip, ruffling his already neat hair.
"I'm joking, you idiot," she said, grinning. "Who is it? Someone I know?"
Fuegoleon exhaled, shoulders slumping. "...It's Nozel." The name slipped out like a confession he had been holding in for years.
Mereoleona froze. Then, suddenly, she threw her head back and roared with laughter.
"Nozel Silva?!" she wheezed, clutching her stomach. "Oh, that is rich. The stiffest, most uptight noble in the entire kingdom?!" She clapped him on the back so hard he nearly stumbled. "Damn, Fuegoleon, I knew you liked a challenge, but this—" She wiped at her eyes, still grinning. "This is a new level of self-inflicted suffering."
Fuegoleon flushed redder than his own mana, bracing himself for more teasing. "You don't think it's... strange?" he asked, quieter now. There was something hesitant, vulnerable in his voice.
Mereoleona sobered, tilting her head as she looked at him. Then she shrugged. "Strange? No. Surprising?" Her grin returned, all sharp teeth and mischief. "Absolutely. But honestly? You two make sense in a weird, stiff-as-hell kind of way."
"It's not like that," Fuegoleon insisted, though his voice lacked conviction. "At least... I didn't think it was."
"And now?" she pressed, tone still teasing, but not unkind.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "And now, I can't stop thinking about him. About the way he carries himself, the way he speaks... even the way he looks at me when he thinks no one's watching."
Mereoleona studied him for a moment, then let out an exaggerated groan. "Ugh. You so have it bad."
Fuegoleon winced. "I don't know what to do, Mereo. This isn't just about me. There are expectations, responsibilities—"
"Blah, blah, noble house nonsense," she cut in, waving a dismissive hand. "Listen, Fuegoleon, you're smart—most of the time—but you're also a massive overthinker. If you like him, figure it out. Don't let some crusty old nobles or tradition hold you back. You're Fuegoleon Vermillion. Act like it."
He looked at her, her fiery confidence unwavering, and felt the flicker of resolve spark in his chest.
"You make it sound so simple," he muttered.
"It is simple," she said. "The only thing making it complicated is you." She leaned in, smirking. "So, are you gonna stand here overanalyzing it for the next decade, or are you gonna do something about it?"
Fuegoleon let out a slow breath before finally nodding. "You're right. I need to talk to him."
"Good," she said, ruffling his hair one last time for good measure before stepping back. "And if he's half as sharp as he thinks he is, he'll be waiting for you to make the first move."
Fuegoleon rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the small, grateful smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you, Mereo."
"Don't thank me," she said, already turning back to the charred training grounds. "Just don't mess it up. And if he gives you grief, remind him that I'll be watching."
Fuegoleon sighed. "That's not reassuring."
Mereoleona just grinned. "It's not supposed to be."
Ooooo…a chapter update 👀. This one is a shorty but a goody. Enjoy! This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.
~ ace-maverick
Summary:
"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.
"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.
They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."
-
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
-
or
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
or
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambigious relationship.
Chapter 7: The Funeral He Never Attended
He folded his hands neatly, squeezing them tightly as he recalled the memory of his mother's open casket: how the Silva Estate had expected him to watch as his mother was paraded throughout the Royal Capital for nobles and onlookers alike to gawk at, and how he was expected to be complicit.
"Yeah," Fuegoleon responded, searching Nozel's lavender eyes, now mournful and glossy.
Instead, Nozel confined himself to his bedroom as the House staff desperately pleaded with their young master to attend his mother's funeral procession. But Nozel adamantly refused, screeching and blubbering like a petulant child as he tore apart his bedroom, slamming his head against his bedroom door, sweeping the books off his desk, and ripping the sheets from his bed.
After a half-hour of carrying on, his father intervened. Usually so distant, indifferent, and stringent, Nozel expected another round of discipline. But the ever-so-esteemed and apathetic Aberforth Silva knelt before his son, a sniveling, grieving mess of a fourteen-year-old, swiping embarrassedly at his tear-streaked face with the backs of his sleeves, scooped him up and deposited him on his bed. He rifled through Nozel's strewn bedding, pulling out his baby blanket and draping it over his son. He couldn't recall what his father whispered to him but he was spared his mother's funeral procession. His father instructed the House staff to leave him be and Nozel managed to cry himself to sleep.
"Do you remember how you comforted me that night?"
"Yeah," Fuegoleon whispered, cringing at the memory.
Nozel was startled awake by the clinking of fountain pens and the sight of a blurry redhead scrubbing at an ink stain on his carpet, presumably from the inkwell Nozel had swept from his desk along with his books, which were now neatly stacked in piles of three next to folded sheets. Nozel later learned Fuegoleon had managed to slip past both the guards and staff to visit him after Acier's funeral procession. The dimwit cleaned his damn room. He wanted to scream at the Vermillion to get out and hurl the nearest projectile at him, but all he could do was wail at the top of his lungs like a newborn babe. He buried his face in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms so far into his eyes that they became sore.
Fuegoleon stumbled as he climbed onto the bed, with Nozel kicking and squirming as he tried to evade the Vermillion. Fuegoleon eventually wrestled Nozel onto the bed, spooning him as the Silva became pliant, curling in on himself. He held Nozel for a long while, carding his fingers through Nozel's tousled hair, down to the base of his spine and back, again and again until the sobs subsided to sniffles and Nozel turned to face him.
His eyes were bleary, bloodshot, and puffy; his lips windburned and chapped; and his skin ruddy and splotchy. Nozel was a hot fucking mess, and Fuegoleon knew it was morally wrong, but he kissed him anyway. He stole Nozel's first kiss. It was nothing spectacular. Their lips met with a clumsy, almost painful force, a clash of teeth and a startled gasp from Nozel. Fuegoleon had misjudged the angle, his teeth catching Nozel's lower lip. A sharp sting shot through Nozel's mouth, and he pulled away, wincing.
If looks could kill, Nozel would have sliced him six ways to Sunday—his brow deeply furrowed, teeth bared, and nostrils flared. But then Nozel stole his second kiss, and his third, and his fourth, and his fifth. It was sloppy, fumbling, and uncoordinated—a tangle of limbs and misplaced tongues, like a classic teenage boy's first kiss—but Fuegoleon still savored every moment of it. That was the first of many well-spent nights at House Silva.
"I would've murdered you, ya know?" Nozel toyed with Fuegoleon's fringe.
"Yeah, would've gnawed straight to my skull," Fuegoleon chuckled softly, his voice a low rumble that carried an undercurrent of nostalgia. "I royally fucked that up. First kiss for the history books, right?" Nozel's thumb grazed his lips, drawing a line against his cupid's bow.
Nozel tsked. "I was furious. Thought you were mocking me at first—taking advantage of how pathetic I looked." His fingers tangled themselves in Fuegoleon's fringe absentmindedly, tugging lightly as he spoke. "But then... you didn't pull away. You stayed. And you didn't say anything stupid for once."
Fuegoleon arched an eyebrow, tongue darting out to lick the pad of Nozel's thumb. "That's your bar for forgiveness? Just me shutting up?"
"Yeah," Nozel affirmed, tilting Fuegoleon's head back as he planted a firm kiss on his lips.
"That's when I knew," Nozel murmured as he withdrew.
Nozel's bangs tickled Fuegoleon's nose. Fuegoleon scrunched his nose and huffed, earning a clicking tongue from Nozel. Nozel's smirk was faint, almost wistful, as he traced the curve of Fuegoleon's cheek with his thumb. Nozel kissed him again. "What about you?" Nozel whispered against his lips. "When did you fall?"
Fuegoleon peered up through heavy lashes, his gaze steady yet distant, as if searching for the right words in the air between them. His lips parted, but no sound came immediately. Instead, he shifted slightly, his hand finding its way to Nozel's wrist, fingers curling gently around it.
