noir

you punch harder. red bruises begin to bloom at the tips of your knuckle. a strange satisfaction blooms from this, as if seeing proof of your efforts will make you more adept.

this is, perhaps, the worst part. the mission had been relatively simple: get in, collect information, maybe take down a few wanderers along the way, and get out.

you had done almost none of that.

that’s why you’re here, opting to get as far away from the hunter’s association as possible. what better place than the n109 zone?

when you arrived earlier in the evening, sylus was nowhere to be found. such was what you were hoping for.

you had gotten patched up at the association just in case. after the battle, you were left with a shallow but nasty gash on your forehead and several bruises to the torso.

god forbid sylus see you with an open wound, otherwise, he'd raise hell before even asking what it was from.

it was only after you arrived though, did a memory from a few months ago surface. one that certainly didn't help the shame brewing in your chest.

it was a rare instance when the both of you had run into trouble in the n109 zone. a pack of petty thieves who had chosen the wrong people to target.

when the encounter escalated from verbal threats to physical, sylus had pushed you out of the way, absorbing a nasty punch all for the sake of protecting you.

he dealt with the rest of them no problem, and with your help, but after it was over—and the thieves lay half dead in the alleyway—you had turned to him with narrow eyes and a crease between your brows.

"why would you do that?" you asked, hand coming up to push against his shoulder.

he didn't budge.

"you mean protect you?" he said, with wide eyes and a look that bordered on shock. as if he couldn't believe you'd deny his protection.

"i didn't need you to take the hit for me," you had told him, turning away. "i can handle myself."

and from then on, sylus took care of you, but he didn't protect you. at least, not in the same way. he is always there, always hovering, but never overprotective, as if your brief confession to him was all-telling about the care you were willing to receive.

this memory lingers in your mind again as you continue your assault on the punching bag. your hand shoots out, harder than the last time, and you can't help but wonder if sylus sees something about you that you don't.

that maybe you can't handle yourself as well as you thought you could.

and if you couldn't even hold your own in a fight... then what else was there for you to claim prowess for?

the next punch breaks skin.

your knuckles sting as they split.

you wonder how far you can go until your body gives in.

by this hour of night, you feel the toll. the exhaustion settles deep in your lungs and heavy in your feet. but the pain does little to deter you.

in the back of your mind, there is a nagging voice. a fear that maybe one day, you will be ten times as injured and met with the presence of a wanderer.

you have to fight.

what will you have if you don't?

"weren't even going to tell me you were coming?"

a deep, velvet voice interrupts the room. for once, it is the last person you want to see right now.

you continue hitting, eyes locked on the poor bag in front of you.

"you can't expect to come into my home and ignore me, kitten."

you feel his presence approach you. his footsteps are almost as prominent as the thud of your punches.

you hit again and again.

and like a pin dropped to the ground, you can almost feel the moment he realizes what is going on.

the blood that stains the punching bag and your hands. the bandage pressed against your forehead. the sloppy fighting stance you're sure you've adorned but couldn't be bothered enough by to care.

a large hand wraps itself around your wrist before you can make contact again.

before you can throw yourself out of sylus' grasp, he pulls on your arm. it's not hard enough to hurt, but it is enough for you to be fully turned towards him, hands catching against his chest for balance as his arm wraps around your waist.

the look on his face is stern, red eyes automatically scanning down your face and body. it is a look he tries to make deliberate but one you recognize as frantic.

the last thing you wanted to do was worry him.

"i'm fine-"

"you're hurt."

you attempt to pull away from him, but his hold on you is firm. you remain flush against his chest with the only place to look being up at him. with breaths still heavy from exertion, you remain silent.

sylus raises a brow and tilts his head to the side, seemingly deciding that your injuries were not the highest of his concerns.

"you better have a damn good reason why you didn't tell me sooner," he says. his voice is lower than normal as if restraining himself from an outburst.

"i can-"

"and why you're injured."

"sylus-"

"and why there's blood on your hands."

he spits the words out. his breath is warm against your cheek. his grip tightens around you. you are so, so close to him.

it's hard to tell if your heart is pounding because of his intensity or his proximity.

you can tell sylus is angry. not at you, but at the helplessness he must feel.

you know sylus better than anyone, so you know his questions are an attempt at finding reason before blowing the roof off his own base.

beyond what he asks, you see the downward frown at the corner of his lips. the gleam in his eyes that are shining for you, only barely shadowed by fury.

there is something about this look in his eyes that breaks through to you.

and all of a sudden, every emotion you had attempted to harness under the guise of training came through in the form of tears.

all at once, you buckle into sylus' arms. ones that let go of your wrist and instead bring you even closer into his embrace. the two of you sink to the floor, and as the tears fall from your face, his arms are the only steady things in the room.

what you don't see is the way his expression cracks, just for a second, as if his heart is breaking just from the sound of your sobs. any ounce of anger he had been harboring disappeared all at once.

he rubs your back as you cry. gives you a minute, maybe two.

"tell me what happened."

and you do. every last bit of it. from the weakness you felt fighting the wanderers to your failure of a mission.

you don't even mean to confess all of it. just enough so he understands why you're crying, but once you start, it all comes spilling out.

the words tumble from your lips. you speak what must be incoherent sentences. this is all you have ever worked towards. it's the only thing you could trust yourself to do well.

you even tell him about the time he took the hit for you in the alley. something that is as simultaneously haunting as it is irrelevant.

and beneath what you say, sylus knows exactly why it is so important to you for you to protect yourself.

he responds to your confessions with soft hums and brief nods. at some point, his hand comes up to pat your head. you think the action makes you cry more.

sylus gives you time. for this, you are most grateful.

he lets your breathing even out and your tears slow their fall. it is only then does he pull back from the embrace he wrapped you in. you almost don't want to look him in the face knowing how the crying looks on your face.

but the look in his eyes when you meet them is anything but bothered by that. instead, it is a look you almost mistake for pity.

because in all the time you have known sylus, he has never looked at you with only love. it is always a fraction of the expression, mixed in with concern or curiosity or lust.

but in this moment, sylus looks at you with pure adoration. you feel it in the depth of his gaze. in the dilation of his pupils. in the way his entire being would bend the rules of the universe just to be here before you.

his thumb comes up to brush a tear from your cheek, and he cups your face in his hands.

