Heyyy idk if you take requests, but can you write something where Mc gets progressively more touchy with tamsy?
nothing to see here — tamsy caines
summary. tamsy elects you as his new run of the mill plaything. unfortunately for him, he oversteps and gets more than he bargained for.
notes. i dont do requests but i was halfway thru writing this trash when i got this so i was like wow thats very convenient. its not exactly what u asked for but i hope this suffices.
warnings. probably ooc as usual because writing tamsy is like willingly sticking my meat stick in a blender, tamsy being tamsy™, you’re a loser and tamsy exploits the shit out of this, nothing explicit but it gets kind of raunchy, tamsy very sexily asks for consent (very kind of him)
Tamsy likes to tease you. Not in the typical way, but just enough to crawl under your skin and keep you itching.
You react in a different way. You leer back in fright while he hangs off your shoulder when he’s bored, easily moulding to your shape like he was made to be yours.
On colder nights he would frequent sneaking his frozen fingers to the back of your neck or splay them against your face to startle you before he’d give you a light pinch and wander off.
It’s just playful teasing that never ends.
It’s not only you, you find. He teases everyone. He’ll tell Enjin the last time he effectively used his Umbreaker was a year ago, or he’ll tell Delmon to raise his voice loud enough for it to crack and echo through the building when he’s up for it. Little, harmless fun he finds amusing to worm his way in.
He’s a lot more physical with you.
Light touches like a ghost’s that linger and leave all too quickly. A poke, prod, jab, a hold every now and then, and he then leans himself against you, remaining far too long, using up so much space it’s difficult to breathe evenly.
But, still, it’s harmless fun.
A harmless beautiful cacophony in the mix of his rather easy day to day. He lives the same each morning and evening. He combats that static with interaction, not too much to delve too close to anyone, but just enough to remain present.
And then you misinterpret his fun.
He should’ve known sooner that this would backfire on him, and hard. It was almost punishing how deep of a hole he dug himself into, constantly touching you and forcing himself into your proximity like he belonged there.
Light touches, featherlight, gentle, all misinterpreted.
Well.
He figures it isn’t really your fault. He thinks you’re a loner as is, so any form of physical contact must be exceedingly special to you, maybe even foreign. You don't jump up when he touches you, but you do glance in his direction nervously and sometimes even gawk.
The touches never frequently wander.
That is until Tamsy decides to dig himself deeper into the hole. For fun, he decides, grabbing the shovel. Maybe if it’s larger he can bury you in it, too.
It’s some form of messy self destruction that he engages in like a life line, dragging you under the depths with him in the process.
So he touches more firmly, his presence and warmth demanding your attention more and more until the others start to notice it. They comment how touchy he is, how close you two always are, how his hands are beginning to wander where plenty of people can see you both. It looks largely suspicious despite the fact you insist he just “does that sometimes.”
He’s just a… touchy guy. It makes sense. He does this with everyone. It’s not just you, which is largely disappointing.
So Tamsy begins to feed on your growing jealousy.
It starts rumours, of course. The Cleaners are so ever bored and need to discuss something over dinner. Delmon insists he’s not interested in petty gossip, but he seems to engage considering that Tamsy can hear his voice rattle through the walls. It’s largely grown ‘mature’ men engaging in it, sitting at their own table and squawking about coworkers like they’re sixteen.
And despite the fact that you are very much in the same room as them. Tomme has elected to sit with you. She’s always been kind. She pities you, obviously. It’s rude to talk about people while they can hear you.
“I mean… he’s touchy-feely, but we’re not together or anything,” you whisper. “He’s just like that.”
Tomme shrugs. “Maybe they’re right, though.” She chews idly at the food on her plate, pointing her fork at the men’s table behind you. “Maybe he likes you.”
“But, he’s so easy-going,” you murmur, poking at untouched meat on your plate. “You’d think he’d confess already.”
“Maybe he’s waiting on you,” Tomme tries. That seems like a Tamsy thing to do. “Or maybe he just wants to f–”
Your fork clatters to the plate. You stutter out a string of nonsense as Tomme grins apologetically. It’s a viable theory, definitely. It would explain everything.
You swallow the food caught in your throat before you choke on it. “You think?”
“Maybe,” she repeats, emphasising the word.
You stare down at your plate. “I dont even think he fucks.” Tomme raises her brows in surprise, though she seems largely entertained. “He’s too… princess-y—”
“I won’t discuss a coworker’s sex life, especially over dinner,” she interrupts quickly. She quickly finishes her dinner. “Just… I don’t know. Own it. Tamsy’s cool. It’s better than Enjin pining after you.”
You try to hold in a laugh.
Tamsy’s cool.
You guess so.
She offers you a consoling pat on the back as she leaves to put her tray away and retire for the night.
You fight the blood rushing to your face, fingers trembling around your fork as you try to eat the rest of your food. It’s not great, and it does barely anything to soothe your churning stomach.
Maybe he does like you.
You don’t get it.
What’s there to like? You don’t have any special qualities that raise you above the others. There’s other people here who are smarter, tougher, and would probably give him a more entertaining reaction.
He seems largely innocent. He doesn’t flirt or anything like that. He seems too above it all.
Still, you stand up, dazed.
Your feet drag you to his room. You’ve only been here once after a mission ages ago when you served as his crutches after he’d sprained his ankle.
You’d held onto the room number like a mantra. Just in case you ever needed him. For whatever.
You check the hallway.
Nobody. It’s not that late. People are still eating.
You knock one, twice, before you contemplate booking it back toward the elevator. Because seriously, why are you here? He didn’t ask you to come here. You don’t know what you’re expecting.
There’s no answer initially. You assume maybe he’s gone out to the city for dinner. You don’t know what he does ever, really, but he seems to know a whole lot about you.
Largely because he spends his off time watching.
Not that you notice.
“Hi.”
You fell for him.
You don’t even notice he has opened the door because you’re too busy mulling over whether to make a run for it.
Tamsy hasn’t opened the door the entire way. A patient, large eye and half his face is present through the crack in the doorway.
Hook, line, and sinker.
He fights the smile curling at his lips. All the cards lay out on the table. If this unfurls according to plan perhaps he’ll have you on his bed.
You manage to pull a grin, though it’s strained, nervous, and exactly what he expects from you.
He almost laughs in your face.
“You…” You clear your throat. “You weren’t at dinner.”
Aww. You noticed. He thought you would. Of course you would. You’re easy to string around on a leash.
Tamsy leans against the door frame gently, hands curling close to the doorknob. Maybe he should slam it in your face and then play with you tomorrow like nothing ever happened. “Mm, no.”
You hesitate. He watches you swallow hard. “You’re aren’t hungry?” You didn’t bring him anything.
“No,” he repeats, softer.
You sound breathless as if you’d been murmuring to yourself all the way up to his floor. Maybe you’d taken the stairs. You look like you’ve taken the stairs. You look frazzled and worried about something.
You peer down the hallway again. Still nobody.
“So… where were you?” you stammer.
Tamsy blinks like you’re stupid. His mouth curls larger. “Here.”
Right. You laugh, though it’s strained. “Doing what?”
He shrugs casually. He’s opened the door slightly wider to see if you’d peek into what’s behind him. Surprisingly you don’t. Your eyes are glued to him.
Cute.
In a weird way. You’re really pathetic, actually. He doesn’t voice it however.
“Waiting to see if I’d get hungry.”
“Oh…” You’re not following. “Did you?”
“Ah.” Tamsy slightly recoils from the door to hide his grimace in the shadows. His heart hammers in his chest. “That depends.”
“On…?”
“On what showed up.” He opens the door wide enough to offer you a way in. He leaves it in your hands to accept or decline his silent and rather forward request.
“I–” What? You blink owlishly at him. You wonder if you’re interpreting his words correctly. You tend to misinterpret a lot of his affections—if you can even call them that.
Your heart flutters pathetically.
Tamsy snickers, out loud.
Oops.
You startle back.
He quickly corrects himself. “Cold feet?”
“No, no,” you force out. You wave your hands casually, though they tremble anyway. “No, I just–”
“Are you coming inside?” Tamsy taps idly at the frame with a fingernail like a ticking clock. He tilts his head.
You look almost hypnotised. You nod slowly. “I’ll come inside.”
You trudge past him and into his room. You haven’t been in here in a while, and you didn’t stick around long enough to really examine how little he had for decoration. A few posters, one of a fancy red sunset on some sort of sandy plain, another poster largely the same with a more purplish tint.
You don’t even realise Tamsy locks his door behind you. He watches you move closely, back to the door as if waiting for you to make a move.
You’re still shaking. Clammy and hot and flustered, like you’ve watched him spout fifteen new limbs.
Tamsy can’t imagine he’s that scary.
It smells nice in his room. Like fresh linen and soap. There’s a subtle heat wafting from the bathroom as if he’s just finished in the shower. His hair is slightly damp at the roots.
“They’re talking about me,” you tell him. “Well, us. But there’s no ‘us.’ Everyone thinks we’re a thing.”
Tamsy quietly pushes off the door and approaches from behind, one foot in front of the other, unstable, giddy.
Good.
“A ‘thing,’” he echoes lightly. “That’s why you came here?”
“I thought it’d be better if we talked about it,” you defend quickly. “Privately.”
Tamsy nods playfully. “So you came here to my bedroom to talk?”
You nod. He doesn’t look convinced. You don’t either.
He’s close now. Close enough where you can smell the soap still lathered on his skin, close enough the point out he has a light green hairclip holding back half his hair. A layer of blond has fallen from his scalp, following along his jaw softly.
Tamsy rolls his eyes. “Talk, then.”
You do the exact opposite.
Your fingers tremble, loosely following the curve of his arms beneath the light blue cotton. Tamsy waits, patient, observant as always. Your fingertips catch on the fabric, sliding up before falling around his frame.
He lets you experiment freely, hands still and waiting for anything new to spark. Something that excites him may just be felt, and his heart thuds beneath your fingers through his flesh, supple and soft.
Tamsy says nothing.
Quite the definition of ‘talking.’
Your fingers press to the scarred skin at his throat. It's different in a strange way, still soft, not so much like leather, arguably smoother than his unmarred skin. Your thumb outlines the splatter of scar on his neck.
“How’d you get these?” you ask meekly. It’s quiet, barely louder than a whisper.
You follow the line of skin across his jaw.
Tamsy grins. The skin below his eyes crinkle. “An accident.”
Your hand freezes on his cheek. You watch his face morph into a much tighter smile, one unwilling to whisper another word to you. Not if it’s any sort of truth.
“You’re not gonna tell me?”
He giggles before he leans forward, ignoring your warmth for just a moment to envelope his arms around your neck.
“No.” His pupils are huge. “I like keeping my secrets.” He squeezes enough to remind you of his presence. “You didn’t come here to talk about my scars, did you?”
That’d be boring. He snorts inwardly. You’d be wasting your time.
He knows why you’re here anyway. He deliberately planted seeds of doubt in your head. You’re here to clear them all, maybe.
Maybe you want to fuck him. Probably. He bites the inside of his cheek to restrain himself. He should take you on his tiled floor and pluck at the buttons of your shirt with his teeth.
Maybe if he strips you of your dignity he can see just how lonely you really are.
Your thumbs card over his jaw before pushing his hair behind his ears.
He’s really close.
“No,” you whisper. “Just… came to talk.”
Tamsy tilts his head. His hair pools over his shoulder. “You keep saying that.”
You almost stutter out a bunch of gibberish before you clear your throat. “Yeah.” You ignore the way your voice cracks.
Somewhere else, Tamsy is laughing at you. He’s pressed to the back of a loveseat, aching, yearning, but laughing all the same, with his hair so long it touches the floor, just the perfect length for you to tug and pull.
The smile on his face won’t budge. You’re sweating beneath his gaze. This is too easy. Loser.
“Yeah?” he repeats. Teasing, confident, a dreamy lilt in his already airy voice.
“I just…” you start nervously, “…didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
Blegh. Tamsy coos. His fingers find your hair. How pathetically adorable. It’s a miracle how you haven’t caught on yet; how you haven’t realised he’s been dragging you around on a leash this entire time. Maybe you’re blind, or just merely stupid, or both.
There’s a rotten sweetness to it, like sugary confectionery that sticks to his teeth like glue. It’s awful, leaving his teeth feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy.
A moment of weakness has his heart thudding beneath his ribs desperate for some resurgence up his throat. He’d poke his tongue out and show you the pathetic organ as a piece offering.
Tamsy hums, encouraging. “And what did you want me to do about it?”
You glance nervously at the door. You’re pretty sure he locked it.
Tamsy removes an arm around you to tap your cheek playfully. You’re here for him, you may as well keep your eyes on nothing else.
“I want you to touch me.”
He almost startles back. His fingers falter for a moment. He holds back a gag threatening his throat.
Well.
You concede rather quickly. He was expecting to continue pawing at you and your shirt until you eventually obliged and unbuttoned the stupid thing. Why would you even come fully dressed anyway? If he had it his way he would have you wearing nothing but blue rope and pretty red welts along your flesh.
Blue suits you.
But only a certain shade.
“I already am,” he whispers.
Your jaw tightens. “Keep doing it.”
“Careful,” Tamsy sings lowly, whistling casually as he reaches to prod your shoulder teasingly. “That sounds like permission.”
You’re bold.
This is exciting. Somewhat. You’re defying his hypotheses; skittish, jumpy, yes, but you’re not shying away. Not yet at least. Not so much a game of cat and mouse as he would’ve expected. Interesting.
He was sort of wrong about you.
Sort of.
You only stare expectantly.
His lips are inches from yours.
His face falls.
Then Tamsy pulls away and shoves you backwards. Hard.
You stumble onto his bed, the back of your knees causing you to bounce back on his mattress, messing up the neatly laid sheets in the process.
You watch in awe when Tamsy absentmindedly pulls the green clip from his hair and tosses it on the empty desk. It clatters uselessly onto the wood.
His hair falls over his shoulders as he flexes his fingers towards your chest, pushing you back against the bed just enough to lean over you.
He pulls a knee up around your torso and you yelp.
His fingers reach for something on his bedside table next to a ticking, small red clock.
“We can talk like this,” he decides. His hair spirals around your face. His fingers wander up your shoulders towards the buttons of your shirt.
You look five seconds away from imploding.
Tamsy hits your cheek lightly with his instrument. The string lies dormant around the distaff, but you know better. You raise your fingers to touch it, but Tamsy ends up angling your thumb just enough to pinch the pad of the finger with his teeth.
If he had it his way he’d wet all of your fingers with his mouth to see long it takes you to crack.
You retract your hand. “You didn’t want to eat first?” you try desperately.
He ignores you. He wets his lips. “You’re trembling.”
You squawk, “you’re on top of me.”
“Mhm.” His head dips around your shoulder and he presses his nose into your throat. His tongue touches the pulse point at your jaw and you freeze below him.
Your heart thumps worryingly quickly beneath the muscle. Something rough follows when he presses the flat of his tongue against your neck, following the soft ridges of your throat.
Tamsy feels every throb of anxiety deep within your bones. Every press of flesh on yours replays in his veins, coaxing, demanding, until his teeth sink into your shoulder and he forces a noise from your throat.
“I think I’m just nervous,” you admit quietly through a tight jaw.
Tamsy has you right where he wants you.
“Good,” he says out loud. He kisses the bite mark. Your shoulder relaxes when he soothes over the ache. “You wouldn’t be if I didn’t matter.”
He decides he’ll dig you that second grave after all.
In which falling in love happens through the eyes of those around you. Or, the Chrysos Heirs discover who you are to Phainon, including he himself.
pairing. Phainon x baker!Reader (gender-neutral)
status. ongoing (slow updates)
cross-posted to ao3 (login required)
tags; please view each individual work for a complete list. takes place pre-3.0 over the course of a few years, romance, fluff, slow burn, yearning, hurt/comfort, major cameos from the Chrysos Heirs and other NPCs, canon-compliant with many references to in-game and official materials, partly a character study of each Heir's relationship with Phainon. Multiple POVs. Not beta read.
wc. long (TBA)
note. part of your love is unmoved, but can be read as a standalone.
—I. Anaxagoras and the Great Dromas-Chimera Debate (Among Other Things)
Anaxagoras is stuck in the Holy City for three days and, much to his displeasure, the only rational individual here has horrendous opinions.
⤷ Meet Wheat Stitch
⤷ Extended Author's Note
—II. Mydei, the Birthday Party Planner Extraordinaire
Mydei is no longer speaking to you, but he has a request that simply cannot wait.
—III. Tribios, Okhema's Best Love Letter Delivery Service
The Triplets of Fate pride themselves in many things. This, however, they fail in.
—IV. Castorice, the Sole Witness to the Baker's Monologue
Even if she does not know whether you would turn or continue forward, there is one thing Castorice is certain of.
—V. Hyacine and the Remedy for a Broken Heart
Hyacine is not one for assumptions, but she is convinced that what ails Phainon is lovesickness rather than any clinical malady.
—VI. Cipher and the Horrific Baker Mishap
Cipher hadn't meant for this to go that far. Still, Phainon is not only displeased but angry.
—VII. Aglaea and the Threads of Romance
Aglaea does not have to check; why waste the energy when all can tell that he is bound to you?
—VIII. Phainon and His Keeper
A promise; an oath; a vow—no matter what, the hope he holds deep within his heart is what he will always swear to you.
Anaxagoras is stuck in the Holy City for three days and, much to his displeasure, the only rational individual here has horrendous opinions.
Despite this, plans change and he remains for a single quint in the Entry Hour thereafter, contemplating Love and Reason and why they cannot be separated, no matter how you and Phainon fear that union.
synopsis. In which falling in love happens through the eyes of those around you. Or, the Chrysos Heirs discover who you are to Phainon, including he himself.
pairing. Phainon x baker!Reader (gender-neutral)
tags. pre-3.0; slow burn (seriously); mutual pining; both Phainon and reader are yearning; fluff; hurt/comfort; canon-compliant; mention of the canon-typical attempts on Anaxa's life; cameos from the Chrysos Heirs and Arielle (Awoo Firm event) with mention of NPCs; a character study of Phainon, Anaxa, and their relationship. Anaxa’s POV. Not beta read.
wc. ~17k
note. part of your love is unmoved, but this fic can be read as a standalone; exposition heavy with more romance later as this is an introductory chapter used to set up various scenes.
chapter list.
I. Anaxagoras and the Great Dromas-Chimera Debate (Among Other Things)
To Anaxagoras, it’s a wonder that it is only the third quint of the Entry Hour and he is already annoyed.
As one of the Seven Sages, he was instructed to make the trip to the Eternal City for a series of seminars. Titan knows why, seeing as Okhema worships Kephale, the most revered of the bunch, and Anaxagoras is Anaxagoras, after all. Not only that, he was ripped away from his experimentation so suddenly and made to travel during the Curtain-Fall Hour, no less. It wasn't like he was going to sleep with his alchemic investigations taking up the forefront of his mind, but if he were forced to take a break, even exhaustion would have been the preferred cause in comparison to such a duty. This is the first offence against him.
The second—whose instances will be grouped as a recurring offense as it happens more than once—first arose when he stepped into Marmoreal Palace, merely seeking out a bath after his long journey from the Grove of Epiphany. He felt eyes on him, which was nothing novel nor uncomfortable until he caught wind of the whispers concerning his name. Anaxa, the Blasphemer. Anaxa, the Heretic. Anaxa, the Great Performer. He scoffs, they could at least get it right.
Fortunately for Anaxagoras, he does not yet know that something significantly worse will happen during the second day of his visit. Thus, the focus for the time being will simply be on the irritating shorthand, even if it comes from his favoured students. One of which is his Assistant Instructor, so anyone with common sense would believe that she of all people would know better.
“Professor Anaxa!” she calls out, voice so cheery that the scholar’s mouth twitches despite himself. “While Lord Phainon and Cassie are delighted you're visiting, they sadly have matters to attend to, but don't worry! I’m sure they’ll pop up eventually.”
“First of all,” he grumbles, “call me Anaxagoras. You know this, Hyacine.” Nothing more must be said; he’s aware of how busy all the Flame-Chasers are, but any concern over an inability to see his former students is unnecessary when they are the type to gravitate towards those they are close to.
Little Ica releases a small trill, its tiny wings somehow supporting such a bulbous body. If it hadn't been so cute, he would have wondered more thoroughly—perhaps even wished to have it undergo an experiment—of how it can stay in flight. Hyacine’s companion is a pegasus, Anaxagoras figures, so it is more productive to spend his time reflecting on more important ideas, such as dromas, for example.
“Ah!” she gasps, hand raising to her mouth in an abashed motion. “Yes, I'm sorry, Professor.”
Caring little for the apology, he crosses his arms, saying, “no need, we both know you'll do it again.”
“Right…” At Hyacine's deflation, Little Ica also sounds disheartened, repeating after her with a sound that mimics her intonation. There’s an awkward sort of air, now, of which he is certain that she is already determining how to rectify, especially with how little they see each other in light of Hyacine’s momentary station in Okhema to aid in relief initiatives for those displaced by the black tide.
Anaxagoras clears his throat, comforting her as he advises, “don't be so dejected,” but he still tuts up his chin, unable to help it. “At this point, it would be strange if you hadn't made the same mistake.” Seeing as he already tolerates it in his day to day, he decides that eliminating any semblance of Hyacine's guilt is far better than the difficulty of mending any potential strain within their relationship. And although he is not one for such pleasantries, he cannot deny how she and the other two are dear to him.
His Assistant Instructor clasps her hands together, eyes crinkling in delight at how affectionate his statement comes across, as if he is implying that it wouldn’t be a proper meeting if it hadn't occurred in the first place. It’s satisfactory—a willing sacrifice when her intentions never cross cruelty regardless of his displeasure.
“I'm sure you're hungry,” she assumes, “there's this lovely bakery I’m positive you'll enjoy, Professor, even Little Ica can't resist!”
Oh, he's sure Little Ica can't resist anything.
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” he drawls out, guiding Hyacine to the space where the seminars will take place. Glancing at her, he sees a folder tucked under her arm—a collection of readings and topics he wrote for her to prepare in advance. He is not surprised that she gathered them despite the short notice as she is nothing if not dependable.
Immediately, Hyacine's chest puffs up as she begins scolding him, “it's not good to skip meals, you know! I am aware that you really want this to be over so you can go back to your alchemy experiments, but you can't forget about your health.”
“Don't fret.” Waving her off, Anaxagoras holds out a hand for her to place the folder in. “I had my fill of the indulgence present at Marmoreal Palace.”
Satisfied with that knowledge, the tension leaves her. “Well, tomorrow, you must come with me to the bakery—it'll be much better than whatever you ate.”
He hums out, “is that so?” Flipping through the information, he makes note of what he’ll cover over the next few days in comparison with what is taught in Okhema, finding the best way to appeal to the Holy City’s citizens.
“Yes!” Hyacine twists, walking backwards as she speaks to him, “now, about the topic of soul transmutation…”
With Hyacine's assistance, Anaxagoras is able to get sufficient headway for today’s seminar—merely an overview of the Grove and its various schools of thought, among other formalities and the facilities offered to students—so they choose to wrap up. But, as he jots down some final annotations for tomorrow’s session, he spots a figure draped in white and blue practically bound towards him just as a dog would, shortly greeting everyone in his path.
“Professor Anaxa! Hyacine!” Phainon waves with each bouncy step. “I nearly searched through every nook and cranny for you both.” Although he was Anaxagoras’ most brilliant student, Phainon stops short of the desk, chuckling with the realization, “but I suppose I could have contacted you on the Teleslate…”
Looking up, Anaxagoras taps a stack of papers on the wooden surface with a sharp sound and a single word: “Anaxagoras.”
“My apologies, Professor.” The white-haired man rubs the back of his neck—a reaction that Anaxagoras is all too familiar with. “Anyway, ahead of your visit, I found this book that may interest you!”
He takes it, turning the book around in his hands to read the title, The Encyclopedia of Dromas: A Complete Visual Guide. Anaxagoras releases a pleased hum. “Thank you, Phainon. This is… a wonderful gift. Truly.” Just like that, Anaxagoras forgives Phainon for his error because small grudges are a waste of energy and Phainon’s thoughtfulness should always be recognized.
“Glad you like it!” Without hesitation, Phainon helps clear the tables, rambling, “I know you arrived early this morning, and it's already the Parting Hour.” The Professor points towards a folder and Phainon stores the data away, continuing, “shall we get something to eat? I can’t remember the last time we shared a meal together.”
When it comes to Phainon, Anaxagoras finds that he partly shows his affections through food. Whether that comes in the form of snacks he had on hand to tide over the scholar’s cravings after lengthy lectures and strenuous experiments many years ago, or a home cooked meal inspired by recipes from the depths of his memories in more recent times, Phainon’s care is so mundane that he seems to do it without thinking. So If meals are a natural part of one’s day, then this habit is as instinctive in someone like Phainon whose purpose is to tend to others in every waking moment.
And it is because of this that Anaxagoras agrees. “I’m not opposed to it.” He turns to Hyacine who is hunched over some books and offers an invitation. “Will you be joining us prior to your other duties?”
Much too excited, Phainon interrupts with gleaming eyes, a suggestion already prepared as though it was his intention for proposing the meal in the first place, “we can go to the bakery—”
The healer abruptly drops a stack of books on the table, sufficiently cutting him off before she exclaims, “no! I promised Professor Anaxagoras that we would have breakfast there tomorrow.”
Phainon, now holding a petulant pegasus, protests weakly, “you only know them because of me…” His fingers drum against Little Ica’s belly before squeezing softly, mirroring the pegasus’ demeanor, grumpy at the turn of events.
Anaxagoras raises a brow. Them and not it—a person instead of a place?
“And I'm incredibly grateful to you for that, Lord Phainon!” Walking over, she gently taps a book against his head as Little Ica squirms out of his grasp to join Hyacine’s side. “But I suggested it first, so too bad.” Her voice turns sweeter as she says, “you can join us if you like, of course! I’m sure there is someone you’d like to see more than the Golden Honeycakes.”
Oh? Now that piques Anaxagoras’ interest.
Phainon has always been popular amongst others. When he was studying at the Grove of Epiphany, it was not difficult to understand this when other students would clamber for a chance to get to know the Chrysos Heir, and, because of his hospitable and helpful nature, found himself many a friend. The reminder of that even makes Anaxagoras slightly miffed, recalling occasions where lectures could not begin because students would argue about who would sit at his side. Yet, in the many years he was the man’s teacher, Anaxagoras has never detected any romantic interest from Phainon, which he is certain in being able to pinpoint considering Phainon’s general disposition.
So, Anaxagoras asks, “and who is this in regards to? The baker? Or a customer who frequently visits?”
Phainon’s laugh appears awkward, Anaxagoras observes, shaky and stuttered in a way that belies his usual easy-going character. “Oh, you know…” Phainon trails off.
“I do not.” Anaxagoras grins. “Which is why I am asking.” Normally, he would be impatient with an answer that only leads to a repetition of the initial question, but Phainon’s blatant avoidance is so interesting that it offsets that.
Unfortunately, a woman with short blonde hair barges in. She leans over, catching her breath with her hands braced upon her knees. Anaxagoras nearly clicks his tongue with the disturbance. No matter, he will get to the bottom of this mystery soon enough.
Phainon immediately springs to action but Hyacine is the first to speak, gasping, “Arielle? Is something wrong? I thought we agreed to meet at the Garden of Life.”
Straightening with Hycaine’s approach, the woman exclaims, “Vigethos is missing!”
The healer only sighs, already exasperated with the announcement as if this is a regular occurrence, and she corroborates this when she says, “I have a feeling I know exactly where that rascal ran off to…”
“The grey and white chimera with two horns?” Phainon extends his index fingers, raising them to his head to mimic the extremity before he asks further, “and a spade on its tail?”
Arielle nods in confirmation before realizing Anaxagoras’ presence in the room, body growing taut. “Oh, err… I apologize for the interruption, but I need Hyacine’s help…”
“Not to worry, we were just about to go our separate ways.” The Professor’s attention shifts to his Assistant Instructor, saying, “I’m grateful for your help.”
Already ushering Arielle away to search for the absent chimera, Hyacine’s voice raises over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Professor Anaxa!”
He sighs.
As they leave, Anaxagoras catches the curtails of their discussion with Arielle’s distressed cry, “this is the third time he’s gone missing this week! I’ve tried everything to make sure he isn’t fatigued but I think he's slacking off at this point…”
Anaxagoras smiles, satisfied with the knowledge that dromas are, in fact, more hardworking.
Then, Phainon’s voice cuts through the air, confident and easygoing. “What’s Okhema if not for a little silly excitement during the day?” He’s already cradling the seminar materials Anaxagoras is not finished annotating, choosing to carry it for him because Phainon is always so attentive of everyone’s needs, especially those of which he is closest to. And as terrific at observation Anaxagoras is, he believes Phainon is just as adept, which is proved true when Phainon offers, “you still like pumpkin bean casserole, right? I know just the place!”
Phainon did well in choosing that restaurant, but, unfortunately, Hyacine failed in the following Entry Hour. The bakery was closed—not one person within its walls and only confused civilians spread outside in the street.
“Lady Hyacine, do you know why?” an elderly man asks.
She shakes her head as she says, “no, I’m afraid not, Soctires.”
Others join their conversation, inquiring about the baker, and his Assistant Instructor informs them that you were fine when she saw you yesterday, so she’s unaware of the reason for your absence. Looking around, Anaxagoras comes to the conclusion that you’re well liked as most are concerned over you rather than the prospect of fetching breakfast somewhere else.
And when he takes in your bakery, he realizes why a portion of them prefer your establishment in comparison to any alternative—it’s modest but not unloved. Light spills through the windows, nourishing the plant next to the entrance, painting the decorations on the wall, and caressing the tables that take up the front of the shop. He can imagine how pleasant it must be to sit down and let yourself breathe for a moment, as if that’s only possible in a space such as this when the terrors of this world are swallowing every city, one by one.
“Professor?” Hyacine’s voice pulls him from his momentary musings.
“Yes?” He meets her gaze. “What is it?
“Perhaps we should go somewhere else.” She starts leading him away and he follows. “It’s already the fourth quint and we still need to prepare for today’s seminar.”
“It will be fine, don’t worry.” After years at the Grove—both as a student himself and now as a professor—he is fully aware of its inner workings and believes himself capable of answering any question. The notes he made over the course of yesterday were merely a contingency and his personal thoughts as to how to appeal to the populace, so, overall, he's confident in his success.
However, no matter how certain he is, a prediction is still a prediction and, in this case, Anaxagoras was actually wrong.
The second day’s seminar intended to be a sample of what one may expect during a lecture, which also means that the ideal course to take inspiration from is the History of Mythology. It’s required across all disciplines as the Titans are so intertwined with the day-to-day life of Amphoreus' people, their traditions, and the space in which they exist. To better understand this, all one has to do is make the connection between each school of thought. For example, Nousporists cannot study the soul without researching the gods while Caprists cannot pursue the harmony between humanity and the world without first knowing of Georios’ legends, and so on and so forth.
So, Anaxagoras stood on that raised platform, projected his voice and spoke, to which he received the expected jeering. Honestly, if the Grove wanted a representative for further recruitment, any other scholar would have been a far superior choice. He isn’t even sure why these people attend when they know who he is and what he stands for—the Grove already attempted an execution years ago and the Holy City granted him political asylum, which means, perhaps, they should really use this opportunity to learn how to think with the brains Kephale graciously created them with.
Of course, he is aware that many of his ideas are not seen favourably, and he made sure to be careful of this whilst also staying true to his own beliefs—how could he appeal for more students on behalf of the Grove if he, as one of its professors, did not uphold his own convictions? Anaxagoras hopes his students will succeed him and this would be impossible if they did not have a proper example of integrity. As such, when an individual proposed an idea with the intention of causing trouble, he held strong; yet this only led to a debate that would be more accurately defined as an argument. And, as always, once Anaxagoras is involved in some discussion of divinity, his innards are nearly splattered on the floor.
“You're aware of how they’ll react, Professor,” Phainon sighs, now in charge of guarding him for the rest of his stay. “Must you rile them up?”
Again, Hyacine has departed, schedule always packed so tightly with her other responsibilities. Anaxagoras did not express it, but he discerned the worry in her voice and a hesitation to leave despite the smile on her face. He believed he could handle himself just fine, but he refuses to be another person she agonizes over. That and, well, Phainon is incessant.
“I was not riling them up.” Anaxagoras almost sneers at the thought. This has occurred so frequently that anything said is solely insipid drivel that he actually hopes someone will come up with something original. “That is how I teach the course, you are aware of this yourself. I made my precautions but I will not change my stance to appeal to the populace. Knowledge is not meant to be restricted to what we know—it’s the unending search for the truth in the impossible.”
“I know,” Phainon says, “I am not opposed to that, but I would prefer your visits be pleasant.” The look on his face is close to begging, contorted in a way that gives rise to, within Anaxagoras, a similar aversion to what he felt with Hyacine’s upset from yesterday. “I am only suggesting it because we know of their attitude towards you and what they believe to be blasphemy," he points out, “it would be safer to stick to the core curriculum.”
Anaxagoras cannot be surprised at Phainon’s words when he’s always such a people pleaser; malleable to ensure the comfort of everyone else that the scholar sometimes questions what Phainon wants for himself beyond being a hero. Thinking on this too long would only show on his face, worsening the other man’s own brooding in turn so Anaxagoras plays the part of a mischievous and haughty professor. “I could, but doing things my way adds an excitement you cannot deny.”
Relenting, Phainon laughs at the gleam in Anaxagoras’ eye, and the two continue their stroll through Marmoreal Market. Phainon prattles on about changes in the city, his training, and charming anecdotes regarding the other Flame-Chasers. In exchange, Anaxagoras informs him of his recent findings, annoyances, and even a few topics that he is curious in hearing Phainon’s opinion of. And the reason for this is that regardless of how proud Anaxagoras is of his students, he is especially so of Phainon.
He has always been a blank slate with endless possibilities and an intellect that Anaxagoras enjoyed cultivating. When he thinks back to Phainon’s time at the Grove, he feels somewhat nostalgic—it does not feel so long ago that he passed Anaxagoras’ little mock debate in preparation for the 742nd Great Debate, only for Phainon to become the ten-year consecutive champion. You breathed life into ancient theories, Anaxagoras had told him. To look at Venerationism and bend it to his will, arguing that a flaw in divinity is still just perfection—a ‘trap’ as Phainon called it, questioning if perfection can be more perfect than another form; can a circle be more ‘circular’ than another—Anaxagoras can only chuckle at the satisfaction the memory brings him.
“Oh!” Phainon leads Anaxagoras away from the fruit and vegetable merchant, asking, “you thought Demetria’s joke was funny too?”
Missing it in its entirety, Anaxagoras admits, “I was just thinking to myself.”
But instead of Phainon responding with a small quip, he quiets as they pass by a small shop in a familiar street. He lingers long enough that Anaxagoras believes he will drag him to meet another citizen that he’s on good terms with, but Phainon continues walking despite his steps faltering for a moment.
It’s the bakery again.
Anaxagoras peeks over his student's shoulder, declaring, “it's still empty.” The words produce a tension to Phainon’s figure.
“Still?” Phainon asks. “It's normally open at this time.”
Phainon exhales slowly, failing to relax even with the small smile on his face. “No, I was here this morning.” Anaxagoras’ expression must appear perplexed as the white-haired man elaborates further, “a chimera snuck in and I saw to its return to the Garden. This was during the second quint—an entire quint before they usually open—and there was no mention of anything out of the ordinary aside from a late start, otherwise.”
That explains why it was empty when he arrived with Hyacine, but the scholar is more interested in his companion. “Do you frequent the bakery?”
“I do.” His eyes soften with the answer—the blue of his irises so bright as he recalls something that must be significant to him. Then, unable to help himself, praises burst from his mouth. “You won't get better baked goods and confections anywhere else! Even Mydei loves the Golden Honeycakes here.” Animated, his hands wave every which way with each elaboration. “And the baker has a close relationship with many of the vendors in Marmoreal Market so their ingredients are always incredibly fresh. It isn't surprising, either, with how kind they are.”
“Are you sure you visit for the baked goods?” Anaxagoras raises an incredulous brow. “To me, it’s as if you're using that as grounds to see the baker in light of Hyacine's teasing from earlier.”
“I—” Phainon pauses, struggling to come up with a retort despite how articulate he is, only able to blink at Anaxagoras as though he cannot organize a thought after the suggestion. After a moment, his face scrunches up, staring off in a flustered attempt to pull himself together before his attention snaps back to him to exclaim, “Professor!” as he fails to form a complete sentence.
If he wanted to keep it a secret, he should do his best to not be so reactionary, although it wouldn't matter as Phainon's body speaks for him. A blush has already splattered itself across Phainon's cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“That's curious, you've never been one for matters of the heart, Phainon,” Anaxagoras notes.
“Well, there is something, or, someone, I’ve been meaning to—”
There's a gleeful gasp followed by careful footsteps. “Professor Anaxa!” Aside from the voice, the reaction of those surrounding them indicates who approaches; passersby veering away in an arc, repelled by her arrival.
It appears that every intriguing moment during his stay will be interrupted repeatedly. At least, he has missed her even when he cannot help but instruct with a warm timbre, “call me Anaxagoras, Castorice.”
“My apologies, Professor Anaxagoras. It's so nice to see you again.” She glances at Phainon, giggling as she says, “I asked around, but I only had to listen for Lord Phainon's voice to find you.”
“Yes, well, he's rather excited about the baker,” Anaxagoras declares, crossing his arms with a satisfied chuckle as he is very aware of how Castorice enjoys such conversations.
“Oh!” Recognition flashes in her eyes, vocalizing a name as a question, identifying said individual.
Phainon nods but changes the subject, quick to stop Castorice from speaking further on the matter seeing how thrilled she is with the knowledge of his current predicament. “Anyway, what do you have there, Castorice?”
She carefully holds out a small wrapped present to the scholar, balancing it on her fingertips so he can pluck it from her hands. “I wanted to show my appreciation for reviewing my manuscripts in your letters.”
Recently, Castorice’s stories consist of tales of separation and longing, so heart-wrenching that he struggled with composing himself on occasion. Whether that comes in the form of lovers torn between duty and affection, selfless at the cost of their own happiness; the ache of losing a friend whose existence changes what it means to live despite having no obligation to care for you; or the sorrow in family, lucky enough to be born with love but cursed with parting from the very person whose blood is meant to bind you to them forever; there is always an empty space left behind for those that remain.
Once, he had briefly written with his usual critique, but focused on her mental state thereafter, inquiring if there was anything she was trying to share but could only cope with through stories. Castorice insisted she was fine, merely observant of her surroundings as usual with a slight curiosity in the ventures of love, no matter how tragic. He would not push if she was not ready, but she is also one who is honest to a fault, so he surmised it would be best not to worry.
“Your work is always so captivating to read even if it's not in my area of expertise.” He twists the gift in his hand, making out cutely drawn dromas heads arranged in a neat pattern. “Thank you for this. There was no need.”
Phainon leans over his shoulder, whistling low, “what is it?”
“Shall we find out?” Tugging the end of a ribbon, the knot releases and the wrapping unravels for him to pull apart. The box is in a pleasant green colour by virtue of Castorice's talent in aesthetics and, when he lifts the lid, he is greeted by a dromas staring up at him.
“Oh, I remember now!” Phainon chuckles, recalling something that Anaxagoras pays little care for when the fabric of the plush toy is so soft. The baker is brought up again as Phainon says, “they made a chimera while you were working on this, right?”
Castorice confirms it, a gentle smile playing on her lips, which Anaxagoras fails to see as he's busy observing the details in the stitching and accessories. So, she grabs his attention, “I assume you like it, Professor?”
When Anaxagoras looks up from the blessing in his hands, he ignores how Phainon and Castorice stifle their laughter. He doesn't realize that his voice slips, the control he usually has leaving him as he declares, “I do, profoundly so.” But he grows curious and asks, “again, this baker. It seems my rare visits and lack of communication has led to my ignorance of such an involved individual.”
Phainon begins to clamour, trying to come up with a response while Castorice’s delight is written all over her face, prepared to reveal everything she’s witnessed between you and Phainon.
Anaxagoras refuses to give him ample time, amused more than ever. “Though, it would not be odd for the three of you to share a social circle.” Glancing at Phainon, he discerns relief, which means the following will be a small retribution against each shorthand of Anaxagoras’ name. “Yet I can't help but believe that Phainon is much more…intimate than he lets on, yes?”
With the invitation, Castorice is sure to elaborate, innocent and always so easy to convince. Is this manipulation? Perhaps. But it's alright because Anaxagoras has to find some form of enjoyment in the dull righteousness and rigidity of the Holy City.
She starts, but Phainon unfortunately finishes.
“Speaking of chimeras, we could visit the Garden of Life!”
“Chimeras were secondary to the matter at hand, Phainon.”
Castorice's eyes crinkle, already guiding the pair towards said location. “What a lovely idea, Lord Phainon!” Casting her gaze to Anaxagoras, she remarks, “you may enjoy the chimeras seeing as how you like dromas so much, Professor.”
It is not a terrible idea, actually. He clears his throat, finding an excuse, “yes, I suppose I could study their behaviour patterns…” His former students are aware he is saving face, but if there is anyone he would permit as a witness to himself at peace, it would be them.
It is the second quint of the Action Hour and Anaxagoras is about to meet his greatest foe.
When he surveys the area, he can see Lady Goldweaver’s Garmentmaker sheltered within the open corridor but no sign of Aglaea herself. It’s a small comfort in Anaxagoras’ opinion, since he will not be finding himself in another ridiculous debate. He does notice, however, the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos engaged in a discussion with the Triplets of Fate. And, with the three of them here, it can only mean that he will be eventually brought up in a conversation with the very woman he is trying to avoid if they notice his presence.
“Professor Anaxa?”
Anaxagoras turns his head to the direction of Hyacine’s voice, but he is unable to say a word with how Phainon and Castorice both gasp out the name from earlier, running over. Oh, Anaxagoras realizes, you must be the baker, confirmed by the apron tied around your waist. It also appears that the healer is currently in the middle of her duties despite what he believed to be related to chimeras and not injuries as Arielle, a Gardener, was specifically the one to fetch her.
Sometimes even the Holy City may not be as safe as everyone thinks.
Yet, you don’t seem to mind with what appears to be a clingy chimera in your arms, the tiny creature pawing at you for affection while Hyacine channels her healing arts into her hands, that of which are raised around your head. Its fur is of a white and grey pattern and it has two horns on its head with a spade decorating its tail, therefore, this must be Vigethos. And his gleeful disposition paints a stark contrast against Phainon’s.
Fussing, Phainon asks, “what happened?” His hands twitch, moving half-way up his side with the intention to reach out but hesitates, retracting his touch, either nervous about hurting you any further or not permitted to do so, Anaxagoras doesn’t know. Instead, Phainon says, “you hurt your head?” The panicked man glances at Hyacine for a moment only to immediately drop to his knees. “How did you—”
“Phainon,” Anaxagoras interrupts, “they are injured, not dying. The sensible thing to do is not crowd around someone with a head injury nor overwhelm them with your questions.” This may sound harsh, but Phainon does well with straight-forward instruction and little exaggeration, likely a result from his time as a common soldier.
But you break the tension with a laugh, lifting your fingers from the chimera's collar of fur. Anaxagoras nearly believes your palm will meet the top of Phainon’s head, but you waver just as he had, hand falling to his shoulder to squeeze the leather pauldron to calm him—a warmth impossible for him to feel. “Vigethos followed us back without us realizing it,” you tell Phainon. “Not long after you left, he snuck into the bakery again and knocked over my fire iron. I wasn’t paying attention and, well,” you motion to your temple, “I slipped and hit my head on the counter—knocked right out.”
Castorice's voice comes out small, muttering, “oh no…” And Anaxagoras watches as she raises a leg for a chimera to immediately saunter much too close for comfort. Now that he thinks about it, there are quite a few surrounding you, while others have begun to tug at the ends of Phainon’s cape with one even attempting to climb his legs. But Anaxagoras isn’t able to linger on the observation for long as Castorice questions, “did you walk all the way here by yourself?”
“No,” you respond. “One of the Kremnoan children found me and immediately ran to Mydei.”
The group briefly glances towards said man, but Anaxagoras catches a tail dip below the edge of the courtyard, too large to be one of the chimeras. No one else seems to notice and if it had actually been something dangerous, Mydei and Lady Tribios would have acted with them being so close. Anaxagoras chooses to ignore it.
Hyacine drops her hands after fixing your hair, finished with healing your concussion. “Vigethos was also at your bakery yesterday,” she points out. “How often does that troublemaker visit anyway?”
“It would be best for you to remain ignorant, Hyacine…” Phainon answers for you. “It’s as if Vigethos is living at the bakery and they merely ensure he safely arrives at the Garden to work.” It’s strange, perhaps you may just confide in Phainon each time the little creature does show up, but he speaks too closely for it to be anything but personal experience, as though he is always there to witness it each time it happens.
“More importantly…” you trail off, watching Phainon reach into his pocket to fish out a few Chimera Cookies, unwrapping the treats to feed the chimera halfway up his leg. Then, he looks around, searching until he finds a lump tucked into a bed of blue flowers.
When he walks back over, he has a chimera cradled in his arms, belly shown but in no way troubled by the vulnerability in the position. There’s a diagonal scar running across their abdomen, edges jagged to indicate a laceration, no doubt a painful wound that nearly took their life. Now, their eyes sparkle, tail swishing as they yip and howl with every coo that leaves Phainon’s mouth.
“Wheat Stitch!” he snorts, watching them tug at the hand holding the Chimera Cookie up to their mouth, greedy even when Phainon is coddling them. “This is all yours.” They’re happy to devour it, and even more so when Phainon runs his hand—now freed by Wheat Stitch devouring the cookie—over their belly in gentle and soothing motions.
Wheat Stitch writhes, forcing Phainon to adjust his hold until they’re upright and able to stretch towards him as he steadies them in his hand, level to his chest. Thinking them hungry after a small howl, he tries to feed them another, but their limbs extend, paws coming up to press against his cheeks and knead at the plumpness.
“Are you saying this Chimera Cookie is for me?” This time, they howl again in agreement. “Why, thank you, Wheat Stitch, you’re so sweet to me.” Phainon takes a bite of the treat and Anaxagoras grimaces, as do the others. He does it so swiftly that it’s clear it isn’t his first time eating one. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? Have none of you tried it before?”
“Lord Phainon, please do not tell me you eat them regularly.”
“It’s alright, Hyacine, although I’ve been hooked on these lately, I make sure to stay extra active with all the sugar!” he says, unconcerned as he places Wheat Stitch back on the ground after they began to squirm at the sight of you with Vigethos.
“That’s not the issue, Lord Phainon!”
Wheat Stitch climbs into your lap, nuzzling into Vigethos until the two curl around each other to form a little chimera puddle. Phainon’s eyes soften, but you don’t notice, too preoccupied by the sight of the affectionate creatures.
When you look up, Phainon’s gaze snaps to Hyacine who is still scolding him, while you address Anaxagoras. “Everyone speaks of you so often that I was almost afraid I’d only know you through little stories rather than personally meet you—it’s nice to finally do it properly, Professor Anaxagoras.”
He nods. “Likewise. All my students think highly of you.” With such an ideal segue, it’s a pity that he is unable to inquire further about your relationship to his former student as a chimera, with absolutely no decorum, runs through Anaxagoras’ legs and straight towards you. He teeters, careful not to step on any creature nor fall backwards as he balances himself on Phainon’s steady shoulder.
“Master Cat-Thief!” you admonish, “that was rude! You almost knocked over Professor Anaxagoras!”
He almost commends you for your consideration but regardless of any sternness, it’s evident you have no understanding of punishment, only reward. Handing the dark blue chimera a cookie, you coo and many more begin to clamour for you. It seems you frequent the Garden, too, seeing how you call for each one—Honey Brew, Krenabis, Oatmeal, Nanus, and Butterfly Cake. Seriously, who came up with these names?
Anaxagoras remarks, “there’s no question as to why Vigethos is so misbehaved if this is how you treat the others.”
You ignore him, watching Master Cat-Thief hop for a moment, catching the attention of Wheat Stitch, who untangles itself from Vigethos to follow the dark blue chimera as it runs off. With so many others surrounding you, Vigethos is unable to follow, whining and crying as it peers up at you with a distressed expression. Focused on him, you take his cheeks in your hand, comforting Vigethos until he calms, merely enjoying your affection now.
Anaxagoras scoffs, turning a blind eye to Phainon’s furrowed brow and disgruntled look to chastise you, “they slack off and sneak into your bakery? Rewarded with a Chimera Cookie. They nearly topple me over with no consideration for their surroundings? Again, rewarded with a Chimera Cookie!”
Your tone is flat, not sparing him a single glance as you ask, “shall I reward you with one to calm you down, Professor?”
Castorice gasps while Hyacine winces—they both know what is coming. He does not look at Phainon for he already knows where his allegiance lies.
The laugh Anaxagoras releases is nearly breathless, in disbelief at your attitude. “Of course a chimera lover would act in such a manner.”
“Of course a ‘dromas dressed in finery’ forgets that I did scold Master Cat-Thief.” You throw his words back at him with a pointed stare. “I always intended to give them treats. This and that are different matters.”
Sensing the growing tension, Hyacine tries to intervene. “Umm, you two…” she vocalizes, hands extended towards you and himself as if any distance would prevent escalation. “Perhaps we should settle down?”
Anaxagoras raises his own hand, silencing her as Little Ica lets out a frustrated trill. “It would be best to consider the time and place; we exist sequentially, after all, so we cannot separate ‘this and that,’” he explains. “If a chimera acts out of line and you reward them with a treat, then you are associating that behaviour with stimulus—this is the basis of classical conditioning.”
Castorice also makes an attempt at salvaging your first meeting, saying, “my! This would be an engaging example for a psychology class, Professor Anaxa! Shall we discuss something else, then? Let us enjoy our time together here with the chimeras.” Her head tilts, expression gentle as she tries to pacify him.
His student’s words do the exact opposite, however, and he is validated in his choice once he sees you roll your eyes, deciding that he will engage in a ridiculous debate today even if it is not with Aglaea herself. “It is apparent that you do not believe me. Do not complain if Vigethos breaks into your bakery more frequently.”
“Who said I was complaining?” Dropping a few more cookies, Anaxagoras recognizes that as defiance and, oh, he realizes, no wonder Phainon is so taken by you—you are quite fun. Remaining seated with no care of how Anaxagoras stands before you, you grin. “Vigethos may sneak into my bakery, but only a dromas could break into it. It's obvious which of the two is better.”
“What? A chimera cannot hold up against the appeal of a dromas!” he retorts, voice raising a fraction louder, enough to indicate to others that this conversation has gone beyond amiable. Now, Anaxagoras is one of proper discussion, but your statements lack any sense that he cannot help himself, forgoing any embarrassment despite being certain that his voice has caught the attention of the Crown Prince and Triplets of Fate.
“Professor Anaxagoras!” you exclaim, for what reason, he does not know—he is right in front of you and can hear completely fine. “You cannot hold a dromas like you hold a chimera, and chimeras come in all sorts of cute characteristics! Even feisty ones, too!”
At least you call him by his proper name even if your opinions are subpar.
“Your argument isn't sound, it’s subjective. One person may find a chimera cute and another may be terrified of them—consider cats and dogs as an example, which are a common household pet,” he emphasizes. “It is not so strange that the same can be said about these creatures.”
You blink at him, baffled at his logic. “Comparing one animal to another does not validate your reasoning, Professor. In fact, I believe the comparison is not only off-topic but subjective itself.” Looking down at Vigethos, he has begun to playfully nip at your fingers, and you remain casual as you continue. “I’ll entertain this anyway: almost all chimeras are generally the same size even with the illusion created from differing horn types, but cats, and especially dogs, vary, so it would make sense that someone may fear a large dog.” Your expression turns coy as you ask, “what else is large and thus, potentially terrifying, Professor?”
The professor's eye narrows. “That is still subjective, wouldn't you agree?”
“I suppose, but then there's the matter of intelligence—chimeras all have unique personalities and are proven to be helpful.” Motioning to individuals scattered throughout the courtyard and pointing out Arielle specifically, you explain, “as a result, Gardeners split the chimeras into squads that aid citizens in simple tasks.”
“Having unique personalities begets an individualism that can lead to immoral or less than ideal attitudes,” he counters, “which means my argument of fearing a chimera may ring true in the chance that one has an inclination for dishonourable or, worse, wicked actions.”
“That's an assumption.”
“More like a potential—”
Phainon steps between the two of you to say, “we all have preferences but—”
“Do not interrupt me when I am speaking,” Anaxagoras instructs, “that is one of two rules you should never break.” Returning to your little spat, he declares, “creatures evolve, that is fact. They develop and transform at unexpected rates to an unexpected degree. We cannot forgo any prospects of the aforementioned behaviour when it is already observed in the form of mischief; an idea defined as assumption may merely be an unproven hypothesis.”
Hyacine looks frustrated with the squabble despite the smile on her face. She chooses humour this time and says, “are you suggesting that we may have a chimera uprising on our hands?”
Only, Phainon earnestly considers it. “Actually, he's right. With the black tide, we require more frequent assistance from the chimeras and Garden of Life. Yesterday, Arielle mentioned that many appear fatigued, which may be a result of overwork. I would not be surprised if they gathered together and revolted for better working conditions or more benefits.” He begins to think more to himself than the group, muttering, “we should possibly consider doing this already…”
With your silence, Anaxagoras spares you a glance, noting how you seem fond of the man. Your expression is nothing like the arrogance he witnessed just moments before, and very different from your attempts to soothe your friends’ worry over your injury. And when he recalls the shift in Phainon's conduct with every mention of you, it's clear what relationship you must have. There is no need for assumptions nor hypotheses—throughout the events of today, he knows your affections for each other must be immeasurable.
But, at the moment, he says, “there—we have our motive.”
You huff, “this is all conjecture. I would argue that dromases being a less intelligent species may lead to more accidents, especially when mismanaged. There were even a few occasions where they've trampled a citizen!”
“I would argue the citizens are lacking in situational awareness. A dromas is huge, yes, therefore you cannot miss it.” He proposes, “perhaps they should reflect on themselves,” and waves a hand in an effortless motion as if saying that this solution is simple and straightforward.
Bristling, you say, “well, a chimera is cute!”
“Another subjective argument.” But after considering it, Anaxagoras corrects you, "actually, I’m certain that a dromas is much more adorable with a significantly better temperament.” And he makes a show of holding up the stuffed dromas Castorice gifted him with to prove this.
“A chimera is cute yet intelligent with a history of mischief, while a dromas is cute and well-behaved but has a constant potential for destruction—both are perfect in their own right so this is a matter of cultivating a proper environment with appropriate supervision for both,” you recommend. “Is there any point to this any longer?”
Your words surprise Anaxagoras for a moment, so closely mirroring Phainon’s concerning divinity from so many years ago. Good, he concludes, someone like you will continue to challenge one of his most exceptional students. One day, Anaxagoras would like to hear your opinions on the soul and, perhaps, he even wishes that whoever comes after will be just like you—incessant and with the ability to nurture others with curiosity alone, no matter how playfully troublesome.
Given that he does not reply as quickly as before, you decide to persuade him further, holding up Vigethos who lets out a small mewl, eyes practically gleaming with the chance to assist you. “Look, Professor!” you demand, and he does, briefly glancing at Phainon in comparison. “Vigethos is so cute, I could eat him right up!”
Vigethos howls, delightfully proud with your praise.
Yet, he cannot help but notice how the Crown Prince suddenly freezes while tending to a group of chimeras, the man’s stare locked onto Anaxagoras and you. Tribios is gone now, likely at the beckoning of Aglaea, and many of Mydei’s companions are here entertaining this debate with no time to pay attention to whatever he is up to. Has Anaxagoras caught him in the middle of some activity he is not permitted to perform?
You're nuzzling against Vigethos, nearly poking your eye out with his horn and, not seeming to mind, you press closer to make a playful motion as if ready to take a bite out of the creature's cheek. “I bet Vigethos would make the sweetest Chimera Cookies! Even a pie!”
There are sounds of metal, Mydei hurrying over with such purposeful strides that all of you merely watch to see what he does next. He plucks the chimera from your arms, and Vigethos protests, whining and reaching for you, but once it's cradled against the prince's chest, it begins to purr. Anaxagoras supposes that they can be quite cute.
“Lord Mydei?” Hyacine bends at the waist, trying to catch Mydei's attention as his hardened glare is directed towards you. “Is everything alright?”
“No,” he answers firmly. “This is not ‘alright.’ Chimeras should not be eaten.” Then, he turns to Phainon, pointing a gauntlet-covered finger at him. “You.”
Phainon points to himself, asking, “me?”
Yes, you. Anaxagoras nearly clips out. Who else?
“Yes, you,” Mydei says, much more polite and less exasperated than Anaxagoras would have answered. The prince adjusts his hold on the chimera but Vigethos has fallen asleep curled into the crook of the prince's elbow, and you seem vexed by this, missing the weight of your favourite chimera. He does not notice this, however, busy with asking Phainon, “when you’re free, it’s rare for you to be anywhere but their side, correct?”
Phainon nods, eyes flitting to you with an awkward intake of breath that is released as he looks away only to notice Anaxagoras’ observance. The scholar raises a brow, a nonverbal question of why he’s acting so self-conscious that is answered by Phainon straightening his shoulders, feigning composure. “Yes, we are together often,” he says, peeking at you again to ensure you are not opposed to nor revolted by that fact before he continues. “But I don’t see how that’s relevant, Mydei.”
The blonde man scoffs, “do not leave them alone with a chimera lest their bakery have a new menu item.”
Hyacine squeezes Mydei’s bicep as a comfort, voice gentle as she tries to explain. “Mydei, that isn’t…”
“I think it would be funny,” you interrupt, reaching forward in an attempt to pet the sleeping Vigethos, but Mydei steps away, not allowing you to. In response, you propose, “Chimera Cookies are in the shape of their head, so why not make them the same flavour?”
Appalled, the prince tries to cover the sleeping chimera's ears with a hand and then ushers the curious ones surrounding the group away. Again, he addresses you, “do not teach Demetrius, Andriskos, or Marsyas such terrible things.”
“The children think chimeras are cute enough to eat too, though.” Observing you, Anaxagoras can see that you're clearly messing with the Crown Prince just as you had been with himself earlier.
The prince gasps and turns to Phainon, even more distressed by the thought. “Deliverer, do not leave them alone.”
Phainon is trying to stifle his laughter, that much is certain, and amusement seeps through his tone when he tries to say, “Mydei, you misunderstand—”
“It’s completely clear to me, Phainon!”
Phainon raises his hands at Mydei’s small outburst. “Okay, okay! I won't, Mydei.” If anything, Anaxagoras believes that this has worked in Phainon’s favour, not like he isn’t spending every moment with his lover when the opportunity arises according to Mydei’s words.
Said man ends the conversation, but before he can get far, he scoops up an orange chimera before he leaves, nursing it in his hold alongside Vigethos.
And, of course, you know this one's name too, dramatically reaching out an arm with a cry, “no! Fig Stew!”
You all watch Mydei depart with the chimeras, who were very likely assigned duties for today and, with Mydei’s virtuous attitude, he likely deemed them insignificant when the creatures are faced with the danger of being turned into baked goods. It's silent for a few moments, everyone coming to terms with not only the nonsensical debate but the fact that Mydei is quite innocent.
Then, there's a gasp.
You've tugged Phainon closer to you and Anaxagoras notices that your hand is too low on his side to be anything but intimate even if it lasts for barely a second in an attempt to steady him. In turn, Phainon was forced to brace himself on your shoulder with how sudden your action had been, wrenching himself away not a moment later and somehow winded despite how exceptional his reflexes are. He lowers himself, unable to keep his eyes away from your expression until he’s properly sitting beside you.
Anaxagoras almost feels as if he is encroaching on a personal moment, but you’ve chosen to do this in public knowing that you’re surrounded by him and the other two Heirs, so you either lack restraint or do not care.
“What is it?” Phainon’s voice lightens, airy and quiet, reserved just for you as he leans slightly into your space.
But it seems your intentions are wicked as you ask, “are you my keeper now, hmm?” You grin, enjoying the way Phainon sputters, and the flush on his face worsens when you say his name, sweet like honey on your tongue, even as you drag it out slowly to keep his attention.
Castorice and Hyacine seem to enjoy this, giggling and whispering between themselves.
All Anaxagoras is able to do is wander off to stare at Kephale and the Dawn Device in the distance, and the only thought in his head—which he means with all the affection he holds—is how you’re all idiots, really. But with how bored Anaxagoras will be in the Holy City, he decides that studying Phainon’s ventures in love will be entertainment enough.
With the events of the other day, Anaxagoras is unable to visit your establishment as Phainon is never one without careful contingency. Upon leaving his place of stay, Phainon was already waiting outside the door with Hyacine and a small basket in hand. The man wanted to arrive at the seminar’s space significantly early to ensure there were no traps in place but also not trusting the scholar—or even Hyacine with him—alone.
Now, he shares a small meal with his Teaching Assistant while Phainon diligently darts around the room, having eaten already. Considering your behaviour around Phainon yesterday, he supposes that you share as many meals together as you can, if not living together already. It would explain why Phainon is so familiar with the shenanigans of Vigethos so early in the mornings.
The bread he sinks his teeth into is still slightly warm, baked with olives and other fragrant herbs with a drizzle of olive oil and accompanied by dates and cheese, courtesy of other vendors in Marmoreal Market. The breakfast you’ve kindly provided them with is delicious but, more importantly, simple. It’s simple enough that no matter how many years have passed, it is a common meal in Okhema, if not Amphoreus as a whole. It reminds Anaxagoras of the days when he was much younger and in the company of his sister, so much so that even if this bread is baked differently by a different baker and paired with a different cheese and dates instead of figs, he still thinks of her.
He wonders what Hyacine thinks, sitting across from him and feeding Little Ica, bit by bit with a smile on her face; one that never leaves her. When he turns to where Phainon is, he’s hunched over an area of the room, inspecting what, Anaxagoras isn’t sure, but he also wonders what goes through his head, too.
Aedes Elysiae was a farming village, after all, with acres upon acres of wheat. This meal is enough to make Anaxagoras’ heart ache, so what of Phainon? Does bread remind him of his mother and his father? The fellow villagers he grew up with? His childhood friend?
Hyacine stands, startling Anaxagoras that he almost drops the food in his hand. She offers a small apology and says, “I forgot to grab the handouts, so I’ll be right back, Professor!” Then, she cups her hands around her mouth and calls out to Phainon, “I’m stepping out so Professor Anaxa will be in your care!”
The scholar leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, muttering despite her soft laughter, “I’m not a child, Hyacine.”
She practically sings back as Little Ica circles him happily, “are we not allowed to care for you?”
He doesn’t answer, but she already knows what it would be, including Phainon whose grin is wide as he approaches.
“Are you enjoying your breakfast, Professor?” Phainon asks. “They wanted to know if it was to your liking so they can make you something better next time.”
It’s wonderful already, Anaxagoras wants to say. He swallows another bite, humming in a show of contemplation before requesting, “...I am partial to figs.”
Phainon nods. “I’ll make sure to tell them, then.”
“Also wine,” Anaxagoras adds, “diluted or not.”
“I was asking about the food, specifically, Professor.” Phainon chuckles, taking a seat across from him. “But I will do my best to supply you with wine that you like for your next visit or as a gift.” His head tilts as he suggests, “perhaps we can even share a drink together!”
Anaxagoras almost chokes. “With your constitution, Phainon? A drink will be just that—a singular cup.” There’s a pout on his companion’s face, so Anaxagoras refocuses their conversation. “In any case, I’m grateful that your lover is as kind as you are, providing Hyacine and I with a meal when I’m sure they’re busy this early in the day, but I do hope that they aren’t as selfless as you with little care for their own well-being.”
Phainon is quiet, and Anaxagoras worries that he overstepped, but when he lifts his head from the food, Phainon’s eyes are wide with his cheeks painted pink. Then, he falls into a state of neutrality.
“Professor…” he trails off, looking away with an expression that Anaxagoras cannot characterize as good but not dejected or disappointed either. If anything, Phainon is torpid as he clarifies, “we’re not in a relationship.”
“Oh,” Anaxagoras vocalizes, silence following thereafter. Despite the nature of the conversation, it’s not awkward, simply relaxed, which may be a strange way to describe such a misunderstanding. “Forgive me, then.” He is unsure of what else to say due to his concern over the unfamiliar stillness to Phainon, unlike the focus he finds in him during battle and debates or the quiet that befalls him when he is reflective. It’s as if he just exists without the weight of feeling, that of which Anaxagoras knows he is filled with.
“It’s evident that there’s something you wish to ask me,” Phainon reveals, voice even as he meets his stare. “So ask me, Professor Anaxagoras.”
“You’re not lovers, yet you hold back despite desiring it—why?” Anaxagoras does not hesitate, aware that Phainon is astute enough to know that this was the question, and curious of why he encouraged Anaxagoras to ask rather than elaborate himself.
“You told me, once before, that I am a man cursed by Mnestia,” Phainon says, and Anaxagoras almost breaks his own rule of not interrupting speech so he can object, not wishing restraint on someone so important to him. The man continues, “Mnestia weaves prophecies to reveal destiny, and as love and affection are not solely romantic, I believe I am cursed to be without lest it comes to me as companionship.”
Anaxagoras scoffs feigning annoyance when, in actuality, he is troubled by Phainon’s interpretation. “I did not say that only for you to idiotically forbid yourself from romance. You are cursed by Mnestia in such a way that you are crushed by feeling and love, seeking out an idealized world by your own hand at the expense of yourself,” Anaxagoras clarifies with none of the fondness he has for Phainon as kindness is not enough to convince a man like this. “There is no truth in prophecies other than being self-fulfilling; you decide your fate. If you believe that you must walk alone because the prophecy says that you will and do not act because of it, then you fulfill that fate by your own inaction.”
Phainon remains silent.
Anaxagoras leans into his space, pressing a finger into his chest as if touch could carry Anaxagoras’ words to him and persuade him. “Together, you and that baker decide to love. No one else but the two of you are permitted to make that choice if you so wish to take that step.”
“What if that’s not my wish, Professor?”
The scholar stands, releasing a disbelieving huff of air as a hand raised to his temple in a motion indicating that he is nursing a headache while the other perches itself on his hip, maintaining the confidence in his words. “Then, let me ask again: what do you want, Phainon?”
He does not answer.
Anaxagoras observes him. Phainon’s hair is as white as snow, cut short but fluffy like a dog who knows nothing but carnal instinct—love, hunger, relief, boredom, excitement, and fright—and under the armour he tries to hide himself in, his skin is littered with faint scars and sunspots from years of farming then years of battle. His stare is resolute, unwavering blue eyes with a hint of yellow even when faced with sorrow; his figure is broad, strong, and sturdy so that he is never weak, standing between anything and everything; and as he faces his former professor, he does not let himself be seen no matter how hard Anaxagoras tries to pry him open for his own sake rather than Anaxagoras’ curiosity.
Anaxagoras does this because he loves him.
