Aisha

you blink. oh. not again.

reminded of the time this happened once before, you do not worry for being this way indefinitely. so, you decide in that breath to ride it out with a little bit more grace this time.

with a deep sigh, you make your way to lucian’s side and lick the tip of his nose.

you wish you could capture this somehow— the details of when they open their eyes to the sunlight in your feline vision. each lash so perfectly curated, each freckle in their irises wonderfully placed, the overjoyed expression that paints their features when a kitten wakes them.

“a cat!” lucian squeals, taking you with him again when he sits upright. you giggle in your mind, the purrs let them know you are.

you’ll commend them later with how gently they care for you.

kyros’s warm palm stays on your head, petting as he is talking to you about being part of the family. asking for permission to hug you which you respond to with slow blinks and head butts to his soft belly.

lucian excitedly crawls in circles around you, careful not to hit you, while yapping about how many tricks you’ll be able to do— with live demonstrations of said tricks. you so kindly demonstrate them back to him, and his face of triumph is one you've never seen before.

your heart warms, despite being in this predicament, not once have you yet worried about needing to turn back.

on this rare morning, when your little ones are fawning over you and showing you the fruits of your love for them, you take this curse as a blessing.

but that smell.

it’s not bad, just strong and warm and creeping. the smell of a living body— of milk, blueberries and a simmering smoke beneath. a strange variation of… sylus.

a scent too strong that you must wipe them clean of or else something else will smell them, then your little ones would be in grave danger. your pupils shrink to slits and your hackles rise at the thought. kyros murmurs a confused, "huh?"

hopping up on your hind legs makes him coo, but your singular purpose is to get to his cheeks. a few licks will balance them out, smooth it out and refine it— balance it with you, and make it smell like home.

"boys, have you seen your mother?"

you’re in the middle of licking lucian’s forehead when sylus walks into their bedroom. he stares at his children, hair mussed in different directions, and they stare right back at him.

"papa!" kyros smiles, scrambling off the sheets to crash into sylus's knees. he is caught just in time before any teeth are knocked out, and lifted into a sturdy embrace.

lucian tilts his head closer to you when you bap his forehead with your mitten. you start licking at another spot on his head. "papa, a cat came in."

"it looks like it." he chuckles, recognizing the dragon li that has begun scenting his children as none other than his wife. it's happened before, anyway, what he didn't expect is that it would happen again.

he reaches out to squeeze lucian's cheek good morning, but your paw swats his hand away.

the silence is heavy.

he scoffs at you, appalled. "are you keeping him from me?"

you hiss, ears flat back and petulant. the answer, horrifyingly, a yes.

you try to chirp at kyros, redirect him back to you because— ugh, he just undid all the work you did and now he smells even more like his father and even less like you. luckily, he is obedient and wriggles out of his papa's grasp at your command, much to sylus's displeasure.

"hey!" sylus harrumphs, watching as kyros sidles up next to you and lucian. his brood, now within your litter.

you hiss at him again.

"no," lucian chides, petting your ears down. "das papa. he's nice."

"papa no hurt you." kyros supplies helpfully. "he big, but he no hurt."

sylus softens at his children's words. to you, he says, "see, kitten? i'm harmless."

"her name miss waffle-cake, papa," whispers kyros, offended for you. you meow in protest at the dubbed name, knowing how sylus will use it against you later on, but kyros holds you close now and sniffs you. "she smell sweet!"

"oh?" sylus grins, sinister and mischievous. "may i?"

he's fast when he takes you from kyros. the height you travel up to is sickening with the speed, it makes you squirm and cry in protest. soon you're face-to-face with your husband, eyes gleaming, and smirk treacherous.

his nose is in your belly in an instant. it tickles. you do not know whether to scream or laugh.

your meows are incomprehensible, and your limbs flail about against your control. in your head, you are screaming for your life.

"stop!" is yelled from below you, your own kittens now pawing at sylus's legs in outrage. "stop, she don'ike it!"

sylus breathes a chuckle as he cradles you to his chest. your sheathed claws tap at his cheek in mock pride, saying, yes! listen to your sons!

"papa, be nice!" squeaks lucian, seeming most affected by your distressed sounds. "she little!"

"give me!" demands kyros, hands outstretched upwards. waiting for your return in his protection.

sylus laughs at your smug expression, surprised a cat can even have such a prominent one, and promptly hands you back to kyros.

"sorry." kyros kisses your forehead softly, and you melt in his embrace. "papa silly sometime."

lucian comes to scratch your chin and bump his forehead against yours. angrily muttering under his breath, "big lizard."

your purrs get louder as your laughter turns hysterical in your brain.

oh, your sweet boys.