"It wasn't a moment," Fuegoleon admitted at last, his voice low but warm, like embers glowing in the dark. "Not a single one, at least. It was... gradual. Quiet. Like a fire catching on wet wood—slow, stubborn, but impossible to put out once it started."
Nozel's eyes softened, though his smirk lingered. "Poetic."
Fuegoleon snorted, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "It's the truth. You annoyed me, frustrated me to no end. But then you'd do something—something stupid like steal a kiss—or something kind, like..." He hesitated, his grip on Nozel's wrist tightening briefly. "Like being there when I thought no one else would be."
"Like dragging you out of the mud when you were too proud to ask for help," Nozel teased, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.
Fuegoleon gave a short laugh. "Exactly. Or when you sat with me after my injuries, pretending you didn't care but refusing to leave until I fell asleep."
Nozel scoffed, though his thumb resumed tracing slow, deliberate patterns against Fuegoleon's cheek. "You're over-romanticizing it. I was bored."
"Sure, keep telling yourself that."
Fuegoleon grinned, leaning up to steal a kiss of his own. It was softer this time, unrushed—a quiet exchange that carried none of the clumsiness of their first and all the weight of the years in between. When he pulled back, his voice dropped to a tender murmur. "But seriously, it was those little moments. The way you'd look at me, the way you'd listen to me, the way you'd care for me... it all added up...like kindling to a fire."
Nozel hummed, neither confirming nor denying the sentiment, but his hand moved to brush away a strand of fiery hair sticking to Fuegoleon's temple. "You're lucky I didn't smother that fire," he said dryly, though the edge in his voice was dulled by the faint smile tugging at his lips.
"But, if I had to choose a specific moment." Fuegoleon walked his fingers up Nozel's chest. "Do you remember when we were teenagers and Mereo made her yearly visit from the Grand Magic Zone?"
"You're gonna have to be more specific."
"Sixteen. Seventeen." Fuegoleon clarified, pointing at Nozel for the former and himself for the latter.
Nozel's face scrunched in annoyance, swatting at Fuegoleon's hand. "You cannot be fucking serious?!" he spat between bared teeth.
"What?!" Fuegoleon raised his hands in defense.
"You're saying you fell in love with me when we fucking escaped into the woods from your demon bitch of a sister —?!"
"She's not a bitch—"
"Demon bitch!" Nozel seethed emphatically flaring like a frilled lizard, digging his index finger into Fuegoleon's sternum. Normally Nozel was not this hostile about Mereoleona, but this response was warranted. He harbored a mild distaste for the woman but after the brutal sparring session she had subjected them to that day, his animus was wholly justified.
"And then we made out fucking nude in a lake where you got your first handjob," Nozel hissed continuing on his earlier sentence. "And don't act like it wasn't your first fucking handjob. Because I was all your fucking firsts!" he raved with a too prideful laugh. "I swear," he muttered under his breath, rubbing at his temples as he pressed himself further into the mattress.
Fuegoleon blinked, momentarily stunned into silence by Nozel's tirade. Then, a slow, incredulous smile spread across his face. "Oh, so now you're keeping score?" he taunted, crowding Nozel's space as he corned him against the headboard. "What's next, Nozel? Are you going to start counting how many times I've edged you to an orgasm?" Nozel shuddered as Fuegoleon licked a teasing stripe from his collar bone to the base of his ear, instinctively grabbing at the Vermillion's shoulders.
Nozel's lavender eyes flashed, his cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. "So pliant aren't we?" Fuegoleon whispered against Nozel's ear, low and velvety. But for Nozel, it was a wet slobbery tongue like a mutt greeting him on his rare state visits to the Forsaken Realm. Nozel hurled the Vermillion off him, flipping them over so Nozel was seated squarely on his hips.
Fuegoleon couldn't help the soft laugh that bubbled up at Nozel's indignant response. "Alright, alright," he conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender. "But don't pretend you weren't just as eager in that lake. You practically dragged me in by my cape."
Nozel's nostrils flared as he crossed his arms over his chest, looking every bit the picture of a nobleman thoroughly offended. "I had to," he shot back. "You were whining about how cold the water was like some prissy little lordling."
Fuegoleon grinned, leaning in just enough to be within Nozel's space but not so close as to push his limits further. "And yet, you stayed. You didn't have to, but you did. And I seem to recall that handjob wasn't exactly one-sided." His voice dropped to a teasing lilt, his eyes alight with mischief.
Nozel sputtered, his composure slipping as his cheeks darkened even further. "Don't—don't act like that was some grand romantic gesture," he stammered, waving a hand as if to physically dismiss the thought. "I was doing you a favor. That's all."
Fuegoleon snorted, his grin widening as he leaned back against the headboard, utterly unbothered by Nozel's defensive posture. "Sure," he drawled, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. "A favor. Just like all those other 'favors' you've done for me over the years."
Nozel glared, but the heat in his expression was losing its edge, softening into something more vulnerable. "You're impossible," he muttered, combing a hand through his disheveled bangs.
"And yet, here you are," Fuegoleon quipped, echoing his earlier words with a cheeky grin.
Nozel groaned, rolling off Fuegoleon and falling back against the pillows with a dramatic sigh. "I don't know why I put up with you," he grumbled, though the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
Fuegoleon slid closer, pressing a kiss to Nozel's temple before murmuring against his skin, "Because you love me, even when I drive you crazy."
Nozel huffed, rolling his eyes but allowing the gesture. "Don't push it, Vermillion," he said, though his tone lacked bite.
Fuegoleon chuckled, settling beside him. "Never," he promised softly, his hand finding Nozel in the sheets and giving it a gentle squeeze.
Nozel sighed, his fingers briefly tightening around Fuegoleon's hand as he gazed up at the ceiling. "You're insufferable, you know that?" he muttered, though there was a hint of fondness in his voice.
Fuegoleon turned his head to watch Nozel, his fiery hair spilling onto the pillow like embers against snow. "I think the word you're looking for is 'irresistible,' but I'll take it," he replied smugly, his thumb brushing small circles over the back of Nozel's hand.
"But seriously, if I had to choose one moment, it'd be that. And not because of the handjob," he assured before Nozel could protest. "You looked like a fucking God in that lake. The way the afternoon sun hit you, with water dripping down your hair and your damn lavender eyes glaring at me like I was the bane of your existence. I couldn't stop staring. You were untouchable and yet right there in front of me. It was maddening."
Fuegoleon's gaze lingered on Nozel's profile, tracing the sharp line of his jaw and the way his lashes cast delicate shadows against his cheeks. Nozel's eyes flicked to meet Fuegoleon's. There was no sharp retort this time, no sarcastic quip. Instead, he simply studied the man beside him, as if searching for something in his expression.
"It basically confirmed everything I was feeling after your grimoire ceremony."
Ooooo…a chapter update 👀. This one is a longer one and a bueat if I do say so myself. Enjoy! This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.
~ ace-maverick
Summary:
"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.
"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.
They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."
-
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
-
or
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
or
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambigious relationship.
Chapter 6: One More Thing to Relearn
"¡Buena suerte, Fuego!(Good luck, Fuego!)" Leopold wished more kindly, saluting him as he followed Mereoleona out.
Once Mereoleona was out of Fuegoleon's view, she mouthed 'Don't fuck it up' to a frazzled Nozel before offering him a cheeky wink and shoving him into Fuegoleon's bed chamber, shutting the door behind him.