"you are not a failure," he says it with more belief than you think you've ever had for yourself in your life.

"do you think you got to where you are by being weak? every battle is a testament to your strength, even the bad ones."

sylus leans back and moves to hold your hand, running a feather-light touch over the newly split cuts.

"i will not let you hurt the strongest person i know."

he brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your wounds. his words come slow and sincere.

"and if you ever feel like your hard work isn't enough, i will do everything in my power to get you where you want to be. just say the word."

at this, he brings both of your hands to his heart, bringing you ever so much closer. and slowly, as if asking for permission, he inches his lips towards yours.

the kiss is sweet.

his lips capture yours, and a heated warmth spreads through you. it is filled with all the love he cannot put into words. a promise of all the truths he has just expressed.

sylus is not the cure to your doubts, but he is a form of severance.

in the dim light of the training room, he embraces you so lovingly that you can't help but believe these doubts could one day dissipate.

જ⁀➴ ✉︎ author's note: is this one-shot just me projecting? maybe LMAO. this is my first time writing sylus and lads in general, so i hope you enjoyed! i've been deep in the lads rabbit hole, and it's the only thing on my mind lately lol. i know people who are taken aback by the concept or the nsfw aspects of it, which i understand isn't for everyone! but at the end of the day, lads is so special because of the comfort, adventure, and love it offers. that's part of what inspired me to write this :3 and for these reasons, #bringvalkoback!!! (ps thanks for reading my rant)

© All writing is my original work. All rights reserved. Do not copy, reproduce, publish, adapt, plagiarize, or use my writing in any form or for any purpose (including feeding it to AI).

Your eyes widen and you chuckle shortly. “Did you just refer to yourself in third person?”

He ignores your question, and before you know it, your feet are lifted off the ground and his large palms are holding onto your hips as he sets you down on the counter. 

“What are you doing—” you gasp.

“Show me. I wanna see it.” he requests, completely serious.

“Are you crazy?! Why?”

“Because I don’t believe you. I know that you know I love your bush.”

You scoff at him in disbelief. “I’m not showing you anything!”

“Why? ‘Cause you lied?” he tilts his head closer to you.

“No—because now’s not the time.” you stutter a bit, clearly caught red-handed. 

“Haven’t heard that one before.” He raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing. “You’re usually eager—”

You cut him off by putting your hands over his mouth. He laughs into them before swiping his tongue, licking them. You pull away immediately, as if you’d been burned. 

A beat of silence passes as you wipe your wet palm against the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t seem to mind, he doesn’t even flinch, evidently used to it. 

The two of you stare at each other in silence, your hand remains atop his shoulder where you just wiped it. You watch him as he carefully lowers himself on his knees, eyes remaining glued to you the entire time. His hands move to rest on your knees.

You feel your face burn up and immediately tighten your grip on his shoulder. “Okay fine—it was a prank!” you blurt out. 

He freezes in his movements. “Really?”

You look away, and then back at him momentarily to nod. 

His hands still holding your knees, he closes them and rests his forehead against them while breathing out a sigh of relief. “You scared me for a second there.”

You chuckle at the sight, your hand finding its way to his burgundy locks. “That scary, huh?”

He leans into your hand, tilting his head sideways, and stares up at you as you continue brushing your fingers through his hair. “Yeah, you owe me an apology.”

You start scratching a particular spot you knew he liked. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.”

He hums at the sensation, closing his eyes and enjoying your caress. His ears pop out suddenly, and you notice his tail swishing behind him. When he opens his eyes again, they hold a different intent. A heavier one. 

“I think you’re gonna have to give me more than an apology…” he grins.

You quirk an eyebrow, and before you can speak, he stands back up and lifts you into his arms. Your hands immediately find his firm shoulders for balance. 

His face is flushed now, and his eyes are dim. “... can I?” he pleas softly, waiting for your approval. 

Noticing you leaning down towards him, he lowers you so you’re face to face with him. You press your lips to his tenderly. “... yes, you can.”

His breathing is steady and he seems calm, but his rapidly wagging tail behind him gives him away. 

The two of you remain quiet as he carries you to your room and sets you down on the mattress, already understanding each other without using words.

also not proofread, sue me

I don't think everyone understands that this game is much more than just attractive characters or romantic content. For some people, it's a way to cope with depression, loneliness, or simply get through another difficult day. Wanting Valko back isn't just about getting a new love interest. In some ways, it's about protecting something that helps people protect their own mental health. It's about trying to save at least one small thing - even if it's digital - when the real world often feels impossible to change.

From what I've seen, this seems to be how the company usually handles situations like this: by staying silent. My friend, who plays Infinity Nikki, just looked at me and said, "First time? Get used to it."

Can I really judge them? Probably not. There are countless factors behind the scenes that we'll never know. Based on everything that's been said and done so far, I don't expect Valko to return anytime soon. If he ever does, it will probably be after a major redesign - or perhaps not at all.

But you know what truly impressed me?

The community.

The fact that so many people came together, made their voices heard, organized petitions, donated, supported one another, and refused to stay indifferent. To me, that's incredible.

Where I come from, people often wouldn't stand up for a real person the way this community stood up for a fictional one. And honestly, I think that's worthy of respect. It shows just how much kindness, empathy, and hope for positive change still exist in people.

So I'd simply like to say: thank you. ❤️

Thank you to everyone who refuses to stay silent. Thank you to everyone who keeps fighting for the things they believe matter.

Not every battle can be won - and that's okay.

The way his expression melted when you did made you want to bury your face in your hands. But you just settled for bumping his shoulder, grinning to yourself when he bumped yours back.

At the front door, you had both lingered on the steps, illuminated softly by the buzzing lightbulb overhead. Moths were drawn to the flickering light, as you were to the happiness that radiated from Xavier's soft smile.

His goodbye had lingered in the air, his gentle voice low. It blurred the line towards intimate, even with the little space still left between you. And even when that distance grew as you walked towards your car, you were simultaneously thrilled and eased with the knowledge that this wasn't really a goodbye at all, but one said only for the excuse to soon say hello again.