"okay, i'm sorry." sylus sinks down to the floor to kneel on his legs and bows his head. "i got... excited."

lucian is the one who shifts his body to be the barrier between him and you. "papa... like cats?"

sylus chuckles at the accusation. "i love cats. especially waffle-cake." he nods towards you. despite yourself, you tilt your head shyly.

"miss waffle-cake." kyros sneers. he did come up with the name, after all.

sylus raises his palms regretfully. "miss waffle-cake."

oh he's loving this. you snuff a breath at him through your little pink nose.

sylus pleads with his family now, eyes big and unguarded. begging to be included in the fun. "i promise to be gentle."

the twins look to one another. it wasn't like their papa to lie to them. he messes with them, regularly, sure, but he isn't mean, they think. lucian is the first to nod, and so kyros announces the ruling that papa can now be part of the i-love-miss-waffle-cake-club.

grateful, he squeezes himself onto lucian's bed and takes all three of you in the crisscross of his legs. bending close to your snout for a little nuzzle as he whispers, "just say when."

knowing that the last time this happened, turning back involved lips and true love.

you rub your cheek against his chin in acknowledgement.

the morning is spent indulging your family on their simple joys.

you'd become one of the world's greatest marvels, existing being your greatest feat to your children.

your quick zoomies around the room are exhilarating, especially with two little boys trying to catch you.

you sniff them until their stomachs hurt from laughing.

you teach them to make biscuits on papa, starting your own little bakery on his bottom.

even your instinctive licking (because they're starting to smell like sylus again) is so inexplicably beautiful to them, they just sit there and let it happen.

and naturally, under the warmth of the morning light, once curious eyes waver behind heavy lids. your own yawn from your place on sylus's chest, underneath his shirt, seems to trigger everyone else's.

positions are established like nature, and soon you're squeezed up against two little ones who've decided they want to be kittens in papa's shirt too.

but before they drift away, kyros takes your paw in his hand and lucian kisses your head and murmurs. "wish mama was here."

melting your heart into oblivion.

"having fun?" sylus inquires once lucian has followed his brother into a dream later on. you've crawled out of his shirt and perched yourself on his shoulder, curling around your babies as best you can.

you chirp at him, yes. and slowly blink at your sons.

"ready?" he asks softly, but it sounds like another request entirely.

the slight pucker of his lips is cute, showing a little more than he let on— if you knew how to look for it. an expert in reading your husband, you read him clear as day: he misses you.

so you lean in, but instinct trumps logic and your paws press against his lips. "mrph!"

"what?" he wonders. you're getting up and climbing on his head now. he feels the sharpened bristles of your tongue move his unstyled hair in all directions, doing more harm than good if your intention was to groom him.

he lets you finish the job, just as obedient as his sons, until you give him the kiss he's been waiting for.

when your feline eyes turn from large and crystaline to the ones he fell in love with, he smiles. "kitten."

meanwhile, your hands slide up to the back of his head to tug him down. his hair—now perfectly balanced in scent thanks to you— is askew, but you make no effort in fixing anything else.

you take a whiff and sigh in relief. "much better."

"because... you're not a cat anymore?" sylus inquires. unaware of the still fading inner workings of a feline's mind.

"sure," you shrug, kissing his cheek. then you turn to your sleeping babies on his chest and soften. "but that was good too."

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

It’s been a month since you had your little twins. A healthy pair of baby boys, the doctor had announced just past midnight. A harmony of cries, one after the other. Such a reward, a relief after a painful labor. 

And your husband sobbed quietly into your hair as he praised you, thanked you, beseeched you for this gift. 

As the beautiful flowers blossom into your family, your spring ends with the most fragrant of farewells. 

Summer welcomes you with sunshine—home after days of sterilized walls and fluorescent lights. 

Kieran and Luke have decorated the base with streamers and balloons; a handmade banner that read welcome little twins!  in red and orange paint and wobbly handwriting. And they wear matching watery smiles on their unmasked faces as they welcome the little ones into their arms. 

Mephisto lays down trinkets, oddballs and things that shine by the bassinets. He sits still as Sylus finally installs the baby-monitor program in him, but you’re sure even without the code he’d still long to see the little twins. Wouldn’t stop squawking if he didn’t lay a gemstone eye on them. 

Sylus wears many hats, you’ve seen him become one too many things in the moments you’ve shared. A leader, a fighter, a lover, an expert in every field— but you have never seen him slip into a role as seamlessly as this. 

As the herald of dawn as he rises before you to tend to the quietest gurgle or whine. As the light-footed healer that flocks to you on mornings of sore muscles and strange bladder control. As the hum of morning that wraps itself around you and your new babies. As the bright sun— as warmth that heals; as light that grows. Tireless, ceaseless, effortless. 

A father in all sense of the word. Indisputable. True. 

Soon, a routine is formed. He runs around like he would making underhand deals with important people, but this time it’s with his newborn son to stop squirming so he can put his mittens on, please. Each twin ping pongs for his attention. You watch him peek back and forth over each bassinet—a burp for Lucian, a mitten for Kyros, kangaroo time for one, the other to you for a meal. 