The door closed with an ominous thud, Nozel's heart racing a mile a minute, blood rushing to his ears as his face grew hot, flushing a dozen shades of pink and red. He briefly wished he'd flipped Mereoleona off before she left, wanting nothing more than to implode, but instead settling for a few, deliberate bonks of his head against the closed door. He had never been more grateful that his bangs covered his face as he bowed his head. A single bead of sweat trickled from his temple to his chin as fat tears began to well in his eyes, goosebumps prickling down to his fingertips.
"Nozel," Fuegoleon managed to choke out before being swiftly interrupted by Nozel with a curt 'I need a minute'.
Nozel slowly slid down the bedchamber door, resting his head between his knees to steady his thrumming heart and shallow breathing.
Fuegoleon watched him from his spot on the bed. Nozel was a heap of white, blue, and gold on the floor, minus his sandals. Fuegoleon listened as Nozel's breathing deepened, slowing until it became calm, even, and quiet. Once he had collected himself, Nozel stood rather awkwardly, marched over to Fuegoleon's desk, dragged his chair across the room, and placed it to the left of the bed. He plopped down in the seat, crossed his legs at the knee, folded his hands, and fixed his gaze on Fuegoleon.
Fuegoleon held Nozel's gaze, both men noticeably flushed, though Nozel was far redder. Nozel clasped his hands tighter in his lap, his fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic to anchor himself. The room felt warmer than it should, and Nozel found himself wanting to shed his feathered cape. His lips parted briefly as if he were about to speak, but he hesitated, the words slipping away before they could form.
After a beat of silence, Fuegoleon cleared his throat. "I...didn't expect this," he admitted, his voice softer than usual, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter their fragile calm.
Nozel's eyes narrowed slightly, but not in his usual judgmental way. There was a vulnerability there, an openness that Fuegoleon rarely saw from him. "Neither did I," Nozel responded, his voice tight. His posture was rigid, but his hands—still folded neatly in his lap—betrayed his unease as his fingers fidgeted slightly.
"I don't know why Mereoleona thought this was a good idea," Nozel muttered, his gaze momentarily darting toward the door, as if the fiery woman might barge back in at any moment, ready to provoke him all over again.
Fuegoleon chuckled lightly, though there was no humor in it. "You know her. She loves to push people out of their comfort zones."
Nozel exhaled sharply, clearly not amused by that idea. "She doesn't know when to stop."
Fuegoleon tilted his head slightly, his expression softening. "But maybe she was right this time. You and I—we've never had a real conversation. About this. About us. Not like this." Fuegoleon gestured between them, punctuating each sentence with more than the last.
Nozel stiffened, but he did not immediately refute it. Instead, he let the silence settle over them once more, his mind racing as he weighed Fuegoleon's words.
"I don't..." Nozel paused, searching for the right words, something he wasn't accustomed to. His usual sharpness, the precision with which he chose his statements, was absent now. "I don't know how to do this. I'm not used to... being like this."
Another beat of silence passed. Both men retreated back into their space. Nozel's gaze dropped to his lap again, watching his fingers fidget with sporadic nervousness. Fuegoleon made the first move, scooting from the center of his bed toward the left. He tentatively reached for Nozel's clasped hands, startling the Silva as his hand came into view. Fuegoleon began to draw back, but Nozel caught his hand before he could retreat. The move wasn't aggressive, but rather, a quiet, gentle plea.
Fuegoleon looked down at their joined hands, satisfied with how naturally they fit together, the warmth from Nozel's touch radiating up his arm, grounding him. Nozel cupped Fuegoleon's hand between his own, studying the lines of his palm, the delicate scars, and the strong, calloused fingers. He turned Fuegoleon's hand over in his palm, tracing his thumbs along the prominent veins, a soft smile playing on his lips. He paused, his finger lingering on a particularly small, white-embossed scar on the inside of Fuegoleon's ring finger—one from when he'd pricked himself on a rose bush while collecting flowers to weave into a crown for Nozel as children.
Nozel's gaze stayed fixed on their hands, his cheeks flushing as he took in the sight. "You don't... have to pull away," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn't lift his eyes, too afraid of what he might find in Fuegoleon's expression, but he didn't let go.
Fuegoleon's lips twitched in a soft smile, his hand tightening around Nozel's. "I won't." His voice was equally quiet, but there was a strength in it that reassured Nozel. They sat in gentle silence, the closeness settling between them as easily as gravity drawing the stars together in the night. Fuegoleon chuckled softly. "You know, it's rather rude to stare at my hands like that, Nozel. Don't you think you should be paying attention to me?"
Nozel's cheeks burned even brighter as he finally dared to glance up at Fuegoleon. His breath hitched as their eyes met. He hadn't managed to catch a good look at Fuegoleon since the battle's aftermath yesterday, only fleeting glimpses of vermilion hair and piercing violet eyes. The awkward crooked smile the Vermillion flashed him was so warm and genuine like he was blanketed in sunshine on a crisp morning. It sent a bittersweet pang of guilt straight to his heart. Here Fuegoleon was in all his crimson motherfucking glory, a barely-there stubble dusting his jawline and his hair still tousled from sleep. Nozel couldn't help but notice how the sunlight filtered through the window, catching the flecks of gold in Fuegoleon's hair, making him look almost ethereal.
It gnawed at him. How he iced Fuegoleon out for scolding him about Noelle's squad placement. How he scoffed when Fuegoleon fell into his coma, swearing vengenace on his assaliant. How he so vehemently refused to visit Fuegoleon for months. How he had lashed out at his squad, his family, at Mereoleona, Fuegoleon's fucking lioness of a sister. How he had disguised his cowardice as indifference. How he dismissed Noelle and buried the memory of his mother. How Fuegoleon had been unapologetically present and empathetic, whether awake or asleep, at every waking hour there for him. How unconditionally he had loved Nozel, and how cruelly Nozel had loved him in return, stringing Fuegoleon along and fooling himself into believing he was justified. Each memory nailed itself like a stake being driven into Nozel's heart.
The man before him—he could finally admit he loved.
In a flash, Nozel was pinned to the Vermillion's bed, caged in underneath Fuegoleon, their lips hovering mere inches apart, breaths mingling in the space between them. Fuegoleon's hair tickled Nozel's face, obstructing Nozel's view of Fuegoleon.
"Fuego, why—?"
Nozel's cheeks felt wet as he reached to brush Fuegoleon's hair behind his ear, revealing a pair of watery, pleading violet eyes. A few tears escaped, trickling down Fuegoleon's nose and onto Nozel's face. Fuegoleon let out a shaky breath. Nozel hesitated for a moment before reaching both hands to cup Fuegoleon's face, lifting the Vermillion's head. Violet met lavender, and with a quivering lip, Fuegoleon muttered a solemn, 'Are you serious?'
Nozel's brain short-circuited for a second as he processed the question. His mouth opened, then clicked shut as he contemplated an answer. What the hell was Fuegoleon talking about?! What was Nozel serious about?! Three seconds. Oh—oh shit...he said it. He finally said it. He voiced his fucking inner dialogue! His mind snapped back to a few seconds ago, recalling paging through his memories before saying those three pivotal words: "I love you," just before being pinned to the bed.
"Yeah... I love you." Nozel's response was a bit too casual as he shied away, sinking deeper into the mattress, his hands dropping from Fuegoleon's face and coming up to guard the explosion of red creeping from his neck to his ears.
Fuegoleon flopped the whole of his body weight onto Nozel, knocking the wind out of him.
"Geezus, get off of me, you big oaf," Nozel wheezed, slapping Fuegoleon's back in exasperation, the color draining from his face as quickly as it had appeared.
"Sorry," Fuegoleon apologized, lifting himself off Nozel before settling next to him, resting his head against palm as he turned onto his left side.
Nozel scooted over to give the redhead more space, kicking aside the sheets Fuegoleon had so haphazardly thrown aside when tackling him onto the bed. He threaded his fingers across his stomach, crossing his legs at the ankles as he stared up at the Vermillion's gaudy crimson canopy.