He loves him because Phainon is his precious student, just as Castorice and Hyacine are, as they themselves have pried Anaxagoras open and made him love despite reason and regardless of his loathing. But to Phainon, specifically, Anaxagoras is always himself: he is neither The Foolish or the Great Performer, nor the Heretic or Blasphemer. He is merely Anaxagoras of flesh and blood, a human who does nothing with the divine power a god granted him with, and is now currently safeguarded by a man who protects a world who wishes to spill that ichor. Thus, Anaxagoras loves him because Phainon knows him and, even more, Anaxagoras understands the grief in parting and solitude, of which Phainon fears himself.
So, Anaxagoras asks him, “what is a soul, Phainon?”
“It’s Essence,” Phainon responds easily, fiddling with the silver band around his wrist.
He shakes his head, questioning further, “beyond that?“
Phainon straightens, elaborating more on the topic, “each soul holds tiny seeds that carry our memories, and no matter how we change, some of these memories will remain.”
Anaxagoras sits beside Phainon, now, to say, “the soul is also one part reason—you don’t act because something tells you not to.” He holds up two fingers. “It’s also two parts longing—what is it that you desire? What is your wish?” Then, a third. “And it’s three parts passion—how substantial is your drive? Do you have the might to carry out that wish? And if not, do you have the courage to seek it out anyway?” He lowers his head, tone softening as if he’s speaking to a child who does not know any better. “Do you understand, Phainon?”
“Whether or not I understand is of little consequence,” Phainon states as though the choice was made for him. Yet, he does not fuss nor appear troubled, which is reflected in how his voice is disciplined and level, lacking any of the boyish inflection that Anaxagoras is comforted by. “That is not what is meant for me.”
“I’m not asking the Deliverer,” Anaxagoras clarifies, staring at Phainon’s profile with the realization of what stops him. “I’m asking you—Phainon, the man; nothing more and nothing less.”
“I’m the Deliverer, Professor Anaxagoras,” Phainon points out. In this moment, the rigidity of his complete name makes Anaxagoras want for the usual shorthand. “Even if you say such a thing, I became the Deliverer when I agreed to be a Flame-Chaser. I gave up the right to be anything other than what is needed of me.”
How terrible it is, Anaxagoras thinks, to define your life only by the wishes of someone else.
“I’m a professor and Sage of an institution that wanted to hang me on more than one occasion,” Anaxagoras deadpans, although Phainon does not find it so humorous.
“Do not remind me,” Phainon sighs.
“I do when I have the misfortune of hearing you speak like that.” Phainon’s gaze snaps to him, mouth opening slightly in shock before forming a grim line. “I challenge divinity and the Titans when we can see them with our own eyes, and even when Lady Goldweaver and the Triplets of Fate believe that you can place your faith in god given prophecies that seemingly come true. I will not be fettered by any duty nor allow anyone to decide the ‘truth’ of my life for me—in fact, I fear it more than any threat,” Anaxagoras declares, squeezing Phainon’s shoulder. “And I do not wish for you to be fettered by these either. I did not teach you this.”
“Maybe this is my truth,” Phainon proposes, voice like a dull knife that cuts through the quiet of the room, small and hesitant. “Have you considered that, Professor? That this is the fate granted to me.”
“Then defy it,” Anaxagoras urges him. But Phainon only looks at him, eyes searching Anaxagoras’ face for something he cannot pinpoint. Anaxagoras asks again, “what is your wish, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae?”
Phainon smiles, bright and wide like he’s content with being imprisoned by his fate as he proclaims, “I wish for a world where yours comes true—not for my sake, but for everyone else.” This answer comes immediately, so quick that Anaxagoras refuses to think of whether or not this is merely a façade as it would be too painful even as Phainon compliments him. “The way you live must be freeing, Professor Anaxagoras. As the Deliverer, I will build a tomorrow where anyone can live like you without fear of death.”
“What if I wish for you to be included in this ‘anyone?’ What then?” Anaxagoras prods him. What if I do fear death? Anaxagoras does not ask, recalling the small grave he sweeps at the beginning of every Month of Reaping, carved with dromas patterns and made of all his treasured stones, situated beside his dear sister and still empty until it is his time to pass.
“Hyacine is returning, Professor, we should refocus our attention,” Phainon suggests, standing and turning his back to Anaxagoras to promptly end the conversation.
Anaxagoras follows, stepping over the threshold towards the platform lit up by the skylight, of which Phainon is already under. If he were to look outside, he knows that the Dawn Device would be almost blinding with how close they are to the Worldbearing Altar, but all Anaxagoras does is gaze at Phainon’s back, his form undeniably radiant despite the scholar’s hope that he will never be bound by the weight of that light.
“One of the most basic principles of alchemy is this: all things are one, while one because two, and two begets four,” Anaxagoras expounds. Seeing as the previous day’s topic was controversial, he decides to go with alchemy this time.
When he casts his gaze over the crowd, he hears a sneer, a math lesson? Yet, when he sees you, you’re as amused as ever, even as you regard him with such an enthralled expression. Dispirited by his prior conversation with Phainon, he decides to find respite in giving you a show you will not forget.
“Lord Phainon!” Anaxagoras calls with an ushered hand. “Come here.” His student obeys as the scholar claps, and you, as do all confused attendees, follow the applause with his announcement, “the Nameless Hero of Okhema; Phainon of Aedes Elysiae and the Deliverer of Lady Goldweaver’s beloved Flame-Chase Journey!”
Phainon waves to the crowd but whispers under a clenched smile, “Professor? What are you doing? I’m just here so that no one makes an attempt on your life again, remember?”
“Just play along,” he says with a grin. Raising his voice, he continues his performance. “As one of my most brilliant students, I ask you this: in alchemy, what is one?”
The hero freezes for but a moment before straightening his shoulders and declaring, “one is the Essence—it is the source of all life.”
“Correct!” Anaxagoras circles him, hand trailing across his shoulder until he can make his way to the other side of the platform. “Now, come here.”
Castorice hesitates just as Phainon did, but is pressured with how loudly Anaxagoras' instruction comes that she is not given a choice in the matter with the crowd’s eyes on her. He will not lie: he does feel some semblance of guilt for putting her in this position but, knowing Castorice, she will get caught in the moment and enjoy herself as Anaxagoras will do everything in his power to make it so.
“Lady Castorice!” Anaxagoras bows as she comes to centre stage. “The Holy Maidan of Aidonia and the daughter of the River of Souls; she is our Flame-Chaser searching for ‘Death!’”
Checking in with you again, you look absolutely delighted with the turn of events.
So, he turns to her, an arm folded behind his back as he asks, “for the same reason as Lord Phainon, you should be able to answer: what is two?”
The woman’s voice doesn’t quite come out right, so he gives her as comforting of a gaze he can manage alongside a glance to the Deliverer; she is not alone here. With a smooth exhale, Castorice says, “with the light that graces every surface, there is an equal shadow that forms—both through it and from its absence. Thus, two is the ‘Force’ that transforms all things.”
“And what is the root?” he continues.
Castorice smiles with the easy question, answering, “it is the ‘Reason and Intellect’ that repels and separates, Professor.”
To prove a point, Anaxagoras steps closer to Castorice, much to everyone’s abject horror as she maintains a comfortable distance. Next, he turns to Phainon, seeing the white-haired man prepared to provide the subsequent part of this truth. Anaxagoras asks him, “what is the thread?”
“They are alike those of Mnestia and Lady Goldweaver—of which we attract and are bound by through ‘Love and Beauty.’”
And because Anaxagoras cannot go on without another example, he walks to the edge of the platform, leaning too far over to be anything but safe as he points to the crowd, nearly breaking his decorum with a fit of laughter from the idea he possesses. “You.” He points. “Come here.”
Phainon’s breath catches behind him as you all but attempt to climb the platform, much to Anaxagoras’ amusement. He does not have to look to know that Phainon is already rushing over, his steps enough of an indication of such. Phainon’s hand meets yours, a firm grip that is accompanied by a lowered question, “what are you doing? There are stairs!” But he continues to enable you, hooking an arm around your waist with a stiff touch as you hold him in turn, ensuring that you remain steady.
From his position, Anaxagoras can see your face clearly, illuminated by the skylight yet your grin is somehow even brighter as you look at Phainon with a chuckle. “I’m just so excited to participate.”
“It would have only taken you a minute or so. What if you fell?” Phainon scolds you, “you could have hit your head again!”
He’s right. It would not take you long to go around and take the proper way up, but you chose the direct route, straight through despite the platform being higher than your waist and made entirely of stone—an obstacle you do not fear. So, you tell Phainon, “that won’t happen because you’re here.”
The moment must end, however, as the show must continue. “Exactly as the Deliverer says—by representation of Mnestia, ‘attraction’ is associated with Romance.” The scholar extends a hand, directing everyone’s attention to your embrace and ignoring how the man hisses out a professor! Anaxagoras continues over your laughter as Phainon springs away from you. “And so, ‘repulsion,’ represented by Cerces, is associated with Reason.”
He then catches movement from the side, seeing Hyacine look panicked as she silently mouths to him that he should stay on track, only this turns to horror when she realizes who is next. Anaxagoras, again, announces, “it appears that my Assistant Instructor would like to join us! Let us welcome Miss Hyacinthia, physician of the Twilight Courtyard and well-known by those who visit the Garden of Life!”
Hyacine makes her way towards him until she can stand close enough so that only he can hear her say, “Professor, we are making a spectacle of the seminar!”
“Then it seems the Grove should have chosen a different scholar, isn’t that right?” Anaxagoras vocalizes what everyone has been thinking as he guides her to stand at one end. Afterwards, he moves you and the others into a specific order—Hyacine as Aquila’s wind, Phainon as Kephale’s flame, you as Georios’ soil, and Castorice as Phagousa’s springs. “Hyacine, will you care to tell us what four refers to?”
She almost groans, but acquiesces, “there are four base substances or, ‘Elements,’ that construct all things: air, fire, earth, and water.” This time, he does ruin his dignified image with sharp, almost manic laughter at the absurdity of what he has planned now, perhaps only beguiled by the passionate look in his eye.
Once the seminar is over, you’re absolutely glowing while you speak with Castorice through her giggles, whereas Hyacine and Phainon look weary after keeping Anaxagoras in check. He had been eccentric, yes, but it came from a place of excitement over the material and the group’s involvement. As a result, the attendees had asked more questions both during and after the seminar.
Anaxagoras is proud to say that it was a success.
“You’re quite intelligent, why have you not studied at the Grove?” Anaxagoras asks you. Throughout the seminar, you had been quick-witted with no shame in incorrect answers, only seeing that as reason to grow. “I would not forget someone like you.”
“I’ve never left Okhema.”
“You should, I think it would do some good for a mind like yours,” Anaxagoras suggests. “If not for the pursuit of knowledge, then merely to widen your horizons and experience more with your life.” Anaxagoras crosses his arms, adamant that this is an appropriate and beneficial recommendation. “You can read about recipes all you like, but being taught by those who live and breathe by them would be something else in its entirety.”
You grow despondent with his words, that much Anaxagoras is sure of despite not knowing you for long. He watches as you lower your head and clear your throat, wringing your fingers together in a gesture that is likely self-soothing with how often you use your hands. “Perhaps I could visit the Grove of Epiphany…” you trail off, as if what you say is merely meant to appease him when you cannot find it in yourself to be honest in reason of rejection.
“The Grove of Epiphany would be wonderful!” Phainon joins the conversation after seeing you withdraw into yourself. “It would be difficult to visit other cities with the ever-looming threat of the black tide, but Hyacine and Professor Anaxagoras are constantly at the Grove, so I would feel better if you chose it as your destination.”
You nod at Phainon with a tight-lipped smile, finding it difficult to continue the topic.
So, Anaxagoras tries to offer you a reprieve and says, “yes, you are sure to enjoy yourself in my company in comparison to the other professors or Sages.”
A smile grows on your face, an expression Anaxagoras and the others prefer on your face, even when it is likely a result of imagining the mischief Anaxagoras gets up to considering today’s seminar. “You oversee the school of Nousporism, right?
“I do; I’m the founder, in fact.” Anaxagoras gestures to Phainon and Castorice, “they were both under my tutelage.”
Castorice is called off when you say, “I actually have a question about the soul.”
“Do you, now?” Anaxagoras arches a brow, more interested in you than ever. “Go ahead—I am always welcome to another's interests in our studies.
And it seems that Phainon recognizes the delighted expression on Anaxagoras’ face, his own eyes almost alight with the words. “You’re getting along?”
The scholar laughs, “of course we are.” Phainon likely thought your relationship strained as a result of yesterday’s events, but Anaxagoras always adores it when others express their ideas without fear and, even more, he loves being challenged. “I enjoyed our little debate, after all.”
“Really?” Phainon says, thrilled with the knowledge, as if Anaxagoras’ approval is incredibly important. Then, he murmurs under his breath, “you never say that when Aglaea is involved…”
Anaxagoras chooses to ignore what he hears to reaffirm the former, “there’s no reason as to why we wouldn’t. You said it yourself: what’s Okhema if not for a little silly excitement during the day?” Turning to you, he continues the topic, “more importantly, what would you like to ask me?
But again, there’s an interruption. “Lord Phainon, we are being summoned by Lady Aglaea. It’s urgent,” Castorice says before addressing Anaxagoras. “It is a pity that we must part so soon, Professor Anaxa. I will ensure that you do not wait long before receiving another letter.”
“I look forward to it, Castorice,” Anaxagoras replies, and is unable to say any more as Phainon embraces him suddenly.
“I plan on visiting the Grove of Epiphany soon,” Phainon says as he pulls away with a charming grin. “So do not miss me too terribly, Anaxa!”
Anaxagoras chuckles with an affectionate retort, “I will only miss you a marginal amount considering how often you write if not for the messages you send me on the Teleslate.” And when Anaxagoras listens closely, he can hear you saying your goodbyes to Castorice with an excited reminder of a drama you plan to watch together.
Once finished, you look at Phainon and ask, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the usual time?”
“Yes,” Phainon confirms, “you will.” Nothing more is said between the two of you, and Anaxagoras surmises that whatever comes next is something shared only amongst yourselves.
The scholar waits for his former students to leave before he returns to you. “Now, where were we?”
“What is your opinion of soulmates?” you ask with little fanfare, only genuine curiosity.
Anaxagoras is not unfamiliar with the concept. The Library of Philia holds many books, scholarly and otherwise, although the second of these remain hidden throughout the Grove lest Old Titus uses their pages as kindling to warm himself on colder days. But the Grove of Epiphany also houses the heart of Mnestia so every scholar is reminded of love through every pursuit of knowledge—Anaxagoras’ own ambitions had taken root in the soil that now buries his sister, after all. Moreover, Castorice has written about such things that he would be dishonest if he were to say that he hasn’t considered its validity in the past.
“A romantic notion,” Anaxagoras simply says. “Do you recall Phainon’s answer to ‘one’ during the seminar?”
You do, of course you do because it was Phainon who said it. “One is the Essence, which is the source of all life.”
Anaxagoras nods in approval and continues for you. “In Nousporism, this means that we are no different from each other; not even gods.” His voice carries a livelier timbre, now, with the opportunity to speak of what he’s dedicated his life towards. “Our very bodies are born from this Essence even if we lose some of our memories.”
Your head tilts, so similar to Phainon’s own habit when he is met with curiosity. “But not all?” you ask.
“No, not all, and because of this, perhaps soulmates do exist.” There is also a dialogue that proposes this, so he wonders, “have you read Plato’s Symposium?”
You shake your head. “I haven’t.”
“It tells a story detailing the origins of love and humanity different from the creation myths concerning Kephale,” Anaxagoras explains. “Rather than being created in Kephale’s image using Georios’ divine body and given life through golden ichor, humans were born with four legs, four arms, and a head with two faces. In this tale, Nikador existed before the Era Bellica, and even he feared the Strife such beings were capable of that he carved them in half, condemning them to a life in search of the other if not for Mnestia who ensures their union through golden threads.”
“Do you mean to say that soulmates may exist because we shared a head with our other half—that the memories we lose are, in actuality, our soulmate?” you clarify.
“I do not know,” Anaxagoras admits. He hadn’t studied the concept beyond this and only found enjoyment through Castorice’s love stories. “It’s merely a hypothesis.” Then, he points out, “I find no truth in the Titans so I delegate little time in studying their apparent machinations."
You laugh, glancing at some of the attendees who leave after overhearing Anaxagoras’ words—heretical enough that they find no reason to wait for him any longer. “Careful, Professor,” you warn, “all your hard work will be for naught if you continue speaking of blasphemy.”
“If they are dissuaded from studying at the Grove of Epiphany because one of the Seven Sages gives voice to an idea they object to, then perhaps they hold no place there. Should they disagree with me, their next course of action should be to debate me, and not run away with their tail between their legs nor try to assassinate me.” Anaxagoras believed the latter to be humorous considering the trouble he finds himself in—going as far as to say it with a small flourish, even—but you don’t seem to share that feeling, just as the joke had previously failed on Phainon. So, Anaxagoras circles back to respond properly, “I entertained the idea, but as your request of me is my opinion, I say this: I do not believe in any form of love that exists because some other force deems it so. Even if some of our memories persist, only we can make a decision in accordance with how we feel in the current moment.”
You seem lost after his declaration, brows furrowed in contemplation as you struggle with what Anaxagoras believes to be the true intention behind your inquiry. He does not press, seeing that it appears to be too personal to share with him.
Instead, he challenges you, “do you believe in soulmates?”
Your mouth opens for a moment, then closes, trying to pull together the words to provide a sufficient answer. In the end, you smile at him, and it’s as if you’ve been liberated from your fate when you say, “initially, I wasn’t sure, although I did want to believe it, which is why I wanted your thoughts on the matter—who else to ask other than you who studies the soul?”
“And now?”
“Now…” you trail off, eyes following a path behind Anaxagoras. He turns to various citizens teetering on their feet with startled exclamations and, when he squints, there’s a bubbly brown tail whose tip appears as if it was baked too long. The source of this reveals themselves shortly after, Wheat Stitch sinking their claws into your himation in an attempt to climb you. You, however, don’t seem to mind, scooping the chimera up into your arms before finishing your thought, “now, I care even less for the idea.”
Anaxagoras hums, a soothing sound amidst the chimera’s howls and yips as you playfully rub their belly. But, he realizes, other than the scar that graces their underside, their voice is hoarse and weak, as though their laryngeal muscle experienced atrophy. You seem to sense his stare and meet it with your own, however, and it feels strangely guarded—a careful hostility, even, which is not a manner in which he would describe you—so he clears his throat and returns to his question, saying, “a single discussion was enough to thwart your desires?”
But before you can answer, you suddenly sway, bending backwards in a small arch as if you’re pulled by a force. Yet, you aren’t distressed by this, calmly hunching over in opposition so that Vigethos has a level surface to travel the expanse of your back and tug himself over your shoulder, hooking his claws into the fabric as you return to your upright position. Vigethos appears content with his station, peering down at Wheat Stitch in your embrace as they exchange some soundless conversation with their eyes.
Chimeras really are such troublemakers.
“I think your outlook suits my own tastes,” you comment, trying to steady Vigethos who only uses the presence of your hand as a safety net for him to tumble off your shoulder and into Wheat Stitch. Regardless of how little room there is to do so in the space of your arms, the two begin to playfully paw at each other, which does not last long before Vigethos licks a stripe up Wheat Stitch’s cheek, resembling dog-like affection that is met with a paw to his face. Unfortunately for Wheat Stitch, Vigethos views this as an opportunity to employ the same tender effort upon the area. Leaving the chimeras to themselves, you finally elaborate, “it’s only love if I make it so—is it really love if someone else tells me who to love? How to do it and what to do?”
“No,” Anaxagoras agrees, “I don’t believe it is.”
“Right?” you say with a small chuckle like this conversation was alike that of simple pleasantries with easy answers rather than something that was evidently gnawing at you for some time. “And, well, just imagine: what if you say something that my supposed soulmate disagrees with or you object to their request, and then they decide to execute you for it!” you joke, “seeing as we’re friends now and you’re so important to everyone who is dear to me, something like that simply won’t do!” Anaxagoras cannot stop the laugh that escapes him, much louder than he intended with the shock of your words but enjoying it nonetheless. ”Anyways, I’ve taken too much of your time and everyone is here for you and not Hyacine,” you remind him, nodding towards his Assistant Instructor who is being swamped with questions. “I’ll pick your brain another time.”
“Yes,” he says as you step away from him, “you should.”
With that, you offer him an elaborate bow and Anaxagoras watches you leave.
Anaxagoras stays the following morning, deciding the next time you speak will happen today and rather you pick his brain, he will pick yours.
I missed too much, he realized after reflecting on his short stay in Okhema. To Anaxagoras, life is defined by a series of partings and reunions, but he fears that when it comes to you, Phainon will allow his chance to pass with such a quiet restraint that it will be too late on the scholar's subsequent return to Okhema. And not only that, but Anaxagoras detects a similar attitude in you. However, unlike Phainon, you are more forthcoming, which suggests that you may act instead.
This, however, is also not ideal because if Anaxagoras is absent and without opportunity to become more familiar with you so that he can make a proper judgement of your character, then he cannot ensure you are not taking advantage of Phainon and his beloved students.
So, instead of immediately taking a dromas back to the Grove of Epiphany, Anaxagoras chooses to return to your little bakery during the first quint of the Entry Hour. His memory serves him well and he recalls that Phainon visited during the second quint; therefore, with your referral of his visits occurring at the ‘usual time’ and Phainon’s own conscientious attitude, this must mean that he will not arrive before then.
He’s aware that it's extremely early, but baking requires much preparation so he is not surprised that you’re already awake and busy at work, judging by the smell that wafts through the air and the smoke that rises behind your building. Peeking through the windows, it isn’t so different from before—you’ve replaced the garden stake in the potted plant with one that resembles forget-me-nots; there are three new scrolls hanging from the wall; and the chairs have shuffled around, a likely result of the coming and goings of various patrons if not friends.
But before Anaxagoras can knock, you turn and spot him from the counter. The smile never leaves your face as you approach, wiping your hands on your apron before unlatching the door and pushing it open as a bell rings through the air, gentle and bright.
The sound of it is little in comparison to your voice as you greet him, “to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you this early in the day, Anaxagoras?” You make room for him to step inside and motion towards a table close to the counter, allowing him to watch you work as you return to the kitchen.
“I’m sure you are aware that I’m leaving soon,” Anaxagoras says, “today, in fact.” Your back is to him, now, with you kneading dough in a motion so repetitive that he is sure it does not wear you out with this being routine. If Anaxagoras were to try such a thing, he knows he would exhaust easily, so he cannot help but appreciate your form as you work tirelessly to provide for the Holy City’s people.
You glance over your shoulder with a small laugh and agree, “I do, which is why I’m surprised you’re here and not rushing back to the Grove to continue the studies I know you love so dearly.”
You’re not wrong, yet you are.
Anaxagoras, at times, feels almost obsessive with his life’s work and the need to prove Nousporism true. And although he does not entrust himself in them, the Titans’ existence is undeniable so he finds no use in questioning the legends that tell of their personal relations. By this, he means that just as Reason is understanding, Love is the same. For if Mnestia’s first death resulted in a resurrection in the image of a human to walk amongst Amphoreus’ people, then Cerces’ acceptance of their second confession is a reflection of how this is true. Because of this, even if Anaxagoras is here rather than there, the Reason he chases is still Love the same.
So, he tells you, “I’m here because there was something I needed to know.” He folds his arms on the table, relaxed even when he pulls back his shoulders. “If I return without knowing, then I’m afraid I will only feel regret.”
“And you will find your answer here?” you ask, reaching for a basket of olives and tugging it towards you. Shortly after, he hears a knife hitting a wooden board, quiet and practiced.
“It is impossible for me to find it elsewhere,” he says as something firm bumps into his calf. When he looks down, Wheat Stitch is staring up at him with a forget-me-not clamped between their teeth.
“Is that so?” you respond, the words blending together with the soft sound of you folding the olives into the dough; the air released with each movement.
Anaxagoras leans down to take Wheat Stitch’s gift, and the chimera subsequently chooses to circle the area at his feet before curling around his ankle. They’re warm, delicate, and undeniably alive with each small breath, their body rising and falling in tiny monotonous motions that he is not shocked when Vigethos pads over, as if inexplicably drawn to this peaceful moment. Anaxagoras twirls the stem of the flower in his hand as he asks, “why forget-me-nots?”
For a moment, you look over your shoulder to meet his gaze before your eyes drop and realize what he holds. You linger on the flower before returning to your baking, but you cannot satisfy his curiosity when you say, “I don’t know. Wheat Stitch has always loved forget-me-nots without question and they tend to go around and offer it as they like.” Anaxagoras watches as you walk over to the oven, grabbing the fire iron to tend to the fire and ensure the bread doesn’t burn. “You should be glad—it’s rare to be chosen by a chimera like Wheat Stitch, even in our long lives.”
“Our long lives?” Anaxagoras repeats.
“Oh,” you vocalize, not realizing his ignorance. “I’m a Chrysos Heir like you, Professor.”
Of all answers you could have provided him with, he wasn’t expecting that, actually. Although there are many Chrysos Heirs beyond the Flame-Chasers, it’s not often that one strives for anything but greatness or some ambitious folly. Even Anaxagoras, who refuses to use the divine blood he is blessed with, seeks his own path beyond what this world already knows.
Fortunately, this works in his favour.
“This makes it easier to ask, then,” Anaxagoras says.
“Go ahead,” you urge him, turning to face him to work on a counter filled with loaves of dough. The knife you hold is smaller this time but no less sharp as your steady hand scores patterns into each mound’s surface.
“Why do you bake?”
Your eyes snap to his with a sharp laugh, but it’s not patronizing, no, only equally as dumbfounded as he had been but more filled with eager anticipation. “Anaxagoras,” you huff, “you truly came this early because you wonder why I chose the profession I did?”
“Among other things,” Anaxagoras adds, “but your answer to this will be enough, I believe, especially in light of your blood.”
“And why is that?” you challenge, head tilting in playful amusement as your voice lightens, similar to the bell that hangs over your door.
“You’re no one,” Anaxagoras professes without any bite to his words and lacking any callous intention. “You are part of no clergy, no school of thought, nor any army, and now I know you bleed gold yet you bake with no desire for more.” He leans forward on the table, careful not to crush the stem held between his fingers nor disturb the chimeras cuddling at his feet as he prods you, “why?”
Setting down the knife, you return to the oven and begin removing the freshly baked bread. You don’t answer right away, not until you’re finished emptying the heated chamber. Then, you find a single basket, line it with a piece of fabric, and say, “can you tell me what the common indicators of class strata are, Professor?”
That’s easy. “Wealth or, how many balance coins you hold, is the most straightforward of these. There’s also the clothing you wear—sometimes the colours—or the intellect you’re capable of and whether you are granted the opportunity to learn or are forced to work young just to live another day.”
“And then there’s food,” you murmur, so achingly resigned that he’s afraid he may have missed the words if not for how quiet your bakery is, with only the soft crackling fire and the chimeras’ gentle snores. “Have you ever watched someone get beaten by a merchant for stealing an apple even when they’re so hungry they may eat even leather? When was the last time you worried about your next meal?” Despondent, you continue as you walk around and gather various ingredients. “Soctires, a wise old man, informed me recently that the Council of Elders has started talks of what Okhema will do if the number of outlanders increases beyond what the city is capable of.” You pause just to scoff, calming yourself so you can say, “but we all know this is not an ‘if,’ merely a ‘when’; so, what of the refugees who are displaced by the black tide and made to live in a city who may soon be on the precipice of being worn thin? Who will Okhema forsake first other than our outlanders?”
His chest is tight as he listens to you, knowing that he is barely any different from the people you speak of. That many years ago, when he still lived in that remote city-state, all he wanted for was a better life with his sister at the Grove of Epiphany, and how ironic it had been that she had saved enough only for him, and in his journey there the black tide had struck and taken her from him.
“I understand your point,” Anaxagoras struggles to say, focusing instead on the repetitive rise and fall of the chimeras’ sleeping bodies, their weights enough to ground him. “Are you telling me that is why you bake?”
“Yes,” you say with a voice that is resolute regardless of how it breaks. “I cannot imagine dressing in clothes alike that of a priestess, falling to my knees in supplication, and begging the Titans to answer. If I must be strong to carry the burden behind a weapon, then let me be weak. And no matter how the Grove interests me, nothing in me is focused enough to lose myself in scholarly pursuits,” you cut yourself off, suddenly, and then clarify, “I am not saying that others should not but…” Your voice trails off, worried with the belief that you’ve made Anaxagoras a thoughtless man.
But Anaxagoras thinks no such thing because he now knows that how you live is no different from Hyacine or Phainon, even if the former tends to injuries and the latter brandishes a sword, all three of you do what you must to save even one life.
So, he finishes your words for you, finding in himself a kindling of affection as this must be why everyone cherishes you, “you cannot overlook what you see, here, in Okhema, so you bake provisions for the relief initiatives and the poor. This is also why you stay, correct?”
“Yes,” you swallow, “I cannot look away. I cannot—” Anaxagoras watches you steady your hands, but he leaves you with your dignity and averts his eyes. “Why should food be something that divides us when there is so much Strife?”
“Humans are greedy and will do anything for their own survival,” Anaxagoras answers. It’s difficult to face you, he admits, so he surveys the space you’ve cultivated instead. The three small scrolls are actually children’s drawings, adorned in vibrant reds and yellows with what he believes to be Mydei, Phainon, you, and Golden Honeycakes. On the small shelf beside it sits three dolls—Wheat Stitch, Vigethos, and Butterfly Cake— and he has no doubt with the empty space that you plan on creating the remaining chimeras with Castorice’s help. And as Anaxagoras stares at the small jar of soil painted with wheat ears and decorated with a blue ribbon on its rim, he is even more certain that if he were to look more closely he would find traces of everyone you love. But he cannot lose himself in sentimentality when he is still speaking to you, so he solemnly says, “all we must do is be reminded of Icatus.”
“Icatus...” you repeat with a small laugh, shaking your head thereafter as you recall the tale. “Even Icatus was saved through the kindness of a priest of Georios—through the remembrance of the connection we have to the earth and to each other, and now their festival rites are those that cannot be done alone.”
“Is that why you enjoy running a bakery?” Anaxagoras asks, watching the chimeras slowly wake. “Whether it is in the simplicity of providing Okhema’s people with the comfort that their bellies will always be full, or the customary Lucky Cookies shared every Spirit Day, everything you bake results in a connection with someone else.”
The grin you offer Anaxagoras is bright but still so warm and gentle. “Yes, I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Phainon uses food to connect with others, too,” Anaxagoras points out.
“I know,” you say, placing the woven basket you were preparing earlier in front of him.
“Of course you do,” he says, fond and undeniably relieved. “It was foolish of me to doubt his affections for you.” He tucks the forget-me-not under the cloth, reminding himself to press it into a journal later.
This appears to amuse you, expression turning impish as you release a questioning hum, “really? That would be quite unfortunate if his sentiments for me were so weak considering how much I like him.”
“Oh?” Anaxagoras’ mouth twitches, meeting your stare with an equally mischievous look. “Do tell me more about this.”
“Perhaps on your next visit, Professor,” you suggest, tossing a Chimera Cookie to the side for Vigethos and Wheat Stitch to share so that Anaxagoras has ample room to leave. Then, you motion to the gift you’ve given him. “For your travels,” you say, “I've packed the same bread from yesterday, alongside cheese, some baked treats in the shape of dromas, and,” you tap the handle of the basket just to make a show of it, “figs instead of dates, this time.”
Anaxagoras feels as though his heart is full—no matter the exaggeration—both from your kindness and the knowledge that you will take care of Hyacine, Castorice, and, most of all, Phainon even if he were to one day leave them behind.
“Don’t forget to consider a visit to the Grove of Epiphany,” Anaxagoras says, “it may not resemble travelling and learning from those in more isolated city-states, but I believe you will find much to be interested in, nevertheless.”
“I don’t doubt it,” you agree, “since the Grove welcomes so many—even those that speak against their beloved Titan—and I know I will because I’ve already discovered so much from Okhema alone.” Anaxagoras takes the basket as you walk him to the door while you speak. “Several of my recipes come from my family and the books I’ve read, but I learned many more from Demetria when I was younger; Dorian, the Mountain Dweller who should be a chef and not a member of the Holy City Guards; and Phainon who loved his mother so dearly that he can recall recipes from his childhood.”
Anaxagoras cannot say anything to that other than, “it takes so long to forget, doesn't it?”
Your hand finds his back despite your initial hesitation, a comforting touch that draws a line up and down in a momentary relief as he steps into Kephale’s light. His words are sombre but you only find hope in them, just as Phainon would, and assure him, “then it’s a good thing we live long, Anaxagoras, because we will have so many memories that even our souls will struggle to forget them.”
“I’m glad he found you,” Anaxagoras admits as he watches tenderness cross your face.
You decide that he needs no reply and instead instruct, “go east. You don’t want him to know you paid me a visit, right?” Anaxagoras laughs with the realization that you were aware of his intentions all this time. “Phainon always comes from the west and he’ll be here soon.”
Anaxagoras nods and can do nothing but smile as he listens to you and leaves, feeling lighter than when he arrived. This may have been another tedious task assigned by the Grove, but, at least, Anaxagoras concludes that you can be trusted with Phainon’s gentle heart, even if it is, unfortunately, yours to hold only many more years from today.
It is the Month of Freedom, and Anaxagoras hopes that if Phainon’s wish is to make all others come true, then yours will be a selfish one.
Summary. Wangshu Inn welcomes a brand new hire, an alchemist tasked with dealing with the inn’s never-ending need of repairs. Xiao thinks your presence is a reminder of his own shortcomings, however he finds himself getting closer than he initially intended.
Pairing. xiao x fem!reader (they/them pronouns are used though)
Word count. 16.5k (I have no idea how this happened, please don’t go away—)
Warnings. slow-burn, angst and fluff, and then more angst, ends with fluff I swear, mentions of past abuse, touch starvation, smut (MDNI), body worship, face sitting, riding, creampie, xiao has a dick AND a vagina because author couldn’t pass up the opportunity to write tribbing with xiao
Xiao clearly remembers the first time he noticed you. It’s hard to miss you really, aside from the rare visits of the Traveler and her petulant companion, no one is allowed on the lone terrace where he resides.
Sure, Zhongli, as his lord prefers being referred to these days, might come by to check on him and bring a small pouch of Remedium Tertiorum, and occasionally, Xiao also has to put up with the rowdy funeral parlor director, who very much discards any form of courtesy towards the mighty and illuminated adeptus, and is instead always ready to drag him along in her mischief.
But you? Xiao has never seen you before, and so he wonders who has allowed this human in his space.
Xiao is keenly aware of the danger he poses to mortals, so he lingers in his spot on the rooftop, hesitating to appear before you to ask what business might bring you here, instead he hopes it won’t be long before you leave. He squints inquisitively, tilting his head as he observes you trail your hands over the worn wooden planks of the balcony floor, like you are assessing damage; Xiao wrinkles his nose in distaste, chastising himself as he realizes what you are inspecting is the product of his own carelessness. The previous nights have been particularly arduous, demonic activity has been spiking in the marshes, making his karmic debt flare up as a consequence.
The inn often becomes collateral damage of the magnitude of his power, commissions to fix the inn’s stairs, roof or whatever else, are constantly affixed at the Adventure’s Guild notice board. The nosy murmurs of the patrons and incidental rumors only serve as a reminder of just how calamitous he can be.
Xiao’s self reprimand comes to a halt however, eyes narrowing at you in scrutiny: under your touch the splintered and burnt wood twists and merges back together, alive, like water serpents to the sound of a flute it slithers back into place, and soon every mark that spoke of his destruction is no more.
You trace the newly revealed pattern of the wood, and let out a satisfied huff, checking your handiwork one last time, you take your leave and happily retreat to the lower floors of the inn. Xiao appears in the same place where you stood until a handful of seconds ago.
His eyesight is exceptional, he had no problem noting your every move from his spot on the roof, and yet he needs to check for himself; a gloved hand comes to trace the edge of the wooden plank, mirroring your own motion. His breath hitches in interest, though he is quick to swallow it down, the steady blinking of the vision on his gauntlet reminds him of his duty.
Xiao materializes his spear in his hand, and wills himself to forget as he starts his nightly patrol of Dihua Marsh.
One night, as he meditates perched on the railing of the secluded terrace, Xiao overhears the conversation Verr is having with her husband. He truly doesn’t mean to, but with the enhanced hearing of an adeptus, whether he wants or not doesn’t matter, it’s inevitable.
The boss lady gushes about the alchemist the Qixing recently hired to deal with the inn’s constant need of repairs, and while that might sound like an unusual choice to anyone, Xiao understands immediately. Wangshu Inn might be home to many rumors, but the tale that recounts how the entire place was made out of a species of tree that no longer exists rings true. Xiao knows, he himself bore witness to its construction— the very tree the inn is bulit upon is the last of the kind, and the Qixing certainly can’t start tearing it down just because the local adeptus doesn’t seem to know what holding back means when he’s exorcising demons.
Regret builds in his throat, Xiao is not good at understanding humans, yet even he can tell that Verr somehow seems to care for him. He sees it in her reticence to address this issue with him at all, in the way Verr whispers with ineffective secrecy, pleads with Lumine to clear out the hilichurl camps that hover too close to the inn, offers the Traveler a hefty reward to fix those cursed stairs again and again, thinking he won’t know. Xiao exhales in an imitation of a laugh, he truly doesn’t get humans.
Then he thinks back at you, fixing his shortcoming with dignified ease, he can’t help but think of your presence as the product of his own failures. It leaves him bitter, aware: of his vulnerability, of his own inadequacy. This burden is only his to carry.
That night, as he disappears in the fog of the marshes, tirelessly fighting until dawn gilds the plains in gold, though destruction always follows in his path, only the stifling presence of his debt lingers thick in the air, testifying his battles, but nothing else.
Xiao lies to himself when he insists that he doesn’t remember how it came to this, who uttered the first word, what prompted conversation, what urged him to entertain you, and why he indulged.
The imprint of your energy becomes familiar in his home, and from the private place where he used to stand guard on the roof, now he instead stands next to you, in the late evenings, watching over the bustling chatter of the customers at the bottom floor of the inn gathering at night around a warm meal.
Xiao looks over at you, staring amusedly at a group of adventurers swaying and singing mondstadtian folk songs at the top of their lungs, clearly inebriated.
“You should leave,” he hears himself say, he doesn’t mean it, but keeping you safe is a duty.
“It doesn’t matter.” you reply without missing a beat. Xiao’s patience has been tempered by centuries of endurance, yet you somehow easily bring him to exasperation; his eyes fall shut and his head tilts back to gather himself before looking back at you. You’re already staring back.
There’s something about you, a gracelessness that is entirely human.
Gods in their divinity do not concern themselves with human matters, do not need proof of their existence; until human mercy will allow, until humans will need to bow on their knees to ask for something, Gods will exist.
Xiao has seen Gods alike fall on their last breath, their existence tied to human remembrance, Gods don’t have anyone to turn to pray to.
And yet, though they beg, humans stand in their prideful misery, in the ruins of their own mortality. Humans will make their existence their own prayer, with hubris and resilience they shout look at me, I was here. I enough am proof, and you are my witness.
Xiao realizes, he is your witness.
“You’re human.” there’s finality in his words, he needs not say more, for this is a conversation you’ve had enough times already. You blink slowly at him, assessing, calculating; Xiao thinks you have the uncanny ability to make Gods question themselves.
“I am. But I’m no mortal.” this piece of information isn’t new, Xiao could perceive that despite your ordinary human appearance, in the depth of your eyes light can’t escape, and yet your eyes seem to emit it. A quiet message folded in your gestures and manners speaks of more. Of else.
He doesn’t give you an answer, but quietly sighs, and in wisps of teal smoke he vanishes, like ceremonial incense, nothing else is left. You find it ludicrously fitting.
You bow your head in defeat. Shooting one last look at the marshes, you wonder if you stare long enough if you’ll see the remnants of his fighting. You wonder, if you prayed to him would he hear, would he listen?
“You’re no illuminated beast.” Xiao stands a little closer to you today, you don’t know the reason but you don’t ask, fearful he might adjust the distance that separates the two of you. You tilt your head, dissembling amusement.
“What gives?” You’ve always had a hard time looking at people in the eye, and though Xiao’s gaze is especially intimidating, there’s something irrefutably mesmerizing about it, molten amber trickling like sweet molasses, a crystallization of eons long gone that he’s borne witness to.
Shamefully, you find that it’s instead hard to look away, no matter how much your cheeks burn.
“An adeptus knows their place. A half adeptus is neither human nor beast, but something else entirely that’s their duty to figure out.” Xiao’s thoughts drift briefly to Ganyu, how you’re so entirely different from the meek half qilin. “You’re too human to be one. Though it’s not all there is of you, you’re sitting comfortably in it like that’s all you care to be.” Xiao speaks carefully, though words slip as his lips grow loose, like he gets more and more mindless the more he tries to figure you out.
You’re still staring, delight igniting your chest, you don’t think you’ve ever heard him talk as much as right now, his curiosity is poorly veiled.
“Something like it. I’m just a simple half human. Nothing that you don’t already know.” You hum casually, like you forget yourself, not with the certainty of the divinity that rightfully belongs in the palm of your hand, but discarding it in favor of the brazen impertinence of a human.
You bid pieces of yourself like it’s nothing, yet Xiao can’t help but feel like you’re laying yourself like immolation to the altar, waiting to see if your offering pleases him. He has never been one to receive offerings from mortals, yakshas are slayers that can’t grant wishes nor answer prayers, yet in all Liyue he can hear every single cry for help, every prayer and plea.
It feels wrong and improper, bile rising to his throat, even so your offering is equal part beseeching and demanding, gauging his reaction.
But Xiao has already taken the bait with nauseating eagerness.
From the moment he dared ask, he knew. Your next words are confirmation of it.
“I’ve been told you’re a yaksha, golden winged and mighty. Yet you shrink yourself in mortal form, creaking bones and weak flesh, why is that so?” Absentmindedly, you reach your hand out, tracing the outline of his tattoo where his shoulder and clavicle meet— the reaction is instantaneous, mortifying, Xiao snaps back, startled and unguarded in a way he can’t remember being in centuries.
Gloved fingers twitch at his side, suddenly the warrior gear that fits over his limbs like a second skin turns cramped and oppressive. He can feel the constriction of the leather, like skin, like hands.
You recoil back just as fast, like you’ve been electrocuted back to life, Xiao stares at you, inquisitive, aware, you lack your usual perceptiveness.
His breath is erratic. Reality comes in doses, and his stomach churns with nausea that makes his head spin. Yet he can only focus on your eyes, wide and apologetic; Xiao could almost believe that he’s not the dangerous one, that karmic debt doesn’t drone under the surface of his skin with its ever-present ominous warning.
From the way you’re looking at him, Xiao could almost believe that instead you’re the dangerous one, that you could even prove to be a threat to him. You look remorseful, and if Xiao knows you enough, which he tells himself he doesn’t, you’re ashamed that you let yourself touch him.
Even though the contact was brief, Xiao keeps feeling the tingle of his skin in the spot that you touched, it haunts him for weeks to come, bringing back the feeling of burning impressions on his body, memories of an unkind touch that is no more but he can’t forget. And yet, all he can think about is why you looked so remorseful.
The second time it’s intentional, not so much arbitrary, not so thoughtless.
Xiao is keeping watch from the roof as he usually would; your presence is expected, he senses the familiar mark of your energy before he even sees you, he intently watches as it sweeps over the tiles of the roof like a tide, and in an instant the previously chipped and abraded clay looks just the same as it did a few decades, no— centuries ago, when the tiles were first laid.
Xiao knows you haven’t noticed him yet, too immersed in your own task, he notes how you seem to lack the alertness of an immortal, and instead much more often you display the single-minded stubbornness of a human.
If you were born in times of war, Xiao grimly thinks you’d be dead already. That’s probably how you don’t realize you have misplaced your foot on the roof’s edge until you have already lost your balance.
He has gone still, the way he always does right before he plunges into battle. Like prey to predator, it’s slow and purposeful the way he watches you, he does not like it. A gush of anemo swoops you back to safety, he takes in the way your expression morphs to surprise even before panic could settle in, he tilts his head as he disappears, eventually manifesting himself to you.
It’s deliberate, the way Xiao reaches over to grab the crook of your elbow, fingers wrapping around your arm. His grip may be firm but Xiao swears he can only feel himself trembling; his body is screaming at him, head pounding dizzyingly. His lips thin as he steadies you, he’s looking at you, waiting for a reaction, like he’s delivering retribution for your previous touch. He wants to see it again, you, so uncomfortably odd. He wants to understand— his curiosity was always poorly veiled.
Your eyes widen in shock— there it is, you splutter and stutter your thanks to him, a warning trying to make its way past your lips, but it stumbles and falls silent at the show of his impassibility.
Xiao raises an eyebrow at you, you know something that he doesn’t, that much is clear; with a quiet reminder to be careful, he disappears.
If Xiao understands something about you, is that you’re touchy by nature, but from what he discovers, he wonders if you’re not so different from him after all.
Your touch is life incarnate, alchemic energy that finds home in your veins and springs forth from your fingertips. Your touch is capital punishment, for no one could hope for even so much graze at your skin and come out unscathed; he has seen you use it to your favor in battle when treasure hoarders threatened you on the path to Wangshu Inn, mirthless eyes to strangled cries, you recoil like you’re the one scorched bone to ashes. Your touch burns, hotter than a furnace, scathing like the sun, energy quivers under your skin, unapologetic, unforgiving, a way that almost reminds him of his own karmic debt.
Still he’s not blind to the way your hands hover the places you want to touch; your fist clenches, knuckles bleeding white as you almost grab the Traveler’s side when her hand slips from the run-down handrail of the stairs. You amiably swat your hand at the little companion called Paimon when she’s annoying you on purpose. You stiffen and step back when Verr Goldet praises you and tries to pat your shoulder, your own hand coming to rub at the spot wistfully. When Yelan comes to the inn for the occasional shared tea or meal with Xiao, she leans into your ear and teases you about how much time you always spend fixing the upper balcony where he resides, and you tilt your head away from her, a bemused smile on your lips.
Xiao is not special, but he is the only one able to withstand your touch: at first you mulled it over, lips pulled in a frown, attributing it to his affiliation to pain, what’s the power of a human compared to thousands of years of endurance? Yet the answer did not satisfy you, you’re curious by nature, a scientist at heart, something that Xiao has come to discover, with no small amount of weariness at your unwavering pertinacity. Xiao recalls, with a repulsive kind of indulgence, unbecoming of him, the unschooled look of your face when he offhandedly offered that your touch felt nothing more than snow melting in my hand, a hitch in your breath as your eyes hurriedly darted away from his. But Xiao doesn’t delude himself. You just find him entertaining, and with every touch he asks himself how much longer until your interest wanes.
His words seem to have emboldened you, or maybe it’s the assurance that you can’t harm him. Xiao can see your clumsy attempts— he’s not so blind to lie to himself about those too— they go as poorly as they could.
The feeling itself is odd, though a sliver of recognition licks at the back of his brain.
Xiao can’t seem to remember a time where a hand was laid on him no— he can’t seem to relieve the feeling of it; he remembers the action, recurring like a ceremony, stuck in the air, in time. He awaits for it to strike, deeply engraved, deeper than flesh, deeper than bone, it all feels like static, in a bathed breath he awaits. And then it stops. Right before it can start hurting again, a calcification of his soul, too brittle to let go. Displeasure so deeply embedded in him it shaped the way his lip twists in a grimace, his body twists and runs and recoils like he’s helpless, again. Like that’s all he can do: live the shame of the flesh.
The intentionality of you snaps him out of it, there’s no malice, no purpose in your outstretched fingers outside wanting to touch him. It makes him recoil, again, differently, because this he does not know, to be wanted with no ulterior motive.
Xiao waits and waits for you to take something from his empty hands, only for you to reach for his wrist, tracing the guard of his gloves with intent, like it’s him that you want.
Xiao can feel the incoming flinch of his muscles even before his hands jolt away from your gentle grip. He holds back a retch at the back of his throat, his gut turns inside out, yet it clamors for more, and more, and more. Even as it makes him nauseous, it is never sated.
When he’s alone, he takes his gloves off to trace the area you touched over thick leather— it’s not enough. He feels jealous of his gloves and sick to his stomach.
It’s an odd kind of grief, to see you there and yet so far, to mourn something that he could so easily have if he dared ask.
It comes in pangs, like hunger, something else he no longer knows; when he watches you trace alchemic sigils on the wood of the stairs, turn encrusted plaster back pristine, offhandedly smile at Yanxiao’s sheepish requests as rust corrodes itself off his cooking utensils with a brush of your fingers. Xiao wonders what it would feel like.
You already delete the destruction he leaves behind himself, what would it feel like if you were to take his crumpled self into your hands? The thought of you smoothing out his creases is humiliating, and yet he craves it, maybe mortification dwells in admission.
He fears the moment revulsion turns into relief, when you seek to touch him still, from tracing the intricacies of his gloves, to bare skin, treading the path that traces back to the tattoo on his arm. Xiao wonders, the way his body lingers, pushes and resists, like spear to blade, like bones to breaking, like teeth to snow crusted ice. Something to touch that touches back. You do.
He sighs, eyes glossed over, breath shaky in his mouth. You notice, like you always do, and your hands hesitate, for the first time to his benefit, yet a strangled sound of protest leaves his throat.
“Oh. Is this okay?” It’s the first time you ask, usually you just test how much you can take, how much you can get away with before Xiao gets dizzy and light-headed; he won’t tell you, so you learnt to read him, like you do with your yellowed alchemic scrolls, oxidized from age. You once told him that you prevent any more damage from occurring to them, but you will not fix them back new.
They don’t need fixing, that’s what you say. Xiao, shamefaced and cheeks burning, finds himself hoping you see him the same way.
He shakily nods his head, but you demand words. When he opens his mouth to speak Xiao realizes there’s no cruel shouting in the back of his head, the voices that plead and screech at him are just background noise drowned out by the eager humming of your own powers under your skin.
And suddenly his cheeks burn hotter with shame, because there’s no one muffling the sound of his desires, what he wants is stripped naked of his circumstances, undressed and undone, and his own doing. He has to take responsibility, when all he wants to do is to sweep these feelings under the carpet like shards of broken glass.
When he doesn’t say anything and you pull away, Xiao doesn’t know how to stop you, if he’s even allowed to, so he keeps his mouth primly shut, and the noise gets a little louder.
It occurs to the two of you, more like a miracle than a discovery, that his karmic debt doesn’t stick to you like pestilence, doesn’t cling to the threads of your very existence with the same vengeance it tears him apart at the seams every day.
For how much you touch him, it doesn’t make any sense. Your hands found their way back to him in their quest: you hold the crook of his elbow in a way most similar to how he did for you, you trace his clavicles like his bones are hollow, cradle his scapulae in place of questioning his wings. Xiao sighs and murmurs like the scant attempt he makes to dismiss your reverence as circumstantial will be enough to make you relent as well.
But your devotion is loud, inescapable, in the way the very essence of you filters the filth that clings to him. The pain remains, it keeps him vigilant even as it kills him, keeps him painfully aware of your presence to the point he’s thankful. But there’s no cruel hallucination to spell his insanity, so instead he rebukes himself, calling the way he leans his cheek in your open palm his own kind of delusion.
As you trace the outline of him, your touch rectifies him, and suddenly he feels reformed, revised, like the putrefaction that sticks to him is washed away, nigredo to albedo, blackening to leucosis.
If he tries, Xiao can still hear the voices with you around, though muffled like wrapped in cotton. He wonders, if you can hear them too.
For once he is not worried of what his own burden might do, no, your immunity is a rare and odd thing, so he is embarrassed instead; burning with shame at the thought that you might hear the voices too when you touch him. You should find him repulsive.
Before he can stop himself, Xiao realizes his own hands have started to wander, maybe it’s a symptom of your immunity, like he’s constantly checking to make sure, like he can’t believe it just yet.
Clinically, he takes in every bit of you, holds your wrist and turns it over, following the stain of your veins up your arm, where blood is pumping, you’re alive, indomitable and a puzzle for him to marvel at.
Maybe he’s chasing after you, wanting to feel the insistent buzz of his karmic debt intentionally intersect with the thrum of your power; the metallic taste in his mouth recedes, and only the scathing tenderness of your skin against his is left.
Maybe it’s carelessness, both yours and his.
When your hair gets mussed up from his anemo fueled coming and goings, Xiao smooths it down, tucking strands behind your ear, fleetingly lingering on the curve of your lobe and down the jut of your jaw. Like syrup trailing down the back of his throat, Xiao swallows, his stomach aches, keenly aware that he’s starving, saliva gathers in his mouth.
One day you inadvertently set off one of the ruin guards that lay abandoned in the marshes. Xiao is already watching you from the top balcony of the inn, and before he can even make the conscious decision, he appears in front of you.
On the ground lay the remains of the dismembered machinery while you turn its core in your hands with curiosity.
Xiao’s lip almost quirks at the sight, yet his eyes immediately zero on the riglet of blood making its way down the side of your bottom lip. You’re slightly panting, lips pulled in a smile that’s all teeth and no commiseration.
Xiao stares, raptured. His fingers, bare, ungloved, reach out to you, merciful and eager, they beg you to be okay when they cradle your face, then press and smear the blood under the plumpness of your lips in both penance and indulgence. You flinch, still smiling. Your panting subsides, though your breathing turns wispier, Xiao’s eyes narrow to slits, he does not dislike it.
He tilts his head closer, feeling the heat of your breath grazing his lips. Your eyes flutter shut, eyelashes kissing your cheeks. He lets out a keen. His own eyes fall shut and he forces himself away, like he’s been galvanized.
Xiao thinks back at the way his previous Master used to speak about love. Eons apart, his Mistress’ voice still rings hauntingly clear. Child, know that love is but a fleeting fog. It is power that forms the stuff of sweet dreams, she would coo, deceivingly gracious, and he preened under her touch, both fawning and recoiling, terror growing in his bones. His Mistress pried his mouth open derisively.
Then tell me, child, tell me! How do those sweet dreams you devoured taste?
And Xiao thinks his Mistress was entirely wrong.
He mourns denying himself acceptance to call his fallen brethren his brothers and sisters, yes— mortification does dwell in admission, and Xiao is ready to capitulate, he loved them, he loved the yaksha.
In the truth he finds, Xiao doesn’t fare much better. He holds it with condescension, yet he cradles it gently, afraid of what it means, terrified to let it go.
Maybe his Mistress was afraid too, maybe at some point she felt as helpless as Xiao does right now. Maybe that’s what she was trying to teach him all along. The uncomfortable vulnerability of picking at the skin around a scab until it bleeds, and bleed it does. For the first time in millennia, Xiao thinks he could feel pity for his Mistress.
Love will humiliate you. Point their finger accusingly, shame rising to your cheeks. Until you realize it’s you, it’s all you. Standing in front of a mirror, stamping your feet, and refusing to acknowledge that love will make someone else out of you, will have you face the ugly and the rotten, take bandages off wounds to let them sigh instead of fester. Love will make you uncomfortable, because hopelessness won’t be comfort, the notion of no one understanding you won’t be refuge. No, Love makes you want to tear your insides open, spilling over with mortification like you’re presenting the pulp of a rotten fruit, the crushed seeds of a pomegranate, an offering for them to feast upon, and you’re afraid that’s all you have.
They will kiss you with that rotten mouth, and you will beg to have a taste of your rotten self from their lips.
But the shame comes before, from the undoing, the undressing. And his Mistress still believed that change was hypocrisy. When Xiao knows that change is just acceptance.
“Where is he?” You ask, firmness vanishing into precariousness, spelling your worry out loud through the cracks of your voice.
Your steps are steady, though it feels like lead replaces your bones as Baizhu leads you to the small makeshift infirmary in the back of the pharmacy. His face is solemn, you can tell he’s trying to smooth out his own worries for your sake.
Baizhu prompts you forward in place of answering you, when you step inside, you can see him lying in the bed.
His stillness concerns you, Xiao who is constantly in motion with speed inhuman, steadfast and graceful strength that makes you hold your breath. Unbowed, unwavering.
You realize, you unwittingly have been regarding him as invulnerable. Seeing him like this makes something inside you churn uglily.
You don’t waste a second, hastening your pace to reach his bedside, dropping to your knees uncaringly. You can feel Baizhu hesitate, you turn around, urging him to speak.
“He hasn’t woken in three days.” He mutters carefully, the sympathy in his voice is directed to you rather than the yaksha lying motionless on the crisp bedding. You nod in understanding, swallowing to keep the bile from rising in your throat. You’re scared.
“Why didn’t you call me?” you find yourself speaking, there is nothing dignified to your voice, it falls apart piece by piece, like the cracked plaster of the abandoned homes in Mingyun Village, there’s a helplessness to it that Baizhu doesn’t miss.
He hums contemplatively, you admire how he can keep his levelheadedness even in a situation like this.
“It would be unwise to bring upon myself the disapproval of a yaksha.” he sighs as he fixes his glasses, you manage an amused huff.
“Oh, and my wrath is warranted and much coveted instead? I think you need to check your priorities.” the corner of Baizhu’s lip lifts ever so slightly, content that the tension of your shoulders lessened enough for you to crack a joke.
“I’ll leave him in your hands—” he bows his head quickly “Do you need anything?” You always thought Baizhu regarded you too highly when it came to your healing, you stare at him as you shake your head no and he politely retreats.
There’s something remiss in the odds and ends of alchemy, something that unearths possibilities precluded. You think humans would call it holy, or maybe cursed, just as easily.
You think for someone who chases immortality like Baizhu, it’s a secret he observes like a devotee awaits communion. Ironically it only makes it feel all the more ordinary.
There’s reverence in the way your hands tremble and hesitate before brushing Xiao’s hair from his face, there’s desperation in the way you sit on your knees by his side like you belong there.
Sometimes you ask yourself if this is your own way of praying. It feels ludicrous, to do so next to a God. But if it’s Xiao, you’ll swallow the lump in your throat. You call it worship derisively, if you weren’t such a coward, you’d admit to it and call it with another name.
As you trace alchemic symbols on his skin, your hesitance leaves place to purpose. You know what to do, you know exactly where you stand, the conclusive way your fingers glide on his skin remind you of the times you’ve done this before. Your knowledge is hard earned, digging your fingers into fate to look for your answer, stains of malice and misfortune, whispers of ignominy and contempt, your teeth dig and grind into it, drawing blood not out of hunger but out of spite.
The process of filtering the most toxic aspects of his karmic debt is painstaking and morose. As you finish drawing the sigils, you place a careful hand on his abdomen and let energy flow from you to him.
The most frightening aspect of karmic debt is its inconspicuousness, no visible trace of its harm beyond the occasional wisp of black that bleeds into Xiao’s characteristic teal elemental imprint. He once warned you of the hysteria and hallucinations, you think you can taste that warning in the metal that fills your mouth right now. Sometimes you ask yourself if you would fear it if you didn’t have yourself, this power that allows you to stand with clarity in the face of utter spiritual devastation.
You monitor the way his expression scrunches, for you don’t allow yourself to smooth it out with your fingers, you hold your breath when his own skips and then evens.
You are careful around his wings, though you can’t help notice the battered state of them: feathers ruffed and bent at weird angles, but you know better than to just touch them. There’s a line you just can’t allow yourself to cross.
You’ve done what you can, what you must, and now you should leave. You can’t stay, break your own heart all over again just for Xiao to disappear the moment his eyes zero on you.
His dislike for people seeing him at his most vulnerable goes deeper than the simple yet overwhelming fear of harming them, it’s awareness to his duty. Though unreachable and avoidant, there’s a resoluteness to him, even through pain there’s no tragedy, only conviction.
You’ve tried time and time again to get through to him, but you know, that when he dismisses you by saying this burden is only mine to carry, such is the duty of a yaksha, he means it. You might not understand it, you don’t think you’re supposed to at this point.
Sometimes you forget, through the cracks of his silence and gentleness, reminders of his divinity seep through— and when they do, they burn.
Then why is it, that you’re rooted in place, that you can’t let go of his hand, you don’t have an excuse to keep holding on.
You keep telling yourself just one more moment, to check the steady rise and fall of his chest, just a moment to take in the way his wings shift and flutter before settling closer, wrapping him in a makeshift cocoon.
The tattoo slithering down his arm glows, divine resilience. Just one moment begging and dreading for his eyes to snap open— his eyes, the quiet and solemn way he regards you, like you’re sacred too. You want to see his eyes, pupils shrinking to slits as he realizes you’re holding his hand, you want to see them flutter shut in acquiescence, you want to be allowed to touch him.
You wake up that early morning from the breeze coming through the open window, still hunched over the side of the bed. Xiao is gone, sheets barely ruffled, your hand still curled like you could keep holding onto his own.
When you get to Wangshu Inn the following day you linger by the bottom floor, watch as the elevator makes several trips to the top. Some of the waiters wave at you as they spot you, you recognize Xihua in the bunch. You think even they can tell there’s something wrong, as you barely offer them a half distracted smile before going back to mull over your own thoughts.
It should’t be this hard, you’re not even here for him— it’s your job to check on the inn weekly to asses eventual damage, and to do menial work like fixing water infiltration and rotting wood.
As of lately the Qixing has even started requiring of you to check on the tree itself. Ningguang is entertaining the idea of repopulating the dying species, maybe even with the purpose of building secondary locations of Wangshu Inn, marketing it as exclusive places that speak of liyuean history.
That woman’s greed sometimes sickens you, though who are you kidding, it’s nothing short of entertaining to watch the Qixing’s reaction when the Tianquan comes out with these absurd remarks.
Ningguang has also done more for you than you can ever recount; you really ought to thank her for this job, you muse as your stare focuses on the top floor of the inn.
Oh well, guess it’s time to rekindle your correspondence with Tighnari in an attempt to please the Tianquan, maybe you could convince your former upperclassman Cyno to put in a good word for you, though that could also easily prove to be disastrous.
Your fingers twitch and tap leisurely on the handrails as you climb up the stairs; though winters in Liyue are generally mild, the weather gets unusually unforgiving around the time of Lantern’s Rite. There’s an uncharacteristically gentle breeze that caresses your cheeks as you stop and mope, it brings you out of your own head and makes you look up instinctively. Who are you kidding— you are here for him, you miss him even when he looks away.
As you reach the main hall, you take a detour to the kitchen, the sound of bubbling pots and sizzling oil fills your ears. In front of the stove stands Yanxiao, throwing jueyun chilis and chopped chicken thighs into a searing wok, the smoke that rises tickles your nose and almost makes you hack a cough, jeez, he must have taken a page out of Xiangling’s book.
Yanxiao takes notice of you only when you grab the plate of almond tofu he set to the side, the gauche clattering of tableware alerting him. He looks at you weird, of course he does, you look completely out of place, this is not something you do.
But you have been away for a couple of weeks for a trip back home, and in your absence, that happened.
You feel apologetic, even if you know Xiao would take offense at the insinuation that what happened is symptom of your negligence. You still feel like you need to offer something more than yourself to face him this time.
Maybe you think it’s his fault too, because yesterday there was only you. Maybe you want an excuse for him to stay, no matter how trivial.
Fortunately Yanxiao doesn’t pry, he understands much more that he lets on, he only turns back to the dish he’d been intently focused on, seasoning it liberally and muttering something about being careful on your way up.
“You’re back.” He says like he doesn’t know it already.
You blink distractedly, his words pulling you out of your reverie. Xiao doesn’t even bother turning around, and you wonder how he knows it’s you. You tentatively make your way over and place the almond tofu on the railing between the two of you, an offering, a barrier.
”The trip took longer than expected, the fastest way is also the main trade route. Given the time of the year, treasure hoarder activity spiked, and it was a mess to go back home. And don’t even get me started when I finally got there— the children of the village aren’t used to visitors from the city, they spent every waking moment pestering me for stories, and I couldn’t help but indulge them.” you smile fondly, thinking about all the people that welcomed you back, loved ones and strangers alike, just thrilled to see someone from your village getting so far.
“I guess I got carried away.” You say, like an apology. You pause your rambling, voice slowly fading; there’s no hiding behind graceful words and thoughtless smiles. It should make you angry, how easy it is for Xiao to undo you, pull at your fraying edge and make a dignified tapestry into a clumsy, twisting string.
No, it could never make you angry, Xiao cares little for the syntax of you, careful hands and poorly concealed curiosity betray the unpresuming wish to hold the entire weight of that same clumsy thread in his palms. That is enough, more than enough, maybe even enough to convince you that bashful words and stuttering phrases have a place in you if it’s in the palm of Xiao’s cupped hand.
He still has not looked at you.
“I brought back a couple of things for you.” You know his answer before he even says it.
“Adepti have no need for mortal wares.” Sometimes you think the step that separates humans and adepti is faith. You think about yourself, the immortal blood running in your veins. And yet, there’s nothing holy to you, nothing divine. You’re as young as a human and as naïve as one too.
Xiao is ancient, belonging to eras bygone, so far separated from you, solemn eyes and ceremonious words that made you question what devotion really was, that used to make you feel small and improper.
But that was before you had seen his face turned to the sky, eyes reflecting the glow of thousands of lanterns released during Lantern Rite. They way he silently watches over adventurers traversing Bishui Plains, clearing the monsters in their the path, making sure they get safely to Wangshu Inn. He contemplates the way customers from all over the seven nations sheepishly struggle to use liyuean words, study the way their fingers pluck mora from their pouches to exchange with the boss of the inn. He doesn’t step foot in the harbor yet he still observes from a distance: the bustle of the market, the hawking of the vendors, the haggling of the merchants, the trade of wares from hand to hand in an endless contract, one he’s not privy to.
The way he looks at you, as you speak to Verr Goldet or Lumine, or go about your day in Liyue Harbor like you fit circumstantially, as you perform alchemy, or handle cutlery, with intent pluck information from books centuries older than you, but not him.
Xiao looks at you like he believes he knows half of you but can’t understand the other, and it haunts him, because somehow that half outweighs the other. A half understanding.
Xiao may claim to hold no interest in the mundanity of mortal lives, yet he is always watching, longing to call Liyue home, when that same home feels less and less familiar as it’s shaped by human impermanence. Like change is confirmation that it’s something he was never meant to take in his own hands and call his.
And yet Xiao watches, pushing past unease and uncertainty, he watches with hunger that is never sated, waiting, chasing, consuming.
Maybe adepti are more similar to humans than they think.
“You’re quiet tonight.” Xiao observes tentatively, he’s still not looking at you, yet he asks. It’s unusual for him to be the one to urge you to speak.
“Are you… well?” You hesitate. He huffs dismissively.
“This is my purpose. Don’t worry about me.” That much was expected, still, you try.
“I can make it better.”
“I know my circumstances.” For some reason, it feels like you’re back to square one.
“Won’t you be thankful that it comes so easily to me?” You offer, jokingly, a poor attempt at it, your voice sounds weak even to your own ears.
"Your intentions are transparent."
"I have nothing to hide." You rejoin, with a kind of sadness that makes it sound like you're apologising.
"What do you want?" his bluntness silences you. Words shape your lips just to die before you can utter them. You used to hate him because you couldn't lie to him. Like a God doesn't care if he digs his hands in the ground and stains his fingernails with dirt, there was a carelessness to him that prompted truth from you. Now you wonder if you could just ask for mercy.