It’s almost shameful to ask for help when you decide to slot yourself in the gears of his clockwork. When you can’t seem to make Kyros stop crying, or when Lucian keeps whining when your tired feet ache and you need to sit down. It consumes you: incompetence, not being able to do it as well as he does. 

But he is clever as he is quick. Taking you aside, he kisses your cold fingers and holds your face in his hands. “I’ve got you.” he would say, and it would mean the world. Never once does he reflect your self-view, nor does he let it stew in your head for more than a passing thought. He does everything to make you believe it. 

He is patient when he offers. Mindful when he speaks. Loving when he helps. 

“You’re very good at this. Did you take classes behind my back?” you jab lightly, watching him burp Lucian and anticipate the spit-up to the tee. His grin is pure sunlight shot up through your veins. 

“If I didn’t anticipate every possible outcome, I wouldn’t be where I am today.” he’d tell you, swiping little lips with a clean rag. The spit up milk missing the sleeve of his shoulder just by a hair. “And I’d have to wash more clothes than I have to.” 

You acknowledge him with a hum, and he knows it’s a sign of you retreating. So he brings his son to sit by you and the twin in your arms, and kisses your temple. “You were very good at carrying them for nine months. Did you take classes for that?” 

You roll your eyes and swipe at his hair just as a cat would. He catches your wrist with sturdy fingers and brings your pulse up to his lips. “My turn to carry the twins, hm?” 

And finally, you understand his angle. Where he comes from—this is his way of paying you back. For each day he couldn’t take pain from you during the pregnancy, he repents in lightening the load of early rearing.

To him love is a verb—and he was built to act with and on it for them. For you. 

Tears blur your vision before you even realize it. Kisses are peppered on your face like fresh water over a burn as you break down on his shoulder. You cry—at how thoughtful he is, at how kind. At how you are crushed beneath the weight of his love for you. “Nine months of chores for papa?” you joke through a stuffy nose and a tearful smile.

He laughs, knocking the breath out of you, and wipes each tear away. “Eighteen—nine for each soul.” 

The best father. Indisputable. True. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer is beautiful. Summer is bright, warm and new. 

Summer’s thunderstorms sound like coughs from the smallest of mouths. A seizing of the tiniest of lungs. 

Summer’s thunderstorms scare Sylus more than any wrath or wanderer he has ever faced in his life. 

Kyros has a stutter in his breathing. His torso rises and falls faster than Lucian’s calm tides as they rest side by side. He suspires too quickly, like he’s trying his hardest to take in as much air as he can in his inhales and fumbling on the exhales. His cycles are too fast, and not enough. 

Breathing—what was such a simple joy to watch in new life, had morphed into the sound of fear. Sylus would never hear it the same again. 

At first, you’d thought it was the hiccups. He had those frequently, and you’d pity the poor little thing as it would exhaust him immensely. But it developed, and it worsened, and soon Sylus had at least ten pediatricians on the way to your home and even more on the phone line. 

It was a virus, someone had said. One of the ten doctors in your living room, you couldn’t focus on which. Not when your son was under so many lights, hooked to so many cables and that steady beeping was the only thing you could hear. The only thing that mattered. 

You were grateful for Sylus who listens when you could not. He relays the rest to you later: inflamed lungs; mucus making it difficult to breathe. You nod, hollow eyes never leaving your son’s gasping chest. 

And you are angry at the sight of him—how could the world be so cruel to something so small, so new? None of it made sense—not when the nebulizer masks were built too big, not when the pulse oximeter could clip onto two toes instead of just one, and not when the sounds he made were effortful grunts instead of the giggles you were just beginning to hear. 

Sylus was no better. Movement is his sanity—and so he mobilizes everything he can. Doctors to his home, a full NICU in the nursery, each and every device needed to keep his son breathing, to keep him alive. Because he will burn through all he has before he even thinks about losing him. 

Lucian needs to be separated. That was a given as soon as you realized it was contagious. And so the big twins take him to another wing of the house to be safe. To spare him the sight of your hollow dread and his father’s growing hysteria. 

He is peaceful in Luke’s arms— a vision of a healthy twin, one that Kyros is, now, not, and you feel bile rise up your throat. And where worry grows, injustice festers. Because why can’t they both be healthy? Why can’t you protect them both from pain? 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You are a tangle of nerves with tired eyes when Sylus approaches you, having arranged a medical service on standby as soon as Kyros had been declared stable. Sat by his bassinet, your lifeless gaze counts each second your baby’s chest rises and falls. Your finger rests snugly in his closed fist as he sleeps for the first time in hours. 