Fuegoleon watched Nozel squirm, a soft smirk tugging at his lips as Nozel tried to regain his composure, eyes darting anywhere but at Fuegoleon.
Fuegoleon ignited his fire arm, and Nozel shot him a scolding, warning look that read, 'You better not even fucking friction burn me, firecracker.' Fuegoleon gave a dismissive chuckle, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from Nozel's face. "You know," he murmured, "for someone who just said 'I love you,' you seem awfully intent on avoiding me."
Nozel huffed, a stubborn set to his jaw as he grumbled, "I didn't expect you to crush me like a rockslide." But the flush began creeping back onto his face as Fuegoleon's fingers lingered at his cheek, warmth seeping into his skin.
Fuegoleon's smile softened. "I could say it a thousand times if it makes you this flustered."
Nozel groaned, pulling the covers up over his head. "Don't even think about it."
But beneath the blanket, he could not hide the small, embarrassed smile spreading across his face. Fuegoleon's hand traveled down to rest on Nozel's stomach like a heating pad.
"Nozel."
"What?" he mumbled, peeping his head from under the covers. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he found Fuegoleon watching him with an amused expression.
Fuegoleon pulled the blanket down to Nozel's hips and then brought his hand up to cup Nozel's right cheek, his thumb brushing over Nozel's cheekbone, slow and deliberate. His touch was both grounding and electrifying to Nozel. Fuegoleon's hand flared—this time not burning but warmer—as he let out a soft, relieved laugh, a sound tinged with both pain and joy. He leaned in, brushing his forehead against Nozel's, eyes closed. "I love you," he whispered.
In that moment, Nozel's heart raced anew, but it wasn't fear or embarrassment this time—it was exhilaration. His breath hitched slightly at those words, and his chest tightened. He had always been the one to maintain control and keep everything in line, but here, in this quiet room with Fuegoleon, control felt like a distant, unattainable thing. He studied Fuegoleon's long eyelashes for a moment before, tentatively, closing the gap and pressing his lips to Fuegoleon's in a kiss that felt like a release of all the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings they had buried over the years. Fuegoleon's hand found the nape of Nozel's neck, fingers threading into his hair as he deepened the kiss, their shared longing finally given a voice.
For a fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still as Nozel became acutely aware of everything—the soft rustle of the blankets, the gentle warmth radiating from Fuegoleon, and the way the light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden hue around them. All his worries faded into the background, replaced by an overwhelming sense of clarity. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring them to this precise moment, and he couldn't let it slip away.
Fuegoleon shifted on top of Nozel, his knee parting Nozel's legs and pressing into his groin. Nozel moaned into the kiss, the sound escaping him before he could hold it back. Fuegoleon's breath hitched at the sound. He responded by deepening the kiss, their mouths moving together in a rhythm that felt both instinctive and new. Nozel's hands found their way to Fuegoleon's back, pulling him closer still. Every brush of their bodies ignited sparks of electricity, a reminder of the heat simmering just beneath the surface of their carefully constructed lives.
When they finally broke apart, both men were breathless, their foreheads still touching as they exchanged soft, shaky smiles. Fuegoleon's thumb brushed away a stray tear of his from Nozel's cheek, and he gave a tender chuckle as he pulled back, his violet eyes bright with warmth and relief.
Fuegoleon shifted again to adjust his balance his knee pressing further into Nozel's crotch. The latter mewled, hand flying to cover his mouth, shooting Fuegoleon a look of pure annoyance.
"Please tell me you are not getting hard from this," Nozel growled through gritted teeth.
"Sorry," Fuegoleon apologized for the second time, withdrawing his knee. "And no, I'm not hard," he affirmed, lying back next to Nozel's left side and resting his fire arm across Nozel's stomach. "I mean nine months of celibacy will do that to you." He let out a rueful chuckle, his fingers tracing absent patterns on Nozel's tunic.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait—" Nozel interrupted, waving his hands frantically in the air. He drew in a deep breath, pressing his palms into his eyes as he sat up, peering down at the Vermillion. "You're telling me," Nozel pointed at himself with the sass of a gay valley girl, "that you," he then pointed at Fuegoleon, "haven't slept with anyone since we had sex on your thirtieth fucking birthday?"
"Well, yeah," Fuegoleon confessed a little too nonchalantly, turning onto his back and balancing on his elbows.
Nozel's mouth fell open as he stared at Fuegoleon in astonishment, trying to wrap his head around the confession. "You're telling me," he started, pointing an accusing finger at Fuegoleon, "that the ever-so-noble Fuegoleon Vermillion—perfect, virtuous, saintly Fuegoleon—has been celibate for nearly a year because of me?"
Fuegoleon shot him a knowing look, considering he had been unconscious, recovering for six months. "Okay, okay, three months," Nozel relented. "But still—" he insisted, voice pitching with a shrill.
Fuegoleon guffawed, rolling his eyes. "Nozel, are you really so confident in your assessment of me to consider me such a floozy?"
"Geezus, how dated do you have to be to use a word like 'floozy'," Nozel shot back, making quotation marks with his fingers.
"You and I are the same goddamn age," Fuegoleon retorted.
"We are five months apart," Nozel countered, raising an eyebrow as if the difference were monumental.
"Don't change the subject," Fuegoleon warned, leaning closer, his gaze intense yet softened by a spark of amusement. "If I recall, you're the one questioning my choices here."
Nozel huffed, turning his head to hide the faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "Well, I was expecting that after our little exchange before the Magic Knights Entrance Exam, you would have sought out other partners... since we weren't exclusive and all," he muttered, his voice dropping just enough to betray his uncertainty. "Especially for someone with... options," he added, his tone slightly petulant as he did a once-over of Fuegoleon, scanning the redhead from head to toe.
Feeling ever so objectified, Fuegoleon sighed, "I'm not sure if I should be offended or flattered by that, but—" he sat up, adjusting himself to face Nozel cross-legged, taking the Silva's hands in his. His cheeks darkened, and a sheepish laugh escaped him. He raised his head to meet Nozel's eyes. "I haven't slept with anyone but you since we both took up our captaincy," he admitted, his voice soft with a hint of that familiar, almost boyish shyness.
Nozel's jaw was on the fucking floor. The sincerity in Fuegoleon's eyes pierced his soul, his heart pounding in his chest as warmth bloomed in his cheeks. Fuegoleon always had a way of getting under his skin, of saying the things Nozel would never allow himself to admit. Nozel swallowed hard, his bravado faltering as he tried to process it all. He wanted to make a joke, to laugh it off and change the subject, but no words came to his defense.
He stammered, feeling an unexpected warmth in his chest, which only served to fluster him further. He couldn't help but shake his head with a rueful laugh of his own, covering his face with his hand.
"Are—are you serious?" Nozel asked, his voice laced with shock and disbelief, though he wore an expression of optimistic hopefulness.
"Of course I am," Fuegoleon insisted. "Do you not believe me?" His grip on Nozel's hands loosened.
"No, no, no, of course I do," Nozel replied, his grip on Fuegoleon's hands tightening. "I believe you. I...I just wasn't expecting it to be the same for both of us..." Nozel trailed off.
Fuegoleon's mind went blank. Nozel removed his hands from Fuegoleon's, shoving them into his lap and lowering his head in embarrassment. This man would be the death of him. Fuegoleon's chest tightened, and he reached out, gently nudging Nozel's chin up with a finger until their eyes met.
He allowed a gentle smile to break through, the warmth of it rivaling his magic. He eyed the Silva's lips, a silent plea to kiss him. Nozel averted his eyes for a moment before locking them back onto Fuegoleon, giving him the slightest nod. Nothing more than a peck—a slow, languid, chaste kiss that ended as quickly as it had begun. Fuegoleon lingered just a heartbeat longer, savoring the sweetness of their kiss before pulling away.