“I don't know what I want. I think I was presumptuous. And that presumptuousness ate away at me. And now I'm left hungry for scraps. If it's you, I'll eat out of your hand like I'm starving. Truth is that I am.” You stare at him, heedless and unyielding. He’s not looking at you, and you wait, for the furrow of his brow, the twist of his lips like your words are making him sick to his stomach. He’s not looking at you.
Is it still selfish not to leg go if you’re willing to take whatever fate he has spelt for you?
Yes— because you know Xiao would rather not see you on your knees waiting for nothing. Waiting for something he can't give you.
How do you tell him that you couldn't take anything from him, not even from his outstretched hand?
“Let me be selfish. Let me have nothing.” You say, despairingly, like you don't know that nothing will eat away at him.
You realize, asking for nothing is like stripping away, flesh to bones. Asking for nothing, is asking yet again for his kindness, served on a platter for you, so that you can swallow him whole. You are afraid of his silence. He is too kind to refuse and too cowardly to look at you in the eyes.
Look at me. Please. Oh.
Maybe this is nothing. The nothing you crave.
“Look at me.” You ask, you beg. He turns around, and finally, finally, you heave a breath. His gaze is wild and cursory, terrified even, like he might run away if you dare take one step closer. And then you see it, his eyes drifting mindlessly to your lips, pupils shrinking to slits, conflict hidden away in the furrow of his brow, displeased, desperate.
Xiao kisses you like he’s starving. Maybe he is. He keens and sighs as his clumsy lips smack onto your own fleetingly, latch onto the corner of your mouth before pressing onto you properly. His head tilts as he cradles your jaw and throat with a trembling hand, thumb tracing the path down your Adam’s apple and presses with intent, like the gasp you let out is confirmation that you’re real.
Your head is spinning, your own hands come to shakily cup both of his cheeks, pulling him more into you as you huff and gasp and hiccup with relief.
He kisses you prim and proper, tight lipped and all too gentle if it wasn’t for the urgency that mars his every move. You swipe your thumbs over his cheekbones, sucking on his bottom lip and he gasps, pretty and mindless for you. Your lips part, tongue pushing gently into Xiao’s mouth, spit falling messily down the corner of your mouth, getting him messy in turn.
Xiao moans, the vibrations of it traveling from him to you as you intimately trace the roof of his mouth with your tongue. His jaw slackens and he gives in as you trace the shape of your name in his mouth. He never calls you name, you think miserably, you think that if he did, maybe you would know what you mean to him, so you take it for yourself, to have a taste of who you are.
Your tongue meets his, shivers trailing up your spine, soothed and ignited by Xiao’s own hand that follows in their path. He presses down the dimples of your back, traces the contour of every vertebrae and the disc between the bone before coming to sojourn between your scapulae, outlining the bottom of them with intent. There’s the endeavor to study you, understand how you are different, the spot where wings sprout from his back, what do you have for him to take?
When you thrust your tongue against his, something snaps in him and he pushes back, tongue curling around yours before coming to lick your bottom lip, saliva that gathered in his mouth spilling into your own and smearing onto your lips. When you pull away with a wet smack to find your breath, you keep him close and he follows. His nose nuzzles affectionately against yours, a stark contrast to the frenzy of his eyes, focused on the string of spit that still connects your mouths, he moans under his breath as it snaps.
He dives in too quickly, before you can catch your breath properly, his lips moving languidly against your own, and you gasp in his mouth, breath heavy and erratic, your panting only seems to spur him on. It makes you wonder if he needs to breathe at all.
You grip his shoulders like a lifeline, feeling the weight of his muscles under your grappling fingers, your left hand wanders down his bicep, following the heat that his tattoo emits, the steady pulse of energy under your palm feels grounding. Instead Xiao shivers, the area always a little more sensitive than the rest of him.
He sucks on your tongue and you let out a strangled whine, one he complacently swallows as you pull his closer by his nape, he follows your gesture. He wants to please you, and you don’t care anymore if you’re gasping for air, you hiccup and sob, refusing to let go of him.
Xiao is dizzy, lightheaded with nausea, yet he chases you like you’re both anathema and benediction, he presses and pushes against you. You’re flush against the banister, your body pliant, his hand uncertain as he traces the contour of you; the hollow of your throat, the jut of your collarbone, he grazes the swell of your breast cluelessly and when you moan and arch into him, chest flush against his own, he whines back.
He savors the reeling feeling of your nipples rubbing against his, wondering how it can feel so good even through layers upon layers of clothing. His fingers stutter, counting the dips of your ribs and finding purchase in the curve of your waist, he holds you there, firmly, yet even as his thumbs press into the skin, push against your bones deliciously, it feels like he’s the one pleading with you.
Xiao reckons that the softness of your mouth is akin to the texture of sweet dreams, yet not so fleeting, he wonders with amazement how he can take and take incessantly, he whines in contentment, hunger and satiation sitting at the back of his throat as he swallows more and more of you.
He traces the velvet of your palate like you did, tongue following the curve of your gums, the bluntness of your teeth.
Oh, you’re so unlike him— there’s no sharpness, no danger to you. No fangs that could sink in his skin, tear at his flesh; when he settles back, he allows you to suck at his tongue listlessly, each time he lets you it’s a concession, how frighteningly easy it would be for him to pry your jaw open. When you bite at his top lip there’s no sting, only a tender and dizzying tingling, if he were to do it back he’s pitifully aware of how he could just tug to get your blood to stain his mouth in rivers.
Oh you’re human. You’re human.
His breath withers and dies in his lungs, he’s holding your cheeks like he’s cradling something fragile. He realizes he is. You’re human. Your softness and irreverence are an unlikely pair, it feels both as if you’re handing him a gift, right in the openness of his mouth, and snapping his ribs like you're plucking the petals of a daisy, playing that childish human game, chanting he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me.
You’re soft, and you’re human. He pulls away, wheezing, he’s still cradling your face in his palms. You look at him hazily, unwaveringly, both pliant and firm with devotion, you have never been lovelier, and you have never been his.
Because you are soft, and you are human.
You see the conflict in his eyes, Xiao realizes devotion and begging look eerily similar, you know.
And he doesn’t even let you plead before he’s but a wisp of smoke in your arms.
You don’t go back to Wangshu Inn for weeks, the Lantern Rite is getting closer and closer and it’s easy to keep yourself busy, find menial jobs at the harbor as an excuse not to go back. When Verr Goldet calls for you, you give the Traveler a hefty pouch of mora and some books about basic alchemy and send Lumine in your stead, when Ningguang sends word for you, you avoid her.
You have never felt so defeated and cowardly, you don’t think you have it in you to go back, not just yet; not when you risk coming face to face with Xiao, or worse, not if you return to the top balcony only to find it deserted. If he can run away from this, so can you, just for a little while.
You take up a commission to gather violet grass and extract their essence in preparation of flu season for Bubu pharmacy; when Baizhu sees you step through the door, he smiles sensibly and sends Qiqi with you. You partake in no silly banter with Changsheng, and just take your leave.
A few days afterwards, as you’re approaching Mingxing Jewelry to authenticate some gemstones, Yelan stops you in your tracks. She takes you on a detour to Wanmin’s restaurant and wordlessly hands you a steaming baozi, munching herself on one as well. You eat it mutely, grateful for her quiet kindness, yet it stings. Her silence is confirmation that you fucked up, and now there’s no hiding, no blaming your sense of inadequacy.
You think they know, you think everyone around you does, and even if they don’t, it surely feels like they do.
It’s late in the afternoon, you’re on your way to Wanwen Bookhouse, the harbor is bustling in anticipation as tomorrow’s the Lantern Rite festival. Shops are hurrying to finish some last minute preparations. Jifang herself wants to showcase some ancient scrolls dating back to the fall of the Guili Assembly, and she requested for you to check their condition.
When you inevitably pass by Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, you spot the director and her consultant, and it seems they do too because Zhongli excuses himself from the conversation with his boss. When he comes to a stop in front of you, you don’t have to guess, he knows, there’s no doubt.
He stands with perfect posture, imposing and unmoving like a stone temple, from the square of his shoulders to the unnatural twinkle of his vision, there’s nothing mundane about him. His silence uneases you.
Zhongli carries a small ornate pouch in his hand, one you recognize immediately.
“Alchemist, what a chance encounter. I was wondering if you could take up a small commission for me and bring this pouch to Wangshu Inn. I suppose you’re already heading there.” His tone is friendly enough, and even though Zhongli poses it like a question, it feels like there’s no room for bargain. There are some things about Zhongli that you just don’t need to know, and it’s mutual understanding that neither will ask.
“Someone like the Traveler might be better equipped for your commission.” You reply, harsher than intended, still Zhongli regards you kindly.
“I believe you to be the most suited candidate for this.” Knowing you can’t win, you merely sigh. As you gingerly extend your hand, he places the sachet on your palm, and you inspect its intricate embellishments distractedly.
“Splendid, I’ll inform Miss Jifang that you had to to depart immediately to attend to an unforeseen commitment.” Zhongli muses casually.
“I’m sorry what?” He shoots one last knowing glance at you, and that only solidifies the fact that you don’t really wanna question this man.
It’s already late in the afternoon by the time you get to Wangshu Inn, Verr Goldet rushes to you as soon as she sees you step foot in the main hall.
“Alchemist! Thank Morax you’re here!” You shoot an aggravated look at the pouch of Remedium Tertiorum and hold back a wry smile.
“Thank Morax indeed.” Verr blinks inquisitively at you, but just as quickly shakes her head dismissively, she looks frazzled at best.
“The roof on the top floor is in need of urgent repairing. An accident occurred last night, and it requires your immediate attention, especially since the Lantern Rite celebration starts tomorrow.” Verr speaks hurriedly, and as she does she’s already pushing you along the way— you can barely take in all the information.
“Wait— I just came here to drop off this.” You hold up the pouch Zhongli gave you in hopes that it will stop her; it almost feels like you’re using it as a sigil of permission.
“Oh that’s fine! You can drop it off to Xiao as you go, his room is on the top floor too, just next to the patio with the broken roof.” Your stomach churns as you passively let yourself be shoved up the stairs.
“Somehow, I had the feeling that was the case...”
When you get to the top floor you’re mortified at the sight, like you’ve walked on something that was not for you to take. But you’re greedy, and lonely, so you furtively hide behind a pillar instead of turning back. You feel like a thief.
There, branded red by the sunset, Xiao dances, wings of gold scorn the light of the dying sun, because his gold is sun incarnate. Feathers slip past his outstretched hands like prayers, limbs twisting and twirling incessantly with an agony that doesn’t speak of broken limbs and steel blades, but a conflict that tears him apart from the insides.
His movements are familiar, as you stare dumbly you think you’ve seen them before, and realization hits you, you did, you do, every day, because in the same way he pivots and swivels when he fights, only now his spear is missing from his hands. Xiao always dances.
There’s an elegance to him, one you have seen in battle before, yet here it belongs, it explains, peels away at the layers of him.
There’s a violence to it, one unlike battle, sickening, crude.
Xiao is not one to speak, and now you understand. It’s cruel, the way he feels, visceral and unflinching; his wings flutter, following after his body, asking for mercy.
There’s both carelessness and precision, finality in the way he moves, bending joint to muscles with brutality, snapping tendons to bone. Pushing his mortal form to its limit, and still, it’s not enough.
There’s an indissoluble yearning, a craving, woven though the bounce of his hip— the censer at his waist clinks as it struggles to keep up with him; every kick of his leg is calculated, it speaks of who he is, of what he wants with a clarity that is unlike him. Every movement is an undoing, every step of his bare feet, arching movement of his arms, is repenting.
Whatever is left of the sun casts harsh shadows that turn shapeless in the whirlwind of his dance; it is vengeance, for even the sun is envious of him. Yet as he stops, you swear the same sun heals bright on his lips, now you’re envious.
His eyes are amber, fresh sap bleeding from tree, cursory, feverish, crying.
And then you understand, it’s for you, Xiao dances for you.
It’s catharsis, it’s confession, and you take it in your hands as you step forward.
The noise of the creaking wood floor alerts him immediately, Xiao’s gaze snaps to you, alarmed. The unshed tears that swim in his eyes only get more evident, his gaze liquid and temperamental like molten gold poured into a crucible.
He is panting, chest rising and falling erratically, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him struggling to catch his breath, not even after battle.
You hold up the pouch weakly, a token, an excuse. You don’t know what you can tell him right now that will convince him to stay. You don’t think begging is enough.
“I— Zhongli asked me to bring you your medicine.” Xiao holds his breath, mouth closed, tight lipped, he isn’t even willing to show himself to you panting.
“You have my thanks. You may leave it in my room.” This Xiao is timid, reluctant in a way that pains you, he seems ashamed to have let you in enough to gauge at his fragility, and he’s awaiting for you to break something as atonement.
You are reluctant too, the thread of your gaze stitched to his turned back, checking that he’s still there, that he won’t suddenly disappear on you again.
The door to his room creaks direly as you push it open, your gaze hastily travels everywhere, willing to drag this on longer in any way you can. One bed, one dressing that you speculate is completely empty— nothing more, it’s sparse, decorated with nothing. You place the pouch there, lingering.
Xiao’s hand grazes your back, hesitant to reach you at all. His presence makes you jump a little and hold your breath. You have witnessed it thousands of times, it always makes you wrinkle your nose when he uses this particular adeptal art. Usually he would use it to pull away from you, not pull closer.
You sigh and tremble, it comes to him as easily as breathing. It makes you wonder if the immortal blood in you got diluted through generations, if both of you could really belong to the same kind; maybe it was the fear of your human half speaking. The fear that your time with him is limited.
“Xiao please—“
“I have long accepted that the destiny of a yaksha is one of disaster. To willingly put myself in a position where someone else might suffer the same fate… this is something that I can’t allow.” He repeats once more, the same notion you have heard time and time again, and though he replays truth like a broken record, you see him falter. And you understand that it was always about you, because Xiao has long made friends with misery, but misery is avid, and it takes and takes from him time and time again.
“I know where I stand… I can make it better— isn’t that something?” You try, you have to start somewhere. You cling to words in your scrambled brain because it feels like you don’t have anything else.
“And I have no right to expect anything more.” He insists, there’s finality in it, not in rejection, but in acceptance. Your lip wobbles in frustration.
“TAKE IT. TAKE FROM ME. Let me give you everything beyond expectation.” You cry, desperation clawing at your throat.
“What if I hurt you?” It’s a whisper, a plea, a thought deranged, maybe this is his own kind of insanity. Xiao doesn’t know what he fears more, the echo or the answer.
“You’re the only thing that doesn’t hurt.” You whisper back, firmly, like it’s obvious, like it’s your own kind of certitude. “When my body is cruel, when my mind gets ugly. When everything feels colder. Maybe it’s out of stubbornness, out of selfishness. It’s the only time I’m so willing to make an enemy out of you, out of myself. You’re the only thing that doesn’t hurt.” You repeat, a prayer. Hoping he will believe you, you cup his cheeks, drawing him closer, cradling him like he’s fragile, you both know he isn’t, but what if you want to treat him like he is? Will he allow you?
Xiao rubs his nose against yours tentatively, his own way of wordlessly asking for permission, only when you hum in exhortation he leans forward to kiss you sweetly.
And there it feels like you can breathe again, as he plants multiple shy pecks on your lips, clumsy and unpracticed, your hand supporting his jaw so that he can lean into you, you tilt your head and slot your lips against his properly. You move languidly against him, lingering, the wet smacking sounds make him squirm, his wings fluttering excitedly.
Xiao steps back until his legs hit the bed, he stumbles to sit down and you gladly stand in front of him, tipping his chin upwards to push his face up to meet you in the kiss, you hand cradling his throat to keep him in place for you.
The angle makes it hard to breath, though he seeks your mouth, dizzy and lightheaded, he bids shame for absolution; Xiao doesn’t really need oxygen, yet he feels a weight in the back of his throat urging him to swallow and take a breath.
His hands wrap around your waist, securing his grip before pulling you down firmly to make you sit on him proper. The sudden contact has you gasping a moan in his mouth, hips instinctively bucking in search of each other.
Xiao’s lips leave your own, sealing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, sealing a promise, and he seems to shake from its implicit magnitude. His mouth wanders, unsure, attentive, his nose traces the path he intends to follow as a warning, to you, to himself.
Like compass to paper, with the precision of a cartographer, he finds the jut of your jaw, nibbling at it experimentally, and when you gasp, pleased, he resumes his exploration. Down the column of your throat, Xiao makes himself home in the hollow of it, tongue peeking out curiously to taste your skin, and then eagerly as his teeth graze the contour of your collarbone.
He latches onto you with his mouth, suckling earnestly, like he found what he wanted— there, is the prize and he digs deeper into you, carves his own name in it.
A disconcerted gasp rises from your throat, you grapple onto his shoulders, feeling the bone beneath muscles and skin, while your other hand tangles in the soft down of his hair at the nape of his neck, tugging imploringly. The feeling incites from him a disjointed moan in response, humid breath caressing your skin, a rivulet of spit falling from his lips and trailing down your cleavage.
Xiao follows the drop like a man starved, pulling at your collar to break its fall with his tongue and smearing kisses to the top of your breasts. You squirm in his lap, his actions pull you apart by the seams just to stitch you back together to his pleasing, you yank at his hair in admonition, warning him of your undoing.
Though Xiao whines, his hands seem determined to find their way back to your waist, adjusting you so his clothed thigh pushes up between your own. The feeling of solid muscles against your pelvis makes your body lurch forward in recklessness abandon, and you grind mindlessly on him.
It’s exhilarating, the way reluctance melts into firmness, the immovable grip on your waist is testament of his divinity, even as he trembles under the weight of satisfaction. Ever so prim and dignified Xiao now keeps you nice and still for him as he explores more of you, and suddenly you feel like an offering on the altar all over again, only this time he takes, and takes, and you sigh in relief.
When your hand wanders to the buttons and laces of your clothes, Xiao stalls, cheeks flushing carmine like a cotton rose after being warmed by the sun. You guide his quivering hands to the stitching and edges of the garments, and he traces them attempting to feel the fabric of your skin, the ridges of your bones underneath.
Xiao sighs, head filled with cotton, he thinks he too can play that game; as he conscientiously undoes each button and more and more of your skin is uncovered, as he peels off each item like plucking daisy petals he too plays: they love me, they love me not, they love me, they love me not, they love me, they love me, they love me.
Xiao shuffles farther up on the bed, making room for you in a silent invitation, and you stand over him, watching, relishing as he barely has the strength to keep himself upright on his elbows.
Embarrassment claws at your throat as you fiddle with the waistband of your panties, his hand reaches over yours to smooth the creases of your worries, though it quickly turns to interest as he plays with the fabric.
Leather clad fingers dip under the cotton band and trace your naked hip deliberately, the action urges a strangled noise of shock from your throat, you admonish yourself for relishing the callous texture of his gloves.
You crawl over to him, framing him with your arms. His head spins, struggling to focus, frenzied amber turns iridescent, pupils shrunk to slits with the realization that your chest sits in front of his eyes, he takes in the swell of your breasts, how they’re held up prettily by your bra.
His other hand thumbs the band under your tits, Xiao follows around the circumference of it, and his breath hitches when he finds the clasp in the middle of your back.
He trembles like a baby bird, can’t even look at you. When you call him, the effect is instantaneous, Xiao watches as your lips form in the shape of his name, and shudders at the sight before his eyes finally meet yours.
“It’s okay” you say, voice uneven with the effort of your breathing.
You trail your hand up his forearm, reaching the lip of his glove, your fingers taste the skin underneath. The difference of sensation between leather and skin leaves him gasping; Xiao closes his eyes in pure pleasure, his breathing slows, fluttering in his lungs erratically.
You tug at one of them, sliding it off unhurriedly. You kiss each finger, the thenar of his palm, like you’re granting him permission, then bring his hand back to the clasp.
Your lips continue in their quest up his arm, seeking the outline of his tattoo, you want to feel the very essence of him quiver in your mouth as he gathers the courage to unclasp your bra.
The straps slip off your shoulders like water, and the item falls off of you. Xiao stutters through whines as he takes in the fullness of your naked tits. You take something in return, tracing the beads of his vajra necklace before reverently taking it off of him.
He promptly sits up, aiding your effort, his hands move to your hips to drag you along with him. Marveling at the way your breasts bounce with the action, he hesitantly reaches to cup them in the movement, your own hand secures his in place, pressing harder, there, over your heart. Xiao cups your breast properly, moans at the full weight of it in his palm. He grabs and squeezes, his thumb absently caresses the skin of your areola, unaware, and you answer by moaning earnestly. The bluntness of his desire shakes you.
Your nipple pebbles under his touch, Xiao finds himself wondering if he could elicit the same reaction with his mouth too. Face flushing, his eyes narrow with interest, his curiosity was always poorly veiled.
Your own fingers play with the edge of his shirt, tugging at it with remiss insistence, that snaps something inside of him, and suddenly it’s all too much all over again. He is terribly still for a moment, then vehemently shakes his head. You stop immediately, sitting up straighter and pulling away, that too gets a displeased reaction, how does he tell you he wants this even when his body betrays him?
“I’m not good.” Xiao heaves, it’s a confession “I’ve been cause of endless pain. No good comes from being with me— I’m no good.” He repeats like a broken record, like he’s not even sure he can explain the extent of it, like he’s trying to convince you to stop loving him.
Maybe him reminding you that he’s a terrible person is his own kind of undressing.
So you cradle him closer, breaths mingling together in a promise, you languidly tug at his shirt and his breath stutters in concession.
When you guide him to take out his arms, you’re careful of his fluttering wings. When you pull it over his face, you stop there, halfway there. The gauzy fabric covers his eyes, his nose, you lean in to listen to his breath evening, then kiss his lips as he’s blinded, a place of solace, a reassurance, taking his doubts and laying them to rest. As he sweetly presses back in the kiss and licks your lip in confirmation, you tug the shirt all the way off, opening your mouth for him to meet your tongue with his.
You take in the rise and fall of his chest, tendons wound tight under pristine skin. Adepti heal too quickly for scars to form, that you know, yet you wonder if you can kiss it better still.
Lips travel over his chest, you feel the flex of his muscles, contracting not in exertion but restraint, what it would take to make him snap?
Teeth scrape around his nipple, your mouth closes around it and you suck, sweet, unrestrained moans rewarding you. His hands come to grab both of your breasts firmly, pushing them together and insistently rubbing his thumbs in circular motions over your own nipples like your tongue does for his, both learning from your motions and frustrated that he can’t have him mouth on you right now.
A second tattoo swivels in dark swirls down his chest, wraps around his ribs, and curls around his hip. You trace the shape of it with your tongue, sucking on the skin with interest, teasing the ridge of the bone with your teeth. Head thrown back on the pillow, Xiao wheezes, forearm coming to cover his eyes in a futile attempt to hold himself together, rarely ever was he so ungraceful.
His wings draw closer around you, muffle anything but the sound of his breath, cage you from the world outside with gilded feathers. The darkness feels intimate, makes you all the more aware of your proximity, you guide his arm away from his face. Even in the shadow that his wings cast his eyes shine.
Only the two of you exist in this moment, still you whisper, private, secretive.
“Is this okay?” And he wants to scream take of me what you will, but nothing leaves his mouth aside from pants and whines. You play with his belt, waiting, idling. Thrumming your fingers on the amulets and censer hanging from it, the vibrations alone are enough to make him hard and aching, head spinning he chokes on a response.
“More.” He garbles incoherently, can’t make out the sound of his answer himself. When you don’t resume in your pursuit he grabs at your hands, lips sticking together, desperate, agonized “Please, more.”
Your breath catches, trembling hands fumble with the knots of his belt, the item clinks as you set it aside, clearly failing to retain some semblance of carefulness.
The fabric of his underwear is stained sopping with pre-come. You trace the outline of his bulge, and he squirms defeatedly, wet patch growing larger under your ministrations.
In the cocoon of his wings the air grows stuffy and feverish from his restless panting, so much so you start feeling light-headed yourself. Mindlessly, you trace the outline of his primary feathers, Xiao hums as his wings flap and flutter, disheveling your hair. The gust they incite feels wonderfully cool against your searing skin.
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, reaching to cradle your jaw imploringly, and you finally tug his underwear down too.
The smaller pair of wings by his waist wraps around his hips instinctively in a poor attempt to preserve his modesty; it’s pretty much futile, his cock springs free and bobs against his abdomen, pre-come quickly runs down the underside of it and makes a mess.
At the base of his cock the skin folds in a hood, when you press on it with curiosity he keens and pants as you uncover his clit. His labia opens prettily, wetness trails down his opening, tightening with your every touch, pushing out more slick and soaking him thoroughly.
Your fingers wrap around his base, mouth coming down to suckle lazily at the head, the weight of him on your tongue makes you sigh.
In the meanwhile your hands keep themselves occupied, trailing lower, pressing again on his clit, this time with intent. His hips curl into you and he inadvertently slips deeper into your mouth, saliva wetting his whole length.
You circle your thumb around the bundle of nerves while the rest of your hand wraps around the base of his cock with more fervor, squeezing it firmly when he pushes farther into your mouth. And he sings for you, like a songbird.
Once you’re satisfied you move down, tracing the shape of his opening, you smear his slick all over, dipping the tip of your fingers inside him, Xiao whines and hiccups, your name filling his mouth like prayers.
So Adepti can pray, Xiao would know.
Once you deem him wet enough, you use his own slick to pump his cock while you continue to suckle on his head, pre-come gathering in your mouth.
As your tongue pushes into his slit asking for more, he keens, hand coming to grab a fistful of your hair, you feel the unfamiliar scrape of his claws against your scalp as he tugs you off of him— he didn’t have those before.
A string of spit connects your mouth to his cock head, just like when you kiss him, Xiao watches intently, predatory, tugs on your hair again to make it snap.
You catch your breath as you struggle to look at him in the eyes, the delicious pain in your scalp erases your every thought.
In your own debauchery you relish the mess he is, mouth ajar, spit slicked lips bitten raw. You can peek at his canines, but does he really feel like a bird of prey when he moans and pleads under you so prettily?
Xiao sits you down on his abdomen, catching his breath, though he cares little for the burn of his lungs so he tugs you down, seeking your mouth while he’s still panting like apnea is absolution.
He devoutly cradles both your cheeks, an unfamiliar taste in his mouth, and he moans when he realizes he’s tasting of himself on your tongue. Eager and careless, you squirm and grind against him, firm muscles cushioned by soft skin, Xiao pinches your nipple in admonition, somehow he finds the action grounding; he wants to hear it, the unabashed yelp that rises from your throat, he wants to swallow it.
That’s when he feels it, the wetness seeping through the fabric of your panties and smearing on his abdomen. His hands find their way back to your hips, cradling your thighs as he hoists you up to his face with interest.
You yelp and splutter, trying to hold onto his shoulders.
“Wait! Wait— Are you sure?” You plead with him, embarrassment painting you in reticence, Xiao looks at you, sweetly perched above his face, thighs trembling in the effort of holding yourself above and away from him, and he thinks he’s never been so sure of anything in his life.
“I want to. Will you deny me that?” He asks, in defiance not of your words but of your hiding. You’re the one who always cupped his vulnerabilities in your palm and promised to swallow them whole. Now Xiao wants to do the same.
When you timidly nod in acquiescence, he shakes his head.
“Can I hear words?” Xiao exhales in an imitation of a laugh. This man—
“Yes, please—“ his eyes widen in confusion, grip on your thighs waning slightly, he tilts his head at you.
“Yes… you will deny me?” May the Archons give you patience, because if they give you strength— the thing is, he doesn’t even mean to tease you, you know he is completely serious, you can see it in the strangled hesitation in his voice.
“Xiao,” his eyes flutter when you say his name “I will never deny you. Please have of me what you wish. Even if it’s nothing.” You huff nervously.
“Even if it’s nothing?” He echoes, you can feel the puffs of his breath against your cunt and it makes you clench. The shape of his lips is spelled clearly on your inner thigh, whispering the question, branding the secret in your skin. You tip your head back, choking on your own breath.
“Yes.” You don’t trust yourself to say more.
Xiao looks at you with intent, he yanks off his remaining glove using his teeth and drops it to the side. The fabric of your panties sticks to your folds, his naked thumb comes to caress the junction of your inner thigh before dipping in your core, over your panties, smearing the wetness even further.
Your whole body shudders, moans crumple your lungs as he firmly pries your thighs apart, and keeps you there sitting nice and open for him.
You hunch forward in repentance, grasping at his hair, at his feathers— anything you can touch. As you do, his wings flutter potently, disorienting you, you tilt your head confusedly and the downy alula cradles your cheek with the same tenderness of Xiao’s hand, because his own are too occupied.
He wants to know the texture of you, with his fingers, with his lips and tongue, he wants, incessantly so, and distantly he wonders if he can stall his atonement to ask for more sin.
He cranes his neck up, pressing his nose into your covered clit, the friction of the fabric rubs at your nerves raw, his mouth hangs open and he pushes his tongue against your folds, getting your underwear thoroughly soaked.
When you gasp and skitter away he tightens his hold, mouthing wetly at your labia like he’s kissing you, lapping at the outline of your folds through your panties over and over again.
Your eyes shut tight at the feeling, hiding, you can’t run away and this is your only reprieve; your breath comes in short pants as you mindlessly grind on him, indulging his movements. One of his hands abandons your thigh in favor of reaching to cup and knead your tits as they bounce with your squirming.
When the fabric becomes just a hindrance, Xiao pulls away just enough to push it aside. He can’t think straight when the lips of your folds look so pretty glossed in your slick and his saliva, it’s exhilarating.
You whimper the moment you feel his lips on your cunt, he holds your folds open with his thumb so that he can lick a fat line from your opening to your clit, trying to have the entirety of you in his mouth.
He dips his tongue inside your hole, feeling the way you clench and tremble around it, his eyes roll to the back of his head and his hips uselessly buckle in the air, cock weeping for you.
His arms secure their grip on your thighs, claws pressing indents into your skin, threatening to tear into the seam of it, Xiao presses you further into his face.
You can feel your wetness running past his mouth, smearing on your thighs and his cheeks. The sight of him lying below you leaves you dizzy, his mouth falls open and you see a string of his spit— or your own arousal, maybe a mix of both— connecting his tongue to your cunt.
You stroke his hair out of his face with a shaky hand, flushing at the mess you’ve made of him. Liquid amber focuses back on you, frenzied, feral, pupils shrunk to slits. Something ignites in his gaze, and then he starts suckling on your lower lips, tongue delving deeper in your folds. You whine, trembling with the unexplainable exertion of holding yourself above him. With inhumane ease and graceful strength he holds you up and moves you around— Xiao has you how he wants you, how you want him, and he admonishes himself for finding pleasure in your surrender.
His fingers prod at your entrance, lips trailing to smear open mouthed kisses over your cunt before settling on your clit, and there he sucks, mouth suctioned to it and tongue peaking out to trace circles around it all the while, all consuming. He pinches your nipple as he suckles on your clit harder, as if in penance that he can’t have his mouth on both of them at the same time.
Your breath hitches, coming quicker, wispier, your chest aches at his attention. Insistently you tug at his hair in warning, but Xiao is undeterred. Lapping at your slick, he nestles himself deeper between your thighs, gasping dreamily as you squeeze them tighter around his head. He feels like he belongs there.
It doesn’t take much for searing hot pleasure to overcome you, you shudder as it singes down your spine, making the insides of your thighs burn and tingle.
You thrash and tremble with his fingers still pumping languidly in you. Hips grinding against his face, mindlessly, hesitantly in delicious pain.
Every part of you feels scrubbed raw, thighs twitching and teetering. Xiao releases your clit with a wet pop, kissing your sensitive folds with lips defiled in your own cum. Carefully he traces the shape of your entrance with the tip of his tongue to clean you up properly. As he feels your hole fluttering and drooling in sensitivity, more saliva gathers in his mouth at the deranged thought of sinking back inside you to have one last taste. But he won’t, he will be good and proper.
You’re left a pile of breaths in his arms, collapsing on his chest, as he adjusts your boneless body on top of him. The grip on your legs turns careful, hesitant, feeling the way your skin quivers under his fingers still. Your head bows, resting your forehead on his collarbones, kissing the divot of his sternum in a way that makes him jut his hips in the air, chasing friction, wishing for you. You hum, pleased that his stuttering breath spells his unwinding.
Xiao is a powerful being, of dignified strength and abiding perseverance, and testament of that is his restraint, something you’ve been a restless spectator of— but now, as you touch him, he trembles as it threatens to snap.
It makes you wonder if he would hate you for craving a bit of the violence he’s so terrified of.
You find the strength to sit up in his lap, head lolling to the side, body pliant with pleasure. Indolent is the manner in which you take his cock in your hand, though a shred of amusement claws at your mind, your lips quirk at his strangled moan when you drag his head in the disgusting mess of your panties.
“You can’t hurt me. I’m not as easy to break as you think.” You muse invitingly.
“So you say.” He croons, panting gruffly through gritted teeth. “What do you want?” This time when he asks, you sit back, letting his unblinking stare take you in, the nakedness of flesh, the burn of your cheeks, you want him to take it all.
“You.”
“Then you’ll have me.” You think he looks good when for once the resignation he wears is about letting himself be loved.
He hoists you up with strength inhuman, tugging down the panties that uncomfortably stick to you. Sticky strings of your cum cling to them as he pulls them off. He can see the way your hole winks, drooling over his cock, an agonized whimper clogs his throat.
You wrap your fingers around his base firmly, lowering yourself just enough to rub his head in the cum and spit that cover your cunt, smearing it all over him. Xiao gasps and thrusts his hips, aiming for your clit in a way that makes you stumble and stutter, his hands cup your ass, keeping you in place.
He lets you play with him, the length of his cock rests against you, hot and heavy, tracing the shape of your entrance before you finally, finally nudge him in. When his head pops in, your legs twitch and all you do is gasp.
It feels like all his strength has been sapped, his hands falter from their spot on your hips. Without his support your thighs give in to exhaustion and you slide all the way in, hips flush with his: nice and full sitting prettily on his lap, your folds squished against him and shamelessly soaking his pelvis.
Xiao attempts at sitting up, sweat running down his back, wings feeling trapped and cramped underneath him. The motion pushes him impossibly deeper inside you, his tip kissing your cervix in a way that makes you squeal.
He cups your face in concern, wings flapping and trembling in alarm, inadvertently bouncing you in his lap. You seek mercy in the crook oh his neck against his pulse, mouthing at the skin soothingly, feeling the fluttering beat of his heart under your tongue.
Your hands run over his back, where the downy feathers of his wings merge with skin. A strangled whine leaves his lips and he thrusts up inside you again.
You cry out, lips disjointedly spelling pleas where the jut of his jaw meets the lobe of his ear, eyes filling with tears of delicious agony, thighs tightening around his hips. The smaller pair of wings by his waist wrap around you, feathers tracing the dimples of your back to pacify you, but every touch makes your skin singe in pleasure.
“Pretty one? Are you alright?” He cooes, there’s a cloying desperation to him, like his head is full of honey and it’s drowning him in his own thoughts. Pretty? But he’s the pretty one— you tell him that much between wet, sloppy pecks on his lips, mindless and loose lipped, your glassy gaze seeking him.
Thoughts turning asinine, Xiao thinks you look exquisite like this, eyes gleaming in gratification, as you beg for mercy but in the same breath drag your hips and bounce on him petulantly, making yourself whine and moan.
He has you enraptured as the focus returns to your eyes, and you burn when you realize how he’s been looking at you the entire time, waiting achingly to meet your gaze with reciprocated fondness.
Xiao’s throat clogs with urgent need, unusually graceless fingers tug at the hood of your clit to properly pinch the throbbing bud. He smiles in demented tenderness as you twitch and squeal under his touch, mouthing at your chest, tongue swirling around your nipple in idle contentment.
You grind back against his hips, thighs trembling you try to pick up the pace. Pulling almost all the way out before slamming down on him, you hum and whimper at the sensation of being filled and stretched by him. The deep, steady slide feels humiliatingly intimate.
The sudden spark of pleasure punches the breath from his lungs, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Nothing should feel this good.
He comes inside you, filling you to the brim with warmth that makes your pace stutter. You slump in his chest, curling into yourself, and he feels it before he sees it, the way you’re dripping all over yourself and him.
His cum trails down the back of your thighs. He moans delightfully at the sight, like something suddenly fits, satisfaction sits in his chest. A piece of him is left behind and resides inside you. And it feels right.
Still, he feels the way you heave, muscles taut and straining. You didn’t cum— shame rises like bile in his throat. Dazedly, he outlines your quivering self under his fingers, running his hand up your belly and keeping it there, to feel the erratic rise and fall of your breath.
You’re restless, and he’s delirious. He lays back down on the rumpled sheets, wings outstretched to hold you upright. You wail as he starts moving again, hips snapping against your drooling cunt.
With every unceremonious breath he only knows how to want, and he wants to see it again, feel it around him, see you fall apart at his hand the same way he did when you were sitting on his face.
He wants to feel the moment it happens in his mouth. So he tugs you down by the nape and thumbs your mouth open, messily slotting his own parted lips against your own.
His primary feathers follow the dip of your spine, and you shiver against him. He swallows your cries, drinking from the chalice of your lips like milk and honey mixed in a cup. He wonders if that makes his kisses sacred, his touch holy, and as he takes the shape of your body in his hands, wet and pliant like clay, he thinks you might be absolution, even for a wretched creature like him.
As you cradle his cheeks, tears fall from your eyes, holding grave and resolute affection, he realizes— he’s been talking out loud.
Oh. But Xiao now knows that mortification dwells in admission, and humiliation has never felt more like atonement, as he admits to you what he is, what he wants, how he loves you. He thinks it’s not so bad if it’s you, the burn of his skin is pleasant even as it peels him apart.
Xiao shudders as pain and pleasure bleed into each other, tears in his eyes, he hiccups and sniffs. It’s too much, it’s too much and he’s grateful to it, revels in the absolute violence of nakedness.
The tender yet insistent push of your mouth on his is a balm of relief; you patiently sowed in his heart, and now harvest boundless affection from his chest.
Xiao whines, choking on his own spit as he cums again, excessively, his cock twitching as he tries to push himself into you deeper and deeper, head smushing and rubbing against your cervix as it rivulets. You whimper and mewl as you realize you can hear the slick sounds of your own cunt being fucked while he’s still spilling inside you. You feel so full.
The hand on your belly finds the firm outline of him under your soft flesh as he nestles himself deeper. Incredulously, he presses down on it, hard.
You cum immediately, his hand pushes down on the indent of him harder, and he feels you tighten and flutter on his cock, whimpering and crying as you can only sit back and take it.
His other hand finds your clit again, drawing slow and purposeful circles that make you gush around him.
Every push inside you makes his whole body shudder, your back arches into him, breasts press against his chest. He sighs resignedly in your mouth as you moan in his, the vibrations of it tickling his palate in a way that makes him wince and whimper in raw sensitivity.
You’re shaking to pieces in each other’s embrace, like that’s the only thing still holding you together. When Xiao looks at you, he distantly thinks it is.
Still riding the high of your orgasm, you rise to shaky knees, release dripping down from where he’s still buried inside you. A strangled moan is pulled from his throat when you get off of him, flaccid cock resting limp on his abdomen in a mess of your cum.
You find purchase in his thigh, and he lays listless underneath you watching, breath hitching when the hand holding onto him trails to the back of his knee and pushes it to his chest, like origami he folds under your touch.
As you spread his thighs open, you sigh at the view of his labia splitting apart, revealing his neglected drooling hole.
Slotting yourself between his legs, you quiver in demented anticipation as you keep his folds spread open with your fingers and smooch your pussy against his.
His cum drips out of you in copious amounts, you whimper as you feel it dribble out your cunt and slick him up in turn, making the drag and grind of your pussy against his wet and disgustingly easy.
An urge overcomes him, when he sees your unrestrained self losing any sense of lucidity on top of him, he wants to kiss you, again, though when you bow down to do it in his stead, he finds he’s barely conscious enough to reciprocate.
The rub against him is slow and sluggish, crying out in each other’s mouth when your perked clit slides over his. The throbbing pulse against his own bundle of nerves is enough to make Xiao cum, robbing his lungs of air. He squirts wetly against your folds, and you squeal, leg kicking, the feeling sending you over the edge as well as your clit nuzzles into his in merciless reprieve.
Heat burns at your cheeks and climbs up your spine, numbing and sizzling, fraying at the edges of you. Your head only clears enough to yelp embarrassedly at the soiled squelch of your folds kissing still.
Sweaty sheets meet you as you tiredly drop on the bed next to him, struggling to catch your breath. Xiao turns on his side, his skin is screaming at him, but he still manages to drape a shaky wing over you, like a tucked in blanket. A quiet yet fervent act of protection. His fingers brush over your face and urge your eyes to close, you nuzzle in the cotton fabric of the pillow cover, head lolling to the side in an herculean effort to not fall asleep, not now, not yet.
You hesitantly you reach for Xiao’s hand with your own, knotting them together in tangles like boat moored to port.
There’s so much you need to tell him.
Xiao fondly watches over you as you fruitlessly battle against sleep. A tired sniff, a stubborn hiccup, a wordless but loud request for him to stay, to let you stay. Xiao wouldn’t need to be a God to hear your prayer.
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear in gentle reassurance, and you nestle in the thenar of his palm, eyes fluttering shut, finally yielding.
Even in sleep, you hold his hand not firmly, but with intent, like in the cupped palms of your intertwined hands sits that love. Fragile and temperamental, equal parts selfless and selfish, but not fleeting, willful. A solace, that patiently you build in his chest, a place, in his presence, that deliberately you keep choosing.
It’s awfully mundane, so gentle it feels violent, to sit in each other’s undoing. And to call it with its name, to call it love. Every day.
Xiao bore witness of the fate of those he loved. That was the only form of devotion, of repayment he ever knew.
But now he looks at you, and he doesn’t care what fate will spell in his future, for the first time he allows himself to want: he chooses, he knows, you will be each other’s witnesses.
note. I would like to thank @iratempestatis for agreeing to beta read this monstrosity lol. Without Gale’s amazing work, support and reassurance, I don’t think I would have found the courage to post this. Thank you so so much to all of you too for reading this. You get a gold star sticker 🌟 for seeing it through and sticking to the end hehe, you’re a real trouper. If you’d like, please let me know your thoughts, I’d love to chatter!
"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done to me, betrayer
Throw your stones and stab me with your hateful stares
Curtain call, the final act, so say your prayers
So long to you beloved traitor."
「 ✦ LOWER ONE'S EYES ✦ 」
┆ ┆ ┆જ ✾ After you lost your mother to the witch hunts as a child, you've spent the better years of your life living with a family friend and making sure that the Council of Elders won't figure out you're one as well. Unfortunately, things take a turn for the worse when a new witch hunter who is said to have an accurate killing streak arrives in the city, and his eyes are set on you.
<- part 1 | you are here | part 3 ->
Word count: 28900
Reading time: 2h 24m
Featuring: reader, phainon, aglaea, lygus
Other characters: caenis, anaxa, cyrene, cipher (mentioned), tribios (mentioned), hyacine
Tags: all tags are applicable to the fic as a whole and not just the part posted, major character death, written before 3.5, alternate universe, potential ooc, slowburn (im serious phainon doesn't appear until maybe 5k words in), gn reader, no use of y/n or [name], witch hunts, not time period accurate, bittersweet ending, implied grooming, gets suggestive at some point but no nsfw content, aglaea as reader's adoptive mother, implied aglanaxa if you squint, reader has trust issues and still refuses to trust phainon 30k words in, phainon is refered to as flame reaver at the start and khaslana near the end, slight edits made, no beta please kill me already
Notes: If this is your first time interacting with me or my works, please read my rules beforehand.
hihi guess what's here! thank you all so much for reading the first part to this insanity! i'm glad to know that you all enjoyed it. i completely forgot to mention it in part 1, but please let me know if you want to be tagged once part 3 is out!
before we start, i just want to say that reader talks about flower symbolism at some point. while i did use a source, i could still be wrong with the symbolisms and how i wrote it. if you're interested, the source i used is floriography: the myths, magic, and language of flowers. i'm 99% sure every flower i've added since 1 one is intentional. that's all, and i hope you guys enjoy :D
IV. Save Me From The Hate I Hide Within
For the Month of Weaving, you had no reason to keep the shop open. Most of your flowers had already wilted during this season, anyway, and you only casted a basic and faint spell that wouldn't completely kill them once winter arrived. You could put one where they would survive just until the first day of winter, that would be unwise and unsafe. Besides, you could always revive them once the first day of spring came. Which meant that, for the entirety of this month, you would be helping Aglaea in her shop.
The ritual always started during midnight, when the first hour of the new day would tick. Some witch hunters were still awake and patrolling the streets of Okhema, so the two of you had to be careful and quiet in her own study. You heard from both your mother and teachers that, back then, when witches didn't have to worry about getting caught, they would all gather outside when their moons would arrive. They would all bask under the moonlight, perform the needed ritual, and celebrated an entire month of their magic growing stronger.
Now, you all had to stay indoors. The windows had to be open so the light of the moon could enter your home, so you had to pray to every god in Amphoreus that you wouldn't get caught.
"It's funny, isn't it?" Aglaea said as she opened her window. Fortunately, it opened to the back of her house rather than the streets of Okhema. It would be more difficult to get caught here. "The Council of Elders always warned people that witches were blasphemous and an insult to the gods and brought corruption wherever they went. And yet, not only do we protect them from corruption, we worship the same gods as they do."
A chuckle left your lips, but there was no humor behind them. Instead, you remained seated on one of her plush couches, fiddling with the vase of violets next to you. "They think they think they know everything."
"They do. But they're nothing more than prisoners chained in a cave, thinking that the shadows dancing on their wall is what the world is like. They fail to see that the light leading to their exit has always been close to their grasp, but they're too afraid that the truth doesn't match their perceptions."
Aglaea raised her hands, making her golden threads appear. When she pulled them down, every thread around her grew brighter before immediately fading away. You always knew just how many threads she kept around Okhema just to keep everyone safe. But every time you watched her perform her ritual, you always found yourself baffled. There were hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of threads that all connected back to her. She was the only person strong enough that could hold all of Okhema together for almost twenty years.
And you were supposed to be next.
"My protection is getting weaker and weaker with each passing year," she whispered as she grabbed the last visible thread in the air, before it also disappeared. "Fortunately, I can replenish my energy for this month and keep the barrier around for another year or two. But I want you to be prepared for any day to take my place."
"I don't even know if I can ever replace you," you replied. "I can't imagine having to constantly use magic even while I'm asleep just to protect everyone while at the risk of getting executed if I'm caught."
She cupped your cheek and lifted your head, making you meet her gaze. "I know it's daunting," she said as she pressed a soft kiss on your forehead. "And I know that it's a heavy weight on your shoulders. Even I wasn't ready when I had to replace my teacher."
"Does it get easy?"
"No. Unfortunately, it doesn't. And this burden only gets passed down from witch to witch. But I know the day will come where witches no longer need to protect people in secret and will be able to cleanse the Black Tide instead. I just hope you'll be able to live that lifetime."
You wanted to believe in her hope as well, but it was difficult. All your life, the only thing you knew was that you should remain in hiding. Imagining a world where you no longer need to fear death every second seemed so out of your reach.
The first week of the Month of Weaving ticked by so fast. Thanks to Aglaea's enhanced magic, alongside her extremely long queue, you were so busy that you didn't even notice the time passing. During the day, you helped her in the shop. Taking measurements, running errands, checking the stock, running to your flower shop in case you had stocked flowers she needed—and if you didn't, craft those flowers by yourself with the materials she provided.
At least by night, the both of you could breathe easily. She would just snap her fingers and her magic would do all of the work. The looms would spin on their own, scissors floating in the air as they cut threads and fabrics by themselves, and needles sewing numerous pieces together at the same time.
It was a shame that she couldn't use her magic to her full potential to make her clothes. If she used too much, then witch hunters might be able to detect it and realize the truth. Aglaea's outfits were already amazing when she was holding back. How much more if she was able to let loose?
By the second week, you had to run to a merchant and pick up the supplies she purchased some time ago. And of course, you were greeted by the crates of raw linen and wool. She always insisted on weaving her fabrics from scratch, so she always bought raw materials. Sometimes, you wondered if they were really necessary. But then again, this was Aglaea. You'd rather not question her methods that had been working ever since she started her tailor shop.
Maybe you could get a Dromas to help you carry everything? No, Dromases were too slow. You needed to go back as soon as possible. Maybe you could make two trips instead. But if you did that, with the amount of time you went back and forth, you might as well have taken the Dromas after all.
With a defeated sigh, you picked up one of the crates of wool. It wasn't that heavy. Maybe two trips were possible.
"Need help?"
It had been a while since the two of you talked to each other, but you weren't surprised about bumping into Flame Reaver this time. You turned around and—
You almost dropped the crate, but you fortunately held onto it again before it could crush your toes. You didn't recognize him at first. Especially not without his witch hunter attire. For the first time, he was wearing the white coat Aglaea made for him. And with that on him, it was like you were looking at someone else. Like you lived a life where this man wasn't the cause of your sleepless nights for almost two months straight.
"Flam—Phainon. Good morning," you greeted. "What brings you here?"
"I just finished a job. Thought of grabbing a snack at the Marmoreal Temple when I saw you." He turned to the crate in your hands, then to the others next to you. "That's a lot of boxes to carry for one person. Do you want me to help you?"
The main reason why Aglaea finished all of his clothes quickly—by hand, too—was to make sure he stayed away from the shop during the Month of Weaving. But here he was, offering to help you so he could go to the very place he was supposed to stay away from. Was this another trap? Another way for him to investigate you both?
Don't panic. You could hear Aglaea saying that. Don't let him know you're nervous. Besides, if outing Aglaea as a witch was as simple as going to her shop, then she would have been executed a long time ago. Making him stay away from the shop was just a precaution, but that didn't mean she wasn't prepared in case something like this were to happen.
"I'd appreciate that," you replied. "Thank you."
"Here, let me carry that for you."
You almost flinched when his warm hands brushed against yours, but you immediately stood tall before he could notice you were nervous again. It didn't help that there was a brief flicker in his eyes. It didn't look like that same expression you saw that night. This one was different. You wanted to say it was confusion, but he left your side to pick up the other crates before you could determine what it actually was.
"I heard Lady Aglaea's extra busy during this time of the month," he said as you picked up your own boxes to carry.
You shrugged and continued walking. "People believe she's more in her element during the Month of Weaving. She's a very dedicated follower of Mnestia, so people think they would bless her more to create better clothes during this season. But if you ask me, her clothes are always as beautiful as her."
"I see." He was quiet for a while, and you would have rather he stayed silent. Unfortunately, he decided to continue the conversation. "I didn't really get why people would queue for months, or maybe even years, in advance just for a fancy set of clothes. But after she made this for me, I finally understood. She's an excellent seamstress. I can already tell you're wearing her work. It makes you look more radiant."
"Call me biased, but I don't think there's anyone in Okhema, or even Amphoreus, compares to her work."
A small smile formed in your face as you recalled the first time you received an outfit from her. You loved it so much you would always ask her to adjust the measurements so you could continue wearing it. Even when the day came that adjustments were no longer possible, she just used her magic just so it could still fit. You still wore it occasionally, and it was comfortable as the day you got it.
"I'm fortunate enough to own an entire closet of her work in my closet. But it's also so difficult to decide what I want to wear when everything's just so perfect."
"Can't say I relate." A faint chuckle left him. "Aside from my uniforms, I've organized and paired my outfits with how she gave them. It's easier that way, and I don't have to worry about what to wear."
"Deciding what to wear is half of the fun in dressing up."
"Tell that the next time you see me wearing a yellow shirt and purple pants."
Your brows furrowed down. "That doesn't sound that bad of a combination. Maybe it can depend on how bright the colors were, but yellow and purple can work in some instances. I think I'm more impressed that you own something purple."
The corners of his lips twitched a little. "Even with red and green accessories to match?"
You're carrying two crates of wool right now. You're carrying two crates of wool right now and it will crush your toes if you drop them. But even as you repeated that in your head, it didn't stop the laugh from leaving your lips. Even as you tried to stifle it, it only grew louder. "Please don't tell me you actually wore that."
"Then I suppose this is the part where I stay quiet."
"Dear gods… don't you ever let Lady Aglaea know that about you. Not only will you not hear the end of it, but she'll actually make you study color theory just so you'll know how to dress up."
Once you reached Aglaea's shop, you told him to place the crates a bit away from the door. While it was unlikely that he would be able to sense the magic inside of the shop when Aglaea only used it in her house, it was still better to be safe than sorry. Besides, you were here now. You would be able to carry this back inside without issues.
"Thanks for helping me again. I guess this means we're even now."
"Even?" He raised a brow and laughed. "I don't think carrying crates of materials is equal to you saving my life from a Black Tide creature. I'm still in your debt."He looked like he was about to turn around and leave. But just as he did, he turned to face you again. "By the way… the flowers you gave me. What were they called again? Chrysos… Chrysosthermos? Chrysosheirsum?"
Flowers? Ah, that was right. He bought flowers from you at least two months ago. "You mean the chrysanthemums?"
"Yes, those. That name sure is a mouthful," he said with a small laugh. "But anyway. They're growing beautifully in my window. Most of the plants near my house have started wilting away due to the colder season, but they're still alive and striving. It's amazing."
"Chrysanthemums shine the best during fall. They're one of the few flowers that can withstand the season, and some even survive the first week of winter." You shrugged. "Perhaps you were lucky that day. You got low maintenance flowers that will still be blooming even if most plants are dying or are dead."
Phainon laughed again. Now that you weren't in a situation where you were worried he would suddenly expose you to the public, you finally noticed how he laughed. Soft, gentle. His current attire helped, too. Like this, he looked like a normal person. Perhaps you might have passed him by in the street and wouldn't even spare him a second glance. Like this, it was difficult to believe that not only was he the best witch hunter the Council had trained, but he was also the same man who nearly caught you that night.
"I guess I was," he said. "See you around, then."
"Yeah. Goodbye."
You didn't think it was possible to have a normal conversation with him, but you just did. It was just a single interaction out of the—how many had it been, three? Four? Maybe five if you were forgetting something? It was just one interaction out of those times. But for once, you didn't have to worry if he was planning something behind those blue eyes of his. You didn't just talk, too. You laughed. For the first time since your father died, you were able to genuinely laugh with someone who wasn't a witch.
"That just goes to show how amazing you really are," you said to Aglaea after you told her about the encounter. "They completely change a person's demeanor."
She seemed to find your words amusing, as she just chuckled before tossing the fleece in the cold water. "While I appreciate the praise, crediting a person's attitude just because of their attire is a bit unfair, is it not? Perhaps he truly just wanted to be helpful."
"As helpful as a witch hunter can be." A sigh left your lips. "I don't even know why he went to help me. I don't want to be paranoid again—"
"Then don't finish that sentence. Paranoia isn't going to help you. Think of it this way—even if he was using that as a way to get information from you, you didn't give him anything."
"That's true, but that's not the only reason why it feels off that he helped me. Most people would just look at me rather than associating themselves with a witch's child." Your brows furrowed down as a thought entered your head. "Do you think he doesn't know about Mother?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Not even other witch hunters would want to be caught doing something nice to me. So, even if he doesn't think I'm a witch, I don't think he would have done a small favor if he knew about my history." You shrugged again as you put the last fleece in the water. "I doubt he doesn't. Everyone in Okhema knows. And hey, at least I got to laugh with someone for the first time. It was nice while it lasted."
"Yes, I do agree that it's nice to hear nicer stories from you."
It's nice to hear nicer stories from you. Did that mean she was starting to lessen her worries about you? If that was the case, then it was good. You were always careful with what you said around her, but your constant rants and worries must have stressed her out as well. If you were having difficulties just because of one man, then how much more did her own anxiety eat her?
You thought about how she looked like that day again. Hair messy and tangled, dark circles under her eyes… If you were able to see her like that, then how was she like when you couldn't see it?
You were still on guard whenever you saw Flame Reaver, but you tried to at least act more normal around him. If he didn't see you, then you wouldn't change your plans just to avoid him. But if he did, and he himself approached you, then you would entertain whatever he had to say. It could be a simple "hi", or "how are you doing?". You would smile and have a small talk until you would part.
It also just solidified your theory even more. Perhaps he really didn't know about your mother. Sometimes, you could see the way the merchants would raise their eyebrows whenever he greeted you with that big smile of his, but none would say a word. You couldn't tell if he noticed them and just didn't ask, or if he was unaware of it all.
You had to admit… it did feel nice that someone was treating you like a person. No scorns, no snide remarks, no backhanded comments. You noticed that the dark circles under his eyes were starting to fade, and it almost made you forget that this was the same man you were worried about. You could almost believe that he really just thought that the two of you started off on the wrong foot.
But sometimes, during the night, you would stare at your ceiling before sleeping. Just how did he see you? A witch that he was investigating? Or the florist he wrongfully accused and was trying to make up for the fact?
You envied the people who didn't have to worry about the people they were befriending. None of them would spend countless hours in the late night thinking if the person who was being nice to them didn't want them dead. They knew that, no matter who they accepted into their life, they didn't have worries like yours.
Perhaps that was why you accepted his offer to dine with you whenever he asked for it. Even if this was a trap, even if he was planning to kill you one of these days, you wanted to continue feeling like a normal person. In fact, aside from Aglaea, nobody had ever invited you to eat out before. You always sat alone or brought your food with you back home. This was the first time you ate with someone new. He took you to a booth near the window, and he was talking as if nothing was wrong.
Sometimes, he would talk about his hometown. "Aedes Elysiae specialized in growing wheat," he told you once. "In fact, my favorite place there is a wheat field. Whenever I don't want to be bothered, I'd just go to my favorite spot and stare at the sky. But Snowy always finds me."
You raised a brow. "Snowy?"
"Oh, that was my childhood dog. He was a fluffy white puppy. He's always got a smile on his face. Like this!" And he tilted his head as he grinned, followed by a soft giggle.
At that moment, you weren't sure if Snowy was a real dog or if Phainon was talking about himself. Because he certainly looked like a puppy himself.
You tried looking up Aedes Elysiae before, even asking Aglaea about it. It must be a very obscure village, because you couldn't find a single information about it in any of the books or scrolls you owned. Not even the maps showed it. You didn't doubt it existed, especially with how much he talked about it. Perhaps he was using it as an alias for his real home?
Whenever he asked you about yourself, you would always freeze up. You didn't want to talk about your childhood, especially if he didn't know your mother was a witch. But what was there to tell him? You didn't have any friends growing up because children your age were wary about you? That you lost your father to the Black Tide, and have him make a comment about how witches would pay for it?
The first time he asked you that, you sat for a while to try and come up with anything before ending up with, "Flowers have been a special interest of mine ever since I was a kid. I taught myself how to grow them"—a lie, as your mother taught you everything you knew about flowers—"and even learned that some of them have special meanings."
"Really?" he asked, almost like a curious puppy. "Then, can you tell me what chrysosheirsamon flowers mean?"
"You mean the chrysanthemums you bought from me a while back?"
"That's what I said."
You resisted a chuckle, even if it was difficult. "Well, like I told you before. Chrysanthemums thrive the best during fall, which is a season when every other flower dies. Because of that, people began to see it as a symbol for resilience. Every other flower in the garden will wilt and die, but chrysanthemums will still still be able to stand tall and beautiful, even if it's alone. At least, that's what the book I read said about it."
"I see."
But after that day, you started to get ready for any other potential questions he might ask you. A question about your childhood pet? No, you never had one. You were too scared of taking care of one and then getting heartbroken once they died. Asked if you left Okhema before? No, you were comfortable here and you had no plans of leaving. Fortunately, he never asked about your family or why you lived in a cottage at the far edges of Okhema if you lived with the Lady Aglaea. Your multiple nights of writing down your backstory would go to waste, but you'd rather that than try to get everything in your story straight.
"You… you always order the same thing whenever we eat here," you told him one time when your food arrived. Is grilled fish your favorite food?"
His eyes and smile softened. "It is. It's not like the fish back in my hometown, but it still reminds me of it. There's this sea with a beautiful view, especially during sunsets. Sometimes, I would go there for a swim and catch fish for me and my family. My dad taught me that."
You thought nothing of it at first. But when you took a bite out of your chicken, your brows furrowed down. "You don't mean that you go for a swim in the sea and then catch fish with your bare hands, do you?"
"Hey, if it works, it works. And besides, it builds skill."
And as always, he would reply with a smile and a soft giggle. The type of smile that would make you forget he was a witch hunter. Especially since you sometimes found yourself laughing alongside him. You couldn't even laugh with your fellow witches, especially since you didn't know them fully. But him? It was so easy to feel comfortable around him.
You couldn't tell when you stopped noticing his witch hunter uniform. You couldn't remember when you started calling him Phainon instead of Flame Reaver. You only realized that you stopped noticing it when you saw Phainon walking down the street one day, talking to another witch hunter. You stiffened at the sight of his companion, only for you to look at him and realize he was wearing the same thing.
At the end of the day, he still wants you and your people dead. You kept repeating that to yourself whenever you felt too comfortable around him. You were going to enjoy being treated like a normal person for now. Because it surely wasn't going to last long.
Lately, you had been sleeping in your old room in Aglaea's house. With how much work she was going to do, you found it best to be there in the morning when she needed you. You would have to wake up earlier than her so you could prepare breakfast or make a quick trip to the market if you ran out of a few things. Like right now, where you had to buy breakfast in the diner instead and a new bag of coffee beans because you ran out of coffee.
When you returned to Aglaea's house, Phainon was passing by. It wasn't unusual to see him around here early in the morning, even if you were still suspicious of him. He was most likely assigned to patrol the streets at night. You had no intentions of starting a conversation. Despite that, he still saw you. He lifted his head to your direction and waved.
"Morning," he said. His voice was hoarse, and the dark circles that were slowly fading from his face were back under his eyes.
"Morning. You look like you hadn't gotten any sleep."
He sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "Technically, I had five hours of sleep before I had to go back to work." He paused and moved closer to you. "I've been… investigating the borders of Okhema lately. I can't tell you the full details, but there's been a rise of Black Tide creatures lurking at the edges of the city."
That made sense. They must have sensed that Aglaea's threads were starting to grow weaker. Fortunately, she was able to replenish her energy and refresh the spell before any more of them would be able to break inside.
"Speaking as someone who's lived here their entire life," you said, "I wouldn't be too worried about that if I were you. Okhema's never had to worry about the Black Tide, and I don't think we would ever have to worry about it at all." Until the inevitable day that you would replace Aglaea and think about keeping the barrier up even while you were asleep, but let's not talk about that right now.
"It's an interesting thing if you ask me," he said. "There's a lot of cities and villages that have fallen to the Black Tide. It's impressive how Okhema's still holding up to the point where it can accept refugees."
"I guess you're right." You held back a smirk and the retorts that you thought of. Yeah, how interesting that something was holding corrupted magic back. Surely, magic couldn't be the cause? Witches wanted the Black Tide to corrupt people, after all. Why would a witch protect Okhema?
"That just gives me more reason to want to investigate it. If the Black Tide reaches Okhema, so many people would lose their lives. I guess that means I should go back to work."
"Hey, wait," you said before he could leave. "Do you want my coffee?"
"Me?" He pointed a finger at himself. "It's fine. I think you need it more than I do. Especially with the amount of work you and Lady Aglaea are going to be doing."
"It's fine, I can make my own. Besides, you look like you might pass out soon. You don't want that to happen while you're in the forest, do you?"
The corners of his lips curled up. "Depends, will you be there to catch me like how I caught you?"
You rolled your eyes. "Never mind, forget I said anything. Collapse for all I care."
"Hey, come on, I was joking!" And like the numerous times you've spent with him, the two of you shared a laugh. His gaze softened as he took one of the coffee from your hands. "This'll definitely help, thank you. You have a good day, alright?"
"You, too."
You went back to Aglaea's house and set the dining table. Just in time, as she had just woken up as well. While she sat down to start eating, you made your own coffee first before joining her. Just as you were about to take a spoonful of your yogurt with honey and nuts, you noticed her staring at you from the corner of your eye. Sure enough, when you faced her, her arms were on the table as she held her hands together, and her head was tilted to the side.
"Is… is something wrong?" you asked.
"Nothing. It's just that… you've been spending more time with that witch hunter boy lately." A faint laugh left her. "You truly take things to an extreme, don't you? When I said to not be paranoid around him, I didn't think it would mean that he would start becoming a regular part of your life."
A scoff left your lips. "You make it sound like I've met someone life changing. I'm just being polite."
"Of course, of course. Still, it's nice to know that you have a friend you feel comfortable with."
You almost choked on that. "Friend? Now you're being ridiculous and too generous. We're simply two acquaintances who eat together and nothing more. Besides, he's a witch hunter. He's the last person I would want to consider my friend."
She sighed, but the smile on her face didn't fade. "I will be the first person to tell you that it is worrying you're spending a lot of time with a witch hunter, but I don't think I can recall a time when you're this close to anyone that isn't a teacher."
You placed your bowl of yogurt down, and your grip on the spoon tightened. How could you even begin to explain what you were feeling right now? Sure, Aglaea was a witch like you, but no one ever looked her way and spat on her feet because she could be cursed. If anything, she was one of, if not the, most revered people in the city. Maybe even more than the Council. Everyone always sung her praises about her beauty and elegance.
"It's… complicated," you said. "But I guess that means I should be on guard again. I really don't want to fall off into the other extreme end this time."
"It's good to be wary without being paranoid. However, don't let me stop you from befriending him. Especially since I notice that your eyes light up whenever you two have conversations outside of my shop."
If Aglaea told you that a year ago, you were certain you would have collapsed on the spot. Even right now, your cheeks felt warm at the thought of Aglaea noticing a physical difference after your conversations with Phainon. However, you pushed all of it down. Your thoughts were a mess right now, and thinking about it more would make it messier. There was one part that was happy he was treating you like an equal. Another part was clashing against that thought and knew he still saw you as lesser. A small voice in your head believed that Phainon didn't know about your mother and that his actions were all innocent, while a voice louder than that one was screaming that this was all a trap and he knew what you were.
Before you could continue spiraling into a headache, Aglaea was already done with her breakfast and clapped her hands. "Enough idle chatter for now. Winter is coming soon, and the weather is only going to get colder from here on out. We still have a few scarves and robes we need to finish making. Once we're done, deliver them as usual. Alright?"
You finished your own breakfast and nodded. "Alright."
Aglaea sure is amazing. You could repeat that thought every single day and it you would never get sick of it. Her queue was already full for the rest of the month, maybe even for the rest of the year, but she still found some time to make warm clothes for the people that needed it. She was willing to set her customers aside for those who were suffering.
It was almost sundown when the two of you finished, though you didn't mind having to do it during the later hours. It was colder at night, which meant people who didn't have warmer clothes already needed it more. Which then meant they would be staying in one place to keep themselves warm.
This included the children running in the streets that "stole" your coin purse—they didn't know that you would intentionally hang it in a place that was easy to snatch—the refugees from other cities that still resided near the Marmoreal Temple, and those that, like you, lived at the edge of Okhema that they rarely entered the main city. It took a while to go around, and by the time you were almost done, it was almost late into the night.
Fortunately, you had one house left to visit. Another house at the far corner of Okhema. And fittingly, another witch lived there. You weren't close with him, but you had seen him a few times in the city before. And this wouldn't be your first time going to his home so you could provide him with something, whether it was food or clothes.