“Beloved,” His voice is a balm to the open wounds that coat your soul as he sits himself on the arm of the chair where you rest. He snakes his arms over your shoulders, eyes also on Kyros as if silently counting along with you, and he kisses your hair. “Go to sleep.” 

You ignore him. Because it’s a stupid request, and if he were of sound mind, he wouldn’t ask again. 

Though his genuine concern, it seems to you that he wants a fight. “Rest, please.” 

“No.” should be enough. You think it so when you try to pry his arms off your shoulders. “Don’t ask me again.” 

Paired with the anguish he’s felt throughout the day, the fatigue he feels having sorted out everything, the last thing he wanted was to feel you pushing him away.

Stubborn, just like you, he grits his teeth. “I can’t have you both sick.” 

“Sylus.” you warn. Tone dripping with misplaced venom. You are sorry, deep down, but you can’t find it right now in the jumble of slush your mind has become. “I can’t leave him.”

“You have to—“ 

“Don’t ask me to!” you snap, a curled fist slamming down onto your thigh. Blood surfaces on the skin of your palms as your fingernails dig deep into them. It dawns on you: what you've just done.

He is still as a stone.

You can’t look at him, you can’t fathom the look on his face now. 

He doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like this, not after everything he’s done, not after everything he’s given you. And you know this, you know this—but grief is slippery and anger is easier to understand. Especially when you think it’s your own shortcomings that led you here. The smoke clears, your vision blurs. 

He says nothing as you scramble for his hand. Watches as your shoulders shake and you plant kisses onto his wrist, his palm. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—“ 

And something inside him breaks. A glass heart, a phantom crystal in his chest, cracks in half at the sight before him—his son gasping for breath, his wife gasping through tears. 

Through your endless strings of apologies, he tries to break through. He severs them each with his lips pressing on your cold skin, on your salty cheeks, on your sweaty forehead, on your regretful mouth. 

He whispers, “I’ve got you.”

You believe him. And finally, you let yourself fall apart. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sleep finds you eventually, but you refuse to leave. Sylus had to bring in a sofa from the living room and carry your tired body onto it. And you drift, against your will, into a light uncomfortable slumber, but a slumber nonetheless. 

And the night betrays you. 

Kyros turns blue. 

Sylus spots the pallor immediately— his own breath siphoned from his lungs. His hands shake, his heart hammers in his chest. He forgets the emergency button entirely. 

Sylus screams for the nurses across the hall.

You jolt awake to chaos. To the sound of broken yelling. To people running past where you’ve curled up by the door. Through the haze, your husband is a man lost to his panic— something you’ve never once seen before, and for a moment, you think it’s all a nightmare. 

A nightmare where your baby is the wrong color. A nightmare where your strongholds crumble and fall apart. A nightmare where there is a horrid, ungodly cry— 

And it’s coming from you. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Kieran is frozen, upright in his bed. He barely moves. Not when Luke runs, not when Lucian stirs. He lets the baby squeeze his finger, counts time through the rise and fall of his ribs. 

The screaming woke them. Luke shot up immediately, barked for him to stay, and sped off to the other wing of the house. 

Kieran relies on Mephisto even when he doesn’t need to. To spare himself from his brother’s visions.

The bird’s feed directly transmits into his phone, and he watches the ruckus of people coming in and out of the nursery. Luke arrives in the frame, freezes just at the threshold of the door, before he marches in. 

Moments later, he comes back out with you in his arms—pushing him, fighting him. He feels each blow on his own skin. Your face is a picture of agony behind wet hair and shaking fingers. 

Luke stares at you with wide eyes. Sees not family, but something wild and wounded, begging for the pain to end.

Luke feels your torment, grits his teeth until his gums bleed to obey Sylus’s orders to keep you out. He steels each muscle as you begin to thrash in his arms.

Stopping himself from helping you barge back in there and get back to Kyros.

Kieran feels everything too. 

And he wonders if Lucian sensed it as well, because now his face had crumpled into a frown and his mouth let out a sonorous cry. He snaps out of it. Severs the link. Tends to the baby. 

He lifts him. Dances around the room in circles, shushing the little one to calm. “Hey, Cian, it’s alright,” 

“Everything will be okay.” He says. Hears his brother say it to you at the same time across the grounds. And together, they will themselves to believe it. “Everything will be okay. He will be okay.” 

They chant it to you both like a prayer. A promise. Because they refuse to let anything else be true. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You slam into Sylus as soon as he steps out of the room. Angry fists collide with his chest. Things unmeant are said. He stays still; lets you. Believing to deserve it after being so selfish—after ripping you away from your son to spare him the image of you dying inside. 

He takes each weak blow, forces himself not to look away. Until you calm, until your fists open into soft fingers caressing his jaw, his neck. Until your arms wrap around his shoulders and you sob onto his heart. 

Only then does he move. Only then does he hold you—circle his arms around you, bear down and cry. Apologizing. Sharing in the agony neither of you can seem to see through.