That exuberant, giddy feeling lasted from the drive home until you were laying in bed. You fell asleep while replaying the night's revelations in your mind, and woke up the next morning already smiling when they replayed in tandem with your hazy dreams.

Now, you turn onto your stomach, stifling your sleepy giggles into your pillow while you mentally recount each and every smile, every heartfelt word. Hugging it to your chest, you kick your feet until you're a tangled mess in your blankets.

Early morning light slips through the slim gap left in your curtains, and as your excitement naturally slows, uncertainty creeps in. Turning onto your back, you stare up at the ceiling you'd pondered at for so many years, growing pensive.

Between the moments of happiness—as bright and consuming as they are—you can't shake that lingering feeling of being disheartened by the turn of events last night. Embarrassment still reared its ugly head whenever you thought of what happened in the living room. (And maybe a small part of you wanted to give Isaiah a piece of your mind the next time you saw him, emboldened by Xavier's voice echoing that his cousin was "an asshole.")

And yet, you were still so, so happy.

How such contrasting feelings could coexist inside you, you didn't know. Your chest ached from cracking it open to bear your heart and soul. You felt empty, and full. You felt the pain of picking at an old scab, and relief at seeing that it could heal over again.

Your mind felt clear for the first time in weeks, maybe even months, long before you came back home. A path forward had finally revealed itself to you: overgrown, but traversable. A way out.

And then you think of Xavier's smile from last night, and something inside of you glows.

Or, maybe even better. A way through.

You would find a way through again.

Reaching out, you fumble with your phone on your bedside table. The time on your lockscreen showed it was still early—a good thing, since the date reminded you that it was Monday and that you did, in fact, have a life and job you needed to return to.

But the text waiting to be read from ten minutes ago has you feeling giddy all over again.

Xavier★: Good morning

The simple greeting, nestled under the Ill find you from last night (and he did, you think with a lovesick smile), is accompanied by a photo that makes you laugh.

In it, Jeremiah is sprawled out on the couch. His head is head hanging off the edge, mouth wide open in a snore you can practically hear. Peeking from the corner of the picture is Xavier, mirth glinting in his eyes through the screen, holding a thumbs up.

me: you stayed the night?

You set your phone back down, sighing as you mentally prepare yourself for the arduous task of pushing your warm, comfy sheets off. There was no coffee waiting to be made now either, per doctor's orders. You'd have to make it through work on good old hydration and sheer will alone.

But you hold off on the rest of the world a little longer when your phone dings almost right away.

Xavier★: Yeah

You snort, bemused at his ever short text messages. But much to your surprised delight, the typing bubble pops up again.

Xavier★: Started cleaning up after U left

me: aw, that's sweet of you :3

You don't even have time to set your phone down again before he swiftly replies.

Xavier★: Really

An emoji follows, that little bunny mascot peering close, eye widened through a magnifying glass. You eagerly watch him type again before the next message nearly stops your heart.

Xavier★: Tell me more about how sweet I am

You feel your face get hot, an embarrassing noise escaping you in the privacy of your room. Rolling around in your bed, you smack your pillow in gleeful disbelief.

Dear god, was he flirting?

Was Xavier actually flirting with you?

At 7 in the morning?!

Last night's revelations still had you flustered, reeling as you revised the one-sided history in your mind to make room for two. If he was going to start flirting outright, you really would melt into that pile of goo you kept feeling dangerously close to.

Or explode into a million pieces (for the millionth time).

One of the two.

You stare at the words on the screen, teeth grazing over your bottom lip. Your heart skitters in your chest, nervous and something else, something very…indecent to be feeling at this ungodly hour.

But maybe ungodly hours make for ungodly thoughts…?

Your breath hitches, and you shake your head. God, no, be normal! This…this was just starting.

Still, the message taunts you. It's such a simple request, but you feel hot all over that he's asking it of you.

Or demanding it, something in you imagines, and you quickly shove that away before you implode.

Chewing on your lip, you type out a few different replies.

While you write, you imagine him sitting on Jeremiah's living room floor, watching you type with the golden morning light sneaking through the curtains to highlight his face. Is he smiling? Are his eyes all soft again, like they were last night when his forehead was pressed to yours?

You fluster yourself with the mental image, and hesitate over the send button before quickly pressing it.

me: I changed my mind. you're absolutely wicked, Xavier Shen.

You blink and already have a reply to read.

Xavier★: who, me?

The little bunny has a halo in the next emoji he sends, and you snort.

me: yes, you!

You add a pointing emoji, and grin while you quickly type before he can get the upper hand on you again.

me: now stop distracting me, I have to get ready for work!!

A crying bunny reacts to you, and you shake your head fondly. By the time you've gotten up and opened your closest, your phone has gone off three more times.

Xavier★: Okay, fine

Xavier★: Ill see U soon

Xavier★: ?

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you look at your high school backpack nestled in the corner of your closest, picturing the unsent confession still hiding away in that zipper compartment. You gaze from the worn star keychain, down to the message waiting for you.

This really was your life. It always has been.

me: yes, you will.

Work is made considerably difficult by the memory of warm, soft-spoken, almost-but-not-quite-but-still-just-enough confessions rotating in your mind. You doubt you made your quota in cases coded today, judged on how many times you buried your face in your arms to squeal over soft smiles and words, your heart swelling until it was about to burst in your chest.

And in those moments when you did manage to reign yourself in, you would catch a glimpse of the forget-me-nots in the lightly fragrant bouquet proudly displayed on your desk, and you'd start giggling madly all over again.

So, it's really no surprise that the minute you clock out for the day, you make it about all of ten minutes before you're out the door and on the way to the library.

You drop off your latest borrowed book in the returns before your feet quickly retrace the steps towards the table in the back. When you eagerly peek your head around the aisle that leads down to it, and see the sunlight grazing the familiar head of silvery hair, you don't even try to bite back a grin.

Said head is currently resting atop folded arms, his face turned away from you. You watch the steady rise and fall of his breathing while you quietly approach, your excited smile softening into something so fond it almost hurts to hold it all in.