Nozel shivered as the warmth of the redhead retreated, though it was hardly cold outside; it was a temperate midafternoon in late May. Roughly three in the afternoon, Nozel surmised, judging by the positioning of the sun in Fuegoleon's bedroom. Nonetheless, the Silva shed his feathered squad cape, tossing it haphazardly on the floor as he retreated back under the covers, coaxing the Vermillion to follow him, which he did.
Fuegoleon buried them under the covers, pulling the top sheet, blanket, and comforter over them. The room fell into a hushed silence as they settled beneath the cocoon of fabric, the soft rustle of the covers the only sound. Nozel lay on his back, eyes tracing the golden lining of the canopy above. The Vermillions were nothing if not maximalist, posh fuckers, at least that was how their decor read. Rich violets, gilded golds, and a dozen shades of the regalest reds assaulted his eyes everytime he visited. The harsh garishness of all the color was akin to Mereoleona's and Leopold's characters: brazen, bold, and unapologetically loud, lacking the doses of humility and charisma Fuegoleon boasted in the muted colors of his bed chamber, albeit still brimming with the brightest of reds.
But as opulent and lavish as the Vermillion estate was decorated, there was something far gentler, serene, and familial about their House than the Silva's. All the sterling silvers, royal blues, and muted golds couldn't compensate for the cold cleanliness of House Silva. Here, the walls bore witness to laughter, whispered secrets, and the quiet comfort of togetherness, from the rich tapestries that hung like flowing rivers of color to the scattered books that hinted at late-night discussions over tea. The Silva estate was like a museum in comparison, filled with lonely dinners, stiff formalities, and surfaces polished so pristinely that they muffled the very sound of joy.
Fuegoleon shifted closer, propping himself on one elbow to gaze down at Nozel. His hair spilled over his shoulder like a cascade of flame, the embers in his eyes glistening with a mixture of amusement and affection. He reached out, fingers skimming over Nozel's jawline, hesitant and tender.
He turned to face Fuegoleon, taking in every detail—the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the warmth exuding from his skin, the earnestness that never failed to disarm him.
The heat radiating from Fuegoleon was intoxicating. It seeped into Nozel's skin, winding its way into his very core until he felt warm from the inside out. He exhaled a sigh, part resignation and part contentment, eyes drifting shut as he leaned into the touch at his jaw. Fuegoleon traced the outline of his lips with the tip of his thumb before pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"You're quiet," Fuegoleon remarked, his voice a gentle murmur. "What's on your mind?"
"Just thinking... about this." Nozel glanced around the room. "About you." He looked up at Fuegoleon. "About us." His hand found Fuegoleon's fire hand.
A comfortable silence settled between them as Nozel studied the length of Fuegoleon's fire arm. It extended out from his shoulder, where his natural arm had been cleanly severed, joining seamlessly with his body as though forged directly from flame and flesh. The flames flickered and pulsed with life, casting a warm, wavering amber glow against the white bedsheets.
"Does it hurt?" Nozel pried, hand exploring up Fuegoleon's fire arm, the flames dancing and parting beneath his touch.
"No," Fuegoleon replied, a somber smile crossing his lips. As Nozel's hand grazed Fuegoleon's bicep, he felt it flex slightly under his touch, as if the muscle itself still existed there—solid and robust. "But I've only had this arm for about thirty-six hours now," Fuegoleon admitted, stretching his fingers, his fire arm coiling with the motion. "But you know, phantom pain." He feigned a chuckle through mournful eyes, turning his head away from Nozel.
Fuegoleon's laughter faded into silence, tugging at Nozel's heartstrings. The Silva reached out, his fingers brushing against Fuegoleon's cheek, urging him to look back. "It's alright to be upset, Fuego," he said, threading their fingers together and squeezing his fire hand reassuringly.
Fuegoleon flashed him a reluctant, watery smile, stealing a glance at their joined hands resting on Nozel's chest. "I know..." Fuegoleon inhaled a shaky breath, hesitating over his next words. "I just... I just feel so guilty. There are Magic Knights who died, and I somehow managed to escape with only my arm lost," he chuckled sadly, running his left hand through his hair.
Fuegoleon looked away, his jaw tense. "It just feels... wrong, somehow. To grieve my own loss when there are families grieving far greater ones."
Nozel cupped his face, forcing their eyes to meet. His thumb grazed Fuegoleon's cheek as he kissed him squarely on the lips, then on the forehead, then on the nose. He tucked Fuegoleon's fringe behind his left ear. "Fuego, yes, countless Magic Knights sacrificed their lives, and yes, losing your arm is less dismal than the loss their families are grieving. But that doesn't dismiss the fact that you lost your arm."
Fuegoleon's eyes softened, the tension in his jaw easing ever so slightly under Nozel's touch. "Believe me, I know," he responded gravely, eyes drawing downward.
"But it's not going to curb your survivor's guilt or help you adjust to living without your right arm," Nozel said, giving voice to Fuegoleon's thoughts.
"Yeah," Fuegoleon whispered, tears welling in his eyes.
Nozel knew there was little he could do to comfort the Vermillion. He had heard from Yami of rare cases where preserved limbs could be reconnected, like when Asta used a bottle of the Witch Queen's magic to reattach the preserved severed leg of a young priest from the Seabed Temple, Kiato, if his memory served him right, or, in the case of forbidden magic, regenerated entirely—like when Vetto used his third eye to regenerate his right arm after Noelle blasted it off during their battle at the Seabed Temple. But the latter had grim consequences. He recalled the weg sprouting from the head of the young servant girl who served the first Wizard King, Prince Lemiel Silvamillion, from overusing forbidden magic—Secre, if he remembered her name correctly.
Simply put, there was no way to regenerate Fuegoleon's arm with even the most advanced healing magic without resorting to forbidden magic—and he wouldn't allow that even if it would restore his arm. He was far too principled and steadfast to stray the path of light and abuse the system. It would certainly be a major adjustment to adapt to life as an amputee even with his artificial fire arm.
Knowing what comfort he could offer, he pulled Fuegoleon down beside him, coaxing Fuegoleon to lay his head against Nozel's chest. Fuegoleon, flustered by the gesture, jolted up momentarily before Nozel's hand came to rest on his head, soothing him as Nozel ran his fingers through his vermilion locks.
Fuegoleon's body relaxed against Nozel, his fire arm dimming until it emitted the softest glow, like embers. They drifted into a peaceful silence as Fuegoleon's fire arm eventually extinguished, his hand fading from Nozel's grasp. His eyes closed, and his breathing steadied to match the rhythm of Nozel's heartbeat beneath his ear.
A tremor passed through Fuegoleon's body, a strangled cry reverberating in his chest. Nozel squeezed him tighter, drawing him closer as Fuegoleon's tears soaked into his tunic. Nozel held him firmly, letting Fuegoleon's silent grief pour out in the safety of his arms. Each ragged breath from Fuegoleon felt like it carried the weight of every life lost, every duty left unfulfilled. Nozel didn't speak, knowing words would do little to ease this sorrow. Instead, he offered his presence, hoping it could be an anchor in Fuegoleon's grief.
After a while, Fuegoleon's sobs quieted, leaving only the faint rise and fall of his chest. He pulled back slightly, gazing up lazily at the Silva. He was too exhausted to move but alert enough to entertain conversation, his energy drained from crying it out.
"This'll definitely take some getting used to," Fuegoleon murmured, rolling out his shoulders as he sat up momentarily.
"Yeah, definitely," Nozel affirmed as he propped himself up onto the pillows, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Fuegoleon's temple.