As soon as you reached his gate, you immediately stopped in your tracks. The corruption in the area… It felt strong. Stronger than the last time you encountered it. But that was impossible, Aglaea's threads were still here. A quick pinch of the air proved that. You couldn't even chalk this up to paranoia. The presence was strong, and it was nearby.
Your eyes widened as your heart started beating faster, and you ran to his front door. "Damionis? It's Lady Aglaea's kid. Can I come in?" you asked as you knocked.
Just as your knuckles made contact with the wood, a cold chill traveled down your spine, and every hair in your arms stood taller than a line. It was ajar. It was ajar. It was ajar.
It didn't ease the anxiety in your chest. If anything, it only made it worse. Was he okay? Was he inside his home? Aglaea's protection still covered his house, so that meant he should still be fine, right? Maybe the corruption was outside of the barrier and not inside. After all, how could the Black Tide enter while Aglaea was still doing her hardest to keep it up and strong?
You should run. You needed to run. His door was open, and the Black Tide's presence was so strong that even those not sensitive to magic might be able to feel it. If this was a case where Aglaea's barrier was becoming weaker to the point where, even if it was still around the Black Tide might be able to penetrate it, then that meant you would have to take her place soon. You needed to run.
You gripped the basket tighter as you stepped back. "I- I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."
"Sorry…"
Your eyes widened. Damionis' voice. A sigh left your lips, and slight relief filled your veins. He was inside his house. Maybe you could still help him out.
"Damionis? You in there? I'm coming in!"
"Coming in…"
The door opened. You reached for your basket, ready to give him the warm clothes Aglaea had made. But as the door opened and Damionis stepped outside, he stumbled down, falling to his knees. And when he pushed himself up, that was when you finally saw them. Black markings were all around his body, and his glowed in an eerie orange, almost glow, light. It pulsated, as if it was a heart that was still pumping.
And worst of all, red squares were covering half of his face, already eaten away his left eye.
"E- Damionis?" You took another step back. "What- what happened to you?"
"Happened… to you…" He screamed, which slowly turned into a roar so loud you had to cover your ears. For a brief second, he gasped, and the squares on his face dissolved. One of his hands reached out to you, but the other one grabbed it and pushed it down.
"R- Run… run, run, run! Let me- let me die here… run before I can…"
Another roar. This time, you didn't bother covering your ears. You ran out of his property, not bothering to remove your cloak that got caught between his gate. If his earlier roars didn't attract anyone's attention yet, then you were certain that him breaking his fence just to chase after you at least alerted the nearest house. And you prayed to all twelve gods above that the one who noticed it wouldn't be a witch hunter. It didn't matter if it was Zagreus or Nikador. You folded your hands together, almost begging that it would be a witch. You even prayed to Mnestia that Aglaea would somehow find you and appear with a method to cure Damionis.
But not a witch hunter. Anyone but a witch hunter. If he was going to die, then not like that. Not at their hands.
Maybe you could use magic. Maybe if you were smart about this, you could hold him down and use your own magic to clear his mind.
You turned around to see just how close he was, and you immediately regretted your decision to do so. It wasn't Damionis behind you anymore. Rather, it was something else. Something that you had only seen outside of Okhema, when either Aglaea or Professor Anaxa was teaching how attack and defend yourself against them. Damionis was long gone now, and in his place was a Black Tide creature.
Damionis raised his arms, now nothing but sharp blades, in the air, and you gritted your teeth. No, you couldn't use magic right now. It would be too risky. You needed to grab something to parry the blade.
Just as you were about to jump to your right, something ran past you. A flash of black and purple, followed by the sound of a blade clanging against another blade. A witch hunter stood in front of you, their large sword clashed against Damionis' corrupted arms. The witch hunter, however, was stronger. With a grunt of effort, they were able to slash their blade forward, cutting Damionis in the middle.
Your hands clenched into fists, and you looked away. Hopefully… hopefully, he didn't feel that in his final state.
"Are you okay?"
You lifted your head and turned to the witch hunter in front of you. They removed their golden mask and hood, letting you see Phainon's furrowed brows and frown on his face. "You okay?" he repeated. "That thing didn't hurt you, did it? What happened?"
You shook your head. "I'm- I'm okay. Lady Aglaea just asked me to pass around warm clothes for everyone, and- and I reached Damionis' house and… wait, what are you doing here?"
"Do you remember what I told you this morning and I was investigating Okhema's borders? I've sensed the corruption since this evening, and I've been killing as much Black Tide creatures as I could to try and lessen it." A scoff left his lips, and you could see his hand tightening around his sword. "I knew I should have been faster when I heard that roar for the first time. If I wasn't, I would have been too late and you would—get down!"
Phainon pushed you away from your current spot, and the two of you fell to the ground. Your head landed on his chest, and you found yourself trapped between his arms as he broke your fall. Your body still burned in pain, even when he helped you sit up, but you knew you would have been in a worse situation if he didn't catch you.
"Thank you," you muttered. "That fall sounded painful. Are you—"
You wanted to run. Wanted to get up and leave him behind. But you didn't. Couldn't. Your legs were frozen, breath stuck in your throat. The lack of a cloak covering you didn't help the sudden cold, either.
It was like your brain was just suddenly realizing what you were seeing. Flame Reaver slowly stood in front of you, wearing his witch hunter uniform again. And just like that night, his eyes were sharp and narrowed down, the light gone from his eyes again. You weren't the source or recipient of his anger, at least not yet, but you could still feel the pure hatred from his murderous glare.
"These wretched witches only know how to destroy and take from everyone," he growled as he picked up his sword from the ground. In front of him, Damionis was slowly standing up, legs lowered to a stance as if ready to strike him any time. "I don't know who cursed you with corruption, but I can assure you that I will end them with my blade and send them to Thanatos' eternal flames of damnation. And… I'm sorry that it has to end like this."
At that moment, you couldn't look. Not at Flame Reaver, not at Damionis, not at the people who had stepped out of their homes to see what was going on. You could only stare at the ground beneath you, feeling your heart and stomach twist. If you could, you would have thrown up. But even if bile would rise in your throat right now, you didn't know if you would be able to take it out of your body or if you would swallow it back down.
You wanted to scream at him that Damionis was a witch. That nobody cursed him, and that his corruption was a side effect of residual magic that witches couldn't cleanse because people were killing them left and right. You wanted to tell him that his title as Flame Reaver was useless if he couldn't tell something like that and even prayed for Damionis to receive eternal rest. And most of all, you wanted to tell him that he was basically condemning Aglaea, the woman who was the reason why the Black Tide was only starting to affect Okhema now and not years ago.
You had reminded yourself that, at the end of the day, Flame Reaver was a witch hunter. The only reasons why he was kind to you was either because he didn't know your history or because he was using his kindness as a means to lure you in for a confession. And yet, hearing him say that out loud…
Perhaps you were an idiot for feeling human around a witch hunter.
Of course you were an idiot. How many pleasant interactions did you two actually have? Pleasant interactions wouldn't be enough to change the truth. They never were.
You didn't look up until you felt a hand on your shoulder. Flame Reaver knelt down in front of you. Behind him, you could see what remained of Damionis slowly turn into smaller squares before fading away. More witch hunters started approaching, but you didn't bother listening to what they were saying.
"Hey," he whispered, thumb rubbing your cheek. "Did you know him?"
"Vaguely." Not as much as you wanted. Which perfectly described how you felt with every witch the Council and witch hunters had killed. "I- I don't talk to him much outside of the city… and- and like I said. I only came to his house because Lady Aglaea told me to hand out warmer clothing to people who needed it, and- and his house was my last stop, and…"
You took a sharp inhale as a few tears finally fell down your eyes. You were crying, and it wasn't even because you lost someone you knew. Sure, it also pained you because you didn't get to know him properly, but that wasn't the main reason, no. Rather, Flame Reaver's words earlier hurt. You could feel the fire in them, and it burned you on the inside.
And it was even more painful when he looked at you like that. With his brows furrowed down, lips opening and closing as if debating what to say, and the softest and brightest blue eyes not leaving your gaze.
Why was he looking at you like this? Why was he looking at you in such confusion? How could eyes that reflected a sunny and warm sky also carry the fiery rage of eternal damnation?
"It's okay," he whispered. "It's- it's okay. Here, let me help you up again."
"It's fine." Even if your legs were shaking, you pushed yourself up.
A crowd was forming now. You could hear people were talking about how a Black Tide creature managed to enter Okhema, and no doubt they were twisting the tale to make it worse than it seemed. You grabbed your cloak and—dammit. That was right. Your cloak got caught in Damionis' gate and you didn't bother getting it back or else you would have been caught.
"Here." He removed his own cloak and wrapped it around you. It was warm, but not in the same way that Aglaea's works kept you warm. Rather, you could still feel he warmth of his body on it, alongside a faint scent of bulrush and… ashes. "It's a little tattered, but it'll keep you warm."
Before you could thank him, he grabbed the hood and pulled it up, covering your head completely. You were about to say your thanks, but the crowd parted as someone stepped inside. Even when he stood in front of you, you were still able to see Lygus walk to the spot where Damionis disappeared. His hands remained behind his back, and a deep sigh left his lips.
"Corruption has entered Okhema," he said as he scanned the crowd, making you step back even more. "This is what happens when we let witches run amok without punishment. Our own people are turning into monsters of their creation, and they feel no remorse."
You bit your tongue, this time literally, as you resisted the urge to talk back. If he knew that Damionis was a witch, he wouldn't be making these sentiments. Instead, he would probably be rejoicing, saying that a witch was finally facing the consequences of their actions and that this should be a sign of repentance.
"Our witch hunters will be increasing security for tonight," he continued. "We will be implementing a stricter curfew for the rest of the Month of Weaving. Anyone found outside of their homes by Curtain-Fall Hour will be taken into the Marmoreal Temple for questioning. And if we find any witches… pray that the gods you have chosen to abandon will not abandon you."
You heard Lygus talk to the witch hunters with him, but you didn't bother listening to what they said. Instead, you stayed where you were and waited for all of them to part. Once they were gone, only then did you let the sigh of relief leave your lips.
"Let me walk you home," said as he approached you again. "It's dangerous right now. Let me at least make sure that you make it back to Lady Aglaea safely."
You wanted to decline, but you knew that wasn't the right choice between two terrible options. You either walk with him, or worry about witch hunters who were extra alert and no doubt would interrogate any lone person they saw.
So instead, you grabbed the hood of the cloak and nodded. "Okay… thank you."
"Of course."
You kept your head low as you walked back to Aglaea's house. Once or twice, you saw a witch hunter approach you from the corner of your eyes. But every time you tensed up, Phainon would place his arms you and pull you closer to his side. You couldn't see his face from under the hood, but his hold on you was firm. You thought he was going to take you to the Marmoreal Temple, and you held your breath each time you found a familiar path that would lead to it. But he never did. He just held you.
When Aglaea's home came into view, you stopped in your tracks. No doubt she was using her magic right now. While you didn't worry about Phainon being near Aglaea's house during the morning, it was a different discussion if she was actively using it.
"I can walk by myself now," you whispered. "Thanks."
"Of course. And… and I'm sorry about earlier. You shouldn't have seen that. I'm sorry."
You shook your head. "It's fine. It's not my first time seeing a Dark Tide creation die. And I'm sure it won't be the last."
"That's not what I- never mind. Take care of yourself, alright? There are people out there who care about you and would lose sleep if something happens to you."
Your grip on your cloak tightened. Right. Lady Aglaea must have at least seen what was going on from her window. You were so focused on your own worries and pointless feeling of betrayal that you had forgotten about her. "You're right. I should at least let Lady Aglaea know I'm okay. Thanks again for walking me."
"Right. Sure."
You turned around and—
"I'm glad you're feeling better around me."
Your brows furrowed down as you faced him again. "Excuse me?"
"I- I said I'm glad you're feeling better around me."
"What do you mean? Where is this coming from?"
"Nothing. It's just that… I remembered how you wouldn't even look at my direction when we used to talk back then. And it makes me happy knowing you've warmed up to me, you know? It's like… I can be someone you can trust." It was faint and unlike him, but there was a small and barely noticeable smile on his lips as his brows raised a little. "Well, at least I hope can become someone you can trust."
That was impossible, and you knew that. It didn't matter how close the two of you would become, or if he would turn from an acquaintance you regularly ate with to someone you could call a friend. The mere fact that he was a witch hunter and you were a witch meant that, no matter what would happen, you could never trust him. Whether as Phainon or as the Flame Reaver.
And yet…
"I also hope you can become someone I trust," you replied.
Phainon sighed. He almost sounded relieved. "Well, goodnight. For- for real this time. I don't have anything else to say. Goodnight."
You waited for Phainon to be out of sight before you continued walking. When you opened the door to Aglaea's shop, darkness wasn't what greeted you. Rather, it was none other than Aglaea herself. Her eyes were wide, and her steps were a bit faster than usual as she approached you.
You pressed a palm on the door, adding numerous layers of locks and magic. "Aglaea! A- Are you alright? Did anything happen to you?"
"I caught wind of the gossip on the street," she said as she placed her hands on your shoulder. "Enough about me. How are you? They didn't hurt you, did they?"
You shook your head. "No, I- I'm fine. Don't think about me for now. Please, tell me how you are first. Your threads still covered every inch of Okhema, but the Black Tide somehow reached Damionis and corrupted him. Please, please, tell me if you're okay, Aglaea. There shouldn't be corruption while you're still protecting everyone, but somehow there is one now."
Aglaea looked down. She grabbed your hand, leading you to the living room before sitting you down. It was rare to see her like this. Usually, even if she didn't want to answer your questions, she would either tell you directly that she couldn't answer it or she would deflect with a different answer. But right now, she was quiet as she stared at her hands, watching as her golden threads appeared between them.
"Do you remember the time you asked me why I finished Phainon's clothes so early when I still had an extra month left?" she whispered.
"You said that your queue wasn't that long and you wanted to rest during the Month of Freedom was well," you replied, keeping your voice as low as hers or else you would shatter the fragile silence between you both. "That… that was just an excuse, right?"
"I can tell that my hold on Okhema has been weakening lately. The barriers are faltering, corruption is leaking in. Since the Month of Weaving was close during that time, I didn't want to alert you. So instead, I finished all of his clothes early so he has no excuse to be near the shop. And with his clothes done, I'll be able to rest just until I can replenish my energy. But it seems like it wasn't enough. I won't be able to hold the barrier for longer."
"Why- why didn't you tell me? It would have spared you the troubles!"
"You were already worried that a witch hunter was on your tail. If I told you that, then you'll insist on taking my place. But I can't let you do that. Not with your anxieties still bothering you."
Your arms fell to your side as your eyes widened. This was your fault. If you just hadn't been too paranoid around Flame Reaver, if you weren't so reckless that you would be worrying about him finding you out, then Aglaea wouldn't have to worry about you. You were so focused on your own fears that you forgot she was thinking about your every move as well.
"That means I'm not ready to take your place, then." Your earlier tears returned, and you covered your face with your hands. "Your magic is growing weaker by the minute, and… and I'm still not ready to replace you… "
"Oh, darling. Come here."
When she opened her arms, you didn't hesitate to return her hug. Like what you always did when you were a child, you would bury your face in her chest while she hummed a soft melody under your breath, and the fire crackling in the hearth the only thing breaking the quiet.
"I'm so sorry," you whispered. "You're doing your best to protect everyone, and- and here I am, thinking about myself."
"Don't feel bad for doing so. You need to prioritize yourself, too."
"But- but your magic… If the day comes when you can't even squeeze out a single gold thread anymore, I won't be ready to replace you. How can I protect everyone here when I don't even know if I'm protecting myself properly?"
"That day will not be arriving for a long time. As long as I still stand and cast spells, I can protect Okhema." She sighed and patted your head. "But if it makes you feel better… Like I told you before, even I wasn't ready to replace my former teacher. It's a daunting task, so please know that everything you're feeling right now is normal. You just have to do the task once the day arrives."
"I wish I didn't have to… I'm sure cleansing the Black Tide would have been easier than forcing you to continue this thankless job."
"Believe me, there are people out there who are grateful, even if the entire city won't appreciate you." She paused and sat taller. "Whatever happened to your cloak? Or is that even yours?"
"My…" You looked at where she was staring at, and your eyes widened. "Wait this isn't mine! This is…"
Phainon's. Crap. You were inside Aglaea's house. If you would return this to him now, then no doubt he would be able to sense even the faintest of magic that clung on to this. You would have to do a lot of cleaning first just to get rid of its presence.
You took it off your shoulders and held it in front of you. It was large, and the ends were torn and tattered. There were multiple patches that sealed what looked like burn marks, and the part that connected the hood to the cape was crudely stitched together. Almost as if he sewed it in for the sake of having the pieces be connected.
"It's old," you muttered.
Aglaea held it up as well. "Would you like me to fix it?"
"No. It's already a problem that I accidentally brought it with me. I wonder if he did this on purpose or…"
"I hope I can be someone you trust," Phainon had told you earlier.
You shook your head. "Or maybe he was just being nice."
That thought would never even cross your mind before, especially when you two first met. And it might be cruel, but you would have burned the cloak. The idea was still tempting, and you almost voiced that suggestion. But as you stared at the stitch on the hood, you couldn't help but think of Phainon in the middle of the night, trying to think of the easiest way to fix his ruined garment, and then deciding that if a haphazard stitch worked, then it was better to leave it like that than to leave it ruined.
An idea almost entered your head. But at the same time, you remembered how he looked when he killed Damionis, the words that left his lips and reminded you of how different you two were.
Your grip on it tightened. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"
"What makes you say?"
"I… I'm thinking of making him a new one when I was just scared of him killing me earlier."
You thought Aglaea would be unamused with the idea. After all, why on earth would she use her magic or teach you how to make a cloak for a witch hunter of all people? And didn't he just condemn you all to eternal damnation earlier? Why on earth were you thinking of making something from scratch for him? You could just find one of Aglaea's premade cloaks and say it was a gift from her, and then it would be done.
Aglaea, however, smiled. Her blue and green eyes lit up a little as her brows slightly raised and lips relaxed. "Would you like me to teach you how?"
You shook your head. "No… I… I don't know. Maybe no. Not yet. I'm not sure."
"Well, if you change your mind, you can always ask me anytime."
"Now I'm sure I'm being ridiculous."
"You're opening up your heart to someone for the first time after keeping it locked up for so long." She grabbed Phainon's cloak and rolled it in her hands, perhaps to wash it later. "New experiences are always intimidating and make us worry we'll pick the wrong choice."
"Am I picking the wrong choice, then?" You leaned your back against the couch and wrapped your arms around yourself. "What's the point of opening up my heart if it's going to get me killed someday? Why couldn't it have opened up to anyone else? Someone who I won't have to worry about becoming my executioner in the future?"
Your vision was starting to blur. Great, just great. You were crying again. You didn't want to cry right now, especially not to some guy you just met less than half a year ago.
You always feared every witch hunter and member of the Council finding you out someday and burning you alive. But at the thought of Phainon being the one to do that… it wasn't just fear that coiled around your heart. It was something stronger than that. You didn't know what that exact feeling was just yet. After all, you two weren't even friends. How could he affect you this much?
As you wiped your tears, you stood up. " Why am I feeling this way?"
"Like I said; you're opening up your heart for the first time after keeping it locked up for so long. As for why you opened it to a witch hunter… I'm afraid I can't say for certain. Perhaps you'll understand in the future." She pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and smiled. "Get some sleep, love. It's late at night, and you've had an exhausting day. Some rest will help your head.
You nodded as you returned to your room. Once you were on your bed, you rolled to your side and stared at your closed curtains. For a moment, in the darkness, you saw a flash of dull blue, shooting you a cold and hard glare while its owner held a large sword. In the next, those same blue eyes softened and lit up, and you could see a smile that matched their gentle gaze.
You sighed and shut your eyes. Aglaea was right, you needed to sleep. By morning, your mind would clear up, and you would chide yourself for being ridiculous and having these thoughts about a witch hunter.
V. I’ve Lost My Faith and Myself All The Same
Back then, when the Black Tide wasn't as bad as it was right now, you always heard about other cities waging war with one another during the Month of Strife. In fact, the now-fallen Castrum Kremnos was one of those cities whose bloodlust would never be satiated. At least you could always think to yourself that Okhema would never be one of those places that would just mindlessly declare war as if it was a hobby. Everyone in the Holy City wanted to preserve everything and everyone as much as possible, after all. You could just ignore the gossip and talks about war and just enjoy the fact that winter was here, and that it was a fair trade to replace your garden in exchange for the beautiful snow.
That was when you were younger. Now, the Month of Strife was your least favorite month.
Now that the Calamity Season was here, you would be living with Aglaea again just until the weather would become warmer and spring would arrive. Though sometimes, you would return to your cottage and sleep there instead. Aglaea's house was near Kephale Plaza, which meant that you would be hearing the executions every night. Prisoners or witches that weren't killed months before all had their death days scheduled for this month, and it would only stop once the Month of Mourning would finally come.
Every dinner, the smell of burning hair and flesh would make you lose your appetite and throw up. You would lose your appetite and skip dinner, sometimes even breakfast if, somehow, the smell still hadn't faded away. Perhaps it was the amount of people they started burning together at the same time, or perhaps your body just refused to forget the smell, but you couldn't escape it even in the Marmoreal Diner.
You sighed as you leaned back on your seat, rubbing your temples. You were hungry, and you didn't eat anything but bread or cheese and crackers for almost three days now. But could you even eat anything that would fill your stomach without thinking that you might be eating a person?
"Hey." When you lifted your head, Phainon stood next to your booth and waved. For a second, you thought he was wearing his uniform. But when you blinked, you realized it was just one of the black clothes Aglaea made.
"Hey," you greeted back.
"Do you… mind if I sit here?"
You shook your head. This was where the two of you ate together, anyway. It would be rude if you declined. He sat in front of you and sighed.
"You look… awful," he said with a small chuckle, but his smile immediately faded away. "S- Seriously. Are you alright?"
"No. I just… I'm just hungry. I haven't been eating properly lately."
"I… I understand. Lady Aglaea's house is near the…" He shook his head and cleared his throat. "If you're feeling hungry but can't stomach meat, then might I suggest a salad?"
"I don't know if that'd be enough to make me full, but if you suggest, then sure. I guess I'll have a salad as well."
When the Cery salad arrived, you were doubting if it could really satiate your hunger. After all, it was just a bunch of leaves and croutons. But when you finished the bowl, you were surprised at how satisfied you felt. Sure, you were still a little hungry, but you weren't as hungry as you thought you'd be. If you truly still wanted to eat something, then maybe the cheese and crackers you had been eating for days now would help. Even if you were sick of them.
"I'm surprised that actually hit the spot," you said as you finished your glass of water.
"Hey, don't underestimate how much a salad can help," Phainon replied, before a sigh left his lips. "It's what I would eat whenever the smell of meat just feels… overwhelming. Sometimes, I would skip eating meat for so many months and just eat nothing but vegetables."
A small hum left your lips. You remembered wondering about that as a child. You would see the witch hunters dining together either in the Marmoreal Diner or any other tavern, eating meat by the bone and laughing as they got drunk together. And you always felt resentful, because you would sometimes not eat the delicious food Aglaea would cook for you because you couldn't stomach anything.
As always, he would walk you back to Aglaea's house. And as always, you would stop before he could even reach the front door. "Thank you. I thought my trip to the diner would have been a waste, but I'm glad"—I'm glad you were there—"that I was able to eat something."
"Of course." Phainon nodded. "And… if you can, please send Lady Aglaea my thanks. For the new clothes, I mean. It's the first time I was able to change into something else that didn't smell like ashes."
"I'll let her know."
And when you went back inside, you palmed your face and gritted your teeth. His cloak. You forgot to return his cloak again.
That night, when you couldn't sleep, you stared at the cloak folded neatly on your nightstand. The thought of making him a new one returned to your head again, but another voice pushed it down and silenced any more thoughts about it. Would making him a new one really be worth it when, right now, he contributed to innocent people, your people, being burned to death?
Whenever the noise outside grew stronger, a part of you was always tempted to sneak out of the house and just return to your cottage. Loud didn't even begin to describe how much it hurt your ears. It didn't matter if it was the angry mob yelling curses or the screams of the innocent. They always reminded you of that night.
It was like you were there again, kneeling on the ground as you watched your mother burn. She didn't even try to fight back. She just stared at you, tears falling down her empty eyes, as the fire devoured her alive. What did she tell you that night? Did she even say anything? Why could you never remember how her mouth moved? Was she smiling? Crying? Praying?
"Mother, please tell me what you're saying." You were also crying now, and you couldn't stop the sobs from leaving you. "Mother, don't- don't leave me like this… not you, too."
Your mother opened her mouth… and screamed. A scream that tore through your ears and pierced your chest. Covering your ears didn't help; it only made her screams louder. As if her voice was coming from your brain and not from her.
"Mother!"
You sat up from your bed and gasped. It was a cold winter night, but sweat was trickling down your forehead. The fire in your hearth crackled, but the one from the stake outside was still louder. And of course, the scream. Or screams, as it sounded like they were killing people at the same time again. Even when you hid under your pillows, it still didn't block the noise out.
Hopefully, Aglaea was sleeping peacefully in her room. Hopefully, unlike you, she wasn't going crazy from hearing so many people die while even more people celebrate.
A sigh left your lips as you stood up. It wasn't like you could sleep now, anyway. You might as well go for a walk and maybe return to your cottage. You grabbed your cloak and left a note on Aglaea's table. That way, she wouldn't be worried if she wouldn't find you in the morning.
The crowd was large when you went outside; you could see the end of it from all the way here. Perhaps it was because they were killing more than one person at the same time, and so more people were watching as well. The flames were large, and you could see them from here. You pulled your hood up before one could notice you and turned around.
But… morbid curiosity gnawed at your stomach. Wouldn't it be interesting to see who was dying? And even if you shook that thought away, it still held on to your head, repeating it. It was almost as if you could hear its hoarse voice whispering in your ears. It would be futile if you went there, even if it was just because you were curious. If it was a witch you knew, you would resent the Council for killing more of your people. If it wasn't, you would still resent them for their negligence. And yet, a part of you still wanted to entertain that thought.
Regardless of what you would have picked, it didn't matter. A pair of footsteps were approaching you. Before you could take a step away, someone called your name. A voice that had once been the source of your nightmares.
"It seems like Aglaea has a habit of taking in mongrels," Caenis said, venom dripping from her tone.
Your brows furrowed down, but you didn't linger on that thought. Instead, you gave her a respectful bow. "Good evening, Elder Caenis."
"A good evening indeed. I didn't expect you to come out." She placed a hand on her hips as her eyes narrowed to a cold glare. It was the same glare she gave you when your mother had convinced the Council of Elders you were an innocent child, but she didn't believe a single word.
You still remember what she told you when she found out Aglaea took you in. "If it weren't for that woman, you wouldn't be here standing. You would be burning in Thanatos' eternal flames with your mother."
And she was right. It was only because of Aglaea that you were still alive. You would have been living in the streets, either taken advantage of or die from the Council's hand anyway. People might still be suspicious of you, but just hearing someone refer to you as "Lady Aglaea's kid" was enough to silence them.
Caenis wasn't one of those people. But fortunately, she was in the minority who couldn't actually do anything about it.
"I don't want to be too much of a bother, Elder Caenis," you said. "I'm not here to cause trouble; I just went out for a walk."
"A walk where? How can I be sure you're not going to secretly going to commune with the devils of the Black Tide?"
"Because I'll make sure that's not going to happen."
Phainon… Your eyes widened when he approached you both. His Flame Reaver mask made you jump up at first, but you still let out a small sigh of relief when you saw him.
He removed his mask from his face, letting you see his brows furrow down as he shot Caenis a glare. "She's not bothering you, is she?"
Caenis scoffed. "Flame Reaver. What are you doing here now? Aren't you supposed to be with Lygus and watching over the executions?"
"Forgive me for moving from my post and interrupting then, Elder Caenis." His eyes softened as he met your gaze. "Well, I saw my friend here. And didn't you hear me? I'll watch over them and make sure no communing with the Black Tide devils or witchcraft would happen. Not while I'm here."
If it was possible, Caenis' glare hardened even more. You saw the way her hands balled into fists as she scoffed. "Forget it. If you want to deal with this brat, then be my guest. And you." She pointed a finger at you. "If anything happens to him, don't bother showing yourself if you still want to live."
Even when she left you both alone, you could still hear her muttering curses under her breath. In the past, her glares and harsh words always made chills run down your spine, even if the winter night was freezing already. But when Phainon placed his arm around your form, pulling you away from her and close to him, everything felt… warmer. If it weren't for the fact that there was still an execution nearby, you would have closed your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in his embrace.
"I'd say don't mind her," he said, "but you've probably been trying to do that for years now."
"You've no idea." When you sighed, fog formed in front of your face. "Thanks for saving me back there."
"Of course. What kind of friend would I be if I left you hanging?"
Friend. He used the same word earlier when he saved your skin from Caenis. You were too focused on the fact that you almost got dragged to the Marmoreal Temple to notice it the first time. Did he even mean it when he said that, or did he just say it so Caenis would leave you alone?
"If you don't mind me asking," he continued, "why are you out? You don't have to answer if you don't want to. I'm just curious. And, well, maybe nosy."
"Couldn't sleep properly, so I thought of going for a walk." You tried to turn to where the pyre was again, but you immediately turned your head away before you could see more. "Okhema's actually not bad during winter nights. It's a nice time for a walk, but the curfew and witch hunters on patrol makes it a little difficult for me to enjoy it."
"I see." He placed his free hand on his nape and cleared his throat. "If you're having difficulty sleeping, then may I suggest a place where you and I can go to? It's got this great view of the stars, and the grass is mostly frost rather than snow, so it wouldn't be too cold."
Somehow, you managed a smile. "That's impressive. Even I don't know a great view like that."
Mostly because you never had the time to explore anything outside of Okhema. The only times you went out of the city, and by extension Aglaea's threads, was whenever Professor Anaxa took you out to practice your magic better. But other than that, you couldn't really explore the city or its exterior as much. Witch hunters might find your nightly rendezvous suspicious, and you would be dealing with Black Tide creations so much that you wouldn't be able to appreciate your surroundings.
He returned your smile with a laugh of his own. "Well, it is a little walk away from here, maybe for fifteen minutes or less. But if you're worried about any monsters or dangers, I can assure you. The walk there is safe. And if we do bump into anything, I'll protect you."
A fifteen minute walk… it was already away from Aglaea's protections. And if Phainon was planning to do anything, then you would be too far from her to call for help. This wasn't even paranoia; he was leading you to an obvious trap.
"I don't know," you said. "Fifteen minutes sounds like it would be long. I'm not sure if it would be safe."
"It will, I promise. I'll keep you safe." He placed his hand on his chest as his face softened. His brows raised a little, and though the smile on his face faded, he looked more relaxed like this. "Trust me. I won't let anyone hurt you. You've… become important to me."
You looked down, avoiding his gaze. It was so hard to believe in that when you knew he would hurt you if he knew what you were. If a Black Tide creature were to appear, you knew you wouldn't be able to stop yourself this time. Either the situation would call for it or your instincts would kick in, but you would have to use magic. And once Phainon would see that…
"I…" I don't trust you. I don't think I'll ever trust you. And I know for a fact that you don't trust me, either. "Will it just be you and me?"
Phainon's smile was a soft one, unlike his usual wide and goofy grins that would make you laugh. "You're the only person that I've shown this place to."
"Wow, I feel honored."
"You should be." And there it was, his usual goofy grin on his face. "I'm guessing that's a yes?"
You didn't know why you found yourself nodding and returning his smile, when this could lead you to your very death. And if you die, Aglaea would have to continue carrying the burden of protecting Okhema for more years and may not be able to train a new witch to take her place.
If you didn't notice the cold before, then it definitely hit you now. If you die, no one will be able to help ease Aglaea's burden. Say you change your mind. Tell him no and go back to sleep.
But before you could speak, Phainon had already nodded and stretched his hand out to you. "Allow me to lead the way, then."
Aglaea's words echoed in your head again. You were opening up your heart to someone new after keeping it locked up for so long. And you still didn't know why it opened up to a witch hunter of all people. You wanted to trust him a little, even if you still had your doubts.
Maybe… maybe you should go with him. Maybe you won't regret this. Maybe you should trust him, even if not wholeheartedly.
"Wait here a second," you said. "Let me just grab something inside."
You went back in the house, wrestling with your doubts again and resisting the urge to go back to bed, and grabbed his cloak from your nightstand. Once you were back outside, you passed it back to him. "I forgot to return it to you that night. But thank you."
You had washed this cloak several times just to make sure that not a single spot of magic clung to the fabric. Even so, your stomach still twisted when Phainon's hands brushed against yours as he took it from you. If he felt anything, he didn't say. Instead, he just put it on and smiled.
"I almost forgot about this old thing," he said. "I was wondering why it's been cold lately."
"Sorry about that again."
"It's just an old cloak. It's fine. Besides, it gave me an excuse to wear Lady Aglaea's clothes again for a change. They're definitely better than a tattered piece of cloth." He stretched his hand again. When you accepted, he locked his gloved fingers with yours. "Let's go, then."
Phainon's steps were slow as he led the way, but something told you he was excited. Perhaps it was the way you could see his subtle smile even though his back was facing you. Or maybe it was the way his hand would squeeze yours. And whenever he did, he would turn around and show you that wide grin you had associated with him, followed by a childish giggle. It was cute, really.
You knew you were out of Okhema when the air thinned. It was a little colder, as if Aglaea's threads was the reason why the city was warmer than it was supposed to be, and the winds picked up a little as you continued walking up a small mountainside. The entire time, Phainon never let go of you. Once or twice, he would turn around to check how you were doing. When it got even colder, he pulled you closer and moved his hand to your arms, pulling you closer to him so you could feel warm.
You shivered and gulped. Gods, please keep me safe from death. Please.
Like he promised, it was at least fifteen minutes when he finally stopped. A layer of frost covered the dark green grass, and the trees around you were minimal. You could see all of Okhema from up here, even your cottage at the outskirts. The pyre was still bright, but it paled in comparison to the thousands, perhaps even millions, of stars that dotted the night sky.
"They really do look prettier up here," you whispered.
"Don't they?"
"How'd you find this place?"
"When I first arrived here a few months ago, the Council of Elders told me to find as much witches as I could." He lied down, not caring that the ground beneath him was cold and snowy. "Lygus didn't stop bragging me to them, which then ended up me getting to work as soon as possible. One day, I just decided to leave for a bit and let my legs take me wherever. That was when I found this place and made it my hideout since."
He patted the spot next to him. You followed suit and also lied down. The ground was cold, but it wasn't unbearable. If anything, the temperature strangely felt comfortable.
"People never stopped talking about your reputation when you first arrived, you know," you said. "Whenever I went to the Marmoreal Market, I kept hearing this Flame Reaver from every merchant. Kept saying that you had a accurate nose for witches and that you're never wrong."
Phainon chuckled, but you could tell it was humorless. "You have Lygus to thank for that."
You almost scoffed. Yeah, thank Lygus for giving you for lighting your mother's pyre, your professor's pyre, and for spreading the word that the greatest witch hunter to have ever graced Amphoreus had arrived.
The last bit made you furrow your brows. "So… are you as good as he says you are? Like, are you really good at hunting down witches and not just…" Not just wrongfully accusing innocent people just to say you caught a witch?
The words never left your lips, but it seemed like he still understood. Phainon sighed, and fog formed in front of his face. "I suppose I am. I'm not sure what to call it, but I guess you can say I have a sixth sense for detecting witches."
You scooted further back. That voice in your head was yelling at you now. This was a mistake, this was a mistake, this was a mistake. But if you ask him to leave now, when you had just arrived and he started talking about his reputation and status, then that would be a dead giveaway.
You gulped and licked your lips. "Is that the reason why you became a witch hunter, then? Because you knew what to look for?"
He rolled over to his side, now fully facing you. Everything about him was so soft. From the way his eyes flicked down to your face before meeting your eyes again, to the way his white locks brushed against his forehead. "Not really. But, when I was a kid, maybe twelve years ago, the… the Black Tide destroyed my hometown. And- and I was the only survivor."
A gasp left you. "I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"
"It's okay." He scooted closer. "Actually, there's- there's something else I want to tell you. Something I've never told anyone."
"Why are you telling me that, then?"
"Because I trust you."
Your heart clenched in your chest. If his words were true, if he really did trust you, then you couldn't help but feel guilt crawling up your neck. You would never be able to do the same for him.
"What is it, then?" you asked.
"Back in my village, I had a friend. Her name was Cyrene. And, well… she was a witch."
Your brows furrowed down at that. His childhood friend was a witch, but he was working as a witch hunter? If that were the case, then surely he must have known that witches weren't a disgrace to the gods and actually follow them too, didn't he?
"When we were younger," he continued, "she had this set of oracle cards that she said 'always spoke to her' and that they were a 'gift' from the God of Time. The other kids in the village and I would always go to her and ask about our future. They would always get excited if they got something cool, like "Warrior" or "Ruler", but throw a tantrum if it's something like "Drunkard" or "Devil" and demand a redo."
His laugh was as soft as he was. Even though he was looking at you, he was staring far off ahead, as if he was staring at something behind you that you couldn't see. He was already gentle, but somehow, his face became even softer. It was like you were looking at a completely different person.
No, not a different person. This was still Phainon. Just a side that you hadn't seen yet.
"So, what did you get?" you asked.
For a second, he was quiet, as if contemplating. After a beat, he grabbed something from his pocket and placed it between you two. It was an oracle card. Specifically, The Deliverer, a man carrying not just his heavy sword, but the weight of the world on his shoulders.
You always found oracle cards difficult to decipher. Before you found a god to devote yourself to, you remembered trying to read them as a kid, and then always getting frustrated that you couldn't hear a single murmur. Even followers of Oronyx had stated themselves that they were a difficult god to follow, and that one should not expect to hear any answers from oracle cards without rigorous training.
But somehow… you could feel the magic radiating from this card. It wasn't strong, but it was noticeable enough for other witch hunters to sense. How Phainon was able to hide this from the Council and his fellow witch hunters was beyond you. The only explanation you could come up was that they thought the magic they were feeling from him was from the witches he had hunted.
"This one," he continued. "The Deliverer. I always found it wrong that this was the one I got. The Deliverer is supposed to be this guy who's willing to carry something really, really, really heavy, but I never found myself to be super amazing. Back at home, I would just either tend to the sheep or help my father in the wheat fields."
"You never asked to draw another card?"
"I never saw the reason to. I mean, if I redo something because I don't like the result… then what's the point of divination?"
That just made things more confusing for you. One of his childhood friends was a witch. Since he said other kids also went to this girl, then that meant his village knew she was a witch. Not only did he keep an oracle card from her, he was also faintly aware of how divination worked and that asking for a do over would make it lose its power. No doubt if the Council of Elders caught wind of this, then they would ask him to burn his card and even punish him for keeping an item of witchcraft.
"So… why did you become a witch hunter, then?"
"When the Black Tide took my hometown, I- I don't know how, but I was the only one that survived. It took my friends, my family, my- my dog, I had to kill them while they were asking me for help, I"—he took a deep breath—"I thought I was going to die there as well. But then, Lygus found me."
A chill traveled down your spine, and your eyes widened. Lygus?
"He saw that I was the only survivor left," he continued. "He told me… things. That the reason why the Black Tide destroyed my village was because we had a witch, and that her magic was slowly corrupting everything until it caught up to us. And since I was clearly strong enough to survive the Black Tide and destroy its creations, he said that I had what it takes to become a Witch Hunter. After that, he took me in. Raised me, trained me—he couldn't be with me all the time, but he taught me everything I knew."
"I see…" It made sense now. You remembered how Lygus left Okhema for a few years back then. And, even when he came back, he would rarely stay long.
That was why Phainon earned his reputation. That was why Lygus was the one who spread that information. He raised Phainon ever since he lost his family.
His free hand reached for yours and squeezed it. "When I started my training and earned my title as a witch hunter, I started to believe that that was why I got the Deliverer card. The burden I have to carry… it's killing people if it means saving the world and ridding the Black Tide from Amphoreus. It's what I always told myself, at least."
You squeezed his hand in returned. "But why did you keep the card?"
"I guess it's because it's my last connection to home. Sometimes, I swear I can hear it talking to me, and I would get so scared. I would pray to the gods for protection from sin, and I always get tempted to throw it into the fire. But if I throw it away… I'm even more scared that I won't be who I am anymore."
Phainon sighed and smiled. Not his usual large grin. Not even the soft ones. While his lips still curled the same way, his eyes didn't have that same shine. The sky above you was full of stars, and yet not a single one reflected on his eyes' surface. "Sorry," he whispered. "I didn't intend for it to go that far. I didn't mean for you hear about my burdens."
You shook your head. "It's fine. I'm glad you told me this. Not because it means you trust me with your problems, but because I know it should be easier for you know that you've told it to someone."
"But I still trust you." One of his hands reached forward, wiping the snow from your cheek. "What about you? Do you trust me?"
The answer was easy: no. You didn't trust him. You didn't want to break his heart. Here he was, telling you the heaviest secret that had been dragging his shoulders down, and you would ruin the mood by saying you were a witch? The thing he had trained his entire life to destroy? You'd be a monster to shatter him like that.
But his childhood friend was a witch. Doesn't that mean that you might be able to change his mind about you?
You immediately pushed that thought away. It didn't matter if you were an exception to his rule. Not when he was still hurting people like you.
You rolled away from him and faced the sky. "Did you mean what you said earlier? About me being your friend, I meant."
"You're the first genuine friend I've had since I left Aedes Elysiae."
"We've known each other for half a year. Maybe even less."
"Is that not enough time for genuine friendship to form?"
"It's too quick of a time to decide if you truly see the other person as your friend."
"Well, I see you as one." He pocketed the Deliverer card and held your hands. He didn't pull you to him, just held you. "I mean it when I said that. It's like… it's like I've been holding my breath for twelve years, but you reminded me how to breathe."
You faced him again. He was closer this time. You could feel his hair against your forehead, the way it was warmer if you scooted closer to him even more. You could even feel his breath on your nose.
Your fingers fiddled with his own. "Can… can I tell you something, too?"
He nodded. "Of course."
You may not be able to tell him that you were a witch, but perhaps you could tell him something similar. It would be the same thing, anyway.
"My…" Your voice crack. Gods, why did it have to be now? "I lost my mother twelve years ago. She… she confessed to being a witch, and the Council executed her for it."
Phainon paused. And for some reason, he laughed. Not the mocking type of laugh, no. It was the usual Phainon laugh when he found something amusing or interest. And maybe you were hearing things, but he sounded relieved when he sighed. "I don't think that counts as a secret when everyone knows about that."
"What? What do you mean?"
"Come on, even I knew that."
"No." You shook your head and stood up. "No you- you did? You know?"
"Of course I did." He sat up as well. "It was one of the first things they told me when I arrived in Okhema. How did Lygus say it again? Oh." He cleared his throat and deepened his voice, mimicking Lygus' voice. "Do be careful with the little florist in the city. You will hear people say that they're Aglaea's child, but do not listen to those words. Aglaea merely took an orphan in. Her child is not her own, but a witch's. Or something like that. And besides, you don't even look anything like Lady Aglaea. It was easy to figure out once I saw your face."
"O- Oh."
Of course. Of course he knew. Everyone in the city knew, even those who came to Okhema to seek refuge. Why would you think that one person wouldn't know about it? Even if Lygus didn't tell him, then no doubt the merchants would have. They had seen you with him before, so certainly they would have warned him about you whenever he was in the markets by himself.
You didn't realize it, but tears were falling down your eyes now, and sobs were escaping your lips. Idiot, idiot, idiot! You opened your heart to a witch hunter, and now look where it got you?
The smile on Phainon's face fell. "What- what's wrong?"
"I'm sorry. It's just- are you sure you've known all this time?"
"Why is it so difficult to understand that I have?"
"Because if you knew that, then you wouldn't have been nice to me!"
You flinched from your own tone. You didn't mean to yell at him. In fact, you didn't want him to see you. Not like this. But it was too late to cover your face. He was already holding your cheek, wiping your tears with his thumb.
Why was he so gentle? At least if he was a little cruel with you, it would be easier to push him away once the inevitable would happen.
You sniffled and met his gaze. "Why are you so nice to me?"
"Maybe… maybe it's because I don't believe that just because your mother was a witch, so are you." He leaned closer, hand still on your face. "Or maybe because I always remember that my best friend was a witch, and she was just an innocent girl who didn't even think of leaving our village. So if you were a witch, maybe you're like her. And that maybe… no, never mind."
It was still quiet. The only thing you did was stare at his eyes, and he did the same. You could hear your heart pounding in your chest, and you wondered if he could hear it as well. If there was still snow in your face, no doubt it melted now with how warm your cheeks were.
He was the first to break the silence. "Are you a witch?"
You shook your head. "No."
Liar.
Phainon nodded. He pulled you towards him for a hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Then I trust you."
You returned the hug and buried your face in his chest. "I…"
"It's okay. You don't have to say it yet. Just know that I trust you."
You tightened your hold on him. This was the first time you hugged someone else that weren't your parents or your teachers. Unlike Aglaea or your mother, who were softer, or your father that always gave you a crushing bear hug, or even Professor Anaxa who would just give you a pat on the shoulder, his hug was firm. Almost like he was holding on to you, letting you know he was here. And most of all, he was warm.
Your entire life, everyone looked at you as if you were cursed. Even though Aglaea's name was enough to silence them, you still heard the whispers behind your back. Why would Aglaea adopt a witch's child? Why would she risk her business and reputation just to take in a kid that should just rot in the streets? For the first time, someone else looked at you like you were a normal person.
That was it, wasn't it? Why your heart opened up to him, why it would hurt more if he found out the truth. He showed you so much kindness, and you would be a monster if you reciprocated that kindness by telling the ugly truth.
When you opened your eyes, you weren't in Phainon's arms anymore. Instead, you were back in your room at Aglaea's house. The fire crackled in the hearth, and snow was gently falling out your window. You sat up, but immediately regretted it as your head started to spin.
Was that… was that all a dream?
You sighed and rubbed your temples. Of course it was a dream. Why would something like that ever happen in reality?
When you turned at the window again, you frowned. It looked like it was late already. Hopefully, you didn't sleep in too much. You changed into a warmer set of clothes and went downstairs, where Aglaea was already eating halfway through a golden honeycake and sipping a cup of coffee.
"M- Morning, Aglaea," you said with a small bow. "Sorry for waking up late."
Aglaea stared at you for a second before nodding. "No need to apologize. I also had difficulties sleeping last night. Have a seat. The food is still warm."
You took a seat across her and grabbed your own stack of honeycakes. As always, the way she cooked them was the best. Soft and sweet, almost like you were biting a cloud. You grabbed the container of honey and added more to your plate. It was better with more honey, but you knew Aglaea didn't like her food too sweet, so she always—
"Would you mind telling me why I found Phainon trying to sneak into the house at Entry Hour with you in his arms?"
You dropped the container of honey. Before it could spill, you caught it, thankfully, and wiped the little bits that managed to fall out. After taking a few breaths, you turned to her again. Was her dining area always this hot? How were you sweating in the middle of winter? "H- Huh?"
She picked up something next to her, and you realized it was the note you left last night. "I found this on the table when I woke up, so I had assumed you were in your cottage. But all of a sudden, I heard someone trying to enter from the windows. When went to investigate, I found Phainon breaking in, carrying you in his arms, and looking for the door to your room."
If it was possible, your face grew hotter. Oh. Oh. Last night wasn't a dream.
Aglaea raised a brow, and her accusing stare made you want to cover your face and hide under the table. "Did anything… happen between you two last night—"
"No!" You jumped up from your own response. Your tone definitely didn't help. "Gods, gods, no, I promise nothing like that happened! I just- I couldn't sleep last night and then I went out then Phainon found me so we went to this mountainside and we talked and I must have fallen asleep without realizing it—wait, did you say he went inside the house?" Your heart skipped a beat. "Aglaea, did he—"
"He might have," she replied. "However, when he saw me, he asked where your room was and tucked you to bed. He was very polite about it, though he did look as embarrassed as you when I asked when we had a little… chat."
"Aglaea!" You covered your face with your hands. Not enough. You removed your coat and hid the rest of your face there. "I promise nothing like that happened. Please, you're embarrassing me…"
She chuckled and shook her head. "Alright, alright, no need to hide in shame. I was simply asking a question, and I appreciate the honesty."
It was quiet as you continued eating your breakfast. At least, it was quiet inside. Outside, you could hear the people of Okhema starting their day. But after a while, Aglaea was the first to break the silence. Her expressions always shifted so subtly. If someone didn't know her, they would assume she always held the same empty stare. But you knew her ticks. You could tell the difference between her relaxed and stern face just by examining her eyebrows. If she found something amusing or not just from the faint way her cheeks pushed up her eyes.
And you could tell right now that, despite her lips remaining into a straight line, her brows were slightly raised. Amusement? Or perhaps curiosity? "Did you find your answer?"
You furrowed your brows. "What answer?"
"Why your heart opened itself for the first time to a witch hunter."
"Oh." That one.
Your mind was in a tough position right now. You wanted to smile, but at the same time, your chest was aching. "Is… is there a reason why you aren't stopping me? Aren't you worried that I'll die?"
You didn't think she would look at you, but she did. You had never seen Aglaea cry before. Not as a child, not now. For a brief moment, you thought she was about to. But if there was even a hint of tears near the corners of her eyes, it immediately disappeared.
"I am," she replied. "I'm more wary of him than you think."
"So why aren't you stopping me?" You held yourself back. It was too early in the morning to cry. "Please stop me. I- I'll stop seeing him if you ask me to. I can tell him that you told me that yourself. I'm sure he'll understand it better if I'm following orders than intentionally avoiding him. I don't…"
I don't want to die. That was true, wasn't it? It didn't matter if you died to Phainon or the other witch hunter. You didn't want to die and leave Aglaea the burden of protecting Okhema longer than her magic could handle. You didn't want the Black Tide to devour everyone and destroy your home.
But those weren't the words that left your lips.
"I don't want to see the look in his eyes once he realizes the truth."
You had gotten used to the soft look in his eyes. They were so blue, and they were so beautiful. And his smile… If his eyes were the sky, then his smile was the light of dawn that matched.
You had gotten so used to them that you were slowly starting to forget how he looked at you when you first met. And you didn't want to be reminded.
"Oh, my darling child." Aglaea sighed as she cupped your cheek. "How can I tell you to stop seeing him when you've never looked this happy while talking about anyone before?"
"Happy?" Your grip on your fork tightened, but you immediately put it down before you could break it. "I'm scared. More than I've been my entire life."
Outside, you could hear someone laughing, followed by the sound of a soft thump hitting against a wall. Someone was throwing snowballs at someone else. It was muffled, but you could hear the laughs that followed afterwards. If anyone was happy here, it was definitely them.
"I envy them," you muttered. "They don't worry for their lives like we do. They don't know that the Council of Elders is willing to sacrifice them if they think they're witches. Meanwhile, I learned to not attract attention to myself or I'll die as young as ten years old. Sometimes… sometimes, I wish I wasn't born a witch."
You had expected Aglaea to call you a blasphemer. After all, how could you scorn something gifted to you by the gods? Your mother started the spark of your love for magic, and Professor Anaxa and Aglaea risked their lives teaching you how to hone your skills. And yet, you had the audacity to say that you wished you weren't born like this? What was the point of their sacrifices if you were going to be ingrate, then?
But she didn't say those words. Not even anything remotely similar. Instead, she moved from the head of the seat and sat next to you, pulling you into a hug. "I know," she whispered. "I've had those wishes, too. But unfortunately, we cannot change what we are."
You returned her hug. How many times had she hugged you after throwing a tantrum like this? You were already twenty-two, and yet here you were, crying like a spoiled child. "I wish we could."
"Perhaps the gods are kinder to us in another life and will grant us our deepest wishes there."
"Why can't they be kind in this one?"
"Because they're gods. They know we're human, but they don't understand how human we are. We can only hope that there's a life out there where they can be kind."
Somehow, you managed to chuckle. "Your words are cold."
She smiled and squeezed you tighter. "You seem tired. How about you rest in your room?"
"Tired? It's morning. And do you not need help around the shop?"
"I'll take a break from sewing as well. Perhaps I'll just read a book and entertain a customer looking for new clothes."
"I see." You stood up and nodded. Only now did you realize that she was right. You did feel tired. Did you and Phainon fall asleep on top of the mountain, and that was why he took you back when it was already morning? If that was the case, maybe the uncomfortable ground was the reason why you felt tired. "Thank you, Aglaea. I don't think I've expressed that enough."
"Of course. Now, go get some rest. You deserve it."
And rest you did. You grabbed a bottle of Ambrosia for yourself and sat in your windowsill seat the whole day, reading one of the books on your shelf. Every now and then, you would look at the window and stare at the bustling plaza of Okhema below. Merchants yelling their practiced lines for potential customers, children gathering snow on the ground and throwing it at each other…
Phainon wasn't there. At least, you didn't see him. And anytime you caught yourself thinking of that, you would immediately look away from the window and return to your book. As if he could see you from all the way up here. You pushed that thought away as well. You were here to rest, not to think about the man that had been stressing you out from the moment you laid your eyes on him.
You liked to think that you were being productive, even if the only thing you did was sit down, read books, and drink ambrosia as if you were a drunk scholar. You didn't even realize the day was over until Aglaea told you that she had finished cooking dinner. And before you knew it, you were in bed again, staring at your hearth.
Aglaea's words earlier echoed in your head. Perhaps the gods are kinder to us in another life and will grant us our deepest wishes there. What would another life even look like? Was there truly a world out there where you weren't fearing for your life? Were you happier there, or was that life somehow worse than this one?
Maybe you should go to sleep. Thinking these thoughts clearly wasn't doing you any good.
VI. Lean On Me and You’ll Be Alright
None of your flowers could survive winter. In fact, few survived fall. As soon as the weather grew too cold, those that couldn't withstand the temperature simply wilted away, waiting for spring before they could bloom again. If you could, you would enchant all of your plants so they could survive even the harshest of blizzards. But you knew that a lone cottage at the outskirts of the city having flowers blooming during Calamity Season would be enough evidence for witchcraft.
The only flowers that could survive winter without magic were Antilas, and they grew even more abundant during the Month of Mourning. Most didn't even consider them flowers. Rather, they thought of them as weeds and would pluck them out as soon as they saw a patch of purple growing near their properties. You didn't share the same sentiments as most people had. Rather, you saw them as gifts from Thanatos. The Nether Realm was said to be a sea of flowers where one could find eternal rest, so you always believed that they sent Antilas during winter so that somehow, the living realm would still have flowers during the cold seasons.
Whether that was true or not, you still thanked them for the flowers. After all, they were the only flowers you could bunch into a bouquet before heading to the River of Souls.
It also didn't matter how you treated them. You could pluck of the petals one by one, cut them in half, or even crush them under your foot. They would never wilt or die. They only disappeared when they wanted to disappear, perhaps letting the west wind blow them away and return to the Nether Realm. But despite that, you still cared for them like they were any other flower you owned. You carefully snipped the ends of the stem, then grabbed a black ribbon in your cottage to tie them into four different bouquets.
The snow hadn't stopped falling for the past three days now. The skies were a permanent gloomy grey, accompanied by small white flecks that would blend into the snowy ground, just like tears. How fitting. It made you wonder… was Thanatos as gentle as you thought them to be? Did they also understand that some souls that arrived to the Nether Realm were taken too early? Or…
You shook your head. No, you didn't want to think about that. You wanted to keep that hope. If there was a god out there who truly was kind, it had to be Thanatos. Death had to be kind. You would lose your mind if they ended up being the most cruel god of all.
The streets were also quieter, which was strange to think about. Just a month ago, it was lively during the day and dreadful during the night. The month after that, everything was so quiet it was as if the world was holding its breath. But immediately after the Month of Mourning was the Month of Fortune, and people would be in good spirits again and start celebrating the last month of the year. Time truly was a strange thing.
As you continued walking, you lifted your head. The Marmoreal Temple was visible wherever you went, especially since it sat upon a hillside that had a view of the city. Inside there, priests and acolytes were praying for the deceased, and most people would be in the cemetery, sitting next to the grave of their loved ones. They had bodies to return to. Bodies to bury.
You never had that luxury.
You were about to pull your hood when you felt a hand on your head. Unsurprisingly, it belonged to none other than Phainon. Who else would be comfortable enough to touch you like that, even in a gloomy season?
Despite that, his voice was still low as he greeted you. "Hey."
"Hey."
"You going somewhere?"
You looked at the bouquets in your hand and sighed. "Not the cemetery if you were thinking of that."
"I see." A pause. "Do you… want me to accompany you? I heard people who have lost their loved ones throw flowers or their favorite items in the River of Souls. I know I'm a witch hunter and that I have no right to be there, but… I was wondering if you'd at least let me accompany you."
You looked at the bouquet of Antilas again. You weren't really sure if you wanted him to come with you. It was like he said—a witch hunter like him wouldn't just be out of place, but it would be downright disrespectful. To allow him there would be to spit on the non-existing graves of those that had died to the witch hunts in the past.
At the same time… you remembered that night again. When he told you that he was the only survivor after his village was destroyed by the Black Tide, and how Lygus immediately found him and trained him to be a witch hunter as soon as possible. Did he even have time to pause and take a breath, to understand what had just happened?
You took a deep breath. If Thanatos could hear you right now… may they give you forgiveness and tell the lost souls that you ask for the same thing.
"Here." You passed one of the bouquets to Phainon.
In turn, he blinked. "What's this for?"
"People don't go to the River of Souls just because they lost their loved ones to the witch hunts," you said. "They go there to mourn their loved ones who didn't get the luxury of a proper burial. Besides, it's not like the cemetery where lots of people would go to, so there's a chance that it'll just be the two of us. But if you're still worried that people won't think you're welcome… know that I don't think the same."
His eyes were wide, mouth agape. "No." He shook his head and passed the flowers back. "No, I'm sorry. I- I can't accept this. I shouldn't have even suggested. I'm sorry, it was stupid, I—"
"Phainon." You held his wrist. Tight enough to keep him in place, but also loose enough so he could let go if he wanted. "It's okay. I don't know if you ever had the opportunity to properly grieve. And as someone who's been going here for twelve years now… it helps. Even a little."
His gaze kept shifting between you, the flowers, you, then to the flowers again. After a heavy sigh that made fog form in front of his face, he finally accepted the bouquet and nodded. "I… thank you."
The entire time you walked to the river, the only sound that passed between you both were either the crunch of the snow against your boots or the occasional cart passing by. Okhema was quiet, sleeping on a bed of grief. But while most slept with a blanket of peace to keep them warm, there were those unfortunate like you who were left exposed to the cold winds of the Council's cruelty. And when you finally reached the river, the thought only made you tighten your grip on the remaining three bouquets of flowers.
You knelt at the edge of the water, making some of the snow fall and your reflection ripple. No matter how could the winter would become, not a single drop of its water would turn to ice. Aquila could send their strongest blizzard that would freeze everyone to death, the River of Souls would still continue to travel all throughout Amphoreus. Until eventually, the currents would end at the Nether Realm, where Thanatos awaited.
You hoped—no, prayed—that these flowers would reach the Nether Realm. That they would find your mother, and that she would also find your father. That Professor Anaxa would see the flowers you sent for him and mutter about how "unnecessary" they were, but still accept them regardless. You prayed that the priests and priestesses were wrong, and that Thanatos didn't create an eternal fire to punish witches and blasphemers to burn for eternity.
You dropped the first bouquet for your father, praying that the corruption of the Black Tide didn't stay with him even in the afterlife. You dropped the second one for your mother, praying that she found peace after the flames. And for the firs time, you dropped the last for Professor Anaxa, thanking him for his sacrifices for you and the other children of Okhema. Usually, you would drop another bouquet for those that no one would mourn for, but Phainon had them currently.
Another bouquet fell, making it ripple once again. They slowly followed the three ones you dropped and floated away.
"You're right," Phainon said, making you turn to him. Parts of his white hair covered his face, especially his eyes, so you couldn't see them properly. "I never had time to mourn the people I lost. I guess I don't like thinking about it. I'd rather focus on my training and growing stronger so I can help make the world better. Every second that I'm not improving is a second that I'm not helping someone."
You almost reached out your hand for him, but immediately put it down. Now wasn't the time for that. "Forgive me if it sounds like I'm overstepping, but you don't have to help every single person, you know. It's impossible to be the only person who can save everyone."
"I know, but… but if I was stronger, maybe I would have been able to save more than just myself. Maybe my parents could still be here. Maybe I would have made better choices." He turned to face your direction, but his eyes didn't meet yours. Despite that, you could still see that his brows were knitted together. "Do you ever get that feeling that you've made a terrible mistake in your life, but it's already too late to turn back and you know you can never be redeemed?"
"Phainon…"
You weren't the right person for this. Not when you thought of the same thing. Not when every single witch thought of the same thing. If, by some miracle, the witch hunts would finally come to an end, no one would allow him to walk free. Everyone would want justice against the Flame Reaver for taking away so many lives and tearing apart so many families.
Before you could think of what to say, he already shook his head and crossed his legs. "Sorry. Did that again, didn't I?"
"It's fine. But do you… always carry things by yourself?"
When he chuckled, you couldn't tell if it was humorless or if he truly found what you said funny, even a little. "Why shouldn't I? My problems are mine alone. I don't want people to carry the same heavy weight I'm carrying."
"Maybe it's heavy because you're carrying it by yourself. If you let other people help you, it would be lighter."
He didn't say anything else. But judging from the way his jaw clenched, he clearly didn't want to talk about it further. So instead, you sat with him in the silence, watching as the ice-cold waters flowed past you both. Despite the cold, you found the sound of the river flowing soothing. If it wasn't winter right now, you would have dipped your feet and just feel it rushing past you.
"I'm sorry about your professor," he said.
"Hmm?"
"Your professor. Anaxa. I… I was the one who brought him to the Council. I know now's not the right time to bring that up, but it's been eating me away recently. I think you should know who got your teacher killed."
"Oh." You turned your head away and gripped your cloak. "I see."
"I'm- I'm not asking for forgiveness, and I'm not expecting you to do so, either. But… I hope that, even if this changes your perspective on me… we can still be like this."
You wondered how Aglaea would react to this. Would she still let you treat Phainon as normal, even if he was the reason why Professor Anaxa was gone from this world too early? Or would she still act as if what you were feeling was normal? Just how much did it matter that your eyes would light up every time you talked to him, when he also caused you pain in the beginning?
It was getting colder now. Maybe if you went somewhere warmer, your head would be in a better space. You stood up and dusted the snow that gathered on your clothes and stretched out your hand to him. "It's freezing. I think we should head indoors. Do you want to accompany me to the diner? Their porridge is perfect for a cold day like this."
When he took your hand, you pulled him up. He dusted his clothes as well and showed you a smile. "Sounds good. Let's go."
You wanted to tell him that he didn't have to smile all the time. That he should express his true feelings more. In fact, you had so many things you wanted to tell him. So many things you wanted to ask and know. The more you two talked to each other, the more you realized you didn't know him at all. He wasn't just some guy that always showed you the brightest of smiles whenever you crossed paths. He wasn't just a witch hunter that wanted you dead. There was something he wasn't telling you. Something you wanted to know so you could help ease his burdens.
But you weren't the right person for that. You weren't the right person to discuss this with him. Not when you didn't tell him anything about yourself, either. If you wanted Phainon to be honest with you, wouldn't it be right if you were honest with him as well?
Today was one of the rare moments when the diner wasn't busy even though it was lunch. As such, it didn't take long for your two bowls of porridge and cups of hot chocolate to arrive. You blew the steam off and immediately took a sip, sighing when the drink warmed your stomach.
Talking right now felt inappropriate. The two of you were eating in silence, just like the rest of the diner. Perhaps it was out of habit, or perhaps you just wanted to lighten up the mood. But you blew into the windows, making it fog up. After repeating it a few times, you traced your finger on the glass, doodling a small flower.
"What are you doing?" Phainon whispered as he scooted closer to the window.
"Whenever I used to come here with Aglaea during the winter, we'd always do this."
"Blow steam into the windows and… draw?"
You nodded, then drew a smiley face next to the flower. "She's been taking care of me ever since I lost my parents, and I'm really grateful for all the work she's done. If it weren't for her, I have no idea where I'd be right now. She made my clothes, taught me how to sew, how to cook, funded my flower shop… "
"She… she really loves you, huh?"
"She does. And I always hate it whenever I can't repay her." You shook your head and faced him. "So, what about you?"
"What do you mean what about me?"
"I mean… did you have any good memories with Lygus? He took care of you for twelve years, after all."
It was weird to think about Lygus being kind and caring, especially since you only saw him from a distance, and it was always whenever he lit up the pyre. But if you still saw witch hunters with their own families, if even Phainon still had a shred of kindness in his hardened heart, then surely Lygus must be the same, right?
"Oh." Phainon took a sip of his own hot drink and leaned back against the seat. "I don't… I don't really have that many good memories with him. After I officially became a witch hunter, he would drop me off at different cities and then leave for Okhema. After that, he'd return to check on me and the city I'm in, then reassign me to a new location if need be."
"Did… did you two at least do anything together?"
"He would teach me about witches if that's anything. But if you meant anything like how Lady Aglaea treats you, then…" He shook his head. "No. Not really."
You couldn't imagine how that must be like. Sure, it was lonely that you never had any friends, but at least you still had Aglaea at the end of the day. But not only did Phainon say you were his first genuine friend since Aedes Elysiae, he didn't even have any support around him. The man that took him in was busy with his own affairs. And even if he did find someone that could have almost been a friend, he had to leave the city soon for a reassignment.
You took another sip of your hot drink. This time, you didn't blow it on the window. Rather, you exhaled at his face. His eyes widened a bit, and the warmth from the steam made his cheeks turn somewhat red.
"Wh- what are you—huh?"
"You should try drawing on the window as well. It's fun."
"But I'm not a great artist."
"Do you really think drawings made from fog on a window requires skill?" To prove your point, you drew another figure on the glass. First, a circle with dots for eyes and a small smile. After that, you tried to draw Phainon's messy hair. And to make sure you knew it was him, you added the two tufts of hair that always stood on the top of his head. "You know what, forget I said anything. You'd need skills as good as mine to create this masterpiece."
"That… that looks nothing like me." Despite that, he chuckled. "Hold on. Let me try."
Just like you, he took a long swig of his hot drink and blew on the window. At first, he drew you. After that, he drew the sun at the corner of the window, then added a small heart next to the doodle of you.
The diner was quiet. It was the Month of Mourning. And yet, you found yourself smiling with Phainon as the two of you tried to recreate each other again through glass drawings.
As always, when you were about to part, he would walk you to Aglaea's house. He always did, but that was because you were staying with her for the colder seasons. If the seasons were warmer again, would he be willing to walk all the way to the outskirts of Okhema, to the rumored witch's hut, just so he could make sure you got home safely?
"Thanks for today," he whispered once he reached the usual spot he would stop. "It… it really did help. Even a little. Thank you."
"Of course." As you scanned his form, your eyes turned to his tattered cloak, before back to his face. "Stay warm, okay?"
"You too."