Before taking the seat across from him, you lean in, head tilted to try and catch a glimpse of his face. His fluffy bangs are mostly covering his eyes, but at the right angle you can see the flutter of his long lashes, how his hair shifts a bit with each heavy breath in his sleep.

Cute, you think, swallowing the temptation to squeal before it can interrupt the quiet moment. So, so cute.

He shifts in his sleep, and you freeze, eyes wide, until he settles again. There's a rustle and slight crunch of papers beneath him, and you turn your attention to the book he had fallen asleep on.

Curiosity overtaking you, you circle around behind him, tilting to the side to try and capture some of the words on the pages. One of them was covered up by his cheek squished against it, but you can manage to glimpse a few lines on the opposite page.

Murmuring softly lip to lip,

Along the grass, along the sands,

Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands

"Huh," you make the sound thoughtfully, quietly, fingertips grazing along a few of the words.

Was Xavier a fan of poetry? The idea of learning more and more about him has you smiling again. Him being tangible, knowable, real and with you makes you feel like you're in way too deep already.

And then you remember how he looked at you last night, what he said, and you don't feel all that self conscious about being this head over heels at all.

Your head tilts the other direction, leaning in further to read more. In your distraction, you don't notice when Xavier's breathing starts to turn from heavy to shallow.

Not until he makes a soft, sleepy sound, and your eyes snap to his as they flutter open.

The blue of them looks darker as he wakes up, blinking slowly a few times. You're struck by how content he looks in the crossover between sleeping and waking, snapping back into yourself only when a smile grows across his face.

It's small at first, then brighter, unabashed while he wakes and his eyes lock with a clear focus onto yours.

"You came," Xavier murmurs, and you feel a familiar, yet sharper thrill of infatuation go through you at how happy he sounds.

The thrill turns into a spark that almost consumes you when his fingers brush against yours on the page. You gasp, jolting back purely on instinct.

"Sorry!" You straighten up when you realize how close you'd gotten, smiling bashfully. "I didn't mean to invade your space. I just—I wanted to see what you were reading."

"Oh."

His brows furrow when you give him space, a look you can't quite catch flashing in his eyes. Was he upset with you for being nosy?

Xavier doesn't say anything about it though. Straightening, he stretches his back out with a pop of his joints. He makes a quiet, satisfied grunt that immediately sticks into your mind.

Oh, cool, more ungoldy thoughts at a totally normal hour.

You swallow thickly, clearing your throat. Xavier rubs his hand across the cheek that had been pressed to the book, and you giggle softly at how red it was from the pressure.

He turns back to you and smiles at your laughter. It's more faint now, a bit more tempered than when he'd first woken up, but no less fond.

Fond, you think again, remembering last night: his ardent reassurance under the fairy lights, the affection in his gaze when the fireworks lit up his face. You hadn't second-guessed it for a second, not like you used to. But it still hits you again as Xavier smiles just for you—at that little table he'd saved for you again, sunlight dappled in his hair, eyes sparkling—that this is real.

You might get addicted to this feeling, if you're not careful.

He adjusts the book in front of him, tugging it closer to the edge so you can see it better. He peers up at you through his thick lashes and, yeah, you don't really want to be that careful.

"This is my favorite poet," he tells you, showing you the cover to reveal When You Are Old: Early Poems, Plays, and Fairy Tales by William Butler Yeats. "I revisit this collection a lot." Xavier pauses, scratching at the side of his neck. His gaze slides away from yours when he admits quietly, "Especially when I have something to contemplate."

You glance back at the poem, eyes automatically catching on the words softly lip to lip, and feel your face grow hot.

Of course your mind would jump there first, without even reading the rest of the poem. But just the idea of him thinking about it too; Xavier kissing you, slow, intentional. Fingers cupping the nape of your neck, pulling you close…

"Oh," you say softly, a little breathless at your consistently overactive imagination when you were right in front of him!

Xavier looks at you, a nervous twitching of his lips at the corner. You wet your own subconsciously, hoping he doesn't notice.

There isn't much he doesn't notice, you've come to realize.

His gaze falls down to the motion, then away, his lips tilting further up. Your stomach flips, your chest hot. You're so transparent, aren't you?

"Join me?" He offers, tilting his head towards the book, and you're relieved by how he doesn't mention it. You were still…adjusting, to all this. To what you were finally, fully allowing yourself to want. "I can show you some of my favorites."

The idea of Xavier personally recommending—no, sharing—his favorite poems with you has you nearly swooning, and any response gets stuck in your throat. So instead, you make a very eloquent noise that might sound like you got a piece of food lodged in your throat, and hurry towards the chair on the other side of the table.

But you pause when Xavier stands and beats you to it. And not only that, but he tugs the chair over to his side of the table, until there's hardly any space between them.

He stays standing, gesturing for you to sit, and you squeak out like you're still choking on that imaginary piece of food before sinking down into the seat.

When Xavier sits back down, you feel the press of his hoodie sleeve against the bare skin of your arm. Your mind takes off like a plane gaining speed and lifting into the air because he's warm, so warm, and the fabric is soft. He must use a fabric softener, and it smells good too; fresh, like laundry right out of the dryer. There's no more teenage deodorant scent, but something subtle, deeper—is he wearing cologne? Does he usually? Or does he just naturally smell like fucking flower fields and angels?

Okay, chill, you tell yourself, taking a slow, deep breath.

But you think you still see a little stain on the front pocket of his hoodie from your coffee you spilled on him that first day you saw him again (so many years later but it still felt like the first time he caught your eye, every time feels like the first time) and you should feel bad you ruined it. But somehow, in some strange way, it feels like a tangible mark you've left on him, and something possessive but warm curls up in your chest.

You jump when you hear your name, falling gently from his lips. Your cheeks feel too hot when your attention goes first to those lips, transfixed by them yet again. They look even softer than his hoodie, his hair, but his eyes. Oh god his eyes are warm, gentle and you're so down bad to an even worse degree now that it's not even funny.