And finally, he whispers through his splitered sobs, “He’s okay. He’s breathing.” 

And now so are you.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･

Lucian bounces when he sees you in the morning light. Unmoored by your careworn appearance as he reaches out to you from Kieran’s hold. You practically run to him. 

Only mere hours away and already you think he’s grown out of your sight. You think his hair had gotten longer, his cheeks become fuller and his little legs have grown longer. It could be your tired mind playing tricks, but having his weight in your arms brings you down to the earth. 

Burying your face in his soft hair, you sit in this moment with your son. Still so small; already so patient and forgiving for letting both mama and papa tend to Kyros for the whole night. Not once making too big of a fuss under his big brothers’ care. 

You wonder if he knows, if he senses the gravity of the situation. Wonder if that is why he’s being such a perfect baby. Nevertheless, you are grateful for his heart, and one day, you hope he knows his brother is thankful too. 

Lucian gurgles a smile as you wipe his chin. And you dub him in a whisper, “My little angel.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus doesn’t need to sleep. 

He insists this on you as you rub his shoulders and bend down to whisper the opposite in his ear. Offering a turn to watch Kyros, presenting him a window to rest. Because you care for him as deeply as you do for the children.  “I can’t have you both sick,” you echoed his earlier concern to him, though softer. A wish, not a demand. 

But he refuses—  nuzzles his lips to your neck and breathes in your scent. This is all he asks of you in return.

And you concede, intertwining your fingers together and pressing a kiss to his knuckle. You trust him with your son just as he trusts you with his twin. Because Kyros needs him, and he needs Kyros. 

And so Sylus doesn’t need to sleep.  

He tells himself this as he looms over Kyros’s bassinet. Days have passed since that first night. Things have progressed for the better.

No longer does Kyros need the tubes and wires, nor does he cough so relentlessly anymore. And that should warrant being able to take a moment to rest. 

But he doesn’t. 

Because he doesn’t need to. 

What he needs is for Kyros to be okay. Clear. Healthy. 

Because what use is he as a father if he cannot heal his son? Time and time again, he'd thought about his gift—his ability to heal his own bleeding wounds—of using it to fix something, anything. But the mere thought of the venomous mist on his son's skin... The harrowing possibility that something goes wrong—no. Not after everything.

The risk is too great. And he, in all senses of the word, is scared.

So instead, he is at Kyros’s every beck and call. Has memorized the pitch and timbre of each grunt and whimper. Assembles medicine, milk bottles, and nebulizers with speed and precision. He moves like wind, watches like a shadow.

Unfaltering, not until his son is safe. 

Unspeaking, until there is enough air in his son's lungs to share.

And Kyros hates it. 

On a particularly quiet evening, Kyros stirs from his nap and feels the heaviness of silence weigh on him immensely. Consuming. Suffocating.

He begins to cry—short squeaks and wails, his lungs still not well enough to supply him enough air for anything louder. 

Sylus is up on his feet immediately. Checking his diaper, the time for a maybe meal, his nose for a clog, or his limbs for any pain. Tired eyes roam over each and every item on the list in his mind, and when all is clear and he is still crying, Sylus is at a loss. 

He takes Kyros out of his bassinet, holds him like glass; a loose leafed flower. Afraid of him blowing away in the wind. He thaws his cold ears with his palm, blows warm air on his fingers. 

And yet he cries still. Quietly. Weakly. Sadly. 

“My angel, what’s wrong?” He finally asks. Suprised with the voice that comes from his throat—scratchy, frayed and raw. He clears his throat. “What can papa do, hm?” 

Kyros cries. He cries and claws at his face with mittened hands. Sylus begins to worry, his shoulders tense at the intensity of his sobbing, at the shortness of his breath, at the wet coughs that start to slip past. 

“My love, please, stop crying,” he pleads. He cradles his little head. Brings his lips down to the smooth skin of his brow. Into it, he murmurs, “Please, for papa.” 

And then he does, and Sylus freezes. 

He does, not because of the request. 

But because of the way his papa’s voice resonates in his skull. 

He winds down as Sylus notices and continues to speak into his temple, quiet requests and grumbled lullabies. Small fingers move gently against the stubble on Sylus’s chin, enjoying the soft prickle against his palm. 

Silence has made him anxious. Sylus’s sound soothes that. 

To Sylus, love is a verb— he must move to make it feel. 

But to Kyros, love is still just feeling.

The sound of his papa’s voice in his head, how it vibrates, how it travels. The texture of his face, of his rough, calloused fingers caressing like mist. The smell of his skin and cologne as he is cradled close.

Love is feeling. Love is being there.

And Sylus does this for him. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer’s skies are beautiful after a thunderstorm. 

Plants inhale fresh air. The earth exhales a mingled breath of heat and rain now passed. 