When you went back inside, you didn't waste a single second. You headed to Aglaea's workshop, where she was mending a client's coat. At the sight of you, her eyes furrowed down. "Darling, what are you—"
"Do you think I can make him a new cloak before the end of the year?"
She blinked. "Pardon?"
"Do you remember what you told me back then? That, if I change my mind, you'll teach me how to make a cloak for Phainon? Do you think I can make a new one before the end of the year? Or is it too late?"
"What a… surprise." She rested her elbow on her palm and cupped her chin. "And here I thought you forgot about it. But I suppose I do have time to teach you. Come."
She gestured for you to follow, and you did so without any questions. Aglaea led you to her weaving room, and the two of you sat side by side as she started.
"If you wish to finish this before the end of the year," she said, "then may I suggest you gift it to him on the last day of the Month of Fortune, then? It can be something symbolic. Think of it as him starting the new year with something from you."
You didn't know how long making a cloak would take. But you did know that, if you finished it before your deadline, that you would want to give it to him as soon as possible. Aglaea might have to bind your hands together with her golden threads just so that you wouldn't be a fool and give it to him early. But if it would make the gift better, then so be it.
That was how you spent the rest of the Month of Mourning. If you weren't outside, you would be in the weaving room, somehow sweating despite the current month being the coldest month. If there was a single mistake in the thread or pattern, you would undo it and make it better. You didn't know how you did it, but you even weaved a golden pattern at the ends and have the sides be different colors.
During the night when you weren't working, you would toss and turn in your bed. How would he react to the cloak? He probably wouldn't jump for joy. After all, it was just a cloak. And it wasn't like Aglaea made it, you did. And even if this wasn't your first time making something, you weren't as amazing as her when it came to garmentmaking. No one was, but would the cloak even be amazing in his eyes?
Sometimes, though, it wasn't his reaction to the cloak that would send you to sleep. Sometimes, just when your brain was shutting down for the night, you thought of what would happen if you told him the truth.
How would he react if you told him you were a witch? Would he end your friendship? If he did, would he at least keep your secret, or would he tell Lygus and lead you to your execution? You wanted Phainon to be honest with you, but that also meant being honest with him. Did you have the strength to do that?
When the final month arrived, it seemed like Zagreus heard your prayers. Which was the worst way to have your prayers answered. When everyone turned their calendars for the final Month of Fortune, a leap year appeared at the end when everyone was sure that there wasn't one just a month ago. Scarlet Month as everyone called it. You couldn't help but find the name fitting, because Zagreus was definitely going to see your burning scarlet rage if you were to ever meet them.
However, that didn't stop you from continuing your work. It got to the point where Aglaea had to kick you out of the weaving room just so you could take a break and not burn yourself out. When neither of you had the time to cook, you would instead make a quick trip to the diner. And if you bumped into Phainon, you would eat with him.
"Are you… okay?" he asked.
You looked up from your Dromas stew and nodded. "Never better. Why do you ask?"
"You just… drank an entire bottle of ambrosia straight from the bottle."
"Did I now?" You glared at the glass, as if it was the God of Trickery themself. "Do you sometimes feel like you're having a one-sided beef against something you know would just laugh at you for taking the bait?"
That seemed to have washed away his concern, as he just chuckled. "Did Zagreus, ah, bless you on this fine occasion?"
"Is that what we call it these days?'
"Well, look at it this way. Out of all the gods, Zagreus is the one who works. in the most mysterious ways. What could be today's curse might also be tomorrow's blessing."
The common saying when it came to Zagreus' beloved gifts. Unfortunately, he had a point. You might be complaining right now that there was an extra day, which meant you would have to wait longer, but at least it pushed your deadline back further. Though gods know if you could actually finish it before the month, and by extension year, ended.
Though finally, by some miracle, after almost two months of nearly tripping on the loom, muffling your screams with so many pillows, panicking if you had accidentally snapped a thread in half and have to redo, and debating if you could really ask the gods to smite Zagreus down… you finished it. After adding the hook and eye, you were completely done. You just had to wait for one week until Spirit Day, then you could give it to him.
You were finally able to come out of the house without worrying that you were delaying time. So when you found Phainon again and ate together at the diner, you couldn't help but hum.
"You're in a cheerful mood this time," he said when your food arrived. "Did your curse finally become a blessing?"
"I don't think it matters." You shrugged. "Maybe I'm just glad that the year is almost over and that the next one is going to have a fresh start."
"Oh, speaking of the new year. Do you… have someone to celebrate the Spirit Day with?"
You blinked. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were pinker, no doubt thanks to the cold. When his eyes met yours, he cleared his throat and turned to the left instead, watching the bustling streets.
"I mean, obviously you're going to be celebrating it with Lady Aglaea," he continued, "but I was. Wondering. Umm, if you can, you know… Celebrate with me as well. Maybe we can open lucky cookies together. Then after that, I'll take you back home before midnight so you can be with Lady Aglaea again."
"Oh, of course." You smiled and nodded. "Aglaea's going to be busy entertaining the Council and potential guests, so I won't be able to spend much time with her, anyway. I won't mind using it as an opportunity to spend time with you."
"Great! I mean, umm, that's- that's great that you can spend time with me, not that you can't spend time with Lady Aglaea. I also can't spend the day with Lygus since he also has Council duties and all. In fact, I can't remember if I've celebrated Spirit Day ever since…" He cleared his throat and sat taller. "Let's not ruin the last week of the year by dampening the mood."
You wanted to tell him that it would be fine if he "ruined" the mood. But seeing that smile on his face, you just continued eating instead.
Okhema felt like a completely different city during Spirit Day. It was nothing compared to the Month of Joy, but the streets were still alive and livelier. Merchants and vendors had an array of stalls selling food, clothes, or toys for children. Some people were already starting to play music despite the fact that it was still morning. People were lining up the Marmoreal Diner, picking up their orders of lucky cookies to break open once the new year would arrive.
Of course, with an event such as Spirit Day, Aglaea donned her most beautiful dress—a white dress with gold embellishments and yarrow flowers adorning her, and a beautiful white cloak to match. And it wouldn't be Aglaea without her making you sit in front of your vanity mirror and adorning your face with makeup and body with jewelry.
"Your outfits are beautiful as always," you said as she continued fixing you up. "Even I feel beautiful."
She smiled and chuckled softly. "I do like to think that anything I touch will become beautiful. And that includes my own child." A sigh left her lips as her face softened. "Your parents will be proud to know how you turned out. You've grown into an amazing person."
You returned her smile. "Thank you for taking me in and turning me the way I am right now. You didn't have to."
"Nonsense." She shook her head. "I know I can't save every orphan in the streets. But if I can save even one person, then perhaps there's still a chance for tomorrow to be better."
The silence between you two was heavy. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't just so she could keep the peace. It made your already twisting heart ache even more. For the past nights, a certain thought had been plaguing your mind. And if there was someone out there who was able to give you advice…
You gripped your garments, but immediately loosened before you could ruin them. "Aglaea… do you like Phainon? Even after you found out he's the reason why Professor Anaxa's… gone now?"
She hummed. "I haven't interacted with him enough times to make a proper assessment. Why do you ask?"
"I'm… I'm planning to tell him the truth. That I'm a witch."
That made her stop. "You are?"
"I've been thinking about it." You gripped your garments again. Aglaea's clothes were anything but fragile, but you swore you were about to tear it apart with how tight you held it. "I'm… I'm still paranoid if this is his plan. Wait for me to lower my guard, then once I'm comfortable enough, get a confession from me and then use that as his chance to kill me. But at the same time… another part of me is saying that it's time I trust him, and being honest is going to help us both."
"Even if it risks your life?"
"I… I don't know."
Once she finished dolling you up, Aglaea held your hands and guided you to your full body mirror. You knew you were beautiful to an extent—with how she took care of you, it was impossible to not feel like you were. But right now, you just found yourself spinning in front of your reflection and admiring yourself.
Aglaea made you beautiful. She did everything for you as you grew up. Make your clothes, mend your reputation somehow, fund your flower shop. And yet, here you were. You might as well tell her that you were planning to end your life and spit on the kindness she offered for the past twelve years.
"Oh, look at my gorgeous child." She kissed your forehead and pressed her own against it. "You've grown up so much. Your heart finally found someone to open up to. If you're willing to risk your life for it, then who am I to stop you?"
It felt like someone poured ice cold water on your body. You couldn't meet her in the eyes, not like this. Not when she was telling you that you should follow your heart and that if you were to die, then you might as well leave her to carry the burden of protecting Okhema forever.
"Y- You're not stopping me again." Your voice almost cracked, but you managed to take a sharp breath. "Why? Why won't you tell me to stop? If you're not going to forbid me from seeing him, at least knock some sense into me! Tell me I'm being ridiculous, that I should think of Okhema and my duties, that- that if I don't care about myself dying, then you'll die. I'll stop as soon as you tell me to. I don't want to hurt anyone…"
You had hoped she would yell at you. That, for the first time, you would finally see what Aglaea's anger was like when you were the recipient. Perhaps if you finally understood what it would be like to be on that end, it would knock that needed reason to your head and you'd finally understand just how stupid you were being.
But like always, Aglaea never did that. She just smiled. If you went through with this plan, would this be the last time you would see it? Would you really want to be the reason why that smile would never grace the earth again?
"Perhaps I trust your judgment," she said with a shrug. "Or perhaps it's something else that I understand. After all, if someone was able to make you lower your walls you've spent twelve years carefully putting up, then that must mean he's important to you."
"You're not worried that this is a trap?"
"It could be. But perhaps you just have to trust my instincts on this one. Something tells me that he can be reliable."
That wasn't helpful. If you relied on instincts just to tell if someone was reliable or not, then you would have been dead a long time ago. Or perhaps not. After all, your instincts always said that no person was reliable. And now, it was still telling you that Phainon belonged to that category of people. That it was better to be safe than to be sorry.
"Are you…" Your hands were shaking, and not even taking a deep breath could ease your anxiety. "Are you scared?"
"Of course I am." She pulled you closed for a hug, resting her head on your shoulders. "Even if I think he's reliable, that doesn't change the fact that I'm scared for you. I don't want the Council to take another child from me again."
Again?
The thought of Aglaea having a child before didn't sound too surprising. She felt like a natural at taking care of someone, almost as if she had been a mother before. She already knew what to do with you when she first took you in and seemed to understand you already. You had assumed that she must have taken someone in before, but you immediately brushed that thought away and chalked it up to her being a family friend. So to hear those words from her directly…
"You've… lost a child to the Council before?"
She met your reflection's gaze, fingers fixing your headpiece even though it was already properly in place. Perhaps she just needed to distract her fingers. "Her name was Cifera," she said. "She was just a regular girl, not a witch like you or me. She came from Dolos after the Black Tide destroyed her hometown. I asked her before if she wanted to stay with me instead of just occasionally helping me run the shop or eating with me, but she was an adventurous little thing. Always getting into troubles, too. Until one day… she stole from the wrong person, and they called her a witch because of it. She died very young… I think she would have been a little older than you if she were still here."
A shiver traveled down your spine. You knew killing children wasn't out of the question for the Council. You didn't believe it when you were younger, but you had watched enough executions to know that they would rid of anyone they found a witch, even if they were a child.
You didn't know what Cifera looked like. Perhaps you had passed her once before, and you simply didn't notice. Or perhaps your paths never crossed at all. But you wondered if there was a world out there where it was three people in front of this mirror. Where aside from Aglaea, she was here as well, and the two of you would be admiring the garments Aglaea made for you both.
"Is this your way of saying I shouldn't tell Phainon anything?" you asked. "Because it's working."
"It's my way of saying that I do not wish to see you die in the same way your mother or Cifera died, and I know that you won't." Another kiss to your forehead before pulling you in for another hug. "But if things do take a turn for the worse, then know I'll do whatever I can to protect you and take your place if needed. If he ends up not being like the man you thought he would be, then do not blame yourself. It's not your fault for falling in love."
Ah, that word. You didn't want to use that word. It made whatever it was you were feeling more real and not just the whims of your heart that you decided to follow like a fool. But of course, like always, Aglaea noticed it. Those perceptive eyes of hers could see everything. You were an even bigger fool for thinking she wouldn't realize it.
You grabbed the new cloak you made for Phainon from your closet. You had taken extra measures to make sure it would be perfect once he received it. Once you finished weaving, you took extra time with washing and even allowed yourself to use just a little bit of magic—both for the flowers you used as detergent, and for heating it up so it wouldn't be damp once the day arrived. And even right now, your fingers shook as you placed it inside your satchel, making sure it stayed folded while also not creasing.
You took a deep breath and offered your arm to Aglaea. "Let's hope Zagreus' coin flips in my favor today."
She locked her arm with yours and chuckled. "I'm sure it will."
After fixing your clothes for the nth time, you went down the stairs and out of the house. Usually, during this day, the first thing that would greet you were either children running past you, or the sound of vendors calling out to anyone they saw. The smell of food would hit you next, and you would either say your goodbyes to Aglaea as you two parted, or you would join her to get some snacks before meeting again later.
But those weren't the first things you noticed. Not this time. Instead, you first saw Phainon, standing in front of the house, and wearing the white set Aglaea had made for him. He hadn't noticed either of you yet, as he was too busy muttering something about his shoes matching his clothes. When Aglaea cleared her throat, he jumped up slightly and faced you both. His mouth opened, but no words left him. Instead, his jaw dropped even more, and his eyes widened.
"Wow… I mean- wow. Wow. You look… I- wow." He cleared his throat as well and stood taller. "You look beautiful too, Lady Aglaea. You- you two really dressed up. I suddenly feel underdressed."
Aglaea crossed her arms and hummed. "You feel underdressed despite the fact that we're all wearing clothes made by the same seamstress. Is this a slight against me?"
"What? No, no, no! I didn't mean- I meant- I just—I'm so sorry. Can I start over?"
Aglaea leaned towards you and whispered, "If you ever find me saying I do not accept him, know it's because I think you can do better and not because of the other thing."
Your eyes widened. If someone told you your face was on fire, you'd believe them. "A- Aglaea!"
"Why?" Phainon asked. "What did she say?"
Of course, Aglaea's response was only a chuckle. She waved her hand in the air and only shot you both a sly smile. Quite uncharacteristic of her, which only served to make your face hotter. "I have matters to attend to, which includes the Council of Elders pandering to me just so I can continue funding them for the next year. You two enjoy your night, and do not forget to pick up a lucky cookie before midnight."
And she left, disappearing in the sea of people.
When you turned to Phainon, he was still staring at you with that same wide-eyed look from earlier. He took a deep breath, followed by an even longer sigh. "You're… you look- you're really beautiful, by the way. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought Aglaea was the real God of Romance and that you made a deal with her to look that beautiful."
"Heh." You flicked your eyes to the side. "Guess you can say she's… very blessed." You immediately shook your head and grabbed his hand. "Come on, there's this stall here that sells my favorite skewers only on Spirit Day. You'll love it!"
"Wait, wait, the ground is icy I'll slip—"
You dragged Phainon all around the streets of Okhema. How many skewers had you eaten? How come it still wasn't enough to make you feel satisfied that you had to buy more despite feeling like your stomach was about to burst? And why was Phainon insisting that you should also get some salad to eat because he swore it was better than any Dromas or cloudsheep skewers that you were making him taste?
"No, no, you're not drinking another bottle of ambrosia again!" He grabbed your hand before you can make your purchase. "You've drank three bottles already and that was just two weeks ago. Let's just… have olive juice together. I don't want you passing out before midnight."
You rolled your eyes. Despite that, you chuckled at his words. "Alright, alright. Olive juice it is. Do you want some pie pockets with that? There's some grape pie here, or how about some duck instead?"
When was the last time you enjoyed the Spirit Day like this? When you were younger, you always clung to Aglaea's side and hide behind everyone's judging stares. And as you grew older, you either stayed in the house or sat in one place while Aglaea did all of the socializing. But tonight? Tonight, you watched and laughed as Phainon tried to shoot balls in a hoop that you both swore was rigged.
"I could have sworn I'm actually shooting them," he muttered as he kicked the snowy ground. His only reward was a vegetable ball, to which he shuddered after eating it. "It's bland… I can make salads better than this."
"You… sure do love salads, don't you?"
"Of course I do. There's a lot of things you can make with a salad. Tuna, vegetable, fruit, chicken, even Cery salad. It's quick to make, and there's a lot of varieties." He stopped in his tracks for a moment. Before you could ask, the smile on his face returned, and he dragged you by the wrist. "There's a dance at Kephale Plaza. Come on, let's join!"
"D- Dance? Phainon, I've never danced with anyone before!"
"You're in luck—neither have I. Let's step on our toes together, then!"
Before you knew it, he had placed his palm against yours, and the two of you followed the same dance as everyone else. You weren't really sure what you were doing. None of your teachers taught you how to dance, as you never saw the reason to do so. Once or twice, maybe even more than thrice, you nearly stepped on another dancer's foot. Phainon had to drag you by the waist when you nearly bumped into another dancer. When you almost stepped on his foot again, you kept your eyes down, watching your steps.
"Is the ground really that much more interesting to you?" he asked, and you could hear his smile from his tone.
"Unfortunately, it has to be unless I want to step on another person again."
Phainon pulled you towards him, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other held your stretched hand. Before you could hit him again, you placed your free hand below his shoulder blade. You flicked your gaze up for a moment. His face was so close to you to the point where only his eyes filled your vision, but you could still see a hint of a smile.
"I think I don't mind if I end up with a missing toe if it means I get to look at you like this," he whispered as he spun you around, then held your shoulder again to stop you.
You scoffed. "I think you would regret that sentiment in the morning."
"True, but I'd rather regret that regret not being able to do this."
Once the dance finished, you placed one arm in front and one behind as you bowed, to which Phainon mirrored your gesture. When he stood tall again, he chuckled. "See? That wasn't so bad."
You lightly knocked your knuckles against his chest, which just made him laugh louder. "Don't ask me to carry you if your little feet hurt."
"So will you carry me if they're not hurting, then?"
You gasped, but a laugh still followed afterwards. "You know what I mean!"
"Nope. Unfortunately, I do not." After his laughter faded, he looked at the sky before back at you. "Seems like the Thief Shower is about to start soon. How about we grab a lucky cookie from the main banquet and go back to that place I showed you? It's unfair that I showed you the most beautiful in all of Okhema, but we only got to go there once. On an unpleasant night, no less."
He reached out his hand to you. Your hand faltered for a moment, but you still accepted his offer. The two of you grabbed a lucky cookie from the feast table and sneaked out. Every inch of Okhema's streets was filled with people right now, be it merchants or just people celebrating the occasion, so he had to guide you to the alleyways before leading you back to that place again.
You didn't have a lot of time left. There was at least an hour, or perhaps less, before Zagreus' Thief Star would turn into the Thief Shower. While a single Thief Star signaled the end of the day, a Thief Shower would signal the end of the year, and that the Month of Fortune had come to a close while the Month of Gate opened its doors for a new beginning. You remembered the view of the stars when he took you there that night. Perhaps the Thief Shower would look prettier there.
After a while, the two of you reached that spot again. It would be difficult to lie down now that the frost covering the grass had turned into a small layer of snow. Before you could sit down, Phainon removed his tattered cloak and laid it on the ground.
"After you," he said with a small bow.
"Why thank you."
When the two of you sat down, he chuckled and leaned back on his hands. "What a night. I can't believe the year's almost over. Felt like it was just yesterday when I first arrived in Okhema."
"I've never had such an eventful year before."
"Really? You look like the type of person that always has something exciting going on."
"If you call me talking to my flowers for half a year and then locking myself in my room for the other 'exciting', then sure. I have the best life anyone can think of."
"They'll definitely write poems about your adventures. Like how you downed at least one bottle of ambrosia a week for the past month."
"Hey, can you blame me? I was—"
You immediately paused. Right. You had spent so much time enjoying the night eating, playing games together, and even dancing that you forgot about the other thing. It was a good thing you remembered it before the year could end. You had a feeling there was only a few minutes left before the Thief Shower, and you would kick yourself if you forgot about another cloak this time.
"I was busy with something," you continued, fingers clutching the snow beneath you. With a deep breath, you opened your bag and took the cloak out. "I was busy with something for you.
Phainon's brows raised as he took the cloak from you. "This is?"
"Do you remember the night you gave me your cloak and I forgot to return it? I saw that it was a little tattered, so I asked Aglaea if she could teach me how to make one. I just finished it last week after working on it since the Month of Mourning."
Phainon unfolded the cloak and unfolded it in front of you both. The bottom was a dark shade of blue, almost black, and slowly rose into lighter until the hood was a regular blue color. Golden embroideries decorated the bottom, most of them resembling rays of the dawn, and stretched upwards. And of It was just like like the cape Aglaea made for the outfit he was wearing right now, though this one wasn't as elegant as hers.
"I hope you like it," you muttered.
His eyes were wide as he scanned the cloak, flipping it back and fourth to examine the second side. It was a single shade of gold, and even darker gold patterns decorated the inside. "You made this for me?"
"I know it's nothing like what Aglaea makes. I mean, nothing will ever compare to whatever she makes. And it's also my first time—"
Phainon placed a hand on your shoulder, making you look at him. And as always, the smile on his face was soft and gentle that you just kept your lips pursed instead of running your mouth. "I love it."
"Y- You do?"
"Of course." He wrapped the cloak around himself and sealed the hook and eye together. "Sure, it's not Lady Aglaea's work, but you still made something beautiful for me. Thank you. Now I feel bad that I didn't manage to get you anything. Is this tradition in Okhema to give gifts during Spirit Day, or is it just an actual tradition that I was never made aware about?"
He was smiling. He was smiling. Why did he have to smile right now? Why did that smile always make your heart beat faster and make you feel like you were losing air? Did you really want to ruin the mood right now? Were you really to break whatever was between you both because you were selfish? Would you really be happy if you did this?
It seemed like he noticed your mood shift. His smile fell, and his brows furrowed down. "Everything okay? Did I… did I say something wrong? You can tell me, you know."
Deep breaths. You just took a deep breath and sighed. "Actually… there's something I want to tell you. Phainon—"
"Khaslana."
You looked up. His smile wasn't there, but his gaze was still soft. Brows raised, lips a straight line, and eyes staring right at something only he could see. He looked like a completely different person.
No, that was wrong. It was just like that night, in the exact same place. You were just seeing another side of him. And unlike that day, where you only caught a glimpse, he was fully opening that side to you.
He leaned closer and placed his hand on top of yours. "My real name is Khaslana," he whispered, followed by a sigh that made the fog cover half of his face. "Not even Lygus knows my real name. So… please. Call me Khaslana when it's just the two of us."
Khaslana. It was a name that sounded so much different from Phainon. And since he was willing to tell you this… your cheeks felt warmer now. "You really trust me that much, huh?"
"Of course I do. You've become important to me now."
"In such a short time span?"
He hummed and pressed a finger on your forehead. "You're changing the subject."
You had hoped he didn't realize that. A small chuckle left you, before you sighed again. "Khaslana… I need to tell you something."
"What is it?"
He as even closer now to the point where you could feel his breath on your face. Warm, just like the sunlight. He was the sunlight.
You were up in a mountain, but you could hear the festivities of Okhema from down below. It seemed like the Thief Meteor was about to fall any moment now.
"I know you've been suspicious of me since we met," you whispered. "I know that, in the beginning, you were just trying to get close to me and trying to actually see if I was a witch or not. I know that no one was able to convince you to stop investigating me just because I'm Aglaea's child, and- and I know so much. I've lost sleep wondering just how much you knew and if I can really be safe around you. Even when I stopped being paranoid, a part of me is still worried right now that, as soon as I tell you the truth, I'll be as good as dead. And- and I'm clearly dragging all of this just because I don't want to- don't want to say anything. But…"
You took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"You're right. Whatever you used to think about me, you were right. I am a witch."
He didn't say anything, which made you hold your breath. What would he say? What would he do? You had replayed this scenario countless times in your head now, but you never knew what direction fate would take you. Should you pull away? Maybe it was for the best. Maybe this was his way of saying that you should go.
Before you could move, he placed one hand on your shoulder again. The other lifted your chin up, making both of your eyes meet. Oh, his eyes. Bright and blue, just like a clear sunny day.
If the sun were to never rise again, you could just look at those eyes and would instantly remember what it felt like to sit on the rooftop and watch the dawn.
"You're right," he whispered. "I always had a feeling that you were, and I never let go of that thought. But you're wrong about something. Whatever I used to think about you before… I was completely wrong about that. I was completely wrong about you. And… and now, I know that I was completely wrong about everything I believed in."
He grabbed one of your hands and placed it on his mouth. "Will you say my name?" he asked. "My real one."
You gulped. If you kept gulping like this, you might swallow your tongue next. But still, you took another deep breath. "K- Khaslana?"
He kissed your gloved palms, making you hold your breath. "Again… please."
"Khaslana."
He kissed each knuckle before leaning forward once more. "Again, please… I haven't heard anyone say my name in twelve years… it's- I need to hear it from you."
Your brows furrowed down. "Do you… not hate me?"
"Hate you?" He shook his head. "I care about you. Why would I hate you?"
The Thief Shower fell. Just as his lips met yours.
Everything about Phainon was soft. From his eyes, to the way his bangs would brush against his forehead, to his smile. You remembered the times you wondered if it was a façade. A front he was putting up so he could come closer and you could lower your guard, then kill you when the time was right.
But you were wrong. Oh, so wrong. Because even Khaslana was soft. His lips, his kiss, the way he held your chin to pull you closer. If you didn't know he was a witch hunter before this, then you wouldn't have thought that someone as soft and gentle as this was a witch hunter.
All those nights you spent tossing and turning, wondering what his reaction would be once he knew the truth… none of them involved this. Nothing could prepare you for this.
Gods, your hands. You had hands. Where would you even put them right now? Could you even move right now? You were just frozen in place, hands pinned on the ground and eyes wide as Khaslana kissed you with his eyes closed. With a mental shake of your head, you closed your eyes and leaned your head towards him. You had no idea what to do, so you just prayed that he somehow already knew it.
He was the first one to part. When you opened your eyes and caught your breaths, he was already staring at you. The hand not touching your chin caressed your cheek. Before you knew it, he kissed you again. This time, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, returning his kiss.
It was like you were in a completely different world right now. There were no witch hunters, no Council of Elders, and no death awaiting you someday. You were a witch kissing the man you fell in love with.
When you parted a second time, you pressed your forehead against his and panted, catching your breaths. Despite that, a small chuckle left your lips. "You made me panic for six months and then have the audacity to kiss me? I should kill you right now."
"You could." He shrugged. "Or, you could kiss me again."
"Don't push your luck." Despite your words, you pressed another soft kiss on his lips. A quick one, unlike the one he gave you, but still a kiss.
You stayed with him for a while. The two of you just sat there, your head on his shoulder and his arms around your waist. Your eyes were heavy, but you didn't mind if you fell asleep this time. You knew Khaslana would just carry you back home, anyway.
"I think I owe Aglaea after this," you muttered after a while. "She wasn't being pushy, but she did encourage me. No doubt I'll hear an 'I told you so' after this."
"Really?" He chuckled as he kissed your temple. "Did she… say anything else about me?"
"Nothing much except that I should lower my walls a little around you so I won't be too paranoid and obvious. Why do you ask?"
"You mean she never told you about the time she pointed a giant needle sword at me when I snuck inside her house and looked for your room?"
Your eyes widened, and you sat taller. "She what? She never told me that happened!"
"Oh, she didn't? Well, whoops. You never heard me say anything. Hey, how are those lucky cookies? Weren't we supposed to open them as soon as the Thief Shower fell?"
"The—oh." You grabbed the lucky cookies from your satchel. Both were still intact, fortunately. "You're lucky that this is a good distraction, or else I would have interrogated you about that time."
"Well, I hope it's not too late, then." He accepted his cookie from you. "Do you think one of us will get a silver coin?"
The thought made you snort. "I think I've had enough blessings from Zagreus for the year, thanks."
The two of you broke your cookies at the same time. Khaslana placed one half of his cookies in his mouth before taking the slip of paper inside. "The truth shall set your heart free. What do you know, this cookie is accurate. Any chance these are also magic? Or did I just have a really lucky start to the new year?"
You couldn't believe this. He was asking you about magic, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. It made you realize that your heart still hadn't calmed down from the fact that, just moments ago, you were worried that you would have to hide yourself from him forever. If it weren't for how much your stomach was doing flips, you would have thought you were dreaming.
"I would love it if a cookie was able to dictate how my life would go for the next year, but I always get the ones that don't make any sense." You grabbed the slip of paper and unrolled it. "The warmth you've always known will grow cold, but you will not see the fire die out. See? What does this even mean? Do you want the other half of my cookie? I don't like raisins, anyway."
Khaslana grabbed one half from you as you ate the other. Once the both of you finished, he stood up and offered his hand. "Let me walk you home. I don't want Lady Aglaea to think I've kidnapped you somehow, and I think I'd rather not be at the end of her needle again."
"I still cannot believe that she hid that from me." You grabbed his old cloak from the ground and accepted his hand. Even when you passed it back to him, he just chuckled. "But I think she's not worried about that."
Your fingers locked with his as the two of you walked down the mountain at the same time. You hadn't realized just how stiff his palms were until now. Definitely callous from all of the rigorous training he did in the past. You remembered the time he was able to carry his large sword with just one hand, and you still had no idea how he managed to do it.
By the time you both arrived at Okhema again, the festivities had died down. People were either closing their stalls or leaving their places. There were still some trash left in the street, but you knew that nobody wanted to clean that. At least, not right now. Someone would be back in the morning and sweep all the dirt alongside the snow.
It seemed like Aglaea was still awake, as there was a faint orange glow coming from one of the windows. As soon as you reached the front door, it immediately opened. Her brows were furrowed down, but when her gaze flicked downwards, a small smile formed on her face. "Welcome home, my darling."
You returned her smile. "Glad to be home."
"It's getting late now. Come in."
With a nod, you turned to him again. "Thank you for walking me back, Phai—Khaslana. Goodnight."
Khaslana smiled. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss on the back. "Goodnight."
You didn't realize just how tired you were until you entered Aglaea's house. You were never this tired after a Spirit Day before. Perhaps it was the dancing. Or perhaps it was the fact that you could finally breathe easily after worrying for nearly half a year that you were going to die. And now, you could go back to your bed and sleep without worrying about what tomorrow would bring.
"So." Aglaea's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. "Did you have fun?"
You sat down on one of the couches and took a deep breath, followed by an even longer sigh. Your feet were aching after all the walking and dancing, your stomach was aching from the amount of food you ached, and you were sleepy. Thank the gods that Khaslana convinced you to drink olive juice rather than another bottle of ambrosia, or else you would regret once morning arrived.
And most of all, you had the best night of your life.
You lifted your head and looked at her. "Aglaea?"
"Yes?"
"Mind telling me the story of the time you pointed your needle sword at him when he tried sneaking it during that morning?"
Aglaea chuckled. "Perhaps another time, child. Perhaps another time. But you should go to sleep now." She stood in front of you and placed a kiss on your forehead. "Goodnight."
⟢ synopsis. joaquín convinced you to stay in new york as a chance to regroup... and maybe look into who the hell this bob guy is. and just when things could not get any worse, john walker finds you both under the ruse of wanting to talk.
⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, sequel to this fic right here! a lot of plot. reader is described as female. reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :( joaquín is sooo baby brother. a bit of stalking happens, walker is a punching bag (i love him tho), reader is crazy stubborn, #justiceforsamwilson.
⟢ wc: 21.2k+
⟢ author’s note. bob wears bunny slippers. that is all i had to say.
You should’ve been halfway back to Washington by now. Maybe already unpacking your bag in your bedroom, or sitting shoulder to shoulder with Joaquín on the couch while Sam paced in front of you both, jaw clenched, hands on his hips and brow furrowed like he was about to crack the floor with how hard he was pacing back and forth. He’d be muttering something about how disappointed he was, how you went behind his back and dragged yourself into this morning’s breaking news cycle.
Instead, you were still in New York, sitting across from Joaquín in a café that toed the line between ‘upscale diner’ and ‘hipster brunch spot.’ Somewhere in Mid-Manhattan, near enough to the buzz of the city, but tucked just far enough to feel like a secret. Still, it was too close to the watchtower for your liking, just down the street.
The café had all the trimmings of old New York: polished floors, and red leather booths, but filtered through the lens of reclaimed wood walls and Edison bulbs.
It was early enough that there were only a handful of people occupying the other booths. Old soul music hummed softly from the speakers overhead, and a couple of waitresses bustled between tables, laughing in Spanish. There was a white man across from you who was poking into his own breakfast with a strange mannerism only filthy rich people would have.
The mug of coffee in your hands had gone lukewarm. The latte art was so nice that it made you hesitate even to drink it, but you also wondered if you could force yourself to have an appetite after last night.
Joaquín had convinced you to stay just a little longer; said it might help you feel better. He sat in front of you in the booth, wearing an I LOVE NYC shirt, sipping from his cold brew as if he hadn’t dragged you out of bed at five in the morning for a run around Central Park that took an hour and then saw the sunrise. Which then became a detour to Times Square before it got crowded. Which then became breakfast out, because apparently, room service wasn’t “authentically New York enough.”
And now? Now you were here. Staring into a latte you didn’t ask for, stomach coiled too tight to even think about food, wishing you could leave the city already.
You hadn’t said much since leaving the gala. Not in the van, not in the elevator ride up to your hotel room, not even when Joaquín offered to stay. You’d nodded, locked the door behind him, and then downed whatever overpriced minibar bottle of tequila you could find. Maybe two.
You kept replaying it all. The way the crowd went quiet when the cameras caught you with Valentina. The fake smile politeness as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and whispered poison in your ear.
The words still echoed: What’s loyalty really worth?
She wanted you to betray Sam, as if enough people hadn’t already done that.
And then there was Bob.
Fuck that guy.
Fuck Bob.
You went back to nursing your coffee, eyes glazed, ears barely catching the low hum of the voice of the lawyer Joaquín had hired as he explained your legal options. You weren’t sure what he was saying. Something about image rights, team misrepresentation, staying away from De Fontaine and possible lawsuits: you nodded because it was easier than arguing.
Joaquín said you would stay just until noon like this city hadn’t already taken enough energy from you. And you agreed because part of you still hadn’t figured out what to do next.
Besides, it was only eight-thirty in the morning by the time you both got your drinks.
“…And those are just a few steps I’d recommend moving forward,” the lawyer said smoothly, adjusting his glasses as he sat back. “I’ll be honest, this isn’t exactly my usual wheelhouse, but I think we’ve got a decent case if we frame the whole thing as a misunderstanding. Especially if De Fontaine keeps using ‘Avengers’ without clearance.”
His tone was calm. Unbothered. Confident, even. You couldn’t tell if that made you feel better or worse. You probably could have avoided this entire situation if you had stayed home and told Congressman Gary to suck it.
“Yeah, thanks,” Joaquín said brightly, finally glancing up from his laptop.
The man stood, reaching for the sleek red cane that rested against the booth. “Well, you’ve got my number,” he said. “Call if you need anything. I’m happy to keep looking into it.”
“Thanks, Matt,” Joaquín said again, giving him a grateful smile.
“Seriously,” you added, your voice a touch warmer now. Maybe it was the way Matt had actually made the whole mess sound… manageable. “Thank you.”
Matt turned in your direction, that easy smile not fading. “Don’t worry. If you want to push the misunderstanding narrative, you’ll be fine. And if Valentina keeps branding this team as Avengers, there’s a solid case for misrepresentation, especially if your likeness is being used to imply endorsement.”
You nodded. “Right. Yeah. Got it. Thanks.”
Matt paused, as if catching the hesitation in your voice. “You’ll be okay,” he said, then offered a small wave as he made his way toward the door.
Joaquín watched him leave, the bell above the café door giving a soft chime as it swung shut behind him. Then he turned back to you with a grin that was way too proud for someone who’d just hired a lawyer from a newspaper ad. “He seems nice.”
You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee mug. “Where’d you find that guy?”
He pursed his lips, “You said we needed a lawyer. I got us a lawyer. He has really good reviews on Yelp. One of the best in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Hell’s Kitchen? You made that pour man come all the way down here for us?”
“He offered,” Joaquín said defensively, “Matt said he preferred to meet in person anyway. Besides, we need someone who’s not scared of Valentina. The man literally sues billionaires in his spare time.”
You set your mug down a little too hard, making it clink against the saucer. “We have lawyers. Sam knows people. Actual governmental legal teams. With offices. Why didn’t you call one of them?”
“I didn’t realize we needed the god of lawyers to step in,” he muttered, exasperated as he rolled his eyes. “Relax. We’ve got more than enough to blow this thing wide open. The press photos alone are enough to raise suspicion, and the way Valentina keeps parading that ‘New Avengers’ name around? That’s grounds for a cease and desist.”
You leaned back in the booth, rubbing your temple as you exhaled. “We don’t have as much as you think.”
“But we will.”
You didn’t respond, you just turned your head and focused out the window again. Outside, the city moved on without you. Pedestrians marched by in layers of spring coats and scarves, dodging puddles and taxis like it was all muscle memory. There was something comforting about how oblivious they all were, how none of them had been at that gala last night or had their name blasted across every trending tag before noon.
Inside, the warm smell of eggs and expensive coffee lingered in the air, but you couldn’t shake the sourness sitting in your stomach.
Joaquín, thankfully, didn’t push. He went back to typing on his laptop, though you could tell the silence was killing him. His foot bounced under the table. Occasionally, he muttered something to himself, probably reviewing the security cam footage from the gala again, probably rewatching the exact moment Valentina draped an arm over your shoulders like she owned you.
The two of you were dressed down, in civilian clothes (if Joaquín’s tourist merch would count as such), and baseball caps pulled low. Your sunglasses sat folded beside the ketchup bottle and sugar packets, next to the fresh copy of this morning’s Daily Bugle. Your photo was front-page centre. The shot of you in the dress, frozen between Valentina and Yelena, half-turning like you weren’t sure if you wanted to be there or bolt.
At least you looked pretty.
You wondered if Bob had seen it.
The thought hit you suddenly, out of nowhere, and lodged itself in your chest like a splinter. You hadn’t even realized you were still thinking about him, not actively, anyway, but the memory of his face lingered stubbornly. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go. The way he’d said your name, low and careful. Like it mattered. He felt like a scent on your jacket or a song stuck in your teeth. Something stupid and soft that wouldn’t let go.
You pressed a hand against your thigh under the table, grounding yourself. It wasn’t the time.
A waitress approached not long after, balancing two plates in her arms with the practiced grace of someone who’d been doing it since before either of you were born. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and she gave your table a friendly smile.
“Three pancakes, three eggs, and three sausages?”
Joaquín perked up immediately, pulling down his headphones and sliding his laptop to the side like he hadn’t been glued to it for the past twenty minutes. “That’s me, thank you.”
“Berry waffles?”
You raised your hand, and she set the plate down gently in front of you before asking if there was anything else either of you wanted. You both politely declined, and she left.
Joaquín didn’t waste a second. He picked up his fork and immediately began cutting into his mountain of food. Syrup pooled fast over his eggs and sausages.
You just stared at your plate. The waffles were warm, the fruit arranged in neat little clusters, but your stomach still felt like it had been twisted into knots. You poked at a strawberry without much commitment.
“So,” Joaquín said between bites, reaching for his cold brew and sipping loudly from the straw just to get your attention like a child.
You didn’t look up, just stabbed a strawberry on your plate.
He tried again. “Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?”
That time, you met his eyes. His smile was soft and a little tentative, but he was holding himself like he expected you to throw your drink in his face. His shoulders were hunched, eyes flicking between you and his plate like he was bracing for impact.
“Talk about what?”
He blinked at you, then gave a pointed look. “Last night.”
You frowned, “We already debriefed.”
“I—I know that,” he said, fork mid-air. “I meant, like, talk about it to me. As friends. Just… me and you. Like we usually do.”
You didn’t answer right away. The quiet between you stretched long enough for the sounds of the diner to filter in again; the clatter of dishes, the sizzle from the kitchen, someone laughing faintly three booths over. Then you sighed, setting your fork down with a metallic clink against the ceramic.
“It’s just...” Joaquín tried again, not looking at you now, like the words would land better if he said them sideways. “You’ve been kinda like… a pain in the ass. To put it nicely.”
That drew a faint grin from you, brief, reluctant, but real. No one could needle you quite like him. Maybe that’s why you both worked. Maybe that’s why it always worked. You rolled your eyes, not quite ready to give in.
“I just don’t understand why you got us a lawyer off Yelp.”
Joaquín pulled a face, somewhere between defensive and done-with-you. “It’s not about the lawyer, man.”
“It kinda is, though.”
“No, it’s not. I’m talking about what Valentina said to you.” His voice dipped low, more careful now. “And… y’know. That Bob guy.”
“Can we not?” you muttered. The words left your mouth too quickly. “Not here, Quín.”
He didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a second longer, his fork hovering above his plate like he was debating whether to say more. Then he dipped his head, gave a short nod, and went back to his food.
You cut another piece of waffle and chewed slowly. It was good, golden and fluffy, the syrup pooling around the edges—but it didn’t warm you the way it should’ve. Didn’t ease the dull pressure blooming in your chest.
Across from you, Joaquín had only taken a few more bites before he set his fork down and wiped his hands on a napkin. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice a little quieter this time. More careful.
“We’ve done a lot of missions together, right?”
You glanced at him, wary. “Right.”
He nodded, like you’d confirmed something only he knew how to track. “And we’ve both done our fair share of flirting here and there. You know… for the job. Sometimes not for the job.”
You gave him a look, already spotting the slow grin building on his face. “Not this again.”
“I’m just saying, we do pretty well for ourselves. I do especially well.” He smiled. “Like, remember that Peruvian girl from last month—?”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, spotting that dumb smile on his face he only has when he's about to say something stupid. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, remember how I—”
You didn’t even let him finish. “Oh my god,” you groaned, putting your fork down again. “Is there a point to this story? Because I really don’t think I can stomach hearing about that one again.”
He had the decency to look mildly sheepish—just a flush rising to the tips of his ears—but it didn’t stop him from doubling down.
“It was good sex.”
You snorted. “Mediocre at best.”
“You weren’t even there.”
“And yet, I know you need to get laid more. You talk about this girl like she changed your life, and then you follow it up with ‘she liked my jacket.’ That’s it. That’s the story. You slept with her, and she left the next morning.”
“She did like my jacket,” he muttered defensively, half under his breath.
“You need to get laid more.” You repeated into your coffee.
“I need to get laid more?” he scoffed, eyes narrowing. “You need to get laid more.”
You leaned forward just slightly, squinting at him like you dared him to double down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He blinked at you, deadpan. “You know what it means.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It means,” he said, drawing the words out slowly for dramatic effect, “you need to get laid.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. “I get laid.”
“Not enough,” he shot back, mimicking your tone with a mockery of concern in his voice.
You jabbed your fork in his direction. “More than you.”
“Sure.” He waved his hand dismissively, like he’d already let you win for the sake of moving on. He tugged the brim of his cap lower over his forehead, leaning back into the booth. “Can we circle back to the actual point here?”
“Whatever,” you muttered, voice low, flat. You stabbed at your waffles again, syrup pooling under your fork.
He pointed at you then, vaguely, as if trying to name something intangible. “See, this is what I’m talking about.”
You didn’t look at him, but he kept going.
“You’re off. Last night, you took a few hits—I mean, emotionally. I’ve never seen you like that before. Not really.” He scratched at the side of his jaw. “Valentina was just trying to get in your head, you know that, right?”
You let out a bitter, breathy laugh and grabbed the newspaper from beside the salt shaker. “It’s working.” You held it up with both hands and shook it for emphasis. “‘Reformed or Recruited? Meet the New Face at The New Avengers’ Table.’” You slapped it down in front of him, the headline side up. “I could kill her.”
“Okay,” Joaquín said, glancing around the café, lifting both brows. “Maybe don’t say that so loudly in public?”
You ignored him, still staring at the article. “It’s just—she talks like she’s already won. Every word out of her mouth is loaded. Like no matter what you say, she’s already said it in her head and spun it into something smarter. It’s so fucking frustrating.”
Joaquín didn’t interrupt. You kept going.
“She knows things. Things she shouldn’t. About me. About you. About everyone. And the way she talked about Bucky—” Your voice dipped again. “She’s got him on a leash. She has to be blackmailing him. There’s no other reason he’d stick around a group like that. You remember how long it took for him to even trust us? How much work Sam put in for us? And now she’s got him sitting next to Walker and a bunch government rejects that should be facing lifetimes in jail.”
Joaquín was quiet for a second, stirring his drink with the tip of his straw. “I know. I’ve been thinking the same thing. Maybe she’s got something from his Winter Soldier days. Something buried.”
“Maybe,” you murmured. “But I don’t know. He made peace with all that. Or he was trying to.”
Joaquín nodded solemnly. Then, with perfect timing and a shit-eating grin, he added, “She probably found his butt pics or something.”
You recoiled, immediately groaning, “Ugh, gross, Joaquín. Come on—I’m eating.”
He laughed into his straw, biting it. “I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”
You tried to keep your glare steady, but your mouth twitched, the corner threatening to pull upward. You hated that he could do that, break through the spiral with the dumbest thing imaginable. But maybe that’s why he was still your first call every time things went to shit.
Joaquín’s voice softened a little. “You know she doesn’t win just because she made the headlines first, right? She wants you rattled. She wants you to think she’s got it all figured out. But she doesn’t. You’re better than her.”
You looked down at your plate, the fruit now limp and soaked through with syrup, and slowly pushed it aside.
“I just hate not knowing,” you said quietly. “Not knowing what she’s playing at. Not knowing what Bucky’s really thinking. Not knowing if any of this is going to matter.”
“It matters,” Joaquín said without hesitation. “And if it doesn’t yet, we’ll make sure it does.”
That finally made you look at him.
He gave you a lopsided smile, stupid, warm, stubbornly sure of you in a way you weren’t even sure of yourself right now.
“You’re not alone in this,” he added. “You’ve got me. And Sam. And probably, like, three semi-legal encrypted files Matt just handed over.”
You huffed out a soft, reluctant laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”
“Yeah, but I’m right.”
You didn’t say it out loud—but maybe, just this once, you didn’t disagree.
Your phone buzzed against the table, and both you and Joaquín froze, mid-sentence, mid-chew. His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. Your eyes locked on the screen.
The display lit up, just enough for you both to see the name.
Captain Sammy!
Neither of you said anything at first.
You’d been waiting for this. Dreading it, really. That’s why your phone had been sitting so close to your plate all morning, screen facing up, volume on for messages only, buzz setting maxed out. Every scrape of cutlery, every breath between words had you waiting for this.
Joaquín leaned in slightly, eyes scanning your face. “Is it Sam?”
You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”
“What’s he saying?”
You didn’t move right away. Your hand hovered over the phone like it might burn you. “I don’t know. I’m… too scared to open it.”
His brows pulled together, and he leaned further across the booth, trying to read the message upside down. “Why hasn’t he messaged me yet?”
“I don’t know,” you repeated, this time quieter, and your thumb swiped across the screen like muscle memory. You tapped into your messages.
Your stomach twisted before your eyes could even process the text.
Call me soon. We need to talk.
You winced.
“Well?” Joaquín asked, watching you too closely. “What’d he say?”
You turned the phone toward him.
He read it, then leaned back slowly. “Woah.”
“I know.”
“No emojis?”
“No.”
“He used proper punctuation.”
“Yeah. Caps. Periods.”
Joaquín let out a long whistle and slouched deeper into the booth like the air had been sucked out of him too. “Shit. He’s so pissed.”
You exhaled hard and tossed the phone facedown onto the table like it might accuse you of something else if you looked at it any longer. Your shoulders slumped, and you dropped your head into your hands, the motion knocking your cap off in the process. It hit the seat with a soft thump.
“God, I’m so fucked,” you groaned into your palms.
“Hey…” Joaquín’s voice softened. No teasing now. Just warmth. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing your wrist. Gently, he coaxed your hands away from your face. “We’re fucked. We’re a team. We both get fucked together.”
You stared at him for a second.
Then winced. “...Dude.”
He blinked, mouth twitching, and then his expression crumpled into a wince of his own. “Yeah, yeah. I heard it as I said it.”
You shoved his hand away, and he laughed. It was the kind of laugh that let you breathe again, even if only for a second.
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Do you wanna book a plane home or should we just drive back?”
“Let’s drive,” he said without missing a beat, already pulling his laptop closer. “The longer it takes to get back, the better. We need time to stall.”
“I’ll rent a car.” You thumbed open the app, scrolling through the available options. “Any preferences?”
“I’m not picky.”
You nodded absently, letting the words pass between you like background noise. Your finger moved down the screen, but your mind wasn’t really following. Each name—Toyota, Chevy, Honda—blurred past you.
The pressure had started to settle beneath your ribs now, a slow-building ache that hadn’t let up since last night. It pulsed quietly with every breath. You tried to ignore it, tried to act like you were okay, like you weren’t picturing the message on your phone or imagining the conversation that would come when you finally called Sam.
But you weren’t okay. Not really. You hadn’t been okay since that tower. Since Valentina’s voice crawled into your skull and made a home there.
The sound of Joaquín tapping at his keyboard pulled you back to the present.
“Hey,” he said, his tone cautious, like he already expected you to roll your eyes again. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about last night anymore, but that guy you were talking to—Bob? I managed to get a voice match, and I did some digging for you.”
You didn’t look up. Your thumb hovered over a rental listing. “I really don’t care. Do you want a Honda or—”
“Well,” he cut in, “his full name is Robert Reynolds.”
You froze, just for a second. Just long enough for Joaquín to notice.
“Jesus,” he added, grinning like he couldn’t help himself, “you were flirting with a guy named Robert.”
You lifted your gaze, flat but not without bite. “Shut the fuck up.”
He laughed, light and triumphant. “There’s not much on him. He’s kind of a nobody, to be honest. Valentina must have wiped him or something. He’s got an old Instagram account but hasn’t updated it since before the Blip. Mostly middle school, high school stuff. A couple of mirror selfies. Not much else.”
You didn’t mean to be interested. Not really. But your head perked up anyway.
“Let me see.”
He angled the laptop your way without a word, thankfully.
The screen showed a grid of filtered, slightly overexposed images, pictures that fit from the time they were taken and posted. Group shots at what looked like house parties. Underage drinking and smoking. A photo of a dog. One of the sunset, blurry and underwhelming, captioned ‘summer’ with a cute emoji of the sun. Most of the posts were book covers, titles you vaguely recognized; a few you’d read yourself. The kind of things people share, not for anyone else, but just to remind themselves they were still here.
He didn’t post himself often.
But one picture stopped you.
A younger version of him stood beside someone in a graduation gown. His hair was shorter, his face leaner, his body thinner. He wasn’t wearing a gown himself. Just a hand shoved awkwardly into a hoodie pocket, the other slung around the person beside him. Still, he was smiling—kind of half-hearted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his face. It was the same mouth, same sharp features. But softer.
You stared at it a moment too long.
You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Maybe something to prove he wasn’t a threat. Or maybe something else entirely.
You could still hear the way he said family, like he believed it, like he needed to.
You hated how easily he’d gotten under your skin. How, even now, some part of him was curling its way around your thoughts, threading through your brain like smoke through a vent. He was weird, and there was something about him that felt too big to look at directly. Like if you focused too hard, he might burn a hole through you.
You tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tried to tell yourself he didn’t matter.
But your hand was already resting on the corner of Joaquín’s laptop, scrolling gently through the next photo. And the one after that.
And you didn’t stop.
You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until Joaquín cleared his throat.
“He never graduated,” he said, “Dropped out.”
You blinked, sitting up a little straighter, “What?”
Joaquín tilted the screen back toward himself. “I couldn’t find any school records past sophomore year. No GED either. He just kinda... worked odd jobs before disappearing.”
Your eyes scanned what was left of Bob’s social media feed. Just ten posts in total. Ten fragments of a person whose edges were too slippery to pin down. Still, that didn’t stop the strange kick in your chest, like your body knew something your brain hadn’t caught up with yet.
“Disappearing?”
“Yeah. And it gets weirder.”
He clicked over to another tab. The brightness of a mugshot hit you instantly.
“There’s a criminal record,” Joaquín said. “Not sealed, surprisingly. Valentina’s people probably missed it—or didn’t care enough to clean it up.”
You leaned closer as he continued.
“An assault charge from one of his part-time jobs years ago. He attacked a civilian.”
“At work?”
“Yeah,” he said grimly. He tapped the keyboard again, and up came a police scan. Bob, older than in the Instagram posts, but still younger than last night, sat facing the camera with a vacant expression. His cheeks looked hollow, his eyes rimmed with red and shiny with unshed tears. Sweat slicked his forehead, and his lips were split as if he’d been grinding his teeth on them.
“He was on drugs,” Joaquín said, his voice a little quieter. “Methamphetamine.”
You vaguely remember him mentioning he was sober.
“…Jesus.”
“And,” He continued, hesitating only slightly, “he was wearing a chicken costume when he got arrested. Like, full mascot getup. Worked at Alfredo’s Bail Bonds. I don’t even know what that is.”
You frowned. The ache in your chest curled tighter as if the image on the screen weighed something you couldn’t name. Bob didn’t look dangerous in that photo. He didn’t look angry or unhinged.
He looked lost. Like he’d already been falling long before anyone ever thought to arrest him.
“It’s not funny, Joaquín.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” Joaquín glanced at you. And even though the grin tugged at his lips, he raised one hand in surrender. But the humour was still there. You know he didn’t mean anything by it, not really. You could tell he was just trying to lift the mood. “But like… come on. A chicken costume? It’s objectively a little funny.”
You scoffed, reached across the table and closed his laptop with two fingers, giving him a flat look. “You’re the worst.”
“Shut up,” Joaquín said, flashing you that stupid grin again as he tugged the laptop back toward him. “You love me.”
The warm morning sun was finally starting to cast a glow through the window and onto your half-eaten plate of waffles.
Joaquín opened his laptop again and tapped a few keys, lips pressed together now. “I still don’t get what he was doing in that tower last night.”
“He knows Valentina to some extent. We know that much,” you murmured, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He nodded, gaze fixed on the screen, but your voice dropped with the weight of what you were about to say next.
“…He called Bucky family.”
That made him pause. He turned toward you fully, his brows lifted. “Family?”
“Yeah,” you said, quietly. “Like Walker. Starr. Belova. He said they saved him.”
You watched Joaquín’s expression shift, his usual spirit tempered by something more focused, sharper around the edges. He leaned forward a little, propping his elbow on the booth table again as if the change in posture could help him wrap his head around it.
“Saved him from what?” he asked. “When?”
You shook your head. “I don’t know.”
He frowned. “You didn’t ask?”
“I didn’t really get the chance,” you said, your voice catching for half a second. Then you exhaled. “Or—I don’t know. I just freaked out.”
“You freaked out? You?”
You gave a dry, humourless laugh, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your napkin. “You haven’t met him. He just… he threw me off.”
Your voice was quieter now, almost drowned out by the soft rumble of a waitress rolling a cart past your booth.
“I was already on edge after everything Valentina said. Then he shows up, out of nowhere... and he acts... he was really sweet, actually. And I know it’s stupid but I let my gaurd down. Then he said Bucky’s his family, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? ‘Cool, same’? I don’t even know if Bucky considers us family.”
Joaquín rested his chin in one hand, looking thoughtful. “I mean… I probably would’ve asked him more questions. Try to figure out who he is before jumping to conclusions.”
You shot him a look.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, hands up in defence. “The idea of them saving him could be legit. Like—it could go back to what happened in New York a few months ago. The whole Darkness or Void incident. That was a mess. Maybe he got caught in all that and they pulled him out or something.”
“Maybe,” you said, still not convinced. “Lot’s of people got caught up in that. What makes him so special?”
Joaquín exhaled through his nose. “Could’ve been one of those publicity saves. You know how they’ve been staging those lately.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line. You hated the thought of that being true. That Bob was just another pawn in Valentina’s carefully calculated optics campaign. But there was something else in your gut. That didn’t feel like the whole truth. Bob had looked at you like he knew something. Like he’d seen something you hadn’t yet.
You rubbed at your eyes. “Are there any records of that?”
“No,” Joaquín said, tapping his finger against the side of his laptop. “Not really.”
You sank back into the booth, staring at the streaks of syrup on your plate.
“It doesn’t matter now,” you said after a long breath. “We’ll probably never see him again. Or Bucky, for that matter.”
Joaquín shook his head, his expression tightening. “Don’t say that. He’ll come back.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah,” he said without missing a beat. “He can’t stay away from Sam for too long. Those two go into, like, withdrawals if they spend enough time apart. Sam starts getting all twitchy. It’s weird.”
You let out a soft laugh, “Yeah, right.”
Joaquín grinned, kicking you from under the table. “Hey. Fun fact. Bob’s from Florida.”
You raised a brow, skeptical. “What, you think he’s from Miami too?”
“Sarasota Springs.” He said, “Makes sense, I guess… with his criminal record, it kinda tracks. Rich, by the coast, drugged-up suburbia. Perfect place to arrest a meth-head chicken.”
You shot him another glare. “That’s not funny, Joaquín.”
“I’m sorry!” he shrieked when your foot connected with his shin under the table.
He was not sorry—his laugh betrayed him. He kicked you back with zero remorse. The table wobbled with the weight of your childish back-and-forth, your drink nearly toppling as Joaquín banged his knee into the edge, cursing. You stopped before either of you caused a spill.
But then, he froze.
Not the usual kind of still, either. He stopped laughing mid-breath, spine straightening with a jolt, and his eyes cut toward the window in a way that immediately froze your blood. The humour drained off him like a tide pulling back to sea.
Your own posture tightened. “What?” you whispered.
He didn’t answer; he just grabbed his sunglasses and slapped them on, even though you were indoors. That alone told you how bad it was.
“Get down,” he muttered, reaching across the table and sliding the newspaper to you. “Look casual.”
You snatched it without a word, unfolding the pages like you cared about the stock market. Your heart beat too loudly in your ears, and your eyes scanned the ink without registering a single word. Still, you followed his lead, the two of you falling into sync like clockwork.
You tried to guess what had set him off. Your brain jumped straight to Sam, storming through the front entrance, arms crossed like a disappointed dad at parent-teacher night. But no. He was still in Washington, right?
You glanced over the paper’s edge. “What is it?” you hissed.
Joaquín didn’t move much—just lowered his voice to a whisper through clenched teeth. “It’s Walker.”
You blinked, lips parting in disbelief. “What?”
“Shhh. Shut the fuck up.”
You straightened up ever so slightly, trying to look calm, normal, bored, but you angled your head toward the door.
“Where?” you whispered, barely moving your lips.
“By the entrance,” Joaquín murmured, adjusting his cap lower. “With the ghost girl.”
You squinted subtly. “Ghost gi—?”
Ava Starr. You caught sight of her instantly, despite Joaquín not needing to say her name. She stood like someone perpetually mid-departure, her hair pulled back and jaw set tight as she waited at the counter. Her arms were folded, and she was already halfway through her order. Beside her, unmistakable in his broad, self-assured posture, stood John Walker. He wore a sun-bleached military jacket and—God help you—that stupid beret. His eyes weren’t scanning the room yet, just the menu above the barista, but that could change at any moment.
You ducked back behind your newspaper like it might physically protect you. “We should just… lay low until they leave,” you said under your breath, acting like it was all casual. “The last thing we need is getting caught with them. Especially now. If anyone sees us here with them, it’s gonna look real convenient.”
“Okay,” Joaquín murmured, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “But I’m telling you, if Walker starts walking this way, I’m crawling under this booth.”
You almost laughed, but it didn’t quite make it out. Instead, you focused your gaze on your plate, trying to pretend your nerves weren’t crawling all over your skin.
The seconds ticked by with unbearable slowness. Joaquín took a sip of his drink, eyes still hidden behind his glasses and the screen of his computer. For one full, glorious moment, it seemed like maybe—maybe—they’d leave without seeing you.
“Hey, guys,” came a voice behind you. Too familiar. Too smug.
Your stomach dropped.
“Funny seeing you here in New York.”
Your spine stiffened like a board. Across from you, Joaquín let out what had to be the quietest groan of his life, a barely audible sigh that still managed to scream you’ve got to be kidding me.
You didn’t look right away. You already knew who it was. But slowly, cautiously, you turned in your seat, past the half-finished plate of fruits and the folded newspaper still clutched in your hand, to find John Walker standing at the edge of your table.
Hands on his hips, back straight like a soldier reporting for duty. That signature smugness twisted his mouth into a grin that looked about ninety percent forced and ten percent calculated. A politician’s smile, one he’d probably been coached on.
Ava Starr stood just behind him, half-shielded by the oversized sweater and black trench coat she was wearing, and her baseball cap pulled low like you were. She sipped from a takeout cup like none of this had anything to do with her. Still, her eyes flicked over the two of you, sharp and curious. There was intrigue there, and something else. Something like suspicion.
“Walker,” Joaquín said, dragging his sunglasses off and trying on a smile that was just a little too wide to be natural. He leaned back against the booth like he wasn’t one second away from bolting. “Long time no see, man. When—when was the last time we saw each other?”
Walker didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know, Torres.” He tilted his head, pretending to think about it with mock sincerity. “I think it was about two, three years ago? When you pled against me in court.”
Joaquín blinked, just once, then let out a breathy, “Right, right.” A stiff nod followed, and you caught the colour blooming in his cheeks before he turned back to Walker, trying to recover. “Wow. Time flies. How’s Olivia?”
Walker’s jaw flexed, the grin faltering just slightly. “She’s fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Happy wife, happy life, am I right?”
“Ex-wife, actually,” Ava said casually, her voice cool and clipped—and British, you noted, catching you a bit off guard. It was the first time you’d heard her speak. “She took the kid and left him.”
A sip. Deadpan. Not even a blink.
Joaquín flinched like she’d hit him. “Oh—uh. Sorry.”
Walker sighed, running a hand down his face, but he didn’t look particularly angry at her for saying it. If anything, he just looked annoyed, maybe even tired. Like someone who didn’t have the energy to defend himself anymore.
You cleared your throat, eyes narrowing just enough. “Who’s your friend?” You asked it knowing full well who she was. You had files on every single New Avenger. The question was less about gaining information and more about playing the game. Buying yourself time. Pretending this conversation was normal when every instinct in your body said otherwise.
“This is Ava,” Walker said, gesturing toward her with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Ava offered a faint smile, small, and polite, but with an unmistakable edge of sarcasm. It was a smile that said she knew exactly how uncomfortable you were, and she probably felt the same way.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi.” You nodded once, tight-lipped.
Joaquín, ever the icebreaker, leaned forward in what was possibly the worst possible moment. “I gotta say—your powers are so cool. Like, if I could have powers, I’d want something like yours.”
You didn’t even have time to stop him.
Ava blinked, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Thanks. The cells inside my body are tearing themselves apart every second. Chronic pain. Constantly.”
He deflated like a balloon with a hole in it, sinking back into the booth. “Oh.”
“Sorry about him,” you said, giving Ava a small shrug. “He never knows when to speak or what to say.”
Ava gave a short, amused nod. “It’s alright. I’m better now, anyway. My cells only tear apart on my command.”
“That’s nice.” You tried not to show it, but the offhandedness of that statement—how someone could say something so gruesome with such ease—did something to your stomach.
Then Walker turned back to you.
“See, I thought I saw you last night,” he said, voice casual in the most deliberately uncasual way. He scratched at his beard.
Your jaw tightened.
Of course he saw you last night. You saw him too. He knew it. You knew it. And the fact that he was pretending like this was just now dawning on him made your teeth itch. Especially since your photos from that gala were currently trending on half the internet. The press had already decided what it meant. You didn’t need Walker playing coy.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling sweetly. “I saw you too. Then you turned and walked the other way before I could say hi.”
Ava snorted into her drink, reaching over to smack Walker’s arm. “You ran off?”
“No—” Walker started, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head and a raised brow.
“You did.”
“I didn’t run off,” he said, defensive now. “I just had business to attend to.”
You didn’t bother replying. He was still talking, but his words blurred into the background as your phone buzzed once again on the table beside you. Sam. Probably asking when you'd be ready to talk or when you were coming home.
You caught Joaquín glancing at the screen, and a silent understanding passed between you both. Time to wrap this up.
You turned back to Walker with a pleasant enough smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Did you need something, Walker? I mean, it’s great to see you—” (lie) “—but we were just trying to have some breakfast before we went home.”
“Home? You’re leaving so soon?”
“We’ve got things to do. It’s a long drive back.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “We can fly you back to Washington. No problem. You’d be home before sunset.”
You blinked once. “No thanks.”
Walker chuckled, a low, dry sound that barely passed for humour. “You should come by the tower anyway. We’ll show you around. It’ll be fun.”
You couldn’t think of anything that had to do with John Walker being described as ‘fun’.
Also, he wasn’t exactly subtle with the way he asked the two of you to go to the tower with them. You didn’t know what was up there waiting for you, and you didn’t want to find out. You just wanted to go home.
“Really,” you said, the word coming out like dead weight. “We’re good. We’ll just get the bill and go.”
Right on cue, the waitress showed up, sliding the receipt onto the table with a bright smile that faltered the second she noticed Walker and Ava still hovering beside your booth. She glanced between all four of you, sensing something off, the way people do when they walk into a conversation that’s gone a degree too cold. Without a word, she walked off, her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum.
The table went still for a beat. Then Ava finally spoke.
“We know you talked to Bob last night.”
That shut you up. Just like that, your posture went a little rigid, shoulders tensing into steel as the name settled like a stone in your gut. It landed like a trigger pull. You tried not to be too obvious but you were failing.
Joaquín was worse, he froze mid-bite, his fork hovering just an inch from his lips before he slowly set it down. His eyes darted to you, then back to Ava.
Ava shifted slightly, her voice calmer now, but precise. “We also know you asked about Barnes.”
That got you. You didn’t respond; you didn’t need to. The fact you were suddenly locked in, gaze narrowed, said enough. She had your attention. And she knew it.
Ava scanned the café. Her eyes didn’t linger too long on anything, but you recognized the sweep, measured, tactical. The way a person looks when they’ve been taught to watch for threats before they come through the door.
“We’re not with Val,” she said. “Not in the way you think. Just… give us a chance to talk. Somewhere private.”
You nearly laughed. Or maybe you wanted to. Or maybe you wanted to scream. Somewhere private? As if that didn’t set off every alarm in your body.
You didn’t know Ava Starr beyond what you and Joaquín had pulled from the files: taken by S.H.E.I.L.D. as a child, quantum instability, a near-lethal skill set. You didn’t know John Walker beyond the courtroom footage, the headlines, and everything you watched from the sidelines, a man who still believed he deserved redemption without ever earning it. You also knew he had taken a dangerous dose of the super soldier serum, making him violent and twitchy.
But you definitely didn’t know them well enough to follow them into a quiet place with no exits or no witnesses.
And you definitely did not want to be caught walking around New York City with them. The last thing you needed was another headline featuring your face beside the likes of John Walker. And Joaquín? You weren’t about to drag him deeper into a mess that wasn’t his.
But before you could say any of that, before you could even start lining up all the reasons this was a terrible idea, you heard: “Okay, sure.”
Your head snapped around. “Quín?”
Joaquín had turned his hat backward, that familiar nervous tell masked behind the casual flip. He was already sliding his laptop into his bag, fingers moving with a kind of focused ease that suggested he’d been waiting for this the whole time. Like part of him had been waiting for someone to finally offer an answer, any answer, and now that it was on the table, he couldn’t bring himself to hesitate.