Those full lips curve up under your attention, one side tilted up more than the other. It's a familiar, sly look, like when he slid that smutty book across the table to you the first time you sat here together. Some impossible cross between an innocent smile and knowing smirk. And when you catch his eyes and see that same spark of mischief, you jump, your full wits finally snapping back to you.

"Sorry!" You breathe again, laughing shyly. You duck your head down, turning your attention to the book. "I don't mean to just stare." This time.

"You don't have to be sorry."

He sounds so genuine and you know how much he is now. It has your heart racing, hands curling into fists in your lap, mimicking the knot of nerves that stubbornly persist in your stomach. It's an exhilarating feeling, being this close to him, now more than ever.

"You can keep looking at me," Xavier whispers to you, like he was telling a secret. "However much you want."

His expression is wide-open when you do, and his eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile.

"Ah," he sighs. "There."

Xavier's eyelashes tremble, glancing down at your lips when you bite them. You don't delude yourself now that he hasn't been looking at them every time you've bitten them for weeks, and your face is so hot you feel like you're about to burst into flames.

The longing in your chest stretches out even further, and it tugs on you, like an invisible string that ties you to him. Begging you to close the distance between you now that it's gotten even shorter. In the library, of all places, hidden in this little golden alcove among the shelves of dusty pages and worn ink.

But you like him, you like him so much, and he's looking at you in a way nobody else ever has. In a way you may have missed every time you looked away, all those years ago. Like he's been waiting just as long, and when you think of last night again, you almost cave, the words kiss me dancing on the tip of your tongue.

But then Xavier looks away with a growing smile. He brushes his fingers over his lips, pressing them against his mouth, and yours tingle.

Wordlessly, he pulls the book between you, one page before each of you. His arm presses against yours, more firm now, and you go from tense to relaxed in seconds. His presence is steady, reassuring, and it's the most confusing contrast to how your heart is still racing at a mile a minute.

"There's one I want to show you," Xavier says, taking the pages into his hands sections at a time.

He flips through the book quickly, not looking at page numbers as much as he's moving on instinct. His fingertips trace the edges of each page, feeling out the place he's looking for by touch, memory alone.

Xavier flips backwards a couple pages, and nods.

"Here."

He pushes the book a little more in your direction so you can see the whole poem clearly. You take in the title: When You Are Old, the namesake of the collection, and glance from it to his expectant face.

Xavier smiles a little, and leans his head in closer, until his bangs just barely brush your forehead. His smile grows a fraction when you inhale a quick, quiet breath, before he looks back towards the page.

"When you are old and grey and full of sleep," he starts reciting from the page, and oh, this is the end of you. A very happy end, honestly—lightning could strike you right here and now and you'd feel eternally at peace with the low, melodic lilt of his voice with the rhythm of the poem. "And nodding by the fire, take down this book."

You tear your attention from him back to the book then, soaking in the words he quietly recites:

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

Yeah, you'd have to call Zayne again because your heart truly couldn't take this.

You watch Xavier's finger find the next few lines, tracing the words. He doesn't seem to be tracking it, as the way he reads this sounds more and more like he could do it in his sleep. You've caught him tracing his page once before while reading, and wonder if it's a habit of his; revering the words, soaking them in. Trying to touch something intangible, make it real.

He was like you, that way.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

When he goes to read the second half of the stanza, you just barely catch the hitch in his breath. His voice goes quieter, hard to hear even in the relative silence of the library. You find yourself drawn in, naturally leaning further into him.

"But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you," Xavier breathes out, the warmth of it grazing your cheek. You read along with each word that falls from his lips, "And loved the sorrows of your changing face."

He pauses for a breath. His arm twitches a little where it's pressed to yours, and his gaze is heavy on your face, but you find you can't find the courage to look at him just yet.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

For one brief, strange moment, you feel so very far away. Like it has taken a long time to get here. Like you were always meant to come.

You blink it away and see Xavier smiling shyly towards you, but not quite meeting your eye. His fingers retrace the last stanza, and his bangs cover his eyes when he leans forward. But you do notice, with a flip of your stomach, that the tips of his ears have gone bright red.

If time was kind, you think distantly, it would never move on from this moment.

Swallowing thickly, you finally manage to say, "It's very lovely."

Xavier looks back up at you. There's almost a…glow, in how his eyes light upon you. It must be the sunlight behind him, casting a halo effect around his hair as well. He looks very much like that distant star you'd always seen him as.

Except now, that distance isn't so far. He looks so real, and you're tempted to reach out, to feel the heat of his pink cheeks against your hands.

You don't, not yet. But you think, like many things, he can tell exactly what you were thinking anyway.

Xavier sounds breathless, a little lost when he agrees, "It is."

It's funny, how when you first came home, you were going crazy with how Xavier seemed to be everywhere you went. And now, only weeks later, here you were, seeking him out at each place you knew he'd be.

And the best part was that the urge to see each other again was mutual.

Monday night, as you were getting to settle into bed with Xavier's favorite book of poems (he'd insisted you checked it out, eager to hear your thoughts about them next Monday), your phone chimed with an invitation to stop by the high school on Thursday, when he'd be helping coach the fencing team's practice.

The few days separating you from that time feel impossibly long. You fill it by spending some extra time with Gramps, watching his favorite TV shows with him. It's a comforting pastime, listening to his chuckles and dry comments, and you sink farther into the familiar, worn cushions of the couch.

You drift off for a while like that, and wake up with an extra blanket tucked around you. One you wrestle out of in order to get him some water and his medication. You've found that he has a harder time dodging your request when you hand them directly to him and give him a look.

You also manage to get together with Harper on Wednesday afternoon, and she tugs you along to a new, surprisingly trendy boutique a few doors down from Jeremiah's shop.

You stop and jump up and down outside his windows on the way, striking poses until Harper joins in too, and you both get his attention. His watering can slips forward when he finally notices you, nearly drowning some poor, yellow chrysanthemums as his face twists in a laugh you can hear clearly in your mind, even outside the building.

He practically drags you in and doesn't let you leave before a little conversation that turns long, especially when it's both certified yappers Jeremiah and Harper together. He pawns off a few plants to you both while you're out the door: a little succulent that's seen better days for you to nurture, and some sunflowers for Harper, a long-time favorite of both her and her mother's.