And the moon hangs bright and radiant in the sky. 

Sylus tells Kyros this as he walks out to the balcony. Kyros is cocooned in layers—a onesie, a light jacket and a blanket. Swaddling him between states of healing and transformation—a miracle taking its time. Snuggled comfortably in the crook of Sylus’s elbow.

Sylus keeps his ear close to his body, and his lips close to his temple. An exchange: Sylus will hear his breathing; Kyros will feel his voice. 

His stories are carried by the gale into the night as he speaks, on and on, of this life, of his last, of the next. And Kyros never once interrupts, eyes wide and focused as if he truly did understand every word Sylus says. Like rebirth, or ancient.

No matter. Kyros hasn’t cried in hours, and Sylus isn’t about to stop now. 

When even the gentlest of breezes blow past them, Sylus is quick to hold Kyros a little tighter in his embrace. Lending him more warmth, keeping things the gusts usher with it away from his just-healing lungs. But Kyros doesn’t mind. He rather enjoys being squeezed. 

Moments drag on, more stories are told. The wind picks up. Sylus debates on bringing him back inside.

But once more, he is selfish—and he wonders if it makes him a terrible father. For this is the first time in days he’s seen Kyros’s face glow and stretch into smiles you’ve both longed for since the drought. And he’s not ready to give that up just yet.

His cheeks are fuller, squishier as he presses into them with his finger. Kyros gurgles in delight and wriggles in his swaddle, as if trying to catch papa’s finger beneath his trappings. Sylus swallows, heart melting, eyes watering. 

What would he have unleashed—what would he have become— if he’d failed to keep him alive?

“Kyros.” He whispers reverently. Once a god, a beast, a harbinger of ends—reduced to kneeling before a child. 

Begging. Never leave me. 

Surrendering. I will do anything for you.

Declaring, “I love you.” 

Fighting against everything he’d stood for—doom, destruction, death—for his boy. He will tear the world, fate, and cosmos apart with his own hands and teeth before he allows his son to be parted from him. 

And Kyros feels it. Each word rattles his bones stronger than any of the most powerful coughs ever could. The words a prayer. A promise. 

He feels it. 

He is safe. He is needed. He is loved. 

Fiercely. Immensely. Endlessly. 

And when he coos, Sylus feels it in return. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer ends with sunshine and storms, and makes way for Autumn to fill her place. 

Autumn sheds old wounds to make way for tender scars. Autumn is cool wind on heated skin. Autumn is a long breath of fresh air.

“Kyros!” Luke doesn’t even hesitate to run up to Sylus when he spots him coming out of the nursery with the baby in his arms. Finally, after weeks of distance and restriction, he lays his eyes on his little brother. Kieran follows close behind. 

Sylus doesn’t have the heart to roll his eyes as he witnesses the two grown men coo and make faces before him, nearly tripping over each other to get closer. In fact, something in his chest softens. They’ve missed him too.

Eventually, he sics Mephisto on them to spare himself of a dismissive escape. The bird obliges, plopping a shiny rattle on Kyros’s belly and chasing the big twins away with overdramatic squawks and pecks. Sylus will make it up to all of them later. 

But for now, they are scheduled to reunite with someone else.

Kyros is already bouncing in Sylus’s arms, huffing and squealing at the sight of Lucian.

Lucian, who’d already rolled on his belly, behaves the same. Snorting and wheezing—despite being distracted from holding his head up and falling face-flat into the plush of the mattress. 

Sylus places Kyros between you both on your bed as you welcome them with a gentle smile. The twins giggle at each other, speaking in a language you are not fluent in, and you both revel in their joy. 

For a moment, he dwells on their differences. How distinct they've both become. It's minuscule, but it's there—Kyros's thinner frame and weaker state beside Lucian's hefty muscles, already allowing him to roll on his stomach, while the other relies on Sylus's hands for support.

He shakes his head. What matters now is that they're both healthy. Safe. Happy. That, and he asks for nothing more.

Sylus curls himself around his children, stretching his limbs to circle create a nest to shield them, and rests his head on your lap.

You run your fingers through his hair, scraping nails over his scalp and watching as his eyes roll to the back of his head. He whispers, “You’re good at that. Did you take classes?” 

The callback makes you grin, and you strain down to plant a kiss on his temple. “You’re a good father.” 

He waits for the question. The teasing jab. But it doesn’t come. And somehow, your words sink deep into his muscles and settle like oil in his veins. 

He is weightless beneath your touch. Finally calm within the presence of his family. 

It dawns on him—Kyros’s understanding of love. How easy, how pure—how full of it his life has become. 

Soon, his eyelids droop. He tries adjusting out of your hold to wake himself, but you push his shoulders back and grip him tight. This time, it’s your turn to be selfish. 

“Sleep,” you tell him. The word having weighed so much in the past few weeks now feels like mint and honey on your tongue. Cool. Sweet. “I’ve got you.” 

He smiles, heart hammering in his chest at the beauty that is you.

Finally allows himself this pleasure, relaxes each muscle, and rests in your arms. 

Because, like you, he believes it. 

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

"i'm starting to understand why you scheduled a pediatric appointment today," zayne chuckles, handing you a medical certificate and a prescription list. "are there no doctors available to the most powerful family in the n109 zone?"

as you converse, luke taps keiran's shoulder and points to something in the distance.

"none of them have bedside manners," you reason, reading through their reports and settling with the results. "thanks, zayne."

"of course." he nods, cool and giving as ever. he says nothing of the big twins sneaking behind you both. "and how are the little ones?"

"they're good!" you grin, lighting up at the mention of your babies. "lucian is doing well with the sweet ban. kyros hasn't really been as into the sweets as him, so he transitioned just fine."

zayne tracks the twins movements. tip-toeing around the room, blending into the shadows cast by the afternoon sun, taking one, two, three handfuls of the premium chocolates he keeps in a fishbowl on his desk.

as he replies to you, "that's good. i should apologize for making him cry the last time we met. i saw your husband carrying him out of the lobby."

"it's really no problem. he's been a little moodier lately. we're teaching him about big emotions in little bodies."

"it does seem to be that age." zayne nods, watching as the big twins succeed in their endeavor and return to their spot on the bed, just a hair away from your side.

you turn at the movement, when kieran's knee bumps against your elbow. "you good?"

he scoffs, making sure not to ruffle the wrappers in his pockets. "psh-yeahh, great, boss'ma."

you eye him suspiciously, before reaching up to feather your fingers over the streaks of lightning on his face. "does it hurt, still?"

his shoulders fall. he knows the only reason you're all in Linkon today, seeing a cardiac surgeon part-time pediatric doctor was because he'd been wincing about his scars recently. an no matter how discreetly he tries to be about how much they bother him, you're always one to sniff out when someone in your family is hurt.

and that warrants enough respect from him and his brother to follow you around and do your every bidding. even if they have to follow you into an examination room with giraffes and elephants on the walls, and squeeze themselves into the elevated bed with racecar sheets.

"i'm good, 'ma." he reassures you, voice soft with appreciation.

once zayne summarizes your discussion— the diagnosis, the readings, the meds—he reminds you of the little ones' next appointment, and then bids you and your big twins a good rest of your day.

"thanks, doc!" luke says, shaking his hand. the sweets wrappers crinkle within his jacket at the movement, and zayne gives him a knowing look, but says nothing about it. luke's grin stretches wide. "the kids were right, you are really cool."

"make sure lucian gets the red ones, he likes those the most," is all he says before he exits the room.

your brows knit together at the comment. weaving things together, you take an open palm and strike luke's middle—not hard enough to harm, but hard enough to get an "oof!" and hear the crinkles and crackles of the candies inside him.

"luke!"

but before you can scold him further, he takes his open palm and smacks kieran's sweater too, revealing the exact same damning evidence you found on him. kieran scowls, "dude!"

"i am not going down alone!" he barks.

ugh. it was a very crackly drive back home.

“okay, okay,” sylus quickly stands, securing his child in a football hold and pulling you to his chest.

“i got him,” he promises into the crown of your head. he kisses you a few times to melt the ice. “i got him, it’s okay.”

you grumble, melting into him. rubbing your face into the fabric of his shirt by his collarbone. inhaling his scent to calm you down. then you groan, “i’ll make it up to you.”

“you will never owe me anything.”

you snort, a quick exhale. before righting yourself and squeezing kyros’s cheeks in your palms, cuteness aggression surfacing above all prior grievances against him. “i want you to naaap.”

he giggles, but shakes his head. “wif fafa!”

“you promise?”

“a-huh!”

“swear to me kyros qin.”

“i pah-mifsh.”

“okay,” you bite his cheek with sheathed teeth and then sylus’s before trudging back to your bedroom to snuggle up with lucian.

“okay, let’s nap.” says sylus, closing the blinds and cradling kyros to his chest, ready to dance around to lull him to sleep.

kyros, on the other hand, has other plans. “not yet.”

“ah- you promised mama.”

“but!” he scrambles up his father’s shoulder and points to the coffee table. a half empty glass of amber liquid sits beside sylus’s current read. “need drinky!”

it clicks all to quickly with sylus, but not quickly enough. “no…”

“apple juice, pease?”

“kyros…”

“pease pease pease?” he sings, eyes shining, shoulders slightly shimmying— for he knows, he knows only one parent says yes to his harmless whims no matter the inconvenience. “ma bub! ma bub!”

sylus hesitates. he knows he shouldnt. he’s already had two boxes. but…

“pease?” his lids flutter and there’s such hope in his eyes.

sylus couldnt possibly— “you promise to nap after one?” — say no.