“What?” he asked.
“You can’t just—”
“What?” he said again with a little more attitude, zipping the bag closed. “You’re always saying how much you hate being in the dark. They’re offering answers.”
“They could be lying,” you shot back, sharper than you meant. “This could be a trap, or another setup.”
You said it like they weren’t standing right there, and you didn’t care if they heard. They could take the hint or choke on it.
He shrugged, cool, easy, frustratingly calm. “Then we’ll find out.”
You stared at him, your chest tight all over again. He meant that. You could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way he shouldered his bag like it didn’t weigh a damn thing. That unbearable sincerity, that same stubborn belief in people that made you trust him, was now steering him straight into a situation you didn’t trust at all.
You wanted to snap. Wanted to grab his arm, drag him out of the café and into daylight, anywhere but here. A bitter remark rose in your throat, hot and ready to be thrown—about the last time he leapt before looking, the last time he decided to be a hero and ended up flatlined for two full minutes on a hospital table, blood-soaked and broken and somehow still apologizing for it afterward.
But the words caught in your chest.
You didn’t say it. You didn’t even whisper it.
You just looked at him. Tried to say it with your eyes, with the hard, silent glare you shot across the table—don’t do this.
He didn’t meet your gaze.
Instead, you turned, eyes locking onto Walker and Ava, your voice low and sharp. “How’d you find us?”
Walker raised both hands, a placating gesture you didn’t buy for a second. “We didn’t follow you or anything. Personally, I couldn’t care less about what you two are up to.”
You bristled at the you two, and you hated how they started to drag Joaquín into it.
“But,” Walker went on, “Yelena’s been tracking you since the gala.”
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
He said it casually like it was nothing.
You blinked, stomach lurching. There’d been no tag, no weight in your coat, no itch along your back where something might’ve been placed. You’d showered. Slept. Walked half the city this morning without even realizing it. And that was the point, wasn’t it? You never saw her. Never felt it. Never even noticed.
Because Yelena Belova didn’t need a tracker when she was one of the best Red Room assassins. You only couldn’t understand why she hadn’t killed you when she had the chance.
Unease coiled at the base of your spine. You felt exposed. Like someone had peeled back your skin and left it raw in the open air.
“Please,” Ava said again. Her voice was quiet, almost too calm, but there was something underneath it, something tense and taut like she hated begging for trust. “Just hear us out.”
Your stomach continued twisting, hard. Every instinct screamed don’t go. Don’t let them get you alone. Don’t let Joaquín near whatever this is. But you could already feel the decision slipping away from you.
The elevator couldn't have been any fucking slower.
You swore you could hear the grind of the gears behind the panelling, dragging each second out like a countdown to something awful. The small screen above the door blinked from floors 37 to 38 to 39 with glacial slowness.
You thought this building had state-of-the-art technology remodelled. Why the fuck was their elevator so damn slow?
Your chest was caving in on itself, a familiar panic clawing up your throat and settling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. Every inch of this place felt too polished. You hadn’t forgotten how sharp the Watchtower felt—like walking into a wolf’s mouth made of steel and luxury.
Your brain spiralled—clawing through every possible worst-case scenario like it was trying to prepare you for all of them at once. You hadn’t even gotten to the part where Valentina might be standing on the other side of the doors. You could already see it: that smug, all-knowing smile she wore like lipstick, arms crossed, voice dripping with venomous delight. She’d say something like “Took you long enough,” and you’d want to punch her in the teeth, even as you walked willingly into the trap.
Matt would kill you.
Your lawyer had explicitly warned you to stay away from anything remotely connected to Valentina. Wait it out. Stay clean until the dust settles. This was the very opposite of that.
You rubbed a thumb across your phone screen, opening and closing your texts with Sam. The messages were still left unanswered. You had typed seven different versions of a reply: “I’m okay”, “Just give me a second”, “Long story, I’ll explain later” and deleted them all.
You couldn’t leave him in the dark. You didn’t want to be like Bucky. But how the fuck were you supposed to explain this?
‘Call you soon, busy talking to John fucking Walker’?
Joaquín shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the low heat radiating off his arm. He wasn’t saying anything, but his tension mirrored yours—jaw clenched, eyes locked on the doors, hands flexing at his side. You could see it in the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his thigh like he was ready to move, run, or punch someone if needed.
If you were to die, at least you could blame it on him.
Behind you, Walker and Ava stood just a little too casually; coffee cups in hand, speaking in quiet tones you couldn’t catch. Not that you tried. Every nerve in your body was too loud already, the soft hum of the elevator music a scream in your ears.
They were calm. You weren’t. That alone was reason enough to worry.
You glanced at the elevator buttons. No emergency stop. No backup plan. You weren’t sure what you’d even do if you had to fight. You couldn’t land a hit on Ava unless she let you. She could phase her entire body into atoms and probably rip your spine out if she wanted to. Walker? He definitely had a gun. And he was superhuman. You’d go down in minutes. Joaquín too.
No. Fighting was not an option.
But running? That window was already gone. You’d known that the moment they cornered you at the diner. There hadn’t really been a choice. They would’ve followed you all the way back to D.C. if they had to.
So here you were. In a box of steel, crawling toward confrontation, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The air was too still. Too thick. Your reflection in the brushed metal doors looked sick. Unsteady. Tired.
Joaquín glanced at you from the side, like he could sense what was happening in your head without you saying a word. His hand hovered near yours, not touching, but there. Just in case.
You should’ve just gone home. Should’ve skipped breakfast, told Joaquín to let it go, and gotten on the first flight out of New York before any of this spiralled.
Your spine ached from tension as you shifted in place, uncomfortably aware that you were still wearing the same clothes you’d gone running in earlier that morning—damp with city sweat and stale adrenaline, clinging wrong to your skin. No time to change, no time to breathe. They hadn’t given you the chance.
The elevator slowed. You felt it before you saw it—an unnatural stillness as it glided to a halt on a floor you didn’t recognize. One that hadn’t been accessible during the party last night.
Your pulse ramped into overdrive. You braced yourself, watching the doors split open with agonizing slowness, and for a split second, you were sure something was about to go horribly wrong.
Because something was there.
A long, black cylinder slipped between the doors just before they finished opening. You didn’t wait. Instinct took over—you lunged back, grabbing Joaquín and yanking him behind you as your heart rocketed into your throat.
“What the hell—?” Ava started to say, already stepping forward, but you weren’t listening.
You were listening for an explosion.
And it came.
A loud pop! cracked through the elevator like a gunshot, sharp and close. Joaquín jumped, slamming into your shoulder, and your breath caught, chest tightening as you threw your arms up. You were ready for anything—smoke, gas, flashbang, worse.
The four of you stood frozen, fists clenched, muscles coiled, every instinct screaming fight.
Then… something fluttered.
Light. Soft. A delicate brush against your cheek.
You opened your eyes slowly, blinked once, twice, and saw colour drifting down around you. Red. Gold. Silver.
Confetti.
Tiny scraps of shimmering paper were falling in slow spirals over your head, clinging to your sleeves, catching in Joaquín’s curls. You glanced down and realized you were still gripping the front of his shirt like a lifeline, your knuckles tight in the fabric. He looked just as stunned as you did, eyes wide, jaw slack.
Behind you, Walker groaned loudly, swearing under his breath. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
You finally looked up. And there, standing just outside the elevator, was Alexei Shostakov grinning like a child with a confetti cannon in his hand.
“Surprise!” he boomed, shouting your name, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
You blinked at him in disbelief. Your body hadn’t quite caught the memo that you weren’t about to be murdered (which could still happen), it was still locked in a battle stance, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.
Sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows lining the lounge beyond, bouncing off the glossy, marbled floors and catching in the confetti still drifting down like ashes from a very sparkly apocalypse. The room stretched wide and open—modern, luxurious.
Alexei took a triumphant step forward, tossing the cannon aside with a clatter and reaching for your hand like he hadn’t just given you a heart attack.
You didn’t take it, your fingers were still trembling, but he didn’t seem to notice as he tugged you into the room. He waved his arm grandly toward the entryway, where a crooked banner hung overhead: WELCOME TO THE AVENGERS! The lettering was large and smudged, still drying in places, and the fabric sagged slightly in the middle.
Paint-streaked fingerprints decorated the edges, and sure enough, Alexei’s hands were splotched in red and blue. He must’ve made it himself. That realization made your head spin harder than the confetti had.
Your mouth parted, trying to find words, but before anything could come out, Walker stormed forward and beat you to it.
“What the fuck is all this?”
Alexei dropped his hand, puffing out his chest with dramatic offence. “It is party!” he declared, gesturing at you with a broad, proud smile. “For our new member! Did you not read the news?”
He turned to you again and slapped a heavy hand against your back, nearly knocking the air from your lungs. “Congratulations, my friend. We are very happy to have you on our awesome team.”
“No. No, no, no,” Walker muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he was already exhausted. He stomped up beside Alexei and grabbed his arm, pulling him gently, but insistently, away from you. “No party.”
“What do you mean no party?” Alexei protested, wide-eyed. “This calls for… what is word? Celebration! She has joined the Avengers!”
“No. We do not need to celebrate, there’s nothing to celebrate.” Walker hissed, his voice strained as he pointed back at you. “This isn’t—she’s not joining the team.”
Alexei looked at you, expression falling. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“Oh,” he said.
Walker guided him off toward the far end of the lounge—a massive open-concept kitchen with gleaming appliances and a dining area you were certain had hosted at least one illegal meeting in the past month.
“Sorry about him,” Ava said, stepping beside you now. Her tone was breezy but fond like she was used to this. “I’d say he’s not usually like that, but I’d be lying.”
She reached over and gently plucked a curl of confetti from Joaquín’s hair. He blushed, mumbling something under his breath that made her grin wider when he tugged his cap back on again.
“I’m gonna go find Yelena,” she added, stepping away. “She’s around here somewhere. Make yourselves at home.”
“Wait—” Joaquín called after her, taking a cautious half-step forward. “Valentina’s not… here, right?”
Ava laughed without turning back. “God, no. She’s probably halfway across the country by now. Besides, she can’t hurt you if you’re with us.”
You weren’t sure if that was comforting or worse. You tried to make sense of what that even meant as she disappeared up a set of spiralling steel stairs toward the upper floor.
The silence that followed made you acutely aware of your surroundings for the first time. This wasn’t just another floor in the tower. This was where they lived.
The room you stood in opened into what looked like a shared lounge and rec space. Through the transparent panels of frosted glass, you could see a massive sunken living room just ahead—an enormous circular couch built into the floor like a pit, all pointed toward a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
Through the windows, the whole upper side of Manhattan was seen and Central Park stretched out in the distance, green and gold beneath the morning sun.
The marble floors gleamed beneath your shoes. A massive, shaggy rug near the couch looked warm and strangely lived-in. The entire space looked lived-in now that you got a better look at it, cluttered with mismatched mugs, throwing knives, forgotten jackets, guns, socks and someone’s boot kicked off to the side. It was the kind of mess that told you, yes—this was where they really stayed. A home, despite how cold and glossy it looked at first.
“Bet you’ve never been greeted into a home like that,” Joaquín said quietly, almost hopeful.
You turned on him so fast he barely had time to register it before your hand smacked the back of his head, knocking his hat off.
“Joaquín. What the fuck are you thinking?!” you hissed, voice low and sharp, even though you were sure no one was listening. “We shouldn’t be here. We can’t trust these people.”
He rubbed the spot you hit, wincing and bending down to pick up his cap from the floor. “I know. Okay? I know. I’m sorry. I just—I really think we should hear them out.”
“Hear them out?” You blinked at him, disbelief carving out your words like broken glass. “What?”
He stepped closer, voice dropping lower, more urgent. “Listen,” he said, eyes flicking around like he was afraid someone might actually be listening. “I don’t think John Walker would willingly try to talk to us if it didn’t mean something. Think about it—that guy fucking hates us. And Bucky doesn’t mess around. If he’s even entertaining working with Walker, it’s gotta be for a reason.”
You stared at him like he’d just lost his mind.
“Are you hearing yourself right now?” you snapped. “No, seriously, are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth? Did you not understand anything that happened last night? Bucky’s—he’s not doing this—Valentina said—we already know—he’s being blackmailed—” You struggled to find the words because you really weren’t sure if he even was. “This?” you waved your arms around frantically, “this is literally the one thing Matt told us not to do. He told us to stay clear of anything even remotely tied to Valentina and this fucking tower—”
“Okay, okay—”
“—And now we’re here. Willingly. Jesus Christ, Joaquín. We are putting ourselves in a worse situation by the minute. We need to leave. Now.”
Your fingers closed around his arm as you spun toward the elevator, dragging him with you before anyone could return. The urgency prickled along your spine like static.
Joaquín tried to pull free. “Wait—just wait a second—”
But then your phone started ringing. The sharp, sudden sound sliced through the moment. You flinched, instinctively reaching for it.
You didn’t need to check the screen to know. You already knew. Still, when you looked, your chest clenched anyway.
It was Sam.
His contact photo filled the display—an old picture from last summer’s cookout, blurry and sun-drenched. He had an arm around your shoulders, the both of you mid-laugh, framed by folding chairs, paper plates, and the golden glow of fireworks behind you. Bucky had taken the picture, you could see his thumb in the corner. You could also see Joaquín cut off on the side, the photo taken seconds before he tried to bomb it.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.
“You gotta answer that,” Joaquín said.
“I’ll answer it later.”
“I think you should answer it now.”
You turned your glare on him so fast that he almost took a step back. “I could kill you.”
He raised both hands in surrender. “I’m just saying.”
You flipped him off as you turned away, stalking into the nearest hallway. You didn’t want to go far, you didn’t trust this place enough for that, but you needed space. Air. Somewhere quieter to breathe.
The hallway stretched narrower than expected, cooler too. The light dimmed as you moved in, shadows creeping in like something alive. The apartment’s polished glamour fell away here, replaced with something colder. Raw concrete walls. Steel framing.
You slowed when you noticed what was displayed along the wall.
Glass cases lined the corridor like a gallery—each one holding weapons. Blades, a shield, and a blackened skull mask with a hollow stare. Scorch marks bloomed along the gear like they’d been found in a fire. The plaque caught your eye:
Antonia Dreykov.
You didn’t know who Antonia Dreykov was. But you knew how people treated the dead when they didn’t know how to let go. This seemed something like it.
Your hand drifted to the case before you could stop yourself. One of the smaller knives had been left slightly off-centre, the glass not fully locked. You slipped it free, weighing it in your palm. The metal was cold but familiar. Comforting in a way that made you hate yourself.
You tucked it into your pocket, then took another. Not because you planned on using them. Just... in case. You couldn’t afford to be the only unarmed person in the apartment.
You kept your back to the wall, thumb hovering over the green Accept Call button on Sam’s contact. You weren’t ready. Not for the sound of his voice. Not for the questions. Not for the disappointment he wouldn’t bother hiding.
Because no matter how reckless Joaquín had been to get you here—you still came.
You bit the bullet and answered, bringing the phone to your ear with a shaky breath. “Hey.”
“Don’t ‘hey’ me.”
His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. Not anger, but the obvious disappointment you expected. Concern, tight and braced behind his words like he was afraid of what you’d say next.
“Sam…”
“Do you wanna talk or should I?” he cut in firmly. “Because I need a very good explanation as to why your face is all over the damn news.”
You exhaled, slow and uneven, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead.
You knew he wasn’t trying to berate you. Sam wasn’t like that. His voice didn’t carry malice, not even now, when he had every right to be furious. You knew it looked like you’d gone behind his back the same way Bucky had. And while your intentions had been good, that didn’t matter, not when Valentina had twisted it, splashing your name across every headline like you were some kind of defector.
“I’ll talk,” you said quickly. “I’ll talk. Just… let me talk, okay?”
A dozen excuses lined up behind your teeth. Every one of them was flimsy and easy to knock over. But lying to Sam? You couldn’t stomach it. Not after everything. Not after he’d trusted you.
“I fucked up,” you whispered. The admission stung worse than you expected. “I thought… maybe I could talk to Bucky.”
There was silence on the other end. A pause, heavy with surprise. “Talk to Bucky?” Sam echoed, more cautious than confused now.
“Yeah.” You rubbed at your face, suddenly cold despite the weight of your spring jacket. “I got invited to their black tie event. Congressman Gary sent the invite, and I was going to say no—I swear—but then I thought, maybe… maybe Bucky would be there. And if he was, maybe I could corner him. Ask him what the hell he was thinking. Why he left. Why would he join them after what Ross offered you? And he knew. Bucky knew and I just couldn’t understand why he would... leave.”
You leaned back against the cool wall of the hallway, careful to keep your voice steady. Just far enough from Joaquín’s line of sight. Just close enough to watch him, still poking curiously at things he definitely shouldn’t be touching.
“I just…” You shook your head. “Things haven’t felt right, Sam. None of it makes sense. One minute Bucky’s fighting to get Valentina impeached, the next he’s... working under her? The fuck? He shuts you out and I thought maybe... I could find out why. Maybe I could fix it.”
On the other end of the line, you heard him sigh. He murmured your name, and it made your chest ache.
“You were right, by the way. Valentina’s a total snake,” you said quietly, trying to fill the silence because it made you feel more uneasy. “I came in looking for Bucky and walked out with half the press calling me her newest toy.”
“She really played you, huh?”
“Like I’m her bitch on a leash.”
Sam let out a short, dry laugh that made you feel a little better. “Yeah. She does that.”
“We think she did the same thing to Bucky. Joaquín and I, I mean. Got in his head.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Sam murmured. “But listen… I don’t want you carrying my mess, alright? I’ll deal with Bucky. That’s on me.”
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know, kid. I know. And I know your heart was in the right place. But next time… just talk to me first. Please.”
There was no guilt in his voice. Just a quiet exhaustion. A gentleness that somehow made it worse.
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Okay.”
A pause stretched across the line. Then, softer: “Are you two okay?”
Your hand tightened around the phone, glancing down the hallway like the sound of his voice might give something away. You caught sight of the display again—the glass case, the weapons, the skull-like helmet and the burnt suit. You didn’t even know who it belonged to. But you’d still taken the knives.
That probably said something about where your head was at. Obviously not good.
You cleared your throat. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
“Good,” Sam said. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
You hesitated. “Tonight, for sure.”
There was another small beat. “Alright. We’ll talk more then. Maybe we can clean up this mess of yours, yeah?”
“Okay.”
“Stay out of any more trouble.”
You broke a smile, frankly a little panicked. “We’ll try.”
The call ended with a soft click, and you stood there for a second longer, your thumb still resting against your phone as if it might ring again.
You did feel better. Not safe, but... better. Like you’d finally caught your breath after running too long on adrenaline and guilt. The tightness in your chest had lessened, the weight of what you’d said to Sam lifting enough for you to think clearly again.
You slid your phone back into your jacket pocket, already piecing together an escape route in your head. Get Joaquín. Get out of this tower. Back to the hotel and then home, away from politicians and new-age Avengers and whatever the hell this place really was.
But when you turned around, someone was already waiting for you.
Yelena Belova stood by the mouth of the hallway you’d come in from, arms at her sides, not moving. Her blonde hair was loose now, falling messily around her face, not the slicked-back style from last night. She wore a worn grey hoodie and loose pants, a silver chain glinting at her collarbone, and faint smudges of yesterday’s eyeliner still clung stubbornly beneath her eyes. Her hands were tucked deep into the kangaroo pocket of her sweater, shoulders propped casually against the wall like she’d been there a while.
“Hey,” she said, nodding once.
You froze, your entire body tensing instinctively. “Uh… hi.”
You didn’t move toward her. The space between you was the only thing keeping your pulse from skyrocketing. It wasn’t fear, not really—not the kind you’d feel around someone like Walker. It was more like wariness. The same kind you’d feel staring down a loaded gun with the safety off.
She straightened slowly like she could sense your unease. Her hands slipped from her pocket, fingers spread slightly, palms open like a silent I’m-not-here-to-fight gesture.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything,” she said carefully, her voice thick with a Russian accent, stepping forward just once. “Sorry.”
You didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch either, though your muscles stayed tight. There was something different about her, something calmer than the confusion of last night. Something that made you hesitate before writing her off completely. She was a lot shorter than you expected now that you had a better look.
She pointed vaguely to herself. “I’m Yelena.”
“I know,” you said.
“Oh.” She gave a slight nod. “I know you too, then.”
“You were spying on us.” The accusation left your mouth before you could stop it, sharp as a blade. She had been, her eyes on you the moment you’d stepped out of that gala, leading Walker and Ava right to your heels. You decided to leave out the part that you and Joaquín had been spying on them too, before the gala.
Yelena winced, visibly. “They told you about that?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry,” she said again, and this time she took another step forward. You didn’t move back. She noticed. “It wasn’t personal. Everything happened so fast…” she trailed off, not bothering to lie.
You remembered the brief, icy introduction last night. The short nod. The way she kept her distance but still watched. You remembered the moment she looked at you like she already knew what mistake you made by just being there.
“And sorry about my dad,” she added, nodding toward the lounge. Confetti still clung to the floor. “I tried to tell him. But he’s, you know… dense.”
You stared at her for a second, “It’s fine.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly, as though your words had released a little pressure she’d been holding in.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
You narrowed your eyes. “About what?”
She hesitated—just for a second. Then: “Valentina.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want your help,” she said, voice low now, the trace of her accent curling around each word. “To take her down.”
If someone had told you two hours ago that you’d willingly be sitting in the residential level of the New Avengers Tower—with John Walker of all people—you probably would’ve laughed, then punched them in the throat for saying something so profoundly stupid.
But here you were.
Your footsteps echoed on polished floors as you followed Yelena into the common space, sunlight spilling in through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that made the entire room glow. The city stretched far below in every direction. The furniture was modern and the air smelled like lemon polish.
You didn’t sit right away. You stood behind the couch with your arms crossed as Yelena handed Joaquín a small USB stick like it was a grenade. You were halfway through convincing yourself to walk out when he plugged it in. And then… you stayed. Not because you trusted them. Not because they’d earned anything. But because if what they were saying about Valentina was true, if this was the crack in her foundation, you needed to see it for yourself.
So now you were seated stiffly on a sprawling U-shaped couch, the leather cool against your legs. Joaquín sat beside you, his knee brushing yours every now and then as the two of you leaned in toward his laptop screen, silent. He scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing at every pixelated image, every fragmented document. Your jaw ached from clenching it too long.
“Holy shit,” Joaquín muttered under his breath. “How did you get this?”
“Mel left her laptop open and I snooped,” Yelena said casually, shrugging.
There wasn’t much—a few blacked-out files with top-secret headers, jagged audio clips spliced together, blurry footage from surveillance drones and security cams—but it was enough. Enough to start mapping connections between government disappearances and political scandals, between untraceable funding and medical supply routes that didn’t quite add up. The FBI had been speculating De Fontaine’s place in the CIA for years.
“This confirms it,” Joaquín said quietly, glancing back at the others. “Valentina’s the chairwoman behind the O.X.E. Everything Bucky said… about human experimentation, black-site trials, illegal trafficking, missing personnel…”
Yelena stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her posture was tense and Ava sat on the armrest beside her, fingers curled tightly into her knee, expression locked somewhere between guilt and resolve. Walker hovered by the window, pretending to be disinterested as he squished a stress ball, probably taken from a therapy office.
At least you hoped he was going to therapy. You hoped all of them were, actually. They peculiar group with a lot of... problems. You did not have to be a genius to know that.
The tension between them all was heavy, but not disorderly. Rehearsed, maybe. Like they’d already had this conversation among themselves a hundred times, and now they were looping you in it.
“Great,” Yelena said, straight to the point. “So you’ll give it to Sam Wilson? Say a friend slipped it to you?”
You and Joaquín exchanged a look. Just one. That was all it took. If you handed this over, if you made it official, if Sam went public, it would burn everything down, this false sense of security Valentina had built to the press, this twisted team parading as heroes. This was it. The key. The proof.
And even though part of you wanted to spit in every face in this room and walk away, you also wanted Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to fall. To rot for what she’d done and gotten away with.
“Sure,” you said slowly, “we could.”
“But,” Joaquín added, eyes narrowing, “if we turn this in, you’re all going down with her.”
Walker straightened from where he was loitering, his arms dropping to his sides. “How’s that?”
You glanced at him, your patience thinning. You figured he would understand the most since he was in the Army, a decorated officer at that. But then again, all he ever knew how to do was take orders from someone else, no questions asked.
“Because you didn’t just work under Valentina. You were her operatives. Whether you realized it or not, you were complicit. You consented to all of this. You willingly helped execute illegal missions. You helped bury all traces of O.X.E.. Mind you, an illegal corporatization.”
Walk huffed bitterly, “Thought I was doing the right thing.”
“By stealing? Hiding evidence? Killing people?”
Ava shifted uncomfortably, and Walker’s stress ball nearly popped.
“We were her clean-up crew,” Yelena said finally.
“Right,” you replied, the corner of your mouth lifting bitterly. “Clean-up crew. Wiping traces. Silencing threats. Tying off loose ends. If someone tried to go public with O.X.E., whistleblow, or even just poked their head into the wrong corridor—what then?”
Ava spoke up, quiet and dry. “We were sent in.”
“Exactly,” Joaquín said. “What you’re describing? That’s illegal black ops. Domestic and international interference. Unregistered kill orders. You were running operations that not even the Pentagon would dare put in writing.”
Walker frowned. “Okay, but—”
“You don’t understand,” you cut in, voice tightening. “You show up in these files, in this footage. As long as you're in it, you’re leverage.”
Joaquín leaned back slightly, arms crossed now. “We could have you arrested right now. Everything you just gave us is enough for a military tribunal. Long-term sentences. Treason, obstruction, conspiracy. Pick your flavour.”
Yelena didn’t flinch. “But you won’t.”
You couldn’t help but frown at such confidence. “Is that a threat?”
She let out a snort. “No. You would know if I was making a threat. I’m very clear. You also won’t arrest us.”
“You sure about that?”
She nodded once. “I’m willing to be. Because if you’re sitting here, reading this, it means you care about stopping Valentina... maybe helping new friends along the way. Because that is what you do. You help people, yes?”
You rolled your eyes, you could hardly consider them your friends.
“That’s what we’re trying to tell you, even if we help there isn’t much we can do to keep you out of trouble,” Joaquín said, “You think you’ve been using De Fontaine? This evidence goes both ways—and if she falls, she’s not going alone.”
“She probably knew you'd kill her if you could.” You said, “That’s why she gave you everything. The tower. The team. The illusion of purpose. Something that felt clean and heroic. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Across from you, the shift was subtle but telling.
For the first time since you stepped into the room, these guys looked… uncertain.
Ava glanced down, studying the tile beneath her boots like it might give her a way out. Walker crossed his arms and chewed at the inside of his cheek, jaw working, but saying nothing. Even Yelena, unmoving as a statue, had a muscle twitching along her jawline.
Silence settled in—tense and humming, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Then Walker broke it.
“If that’s the case,” he muttered, tone flat, “you might as well arrest Bucky too. Y’know—for his Winter Soldier days.”
You didn’t like that. Not just the deflection, but the name. It struck a nerve.
You hated that Walker brought Bucky into it now. Hated even more that the drive you’d been digging through for the last hour or so had nothing about him. No trail. Nothing to explain why he’d joined the team. No answer for why he was there the day everything went to hell—why he was helping them when the sky turned black and New York vanished into chaos for twenty agonizing minutes.
No one had explained a thing. No one had tried.
Joaquín’s mouth twitched. “Bucky was pardoned. Publicly.”
“So was I.”
“Yeah,” you said, “For killing a man in a public square three years ago. But we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about everything you’ve done since then. The black ops. The cover-ups. Evidence tampering. Political interference. Murder. Do you think a pardon protects you from three years of new crimes? Of acts of terrorism?”
Yelena scoffed, “Terrorism?”
“Did you or did you not bomb a building in Malaysia?”
“It was just one floor…” she muttered. “and Valentina owned it and the lab. Hardly an act of terror… or what you said.”
“Civilians were hurt.”
She didn’t say anything at that.
No one spoke.
Not because they didn’t have something to say, but because they weren’t sure how to say it anymore.
You could feel it now—how fragile the balance was. The way this whole thing had felt so certain when you walked in. Like the truth would be enough. Like justice could be clear-cut.
But now, it was murky.
You glanced back at the laptop, watching Joaquín continue to open new folders, skimming through them. One of the files showed grainy security footage from the vault they’d mentioned—one of Valentina’s archives. You could make out the three of them, half-lit in the shadows and red emergency lights, walking through sealed crates. Just behind them, in the back of the frame, was someone else. A body dressed in hospital scrubs.
You blinked. “Wait. What’s that?”
Ava followed your gaze, her expression unreadable. “It’s just a test dummy.”
“That looks like a man—”
“We need to focus,” Yelena interrupted, suddenly stepping forward, distracting your view of the screen. “If we waste time worrying about the wrong things, we’ll all lose.”
“You could try for a sympathy pardon,” Joaquín said eventually, eyes back on the drive.
Ava looked up, confused. “Sympathy pardon?”
You nodded. “If you turn yourselves in. Cooperate. Help take Valentina down, publicly and completely. There’s precedent for it. Limited sentencing in exchange for full debriefs. If you start working with the courts instead of hiding behind her money—”
Walker snorted. Loud and dismissive. “Turn ourselves in? For what—saving New York?”
“Congrats,” Joaquín said. “You’re heroes. You and every other vigilante in this city. The only thing that makes you different is that Valentina can market you. And you let her instead of coming clean right away.”
“You might see ten years,” you counted. “Maybe eight. Less with good behaviour. But keep hiding behind her... it’s just gonna get worse.”
Walker paced now, muttering something under his breath.
“Awesome,” he said louder. “Awesome. So this was a waste of time. Thanks a lot, Yelena. Now we’ve gotta worry about these two running off to Wilson with this. Then the press. Then all this?” he waved around the space surrounding you all, “All this is gone!”
Ava raised her voice carefully, almost hesitant, glancing at the short blonde. “What happens to… you know. If we do turn ourselves in? Where will he go?”
Yelena’s expression shifted for the first time.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, quiet now. Her hands drifted to her hips, fingertips twitching like she was resisting the urge to fold in on herself. Her head dipped low, eyes on the floor.
You weren’t sure who they meant. But it was clear from the way everyone avoided eye contact that whoever he was, he wasn’t just another asset.
Joaquín sat up straighter, eyebrows pinching. “What’s Project Sentry?”
Ava flinched. “Lena, I thought you cut that out.”
She moved fast, hand darting toward Joaquín’s laptop. He tried to pull it away, but she was faster—phasing into thin air and reappearing at his side, yanking the drive from the port and slipping it into her pocket like it hadn’t happened at all.
You never even got the chance to see what he was talking about.
You stood up, preparing for a fight. “You can’t pick and choose what gets turned in or not.”
“Are you serious right now?” Alexei’s voice boomed from the hallway as he stormed back in. He had disappeared a few minutes ago under the pretense of “getting snacks for the guests,” and now he returned with arms overflowing—half-crushed bags of potato chips, trail mix, something suspiciously resembling astronaut food.
He dumped the haul onto the coffee table and glared at Yelena.
“Lena, you said you wanted purpose. This—” He gestured around the room like it held meaning. “This is our purpose!”
But Yelena still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“It’s built on lies, Dad.”
That made Alexei bark out a laugh, one with no humour in it—just tired frustration.
“Everything is. The whole country runs on lies. At least we did something good. We saved people. Because we’re the Avengers!”
The word Avengers didn’t sit right in your mouth anymore. It felt hollow coming from them like they’d tried to slap a fresh coat of paint over a burned-out house.
Joaquín’s tone was dry as he leaned forward again. “I mean, technically, there’s enough on the drive to bury De Fontaine for a long time without bringing you guys into it directly. But if any half-decent detective picks it apart, it’ll all start to unravel. Eventually, it’s going to lead back here.”
You saw the doubt flash behind Ava’s eyes.
“And even if Valentina is arrested,” Joaquín added, “then what? The funding still stands. The CIA owns the New Avengers. Someone else just like her will take her place. Same game, new face.”
You were just about to speak, something sharp about this group’s complete lack of accountability and morality, how their so-called heroism was held together by delusion and money when the elevator chimed.
A soft ding. Too soft to mean anything, and yet it sliced straight through the tension like a blade.
You stiffened on instinct.
Joaquín reacted just as fast, snapping his laptop shut with a harsh click that echoed louder than it should’ve. You didn’t move, couldn’t. Your breath caught in your throat as the rest of the room stilled. Not a sound. Not a single goddamn sound.
A slow, creeping dread tightened in your chest.
“Shit,” Yelena muttered under her breath, almost too quiet to catch.
And then chaos in silence: hands on your shoulders, your back, Ava’s voice in your ear, sharp and focused.
“Move. Now.”
The next second blurred. Joaquín was pulled off the couch beside you, your hands and knees hitting the expensive carpet before you fully processed what was happening. The couch loomed above you. Your back scraped along the base as you were shoved beneath it, knees pressed awkwardly into the floor, spine hunched to fit.
Your breath hitched as the space closed in, dim, and a little dusty, the underside of the furniture creaking against your weight. You could see the stretch of rug in front of you, Walker’s boots retreating as he kicked Joaquín’s bag under the coffee table. He shoved the laptop in after it with even less care.
Above you: Yelena’s fuzzy purple socks. Ava’s boots, planted like guards. Their stance wide. Ready.
The heels came first. A sharp, deliberate cadence—click-click-click—on the marble. The sound bounced through the space with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned their right to be heard.
And then the voice of the very woman you hated most at the moment. Familiar. Arrogant.
“Bob, what do you need a phone for?”
The name alone felt like a gut punch.
Bob?
Fucking Bob?
The shock didn’t register right away. It slid in sideways, a slow prickle along your spine before crashing into you all at once. You hadn’t even considered him—not since the whirlwind of last night, not in the scramble of digging through drives and false leads, not in the silent fear of what might still be buried. Bob Reynolds had slipped your mind entirely the moment Yelena showed you those files.
And now, here he was.
You twisted your head toward Joaquín, who was already looking at you. His jaw clenched tight. Eyes wide. Shoulders wound like a coiled spring. You could see the thought flash behind his stare—both of you thinking the same thing.
Holy shit.
Then you heard it. His voice confirmed that he was there, too. Low, quiet. Soft in that uncanny, almost youthful way. Still his.
“…to talk to people.” he said.
Your stomach sank. For a beat, you could only stare at the ground, your mind racing. An image flitters through your mind’s eye. A dark balcony. Warm fire light. Big suit. Dark, tussled hair. That nice smile of his.
Above you, the sharp click of stilettos came to a sudden halt at his words.
Through the sliver of space beneath the couch, you spotted the edge of Valentina’s pencil skirt. Sleek black, tailored to a blade-sharp silhouette. Her shoes were thin and spiked, gleaming slightly under the overhead lights. Beside her, a pair of soft bunny slippers, nearly swallowed by the cuffs of soft-looking, faded baby blue pyjama pants.
That was him.
Bob.
And someone else. A third pair of feet, neatly poised in polished flats. Pressed trousers. You couldn’t tell who, only that they stood slightly apart.
Valentina’s voice again, laced with sweet condescension. “To talk to people?”
Bob seemed to hesitate now, his voice smaller. “I just thought—”
“What’s all this?” she cut him off before he could finish. “Did someone give Alexei another confetti cannon? Seriously? You know the cleaners are going to start charging us combat pay. Just look at this place.”
A beat of silence.
Then the soft shuffling of someone stepping around the coffee table. You held your breath, instinctively pressing yourself flatter to the floor. Your shoulder brushed against Joaquín’s chest. You felt him suck in a quiet, sharp breath. You wondered what would happen if you were caught.
Above you, the room shifted.
Yelena’s voice came first, Russian-rough and stripped of patience. “What are you doing here?”
There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it.
“I’m sorry?”
“We thought you were en route to California,” Ava chimed in. Her tone was light, but the edges were too clean. She was trying too hard. That alone made your stomach twist.
“Oh. Right. California. Mel—?”
“The jet will be ready in one hour,” a smooth, polished voice cut in. Feminine. A little anxious. Definitely not one of theirs. It must be the third person.
You turned your head slightly toward Joaquín, careful not to make a sound. He didn’t move—only lifted his brows, then mouthed: the assistant.
Of course. Mel.
You nodded once, your heart hammering.
“See?” Valentina said breezily. “We’ve got time. So tell me… what’s this mess about?”
A clumsy chorus followed:
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Just messing around.”
“Nothing?” Valentina echoed, with just enough doubt in her voice to rattle the moment.
And then, soft again, Bob.
“Val…?”
“Yes, Bob, honey. What is it?”
“The phone.”
“You want a phone?”
“…yes, please.”
“Okay. Fine. Mel, get him a phone. We have plenty.”
“What kind?” Mel asked.
Valentina exhaled. You could practically feel the irritation coming off the woman in waves, even though you couldn’t see her. “What kind—? Any kind. I don’t care.” There was a pause, and then her voice dipped again into that overly sweet register that set your teeth on edge. “Bob, what colour do you want?”
“Oh. Any colour’s fine. Thanks, Mel.”
“Sure thing, Bob.”
You heard Mel’s shoes retreating. Then the doors dinged again, distant, followed by the mechanical swoosh of the elevator sliding shut.
“So…” Valentina said, dragging the word. “Who’s the banner for?”
Alexei jumped in too fast. “Banner? What banner?”
“The big one. By the elevator.”
More shuffling. A murmur of uncomfortable voices scrambling for footing.
“Oh, that banner,” Yelena said.
“The one by the elevator, yes,” Alexei added, awkwardly.
“Missed it earlier,” Walker threw in, humming with forced casualness.
Your breath caught. They were bad liars. Terrible liars that were going to have you and Joaquín caught. You felt your body instinctively press closer to his, every part of you suddenly aware of how fragile this moment was. If one of them slipped up... shit.
“What’s the deal with that?” Valentina pressed.
Silence.
You could feel the group faltering. And for a moment, you were sure someone would fold.
Then Yelena’s voice again. “We thought… with the headlines today...”
“There might be a new addition,” Ava said, cutting in with a cleaner tone.
“A new team member,” Walker followed, steady, trying to cover the tracks.
Valentina laughed. A quiet little thing, amused and bitter all at once. “Oh, well isn’t that sweet.”
A pause.
Then Yelena pushed: “What’s… what’s the deal with that?”
“Nothing’s confirmed yet. It’s still in the air,” Valentina said. The click of her nails against a screen followed. You imagined her scrolling through messages, “She’s a tough cookie, isn’t she, Walker?”
His answer was dry. “Right.”
“I just thought this team could use someone a little less…” She trailed off, teeth behind her voice.
“Less what?” Ava asked, carefully.
“…like you guys.”
“Like us?” Walker repeated.
“Melodramatic,” Valentina said, and you could hear the malice in her voice. “No offence.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ava asked.
The sound of Valentina shifting again, heels clicking softly against the marble, the dull swish of her skirt brushing behind her. “Well, it’s not a secret that all of you have done some pretty messed up shit. People don’t trust you. And trust is branding. It’s everything. If we bring in someone tied to Wilson—one of Captain America’s right hands—suddenly, we’re legit. We’re palatable.”
You’d already suspected that was her idea, that selling you out had been nothing more than strategy. Calculated. Self-serving. You hadn’t believed a single word of the bullshit she fed you last night, not the part about being “special,” or the vague promises of a bigger purpose. It had all been smoke.
Still, something about hearing it confirmed, hearing her say it so plainly, like she was already pulling your strings, lit a fire low in your chest.
You weren’t her puppet.
You weren’t anyone’s.
And the fact that she thought you were that easy to bend, that she saw you as just another tool to wield when convenient, made your skin crawl.
“And how do you plan on pulling that off?” Yelena asked, her voice a notch sharper now. Less curious, more hostile. Defensive.
“Aren’t you full of questions today?” Valentina didn’t even try to mask the irritation in her tone. “That’s for me to worry about, hun. Not you. Why don’t you all relax? Enjoy yourselves. Kick your feet up. Make the most of it until the next villain of the week shows up.”
Her words lingered like a smirk in the air, condescending, smug, and venomous.
It was only then you realized how cold the floor had become beneath you. The chill was creeping into your skin, seeping through your clothes, biting at your joints. Your hands had curled into fists without meaning to, nails digging into your palms, the tension wound so tight in your chest it hurt to breathe. Beside you, Joaquín was breathing fast and shallow, barely audible, but enough that you could feel it.
You released your fist and your fingers started to move on instinct, brushing against the knife you’d taken from the display case earlier. You hadn’t even realized you’d been reaching for it. The cool metal kissed your fingertips, grounding you. You closed your hand around the hilt, the weight of it settling in your palm like muscle memory.
Across the room, Valentina’s heels clicked softly on the marble as she began to walk away, casual, unhurried. “Where are you guys keeping the liquor now?” she asked airily. “I can’t fly sober, and there hasn’t been a restock in the kitchen since last night…”
Her voice trailed off as she disappeared around the corner.
Then you heard the soft shuffle of slippers on tile, a nervous fidget. “W-wait. Who’s joining our team?”
Walker answered, bone-dry. “That girlfriend of yours from last night. You know, the one you scared off?”
There was a pause.
“Oh. No. It’s not—” Bob stammered, his voice flustered, uncertain. “We’re not… You think I scared her off?”
You hated that something about the way he asked that fluttered against your ribs, like a moth against a windowpane. Ridiculous, considering the circumstances. You bit down on the feeling.
He didn’t get an answer before Valentina returned, heels striking the floor like punctuation. “Found it,” she announced. You heard the clink of glass. “Alright, Mel and I will be gone for a few days. Don’t do anything stupid. And Bob, your phone will be downstairs.”
And just like that, she was heading back toward the elevator. You watched her feet vanish from view. Then the soft ding of the lift. The whisper of the doors sliding shut. Gone.
You exhaled for the first time in minutes. The pressure in your chest finally let go, but you still didn’t release the knife. Even when Joaquín began shifting beside you, his legs uncoiling. Yelena’s voice came from above, low but audible: “It’s clear.”
Joaquín started crawling out from under the couch, but you reached for his sleeve, grabbing him without thinking. Just for a second. He glanced back at you.
Then you nodded. He moved. You followed.
Your hand stayed in your pocket, curled tight around the blade.
“Were—were you there this whole time?” Bob asked, his voice cracking on the question. He stepped closer to the centre of the room, joining the others.
You finally looked at him.
Gone was the suit. Instead: a grey sweatshirt, soft and clean, and thrown over a pair of baby-blue pyjama pants. And on his feet, bunny slippers. Actual bunny slippers. You had thought maybe you made it up in your head. But no. You blinked. Then you looked back up at his face.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hi,” That same, dopey grin split his face and you almost felt your own lips move to return it. But you stopped yourself and pushed the feeling back down, “What are you doing here?” He had that same bemusement from yesterday as if he was just happy to be here. Wherever here is.
“We were just leaving,” you said, crouching to grab Joaquín’s bag and laptop from under the coffee table. You shoved them at him.
This time, he didn’t argue.
Maybe the brush with Valentina had knocked the fight out of him, or maybe he finally saw the writing on the wall. Either way, Joaquín was already jamming the laptop into the bag and pulling the strap over his shoulder.
“Leaving?” Yelena echoed, surprised.
“But I just woke up.” Bob frowned.
You didn’t answer.
You had heard enough.
Valentina was still a manipulative bitch, and now you had proof sitting on an old drive tucked into Ava Starr’s pocket. But this team? These people? They weren’t exactly running to stop her. Didn’t seem nearly as willing to hand over that evidence now that they knew it’d be trading their own freedom and newfound fame and luxury. You also knew they weren’t being entirely honest with most of it, so what was the point?
And Bucky?
He could eat shit for all you cared.
“You said you’d help us,” Yelena said, voice quieter now, tight, trembling at the edges like a thread pulled too taut.
“No,” you shot back, sharper than intended. “We said we’d listen.”
Joaquín stepped up beside you, his voice steadier. “Unless you hand over that drive, there’s nothing we can do for you.”
Ava’s stance hardened. Her hand flexed at her side. “You can leave,” she said. “But the drive stays here.”
That made Walker flinch. “Wait—what?” he barked, stepping forward. “You’re just gonna let them walk? After what they know? They’ll have us on The Raft by tomorrow.”
Alexei groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I can’t go back to prison.”
“Prison? Wait—what are we talking about?” Bob interjected, blinking between everyone.
“God forbid you ever take responsibility for anything, Walker,” you said coolly, your eyes on the blonde man. “That there are consqueneces for your actions.”
His jaw twitched. You could see the pressure building in him like steam behind glass, his shoulders shaking. “Don’t get smart with me. You think I don’t know about consequences?”
Your fingers curled tighter around the handle of the knife in your coat. Cold steel kissed your palm, grounding you. You didn’t flinch as Walker loomed over you, not even when the heat of his breath hit your face.
“I’m sure you were starting to get it once your wife left,” you murmured bitterly.
Walker squared his shoulders like he was about to make good on the threat behind his scowl, or maybe hit you hard enough to knock your teeth out.
“Woah, woah—no fights here!” Yelena suddenly launched herself over the couch, landing between you with a firm thud. Her socks scuffed slightly on the rug as she extended both arms, placing one hand on your chest,.
It was oddly gentle—so soft you almost forgot that those same hands had likely killed thousands. Her palm rested right over your heart. You wondered if she could feel how fast it was beating.
“No fights,” she said again, a note of pleading curling into her voice. “We can’t get blood on the carpet. It’s new.”
Her words were light, but her eyes weren’t. They were serious—tired, even. Like someone who’d already bled for too many causes and was still waiting to find one worth it.
“I don’t want this,” she said firmly, now addressing the whole room. “None of us do. We’re on the same side. We’re just… on different pages.”
“That’s generous,” Ava muttered.
“No. It’s the truth,” Yelena shot back. “Valentina wins when we fight. That’s how she does it—she divides, she confuses, she corrupts.”
You met her gaze. And there it was: the flicker of desperation she was too proud to hide. Not fear, just a weariness, like she was sick of surviving in a world built on grey lines and crossed wires.
“…She’s right,” Joaquín said reluctantly. There was a tightness to his jaw as if it pained him to agree with any of this.
A heavy pause settled. Dust hung in the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, undisturbed.
Then Yelena turned back to you, her voice softer this time, almost hollow. “Is there really no other way to stop her?”
You hesitated, your mouth opening before the words were fully formed. You wanted to have an answer, something solid, something certain. But all you could offer was the truth.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
Because you didn’t. You weren’t a strategist. You didn’t sit in war rooms or comb through legal loopholes. Your background was in the Navy—flying jets, executing orders, staying alive. Similar to the work of every other person in this room. The closest you’d ever come to investigative work was chasing the Flag Smashers, or trying to clear Isaiah’s name when the system nearly buried him for something he didn’t do.
Your grip on the knife loosened. You hadn’t realized how hard you’d been holding it until your fingers started to throb, blood returning like a warning. You let it fall back into your jacket pocket.
“We’re not lawyers,” you added.
Walker took a step back—not far, but enough. Just enough to mark the shift. His breathing was loud in the quiet, uneven. His fists were still balled tight at his sides, like tension waiting for an excuse to spark again.
But he didn’t come closer. You almost felt bad for bringing up his wife.
Yelena nodded slowly, “Do you think Sam Wilson could help?”
That question hung in the room. It was different from the others. More personal.
You caught it in her voice first, a crack in her composure. Distress, raw and unpolished. Her eyes searched yours, not for strategy, but for hope. She was asking you to believe in something, even if she couldn’t anymore.
And the others were watching too—Ava, still guarded but listening; Alexei, wringing his hands; even Bob, with wide, unknowing eyes.
You looked at Joaquín. He met your gaze and nodded once.
“He could,” he said.
“But will he?” Yelena pressed. She needed an answer that sounded like a promise.
You hesitated, shoulders sinking under the weight of everything unsaid. The silence stretched, heavy with reluctant hope, weak trust and a dozen unspoken things. Then finally, with a sigh that felt like it pulled from the base of your spine:
“…Yeah,” you murmured. “He’s pretty understanding.”
Yelena nodded once, slowly, like that alone was enough to make something shift. Then she extended her arm behind her, her fingers flicking in silent command.
“Ava.”
“What?” came the flat reply, bristling with suspicion.
“Give them the drive,” Yelena said, jerking her chin toward you and Joaquín.
Ava blinked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
“Give it.” Yelena didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The words landed sharp and sure, heavy with a quiet authority. Whether it was her posture, the chill in her accent, or the way she stared Ava down without blinking, it worked.
Ava rolled her eyes hard enough that you were sure she saw her own brain. But still, she stomped over, pulling the small drive from her pocket and shoving it into Joaquín’s hand.
He took it wordlessly, slipping it into his jacket without fanfare.
Yelena turned back to you. “I trust you’ll do what’s right.” Her voice softened, “I just… I want to do good. Be good. Like my sister.”
You blinked. The honesty in her tone caught you off guard. You stared at her for a beat, the brows on your face knitting together. There hadn’t been a moment yet where you felt like you couldn’t trust Yelena—if anything, she was the only one in this dysfunctional little collective who seemed a little more grounded in reality than the others. Steady in her beliefs.
You nodded slowly. Not just to acknowledge her, but because you understood. You wanted to be good too. Like Sam.
“Sure,” you said.
“Unbelievable,” Walker muttered. He threw his hands up and stormed toward the spiral staircase, his boots thudding too loudly for the steps.
You met Yelena’s eyes one last time. She raised her brows at you funnily, a silent ignore him written across her face. That earned the smallest smile from you, which she returned, not quite warmly, but not unkindly either.
“Bye, guys,” Joaquín called, already moving past you toward the elevator with an urge to get the fuck out of this place.
“Bye,” Ava called back with a lazy wave.
Alexei flopped onto the couch like a man ready for retirement. “We will see you later, new friends,” he announced, already unlocking an iPad and flicking through apps with surprising focus. Only then did you notice the ridiculous shirt stretched across his chest—his own face beaming up at you.
Of course he owned a shirt like that.
Yelena gave you one final nod as if to say I’ll handle things here. You held her gaze a moment longer before turning toward the elevator.
And there was Bob.
Still standing there quietly by the steps of the sunken living room like he didn’t quite know where to go next. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, and when your eyes met, he gave you a shy little wave.
You raised your hand and waved back.
What a strange turn of events, you thought, stepping into the elevator beside Joaquín.
It felt like your world had been flipped upside down, spun sideways, and then set back upright—all before noon. Great. So much for Walker flying you back to D.C. Not that you were exactly heartbroken about it. At least you were finally getting out, and better yet, leaving with more than you'd hoped for. Thanks to Yelena.
Joaquín pressed the button to the lobby, his movements brisk but silent, like he was still trying to catch up to the emotional weight of the last hour or so.
You both stood in silence as the doors began to slide shut.
And then suddenly they didn’t.
Another body slipped through the narrowing space.
“Jesus!” Joaquín hissed, jerking half a step to the side. “What the hell—?”
“Sorry!” came the quick, sheepish yelp.
It was Bob.
His eyes were wide, hands lifted like he’d just stumbled into a hostage situation instead of an elevator. “Val said my phone’s downstairs…” he offered lamely, voice trailing as he glanced between the two of you. “Hey.”
“Hey, man, ”Joaquín huffed out a breathless sigh, “Scared the shit out of us.”
That made Bob crack a grin. He gestured toward himself like he was still catching up to the social rhythm. “I’m Bob.”
“Joaquín,” came the reply, quick and warm.
You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. The three of you must’ve looked like the beginning of a joke: two randos and a guy in bunny slippers walk into an elevator. Bob’s pyjamas looked like they hadn’t seen the outside of a laundry basket in days, wrinkled in all places, but you thought the slippers were undeniably cute.
“Yeah, you’re the Falcon, right?” Bob asked, turning to Joaquín with a genuine light in his eyes.
Joaquín puffed up slightly, the pride flickering across his face before he nodded. “Yeah, I am.”
You rolled your eyes, but the fondness came easy.
“That’s cool,” Bob said, his grin stretching even wider—until it didn’t. Until it faltered just enough for you to catch the flicker of something behind it. He glanced at you again, eyes darting nervously before he dropped his gaze to the floor. “So um… I guess you know about me now.”
The elevator hummed beneath your feet, descending gradually.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he continued, voice quieter. “I wasn’t sure if… I was allowed. Or if I should. Are you… afraid of me now?”
Your heart thudded once, harder than expected.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Joaquín shift slightly, his body tense, watching, waiting to see what you’d say.
You drew in a breath, trying to steady yourself before you looked at Bob again. His posture had crumpled slightly under his own words. Shoulders curled in. Smile gone.
“Why would I be afraid of you, Bob?”
His gaze lifted, hopeful, but guarded.
“Because of what I did.”
That brought you up short.
You’d thought you’d had enough surprises for one day. Apparently not. Apparently Bob Reynolds had more where that came from, like some twisted magic trick where he kept pulling the rug out from under you, over and over again.
The elevator hummed. The floor numbers kept ticking down, steady and oblivious.
You swallowed. Almost afraid to ask.
“…What’d you do?”
He winced, rolling his shoulder like it physically pained him to answer. “That thing… in New York.”
You blinked, trying to process. When you didn’t respond, he looked at you, hesitant. “You read my file, right?”
“We didn’t… get that far,” you muttered.
But your brain was already scrambling to fill in the blanks. Every major incident in New York flashed behind your eyes—there were too many to count. Alien invasions. Robot uprisings. Sorcerer nonsense. But then you narrowed in. The one that had involved the New Avengers. The one the news had dubbed The Darkest Day. The terrifying grainy footage you’d seen during the hearings. The impossible collapse of light, sound, and structure. The city submerged in absolute darkness.
You stared at him.
“I’m sorry,” Joaquín said slowly, “You’re telling me you’re the one who turned New York into a black hole? You?”
Bob scratched the back of his neck, visibly squirming under the weight of it. Another awkward move, nervous, even. “…I didn’t mean to. I swear.”
And that was the kicker. That was when the full weight of who he was finally settled on your chest.
Bob. The Bob who tripped over your dress last night. The Bob who sat by a fireplace and made you smile until your face hurt. The Bob with an Instagram account full of second-hand paperbacks and soft, orange-pink Florida sunsets. That Bob—was the same man who apparently swallowed half of Manhattan into a void.
And now he was standing in the elevator, right between you and Joaquín, in bunny slippers.
It took all your effort not to show how much that messed you up. It set your heart racing, made it pound a tattoo against the underside of your ribs hard enough that you can feel it all the way up in your throat like it was trying to get your attention: this isn’t normal. This isn’t safe.
But then Bob gave you the exact same, uneasy, shy smile as before. Only this time, it’s much harder to meet it with one of your own. You forced a tiny twitch of your mouth upward, barely there, because Joaquín was right beside him too, and you were almost certain he was freaking out enough for the both of you.
You’d seen the footage. You’d read the transcripts. Sat in on court hearings. Heard survivors speak. The sheer level of devastation. The fear. The unanswerable questions.
And that was him. This man in the elevator. The man who smiled at you like he still hoped you didn’t hate him.
The elevator dinged, and the doors parted to reveal the glossy, open expanse of the lobby. Joaquín stepped out first, more hurried than usual. You followed on autopilot, your head still spinning.
The three of you drifted toward the grand lounge area, hovering near the secretary’s desk, not quite ready to separate. Like no one knew what to say next.
“So,” You begin awkwardly, “Bob. That’s... that’s pretty... uh, how’d that happen?”
He winced again, more out of embarrassment than pain. “Um. I don’t really know. My memory’s been foggy since I went through the experimental program,” he admitted slowly. “It… it comes back in pieces sometimes.”
Your brows rose. “Experimental program?”
“Project Sentry,” Joaquín muttered, eyes narrowing as if the puzzle was finally clicking together in his head.
You blinked. You’d known of De Fontaine’s side projects. Rumours of off-the-books enhancements and reconditioning efforts. Human experimentation. Yelena’s files had confirmed them, but you never knew the name of it. You never knew it was called Project Sentry.
You looked at Bob again. Jesus. Bob was one of Valentina’s experiments. That realization settled cold and sharp in your gut.
“Yeah, that one.” Bob nodded sheepishly. “But I don’t remember all of it. I get flashes. I remember getting injected with stuff... being blonde… getting killed.”
You stared, concerned, “You… remember dying?”
He blinked hard like he was trying to shake the static off his brain, or maybe trying to forget it. Then he looked at you—really looked—and something softened again in his expression.
The corners of his mouth twitched up and a blush grew on his cheeks.
“…Don’t worry, though,” he added, voice softer now, more tentative. “I remember you. Don’t think I’ll be able to forget you, actually.”
This time, you did manage a smile.
God. That line shouldn’t have hit the way it did, but it did. Somehow, it fractured the version of him you were just starting to piece together again. Mysterious World Ending Shadow Guy and Sweet Bob From Party were the same fucking person. And you weren’t sure if that was comforting or horrifying because you were growing flustered at his comment.
From the side, Joaquín snorted. “Smooth.”
You caught the way Bob’s blush deepened, the colour rising visibly along his cheekbones. He ducked his head, clearly flustered.
You shook yours gently. “Don’t listen to him.”
“…Okay,” he said earnestly. Then, after a beat: “So… you never got to the part about the experiments?”
You inhaled, slow and careful, trying to find the right words, trying not to sound like someone who’d had the wind knocked out of them several times over in the span of an hour.
“I don’t think your friends wanted us to know,” you admitted.
“Oh.”
Just that. One word. But it carried something heavy, something almost brittle underneath. A quiet, hollow kind of disappointment.
It stopped you cold.
Part of it was guilt. Upsetting Bob felt like kicking a puppy that didn’t even know what it had done wrong. But the other part, the more rational, still-on-edge part of your brain, reminded you of who you were talking to. Of what he’d done. And maybe it wasn’t a great idea to make someone who once tore a city in half feel unwanted.
“Bob?”
The sudden voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You flinched. Joaquín immediately straightened beside you—his hand half-rising on instinct. Both of you spun, the tension surging through your limbs once more.
A woman dressed in black was already walking toward you, shoes clicking lightly across the lobby floor. She faltered slightly when she took in the three of you together, but her smile held firm. Calm. Polite. Her hands extended a small box toward Bob.
“Um, here’s your new phone,” she said.
You recognized the voice. Mel. Valentina’s assistant. Which meant someone—likely everyone—was about to find out that you and Joaquín were here.
You returned her smile with one of your own, both of you sharing the kind of strained politeness that only came from being on opposite sides of a very expensive, very fragile chessboard.
“Thanks,” Bob said, taking the box carefully. Mel nodded once and turned, gliding away as quickly as she’d arrived.
Bob looked at the box like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then his gaze drifted to Joaquín—just a glance—but when his eyes found yours again, he was flushed and fidgeting, all over again.
“Phone,” he chuckled nervously, rubbing this thumb over the side of the box, “yeah, um… I asked for a phone because I—Walker said I should just ask you—uh,” he huffed, blinking hard as if to gather his thoughts. “I know you’re leaving and all, but… it was really nice to see you.”
He gave a kind of half-shrug like he wasn’t sure what he meant by that until it was already out.
“I honestly thought I wouldn’t—see you again, I mean,” he went on. “I thought I’d messed it up. Back when I brought up… uh. Bucky.”
Yeah. That moment had soured everything fast. You hadn’t thought you’d see Bob again either, not after that mess. For a while, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t want to. But you also knew that no matter how many hours the drive back to Washington took, you’d probably spend all of them scrolling through his old Instagram posts—those quiet book reviews, those blurry sunset photos, that one stupid post about jelly beans you think he posted when he was high.
You didn’t crush on people easily. Even less so on people tied to your work. But with Bob, it had happened fast, softly, then all at once.
His honesty caught you off guard again, and you felt a flush rise to your own cheeks. Joaquín’s head turned toward you, a little too quickly, a little too hopeful, and you could practically hear the gears in his nosy little brain turning. That bastard.
You ignored him.
“Yeah,” you said quietly, eyes on Bob. “It was nice to see you too.”
And God, wasn’t that the understatement of the year?
“Can I—um…” he shifted on his feet, thumb brushing over the edge of the box in his hands. “Do you think I could have your number? For when I finish setting up my phone. In case you… still want to talk.” His voice softened, almost hopeful. “I really did like talking to you yesterday. You can say no, that’s alright.”
You weren’t going to say no. And honestly? You doubted Joaquín would let you. He’d been silently rooting for this since he stepped on your dress—he was a hopeless romantic under all that tactical gear.
Still, that didn’t stop the soft, fluttery weight building in your chest. Like your stomach had filled with butterflies in mid-takeoff. It made you feel… like a teenager. God, when was the last time something had made you feel like that?
“Sure, Bob.”
You must’ve caught him off guard. His eyes widened a little. “Really?”
“Yeah.” You smiled. “Do you have a pen?”
His whole face lit up in panic. “Uh—no. Wait, hold on—” He spun, glancing around frantically.
Joaquín, bless him, was already halfway to the secretary’s desk, digging through an Avengers-themed mug filled with pens. He came back triumphantly, tossing one to Bob, who fumbled it slightly before returning to you, grinning like an idiot.
“Here,” he said, holding it out.
You reached for it. Your fingers brushed his—warm, solid, and really soft—and the moment was small, fleeting, but it sent a pulse through your wrist all the same.
“Where can I write—?”
Bob didn’t hesitate. He rolled up the sleeve of his sweater, tugging it past his elbow in one smooth motion before offering his bare arm to you.
You stared.
Not because you were trying to be weird. But holy shit.
He was built like a statue someone forgot to put on a pedestal. Long forearms, defined muscle, a vein trailing up the centre of his arm like it’d been drawn there on purpose. His skin was golden and warm and very, very nice to look at.
“My arm’s fine,” he offered casually, but his voice cracked just enough to betray him.
You blinked, pulling your gaze back up to his face. He looked away, sheepish. Maybe he caught you staring. Okay, he definitely caught you staring. But then again, he was also sneaking glances of his own. His eyes lingered on your mouth for a second too long. A tiny flick down your neck, then away.
He had more shame about it than you did.
“Alright,” you said, trying not to grin like a fool. “Don’t move.”
You stepped in, gently taking his wrist in one hand and steadying the pen with the other. The contact sent another flutter up your arm, but you focused, carefully writing your number across the warm stretch of skin.
One, two, three digits at a time.
By the time you finished, you felt a little breathless.
You let go, reluctantly, and stepped back.
Bob was red. Visibly, unapologetically flushed from his cheeks down to the base of his neck. Still, he gave a quick, grateful nod and tugged the sleeve back down, much to your disappointment.
He took the pen from you, fingers brushing again, and gave you a soft, “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll, uh… I’ll text you. Once I figure this out.” He lifted the phone box with an amused smile. You realized you could have written your number on the box instead, but you refused to say anything about it. His voice was still quiet, but it held a kind of warmth you hadn’t expected to hear again so soon.
“I’ll be waiting,” you said.
He laughed under his breath. Then, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say anything else, he gave a short nod and turned away. You watched him cross the floor toward the elevators.
Halfway there, he paused. Turned slightly. You thought he was going to say something, another goodbye, maybe a joke, something. But he just gave you a little wave. Kind. A little bashful.
You waved back, lips still curved in a smile.
“And they say romance is dead,” Joaquín snorted into your ear, slinging an arm dramatically around your shoulders as soon as the elevator doors shut.
You groaned, but it came out more like a laugh. “Oh my God, shut up.”
He leaned all his weight onto you like an overgrown, smug barnacle. “You were totally about to kiss him. Don’t lie. I saw the look on your face. So did he. I’m kinda disappointed, actually. Was fully expecting a public display of—you know, soul-consuming makeout rage.”
“Shut. Up.”
“You’re smiling,” he said in a sing-song voice. “You like him.”
“I will kill you.”
“You like him.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. But your cheeks were warm, and the flutter in your chest hadn’t totally calmed down. You weren’t even that mad. Not like you had been this morning when your entire life felt like it was fracturing under the weight of secrets, lies, and political backstabbing.
Now? You were still exhausted. Still confused. But something about Bob—awkward, charming, possibly world-ending Bob—had given you a moment of quiet in the middle of all of it.
“I bet you’re glad we stayed longer.”
“I lost a few years of my life from stress,” you muttered. “But yeah. Sure. I’m glad.”
Joaquín finally stopped leaning on you, but he kept his arm there, resting it across your shoulders like a shield. You fell into step with him, the two of you weaving through the flow of people on the sidewalk, the city alive around you in a way that felt almost… normal again.
Then, softer, “So what now?”
You glanced sideways. His joking edge had slipped off somewhere between steps, and now you could see the fatigue settling over his face. He looked as drained as you felt—eyes tired, jaw clenched slightly like he was holding something unspoken just behind his teeth.
You didn’t blame him. You were both running on fumes.
“We get the fuck out of here,” you said simply.
He let out a hum of agreement, nodding once as if the idea itself was a balm. But then he hesitated, giving you a sidelong glance.
“We’re not telling Sam about any of this, right?” he asked. “Like, the whole… following Walker into the tower part.”
“God, no,” you said immediately. “We’ll tell him I found the drive last night.”
“Perfect.” He grinned, satisfied. “He doesn’t need to know you almost got swept off your feet by a guy in a chicken costume.”
“Joaquín.”
He laughed and pulled you a little closer, and the two of you kept walking, two specks swallowed by the sprawl of Manhattan at noon, leaving behind the kind of chaos you weren’t sure you could ever fully explain. But for now, you had your answer, and you’d get the hell out of here.
Pairing: Thunderbolts! Bucky Barnes x Curvy! Female Reader
Tags: Fluff. Slight sprinkle of angst if you squint. Pinning.
Summary: Life at the Thunderbolts Tower is loud, chaotic, and full of questionable moral choices. Bucky’s used to keeping to himself, until one night, after one of those questionable moral choices was made, the guys got him high.
Word Count: About 7.6k.
They didn’t recruit her for the violence.
The Thunderbolts had enough of that. More than enough, actually. Three supersoldiers, a walking quantum anomaly, a man with literal god-tier potential buried beneath trauma, and Yelena, who didn’t need powers to make anyone cry.
No, she was brought in to patch what was left behind.
Civilians mostly. Collateral damage.
The ones caught in the debris cloud of a botched extraction, or buried under the wrong side of a knocked-over building. She’d move between the screams and the smoke, crouch in the rubble with her hands pressed to scorched skin or crushed lungs, and pull people back. Not metaphorically. Literally.
She didn’t stop death, but she slowed it. Called it off. Reversed it in some cases. No one liked to use the word resurrect, not even her, but she knew what it looked like when a rib cage stopped collapsing under its own weight, when air found its way back into lungs that had already forgotten how to breathe.
It didn’t take long for the team to realize she wasn’t there for them.
Mostly.
The first time Bucky came to her, it wasn’t after a mission.
It was late, the tower was in that in-between time when most of the team had gone to bed or passed out somewhere inconvenient. The common room was only lit by the flat screen, where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth danced around each other in the 1995 Pride and Prejudice adaptation. She had a blanket over her knees and a mug in her hands. The night was ordinary. Unremarkable.
Then she felt him.
She didn’t startle, just looked up to find him standing by the edge of the couch. His eyes weren’t on her, but on the TV, and his arms were folded too tightly across his chest.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
“You didn’t.”