At the boutique, you make some much needed updates to your wardrobe, thanks to Harper's enthusiastic insistence and the fact that your last paycheck was a fun one. Your fingers graze the fabric of a flowy dress that stops just above the knees, lingering on the little blue flowers speckled throughout the design.

She doesn't even have to try and convince you to get that one.

When Thursday finally rolls around, it's not the dress you wear, since you want to keep saving it for something a bit more special. You do put on some of your other new clothes, feeling much more refreshed somehow just by wearing them.

After making sure Gramps had everything he needed, you head out the door with more confidence than you've felt in a while. Tucked inside the tote bag you carry with you, wrapped up carefully in a purple Tupperware container, is the product of Gramps' and your hard work in the kitchen just the night before.

"I hope he likes it," you had murmured to yourself as you rearranged the last few strawberry slices on top of the cake slices again.

You made a point to ignore the warm, knowing chuckle beside you, and shooed him out of the kitchen before he could even think to stand on his feet for too long and do the dishes.

Pulling your car into the high school's parking lot brings forth a host of feelings you're not sure how to digest. It's been years, and you suddenly feel those years as you cut the ignition, watching a group of teenagers running, shrieking and laughing about something that they'd probably forget about when they got as old as you.

Not that you were old, but it suddenly felt like it as you hold the tote bag tight to you, walking through the main entrance. You head down the halls that were emptying out after school hours, treading a familiar path towards the gymnasium.

If you slow down a little bit when you pass your old locker, and even slower while passing Xavier's a few more down—wondering how many times you had missed him looking at you, right here in this spot—well, who's to blame you for the rush of nostalgia?

You hear the sound of sneakers scuffing the vinyl floors, echoing from the wide-open doors as you near the gym. Peeking your head in, you glance over the small group of students going through fencing drills, touches and parries that you're surprised you recognize, even years later.

It doesn't take you long to see Xavier, it never does. He's demonstrating something to a student with a sabre. A technique for a parry, it looks like, before he hands it back to the kid, who nods with determination and eyes glowing with admiration for their coach. Xavier nods back with a faint smile, exuding patience and kindness even across the room, and you smile.

There's a little shuffle of movement near you as a couple of the students notice you. The confusion ripples from them to another pair, a quiet din of conversation and distraction among the group that quickly reaches Xavier.

He turns towards where you linger in the doorway, and his smile grows, eyes lighting up. When he swiftly makes his way towards you, you hear the conversations growing in excitement, curious eyes fixed to you.

You hear girlfriend a few times from the kids closest to you, and when Xavier stops in front of you, smiling and cheeks tinted pink, you feel both incredibly shy and also not at all eager to correct anybody who thinks so.

"Hey," you wave, adjusting the strap of your tote bag.

"Hi," Xavier grins a little, brushing his bangs from his eyes, and gestures towards your bag. "Do you want me to take that for you?"

"Oh, no, that's okay."

You sway on your feet, hands clasped in front of you, and Xavier watches your excited movement, blue eyes shining bright.

You lean forward, feeling bold in your new clothes, and with time to think about this beautiful thing growing between you. Especially through all the increasingly flirty texts exchanged with him this week.

And maybe you're also feeling a little conspiratorial, a bit mischievous with what everybody in the room is thinking about you two right now.

"I have a surprise, you see, and I don't want it to be ruined."

There's keen interest in Xavier's eyes, his smile shifting into that sneaky little smirk that makes your heart skip a beat. "You think I'd ruin it?" His lips jut out in a playful pout, and you cover your mouth to hide your sickeningly lovesick smile.

"I think," you start slowly, rubbing your finger over your chin before pointing at him. "That you're a lot more devious than you let on, Xavier."

He shifts from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck. He manages to look a little bit bashful at your accusation, but the curved corner of his lips when he ducks his head down tells you he's also unashamed by being caught in it.

You shake your head, affection warming you from the inside out, and point towards the bleachers.

"I'll hang out until it's break time," you offer. "And then you'll get to be thoroughly surprised."

"Thoroughly," Xavier repeats.

"Thoroughly," you confirm, nodding, and he nods back.

"Okay." He watches you turn, halfway to the bleachers before he announces to the group unceremoniously, "It's break time," and your laugh is more joyful than you recognize when it echoes through the gym.

Contrary to Xavier's stubborn insistence and frequent pouts, the fencing team's main coach does not allow for an immediate break. So you get to watch as Xavier, brows pinched and frowning, insists on a demonstration bout between them instead.

"Why is Coach Shen trying so hard today?" a girl whispers to her friend, on the front of the row of bleachers that you sit in the back of. You hadn't even realized when you went right for the same spot you'd always sat in for his matches, not until he gets into position for the demonstration, and you're struck with intense déjà vu. "He always does these with, like, less than half-energy."

"Oh, come on," her friend sighs, nudging her. "You know why."

They both glance back towards you and then spin away, giggling to themselves as your face warms.

You feel a little silly for clapping when Xavier moves so swiftly, gaining another point from an elegant touch against the other coach. You feel less silly when the students oo and ahh and clap along, and even more shy when Xavier's eyes immediately find yours again, like they have after each point he gains.

The other coach snorts, pushing their ponytail off their shoulder. "Quit showing off, Shen," they accuse.

Xavier's wide eyes are the perfect picture of innocence when he refutes, "I'm just showing."

And then his eyes narrow, immediately locking in as he presses the advance for another point, and it shouldn't be as damn attractive as it is but it is.

Especially when he shoots you a satisfied smirk that time.

Once a break finally comes, the students disperse to hydrate, and snack, and try to make it not look so obvious as they watch Xavier join you on the bleachers.

"How'd I do?" Xavier isn't out of breath in the slightest, even with the way his bangs stick to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat from the practice bout.

You laugh a little, teasing gently, "Come on, do you need me to say it?"

His lips twitch, and he rubs the back of his neck. A little shy, a little proud. "I'd like to hear you say it."

Your throat feels thick, and you force yourself to swallow, busying your fidgeting hands by rifling through your tote bag.