Fuegoleon crawled over to the right side of the bed, half draping himself over Nozel and returning his head to lie against Nozel's chest. Nozel brushed aside Fuegoleon's hair to reveal the tanned skin of his neck, his fingers grazing the crimson dangle earring adorning Fuegoleon's left ear. "I can't believe you were able to sleep in these things for six months," he remarked, fiddling with the earring between his thumb and index finger.
Fuegoleon turned his head to gaze up at Nozel, hand coming up to meet Nozel's fidgeting fingers. "I'm surprised the nurses didn't remove them," he giggled, "But, I've had them for so long, I hardly notice when I wear them." He pincered the earring between his fingers.
"Yeah, you'd think they'd be uncomfortable," Nozel commented, fingers tickling Fuegoleon's earlobe. The Vermillion moved to remove the earrings, struggling to pull the backing off with one hand. "You don't have to remove them," Nozel urged.
"I know. I'd like to, though." Fuegoleon continued to fidget with the earring backing. "Can't be too healthy having worn them for six months straight, right?"
"Let me," Nozel insisted, pitying the sight of Fuegoleon struggling with one hand.
Fuegoleon reluctantly allowed Nozel to remove both earrings with ease, setting them aside on the nightstand to his left. Fuegoleon was indeed right—leaving his piercings in for the past six months had not been healthy. The cartilage surrounding each of his piercing sites on his ear lobes was bright red and agitated, nothing indicating infection but certainly irritation. He made a note to inform Owen the next time Fuegoleon went for a follow-up wellness visit.
Nozel continued to massage Fuegoleon's ears, catching a mutterance of 'one more thing I need to relearn.' Nozel breathed a resigned sigh at the defeatist attitude, how losing a limb could reduce Fuegoleon to such a pessimist. The once—and still—shining Vermillion in Nozel's eyes. He surmised the best he could offer was support. "We'll figure it out," Nozel affirmed with chaste kiss to the top of Fuegoleon's head.
Fuegoleon stared up at the Silva lovingly, a mirthful smile gracing his lips, carrying a trace of gaiety that drew an equally mirthful smile from Nozel. In an instant, Fuegoleon unfastened the cross flory fitchy securing Nozel's braid and set it aside on the nightstand next to his earrings. The bottom half of Nozel's bangs unraveled into a mess of silver waves. Fuegoleon struggled to contain a laugh while Nozel huffed at hair that had fallen into his eyes.
"Geezus, Fuego," he groaned, unraveling the rest of his braid and fluffing up his bangs. "Do you always have to be such a manchild?" Nozel muttered, shooting him a displeased look.
"What? I thought we were getting comfortable," the Vermillion quipped, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
"Don't even think about it, mister," Nozel replied, poking his forehead with an accusatory finger, though the protest was thin as it left his lips.
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," Fuegoleon said, rolling his eyes dismissively, a smirk dancing on his lips. "After all, I'm a gentleman," he added, his tone dripping with mock offense.
"Ya know, it's kinda ironic that neither of us have slept with anyone else since we were both appointed captains," Nozel murmured, tinged with embarrassment, as he shifted the conversation to address the elephant in the room. His fingers fidgeted with his bangs, a small distraction to keep his focus off Fuegoleon's gaze.
That admission broke Fuegoleon out of his pensive daze, a low, soft chuckle rumbling from his gut. The pair were quiet for a long moment, each man stewing in his thoughts. Fuegoleon mulled over his next words carefully. He glanced at Nozel, catching his eye as he posed his question. "When...?"
Nozel hummed lazily, indicating he was listening.
"When did you realize you were in lo—that you wanted us to be exclusive?"
Nozel would usually flush a dozen shades of red at such a blunt question, instead dropping his hands to his lap and answering plainly — a question to a question of a very bittersweet memory. "Do you remember the day of my mother's funeral procession?"
Ooooo...another chapter update 👀. Please enjoy my rendition of Vermillion sibling squabbles! Note: This chapter contains some Spanish (with translations to English included). Spanish is my second language, so apologies if it's a bit shit.
~ace-maverick
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
-
or
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
or
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambigious relationship.
Chapter 5: Hermanito, Your Boyfriend's Here
Ooooo...another chapter update 👀. Please enjoy my rendition of Vermillion sibling squabbles! Note: This chapter contains some Spanish (with translations to English included). Spanish is my second language, so apologies if it's a bit shit.
This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Tumblr: ace-maverick (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ace-maverick) and AO3: Ace_Maverick (https://archiveofourown.org/works/60473164/chapters/154375399). Please feel free to leave a like or comment!
—
Fuegoleon slept until roughly eleven the next morning. Coupled by the flood of morning rays bathing him in warmth and a sharp raking in his chest, he stirred awake with a low groan. His eyelids fluttered open, squinting against the brightness as his eyes struggled to adjust only to be assaulted by Mereoleona and Leopold loitering by his bedside.
Fuegoleon registered a glimpse of gaudy crimson curtains from his peripheral and a cross breeze characterized by Mereoleona opening his windows like she did when they were children to rouse him. He was back at his bed chamber in the Vermillion Estate. Much comfier and ostentatious than the sterile whiteness of the Crimson Lion King infirmary, not that he was objecting.
"Took ya long enough to wake up dumbass," Mereoleona scoffed, a prideful grin plastered on her face, the reflection off her canine tooth practically blinding Fuegoleon.
"Ouch," Fuegoleon grumbled feebly, reaching up to soothe where Mereoleona had ground her fist into his chest to wake him, sparing her a cross glare. She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and slumping down to his level dramatically.
"Oh, don't be such a baby," Mereoleona snorted, dripping with mockery. "Maybe if you hadn't pushed yourself like we've been telling you, then you wouldn't be back in bed, dickface."
"Dickface? That's a new one," Fuegoleon jested, voice gravely, hoarse, and dry with sleep.
"Oh, shaddup!" Mereoleona snapped, though the corner of her mouth twitched with amusement. "You're lucky I didn't come in swinging."
Fuegoleon smirked despite himself, shifting to rest on his left elbow. "Yeah, lucky me."
Fuegoleon redirected his gaze to Leopold bouncing on his heels in excitement, a bright, infectious grin beaming across his youthful face — not as youthful as it had been six months ago though — while unshed tears glistened at the corner of his eyes. He had sprouted up a few inches, the baby fat on his cheeks smoothing out to a sharper jawline, and the fringe from his bangs nearly covered his eyes, and —
Fuegoleon readjusted himself to sit upright, igniting his fire arm only to be greeted by a firm smack upside the head.
"¡Ay! (Ow!)" Fuegoleon protested.
"¡Nada de usar tu brazo de fuego, culo! ¡Vas a drenar todo tu maldito maná de nuevo! (No using your fire arm, you ass! You're going to drain all your damn mana again!)" Mereoleona admonished him.
Fuegoleon and Mereoleona continued to squabble in Spanish, the tears welling in Leopold's eyes drying up as he blinked in confusion. Those two always argued; it was like bickering was their love language. But Leopold particularly detested when they argued in another language. He could never follow their fast-slung, barbed insults and jumbled way of speaking Spanish. From the number of times he heard Spanish delivered in an aggressive and brash manner, he would have thought it was a barbaric language, not a romance language.
His face twisted into a pout. He crossed his arms and pursed his lips as his brow furrowed in frustration. Mustering up the bit of Spanish he knew, he stamped his feet like a petulant child. "¡Oye! Stop it! (Hey! Stop it!)"
Fuegoleon and Mereoleona ceased their arguing, each turning to a brooding, discontent Leopold. Fuegoleon smiled sheepishly, waving an apologetic left hand. Mereoleona cackled, clutching her stomach and slapping her knee as she knelt against the bed, keeling over in laughter. Fuegoleon and Leopold exchanged a puzzled look while Mereoleona continued to wheeze at Fuegoleon's bedside.