A pause. Then, quietly. “Could I… borrow your time?”
She tilted her head, studying him. He wasn’t bruised. No dried blood, no marred tac suit. But his posture was wrong. His left shoulder sat higher than the right, tensed and pulling across his collarbone.
“Is your back?” she asked softly, setting down her mug.
He gave the barest nod. “Shoulder and neck are acting up. Pulls when I use the arm too much. Been pushing it. And that strains my back, too.”
“Sit.”
He obeyed without question, sitting on the rug in front of the couch with a faint wince. She shifted to sit behind him, spreading her legs on each side of his shoulders.
When she laid her hands over the thick knot of muscle at his trapezius, he didn’t flinch but he tensed, just slightly. Then he exhaled. The heat under her palms was sharp and wrong, deep where metal met skin. She let the current of healing rise gently from her hands, coaxing away the ache like drawing poison from a wound. It wasn’t dramatic -there was no holy glow, no divine wind- just a flush of cool relief that sank slowly into his muscles. His eyes closed as he relaxed.
“Sorry to bug you so late,” he murmured after a while.
“You’re not.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d wait it out, but…” He trailed off, shrugged with his good shoulder. “Saw the glow of the tv. Damn, this helps.”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m glad.”
He was quiet for a while. Let her work, let himself rest a little. Then, after a long pause-
“You like this series? I think there is a more recent movie.”
“I love it,” she said. “It’s my comfort watch, wouldn’t trade it for any other version.”
He hummed.
She smiled, pressing a little deeper into the heat at his shoulder. He made a sound then -not a groan, not quite- but something close. She felt him soften beneath her palms.
When she finished, he didn’t move right away. Just sat there, with his head bowed.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“You’re welcome.”
He stood up a moment later, with his shoulder visibly lower, freer, and his arm hanging loose again at his side. He looked at her then and nodded, padding back to his room.
----
She got along with all of them eventually. Yelena dragged her into a chaotic kind of sisterhood almost immediately; Alexei insisted on teaching her Russian phrases she didn’t ask for; Bob started helping her when she baked and apologized whenever he accidentally thew something panicked with the blender’s noise; Ava didn’t speak much, but once left a book outside her door with the title underlined in black. John well… he was an asshole, but a tolerable one.
But with Bucky… it was different. There was something in him that calmed her when he was near. She couldn’t tell. He kept a certain distance, like it were policy. She never took it personally. Still, there were moments.
Moments when he stood too close to her while scanning for exits, like he’d throw her over his shoulder if a ceiling caved in.
Moments like the night he sat on the other end of the couch, halfway through Pride and Prejudice, and watched in silence, asking questions with real interest, even when John heckled him for it, something about finally a period older than him.
Like the time he set aside a tupperware for her when she got back late, grunting something about how the “jackals already circled the kitchen.”
Like how he always lurked just close enough when she healed others, as if assessing what it might cost her.
That’s why she asked him.
One night, after a debrief, while everyone else argued over takeout orders and Bob tried to fix the busted kitchen fan by staring at it too hard, she leaned in at the counter beside Bucky and- “Teach me how to shoot.”
“No.” He didn’t even look up.
She raised a brow. “You don’t even want to know why?”
“Don’t care.”
“Bucky-”
“You already help people,” he said, clenching his fingers around the cheap ceramic mug with Yelena’s printed face. “You do enough. Let us manage the other part of the job.”
She didn’t argue. Not out loud. Just stood there, with heat crawling up her neck, unsure if it was from frustration or the way he said it.
----
The next morning, she didn’t bring it up again.
Bucky had said no, flat and final, with a tone like he was trying to crush the idea before it had a chance to grow legs. She wasn’t one to beg, so she thought of an alternative and left him alone.
So there she was, helping Yelena to repot the herbs Alexei kept murdering by accident in the kitchen.
Feet away, Bucky and Alexei sat in the common area. A soccer match was running on the TV. Bucky leaned back, with socked feet up on the coffee table, silent as ever. Alexei was cracking sunflower seeds and muttering something in a mix of Russian and fatherly disappointment.
Then came the voice.
“So! Guess who I’m gonna teach shooting after lunch?” John swaggered over, like he’d invented testosterone. “As a hint,” he added, wagging a finger, “it’s not the guinea pig.”
Bucky’s face soured instantly. His jaw ticked. “The hell does that mean?”
Alexei perked up. “Bob? Oho! I knew the kid would want to jump into heroic deeds instead of making waffles!”
“Nope.” John popped the p with relish. “Our group’s walking panacea.”
Alexei blinked. “Her? Da. Makes sense. She’s not bad with her hands. Has calm eyes, like assassin nun. I approve.”
John grinned like he’d just won a bet at someone else’s expense.
“I’m the only one here who thinks it’s a bad idea?” Bucky asked, frowning. “She doesn’t need to learn that,” he muttered.
“Uh, yeah, she does?” John scoffed, raising his brows like it hurt to explain. “Let’s face it, she’s super cool with the healing mumbo jumbo, but couldn’t reduce-”
“That’s not her role.” Bucky’s voice cut him promptly.
He stood slowly in all his height, his shadow stretching over the rug. “She doesn’t go on heavy missions. She takes care of us. She assists when we’re with civilians. That’s what she does.”
“And what happens,” Walker shot back, closing the gape, “when none of us are there to save her ass, huh? What happens the day it costs her life, or fucks up a mission because we’re too busy babysitting her?”
The room went still. Even the TV dulled down, like it knew something ugly was about to happen.
Bucky’s fists closed. “You’re not teaching her.”
John took a step forward. “Oh yeah? And what- what assembly named you the fucking leader, Bucky?”
No answer.
“I don’t take orders from you. She asked me. She’s a grown-ass woman who wants to learn, so, fuck off.”
Bucky moved.
Quick. Sharp. Enough menace in that single step that John instinctively squared his shoulders. But before anything snapped, Alexei clomped forward, stuffing himself between them in his garish yellow AvengerZ tracksuit like a human foam wall.
“Look, mister soldier,” he sighed, hands up like he was negotiating hostage terms. “He has a point, da? And she did ask. Haven’t you heard about women’s rights and determination?” He wagged a seed-covered finger. “Maybe in your time -and I’m not saying it was wrong- women belong in the kitchen, but-”
Bucky stopped listening.
She’d asked John.
She wanted this.
And clearly, she wasn’t going to let him stop her.
He shut his eyes. Counted to three. Didn’t make it to two.
“She’s not learning from you,” he told Walker, calmly. “If someone’s teaching her, it’s gonna be me.”
“Oh yeah?” John tilted his head, smiling all wolfish teeth. “And why’s that?”
Bucky snapped the case on the remote shut.
“Because I’m the fucking Winter Soldier.”
----
The tracksuit didn’t fit.
Or more specifically, the zipper refused to participate in any fantasy where it might slide up over her chest without protest. She wrestled with it anyway, with stubborn fingers pulling and tugging, trying to wedge the metal teeth up over her sports bra and the too-tight cotton clinging to her skin.
Her breathing had picked up. The top gaped open, exposing the rise of cleavage as she tried to smoosh herself flat enough to force the zipper into cooperation.
A quiet mutter escaped her lips. “Goddamn tits…”
Across the room, the door opened.
Bucky froze just inside the threshold.
There was a second -a full second- where all conscious thought left his brain.
He'd been expecting a shooting lesson.
What he got instead was the kind of image that used to be currency in the field. Back in the war, a photograph like that -wide hips, full breasts straining against cheap blue polyester- could’ve bought a man a whole week of smokes. Maybe two, if she smiled.
She wasn’t smiling now.
She was squishing herself with both arms, muttering curses, oblivious to his presence. He couldn’t move. His brain short-circuited somewhere between don’t stare and holy shit.
She heard the footsteps, finally.
Didn’t look up.
She thought it was John. For some reason she couldn’t picture, he told her they were going to start with rifles.
“Hey there, teach,” she called, still focused on the zipper. “Ready to show me your long gun?”
Silence.
It hit like a brick.
She looked up slowly, dragging her eyes from boots to black pants to the unmistakable slope of a broad chest under a grey Henley. Metal arm. Stubbled jaw. And that face. Oh god. That face.
Not stupid John.
“Bucky,” she breathed. The horror crept up her neck in a heatwave.
He blinked.
She scrambled to yank the zipper up in panic, gave up when it snagged under her chest, then crossed her arms to hide the worst of it, which only shoved her tits higher and made everything worse.
“I- uh- ” she stammered, backing toward the bench like she might vanish into the wall if she just concentrated hard enough.
Bucky’s voice came late. Gravel rough. “You’re not learning from Walker.”
She blinked.
“What?”
He stepped in, closing the door behind him. His jaw clenched once. “I’m teaching you.”
Silence again.
She wanted to die.
He hadn’t even blinked at her joke. No snort. No teasing comeback. Just that serious scowl and the ghost of something unreadable behind his eyes.
“I thought you said-” she started, still not daring to lower her arms.
“I changed my mind.”
Another beat.
Then, under his breath, almost too low to catch: “He’s not careful enough with you.”
Her heart kicked.
He didn’t look away. Just moved to the weapon rack methodically, like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn’t walked in on a living pin-up girl wrestling her zipper, talking about his long gun.
But his ears were red.
She exhaled through her nose and quietly regretted waking up at all that morning.
----
He handed her the rifle like it was made of glass.
“Start with the stance,” he instructed.
She nodded, lifting the long weapon with both hands. It was heavier than it looked, and she nearly tilted forward trying to keep it level. Her elbows wobbled. Feet shuffled on the mat. Then, squinting down the barrel, she bent her knees and leaned forward the way she’d seen in action movies.
Bucky made a noise.
Not a word.
Not a breath.
A noise.
His lips pressed into a line. He looked like someone who’d just bitten into a lemon and was trying to hide it. She was too focused to notice. Which was good. Because from behind, the way she bent into the stance, with her hips back, tight thighs under the stretch of her track pants, spine arched just enough to lift her ass like an offering, was testing his military-grade self-control.
He cleared his throat and walked forward like he wasn’t dying inside.
“Okay- no. You’re compensating too much.”
“What?”
“You’re sticking your ass out,” he said flatly.
She looked at him, half mortified, half amused. “Oh, so that’s your professional assessment, Sergeant Barnes?”
His ears turned red. “I’m just correcting your form.”
“Right.”
“Look,” he muttered, stepping behind her. “Feet shoulder-width. Hips square. Don’t tilt forward like that unless you wanna throw your back out.”
She smirked but followed directions. He reached out, -hesitated- then touched her shoulders very lightly to guide them back. She tensed under his hands. Not from discomfort, but something else. Awareness. Warm and prickly.
“Better,” he said, stepping to her side. His metal hand touched her wrist now. “Elbow up. Relax your grip. You’re not strangling the thing.”
“I didn’t know rifles were so delicate,” she murmured, still hyper-aware of him in her personal space.
He didn’t reply.
Because the sight of her shoulders pulled back, chest forward, arms braced in that stance, it was just too much.
In his head, he was screaming.
Professional. Stay professional. She’s trusting you. She’s trying. You’re a trainer. You’re a sandbag with instructions. Do not look down. Do not-
He looked down.
Her chest, barely contained by the track jacket, rose with each breath. A single drop of sweat slid down between her breasts and disappeared under the zipper that still refused to close fully.
He stepped back.
Farther than necessary.
“I’ll, uh. I’ll get the smaller rifle. That one’s… too much.”
He turned on his heel and walked off, jaw clenched, neck red, pretending he wasn’t about to re-evaluate every decision that led him to this exact moment.
They trained three times a week after that.
She was better than he expected, quick to learn, surprisingly capable once she stopped overthinking every movement. He still didn’t like it. Hated it, actually. But the touch-starved part of him -the one that had been pining for months- thrived under the excuse of proximity. Guiding her hand to the trigger. Adjusting her shoulders. Watching the way her eyes narrowed when she focused, the way she grinned when she nailed a shot. He got to stand close. He got to see her.
And she let him.
It was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Like every other Saturday, he was chewing through a leg of an aggressively over-roasted chicken, sitting sideways on the kitchen bench with his legs stretched out and one boot hooked on the rung. Bob was mid-scrubbing dishes, with his sleeves rolled up and humming some offbeat tune under his breath.
Then came the death sentence.
“You know, it’s cool Yelena’s taking Y/n out tonight,” Bob said casually, flicking soap off his fingers. “It’s good they get to chill. She deserves it.”
Bucky didn’t look up.
Didn’t blink.
Just kept chewing.
Harder.
The meat turned to ash in his mouth.
Bob, kept going, oblivious. “I think they’re hitting that new place near the pier. The one with the neon sign that looks like a melting martini. Or a fish. Dunno.”
Across the room, something cracked.
The chicken bone, under Bucky’s grip.
“Right,” he said, voice like gravel. “Great.”
John didn’t miss a thing. He leaned back in his chair, with his arms crossed, smirking like a wolf catching scent of blood. “What? Don’t like your girlfriend going out?”
Alexei perked up like a dog hearing a squirrel. “Oh? You sly fox! Had it all covered up! So it wasn’t shooting lessons, eh?” He gave Bucky’s shoulder a hearty slap. “Were other kind of action? Da? Oh, Mister Soldier, you are so cool.”
Bucky threw him a sideways glare sharp enough to skin bark.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said flatly. “And I don’t know what the hell you're talking about.”
Nonchalance didn’t suit him, his jaw was too tight, his voice too frayed. The tension sat around him like a storm cloud in a leather jacket.
John made a wheezing sound and shook his head. “God, you are so emotionally constipated, Bucky. One day you’re gonna blow up and take half the damn tower with you.”
Alexei blinked. “Ima… I am missing something in translation. Constipation and feelings do not go well in same sentence.”
Bucky’s eye twitched. His glare swept across both of them like a loaded weapon.
“I’m going out.”
No further explanation.
He dropped the bone-scarred plate in the sink with a loud clang and left the kitchen without a backward glance.
----
The kitchen fell silent.
“God, it’s painful seeing him like this,” John muttered, rubbing his face. “It’s not even fun anymore.”
“Da. I say, what if we do our Men’s Night here!” Alexei declared, triumphant like he’d cracked the formula for world peace.
“What?” John wrinkled his nose.
“We drink! We bond! We order from that new shawarma place with the 2-for-1 coupons I got as a special gift!”
“They give those to everyone. They hand them out on the street.” Walker muttered.
“They recognized me,” Alexei said, offended.
John gave him a look. “I’m not wasting my Saturday with you losers. Bucky brooding in a corner, Bob vacuuming in sweatpants, and you doing… whatever it is you do on Weekends.”
Alexei stared at him, unimpressed. “Oh, because you sure have a lot going on tonight, American Bachelor. Come on. It will be fun. Do it for Mister Soldier!”
“He doesn’t even like me.”
“Da. But he would. After tonight, eh? Alcohol and food strengthen friendship!”
“You do know we’re supersoldiers, right? We can’t get drunk. Or high, for that matter.”
“Uh-” Bob’s voice floated in meekly from the sink, one squeaky-clean dish still clutched in his hand. “I’m not proud of this, but… I could help you with that.”
Both heads turned toward him.
“See, Ava found… well, a lot of Asgardian ale once. Inside a wall. Don’t ask. She never told anyone.”
Alexei blinked. “Inside a wall?”
“I saw her disappear into the surface and come back with a bottle,” Bob shrugged. “That’s how I know.”
John frowned. “What wall?”
Bob pointed.
Without another word, John walked over and punched straight through it.
Plaster rained down, dust curled into the air, and nestled like a hidden altar, six bottles gleamed behind cracked drywall.
Alexei gasped like he’d just witnessed a birth. “I told you! Men’s Night! It is fate!”
“What if he doesn’t drink?” John asked after a beat, crossing his arms as the dust started to settle.
“Oh, he will,” Alexei declared, solemn and sure. “He is so manly. So cool. Like brooding tiger in small kitchen-”
“God, stop worshipping that asshole,” John groaned. “He’s not in the mood. Might not even show up.”
“Well…”
Two pairs of eyes slowly turned toward Bob.
“What if,” Bob began, twisting his hands, “we give him special muffins?”
“Da!” Alexei clapped. “With sprinkles and that Nutella thing stuffing! You’re such a good boy.”
“No- I… I meant a muffin that could, uh… make him a little merrier,” Bob clarified, dropping his gaze.
“Well Nutella muffins do that,” Alexei reasoned, proud of himself.
John ran a hand down his face. “Oh my god. He’s talking about getting Bucky high. Drugged. Doped.”
There was a pause.
John straightened his back with a pleased smile.
“And I’m so in.”
It was late afternoon when Alexei thudded into the common room, with blind optimism. “Bucky! Tonight we bond. Men’s night. Like real men. With food. And feelings.”
Bucky didn’t even look up from where he sat, sharpening a knife that didn’t really need it. “No.”
Before Alexei could plead, Bob shuffled in, all wide eyes, hands tucked behind his back like he’d rehearsed this exact moment in the mirror. “It’d be nice to chill a little,” he said softly. “Just… hang out. Please?”
Bucky looked up, met the kicked-puppy eyes, and his jaw worked like he was chewing gravel. “I’ll… think about it,” he said finally, voice low. “I’m tired.”
“You told me you don’t get tired,” Alexei pointed out smugly.
Bucky muttered without meeting his eye, “Emotionally tired.”
Silence stretched uncomfortably.
Then Bob, eyes lighting up with now or never, reached behind his back and presented something small and innocent, cupped in his palms. “At least take one of these. Y/n made them earlier. John and Alexei almost emptied the tin.”
He didn’t even get through the sentence before Bucky’s hand reached out and snatched the muffin like it might vanish if he waited.
“She made them?” he repeated, already halfway through the wrapper.
He bit in fast, like someone might try to steal it back. The sponge was warm, soft, sugary- but with something odd underneath. Something behind the sweetness, bitter at the roof of his mouth.
He frowned.
But then he glanced at the supposedly empty tin on the table and got distracted, scowling harder. “Should’ve saved me more,” he muttered, licking a crumb off his thumb.
Bob and Alexei shared a look.
Showtime.
----
It was already dark when she stepped out of her room, one heel on, one still clutched in her hand, the dress tugged halfway down her thighs as she hobbled to the hallway mirror. Short black dress, modest enough by most standards, but the V neckline dipped just enough to remind her why she always paired it with the golden earrings, something to balance the look. She only found one.
“Yelena!” she called out flatly. She didn’t even have to elaborate.
“Maaaybe I borrowed them?” the younger woman called back from her own room, with no hint of guilt.
“Yelena.” She sighed.
“And maaaybe I lost one in the kitchen or somewhere near the couch while dancing. But in my defense, I looked very good with them.”
With another sigh, she slipped on her second heel and made her way toward the common room to check. If she were lucky, Bob might have found it while doing his usual nighttime sweep of crumbs and inexplicably misplaced socks.
But as she turned the corner, '90s music hit her ears, loud, obnoxious, unapologetically nostalgic. High laughter. Male voices, overlapping and hollering. Glasses clinking. A plastic thunk against a tabletop.
She blinked.
What the hell-
The sight made her stop short.
Bucky, John, Alexei, and Bob sat huddled around the coffee table, with a half-collapsed Risk board between beer bottles and empty snack bowls. Bob looked like a benign god of war, deploying his little plastic soldiers across Asia while sipping from a glass of water. John was mid-yell, stabbing a finger at the board. Alexei was roaring with laughter, slapping his thigh so hard the couch creaked.
But it was Bucky who made her forget why she’d come.
He was laughing.
Not a scoff, not a breathy exhale of amusement, but laughing. Open-mouthed, with his body leaning back against the couch like he hadn’t carried the world on his shoulders for years. He made a circle with one hand and penetrated it with his index finger toward John in an unmistakably rude gesture, still chuckling as he stole a red soldier from the board and hid it behind his ale bottle.
She almost tripped.
What the hell were they drinking?
The three supersoldiers were clearly tipsy. No other word for it. Pink-cheeked, all glassy-eyed, loose-limbed. Whatever they’d found had bypassed their enhanced metabolism. She would bet Bob had something to do with it, but couldn’t prove it. But there he was, the only one completely sober, amused, controlling half the world map without a single drink. Still, it was a responsible thing to do, since no one knew what could make the void peek through some crack in his mind.
But it wasn’t Bob’s fault she couldn’t take her eyes off Bucky.
God. He looked… relaxed. Warm. Happy in a way she hadn’t seen before. It panged her chest in the worst -best- way.
Don’t look at him. You're here for an earring. She focused on Bob. Nice, predictable, unenhanced Bob.
Bucky’s eyes tracked her every move. Every sway of her hips. Every sparkle of skin not covered by the dress. His mouth parted slightly. His back pressed against the back of the couch as if he were bracing himself for a blow.
She stopped at Bob’s side and leaned slightly over the table. “Hey,” she said softly, “you haven’t seen one of my earrings around here, have you? Yelena borrowed them and thinks she left one in the kitchen or something.”
Bob blinked, like waking from a gentle trance. “Uhh- n-no. But I’ll help you look. Maybe it rolled under something?”
John caught Bucky’s expression and elbowed him hard in the ribs.
"Dude, that's so uncool."
“What?” Bucky grunted, eyes not moving from her.
“Have some dignity, man. You're practically drooling.”
Bucky didn’t look at him. Just muttered, “I think it’s time to tell that cookie to take a powder and go cut some rugs.”
John stared at him like he’d finally lost it. “I don’t understand half a word you say. What powder? What rugs?”
Alexei slammed his pint down. “I think Mr. Soldier wants to invite her to dance.”
“No. No-no-no.” John’s voice lowered to a sharp hiss as he leaned toward Alexei. “As much as I love to see him crash and burn, I’m not letting him throw himself into the fire before he’ve even boarded the damn boat.”
He turned back to Bucky. “Maybe it’s not the best time, Buck. She’s going out. This is men’s night. You gonna ditch us?”
There was almost hurt there, buried deep under John's usual smugness, but there. Maybe seeing Bucky relaxed, laughing, not shadowed by silence or some kind of grief, had touched something vulnerable in him.
Bucky, still staring across the room, shrugged one shoulder lazily. “Well, yeah. Look at 'er. If someone’s gonna swag with her, it’s gonna be me.”
John reeled back. “What is this? His ‘40s casanova era? And what- don’t say swag. It sounds dirty. And old.”
But Bucky wasn’t listening. He was already shifting, gripping the armrest with one hand, the other adjusting the hem of his shirt. Calculating.
John reached out and gripped his wrist. “Don’t.”
“What?” Bucky finally turned to look at him. “You wanna make love to her too?”
John made a strangled sound. “Okay. Ew. Don’t say it like that. I’m not trying to fuck her, I just-”
“I think Mr. Soldier means… if you are interested in her, or like her. In that manly, old-timey way of speaking,” Alexei chimed in, grinning like a gossiping aunt.
Bucky raised a brow, slowly and deliberately. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business either way.”
And with that, he rose to his full height, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and turned toward her, toward the woman in black, who had just straightened, with her earrings forgotten, because now he was coming.
----
She looked at him like a doe caught in the road, because one thing was the usual Bucky: Serious, broody, dry, grumpy. But this?
This was something else.
This was Bucky Barnes with his hair tousled back in a calculated sweep, like he’d done it a thousand times in mirrors with lipstick on his collar. Like he knew he looked good, knew it with the finger-snap confidence of a man who used to leave dances with someone on his arm every single time.
And he was walking toward her like he owned every inch of the floor he stepped on. Chin up, loose shoulders. A sexy smirk blooming slowly across his face.
“The fellas tell me you’re steppin’ out with Yelena tonight?” he asked, his voice was velvet and low, laced in something that sounded far too close to a purr.
Her lips parted. Her throat forgot how to work.
Behind him, John made a dramatic groan and slapped a hand over his own eyes.
“Uh- yeah,” she managed, dragging her eyes away from the collarbone peeking out of Bucky’s shirt. “She’s taking me to some club I’ve never heard of. Girls’ night. More or less what you’ve got going here, but…”
“But more high-tone?” he cut in, lifting one brow like he already knew the answer.
“A little,” she conceded, suddenly very aware of her bare shoulders and the heat of his gaze. He was looking at her like a man who knew all her tells.
He tipped his head, just slightly. “Well, sweetheart, you show up in a swell little number like that, and those clubs’ll be thick with chiselers tryin’ to make time.”
She blinked. “With what?”
“Chiselers,” he repeated, solemn as a preacher. “Sharp-dressed fellas with quick grins and slick intentions.”
Behind him, John groaned again. “Oh my god, he’s time-traveling. Somebody stop him.”
But Bucky wasn’t done. His voice dropped lower, the charm coming out his lips like it had never left. “Lucky for you, I’m around to keep those lounge lizards in line.”
She blinked. “So… you wanna come with us?” she asked, trying to keep her tone dry, unaffected, casual, though her voice pitched up at the end like it didn’t get the memo.
“More like with you, but yes,” Bucky said, straight-faced and warm-eyed, like he hadn’t just rearranged the atmosphere around them.
A flash of heat bloomed up her face. She opened her mouth, fumbled. “Uh- but Yelena…”
Bucky turned, scanning the room like a man surveying a poker table before placing a bet. His gaze landed on Bob, sitting primly with his water glass, a solitary yellow pawn in hand.
“Maybe…” Bucky drawled, one hand finding his hip, the other gesturing vaguely toward Bob without breaking eye contact, “Bob can come too. And we four can go have a little fun. What d’you say?”
Her stomach dipped. What.
This was definitely not the quiet man with a staring problem she secretly admired.
Asking her out? Softly trying to ditch Yelena? Proposing some sort of double date?
Her eyes dropped instinctively to his mouth, then to the Risk party behind him, as if the answer were hidden somewhere between the scattered pieces and unlabelled bottles.
He was too close. That was the problem. He smelled like leather and woodsmoke. His pupils were wide, swallowing up the blue like he'd stepped out of a memory and into a daze. He looked like he wanted to crawl under her dress and make himself useful there.
She narrowed her eyes, dropping her voice. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing,” said everyone, far too quickly.
Alexei raised his glass like a shield. “Mr. Soldier here only wants to bond a little, eh? Have a nice ni-”
“Bucky, honey,” she said, turning back to him, her voice as gentle as her hand reaching up to fix the front of his shirt, “what did you drink? What did you take?”
“Maybe I wanna take you-,” he started, voice syrup-slow.
She pressed a finger to his lips before the rest of that sentence escaped his mouth. He went quiet instantly, grinning behind her touch like a smug idiot. His eyelashes fluttered. He looked drunk on her.
Fuck.
She spun toward the other two supersoldiers, stalked over, her heels clicking sharply across the floor. She leaned in close enough for Alexei’s eyes to widen and John to shift in his seat.
“Tell me what the hell is going on,” she whispered-hissed. “And don’t give me that ‘Asgardian ale’ crap.”
They both looked, for once, appropriately ashamed.
“Well…” Alexei rubbed the back of his neck.
John offered a shrug that could be described as some level of guilt. “Maybe… we kind of doped him?”
Her jaw dropped. “You what?!”
“Just to loosen him up!” John hissed. “Like- get him to chill a little! Maybe the combination of getting him high and drunk was a bit much, but hey- he’s smiling!”
“Oh my god,” she hissed, looking back at Bucky.
Who, by the way, was currently spinning her missing earring between his fingers like a prize he’d just won in a festival just for her, and winked when she caught him.
He Winked.
She exhaled, slowly, willing down the disappointment. Right. Of course.
He was intoxicated. That was all this was.
That’s why he’d cornered her with those warm, ruined eyes and soft, rakish confidence. It made sense now, so painfully obvious. It could’ve been her, Ava, Yelena, or a delivery person with the wrong timing. A warm body and a curious face.
She crossed the floor toward him, gently curling her hand around his wrist.
“Let’s get you some air,” she said quietly, tugging him away, ignoring how he let her lead him with that boyish smirk still playing at his lips.
She tossed a glare sharp enough to gut a man over her shoulder. The three still seated at the table winced like kids caught stealing candy.
Out on the balcony, the air was cool. Bucky leaned against the sliding glass door, running his hands through his hair, with a lazy grin stretching his mouth.
“Well, I wanted to dance,” he murmured, tilting his head toward her with a little shrug, “but I ain’t complainin’, dollface.”
“Bucky.” She kept her voice even.
“Hm?” he blinked slowly, eyes glossy and confident.
“You’re high.”
He scrunched his nose. “No, I’m not.”
“And drunk,” she added.
“Doll, you know I can’t.” His smile was crooked, defiant and soft.
“But you are,” she insisted. “So I’m going to sit with you a little, then see if I can purge it from your system. Yeah?”
“I’m not feelin’ bad.” He tipped his head back, eyes half-lidded as he looked at the sky. “In fact, I don’t remember feelin’ this good in decades.”
Her chest clenched.
That wasn’t fair. That made it worse. What was it to her if he wasn’t hurting anyone else? If he wasn’t hurting himself?
But he was. He was hurting someone. Her.
This -whatever he was doing- acting like he wanted something more with her, only now, only tonight, only when he was under some substance’s spell.
“Alright then,” she said carefully. “If you feel good… just stay with the guys, hm? I’ll go out with Yelena. Tomorrow you can tell me who won at Risk.”
He shifted visibly. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue but couldn’t yet find the words. His brows drew together.
“If you don’t wanna go out,” he said slowly, “how ’bout a dance here?” His voice was soft again, tentative, hopeful. “Don’t make me beg, doll.”
Her heart stuttered.
“How about another day?” she said gently, stepping back just enough to put some air between them. “Trust me. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“For not acceptin’ a dance?” he asked. “You think I’m makin’ a fool outta myself?”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just-” she began.
“Today’s the sixth of July,” he interrupted her. His tone shifted, serious, deliberate. “This mornin’ Ava ate the last of Walker’s sugar cereal and he pissed in her apple juice's bottle outta spite. We trained after breakfast. I taught you how to shoot a movin’ target with a Beretta, and you gave me three cherry candies you swiped from Yelena’s stash ‘cause you know I like the red ones.”
He took a breath. Didn’t blink.
“We didn’t see each other at lunch,” he continued, “but I know you went out to buy heels ‘cause you don’t own a proper pair and you were nervous ‘bout tonight.”
His gaze softened again. “I ain’t impaired, doll. Just-“ he reached up, combing his fingers through his hair, tousling it further, “uninhibited.”
She froze.
“Maybe I’m sayin’ the first thing that pops in my head. Maybe I’m talkin’ like a radio host from a bygone decade ‘cause I don’t give two shakes about findin’ the modern way to tell you what’s spillin’ out.”
He stepped closer.
“Okay,” she muttered, trying to sound stern, and failing. “One dance. And that’s it. But you’ll have to guide me, because-”
She didn’t get to finish.
Bucky caught her hand like he’d been waiting all night for the excuse, and in one smooth pull, he brought her against him.
His vibranium arm slid around her waist protectively. But it was the other hand -the warm one- that pressed low on the small of her back with possessive pressure. She barely managed not to gasp.
“‘Course I was gonna guide you, sugar,” he murmured, with mischief. He grinned, a flash of something old -young- too self-assured for the Bucky she knew. She pressed her hands on his shoulders, and then he started to move.
There was no music playing on the balcony. Just city sounds. Wind. The buzz of far-off traffic. The flicker of neon on glass.
But he was hearing something. That much was obvious in the way his head tilted, his shoulders rocked, and the cadence of his steps moved like an echo from another decade. The rhythm was slow, nostalgic. Something big-band, maybe, soft horns and a crooner’s voice threading the moment together in his mind.
Through the glass behind him, John, Alexei, and Bob were stacked like dumbasses at the edge of the living room, jockeying for a better view, faces half-lit by the apartment’s glow, whisper-arguing like overgrown kids at a school dance.
She looked away from them. Looked up at Bucky instead.
He was humming now. Not to her. Not even aware he was doing it, maybe. Just lost in whatever old tune was spinning inside his head, something warm, velvet-smooth. He had a ballroom behind his closed eyelids.
“You did this often?” she managed.
“Almost all weekends,” he said, words slurred not by drink, but nostalgia. His palm shifted slightly on her back. “Used to cut a rug like nobody’s business.”
“I bet you did.”
“Won a jitterbug contest in ‘39,” he said seriously, then laughed like he surprised himself remembering that. “Didn’t even plan on enterin’. Some girl pulled me in off the floor and said, ‘You got legs, use ‘em.’”
She swallowed.
He was… different. And not just because of whatever he took.
The natural charm. The half-smirk. The way he looked at her like she was a sure thing, and he was still the kind of man who could offer something worth saying yes to.
She felt her eyes go wet. Damn.
Because tomorrow he’d wake up with a predictable headache and maybe beat the shit out of John just for sport. He’d lecture Bob with that kind exasperation he reserved for people he secretly cared about, barking something about “drugging someone without their consent isn’t quirky, it’s a felony.” And he’d ignore Alexei entirely because you could never win against that man’s stupid arguments about good intentions and “power of friendship.”
But above all, he might not remember any of this.
Or worse, he would. And it wouldn’t mean to him what it meant to her.
That part was the sharp edge. The one she couldn’t dull with a smile or a healing touch.
One thing was secretly pining for him. She could survive that. She has been surviving it. It was almost fun, in its own pathetic way, watching him when he taught her shooting, stealing hours of intimacy disguised as routine. A hand on his arm as she guided him through a breathing exercise. The quick flick of her thumb across his temple to soothe him after a flashback. Getting to touch his skin under the guise of professional concern when she healed him.
That was her safe little corner of yearning. Controlled.
This was something else. This was another tier entirely. Pressed against his chest. Held by him. Stared at like a woman and not a teammate or a responsibility.
And she knew -knew- that it was going to cost her.
Because you didn’t survive someone like Bucky Barnes looking at you like that and walked away unburned.
Their bodies moved slowly, barely more than a sway. His breath warmed her temple, and the weight of his metal hand was solid at her waist. He kept humming that soft tune that probably hadn’t been on any airwaves in eighty years, and for a moment, -God for a moment- she let herself pretend.
That they were somewhere else. Somewhen else.
Her fingers pressed gently on his shoulders.
She didn’t want it to end.
But it had to.
She drew back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were still too bright, pupils wide and swimming in the low light from the tower. His lips parted like he was going to say something devastating again, something pretty and unfiltered, something he’d never say sober.
So she shook her head softly before he could.
“We should go back in,” she said, her voice barely louder than the city breeze.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, confused. “Already?”
She nodded, squeezing his shoulders lightly before stepping back. “One dance. That was the deal.”
He followed her retreat with a small frown, stumbling half a step like he wanted to close the gap again. “I could walk you out. Or tag along. You, me, Yelena, Bob-”
A smile tugged at her mouth, bittersweet and careful. “Not tonight.”
She reached up, brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips.
“C’mon, sit down,” she said gently, nudging him toward the cushioned bench tucked against the balcony railing. He obeyed, blinking slowly, draping his metal arm over the backrest while his flesh hand reached to one of hers as she crouched in front of him.
“Tomorrow,” she murmured, maintaining his gaze, “you’re gonna hate them for what they did. You’re gonna yell at John, probably kick his ass. You’re gonna scold Bob. You’ll try to ignore Alexei, and fail.”
He gave a lopsided smile. “That sounds about right.”
“And, about this…” She hesitated, vaguely motioning her hand between them. “You’ll pretend that it was nothing.”
“That’s not fair to say,” he whispered.
She nodded, swallowing the ache. “No. It’s not. But it’s how this works, right?”
His fingers caressed hers. “You think I’m gonna forget?”
“No,” she murmured. “I think you’re gonna remember. And wish you hadn’t.”
She stood before he could answer, slipping her fingers from his. Her voice was quiet but firm as she added, “Stay out here a little. Cool off. I’ll go find Yelena.”
But his hand caught hers again. Not tightly, just enough to hold her there.
“What if I ask again tomorrow?” he murmured. A too sober question for someone that wasted.
She raised a brow, trying to match his tone with a smirk. “With a massive hangover and the outburst of vengeance in your heart, as Alexei would say?”
“Yeah.” He said it without blinking. He licked his bottom lip, not quite smirking now. “Even then.”
It stunned her for a second. Just a second. She held his gaze, then slipped her hand from his slowly. Didn’t step back yet. Just stood there, close enough for his knees to brush the hem of her dress. Then, with the gentlest smile on her mouth:
“If you ask tomorrow… you’ll find out.”
And then she turned, walked back toward the glass door, ignoring the frantic scramble of limbs as Bob and John tried to act casual, as if they hadn’t been spying through the window like gremlins. Alexei didn’t even pretend to feel guilty.
She didn’t care.
Bucky leant back on the bench once she disappeared, with the city wind tousling his hair, and still feeling the ghost of her touch on his skin.
He smiled. Slow and crooked.
Because it hadn’t been a no, she would’ve said so if it had.
It was a careful maybe. A thread left loose for him to pull, if he wanted to.
Because saying yes tonight would cost her if he didn’t follow through tomorrow.
to make things a little more organized I will be listing my favourite Bucky fics in the links below. I'd be happy if you checked them out and rewarded the wonderful and talented writers :)
Every fic and series has clear warnings. If anything might trigger you, be cautious. Minors do not interact. There is 18+ content.
I am a writer myself, so if your are interested in reading my work, check out this Masterlist of my main blog @marvelstoriesepic
Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU
mob!bucky x witch!reader
Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, begging, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v, no aftercare, graphic wound description, blood/gore, graphic descriptions of stitching, religious punishment (lashings), mention of forced pregnancy (not to reader), mention of sa (not to reader), abortion (not to reader), mention of medical procedures, hospitals, angst, angst no comfort, comfort/fluff, sex magic, blood magic, potion for arousal, curses and hexes, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, possession, mediums, ghosts, hauntings, horror, smoking, brothels, pubs, gambling, alcohol, mention of death/violence/torture, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, bucky barnes needs a hug, police brutality, vaguely british setting??, sexism, classism, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
main masterlist
CHAPTERS [9/11]
spirit-raiser
pony club
the premonition
bloodties
a drink with deceit
the rat king
an eye for an eye
a favour for a friend
lucky's choppery
⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.
⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(
⟢ wc: 9.7k+
⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.
You were here strictly for business.
The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.
You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.
Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.
You never imagined you’d walk inside.
And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.
It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.
You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.
But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.
Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.
“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.
“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”
You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.
“I just got them back.”
“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”
“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”
“And I won’t?”
“You’re better at smiling.”
“You’ve never seen me smile.”
“Exactly.”
You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.
“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”
You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.
The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.
A digital display behind the podium read:
WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.
MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.
Your stomach turned.
“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.
“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”
“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”
“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.
Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.
An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.
“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”
You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”
“You calling me annoying?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”
Right. Bucky Barnes.
You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.
The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.
Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.
So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.
You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)
Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.
And Bucky was one of them.
You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.
You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.
What was he thinking?
Why hadn’t he said anything?
Why wasn’t he here?
You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.
The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.
You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.
Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.
He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.
“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”
You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.
You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”
One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”
You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.
He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.
“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.
You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”
They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.
You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.
A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.
“See me?” you muttered.
“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.
“Still no sign of Barnes.”
“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”
You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.
You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.
Your dress caught suddenly.
You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.
A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.
“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.
“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”
He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.
You stood there for a second, staring after him.
He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.
You didn’t recognize him.
And you should have.
For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.
But not him.
You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.
Who the fuck was that?
You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.
John Walker.
He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.
The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.
“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”
You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”
“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”
That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.
Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.
You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.
The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.
“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”
You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.
But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”
And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.
A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.
You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.
The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.
You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.
It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.
The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.
You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.
Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.
“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”
Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—
And then someone stepped into your path.
A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.
He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.
“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”
You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”
“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”
You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”
“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”
You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.
You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”
“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”
Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.
And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.
“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”
Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.
But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.
You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.
In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—
Your heart dipped.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.
“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”
Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.
You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.
Wonderful.
You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”
You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”
But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”
“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”
And then—
“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.
“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.
“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.
Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.
You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.
Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.
And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.
This was intentional.
Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”
“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”
She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”
“Of course.”
Another flash. Another frozen pose.
You winced. Sam is going to kill you.
Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.
They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.
You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.
When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.
“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”
Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.
“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.
Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”
There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”
You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.
“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”
You stiffened mid-step.
Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.
“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”
You crossed the threshold to the balcony.
It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.
Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.
Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.
“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”
You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.
“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”
You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.
Valentina smiled wider at that.
You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.
Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.
“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”
She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.
She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.
Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.
“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”
You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.
“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”
Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.
“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”
The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.
“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”
You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.
Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”
Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.
“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”
A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.
Of course, she saw it.
“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”
She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.
“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”
“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.
Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”
And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.
“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”
She didn’t even hesitate.
“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”
You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.
“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.
“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”
You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.
“And if I say no?”
“Then someone else says yes.”
She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”
Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”
The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.
And the cold came in fast.
Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.
Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.
Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.
“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.
You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.
She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.
You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.
“No,” you finally muttered.
It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.
Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.
“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”
You didn’t respond. Not yet.
The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.
You dragged in a breath.
“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.
“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”
You jumped.
The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.
That man.
The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.
You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.
He wasn’t trying to be seen.
He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.
He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”
There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.
“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.
“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.
You didn’t answer right away.
Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.
“I don’t know…” You muttered.
“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”
The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.
He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”
You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”
There was a pause.
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”
You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.
He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.
You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.
“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.
“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”
He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”
His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.
You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.
“Hi, Bob.”
A beat passed.
You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.
So, after a pause, you gave him your name.
Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.
“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”
You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”
His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”
“Not often. Just sometimes.”
And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.
Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.
When did that happen?
You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.
“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”
Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.
“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”
That made you blink. Allowed?
The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.
But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.
You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.
“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.
Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.
“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.
And then you saw it.
The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.
“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”
Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.
“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”
The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.
Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?
He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.
You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.
You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.
And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.
You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.
His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.
You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.
You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.
But none of that mattered yet.
In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.
Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.
And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.
“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”
Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.
But then he deflated.
His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”
“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.
“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”
“It’s okay—”
“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.
But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.
“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”
He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.
“Thanks.”
You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”
“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”
You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.
“That’s still a long time.”
He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.
“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.
“What are you…?”
Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.
“Are you flirting right now?”
You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.
When you didn’t answer, he laughed.
“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”
You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.
Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”
“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”
He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.
You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.
You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.
You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”
You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”
“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.
His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”
You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”
His head bobbed along with the answer.
“So you’re like… a really important person here.”
You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”
But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.
“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”
You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.
“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”
And just like that, your heart softened.
You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”
Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.
He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.
“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”
He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.
You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”
The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.
“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.
He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”
And just like that, your whole world tilted.
Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.
You straightened. Slowly.
“…You know Bucky?”
The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.
He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”
That stunned silence stretched long between you.
“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”
You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.
The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.
You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.
He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?
A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.
You stood up.
The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.
You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.
But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.
“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.
You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.
You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.
“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.
You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.
Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.
A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.
“Who are you, Bob?”
He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”
You tilted your head. “That’s it?”
He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.
And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.
You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.
“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”
“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.
“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.
It made your chest hollow out.
“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”
You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.
“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”
The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.
“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”
You blinked. “Sorry?”
“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”
You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”
You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.
“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”
You turned, reaching for your earpiece.
“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”
You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.
You didn’t turn around right away.
Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.
But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.
And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.
But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.
a/n: hii, been a while since i’ve written an x reader fic so hope this abides by everyone’s standards :) as i finished this, i realized that this probably should've been multiple parts because of how long it is, but it was too far gone at that point. anyway, i hope you enjoy and if you don't i would rather not hear about it!
available to read on ao3. | divider 1
I. 2005
SUGURU WAS SURE YOU HAD A DEATH WISH.
Out of everyone, it seemed as if you had some crazy switch in you that just flipped during a battle. It was as if you got tunnel vision and your every move was erratic, death the only option. It did not matter to you whether you lived or died. Saving others was your main and only goal. That scared him to death.
You were powerful. Powerful enough where you didn’t need to go all out on every curse that even hinted at having some type of power over you or others. Yet you always found yourself in Shoko’s room, sporting one cut too many, and a bright grin as if you weren’t pushing the limit. You would wave away any and all concern with that smile.
I’m just fine, you would roll your eyes at their worry. Really, you guys, stop fussing so much.
Suguru had argued with you about it before. Both of you had been sent on a mission to some elementary school, few kids had gone missing. You found the curse, and the kids, and a fight ensued. It was nothing crazy. Not until you practically served yourself on a platter for the curse and told Suguru to run away with the kids. Of course, he didn’t leave. What kind of friend would he be if he just let you die? What kind of sorcerer would he be if he just ran away while you were torn limb by limb? He’d be a failure of a sorcerer and a failure of a friend.
It bothered him. It enraged him how easily you threw your life away for others. A hint of danger and you were willing to get yourself killed over it. The complete disregard for your life in the first year that you all knew each other irked his very soul. Your behavior was worrisome. It confused him.
The buildup to his fight with you was a lot to unpack in itself.
The car ride from the hospital the kids were at was silent. Filled with a tension that unsettled his heart and he was sure unsettled your mind. You made no attempt at small talk or passing a good job, it was just silent. He silently thanked you for it. Because he was sure if you spoke then, he would’ve blown up. He would’ve said horrible things. So he silently thanked you for your silence, your silent allowance to let him think. You even fell asleep and Suguru couldn’t help but ask himself how you could sleep so soundly after such a close brush with death.
Three days later, he could tell Satoru and Shoko noticed the tension.
He knew they noticed it the moment you two returned. Your clothes soiled, face covered in mud and blood, hands all too shaky. Maybe it was the way you walked away from his side to great them. Or it was probably the way he glared at the wavering smile on your lips as you told them everything went fine. It was most definitely that.
Shoko was weary of it. At lunch, she’d sit between him and you. Her words were light as she teased and prodded, but never dared to ask the serious questions. She kept the air free of the awkwardness or the anger brewing. Shoko was kind like that. She was optimistic.
Satoru, however, wasn’t.
Although he seemed to abide by the silent rule not to ask you questions, he was practically grilling Suguru any given moment. He asked what happened. Why was Suguru so angry? Why were you acting so standoff-ish? Had something finally happened between you? Did Suguru get rejected and was he throwing himself a pity party? There were so many things that he threw out into the open like it was silly. As if Satoru derived some entertainment from the tension.
Do you ever notice they’re ready to get themselves killed for others? Suguru had thrown out to Satoru a week after the mission.
Satoru’s eyes lost the amusement and his smile dimmed. He pushed his glasses further up his nose. Of course I have. His voice was ridiculously serious and slow, extremely distant. As if recalling something he pushed to the back of his mind often. His attention had cut back to Suguru and shook his head. Man, it’s best to leave this alone. Trust me. Sensei will say something soon enough.
Suguru couldn’t help but worry that their first year teacher’s talk wouldn’t come soon enough.
Things just didn’t make sense to him. He just didn’t understand why you would be so willing to throw yourself into death like it was a blanket on a cold night. Sure, they’re meant to save people, but it didn’t mean death. Not everything had to be final. He feared that you just didn’t know it.
All of it came to a head when all four of you were placed on a mission three weeks after.
At this point, it was apparent that you both were avoiding each other. Different topics that neither of you wanted to address made headway into your dynamic. Distanced you both from one another like it was a bubble. A shield protecting you both from uncomfortable and frankly angry conversations.
But you did it again.
Sure, this time the curse was too much. Things weren’t looking too great for them. But the moment Suguru noticed you were missing from his and Satoru’s side, he felt panicked. He knew what was coming and knew what you’d say.
You caught the curse off guard as you jumped from the top banister, your large hammer at the ready. You shouted something along the lines that they should get out of there. But Suguru nor Satoru dared to run away. He watched, in horror, as you vanished into the curse’s mouth. As he was ready to summon his small arsenal of cursed spirits, the thing was cut from the stomach. Then you got its head.
There was silence as you stood amongst the carnage. Covered in the things purple goopy blood. Then you turned to them with that smile and Suguru lost it.
“What’s wrong with you?” He yelled, his voice echoing off the walls and converging on you. You looked shocked, eyebrows raised and faltering away from the pride to the confusion. He took in a shaky breath as he felt the built up anger from the past three weeks finally come up. “Do you have to throw yourself into danger like that?”
You frowned at him, then pathetically gestured at the curse. “It’s dead, isn’t it?”
Suguru pressed his hands against his face, letting out a deeply annoyed groan. “That’s not the point! The point is you threw yourself into its mouth! Like it was nothing!” He pushed himself forward to at least close the distance a little. Despite hearing Satoru’s soft protest, he needed to look you in the eye.
Your irritation was apparent as you furrowed your brow. “It doesn’t matter! Seriously, what’s your issue lately? You’ve been a complete asshole since that mission we went on. I thought you were just feeling bad for those kids, but you’ve acted completely different towards me!” Suguru could only clench his jaw at your obliviousness. There’s no way, right? There was absolutely no way you didn’t see what you were doing to them. To him. But when you said your next words, that thought was out the window. “Okay, so I threw myself into the middle of things, but so what?”
So what? So what. So fucking what?
Suguru felt something deep within him snap. As if there was a car underwater and the glass that was keeping the passengers safe suddenly cracked. His emotions, his clear mind, were the victims of the drowning. Buried deep under your ignorance.
“So what?” He snapped, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he regarded you with unsettled rage. “So what? Are you serious? Like, are you dumb or are you just playing with me because I seriously can’t tell right now!”
You flinched at his tone and he could hear the shift of rubble behind him. “Suguru, hey—“ Satoru tried to de-escalate the situation but he was ignored.
“Excuse me?” You uttered, glaring up at him.
“Whenever we go on missions, you’re the first one throwing yourself at the thing like it isn’t serious. As if there’s not a high possibility that you’ll die! Every single time.” Suguru had a finger against your chest now. He wasn’t even sure when he had reached out, but he could feel the curse’s blood on his fingertip. It was cold and thick. Uncomfortable. But you were covered in it like it was nothing. Everything was nothing to you. “So, I’m asking you: are you dumb or just acting like you are?”
Your eyes were narrowed as you regarded him. “I know it’s dangerous, but sometimes that’s the only option.” Was all you had to say in response.
“You shouldn’t be the first one to die every time!” Suguru was desperate for his point to get across. For you to understand that it wasn’t the matter that it was dangerous— it was the fact that you were so willing and ready to have everyone live without you.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” You frowned.
Just understand I care. That if you were to die right in front of my eyes, I’d lose it. I’ve only known you for ten months, but I can’t imagine a world where you’re dead. You’re one of my best friends— the first friend I ever made, please don’t make me live longer than you. Were all the selfish things that Suguru wanted to say. That he should’ve said.
Instead, he asked, “Do you just want to die?”
There was a very long silence that kept them all from moving.
The question was posed and he could see it in your eyes. Could hear it in the words you didn’t speak. You looked away from him, shame settled on your face. Suddenly, you looked small compared to your usual large and boisterous self. Have you always been this small? Or was this something he was just realizing now?
It settled in his mind, suddenly, that he was right. His assumptions, rash and brazen, were right.
It made him queasy, lightheaded, as he stared at you.
“Y/N…” He uttered with a pale face. He desperately wanted to reach out, to grasp your shoulder— make some type of contact. But his limbs wouldn’t move. He wasn’t even sure if he was breathing or blinking. His mind just repeated the one fact he knew over and over.
You wanted to die. You didn’t care if you died out there, alone, because it was all the same to you. You were waiting for death as it was waiting for you. Like an old friend. You wanted to die.
Suguru felt the overwhelming urge to cry as it all settled. “You want to die?” He couldn’t help the whisper as he stared at you in horror.
Your cheeks were a deep crimson red, tears pooling in your eyes as you took a step back from him. “It-It’s not like that.”
Suguru slowly shook his head. “Y-Yo—“ You shouldn’t feel like that. Is what he wanted to say. But what good would that do? You knew that. You probably prayed you didn’t every day.
“I just— you guys are so important to the school and-and to me! If you guys died, they’d be scrambling and a lot of people would probably suffer. But if I died, then who would even care—?”
“I would!” Suguru couldn’t help the tears that collected in his eyes. Here he was, almost 16, crying in front of you. But he needed you to know he cared. That life wouldn’t be the same without you gracing it. He reached forward, grabbing your hands in a vice like grip. “I would care! If you died I would be miserable and I would miss you like crazy. Don’t say no one would care because, if it doesn’t matter that I care, then everyone would. You’re important to everyone. You matter.”
Your eyes were on him now, wide and unsteady as you regarded him with confusion and disbelief. “Suguru—“
“We would all care. Satoru would be so annoying without your stupid quips. Shoko would be miserable if there wasn’t anyone to get her cigarettes when she forgets. And I…I would lose it if you were dead. I would. I would lose my mind, I’d do something crazy like… like leave everything behind.” It felt wrong to say. To put such weight on you, but he needed to know the role you played. How important you are. He clenched his jaw in determination, eye contact unwavering as he squeezed your hands. “I’ll prove it to you. I swear on it. I’ll spend the rest of our lives proving it to you.”
“Better than anything I could say.” He heard Satoru utter behind them, then the tell tale yelp that came after Shoko slapped him upside the head.
You didn’t let that distract you as you fell forward into his arms. Clutching at his uniform as you let out a small cry. He held you up and listened as you dumped years worth of pain into his chest. Suguru couldn’t ever recall seeing you like this before. He never really wanted to see it again. You didn’t say anything in response to his rather embarrassing ramble to you. No, not to that.
Instead, all you said in return was, “thank you.”
II. 2006
Suguru was in love with you and Satoru.
He realized it the afternoon in Okinawa, all of you walking through the aquarium as Riko pointed out various fish that she knew too much information about. Of course, he wasn’t listening. He was much too focused on you and Satoru. The both of you had snuck away to a gift shop— proclaiming that you needed mementoes and souvenirs for your friends back home. You adorned an octopus hat while Satoru had various fish stickers pressed to his cheeks. You both more resembled children on a field trip than highly esteemed sorcerers.
Suguru loved it. He loved you both.
It was a sudden and rather scary realization.
It came over him as you placed another sticker on Satoru's face. The both of you releasing absurd laughs that had no business sounding so lovely. He could feel the small smile blossom on his own lips as Satoru argued that he'd have the "gooey stuff" all of his face later, which made you promise to help him clean it off with a rag. Then you placed a delicate kiss against his cheek. It was so nonchalant, something they should all be used to, but it was always so jarring. Satoru stared at you with wide eyes behind his glasses, then he grinned. Wide and devious.
Suguru's heart soared.
He wanted nothing more than to reach out, to grab both of you and kiss you like there was no tomorrow. To promise his heart and his life to you both. It would be easy. It would be mere second nature to him. Suguru may just be realizing how deeply he loved you and Satoru, but he was almost sure that he'd felt this way since month five of your first year.
Surely, it shouldn't be a surprise. You three had been getting bold lately. Shoko was even commenting on it. The late nights in your room, the both of them curled up at your side. The domesticity of one of you returning to your dorm and being greeted by the other two. You all had a routine. A promise to come back through the door and have another fight of arguing over what's for dinner. Or something obscure that he wouldn't put up with with anyone else.
He just wanted to tell you and Satoru that he finally feels normal in the world. With you both by his side. That when he has your skin pressed against his, he feels like he could take on the world. That Satoru makes him feel childish and free like he couldn't be when he was a kid. That his kisses were sweet and soft. He just wanted to tell you that he loved you.
But Suguru saw your eyes stray away from Satoru's and the smile faded away. "We have to give her a choice." You said suddenly.
Both Satoru and Suguru moved their attention to Riko. The girl was standing in front of a expansive tank, watching in amazement as the fish zoomed by. The girl unaware of their watchful eyes as she turned to Kuroi and asked her to enjoy the fish too.
Suguru and Satoru had acknowledged that you were probably the last person who should be on this mission almost immediately. It wasn't that you weren't well fit for it, or that you would be too detached, or not want to get involved— it was that you had warmed up to Riko immediately. The girl had become your shadow. She asked about your technique and how "two idiots" like them were able to be in your presence. She amused you and you amused her. Then she asked you what you thought about her merger and you told her you thought it was something you shouldn't get involved in.
But Suguru and Satoru saw it in your eyes. They knew what you thought the moment Yaga had said the word "erase".
You wanted to save her.
"I knew you'd say that." Satoru snorted, leaning back against the tank they stood before. His eyes rolled upwards to look at the dolphin swim pass across from them. "You're always meddling."
You glared at him. "I don't meddle!"
"You do." Satoru said fondly. "What did I say, Suguru? They'd meet the girl and meddle, right?"
You snapped your eyes to Suguru who shyly stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugging. "You did say that." I did not. Suguru used kinder words— like you cared about Riko and you'd probably not want to see her throw away her barely lived life for Tengen-sama.
You pouted, picking at the railing next to Satoru. "Am I that predictable?"
"Only because we know you so well." Satoru teased with a small smile. Then his eyes cut back to Riko who was gradually making her way further down the area. As much as Satoru would deny it, Suguru could tell that he'd come to grow fond of the girl as well. "What do you propose we do, exactly?"
Now Suguru was looking back to you. He could see the shock in your eyes as they snapped up to Satoru— as if you couldn't believe he was playing into whatever ideas you were tossing around. There was a spark of hope in your eyes and Suguru had to look away to prevent the smile that wanted to spread across his face. Instead, he'd let his heart do that weird skip it usually did whenever you and Satoru were particularly adorable.
"All I want is for her to have a choice," Your voice was compassionate as you started. The look in your eyes distant as you turned your attention towards the small tank in front of you three. The portioned tank that had different beta fishes separated. Together they're deadly. Apart, they find peace. Riko had explained. "The way she's talked about everything... the merger with Tengen-sama— that's what she was born for. She's proud of it. But given the choice, she wanted to spend her last day with her friends. She wanted to go to school and hang out with them because she knew she'd never see them again. Instead of really wanting to do this, she's just doing it because she feels like she has to. Where's the freedom in that?"
Suguru smiled softly at you. "So we give her a choice." He agreed with a small nod, finding satisfaction with the brightness in your eyes.
"We'll have to fight Tengen, you know that?" Satoru kept his eyes steady on Riko as he questioned the two of you. Both of you blink, obviously not having considered that detail. "They'll put up a fight— probably other sorcerers too. Freeing Riko might mean we leave Jujutsu High."
Suguru let his mind wander. Would he really mind if the three of you left? Not really. If the three of you have to fight Tengen-sama, then he'd gladly fight them by your side. If you both wanted, he'd destroy the world. Then gladly live his final moments with you both at his side. That was a fact that he knew to be true in his soul.
"I'll gladly do so." You answered without hesitation. Of course you would, you self sacrificial fool. A bitter part of Suguru said. There was no question that you'd put your life on the line for Riko. "If her choice is to live life, then I'll fight Tengen."
"And you'll win?" Satoru asked.
You raised an eyebrow. "We're the strongest, aren't we? Us three?"
Something about your words made Suguru 100% sure that he wouldn't allow you both to walk alone in the world. Together, there wasn't anything you three couldn't take on.
Satoru finally turned from Riko to stare at you with a self assured smirk.
Oh, Suguru thought with a stutter in his heart. He'd already made up his mind before you did.
"Well, well! I thought you were above all that we're the strongest crap!" Satoru teased, throwing his arm around your shoulders as you rolled your eyes. "Don't be so entitled, Satoru. You're making Haibara and Nanami feel less than, Satoru. You sound ignorant, Satoru. Look who's high and mighty now!"
"Oh, stop!" You pushed his arm away, but your smile was fond. You turned back to the beta fish. "Sure, it's a little entitled, but right now, I'm being nice."
"Thank you, thank you, my beloved royalty." Satoru dramatically bowed before you. You uttered something about him being dramatic, which went ignored. The white haired sorcerer reached over and slapped Suguru's arm, peeking at him fondly from behind his glasses. "Suguru, bow for your deity!"
Suguru was about to decline, until you spoke up. "You're ridiculous, you know that? Don't do that." Suddenly, he felt inclined to follow suit.
Both of them were now bowed behind you, uttering their dramatic praises as you blushed, attempting to ignore them as people walked pass and stared. Suguru peeked up at you as you watched the beta fish swim around. In that moment, he prayed that nothing changed.
Things weren't right.
Things weren't right but you were so calm.
Silently, Suguru could only shoot a thankful glance in your direction as the elevator creaked under the strain of four people. He could tell you were worried but your expression was determined to stay pieced together. Satoru was above ground, fighting against that man— Suguru couldn't think about it. It was too much in the mess of things.
The elevator came to a screeching halt and there was no hesitation on your part to push the doors open. You seemed quicker, your movements a little stilted as you exited the elevator and, instead of looking at the three behind you, you kept your gaze on the various entrances. He could tell you were irritated. He could tell you were worried. Or nervous.
No, you were scared.
His attention turned towards Riko and Kuroi who were exchanging a heartfelt, tearful goodbye. They clutched onto each other— Kuroi told her to be brave and Riko promised she would. Then they separated and Suguru promised that he'd come back once everything was done to escort Kuroi to safety.
The trek to the Star Corridor was long and quite.
There wasn't much Suguru could say to comfort you because there wasn't much he could reassure himself with. His worries for Satoru were overbearing in his mind and he couldn't try and fool himself into trying to bear the weight of your anxiety as well. Both of you knew this, so you didn't dare try to comfort one another.
There's nothing wrong. Everything's going to be okay. We're the strongest. Satoru will join us once this is over. Were the things Suguru soothed himself with.
"Is this...?" Riko uttered as they finally broke through to the outskirts of where Tengen homes themself.
"Yes," Suguru confirmed as he came to a stop beside the younger girl. "We're just outside of where Master Tengen resides. This is the country's base for primary barriers. The main hall of the tombs of the Star Corridor."
"Basically, it's their home." You said flatly, coming to Riko's other side, your eyes moving over the vast area. It was quiet, dark, and looked isolated. Nothing that brought any welcomeness for the eternity to come.
Suguru tried not to let his gaze linger on the woeful look painting your face now. He cleared his throat and pointed. "Go down the stairs and pass the gate. Then head toward the base of that huge tree. It's protected by a different barrier than the one around Jujutsu High. Only those invited may enter. You'll be protected by Master Tengen until the merger."
Riko's expression turned sorrowful as she followed the path Suguru paved with her eyes. This was the end. Her fun and the little life she lived was at its finish. She clenched her hands at her sides and made a move to continue forward, without them.
"Or we can turn back and go home to Kuroi."
Riko's eyes snapped to you. Your eyes were compassionate and a small smile graced your features that was more reassuring than any words that could be spoken. She looked a little pale, but the glow of hope suddenly appeared.
"What?" The girl uttered.
You turned to her fully, keep your expression soft. "When our taecher assigned us this mission, he used the word 'erase'. It's like, deep down, he knew something was wrong with this and, for a muscle guy, he doesn't usually beat around the bush." You looked like you wanted to chuckle at your own jab at Yaga, but didn't have the energy. Instead, you sighed. "I talked to Suguru and Satoru and we all came to the decision that if the kid who is the Star Plasma Vessel should refuse the merger then we call it off."
Riko's eyes widened even further and tears were on the cusp of falling as she stared at the both of you.
"We're the strongest," Suguru offered gently, offering a closed eyed smile to the girl. "No matter what you choose, we promise to protect your future."
Riko's lips quivered as her eyes bounced between you two and the vast nothingness of Tengen's home. She took in a shaky breath. "Ever since I was born, I've been told I'm special and different. Being special was normal for me. I've survived till now by staying away from danger... My parents died in a car crash. I don't remember it. I'm not say or lonely anymore." She started to fiddle with her hands as her words grew more unsteady. You moved to press against her side, hands rested against her shoulders. "That's why... with the merger, I thought I'd be okay... leaving everyone. No matter how painful it became, I believed that, some day, the sadness and loneliness would disappear."
"You just need the right person." You uttered to her, her eyes snapping up at you as tears silently streamed down her face. "You need that one person to prove that there's beautiful things out there— that there's kindness and love. I know. I understand, Riko."
The girl bursts into tears, a trail of snot ran from her nose as she shook with her cries. "I want to stay with everyone a bit longer!" Her voice seemed to echo around the two of you. "I want to go to more places and see more things with everyone! More!"
Both you and Suguru smiled softly. His hand reached out while you squeezed her shoulders. "Riko, let's go home." He beckoned her forward.
"Yeah!"
Suguru registered the shot last second, but it was too late for him to truly do anything.
He's never quite seen anything like it.
You were smiling, you looked free from your worries for one second.
Then you were falling. Your face slack and eyes blank. You fell against the ground with a deafening thud. Blood pooled around your head, chunks of your brain scattered across the ground. Your eyes.
They're so blank.
Suguru barely registered Riko's scream. His eyes couldn't leave you even as the girl screamed and screamed, hands clutching at her head as she stared at your body beside her.
You were just speaking a moment ago. You were smiling. How could this happen?
Your eyes are so blank.
"Y-Y/N...." Suguru uttered, eyes wide and face pale.
He felt sick. He didn't feel right. This wasn't right. Why were you on the ground? Why were you bleeding? Why can't he move? Why can't he breathe? Are you going to get up? Please get up.
Riko continued to scream. She just wouldn't stop. Her once hopeful eyes were now reduced to horror and terror as she smeared the blood covering the side of her face. None of it hers.
It's yours.
Your eyes are blank.
What are you doing? Get up. Get up. Smile. Just breathe. Get up. Please, I'll do anything. I'll listen to you ramble about those books you love so much. I'll buy you those disgusting snacks you crave. I'll do anything for you.
Please don't die.
Your eyes are blank.
"Oh," groaned a voice that rattled Suguru's soul. "I missed."
Suguru slowly turned his head to stare at the man. The one that had stabbed Satoru through the chest and had talked to him like an old friend. The one that was now standing, clutching a gun in his hand, pouting as if he was amused by his miscalculation.
As if your death was something he hadn't accounted for.
"How..." Suguru's voice doesn't feel like his own. It feels like he's out of body. As if something else is controlling him. He felt something warm on his cheek, but he couldn't reach for it. His limbs felt heavy, his hands cold. What was happening? Why did everything feel so muddled? "How'd you get here?"
Still, Riko screamed.
Still, your eyes were blank.
The man frowned. "How...?" Suddenly, he chuckled and pressed the side of the gun to his temple. "I see. I killed Gojo Satoru."
Suguru was swarmed with an unfamiliar feeling of rage. You and Satoru had once praised him for his ability to remain calm and level headed when things seemed to crumbled around all of you. He was the voice of reason— your moral compass. The map that lightened your way.
Suddenly, he felt like he was reduced to nothing but rage and this empty feeling in his chest.
Your eyes are blank.
Gojo Satoru is dead.
"I see..." Suguru growled, his eyes unmoved from the man across from him. "Then die!"
III. 2007
Suguru didn't feel right.
Although, he hadn't felt right for 11 months. 47 weeks, and five days. 8,016 hours. 480,960 minutes. 28,857,600 seconds.
He hadn't been right since the moment you dropped dead.
Your eyes were blank.
He wasn't enough to fight against Fushiguro Toji. The man had ruthlessly downed him then killed Riko. It was like it was nothing. He came, he killed, then he left.
Suguru had laid amongst the rubble of Toji's doing and stared into your blank eyes. He still wasn't sure how long it was. He couldn't move and he could barely breathe as the blood from his chest trickled to the stone and concrete under him. Your eyes stared lifelessly into his own. Endlessly. A never-ending staring contest that he pleaded to end.
The entire time he laid on the floor of Tengen's barrier. His mind only repeated one thing.
Please get up. Please be alive. Please get up. Please get up.