"Well, I think you're brilliant," you admit quietly, not missing the hitch in Xavier's breath at your sudden, unguarded honesty. "But I think you already know I do, as much as you know how good you are."

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and this time, his wide eyes look genuine. The flush from exertion on his face deepens, spreading down his neck, and you smile.

"Oh." Xavier scratches idly at his ear, blinking. "Thank you."

You'll have to make an effort to keep building your confidence, just to tease him more. Most the time he was the one flustering you, and you loved it, but this—seeing him blush so readily at your praise, smiling to himself when you do, the way you do when he's the bold one—was a real addiction.

"And now," you say, hands wrapping around the Tupperware in your bag. "Prepare to be surprised."

You present the strawberry shortcake with a flourish and a ta-da! that has Xavier perking up instantly, eyes lighting up.

"I didn't forget," you say, pulling out a couple paper plates and plastic forks to slide the cake onto. "And I wanted you to be able to taste how good the strawberries are."

You hand him his plate, then reach back into your bag, feeling around blindly for the napkins.

"So?" you ask, smiling in triumph to yourself when you find them. "Are you surprised?"

When you look back at him, his face is already stuffed with cake, about half of the slice already missing. He flushes a little more when you laugh once in surprise.

Xavier swallows, nodding in thanks when you pass him the napkin to dab at the crumbs on his mouth. That mischief is back in his gaze when he says, "Thoroughly."

You giggle, knees turning towards him, and he follows your position, bumping his just slightly against yours. He pulls back, but does it again every now and then as you talk.

And you talk. The words are starting to come easier now, and he listens as attentively as he did at Jeremiah's shop, giving as much back to you as he did at the party. You still feel the tingles of excitement, maybe even stronger now—you didn't know if you'd ever stop feeling them, not for a long time.

But the apprehension you'd once felt around your crush was steadily melting off you in waves. You felt comfortable with Xavier, especially since that night under the fairy lights, the night everything had changed.

Because he wasn't just some crush now. He wasn't a daydream anymore. He wasn't the Xavier Shen, idolized in your youthful infatuation.

He was Xavier. Just Xavier, painfully human in how he eats so much and so fast that he looks like a bunny with his cheeks puffed out. Tangible in every brief brush of his knees against yours, wanting to be close like you do. Not quite sure how to breach the distance yet, but growing closer.

He's never seemed so real s he does now, in the things he reveals to you about himself, bit by bit to unravel a larger picture you'd always wondered at.

In a brief lull in conversation, as you eat the last slice of strawberry on your plate, you start to think about the party again, of the heavy words you'd confessed to him. You think of your way through, and then, a little farther out: a sunlit little apartment, two seats at a kitchen counter, sharing a plate of strawberry shortcake fresh out of the oven.

You blink it away. It's still much too soon for any of that, you know that.

But before you can stop yourself, you ask in a rush, "Have you ever wanted to leave?"

Xavier blinks at you, head tilted in confusion, not following.

"Town, I mean." You clarify, and chew nervously on the inside of your cheek.

"Oh."

Xavier scratches at his neck again. Something you're learning he does when he's uncertain, or thinking things over.

"I…" He looks at you, his shoulders stiff. His face seems more closed off than before, but glancing over your face, he must find something that eases up that tension a little. "I think I'd like to travel."

You perk up at this new bit of information. "Really? Where to?"

"Anywhere," he answers quickly, and then blinks, shying away a little. "All around the world, I mean."

"No place in particular?"

Xavier hums thoughtfully. He looks up and away from you, picturing something you couldn't see. "Not really. I think I'd like to just walk, for a long time. To go wherever I want, and see things nobody else has."

He stops, glancing at you briefly. He's still a little unsure, and it makes your heart ache. Has he never told anyone this before? Has anybody made him feel guilty if he did? "Does that make sense?"

"Yeah." You nod, smiling warmly at him, and he relaxes completely. "It sounds really nice. I didn't know you had such an adventurous soul."

His lips quirk up in half a smile, eyes catching onto yours. He leans in, more confident, "I'd like to go to college, too." You lean in too, happy to hear more about him, that he was sharing it with you. He continues, quieter, "I burned out after high school. My father hated it. But I think I'd like to go, someday. Just for me. For the things I want to keep learning about."

Your knee presses against his, gentle, reassuring. When you pull it back, his follows for another brief touch.

"What do you want to study?"

Xavier huffs out a quiet breath. "Don't laugh."

You arch a brow, then frown. "Why would I laugh at you?"

He stills, eyes widening a little at your genuine confusion. Then he softens. "You wouldn't," he realizes aloud; quiet, in wonder. Clearing his throat, he reveals, "I'd like to major in astrophysics."

You nod slowly, taking it in, filing it away with all the other things you've learned about him. "So, science about space?"

He nods, and you smile.

"It suits you," you say warmly, thrilled when he blushes. "Tell me more."

Xavier's eyes light up, two stars fixed on you as he starts telling you the basics on it, gaining in quiet enthusiasm as you listen and ask questions.

You'd always known he was smart, acing all his classes, but you also knew he tended to catch a lot of naps in them. So to hear him talk about something he was so clearly knowledgeable about, and realizing that he was studious in academics as much as he was a lover of literature and poetry; it was as attractive as his fencing prowess, if not more.

And when the break is over, and his brows furrow in irritation, frowning and nearly sulking at having to go back to coaching, he's suddenly so painfully human and real that you're endeared to him more than ever before.

"Did you go to school with Xavier?"

You're loitering around the doors as practice clears out, when the other coach, Morgan, stops next to you. Xavier's still talking to a couple of students as they pack up, answering their questions, and you look away from him at the question.

"Yeah, we were in the same class."

Morgan nods slowly, glancing back towards Xavier with you. They laugh a little, like they're wondering about something, or realizing it.

"Mm, makes sense." They nod to themselves again, and then consider you. "I always wondered if there was one that got away."

Your mind freezes, and you blink.

"Huh?"