"Whhaaatttt?..." Leopold whined, pouting further, slumping into himself.
"It's just —" another wheeze and a muted cackle. "It's — ha, ha, ha...ahhhh," Mereoleona breathed a sigh of relief, sitting on her ass and arranging her legs to rest her chin on her knee. "I haven't had a laugh that good in six months. And bro, you're Spenglish is fucking hysterical. Especially your one word of Spanish," she emphasized with a raised index finger, struggling to contain a chuckle behind her other hand.
Leopold whipped his head around so fast his braid smacked him square in the face as he barked a firm '¡Cállate! (Shut up!)'.
"Ohhh...I stand corrected. Two words, smartass," Mereoleona grinned, narrowing her eyes as she leaned in teasingly, she held up two fingers this time. "Look at you, all bilingual now." She chuckled again, but her laughter was lighter this time, her earlier outburst slowly subsiding into an amused smirk.
Fuegoleon sighed and shook his head, "Mereoleona, you're going to give him a complex," he muttered, swiping at a stray hair that had fallen in his eyes. Mereoleona stood up, brushing loose fuzzies from Fuegoleon's carpet off her pants.
Leopold, flushed from the teasing, crossed his arms over his chest tighter and scowled. "I am trying to learn, okay? It's not that easy!"
"I know it ain't," Mereoleona conceded, crossing to where Leopold was at the foot of Fuegoleon's bed, ruffling his hair playfully. Leopold swatted at her hand, shooing her back to Fuegoleon's bedside.
Before either of his siblings could stir up another ruckus, Fuegoleon interjected, waving Leopold over to his bedside. Leopold perched onto the right side of his mattress. Fuegoleon posed the wordless question by pointing to the red diamond burned onto his own forehead, referencing the matching diamond imprinted on Leopold's.
"Oh that," Leopold responded sheepishly, fussing with his bangs to conceal the diamond.
"You shoulda seen him," Mereoleona started slyly, placing a knowing hand on Leopold's right shoulder, "He was going on about how he was going to surpass his big brother and become the next Wizard King and then boldly declared that he and Asta were rivals," she snickered, showing her teeth in a devilish grin. "You know how that goes—he talks a big game, but can he really back it?" She leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Honestly, I thought I'd burst out laughing when Asta challenged him right back, all wide-eyed and earnest. It's like watching a puppy try to take on a lion!"
Leopold glared daggers at her, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "You mean you heard," Leopold mumbled sulking into himself, a blush creeping up his neck as he drummed his fingers against Fuegoleon's sheets. "You weren't actually there, Mereo," he defended sheepishly.
"Says me," Mereoleona insisted with a triumphant grin.
"Shut up," Leopold muttered through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the sheets.
Mereoleona mocked him with a whinnying 'shut up' with Leopold blowing a raspberry back at her in response.
"Really?" Fuegoleon interrupted their quarrel, his face flashing with an expression that could only be described as dumbfoundingly curious.
"Well, mostly." Leopold did a one-eighty, rubbing the back of his head bashfully, a shy smile gracing his lips and a light pink tinting his cheeks as he chuckled softly.
Mereoleona rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips and heaving an exhausted sigh. It was clear Leopold had a favorite sibling, but she could not blame him when she had been absent most of his formative years.
"I honestly can't remember all that well," Leopold admitted, averting his gaze to his bare feet—they were civilized in House Vermillion and didn't wear shoes in their siblings' bedrooms—as he adjusted himself to sit cross-legged, pulling his braid in front of him to toy with.
"Well, it's awfully noble of you," Fuegoleon complimented. "You know what it means, right?" he asked. Leopold looked up at him with wide turquoise eyes. "You know what it means, right?!" Fuegoleon questioned, a little too panicked.
"Yes, I know what it means," Leopold sighed, flipping his braid back.
Leopold ears perked at a muttered 'thank goodness' under Fuegoleon's breath. "Heyyy, I wouldn't permanently scar my forehead, if I didn't know what it meant," he defended, pointing to the diamond burned onto his forehead.
Fuegoleon dismissed him with a rumbling low chuckle.
"Speaking of new revelations," Leopold started, an impish smirk appearing on his lips as he threw his head back toward his sister, shifting to rest his weight on his hands, "Are we not going to acknowledge that sister came out of her long retirement from the wilderness to assume the position of interim captain while you were incapacitated, brother?"
Fuegoleon caught on immediately, an equally impish smirk gracing his lips. "Oh yes, Leo. I believe you mentioned that too me briefly after our spat with Randall, right?"
"Of course, eh~...a-ne-ki?" Leopold threw the question at Mereoleona, parsing each emphasized syllable. Her expression twisted into an incredulous pout, but her tense shoulders and hair standing up like a startled cat betrayed her.
Mereoleona's eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "Don't push your luck, Leo," she warned, her voice dangerously low. The air around her seemed to sizzle, a faint heat radiating as if she might burst into flames at any moment.
Leopold grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "What? I think it's admirable you took on the responsibility, you know, for the family and all that." His smirk widened as he leaned forward on his hands. "It's not every day you leave the mountains to come play with us."
Mereoleona's nostrils flared, and for a moment, it looked like she might incinerate him on the spot. "I didn't 'come to play,' you brat. I stepped in because I had to. There was no way I was going to let some idiot take over the squad while Fuegoleon was out."
Leopold tilted his head, his smirk not fading. "Sure, sure. I mean, it's not like you've been completely out of the picture, right? I'm just saying, you looked good in the captain's cloak—almost like you missed it," he shrugged.
Her lip twitched. Fuegoleon, sensing Mereoleona's patience about to crack, decided to intervene before things got too out of hand. "You know, Mereo." Mereoleona redirected her gaze towards Fuegoleon, a sigh of tension leaving her body. "I've heard nothing but praise from the squad since I woke up. Albeit, it's only been like eighteen hours, but..." Fuegoleon drew his eyes down to his folded hands, fiddling with his thumbs as he paid his sister a compliment. "It speaks volumes when they hold you in such high esteem. I mean, I've been doing this shit for five years now, and it took me nearly a year and a half to win over the squad. Ya know, with all the nepotism allegations when Dad retired, it didn't matter that I'd been a Magic Knight for a decade—"
"And now they all worship at your motherfucking feet," Mereoleona smartmouthed, cocking her hip slightly.
"Well, yes...for lack of better phrasing," Fuegoleon admitted, smiling awkwardly. "Point is, I appreciated it, Mereo. You protected the Crimson Lions in my absence."
Mereoleona eyes softened at the praise, raising a hand to shield a flush dusting her cheeks as she diverted her gaze away from her brothers. "Well...thanks," she muttered behind her hand, coughing to clear the air and recovering with a brash, "Hmph. I don't need anyone's approval."
Leopold eyes flicked between his older siblings as they exchanged words. Ever the instigator, Leopold, undeterred, chuckled with a beaming smile, "Yeah, yeah, we all know you care deep down, Mereo. You're just too proud to admit it."
Before Mereoleona could respond, her hand shot out, ruffling Leopold's hair with enough force to knock him off Fuegoleon's bed. "Keep talking, and I'll show you what I care about," she said with a grin, though the fondness in her eyes was unmistakable.
Leopold sputtered, trying to fix his disheveled hair, but his laughter echoed throughout the room, and Mereoleona could not help but crack a wise smile.
"Guess some things never change," Fuegoleon remarked, his eyes glinting with warmth as he watched his siblings.