“yes!”

“shh!” sylus shuts his eyes. maybe if he walks blind to the kitchen and commit the crime, he can have deniability.

nevertheless, it is done. but as clever as sylus’s son can be, he is also loyal and true to his word, he settles.

curling up to his papa’s chest, his nose presses to his collar, and he rubs his face in the fabric of his shirt just as you did.

"I'll be upstairs," is all you spare him. Your hand, ever nimble, swings just fast enough to escape his halting grasp. "I need twenty minutes."

And oh, he knows.

They know.

Twenty minutes on a good day is already concerning. But today, with their sins and your tone. No. Twenty minutes might be the worst thing you could have asked for.

"Mama..." squeaks Kyros, attempting to run after you up the stairs. But Sylus holds him back, floating him back to his one arm and tucking him to his side like a football.

"It's not you." is what he tells his sons, squirming in his grasp to get to you, and is what is truth.

He knows that whatever storm you are facing now, he was the one who pushed you out to the sea.

A nap saves you from your thoughts. For what better way to soothe all your anxieties than to knock yourself out?

But when you dream of blues and grays, of screams and slamming doors, you are sure even you are a traitor to yourself.

"Hey," Sylus's hands catch your shoulders when you spring away from thorny vines that tangle your limbs. Of great swords drawn and plunged in chests. Of unkind grumblings before affection blossomed between.

His eyes of blood, swimming with concern as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "Come back to me," he whispers, lips unshy as he trails it over your cold skin. "Come back, beloved. My beloved."

He waits.

When your heart no longer beats like a perilous bird's wings, when your muscles melt like wax to a flame, when your ears hear more than the tolling of bells, you do.

Leaning your temple to his cheek, you breathe against his neck. "It's too much."

The confession weighs so much that he knows it isn't just about the dream. "I will be lighter."

"No." you grit, because that's not what you meant. But you know him, and you know what he sounds like when he is scared. "No, it's..."

And he knows just how you hate disappointing him. "I never should have contradicted you. Not in front of the kids, not ever in the way I did."

He noses your pulse, his head grows heavy on your shoulder and his arms wind around you and hold you tight. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You swallow the burn in your throat, but do nothing for the boiling tears that stream down your face. You are quick to wipe them away, a habit of a guarded soul.

You'll never get used to this, the unshrouded devotion and endless love Sylus seems to carry in his heart for you. Perhaps you aren't meant to, despite his insistence.

Your nods tug at his heart. And your embrace allows him to breathe.

Because he, too, will never be used to how you forgive him so needlessly. He vows never to take it for granted. But on the days he does toe that line, he is a tree firmly rooted to the ground, but bows down low to touch the earth you walk on.

You revel in his kisses, allow yourself to melt against his figure until you no longer know where you start and he begins. Promising to never again arrive at this point of angst against one another.

"We made you dinner," he murmurs, still unable to let you go from his embrace, snuggling to your side like a possessive creature. "Lucian chopped the cheese, and Kyros stirred the pot."

"Mm," you hum, remembering how you left your little ones with heartbreak on their faces. "Do they think I'm mad at them too?"

"Were you?"

You chew on your lip. "A little bit. They never should have fought like that."

"Then they're sorry too," he says simply. In his mind, when it comes to you being wronged, there is no exception. Not him, or your children. They will answer to their transgressions if he has anything to do about it.

You sigh, "It's okay."

"No, they'll never learn if we brush it off," he murmurs. His breath is warm against your knuckles. "I know I never did."

"Give yourself some credit," you smile. It is slight, but it's the first in a while; like sun after a year of rain to Sylus. "You're a fast learner."

He shakes his head and finally mirrors your grin. "Not fast enough,"

Three hours— your nap lasted three hours long, and that was enough for your little hoard of dragons to have done everything that dragons do at the dining table.

"This... is a little overboard," you tease Sylus, who only shrugs in return like it's nothing.

Like two giant wrapped presents is nothing. Like, velvet boxes of various sizes are nothing. Like chests and boxes that either house the most beautiful clothes or the most dangerous but quality weapons, they are nothing.

Like your little babies in aprons and toques holding bowls of mac-and-cheese up to you like an offering to a goddess is nothing.

"Oh, my angels," you cry, falling to your knees and taking the boys into your embrace.

"We sorry for twenee mimits, mama." Kyros murmurs, muffled against your clothes. "We no fight nee'more. Don'ike twenee mimits."

"Mm, pwomis." Lucian agrees, hair ruffling against your sleeve as he nods. "We pwomis, pwomis, pwomis."

How can one not accept that apology?

The jewels were too many, but they were timeless. The weapons too exhaustive, but priceless. The mac and cheese was a little too salty, but it was warm.

Nothing you cannot forgive.

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