They smile a little at your blank expression. "I've seen him lingering in the hallways a few times after practice. Not at the trophies, like I would've expected from somebody who won so many competitions in school." They shake their head. "He stops at a locker. I asked him once if it was his." They wave with their hand a little, like gesturing to something further down. "He said no, and pointed to one a few away. That one was his."

Oh, you think, heart racing, mind spinning, your very soul aching. Oh, Xavier.

He's walking up to you now, smiling, footsteps picking up a little when he glances from you towards his co-coach. Morgan waves goodbye to you both before heading out the doors.

"Ready to go?" Xavier asks when he stops in front of you.

You nod, but your mind feels far away again when you hum, "Mhm."

You walk the silent halls with him, something you had never done back in school. There was only the time he carried you to the nurse's office, and you think of the squeak of his sneakers against the floor, how he couldn't meet your eyes when he gave you your favorite drink.

You look at him now, side by side, and think of the pale yellow sweater of his uniform, his gaze finding yours each and every time you admired him.

He looks back at you now, older, so much older and so are you, and yet you didn't forget. Neither of you forgot.

By some old instinct, your footsteps naturally slow when you pass by your old lockers again. You think of sliding letters into his before hurrying back to yours. You think of him stopping here throughout the years, caught in the passing thought of you.

He's always thought of you.

The back of your fingers brush against his. You don't know who reached out first, or if it was another instinct, a pull of gravity.

Your fingers twitch, but you don't pull away. And when you don't, Xavier's index finger grazes yours again.

You look at the places you'd stood at so long ago, when neither of you did a thing about it.

You stand where you are now, and Xavier's finger hooks around yours. It's long, and warm, and a little callused from all those years of fencing. It's also gentle, almost tentative in how loose it is, before you curl your finger back around his.

Neither of you let go.

You're not exactly sure of how you got here. It felt like a rush, from the moment you left your alma mater together, the slow walk back to your car. How he didn't let go of your finger, and you didn't let go of his.

You made no move to unlock your door. The goodbye to say hello again waits to be shared between you, but neither of you have the heart to say it.

"Are you still hungry?" you ask instead, and Xavier's eyes light up.

"Almost always," he says immediately, only half-joking, and smiles when you laugh.

He smiles so much, now. More than you've ever seen him, more than you can count.

And now you're seated in a booth at the old diner you and Gramps used to always go to for big occasions; celebrating progress down another road to recovery after a surgery, your high school graduation. You came here with Harper and Aarya sometimes too, and distinctly remembered one occasion during Senior year where Jeremiah hopped into your booth out of nowhere, and yelped when Aarya accidentally kicked him in surprise.

You enjoy your grilled sandwich, a bit of a healthier choice for your heart than the massive burger Xavier had already eaten half of.

"I didn't know you had such a big appetite," you muse aloud, and Xavier blushes a little.

He swallows a bite, and takes a sip of the strawberries and cream milkshake he'd ordered. Your own strawberry one is already mostly finished beside you.

"I like meat," he admits simply, and shrugs a shoulder.

"Mm. And fries," you note, glancing pointedly at the few left on his place. "And strawberry shortcake."

Xavier pouts a little, but it's as teasing as your words. "You tempted me with the cake."

"I surprised you."

"Yes, thoroughly," he replies without missing a beat, nodding seriously, and you both break and laugh a moment later. It's a stupid, silly joke, but it's yours and his and you love it.

"Well," you say slowly, then distract yourself with chewing another bite of your sandwich before admitting, almost under you breath, "I think it's cute."

Xavier hears you, though, judging by how still he goes. When you dare a glance up at him, his eyes shift. He leans in, his voice lowering with his lashes, hardly missing a beat when he says, "I think you're cute."

You try to swallow down the squeak of surprise that almost escapes you at the sudden flirting. Even though you were getting more used to this, he still did it so out of the blue sometimes, so boldly that you couldn't help but react so strongly.

He watches you flounder around a little, pulling your glass closer to yourself only to loudly suck up nothing from your straw. He doesn't even hide his smile at the reaction he'd gotten from you. No, he seems to revel in it, chin propped up in his palm. Warm. Satisfied.

"Cute," he whispers again, more to himself than you, and you bite back another embarrassing noise.

You let out a sigh instead, the sound fluttering from you.

"Oh, stop," you mutter with no heat, shifting in your seat. You drop your face in your hands, mumbling into them. "You make me feel all flustered."

"Really?" Xavier hums, a glint of pride in his eyes. That same mischief that has your pulse skittering each time it appears. But it's…deeper.

Satisfied, you think again. Then you remember the text from earlier that week: Tell me more about how sweet I am.

"Wicked," you whisper again. There's that spark in his gaze again, darkening, and you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head. "Oh, you know you do."

He chuckles, inhales softly. But he doesn't push it.

It's a pattern you're starting to learn, a dance that he does. Getting close, closer, teasing and watching for your reaction. He waits for it, then he pulls back, just a little, but keeps you revolving around him.

Each time, you get closer.

Each time, it's not quite close enough. 

But this time, his knee gently presses against yours under the table.

Unlike in the gym, he keeps it there, a constant point of contact that has heat licking up your spine. You meet his searching gaze, and when you smile at him, he puts his arms on the table, leaning closer, nails picking at some writing carved into the table.

"I like when you look at me like that," Xavier admits quietly, warmth coating his words, shining from his gaze.

You hold your breath, your voice barely a whisper, "Like what?"

His head tilts slightly. His eyes flicker all over your face, and settle back on your gaze. Fixated by it.

"Like no time has passed." His gaze trembles, drops down to your parted lips, then drags back up to your eyes. "Like I'm still what you want."

All you can think is, is he going to kiss you? Now? Here?

Xavier's lips twitch, a barely noticeable desire to smirk, but you're learning his tells. You see him realize what you're thinking, the glint in his eyes before he turns his face away.

He grabs the stem of his glass, drawing the milkshake between you. He plucks your straw from your finished glass into his.

"Help me finish this," he says casually, and you don't know if you want to strangle him, or hook your arms around his neck and pull him in right here, right now.

All you do know is that you're trying very hard not to stare across the short distance, at his plush lips as they wrap around his straw.

And you know that he isn't trying hard at all to hide how he stares at yours.

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