"Shaddup," Mereoleona huffed, plopping onto his bed and pulling her brothers into an awkward bear hug. Fuegoleon relaxed in the embrace while Leopold struggled against the chokehold Mereoleona had on his neck, smacking her arm and calling 'uncle'. She loosened her arm around Leopold allowing him to settle against her shoulder.
Mereoleona's expression turned more somber and serious. "Neither of y'all are allowed to die, okay?"
"Mereo," Fuegoleon began concerned.
"I ain't going to bury my baby brothers," she insisted, whipping her head to stare at Fuegoleon, her face twisted with unease. "I'm the oldest, so I'm supposed to die first. And y'all ain't allowed to die before you're at least a hundred," she asserted, aggressively nodding her head as she squeezed them tighter.
"Mereo, why are you worrying about this?" Leopold questioned, kicking Mereoleona's shins to urge her to loosen her hold. "Neither of us is going to die anytime soon. I'm not even seventeen yet," he whined, punching Mereoleona's forearm.
"Geezus," she spat, relaxing her grip on Leopold while maintaining a firm hold on Fuegoleon. "Because this shithead"—she jutted her head toward Fuegoleon—"was incapacitated for six months. Made me act so goddamn outta character, being a captain and everything," she barked, a little too pridefully, with her nose upturned.
"I swear," Leopold sighed under his breath. "I ain't gonna die," he declared. "And when I do, it'll be from being a super old man like Great-Grandad. Now he was super old... and wrinkly." Leopold laughed, swinging his legs in amusement with Fuegoleon chuckling along.
"Aneki." Fuegoleon rarely addressed Mereoleona like that since they were children. She was surprised but attentive to hear his request. "Consider my six-month nap a misstep, okay?" he stressed with a weak smile reading 'I beg your mercy for my massive fuck up.'
"Very well," she relented with a listless sigh. "But if you go and pull some shit like that again, I'll beat your ass," she teased, a side smirk dancing on her lips as she elbowed him lightly in the gut. The playful jab was both a warning and a promise
"Alright," Fuegoleon replied, the corners of his mouth curling into a slight smile. He leaned back against the bed, contemplating how lucky he was to have such a chaotic but loyal sister.
"Besides, I'll be sticking around for a while," Mereoleona added, her voice softer now, as if she were revealing a secret. "You'll have to put up with me for longer than you think, so you better get used to it."
"Really?!" Leopold exclaimed, his eyes wide and mouth agape with surprise.
"What do you mean really, dorkus?!" Mereoleona shot back, her tone playfully mocking as she raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, you're out in the Grand Magic Zones most of the year, basking in the natural mana and hunting wild boar and shit," Leopold explained, his hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke. "So I just thought you would fuck off when it was convenient and go back to the woods," he trailed off with a moping lip.
"Don't assume, you asshole," Mereoleona replied sharply, her lighthearted demeanor slipping just a little. She tilted her head, locking eyes with him. "You don't know what my motives are."
"Why shouldn't I assume when you weren't there for my entire childhood?" Leopold pouted, crossing his arms, the hurt in his voice palpable.
"This again?" Mereoleona groaned, rolling her eyes.
"Yes, this again," Leopold insisted firmly, faint angry tears shining in his eyes.
Mereoleona heaved a frustrated sigh. She pulled Leopold to her side, resting his head on her shoulder. "Listen...I did a lot of stupid shit as a teenager, and one of those things was not being in your childhood. But I'm here now and I'm going to be sticking around. So doesn't that count for something." For once Mereoleona was quiet, almost pleading, silently hoping she could mend the gap that had widened between them over the years.
"I suppose," he grumbled, though a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
A flash of silver and billow of a navy cape caught Mereoleona's eye from the open bedroom door. Nozel motherfucking Silva. He must've taken her advice to heart. Ever the matchmaker and meddler in her brother's love life, she cracked her knuckles, linking her fingers and stretching her arms above her head, a wicked grin replacing her soft smile.
"Oye, hermanito. Tu novio está aquí para verte (Hey, baby brother. Your boyfriend is here to see you)," Mereoleona teased, chortling behind her hand.
"¡¿Quu-eé?! ¡¿De qué estás hablando?!(Wha-what?! What are you talking about?!)" Fuegoleon panicked, an indescribable red exploding across his face. Hearing Nozel's name was dizzying. He couldn't see him right now, especially with how they had left things before he fell into his coma.
"Nozel está aquí (Nozel is here)," she deadpanned then checked back to the door where she saw Nozel's hands waving no frantically. "Además, no parecías estar tan nervioso cuando estabas encima de él ayer, permíteme recordarte (Besides, you didn't seem to be this nervous when you were all over him yesterday, may I remind you.)," she chastised, an index finger pressed to squarely to her cunning grin. She loved fanning the flames.
"¡Esa fue la adrenalina hablando! (That was the adrenaline talking!)," Fuegoleon pleaded as Mereoleona stood up to depart, dusting off her pants and pulling Leopold along.
"C'mon Leo." Mereoleona patted him on the back, signaling for them to exit.
"What? But why?" Leopold exclaimed. "I wanna stay with Fuego longer," he whined, sulking like a petulant child, crossing his arms and pouting his lower lip.
"Leo," she scolded. It took him a moment to piece two and two together, what with the limited Spanish he knew. But 'novio' meant 'boyfriend' and Nozel was Nozel so — "Oh, Ohhhh—bye Fuego." Leopold bounced onto his feet following Mereoleona as they made their way to the open door, exchanging mischievous, knowing smirks as Fuegoleon called after them in a panic, still uselessly confined to his bed.
"¡No lo jodas! (Don't fuck it up!)" Mereoleona wished as she disappeared behind the door.
For the Fuegoleon x Nozel shippers and my commentary on whether Fuegoleon and Nozel are related (they are not) ❤️💙🔥☿️
I dug this up from the trenches of my camera roll. 🫣 Enjoy Fuegoleon x Nozel shippers!
*P.S. I removed this last time because of all the antis and hate it was receiving. I will not be so easily swayed again. If you don't like the Fuenoze ship, kindly keep scrolling.*
P.P.S To settle the long-standing debate whether Fuegoleon and Nozel are related, the simple answer is no.
(1) They share a common ancestor in Lumiere Silvamillion Clover, but he lived over 500 years ago and their bloodlines diverged, deriving the Silva and Vermillion royal houses.
(2) Yes, they both share Mimosa and Kirsch Vermillion as cousins; but, just because you share a cousin does NOT make you cousins. Fuegoleon and Nozel 👏 are 👏 not 👏 cousins 👏. They are EXTREMELY distant relatives and nowhere close to the inbreeding the House of Habsburg partook in from the 15th to 18th centuries. Look up "Habsburg Jaw" and you will see what I am talking about.
(3) I have been a member of this fandom since three years after its conception i.e. I have been a fan since 2018, which will be seven years in June of this year. I am intricately familiar with the lore from the Magic Knights Entrance Arc to halfway through the Spade Kingdom Raid Arc, and can confidently confirm Fuegoleon and Nozel 👏 are 👏 not 👏 cousins 👏. I am not here for shipping wars and I will not participate in shipping wars. Everyone is entitled to enjoy and partake in their own ships — platonic, romantic, bouyant🎣. The point is, don't poo-poo on other fandom members' Black Clover ships (whether they are canon or fanon). But absolutely no incest or pedophilia ships 😤 ... those are just 🤢🤮
Anywho, thanks for coming to my TED Talk. I will now shamelessly promote my Wattpad and AO3 accounts.
I have an ongoing Fuegoleon x Nozel work "Silver Clouds with Grey Linings" published on both platforms and a completed one-shot series of reader x Black Clover character and Black Clover character x Black Clover character one-shots posted on Wattpad. Give them a read!
And don't forget to like, comment, follow, and keep the Black Clover fandom alive! 🎉