Your brains had scattered across the floor and your eyes were unmoving but he spent so much time just pleading with you to snap out of it. He thought he was enough. He apologized for not being enough.
Please get up. I promised to prove it to you.
There was a point he passed out. He could remember thinking, thankfully, that he was going to die. And he swore he heard your gurgled call for him.
Then, he woke up.
Shoko had looked distraught. He could still remember the way she eyed him wearily through red rimmed eyes. Cautious as she told him that you were dead. As she told him Satoru was gone.
Gone. But not dead.
Suguru had, very briefly, rejoiced in Satoru's survival.
Shoko said she cleaned your blood off his cheek.
Suguru hated her for a while after that.
He didn't stay at the infirmary for long. Despite Shoko telling him that Yaga wanted to see him and that he shouldn't move around yet, he dragged himself away. He dragged himself to the cult. He dragged himself along the side walk with his mind flashing with images of your blank eyes.
Was that all death was? Nothingness? Did it comfort you? Did it welcome you? Was it everything you imagined?
His mind wouldn't rest.
He could remember as he entered the building. As he heard the resounding and endless applause. He mindlessly entered and was meant with a never-ending crowd, parting as they just clapped, and clapped, and clapped. It rumbled through his ears, bouncing around his brain.
Your eyes were blank.
When the crowd parted, he remembered the clench of his heart as Satoru, bloodied and blank, appeared. He carried Riko's body in his arms. Lifelessly moving forward. His eyes stared right through Suguru.
"You're late," Satoru had teased blankly. His voice distant and flat. It missed its usual punch. "No.... I guess your're early."
Suguru remembered the confusion that washed over him as he stared at the one he loved. "Satoru... is that you...?"
What happened to you?
"It looks like you saw Shoko." Satoru had sounded like he wasn't entirely aware of his surroundings. Or he didn't care. "Is Y/N there right now?"
Suguru didn't have the heart then. He could remember silently apologizing to you, but he hadn't thought Satoru could handle the news of your death amongst this room.
"Shoko fixed me up fine." His eyes had moved to Riko's limp hand and he felt sick. Her screams were still in his mind. He almost threw up. "I'm sorry."
"I'm the one who messed up. Don't worry about it." Satoru had easily deflected.
Suguru couldn't handle the clapping. They just didn't stop. They clapped, and clapped, and clapped.
Your eyes were blank.
"Suguru," Satoru's voice had stopped him in his tracks. His voice was so detached and so odd. Suguru couldn't handle much change then. He couldn't handle hearing Satoru so different. Not then. "Do you want to kill them all?"
Suguru could remember the shock that shook his body. Could remember the bitterness that immediately followed. The realization that he would love nothing more than to unleash the worst on these people and sum their deaths up as their lives— useless.
"Suguru," He had sworn he heard your voice, distorted and all too sweet. His back stiffened and his eyes widened. "Do you hate them, Suguru?"
He did. He hated them. He wanted them all to burn. He wanted them to suffer. Suguru would've loved nothing more than to have heard all of them plead for their lives. To have the same terror that Riko had when she realized her life was coming to an end. To have that same blank look in their eyes as you had.
Your eyes were blank.
"It's pointless." Suguru had shot down emotionless. He still wasn't sure if he was answering that tiny voice in his head or Satoru, maybe it was both. Who really cared?
"Pointless, huh?" Satoru walked past Suguru and started to make his way outside. "Does there need to be a reason?"
"Of course, it's important." Suguru had easily answered. "Especially as Jujutsu Sorcerers."
11 months. 47 weeks, and five days. 8,016 hours. 480,960 minutes. 28,857,600 seconds later, he believed that was all bullshit.
It surprised him how much and how little could change in a year.
The way everyone seemingly returned to normal and he was left in the past.
Suguru felt like his life was now segregated into two sections: Before the Star Plasma Vessel assignment and after the Star Plasma Vessel assignment. Before and after you.
He realized, quickly and bitterly, that the after you was worse than the before.
Before he knew of your existence, he was happy to be alone. He embraced the fact that kids at school thought him odd, unapproachable. That they would whisper about his habits behind his back. He was happy to know that no one wanted to be around him. It meant they didn't see what he saw. He didn't know anything else.
But the after you was considerably worse.
You had given him that breath of fresh air. That love that he had unknowingly reached out for his entire life. The way you and Satoru had touched him, he didn't even know his heart ached for that type of love. He didn't know he was depraved until you showed him.
He hated it. For a moment, he hated you.
In the first weeks after your death, he felt angry. He was bitter. Even as Satoru rubbed his back in bed. Even as he told Suguru it wasn't his fault. Even as everyone told him that you would hate to see him like that. He felt a hatred. A regret.
For months, he hated you.
He'd ignore topics centered around you. He ignored the day that Shoko and Satoru cleaned out your dorm for a new first year. He was stagnant and blank at the funeral your family held. When everyone walked up to recall memories about you, he didn't. He just listened and he thought that none of them truly captured you. They said you were kind, that you were funny, that you went our of your way to help whoever needed it.
If it was Suguru up there, he would've said you were selfish. That you always put your life on the line when it wasn't needed. That you were arrogant. That you could really make him worry.
But he loved you.
That's what he hated most. Isn't that the worst?
He hated that he loved the way he missed your hugs, your reassurances. He hated that he missed worrying about you. That he wouldn't ever see you again. That he wouldn't join you on a mission and be forced to listen to Yaga or fellow students worry about your sanity. He missed that sometimes you would play into Satoru's words, like saying the three of you were strongest together.
"Hey," Satoru called from across the training yard. Suguru barely looked up. "Have you lost some weight? Are you okay?"
Satoru became "The Strongest". His abilities were starting to blossom and it allowed him to work by himself. The higher-ups sent them alone. And Suguru hadn't felt more confined in his life.
"I'm just a little tired from the summer heat." Suguru easily explained it away, his hands buried deep within his pockets. "It's not a problem."
"Maybe you had too much somen noodles?" Satoru asked, niavely.
"No," Suguru wanted to snap at him. "It's the fact I can't eat without feeling sick. I can't taste anything except the fucking vomit of the curses. I hate it. I hate it. I'm always sick. I'm so hungry. But I can't eat."
Instead, he sighed. "Maybe."
The curse population was springing up like maggots. Everywhere and all consuming. The summer had been busy and Suguru truly was tired. In his heart, he started to blame the mess of last year for the increase of curses. It was easier to blame that than nothing. It was better to put a face to his suffering rather than blame himself.
The repetitiveness of his life was becoming crushing.
An endless cycle of exorcism and consumption.
Exorcise. Consume.
You had once asked him what curses tasted like. Under a beautiful tree and a beautiful night sky. You stared at him from your place on the ground. "Suguru, what does it taste like?"
"It's a taste nobody knows." He had explained. "Like ingesting a rag used to wipe up vomit."
Exorcise. Consume.
"Oh," You had uttered, a heavy frown on your lips as you pondered on it. "I'm sorry."
Exorcise. Consume.
He didn't need your pity then. But it had been nice. It felt nice for someone to pretend they understand the disgust, the bitter tang. He pretended that it helped.
"Thanks."
Then, you asked, "Would it help if you had mints?"
No. "Yes."
That first Christmas you all spent together, you got him mints. And, despite it doing nothing, he still popped one in his mouth every time. False hope that something could push down the disgust he had for his technique, for what he was considered special for. What lengths he went to save people.
For what?
Every since that day, the day you and Riko died, it's been running through Suguru's head. That everything he saw, Toji, your blood, your brains, the never-ending applause of the cult members— it was a hideous evil known to everyone. What he saw wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Still, knowing that, he protects them as a Jujutsu sorcerer.
"We can't lose our way." You had reassured one day when the curse you and him were fighting was particularly ruthless. It had killed so many people that the both of you hadn't been the same for weeks. "Don't lose your way. We just have to follow through with our duty as sorcerers."
The thunderous applause took over that of his heart.
"Monkeys." Suguru uttered in the shower. The first time he whispered it. His eyes unmoving from the wall as the water trickled down, down, and down.
Your eyes were blank.
"Do you hate them, Suguru?"
His hand clenched above him. "Fucking monkeys."
He snapped the water off and robotically dried himself off.
Suguru felt like he was merely living through the motions. That he was being guided other peoples words and the wind itself. He was merely a leaf being blown away. There wasn't anything he could do to stop it. Nothing he could do to ground himself and force himself to take the wheel. To be in control. He could only watch on.
He found himself hunched over on the bench near the vending machines. He barely acknowledged the rain that poured outside. It was one of those days. Those days where the weather matched his mood and made it considerably worse. Maybe he could get away with hiding inside his dorm. Being curled on the bed and not appearing until the rain was well gone— when Satoru couldn't ask him if he's ate.
He closed his eyes in defeat. How could loneliness possibly feel worse now than it did then? He'd been alone for years before. Why was it worse now?
"Hi! Mister Geto!"
Suguru's eyes snapped open and dragged upwards. "Haibara..."
You liked Haibara. You said so on his first day. When he enthusiastically introduced himself to everyone— gave his blood type and his family history. You had laughed for twenty minuets. You said that Haibara was like a breath of fresh air. He had no idea what he was getting into and he was happy. Suguru said you were looking into it too much. You didn't agree. Then you invited both him and Nanami to join you all on a trip to Shinjuku.
You liked Haibara. He was sweet.
You liked Haibara. So did Suguru.
"Hope all is well!" Haibara continued, seemingly ignorant to the war raging on in Suguru's mind.
You liked Haibara. You trained him. He was sweet.
So did Suguru. "What can I get you to drink?" Suguru asked, pulling some change from his pockets.
"I couldn't possibly—" Haibara's eyes glanced at the vending machine then his eyes brightened. "I'll take a coke!"
Suguru couldn't help the little laugh that broke through his lips. Amusement in his eyes for the first time in a while as he gently dropped the change into the junior's cupped palm. Haibara pratically skipped over to the vending machine, dropping the coins in, and retrieved his coke.
Fully expecting him to carry on with a thanks, Suguru was a little surprised that he sat down beside him and smiled big.
"My mission tomorrow is pretty far away." The boy started, wiggling with excitement.
Suguru smiled softly. "That so? I'll be expecting a souvenir then."
"You got it! Something sweet or savory?"
"Satoru will probably have some too, so maybe something sweet."
This was the normal. It felt refreshing for everything to be so normal. A silent agreement amongst the second and third years to get everyone who asked a souvenir from their respective mission areas. It made for interesting foods or items. Silly things that he could place on his shelf or for him to take a bite and Satoru to steal the rest. Usually complaining about how no one ever gets him anything. Just like Okinawa when you picked that hat—
Your eyes were empty.
Suguru's smile faded away.
"Haibara..." He spoke, not entirely aware if his junior was speaking before he was. But Haibara's eyes moved to him with curiosity. He bowed his head once again. "Are you okay with being a Jujutsu sorcerer? Doesn't it bother you?"
Immediately, the junior took the question seriously. His chin rested between his finger and thumb, eyes narrowed in thought. "Hm... good question..." He uttered, a vague pout on his lips. "I'm not really the type to think too hard about things..."
"I don't think we should underestimate Haibara or Nanami." You had defended the two new boys against Satoru's beratement one day. Your eyes cut to where they were practicing against Yaga's cursed dolls. "We all started somewhere. I'm sure they'll surprise us one day."
"Giving my all toward something I know I can help with is a great feeling!" Haibara finally answered, snapping his fingers and looking at Suguru head on.
Suguru couldn't help the way his eyes widened. For whatever reason, his answered shocked him. It was a pure answer. Further proof that Suguru was different from everyone else. Proved that he was slowly losing a part of himself. Haibara hadn't been graced with the same tragedy he had. He didn't know the cruelty of people and was still hopeful.
"I see..." Suguru uttered, looking away once again.
"You're right." Spoke another voice that neither of them know. Both of the boys looked over to the woman that stood a few feet from them. She was tall, long blonde hair and she wore a smile on her face. "Are you Geto? What kind of girls are you into?"
Your eyes were blank.
He only stared in return.
"I like girls with healthy appetites!" Haibara answered happily.
Suguru frowned. "Haibara."
"It's fine!" He turned to Surguru with a bright light in his eyes. "She's not a bad person. I'm a pretty good judge of character!"
Suguru felt something in his chest shift.
"Do you hate them, Suguru?"
"You say that while sitting next to me?" He uttered, sparing the junior a sidelong glance.
"Of course!" Haibara didn't hesitate.
The woman laughed, resting a hand on her hip. "He was being sarcastic, kid!"
No, I'm not. Suguru almost felt compelled to say. But he didn't have the energy. There wasn't any point in arguing with this stranger either. She didn't know him and he didn't know her. Something he would happily continue to stay true.
Embarrassed, Haibara excused himself with the woman quickly taking his spot. In an instant, Suguru drew back and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Is he your junior? Such an honest and cute kid."
Suguru couldn't help the distasteful glare he sent from the side. "As a jujutsu, he shouldn't be so trusting." He said bitterly.
The woman looked a little discouraged by his little jab, but continued on. "And you, Geto? Are you going to answer my question?"
"Answer mine first— who are you?"
The woman raised her chin, a small smirk on her lips. "Special grade sorcerer Yuki Tsukumo. Ring a bell?"
"You're the...?"
Yes. Yes, it did. Suguru thought bitterly.
He could distinctly recall you rambling on about Tsukumo. On how you wished you could be like her. Someone highly recognized and didn't care what the higher-ups said— just lived her life. To Suguru, it sounded like Tsukumo was kind of a failure. But to you, it was as if she was a symbol of something amazing. Proof that something that was suddenly attainable to you.
Suguru had been convinced you just had a crush on her.
"Nice! The what?"
Suguru clenched his jaw at her interruption of his thoughts. "The no-good special grade who doesn't take on any missions and just bums around overseas." He informed her flatly.
The woman's smile slipped away and she pouted heavily. "I hate Jujutsu High!" She fell back, her elbows rested on the back of the bench. She sulking. "Just kidding. But I'm not lying when I say we don't see eye-to-eye. What they do here is treat symptoms. What I want is to get at the root cause."
Suguru couldn't help perking up with interest. "The root cause?" He asked slowly.
"I don't want to exorcise curses after they appear. I want a world where curses don't even exist."
He stared at her in shock. A world without curses? He felt like he could almost rejoice. His heart gave a little skip and he almost felt like things were normal.
"How about a little lesson? Tell me, what are curses anyway?"
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Curses are created when cursed energy leaks from humans. It then gathers like sediment and takes form." He answered easily. It was something taught in their first year, something everyone knows.
"Excellent," Tsukumo encouraged, nodding. "If that's the case, there are two ways to create a world where curses no longer exist: one, eradicate cursed energy from all humanity. Two, teach humans how to control their cursed energy. The first one's not a bad idea. There was a model case for it after all."
"A model case?"
"Someone you're familiar with: Zen'in Toji."
Almost instantly, Suguru felt an anger rush over him. Toji. That was someone else that he tried to avoid thinking about. Usually, it only led to thoughts darker than when he thought about you. He thought about the various things he would've done to Fushiguro if given the chance. The slow and torturous death he would've given to him if he had the chance. He doubted it would eat away the hatred in his heart, but Suguru would take anything to have him suffer as you did. As he did.
"There have been several cases where heavenly restriction has reduced a person's cursed energy to normal levels. But to eradicate one's cursed energy completely... I've searched all over the world, and he's the only one who's ever done it. But that's not the only thing that's interesting about him. Despite not having cursed energy, Zen'in Toji was able to sense curses using his five sense. By eliminating all cursed energy, his body became sharpened to the point where he developed a resistance to curses."
A part of Suguru really wanted to tell Tsukumo that he didn't care. That monster died and he was glad to hear it. Even if he was the only way to get rid of curses, he was overjoyed that the man was dead now.
"Don't feel bad about losing him." Suguru scoffed, face blank. "I wanted to research him but he blew me off. It's too bad he died."
You smiled at Riko. You held her shoulders. You were going to take her home.
Your eyes were blank.
I killed Gojo Satoru.
"Cases of heavenly restriction are few and far between. So my focus is on two." Tsukumo seemed completely unaware of Suguru's mind raging on while she spoke. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Did you know, jujutsu sorcerers don't give birth to curses?"
That snapped Suguru out of his thoughts. He slowly dragged his eyes to stare at the side of the woman's head as she carried on.
"Of course, that's excluding cases where sorcerers become curses after death—" Do you hate them, Suguru? "—The amount of cursed energy that leaks from sorcerers, compared to from non-sorcerers, is extremely low. There is a difference in how much we consume and use cursed energy because of our profession. But the real reason lies in how it flows through us. For sorcerers, it flows heavily within us. If we're talking general terms— if every single human became a jujutsu sorcerer, no curse would ever be born again."
Suguru's world as he knew it, paused.
The thunderous applause returned. The cheers as Satoru carried Riko's body through the crowd.
The deafening thud of your body as you fell lifelessly to the ground. Riko's scream as your blood painted half of her face. The way his heart echoed against his head as he stared.
You eyes were blank.
Those people. Humans. Non-sorcerers. They created the world that killed you. They created a world where he was alone.
Do you hate them, Suguru?
"Then why not just kill every non-sorcerer?" He asked softly, not daring to lift his head or eyes from between his feet.
There was a silence between the two of them that made him tense up. He said something wrong. But why didn't it feel wrong? Why didn't the suggestion disgust him or make him sweat? Why did it feel like an idea that was meant to be said?
"Geto," Tsukumo finally spoke, voice slow and calculated. "That is an option."
What?
"In fact, that might be the easiest route!"
Suguru slowly lifted his eyes from the floor and stared at the woman next to him with wide eyes. Now, he felt it. He felt the sweat on his brow. It's an option. "What?" He uttered, tilting his head to try and meet her eye as she stared into the distance. "Um..."
"Weed out non-sorcerers and make them adapt to a jujutsu sorcerer based society. In other words, forced evolution. Kinda like how birds grew wings. Using dear and danger as a catalyst."
It's an option. Suguru couldn't shake his stare. He was holding his breath and just staring at her.
"But," There it is. "I aint' that crazy."
She looked amused, but she didn't know him. She didn't know his feelings and the fact that he hated—
"Do you hate non-sorcerers, Geto?" She asked it sincerely.
Do you hate them, Suguru?
His eyes went back the floor, ashamed. "I don't know." He started with a whisper. "I used to think jujutsu sorcerers existed to protect non-sorcerers. But recently, I've been doubting whether non-sorcerers are worth fighting for. The preciousness of the weak. The ugliness of the weak. I can no longer tell the difference. The part of me that looks down on non-sorcerers.... the part of me that tries to resist that feeling...."
The thunderous applause returned. The cheers as Satoru carried Riko's body through the crowd.
The deafening thud of your body as you fell lifelessly to the ground. Riko's scream as your blood painted half of her face. The way his heart echoed against his head as he stared.
You eyes were blank.
"If being a jujutsu sorcerer is like running a marathon, then the finish line is too unclear." Suguru placed a hand against his forehead, hairs tangled between his fingers. "I don't know what I really feel."
"It's understandable, you know?" Suguru glanced at her with a frown as she eyed him contemplatively. "You watched your friend die, right? It's never easy. Messes you up. I'm sure I don't have to tell you."
You don't.
"Death and mourning something can really conjuring some nasty things in your mind. Like killing non-sorcerers— you want to take that anger out on someone. The anger for your friend's life being taken away." She explained it like it was so easy, as if she knew his next steps when he did not. "But looking down on non-sorcerers... resisting that feeling... those are just possibilities you've thought of. Whatever your true feeling is, you still have to decide."
The conversation didn't lead to anywhere else and Suguru was feeling himself grow more tired the more he stayed away from his dorm. He was about to excuse himself when Tsukumo asked for him to follow her out. She didn't say much on the way out and Suguru was grateful for it.
The woman got on her bike and waved at him. "I'll see ya! I was hoping to say hi to Gojo as well. Bad timing, I guess." She slid her goggles on. "As fellow special grade sorcerers, let's all three of us get along, okay?"
Suguru gave her his best smile, which wasn't much. "I'll send you regards to Gojo."
Tsukumo smiled, starting up her bike. She was about to ride off when she looked back at him. "One last thing. Don't worry about what happened with the Star Plasma Vessel. Whether there was another vessel or another vessel was born— whatever happened, Tengen is stabilized."
He didn't think it possible, but his hatred grew. Tengen is stabilized.
The thunderous applause returned. The cheers as Satoru carried Riko's body through the crowd.
The deafening thud of your body as you fell lifelessly to the ground. Riko's scream as your blood painted half of her face. The way his heart echoed against his head as he stared.
You eyes were blank.
Tengen is stabilized.
Suguru bowed his head as she drove off. "I figured."
What the fuck had you died for, anyway?
Haibara was dead and he'd seen the body. The entire time Suguru thought of you.
As Nanami attempted to hold back tears, as he explained that they were caught off guard by a special grade, Suguru saw you in Haibara's place.
Both of you victims of a system created to protect people who weren't grateful. Who didn't even know you exist. People who had spared both of you not a single glance despite being so caring, so selfless. Who were they to put this unbearable burden on everyone's shoulders then act like you were different?
Haibara was sweet. You liked him. So did Suguru.
Haibara was dead. So were you. Suguru felt hatred build in him.
As he stared at Haibara's bloodied face, he had thought one thing: who would suffer for this death?
Gojo completed the mission. Gojo exorcised the curse. Gojo. Gojo. Gojo. Gojo.
Gojo.
Why should Gojo be the one wrecking havoc? When it was Suguru that was filled with rage? When he was the one that wanted nothing more than to harm the ones that caused this all?
Do you hate them, Suguru?
"What is this?" Suguru asked slowly, staring at the sight before him.
Two girls seemingly coward away from him. Their faces bloodied and bruised. The cage that contained them offered no comfort. Just the cold hard ground and the darkness. They shook under his gaze and he couldn't find it in himself to look away. He couldn't turn around and question the people behind him. He did not know what he'd do if he looked them in the eyes as they explained themselves.
"What do you mean? These two are responsible for the incident, right?" Asked one man.
Suguru clenched his jaw. "No, they are not."
"These two possess strange powers and often attack the villagers."
This was of your own creation.
"I already dealt with the cause for the incident."
"My grandchild nearly died because of these two!" Protested the elderly woman as if she realized that Suguru wasn't going to believe these two were responsible.
The blonde child leaned forward. "That was because they—"
"Shut up you monsters!"
"Your parents were the same! I knew we should've killed you when you were born!"
As the two adults berated the children, Suguru came to a decision. His heart was no longer torn in two. As he stared at the girl's, his resolution was made.
He lifted his finger and a shadowed curse sprouted. "It-It'll be okay..." The girls stared at him with wide eyes, almost relieved. If he were a different man. If he in a different mindset then, he would've cried over the relief that washed over them. "Do...Don't worry... it'll be o-okay."
He ignored how familiar the voice was, how familiar the words were. He'd grown used to finding something that wasn't there in the curses he had collected. The fact that the ones he barely manifested were the ones that sounded like you the most.
Suguru turned around to the villagers and smiled. One that he hadn't managed to conjure up in some time.
"Let's step outside for a moment, shall we?"
The two followed him out and Suguru wasn't sure what words he said, what movement he made, but he could see the horror in their eyes. As he manifested his beloved curses, the one people like them had created, he felt an anger bubble up. Emotions that he had desperately pushed aside in an attempt to continue his life were now running their way to the forefront of his mind.
The grief of losing you. The anger of the complete disregard of you life by the society as a whole. The fact that there was nothing left of you now. Nothing—
"Suguru, do you hate them?"
His body stiffened. His wide eyes dragged from the horrified, begging people before him, to over his shoulder. The shadow that loomed over him now.
He'd read about this before. It was some obscure book he found while researching previous curse manipulators. It talked about various things that he used to prove to Yaga that he was learning something. One section had piqued his interest, but it was never information that he'd use in random day-to-day. Vengeful spirits. Usually, this only happened after sorcerers die without jujutsu being used against them. Their very soul and spirit is corrupted and transformed into something horrible. Something darker than who they truly were in life.
As Suguru stared at the spirit before him now, he knew what he had inadvertently done to you. The way your large body curled around him, wisps of what should be hair floating above you, your body clad in an open and flowing kimono. What caught his eyes the most, were your own eyes. Despite being almost invisible, he was relived. They were not blank. Instead, they looked like they burned with the rage he had held back for years.
It was as if you were the extension of his very soul.
"It should be noted that if you find yourself attached to a vengeful spirit: You must establish a clear master/servant bond. As the spirit is attached to your own soul, they musn't be allowed to overcome you. If exorcism is not an option, then create a clear set of rules. Summon them only when necessary. Vengeful spirits are not to be taken lightly."
"Suguru, do you hate them?" Your eyes did not leave his.
This time, he didn't hesitate nor lie. "Yes."
He heard them whimper in fear.
You moved unnaturally, but he didn't care. "Do you want them to die, Suguru?"
His eyes narrowed. "Yes."
Your hand rested on his shoulder and he didnt even care if your talon like nails dug into his flesh. He watched, awestruck, as you turned your feral gaze onto the cowering villagers. "Can I hurt them for you, Suguru?"
Despite your state, despite what it meant for him, he couldn't help but feel the warmth blossom through his chest. He basked in the feeling of your brushed against his shoulder.
"Yes."
An unnatural smile creeped over your face and your shot forward, now clutching your katana.
All Suguru could think was: you're back.
"Suguru....what have you done?"
Geto adjusted his gojogesa with a emotionless mask over his face. The bags that had adorned his eyes for the past year were mostly gone. He was finally able to eat. His mind wasn't constantly ringing with that thunderous applause or the thud of your body. Instead, he was free. There was silence.
Except whenever you spoke.
"Where did you get that energy? Suguru, answer me!"
He had seen Gojo a week ago. He had said his goodbyes, vaguely masked as threat. Geto knew what they were now. Enemies by default. He knew it couldn't be long before the higher-ups found out about the village— known exactly what he'd become that night. He was a curse user.
God, was that a great feeling.
Geto was giddy that night. He couldn't help the giddiness he felt with his freedom. The happiness he felt as he held Nanako and Mimiko in his arms, trekking through the woods to the main street where he dragged them to his parent's house. That whole situation had been something in itself. Their anger, their confusion, the heartbreak for not understanding their son anymore.
Geto had simply taken what he needed for the twins, then left you to take care of his parents.
"You feel it, don't you, Gojo? You see them."
There was an assortment of things that Geto found himself doing after he defected. He suddenly found himself in the place of taking care of two twin girls that clung to his clothes and followed his every word like he was the Buddha guiding them towards enlightenment. There big eyes screamed the thank you's that he did not need or would accept. Still, he could tell that they were trying to prove that they were useful to him. Whatever that meant coming from a pair of 6 year olds.
The second thing he'd started was taking over the Star Plasma Religious Group. Although he heard they had disbanded a year prior, it appeared that they were just absorbed by another money hungry fool scamming them for every last cent they had. Not that he was about to go bad mouthing other people's methods for something he was about to do himself. It was surprisingly easy to take over a religious group when you had a vengeful spirit hanging off of you. The men, although easy to get on his side, he still killed. There was no point to their existence now. Not when he had his own plans outside from worshipping the likes of Tengen.
The last thing he was taking care of was you.
"....What did you do?"
"Nothing. I did nothing. They're was always with me."
Geto's adventure back into the books covering vengeful spirits was actually welcomed this time around. As a younger student, he hadn't really cared to think about what would happen to him if he happened to die in a terribly normal way. But now it was something he regarded with the utmost fascination. The different descriptions of vengeful spirits made him ponder exactly what you were.
Violent and seeking revenge. Sad and lost. Unaware they're dead and seeking guidance. Plague that spreads death, leeching off certain hosts. Clingy, they seek approval from the attached for their actions. These spirits had a connection with the host in their life and feel something unfinished in their death.
He could remember the look in Gojo's eyes as his eyes strained to look over Geto's shoulder. The fear and the realization that washed over him. The anger in his eyes as he seemed to grieve over not only Suguru, but you as well. The waver in his voice as he asked Geto what he had done. It almost made Geto feel bad.
Almost.
Gojo had his life laid out for himself. The higher-ups knew what they could do with him. He was practically bred and born for his role amongst everything. He'd live and die the jujutsu society. Something that always unsettled Suguru, but something Geto accepted. He came second. Last compared to jujutsu.
At least he had you. It was you and him first. Then Gojo. He could make this work again. He wouldn't let anything happen to you again.
Geto shifted his attention elsewhere as he flattened his robes.
God, he really did look the part now, didn't he? Except, maybe, the hair. But he wasn't doing anything about it.
"This place is still a religious group to the public, are you okay with that?" Asked one of the nameless faces that Geto would encounter in his life.
He over looked the stage before him with a flat expression. "As long as I can collect curses and money, that's all right." He reassured.
The man frowned, looking at Geto with some vague confusion. "Are you really going out there like that?"
He let a grin spread across his lips. "Why not? Bluffing and looking the part is important."
"Master Geto..."
He spared the twins a soft glance, a reassuring smile gracing his features. He reached down and ruffled their hair gently. "Be sure to watch closely." He whispered to them, watching with a warmth in his heart as they smiled and giggled at one another. "Have they gathered?"
"Directors, representatives. The chairman. And a lot more money waiting."
Geto grinned, taking the microphone from the man, and making his way out onto the stage.
The last time he'd been in the building they were giving a thunderous applause for Riko's death and, by extension, yours. He had been waiting a year to see them all again. To look them in the eyes and find a proper way to make them suffer. To make them feel the same fear or suffering that you and Riko had in your last moments.
"Can everyone hear me? Thank you for waiting, I'll keep this short." He announced as he came to a stop before them all. Nameless faces, judgmental side eyes, questionable whispers to one another. They did not remember Suguru. But he would make sure they remembered Geto. "As of this moment, this group is mine. We'll have a new name as well. You all will obey me."
Instantly, there was a scattered rise of opposition in the crowd.
Geto's grin faltered as he listened to the various questions of exactly who was he made their way to him. He could hear the anger and the confusion. His frustration heightened.
"Well, isn't that a shame." He dragged a hand over his face, eyes grazing the crowd before he grinned one more. He tried to look as inviting as he could, waving a hand at one man in particular. "Mister Sonoda! Could you please come up to the stage? Yes, that's right, you!"
As the older man stood from his seat and hobbled his way up, Geto narrowed his eyes. Despite his smile, his eyes couldn't hide the contempt and the hatred he had for the man before him. He could see that he noticed in the way he faltered on the steps. But pushed through and stood by Geto's eyes.
He made eye contact with Sonoda, then— "Y/N."
He found it easy to summon you. To watch you tear away at the man who had so brazenly ordered Riko's death. To listen to the garbled expressions of hatred you exclaimed as you tore his enemies limb-by-limb. It felt like it was some form a justice. To finally see the horror in their eyes, the blankness of it all. Bittersweet for him to watch.
However, he couldn't stand there and watch you in awe forever. He had people to take under his control.
Geto turned his attention back to the crowd. Satisfaction grew in his chest as he saw the horror and shock fall over their faces. Easily, Geto threw the microphone away.
"Now then, let's try this again." He scowled at the crowd, feeling you loom over his shoulder once again. He used his thumb to brush away some of the blood. "Obey me, monkeys."
III. 2015
"Are you mad at me, Suguru?"
Things had been going smoothly for Geto in the past eight years.
The cult, because that's what he considered it, was running finely. Those who owed money, gave it to him, or else. Those who followed, followed with loyalty, or else. Those who served no purpose, were dealt with. He had created a normal amongst the congregation. A standard that he himself had wanted to watch them scramble to keep. A constant state of panic or devotion for them that fed into his, honestly, growing ego.
Things like his family kept him rather humble.
The girls had grown accustomed to their lives with Geto. They seemed to thrive and love under his care. All of them had grown to a routine that they cherished with one another. They even seemed accustomed to you. The fear and confusion of others wasn't found in their eyes or hearts. Geto never properly explained what happened after death if certain things didn't take place, but they understood anyone. They knew you were important to him— by extension making you important to them.
The other members of the family— Laure, Miguel, Manami, Toshihisa— had a vague understanding of exactly what a vengeful spirit entailed. Although, they weren't jumping at the opportunity to really talk about it. Laure had attempted once, but the conversation died out quickly due to the look on Geto's face. The man was quick to drop the topic once he saw the expression painting the leader's face. Allegedly, he looked ready to kill.
Earlier that day, though, Miguel was braver. And Geto was in a far clearer mood.
"How did it happen?" The man's deep voice asked gently from where he sat across from Geto. Once the confusion set in of his sudden question, he raised an eyebrow at the apparent shadow rested behind his chair. "How did they get cursed?"
Geto himself had thought about it for years. He wondered what point you had been damned blessed to be attached to his soul even after death. It took him a long time. In the mix of things, death and decay, the sharp turn of his ideals— he had barely any time to really think about what made you this spirit clinging onto his life.
Some books said that it could be the connection shared by the host and spirit before death. Others said that hosts had the ability to curse the spirit themselves. That their desperation and their inability to let go was the true reason that sorcerers would live on as something horrible. Something completely opposite as to who they were in life.
He had pushed the thoughts away before they could ever really come to fruition. The possibility that he had been the one to create you into this. The thought alone was enough to twist his stomach. So instead he ignored it. He lived in blissful ignorance.
"Just happens sometimes after death." Geto answered flatly, turning his attention back to his book. He knew there was curiosity amongst his family to know things about you. Afterall, you were considered a part of the family, but there was simply no room to have conversation with you. You either grew hostile or confused and sought Geto out for answers. "Sorcerers whenever they're killed by a non-curse way or something another.
"Hm," Miguel's hum had remained unconvinced as his eyes trailed back to you. As your fingers hovered over the corner of the seat, but you didn't peek out. "There was a couple in my village back home. They were considered the ideal relationship at the time— I was a kid and thought so too. They were kind people. I always enjoyed getting special treatment from the wife, she was like a mother. She was one of the only other people I ever met in my home country that could see curses. Everything was good. But then her husband went and died from sickness. There was something different from the moment she died. She went a little crazy and one day she went and got real angry. Then— boom, there's her husband. But he was different. He was like yours."
Geto hadn't really known what to make of that rather non-sensical story at the time. He had just stared at Miguel before nodding slowly in return. "That's tragic." He wasn't interested in the possibilities.
"Nanako told me it was hard on you when they died." Miguel carried on as if he hadn't very visibly paused for Geto to speak his heart out. "Said that you said it was the reason you're the way you are now."
There was moments where Geto felt frustration with the twins. Their willingness to be so open with the family. Their ability to talk about their emotions so easily. The fact that they couldn't keep a secret for their lives.
The conversation about you had come up when the house was particularly restless and they were morbidly curious. They asked what you were like alive. What he was like as a kid. What the both of you were like in high school. How did you die.
He had looked off distantly and recalled the details— although he left out the gorey, unlikeable parts. He left in the parts where he was sad, that he had a hard time. He explained it in a way that kids like them could understand and use later to make sure they didn't end up the same way. Isolated and full of hatred.
Then, he made the mistake of mentioning Gojo. Their questions fell on deaf ears as he wished them goodnight and tried to drown out the memories of his youth.
"Don't get on her case about it. She's was just curious what certain things meant." Miguel must've taken his silence as anger because he stared at Geto with pleasantly narrowed eyes. "Have you ever considered exactly what happened to them?"
The question wasn't hostile or had any nefarious undertones.
He might as well had threatened Geto though.
Your eyes were blank.
"Please get up."
Geto had quickly excused himself, claiming that he needed to head to bed. He didn't miss the disappointment in Miguel's eyes or the fact that he had tensed up as you drew closer. He didn't want to think about it. What had taken place before, during, and after your death. He didn't need the questions—
"Please get up."
Tonight he couldn't escape it.
Eight years worth of questions and mystery filled his mind. The things he didn't dare address or ponder upon.
Sitting against his headboard, staring blankly into the darkness, he knew exactly how things ended up like this.
Him, a pathetic boy, staring into your lifeless eyes— he had begged for you to be alive. He had laid there with tears in his eyes, a pain in his chest, and a wavering plead breaking from his lips. Before he had fallen unconscious, he reached out his hand.
He reached out his hand.
Your eyes were blank.
Geto knew that he had cursed you. That his pleads and desperately attempt at touching you one last time had somehow damned you. He didn't need to know how it worked. He just knew that it was his fault.
The disgust in Gojo's eyes, the heartbreak, the shock. It was all things Geto deserved. For he had robbed you of the eternal rest you deserved.
The tears collected in his eyes and, for the first time in eight years, he felt a heavy bought of regret press against his chest.
He's known you longer dead than you were alive. Two years of his life had ruled onto the next eight. He had let his grief blind him. He was desperate to not let you go. To keep up some illusion in his head that he would be able to keep you there. To not let you fade away.
Selfish. He'd never been selfish before your death.
"Suguru?"
Your voice, distorted and garbled, was not something that he wanted to hear in that moment. Whatever reason, you were beside the bed now, head rested against your arms. He barely spared you a glance as the tears spilled over.
Selfish. Here you were now. Some weird sense in you to come out and comfort him. He had done this to you. An eternity to comfort him.
Selfish.
"Suguru, are you angry?" You sounded concerned, an odd sound that it didn't seem to fit you now.
Geto clenched his jaw, flexing his fingers. "Only at myself." He uttered.
You inched forward on the bed, a heavy frown spread across your face. "Why are you angry at yourself?"
He finally dragged his eyes to you, lids heavy and face almost as lifeless as your own. "I cursed you." He said it quietly but it felt extremely loud in his empty room. He looked for any realization in your eyes, any type of anger directed at him, but there was nothing. You just stared in return. You should be enraged. "I cursed you. Don't you understand what that means?"
Still, you didn't look angry.
"You saved me—"
"No, no, I didn't." Geto interrupted, closing his eyes in mild irritation. "I didn't... save you. I cursed you. I-I cursed you to stay by my side as I kill. As I kill in your name, you should be angry, Y/N."
“But… they’ve hurt you.” You say it with such confusion and sincerity that it makes him sick.
It’s then that he realizes what this all meant.
If you were alive now, you would look at him with all the rage in the world. You would damn him. You would be disgusted. If you were alive you would probably try to get him to see it all differently. You would tell him that staying with Gojo would’ve been better than this isolation, than this constant feeling in his chest. You would’ve known better than him.
It was then that he realized that he still blamed you for a lot. He wasn’t sure if things would be the same if just Riko died. Or maybe if you all had lived. Would he still be drawn to the same fate only later? Sometimes he was hopeful that he would be the same. Other times he wished he didn’t. All of it led to one thing: his anger for you.
There were some nights he would stay up and think about what you would do in his position. You would forgive them, try to use death as a chance to grow. You were much kinder than him. Or maybe you would be driven insane. None of you had quite tasted death until that mission. You probably would’ve handled things much differently than him if you had seen where Haibara ended up.
Bitterly, Geto thought, you probably would’ve given up.
Your sadness was always prone to taking you down. To whisper those forbidden and nasty things to you until you just wanted to bleed. You admitted to him and Gojo once that you didn’t even think you would make it to high school once. It scared them both, but you always got back up.
Yeah, you wouldn’t handle the sadness.
With a clenched jaw, Geto reached out and held your face. “I made you into this. You only kill and feel that way because that’s how I feel. Doesn’t that make you angry? Don’t you hate me?” He so desperately wanted you to see it from his point of view. He wanted the logic of it all to hit your brain and for you to finally finish what Toji and Gojo couldn’t— properly kill him.
However, just as you were in life, you would never take his life.
“I don’t care about those things.” You uttered in that distorted voice, those eyes of yours filled with emotions that he couldn’t hand pick. “Have I done something to upset you, Suguru?”
"No." Geto answered without hesitation. He pinched his eyes closed and took a deep breath. "I just want you to understand what this is."
He could feel your nail ghost over his thigh. "I understand."
Geto didn't believe you did, but he didn't have the energy to fight you. Not anymore. A part of him would always long to have a good long argument with you. But now it felt different. It felt as if it were all fabricated.
You were too agreeable now.
Please don't die. Please don't leave me.
But he supposed this was his punishment now. For being so desperate.
He rested his hand on top of your head. "Thanks for listening, I guess."
He can deal with the guilt later.
IV. 2017
Geto Suguru knew this would happen.
At least, a part of him was aware that death with a very high likely once he looked Gojo Satoru in the eye and declared war. Maybe even before that as he overlooked the mess of blood and limbs Rika had left behind at the elementary.
Either way, Geto Suguru knew this would happen.
"Hey," You had spoke one day as the three of them lounge in the courtyard. You had your uniform jacket open and your hair loose from the headband you wore to keep it out of your face. A good memory if it weren't for your next question. "Is it good to live a dishonorable life and have a honorable death, or a honorable life with a dishonorable death?"
"Huh? Why would you ask that now?" Satoru had pouted.
You had shrugged. "I mean, Yaga-sensei says that to be a sorcerer we'll have to live with our regrets, but he never talks about honor."
Satoru, in true fashion, rolled his eyes at you before taking a large bite out of his sandwich. "Because it's a bunch of self righteous mumbo-jumbo." He had said through a mouth full.
"Whatever." Your eyes dragged to Suguru. Your face had blossomed into a soft smile. "What do you think, Suguru?"
Suguru had frowned, biting on his lower lip as he thought. "I think what we all consider honorable varies. At the end of the day, you'll have to look back on your life yourself and decide whether you lived it worth wild." As you and Satoru stared at him with raised eyebrows, he shyly shrugged. "Don't worry about how honorable or dishonorable you'll be to others— just live a life that'll make you happy."
While you stared at him with someone akin to awe, Satoru stared blankly at him before bowing. "Truly inspirational, Suguru-sama, please invoke more of your wisdom on us!"
You had defended Suguru fervently as Satoru crowed against your assault. Then, he had been unwavering in his beliefs.
Now, Geto Suguru, stumbling down the ally with a missing arm, knew that all was bullshit.
There was nothing honorable or dishonorable about death. It was all a matter how people viewed you at the time. No one would be truly satisfied with their death because there would be a long list of things they wished they had done or hadn't done in their life.
As Yaga had said, they would all die with regrets.
His plans to obtain Rika had been rooted from a place of pure selfishness. His need to find alternative needs that didn't include using you in the most indescribable and unforgiveable way. He knew, deep down, that if he had used you the way that he planed to use Rika's powers— he would never forgive himself.
He hadn't even wanted to use you against Okkotsu Yuta. But that kid was something else. Most definitely a protege of Gojo Satoru. He could recall the caught off guard look on Okkotsu's face once you appeared. The confusion and the shock that overtook him as you wrapped yourself around Geto Suguru. He had uttered something that made the man falter.
"You're like me?"
There were so many things something that could mean.
You're like me: you're cursed with a love by your side, permanently protecting you against things that you didn't think were dangerous.
You're like me: someone had died so close to you that couldn't quite detach themselves from your soul.
You're like me: you cursed another because you couldn't accept that death was final?
Yes, Geto Suguru bitterly thought as his drive to kill Okkotsu grew. I did.
Now, Geto Suguru couldn't even feel you brewing with his soul. He didn't even think there'd be a difference if you ever left him. But there was this odd sense of loneliness deep within him that made him sick (definitely had nothing to do with the intense blood loss). His stomach churned as his mind silently cried out for you.
Was this true death? Nothing left to hold onto, just the memories and emptiness?
You're like me: you can't live without them.
Geto Suguru fell against the wall of the alley with a bitter scoff. Of course he couldn't. No matter how much he tried to convince himself, he spent the last 10 years attach his very life and soul around you. Tried to act like a big boy whenever he was asked what he would do if he was freed from this curse.
He didn't even get to say goodbye.
Your eyes were blank.
"You finally made it," Geto Suguru snorted as he shifted his eyes over to the looming figure feet from him. "Satoru."
There was something so jarring seeing him now.
Compared to when he arrived a month prior, Gojo Satoru lacked those bandages around his eyes. Those blinding and once comforting pair of sky blues were staring into his very soul blankly. Did he realize that he wasn't coming to say goodbye to you? To free you from a monster like Geto Suguru? That he had actually used you in a last ditch effort to obtain Rika?
He was sure he was aware now.
"You'll be the one to take me down, huh?" He kept a hold on his shoulder as he dragged his eyes away from Gojo Satoru to avoid the unbearable guilt that overcame him. Years of regret and what if's overtaking his mind. "How's my family?"
As long as Nanako and Mimiko were safe, he could die without regret.
"They all got away. Kyoto was your doing too, wasn't it?" Gojo Satoru's voice was as telling as it was 10 years ago. As saddened and angered as the day he had walked away from it all.
"Yeah, unlike you, I'm a kind person. You sent those two here knowing I'd defeat them.... just so you could trigger Okkotsu's growth." He had been thinking about it since the moment Okkotsu's eyes had darkened. The unbearable grief that took over the boy as he eyed his unmoving and bloody friends.
Your eyes were blank.
"It's called trust. People with beliefs like yours wouldn't kill a young sorcerer without reason."
Geto Suguru laughed. "Trust, huh?" He couldn't help the amusement flow through him. After all these years... "I didn't realize you still felt any connection with me."
His counterpart responded with a scoff. "Suguru." It was said with the weight of a thousand lonely days— as if Satoru had thought the same. As if nothing had changed. The man clenched his jaw, ducking his eyes from view as he spoke once again: "Any last words?"
Geto Suguru drew in a heavy breath, things were really getting hazy now— almost feather light. "No matter what, I'll always hate those monkeys." His words were said with the disdain and hatred of the past ten years. Then he thought about where he was 10 years ago. The grief and the isolation that overtook him. He grew quiet. "But it's not like I hate everyone at Jujutsu High. It's just that in this world... I couldn't wear a heartfelt smile."
Satoru stood there in silence. Seeming to take in the words carefully.
"Anything else?" He uttered.
Suguru frowned, ducking his head. There was one thing he had been thinking about for the past two years that grappled him in the most unnerving ways. "Do you think they'll forgive me?" His question was soft and barely there— he was barely there himself anyway.
Satoru scoffed, except it sounded more fond than before. "They were always too forgiving of us. If you're worried about your purgatory being apologizing to them for eternity, then you're fine— it'd be too easy anyway." He joked softly, except his blank expression didn't quite add to the comfort or joke of it all.
I'd spend the rest of time apologizing. Suguru fought the urge to say.
"I figured."
"Suguru," Satoru took attentive steps forward, crouching down to his level. Their eyes met and there was something almost tangiable in that gaze of his. "I love you. I forgive you."
Suguru couldn't help the shock that flushed over his body. As the pain seemed to leave him completely, he used the last bits of his strength to show Satoru a true smile. The only one he could really conjure.
"You could at least curse me at the end."
As Satoru stared at him, as Yuta Okkotsu celebrated with his friends the victory and their safety, and as Suguru took his last breaths, his eyes trailed over Satoru's shoulder.
You stared back with a kind smile. Looking more alive than you had in the past ten years, you wore the clothes you had the day you died, your normal boring uniform. Suguru hated to admit he missed seeing those terrible uniforms.
wc: 4.6k
cw: minor swearing, he refers to u as 'momma' once (its normal i promise) n i think thats about it
post suguru defection, shoko typical smoking ; no established relationship b ur def more than friends
i didnt want this angst to be too intense so i made it super duper fluffy. hopes it tastes like strawberries to u cs it does in my head ; another one of those fics i whipped up to meet the weekend deadline b i’m actually proud of this one
not proofread!
satoru hates arguing with you.
it bites at him; twists his heart from the inside out in such a gut-wrenching way that he can hardly stand seeing your nose wrinkle in frustration and your eyes narrow with impatience, let alone hear the words coming out of your mouth, dripping with venom and irritation directed at him. he's never been used to being on the receiving end.
it tastes sour; bitter on his tongue in a way he's never been accustomed to. his tastebuds only recognize the sweet taste of fruit syrup, powdered sugar, or warm chocolate as home; he never indulges in the bitter, like the black coffee the kid he took in seems to like so much. but he'll take the silly sour lemon drops with sweet cream in the center, only because they remind him of you. you, so sweet when you love but sour when you're annoyed, which happens to be now, in this instant.
of course, he'll tell himself he doesn't mind. that sweet and sour have always gone nicely together. like strawberry lemonade on hot summer afternoons when the both of you have had enough of being stuffed into a clammy hot classroom with your musclebrain teacher. sometimes its the three of you, maybe even the four of you if you get lucky with the pixie stick trade offering (a healthier alternative to a cigarette, you both agreed on). but nowadays, it was only ever the two of you. the bitter had chosen his own path, and tangy was locked up in the infirmary sun up to sun down.
but right now, you're upset with him. and he absolutely despises it— to him, it's abhorrent. a strong word, but it's only fitting. but he can't help it when your conversation lingers in his mind, spinning itself a web of self-doubt and hurt and anger as he slips his gym shoes off and redresses himself by the school lockers, running a hand through his hair with a forced, annoyed exhale.
it was nothing big, really. or at least, that's what he thinks. you'd been in the gym after school, watching as he messed around with the basketball, seeing how long he could go dribbling by himself with a bump of his knee there, pushing it to the floor with his hand and watching it bounce back up with mild interest. he had no one to play with, but at least the ball would come back up no matter how much he pushed it down.
it was small. barely worth fussing over.
he had already been irritated. it was hot out, because summer was coming around. sweat beaded on his neck and rolled down his chest, seeping into his shirt as he wiped his forehead and made another shoot at the hoop, landing back on his feet with a soft thud as the basketball rattled around the rusted metal ring and fell through the net for the nth time that afternoon.
a hum of approval comes from your throat, followed by a loud whistle of contentment from him as he watches the ball bounce on the floor. he hikes his sunglasses up his forehead, bringing an arm up and wiping away the sweat on his cheek with his sleeve as he turns to look at you.
"that was pretty good, yeah? i think i deserve a celebratory smooch. lay some sugar on me, momma'." he laughs, loud and arrogant. you just give him a pointed look at that, but he ignores it as a sign for something wrong and only acknowledges it as your dramatic endearment. like speeding up at the sight of a yellow light in hopes that you'll make it instead of slowing down at the warning.
his shoes made squeaking sounds on the gym floor as he made his way over to you, swiping his shades off his face and sliding them onto your forehead, nestling in your hair as he grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the sweat from his jaw. you have his uniform jacket on your lap, the yellow button glinting in the dying sunlight filtering in through the windows, reflecting off indiscernible flecks of dust in the air.
you had watched him with quiet contentment, observing the languid way he moved, graceful like a dancer moving in water. but then, you seemed to remember something; his lips pressed into a thin line, tilted to one side in anticipation. it made you hesitate— he always knew when you were about to speak before you even opened your mouth. he had come to notice, and appreciate, little things about you like that.
"were you smoking with shoko?" you had asked him. he tilted his head, eyebrow cocked up as he made a face. "no, i wasn't. why d'ya ask?" he huffed, watching from the corner of his eye with mild disinterest as the basketball, still rolling from his previous goal, bumped into the wall. cocky as ever.
(he wouldn't even look you in the eye when you were being dead serious.)
you reach a hand into his jacket, fishing around for something in his pocket; that gets his attention. who knows what trinkets and candy wrappers he has in there? and he'd hate for you to send him to his yearly checkup early again; the nurses always try to coddle him, and he has half a mind to charge for battery. nevertheless, he almost mistakes what you pull out for a lollipop stick. but it's not— it's a cigarette; a white papery hit of cancer with a dead cherry. certainly not a wise idea to keep that in his pocket among the other very flammable wax wrappers and the occasional flower petal, but who were you to judge? you, who's lips pucker like they've just tasted lemon juice when he eyes the unlit cigarette, utterly unamused.
he knows that you know it's his; the subtle glistening of pink around the end points to the gloss on his lips; he can practically taste it on his tongue. he wonders if you'd put the cigarette to your mouth too if you could have a sample of his lipgloss; then again, you could always just ask for a lip-to-lip taste, and he'd indulge you without a second thought.
you twist the cigarette butt between your fingers so that he can see the remnants of faint strawberry pink on the edges. he just rolls his eyes with a loud huff, leaning his weight back on his heels and shoving his hands in his pant pockets.
"yeesh. you're such a goody two shoes, y'know? how come shoko's allowed to smoke 'n i'm not?" he drawls, an arrogant lilt to his voice as he sticks his lower lip out. you can see a matte spot where the gloss had been transferred to the cigarette paper. you just sigh exasperatedly (he feels like a kid when you do that) and lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. his jacket bunches up in your lap.
you tap the cigarette to his chest a few times; it makes a soft thumping sound against the fabric, and for a moment he's grateful of the noise; it sounds just like the way his heartbeat picks up with each touch, but you don't hear it. he wonders if you ever will. maybe one day, when there isn't so much distance between you and he has the opportunity to tuck your head to his chest, right over his heart.
"it's not that i care about the lung damage, idiot. why were you smoking?" you asked, voice softening. and he absolutely hates when you do that, because it always pulls on his heartstrings and brings a flush to his face, the way you treat him. he thought that if you did it enough, he'd be sent to the doctor for heart palpitations instead of a sweet tooth.
he doesn't answer you at that. how could he tell you, when he knew all that'd result from it was a thorn in his side? you, being the rose. so beautiful but awfully prickly and unfairly sour like a lemondrop with a sweet inside. then again, he'd much rather have your interrogating care than lose you, like what had happened with the reason he was trying out smoking in the first place.
then, it happened— your voice went unbearably soft, like puffy white covers and featherlight pillows with silk covers on a saturday morning, looking out the window to see pink tulips against a cloudy blue sky as the sun streamed in. it almost made him want to clutch your hand over his chest and see if you could feel the way he was reacting. no doubt, it was filled with such patient tenderness; all-encompassing sweetness it made him want to cry. so he coughed to cover it up, averting his gaze and bringing one hand to his face to absentmindedly smooth down the strands of damp white hair hanging over his eyes.
"thinkin' about suguru again, are you?" you asked gently, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket—yours, not his—and reaching out to take his hand.
his lips parted ever so slightly, gaping like a goldfish. he knew he looked silly, and he should've been okay with that— because being vulnerable with you, out of everyone he ever knew (with maybe the exception of one) was easier than breathing; came more naturally to him than his gravitation to a challenge. the same could be said for sweets.
(maybe he'd have to re-evaluate his proclaimed taste, then. since you were more sour than sweet.)
but this time, he wasn't okay with it. it had been hard to talk about what had happened with suguru one year ago since— it formed a nasty lump in his throat, bitter like black coffee and the wrong mix of herbs. it made him feel weak. reminding him of his shortcomings, which, in his mind, shouldn't even exist in the first place. but you never had a problem ripping his problems from the shielded cavity in his gut, bringing them under the operator's light to dissect and solve like a surgeon. forget about forcing him to the doctor's— at this point, you should be the one in the white coat, not shoko. he thinks about what you'd look like with blue gloves on your delicate fingers for a moment too long.
"what's it to you?" he snaps back after what feels like three years of his life. his fingers tighten around yours for a moment before he pulls his hand away abruptly.
the frown that lingered on your face from then on had been burned into his memory.
and, well, that was his mistake. it spiraled from there— because he knew what it was to you, and he hated that. hated that you could see straight through him like a cloud blue stained glass window; without rose colored lenses like the ones he always wore (the ones he rocked, he thinks).
a crack of thunder overhead jolts him from his thoughts; he couldn't even get in there to dust the spiderwebs away before being jerked back into reality. he clicks his tongue in disappointment, watching as the skies pry themselves open and rain begin to fall in the way it only did over heavy summer showers. he wishes the sky would stop its weeping, but even the strongest has his limitations.
but it doesn't matter. he has one of those cheap plastic umbrellas he'd bought from a convenience store one day in a late march many moons ago, during the brightest blue spring of his life. and so, he didn't understand why he was lingering at the door, swinging the umbrella around his fingers by the hook on the handle, watching as the rain fell with increased fervor. there was no plastic button to keep the folds tied up, so it floundered around with each swing like a tulip bent by monsoon winds. maybe on the coast of some faraway land with windmills and fields of flowers. he wonders if he'll ever get to see the world with you someday— a fleeting thought that crumbles instantly when he conjures your pretty face in his vision, clear yet distorted like a reflection on a glazed pond, rippling water from the dragonflies that skipped over the surface.
you were definitely still angry with him, because you hadn't showed— normally, you'd walk home together. sometimes with shoko, if she didn't leave early. angry words echo in his mind, the image of your downturned lips swimming in his bright vision as he watches the rain streak down the window panes by the lockers. there's a fog settling over the grass outside that's sure to leave dew after the storm. he wonders when that'll be.
"why can't you ever take me seriously? can't you see i'm worried about you?"
"of course i can. but i don't need your damn concern!”
...
he'd been sorely mistaken, that was for sure. loosing his cool and snapping at you wasn't exactly something he took pleasure in, either way. he leans back on his heels, tapping his foot impatiently as he holds the umbrella like a cane against the floor. infinity could probably do away with the rain. another reason as to why he's not even sure why he's waiting here, or why he's holding an umbrella. perhaps to keep in case he has to offer it to some poor, shivering and cowering young maiden lost beneath the shading of a bus stop behind a curtain of rain droplets, with a charming grin and a wink.
maybe.
a shuffle behind him catches his ear; he turns his head, an unamused expression on his face as his eyes drift over the empty room to land on you. the shadows beneath your eyes are prominent, and your hair is unkempt. there are sleep lines on your face; you probably fell asleep in a classroom somewhere, which is why you delayed.
it was evident you weren't expecting to see him, though— with the way your eyes widened a little before they dropped again, nose bridge wrinkling slightly as if you'd caught the scent of something unpleasant. your eyes left his, and he felt a little disappointed as he watched them wander toward the window, where the current downpour was prominent. he didn't like the way it made his chest pang when your attention was anywhere but him, so he raised his hand lazily, tilting his head to catch your attention that he so clearly craved.
"yo. got an umbrella?" he calls, tapping the tip of his budget can on the floor. the thud is the only sound for a while as your gaze wanders back over to him; reluctant.
"no, i don't. i didn't expect it to rain so hard today." you responded quietly, stepping over to him with a small sigh. almost a little resigned, he thinks. he can't be sure, though. he never is with you. doesn't know whether to expect his candy to be sour in the center or the other way around; but maybe he likes a bit of uncertainty every once in a while. (not with you, though. if it means arguing? never with you.)
his sunglasses are hooked around the collar of your shirt. he doesn't know why it takes him so long to realize, but when he does, he has to clear his throat in an effort to hide the heat on his face and do away with the blush. "here. take mine. i don't need it," he says curtly, offering his umbrella to you. he wants to snatch the shades from your shirt, but he doesn't want anything to go wrong, so he just eyes them warily, careful not to let his gaze slip past into anything you'd be pissed at him for.
you eye him, eyes narrowed as you raise an eyebrow, but you don't protest. your fingers brush against his for a brief moment when you take it, shaking it a little before opening the door and stepping outside, opening it up. it looks like a little clear plastic mushroom cap over your head; you're short enough to constitute as the stalk in his eyes. it's a little funny, but he has to stifle the laugh bubbling on his tongue lest you think he's making a mock of you.
he follows after you, slipping past to stand at your side with his hands in his pockets. you can't help but feel a little curious despite your prolonged anger (you like holding grudges, he knows), so you sneak a glance upward to satiate your wonder. you don't expect him to look as breathtaking as he does.
the clouds are light overhead; they're not a heavy blanket of gray anymore, and a small strip of light manages to push through, shining on satoru's pale white hair. you can make out the edge of his undercut against his neck when the wind picks up a little, the color of fluffy white clouds on a lavender sunset with the sway of yellow flowers beneath an expanse of a bright sky. there's a little cat hair on the collar of his jacket; you realize with a faint flush that it must've been from when you were holding his jacket for him in the gym. somehow, the cat you have at home found its way to satoru. you hope your pet has become a matchmaking fortune teller, for the sake of your happiness.
what catches your eye the most, though, isn't the cat hair on his dark jacket or the faraway look in his misty blue eyes; it's the outline of rain water around him, a product of his infinity, you realize. he's dry underneath the downpour, and it never ceases to amaze you. it's like there's a soft glowing halo against the backdrop of tangled wires, gray walls and pale green bushes— he looks like an angel boy, school bag hooked and hanging over one shoulder.
eventually, you manage to peel your gaze away, and he notices— looks down at you, pressing his lips together and running his tongue over them. he can taste strawberry gloss.
wordlessly, you start walking. and he follows suit, rain bouncing off of him; you catch yourself sneaking glances from under the roof of your clear umbrella between raindrops that slide down the clear plastic. sometime during the walk home, he had gone off and gotten himself a drink from a nearby vending machine— the red can catches your eye, and your fingers curl around the rubber handle of the lent umbrella as you watch him drink; the bob of his adam's apple before he crushes the can up and tosses it into a nearby bush, causing a brief scattering of leaves and a downpour of collecting droplets onto the pavement.
despite the rain, the weeds between the cracks in the sidewalk still stay strong; they have deep roots. much like the way you never fail to scowl at him for littering. he catches it— of course he does. he's been praying for a sign you're not still so hopelessly angry with him that you can't even bring yourself to have a civil walk in the summer rain together. after the scowl, though, comes the smile— the one that always makes him melt in his shoes, much like the sunshine after the rain.
and there it is at last, he thinks. the hard sour coating melts away on his tongue, draining the taste of lemon to reveal a sweet, genuine center. all it takes is time. your lips curve up, and you duck your head, hiding the small bemused laugh that leaves you breathless.
"what are you laughin' at?" he huffs, glaring down at you. but there's no malice behind it— if only you could feel the wave of relief that's washed over him, a crest of white foam that leaves behind still waters reflected in the pools of sapphire in his eyes. nothing like the hit of numbing nicotine he'd shared in the shade of an alleyway with shoko earlier that day— away from the sun; away from you. hidden from both. or maybe they were the same— to him, he couldn't differentiate.
"i'm not laughing!" you protested weakly, immediately wiping the grin from your lips, and he regrets speaking up. "just.. i dunno."
you walk in silence for a little longer, content to listen to the rain lighten up overhead. satoru kicks a plastic onigiri wrapper out of the way, splashing up a puddle as a frown dampens his face when the wrapping only clings to his shoes. he's fine with getting a little grumpy if it means seeing you smile again. and even better, you laugh again— so sweet, like the chiming of bells in the wind's melody.
"please don't do that again." your voice sounds so very small when he hears it again, and he looks down at you from beneath long white lashes, the corner of his lips quirked up. the shape of them is almost cat-like, you think. he doesn't even know what you're talking about— a vague idea, at best— but he won't do it. not if it means hearing you sound so pathetically... sad. he doesn't like it. it's far too bitter for his taste. let the black betta you both used to know indulge in dark coffee and bitter cologne— he likes things sweet, like the cream surrounded by tea leaf matcha in the center of his mochi and fluttering feeling he gets when you run your hands through his hair, fluffing it up to your heart's content.
(as long as your heart is happy, his is, too.)
"i won't. happy now?" he sticks his tongue out, making a face. but you both know he means it— he hates breaking his promises to you. you smile when you look up at him again with a small nod, and he feels his knees wobble a little. he just hopes you don't notice. "sorry for lying. i just.. don't like it when you're mad at me. and you look at me like that," he mumbles under his breath, bunching up the fabric of his pants between his fingers. then, after a moment, "geez, you're so dramatic. quit carin' so much." he really hopes you don't stop, and it makes him feel like the world's biggest hypocrite. the strongest, but so weak for you.
"sorry, can't. the day you stop crushing your soda cans and littering is the day i'll stop caring, 'cus that won't be my satoru anymore." you tease. and he laughs, throwing his head back so you don't see the red that spreads across his cheeks, dusting his skin like powdered sugar on top of a strawberry crepe. he always wants to be your satoru, so he figures he'll keep littering. a few money fines here and there mean nothing to his undentable wallet, or the erratic beating of his heart, trapped against his ribcage in a feathery blooming of flowers he only gets from you and your pretty smile underneath the layer of lemony sourness.
you walk along the road for a little while longer. the rain has lightened, but it's still going— incessant, dripping from the leaves of trees and the knotted black wires overhead. he still has his infinity up, which means he can't pet the cat the two of you spot on your way back, but he's perfectly content to watch you do it. you scratch its chin, smiling at the way it purrs and nuzzles into your hand, and he wonders if he'd do the same if he was in its position.
he's lost in thought when you speak to him again, shoes splashing against murky puddles in the backdrop of a never-sleeping city; tokyo's bright skyline always makes your eyes go round with wonder. you say something, and he chuckles, warm and velvety. and then you realize what's been off with him this whole time— he doesn't have his shades on.
you slip them off the collar of your shirt, smoothing down the fabric before you reach over and attempt to nudge his arm. you don't think it'll work, because he still has his infinity up— and your sleeves are already getting spattered by rain that leaves darkened wet spots on the cotton. but to your amazement, your fingers make contact with his sleeve, and you watch in wonder as the rain actually falls— soaks into that little patch of wet fabric that you're able to feel on his arm. that he's turned his infinity off so you could touch him. you spare a glance up at him, only to find his head angled away from you. you might be hallucinating, but the tips of his ears seem red.
you don't linger on it before you're tugging on his shirt with a frown, getting him to look down at you as you unfold his glasses and offer them over to him. he takes them quickly, and you don't miss the way the rain stops falling onto his arm again, back to bouncing off the invisible shield that protects him from everything (but you, it seems). he slips his dark shades back over his eyes, obscuring oceans of pure blue that seem like they've trickled in from the purest snowcaps on the distant mountains dotted with old red tori gates and shrines with scrapped paint. but you can't stifle the smile that spreads across your lips this time— giddy and fresh and filled with youth, blossoming like sakura petals in a spring that seems so far away yet so close with his presence by your side.
you don't say anything for a while. you're content to watch the rain wash down the pavement and into the gutters, past cute little coffee shops and parks with ponds as the droplets from the sky scatter the water in part of a never-ending cycle; watering the surface of the earth and bringing life that would soon spring up as shroomcaps and fresh dew on the clean cut green grass. you wonder what satoru sees through his lenses— though, you already know. you've worn them plenty of times before, when he insists on having your perfume cling to the frame for long missions he's sent on alone, when he can't have you hold his jacket, or his hand, or scold him for sneaking a smoke when you're not watching. that, and the extra lemondrops he keeps in his pocket; gifts from you that he's fought hard for.
you're more prepared to not feel any interference of his infinity this time when you reach over, and this time you don't go for his sleeve—yanking him close to you by his hand and forcing him beneath your umbrella. you feel the way he freezes up for a moment, but his fingers fill in the gaps between your own like its the most natural thing in the world, palms pressed together in a little breathless hug that leaves no room for the humid air.
"don't waste your infinity on the rain, dumbass. you'll fry what little is left of your brain." you scold him, and he just grumbles and scoffs angrily under his breath, cursing you as he hunches over and ducks his head to fit under the umbrella to negate his height. his hair brushes against the plastic roof of the umbrella, and his lanky limbs are still awkwardly sticking out, but his fingers tighten around yours and his thumb rubs over your knuckles, still a little damp from your earlier encounter with the rain, and you can't help but smile a smile bright enough to wash away every last bit of cloud in the sky. his personal sunshine.
even though he still prefers sweet things, satoru's come to like the taste of lemondrops. sweet and sour go well together, after all. just like you and him.
its okay if it doesnt taste like anything to u as long as u enjoyed it :) thanks for reading !!
my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !
